Magic Ink

by Steve Cole

  Viviane was using my own sister to stop me helping Merlin.

  Feeling sick and scared and angry, I charged up to the paint-stinking, sheet-strewn attic and hunted about for the ink and the brush and the all-important parchment. But WC and Lantern Dwarf had left the place in a total tip. Outside I could hear the thwack of sword on monster-hide and another growl of “Stew, lovely Stew. . .”

  It sounded even closer now.

  Finally I found the pot of magic ink, lying on its side, the precious indigo dripping away through the floorboards. I grabbed the jar – it was all but empty.

  And there was the brush – sticking out of a tray of pink emulsion.

  “Noooooo!” I groaned, whipping it out and wiping it on a dustsheet. After drawing her pics, Lib must’ve used the brush to ‘help’ Mum and Dad with their evil decorating – and she’d daubed a fair amount over the remaining parchment too, bright pink doodles and splashes. It was ruined!

  If my heart had sunk any further it would’ve been squelching out through the sole of my foot. But I jammed the brush into the dregs of the inkpot, and clutched the ruined parchment to my chest. And that was when the Ponster appeared at the attic window, its hideous face staring in at me.

  I felt rooted to the spot with fear. . . But to my amazement, the Ponster winked at me.

  “Posho,” I breathed. “The real Posho, I mean – my friend. You’re still in there, aren’t you?”

  The Ponster nodded urgently and bowed its head – and I saw that it had reared up to stand at the window, offering itself as a kind of horrible ladder to speed my journey down.

  “Whatever your plan, boy, hurry!” bellowed War Commander. I could see the SOS-monster gazing about for me crossly. The remains of the drawing board were just a few metres away from its crocodilian claws. . . I was petrified!

  But I had no choice.

  I scrambled out through the window onto the Ponster’s hard, green back and gasped as he suddenly dropped back down to earth. The jolt of landing threw me clear – but I landed right beside a bit of drawing board and hit the ground inking.

  The space left on the parchment was a funny, skinny shape – but as I drew, I decided that the Stew-eating-monster-eating monster had balloon-like skin that would stretch wide as he swallowed his food, the same way that an anaconda would eat a rabbit whole and it would sit like a big lump in its snaky body.

  Frantically I drew my monster with fierce eyes on stalks and rows of flesh-chomping teeth and powerful legs to give it more agility than the SOS-monster. It was uncanny how good it looked, even drawn at something like four-fifths the speed of light. “Here’s where your plans come back to bite you on your Dark Age bum, Viviane!” I cried.

  But the SOS-monster had seen me. Its eyes, already narrowed to burning slits by the scribbles scored over its face, nearly shut all together as it sniffed the air and growled: “STEWWWWWW. . .”

  Flattening War Commander into the ground with its powerful tail, the SOS-monster prepared to charge.

  “Posho?” I called desperately, “hold him off!”

  As I drew big, muscular arms on my creation, the Ponster stumbled towards his evil, scribble-faced twin – and was instantly thrown aside. I held up the parchment to the glowing moon like an offering.

  The SOS-monster slithered towards me.

  The pink-splashed parchment began to steam. . .

  And suddenly the SOS-monster was running straight into the jaws of a real-life monster-eating monster!

  I backed up against the wall, watching in fright and wonder. My big, wiggly creation was red as a boil and vicious as a viper, just as I’d pictured it in my mind. The SOS-monster turned aside at the last moment, trying to escape. But my monster was not to be denied. He bit down hard on his desperate dinner, crunching through the crocodile hide, the enormous fin sticking in his teeth.

  The SOS-monster gave a despairing roar as if it already knew it was beaten. But, in one final act of spite, it lunged for the remains of the drawing board with its mangled chops. . .

  “No!” I yelled.

  Too late.

  R.I.P. THE END

  All the yelling and crying in the world couldn’t change it: the SOS-monster had gulped and guzzled down every last splinter of Granddad’s drawing board, and most of the paint-splattered parchment with it. It snuffled hungrily for the brush and ink as well. . .

  But it was too slow. My Stew-eating-monster-eating monster, in just a handful of breathtaking, blood-chilling bites, devoured the SOS-monster completely.

  Silence fell across my back-garden battlefield. The only noise was the thump of my pulse, the jangle of my half-shredded nerves – and the squeak of War Commander’s armour.

  “By the fiery heavens. . .” The silver knight pushed himself up on his elbows, mud, blood and exhaustion all over his face, and groaned at my monster. “Not another beast to battle?”

  “No, it’s all right.” I helped him to stand. “This one’s on our side.” Although, that said, I didn’t like the way my monster was eyeing the Ponster, who lay puffing for breath on the churned-up lawn. “Go and hide yourself in the bushes,” I told the thing. He shrugged and shuffled off, obligingly shielding himself from sight.

  “What now?” asked War Commander.

  I was about to say what a good question that was, when footfalls alerted us to the ragged return of Harvest Boy and Lantern Girl.

  “Look out!” the potato-loving boy wonder yelled, pointing at the Ponster.

  “It’s all right,” I told him. “I think the real Posho’s still in there. He was brought to life from a drawing in the same way, I think that must be helping him keep control. . .”

  A humungous belch burst from the Ponster’s gruesome jaws.

  “Mostly,” I added.

  “Ugh!” Harvest Boy choked, and War Commander closed his face visor. “That whiff would wither a field of wheat! We were doubly wise to shift the harvest!”

  Lantern Girl nodded, holding her enormous nose with glowing thumb and finger. “I lit up a clearing in the forest. . .”

  “Then I buried everything, out of sight.” Harvest Boy beamed, his face red and bright with sweat. “Even the funny metal things with coins inside!”

  “Terrific,” I sighed, wondering what the police or future archaeologists would make of that.

  “While you dug a hole, we were left in a hole.” War Commander glared at them. “You should’ve heeded the boy – is he not the messenger of our creator? While you tarried, the Living Trebuchet was eaten!”

  “And so was the drawing board,” I said despondently. “Which means, even if I had loads of ink and parchment, which I don’t – I can’t draw you again and make you better. Viviane’s done well.” Looking at each of them in turn I took a deep, deep breath. “So guess what? You three are the Big Man’s only hope. If I can send you back into the past, to your own time. . . do you think you can you set your creator free?”

  The three superheroes looked at each other. To be honest, they made a sorry sight.

  And I was sorriest of all. It seemed my first fumbled attempt at drawing Merlin’s characters was to be my last. But would the three heroes still standing (just) be enough to save the Big Man? The magic would wear off in a half-hour or so – would that be enough?

  “We’re not exactly in peak condition,” said little Lantern Girl at last, “But we’ll give it a try.”

  “Aye,” her men-friends agreed.

  “We owe the master our existence,” War Commander added. “We must aid him now.”

  “Great!” My heart quickened with sudden nerves, and I hurried to the shed on wobbly legs. “I. . . I’ll get the ‘Spell of Time Transportation’. Hang on. . .”

  I grabbed the pieces of parchment from inside the shed – and with a queasy twinge, I saw that my drawing of Sonny Siege had disappeared from the group portrait, leaving only a burned and blackened shadow. As I took the parchment outside to study it more closely, the breeze blew the shadow away. A ragged cut-out was a
ll that was left. I swallowed hard. If the heroes die in the real world, they vanish from the parchment too, I realised.

  Shivering, I decided not to show the others. Time was running out and their job was hard enough already. Thirty minutes left to save the greatest wizard in the world from the toughest prison in the world created by the baddest wizardess in the world. . .

  Maybe they could do it. Maybe they’d be all right.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  My superheroes nodded. The Ponster’s guts rumbled ominously again.

  “Make it quick,” said Lantern Girl.

  So I read the spell aloud:

  Heroes mighty, disappear

  Take thy butts away from here!

  O’er the seas of time now sail

  To set the Big Man free –

  Don’t Fail.

  I didn’t think it was much of a spell, to be honest. But at once, a mystical glow enveloped the trio, bombarding their bodies with bursts of brilliance. They began to fade from sight. War Commander raised his sword to me. Harvest Boy swung his magic sack over his back, and Lantern Girl looked crossly at the flecks of light as they outshone her glowing hand, which was growing fainter like the rest of her. . . like WC. . . like Harvest Boy. . .

  The glow quickly faded, leaving silence. A silence broken only by the Ponster with a high-pitched fart.

  “I hope you’re not stuck like this for ever, Posho.” I sighed. “Go and hide with the Stew-eating-monster-eating monster. He shouldn’t try to eat you, but. . .” I gasped as the stench reached my nostrils. “But if he does, flip knows you’ve got a good defence mechanism.” I went into the house to check on Mum and Dad. It wasn’t good – they were still sitting there like zombies in front of the telly. Lib’s snoring carried downstairs from her bedroom. Before I could get properly depressed, the doorbell rang.

  I almost jumped a mile.

  Quickly, I folded the two sheets of parchment and stuffed them up my shirt. Viviane wasn’t locked up and weak like Merlin. She was strong enough to get inside my family’s heads. Who knew what else she could get up to?

  It took all my courage to call through the front door, “Hello?”

  “Hello. I’m John Barnard, the collector,” came a deep, puzzled-sounding voice. “And. . . I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

  “You don’t?” Warily I opened the door. It wasn’t an obvious witch-sent demon standing on the doorstep – it was a chubby man, scratching his bald head. “Let me guess, was it something to do with a drawing board?”

  “Hmm. That sounds familiar. . . Something to do with. . .” Mr Barnard clicked his fingers. “Garry Penders!”

  “Well, I’m afraid – very afraid, as it happens – that the drawing board has. . . gone. Stolen, kind of thing. Chopped up into firewood, in fact. And then the firewood. . . also stolen. Kind of thing.” I cleared my throat. “Basically, no drawing board.”

  “Seems I’ve had a wasted journey.” Mr Barnard shrugged and smiled at me. “Oh, well. I don’t know why I took off in such a hurry anyway! Wasn’t feeling myself at all. . .”

  I could’ve explained, of course –

  Anyway, like I said, I could have told Mr Barnard why he wasn’t feeling himself – except I could suddenly feel MYself. My stomach in particular, which seemed to be on fire. . . “Bye!” I gasped, slamming the door and whipping out the parchment from under my top. It was burning, blackening. With horror I saw the pictures I’d made of War Commander, Harvest Boy and little Lantern Girl going up in smoke.

  PFFFT! WC fizzled away to nothing.

  POP! Lantern Girl was gone in a spasm of sparks.

  HISSS! Harvest Boy’s sack spilled cinders, the ink-work blazing bright until — WHOOSH!— the parchment blew apart in a black explosion of comic-strip confetti.

  “No,” I said hoarsely, as ash fell from the parchment like tiny black petals. It left a gaping space in the form of four former superheroes.

  I thought of the way War Commander had fought on so valiantly against the monsters. . . poor little big-nosed Lantern Girl with her feeble hand-power. . . bumpkin-brained Harvest Boy missing the point of just about everything, and poor Sonny Siege, eaten alive. Well, as alive as any of them had ever been. They were things of magic, just passing through. But I had helped to make them, and for the brief time they had been here, they were as real as anything else in my crazy life. Except now. . .

  “They couldn’t get the Big Man out,” I breathed. “They’re dead. It didn’t work.”

  “What didn’t work, Stew?” Mum was standing in the living room doorway, rubbing her head. “Are you all right? What’s been going on?”

  Dad was just behind her, looking puzzled. “I think we must’ve dozed off or something.”

  “Hey! Who’s been chucking my toys around?” called Lib from upstairs.

  “You know, it’s really odd,” said Mum. “I can hardly remember a thing about today.”

  I wished I could say the same. But my throat was tightening; I just ran to Mum and Dad and held them tight.

  NO YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS! NOOOO! etc

  I was a bit of a mess as I sat alone in my room, later that night. Well, a lot of a mess, really.

  Now back to normal, Mum and Dad were concerned about the shell-shocked vibe I was giving off and sat me down for a chat. They thought it was stuff to do with the house move, and having to start at a new school with no mates and other stuff like that.

  I didn’t bother to disagree, though in fact, I’d pretty much forgotten all that real world stuff. It felt like nothing in comparison.

  It’s funny, I remember Granddad often told me that superhero comics were really important because their stories dished out so many big emotions. By viewing heavy stuff through the eyes of a superhero, you understand it better when it happens to you – or so he said.

  Well, my comic-book escapades had left me feeling all kinds of things for real that night, none of them very nice.

  I felt at how Viviane had messed with my family’s heads.

  that she would mess with them again – or come after me.

  that Merlin would now surely die in his terrible prison, if he wasn’t dead already.

  that all my star comic-book illustrator dreams had just dribbled away like the magic ink.

  at myself for feeling more bitterness than guilt.

  And a whole mixed-up bag of stuff about Posho.

  I’d broken away from Mum and Dad’s worried embrace earlier, saying I wanted a bit of fresh air in the garden. Luckily they didn’t go out and notice what a state it had been left in, churned up by giant monsters and terrified ponies and various supermarket items. I found the brush and the empty magic inkpot and put them in my pockets. But there was no chance of anyone finding the monster and the Ponster in the bushes because both had disappeared; the hour was up and the magic had dissolved.

  Posho had gone.

  Later, as I lay on my bed with the brush and the inkpot, I felt really flat. I’d only known that pig for a few crazy days but already I missed him. Even his silly pranks. And there was no one else I could talk to about any of this. No one who could possibly understand. . .

  I looked at the pictures from the attic stacked in my room. At the front was a framed photo of Granddad, drawing at a table, with Grandma beside him, both of them smiling, taken before stuff went bad between them.

  “We can choose to be the heroes of our own stories, Stew. There’s always a choice.” Granddad had told me that so many times I was word perfect. “When you see the way a superhero behaves, it helps to show you the right thing to do. You can take a bit of their courage and, in your own small way, be a superhero too.”

  Now, of course, I realised what he’d really been saying: “I couldn’t find the courage when it counted, Stew. Make braver choices than mine.”

  “I tried, Granddad,” I murmured, putting the ink and brush on my bedside table. “In the end, I think Posho had more guts than either of us. . .”

  Something
suddenly occurred to me. My pictures of Merlin’s band of brothers (and their short sister) had gone up in smoke when they ceased to exist. Now Posho had passed on as well, had Granddad’s portrait of Posho burned away beneath the attic floorboards too?

  It would be just my luck if some magic embers burned the whole house down or something. Better check it out, I thought, grabbing my torch.

  Luckily, Mum and Dad had gone pretty much straight to bed, worn out as Viviane’s spell wore off. And Lib was sleeping properly now, muttering in her sleep about picnics and unicorns.

  The attic was still a mess; I supposed I’d better clear it up a bit before Mum and Dad came back up here in the morning. The drawing board was gone of course – how to explain that? Then I remembered pretty much an entire supermarket had been emptied in bizarre circumstances, and no one would ever know how or why. Like Posho’s breaking bottles from nowhere, the fate of the disappearing drawing board would remain a mystery. . . to everyone but me.

  Quietly I eased up the floorboard and pulled out the scrolls and papers. As I did so, I heard the crackling crumple of the plastic bag hidden in the cavity’s darkest depths.

  I hesitated. I knew it was private, but then. . .

  Quickly, I reached into the bag, flinched as my fingers closed on something soft and cold. Slowly I pulled out whatever lay inside. . .

  And found myself holding a purple leotard. Lib’s missing leotard! The neckline at the back had been stitched clumsily to a cape made from a purple towel. Daubed on the front of the leotard in black marker pen was the letter P in a big, wobbly circle. A pair of old tights – the ones Mum hadn’t been able to find – had been cut down and sewn over the leotard’s leg-holes.

  I knew what I was staring at. It was a superhero costume. A rubbish, homemade superhero costume. . .

  Made by – and for – a pig.

  “Posho wanted to be a hero,” I murmured. “And in the end, he really was. He gave his life in the hope that—”