Daisy and the Owl by Dave Rigby

Daisy woke with a start. She’d been dreaming.

An owl perched on the bed post was staring at her.

She was surprised to find a bird in her bedroom.

And surprised she wasn’t scared.

What are you doing here Mr Owl?

Please – call me Oliver. I’m here because you summoned me.

Did I? How?

You said the magic word.

Daisy didn’t know any magic words.

Could it have been something in her dream?

Anyway, I’m here now. Where would you like to go?

Go – but it’s night time. I can’t go anywhere.

Ah! That’s what you think.

Just squeeze your hands together very tightly, think of somewhere nice and leave the rest to me.

Seaside, paddling, ice cream, she thought. Oh, and some sunshine as well please.

There was a sort of whooshing sound and it felt like she was flying.

Before she knew it, her feet were wet.

The water was lovely and warm, the sand soft, the sun hot – but not scorching!

There was an ice cream in her hand, a Neapolitan. How did Oliver know it was her favourite?

The water lapped around her feet. The ice cream slowly disappeared.

But – where was Oliver? She looked around.

Not in the sea of course. Owls don’t go in the sea!

Not on the beach. He wouldn’t want sand in his wings.

There was a sound – an owl sound. He was on the clifftop, smiling.

There’s no reason why an owl can’t smile.

The next minute he’d landed on her shoulder, very gently.

And the next, next minute, they were both on the clifftop.

She could see such a long way, even as far as the island.

And from the island she could see back to the clifftop.

Suddenly she felt tired. Probably all the flying. That would make you tired, she thought.

There was that whooshing sound again.

Back in her bedroom.

Oliver back on the bedpost.

We can do it again Daisy. Just say the word.

But I don’t know the word. Don’t you know it? Aren’t owls supposed to be wise?

I am wise. Very, very wise. Unfortunately, I’m also very, very forgetful.

But don’t worry, as soon as I remember, I’ll write and let you know.

Surely owls don’t write letters.

Daisy fell asleep instantly. There were no more dreams.

In the morning, eating her toast and honey and drinking her milk, she thought of telling her mum and dad about Oliver.

But what would they think?

It was her turn to do the washing up.

How did it always come round so quickly?

She stood on the wooden step her dad had made

To reach the plates and mugs, the spoons and knives and the teapot full of leaves.

They were so squidgy.

Her mum called from the hallway. There’s a letter for you Daisy.

Can you open it mum? I’m a bit busy just now.

Who’s Oliver?

A friend of mine.

Well, he’s remembered the magic word.