Jingo

Efforts to make seaweed combust had not been successful.
    “Yeah, but you wouldn’t like their bread,” said Jackson. “It’s all flat and got no proper crust—”
    A breeze blew the scent of baking over the water. It carried a hint of spices.
    “They’re baking bread! On our property!”
    “Well, they say it’s their —”
    Jackson grabbed the piece of broken plank he used as an oar and began to scull furiously toward the shore. The fact that this only made the raft go round in circles added to his fury.
    “They bloody move in right next to us and all we get is the stink of foreign food—”
    “Why’s your mouth watering, Dad?”
    “And how come they’ve got wood, may I ask?”
    “I think the current takes the driftwood to their side of the island, Dad—”
    “See? They’re stealing our driftwood! Our damn driftwood! Hah! Well, we’ll—”
    “But I thought we agreed that the bit over there was theirs, and—”
    Jackson had finally remembered how to propel a raft with one oar.
    “That wasn’t an agreement,” he said, creating foam as the oar thrashed back and forth, “that was just an…an arrangement. It’s not as if they created the driftwood. It just turned up. Accident of geography. It is a natural resource, right? It don’t belong to anyone—”
    The raft hit something which made a metallic sound. But they were still a hundred yards from the rocks.
    Something else, long and bent at the end, rose up with a creaking noise. It twisted around until it pointed at Jackson.
    “Excuse me,” it said, in a tinny yet polite voice, “but this is Leshp, isn’t it?”
    Jackson made a sound in his throat.
    “Only,” the thing went on, “the water’s a little cloudy and I thought we might have been going the wrong way for the last twenty minutes.”
    “Leshp!” squeaked Jackson, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice.
    “Ah, good. Thank you so much. Good day to you.”
    The appendage sank slowly into the sea again. The last sounds from it, erupting on the surface in a cloud of bubbles, were, “…don’t forget to put the cork in— You’ve forgot to put the cor —”
    The bubbles stopped.
    After a while Les said, “Dad, what was—?”
    “It wasn’t anything!” snapped his father. “That sort of thing doesn’t happen!”
    The raft shot forward. You could have waterski’d behind it.

    Another important thing about the Boat, thought Sergeant Colon gloomily as they slipped back into a blue twilight, was that you couldn’t bale out the bilges. It was the bilges.
    He was pedaling with his feet in water and he was suffering simultaneously from claustrophobia and agoraphobia. He was afraid of everything in here and everything out there at the same time. Plus, there were unpleasantnesses out there, moving past as the Boat drifted down the wall of rock. Feelers waved. There were claws. Things scuttled into the waving weeds. Giant clams watched Sergeant Colon with their lips.
    The Boat creaked.
    “Sarge,” said Nobby, as they looked out at the wonders of the deep.
    “Yes, Nobby?”
    “You know they say every tiny part of your body is replaced every seven years?”
    “A well-known fact,” said Sergeant Colon.
    “Right. So…I’ve got a tattoo on my arm, right? Had it done eight years ago. So…how come it’s still there?”
    Giant seaweeds winnowed the gloom.
    “Interesting point,” quavered Colon. “Er…”
    “I mean, okay, new tiny bits of skin float in, but that means it ought to be all new and pink by now.”
    A fish with a nose like a saw swam past.
    In the middle of all his other fears, Sergeant Colon tried to think fast.
    “What happens,” he said, “is that all the blue skin bits are replaced by other blue skin bits. Off’f other people’s tattoos.”
    “So…I’ve got other people’s tattoos now?”
    “Er…yes.”
    “Amazing. ’cos it still looks like mine. ’s got the crossed daggers and ‘WUM.’”
    “Wum?”
    “It was gonna be ‘Mum’ but I passed out and Needle Ned didn’t notice I was upside down.”
    “I should’ve thought he’d notice that…”
    “He was pissed, too. C’mon, sarge, you know it’s not a proper tattoo unless no one can remember how it got there.”
    Leonard and the Patrician were staring out at the submarine landscape.
    “What’re they looking for?” said Colon.
    “Leonard keeps talking about hieroglyphs,” said Nobby. “What’re they, sarge?”
    Colon hesitated, but not for long. “A type of mollusc,