The Notion Potion

by Nick Vincent Murphy

  POP!

  Lou vanished from the imaginary world and . . .

  POP!

  . . . reappeared in Boyle. Still screaming.

  ‘– eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!’

  ‘Why are you making all that racket?’ asked Trevor.

  Lou opened his eyes and saw where he was. He was too shocked to be relieved, and just stood there shaking.

  ‘Do a dance for me,’ requested Trevor.

  ‘I almost died!’ gasped Lou. ‘I almost diedy-died!’

  ‘Come on, Lou. Do a nice morning dance!’

  Still trembling, and looking deathly pale, Lou obediently started to perform a dance routine. In a weak voice, he rapped as he pulled his moves: ‘My name is Lou! How do you do?! I’m here for you. I’m Trevvy’s crew!’

  ‘Wooh!’ cheered a delighted Trevor, clapping for the traumatized clown.

  ‘Thanks, Trevvy. Now, I just think I need a little lie-down,’ murmured Lou, and collapsed on to the floor. ‘Whoopsie,’ he whispered.

  Back in the imaginary world, the remaining three of us had managed to get off the treacherous Cliffs of Death and were now huddled inside a cave on the edge of Mount Figment.

  ‘What happened to Lou?’ gasped Crunchie, still catching his breath.

  ‘Trevor must’ve woken up and imagined him,’ I guessed.

  ‘Lucky duck. I hope Padraic hurries up and imagines me too. I don’t like this quest any more.’

  The Wonkey nodded in agreement and started moaning something that sounded like ‘RrrrrrrMartin! Imagine us!’

  ‘Stop that, Wilbert!’ I snapped. ‘We’re not going home without the Notion Potion. Now let’s get moving – there’s no rest in quest!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MINES OF MISFORTUNE

  Despite Wilbert’s hopes, Martin was doing his very best not to imagine us, and was trying to come up with more ideas for inventions – in case we couldn’t find the N.P. But his meandering mind was also wondering if it was too early to have a bath and/or a second breakfast as he paced anxiously around his bedroom.

  It was a fairly small bedroom. Two beds sucked up most of the floor space, so the ‘pacing-friendly’ zone was quite limited. And as he went on his eighth mini-lap, his eager foot trod on something that it really should have avoided.

  ‘Argghh! Me flippin’ toe!’ shrieked Sinead. ‘Ya clumsy flute, that’s my favourite foot finger!’ she barked as she sat up angrily, pulling her throbbing big toe on to the bed.

  Martin bolted his eyes shut, bracing himself for a revenge attack. But as Sinead’s fist instinctively flew towards his upper body to deal a severe dead arm, it suddenly stopped, inches before impact.

  ‘Ahhh, what’s the point?’ Sinead sighed, before allowing her lithe limb to flop back on the bed.

  Martin slowly opened his eyes, confused by the lack of pain he was feeling.

  ‘Ahm, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Sinead, but I think maybe you forgot to hit me?’

  ‘I didn’t forget, ya tool – I just . . . couldn’t be bothered,’ she replied wearily.

  ‘Couldn’t be bothered to hurt me?!’ asked the puzzled boy. ‘But that’s basically what you live for. What’s happened to Sinead? What have you done with my sister?!’

  ‘Shut up, dumbo. I’m just . . . I dunno. I don’t feel like hitting any more. I’m listless*. I’m listless and wristless.’

  ‘Oh,’ Martin said, settling on to the edge of his bed. ‘Well, I’d like to help you there, Sinead, but as you well know, being listless* is something I’ve never had to deal with.’

  ‘Martin, I lost! I lost so badly. For you, I realize that’s routine, but I’ve never lost a battle of the fists before. It’s hit me hard. I feel like a spud in a sack who’s done three rounds with Fury O’Hare.’

  ‘I see,’ Martin replied sympathetically. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll trounce her next time!’

  ‘That’s the problem: I won’t. I can’t win. I’m going to forfeit the match.’

  Martin lay back on his bed and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, pleased to have this distraction from trying not to imagine me. ‘Well, Sinead, I’m sorry to hear you talking like that. But I gotta say, I’m glad you feel you can confide in me about this. I’m familiar with setbacks, it’s true. I myself have stumbled on many bumps on my merry road, so you’ve come to the right place for advice. I know we’ve had our differences through the years, but I’ve always seen us as birds of a feath—’

  Martin turned his head to address his sorrowful sibling.

  ‘Sinead?’

  But she was gone. She’d left ages ago. In fact, by the time Martin had finished his speech, Sinead had already embarked on a quest of her own. She had decided to face her victor, Fury O’Hare.

  Meanwhile, on the imaginary quest, we had abandoned the Cliffs of Death and decided to try a different route instead – through the Mines of Misfortune. These were a network of huge caves and tunnels that had been carved inside the great mountain and allowed us to climb towards the peak while avoiding the blizzard outside and the enormous dragon.

  However, there was one downside: we weren’t alone inside that hollow mountain. And every so often we’d hear footsteps skittering around in the shadows, or a menacing cackle coming from some dark corner.

  ‘What was that?’ whispered Crunchie nervously, glancing around.

  ‘Crunchie!’ I yelled up at him. ‘Focus! Is the rope secure?’

  Crunchie glanced down at Wilbert and me, as we waited on a rock far below. He held the long rope in his hands and readied himself to take the strain.

  ‘Got it!’ he called. ‘Climb on up!’

  I knew that the Wonkey wouldn’t be able to climb the rope with his useless hoofs, so I told him to hop on my back. When he mounted me, I nearly fell flat on my face, but somehow I managed to stay on my feet, and slowly began to climb the rope.

  Inch by inch, I hauled us upward, with Wilbert’s front legs wrapped around my neck. I didn’t dare look down at the terrifying drop beneath us. Spiky rocks protruded from the ground where armies of woodlice crawled. I know that woodlice are basically harmless, but they really freak me out. With all their little legs. And their name – they’re the lice of wood. Tree-nits, people! That’s what they are. Tree-nits!!

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t let go!’ I hollered up at Crunchie.

  ‘You can count on me, Sean!’ he assured me.

  But the person that I couldn’t count on was Padraic O’Dwyer. Back home in Boyle, he’d just done his morning stretches and was now in the midst of his daily ear-pick. He rooted around with his finger for several minutes until he managed to extract an unusually large ball of wax.

  ‘Look, Crunchie! I finally got it out!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s even bigger than we thought!’

  He held up his finger, but there was no ‘Oooh, blimey, that’s a beauty!’ from Crunchie, to Padraic’s disappointment.

  ‘Crunchie?’ he called, as he began to imagine his IF. ‘Where are you? You don’t want to miss this!’

  POP!

  Crunchie appeared before him, holding a long rope, and . . .

  ‘Arrrrrgghhhhh!’ I shrieked, as Wilbert and I fell like stones through the great cave, plummeting towards the sharp rocks and freaky tree-nits.

  But as we tumbled through the air, Wilbert stuck out his powerful back paws and managed to grab hold of a rocky outcrop. Our descent suddenly came to a halt, and now it was me clinging to his neck.

  ‘Oh, Wilbert! Thank you! You saved us!’ I gasped, and hugged him tightly. ‘I knew this trip would lead to some quality Wonkey-IF time!’

  He honked happily and wagged his tail.

  ‘How can I ever repay you?’ I asked.

  He pointed at his udders hopefully.

  ‘Eh. Now?’

  But just then, we heard footsteps and evil cackles drawing closer. The Dorcs were closing in.

  ‘Maybe later, pal. We gotta get outta here!’

  We scrambled off the ledge and
scampered up a set of long winding steps into the dark, emerging into another rocky chamber – but suddenly they were in front of us! I turned, and they were behind us too! They were above us, hanging from the rocks, and even underneath us – one of them was clinging to my ankle. We were surrounded by Dorcs!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WELL WELL WELL

  The leader of the Dorcs came closer, scowling at me. He had greasy hair and there were several pens tucked neatly into his shirt pocket.

  ‘Question one! Geography!’ he squeaked in a high-pitched voice. I now remembered what Nelly had told me: after the pursuit would come the annoying trivial questions.

  ‘What’s the capital of Australia?’ he demanded.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me!’

  ‘Eh. London?’ I guessed. ‘No, wait. Paris! Australian Paris! Paristralia! Kangaroos! Didgeridoo*! What was the question again?’

  ‘Incorrect!’

  Wilbert gave a groan, clearly having another cheese-cramp. ‘Rrranngherrrrrrah!’

  The Dorc peered at him. ‘Did he just say Canberra?’

  ‘Yes he did.’

  Wilbert looked confused, and the Dorc was disappointed. ‘Lucky guess.’

  ‘Can we go now?’ I asked.

  ‘Question two. Sports and Leisure!’ squeaked the Dorc. ‘For which track event did Carl Lewis win a gold medal at the 1984 Olympics?’

  Wilbert and I looked at each other blankly.

  ‘RUN!’ I cried.

  ‘Very close, but can you be more specific?’ asked the Dorc.

  Wilbert pushed him aside, I leaped free from the ankle-gripping Dorc, and we bolted away. They charged after us as we sprinted through the great cave, and Wilbert gave a loud ‘HEEE-HOWLLLLLLLLL!’ to try to scare them off. But there were too many of them. They swarmed around us, and soon they had us cornered again, pinned against the rock.

  ‘Imagine us, Martin! Imagine us!’ I prayed.

  But at that moment, Martin was furiously trying not to imagine us, so he didn’t disrupt the quest. He was sitting in the bath, working on an idea for a new invention – a pop-up popcorn maker. Similar to a pop-up storybook, a paper saucepan would pop up from a book where you could then cook popcorn. But the idea needed more work as he’d calculated that the risk of fires was 186 per cent.

  ‘Stay back!’ I shrieked, and dug around in my adventure-backpack for a weapon. I threw the Belgian Army Fork at them, and then the tin of baked beans, but they just ducked them. Then I pulled out the tractor-shaped torch that Crunchie had given me, and shone it at them fiercely.

  The Dorc leader smirked. ‘You really think a tractor-shaped torch is going to scare us?’

  ‘It’s a Tractor Beam!’ I retorted.

  He frowned. ‘A tractor beam?’

  ‘You know – like they have on spaceships. But this is a tractor. With a beam.’

  The Dorc thought about this for a moment, and then started to chuckle. Quietly at first, but then getting louder.

  ‘Hahaha! Hahahahahaha! A tractor beam!’ he snorted. ‘That’s brilliant!’

  The other Dorcs started laughing too, giggling and snorting. ‘Hahahahahaha! Because it’s a tractor! And a torch!’

  They honked and howled, falling around the cave, braying with laughter. I was a bit surprised at this – but then again, it is a truly excellent joke.

  As they guffawed and snickered, Wilbert and I saw our chance to escape. We tiptoed away from the tittering troop and made for the stone steps. We sprinted up them as fast as we could, and then finally burst through a wooden doorway that led us back out into the open air.

  We were on the peak of Mount Figment! The blizzard had passed, and the imaginary world was spread out beneath us. The dragon circled far below, but thankfully hadn’t noticed us.

  ‘Well well well,’ came a croaky, mysterious voice.

  We turned to see a wrinkly old merchant standing at a cart selling Mount Figment souvenirs. He gave a crooked smile with a mouth missing several teeth.

  ‘What seek ye, weary travellers?’ He gestured to a display beside him. ‘Postcards, perhaps? Two for a pound?’

  ‘What? No, we seek the Notion Potion!’

  ‘The Notion Potion, you say?’ The old merchant chuckled to himself. ‘Well well well.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying that?’

  ‘Because that’s where you are, my friend! Welcome to the Well Well Well!’

  I turned to see a small stone structure nearby and gasped with amazement. ‘The imaginary well! We’ve found it!’

  We bounded over excitedly and peered down into its dark depths, but could see nothing.

  ‘Why is it called the Well Well Well?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, because it’s a well, and it was built by two IFs called Jim Well and Mary Well. Would you like a mug with their faces on it? It’s dishwasher safe . . .’ he offered.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘A nice fridge magnet then? I give a special price for you, my friend.’

  ‘Thanks, but we’re just here for the Notion Potion.’

  ‘As you wish. You’re hoping it’ll make you as clever as the Orcs, I presume?’

  I looked at him. ‘So it was the Notion Potion that turned them into Dorcs! It really works then?’

  The old man chuckled. ‘Oh, it works all right.’

  I picked up a wooden bucket that was attached to a long rope and eagerly hoisted it over the edge. Then I started to lower it down into the Well Well Well.

  ‘Do I just help myself to as much as I want?’ I asked.

  The crazy old man chuckled again. ‘Hahaha. You could. If there was anything in it.’

  I paused, worried. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Dorcs drank it dry many moons ago.’

  I gasped. ‘What?! You mean, the Well Well Well is empty?!’

  I lost my grip on the rope, and the bucket went clattering downward. I heard it hit the ground inside the well with a dull thud. There was no splash – the old man was telling the truth. I slumped to the ground, crushed.

  I couldn’t believe that we’d come all this way, risking our necks on this treacherous journey, only to be denied at the very last hurdle. I don’t mind telling you this, dear reader old pal – I began to sob. I sobbed like a baby. Like a big, beardy baby.

  ‘Oh balls!’ I cried. ‘Balls! Balls! Baaaaaaalllllllls!!’

  The old merchant looked at me sympathetically. ‘You know what might make you feel better?’

  ‘I don’t want to buy any flippin’ postcards!’ I snapped.

  ‘OK, how about a nice Mount Figment egg cup?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘A tea towel with pictures of Dorcs on it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘A bottle of Notion Potion?’

  ‘No! Wait – What?’ I scrambled to my feet. ‘You’ve got the Notion Potion?’

  He grinned at me, showing his few remaining rotten teeth. ‘I managed to save some before those savages guzzled it all.’

  He opened his jacket and pulled out a large glass bottle with a cork in its neck. It was filled with a strange blue liquid that swirled around as magically as a lava lamp*.

  ‘What would a weary traveller like you offer for such a drink?’

  I considered all of my possessions. ‘Do you want some jelly beans?’ I asked.

  ‘What I want is right in front of me,’ he replied. And with a wrinkly old finger, he poked me on the chin.

  ‘You want . . . my face?’ I asked, alarmed. ‘My beautiful face?!’

  ‘Of course not, that would be weird! I want . . . your beautiful beard!’

  I couldn’t believe it, but the old loon was serious.

  ‘All my life I have tried to grow a beard such as this,’ he said, admiring my lush whiskers. ‘Alas, nothing grows on my barren chin but pathetic peach fuzz. Oh, how I have longed for a bountiful beard such as yours!’

  ‘But . . . my beard is like my soul! A warm, hairy, handsome soul! Can’t I give you somet
hing else? How about a skipping rope?’ I suggested.

  ‘I will accept nothing but that beard!’ he said firmly, tucking the bottle of Notion Potion back into his jacket. ‘Take it or leave it, my friend. The choice is yours! Ahahahahahahahahahahaha!!’ he cackled, as loud as the Dorcs.

  It was a strange place, this weird mountain, but at least it was filled with laughter.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT THEM

  Oblivious to my facial-hair dilemma, Martin was still sitting in the bath, and had crumpled up his plans for the pop-up popcorn maker. He then forced himself to think about pigeons so that he wouldn’t imagine me. Even though I’d only been gone a few hours, this was proving to be quite the challenge, and he’d hoped that a good soak would help him forget all about his absent IF.

  Martin loved baths – the suds, the calming effect of water on skin, the fun bubbles that came from submerged farts – the whole kit and caboodle*. But he had one gripe with the bathing experience: the lack of available food. He’d be happily floating or scrubbing when his tummy would rumble, or even call out ‘Hey! What about me? I’m starvin’ down here!’

  Reluctantly he decided to abandon his cosy water hole and get himself a sandwich.

  In the kitchen, he found Fidelma and his mam having a bit of a barney* about some boy.

  ‘The big dork from the school choir?’ Debra enquired.

  ‘He’s not a dork, Mam. His name is Dessie and he’s lovely.’

  ‘The holy Joe with the keyboard?’ scoffed Trisha, who was making tea nearby.

  ‘Shaddup, Trish, you’re just jealous!’

  ‘Ah, boys, boys, boys . . .’ Martin nodded sagely. ‘Can’t live with them. That’s what they say.’

  The women stared at him briefly before returning to their squabble.

  During Martin’s short but eventful life, he’d seen this kind of thing many times before. One of his silly sisters would fall in ‘love’ with some Spanish stable boy or waxy-haired drummer or (in Sinead’s case) a local farmer’s nephew who dressed like a scarecrow. Martin had learned it was best not to get involved, and would usually just offer wise, pointless titbits like ‘Ah yeah, love is strange’. Or ‘What’s good for the goose . . .’ Or ‘Nothin’ like a good chat’.