by Cliff McNish
Eric said to Rachel, ‘Isn’t this all getting a bit . . . dangerous?’
‘They can’t hurt each other,’ she told him. ‘Larpskendya wouldn’t allow it. Let them play. It’s so long since they did.’ Some toasted marmalade hovered in front of her mouth. ‘You do like marmalade, I hope,’ the toast said.
Rachel turned to see Morpeth smiling at her.
The craze of pure imagination went on and on, until some part of Ithrea belonged to everyone. Eventually Trimak called a brief halt to the magic and mischief.
‘I know what I want!’ he thundered. ‘To stay! Ithrea is my home now. I have made my choice.’
‘Brilliant choice!’ boomed a voice. It came from Hoy Point in the Ragged Mountains. The ancient mountain lifted a cap and waved it enthusiastically. Behind Trimak a boy chuckled. ‘Sorry,’ he said, slightly embarrassed. ‘Couldn’t resist it.’
After this, with Ithrea beckoning with all its absurd wild loveliness, it was not long before most of Ithrea’s creatures had also made their choice. Some asked for more information about Earth, but when they found out there was no magic on that world they soon lost interest.
To Rachel and Eric’s surprise a handful of creatures did decide to return with them. A few deep-dwelling worms wrapped themselves around Eric’s legs, and wouldn’t let go. Scorpa peeled herself from a group of puppies and licked Rachel’s knees so violently that she kept falling over. A pair of prapsies, for no particular reason, or at least no reason anyone could understand, crept onto her feet and mumbled something about flitting amongst new skies.
‘I thought they’d just be normal crow chicks now,’ said Eric. ‘How come they can talk?’
‘Larpskendya wouldn’t take that gift from them,’ Rachel said. ‘The puppies can talk too. They just prefer barking.’
‘That’s right,’ Scorpa said to Eric. ‘Don’t try petting me. I hate all that stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ replied Eric, who had just been about to do so.
Ronnocoden suddenly flapped onto Rachel’s shoulder. He stared imperiously over the heads of the prapsy chicks, as if they were beneath his attention.
Late in the first morning of the new Ithrea a simple ceremony took place. The bodies of Grimwold and the other warriors killed by Dragwena had been taken by the retreating waves, but they were not forgotten. Trimak marked the spot they had fallen with a cluster of swords: one for each of the warriors. He thrust the blades into the rich soil, and angled the hilts inwards, towards each other.
As the afternoon drew on, Eric said, ‘I don’t think any of the Sarren are coming back home with us, Rachel. I don’t blame them.’
But he was wrong. One child decided to return to Earth.
Rachel watched for hours as he hugged and cried, and laughed and wept again, saying his farewells – farewells to countless other Sarren and Neutrana he had known. So many people, Rachel thought. Five hundred years worth of people. How do you say goodbye, a final goodbye, to those you have loved and shared all life and death with for that long?
At last, when he had embraced Trimak for what seemed like an hour, a leaving almost without words, as if they were not necessary, Morpeth was ready.
His face was so messed with tears that Rachel could barely meet his gaze.
‘Are you sure you want to go?’ she asked. ‘All your friends are here.’
‘Not all my friends,’ said Morpeth, earnestly. He touched the lids of her many-coloured eyes and gave her a sly glance. ‘You didn’t just imagine these. I saw what happened when Larpskendya touched you,’ he said. ‘You have the Wizard’s look now. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Larpskendya’s given you a present, hasn’t he?’
‘Shush,’ she said. ‘I can’t say what it is. A gift – and a task to perform.’
Morpeth clapped his hands in delight, then turned to see what wonders he had missed being created on Ithrea during the last few seconds.
‘This is unbelievable!’ he roared.
‘And ridiculous!’ laughed Eric. ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ He pointed at a fat pig floating in the sky. It lay comfortably on a cloud, wearing sunshades, sipping lemonade. Below, on the ground, a little girl frowned up in concentration, obviously wondering what to make up next. ‘That’s just totally stupid,’ said Eric.
‘Oh, I quite like it,’ smiled Morpeth. ‘But look over there. Now that really does look stupid.’
And they stood pointing and peering at everything: burbling streams filled with frogs and skipping dragons and galloping rainbow-coloured horses, and things none of them could recognize, all growing and fading in the yellow-gleamy sky. Fish armed with rods hauled imitation Witches out of Lake Ker, and the comfortable fat pig now had a friend – the little girl, clutching its curly tail, was flying around Mawkmound. Instantly several other children joined in, or flew off in other directions, racing into the distance. Within seconds they were in every corner of the world, changing it, pouring out their imaginations, conquering the ancient winter world of the Witch.
Eventually, the sun began to set and one boy created a new moon. As he lifted his arms it rose slowly over the land, a crafty smile on its face. He pointed at the sky and a new constellation of stars gleamed warmly down.
Morpeth tried to take the whole fantastic world in with one last wide-ranging look, but it was not possible. Too much was happening.
‘It’s got, well, everything,’ said Eric.
‘No, it hasn’t,’ Rachel corrected him. ‘Something’s missing. Something dark and cold.’
Morpeth blasted, ‘That’s right! No snow!’
They all laughed, realizing that Ithrea’s dark snows were gone forever.
‘We don’t really have to go straightaway, do we?’ Morpeth almost begged. ‘There’s so much to see, so much to do!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rachel. ‘Larpskendya told me it would be dangerous to leave the gateway open for too long. We must leave now.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Is it anything to do with Witches?’
Rachel nodded tightly. ‘Don’t ask anything else. I can’t tell you until we get back.’
‘If I go,’ said Morpeth, ‘can I ever come back?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Rachel solemnly. ‘Larpskendya didn’t tell me. We might never be able to return to Ithrea.’
Morpeth nodded glumly and looked back at Trimak. Most of the other children had started heading off in different directions, but Trimak had not moved. He stood dead still at the centre of Mawkmound, his arm around his wife, Muranta. Rachel knew he would not take his eyes off Morpeth until his old friend left.
Morpeth walked reluctantly towards the cellar doorway, still glancing over his shoulder to see what the next child might conjure up. A worm took the opportunity to slip from Eric’s leg and wrap itself around Morpeth’s shin.
‘Quick, then,’ Morpeth said, clenching Rachel’s hand. ‘Before the worm and I change our minds.’
Rachel took one step inside the doorway. One of her eyes was in darkness; the other saw Morpeth still hesitating in the gleaming world of Ithrea.
‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Morpeth, are you sure?
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘No. Yes – I mean – oh—’ He shoved her inside the doorway.
Rachel blinked. Dust hung thickly in the air, making it difficult to see. Her dad sat on the floor, his head in his hands, an axe at his feet. He glanced slowly upward and when his gaze met hers he broke into tears of relief.
‘I thought you—’ he stumbled, trying to find the words. ‘You were in the wall. I thought—’
Rachel hugged him. When she looked at him again, her many-coloured eyes shone brightly.
‘You’re different,’ he said. ‘You’ve changed.’
Rachel kissed him. ‘Everything has changed.’
‘Where’s Eric?’
‘He’s coming,’ Rachel said. ‘In fact, he’s not the only one coming.’
‘Rachel, what do you
mean?’
‘I mean—’
But there was no holding them back. Scorpa padded, prapsies hopped, Ronnocoden flapped . . . and Morpeth and Eric, dragging the worms as best they could, walked through the doorway.
a chapter from
The Scent
Of Magic
Book two of The Doomspell trilogy
The Camberwell
Beauty
Dawn, and sleepy African birds were waking, as Fola trudged along the path from Fiditi to the river.
With one hand she reached over her head, expertly re-balancing the heavy weight of the washing basket. With the other she adjusted her oja. It made little difference: Yemi, her baby brother, was an awkward lump on her back no matter how she carried him – he would not stop moving and kicking!
‘Be quiet! Stay still!’ she said irritably. The tiniest things excited him: a bird doing nothing in a tree, a dog moping on the path, even the small plumes of dust thrown up by her feet.
Only a baby could enjoy such a tedious walk, Fola thought.
Absently she gazed ahead. In front, clear and boisterous, the Odooba river sliced through the forest. Fola knew from school how it cut a path between villages in southern Nigeria on its way down to the sea, but such details didn’t interest her. She had seen its waters so often that she hardly noticed them. Reaching the bank she gratefully unloaded Yemi and the washing and stretched her aching neck muscles.
It was early, and still cool, but she was already tired. She had woken before dawn to prepare the yams and black-eye beans for the evening meal; there was still work to finish when she got back, and Yemi to mind all day. Fola did not complain. With baba hunting in the rainforest, she was happy to help out. It was easier than Mama’s day in the fields – long hours of hard work.
A few other girls from the village had already arrived at the river. Fola greeted them warmly as she wet the soda soap and doused the clothes.
While she worked Yemi sat in a sort of comfortable heap by her feet. He sifted dust. He blinked at midges circling his close-cropped hair. He saw a brown-black Asa hawk. It waved its big wings and he waved back.
Fola made sure that he was not too close to the river’s edge, and engaged in the usual gossip with the other girls. A short while later she heard a sharp intake of breath. She turned to find Yemi sitting abnormally still.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What incredible wonder have you discovered this time?’
It was a fly, and it had landed on Yemi’s bare forearm.
He stared in awe, mouth wide, as the fly crawled towards his elbow.
Then, without even a friendly wave, the fly flew off.
Yemi started to cry. He covered his face and tears streamed out.
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ said Fola. She put down the skirt she was wringing out and picked him up. ‘It’s only a fly. You can’t make them stay, you know!’
When Yemi continued to snuffle she rummaged for his special book. It was a pop-up book filled with pictures of butterflies. Yemi forgot the fly at once, stopped crying and reached out eagerly. Fola sat with him for a few minutes, helping him turn the pages. He stopped her, as always, at the page containing his favourite butterfly.
It was a Mourning Cloak, otherwise called a Camberwell Beauty. According to the book they came in many colours. The illustration showed a lovely bright yellow variety, with small patches of light brown dusting its wings.
‘Want,’ Yemi told her.
‘Do you?’ Fola said, amused.
He kissed the image of the Camberwell Beauty ardently.
‘We don’t have that kind in Africa,’ she informed him. ‘It comes from far away. We will never see one here.’
Yemi’s face crumpled with sadness. He looked so unhappy that Fola spent longer than she should have done reading with him. When she returned to the washing Yemi flipped the pages back to his Camberwell Beauty. He studied it and frowned.
Fola took over an hour to complete the washing, beating the sheets and laying them out in the rising sun. When the last of the linen was nearly dry, she searched around for Yemi. He sat close by, still reading his book.
And he had a new companion – a yellow butterfly.
It was perched on Yemi’s forearm precisely where the fly had been.
Fola blinked. There was no doubt it was a Camberwell Beauty.
Yemi grinned from ear to ear. He blew on his arm and the butterfly started fanning him. He wriggled his nose and it hopped on the tip. Then, slowly, like a ballerina, it rotated on spindly black legs until it faced Fola – and bowed.
She dropped the washing.
Sitting heavily down she noticed other flapping movements all around. Many more Camberwell Beauties were alighting from the northern sky onto the grass and soil surrounding Yemi. As Fola watched they all fluttered onto his right shoulder. Clambering on top of one another, they formed a neat pyramid. Yemi leafed through his picture book. Streaking light from the early sun reflected from the pages, making them difficult to read. Yemi squinted, then laughed. He glanced at his butterflies.
Instantly all their delicate wings opened, casting the pages in yellow shadow.
