The Forgotten Map. Cameron Stelzer
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poured a small amount of gunpowder into the barrel of the cannon and packed it down with a ramrod.
‘We’ll start with the long range practice,’ he said. ‘I’m not one for rules, but it’s essential that you look before you fire. You never know what could be in your path.’ He wedged a pie into the cannon, inserted a fuse and adjusted the angle. ‘You also have to consider the wind direction and the distance to your target. Pete has a formula for it, but I rely on experience.’
Looking ahead, he yelled, ‘All clear. Ready, Smudge … FIRE!’
Smudge bobbed up with a flaming match and lit the fuse.
Horace counted down as the fuse sizzled, ‘Three … two … one …’ KABOOM! The cannon exploded.
The pie shot into the air, veered to its left and then splashed into a wave a short distance away.
‘Rotten pies to crash landings,’ Horace said in dismay. ‘I got the angle all wrong … Oh well, let’s see what you can do.’
To Horace’s surprise, Whisker was a natural. His first shot soared in a graceful arc through the sky before wobbling into the ocean twice as far away as Horace’s attempt.
‘Where in the blazing britches did you learn to do that?’ Horace exclaimed.
‘The circus, of course,’ Whisker replied. ‘I was friends with the Armadillo Cannonballs. I sometimes got to fire their cannon during performances.’ He squinted out to sea to where his pie had landed. ‘With a few adjustments, it could go even further …’
Fred shook his head. ‘No one shoots better than that. Not even Pete with his fancy maths.’
‘The angle of the cannon isn’t the problem,’ Whisker said. ‘It’s the pie – and don’t worry, Fred, it’s nothing to do with your cooking. Did you see how my pie wobbled off course before it crashed?’
‘Yes,’ Horace replied. ‘All the long shots do that.’
‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Whisker said. ‘In the circus, the armadillos would often sway in one direction or the other.’
‘And what did they do?’ Horace enquired.
‘They used something a pie doesn’t have,’ Whisker said, pointing behind his back.
‘A tail!’ Fred cried. ‘Are we going to make pies with tails?’
Whisker pondered, ‘A tail only works if you can move it from side to side … We need something that doesn’t require movement.’
‘You’re starting to sound like Pete,’ Fred groaned.
‘Sorry, Fred,’ Whisker apologised. ‘I’ll try to give you an example to make it clear.’
Whisker’s eyes darted out to the horizon for any signs of sea birds. There was no activity against the morning sky. He lowered his gaze to the ocean as a pair of dolphins splashed gracefully from the surf.
‘There,’ he said pointing with his paw.
‘A dolphin’s tail!’ Fred exclaimed.
‘Not a tail,’ Whisker clarified, ‘a fin. Look at their dorsal fins.’
‘We’re not going to catch one, are we?’ Fred asked in horror.
‘Of course not,’ Whisker laughed. ‘We can make the fins out of pastry.’
‘How many do we need?’ Horace asked excitedly. ‘Fred can start baking this afternoon.’
‘Dolphins have three fins,’ Whisker observed, ‘so maybe three fins per pie …’
‘Wow!’ Fred gasped. ‘You are as smart as Pete.’
‘He’s smarter,’ Horace whispered. ‘Pete gets his answers from books. Whisker uses his head.’
Whisker blushed. ‘The dolphins deserve most of the credit.’
The rest of the long range practice ran smoothly, despite having nothing at which to aim. There were no small islands or rocks in sight, and Whisker wasn’t about to start aiming at dolphins.
Pete, Ruby and the Captain emerged from the navigation room to check on Whisker’s progress, but soon lost interest in the demonstration and wandered off to other parts of the deck. Fred returned to the galley to prepare lunch and bake fins.
‘This is the messy part,’ Horace said, placing a large black cut-out against the bulwark.
‘It’s a bear,’ Whisker remarked, staring at the shape.
‘It’s not a bear!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘Why does everyone think it’s a bear? Can’t you see it’s a cat?’
‘It’s a really fat cat,’ Whisker laughed.
‘If it wasn’t this fat,’ Horace huffed, ‘most of the crew would never hit it.’ He pointed the cannon at the fat cat. ‘There are two important things to remember when shooting close range pies. Always turn away when you’re firing, to protect your eyes, and, most importantly, handle the pies gently. If you break one, the stink is on you. Treat each pie like a beautiful rat. Hold her delicately, tenderly and slowly dance with her towards the cannon …’
Whisker watched in amusement as Horace picked up the top pie and held it in a lover’s embrace. Like a performer in a pantomime, he spun the pie in a circle and gently placed it in the cannon.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, bowing to the pie.
Ruby laughed from one of the masts. Not only did Horace look ridiculous with his new lover, but the pie he’d picked up was the one he’d poked a hole in earlier, and left a disgusting line of sludge down his shirt.
‘BLAST!’ Horace yelled, looking down at his soiled clothing.
Smudge struck a match and moved to the fuse.
‘Wait, wait,’ Horace cried, pushing the match away. ‘I said blast, not fire.’
Ignoring Ruby’s laughter, Horace checked that everything was in order and ducked behind the cannon.
‘Now, Smudge. FIRE!’
The pie exploded in a wave of sticky grey muck, showering the target. It was a horrible sight and even Horace winced at the stench.
‘No second date then?’ Ruby hollered down to him.
Horace brushed the comment aside with a wave of his hook and turned to Whisker. ‘Come on. It’s your turn to dance.’
Whisker cleaned out the cannon, poured in the gunpowder and selected his pie. He double checked to make sure there were no cracks or holes and carefully placed the slippery object in the cannon. He glanced up to see Ruby and Pete watching him, but caught no sight of the Captain. Brushing the green mould from his paws, he hurriedly prepared the fuse.
Let’s get this over with, he said to himself. His nose ached, his tail twitched nervously and there was an annoying ring in his ears from all the blasts. He half-glanced over his shoulder towards the target and, seeing the black shape in the corner of his eye, placed his paws over his ears and turned to Smudge.
‘FIRE!’
Smudge held the burning match in his arms but did nothing.
‘FIRE!’ Whisker yelled again.
Smudge still didn’t move.
‘FIRE! BLAST! THREE TWO ONE GO! JUST GET ON WITH IT!’
Still no response.
Running out of patience, Whisker grabbed the match and lit the fuse himself. As he blew out the match, he glanced up to see a horrified look on Ruby’s face. Puzzled, he turned around – and froze. The black shape he had seen