She ambled along the shore, noting reeds and rocks, reflections in the water and birds in the sky. She breathed deeply several times, as if she had almost forgotten how to breathe, and there was something about the simplicity of a walk by a lake, after a night spent far from home, that seemed to awaken in her a sense of something new. She couldn’t quite place the feeling. It was a little bit heavy and a little bit fizzy all at once.
She was unable to tell if minutes or hours had passed, but at some point Serendipity found herself back at the boatshed. She ate, although she couldn’t have said what she ate, and she slept. The next time she awoke it was sunrise again and again there was a green pear on the table. She went for a walk and listened to birds and watched tiny flies skim the lake surface and every now and then a fish would rise and snap a fly.
I should be home, she thought. Or, Tuesday should be here.
But almost immediately she heard the Librarian’s voice saying, ‘Perhaps your daughter is beginning something. Best not get in the way.’ And Colette saying, ‘Everyone here will be safe. You have my word.’
And so Serendipity walked and slept, and time went by. It might have been days, or it might have been weeks, and how much time that might be back at Brown Street, Serendipity had no way of knowing. Perhaps only a single night. Tuesday was with Colette and Colette would take care of her. Of that, she was certain.
One morning Serendipity found herself taking a notebook with her as she went for her walk on the shore. Along the lakeside, where up until now there had been only forest, she found a white gate, the paint flaking and the hinges rusted. She pushed it open. There was a path leading to a garden where the grass was long and several pear trees were heavy with fruit.
She blinked and breathed deeply. She knew this place. Far back down the garden she saw the house with its peeling blue paint and sagging porch. The porch was strung with macramé plant holders, and the plants they held were wilting. The back door was open and a radio was playing inside the house. Serendipity made her way across the garden and climbed the creaking back stairs. One cat was sitting on the windowsill while another reclined on a torn sofa.
Inside the house a woman was sitting at the kitchen table, her head bowed, her fingers working a length of string for another plant holder.
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Serendipity.
Serendipity had not seen her mother for many years. Her mother had died just after Serendipity had met Denis. But here she was, and everything was just the same. The bare floor and faded green bench tops. The stale smell of cobwebs and mouse poo. There was the table littered with lengths of string. The brown radio on the ledge above the sink. The sound of her father’s snoring coming from down the hall, though it was daytime.
Serendipity opened the fridge and saw that it was empty except for a wedge of old cabbage.
‘There’s nothing to eat, so don’t ask,’ said her mother sharply, not looking up from her work. ‘And if you wake your father, you know what will happen.’
Serendipity went outside, closing the screen door very quietly behind her. She walked through the long green grass to the rear of the garden and lay under the pear tree. She felt terribly hungry suddenly, as if she hadn’t eaten for days. She remembered how she had made a boy out of grass. She hadn’t thought of him in years, but suddenly she shivered and sat up. Clouds raced across the sun.
‘Loddon,’ she whispered.
He was silhouetted against the light.
‘Hello, Writer,’ he said.
She realised she had grown small. She was a child again, wearing a thin nightdress. Her feet were bare and smudged with dirt. Her stomach rumbled with emptiness. She opened the notebook and began to write a story, adding drawings from time to time. Loddon slumped down beside her.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Tell me a story.’
‘When I’m finished,’ she said.
At last, she read the story aloud to the grassboy she had made.
‘But that’s not about me!’
‘Of course it’s not. It’s about Captain Mothwood and I’m going to write lots of stories about him.’
‘But you have to write about me!’
‘I’ve written heaps of stories about you.’
‘I don’t like Mothwood,’ said Loddon, snatching away the notebook and tearing out the pages, then he stuffed them into his pockets.
‘Ha ha,’ he said, laughing. ‘Now you have to write another one.’
‘Why do you always want more?’
‘Because I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Tell me a story. Tell me another story.’
‘I will,’ she said, sighing. Her own hunger had vanished. It felt as if she had eaten a good meal. ‘Just give me back my notebook.’
She grabbed at the notebook, but Loddon grew taller and taller, a silhouette against the afternoon sky, and she could hear her own voice from far away calling, ‘Loddon, Loddon, don’t be mean. Why do you have to be mean?’
When Serendipity woke up, she was back in the boatshed under the white counterpane, and the sun was rising again.
Chapter Sixteen
The sun also rose, weak and pale, in the world of Vivienne Small. And there, on the sand of an islet in the deepest reaches of the Restless Sea, lay something that could easily have been mistaken for a large, blue and storm-battered butterfly. It had been washed up on the tide line where the sand was gritty and damp, its ragged and waterlogged wings pressed together, and its body curled against the cold. Night came. A day passed, and then another night. And still this creature remained absolutely still, except for when a gust of icy wind caused a tiny flutter at the very edges of its wings.
Vivienne Small’s lips and cheeks were almost the same shade of blue as her painfully stitched-up wings. Most of Loddon’s stitches had held, but here and there the leathery skin of Vivienne’s wings had torn through the thread.
But Vivienne did not move. Was she alive, or dead? She hardly knew herself. When at long last her eyes fluttered open and took in glimpses of a tilting landscape of sea and sand, she could not feel her frozen arms or legs, and the weight of her waterlogged wings pinned her upper body to the ground. And then came flashes of memory. Or a dream? Of being hurled through the air under a sky full of scudding cloud. Mountains of white-veined water. Bitter cold. The silence. Then falling down, down, through layers of deepening darkness. She had not panicked. Vivienne Small did not, as a rule, panic. Had her wings been able to move freely, they would have helped her in the manner of a manta ray’s fins, but stitched together as they were, they dragged uselessly, an impediment as she kicked towards the distant sheen of light. But kick she did. At last, through sheer determination and ferocity, she surfaced and gasped for life.
Treading water, she had turned slow circles, searching for any sign of solid ground or hope. There was nothing to see but water: a cold, mountainous swell of water that slowly carried away from her the last of her body’s warmth and strength and plunged her into strange and dangerous moments of sleep. She floated then, staring at the grey sky, knowing the sea had a way of returning things to shore.
A little more awake now, on the sand, Vivienne shuddered. Somehow she had made it to land. Pins and needles started up violently in her arms and hands, legs and feet. Her head throbbed. She succeeded in moving her uppermost wing and felt a spear of pain travel through her. She breathed the pain in and, with a little growl of determination, defied it. Then she slumped back to the sand and thought of Ermengarde.
‘I could seriously use your help,’ Vivienne whispered, thinking of how swiftly her rat’s sharp teeth could have undone Loddon’s horrible handiwork.
‘Stop complaining, Vivienne,’ she told herself. ‘Get up and get moving.’
And so, more with strength of mind than strength of body, she forced herself to sit up. The pain and effort made her dizzy, so she sat for a moment with her head upon her leather-clad knees, until everything stopped spinning. Then she took off her boots, emptied them of water, peeled off her socks an
d wrung them out. Reluctantly she put them all back on. She got unsteadily to her feet, and stumbled up the beach to higher ground.
The islet was very small. It was rimmed with stretches of sand and rocky outcrops. In the centre of the islet rose a huddle of trees almost entirely stripped of their wide, fronded leaves, indicating to Vivienne the terrible gales that must have lashed through here during this long and bitter winter. At the base of the trees were smaller, more delicate plants. Or, at least, the remnants of them. Vivienne could see that their soft, lettuce-like leaves had been frozen, and then partly thawed, reducing them to clumps of withered slime.
Entering the shelter of the trees, Vivienne felt relief to be out of the chilling wind. She stepped groggily, trying to put her senses on high alert. Who lived here? What creatures made this remote islet their dwelling place? Might the trees be home to a bird that could carry a message? But though she listened, and sniffed, and had to lie down when dizziness passed through her, she could not feel the presence of another living animal or bird. But she did find something. Concealed within the ring of trees was a small, freshwater pool, its surface frosted over with ice. Vivienne used a rock to crack a small hole and, with cupped hands, slurped the cold, sweet water. She could feel it coursing down her salted throat, and running into her stomach. She could also feel the way it cleared her mind and her thoughts.
Now that she was seeing and thinking a little more clearly, she noticed a pikwan vine creeping around the trunk of one of the far trees. Her stomach rumbled even as her heart leapt. Using the same rock, she tapped open the prickly case of a pikwan. The fruit inside was shrivelled, but she put it into her mouth regardless. She had to chew hard, and the flesh tasted sour. But it was food, and that, Vivienne reasoned, was better than nothing.
Several bitter pikwans later, Vivienne Small stepped out from under the cover of the trees, onto the deserted beach where she had washed up. The light had fallen, as if the sun had edged away a little further from the world. In every direction there was nothing to see but ocean, and a low, thunderous sky. No birds, no sea animals, no hope, no nothing … except … a distant shape.
Vivienne blinked. There was something aloft, though it was barely visible against the steel-blue clouds. It was very far from her, but coming a little closer, she thought. It flew as if it were searching for something. It glided on outspread wings, and then made a few wing-beats before gliding again, its eyes scanning the water. Whatever it was, it was hunting. And it was huge.
Could it be? Vivienne wondered. Was it possible?
‘Doggo?’ she yelled. ‘Doggo! Is that you? HERE! I’m here!’ But surely the creature was much too far away to hear her. ‘Doggo!’ she called again. ‘I’m here!’
It was coming her way, and fast, as if it had heard her. Vivienne watched, spellbound, as moments later Baxterr landed on the beach, dwarfing the islet with his magnificent wingspan. Vivienne felt tears of happiness and relief gathering in her eyes, but brushed them away crossly. Baxterr gave Vivienne a tremendous lick that covered her from knees to forehead. It was wet, but it was also warm, in more ways than one.
‘You wonderful, wonderful dog!’ Vivienne said, hugging one of his ankles.
‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr.
‘We have to rescue Tuesday,’ Vivienne said. ‘And Ermengarde.’
‘Ruff,’ Baxterr agreed.
‘They’re in terrible danger. They’re with that vile, green grassboy!’ Vivienne said.
Vivienne wasted no time, taking thick handfuls of fur to pull herself up onto Baxterr’s shoulders, continuing to tell Baxterr all that had happened. Settled into the plush depths of his fur, Vivienne could feel Baxterr’s warmth coursing through her veins. The relief was palpable. Baxterr spread his wings and in a few powerful beats they were aloft, climbing up into the sky. Vivienne gave the islet a brief nod of thanks, for when she cast her gaze below, it was the only speck of land she could see.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Story time!’ said Loddon, gesturing for Tuesday to sit on the paper swing.
Tuesday found it hard to move. She was unable to stop staring at the terrifying staircases that climbed so high above her. The grass came almost up to her waist, the tall paper stalks making a crisp swishing sound as she passed, although they sprang straight back in the wake of her footsteps. Gingerly, she sat down on the swing, which felt surprisingly sturdy.
Loddon threw himself in the grass, rolled about and laughed. Tuesday frowned. Loddon had grown smaller since they had arrived in the cave. He was now about the same height as her, or possibly even shorter.
‘Give me three choices,’ he said.
‘Choices?’ Tuesday tried to swallow and realised her mouth was parched. She and Loddon had walked such a long way, and such a long time had passed. Every part of her was sure it was actually night, not this strange paper daytime. The last drink she’d had was from the little waterfall in the tunnel, and she was sure that had been hours ago. She knew Ermengarde must also need water.
‘Loddon, I will have to sleep first. And I need water. And food.’
‘Food?’ said Loddon, frowning. ‘Not food. Stories. Three choices.’
‘I don’t remember this game, Loddon.’
Loddon rolled onto his stomach and stared at the grass in front of him. In a peevish voice he said, ‘You’re just being mean. You give me three titles and I tell you which story I want. That’s why you’re a writer. You are meant to tell stories.’
Tuesday thought. She wanted desperately to have quiet time, thinking time, so she could begin to puzzle all this out. And she was so tired.
‘Sometimes the answer is in the question,’ she heard Denis say.
‘The Girl Who Forgot, The Tree at the Bottom of the Garden, and, um …’ Tuesday thought a little desperately. ‘The Marbles and the Parsnip.’
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ said Loddon, pummel-ling the grass. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’
Tuesday blinked and frowned.
‘Where’s my story? Where’s my story?’ Loddon raged.
‘Loddon, I’m very tired. Can’t we do this after—’
Loddon jumped to his feet. ‘I have waited all this time. I had to dig my way out! You’d never have come back. You would’ve left me here forever!’
Tuesday glanced at the tunnel where they’d entered the cave. Somehow Loddon had dug his way up and into Vivienne Small’s world, all the while growing bigger, and the ship he carried with him had grown bigger too. Perhaps, she thought, Storm Rider had been no bigger than a bath toy when he started out.
‘Vivienne Small and the City of Clocks?’ suggested Tuesday.
Loddon’s green eyes flashed a more violent shade of green.
‘Do you want me to be hungry, Writer?’
‘No, Loddon,’ said Tuesday, her voice barely a whisper.
‘You will go to your house,’ he said. ‘And when you come out, you will tell me a story.’
‘My house?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Up there,’ said Loddon. He indicated the vaulted cavern. Then, seeing the expression on her face, he jumped up and beckoned for her to follow him. Loddon took to the stairs as a goat takes to a mountain. But Tuesday had never liked heights, especially not heights from narrow rickety staircases that are made of books and have no railings. Her heart pounded as she followed Loddon higher and higher. She didn’t want to look down, but nor did she want to look up. Her palms were sweating. At one point she simply sank to her knees and clung to the sides of the steps until her vision cleared.
How Loddon knew quite which staircase to take, she didn’t know, but he flitted ahead of her, waiting with his arms folded impatiently, as she tried to keep up. In places where the staircases turned into bridges with sheer drops on either side, Tuesday found it best to walk with her arm outstretched like a tightrope walker’s. And then, when the staircases became horribly thin and steep, she felt safest if she crawled. At last she heard Loddon’s footsteps stop and glanced up. They had come to one of the dark openi
ngs high in the cavern wall.
‘Come out when you’re ready to behave,’ said Loddon. Then he was past her and running down the stairs as if he had done it all his life.
Inside was a pale cave. On the far side, a small tunnel appeared to lead to more rooms. Tuesday thought about exploring, but she was too tired. So stayed where she was. The cave was about the size of her bedroom at Brown Street, although it was entirely unfurnished. But it had a single window – an opening – that offered a view of the cavern below. Tuesday could see the tree under the maze of staircases, but she couldn’t see Loddon. The light in the cavern had dimmed, and she saw that the paper sun had been replaced by a curve of pale moon. There were also gold paper stars, some of them quite close to her window. She shook her head. What was this place?
The light inside the cave flickered and dimmed as if there was a lantern burning softly. Carefully, Tuesday drew Ermengarde out and stroked her. She pulled the poncho close about them both and caught its scent of wood smoke and pine needles and wondered where Colette had been for it to smell like this. She stared out at the single gold star she could glimpse from where she sat. Her eyes closed and her stomach rumbled. She imagined sitting at the kitchen table at Brown Street and eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
‘You must be hungry too, Ermengarde,’ she said. The rat nibbled gently at Tuesday’s fingers as she stroked her.
Then Tuesday became aware of something sharp sticking into her leg. Her fingers searched the cave floor but it was smooth. Then she felt along the poncho. Whatever it was, it was in the fabric. Reaching inside the poncho, she discovered a tiny pocket. A small foil wrapper was partly piercing the fabric. She drew the wrapper out and observed a picture of an orange, or perhaps a mandarin, that was dancing in flaming red shoes.
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