Beyond the Knock Knock Door (8 page)

Michael woke to the smell of warm blueberry pie. For a moment, he thought he was snuggled deep in his old bed back on the farm. His dad would be in the kitchen, sitting on a stool, solving crosswords and swatting Luke every time he got too close to the oven. Samantha would be tearing across the fields on her trail bike, ignoring his mum, who'd be on the back steps yelling at her to come inside. Birds would be flittering on the feeder next to his windowsill. And their two cattle dogs would be chasing after a rabbit they'd spooked into the hills. In a blink, his hopes disappeared. Two white half-moons and the purple giant rose above the skyline of Pacifico, reminding him how far he was from home.

He sat up in a king-sized bed in a king-sized room, which Prime Minister Pasquale had personally reassured him was his alone. It was furnished with silk sheets, soft pillows, chandeliers, ornate mirrors, water jugs, lounges and a large gold writing desk. Never in his life had he slept in a place so serene. Church bells rang as he
padded through his balcony's billowing curtains into the cool twilight. Across the harbour, wealthy tourists streamed towards their waiting passenger liners, while the merchants blasted away in rickety shuttles. A gondolier secured his boat to a striped mooring pole and nodded to a tavern keeper who was struggling for customers as rows of street lamps powered up.

Suddenly, right in front of Michael, five large creatures soared past. They had wings and whip tails. He jumped back, startled at their closeness, until he recognised their shapes flying across the terracotta rooftops. Stingrays. Beautiful stingrays. Indeed, this was a world of wonder.

Running himself a bath, he unbuttoned his top only to realise what he was wearing – silk pyjamas. During his nap, his armour had remained by his bedside and not jumped back on his skin. Thank goodness. Trudging around in all that heavy metal drained him. Being free of it was literally a weight off his shoulders.

He washed and changed into his freshly laundered clothes before someone banged on his door. He moved to answer it, when, piece by piece, his gold leggings, gauntlets, chain mail and other bits of armour, flew across the room and latched onto him. As his red cloak fluttered down his back, he sighed. Oh, man. Doomed to be a giant can of peaches again.

Samantha barged in, dragging Luke by the ear.

‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop it!'

‘No! First tell him what you did, you little creep.'

‘Help me, Mikey. She's gone crazy.'

‘Crazy?
Crazy!
That's not even close to how I feel right now. Crazy is you swapping my washable cosmetic pencil for a permanent marker. Crazy is letting me draw this beard on my face without warning me, knowing I'd have to wear it to school on Monday. Crazy is arriving on a planet where everything fake suddenly turns real. Oh yes, those things are crazy. But not me. I'm downright psychotic!'

She frightened Luke into a chair then slammed the bathroom door behind her.

‘No luck with the barber?' Michael whispered to him.

‘No.' Luke grinned. ‘He shaved off her beard, but it grew back! Every single whisker! Now he wants to know her secret so he can turn it into a cream for bald tourists!'

She upended a dozen drawers before finding a pair of scissors. ‘I can still hear you!'

‘Maybe this Queen Oriana can help,' Michael offered.

She barged back into the room. ‘You're not listening. This beard is permanent.
Perm-a-nent.
It's never coming off!'

‘Never say never,' Luke said.

‘Never speak to me again!'

She banged the bathroom door shut a second time and continued snipping between screams.

The brothers shared a quiet laugh until they were interrupted by another knock. ‘Come in.'

A tattooed footman hobbled in carrying a leather-
bound journal. ‘My liege,' he said, eyes lowered. Like most of the city's servants, he too was brown-skinned. He had straight black hair streaked with grey, a broken nose and a stocky build suited to outdoor work rather than shuffling through palace hallways. Whorls and waves were inked down the right side of his face, and he had no cheek jewels; both details setting his people apart from the Pacificans. ‘My liege,' he repeated in a surly voice, offering the journal a second time.

Michael stopped staring at the tattoos and took it. The man limped outside.

‘Creepy, huh?' Luke said. ‘They're called the Scorned. Most Pacificans stay away from them. They think they're parasites.'

‘So why do they work in the palace?'

Luke shrugged. ‘Someone's got to.' Then, looking at the journal, he asked, ‘What's that for?'

‘To keep a diary. We need to write down names, take notes, draw maps – y'know, remember stuff.'

Luke pretended to doze off, complete with a snore. ‘Sounds like school.'

‘Then why do you keep reading mine?' Samantha snapped, sitting on the bed with her beard intact.

However, the journal caught his interest again when Michael wrote his first few lines. ‘Hey, how'd you do that?'

Michael had written,
Day Two: We have arrived in a harbour city called Pacifico that has to be the most beatifull place we've ever seen
.

Before their eyes, his messy handwriting wriggled
and twisted until it neatened into perfect penmanship. Also, the mistake
beatifull
corrected itself to
beautiful
.

‘Draw something,' Luke said.

Michael sketched a lousy stick figure of the tattooed footman. Within seconds it transformed into a life-like portrait. ‘Now that
is
cool.'

A third knock sounded. It was the surly footman with the lame leg again. Michael shut the journal.

‘Begging your pardon, sirs. Your presence is required in the state room. Dinner will be served in twenty minutes.'

Single file, he led them along a gold corridor echoing with chatter and violins. He opened a double door, bowed, then presented them to a roomful of five hundred young lords and ladies dressed in their finest suits, robes and gowns. ‘Bravo!' they shouted. ‘Bravo!'

‘Nobles of Pacifico,' Prime Minister Pasquale said, quelling the applause, ‘let me introduce to the Ninety Islands three of the most honoured guests, not only among the Seven Worlds of Wonder, but the entire universe. As you well know, this is Sir Michael the Gold Knight, champion of the Hall of Heroes.'

‘Bravo! Bravo!'

‘Accompanying him is his friend, field agent Luke of the Star Ranger Corp.'

‘Bravo! Bravo!'

‘And behind them is –
ahem
– Captain Sam of the Black Cobra, er, Seafarers.'

An angry din rose at once. Young women flipped open their fans and the boys talked among themselves.
Samantha's face reddened and she sang into Michael's ear, ‘This isn't working. They know that I'm a girl.'

‘They know you're a pirate,' he answered.

‘Lords! Ladies!' Pasquale said. ‘Please, your concerns are well-intended, but the Gold Knight has personally assured me that we have nothing to fear. His companion has turned his back on his inglorious days of piracy and is as much a law-abiding citizen as you or I. Well, maybe you,' he corrected himself, drawing laughter. ‘Isn't that right, Sir Michael?'

The whole room fell silent, as he swallowed his answer. ‘Yes.'

Again, the nobles broke into applause. ‘Bravo! Bravo!'

Pasquale looked at the triplets with relief.

Violins struck up and servants fluttered among the nobles, offering tall drinks from silver platters. Pasquale encouraged the ‘heroes' to mingle. Immediately, Michael was circled by smiling young ladies, who curtsied in their hoop skirts and tried to catch the light on their cheek gems.

‘Oh, please,' Samantha groaned.

All three were crowded in by plenty of questions too:

‘How does one join the Hall of Heroes?'

‘Have you a wife, Sir Michael?'

‘Are the stories about the She-Bear true?'

‘What do you think of Garibaldi's third concerto?'

‘Did you know that I've written three epic poems about you?'

Samantha attracted her own attention.

‘You poor man. You must have had a troubled childhood. What disaster led you to a life of piracy?'

‘Brothers,' she answered, pushing through the guests for some air.

After entertaining yet another cluster of nobles, Michael found the pleasantries anything but pleasant. All the questions were about the Gold Knight's adventures, which he knew nothing about. Each time he made up a story he cringed, fearing a more knowledgeable noble would catch him out. But the longer he spoke, the more he learnt about his namesake from the Pacificans themselves.

A nervous lord with lilac hair, round spectacles, six opal cheek gems and a droopy eyebrow approached Michael when four trumpets sounded at the bottom of a wide, curving staircase. His moment to speak privately was lost as the most important dignitary had arrived.

‘Her Majesty, Queen Oriana!' Pasquale proclaimed.

Respectful silence hushed the state room as everyone knelt and watched her descend. Michael understood why. Expecting someone much taller and older, he was stunned to see a girl his age. She was beautiful – possibly the most attractive girl he'd ever seen. Fair-skinned and slim, she had lavender eyes, matching braided hair and a thin crown crafted with five strings of pearls. Two strings draped behind her ear chains, two in front and one traced her small, round nose. Gold leaves threaded a coral-white gown backed with a large scallop neckpiece and armlets twisted around her
sleeves. Her pointed shoes shimmered in the light of the chandeliers as she took one poised step at a time.

The lords and ladies rose again then parted as she made a calm, straight line for Michael. He counted five small amethysts dotting each cheek as she halted and raised her left hand. Overawed, he was lost in the smell of her lavender perfume until Luke nudged him in the ribs. He blushed, remembered what he'd seen on the news once, and bowed, kissing her rings. ‘Your Majesty.'

Luke followed his brother's lead before the Queen fronted their sister. Immediately, Samantha's intentions were clear: there was no way she was going to pucker up. However, Luke pushed on her shoulders and coaxed her to bend down. She pecked the jewelled hand but made sure her pirate beard prickled plenty of royal skin.

‘Greetings,' Queen Oriana said in a light, respectful tone. ‘Thank you, our three champions, for journeying across many galaxies to our beloved city. On behalf of my people, Pacifico welcomes you with its greatest and most endearing friendship. For indeed, the mighty peacemaker himself, the Gold Knight, deeply honours us by being counted among our number tonight.'

‘Thank you, Your Majesty,' he said, turning red again.

‘Please, my palace is your palace. My table is your table. Come and enjoy a feast befitting such treasured guests.'

A string quartet struck up another tune as the royal
court was seated. The Queen sat at the head of the main table in a gold, high-backed chair; Michael joined the Prime Minister at the opposite end; while Samantha and Luke took the middle. Nobles crowded beside them and at the adjacent tables.

The excited conversations continued until scores of tattooed servants emerged from the kitchen holding steaming silver platters. The triplets, especially Luke, shuffled in their seats with great expectation, desperate for something tastier than lemony rations. With a flourish, the white-gloved servants waited for a bell to ring, then lifted the domed lids. Everyone
ahhh
ed through hungry smiles.

Dinner was an array of seafood. But it wasn't a normal set menu, featuring baked fish served with salad or vegetables. It was an overindulgent smorgasbord. In addition to platters of lobsters, oysters and crabs prepared in a dozen exotic ways, there were whole octopuses served on beds of caviar; prawns so fresh that they crawled from their bowls; and circles of trout, salmon and blue fin tuna stacked in colourful layers. Servants placed breadsticks and condiments on the table, before filling glasses with a red drink that squirmed with baby eels.

The triplets sat stunned as those around them happily hammered or cracked open crustaceans and picked out the meat. Having ever only eaten small river fish they'd caught themselves, they swapped confused glances. Where did they start?

‘Eat up, my boy,' Prime Minister Pasquale said to Michael, between slurping down his first plate of
oysters. ‘No one leaves this room unless they've tried one of everything. Queen's orders.'

He gulped, a little squeamish. ‘Do you ever eat steak?'

Pasquale almost choked. ‘Do we eat what?' he boomed.

Michael shrank. ‘Do you ever eat steak?'

‘Steak? As from a grass-eater? My liege! Begging your pardon, but here in Pacifico we aren't savages.'

The nobles laughed cordially then returned to their food. Shamefaced, Michael looked to his brother and sister, who shrugged and picked up platters. Curious as to its taste, Luke chose a lobster, while Samantha liked a little heat and went for chilli squid. Michael forked deep-fried whitebait onto his plate, before Pasquale tisk-tisked then added trevally, paella and a whole snapper. ‘We don't want you to starve.'

As the gathering relaxed and belts were loosened, so were tongues. Talk and laughter overwhelmed the violins as young nobles downed their forkfuls and gossiped about fashion, travel and their favourite actors.

‘Tell us, friend, how is your new play faring?' one lord asked another. ‘Have you penned the opening scene yet?'

‘Alas, no. Great theatre takes years to craft.'

‘But only a few minutes to petition Her Majesty for another fat purse of gold!' a third joked, sending his friends into riotous laughter.

Further along the table, the conversations were just as well-spoken and strangely adult.

‘Your skin is quite fair and smooth, sir,' one young noblewoman said, seated across from Samantha. The lady snapped shut her clam-shell mascara kit and smiled. ‘I thought it would be more tanned after a life at sea.'