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TWO
Night falls. The mist is so thick the Swiftifoots constantly collide and are in danger of falling onto the invisible floors of steep-sided valleys. There is no sign of the moon, which gave the mountains their name, making the lakes that lie between the peaks look like some mystical marshland.
Then, on rounding a particularly sharp bend, the mist clears, there is a hot blast of air and the Swiftifoots gasp in alarm. About a mile away, a great mountain in the middle of a plain is roaring and hurling huge red rocks into the sky.
Fifi shrieks and hops high in the air, crying, “I don’t remember that!” Sven, standing firm, says, “The Voice of the Moonmarsh Mountains is right. Time has turned. We have gone back to the beginning.”
Not knowing what to do, the Swiftifoots subside among the stones and stare. Snurk sighs and wishes he could sleep, even under a leaking roof. Crump drops to his knees, dismayed, while Squidge blinks frightened eyes and looks for a rock to run behind.
You see, millions of years ago, mountains with open tops called VOLCANOES, boiled over with the hot earth that lay beneath. No other life stirred. In the air there was very little oxygen, a gas which helps us to breathe. Hot seas bubbled. Lightening flashed. The sun was scalding hot.
The Swiftifoots stop muttering about the mist, the dark and the memory of sodden tunnels. They gape at a glowing red river - the hot ash flowing from the top of the volcano - and wonder how they can possibly cross it without setting fire to their feet.
Low foothills, like the back of a many-humped monster, lie along one side of the river, winding past the volcano until swallowed in the dark.
“We will pass the volcano by walking through the hills,” declares Sven and as they set off, a faint path appears, flickering in the fiery glow. Approaching the volcano, they begin to feel uncomfortably hot, their damp skins making faint sizzling sounds as though just dropped into the breakfast pan. The roar from the volcano grows louder, like some imprisoned beast bellowing underground.
“This will be the end of us. We will shrivel and die,” predicts Snurk, huffing with the heat. And there is no doubt the Swiftifoots feel extremely strange, never having known the heat of the sun, let alone been fanned by the leaping flames of a natural furnace. As they pass the spitting mountain, the ground moves like the back of the underground beast beneath their feet.
Gradually the heat lessons and the fiery light fades and as they follow the path, they hear the sound of bubbles being blown; a low heaving and plopping. On rounding a bend they see a vast sea of suds that wink and burble hotly, as though making fun of the footsore Swiftifoots.
“We might as well be picked by MEN and FRIED,” grumbles Crump, who is an uncomfortable mass of hot wrinkles.
“Look, there’s a cave!” cries Sven, whose sharp eyes have seen a wide mouth in the rock facing the Sea of Hot Suds. Relieved, the weary Swiftifoots approach it and Fifi, now too tired to flutter, treads carefully through the sharp stones.
They reach the Sea of Hot Suds
Sven and Fifi reach the opening of the cave. They step inside, expecting to find a dark rocky refuge for the night. Fifi shrieks. She has touched something squidgy which gives a deep, watery gurgle. Gradually, as their eyes grow accustomed to the gloom, they make out a dark moving mass covered with holes.
Snurk and the other Swiftifoots gather fearfully at the edge of the cave, as Sven asks, “Who are you? We would like to come in for the night if there’s room.”
The creature gurgles loudly with annoyance.
“Room? Of course there’s no room. I am a SPONGE and sponges need a great deal of room. What, may I ask, are you?”
“I am a Swiftifoot,” Sven replies, standing up straight but frightened by this faceless form. Then Sven sees that the sponge, which must be six feet high, is a dull shade of orange.
“Well, I am PORLOCK,” says the sponge.
“Why are you called that?” asks Sven.
“Because I am full of pores, you foolish Swiftifoot.” (Pores are the holes through which sponges feed).
“How odd - our relatives the FUNGI are full of SPORES,” says Sven. “They release them into the air so life can carry on. One of our legends tells of the Giant Puffball. He releases enough spores to circle the Earth five times. But not all spores become puffballs. If they did they would be heavier than the whole planet.”
Porlock says, “Well, sponges aren’t so clever. We’re in a fix. There were once two of us in this cave. But being sponges, we grew together. Now we don’t know who is who, we are so dry we can barely breathe and so large, we are wedged in this cave you are silly enough to think of sharing.”
“Can we help you to the sea?” asks Sven.
Porlock’s great holes heave in alarm. “Oh no, that’s the Sea of Hot Suds. I need a cool green ocean so I can suck in water through my pores and feast on fishy leftovers. We left the Sea of Hot Suds because it was like being boiled alive in a bath. That’s what MEN do to us. They catch us, boil us, fill us with soap and squeeze us to scrub themselves clean. Ugh!” Porlock shudders.
Those MEN again. “We have travelled back in time. Men have not been born yet,” says Sven. But he fears, that as the voice of the Moonmarsh Mountains warned, they will meet men as time moves forward to where it was when their tunnels collapsed.
Porlock begins to sing dolefully:
“Oh, woe is me. I was washed by the sea,
But I’m wedged in this waterless cave.
Please help me out. I used to shout
And make a fuss. Then I kept very quiet
For I saw in a dream there’s not many of us
Who won’t be caught with a fisherman’s laugh
And carried away to be used in a bath.”
“Where are you going anyway?” asks Porlock grumpily.
Fifi says, “To find the Paradise Flowers so the Swiftifoots will not be washed away and can live for ever. Why don’t you join us?” We could find you a deep green lake and float the petals on top so you would never be boiled and used at bathtime.”
Porlock ponders, then replies, “Sounds a good idea. If I breathe in very hard, can you push me out of this cave?”
Two small Swiftifoots squeeze through the entrance and as Porlock draws a deep breath, they push. He is surprisingly light and bounces out onto the mountain path.
Longing to sleep, the Swiftifoots plod on again. Porlock, now bright orange, bounces beside Snurk, but takes up so much of the path, the old Swiftifoot is afraid of tumbling into the Sea of Hot Suds.
The path passes round its edge, lit dimly by the heaving water’s glow and at last dawn breaks, adding fire from above to the bubbling mass below.
Beyond the sea a black rock rises raggedly against the early morning sky. After so much fire and bubbling heat, the hot and bothered Swiftifoots are anxious to reach it and seek a cool cave.
But as they draw near and the sound of the seething sea subsides, a clamminess fills the air and they have the distinct sense of being watched by unseen eyes.
Porlock, who senses nothing, bounces beside Sven and Fifi, dreaming of the cool green lake where water full of fishy delicacies will drain deliciously through his pores. But even he stops short at the sound of squelching and a low grumble, very like the noise he made when wedged in his cave.
Rounding a corner of the black rock, Sven, Snurk, Fifi and Porlock stop in their tracks, as a long brown tentacle reaches towards them from above. The halt is so sudden, three Swiftifoots pitch from the path into the hot sea. Squidge hides behind Porlock and Crump ducks as the tentacle swings over his head. Looking up, the Swiftifoots see nine more tentacles waving against the slippery black rock, then two sharp eyes in a jelly-like mass.
Sven, feeling frightened but being as bold as possible, asks, “Who are YOU?” The creature angrily arches his tentacles and says in a peevish voice, much smaller than the Swiftifoots expected, “I am LEGS the SQUID and I am LANDLOCKED. How hot the sea has grown and t
here is nothing in it worth eating. No fishermen, no boats to capsize. No whales to whet the appetite. But what are YOU, may I ask? You look like FUNGUS and should be FRIED.”
The Swiftifoots shrink back in alarm and two more fall into the bubbling sea. “Please don’t harm us,” pleads Sven, “We are on our way to find the petals of the Paradise Flower. Porlock the Sponge here, is coming with us and since you are landlocked and have been thrown back in time with the rest of us, you may care to come too.”
Legs the Squid
There is a pause, then Legs, waving five tentacles wildly above their heads, says, ”ME? The master of the sea with a brain bigger than that of the men who make ships? With eyes that can see from here to the bottom of the blackest ocean? I, who have fought and won against the whale? I, who weigh almost a ton and am related to the mighty kraken who has wrecked more boats than I’ve had broth boiled from fishermen’s bones? Why should I come with riff-raff like you, to some land I’ve never heard of and which probably doesn’t even have a salt sea?”
Fifi is terrified, but fluttering bravely round the end of a trembling tentacle, says, “Oh yes, we have three fine salt seas, very deep and full of fish and you could eat the petals of Paradise Flowers as well, so your eyes would not fail and your tentacles never grow tired.”
Legs stops waving for a while. Then he says, “Very well, your land must be better than this hard rock that’s ruining my tentacles, when I should be shooting through the waters of the world.”
Suddenly he sings in a high voice to a tune that rises and falls like wind-swept water:
“I was the Brain of the surging sea.
I swum through fish as fast as a wish
And tipped over boats afloat with my tea.
Now I lie on this rock
While the likes of you mock
And even the herring gulls laugh.
I must find a sea fast where the great nets are cast
And the fishermen fly from my path.”
“I don’t think there will be many fishermen,” says Fifi anxiously.
“Never mind,” Legs sighs and slithers from his rock. His tentacles fly untidily and Porlock has to bounce sideways and the Swiftifoots duck and scurry to avoid being knocked over.
Now the landscape is changing. There are no mountains, no sea, but a vast open area of grey soil dotted with motionless trees and bushes. Legs grumbles in a voice shrill with indignation. “Oh, my tentacles. This is so tiring. Where is the water?”
Porlock, feeling far too dry, but still bouncing along cheerfully, retorts, “For such a big-brained creature you are very stupid. We have barely begun our journey. If you don’t want to come, you can go back to the Sea of Hot Suds.”
“How DARE you?” shrills Legs, “You are one of the most primitive mistakes to move through water. You are nothing but a mass of HOLES. I ask you, how can that possibly compare with a SQUID?”
But he moves reluctantly on, his tentacles heaving in great waves along the dusty ground. Snurk has said nothing for more than an hour. He is wondering if Legs might let him ride on one of his tentacles, but thinks it best not to mention this until the squid is better tempered.
Crump and Squidge feel too tired to take sides, while Sven strains to see what lies beyond the vast plain and Fifi settles inside one of Porlock’s pores so she need neither fly nor walk for a while.
Time flows fast; the silent passing of many years, until suddenly, across the drab plain, a long black thread appears. Is it a river? If so, it was not there a few seconds ago. Some distance ahead of it scurry several strange creatures who seem to be searching.
Sven gestures the Swiftifoots to stop. Porlock gives an extra big bounce and Fifi tumbles to the ground while Legs gathers his tentacles indignantly beneath him, so he towers tetchily over everyone.
One of the creatures, which is tiny, stops before Sven. It has a body divided into three sections, three pairs of legs and wings folded on its back. It opens large jaws and stands stiffly as though ready to bite.
Sven could squash it underfoot but then he looks at the long black thread spread behind and realises it is a mass of these creatures, stretching further than the eye can see. So he asks politely, “Who are YOU?”
The creature blinks and says in a clockwork kind of voice, “Number 4321 reporting that food has been found.”
Sven tries again, tired of being considered something to eat “No, no, who ARE you?”
The creature replies, “I am ARMY ANT number 4321 and I have been sent ahead to search for food. I can’t see what I’ve found - I’m blind you know - but I’m sure you’ll do.”
Fifi flaps in agitation but, looking Number 4321 straight in his blind eye, she says, “We are really NOT good to eat. The petals of the Paradise Flower which we are going to find, are much nicer and if you would care to join us....”
The ant interrupts her impatiently, “Come, come! We have no time for fads and fancies. We must eat immediately before we set out for the forest to make a nest in the tree roots so our queen can lay her eggs.”
Fifi asks, “How many eggs does she lay?”
“At least 25,000,” replies the ant. “When you are small you have to keep up your numbers. Imagine the trouble we’d have hunting if there was only a handful of us.”
The ants that are massed behind, move forward, twelve abreast. Number 4321 and the others who had come ahead, scurry aside, their sharp jaws open, ready to bite. Clearly, unlike the other animals, they have no time to sing, not even a military march.
The swarm is close now, until the Swiftifoots, hearing their feet scraping purposefully through the dust like one huge, hungry insect, squeal and scatter, bounding in all directions on their long legs.
Sven stands with feet firmly apart. Porlock stops bouncing and seems rooted to the dust, his pores wide in terror, while Legs draws up to his full height and tries to look imposing, but already imagines millions of legs clinging to his tentacles. Crump and Squidge bound off with the others, while Snurk, with a deep sigh, is resigned to being nibbled and gnawed at.
The first ants reach Porlock and swarm hungrily into his trembling pores. Sven decides to take action. “Where is Number 4321? Please step forward,” he commands as a mass of ants heads for the tips of his toes. Number 4321 scurries obediently forward.
“Now listen,” says Sven, “We are Swiftifoots and we are most unsuitable to eat. We are a kind of fungus; very damp, with no taste and take much too long to chew. Porlock is a sponge and he has dried out; not at all nourishing and Legs, who is a squid, will drown you in evil ink. But from where we have just come, there is an excellent dinner; all kinds of creatures, marvellous mouthfuls every one, such as -” Sven glances uneasily at Legs, who must know what else has come out of the Sea of Hot Suds recently.
“Yes, yes, there are lampreys,” says Legs hastily, naming the first sea creature that comes to mind.
The ants retreat from around his tentacles while others dart from Porlock’s pores. Legs continues, “You’ll find lampreys everywhere; a fine feast.” Legs knows, but does not add, that lampreys have heads that end in huge mouths and tongues covered with sharp spines and now that they have left the Sea of Hot Suds, they will suck in ants by the score.
Legs adds, “And there are wobbegongs, that taste as tender as tentacles.” In fact wobbegongs are fierce speckled sharks that will snap sharp jaws round the hordes of army ants. The ants pause and Number 4321 asks, “Which way is this land? The food there sounds more appetising than dry sponge and fungus.”
“Just over there!” says Sven, pointing, “Your army could reach it by lunchtime.”
“Very well, we’ll seek out the lamprey and the wobbegong, but they had better be good or we’ll be back to begin on you,” says Number 4321 and the ants form a long neat line, ready to set out for the Sea of Hot Suds, that no one has mentioned.
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