The Notion Potion

by Nick Vincent Murphy

  ‘Mam, do we have sandwich bread?’ he asked.

  ‘Or dead batteries?’ enquired Trisha.

  But Debra was still getting to grips with the ongoing Fidelma situation.

  ‘Delma, this is not a good time to be gettin’ involved with some fella – check the flippin’ bread-bin, Martin – you’ve got your exams coming up, you need to stay focused right now – most of the batteries in the press* are probably dead, Trish – and if your head drifts from your books to some piano-playin’ plonker, you might never be the first female Taoiseach.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s not what I want, Mam. Maybe . . .’ Fidelma was getting a bit emotional now, as she gathered her books into her chest. ‘Maybe that’s just what you want!’ she blubbered as she stormed out, leaving her mother at a loss for words.

  Taking the difficult situation into account, Martin turned to Trisha and asked the important question: ‘Why do you need dead batteries?’

  ‘I’m making a necklace out of them.’

  ‘But . . . they’re rubbish, Trish.’

  ‘Well, yes. And you’re the one who gave me the idea for that – thanks, Martin!’

  ‘You’re welcome?’ he replied uncertainly. ‘But are you not worried that people will look at you and say, “Ah there’s Trisha Moone, wearing a big head of garbage again”?’

  Trisha thought about this for a second. ‘The thing is, Martin, I like my face, but I also like to have fun with it. Sometimes you can make a good thing even better.’

  ‘Like baths!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love baths, but I wish I could make my bath even better.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying “baths”?’

  ‘I’d nap in a bath if it weren’t so dangerous – ya know what I mean, Trish?’

  But Trisha was already gone. It seemed whenever Martin was closing in on something brilliant, the ladies in his life would desert him. He turned to his mother.

  ‘Mam, do you know how to make a waterproof sandwich?’

  ‘No, Martin, it seems I don’t know anything.’

  She shook her head sadly, before deserting him.

  Martin retreated to his bedroom and tried again not to imagine me. But as he lay his dopey head on his pillow for a nap, there was another rumble, and this time it wasn’t his empty belly. His wardrobe shook, and he sat up.

  ‘Sean . . . ?! Wilbert . . . ?!’

  Suddenly it burst open and the Wonkey bounded into the room. He looked relieved to be back, and even more relieved that he no longer had a bulging milk-belly. But Martin was too startled to notice this as he watched me tumble out after Wilbert and fall flat on my battered back. I was exhausted. I stank of adventure. And I was completely beard-less.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE GENIUS JUICE

  Martin had never seen my naked face before, so it took a moment for him to recognize me – but then his eyes lit up with delight. ‘It’s you, Sean! You’re back!’

  His gaze moved to my chin and he gave a little frown. ‘Oh. So that’s why you’ve always had a beard.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ I asked self-consciously, bringing a hand to my chin.

  Martin looked at me, then back at my chin. Then at my ears, then back at my chin. Then at the floor, then back at my chin. ‘Eh. Nothing,’ he said to my chin, a bit flustered. He did his best not to stare at it, but I knew what was going on.

  You see, for as long as I can remember, my chin has been home to a large and rather strange-looking mole. Unlike human moles, IF moles are multicoloured, and mine was a bright lime green. There were two blue dots on its peak, and along with a few red hairs sprouting from its crown, it looked very much like a tiny face. When I was young, this face was my friend, and I named the mole ‘Gerald’. But as I got older, other imaginaries would laugh at Gerald and call us names like ‘Chin Face’, ‘Two Heads’, and ‘Moley-Moley-Mole-Mole’. So as soon as puberty* arrived, I decided to shield Gerald from those mocking eyes, and I hid him inside the finest forest of chin whiskers ever known. And there he stayed, in his handsome, hairy hideout, until now.

  ‘So, eh . . . what happened on the quest? Did you find the imaginary well?’ asked Martin, trying not to stare at Gerald.

  ‘Well, Martin, I’ve got good news and bad news.’

  ‘What’s the good news?’ he asked eagerly.

  I paused. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think that through – I’ve actually only got bad news.’

  Martin gaped at me (but mostly Gerald), looking like he’d been punched in the stomach. ‘Oh no . . . ! You didn’t find the Notion Potion?!’ He reeled around, devastated. ‘Now what am I going to do?! How am I going to come up with a brilliant invention without that genius juice? The Convention is just a week away, and we’ve got nothing but a burnt robot, a chopped-up coat, and some soggy firework boots! How’s that going to beat those snarky snobs from St Whimmion’s? How’s that going to get my face on the Winners Wall?’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Martin! Let me just tell you what happened!’

  But Martin frowned, staring at my backpack. I thought he was just trying not to gawk at Gerald, but then his worried face began to brighten, and he looked at me with a broad grin.

  ‘Oh, you.’

  ‘Huh?’

  He wagged his finger at me playfully. ‘Sean Murphy, you big joker. You totally had me there!’

  ‘What are ya talking about, buddy?’ I asked, baffled.

  ‘You big scamp! You cheeky monkey. You scallywag! You really got me that time! I totally believed you!’

  ‘You believed what?’

  ‘That you didn’t get the Notion Potion!’ he exclaimed, and plucked the glass bottle from my bag. This was the same bottle that the merchant had traded for my beard, but now it was filled with a dark green liquid.

  ‘All this time you had it right here, ya big trickster!’

  I glanced at Wilbert, and we shared a worried look. ‘Eh . . .’

  ‘Is that mole part of the joke too?’ asked Martin, with a suspicious smile. ‘I bet it’s totally fake!’

  He pinched Gerald and wiggled him about, trying to pull him off my face.

  ‘OWW!’ I yelped. ‘Stop that!’

  Martin’s smile faded and he withdrew his hand. ‘Nope, not fake. Sorry about that.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘Anyhoo . . .’ he continued, turning his attention back to the bottle. ‘You found it! You found the Notion Potion!’

  He pulled out the cork, and some strange, green steam puffed out of the bottle, wafting around his bedroom in clouds.

  ‘Oooh, steamy!’ he marvelled, his eyes dancing with excitement.

  ‘Hang on, buddy. It’s not what you think—’ I began. But before I could finish, Martin was already gulping it down!

  Glug, glug, glug – the entire bottle disappeared down his gullet in seconds!

  ‘Martin, wait! You really don’t want to drink that – let me explain!’

  But Martin just swallowed and cried out, ‘Wooooh! That. Is. Tangy*!’

  He gasped, panting. ‘It’s like there’s a fizzy rollercoaster in my mouth. Made of butter and grapefruits and mackerel and sweaty cheese.’

  ‘Wow, that’s a really . . . complex flavour.’

  Martin swished it around his mouth. ‘It’s also quite warm.’

  Wilbert and I looked at each other uneasily.

  Martin stood there for a moment, waiting.

  ‘I think something’s happening!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘It must be starting to work!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked doubtfully.

  He belched, jiggled his head, jumped in the air, and then yelped, ‘I’ve got it!’

  ‘Got what?!’

  He cartwheeled over to his desk, grabbed a crayon from the floor, and suddenly began to scrawl on the wall!

  In a wild frenzy, he scribbled down formulas, mathematical equations and strange squiggles and doodles. His hand was a blur as he feverishly covered the old wallpaper wi
th complicated diagrams and blueprints for an invention.

  I tried to interrupt a few times to explain what had happened on the quest, but Martin was lost in his thoughts, muttering to himself as he worked.

  He didn’t stop until every inch of wallpaper was covered with his ideas. And after using up three crayons, two markers, and a pencil, he finally whispered, ‘It is done.’

  Completely drained, he face-planted on to his bed and fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TUB GRUB

  Martin slept for the rest of that afternoon. Normally he avoided napping, as it left him vulnerable to attacks from Sinead, and he’d often woken up to find himself graffitied with make-up – but thankfully his sister was nowhere near his sleeping face. Her quest, or more accurately, the bus, had taken her to sunny South Roscommon, where she found herself peeking through the window of Let’s Talk Some Scents.

  Fury O’Hare was in the midst of sculpting a bouquet of seasonal Roscommon flowers. Dandelions, crabgrass and pigweed were strewn on the dainty florist’s floor. Sinead hid outside, nervously watching her preen and prune.

  All of a sudden, the mighty warrior halted her work, smelt the air and whispered, ‘I find conversation works best when people are in the same room, young Moone.’

  Impressed but intimidated, Sinead slipped gingerly into the shop (which was difficult because the door had a bell, which chimed loudly on entry).

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs O’Hare, but I’ve come to concede,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Concede?’

  Sinead nodded solemnly. ‘Sometimes you gotta know when you’re beat. You deserve the sack-punching crown. There’s no need for us to battle again.’

  Fury looked surprised, but nodded sagely.

  ‘Yes. It is true, young Moone, that if we were to battle again right now, you would be bested.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m forfeiting.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ O’Hare mused, as she edged towards Sinead. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we used eggs instead of potatoes?’

  ‘Eggs?’

  ‘Yes, because it seems you are . . . a chicken, no?’

  ‘I’m not a ch— . . . I get it, OK? You’re better than me. Just shake my hand and accept my forfeit so I can get on with my life.’

  The florist looked at Sinead’s outstretched hand and the beaten expression on her face. She softened and wilted, like a tulip in June.

  ‘You have skill, young Moone. But you are wild, like a flower in a desert. You need to become like a single white rose in a vase. Sharp, but striking.’

  ‘But I’ve trained so hard already – I don’t think—’

  ‘Silence! The mistake every novice makes is thinking that practice makes perfect. But only perfect practice makes perfect. You need teaching.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No – fat Freddy in the flippin’ newsagent’s next door! Yes, me! I shall teach you. You will be my apprentice. And you will soon learn that to beat the potato, you must become the potato!’

  Something odd was happening on Sinead’s face. Her mouth was contorting into a strange, rarely seen shape. It was a smile.

  At that same moment, Martin’s mouth was contorting into a much uglier shape. ‘Aaarrggh, me head feels like a bag of snakes,’ he grumbled, as groggy as a seasick toad.

  ‘Well, you haven’t moved for hours!’ I told him.

  His eyes slowly squinted open to find the Wonkey and me peering down at him. All that thinking seemed to have worn him out, like his head jelly had run a mind-marathon – and he closed his eyes again.

  ‘C’mon, Martin! Time to wake up. We need to do something about these drawings.’

  ‘What drawings?’

  As I pointed to the scribble-covered walls, the bedroom door burst open, revealing a bewildered Mammy Moone.

  ‘Oh balls,’ we whispered in unison.

  ‘Martin, what the flip did you do to your room?’

  Martin was a terrible liar at the best of times, and with his mind still in recovery mode, his deception skills were even weaker than usual.

  ‘It’s . . . Modern Art?’

  ‘Well, get your arse out of bed and your art off those walls,’ Debra snapped, before leaving in a huff to do whatever nonsense it is that mothers do.

  ‘What is all this stuff?’ asked Martin, as he stumbled to his feet and examined the wall scrawls.

  ‘It’s your “big idea that’ll change the world”.’

  ‘It is . . . ?’ he asked, staring at the strange scribbles. ‘Wait – Of course! I drank the Notion Potion you brought back from the quest, turned into a genius, and came up with an incredible invention!’

  ‘Ehh. Well, you drank something,’ I began hesitantly, ‘and went kinda mad. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, buddy. To be honest, I think you might have been allergic to it. I mean, you are allergic to a lot of stuff. Strawberries. Silk. Bees . . .’

  But Martin wasn’t listening; he was staring at the weird writing. ‘Hmmm. I better show this to the team!’ he said, and started ripping down the sheets of wallpaper.

  Martin brought his plans to the rest of Team Trepdem, confident that their collective brainpower would sort through the strange squiggles and discover the genius within.

  ‘I think that bit is . . . a rabbit’s face, but it’s wearing . . . a purple party hat?’

  Padraic was pointing at a particularly confusing segment of the plans. The others were squinting and tilting their heads, trying to make sense of the wall scrawls that were laid out on the ground.

  ‘This bit looks like an unfinished game of Snakes and Ladders,’ observed Trevor.

  ‘It’s mostly numbers and squiggles, Martin,’ Declan said. ‘Is it some kind of invention to help people cheat at horse racing?’

  ‘Ahm . . . maybe?’ replied Martin, genuinely clueless. He was feeling rather annoyed that the Notion Potion hadn’t made him enough of a genius to understand his own ingenious invention.

  ‘This makes zero sense,’ stated Trevor. ‘And yet, there are so many zeroes written here.’

  Team Trepdem was stumped. Martin sighed with frustration, and kicked the useless sheets of wallpaper, disappointed that they were still no closer to success. But as the sheets fell over one another, he suddenly spotted a pattern.

  ‘Wait a second . . .’

  He began to line up the bits of wallpaper in a different order, like he was piecing together a puzzle. Somehow, he seemed to be reading it and making sense of it.

  ‘Oh you clever little sausage, haha . . . Oh that’s good, yes!’ He chuckled to himself, as the others watched in bewilderment. ‘I gotta tell ya, folks, I’m impressed.’

  ‘By what?’ asked the boys.

  ‘By whom should be the question. And the answer is . . . by myself! I knew I hadn’t imagined it! I am a genius! And my world-changing invention is all right here in front of us!’

  ‘What is it?’ Trevor begged, instantly excited.

  ‘Hmmm. Where to start . . .’ Martin mused, smiling smugly at his friends. ‘You sure you’ll be able to keep up?’

  ‘Start talkin’ or start hurtin’, Moone,’ growled a looming Declan.

  Martin stroked his chin, like he imagined all great inventors did. ‘OK. Let me try to explain my wondrous new creation in layman’s terms*.’

  ‘Spit it out, Moone,’ Declan threatened, ‘before I spit you out.’

  ‘Your impatience is justified, Mr Mannion. If I were you, I too would be shaking with excitement.’

  ‘I’ll shake you with excitement,’ Declan growled.

  ‘Okey-doke. Here we go. Who among us enjoys baths?’

  The team tentatively raised their hands.

  ‘And when you’re in the bath, but suddenly get peckish – what do you do?’

  The others grumbled, agreeing that this was a nuisance.

  ‘Just this morning I was having a nice soak in the suds,’ continued Martin, ‘when I started craving a snack. So like a soapy sap, I ha
d to get out of the bath to make myself a sandwich!’

  ‘Oh, tell me about it! It’s such a pain,’ agreed Padraic. ‘What I do now is cook my dinner before I get in, and then serve myself inside the bath. But it’s still far from problem-free. The other day, my cottage pie fell into the water and I was fishing around for it for ages, and it got so soggy and soapy that I nearly couldn’t eat it – a total nightmare!’

  ‘Well, the nightmare ends here!’ declared Martin.

  ‘The nightmare of you talking about baths?’ asked Declan.

  ‘The contents of these wallpaper drawings will change the way we look at bathing. And change the way we look at food. Because my invention kills two birds with one stone.’

  ‘That’s good maths,’ noted Padraic.

  ‘Instead of bringing a snack into the bath, the snack is the bath. You bathe in your snack! Instead of a soapy bath, you can take a soupy bath!’

  ‘Like . . . edible bath salts?’ Trevor asked.

  ‘It’s so much more than that, Trev.’

  ‘Bath salts . . . and pepper?’

  ‘Well, sure, if that’s the only flavour you enjoy. But my invention allows the bather to create a Readybix bath! Or a cheesecake, or lasagne bath! You can wash yourself in tea! Or honey! Or yogurt! The possibilities are endless!’

  ‘Like . . . having soda streams instead of taps?’ Padraic asked.

  ‘Now you’re getting it, P,’ said Martin. ‘And have I mentioned that this bath will also be portable?’

  ‘What?’ the now riveted group gasped.

  ‘This will be a mobile bath, because, quite frankly, people will want it wherever they go! Be it beach parties, sporting events, religious festivals . . .’

  ‘It’ll be like the St Whimmion’s fancy bus bath!’ cried Padraic.

  ‘Yes!’ agreed Trevor. ‘But way better, cos of . . . the bath food!’

  ‘Eating in the bath would be kinda handy, to be fair,’ muttered Declan, with a shrug. But the others were blown away.