Read Online The Secret of Platform 13 by Eva Ibbotson - Free Book Online Page B

he shouted. ‘There’s a horrible thing there! An eye! It’s disgusting; it’s creepy. I want my Mummy!’
    The others turned their heads in dismay. They knew how sensitive the ogre was and to call such a clean-living person ‘creepy’ is about as hurtful as it is possible to be. And sure enough, a tear welled up in Hans’ clear blue eye, trembled there . . . and fell. Then the eye vanished and from the space where the giant sat, there came a deep, unhappy sigh.
    But Odge now came to the rescue. She had promised to behave like the girls of St Agnes who said: ‘Play Up and Play the Game’ and she said: ‘Raymond, I’ve brought you a present, a really special one. I brought it all the way from the Island. Look!’
    The word ‘present’ cheered Raymond up at once and he watched as she lifted her suitcase on to the bed and opened it.
    ‘What is it?’ Raymond asked.
    But he didn’t shudder this time; he looked quite pleased. And the person who wasn’t pleased with what lay inside, cradled in layers of moss, would have been made of stone. A very small animal covered in soft, snow-white fur, with big paws lightly tipped with black. His eyes, as he woke from sleep, were huge and very dark, his blob of a nose was moist and whiskery and cool, and as he looked up at Raymond and yawned you could see his strawberry pink tongue and smell his clean milky breath.
    ‘I’ve never seen one of them,’ said Raymond. ‘It’s a funny looking thing. What is it?’
    Odge told him. ‘It’s a mistmaker. We have hundreds of them on the Island; they get very tame. I got this one because his mother got muddled and rolled on him. She didn’t mean to, she just got mixed up.’
    She lifted the little animal out and laid him on the satin quilt. The mistmaker’s forehead was wrinkled like a bloodhound’s; he had a small, soft moustache and his pink, almost human-looking ears had big lobes like you find on the ears of poets or musicians.
    ‘Why is it called a mistmaker?’ asked Raymond.
    ‘I’ll show you,’ said Odge. ‘Can you sing?’
    ‘Of course I can sing,’ said Raymond. ‘Everyone can sing.’
    ‘Well, then, do it. Sing something to it. Put your head quite close.’
    Raymond cleared his throat. ‘I can’t remember any words,’ he said. ‘I’ll play it something on my radio.’ He turned the knob and the room was filled with the sound of cackling studio laughter.
    ‘You try , Ben,’ ordered Odge. ‘You sing to it.’
    But Ben didn’t sing. He whistled. None of them had heard whistling quite like that; it was like bird-song, but it wasn’t just chirruping – it had a proper tune: a soaring tune that made them think of spring and young trees and life beginning everywhere. And as Ben whistled, the little animal drew closer . . . and closer still . . . he pressed his moist nose against Ben’s hands; the wrinkles on his worried-looking forehead grew smoother . . .
    ‘Aaah,’ sighed the mistmaker. ‘Aaah . . .’
    Then it began. At first there was only a little mist; he was after all very young . . . and then there came more . . . and more . . . Even from this animal only a few weeks old there came enough cool, swirling mist to wreathe Raymond’s bed in whiteness. The room became beautiful and mysterious; the piles of neglected toys disappeared, and the fussy furniture . . . and the Islanders drank in the well-remembered freshness of early morning and of grass still moist with dew.
    Raymond’s mouth dropped open. ‘It’s weird. I’ve never seen that. It isn’t natural.’
    ‘Why isn’t it natural?’ asked Odge crossly . ‘Skunks make stinks and slugs make slime and people make sweat so why shouldn’t a mistmaker make mist?’
    Raymond was still staring at the little creature. No one at school had anything like that. He’d be able to show it off to everyone. Paul had a tree frog and Derek had a grass snake but this would beat them all.
    ‘You’d be able to play with mistmakers all day long if you