“What do you think of that?” he asked with upraised eyebrows.
Lewis read the page out loud.
“In the Orkney Islands of Scotland this rhyme, relating to a lost day of the week, was recorded by the Reverend Murdo Abercrombie in 1857. Its meaning, however, is obscure.”
“So?”
“Read the rhyme, idiot!” Greg insisted.
Lewis read aloud in a long-suffering tone:
“The Lokiday Rhyme.
The day that was lost returns in time
If two will but recite this rhyme.
At Thorsday’s end but say it fine,
Restore the day that once was mine.”
“You see, it’ll be a lucky day,” said Greg. “And that’s just what I need – luck.”
“It says Lokiday, not Luckyday.”
“So what? They spelled Thursday wrong too.”
“Actually Thor was the Norse god of thunder,” Lewis began. “Over the years the pronunciation—”
“Whatever! The main thing is that it’s tonight, right? Thursday night.”
Lewis treated his brother to as blank a look as he could muster.
“Don’t you see?” Greg exclaimed impatiently. “That’s all I need: just one day of good luck.”
Lewis experienced a sinking feeling in his overfull stomach. “Is this going to be like the time you had us both dress in opposing primary colors so that when we stood together nobody would be able to see us?”
“It’s not my fault that didn’t work,” Greg asserted bullishly. “Blame it on science.”
“You don’t get science from The Amazing Book of Incredible Feats,” Lewis objected. “You have to join facts together and make something sensible out of them.”
“Look, we say this rhyme and we’ll have a lucky day,” Greg persisted. “It’s not brain surgery. Don’t you want to be lucky?”
Lewis didn’t have to think hard to come up with one area of his life where he’d like to be lucky.
“I suppose so,” he agreed grudgingly. “But I don’t think that’s what it means. I think what it does is kind of conjure up this day that’s disappeared. It brings it back.”
“Okay, at worst, it’s a whole extra day to study, and it might be lucky, too. Look, it says it takes two to make it work. So, are you in?”
“But does it make any sense that—”
“Switch off your brain for a second!” Greg commanded. “Your hair’s starting to sizzle. Will you do it?”
Seeing that he had no choice, Lewis nodded.
“That’s my boy!” Greg congratulated him with a hearty slap on the back.
This only confirmed to Lewis that he was making a big mistake. But unlike Greg’s other schemes, if this didn’t come off, then nothing would happen. Or would it?
Greg stretched out his forearm and checked his watch in a brisk, military fashion. “Just five hours to go. What’ll we do until then?”
“You could always try breaking your golden rule and studying for the test.”
“Studying? Don’t be daft. I told you, tomorrow’s going to be my lucky day.”
Around ten thirty Mum found an excuse to unglue herself from Aunt Vivien. She came to Greg’s bedroom door but was too disgusted with her sons to look in.
“Are you in bed yet?” she asked icily through the door.
“Yes, Mum!” they lied in chorus.
Mum was too dispirited by an evening in Aunt Vivien’s company to press the point and slipped away to her bedroom before Aunt Vivien could call her back.
Lewis was in his pyjamas and climbing into the sleeping bag. He shut his eyes wearily, hoping that Greg would be so tired he’d forget all this nonsense about reciting the rhyme at midnight.
Lewis was having that dream where he turned up for school with no clothes on when a sharp poke in the ribs awoke him. “Come on, dozy, it’s nearly time,” he heard Greg say.
He struggled out of the sleeping bag and stifled a yawn.
Greg looked at his watch. “What time do you make it?”
Lewis looked blearily around him and picked his watch up from a nearby chair. “Eleven fifty-five.”
Greg frowned. “I’ve got ten to midnight.”
Lewis hated being forced out of a sound sleep and his tone was testy. “Yours hasn’t worked right since that time you pretended to swallow it.”
“I won the bet, didn’t I?” Greg wrinkled his nose. “We need to be accurate if this is going to work. Hey, I know.”
He stepped over to the window and yanked it open. “If we listen out we’ll hear the town hall clock when it chimes midnight. As soon as it starts, we say the rhyme.”
Lewis shivered as a cold breeze blew into the room.
“Fine, but once we’re done, can we close the window and get some sleep?”
Greg frowned at him. “You might show a little enthusiasm. You know, you can’t achieve anything in life if you won’t believe in yourself.”
Lewis’ tolerance snapped. “This isn’t about believing in myself. It’s about you making me say this stupid rhyme because you’re too lazy to do a little hard work.”
Greg put his hands on his hips and regarded his brother through narrowed eyes. “We’re both under a lot of stress right now, with Aunt Vivien and everything, so I’m going to assume you didn’t mean that to sound as judgemental as it did.”
Lewis sighed and glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly time.”
Greg picked up the book and flipped to the right page. Then he stood by the window with his ear cocked. When they heard the first chime of the town hall clock sounding in the distance, he pulled Lewis to his side.
“Okay, start reading.”
“The Lokiday—”
“Not the title, you plank,” Greg interrupted. “Just the rhyme. Start on the next chime.”
They started together on the next stroke of twelve.
“The day that was lost returns in time
If two will but recite this rhyme.”
Greg sped up, trying to complete the rhyme before the clock finished striking. Lewis almost got tongue-tied trying to keep pace with him.
“At Thorsday’s end but say it fine,
Restore the day that once was mine.”
At the last word Greg shut book with a flourish. “Close the window, will you? There’s a draft.”
Lewis pulled the window shut and yawned.
“Well, do you feel lucky?” he asked.
“It’s not about feeling lucky,” Greg retorted scornfully. “We need to test it scientifically.” His gaze swept across the room. “I know.”
He hauled open a drawer in his desk and raked through the assorted debris it contained. Some bottle tops and pencils fell out before he triumphantly lifted up a deck of cards. He thrust them at Lewis.
“Shuffle them and deal me five cards.”
“Why?”
“It’s a poker hand. If I get four aces or a full house, I’ll know it worked.”
Lewis opened his mouth to object then thought better of it. The sooner they got this over with, the better. He took the deck out of its box and shuffled it clumsily.
“Lewis, you’re going to drop them all over the floor.”
“I’m not a Las Vegas dealer, you know,” grumbled Lewis.
He carefully dealt out five cards face down on the bed.
Greg snatched them up and pressed them to his chest as though afraid to look. Slowly he lowered them and looked. His face fell.
“These are total rubbish.”
Lewis shrugged. “At least there wasn’t any money riding on it.”
Greg chewed his lip thoughtfully. “We should try it again, just to make sure.”
Lewis heard his sleeping bag call and thought fast. The way things were going, he was either going to be dealing out cards all night or listening to Greg complain until dawn about his bad luck.
“It probably won’t work till morning,” he said. “That’s when the day starts.”
Greg conside
red this. “You may be right. Let’s get some sleep. You look like you could use some.”
“Right,” Lewis said under his breath.
He burrowed as deep as he could into the sleeping bag and closed his eyes tightly. It was a good idea to doze off before Greg started snoring.
This time he had a dream in which Mum and Dad were sent abroad on a mission for MI5 and he and Greg had to go and live with Aunt Vivien. He was mumbling to himself about going out for a pizza when he awoke with a shudder. The sun was shining through the curtains and the dream quickly vanished from his mind.
He didn’t know yet that the day which lay ahead would be worse than any dream he had ever had.
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Copyright
Kelpies is an imprint of Floris Books
First published in 2014 by Floris Books
This eBook edition published in 2014
© 2014 Robert J. Harris
Robert J. Harris has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the Author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the prior permission of Floris Books, 15 Harrison Gardens, Edinburgh www.florisbooks.co.uk
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume
British Library CIP data available
ISBN 978–178250–147–3
Thor Is Locked in My Garage! Page 16