Free Feynard by Marc Secchia Page A

vigorously to his scrawny body. He might as well have been drawing sandpaper across his hypersensitive skin, for it felt as though the cloth were abrading him raw.
    “Jiminy ruddy cricket!” he howled, dancing a jig with his towel. And then chastised himself, “Careful, you old geezer.”
    But a glance in the mirror reassured him; only a pink blush from the hot water was apparent upon his milk-pale skin. He examined his jawline dubiously. A pimple he had dubbed ‘Mount Vesuvius’ had mysteriously vanished. In fact, his skin was looking positively–he skirted the word ‘healthy’–decent. Most pleasing.
    Kevin donned fresh pyjamas–a blue and white checked set–while resolutely disregarding the prickling of cotton all over his body. It must have something to do with this peculiar turn he was having. The bathroom floor felt cold, so he rushed to the bed and thrust his feet into his slippers.
    Just then, he stopped to consider what he was doing. He lifted his left leg and put it down again. He waggled the right in the air. A few circles of the ankle were accompanied by a little hop. Kevin glared at his feet.
    “Oh no you don’t! Don’t you go all strange on me now . I’ve endured quite enough nonsense for one day!”
    L ast time he had dreamed of the Unicorn something similarly bizarre had happened–this time, it was worse. Much worse. He had read somewhere that people sometimes started feeling better just before they died. Maybe this time, it was terminal.
    “Too much activity will strain the old ticker,” he berated himself .
    But his feet itched. He had to keep moving. Glancing at his wristwatch, he saw that it was three o’clock in the morning. Why, what better time to …
    “No!” he whimpered at once. “Don’t even think about it, Jenkins. You’ve just spent three days holed up in bed and you’ll simply relapse. Father will have servants out on the prowl.” No one had heard his shrieks, though. “You’ll need keys for the cellars. You don’t know what you’re looking for. For goodness’ sake! Most normal people are sleeping. It’s just a dream, Kevin. You’re crazy, three cards short of a full deck. That whole key business is just something Great-Grandmother concocted.” Twenty years after she died. In one obscure book amongst tens of thousands, which he would never complete reading in his lifetime. “Not that you’re going to live long, you sickly hospice case. Come now, the royal bed awaits. Everything will be fine in the morning.”
    Except that his calves and thighs were twitching now too, making him frantic to walk it off, so he crossed the room to pick up the pillow and return it to his bed. It was exhilarating to be able to accomplish this small task so easily. Just to feel the sensation of legs and limbs working together as they should and to know that the usual aches and pains were taking a vacation, was highly addictive. Perhaps he might consider walking to the end of the hallway and back again? But he would need to dress warmly. No need to catch a chill at this hour. He should test his sea legs while no one else was about.
    Before reason could intrude or even raise a peep of protest, Kevin hastily pulled on an old woollen jersey, seized Locks Through the Ages from the dresser, and bolted out of the door.
    It was easier once he was moving. Kevin wandered down the corridor, so consumed with the sensation of walking without discomfort that he weaved and swayed from side to side like a drunken partygoer. This was unprecedented! Thrilling! Magnificent! Had he not been so weak from years of enforced inactivity, he would have been capering along without a care in the world, but wasted muscles soon proved unequal to his enthusiasm and he was forced to rest on an antique wooden bench beneath the portrait of an obscure Jenkins relative.
    “Ah, Master Jenkins!” he wheezed softly, “your end is nigh. The price must be paid for this astonishing vitality.” And he pushed himself to his