1 The Cellian Herald

Dearest, Sweetest and most Quizzically Sublime Subjects of this! our fine and torrential Kingdom of Cello!

Welcome to this, our thirteenth??? (who knows?!) [Ed: yes, thirteenth] column for that ratbag of a paper, the Cellian Herald! [Ed: we humbly submit that the Princesses here intended to use the word ‘ragtag’, meant as a term of endearment; accordingly, we will not take offence.]

Most apologies, but we are going to be adorably rapid in this column—ah, the fatigue of these last weeks! However, it’s all winding up now, much as our dear brother, Prince Chyba, winds us up sometimes! (That’s Jagged Edge slang for teasing, we believe.)

Oh, Chybs, he’s the greatest, and he’s been in diplomatic talks with our neighbouring Kingdom of Aldhibah for weeks now, which is good of him (although not surprising, considering how Chybs can talk—the Aldhians have probably packed up and gone home and he’s still sitting there, oblivious, talking on and on)—but sometimes we wish that those Aldhians would arrest Chyba and lock him in one of their dungeons for the rest of his life.

Hmm, put like that, it sounds kind of harsh.

Sorry, Chybs! We don’t mean it!

(Hope no Aldhians are reading this!) (Not too worried as nobody in Aldhibah would read the Cellian Herald, right? Cute as the paper may be.) [Ed: the circulation of the Cellian Herald in the Kingdom of Aldhibah is around 775,000.]

Dearest Ones, this, as we said, will be a helter-skelter column—just letting you know that we have completed Olde Quainte (got caught in a strong current while on the seafaring town of Irate, where the coffee was a little bitter for our taste—otherwise, all good) and we’re now in the thicket of Jagged Edge—loving the excess of night-dwelling here, even if it has turned our body clocks upside down! But . . . as we said . . . our tour is almost at an end.

We can’t wait to hug and tickle our little brother, Prince Tippett. As for our Royal Mother (Queen Lyra, as she is known to all of you) she writes to us from her retreat on the border of Magical North and the Undisclosed Province (where she’s gone to calculate the Kingdom’s finances), she writes that she misses us dearly, and she can’t wait to hug us again!! (She makes no mention of tickling.)

But listen, there’s a point to all of this!

IT’S AN ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

A super-awesome, kick-ass announcement [Ed: the Princess Sisters presumably are not aware that the J.E. slang, ‘kick-ass’ is rather coarse]—

And it is this!

TWO of the three members of the Youth Alliance have been CHOSEN!!!!

Drum roll!

Number One Selection: a boy named SAMUEL HORACE JURGEND, of Twy Eam Peak, in Olde Quainte!

Number Two Selection: a girl named KEIRA J. PLATTER, of Tek, in Jagged Edge!

In relation to Samuel, that was a heartstopper! We were in the Emerald Carriage, riding past the outskirts of Twy Eam Peak, very quiet and respectful, it being a registered Hostile. Suddenly, there was a shout! Several more shouts. The horses picked up speed! What was happening?

It seemed that Samuel, a mere schoolboy of twelve years old, was running after the carriage!

He had prepared an application to join the Youth Alliance, you see, and wanted to deliver it in person!

Unbelievably stupid or brave as a lion, that Samuel—either way, he came so close to getting himself shot!!

Anyhow, we were so taken by his pluck—and by his wire-rimmed spectacles, lace collars and jodhpurs; and by the elegant calligraphy on his application; and by the sheer randomness of a boy from Twy Eam Peak (do you realise how Hostile that place is?!) wanting to join a Royal Youth Alliance (?!?!?)—well, because of all this, we chose him.

So, Samuel is in!

His delight at our decision was heartwarming.

As for Keira, we just chose her today. We were watching an underground motocross championship in Tek here in J.E., and Keira was the winner.

Jupiter and I were charmed. She was selected on the spot.

She seemed surprisingly unimpressed but we take that to be her natural modesty.

WHO WILL BE NEXT?!

Only one more person to choose!

Could it be somebody we are going to meet this very day?

Or could it be a certain boy who lives in a certain town in the Farms, and let’s just say that the town’s name is hot and by the sounds of things, so is this boy himself. His sheriff wrote to us about him, which is adorable. He is burning up a line on my shortlist, anyhow. . .

Or could it be you, sweet reader?! (Assuming you are young. I suppose older people read this paper too. Yes. They would.)

Anyhow, keep the applications coming—

but for now,

we must fly!

more anon.

Yours with Royal Vigour and Pomp

HRH, the Princess Jupiter, and

HRH, the Princess Ko xxx

2

Hector Samuels swung his chair around twice, then three times in the opposite direction.

The newspaper was open on his desk, and he skidded towards it and read it again, laughing aloud.

He picked up the phone.

‘Jimmy? You see it?’

‘See what, Hector?’ There was a crackle and croak in Jimmy’s voice, and Hector remembered himself.

‘Ah, sorry, Jimmy. Still sick, eh? I guess I forgot. Actually, I guess I’m just tired of you being sick. What’s it been now, almost two weeks? Come on, just give that flu a stern talking-to and get well already.’ He laughed.

‘Good to hear you sounding so chipper yourself,’ Jimmy said dryly, before losing himself in a coughing fit. ‘Have I seen what?’

‘The Royal Tour column! The Princess Sisters’ column! They’re talking about us! They must’ve seen my letter, Jimmy, and they’re talking about it in their column!’

‘Seriously? They talk about Bonfire?’

‘Well, it’s not a specific reference as such, but what else could it mean? They say a town in the Farms with a name that is hot. Bonfires are hot! And they mention a boy who lives in this town, which must mean Elliot, cause I talked about him in my letter. They’re hinting they want him for their Youth Alliance!’

There was a pause. Another cough.

‘You’ll get yourself in a world of trouble with Elliot,’ Jimmy pointed out.

‘Ah, he’ll be over the moon. Go get the paper and read it! No, hang on, you’re sick, so I’ll read it aloud to you. Better read the whole thing so you get the context. Dearest, sweetest and most—’

‘That’s okay, Hector. I’ll track it down myself. Listen, you hear anything back from Central Intelligence yet?’

Hector chuckled, still happy. ‘Not yet, Jimmy. Seems your theory about those five missing people being in the World has left them speechless. And now I’m thinking—didn’t you come up with that right around the time you got this flu?’

‘What’s your point, Hector?’

‘Fever addled your brain! You want to send a retraction to Central? Try to win back their respect?’

‘I stand by my theory. Central should be following up. Maybe check they got your fax?’

‘Hang on, Jimmy, looks like someone’s coming in. Call you back. Read the column!’

The door jangled open and the Twickleham family appeared.

It seemed to Hector suddenly that the Twickleham family were always appearing at his station door. Always in that formation too: two adults with the little one between, like a row of snowmen he’d seen once. The grown-up Twicklehams did have the roundness of the snowman about them.

Of course, snowmen didn’t usually wear tunics with tights, or floor-length silk dresses with brooches at their collars, or pointy leather shoes, which is how the Twicklehams were dressed today.

‘Call yourself a good morning from us, will you not,’ said Bartholomew Twickleham, and the Sheriff, as usual, found himself uncertain how to respond. Was he to obey and call himself a good morning?

He grinned instead, and slapped the paper on the desk, being too happy for formalities.

‘How the heck are you?’ he said. ‘And little Derrin, now, I like that puppet! I’ll bet you that’s one of Corrie-Lynn’s creations, eh?’

In answer, Derrin held up the wooden puppet she’d been hugging to her chest and had it do a jig and bow in the air.

‘Ah, she’s an angel,’ the Sheriff smiled at her parents. ‘And what can we do for you?’

‘We’ve some news,’ said Bartholomew.

Fleta agreed. ‘We have,’ she said, ‘some news.’

The Sheriff straightened and solemned his face for them.

‘It has come to us that we must leave this good town,’ said Mr Twickleham, ‘for the fair was to save us, and as to a serpent in a kiwifruit, it did not.’

‘It did not,’ agreed his wife.

‘Well, now,’ said the Sheriff. ‘I am sorry to hear this.’

‘And so we have resumed our Olde Quainte style of dress,’ Fleta added.

‘Ah.’ The Sheriff nodded.

Derrin sat on the floor and played with the puppet, while Mr and Mrs Twickleham explained what had happened at the fair.

It seemed that certain young people had been in charge of placement of the stalls—which had surprised the Twicklehams, rather. But it seemed that these young people—Cody and Gabe were their names—had arranged for the Twickleham stall to be placed in the furthest corner, in the shadow of the circus tent, where none but the most intrepid explorer in search of electronics repair could find it!

‘We waited all day,’ said Mrs Twickleham sadly. ‘With all our baked treats, and our little gadgets meant for the children, and our flyers in multiple colours, so full of hope! But not a soul came by! And when Bartholomew set out, strident, with his megaphone, to shout up interest, well . . .’

‘Whenever I tried to shout, music started up! Drowning my words! Every time! Until I had to give up.’

‘Later,’ added Mrs Twickleham, ‘we learned that it was certain young people—Shelby and Nikki to be precise—well, they were in charge of the music, if you will know it.’

‘I will know it,’ murmured Hector absently.

‘And so we have already been out to the Baranski Farm this day, to tell Petra Baranski we must needs leave the shop. And we head off tomorrow.’

‘So sudden!’ cried Hector.

‘It is the timing of coincidence,’ said Fleta. ‘Our friend, some might think our only friend here—aside from you, Hector—our friend Olivia Hattoway, that is Derrin’s teacher, is driving home to see her family in Jagged Edge tomorrow. As the school vacation has begun. She suggested we ride with her to Olde Quainte. Not exactly a direct route for her but a visit in our province will break up her trip.’

‘And she’ll have our company,’ said Mr Twickleham, ‘for the ride.’

Hector sighed.

‘That does make sense,’ he said, ‘but I blame myself for all this. I meant to talk to Elliot and his friends, and never did.’

‘Oh, now,’ murmured the Twicklehams.

They turned to the window, and both laughed a little bitterly.

‘And isn’t he always there! Does the boy not know it is the vacation time at the school?’

Hector looked, and sure enough, across the road in the empty high-school grounds, Elliot was standing near the sculpture again.

While they watched, he moved away from it, sat on a bench, took out a notepad, and began to write.

‘Well now.’ The Twicklehams turned back. ‘So we wanted to let you know this sorryful news, but also, we wondered if our application for money from the Red Wave Damage Fund had been processed. Not to be hurrying you, but . . .’

Hector winced. ‘Ah, now, I am sorry. I’m way behind on paperwork, with Jimmy being out with the flu. What if I promise to get it processed by this afternoon? I could bring the cheque around to you?’

‘We wish you no such nuisance,’ said Mrs Twickleham. ‘We will return at the hour of six if that suits you?’

‘You’ll be busy packing up,’ said Hector. ‘I insist.’

But the Twicklehams insisted back, and so it was agreed.

They left with a jangle, and Derrin with a wave from her wooden puppet, and Hector sat at his desk looking sorry for a few moments.

Then the newspaper caught his eye, and the grin lit his face up once again.

Elliot was sitting in the schoolyard, watching the sculpture.

After a moment, the glint of white caught his eye. He looked around fast, and then reached for it.

It was from Madeleine again.

Over the last few days, they’d written long letters to each other, the longest Elliot had ever written. He’d told her about his missing father, and his journeys to Nature Strip and to the Golden Coast. She’d told him about how she’d run away in a train called the ‘Eurostar’, and how her mother liked chocolate, and how she’d met new friends named Jack and Belle.

Now, today, something had happened.

He’d delivered a shorter letter to her, and then turned to go, but for some reason he’d turned back. And a single piece of paper had appeared.

Are you there right now? it said.

Yes, he replied, and waited. A few moments later another note.

Cause the weirdest thing just happened, she wrote. I was at the parking meter, about to put a letter in it for you, when your envelope just sort of APPEARED. It happened again right now. How are you doing this?

Elliot grinned.

It’s a crack, he wrote. Like I told you before. No clue about the science.

This is freaking me out, she replied. But I totally like it. Keep doing it and I might actually get another one of my surges of belief in the Kingdom of Cello.

It was a conversation.

He was having a conversation with a girl in the World.

They exchanged short notes for the next two hours.

They figured out that they were both in the same time zones. They told each other about the weather. She told him that this was like inter-Kingdom texting, and he said he had no clue what she was on about. She told him her favourite books and bands, and he repeated that he had no clue. But that stood to reason, he said, her being in the World. She told him her mother had had an MRI, which had shown what looked like a tumour in her brain, and they’d done a fine-needle biopsy, and they were waiting for the results of the pathology, and she was thinking it would turn out all right because it’d be benign, or they could just cut the tumour out, but the doctors looked distracted when she said that, and there was a sort of darkness to the way they talked.

You know what I just thought? Elliot wrote. I read somewhere that Butterfly Children used to make healing beads. Not exactly sure what they are, but if mine can’t do crops, maybe she can do healing?

Madeleine replied: If you can get your Butterfly Child to make healing beads—and you can get them to me by tomorrow morning, 10 am—and they cure my mother—well, I’ll believe in the Kingdom of Cello for real.

It’s a deal, Elliot wrote.

There was a longer pause then another note from Madeleine appeared: Who really knows what’s real anyway? I was reading a book the other day (about Isaac Newton again) and it mentioned the ‘shadow of the rainbow’. I was like: what? That’s real ? Cause, whenever I see that extra rainbow—the one that’s just behind a rainbow in the sky—well, I kind of assume I’m imagining it. Like it’s a trick of the light. Like my mind is painting that extra one in.

But who says tricks of the light AREN’T real?

One time I had to get my hearing checked—the therapist thought maybe I kept running away from school because I couldn’t actually HEAR the teachers tell me not to (she was getting desperate)—anyway, I had to sit in this little chamber wearing earphones, and the doctor or whatever sat outside the chamber, and I had to press a button whenever I heard a sound. At first, it was a really clear kind of GONG, and I was happy to press the button. Then the gongs started getting quieter and quieter, fading away, disappearing, until I couldn’t figure out if I was hearing them or not.

It’s like, are we supposed to see the extra rainbow? Was I supposed to hear that sound? Was it a sound inside my head or outside the chamber? It’s like the blurring point between imagination and reality—something very faint, a reflection.

Elliot thought for a moment, then replied: That sort of reminds me of the dragons, werewolves, trolls, giants, vampires and so forth they’ve got up at the Magical North. See, the thing is, they’re only there cause kids have gone to the Lake of Spells and caught SPELLS to make fairytale creatures. Nobody can figure out why any kid would do a dumb thing like make a werewolf, but they do.

Anyhow, now and then people talk about whether they really exist, those dragons, etc., seeing they’re not supposed to be there. Seeing they’re just imaginary.

Seems to me, if they are, they are. If a dragon sets you alight or a vampire sucks your blood, well, there’s your question answered. And I guess, if you can see a rainbow, or hear a gong, it’s answered too.

Before Madeleine had a chance to reply, he started another piece of paper.

If you were so happy in your life before, he said, how come you were always running away?

There was a long silence and when she did reply, she ignored his question: If you and I are shadows of each other, like rainbows—or like those cats I wrote about the other day—which of us do you think is real and which is the shadow?

Could be we’re both shadows, he replied. But I kinda doubt it.

I thought of something, she said, how come YOU never doubted MY existence? If you’ve had no contact with the World for, like, hundreds of years, why’d you assume my letter really WAS from the World? Not, like, a hoax by someone at your school?

Elliot replied: People around here are kinda busy for that sort of thing. Gotta go now myself actually. See you here at ten tomorrow.

He delivered the letter. Touched the sculpture once and walked away.

In her doll’s house, the Butterfly Child was asleep.

‘That’s a surprise,’ Elliot said dryly.

It was later that evening. He stood watching her a moment, then cleared his throat and spoke.

‘Hey there,’ he said, then paused. ‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ he added.

The Butterfly Child sighed in her sleep and turned over.

‘Well, I do want to disturb you,’ Elliot said. ‘The thing is, you’ve been here in Bonfire a long time now, and nothing’s happened to the crops, and well, okay, if you’re sad . . . But I wish I knew why you were sad.’

He sighed. Then carried on: ‘Anyhow, setting that aside, I read somewhere that you could make healing beads, and I’ve promised a friend that you’ll make some for her.’

He waited. The Butterfly Child breathed steadily.

‘So I guess—well, who knows if you’re hearing this anyway, but if you are, and if you can make healing beads, I’d be grateful. If you would make them. I mean.’

He sniffed.

‘Ah, what’s the point?’ He sat down on the couch, but almost at once there was a thumping on the front door.

His mother opened it. Corrie-Lynn’s little voice sounded, and next thing she herself was in the room.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Corrie-Lynn tilted her chin away from him, circled around the back of the couch, and stopped in front of the doll’s house.

‘Corrie-Lynn,’ said Elliot. ‘I heard about the Twicklehams leaving town, and I’m really sorry about your friend. I guess sometimes businesses just don’t work out. And maybe one day I could, I don’t know, take you to see Derrin in Olde Quainte? You could write to her in the meantime, right? Anyhow, I hope you’ll talk to me again some day, cause I miss you, kid.’

Corrie-Lynn held her face away from him. Her shoulders trembled and he thought maybe she was crying, but then she swung around and it wasn’t tears, it was fury.

‘You’re “really sorry”?’ She sure could wither when she tried. ‘You’re really sorry, and it’s because businesses fail?’ Now she stamped her foot. ‘They’re leaving town because of you and your friends! I’m really sorry your dad’s away, and I hope he comes back, but if he does, he can get himself a new electronics shop, for crying out loud! And you know what, Elliot Baranski? If my dad was still around, he’d give you a serious talking to, that’s what he’d do. He’d say, “What are you thinking, Elliot, scaring off a nice family like that? Making my Corrie-Lynn lose her only best friend? What are you thinking?”’

‘Ah, baby . . .’ Elliot was by her side, wanting to take her into his arms, but her eyes grew wide and her jaw gripped hard against the tears, and she punched him once, hard, in the stomach.

Then she sidestepped away from him, scowling.

He stood, watching her.

‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘That’s exactly what Uncle Jon would’ve said, and he’d have been right too. I am really sorry, Corrie-Lynn, and I want to fix it. I’ll talk to them.’

‘Too late to fix it,’ she said coldly. ‘They’re leaving in the morning. Now they could fix things—electronic things and that, but you and your friends never gave them a chance.’

‘Like I said, you’re right. I’ll fix it, Corrie-Lynn. I’ll ask them to stay and I’ll tell them my friends and I will do everything we can to make their business work. We’ll do them a marketing campaign. We’ll get Cody to paint billboards for them. We’ll get Shelby up in her plane flying a banner that says GET YOUR TVS FIXED BY THE TWICKLEHAMS!’

Corrie-Lynn studied his face. She considered.

‘You will?’

‘I’ll go over to the shop right now and tell them.’

‘Well,’ she said, still cold but relenting, ‘as long as it’s something better than that on the banner. Get your TVs fixed by the Twicklehams. That’s the dumbest slogan I ever heard. It’s not even a slogan.’

‘Fair enough.’

Corrie-Lynn was still watching him.

‘Don’t go over now,’ she said. ‘They go to bed early. But they’re coming by the Watermelon first thing tomorrow, so Derrin and me can say one last goodbye.’ Her lower lip trembled, but she straightened her shoulders. ‘Meet us there at nine, and if you can persuade them to stay, I might just see if I can forgive you.’

Then she swung around and walked towards the door.

‘You going home already?’

Corrie-Lynn nodded, her back to him.

‘Throw your bike in the back of the truck and I’ll give you a ride. It’s getting dark.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I need some time alone.’

When little kids act like grown-ups, Elliot thought, it nearly breaks your heart.

She was in the door frame when she turned back.

‘It’s cause you never listen to her,’ she said, swinging her thumb towards the doll’s house. ‘That’s why she’s sad.’

‘The Butterfly Child? I never listen to her?’

‘Exactly.’

‘She doesn’t talk!’

‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ muttered Corrie-Lynn. She shouted, ‘Bye, Auntie Petra!’ and headed out onto the porch. He could hear her talking to herself as she ran down the front stairs: ‘He’s supposed to be so smart, and great, and brave, and so good at deftball, and he’s as dumb as a chainsaw . . .’

Her bicycle wheel squeaked in time with her mutters as she cycled down the drive and away.

The door to the Sheriff’s station opened and the Twickleham family spilled out.

They’d collected their cheque from the Red Wave Damage Fund, said their farewells to Hector, and now they stood buttoning their coats against the evening chill.

They walked down the stairs, silent.

Fleta Twickleham paused at the bottom step. She was squinting across at the empty high-school grounds.

Her husband followed her gaze. She looked sideways at him, raising an eyebrow, and he shrugged. With Derrin between them, they headed across the road and through the school gate.

They stopped at the sculpture.

They studied it, peering inside and out, now and then knocking on the side of the TV.

Derrin swivelled on her heel nearby, gazing up at the stars until her neck started to ache. She rubbed at it a while, tilting her head up and down.

Mr Twickleham patted the concrete base and slid his hands over the sides of the TV. Mrs Twickleham reached right inside.

She frowned. There was a crackling sound.

She held up a piece of paper.

They leaned in close, holding it in various positions to catch some of the light.

Eventually, they could see enough to read:

Hey Elliot,

I think you’ve gone now, but I wanted to tell you this anyway. I’ve decided I’m going to say sorry to Belle and Jack today. So, you know, wish me luck.

If it doesn’t work out with them, maybe I should just come and live in your Kingdom?

I’m thinking, there’s only two obstacles to that. (1) This ‘crack’ is only big enough for letters, right? Well, just, kind of like, STRETCH it! (2) You think I’ve got the plague. I keep forgetting to tell you, we haven’t had the plague here in the world for, like, hundreds of years! (I think.) I think they found a cure. Antibiotics, right?

So, no obstacles.

Oh, except that you have to prove that your Kingdom exists first.

Well, looking forward to that by ten tomorrow morning.

Madeleine

Fleta and Bartholomew Twickleham grew so still that Derrin stopped pivotting and glanced across at them.

But they were only looking at a paper, so she tried to see how fast she could hop on her left foot. When she stumbled and looked up again, they were staring at one another instead of the paper. Then, as one, they turned their gaze towards the Sheriff’s station.