None of us three wanted to say where Thistle was, but that would only make Dad suspicious. I realized it was I who had to tell him, and do it before he got into a rage. When I told him Thistle and Gentlerain were seeing to the human dictator in one of the bedrooms, Dad got up without a word and walked towards the door, obviously heading for Petey’s bedroom. After him went I. Mum, without turning around to look at us as we left, so stiffly was her back barely grazing her chair, said very, very clearly, “Be careful how you treat our brother. He’s pretending nothing ever happened.”
Dad stopped to listen to her, but when she was done, went on his way.
“I’m not going to say anything about my son and your war. But how could you leave a man like this in the hands of a child?”
“I knew Thistle wasn’t just anyone. She’s done as good a job as any of my people would have.”
This was a compliment Thistle didn’t mind hearing. I think Uncle Gentlerain was growing on her.
“But what do you mean by bringing a man like this to my daughter’s house? What is this? Vengeance?” Dad asked Uncle Gentlerain.
“I brought him here!” shouted Thistle. “And it’s not your house. It’s Heather’s. She decides. It’s her decision. And she decided to let the man in.”
“Heather would take anyone with a problem in, sweetheart,” said Dad. “From a stray kitten to Frankenstein’s creature just broken loose from the lab. This is between my brother and I, Thissy. Don’t interfere.”
“I will,” I said, trying to sound as serious as my mother had. “It was never Uncle Gentlerain’s war. So don’t say it was. It was mine and... well, only mine!”
“That’s right! This is between my brother and I, Daddy. So don’t you interfere. It’s between us and that odious little apple.”
“Apple?”
“The unchanged Dullahan kid, who was changed into an apple by the puca Garth and who started our war, Daddy,” explained Thistle.
“What? What war-mongering apple, what?”
“Come to think of it, t’s not the first war an apple has provoked, Obie. Remember Troy,” drawled Uncle Gentlerain.
“Apples may be healthy but they are malignant embroilers,” said Dad. “This one has to be viperous, given his pedigree.”
“By the way, where is the little apple?” Uncle Gentlerain asked me. What became…?”
“Of the Dullahans’ son?” Dad finished the question for Uncle Gen.
“Oh, by Og!” I cried. I suddenly realized I had no idea where Alpin was. I hadn’t given him a thought since he last spoke through the megahorns.
“Let me see if I understand this. You took an apple to a war and it happened to be the Demon Bride and the Coachman of Death’s kid and it got lost in the melee and you don’t know what has become of it? What are you dorks asking for? A real war this time?”
Dad sounded genuinely concerned. Of course, so was everyone else.
“Does anyone know where he is?” asked Uncle Gentlerain. “He was safe when I last heard from him. He was in the communications area.”
“Communications area? You even had a communications area?” said Dad.
“The brat has an all-seeing eye,” explained Uncle Gentlerain. “If he were here, we could ask him where he is. And he would know. Maybe he would tell us, or maybe not. But he knows everything.”
“But since he isn’t here?”
“If nobody knows anything,” said Uncle Gentlerain, looking at Thistle and me for confirmation and shaking his head just as we shook ours, “let’s think fast. He may be with Jane.”
We all had the same idea. We all disappeared and appeared again in Sherbanania. There they told us Jane was in the house of parliament. We made ourselves invisible to the humans but not to each other and went there. The house of parliament was Jane’s hut, because it was the only thing that had been left standing. Parliament was in session, which meant a lot of people were sitting in front of the hut, half the crowd on one side and the rest on the other. Jane was in the centre, standing by the door. There seemed to be two factions arguing violently about a subject that had a great deal to do with us. This was the sunflower fields Uncle Gen and I had taken so much trouble to replant and that the Fay had fought to free from tyrants. We’d passed by them on our way to the hut of parliament and the flowers were growing spectacularly. I don’t think any human has ever seen fields as magnificent as those. But a bunch of embittered Sherbananians wanted to…guess what? Yeah, right. Burn them down again. Why? Because these infuriated people felt they were a symbol of something shameful from their past. Another group of Sherbananians felt this was nonsense, because it was not they who had to be ashamed of anything that had happened. It was the idiot Petey Pepperpot and his thieving wife who had to be ashamed. These faction said it made no sense to burn down the only thing that had been left standing aside from Jane’s hut, which was now the house of parliament itself. The fields were magnificent and anyone would be proud to have them. To burn the sunflowers down would be just like burning themselves down because they were ashamed to look at themselves or at each other and remember they had been tyranized. There was a lot of screaming and too many insults even for parliament and the crowd all marched to the fields to decide what to do in situ. We followed. Then one Sherbananian (or Sherbananan, it can be said both ways and your choice would signify which faction you rooted for) who was especially hostile to the fields punched another who was in favour of saving them on the nose. The second man fell to the ground and others rushed to aid him, but as they did, yet another Sherbananian lit a torch and with it, the fields.
“You see?” said my father. “It’s impossible to help these people, Gen.”
“He knows that,” I said. “He planted these sunflowers for us. Not for them. So the liberators wouldn’t be angry seeing them burnt.”
Uncle Gen looked up at the sky. He snapped his fingers. Clouds clashed and it started to rain cats and dogs. And the man who had lit the fire got hit by lightning.
And then there were two factions in our own little band.
“You fool!” cried Dad. “You’re doing it again. You’re meddling with these people!”
“Better just I than all of yours,” said Gen.
“If that should happen, I swear by the sun, I’ll drought this place!” cried Dad. “These idiots are going to know what’s good for them. A desert they want, a desert they will have!”
“Don’t you become involved now,” warned Uncle Gen.
“The Heavens have spoken!” cried a familiar voice.
“That’s right!” said Jane. “I’ve heard you all out. I now make my decision. The sunflower fields shall stand!”
She had barely said that, when the lightning-struck man got up.
Fortunately, he was speechless. The first voice boomed again.
“You’ve been pardoned because the sunflower fields shall stand!”
“That’s Alpin speaking!” I said. “I can’t see him, but I recognize his voice!”
Suddenly, invisible Thistle rushed to Jane’s side and tore something out of her apron pocket.
“Got him! Time to leave!” my sister yelled.
When we reappeared in the bedroom where we had left Petey sleeping, we found that it was Pepperpot who was now missing.
“No! No! No!” went my father. “Will this never end? I have things to do! Not another search, no! The first search was too easy. This one is bound to be hell! A man hunt! Oh, no, no!”
“Relax, Mr. Majesty,” said Apple Alpin. “This time I’m here to tell you where he is.”
“Under the bed!” cried Dad. “Make it easy! Say he is under the bed!”
“Wrong. Guess again,” said Alpin.
“In the closet.”
“Not even warm! Cold, cold!”
“Where the pesky mannekins is he?” shouted Uncle Gen, who knew there was no time for nonsense, at Alpin,
And Alpin recoiled with a little shudder and said, “He’s in the palace parlour, having bread and honey with the queen.”
It turned out Petey had awakened and crept out of Heather’s house and hidden himself between the wheels of Mum’s flying carriage. When the carriage carried her home, it took Petey to the palace too. He was badly dizzied by the air trip and vomiting in the garden grass when Mum stepped out of the carriage and saw him. Fortunately for everyone, she didn’t throw a fit.
“Are you the dangerous man my daughters were holding prisoner for my brother to deal with later?” Mum asked Petey.
“I don’t know who I am. I can’t remember anything,” answered Petey. “I must have amnesia.”
“A wise decision,” nodded Mum. “I would have amnesia too, if I were you. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you, even if we haven’t been introduced. You’re at my palace and I am the queen, and I don’t think much of being mean to deposed monarchs, which I hear you are, though new and foreign royalty, and I suppose that means that you’ve found sanctuary. I hear you are from somewhere tropical. Do you know anything about tropical fruit?”
“No,” said Petey. “There is one kind called bananas, I think.”
“Good,” said Mum, “that will do nicely. Because the last man I had in charge of my tropical fruit space here in my gardens had no idea about anything but football. Do you like football?”
“What is that?” asked Petey.
“Spendid, splendid!” said Mum, clapping her hands. “I hope you never find out. Are you in need of a job? Would you like to be my tropical fruit grower? All you have to do is lie in a hammock and watch the plants grow. They know how to do that by themselves. Should it rain, you have a sweet, not so little cottage right there you can find cover in, and if anyone comes and asks you questions, just say you have amnesia and everyone will understand because that is a very serious condition and we’re almost all kind and caring people here. Don´t worry about monsoons or hurricanes or anything. We have none of those here. Just remember, whatever you cultivate, never cultivate an interest in football. The former tropical gardener used to watch matches on TV night and day, full blast, and some people complained they were going deaf and we told him that and he was indignant and left of his own accord. Is that your hat? Pick it up and put it on your head then. Don’t just leave it lying there, man. It’s bad luck to leave hats on beds or on the ground.”
“I don’t know if it’s mine.”
“You know, I have one just like it. They are called berets. Mine is purple, though. No confusion possible. So just put that one on your head, if it’s not full of vomit, and if it fits, it’s probably yours. It’s not the right hat for someone tropical though, but you are the expert and should know what it’s best to wear while at your job here. You make a list of everything you need for the job and bring it to me and tell me all about what they are wearing in your part of the world and keep me informed because that is always convenient. I’ll try to get you whatever you need for your job. May I suggest one of those hats that are supposedly from Panama, but are really made elsewhere?”
And that is how Petey ended up at least for the present, because Mum is very protective of her staff and no one dared to deprive her of Petey.
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