world, where there isn’t even light to see the enemy by?’ The closer they came to the shores of the Land of Chup, the more formidable the prospect of the Chupwala Army became. It was a suicidal mission, Haroun became convinced; they would be defeated, and Batcheat would perish, and the Ocean would be irreparably ruined, and all stories would come to a final end. The sky was dim and purplish now, and it echoed his fatalistic mood.
‘But but but don’t take this seriously,’ Butt the Hoopoe intervened kindly. ‘You are suffering from a Heart-Shadow. It happens to most people the first time they see the Twilight Strip and the Darkness beyond. I, of course, do not suffer in this way, having no Heart: a further advantage, by the way, of being a machine. —But but but don’t worry. You’ll get acclimatized. It will pass.’
‘To look on the bright side,’ said Rashid Khalifa, ‘these Laminations certainly work. I can’t feel the cold at all.’
~ ~ ~
Goopy and Bagha were coughing and spluttering more and more. The coastline of Chup was in sight, and a bleak-looking thing it was; and in these coastal waters the Ocean of the Streams of Story was in the filthiest state Haroun had seen up to now. The poisons had had the effect of muting the colours of the Story Streams, dulling them all down towards greyness; and it was in the colours that the best parts of the Stories in those Streams were encoded: their vividness, lightness and vivacity. So the loss of colour was a terrible kind of damage. Worse yet, the Ocean in these parts had lost much of its warmth. No longer did the waters give off that soft, subtle steam that could fill a person with fantastic dreams; here they were cool to the touch and clammy to boot.
The poison was cooling the Ocean down.
Goopy and Bagha panicked:
‘If this all goes on (hic, cough) we’re all lost!’
‘The Ocean will (cough, hic) become a Frost!’
Then it was time to set foot on the shores of Chup.
On those twilit shores, no bird sang. No wind blew. No voice spoke. Feet falling on shingle made no sound, as if the pebbles were coated in some unknown muffling material. The air smelt stale and stenchy. Thorn-bushes clustered around white-barked, leafless trees, trees like sallow ghosts. The many shadows seemed to be alive. Yet the Guppees were not attacked as they landed: no skirmishes on the shingle. No archers hiding in the bushes. All was stillness and cold. The silence and darkness seemed content to bide their time.
‘The further into the darkness they lure us, the more the odds are in their favour,’ said Rashid in a dull voice. ‘And they know we will come, because they are holding Batcheat.’
‘I thought Love was supposed to conquer all,’ Haroun thought, ‘but on this occasion it looks as if it could make monkeys—or mincemeat—of the lot of us.’
A beachhead was established, and tents had been raised to make the first Guppee camp. General Kitab and Prince Bolo sent Blabbermouth to fetch Rashid Khalifa. Haroun, delighted to see the Page again, went along with his father. ‘Storyteller,’ cried Bolo in his most swashbuckling manner, ‘now is the hour when you must lead us to the Chupwala tents. Great matters are afoot! Batcheat’s release cannot be delayed!’
Haroun and Blabbermouth, along with the General, the Prince, and the Shah of Blah, went stealthily through the thorn-bushes, to scout out the neighbourhood; and after a short time Rashid stopped and pointed, without saying a word.
There was a small clearing up ahead, and in this leafless glade was a man who looked almost like a shadow, and who held a sword whose blade was dark as night. The man was alone, but turned and leapt and kicked and slashed his sword constantly, as though battling an invisible opponent. Then, as they drew nearer, Haroun saw that the man was actually fighting against his own shadow ; which, in turn, was fighting back with equal ferocity, attention and skill.
‘Look,’
‘But but but don’t take this seriously,’ Butt the Hoopoe intervened kindly. ‘You are suffering from a Heart-Shadow. It happens to most people the first time they see the Twilight Strip and the Darkness beyond. I, of course, do not suffer in this way, having no Heart: a further advantage, by the way, of being a machine. —But but but don’t worry. You’ll get acclimatized. It will pass.’
‘To look on the bright side,’ said Rashid Khalifa, ‘these Laminations certainly work. I can’t feel the cold at all.’
~ ~ ~
Goopy and Bagha were coughing and spluttering more and more. The coastline of Chup was in sight, and a bleak-looking thing it was; and in these coastal waters the Ocean of the Streams of Story was in the filthiest state Haroun had seen up to now. The poisons had had the effect of muting the colours of the Story Streams, dulling them all down towards greyness; and it was in the colours that the best parts of the Stories in those Streams were encoded: their vividness, lightness and vivacity. So the loss of colour was a terrible kind of damage. Worse yet, the Ocean in these parts had lost much of its warmth. No longer did the waters give off that soft, subtle steam that could fill a person with fantastic dreams; here they were cool to the touch and clammy to boot.
The poison was cooling the Ocean down.
Goopy and Bagha panicked:
‘If this all goes on (hic, cough) we’re all lost!’
‘The Ocean will (cough, hic) become a Frost!’
Then it was time to set foot on the shores of Chup.
On those twilit shores, no bird sang. No wind blew. No voice spoke. Feet falling on shingle made no sound, as if the pebbles were coated in some unknown muffling material. The air smelt stale and stenchy. Thorn-bushes clustered around white-barked, leafless trees, trees like sallow ghosts. The many shadows seemed to be alive. Yet the Guppees were not attacked as they landed: no skirmishes on the shingle. No archers hiding in the bushes. All was stillness and cold. The silence and darkness seemed content to bide their time.
‘The further into the darkness they lure us, the more the odds are in their favour,’ said Rashid in a dull voice. ‘And they know we will come, because they are holding Batcheat.’
‘I thought Love was supposed to conquer all,’ Haroun thought, ‘but on this occasion it looks as if it could make monkeys—or mincemeat—of the lot of us.’
A beachhead was established, and tents had been raised to make the first Guppee camp. General Kitab and Prince Bolo sent Blabbermouth to fetch Rashid Khalifa. Haroun, delighted to see the Page again, went along with his father. ‘Storyteller,’ cried Bolo in his most swashbuckling manner, ‘now is the hour when you must lead us to the Chupwala tents. Great matters are afoot! Batcheat’s release cannot be delayed!’
Haroun and Blabbermouth, along with the General, the Prince, and the Shah of Blah, went stealthily through the thorn-bushes, to scout out the neighbourhood; and after a short time Rashid stopped and pointed, without saying a word.
There was a small clearing up ahead, and in this leafless glade was a man who looked almost like a shadow, and who held a sword whose blade was dark as night. The man was alone, but turned and leapt and kicked and slashed his sword constantly, as though battling an invisible opponent. Then, as they drew nearer, Haroun saw that the man was actually fighting against his own shadow ; which, in turn, was fighting back with equal ferocity, attention and skill.
‘Look,’
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