The Phredde Collection

by Jackie French

  I took another step and then another and another. The ground was a metre below me now.

  ‘See, I said it’d be okay,’ said Phredde. She fluttered up the road beside me. Her wings hummed faintly, like an electric jug about to boil. ‘That’s why we have a road, so people can walk up it. Phaeries just fly.’

  ‘I never thought of it that way,’ I said.

  ‘Most people don’t,’ said Phredde.

  It didn’t feel like walking uphill—my legs didn’t ache or anything. It was just like strolling down to the shops, except I was going up and up, and there seemed to be music all around. I couldn’t actually hear any music. It was just in the background, so you felt like singing or tapping your feet, but when you listened too hard it was gone.

  I peered down. I could see my place from here, small and boring-looking. And the school and the freeway and right down to past the dump…I looked back up at the castle.

  It was just like a castle ought to be. Great, tall white spires, so many you didn’t even try to count them, and long, narrow windows and drawbridges and green and red banners waving in the wind.

  ‘Hey, there is a dragon!’

  Phredde shook her head. ‘That’s Uncle Mordred. He’s not a real dragon. He just likes to pretend.’

  The dragon swooped suddenly, so near I could hear the swish of its wings. Then it was soaring back among the spires.

  ‘He looks real enough!’

  ‘Yeah, of course he LOOKS real. He just isn’t really real…except when he isn’t being a dragon, of course. We can go for a ride on him later if you like.’

  ‘Well, sure…er, maybe…’ I said.

  ‘Come on,’ said Phredde, as the drawbridge lowered in front of us. I gulped.

  This was a REAL castle, not a fake tourist thing that has a souvenir counter and chunky woollen jumpers and one-size-fits-all family crests for sale.

  Castles are big. And I mean really BIG.

  We crossed the drawbridge. There was a courtyard, and great wide steps except, like on the road, your legs didn’t feel you were climbing them at all.

  Then an enormous door opened, like the castle was yawning, and there was an even taller room inside (a helicopter could take off in it, it was so high) with stone walls that looked like they should be cold but the air was soft and warm and smelt like Christmas pudding, and these long, glowing, hanging things—tapestries, I suppose, though they didn’t look like the things Mum made when she was going to tapestry class down at the Tech.

  We walked up more steps that weren’t steps—well, I walked and Phredde fluttered beside me—and through another giant room with a huge, flaming fireplace taking up most of one wall, so it should have been stinking hot except it wasn’t…

  …then out onto what I KNEW was a terrace, even though I’d never seen a terrace before. It was a large, stone porch sort of place. It should have been overlooking our suburb—which would have been pretty boring—but it wasn’t.

  There were floating clouds above deep valleys, and great, rocky mountains like black teeth reaching through the mist and trees, and far below, the dragon diving with the wind.

  And there was Phredde’s mum, too, swinging on this tiny, antique-looking suspended chair—only it wasn’t suspended from anything, just thin air—trying to work out a crossword in a magazine.

  ‘Hello, Ethereal darling,’ she said to Phredde. Her accent was stronger than Phredde’s, but, like I said, it was really nice. ‘What’s a four-letter word beginning with “s” that means to study hard? Oh, hello.’ She blinked at me, and her wings shimmered with the movement.

  ‘Mum, this is Prudence,’ said Phredde. ‘She’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Swot,’ I said politely.

  Phredde’s mum beamed and her wings beat harder than ever. ‘Wonderful!’ she exclaimed, and wrote it down. ‘You brilliant girl, Prudence!’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I admitted. ‘Mum tried to do that crossword last night and she asked Dad and that’s what Dad said…’

  ‘Really?’ said Phredde’s mum eagerly. She looked down at her crossword again. ‘Did he say what 14 down was? An eight-letter word beginning with “q” that means “bog”…’

  Phredde’s mum was much like mine (Mum’s not very good at crosswords either) except she had wings and a filmy skirt and a Ruritanian accent and kept fluttering all over the place.

  And she was smaller, of course.

  Phredde and I sat down in more suspended chairs (I hadn’t noticed there were any others when we came out onto the terrace, but suddenly there were, and one was just my size) and Phredde’s mum fluttered her hand or her wand or her something (it was too quick to see) and there were crystal goblets. Tiny for them and big for me…

  (Okay, so I had never seen crystal before—I still knew it was crystal.)

  …filled with lemonade. I mean real earthly-type lemonade with lots of crushed ice and mint leaves, though it tasted better up there and we each took one and sipped, looking down at the deep green and blue valleys and the dragon lazily beating its wings against the wind.

  ‘How’s school?’ asked Phredde’s mum. (Just like I said before…they ALWAYS ask you that).

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said.

  ‘We haven’t enrolled Ethereal in school yet,’ said Phredde’s mum. ‘We were waiting for her to settle in a bit. Do you think…’ she hesitated.

  ‘What Mum means is, do you think your teacher’d give me a hard time because I’m a phaery?’ asked Phredde, licking lemonade off her upper lip.

  I shook my head. ‘Mrs Olsen’s a vampire. She’ll understand.’

  Phredde’s mum stared. ‘A vampire! I don’t want any child of mine taught by a blood—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I assured her. ‘She’s got this really cool arrangement with the abattoir. And the other kids’ll be alright. As long as Phredde’s with me.’

  So after that we really did go for a ride on a dragon, or rather, on Uncle Mordred, which was just like you’d imagine riding a dragon to be…

  No ride on ANYTHING is half as great as riding a dragon—except that Uncle Mordred kept asking all sorts of uncle-type questions like, how was school (of course), and did I mind if he smoked, by which he meant burning down a few tree trunks, which was okay by me.

  As Phredde pointed out, they weren’t REAL tree trunks, so they weren’t really burning down.

  Then we went back for more afternoon tea and the dragon-Uncle Mordred joined in. (Don’t ask me how he fitted on a chair. He just did.)

  And we had sweetmeats. I had always wondered what they were—they’re not meat at all, just a sort of cross between a cake and a slice—and some sort of lolly thing with marzipan and crystallised fruit and nuts, and a frothy, iced fruit something-or-other in more of the crystal goblets…

  …and you know what? Phaery bread isn’t a triangle of white bread with hundreds and thousands on it!

  So anyway, that’s how it all started, which is why we live in a castle now, because Phredde’s mum whipped one up for us. (One day I’ll manage to catch how she does that. If I ask her to slow down…)

  Of course, Phredde says it isn’t a REAL castle and it isn’t a real unicorn out in the paddock either, and I don’t REALLY sleep on a bed of rose petals with a waterfall in my bathroom.

  But the bed feels like a real bed and the waterfall gets me clean enough, so what I say is, who cares?

  And nothing else really interesting happened for ages, not till my brother Mark decided he was turning into a werewolf.

  But that’s another story.

  The Werewolf in the Garden

  Hi, remember me? It’s Prudence, from the castle. Living in the castle Phredde’s mum whipped up for us is FANTASTIC…

  And it’s been especially fantastic since Phredde’s mum gave my mum a butler for her birthday (she and Mum go to the same appliqué class at Tech).

  Mum really doesn’t mind now that she lost her job, because we’ve got the rent from our other, boring house coming in and it hard
ly costs anything to live in a castle—not when it’s a magic one anyway.

  But I’m slipping off the subject. Mrs Olsen (my teacher who’s a vampire) says I always do that in my essays. Not that this is an essay, but you know what I mean.

  What I REALLY wanted to tell you about was the time my brother Mark thought he was turning into a werewolf.

  Mark’s older than I am and he’s okay. He taught me how to roller-blade and everything, which is pretty good for a brother. It wasn’t his fault I broke my wrist, no matter what Mum says.

  And the time he took me down to see Santa Claus at the shopping centre (I was only three or four) and I sat on one of the reindeer and it collapsed because it was only made of cardboard—well, that wasn’t Mark’s fault either.

  Anyway, there we all were one morning having breakfast on the terrace of the castle. (The terrace looks on to our own private beach which is really great, especially with the totally fantastic pirate galleon Phredde gave me last Christmas.) And Gurgle, our butler, had just brought out more orange juice…

  Gurgle’s an enchanted magpie and he looks just like a butler ought to look, or like they look in the movies anyway, all dressed in black and white with a long nose for looking down at you. Just sometimes, when you sort of see him out of the corner of your eye, there’s something that might be wings, but when you look again they’re never there.

  I thought Gurgle might resent being enchanted and changed into our butler, but Phredde’s mum says no, he was about to be run over by a car so she enchanted him into a human butler form and when she explained it all to him Gurgle was really glad to be our butler instead of squished all over the road…

  Dad poured us all more juice (he’s keen on everyone getting lots of vitamins), and Mum looked up from her crossword and said:

  ‘What’s a four-letter word for a holder for a hot coffee cup?’

  And Dad said, ‘zarf’ (how does he know these things?), and Mark gulped down his orange juice and said (all in a hurry, like he was afraid he wouldn’t have the courage to go on if he didn’t just spit it out), ‘I’m turning into a werewolf.’

  ‘A six-letter word that means confusion. WHAT?!’ demanded Mum, and spilt her orange juice.

  ‘Fuddle,’ Dad said. He blinked for a moment. ‘Just what do you mean by that, Mark?’

  ‘I mean I’m turning into a werewolf,’ said Mark defiantly. ‘I’m sorry if that upsets you, but that’s the way it is.’

  Mum wiped the orange juice off her T-shirt. ‘Mark, darling. You’re not really turning into a werewolf,’ she said soothingly. ‘You just think you are. As you grow older your body goes through these changes. Everybody changes when they become a teenager. It’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘It’s not normal,’ said Mark. ‘I’m a werewolf.’

  Dad cleared his throat. ‘Look, son,’ he said. ‘Just what makes you think you might be a werewolf?’

  ‘Not might,’ said Mark rebelliously. ‘I am. First of all I’m getting hairier.’

  ‘All boys get hairier as they get older,’ said Mum, even more soothingly.

  ‘And my voice is changing,’ added Mark.

  ‘All boys’ voices change, son,’ said Dad. ‘It doesn’t mean they’re werewolves.’

  ‘And when there’s a full moon I…I’m getting these urges.’

  Dad cleared his throat again. ‘Son, why don’t you and I have a little talk. Men’s talk. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. It’s all normal, perfectly normal.’

  Mum stood up. ‘Come on, Prudence,’ she said. ‘Let’s go for a stroll up to the battlements and see if we can see any whales. We’ll leave the blokes to their talk.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  Mum gestured to Gurgle. ‘You can clear the table now,’ she said.

  ‘Gargle argle gah,’ said Gurgle. (Sometimes I think that Phredde’s mum didn’t do quite such a good job of enchanting him.) He started piling the plates onto his tray.

  It’s nice up on the battlements of our castle. The stone walls are thick, wide enough to walk on, so even Mum, who’s scared of heights, isn’t worried. There isn’t going to be an earthquake, or some other thing that parents stress over. It’s just wonderful, incredible, fantastic up there…

  You can see right down to the beach where my pirate ship is moored—although I’m not allowed to take it out unless someone responsible is with me (not till I’m eighteen, anyway, which is AGES away)—and past the waves to the islands out at sea: white foam crashing on black rocks and smooth green tops like someone mowed them.

  The sky is always blue above our castle—a high, clear blue like the sky is a balloon and we’re inside it—no matter how horrible the weather is once you go over the drawbridge into the real world.

  The terrace was down below us. I could see Dad talking earnestly to Mark.

  Mark looked unconvinced.

  ‘You don’t think he really is a werewolf?’ I asked.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mum. ‘He’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘But I mean, well, Mrs Olsen’s a vampire and she looks normal.’

  ‘Mrs Olsen’s parents would have been vampires too,’ said Mum. ‘They were vampires, so she’s a vampire. Or maybe just one of her parents was a vampire. But the point is, being a vampire is inherited. Just like you’ve got red hair because I’ve got red hair.’

  ‘You mean Mark can’t be a werewolf because neither you nor Dad is a werewolf?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mum. ‘He’s just going through perfectly normal teenage changes…’

  ‘Mum, are you sure neither you or Dad is a werewolf?’

  Mum looked a bit affronted at that. But, I mean, nowadays what with phaeries and vampires…I even saw a gnome down at the ‘Chicken and Chips’ shop yesterday (he was awfully cute, though I tried not to stare)…What I’m trying to say is, nowadays you’re never quite sure who’s what.

  ‘I’m POSITIVE neither your father nor I are werewolves,’ said Mum firmly. ‘You know I’m always honest with you about things like that, Prudence. If I were a werewolf I’d have told you long ago. And your father and I have been married for twenty years next February. If he was a werewolf I’d have noticed by now.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  Mum laughed. ‘Werewolves change into wolves every full moon,’ she said. ‘I’d have noticed if your father did that. Come on, it’s time for you to get ready for school.’

  School’s not far from our castle.

  In fact, nowhere is very far from the castle: you just cross the drawbridge and slide down this long silver road (Mum and Dad walk down it, but I like to slide) and there you are, wherever you want to go. So who understands magic?

  Phredde was already sitting on a branch of the tree in the schoolyard when I arrived.

  Phredde’s my best friend now. She’s not much bigger than my hand and she’s got these shimmery wings. But you get used to anything really. I mean, the first time I saw her, I thought, ‘There’s a phaery,’ and then the second time, ‘Oh, it’s that kid who’s a phaery.’

  And now she’s just Phredde and it doesn’t matter what she is, or what she looks like, except when she dyes her hair pink or does something interesting like that.

  She looked really great today. Phredde has to wear school uniform like the rest of us, but she’s magicked it so that it only looks like a uniform if a teacher’s watching. Today her joggers were bright green with red and black laces, and her dress was made of tongues of flame.

  Phredde waved to me, so I dumped my bag and went on over.

  ‘You look great!’ I said. ‘Isn’t that hot though?’ I pointed to her skirt.

  ‘Nah,’ said Phredde. ‘Not as long as I remember to think it cool. Mum says it’s good practise. Hey, did you manage to do the second problem…’ She looked at me more closely. ‘Is everything okay?’

  I hauled myself up next to her.

  (We’d get into trouble if a teacher saw us up a tree, but none ever has. I sometimes wonder if Phredde makes us invisi
ble when we’re up there, but I’ve never got round to asking.)

  ‘Everything stinks,’ I said. ‘Mark thinks he’s a werewolf!’

  ‘A what!’ Phredde’s wings fluttered like someone had turned on a fan. Well, I suppose a phaery would be a snack for a werewolf.

  ‘He’s not, of course,’ I assured her. ‘Mum says he’s just going through normal changes as he grows up. You know, teenage stuff.’

  Phredde looked uncertain, but her wings calmed down a bit. ‘Are you sure he’s not a werewolf?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure,’ I said.

  And I was sure. Really sure.

  Mum had said it was impossible, hadn’t she? And Dad had said so too…

  So why was I staying after school to have a chat with Mrs Olsen?

  ‘Mrs Olsen?’

  ‘Yes, Prudence?’ Mrs Olsen stopped wiping down the blackboard and looked at me. ‘Is something wrong? If you’re worried about you and Ethereal imprisoning Edwin in that computer game this afternoon, I’ve already told you I don’t plan to tell your parents. After all, he really did deserve it. And Ethereal pulled him out of the computer as soon as I told her to and it was a lovely apology you—’

  ‘No…no, it isn’t that. It’s just…’ Somehow I was finding it hard to explain.

  ‘Look, dear,’ said Mrs Olsen, ‘I really need to go back to my coffin for a while. You know how it is with vampires. Do you mind? You can come and chat to me while I have a little lie down.’

  I followed her to the store cupboard and watched while she opened her coffin (it’s a really flash one—gold handles and a rich, dark wood she said is called Tasmanian blackwood) and lay down on the smooth, red satin lining. It looked really comfortable for a coffin.

  ‘Would you like to come in, too?’ she asked. ‘There’s plenty of room for two.’

  ‘No. No thanks,’ I said.

  Mrs Olsen smiled at me. Normally you don’t notice her long teeth, but in the gloom of the coffin they shone like freshly washed milk bottles. I wondered how she managed to eat corn on the cob. Didn’t those long teeth get in the way? But I was being dumb…vampires never eat corn on the cob.