There was another reason that Vivienne Small rarely went this way, and as she emerged at last from the shelter of the forest, she remembered what it was. Between the rim of the forest and the beginnings of the Hills of Mist was a swamp. It stretched out before her, beneath an unfriendly grey sky, smelling of sulphur, rotting fish heads and death. Across its forbidding surface were gurgling, plopping pools of mud, between which rose small islands covered with harsh, spiky reeds.
‘Urgh,’ Vivienne said, wishing that her path lay anywhere but here. There were other ways, but this was the quickest by far, and Vivienne felt in the tip of her one pointed ear that there was no time to lose in delivering the Winged Dog’s message. She patted her pocket and remembered the words written on the slip of paper within. ‘My great love, I cannot hold the worlds apart much longer. Have you found our answer? G.’ Then Vivienne, trying to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose, set out grimly to cross the swamp. The small reedy islands were big enough to stand on, but slightly too far apart to easily jump between, so Vivienne used her small wings to help her spring precariously from one muddy outcrop to the next. Luckily, she was wearing her trusty long boots, so her feet stayed dry, even if her hands were being cut and scratched by the reeds.
This was one of those occasions on which Vivienne Small cursed the smallness of her wings. Usually, she told herself that small wings were better than no wings at all. Sometimes, though, she got frustrated that her wings were too small to keep her airborne more than a few moments at a time. And, deep down, she wished that she could truly fly.
Since flying was not an option, Vivienne made her way erratically across the swamp, trying her best to avoid the clouds of midges that rose up around her, and the mosquitoes that landed on her hands and neck. Her hurriedly packed satchel banged against her side with every leap.
As she went deeper into the swamp, the light became gloomier, and the mud more putrid-smelling. And then, quite suddenly, the swamp came to an end. One minute Vivienne was leaping across a murky expanse of water, aiming for a particularly tiny clump of reeds – her cheeks burning with mosquito bites – and the next, she was standing on rocky ground within a shroud of drifting, swirling mist.
She walked carefully ahead, one hand outstretched to avoid walking smack into any obstacles. After a time, her hand came into contact with something solid, and cold. It was a wall of white stone, its surface striated in shades of chalk and shimmering quartz. She peered up through the mist to see the wall that rose up, and up, forming a formidable cliff face.
She took a step back, crossed her arms and glared at the stone wall before her. There were fissures and ledges in it, as if water regularly flowed down over it, and Vivienne supposed they would do as handholds and footholds for the climb. But how great that climb would be, she couldn’t tell.
Using her wings for balance, and once again cursing their smallness, Vivienne began to climb. She climbed and she climbed. It was impossible to get a sense of how far she had come. Several times she had to stop and rest and each time she did so, she realised how completely alone she was. There were no other beings in sight: she saw not a single bird, nor a fly, nor a bee, nor a moth, nor a grasshopper – not even a mosquito straying from the swamp. It was almost as if the world had temporarily stopped all activity. Vivienne felt a sense of impending doom. But being Vivienne Small, mostly fearless and always formidable in a tight spot, she took a deep breath and continued to climb.
After what seemed like hours, she noticed that the mist was becoming a little thinner. She glanced up and was immensely relieved to see that the sky above was tinged with blue, and the lip of the cliff was only a few more scrambling moves away.
Once she was clear of the mist and on horizontal ground at last, Vivienne lay on her back and gazed up at the sky. After the dismal swamp, and the eerie mist that had seemed to seep out of the cliff, the blue sky was a welcome sight. But there was no more time to waste, so she sprang to her feet and took in the view. Beyond the mist, the distant Mountains of Margalov still pierced the sky. She had not considered that the sky might have limits, but clearly it did.
She turned away from the cliff, and there was a bright green field. In the centre of it, on a small hilltop, was a single, enormous tree. It wasn’t enormous in the same way that Vivienne’s home tree in the Peppermint Forest was enormous. Hers was very, very tall. This one was immensely wide.
Vivienne bounded towards the tree in excitement, using her wings to buoy herself up with each stride. The girth of the tree was so great that it would take a minute or two to walk all the way around its base. Vivienne touched the ancient bark and peered up into the spreading branches above. They were thick and twisted, and their timber gleamed, dark and rich, as if polished. This tree was so beautiful that Vivienne couldn’t help thinking about building a tree house in it.
Now what Vivienne Small did not know was that it was extremely unusual for anyone who was not a writer to find this particular tree. You see, for writers, the tree was something like the landing platform, or the doorway, or the welcome mat. For as long as any writer could remember, it had been there for them, supplying wet-weather gear, umbrellas, sleeping bags, suitable walking shoes, matches, candles, towels and even a hot air balloon on one occasion. So the tree was a little bit surprised to find a very small person, clearly not a writer, standing beneath its boughs. Odd things had been happening all day, and the tree could feel it from deep in the earth, through the tips of its roots. Things had been groaning and moving and unsettling. Something was wrong and the tree did not like it. It decided to be very quiet and see what the small person had to say for herself.
‘Hello, you wonderful tree,’ Vivienne said.
The tree remained silent, but it was impressed by the small person’s manners. Trees like to be flattered.
‘Oh, you don’t need to be shy,’ said Vivienne. ‘I have known a lot of trees, and I know that you can hear me. And you are really the most beautiful tree I have ever seen.’
The tree couldn’t help rustling. In truth, you cannot flatter a tree too much.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, too,’ said Vivienne Small.
The tree let its leaves shiver.
‘I’m looking,’ said the small girl, ‘for a person called Tuesday McGillycuddy, and for … um … her dog as well.’
Vivienne would never say Baxterr’s name out loud in company – not even if that company was a tree – because the true name of a Winged Dog is sacred.
‘I don’t suppose you know how I might find them?’
Now the tree faced something of a dilemma. It knew that writers came flying in from every direction, day and night, pulled by their stories. From time to time, the tree knew stories went flying off to get a writer. At night-time, stories in search of writers looked like shooting stars arcing across the sky. And sure enough, soon a writer would come tumbling into the world, asking the tree if they could have a thermos of coffee or a compass. But the tree had never before had a character ask it for help to bring a writer to them.
The tree considered this request. Would it do any harm to help this small person? The tree certainly had plenty of thread to spare. Beneath the ground it felt the waves of uncertainty that were spreading through the deepest parts of the world. Perhaps helping this small person was required. Perhaps the tree might be about to play an important part in a story itself.
‘Please, could you tell me if you know them? If you know how I can get them to come here?’ Vivienne Small asked, her hand upon the tree’s dark, furrowed trunk.
A single heart-shaped leaf drifted down from the branches above and Vivienne caught it in the palm of her hand. Inspecting it closely, she saw that on its underside, the veins had curled into elegant writing. There were two words upon the leaf and they were: Call them.
‘Call them?’ Vivienne asked the tree. ‘Just call them?’
The tree’s leaves danced.
Vivienne walked out from under the wide branches. Taking a great brea
th, she called as loudly as she could, ‘Tuesday! Doggo!’ Then again she called, ‘Tuesday! Doggo!’
As Vivienne’s voice rang out into the sky, the tree did not hold back. It launched a ball of thread from deep in its branches high into the sky. Vivienne herself did not even see it, but nevertheless, the thread flew, one end fixed in the tree, unravelling a line of the finest silver as it went. It rose high above Vivienne Small and the tree and the world below, and on into immense and infinite blueness.
Chapter Six
Miss Digby, Serendipity and Denis talked. They went over the details of the disappearances again, and then they made more cups of tea, and turned up the volume on the radio for the next news update. Tuesday looked out the window and noticed what a very lovely day it was outside. It occurred to her that she would much prefer to be taking Baxterr for a walk than sitting about in the kitchen and wishing she had not been forbidden to write. She jumped up.
‘I’m taking Baxterr to the park,’ she declared.
‘Shall I come too?’ Denis offered.
‘Or all of us?’ Serendipity suggested.
‘No, it’s fine. Really, you all keep on with your … plans,’ Tuesday waved her hands around vaguely. ‘We need a walk, don’t we, Baxterr?’
Baxterr had already trotted off to retrieve his lead from the hall table. He was an eminently sensible dog who never embarrassed himself by appearing overexcited at the delightful prospect of going for a walk. He waited patiently by the front door as Tuesday fixed his lead to his collar and took her bright red jacket from the hallstand. Before she left, she ran quickly upstairs to snatch up an opened letter from a drawer in her desk.
Coming back downstairs, she heard her mother telling Miss Digby, ‘Of course, she’ll be fine. Baxterr is wonderful. And much fiercer than you’d think.’
‘Back soon,’ Tuesday called out, and then she closed the front door behind her. Tuesday had no reason or desire to lie to her parents, and yet those two words proved to be entirely untrue.
It was a perfect day to be walking with a dog in City Park, and Tuesday was far from the only person to be doing it. She was amused by how much some of the human beings around her resembled the dogs at their sides. Tuesday wondered whether anybody would think she and Baxterr were particularly alike. Certainly they both had hair of almost every shade of gold and brown, though Baxterr’s eyes were golden-brown while Tuesday’s were blue-green. Tuesday thought that if she did look like her dog, then there was no nicer dog to look like than Baxterr.
Not far from the fountain at the centre of City Park was a stand of public telephones. Each telephone was fixed on a short pillar inside an ornate wrought-iron sculpture that protected it from the wind and rain. One of the sculptures was a mermaid with long curling tresses, and the next was a lion with its mouth fixed in a fearsome roar. The phones within each of these were in use, but the third phone, the one encased by a sculpture of a prancing horse, was free.
Tuesday fished out the letter she had tucked into her pocket. It was from one of the world’s most famous young writers, Blake Luckhurst, and she smiled as she thought of him, and of the adventures they’d had together. Blake had published his first book when he was only twelve, and there were action figures of his characters and the first film of his books was about to premiere on big screens around the world. All this had gone to his head, and he had a dreadful habit of teasing Tuesday, but despite all of that, she liked him.
Tuesday entered the shelter of the horse, put a coin in the slot of the telephone, and dialled the number Blake had written at the top of his letter. The phone rang two times, three times, four, and as she waited for him to pick up, she scanned the words he had written.
Madness here with interviews. I’m just so famous. Talk to me if you’re going there. (This word was underlined several times.) I am going there again very soon. It could be cool to hang out. Maybe. Say hello to Baxterr.
Yours,
Blake Luckhurst the Glorious.
‘It’s your money, talk fast,’ said a voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Blake, is that you?’ said Tuesday.
‘Maybe,’ came the voice.
‘It’s Tuesday.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Really, it’s Tuesday,’ she repeated.
‘No, today is definitely Sunday,’ he said.
‘Stop it,’ Tuesday said.
‘Okay,’ Blake said.
‘Have you heard about JD Jones and Flynn McMurtry and all the others? What on earth is going on? Do you know?’
‘Yeah, no. Weird, hey? I haven’t been there in weeks. The new book is causing chaos. You would think, being a writer, that people might leave you alone to write, but instead they want to put make-up on you and drag you in front of a camera and ask you questions …’
‘Which you love …’
‘Which sells books. Especially when you’re as good-looking as I am.’
‘Really,’ Tuesday said.
‘That’s right, getting more handsome every day. So how’s the book coming along? Is it finished?’
‘Of course not,’ said Tuesday. ‘I’ve only just started. How do you manage to do it so quickly?’
‘Natural genius,’ he said. ‘But listen. Don’t be going there anytime soon, okay? It’s not safe.’
‘Why? What’s gone wrong?’ Tuesday asked. And as she said this, she heard someone calling her name. She spun about expecting to see a friend. But she saw nobody that she knew.
Blake said, ‘Just stay home, paint your toenails, okay?’
And while Tuesday was wondering why Blake was talking about toenails, Baxterr barked. He stood very upright, with his tail wagging, as though he could hear someone calling his name, too.
Again it happened. Someone was definitely calling her name. And then Tuesday heard a voice yell, ‘Doggo!’, and from the look on Baxterr’s face, Tuesday was certain that he thought the call was for him. Tuesday peered at the people strolling across the large square and throwing coins into the fountain. She couldn’t see anybody familiar, even though the voice had sounded so close.
And then something in the sky caught her attention. There was something high above the fountain, coming towards her in a streak of silver – and Baxterr was watching it too, and barking excitedly. Maybe it was a thread of water catching the light? Or maybe … maybe it was actual thread. Tuesday felt the skin on the back of her neck prickling.
‘Um, Blake, is it possible for a story to come and get you?’
‘Sure. Happens to me all the time. I’m dead asleep and then I’m yanked awake and dragged into some war zone—’
It was thread, and it was diving towards Tuesday, coming closer and closer. She reached her hand out to catch it, fascinated. It landed in her palm, wrapping swiftly around her wrist and looping through her fingers. As it did so, she felt a fizzy sensation in her hands and feet. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She knew she ought to push the sparkling thread away, but she didn’t. Instead she let it gently and persistently tug her away from where she stood.
‘I think I’m going,’ Tuesday said to Blake as first one foot, then the other, lifted off the ground. ‘I think I’m going there!’
‘What? Now? No, you can’t … wait!’
‘Bye, Blake!’ she called out, then dropped the receiver. She called urgently to Baxterr and he leapt into her arms, and the thread pulled them high up into the air, away from the phone box and the fountain, right out of City Park and into the sky. Nobody noticed – nobody except a small boy in a pram, who would one day be a writer himself. He pointed and called out to them, but Tuesday couldn’t hear what he said because they were above the trees, above the mirrored lake, and going higher still.
Tuesday could see Brown Street, and the roof of her own home, far below her. She felt a twinge of guilt that she was doing precisely the thing she was not supposed to do. She had allowed herself to be completely swept up. A story had come to get her and she had simply taken flig
ht.
Chapter Seven
From high in the air, Tuesday caught sight of the hillside and its single tree. Baxterr barked with delight and wriggled in Tuesday’s arms.
‘No!’ called Tuesday in alarm as Baxterr launched himself into thin air.
The distance to the ground was much too great for an ordinary dog to leap, but in this world, Baxterr was anything but ordinary. He opened up a pair of golden-brown wings that were all covered on their outer side with short, shaggy fur. Tuesday watched in awe as Baxterr transformed into a gigantic dog, flapping his way up into the sky above her, and then turning to soar, swoop and loop-the-loop his way to the hillside, where he landed with perfect grace.
Tuesday felt as if she were flying, too, zooming along at the behest of the silvery thread that was wrapped around her hand and her wrist, pulling her towards the tree. Tuesday continued to hurtle down, and just when she was certain that she would slam into its branches, the thread went slack and unwound itself from her arm. Tuesday fell out of the air like a stone and landed on the ground in an ungainly collection of elbows and knees. Baxterr bounded over to her, his wings partly folded, and stood beside her, grinning widely.
‘Well, I’d probably land beautifully, too, if I had wings,’ she said, scrambling to her feet. It was wonderful to watch Baxterr frolic in his proper size across the hillside, sniffing with his wet, black nose at every last blade of grass he passed. Tuesday was expecting to see evidence of chaos, but everything was much the same as it had been when she was last here. There was the beautiful, old tree, and the hillside rolling down to a moat of white mist, and a lovely, serene sense that she was standing on top of the world, which – in a way – she was. Everything was quiet and calm, and there was nothing at all to suggest that this was a place where anyone might be in danger.
‘What’s been happening, tree?’ Tuesday enquired, but the tree only whispered to itself in a green sort of language, and dispatched out of a hollow in its trunk Tuesday’s thread, neatly rolled into a ball about the size of a mandarin. It rolled to a stop at her feet.
A Week without Tuesday Page 4