Mooney and Spacee and the Tree o' Wishes: A very very scary story with an evil giant, lots of hungry monsters and other ludicrous stuff

By Glenn Morley

What would you do if you were lost in an alien land full of danger, lies, stupidity, duplicity, insanely clever traps, ravenous apex-predators and, to top it all off, the legendarily sarcastic child-eating, mushroom-scoffing, poetry-reciting ogre called Borborygm (the scariest monster ever invented in literature) … and then you find everything in this land wants to eat you too?
You’d try and find a way to get back home, right?
This is exactly the situation that Mooney and Spacee have found themselves in. There’s just one hope: Steal the Tree o’ Wishes. It’s all very simple really. Except Borborygm has it.
‘I devoured War and Peace but this is so much better. Shorter too.’ Jillian (15 years)
‘...a heart-rending, mind-cracking, sanity-pounding tour de force.’ Leanne (11 years)
‘I loved the swearing.’ Darlene (9 years)
‘Don’t buy this book.’ Darlene’s mum

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398432222

Glenn Morley

Glenn Morley is from Melbourne, Australia. When he was seven, he went to a park to find owl bones for a black magic ritual. There were no bones. Just acorns (just as well, black magic is dangerous). He cried. He’s now respected and responsible. He’s a psychiatric nurse. He loves life and loves laughing. He has clownfish. They drive him crazy, but they juggle well. Glenn loves writing wacky words, thinking about the multiverse, moons, graves, ghouls, great quests, and clever fools.

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About the Author

Glenn Morley is from Melbourne, Australia. When he was seven, he went to a park to find owl bones for a black magic ritual. There were no bones. Just acorns (just as well, black magic is dangerous). He cried. He’s now respected and responsible. He’s a psychiatric nurse. He loves life and loves laughing. He has clownfish. They drive him crazy, but they juggle well. Glenn loves writing wacky words, thinking about the multiverse, moons, graves, ghouls, great quests, and clever fools.

Dedication

For Brian and Barbara. They had me. They nurtured me. They encouraged me. They took the good with the bad. Can’t ask more than that.

Copyright Information ©

Glenn Morley 2024

The right of Glenn Morley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398432215 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398432222 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

This book would not exist without Brian Morley. As I’ve always said to him: ‘they’re your #@^&’n characters’. Thanks Dad. The support and encouragement have been unending. In no particular order to avoid jealousy, starting from Barbara (the amazing artist and image-maker), Jon, Stan, Chris, James, Nick and Rian Morley; April Seymore (design thinker and idea bouncer extraordinaire), Katie Evans (super mentor), Catherine Heath (super editor), Writers Victoria, Gosia Kaszubska, the Inkerman Hotel and its fine employees, Stuart Purves and the Australian Galleries Benzo and Birdie the longdogs (my beloved hounds), Austin Macauley editorial and illustration team and ultimately the Big Bang. Also, I would like to thank Talia, Grace and Tilly – my wonderful proof-readers and critics. From now on the length and breadth of the support of the people (and fish and coral) who’ve listened patiently while I’ve banged on about this thing is written in lemon-infused invisible ink on the back of this page. Be pleased it’s only one page. It could well be two or even three (and Gog only knows you’ve got a few to get through yet). Anyway – here’s a hint to find your name – get an iron. Good luck to you all.

This story is true.

(If anyone tells you otherwise, don’t listen to them.)

Act I

The Lightside of a Moon

(A moon somewhere, out there, just like ours…)

(…except for a couple of things.)

Chapter 1

Mooney was running.

Fast.

Sprinting down a narrow winding path he strode,

panting

not hard

but panting.

He stretched out through the forest and glanced around.

Trees.

Lots of trees.

They lined the path: long, tall, smooth; almost perfect white trunks, with majestic outflung boughs that reached out, out, then up and up to a glorious green canopy so large it blotted out the sky.

As far as the eye could see, the woods stretched. It was a vast, wide, timberland—and he was ripping it up.

Mooney looked down at the magic pear in his hand.

With a grin he looked left as the trees rushed by, their great roots snaking into the ground beneath an immaculate mat of olive—coloured grass, growing lush and thick, moving with the breeze, swaying in gentle waves…

‘Wrooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr…’

Uh oh.

(The giant was gaining.)

Mooney felt a whoossssshhh of putrid breath on his shoulder as the ogre let rip with a mighty growl.

‘Grrrrrrrrwooooooooaaaaarrrrrrrrrr…’

(Whooo, gaining fast…)

‘Feef! I’ll get you, you feef! Grrrrrrrrrrrrr whooooarrrrr rr rr aaarrrr rrr.’

Mooney felt the air swooossh as the giant took a swipe at him with his razor—keen claws.

Then, he heard a crash and a smash as his great fist, the size of two big loaves of bread, busted a small tree to bits with its follow—through. But Mooney was fast and had energy to burn, so he sped up and quickly gained ground. After a while he slowed and looked behind him. He adjusted his goggles to bright (for night) The track was clear for the moment, though the air carried the marauding monster’s roars of frustration and the sharp cracks of pain from the rooted trees that stood in his course. Mooney looked ahead.

The path wound its way through the forest. Wound and wound it went, twisting and turning, bending, veering and meandering; it seemed to go on forever. Mooney sped up.

As he ran, he looked left and spied a large bird with glorious purple plumage and magnificent wings spread, sweeping and swooping*, following his progress.

(Okay—every time you see bold font words with an asterix (*) appear in this terrible yarn, go to the glosssary* at the end of the book and read more. You can do it as you come across them in this crazy adventure or after you’ve read the book—it’s up to you. Then there will be a test. Yep, a test. Deal with it. Now, back to it.) The majestic bird was flying, weaving seamlessly among the low—slung branches matching Mooney’s pace—in and out and over and through—then it landed, perfectly, on a low—hanging bough to watch the pantomime of the chase. It clacked its hooked beak in approval.

After a while, Mooney thought he was far enough ahead so he turned a turn, hid behind a tree and quickly (but gently) put the pear in the pocket of his jacket.

He leaned down and picked up some ammo* (a clunky moonrock) He felt its weight. In his palm, it felt good (just the right size) He crouched (and listened)

The sound of murdered trees crashing to the ground loomed large as the furious giant shouted and roared and raged bloody murder as he barged and smashed his way through the rich vegetation.

As Borborygm rounded the corner, a crouching Mooney suddenly bounced out onto the path from behind the tree, spread his arms out wide, then yelled, ‘CLEAR!’ and chucked the rock straight at the hideous ogre.

It smacked into the giant’s forehead—thwack—then burst and splintered into a puff of dust that floated gently to the ground. The rock left a big red welt right between the giant’s eyes.

‘Nice.’

But this just made the giant mad.

‘Fwwrrrrrrroooooaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggghhhh…’

(Whooooooo, really mad.) The ogre lifted his massive feet and stomped and stamped and huffed and puffed on the spot with a fury even he’d never known.

‘I’wll make you my dinner, boy.’ Mooney laughed.

‘Dinner? Moi*? As if! C’mon, catch me if you can, you lumpy lingering lard bucket.’

Mooney deftly turned and sped off, but he wasn’t looking where he was going and slammed—smack—right into the tree he’d previously been hiding behind. Stunned, he fell on his bum.

‘Oof.’

The giant saw his opportunity…

‘Wroooooaaaaaaaaarrrrrwwwwwww.’

Mooney tried to scramble up but he kept slipping, slipping, slipping on the strange green seedpods that had gathered underneath the tree.

(In his panic, his legs had lost their mind.)

‘Woooooooaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggg.’

The giant charged: teeth gnashing, nostrils flaring, bulbous leathery lips blubbering and spluttering; his hairy arms were swinging wildly and excitedly in preparation for squashing the annoying little pest into a paste for toast.

Mooney was scratching and scrabbling, trying to get a grip. The giant was closing the gap—he could feel it (sense it) but then, just when he thought he was a goner, Mooney got purchase and with one last skid, he dodged and spun away as a massive fist swished past his head and hammered into the ground:

Thud! Mooney felt the ground vibrate such was the force of the blow. Relieved, moving quickly down the path, he turned and waggled a pair of fingers at the giant, laughing loudly.

‘See ya later, butterball! Ha ha.’

The ogre slowed and groaned, spent, unfit, (and, let’s not forget, terribly insulted)

‘WAAAAAAAWWWWGGH! Oh, yaw SOOOOO fast, but I’wll get you boy,’ he roared hoarsely.

‘I’wll get you. And I always get what’s mine.’

But his insolent prey, for the moment, had got away. Mooney slowed to a jog and then to a walk. The large bird landed on a thick—knotted branch. It clacked and cackled and ruffled its purple feathers. That was a very good chase, it thought. Maybe even 8.573 out of 10. (It was truly a tough judge.) As for Mooney, he panted and then moved onto the olive grass carpet for a bit of a rest.

‘Phew.’

He lay on his back. The tall grass bent, adjusted to his shape and then sprang up past his nose. In fact, if he lay down for long enough, it would soon hide him from view. He looked up at the green sky foliage and reached into his jacket pocket. Mooney pulled out the pear and held it high in front of his face.

(It wasn’t just any old pear. Oh no.)

It was a glittering, glistening, shimmering shiny ruby—red pear. Soft to the touch—even gentle—yet firm, with perfect, beautiful curves that caught the light then spat it out in shards like a splintering sun. Its colour was deep and hypnotising. Not red, not purple, not magenta—not nothing except f—a—b*. (Smelt nice too.) A bite beckoned Mooney (just a taste) But then he heard a rumble… or rather he felt a rumble:

First in his toes (it was just a slight sensation—an inkling perhaps, that something wasn’t quite right) then it was in his feet (a bit more urgent now) up the legs; and then it was all over him, into his head. (Go!) The ground started shaking and vibrating; it was crumbling around his feet.

Mooney leapt up and started to run again—legs pumping, arms pushing—faster, faster, harder, harder, faster, faster, faster…(C’mon!) but he was going nowhere. (Faster!) His legs were moving (C’mon!) but he was going nowhere. (FASTER!) The ground was disappearing and a hole was opening up beneath him (opening wide) (C’MON!) Mooney was about to be devoured by a hungry mouth in the ground (staring a mouth in the face, so to speak.) Then he fell: falling…felling…falling, falling, flailing, deep, deep, deep, deep, into space. On his way down he could hear a low, evil chuckle:

‘I told you I get what’s mine, boy, and I always get what’s mine.’

Chapter 2

Light streamed through the window. It was morning on the moon. Mooney woke and sat up with a start. He scratched his neck, put his goggles on, and pondered his dream.

‘Whoooah, that was a good one.’

It was the third night in a row he’d had that nightmare. It was getting stronger, more vivid. It was as if Dad’s stories were coming alive in his dreams. He kicked his leg out and hit the lump in the bunk above him.

‘Wake up, Space.’

Space yawned, stretched and jumped down.

‘Come on then. And don’t tell me what to do.’

The twins bounded* down the hall (well, it was more like a tunnel, really) that led from their bedroom to the living area. Mooney took the time to give his sister a pinch. She took the time to reply (but a little bit harder)

‘Yeow!’

Spacee smiled. She loved getting her brother back. He started. She finished. That’s how it was. They silently turned the corner to the smells of a brewing breakfast and saw Mum flitting about in the kitchen and a doubled—over pyjama—clad Dad tinkering with some strange jumble of stuff on the table. Business as usual. Mooney went to Mum to see what was on the menu. Spacee went to Dad to investigate his organised chaos.

‘Whatcha doing, Dad?’

‘I’m working on the helihats toots.’

Dad worked at the icemines*, but his real loves were telling stories and inventing things (including silly nicknames) Some of his inventions were deadset dodgy but some were actually very clever. (Take, for instance, his fluoroflour. Mum used it when she baked. It came in very handy when it was time to clean up all the crumbs left by messy eaters. Just turn out the light and there they appeared, glowing!) But his latest greatest invention was the helihat.

Good ol’ grandiose*, Dad said the helihat was going to change people’s lives forever. Whenever he got the chance, he loved to point out that their ‘inevitable’ success would make the family totally rich. (A grand claim for sure; but it did have some merit.) Dad was an optimist. A glass half—full sort of guy.

‘When these things take off* I’ll get out of the icemines and we’ll all go on a holiday for life,’ Dad would say.

‘I’d like to see that,’ Mum would say.

It was not an unusual response from her, at least in response to him. Dad’s helihats were sturdy skullcaps, each with a propeller sitting on top, which fitted snugly over the head. There was a small powerpack and a propeller—speed knob at the back. Thin silver wires were woven through the fabric of the hat, connecting the powerpack to the propeller. A thick padded chinstrap secured the hat cosily to the head.

Dad picked one up from the table and put it over Spacee’s shock of long red ringlets, testing for size. He flicked the propeller playfully.

It spun smoothly.

‘Nice.’

He took it off her again. Spacee looked disappointed. She loved his inventions.

‘Da—aaad.’

He winked.

‘They’re not safe yet, dollface. I’m sorry but you’re just going to have to wait.’

(Now, if there was anything Spacee really hated, it was waiting. That and homework, though it wasn’t so much the homework itself she disliked, just the fact she had to do it.) Dad’s hats were quite ingenious, really, and they worked as thus: after a quick overhead flick the propeller started to spin—slowly, slowly at first, but then faster, faster, faster, gaining momentum—eventually (theoretically) generating just enough power to lift the wearer just a foot off the ground. Just a foot, that’s all.

(Theoretically.)

Then the wearer would fly and steer simply by tilting their head in the right direction.

(The beauty of the concept was the fact that it was assisted by the moon’s low gravity*, which meant it wasn’t too hard to lift someone a foot off the ground because gravity made lunehoomins* light—even fat ones.) But (and there’s always a ‘but’) the trick was to get the power right.

So far, Dad had had ‘limited’ success.

His first trial, on the family’s pet moonminx*, ended up with everyone having to vacate their cave and then wait and watch through the kitchen window for hours as the savagely swerving cat bounced off ceilings and into walls. It crashed into saucepans and smashed the dishes and broke all the light globes…

The only reason the horribly fascinatingly erratic air show came to an end was that the cat in the hat got caught (as for sure it ought) in the ceiling fan spinning in the lounge and Dad was able to go in and grab the shattered feline, who, unfortunately, had punctured an eyeball on a broken light bulb.

An apologetic Dad said it was, ‘a classic example of not having the power quite right just yet’.

The family started calling their pet ‘Popeye’ after that. It certainly seemed to suit but it didn’t do much for the poor thing’s dignity.

The twins had their own helihats ‘specially fitted’. They loved to wear them around (they were Spacee’s obsession) in fact, they wore them all the time but were ‘expressly forbidden’ to try to use them (especially after the Popeye incident) and they’d be in ‘big trouble’ if they got caught. But they hadn’t been. (Yet.) Besides, they couldn’t use them right now anyway. The hats needed a key to power up and since the moonminx mess—up, and (in particular) since the local newspaper’s airing of the community’s safety concerns, Dad had devised a key card and lock system for the powerpacks, just so ‘little heads’ wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Popeye.

He hid the key in what he thought was a really sneaky, very clever they’ll—never—find—it spot*. Still, at least they knew the hats flew. (That was positive.)…Mum was mixing up breakfast.

‘What’s the story toots?’

Mum turned and looked somewhat disapprovingly at her husband; Mooney was a great mimic.

‘What’s the story?’

She gave his curly black hair a ruffle.

‘What’s happenin’?’

‘What’s happenin’? Happen … …ing?’

‘Sjit*, Mum.’

‘I’ll give you sjit, potty mouth.’

‘Uh, sorry. Happening. Happening. Happen—ing. What’s for brekky, Ma?’

‘Rock cakes.’

‘Rock cakes?’ Mooney said, reeling in mock horror. ‘Whoooah, you kill me. How about Krunchy Krrls?’

Mum looked down at him and smiled. ‘Krunchy Krrls for breakfast? I kill you indeed. They, not me, will kill you. Your teeth will rot on the spot and you’ll be all gums like a bum. No, we’re having rock cakes, babe.’

‘Nice. Whatcha doing today?’

‘More work on the obelix*.’

‘Any news?’

‘Nup. Still trying to work out what all those figures and engravings mean. But we’re getting closer. When I know you’ll know.’

‘No hints?’

Dad spoke up from the table.

‘Here’s one: The only good cracks are wise cracks.’

Mum smiled.

‘Sage words. Stay away from cracks, Moonesy.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Oh, sooo sorry.’ She smiled.

‘Now, shouldn’t you lot be getting ready for the day?’ She looked towards her partner in parenthood. The twins shot glances towards Dad. Shower time. Dad really wasn’t that good at inventing things. (This they all knew.) But they cared not. No, he wasn’t a great inventor. But… (and as we know there’s always a ‘But!’) he was a great storyteller. He told them ripping yarns while he showered before he went to work and before they went to school.

Pre—prepared in their school uniforms, they’d sit cross—legged in the bathroom and get lost in the fog while he scrubbed his back and scraped his chin and told them the story about the Tree o’ Wishes: the most precious treasure ever known and ever grown. The story about the evil, sarcastic*, poetry—reciting, child—eating giant called Borborygm who guarded this ‘most precious treasure’ on the mythical, forbidden Darkside of their moon.

He told them about the legendary underworld creatures of the Darkside—about terrible lizards and terrestrial septopi*, about will o’ the wisps and carnivorous slime and tree—dwelling skellingtons that cracked jokes and laughed while they boiled up then ate those unfortunate travellers who crossed their path.

He told them the classic, very, very, very scary fable about an epic quest undertaken by two unlikely heroes who dared to try to defeat Borborygm and steal the most magical possession in the multiverse*.

And they loved it.

Chapter 3

Now, before we go on, we need to get a couple of things straight. Mooney and Spacee don’t live like you or I do. They live in a world of caverns underneath the craters on the Lightside of a moon (out there, somewhere, just like ours) (Look up sometime when the night sky is clear and the moon is full. Find the biggest crater then go right a bit. They’d be under there.) Mooney and Spacee, Mum and Dad, and all their friends live in caves that bore into the walls of what could only be described as a tremendous, rocky, flat—bottomed bowl. The housings on the side, in the cliffs, and the city, called Olinda, sits in the bottom.

A long meandering path, the path to school and work, curls its way slowly down and around the rock face like a giant corkscrew, past the caves then finally down to the city where everyone spends their days.

But the caves they live in, aren’t just any old caves. Oh no. They’re special caves—snug affairs with thick rugs, fluffy cushions, lush velvet curtains, carved stone furniture, artificial petrified—wood electric heaters, ceiling fans, light globes aplenty and lots of indoor plants.

Some caves have sixty rooms, some ten. Some rooms have twenty—foot ceilings, some crouching room only. But no matter what the size, they are all cosy, comfy and warm. It’s the doors that really stand out, though. (They have to. After all, a cave from the outside, looks, errr, just like a cave.) People make their homes conspicuous by adopting all manner of ways to make their doors visible: great knockers, strange colour schemes, queer doorbells and even their names emblazoned in gaudy fluorescent announcements. (Mooney and Spacee have a propeller on theirs. Spacee spins it for luck, every time she leaves home.) Olinda is quite a large (some would say) medieval—style city with lots of carved curved buildings built among the libraries and bakeries and foundries that snuggle next to the shops and factories and nurseries. All are split by a labyrinth of narrow cobblestoned streets that carry the echoes of the footsteps of a hundred generations of iceminers, stonemasons and plant growers.

(Don’t ask me how day and night work on this moon; suffice it to say that the lunehoomins and the multiverse have it all figured out, so don’t worry about it.) In the middle of Olinda, is the city square. And in the middle of the square stands the most remarkable thing: a tall five—sided stone obelix.

Carved into its façade are strange symbols, weird figures, incomprehensible letters and the terrifying image of an ogre on a murderous feasting rampage. The hieroglyphs* seem to be a warning, but the interpretation of that warning, thus far, in the history of their existence, has eluded all the moon folk of the Lightside.

But what they do know is that it all centres around the dreaded legend of Borborygm the Blasted. (But that’s all it is, right? A legend?) The obelix is a constant, perplexing presence for the city dwellers. It is also Mum’s specialty. It’s her job to find out what it all means.

Olinda is the biggest of the three cities that make up the Lightside. All are linked by tunnels that form