David Hill 周鈺銘

The boy finishes the last page. He closes the book and stares out his bedroom window. At first， he doesn't see the street outside. The Firebirds? and? Ring-Knights? of the story fill his mind. Then their magic fades， and the ordinary， dull world is there instead.

Boxy new houses stand on scraped yellow clay. Bald concrete① footpaths run past them. His parents love this home that they've worked and saved to buy. The boy hates it.

He wants to live in a house out of his books. An old house， hidden among tall trees which fill its rooms with cool， green light. The sort of house where mysterious things happen， where an old man or woman who is really the Keeper of the Key lives， with a secret that only the boy can understand. A house nothing like the bare new boxes in this street， with the harsh② June sunlight glaring down on them.

Across the road， the boy hears a concrete mixer clattering. People are always working on these new clay sections.

His father's like that. Since they moved in last month， his dad is always out back， digging on the bottom terrace③. The boy can't be bothered to go and look. There's nothing exciting there.

He wanders through to the living room， where his mother is sewing material for curtains. She's humming as she works. She loves this place， too， for some reason.

The early summer sunlight dazzles through the windows and makes the boy squint④. In? his? stories， rooms? are? lit? by flaming torches or by jewels glowing in the walls. Marvellous rooms， not like the little cubes⑤ in this house.

His mother smiles at him. “Hi， love. Finished you book？”

The boy shrugs. His mother watches him. “What are you going to do now？” she asks. The boy shrugs again.

His mother is silent for a few seconds. Then she says， “Tell your dad I'm making a cup of tea. We might go for a walk later， OK？”

The boy doesn't reply. He's not interested in walking anywhere around here. It's all flat and raw and concrete and clay. Nothing mysterious. Nothing magic.

But he heads outside. “Down on the terrace，” his mother calls after him. Yeah， yeah—he knows where his father is. Digging in that boring garden.

He stands on the back lawn for a moment. The grass his parents sowed is still thin. A gray metal clothesline rises from it. On? the? empty， scraped? section? next-door， puddles⑥ of rainwater shiver in the wind.

The boy tries to bring back the world of his book. The Cloud Riders， the White Dragons， the Forest of Stone. They won't come. There's just this place of bald， glaring nothingness.

He sees his father's head on the bottom terrace， and “Dad—，” he begins. Then he stops.

He hasn't been down here for weeks. Last time he looked， it was just another raw square of clay.

Now rows of bright green plants march across the ground like soldiers. Little fruit trees rise along one side， with puffs of white and pink blossom. Another line of plants—some sort of vegetables—is just breaking through the ground. The tips remind him of pale green spears. In the far corner， a lemon tree stands. Small fat lemons glow yellow like the jewels that lit the rooms in his story. Against the back fence， a vine⑦ is climbing up a white trellis⑧， long fingers reaching for the sky.

The boy stands and stares. His father grins up at him. “What do you think of it， mate？” he asks.

The boy swallows. “It's—it's magic！”

Thinking：

How many times has your family moved？

Would you like to live in the magic places described in books？ Why or why not？

Writing：

Use you imagination， write about your magical world. If you send it to us， we may send you a gift.