Alexandra Adornetto - The Shadow Thief

This book is dedicated to my Grandfather and everyone else out there who refuses to grow up.

Selected for the White Ravens Awards 2008

Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. How awful! she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap.

Peter Pan and Wendy

J.M. Barrie

W hen you open a book and take a first hesitant glance at the page before you, the crucial factor that determines whether to continue reading or discard the book in disappointment is the opening sentence. After pondering long and hard over the opening sentence of this particular book, I have come to the conclusion that you must write it yourself. Sadly, if you are a person who is a little short on imagination, you might come up with such opening sentences as: Once upon a time, Long, long ago or Far, far away in a magical land BORING! You are going to have to do better than that in order to do justice to the incredible story about to unfold. Perhaps it may help you to actually read a little of this story before making a decision, as we all know that opening sentences written in haste are never a wise idea. As far as beginnings go, one of my all-time favourites has to be: All children, except one, grow up. An opening like that cannot help but capture your attention! So, whilst you gather your thoughts on opening sentences, I should probably stop burbling and begin to tell the story, which is the reason you opened this book in the first place.

As it happens, this story involves a girl, a young and rather pretty girl, with the unfortunate (although admittedly highly original) name of Millipop Klompet. Of course, on the odd occasion when Millipop spoke to a person long enough for them to ask her name, she made sure to leave out the last three letters and was always quick to say that she was not given a surname due to strong religious reasons. So, due to strong religious reasons, throughout this book I shall refer to her simply as Milli.

This book also involves a town: a town called Drabville, which was the place where Milli was born and lived with her family. Drabville was an orderly town presided over by a Mr and Mrs Mayor, who were both popular and much admired. They made regular public appearances to report town news, snip ribbons at the unveiling of new buildings, launch new initiatives and give out Citizen of the Week awards. The people of Drabville were very proud of the Mayors and their exemplary town. Problems such as poverty, crime and unemployment had been eradicated by the implementation of a series of restrictions known as the Code of Conduct. This code comprised a set of rules that everyone was happy to abide by even if it meant the loss of small freedoms. For example, citizens were prevented from wearing colours other than black, beige or mushroom in the streets. Children were not allowed out to play after four oclock in the afternoon, and venturing out of doors without the Drabville crest displayed somewhere on your person could incur a hefty fine. There were severe chastisements for the breaking of any rules, but breaches rarely occurred, for few citizens of Drabville had any desire to break the rules.

Milli found the sameness of her town insufferable but inescapable. Every house was designed by the same architect, or, should I say, the architect designed one house and every other was replicated in its image. They were even painted the same colours: grey, with shiny black doors and brass doorknockers. The identical rectangular lawns sat side by side, not one branch of the knotted black trees lining the streets was out of place, and the square slabs of concrete making up the footpath were not blemished with even the smallest of stains. A greyness pervaded Drabville so thick that it not only obscured sunlight but drained the colour out of everything. Because of it butterflies were rarely seen, owls were wide awake at midday and silhouettes, had they been detectable, would probably have been mistaken for ogres. The town was dead, Milli thought; you could search its every nook and cranny and not find a single speck of individuality or colour.

For some time Milli had sensed something missing in the townsfolk too, but as she was unable to explain it to herself, there seemed little point in raising it with anyone else. She couldnt say exactly what it was that had left them, but she knew it was something important, something invaluable. Milli did not know at the time this story begins that it would be up to her to restore it to them.

Milli led rather a solitary life. Her mother had died when she was just four years old, so, regrettably, they never got the chance to know each other well. Although her memories of her mother were blurred, there were three things Milli did remember quite distinctly. The first was her mothers name, Enid Rosemary Klompet, which worked like a mantra for dispelling the bout of insomnia that inevitably followed a nightmare. The second was the coolness of her mothers hands the touch of which had never failed to soothe her out of a tantrum. The third was simply her mothers pet name for her, which no one used any more: Little Millipede.

Nobody would speak to Milli about her mothers death or the exact circumstances surrounding it. Instead, they muttered uncomfortably behind their teacups about unfortunate accidents and hurriedly changed the subject. Over time, Milli had learned not to bring the matter up with neighbours or townsfolk, but it did not stop her wishing they might occasionally make reference to her mother in conversation or at least enquire whether Milli missed her. But they never did. They were all far too busy discussing how the indistinguishable flowers in their gardens were thriving or what decoration to choose for the crust of the pie they were next going to bake. You are probably wondering why Milli didnt ask her own family to tell her about her mother, but, you see, Millipop Klompet belonged to the most un-ordinary of families.

Her older sister, Dorkus, had not ventured outside her bedroom for two and a half years for fear of being eaten by one electrical appliance or another, and was convinced beyond reason that the family dog, Stench, was a spy working for an undercover government organisation. Then there was Millis father, the only other person in the house to confide in. Milli might well have tried confiding in him had he been able to concentrate long enough on what she had to say.

Mr Klompet had always been a dreamer, but since the loss of his wife he lived in a permanent state of distraction. He was the sort of person who could sit staring at a jar of Honeylik Seeds for hours on end and thought that the height of entertainment was making smiley faces out of the remains of his breakfast.

Millis father was a baker and worked five days a week running the town bakery, kneading, rolling and cooking the breads and pastries to perfection. Milli often marvelled at the way he did exactly the same thing every single day and still looked forward to going to work in the morning.

In their own kitchen, Mr Klompet enjoyed creating exotic, if sometimes peculiar, dishes and had once attempted to bake pea pods filled with toffee in order to combine the flavours of savoury and sweet. The result had been disastrous enough to put Milli off both peas and toffee for the rest of her life. But Mr Klompet was not so easily disheartened. Although some of his experimental cooking was quite horrifying, there were some creations that were quite incredible, like his honey-dipped pear strudel presented in the shape of the Swiss Alps. It was Mr Klompets dream to broaden his repertoire and perhaps one day make a passionfruit strudel. But apples and pears were all that were available in Drabville, as the more exotic fruits were prohibited due to the mood-changing properties they contained.