Sixteen Halloweens

10 pages · 7 min · ages 5+

Doink. Mae had floated into the ceiling again. She lived on a space station, going round and round the Earth. It was Halloween, and Mae wanted a proper one, like the ones down there. Her best friend Zuri, back home, had promised to blink her torch at the sky tonight. Halloween starts when it gets dark. Halloween afternoon is the longest afternoon of the whole year. Grown-ups have measured it. Up here, it lasts forty-five minutes. Then the sun went down. “It's dark!” said Mae. “Halloween!”

Mae went as a star. Mum went as a witch. On Earth, Mum's broom had never once flown. Up here, everything flies. Whoosh! “Finally,” said Mum. Dad went as a pumpkin. Then he brought out a real one, from his greenhouse. “The biggest pumpkin in space,” said Dad. It was the size of a plum. He was very proud of it. Mae drew a face on it with a pen. “Happy Halloween,” said Mum. “It only comes once a year.”

The sun came up. The sun went down. “It's dark!” said Mae. “Halloween again!” “Once a year,” said Mum. “But it's dark,” said Mae. “On Halloween. So it's Halloween.” Mum was the Commander of the whole space station. She looked for a rule that said no. There wasn't one. “Technically, yes,” said Mum. Mum hated the word technically. Mae jumped for joy. Doink. Up here, it gets dark sixteen times a day. Mum and Dad had been hoping nobody would notice.

So, for the second Halloween, Mae went trick-or-treating. She floated from hatch to hatch, knocking. Clang, clang. There were only three people on the whole station, so Mum and Dad had to be all the houses. At the greenhouse, Dad gave her one space strawberry. He said, very proudly, “Locally grown.” At the next hatch, Mum gave her ice cream. Crunch. Up here, ice cream does that. In space, everything comes in a bag. Even the bags.

The sun came up. The sun went down. “It's dark!” said Mae. “Halloween again!” For the third Halloween, Dad set up apple bobbing. On Earth, the apple bobs about in a bucket of water, and you chase it with your teeth. Dad squeezed a big wobbly ball of water out of a bag and put an apple in it. Apple bobbing is different in space. The water bobs for you. Mae opened her mouth. The water wobbled over and wrapped round her chin. She got the apple! Splosh! The water burst into lots of little water balls. Dad chased them with a towel for the rest of Halloween. And most of the next one.

After that, Halloween came round very quickly. Mum and Dad had done Halloween once a year, every year, for six years. Now they did it every hour and a half. By the fourth Halloween, Mum could get into her whole witch costume in four seconds. “Personal best,” said Mum. By the sixth, Mae didn't even stop to knock. She whizzed past Dad's hatch with her hand out, and Dad popped a treat into it. “See you in an hour and a half,” said Dad, to her feet. Every time, Mae drew a bit more face on the little pumpkin. By the eighth, it had eyebrows, glasses, a little hat and a moustache. “It's dark!” said Mae. “Halloween again!”

Whenever it got dark, Mae had a quick look for Zuri's torch. But the station was always over the wrong bit of the Earth. Then the radio crackled. “Mission Control here,” said Mission Control. “That's nine Halloweens, by the way.” “Nearly ten!” said Mae. “Confirmed,” said Mum. Mission Control, down on Earth, had a rule for everything. It had a rule for crumbs. It had a rule for glitter. It did not have a rule for this. There was a long crackle. “Mae,” said Mission Control softly, “go to the big window next time it gets dark. You'll be right over your old town.”

Mae looked at Mum. Mum's witch hat was on sideways. Mum hadn't noticed. Mae looked at Dad. Dad had floated into a corner and was turning, very slowly, round and round. He had been going round in circles all day. So had the whole space station. “This next one,” said Mae, “isn't for trick-or-treat.” She took Mum's hand. She took Dad's hand. They floated to the big round window, all three of them. The sun went down. Mae whispered, “It's dark. Halloween again.”

Below them, the night slid across the Earth. Wherever it went, little orange lights came on, one town at a time. Mae decided they were pumpkins. “Almost as big as my pumpkin,” said Dad. Then, right where the orange lights met the dark sea, a tiny white light started to blink. On. Off. On. Off. Mum said it was probably a lighthouse. Mae was sure it was Zuri. Mae waved with both hands. Dad waved too, still turning slowly round. And Mum waved at the lighthouse, with both hands.

At bedtime, Mae zipped herself into her sleeping bag. In space, beds are on the wall. “Mum,” said Mae, “when's Christmas?” “Once a year,” said Mum, very firmly. Christmas starts in the morning. Mae looked out of the window. The sun was coming up. Again. Mae began to count sixteen Christmases on her fingers. She ran out of fingers. She started on Dad's. Mum flew to the radio on her broom. “Commander here,” said Mum. “Please send a rule.”