Jasper Fforde - The Song of the Quarkbeast

‘I didn’t mean building bridges as in “making people talk to one another”, I meant building bridges as in “actually building bridges”.’

‘Ah,’ said the Moose, ‘you meant literally , rather than metaphorically .’

I nodded, and the Moose gave out a short whinnying noise.

‘What a suggestion,’ it said. ‘A moose, building a bridge?’

It paused for a moment, then asked why I wanted it to build a bridge, so I told it all about the contest and it said that it thought something odd was going on, but wasn’t sure, and I said that it could be sure that something was , and asked it if it thought it might be able to help.

‘There’s a lot of power coming out of that terracotta pot,’ said the Moose thoughtfully, ‘probably enough to build a bridge.’

I stood up. Perhaps all was not lost.

‘You need to come and see the remains of the bridge. The contest starts in half an hour.’

‘Leave the building?’ said the Moose in a horrified tone. ‘Out of the question. I haven’t been outside since it first opened as the Majestic Hotel in 1815.’

‘Have you tried?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No. And that’s not the point,’ said the Moose in the manner of a moose that had realised it was very much the point. ‘I’m not leaving the hotel and that’s final.’

‘Agoraphobic?’ [36] It’s the fear of open spaces. Jennifer never did find out what the Moose thought she meant.

‘No thanks, I’ve already eaten.’

‘I heard,’ I began slowly, ‘that there is some snow outside – and a female moose. Not to mention some sodium. And most of the town centre is pedestrianised so you won’t have to worry about being run over by a car.’

‘I’m only a spell,’ said the Moose wistfully, ‘I only think those things are important. It’s the Mandrake Sentience Protocols. I know I’m not real, but I think I am. In any event, I’m not going outside.’

‘Final?’

‘Final.’

And it vanished.

I sighed. It was worth a try, but we were back to square one again. No sorcerers to do the contest. Not one.

‘So let’s talk about something else,’ continued the Moose, reappearing as suddenly as it had left. ‘Are you going to go out on a date with the young wizard with the tufty hair?’

‘How do you know about me and Perkins?’

‘It’s all they talk about,’ he said, looking upwards, presumably at the retired ex-sorcerers in the building. This was news to me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the subject of bored sorcerer tittle-tattle.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Love always is,’ said the Moose, sighing forlornly. ‘I’m only a vague facsimile of a moose once living, but I share some of his emotions. Ach, how I miss Liesl and the calves.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ asked Tiger, who had just appeared at the door.

‘The Moose.’

I pointed at the Moose, who simply stared at me, then at Tiger.

‘You were saying . . .?’ I said to the Moose, but it just looked at me blankly, and then slowly faded from view.

‘Are you okay?’ Tiger asked.

‘I’ve been better. Come on, let’s go and show some dignity before we get trashed. How do I look?’

I had put on my best dress for the event, and Tiger was wearing a tie and had combed his hair. We would at least make an appearance at the start for good form’s sake.

We stepped out of the building after making quite sure that Margaret ‘The Fib’ O’Leary was looking after the front door to enable us to get back in. Margaret was one of our ‘hardly mad at all’ sorcerers, and also one of the least powerful – she could tell the most whopping great lies and, by skilled distortion of facts and appearances, make you believe them wholeheartedly. As a party trick she would convince guests that down was in fact up , then laugh as everyone started fretting that they might fall on to the ceiling.

Many people had taken a day off work to come and view the contest, and the road leading towards the medieval bridge now resembled something more akin to a fairground. There were barbecues selling roadkill pizzas [37] A Snodd delicacy often served at open-air gatherings. Real ‘roadkill pizza’ these days is rare as demand far outstrips supply, but the alternative is still baked in the traditional way – on asphalt under a sunlamp. and camel’s ears in a bun, [38] These actually are camel’s ears. They are considered an ‘acquired taste’, which is shorthand for ‘extremely nasty’. and traders selling merchandise such as hats, King Snodd action figures that threatened to execute you when you pulled a string, and T-shirts with unfunny slogans like: ‘My dad went to a magic contest and all I got in our damp hovel was bronchitis’. There were tents with Travelling Knee Replacement Surgeons, sideshows where you could gawk at ‘Gordon, the amazing two-headed boy’ and other ‘Quirks of Nature’. There was also a tent where you could pay half a moolah to view parts of a Troll pickled in a large jar.

‘Do you have a half-moolah coin?’ asked Tiger.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

As we moved closer to the bridge we could already see the flag-wavers, jugglers, tumblers and ventriloquists performing to entertain the crowds until the warm-up act started, and we overheard in passing that the half-time bear-debating event was cancelled as the bear had come over all mellow and wasn’t up for an argument.

‘They’ve got a replacement,’ said someone close by. ‘Jimmy Nuttjob will be setting himself on fire and then be fired high above the rooftops from an air cannon while yelling “God Save the King”.’

‘Probably hoping for a knighthood,’ said his friend.

‘Definitely – but there must be easier ways to do it,’ replied the first man.

We worked our way to the front, where the barriers had been erected to keep the crowds from any passive spelling, and Tiger and I showed our IDs to the police on duty. We were permitted to pass, and moved towards a small gaggle of people standing right on the edge of the bridge’s north abutment, close to where the royal observation box had been built.

‘Ah!’ said Blix. ‘The defenders approach.’

He was standing with the rest of iMagic’s staff: a weaselly character in ill-fitting clothes named Tchango Muttney, the well-dressed Dame Corby, who wore far more jewellery than was good for her, and Samantha Flynt, who was fantastically pretty, but not that bright. I knew this because she had put her pretty floral dress on back to front. Perkins, I noticed, was not with them, but Colonel Bloch-Draine was , and he nodded a gruff greeting in my direction.

‘No sorcerers to help you?’ asked Blix sarcastically.

‘Won’t be much of a contest, will it?’ I said.

‘On the contrary,’ replied Lord Tenbury, who was hovering close at hand, ‘the best contest requires only a winner – not necessarily any competition.’

‘And how do you think the crowd will react when they find that the potential winner has no opposition?’

‘The people will not riot,’ said Tenbury confidently. ‘After all, a one-sided contest should be cosily familiar to any resident who has ever voted in a Kingdom of Snodd election.’ [39] Elections are neither free nor fair in the Kingdom of Snodd. In fact, there is only a yes box to tick against the only two questions: Do you feel King Snodd is doing a swell job? and: Would you like him to continue to do so? Any ballot papers not having both boxes ticked are destroyed as ‘spoiled’.

We stopped talking because a colourful parade was approaching from down the street. There was a shiny brass band, several horsemen, and a retinue of hangers-on before the Royal Family arrived in a gilded open-top carriage. Everyone, including me, knelt before our monarch as the carriage stopped and a handy duke offered himself to be used as a step. The King and Queen were accompanied by the two Spoilt Royal Children, His Royal Petulantness the Crown Prince Steve, who was twelve, and Her Royal Odiousness Princess Shazza, who was fifteen. As their accolades suggested, they were horribly spoiled and spent much of their time stamping their feet and wanting things. No governess ever lasted longer than twenty-six and three-quarter minutes.