The Phredde Collection Page 4

  ‘That’s better,’ he growled. ‘Things’ll be easier now.’ He flopped down onto all fours.

  Mum blinked.

  Dad blinked.

  Uncle Ron hesitated. ‘Are you sure this doesn’t bother you?’ he asked, sitting back on his haunches. His tongue was long and red and wet.

  ‘No,’ squeaked Dad, then tried again. ‘Of course not,’ he said, trying to speak normally.

  ‘No, no,’ said Mum shakily. ‘It doesn’t bother me at all. No. Of course not. No.’

  ‘It’s okay with me,’ I said.

  And it was. I mean Uncle Ron looked nice enough before, but he was really cute now. All silver fur. I’d always wanted a dog.

  Uncle Ron pricked up his ears, then bent his nose to the ground. ‘This way,’ he growled. He paced along following the scent.

  Dad followed him. (Dad looked like he was in shock.)

  Mum absently picked up Uncle Ron’s clothes and followed Dad.

  Down the street, past the Post Office…

  ‘The shops,’ said Mum, hopefully. ‘Maybe he stopped at the milk bar for a milkshake.’

  ‘I hope not,’ growled Uncle Ron.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What do you think would happen in a milkbar if someone turned into a werewolf?’ He shook his furry head. (His ears were longer than a normal dog’s, tall and peaked and fuzzy.) ‘We werewolves learn to be discreet. To stay away during the Change. But your Mark hasn’t learnt that yet. He’s had no one to show him how.’

  ‘Oh, Mark,’ whispered Mum. She clutched Uncle Ron’s trousers in despair.

  Uncle Ron led the way again. Round the corner, up the street by the school.

  The school! I thought. Maybe Mark might have gone there to think…

  ‘Woof,’ said Uncle Ron, his nose to the breeze.

  ‘What does that mean,’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Just woof,’ grunted Uncle Ron. ‘No fresh smell of him here at all.’

  A couple of blokes across the road stared at us. They pointed. I tried to look as much like someone taking their dog for a walk as I could.

  A giant, giant dog.

  A dog with long white fangs and thick soft fur around its neck.

  A wolf.

  Around another corner. The golden road to our castle dangled above us again.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone home,’ said Dad, hopefully.

  Uncle Ron was silent. He sniffed the footpath, then our road again. Suddenly he bounded forward, back up to our castle.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Too soon.

  Up the road, over the drawbridge. Uncle Ron was still sniffing. Down the corridor…Gurgle opened a door and gave a startled squawk. He slammed the door shut again…down the corridor to the stables. For a moment I thought of my unicorn, and panicked.

  What if werewolves ate unicorns? But this werewolf was my great-uncle…and the other one was my brother. Mark knew how much I loved my unicorn…

  The unicorn snickered inside its stable as it smelt Uncle Ron. Uncle Ron stopped to scratch a flea with his back leg, then padded on.

  Past the stables and out into the gardens. The surf crashed and muttered down below.

  Uncle Ron stopped and thrust his nose up into the breeze.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Mum.

  Uncle Ron sniffed again. He snuffled by a tree then under a rose bush.

  ‘I’ve lost the scent,’ he confessed at last.

  ‘But…but you can’t have.’

  Uncle Ron sat back on his haunches. His whiskers were silver in the moonlight.

  ‘I’m sorry, young Bill,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m not the tracker I used to be. Not at my age. I’m alright down on the streets, but out here in the garden—you’ve put some fertiliser on, haven’t you?’

  ‘Just some pelletised hen manure,’ said Mum. ‘On the roses last weekend. And a little on the lawn…’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can smell,’ said Uncle Ron. ‘Now if it had been my boy, Jason—he’s got a young nose.’ He scratched his ear with one giant paw sadly.

  ‘Could you give Jason a ring?’ Dad pleaded desperately. ‘Please Ron.’

  Uncle Ron nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go,’ he said. ‘You’d better do the dialling for me, unless you’ve got one of those push-button phones. But it’s full moon, you realise. You know what young wolves are like. Who knows where Jason is tonight.’

  He padded back up past the stables, his very long tail drooping behind him. Mum and Dad followed him. Dad’s arm was around Mum. She still carried Uncle Ron’s discarded trousers.

  Dad whispered something consoling to her. She shook her head.

  I stayed there in the moonlight. For one thing it was peaceful. The moon just hung there, like someone had thrown it at the sky. For another—well, I’d been crying a bit and I didn’t want anyone to see. Mark was my brother and he was alone and might be scared…

  That’s when I saw them.

  Down on the beach. The sand was gold like the moon and the waves were golden, too, a bright highway of light travelling across the sea.

  They were just sitting there on the sand in the moonlight, side by side. A big, dark wolf with a smaller one by his side. As I watched he sort of nuzzled her, then turned to watch the moon again.

  They were so close their paws were touching.

  ‘Mark,’ I began, then stopped.

  Something told me Mark didn’t want his younger sister interrupting him tonight. So I turned and went inside to tell Mum and Dad and Uncle Ron.

  So that’s the end of THIS story, except…

  It turns out Mark’s girlfriend is called Tracy. She lives just two streets away. It was her first night as a wolf, too.

  She and Mark had met by chance down at the milkbar and he asked her if she’d like to come up to our place for a swim and then see my pirate ship, so they were both safe here when it happened.

  Tracy’s really nice.

  Her mum’s a werewolf, too, but she didn’t realise Tracy had inherited it. Her dad’s normal, and he’s okay about it all, though he says it’s a pity they can never have a cat—not with a wolf around every month!

  Two wolves now…

  And Uncle Ron’s bought a house in the next suburb and my second cousins, or first cousins once-removed or whatever they are (I can never remember things like that), are coming to the castle for Christmas dinner and so are Phredde and her family, including her Uncle Mordred, which will be great, especially if he’s still a dragon.

  And Phredde’s mum enchanted another magpie to be our gardener. (The roses were really getting out of control—Mum went overboard with the fertiliser. I think she forgot they were magic roses.)

  The new gardener’s name is Gark.

  Then Gark and Gurgle fell in love, which means that whenever they’re off-duty they turn into magpies again.

  They’re building a nest up in the guest tower. Maybe later this year we’ll have lots of baby magpies fluttering around. Or will they be butlers, too?

  And that’s all that happened really—till Mrs Olsen’s birthday party.

  But that’s another story.

  Vampire’s Birthday

  What do you give a vampire for her birthday?

  This is probably something you’ve never thought of before. Until a few years ago most people only saw vampires in movies and books and things. They weren’t REAL vampires…

  But Mrs Olsen’s real—especially when she gives us too much homework—and she’s a vampire. But she’s really nice, for a teacher. For a vampire, too, I guess.

  Anyway, it all started (although, when you think about it, you can never say exactly when things started. I mean, this story really started when I was born. Or when Mrs Olsen was born, which makes it a really long story).

  This bit of the story started just before the bell went. We were all sitting in the classroom sort of puddled if you know what I mean because it was this really stinking hot day and even the flies were wilting, and to make it w
orse we’d all been down by the oval watching the volcano erupt.

  The volcano’s new.

  Phredde’s mum, The Phaery Splendifera, wanted to do something for the school. She does help out at the canteen once a month, just like Mum does, except being a phaery she’s too small to serve at the counter or fill up salad rolls, so she just washes up and stuff like that, which for her just means…well, I don’t know what it means, because I’ve never been able to catch her doing it. It’s all too fast. All I know is she doesn’t wave a magic wand or anything like that but she does SOMETHING, and the washing up is all done.

  About the volcano…Phredde’s mum asked the school what they’d like and the Headmistress, Mrs Allen, said they needed a new science block, and the School Council said twenty-five new computers, and the kids all voted (after discussing it for WEEKS we came up with the BEST idea) for a volcano.

  Just a small one, down by the oval.

  It turned out that Phredde’s mum couldn’t magic up computers because she doesn’t understand them (apparently phaeries have to know what something’s like before they can magic it), but she and Mum are going to do a Beginner’s Guide to Computers as part of their Small Business Management course down at the TAFE as soon as they’ve finished their applique class (they’re planning to open their own business, but it’s a secret, even from me). So maybe we’ll get the computers next year.

  She did manage to conjure up a science block. (Well, Phredde’s Uncle Mordred did. He’s really into science, especially zoology. In fact, he spent part of last year as a dragon.)

  The new science block is really cool—Uncle Mordred copied it from this great big Spanish sort of palace called the Alhambra and it has fountains and secret passages, as well as laboratories and stuff.

  And we got the volcano.

  It’s about the size of a rubbish bin, so you can peer right down into it and see all the lava bubbling, and it smells really gross, like someone left an egg sandwich in their bag over the weekend, and it erupts every recess and lunchtime so we don’t need the school bell anymore.

  We just listen for the volcano.

  You’ve got to be careful not to get too close to it when it’s erupting. Some people might think a volcano’s dangerous to have in the school yard, but no one’s been swallowed up by lava yet or suffocated in ash.

  I was a bit worried about some of the little kids—they have hardly any sense yet—but I think it’s been really good for them. It’s taught them some discipline, like stay away from exploding volcanoes. And, anyway, the lava doesn’t go very far. It just glugs down into the stormwater drain, and the ash hardly makes a mess at all.

  Where was I? Oh, I know—it was so hot even the doggy doo out on the footpath had melted, and most of the class were half-asleep, except for Phredde who really was asleep, but as she’s a phaery and so tiny, you wouldn’t notice. (I can always tell when Phredde has gone to sleep—her wings stop fluttering.)

  Phredde and I have become best friends. She sits just behind me except, of course, being a phaery, she doesn’t sit much. She hovers just over my shoulder.

  Mrs Olsen didn’t notice Phredde was asleep, because she was reading us a story all about this kid who went to Mars. (It was a bit far-fetched to be honest. I like real-life stories myself.)

  Mrs Olsen can usually make any story sound good, but, somehow, today she was reading as though her heart wasn’t in it. Her voice just faded away and she looked out the window, and then she caught herself and went back to the book, except it was a bit that she’d just read before…

  And of course Edwin down the back had to yell: ‘Hey, Mrs Olsen, you’ve read that bit.’ (I mean what did it matter? The story was boring anyhow. Edwin just likes to hear his own voice.)

  And Mrs Olsen gave herself a sort of a shake and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit preoccupied.’

  Phredde woke up just as Amelia (she always sits in the front row and never makes a spelling mistake) said, ‘What with, Mrs Olsen?’

  Mrs Olsen looked at us in a strange way, then she said, ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow.’

  ‘My mother doesn’t have birthdays any more,’ said Amelia smugly. ‘She says when you’re grown up you only have birthdays when you turn forty or sixty or something like that.’

  ‘Erk,’ I whispered to Phredde. ‘Imagine not having a birthday party every year.’

  Phredde nodded and wrinkled her nose. She had a nose stud put in last month. A tiny ruby—real, of course, or magic real anyway—and it looks really great.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Olsen slowly. ‘This is a special birthday, I suppose. A very special birthday.’

  ‘How old are you then?’ called out Edwin.

  Mrs Olsen grinned suddenly so you could see her long, vampire teeth, and most of the others, too.

  ‘It’s my 400th birthday,’ she said.

  That shut us up. We all know Mrs Olsen is a vampire, and we know she’d never vampirise one of us. Or anyone, really, getting all her blood from the abattoir as she does.

  But 400! That’s something else. She didn’t look that old either. I mean she did look old, but only like all teachers look old. She didn’t look more than thirty really.

  ‘Are you going to have a party?’ demanded Edwin.

  ‘A what? Oh. No,’ said Mrs Olsen hurriedly.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked. I’d go to a party every day if there was one around!

  ‘I…I just didn’t think of it,’ said Mrs Olsen. ‘Look, kids, forget I said anything about my birthday. Please.’

  ‘You mean it’s a secret?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘Yes. No,’ said Mrs Olsen. ‘Just…’

  That’s when the volcano exploded and it was time to go home.

  ‘I think she’s crazy,’ said Phredde. We were walking down the footpath to my place—I was walking and Phredde was diving around and doing somersaults in the air like she usually does. We were going to take my pirate ship out for a sail before dinner.

  ‘When Mum turned 200 she had a party that went on for weeks.’

  ‘When she WHAT!’ I yelled. ‘Your mum’s not 200!’

  ‘She’s 275, now,’ said Phredde.

  ‘Er,’ I said.

  I glanced at Phredde. ‘How old are you?’

  Phredde grinned ‘The same as you, but three months and four hours older,’ she said. ‘Phaeries age at about the same rate as humans till they’re twenty-five.’

  She shook her head. ‘I think Mrs Olsen’s batty. Hey, batty…vampire, vampire bat. Get it? Why not celebrate your birthday? Why keep it secret?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s a vampire thing.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Phredde. ‘Boy, it’s hot. You want a drink of something?’

  ‘Lemonade,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  Phredde magicked one up and zoomed down to put it in my hand. I took a sip gratefully. It was as cold as ice and just a bit colder. ‘Hey, what do you want for your birthday?’

  ‘A surprise,’ said Phredde, fluttering back up into the breeze.

  Which made sense when I thought about it. I suppose when you’re a phaery and can magic up anything you want, it’s the things you CAN’T think of that are the most fun. That’s probably why Phredde and I are such good friends. I can think of things and she can magic them!

  Phredde would never have thought of having our own pirate ship without me, and Phredde’s mum would never have gone to the Tech class if my mum hadn’t asked her. She would have kept going to the traditional dances on the green or whatever, but that must get really boring after a while.

  And neither of them would ever have thought of a volcano.

  I made up my mind to think of something really great for Phredde’s birthday. Her mum could magic it for me. As they always say, it’s the thought that counts and, boy, mine are really good sometimes.

  (You should have seen Dad’s face when I gave him that South American jaguar last Christmas. It’s the biggest one you ever saw! Phredde’s Uncle Mordred helped me with that one
—and my mum and Phredde’s mum have been trying for months to work out the never-ending crossword puzzle he helped me magic up. Uncle Mordred’s really great when you want help like that.)

  What was I saying? Oh, about Phredde and me that afternoon. We took the pirate ship out and had a great time. We nearly got eaten by a giant squid, but that’s another story.

  But you know something?

  I couldn’t help thinking about Mrs Olsen.

  Dinners are always pretty boring at our place. Dad watches TV (except for weekends when we eat up at the table), especially the nature shows (though he hasn’t been as keen on them ever since I gave him the jaguar. I suppose you don’t need to watch TV when you’ve got the real thing).

  Mum studies her crosswords and Mark and I watch TV with Dad, though neither of us really likes the same stuff as he does.

  That night was no exception. Dad had switched on this really boring program about little English rabbits.

  ‘See how cute they are, Prudence?’ he kept saying. ‘Now a rabbit would make a really good Christmas present, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘No way, Dad,’ I said. ‘Haven’t you heard of calicivirus and myxomatosis? Anyway, your jaguar would eat it.’

  Dad sighed. He kept the jaguar down in the rose garden ever since it tried to eat Gurgle, our butler. (Gurgle’s fine though—he only lost a few wing feathers.) And it must be a nuisance for Dad to hike down to the rose garden three times a day to feed it and visit it, and Gark, our gardener, who’s married to Gurgle (she’s really pretty when she’s being a gardener, with lots of sort of feathery black hair, and she’s a pretty-looking magpie, too), won’t go down into the rose garden any more with the jaguar there, so the roses are really getting out of hand…but, hey, it must be worth it for a pet like that.

  ‘You kids got much homework?’ asked Dad.

  Mark shook his head. ‘I finished mine before dinner. I thought I’d give Tracy a ring and we might go down to the beach or something.’

  ‘You can borrow my pirate ship if you like,’ I said. ‘Maybe sail over to an island.’

  It wasn’t a full moon so neither of them would be turning into werewolves, and I thought they might like something interesting to do.