Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
1 January, 1937 to 3 January, 1937

Friday January 1st, 1937

A new year, and I hope it develops better than it began! We spent our midnight wide awake all right, but not around a celebratory bonfire with food, drink and cheerful company. Our new year began shivering on the steel deck of a nondescript trawler, that was surprisingly well-armed and had engines sounding a lot more powerful and well-tuned than one would expect. The crew were dressed in fishing kit, but moved and acted like full-time military. Of course, the local militia and Rain Island could provide off-duty troops in a good cause – such as running down and boarding a tramp freighter escaping from a badly sprung trap. This would technically be an act of piracy, but considering the Spontoons are the only local government liable to be prosecuting we felt fairly safe on those lines. None of us were carrying our passports, and I doubt the Three Moons would feel like begging protection from any passing foreign warship it did find in international waters.

    As it happened, our trip was an unnecessary precaution and very glad of it we were; just because first aid kits and insurance policies stay unused any particular day is no reason to do without them. A rather unmilitary whoop of glee came from the radio room in the small hours; there had been a white flare spotted from Moto’s Revenge, signalling all was well. A yellow flare would have meant something like the ship escaping with a skeleton crew after the shore party was dealt with, while a red flare would have meant deep trouble.

    As we were “stood down” and prepared to return to Spontoon, the crew brought out a flagon of naval rum and we all toasted success and a new day dawning. Then we found ourselves an unused netting locker, and threw ourselves down to sleep. It is rare to find clean, dry nets aboard a working boat, but I can report they make a very decent bed for a tired girl.

    We woke up with an unfamiliar view of Eastern Island, seen from the docks at Moon Island. The boat was almost deserted, but we could see one “fisherman” on the bridge and half a dozen more carrying crates out to the jetty. There was another long crate looking quite like it ready on the deck, and as there was nobody watching I decided to have a look.  The four rifles inside were a familiar sight, or that was what I thought at first, having a Great War issue T-Gew of my own. But knowing the model so well, some differences almost screamed out to me. The barrels were four inches longer, and the bolts shorter as if to handle a much longer cartridge of the same calibre – and I recalled that one round Molly had been given by Lars. These certainly seemed much newer than 1918 as well; though metal packed in grease will not rust, over the years the grease congeals to become waxy or rubbery. These smelled brand new, and ready for use.
 
    I carefully re-sealed the case and retired to the net locker where Helen, Maria and Saffina were still asleep, and had another cat-nap while I heard the crew return to carry the crate back to whatever magazine they have onshore. Nobody greatly cares about small nations buying up surplus ordnance especially from defeated nations, the unspoken thought being it must be inferior or they would not have lost.  But it looks like someone is carrying on development rather well disguised as the older model. The boxes certainly had “Allied Control Commission” stencilled on them, the board that saw to disarming Germany and Austro-Hungary in 1919, but they scented of new pine; nobody had thought to make the crates out of old wood.

    Eventually there was a knock on the door and a proper Mess Steward in white jacket entered, evidently from the Officer’s Mess ashore. He had an insulated half-gallon jug of steaming hot naval-issue cocoa and four mugs, which was a very welcome start for us. While we drank he informed us that we had a water-taxi summoned, that would drop us free of charge wherever we wished to go. Apparently the Rain Island forces are issued beer daily with their rations, but at that time in the morning even Maria preferred the cocoa.

    So; no Tailfasting, not much New Year bonfire party, and not much of a holiday for us. On the plus side, we have put in a good deal of overtime for Spontoon and hopefully made both Saimmi and Mr. Sapohatan fairly happy with us. By diffusion, it would be nice to think our Tutors would be slightly happier too. We have had some holiday time at least – and unless something else crops up we should have a few more days to relax. We have certainly seen a few surprising things in the past month – those “indentured servant” kelp plantations on the Aleutian Isles with their high living ex-Confederate owners and native Aleut sea-otter workers, the horrors under Krupmark, and the strange territory of the Great Stone Glen. It is just as well we missed out the sanity-shattering nightmare landscapes of Cranium Island, but that is somewhere we never want to return to. I have said the same about Krupmark, mind you. Twice. Hopefully my third trip to Krupmark was my last.

    As promised, the water-taxi brought us back to South Island and a most welcome meeting; someone must have telephoned from Moon Island about us as the Hoele’toemi clan had gathered to welcome us back. Having Adventuresses in the family may not be so good if one wants the garden hoed or the dishes done dependably, but we seem to be appreciated for our other talents. Mrs. H was very pleased to welcome us back, claiming we had made the Nimitz Sea a cleaner place.

    Molly turned up after lunch, looking rather grim. She confirmed that everything was well, they had made a clean sweep, and Granite and her crew would not trouble anyone again. She even volunteered that she had not only been awarded the ship, but had it hired off her for a sum that should pay for her next two terms at Songmark. For all that, she looked rather disturbed. I had hoped that a vigorous firefight would have her happy and contented till half way into term, but not so.

    We will let her explain in her own good time; for now we can finally relax and finish off the party we missed last night. That is, Mrs. H and the whole village seem to be exceedingly happy with us – and we hardly feel like turning down their hospitality.
 
    Of the various things we missed last night, it seems the “Goddard Club” put on a spectacular display. Not in terms of showy pyrotechnics but their rocket flew to surprising heights in the dark, the motor running for more than half a minute. Everyone cheered, and any tourists around at this time of year might have been disappointed by the lack of coloured stars etc that a normal display rocket drops. Having that specialist fuel depot on Eastern Island that caters for exotic Schneider Trophy demands is a major asset for such projects.

    I assume Jasbir’s sister Meera stayed over the holidays to work with the Goddard Club; what with our adventures taking us away from Casino Island I have seen nobody from Songmark but my own dorm and Saffina. I expect Beryl is making trouble as per usual, at one or another of the small Casinos. The main one will still not let her play, after the unaccountable and highly improbable streaks of good luck she enjoyed in her first Summer holiday here. Casinos know all about probabilities, and though they could not prove anything they do not believe in luck like that.

    We might not be earning any money as yet as Adventuresses, but it is nice to be earning goodwill among the Spontoonies. Violobe seems semi-official these days, in that she quietly asked us if there was anything we could use as some compensation for missing our Tailfastings and New Year celebrations. I was about to decline, when Helen’s ears went right up and she asked for enough 85-octane aviation spirit to run my Sand Flea till term starts. This was happily granted – and we were told the aircraft would be ready whenever we needed it. A definitely bright idea on Helen’s part, and one that will benefit us all through our logbooks.

    Well! Though it was tempting to rush back to the water-taxis and put the gift to good use right away, we happily relaxed and enjoyed a New Year’s Day beach party. Four hours of sleep in a net locker was very welcome at the time, but far from a full night’s rest and we had felt rather worn after all the excitement. Taking part in a vigorous hula soon chased the cobwebs away, and with Jirry and Marti we passed a most enjoyable afternoon. And evening, for that matter.


Saturday January 2nd, 1937

A bright, clear day with a steady Westward wind had us all getting up early; though there was none of the traditional sausage and ham available in the Hoele’toemi larder, there were eggs and smoked fish for us to have a good “flight breakfast.” We are starting to associate those with momentous days; the last formal ones we had were just before the Aleutians, and before that it was the aerobatics contest with the Ave Argentum (who have been very quiet lately.)

    Off to Eastern Island in high spirits, after eight hours of sound sleep and much relaxation. Helen was so relaxed she looked like a tiger-fabric pillowcase at breakfast time, very contentedly draped over Marti’s shoulder. Still, she firmed up enough to be memorably seasick on the way, despite having made the much rougher air trip back from the Aleutians with no trouble that way. Rather a waste of a good flight breakfast, alas. If we ever get to please any local Deities enough to ask them for one wish as in the stories, I will ask for a more stable stomach for her! Unfortunately it is just not something she gets used to; in our first Easter holiday living on the fishing boats she was no better on the last day than on the first. She lost twelve pounds in weight.

    Molly and Maria are rather thrown together while Helen and I enjoy the company in the Hoele’toemi guesthouse. Maria is rather gritting her teeth at all these adventures we keep being given that she could not possibly use as a story – the Krupmark trip she says is something she could hardly write up even if Saimmi let her. Certainly her Uncle has no interest in such things, she says, being a thoroughgoing materialist who has been championing the People over the Church for years and despises superstition. As with Molly, discovering it was true all along would probably not be good for his equilibrium.
 
    Saffina was happy to spend her final few days of peace resting up and exploring South Island and Main Island using her new freedom. It is just as well we had her with us rather than Eva; from what we gather Eva would have been deeply interested in anything related to the Fragment her own Uncle once had in his paws to investigate. Eva is quite open about the sort of things her Uncle is looking for; having artefacts that someone made for their own purposes centuries ago is well enough, but he really wants the secret of producing such things from scratch for what is wanted now. Their Chancellor has hardly begun to use the potential of that Spear he was waving around at the Olympics, she tells us. She adds that she can tell us because nobody else would believe such things; apparently her country acquired the authentic “Girdle of Freya”, whatever that may be, from some museum in Finland for merely its weight in gold, and the curator thought he had a good deal of it.

    Maria’s articles are being syndicated across to Tillamook and Rain Island, which is a surprising thing considering their politics. Maria’s party line is to despise anarchists more than Bolsheviks, and many Italian volunteers are putting it into practice opposite Barcelona right now. She is certainly turning out tight, sharply written pieces that go down well with the Pacific islanders; learning her trade with a portable typewriter in uncomfortable conditions makes for a concise style. She has put a few political articles together, but kept them well-reasoned and possibly persuaded a few furs to see things her Uncle’s way. After all, she says Italy seeks only to revive the wealth and glory of the Roman Empire for its mostly poor citizens, which is nice. The only territory they claim in Europe is a rightfully Italian province and city the French conquered from them in the last century, which is Nice.

    True to her word, Violobe had passed on our request for fuel and by whatever route the word had reached the airport staff. We arrived to find my Sand Flea wheeled out onto the runway, and a fuel bowser drawn up that could have fed its needs all the way back to Barsetshire. A splendid sight! Though Helen protested it was my aircraft, it had been her idea to ask for this payment and the rest of us insisted she get first flight. Our Sidcot suits had been cleaned and repaired courtesy of the first-year dorm that must have done something awfully wrong to get saddled with such a job. The evidence of muskeg swamp on the outside and two week’s daily grime on the inside was very thoroughly removed, and we know what sort of a job that is.

    With four of us servicing and fuelling it was hardly ten minutes before I was swinging the prop and Helen shouting “Contact!” while airport staff looked on in amusement. It is an unusual aircraft but they have seen stranger around here with the Schneider Trophy aircraft as regular visitors. That Bee Gee parked in “C” hangar is surely the most improbable thing to ever manage to leave the ground; Maria once commented that it is a perfect pole racer. With that tiny tail fin and massive engine torque it flies in circles on its own accord.

    It is a fact that my Sand Flea is hardly a Schneider Trophy winner in terms of engine power, and on a hot day it takes quite a lot of runway to get airborne, especially with Maria or Missy K at the controls. Happily, today the wind was favourable and the air cool, and with Helen it fairly leaped off the ground as if very glad to be back in the air after so long. I took the next flight; with all the fuel we wanted we could stay up for an hour, covering the whole island chain and only turning for home when we ran low on petrol.

    There was a very strange event while Molly was up around lunchtime. One of the few commercially scheduled land planes of the day was heading in so we had cleared out of the way to let the Customs folk do their business; Maria had gone off for a coffee. That left Helen and me at a loose end awhile so we practiced our exercises, some of the ones Saimmi taught us. It is generally a very good way of passing time; ones viewpoint goes somewhere that is decidedly not in the usual time zone.

    I think Helen first spotted it; she came out of her trance and growled urgently that something was approaching. It was like and yet unlike the presence in the Great Stone Glen; certainly not the kind of thing one associates with aircraft schedules. Although it was like tracking a scent in a gusting wind we started to track, calling out “Hot-hotter-colder” as we ranged across the airfield.

    In about ten minutes we had traced the signal to the far end of the runway where the private aircraft are parked, out of the way of the sleek DC-2 that had just arrived from Hawaii and was being refuelled for the French Sandwich Isles stage. Then we spotted a fur we had seen before.

    Although I only met her for a few minutes back in August, in the circumstances we are not likely to forget Kansas Smith’s mother, long divorced and presumably back under her Vaudeville stage name of Lola Vavavoom. What her original name was, Molly did not read in “Film Follies.” She is a stunningly built mink of mature years, and still a great beauty. Evidently Kansas Smith is soon to have another little half-brother or half-sister, to judge from her condition. She was just boarding a privately registered Sikorski amphibian aircraft on the runway when we spotted her – which immediately rolled out onto the runway and took off heading Northwards. Either what we sensed was already in the aircraft when she boarded, or it is her. Definitely the trace we were reading faded out with the departing plane.

    We found Maria at the coffee lounge, and immediately told her what we had detected. She was definitely affected by the tale, but then we have heard something of what happened to her on Cranium Island – which a quick check with the airport staff showed us to have been the Sikorski’s filed destination. It is rather odd – Maria asked us just what Miss Vavavoom had looked like, as in did she look worried, happy or whichever. I had to say she looked quite blooming, and perfectly contented. “Swell” in various ways, in fact.

    Maria admitted she had thought a lot about what had happened to her – and although I had not picked up their conversation, the thing Oharu banished under Krupmark had somehow known about that. Being reminded of it has definitely affected Maria, the only one of us without a regular partner. Of course, her problem is that she shares many of the romantic restrictions of royalty, being who she is. Without saying she is fussy, I can certainly understand her problem with finding an equal partner as few males are equal to her right now and she is rising higher all the time. Heading off as Jasbir did in dyed fur for an incognito romantic adventure would not help much; mongooses (mongeese?) like Jasbir can modify their looks to resemble other similar species but with those horns and that tail Maria is rather distinctive. Apart from various Indian water-buffalo and Chinese oxen, bovines are not a common type in the Pacific.

    We had another ten minutes to talk it over, and then we heard the distinctive sound of the Sand Flea announcing Molly’s return after a trip that had taken her right around Mount Kiribatori and back over Crater Lake. There are generally few Priestesses on Eastern Island, and evidently none who were near enough to notice the ominous arrival and departure and get here in time to spot just what it was. We are not too sure ourselves, though hopefully Saimmi might have an idea.

    Still, we kept the dust off our flight logbooks today and our Tutors are always happy about that. Having a sponsored fuel supplier is a great treat, one that we will try to make the most of. It is almost a shame the Sand Flea is not my friend Angelica’s Silver Angel, so we could all squeeze in and explore Albert and Orpington Island again, let alone further afield! There is much to see within two hours flying time from Spontoon. Another pity that our windfall happened at the very end of the holidays, not the start.

    Back to South Island for our last full evening there; although most of our clothing is stored at Songmark we have two changes of “Euro” costume in our tin trunks at Mrs H’s longhouse. Definitely the airtight trunks are a blessing; most of the year they keep out the ferocious local moths and right now they are preserving our respectable outfits from damp and mildew. Grass skirts and freshly picked flowers have no such limitations. A Songmark girl does all her own laundry, but considering everything – it is just as well the Native outfits are disposable.


Sunday January 3rd, 1937

Our final day! I confess Helen and I were up rather late, at least we arrived for breakfast around nine with keen appetites rubbing our respective neck-fur. Mrs. H joked that her sons would take awhile to recover from our trip, and at least they have a healthy enough diet to help that along. Very fresh fish every day was what the Pacific area Olympic athletes trained on, after all.

    We met up with Saffina in the village, then as arranged we trotted down to the long curved sand spit the map calls South Fluke, where Gha’ta and Saimmi were awaiting us. After the ritual greeting we wasted no time in telling Saimmi what we had seen on Eastern Island. As we thought, although half a dozen priestesses had noticed something amiss, nobody else had seen exactly what it was.

    Saimmi seemed unsurprised in a way, and of course she had been on Cranium Island herself in August. She guessed that the new addition to the family would be something that would greatly surprise midwives anywhere else in the world. That is nothing new on Spontoon; her sister Moeli is of course expecting a kitten of unusual attributes, her husband being one of the Natives of No Island. I know that Moeli plans to stay on South Island when her time is near; these things are never exact on timing, especially with exotic mixtures involved. We have heard of one girl who gave birth to a “Kitten of No Island” in the main Casino Island hospital unexpectedly two weeks ahead of time; it was pure luck that only Spontoonie doctors and nurses attended, not visiting Euros.

    A very busy morning of training ensued; Saimmi is learning the Warrior Priestess tradition at the same time as the rest of us, with Gha’ta explaining and demonstrating. This was a very different tradition from what we had seen the Priestess Oharu demonstrate on Cranium Island, but it had much the same effect. At least, it would with a skilled and powerful enough practitioner; next to Oharu we are torch batteries compared to lightning bolts. (Comparisons are dangerous things. I recall Beryl telling some first-years last term on a trip to the Casino Island power station that you would not actually get a shock from three-phase high voltage electric supply cables if you touched all conductors at exactly the same time. According to her, the positive, negative and zero phases all add up to zero, so it is perfectly safe. She declined to demonstrate.)

    Back for a splendid farewell meal, which Saimmi attended as the guest of honour. It is rather strange, having the High Priestess in the family, technically no longer a relative. She belongs to every family on Spontoon now – and indeed, if she had not been passing the old homestead in the course of her duties she could have been anywhere on the islands. She at least has no shortage of energy, despite having arranged that fog over Krupmark Island. I am still not at all sure how she did that. Still, she has been brought up on these traditions, and we are decidedly raw amateurs at it. Things could be worse – if we decisively bungle some of those rituals Gha’ta is teaching us, we would be cooked amateurs.

    The meal was excellent as ever, with some of the last local bananas of the season. They cut them green in October and ripen slowly indoors, but this is about the end. I wonder how my friend Angelica is doing? We have not seen her in ages; had we not been grabbed twice this holiday for Official Business™ an expedition to meet her would certainly have been arranged.

    Back for a final farewell to the longhouse and Jirry, final till next weekend at least. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder – well, both Helen and I are making up for it. In advance.

    (Later) The rain is streaming down on the windows, and we are back in our Songmark dorm. It always seems to rain on the first night of term, not that term strictly speaking begins till the gates close tonight. Adele Beasley and Madeleine X were the last to arrive, with half an hour to spare – we have not had time to ask how they enjoyed their Krupmark trip. Contrary to popular belief one can enjoy Krupmark, at least Molly has done. But as Molly says, it depends on the company – her earlier visits were with Lars, unlike the last one which she did not enjoy at all. It seems she has discovered the cased Mauser rifle she was so proud of was anonymously given to her by the Priestess Oharu, which has rather spoiled it for her.
 
    A busy holiday, and for a change our Tutors might not assume we have all been relaxing for weeks with our foot-paws up in front of a fire eating Christmas pudding and chocolates. They always think the worst of their returning students; in September we are told there is no more lazing around eating ice-cream on beaches for us – as if we had the chance to do much of that. Just having a full night’s sleep will be luxury enough for us to go on with.

    (Later still) Miss Devinski just put her snout round the door and announced we have the honour of protecting Songmark for the first night patrol of term. Help! I should have known – they always do begin as they mean to go on!


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(And they did. Her final Spring term continues in “Uncowed in Macau.”)