Tightrope Walker (second chapter)

The capital city of Rightabouthere, This’lldo, had its current level of bustle set to its morning shinny best.

As the human and otherwise traffic began to grow, so did the whispering. Hetta was known – she was famous. On the whole most people saw Hetta as a hero, a saviour in battle that couldn’t be matched. But with all fame, there are always those less kind in their thoughts and words, people who were jealous of the attention that Hetta received. They could have it as far as Hetta was concerned, she had never wanted the stares and astonished looks, even if a certain number of them were followed by cheers and words of praise.

There were those that thought her evil, a strange being intertwined with all sorts of dark magic. Hetta had to admit that she couldn’t confirm nor deny the accuracy of the latter, the ability to do what she did as much a mystery to herself as it was to others. But she was pretty sure she wasn’t evil. Unless not making your bed at regular intervals was considered a particularly demonic activity (and judging by the way her dad went on about it, it just might be).

As for the origins of her particularly unique ability, Hetta had questioned her father about the subject profusely in the past. But that was only in the beginning. It was now well established that Hetta’s dad was just as in the dark about it all as any other. Tightrope Walkers were rare. Really rare. As rare as a pen crammed with vampire hens in a field of four leaf clovers under a blue moon on an unprecedented thirty-first Sunday in a row. And a girl Tightrope Walker? Well … you may as well start questioning your own existence, and that of everything, everywhere – ever. It was that big of a deal.

Tightrope Walkers had always been prophesied before. However, the times of gathering around the campfire for a good old prophesy telling had long past, and with modern ways and busy lives getting busier still, Hetta had kind of just snuck up on them all. And truth be told, she had rather snuck up on herself too.

Hetta felt like she had always known she was a Tightrope Walker, even before she had known what they were. There was never anything to mark her so, nothing obvious anyway. She had no gapping scar slashed across her forehead, she didn’t change colour and grow abnormally large when she was angry, and in Rightabouthere radiation was something the heaters in your house did to keep it warm. There was no real funny business about it, Hetta just knew what she was. She knew it.

So far Hetta had been in seventeen battles. And she and her army had come home seventeen times. It was a good record. The best.

As Hetta turned into Long Street and saw the bulk of the Brush Palace gape into view, it was clear that they had been watching her approach for quite some time. The main giveaway was the lack of human or otherwise traffic. Long Street was (yes, some people might really need me to say it) long. It was also the second busiest street in the whole of This’lldo, after The Street, which was for a short while after city’s founding, its only street.

Hetta had stopped being surprised and unsettled by walking down suddenly deserted thoroughfares, past empty public playgrounds and through strangely vacant markets quite some time ago. People removing themselves from her immediate vicinity for fear or awe of what she might, or might not, do was something she just got used to. And besides, it wasn’t that eerie, if you looked really carefully you could see the thin men hiding behind lamp posts, and the small women crouched down next to flower pots; they couldn’t hold in their stomaches forever.

Hetta’s steps now had an echoing quality as the sounds of their existence flew up from under her shinny boots and ricochetted off of anything that didn’t have a heart beat. The run up to the Palace was like walking along the blade of a giant battle-worn sword, the edges of the street blunt and nobbled, but the street itself as strait as you like.

Being one of the city’s oldest streets, Long Street was flanked on both sides by ancient, and in most cases, crumbling architecture. Having once housed the gentry of the time, the buildings there were now home to what were in some eyes, a lesser form of the upper classes, while the lower dwellings had been converted into shops and the like. These contained, amongst other things, junk sellers (antique stores), rag sellers (clothing stores), swill merchants (pubs), drivel merchants (newsagents), stodge merchants (food stalls) and florists (those who weren’t really good at selling old stuff, clothes, booze, newspapers or foodstuffs).

Hetta allowed her thoughts to dip into what it might be like to live like everyone else, perhaps owning a store along this very street. What she would give to have nothing more exciting or troublesome to do every day than to shoo away wandering vagabonds from her doorstep with an old broom. Her heart gave a tiny thrill at such a thing.

But Hetta’s life was set in stone. And as her mind wandered, her body brought her right back to where she was headed. Suddenly, she was face to face with a brass knocker shaped like a large toothbrush, a long swirl of shinny polished toothpaste on the top of the bristles, all hanging from a large and stately door like some strange looking nose on an overly large and well groomed face.

The Brush Palace had been built during a particularly prosperous stage in the history of This’lldo. At the time, King Raymond the Dental had been in power, and also totally obsessed with oral hygiene. So much so that he had insisted on paying for not only the remodelling of what was once a rather average looking royal palace, but also the alteration, maintenance and repair of the teeth of each and every last citizen in This’lldo, regardless of their wealth or doings. ‘A healthy mouth makes for a healthy citizen’ was indeed the city’s motto for some time thereafter.

The resulting effect from this monarch’s goodwill had been the record collection of taxes, an all time low crime rate (the thieves and other criminals who had mostly lurked and operated within the night now had teeth so white that all they had to do was grin to themselves at the prospect of an impending bag of loot and it would be like they had flicked on a glowing neon sign over their head that said ‘Look at me! I’m about to nick your pearls!’), and the smallest percentage of beheading notices sent out in recorded history (the king was somewhat more reluctant to defile good dentistry work).

The extra monies collected from the taxes in particular resulted in such a surplus of funds that roads were mended, houses were fixed and the city of This’lldo grew at its fastest rate in history, before or since.

Hetta pulled the brass brush as far back from the door as her meagre muscles would allow and then gladly let it drop back against the solid oak, causing one large and resounding KNOCK to punch the air behind it. The dull sound was followed by a series of quieter and shorter knocks that trailed away into nothing like smoke in the night.

For a moment there was silence. And then footsteps, strange sounding footsteps, as if approaching from far away, but somehow they didn’t sound right. The footsteps were muffled in the wrong places and too loud when they should have been softer, barely audible when the audio imprints of the shoes should have been clear. In truth, the doormen had been standing behind the grand double doors for quite some time, waiting nervously for Hetta to arrive.

But hierarchy had to be, by name, high, and to have the household of the ruler of the country obediently waiting for an eleven year old girl to arrive at the door, like a dog for his master, was not the way that monarchs were supposed to behave. And after all, tradition was tradition, and the execution of certain aspects of these traditions simply had to be upheld by those who saw three hours spent polishing brass buttons on a uniform that was only to be worn for ceremonial purposes anyway as a useful allocation of a human being’s time.

‘Enter,’ spoke a voice that was supposed to be laced with regality, but instead had been invaded by fright.

The tall carved oak doors slowly swept open and Hetta walked over the threshold, pushing a sideways glance towards the finely dressed doorman. This small look resulted in him crumpling up like an accordion and falling to the ground in a blithering bother. She then looked over at the other doorman and he fell to the floor quicker than the first. Hetta sighed; there’d be someone along to collect them shortly, there always was. Hetta closed the doors herself and walked deeper into the depths of the Palace.

The polished grey stone floor was covered in thick woven rugs with intricate pictures of dancing teeth embroidered into them; remnants of Raymond the Dental’s reign were on display all through the Brush Palace. Hetta cringed. The dancing teeth alone might have not been so bad, but she thought the pink tutus around their daintily depicted midriffs was going just that little bit too far.

The walls were of inky black marble and had little sparkly bits in it at intervals, so that if you squinted it was like being a giant god, walking past the night sky for fun. Flaming rings of candles suspended in finely polished chandeliers hung down from the high ceiling and lit most of the way along the corridor, the odd fire in a wall-secured bracket here and there too.

Hung in decoration and respect were painted portraits of all of those who had ruled over Rightabouthere, the regal gold and bronze gilt frames sparkling in the flickering light. The faces were ghostly, even in the crisp firelight, and the eyes of their subjects seemed to follow her as she walked.
When Hetta approached the second double door at the far end of the corridor there wasn’t much to do but wait. She knew they had been watching her, she had seen the actual eyeballs in the paintings to prove it.

Hetta looked at her reflection in the black polished marble, the shinny stonework giving her a ghostly outline like the portraits. She looked thin, or at least thinner than she had thought she did before. Her hair looked like a sheet of black silk draped over her head. Her eyes were two uncut diamonds.

Hetta could hear the flames of the fires licking and clicking together in their large wrought brackets, sharp red and blazing orange heads peering down at her as she waited. She hated the formality of it all, the crossing the eye’s, the dotting the tea’s; and that was just the part of the ceremony when you pulled a face while you drew on everyone’s china cups.

There was a high pitched Clink, followed by a shaky Click. It sounded like a coin dropped into an empty jar, but it was more likely a key that had been dropped onto the floor and then hastily shoved into the lock it was intended for, the turner of the key not entirely ready to do so. The doors swung open then to reveal no one. Although, one of the doors was shaking slightly and Hetta suspected the opener was hiding behind it. She paid them no mind and walked on through, now in the Palace’s cavernous Great Hall.

As opposed to the darkened corridor, this space was brightly lit with tall and thin windows that ran the length of each wall, thick shards of strong light thrown onto the caramel oaken floor. The centre of the hall was mostly bare, the furniture all pushed up against the walls, like jittery students at a formal school dance before one brave armchair makes the first move out towards a coffee table it’s had its eye on all year.

Hetta’s boots left carpet and set foot on polished timber as she slowed her pace a little to take in the beauty of the space.

At the far end of the hall was another door, but this one was seldom locked, at any rate not in the handful of times that Hetta had been at the Palace. She strode towards it with a kind of nervous familiarity, not scared of her impending encounter but more anxious for it to be over before it had even begun. The guards where there, she knew, hidden away, not for means of stealth but fears of being turned to stone should Hetta meet any of their eyes.

‘Ah Hetta, you’re here!’

Hetta spun on the spot and her eyes were greeted with the plump man she knew as Terrance Muffin, the leader of Rightabouthere.

‘Hello, Queen Regent,’ said Hetta, her politeness never quelled despite stuffy circumstances.

‘Hetta Rue, our glorious Tightrope Walker! What a lovely surprise!’ trilled the portly man, his crisp silver spangled suit bowing a little around the edges (Muffin did like to have his clothes fitted, but unfortunately, they never seem to fit him too well).

‘Surprise, Queen Regent?’ said Hetta, ‘I’ve been called to march out?’

‘What? Oh yes, of course,’ replied Muffin, his eyebrows at first attempting to hide in his wispy fringe of salt and pepper hair, and then retreating back towards his bright sticky bun eyes. ‘Lovely day for it.’

‘Lovely day for which it, Queen Regent?’

‘Oh you know … it’s just something you say, isn’t it?’

‘Is it, Queen Regent?’

‘Yes,’ said Muffin with a slightly less jovial sigh, dusting what seemed to be wholemeal flour off of one of his lapels. ‘Can’t say I was ever entirely sure what it was either to be honest. Damn sharp girl I’ve always said, damn sharp.’

Hetta wasn’t entirely sure if this was a compliment, or even if Muffin was talking to her, so she decided to let the subject fade away and move on to other things. Chit chat was another formality she disliked considerably.

‘Shall we continue on then, Queen Regent? The ceremony?’ Muffin sighed again but in a resolute rather than tired sort of way.

‘Actually, I though we might not this time.’

‘Queen Regent?’

‘Well, you know I came into this business as an outsider, a mere working stiff thrown up to the highest pedestal.’ Hetta nodded. ‘This is only the third battle I have seen you off to, is it not? Although I’ve heard good stories about all of your previous campaigns, only good stories.’

Hetta’s eyes crinkled.

‘Why, there was the Battle of Dumbting if I’m not mistaken?’ the chubby man went on, ‘good battle that one, plenty of custard tarts at the end of it if I recall, damn good battle that one.’

Muffin paused again and looked about, Hetta sure she could see his lips moving ever so slightly as he recited the best recipe for custard tarts under his breath.

‘Anywhosealls, I am not of noble blood and, thank Goddess, never will be. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good eye crossing as much as the next fellow in the street, but there’s a part of me that thinks it just doesn’t cut it any more, you know what I mean? We’re a new wave country aren’t we? Rightabouthere likes to keep up with the trends don’t we? Keep stride with the Johnson’s?’

Hetta was now pretty sure she knew who Muffin was talking to, but she had no idea what he was talking about. This was chit chat wearing roller skates with a rocket strapped to its back, and Muffin was holding a match up to the fuse, a manic glint in his eye.

‘Well, Queen Regent, I –’

‘Come on now, Hetta,’ Muffin interrupted, ‘we’re both people of the people here. Call me Terry, please.’

‘Ah, OK – Terry.’ Muffin looked most pleased. ‘Well, I think that ideas should come from the people, of course. But at the end of the day, it is a country’s leader that must decide what is best for their country.’

‘Damn sharp,’ was all Muffin said in reply, a fruity and cinnamon sprinkled look about his face. ‘You know, Hetta, running a country is a lot like baking bread. All the hard work must be done first before you can take a step back and watch your efforts rise.’

‘Yes, Queen Regent – I mean, Terry.’

‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is … well, I still think Rightabouthere, and esspecially This’lldo, is still in it’s kneading stages. A bit more hard work is needed before the loaf at the end of the oven bake is in sight.’

Hetta puzzled over Muffin’s candour. She put it down to nerves. The Queen Regent had not been in power for long at all, and she was sure he must still be only finding his feet. It was time to change the subject. Fast.

‘Who is it we are to go to war with today, Queen Regent?’ said Hetta, steering the conversation into somewhat more familiar waters.

‘What? Oh, I believe the country is called … likethisspot. Yes, that’s it. Can’t say I’d ever heard of the damn place before. I had to get the old maps out.’

Muffin raised his eyebrows and lowered his mouth to convey exaggerated surprise in a rather grandfatherish way. ‘They seem to have come quite a way indeed. As soon as they were in pheasant range they sent the Act. The poor little fellow delivering it had to be carried in from the city limits, couldn’t flap another inch!’ Muffin gave Hetta a weakly bemused look, his eyes then drifting off around the chamber again.

‘Awfully keen sounding bunch they are. Must have seen us on the map and wondered why we were still standing. Silly really.’

‘That’s the fourth Act Of War sent this year, Your Majesty – Terry.’

‘I know, funny isn’t it? We really should start putting up warning signs or something. But I suppose you can’t blame them really, it does always look like a rather juicy piece of property when you see it on the map. But then again, it has been six years, you’d think the word would have gotten around by now, wouldn’t you?’ Muffin looked earnestly at Hetta and winked.

The six years he was referring to was the amount of time Hetta had been on active duty as a Tightrope Walker, and therefore, the amount of time the army of Rightabouthere had been undefeated.

‘Yes, sir. You would certainly think so,’ said Hetta.

There had been other Tightrope Walkers in Rightabouthere’s history, which was a bit of an oddity, considering how rare they really were. But that still didn’t stop other far flung countries from ‘having a go’, as the men always put it. The last Tightrope Walker in the country’s history had been over a hundred years ago. And for Tightrope Walkers, that was uncannily frequent.

‘But when you think about it,’ Muffin went on, ‘it really is quite rude of them, don’t you think?’

‘Quite rude, sir.’

‘All these newly formed countries, banging on about “we will storm your palace” and “we will steal your women” or “we’ve run out of sugar, can we please borrow a ton of your best granulated?” I mean, to say, they really should be doing their research a dash more thoroughly, don’t you agree?’

‘One hundred percent, sir.’

‘Never giving me a moments peace these damn rampaging leaders. Oh well, part an parcel with the job I suppose …’

Hetta sensed the Queen Regent’s talk was coming to an end, and thought about beating him to the punch. She hated these formalities. And she was pretty sure Muffin wasn’t a fan of them either. But being new, you never want to crash in and start knocking the walls down like you’d owned the place for years, putting in a new conservatory where the Tea and Crumpets Room used to be. It just wasn’t polite. And for everything he was, Muffin was polite. Maybe a little too much so.

The more Hetta met with Muffin the more she liked him. And the more she met with him the less she came to be convinced that a man such as he, albeit a reasonable, respectable and kind enough person, was capable of running a village fate, let alone a country. But as anyone with three legs or less knows, Hetta thought to herself, Kings and Queens never ran countries, not really. And in the case of King and Queen Regents … well … they did have their faces on the money, and that’s always something. At least a lot of people knew who you were, even if they weren’t quite sure why they knew it.

‘Is there anything else, sir?’ Hetta asked with a timid step towards the door, her thoughts in her head crossed as well as her fingers behind her back and toes inside her socks.

‘Ah … do we need to … ? No, I think that should be just about it. I’ll defer to you and the General on all these things, you know how I am about these military matters.’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Then all there is left to say is good luck – not that you need it,’ Muffin added with a hefty sourdough wink. There was indeed a doughy kind of weight in his demeanour, soft but friendly.

‘Thank you, sir – ah, Terry.’ Hetta bowed to the Queen Regent and headed toward the doubled doors of the chamber she had entered through. She was through them in a flash and didn’t look back, a faint ‘damn sharp!’ sounding softly in her wake.

She had made that mistake the first time she had encountered Muffin, looking back to smile in a kindly manner towards the Queen Regent as a matter of politeness, only for it to be taken as a sign she wanted to talk further. That had been a long night. But on the up side, she did now have a wonderful recipe for lemon drizzle cake committed to memory.