The Ogre Downstairs by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

“Hand some over.”
    Malcolm carefully picked up a little glass shovel and spooned a small quantity of white powder out of the tube and on to Caspar’s palm. Caspar could not help being impressed with the difference between this care and Johnny’s slapdash methods. Then the smell of the powder met his nostrils.
    “Eeughk!” he said.
    “That’s why I didn’t taste it,” said Malcolm, shovelling the powder on to his own palm. He carefully recorked the tube and put it and the little shovel down. “So if neither of us wants any breakfast, it’ll be your fault. Ready?”
    “Ready,” said Caspar, daunted but determined. They both watched one another like cats for any sign of weakness – and of course both would have died rather than show any – as they each raised a stinking hand to his mouth, put out a reluctant tongue and licked up amouthful of what was certainly the nastiest taste Caspar had ever come across. The eyes of both watered. It was stronger than onions and bitterer than gall. Both trying to conceal their shudders, they swallowed.
    The result was the most curious whirling, dizzy, sick feeling. Caspar had to shut his eyes. He felt as if he were being taken up by a small whirlwind and put down facing the other way. Fighting not to be sick, he opened his eyes and stared at the white face opposite him. Then he shut his eyes again, opened them, and stared with unbelieving horror. Though he did not often look in mirrors, he knew his own face when he saw it.
    The mouth in his face opened. His own voice said shakily, “Oh no !”
    “What’s happened?” Caspar said, hoping it was not as he feared. But that hope was almost gone when he found himself speaking in Malcolm’s cool, precise voice. He dived round and made for the mirror, and the false Caspar opposite him did the same. They fought and jostled to get in front of it. Like that, shoving and pushing with arms and legs rather shorter and weaker than he was used to, Caspar managed to look into his own eyes. Sure enough, they were Malcolm’s cool grey ones. Above them was Malcolm’s smooth hair; below, Malcolm’s nose and precise mouth. And beside him, Malcolm was staring out of Caspar’s brown eyes at Caspar’s shaggy black hair, with an expression of acute horror on Caspar’s face.
    “What’s the antidote?” Caspar demanded in Malcolm’s voice.
    “I don’t know,” Malcolm said helplessly in Caspar’s.
    “Well, let’s find out!” Caspar said desperately.
    Sally’s voice bawled from downstairs. “Malcolm! Caspar! If you don’t come down this minute, you’ll both be late for school!”
    “What shall we do?” said Malcolm.
    “We’ll have to go down,” said Caspar. “We only had a lick. It might wear off.”
    “Hurry up!” boomed the Ogre’s voice. After that, neither of them dared linger. Caspar dived across the landing for his schoolbag, Malcolm snatched up his and, one behind the other, they pounded downstairs to the kitchen.
    Douglas was just getting up to leave. “You’ve got the wrong bag,” he said to Caspar, thinking he was Malcolm.
    “So’s Caspar,” said Gwinny.
    “Are you two all right?” asked Sally. “You both look white as ghosts. You haven’t time for cereal. Here’s your eggs.”
    The thought of eggs – or indeed anything else – after that powder made both of them feel sick. “I don’t think I want an egg,” Malcolm said faintly.
    The Ogre took his head out of the newspaper and glared at him. “Your mother’s cooked it, so you’ll eat it,” he said. “And take that look off your face, boy.”
    Caspar looked at his own egg with loathing and silent resentment. The Ogre always picked on him, not Malcolm. And, even if this time it was really Malcolm he was picking on, it was still not fair. “I don’t want my egg either,” he said.
    “You heard what I said to Caspar,” said the Ogre, and hid his head in the newspaper again.
    Reluctantly, they both opened their eggs and toyedwith the contents.