5, 80 and It (Inside Story 10)

INSIDE STORY 10

5, 80 AND IT

1

English homework! Maths homework! Boring! I threw down my pen. From the back corner of my wardrobe, I brought out my incorporator – like a small grey e-book reader. I set it so that the screen showed:

Title: Robinson Crusoe

Author: Daniel Defoe

Edition: 2000

Page: 117.

In the end of the incorporator were two buttons – Select and Go. I put my finger on Go. If I pressed that, the incorporator would take me to that place in that book.

Should I? No: I shouldn’t, really. ’Cause going to a story can spoil it. If Sherlock Holmes found out, he’d be furious. He might even take the incorporator from me.

But… it was a cold winter evening in Scotland. Behind my bedroom curtains, the rain battered the window. Robinson Crusoe is the story of a man marooned on a tropical island. I really fancied visiting that island. It wouldn’t do any harm, and it should be safe. I’d done it once before, and nobody had known. Should I do it?

Another blast of rain hit the window. That settled it. I pressed Go.

2

In an instant, I was standing under the trees at the edge of a tropical forest, looking out over a huge empty beach of cream-coloured sand under a blue sky. The pale blue sea swished at the bottom of the beach. Parrots – green, with splashes of red, yellow and blue – fluttered and squawked in the trees. Nobody was in sight.

The incorporator had given me the usual gear for this story – jacket and knee-length breeches of a muddy brown colour. Shirt of a paler muddy brown colour. Heavy black shoes.

My first job was to set the incorporator:

Title: Inside Story

Author: Jam Rodger

Edition: 2015

Page: 1.

That was the ‘story’ that would take me to my desk in my room. I put the incorporator in the deep pocket of the breeches.

I didn’t go onto the beach. It should be safe: I’d chosen a place in the story when Robinson Crusoe went to another part of the island. But that beach was so big that I’d be seen for miles. I’d found a small beach between tree-covered headlands. I felt safer there.

I set off, through the edge of the trees. In ten minutes, I’d be on that beach. I’d paddle in the soft, warm water. I might even swim. Then I’d lie on the sand. That would be….

I stopped at a patch of wet sand. Because, crossing that sand was a line of footprints – of shoes. Not Robinson Crusoe’s: he wore home-made fur slippers which gave fuzzy prints. These ones had sharp edges.

They might’ve been made by my shoes – but, on my other visit, I’d gone round that patch of sand so that I wouldn’t leave footprints.

Somebody else had been here, not long ago. Somebody who shouldn’t be here.

I ought to report to Sherlock Holmes so that he could investigate. But then I’d have to admit I’d been to Robinson Crusoe without permission. I persuaded myself to have a quick look round.

I went round the patch of sand and crept on, even more carefully. My left hand was in my pocket, holding the incorporator with my finger on Go. But everything seemed quiet: only the parrots disturbed the peace of the island.

I sneaked on until I could peep round a bush at my beach. It looked the same as usual – the pale sand sloping gently down to the blue water, with the bright green forest on each side. But, lying on the sand, about where I would’ve gone, was a woman.

3

The woman was lying on her front with her forehead on her arms, and her eyes shut. She had white skin and long black hair – and no clothes. They were in an untidy heap on the sand beside her.

She was probably doing the same as me – taking a break in the sun – but the footprints showed she didn’t care if she spoiled this story.

I daren’t stay. I could decide what to do when I got home. I pressed Go.

4

Next moment, I was sitting at my desk in my bedroom. And Sherlock Holmes was lying on my bed. His eyes were shut, but he must’ve heard me: he opened them and sat up quickly, looking angry.

James! he said. You have used your incorporator without permission.

That was obvious. He’s the one who tells me when to use my incorporator, and I couldn’t’ve appeared at my desk without using it. I said, Yes, but….

Don’t you know that you are forbidden to use the incorporator without permission?

Yes, but….

This is a serious matter. You are a Guardian. It is your job to protect stories. That is why you were given that incorporator. You should know that any unauthorised visit may spoil a story. Where have you been?

"Robinson Crusoe. I just…."

"Robinson Crusoe! I might have guessed. I came here to send you to that story because we detected an unauthorised visit there. And I find that you are the offender."

No! I’m trying to tell you. I saw a woman there.

A woman! Are you sure?

Yeah. I… I went to a quiet beach so as not to spoil the story. And… and a woman was sunbathing there.

Who was she?

I don’t know. She looked quite young, with long black hair.

Did she see you?

No. As soon as I saw her, I came back here.

Hmm. He glared at me for a while, then said, I must tell Professor X. (Professor X invented the incorporators.)

After glaring at me a bit more, he said, "I shall consult Professor X, and I have no doubt that he will ask me to remove your incorporator. In the meantime, you must not use it for any reason whatsoever. Do you understand?"

Y…yes.

Giving me a final glare, he used his own incorporator and vanished.

I leaned on my desk with my head in my hands. My job as a Guardian was sky-high. I loved going to stories and meeting the people there. Oh, sometimes I got in trouble. That wasn’t so much fun, but I’d always squeezed out of it, and it was worth the risk.

Sherlock Holmes was such a tyrant. So fussy. Following every little rule. I hadn’t done any harm by having a quick trip to Robinson Crusoe. All right: I knew I shouldn’t do it. I’d broken the rules, and he’d caught me. But he might’ve let me off with a warning instead of threatening to take away my incorporator. Without it, my ordinary life – home and school – would be dull. Grey, compared with the bright colours of the stories.

I wasn’t crying but I was in the depths of my misery when a quiet cough came from behind me. I whirled round. Two girls were sitting on my bed, and two boys were standing beside it.

5

The children looked like they came from a story of about 1900. The boys had thick suits with short breeches, long stockings and heavy black shoes. The girls had wide dresses. That meant it wasn’t an incorporator that had brought them to my room: it would’ve given them modern gear.

I relaxed a bit because they didn’t seem dangerous. In fact, they seemed even more worried than me. I asked, Who are you?

They all started talking at the same time then, looking embarrassed, they all stopped. I said, Let’s start again. My name’s James, but my friends call me Jam. I pointed to the big boy, who looked a bit older than me, maybe fourteen. Who are you?

I’m Cyril.

You? The older girl, maybe thirteen.

I’m Anthea. How do you do, er… Jam.

Hi, Anthea. You? The younger girl, who looked about ten.

I’m Jane. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.

Thanks. And you? The other boy, probably about the same age as me.

Robert. Hello, Jam.

Hi, Robert, I said. How d’you get here?

That was a mistake: they all started talking again. I shushed them and pointed to Cyril. Would you tell me?

It’s a long story. We didn’t expect to come to a place like this and meet a boy.

What did you expect?

I don’t know. We wished….

You see, Jam. Anthea interrupted him. We wished to meet someone who could help us, and… and we found ourselves here.

Robert said, We found a psammead. It….

A what?

Psammead, answered Jane. It’s confusing. It’s spelled P-S-A-M-M-E-A-D, but it sounds like sammy-add. It’s a sand-fairy.

A what?

A sand-fairy. It grants us one wish a day.

And it’s a bit of a brute, said Robert. All our wishes seem to go wrong.

Except this one, of course,