‘I don’t care if it is old. I like old things.

’ Caitlin shook out the green dress she’d

just discovered in the attic. She was sure Hannah was just jealous. ‘Just because
you only like new things doesn’t mean old things aren’t just as lovely!’ she scolded.
‘You’re just jealous your mum can’t afford new things. Mum says if your mum
were any kind of actress she would be still on the stage.’ Hannah stuck her chin out
defiantly.
‘Do you want to be Nefertiti or not?’ Caitlin rolled her eyes at her friend.
‘Ok,’ Hannah reached for the gold necklace they used for the Nefertiti costume,
which had a centrepiece made from a strange grey-green stone, ‘but only if I get to
be Morgan le Fay next time. Promise?’
‘We’ll probably find something better by then anyway.’ Even as she said it, Caitlin
couldn’t imagine they would find anything better than this dress. It was old and the
skirt had some moth-eaten parts, but there was something magical about the pale
green chiffon that fell in wispy folds to the floor. The neckline was hemmed with a
silver-braided lace, and the cut left the shoulders bare. Long sleeves flared at the
wrist, where the chiffon glowed translucent green-silver. Caitlin slipped off her jeans
and trainers and pulled off her stripy T-shirt. She hadn’t started wearing a trainer
bra yet.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that sort of discomfort later,’ her mother had assured
her. Caitlin didn’t mind. In this dress, she didn’t need to worry about her slender
frame anyway: the bust was padded. The material whispered like a secret as she
slipped it over her head. Wriggling the fragile material down her body, Caitlin felt a
dry, papery prickle on her chest. A slip of yellowed paper was neatly folded into the
bust.
‘Look, Hannah! I found something. What do you suppose it is?’
‘Have a look!’ Hannah replied sulkily, her mood worsened by the knowledge
Caitlin’s dress had yielded a further treasure. The notepaper was worn and so thin
the spidery handwriting showed on the reverse.
‘It’s a poem …’ Caitlin held out the paper to her friend, ‘… probably from when
mum was in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Look, it’s in fairy writing. See, I told you
old things could be lovely. I’ll read it to you.’

Far away in a windswept wood, And play the tune of history.

Where the fae folk dance in the silvery
dawn,
To the lovely lilt of a fairy flute,
With the lively Clurichaun,
And the sloaa-shee on November eve,
Dance winter in with a gloomy mourn,
Find a world that is half hidden
Between darkness and early morn.
Here in the magic of a song,
The quickening circles of mystery,
You’ll come to know what the future
holds,
There the daoine maithe teach,
The rituals of the universe,
Shining diamonds out of reach,
With druidic wisdom, wonder, verse,
Magic of juniper, oak and beech.
Beware the love of the lovely ones,
The danae shee can spite,
Don’t take the coin of the Leprechaun,
Lest it turn to ash of white.
Crave not the love of a Merrow,
For Tir-fo-Thoinn, don’t wish,

1
When she takes back her cap and
cloak,
Better to love a fish.
A silky streak in a distant sea,
And a lonely heart will never mend,
She’ll disappear soon as she’ll be,
A quicker death by a Lianhaun Shee,
But, still means death, my friend.

All points of star shall seek the source,

Where all enchanted things will lie,
Above and all the points to north,
Must on the elements rely,
Question all and believe few,
The world demands your care,
The bard has played a guide for you,
Divine proportion takes you there.

To farthest worlds you’ve gone before,

Days that shock and may confuse,
The greatest battle do not lose,
For god and men and fairylore.

2
 ‘Whatever do you think a Lianhaun Shee is?’ Caitlin sighed. ‘I’ll ask
Mum, she’s bound to know which play it was from.’
‘I think it sounds terrible: all death and warnings and pining away.
I’m glad I’m Nefertiti. I get to be the most beautiful woman in the
world and marry a Pharaoh and have lots of beautiful jewels and
palaces and things. That’s better than having fairy dust or whatever.
Anyway, mum says dust makes me asthmatic!’
‘Oh Hannah, you’re so impossible sometimes.’ Caitlin tucked the
poem back into the dress for safekeeping.
‘Caitliiiiin!’ They were interrupted by the babysitter yelling up from
below. If both Caitlin and Michael were home, their mum was happy
to let them take care of themselves between three and six when she
returned from work, but today was football day, so the sitter was
always there on a Wednesday afternoon. She usually just sat there
munching crisps and staring blankly at Neighbours, which must have
just finished.
‘Caitliiiiiin, yer dad’s on the telly!’ she squealed. Caitlin could hear
the television blaring as she rushed down the attic stairs, eager for a
glimpse of her father’s face.
‘We are here live with our correspondent, Dale O’Sullivan, in Iraq.
Dale, can you give us an estimate of just how many Iraqi children
have been killed or injured since the liberation of Iraq.’
‘It is very different, near impossible to estimate, but the figure is
certainly higher than coalition reports.’ Her dad’s voice had a
professional yet concerned tone. ‘The difficulty is in part created by
just how many people in Iraq have been displaced. You must
remember that before the war many people tried to flee the fighting,
creating a refugee crisis here.’
He was more tanned than she remembered, and thinner, and there
was a furrow in his brow she hadn’t noticed before. Caitlin felt like
hugging the television—she probably would have if Hannah hadn’t
been there.
‘When it comes to saying just how many people have been affected,
the situation is made harder by those families that are missing
children, who may or may not have been lost in the rubble or killed in
the fighting. Certainly there are many orphans who remain
unaccounted for. This family…’ the camera focused on an Iraqi
woman, a young mother who might have been pretty once. She was
wailing loudly and gesturing while her husband spoke in Arabic. Mr
O’Sullivan continued ‘…this family have lost their son, Emir.’ The Iraqi
man held a battered photo of a boy of about Caitlin’s age up to the
camera. ‘He was playing football here in this field when he is thought
to have stumbled upon an unexploded bomb. His friends are
traumatised and say he just disapperead. There was a large scale
Coalition assault on militia in the area later that day and, while Emir’s
body has never been recovered, his family and friends have not seen
him since.’
The Iraqi woman moaned and beat her breast, keening loudly.

3
 ‘She says Emir wanted to be a doctor. He wanted to save lives, yet
his own life is not counted on the allied lists of civilian casualties.
There are thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—more families that
have been affected in this way.’
The anchorman cleared his throat. ‘So clearly the number of civilian
casualties is under represented. Dale, what of the living conditions in
Iraq?’
Caitlin watched as her dad’s face again filled the screen. She wished
she could see him grin. That was how she always pictured him—even
white teeth smiling from his brown face—but she knew there was little
to smile about in Iraq.
‘It’s still very primitive here,’ her father continued. ‘Electricity has
been restored to some areas of the city, but many areas are still little
more than slums with no running water or security. It is also very
dangerous, especially for foreigners. You can probably hear the
gunfire in the distance where American forces are quashing a rebel
uprising.’
Caitlin grimaced. Why did her dad have to be there? Suddenly she
wanted to turn away, but she knew she would keep watching until the
newsreader in the studio moved on to another story—something about
the weather, or train strikes.
‘The militia makes it hard for people to get to work safely, even if
there is work to go to. Most families remain very poor. There is a
general feeling of mistrust of the allied forces and of the Iraqi militia.
People are desperately trying to eke out a living. There is talk that
material looted at the start of the fighting, including costly ancient
artefacts from the Baghdad museum, is changing hands in exchange
for food or money—’
‘That’s all we have time for at the moment, thanks Dale,’ the news
anchor interrupted. ‘Dale O’Sullivan reporting from the war zone in
Baghdad. And now, thousand of commuters could find themselves
stranded as…’
Caitlin felt a tear begin to slide down her cheek. She quickly
brushed it away. ‘Come on lov’, no need ter cry. Not everyone gits ter
see their da on telly y’know. You oughter be proud yuv got such a
brave dad,’ the babysitter consoled.
‘Come on, Caitie. Queen Nefertiti is hungry.’
Caitlin followed the younger girl back up into the attic, where she
could get lost in a world of her own imagination.
****
‘Nefertiti will not bow before the Fairy Queen, nor will she bow to
anyone.’
The two girls had been playing for more than an hour when they
were interrupted again.
‘Caitliiiiin, come down. Simon Kavanagh’s here to see you.’
As far as Caitlin was concerned, Simon Kavanagh was a most
disagreeable boy. He was always trying to let others know how clever
he was at all times. He was clever and he knew an awful lot about
science and maths and all of those boring things, but not half as

4
much as he thought he knew. And, he was always showing off, telling
Caitlin that he and Michael could jump further, climb higher, and
throw straighter than she could, just because she was a girl.
‘You can be a tomboy all you like, Caitie (she hated it when he
called her Caitie, but she hated it even more when he called her
“Ginge”) but you’ll never be able to play football like we can,’ he’d
skite. When she kicked a goal, he’d yell, ‘FLUKE’ at the top of his
lungs. If he ever wanted to challenge her at gymnastics then she felt
sure she’d win any day, but of course Simon would have said that
boys wouldn’t want to twist their bodies into stupid positions and leap
around like fairies.
What did he want? She sighed with annoyance.
‘Caitliiiiin…’ the babysitter bellowed again.
She couldn’t be bothered changing into her jeans, even though she
knew her outfit would bring on a range of taunts.
‘Come on, Hannah, I might as well have backup,’ she called to her
friend as she clambered down the ladder again.

‘E’s out in the yard,’ the babysitter said, stuffing her mouth with
another handful of Pringles.
‘What does he want?’
‘I ‘ave no idea. Prob’ly wants ter play catch and kiss or somefink.’
The sitter was well aware Caitlin and Simon were not exactly best
friends.

‘Who’re you then? The fairy godmother?’ Simon snickered as Caitlin

walked into the garden. ‘Er … you’ve grown … erm,’ he gestured at her
padded bosom.
‘Did you come here to make fun of me, or do you actually have
something to say?’
‘Look, Ginge, I’ve got to ask you something. Have you seen Michael?
I mean, after school?’
‘It’s Wednesday—football, remember? Maybe if you were there now,
you’d see him.’
‘Don’t go being all snooty with me, Ginge. I know it’s Wednesday,
I’m not a moron, but something weird’s going on. I hoped Michael was
here. I’ve been to football practice and he’s not there. And …’ he
paused, noticing Hannah eavesdropping. ‘Must we have Hannah
Goldman listening in? She’s a right nose in the air!’
‘Am not!’ Hannah fiddled with a thin sheet of gold hanging from the
choker, ‘My mum says you think you’re the bee’s knees just because
your dad’s a Minister. Mum says they get kick backs for doing nothing
‘cept rip off the working class and tying people all up with red tape …’
‘What do you know, tattletale?’
Hannah, fuming indignantly, marched toward the garden gate.
‘Go on little bubby wubby, go home to “my mum, my mummy says
this, my mummy says that”…’ Simon balled his fists into his eye
sockets and made ‘waaing’ sounds. ‘Why do girls have to get together
and dress up stupidly?’ he scoffed.

5
 ‘Why do boys always have to be so rude?’
Simon seemed edgier than usual and his manner was rubbing
Caitlin up the wrong way.
‘I didn’t come around here to bicker with you, Ginge.’
‘S’funny, because that’s what you’re doing.’
‘Look, I don’t want Hannah to hear. Come over here.’ He grabbed
Caitlin’s green-sleeved arm and pulled her toward the far side of the
garden.
‘It’s Michael, OK. Something’s happened to him. I know how dumb
this sounds, but … well … he’s disappeared.’
Caitlin scowled at Simon in exasperation.
‘Seriously! We had an excursion to the museum today. And I saw,
well … we were playing with this helmet right, I dunno, some Greek
thing, and Michael put it on and he just … disappeared!’
‘Save it OK. I’m not as gullible as you think.’ Despite Caitlin’s
certainty that Michael was going to jump out and yell ‘boo’ any
minute, Simon did appear rather more anxious and earnest than
usual. The dark eyes of the missing Iraqi boy on the news flashed into
her head and she shuddered as she remembered her dad’s voice: ‘His
friends say he just disappeared.’
‘Caitie, I’m not joking! I SAW him disappear. I know it’s just not
possible! I was shit scared, but I hoped maybe it was some kind of
trick. I convinced the teacher he’d told me he had to leave for a
doctor’s appointment until I could see if he was in another room or
back here or something. No offence, but I’m smarter than you…’
Caitlin rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought.
Simon continued. ‘…and I know a bit about physics, and it’s not
possible but I’m telling you he disappeared. Disappeared right before
my eyes. Now, we’ve got to think about what we’re going to do or say. I
was the last person to have seen him after all.’
Simon’s nails dug into her arm and tiny shivers of alarm ran along
her arm. The wind sent the chiffon folds of her dress swirling and
rustling around her bare shins.
‘I’m telling the truth, Ginge.’
Simon certainly looked alarmed; he was usually always so sure of
himself. Caitlin glanced down and kicked at a pile of golden leaves
that had blown up to nestle against her dress. They flew up, swirling
in a small eddy that tugged at the dress’s train and plucked the poem
from the dress’s neckline to send it whirling into the air.
Simon darted out a hand and caught it expertly.
‘Give it back.’He was always playing “keep away” with Caitlin’s
things: her schoolbag, hat and gloves had all been taken hostage by
him at some point.
‘Only if you say you believe me?’
Caitlin sighed. ‘Ok, I believe you. Just give me the poem back.’
‘Poem?’ As soon as the word left Simon’s lips, the intensity of the
wind increased, as if it fed on the flapping of the flimsy dress and the
static crackle of the paper. It sucked at the dress’s hem, which swirled
and dipped like a silk kite then flew upwards, exposing Caitlin’s

6
thighs. As firmly as she pushed it down, the wind pushed back.
Within seconds, the air began to whistle into a spiralling gyre. Strands
of red hair whipped around Caitlin’s shoulders and suddenly she
realised her feet were no longer even on the ground. In fact, both she
and Simon seemed to be rapidly floating upwards, into a windy,
whispering vortex—and whisper it did!
‘Whatsimmatter? Never heard a fairy song before?’ a thin voice, with
just a hint of amusement, spoke. Then Caitlin heard it again, less
amused this time: ‘The small one watches, is she of the prophecy?’