The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘Esther Mettlestone-Staranise!’ Principal Hortense exclaimed, shaking her head. She stirred her tea vigorously. ‘Yes, there are accountants there now. That aside, you’ve given me a shock, Esther,’ she said. (Easily shocked, she is.) ‘That’s two questions asked without raising your hand! What sort of impression can you be making on our new teacher? For I noticed Mrs Pollock slipping in the back door of the dining hall a moment ago and she’s been standing there all this time! Mrs Pollock! Do come up to the teachers’ table!’

  I turned around, and there she was, staring straight at me.

  Our new teacher.

  Mrs Pollock.

  Mrs Pollock was short.

  Short as a sheep.

  Ha. No. Not that short. But as short as a ten-year-old child, anyway.

  Curly, grey hair. Glasses with square frames. Wrinkly face. Scrawny little body with knobbly elbows and shoulders. Blue cardigan.

  And she was staring at me.

  The whole dining hall was silent. It was her. At first, we’d all frozen—spoons hovering, hands stopped just short of the croissants—then slowly, slowly we had turned to stare.

  ‘Esther, is it?’ Mrs Pollock said. Her voice was much stronger than her little scrawniness suggested. ‘Esther Mettlestone-Staranise? Is that the name I heard Principal Hortense use?’

  I only stared. To speak would have been impossible.

  The light sparked off the lenses of her glasses so I could not see her eyes.

  ‘Well, is it? Is your name Esther?’

  I carried on staring. Rabbits do the same thing if you catch them with your lamplight. Freeze in place. I was being a rabbit. Embarrassing. But nothing I could do.

  ‘Good gracious, do you not know your name, child?’

  A long pause.

  Then the strangest thing happened.

  Mrs Pollock pulled a silly face.

  Mouth stretched down, lips pouting. The kind of face a child pulls to annoy a parent who is trying to photograph them.

  ‘Do we not know our names at this school?’ she demanded, and she twisted her face from that silly expression to another, and then another—the way you do to make a baby giggle. ‘Is it just Esther who’s lost her name, or have you all misplaced them? The same way I misplaced my bobbled woollen gloves last spring? Loved those gloves, just loved them!’

  And she grinned.

  Everyone burst out laughing.

  ‘Morning, everybody!’ Mrs Pollock shouted, making her way between the tables, slapping people’s hands as she passed—like an athlete greeting a crowd after winning a game. ‘Morning! Morning! So happy to be here! Can’t wait to meet my Grade 6 class! Honestly, cannot wait!’

  When she reached the teacher’s table, Mr Dar-Healey hopped up, and pulled back a chair for her. She sat at the table, gave us all one more comical face—we burst out laughing again—and said, ‘Carry on eating! Don’t mind me!’

  For the remainder of breakfast, words went zooming around the dining hall, only this time they weren’t like a cat, they were like a flock of noisy birds.

  Every bird was chirping, ‘She’s tiny! She can’t be an Ogre! Ogres are huge!’

  And: ‘She’s nice! Mrs Pollock is nice!’ and ‘She’s funny! Mrs Pollock is funny!’

  Also:

  ‘It was just a rumour! Don’t listen to rumours! There must be other people who live on Horseshoe Island beside Ogres!’

  The excitement made us giggle and squawk, spill drinks and grab each other’s forearms. It made us eat our cereal and toast, our poached eggs, our bacon and our beans, with great appetite.

  ‘Girls!’ Principal Hortense cried, standing up suddenly. A piece of toast fell from her mouth to her table. ‘Oh, I forgot I was eating,’ she added, surprised. She brushed herself down. ‘Everyone! Attention! We have welcomed our new teacher, but we must also welcome two new girls!’

  People began to quiet, watching her with interest.

  ‘Both have joined Grade 6!’ Principal Hortense declared. ‘Can you stand up for us, new girls?’ A scraping of chairs at our table and we gazed at our new girls proudly. ‘Everyone! Welcome, Autumn Hillside and Pelagia Blue!’

  Pelagia! A mysterious name, just as good as Autumn’s. I wondered if new girls were only allowed at the school this year if they had unusual names.

  Autumn held herself very still, her shoulders back, expression grave, dark hair glowing in the morning light. Pelagia beamed around, crinkling her little snail shell nose.

  ‘What else have I forgotten?’ Principal Hortense asked, suddenly serious and staring hard at the new girls.

  Both girls blinked and stared back.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Pelagia ventured.

  ‘I know!’ The principal was excited again. ‘One final announcement, everyone! Sit down, Autumn and Pelagia! I should have told you all yesterday! Turns out, there have been some sightings of Shadow Mages in our—oh my goodness, the new girls might not know what Shadow Mages are!’ Principal Hortense’s mouth opened in an ‘O’ at this idea. ‘They might not even know how magic works hereabouts! They could be from the northern climes! Are you from the northern climes, girls?’

  Both Autumn and Pelagia shook their heads and murmured, ‘No,’ but Principal Hortense carried on. ‘Right, we have to tell you how magic works here in the southern climes. It’s quite different. Who can tell our new girls the three types of magic user?’

  I remembered to raise my hand.

  ‘Yes, Esther?’

  ‘True Mages, Spellbinders, and Shadow Mages.’

  ‘Correct! And what do True Mages do?’

  ‘They practise bright magic,’ I explained. ‘Spells for things like healing, love, kindness, poetry, wealth, music—’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Esther. Examples of True Mages? Somebody else?’

  Several hands flew up.

  ‘Faeries, Crystal Faeries, Elves,’ a Grade 5 girl said.

  I could have added more, but Principal Hortense was moving on.

  ‘Number two is Spellbinders!’ she cried. ‘Do you know what Spellbinders are, new girls?’

  Autumn and Pelagia both nodded firmly. Pelagia even called, ‘Yes,’ and started to explain Spellbinding, but Principal Hortense was pointing at Hetty Rattlestone, whose hand was flapping around like a pigeon.

  ‘Spellbinders are regular people who happen to be born with the gift of Spellbinding,’ Hetty declared. ‘You know you have the gift if your toenails turn blue. Spellbinders are good because they can bind the wicked magic of Shadow Mages. Esther wishes she could be—’

  Principal Hortense leapt in. ‘And finally, Shadow Mages! They practise Shadow Magic, of course. Now, usually they stay far from the mountains around here, but this is what I have to tell you. A warning. Shadow Mages have been spotted around our neighbourhood.’

  Eyes widened. Mouths fell open. Shadow Mages around here? Impossible!

  Principal Hortense nodded. ‘Impossible, yes, I’d have thought so too. Still, I’ve been told they’re migrating lately. Something to do with a river overflowing its banks somewhere? Anyhow, let’s tell the new girls some examples of Shadow Mages!’

  Before anybody could reply, Principal Hortense herself began to list Shadow Mages in a ringing voice: ‘Radish Gnomes! They have long claws that can rip you apart. Sterling Silver Foxes! They’ll steal your laughter, which is profoundly painful and can kill you. Ghouls! Most terrifying of all, and will crush your very soul with a little finger. Witches! Oh, they’ll break every bone in your body for a laugh. Odd sense of humour, those Witches. Plenty more Shadow Mages, of course, so do keep an eye out. But don’t worry! We’ll be fine!’

  And she sat back down amidst a stricken, wide-eyed silence.

  ‘Did I do that wrong?’ she asked the teacher beside her.

  Along the table, little Mrs Pollock replied loudly: ‘That depends. Was your intention to scare the wits out of them, possibly causing fainting fits? If so, you were perfect.’

  ‘I was?’ Principal Horte
nse replied, pleased. Then her face fell. ‘Oh.’

  There were giggles.

  Mrs Pollock herself stood up then. ‘Girls!’ she said. ‘I come from far away myself, but I hear you have many True Mages living in the mountains around here! Now, what do Shadow Mages think of True Mages?

  ‘They hate them!’ several girls called.

  Mrs Pollock nodded. ‘Shadow Mages might have been spotted wandering around the mountains, sure,’ she told us. ‘I honestly don’t think they’ll stay.’

  Then she squeezed her nostrils shut, flapped at the air, and spoke in a high-pitched, squeaky voice: ‘Shadow Mages find True Mages to be very stinky!’

  And she grinned.

  There was a great burst of laughter, and little Mrs Pollock sprinted up and down between the tables once again, slapping everyone’s palm with her own. She even did the same at the teachers’ table.

  We drank the last of our juice, pushed back our chairs, scraped off our plates and set off to class.

  ‘Good luck with Mrs Pollock!’ Imogen joked, when I passed her at the doorway. I laughed.

  When I waved at Astrid though, she was frowning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I called.

  She looked startled.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Just—I forgot my pencils.’

  Which was an odd thing to say, because the teachers always hand out our stationery on the first day of class. But Astrid had gone before I could remind her. She’s always been a bit scatty.

  The first thing that Mrs Pollock did was hop up on her desk. We all stared. There she stood, hands on hips, gazing up at the ceiling fan.

  ‘So this,’ she said, ‘is what it’s like to be tall.’

  She clambered back down and sat on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs. ‘Why do you all look so confused?’ she cried. ‘I just wanted to know! I’m tiny!’

  Everyone giggled.

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Pollock said, ‘this one here already knows.’ She pointed to Durba, the tallest girl in the class—she’s almost as tall as my father. ‘What’s your name? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. Is it Giraffe? Telegraph pole? Am I getting warm?’

  Again, everyone giggled.

  ‘It’s Durba,’ Durba smiled.

  ‘Strange,’ Mrs Pollock said. ‘I’d have sworn it was Tree. Shall we change your name to Tree?’

  Durba shook her head, chuckling.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Mrs Pollock shrugged. She hopped off the desk and scampered over to Durba. ‘How about something like this?’ she said. She gestured for Durba to raise her right palm, slapped this with her own palm, spun in place, clapped her hands above her head—and waited, expectantly.

  Durba stared.

  We all did.

  ‘It’s a high five!’ Mrs Pollock told us. ‘A personalised high five! Only Durba’s supposed to do what I just did too. You must all invent one just for you! That’s how I’ll greet you and how I’ll say goodbye each day.’

  We spent until morning tea working on our ‘high-five greeting’, and practising these with Mrs Pollock. Each person’s was different. There were clicking fingers, pirouettes, fist bumps, and wiggling fingers. Mine included swinging hips and a lip-popping sound.

  It was the best first morning back at school I’d ever had.

  After morning tea, we lined up to go back into the classroom and Mrs Pollock remembered every single one of our high fives.

  ‘About me,’ she said. ‘I was a teacher for many years, then I retired here …’ She grabbed chalk and drew five circles on the board. ‘The Candle Islands. I lived on this one.’ She tapped at the smallest circle. ‘Horseshoe Island. Shaped a bit like a horsesh—hmm.’

  She rubbed out the circle, and redrew it in a horseshoe shape. ‘That’s better. Not much there. An inn. A few cottages. And living in caves carved out by the sea? A colony of Ogres. So, it turns out, Durba-the-giraffe, I have seen people taller than you before! Much, much taller!’

  We all laughed, entranced.

  ‘These Candle Islands are about a two-hour boat ride from the Kingdom of Storms.’ She drew a rough sketch of the coastline. ‘And my job was to ferry tourists across from the town of Spindrift. Fresh air. Sun on my face. Loved it. But do you know what I love more?’

  We waited in suspense.

  ‘Teaching! Teaching kids like you! Missed it too much, didn’t I? So here I am back again!’

  She erased her drawings, and wrote this:

  A LETTER.

  As the chalk scratched along, she spoke aloud. ‘Your turn,’ she said, and turned to grin at us. ‘Write me a letter of introduction. Tell me what your name is. Tell me if you’re happy with your name! Or do you think it’s a crappy name?’ Everyone laughed in shock. She’d used the word crappy! She carried on as if nothing had happened. ‘And tell me—’

  ALL ABOUT YOU.

  Where you are from?

  Your family.

  Your friends.

  Your hobbies/talents.

  A secret!

  She replaced the chalk, dusted off her hands, and handed out papers and pencils.

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, suddenly annoyed. ‘What are you waiting for? Don’t you think it’s time I got to know you? Begin!’

  Dear Mrs Pollock, I’m delighted to meet you.

  My name is Esther Mettlestone-Staranise. I suppose I’m happy with my name, but it’s the only one I’ve ever had. If you’d like to call me something else, please do.

  Maybe: Peppermint Teaspoon-Radishbone? Or Ohmygoodness Lollipop-the-bus-to-Mathematicsclassislate?

  Where am I from? Thank you for asking. I’m from Blue Chalet Village, which is two hours east of here by coach. It’s a tiny village, nestled amidst the dramatic landscape of the Tinderbox Alps.

  Nights, when I’m home, I gaze through my bedroom window at the moonlit peak of Mount Opal. Dragons often swoop by, crossing its silhouette—silent, graceful—and I wish I could be swooping along with them.

  In winter, my village decks itself out in starbursts and paper lanterns for the Festival of Snow. It’s magical, even if chilly.

  In spring, it rains and I walk the streets and laneways, water streaming down my shoulders and dripping into my shoes. The mountainside grows colourful with wildflowers and Father strides about pointing out their names. Astrid gathers bouquets to bring home for Mother, which Mother throws away as she’s allergic.

  In summer, my sisters and I climb the sycamores, swim in the lake, and buy iced melon treats in the village square.

  My family? My father is Nigel Staranise, a Professor of History (Modern and Classical) at Clybourne University, and the author of over twenty-five popular history texts. Father is funny, kind and easy to beat at word games. You’d think he’d be great at those, as an author, but when it’s his turn, he’s always lost in thought—and when you tug at his sleeve, he apologises and says, ‘Right, whose turn is it?’ By which time, his two-minute timeslot is over.

  Then he sighs: ‘Oh, well, better luck next time, me.’

  My mother is Nancy Mettlestone, and she is very professional but I’m honestly not sure what her profession is. I know she met Father at university where they were both studying history and that her current job has to do with committees and home-made lemonade. She is fairly friendly except when we do sports without ‘putting our whole heart into it’ or break the refrigerator door. (I was only swinging on it gently.)

  I have two sisters: Imogen and Astrid. Imogen can be bossy and Astrid can be scatty, but it’s not like I don’t have any faults of my own.

  For example, I often run out into the school grounds when it rains. I like to take my shoes and stockings off and squelch in mud or wade in the pond. Once I wore a watering can on my head for a week. Another time, I collected several cups of rainwater and kept them under my bed (until a ball rolled under, knocked them over and ruined a carpet).

  My friends? Well, my best friends are Hsiang and Georgia, but they’ve just left the school.

  My hob
bies/talents? My favourite things in the world are:

  Reading books (favourite author is G.A. Thunderstrike)

  Writing stories (my all-time favourite thing)

  Playing poker

  Poker is a card game with a lot of pretending. You pretend you have great cards, when they’re actually crappy, and same in reverse. A big part of winning is knowing when other people are lying.

  Imogen and I are good at this, and Astrid is the best. She’s so good that the local paper did a story on her last year. ‘IS THIS CHILD A MIND-READER?’ was the headline. Mother’s the only person who can beat Astrid.

  We’ve won the K&E Junior Title the last four years in a row, and I’m especially excited about this year’s competition because it will be held in Gainsleigh. My cousin Bronte, who is a great adventurer, lives there and we’ll get to visit her.

  The final thing you ask for is a secret!

  Hmm. Okay, I’ve got one.

  In my family, there are Spellbinders! You’re never supposed to reveal Spellbinders’ identities, so I can’t tell you their names, sorry. But it makes me feel special knowing there’s Spellbinding in my blood. Maybe I could be one???

  Looking forward to your reply!

  Warmest wishes,

  Esther

  Mr Dar-Healey made an announcement at dinner that night.

  You might remember that Mr Dar-Healey is Imogen’s teacher? Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten. I told you quite a few chapters ago.

  Anyhow, Mr Dar-Healey got up from the teacher’s table and began to dance.

  Two steps forward, two back, swinging his hips.

  When other teachers want your attention they clap their hands once and say, ‘Girls?’ Mr Dar-Healey is different.

  By the time he’d danced a while, everyone was looking at him and giggling. He’s youngish, Mr Dar-Healey, but his forehead is very high. (That’s the polite way of saying he’s already going bald, Father says.) He has warm brown skin and his eyes are as bright as sunshine on a pond.