The Time Of Green Magic

by Hilary McKay

  The parrot left its perch to fly, grass-green wings, coral-red beak, dark primary feathers spread like a fan against the sun-bleached sky . . .

  ‘Abi, Abi, Abi! Abi, I can’t see you!’

  ‘Here, on the sofa,’ said Abi, blinking, half dazzled by Pacific sunlight.

  ‘There was . . .’

  ‘What?’

  But Louis had forgotten.

  It was easy to forget, to close the blue covers and lose the unbelievable. Abi did it every time, so completely that she was startled in the kitchen when Louis looked at her book and asked, ‘Why is it all wet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your book. Look.’

  It was all wet, dark with water, and the pages buckled with damp.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she began, puzzled, and then remembered, in the way that dreams are remembered, in fragments and fading images, sunlight, a blue ocean and a blue circle of horizon. The way she had slipped.

  The ocean sound, like the echo in a seashell. Her stinging eyes.

  Cautiously she touched the stained cover, and once again tasted her fingertip.

  Salt.

  She checked again.

  Definitely salt.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Louis had a secret, and it had started with owls.

  ‘Owls’: a word so short and open that he could not quite hear it. ‘Nowls’, thought Louis, is better.

  Louis had started changing words when he was little, three or four years old, with grommets in his ears. At that time he had struggled to hear not only the things other people said, but also those he said himself, and he had got into a way of making words a bit more audible by adding an extra letter or two. He had nearly grown out of it, but there were still one or two words left. There were nowls, and there was iffen, which was ‘if’.

  Iffen there’s a nowl, thought Louis. Ever since he had first heard of Harry Potter, he had longed for nowls. Regularly he had explained to his family his need for one. They had been absolutely useless. They had bought him a toy: a furry Hedwig in a plastic cage. They said a real nowl was impossible.

  That was before the new ivy-covered house.

  Possible now, thought Louis. Had he not heard them calling, that very first-time night?Wild nowls, thought Louis, up in his bare, immaculate room: bed, chest of drawers, a rug made out of nine carpet square samples taped together underneath, dark floorboards.

  A good room, like an ivy-wrapped den. A perfect place for a nowl, if only a nowl would come.

  They could make nests in the ivy, thought Louis. There’s plenty of room.

  It was true that the ivy was tremendous around Louis’ window. It hung in bunches from knotted twisty stems as thick as his arm: a deep, green, vertical forest. Really it was surprising that it wasn’t already full of nowls.

  Perhaps they just haven’t noticed it yet, thought Louis.

  How, how, how, he wondered, to make a nowl find his ivy?

  That was the problem.

  Then there came a day when Louis discovered a dead mouse on the path by the door.

  Louis pocketed the mouse, and later he put it on his windowsill and waited.

  The mouse disappeared.

  Louis was not so fortunate as to find a supply of dead mice, but he used his brains and thought of other things that might tempt a hungry nowl. Ham from his friends’ packed-lunch sandwiches. A discarded chicken kebab found in the street. Would a nowl eat cheese? It seemed it would; cheese vanished in the night, and so did scrambled eggs. Veggie sausages were rejected, though, and so were mushrooms. Crisps were pecked at, but then scattered through the ivy. Louis never caught his nowl in action; it waited till he was asleep.

  Then came the day when he and Theo found the pigeon.

  It was just after Polly went away.

  Theo said the pigeon must have been hit by a car. He was with Louis when they came across it, motionless, in front of the house, its feathers ruffled, its head limp and sad, its eyes asleep.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ said Theo, his arm round Louis’ shoulders, his deep voice as warm as sunlight. ‘And don’t cry. One bump, and all over. It wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘It might wake up,’ said Louis, but Theo shook his head, and said, ‘Don’t think so, old Louis, leave it alone now, and we’ll do a funeral after tea.’ Then Theo had taken off his beanie hat, wrapped it gently round the pigeon, and moved it into the shade of the house. They had gone inside and Louis had become quite springy and cheerful, but a couple of hours later, when Theo went out again, he said, ‘Well. That’s funny.’

  Because there was only the hat.

  Theo didn’t say anything else because he thought Louis must have forgotten the pigeon. Louis didn’t say anything either because it was now upstairs, reviving (he hoped) in a specially made nest in the ivy.

  The pigeon was still asleep when Louis went to bed, but it looked much better, dozing in its nest, with its feathers properly smooth and its sleepy head resting on a leaf. Louis patted it with satisfaction, spread pepperoni slices all along the windowsill, and went to sleep himself.

  That was the first night that Louis saw his visitor. A silhouette against the night sky, a Russian doll, with ears.

  Ears? thought Louis, and in the morning he drew what he had seen and showed it to Abi.

  ‘Guess what?’ said Louis.

  ‘An owl,’ said Abi.

  ‘Yes, a nowl,’ agreed Louis. ‘With ears.’

  Abi nodded. She didn’t say, ‘Owls can’t have ears,’ so Louis knew they could.

  Wonderfully, the pigeon had revived and flown away in the night, two small feathers left in payment to Louis for his kindness. Louis pushed the feathers behind his ears to help his magic, and renewed his offerings on the windowsill. He longed for another glimpse. ‘Nowl, come back. Come back, nowl,’ he murmured as he fell asleep.

  Then one night (stolen school fish fingers on the windowsill) it happened, and he saw.

  His nowl was brown. A blotched sort of brown. It did have ears, and it was large.

  The faintest shadow of doubt began in Louis’ mind. The songs that he droned when he was all alone changed a little. ‘Iffen you’re a nowl?’ he sang. And sometimes, ‘What iffen . . . what iffen, what iffen you’re not?’

  The magic of the nowl made up a little for the missing-ness of Polly.

  Polly called them almost every evening; they put her on speakerphone so everyone could hear. She had a way of talking as if she were in a room next door.

  ‘Pop upstairs, Abi, and look in the airing cupboard. That shampoo you wanted is somewhere on the right. I meant to give it to you. What on earth is that noise on the stairs?’

  ‘Just Max coming down on his bike.’

  ‘Max!’

  ‘Where else round here can I practise mountain biking?’ asked Max. ‘Anyway, I’ve stopped, the chain’s come off again.’

  ‘It probably needs tightening – get Theo to help you. Has Louis done his reading homework yet?’

  Theo said no he hadn’t, and what about if Louis read to Polly, right now?

  ‘But first blow your nose, Louis,’ called Polly, ‘because sniffing and reading at the same time is very difficult . . . What was that? Where’s he gone? Louis?’

  They found Louis in bed, unwashed but snoring. He refused to wake up.

  ‘We know you’re pretending,’ said Abi sternly.

  ‘Come on, Louis,’ said Theo. ‘I’ve brought the phone. Sit up and say bye to your mum.’

  ‘Goodnight, Louis, you sleep well,’ called Polly. ‘I love you. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘When?’ said Louis, eyes still shut but talking in his sleep, since the reading danger seemed over. ‘P’raps tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, not tomorrow.’

  ‘The next day?’

  ‘Maybe a little longer.’

  ‘I don’t want a little longer,’ said Louis woefully. ‘What about Christmas?’

  ‘I’ll be back ages before Christmas!’ said Polly, thousands
of miles away. ‘Gosh, yes, ages! What do you want for Christmas?’

  ‘A nowl,’ said Louis, ‘I told you.’

  ‘Louis, please think of something else,’ said Polly briskly. ‘Because no one can possibly get you an owl . . . and don’t start that snoring again!’

  But Louis did start the snoring, and this time it was unstoppable. One by one, his family gave up and left him, and when they had gone he opened wide his window, despite the autumn chill. Then he laid an offering of cold marmite toast on the windowsill and whispered, ‘Are you there . . . ?’

  What did he hope for? Unfurling brown wings and a drifting warmth? Wise round eyes to watch while he slept? He awoke to find a warm living shape pressing him into his mattress.

  This was so terrifying that for several hours (or so it seemed) Louis stopped breathing. Nor did he open his eyes. But he did not have to look to know that no owl, no nowl, nor anything that flew in the sky, was such a tremendous weight.

  Sometime after midnight, whatever-it-was shifted. Whatever-it-was raised itself and began kneading Louis under the quilt. It seemed very strong and it had claws. Every now and then, Louis heard a thread rip when they caught. Once, when that happened, something lashed: whump, whump!

  Louis unscrewed his eyes and, in the dim light, he saw a long, furry tail.

  He clutched his quilt and squeaked.

  Whatever-it-was growled, so low in its throat, that the vibrations ran through the bed like electric pulses, but the sound soon died away.

  Louis collected his courage. There was a bedside lamp on top of his chest of drawers. He stretched out a cautious arm and switched it on.

  Then Louis looked and looked and looked at his golden-eyed, hot-furred, heavy-pawed conjuring from out of the ivy-rustling night.

  And the conjuring looked at him.

  ‘You climbed up the ivy,’ whispered Louis.

  It did not deny it.

  ‘You’re not a nowl,’ said Louis. ‘I guessed you weren’t, when I saw your ears. And now you’ve got fur. You’re a cat,’ said Louis, but he spoke uncertainly. Was this a cat? ‘A cat-thing,’ said Louis.

  The cat-thing sank down, deep and heavy on the bed. The night air from the window was cold, but the cat-thing was warm. Louis found himself wishing it would purr.

  ‘Iffen . . .’ he murmured, and found the cat-thing’s eyes on his, a direct golden gaze that went straight to his astonished, worshipping soul. ‘Iffen . . .’ he said again, and the cat-thing dipped its golden head in acknowledgement.

  So then Louis knew that was its name.

  Iffen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For a day or two after the evening that Abi had slipped and dropped her book through time and space and logic and into the South Pacific, she stopped reading. She left The Kon-Tiki Expedition in the rocking-horse room and closed the door. She tried not to think of how the raft had swung over the waves, and how her hair had caught the sea spray. She told herself, It was a dream. You were falling asleep.

  Yes, but the book was wet, argued Abi with Abi.

  Perhaps, before you were quite awake, you dropped it in a puddle.

  What puddle?

  A puddle of rain that had blown in earlier when somebody opened the window.

  Salt rain?

  But Abi pushed away the thought of salt.

  Don’t forget the sound! said persistent, arguing Abi. The seashell ocean sound! And don’t say perhaps it was just wind in the chimney!

  But perhaps it was wind in the chimney, thought Abi, a few days later, up in her bedroom, finishing homework. Outside, a gusty autumn breeze was rattling the ivy leaves. Might the wind blowing over the chimney make a sound like an ocean’s rolling waves? Abi thought she might go down to the rocking-horse room and listen.

  It was one of the rare days when Theo was home early. He was in the bathroom with Louis. They had filled the bath to its maximum depth and Louis was having deep-sea-diving lessons while Theo simultaneously cleaned the bathroom, sorted laundry, and trimmed his own hair because he didn’t have time to go to a barber. As Abi passed the door, she heard a burst of laughter and paused.

  ‘Can’t see a thing in this mirror!’ she heard Theo complain. ‘All steamed up! Which side needs a bit more, left or right?’

  Then Louis’ voice – Louis, who didn’t know left from right – calling, ‘That one! That one, that one by your ear . . . Not that ear, the other ear!’

  Then more laughter.

  Abi felt a lurch of sour green jealousy. It was the haircutting game that she and her father had played when she was little. It was a part of her childhood. The same jokes (‘Whoooops!’), the same pretend-anxious vanity: ‘Am I looking good yet, Louis?’ Worst of all, snatches of a song that had been hers and Theo’s ever since she could first remember.

  My song! thought Abi (with no idea of how many children in A&E had been triaged, bathed, stitched, bandaged, held over sick bowls, wheeled down corridors, comforted in their fear to snatches of that same familiar tune).

  Once, long before Abi could remember, there had been her mother and father and herself. Three of them, with Abi safe in the warm heart of the family. But that had been broken.

  Then there had been Granny Grace, who for ten bossy, loving years had left Abi in no doubt that her only grandchild was the centre of her world. Until Granny Grace rushed off to Jamaica.

  Now it seemed Theo could manage without her, too. It was all Abi could do not to barge into the bathroom, spoil the fun, wail loudly, ‘Find a new game for Louis! A new game and a new song! That one’s mine!’

  But she didn’t. She heroically carried on downstairs, and she arrived at the closed door of the rocking-horse room.

  The wind was blowing in the chimney, a gusty, dusty, woodwind sound. Not a bit like the ocean.

  But still Abi could hear splashing and laughter from the bathroom, and still she remembered the taste of salt.

  I know why people run away, thought Abi bitterly, but since she didn’t have anywhere to run to, she opened the door of the rocking-horse room instead. There was the book, exactly where she’d left it, and suddenly it was as tempting as an unopened parcel, a shooting star not wished on, a chance not taken. However, when she picked it up she found that it would not open; the pages were stuck together. In that cold, empty room, the book had stayed as damp as when she’d left it.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ exclaimed Abi, about everything in the world, and she stamped into the kitchen, put her book into the microwave, turned the setting to ‘Auto Roast High’ and pressed START.

  The results were immediate. The silver lettering fragmented into crackling golden sparks and there was a hot, fishy smell. For a horrible few seconds Abi feared she had microwaved an ocean. It did have the good effect of making Max, who had his bike upside down in the corner, trying to fix the chain, look up and speak.

  ‘What the heck are you doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘I was trying to dry my book,’ said Abi, opening the window wide and wafting a tea towel about. ‘Why does it smell of fish?’

  ‘It’s the glue,’ said Max. ‘They made glue out of fishbones and horses’ hooves and all sorts of disgusting stuff in the olden days. Microwaves are rubbish for drying things anyway. I tried it with my trainers once. I didn’t know the bits round the lace holes were metal.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Abi, brightening a bit because this was the friendliest that Max had been for weeks.

  ‘They made blue lightning and then they caught fire,’ said Max. ‘What’s the book about?’

  ‘A raft.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Abi tried, although talking much still didn’t come easily, especially talking to Max. ‘Ages ago, these people built a raft out of logs and set out to see if they could sail across the Pacific Ocean. They had a parrot, and there were flying fish.’

  ‘Great,’ said Max, sounding like he wished he hadn’t asked.

  ‘I skipped a lot at the beginning.’

  ‘I would have
too,’ said Max.

  ‘There’s a picture of it.’ Abi carefully unpeeled the still-damp pages to find the photographs at the back. ‘Those logs were really slippery. If you stepped on the wrong place like I . . .’

  Abi stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Abi, not wanting Max to think she was insane. ‘Why is my dad bathing Louis?’

  ‘Someone’s got to,’ said Max.

  ‘I mean now, so early.’

  ‘I s’pose to cheer him up.’

  ‘What was the matter?’

  ‘I had an atlas out that I brought back from school. Louis saw it and started trying to work out where Mum was.’

  ‘Does he understand maps?’

  ‘No. Well, he didn’t at first. I showed him where she was and it didn’t mean a thing to him. He was pleased. He said, ‘Oh, that’s not far. Can we go?’ So, to make him understand how far it was, I showed him Scotland, because of going there that time when we all went on their honeymoon . . .’

  ‘I hated that,’ said Abi.

  ‘It was seriously weird,’ agreed Max. ‘Anyway, I shouldn’t have bothered because when Louis got that Mum was about ten times as far away as Scotland he started wailing and he didn’t stop until your dad came in and said, “What about a deep-sea-diving lesson? I’ve got time if you have,” and took him upstairs.’

  ‘I think he’s all right now,’ said Abi. ‘He sounded fine when I went past.’

  ‘Till the next time,’ said Max.

  The next time came minutes later, with another call from Polly. Louis and Theo came racing down the stairs, both very damp, and Polly began her usual rapid-fire questions about clean school uniform, what they’d had for supper, if Louis had forgotten to worry about Mrs Puddock yet and whether Theo was remembering to pay Esmé.

  ‘Polly,’ said Theo reproachfully.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry,’ said Polly. ‘Is Louis there? I didn’t get to talk to him last time.’

  ‘I poked my reading book,’ said Louis, grabbing the phone to himself and speaking in a very loud voice, ‘down a DRAIN.’

  ‘Louis!’

  ‘Where you are, are there BOMBS?’