The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Between my perimeter checks, I did homework. On Friday, Mrs Pollock had asked us to write a narrative account of a true event.

  ‘It can be something that happened to you,’ Mrs Pollock had told us. ‘Or something you read about in the news! Bring it to life for your readers!’

  The narrative account that I wrote for this assignment is Part 1 of this book. Which means you’ve already read my narrative account. (Unless you skipped Part 1? But why would you do that?)

  Don’t worry about flicking back. I’ll remind you.

  The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst.

  I have a cousin, Bronte, who is an adventurer. Her best friend is named Alejandro, and Bronte met him after he’d escaped from a pirate ship. Recently, Bronte and Alejandro discovered that Alejandro is, in fact, the Stolen Prince of the Kingdom of Storms.

  It had all been in the news, so I decided it was the perfect topic for my narrative account. I would make it suspenseful, exciting and descriptive.

  ShouldImentionthatIhadmetAlejandromyself?I wondered. And that Bronte is my cousin?

  Yes, I decided. I should.

  When Hetty did her speech about her family tree, Mrs Pollock had said: ‘You made your project so much more interesting by bringing yourself into it! You shared the remarkable connections you have to such important people!’

  Sunday night, after my perimeter check, I stayed up until 2 am finishing the narrative account.

  This time, I thought, I’d get an A+ for sure.

  Day 8 – Monday

  No suspicious activity. I handed in the narrative account.

  Day 9 – Tuesday

  During my midnight check, I stumbled on a coven of Witches.

  There was a bright silver moon, a strong, chilly wind, and fifteen or twenty Witches, both women and men, in a clearing. They were having a singalong around a fire.

  I knew they were Witches because they wore strings of beads and socks with sandals. Many of them were stroking their black cats and singing softly. Harmonising.

  I crept backwards, bumped into a tree, bit my lip to stop myself gasping.

  I decided to climb the tree.

  Tricky to climb quietly. Leaves rustle, twigs snap. But it was a blustery night, as I mentioned, and the Witches were singing.

  Once I’d reached a high branch, I straddled it and, shivering, looked down on the clearing.

  The song had finished. One Witch, a man in a woollen beanie with a pompom, carried on humming softly. The Witch beside him nudged him. ‘Hush.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  A Witch leaned forward and stoked up the fire, shifting it about with a stick. Another coughed and rubbed her eyes—the smoke was blowing directly towards her.

  ‘After this,’ said the Witch with the stick, ‘we’ll Spell the school. They’ll all be sleeping now. Let’s rock the building so they tumble out of their beds.’

  ‘Really rock them hard, though, so their bones break when they fall.’

  ‘Yes, and then we’ll have wardrobes and things fall on them.’

  They all chuckled and murmured agreement.

  Witches find pranks like this hilarious. Their victims are usually less amused.

  What else did I know about Witches?

  Come on, come on! Think!

  Their favourite food is sticky jam buns?

  That was not much help.

  I didn’t have any sticky jam buns, did I?

  Think, think.

  Of course, I knew that more than any of the Shadow Mages, they were—

  And I could …

  Should I?

  Risky.

  I reached into my hessian sack again, and this time I drew out a paper bag.

  Crackle, crackle, went the paper.

  A Witch glanced up. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Wind in the leaves.’

  At that moment, a gust of wind rushed by me. I opened the paper bag, shook it—

  Rose petals soared into the night sky.

  Come on, come on, I coaxed the petals.

  ‘Oh!’ One of the Witches brushed her shoulder. ‘Something hit me! What is that?’

  I reached into the sack again, and drew out the xylophone. Had to rummage around for a while to find the mallet and I could hear Witches saying, ‘It is a rose petal—there’s another one.’

  I raised the mallet and hit the xylophone as gently as I could.

  Ding!

  I hit a few more keys. Ding. Ding! Ding.

  ‘Xylophone!’ a Witch blazed.

  ‘Rose petals and xylophones! Those Crystal Faeries! They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘But the school! I so wanted to inflict some fractures tonight!’

  ‘Not worth it. I’m retching just thinking about Crystals.’

  ‘All right. Stamp out that fire, would you?’

  And the Witches gathered their things and set off through the forest, grumbling.

  Crystal Faeries are always scattering rose petals and playing xylophones.

  And Shadow Mages, especially Witches, find Crystal Faeries teeth-achingly irritating.

  Day 10 – Wednesday

  At lunchtime, a fifth-grader named Carla found my jacket and brought it to me.

  ‘Esther, look what I found!’ she said, handing it over importantly. ‘Your coat! It was hanging over the back wall of the school! Aren’t you the silliest?’

  She expected me to be grateful, too. This was as irritating as Crystal Faeries.

  Before dance class began, I told Stefan about the new rules in the speech competition.

  He frowned. ‘What are you talking about? New rules?’

  ‘Certain topics are forbidden,’ I explained. ‘Ants, orange seeds, pomegranate seeds, pumpkin seeds, toenail clippings and magic.’

  Stefan grinned.

  It did sound like a joke.

  ‘Maybe edit your speech?’ I suggested. ‘Instead of comparing the stories of Fiends with today’s Shadow Magic, just make it all about the Fiends?’

  Stefan was still grinning. It was good to see him smiling, but this was important. I didn’t want him getting disqualified.

  ‘Right, everybody!’ Ms Potty called from the stage. ‘Line up in positions! Find your partners!’ She sounded snuffly. I think she had a cold.

  I was shaking my head at Stefan. ‘It’s not a joke,’ I scolded. ‘My class couldn’t vote for me because my speech was on magic.’

  Stefan raised a single eyebrow. He’s quite good at that—I think he practises. ‘Wait here,’ he told me, and away he wove, through the crowds of boys and girls. A few were lined up ready to dance, but most were chatting. The girls were excitable because the Fundraising Weekend would take place in just two days, and the boys were always excitable.

  Stefan climbed up onto the stage and approached Ms Potty, who was rummaging in her handbag. She pulled out a handkerchief then turned to him. They spoke earnestly. Stefan looked over at me. He waved.

  What did he mean by that? Annoying.

  ‘What?’ I mouthed.

  ‘There are no new rules,’ he shouted. ‘No topic is banned!’

  ‘EVERYBODY LINE UP IN POSITIONS AND DANCE!!!’ Ms Potty shrieked.

  Stefan winced, covered his ears, and grinned over at me.

  I did not grin back.

  During my midnight check, I dealt with an attack from a couple of drunken Sirens. I pretended to be a wolf in the undergrowth. Sirens love wolves for some reason. These two chased me through the forest for over an hour, calling and singing, begging me to slow down so they could pet me. Eventually, they slipped on a slick of mud, landed on their backs, laughed hysterically and decided that, now they were down, they might as well have a sleep.

  Back at school, I washed myself of mud and grass as quietly as I could, changed my nightgown, went to bed and had the dream five times in a row.

  After that, I lay awake for a while.

  The speech competition crept into my head and stayed there. If Stefan
was right, and there were no rules about topics, then the class might have voted for me.

  It was too late now of course: they had voted for Hetty, and she’d been dragging dresses out of her wardrobe each evening, holding them up and saying, ‘This one? Should I wear this in the contest? Will my speech sound its best in turquoise or aqua?’

  ‘That’s actually my dress you’ve got there,’ Dot Pecorino had whispered, at one point. Hetty pretended not to hear her, dropping Dot’s dress to the floor and turning back to the wardrobe.

  So I couldn’t ask for the class to vote again. Should I let Mrs Pollock know she’d made a mistake? Maybe I could be a back-up speaker, in case Hetty got sick?

  In the morning, I decided, I would do that.

  Day 11 – Thursday

  However, the next morning, Mrs Pollock was in a giddy mood. She performed our high fives three times each, having us march out of the classroom and back in again for this purpose.

  ‘Tomorrow night!’ she reminded us. ‘Tomorrow night is the twilight picnic! The Fundraising Weekend is … about … to … begin!’

  She galloped around the classroom, whinnying like a horse.

  Everyone laughed and shouted, ‘Hooray!’

  I myself had a headache.

  As well as galloping, Mrs Pollock was neighing, rearing into the air, pretending to munch on carrots, and shaking her hair about as if it was a mane. I didn’t see how I could interrupt her to tell her she’d made a mistake about the speech competition rules. I tried to laugh along so I wouldn’t look like a bad sport, but to be honest, it wasn’t very funny. And my head felt like someone was smashing it with tambourines.

  When Mrs Pollock finally settled down, she said, ‘All right! Let’s rehearse our song again! Everyone ready? And—oh, wait, before we do that, I have your narrative accounts to hand back. Great work on these, everyone! I loved them!’

  Oh, good! I thought, smiling. She loved them! I’m going to get A+!

  That would help to make up for the speech contest.

  She handed back our narrative accounts.

  If you have a good memory, you already know what she wrote on mine. If not, here it is again:

  Esther, yes, I have read much of this story, or its basic facts anyway, in the newspapers. You have not made them more interesting here. Worse, you have tried to put yourself in the story. You might be related to some of these interesting people, but that does not make YOU interesting. Do not put yourself in stories where you do not belong.

  Also, do not begin sentences with the words ‘And’ or ‘But’. Do not break your sentences and paragraphs into pieces; it makes your tale very disjointed. Do not boast by saying that your asides are ‘helpful’—that is not becoming.

  I see that you stayed up until after midnight doing your homework. Dreadful behaviour. DEMERIT. As this is your third demerit, please attend Detention on Friday evening as punishment.

  Finally, you began this story with the words, ‘Long ago, far away, on a damp and sniffly day’. Please write out the following, 100 times:

  A DAY CANNOT BE ‘SNIFFLY’

  C–

  Here is the strange thing.

  When I read this, I didn’t feel anything.

  Not angry, not upset, not shocked.

  Even though a moment before I’d been imagining an A+, well, I think I’d only been pretending to myself.

  A deeper part of me had known it would be like this.

  I still wasn’t sure what a ‘detention’ was, but nothing mattered anyway.

  Nothing except sleep.

  All I wanted was to sleep.

  I gazed around the classroom at the other girls, many of them exclaiming, ‘I got an A!’ or ‘Oh, B plus! Nice!’ and my eyes accidentally landed on Mrs Pollock.

  She was studying me. And she was smiling a quiet, thoughtful smile.

  I blinked.

  At the end of lunch, after I’d sprinted through my perimeter check, I found another envelope in my mailbox.

  This time I didn’t leap to it, imagining a letter from Georgia or Hsiang, or my father or mother.

  I wandered sleepily over and took it out. Once again, there was only my name on the envelope, no address or stamps.

  I opened it.

  Esther,

  Re: Your Detention

  As you know, you have three demerits and now have a Detention on Friday night.

  Please report to the upper teachers’ lounge this Friday, and remain there from 6 until 9 pm. I will leave mathematics worksheets on the table for you to complete.

  Mrs Pollock

  I frowned and put the letter in my pocket.

  When the bell had rung for afternoon tea that day, I paused on my way out of the classroom. I was blocking the doorway and girls had to push their way around me, but I was too tired to step aside. Eventually, I turned back and stood at Mrs Pollock’s desk. She was busy scribbling.

  ‘Esther,’ she said, looking up and smiling kindly. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘The note about the detention—’ I began.

  Mrs Pollock smiled more broadly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You mean next Friday night, I suppose? Not tomorrow night?’

  ‘Why would I mean next Friday night?’ She imitated my voice when she repeated the words, making it sound high-pitched and babyish.

  ‘Well, you can’t mean tomorrow night?’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mrs Pollock pulled one of her clown faces. ‘And why can I not mean that?’

  ‘The twilight picnic,’ I explained, smiling at her funny face. It was all right. She was joking.

  ‘And?’

  Or perhaps she was not joking.

  ‘But I would miss—’

  ‘You will miss the twilight picnic,’ Mrs Pollock nodded. ‘Yes, dear. You will miss the songs, the cakes, the Elves, the games. You will miss it all. This is called a punishment, Esther. Do you know what a punishment is?’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Well, do you?’

  I nodded slowly.

  ‘Right then, dear. High five, and off you go! Afternoon tea time! Enjoy!’ She smiled, and turned back to her papers.

  Day 12 – Friday

  Once, long ago, when my sisters and I were playing at home, we took turns rolling each other up in the living room carpet. It was very fun and mildly scary, being tightly wrapped in the soft-yet-prickly darkness and then standing up and being shoved around the room. What happens is, you bump into furniture and tip over but you’re (mostly) protected by the carpet, and your sisters make sure you don’t smash through a window. You become confused and disoriented and then your mother comes in and roars at you to stop.

  That’s a bit how I felt. As if I’d been rolled up in a carpet. Only this time I had to carry it around myself, rather than be shoved about by my sisters, and there were no giggles, and no mother angrily unrolling me.

  Everything was blurred and heavy, I mean.

  I did my checks and perimeter walks. I brushed my teeth and braided my hair. I joined in rehearsals for the song I wouldn’t be singing, and helped tidy our classroom and hang samples of our schoolwork and crafts around the walls, ready for other girls’ parents. I watched as other girls’ parents began to arrive.

  Many parents were coming for the Fundraising Weekend. They would attend the twilight picnic, then stay at the inn in town, returning for the Art Show, classroom visits and evening auction the next day.

  My sisters had both arrived back from their trips at breakfast time. I waved, and they waved back, but they were surrounded by friends who wanted to hear their stories. Both Imogen and Pelagia had won medals in the swimming tournament, and Astrid had ‘impressed international leaders with her astute powers of observation’. (I knew this because Principal Hortense had told us all, very emotionally, while we ate our eggs.)

  At the Grade 6 table, we had all smiled at Pelagia and congratulated her. Her skin was darkly suntanned and her eyes were bloodshot. From chlorine, I guessed.

  ‘Was it fun?’ I ask
ed.

  Pelagia shrugged. ‘It was fun spending time with Imogen and Mr Dar-Healey,’ she replied.

  ‘Tell us all about it!’ Hetty demanded, and everyone grinned, ready for Pelagia’s stories.

  But Pelagia shook her head. ‘What’s been happening here?’ she asked instead.

  After breakfast, I was busy with my regular checks, and my sisters were busy rehearsing and preparing for the twilight picnic with their own grades. There was no chance to tell them about my detention. And although the carpet wrapped around me was heavy, I also felt safe and warm inside it. Telling my sisters might have been like unwrapping a little of the carpet, letting in the cold.

  (You understand that the carpet was imaginary, I hope.)

  I’m not sure I understood this completely that Friday. I could see it so clearly—navy blue with rows of tiny yellow flowers stitched around its borders—and I could feel its tickly texture and solid weight.

  At 6 pm, I walked upstairs to the Teachers’ Lounge and knocked. Nobody answered, of course, as all the teachers were outside setting up for the Twilight Picnic. I pushed open the door, looked around the empty room, and saw a stack of mathematics worksheets on the coffee table. For Esther, said a note on top of these papers. A pencil and eraser sat alongside.

  Over the next three hours, as I worked through the questions, hopping up now and then to stare through the window at the distant lanterns, the busy crowds of girls, teachers and parents, the tables of cakes, pastries and fruits, the tiny stages where Elves were performing their comedy shows—and hearing the distant, muffled sounds of people laughing at the Elves, the faint melody of each Grade performing its song, the loud applause that followed the songs and then, for the longest time, the gentler sound of a string quartet playing, while teaspoons clinked against plates, conversation and laughter floating wistfully on the breeze—

  —as all that happened, I told myself that my carpet was actually magic, a flying carpet, and that, if I flung open the window, unrolled my carpet, and sat on it, it would fly me far from here, far into the star-filled sky.

  At 9 pm, the door opened and Mrs Pollock put her head in.

  ‘Hello, Esther,’ she said, beaming. ‘I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson now. Go on to bed. Sweet dreams!’