He appeared at first to be strong and tall,
But inside a bully is someone small,
And though they cannot help but speak,
You’ll find that what they say is weak.
Tuesday glanced at her mother and Serendipity winked at her. Loddon’s eyes widened and he tried to cry out, but his voice had gone thin and wobbly. And not only that, he was shrinking. Right before their eyes, he was growing smaller, rolling around on the sand as if in agony. The ropes about his feet and hands had slipped off him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he writhed and groaned as if the words were damaging him much more savagely than flames or cross-bolts. Then Serendipity knelt beside him, speaking softly.
There once was a grassboy who lived by a tree,
I wove him together to comfort me.
But all he wanted was fame and glory,
He forgot he was a friend in a story.
Goodbye, little grassboy, growing very small.
Soon, in a moment, you’ll be hardly here at all.
‘No!’ squeaked Loddon. ‘I’ll be good …’
But he was no bigger than a wooden spoon now, and they could barely hear him.
Then Vivienne knelt down and said, quite gleefully:
Little Loddon grassboy, where will you go?
Grown so small and tiny-oh,
We could put you in a jar with the lid on tight,
And I’d have to say it would serve you right.
I never really liked you, not from the start,
But that was because you smelled like a fart.
Tuesday and Vivienne giggled. Serendipity and Colette chuckled, and Silver Nightly raised his eyebrows. The dogs, sitting in a wide circle with the wind ruffling their many-coloured coats, kept their eyes fixed on Loddon. He was so small that he was hardly bigger than a popsicle stick.
Colette drew a small, empty bottle from her pocket. She handed it to Serendipity, who lifted the tiny wriggling Loddon into the bottle and stopped the lid.
Serendipity peered at the little figure inside the bottle and, with a grin at Vivienne, said:
High above the ocean, in a tree house I know,
Lives a girl called Vivienne, with an arrow and a bow.
If you look upon a shelf, you’ll see she keeps a boy,
In a bottle with a cork, but he is not a toy.
His name is Loddon Grassboy and if you set him free,
He will wreak a lot of havoc, as you can plainly see,
So she keeps him in a bottle, and he watches time go by,
For the heart of a writer can simply never die.
With this, Serendipity handed the bottle to Vivienne who, without glancing at Loddon, put him in her pocket.
Observing the blood crusted on Vivienne’s shoulder, her torn and battered wings, and Baxterr’s injuries, Collette said, ‘I see that some of us need a little ointment.’
She pulled out a battered tin and handed it to Vivienne Small, who opened it, sniffed its contents, and frowned, but then proceeded to carefully take a fingerful of the ointment and apply it first to Baxterr’s damaged paw and wing, and then to her own shoulder. Tuesday helped by working the ointment into the torn edges of Vivienne’s wings. Within a few minutes, the wounds were all remarkably improved.
Vivienne handed back the tin to Colette, but Colette insisted she keep it.
‘If that isn’t intervening?’ she asked the Gardener, but he only winked.
‘Helluva woman,’ he said under his breath.
‘I think it’s time to go home,’ said Vivienne Small. ‘Wouldn’t you say, Ermengarde?’
To the surprise of almost everyone, a small black face appeared from under Vivienne’s hair.
‘Well, who’s a clever girl, then?’ Tuesday said, reaching out to scratch the rat’s pointed chin. ‘I didn’t know where you’d gone, but I see you found your way home.’
‘Home,’ said Serendipity, with a sigh. ‘Yes. But before we go, could I have a word with you, dear Gardener?’
Together, Serendipity and Silver Nightly took a stroll across the desert, their heads bowed. At last, they shook hands and returned to the group.
‘Well, I’ll be going,’ said Silver Nightly. Apache stood beside him in her huge dog form. ‘It’s been an honour to visit with you all. And to meet you, Ms Baden-Baden, most especially,’ he said, shaking Colette’s hand. ‘I think you’ll be needing to take back this here platform to a certain Librarian. Unless, of course, you would like a means to come visit me again?’
Colette blushed. It went from her chin to her forehead. Serendipity couldn’t be sure if it was the idea of returning the platform, Silver Nightly’s handshake, or his invitation that had caused this effect. But something about it made Serendipity smile.
‘I’m not so very sure the Librarian will be wanting to see me again,’ said Colette gruffly.
‘I could be the one to take the platform back,’ suggested Tuesday.
Baxterr nuzzled Tuesday.
‘I know, doggo,’ Tuesday said. ‘And I don’t want to be without you another minute either. But I think Mum and Colette need to get home. How about I’ll take this back to the Library and then you come to get me?’
‘Ruff,’ agreed Baxterr.
‘No adventures along the way,’ said Colette.
‘No adventures along the way,’ said Tuesday, grinning. ‘I promise!’
Then the Winged Dogs all barked together.
‘They are leaving,’ said Colette.
‘Thank you!’ said Serendipity. ‘It was lovely to see you all again!’
‘Thank you!’ said Tuesday. ‘You were brilliant!’
The dogs all howled and in a flurry of furred wings, they took flight. And Silver Nightly, Apache, Colette, Baxterr, Tuesday, Vivienne and Serendipity watched until they were out of sight.
‘A purpose of Winged Dogs,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘Well I’ll be …’
Chapter Thirty–one
Back in the Conservatory, Apache lay on a rug before the fire. A fresh pot of coffee steamed on the hearth, and the Gardener – at his bench – was at work. The world of Vivienne Small sat on the stand in front of him, its lid removed. He took a thermometer out of a jar on his workbench and shook the mercury down. Then he laid one end of the thermometer against the slopes of the Mountains of Margalov.
‘Sure is cold,’ he murmured.
He dipped the thermometer into the Restless Sea, but the reading was barely any higher. He reached under the bench and hunted around for a Bunsen burner, which he slid underneath the freezing cold world. He turned on the gas, lit the burner with a match and turned the flame down as low and soft as it would go.
Next he got to work repairing a big split in the earth, and filling in an enormous hole. He worked, deep in concentration, for a long time. Then he sat back, pushed his magnifying glasses up onto his head, and smiled with satisfaction.
‘Well, little world,’ said the Gardener fondly. ‘How does that feel?’
It felt wonderful. When the world of Vivienne Small was catapulted back out into the sky, it looked and felt like a completely different place. The sands of the Purple Desert were once again bright and glowing. Ice had calved away from the Cliffs of Cartavia. The River of Rythwyck had thawed and sunshine was glinting off its deep blue waters. The hands on the clocks in the City of Clocks were no longer frozen stuck, and – in a rare moment of synchronicity – every clock chimed the same hour. The people of the city stepped out from their homes to find the streets no longer knee-deep in snow, and the waters of the Letitia Mabanquo fountain were no longer frozen, but spouting and spurting and gurgling. Fruit was ripening on the trees and fish were leaping in the river.
In the air and on the ground, in the sky and amid the trees, from the east to the west, from the north to the south, in every last corner, it was suddenly springtime. Birds smoothed their ruffled feathers and sang songs they had almost forgotten that they knew. Creatures poked their noses out of their holes and homes, and snif
fed at scents that they had thought to never smell again. Squirrels were climbing out of their burrows, and butterflies were emerging from defrosted chrysalises. All through the Peppermint Forest, ferns quivered and trees shivered, all of them glorying in the simple fact of life returning.
Chapter Thirty–two
You will be pleased to learn that when Tuesday returned the platform to the great Library (Colette having informed her, rather reluctantly, of all she had done) the Librarian was not so very cross as might have been expected. In fact, she was even forced to acknowledge that Colette had been an essential part of Tuesday’s story. She did not, however, entirely forgive the sarsaparilla splashes on her chaise longue.
Serendipity and Colette returned to Brown Street. That very day they began the process of cleaning the tall, narrow house from top to bottom, and chasing as much of the sadness out as they possibly could. Within a few days there was clean washing in the drawers, fresh flowers on the table and all manner of food in the cupboards and the refrigerator. The blinds and curtains were open again, sunlight was streaming in the windows and there was music playing. A large photo of Denis hung in the front hall, and Serendipity smiled at it each time she passed.
Up in her writing room, her old typewriter was waiting faithfully on the freshly polished desk, and a stack of crisp, white paper rested right beside it. Serendipity felt a familiar tingle in the tips of her fingers and in the corners of her mind.
‘Yes,’ she whispered to herself, ‘it’s time.’
And where was Tuesday? Well, Baxterr rejoined her in the world of Vivienne Small, carrying with him a letter from Serendipity in which she suggested that Tuesday and Vivienne take a small holiday while Brown Street underwent a spring clean. And so Tuesday stayed on at Vivienne’s tree house. Baxterr, of course, had to adopt his small-dog size in the evenings when it was time for him to curl up at the foot of Tuesday’s hammock to sleep. But he spent his days at full Winged-Dog stretch, with Tuesday on his back, and Vivienne Small flying along beside them, relishing the wide blue wings that could take her anywhere.
Ermengarde chose not to join them. It seemed she had had quite enough of adventuring for a time, and was perfectly pleased to stay at home exploring the delights of the tree house – and from time to time keeping a watchful eye on Loddon, whom Vivienne had placed on a high shelf still neatly and firmly stoppered in Colette’s bottle.
Tuesday and Vivienne’s springtime days were full of visits with Vivienne’s unusual friends, who were scattered throughout the world of Vivienne Small. They took a balloon trip in the foothills of the Mountains of Margalov, a fishing trip on the Mabanquo River, a stroll through the Golden Valley, and a sailing adventure aboard Vivacious II. They also visited some of Vivienne’s other homes. One evening, when Baxterr was snoring, and Tuesday and Vivienne were roasting freshly caught red-jackets on the campfire at the mouth of Vivienne’s cave home, Vivienne asked, ‘What exactly is a writer?’
Tuesday swallowed.
‘A writer?’ she repeated. ‘Um …’
In all the time she had known Vivienne, she had managed to avoid talking about this in any detail. For some reason, she had never wanted to tell Vivienne that she was, well, a character in a book.
Tuesday tried again, ‘A writer is someone who … writes books.’
‘Yes, obviously,’ said Vivienne, giving Tuesday a light punch on the arm. ‘But why did Loddon call you his writer? And my writer? What’s that all about?’
Tuesday took a deep breath.
‘He thought I was my mother. When she was a girl. Apparently my mother and I look alike, except for the colour of our hair.’
‘But it still doesn’t make sense,’ said Vivienne.
‘Well … you know how I live in a different world from you?’
‘Yes,’ said Vivienne.
‘So,’ said Tuesday, ‘in my world, my mum, well … she writes books. Books that everybody reads. That everyone loves.’
‘Books about what?’ Vivienne asked.
‘Well, when she first started writing, she wrote about Loddon. But then she grew up and started writing books about a girl called Vivienne Small,’ Tuesday said. ‘About you.’
Vivienne frowned as she removed her skewered fish from the fire.
‘Me? How did she know about me?’
‘I guess she just imagined,’ said Tuesday.
‘Oh, I see,’ Vivienne said, then blew on the fish and tore off a small piece. ‘Yum. That’s ready!’
Tuesday waited for more questions, but they did not come. They ate their red-jackets and talked about stars. And Vivienne Small did not mention the topic of writers again.
One evening, Tuesday and Vivienne (with Ermengarde on her shoulder), were standing at the railing of the tree house watching Baxterr zoom through the sky over the Restless Sea. They were admiring how his winged form made beautiful shadows on the water in the pewter-coloured twilight, when a mauve pigeon alighted on the railing right beside them. It cooed self-importantly, and puffed out its feathery chest.
Attached to one of its legs, with a length of narrow purple ribbon, was a small scroll. Vivienne untied it. The pigeon cooed again, and flew away rather urgently.
‘I think it’s for you,’ Vivienne said, handing the scroll to Tuesday.
It was sealed with purple wax, and in the wax was imprinted a curly letter L. Tuesday broke the seal and read the words written in mauve ink within: Miss McGillycuddy, to the Library. Say your goodbyes. Make all haste. – L.
‘Does it mean you have to go?’ Vivienne asked, looking disappointed.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Tuesday.
Tuesday would have liked to hug Vivienne goodbye, but she knew that Vivienne was not exactly the hugging type. So she reached out to gently tug a lock of Vivienne’s hair, but Vivienne rushed at her and gave her a quick, strong hug.
‘You will be back,’ Vivienne announced fiercely.
‘Yes,’ said Tuesday.
‘When?’ Vivienne demanded.
‘Whenever you start a new adventure, Vivienne Small!’ said Tuesday, with a grin.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’ said Vivienne, smiling.
‘Maybe not that soon,’ Tuesday said.
‘Well, okay then. How about the day after that?’
Baxterr, hearing Tuesday’s call, glided in close to the tree house and hovered beneath the verandah railing to allow Tuesday to lower herself onto his shoulders. He ruffed a goodbye to Vivienne Small, and then swooped back out over the waters of the Restless Sea before carving a beautiful turn over the Peppermint Forest and heading towards the Hills of Mist.
‘Goodbye, Tuesday!’ Vivienne yelled, waving her arms wildly.
‘Goodbye, Vivienne!’ Tuesday yelled.
Evening had fallen, and the Librarian was standing on the balcony as Tuesday and Baxterr approached the gardens of the Library. The Librarian was wearing a violet gown with a high ruffle around the neck, and a pair of sparkling high heels. Every few seconds she peered impatiently into a pair of mounted binoculars.
‘Come, come, Ms McGillycuddy, or you’ll miss the whole thing!’ the Librarian called, beckoning as Baxterr made a comfortable landing on the mist-shrouded lawn.
‘Quickly, child! Or the moment will pass,’ the Librarian said, and Tuesday was astonished by the soft, almost quavering quality to her voice, so different from her usual imperious tone. ‘Look through here, dear. I’ve set the sights for you. Don’t bump anything.’
Tuesday peered into the eyepieces and squinted a little. She could see a segment of almost-black sky. But in the middle was a spiral of sparkling dust particles. It was spinning, and as it spun, its centre became more solid, and it seemed to draw in more glittering motes from the air.
‘What is it?’ Tuesday asked.
‘That, my dear, is a world being born,’ the Librarian said, with a sigh of emotion. ‘Your world.’
‘Really?’
The spiral was tightening into a something more like a hazy,
shimmering ball. Tuesday thought that it seemed to be emitting its own light.
‘This is a privilege, Tuesday. Rare and precious. Most writers miss the whole thing. Their world forms while they’re at home writing, or while they’re sleeping, or while they’re walking to the bus stop. But you, Tuesday, you are here, upon my balcony watching it happen. Do you know what that means?’
‘Not really, Madame Librarian,’ Tuesday said.
Tuesday watched the glimmering ball spinning in space.
‘What you see is the core of your world. Its very heart. And right now, as it’s forming, you may choose what it is that you want to place at very centre of your world,’ the Librarian said.
‘You mean, the way Loddon was the centre of Mum’s world?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Ah, a cautionary tale, right there,’ said the Librarian. ‘Serendipity was such a very little girl when her world formed. And who happened to be there, at the beginning of it all? Hmm? Who, but a little grassboy who loved her stories and always wanted more.’
‘You mean she never got to choose?’
‘Hardly any writer gets to make a conscious choice. Most writers’ worlds form around whatever is in their heart or mind. And that thing never dies. I did once know a writer, who, just like you, had the opportunity to choose what he kept at the heart of his world.’
‘What did he pick?’
‘It was a lock of hair,’ the Librarian said, blushing and patting her short silver tresses. ‘Some writers are terribly romantic. Others write out of wit, or anger, or fear. So do choose wisely, Tuesday. It is entirely your secret. You might make it a thing, or a memory, or a word, or an idea. Or indeed, a person. Anything you like can form the heart of your world. But choose wisely, Tuesday McGillycuddy. I do advise against putting fame or money at the heart of your world. You will find no matter how much you get, it’s never enough. Choose something that will nurture and nourish you. Not something fashionable, but something classic. Something that will last your whole life long.’
‘I don’t know what I have to do, Madame Librarian.’
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