But the Brollachan was a long, long way away and he was well and truly lost. He rolled on, however, until he came to a little wooden house in a clearing and because he was very tired by now, he oozed through the crack under the door and went inside.
It was a very nice house. There was a fire in the grate and a painted stool and a rocking chair in one corner. In the rocking chair, fast asleep, sat an old man with a kind face and a long white beard. Everything was quiet and everything was dry and the Brollachan liked it very much. And becoming more or less the shape of the hearthrug he lay down by the fire, closed his vile red eyes and fell asleep.
He slept for one hour and he slept for two while outside in the forest his mother, the Fuath, roared about on her webbed feet, searching and scolding and calling him. Goodness knows how long he might have gone on sleeping but just then a burning coal fell out of the fireplace and landed on one of the Brollachan’s bulges.
Now the Brollachan couldn’t talk but he could scream — and scream he did!
Everything then happened at once. The old man woke, saw that there was a Brollachan on his hearthrug and jumped from his rocking chair. The Brollachan’s mother heard the scream and rushed in at the front door, dripping and shouting as she came.
“What’s happened to you, Brollachan? How did you get here? Who hurt you? Has that nasty old man hurt you? Have you hurt my Brollachan, you stupid old man? Because if you have I’ll turn you into a bat with bunions. I’ll turn you into an eel with earache. I’ll claw you into strips of raw beef, I’ll make newts come out of your nostrils, I’ll…”
On and on she raged. The old man did not know how to bear so much noise. He took his long white beard and stuffed the left half of it into his left ear and the right half of it into his right ear but still he could hear the Fuath’s voice. Feeling quite desperate he got a broom and tried to shoo the Fuath out of doors.
But the Fuath would not be shushed and she would not be shooed. She just dripped and she threatened and she talked.
The Brollachan by now was very upset. His burn did not hurt any longer but he felt that things were not as they should be. His red eyes were wide with worry and his shapeless darkness shivered at all this unpleasantness. What he wanted more than anything was to make things all right.
So he made himself very big and he opened his mouth and he went right up to his mother, who was still talking and scolding and waving her arms. If only he could do it! If only he could do the thing she wanted so much! Wider he opened his mouth and wider… and closer he went to his mother and closer… and harder he tried and harder… harder than he had ever tried in his whole life.
And then at last he did it. He actually did it!
“MUMMY!” said the Brollachan. “MUM — gluck — gulp!”
Then he stopped. His mother was not there.
The Brollachan was puzzled. He looked under the stool and behind the door but there was no sign of her. But though he was puzzled, he was not worried. He felt very close to his mother. And because it made him tired to be so clever he lay down again — but further from the fire — and fell asleep.
The old man took half his beard out of his right ear and half his beard out of his left ear and came over to have a look. He could see the Brollachan’s mother inside the Brollachan as clear as clear. He could even see the wart on the end of her nose. She was still talking and talking and talking but Brollachans are soundproof so he couldn’t hear a thing.
So he smiled and nodded at the Brollachan as if to say, yes, you can stay, and went back to his rocking chair. The next day he made a fireguard so that the Brollachan wouldn’t get burnt. And then he and the Brollachan lived together very happily. Because both of them had said all they were ever going to say and each was happy to let the other be the kind of person that he was.
The Author
Eva Ibbotson was born in Vienna, but when the Nazis came to power her family fled to England and she was sent to boarding school. She became a writer while bringing up her four children, and her bestselling novels have been published around the world. Her books have also won and been shortlisted for many prizes. Journey to the River Sea won the Nestlé Gold Award and was runner-up for the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. The Star of Kazan won the Nestlé Silver Award and was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal. The Secret of Platform 13 was shortlisted for the Smarties Prize, and Which Witch? was runner-up for the Carnegie Medal. The Ogre of Oglefort was shortlisted for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize and the Roald Dahl Funny Prize. Eva Ibbotson died peacefully in October 2010 at the age of eighty-five.
Books by Eva Ibbotson
Let Sleeping Sea-Monsters Lie… and Other Cautionary Tales
Dial A Ghost
Monster Mission
Not Just a Witch
The Beasts of Clawstone Castle
The Great Ghost Rescue
The Haunting of Hiram
The Ogre of Oglefort
The Secret of Platform 13
Which Witch?
Journey to the River Sea
The Dragonfly Pool
The Star of Kazan
For older readers
A Company of Swans
A Song for Summer
Magic Flutes
The Morning Gift
The Secret Countess
Praise for the writing of Eva Ibbotson
‘Eva Ibbotson’s eccentric witches, endangered monsters and friendly ghosts are one of the greatest joys of children’s fiction. Funny, gripping, charming and completely irresistible they are perfect for curling up with at any age’
‘Eva Ibbotson has assumed the mantle of Roald Dahl in her understanding of child appeal’
‘A new book by Eva always lifts the spirits. She understands how children might be inspired and nourished, and she delights in nature, friendship, honesty and liberty’
‘Sparky and humorous… Ibbotson is dexterous with pace and suspense, accessible, always amusing and a treat to read aloud’
‘Any reader presented with this book will be enriched for life’
‘A bubbly and fantastical adventure… Driven by humour and warmth, Journey to the River Sea has an irresistible charm’