The Magic of Endings, page 5
‘Our barn?’ Jojo said.
‘Is that what I said?’ Grandad was shaking his head like he was trying to clear a foggy brain. ‘Was your dad’s... I think. He was gonna build... a house. Before... before...’ That sentence was not finished. Never finished. ‘How did I not remember that,’ Grandad growled to himself. He shook his head again and turned back to the cottage. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Your mum seems to be all better. Thought we’d get fish and chips for lunch.’
‘Woohooo,’ said Ricco. ‘Best day ever!’ and hopped on after him.
Jojo turned, looked back into the barn. There was an old red boat in there, away at the back, in the gloom, which he’d never seen before, its sails stashed away. He stared at the faded red wood. He reached out to it, as it seemed to reach to him. Then he shook himself – a fog of memories lost.
He looked around the barn once more. No sign of Aunt Pen. Nothing. No sign of their adventure but for the holes in the roof and mess of debris on the dirt floor. No sign except one feather that clung to Jojo’s sleeve.
It was a big feather. White, speckled with gold. It seemed to glow there in the sunlight. One feather. Jojo did not brush this away.
He plucked it from his arm and held it up to the light. The sun shone down through it.
Jojo stared at the sun and then looked back to the feather. His dad made her fly, that’s what Mum said. She remembered that at least.
Jojo pocketed the feather. He’d need this feather. He did not know when or why. But he knew it. This feather was important. A first memory. A first feather. Something was happening here.
‘Come on, Joey,’ Ricco shouted.
Jojo took one more look at the boat, then at the sun and followed his grandad and his brother.
*
The rest of the day passed without any more happenings. Aunt Pen had up and vanished. No one except Jojo seemed to even notice though. Mum’s burping had stopped, as the faerie had said it would. And they got fish and chips from Something Fishy in the village.
‘Not as good if you’re not on the beach though, is it,’ said Grandma as if she’d forgotten that they didn’t talk about the beach. Didn’t go there and didn’t talk about it and Jojo knew why now. It was a special place. Dad’s special place. He knew that like he knew that memory was not imagined. He’d seen Dad again. His vanished dad was reappearing, was breaking into Jojo’s mind. He just didn’t know why. He was desperate to ask questions, but too anxious about the sad blank faces he’d get as a response.
No one spoke for a long while.
Until, ‘They only use fresh from the sea at Something Fishy though,’ said Grandad.
‘Huh,’ said Ricco, spluttering potato across the table. ‘Chips come from the sea?’
Grandad shook his head. Jojo laughed.
‘Fish, Ricco,’ Mum said. ‘Fish comes from the sea.’
‘Ahhh yeah.’
‘And the best fish,’ Grandad went on, ‘you get right here in Dor, of course.’
‘He would always complain of the fish in London,’ Mum said. She didn’t look up from her fish and chips. Mum didn’t say which ‘he’ she was talking about. They all knew. Maybe Mum was remembering too.
They ate quietly after that.
Dad going missing had always seemed like something that had happened to someone else, something in someone else’s story. It was an idea of something that had happened. But now... now it was becoming real. Now it was becoming his story.
Now he had a dad. The man who called him buddy, taught him to skim stones. And... bought a barn... and... liked fresh fish! Jojo had a real memory. Memories were erupting into their lives. But it was more than just memories. It was a person. He knew, he just knew, that somewhere out there was a man who loved him. A real dad.
But where? Lost? Gone? Where?
Jojo looked at the faces around the table. Faces he loved. People he loved more than anything in this world. Yet he suddenly felt alone. Somehow he knew that whatever was going on with Aunt Pen and these reappearing memories, it was something he’d have to figure out alone.
He wondered why these memories had returned now. What did it mean? What could he and his dad have to do with magic and the darkness hanging over Elfhaeme? Where did Aunt Pen figure in all this? Where was she now? And what was it that she couldn’t tell him? This was surely just the start of the story.
Sun and Moon
The sun set over the village of Dor and the moon rose. Night was the land of the Sandman and in the night he came. He moved as a shadow, edging round the pools of light which filled the main street. Near the station, he stopped and set his pitch-black eyes on a small house just off the main road.
He took specks of golden dust from that same bag attached to his belt. He let them tickle across his palm. Did he inspect them, muttering to himself? Or were those whispers for the specks themselves?
With a final word and a puff from the Sandman’s lips, the specks lifted from his hand and began their spiralling journey. Up they went, following the cloaked figure’s gaze to the window of the house, which was lit with the glow of a gentle night light. In they slipped through the narrowest of gaps, continuing their dance within. Its journey at an end, the dust fell on sleeping eyes – the eyes of Mr Terry Tanner, the town’s taxi driver, and his wife Regina, who ran a hair salon in Upford.
And soon they dreamed. He of a brand-new car, a large black one with big wheels, which he drove up to London and around the streets while everyone looked on, amazed.
She dreamed of a holiday, of lying on a sunny beach.
The Sandman had not tarried. He slid along the high street, from dark to dark. And then he stopped again. He stopped outside a glass-fronted shop. It read Clarkes and Clarkes in big gold lettering. The Clarkes had been the town’s book-keepers for as long as anyone could remember. Mr Clarke had taken over from his grandfather, who’d taken over from his grandfather, and so on. Right now though, it was the young Miss Cherish Clarke, twelve years old, that the Sandman was visiting.
He took a pinch and puffed and made her dream of pulling on her football boots and playing for England in the World Cup Final.
Further on and further out of town, until the Sandman stopped at the cottage of the Hayes family. Here he left dreams of outer space and flights amongst the stars for the eldest in the family, old Mr Hayes the dairy farmer.
There were many dreams that night in Dor before the Sandman made his final stop, in a field of wildflowers overlooking the furthest-flung cottage. The Lockes. Married to the Troughtons, the oldest of Dor’s old families. The Troughtons had been visited by the Sandman in Dor for over three hundred years.
‘Is that what helping him looks like to you?’ said the Sandman.
At first it appeared he spoke to no one. No sound but the gentle chatter of piskies in their own language which even the Sandman could not understand. Nothing stirred beside a ripple in the wildflowers, pink and yellow and white, and the tall grass that surrounded him.
‘Penperro... ? You are here?’
The meadow rippled again, seemed to shake itself and then a tiny figure rose from where she lay amongst the plants.
‘I am here,’ Penperro said. ‘As you well know.’
‘Well?’ said the Sandman. He had not turned to look at the faerie, who was now seated on a rock beside him. Instead he stared down the slope to the one-storey cottage where the Locke boys slept, their mother and grandparents too.
‘Hmmm?’ replied Penperro. ‘The boy has needed some... shaking.’
‘Shaking?’ said the man in black and you could be sure, beneath that black cloak, an eyebrow rose high in question. ‘Your sister has done more than shaking. Your sister has wrought terrible magics. Your sister has—’
‘...broken the very contract that holds the worlds together,’ Penperro finished. ‘I know this better than most. I’ve seen it.’ Penperro’s mind went back to that grey and empty land where she had taken Jojo. ‘Everything has been lost to Mab’s madness. Even my sisters are gone, lost and scattered. Even my own Aoede, the oldest of us all, the singer of the song, is gone to who-knows-where. I know what is at stake, Sandman.’ Penperro’s voice had risen, grown to something fierce and with it had risen a cloud of piskies, buzzing around her, their chatter become a hiss of anger. But then the faerie yawned and the piskies dropped back down to their flowerbed homes.
‘You grow tired,’ the Sandman said. Penperro had aged since last they spoke. Her hair was whiter. Her skin more wrinkled. She sat a little less straight. ‘Do you have enough in you? Enough fire left?’
Penperro breathed in deep then sighed. ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘But I am not yet asleep, not like the boy. I know... I believe I know... what I am doing. He does not. Not yet. But all the fire that is left, I will place in his charge. Soon he will see. Soon he will act.’
The Sandman stood. ‘Soon he must. He must see the path ahead. If he is to find the lost Locke, he must see the way and he must walk it. Hurry, Penperro.’
Penperro did not stand to join him. She dipped her head and sighed again. ‘All you see are the things that will be, Sandman, master of dreams. You underestimate the knowledge of what has come before. To shape the present, you must first understand the past.’
But the Sandman was gone.
‘Memories,’ whispered Penperro, ‘that’s what the boy needs. He must know what he’s lost before he knows what he wants.’
Mr Goodfellow
The next day, Jojo rose late. The rest of the house was in full swing, Grandad was back from his walk. Grandma was watching her work-out routine. She didn’t actually do much of the routine but she liked to watch and move, even if just a little. And Trevor liked to watch Grandma.
Mum had gone to work. There was a note beside him on his pillow. Jojo read it, still lying in bed.
Sorry Jojo. Had to go early. Too much to do! So sorry I can’t be there. I tried to wake you but you were fast asleep. Have a lovely day, sweetheart. I’ll see you real soon.
Mum! She’d gone. No proper goodbye. The note shook a little in Jojo’s hand. He really was alone.
And then he read the final line.
Aunt Pen says she’ll take you out. Exciting!
Exciting? Exciting or terrifying?
And where was Aunt Pen?
Jojo sat up. He looked around the room. Ricco’s sleeping bag was empty.
Where was Aunt Pen and where was Ricco? No! No! He should have thought of this. He should have been up before Ricco. He had to protect him. Who knew what wishes Aunt Pen could be granting at that very moment?
Jojo dashed through the living room.
‘Morning,’ Grandad said, looking over his newspaper.
‘And one and two,’ Grandma said, slowly gyrating in time to the work-out routine.
‘Morning,’ Jojo called over his shoulder, as he burst into the kitchen.
He got one look at a grinning Aunt Pen as Ricco opened his mouth and said in a cheerful chirrup, ‘I wish my dreams would come true.’
Jojo skidded to a halt, bumping the table, sending the salt shaker rocking and then rolling away. ‘Oh no, Ricco. What have you done?!’ he said.
Ricco just grinned at his brother as Aunt Pen wriggled her nose and blinked. There it was, that flash of light. And then...
Nothing.
Jojo held his breath.
‘So?’ said Ricco. ‘What we waiting for?’
‘Hmmm...’ said Aunt Pen, looking at her hands, which seemed to wrinkle and crease before their eyes, light brown spots appearing on the dark packing-paper skin. What was happening to the faerie? Was she growing older? Did each wish age her just a little more? She looked up at Ricco. ‘You see, it’s not an exact science, this magic, more an art form. Never sure exactly what might happen.’ She stuck a finger in her mouth, plucked it out and thrust it in the air like she was testing the wind. ‘Something is happening. Somewhere. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’
Jojo took a breath and sighed. Then, ‘Ricco?!’ he said, looking crossly at his brother.
Ricco still grinned. ‘Exciting, isn’t it! This is gonna be amazing!’
‘This is... this is...’ said Jojo, shaking his head. ‘I told you, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. You need to listen to me. This is gonna be terrible.’
‘Nope,’ said Ricco simply, his five-year-old head bobbing in excitement. ‘This is gonna be the best.’
But it was neither terrible nor the best. In fact it was nothing at all. Nothing happened. Nothing happened at breakfast – just a normal breakfast of cereal and mugs of tea this time. Nothing happened when the boys got themselves ready. Nothing happened when Grandad announced after watching another rerun of Mickey Mack’s Family Game Show : ‘I hear you boys are out with Aunt Pen today. I’m taking Trevor for a walk, then I’ll catch up with you later,’ and off he went.
Even Jojo found himself somehow disappointed. He didn’t want another burpfest and certainly not another fall from a great height. But when your faerie godmother casts a spell, you expect... well... something.
So when Aunt Pen said, ‘I hear there’s a very good park here in Dor,’ Jojo and Ricco both looked at each other with expectation glinting in their eyes.
‘Is this it?’ said Ricco, running to the hall, plucking a football from the box of outdoor stuff and pulling on his shoes. Jojo followed slowly.
‘Yes,’ said Aunt Pen, ‘this is our trip to the park.’
‘But is this it?’ said Ricco. Shoes were on. Laces being tied. Aunt Pen was pulling on her dark red coat with the gold buttons, making sure all her pendants were in place.
‘Never know what you might need,’ she muttered to herself.
‘It is. I know it!’ said Ricco.
‘Ah, one more thing, I think,’ said Aunt Pen and headed back into the house. The two brothers listened, standing in the hall, as Aunt Pen clattered around in the kitchen, bowls and tins bashing, crashing. What was she up to?
Jojo and Ricco looked at one another then ran back to the kitchen. They pulled the door open. There she was, the faerie godmother, twirling, whirring, back and forth, pulling, throwing, tasting. She was a blur, dashing from spot to spot. She was everywhere all at once.
Flour flew in the air. Sugar poured from a great height. Eggs were juggled and spun from one side of the kitchen to the other. Raisins seemed to fall like rain and bounce up from the floor like rubber balls.
Through it all you could hear Aunt Pen singing an indecipherable song of unknown words.
Ricco let out a laugh, Ha! And he was spinning on the spot, trying to take in the flurry of blurred cutlery, crockery and cascading ingredients.
Aunt Pen didn’t slow down until she stopped with a Ping! and closed the lid on a cake tin. ‘Just thought we might need a cake,’ she said.
Jojo and Ricco’s mouths fell open. They’d made their fair share of mess in their time. But this was something else. Every surface was covered in pans and packets. Every spot of floor was sprinkled with flour, raisins, sugar. Globs of butter seemed to be stuck to the ceiling.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Aunt Pen. ‘Let’s see. Let’s see,’ she said, feeling for another one of her necklaces. ‘If we just...’ Then she found the one she was looking for, a pendant in the shape of a sort of purse. ‘This is it.’
She flicked the tiny bag open and pulled out, again, something too big to fit inside, something like the recorder that was currently back home on the chest of drawers in Ricco and Jojo’s room, the instrument Jojo had never practised. Only this one was gnarled and wooden, like it had been grown on a plant rather than carved by hands.
She put it to her lips and blew. From under her curled fingers a tune escaped. Short and commanding, like a call or command. Then she waited.
‘What are we waiting for now?’ Jojo said. ‘We need to get this mess cleared up.’
‘Hold on,’ said Aunt Pen. And waited some more with a finger in the air and an eyebrow raised.
‘Get the dustpan and brush, Ricco,’ said Jojo.
But then... knock, knock, knock. There was a knocking somewhere. As if on a door. But this wasn’t from back down the hallway at the front of the cottage. This was coming from somewhere in the kitchen.
Knock, knock, knock. Then a voice, ‘Hello, anybody there?’ A small voice, gruff and tinny like a swarm of bees.
‘Ah, here we go,’ said Aunt Pen, turning toward a high-up kitchen cupboard where they kept the tins of tomatoes and jars of jam and other things of that sort. She pulled it open to reveal a tiny man, seated on a pot of honey. His eyes were bright and twinkling like that of a young boy, but his face was aged and craggy, like Grandad’s. He wore something like the clothing Jojo had seen the faerie version of Aunt Pen in, only his were all browns and greys. He was smaller than the faerie, yet taller than the piskies. He was the height of a school ruler.
‘Mr Goodfellow,’ said Aunt Pen.
‘Oooh, lovely bit of baking,’ said Grandma, who had entered the kitchen on silent slippered feet and was looking at the incredible mess with a small smile on her lips.
‘At your service,’ said the tiny man. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, raising his little hat to Jojo. ‘’Ello,’ he said, winking at Ricco. ‘Charmed,’ he said, with a small bow to Grandma. ‘You may call me Hob.’
‘What a delightful man,’ said Grandma. ‘Are you here to check the meter?’
Jojo and Ricco was lost in silence again.
‘Very good, Mr Goodfellow. Did you have far to come?’ said Aunt Pen.
‘Not at all, not at all. Just servicing a rather nice house in Upford. All done. Spick and span as usual.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Aunt Pen. ‘Well, just a little job here. Kitchen needs a tiny spruce.’
Jojo, with his mouth wide again, managed to shake himself back to life: ‘A tiny spruce! This place is an absolute mess. How can this... this... I don’t know... are you a faerie too? How can he get all this sorted?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the tiny man, getting up from the honey jar, looking back at it, then with one swift movement, spiriting it away inside his brown tunic. ‘I am no such thing. You people! Think you know everything. You know nothing. I, as anyone in Old Albion could tell you, am a goblin. Absolutely finest cleaners, sorters, neateners, declutterers, ship-shape-makers, orderfiers and organisers in all the world. Thank you very much.’ With this he lifted his chin and turned to Aunt Pen. ‘Just the kitchen, faerie?’
