Mamelon - Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

It seemed to Mick as if he had been running for hours since the krill attack.  The sounds of pursuit had long since died away and he was getting nowhere fast. He might have been going in circles for all he knew. As it was, he could barely see the nose in front of his face. Several of the huge birds that Ricci had called aryds passed over his head, shrieking.

      By now, Mick was too exhausted to care and did not cower as he had previously.  Thankfully, either the birds missed him or chose to ignore him. He suspected the latter, but was too weary even to wonder why.  Resting his aching back against a tree, it was a relief to slide down its smooth trunk. At least the damp ground had become perceptibly less boggy. I should be grateful for small mercies, he supposed grimly. His thoughts turned to Pete and Beth. Indeed, he had thought of little else, except when too tired to think of anything at all but the necessity to keep on running. His head throbbed madly like a persistent drumbeat; now fast, now slowing; now even faster, no slowing; never ceasing, until now. For the drummer in his head, too, was exhausted and could play no more.

      But what of Pete and Beth, and how were they coping in this awful place? They, too, must be feeling frightened and alone, especially if their pursuers had caught up with them. It did not bear thinking about. Hadn’t Ricci said that bog folk sometimes ate people? Mick endured a fit of shivering that only stopped once he succeeded in blocking out the very idea. Pete, especially, would be terrified. He’s just a kid, after all. Mick recalled the red hair and cheeky grin with a rush of guilt. His brother hated the dark. Mick blamed himself. I should have taken better care of them, Pete and Beth both.  They were his responsibility, after all. 

      A solitary aryd swooped low, its bulbous eyes like ghastly flares in the pitch dark. Neither moons nor stars were much visible through sprawling branches. It was as if the trees themselves conspired to heap misery upon misery.  The winged creature seemed impervious to the trees and dived directly at him. Mick cowered and flung up both arms protectively. The bird made a sweeping arc, and then vanished, its shrieks dying away like some malevolent echo in the humid air.

      Much later, heart pounding painfully against his chest, Mick tried to close his eyes but fear prised the heavy lids open again. In vain, he tried to sleep. On the edge of consciousness a familiar strain started up. Without even being aware of it, he began to hum the Okay Song. He was a child again, his mother singing the lullaby in a gentle, low soprano and drawing waves of drowsiness over him like the snuggest duvet.  Yet still his bleary eyes refused to stay shut.

      He neither saw nor heard the figure approach. It loomed upon him with a suddenness that was more awesome than scary, towered over him and spoke with a curious lilt in a language that, rather to Mick’s surprise, he understood perfectly.

      “Welcome, friend. But tell me this. Who comes unbidden to this last sanctuary of elves in such times as these?”

      “I’m Mick,” then drowsily but instinctively correcting himself, “Michal,” recalling Ricci’s preference for the name. Hadn’t there had been another Michal, long ago in some fanciful tale the magician had been telling them just before they were attacked?  But his tired brain refused to supply details.

      “Ah, Michal!” murmured his companion in a tinkling voice that reminded Mick of wind bells that hung over the front porch at home.

      Home... That word again. Mind and body ached for it. He’d have given anything just to be in his own bed, asleep and dreaming instead of…what? He wished he knew. The tall stranger said something Mick did not catch. He saw lips moving then the Okay Song took over and bade him close his eyes.

      When Mick awoke, daylight had come to the forest. Tired eyes and inattentive ears were greeted by a splash of colour and a cheerful clamour of birds whose brightly coloured feathers were everywhere.  At first he thought he was in Birches Wood. Then he remembered. But there was no sign of the stranger. Mick was still wondering whether he mightn’t have been some kind of dream figure when there he was, tall, thin-faced, and wearing an expression that was not unfriendly.

“Good, you’re awake. I’m Pers, by the way. Sorry, I should have introduced myself properly last night. But you took me by surprise, and that has never happened to me before. To stumble across a motherworlder here, of all places… Well, it’s a bit much I can tell you. But one of the bloodline, too… Well, that’s next to impossible.”  The stranger’s smile was amicable enough even if set amongst the oddest features.  Pers was tall, with pointed ears, unnaturally bright green eyes and a coif of reddish hair drooping over a high forehead from an otherwise bald and shiny pate.

Mick was struck by the fact that while the overall effect conveyed by the stranger;s appearance was odd, to say the least, it was, at the same time, peculiarly charming.

“Bloodline…?” Mick yawned, only half listening. A sixth sense urged him to stay alert. But it was hard. He had never felt so wonderfully relaxed.

“…as descended directly from Gar, the first elf king. We are all of the bloodline here in the forest,” explained Pers. Mick shook his blond head. Gar? The name had a familiar ring. Hadn’t Ricci mentioned a Forest of Gar? He started. Elves...

      “That’s right, elves,” the newcomer confirmed as if reading Mick’s thoughts.

      “You’re no elf,” retorted Mick accusingly, “For a atart, you’re too tall, not to mention practically bald.” Elves, indeed! They belonged to childhood and fairy tales. He was nearly eighteen, owned his own motorbike (paying it off, that is, same thing) and had a girlfriend, for heaven’s sake. Elves were simply not in his vocabulary.  He began to panic again as his thoughts turned to Beth and Pete, the horror of their flight from the bog folk and their subsequent separation.

      “You are confusing us with fairies,” said the elf without obvious rancour although Mick thought he detected a note of derision. “Besides, what matters big or small?” Pers enquired airily. Mick winced. Suddenly, the elf’s expression changed and he voiced genuine concern. Tell me what you know, and perhaps I can help.”

      The elf’s soothing tone had such an effect on Mick’s frayed nerves that he was able to relate the tale with almost as much detachedness as Ricci had adopted over supper in the huge marquee.  As he spoke, that other tale became curiously interwoven with his own, elements of each intrinsically linked in a way he could not have begun to justify or explain.  He was no natural storyteller, yet the words flowed easily. 

      Pers listened intently. The elf produced a delicious fruit that looked and tasted like pomegranate, also a canvas-like flask of vinre from a knapsack that had altogether escaped Mick’s notice.  The pair ate and drank companionably while Mick talked.

      “That Ricci!” exclaimed Pers during a pause while Mick took a bite from the fruit and a long swallow of refreshing vinre. “He means well, but…” The elf sighed, “…as if things weren’t bad enough without his interfering. Still, I suppose even he can’t do much harm given all that’s already been done.  He must think you’re…Oh, but less of that for now or things will seem even worse than they are.  You were attacked, you say?”

      Mick nodded, still munching on the fruit. “Bog folk,” he spluttered.

     “Really, are you sure?”  Pers blinked in astonishment. It was almost unheard of for bog folk to attack without provocation.

      “You bet!” Mick shivered at the memory. “I saw them from where I hid. They were disgusting, like corpses dripping with green slime bent on revenge for their own deaths.” At the same time, he couldn’t resist preening a little at a talent for simile that usually eluded him completely. His English teacher at school had berated him on more than one occasion for a limited vocabulary.

      School... Mick winced. He hated school. Even so, he’d have given a lot to be there right now. He took another swallow of vinre and was about to tale another but checked himself, suddenly remembering how, just prior to the attack, Ricci had been talking about his, Mick’s, mother. Why? What could his mother possibly have to do with this absurd half-reality pulling him in all directions at once? 

      Fragments of Ricci’s rambling tale jerked at Mick’s nerve endings like strings on a marionette.  Galia, Gail. Gail, Galia.  Wasn’t she the daughter of Astor who married his namesake, Michal?  Mage of Mages, Ricci had called him and thought to be descended from elves. Galia or Gail would have been part elf then.  Presumably, it followed that, if each was of the same bloodline, he, Mick, was…what, exactly? “Am I descended from elves?” he asked the question aloud and felt ridiculous for even thinking it.

      “It would appear so.” Pers nodded gravely.

      “Through my mother, Gail…err, I mean Galia?” It was all so confusing.

      “Certainly not through the likes of Michal!” retorted the elf.

      “But you weren’t to know that,” Mick pointed out.

     “True. But you were humming an elven song. Our songs are sacred and known only to elves. Besides, none but elves come to the forest.  We might permit the occasional traveller to pass through, but as for communicating one to one as you and I are now… never!  None but elves have The Sight. Gar is invisible to all but the gifted eye.”

      “But it was so dark I couldn’t see a bloody thing!” Mick grimaced.

      “You’re here, aren’t you?” Pers shrugged, unwilling to enter into any discussion on a matter that left him utterly perplexed. It had already occurred to him that any elven blood in this motherworlder’s veins must run so thin as to scarcely account for any degree of Sight. On the other hand, a son of Galia…it was all quite impossible. Well, isn’t it?  A knowing grin lit up the elf’s face. His father would explain.  Didn’t his father always have an explanation for everything? “Come, I’ll take you to my home. We can talk more on the journey.”

      The elf sprung nimbly to his feet and was already on his way by the time Mick had scrambled up, in a state of mild panic and started to chase after his odd friend. “Elves, for heaven’s sake!” he muttered and wondered what Pete would have made of  it all. His expression became grim again. How could he help but be worried sick about his brother and Beth?

     Although Mick’s anxieties continued to oppress him, they became less weighty as he found himself skipping across pockets of tawny grass among elegant trees whose silvery bark and shimmering leaves acted as a balm to his battered senses.  Birds and insects of all shapes and sizes flitted everywhere, a veritable kaleidoscope of ever-changing colours. Now and then, patches of marmalade sky dotted with fluffy clouds of assorted pinkie hues could be glimpsed through busy branches. He almost fancied that was taking part in a Walt Disney movie and half-expected cartoon characters to pop out at him from behind this weird looking plant or that even weirder looking bush. He thought he heard a distant barking and remembered the dog, Ace. Had it been with them as they made their escape from the bog folk?  He really had no idea. Nor did it matter much, he decided. Besides, the noise had already ceased, and he cheerfully put all thoughts of Pete’s adopted pet aside.

      They passed through a corridor of trees that suddenly opened up to reveal what Mick took to be a village. Ring upon ring of what looked like mud huts, with cone shaped roofs of a reddish thatch, converged to form an inner circle. In its centre, stood a giant tree whose bark, branches and leaves were a burnt-orange colour. It was as if a tongue of fire had leapt from the ground and was set to burn a hole in the sky. A glorious, awesome spectacle, the tree gave Mick no sensation of warmth. On the contrary, it filled him with a chilling sense of foreboding. Nor could he quite shrug off the feeling that his own destiny was linked, after a predetermined fashion, with its very existence.

      Pers flung out an arm with an air of grand showmanship as if introducing a star attraction.  His face glowed with pride and the beady eyes were moist with emotion. “Behold the Fire Tree!” he declared. His broad smile froze, however, when he saw his guest’s expression. Mick, though, quickly recovered his composure and was soon nodding and smiling appreciatively. But the elf remained uneasy. A fleeting glimpse of the other’s dark premonition had entered his heart like an arrow. So it would remain, hurting, until forces far stronger than elven would either remove it or twist it further until death relieved him of it once and for all. Pers acknowledged this with his usual passivity, but only to himself. It cut him to the quick, though, that every nuance of intuitive thought should warn him against speaking of it to anyone.

      Pers remained thoughtful. There were such ties here, binding him to this motherworlder; they would not be easily broken. The elf understood this, without quite knowing why. Yet, broken such ties will be. He was sure of that also. Not without a struggle, though, he vowed. Or sacrifice, his alter ego murmured in one ear. If this Michal called Mick is truly a son of Galia, it would explain a few things. But there has to be more, much more…He gazed into the swirling branches of the Fire Tree and took small comfort from the ages-old forces of Salvation and Rule they invoked for all they remained steadfast and true even if the tree itself bore marks of gradual decline. 

      The giant tree stood at the very heart of elfdom. Its roots were as an elf’s umbilical cord. Earth Mother and Godfather, it had always cared for them as they for it.  For the Fire Tree was elfdom.

     A leaf floated down and landed at his feet. Pers followed its passage with a keen eye. And not the slightest breeze to be felt.  It confirmed what he had known for some time. The tree was slowly, but surely dying.  How its roots had survived for so long without water was beynd even elven comprehension. He looked up again and the mighty flame appeared to flicker. How long? he wondered, “How long?” he murmured under his breath a second time and looked directly at the motherworlder as if half-expecting an answer.

      Mick met the elf’s steady gaze and matched the tight smile, muscle for muscle.  Each gave the other a barely perceptible nod. A mute exchange of tangible comfort passed between them like a current. A rapport was established, inarticulate and raw but of the stuff life friendships were made. Pers looked away, satisfied. Mick, in turn, felt hopeful for the first time since he had set foot in Mamelon. It was like a massive weight being lifted from his shoulders. He had made a friend, was not alone any more. Even so, although a sinking feeling dissipated as he turned to face the villagers swarming towards them, he couldn’t help wondering if he wasn’t clutching at straws.         

      Mick liked Pers’ parents. His mother, La, was petite, dainty and much as he expected an elf to be. The father. Ka, was much smaller than Pers and stocky with it. He also wore a beard. Indeed., Ka resembled all the pictures Mick had ever seen of how a dwarf should look although he suspected it might be tactless to say so.  He could almost feel his mother nudging him and fancied he could hear her say, ‘Don’t you dare show me up. Remember, Michael, you’re a guest. Be polite.’  He grinned. Once, his mother’s fussing would have irritated him no end. Now he could only wish it was for real.

      La intuitively understood their guest was unhappy and took him under her wing. Ka, too, went out of his way to entertain the visitor with lively anecdotes, chiefly at the expense of Pers and his younger sister, Irina. For his part, Mick sympathised with brother and sister as misdemeanours, no less common among elves than children the world over, were dwelt upon and embroidered for the sake of comic relief.

      They were sat on the straw floor of a large hut within the innermost compound and could see the Fire Tree from its flap windows. Everyone laughed in all the right places and looked forward to a celebration later in Mick’s honour. No one made any mention of a growing sense of unease. When Ka casually remarked that there would be a Council of Elders immediately after the festivities and that Mick was welcome to attend, even the latter chose to ignore that it was no invitation but a royal command.

“May I come too, father?” Pers put the question lightly enough but it was not only La who was dismayed by the tone of her husband’s response.

      “Why not...?” Ka shrugged and even gave his only son a paternal slap on the back, smiling broadly at Mick as he did so. It was sheer pantomime. Everyone knew it and Mick was no exception. “There is a time for the young and a time for the old,” murmured Ka.  A tremor in the old elf’s voice would have been barely perceptible even to the sharpest ear. La heard it, though, and frowned. For it spoke volumes for one who had always taken pride in never allowing his judgement to be clouded by emotion.

      Pers smelt danger and tasted it on his tongue. He licked his lips and discovered he had an appetite for it. It would be good to be doing something at last instead of engaging in a general wringing of hands at the passing of all Mamelon into such obscurity that would deny even elves a place in history.

     Mick, meanwhile, was enjoying himself. Now and then, nagging feelings of guilt would lap at his mind’s edge like waves on a shore, only to roll away again. The elves were a fun-loving bunch. Later, during the celebrations, there was much music and free flowing vinre. He even danced with Pers’ sister, Irina, and managed not to feel too bad about Beth. It took some time before he realized that all was not quite as it should be.  Suddenly, he put his finger on it. There are no children. Ricci’s tale came back to haunt him and he recalled something about a Spring of Life ceasing to flow. So the Forest of Gar is no exception, he brooded, with a growing sense of disappointment. He would have expected more of elves. Elves!  He pulled a face, and resolved to play this whole weird business by ear. Meanwhile, there was some fun to be had so why not make the most of it? While it lasts, his alter ego added ominously.

      Pers, Irina, and their friends constantly poked fun at Mick’s shambling efforts on the dance floor. Mick, though, was in high spirits, not least because he was drinking vinre like water. He took it all in good part and readily joined in the laughter. Not altogether oblivious to a sense that he was treading on thin ice, he let his hair down, shook his hips and had his audience convulsed. The elves had never seen anything like it.

     Ka slipped away for a pre-Council discussion with elders. La stayed on, but did not dance. Instead, she watched her son and daughter intently, as if determined to capture the scene forever in her mind’s eye.  He was not handsome, her son, but brave and true like his father. Pers would not shirk from whatever must be done. She observed, too, how Irina stole wistful glances at the motherworlder when she thought no one was looking.  

      La pursed her lips. Irina could be as wilful as she was beautiful. She let her gaze linger on Michal, called Mick. He cut a fine figure of young manhood, their guest, with his blond curls and grey eyes. How had she missed those all-consuming eyes?  Oh, he was a trifle clumsy perhaps, but that was only to be expected for a motherworlder.  Pers had found him a loose-fitting red blouson and a pair of green leggings that suited him well. Earlier, she had looked hard for signs of something elven in him and found none. Only when she stopped looking, had she seen the resemblance, although nothing that was elven. Indeed, far from it. Now she fretted for not spotting the resemblance at once, it was so striking. Every nuance of movement, a habit of running the fingers of both hands through his hair whenever he wanted to give an impression of being in control…she knew them so well. If the hair had been raven, he’d have been the spitting image of Astor, Mage of Mages, dear to all elves and to one in particular.

      Instinctively, she looked for Ka. He was nowhere to be seen. La relaxed and let her thoughts wander.  So long now, it was, since she had last seen Astor and so final their parting.  Yet he was never far from her mind’s eye. La wondered, as she often did, if Ka knew or guessed that she and Astor had been lovers.  She hoped not, for she loved her husband dearly.  It was not love with Astor, but something else entirely. She had never understood what or even questioned it at the time, any more than she had been able to resist a pull like that of the earth on a flower or tree.

      At the edge of the ring of dancers, La spotted Kirin, her son’s closest friend. His lips curved in a vivacious smile, he was waving to someone across the floor.  There was a glitter in the eyes, fierce and sad at the same time. She followed his gaze. It fell and lingered on a young couple for which the others had cleared a space, all the better to watch and applaud. Irina was good teacher and Michal wore the flushed look of a young man surprised to discover that he not only enjoyed dancing but, with encouragement, had a flair for it.

La’s eyes flew back to Kirin. She had to put a hand to her mouth the stifle the cry that sprung to her lips. The expression on the face of her daughter’s most persistent of admirers hardened even as she watched. If he had not been elven and as fine a youth as had ever graced her table, she might have felt inclined to describe the look that Kirin fixed upon their guest as one of pure hatred. But this was Gar and elves did not hate. It was but natural, she supposed, that Kirin should be jealous of all the attention Irina was paying Michal. Even so, she was uneasy and became slightly breathless as she rose to go in search of her husband.

      By the time the full Council of Elders had gathered, the twin moons were faintly visible above. It was held in the open. Mick was surprised. He had expected a closet affair. Some scatter cushions had been strategically positioned near the base of the Fire Tree. On these, various male and female villagers squatted whose ages at once seemed to vary greatly and be about the same. Mick shrugged. Early years crammed with bedtime stories had left him well prepared. There was simply no telling with elves.

      It was not a public affair. The open space that had not long since throbbed with music and thronged with swaying limbs had been abandoned by all but a select few. Nor did the proceedings take long. Indeed, Mick had the distinct impression that discussion has already been exchanged and decisions taken.

      Ka-ri, to give Pers’ father his full title, stood on a slightly raised platform and made a formal speech of welcome to Mick, Now and again, his speech fell into a soft brogue that was hard to understand and took all Mick’s concentration to follow. He went on to speak about a doom that had to do with the Spring of Life and the Purple Mountains. Again, Ricci’s tale came back to haunt him. 

      Mick found himself wondering what had happened to the cone headed figure dressed all in yellow. He wasn’t sure that he cared much. It was Ricci, after all, who had brought the whole sorry mess upon them and without so much offering them a choice. Apprentice magician or whatever, Ricci could and should have protected instead of abandoning them.  He’s been quick enough to use magic to save his own skin so why not ours too?  Mick snorted, clenched his fists and derived no small pleasure in imagining how he would deal with the queer fellow should their paths cross again.  Suddenly, he realised that everyone was looking at him with an air of quizzical expectancy. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t quite catch the question.” There were disapproving noises from some of those present. but Ka merely smiled and did not seem in the least put out by Mick’s inattentiveness.  

      “As I was saying,” Ka repeated, “you will want to reach the Purple Mountains without further delay. You did say that is where you and your friends were heading before you became…err, lost?” 

      “I suppose so,” agreed Mick sheepishly. He longed to shout,’ I haven’t a bloody clue so suppose you enlighten me, damn it!’ but managed to restrain himself. They made him feel inadequate, these elves. Moreover, he suspected they were holding out on him. He’d felt the same about Ricci only more so. A chuckle rose in Mick’s throat. Why should it surprise him? Wasn’t this whole business an exercise in manipulation? Does it really matter who pulls the strings? For the time being, at any rate, he had no choice but to play the game and hope for the best.

      “You will need a guide,” Ka was saying.

      “I’ll take him, father!” Pers jumped up and there was sporadic applause mingled with angry mutters.

   “Elves have not set foot outside Gar for Ri knows how many lifetimes!” someone said, “The motherworlder found his way here easily enough. Let him follow his own nose!”

    “Hear, hear!” There was much agreement although Mick sensed it was not unkindly meant. Nor was he entirely unaware of an underlying dread making such ripples of alarm across the hubbub that he could almost see them.

     “I can make my own way to the Purple Mountains,” he affirmed in a strong, resonant voice ringing in his ears like that of a complete stranger.

      An awkward silence ensued.

     “May I go, father?” Pers met his father’s steady gaze without flinching. None but he saw the mouth twitch or the eyes twinkle or the love that shone from the grave, parchment face like that on a full moon. They understood each other very well, his father and he.

      “I will go too!” Kirin leapt to his feet.  “The motherworlder has come to help us. The very least we can do is return the favour.”

      “The very least,” Pers agreed.

      Another, longer silence followed while everyone digested the validity of what had been said.  Murmurs of assent steadily grew to a chorus of approval. “Very well,” intoned Ka as if bestowing a blessing. “If any here object to my son and Kirin accompanying the motherworlder, Michal, to the Purple Mountains, let them speak now or forever keep their peace.” No one spoke. “Go then,” he addressed Mick directly. “You must leave soon. Pers and Kirin will take you there. May Ri, too, go with you all.” He descended from the makeshift dais and walked away. It was the signal for everyone else to do the same. Pers and Kirin converged on Mick wearing broad grins.

      “We’ll have such an adventure.” Pers winked.

     “We will, yes," Kirin agreed. Yet, fleetingly, his sunny face seemed to cloud over as if he were in pain. Pers was momentarily distracted by someone yelling their good wishes and did not appear to notice. Mick wondered whether his imagination mightn’t be up to new tricks, but could not resist glancing over his shoulder. Irina came running towards them, arms outstretched. Was it only wishful thinking, Mick wondered, or did she really have eyes only for himself?  Laughingly, he prepared to receive her. But Kirin stepped in front of him. So it was around the elf’s neck, not his, that Irina flung her arms. An unreasonable anger flared in Mick. but quickly died when Irina grabbed his hand. Seconds later, all three were skipping merrily across the grass.

      It wasn’t long before Pers broke away and hung back. He had seen the look on Irina’s face as she ran towards Michal. Nor had he missed Kirin’s dark expression before he intercepted her. Silently, he gave heartfelt thanks to Ri that his two friends would soon have put many a span between themselves and his incorrigible sister. He would miss her, of course he would. But he knew Irina too well. If she wanted the motherworlder, she would have him. He sighed. Kirin adored Irina although Pers had warned him often enough that he was wasting his time. He and Kirin were like brothers and that was how Irina saw his friend, as a second brother. “Nor will it ever be any different,” he murmured, “Believe me, old friend, you love in vain.”  Time and again he had tried to persuade Irina to tell Kirin so herself. The irony was that she adored him, too, but in her own way. Besides, she loved to play games, his beautiful sister. It suited her have Kirin mooning after her day and night.  ‘He’s so sweet,’ she would say, toss her red hair and go into a fit of girlish giggles. Try as he might, he could not make her see the harm in it.

      “Come on, snail!” Irina ran a hand through her shining hair and urged her brother to catch up with them. Pers, who loved his sister dearly, managed to put his constant irritation with her aside, as he always did, and promptly obliged.  Behind them, in the branches of the Fire Tree, another leaf broke away and floated to the ground…

     The time to leave came all too soon. A part of Mick wanted to stay. He liked these people. Besides, he felt safe here. At the same time, he felt his face burn with shame. He had to finds the others. As the eldest, he was responsible for them…well, wasn’t he? In my own world, yes, he told himself, but here, in this place, this Mamelon? He hadn’t a clue although his alter ego warned him to take nothing as read.

     Mick and the two elves bade a very public farewell. La and Ka gave each a hug. La slipped something into Mick’s hand but her eyes warned him to say nothing. He slipped a smooth, flat stone shaped like a triangle into his pocket and returned the hug. Ka did the same.  The elf king’s expression, likewise, gave out a clear signal. Mick pocketed what might have been a live thing; it was egg-shaped, gave out a faint heat and seemed to wriggle a moment before going quite still in what he still called jeans but the elves referred to as jami or leggings.

      “May Ri go with you all,” said La and Ka together and everyone watching took up the cry.

      “And me. I’m coming too!” announced Irina, emerging from her own quarters. She had shed her female attire and was dressed much like the others. On her back, she carried a knapsack similar to theirs. In her eyes, the light of battle flung an unspoken challenge.

     To Mick’s consternation, no one argued. Kirin was plainly tickled pink.  Ka’s pensive frown quickly lifted and he embraced his daughter. La sighed, saw that Irina’s mind was made up and caved in gracefully. There was nothing else for it. She and Ka must give her their blessing. It was unthinkable that their daughter should sneak off without it. Irina, as both parents knew only too well, was capable of doing just that. 

      La tried to catch her son’s eye. Instead, she saw Pers glance covertly at Kirin and did the same. Kirin’s face had been flushed with pleasure a moment ago. Now a shadow had fallen across it. Then she saw that Irinia was poking out her tongue at Michal in fun. Only, there was something more than faintly suggestive about the way it curled and stroked her upper lip. As she kissed her son and held him close for as long as she felt would not embarrass him, she could sense his own unease and was fearful for she trusted Pers’ instincts implicitly. But, “Take care, my son,” was all she said.

     “I will, mother.” He grinned. No one would have guessed that there had been any subversive interchange between the two. While father and son understood each other very well, rapport between Pers and his mother was tuned to near perfection.

      “Doesn’t the Council have a say in this?” Mick protested and was rewarded by hoots of laughter from the crowd.

      “The Council does not concern itself with female matters.” It was Irina herself who answered with an irony lost on none present, the majority of whom had long both lamented and admired her feisty temperament. “If I choose to go, I go…unless anyone objects?” She looked around, the beautiful eyes twinkling with mischief.

      No one said a word.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

In a basement room beneath the Grand Palace at Lunis, City of Moons, gnarled hands flung an ash-like substance into a roaring fire that blazed in a stone grate. The fire flared even higher and a shrill humming noise was like music to his ears as its flames turned from yellow to pink, from pink to crimson, and then to white. As if across a blank screen, a series of moving images appeared; vague shapes that gradually assumed features. Locations, too, became recognizable.

      Ragund, the Dark Mage and consort of Shireen, Ruler of Mamelon and sister of Michal, its erstwhile Ruler (Mamelon had never known a king or queen, the title was an unthinkable throwback to the motherworld) could scarcely contain his excitement as he tossed another pinch of fine powder into the flames. He cackled gleefully at the sight of Nadya’s son, Heron, being overpowered and taken captive by bog folk. Hopefully, they would not get bored and toss their prize to wolves or even grow hungry for fresh meat themselves.  Ragund frowned. He had other plans for young Heron.

      Suddenly, the scene faded. Ragund scowled for he was faced with an impenetrable blackness. He flung on more powder and intoned a spell. Nothing happened. “Elves!” he swore aloud. It could be no one else. That incompetent fool, Ricci, possessed neither the brains nor stamina to thwart him so. He had to confess surprise. It hadn’t taken Nadya long to realise what was up and take appropriate action. Too late, though to save her son, he reflected with no small satisfaction before closing his eyes and summoning an image of Michal’s daughter whom he had glimpsed, alive and well, but a few lifetimes ago. All due credit to her and the royal bloodline, he was forced to concede.  But now I, Ragund, have rejoined the game and she will find out soon enough that I am a bad loser. 

      Ragund strove to make contact with the woman in his mind’s eye, but could only do so at a tangent. His deepest consciousness barely grazed hers. He felt her start and close herself to him, but not before he has caught sight, fleetingly, of whom he sought.  In Nada’s own mind’s eye he saw her son, Heron again. “By Ri, he has escaped!” Sure enough, the youth was swimming strongly through a steamy swamp. Nor was he alone. Ragund strained to see. The scene dropped away again, leaving nothing but a cloud of smoke from the fire. The warlock gave in to a hacking cough, and then tensed.  Impossible!  but had he not glimpsed, too, a motherworlder with red hair lagging slightly behind young Heron in the last throes of inner vision?  It made no sense. 

      What did make sense, however, was that Heron was plainly making for Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead. Oh, but of course.  Where else would the lad head but home? Ragund frowned. It was hard, even for a Dark Mage to contemplate the notion that any living thing should choose to make a home among the dead.

      An evil grin crossed the ravaged face.  If only Nadya, the boy's mother, had died as once he planned, her life on Ti-Gray would have been so much more comfortable. And who am I to deny her that even now? Ragund reached for the scrying cup. It would not help him locate Nadya, her wards were too strong (for now) and shielded her children also.Even so,  it had its uses all the same.  Within seconds, he had tracked down Radik, leader of the few krills that remained hid in Mamelon. 

      Most of Radik’s kind perished when the Purple Mountains had erupted with rage, killing every living thing under a hail of massive rocks and tongues of fire.  But Radik was not a good loser. Ragund had wasted no time seeking him out and reasserting the bonds contrived with those first intruders from across the Sea of Marmela who came to mine Mamelon’s gold long, long ago.

      At first, Radik had resisted discovery. Krills were hated by all but those few Mamelonians who envied and bargained for their wealth. Now they were greatly diminished in numbers and had lost not only their gold but slaves too and, thereby, the awesome power they wielded. Many were those who would gladly eliminate a krill given the chance. In the end, though, Radik had been unable to close his mind entirely to Ragund’s persistent seduction.  Certainly, an offer of power sharing with the Dark Mage once the Tomb of the Creator had been located and water from the Spring of Life restored to Mamelon, presented a more attractive proposition even than their original bargain to barter gold for slaves.

      From the scrying cup, the image of Radik greeted Ragund with a wicked grin. “Go to Ti-Gray and wait,” hissed the Dark Mage, “Spare no one.”

      “Not even the dead?” scoffed the Krill leader. He enjoyed taunting the old magician. Ragund could not bear to contemplate a power greater than his own. None though held sway over the dead except, as legend would have it, druids.  But druids were an extinct race if ever they had existed at all. Radik, for one, was inclined to doubt it.

      “At least the dead are neutral.” Ragund shrugged. “Even elves have no influence over them.”

      “Elves, pah!” Radik snorted in disgust and Ragund permitted himself a thin smile. The ages-old hatred between krill and elf might yet be used to his advantage. 

      The image in the scrying cup dimmed suddenly, spluttered and disappeared altogether. Just before it passed away, Ragund sensed rather than saw an alien presence, one that he had neither summoned nor that even his dream-self quite acknowledged.  It made him uneasy, very uneasy. Behind him, a door creaked open. His lower lip curled. It could only be Shireen. No one else would dare disturb him here. Even so, she rarely visited the workshop. Unease became alarm.

      “Ragund, my dear…?”  The mage stiffened, but made no outward  sign that he had heard. “My darling, I have had a dream!” Her obvious disquiet did nothing to alleviate his disturbed state. Shireen’s dreams had an uncanny habit of foretelling, if not a whole, at least a part truth, likely reveal itself sooner rather than later. “Galia, she lives! I have seen her!”

      “No!” Ragund leapt nimbly to his feet and pirouetted with all fine dexterity of someone more than half his age.

      “I have seen her,” repeated the tall woman with red hair piled high. Shireen winced.  She hadn’t seen Ragund in such a rage since some fool krill had stumbled upon the Tomb of the Creator, provoking the spirits into cutting off his main source of income.  That thousands had died when the mountains erupted mattered nothing to Ragund.  He had brooded long and hard about the gold. Only recently, he seemed to have found a new source of pleasure to occupy himself. She suspected it had to do with the royal bloodline.  The dream only confirmed her suspicions.

      “It cannot be,” snarled the mage. But he was already remembering the presence on the very edge of his own dream-consciousness. “Galia!” he growled. If Michal’s consort lives the chances are she knows her daughter, too, lives and that her grandson is in peril. Any steps she might take to protect Heron must inevitably pit him, Ragund, against powers the like of which that idiot Ricci’s paled into insignificance.  He smiled grimly, relishing the challenge.

      Ragund held out his arms.  Shireen came forward and they embraced with a passion she had not shared with him for a long time.  The eyes that held hers glinted with fiendish anticipation. A rush of satisfaction coursed through her veins.  It was good to know that he still desired her and that she gave him pleasure. She put her lips to his and set about pleasing him some more.

      Ragund suppressed a chuckle and returned his wife’s intimacy with interest. It was high time, he mused dryly, that the first-born sister of Michal the Great proved useful to him again.  Lifetimes ago, it was or so it seemed, since they had committed adultery and murder to oust Michal and seize the High Seat of Mamelon for themselves. Only thanks to that meddlesome fool, Ricci, had Galia and the children escaped. Since then, no amount of scrying or despatching of dream-self to the four corners of Mamelon had revealed any hint of their whereabouts. He had presumed them dead. That is, until recently when Nadya let drop her guard. Why had she done that, he wondered? It hardly matters, though, surely? Of far greater importance was that her carelessness had led him to a son, Heron.

      To Michal’s daughter, an heir! The possibilities were endless. Only by the male bloodline could the Power of Rule be dispensed in full.  If he, Ragund, had his way, supreme power would soon be his.  Once a way into the Purple Mountains had been found, the key to the Creator’s tomb was easily obtained. Water from the Spring of Life would flow freely again. He, Ragund, would be lorded by all and sundry as the saviour of Mamelon, Once, too, this Heron was his and his alone, to use as he saw fit, no magic, even elven or druid could ever thwart him again. What mage could boast more?Ragund the Great, it had a good ring to it. 

      The ancient warlock beamed and led Shireen to the bed he always kept made up for all-night sessions in the workshop.

      They made love with a rare passion.

      Inwardly, Shireen sniggered. Mage, he might be, but the old goat had never been up to much between the sheets. Hope at last!  She exulted inwardly while heaving and faking cries of pleasure. Had not Ragund  incited her to kill husband, brother and sister…and for what?   Where were they now, those riches beyond dreams and power beyond imagination  he had promised?   In the end, they had turned out to be little more than cruel bribes. One day, I will have my revenge. Even so, her exultant cry as he took her was not entirely false.

Mamelon - Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

In leafy Tunbridge Wells, Gail Wright sat in her sitting room and contemplated the crystal bowl. It glowed only faintly now. She concentrated on making her mind a blank sheet. Some deeper instinct insisted this is what she must do. Slowly, but surely she succeeded. An innate self-confidence began to reassert itself.
    Certainly, she wasn’t afraid. Not for herself, at any rate. But those same nether instincts warned her there was danger about. She became aware of losing her identity in much the same way as a caterpillar sheds its skin. No butterfly emerged, however. Instead, new shapes and images started to appear. These meant nothing to Gail.  Yet another self, awakening within a second consciousness, was gradually able to identify most of them. Among them, the young man she had glimpsed before, not unlike her son, Michael, but dark instead of fair. He was angry and shouting.... 

     But these were only pictures and blurred at that. It was like watching an old TV film with the sound turned right down. Another man came into view. It could have been her husband, Tim. Only, that was absurd…. Well, isn’t it?

      Both vanished from the ‘screen’ to be replaced by the image of a woman, the spitting image of herself some years younger.  She was running down a dark passage.  Nor was she alone. A young boy, a mere infant, clutched at one hand. Behind her, a woman carried a girl child in her arms. There was someone else. The name Ricci came into her head, unbidden, but meant nothing. They were in a stream, no a sewer. She saw a huge rat and screamed.

     The scream reverberated through the whole house and had the immediate effect of restoring Gail Wright to a state of near normality. She shook her head and even managed a grim smile. How on earth could she have imagined seeing a rat? Now, there something she was meant to do? Ah, yes, the supermarket. Her eyes fastened on a scrap of paper on the table. She snatched it up and her own neat handwriting leapt up at her as she read, Tea, Sugar, Cornflakes, Mamelon….

     Mamelon…? 

     Suddenly, the moving pictures started up again. Faces and names. Names and faces. Gail, Galia. Galia, Gail.  Everything was muddled, yet so vivid and uncannily familiar.  Could they be memories?  She felt sick. Her mind reeled and went spinning like a top into another time, another place…

      Mamelon…

     She heard someone speak her name. The voice, although distant, was oddly familiar.  As it closed in on her ears, she realised it was her own.
     Michal is gone, Timon, too, and what of Calum and Nadya?  For Ri’s sake, I must save the children! Elves, yes, they will help, they must. Am I not part elf?  Dear Ri, let it be so!  Oh, but there’s something else? Ah, yes, the key! What of the sacred key?  Give it to Ricci for safekeeping, yes. Elves must help. How can they refuse?  Now, go. Ignore the children’s cries. Ricci and Oona will keep them safe. I will be back soon. Even soon is too long, but it must be done, for all our sakes. Run, now, run to the Forest of Gar. And make peace, seek peace, find peace…

    Somewhere in the 21^st century, emergency sirens screamed past a pretty semi-detached house in a quiet avenue lined with beech trees. Gail’s head began to clear although an old nursery rhyme settled there and would not budge, Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home /your house is on fire and your children…

      What happened to the children...? I must remember.

    Gail picked up the bowl. The crystal responded instantly to her touch and began to glow a deeper pink than before. Now crimson, now white. Its very whiteness suggested an unbearable heat. Only, there was none. On the contrary, the bowl was icy cold against her skin.  It began to let off a vapour in which more pictures appeared, and clearer now. More faces. Names, too, that played hide-and-seek in a parade of personalities and identities that she had turned her back upon but never quite forsaken.

      Galia, Gail. Gail, Galia. To and fro, the images came and went, back and forth…

     She saw her own face again. Ah, but no. Nadya… Galia of Mamelon gasped. Could it be that her daughter was alive?  A child stood beside Nadya, Another child came into view. Gail moaned softly. I have slept too long, Joy, sorrow, terror…all these did battle with each other in her heart. These children, a boy and a girl, they are my grandchildren. The girl was pretty, but she saw no family resemblance. The boy was fair, like his grandmother...
      Galia’s heart skipped a beat, caught like a scrap of cloth on barbed wire until it tore away and began beating again. But there were strands left on the wire, she thought sadly. Blood, too. The boy’s handsome face was screwed up in pain. Such pain, it passed through her whole body. She dropped the bowl. It clattered on the table.  From one tiny fragment of crystal a spark of light flared briefly and died. In that instant she saw something, a face.

      Astor. 

     The name, as feared as it was loved, yanked at her every nerve ending until she could bear it no longer and fell to the floor in a dead faint.

      Gail Wright recovered consciousness in her husband’s arms, his kind face gazing into hers, anxious and full of concern. He was kneeling on the floor, her head in his lap. “What time is it?” she needed to know for some obscure reason.

      “Three o’clock, near enough. You must have fainted. But you’re going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay,” he kept repeating. The words of the Okay Song came into her head and its melody reassured her as it always did.
      “The children..?” She sat up in alarm and tried to remember why she should be so worried about them.

Tim Wright mopped his wife’s brow with a large handkerchief. “They’ll be okay, don’t worry.”
       “But they’re in…” she faltered. What had she meant to say?  Could it be danger?  But how, why…? She only knew for certain that she was afraid for them and could see signs of her own distress mirrored in their father’s eyes for all his outward show of calm. Such gentle eyes, too. They were green, like a reflection of trees on a ring of glassy water. She let herself float on it, gently, like a leaf. Above her, a clear sky stretched forever. Now clouds began to form. Not fluffy white ones but a brown-yellow formation. Colours, everywhere, were changing from bright to drab. A marmalade tint gave the rolling scene an added pathos. Mamelon, she thought she heard herself cry, and then realised she hadn’t uttered a sound. The face close to hers swam into a different focus. Another face superimposed itself on the dear, familiar features. “Timon!” she gasped.
      “Yes, Galia, it is I,” murmured Tim Wright even as he peeled away at layer upon layer of a half-forgotten consciousness to rediscover Timon, Holy Seer of Mamelon, who had turned his back on the world of his birth because he so loved the wife of his best friend and Ruler, Michal.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

“Couldn’t you have done some magic,” Pete wanted to know.  “He said he was a magician,” the boy protested as Nick and Beth glowered.
      “I wasn’t much of a magician in those days,” Ricci confessed with a rueful smile, “Goodness, no. I was just a frightened, confused boy who ran wherever his legs chose to take him.”

“Oh, and where was that?” prompted Mick after Ricci had been silent for a while.

“What? Oh, I ended up in the Purple Mountains and devoted myself to learning about magic from the Master. But that’s another story.  It was assumed by all but a loyal few that Michal and his family perished in the fire.  Shireen and Ragund ruled Mamelon with a cruelty that surpasses imagination. No one believed things could get any worse. Then krills sailed across the Sea of Marmela and began to mine for gold in the Purple Mountains. Yes, gold, another evil that followed us from the motherworld.  Rather, I should say, the love of gold.  Love, dare I say?  Not even that, but a single-minded passion that feeds on its own lust and always an insatiable hunger for more...” Ricci paused before adding as if as an idle afterthought, “The prettiest thing, too, a piece of gold.”

Another long pause followed during which everyone drank more vinre but only picked at the food on their plates. Had they known better, the brothers and Beth would have scoffed the lot and still made room for more. Now, though, they were caught in the spell of a rare and shocking tale and their bellies were content enough.

“Gold!” exclaimed Ricci and made everyone jump including himself.  Instantly, he became more subdued. “Ragund could not resist it of course. While all Mamelon prepared for war with the krills, he had other ideas and ambitions of his own. He made a pact with them, agreeing to supply slaves to mine the mountains in return for a share of all gold found there.  And so it went on, for years. Half the young people in every village, town, and city were rounded up and despatched to the Purple Mountains on their twelfth birthdays. Some chose to flee and headed north, most of whom probably died right here in the bog lands.  Others were saved from the mines because they had mastered a trade or were considered comely enough to be kept back for breeding purposes.”

“Then some fool stumbled upon the Tomb of the Creator in the very heart of the mountains. It was an even bigger fool, though, who took the decision to defy its Keeper for the sake of a treasure far greater than any gold”. Ricci spread his hands in a gesture of such bleak despair that his sceptical audience could not help but be moved. “It is not only the tomb, you see, that Keepers have guarded for generations but the Spring of Life also. It preserves Mamelon’s Creator just as it preserves Mamelon itself. From it, flows the purest water, some say from the motherworld. Whatever, it is water that makes the green grass grow and gives life to all things. Once, that is, not now. For the Spirits made their wrath felt and the very mountains shook with a terrible rage. Many, many died. The tomb was lost, even to the last of the Keepers who must also have perished for she was never heard of again.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Since that time, no drop of water from the Spring of Life has flowed into Mamelon soil. Our grass turns the colour of autumn leaves wile the roots of every tree and plant take what precious little succour they can from those few underground rivers and streams that have not yet run dry. The soil is near infertile. Our people grow old, albeit slowly as the likes of you would know it for time moves in a different dimension here than in the motherworld. Slowly, yes, but surely we grow old.” Ricci repeated mournfully. “In the meantime, no children are born. Mamelon is dying.” He stopped, plainly overcome with emotion.

No one spoke but waited expectantly, sensing that a connection was about to be made with their own presence in this crisis stricken world into which fate, or whatever, had so unexpectedly thrust them.

“Only the Rulers of Mamelon have ever had access to the tomb although, to my knowledge, none have ever gone there. Even the Keepers were but guardians, sworn not to pass beyond the outer sanctum. There is a key that has been passed down through the bloodline and may only be used by a Ruler. Before he ran into the fire, Michal took the key that hung on a silken thread around his neck and hung it around young Calum’s. Later, Galia took it upon herself to remove it for safekeeping because he kept taking it off and playing with it. Before she went to seek the help of elves and was taken by the mist, she left it with me. ‘You would trust me with the key? I was overwhelmed. ‘I trust you with my children so why not this?’ was all she said moments before she vanished. I should have realised then what she had in mind. But the young only see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear…”

Mick bridled at this last comment, but kept a tactful silence.

“Where’s the key now?” Pete wanted to know.

“Are you blind, or what?” retorted Mick, “It’s hanging from that chain around his neck.”

Pete and Beth strained to see. She could just make out something that might have been a silver chain and a pendant of sorts, but no key. Pete saw nothing but had no intention of conceding his brother any advantage. “Oh, yes!” he enthused and cocked his head on one side, pretending to study the invisible key.

Beth said nothing.

Ricci looked momentarily nonplussed then settled down once more to resume his tale.  “Recently, a few hundred years ago, I discovered that that Galia’s daughter, Nadya, lives. Not only does Nadya live, but she has grown to womanhood and taken a husband. They have a son, Heron, a boy about your age in motherworld years.”  Ricci gave Mick a queer look that made Beth, especially, uneasy. The son of a Princess of Mamelon, even a dispossessed one, has a far greater claim to rule Mamelon than either his aunt or her foul consort. The trouble is…” Ricci fidgeted. “I suspect that Ragund has also learned about Heron. Nor is it information he would care to share. Indeed, there have been several crude attempts on my life since I arrived here.”

“The bog folk you mentioned?” Pete was impressed.

“It would seem so, and that Ragund is able to exercise some control over them,” Ricci agreed, but his sober expression quickly brightened. “However, as you see, I am not so easily disposed of.”  Everyone giggled. That is to say there was potential for laughter in the subdued, nervous sounds they made, but at least this helped ease the tension. “The word is that Heron can be found on Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead. One can only hope that he is alive,” Ricci added dryly. But if this remark was intended as a joke, it fell on deaf ears.

Ricci rose abruptly and left them, returning almost at once so it appeared to Mick and Beth that he had hardly been away from the table at all. Pete hadn’t noticed a thing but was intent on helping himself to more vinre. As he was about to replace the heavy silver flagon, three goblets were held out and his struggle to fill them gave the others welcome cause for a good chuckle.

Pete had barely put the flagon down when he noticed that Ricci had produced a crystal bowl, moreover one that looked uncomfortably familiar. “My mum has a bowl like that!” he exclaimed and instantly wished he hadn’t. The memory hurt more than he’d have thought possible and he was careful to avoid his brother’s searching look. I won’t cry, he promised himself, I won’t. Pete took a long swig from the goblet. While it helped to ease his distress, even the potent juice could not entirely douse a need for his mother that coursed like wildfire through his whole body.

“Yes, well, hmm,” Ricci coughed and went on, “This is what you would probably call a crystal ball.”

“But it isn’t a ball, it’s only a half of one,” Pete contradicted loudly.

“Quite so!” exclaimed Ricci with such a ringing note of approval that Pete positively blushed with pleasure. “It is a seer bowl among other things. But not any old seer bowl. Goodness me, no.  Astor, Mage of Mages, who was Galia’s father, created it himself. It is the most powerful thing in Mamelon. It is so powerful that Astor worked a spell to split the bowl in two lest the whole should ever fall into evil hands.”

“Ragund,” murmured Beth.

“Ragund, Ricci sombrely agreed. “How it came into my possession is another story. Suffice to say, it did. If I concentrate, I can catch glimpses of future, past or even present events taking place elsewhere. Granted, it has a mind of its own and is inclined to be very selective about what it lets me see. Only glimpses, you understand, links in a chain if you like.” He considered the comparison and found it wanting. “Pieces in a jigsaw might me a more apt metaphor. It is down to me what I make of them…or don’t, as the case may be. I’ll say so!”

“This is all very interesting, but what has it got to do with us?” Mick was getting impatient. He, too, has been affected by the sudden appearance of the familiar bowl, more so than he cared to acknowledge. But Ricci had fallen into one of his pensive trances and they had to wait awhile.

“Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead is not far from here. It lies at the very heart of the bog lands,” continued Ricci without warning.  His audience started but was soon hanging on every word. “Naturally, I headed this way as soon as I heard the rumours...”

“Naturally,” commented Mick dryly. No one took any notice. Ricci did not even spare him a glance but stared straight ahead and let the spellbinding monologue flow on.

“I camped here, intending to journey on the next day. That night, I was awoken by a curious humming noise. At first I thought the sound came from outside and I was about to be attacked. There was something sinister about it, ominous even. At the same time, it instilled a certain confidence in me.  I prepared to make a swift departure, of course. When nothing happened and the humming persisted, I reviewed the situation.”

“As one does,” muttered Mick. Beth glared at him to shut up.

 Ricci went on, “Then I noticed the seer bowl. How I’d overlooked it before, Ri only knows! It was glowing, a sort of pinkie colour. I picked it up and nearly dropped it. My goodness, yes, nearly dropped it! The thing had a pulse and might have been alive. It was most extraordinary and had never happened before, I’ll say not! When I tried to put it down, my fingers refused to let go. The glow turned red, and then crimson, and then white as if heat were flowing through it. Only, there was none. If anything, there was a chill in the air. It was just extraordinary, quite extraordinary. And why now, you may well ask?  Hadn’t I had the thing for ages?  Goodness me, yes.  It had never behaved that way before. Then I saw her, Galia!” His voice broke. “It was her, Galia, alive!” He forced himself to stay calm.

“She was in the motherworld, that much at least I could tell.  Her mind was sending out signals, images. She was frightened, but not for herself. I saw you, Michal, and you, Bethan. No, not you, I saw nothing of you.” Pete had caught his eye as Ricci anticipated the question.

“Bethan…?” Beth mused. The name had a familiar ring to it other than the obvious similarity to her own name, but she said nothing.

“Then, a blur…” Ricci went on, “…as if Galia’s mind was straining towards something…or someone…it could not quite focus upon. Suddenly, there was nothing at all.  No light, no pulse…nothing. I might as well have been staring at a lifeless artefact. But, Galia, alive! And a son, a son! Better than a grandson, I’ll say! Real hope at last. Better still, Ragund can have no idea or he’d not be wasting time on young Heron…”

Ricci was regarding Mick with the same queer expression that had bothered Beth earlier. Now she thought she understood. Somehow, Galia had been reincarnated in the person of Gail Wright. As the eldest son, Mick was next in line to the kingdom, territory or whatever of this place called Mamelon.  Mick, a Ruler, the very idea is  insane.. She burst out laughing. 

      Beth’s peals of laughter took the others by surprise, and not only those seated around the table.  Tears sprung to Beth’s eyes. Through them, she saw faint shadows on the marquee walls, figures about to attack.  Her eyes met Ricci’s. 

       Ricci swung round to see what was his guest such alarm. “Bog folk! Run, run for your lives!” yelled Ricci.

 In a flash, everything vanished.  Food, table, even the marquee itself disappeared into thin air. Ricci had gone too. They were alone, the three of them and Ace. Ahead, a crowd of ferocious zombie-like creatures were poised, as if frozen, to descend upon them. Someone grabbed Beth’s arm, she thought it must be Mick. Then they were running towards some trees. The twin moons had dimmed but there was just enough light to see by.  Suddenly, a warlike cry erupted behind them and they felt the ground shake beneath their feet with the frantic momentum of pursuit.

The forest was in pitch blackness, its trees owing their silvery aspect to moonlight of which, by now, there was precious little.  Beth stumbled in a muddy patch and paused to wrench her foot free. In the process, she let go of the hand holding hers. When she reached for it again, it was not there.

She was alone.

Farther on, Mick was panicking too. As soon as he realised Beth was not with them, he rounded on Pete whose hand she had been holding. “Why did you let go?” he hissed.

“I didn’t, she did!” Pete whispered back.

Mick felt he had no choice. “Beth!” he bawled and took several strides into the darkness. But the black night swallowed up his voice without returning even an echo.  “Beth!” he called several times again, but in vain. Once, he thought he recognised her voice. Half yell, half scream, it rose in terror only to be cut off with a dreadful suddenness.

Unable to establish any sense of the direction from which the bloodcurdling cry came, he ran first this way, then that. Here, nothing. There, nothing. There was nothing else for it but to stay put and wait for daylight. He looked round for Pete but there was no sign of his brother. A fresh surge of panic rose like bile in his throat. He retched several times before bracing himself to take several deep breaths. “Pete!” he hollered. There was no answering shout. But shouts there were, hostile and closing in.

 Mick took more deep breaths and felt marginally less panicky. He had no choice, he decided, and ran blindly on.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

“In the Beginning,” related Ricci, “there was Ri, the Creator or Ruler who gave life to the motherworld called Earth. Under Ri, there was lasting peace and prosperity for People of the World and Beasts of the World alike.  But the Beasts of the World were jealous of people because Ri favoured them. For they had soul and the beasts did not. When the Creator passed into the Great Unknown, they sought out his body to remove and devour the heart. By doing so, they thought to release His soul and seize its powers for their own. But the spirits hid the body of Ri. So the Beasts of the World could not access the soul that sustains all Goodness in the world and keeps Light in the world. As long as the heart beats, the soul of Ri is contained and the World avoids total Darkness.”

      “Of all Earth’s territories, only Mamelon stayed pure. So Ri destroyed the motherworld and granted it a new Beginning. He sent debris from the galaxy crashing down upon it. At the same time, he granted a prayer from the great druid, Ca-an, to spare Mamelon but sent it spinning into another Time.”

      “Alas, such evils that festered on Earth have insinuated itself like worms into our very soil. Between the marmalade sky and once lush grass of New Mamelon, such seeds grew that bore a terrible fruit.”

      “Mamelon was ruled by Michal the Great, who married Galia, daughter of Astor, the great Mage. It was rumoured that Astor was part elf, but no person knew for sure and none dared ask.”

      At this point, Pete could not restrain himself. “Elves!” he scoffed. But Ricci placidly ignored the interruption and continued without a pause.

      “Michal had a Grand Palace built for himself and Galia in Lunis, City of Moons, at the very heart of Mamelon. They had a son called Calum and a daughter, Nadya.” “Michal’s sister, Shireen, and her husband, Boris, governed the southernmost parts of Mamelon in his name. In the northern territories, a younger sister, Marta, did the same.  Marta took a lover, Ragund.  The word was that Ragund had been expelled from the Order of Druids for dabbling in Dark Forces.  Stories to make the blood run cold circulated about him in every market place the length and breadth of Mamelon.  It was even rumoured that he raided Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead, for slaves to help him in his workshop and performed unspeakable experiments upon them. Michal ignored such tales except to laugh at the most bizarre. But Galia, his consort, became fearful for her sister-in-law and the whole of Mamelon.”

      “One summer, brother and sisters were reunited in Lunis, City of Moons, and stayed at the Grand Palace.  They came for a Festival of Pipes to which pipers from all over Mamelon flocked to play their own and traditional music. On the last day of the festival, Marta was taken ill. So, too, was Boris. Not wanting them to miss the grand finale, each insisted that their respective partners should attend together.  Ragund and Shireen did as they were bid.”

      “By the time the festival was over, Marta and Boris were dead. If it was discovered exactly how they died, the facts were never made known. Michal merely issued a general statement to the effect that his beloved sister and brother-in-law had died of a sudden fever and the nation was plunged into a period of mourning. But Shireen and Ragund were seen to be keeping close company and tongues began to wag. Oh, but I’ll say they wagged!”

      “Unlike her sister, Marta, who was the epitome of goodness and easily left content, Shireen was ambitious and resented the fact that Michal, not herself, ruled Mamelon.  She would have been easy prey to Ragund’s predatory instincts.  The story goes that, after eliminating Marta and Boris by means of a poison that could not be confirmed without particular skills, the evil pair proceeded to plot the deaths of Michal and all his family. A vile plan was hatched to lock them in their bedrooms and set fire to the Grand Palace at dead of night, no matter that a hundred or so servants would also perish in the flames.

      “Now, among the entourage that accompanied Marta and Ragund to the Festival of Pipes was a young musician and apprentice to the mage, Astor. He was called Riccolo, known to everyone as Ricci.”

At this point in his monologue, Ricci paused to take a few mouthfuls of vinre, a beverage not unlike what those in the motherworld called cider. He looked around, well pleased to see his guests were enthralled. They were plunged into the Mamelon of old, just as he told it.  He could tell by their faces, even the red haired boy’s. The dog, Ace, had sloped off. Ricci frowned. He could not see for the life of him where the boy had any place in the scheme of things. The canine, Ace, of course, was another matter. He had his suspicions about the little dog. Goodness me, yes, Ricci reflected uncomfortably before taking another long swallow of vinre and continuing.

      “I was no hero. I certainly entertained no illusions of saving ruler and country. My only concern was for Galia.”  Only Beth detected the faintest of pink blushes beneath the yellowy skin. “I had what your world would probably dismiss as a schoolboy crush on her.  Be this as it may, she was very beautiful and I was hopelessly in love.  When I overheard Ragund and Shireen plotting to set fire to the palace and kill everyone that very night, I could only think of warning Galia. There was no time to lose. I dashed in the direction of the ruler’s bedchamber. Alas, foul deeds ran ahead of me. Traitors, doubtless paid a king’s ransom by that devil, Ragund, to commit mass murder were already swarming about the palace.”

      “I encountered the Holy Seer, Timon, in the Great Hall. He and Michal had been friends since childhood. Timon had long since turned his back on worldly affairs, but retained a passion for music and had come for the festival. His skill on the pipes was legendary. I blurted out my terrible news whereupon he took me to Michal by way of a secret passage. In no time at all, we had gathered in the royal bedchamber. There were seven of us, an omen perhaps since seven is said to be a number favoured by Dame Fortune’s wheel. We were poised to pile into another hidden passage that led beyond the palace walls. Galia took her son Calum by the hand while the children’s nurse, Oona, carried the princess Nadya in her arms. Then someone yelled “Fire!”  A pitiful cry, full of rage and terror, that haunts me still.”

      “A terrible screaming erupted. Michal ran to the door sobbing and crying out that he must help his people. The door had been locked on the outside, of course. Even so, he found a superhuman strength as one does in a crisis. Deaf to Galia’s hysterical pleas to remain with her and the children, he smashed it open with his shoulder. He grabbed his sword, Pausing only to kiss Galia and little ones, he plunged into a thick, acrid smoke and was never seen again.  After a few garbled instructions about taking care of Galia and the children, Timon rushed after him.”

      “Poor Galia was distraught. I had to shout at her to make myself heard, pointing out that we must save the children. She saw the sense of that, naturally, and calmed down. We made our escape, and I intended to take them to my parents in Sol, at the northernmost tip of Mamelon.  Oh, I had such plans for Galia and me. For you have to remember that I was very young, naïve, and hopelessly in love.”

      Ricci shook his head sorrowfully as painful memories came flooding back of events that might have taken place hours instead of centuries ago, so appallingly vivid were they in his mind’s eye. Moreover, he took Beth and the Wright brothers with him. They were in the thick of it, fleeing with Galia and her children for their very lives along dark passageways, down crumbling steps and through rat-infested sewers that snaked for miles beneath Lunis, City of Moons.

      “Somehow, Ragund discovered the passage. From his point of view, Galia was less of a problem than young Calum. The boy was Michal’s heir, after all, and might well prove a threat one day.  The hunt was up. Galia proposed we should seek sanctuary with the elves.”

      At the mention of elves, Pete Wright started out of his dream state long enough to pooh-pooh the notion a second time.  On this occasion, though, Ricci did not ignore the interruption but went on to elucidate. “Just as once there were elves in the motherworld so, too, in Mamelon. The oldest legends say that a part of Mamelon remains pure elven. It is called the Forest of Gar. As a matter of fact, it isn’t far from here. I had to pass through it to find the Time Gate. I saw no elves though. Not that I would expect to as I’m only a magician after all. An apprentice magician at that, he added ruefully. I can’t compete with elves. Huh, I’ll say not!”

      “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. As I was saying…Galia was adamant. So we headed for the Forest of Gar.  What a journey. I’ll say!  Ragund’s forces dogged our very footsteps every step of the way. As it was, we missed Gar and ended up in bog lands. How can you miss a forest, you’ll be asking?  Well, elves have a way of tampering with the senses. If they do not wish a person to pass through their homeland, there is no way that person may do so. Galia insisted we turn back. We argued. Suddenly, she pushed Calum into my arms and ran off.  She hadn’t gone fifty paces before a mist came down out of nowhere and swallowed her up. It fell like a curtain, dividing us. We heard her cry, “Wait for me!” and then nothing.”

      “Little Nadya began crying. Nothing poor Oona, the nurse, could say or do would pacify her. Calum tried to run after his mother and it took all my strength to restrain him. He kicked out and even bit me on arms, hands and legs. Finally he collapsed, weeping in my arms, such tears that cut me to the quick. How could she have left them, I asked myself then just as I ask it now?”

      Ricci paused and looked around. “It was not far from this very place where she left us. I never saw her again. That is…” Ricci checked himself and became slightly flustered. His audience put it down to grief and even Pete kept a respectful silence.  Indeed, Mick and Beth were starting to warm towards their host and Pete was starting to have second thoughts about elves.

 Ricci rallied. “We waited a long time for Galia to return. Somehow, little Calum wandered off without either Oona or myself noticing. I bade the nurse stay with Nadya and went to look for him. He hadn’t gone far and we were on our way back when I heard Oona screaming, “Bog folk! “ At first, I was too shocked to move. It was unlike bog folk to attack unless provoked. Ugly, foul creatures they may be but they keep themselves to themselves as a rule. Oh, they might eat the occasional stray traveller but only when he or she is beyond mortal help.”

His audience paled and looked around nervously.

“Somehow I found my nerve and rushed forward. Then I realised I would almost certainly be too late. When bog folk strike they strike fast. Besides, I had to protect Calum or Galia would never forgive me. I turned to grab his hand and make a run for it. But he was gone. Gone!  I ran here and there like a creature demented, but dare not call out his name in case the bog folk heard. Noises warned me they were heading my way so I hid until certain they were long gone. The next day, I found remnants of poor Calum’s clothes. There were wolf prints nearby. It’s anyone’s guess how that poor child met his end. He was devoured, certainly, but by wolves or bog folk I dare say no one will ever know. Whatever, it was likely down to that darkest of Dark Mages, Ragund. Oh, how I berated myself for a fool! Hadn’t I let him win?  How could I have let myself become so blinded by puppy love to have underestimated him so?”

Ricci fell silent. The others shifted their feet restlessly. No one moved, however, although none would have admitted how desperately they wanted Ricci continue. Nor did they quite understand why it should be so important to them that he did. Yet, instinctively, all three had a sense of being part of the events Ricci had been relating so graphically and with such intensity even though they had been enacted in another time and place long before they were even born.

“It’s like we‘re being confronted with our own history,” Beth murmured and hadn’t meant for anyone to hear.

“Or our future,” Mick growled.

Pete felt Ace tense. A low growl rumbled through the dog’s belly. “Don’t be frightened,” whispered the boy, but it was he not the dog, whom he sought to reassure as he lay his hand against the animal’s fur.

Ricci remained silent, straining to hear a voice in his head. Try as he might, however, he could not catch a single word. The tone alone, though, was enough to make him increasingly uneasy.  .

Of one thing, Ricci was certain. Someone was trying to warn him, but who and of what?

To be continued