Greetings, dear reader! My name is Andrew. I am your humble narrator and—along with Terence Denton—the co-creator of the Treehouse Chronicles, which is a full and honest account of our lives in a unique elevated dwelling.
If you show a kinship to the majority of our readership—that is to say, if you are possessed of a lively spirit and an inquiring mind—you may, perchance, have found yourself pondering the reasons for my—and Terence’s—frequent lapses of memory during the course of the preceding pages.
‘Hey, Andy!’ says Terence.
‘Not now, Terence,’ I say. ‘I am currently engaged in a matter of the utmost narratorial urgency and must not be interrupted under any circumstances.’
‘But—’ says Terence.
‘I am terribly sorry,’ I say, ‘but I really must insist that you refrain from these irrelevant interjections that threaten the great and important enterprise I am currently embarked upon.’
‘But—’ splutters Terence.
‘What is the matter with you today, Terence?’ I say. ‘Do you not have sufficient intellectual faculties to comprehend plain English?’
‘Plain English I can understand,’ says Terence. ‘But I can’t understand a single other word you just said and I don’t think our readers can either.’
‘Poppycock and fiddlesticks!’ I say. ‘I will have you know my multi-syllabic narrative powers are without comparison in the realms of literary endeavour and my works are admired across the entire universe by civilisations both known and yet to be discovered. There are more things in heaven and earth, Terence, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says Terence. ‘But it sounds like you swallowed a dictionary for breakfast. And for your information, my name is Terry, not Terence!’
‘Actually, I think you will find that in actual fact Terry is an abbreviation of both Terrance and Terrell. It is also an Anglicised phonetic form of the French given name Thierry, a Norman French form of Theodoric from an older Germanic name meaning “small-brained one”.’
‘What’s wrong with Andy?’ says Alice.
‘I don’t know,’ says Albert. ‘I can’t understand him any more.’
‘Neither can I,’ says Jill. ‘I think we’ve made him too smart for his own good!’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Terence. ‘I know exactly what he needs. I’ll be right back.’
And with that, Terence departs with great alacrity.
Barely a moment elapses before Terence reappears, bearing aloft an enormous mallet.
‘Hold still, Andy,’ he says. ‘This won’t hurt a bit. Well, when I say it won’t hurt a bit I mean, obviously, it will hurt a lot, so here goes …’
‘Is he all right?’ says Alice.
‘I’ll check,’ says Terence. He shakes my shoulder. ‘Say something, Andy!’
‘Um … er … ah … the sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side.’
‘Sounds like he might need another donk,’ says Terence.
I open my eyes.
Terry studies me closely. ‘What’s two plus two?’ he says.
‘Um … five?’ I say.
‘Yay!’ says Terry. ‘You’re back to normal!’
‘Thanks, Terry,’ I say. ‘I needed that. Being a super genius brainiac is exhausting.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ he says. ‘Thank Jill and the kids for filling our brains back up. Something must have happened to them in Banarnia.’
‘I don’t think it was Banarnia that caused the problem,’ says Jill. ‘Alice, Albert and the baby went there too and they didn’t forget everything they knew. And don’t forget that both of you were forgetting other stuff before you went to Banarnia.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. ‘I forgot. But if it wasn’t Banarnia that caused our brain meltdowns then what was it?’
Before we can figure it out, however, Jill’s rooster doorbell rings.
Jill’s animals react immediately. Laika and Loompy bark. Pat moos. Bill and Phil bounce around like superballs. Larry, Curly and Mo look up from their card game and the excited rabbits hop around like a bunch of excited rabbits.
Jill answers the door.
It’s Bill the postman!
We all say hello and the animals crowd around him.
‘Good morning,’ says Bill. ‘I’m here on official poster posting business. The Forest Police Department wanted these WARNING posters put up. A dangerous fortune teller has escaped from a maximum-security travelling carnival. Apparently, she’s a brain-drainer.’
We walk out into the forest. Bill really has been busy. He has put a poster on every single tree!
‘Yikes!’ says Terry. ‘She sounds dangerous.’
‘She is!’ says Bill. ‘Have any of you seen her?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But thanks for the warning, Bill. We’ll certainly keep our eyes open.’
‘All right,’ says Bill, ‘but if you do see her, whatever you do, don’t ask her any questions or she’ll drain your brains. See you all later!’
We wave goodbye to Bill and watch as Jill’s animals race alongside his scooter till he’s out of view.
‘Maybe we should have told Bill about Madam Know-it-all,’ I say. ‘She might be able to help the authorities track down that evil fortune teller. After all, she does know everything.’
‘Wait a minute,’ says Terry.
‘WAIT a minute … Hang on …
Just another minute …
I’VE GOT IT! Prepare yourself for some shocking news … The dangerous brain-draining fortune teller who is on the loose is none other than …
‘Of course!’ I say. ‘That’s why we’ve been forgetting everything. Madam Know-it-all drained our brains!’
‘Oh, no!’ says Terry. ‘And now that our brains have been refilled she’ll drain them again!’
‘Calm down, you two,’ says Jill. ‘Remember what the poster said. She can only drain your brain if you ask her questions. So don’t ask her any questions and you’ll be fine.’
‘But how are we going to get her out of the treehouse?’ I say.
‘We could ask her to leave,’ says Terry.
‘But that’s a question,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah,’ says Terry. ‘Good point, Andy.’
‘I think you should just tell her to leave,’ says Jill. ‘Just say you’re really sorry but you made a mistake and you need the level for something else. My animals and I will all come with you. Just remember, whatever you do, don’t ask her any questions!’