Opening Night
by Catherine Chidgey

The school play was only three days away when it happened.  Mr 
Harwick, the principal, came into Ms Forrest's class with the news.
"I'm afraid there's been an accident," he said.  "Annabel Broman 
has fallen off her mountain bike and broken her leg."  
"Annabel!" gasped everyone.
Mr Harwick looked at the class.  "She wasn't riding very sensibly 
at the time," he said.  "I hope this is a lesson to you all.  Mountain 
bikes are not toys."
"But who'll be the princess in the fund-raising play?" demanded Ms 
Forrest, throwing up her arms dramatically.
"I'm sure you'll be able to find a replacement," said Mr Harwick.  
"You'll have to.  We've already sold the tickets."  He smoothed his 
hair over his bald spot and left the room.
Ms Forrest scanned the class, looking for princesses.  
"Rosa," she said.  "What about you?"
Rosa shook her head and hid behind a book.
"She's too shy," said Hung.  "She won't even answer the phone at 
her house."
"How do you know?" asked Tony.  "Do you ring her all the time or 
something?"
"That's enough!" cried Ms Forrest.  She flung her long silk scarf 
over one shoulder and tried again.  "Te Koingo, you would make an 
excellent princess.  You were so good as the dolphin in last year's 
play.  All those noises – very convincing."
"But I'm doing the curtains," said Te Koingo.  "You can't have a 
play if nobody pulls back the curtains."
"Hmm," said Ms Forrest.  "That's true, I suppose."  She pointed to 
the back of the class.  "Rebecca," she coaxed, "what about you?"
Rebecca looked up confidently.  "I'd really like to, Ms Forrest …"
Ms Forrest clapped her hands together loudly.  "Wonderful!  I'll 
photocopy your lines straight away so …"
But Rebecca hadn't finished.  "The problem is," she continued, "I'm 
having my braces tightened tomorrow, and that always makes my 
mouth hurt for a couple of days.  I don't think I'll be able to talk 
properly by Friday night." 
"I see," said Ms Forrest sharply.  "Malia?  Perhaps you'd like to be 
the princess?'
"I'm going to Australia tomorrow for my brother's wedding," said 
Malia.
"Lovely," said Ms Forrest through gritted teeth.
"I'm being a bridesmaid."  
"Well, now, isn't that nice."  Ms Forrest's face went a deep pink.  
"Kerry, how about you?  Wouldn't you like to be the princess?"
"I like the part I've got," said Kerry.  "My costume's really cool." 
"But we don't actually need a tree in the play," said Ms Forrest.  
"We can make do with a cardboard one, and that will free you to be 
the princess."
Kerry opened her eyes wide.  "But, Ms Forrest, you told me right 
after the auditions that the tree is one of the most important parts in 
the whole play.  Besides, I've already learned my lines by heart."  
Kerry stood up and waved her arms above her head.  "Whoosh, 
whoosh.  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!'"
"Yes, Kerry, thank you," said Ms Forrest.  "I see what you mean.  
You can sit down now." 
Ms Forrest looked desperate.
"David?" she asked hopefully.  "I don't suppose you'd like to …"
Everyone started laughing.
"No," said David.  "I'm not going to be the princess."
Ms Forrest let out the deep breath she was holding.
"All right, then," she said.  "There's only one thing for it.  The 
play must go on, and I know exactly who is going to play the part of 
the princess." 
She strode towards the door and opened it.  Then she looked back 
over her shoulder.  "Take out your newspaper folders – and no talking 
while I'm out of the room!" 

On opening night, the school hall was filled with parents and 
students. Just before the play was due to start, Annabel Broman's 
father steered her into the hall in her wheelchair.  Her plaster cast 
stuck out too far for her to go behind a seat, so he parked her in the 
aisle.  
"Excuse me," said Ms Forrest sharply as she swept past on her way 
to the front of the hall. 
The lights in the hall dimmed.  A bright beam focused on Ms 
Forrest standing in front of the stage curtains.
"Welcome to Parkvale School's annual fund-raising play," she said 
when the whispering had died down.  "Tonight we are delighted to 
perform for you the enchanting fairy tale The Princess and the Pea.  
We've been rehearsing hard for the last six weeks, and I'm happy to 
say that everything has come together wonderfully."  She paused and 
glanced down the aisle to where Annabel Broman's plaster cast glowed 
in the darkened hall.  "As some of you may know, Annabel Broman 
was to have played the part of the princess.  Unfortunately, Annabel 
broke her leg this week, and only at the last minute have we managed 
to find someone to replace her."  She paused again.  She stared at the 
ceiling and then at the floor.  She cleared her throat.  She looked 
very uncomfortable.  "So," she said, a little too brightly, "without 
further ado, let's begin!"  She hurried off-stage.
A moment later, the curtains parted, the princess made her entry – 
and the audience erupted into laughter.  In the wings, Ms Forrest 
groaned and collapsed into a chair. 
"It's all right," consoled the cast.  "They're only laughing."
"But it's not a humorous scene!" wailed Ms Forrest.  She pulled 
back the curtain and peered out at the stage.  Mr Harwick, wearing a 
long blond wig, a gold crown, and a pink lace dress, was looking 
awkwardly out at the audience.
"I told him to shave his beard," groaned Ms Forrest.  "He just 
wouldn't listen."

The Case of the Forbidden Fruit
by Margaret Schroder

Inspector Edwards was going to visit his brother, Dave, in 
hospital.  Dave had had an unfortunate argument with a tall 
ladder, and his leg was broken in several places.
In the Edwards' kitchen, Mrs Edwards was preparing a basket 
of fresh fruit for Dave.  She filled the bottom of the basket with 
apples and sweet mandarins.  On top, she arranged kiwifruit and 
bananas.  Lastly, she added a large bunch of purple grapes.  All 
she needed now was the card.  The last place she'd seen it was 
on the desk in the study.  
Inspector Edwards was sitting at the study desk staring at 
some case notes when Mrs Edwards entered the room.  "Have you 
seen Dave's card, John?" she asked quietly.
"I think it's in here," said the inspector.  He opened a drawer 
and handed over the card and envelope.  
"Hmm," said Mrs Edwards, studying the card.  "All the 
children have added their messages except Melanie.  I'll just pop 
up to her room.  What time are you leaving for the hospital?"
Inspector Edwards consulted his watch.  "As soon as that 
basket of fruit is ready," he said.  
He returned to his work, but about ten minutes later, his 
train of thought was broken by Mrs Edwards calling from the 
kitchen.  When he found her, she was pointing angrily at the 
basket of fruit on the middle of the table.  An ugly, half-eaten 
bunch of grapes lay on top.
"Look at this!" said Mrs Edwards.  "We can't possibly give 
Dave a half-eaten bunch of grapes.  I'll bet Jason is to blame.  
He's always helping himself to food without asking."
"It could have been any one of the children," reasoned the 
inspector.  "Would you like me to find out who ate the grapes?"
"I certainly would," said Mrs Edwards, removing the 
offending grape stalks with a pair of scissors.
Inspector Edwards called his four children into the study.  
"All right," he announced when they were assembled, "I'm going 
to ask you this just one time.  Who helped themselves to the 
basket of fruit for Uncle Dave?"
When no one replied, Inspector Edwards drew a patient 
breath.  He reached for his notebook and pen.  "Let's start with 
you, Rebecca," he said.  "What have you been doing for the past 
ten minutes?"
"I've been tidying up my Barbie house," answered Rebecca.  
"I've been doing it for over an hour.  You know how messy it was 
after Amanda's visit."
Inspector Edwards made a note in his book.  "I'll take your 
word for it at the moment," he said.  "Jason?"
"I haven't been near any basket of fruit," replied Jason.  "I've 
been looking for my stamp album.  I asked you yesterday if you'd 
seen it."  He held up a red book.  "See, I found it."
The inspector made another note before looking at his elder 
daughter.
"Let's hear your story, Melanie," he said.
"It can't have been me, Dad.  I've been practising my violin 
for the last twenty minutes.  You must have heard me.  Anyway, 
Mum came in a little while ago with Uncle Dave's card.  She can 
vouch for my whereabouts."
"So she can," confirmed the inspector.  "That leaves you, 
Peter."
"I didn't eat the grapes, Dad.  I've been out in the garage 
repairing a puncture in my bike tyre.  The tyre's fixed and 
pumped up again.  You can check if you like."
"No need," said Inspector Edwards.  He snapped his notebook 
shut.  "I know which one of you is the culprit, and I want you to 
go to the kitchen and apologise to your mother – now!" 

Who was it who went to the kitchen to apologise?  The answer is 
on page XX.


Answer to "whodunnit" (pages XX–XX):
It was Peter.  Inspector Edwards had not mentioned which fruit 
was eaten, but Peter knew it was the grapes.

Weapons of Mass Description
by Anna Kenna

The tall, thin, bushy-haired doctor pursed his rubbery lips and shook his head.  "I've 
examined your son, Mrs Adams," he said, "and I'm afraid this is one of the most serious 
cases I've seen." 
My short, blond, green-eyed mother started to blub.  The doctor passed her a soft, 
pastel-pink tissue from an oblong, floral box on his large, brown, shiny wooden desk.
I wished I could stop this crazy word stuff.  It had all started as a game.  I didn't 
know that it would get so out of control, that I'd end up having to fly miles to see this 
weird doctor about the problem.
It was our fair-haired, blue-eyed, balding teacher's fault.  We'd been learning about 
adjectives – you know, what they call describing words.  Mr Fowles said that for the 
rest of the day we should practise using them and see how many we could come up with.  
Well, it got to be a bit of a competition between me and Shane.  First I go, "Hey, short, 
curly-haired, skinny Màori friend.  Can I borrow your new, green, torpedo-shaped 
rubber?"
"Sure, lanky, blond, straight-haired Pàkehà mate," said Shane.  "If I can use your 
scratched, white, plastic metric ruler." 
We laughed our heads off.  We thought we were so clever.  Things kind of took off 
from there, and we ended up carrying on at lunchtime.  I asked Shane what was in his 
lunch box.
"A soft, white-bread, crustless marmite sandwich, a shiny, red, medium-sized apple, 
and a brown, sweet, oaty, home-made biscuit.  What's in yours?" 
Shane was good!  I peered into my paper bag – I'd lost three lunch boxes, and Mum 
had said she wasn't going to buy me another one.  "I've got a strawberry yoghurt in a 
red and white pot, a white-bread, sesame-topped roll with crisp, green lettuce, and 
Mum's special creamy mayonnaise."  I checked under the roll.  "And a broken milk-
chocolate biscuit." 
It turned out even-stevens.  We'd both used the same number of adjectives.  But I was 
determined to beat Shane.
I got my chance later in our Màori class when Mrs Pene asked me to describe the 
Treaty of Waitangi.  I couldn't help myself.  I winked at Shane.
"Well, Mrs Pene, it's a very important, historic piece of fragile, stiff, yellowish 
paper that heaps of cloaked, tattooed Màori signed as well as Her Majesty Queen 
Victoria, the plumpish, rich, regal queen of England, over how the green, lush, native 
lands of New Zealand were going to be ruled."
Everybody clapped.  Mrs Pene's eyes were sort of crossed.  She shook her head and 
turned another page of her notes.
By home time, Shane and I had had enough of all this adjectiving.  But that's when 
the trouble started.  We couldn't stop.  I first noticed it at the shop when Shane was 
buying some lollies.  I heard him say:  "I'll have some of those chewy, creamy white, 
milk-bottle-shaped ones and some red, dimply, hard-to-bite, raspberry-flavoured ones in 
the slightly dirty, left-hand metal tray."
"Cut it out, Shane!" I said.  "I've had enough of that stuff."  
He looked at me blankly.  Then, when I got home, Mum asked how school was.  I felt 
this lurch in my brain, and I said:  "Oh, fun, a bit boring, hot, good, long, interesting, 
tiring …"  
Mum looked at me as though I was really weird.  I clamped my hand over my mouth 
and ran to my room.  I didn't talk for the rest of the evening.  When Mum and Dad 
asked why, I wrote a note saying that I was doing a sort of forty-hour famine, but it was 
with words instead of food.
The next morning when I woke up, I was just as bad.  When Mum asked me what I 
wanted for breakfast, I said:  "Some of those tiny, light-brown bubbles of puffed rice 
with full-cream cow's milk and a boomerang-shaped, ripe, yellow banana."
Mum kept me home from school for the rest of the week while she took me to see four 
doctors and a psychiatrist.  Finally, we heard about someone who might be able to help 
– which is how we ended up here, in the Auckland office of Dr André Charles 
Wordsmitz, Specialist in Linguistic Addictions and other Grammatical Diseases.
"He's already showing signs of tongue strain, and his vocal chords are totally stressed 
out," said Doctor Wordsmitz, shining down my throat a bright light on the end of a 
long, slim, black, plastic tube.  He whizzed across to a shelf and came back with this 
giant rubber brain with black lines and writing on it.  I felt sick.
Doctor Wordsmitz explained that brains contain little drawers full of words like 
nouns, verbs, and adjectives.  "When we talk," he said, "these drawers open and shut as 
we choose the words we want.  But sometimes," he said, drop-kicking the rubber brain 
into the rubbish basket, "a drawer gets stuck wide open.  With this boy," he said, 
tapping me on the head, "it's the adjective drawer.  It's become jammed through 
overuse."
"Oh, dear," wailed Mum, helping herself to another tissue.  "What can we do?" 
"Well, I have to say, Madam," said Dr Wordsmitz, suddenly becoming very pompous, 
"He should never have been playing around with adjectives in the first place.  They are, 
after all, weapons of mass description, dangerous in the hands of children who don't 
respect them."  
As Mum sobbed that it was all Mr Fowles' fault and that she was going to insist our 
principal fire him, Dr Wordsmitz wrote down the treatment I was to follow.  When we 
got home, Mum passed it on to Shane's mother.
The worst part was that we weren't allowed to talk at all for three days.  Mum also 
had to take away the TV and all my books.  As well, I had to rinse my vocal chords four 
times a day with this foul purple stuff that made me want to throw up.
On day three, I was bored out of my brain and sitting at my desk making my forty-
eighth model aeroplane when I heard a strange noise outside.  I rushed to my window.  I 
was just in time to see a big denim backside disappearing through our neighbour's 
kitchen window.  Mum was in the garden, and I knew that if I shouted to her it would 
alert the burglar.  I rushed to the phone and dialled 111 – totally forgetting that I 
wasn't supposed to talk.
"Hurry," I said. "There's a burglar in our neighbour's house!"
The wail of the police siren must have startled the burglar because the next moment, I 
saw him shooting out of the Purvises' front door and down the street.  Two policemen 
leapt out of a squad car and tore after him.  
How they didn't catch the dude I don't know, but five minutes later they came back, 
puffing like mad. 
"He gave us the slip, sonny," said the older officer, wiping his forehead. "Thank 
goodness you saw him.  Can you describe him for us?"  
My heart was beating flat out.  My mind was whirring.  Mum came running over from 
the garden.
"He was … ah … um.  He was … ah …."  I tried to picture the burglar, but my mind 
was a total blank – zilch, zip, zero.  I looked at the policeman with his pencil poised 
over his notebook.  I really wanted to help, but just as I was about to open my mouth, I 
felt something in my brain slide shut.  
"It's no good," I said, shaking my head.  "I'm sorry, but I just can't describe him."  
Then I looked up at Mum and gave her this huge grin.  "I can't find one single adjective 
to describe the burglar," I told her.  "Isn't that fantastic?  Not one measly, peasly 
word!"

Parent Help?
by Anna Kenna

I wish, I wish, I wish I hadn't opened my big mouth and told 
Mum that I was lonely at school.  Dumb move!  That's why she 
decided to come with me.
I'd been feeling stink all week because I'd only just made my 
first friend at my new school, and suddenly she'd had to shift 
away to Auckland.  Mum caught me crying about it.  She hates it 
when I cry.
"My poor possum," she said as I snivelled into her 
sweatshirt, "this is awful.  What can we do?"  
That's when she came up with the terrible idea.
"Right," she said, leaping off the sofa.  "I'm coming with 
you.  Tomorrow.  I'll be your best mate until you find a new 
friend."
I thought she was joking.  I started to smile.  "But, Mum, 
you …"
"No, kitten," she said, "you don't have to thank me.  I want 
to do it."
Next thing, she pulled out her old tramping pack and started 
throwing stuff in:  a pad, pencils, Dad's calculator, her knitting, 
and her very best thing, a pendant carved out of a whale's 
jawbone.
"Have we got fitness tomorrow?" she asked, grabbing her 
aerobic shorts.  (They're highlighter-pen orange and really 
tight.)
"No!" I yelled.  "I mean, no – no, we haven't."
"Well, then, I think that's about everything," said Mum, 
doing up the straps on her pack.  "I'll pump up my bike tyres 
after tea.  This is going to be fun!"
Next morning, I said that I had a bad headache.  Mum said it 
was just because I was lonely at school.  "Now that you've got 
someone to hang out with," she smiled, "you'll soon be feeling 
heaps better."
I prayed that a tornado would flatten our house and that we'd 
have to miss school to go on the TV news.  No such luck.  Ten 
minutes later, I'm riding down the hill with my mother – my 
mother in a bright yellow skid-lid with "Save the Whales" and 
"Hands off Our Rainforest" stickers all over it.
Mrs Kelly raised her eyebrows as we walked into the 
classroom.  "Ah, Mrs Beale, I didn't have you down for parent 
help today."
I died.  Right there, in front of Michael Connors.
"No, no, I'm not here as parent help," said Mum, heaving off 
her pack.  "I'm here to keep Laura company.  Where shall I sit?"
At first, the other kids looked shocked.  Then they started to 
giggle.
"Stop that noise!" warned Mrs Kelly.  She gave Mum the 
spare desk down the back.
Mum was pretty quiet during language except that she told 
Mrs Kelly that she'd spelled "environment" wrong.  Mrs Kelly 
looked furious.  The whiteboard marker screeched as she rewrote 
the word.  I gave Mum my fiercest frown.  The kids were wetting 
themselves.
At morning interval, Mum got crabby about people dropping 
litter.  "You kids have no respect for the environment," she said.  
She made Marcus Anderson and Lawrence Getty pick up their 
empty chippie bags.  Then she grabbed my arm.  "We've still got 
ten minutes," she said.  "Let's go to the adventure playground."
Mostly, you have to line up for the flying fox, but when Mum 
arrived, kids scattered.  She jumped on and swung back and 
forth, whooping at the top of her voice.  I'm used to my mum; 
I've known her all my life.  But some of the kids were like, 
"Wow!  Is she for real?"
After break, we got to do some clay modelling.  Mum was 
very loud, telling everybody what to do.  Michael Connors got 
loud back, and Mrs Kelly sent him into the corridor to cool off.  
But she couldn't send a mother out, so she just glared at Mum.  
That was when Karla Jones came over to me.  
"Mums can be real pains," she whispered, giving me some of 
her spare clay.  She looked like she was really sorry for me.  
"Want to come and share my desk?" 
I was so relieved when lunchtime came, except that Mum 
used the staffroom microwave to reheat her pasta and had an 
argument with some girls who were swapping Spice Girl stickers.  
"Chill out, Mum!" I hissed.
"Sorry, dear," she said.  "I just happen to think that Ginger 
was the best."
After lunch, at news time, Nigel Lewis showed us a half-dead 
weta in a jar, Yang Hong said he had new Rollerblades, and 
Chloe Masters twiddled with her cardigan buttons and then sat 
down again.
Mum put up her hand and said that she had something to 
share.  She marched up to the front of the room, and I wished 
that I could be kidnapped by aliens. 
"Now," she said, taking out her whalebone pendant and 
sounding just like a teacher, "who knows what this is?" 
"It's a Màori necklace," said someone down the back.
"It's an ant's tooth," joked someone else.  
Everyone laughed.  I put my head down on my desk as Mum 
began talking, but after a while I noticed that everyone had gone 
quiet.  They were actually listening.  Mum told everyone heaps 
about whales.  She even said some stuff that I hadn't heard 
before.  When she said that some people still kill whales for food 
and to make lipstick and soap, everyone said that that wasn't 
fair.  I think Karla Jones was even crying.
Mum put on a tape after that.  It was of whales calling to one 
another under the water.  I crossed my fingers that she wouldn't 
tell everyone the story of how she used to press the tape recorder 
to her tummy and play the calls to me before I was born.  The 
tape finished just as the after-school bell went.  No one moved – 
well, not right away.
Later, as Mum was packing up, Mrs Kelly came over and 
asked if she could borrow the whale tape to play to the class 
again.  "I thought that your talk was very interesting, Mrs 
Beale," she said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Karla hanging around 
waiting for us.  On the way to the gate, she told us how last 
summer holidays she'd helped her dad save some whales that 
were stuck on a beach up north.
"We stayed with them all night," she said with a faraway 
look in her eyes.  For once, Mum didn't say anything, but I had 
an idea.
"Do you want to come over?" I asked.  "We've just got this 
cool computer game.  You get points for saving endangered 
animals."
"OK," said Karla.  "I'll just check in with Mum first."

At home that night, Dad asked Mum if she'd like to go to Taupo 
with him next day.  He said that he had some deliveries to do.  
Mum looked at me.
"Don't worry," I said quickly.  "I'll be cool as."
"Are you sure?" she asked.  "I don't mind coming to school 
with you again."
"Na, no sweat, Mum," I told her.  "Karla's calling in for me 
in the morning.  You go with Dad and enjoy yourself."  Please!

The Stowaway
by John Lockyer

The moment that Taylor stepped off the starship, two insectoids 
locked claws around three of her arms and pushed her into an 
open shuttle.  She frowned.  Insectoids were royal guards.  What 
could they want with her?
Transparent walls closed around them.  The shuttle jerked 
and then lifted off.  A moment later, it touched down outside the 
command post used for tracking starship arrivals and departures.  
Taylor had never been inside the tall, dark dome.  Few star 
commanders had.  It was top security.
The insectoids ushered her inside the building and down a 
long, dim corridor.  Then they disappeared, leaving her to wait 
alone.
Taylor sighed and rubbed her neck.  The voyage home had 
been long and tiring, and she wished that she could rest.  
Suddenly, the door in front of her swished open, and the emperor 
stood there, his one purple eye rolling in its socket.  
"You have returned," he said.  "This way, Commander.  
Follow me."  He ushered her into the next room and onto the 
command post's observation deck.  "Report your findings from 
Galaxy 101," he said, his body twitching and glowing blue.
"I navigated V sector of Galaxy 101, Emperor," said Taylor, 
saluting.  "I found lifeforms on one planet only – the third of 
nine orbiting a single star."
The emperor nodded.  "The inhabitants?"
"Many and varied, Emperor,  but the dominant species is 
mammal."
"Primitive or advanced?"
"There is technology, but it's not advanced."
"Does this world have a name?" 
Taylor nodded.  "I believe it's called Earth."
The emperor waited.
"I collected this," said Taylor, opening her back-pack and 
drawing out a long, cream-white object.  "It is a souvenir of the 
earth world."  
The emperor took the object and studied it.  "It is valuable 
to the Earthlings?" he asked.
Taylor nodded.  "I believe so.  I landed my ship on a bare, 
sandy plain, in the shadow of some ruins.  The atmosphere was 
hot and dry.  The Earthlings were in a large group."  She pointed 
to the object.  "They were digging for these, and whenever one 
was discovered, there was great excitement."
The emperor glanced out the window of the observation deck 
to where two red moons were rising in the west.  A starship was 
circling, preparing to land.   "You didn't communicate with these 
– beings?" he asked.
Taylor knew that she was being tested.  "No, Emperor," she 
said.  "Mission procedure six states:  'No unnecessary contact 
with aliens.'  I followed instructions and was very careful not to 
be seen collecting the object ."
The emperor sighed.  "But not careful enough, Commander.  
One of the Earthlings did see you.  It followed you back to your 
ship."
Taylor gasped.
"You returned with a stowaway, Commander.  The command 
post sensors identified it when you landed."
Taylor shook her head.  "I don't see how …  I checked …"
But the emperor wasn't listening.  "Come," he said, shuffling 
toward a transportation beam.  "The Earthling is waiting – and 
fortunately it appears quite friendly."
The transportation beam deposited Taylor and the emperor in 
a laboratory, where a waiting flock of scientists escorted them 
toward a tall, transparent cubicle.  The emperor peered inside at 
the unusual alien, sitting restlessly on a red, velvet rug.  
"Well, Commander?" he asked.
Taylor nodded.  "It is one of the Earthlings that I saw 
digging in the sand, Emperor."
The emperor took a step forward, bowed slightly, and then 
saluted the alien with all of his hands. "Welcome, Earthling," he 
said very formally. 
The Earthling jumped to its feet and began pacing around the 
cubicle.
"Astonishing," whispered one of the scientists.  "It seems to 
be responding to the emperor.  I believe that it recognises him as 
our leader."
But Taylor had noticed something else.  "It sees the souvenir 
that you're holding, Emperor!" she said excitedly.  "I think it's 
that's what it recognises."
The emperor waved the object – and the Earthling jumped 
against the invisible wall.
"Woof" it said, wagging its tail as it eyed the knobbly bone 
that the emperor was holding.  "Woof!"

Mad Dog Pearse and the Aerial Machine
by Murray Reece

Officially, America's Wright brothers are the first people to have flown 
in a plane.  But in 1969, film-maker Murray Reece filmed an interview 
with a witness who claimed to have seen New Zealander Richard Pearse 
of Southland fly before the Wright brothers.  Inspired by this interview, 
Murray later wrote the following fictional story.

I first heard about it from my friend Harold Monks on the way to school.  
"Guess what?" he asked.  "Mr Pearse tried to fly yesterday.  Jessie 
Moodaby's father saw him with this enormous machine-thing in his 
paddock.  When he asked Mr Pearse what it was, he told him it was an 
aerial device.  He said he was going to fly in it – up in the air."
Everyone living round Waitohi knew about Richard "Mad Dog" 
Pearse.  His sheep were scruffy, and his paddocks were full of thistles 
and gorse.  He spent most of his time working on strange inventions 
instead of looking after his farm.  Once, Harold and I had seen him 
walking along behind his plough with the horse's reins around his neck, 
reading a book!
I stared at Harold in disbelief.  "He didn't really fly, did he?" 
Harold grinned.  "Of course he didn't, stupid!  The engine wouldn't 
start, so he went home."
It was 1903, and though lots of people had flown in balloons, no one 
had managed to build a heavier-than-air machine and fly in it.  In fact, 
most people thought that it was impossible.
Later that day, Harold had a wild idea.  "Why don't we go over to 
Mr Pearse's farm and sneak a look at his flying machine?"
"But he's mad," I said.  "What if he catches us?"
"We'll go on Saturday afternoon while he's out playing tennis.  
Come on.  I dare you."
Never one for backing out of a dare, I agreed.  But when I rode 
around to Harold's house on Saturday afternoon, he was waiting 
forlornly at his gate.
"I can't go," he said flatly.  "My father's heard about Mr Pearse's 
flying machine.  He says that people flying is against God's law.  I'd 
get a belting if he found out I'd been to see it." 
"He'll never find out," I said.  "Who's going to tell him?  Not me."
"We-ll …"
"Please yourself," I bluffed.  "If you're too scared, I'll just have to 
go by myself."
Harold sighed.  "All right," he said at last.  "But if my father finds 
out …"
An hour later, we lay in a ditch and watched as Mr Pearse rode out 
of his gate on a strange-looking bicycle with pedals that cranked up and 
down instead of going round and round.  As soon as he'd disappeared, 
we sneaked down his drive.
His yard was like a rubbish tip.  Pieces of rusting machinery lay 
everywhere, and scrawny chooks pecked among the weeds around the 
cottage.  We peered through a grimy window into the kitchen.  A cello 
lay on the bench, and the kitchen table was piled high with books and 
what looked like engineering plans.
The barn was locked, but we managed to squirm inside through a gap 
in the rotting weatherboards.  It took us a moment for our eyes to adjust 
to the gloom.  Tools and machinery were scattered about.  The flying 
machine sat on three bicycle wheels and took up most of the space.  It 
looked nothing like a bird.  It had a flat wing made from bamboo and 
canvas, and a small windmill-thing was sticking out from the front of its 
nose.
We were just going to take a closer look when the barn doors 
suddenly swung open, and there stood the tall figure of Mad Dog Pearse.  
His black moustache and masses of curly hair made him look fierce, but 
instead of saying anything to us, he went straight to his workbench and 
began searching among the junk.  
Harold was shaking with fear.  "We didn't mean any harm, sir," he 
mumbled.
Pearse found what it was he'd been looking for – his tennis racket – 
and waved it at us.
"You weren't planning to go flying in my machine, I hope?" he said.
"No, honestly, sir," I gulped.  I was terrified that he'd make us 
climb aboard, as his way of killing us.  "We were just having a look 
round, that's all."
"Well, no harm done, I suppose," said Pearse.  He was actually 
smiling!  "Now, be off with you.  I'm extremely busy."
We didn't need to be told twice.  We'd come face to face with Mad 
Dog Pearse in his own backyard and survived!
"You know," Harold said, once we'd reached the safety of the road, 
"he didn't seem all that mad.  Not close up." 

We didn't think a lot more about Richard Pearse until, a few weeks 
later, Harold and I were climbing a tree down by the Opihi River.  We 
heard a roaring sound coming from the paddocks at the top of the cliffs 
and knew that it could mean only one thing. 
"Mr Pearse's trying to fly again!" I yelled to Harold.  "Come on!" 
But Harold shook his head.  He wouldn't budge.  I knew that he was 
worrying about what his father would say, so I took off alone and 
arrived at the paddock just in time. 
Richard Pearse, seated on his flying machine, was wobbling along 
the ground towards me.  The "windmill" on the front of his contraption 
became a blur as the machine picked up speed.  Soon, several young men 
who had been helping to push the plane were left far behind.
Then, just when I was sure that Pearse and his invention were going 
to crash, something unbelievable happened.  The machine rose into the 
air above me, headed straight for the cliffs flanking the river, and 
dropped from view.
Silence.  I ran to the edge of the cliff to see Richard Pearse wading 
from the wreckage over half a kilometre downstream.
Harold was still up in the tree when I ran back to the river.  He had 
both arms wrapped tightly around a thick branch, and he looked as white 
as a ghost.
"Did you see him?" I shouted.  "He flew!  Mr Pearse flew through 
the air!"
"I didn't see anything," said Harold.  "I had my eyes shut the whole 
time."  
"But …"
"I didn't," he repeated.  "And don't you dare say I did."
Other people reckoned that they saw Richard Pearse get his plane 
into the air again after that.  I never did, but I couldn't stop thinking 
about flying.
Twelve months later, we heard that two American brothers, Orville 
and Wilbur Wright, had become the first people in the world to make a 
powered flight.  Well, maybe they were the first, or maybe they weren't.  
Perhaps Richard Pearse never did make a proper controlled flight.  I 
reckon that my friend Harold Monks could have sorted the truth of that 
out – if only he'd kept his eyes open.

Ricky
by Josephine Neill (Ngati Korokoro, Te Roroa)

I don't want to go outside.  I can see the ice from the window, and the 
air feels cold even with the fire going.  But someone has to go, and 
Nanny and Dad can't.  They're busy helping the midwife help Mum. 
I put on my coat and open the door.
"Go now, Jo," Nanny calls from the door of Mum and Dad's room.  
"The sooner you start looking for her, the sooner you'll be back in by 
the fire."
"Blow Ricky!  Why do we have to have pigs anyway?  Especially ones 
that don't come when they're called."
I shiver as I step onto the veranda.  The ice on the puddles looks 
cold.
"Ricky, Ricky, where are you?  Come home, Ricky.  Please, oh please 
come home."
I wish I had gumboots.  I want to rush back, but now Nanny is 
standing in the kitchen watching, and I don't want her to see what a 
wimp I am.
"Ricky, Ricky, I've got some food for you.  Nice, crunchy kùmara 
and potato if you come home now.  Please, Ricky, please come home!" 
I walk around the side of the house and see another puddle covered 
with ice.  It looks like glass.  Down goes my foot ... c-r-a-a-a-c-k goes 
the ice.
"Ricky, Ricky, where are you?"
I'm almost at the trees near the bottom of the hill when I hear a kind 
of snuffling and snorting.  I stand, afraid, listening.  Slowly I look 
around, and there she is among the trees, lying on her side, panting.
"Thank goodness I've found you!  What's the matter, Ricky?  Come 
on, get up, and we'll get you into the sty."
I walk further into the trees, and then I see them.  Tiny little pink 
piglets, almost as small as kittens. 
They're shivering, trying to find their mother.  I don't know what I 
should do.  Then off comes my jacket.  It's too small to cover them all, 
but I run back to the house.  
"Nanny, Nanny, come quickly.  Ricky's had some babies!"  I race 
onto the veranda, grab a box and some sacks.  I bang on the door.
"Hurry, Nanny, hurry!  Ricky's got eight babies, and they're really 
cold – they might die!"
Nanny calls from inside, "You'll have to do the best you can, Jo.  I 
can't leave Mum at the moment." 
"Oh, no!"
I race back to Ricky and her family.  There are eleven piglets now.
"Oh, Ricky, I hope you don't have any more!"
Quickly I pick them up and put them into the box.  Two are still wet 
from being so new.  Ricky struggles to her feet and puts her nose into 
the box.
"It's OK, girl.  I won't hurt them.  I only want to  keep them warm so 
they won't die."
I keep talking as I tuck the sacks around the suckers and start 
carrying the box towards the pigsty, hoping that Ricky will follow.  
"Come on, Ricky, it's cold out here.  If you don't hurry, your babies 
will die."  She oinks but doesn't move.  The suckers are squealing in the 
box and trying to get out.  I push them down one by one.  I wait a 
moment for Ricky to catch up.  
"Come on, girl!  Hurry up."
Ricky just stands there.  She isn't going to follow me!  I carry the 
box back and show her the babies.  I pull her by the ear, and she takes a 
couple of steps.
"Move, Ricky, move!  It's cold out here."
She moves towards the box, whiffling, and suddenly I know what to 
do.  If I drag the box slowly towards the pigsty, she'll follow. 
And she does.  It seems to take ages, but at last we're there.  I pull 
the box into the pigsty, and Ricky stumbles in after it.
It's much warmer in here.  Ricky lies down on the wooden floor and 
shuffles about.  She grunts, shudders – and there's another piglet!  This 
is awesome!  I kneel down and stroke its still, wet body, but it isn't 
breathing.  I shake it.  I don't want this one to die.  This one is special:  
this one is mine.
All at once, it shudders and splutters and then it wriggles and 
squeals.  Gently, I put it back beside Ricky.
"Oh, Ricky, I'm so proud of you.  Twelve little babies!  You're s-o-o 
clever.  Now I have to go and get some hay for you and your family.  I 
won't be long."
I run out to the barn and pull the string off a bale of hay.  Then I 
pick up as much as I can and hurry back to the pigsty.  I spread it 
around.  Ricky is standing with her nose in the box, and the newest baby 
is following her.  Three or four piglets are running around squealing.
I pick the last piglet up and hold it close to my face.  I love the silky 
feeling of its fine baby hair.  I snuggle it close to me as I take the rest 
of them out of the box.  They're all much warmer now.
"I wonder if I'll be allowed to keep you?" I whisper to the little one 
as I put it back with the others.  "I wonder if you'll remember me?"  
Once I think that they are all warm and cosy, I leave the pigsty and race 
back to the house. 
Strange new noises are coming from Mum and Dad's  room, like a 
kitten mewing.  There's a hum of voices – and then the sound of a slap.  
The mewing becomes the cry of an angry baby.  Nanny comes into the 
kitchen, smiling. 
"Well, Jo, you've got a new sister!  You can go in and see her soon.  
Mum's fine, too.  How about Ricky and her new family?  Are they all 
right?"
"Yes, Nan, they are – all twelve of them.  A little sister, eh ...  I 
wonder if Mum will let me call her Ricky?"
Intruders
by Elizabeth Best

Willie turned the spare key in the lock and pushed open the door of the 
flat.  He wasn't supposed to call in at home after school.  He was 
supposed to go straight to Mrs Vinchey's and wait there for Mum to pick 
him up after work.  But today his bag was really heavy, and he was 
superhungry.  He threw his gear down in the hall and went into the 
kitchen to look for a biscuit.  He'd hardly got started in the pantry when 
the doorbell rang.
"G'day, kid," said a big man when Willie opened the door.  "Your mum 
home?"
"No," said Willie and then wished he hadn't.  Mum's warnings about 
what to say when you answered the door or the telephone were ringing in 
his ears. 
"She's right, mate," the man shouted over his shoulder to an invisible 
person outside.  Then he pushed the door open wide, just as if Willie 
wasn't there, and waddled down the hall to the living room.  Willie 
followed and stood in the doorway looking at him.  Mum always said not 
to let anyone into the house unless you knew them very well.  But Willie 
hadn't had a choice.  
The man pulled a metal tape out of his pocket and began measuring the 
windows.  Willie wondered whether he was a burglar measuring the place 
so that he could break in one dark night.  But he didn't need to break in 
– he was already inside.
The doorbell rang again.  This time a skinny, scruffy man with a beard 
and dirty trousers pushed open the front door.
"Where's the boss?" he asked.
"In here, mate," shouted the man in the living room, and for the second 
time that afternoon, a stranger pushed past Willie.  
"I'm not supposed to let …" began Willie.  Then he stopped.  He 
wanted to tell the men to go away, but he wasn't sure how to do it.  If 
only Margie from next door were home, he'd go and get her – but she 
didn't finish at the library until 4 o'clock. 
In the living room, the skinny man began writing on a notepad.  "Fifty-
sixish, fifty-sevenish," he said, the words muffled through his beard.
"Who are you?" asked Willie.
"Eh?" said both men together.
"Who ARE you?" asked Willie, a little louder this time.
"Stan," replied the man with the tape-measure.  "Stan's your man."  He 
roared with laughter, and the rolls of fat under his T-shirt wobbled like 
jelly.
"What are you doing here?" Willie asked.
But Stan had had enough socialising for one day.  He went back to 
measuring the windows – and the doorbell rang again.
"Right!" thought Willie.  "This time I won't let anyone else in."  But 
it was too late.  A third man was already walking down the hall just as 
the first two had done.  That was when Willie remembered that he'd left 
the key in the door.  Another mistake.
"Hi, there," said the man as he went by.
Willie didn't reply.  He was acting calm on the outside, but inside, he 
was beginning to feel very strange.  He could just hear Mum saying:  
"Why did you come home in the first place?  And why did you let all 
those strangers into our house?"  He wished he'd done what he was 
supposed to and gone straight to Mrs Vinchey's.  He wondered if he 
should run to her place right now.  But that would mean leaving the men 
in the house with noone to watch them. 
The man who'd come in last was banging on the living room wall with 
his fist.  Willie decided to try again.
"What are you all doing here?" he called out.
"Aha!" said Stan.  "That's for us to know and for you to find out."  He 
rocked  with laughter, and all his jelly rolls rocked with him.
At last Willie had an idea.  He went into the kitchen and telephoned 
his friend Joseph.
"Do you think I should ring the police?" he whispered into the 
telephone after telling Joseph what was going on.
"Not yet," said Joseph.  "I'll come round and check things out first."
Joseph must have run all the way because, in a few minutes, Willie 
heard him coming up the path.  It felt a whole lot better having a friend 
in the house, but it didn't make any difference to the men.  They were in 
a huddle on the floor now, talking and looking at figures.
"You're right," said Joseph when he and Willie were alone in the 
kitchen.  "This is a job for the police.  Come on, we'll phone them from 
my place." 
Willie nodded, but just as he and Joseph were about to leave, the 
skinny man with the beard walked along the hall and out of the flat.  The 
man who'd come in last followed him, and the front door slammed shut.
Willie and Joseph looked at each other. Was Stan going to leave, too?  
Perhaps all their troubles were over.  Then they heard a strange, shush-
shushing sound.
They raced to the door of the living room and looked in.  Stan wasn't 
sitting on the floor any more.  He was standing beside the far wall, 
sharpening a scraping tool.  As they watched, he put the sharpening 
stone in his pocket and reached up to the wall with the scraper. 
"Stop!" yelled Willie.
"Police!" shouted Joseph.
Stan got such a fright that he spun round.  The scraper went shooting 
out of his hand and across the carpet.  Willie dived on it.
"Throw it here," called Joseph.
"Hey!  That's enough, you kids.  Give that thing back!"
"What is going on here?" demanded a voice from the doorway.
Mum was standing in the living room.  She looked furious. 
"Willie!  Mrs Vinchey rang me at work.  She's worried sick about 
where you are."  She looked at Stan.  "And what are you doing in my 
house?" she asked.
"Will you ask your boys to give me back my scraper?" said Stan, 
annoyed.  "Remember, you're paying me by the hour." 
"I'm not paying you anything," said Mum.  
Stan's face turned bright red, and now someone else was coming into 
the house.
"Yoo-hoo!  Anyone home?"  It was Margie from nextdoor.  "I don't 
suppose anyone's seen some workers from Arthur's paint and paper 
place?" she asked.  "They were supposed to start on our walls at three-
fifteen, and they haven't shown up."  
"Uh, oh," said Joseph and Stan at the same time.  Mum groaned – and 
suddenly Willie saw the chance to get himself out of trouble for not 
going straight round to Mrs Vinchey's.
"Heck, Mum," he said, trying to look serious and relieved at the same 
time.  "Just think, if I hadn't been here this afternoon, the new 
wallpaper we put up last month would be torn to shreds by now."  For a 
split second, he thought he had Mum convinced.  Then she looked at him 
– hard.  
"Hold it right there, Willie," she said, so calmly that it was worrying.  
"If you'd gone to Mrs Vinchey's after school like you were supposed to, 
we'd never have had this problem in the first place."
"You have to admit," said Stan, scratching his head, "she sure has got 
a point there."

The Legend of Why Manono Has No River
by Elisapeta Manupò as told to Jill MacGregor 
Long ago, a gentle river flowed across the island of Manono.  There was plenty 
of water for everyone.  On the neighbouring island of Apolima, there were no 
rivers – but there was a female ghost.
One evening, after an argument with the ghosts of Manono, the ghost of 
Apolima appeared by the river and guzzled up all the water.  When the ghosts of 
Manono discovered that their river had disappeared, they were very angry.  How 
could they get their water back?
They decided to make the ghost of Apolima laugh.  They told her funny 
stories.  They teased her and tickled her until she was laughing so much that she 
couldn't hold the water in any longer.  As the water gushed out of the ghost it 
fell on Apolima and created a river.  Luckily a few drops splashed to the ground 
on the island of Manono.  
Today those drops are collected in the small wells that lie behind the church 
in the village of Faleù.  They provide water for the people of Manono.


