The Phredde Collection Read online

  ‘Come on now, Prudence. What’s the problem?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s my brother, Mark,’ I said.

  ‘What about Mark?’

  ‘He thinks he’s turning into a werewolf,’ I said.

  Mrs Olsen laughed. Her teeth shone even more. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘One of my sons thought exactly the same thing when he was a teenager.’

  ‘Was he a werewolf?’ I asked.

  ‘No, of course not. Just a perfectly normal vampire like all the rest of the family.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘It was just everything changing that was confusing him,’ she said. ‘Now don’t you worry about it, Prudence. In a few days he’ll have forgotten all about it.’

  I still wasn’t so sure.

  ‘What’s a six-letter word meaning flashing, glittering, shining?’ asked Mum.

  Dad looked up briefly from the TV set. He was watching a documentary on South America.

  Dad’s fascinated by South America. I think he’d really like our castle to be looking out at an Amazonian jungle. But he knows the rest of us like the sea.

  (I decided then and there I’d ask Phredde if she could make Mum and Dad’s bedroom look out on Amazonia for him for Christmas. I’d love to see his face if he woke up on Christmas morning and found an Amazonian jaguar peering through the window…Or maybe, a school of piranhas tearing a pig apart with their long sharp teeth. It’s great fun to plan surprises for your parents when you think of things you know they’d really like.)

  ‘Fulgid,’ said Dad. ‘From the Latin fulgere, “to shine”. Look, Prudence, that’s a three-toed sloth!’

  ‘Yeah, great Dad,’ I said.

  I bent down to my homework again just as Gurgle carried in dessert. It was ice-cream sundaes, but the biggest ones you’ve ever seen in your life: bananas topped with ice-cream topped with strawberries topped with more ice-cream topped with chocolate sauce topped with raspberries topped with more ice-cream topped with…well, you get the idea.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Dad, looking at the size of the dish in front of him.

  Gurgle grinned under his long beak of a nose.

  ‘Gargle urgle gark,’ he agreed. He was really nice for a butler—or a magpie.

  Mum put her crossword down. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s a recipe Diffy (that’s Phredde’s mum, The Phaery Splendifera. Mum calls her Diffy for short) gave me at Tech today. There’s no calories in it, so you can eat as much as you like. Just as long as you eat it with these enchanted spoons.’

  The spoons were long and silver. They sort of sparkled in the light.

  ‘Where’s Mark?’ asked Dad, starting to tuck in. ‘Better give him a yell before his sundae starts to melt.’

  ‘I’ll go get him,’ I said.

  Mark was sitting by the window in his bedroom. You could see the dolphins playing in the waves around my pirate ship, but somehow I got the feeling Mark wasn’t looking at the dolphins.

  ‘Mark, dessert’s ready,’ I said. ‘It’s these incredible ice-cream sundaes and Mum says…’

  ‘It’s the full moon tomorrow,’ Mark said, gazing out the window.

  ‘So what?’ I asked.

  ‘Werewolves turn into wolves at full moon.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, as firmly as I could. ‘You’ve never turned into one before have you?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Mark.

  ‘Then don’t worry about tomorrow. Come on, your ice-cream will melt.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Mark.

  Now that REALLY worried me.

  ‘Would you like me to bring it up to you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Mark. Then he smiled at me. Like I told you, Mark is really nice for a brother. ‘I’m sorry about all this fuss, Pru. I don’t mean to worry everyone. It’s just that everything that’s happening is so strange…’

  ‘It’s just a normal part of growing up,’ I said. ‘That’s what everyone says.’

  Mark sighed. I looked more closely. Were his teeth really just a tiny bit longer than they’d been the week before?

  No. Of course they weren’t…

  ‘Maybe it all is normal,’ he said. ‘But you know what, Pru? That doesn’t comfort me at all.’

  ‘I’ll go get your ice-cream,’ I said.

  Well, what more could I say?

  The castle’s quiet at night.

  There’s no traffic noise, not like at our old house. No noisy neighbours either, unless you count the singing of the whales, and sometimes the pirates get a bit rowdy…

  But, somehow, I couldn’t sleep.

  It wasn’t the bed. My bed’s wonderful. It’s made of rose petals suspended in moonlight and every time you turn over you get this lovely whiff.

  No. It was something else.

  I slid out of bed and slipped on my ugg boots (marble floors are cold, even magic ones) and tiptoed down the corridor.

  Everything was quiet. Peaceful. I could hear Dad’s snores softly through the bedroom doorway and the soft snuffle of my unicorn (did I tell you about him?) down in the stables.

  Everything was fine.

  I was just about to tiptoe back to my bed when I heard it—up on the battlements, low and mournful, almost too soft to hear.

  I hesitated.

  The sound came again.

  For a moment I wondered if I should go and wake Mum and Dad. But something stopped me.

  Quietly, gently, I tiptoed up the thick, stone stairs onto the battlements.

  The moon shone silver against the stonework. A fine fat moon, almost full.

  And there, on the farthest edge of the castle knelt Mark.

  He was baying at the moon.

  I didn’t say anything. There’s nothing you can say when you find your brother kneeling on the castle battlements, singing to the moon.

  I just watched him for a while, to make sure he was okay.

  Then I went back down to bed.

  Mark seemed alright the next morning. A bit quiet, maybe, as we shovelled in our muesli before school, but then he’d been up most of the night.

  ‘Mark…’ I began.

  ‘Mmmm?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said.

  ‘You okay, Pru? No one giving you a hard time at school or anything? If they are, you tell me, right?’ Mark bared his teeth. (I was sure they were longer than they’d been the week before.)

  ‘No. No everything is fine.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Mark. He downed the last of his muesli (surely werewolves don’t eat muesli, I told myself) and grabbed his books.

  ‘Indonesian test this morning’ he explained. ‘See you this afternoon, Pru.’

  ‘See you,’ I said.

  It was hard to pay attention at school. How would YOU feel if you suspected…but I didn’t want to admit what I suspected, even to myself.

  Things got so bad that halfway through our science test I realised I’d written not a thing—I mean NOTHING—on the page. But, luckily, Phredde must have noticed because suddenly I was writing ten times as fast as I normally do.

  I glanced at her gratefully.

  Phredde just winked.

  Mark was quiet at dinner. He didn’t eat his vegies either; just sort of gnawed at his chop bone till Mum caught him at it.

  I talked too much, but I always do when I’m nervous. I don’t suppose Mum and Dad had even realised it was a full moon tonight.

  I glanced out the window. It was getting dark—the sunset deep red and purple over the ocean (strange how the sun also rises over the ocean as we look out from our castle—these things happen when it’s magic).

  ‘Time for the news,’ said Dad. He got up to turn on the TV.

  Suddenly Mark stood up. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said.

  Dad just nodded.

  ‘Don’t forget your homework,’ said Mum, picking up the newspaper.

  ‘I’ve done it,’ said Mark.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Mum vaguely. ‘What’s a nine-letter word for a member
of the Tligit Indian people of Admiralty Islands, Alaska?’

  ‘Hoochinoo,’ said Dad, sitting back on the sofa.

  ‘Mark,’ I said.

  ‘Shh,’ said Dad. ‘The news…’

  I followed Mark out the door. ‘Mark,’ I said again.

  Mark nodded. ‘What?’ he asked.

  He looked different tonight. Nothing you could put your finger on.

  Just…different…

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you want to go out?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ said Mark. He glanced out the window.

  Then he was gone.

  I went back to the TV set.

  The news was over and this comedy came on. It was really funny and I was just waiting for Mum to remember I was there and send me off to do my homework, when Gurgle came in.

  ‘Gargle argle goo,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh, a visitor,’ said Mum, surprised. ‘Who’d be calling in at this hour? You weren’t expecting anyone were you, darling?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad.

  Gurgle stood aside and this bloke came in.

  He was old—even older than Dad. He had grey hair that sort of came to a point on his forehead and dark, dark eyes—a bit like mine.

  He just stood there for a moment, looking at us, and then he said, ‘Bill,’ (which is Dad’s name). ‘Bill. You don’t remember me, do you?’

  Then Dad jumped up and yelled, ‘Uncle Ron!’, and suddenly they were clapping each other on the back and Dad was dragging Mum over, and me too.

  ‘This is my Uncle Ron,’ cried Dad. ‘How long has it been? What happened to you, Ron? Sit down, sit down.’

  ‘Coffee, tea, cold drink?’ asked Mum. ‘We’ve just eaten, but if you’d like something I’m sure the butler…’

  ‘I’ll eat later,’ said Dad’s Uncle Ron. He sat down on the sofa and looked around.

  ‘Thirty years,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s how long it’s been since I saw you last, Bill. And there’ve been some changes in that time, haven’t there, boy?’

  I blinked. I mean, calling Dad ‘boy’!

  Dad just grinned. ‘I suppose you mean the castle,’ he said. ‘It was a gift last year from a family of phaeries that Pru here made friends with—really nice people by the way…’

  ‘And you’re married…and a kid, too,’ said Uncle Ron. His hands were small and square and hairy in his lap, and had short fingers.

  ‘Two kids actually,’ smiled Mum. ‘You’ll meet Mark soon—he’s just gone for a walk.’

  ‘But what have YOU been doing?’ cried Dad. ‘All these years—I was just a kid when you went off. You simply disappeared. I thought you must have had a quarrel with Grandpa, but Dad would never say.’

  ‘Well, no. He wouldn’t have,’ said Uncle Ron. He ran his furry fingers through his hair. ‘He wouldn’t have. They regarded me as a bit of a black sheep, I’m afraid—though maybe sheep isn’t really the right word for it.’

  ‘What did you do?’ I breathed. ‘Something terrible?’

  ‘Prudence,’ protested Mum.

  Uncle Ron just laughed. He had a nice laugh, and lots of long, white teeth.

  ‘No, not so terrible. People just thought differently in those days. There was a lot of…prejudice…around. People were a bit afraid of anyone…different.’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Olsen says,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Olsen is Pru’s teacher,’ said Mum. ‘She’s a vampire.’

  Uncle Ron looked startled. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ he said. ‘I mean, vampires!’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Mum. ‘Her family gets their blood congealed from the abattoir. They never touch the fresh stuff.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Uncle Ron.

  I wanted to get back to what he’d done that had shocked the family—I couldn’t wait to hear—but just then Gurgle brought in tall glasses of homemade lemonade for everyone, and chocolate peanut biscuits and by the time everyone had brushed off the crumbs Dad had changed the subject.

  ‘So what are you doing now, Ron?’ he asked.

  Uncle Ron hesitated. ‘I’ve retired,’ he said. ‘I had a butcher’s shop down the south coast—a nice little place. You get some really good meat down there. I sold it last year when Marg died—that was my wife.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Mum automatically.

  ‘Did you have any kids?’ I asked.

  Uncle Ron smiled. ‘Three kids,’ he said. ‘And two of them have children, too. I’m a grandfather.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I’ve got cousins…or second cousins.’

  ‘Cousins once removed,’ said Dad. He always knows all that sort of stuff. ‘So where are you living now?’

  ‘Well,’ said Uncle Ron, ‘Jason—that’s my oldest boy—he lives up this way. I’m staying with them for a bit, while I look around. And I thought, while I’m up here…maybe it’s time to mend the fences a bit, catch up with the family…’ Uncle Ron paused uncertainly. ‘I suppose to see if you still felt the way your grandfather did, and your father.’

  ‘Still felt the same way about what?’ said Dad slowly.

  ‘About me,’ said Uncle Ron. ‘About what I am…’

  I looked at Uncle Ron. What could he have done to make Grandad and Great-grandpa refuse to ever see him again?

  Maybe he was a burglar…or a bank robber…or a drug runner…though none of those really seemed to go with having a butcher’s shop.

  ‘I’m a werewolf,’ confessed Uncle Ron.

  No one spoke. Then Mum said stupidly, ‘But you can’t be!’

  ‘Why not?’ said Uncle Ron.

  ‘Because…because then Bill here would be a werewolf…and your father and your brothers…’

  Uncle Ron shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he said. ‘Maybe if our family had always married other werewolves…It’s like your red hair—not all your kids will be redheads. It’s the same with us.

  ‘Way back sometime, our family had a werewolf ancestor and every generation or two it shows up again.

  ‘Your great-great-grandfather was a werewolf,’ he said to Dad. ‘That’s why he came out to Australia. The villagers discovered his secret and it was either Australia or a stake through the heart. People were so narrow-minded in those days.’

  ‘But…but a werewolf…’ stammered Dad.

  ‘Don’t werewolves tear people into bits and eat them and…’ I began.

  Uncle Ron twinkled his dark eyes at me. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Just like wolves don’t do that either, no matter what the legends say. Wolves are really just wild dogs. They avoid people if they can. They’d have to be terrified or starving to hunt a person.

  ‘A werewolf is only a wolf while it is full moon—no worse than any real wolf while it lasts. And we’re still ourselves while we’re wolves, good or bad as the case may be. A nasty bloke makes a nasty wolf, that’s what I always say.’

  ‘I…I can’t get used to it,’ muttered Dad. ‘A werewolf in our family!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Uncle Ron sadly. ‘I thought maybe now, maybe…’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I quite understand. Even today people are sensitive about anything different. I won’t bother you again.’

  ‘No!’ cried Dad. ‘No. I didn’t mean…it’s just, I’m shocked, that’s all. Not shocked—surprised!’

  ‘Startled,’ added Mum helpfully. ‘Taken aback, stunned, astonished, caught off-guard…’

  ‘How could Dad and Grandpa not tell me something as important as this?’ demanded Dad.

  ‘They wanted to shut their eyes to it,’ said Uncle Ron sombrely, ‘and hope that the werewolf strain went away. And to be honest…well, what sort of lives would they have had in those days if their friends knew their son or brother was a werewolf?’

  A brother…

  ‘Mark!’ I yelled.

  ‘Mark?’ said Dad. ‘Oh, my word. Mark!’

  ‘Mark?’ inquired Uncle Ron. ‘Is that your son?’

  ‘He thought he was
turning into a werewolf, but I refused to listen,’ cried Dad. ‘I thought he’d just been listening to all these shows on TV. You know, “I Was a Teenage Vampire” sort of thing. And all the time…’

  ‘All the time he was,’ said Mum softly. ‘Oh, poor Mark. This must have been so hard on him.’

  ‘How old is Mark?’ demanded Uncle Ron sharply.

  ‘Fifteen last month. As soon as he comes home you must have a talk with him.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Uncle Ron barked out.

  Mum stared. ‘I told you. He’s gone for a walk…’

  Uncle Ron rose—no, surged—to his feet. ‘We’ve got to find him,’ he cried.

  ‘But…but why?’ stammered Dad.

  ‘Because in half an hour the moon will rise—the full moon. If your lad’s just turned fifteen chances are that in half an hour he’ll be a wolf for the first time. Do you know what that can mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad.

  ‘A wolf running loose in the town—a wolf who has never learnt how to hide! Who’ll terrify people the first time he shows his fangs! Who knows what might happen to him! We have to find him!’

  We rushed down the corridor. Gurgle stared at us curiously, but we didn’t have time to explain.

  Over the drawbridge and down the road.

  ‘Which way?’ cried Mum, peering up and down the street.

  ‘Wait,’ said Uncle Ron suddenly. ‘Wait!’ He pointed down the road at the horizon.

  The moon was rising, orange as fruit cup cordial. Just the rim peeked over the horizon; then a slice, and a stronger and stronger glow.

  I glanced at Uncle Ron, then stared.

  Uncle Ron was changing.

  His hair was growing longer…longer…thicker down his arms. More hairs popped out on his face, his neck…

  Uncle Ron ripped off his shirt.

  His chest was hairy—really hairy—and his arms sort of shrank as I watched. They weren’t arms at all, but legs, with furry hands that slowly withered into paws.

  I looked up at his face, a wolf’s face, with long white teeth that glittered in the moonlight.

  Uncle Ron reached down and wrenched his trousers off.