Olive of Groves and the Great Slurp of Time by Katrina Nannestad Page A

into Star’s flank. Star trotted sideways like a hermit crab, all the way across the garden to the fence. Once there, she leaned heavily against the railings, squashing Olive’s leg until she begged her to stop.
    â€˜Hmmm,’ murmured Olive. ‘Tricky.’
    This time, she tapped her heels into both flanks and Star ambled forward . . . slowly . . . painstakingly . . . until she slackened to a snail’s pace, yawned noisily and dropped to the grass for a twenty-minute nap.
    When Star awoke, Olive tried again. She gave a sharp kick to both flanks and kept kicking until they reached a perky trot. Star tritted and trotted as commanded, then added some skittish prancing and dancing, reaching greater heights with every step. Olive jiggled and wobbled and bobbled to the right, slipping further with every bounce, until she plopped to the grass. Star trotted and pranced along quite merrily for three further laps of the garden before she noticed anything amiss. Or so she said . . .
    The next time, Olive gave a firm kick to both flanks and held on tight. Star, running out of ideas for subtle sabotage, and catching sight of the Ringmaster’s thunderous scowl, broke into a smooth trot and followed a predictable course around the garden. She even avoided low-hanging branches.
    â€˜Look!’ shouted Olive, waving at Eduardo and the Ringmaster. ‘I’m doing it. I’m riding a horse. I’m at one with my steed!’
    And indeed she was . . . until the unfortunate incident involving Bullet Barnes, Carlos, a large quantity of dynamite and a cannon made out of a hollow log.
    â€˜Light the fuse!’ ordered Bullet from inside the log.
    â€˜Three, two, one!’ cried Carlos.
    KABOOM!
    Bullet Barnes, human cannonball, shot from the log, his silver helmet glistening in the sunlight, his boots smouldering, his green cape flapping heroically in the wind. He flew through the air, sailing, soaring, gliding . . . until he collided with Olive. Together, they fell off Star’s back and tumbled across the garden, a jumble of arms and legs and burning rubber soles that slammed full pelt into the stone wall at the side of the orchard.

    Ouch!
    â€˜Ouch!’ moaned Olive, rubbing her head.
    â€˜Oucheeeee!’ whinnied Star. For not only had Carlos’ dynamite done a magnificent job of launching Bullet Barnes across the garden, it had also done a spectacular job of blasting the cannoninto a thousand tiny splinters, a dozen of which shot into Star’s rump.
    â€˜Oucheeeee-wah-wah!’ Star whickered in fright, then bolted across the garden, over the fence and along the street, where she had a head-on collision with the number ninety-six tram. It was terribly upsetting.
    Needless to say, the experience did not deepen her affection for Olive, Bullet or Carlos . . . or her enthusiasm for equine acrobatics lessons.
    Meanwhile, Olive lay on the grass, staring up at the sky. ‘How very odd,’ she mumbled. ‘The yellow canaries, which I always see after a bump to the head, have been joined by an enormous red canary.’
    The red canary flew closer.
    â€˜That is extremely odd!’ she mused. ‘Why, it is not a canary at all, but an old-fashioned triplane.’
    â€˜Look!’ cried Bullet. ‘That’s the Red Baron! The famous German fighter pilot from the First World War! Right here, right now, for real!’

    â€˜It can’t be,’ said Olive as she watched the plane do loop the loops. ‘The Red Baron lived a century ago. No. It must be a figment of our imaginations. A hallucination created by our concussed brains.’
    But then the plane soared low, buzzing the top of the orchard, causing leaves to scatter and apples to plop to the ground. The pilot laughed with a German accent.
    I know! I know! You are thinking, dear reader, that a laugh is a laugh in any language and one cannot laugh with a German accent. But one can! Laughing with a German accent