by Kaye Umansky
‘It must be fun, doing spells all the time.’
‘We don’t do them all the time. Except on Mervyn Day.’
‘What’s Mervyn Day?’
‘It’s the day when we remember our Club founder. You know those gold statues all over the place? The one in the lobby and the one in the Dining Hall and the one on the landing? That’s him. Mervyn the Mighty.’
‘So what do you do on his day?’
‘Traditionally, we feast from morning to night on fish and chips. And play tricks on each other. All the statues get repainted and we sing a special song. I think it’s coming up soon.’
‘What do you do the rest of the time? When it’s not Mervyn Day?’
‘Sit around eating, mostly. Watch spello. And – er – well, go for long walks. I do, anyway.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I order stuff from the Catalogue.’
‘Why not just conjure it up by Magic?’
‘Look,’ said Ronald. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not as easy as that.’
‘I bet it is. Go on, don’t be shy. Show us your Finger Sparkles.’
‘No,’ said Ronald firmly. ‘No Magic in the bedrooms.’ He pointed up at the small, blinking red eye set in the ceiling. ‘See?’
For safety reasons, all the Clubhouse bedrooms were fitted with Magic alarms. There had been too many fires, too many floods, too many Demons running amok in the corridors. The rule was that all major experiments must take place in the basement laboratory, although a little light, harmless conjuring was permitted in public areas. Anyone caught disobeying had to pay a penny to the Wizards’ Benevolent Fund and was banned from eating between meals, which was far too high a price to pay.
‘I can switch it off,’ offered Hattie. ‘Two seconds with a screwdriver.’
‘No. I’m not in the mood.’
Hattie gave a shrug. ‘Oh, well. If you can’t be bothered.’
Ronald said nothing and continued to stare out of the window.
‘See anything interesting?’ asked Hattie after a bit.
‘Not much. Mountains. A couple of goats. Sheep. An old man with a dog.’
‘What sort of dog?’
‘I don’t know. Just a dog. Who cares?’
‘I do,’ said Hattie. She was standing at the wardrobe, armed with a screwdriver and a new hinge. ‘I like animals.’
‘You do? Why?’
Ronald had never been much of an animal lover. Aunt Sharkadder had a cat who, over the years, had regularly savaged him. Her Witch cronies owned a variety of horrible pets they referred to as their ‘Familiars’. Her best friend had a cocky little hamster called Hugo. None of them liked Ronald and the feeling was mutual.
‘Well, they’re fun, aren’t they?’ said Hattie. ‘And good company, if you treat them well. You can teach them tricks. Everyone should have a pet. They stop you being lonely.’
‘Who says I’m lonely?’ snapped Ronald. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends. Loads. More than you, probably.’
‘Calm down. I’m just saying.’
‘Anyway,’ said Ronald sulkily, ‘anyway, there’s a No Pets rule.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’d be chaos. We Wizards don’t do things by halves.’
This was true. Wizards are notoriously competitive and would never be content with something straightforward, like a goldfish. They would go in for unconventional pets, like gold-plated rhinos, sequinned aardvarks or flashing tigers. You wouldn’t want them running around pooping everywhere.
A little silence fell. Ronald perched on the window sill and watched her fix the hinge.
‘Do you have a pet, then?’ he enquired after a bit. It wouldn’t hurt to keep on her good side, as she was fixing stuff.
‘Loads. I’ve got a proper menagerie at home. Three cats, two dogs, a parrot, a monkey, a donkey and a zebra called Spot. People just dump them. I’m going to open a proper shelter as soon as I’ve saved up. For poor, abandoned creatures that nobody wants.’
‘Will it take in smelly evil ones that shouldn’t be allowed to wander free?’ asked Ronald. ‘Because I’ve got a few suggestions, starting with Dudley.’
‘Who?’
‘Dead Eye Dudley, my aunty’s cat. She got him off a pirate.’
‘Well, I’m sure your aunty loves him,’ said Hattie, testing the wardrobe door, which swung to and fro beautifully. ‘Is that postcard from her? Ordering you to spend your birthday money on a Certificate?’
‘The first one got lost in the post!’ lied Ronald, adding, ‘And you shouldn’t read other people’s correspondence.’
‘I know. I did, though. Nosy, that’s me. So am I right? Does she love him?’
‘She does.’ Ronald gave a sigh. ‘She lets him stand on the table with his paw in the butter dish, licking the cream off the trifle. It’s very off-putting. What are you doing now?’
‘Looking for a saw. I’ll trim a bit off three of your desk legs, to stop it wobbling. Then I’ll unblock your chimney. That’ll make a mess. Perhaps you’d like to go somewhere else for a bit?’
Rather to his own surprise, Ronald wasn’t too pleased at this suggestion. He was quite enjoying himself, having a pleasant little chat while somebody else sorted his room out. She was a brisk sort of person, was Hattie Crabbit, but she certainly knew her way around a toolbox.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll be quicker on my own.’
‘I haven’t got any shoes on. Mrs Swipe’s got them.’
‘Put on your slippers, then.’
‘I can’t find them,’ lied Ronald. His slippers were another of Aunt Sharkadder’s presents that he preferred to keep hidden.
‘They’re in here.’ Hattie opened the wardrobe. ‘Yellow chickens with pompoms, right? I saw them. Put them on.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Don’t be daft. Put them on.’ Hattie held out the slippers.
Reluctantly, Ronald put them on. He caught a glimpse of himself in the wardrobe mirror. He looked ridiculous, with chicken slippers and a kitten umbrella. Not a bit like a Wizard should look. But at least his feet were warm.
‘Right,’ said Hattie. ‘Give me an hour or so. Go and do something.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Something interesting. You’re the Wizard. And while you’re gone, put that umbrella in the bin.’
She gave him a firm push, and before he knew it he was standing at the top of the steps with the door closed behind him.
The problem was, where to go? The Lounge was out of the question. He certainly wouldn’t be welcome in the Dining Hall, where the servants would be laying the table for lunch. He didn’t fancy the Laboratory, which was miles underground and would be locked anyway. Old Crabbit had the only key, and doubtless would be in his room on knee rest.
There was only one place he could go.
Chapter Four
The Library
In all his time at the Wizards’ Clubhouse, Ronald had never visited the Library. Studying wasn’t his thing. The missing Certificate proved that.
To get really good at Wizardly Magic, you have to spend endless hours trawling through boring old spell books which send you to sleep before you’ve read the title. Sometimes, they fly at you in a rage and clip you round the ear. Magical books don’t have much patience with slow readers.
You’re supposed to take notes. You’re expected to learn long incantations and copy down recipes with impossible ingredients, like badger spit and guava fruit. You have to learn to speak the language of Demons, which gives you a sore throat. You’re required to read inspiring tales about Mervyn the Mighty and pit your own sorry efforts against his genius.
Then there is the practical side. This mainly involves conjuring up stuff – Fireballs, rabbits, Demons, Genies and endless flapping doves. To get this good takes months of serious experimentation in a laboratory, blowing your own eyebrows off.
Last
ly, Wizardly Magic requires warm underwear. Wizards are required to stand around on mountains a lot, waving their Mystic Staffs and thundering through their beards.
Ronald wasn’t a big reader and had never even seen the Laboratory. He had no spells at his fingertips, apart from the hit and miss Sparkles and the ineffectual Fireballs. Beardy thundering on mountains was a non-starter, as he hadn’t got a beard and had a voice that could best be described as reedy. He had no socks, let alone warm underwear. His Wizarding consisted mostly of walking around dressed like one.
Still. Right now, the Library was the best option. Maybe there would be some books that weren’t about Magic. Books about film stars, or cars. Maybe there would be the latest edition of the Catalogue. He could use Aunt Sharkadder’s tenner and order some new slippers. Wizardly ones, with trendy curled toes that didn’t make him look like Little Miss Muffet. Although he’d have to cough up for the Cloak first.
He pushed open the door. It was dim inside. So dark, you couldn’t tell the size of the room beyond. Somehow, though, you knew it was big. Endless racks of books stretched away into the distance and up, up into the shadows.
And it was silent. Oh, so silent. The Library was waiting for him.
Ronald took a single step forward. Even though he was wearing slippers, it echoed.
A sharp voice rapped, ‘Halt!’
A motionless figure sat at a desk in a shadowy corner. This was Miss Stickler, the librarian. She wore a grey cardigan, buttoned to the throat. Her grey hair was scraped back into a severe bun. Her glasses had slanting steel frames that gave her an insectoid look. If stick insects were librarians, they would look like Miss Stickler.
This was the first time Ronald had met Miss Stickler. She took all her meals in the Library. Rumour had it that she slept there, clinging motionless to a high shelf with her long, twiggy arms.
‘Ah,’ said Ronald. ‘Good morning, Miss Stickler.’
‘No umbrellas in here. This is a Library.’
‘Oh – er – sorry. Where shall I . . . ?
‘The bin.’ Miss Stickler waved at the bin standing prominently by the door.
Ronald dropped in the dead umbrella with a sense of relief. There. Finally he was rid of it. He would tell Aunt Sharkadder that somebody had stolen it.
‘I hope you’ve wiped your feet,’ said Miss Stickler, staring at his chicken slippers.
‘Yes,’ said Ronald, blushing a bit. ‘I have.’
‘Is there something specific you wish to peruse?’
‘No,’ said Ronald. ‘I’ve just come in to – have a bit of a browse, you know? I don’t suppose you have the latest issue of the Catalogue by any chance?’
Miss Stickler winced. ‘This is a Library.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Silly question.’
‘Certificate?’
‘What?’
‘I need your Wizard’s Certificate for identification.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. No, it got lost in the post. I’m waiting for a replacement.’
Miss Stickler sighed, jerked open a drawer and removed a sheet of paper from a file.
‘Name?’
‘Ronald the Magnificent. I’ll probably be at the bottom. Last to join. But not least, ha, ha.’
‘Hmm.’ Miss Stickler didn’t smile. ‘Well, you don’t appear to be here.’
‘No? How odd.’
‘Odd,’ said Miss Stickler, ‘but true.’
‘Look,’ said Ronald, ‘I am a Club Member, honestly. Ask anyone. I’ll bring in the Certificate the minute it arrives. Please?’
Miss Stickler gave a sigh and picked up a pen. ‘Very well. Far be it for me to discourage a seeker after knowledge. But I shall make a note to that effect. You may look, but you may not borrow. Move quietly around the aisles if you please. We need to respect the other users.’
Ronald stared around the deserted library.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Ssssssh!’ said Miss Stickler.
Hastily, he padded off down the first aisle, slippers weirdly echoing.
Instantly, there came a stirring from the books. Being Magical, they whispered to each other in rustling little voices. ‘Look out . . . Here comes one . . . Straighten your spine . . . He’s coming . . . He’s coming!’ Some of the more excitable ones jiggled up and down, flapping their pages and squealing. ‘Me! Me! Pick me!’
The biggest, oldest, most dangerous tomes were high on the top shelves. They were chained with padlocks and plastered with yellow Post-its saying Mind Your Fingers! and The Library Accepts No Responsibility For Accidents.
The papery whispering increased as Ronald hurried by. Overhead, the big dangerous books were straining forward, rattling their padlocks. One of them launched itself at his head in a wild kamikaze plunge, but was brought up short by its chain. It hung there, lashing its pages and growling. Hastily, Ronald moved on.
‘Here he comes,’ hissed a thousand ghostly voices. ‘Here he comes – it’s about time . . . Hey, pssst, read me, read me . . . Oi, you idiot, I’m here you know, talk about dumb . . . Hey, what’s the matter with you – too difficult, am I? Well more fool you . . . Let me at him, let me at him, grrrrrr . . .’
It was quite spooky. Ronald cleared his throat nervously. The sound was magnified a hundred times.
‘Ssssssh!’ came the hiss from the desk.
‘Don’t tell me, tell them,’ said Ronald.
‘You shouldn’t be walking down that aisle,’ Miss Stickler told him. ‘That’s for Senior Wizards. Those are specialist books, very highly strung. Try the Beginners’ Section. Third aisle along on your left.’
Swallowing his pride, Ronald hastened from the scary aisle and made for the Beginners’ Section. This turned out to be a low bookcase set slightly apart. Next to it was a comfy-looking green cushion in the shape of a frog.
He crouched down and ran his eyes along the spines. Fun with Magic. Wee Wizard Willie Goes Shopping. Poisonous Potions for Beginners. Bedtime Sleepy Spells. The titles weren’t that promising, but at least the books were quiet. Ronald flopped down on the frog cushion and folded his legs. It emitted a loud, rude noise that could have been a croak but actually wasn’t.
‘Sssssshhh!’ came another sharp hiss from the faraway desk.
‘Sorry!’ called Ronald. ‘Not me, the cushion!’
He reached out and selected a book at random. Make Your Own Paper Wand. Hmm. No good, he didn’t have any paper. It would be rubbish anyway, he wasn’t good with his hands. He put the book back. The one next to it fell out on the floor. He picked it up and examined it. Baby’s Book of Pets.
At least it wasn’t about Magic. It had pictures too, and not much writing. What was it that Hattie Crabbit had said? Something about pets being fun. Were they? Were they really? Of course, there wasn’t much point in thinking about it, with the No Pets rule. Still. No harm in looking.
Ronald turned to the first page. It said, See Whuffy the dog. Bow-wow.
He looked at the picture of Whuffy. It looked eager and friendly, with a waggy tail. Would he choose a dog for a pet? Dogs were loyal, quite intelligent. You could teach them tricks. But of course, not all of them were like that. Some dogs were big and fierce.
Ronald quite fancied the idea of a big, fierce dog. He could train it to bite the other Wizards; that’d be good. He would call it Bruiser. It would only come to him. He would take it for walkies. He would let it off its lead and throw a ball for it and then – and then – well, then, knowing his luck, it would probably run off and pick a fight with the old man’s dog he’d seen through the window. There would be vet bills. And of course, he would have to buy dog food . . . and put up with hairs everywhere . . .
Hmmm. Perhaps not a dog, then.
He turned to the next page, where there was a picture of a fluffy ginger kitten and the words, See Tibby the kitten. Purr, purr.
Ronald shuddered. Sweet little kittens had a habit of growing into matted furballs of malice like Dudley. Cats were out. Hastily, he tur
ned the page.
See Flopsy the rabbit. Hop, hop.
Flopsy stared stupidly from the page with big, dim eyes. Ronald sneered. As far as Wizards are concerned, rabbits are props, always wanting lettuce and scrabbling like mad things whenever you pick them up. Poor pet material. Move on.
It was a very short book. There were only three more pets: a goldfish called Goldie (bubble, bubble), a mouse called Mary (squeak, squeak) and . . .
Oh. What was this? A Dragon.
There it was, on the very last page. What was a Dragon doing in a baby’s pet book? It was hardly an obvious choice. On the other hand – well, why not? The pets had been very predictable so far. Clearly, the most interesting had been saved for last. Well, well. A pet Dragon. It was certainly different.
Ronald examined the picture. The Dragon was small and rather cute. It had bright green scales, round blue eyes, stubby little wings and a chubby tail with a barb on the end. Jolly red sparks were coming from its smiling mouth. There was a charming gap between its two front teeth. Below were the words:
See Diddums the Dragon. Pthhhhhttt!
‘Pthhhhhttt,’ muttered Ronald experimentally, trying to make the noise he thought little Diddums might make.
‘Last warning!’ came Miss Stickler’s shrill voice.
‘Sorry!’ called Ronald. ‘Won’t happen again.’
Ronald didn’t know much about Dragons. There was a Dragon called Arthur who lived with his mother in a neat bungalow somewhere down in Witchway Wood. He played the piano in a band called The Witchway Rhythm Boys and was certainly nobody’s pet. Ronald had never seen him fly either, and he only breathed fire when he got carried away with the music. People said he was from the valleys.
Was Diddums from the valleys, or was he a different breed? Did Dragons come in different breeds? Could you send one flying out to fetch the morning paper? Would they need exercising? Did they sort their own meals out, or would you need to buy special Dragon Food in cans? He hadn’t a clue. Funnily enough, he found that he was quite interested. Perhaps he should find out more.
Ronald approached the desk, where Miss Stickler was writing in a notebook.
