I know it’s just a way for Mom and Dad to keep Art — and me — quiet for some of the journey. But part of me thinks it’s real. The fact that we’re leaving so quickly, at night, in secrecy. . . . I hold Art tight in my arms and whisper for him to be quiet, afraid we’ll be caught by whoever’s after us. I feel like crying, but that’s because we’re leaving home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. It’s scary.
Mom checks that Art and I are OK before settling in. She lifts the cover of the blanket and peers in at us. We’re parked close to a street light, so I can see her face pretty well. She looks worried — maybe she’s sad to be leaving our old home, like me.
“Take care of your brother,” she says softly, stroking Art’s left cheek. He gazes at her quietly. “Protect him,” Mom says, her voice cracking. Then she kisses my forehead, replaces the blanket, and we set off, leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.
THE WITCH
PASKINSTON’S a sleepy place, with a couple of tiny shops, a crumbling old school, a stumpy, ugly, modern church, and not much else. It’s in the middle of nowhere, miles away from any town or city. Electricity cuts are common. Television and radio reception are poor. Cars are mostly ancient wrecks. The sort of place where you expect to find loads of old people, but in fact most of the villagers are youngish parents and their children.
We’ve been here almost a year. It’s not a bad place to live. Quiet and clean. Lots of open space around the village. No pollution or crime, and people are very relaxed and friendly. A few commute to cities or towns, but most work locally. Quite a few are craftspeople and artists. We don’t get many tourists in Paskinston, but our artisans (as Dad calls them) supply a lot of tourist shops around the country. Musical instruments are the village’s specialty, traditionally carved, lovingly created and packaged, then expensively priced!
Dad’s got a job painting instruments. It doesn’t pay very well, but you don’t need much money in Paskinston. He’s happier than he ever was in the city, finally able to call himself a real artist. Mom helps out kids with learning problems, and does some teaching in the school when one of the regular teachers is sick. She’s happy too, the happiest I’ve seen her since Annabella died.
Mom and Dad never talk about the time Art and I went missing. It’s a forbidden subject. If I ever bring it up, they change the topic immediately. Once, when I pressed, Mom snapped at me, swore, and told me never to mention it again.
And me? Well, I’m OK. Dad was right. The kids here are nicer than in the city. They chat with me at school, include me in their games, invite me to their houses to read and play, take me on day trips into the local countryside on weekends. Nobody bullies me, says nasty things to me or tries to make me feel like I’m a freak. (Of course, it helps that I don’t mention the secret patches of light!)
But I still don’t fit in. I feel out of place. It’s hard to talk freely, to join in, to behave naturally. I always feel as though I’m acting. Most of the kids in Paskinston were born here or moved here when they were very young. This is the only world they know, and they believe it’s perfect.
I don’t agree. While I’m certainly happier now than I was in the city, I miss the movie theaters and museums. Except for not having any friends, I liked being part of a big city, where there was always something new to see or do. The village is nice, but it’s a bit boring. And although the kids are nicer to me, I still haven’t made any real friends.
But it’s not that important, because I’m not miserable anymore. I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel lonely these days. I’m happy just to be with Mom, Dad and Art. Especially Art. He might only be a baby, but I love dragging him around with me, explaining the world to him, telling him about books, television and life, trying to teach him to speak. He should have started by now, but so far not a word. Dad and Mom don’t mind. They say Einstein was older than Art is before he spoke. But I don’t think Art’s an Einstein — he likes tugging ears, biting people and burping too much to be a genius!
Art’s all I really need from the world right now. He keeps me company better than any friend ever could. As Dad once said when I was lonely and he was trying to cheer me up, “Who needs friends when you have family?”
To get to school, I have to pass the witch’s house.
The “witch” is Mrs. Egin. There are thirty-seven families and six single people in Paskinston, and everyone’s on friendly terms with everybody else. There’s a real sense of community. They all take an interest in and see a lot of each other, chat amongst themselves when they meet in the street or at church, hold big parties every few months that everyone attends.
Except Mrs. Egin. She lives by herself in a dirty old house and almost never has anything to say to anybody. She comes out for a long walk every day, and to draw water from the well. (There’s running water in Paskinston, but Mrs. Egin and a few others prefer to get theirs from an old well in the center of the village.) But otherwise we rarely see her. She spends most of her time indoors, behind thick curtains, doing whatever it is that witches do.
I’m sure she’s not really a witch, but all the kids call her the Pricklish Witch of Paskinston. Some of the adults do too!
There isn’t a real school in Paskinston, just a converted stable that’s being used as a school until the villagers manage to build a proper one. There are three teachers (two are volunteers), crappy old desks, wobbly chairs, a few tired blackboards, and nothing else except the ancient toilets out back. A big change from my school in the city!
The school’s down the street and around the corner to the left from where we live. To get there, I walk past Mrs. Egin’s house. I could go the opposite way and circle around the backs of the houses if I wanted. But Mrs. Egin has never done anything bad to me. She hasn’t even spoken to me in the year that I’ve lived here. She doesn’t frighten me.
Today I set off for school as usual. Classes start at nine-thirty, but I normally get there at nine, to play some games with the other kids beforehand. Trying hard to fit in, to be like they are, to have them accept
me. Not that I’m too bothered if they don’t.
“Off to school?” Mom asks as I’m heading out.
“Yes.”
“Want to take Art to the nursery?”
“Sure.”
The makeshift nursery school is in another converted stable, right next to the school. I often drop Art off.
Art’s small and skinny. A large head though. Dad says that’s a sign that he has lots of brains, but I think it’s because he has a thick skull — all the better for head butting!
I stop Art from trying to bite the hands off a soldier doll and pick him up. He struggles, eager to finish off the soldier. “Stop,” I grunt. Art calms down immediately. He always does what I tell him. He’s more obedient for me than Mom or Dad. Mom says that’s a sign that he really loves me. It makes me proud when she says stuff like that, though I usually scowl — don’t want her thinking I’m soft.
Art’s pale, like Mom, with dirty dark hair that looks like it’s never been washed. Mom always complains about Art’s hair. She regularly threatens to shave him bald like me. (Not that I need to shave — I’ve been bald since birth.) She says every guy should be bald — makes life much simpler for the women looking after them.
I throw Art up in the air and catch him. He laughs and gurgles for me to do it again. I compare my skin to his as I toss him up a second time. I’m much darker, a nice creamy brown, more Dad’s color than Mom’s. We don’t look like brothers. Mom says that’s good — people won’t confuse us for one another when we’re older.