Monday June 8th, 1936 I am feeling decidedly in the dumps despite the fine weather, my tail drooping after yesterday’s news. I spent yesterday afternoon with Jirry, and had to tell him about Saimmi’s veto. She is just as keen as ever to welcome me to the family someday – but her duty is to ensure the sacred institutions are kept that way, and if she thinks I do not pass “quality control” right now, so be it. Her reason was rather odd – she says she had no reason before now to look as closely as she did, but says there is a cloud over me. I feel perfectly fine, or at least I did until she made her decision yesterday. Had I simply gone over to Orpington again and competed in another of those distinctive folklore festivals, something like that would not be a problem at all, even the night before a Tailfasting ceremony. She says there is no objection to my heading over to the Reverend Bingham’s church with Jirry any time we wish to marry – but as to being witnessed before the rows of Tikis on Sacred Island, in all conscience she cannot approve right now. Although for most locals they can be officially joined there without any fuss, now I know the locket has very substantial symbolic power that I definitely did not understand when I received mine. Had it been lost at sea or destroyed in an accident, that would not be a problem either – but Saimmi seemed utterly horrified at the trivial detail of my losing mine at Lars’ party when it still had some days of useful life. Oh dear. Molly is equally furious, pointing out we had surely done enough for these islands last week to be given a little credit for it. Alas, it does not really work like that. It hardly helped matters to be sent escorting the first-years to Casino Island this afternoon, and pass the local Guide’s association being eagerly looked over by the crowd from a newly arrived tour boat as they pick who they wish to show them the sights tomorrow. Of course this is almost entirely respectable and far more than nine times out of ten the “school ma’ms” and stenographers will return to the ship having only seen exotic scenery and explored the showier parts of the island with a qualified and knowledgeable guide. But as Jirry says, some of them are subtle and persistent – very few of the Guides wear Tailfast lockets.  We met that rare equine gentleman returning with half a dozen respectable lady tourists from South Island, and it is a good thing Beryl was not with us. She has cheerfully “informed” us of the shocking scandal of some unscrupulous stallions dyeing their muzzles and trimming their tail-fur to a mule-like tuft to take unfair advantage. She would probably have repeated the story just in earshot of the contented group to see if any of them suddenly looked panic-stricken. There is no news on that daring theft of the Fire Crystal, though everyone says it is just a matter of time. We have seen that famous Inspector Stagg here interviewing Red Dorm (who do NOT have an alibi, and in fact sneaked out at the right time). I thought I had seen Liberty Morgenstern in a rage before, but the reaction to her sight of the Inspector was rather like Maria meeting Ioseph Starling with no weapons handy. I suppose given that she is a “daughter of the Revolution” and he is a “condemned Enemy of the People and fugitive from Proletarian Justice” as she puts it, they are not short of things to talk about. (Written later) Our Tutors definitely got their money’s worth out of us today, sending us on escort duties in the morning and then out on a trip after lunch! We managed to stop at a fish stall on the way back to Eastern Island and had a rather excellent lunch; there is no indication where we were being sent, but it rarely involves fine food. Actually, Helen rather regretted it as two hours later we were in lifeboats tethered to a buoy just off the Kanim Islands, on an open water survival exercise! Although one hears stories of folk in shipwrecks having to eat each other to survive, Helen is an excellent companion in a lifeboat – one thing is certain, in a small boat on the open waters she has absolutely no appetite. Having her constantly looking over the side of the boat has some advantages, as she can be relied on to spot any shoals of fish coming within range of our emergency fishing nets. Friday June 12th, 1936 Well, one can hardly say any part of a Songmark career is dull. It might not sound particularly exciting to spend four days and nights in an open boat, but we had to keep alert and do what we could to fish and conserve water. I know Li Han thinks of fish eyes as a gourmet treat, but I will definitely leave her all my ration whenever I am not in a lifeboat and desperate for water. There is no cooking equipment in a lifeboat, so anything we caught was eaten cold and raw – as a cuisine the Japanese are welcome to it. Molly experimented with cutting it very thin and using the big fire-lighting magnifying glass from the emergency kit to at least scorch it; decidedly one of her more half-baked ideas. Actually, we were hardly alone on the boundless ocean but moored in a lagoon off one of the Kanim Islands and less than a hundred yards from shore: Miss Blande and a canine gentleman friend had a camp on shore and rowed out every morning to check on our health. A hundred yards downwind in the cool of an evening is not so far when one is hungry: they had roast fish cooked on driftwood every evening and the scent was maddening when all we had apart from our catches was tinned water and a few “lifeboat ration” biscuit packs that are like hard-tack case hardened. The wind carries sound as well and possibly more than folk expected: tents are not at all soundproof and one could definitely tell that our dear Tutor was having a very sociable time of it. Her friend is one of the Scandinavian type Spontoonies by his accent, and by species and other things is certainly a Great Dane. Memo to myself: be very careful in a tent where one puts the lantern, or one may be the unwitting performer in a jolly educational shadow-play. As Beryl said admiringly before Missy K held her head underwater awhile, the things one sees when one leaves the camera at home.  All in all it was a very useful experience, and nobody had to eat any of their shipmates, not even Beryl. After that we had been hoping for a slap-up meal with possibly chicken, but two of the cooks were away and we simply got more of the usual. Having fed us on emergency rations and water for five days one might think our Tutors had saved up enough of the food budget to splash out a little, and there is no shortage of chickens around here – on Orpington it looked as if every second longhouse had signs saying “Fresh eggs best price! Baby chicks going cheep!” There is hunger and hunger, as I discovered – this went down like fuel into an empty tank and although I finished my plate of one-finger poi, I remember how much better it tasted back in Easter when I was unknowingly eating for two. My ears still droop sometimes thinking about that – but at least the next time the island speciality begins to taste wonderful, I will know what to expect. On our return we found that things had definitely been moving on without us; the Fire Crystal has been recovered, the Red Dorm found innocent (there must be some things they are innocent of) and a small fire near the Old China docks promptly extinguished without unduly alarming the tourists. The legends about that gem being “too hot to handle” seem to be demonstrably true – at least it is an awful coincidence that everyone who steals it pays dearly. One imagines any local insurance policies have special clauses excluding “acts of God” and specifically an enraged Fire-God. That is the sixth time the gem has been stolen and recovered in about the same circumstances, which may be pushing coincidence rather far. Having been cleared of all charges the first-years are now playing that very strenuous variant of hide and seek that we started last year, chasing each other around the island. Maria had the treat of seeing Liberty’s tail droop when reminded that their carefree first-year days are numbered, and what they are really practicing is hunting down first-years for next term. Despite Spontoon being so far from anywhere we do get families with prospective new students dropping through every now and then to take a personal look at the place. But then, with the fees Songmark has to charge, one has to be exceedingly sure. For anyone contemplating investing in sending a daughter for three years here, a reconnaissance holiday in the Nimitz Sea is a comparatively small extra expense and a worthwhile trip in its own right. Jasbir’s sister Meera has her name down for September: she is already head of the Roedean school rocket fanatics, the Congreve Club. The Austrians have tested a “rocket mail” postal service from one alpine valley to the next, and Jasbir notes with pride her sister has the ambition to launch the first cross-channel postage system to France as soon as she can run an engine at over two hundred pounds of thrust for a minute without the usual catastrophic explosion. If she keeps up her interests here, I am sure the Spontoonies will appreciate eight foot of inter-island post box touching down in their vegetable patch at four hundred miles an hour – I don’t think! We do get some surprising applicants, not all of whom will get in. I would have thought it was fairly fundamental, Songmark being an Aeronautical Boarding School for Young Ladies. But we were on gate-guard duty this evening when a very aristocratic poodle lady and her son turned up and asked to speak to our Tutors. Of course while she went in he had to stay outside the gate: a very handsome and well-spoken canine with wonderful curled head-fur down to his shoulders. He gave his name as Marcel DuChamp, and we chatted for half an hour before his mother stormed out and swept him up. He is absolutely first-class as an aviator, and has even unofficially raced some of the Schneider Trophy test aircraft – quite a “catch” for any flying academy, I would have thought. What I would never have guessed, was which one his family wanted to enrol him in – ours! I heard the rest of the story from Beryl, who has ears that can spot a farthing hitting the carpet in the next room. According to her she hardly needed to listen hard as Madame DuChamp got quite voluble and it needed little to reconstruct Miss Devinski’s side of the conversation. Marcel has most impressive classroom qualifications, a flight logbook like a telephone directory and is an award-winning athlete. The rather obvious aspect where he does not qualify, his mother rather airily waved aside, explaining that Songmark’s pupils were completely safe with him and he needed an equivalent to the military Academy Aeronautique that was less prejudiced about certain things. Oh my. Just when we had hopes our Tutors might be thinking of making the place co-educational. Such a handsome fur, too. It seems an awful waste – except that one could say the same about Prudence and her dorm, who assure me nothing whatever goes to waste. I think I will continue to take their word for it. Saturday June 13th , 1936 Quite a day for letters! I received one from Father, who does seem to be keeping very busy – the War Department have posted him to British Somaliland, where he is in charge of anti-tank defences in case the Ethiopians suddenly build armoured formations and decide to come over the border. Considering what Maria’s Uncle seems determined to do to their side of the frontier, ours probably looks more attractive right now and smells less of phosgene. No doubt he will be over there until the local militia and our garrison are happy they can contain as many armoured divisions as Ethiopia is likely to throw at us. Actually, I would be in rather a quandary if Father DID invite me home for the holidays, even supposing my name was cleared with Whitehall and I could go. The idea of spending a leisurely two months looking up old school chums and attending vicarage tea-parties is starting to seem rather … washed-out. As an alternative to sharing a long-house with Jirry all summer and being called out for adventure when Mr. Sapohatan decides he needs us, it hardly compares. Molly received a letter from Lars, which rather oddly has Spontoon stamps although Krupmark reputedly has no postal service. Of course, when one thinks about it he would give the letter to one of his employees heading to Spontoon to post it the final mile or two to our door. She insisted I read it – though it might have been personal, she is determined to share that as well with me. Molly says one has to read between the lines; according to her interpretation Lars has been very busy these last two weeks on Krupmark re-establishing himself. I suppose that is hardly the sort of place where one can simply vanish to Europe for six months having told the staff to get on with it – either the competition would have stepped on them or the staff responsible might have got ambitious ideas and not be pleased to see the rightful owner return. Anyway, he says his labour problem has been “settled decisively” though Molly puts a rather bloody interpretation on that. Honestly, I don’t know where she gets her ideas from. Just because some deer in Biblical times (or in uncivilised parts of the world like Utah where it still happens) might have shared their stag, is hardly a reason for me to want to on any sort of formal basis. I am a feline after all, and it is not our sort of thing - except for lions, who perversely enough take a pride in it. * But then, as I noticed Molly is far more “sophisticated” as she calls it, more so than I really want to try. Lars was a perfect gentleman to both of us in different ways and my neck-fur was definitely tingling afterwards; he knows just how to please me there although it is not something deer do by instinct. Just to make matters worse, Beryl dropped by when I was reading and cheerfully announced that her friend Piet van Hoogstraaten had arrived with his rowing team in Berlin and was going to be there until the end of July, leaving her at a loose end. Had they been in those Saturday matinee cartoons one sees before the main feature, one would have seen a line of daggers drawn from Molly’s eyes as Beryl innocently asked how Lars is doing these days. Anyway, we all made it to Casino Island for our dance classes without any severe outbreaks of violence – though Beryl was being very coy when Maria asked about what she was being interviewed about by that Inspector Stagg. Some people’s idea of an adventuring career would be to fly around the world solving mysteries: Beryl has often said her preference if there was enough profit in it would be to go about leaving mysteries scattered around like land-mines. I fear that she was really better suited to Saint T’s than Songmark: even as late as last term Miss Nordlingen had to explain patiently that although it was not technically poisoning, slipping people industrial strength laxatives as a joke was usually not considered a suitable prank for a young lady. To be honest, Liberty Morgenstern had been annoying that day, for a change loudly agreeing with Tatiana (and Ioseph Starling) that every nation needed a violent purge to eliminate its counter-progressive elements. Beryl’s idea of a violent purge was at least survivable. Although she is hardly into religion, our annoying mouse has mentioned having heard of a very suitable “patron” from the Scandinavian furs on Main Island, some disreputable deity called Loki whose congregation (by her account) have no established church as they would compete to be first to steal the lead off their own roof. One assumes her Temple of Continual Reward is thatched and heavily insured against fire with any company gullible enough to issue the policy. It is one of the few buildings on Casino Island I have not actually seen except from the air, as it is in its own compound with high walls that no doubt prevent the neighbours from witnessing things best unseen. A very fine Interpretive Hula lesson followed, where we and Jasbir’s dorm learned the “Dance of the sunburned Tourist” which I recognise as having been performed last weekend in front of a whole tour-boat crowd. It is a jolly good thing there is no “hula dictionary” or folk who arrived in a tour bus would definitely go off in a huff! Jasbir introduced me to a very well-groomed falcon gentleman, who is connected with the Coconut Shell and had dropped in to see her dance. This summer she is staying over on Spontoon, and I doubt there is much our Tutors can do to dissuade her from taking to the stage out of term time. Indeed, we have only three weeks left to go: terms at Songmark do seem to be rather flexible things and hardly match up with last year’s dates. Molly offered to take care of any journalists threatening to put Jasbir in the limelight of publicity under her own name: although the only journalist we know by name could probably be negotiated with rather than “taken care of”, we certainly ought to help give Jasbir her chance this summer. It will be back to being a respectable Maharani for her next year, and by her description her ceremonial costume is a lot less comfortable than a grass skirt. We returned via the tailor, where I picked up my repaired green raw silk “adventuring” suit, which has seen a lot of wear in the past year. I have needed to let it out twice at the shoulders since then; happily they are familiar with Songmark students and hid plenty of growing room in the seams when they first made it. I must say, it is hard to credit the quiet, industrious mice that run the place are the same species as Beryl. Father has a saying, “tell me what longitude a fellow’s from and I’ll tell you how much latitude to allow him” – rather embarrassingly, in this case the Orientals definitely win the contest. * Editor’s note: scribbled in plain text in the margin is the following jingle, presumably from a music-hall song: “When choosing wives, Sheikh Ali Kat prefers them big and whopping / His favourite saying; ‘Buy in Bulk – it saves last-minute shopping!’” Sunday June 14th, 1936 Quite a day for Churches in one way and another; Maria was off to hers to hear how they will protest against being turfed off South Island after nearly half a century. There is much talk of sending special envoys from the Vatican – but I hardly see much hope of success, they would only be preaching to the converted. Maria points out the Church is not in the habit of losing in the long-term, as witness its return with Italy’s reconquest of Cyrenacia in North Africa after twelve hundred years. But the Althing has its policy, and if it will not listen to the Spontoonie Catholic congregation it will hardly care a cowry about any foreign church-fur! Interestingly, Brigit Mulvaney fanatically attends the same South Island church; one assumes their priest puts in overtime when she needs confession. She was telling us that she is a good girl despite what they thought at the “Magdalene”, which I discover is a rather more severe institution than I had thought and is not unlike being imprisoned by the Inquisition; there is no appeal from any other authority in the land. Had she fallen into their paws, she might have been imprisoned in the laundry till her red fur turned grey, “for the sake of her soul.” By arrangement, we did not meet up on South Island but on the Southern tip of Main Island in a plantation far from any village. We had not been within a mile of there since the day we swam from South Island, a trip nobody wants to repeat. I did not recognise the crops; a small shrub that Saimmi told are Illipe Nut trees that yield “Borneo Tallow” from their nuts, an obscure but profitable fat that goes into tropical confectionary. Definitely there is more to this island than non-existent coconuts. Helen and Saffina were there, and indeed we had an unexpected encounter in the fields. There is a shrine on the plantation, a small and plain Tiki that had an inscription in Spontoonie; but its real explanation was given by the one who put it there. I had only met Saimmi’s superior once before, an ancient black pantheress called Huakava, who was one of the first born on these islands in Plantation days. Strictly speaking they were not “colonial” days as the plantations were run by commercial companies that happened to be British, rather than anything planned and nurtured by our Government. She can remember back to the middle of the last century, but this shrine is rather newer than that. There may be several reasons why nobody writes any books on the Gunboat Wars: if they were accurate they would not make comfortable reading (Helen says Hollywood would go into fits trying to make them into acceptable box-office hits.) The islands were very different in 1912; it was more like Mildendo is today, with no “attractions” and the buildings cheap and practical: less carving and more corrugated iron. What with the flimsy buildings and the risk of typhoons, all the plantation villages had tornado shelters as indeed they still do, although nowadays they are really rather well-built ones with thick reinforced concrete and air filters “to keep the dust out”. The difficulty of mapping what happened in those weeks was there was no general plan: with the varied naval forces in the area, nobody ever took out a map of the island and decided on a clear policy. It was more a case of the available troops and gunboats “quashing rebel opposition” wherever it could be found, a difficult matter as the local militia mostly vanished into the jungles rather than obligingly forming up in regiments as the manual prescribed. Well, unfortunate things do happen in wars that neither side wanted. The raiding forces had cruisers with four-mile range shellfire, but no clear targets. This plantation village had just completed its new tornado shelter the month before the war, and sensibly sent all its children and civilians into it while the militia vanished off the map and harassed raiding parties. The trouble is, from anyone’s point of view a recently completed log reinforced structure buried deep in the earth looks rather like a command post. Not having put any troops on the ground that came back to report, the cruiser could not know otherwise and responded to the deteriorating situation by practically wiping this square off the map. I had noted the ground under the bushes was hummocky, and I can understand why nobody liked to disturb this acre with their ploughs. Illipe trees take fifteen or twenty years to start yielding, so even if there had been a second invasion during the Great War, this site would have been left undisturbed. We spent an hour at that shrine, and then discovered why Huakava wanted to see us. Though one assumes Saimmi is privy to almost everything, her senior had personally seen some things she wanted us to know about. Saimmi had told us of the true reason why these islands had to be evacuated at about the same time Columbus was sailing: the same reason why even Pirates never felt comfortable here two centuries later and why the sacred coconut palms will not grow even now. It seems that although the Spontoon group had to be abandoned, the reason why lived on as stories passed on by the Natives of No Island, and on neighbouring settlements such as Orpington where the survivors had fled to. When the plantation owners decided to re-settle, the local priests knew there was no way of dissuading them – but they felt a responsibility to the furs who would be arriving unaware. By Huakava’s accounts, the life expectancy of local priestesses was rather short when she was a kitten, but as the years went on their work began to show some good effect. Of course, the plantation owners had some trouble replacing workers who perished apparently of unknown tropical diseases – the Euro doctors being quite baffled, as indeed they still would be. There are Taboos and Taboos, definitely. That valley that cost us so dear on Albert Island certainly had a legend to go with why it was a place to avoid, though probably an anthropologist would claim the legend grew up after it became a swamp as a warning sign. In the case of Spontoon, the ritual that went so horribly wrong left certain … fragments behind, whose exact nature Huakava was rather evasive on. They must not be destroyed, as that would release their power over a wider area, rather like tampering with a mustard gas shell – and one of the tasks the first returning priestesses faced was moving some of them off Spontoon. Due to their nature, dropping them in the deep ocean would not be appreciated by the Natives of No Island. One fragment is kept under fresh water in Sacred Lake, and two others were sent to the furthest islands then having priestesses who knew what to do with them – Cranium Island and Krupmark. Unfortunately neither island now has a practicing Native community – Krupmark we know about, and we have heard many conflicting tales of Cranium Island. It is certainly home to various scientists of Ill Repute, many of whom are said to conduct the boldest and most innovative medical experiments around. Possibly I might meet some of my old hockey rivals from home there; St. Ursula’s Secure Boarding School for the Gifted Insane were always coming up with such fascinating tactics (though most of those girls who were too violent and unstable for the military went into politics or the Church). Without the expertise of the local traditions and rituals to contain them, the influence of the fragments spread – which may explain why neither island is exactly a tourist attraction despite great natural beauty, and why certain people are attracted to them without exactly knowing why. What made this more than another lesson in local folklore, was Huakava’s startling revelation that the time is coming when the various fragments can be dealt with – they are rather like shrapnel in the spirit of the Land, but it may heal if they can be found and removed. This Summer they want to make the attempt on the Cranium Island item – to locate and neutralise it. It will be a difficult and dangerous thing to do, and anyone involved will have to be aware of the risks they run, not just the regular perils of exploration but to their very spirits. There are few people really qualified for the job – but she asked us if we were interested. Exactly where the items were is a lost secret, as it was known to the local priestesses who have unfortunately not survived. Well, in our first year the Tanoahos went out there to look for radium with the Songmark second and third-years, and they all got back without anyone experimenting on them that I could notice. We have spent so many days looking at the local maps on our navigation exercises that the Nimitz Sea chart is almost tattooed on the insides of our eyelids – and Cranium Island is the biggest one we have not yet been to. Of course, we volunteered. After all this time, helping to right such a wrong is a jolly fine thing to do, and Helen is always glad to lay in stocks of credit with the Authorities here. Our Tutors should be pleased as well: with any luck they might forgive Molly and me our previous adventures with Lars and the Moro Pirates. If we were less principled, we might make Beryl briefly happy by buying shares in that fraudulent “Nimitz Copra Company” of hers. She has a postal swindle going where investors put up (say) ten percent of the necessary cash into coconut plantations and get ten percent of the value of every crop. Of course, the crops never grow here and the investors never see a penny of their money back; naturally she has already sold hundreds of ten percent shares. It is a risk that anyone would know they were taking, growing farm crops that can be eaten by insects, diseases or land-crabs (as so many of them were in Plantation days, which is why the Plantations ended up losing money.) Actually growing coconuts on Spontoon would be rather an embarrassment to her, as the shareholders might do a quick head count and “get wise to it” as Helen says. Being in the same building, we would have a chance to get our claims in first before the howling mob arrived. Really, one hardly needs the Taboo fragments of a failed five-hundred year old ritual to be hazardous to the spirit. Just being in the same class as some of these folk leaves one’s paws dirty! Molly has had an inventive day, thinking about how she can make herself some legitimate money this summer. The success of her “fish log” has fired her to think of more on those lines – preferably something she can make here from local materials. I sometimes forget just how much work she put into being the prospective heiress to her Father’s “PAMS” factory: really she knows an awful lot about food by now, and eagerly reads publications such as “Meatpacker’s Monthly – Summer issue colour special” when she finds a copy. Her current scheme is to get folk to buy their cubs more chocolate by making it more nutritious; one hears of various military forces mixing all sorts of stimulants and such with it for airmen and special troops, but she wants to make it healthier and handed out in schools as they do with milk. Her first recipe involves blending in various percentages of brewer’s yeast for vitamines * with seaweed gel for iodine and bone flour, for minerals for growing cubs. I saw Helen looking quite ill at the idea, and can quite understand why. If Molly had been with us this afternoon and known what those Illipe trees were planted on, she would not be so keen on how to give the local confectionary its minerals. *(Editor’s note: correct mid-1930’s spelling!) next |