The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘Mrs Pollock?’ I said, raising my hand. But the bell was ringing for afternoon tea, and Mrs Pollock was busy performing her high fives with everyone.

  At dinner that night, Principal Hortense leapt up to make an announcement.

  ‘A Fundraising Weekend!’ she exclaimed. ‘In Week 8! Parents invited! On the Friday evening? A twilight picnic with our local Elves! Music, lanterns, cakes!’

  Everyone clapped. We love our local Elves. We love music and lanterns. Especially, we love cakes.

  ‘On the Saturday,’ Principal Hortense continued, ‘an art show! Each grade will create a masterpiece to be auctioned! Parents will visit your classrooms!’

  We all clapped again, but that was just automatic. Who cared about art shows and classroom visits?

  ‘Why do we want to raise funds?’ Principal Hortense asked. Girls began calling suggestions (‘to get ice-cream machines for our dorms!’ ‘a school pony!’), and she talked over them. ‘For the fishing village of Bobsleigh!’

  Here, her face, which had been glowing with joy, withered into dismay. You have to be speedy to keep up with Principal Hortense’s moods. ‘Many of you will know Taba Ringston?’ she asked, still dismayed. ‘Wave, Taba?’

  A shy wave from Taba, a girl in Grade 3.

  ‘Taba is from Bobsleigh,’ Principal Hortense continued. ‘Recently, the currents around Bobsleigh have changed dramatically so there are no longer any fish! Catastrophic for Bobsleigh! Anybody guess why?’

  I raised my hand.

  ‘Yes, Esther?’

  ‘Because it’s a fishing village.’

  ‘Well done! We are raising money for Bobsleigh because they have no fish. Anybody with a relative who’s an artist? Ask them to donate a painting to be auctioned too! Do it! Tell them that the people of Bobsleigh have no fish! Carry on with dinner, girls. Eat up your string beans.’

  As it was Monday, I went to the recreation room for poker practice after dinner

  My sisters were late, so I sat at our table, looking around.

  On a nearby couch, the Rattlestone twins sat either side of Autumn Hillside, with Zoe Fawnwell and a few others cross-legged on the carpet. They were all eating cake.

  I studied Autumn’s face.

  At first, it had seemed as if Pelagia had saved her.

  By asking questions, Pelagia had made it seem as if Autumn was not a terrifying monster, but a regular person with a fascinating background, like the circus. And if she could ask Autumn questions, anyone could!

  So everyone did.

  They asked Autumn questions and she answered politely.

  But just the day before, I’d noticed the teeniest crinkle at the top of Autumn’s nose. A group of girls had been quizzing her. She’d quickly smoothed the crinkle away and answered.

  And now, as I watched, I saw her give a tiny sigh. But she hid the sigh and answered the latest question.

  My sisters arrived and Imogen started chatting about her swimming tournament, which was coming up in less than two weeks.

  ‘Mr Dar-Healey says he’ll bring treats for the road,’ she told us, ‘and board games for when Pelagia needs a break from telling stories.’

  We laughed. ‘She tells a lot of stories,’ Imogen added. ‘They’re riveting. She’s had so many adventures, Mr Dar-Healey says there can’t have been a single moment in her life when she wasn’t in extreme peril.’

  Again, we laughed.

  ‘Mr Dar-Healey is so funny,’ Astrid said, ‘even though he’s sad.’

  Imogen started to disagree but I spoke quickly and softly, telling them what I’d overheard from the attic.

  ‘So you’re right, Astrid,’ I said. ‘He is sad. He just hides it well.’

  Astrid picked up her cards, nodding solemnly. Imogen dropped hers, sat back, and raised her chin. This means she’s angry. She’s always furious when somebody she loves has been hurt and she can’t help.

  ‘I’m going away too,’ Astrid announced, to distract her. ‘Same day as you, Imogen. The mayor asked me to come to a convention in Clybourne. It’s for two weeks but Principal Hortense says it’s okay because I can bring schoolwork and because “attending government meetings will be thrillingly educational”.’

  ‘You’ll both be back in time for the Fundraising Weekend?’ I checked.

  They’d return just in time, apparently. Astrid mentioned how sad our father would be to miss the Fundraising Weekend—he loves school functions, but he was still away on his mysterious mission and hadn’t even been able to write to us or telephone as he usually did—and Imogen said that Mother would be too busy working.

  Then all three of us remembered at once that one of Mother’s many sisters—Aunt Emma—is actually an artist. I volunteered to write to her and ask if she could spare a painting for the people of Bobsleigh, who no longer had any fish.

  ‘Let’s play now,’ Imogen suggested, reaching for her cards.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Can you check this for me?’

  I’d brought my Mathematics test along, and handed it to Imogen.

  ‘Your answer is correct,’ she said, before turning the page and finding three more correct answers with cross marks.

  ‘Show it to Mrs Pollock tomorrow,’ Imogen advised. ‘She must have rushed grading it and I’m sure—’

  ‘And this is called chocolate cake!’ a high-pitched voice declared.

  All three of us looked across the room.

  ‘Chocolate cake,’ Tatty was repeating, pointing to her plate. ‘Did you have that in the Whispering Kingdom, Autumn?’

  ‘Yes,’ Autumn agreed. ‘We had cake.’

  ‘But chocolate cake?’ Tatty persisted.

  ‘Yes,’ Autumn said. ‘We had chocolate cake.’

  ‘Oh, this is milk,’ Hetty said next. ‘Was there any milk in the Whispering Kingdom?’

  My sisters and I raised eyebrows at each other.

  After a pause, Autumn replied calmly: ‘We had milk in the Whispering Kingdom.’

  More and more questions were asked about objects available in the Whispering Kingdom.

  Forks. Spoons. Bowls. Carpet. Chairs. (I’m not joking. Zoe asked if they had chairs.)

  Each time, Autumn smiled, nodded and said, ‘Yes. Yes, we did.’

  Eventually, somebody asked about peaches.

  ‘Well,’ Autumn replied. ‘Well, no, we didn’t have peaches. No peach trees. I remember my mother reading a story to me when I was seven or eight, and it mentioned peaches. I asked her what they were.’

  At this, the girls grew noisy with enthusiasm.

  ‘What? No peaches!’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing! Imagine living without peaches!’

  ‘What was it like when you tried your first peach?! You must have been so excited!’

  Autumn smiled. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘Juicy.’

  The twins hugged her.

  ‘How wonderful!’ they said. ‘Lucky you! Getting to try a peach!’

  My sisters and I rolled our eyes at each other.

  ‘What did you do during the Whispering Wars?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Autumn said patiently. ‘I wasn’t born yet when they ended. As I’ve mentioned before. I’m twelve.’

  Hetty’s voice became thoughtful: ‘Are ages different in the Whispering Kingdom, though?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, is time the same?’

  ‘Time,’ Autumn said, still patient, ‘is exactly the same in the Whispering Kingdom.’

  Hetty and Tatty both winced, disappointed. ‘I suppose so,’ they said.

  ‘Well, what did your parents do in the Whispering Wars?’ Zoe tried. ‘Did they help kidnap children from other Kingdoms? Shoot people?’

  Autumn blinked.

  ‘Oh Zoe,’ Hetty cried. ‘Don’t remind her! She must feel so guilty about the wars! Are you all right, Autumn?’

  Autumn’s chin was slightly raised. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m all right. My parents were actually—’

  �
�Because I mean, it’s true that your people stole children,’ Tatty said. ‘And invaded practically everywhere. And joined forces with Shadow Mages. You probably cry yourself to sleep about it! And it’s true that—’

  This was when Imogen loudly cleared her throat. ‘Autumn?’ she called. ‘Want a game of poker with us?’

  ‘Poker?’ Autumn enquired, looking over. Her voice trembled slightly. ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘It’s a card game. Come on, we’ll teach you.’

  I was only imagining this of course, but to me it seemed as if the others had been steadily shelling nuts all over Autumn’s and that now, as she stood and smoothed down her skirt, stepping over to join us, the nutshells slid to the floor.

  She learned the game of poker very quickly, and we told her she should join us any time.

  The next day, while our class sat quietly filling in the answers to a com rehension exercise I a roached Mrs Pollock

  ‘Mrs Pollock?’ I said. ‘May I ask about this?’

  I placed my Mathematics exam on her desk and pointed to the first incorrectly marked sum.

  Mrs Pollock was wearing her glasses with the square frames. She leaned forward, towards my test. She leaned so far forward that her nose touched the paper. Her fingers began tracing the numbers. She looked up at me. Her glasses glinted.

  ‘What is this?’ she said, voice loud enough that people in the class glanced up. ‘What is this?’ Even louder. ‘Esther! I want to help you! I want to answer your questions about—about this!’ She picked up my Maths exam and shook it so that the papers rustled. ‘But!’ And she put it back down again. ‘But I do not—I cannot understand!’

  ‘It’s only that there were a couple of questions—’ I began.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she interrupted. ‘Questions. Quite. Just a moment. I’m sure it will come to me.’ Again, she pressed her face so close to the test that her nose, and now her glasses, hit the desk with little thuds.

  The whole class was watching now, some giggling.

  ‘It’s my—’ I tried, but Mrs Pollock waved at me.

  ‘Hush!’ she cried. ‘Hush! I think I—it’s beginning to …’

  And then, with a great whoosh of breath, she flung her hands up and beamed. ‘I’ve got it! I understand! This is mathematics, Esther! No wonder I was baffled! We are doing a comprehension exercise! Words, Esther! We are doing words today! And this is—now, what are these things in mathematics called again? These squiggly little things?’ She scratched her head.

  ‘NUMBERS!’ half the class shouted.

  ‘Precisely.’ Mrs Pollock fanned herself with my maths exam. ‘Well, you’ve given me quite a fright, Esther, but I will survive. Here, high five? Right. Love your one. Go and sit down and carry on with your comprehension now.’

  She opened her drawer and placed my paper inside.

  I gave up. I sat down.

  Maybe she would look at my mathematics paper later and give it back, apologising for her mistakes?

  She didn’t. I’ve never seen it since.

  Later that day, Mrs Pollock told us we had to prepare a three-minute speech on a topic of our choice.

  ‘Whatever you feel passionate about!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look to your heart! What makes it sing? Research that!’

  We do these speeches each year, by the way. Classes vote for their favourite, and the winner goes to the inter-district speech competition. I’d won favourite the previous two years, and was secretly hoping to win again.

  (Not that I win at the inter-district level—the other speakers leave me flummoxed, they’re so good—just because it’s a fun day out from school.)

  The thing I feel passionate about is magic, so I chose that. We had to get our topic approved and Mrs Pollock nodded. ‘Magic. Perfect. That’s your passion?’

  I mean, specifically, my passion is that I wish I was a Spellbinder, but I didn’t say that. I just agreed, ‘Yes,’ and she put a tick by my name.

  ‘I wish I was a Spellbinder,’ would not be long enough for a speech anyway. Even if I added, ‘I really wish it.’ I had to think of something more to say about magic and so, during study hour, I went to our school library to find new ideas.

  The librarian’s name is Carlos and you never know when he’ll have a beard. One day it’s there, thick and bushy, the next, it’s just his chin, fresh and new, blinking around at the world.

  That afternoon, Carlos was crouched behind the circulation desk, peeling the tape from a cardboard box.

  ‘Not long until the new G.A. Thunderstrike,’ he sang out, as I walked by.

  That’s a skill of Carlos’s. He always knows who’s passing his desk. He says every student has a distinctive footfall.

  He also knows every student’s favourite author, even if they haven’t got one. (‘Ah, but this author will become your favourite,’ he says. ‘You just haven’t read them yet.’)

  I stopped and looked over the counter.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve got it in my calendar.’

  Carlos glanced up. He had a beard that day, but just a prickly one, not yet thick and bushy.

  ‘Want a recommendation while you wait?’ he asked.

  ‘Not today,’ I replied. ‘Researching.’

  ‘Topic?’

  ‘Magic.’

  ‘Big topic,’ Carlos whistled. ‘Fifth shelf on your right, between the 700s and the 850s.‘

  ‘Thanks, Carlos.’

  I ran my hands along the spines of books in the 400s and 500s as I passed and paused at the 600s. It’s a section called ‘classical mythology’. In the time before magic, over a thousand years ago, people used to make up stories and share them—around the fireplace, I suppose. A lot of the stories are about ‘nature’ choosing regular people and making them into ‘Fiends’ or ‘Weavers’ with special powers.

  For a moment, I considered writing a speech about one of the famous Fiends or Weavers from the stories. Lady Susan Hart Van Metre, maybe. She was the majestic Fiend of the Dazzling Canyon. Or Professor Nicole Yule, an exquisite Forest Weaver, who ate peaches while saving lives.

  But I decided to move onto the magic section instead: I wanted facts, not made-up stories. Plus, I wanted magic. I felt very sorry for the people in the time before magic. No wonder they had to invent Fiends and Weavers. They must have been bored and sorrowful.

  In the magic section, I spent some time pulling out thick textbooks and flimsy volumes, then putting them back. A Comprehensive Survey of the History of Magic had teeny print, and no pictures. The Dung Radish Gnome seemed promising—I’d never heard of Dung Radish Gnomes—but then I found a pamphlet tucked in the back.

  Update from Author

  Sorry, readers! Thought I’d uncovered a new species of Radish Gnome, but turns out the fellow in the shop was referring to those ‘DARN Radish Gnomes down Eanback Street’. Not ‘those Dung Radish Gnomes’. Wasted a year of my life researching ordinary Radish Gnomes, didn’t I?

  I found a book called Crystal Faeries: Everything You Wanted to Know But Were Too Afraid to Ask. Strange title. Who would be afraid to ask about Crystal Faeries? They’re pretty nice, as far as I know.

  Although Crystal Faeries are rare throughout the Kingdoms and Empires, we have plenty in the mountains around my school. That’s a big reason why Shadow Mages don’t usually come here—Crystal Faeries make them nauseous.

  They might make a good topic for a speech, I decided—but when I opened the book, it was full of misty illustrations of Crystal Faeries smiling wisely and playing their xylophones. Only a few words were printed on each page and all they said was how beautiful Crystal Faeries are, and how much more powerful their magic is than that of regular Faeries, and what excellent dental hygiene they have, compared to regular Faeries. The book advised any regular Faeries who felt envious of Crystal Faeries to seek help.

  I sighed and put it back. I missed our school Matron—she’s part regular Faery, but her teeth have always seemed fine to me. If Matron was here, I’d have taken this book
to her. First, she would have had a good belly laugh, then she’d have torn the pages to pieces, muttering, ‘Beautiful, are they? Powerful, are they? Haven’t met my great-grandma, have you? More power in her little fingernail than a hundred Crystal Faeries.’ That kind of thing.

  After that, she’d have felt guilty about ruining one of Carlos’s library books and she’d have taped it back together again.

  Well, Shadow Mages were more exciting than True Mages anyway. I pulled out a stack of thin, blue books called the Astonishing series. One was The Astonishing Truth about Radish Gnomes, the next The Astonishing Truth about Fire Sirens, and so on, through all the major Shadow Mage groups.

  Perfect, I thought.

  I took the stack to a table, and sat down to take notes.

  The Favourite Foods of Witches, I wrote, as one heading. Then: Common Phobias of the Radish Gnome.

  I grinned to myself, and then—

  A strange rush of darkness crossed my vision.

  Shadow Mages are not funny, I thought.

  The faces of the Sterling Silver Foxes sauntering towards the shattered glass.

  Principal Hortense’s voice: ‘Shadow Mages have been spotted around our neighbourhood.’

  Everybody said that the Sterling Silver Fox attack was a ‘one-off’, and that nothing like that would ever happen again. What if they were wrong?

  It was all right, I reminded myself. Pelagia, the undercover Spellbinder, had created a ring of protection around our school, and was reinforcing it each night.

  I wrote another heading:

  Allergies Often Suffered by Sirens.

  I spoke to Pelagia for the very first time that day.

  Do you find it strange that I hadn’t spoken to her yet?

  Me too.

  Only eighteen people in my grade, and we eat meals together and have classes, sports, games, study hours, dance lessons, arguments, teeth-brushing, chores and recreation together. You’d think I’d have at least asked if she’d pass me the gravy.

  Of course, it was difficult to get Pelagia’s attention because others were always gathered around her, waiting for her next story, and she was busy doing swimming training with my sister and Mr Dar-Healey.