For Angus in Wimbledon
‘I’m not sure about this at all!’ said Maurice. ‘The fact is, we are walking into nothing… I can’t see anything!’ Then in an undertone, ‘Does that dog know what he’s up to? I mean how do we know that he knows what he’s doing?’
The others had to admit that he did have a point. They had now been walking for some time. The island with the Artist and his little girl was fading into the distance, and all around them was nothing but white. It was like walking through a thick fog, except that there wasn’t any fog. There wasn’t anything. Just white.
‘It’s sort of amazing!’ said Mifanwy. ‘It’s like being in the middle of a dream, except that we are awake.’
Diego, who had been leading the way in a purposeful fashion, turned his head and looked at them. ‘It’s a blank page you know,’ he said wisely.
The others were feeling too tired and dispirited to enjoy either of those remarks, so nobody said anything. They carried on walking.
After what seemed like ages, Diego stopped again. ‘Listen.’
‘Yes?’ chorused the Minimice.
‘I think I can hear something…’
They stood silently, trying to listen.
In the distance there was a very faint hissing, bubbling noise. They waited.
Diego smiled triumphantly. ‘Ha! I thought so! Smell that!’
‘How can you smell a noise?’ muttered Michael, irritably.
‘That, my friend,’ declared Diego, ignoring him, ‘Is coffee. And where there is coffee, it is highly likely, that there will be a writer.’ He nodded. ‘Writers and coffee often go together. Didn’t you know?’
‘You mean,’ said Mifanwy, ‘that if we follow the smell, we’ll find the edge of the page?’
‘That,’ affirmed Diego, ‘Is exactly what I mean. Come along, my mousy friends! Let’s go!’
And he sprinted off at top speed, with the Minimice in hot pursuit.
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