This book is dedicated to my Grandfather and everyone else out there who refuses to grow up.
Selected for the White Ravens Awards 2008
Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. ‘How awful!’ she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap.
Peter Pan and Wendy
J.M. Barrie
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Dedication
Awards
Excerpt
Part I The Adventure Begins
Chapter One A Town Called Drabville
Chapter Two The Red Doorknocker
Chapter Three A Close Encounter
Chapter Four Prisoners of Hog House
Chapter Five Tickled Pink
Chapter Six A Frazzled Flamingo
Chapter Seven A Prickly Tea Party
Part II Puzzles and Possibilities
Chapter Eight Bon Affétit
Chapter Nine Unwelcome Discoveries
Chapter Ten The Sky’s the Limit
Chapter Eleven Follow the Slop
Chapter Twelve The Notorious Nine
Chapter Thirteen Pampered, Powdered and Primped
Chapter Fourteen Into Thin Air
Part III The Reunion
Chapter Fifteen The Hocus Pocus Ball
Chapter Sixteen Four in a Gondola
Chapter Seventeen Fishy Business
Chapter Eighteen A Queen Called Griswalda
Chapter Nineteen The Great Guzzle
Chapter Twenty Taking Flight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part I
The Adventure Begins
CHAPTER ONE
A Town Called Drabville
When you open a book and take a first hesitant glance at the page before you, the crucial factor that determines whether to continue reading or discard the book in disappointment is the opening sentence. After pondering long and hard over the opening sentence of this particular book, I have come to the conclusion that you must write it yourself. Sadly, if you are a person who is a little short on imagination, you might come up with such opening sentences as: ‘Once upon a time…’, ‘Long, long ago…’ or ‘Far, far away in a magical land…’ BORING! You are going to have to do better than that in order to do justice to the incredible story about to unfold. Perhaps it may help you to actually read a little of this story before making a decision, as we all know that opening sentences written in haste are never a wise idea. As far as beginnings go, one of my all-time favourites has to be: ‘All children, except one, grow up.’ An opening like that cannot help but capture your attention! So, whilst you gather your thoughts on opening sentences, I should probably stop burbling and begin to tell the story, which is the reason you opened this book in the first place.
As it happens, this story involves a girl, a young and rather pretty girl, with the unfortunate (although admittedly highly original) name of Millipop Klompet. Of course, on the odd occasion when Millipop spoke to a person long enough for them to ask her name, she made sure to leave out the last three letters and was always quick to say that she was not given a surname due to strong religious reasons. So, due to strong religious reasons, throughout this book I shall refer to her simply as Milli.
This book also involves a town: a town called Drabville, which was the place where Milli was born and lived with her family. Drabville was an orderly town presided over by a Mr and Mrs Mayor, who were both popular and much admired. They made regular public appearances to report town news, snip ribbons at the unveiling of new buildings, launch new initiatives and give out Citizen of the Week awards. The people of Drabville were very proud of the Mayors and their exemplary town. Problems such as poverty, crime and unemployment had been eradicated by the implementation of a series of restrictions known as the Code of Conduct. This code comprised a set of rules that everyone was happy to abide by even if it meant the loss of small freedoms. For example, citizens were prevented from wearing colours other than black, beige or mushroom in the streets. Children were not allowed out to play after four o’clock in the afternoon, and venturing out of doors without the Drabville crest displayed somewhere on your person could incur a hefty fine. There were severe chastisements for the breaking of any rules, but breaches rarely occurred, for few citizens of Drabville had any desire to break the rules.
Milli found the sameness of her town insufferable but inescapable. Every house was designed by the same architect, or, should I say, the architect designed one house and every other was replicated in its image. They were even painted the same colours: grey, with shiny black doors and brass doorknockers. The identical rectangular lawns sat side by side, not one branch of the knotted black trees lining the streets was out of place, and the square slabs of concrete making up the footpath were not blemished with even the smallest of stains. A greyness pervaded Drabville so thick that it not only obscured sunlight but drained the colour out of everything. Because of it butterflies were rarely seen, owls were wide awake at midday and silhouettes, had they been detectable, would probably have been mistaken for ogres. The town was dead, Milli thought; you could search its every nook and cranny and not find a single speck of individuality or colour.
For some time Milli had sensed something missing in the townsfolk too, but as she was unable to explain it to herself, there seemed little point in raising it with anyone else. She couldn’t say exactly what it was that had left them, but she knew it was something important, something invaluable. Milli did not know at the time this story begins that it would be up to her to restore it to them.
Milli led rather a solitary life. Her mother had died when she was just four years old, so, regrettably, they never got the chance to know each other well. Although her memories of her mother were blurred, there were three things Milli did remember quite distinctly. The first was her mother’s name, Enid Rosemary Klompet, which worked like a mantra for dispelling the bout of insomnia that inevitably followed a nightmare. The second was the coolness of her mother’s hands the touch of which had never failed to soothe her out of a tantrum. The third was simply her mother’s pet name for her, which no one used any more: Little Millipede.
Nobody would speak to Milli about her mother’s death or the exact circumstances surrounding it. Instead, they muttered uncomfortably behind their teacups about unfortunate accidents and hurriedly changed the subject. Over time, Milli had learned not to bring the matter up with neighbours or townsfolk, but it did not stop her wishing they might occasionally make reference to her mother in conversation or at least enquire whether Milli missed her. But they never did. They were all far too busy discussing how the indistinguishable flowers in their gardens were thriving or what decoration to choose for the crust of the pie they were next going to bake. You are probably wondering why Milli didn’t ask her own family to tell her about her mother, but, you see, Millipop Klompet belonged to the most un-ordinary of families.
Her older sister, Dorkus, had not ventured outside her bedroom for two and a half years for fear of being eaten by one electrical appliance or another, and was convinced beyond reason that the family dog, Stench, was a spy working for an undercover government organisation. Then there was Milli’s father, the only other person in the house to confide in. Milli might well have tried confiding in him had he been able to concentrate long enough on what she had to say.
Mr Klompet had always been a dreamer, but since the loss of his wife he lived in a permanent state of distraction. He was the sort of person who could sit staring at a jar of Honeylik Seeds for hours on end and thought
that the height of entertainment was making smiley faces out of the remains of his breakfast.
Milli’s father was a baker and worked five days a week running the town bakery, kneading, rolling and cooking the breads and pastries to perfection. Milli often marvelled at the way he did exactly the same thing every single day and still looked forward to going to work in the morning.
In their own kitchen, Mr Klompet enjoyed creating exotic, if sometimes peculiar, dishes and had once attempted to bake pea pods filled with toffee in order to combine the flavours of savoury and sweet. The result had been disastrous enough to put Milli off both peas and toffee for the rest of her life. But Mr Klompet was not so easily disheartened. Although some of his experimental cooking was quite horrifying, there were some creations that were quite incredible, like his honey-dipped pear strudel presented in the shape of the Swiss Alps. It was Mr Klompet’s dream to broaden his repertoire and perhaps one day make a passionfruit strudel. But apples and pears were all that were available in Drabville, as the more exotic fruits were prohibited due to the mood-changing properties they contained.
Such was Mr Klompet’s inventiveness that in a different world he would almost certainly have been hosting his own cooking program on national television. But as neither inventiveness nor television was tolerated in Drabville, Mr Klompet had to be content working with the limited resources available to him.
In the Drabville bakery, like any other commercial enterprise of the town, departure from routine was strictly forbidden. The townsfolk were wary of change and most customers only ever bought the same type of white sliced bread that tasted like bed sheets—and if you have ever chewed on bed sheets in the middle of the night during a particularly bad dream, then you will know just how horrid they can taste. But the bland tastebuds of his customers did not seem to bother Mr Klompet. He met anyone and everyone with a huge grin plastered all over his flour-smudged face. Of course, the townsfolk regarded him as a Drabvillian no different from themselves. He abided by the town rules, read the Code of Conduct each night before bed and never questioned the edicts of the Mayor. Therefore, he was an accepted and respected citizen and poor Mr Klompet could not have been more devastated to find that his youngest daughter, Milli, would never be.
If you were to ask me to sum up Millipop Klompet’s personality in one word, you would be wasting your precious and valuable time, for the simple reason that there is not one word in even the most comprehensive of dictionaries that could come close to describing her. Milli was mad. She was ludicrous and bizarre—yet thoughtful and imaginative. She was spontaneous and passionate, bold and spirited. If I asked you to tell me the first thing that pops into your head when I say the word ‘day’, you would most likely reply something along the lines of ‘night’ or perhaps, if you are very creative, ‘sky’. If I were to ask Milli the same question she would probably reply, ‘pomegranate’!
There is something very curious about a girl who sees links between an exotic red fruit and the daytime, which did not quite fit in with the conventions of Drabville. However, Milli’s appearance was the most palpable example of her singularity. With creamy porcelain skin, an impish face and grave brown eyes that widened to orbs at the thought of adventure, Milli had the appearance of a china doll. But, unlike a china doll’s sleek and burnished locks, her hair caused her no end of trouble. She simply could not discipline her unruly mop of dark curls, which by midday had always managed to wriggle free of the obligatory chignon she twisted them into every morning. Since her mother had died, Milli had taken on a permanently unkempt look. Her shoes were scuffed, her socks mismatched and her pinafores not only looked too small but showed signs of having been hastily ironed. Mr Klompet was generally too preoccupied to arrange appointments with hairdressers or seamstresses.
Milli despised her regulation uniform. The metal buttons of her grey pinafore (which she was required to wear over a pleated wool skirt and stiff-collared blouse) gave her a permanent itch at the back of her neck. Whenever the itching became too much to bear, Milli would tear open the top buttons of her pinafore only to be shouted at by the music master at Drabville Elementary School, Mr Trevor Treble. Trevor Treble was a bug-eyed, frog-like man in his sixties who strutted about in his academic gown and took great pleasure in pointing his baton at noncompliant students and bellowing, ‘BUTTONS!’ Milli had accrued a great number of demerit points as a result of those bothersome buttons, not to mention various other misdemeanours. For one thing, her socks simply refused to stay up and invariably slid down her legs, crumpling around her ankles like deflated balloons. Her blouse came untucked, her shoes unlaced, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Milli was the music master’s prime victim and the state of her hair and uniform had been known to cause him heart palpitations.
The other children, whose uniforms never fell short of immaculate, had given up trying to befriend Milli long ago. She warded them off with fierce scowls, dark looks and sometimes even threats of magic, which alone was enough to keep them well at bay. Magic of any kind (including card tricks) was forbidden in the town of Drabville, and there was nothing the children feared more than the consequences of breaking the rules.
They all remembered a terrible day in November some three years back, when a small boy of twelve named Leo took the unprecedented step of not returning his library book on time because he hadn’t yet finished reading it. Leo never got to finish his book, or any others for that matter, because a ghostly grey car rolled silently up to his front door shortly before bedtime. Milli vividly remembered seeing Leo’s parents handing over their only son without so much as batting an eyelid or raising an eyebrow in protest. The memory of their vacant faces still sent shivers up her spine. Leo had been as pale as pizza dough and desperately clutching his parents, but they had only shaken him off as carelessly as one might a bothersome fly at a summer picnic. Now they went about their everyday business as if they had never had a son.
Milli sometimes wondered what had become of Leo and where he was now. She would have liked to find him and bring him home. For, as you have already been informed, more than anything else Milli loved an adventure. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than stepping into the unknown, taking risks and conquering fears. She had even made a secret pact with herself that by the time she reached the age of twelve (now mere months away), there would be nothing and no one she was afraid of.
Once, when she was just five years old, Milli had made herself sleep under her bed instead of on it for a whole week just to rid herself of the fear of Mostro. Mostro was a furry, sabre-toothed monster who Milli was convinced resided under her bed and munched the toes of little children once they were fast asleep. She was sure she could hear him breathing and his talons scratching against the bare boards as he waited for her to doze off. She knew Mostro preferred his toes fresh and pink, so in an effort to ward him off Milli made sure hers were gritty and dirt-blackened before climbing into bed each night.
Remarkably, Milli had managed to banish the childhood fears that still haunt the dreams of you and me and had long since moved on to bigger and more horrible adult fears. But if you were to ask someone who knew her, they would tell you that Milli herself was rather fearsome. She had a hot temper, and when it flared up treading within fifty miles of her was treading on dangerous ground. When displeased, Milli was not the sort of girl to be content with causing rain or perhaps a little thunder; she was more likely to kick up a tempest. I am not in any way implying that Milli was a horrid or violent girl with dreadful rage problems. Perhaps the most accurate description of her was offered by one of her teachers, who had used the word ‘passionate’, although she did not intend it to be in any way complimentary.
Passionate children were considered little more than a nuisance in Drabville as they asked far too many questions and then questioned the answers they were given. Being passionate meant that when Milli got a bee in her bonnet even a snowstorm couldn’t shake it. Although small in stature, Milli could be formidable. As far as
a social life was concerned, she preferred her own company to that of tedious children and there was only one small boy in her desolate neighbourhood whose company she could tolerate and, sometimes, even enjoy. His equally unfortunate name was Ernest Perriclof.
As there wasn’t much exploring to be done in Drabville, Milli spent most of her free time longing to cross the Lurid Lagoon and explore the infamous Shreckal Caverns on the other side. But, as Ernest never failed to remind her (he could be a bit of a stickler for the rules), the lagoon and the caverns formed part of the Taboo Territories and access was strictly forbidden. What was more, rumour had it that strange creatures haunted the Shreckal Caverns—faceless creatures with talons sharper than butchers’ knives—and not a soul had ever ventured within ten miles of the place. Even dreaming of going there was considered a portent of misfortune. But you shall hear more about the Shreckal Caverns and its strange inhabitants later on, for now I must get back to the story.
We all know that adventures are never found when we go looking for them, and look for them was precisely what Milli did almost every day. She hadn’t always been a trouble maker. She vaguely remembered a time when she was content to sit quietly with her needlework and obey the rules without fuss. But that memory was fading fast, for soon after her tenth birthday an inexplicable rebellion had overtaken her and she had begun to see everything in a different light. It was a little like being reunited with another self who had been on a long sabbatical and filled Milli with an energy that was not easily contained. Unsettling though it was, it also presented her with innumerable ideas and possibilities she had never before considered. Now she searched for trouble and was constantly on the alert for anything that might be slightly out of the ordinary. But on this particular afternoon, Milli did not go in search of an adventure, and so it was that an adventure found its way to her.