7 The Power of the Pencil and the Artist Who Wields It

7 The Power of the Pencil and the Artist Who Wields It Peanut opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was, but when she saw Little-Bit fast asleep on one of the submarine's metal benches curled up next to a snoring rat, it all came flooding back. After Woodhouse's story, they'd barely been able to keep their eyes open and had all fallen asleep. Even 67 had powered down. Dad, meanwhile, had continued to drive the submarine through the night. Peanut rose quietly, walked to the front of the submarine and hooked her arm through the crook of her dad's. She rested her head on his shoulder and he patted it gently like he always used to do.

'How long have we been going for?' she asked. ' My watch is broken.' 'About six hours, I think,' he said, pushing the periscope away and looking at his daughter. 'Only a few more to go. Can't sleep?' She smiled. 'Not anymore. I'd like to, but my brain has other ideas. It has a lot to process, I guess.' 'That is true enough,' he replied. 'Well, seeing as you're here, would you like to have a go at driving?' Dad stood up and Peanut took his place in the box seat, pulling the periscope's eyepiece towards her. To her surprise, she could see the gently rippling surface of the water, fluorescent with pinks, oranges and yellows. It was as if she were flying just above it. The colourful liquid provided a stark contrast to the cold, grey steel of the cleaning channel's walls and ceiling. 'Dad, you were going to tell me why we have to go to the Green Valleys,' said Peanut, quietly so as not to wake the others. 'I mean, why couldn't I have just drawn another door with Little Tail back in the cleaning station when we first arrived?' 'It's a great question,' said Dad, cand one I wouldn't have been able to provide a satisfactory answer to a few months ago. But, fortunately, I can now.' 'Did you read something in one of your history books, then?' 'I did indeed. In The Power of the Pencil and the Artist Who

Wields it by Tobermory Sketch. Nearly two hundred years old, but reads like it was written yesterday. 'What did it say?' 'Well, Mr Sketch believes that whenever someone is creating something— a painting, a sculpture, a print, or even just a quick doodle— they can't help but put a bit of themselves into that piece of art. That's why, he says, everybody's drawings are totally unique. You and I could sit here and draw a picture of the same apple, using exactly the same materials, but our drawings would end up looking totally different. ' Yes, I've always thought that too,' said Peanut. 'It's one of the things I love most about art. Just by taking something that you see or feel inside, and putting it down onto canvas or paper, you are revealing a piece of your soul. Everyone is different. And there is no right or wrong answer when it comes to drawing.'

'Exactly, my little artist,' said Dad, squeezing Peanut's shoulder. ' And Mr Sketch takes this idea further. He says that the place where you create your art can also influence it. Which is, I guess, why it's often better to paint or draw from life than it is to copy a photo. Think about it. When you're standing in a gallery looking at Monet's painting of water lilies, you can almost feel that cool Normandy breeze on your face as it comes in from the Seine. You can smell the peonies. You can hear the gentle lapping of the water. Not only is there a piece of Monet himself in that painting, but there is also

a piece of the place where he painted it— his home, Giverny.' 'But what's that got to do with the Green Valleys?' Dad looked back down the length of the submarine. Little-Bit, Rockwell and Woodhouse were still fast asleep; 67 was upright, but in energy-saving mode. Their eyes were dark. 'Peanut, did you ever wonder why the very first door you drew with Little Tail, the one in your bedroom, led you to Chroma? Did you ever ask yourself why it didn't take you somewhere else? Anywhere else? You had a whole planet's worth of possible destinations, after all.'

'I— er— Well, no,' stammered Peanut. 'I guess I haven't thought about it before.' 'Why would you?' said Dad. ' Some things just work. And when they just work, there's no need to question them. But, I think, if you were to delve a bit deeper, you'd find that it brought you to Chroma because, on some level, you wanted to come to Chroma. Even though you didn't know that it existed. It's where I was and you wanted to find me. That— coupled with the fact that you drew the door inside the house I once lived in, with the pencil I gave you is the reason it took you to Chroma. It was the same deal when you drew the handle on the Post-it note door. You made that door lead to where I was. The power of the pencil and the artist who wields it. There is a connection there.' 'Hang on,' said Peanut, confused. Are you saying that I need to draw the door in the Green Valleys, and not somewhere else, in order for it to take us to Mum in Milan?' 'Look, I'm not certain,' admitted Dad, 'but the area of Chroma that has the most connection to Milan is the Green Valleys. That is our Renaissance district. According to the books, so many famous artists from that period have, in the past, made their temporary home in the Valleys. And don't forget, Milan is widely considered to be the birthplace of the Renaissance movement. 'But... but... what if it doesn't work?'