‘Oh, thanks,’ Tuesday said, and put it away carefully in a pocket of her jacket. And then she squealed as something hairy fell from the branch right above her head and brushed creepily across her face. As she jumped away, swatting at her face in alarm, Tuesday heard a giggle that she recognised. She looked up, and there, hanging by her knees from a branch, with a huge grin on her cheeky, upside-down face, was Vivienne Small. Vivienne swung herself down and landed delicately on her feet in front of Tuesday. She was a good bit shorter than Tuesday, though they were about the same age.
For a moment, the two girls stood and beamed at each other. Tuesday wanted to hug Vivienne, but she wasn’t exactly sure that Vivienne was the hugging type. And Vivienne wanted to pull a hank of Tuesday’s hair, out of pure happiness to see her again, but she wasn’t sure that Tuesday would understand.
‘I’m glad you came,’ said Vivienne. ‘I really need your help.’
‘Well, here I am,’ said Tuesday. Then Baxterr bounded up the hill with his tail waving like a furry banner, clearly delighted to see his old friend Vivienne.
‘Doggo!’ Vivienne said.
At his full size, Baxterr towered over Vivienne, so in order to greet her properly, he flung himself down onto his belly beside the tree, and rested his muzzle on the ground. Vivienne reached up and scratched one of his huge ears.
‘I really hate to tell you this, Doggo, but you can’t be this big. And you can’t go flying about either.’ Vivienne turned to Tuesday. ‘It’s really not safe for him. There are horrible, dangerous things flying around out there. They’ve already killed a Winged Dog.’
‘What?’ said Tuesday.
‘Hurrrrrr,’ said Baxterr, shrinking himself back to his compact size. He kept his wings, though, and folded them in close so that they were quite invisible.
Vivienne nodded. ‘So, are you ready?’
‘For what?’ Tuesday said.
‘We have an urgent message to deliver. C’mon, let’s go.’
‘What message? From who? Where? What?’
Without wasting words, Vivienne told Tuesday everything she knew about the Winged Dog that had fallen through the roof of the Peppermint Forest. She walked her to the edge of the white cliff and pointed to the Mountains of Margalov and told Tuesday about meeting Harlequin and Tarquin, and the vercaka that had fallen through the sky from another world. She handed Tuesday the dog’s collar, and the scroll of paper that had been concealed in the medallion.
‘My greatest love,’ Tuesday read aloud, I cannot hold the worlds apart much longer. What do you think it means?’
‘I think it means that worlds are coming together in dangerous ways,’ Vivienne said. ‘I mean, you only have to look at the Mountains to know something is terribly wrong. How else did Harlequin and Tarquin get here? And the vercaka?’
‘Dangerous for writers, too,’ Tuesday murmured.
‘For writers?’ said Vivienne.
‘Oh,’ said Tuesday, and bit her lip.
It never felt right, to Tuesday, to tell Vivienne that she was a character in a book. Tuesday hadn’t the first idea how Vivienne would react if Tuesday were to tell her that back in the world that she came from, Vivienne was one of the most famous characters of all time. Not only were there the five books in the Vivienne Small series, written by none other than Serendipity Smith, there were also films and stage plays and radio dramas. There were Vivienne Small soft toys, and Vivienne Small cups and jigsaws, bookmarks and pencil cases. There were posters and a theme park and … the list went on. But standing in front of Tuesday was the real Vivienne Small: the one who had saved Baxterr’s life and helped Tuesday find her way home. And Tuesday felt it would be all wrong even to mention the cups or jigsaws or pencil cases to this Vivienne Small.
‘What do you mean about the writers?’ Vivienne asked again.
‘Well,’ said Tuesday, ‘there have been people getting injured in my world. Perhaps the same sorts of things are happening in each of our worlds.’
‘Are your mountains growing? Are there vercaka?’
‘No vercaka, luckily,’ said Tuesday. ‘And so far the mountains are fine. Hang on, I didn’t think the Winged Dogs lived here anymore?’
Tuesday had once asked her mother what had become of the Winged Dogs that, in one of her books, had mysteriously disappeared. Serendipity had said, ‘Oh, I think they’ve gone some place rather wonderful. What sort of place do you think Winged Dogs would like to live?’
Tuesday had said, ‘Maybe a place where there were long sandy beaches and the breeze was always blowing a little bit to keep them cool. I think they’d love a place where there were waterfalls, like in the Winged Mountains, and lovely shady trees. A place where there were holes in the ground and instead of hot water coming out of them, every few minutes balls would pop up and fly about so the dogs could chase them.’
Tuesday wondered whether or not she should tell Vivienne any of this. Probably not, she decided.
‘Are you listening?’ Vivienne said, snapping her fingers impatiently in Tuesday’s face.
‘Sorry.’
‘The Winged Dog. The one that died on the forest floor. There is somebody, somewhere, who is waiting for that dog to come home, just as you would wait if Baxterr had gone out to deliver a message. This dog was someone’s eternal companion, and that person will want to know what has happened. We must find them, don’t you see?’
‘And this person is the “G” in the note?’
Vivienne nodded vigorously.
‘Who do you think “G” is?’ asked Tuesday.
‘How should I know?’ said Vivienne sharply. ‘Clearly it’s somebody who is worried that they can’t keep the worlds apart. Don’t you think it all sounds rather important? We have to deliver that message.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. You’re meant to be here to help!’
Tuesday said, ‘There’s only one problem. I can’t stay long. I’ve only gone for a walk, supposedly, and I have to get home again before my parents realise I’m missing.’
Had Tuesday been wearing a watch, she might have checked it. Since she wasn’t, she looked up at the sky. The sun was getting low and casting a golden-syrup light over the green leaves and polished branches of the ancient tree.
‘If I’m not home by dark, they’ll panic.’
‘So you’re going to be no help at all?’ asked Vivienne in frustration, and for a moment Tuesday fancied smoke was coming out of Vivienne’s right ear – the one with the pointed tip.
‘I want to help. Really I do …’ Tuesday was torn. She thought of her mother and father at home in Brown Street, and how worried they must be. She thought of Dame Elizabeth Coventry. And Flynn McMurtry. And JD Jones, and all the others. She knew that she should throw her thread in the air immediately and have it speed her all the way home. But perhaps even that wasn’t safe. What if she asked her thread to take her home, and instead she got caught on the Mountains of Margalov, or it landed her back in her own world in some remote quarter of the Southern Ocean or the Simpson Desert? And to complicate matters, here was Vivienne Small, the real Vivienne Small, expecting her to help deal with things that were unfathomably daunting. And extremely interesting at the same time. Tuesday read the note again, then absentmindedly slipped it into her pocket.
‘Tell me again about the dog’s memories,’ she said.
And Vivienne, trying hard to control her impatience, told her.
‘A place of stone and mist,’ Tuesday pondered aloud. ‘Guarded by beasts.’
Something stirred in Tuesday’s memory.
‘And there are runes, you say? Somewhere on or near this place?’
‘So we think.’
‘You do remember them?’
‘Of course,’ said Vivienne, with a slight sniff.
‘Okay then, write them on my arm,’ Tuesday said. Vivienne traced onto her inner arm the seven characters that Tarquin had seen in the memory of the winged dog.
Ι Π Λ C Ι Π Σ
; Tuesday stared at the invisible letters.
‘Do it again,’ she said.
With a sigh, Vivienne sketched out the marks a second time.
Ι Π Λ C Ι Π Σ
This time, when Vivienne finished, Tuesday grinned. Perhaps it was going to be easier to deliver this message than she had first thought. Perhaps she could even be home in time for dinner, without anyone ever having noticed she’d been there – which, of course, had now lost its t and become here.
‘IMAGINE!’ Tuesday announced excitedly. ‘It’s IMAGINE!’
‘What?’
‘That’s what your runes say. They say IMAGINE.’
‘IMAGINE? How does that help?’ Vivienne said.
Tuesday reached out and tweaked one of the small braids that dangled down amid Vivienne’s messy black curls, and Vivienne’s cross expression transformed into a smile.
‘Come on,’ Tuesday said. ‘I know exactly where we have to go. It’s not far.’
Chapter Eight
Baxterr knew, too, and he dashed down the hill towards the fog. He checked that Tuesday and Vivienne were following, then plunged into the whiteness and disappeared from sight. Vivienne, reaching the edge of the fog, stopped in her tracks and began anxiously searching her pockets.
‘The message …’ she said.
‘It’s all right, I’ve got it,’ Tuesday said. ‘Stay close.’
So thick was the mist that when Tuesday looked down at her own feet, she could barely see them padding along on the path made of uneven paving stones. If she held her arm right out in front of her, she could only just make out the star shape of her outstretched hand. This was a mist of an entirely different kind from any that Tuesday had ever encountered at home. The sort she knew and understood was damp and chilly, but this was quite dry, and not cold at all. As she breathed it in, she was reminded of the fug in the kitchen at Brown Street when her father was baking with spices like cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. Tuesday thought it rather lovely, but Vivienne was not impressed at all.
‘Will this last long? I’ve had quite enough of mist for one day,’ she grumbled.
‘It’s not far. At least, I don’t think so,’ Tuesday said.
‘Ruff,’ agreed Baxterr, who had doubled back to Tuesday’s side.
They walked for a few more moments before Tuesday saw two great white shapes materialise in the fog: they were marble statues, a matching pair of larger-than-life lions, each one with an impressive carven mane.
‘There you go!’ said Tuesday.
‘Here I go … what?’
‘They’re the beasts from the dog’s memory. Lions.’
Vivienne peered into the mist, bewildered, and Tuesday knew that if her father had been with them, he would have said that Vivienne was mystified.
‘Where? What lions? Are you sure you’re not—’
Then Vivienne stopped, mid-sentence. She didn’t only stop speaking – she stopped altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
‘Vivienne?’
Tuesday shook Vivienne by the arm, but she was quite immobilised. Her eyes were half shut and her mouth half open. Tuesday felt panicked.
‘Vivienne? Vivienne?’
‘She will be quite all right,’ said a familiar, steely voice from somewhere within the mist. ‘I must say it was foolish to attempt to bring her here. I thought you would know better, Ms McGillycuddy.’
‘Madame Librarian?’ asked Tuesday, spinning about. The mist parted like a pair of fluffy white curtains and there, standing on the path flanked by the two stone lions, was the Librarian. She was dressed from head to toe in her customary purple, but today, instead of wearing an outfit that most people would only wear if they were heading off to the opera, the Librarian wore a rather chic purple tracksuit with a patterned silk scarf at her neck.
‘Vivienne cannot come here, Tuesday,’ said the Librarian. ‘You have forgotten the most important rule of all. This Library is for writers only. She cannot see the Library. As you have discovered, she cannot even see the lions. Frankly, I’m rather amazed she was able to meet you at the tree. It goes to show how peculiar things are becoming around here.’
‘What have you done to her?’
‘Nothing serious. I promise you that she will be waiting right here for you when you get back. Come along, please. I admire your courage in starting a new story at this time, but you’ll need to take some extra precautions. So come along and we’ll get you organised.’
Tuesday reached out to touch Vivienne’s cheek. Her skin was quite warm.
‘Are you sure she’s all right?’ Tuesday said, worried.
‘Come along, come along,’ the Librarian said, clapping her fingers briskly against her palm. ‘We have vastly more important things to worry about than the feelings of Vivienne Small.’
Tuesday was about to argue, but the Librarian’s piercing gaze made her knees tremble. The Librarian, although short, somehow managed to appear very tall. Tuesday straightened herself up, and she noticed that Baxterr was standing with his head held high, as if he too felt he must be on his best behaviour.
‘Good,’ said the Librarian, then turned on her heel. She set off up the path at a rapid clip, and as Tuesday followed, she noticed that the Librarian’s usually perfect cap of silvery hair was a little out of place at the back. And although both her shoes were a very similar shade of lilac, they were definitely not a pair. Tuesday thought it best not to mention this.
‘Madame Librarian,’ Tuesday called after her, somewhat shakily, ‘I think you may be getting the wrong idea. I should tell you that I’m not here to write a new story. I haven’t even finished the first one yet. I’m here because a thread came to get me and …’
The Librarian stopped in her tracks and whirled around to glare at Tuesday.
‘Oh goodness gracious, Tuesday McGillycuddy. It seems to me that every time you come here you are not writing a story. And yet, a story came to get you, did it not? Hmm? In my capacious experience, I find it often happens this way on second visits. A story comes to get you, sometimes before you feel ready. But whether or not you felt ready, you did say yes to this story, didn’t you? You allowed it to bring you here, didn’t you?’
‘I’ve just come to deliver a message, which I thought might have been for—’
‘A message, hmm? What is a story if not a message of sorts? A message that you deliver not only to one person, but to all people who care to open its covers and receive it? A message to all people, for all time? What could be more wonderful than that?’
‘I don’t have time for a whole story—’ Tuesday began, but the Librarian interrupted her again.
‘Time!’ she said, indicating to Tuesday to follow along quickly. ‘Nobody has time to write a novel or paint a picture or pen a song. Can you make time, Tuesday?’
‘I don’t think so, but—’
‘No, we cannot, Ms McGillycuddy. Time is simply there and we choose how to fill it up. We sleep. And we eat. And we take baths, and read books, and visit with friends and have parties and—’
‘Go to school,’ said Tuesday. ‘That takes up a lot of time.’
‘Ruff, ruff,’ added Baxterr.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the Librarian, ‘and we frolic in the park, Baxterr. Good point. So, where, in amongst all of that, is the time to write stories, Tuesday?’
‘Well, in between everything else?’
‘And is that how you managed to write all you have? Did you fit it in between everything else?’ asked the Librarian.
‘Sort of,’ said Tuesday.
‘But not really,’ said the Librarian, ‘because if I’m not mistaken you got up early, and you stayed up late. You turned down offers to do all sorts of other things, and you wrote. Did you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuesday.
‘So, you might say that although you didn’t make time, because the day was still as long as it was, and the weeks exactly the same length, you made time for writing.’
‘Yes,’ said Tuesday
. ‘But …’
‘Do not tell me that you have to go home, that you don’t have time, because this is the time you’ve made, Tuesday, for this story. You have to live it. There’s no going back. There is only going forward.’
There was definitely an unsettling tone to the Librarian’s voice. She reminded Tuesday of Serendipity when she was at the end of a novel and hadn’t had enough sleep and everything was difficult and confusing. The Librarian stared intently at Tuesday. They had arrived at the bottom of the great stone steps that led to the Library’s front doors.
The tinkling sound of a fountain reached Tuesday’s ears, and she caught the scent of roses. She noticed, however, that the Library’s gardens – which had been entirely manicured the last time she was here – were now a little dishevelled and unkempt. As they climbed the stone steps to the front door, Tuesday saw the word engraved across the lintel: the word that Tarquin and Harlequin had glimpsed in the fallen dog’s memories. An enormous seven-letter word.
IMAGINE
Tuesday took a deep breath.
‘Madame Librarian, I promised my parents I wouldn’t come here. Back at home, writers have been going missing. Writing has become … dangerous.’
‘It is! Oh, it is! Make no mistake about that. It’s chaos!’ The Librarian waved her short arms about wildly. ‘I’ve got a Library full of writers too frightened to even attempt to return home. I’ve not a single tea bag left, the CONFIDENCE FOOD ran out yesterday, and the bandage supply will be quite exhausted by this time tomorrow if things don’t improve.’
‘Dad made me promise not to write. He made Mum promise, too. We were trying to be normal.’
In front of the Library’s huge front doors, the Librarian stopped.
‘Normal?’ she said, turning to frown at Tuesday. ‘What in the dictionary did you think you were doing? Normal is not what writers need. Regularity, a set time to write, that can be very useful. But normality? No, there’s no adventure in normal. There’s no surprise or mystery, no villains or great love affairs, no tragedies or victories in normal. Normality is highly overrated, Tuesday. Eccentricity. Impulsiveness. Passion. Surprise. Joy. This is what a writer’s heart requires. And that most important thing of all – curiosity. Aren’t you curious, Tuesday, about the story that has brought you here? Don’t you want to know what happens next?’
A Week without Tuesday Page 5