Once it became known in the village that Theo and Buntee were favourites of Jadooji, they received an enthusiastic welcome from the locals. The baker pressed bags of cakes on them, the busdriver promised them a ride in his cabin down to Delhi for their flight, and the postmaster made Theo a present of some postcards and stamps. After a little thought, Theo dropped a line to Cynthia and Lou, thanking them for their help and assuring them that things were going well. He supposed Lou might already know, despite the loss of her crystal ball.
He didn’t know where to send a card for Simon or Michelle but he remembered Pierre’s address and sent a card asking if he’d got his new bike yet? Lastly, he sent a postcard to Nurse Sandra, promising that he was happy and in good health and would soon be finishing his world tour in New York.
Bozo was still trailed after by his juvenile followers but they kept their distance now that Theo and Buntee were on the scene, and gradually they dropped away, disillusioned with the search for spiritual truth.
Theo and Buntee could hardly pass a house in the village without being invited in for chai or to share a meal. Theo had long since become accustomed to the art of eating with his hands, and the more he ate, the happier his hosts became. Less comfortable was answering the never-ending stream of questions aimed at him: How old was he? Where did he come from? And where on earth was his family?
Buntee often stepped in to rescue him from these relentless question times by explaining that they were pilgrims and had left the past far behind. Then he’d change the subject by asking the villagers about their apple crops or their opinion on the Indian cricket team.
In reality, of course, Buntee also had precious little idea of who Theo was or what he was up to. The boy had entered his life with the randomness of a falling star and Buntee accepted this with the fatalism so typical of his countrymen. If he and Theo were to travel through India together, and then on to New York, it could only be because the gods wanted it that way.
Theo never ceased to surprise him and the recent series of events had left Buntee in quite a daze. It was remarkable that his great-uncle knew who the boy was and even more amazing that he was sending them to the USA together. What was truly difficult to understand, though, even for one as open-minded as Buntee, was the existence of Bozo.
‘Put it there,’ the Bloon had teased him up on the mountain.
Buntee felt a hand groping his but didn’t see anyone in front of him. Like most Hoomans, Buntee’s eyes refused to see what they couldn’t understand. ‘I must be going mad,’ he whispered, trembling slightly.
‘No. If you were mad, you’d be able to see him,’ Theo explained.
Buntee shrugged and tried to get used to the idea that they’d be travelling with an invisible saint that only animals, small children and the crazy could see. But it still freaked him out from time to time when Theo talked to thin air.
The travellers took advantage of the free day before their flight to rest and regain their strength. They took a short trip down the valley to the plains where Raj was now the guest of honour. Draped in marigolds and with his tusks painted red, the elephant was surrounded by fussing attendants. He gave a jubilant trumpet when he saw his old friends.
Buntee was overcome by emotion and wrapped himself around one of Raj’s legs in a tight embrace. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he cried, choking back the tears. ‘I feel like I’m living in a dream these days.’
Raj answered by blowing hot air over Buntee’s head. No translation was necessary to understand that the elephant was just as happy to see him. They rode on Raj’s back into the jungle that afternoon, picking wild fruit as they went. When they grew hot, Raj sprayed cold stream-water over their backs, and one of the three was forever falling off and clambering back on again.
As the four old friends capered around and explored the hills and jungle, Theo mused that it was one of the few really carefree times he had enjoyed since waking up. There were no police to run from, no puzzles to solve – just fun to be had among dear friends.
But magic or no magic, there was no way they were going to fit an elephant on a plane. The three travellers took leave of Raj and it was clear from the expression in his eyes that he would never forget them. Jadooji joined them too, as they waited for the overnight bus to take them to Delhi.
‘How will we find the First AO? Does he have a name or an address?’ Theo asked the old master, as they drank a farewell glass of chai beside the road.
‘It has been long since he was concerned with details like a name or a home,’ Jadooji chuckled. ‘When I knew him he was called Siddharta – or Sid for short. These days, I hear he wanders the streets of New York. But it’s more than likely that he will find you.’
‘How? Does he know we’re coming?’ Bozo asked.
‘I already told you. He knows just about everything,’ Jadooji explained. ‘Which is why he’s lost to us all. He can close his eyes and see everything that’s happening anywhere in the Story. Yet at the same time he would have trouble telling you what colour clothes he’s wearing that day.’
‘Hoomans,’ Bozo sighed. ‘You’re either completely crazy or plain insane. So what does that say for the Storyteller?’
The journey to Delhi was tedious and uncomfortable. Accepting the offer of the driver to ride in his cabin meant that they had to endure Indian pop music at screeching high volume all night. The road curved a thousand times and it felt like their stomachs were left behind on each bend. The driver stayed awake by drinking flasks of coffee and by chewing a mixture of tobacco and betel-nut from a packet. His eyes were consequently bloodshot and feverish. Although very kind, he didn’t inspire much confidence as a driver.
‘I only bother sleeping every third night,’ he informed Buntee, who decided not to share that information with Theo.
They drove at breakneck speed, overtaking everything on the road and missing the oncoming traffic by inches each time they did so. Theo found it impossible to sleep, convinced that if he did the bus would surely crash. As if to confirm this fear, all along the roadside were small shrines in memory of buses that had plunged over the cliff.
By dawn they were shooting along the highway. A mist hung over the fields of wheat and vegetables on either side of them. The roadside was covered with litter, and there were no bins, anyway. The wandering cows ate anything that was remotely organic. Through bleary, dazed eyes, Theo saw plastic bags flapping in the wind. He could almost hear the Sandman whispering in his ear curses about the self-destructive instinct of Hoomanity.
Delhi proved to be more chaotic than anywhere Theo had ever seen – more even than Cairo. Haphazard streams of mopeds jostled with rickshaws, carts, dogs, cows, beggars and never-ending crowds. The shouts and cries of the multitudes mixed with the horns of bikes, and the air was as thick with sound as it was with colour, smells and movement.
Bozo’s eyes widened at the potential mischief he could cause in such a playground. Theo caught the look in his eye. ‘I think we had better get to the airport as fast as possible,’ he warned Buntee, and the clown pointed towards a bus by the side of the road marked:
Indira Gandhi International Airport Service.
They ran up to the bus. The grumpy driver glanced at them and grunted, ‘Twenty rupees.’
Buntee fished in his pockets but found only biscuit crumbs. ‘The funny thing is,’ he explained with a sheepish grin, ‘that we don’t seem to have any money left. If you…’
‘Yes, very funny,’ the driver agreed, and he slammed the door in their faces.
Buntee turned to Theo and shrugged. ‘What now?’
‘If we could distract his attention for a moment, then we could climb on to the roof,’ Theo suggested.
‘Distraction is my specialty,’ Bozo announced with a mischievous smile. He waited until the door opened again to let in a couple of Swiss backpackers and he slipped in behind them. Then he threw one long arm over and held down the excruciatingly loud horn of the bus. The driver looked on in shock as the wail of the horn caused the nearby stallholders to shout abuse at him. Nothing he tried would stop the noise. He watched helplessly as people began to pick up rotten fruit from the ground and throw it as his windscreen.
While he leant out of the window to argue with the small mob that had formed, Theo and Buntee clambered up a ladder at the back of the bus and hid beneath a pile of backpacks and suitcases. Bozo then let go of the horn and the driver reversed the bus away from the crowd, hurling insults from the window as he went.
On top of the bus, Buntee pulled out the flight tickets and passports. ‘So we’re flying in three and a half hours,’ he said with trace of wonder in his voice. ‘It will be my first time. How about you?’
Theo thought about the flying carpet but decided not to complicate things. He replied truthfully: ‘I’ve never been in an aeroplane either.’
Buntee handed him a black passport. ‘That’s yours …Prakash.’
Theo giggled as he saw his photo next to the Indian name. He leant over to see Buntee’s passport. ‘Um, thanks, Amir … I mean, Dad.’ They laughed until a thought occurred to Theo. ‘Buntee, won’t it seem strange that father and son are such different colours?’
Buntee went blank for a moment at this rather obvious observation. ‘We’ll tell them you’re adopted,’ he finally suggested.
They rolled up at the airport half an hour later. Bozo stuck his head out of the window. ‘How do you like riding on the roof for a change?’ he taunted them. ‘Did you see the nice little riot I started back there? Man, I’m going to miss this country.’
Theo smiled and had to admit that he felt the same way. He’d spent more than half his waking life in India and had learnt more about the Story here than anywhere else. Still, the prospect of travel gripped his stomach in excitement – was he really about to enter a metal bird and emerge 15 hours later in another world?
‘Any bags to check in?’ the lady with sterile, tied-back hair at the checkin desk asked them.
‘No,’ Buntee smiled back.
‘Ah, travelling light. What about hand luggage?’ she asked hopefully.
‘None of that either,’ Buntee told her happily.
The airline lady slid their boarding passes across the desk and stared at them suspiciously. What kind of people took international flights with only the clothes on their backs? They were either filthy rich or bums who had struck it lucky, she decided.
Any worries they might have had about their new identities were unfounded as, when they came to the immigration desk, the official seemed half-asleep. He stamped their passports without even looking up.
They took their seats on the plane and Bozo declared he was off to explore the pilot’s cockpit. ‘Please don’t touch any of the buttons there,’ Theo begged.
If travelling by aeroplane had been an exciting prospect, it soon proved to be fairly tedious. After the excitement of take-off and seeing India below like it was a toy set, they settled into a mundane routine. While they hurled through the sky at 300mph in a tiny metal shell, everyone acted like it was simply another day. Hypnosis-boxes played movies, passengers flicked through magazines, and stewardesses pushed trolleys down the aisle from which they served dinner. The only incident was when around 20 people complained that their desserts were missing.
‘Something to do with your invisible friend?’ Buntee asked wryly.
‘Seems like you’re getting to know him, even if you can’t see him,’ Theo sighed.
Buntee nodded and then asked, ‘Theo, you know me – easy come, easy go – but, tell me, why exactly are we going to New York?’
Theo looked at Buntee’s trusting face and gulped. It hurt him to hold things back from his friend, but how could he possibly begin to explain? What if Buntee thought he was crazy? The most important encounter was still to come and only then would everything fall into place. It was surely too much for a simple clown to understand.
‘I’m looking for the last piece in a very complicated puzzle,’ Theo said vaguely. ‘I can’t really say any more than that for now.’
Buntee nodded, but there was a hurt look in his eyes that pierced Theo to the core. The clown hid his disappointment by trying to open the plasticwrapped cake on his dinner tray. It burst open and sprayed crumbs on all the seats within a two-metre radius. Before anyone could work out the origin of the accident, he turned off his overhead light and pretended to sleep.
As the plane zoomed through the night, Theo found the quiet hours that helped him get his head together. He looked out of the window and held his breath in wonder at the dazzling array of stars. According to Jadooji, each time he saw something beautiful it was a reflection of something in his own soul – and what was that except a fragment of the Storyteller?
In a way, Theo thought, I am the Storyteller, and so is everyone else in the Story. We just forget it all the time. In fact, Bozo is the only one here who is not.
But where is here? Theo suddenly wondered. Is the Story only inside the head of the Storyteller? If so, when he dies it’s all over. But the Story must also be alive inside the heads of the Bloons back in Bloonland. Theo quickly dismissed this – what chance was there of Bloons remembering anything for long? If it was left up to them, then whole sections of the Story would disappear overnight after a few too many gulps of wine.
The mass of questions and ideas became more and more tangled as the weight on his eyelids grew and he gave in to the pull of sleep. His last thought was whether falling asleep was anything like dying.