Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope

by Anne Plichota

  49

  FROM FLOOR TO CEILING

  AS THE RUNAWAYS HAD ANNOUNCED, ONE OF THEIR urgent priorities was to consolidate Oksa’s powers. As soon as the Pollocks got back to London, Dragomira took things in hand.

  “Come with me, Dushka.”

  Dragomira walked into the double-bass case and led Oksa up the spiral staircase to her workroom, which smelt sweetly of the bergamot-flavoured tea that had been prepared for the two Graciouses. Everything had finally found its rightful place in the attic room, which looked neat and tidy. The scene was no less animated, though, because the creatures were busily doing chores on petrol-blue floor cushions.

  Oksa headed for the darkest corner of the workroom, which was dominated by a giant alembic with countless brightly coloured glass pipes, some reaching as high as the ceiling.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this! What do you use it for? Do you make bootleg alcohol?”

  Oksa was feeling in a decidedly impish mood that day—which did not escape the creatures’ notice.

  “Al Capone!” cried the Getorix. “Watch out! Eliot Ness is getting close! Beware of the Italian Mafia!”

  Dragomira burst out laughing, and Oksa immediately followed suit.

  “You’re very well informed,” said the old lady merrily. “I can see that everyone has benefited from the book on Prohibition I lent to the Lunatrixes.”

  “It’s always this crazy then, is it?” remarked Oksa, indicating the Getorix, which was raking the soil around the Goranov with tiny gardening tools.

  “Who’s Eliot Ness?” asked the Incompetent, standing bolt upright in the pink velvet armchair.

  “Eliot Ness? He’s a detective who tracks down bootleggers and hideous creatures,” replied the Getorix. “And the ones he hates most of all are Incompetents. That’s hard luck for you!”

  “Is Eliot Ness a hideous creature? Well, well! Poor thing,” said the Incompetent compassionately.

  “And the Incompetent is just as slow on the uptake, from what I can see,” remarked Oksa, bursting out laughing. “No, Incompetent,” she continued, addressing the wrinkled creature. “Don’t listen to that naughty Getorix, you’re very attractive and I’m very fond of you.”

  “What! What!” exclaimed the Goranov in its turn, coming late into the conversation. “Is the Italian Mafia distilling alcohol in the house? That’s extremely dangerous, you know.”

  Its leaves shivered violently, threatening to collapse at any second. The Getorix rushed over, imitating an ambulance siren.

  “Emergency! We must hoe the soil quickly, its roots have to breathe. Stand back, give it some air, give it some air… hang on Goranov, breathe deeply!”

  And it began hoeing at top speed, as Oksa roared with laughter, holding her stomach.

  “They’re mad, completely mad. I just love them!” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Baba! What are you doing?”

  What Dragomira was doing was very simple: she’d prepared a little surprise for Oksa.

  “What? What’s the matter?” she asked, sounding disconcertingly matter-of-fact.

  “But, but, Baba…”

  “Not very original, Dushka, if I may say so. Your replies aren’t usually quite so vague,” remarked Dragomira mischievously. “Has something given you a shock, perhaps?”

  That “something” would have shocked anyone—even Oksa, who had seen worse over the past few weeks. Dragomira had adopted a most unusual position: standing with her feet on the wall and her body completely horizontal, she was looking at her granddaughter with a completely straight face. Only her eyes betrayed her amusement. Oksa was flabbergasted. She was even more surprised when Dragomira walked along the wall as easily as if she were walking across the floor. She zigzagged between the pictures whistling, a feather duster in hand, and casually began dusting the giant alembic, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Oho! You could knock the Young Gracious down with her Baba’s feather duster,” said the Getorix with uncharacteristic wit.

  “Phew,” sighed the Goranov, which had regained consciousness.

  The Croakettes, inspired by Dragomira, began beating their beautiful translucent wings and gracefully fluttered around their mistress.

  “Would you be a great help, Dushka, and bring me a rag?” asked Dragomira innocently.

  “Could I? Really? I’ve always dreamt of doing this. It’s… MAGIC!”

  “Of course. Anything I can do, you can do! Empty your head of all thoughts that stop you believing it. I’m not saying that’s the answer to everything or that it’s the secret to doing anything you want… but when it comes to what I’m asking you to do, you’ll see it’s very good advice. Before you join me, take a white Capacitor from the jar on the table.”

  “What’s a Capacitor? What’s it for?”

  “There are a great many Capacitors,” replied Dragomira, still horizontal, turning to look at Oksa. “You’ll get to know some of them during your training. Generally, I’d say that they’re used to boost human abilities: balance, thought, speed—it’s extremely varied. The one I’m giving you is a Ventosa. You’ll find out what it’s used for in a second. All I can say is that it’s made from a base of puréed climbing insects and ivy.”

  Feeling rather sick, Oksa hesitated. The mental image of repulsive teeming insects crawling up tree trunks made her grimace. She turned the white capsule over in her fingers and held it to her ear to check for any signs of life inside. She really wanted to cut it in half, just to check, but Dragomira looked at her, smiling with amusement.

  “You know how much we respect life, Dushka,” she explained to Oksa. “We would never harm a living thing. Never. It’s a fundamental principle.”

  After shaking the Capacitor and inspecting it one last time, Oksa finally swallowed it with her eyes shut. Her mouth and throat were flooded with an incredible taste of blue cheese—those insects must love smelly cheese. But the most important thing was in front of her: the wall.

  “I’m going to crash and burn, that’s for sure,” she muttered, beginning by putting one foot on the vertical surface. She attempted to lift her other foot, trying hard to picture it next to the foot on the wall.

  “Not bad, Oksa, not bad!” said Dragomira encouragingly.

  But Oksa was racked with doubt. She shut her eyes, tried to concentrate and felt… as if she was walking. One foot in front of the other, nothing to it—nothing to make a song and dance about.

  “Well done, Dushka, you did it first time!”

  Oksa felt vexed. Her gran must have lost her marbles. When she realized that the wall opposite her was actually the ceiling, though, she gave a cry of joy. She’d done it! A shiver of excitement ran down her spine and almost made her lose her balance—if you could talk of balance when you were horizontal. After her initial hesitation, she began moving with mounting confidence. So much so that it wasn’t long before she became more ambitious.

  “What about the ceiling, Baba?”

  Dragomira chose to reply with a demonstration and, standing with her two feet glued to the ceiling, she drew Oksa closer.

  “Wow! Magic! This is great. It’s as if my feet are magnetic!”

  “That’s exactly what the Capacitor does,” confirmed Dragomira.

  “Fortunately we’re wearing trousers,” laughed Oksa. “You obviously anticipated this, Baba.”

  With a wink, the Old Gracious straightened her embroidered kimono trousers.

  “Do you want to try with your hands now?”

  With growing astonishment, Oksa crouched down in a fluid movement and put her hands on the ceiling. Her two palms immediately adhered to it.

  “This is amazing,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “Look, Baba, I’m a giant spider!”

  “Very good, Spider-Girl,” said Dragomira, congratulating her, her feet still on the ceiling.

  “And how do we get down?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Oksa pulled away from the ceiling and performed a backflip which allow
ed her to land on her feet.

  “Woohoo!”

  Dragomira couldn’t hold back a scream.

  “Quite risky for a first attempt, you could have hurt yourself badly,” she said with a frown. “Risky, but very spectacular, I must say!” she added, her eyes twinkling.

  “Shall we surprise Dad and Mum?”

  A couple of minutes later, they both went downstairs—without using the staircase, of course, that was far too boring. Oksa knocked at the door and found herself face to face—although upside down—with her father.

  “Hi, Dad! You okay?” she said, trying to act naturally.

  Pavel decided to play along.

  “Come in Oksa. Oh Dragomira, you’re there too, what a surprise! Come in, ladies, come in.”

  The ladies in question came into the room, stepping over the space between the top of the door and the ceiling.

  “Your place isn’t very convenient, my boy,” remarked Dragomira, her plaits hanging down towards the floor and brushing her son’s face. “Hi there, Marie!”

  Marie looked up and lifted her arm to ruffle Oksa’s hair.

  “Oksa, could I interest you in a nice cup of spiced hot chocolate?”

  “For sure!” exclaimed Oksa, repeating her brilliant backflip to get down from the ceiling and land at her mother’s feet. “Did you see that, Mum? Isn’t it brilliant?”

  “Er, that’s pretty basic for any self-respecting witch, isn’t it?” remarked Marie, sounding unperturbed. “No, I’m teasing,” she continued with a wan smile. “Of course it’s brilliant!”

  Then, turning to Dragomira, who had come back down a little less athletically:

  “So? How do you rate your student? Is she being careful, at least?”

  “She’s excellent, Marie, don’t worry.”

  “I always worry, you know that. Always.”

  50

  SKELETON AND CURBITA-FLATULO GO MAD

  HALF-TERM WAS OVER. SO MANY THINGS HAD HAPPENED that Oksa felt as if it had lasted months. It seemed very strange to be putting on her school uniform again—sweater and trousers for winter—and pulling on her rollerblades that Monday morning to meet Gus, who was waiting outside her house. He wasn’t alone: both sets of parents, the Bellangers and the Pollocks, had agreed to take it in turns so that the two children never had to go to school on their own. “We can kiss our freedom goodbye,” Oksa had lamented. That morning, Gus’s father was going to be taking them.

  “Hi there, Pierre, how are you?” Oksa said in greeting. “That’s a cool bike!”

  “Hiya, Oksa! Yes, I got it out of the cellar just for you and Gus. I just hope I can keep up with you…”

  “We don’t need an escort to get to school! We’re not kids any more, you know. We know how to defend ourselves.”

  This was the umpteenth time that Oksa had returned to the subject since they got back from Wales. And Pierre Bellanger gave her more or less the same answer as always:

  “That’s not the problem, Oksa. It’s better to be doubly cautious when dealing with people like Orthon.”

  “Tell me about it, Dad,” added Gus. “I’m worried sick at the thought of seeing him again. With a little luck, he may not be there any more.”

  But they were totally out of luck that day. The students in Year 8 Hydrogen hung their heads and dragged their feet as they did every Monday morning on their way to the classroom, as if they’d been condemned to hard labour. McGraw was writing jerkily on the board and did not turn round when the students came in.

  “Sit down in silence!” he thundered by way of a welcome. “In silence, I said. Or isn’t that a word in your vocabulary? Miss Beck, is there any point in hoping that the half-term will have done you some good and that you’re not going to inflict countless falling pencils on us, as is your wont?”

  Poor Zelda blushed to the roots of her hair and sat down, holding both her breath and a pencil which had already been rolling towards the edge of the desk. Oksa smiled at her and pretended to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand. Yet she didn’t feel in top form. Thanks to her victory over Orthon-McGraw, she was dreading seeing him again. When he turned round, she pursed her lips to hold back a cry of surprise: the much-hated teacher’s left arm was in a sling and he had a black eye! Gus elbowed his friend and whispered:

  “McGraw doesn’t look too clever.”

  McGraw looked round at the class, carefully avoiding eye contact with Oksa and Gus, then said in a bleak voice:

  “Get out some paper for a written class test.”

  A ripple of disapproval ran through the class. A written test on the first day back at school, that was typical McGraw. But it didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

  “I won’t stand for any argument or any mark below average,” he announced coldly. “You’ve had all half-term to revise, you have no excuses!”

  They bent over their papers and concentrated on answering the questions on the board. When she raised her head, Oksa tried not to look at the teacher, who was sitting at his desk. She felt strong, and thought that the effort McGraw seemed to be making to avoid her was a confirmation of her power. Such a new and exciting power! She certainly didn’t lose any time in using it again. Her irresistible urge for action was prompted by the skeleton hanging in the corner of the classroom between the window and the board. The skeleton began to move one hand as if waving to the students. Attracted by the movement, some of the students raised their heads and looked around to see who was playing a prank on McGraw. The latter, puzzled by the class’s growing restlessness, looked up. But the skeleton remained motionless, like all self-respecting skeletons. As for Oksa, she was diligently bent over her test, her face partly hidden by her hair. But the moment McGraw went back to his marking, she used her power again, even more boldly. This time, the skeleton put its hands on its hips and squatted down, raising one leg after the other, as if performing a traditional Russian dance. Gus elbowed Oksa hard as half the class burst out laughing and the other half waited with bated breath for their terrible teacher’s reaction.

  “In case you’d forgotten, let me remind you that you’re taking a written test!” yelled Dr McGraw immediately. “Why are you clucking like hysterical hens? Miss Guckert, can you give me an explanation?”

  The girl struggled to stop laughing long enough to reply:

  “The skeleton, sir…”

  “Miss Guckert,” sighed McGraw contemptuously, “your answer is not even a proper sentence, let alone a straight answer. The skeleton what?”

  “The skeleton is dancing, sir.”

  “SO WHAT?” bawled McGraw, suddenly slamming his book down on his desk so hard that all the students jumped. “Some boy or girl is playing with the skeleton and not a single one of you is capable of concentrating on your test! Do you think you’re in the school activity centre? Given the standard, I’d say it was more like kindergarten.”

  His sombre glare scanned the class, skating over Oksa as if she didn’t exist. She realized from McGraw’s feigned indifference that he knew she was to blame for this joke, which was intended to provoke him and make him fly off the handle—and this gave her immense pleasure.

  At eleven o’clock, the science lesson was spent in the same way: doing a written test. The sighs were even heavier and the complaints even more audible, which made McGraw literally roar:

  “I am your teacher! I decide how I will run my lesson. If you can’t cope with two written tests in a row, I don’t set much store by your schooling. Your comments and your opposition are the least of my worries. But the next person I hear complaining will get three hours of detention, mark my words. As for you, Mr Bellanger, I haven’t forgotten how much you benefited from sharing a desk with the brilliant Miss Pollock last time… so please go and sit on your own at the back of the class.”

  Stiff as a post and flushed with anger, Gus stood up and went to the desk at the back, trying not to lose his temper. Oksa looked up and glared at McGraw, but he was still avoiding her gaze, preferring to attack Gu
s instead. Which didn’t bode well at all—she didn’t want her friend to suffer instead of her. She turned round and gave him a sign of encouragement before buckling down to her science test. But she was soon distracted by her Curbita-Flatulo, which was squirming on her wrist. “But I’m perfectly calm! What’s wrong with it?” she wondered in amazement. She lifted her sleeve discreetly and saw that her living bracelet was pulling an odd face: its tiny tongue was lolling to one side and its eyes were terribly dull. She stroked it but that didn’t seem to help. Then some rather uncouth, suggestive noises began reverberating furiously around the room. There was no room for any doubt, it sounded like someone breaking wind. Some of the students looked at each other suspiciously, others ventured a snigger. As for McGraw, he raised his head and looked round to see who was producing the loud succession of farts, without managing to discover who was to blame. “Oh no, I forgot its granule!” thought Oksa in a panic. “How stupid can I get? I understand what Abakum meant when he said its displeasure doesn’t go unnoticed… I’ll have to last it out till lunchtime!” And she literally buried herself in her paper, pressing herself flat on her arms to try and muffle the Curbita-Flatulo’s intestinal noises. There was no doubt about it, the Flatulo was aptly named.

  When the bell rang for lunch, the students took only a few seconds to hand in their papers and get their things. Impatient to get away from McGraw as quickly as possible, they all left the room without saying a word to their teacher, except for one or two who never missed an opportunity to ingratiate themselves. Oksa was the fastest out of the classroom. She raced to her locker, where she retrieved the reserve of granules that she’d fortunately kept in case of emergencies. And this was a matter of urgency! The Curbita-Flatulo wolfed down its daily granule and the farting stopped immediately, much to its forgetful mistress’s relief.

  “I’m sorry, Curbita,” murmured Oksa, closing her locker. “I’ll be more careful in future, you can count on me.”