‘Welcome back, everybody! You’ll recall from Principal Hortense’s welcome speech that I’m in charge of Wednesday Afternoon this year!’
Everybody nodded. Well, I only half-nodded. Not having listened to most of Principal Hortense’s speech, I did not recall this at all.
Still, I was interested to learn it now. Wednesday afternoons, we do ‘activities’. These are chosen by one teacher and often take place in town. (Town just means Pillar Box Town, the picturesque town set on a lake that’s a ten-minute walk down the road from our school.)
Mr Dar-Healey smiled his wide smile and asked: ‘Who here can swim? Raise your hand if you can?’
About half of the girls raised their hands, including my sisters and me.
‘And of those who can swim, who could swim, let’s say, across the Turquoise Lake?’
That’s the lake in town.
Everybody laughed, and put their hand down. Turquoise Lake is huge—its far side is a hazy, distant blur. Imogen enters swimming tournaments every summer, but even she couldn’t make it across that lake.
Mr Dar-Healey squinted, pretending to look for raised hands. ‘Well, starting tomorrow, the Wednesday activity will be swimming classes!’
Everyone made the face you make when you’re not sure how you feel about that. You sort of pull your lips down and tilt your chin up. Would swimming lessons be fun? Not as boring as Etiquette At Afternoon Tea, anyway, which had been Principal Hortense’s choice for Wednesday activity last year.
‘There are beautiful new bathing facilities in town,’ Mr Dar-Healey told us, encouragingly. ‘A pool all enclosed in glass. You can look at the mountains as you swim!’ Then he spun in place and did a backflip.
‘Oh, my!’ That was Mrs Pollock exclaiming. The other teachers are used to Mr Dar-Healey’s flips, and they had carried on slicing up their lamb chops and sipping their wine. Mrs Pollock, however, fanned her face and said, ‘Mr Dar-Healey!’ Then, boldly: ‘Will you teach me that trick?’
Everyone laughed again. Mrs Pollock is very old.
But she pulled an outraged face and said, ‘What’s so funny? Why shouldn’t I be able to tumble in the air?’ We just laughed more loudly until Mrs Pollock cried out: ‘Is there a hyena loose in here? I’m sure I hear a hyena!’
Now we shouted with laughter. A girl in Imogen’s grade, Lee Kim, has this shrill laugh that you can always hear over the top of everyone else—and it does sound like a hyena. We are accustomed to Lee’s laugh, and usually take no notice of it.
‘Show yourself, hyena!’ Mrs Pollock bellowed.
By now, we were all screaming like hyenas—Lee Kim loudest of all. I could see her across the dining hall, trying to smother her mouth with her palms.
At this point, Mr Dar-Healey boomed: ‘Any time you want a backflip lesson, Mrs Pollock, just say the word. All right, everyone, back to your delicious chops before they get cold.’
He sat back down beside Mrs Pollock, and over the last of the fading laughter, I heard him say: ‘I mean that, by the way. No reason you shouldn’t learn a backflip if you like.’
Mrs Pollock flicked his shoulder and shook her head.
In the recreation room after dinner, I saw my sisters chatting in the corner about Astrid’s pyjamas. These had apparently been packed in Imogen’s bag by accident.
Once they’d sorted out the pyjama issue, they asked me about Mrs Pollock, and I described the day. ‘She’s hilarious,’ I said. ‘We love her.’ Then I added generously: ‘Still, you both got good teachers, too. You’re so lucky to have Mr Dar-Healey, Imogen. He does tumbles in the air.’
Astrid nodded. ‘True,’ she agreed. ‘It’s a shame he’s so sad.’
Imogen and I both frowned at her.
‘What do you mean?’ Imogen demanded. ‘He’s always smiling! And dancing! And singing. He sings all the time in class. Gets a bit annoying, to be honest. But he’s happy!’
Astrid shrugged. ‘Something is making him terribly sad.’
Then one of Astrid’s friends grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her over to join a board game, and one of Imogen’s friends shouted for her to come share cake with them.
I went to the corner table and wrote letters to Georgia and Hsiang. I told them all about Mrs Pollock, how we had thought she was an Ogre, only she’d turned out to be lovely, how we greeted her with our own high five, and were going to do swimming as our Wednesday activity.
Then, in both letters, I wrote:
It’s only the first day of classes yet so much has happened! And you are NOT HERE for it to happen to! Listen, remember how I used to tell you two over and over to stop practising your flute and your cricket? Because I KNEW something like this might happen one day. But you took no notice did you?
And now it has happened.
I meant that to be humorous rather than angry, and worried it might not come across that way. I tried to fix it by writing CONGRATULATIONS inside circles of stars in both letters.
By this time, the bell was ringing for us to go to the dormitories. I crept downstairs to the mailroom instead to post the letters. This was against the rules, but I wanted Georgia and Hsiang to hear from me as soon as possible.
The mailroom was dark, but moonlight spilled through the windows, so I could make out the familiar shapes.
The wall lined with pigeonholes.
The slot for posting letters.
And, against the far wall, the coat closet from which, if you climbed inside and pressed your ear to the back, you could listen to conversations taking place in the principal’s office next door.
I don’t know if anybody else knows that.
I discovered it the first year I came to the school, when I was playing hide and seek with Georgia and Hsiang one Sunday afternoon. The closet had seemed a perfect spot to hide. The coats hanging inside were soft and warm, and I’d snuggled into them. Then I’d worried about accidentally knocking the wooden hangers, making them clunk together and alerting Georgia (who was seeking) that I was inside. It was too risky, I’d decided, and I’d been about to hop back out, when I’d heard Principal Hortense’s voice.
‘I’ve lost my tea!’ she’d exclaimed.
A long quiet.
Then, ‘Oh, no, I haven’t. It’s right here on my desk.’
That was all I’d heard that first time. Except for slurping, which I suppose was her drinking the tea.
The night when I crept into the mailroom to post my letters, I did not climb into the closet with the intention of listening to a conversation.
I would never do that!
Or hardly ever anyway. Or, I mean, not constantly.
It was late, so I didn’t even expect Principal Hortense to be in her office. I only hopped into the closet because I suddenly wanted the cosiness of soft, warm coats.
But the moment I did, I heard voices. Just a faint murmur, so I pressed my ear to the back of the closet.
‘Well, they are taking it seriously anyway,’ said Principal Hortense’s voice.
Who? I thought. And what are they taking seriously? The trouble with eavesdropping is you can’t ask important questions.
‘It’ll be nothing,’ a man’s voice declared—I couldn’t place it. ‘I mean, are they havin’ a lend of us?’
Oh, now I knew. It was Mustafa, the gardener. He sounded annoyed. ‘Shadow Mages roaming the mountains?’ he complained. ‘They never come around these parts! Much too pretty for them. Lakes and glaciers, blue skies and whatnot. And that Mrs Pollock is right about the True Mages. Village of Crystal Faeries not an hour’s ride from here! Can’t stand that, can they, the Shadow Mages?’
A rapping sounded now.
That gave me a fright. I thought someone was knocking on the closet door. Then I realised it was Principal Hortense knocking on her desk.
‘It’s right here in the letter,’ she said. ‘They’re worried enough to do this.’
Do what? I thought.
Slurping sounds. Tea drinking, I suppose.
‘An u
ndercover Spellbinder,’ Principal Hortense exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe it! A student! I don’t even know which one she is! Grade 6, I believe.’
Grade 6? That was my year!
‘A Grade 6 girl!’ Mustafa cried, sounding suddenly angry. ‘That’s too young! How’s she supposed to protect the school, little scrap of a thing?’
‘They’re not all little scraps, the Grade 6 girls,’ Principal Hortense mused. ‘Have you seen Durba? She’s really shot up over the summer. And those Rattlestone twins are very … forceful personalities.’
‘Not the point,’ grumbled Mustafa.
‘I know,’ Principal Hortense agreed, pacifyingly. ‘Still, apparently they’ve started training younger Spellbinders. Even Carabella-the-Great has provisionally allowed it.’
More muffled grumbling from Mustafa, then: ‘I always thought it wore them out if they tried to spellbind too young.’
I’d heard that too.
‘The letter says this girl will create a Spellbinding ring around our school, but she’ll have to reinforce it daily. Too young to make a permanent one. Also, she’s not strong enough to spellbind any Shadow Mages who do get in.’
‘If they’re so worried, why don’t they send a proper Spellbinder to guard the school? Put in a permanent Spellbinding?’
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it?’ Principal Hortense declared. ‘They can’t be that worried.’
After that, Mustafa said that it was time to ‘call it a night’, and Principal Hortense said, ‘Oh, look at the time!’
And then there were the shuffling, groaning sounds of grown–ups getting out of chairs. Their footsteps passed the mailroom, and disappeared towards the back of the school.
I waited for the faint thud of the back door closing. Then I opened the coat closet, sat on the moonlit floor and trembled.
A girl in my grade was a Spellbinder.
It must be one of the new girls, of course. Autumn or Pelagia.
Autumn with her shiny hair or Pelagia with her box of chocolates and scrunchy nose. Which one?
I took off my slippers.
I stared at my toenails.
As usual, they stayed their regular colour.
I am not special. I’m just an ordinary girl.
I sent fierce messages to my toenails: Prove me wrong! Change colour! You can do it!
Nothing happened.
I must have fallen asleep because I woke suddenly, still on the floor.
Checked again. Toenails were still their regular, non-blue colour.
Crept back to the dorm.
We walked into town in pairs for our first swimming lesson. The sky was cloudy and birds sat high on wires and branches.
I was paired with Autumn Hillside. As she kicked at pebbles, I kept glancing at her, wondering if she was the Spellbinder. I also wondered what conversation I could start. I sensed that she was trying to think of something to say too, although maybe she was just concentrating on pebbles. She had braided her long hair, probably to keep it tidy while she swam, and I’d just decided that this would be my topic—’I can never braid my hair without bits coming loose, what’s your trick?’—when a voice sounded behind us.
‘And there were seven Whisperers?’ it exclaimed.
Autumn and I both turned our heads.
Not far behind us, Hetty Rattlestone was walking alongside Pelagia.
‘Yes,’ Pelagia agreed. ‘Seven Whisperers. And no way out of the bowling alley.’
‘Pelagia!’ cried Hetty. ‘You must have been terrified!’
Autumn and I carried on walking, but I knew we were both listening.
‘Pretty scared, yes,’ Pelagia agreed. ‘I was crouched in one of the racks with the bowling shoes.’
‘How old did you say you were?’
‘Five.’
‘FIVE!’ Hetty shrieked. ‘HIDING IN A BOWLING ALLEY WITH SEVEN WHISPERERS!’
Whisperers are people from the Whispering Kingdom. They used to kidnap children from all over the Kingdoms and Empires and were once more terrifying than all the other Shadow Mages combined.
And seven Whisperers had gone to a bowling alley to kidnap Pelagia?
She must be the Spellbinder in our grade, I realised in a rush. That was the only way she could have escaped from seven Whisperers. She must have spellbound them! At five years old!
Hmm. If so, how would she explain her escape to Hetty without giving away her identity?
I was riveted. What would she say next?
No idea. Because, at that point, Pelagia lowered her voice. Murmur, murmur, she said, and, ‘WHAT?!’ or ‘NO!’ cried Hetty. Not helpful. Only frustrating.
Eventually I gave up trying to hear and told Autumn I liked her braid. She touched her hair, pleased, and said, ‘Thanks.’
‘How do you get it so neat?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied.
That was it. Not what I’d call great conversation.
We arrived at the swimming pool.
When I swim, a peculiar thing happens.
I start off well. I use good strong arms!
(When my mother taught us to swim, she’d shout, ‘Come on! You’re faster than that! Let’s see good strong arms!’)
I kick my legs, face pressed into the water, turn to the side to breathe—
And then—
I notice the bubbles.
You know when you slap your hand on the water as you swim? And teeny bubbles form, a trail of them? Well, you’re probably a sensible swimmer who just gets on with the swimming.
But here is what I do.
I try to swim through the bubbles. They’re so soft and tickly!
I swim a stroke, then twist myself around into the bubbles, sort of curling back into the stroke, then I swim another stoke and twist myself back into those bubbles. And so on.
It sure does slow you down, this method.
(‘What are you doing?!’ Mother used to bellow when she was teaching us. I could never really explain it.)
We all had to swim a lap at the pool, while swimming teachers watched and assessed us. You were allowed a kickboard if you couldn’t swim that far, and I suppose they assessed how well those girls kicked. One teacher stood at the end of each lane with a clipboard, while the head swim teacher, Raelene, strolled up and down the side, getting an overview. Once you’d had your turn, you sat up on the bench seats to watch.
Raelene was a large, muscular woman, wearing a bathing suit with a frill around it. Her eyes were a bit squinty, I think because her swimming cap was dragging on her forehead.
When it was my turn, everyone was waiting to see if I would do as well as my sister, Imogen. She’d been the best so far, you see—very fast and strong. The whole place had cheered for her. ‘Excellent form,’ I heard Raelene say. I was proud.
I started swimming. Raelene bellowed, ‘What are you doing?’ just as Mother used to do, and when I came up for air, the whole place was laughing.
I tried switching to backstroke halfway down to stop myself being distracted by teeny bubbles, but, well—remember Mr Dar-Healey saying that the pool was in a glass building? It was. So when I turned onto my back, there were the snow-capped mountains soaring into the blue sky! Right behind the glass!
I stopped swimming altogether and trod water, gazing up. Everyone laughed at me more loudly. Then I tried to carry on, still backstroke, only the glass reflected the water’s movement, shadows rippling and fluttering up there—
All in all, it took about half an hour to reach the end of the pool and by the time I got there, the teacher who was meant to assess me was leaning against the back wall chewing gum.
As I approached the bench seats, a group of older girls chanted, ‘Go Esther! Go Esther!’ as a joke. I grinned at them even though my heart was beating in a fluttery, embarrassed way. Mr Dar-Healey called for me to come sit by him. I thought he might scold me for wasting time in the pool, but when I reached him, all he said was, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? This structure?’
> I sat beside him, my towel around me, and we had a good chat about the meaning of beauty. Mr Dar-Healey thought beauty is snow-capped mountains and I said yes, mountains are lovely, but beauty is a deluge of rain.
As we chatted, Pelagia stepped up to swim her lap.
We thought that Imogen had been speedy.
You should have seen Pelagia.
Mr Dar-Healey stopped speaking halfway through a sentence. Lines sprang up all over his forehead. ‘Good grief,’ he muttered, and he leaned so far forward I thought he might topple over.
It was like this.
Have you ever skipped a pebble across a pond? And done it properly so it goes spring! spring! spring! over the water?
That’s how Pelagia seemed to swim.
She can’t have been swimming like that, of course—her arms and legs must have carried her along, as usual. But honestly, it was like zip! And there she was. Up the other end.
The swim teachers all swarmed together. I felt a bit sorry for the other girls swimming valiantly onward, unaware they’d been forgotten.
The teachers must have asked Pelagia to swim back in the other direction, please, because she bobbed around in the water looking up at them, then spun around and did it again.
Zzzzzip! Up to the other end.
‘She didn’t come up for air!’ Mr Dar-Healey murmured. ‘Who is that, Esther? That’s the new girl in your grade, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Pelagia.’
Mr Dar-Healey shook his head slowly as Pelagia skimmed back up the pool. It seemed as if she was about to commence a fourth lap, when—
CRACK!
A pattern of fine lines, like rivers on a map, appeared on the surface of the glass wall facing us.
Then the entire wall exploded into pieces.
Strangely, at first it was beautiful.
Like a surprise of bright confetti. A waterfall bursting from the sky. A jangling of musical light.
Then the chaos started.
We get hailstorms at home, and you sit in the kitchen listening to the clattering and rattling outside. This was like a thousand hailstorms in your head.
The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst Page 5
