The Notion Potion

by Nick Vincent Murphy

  ‘Looks like Sinead’s the favourite to win!’ exclaimed Debra as she glanced over at the bookies*, who were taking the final bets. ‘Should we put some money on her?’

  ‘Don’t worry, love, I’ve already bet Martin’s entire college fund,’ Liam informed her.

  ‘You’ve what?!’ blurted Martin.

  ‘Relax, Martin – it was only twenty quid,’ admitted his dad.

  ‘Let’s get ready to rummmmbbbbblllle!’ came a voice from the stage. They looked up to see a priest in his black outfit, who was also wearing a red sparkly jacket that would have looked more at home in Las Vegas. ‘Haha, always wanted to do that. Welcome to the Roscommon Final of the World Sack-Punching Championships!’

  The crowd roared and pounded their feet with excitement.

  ‘This event really puts the fun into fundraiser, and the cha-ching into sack-punching!’ joked the priest into the mic. ‘Thanks to all of you, we’ve raised enough money to put that new roof on the church toilet – and that’s what really matters tonight, isn’t it? That’s why we’re really here.’

  There was a confused smattering of applause.

  ‘Only joking!’ chuckled the priest. ‘We’re here for sack-punching – am I right?’

  The crowd erupted into cheers.

  ‘Hahaha. Lovely stuff. Then let’s bring out the contenders! In the red corner, all the way from beautiful Boyle, she’s a freestyle sack-puncher! She’s a biter, she’s a kicker, she doesn’t care what she does so long as she gets the job done. She’s the Majestic Moone, Sinead the Scrapper! Give it up for the Champion of North Roscommon . . . Sinead Moone!’

  There was a mighty roar as Sinead wandered out in her tracksuit and stood on stage looking bored as the audience chanted her name.

  ‘Moone! Moone! Moone!’

  ‘And in the blue corner,’ the priest continued, ‘from rocky Knockcroghery, we have the light-footed florist, the dancing gardener, the titan with the trowel. She smells like petals and has fists like metal, it’s the Champion of South Roscommon . . . Fury O’Hare!’

  Another cheer, and out came Mrs O’Hare. She was a small, kind-faced lady in her sixties, and was still wearing her florist’s apron with the name of her shop on it: ‘Let’s Talk Some Scents’.

  She waved at the crowd, and then glared at Sinead icily.

  ‘Lower the sacks!’ shouted the priest.

  From the rafters, two sacks of potatoes were lowered on ropes – one for each contender.

  ‘Each sack holds three hundred medium-sized potatoes,’ continued the priest, ‘thoroughly washed, with skin still on. There’s only one rule here, folks: punch until mashed. Whoever pulverizes every potato first will win tonight’s battle. And whoever wins two battles will take the sack-punching crown of Roscommon. Fighters, are we ready?’

  Fury O’Hare took off her wedding ring and popped it in her apron pocket. Sinead spat out her chewing gum.

  The crowd waited with bated breath.

  ‘But first,’ shouted the priest, ‘let’s have a quick prayer.’

  He bowed his head. A few members of the confused audience lowered their heads too and started muttering a Hail Mary.

  ‘Only joking!’ chuckled the priest. ‘Let’s SACK-PUNCH!!!’

  A bell rang out, and the battle began.

  Back at home, I was feeding Wilbert a saucer of chopped onions, and while he gobbled them up, I reread the chapter on milking techniques.

  How to Milk Your Wonkey in Six Easy Steps

  1. Play some soothing music.

  2. Light some candles.

  3. Make sure your hands are warm.

  4. Grasp the Wonkey’s udder, and squish gently, but firmly, like squeezing a tiny roll of toothpaste.

  5. Sing to your Wonkey as you fill your milk jug.

  6. Afterwards, tickle your Wonkey’s ears and offer it an ice-cream cake.

  Music: check.

  Candles: check.

  Warm hands: check.

  But things started to go wrong at Number 4. I grasped his little udder as firmly and gently as I could, but he didn’t like that one bit, and whacked me across the face with a hoof.

  ‘Wilbert!’ I cried. ‘You need to be milked—’

  Whack!

  ‘– once a month or your milk—’

  Whack!

  ‘– will turn to cheese and you’ll get cheese cramps!’

  Whack! Whack! Whack!

  He stood up on his hind legs and jiggled his belly, trying to shake me off, but I clung on tighter. Then he spun me around in circles. As I whirled around him, I used my free hand to see if the handbook had any other suggestions.

  It read: ‘If your Wonkey is reluctant to be milked, then cradle it in your arms and sprinkle kisses on its nose.’

  Just then, I lost my grip with my udder hand and went crashing across the room.

  Wilbert brayed with laughter as I struggled to my feet and staggered towards him in a daze. When I stooped down to pick him up and cradle him, he simply sat down on top of me.

  And there he stayed – no matter how much I struggled and shrieked.

  I lay on the floor with a face full of buttock, and began to wonder if I was really cut out to be a Wonkey-owner.

  ‘So much for quality time,’ I sighed sadly, ‘And so much for solving the mystery of N.P . . .’

  Meanwhile, in the hall, the battle was still raging.

  ‘C’mon, Sinead!’ shouted Debra. ‘Mash those spuds!’

  ‘Slap that sack, Sinead!’ bellowed Liam. ‘Slap it like it’s your worst enemy!’

  ‘Yeah, slap it like it’s me!’ suggested Martin.

  But it was clear to them all that Sinead was struggling. She was exhausted, and her punch-rhythm was slowing down. It was understandable of course – she’d been whacking a sack of potatoes for twenty-six minutes – but Fury O’Hare seemed, if anything, to be getting faster. As Sinead slowed, there was a new spring in the florist’s step, sensing victory.

  Fury’s tiny fists were a blur. She danced around her sack, landing left and right hooks as fast as lightning, floating like a butterfly and slicing like a butter knife.

  ‘C’mon, Sinead!’ urged Liam desperately.

  But a few precise punches later, the little old lady obliterated the last spuds in her sack and raised her small red fists in victory as the final bell rang out.

  Back in the car, the Moones drove home in silence, trying to come to terms with the shocking loss of Round One.

  ‘You were robbed, Sinead!’ said Liam suddenly. ‘Robbed!’

  Debra nodded bitterly. ‘That woman’s potatoes must have been parboiled*!’

  But Sinead just shrugged. ‘Fury fought a good fight. I lost fair and square.’

  ‘Well, it’s not over yet,’ Liam reminded her. ‘It’s the best out of three, so you’ve got one more chance to beat her. Right, Sinead?’

  But Sinead just stared out the window.

  In some ways, Martin was glad that there was one less winner in the house lording it over him, but he also felt sorry for his sister. He knew that losing wasn’t pleasant, and it was something that he really wanted to avoid with this science adventure. He couldn’t bear the thought of those posh kids from St Whimmion’s laughing at him or his friends again, and putting their rich, dirtless hands all over those shiny science medals.

  Martin wanted to win this time. And Sinead’s defeat made him hope even more desperately that their application would be successful, so they could take gold at the Invention Convention. His face could only take its rightful place on the Winners Wall if they won. There was no ‘Runners-Up Wall’, or ‘You Tried Your Best Wall’, or ‘Your Mammy Bought You A Medal And Told Us To Give It To You Wall’. Not this time.

  Winning was crucial, Martin decided. Winning was vital. Winning was the most important thing ever.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EXPERIMENTS

  The next morning, I let Wilbert loose in the field next door and dived into the task of solving the mystery of N.
P.

  My head was swirling with questions:

  1. What did it mean?

  2. What were those crispy bits I ate?

  3. How was I going to solve this?

  4. Should I eat a sandwich first?

  It was quite the pickle. I needed some answers. And a sandwich. And maybe a pickle. But mostly answers.

  I devoured Crunchie’s books (not literally, as I’d already devoured a sandwich and a pickle), but found them to be quite useless – not a single mention of ‘N.P.’

  However, if books have taught me anything, it’s that the best place to find answers is in a book. Although I suppose books would say that. But if you think about it, the only place you’re going to find the answer to the N.P. mystery is in this book. So maybe they’re right!

  Either way, during my downtime – when Martin was asleep or having a sudsy bath, and Wilbert was having a long, leisurely bum-scratch – I started popping back to the imaginary world to scour the books in the ‘Imaginary Research Facility For IFs Trying To Solve Weird Mysteries, Unexplained Anomalies And Wordsearch Puzzles With Their Realsies’. Or the I.R.F.F.I.T.T.S.W.M.U.A.A.W.P.W.T.R. for short.

  One week later, I was still no closer to solving the mystery – but when Martin returned home from school one day, we did finally get one answer. There was a letter waiting for him in a shiny gold envelope stamped with the official seal of the Invention Convention!

  The Invention Convention Dublin, Ireland

  Greetings, Team Trepdem!

  Thank you for your application. I daresay we have never received a proposal before that told us so little about an invention. In fact, you told us literally nothing, except that ‘Science will not know what hit it’. As scientists ourselves, I can assure you that we always know what hits it.

  However, we were also intrigued by your impressive claims. And since your teacher, Mr Jackson, has signed your form and therefore vouched for your work (at risk of a massive fine and short jail sentence), we must assume that your invention is indeed a thousand times better than the toaster, the toasted-cheese-sandwich maker and the kettle all combined. This is a very exciting prospect indeed!

  Therefore it is our great honour to invite you to participate in this year’s Invention Convention!

  Congratulations, Team Trepdem!

  Please transport your invention to the Convention Centre in Dublin by noon on the 20th of June for judging. After the winners are announced, there will be a short dance party. This will be followed by tea and buns. Tea is free, buns are extra.

  All the best,

  Mrs Maggie Magoonty

  (Top Science Judge)

  ‘We’re in?!’ gasped Padraic, when Martin showed the letter to the gang the next day at school.

  Declan Mannion was pleased. ‘Guess I won’t have to make any anonymous threatening phone calls after all. That’s my weekend freed up.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked Trevor.

  Martin gave him a determined look. ‘Now we get to work!’

  And get to work they did.

  While I continued to trawl through the I.R.F.F.I.T.T.S.W.M.U.A.A.W.P.W.T.R., poring over every book with either an ‘N’ or a ‘P’ in the title, Team Trepdem constructed their first invention: a pair of rocket boots.

  This might sound a bit dangerous, but what the team lacked in knowledge, they made up for in grit, enthusiasm and a total disregard for health and safety.

  The rocket boots consisted of two big mucky boots, which came from Padraic’s farm – their main test site. The second ingredient was fireworks. Declan bought the largest available from Boyle’s black-market dealers (the Bonner brothers). The third and final ingredient was some strong, sticky tape. And once these three ingredients were combined – which took about forty-six seconds – they just needed a volunteer.

  Everyone wanted to be the first rocketeer, but after an epic coin-flipping tournament, it was Trevor who claimed the lucky spot. He pulled on the flight footwear eagerly, imagining himself soaring over the treetops like a boot-wearing budgie, and it was only after they’d lit the fuses that a thought suddenly occurred to Martin.

  Invention 1: Rocket Boots

  ‘Hang on . . . Don’t fireworks explode?’ he asked.

  Trevor’s face went pale just before his feet flew out from underneath him. He slammed on to his back, and was then dragged along the ground by his fiery boots.

  Within seconds, he was at the far side of Padraic’s field, screaming all the way, and would surely have had his feet melted, had the fizzing fireworks not carried him directly into a pond. They were extinguished in the water before they could pop, and instead of being exploded, Trevor merely found himself in a fight with a duck.

  Now, it should be said that all inventors have setbacks. Harry Ferguson’s tractors fizzled, sputtered, collapsed and crumpled before they hummed like Lamborghinis*. He crashed his home-made tractors, motorbikes, aeroplanes and racing cars countless times. Failed experiments came with the territory. But after the near-demise of Trevor, the team decided to make three Safety Rules.

  1. Avoid fire.

  2. Avoid ducks.

  3. Avoid death.

  Hoping to steer clear of these hazards for their second invention, they decided to try something simpler: a Coat Zipperer.

  At least, the idea was simpler, but the same couldn’t be said for the actual invention. It consisted of a metal belt that was worn around the waist. This held a long rod that arched up from the lower back and over the wearer’s head like a big ‘C’. A spring-loaded hook dangled down from this towards the front of the coat where it could be attached to the zipper. By pulling two levers, the spring-loaded hook would pop up, taking the zipper with it, and – hey presto! – you were zipped and ready to go!

  That was the idea, anyway, and since Padraic was the one who came up with it, it was decided that he should be the one to test it out. He put on his coat, and then the rest of the team helped him strap on the heavy Coat Zipperer. Soon the hook was attached to the zipper, the spring was primed, and all was ready.

  Padraic held the levers.

  ‘Activating zip!’

  ‘Activating zip!’ repeated Martin, with a nod.

  Padraic hesitated nervously. ‘Eh. In T-minus three, two, one . . .’

  Finally he pulled the levers. ‘Zip away!’

  Nothing happened.

  He pulled again. ‘Zip away!’

  Still nothing. Padraic leaned down towards the zip, peering at it, and pulled again.

  Suddenly the spring popped, and the zip was yanked upward with such force that Padraic’s whole head disappeared inside his coat. He gave a muffled wail, completely trapped.

  Invention 2: The Coat Zipperer

  Following these experiments, Padraic and Trevor strongly suggested that they build something that didn’t need to be worn. So they decided to construct a robot.

  Using scrap metal, some old bits of plastic and wood, they built an impressive-looking mechanical man, which they named the ‘Trepdem Bot’.

  But it had one slight flaw: it didn’t actually do anything. This was due to some confusion about who was in charge of electronics.

  Invention 3: The Trepdem Bot

  ‘I thought you were doing that, Trevor!’ snapped Declan accusingly.

  ‘No, I was in charge of hair. Padraic was in charge of electronics.’

  ‘No, I was in charge of giving the robot a lovely smile!’ insisted Padraic.

  They all blamed each other and ended up with a robot that was completely hollow. It did nothing but stand there, like a big, smiling, futuristic failure.

  As they stared at their mindless creation, Martin suddenly had an idea.

  ‘Ya know, gang, if I’ve learned anything from films, it’s that if you want to bring something to life, or go back in time, or become magnetic, or get any superpowers really, there’s only one thing you need.’

  ‘Batman?’ suggested Padraic.

  ‘Lightning!’ proclaimed Martin. ‘Lightni
ng can do anything! That’s science!’

  ‘But this isn’t like Back to the Future*,’ argued Trevor. ‘How are we supposed to get our hands on some lightning? We don’t know when it’s going to strike.’

  Declan spat on the ground. ‘I know a fella that might be able to get us some. Wouldn’t be cheap, though.’

  They pondered this for a moment . . . when suddenly Padraic blurted, ‘I’ve got it!’

  ‘You’ve got lightning?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Nope. But we’ve got the next best thing at our farm. An electric fence!’

  And so, forgetting about Safety Rule # 3 (‘Avoid death’), they cycled out to Padraic’s farm to electrocute their robot. Padraic didn’t think that his dad, Farmer O’Dwyer, would approve of this experiment, so they decided to carry it out under cover of darkness.

  As the sun set, Team Trepdem waited patiently in the bushes until Mr and Mrs Farmer O’Dwyer were settled on the couch watching Winning Streak*.

  The four science ninjas then crept up to the electric fence with their robot. Padraic opened the control box and switched off the fence’s power before Martin and Declan leaned the robot against the metal wires. The Trepdem Bot drooped backwards over the fence like a clumsy gymnast trying to do The Crab.

  ‘Ready?’ hissed Padraic.

  ‘Ready!’ Martin whispered back.

  Padraic pressed a button, turning the fence back on, and then shoved a lever upward, jamming it up to full power.

  There was a low, intense HUMMMMMMMMM, and the robot started to vibrate.

  ‘Something’s happening!’ Martin squealed, astonished.

  ‘Is it coming alive?’ called Trevor, who was standing a very safe distance away.

  ‘Yes! I think it’s coming alive!’ cried Martin.

  The robot was starting to smoulder. Thick smoke began to billow out from underneath it. And then suddenly it burst into flames.

  ‘Oh balls!’ moaned Martin.