by Janet Reid
Just then the afternoon sun caught the glass of the bottle, sending rays of red light across her bedroom walls.
‘Oh!’ gasped Amber, her eyes wide. She reached out, touching the red flecks with her fingertips. They looked … almost alive, as if they were dancing.
And she knew, at that moment, that this bottle really was meant to be hers.
‘Now, if I can just get this stopper out,’ she muttered to herself, ‘I can give it a rinse. Then it will be perfect.’
But the stopper was tight and Amber couldn’t get a good grip on the small glass tip. She tried twisting it, but it wouldn’t budge, so she wriggled it backwards and forwards like a loose tooth. Reluctantly it began to move. Amber gripped it tightly and gave a pull …
PHOOFF! A cloud of red light rose from the bottle. Amber squealed, and the bottle dropped to the bed. But the cloud of red remained, hovering in front of her. She watched, wide-eyed, as it began to form a shape and two red, beady eyes stared up at her.
Chapter Five
Amber stared back, her heart hammering. This couldn’t be a …
No, she thought. It couldn’t be. They were green, and didn’t exist. This … thing was red and was right before her eyes. Anyway, the shape was all wrong. Didn’t genies have big heads and no body, just a trailing tail? This creature had a huge bottom and a tiny head. Just like a raindrop.
It said nothing, but reached out with a large, flat hand that reminded Amber of those revolting sticky hands you buy in novelty shops. She’d been given one last year by her class Secret Santa, probably from Rachel. Or more likely Marissa. Amber backed away but the creature, undeterred, stretched forward until his hand touched her arm. It felt warm. And strangely friendly.
‘Hello, Amber,’ the creature said. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.’
Amber’s mouth opened, and she heard a tiny squeak coming from the back of her throat.
‘Are you … are you a … a genie?’ she asked eventually.
‘A djinn, actually. That’s why I’m red and not green. There is a difference.’ His beady eyes glinted with determination. ‘And before you ask, I’m not a servant and I don’t grant wishes.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Amber, remembering what she’d said only moments before. It would do anything I asked …
Had he heard that?
‘What do you do then?’ she asked, pushing aside the guilty feeling.
‘Well, for a start I’ve come to help you. There’s something very important you have to do.’
‘There is?’ Amber’s eyes widened. ‘What is it?’
‘Can’t tell you,’ the creature said. ‘It –’
‘Amber …’ called Mum, knocking loudly on the door.
Amber jumped. ‘Quick,’ she hissed. ‘Before Mum sees.’
But when she looked down, the djinn was gone. Just a glimmer of red showed that it had dived back into the bottle. Amber blinked. How had he moved so fast? She scooped up the bottle and peered into the small hole at the top.
‘Put the stopper back in,’ she heard, as if someone, or something, was calling through a pipe. Inside her head. ‘I need the bottle closed up or …’
Amber heard no more. The door knob was turning. She slipped the stopper into place and dropped the bottle onto her doona just as her mother came in.
‘You’ve got your door closed,’ said Mum, peering around the room. Her eyes fell on the bottle, and she picked it up and held it to the light. ‘You’ve done a good job cleaning this up.’
Amber held her breath. What if her mother pulled out the stopper?
But she didn’t. She just let the bottle drop back onto the bed. ‘It’s almost a shame to be selling it,’ said Mum. ‘Now come on. Dad just rang. We’re going out for dinner. Have a quick shower before you get changed.’
As Amber watched her mother leave, she picked up the bottle again. ‘But I’m not selling you,’ she whispered and gave it one last rub before she dragged herself to the wardrobe to find something to wear.
Chapter Six
Amber checked to make sure her father was busy in the garden before she ran to her room. With her mother at the Sunday markets, she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Her hands tingled with excitement as she took the bottle from its hiding place behind the tissue box. As she made herself comfortable on her bed, she gave the bottle a quick polish then wriggled the stopper loose. Out floated the djinn, giving himself a shake and a stretch before settling himself on Amber’s pillow. As he folded his arms, Amber started to giggle.
The djinn frowned.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to straighten her face. ‘It’s just that, well, your arms … they’re … ahmm … odd.’ She looked at them – one long and skinny, the other short and stumpy. ‘Are they supposed to be like that?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course they are,’ he answered indignantly. ‘That was how I was made. And there is a very good reason for it, too.’
‘Sorry,’ said Amber. ‘I didn’t mean to laugh at –’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, dismissing her apology with a flick of his hand. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been in that bottle, Amber? I was beginning to think you were never going to let me out.’
‘How did you know it would be me?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘I mean, it could have been Mrs Heggety … Or Vera … Anyone could have opened the bottle.’
‘Oh, I always knew it would be you,’ said the djinn. ‘That was written into history a long time ago. It went a bit like: you will come to a shining amber star and it is with her you will remain for many, many years … At least I think that’s how it went.’
‘Many, many years …?’ Amber was bewildered.
‘Yes,’ he said, and he reached out his long arm and rested his large flat hand on her knee. ‘I’ll tell you how it all started.’ And he made himself comfortable on the pillow.
‘Hundreds of years ago,’ he began, ‘when the world was different from how it is today, a magus – you know, a sorcerer from Persia –’ He tilted his head and peered wisely up at Amber. She nodded slowly, pretending she already knew what a magus was.
‘Well, as you know,’ the djinn continued, ‘a magus creates supernatural spirits. Like me, though mostly they’re green because they are the easiest to make. Those are called genies. But my magus made me red, and that meant I was different. After I was created, he had one of the finest glassblowers in all of Persia make this bottle for me. You know, it’s a great place to live …’ He reached out and patted the ruby bottle affectionately.
‘And then,’ he continued, ‘my magus wrote in the pages of history all that was to become of me. He told me sometime in my life I would come to live in a country far across the seas, as I was needed to give assistance to the amber star. That’s you, and here I am.’
He was here to help her? That’s what he’d said when he first came out of the bottle. Amber gave a shiver of excitement. Questions tumbled around in her head, but all she could think to say was, ‘These maguses … do they really make genies? And j … jins?’
‘Magi,’ answered the djinn. ‘If there’s more than one, they’re called magi. It’s spelt m-a-g-i. And yes, that’s what they do, among other things. I’m just glad I was created by a magus who enjoyed doing things a little differently. And, just so you know, I’m spelt with a “d”. D-j-i-n-n. “D” for distinctive, my master said. And no “i” at the end, either, like you’d normally have with just one of me. He said I was worth at least ten djinn.’
At that moment the doorbell rang. Amber and the djinn both jumped.
‘I’ll have to answer that,’ said Amber. ‘Dad won’t have heard it from the backyard.’
The djinn slipped back into his bottle. ‘Don’t forget the stopper,’ he called, the words ringing in Amber’s head. How did he do that?
The doorbell rang again.
Amber slipped the stopper into place, put the bottle back behind the tissue box and rushed down the stairs.
When she pulled the d
oor open she saw Mrs Heggety standing on the porch, holding a large cake tin.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Heggety. ‘Just thought I’d pop over with this cake I made. No use me having it – it would take me a month of Sundays to eat it. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’ She pulled up the lid of the tin. ‘I have no idea what made me think of this one.’
Amber stared down, her eyes wide. There was a cake in the shape of a … sorcerer? It was so beautifully iced it looked almost real. The flowing robes were made with red icing and studded with yellow swirls and lightning strikes, and the pointed hat was topped with a bright yellow star.
‘Oh, Mrs Heggety, it’s … amazing. Is it really a cake? Can we really eat it?’
Mrs Heggety laughed. ‘Of course you can eat it, dear. It’s actually a chocolate cake, not that you could tell that under all the icing. Well, apart from the face …’
The dark face was un-iced and had been chiselled into angular features – a long nose, high cheek bones, thin lips – so real Amber was sure it might speak at any moment.
‘I was just practising for your school fete, actually,’ said Mrs Heggety. ‘Do you think I should make something like this for the cake raffle?’
‘Yes,’ murmured Amber. ‘It would be just perfect.’ Then she suddenly remembered her manners. ‘Oh, would you like to come in, Mrs Heggety?’ she asked as she dragged her eyes away from the cake. ‘Mum’s not here, but Dad’s out the back.’
‘No, thank you, dear. I’ll have to get back and clean up the kitchen. I don’t suppose any sorcerer will have come in and waved his wand over the mess while I’ve been away.’
Mrs Heggety turned to leave, then stopped. ‘Oh, silly me,’ she said, reaching into her apron pocket. ‘I found this and thought you might like it.’
She pulled out a small book bound in leather, brown and cracked with age, and passed it to Amber. At the top, in one corner, was a small insignia. Was it a … yes, it was a small red bottle.
‘It belonged to Mr Heggety’s Uncle Roger,’ said Mrs Heggety. ‘For some reason I think it has something to do with that bottle you found in the garden shed. I looked through it once, not long after Roger died. He must have been writing a story, I think. Something about genies and magic. I thought you might enjoy reading it.’
Amber was hardly listening. She didn’t even notice as Mrs Heggety turned and left. She just held the book in awe, and as she ran her finger over the tiny bottle in the top corner she felt a familiar tingle run up her arm.
That night in bed, Amber cradled the book in her hands. There was a smell of dust and mildew about it. Running her fingers over the worn leather, she wondered when Mr Heggety’s Uncle Roger had last opened it. She turned to the first page, yellowed with age. The old-fashioned handwriting was difficult to read. Amber pulled up her knees and concentrated on the words …
My name is Roger Heggety, and this is a story I must tell.
As a trader I have travelled the world, making a very good living dealing in antiques and curios that I have found in the bazaars and market places of towns and cities of the Middle East.
Over the years I have stumbled across many treasures and often had to pay dearly for precious items, no matter how hard I bargained.
Mostly I sent these treasures back to the old country – England – where the rich were prepared to put their hands deep into their pockets for the honour of displaying some rare and unusual antiquity. It was on one of my journeys to the markets of Az-a-kabb that I first spied the …
Amber could get no further. Her eyes drooped and she was sound asleep, the book resting on her chest, before she had finished the first page.
Chapter Seven
‘Amber, what’s this?’ said Mum as she walked into the kitchen holding the small leather-bound book.
Amber’s stomach tumbled, sending her breakfast into a spin as she looked up at Roger Heggety’s diary.
‘Oh, ah … that,’ Amber said. ‘Mrs Heggety gave it to me. Yesterday. When she brought the cake over.’ She gave her hair a nervous tug.
‘Oh,’ said Mum as she flipped through it. ‘It looks valuable. Are you sure she meant you to have it?’
‘Yes,’ said Amber quickly. Why hadn’t she put it away? Her mother would make a fuss now. ‘Yes. She said it goes with the ruby bottle she gave me last week. It belonged to Mr Heggety’s uncle.’
‘I thought the bottle was going on the jumble table.’
Amber felt sick. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Mrs Heggety said I should keep it. And the diary.’
She held her breath, sure her mother was going to tell her to take them both back. Or insist they go into the jumble stall. But in the end, she just shut the book and dropped it onto the kitchen table.
‘Well, I suppose it’s alright. But just make sure you look after it. Mrs Heggety might want it back sometime. And the bottle. If she does, don’t be disappointed.’ She turned and left the room.
Amber sagged with relief. She grabbed the book and slipped it into her lunch box just as her father staggered into the kitchen, rubbing his hair and yawning.
‘Ugh! I hate Mondays,’ he moaned. He made himself a cup of tea, slipped some bread into the toaster and dropped onto a chair. ‘What about you, Amber? You like Mondays?’
No.
‘They’re alright,’ she muttered as she took her plate to the sink.
But later, when Ms Kruger divided the class into groups for maths and she ended up with Marissa, she knew that this Monday was far from alright.
Could I say I’ve got a headache?
‘You’re dreaming already, Amber,’ Marissa snapped. ‘No wonder you’re so hopeless at maths. You can’t pay attention for one minute.’ She sounded a lot like Ms Kruger.
And that was just the beginning. Every chance she got, Marissa made Amber feel dumb, pointing out all the mistakes she made – and she made plenty. She even had Lukus and Daniel laughing at her. But Ricco didn’t laugh. Amber noticed a tiny frown line, right between his eyebrows, and wondered what he was thinking.
When group work finished, Amber did have a headache and she was glad when the bell rang for lunch.
As she walked through the noisy eating area, she looked for a spot where she could hide away, as far from Marissa as possible. She tucked herself down behind a post in the corner and opened her lunch box and …
… there was the diary. Sitting on top of her sandwiches.
She had meant to take it out before she left for school, but Mum had come back downstairs and said, ‘I can give you a lift to school this morning, but we’ll have to leave right now.’
Amber barely had time to clean her teeth before rushing to get in the car, the diary completely forgotten.
‘What’s that?’ said a voice above her.
Amber jumped in alarm and shoved the diary back into her lunch box. She looked up. There was Ricco.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
‘Can I sit with you?’ he asked.
‘Ah … I guess so,’ she said, moving over to give him room. She watched as he unzipped his lunch box and grabbed a packet of sandwiches. He ate the first one in three bites.
‘Want one?’ he asked when he noticed that she was watching him. He held the rumpled packet towards her.
‘Ah … no, thanks.’
‘Haven’t you got anything to eat?’
‘Yes.’ But if I open my lunch box you’ll see the diary. Again.
‘Well, you know Mr Tate’s on duty today, and he always checks lunch boxes to make sure you’ve eaten everything.’
Amber gripped her lunch box tightly. She glanced around the noisy eating area. Mr Tate was on the other side, yelling at some grade six boys.
‘You’d better do something with it before he comes over here,’ said Ricco through a mouthful of bread.
‘With what?’ asked Amber, startled.
‘The book. You know he hates seeing books and food together. Remember last week? When Lukus had his Star Wars book with him?’
Amber did. She’d felt sorry for Lukus. Mr Tate had shouted at him so loudly everyone in the eating area had stopped talking to listen.
‘If you can’t look after books, you don’t deserve them,’ Mr Tate had yelled. ‘I’m keeping this,’ and he held the book high for everyone to see, ‘and you can get it back at the end of term.’
Now Amber felt her stomach twist in panic.
‘What can I do with it?’ she whispered.
‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll hide it under my jumper.’ Ricco always wore a jumper, even on the hottest days.
Mr Tate was moving closer. Amber watched as he ploughed his way through the mass of kids, demanding to look in lunch boxes.
‘Okay,’ she said at last, hoping she could trust him. After all, he’d poked his tongue out at Marissa in maths – behind her back. Amber had had to press her lips tightly together to stop herself from laughing.
She passed him the diary and he slipped it down the front of his jumper then kept on eating. He was up to his fourth sandwich, and he still had a couple to go. How could such a little guy eat so much?
‘Not eating, Amber?’
Amber jumped. She looked up as Mr Tate loomed towards her. He bent so close she could see the hairs in his nostrils.
‘Come on. Get on with it. You haven’t got all day.’
He stood back, waiting for her to take out her sandwiches before he walked away looking for another victim.
‘That was close,’ said Ricco as he shoved the last of his sandwiches into his mouth and reached for an apple. ‘Now will you let me look at it?’
‘Well …’ said Amber. She wanted to say “no”, but Ricco was looking at her with big, brown puppy-dog eyes that reminded her of Vera’s dog, Barney.
‘It is kind of private,’ she said. ‘It’s a diary.’
‘Yours?’ Ricco crunched into the green skin of his apple.
‘Well … no. It’s one my neighbour gave me.’
‘Was it hers?’
‘No, it belonged to an uncle. He wrote it a long time ago. She thought I might like to read it.’
‘I love old books,’ Ricco said, taking another bite of his apple, juice running down his arm.
