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Chronicles of Nadir 3: The Voyage of the Born Trader Chapter I
The Chronicles of Nadir
As told from the grave by Tom Lewis
Damn if I didn’t have it here somewhere. A large, thank you James. Damn, not under the chair is it, m’dear? Last few Chapters of Prince Crispian. Damn. Oh here it is inside today’s Tele. Oh, that’s not it. Same typeface.
What’s this then? Oh things do change so when you’re dead – The Voyage of the Born Trader.
That’s right, Jack dropped it by t’other day. Oh yes, just there on the toe, Violet – lovely girl – absolute wonder with the wanda.
Where was I? Oh, yes, this looks like a new one he’s floated. Should pass it on to young
Now where did the rest of that Crispian thing go? Oh, well, we can always come back to it.
Tale the Third
The Voyage of the Born Trader
Chapter The First:
The Wind beneath my Sales
History has a terrifying capacity for getting pell mell beyond the ability of the chronicler: so many in history; so few chroniclers. So it was that we found ourselves living in interesting times.
Moredread had seized the keys to the throne and would not be put off. Young Brendan had started to sit near Peter towards the back of the room. Alexander had joined Amanda in foreign climbs and it was, as someone who had once observed of Pope tupping a prostitute, like a wren on a hippopotamus,
Little Lucy was in her element. It was very much like looking at those cartoons of Scrooge McDuck diving into a pile of cash.
But things were dire.
The trade bubble had burst.
Perhaps that explained why Moredread had moved when he did. Well, that and the cat.
Moredread denied it at the first public opportunity but he not only hated cats (his mother, apart from being an expert on the American Civil War, was also interested in the cult of Bast), he strangled them. As for drugs, he’d never smoked a joint in his life but that wasn’t going to stop him in the time-honoured tradition of Little Johnny’s lies. After all, he was Leader now and tradition dictated that the Leader must lie. It was a tradition going back at least to Billy McMahon but perhaps that dog ought be left sleeping to lie. Better than drowning it. [That one’s on the ABC this week – Ed]
As he had boarded the gangway from
Yet, haunting him, hovering ever near, like a flight of Miss Flites, there was always a Puss-in-boots. This was no panto Deputy Dawg: they bred them tough west of the dingo fence and they weren’t given to blinking.
So the Born Trader was launched. She was a sturdy vessel but she could only ever go which way the wind blew. It was getting ready to blow a hurricane and neither the Born Trader nor her skipper, Moredread, had any idea where they would be blown next: a week was a long time on the high seas.