Monica-Claire and the enchanted park Read online

  MONICA-CLAIRE

  AND THE ENCHANTED PARK

  A tale by Ginette Fournier

  Illustrations by Chantal Piché

  English translation by Ben Vrignon

  Monica-Claire and the Enchanted Park

  Copyright © 2018 Vidacom Publications

  ISBN: 978-1-98818-255-1

  Original text © 2016 Ginette Fournier

  Illustrations © 2016 Chantal Piché

  Translated into English © 2018 Ben Vrignon

  All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems— without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Manitoba through the Publishing Tax Credit Program for our publishing activities.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request.

  Legal Deposit 2018:

  Library and Archives Canada

  Manitoba Legislative Library

  Design and layout: Esthée Freynet; Relish New Brand Experience

  Translation: Ben Vrignon

  Copy editor: Lynne Therrien

  Editor-in-Chief: Joanne Therrien

  Vidacom Publications

  P.O. Box 123 • Winnipeg, Manitoba • Canada R2H 3B4

  [email protected]

  www.vidacom.ca

  onica-Claire loved fall! Sitting on her porch on a pretty October afternoon, she watched the leaves as they danced in the wind. Her house overlooked beautiful Provencher Park, right across the street. Sometimes, Monica-Claire thought she could hear teensy voices coming from its grounds, as though the leaves were giggling while taking their fi nal tumble.

  “Ahhh . . .” yawned Monica-Claire, “I think I’ll take a short nap.”

  She leaned on her stuff ed monkey, George, and within seconds, fell soundly asleep.

  A cry woke her suddenly.

  “Help! Help!”

  Rubbing her eyes, Monica-Claire caught a glimpse of two small ginger-red paws flailing wildly about—a squirrel had somehow got his bottom stuck in a tree trunk! Monica-Claire looked around. She was no longer on her porch! How had she gotten here?

  “Anyone! Someone! Help me!” shouted the squirrel in a panic, wiggling, wriggling, and squirming frantically.

  Monica-Claire, by now fully awake, could not believe her eyes. “A talking squirrel?!” she exclaimed, astonished.

  “Please help me!” the squirrel said. “I’ve eaten too many acorns, and now I can’t fit through the hole!”

  “Hmm . . . hold on,” said Monica-Claire. “I have an idea. I’ll grab hold of your paws and pull you out. Are you ready? One, two, three . . .”

  And bingo! With an energetic tug, she yanked the furry critter free!

  “Thanks, miss! It’s not the first time I get stuck—last time, my tail stayed behind for good!” he told her, pointing to a little leftover tuft where his fuzzy extremity used to be. “That’s why they call me No-Tail! Thank you! Oh, thank you!”

  At that very moment, No-Tail’s praises were interrupted by a long sigh. He and Monica-Claire heard a deep, slow voice utter, “Indeed . . . Thank you, young lady. I tried my best to push him out, but I’m just not strong enough. I’m getting old, I suppose.”

  Monica-Claire could not believe it—the tree . . . the old oak tree . . . It had just spoken!

  “But . . . you . . . you can speak too?” exclaimed the young girl.

  “Hoho! Well, of course I can,” replied the Old Oak, unhurriedly. “Here, in the Enchanted Park, everybody can speak.”

  “Oh no!” squeaked Monica-Claire.

  “What is it?” asked No-Tail and the Old Oak in unison.

  “My mom and dad don’t know I’m here. I wasn’t supposed to leave the porch. I have to get home before they start worrying!”

  “You only have to cross the street,” replied No-Tail, shrugging.

  “No!” insisted Monica-Claire. “I’m not supposed to cross the street by myself. It’s too dangerous—mom and dad won’t allow it.”

  “Unfortunately, we can’t help you,” sighed the Old Oak.

  “We’ve never left the park—we don’t know our way out there,” added No-Tail.

  The ancient tree furrowed his bark—he was deep in thought. Monica-Claire and No-Tail observed him, full of hope.

  Finally, he proposed, “You could ask the Provencher Park Fairy. She would surely know of a magic spell to help us. Although we’d have to find her first . . .”

  AH . . . AH . . . AH . . . CHOO!

  An enormous sneeze resonated among the trees, propelling Monica-Claire and No-Tail into the air. They landed on the ground with a thud. Lifting her head, Monica-Claire found herself face-to-face with a three-petalled daisy. She was teary-eyed and had a runny nose.

  “Oh! Hello. Excuse me!” exclaimed the flower. “It’s my allergies. I can’t seem to stop sneezing. I’m sneezing so hard that I’m losing my petals.” She leaned toward Monica-Claire and No-Tail and confided in a low voice, “I think I may even have scared the yellow stripes off the bees.”

  “Daisy,” interrupted No-Tail, “we need your help! Have you seen the Park Fairy?”

  “I saw her this morning. She was brushing her hair and running in that direction! It was ff- . . . ff- . . . ACHOO! . . . funny to see,” she managed to add, sniffling.

  “I think she was late for something . . . Go ask Skunky over there. He might have seen her.”

  Skunky, the little skunk, greeted them with a wave of his paw. As usual, he was covered from head to toe in fl owers. Monica-Claire was in disbelief— a skunk sporting a mohawk! Wanting to take a closer look, she approached him by a few steps.

  “Oh! Hey! Careful! Don’t get too close! I have a little odour problem. The fl owers help a little, but they wilt quickly.”

  “Skunky,” said No-Tail, “we need your help! Have you seen the Park Fairy?”

  “Yes, I saw her this morning. She was running and repeating ‘Once upon a time . . . Once upon a time . . .’ to herself. I think she was late for something. You should go ask Birchy over there. The Fairy ran right past him.”

  They quickly found Birchy, the little birch tree, who was speaking to one of his leaves.

  “Oh, sure. You too. You’re leaving me like all the others, Jacqueline? Fine, go!”

  “Birchy’s very sensitive,” whispered No-Tail to the young girl. “He’s always crying! Last week, he was crying because the wind was blowing strongly and one of his branches hit him in the nose. This week, he’s crying because his fi rst leaves are falling. He’s feeling abandoned.”

  “Hh- . . . hh- . . . hello,” blubbered the tree as he noticed them, wiping his eyes with one of his slender branches.

  “Birchy, we need your help!” implored No-Tail. “Have you seen the Park Fairy?”

  “Yes, I saw her earlier. She was in such a rush that she didn’t even say ‘good morning.’ Just ‘ning!’ She was sprinting and doing her makeup at the same time. She seemed late for something . . . Oh! Why is everyone leaving me?”

  And just like that, he burst into tears once more.

  Having exhausted their ideas and walked the entire length of the park, No-Tail and Monica-Claire decided to return to the Old Oak.

  “It’s a lost cause!” said No-Tail. “No one knows where she is.”

  Just then
, out of nowhere, they heard a teeny-tiny voice ask, “You’re looking for the Park Fairy?”

  It was Didi, the dragonfl y. She landed on Monica-Claire’s shoulder. Her pretty, transparent wings tickled the young girl’s cheek.

  “Yes, Didi,” answered the Old Oak. “We’ve been searching for her for hours.”

  “Well, I think I can help you. I just crossed paths with her by the park’s entrance. She was returning from the theatre . . . and she was running.”

  Suddenly, the Park Fairy appeared, out of breath.

  “I’ll be right there. I’m coming. I’m sorry! I was playing in ‘Cinderella’ at the Cercle Molière theatre. A last-minute thing. I had to replace the Fairy Godmother this morning. Poor her. A bad stomachache . . . A bit too much chocolate yesterday, I think!” she whispered, with a little wink.

  No-Tail spoke up. “Monica-Claire must return home, but . . .”

  “But she can’t cross the road by herself?” the Fairy guessed.

  The young girl nodded—the Park Fairy had understood perfectly.

  With a wiggle of her wand—POOF!—the Fairy transformed a nearby rock into an old, very worn-out book. She began turning the pages.

  “Just a moment . . . Under the letter ‘T’ for ‘Transportation . . .’ Ah! Yes, I believe I have found the correct magical spell. So, my dear, are you ready?”

  No-Tail approached Monica-Claire.

  “But . . . it’s just that . . . Would you give me a hug before going?” he asked with tears in his eyes.

  “Of course I will,” replied the young girl. “One for you, one for the Fairy, one for Didi, and one for you, too,” she giggled, embracing the Old Oak’s trunk.

  And, as if by magic, the tree’s leaves abruptly turned very, very red.

  “Goodbye, everyone!” exclaimed Monica-Claire, waving to her friends.

  Drawing a deep breath, the Park Fairy spoke the magic words:

  Autumn breeze, autumn breeze,

  Take her with you, if you please!

  Topsy-turvy, one, two, three

  Whisk her home, to her family!

  POOF!

  “Monica-Claire! Monica-Claire! Wake up! Did you have a nice nap?”

  “Oh! Yes, daddy!” she answered, half-awake.

  “Then, it’s time to go back inside. Or . . . what would you say to a little stroll in Provencher Park?”

  Monica-Claire thought back on all the friends she had made in the Enchanted Park..

  “Oh! Yes, daddy! Let’s go!”

  As she spoke these words, a beautiful red oak leaf, carried by the cool breeze, landed gently on her lap.

 

 

  Ginette Fournier, Monica-Claire and the enchanted park

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