Mirrors

  SPARKLING NEW STORIES

  FROM PRIZE-WINNING AUTHORS

  Mirrors

  EDITED BY WENDY COOLING

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  SARAH YOUNG AND TIM STEVENS

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Elizabeth Laird: The Fateful Mirror

  Gaye Hiçyilmaz: The Mirrored Garden

  Lesley Howarth: Mirrors dot com

  Jeremy Strong: Never Trust a Parrot

  Malorie Blackman: Watching

  Vivian French: Selim-Hassan the Seventh

  Melvin Burgess: Whose Face do you See?

  Celia Rees: Silver Laughter

  Anne Fine: Use it or Lose it

  Paul Stewart: Double Vision

  Kate Thompson: The Dragon’s Dream

  Alan Durant: Rochefault’s Revenge

  Annie Dalton: Lilac Peabody

  Mary Arrigan: The Disappearance

  Berlie Doherty: The Girl of Silver Lake

  About the Contributors

  Other Works

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  Mirrors and reflections have played their part in stories from the ancient tales of the basilisk and the story of Snow White, to the present day story of Harry Potter. The mythical basilisk could turn a creature to stone with just a look and could only be destroyed by seeing its own reflection in a mirror. Snow White’s step-mother appeals to her all-seeing mirror for confirmation of her beauty. Harry Potter finds the Mirror of Erised and sees in it what he desires most in life – his family.

  The dictionary definition of ‘mirror’ is something that gives a faithful reflection. In fiction, mirrors do not have to play by the rules! This book contains fifteen newly written stories in which a mirror plays a vital part. One is a beautiful re-telling of the story of Narcissus and his reflection – perhaps the oldest mirror story of all – and the rest, brand new stories that reflect the imaginations of some of today’s finest writers. Read the stories in any order, then maybe you’ll want to go on and look at some of the novels written by these authors.

  Enjoy!

  Elizabeth Laird

  THE FATEFUL MIRROR

  The Story of Echo and Narcissus

  In ancient times, when the old gods ruled from Mount Olympus, a handsome young hunter roamed the earth, trapping in his nets any prey that came within his reach.

  He was sixteen years old, and already many young women, and men too, had fallen in love with him.

  His name was Narcissus.

  In the forest where he hunted, a young girl wandered, looking for flowers. She talked as she ran about, and her tongue, like her feet, was never still. But her speech was meaningless, for the goddess Juno, angered by the girl’s endless chatter, had cruelly condemned her only to repeat the words that others spoke.

  Her name was Echo.

  One day, worn out by the hunt, Narcissus lay down in the shade of a spreading tree and closed his eyes. Echo ran past and saw him. She stopped at once when she saw the boy, then crept towards him and stood looking down at him, at the dark curls falling over his high forehead, the blush of red on his cheek, and the slender strong hands that still held his nets as he slept. And as she gazed at him, she fell in love.

  She longed to touch his hand, to wake him and tell him that she loved him, but she could not. The only words she could utter would be echoes of his own.

  She crept away and hid behind a tree.

  I’ll wait, she thought. When he wakes up I’ll follow him and listen. Perhaps he’ll say something I can repeat, to show him that I love him.

  At last Narcissus opened his eyes, sighed, sat up and stretched himself. Then he looked round. With the sharp senses of the hunter he knew he was not alone.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called out.

  Echo trembled at the sound of his voice, lightly shaking the branch she was holding. The leaves rattled and a leaf fell to the ground.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Narcissus called again.

  He thought a wild animal must be lurking in the bushes, ready to leap out at him, so he snatched up his nets and ran forward to catch it. Echo stepped silently aside and hid herself under an overhanging rock.

  Puzzled, Narcissus moved on through the forest and, flitting noiselessly from tree to tree, Echo followed him. Often he stopped and looked over his shoulder, and she froze in her tracks, so that in the dappled light that shone through the leaves overhead, he would mistake her for the trunk of a young sapling, or a shaft of light, shining on a boulder.

  All day she followed him, waiting for her chance, her heart brimming over with love and longing.

  At last, when the sun was setting, Narcissus stopped. He could no longer ignore the uneasy prickling in his neck, that told him by his hunter’s instinct that he was being followed.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ he called out angrily, ‘show yourself! Come here!’

  ‘Come here!’ answered Echo, taking her chance, and summoning all her courage, she stepped out into the open and ran up to him, her eyes soft with adoration.

  Narcissus stepped back.

  ‘What’s this? Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Who are you?’ repeated Echo, letting her voice linger on the final word.

  She stepped near to him, but dazzled by his beauty did not notice the cold disdain in his eyes.

  ‘Stop! Don’t touch me!’ cried Narcissus.

  ‘Touch me!’ laughed Echo, delighted that at last the words she was forced to say reflected her true feelings, and she tried to throw her arms round his neck.

  Narcissus pushed her roughly aside. He had never known love, and he had none to give.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted angrily. ‘How dare you think that I could love you?’

  ‘I could love you,’ faltered Echo, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ Narcissus said, and he turned on his heel and walked away.

  ‘Away! Alone!’ murmured Echo.

  Her face burned with shame and she slipped back into the shadow of the trees. Rejected, her heart shrinking with misery, she fled from the forest, and wandering aimlessly, took refuge in the cold, distant mountains. There she starved herself, refusing to eat, and at last she pined away, until all that remained of her was her voice.

  Down in the forest, the spirits of the woods and the water were angry with the cold-hearted Narcissus. They held up their hands to heaven and called out, ‘Gods, punish Narcissus! Let him love, but never be loved in return.’

  Nemesis, the god of vengeance, heard their prayers. He began to watch Narcissus, waiting for the chance to punish him.

  One day, hot and tired after a weary hunt, Narcissus stumbled into a forest clearing, where reeds and lush marsh flowers grew up around the rim of a woodland pool. He knelt beside the water and lowered his head, ready to drink. But then, shimmering beneath him, the image of a face seemed to rise up through the water and gaze at him.

  The face was framed with black curls that fell across a pale forehead. A pair of eyes, dark in their sockets and full of wonder, looked into his. Beneath the nose, straight and perfectly formed, the red lips were parted in surprise.

  Enchanted, Narcissus stared. The creature in the water was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and his heart was filled with the first passionate love he had ever known.

  Trembling, he put out his hand, longing to touch and stroke the creature’s soft cheek. But as soon as his hand touched the water, the lovely face disappeared, fractured by a thousand ripples.

  Afraid he had been too hasty, Narcissus shrank back, then slowly, his heart beating fast, he leaned forward again.

  The face had returned. Almost faint with relief, Narcissus cried o
ut with joy. The lips below him parted soundlessly, as if the image was answering his delight.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispered Narcissus. ‘A nymph?’

  The mouth beneath him moved, silently giving back the question.

  ‘I love you! Oh, I love you!’ cried Narcissus.

  Slowly, carefully, he lowered his face to the water. The image rose to meet him. The eyes gazed worshipfully into his. The mouth was pursed to kiss.

  Narcissus shut his eyes, and his head was spinning as he bent lower still, longing to feel the soft lips on his own.

  Instead of warm flesh he touched cold water.

  His eyes flew open. The face had splintered again into jagged shards of light. He could see nothing but a writhing nose, shaking shadows where the eyes should be, and a broken mouth that twisted and disappeared, then formed itself again and gaped in horror that echoed his own.

  Filled with despair, Narcissus lay down on the bank again and wept.

  It was evening now, and a little breeze ruffled the water. Leaves blew down on to its surface, and fish leaped up from the depths to snatch at the gnats that hovered over the shimmering pool. Narcissus gazed and gazed, but the creature he loved had gone.

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ Narcissus whispered to the pool. ‘I’ll wait and watch till you return, and then I’ll love you forever.’

  He slept when darkness fell. In the morning, the breeze had dropped and an early mist covered the water. Anxiously, Narcissus waited, and as it cleared the face appeared to him again.

  Narcissus greeted it rapturously and pleaded with his loved one to step out of the water and embrace him, but the cold image only moved silently in reply.

  In desperation, Narcissus called out, ‘I know you love me as much as I love you. You stretch out your arms and raise your lips to kiss me whenever I lower mine. You laugh when I laugh, and your sighs are the same as mine. Only a little stretch of water keeps us apart, but it could be the widest ocean or the deepest river because however much I try I can never cross it.’

  His tears fell then and disturbed the water, and his reflection shattered and disappeared.

  ‘Where are you going, my love? Come back! Don’t leave me!’ he called out in despair.

  A kind of madness had seized Narcissus. Unable to tear himself away from the pool, he no longer ate or drank, and he began to waste away, worn out by love. His dark curls hung limply round his face. His cheeks grew pale and thin. His arms could no longer lift the nets which he had once hurled so skilfully to trap the running deer. His legs had no strength now to support him.

  He could only lie and gaze at himself, and he became weaker and weaker, day by day.

  Echo heard his despairing cries, and her soft voice repeated them, sending them sadly through the forest clearing, her distress matching his own.

  At last, exchanging one final long look with his own reflection, Narcissus murmured, ‘My only love, goodbye!’ And he closed his eyes and died.

  ‘Goodbye!’ Echo whispered, and the surface of the pool shivered as the sound of her voice rippled over it.

  On the heights of Mount Olympus, the gods grieved for the handsome boy who now lay dead by the pool. They changed him into a flower. And if you, who are reading this story, should roam through the woods in the springtime, and if you should come to a pool in a clearing between the trees, you will find narcissus flowers growing at the water’s edge, their white petals perfectly reflected in the cold clear water.

  And if you should then climb up to the wild high places, or down to the sea where the cliffs rear up from the shore, or into the caves that tunnel the hills, and if you should call out, raising your own voice, ‘Hello! Are you there?’ Echo will hear you. Echo will answer, repeating the words, ‘You there!’

  You will call out again, and she will answer again, and again, her restless soul calling out to you, on and on to the end of time.

  Gaye Hiçyilmaz

  THE MIRRORED GARDEN

  I first saw the mirrored garden on my way back from the beach. I hadn’t even wanted to go to the seaside last year, and I’d told them so, but they hadn’t taken any notice of that.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Dad had said challengingly. ‘You’ll love it.’

  ‘Never mind, Chris,’ Dad’s girlfriend, Lizzie, was more honest. ‘It’s only a week. It’ll pass in a flash and there’s loads to do at the sea.’

  ‘Like what?’ I demanded. ‘Going on donkey rides?’

  Lizzie had shrugged and looked at Dad with her jelly brown eyes.

  ‘Or making sand castles,’ I persisted, but I didn’t remind her that I was fourteen and not into buckets and spades. She didn’t remind me that she was twenty-one and not into being anyone’s mother, let alone mine.

  Lizzie and I were as careful of each other as brain surgeons confronted by an unexpected lump.

  ‘What’s wrong with sand castles?’ Dad asked. ‘I used to love that beach at your age. People made brilliant things with sand.’

  ‘Sure!’ I quipped. ‘Like concrete.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant sand sculptures, and…’ Dad isn’t into arty things but he tried, because he knew I was. ‘And sand pictures and…’

  ‘Wow.’

  Dad swallowed. Lizzie shrugged again. She blinked slowly, like a lizard in the sun, then went into their room to pack their bags.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I shrugged as well. ‘I’m going, aren’t I?’

  ‘You certainly are!’ Dad was brisk although his glance was anxious.

  My friend Stubby was unsympathetic too. He said that family visits were rarely fatal, and never in a week, but he did agree they were a dreadful bore.

  Stubby was wrong. We all were. It was boring. It was boring like I’ve never known boring could be, but I didn’t die. I didn’t even sicken. I loved it. I sucked up each gently stretched-out minute and rolled it round my tongue. The boredom was as delicious and chewy as those 2p sweets I used to buy at the newsagent’s on my way home from school, and I wanted more.

  It was years since I’d actually seen my grandparents: well, three and a half, to be exact. They mentioned this the moment I got off the train. It was awkward. I hung my head and muttered the dreaded word divorce. I always do that in tight spots. People shut up straight away. They didn’t. They shook their grey heads and laughed. It wasn’t Mum and Dad’s divorce that had stopped them from visiting. It was the dog, Jasper. Jasper had a bad heart now, and other problems.

  He didn’t look like he had a bad heart, but he was big. In fact, when Gran opened the front door and we had all clambered over him, I appreciated their point of view. Jasper was gigantic. If he hadn’t found the three flights of stairs up to Dad’s flat a problem, the stairs definitely might. I’ve made them creak and I’m not huge at all.

  Later, as I was edging round the bed in the tiny spare room and wondering how to unpack, Grandpa called out. I left my bag on the bed and hurried down, but Jasper had beaten me to it. He was flopped out in the sitting room, drooling chocolate on to the carpet and looking pretty satisfied with life.

  The odd thing was, that I was happy too. Even after I’d noticed that the family photos on the mantelpiece were all of Jasper, I wasn’t put out. I examined them with Gran. We admired Jasper as a pup in his basket, as a young dog with a big stick, and in massive middle age, with a loud tartan collar, and I didn’t mind at all.

  ‘He’s done all right,’ Gran folded her arms and smiled to herself. Grandpa nodded and I nodded too. Fleetingly, I remembered Dad in his new black jeans, with Lizzie at his side.

  ‘Come on then, lad.’ Grandpa had suddenly got up. I jumped to my feet, expecting a walk down to the sea or at least a tour of his greenhouse, but he turned his back.

  ‘It’s only Jasper,’ Gran confided as the dog lumbered past. ‘He’s got to be reminded to spend a penny now.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was glad they hadn’t visited. Old dogs wouldn’t have been Lizzie’s thing at all.

  That evening Gran turned up the TV, then fell
asleep. Grandpa went in and out with Jasper and that was it. Sometimes Gran snuffled and woke up to watch a bit, and sometimes Jasper snored, but nobody spoke to me at all.

  It was such a relief. Nobody noticed me and I hardly knew I was there.

  I had cornflakes for breakfast then a small white egg like a stone. When I’d made my bed, I cleaned my teeth with care. I even combed my hair. As I came down Gran was at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘I’ve made fish paste and jam.’ She was holding up a polythene bag of neat, white sandwiches, with the crusts cut off. Jasper sulked. ‘And I’ve put in squash. You like squash, don’t you, Chris?’

  ‘Actually—’

  ‘Good. I thought you would. Now dear, don’t hurry back. We know what young people are like.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘We don’t have supper till six. After Jasper’s had his. So ’bye dear, until then.’

  I was so surprised I tripped on the step.

  I didn’t head for the beach, but kept it for last, like the crispiest bite of a Chinese. Killing time, I idled along the silent, neatly gardened street and on into town. A sea breeze swung B&B signs gently to and fro. Bedroom windows opened and lace curtains and the melody of vacuums unfurled.

  My heart began to beat faster and louder than before. I felt like a hero, a first traveller in an unknown land.

  If I’d wanted to, I could have leapt from that pavement and walked upon the peaceful air. But I didn’t because later, I saw the mirrored garden and went in.

  I had dawdled through the shabby high street, which smelt of vinegar from the chippies and old, unwashed clothes. Mum would have adored it: there were charity shops from end to end. I glanced at this and that, then drifted down towards the sea.

  I leant over the railings and stared at families on the beach. Their white shoulders were going red, their plastic seaside stuff was piled around on the sand. No sign of Dad’s sculptures, but I saw his donkeys, waiting in a row. If I hadn’t had the sandwiches in my hand, I’d have asked how much, and climbed up.