Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
13 July, 1937
Tuesday 13th July, 1937 Another scorching day, much to the delight of the hotels and any stalls selling tall drinks with ice in them. Everyone was up at dawn when it is (a) coolest and (b) we have several hours free before the first tourists come waddling over from the North Bay water-taxis with their tongues hanging out in the heat, fanning themselves with new straw hats that quite possibly say “I AM A MONG” in carefully untranslated Spontoonie. We said farewell to Moeli and her family, who are heading out to less populated waters. Her new kitten is already swimming like a fish, and indeed the children of the Natives of No Island are born able to hold their breath. Unlike other mixes, one side of the family is wholly dominant which might be just as well considering the aquatic lives they lead. It was quite a sight to see half a dozen of them in the shallows off the far end of South Fluke where there is easily two hundred yards of open ground and no chance of anyone sneaking up with a camera. Still, while they are only exposed head and shoulders above water they would attract no attention as Spontoonies all spend a lot of time keeping cool this time of year. Moeli knows we will not be meeting again in quite awhile, and told me something that quite staggered me – the true facts about the strange seaplane fighter aircraft I saw two years ago, in the lava-tube base in Main Island. She says it is something I deserve to know. I remember those aircraft well, as it is only in rather stressed situations I ever encountered them. One had taxied into the dock but I never saw where the pilot went to. I saw others at a great distance flying aerobatics that were the nearest thing to square corners in the sky I have ever imagined. They must have been radically unstable, impossibly so by any usual standards – and now I know how and why. These aircraft are designed for the Natives of No Island to fly, and only they can fly them! The pilot in the secret base had simply slipped out over the far cockpit side into the water, making hardly a sound. I had noticed these folks’ unbelievable reflexes before; if you try to play any ball game with them (the cubs have floating toys) you will lose; it is the sort of thing Nature is generous with when one’s survival depends on being able to snatch a fish out of a wheeling shoal in the open water. With reflexes three times that of most furs and probably twice as fast as a shrew, they can fly an aircraft that otherwise would try to fall out of the skies in all directions at once, but which would snap into fairly impossible manoeuvres for anyone who could master it. The Wright brothers’ first models were longitudinally unstable, but the avian brothers flew slowly and had far better reflexes than most furs. Despite predictions in the newspapers for 1908 of fifty-seat versions twenty years on, nobody flies aircraft of Wright Flyer layout any more. Well. That is something Mr. Sapohatan has not told us – though indeed we have no need to know. Even if a prototype was stolen from the factory or crashed and was recovered at sea, no other nation has a suitable pilot. They would probably be quite puzzled at the details of the pilot’s seat and controls, especially the rudder bar. In fact, it would be a flying death-trap for any test pilot, not that any outside perhaps Starling’s Russia would step into one having looked at the stability. That infamous floppy-winged American fighter the “Christmas Bullet” they built several hundred of in the Great War would be a placid primary trainer by comparison, and the Gee Bee an airliner. We waved farewell to Moeli, her husband and two children who probably do not appear in the family photograph album, not that photographs hold up well in the Spontoonie climate. Yet another departure. We really are getting thin on the ground, with Irma Bundt scheduled to be heading out this morning on a Lufthansa flight. We have her address in Switzerland, and may go that way en route to Italy this Summer, especially if I can meet my old school chum Mabel there as well. Still, everything is very tentative and it is no use making detailed plans. Madeleine X often boasted the French mobilisation plans for the Great War even listed troops scheduled to be stopping off “10 minutes at Rouen station for a cup of coffee” on the way to the Front. Those plans did not take into account anything the enemy might unsportingly decide to do. Planning general capabilities and liabilities is more the Songmark way, such as not putting one’s fighting troops in bright red trousers and the officers in conspicuous white gloves. Back to the Hoele’toemi compound for the regular routine of cleaning, working on the garden plots and generally living as Polynesians do across the Pacific whether or not they have Casino Island next door. Maria was off all morning taking care of some business at her embassy, and generally laying bait to see if the fish (Mr. Pettachi) are biting. The fact that she is the bait and has no real idea of how much she will get bitten, is something I have been telling her, and though she cheerfully acknowledges it she is going ahead regardless. There is generally nothing wrong with Maria’s common-sense, but once she gets an idea into her head “bullish” hardly begins to describe her. Very much her Uncle’s niece, and very unlike how she describes her sisters. Then, they had no interest in applying to Songmark. It is ironic that just when I am leaving, I am enjoying the local poi again. I thought this was likely to happen, recalling last year. Poi is certainly a healthy food (as anyone could see by looking at the physique of the Spontoonies, even the species that do not eat fresh-caught fish) and one I am making the most of. A canned version would be possible but probably not sell too well; most Polynesians live in climates where the taro grows well enough to make it fresh daily, and nobody else would be interested except as a practical joke. Mind you, I know a shop on Casino Island that sells the Swedish fermented fish “Surstromming” and opening one of those tins would be a booby-trap in its own right. Tins are generally not meant to bulge. I hope I have found someone to provide the sort of shock the Penningtons seem to need before I leave. Nuala Rachorska knows more about the insides of any fur’s mind than anyone I know except Saimmi, as indeed her profession requires it. After all, Kim-Anh is now a “huntress” and has the papers to prove it, so I should be able to call on Nuala for some professional advice even if it is not for myself. I changed out of Native costume and went out to Casino Island with Miss Cabot, calling in at Countess Rachorska’s to drop off my note to Nuala (she naturally works late, and other furs’ luncheon is her breakfast time.) I picked up the rather nice dress I had commissioned last week; certainly the Countess has the finest seamstresses in the Pacific area. Even film stars on location in Hawaii send out for her designs. I had time for tea and a long talk with the Countess herself, a most gracious lady. Everyone knows her story; it is her tragedy that although she managed to escape from the Reds in 1917, she fell into the paws of pirates when trying to reach Vostok from China (the Eastern end of the trans-Siberian railway and the border crossing was held by loyal White Russian forces till the middle of 1918). Though her mother naturally never talks about it, Nuala must be a pirate’s daughter; certainly civet cats are a Chinese rather than a European Russian species. Had the Countess been anything but a Countess she might have married anyway to perhaps a Spontoonie if not another exile, but she could hardly wed beneath her station and after her … experiences, the rather proud aristocracy on Vostok would rather look down on her. This may be why she stayed on Spontoon. Certainly, if all the Russian aristocracy had been as efficient as Countess Rachorska in organising their nation’s industry and businesses, I doubt Russia would have fallen flat in the Great War (or more accurately bled to death for want of bandages and first-aid skills). She employs a dozen Spontoonies full-time, and has the best reputation of any in the high fashion trade. One of her seamstresses is actually out in Hawaii right now measuring up a film starlet for a new outfit, as Rachorska designs refuse to accept anyone else’s measuring the customer. This is an expensive way to go about things, but the Countess assures me the return trip will be by ship rather than air, with the vital measurements telegraphed back here and the finished clothes delivered by air courier express by the time her seamstress gets back to Casino Island. Service like that is what makes a (high profile) business work, she believes. Full holiday season on Casino Island is quite a sight. Every major dock has a tour boat tied up, generally busy with resupplying from the warehouses around the Western side of the island. Considering the boats might be at sea for a week doing the Spontoon run and back, the sheer quantities of food, fuel and general supplies an ocean liner needs are enormous. While their passengers are busy firing off miles of film at traditionally dressed Native girls and trying out the Crazy Golf and Barking Mad bowling greens, the crew hardly have much time to relax! Still, no doubt the trade is quiet enough in December. As we were on Casino Island at luncheon, I treated Miss Cabot to coffee and cakes at Lingenthal’s, which is somewhere I have not been to in ages. It has a very pleasantly shaded garden and luxurious cakes the like of which Songmark girls dream about when faced with yet another bowl of unsweetened breadfruit mash for dessert. It still seems hard to believe that part of my life is over, and I can gorge myself on Black Forest Gateaux all I like. Mind you, we have learned moderation and staying in shape is certainly something to bear in mind now we are no longer jogging through the sand dunes with packs full of wet sand. One slice is a delightful treat once in a while, not a plate full every lunchtime. Somebody I was not amazed to see there was Professor Schiller, who we have not met in months. He is as ever the soul of courtesy, and introduced me to a pair of his colleagues, Max and Moritz. I had an awful shock when I sat down – just as happened in Neue Suden Thule, with the skills Saimmi taught me I noticed they were both “detecting” flat out – I felt like a submarine being “pinged” by a pair of warships! Still, they were quite friendly and nice-looking canines, about a dozen years older than me and Miss Cabot and it hardly felt like a threat. It is interesting to know what sort of talents Professor Schiller has with him on Spontoon, and the other places he goes when the Ahnenerbe get a scent of something worth chasing. Presumably they have not fallen for Beryl’s “innocent” suggestion that the reason the Schillers have not found King Solomon’s Mines are they have not looked in the obvious place, the Solomon Islands. It is no sillier an idea than the one I have heard that King Solomon was “naturally” of a Germanic tribe – as were most folk in the bible except presumably Herod, Pilate and Judas. Good Germans “could not possibly have” spent so many centuries worshipping anyone of Hebrew descent, so by deduction they did not. Hmm. When I mentioned my travel plans, Professor Schiller very kindly invited me to visit him in Germany – he is heading back next week, along with his niece Eva for the summer. Considering the kind of invitation Antarctica turned out to be, I hesitated somewhat but decided Adventuresses need Adventure. Although I cannot give any dates, I happily made notes of his contact details. The Professor noted wryly that his team are getting a lot more work these days. I suppose as their Chancellor looks as if he will not get the conventional resources he wanted for redecorating and expanding the “living room” or parlour of his Reich (it is no secret he dreamed of “unifying” Austria and had designs on Czechoslovakia to acquire more Germans and the land they stand on) he is looking to stranger forces to further his ambitions. This is definitely something a Warrior Priestess should be taking a look at. Having folk report to him on what was found under Antarctica would only encourage that; the fact that what was found below the ice was totally uncontrollable might point furs’ thoughts towards there being similar powers available that can be used. Ioseph Starling would never know what hit him, having removed his pool of traditional guardians when he banned all forms of religion. Still, I would not bet tuppence on anyone defeating what we found under the ice with the traditional bell, book and candle approach. The archaeologists had the right sort of idea with those old (in fact pre-War) electric pentacles, but they proved wholly insufficient against what was unleashed there. I recall my old school atlas having a world map with various symbols showing valuable resources; the tin of Cornwall and Malaya, the gold of Australia and South Africa and other such things. One imagines the new school editions (in Germany at least) having a new symbol for arcane and unnerving resources, probably looking squid-like on the map. Jane Ferris is from New England where they still understand such things and has mentioned that lone voice in the American parliament, Senator Lovecraft of Rhode Island who keeps trying to warn the world about such things and he may be proved quite right only when it is far too late. Whether or not the Reich ever gets any useful capabilities from investigating such things, I fear they will lose a lot of rare talented furs in trying. Poking around in forbidden lands and cursed areas looking for ancient things locked away behind arcane seals for millions of years for very good reason is not a healthy activity, as Professor Schiller ruefully admits. Some of his former colleagues who physically survived their experiences are in early retirement in padded cells. Back to Songmark for one last look around! We will have a lot to do on Friday and this is our last leisurely afternoon. It does feel strange. Luckily it was Saffina on the gate along with Kate, one of the girls in Florence’s dorm and the year’s only Australian. We were the only third-years around, which in a way was good. I imagined Zara last year sitting in her room for want of anywhere else to go – whether she actually did that I am not sure, but she was certainly on Spontoon after (not) graduating till she arranged our Albanian South Indies trip. The rest of the second years are either off on exercises or getting in flying hours, presumably glad we are finally out of the way and Songmark’s aircraft are free for them to use including my Sand Flea. I hope they take good care of it. Miss Cabot went with me on a tour of our old rooms, from the first and second years as we are quite entitled to. There I found rather a shock. Not just that the first-years now have bunk beds that we could really have used; getting dressed with four single beds taking three-quarters of the floor space required a lot of coordination even though none of my dorm have huge tails that tend to sweep tables bare in such cramped quarters. In what was our room last year, although everything was as neat as Songmark rules insist, furs had the allowed personal items on their bedside tables. My attention was drawn to a neatly framed autographed picture and my tail bottled out as suddenly I recognised the subject – the wolfhound I had seen watching out on Meeting Island when those three Fenians tried to assassinate Judge Poynter! On the other table I noticed a very distinctive alarm clock; although Madeleine X famously kept her clock set on Parisian time, at least hers had only a standard dial and not a New Haven hundred-hour one. It hardly needed amazing sleuthing powers to deduce this room was where Red Dorm lay their heads at nights to scheme and dream of profitable crimes and bloody revolutions. By the scent of the neighbouring bed the photograph goes with a canine admirer which in that dorm means Miss Mulvaney given the stray red fur shed on the pillow; Miss Morgenstern’s fur is a rather dingy slate grey. Besides, I doubt the New Haven secret police are in the habit of giving away signed photographs, and Liberty has often denounced the “cult of personality” with the exception of her People’s Hero Leon Trotsky. Now I have a name to go on, or at least a nom de guerre – the photograph was signed “Doctor Phil”, which is not a name one can exactly look up in the telephone directory. Still, it is more information than I had before. Definitely Post Box Nine will want to hear about this! There was nothing else incriminating in the room, and indeed I hardly expected there to be – anything obvious would probably be a booby-trap or red herring set out for Crusader Dorm to fall foul of. I will have to leave those two opposing dorms to their own devices, and hope none of the devices Alpha Rote builds are too extreme. Spontoon had its geography radically altered once already in the Great Ritual that left the islands uninhabitable for centuries; once is quite enough. I suppose it was too much to hope for to have an uneventful last look at Songmark; it is just a place where things happen. Generally to me. Still, I could hardly leave without a final look around. I have always regretted that at Saint Winifred’s, although at the time I had no idea I would not be returning for the final terms. Having investigated the first-year rooms I can say they may have put new space-saving beds in but kept the mattress – decidedly adding insult to injury. Another generation of Songmark girls will arrive in September and lose all their enthusiasm for long lie-ins even if they were allowed the time for them. As our Saint Winifred’s Domestic Sciences mistress used to say of food rather than sleep, “eat to live not live to eat” and certainly it takes an exhausted fur to enjoy the sleeping arrangements here. Maria always grumbled that the one good thing is if one falls out of bed onto the floor, it will not make much difference. I recall in our second year Carmen smuggling a thin air mattress into her room to be inflated after lights-out and deflated at first daylight, and she got away with it for several nights. Probably more as a reward for initiative than Miss Devinski genuinely not knowing what was happening. What Miss Devinski does not know about goings-on here could be written on the biggest speck of dirt in the Songmark kitchens. So – farewell to Songmark! I confess to having rather a lump in my throat as we walked out of the gate for the last time. I suppose finding that photograph was one final bonus – what you don’t know is very liable to hurt you. I recall Mr. Sapohatan musing that despite what various Ripping Yarns may say, being a secret agent has very little to do with skills concerning escape from locked rooms or taking on three larger furs with only a sharpened pencil – if things get that desperate something has gone awfully wrong. A good memory for names, voices and faces is a far better skill to have and one that may keep one out of trouble in the first place. Not that I have any ambition to be a Secret Agent, despite what Tatiana thinks. It was embarrassing when she asked if she could join my espionage cell as I have not got one, yet by definition I could not admit it if I had! It was like that classic trap line “have you given up cheating on your husband?” where neither yes nor no is a satisfactory answer for a wholly faithful wife. I wonder if Major Hawkins had me in mind when he spoke of Vostok’s “Akula” being a workable idea? No Government sent us to Macao, Antarctica or Kuo Han either, but we certainly reported back on what we found and we have received support from various unexpected directions. I could well believe some Akula do not even think of themselves as such. They do what they know is right and find training and other support somehow coming their way from an appreciative Government that does not like to show its paw too openly. Certainly it is something to think on. Back to South Island for a relaxing afternoon working off the gateaux as we hoe and weed the garden patch! Mrs. H. says that although it is still high tourist season, the Althing is already drawing up plans for the coming Autumn when the waiters and bell-hops will be back home and needing another job. South Island has had its request for one of Professor Kurt’s “Bio-reaktors” turned down as semi-industrial buildings with daily cart traffic hardly fit the image this island works hard to keep up, but Main Island is getting two of them, one on the plantations by the South-Western hook and the other near the delta of Sacred River. No more spectacular fires burning off the sugar plantation wastes after the harvest; all that will be dried and stored ready for the first hungry Bio-reaktor to start digesting. It is amazing what one learns on a Songmark course; last year we talked much with Professor Kurt whose obsession with the correct carbon-nitrogen ratio of his feedstock * was probably no stranger than the aeronautical data we have learned by heart. Electrical power is needed these days to keep the lights of Casino Island shining and the radios playing, and more smoky coal-burning power station chimneys are decidedly not the way forward – especially as the nearest coal mine is on Tillamook. next * Editor’s note: C-N ratio of seaweed approximately 19:1, sugar cane residues 80:1 against the ideal composting mix of 30:1. Which may be useful to know one day, in a somewhat bizarre set of circumstances… |