It was cold outside. As usual. Maggy looked out the window at the harbor of Dragomar. From her window she could see the entire small bay, where the moorings for the ships were. Behind the bay rose the mountain that gave the name to the island and also to the small town where Maggy and her friends live. Dragomar. A strange name. Maggy thought so when she first heard the name. Maggy was a city kid. Before moving to Dragomar, she lived in London with her mother in a city apartment. To play, she went to the playground or Hyde Park. London was full of people and cars, and it smelled like everything you could imagine. When her mother had told her one year ago that she had a new job and she and other researchers would be traveling near the South Pole, Maggy never dreamed of moving. Now she was here on Dragomar. There was ice and snow everywhere.

Maggys’ mother was a researcher. She researched ancient cultures and tried to find out if anything in ancient stories could still be rediscovered today to find out the truth about the past.

Here on Dragomar it was quite hard and also not. Hard it was because there were too many secrets and stories that were so fantastic that they couldn’t be true. Easy it was because it was not so long ago that the last miracles were said to have happened here and magic was still felt.

When Maggy came here a year ago, there was only an old village center with houses that were pretty run down and five research stations. One by the Americans, one by the Europeans except the Russians, who had one of their own, as did the Chinese and the Japanese. India was building a station right now. 

Why they were all here, and why Maggy would later become the most important person in the new history of Dragomar, that’s another story, a very long story. 

Maggy went into Dragomar Mountain as she did every evening. There were many caves, most of which were either closed or buried by rocks. One cave was open near the cleared side entrance. It was a large, high room with some sinuses. Electric cables were lying around here and the cave was heated and the air was dried of moisture. Maggy knew the hum of the motors and the whir of the fans’ propellers. The caves here were filled to the ceiling with books. Explorers in white protective suits and gloves examined each book. Not only did they read them, but they also examined the books with microscopes, with liquids that changed color when you dropped a piece of paper into them. They all knew Maggy and the other six kids who passed through here almost every night. They went into one of the back caves. It was a small cave that was very cozy. The floor was made of very hard, brightly polished, dark wood. In the cave wall, just above the floor, was an open fireplace with a fire burning in it. Many books lay and stood here on tables and shelves. It was all jumbled up. A large globe was also in the room and maps hung on the walls, which were only partially rough. 

In front of the fireplace, the other children were already sitting on large cushions around a very old armchair with a wide back and curved armrests. In the armchair sat an old man with a gray ruffled beard. His face was narrower than Santa’s and his cheeks were not as full and shiny. He greeted Maggy sullenly.

“You’re late.”

Maggy did not answer and sat down on her pillow. The old man was Dr. Gonzales, a book researcher from Central America who had worked here for a long time. Every evening he took the time to read a story to the children. The stories were completely different and from different books. Sometimes he would also read story from his flat computer. These were often newer stories that were not in any of the old books that were much about magic and strange creatures that were here in the mountain or they were old stories copied from old books. Today was another one of those days for a newer story. The bright light from the small computer then illuminated his face. Dr. Gonzales usually wore a jacket of English tweed and a black turtleneck. Today he had the computer on his lap.

“Today I’m going to read you your story from the Valley of the Pumpkin Houses.” Yes, yes. Pumpkins as big as houses and people like Charlie, his friends, the mayor, the policeman, and everyone else live in them.”

“Pumpkin houses? I don’t think so,” laughed Sasha, the Russian boy who knew about vegetables and fruits because he often stayed with his grandma in the country before his parents came here, to Dragomar.”

Yes, yes, Dr. Gonzales replied, the valley is world famous. I was there once myself, passing through. I didn’t have time to see it all, though, but it’s true.

Dr. Gonzales tapped once on his screen and began to read: