The magic wand waved and bent in half. There was a flash. The Wabbit and Lapinette found themselves in scary, arid landscape. Trees were dried up hulks. Desert sands stretched for kilometres. An artificial sun beat down. And it was hot. Really hot. "Eeek," yelled Lapinette, "We're back to front." The Wabbit looked down. All the writing on his fur was reversed. He looked up and smiled a grim smile. "There's something familiar about that sun." He looked behind him. "And there's the tree they hung Tom Sawyer." Lapinette growled, "Tom Dooley." The Wabbit paid little attention. "This all the fault of that wand." Lapinette didn't like the landscape. "I'm hot and bothered and I'm not keen on this place." The Wabbit shrugged. He was curious and looked at the wand. Lapinette said the magic passwords. Nothing happened. "You haven't got the accent," said the Wabbit. He said the magic phrase,
Brat draoidheachd. The wand stiffened to attention. It was straight as a die. "Wand. Get us out of this place." A wind sprung up. Wood snapped. Sand and twigs blew into every crevice. Lapinette gripped the Wabbit's fur and held on tight as they were swept into the air. She shrieked at the Wabbit. "You didn't tell it where you wanted to go." But her words were snatched by the wind and lost in the sand. Wand and all, they disappeared.
