It was the middle of the night when Lulu woke him.
‘Henry,’ she whispered. A warm salty drop dripped down his cheek.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, stretching sleepily out to rub her head. ‘It’s just a bad dream.’
‘He-enry,’ she said, with a small sniff.
He opened his eyes. The tent was dark. Sleep tugged again. It wanted to wrap and roll him up.
Lulu shook his shoulder. ‘Hen-ry!’ He heard the small hiccup in her breath. It was the sound she only made when she was in trouble and had been crying and was sure the world was about to end.
‘What’s wrong?’ Henry stretched his eyes open.
‘It’s Clover,’ said Lulu.
‘What?’ Henry rolled onto his side. He could see the shadowy outline of Lulu’s head.
‘It’s my pony. She’s gone,’ said Lulu, sniffing. ‘I think I left her at the park.’
‘Oh,’ said Henry. ‘That’s no good.’
Lulu started to sob quietly.
‘Did you tell Dad?’
‘And Mum,’ whispered Lulu. ‘But they both said I have to wait until morning.’ She wriggled over and buried her head in the hollow of Henry’s neck, her breath like a hot mist. She flung her arm across his chest.
Henry stroked her head, smoothing her sweaty fringe back. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’ll be okay.’
‘But Clover has already fallen out of the car before and got run over by a truck,’ said Lulu, shuddering. ‘And already she is worried she’s not my favourite and now she will be thinking she is like Gretel and I’ve left her out in the woods, except she doesn’t have any breadcrumbs and no clever Hansel and she is flat now anyway and not so fast. And what if someone comes in the morning to tidy up the park and throws her in the bin because they think she is rubbish and then the bin truck comes and takes her away before I can get there? And I’ve been a mean mother because I only love my pretty horses! That’s why she got left behind and now she will be taken away and I will be sad forever.’
‘Oh, Lulu,’ said Henry.
Henry thought about the battered, crooked-eyed green pony, lying somewhere out on the grass, soaking wet with dew and bewilderment, wondering why she had been left behind.
‘Maybe a pelichicken will dive down and scoop her up for a late-night snack.’ Lulu gave a heave and a double sniff.
‘I don’t think pelicans like to snack on plastic ponies. Especially green ones that smell like apple.’
‘She doesn’t smell so much like apple anymore,’ said Lulu. ‘Not since she fell in the bait bucket.’
‘Oh, Lulu,’ said Henry. ‘I’m sorry. It was an accident.’
‘I know, but maybe a feral cat might get her now,’ said Lulu. ‘Or a fox or a wild boar!’
‘I don’t think there are any wild boars about.’
‘But there are feral cats!’ said Lulu. ‘And foxes! Aren’t there?’
Henry breathed in deep. He didn’t want to think about that.
‘What about water rats?’ asked Lulu. ‘They might drag Clover back to their burrow and make a nest in her mane and then let their naughty little rat babies nibble at her hooves and she will be all eaten up.’
Henry knew what Cassie would do. She wouldn’t let a fox or a wild boar or a feral cat or even nasty mane-loving, hoof-nibbling rodents stop her from venturing out into the dark and helping Lulu.
It struck Henry that perhaps he was waiting for the exact right moment to be daring and brave. The exact right moment when he felt no worry at all, not one tiny flicker. But what if that moment never came? He might end up being ancient, with tufts of hair bursting out of his ears and never moving off the lounge. Maybe he’d end up spending his whole life watching telly and clapping his hands at the daring, plucky people on the screen.
But now he was thinking about it, perhaps the bravest people were the ones who were a little bit worried or scared the whole time and did brave things anyway? Maybe they were more truly brave than people who did daring things without a second thought? And then he remembered what Mum said about the fluttering moth inside her chest, the sense of dread and how important it was to give that feeling a little bit of room and say, ‘Aaaah, there you are!’
‘Aaaaah, there you are!’ whispered Henry.
‘What?’ said Lulu.
Henry tapped a hand against his chest. ‘But it’s not the whole story,’ he breathed.
‘What?’ said Lulu. ‘I don’t get it. What’s not the whole story?’
‘Nothing.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Don’t worry.’ He took a deep breath. Something tocked in the middle of his chest, firm as the satisfying chink of a coin in his purple pig moneybox. He was resolved, even though he was scared. He wriggled out of his sleeping-bag, shedding it like a skin.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Lulu, sitting up.
Patch rolled over in his sleep, giving a little groan and a shiver. His leg sprawled out, nudging Henry’s ankle.
‘Shhhhh,’ said Henry, leaning down. He pressed his hand against Lulu’s mouth. ‘We’re going to rescue Clover.’
‘Now?’ murmured Lulu. ‘Right this minute?’
‘Exactly!’
Lulu grabbed Henry’s hand and kissed it with great, moist extravagance. ‘Thank you!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, thank you, Henry!’
The sky was black and a cool wind blew in from the ocean. Henry shivered in his pyjamas. He clutched his lantern and Lulu’s hand tightly as they hurried between the tents, treading carefully to avoid twanging the tent ropes.
‘Are you going to turn the light on yet?’ whispered Lulu.
‘In a little while,’ murmured Henry, squeezing Lulu’s hand. ‘Not yet. Not until we get to the park. Because it’s very dark there and we’re going to need it, if we’re going to find Clover.’
Lulu gazed up. ‘What has happened to all the stars?’
‘Behind the clouds,’ said Henry, concentrating on his feet.
‘And the moon?’ asked Lulu.
Henry squeezed her hand again. ‘Same place.’
‘Oh, no, Henry,’ breathed Lulu. ‘I wish they weren’t all swallowed up.’
‘Me too,’ said Henry. He wanted the moon to come out very badly. He longed for a crisp silver moon, dangling in the sky like a Christmas bauble. As they tiptoed past a darkened tent, it rumbled with loud gurgles and snorts. They stopped dead still.
‘Gosh!’ gasped Lulu. ‘What is that?’
It sounded like a dragon. Like a huge, slumbering dragon guarding a cave full of treasure.
Henry dug his bare feet into the grass. Cold dirt rose between his toes. He was not going to think about dragons. He was not going to think about their greedy eyes and their cold, cold scales and their flickering lizard tongues. Or the way they liked to eat up and spit out the bones of little children. Besides, there was surely a sensible answer for nearly everything, if only he could remember to think hard enough.
‘What is it ?’ asked Lulu, drawing near.
He listened carefully. The noise was not just coming from one tent. It was coming from a ring of tents all around them. An image sharpened in his mind. ‘Aaaah,’ he whispered. ‘It’s snoring!’ He wanted to giggle out loud. Maybe it was the big bikie with the steel-wool beard? How funny and strange to be so close to big people he didn’t know, listening to their night noises.
Another loud honk blared out. A tiny plume of embarrassment billowed in Henry. Big bikies were snoozing in their tents right next to him, somehow fragile and weak as babies. Something warm and achy clenched tight in his chest.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lulu.
‘You don’t think what?’
‘That does not sound like snoring to me, Henry.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘No!’ Lulu sloped in on Henry, almost tripping over his foot. ‘Henry,’ she whispered impatiently, ‘that is the sound of werewolves.’
‘Werewolves?’
Another great snorkeling gargling splutter came from the tent behind them, then a long drawn out strangled breath.
‘There’s no such thing as werewolves.’ Henry’s feet were dripping with dew and strands of grass.
‘Oh, Henry,’ said Lulu, with a deep, patient weariness.
Henry turned his head and listened closely to the gurgling and the gargling, the murmuring and the muttering, the snickering and the snuckering coming directly from the tent beside them. It sounded like something or someone was slowly being smothered. The hair on the back of Henry’s neck prickled.
‘Do you think that person is in the middle of turning into a werewolf or turning back?’ asked Lulu.
‘Let’s go,’ said Henry, marching forward and dragging Lulu with him.
‘Because Leonard Finkler says the only way to kill a werewolf is with a silver bullet.’
Henry took a deep breath. They were nearly at the end of the tents. Maybe they should cut across to the bike path and follow that up past the wharf and then round to the park? Whatever they did, they shouldn’t run, just in case. Maybe that would be an invitation for a chase, the way it was with dogs.
‘The main way you get turned into a werewolf is if you get bitten and the saliva of a werewolf enters your blood,’ whispered Lulu. ‘But Leonard Finkler told me that if you drink the water out of a footprint of a werewolf, that can do it too.’
‘Gosh, this Leonard Finkler. He knows an awful lot,’ muttered Henry.
‘Yes,’ said Lulu. ‘He might be a genius.’
‘He sure is something!’ said Henry.
‘But there’s no moon tonight,’ said Lulu, ‘so maybe they will just stay inside. I don’t think werewolves like to eat without the moon.’
‘Well, that’s great!’ Henry gazed up at the sky. Now he would need to pray the moon didn’t come out at all.
‘Leonard Finkler says the seventh son is always a werewolf,’ said Lulu. ‘And that in some countries, families would leave their seventh son out on a hill in the middle of the night or have them adopted. What does adopted mean, Henry?’
‘Oh, enough,’ hissed Henry. ‘Enough already.’
They strode past another dark tent, shaped like the big top of a circus, with two flags flapping fiercely at the peak. A breathy, throttling sputter came from deep inside. ‘Snooooork euuuuurgle yeoooooooowl!’
‘Henry!’ whispered Lulu, hugging his arm frantically.
Henry was sure he could feel the hot snuffling breath of something against the backs of his knees. He imagined the flash of teeth, the snarl, the claws sharp as knives and the glowing eyes.
‘Run!’ he gasped.
And they both turned and bolted through a gap between the tents.