box. There they were, sitting in her hand, turning and moving as if they were alive.
Take us to the windmill, Polly, the stones seemed to whisper inside her head. Take us to the windmill!
‘But there aren’t no windmills in Lamonic Bibber,’ Polly frowned sleepily. ‘You only gets windmills in foreign countries like Indostralia an’ the United States of Wales, don’t you?’
Take us to the windmill, the stones seemed to whisper again. It is our Destiny.
‘No,’ said Polly, more firmly this time. ‘It’s jus’ my imaginations an’ I’m not a-listenin’!’
Awww, go on, take us, said the pink one. It’ll be a laugh.
We’d take YOU to the windmill if YOU wanted to go, said the white one.
‘For the last time, NO!’ cried Polly in her dream. But unable to help herself, she was getting up anyway. She was getting up and opening her bedroom door. Now she was standing in the bathroom brushing her teeth . . .
No time for dental hygiene, whispered the stones. Take us to the windmill!
‘Honestly,’ said Polly crossly. ‘Don’t you two ever think ’bout nothin’ but a-goin’ to windmills?’
Not really, whispered the stones. It is our Destiny.
‘Well, it’s my Destiny to go back to bed right now an’ dream of friendly ponies instead,’ replied Polly. But even as she said this she was gazing at the stones as if entranced, thinking how pretty they looked . . .
And before she knew it she was out the front door and underneath the stars. It was very late. Not a soul saw her as she made her way down to the river, gliding along soundlessly in her bare feet. High above the moon shone like a silver coin from the Olden Days, and glancing up, Polly saw a dreadful thing – for the moon was changing, changing before her very eyes.
Round and round whizzed the moon’s silvery disc . . . Now it seemed like the sails of a great windmill, turning and turning in the sky above . . . And now it changed to become a huge loaf of freshly baked bread . . . But then the bread was burning, burning, until it was nothing more than cinders and ashes . . . And then it changed once more to become a face that Polly knew only too well. A horrifying face with a big red beard, a face with two angry bloodshot eyes . . .
‘Mr Gum!’ Polly cried out. ‘What’s that beardy old criminal doin’ here? Even in dreams, he is the worst!’
But then the awful vision was gone and the moon was just the moon again. Except it still had a bit of Mr Gum’s beard on by accident. And part of his nose.
‘I don’t like this dream,’ said Polly as she walked along. The warm wind ruffled her pyjamas and the grass swished secretly at her feet. ‘I wants to wake up,’ she whimpered. ‘I really truly does.’
But the stones in her hand had other ideas.
Keep walking, Polly, they whispered softly. We’re nearly there.
And how could Polly resist? Those stones were so pretty, so pretty in the moonlight . . .
On she went. In the Old Meadow a field mouse swooped down and carried off a barn owl in its sharp claws. A fox prowled slyly through the hedgerows selling cheap lighters and stolen DVDs. A badger slid past, brushing lightly against Polly’s ankle. But Polly noticed nothing except the stones in her hand, pulsing softly with an eerie pink–white light.
But where was that light leading her? Further along the Lamonic River she went and further still, further than the children of the town were ever allowed to venture. Until rounding a wide bend in the riverbank, Polly came upon a place she had never before seen. Here the bushes grew thick and wild. Here the trees crowded gloomily overhead. And here, half-hidden among the weeds was a rickety wooden bridge like the one in that famous fairy tale, The Troll Who Wanted To Eat Some Goats. A rickety wooden bridge that led across the water towards –
‘A windmill,’ whispered Polly in fascination. ‘There really is a windmill in Lamonic Bibber!’
Yes, there it stood, silhouetted against the starry velvet night. Perhaps it had once been a jolly sight, pointing towards the sky like a lovely wooden ice cream as children and tulips danced around it doing their games. But no longer. Its red paint was peeling and faded. The wooden boards had rotted away in places, leaving dark gaping holes where I bet you anything there were rats. And the whole thing leaned lopsidedly towards the river, as if beckoning Polly to come closer. But Polly didn’t want to come closer. The more she stared at the windmill the less she liked it.
Over the bridge now, Polly! the stones whispered eagerly. Just a few more steps and then we’ll be there!
‘No way, things of clay!’ Polly told them with as much strength as she could muster. ‘I’m not a-goin’ anywhere near that old spooker, so unlucky, you lose! I’m a-goin’ homes right now!’
But you know what dreams are like – sometimes you just can’t control your own two feet, or your own zero feet if you are dreaming about being a snake. Before she knew it, Polly was gliding across the rickety wooden bridge, straight for the windmill. Its broken doorway gaped darkly ahead, as if it wished to swallow her up for a midnight feast. And then Polly saw the most awful thing of all . . .
Because high up in that windmill a face appeared at the window, a face that Polly knew only too well. A horrifying face with a big red beard, a face with two angry bloodshot eyes . . .
‘MR GUM AGAIN!’ shrieked Polly in utter terror. ‘IT’S MR GUM AN’ THAT CAN’T MEAN NOTHIN’ BUT EVILS!’
But her feet were still moving forward. With mounting horror she felt herself take a step towards the windmill. Then another.
Then another.
‘NOOOOOO!’ cried Polly, starting awake. Her heart was pounding and for one frightful moment she thought she was in the windmill’s building-y clutches – but no. She was lying in her own bed, safe as a rectangle.
‘Thank the Forces of Good,’ she panted. ‘It was all just a bad dreamer what wasn’t real whatsonever, so shut up if you say it was!’
But that’s when Polly saw that she was holding the stones in her hand.
‘No,’ she moaned. ‘No, it can’t be! I locked ’em up in my jewellery box ’fore I wents to bed!’
Trembling, she threw back the covers – and there was all the evidence she needed. Her bare feet were filthy with grass and mud from the
