The Great Galloon and the Pirate Queen by Tom Banks

and from this angle Stanley could see that the eyes were not dead wooden things carved out of a tree, but bright, thoughtful windows into a living creature’s mind. They were sharp and penetrating. It was like being stared at by a lighthouse. Had they always been this way? Stanley didn’t know – he had never seen the Galloon from this angle before. In fact, he was willing to bet no-one had, as even the Captain had seemed unsure as to whether the legends about Claude were true or not. Despite feeling more exposed, and more exhilarated, than he had ever felt before, Stanley had a moment of gloating that he, as an incomer to the Galloon, knew something that Rasmussen, who had lived all her life onboard, did not.
    â€˜Hello, Claude!’ he said. ‘Sorry about standing on your head all those times!’
    Claude held him closer. He opened his great mouth, and teeth like obelisks parted. Was it a smile? Or was the beast about to speak? Stanley held his breath again, and as if from nowhere, words formed in his mind.
    THE GREAT GALLOON NEEDS YOU, SMALL BLUE
    Stanley whipped around, as if this could be a trick being played on him by someone else up here on Claude’s outstretched hand. He turned back.
    â€˜Me?’ he said. But no more words came. In fact, Claude’s attention seemed to be elsewhere. He was looking past Stanley, in the direction the Galloon was travelling in. Stanley turned again, and saw that he was staring at the Lethal Force waterfall, visible intermittently through the clouds of spray. He saw the FishTank, a little silver eel wriggling and yanking itself up the mossy rockface, behind the flow of water.
    â€˜Could you help us catch the FishTank? Rescue the Captain’s bride?’ asked Stanley, aware that it was perhaps slightly cheeky to ask a favour of a gigantic wooden tiger within moments of finding that he was actually alive.
    RESCUE? NO
    â€˜Oh,’ said Stanley, who was disappointed but not surprised. ‘Why have you not spoken before now, if you don’t mind me asking?’
    BEFORE NOW, THE GALLOON’S DOOM WAS NOT IMMINENT
    â€˜Oh,’ said Stanley again, who could think of a few times when it had felt imminent enough. ‘So, now …?’
    IT IS IMMINENT
    â€˜And just so I’m sure, imminent means …?’
    THE GREAT GALLOON’S DAYS ARE NUMBERED
    â€˜Oh,’ said Stanley for the third time. There didn’t seem much else to say.
    TO ONE
    â€˜To what?’ asked Stanley
    THEY ARE NUMBERED – TO ONE
    â€˜Oh,’ said Stanley, aware that perhaps it wasn’t enough. ‘One day, eh? Tsk.’

    Cloudier Peele tried hard to be an effete poet. She aspired to a life of art and contemplation. She drank tea made of almost anything other than tea – hyssop and wolfwort, cloudjuice and tinklebane – all of which seemed to taste like leaves boiled in water. She wore floaty, impractically long dresses, and wished she were better at swooning. And yet she seemed to often find herself engaging in derring-do. She had even been known to swash a buckle or two. In her time she had flown her little balloon across icy wastes, into volcanoes, and on all sorts of life or death missions into the unknown. And now she was doing it again. Perhaps it was time for a rethink.
    Because of the massive size of the Galloon, it was quite hard for anyone on deck to get a clear view of anything that was directly below them. So sometimes the Captain called on Cloudier to take him out in the weather balloon, for him to better see the lie of the land. And now, as they waited at the top of the waterfall for the FishTank to clamber up, he had called on her again. But this time was different – this time her mother was coming too.
    â€˜We’ve got ropes, compass, the barometer, altimeter, fire extinguishers, inflatable life raft, vacuum flask of iced tea, and all the charts I could find,’ said her mother, clambering over the rail