by Jen Storer
Dedication
For David with love
Epigraph
‘Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.’
L.M. MONTGOMERY, THE STORY GIRL
Narrare: from the Latin word meaning
to narrate, recount, tell
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
The casting
Chapter One: A shadow. A warning.
Chapter Two: I spy
Chapter Three: Bevare!
Chapter Four: Deadlocked
Chapter Five: A sign of madness
Chapter Six: The boat
Chapter Seven: Family friction
Chapter Eight: Favourite desirables
Chapter Nine: Snow dome whimsy
Chapter Ten: Seeking shelter
Chapter Eleven: An uneasy deal
Chapter Twelve: Mirror, mirror
Chapter Thirteen: Step through the veil
Chapter Fourteen: The intruder
Chapter Fifteen: Threats and accusations
Chapter Sixteen: Tears and lies
Chapter Seventeen: Frosty Loops and Jelly-Tarts
Chapter Eighteen: Protecting the pretty
Chapter Nineteen: The hawk
Chapter Twenty: Theories and proof
Chapter Twenty-One: The lost voice
Chapter Twenty-Two: A frantic search
Chapter Twenty-Three: Goblins and gnomes
Chapter Twenty-Four: Evil eyes everywhere
Chapter Twenty-Five: Stealing from friends
Chapter Twenty-Six: The chase
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nowhere to hide
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Logically speaking
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rat boy
Chapter Thirty: Disaster
Chapter Thirty-One: The Singing Stones
Chapter Thirty-Two: One green curl
Chapter Thirty-Three: Heading out
Chapter Thirty-Four: Smugglers’ Hearth
Chapter Thirty-Five: The rogue tent
Chapter Thirty-Six: Mirror magick
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Regrets and resolutions
Chapter Thirty-Eight: En garde
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Dawn’s visitor
Chapter Forty: Death by sea
Chapter Forty-One: The Donut Lady talks
Chapter Forty-Two: Coloured puffballs
Chapter Forty-Three: Setting out
Chapter Forty-Four: Nurse Barney
Chapter Forty-Five: Approaching Berkeley’s Shanty
Chapter Forty-Six: Monkey business
Chapter Forty-Seven: The beast
Chapter Forty-Eight: Mevras speaks
Chapter Forty-Nine: Cornered
Chapter Fifty: Stranded
Chapter Fifty-One: Moment by moment
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Also by Jen Storer
Copyright
The casting
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The old woman squatted, hunched and forlorn, on the dusty floorboards. She bit into a Honey Crumble. Around her was a shamble of antique furniture and collectibles, trinkets and curios, ‘pretties’ she had gathered over the years — goods and chattels she had traded and hoarded, repaired, stroked, loved and despised depending on her mood. Today her mood was dark, darker than it had ever been since leaving her homeland many years before. She bit into the Honey Crumble and munched thoughtfully, took a handful of Raspberry Tingles and shoved them in her mouth too. She slid her sticky hand into the pocket of her dressing gown and felt for the runes, the Wishing Stones. They tumbled playfully through her crooked fingers, daring her, tempting her, egging her on. The early morning sun shone through a hole in the curtains and circled the woman like a spotlight — like magick. Fingers trembling, the woman took out the Wishing Stones one by one. They twinkled gleefully, flared in the dusty sunlight. The woman swallowed hard as if steeling herself, then with an audacious rush cast the stones across the floor. She closed her eyes, made her wish — then promptly passed out.
At that moment, coincidence or serendipity, fate or chance, whatever you care to call it, sprang into action. Across the city, in a quaint beachside suburb, a chain of unlikely but intrinsically linked events took place. The events unfolded with breathtaking speed, although from an everyday point of view they may have appeared quite ordinary. On a whim, Professor Maxwell Jack and his children, Angus and Martha, moved from one side of the city to the other. Their destination? A dilapidated timber cottage on a steep, one-way street lined with other crooked cottages — all of them on timber stilts. Directly next door to the Jacks’ new home, a shopkeeper, a stout, aggressive boor of a man who owned a rundown ‘mixed business’, was crushed when a stand of creamed corn and out-of-date tuna fell on him. The man survived but he would never work again — at least, not in retail. The man was wheeled away to a disreputable rehabilitation centre and his shop (which was also his home) was stripped bare, the windows boarded up and a half-hearted For Sale sign hammered across the street frontage. Who would want such a dreary shop? Who indeed.
Meanwhile, through the veil that separates our world from the Old Realm, Varla stood abruptly and clutched her throat. Varla felt the magick, the magick of the Wishing Stones. It swamped her belly, her heart, her very being. It rose inside her, burning her gullet with hot bile. Varla gagged and shrugged off her sealskin cape, flinging it to the floor. She shut her eyes, leaned her back against the icy walls of her skrying tower, and plunged into the furthermost corners of her mind. She followed the trace of magick, the delicate, silky trail, and saw the old woman on the floor, the runes strewn about her. Varla saw the shopkeeper trapped and bellowing under the display rack. For a split second she even saw Angus and his little sister Martha arguing over where to place a garden gnome in the front yard of their new house. Pah! Children of the New World. They were beneath her contempt. Time and space collapsed, and from her bird’s-eye perspective Varla saw precisely where the old woman was and where she was headed. Finally that wretched woman, that cunning old thief, Varla’s improbable and infuriating nemesis, had succumbed. She had given in to her greed, her guilt, her loneliness — whatever it was, Varla did not care. She only knew that the ugly old hag had finally cast the Wishing Stones, just as Varla had guessed she would. Varla felt the thrill of the chase come upon her, the sweet taste of revenge — and with that the magick faded and the vision disappeared. Varla opened her eyes and smiled. It was enough. She knew exactly what she had to do.
CHAPTER ONE
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A shadow. A warning.
Angus flopped down at the kitchen table. It had been a long night. For one thing there was noise from next door. Banging, bumping, hammering, dragging, and that disgusting piano music to add to the racket. Plus, this rotten house was a tinderbox. They’d been roasting under its rusty roof for weeks and they still didn’t have ceiling fans. As for an air conditioner, yeah right ... Angus had slaved away diligently under these appalling conditions. But the school year was over now. There was no going back. If he failed Year Eight, it would be his stupid father’s fault. Even Einstein couldn’t have studied in this sauna.
Martha burst into the kitchen. ‘You’ve got to come outside,’ she cried.
Angus ignored her and opened his New Scientist.
‘I went out the front to check on Gurdy the garden gnome, and you wouldn’t believe what I saw next door,’ she said excitedly.
Angus propped his magazine against the teapot and turned the pages slowly.
‘Come on,’ urged Martha. ‘
It’ll be worth it, I promise.’
‘Forget it,’ said Angus.
‘Angus Jack, you are such a jerk,’ said Martha. ‘It’s not my fault we moved to this cruddy place. You can’t take it out on me.’
‘Can’t I?’ Angus took a bite of toast and sank down behind his magazine.
‘Pleeease,’ said Martha. ‘Please, please, please.’
Martha might have been ten but she had the finely honed nagging skills of a three-year-old. Unrelenting, merciless. Angus knew when resistance was futile.
He took a gulp of juice as he got up. ‘This better be good,’ he muttered. ‘Whoever’s moved in over there kept me awake half the night.’
In the hallway they crossed paths with Jarly. The cat’s fur bristled when he saw them and he shot up onto the hall table. Photo frames went tumbling. The cat growled softly.
‘He’s been acting weird all morning.’ Martha approached him with caution.
‘You know what he’s like,’ said Angus. ‘He hates moving house as much as we do.’
‘No, it’s more than that. This is serious.’
‘Well, you’re the Cat Whisperer,’ said Angus, turning to go. ‘Deal with it.’
‘No, wait,’ said Martha. ‘Pleeease, Angus.’
She tried to pick up the cat but he pushed himself against the wall, making himself heavy and awkward. ‘It’s a sign, Angus,’ she said. ‘When cats act mental.’
‘I seeeee,’ said Angus doubtfully.
‘A sign that there’s trouble afoot,’ said Martha.
Angus scoffed. ‘You don’t think it’s a sign that your cat’s feeble brain is deranged and heat-affected? Or that having moved into this new ... dump, it is dazed and confused?’
‘You’ve got no imagination,’ said Martha.
‘Hello? What is science without imagination?’ said Angus. ‘Answer me that.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Martha was still trying to heave the cat off the table. His claws were tangled in a doily. ‘But you’re always going on about the facts. Examine the facts, Martha. The facts never lie, Martha. Blah, blah. Can’t you ever just, you know, go with the flow?’
The cat squirmed in Martha’s arms — then he looked in the hall mirror and yowled as if he had been bitten.
‘What is your problem?’ said Martha as Jarly leaped out of her arms and shot off down the passage.
‘Look, if you’ve got something to show me, show me now,’ said Angus. ‘Otherwise, I’ve got better things to do ... like eat breakfast.’
Martha tossed the doily and headed out the front door. ‘You’re gonna spin out when you see this,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Trust me.’
As he traipsed down the hall, Angus checked his reflection in the mirror: fair skin, fair, reddish hair, a few too many freckles. He wondered if he would ever be handsome ... He thought of his mother and his heart lurched. If she were here now, if she were still alive, he knew exactly what she’d say: ‘You look just like your father, sweetie. My pin-up boys ...’ Yeah right, thought Angus, peering closely at his face. Was that another zit sprouting on his chin? I s’pose I could be a pin-up boy for Geek Weekly, he thought.
A shadow rose up behind his reflection and Angus jumped. The shadow flickered and Angus spun around.
The hall was empty. There was no-one else there. Of course.
‘Idiot cat,’ he said as he sauntered out.
In the days to come, Angus would wonder why he had failed to question that shadow in the mirror. After all, wasn’t he the smart one, the one with the enquiring mind?
CHAPTER TWO
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I spy
So what do you think?’ Martha cracked open a can of cola. They were standing under a jacaranda tree across the road from their new home. From here they had a clear view of 13 Anchor Street, the shop next door to their place.
Angus leaned against the tree.
During the night the shop had undergone a dramatic transformation — which explained the racket that had kept him awake half the night. The planks that had covered the bay window had been removed and carted away. The oak door had been painted fire-truck red and its brass knocker had been polished. Like so many buildings around here, it seemed the shop was being restored.
‘Fascinating,’ said Angus. ‘Thanks for dragging me out, Martha.’ He turned to walk away.
Martha grabbed his sleeve. ‘Look!’ she said as an old woman emerged from number thirteen.
She stood on the footpath, looking back at the shop, shading her eyes from the belting sun with a long, bony hand.
Martha looked at Angus and nodded smugly. ‘What did I tell you?’ she said. ‘Is she a spin-out or what?’
Angus stared at the woman despite himself.
‘At least we don’t have to worry about the Prof running away with her,’ said Martha.
The new neighbour was not much taller than Martha, and slightly hunched. But the way she was dressed! Now, Angus wasn’t exactly up with women’s fashion but this old bird was definitely wearing an evening gown. It was lurid red like squashed pomegranates and, judging by the way it was bunched up at her ankles, it was miles too long. The top bit was layered with heavy black lace and studded with large red beads that twinkled in the sun. A lolly-pink feather boa trailed from her throat. Her hair was blue-black, piled in glossy loops like curled licorice straps.
‘She’s so exotic,’ breathed Martha. ‘Maybe she’s an actress?’
‘She could host The Saturday Night Freak Show,’ said Angus. ‘No, wait. She probably used to star in those B-grade horror movies. You know, the ones from the 1950s. I can see her now, creeping around the dressing rooms in some haunted opera house, knife poised above her head ...’
Martha pursed her lips — Angus was being sarcastic again.
The old woman disappeared inside the shop, only to return with a wooden ladder and a tin of paint.
‘Now what?’ said Angus.
The woman leaned the ladder against the frame of the shop window, hitched up her gown and scooted up the ladder with all the ease of a mountain goat. She was wearing elastic-sided workboots.
‘Her feet are humungous,’ said Martha with delight.
Angus snorted. Martha always noticed other people’s feet, probably because her own beetle-crushers were huge.
‘She’s one of the weirdest people I’ve ever seen,’ said Martha. ‘Even weirder than that Donut Lady.’
Martha insisted that the Donut Lady, who had a blue-and-yellow caravan permanently parked at the beach, was weird. But Angus didn’t agree. Just because the Donut Lady lived alone in an aluminium annexe and served sugary treats from a dented caravan called the Caravan of Delight did not mean she was weird. Even the fact that she had a hairy chin and a thick, aggressive sort of accent didn’t make her weird. It just meant she was unusual. These were the facts. But try telling Martha that.
The old woman withdrew a long, tapered paintbrush from inside her gown, dangled the paint tin from a hook on the ladder and began to paint directly onto the windowpane.
‘Hand me that cola, Martha,’ said Angus. ‘This could take a while.’
For the next ten minutes the pair watched, and occasionally yawned, as the aged glamourpuss eked out two large, gold letters — F and R. They were wonky but they glittered in a most peculiar fashion. Clearly the old woman was painting a sign. But the process was agonising.
Angus crushed the cola can. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ he said.
Martha stretched gratefully as she followed him back across the road. ‘By the time we get back she might have finished the first word,’ she said.
Up on the ladder, the old woman watched the kids from the corner of her eye. A smile twitched on her lips. She liked being near these children. These barnmindreårig. Especially the boy, with his colouring, his swagger and his scruffy looks. He reminded her so much of home, of the good old days — which was just what her sore heart needed. Ah yes, the stones were gracious. I’m here
now, she thought. Too late for second thoughts and pussyfooting. Too late for doubts and fearfuls. What’s done is done. Besides, no harm has come by us. No harm whatsoever.
She flicked the feather boa over her shoulder and turned back to her painting. It always paid to keep busy.
CHAPTER THREE
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Bevare!
Four years, that’s how long they had been living in Australia. Four years ago they left England to start a brand-new life. But their new life had turned into a sad joke; they couldn’t seem to settle anywhere and so far they had moved house nearly every six months. Holiday rentals, apartments, townhouses, for a while even a converted church. And now this place. Of all the places this one was definitely the most random. The only good thing about it was the beach. It was right at the end of the street. And Anchor Street was so steep all Angus and Martha had to do was sit on their bikes, push off and freewheel down the slope. By the time they reached the bottom of the hill they had enough speed to swoop across the bike bridge and over the grass to the beach’s retaining wall. Angus felt a tingle of pride. They had mastered this manoeuvre within two days of arriving. Their father had no idea. Did he even care? Had he even sniffed the sea air since they’d arrived? Of course not.
So much for his grand sell. He’d worked so hard to convince his kids that this would be the best move yet. That this move, more sudden, more out of the blue than all the others, would be ‘just the ticket’. He had talked this place up with all the vigour of a tropical-island travel agent. Things were going to be different in this house. A beach to explore. Surfing lessons. Ice-cream cones and gelati. Pancakes for breakfast. Nights spent eating pizza and watching DVDs together. There was even a carnival. Yeah, yeah, yeah. In reality, he had dumped them here and gone straight back to work.
This morning the kids reached the beach in record time. Angus would rather have gone on his own but his little sister was lonely. That much he understood. He’d cut her some slack. For now.
