Skakoon

By Charlotte Tomlinson and Helen Ganly

Mishka and his older brother Vanya are struggling to adapt to a new life in London. They are bullied at school and miss their home in Russia. But when Mishka discovers a very special rocking horse in the big house upstairs, everything changes. They are transported into a magical world where an evil King has kidnapped inhabitants from the land of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penhaligon Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914076183

Charlotte Tomlinson

Charlotte Tomlinson is an international teacher, pianist and performance coach who helps musicians realise their full potential as performers and is known for her work on performance anxiety. She is the author of Music from the Inside Out and Keep Calm and Pass your Music Exam, and writes for all the major music magazines. Skakoon is her first children's novel. She lives and works in Oxford.

Book preview

Long, long ago

He remembered. He felt again the breath on his wooden frame, heard the chink, chink of the chisel as it tapped, carving and creating. Gently, and with such tenderness, the old man sculpted the wood under the warm glow of the oil lamp, his long, white beard tickling the side of the horse as he worked.

You are becoming a true beauty! the old man whispered into the horse’s new ears. How I would love to give you to my granddaughter. He paused wistfully and then added with anticipation, Wait until she sees how you’ve developed!

Each long day of carving and the almost life-sized rocking horse gained just a bit more awareness of the world around him. What joy it had been when his ears had been carved and he could hear. Later that afternoon, the horse felt for the first time the pleasure of having a child look at him, touch him and caress him.

No, little one, the old man said, as his granddaughter tried to climb onto the horse, her black curls dancing around her face. He is not ready to be ridden yet. Be patient. But it didn’t persuade her, and the horse was aware of tears as they fell from the little girl’s eyes. When I have put the final coat of paint on him, the saddle, the stirrups, then maybe… we’ll see.

The awareness increased daily. Now, not only could he hear, but he could feel with an acuteness he didn’t realise was possible. It was as if he had gained a skin of sensitivity. The skilful carving of the chisel, even the rough kiss of the sandpaper had a soothing quality to it, and he felt clean and fresh afterwards.

Now, my lovely, it is time to give you your real character, the old man said, standing up and looking proudly at his handiwork. He painted the dappled grey with care and mastery, allowing time in between for the coats to dry. Next, the old man fitted real, grey horse hair into the mane and tail, cutting it to exactly the right length. He attached the dark brown leather saddle, stirrups, halter and finally the reins. The horse had never felt so alive. Energy coursed through his wood, filling him with joy. He felt as if some force more powerful and beautiful than he could imagine was working through the old man, inspiring him in his creation.

But there was more. Humming gently, the old man picked up his smallest chisel, knelt down next to the horse’s right hoof, and as was customary with many woodcarvers, began to carve his initials into the wood. At that very moment, the rocking horse felt a bolt of lightning go through his body, unfolding and unfurling, suffusing every grain of wood with sparkling light. Suddenly, he knew what his life was to be.

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1

The Professor

Mishka’s heart pounded wildly as he stood at the bottom of the steps of the imposing Victorian house that loomed above him. He was convinced that one day it would simply fall down on top of him and crush him, leaving him permanently disabled and gasping for breath. He shuddered at the thought before bracing himself. And then he rang

the doorbell.

Inside, footsteps came closer and closer until the door opened and a lanky figure peered down at Mishka through metal-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. Mishka was convinced he was at least one hundred years old. The man cleared his throat.

Yes?

Mishka didn’t answer. He hopped anxiously from foot to foot and held out a fat envelope of their weekly rent money to the man, who took it, emptied its contents and proceeded to count.

You owe me another ten pounds, the man barked. Mishka swallowed hard. Tell your mother I will wait.

Mishka tore back down the steps, around the side of the house, through the door to their basement flat and into the sitting room. His mother was working at her computer in the corner of the room, surrounded by piles of papers.

Mum, the Professor says we need to pay another ten pounds, he announced, panting from a combination of fear and exertion. He’s waiting for me to go back.

Kathy lifted her head from her latest translation and stared at him blankly, her hair unfastening itself from the pencil she used to secure it on the top of her head. After a few seconds, she turned back to her desk, wrapped in her own thoughts.

Please, Mum, Mishka pleaded. He’s waiting.

Kathy sighed and got up from her desk. She wandered towards the small oil-filled radiator and turned it down.

I suppose we’ll have to be careful with this as well. It’s all so expensive. Why doesn’t he give us proper central heating? She turned to Mishka, seeing him for the first time. What did you say he wanted?

Ten pounds. He wants it now!

I’m sure I counted that right. She took her handbag from the back of the door and checked her wallet.

Ah… I only have twenty pounds. Just ask him to give you change, she said, her voice drifting away.

Mishka grabbed the money, glancing at the internal stairs on his way past. It was one flight of stairs, a mere eleven steps, which led directly from their basement flat to the hallway in the main house. It would be so much easier to go up those stairs and into the Professor’s house, Mishka thought, but there was a door at the top which separated the Professor’s house from his. It was locked and always had been.

Too much! the Professor snapped when Mishka thrust the twenty-pound note into his scaly hand. Ach…! The Professor’s face softened for a moment. Wait here a minute.

Mishka stood nervously in the hall, as the Professor started the long climb, up four flights of stairs to the top of the house to secure the right change. He always felt uncomfortable being in the main house. It felt out of sorts, if a house could be out of sorts. The door to the Professor’s study at the front of the house was ajar. He peeped in and saw an ancient wooden desk piled high with papers and musty books that must have been there for centuries, and the chair that Mishka could hear from his bedroom below.

Mishka considered himself an expert at night-time noises. He had worked out exactly where the Professor was according to the sounds he could hear through the ceiling above his bed. They were mostly predictable: the scrape of the chair on the wooden floor as the Professor got up from his desk, the uneven footsteps as he paced down the hallway to the kitchen and the footsteps that started heavy and then got fainter and fainter as he climbed the four flights of stairs to the top of the house. The loudest sounds of all belonged to the grandfather clock, which chimed out deep, rich bongs as it struck each hour, resonating clearly through the floorboards to the flat below.

During the last few evenings, there had been noises coming from upstairs which were different. Mishka had traced them to the room at the front of the house that overlooked the garden. But he had never heard the Professor go into that room, and the sounds were most definitely not footsteps. Or were they? It sounded like something was tapping on the spot. It would last for a few seconds and then stop before starting again. Something was there, he was sure of it, and standing in the hallway, Mishka felt a sudden desire to know the secrets that lay inside that room. The grandfather clock ticked slow and steady. The Professor was pacing about at the top of the house. Mishka tiptoed towards the door, mustering all the courage he had and gingerly tried the handle.

The stairs creaked. The Professor was starting to walk down. Mishka leapt back from the door with a jolt. He felt as if his heart was about to jump out of his body. Now he had a fierce determination to find out what was in that room. To do that, he needed a key to get into the main house through the adjoining door. It would have to be done secretly, without the Professor knowing. But how? Then he saw it: on top of the table in the hall was a small basket of keys.

Could he find the key he needed? He rummaged through them all, desperately looking at the labels. Footsteps resounded on the second floor. He had seconds. He simply had to find that key. Study, bedroom, basement flat. He had it. No, it wasn’t that one. The Professor was on the floor above him, about to come down the last flight of stairs. Finally, he saw the label: Basement flat connecting door. He grabbed the key and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans just as the Professor turned the corner onto the final flight of stairs.

The Professor handed him the change. With all the composure he could muster, Mishka walked slowly and silently out of the front door. The door shut firmly behind him. He wondered what he had just done.

2

The clock strikes midnight

For the rest of the evening, Mishka felt a combination of fear and excitement. He had a momentary flicker of conscience. Had he been stealing? He reassured himself quickly that he wasn’t stealing because he was, of course, going to give the keys back. He was desperate to find out what the unexplained noises were.

He hated their basement flat. It was cold and smelt bad, especially at this time of year. Mum said it smelt of damp. She was always complaining about it because she said it made Vanya’s asthma worse. Mishka could live with the damp, but he hated having to share a bedroom with his brother. Mum said that they had to put up with it because that was all they could afford, and they were lucky they had a flat at a reasonable rent in such a good part of London.

Some hours later, Mishka lay in bed, fighting his desire to sleep. He heard his brother straining to breathe in the bed next to him and glimpsed his mother tiptoe into the room. She encouraged a drowsy Vanya to breathe deeply on his inhaler until Vanya’s breathing calmed and he fell back to sleep. By this stage, Mishka was fully awake. He waited until his mother had gone back to her room, listened for the click of the light switch and the silence that followed. He rummaged under the pillow where he had hidden the keys to the Professor’s house and lay in his bed thinking. Could he really let himself into the Professor’s house without him knowing? He listened to the familiar sound of footsteps from the study above, placing every move. He was now leaving his desk at the window and crossing the room. The footsteps stopped, started again, and then after a few seconds, they left the room, growing fainter as the Professor climbed the stairs to the top of the house.

Mishka waited a bit longer to be absolutely sure. Waves of sleep washed over him, but he was determined not to give in. Something deep inside him was propelling him onwards. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he had a feeling that whatever lay in that room was going to lead him away from his sad, dreary life towards something bigger and brighter.

The Professor had not come downstairs again, so he must be upstairs for the night. It was now or never. Mishka climbed out of bed clutching the key, pulled on his jeans, grabbed his hoody and tiptoed out of the room.

Coats, hats, scarves, gloves, books and bags were strewn all the way up the stairs to the main house. Mishka picked his way around them until he came to the door that separated their flat from the Professor’s hallway. He put his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. There was no light coming from under the door either. He put the key in the lock as quietly as he could manage and turned the key. It was as easy as if it had been used yesterday. Mishka opened the door and looked around the hall that he had last seen in daylight. The orange glow of street lights was just visible through the door to the Professor’s study, enough for Mishka to find his bearings and see the door handle to the room at the back of the house.

The grandfather clock ticked ominously. Mishka glanced upstairs for any sign of life from the Professor and cautiously opened the door. He felt a shiver of excitement as he entered the forbidden room. A ghostly glow from the full moon illuminated the room enough for Mishka to make out shapes all around him. Old upright armchairs around a fireplace, an ancient-looking sofa, a threadbare rug covering the floor and what seemed to be photographs in frames on the mantelpiece. The moonlight was not strong enough for him to see what the photographs were, so he moved tentatively away from the fireplace and towards the bay window that looked over the garden. He longed to play in that garden but only the Professor had access to it. As he reached forward to look out of the window, his hand brushed against something that in the semi-light appeared to be a large piece of furniture. He traced his hand over it. It was a shape he didn’t recognise, a smooth surface, curved at first, and as his hand explored further, he felt leather and thick coarse hair. He drifted into a momentary dream, wondering what it was. And then he realised: it wasn’t furniture at all, it was a rocking horse.

The grandfather clock whirred and started to chime, sounds that Mishka knew only too well, having heard them through the thin floorboards that separated their flat with the main house. In the still of the night, the clock chimes sounded strident and harsh. A shiver went down his spine as if the very sounds themselves had exposed him as a trespasser and a thief. He suddenly had a desperate need to get back to his own bed. The clock struck eleven. He gathered himself, ready to run. One more chime, and midnight, the bewitching hour, arrived in the gloomy