Eddy Stone and the Epic Holiday Mash-Up Read online

  “I mean, stop breathing for a minute,” said Eddy. “I think I can hear something.”

  They held their breath, and listened. It was faint, it was indistinct, but somewhere up ahead there was a definite rustling.

  “The lad’s right,” said the Captain. “I don’t know what’s making that sound, but it could be part of the challenge that Grungeybeard has set. So let’s be careful.” Slowly and cautiously, they pushed on. Just a little further ahead, the bamboo suddenly cleared. The Codcakers found themselves looking out over a wide, open space, as big as a football pitch. On its far side lay the end point of the pointy end of the island, a narrow, flat shoreline of brown pebbles. Above it towered a whopping great tree.

  “The Poet Tree,” said the Captain. “Let’s get over there and see what’s what.”

  The wide space in front of them was open, but it wasn’t empty. It was covered in books – thousands and thousands of them, lying on their backs, their pages fanned out in the sun.

  The Captain led the way, tiptoeing carefully through the books to avoid stepping on them. The noise that Eddy had heard was louder now. It was the sound of the breeze wafting their pages up and down, a gentle swoosh multiplied a million times over.

  “It sounds almost like they are breathing,” whispered Eddy.

  “As if they were asleep,” added the Crew.

  “By the way,” asked the Penguin, “WHY ARE WE WHISPERING?”

  The Penguin’s loud voice had a sudden and dramatic effect. The books that lay near his feet started to shake and shiver, their pages flapping wildly.

  “They’re taking off!” said Eddy. “Look – there – and there!”

  Wherever he looked, books were quivering and wriggling and launching themselves into the air like a flock of clumsy birds. They swirled and flailed around the Codcakers, whacking into heads and shoulders.

  One book hovered in front of Eddy’s eyes, open at its first chapter. And then there was a voice. A rather old-fashioned voice. A rather loud voice, speaking the words that Eddy could see printed on the page.

  “One bright sunny morning, Gerald the Pixie threw open the shutters on his front window, and looked out over Daffodil Dell…”

  And another voice in his right ear…

  “Please, Daddy! Sybil has a pony of her own. And Ethel, too. And simply everybody in the Lower Fourth except me…”

  And another right behind him…

  “‘Mary, give everyone a big glass of squash,’ Victor exclaimed commandingly. ‘It’s a hot day and the Superior Six are going to need cool heads, because I bet there’s a great big mystery just around the corner.’”

  In a moment, the handful of voices became a hundred, the hundred became a thousand, and the thousand became a great wave of noise that almost lifted Eddy off his feet. His head was spinning. He couldn’t think straight. He took a deep breath and shouted “QUIET!!!!” with all the force in his lungs. But he couldn’t even hear his own voice in the terrible din.

  Then the pain began – as if a metal spike had been driven through each of his ears. And someone was drumming on the ends of the spikes with sledgehammers, banging them together inside his skull. His head felt like it was going to explode.

  He had to make it stop. But the pain had driven all the ideas out of his brain. He didn’t know what to do. He peered through the storm of flying books to try to see his shipmates. Perhaps one of them had come up with a solution.

  The Captain was on his hands and knees, scrabbling in the sandy soil, digging a hole to bury his own head. The Penguin was standing completely rigid, his eyes staring blankly into space. The Crew had emptied a great pile of things that might just come in handy out of her rucksack, and had managed to stuff most of herself inside it instead. They weren’t coming to the rescue.

  Eddy’s bones were shaking. The pain in his head was the worst he had ever felt, and it was getting stronger by the minute. He felt sick and dizzy. He was going to pass out. And if that happened, he doubted that he would ever wake up again. He had to do something.

  But what?

  Eddy scrabbled at the laces on his baseball boots and yanked them off. Then he tugged his socks from his feet, balled them up and held them as tightly as he could over his ears.

  That shut out some of the terrible noise. It was still horrible, but it was better – in the same way that having an agonizing toothache is better than having two agonizing teethaches.

  Ducking low to try to avoid the storm of flying books, he headed to the heap of things that the Crew had taken out of her big red rucksack. What would make thousands and thousands of books shut up? And then he had an idea. It might be a really useless idea – his head was in such a state that he just couldn’t tell any more.

  He hunted through and found what he wanted – a big, fat marker pen and large piece of stiff white cardboard. He had to let go of the socks he was pressing to his ears, which made it even harder to think what he was doing. But he managed to scribble the word Silence on the board. And he spotted a megaphone lying nearby – that would be helpful.

  He stood up. Books battered and clattered into him, but he raised the board above his head with one hand, put the megaphone to his lips with the other, and bellowed: “This is not a zoo, it is a LIBRARY!!” Just like when Horrible Horrocks the scary school librarian shouted at his class during Quiet Reading.

  The nearest books stopped talking immediately. Eddy heard the whisper “Library!” travel from book to book. He turned slowly round, holding the board. Silence flowed thickly across the field like a puddle of careless soup.

  The great roar dwindled to a growl, then to a distant purr. And then all was hush.

  The Captain pulled his head out of the hole he had dug in the sand, and sat up, spluttering. The Crew clambered out of the rucksack, and started to tidy away all her things. The Penguin tugged a sardine from each ear and swallowed them thoughtfully.

  “Blimey,” he said. “I’ve heard of books being called volumes, but that was ridiculous.”

  The books had quietened down, but they were still flapping about.

  “Which of you was the very first book to speak?” asked Eddy. A small blue book fluttered over to him.

  “Not a word from the rest of you,” said Eddy. “What was all that noise about?”

  “I just want to tell my story,” said the book, sounding sad.

  A ripple of murmurs ran round the clearing.

  “Me too.”

  “We all do.”

  “And what is your story?” asked Eddy.

  “Ahem,” said the book. “Gerald the Pixie Paints His Shed. Chapter One. One bright sunny morning, Gerald the Pixie threw open the shutters…”

  “No,” said Eddy. “Not every word. What happens?”

  “Gerald paints his shed blue – his favourite colour. Then some naughty gnomes play a trick on him in the middle of the night and paint it red. When Gerald wakes up and sees it he decides that red is a very nice colour too.”

  “I see,” said Eddy. “And then?”

  “What do you mean ‘and then’?” said the book. “The end. Page thirty-two. Look out for lots more lovely stories about Gerald.”

  “That’s the whole story?” said Eddy. “I don’t want to be rude, but it’s a bit boring, isn’t it?”

  “Boring?” huffed the book. “Children loved Gerald. He has shoes with bells on the end that go jingle jangle and he sings his jolly jingly jangly shoe song. He was a big favourite. There are another 126 Gerald the Pixie books. Nice stories for nice children. Gerald The Pixie Meets A Rabbit. Gerald The Pixie Has An Afternoon Nap. Gerald The Pixie Tries Toast. How is that boring?”

  “Well…” began Eddy, trying to work out how he could answer without hurting the book’s feelings.

  “And no one has read me since 1953,” the book sniffled. “It’s the same for all of us. No one has opened us for years. No one wants us any more.” And it began to sob.

  “I’m sorry,” said Eddy. “That’s not fair. It’s
not your fault that you are old-fashioned and dull.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t force people to read what they don’t want to,” said the Crew.

  “They do at school,” said Eddy.

  “That’s different,” said the Crew.

  “Why?” said Eddy. “Is my geography textbook any less dull than, say –” he picked up a nearby book and read its title – “Tilly’s New Tutu? …Okay, bad example.”

  “And what is wrong with Tilly’s New Tutu,” sniffled Gerald The Pixie Paints His Shed.

  “It sounds wet,” said Eddy. “What’s it about?”

  “How should I know?” asked Gerald The Pixie Paints His Shed.

  “Hang on,” said Eddy. “Do any of you books know each other’s stories?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Gerald The Pixie Paints His Shed.

  “And you all want someone to tell your stories to. So why don’t you split up into little groups and take turns telling them to each other? And when you’ve finished, you can all swap round and do it again. Nice and quietly.”

  “I don’t know,” said Gerald The Pixie Paints His Shed. “Why don’t we do that?”

  Not one of the other books knew, either. So that’s what they did. By the time Eddy had laced up his baseball boots again, all the books had arranged themselves in little circles, and the first of them had begun to tell their stories, nicely and quietly. A sound like ten thousand bees gently buzzing hung over the clearing, as the Codcakers headed towards the Poet Tree.

  The whopping great tree was an even bigger whopper than it had looked from a distance. But as Eddy picked his way through the books that sat round its trunk, he could see that it wasn’t looking well. Limp grey leaves hung from its drooping branches.

  “The map told us to wake a tree with a thousand ends,” the Captain said to Eddy. “And you reckoned that meant the ends of twigs. Well, this one has got at least a thousand of those. Besides which it’s the only tree on the island. So what do you think we should do next?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Eddy. “How on earth do you wake a tree?”

  “Come on, you great leafy lump,” the Penguin shouted up at the tree. “Stir yourself!”

  “That doesn’t seem to be doing any good,” said the Crew. “And I think we’ve had quite enough loud noise for today, don’t you?”

  “Maybe there are some instructions for waking it somewhere,” said Eddy. “Let’s have a look round the trunk.”

  He stepped to his left, by a circle of books.

  “…and they all lived happily ever after,” came the voice of a tiny volume. “The End.”

  The End.

  Awake the tree with a thousand ends.

  “Captain,” said Eddy. “I think I misunderstood what the map told us. I think it means that a thousand ends will wake the tree. The ends of stories. And all these books together should get through a thousand tales in no time. All we have to do is wait.”

  “Brilliant!” said the Captain. “As long as you turn out to be right, of course. If you turn out to be wrong, then it’s completely daft. But I haven’t got a better idea, so let’s just wait and see. And while we’re waiting… Crew! Pinwing! Keep an eye on this tree. Eddy, I am going to teach you something special. Something that you’ll need to learn if you wants to be a proper pirate.”

  “Sound great,” said Eddy. “What is it?”

  “It’s a game,” said the Captain. “A game known and loved by every man who ever sought his fortune on the Seven Seas. A game of skill and nerve, of deep thinking and quick wits. And that game is called How Many Monkeys Have I Got In My Pocket?”

  “Right!” said Eddy. “What are the rules?”

  “The best way to learn is by having a go,” said the Captain. “Now, you have to say to me – ‘How many monkeys have I got in my pocket?’”

  “Okay,” said Eddy. “How many monkeys have I got in my pocket?”

  The Captain stared into his eyes. Eddy stared back. The Captain raised his eyebrow, pursed his lips, furrowed his forehead and flared his nostrils. He thought for a moment, then said, “I think you have got two monkeys in your pocket. And now you tell me if I’m right.”

  “No,” said Eddy. “You’re wrong, I’m afraid. I haven’t got any monkeys in my pocket.”

  “Mmmm,” said the Captain. “I was close, though. Only two out. So. How many monkeys have I got in my pocket?”

  Eddy looked at the Captain. Where could he have got a monkey from? And if he did have a monkey, wouldn’t it be wriggling and chattering? At the very least, a pocket with a monkey in it would be bulging and lumpy, and the Captain’s coat pockets hung flat and limp.

  “I think you have got no monkeys in your pocket,” he said.

  “You’re right,” said the Captain. “Let’s call that one a warm-up. Now for round one. How many monkeys have I got in my—”

  “The tree!” the Crew interrupted. “Eddy was right!”

  Book after book had reached the end of its story, and the tree had changed. Leaves that had hung limp and grey were now lush with green life. Branches that had drooped now pointed proudly to the sky.

  “Looks like it’s woken up,” said the Captain.

  “What are you going to do now, then?” said the Penguin.

  “Who said that?” said the Captain.

  “Me, obviously,” said the Penguin. “If you look closely, you can see my beak moving.”

  “No,” said the Captain. “The other voice. Listen, there it is again. I distinctly heard it say ‘Come closer’.”

  “I can’t hear anything,” said Eddy.

  “Nor me,” said the Crew.

  “Clear as eight bells,” said the Captain. “And if I’m the only one who can hear the voice, I reckons that must be because I’m the only one the voice is talking to.”

  “What did you tell us about hearing the trees talking back?” said the Penguin. “Are you going gibbering, blibbering, babbling bonkers?”

  “Quiet, Pinwing,” said the Captain. “It’s saying that to get a verse, I needs to tell the tree my most secret longings and desires, and it will turn them into poetry. I don’t know what it’s talking about. Secret longings, indeed.”

  “Everybody has secret longings,” said the Crew. “It’s the thoughts that come into your head when you’re watching a beautiful sunset. Or standing for hour after hour staring at your auntie’s terrible paintings and wishing that just one customer would come into your shop to buy something today. It’s the things you whisper when you are pacing the deck alone at night – the ones you share with the waves and the wind, because you wouldn’t tell them to a living soul.”

  “How do you know that I…?” the Captain began. “Right, you lot, keep your distance. If that’s what I’m going to do, I don’t want any of you trying to listen in.”

  The Captain pressed his face against the Poet Tree’s trunk and spoke quietly – too quietly for anyone else to hear. When he had finished, he took a couple of steps back from the tree.

  “What now?” said Eddy. “Is the tree saying anything?”

  “Not a word,” said the Captain. “I suppose we just have to wait.”

  They waited.

  Nothing happened.

  They waited some more.

  Nothing did it again.

  “If this is going to take a while,” said the Captain, “I reckon we’ve got some unfinished monkey matters to sort out.”

  But at that moment, a dove flew down from high in the tree and perched on a branch just above him. It was carrying a large leaf in its beak. It cocked its head to one side, offering the leaf to the Captain.

  The Captain reached forward and took it.

  “It’s got tiny words on it!” he exclaimed. “Well, not so much on it, like they were written in ink – more inside it, like they grew there.”

  “That must be your verse,” said the Crew. “It really is a Poet Tree. Please will you read it to us, Captain, dearie?”

  “They are my secret longings,
” said the Captain, “and they are going to stay my secret. We’ve got the poem that we were sent here for. What’s in it is my private business.” He carefully tucked the leaf up his sleeve.

  Its delivery completed, the dove launched itself from its perch and flew straight upwards. As it rose, it let out an enormous wet poo that splashed on the Captain’s hat and then splattered onto the ground.

  “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a mucky hat,” said the Captain. He went quietly to the shoreline, took his hat off and dipped it in the sea.

  The Scavenger suddenly appeared from behind the largest of the jagged rocks that rose out of the waves nearby.

  “I do love sneaking up on people,” Barracuda Bill shouted from The Scavenger’s deck. “It always makes me laugh when they jump like that. I saw your little ship anchored over there, and I thought you might be able to help me with a question. And that question is – have you seen a cow anywhere round here? WELL?”

  “A cow?” the Captain shouted back. “Not that I remember.”

  “If you do, make sure you tell me. Something is going on that I don’t know about and I do not like that one little bit. Come to that, what are you up to on this island?”

  “Just washing my hat,” the Captain answered.

  Bill snorted with laughter. Two dozen huge and hairy pirates who were on deck with him joined in.

  “Cleaning up, eh? Well, it’s a good day for little jobs.”

  “He doesn’t seem so bad, really,” the Crew whispered to Eddy.

  CRACK! Bill whipped a flintlock pistol from his belt and fired it into the air.

  “I’ll tell you when you can speak! Next time, I’ll take aim,” he snarled. “Funnily enough, we’re cleaning up, too. We’ve bailed out the bilges and swabbed down the decks, and now we’re going to put the rubbish out. Ready, lads?”

  “Aye, Skipper,” the hairy pirates replied.

  “Right – an extra tot of rum for anyone who hits the one with the mucky hat!”

  The pirates pulled catapults from their pockets and blunderbusses from their boots. A furious volley of fish heads and fish guts and one mouldy yellow sprout flew towards the Captain.