Daisy Malone and the Blue Glowing Stone

by James O'Loghlin

  About Daisy Malone and the Blue Glowing Stone

  Someone has to save the world and that someone is DAISY MALONE.

  It’s Daisy’s 12th birthday but she’s got more earth-shattering things on her mind. Her father is scared of everything, her mother has disappeared, and she and her dog Ben (a highly intelligent, talking dog – his words!) have just found a mysterious blue glowing stone in the attic.

  But what is it, and why does everyone want it?

  Contents

  Cover

  About Daisy Malone and the Blue Glowing Stone

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: A Walk in the Forest

  Chapter 2: The Kid Down the Street

  Chapter 3: A Brief Visit

  Chapter 4: A Glow in the Attic

  Chapter 5: An Unusual Present

  Chapter 6: Lollies and a Phone Call

  Chapter 7: The Truth About Running

  Chapter 8: An Uncomfortable Ride

  Chapter 9: Cream Buns

  Chapter 10: Brian Malone

  Chapter 11: Gloomy Gulch

  Chapter 12: A Surprising Neck

  Chapter 13: Into the Underground

  Chapter 14: Evil is Fun

  Chapter 15: Sad, Not Bad

  Chapter 16: Deeper Down

  Chapter 17: Difficult Decisions

  Chapter 18: Alone in the Dark

  Chapter 19: Unwanted Company

  Chapter 20: More About the Stones

  Chapter 21: Chasing Gamion

  Chapter 22: Unexpected Help

  Chapter 23: Out in the Open

  Chapter 24: A Farewell

  Acknowledgements

  About James O’Loghlin

  Also by James O’Loghlin

  Copyright page

  To Bibi, Nina and Lily

  Chapter 1

  A WALK IN THE FOREST

  One Sunday afternoon at the start of the school holidays Daisy Malone was lying peacefully on her bed reading with her dog Ben when her father’s voice entered the room, turned left, paused for a moment to admire the view out the window and then continued across to Daisy.

  ‘I’m just popping down the street, darling,’ it said in a more uncertain and higher-pitched voice than you would normally expect from a dad. ‘Maybe you should come with me. I mean, what if something bad happens? What if there’s a fire, or an earthquake, or something else that I haven’t even thought of like giant coconuts falling out of the sky? Coconuts are very hard, you know. Will you be all right by yourself?’

  ‘No, I won’t be, because obviously I’m so little and helpless that you have to treat me like I’m a baby,’ Daisy replied not quite loudly enough for her voice to get all the way back to her father in the kitchen. She threw a glance at Ben, who rolled his eyes theatrically and very quietly did a dog fart.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Dad,’ Daisy said more loudly and sweetly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ returned Brian Malone’s anxious voice.

  ‘Yes I’m su– Orrrr! Gadzonks!’ exclaimed Daisy as the fart, having quietly sneaked across the bits of air between Ben’s bottom and herself, jumped into her nose.

  ‘What is it?!’ Brian Malone shouted. His footsteps pounded up the corridor, or possibly down it. It was hard to tell because the corridor was flat.

  Daisy rolled desperately away from the fart, shaking her nose vigorously from side to side to try and dislodge the stink-bombed air from her nostrils, and then toppled off her bed.

  ‘Argh!’ she shrieked. She had just enough time to think, I hope I don’t land on that rollerskate I left on the floor, before she landed on that rollerskate she had left on the floor. ‘Oww!!’

  ‘Daisy!’ came the now fully panicked voice of her father, swiftly followed by her actual now fully panicked father. ‘What is it? Who did it? Was it the coconuts? Where are they?’

  ‘It’s fine, Dad,’ said Daisy, rubbing her hip. ‘I just fell off the bed.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Brian Malone, trying to look in every direction at once, but failing because the only way to do that would have been for him to have had at least four eyes spread out evenly around his head, whereas he actually just had the normal number of eyes in the normal positions.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I fell off the bed, Dad,’ Daisy said, pulling herself up.

  ‘Yes, but are you sure you’re all right?!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re sure?!’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re sure you’re sure?!’

  ‘I’m sure!’

  ‘Are you sure you’re –’

  ‘Dad! Stop it! You’re panicking.’

  ‘Am I?’ Brian Malone looked around in every direction again. ‘Oh no!! I’m panicking!! I’m panicking!!’

  Daisy rolled her eyes and then gathered herself. ‘Dad! Stop!’ she commanded firmly.

  Brian Malone stared wild-eyed at his daughter, and then, slowly, the tension left his body. He slumped onto the bed next to her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I might have been panicking a bit there.’

  ‘Possibly a bit.’

  He took a few deep breaths. ‘Better now. Are you all right?’

  ‘I just fell off the bed. I’m fine.’

  ‘And you’re sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Let’s not start that again.’

  He gave her leg a pat. ‘Are you enjoying the school holidays, dear?’

  Daisy considered this. Her dad was at work through the week and her mum, who was an archaeologist, was in the middle of a three-week dig just outside of Gloomy Gulch, about two hours drive north, where she was slowly uncovering a set of underground passages and caves. That meant that Daisy and Ben had the days mainly to themselves. Which, overall (although she missed her mum a bit), was good. ‘They’re stupendously great, Dad.’

  ‘Good.’ Brian Malone smiled uncertainly, as if checking to see whether doing so would break his face. Then his expression changed. ‘Oooh!’ he exclaimed, scrunching up his nose so it looked like his nostrils were trying to run away and hide inside it. ‘Darling, this room really does smell a bit funny. It’s a small issue now but we don’t want it to become a big issue, do we? How about a little tidy-up? Yes?’

  Daisy nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Thank you. So, will you be all right if I pop out to do the shopping?’

  Daisy patted her father’s knee. ‘Of course. Could you get stuff for spaghetti bolognese?’ Her father cooked the best spaghetti bolognese. It was one of the few things he could do without getting anxious.

  ‘Of course.’ Brian Malone kissed her cheek. ‘Back soon then.’

  A few moments later Daisy heard the front door shut. She turned to Ben. ‘That was disgusting!’

  ‘Well, sorr-ee. Everyone farts,’ said Ben, who was a dog who could talk. Obviously, because he just talked.

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘True enough. We all have our own scents. And, just between you and me, I quite like mine.’

  Daisy sighed. She had badgered her parents for months about getting a dog. She had been quite dogged about it. (Ha! Get it? No? Oh. Well, then look up ‘dogged’. It means persistent. Now do you get it? Good.)

  It had taken much pleading, a lot of reasoned arguments (‘They’re great company’, ‘A watchdog would keep us safe’, and ‘It’ll scare off those birds that come in through the back door and poo everywhere’) and the hint of a tantrum before they gave in. Eventual
ly one Saturday morning her mum had driven her to the pound.

  At the counter was a stern-looking man wearing a red poloneck jumper that came up so high it made him look like his neck had been stolen by some members of a little-known tribe that steals necks. He led them down a dark corridor to a room full of very large cages that contained dozens of dogs.

  ‘Let’s not get one too big, darling,’ said Daisy’s mum over the excited barks. She pointed to a little, white fluffy thing with hair so long it covered its face. ‘What about this one?’

  ‘Nah. No face. How would we feed it?’ replied Daisy. She looked about. Big dogs, small dogs, black dogs, white dogs, fat dogs, thin dogs. It was like a Dr Seuss story. How could she possibly choose? Then one of them, black and white and smallish, padded towards the front of its cage and stared at Daisy. Daisy stared back. They stared at each other for a few moments and then slowly, but very deliberately, the dog winked. Daisy’s mouth fell open.

  She took a step back, never taking her eyes from the dog. ‘I want that one,’ she said, pointing at it. The dog smiled.

  Back at the front desk they had to fill out some forms.

  ‘What type is he?’ Daisy’s mum asked.

  ‘Cross,’ said the poloneck man, who may or may not have had a neck.

  ‘He doesn’t look cross,’ said Daisy.

  ‘No, I mean he’s a cross between a –’

  Daisy held up her hand. ‘I know what you meant. I was just trying to be funny.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the man.

  On the trip home, Daisy sat with her arms around the dog, beaming. She stared at him, hoping for another wink or smile, but the dog just sat there looking cool.

  ‘I’m going to call him Monty,’ she announced.

  At home she had taken Monty to her room, where he sniffed about a bit and then made himself comfortable in the middle of her bed. Daisy lay down next to him.

  ‘My name is actually Ben,’ said the dog.

  ‘Whaaaaa … huh?’ stuttered Daisy.

  ‘Ben. Not Monty. If that’s okay?’

  ‘Bu … huh?’

  ‘Yes, I can talk. I’m quite smart. For a dog, I mean. That’s all it is. I’m quite smart for a dog, so I learnt to speak. It’s no biggie.’

  Daisy’s eyes were as wide as her mouth, which was very wide.

  According to Ben, he was like the Einstein of dogs, a super-smart, one-in-a-million, brainiac dog prodigy, which meant that he was about as clever as the average person and so had enough brain capacity to learn to speak. His previous owners, a busy married couple, had talked enough at home for him to pick up the language by listening and imitating, and it hadn’t taken him long to work out how to use the television remote control with his paw, so when they were out he could watch TV and learn more. His favourite show was Behind the News. Once he had got the hang of spoken English, he had taught himself to read from the newspapers his owners left on their kitchen table when they went to work.

  ‘Can other dogs talk?’ asked Daisy.

  Ben shrugged. ‘I’ve never met another one who could. But maybe.’

  ‘Did your old owners ever find out you could talk? Did you tell them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They were okay. They fed me, they walked me, they picked up my poo, which is obviously a very nice thing to do, but we just didn’t really click, you know. They were good owners – well, until they left the country and dumped me at the pound – but we never really became close friends.’

  ‘Then why did you tell me you could talk so quickly?’

  Ben looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Well, I just had a feeling that I could trust you.’

  Now it was their secret.

  Of course, Daisy had been tempted to tell her best friend Eliza that Ben could talk, but she knew that wasn’t a good idea because sooner or later Eliza would tell someone else, and that person would tell someone else and before you knew it the army would be at the front door wanting to take Ben away so they could carry out experiments on him, or use him to catch robbers or find missing bus drivers or sell him to the circus or make a TV show with him or something.

  Ben unrolled himself and stretched. ‘How about a walk while your dad’s out?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Daisy.

  They slipped out the back door, across the garden and through the gate that led out into the bush that ran behind the house, and then set off up the hill, following what was usually a dirt track, except when it rained a bit and it became a mud track, or when it rained a lot and it became a stream.

  Up ahead another trail cut across the one they were on. Without a word they both turned left so they were walking across the hill. It was the way they went most days. Daisy loved the fact that, even though they lived in a city, they could be somewhere that felt like the middle of nowhere within a couple of minutes. To their left, down the hill, they caught glimpses of back fences and houses, while up to the right the bush stretched away seemingly forever, but actually just to the top of the hill and then down the other side, to the back fences of more houses.

  Suddenly Ben pricked up his ears and stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘You saying “What is it?” Shhh!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Now I can hear you saying “Sorry”. Shhh!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Holy cupcakes! Shush!’

  They stood still, both listening intently. Daisy heard nothing except the swish of wind bothering leaves and the faint background hum of cars. But dogs, as Ben never tired of telling her, have far better hearing than humans.

  ‘It’s a man and a kid talking over there,’ he said, pointing his nose into the bush. He sniffed. ‘And also a second man, I think, except …’

  ‘What?’

  Ben raised his nose and sniffed hard. ‘The boy’s scared.’

  ‘You can smell his fear? That’s amazing.’

  ‘No, I just needed to sniff. His voice sounds scared.’

  They didn’t often see other people on their walks. Maybe in the old days there would have been kids building cubby houses and getting splinters, but now everyone stayed safely indoors playing games on their mums’ iPhones and complaining they were bored.

  Daisy crept through the bushes towards the voices. After a few steps she realised Ben wasn’t beside her. She turned. He was still on the path.

  ‘Come on,’ she hissed, beckoning him.

  ‘It’s none of our business, really.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ said Daisy. ‘Come on.’

  Ben sighed and reluctantly trotted after her, muttering, ‘I wish I wasn’t so obedient,’ under his breath. They carefully made their way through the trees until Ben stopped again, his tail pointing straight up like a tiny hairy flagpole without a flag.

  Daisy heard voices coming from over to her left where the ground, while still heavily treed, flattened out. (Yes, I know that ‘treed’ doesn’t look like a real word, but it is. Look it up if you like.)

  The first voice was male, adult, deep and menacing, while the second was also male, but younger and vaguely familiar. Daisy couldn’t quite make out the words so she decided to forget all about it, mind her own business and continue on her way like a nice, polite little girl-person.

  Not likely.

  It wasn’t really Daisy who crept forward in the direction of the voices. It was her curiosity, the very same curiosity that every year, a week before Christmas, forced her to search the house from front to back until she found her presents; the same curiosity that made her cut her toothpaste tube open so that she could see what colour the inside of it was; and the same curiosity that made her ask her teacher why the plus sign and the minus sign didn’t swap jobs, because it was quicker and easier to write the minus sign than it was to write the plus sign, and ther
e was usually a lot more plussing going on than there was minussing.

  ‘Should we be doing this?’ whispered Ben uncertainly.

  ‘No. Definitely not. We should be tidying our room, cleaning our teeth three times a day and doing extra homework. “Should” is boring! Come on.’

  ‘But dogs don’t clean their teeth,’ said Ben. ‘Or do homework.’ Daisy, however, was already tiptoeing ahead in a determined fashion (which is actually quite a tricky combination) through the trees. Ben reluctantly padded after her.

  Ahead Daisy saw three figures. Two men faced a boy. One of the men was old enough to be a headmaster or a bus driver or something else important. He wore brown shoes, brown pants and a long flowing silky shirt that was either bluish-green or greenish-blue. He had shoulder-length almost-white hair that was parted in the middle, a pointy beard that came halfway down his neck and a face full of more pointy things; nose, chin, even his cheeks seemed to be pointy. His mouth was set in a not-very-happy-looking line.

  Next to him was a slightly overweight younger man with a round face and lots of curly brown hair that wasn’t parted anywhere. In fact, his hair looked like it hadn’t been combed or brushed since the Palaeozoic Era, which ended 250 million years ago. He was standing half a step behind the older man and looked like he was trying very hard to keep up with what was happening, but not quite managing it.

  The person they were talking to was the fat kid from school who lived down the street. What was his name again? Peter? Patrick? Doorhandle-Alooshan-Wonka-Wap-Hompy? No that wasn’t it. Paul! There it was.

  Daisy couldn’t stand him. He was always talking about how great he was at everything. She looked more closely. ‘Fat’ was probably unfair. He was a bit plumpish. Another few ice-creams, though, and he’d be fat. Paul was wearing shorts, sneakers and a red t-shirt with the words ‘I’m Sooo Awesome’ written on it, a statement so clearly untrue that Daisy wished she could freeze time, run home, grab a black texta, run back, cross out the word ‘Sooo’ and replace it with ‘definitely not at all’ in very clear, but quite-a-bit-smaller letters (or else they wouldn’t fit).

  But what was Paul doing in the middle of the bush talking to someone nearly old enough to be his grandfather, and some other bloke? Maybe it was his grandfather. And some other bloke.