Take care,
Elliot
Dear Elliot
So, I wasn’t even going to look at that parking meter again.
I was totally going to shun it. Even if the parking meter was, like, drowning and calling out, ‘Madeleine! Save me!’ I was just going to shrug, and go, ‘Whatever.’
Even if it asked me to dance.
And I love dancing.
Cause you stood me up in the rain, buddy.
(Also, my mother made me promise never to communicate with Elliot Baranski again.)
But here I am.
What’s that all about?
Your guess is as good as mine.
Well, no, I doubt that actually. My guess would probably be better than yours.
What happened was, I was walking along, keeping my eyes away from the parking meter, but there was a car parked in front of it with its two front seats pushed forward. As if the two seats had just got bad news. The driver’s seat was resting its head on the steering wheel, like, completely overcome by the news.
I was, like, Oh no, guys, what’s wrong, what’s happened? but the seats didn’t say anything. And then I felt I should respect their privacy and so I turned away from them, and there was the parking meter. Right in front of my eyes.
With a REALLY fat envelope in it.
I had to WRENCH it out of the crack.
But I did. I wrenched it. And I read it.
The first thing I want to say is that I’m embarrassed that I gave away my name. So much for being a supercool, superspy, undercover, code-name kinda girl.
So much for protecting my privacy, I guess.
(And I never in my whole life thought of my initials as sounding like ‘empty’. Great. Thanks for that.)
Anyhow, I read your letter, and I started writing a reply in my head, but then a strange thing happened. Something slid sideways into my mind and said: I think it’s real.
And for a moment, I believed in the Kingdom of Cello.
Seriously.
Only for a moment, though. I’m over it now.
Anyhow, so that happened. And then, I’m walking home and I saw two cats. This was in a children’s playground. I stopped at the fence and watched them. They seemed young, like a cat’s whisker (ha ha) past being kittens. They were slender with bright eyes, and they were running side by side, exactly as if they had been choreographed. They slipped in and around the children’s play equipment, flying apart then coming back together. One found an old key on a loop of rope, and they tossed that around for a while. The pattern of their play felt symmetrical, and then I realised that the patterns on their fur felt that way too.
One was black, the other dark grey, but they both had a kind of shimmer of white at exactly the same points on their coats. It was like one was the cat and the other was the shadow of the cat.
I was watching them, and I thought of you and me. How we’re like shadows of each other, or maybe reflections. I ran away from my father; your father ran away from you; but both things have turned out to mean the same thing. That our fathers betrayed us. I’ve betrayed Jack and you’ve betrayed Kala. We’re both secretly afraid that it might be our own fault that we’ve lost our family and friends. We’ve realised how flawed our fathers are, and we think we might be flawed in the same way.
It’s like we’re complementary colours. (Sorry to be talking about colours again.) You know what those are, right? Colours that make each other disappear? So if you cross red with green—or blue with orange, or yellow with purple—you get a pale, pale colour, almost white. (Isaac called it a ‘faint, anonymous colour’.) (I’m not talking about paint here—red and green paint don’t cancel each other out, they just make mud-brown.)
Interestingly, though, if you put complementary colours next to each other, they make each other shine much more brightly. (‘They glow with more than their natural brilliance’, is how Leonardo da Vinci put it.)
I wonder what would happen if you and I met? Would we kill each other off, or make each other glow? Maybe both.
The point of all this is that even though I can’t believe in the Kingdom of Cello, I believe there’s truth in your writing. Maybe the essence of you comes through behind your stories? It’s like, the things you describe have happened to you—or something like them—and you’re translating them into a place called Cello. Maybe your father disappeared, and it’s connected with the colour purple, somehow? So you’ve created a monster out of purple? Maybe he was wearing a purple jacket when he left?
(If it makes you feel any better, they used to make purple dye out of the glandular mucus of a sea snail. So, you know, who likes purple? It’s just snot.)
Anyhow, Jack and Belle are still not talking to me. Well, they say words to me, but they’re the kind of words you’d say to a visiting great-aunt who’s sleeping in your bedroom and frying liver in your kitchen every morning.
Meanwhile, my mother finally went to the doctor. She got referred to a neurologist at Addenbrookes, and they’ve already done a CT scan, which apparently showed some kind of abnormality in her brain, but who knows what that’s all about? (That’s quoting the doctor, apparently—according to my mother. Not sure you can trust her on that.) She’s scheduled for an MRI in a couple of weeks, to find out just what that’s all about.
She says they all just shine lights in her eyes and make her do tests like what’s ten plus ten, or tell her to smile then frown, or they make her close her eyes and touch things and guess what they are. I asked her how she was going in her tests, and she said she got an A+, and I was like, ‘Did the doctor say that?’ and she said, ‘Well, no. But I could tell.’
So who knows?
She told me that she said to the neurologist, ‘Well, what might the problem be?’ and he said, ‘That’s a multiple-choice question.’
I guess we just wait. It feels good to have the professionals take charge. I think the job was kind of beyond me. (And I get the feeling they’re actually a lot more professional than my mother’s painting them. Plus, if there’s an abnormality in her brain, they’ll just, like, operate and take it out, right? That would’ve been totally beyond me. Brain surgery.)
Huh.
Did you catch that?
Something just kind of spun by my eyes, and it was the belief again, that the Kingdom of Cello is real.
(Gone again now.)
Best wishes,
Madeleine
1 The Cellian Herald
Dearest, Sweetest and most Quizzically Sublime Subjects of this! our fine and torrential Kingdom of Cello!
Welcome to this, our thirteenth??? (who knows?!) [Ed: yes, thirteenth] column for that ratbag of a paper, the Cellian Herald! [Ed: we humbly submit that the Princesses here intended to use the word ‘ragtag’, meant as a term of endearment; accordingly, we will not take offence.]
Most apologies, but we are going to be adorably rapid in this column—ah, the fatigue of these last weeks! However, it’s all winding up now, much as our dear brother, Prince Chyba, winds us up sometimes! (That’s Jagged Edge slang for teasing, we believe.)
Oh, Chybs, he’s the greatest, and he’s been in diplomatic talks with our neighbouring Kingdom of Aldhibah for weeks now, which is good of him (although not surprising, considering how Chybs can talk—the Aldhians have probably packed up and gone home and he’s still sitting there, oblivious, talking on and on)—but sometimes we wish that those Aldhians would arrest Chyba and lock him in one of their dungeons for the rest of his life.
Hmm, put like that, it sounds kind of harsh.
Sorry, Chybs! We don’t mean it!
(Hope no Aldhians are reading this!) (Not too worried as nobody in Aldhibah would read the Cellian Herald, right? Cute as the paper may be.) [Ed: the circulation of the Cellian Herald in the Kingdom of Aldhibah is around 775,000.]
Dearest Ones, this, as we said, will be a helter-skelter column—just letting you know that we have completed Olde Quainte (got caught in a strong current while on the seafaring town of Irate,
where the coffee was a little bitter for our taste—otherwise, all good) and we’re now in the thicket of Jagged Edge—loving the excess of night-dwelling here, even if it has turned our body clocks upside down! But . . . as we said . . . our tour is almost at an end.
We can’t wait to hug and tickle our little brother, Prince Tippett. As for our Royal Mother (Queen Lyra, as she is known to all of you) she writes to us from her retreat on the border of Magical North and the Undisclosed Province (where she’s gone to calculate the Kingdom’s finances), she writes that she misses us dearly, and she can’t wait to hug us again!! (She makes no mention of tickling.)
But listen, there’s a point to all of this!
IT’S AN ANNOUNCEMENT!!!
A super-awesome, kick-ass announcement [Ed: the Princess Sisters presumably are not aware that the J.E. slang, ‘kick-ass’ is rather coarse]—
And it is this!
TWO of the three members of the Youth Alliance have been CHOSEN!!!!
Drum roll!
Number One Selection: a boy named SAMUEL HORACE JURGEND, of Twy Eam Peak, in Olde Quainte!
Number Two Selection: a girl named KEIRA J. PLATTER, of Tek, in Jagged Edge!
In relation to Samuel, that was a heartstopper! We were in the Emerald Carriage, riding past the outskirts of Twy Eam Peak, very quiet and respectful, it being a registered Hostile. Suddenly, there was a shout! Several more shouts. The horses picked up speed! What was happening?
It seemed that Samuel, a mere schoolboy of twelve years old, was running after the carriage!
He had prepared an application to join the Youth Alliance, you see, and wanted to deliver it in person!
Unbelievably stupid or brave as a lion, that Samuel—either way, he came so close to getting himself shot!!
Anyhow, we were so taken by his pluck—and by his wire-rimmed spectacles, lace collars and jodhpurs; and by the elegant calligraphy on his application; and by the sheer randomness of a boy from Twy Eam Peak (do you realise how Hostile that place is?!) wanting to join a Royal Youth Alliance (?!?!?)—well, because of all this, we chose him.
So, Samuel is in!
His delight at our decision was heartwarming.
As for Keira, we just chose her today. We were watching an underground motocross championship in Tek here in J.E., and Keira was the winner.
Jupiter and I were charmed. She was selected on the spot.
She seemed surprisingly unimpressed but we take that to be her natural modesty.
WHO WILL BE NEXT?!
Only one more person to choose!
Could it be somebody we are going to meet this very day?
Or could it be a certain boy who lives in a certain town in the Farms, and let’s just say that the town’s name is hot and by the sounds of things, so is this boy himself. His sheriff wrote to us about him, which is adorable. He is burning up a line on my shortlist, anyhow. . .
Or could it be you, sweet reader?! (Assuming you are young. I suppose older people read this paper too. Yes. They would.)
Anyhow, keep the applications coming—
but for now,
we must fly!
more anon.
Yours with Royal Vigour and Pomp
HRH, the Princess Jupiter, and
HRH, the Princess Ko xxx
2
Hector Samuels swung his chair around twice, then three times in the opposite direction.
The newspaper was open on his desk, and he skidded towards it and read it again, laughing aloud.
He picked up the phone.
‘Jimmy? You see it?’
‘See what, Hector?’ There was a crackle and croak in Jimmy’s voice, and Hector remembered himself.
‘Ah, sorry, Jimmy. Still sick, eh? I guess I forgot. Actually, I guess I’m just tired of you being sick. What’s it been now, almost two weeks? Come on, just give that flu a stern talking-to and get well already.’ He laughed.
‘Good to hear you sounding so chipper yourself,’ Jimmy said dryly, before losing himself in a coughing fit. ‘Have I seen what?’
‘The Royal Tour column! The Princess Sisters’ column! They’re talking about us! They must’ve seen my letter, Jimmy, and they’re talking about it in their column!’
‘Seriously? They talk about Bonfire?’
‘Well, it’s not a specific reference as such, but what else could it mean? They say a town in the Farms with a name that is hot. Bonfires are hot! And they mention a boy who lives in this town, which must mean Elliot, cause I talked about him in my letter. They’re hinting they want him for their Youth Alliance!’
There was a pause. Another cough.
‘You’ll get yourself in a world of trouble with Elliot,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘Ah, he’ll be over the moon. Go get the paper and read it! No, hang on, you’re sick, so I’ll read it aloud to you. Better read the whole thing so you get the context. Dearest, sweetest and most—’
‘That’s okay, Hector. I’ll track it down myself. Listen, you hear anything back from Central Intelligence yet?’
Hector chuckled, still happy. ‘Not yet, Jimmy. Seems your theory about those five missing people being in the World has left them speechless. And now I’m thinking—didn’t you come up with that right around the time you got this flu?’
‘What’s your point, Hector?’
‘Fever addled your brain! You want to send a retraction to Central? Try to win back their respect?’
‘I stand by my theory. Central should be following up. Maybe check they got your fax?’
‘Hang on, Jimmy, looks like someone’s coming in. Call you back. Read the column!’
The door jangled open and the Twickleham family appeared.
It seemed to Hector suddenly that the Twickleham family were always appearing at his station door. Always in that formation too: two adults with the little one between, like a row of snowmen he’d seen once. The grown-up Twicklehams did have the roundness of the snowman about them.
Of course, snowmen didn’t usually wear tunics with tights, or floor-length silk dresses with brooches at their collars, or pointy leather shoes, which is how the Twicklehams were dressed today.
‘Call yourself a good morning from us, will you not,’ said Bartholomew Twickleham, and the Sheriff, as usual, found himself uncertain how to respond. Was he to obey and call himself a good morning?
He grinned instead, and slapped the paper on the desk, being too happy for formalities.
‘How the heck are you?’ he said. ‘And little Derrin, now, I like that puppet! I’ll bet you that’s one of Corrie-Lynn’s creations, eh?’
In answer, Derrin held up the wooden puppet she’d been hugging to her chest and had it do a jig and bow in the air.
‘Ah, she’s an angel,’ the Sheriff smiled at her parents. ‘And what can we do for you?’
‘We’ve some news,’ said Bartholomew.
Fleta agreed. ‘We have,’ she said, ‘some news.’
The Sheriff straightened and solemned his face for them.
‘It has come to us that we must leave this good town,’ said Mr Twickleham, ‘for the fair was to save us, and as to a serpent in a kiwifruit, it did not.’
‘It did not,’ agreed his wife.
‘Well, now,’ said the Sheriff. ‘I am sorry to hear this.’
‘And so we have resumed our Olde Quainte style of dress,’ Fleta added.
‘Ah.’ The Sheriff nodded.
Derrin sat on the floor and played with the puppet, while Mr and Mrs Twickleham explained what had happened at the fair.
It seemed that certain young people had been in charge of placement of the stalls—which had surprised the Twicklehams, rather. But it seemed that these young people—Cody and Gabe were their names—had arranged for the Twickleham stall to be placed in the furthest corner, in the shadow of the circus tent, where none but the most intrepid explorer in search of electronics repair could find it!
‘We waited all day,’ said Mrs Twickleham sadly. ‘With all our b
aked treats, and our little gadgets meant for the children, and our flyers in multiple colours, so full of hope! But not a soul came by! And when Bartholomew set out, strident, with his megaphone, to shout up interest, well . . .’
‘Whenever I tried to shout, music started up! Drowning my words! Every time! Until I had to give up.’
‘Later,’ added Mrs Twickleham, ‘we learned that it was certain young people—Shelby and Nikki to be precise—well, they were in charge of the music, if you will know it.’
‘I will know it,’ murmured Hector absently.
‘And so we have already been out to the Baranski Farm this day, to tell Petra Baranski we must needs leave the shop. And we head off tomorrow.’
‘So sudden!’ cried Hector.
‘It is the timing of coincidence,’ said Fleta. ‘Our friend, some might think our only friend here—aside from you, Hector—our friend Olivia Hattoway, that is Derrin’s teacher, is driving home to see her family in Jagged Edge tomorrow. As the school vacation has begun. She suggested we ride with her to Olde Quainte. Not exactly a direct route for her but a visit in our province will break up her trip.’
‘And she’ll have our company,’ said Mr Twickleham, ‘for the ride.’
Hector sighed.
‘That does make sense,’ he said, ‘but I blame myself for all this. I meant to talk to Elliot and his friends, and never did.’
‘Oh, now,’ murmured the Twicklehams.
They turned to the window, and both laughed a little bitterly.
‘And isn’t he always there! Does the boy not know it is the vacation time at the school?’
Hector looked, and sure enough, across the road in the empty high-school grounds, Elliot was standing near the sculpture again.
While they watched, he moved away from it, sat on a bench, took out a notepad, and began to write.
‘Well now.’ The Twicklehams turned back. ‘So we wanted to let you know this sorryful news, but also, we wondered if our application for money from the Red Wave Damage Fund had been processed. Not to be hurrying you, but . . .’
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