Whatever the ship was trying to tell him he couldn’t see it, not enough to confront Nabulus or take his concerns directly to the Ministry of Retirement. And Jeremiah seemed to be protecting the old girl, quietly dispersing any fears. Bastian dived back into the sea.
Chapter Twenty-One
The birdsong of toucans, macaws, lorikeets and quetzals awoke Bastian bright and early as the jungle animals stirred and stretched nearby.
In the days of upheaval when guillotine blades were quickly blunted, the militia unlocked the zoos, safari parks, and circus cages. Those that survived the new jungles taking root mated with their wild relatives sent packing on the last container ships. Endangered and protected, their numbers were now big enough to harvest. Any predator that acquired a taste for the village livestock was hunted, starting from the village common on the day of the weekly fayre.
Holroyd was hovering at the end of his table having just tasted the strawberry jam, and Jambit was sweating.
‘Would you like to try some honey?’ he asked. ‘Lemon-curd, marmalade?’
‘I’m much more interested in this jam of yours, very sweet indeed.’
‘My secret recipe,’ said Jambit.
‘Oh, I’m sure it is. And I’m also certain you’re aware of Leaflet 7B which states all foodstuffs must be regularly tested for the illegal inclusion of additives.’
‘It’s all natural including the sugar,’ said Jambit smiling.
‘Did I say anything about sugar?’ asked Holroyd.
‘Just saying,’ said Jambit. ‘I thought we was having a friendly talk.’
‘And indeed, we are,’ said Holroyd.
He removed a small jar of his own from the pocket of his waistcoat and placed a spoonful of Jambit’s strawberry jam inside before screwing the cap back on.
‘Good morning, Harriet,’ said Holroyd at the next stall he frequented.
Being a stallholder meant one became quite used to the language of the government inspector. Actually, Holroyd was saying I am carefully looking at all your wares in an attempt to uncover something wholly inappropriate, possibly illegal, and maybe subversive.
At home, Harriet kept drawers of Victorian bottles that she used for her homemade perfumes, ornate blue and green glassware, large and small, decorated and plain. All dug up from the old village dump and steam cleaned. But her favourite object, although no one was supposed to gain the slightest amount of pleasure from a simple materialistic item, was her crocodile handbag made from the hide of the beast that had killed her late husband, the one she’d had no intention of sharing a retirement apartment with in beautiful Scotland.
Harriet’s deceased husband had been a reclaimer before a crocodile came across him washing his wares in the now clean but occasionally bloody waters of the village river. Just as valuable to any village as a recycler, he reconstructed useful objects long discarded, often dumped, and sometimes buried with the misguided owner hoping to return one day and be reunited once more.
‘Am I too late?’ asked Bastian, running onto the village green.
‘Take a look over there,’ said Jambit.
Joshua was still handing out spears and shields to those without firearms forming an orderly queue.
‘Much better than gazelle hunting,’ said Bastian.
‘Or badger baiting,’ said Jambit, although most badgers had been killed and eaten by the big cats long ago.
‘But perhaps not better than fishing,’ said Holroyd coming back into view.
‘That’s banned,’ said Jambit.
‘Indeed, it is, and anyone caught can expect to have ten points deducted for a first offence.’
‘And a second?’ asked Jambit.
‘Life on a chain-gang.’
Jambit gulped, but no one could accuse the government of abandoning its principles.
‘Have you seen Nabulus?’ asked Bastian.
‘Of course, and where’d you expect him to be, leading the hunt,’ replied Holroyd. ‘I’d better join them, they’re about to take the oath. Well, are you coming?’
They dashed across the common.
‘Please raise your right hand,’ said Malthus and no one needed reminding of the words.
‘I hereby swear that should any injury result to myself during the hunt, my actions are entirely my own and no one has persuaded me to attend. I fully accept that the need may arise for points to be deducted from my record for any necessary treatment incurred.’
There was a loud cheer and the twenty-eight men and women threw their caps in the air.
‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ said May to Bastian.
‘I had but Nabulus wanted an extra gun,’ he replied.
They resisted the homemade cakes surrounded by flies and wasps whilst making their way to the village outskirts. Next to the tarts was a pile of recycled paper bags in various colours. Plastics were out with paper in, but not for the news. You got all you needed to know from the church notice board, the village gossips, or Edward on the radio station powered by the one of the last generators in the land.
They were gathered under the ‘Beware of the Elephants’ sign alongside the field of long sunburnt grass where the lion had last been seen baring his fangs in a standoff with a wild boar. A brave goat-herder had blown a venom tipped dart into its side and although it had no effect, the red feathers were still in the flank.
‘In pairs if you will,’ shouted Nabulus, and Bastian and May quickly stepped into each other’s comfort zone.
Three rat-catchers were drawn out in a line across the field, banging drums and expendable.
Bastian and May held back from the others and went a different route before spending most of their time smooching under the trees that offered shade and shelter, careful to check the canopy each time. But the only animals they saw above were monkeys resting in the heat and preening one another on the branches with their tales hanging down. They walked through the long grass to the abandoned open coal pits into which many a short-sighted child fell during the eleven-plus.
Bastian heard footsteps and glimpsed Malthus through the bush that hid them from plain sight. Harriet was beside him and pointed at the ground before they turned around. A curious Bastian wondered what had garnered their interest as May dawdled behind fixing her dress and hair.
‘Maybe
