There I was, plucking out a peaceful little ditty on my guitar, lying belly-up on my bed in the box room of Number 12, Gravy Stain Lane, Sorry, England. The strings hummed gently beneath my fingers like bees politely requesting tea. It was the only time of day I felt remotely human – well, I say human, but I’ve never technically been one.
I suppose I should start from the top. My name’s Maurice Howard, and I have a magical scar that changes shape every few hours. Sometimes it’s a lightning bolt, sometimes it’s a bowl of pasta. One time, during a dentist appointment, it turned into the entire cast of Cats. Not ideal.
I wasn’t born here on Earth, you see. I was blasted here in a magical space rocket when I was just a baby, because the Grim Reaper – yes, the Grim Reaper, who also goes by "Death" on Tuesdays – attacked my home village back on the planet Wizadora. He and his crew of skeletal scoundrels came sweeping through like a black metal band on tour, and my parents, being the emotionally responsible type, stuffed me into a rocket and said, “Go be weird somewhere else.”
I crash-landed in Sorry – and no, that’s not a typo, that’s the name of the village. Sorry, England. Populated mostly by elderly joggers and people who start every sentence with “I’m not racist, but—”
I was taken in by a family called the Durbies. A non-magical household, which on Wizadora are known as Borings. Aptly named, I might add.
Mrs Tuna Durby is the one with a heart, if slightly overcooked. She’s a round woman with eyes like milky marbles and a soft spot for unusual children. She always told me, “Maurice, your technotronic magic is a gift, not an infection.” Technotronic magic, by the way, is magic that involves gadgets, sparks, and the occasional mild explosion. Very trendy on Wizadora.
Mr Vermin Durby, her husband, is... less nurturing. He treats me like a recurring rash in sock form. "The boy’s been at the toaster again," he’d grumble. "Last week he made it play jazz." For the record, it was funk fusion, and the bread was perfectly crispy.
Then there’s their son, Dinky. Dinky is a lad of very few words, unless you count “FOOD!” shouted with varying levels of urgency. He eats like he’s on fire and bacon is the extinguisher. I have developed a deep emotional trauma associated with the smell of frying pork.
Because of my "abnormality," I’ve never been sent to school. This meant I was free to roam the house during weekdays like some kind of mysterious, enchanted rodent. Mrs Tuna would often ask, “What’ve you been up to, dear?” while Mr Vermin yelled from another room, “He’s wrecking the kettle again!” (For the record, the kettle wanted to be a fog machine.)
Anyway, back to tonight. I was playing my guitar – a rather wonky instrument I salvaged from a charity shop and bewitched to tune itself depending on my mood – when I noticed something odd in the sky. A bright light, getting closer.
“Probably another falling satellite,” I muttered. “Or Mr Vermin’s sense of humour returning from the dead.”
The light got really close. Then I realised, oh... no... that’s not a light. That’s a meteor.
It hit me square in the stomach like a flaming cosmic football and bounced onto the floor. I collapsed to my knees, wheezing. The meteor cracked open like a Cadbury's Creme Egg from hell, lava seeping out... and inside it was... a baby bird.
All skin. All bone. All ugly.
I reached out. It screeched like a kettle having an existential crisis and exploded into feathers. Moments later, standing before me was a majestic, silvery-grey owl with deeply unsettling realistic human eyes. The kind you’d expect to find on a tax auditor, not a bird.
“About bloomin’ time,” said the owl, in a thick Boro accent. “I’ve been orbitin’ three days just tryin’ to find you. Useless, the lot of yer.”
“Are... you my real dad?” I asked, unsure what else to say.
“Don’t be daft. I’m your postal bird.”
He coughed up an envelope, shoved it into my chest, then promptly shot back out the window in a swirl of wings and sarcasm, muttering something about “bloody kids” and “no gratitude.”
The envelope was slightly singed and made of some kind of crinkly star parchment. I opened it. It read:
Dear Master Maurice Howard,
Congratulations! You have been selected to attend Hogwash School of Machines & Magic on the planet Wizadora. Please arrive promptly via portal owl. Enclosed is your permission slip for day trips to the enchanted village of Hogsfeet, known for its sugary exports and lax safety regulations.
Sincerely,
Vice Principal Shnarkleblimp
Well. I’ll admit it. My mind went straight to sweets. Caramel wands. Fizzy spiders. Possibly a licorice moose. I could barely contain my excitement.
It made perfect sense, really. Mrs Tuna did work as an astronomer, though she called it "documenting possibly real space gossip.” She had books with titles like Wizadora and Other Things I Probably Imagined, and Alien Love Affairs: The Constellation Years.
I flopped back onto my bed and resumed my guitar strumming, now with a little extra zing in the chords.
Then came that voice from the wall next door.
“BOY! STOP THAT RACKET!”
Mr Vermin. Right on cue.
I heard Mrs Tuna whispering, “Oh let him play, love. He’s really quite good.”
“I DON’T CARE IF HE’S JIMMY FLAMIN’ PAGE! Aunt Marjorine’s coming tomorrow and I want this house PERFECT!”
I froze.
Aunt Marjorine.
The horror.
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