by Emily Rodda
“Right. Now look,” Max said to Patrick. “You’ve got to get it into your head first thing, that when you’re here with us, you’re in a different time stream from the one you’re in when you’re at home. Got that?”
Patrick nodded dumbly. He’d more or less accepted that already, though it seemed completely incredible.
Max nodded with satisfaction. “Right,” he went on. “That’s point one. Point two is that your time stream’s separated from our time stream by the Barrier. It’s like a wall. A very, very tall wall you can’t get over, or under.”
“It’s just out there, actually,” Boopie chipped in, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. “Just down the road. That’s why they built the studio here. Makes it easier to–”
“Boopie, what am I going to do with you!” growled Max, shaking his head at her. Then he relented and spoke more gently. “He doesn’t need to know that, girl! That’s where you always confuse them, going on like that!”
“Sorry,” sighed Boopie. She went back to smoothing her feathers.
“For some reason, probably because on your side the Barrier’s different to the way it is on ours, your people haven’t worked out that it exists, or that we do, for that matter.” Max sniffed in disgust. “It’s beyond me why they haven’t woken up to some extent, but obviously they haven’t. Anyhow, we’ve always known about it, see. And over the years we’ve worked out that there are certain places where the Barrier’s very weak. And you know what makes it weak? Something on your side. Go on, make a guess.” He paused expectantly.
Patrick stared at him, open-mouthed. “Mice?” he whispered.
Boopie snorted with laughter. Max frowned at her ferociously and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“No, son,” he said flatly. “Not mice. Clocks. The Barrier’s always at its weakest in the general area of an especially big, powerful, chiming clock. Have you got anything like that near where you live? I’ll bet you have.”
Patrick nodded. “I sure do,” he said. He’d always thought there was something special about the Chestnut Tree Village clock. Now he knew what it was.
Max nodded slowly. “It’s always the same,” he said to Boopie, then turned again to Patrick. “So, son,” he went on, “are you following me? The Barrier has these weak spots, all along its length –”
“That’s mostly where it breaks,” Boopie put in, sitting forward in her chair.
“Breaks?” repeated Patrick slowly. This was becoming more and more incredible.
“Yes. It sort of tears – sometimes because it’s had a knock or something, sometimes for no reason at all that we can see on our side. But anyway, then we have to fix it,” Boopie explained brightly.
“Yes,” droned Max, ignoring her, “but more to the point, before we can fix it, things tend to get sucked through to the other side – our side into your side, your side into our side. People and animals and such can’t get through at all – not that way.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “But things – well, they’re another matter. Now, we’re on the watch for Barrier breaks, so we don’t lose that much, and when we get your stuff through, the Guards throw it back, if it’s worth it, before the Department of Barrier Works team turns up to fix the hole.”
“They don’t bother throwing back lots of things,” said Boopie seriously. “They’re a lazy mob, those Barrier Guards, I reckon. I know one who told me …”
“Single socks,” said Patrick suddenly. “They wouldn’t bother with those, would they?”
“Heavens no!” giggled Boopie. “Why do you ask that, sweetie-pie? Lost some?”
“I know some people who have,” grinned Patrick. He was starting to enjoy himself.
Max cleared his throat irritably. “Well, do you see the point, son? Every now and then, despite all the precautions and all, something someone really cares about goes through a hole in the Barrier, into your side. And there’s nothing they can do about it.”
“Except come to us,” Boopie chipped in. “Because of Max’s computer we can find their things – or at least …”
“What we can do,” said Max, staring her into silence, “is locate them using the computer and then bring in Finders from the same general area, like yourself, who can be sent back home to collect them.”
“Ours is the only computer like it anywhere,” said Boopie. “It’s Max’s invention, you see.” She glanced at the thin man warily, but he said nothing. “Anyway,” Boopie went on hastily, “we’d better get you going, Patrick!”
Patrick nodded, his mind racing. There was so much to take in. He knew he should be asking lots more questions, but he didn’t really know where to start.
“What if the thing – the Find – what if someone else has already found it, and won’t let me have it?” he blurted out.
Boopie shook her head. “That never happens,” she said. “People on your side of the Barrier don’t take much notice of things from over here. You’ll have no trouble on that score, believe me.”
“Right, let’s get this show on the road,” said Max briskly. “Just stand over there, son, and look at the TV for me, will you?” He went over to his computer. Boopie stood up and he sat down in his chair and began tinkering with the keys.
Patrick did as he was told. The small TV set on the wall sprang into life. The picture was black and white, and very fuzzy, and for a moment he couldn’t work out what it was. Then he realised that he was watching the TV section of the department store back at Chestnut Tree Village.
“How long have I got?” he asked desperately.
“One week, your time, Patrick,” called Boopie. “But, oh dear, I nearly forgot – wear the same clothes when you come back, will you, sweetie-pie? All your episodes will be put together to make one show, eventually.”
“Ready?” growled Max. “Right … don’t look away …”
Patrick held his breath.
“Stop!” shrieked Boopie suddenly, making them both jump. “Oh, heavens, Maxie, I clean forgot to tell him how to get back! Oh, I’m so … I just can’t think straight these days … oh, I’m sorry …”
“Make it snappy, Boop, I can’t hold the fix!” said Max urgently.
“Same telly set, same time next Saturday, Patrick. And bring your Find with you. Got it?”
Her voice was fading, the room was fading.
“Yes,” shouted Patrick. “But …” He tried to turn his head.
“Don’t look away!” Max’s voice echoed in the dimness.
Patrick felt dizzy and sick. There was a faint ringing in his ears. Boopie’s voice. He struggled to hear what she was calling, and finally the words came clear.
“Good Finding, sweetie-pie! Good luck!”
“Goodbye,” he whispered. And closed his eyes, tight.
8
The First Find
Someone trod heavily on Patrick’s toe. He opened his eyes. He was back in the department store, and a teenage boy with a startled expression was staring at him. “Sorry,” the boy mumbled. “Didn’t see you there.”
“That’s OK,” Patrick said vaguely. The boy looked at him in a puzzled way and then shrugged and walked off, past the rows of TV sets.
Patrick slowly rubbed his bruised toe against the back of his leg. So he’d made it! And as the thought formed in his mind, he realised that he could still hear the blacksmith striking the anvil on the Chestnut Tree Village clock. About this, at least, Boopie Cupid had been telling the truth. Time had practically stood still.
He began to walk unsteadily towards the exit. His knees were wobbly. He felt in his pocket and pulled out Clyde O’Brien’s clue. With it came a feather–it could only be the feather from Boopie’s dress, but he would hardly have recognised it. Instead of being bright, bright yellow, it had faded to a dull creamy colour. The writing on the clue-note, too, was very pale. He had to strain his eyes to read it.
Carefully pushing both things back into his pocket, he made his way out of the shop. The clock had finished striking now, and the crowd of pe
ople that had surrounded it was breaking up. He could see his mother sitting with her cup of coffee where he had left her. She looked up, saw him, and waved.
Patrick broke into a half jog. He was very glad to see her, looking so familiar and peaceful. He knew he couldn’t tell her about Finders Keepers and the Barrier and everything, because she’d just think he was imagining things, which he had to admit he often did. She wouldn’t believe for a minute that it had all really happened. So he couldn’t tell her. But it was awfully good to be back with her all the same.
She smiled as he approached. “Ready to go home, darling?”
He nodded and smiled back. He wanted very much to go home, and to get up to his room where he could be alone. He had a lot to think about.
Two-and-a-half hours later Patrick sat on his bed with Clyde O’Brien’s clue spread out in front of him. No matter which way he looked at it, it still didn’t make sense. He strained his eyes to read the faint writing for the hundredth time:
“A tree has died to give me birth,
But still I shelter feathered friends.
I’m large and heavy, coloured earth,
With golden fringes my tail ends.
And where my name and others be,
My owner’s name is plain to see.”
It sounded like a sort of animal – a big, heavy animal with a tail that had golden fringes on the end. A lion? Lions were gold-coloured. A stuffed lion, maybe? Maybe it was stuffed with feathers, and that’s what the second line meant, though it was a strange way of putting it. Still, these riddle-clues were tricky. They did deliberately put things in strange ways, to puzzle you.
A stuffed lion, or some other big animal, with a gold-fringed tail. Yes, that could be it! He crouched over the piece of paper excitedly. He still couldn’t see where the dying tree came in, and yet … maybe a tree fell on the lion, and that’s how it died and got to be stuffed with feathers … No – that sounded funny, even to him. And what about “coloured earth”? Where did that fit in? And as for the stuff about the names …
“Patrick! Lunch!” Judith’s voice floated up the stairs. “Patrick!”
“Coming!” he yelled. He snatched up the crumpled paper and put it into his desk drawer, beside the feather. How could he possibly find something by next Saturday, when he didn’t even know what it was? Why make it so hard? It was ridiculous! What a stupid, idiotic game! It was probably better just to forget all about it. But as he left his room he felt cautiously for the little beeper-brooch, to make sure it was still firmly attached to his T-shirt, where Boopie Cupid had put it. It was just as well to be prepared.
“Dad,” said Patrick at lunch. “Would there be any stuffed lions around here?”
Paul stared at him for a minute. “Now there’s a question you don’t get asked every day,” he said finally, turning to Judith.
Claire giggled.
“At the museum there might be one,” said Judith helpfully, frowning at Claire.
“Is the museum in our area?” Patrick persisted. “Is it?”
“Well, it’s in our general area,” said Paul. “But I wouldn’t say it was in our actual, immediate area, no. What is this, mate? Something for school?”
“It’ll be a project,” Claire said knowledgeably, returning to her salad. “We started them in his grade.”
“I just have to find out,” said Patrick.
“About stuffed animals?” Judith asked carefully. “Or just stuffed lions?”
Patrick felt himself blushing, and looked at his plate. “I don’t know, really,” he said gruffly. He wished he’d never started this conversation.
“I know about lions,” Danny piped up, not wanting to be left out.
“Yes, darling. Eat up your cheese, now,” Judith said.
There was a short, thoughtful pause.
“They have big teeth, and they go ‘grrrrr’.” Danny bared his teeth ferociously.
“Oh, yuk!” squealed Claire. Paul and Patrick covered their eyes.
“Danny, don’t growl with your mouth full,” said Judith calmly. “It looks disgusting. Claire, be quiet!”
“Could we go to the museum this afternoon?” Patrick asked hopefully. It was worth a try.
His parents looked at one another. “Oh well, why not?” said Paul.
Patrick’s heart beat faster. The treasure hunt had started.
But the museum was a big disappointment. There were plenty of stuffed animals there, but the beeper-brooch didn’t make a single sound, no matter how close Patrick went to the cases in which they were kept. He was very quiet on the way home, and didn’t even complain about sitting in the middle at the back while Danny chattered endlessly about the dinosaur and whale skeletons, which seemed to be about the only things he’d remembered.
“I like the bird gallery best,” Claire said, cutting into Danny’s theories as to exactly how the “skelingtons” had lost their skin.
“Yes,” agreed Paul. “The birds are great.”
“The songs are nice,” Judith said. “But, I don’t know, it’s a bit grim seeing all those little dead birds with fake eyes staring out at you. I’d rather see them alive, wouldn’t you? In trees, and alive – instead of dead and stuffed in a wood-and-glass case.”
Patrick lifted his head. Birds in a wood-and-glass case. Wood came from trees …
“A tree has died to give me birth,
But still I shelter feathered friends …”
That could be it! But the beeper hadn’t sounded at the museum.
“Have you seen that little case of birds in the antique shop window at Chestnut Tree Village, Mum? The hummingbirds?” Claire asked Judith. “They’re so sweet! I nearly went in and asked about it for your birthday, but then I thought that seeing they were real birds you mightn’t like it.”
“Quite right!” exclaimed Judith. “Yes, I’ve seen them. Poor little hummingbirds.”
“Do any of them have golden tails?” exploded Patrick.
Claire stared at him. “They might have,” she said cautiously.
“Mum, Mum, can we go to Chestnut Tree Village now?” begged Patrick.
“Patrick, you and I were there this morning!” said Judith. “And we’ve just taken you to the museum. You’re never satisfied!”
“But –”
“Patrick, there’s no way in the world I’m going anywhere but home at this point,” said Paul firmly. “I’ll take you to see the hummingbirds another day. OK?”
“Tomorrow? Tomorrow, Dad?”
“We’ll see. If there’s time.”
Patrick slumped back in his seat. He knew what that meant. And he knew better than to keep nagging now. But he wasn’t going to give up. The clues, and the place – Chestnut Tree Village, right near the clock that weakened the Barrier – it all fitted. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the case of hummingbirds in the antique shop window was Clyde O’Brien’s missing object. It all fitted. And if he was going to win that computer, and have a chance of trying for a second Find and even bigger prizes, he just had to get it – one way or another.
9
Problems
Fortunately for Patrick, Sunday was wet and miserable and Danny was bored and miserable. By mid-morning Paul and Judith were only too happy to consider going to Chestnut Tree Village for lunch. Danny’s whingeing had succeeded where any amount of Patrick’s nagging would have failed.
As they drove, splashing through puddles, into the car park, it became clear that a lot of other parents had decided to save their sanity by using the Village as a giant playground for an hour or two. The car park seethed with hopeful-looking men and women pushing strollers and leading impatient toddlers towards the delights of McDonald’s, the coin-operated rides and the toy departments of the various stores.
Patrick’s family joined the crowd and ambled to the Village entrance. There they hesitated. Up, or down?
“If we go upstairs now,” Patrick suggested casually, “Danny can see the clock strike twelve. It’s nearly time.�
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“Good idea,” said Judith briskly. “And of course, my devious darling, you can then go and see the hummingbirds at the shop opposite, can’t you?”
Patrick tried not to smile. “I could,” he admitted, leading the way to the escalator. “If I wanted to.”
The antique shop was directly opposite Smithy’s, the coffee shop where Patrick and his mother had stopped the morning before. It was strange to be there again, and to remember how depressed he’d been, sitting down at the little table to watch the clock, thinking he’d never find out for sure about Finders Keepers. He left the others standing quietly with the rest of the crowd waiting for the big twelve o’clock strike, and walked towards the antique shop window. He forced himself to move slowly. He didn’t want to make them too curious.
His hand felt nervously for the beeper-brooch. Yes, it was still there, pinned to the inside of his T-shirt. Under his hand he could feel his heart beating violently, and suddenly he felt a terrible pang of doubt. He’d really jumped to conclusions about the case of hummingbirds. What if he’d been wrong? When you thought about it, Clyde O’Brien’s clue could mean all sorts of things. His feet dragged. He didn’t want to find out he’d been wrong.
Now he could see the wooden case of brightly coloured birds, right in the centre of the antique shop window. The tiny birds sat on twigs, behind a pane of glass. They looked alive. Their feathers shone like jewels against the dark wood of the little box.
“A tree has died to give me birth …” Yes, the box was made of wood.
“But still I shelter feathered friends …” Yes, the birds were there all right.
“I’m large and heavy, coloured earth …” The box was coloured brown – of course – like earth.
He took a breath and stepped forward.