4

The New Mission

A hand clamped down on Steve’s shoulder. It was Big Mo. Grey hair shot out from the sides of his pork-pie hat and he smiled broadly. All around the librarians hurried backwards and forwards wearing their hooded robes, ferrying books from the racks that twisted far away into the distance.

‘Welshy!’ said Big Mo. ‘How’s things in Wales?’

‘It’s Steve,’ said Steve. ‘And I live in Pendown.’

Big Mo gave Steve a look and guided him through the forest of stone towers wrapped in wooden staircases which climbed up the towers like ivy.

‘Hard to remember and difficult to find –just the way we like it,’ said Big Mo. ‘Good to see you. Glad you got the message.’

‘On the boomerang?’ said Steve. ‘You could have taken my head off.’

‘I thought it was a neat idea. I have to say, rescuing the last Neanderthal baby in your first dream, using nothing more than a paperweight borrowed from the correspondence section of this library seemed pretty impressive to us. There’s no way you’d let a little stick with a message on give you any trouble.’

The lanterns lighting the library crackled and spat. Steve could see the head librarian’s little wooden office in the distance.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Steve.

‘People up here think you’re pretty cool.’

‘People down there think I’m a fool,’ grumbled Steve.

Big Mo pushed the door to the office open. The librarian was sitting behind his desk just like the last time. His brown robe and hood made it difficult for Steve to see his face. Behind him, on the notice board, he and Big Mo had written staves of music and notes.

‘Know anything about this kind of stuff?’ asked the librarian, jabbing his thumb at the board.

Steve looked at the notes, then the librarian, then Big Mo.

‘Is it a tune?’ asked Steve.

The librarian nodded, he seemed impressed.

‘I’m more of a blues man myself,’ said Big Mo. ‘Two or three chords, a howlin’ guitar and boy, can I sing the blues. But when it comes to dots on pages — I must confess I get a little lost. Steve’s the man for the job. Give him the equipment.’

The librarian stood and handed Steve a neat pile of clothes. On top of the pile was a cat, curled up in a deep sleep. Big Mo picked the cat up and stuck it on Steve’s head. Steve jumped and tried to pull it off.

‘It’s a wig,’ said Big Mo. ‘Calm down.’

Then the librarian handed Steve a small stick. Steve thought it looked like a wand. He pointed it at the librarian’s desk and tried to turn it into a bunch of flowers.

‘It’s a conductor’s baton,’ said the librarian. Now get changed quickly – we’ve got an eighteenth-century emergency for you.’

‘Isn’t that the time of pirates?’ asked Steve as he changed into a long jacket, trousers that only came down to his knees and a pair of boots with huge buckles on them. ‘Can I be a pirate?’

‘If we need to help a pirate, we’ll be in touch,’ said Big Mo. ‘For the time being, it’s a musician who needs our help.’

‘Use the wand, sorry, baton,’ said the librarian opening the door at the back of the room. ‘It’ll help you.’

Steve looked sadly at his baton.

‘This is just a stick,’ he said.

‘Good luck,’ said Big Mo, holding the door open to a small empty room with white walls, a wooden floor and a window looking out onto a street.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Steve. ‘Who am I trying to help? How will I find them? What do I do?’

Big Mo’s hand came down on Steve’s shoulder. Before Steve could react he found himself forced out through the door.

‘Wait!’ shouted Steve. ‘I’m not ready.’

But it was too late. Steve tumbled into the room. ‘Wigs,’ he muttered, as he moved to the window for a closer look. Everybody outside, the men, the women, even the children, were wearing wigs. Steve rubbed his eyes. In the distance he could see a lady wearing a huge pink dress, with a wig like white candyfloss on her head, walking her dog. Even the dog was wearing a wig. Or perhaps the dog had had his hair cut to make it look like he was wearing a wig.

Steve listened to the sounds of the old city. Gradually over the constant clop of horses’ hooves on cobbles and the grinding of cartwheels a new sound crashed into his ears. Strange, harsh-sounding music blasted down onto the street. Somebody was practising an instrument. They weren’t very good. To Steve it sounded worse than The Piratellas.

‘Will you be quiet!’

From inside the house a gruff voice echoed upwards. Steve span on his heels and hid behind the door.

‘Shut it!’

And again.

‘So help me, if I have to come up there I’ll slice that thing up into strips with my cutlass then blow you to smithereens with my blunderbuss.’

Steve’s ears pricked up. Whoever was shouting sounded to Steve like he might know something about pirating after all.