Terry Pratchett

It can’t be magic, Daphne thought. Magic is just a way of saying “I don’t know.”

Some people would tell you anything if they thought you’d be scared.

He is frightened of me, Mau thought. I haven’t hit him or even raised my hand. I’ve just tried to make him think differently, and now he’s scared. Of thinking. It’s magic.

“It’s a trick!” he said, without thinking.

“Not so loud,” snapped Nawi, glancing back at the shore. “Of course it’s a trick. Building a canoe is a trick. Throwing a spear is a trick. Life is a trick, and you get one chance to learn it.”

She felt better for all that. A good shouting at somebody always makes you feel better and in control, especially if you aren’t.

They didn’t know why these things were funny. Sometimes you laugh because you’ve got no more room for crying. Sometimes you laugh because table manners on a beach are funny. And sometimes you laugh because you’re alive, when you really shouldn’t be.

Daphne thought: I’m learning things. I hope I find out soon what they are.

The most important thing was that time had passed, pouring thousands of soothing seconds across the island. People need time to deal with the now before it runs away and becomes the then. And what they need most of all is nothing much happening.

“Are you trying to be smart, boy?”

“Trying not to be dumb, sir.”

“Why do you ask so many questions, Mau?”

“Because I want so many answers!”

I want to know why. Why everything. I don’t know the answers, but a few days ago I didn’t know there were questions.

Her father had said that if you knew where to look, you could find Mrs. Ethel J. Bundy’s Birthday Island, and loaned her a large magnifying glass. She spent long Sunday afternoons lying on her stomach, minutely examining every necklace of dots, and concluded that Mrs. Ethel J. Bundy’s Birthday Island was a Father Joke, i.e., not very funny but sort of lovable in its silliness.