Now, where were we? It may be confusing to have the narrative switch wildly between our two major protagonists in such a way, but it's the only way to maintain immediacy. At this moment at the top of a very tall tower in a very tall castle belonging to Prince Rupert, Lady Ann is calling out in an exclamatory way to answer the knock of Prince Rupert (not that she knows who it is, not being able to see through doors). At the same moment, in the Low Plains, in the Ralph the Timid is sitting in Mad Pete/ Boris' library being bitten repeatedly by Twinkle.
They didn't have a conversation about the philosophy of villains or anything. Twinkle just liked the taste of Ralph and the squealing noise he made when he got bitten on the ankle. Twinkle was a bit mean like that. But there, he was a cat, and cats are a law unto themselves.
Mad Pete/ Boris - no, we were calling him Mad Boris for convenience's sake, weren't we? - Mad Boris for convenience's sake was laughing every time Twinkle bit Ralph, but you can't blame him for that can you? He was mad! (And don't worry, he won't be being called Mad Boris for convenience's sake every time his name is mentioned from now own. It's just not that convenient).
Ginger McSporran was not laughing. "Mad Pete!" he said authoritatively. "Don't let my cat distract you from what you were about to tell us! Even though he is cute, aren't you Twinkly baby pussy wussy?" He patted the cat with a giant black clawed hand. And then he looked pointedly at Mad Pete.
No one can look quite as pointedly at you as a giant cave dwelling beast with massive point horns, and Mad Pete got the point. Mad Pete may have been mad, but he wasn't that mad.
"All right," he said, looking as completely serious as a man dressed in a range of bold primary colours can look. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."
All eyes were focussed on Mad Pete as he leaned forward to tell his story, even Twinkle's. Ralph the Timid felt that there should be portentous music playing, and maybe that it should be dark and stormy, and there should be flickering firelight to add atmosphere to Mad Pete's words. But then it was the middle of the day, and if there'd been a fire they would all have been sweating buckets, so then again perhaps not.
And so Mad Pete began. "My name is, as I have told you, Boris Petrov Blockoff, and my home is here -" he waved an expressive hand, indicating in one simple yet immeasurably complicated gesture not just the library, but the entire house in all its size and glory, and indeed even Rangville and the Low Plains. Mad Pete could do extremely expressive gestures. "Yes, this my home. I was born here, I was raised here, I was married here, I raised my children here. I shall probably die here. Yes, this is my home. My home."
He stopped and brooded on this thought for a moment. It wasn't clear if it was a depressing thought or a happy one. Either way, his listeners just wanted him to get on with the story. Ginger McSporran cleared his throat loudly with a sound that was reminiscent of nothing so much as a large piece of metal being dragged along a gravel road by a snowplow or similar piece of heavy equipment. Mad Pete started talking again in a hurry.
"Where - where was I?" he stuttered uneasily, like a motorboat bursting back into life after having a temper tantrum and flooding the engine with fuel. "Oh yes - at home! Well, yes, this is my home. You see I am, or at least I was, a chartmaker. I was a great chart maker. One of the - no, I shall not decieve you with false modesty, I was THE best."
He paused and looked at them almost archly, as if waiting for applause or congratulations.
None was forthcoming. In fact both Ginger McSporran and Ralph the Timid were looking at him as if he was completely mad.
Mad Pete decided not to continue waiting for applause, and went on. "I was so good, so outstanding excellent and accurate with my charts that my fame spread beyond Rangville. People would come from all over the Low Plains to have me make a chart for their babies - and not just the Low Plains! From the Mountains, to the Seashore, to the Wide Flat Plains - people would come from all over Ablet, just to see me. And not just the ordinary folk, oh no. Not just your common or garden tailors or woodcutters or tavern owners or millers, though of course they came in droves." Mad Pete looked as if he was about to study his fingernails or strike a pose in awe of his own popularity and skill, but with one eye on Ginger McSporran (who was not in fact fuming in rage, but certainly looked as if he was) decided that haste was the better part of valour, and continued his story. "I had woodsman and goodwives and fishermen coming out my ears," he said,"figuratively speaking of course. But it wasn't just the ordinary folk. As my fame spread the wealthier my clients became. I had rich merchants and knights, ladies and gentlemen, kings and queens...I even" here his voice become hushed and pregnant with the weight of the words he was about to say "got the chartmakers for kings and queens! And the soothsayers!" he sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest and looked at Ginger McSporran and Ralph the Timid smugly, as if to say 'so what do you think of that, you two? Think Mad Pete is of no account? Think again!'
It seemed to have little effect on his listeners. They looked a little as if they didn't believe him. They waited. Mad Pete waited. No one said anything.
"Fine!" said Mad Pete, getting up and stomping over to a bookshelf. He pulled out a large folio bound in nice shiny red leather and embossed with gold, stomped back and passed it to Ralph the Timid. "See for yourselves if you don't believe me!"
Ginger leaned over to see as Ralph slowly turned the pages of the folio. The first page simply said proudly "Boris Petrov Blockoff: Memories" in an elaborate black font. Following it were dozens of paintings some large, some minature, watercolour after watercolour, showing a man who was recognisably the man who had passed them the folio and various personages who at least appeared to be illustrious, to judge by the array of tiaras, crowns, sceptres, gold jewellery and fancy clothing. The captions were all in much the same vein - "Myself with King Michael and Queen Jacqueline of Holstein", "Myself with Lord Gibbon de Chance, Lord High Chartmarker to the House of Khards" and so on. Page after page of them! Unless this was a particularly elaborate prop with which to further his deception, Mad Pete was telling the truth. Because Ginger McSporran liked an easy life, and Ralph the Timid liked a good story, they chose to believe him rather than pursue the incredibly elaborate deception with no obvious point to it train of thought.
"All right," said Ralph the Timid, sounding particularly authoritative. "So you were a chartmaker. What's that got to do with this parcel?"
"Ah!" said Mad Pete in his most exclamatory and flamboyant manner. "That's where the story really gets interesting. But you have to know all the background first."
And so Mad Pete began his tale in earnest. And Ralph the Timid and Ginger McSporran, the black beast of the caves, and Twinkle, ferocious attack cat of the black beast of the caves, listened as the tale spun around them. It was an amazing story.
(Word Count: 28121)
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