Free Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie Page A

—‘I don’t know,’ panted Iff as he struggled to keep up with the charging boy. ‘We’ve never caught a spy before. Maybe we should scold him. Or make him stand in the corner. Or write I must not spy one thousand and one times. Or is that too severe?’
    Haroun did not answer, because they had finally arrived under the palace balcony. Instead, he shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’
    Every single Guppee stared at him in amazement, and Rashid Khalifa (who was still shivering with cold) looked no less surprised. ‘Oh, goodness,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Young Haroun. You surely are the most unexpected of boys.’
    ‘He’s not a spy,’ Haroun shouted. ‘He’s my father, and the only thing wrong with him is that he’s lost the Gift of the Gab.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Rashid gloomily through chattering teeth. ‘Go on, tell everyone, broadcast it to the whole world.’
    ~ ~ ~
     
    Prince Bolo sent one of his Pages to escort Haroun and Iff to the royal quarters in the heart of the palace. This Page, who didn’t look much older than Haroun, introduced himself as ‘Blabbermouth’, which, as it turned out, was a popular name in Gup for girls as well as boys. Blabbermouth was wearing one of the Pages’ regulation rectangular tunics on which Haroun observed the text of a story called ‘Bolo and the Golden Fleece’. ‘That’s strange,’ he said to himself. ‘I thought that story was about someone else.’
    As they made their way through the mazy passages of the royal palace of Gup, Haroun noted that many other Pages of the Royal Guard were dressed in half-familiar stories. One Page wore the tale of ‘Bolo and the Wonderful Lamp’; another, ‘Bolo and the Forty Thieves’. Then there was ‘Bolo the Sailor’, ‘Bolo and Juliet’, ‘Bolo in Wonderland’. It was all very puzzling, but when Haroun asked Blabbermouth about the stories on the uniforms, the Page only replied, ‘This is not the time for a discussion of fashion points . The Dignitaries of Gup are waiting to question your father and you.’ It seemed to Haroun, however, that his question had embarrassed Blabbermouth, whose face had reddened noticeably. ‘Well, all in good time,’ Haroun told himself.
    In the Throne Room of the palace, Rashid the storyteller was telling his story to Prince Bolo, General Kitab, the Speaker and the Walrus. (King Chattergy had retired, feeling unwell owing to too much worrying about Batcheat.) He was wrapped in a blanket and had his feet in a bowl of steaming hot water. ‘How I arrived in Gup, you will be wondering,’ he began, sipping a bowl of soup. ‘It is through certain dietary procedures.’
    Haroun looked disbelieving, but the others were listening intently. ‘As a frequent insomnia sufferer,’ Rashid went on, ‘I have learnt that particular foodstuffs, properly prepared, will (a) induce sleep, but also (b) carry the sleeper wherever he may wish. It is a process known as Rapture. And with sufficient skill, a person may choose to wake up in the place to which the dream takes him; to wake up, that is to say, inside the dream . I wished to travel to Gup; but owing to a slight directional miscalculation, I woke up in the Twilight Strip, dressed only in this inappropriate garb; and I froze, I confess it freely, I froze half to death.’
    ‘What are these foodstuffs?’ the Walrus asked in a very interested voice. Rashid had recovered sufficiently to make his mysterious-eyebrow face and reply, ‘Ah, but you must permit me my little secrets. Let us say, moonberries, comet’s tails, planet rings, washed down with a little primal soup. This soup, by the way, is very fine,’ he concluded on a different note.
    ‘If they believe that story, they’ll believe anything,’ Haroun thought. ‘Now surely they’ll lose their tempers and give him the Third Degree.’ What actually happened was that Prince Bolo gave a loud, dashing, foolish laugh and thumped Rashid