The Notion Potion

by Nick Vincent Murphy

  All four of them fled in a panic, running in different directions.

  Behind them, there was a crackle from the fence, a pop from the control box – and then Padraic’s house went dark. His neighbour’s house went dark. And then every house in Boyle went dark, as the whole town was plunged into a blackout.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BARNEY BUNTON’S SECRET

  Later that night, while the rest of the family stumbled around the house looking for torches and glow-in-the-dark T-shirts, Martin lay on his bed, feeling like he was being enveloped by the darkness of defeat. But then he lit a candle and felt better. Then he realized it was a scented candle, which Sinead had given him as a joke for Christmas, and he felt worse. But it turned out that the joke was on her, because that candle smelt flippin’ divine! And with the fragrance of lilacs and orange peel wafting around him, he felt better than ever.

  The thing about Martin Moone was that he never stayed down for long. He seemed to have an almost elastic rear end, and no matter how often he failed and floundered, he would always rebound, ready for more! It was simultaneously his best and worst characteristic. He never gave up. Even if it led to more failures, broken dreams and broken limbs – which it often did – he never threw in the towel.

  However, when he thought about the team’s recent disappointments – the robot ablaze on the electric fence, Trevor rocketing into a duck nest, and Padraic’s mother trying to snip her son out of his coat – he fell into a funk* again.

  When Realsies are at their low points, they need their IFs more than ever, so, thankfully, Wilbert and I tumbled out of the wardrobe at that very moment, on our way back from my latest research trip to the imaginary world.

  ‘Martin, I’ve got it!’ I cried excitedly.

  He peered at the plastic baggy in my hand. ‘Got what?’

  ‘Oh . . . No, that’s just Wilbert’s poop. We were doing walkies.’ I tossed the bag to Wilbert, and he caught it on his head. ‘Bury that somewhere, will ya, pal?’

  The Wonkey gave an annoyed ‘Harrumph!’, but trotted away, and I turned back to Martin. ‘What I meant was, I’ve solved it! I’ve solved the mystery!’

  ‘What mystery?’

  ‘N.P., of course!’

  ‘Right! Sorry, I’ve been too busy trying to come up with inventions to think about that.’

  ‘Well, I might just have a solution for your invention problem too,’ I told him with a grin. Then I looked around, distracted. ‘What is that smell? It’s heavenly!’

  ‘It’s my scented candle! Isn’t it incredible?’

  We breathed it in for a while, and then I sat down beside him. ‘So anyway. As you know, in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been spending a lot of time at the Imaginary Research Facility For IFs Trying To Solve Weird Mysteries—’

  ‘You mean, the library?’

  ‘Yes, it’s basically just a big library,’ I admitted. ‘And I’ve had a breakthrough, Martin! I think I know what the N.P. on Barney Bunton’s mysterious bottle might be.’

  Martin nodded slowly. ‘Is it Nun Pots?’

  I frowned. ‘What? No.’

  ‘Nearly Plums?’

  ‘They’re definitely not plums.’

  ‘Never Plums?’

  ‘Well, yes. But, no . . .’

  ‘Nacho Pudding?’

  ‘OK, let’s not start this again. Here’s what I think N.P. really means.’

  ‘Ninja Pickles?’

  ‘Notion Potion!’ I cried.

  Martin paused. ‘Notion . . . Potion?’

  ‘Notion Potion,’ I repeated.

  ‘What’s a Notion Potion?’

  I grinned at him and paced around, barely able to contain my excitement.

  ‘The Notion Potion, Martin, is a mythical drink from the imaginary world – a brain-boosting beverage. And when you drink it, it fills your head with notions and ideas. They say that just a few sips can transform a complete moron into a mastermind! A buffoon into a brainiac! A simpleton into a . . . brillianton!’

  ‘Wow! And what would it do for someone like me?’ asked Martin.

  I paused, confused.

  ‘. . . Who’s not a simpleton?’

  ‘Oh. Right!’ I nodded. ‘Eh. It would make you . . . even less of a simpleton!’

  ‘So this stuff would give me ideas?’ he asked keenly.

  ‘Beyond your wildest dreams, Martin! With a few gulps, you’d be able to speak different languages, play musical instruments, concoct mathematical formulas, code computer viruses, follow recipes without burning anything and, most importantly . . . design mind-blowing inventions!’

  Martin’s eyes lit up. He was utterly gripped now. ‘Would I be able to finish this Wordsearch?’ he asked.

  I glanced at the puzzle from The Marvellous Activity Manual that had remained stubbornly incomplete for months.

  ‘Martin, you’d be able to write Wordsearches!’

  ‘Well, let’s not go mad, Sean. Who wants to write Wordsearches?’

  ‘Good point,’ I admitted. ‘But the possibilities are endless. The Notion Potion could be the very thing that will help you win the Invention Convention and finally get your face on the Winners Wall!’

  ‘That’s what I’m talkin’ about!’ cheered Martin, and gave me a high-five. But then he paused. ‘Hang on. This is an imaginary drink – right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So how can an imaginary drink give me real ideas?’

  I frowned. ‘Aren’t I an imaginary person giving you real ideas right now?’

  Martin thought about this. ‘Hmm. Indeed you are, Sean! Which means that this might actually work!’ he concluded. ‘So how do we get our hands on this Notion stuff?’

  ‘Well . . . that’s the question, buddy. In my research, I found several old stories about the Notion Potion. None of them said for sure where it can be found. But one of the legends mentioned a magical well in a distant and dodgy corner of the imaginary world – a well that is located somewhere near the peak of Mount Figment.’

  ‘Hang on, Sean. You keep talking about stories and legends. Do we even know if this stuff exists?’

  ‘It must exist, Martin,’ I insisted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Barney Bunton had a bottle of it hidden in his cap!’ I reminded him, pulling it out. ‘What else could N.P. stand for?’

  He opened his mouth to make more ridiculous suggestions.

  ‘Don’t!’ I snapped, and he shut his gob again.

  ‘Barney Bunton must have had a supply of the Notion Potion,’ I continued, ‘and maybe this was the source of inspiration for all of Harry Ferguson’s ingenious inventions! Either the Mad Mechanic or his imaginary friend might have been guzzling this stuff. How else could Ferguson have come up with so many incredible ideas? Do you really think a normal human being could just sit down and invent the tractor?’

  Martin pondered this. ‘But what about those nasty crunchy bits we found in the bottle? You ate them and nothing happened.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that too,’ I admitted. ‘That can’t have been the proper potion. If those crispy bits were the remains of it, then the liquid must have gone bad. I mean, you can’t leave stuff in bottles for decades and expect it to stay fresh! Remember last week when you covered your burger in that watery ketchup? Or when you drank the milk with the lumps in it?’ I reminded him. ‘Even the Notion Potion must have a best-before date.’

  ‘Yeah, I should really start reading those,’ said Martin. ‘So it’s a powerful, but possibly perishable*, magical drink. You know what that reminds me of? The Salmon of Knowledge!’

  ‘The what?’

  It turned out that Martin’s grandad had once told him the old Irish story of the Salmon of Knowledge. It was about a fish who became highly intelligent after eating nine hazelnuts that contained all of the world’s wisdom. Apparently, wisdom was stored in nuts back then. A poet caught the clever fish after pursuing it for seven years. He told his servant, Fionn mac Cumhaill, to cook
up the salmon, but warned him not to eat any of it. Fionn did as he was told, frying it up nicely for his boss. But when he gave it a poke to see if it was done, he burned his finger, so stuck it in his mouth to soothe it. And by sucking on that single drop of fish fat, Fionn mac Cumhaill gained all the knowledge of the world.

  ‘Yes! It’s exactly like the Salmon of Knowledge,’ I agreed, ‘except in a kind of smoothie-form. The Notion Potion is basically a drinkable Salmon of Knowledge.’

  ‘Sounds perfect!’ exclaimed Martin. He was really pumped now, excited that this concoction of cleverness might help him win the Invention Convention and get his face on the Winners Wall before EOPS. ‘We need that N.P. as soon as possible!’

  ‘And as your trusty IF, it’s up to me to get it for you!’ I replied valiantly. ‘I request to go on a quest, Martin.’

  ‘Eh. OK. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that I’ll be away for a while, and you mustn’t imagine me until I return.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because if you do, I’ll pop back here and will have to start the quest all over again.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Martin didn’t like the thought of being IF-less, but he liked the thought of being Potionless even less.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Not long, I hope. But I will not stop questing until I find it!’

  Martin considered all this for a moment, but then at last gave a nod. ‘Very well, Sean. Quest request granted!’

  We high-fived eagerly, and Martin smiled, his spirits soaring again.

  ‘Mystery solved, quest under way, and a candle that smells like angels. Everything’s coming up Moone!’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE QUEST

  I woke at first light.

  I had a long journey ahead, so I knew that I needed to get an early start. My quest would take me deep into the far corners of the imaginary world, and I was ready to face any foes or challenges or weird-looking creatures I encountered . . . just as soon as I had another quick doze.

  I woke again at second or third light.

  Wilbert was licking my face, and this time I was ready to embark on my adventure! I let the Wonkey outside to pee, pulled on my quest-vest, and sat down to lace up my voyage-boots when I decided to rest my eyes for an absolute maximum of five seconds.

  At fourth or fifth light, I woke once more.

  ‘Get up, Sean, get up!’ I shouted at myself.

  From under the covers, Martin gave a grunt that might have been ‘Shurrup, Sean’, and from his sister’s bed Sinead gave a louder grunt that might have been ‘Shurrup, Martin!’

  It was a Saturday, which meant that no Moone would be stirring till eighteenth or nineteenth light. So I gathered my quest-gear, and as I gazed down at Martin, slack-jawed and drooling all over his pillow, I hoped that this wouldn’t be the last time I saw his idiotic face.

  ‘Goodbye, little man,’ I whispered, and he farted quietly in his sleep.

  Outside the Moone home, I looked over my supplies, making sure that I was quest-ready:

  Swiss Army Knife

  Belgian Army fork

  Climbing Rope

  Skipping Rope

  Tractor Beam

  1 tin of baked beans

  54 tins of jelly beans

  With everything in place, I hoisted my adventure-backpack on to my shoulders, straightened my explorer-hat, and was just adjusting my expedition-undies when that bonkers IF Loopy Lou rolled out of the hedge.

  ‘Whoopsie!’ he sang, as he tumbled across the grass. He hopped to his feet and cried, ‘Loopy Lou in da house!’

  Behind him, Crunchie Haystacks gave a sigh as he ambled up the driveway. ‘Lou, why can’t ya just walk through a gate like a normal IF?’

  ‘What’s up, guys?’ I asked. ‘What brings ye to Moone Manor?’

  ‘We hear you’re going on a quest,’ replied Crunchie.

  ‘You hear right,’ I told him. ‘In fact, I’m about to start questing right now.’

  ‘Not without us you’re notty nots!’ said Lou.

  I looked at them both and couldn’t help but smile. It seemed that loyalty didn’t just come in Wonkeys. It also came in clowns and wrestlers too.

  ‘Welcome aboard, lads! Did you tell your IFs not to imagine you?’

  ‘Eh. Were we supposed to do that?’ asked Crunchie blankly.

  ‘Whoopsie!’ apologized Lou.

  ‘You’re not going to last long on the quest if they imagine you back,’ I told them.

  ‘Well, they’re not imagining us right now, so let’s get a move on!’ urged Crunchie.

  Just then I heard a ‘Meerrghhllll’ and turned to see my other loyal pal gazing up at me with his big dopey eyes.

  ‘What is it, Wilbert – you want to come too?’ I asked. ‘Well, why not?’

  ‘I can think of lotty lots of reasons why notty nots,’ muttered Lou, and Crunchie nodded in agreement.

  But I ignored them, patting Wilbert on the head. ‘You should be right at my side! An IF’s Best Friend – right?’

  The Wonkey looked confused, and then pointed to his udder patch, which was bulging like a pudgy pot-belly.

  I sighed, disappointed. ‘Oh you just want to be milked?’

  Wilbert nodded eagerly.

  ‘Getting cheese cramps, are ya?’

  Wilbert nodded again.

  ‘Sorry, pal. I’ve been so busy with the N.P. that I haven’t had a chance to try again. But if you come along, I’ll milk you on the road,’ I promised, and he wagged his tail gratefully. ‘Now let us begin our quest! To Mount Figment!’ I cried heroically, and led them off down the driveway.

  At the gate, Crunchie paused. ‘Wouldn’t it be quicker if we just went through Martin’s wardrobe?’

  ‘Actually, yes. Let’s do that,’ I agreed, and we all trudged back to the house.

  We hopped through the wardrobe, eager to cover as much ground as possible while our three Realsies slept. On the far side, we found ourselves in the town of Balderdash, where I quickly caught a cab (short for ‘cabbage’). We gobbled it down and hurried to the tram station (trampoline station). One good bounce took us into the countryside, where we then found a Rick Shaw. Mr Shaw was an old friend of mine, and kindly lent us his giant turtle to complete our journey. It’s basically the only safe mode of transport through the Swamp of Daydreams. Hector, the Piranha-Gator, is a nasty creature, but he knows better than to tangle with a giant, magical turtle with poisonous knees.

  Finally we were on the road to Mount Figment, which was long and winding. Then it became short and straight. Then it was bright and bouncy for a bit. Then it got wet and wobbly. Then warm and chocolatey. Then scary, then silly. Then so silly it was scary. Then it got a bit boring and I fell asleep. And then suddenly we were at the foot of Mount Figment!

  ‘Whoa, Nelly . . . !’ I gasped, staring up at the monumental mountain.

  But we kept moving forwards. ‘Nelly!’ I repeated. ‘Whoa!’

  I pulled on the reins, and Nelly, our giant turtle, finally came to a halt. The four of us deturtled and thanked her for the lift.

  ‘Watch out for the Dorcs,’ she warned us. ‘That mountain is swarming with them.’

  ‘What are Dorcs?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh they used to be Orcs,’ she explained. ‘Stupid, primitive creatures. But something changed them into highly intelligent, socially awkward Dorcs.’

  I scratched my beard thoughtfully. ‘The Notion Potion perhaps . . . ?’ I wondered aloud.

  Nelly shrugged. Which was impressive for someone who didn’t have shoulders. ‘Who knows what dark magic changed them? But now they run around with their trousers pulled up to their armpits, terrifying everyone, pursuing them with annoying, trivial questions.’

  ‘Yikes. Is there any way we can avoid this . . . trivial pursuit*?’ I asked.

  ‘Steer clear of the mines,’ she advised. ‘Stick to the Cliffs of Death.’

  ‘The Cliffs of Death – that sounds wa
y safer! Thanks, Nelly!’ I called, with a tip of my hat, and we strolled off towards the giant, treacherous mountain.

  Not long after, we were up on the Cliffs of Death, getting pounded by a blizzard of doom.

  ‘This doesn’t feel very safe at all!’ I shouted, over the roaring wind and snow.

  We’d been trying to follow a path along the cliffs, but it had grown narrower and narrower, until we were now edging our way along it with our backs against the craggy rock.

  ‘Yeah, this is actually quite dangerous,’ agreed Crunchie, glancing down at the terrifying drop beneath us.

  ‘You got that righty-rights! That turtle was a big galloo for sending us up here!’ complained Lou.

  Wilbert, whose fur was covered in ice, gave a yowl of agreement. He then gestured at his belly again, and I sighed with annoyance. ‘Wilbert, does this look like a good time to you?’

  Just then, there was a great gust of wind and Loopy Lou slipped off the cliff.

  ‘Whoopsie!’ he shrieked.

  ‘Arghhh!’ we all screamed.

  He almost plummeted to his death, but at the last second, Lou managed to grasp the edge of the ledge we were standing on. He dangled there, clinging on by his fingers.

  ‘Wooh!’ I gasped. ‘That was close.’

  ‘Thought we’d lost you there, Lou,’ chuckled Crunchie, shaking his head.

  ‘I almost went bye-bye!’ agreed Lou, looking shaken.

  Wilbert licked Lou’s face happily, but Lou recoiled from the Wonkey – ‘Ugh! Yuck!’ – and lost his grip on the ledge.

  ‘Lou!’ I cried in horror.

  Down he fell, plummeting into the abyss.

  ‘Whoopsieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!’

  And as I watched him tumble through the air, I saw an enormous dragon swoop towards him, about to catch him in mid-air and devour him!

  Just at that same moment, in a warm, cushy house in Boyle, Trevor had just woken up and was lying in bed feeling quite bored. He gave a yawn and then looked around for his IF.

  ‘Lou!’ he called. ‘Loopy Lou! Where are you?’

  And as that dragon opened its great jaws to swallow him up, Trevor imagined his trusty clown and . . .