Chapter Twenty Two: In Which We Finally Hear Mad Pete's Story

Mad Pete's story went approximately like this.
Mad Pete had been incredibly successful. He had been beyond successful. Phenomenal. Amazing. Astonishing. His fame had spread throughout the land and beyond. He sometimes got abducted by pirates who wanted him to come and make charts for them, and he always managed to make them such wonderful charts that they would let him go before they even got him back to the sea. Granted the Low Plains were a fairly long way from the sea, and pirates were always a bit slow on land, being unaccustomed to walking on a surface which stayed still all the time, but all the same, weren't Ralph and Ginger impressed at his chartmaking prowess? Wasn't it amazing? Wasn't he, Mad Pete - or has he was known then, Boris "the Brilliant" Blockoff -just so incredibly marvellous?
Ginger and Ralph hadn't been too impressed. He wasn't really getting on with the story, they said. He was just bragging. And if he was so good, why hadn't they heard of him? Surely if his fame had spread to every corner of the land and even across the seas, it would have spread into the mountains, even to remote villages like Ralph's?
That was just it, said Mad Pete. They had hit the nail on the head. The crucial point. They had their fingers on the pulse all right. Why hadn't they heard of him if he was so famous? Well, to start off with, smarty pantses, you (to Ginger McSporran) live under a rock. You can't deny it - holding up a hand to ward off any criticisms - you do! And you don't get that many visitors. And you (to Ralph the Timid), well, by the time you were born I wasn't famous any more. I'd retired.
A pause. A long, heavy pause.
No, that was not quite true. Mad Pete corrected himself. He didn't want to mislead them. He hadn't really retired. But he would come to that. First things first - did they know why he was so famous?
Ginger McSporran suggested sarcastically that he was famous for being able to talk and talk and talk without every reaching the point. That he could probably talk the hind leg off a donkey, quite literally. The donkey would get so insane from hearing the endless chatter that it would eat its own hind leg, despite being usually a vegetarian. He said it in a not too bitterly sarcastic way, so Mad Pete wasn't too worried.
No, that wasn't it, he said. Although he would be the first to admit that he liked to talk, he had never caused a donkey to eat its own leg. No, he was famous because he was the best. He was the best chartmaker in the whole of Ablet, and people liked him. Why? Why could it be?
Ralph suggested, recalling his village chartmaker, that perhaps it was because he made charts that people liked to have. He would make sure, even if it meant a little poetic licence on the meaning of the birth date of an individual , that people got charts that they would like to get. He knew that chartmakers did that, he added as an ever so slightly bitter afterthought. He didn't hold a grudge against the chartmaker who had gotten his wrong - more a sort of friendly disparagement.
Mad Pete was hugely offended at this. No indeed! He was not now nor then nor ever had been nor ever would be a chartmaker of that sort! No indeed! He didn't know how Ralph could dare to even suggest such a thing! He was most exclamatory on the subject and went on at great length. Very great length. Ralph wished he'd never said it and Ginger McSporran contemplated setting Twinkle on Mad Pete to get him to go on with the story. But Twinkle was asleep and he couldn't bear to wake the dear little snookums up, so he didn't.
At length, Mad Pete calmed himself down enough to resume his story. No (and here he cast a darkling look at Ralph the Timid, who tried not to meet his eyes for fear of starting him off again) he was not famous for pandering to the desires of the rich and famous and noteworthy. No indeed! In fact, he was famous for quite the opposite. He would always write the truth and he was always ALWAYS accurate. And people liked that. They liked to know that they could trust what Boris the Brilliant would tell them. It was a good living. It was a good life. And then (Mad Pete's voice softened and became melancholic) and then....he threw it all away.
It happened, he said, because he became too curious, too sure of himself. He did too much of the same work and it made him think too much. He thought things like, but everyone I meet is different, yet some of them are born on the same day and the same time - how can this be possible? He began to question if the omnipotent power of the birth dates governing the journey of every persons life was really that omnipotent after all. Perhaps knowing your path set you on your path. Maybe if the year of the snake winter babies didn't know they were meant to be bad, they wouldn't be bad.
He thought about this theory more and more, but how could he test it? He wondered and pondered and pondered and wondered but could never come up with a satisfactory solution. He contemplated asking his wife if they could abandon their young son somewhere without a chart - at this point Ralph drew in his breath sharply at a sudden horrific thought - but he had thought better off it, for two reasons. First, he didn't want his son growing up damaged goods for having had no chart, and second he didn't want his wife to murder him for so much as suggesting such a thing.
And then a magnificient opportunity presented itself. The King and Queen of some province or other of Ablet - he couldn't remember which and had written it down, damn his eyes - arrived at his house with their two baby sons. They had, they said, been off travelling the seas for the last three years, during which time their sons had been born. They had come back as soon as they were able to have charts made for their little boys, and they wanted him to do it.
Mad Pete recalled the day as clearly as if it had been yesterday. It had been the height of winter, and snowing. He had brought them inside - into this very room - and they had sat by the fire which had been glowing warmly. There had been a sofa in here then, and they had sat on that, with their children on their knees, and unwrapped their sons from several layers of protected fur coats so that Boris the Brilliant could make their charts.
Boris the Brilliant had been taken back by what he saw. Two little boys - twins, he was told - sat on their parents laps and looked at him with big curious eyes. One seemed older than the other by a good several months, but no, they were twins, he was told, and here were their birthdates all recording accurately. They had had all the details written down at the time of the birth, but no chart had been made yet. They had wanted the best for their sons, and they had come to Boris the Brilliant because he was the best.
Boris the Brilliant did not disagree. (I was such an arrogant fool then, Mad Pete interjected. Ralph the Timid and Ginger McSporran did not disagree.) All right, he said. I'll do it. Give me the details. They were duly handed over. These were for the older son, aren't they Pumpkin? (Ruffling the hair of the larger of the twins, the Queen handed over a page of scribbled notes) and these were yours, weren't they, Snookums? She said that to the other son, obviously, not to Mad Pete.
Mad Pete had studied the details and had two reactions at exactly the same time. The first was horror. The twins had been born when? In the year of the snake under the red moon? At night? There was no more inauspicious time to be born. What terrible things would these poor children grow up to do?The second was delight. Here, at last, was the opportunity he had been waiting for to test his theory. If only he could persuade these royal parents...
Boris the Brilliant withdrew to think. He pored over books of chartmaking. He looked at the stars. He made calculation after calculation. And he drew up two charts, nearly identical, except one son was born later at night that the other. That, of course, made him much the greater threat to heart and hearth and home. And then he went back into the library to talk to the Royal Family of Wherever It Was.
He had had his most persuasive hat on, said Mad Pete. It was a lovely pink one with bells, he added reminiscently, his eyes going cloudy in a haze of fond memories. Ginger McSporran and Ralph exchanged a look, and Mad Pete, heaving a great sigh, went on with his story.
He had had his most persuasive hat on, and he had told them everything. That their sons were grow up to be villains, and that the younger son (though it be only by less than an hour) would be the worst by far. They knew he would not lie. He did not lie. He was Boris the Brilliant. The queen wept a little. She had known it would be thus. So had the king. They had been so busy travelling they'd forgotten it was the Year of the Snake. But was Boris sure it was the younger son who would be the worst? He looked such a nice child. The older son was already developing a sinister countenance. Had Boris seen the scar on his cheek?
Boris had, but it made no difference. The charts said what they said. There was only one hope, and he wasn't sure if it would work. He had a theory, he said. Would the king and queen like to hear it?
They would.
Boris' theory was essentially this: that a child born to be evil might escape its fate by - forgive his bluntness, your majesties - being left somewhere for some people to happen upon it and raise it as their own. If it was left without a chart, a new chart would be bound to be created for it, and perhaps that chart would have a better influence on the child.
The queen cried more at the idea of abandoning her baby son. The king looked thoughtful. They couldn't abandon BOTH of them, of course, he needed to keep an heir. But it was an idea, certainly. But why couldn't Boris just make a new chart.
Boris had drawn himself and looked the picture of honourability. He did not do things like that. He was Boris the Brilliant. If they wanted a false chart, they could go elsewhere. Otherwise, they should follow his advice. It would save them heartache in the long run.
After a long night of argument, they finally agreed, and all was arranged for the younger son to be abandoned in the mountains. The other twin was taken by the King and Queen back to their castle, whereever it was. Boris the Brilliant had been overjoyed that he would have a chance to test his theory.
Then he had lost track of both of the boys. Then he had thought about what he had done. What if no one had found the young boy in the mountain woods? Or if everyone had refused to raise him? What if he was wrong and the birthdates did matter and he murdered the people who did raise him, or worse?
And THAT was when Boris the Brilliant had retired and become Mad Pete.
Throughout this story, Ralph had been staring at Mad Pete in growing horror. He had wanted to seek his purpose. Had he found it?

(Word Count: 30182)