Whirligig

PREFACE “I thought we were supposed to be best friends,” Jayne complained. “We are,” Emily’s tone was anything but friendly, “but that’s got nothing to do with it.” “You’re already in the long-jump and the sprint; now you want to take the high-jump from me!” Emily, trying not to show the glee welling up inside her, put on her concerned face. “I’m only trying to do my best for the school. You want us to win the cup, don’t you?” “But I’m taller than you!” “What’s that got to do with anything? I’m more determined than you are. Miss Harrington knows it! You knocked the bar off in trials, and I cleared it by a mile.” “I told you, I had a tummy ache that morning.” “Any excuse, Janey beanpole. Admit it, I’m the better athlete.” Jayne’s naturally pallid face blanched and she glared right into those taunting blue eyes. “You can find yourself another friend, Emily Gasbag!” Jayne stormed out of her former friend’s bedroom and out of her life. Gasbag was the nickname her classmates whispered behind her back: Emily knew it. She threw herself on her bed and fought back tears. That band of failures spoke out of envy because she was better than them, not just at sport, either. They hated that she was brilliant clarinettist and the maths teacher’s favourite pupil. Wasn’t she entitled to show off a little? Most of all, they were jealous because she was protective of her gorgeous younger brother, Adam. If any of them tried to chat with him, they’d unmuzzle the spiteful, cutting tongue they all dreaded. Angrily wiping her tears with her sleeve, she reflected on the last twenty minutes. Jayne had no idea what went on in her head. All she saw was her friend’s blustering. What did she know about feeling unloved and inferior? She didn’t have a father who only wanted a son, did she? Emily had watched Jayne’s father cuddle her and stroke her long straight hair. She thought that her long, corn-coloured hair was much more attractive than Plain Jayne’s. Well, she could live without her friendship—or anybody’s for that matter. She would just live in her own perfect world and show daddy whose daughter was the best in town. Not far from their home lay an extensive woodland where she and her brother played at explorers or simple games like hide-and-seek. Tomorrow, the weekend was theirs. She would go there with Adam and to hell with Jayne! In the middle of the woods, a green meadow opened out from an overgrown track. The hidden green, with a slight dome, had a copse at its crown. And, a secret within a secret, sticks barricaded a hole where two bushes met and touched the ground. The sticks formed a door dressed with twigs and grasses, so only the sharpest eye might notice them. This entry led to a space at the very centre of the copse surrounded by bushes and trees. Inside was a den made of branches and scraps of wood put together over time to form a shelter. A board was nailed above the door with a warning: KEEP OUT OR ELSE. Little light penetrated the thick bushes, so two electric torches lay next to an old book on a wooden table. Without them, the posters and pictures pinned to the walls could not be seen, and the book could not be read. The book lay open at a new chapter with the title Gateway to the Other World, written in strange flowing letters. Below the title was a set of instructions explaining how to enter this world. The book belonged to the joint owner of the den, and she’d learned the instructions by heart. Today was the real Midsummer’s Day, not June 21 as most people believed, but St. John’s Day – June 24; it was now midday, and on the green beyond the copse, the barefoot girl was carrying out the instructions to the letter. The short grass was spattered with daisies, dandelions and other common field flowers. But it also had a strange feature, a place where the grass grew longer, darker and thicker. This curious grass formed a perfect circle: a ring that stood out clearly from the rest of the grass. The local people called these fairy rings, but nobody remembered why. The young girl paced her way around it, never stepping off the thicker grass. Her concentration was so fierce that she didn’t notice the tickly sensation of springy grass under her feet. Her eyes were fixed one step ahead on the ring, and her lips moved as she recited the copied verse she held in her hand. Around her blonde hair, she wore a band of flowers, mainly St. John’s Wort, but woven into the base were exactly 33 harebells, 17 cowslips, and 10 buttercups. The girl had bound them together before midday as instructed by the writer of the book. In her left hand, she held a rowan twig and, in her right, an ash wand. Emily was about to complete her third and last circling of the ring. Lying face down in the centre of the ring, reading a football magazine – and truth be told, sulking – was a boy two years younger. He was fifteen. Adam ignored his sister; that is, he tried to ignore her and get on with his reading. But how can you ignore a girl who believes in fairies! And while he thought this ritual was nonsense for girls, he had to admit to being bothered. It troubled him that the ritual was written down in a book, and worse, it was written in a book with strange ancient-style handwriting. They had just argued. Emily insisted that Adam’s world of football, computers, television and cinema wasn’t real, but made of illusions. She would show him that the natural world, her world, was real and that there was more to it than met the eye. Last weekend Emily had found the Book of Country Lore buried under many others at an antiques fair. Their parents enjoyed hunting for bargains and rummaging around among old furniture and jewellery, and last time out, their mother had found a lovely Edwardian brooch and Emily had found the book. It was battered and unattractive, and she didn’t pay much for it. At first, she let Adam look at its faded ink sketches and strange writing when he asked, but then she’d become secretive and possessive with it. And now she was supposed to be taking them into another world on Midsummer’s Day! Ridiculous! In any case, he told her she’d got the wrong date, but she wouldn’t have it. Girls! Adam snorted, in the age of satellites and video calls, nobody believed in superstitious nonsense any more: only Emily. Sometimes, he thought, she behaved like his younger sister. He glanced at her with a superior smile and went back to reading about his favourite team. Dawn Burgoyne PART I IN THE LAND OF POVERTY