The Knot Impossible Read online

  Skully Mucclack hunched his shoulders. “We can’t deny it seems set for a top-notch hurricane.”

  “It won’t get worse than this,” Rufkin said. “The Queen would manage it. She’d never let a storm damage the City of Spires.”

  “She’s busy with the Council of Wisdom and the cave-lizards,” said Mistress Mucclack. “The royal riverboat set off two days ago crammed with scientists and advisers, all banners flying.”

  The Mucclacks moved on. Rufkin didn’t like the idea of his family on Old Ocean if there was going to be a hurricane. Nor did he like the idea of being in a cottage on the edge of the estuary, with Queen Sibilla out of town. This summer King Jasper was on vacation for the first time in eighteen years. He was at the far end of Lake Riversea with his wife Queen Beatrix and their children. For the first time his sister, Queen Sibilla, was in charge on her own. It is a challenge for which I am eager, she’d said in all the papers. Now I am grown up it is time to be fully responsible. Rufkin didn’t call it being fully in charge or responsible if she had help from the Council of Wisdom and one of the dukes had gone missing. Which one might it be? He thought there were dozens.

  The wind gusted again and shoved Rufkin off balance. He pretended he was ducking about on purpose and ran past the Mucclacks and down a jetty.

  “Boy!” hissed Mister Mucclack.

  Rufkin walked more slowly, past ghostlike boats. The estuary had an oily gleam.

  Something in the water caught his eye. It was a bit of wood with one end that looked chewed. There was an H and an E on it, but any other letters were awash. He fished in his pocket for something to throw. There was only his Lord Hodie figurine.

  He heard Mister Mucclack’s boots behind him, a fierce whisper, “Come back.” His jacket was gripped at the waist by a strong hand.

  Rufkin was glad to go. The wind was thumping at him now. They returned to Mistress Mucclack, hands to her head as if the breeze would unravel her knot of gray hair.

  “Back inside,” she said, “before this wind whisks under our coats and balloons us over the sea to Little Skirmish.”

  “There was lettering on a board,” said Rufkin. “H and E, something.”

  “The name of ship, maybe,” said Mister Mucclack. “The Helfrida, or the Hello Peter. Water chews words away.”

  Rufkin ran ahead over the walkways. He’d thought for a moment the word on the board could have been HELP, in awkward capitals like a child uses when it starts to learn. And the chewing seemed done by jaws rather than water. He shivered again at that moment of fright that had gripped him.

  Boots off, inside, Rufkin peered through the curtains into the dusk. In the channel, shipping lights floated as if everything was calm. But masts in the marina glinted as they tossed to and fro. Scraps of paper, dead leaves, and empty cans whirled in the salvage yard. The storm was so wild that the roof began thrumming like a pot on the boil.

  All night the roof thrummed. All night wind battered the windows. The sheets felt damp. Rufkin dozed, woke, and listened; dozed again. Weeks to go—of this and the Mucclacks. For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t as if he’d never tried at Brilliant Academy. He’d come twenty-fifth out of thirty-five in the cross-country. That meant ten in the class were slower than him. Not everyone could come top in Mathematics or Geography. Oscar and Ahria did in their classes, but they were outstanding at most things. And they never had stage-fright so bad it froze them to the spot like it did Rufkin, blinded, deafened, blood hammering in his ears.

  “Life isn’t fair,” he heard himself say aloud. Then he must have slept deeply. He seemed to be in his own bedroom. It was crammed with the latest and best toys and gadgets. That bit was true, though he knew he was dreaming.

  Next thing, sunshine glowed through the spare-room curtains at the Mucclacks’ house. The wind lay quiet. He hoped breakfast wouldn’t be a repeat of cockles and carrots.

  A mumble began through the wall—the Mucclacks’ voices, low but still clear. He pulled the blanket over his head. It grew stuffy and prickly. He pushed it down for air.

  “…six whole weeks,” Mistress Mucclack said in a carrying whisper. “A child.”

  “If we’d wanted a child, we would have found one of our own,” said Mister Mucclack.

  “You have to feed a child. Find clothes that fit it. Keep it away from dangerous things,” said Mistress Mucclack. “Entertain it.”

  “We’ll make hard work fun,” said her husband. “He can watch me drive the bulldozer while he picks up rubbish. He can gather scrap, load it in the metal crusher, then watch me crush it.”

  “After that bad night, I can’t face taking care of a child,” said Mistress Mucclack.

  “Go back to sleep,” said her husband. “I’ll lie and think till I hear the boy up and about.”

  Work ahead. Hard work and boring. Rufkin slid out of bed. It was lucky his clothes had no noisy fastenings. He crept to the kitchen but didn’t dare grab any food in case he alerted the Mucclacks. The door closed behind him with a faint click and he tied on his boots. Cave-lizards—he’d heard them under the kitchen floor but he’d seen no sign of them. Just teasing, those Mucclacks.

  Sun struck the highest spires over in the city. The estuary flickered with points of light. The summit of the bridge was in view, gleaming as if the storm had polished it. It was hard to believe last night had been so terrible. The wind had scoured the salvage yard clean as well, or at least packed litter away into corners and nooks.

  The walkways looked slippery. Rufkin didn’t want to tread on patches of gravel in case they made a crunch, so he set off for a solid path that led toward the fence. He’d be able to see the engineering yard through the chain-link.

  He tripped over a sudden bulge beneath his feet and landed flat. Ow! The bulge burst like a blister and spurted out gravel. Down the hole that was left, Rufkin saw a tail, a gleam of luminous blue—the tail vanished. Rufkin crouched, holding his breath.

  Another flick—then a cave-lizard’s snout appeared at the rim of the hole and sniffed. The creature was no bigger than a kitten but its teeth were rows of little needles. Rufkin had forgotten to tuck his pants into his socks. Where was Mister Mucclack with a shovel to give it a wallop? Where was Mistress Mucclack with her boots to give it a kick?

  Another cave-lizard put its claws on the rim beside the first. Its black eyes flashed. It spotted Rufkin, stiffened and stared. Rufkin’s breath seemed stuck in his lungs. The cave-lizard darted right at him—his hand brushed an old red bucket, something touched his ankle, he snatched the bucket and swung it down. The lizards fled underground.

  Shuddering, Rufkin brushed his pants’ leg to make sure nothing was up it. He stuffed the cuffs tightly into his socks. Then he dropped a rock down the hole and glanced back at the cottage. Nobody was stirring. He’d go on to the fence, but very carefully.

  It was a fair trudge past the row of cranes, the bulldozer, and the metal crusher. At last Rufkin came to the fence. It was strong old wire-link, except for one section that had the bluish gleam of that new metal, what was it called? It began with a Z. Zirbonium.

  He didn’t want the Mucclacks to catch him climbing over. But the tide was low and the fence ended at a rocky outcrop. He could climb around there. All he wanted was one quick look.

  Rufkin gripped the wire and edged for the rocks. Bubbles swelled in a patch of mud and made glistening circles. A bigger bubble burst near his feet and he smelled something foul. He laced his fingers into the wire links and braced himself. This had been a bad choice. He’d gone a bit sweaty. The outcrop looked slimy. He’d probably slip.

  A seagull cried overhead. Another cry came from somewhere along the shore. In the marina? It sounded like a cry for help again but must only be a wading-goose. He craned to see any signs of life. Not even a feather.

  He should trudge back to the cottage for what might be a terrible breakfast.

  Rufkin thought about it for a heartbeat, then the cry came again. It sounded like a lonely child much younger than he
was.

  Would the cry come a third time? All Rufkin heard was a musical jangle of ropes on the masts in the marina. He thought of calling out himself. Why wasn’t anyone else around yet?

  He struggled on around the slippery outcrop, climbed carefully over some collapsed tangles of security wire, and clung to the other side of the fence while he edged up to the concrete paving. The doors of the engineering sheds looked bolted shut.

  By being here at all he was trespassing. But anyone would expect a boy to be curious. If someone came, he’d just say he heard someone cry out. If he’d been misled by a bird call, he’d promise not to do it again and give a smile. He’d have missed an hour or two of gathering trash anyway. Besides, the concrete paving was totally safe.

  He ran over the engineering yard into the marina. The private sailboats and steamboats, even a small red paddle steamer, all seemed deserted. Last night’s storm had been so strong, heaps of boats should have slipped their moorings. But only two were swinging about. Rufkin hurried to the very last mooring and checked whether something, perhaps a cabin boat, was bobbing out of sight on the low tide. No. Just a few sticks and the back end of a toy elephant.

  The storm had wrenched some boards off the wooden fence. Through the gaps he saw a stone reinforcing wall. It led down to the swamp, where branches had been torn off some big mangroves. Further into the swamp, something of a fair size lay at an angle. It could be a vessel blown there by the storm.

  Another faint cry sounded. Rufkin couldn’t tell if it was a gull or a help or imagination.

  What would Lord Hodie do? Check it out.

  The broken boards could make good footing. He picked one up, poked it through the gap and tossed it so it fell flat. Yes, it might do. He’d be able to carry maybe two boards at a time. Would they reach as far as the thing he could see?

  It took a while, clambering up and down the sloping stone wall, heaving and dragging. He used broken mangrove to make extra footing. He slithered only once and landed with one hand and one foot down in the mud. Something moved under his palm. He leaped up so fast he surprised himself. He’d gone very sweaty.

  As he neared, he saw that it really was a ship lying there, one with a flat bottom and a small upper deck. A riverboat, scooched deep into mangroves and mud. It must have been here for months. At high tide it would be underwater. The metal sides were blisters of rust. There was a funnel, and two short masts, one of which had broken near the base and hung over the side. Parts of the wooden railing were shattered. There was nobody up on its deck.

  Rufkin had run out of boards. He nearly turned back. But a hero like Lord Hodie would keep going. Was there was any way onto the boat? Not up the dangling mast. Its snarl of wire looked very tricky. But maybe there was a ladder bolted to the side. Or a length of chain he might be able to use—ah, there was a rope. He could step close enough to give it a yank and find out if it was firmly attached to something on board. But he’d have to stand in a stretch of mud. His skin prickled all over.

  Even if I came third to last in gymnastics, he told himself, nobody’s here to laugh if I give it a go. He made three leaps, three more, and grabbed the rope. He kicked up, the rope swung him, and he bashed his shoulder. He swore and kicked again. In five more kicks he reached the railing and toppled aboard. He sat up and grinned.

  This would have been a wonderful ship when it was new. He could see how cheerful the brasswork must have been; could almost smell pies keeping hot in the galley, taste an ice-cream-on-a-stick from the chiller-cupboard.

  “Help,” said a small voice. It came from the cabin.

  ~

  Rufkin had acted frightened many times in rehearsals for the family tours. But he’d never been truly frightened before today, when the cave-lizard nearly went up his pants’ leg and when he’d felt that live thing in the mud under his hand. This third fright, right now, made his mouth go dry. He crept along ready to leap back over the rail in the next second.

  A sheltered porch was set in the overhang of the upper deck. There he found a sliding door, open the breadth of a hand. He dared to look in.

  At first all he made out was a dull brass fretwork of ducks on an overhead beam. He eased into the cabin. There was a counter, stairs to the upper deck, and padded benches around the walls. One of the long cushions lay on the floor—and there was something on it.

  Rufkin’s mouth went drier. After a moment he edged closer…

  It was just a puppet, grown-up size, with a purple and red coverlet up to its shoulders. Its eyes were closed, its face and frizzy hair thick with a rusty dust tinged with blue.

  Something clattered. Rufkin jumped. From behind the counter crawled a child. Boy or girl, he couldn’t tell.

  “Help,” it said.

  “Hello,” said Rufkin. It was the only word he could think of and seemed good enough.

  The child had round gray eyes. Its face was smeared with—at a guess—previous meals, old tears as well as fresh ones, the smudges of playing in sandpits and with play dough, and some of that rusty-blue that was on the puppet. Its clothes were what Rufkin saw on most kids that age: a sort of waistcoat, a striped long-sleeved top, and soft trousers, all smeared like its face. No shoes, just a pair of gray socks.

  “Who are you?” asked Rufkin.

  The child blinked. “Help.”

  “I’ve got that,” said Rufkin slowly. “Are you a boy or a girl?” It wasn’t the sort of question he’d ask of anyone older than three or four.

  The child looked at Rufkin’s work pants, then patted its own legs.

  “A boy like me?”

  The child didn’t shake its head. Rufkin supposed that meant a yes.

  “I’m Rufkin,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “Nobody else here? Nobody but you?”

  The boy frowned. He still said nothing.

  “How old are you?” Rufkin asked.

  The boy held up two fingers on each hand and twisted his skinny wrists to check from both sides.

  “Four,” said Rufkin. “Help. That’s what you want.”

  This time the boy gave a grin.

  Rufkin had better take the kid back to the Mucclacks. They could call the police or whatever. He reached out a hand, but the boy slipped back behind the counter. Well—that was probably okay. He’d be safer staying here than following Rufkin down the side of the boat and into the mud and over the boards and around the slippery rocks at the end of the Mucclacks’ fence.

  “Wait, then,” said Rufkin. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Silence.

  “By the way, did you write the word on the bit of board? Was it ‘help’?” Silence, but somehow a different sort of silence.

  “It was a good ‘help’,” said Rufkin. “Good letters.”

  The silence was pleased.

  ~

  Rufkin slid back down the rope and jumped at once to reach a board and balance on it. He didn’t know how he’d managed. He didn’t know how the board stayed on top of the mud either. But it did, so he wouldn’t question it.

  Sun made a sheen on the mud. It was so bright that he shaded his eyes with one hand above them, the other below to make a portal to see through. He tried hard not to think of cave-lizards and sprang from one board to another, then up through the gap in the fence to the concrete paving.

  The wavelets on the estuary were starting to creep higher. He’d better hurry. But somebody was moving around on the other side of the fence that marked the road he’d come along in the donkey-cart only yesterday.

  “Ahoy!” he called, then felt stupid. It might sound as if he was pretending to be a sailor. It was what his father would shout in similar circumstances, but people expected it from the famous actor, Tobias Robiasson. They also forgave him most things because of his being a celebrity.

  The person straightened up and peered at him through the chain-link. It was a girl with her hair in braids. She was oddly dainty yet dressed for dirty work, completely
covered in a pink boilersuit. She wore pink-spotted rubber boots, and carried a stout basket. She also wore green rubber gloves.

  Rufkin hurried over the paving. “Listen…” he began.

  “You don’t look rich or famous but you’re the Robiasson,” she said.

  It wasn’t easy but Rufkin smiled. His dad always said that a smile costs nothing but can win plenty. “There’s a little boy. He’s lost. He needs help.”

  The girl glanced around. “Where?”

  From here, because of the raised area and the fence, Rufkin couldn’t see any sign of the riverboat. “There’s a boat stuck in the mangroves. We need to fetch someone.”

  The girl tilted her head as if he was an item in an exhibition. “You’re trespassing.”

  “I know,” said Rufkin. “But because I’m doing it, I also know we really need to find someone. A couple of men from the engineering shed. Or at least the Mucclacks. But their phone’s been acting up. Can you use yours and call the police?”

  The girl frowned as if she didn’t believe him and walked away. She bent down to the muddy strip between the fence and the road, and put something into the basket. Rufkin followed on his side of the fence.

  “There’s no absolute hurry,” he said. “But he’s a very little boy and the tide’s turned. So in the next half-hour, help would be good. It’s more important than collecting whatever you’re after.”

  The girl glanced at the foot of the fence where the edge of the paving looked nibbled. “There’s a good one. I can’t reach it. Toss it through to me.”

  The only thing he saw was a small mud-filled crater in the paving. It had circles where a bubble had burst. Then, in the centre, a sort of solid curve emerged. No way was he going to touch that.

  “Go on,” she said. “I saw it first. It’s worth part of a penny.”

  She was so bossy that Rufkin wanted to march off. But she would think he was scared. Which he was.

  He looked again. She’d been gathering the things herself from the edge of the road. Her basket was full of them.