The Broken Circle

By Robert Hartley

It is January and the middle of the summer holidays, but Morgan appears to have drawn the short straw.
When work commitments take his parents overseas, just after Christmas, he is left behind on his uncle’s farm. Frustrated and disappointed, he longs to be home in Melbourne. But there is more to Wombat Creek than meets the eye and its secrets are about to be revealed.
Down by the waterside, Morgan encounters a mysterious girl, and is lured into the enchanted but dangerous world of Arkana. For some reason, his sudden appearance in this foreign landscape isn’t entirely unexpected. Although many of the strange inhabitants are overjoyed to see him, others are less enthusiastic, whilst some look upon him with a positively murderous eye. And then there are those, like the wraggles and gibblings, for whom he is nothing more than breakfast...
Morgan had been hungry for adventure – what he’d had in mind, however, hadn’t been quite this wild. For the time being, however, there seems no way back, and before him lies a quest – a quest that will take him and a group of eccentric companions on an epic journey, a roller-coaster ride where laughter and heartache are never far apart. Along the way, Morgan begins to realise that the very future of Arkana may depend on their success, but an unknown enemy is stalking them and always seems to know their plans in advance...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hartley
• Release date: Nov 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994425409

Robert Hartley

Robert grew up in Derbyshire, England, but has spent much of his life in Australia, where he studied and taught literature. He currently lives in the hills just outside Melbourne, where many other creatures join with his dogs in trying to teach him about non-human languages, rituals and requirements. I think they can claim some success, though, like most of his species, he remains a frustratingly slow learner.

Book preview

Prologue

A gust of wind brought with it the first snowflakes. The traveller stopped, pulled tight his heavy woollen cloak and fixed it with a silver pin. In doing so, his paw rested momentarily on the parcel he kept hidden, close to his chest. Instinctively, he glanced around to reassure himself that no one was watching – but who in his right mind would be out here on such a bleak winter’s night. He shook his head. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of stuff. His had been a life of service and quiet contemplation – a poor preparation for deeds of intrigue, secrecy and cunning.

As he passed between the rocks and began the last part of his ascent, some loose pebbles dislodged themselves and slid down across the path behind him. He turned briefly to reassure himself that no larger stones were to follow – he had grown up in these mountains, rockslides were common. The snow fell thick and fast now, driven by a gathering wind. A blizzard was forming. Thank goodness he was so close to his destination; another hour and the path would be unnavigable. He lowered his snout and marched on grimly.

Suddenly, the wind abated. It was merely drawing breath for a fresh onslaught, but in the split-second that followed he heard it – a distinct rustling sound, behind him and to his left. He swung around, his eyes searching anxiously amongst the shadows. Had he imagined it? No – surely not. His mind flitted back to the falling rocks: had they been dislodged by the elements, or by a careless foot? Gripped by a sense of urgency, the old bear hurried on. Every few strides, he peered back over his shoulder for signs of movement. His heart was pounding, but up ahead the summit was in sight…

That was when the first missile whizzed by, close to his right ear. He could see them now – figures in dark clothing emerging from the gloom. Too many to stand and fight. He broke into a run. A second missile grazed his left shoulder, while a third struck him on the thigh. I cannot allow them to catch me, he rallied himself – they shall not have it!

Coming over the crest, he realised that for a short time he would be hidden from view. Should he throw himself off the track and hide, hoping they would race on by? Or was that too risky? He had to decide quickly – only moments to go until they, too, reached the top and the opportunity would be lost.

He saw it too late. Under normal circumstances it would have posed no problem, but charging along in the dark, fleeing a mortal enemy and preoccupied with trying to form a plan of action, he didn’t notice the crude trip-wire until he was upon it. Even then, he might have skipped over it, but as he shaped to do so, his foot slipped on the thin covering of freshly fallen snow. His slide was cut short when the wire bit into his leg and sent him hurtling through the air. Crashing heavily against a large boulder, he slumped to the ground.

He knew he had to get up, but his thoughts were splintered, and his head – my how it hurt. Somewhere in the background he was aware of pounding footsteps… coming closer… coming closer… Well, let them come – what did it matter? He just wanted to lie where he was… forever. What was he doing here, anyway…? Of course – the parcel!

‘I must do something with the parcel,’ he urged himself.

With his last grain of strength, he drew the precious article from beneath his cloak and hurled it forth into the night…

Part One

Wombat Creek

Chapter One – Uncertain Expectations

Morgan was sitting in the dappled shade of an old swamp gum, absent-mindedly snapping the seed-heads from nearby stalks and rolling them between his fingers to a mushy pulp. A pair of dragonflies darted and danced above the still waters of the billabong. It was turning into another hot, breathless summer’s day. The big, black crow, staring down at him from the top of the dead tree on the opposite bank, would occasionally add a daggy, disappointed note to the drone of insects and the rustle of lizards in the undergrowth. In the distance he could hear a tractor, and Jack barking hopefully down a rabbit-hole. Yet each of these sounds, so distinct and unmistakable, only added to the dreamy stillness – a stillness that filled him with expectation. Days of disappointment, however, had taught him to expect nothing. It was a mere trick of the atmosphere.

A couple of metres beyond the toes of his runners, the billabong lay at the heart of the day’s stillness. Apart from a few quickly fading sticky footprints wherever a dragonfly touched down, its surface was like polished glass, in which he could see reflected not only the blue sky and two small puffs of woolly white cloud, but also the dead tree with the crow perched on top. Except the crow wasn’t on top any more, because the tree and everthing else on the far bank were upside down. It was different from looking into a mirror, though – deeper and more mysterious. And occasionally, there was a shadow of something moving that didn’t come from the sky above, and which warned you that hidden beneath the surface, the billabong contained a secret world of its own.

He tried to recall what made a billabong a billabong and not a pond, or a lake. He thought it was because it had once been part of the river that flowed beyond those hills on the edge of the farm – a part that the river had left behind. He could identify with that. Emma would know – she belonged here, but his home was in the city, and this remained, in many ways, an alien world.

Not that he was a stranger here by any means. This, after all, was where his mother had grown up, and where they’d been coming for family gatherings, for as long as he could remember, and it was something he’d always looked forward to. Then it had only ever been for a day or two of festive celebrations. This occasion was different, however.

It had begun as usual. He and his parents had driven up on Christmas Eve and there had been the usual fun and games and feasting. But on Boxing Day his parents had caught a plane to America on business, leaving him behind. Two days later, Sean and Sarah had gone back to their student life in the city, the daily rhythm of farm life reimposed itself on his Uncle Dave and Aunt Jane, and sixteen-year-old Emma began spending more and more time in her room or riding off on her horse to visit friends on nearby properties. Morgan had been left to entertain himself.

He began exploring, and was surprised to find how much of the farmhouse remained unfamiliar. It was a crazy place – a big, old, rambling country homestead, full of unexpected corners and cupboards. Unlike his house in Melbourne, it also had stairs; stairs going up and then up again into an attic; stairs going down into a cool, dark cellar, with shelves full of produce. And those mysterious stairs, hidden behind an old green door, that no one seemed to use anymore, and which, without really intending to, he found himself ascending one morning. They led to two dusty and neglected rooms.

The first he entered had very little in it: just a cast-iron bed-frame and a wardrobe containing nothing but some old clothes and a shoebox full of odds and ends, tokens of a forgotten life. He gave the back of the wardrobe a few exploratory pokes, and went to investigate the second room. This, however, was completely empty, apart from a very old coat hanging from a hook on the back of the door. It looked about his size and he felt strangely drawn to put it on, but he had barely touched it when a cloud of dust was released, making him sneeze and splutter and think better of it. Closing the door behind him, he scampered back downstairs moments before Aunt Jane arrived from the chook-shed with a basketful of eggs and announced it was time for morning tea.

‘And what have you been up to?’ she asked in that busy, offhand manner that meant it didn’t really matter what the answer might be.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ Morgan duly replied.

‘Just moseying, eh?’ said his aunt, sliding a tray of berry muffins from the oven.

Over the next few days, he had spent a lot of time ‘moseying’. Inside and out. And although he did not want to admit there was any particular purpose to his explorations, he nevertheless carried with him a vague sense of expectation, and a hope that at any moment he would come across something out of the ordinary. Something that would reveal this place to be as special as he thought it ought to be. Something magical.

But each day ended in disappointment.

As the days slipped uneventfully by, disappointment gave way to disillusion. He began to lose interest in things that had once stirred his imagination. The enchanted worlds he had read about, and which had so inspired and delighted him, seemed rather hollow and childish all of a sudden – nothing more than a cheap conjuring-trick. He should have known better. After all, he’d never experienced anything remotely magical at home in Melbourne – why would this place be any different?

At least in Melbourne he’d have his friends nearby. As it was, he’d be an outsider when he returned. His friends would have been playing games and he wouldn’t even know the rules, and there would be shared adventures he wasn’t in on and which made him feel like he was no longer quite such a close friend to them as they were to each other. And with this thought, he began to feel not only bored and disillusioned, but resentful. Doubly, triply resentful! He resented not being with his friends and he resented his parents not taking him with them to the States. What he most resented, however, was the dawning realisation that his own experiences might never live up to those in the stories that had so captured his imagination.

Picking up a nearby rock, he hurled it angrily at the crow that hung upside-down in the middle of the billabong. There was a loud splash as the scene in the dark mirror buckled and bent, and then dissolved entirely in a frenzy of fussing waves. The crow sitting right way up atop the dead tree cried out, ‘Caw, blimey!’ and flew off to find a more predictable subject to stare at.

Throwing the rock had felt good. The loud splash and the squawking had broken the stillness and the boredom in a way he found satisfying. But the hollow sensation in his stomach required more – much more. Leaping to his feet, he began hurling into the billabong every stick, stone or log he could lay his hands on, so that the waters rose up into a choppy sea that swirled and writhed, and lapped angrily against the muddy shore. The dragonflies were forced to retreat, whilst beneath the surface, unseen by Morgan, small darting fish took refuge under submerged branches and rocky ledges.

As he ran around collecting more and more things to feed the water’s fury, he laughed and whooped and leapt. And with each laugh and whoop and leap his spirits rose, so that by the time he finally ran out of ammunition he was quite exhilarated, although so worn out by the flurry of activity and from laughing so much that he collapsed on the ground panting for breath, and lay there for a whole minute with his eyes closed, until his chest stopped heaving.

When he sat up again, he found the billabong had not yet returned to its glassy perfection. Soon, however, the ripples subsided and as the shimmering slowed to a stillness, a shadowy outline began to emerge – the outline of something that had not been there previously.

The outline of another child.

Chapter Two – Close Encounters

Morgan sprang to his feet and stared in amazement. He quickly looked around to check, but he knew this was no reflection. It was too real, too three-dimensional. And the colours were different. Around the water’s edge, like a picture-frame, he could still see the reflection of the sky above him. But the blue of the reflection was darker, more muted than the real sky, whereas towards the middle of the billabong, where the child stood, the colours were, if anything, brighter and more vibrant than those of the real world. The whole scene seemed to sparkle, not on the surface in a glaring, blinding way, but as if it were illuminated from within, as if the centre of the billabong had been inexplicably transformed into a high-definition television set.

The water had now settled enough for him to make out that the child was a girl. An extremely pretty girl, what’s more. Her coal-black hair was cropped short and her clothes – a simple tunic and leggings in two shades of green – certainly hadn’t come from the local shopping mall.

In stark contrast to the simplicity of her attire was the golden bow she carried in her right hand. It was almost as tall as the girl herself, finely crafted and set with precious stones that danced with a liquid motion in the light of an unseen sun. The bowstring was taught, and in her left hand she held an arrow with white feathers. Was she out hunting? If so, what was her quarry?

She was standing in what looked to be a forest clearing, but without being able to see what lay in front of her or beyond the frame he couldn’t be sure; it might just as readily have been the forest rim, or even a wooded area in the middle of a field. But how strange it all was. The trees seemed more animate, somehow, as if they each had their own personality, while the grassy clearing looked so soft and inviting that Morgan found himself longing to lie down on it, and he experienced a fleeting sadness at the thought that he might never be able to. She had a look of intense awareness about her, as if something had taken her by surprise.

That was when he noticed that she was staring back at him. This was a two-way channel. A wave of self-consciousness swept over him. But the girl continued to stare at him unabashed with those big, brown eyes of hers – eyes that had a softness and a steadiness about them, but more than a hint of wildness, too. Eyes that compelled him to return her gaze.

He half-raised his hand in greeting, then hesitated. Was it the right thing to do, or would it seem like a threat to her? Instead, he called out a greeting. From her non-reaction, however, he sensed that she couldn’t hear him. Which was just as well, because, distracted and astonished as he was, his attempt to say ‘Hello, I’m Morgan’, had come out sounding more like ‘Sl...ow Muggo…’ – never a great way to introduce yourself.

Her attention wavered, distracted for a moment by something away to her left, and she nodded meaningfully, indicating the presence of another, invisible to Morgan. Knowing he was about to lose her, that any moment now she would disappear from view, perhaps for ever, he was desperate for some real form of contact. But time had run out. She looked again to her left, glanced quickly to her right then back at him and, forced into a decision, turned to go.

She moved with the exact mixture of swiftness, certainty and grace that he had known she would possess – beautiful but painful to watch. Just as she reached the edge of the picture, however, she stopped, turned, beamed him a warm but impish smile, raised her arm in a wave, and was gone.

Morgan stood transfixed, his heart leaping with excitement. Surely this was the doorway he had been hoping for through all those days of anticipation, surely this was his invitation!

It was obvious, but he had to act quickly. Already the picture in the billabong was beginning to fade. The trees around the edges were being swallowed up in a dark mist. If he jumped now, out towards the middle where the scene held firm, he felt sure that he would slip clean through the surface of the water and land on that soft green turf – on her side. All the stories he had read convinced him it would work.

With no more than the slightest hesitation, and with a courage and certainty he was only just beginning to discover in himself, he took a short run-up and hurled himself forward through the air…

From the first moment, he knew something was wrong. He had expected it to be so easy, like brushing through a cobweb, then plop – out the other side. Not so. Nor did he plunge unceremoniously into the cool waters of the billabong. This would have disappointed but not surprised him; nor would it have been particularly unpleasant on a hot summer’s day. Instead, Morgan found himself caught between two worlds, which he quickly discovered was the very worst place he could possibly be. This was no cobweb – it was more like being bound in cling-wrap plastic. In front of him he could still see the clearing, though growing milkier by the moment; behind him stood the embankment with its familiar trees. He would happily be back there now.

Punching and kicking, he struggled to break through – first one way, then the other. To no avail. The thick, translucent film would stretch, but not give way. Moreover, he was rapidly converting all the oxygen that had been trapped inside the bubble with him into carbon dioxide. His chest muscles were having to fight for each unsatisfying breath. He was growing weaker by the moment. And sleepy. Very soon he would die.

His struggle became half-hearted and his thoughts began to drift. There at the billabong, two worlds had touched upon each other for a brief moment and he, Morgan, seemed destined to be entombed for all eternity in the sticky membrane that held them apart.

But he didn’t want to die. And suddenly, all the reasons why he didn’t want to rushed into his mind. Gathering what little strength he had left, he braced himself for one last effort. But at that moment, the bubble began to stretch. Caught inside, he could feel himself being pulled in opposite directions. There was a tug-o-war going on and his body was the rope. The strain was becoming unbearable, and still he could not breathe. The only uncertainty was whether he would suffocate or be torn apart first…

And then it was over. Morgan’s first thought was that he had died, so abruptly did the tearing sensation cease. Then he realised he was splashing around in the murky waters of the billabong, his limbs still frantically trying to beat a way through an obstacle that was no longer there. Pushing down, he lifted his head above the surface.

That first deep suck of air was the most painfully blissful feeling. Every molecule in his body cried out, ‘I’m alive!’ Little by little, his strength returned, and with a huge grin spread across his face he made his way to the bank and crawled heavily ashore. But one last surprise awaited him: before he had even had chance to drag himself to his feet, both he and his clothes were completely dry.

Only when he was walking back to the farmhouse did he feel calm enough to reflect on what an extraordinary experience it had been. He couldn’t wait to tell someone, about the girl, about his heroic life-and-death struggle, and what it was like to find himself in limbo, neither in this world nor out of it…

But how could he tell anyone? Who would believe him, without a scrap of evidence? He wouldn’t even have believed it himself.

No, he could tell no one – not a single soul.

Morgan’s narrow escape left him with a new appreciation of his own world, and the following morning he woke up determined to make the most of his time on the farm, regardless of anything else that might transpire. After all, this is where I am now and for the next fortnight, he thought. No point in wishing he were back home, exploring foreign shores or wandering about in a half-glimpsed world that was probably the product of the ‘highly active imagination’ referred to in his end-of-year report. And in truth, in the cool light of morning and after a good night’s sleep, it did seem almost possible that the whole episode had been no more than an illusion, brought on by the dreamy stillness of the hot day and a mind that had nothing better to occupy itself with. Almost possible. But either way – dream or reality – it had taught him a lesson: to value the here and now.

Over the following days, Morgan threw himself into the outdoor life – into doing things, not just thinking or dreaming about them. When he wasn’t sweeping out a shed or pulling a few weeds from the veggie garden, he was running, jumping, climbing and, yes, after a time and with Emma for company, he was even brave enough to return to the billabong for a swim. He was growing into the vast open spaces that surrounded him.

He began to see the city in a different light. The drone of traffic and machinery when you woke in the morning; screeching tyres, honking horns. People shouting, sirens blazing – all that background stuff you could never escape from because it was all around you, all the time. He thought about the grimy streets, the hordes of people moving at speed, gruff and impatient, and his tired old school where a few sick plants struggled for survival at the edges of an asphalt yard. And as he thought about all this, he realised – with surprise – that he was no longer quite so eager to be back there.

Here on the farm, his muscles were growing stronger by the day. He leapt over logs, shrubs and fences, thrilled by the new power in his legs, and when he came to rest he could feel the energy flood back into him with each lungful of untainted air. And as his body grew stronger, more flexible and resilient, so did his spirit.

Throughout this time, Morgan only occasionally allowed himself to dwell on his experience down by the billabong, and on the beautiful girl he had seen locked inside its waters.

Now and then, however, in quiet moments between activities, or when he lay in bed at night drifting towards sleep, he was aware of a niggling sensation that rippled around the edge of thought in dull murmurs, and caused a tightening sensation in his stomach. Something inside him was trying to make itself heard.

Chapter Three – Rain and Dust Storms

About a week before the scheduled end of his stay at Wombat Creek, rain forced him indoors. Emma was visiting her friend Ros and had been there since mid-morning – Uncle Dave had dropped her off on his way to Bendigo where he had ‘a few things to take care of’. Since lunch, Aunt Jane had been closeted away in the office putting the accounts in order.

Morgan was curled up in a large comfy chair by the lounge-room window, half-heartedly leafing through a book he had found on the bookshelf in the hall, but spending more time gazing dreamily through the window at the dripping vegetation and the steadily falling rain, and thinking of absolutely nothing in particular. So when Aunt Jane put her head round the door to see if he fancied some afternoon tea, it almost came as a surprise to himself when he suddenly asked:

‘Has anything ever happened down at the billabong?’

‘Happened? At the billabong?’ echoed his aunt.

‘In the past, I mean. A long time ago.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘I don’t know. Like, has anyone ever drowned there or anything?’

Aunt Jane looked at him with a curious expression. ‘Not that I know of,’ she replied after a few moments. ‘And I can honestly say that I have never seen anything out of the ordinary. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason,’ Morgan replied hurriedly. ‘I was just wondering.’

He could see from her sceptical look that she wasn’t convinced by his explanation, but after a moment’s hesitation she opened the door wider in invitation and said, ‘Better come and have a slice of cake.’

That night, Morgan woke up needing to visit the bathroom. As he walked along the corridor, past his aunt’s and uncle’s bedroom, he heard them talking in loud whispers. The worried tone of their conversation made him stop and listen. His ears strained to make out what they were saying, but the door was thick and the words muffled. Once or twice he thought he heard his name mentioned. His mother’s, too. He had a distinct feeling his aunt was telling his uncle about their conversation that afternoon.

He edged closer, but just when he thought he might hear something interesting, there was a sudden movement in the dark close-by and he jumped back in alarm, bumping heavily against the hall table. He held his breath as a large vase of flowers rocked to and fro. If it fell he was done for!

The vase seemed to teeter on the brink for an eternity before rattling back into its original position. But the conversation had come to an abrupt halt. He heard his aunt whisper loud and clear, ‘What was that?’ Followed by a groaning of bedsprings, which had to be his uncle getting up.

At this point, he should have continued on to the bathroom, turned on the light and not bothered to conceal his presence. His uncle would have concluded that he had bumped sleepily against the table on his way there, and that would have been the end of the matter. But his heart was racing and such cool-headedness was beyond him, so when he rounded the corner, all he could think of was to press his back against the wall and stay there, as silent and motionless as his breathlessness would allow.

The door opened, and light from their bedroom spilled out into the corridor. There was a rustling sound, and for one dreadful moment he was convinced his uncle was heading in his direction. Frantically, he thought through his options, but there were none. He couldn’t think of an excuse that might sound remotely plausible, so he stayed there, rooted to the spot.

And then he heard his uncle say, ‘It’s all right. It’s just that ruddy cat again. Must have been up on the table. Lucky it hasn’t brought the vase down. Shall I put it out?’

‘No, don’t worry about it,’ his aunt replied. ‘Come back to bed. Make sure you close the door, though. I don’t really want him in here disturbing us.’

Before the door closed, however, Morgan heard his aunt say quite distinctly, ‘It was the billabong, wasn’t it? She must have told him something. Why else would he ask, unless…’ But he heard no more.

It was a full twenty minutes before he dared to complete his visit to the bathroom and return to his room, by which time, faint snoring sounds could be heard wafting up the hall. Back in bed, Morgan spent a long time puzzling over what he had heard. But it was all speculation. Too little of their conversation had been truly audible. All he knew for certain was that the billabong had a history to it. But who was the ‘she’ his aunt referred to? Emma? Sarah? His mother? The girl in the water, even? Did they know about her? Had someone else seen her? Perhaps she was a ghost; perhaps she had drowned there, once upon a time, long ago. No, that didn’t fit, what about the clothes? Unless, of course, she drowned in fancy dress. Or maybe that’s what she wears in the afterlife… Morgan could almost believe he had been blessed with a glimpse of heaven. But then again, perhaps that was what he was supposed to think; perhaps she was really a demon, or an evil witch who was trying to drown him. How could he know for certain?

Long into the night, he continued to mull over the endless possibilities, valiantly trying to sift through them for the right solution, but when he finally succumbed to sleep he was more confused than ever.

By the following morning the rain had lifted, and as Morgan sat on the veranda finishing his breakfast he could see the last of the storm-clouds disappearing beneath the horizon to the east, leaving behind that vast expanse of deep blue sky he had become so familiar with over the last couple of weeks. Out across the paddock, the honey-toned warble of magpies beckoned him forth into the refreshed and glistening landscape. But, today, Morgan was deaf to their invitation; he was beginning to respond to a far stronger call.

And so it was that he found himself climbing the stairs to those two abandoned rooms he had discovered earlier in his stay. He had his hand on the doorknob, just about to enter the first room, when suddenly he changed his mind and made for the second, unfurnished one. It was pretty much as he remembered it: the badly scuffed floorboards, the faded curtains, the patchy, pale green walls and the chipped dark-green skirting boards. One of the walls had a deep gouge in its plaster – how had that happened, he wondered. What stories this room must have to tell! How old had his mother said the house was? A hundred and forty – a hundred and fifty years? Whose room had this been way back then? And over the years since? He knew in other countries there were houses far older, but in Australia few buildings offered such a sense of history – the handprints of one generation set upon those of its predecessors. If he were to scrape the surface, how many layers of paint would be revealed? Where the upper coat of green had been worn away, he could see sky-blue peeping through, and beneath it white. Who had chosen those colours?

In the middle of the wall to his right was a small fireplace, where a pair of wrought-iron firedogs stood sentinel. Each was adorned with the head of some mythical beast; at first he thought it was a griffin, but then he noted a pair of tusks. Fragments of charcoal still littered the hearth – remnants of a long-extinguished fire.

Oddly enough, its emptiness and state of abandon gave the room an air of stories and secrets. Even when there was no one else in them, the rooms in the main part of the house were so full of the stuff of everyday life that it was difficult to imagine there had ever been a time before yesterday, or last week. In here, it was different. In here, the ghosts could take refuge from the noisy energies of the living.

Morgan closed the door. The old coat was still hanging on the inside. He examined it more carefully now, and noted with surprise and satisfaction what an unusual and exotic garment it was. It looked heavy, and was stitched with some very fine and complicated embroidery. That much he could tell, even though the colours were much faded and it was difficult to make out a pattern because of the same thick layer of dust that had driven him away previously. Very carefully, he lifted the coat from its hook and carried it to the window.

Fortunately, the heavy sash-window opened more readily than anticipated. In the distance he could see the billabong, its surface ruffled by a light breeze. He was surprised to find himself facing in that direction. The turns and angles of the house had misled him. A quick check of the landscape to make sure no one could see him, then he lowered the coat through the open window, gripped it firmly by the collar and gave it a mighty shake.

The effect was immediate and breathtaking! As the whip-wave ran out along the coat, clouds of dust rose briefly and were carried away on the breeze, much as Morgan had expected. But as the wave reached the hem of the coat, instead of petering out into a flap as it ought to have done, it turned around and travelled back up towards the collar. In its wake, a sparkling shower of colour was released. When the wave reached Morgan’s hands, there was a blinding flash of light, and a warm, tingling sensation ran through his fingertips, up along his arms, then spread out to fill his whole body. The tingling soon became a painful throbbing, however, and combined with his astonishment at the explosion of colour, it was a wonder he managed to maintain his grip. But it was as if his body had become, for that moment, an extension of the fabric, and that even if he had wanted to let go he would not have been able. The coat had taken hold of him. In fact, it was when the throbbing began to subside and his muscles relaxed that he was at greatest risk of dropping it, but as he felt it slipping through his fingers, he snapped to attention, grabbed hold, and hauled it back into room.

It was certainly a thing of rare beauty. The colours were so vibrant; it filled him with joy just looking at them. But it also had a calming effect. Looking beyond the surface, he began to make out patterns and shapes, as individual threads came together to form hills, rivers, towns and oceans. All manner of beasts were represented – from stately giraffes to lowly worms – and came to life before his eyes. Eagles and sparrows soared and darted across the skies, alighting on rocky outcrops, rooftops, or the branches of trees. As he gazed upon the waters they became transparent, so that he could see through to where shoals of fish, crabs, octopuses, squids and starfish, shark and serpent, swam and crept beneath the surface and along the ocean floor. He quickly discovered that if he focused on a particular image, it would open up to reveal the worlds within. Concentrating on a specific point of a forest, he suddenly found himself down amongst the trees. Selecting a particular tree, and then a particular bird in that tree, he saw the ticks and fleas hidden within its feathers. Next came the micro-organisms on the ticks and fleas, then the world of atoms and sub-atomic particles, and on he went until, feeling himself being sucked deeper and deeper into a microscopic vortex, he grew dizzy and was forced to wrest his eyes away. It was a second indication that the coat was to be approached with caution.

With a bit of experimentation he found that he could also zoom out, moving up from bird to tree, from tree to forest. He panned out as far as he could, to a point where he looked down on the whole planet. It was just like the pictures taken from space, except that, instead of having to wait twenty-four hours for the Earth to turn on its axis, he could rotate it at will. When he tried to go further, however – out into the universe beyond – there was no response. He had reached the limits. The subject matter was the Earth itself and what was on it – nothing more, nothing less.

Morgan shook himself free. What a weird experience, and what an amazing coat! It was as if the whole world had been woven into it somehow. He was in no doubt that it was magical, but how had it come to be here? Did his uncle and aunt know about it? Or his cousins? If so, they didn’t seem much interested in it, judging by the amount of dust on it. Surely they weren’t aware of its strange properties. Yet they must have seen it hanging there. Recalling how nondescript it had looked when he first set eyes on it, however, he could well imagine it being overlooked in such a neglected part of the house.

He turned the collar over, but there was no name in it, and no label. That wasn’t a surprise; he hadn’t really expected it to say Woolley and Sons – Made in Australia.

Dare he put it on? What would happen, he wondered?

Slowly, cautiously, he slid first one arm and then the other inside the sleeves, and waited. It fitted him perfectly, but it felt lighter than when he had held it in his hands – much lighter. And so soft and cool against the bare skin of his arms. He was just about to take a stroll around the room when he heard his uncle calling loudly from the garden down below:

‘Janey, are you there? Somebody’s left that bloomin’ window open.’

He couldn’t hear his aunt’s reply, but after a short gap, Uncle Dave spoke again.

‘What do you mean, which window? Which window do you think I’d be talking about? The one up in the old wing, of course! We’ll be having possums nesting up there if we’re not careful, and who knows what that might lead to.’

Maybe they did know something after all! Morgan quickly started pulling off the coat, but in doing so his arms got tangled in the lining, and for a moment he was stuck. Wriggling and twisting, jerking and turning, he eventually worked himself free by pulling the coat inside out. Immediately, it started to vibrate and hum – and glow!

‘Oh, great! Now something happens,’ grumbled Morgan, and for a moment he hesitated, caught between renewed curiosity and sheer panic at the thought of being discovered. The latter got the upper hand. Quickly turning the coat back the right way, he replaced it on the hook and slipped out through the door. Too late to go downstairs and chance meeting his aunt halfway. There was only one option available. He would have to hide in the other room.

Morgan waited until he heard his aunt’s footsteps receding downstairs before he stepped out of the wardrobe. As he had anticipated, she had poked her head inside this room, too, after closing the window in the other, but thankfully she hadn’t come in any further. She must have noticed the coat, though. How could she not have, the way it was carrying on, more obvious than a burglar alarm?

He still had to try and get downstairs without being noticed. Before doing so, however, he decided to sneak one last look at the coat. And there it was, once more covered in dust and managing to look very dowdy and very threadbare. Willing you to ignore it. Yet Morgan hadn’t ignored it.

He had been drawn to it.

Chapter Four – Perchance to Dream

Sleep did not come readily that night. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was the coat – the glittering surface, the living, shifting world within, the energy that had been released when he shook it and the blinding flash of colour.

Was the coat connected with his experience down at the billabong, he wondered. Absorbed in the beautiful, mind-boggling outer surface of the coat, he hadn’t paid much attention to its lining. When the coat turned inside out, however, as he hurried to pull it off, along with the glowing and humming he had caught just a glimpse of another transformation that was taking place. The surface he had gazed on so intently was misting over before his eyes, while the new outer surface became suffused with colour and form. How Morgan wished he had been able to stay and watch as its secrets were revealed. What would he have seen? The exact same thing as on the outside, or the Earth’s shadow side – a world of ghosts, phantasms and demons? Or was it just possible that stitched into the coat was not one world, but two?

He lay there trying to make sense of it all till long past midnight, when he eventually fell asleep, lulled by the hypnotic song of a nearby boobook owl, which called to him its other name: mo-poke… mo-poke… mo-poke…

His sleep was filled with a succession of vivid dreams. At one point, he found himself standing by the water’s edge, down by the billabong. The mopoke, silhouetted against the moon, was pointing its wing at him and saying, ‘No-joke… no-joke… no-joke…’ Then he realised: the owl was not pointing at him, but was frantically trying to draw his attention to something that stood behind him. He swung round, bristling with alarm, expecting a dark shadow to rush forth. But there was nothing there. He felt relieved, but the tingling sensation running up his spine did not go away. The owl gestured for him to look down. Sure enough, there at the foot of the gum tree was a small lump. So that was it. As if nodding its confirmation, the lump began to glow with a soft golden light. Drawing near, he saw it was a parcel, but when he picked it up he found it was wrapped in the strangest material. Nothing like paper. Much more supple. Warm, too, and held in place by an equally unusual type of string…

‘Give that to me, child!’

The deep, velvety tones of the voice, which startled him, coming so unexpectedly from behind, failed to conceal something cold and sharp that lurked within, something that held him briefly in its pincer-like grip. Morgan felt as if his soul had just been injected with ice. He turned round, and gasped. Above the surface of the water drifted an eerie wraith that slowly formed itself into the features of the most hideous and evil-looking face. Morgan stood transfixed, unable to drag himself away. What held him there were the eyes. If the rest of the face had seemed to emerge from a play of smoke, the eyes, set in their deep hollows, were of pure fire. Like a magnet, they drew Morgan towards them. He stepped forward, caught in a trance, but then the voice spoke again, a little too eagerly:

‘Yes, yes – that’s right. Come to me, come to me…’

The spell was broken. Morgan turned and fled, still clutching the parcel to his chest. A blood-curdling screeching and wailing sound erupted behind him, and flames licked the ground around him, but he managed to hold his nerve and eventually outran them. The screeching and wailing subsided into an anguished moan before fading away completely. He had escaped…

Later, he dreamt he was back at school. The teacher had left the room, instructing the class to write an essay entitled Oddballs and Weirdoes.

‘And make sure you’ve finished by the time I return!’

Morgan was writing as fast as he could, aware that Mr. Pampelmoose – in real life a rather gruff and censorious neighbour – might return at any moment, but when he glanced down at the page he was mortified to discover that his pen seemed to have developed a will of its own and was busily producing a jumble of strange, cryptic symbols.

He quickly moved to shield his exercise book with his arm so no one would see, but he was too late, and the very voice he least wanted to hear at that moment rang out across the classroom:

‘Wow, yuk! Look at Feral Features!’

His archrival, Justin Festerley, stood pointing at him, his face contorted into an expression of disgust. How could he possibly have seen from the other side of the room? Morgan looked down again and realised, to his horror, it was not what he had written that was causing such a sensation, but the hands and arms with which he had tried to cover the peculiar script.

‘He’s growing fur! Look, he’s turning into a werewolf!’

Sure enough, the soft down was thickening and lengthening by the moment. His classmates gathered round him in a loud, buzzing circle. In panic, he attempted to wipe off the fur, rubbing his hands and arms against his chest and chin, but that only made things worse – much worse! Wherever he made contact, more fur sprouted and spread rapidly, so that very soon his entire body was covered in it.

The circle widened, now, as his classmates backed away from him, their initial curiosity turned to fear and revulsion. When he moved towards them they started to scream.

‘It’s all right,’ he tried to say, ‘it’s quite natural.’ But his voice had grown deep and growly, and the screaming just intensified.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ It was Mr. Quittit, the principal. When he caught sight of Morgan, his brow furrowed and his lips turned down at the corners as if he had just eaten something nasty.

‘I suspected something like this might happen,’ he declared, shaking his head. ‘This boy is not fit to be at this school. And as for turning into a wild animal – this is how we deal with that kind of behaviour!’

Mr. Quittit was now raving. The students responded to his anger, grabbing hold their rulers and advancing menacingly. Morgan was trying to explain, but it was no use…

Suddenly, he stopped feeling as if he needed to apologise for himself. He looked again at the fur on his limbs and torso. It was quite handsome, actually, and soft and warm to touch, somehow reassuring. He felt proud of his new, distinctive-looking self. With growing confidence, he looked up and found that his classmates had stopped advancing. They seemed puzzled.

A quiet girl with long dark hair stepped forward. It was supposed to be Maya, but in his dream her face was