Though he has his own home in Apple Island, like
every other respectful and respectable member of the fay community, Michael
usually lives in a tree house he has in Minced Forest. It’s not very big, but
it has a certain charm to it. It was to this place that he retired after the
outing. Very stressed from having looked after us all day, he went straight to
bed.
Just before he could begin to snore, something
crashed through one of the gnarled holes that served as windows. Too tired to
get up, Michael decided to ignore whatever it was until morning. “I hope it
won’t eat me,” he mumbled, half asleep.
When he got up in the morning, he had forgotten
about this incident. After all, he was going to be very busy that day.
Michael spent most of the summer celebrating
his birthday, which was on the twenty-seventh of July. He gave several parties
throughout the season to this end and it was the turn of the Leafies that dwelt
among the leaves that grew on the branches of his tree house to be entertained
by him. They were invited to a birthday dinner that night.
As he began to clean and ready his place in preparation
for this event, he hoped he would find in some corner an object that had gone
missing. It was not a shoe, nor the owner of a gold coin, nor anything he
usually searched for. It was his well-worn copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology.
This plump, little dark-green book with golden
apples on a corner of its cover had grown a pair of lovely sky-blue wings.
Since it had, it would fly away now and again on business of its own, but it
always returned after a couple of days at most to its place of honour in
Michael’s bookcase. This last time, however, it was taking far longer than
usual to reappear.
“It wasn’t at my house in Apple Island,”
mused Michael. “I’m certain I didn’t
lend it to anyone lately. I’m thinking, should I be worried?”
He loved this book over others and always
celebrated Mr. Bulfinch’s birthday, which is on the fifteenth of June.That
was when he had noticed the book was missing. He, the book, and Nauta always
toasted its author together with bubbly on that occasion.Yes, the book had
grown a mouth too. And very large, slightly shortsighted, tender eyes. Where it
put the champagne without wetting its pages remains a mystery.
While he was sweeping the floor behind the
sofa, he found something odd
there. Wrapped in a piece of crumpled paper was
a red brick.
“What on earth can this be?” wondered Michael.
And then he remembered the noise he’d heard the night before.
There was something written on the inner side
of the paper the brick was wrapped in.
“Your blog is audacious, incisive and a genuine
breakthrough,” read Michael.
Now Michael had started a blog for the
instruction and amusement of his two pupils. But...
“Why would anyone throw a brick through my
window to say they like my blog?” thought Michael. “Anyone who reads blogs
surely knows how to post a comment through the section meant for that.The note
can’t be the reason for the brick and may not have been meant for me at all.
But why was the brick meant for me? If it was.”
Wondering didn’t help and he had too much to do
to keep wondering, so he took the brick outside and put it away neatly under a
bush in the little garden that surrounded his treehouse. It would be alright
there until he should ever want to use it.
“I’ll ask the
Leafies later if they noticed anything strange last night. They might know
who’s responsible for this.
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