by Mark Hockley
THE MAGIC LANDS
by Mark Hockley
Copyright 2007 by Mark Hockley
PART ONE
THE ROAD OF DREAMS
The road is cruel and dark, my friend.
1. HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
2. AT THE END OF THE GARDEN
3. THE LAW OF THE LAND
4. THE OLD WAYS
5. THE GIRL WITH THE GOLDEN HAIR
6. RETURN FROM THE PAST
7. WHITE MAGIC
8. REAL MAGIC
9. DREAMS ARE FOR DREAMERS
10. THE FORK IN THE ROAD
11. THE SEA OF TEARS
12. RITH-RAN-RO-EN
13. THE WAY THROUGH
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
The school bell rang.
Tom sprang up out of his seat and made for the classroom door. The world beyond the drab walls of his history class beckoned to him.
"Thomas Lewis!" thundered the voice of Miss McMasterson.
Tom stopped reluctantly, slowly turning to face the scowling features of his teacher. He was an undistinguished looking boy of medium height and build, with a mop of russet hair that never seemed to do as he asked it to. His cheeks coloured as several of his classmates smirked at him.
"And where may I ask," she began, looking him up and down as if he were diseased, "do you think you are going?"
Tom shuffled uncomfortably where he stood, halfway between his desk and the beckoning doorway. "Eh…home miss.”
Miss McMasterson leaned forward, her pallid face a mask of displeasure. “It will not do,” she intoned. "will not do at all."
Tom looked back at her, confused by her questioning. "Won't do, miss?"
"Patience, Thomas, is a virtue, haven’t you learnt that much at least" she droned, shaking her head, but just then another boy, about Tom's height and age, although his hair was darker and a good deal neater, came bursting into the room carrying a weathered suitcase. The other children stirred at this interruption, having until then been transfixed by the confrontation between teacher and boy.
"Stand still," Miss McMasterson hissed, her irritation palpable.
The new arrival stopped dead in his tracks and looked at the woman, his face creasing in a frown. "Yes, miss?"
"What do you think you are doing?" she demanded.
The boy glanced at Tom and was met by a bemused expression. "I've just come to meet Tom. It is home time," he began but the dangerous gleam in Miss McMasterson’s eyes told him he should have kept this observation to himself.
"It may well be home time, Master Barton," she instructed, wagging a scrawny finger at the boy, "but there are still rules to be observed. Perhaps both you and Master Lewis need to remain behind to learn some better manners.”
She watched them with bitter amusement, seeming to take great satisfaction from their identical expressions of horror
“Please, miss, I’m…we’re sorry,” Tom began and then gave his friend an imploring look. “Jack…” he nodded, urging the other boy to show some contrition.
“I’m very sorry,” added Jack, perhaps a little too briskly.
The woman folded her arms and glared at them for a few long moments, relishing her authority. "Remember, there are many lessons that children need to learn. The most important is to know your place. And to fail to learn will inevitably lead to tragedy of one kind or another. Do not allow yourselves to become a victim of your own arrogance. This will take you along a very dangerous road indeed.” She watched them, considering their expressions until she was satisfied that her point had been made. “Now you may go," she finally announced and it was all they could do not to bolt from the room, the noise of Tom's classmates steadily building as they made to follow. Once Tom and Jack were out in the corridor they increased their speed and by the time they had reached the main doors to the school, they were almost jogging.
"I don’t think Miss McMasterson likes you very much." Jack observed wryly.
"What are you talking about? I’ve always been her favourite!" Tom replied with a quick grin.
Jack chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course, now I get it, she wanted to keep you back because she’s going to miss you so much!”
“What can I do if I’m popular with the ladies,” shot back Tom with a puffed up look of self-importance.
Jack nearly choked with laughter. “The ladies…” was all he could splutter.
Tom Lewis and Jack Barton had been best friends for the last three years, since they had begun what they considered to be a form of purgatory at the Halliday Boarding School for Boys. But they could forget about school life now. Ahead lay six weeks of excitement and adventure, or at least that was the way the two of them had it planned.
Tom had arranged for Jack to come and stay with him at his Uncle Ira and Aunt Emily's house and both boys believed it was going to be the best holiday ever.
"Jack," said Tom a little quizzically as they walked along an old pathway which ran parallel with the school playing field. "Do you ever wish something out of the ordinary would happen?"
“Like this you mean,” Jack said and gave Tom a jab in the ribs before darting off, trying to avoid the expected retaliation. But Tom only came to a halt, making no attempt to give chase. Coming back cautiously, suspecting some artful counter-attack, Jack saw a distant look in Tom's eyes.
"What is it?" asked Jack, becoming a little concerned and Tom looked up as if he had only just become aware that the other boy was standing there.
"Oh, nothing," he said, shrugging his shoulders casually and they walked on, taking a short-cut that took them through a small field, an easy silence settling between them. Both boys knew when the other didn't want to talk and they let the moment pass.
An antiquated railway station lay ahead, where they were due to catch the three thirty-eight to Tyro.
"What time is it?" Jack asked, as they climbed rusty iron steps to reach their platform on the other side of the line. He checked his pocket for his ticket, not for the first time. A number of other children were already there, although most were on the opposite platform, bound in the other direction. A guard ambled by and nodded at Tom, recognising him from his regular trips to and from school.
"Twenty-five to," answered Tom, checking his wrist-watch, "not long and then we're off," he finished, brightening at the prospect.
"What’s your Uncle really like?" Jack questioned as they wandered along the station platform, peering into the distance for some sign of their train.
"You’ll like him," was all Tom would say, smiling.
As he said this, chugging rhythmically around a bend in the track, a train appeared and Jack had to restrain himself from letting out a whoop of joy.
Once the train had come to a standstill, the two friends climbed eagerly aboard. Tom looked through the carriage window as the train lurched off and watched as they passed fields and trees, slowly at first before picking up speed. The school was far behind them now and the train hurried through the countryside, the day mild but bright, everything beyond the glass an expanse of rushing green.
He closed his eyes. And remembered.
Tom was four years old.
"Come here, mister," said the young woman, "now there's a good boy."
"I…won't," said Tom with a tremulous air of defiance.
"I said come here…now." The woman dared him to disobey.
"No," Tom said, fighting to keep back unwanted tears.
"Now listen, mister, you will be bathed and I will have no argument." She glanced around at the other children in the dormitory, chastened eyes reluctant to meet her gaze. "Perhaps." She paused as if for effect. "I'll use my special brush."
"No," Tom repeated, ba
cking away, knowing all too well that she meant the one with the extra hard bristles. Tom had felt its brutal caress before.
Suddenly, as Tom continued to retreat, the woman made a quick lunge toward him, grabbing wildly, but the boy was too fast. He dodged neatly to his left and she was sent sprawling to the ground.
"It's the strap for you, mister!" she screeched, almost with exultation.
"Leave me alone," shouted Tom. “Please just leave me alone!”
"You asleep, Tom?" called Jack, prodding him in the ribs.
Tom stirred from his memories and realised that he must have dozed off. "What time is it?" he asked sitting up, hoping they were almost there.
"We've only just got on the train," Jack said shaking his head, "how long does the journey usually take?"
"About half an hour," replied the other boy and slumped back in his seat. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming about, but his mind was blank, memory eluding him as if it were smoke. The train sped on and he closed his eyes to let his thoughts float away again.
Things change as things will and one day in the heart of winter, snow crisp and cleansing upon the ground, Mr and Mrs McKern arrived at the orphanage and signed the papers that meant Tom could escape from that hellish place.
They had decided, the three of them, that Tom being old enough to recognise that they were not his real parents, he would call Ira and his wife Emily, Uncle and Aunt. As to what had become of his mother and father he didn't know. All Tom had been told was that he had been abandoned at birth and though sometimes he cried when he thought of this, mostly he just tried to forget.
His new life proved to be a good one. Uncle Ira and Aunt Emily were kind to him and tried to give him everything he needed, and compared to his early years, it was paradise. He especially liked Uncle Ira, something about the man drawing the young boy to him. Often, Ira would tell him stories, strange tales he hardly understood at that age, but Tom would listen attentively to every word, held captive by the man's voice. He had never forgotten them.
Long ago, a wolf came from the sky. And the children ruffled its white coat, eager to play. But the wolf was not a friend to them. It took them, one by one, into the forest and they never came out again.
Uncle Ira had told him many stories. Sometimes it seemed only a moment ago. He heard the man's voice as if it were whispering in his ear.
"Why did the Wolf come?" Tom would ask. But Ira would only look away, reluctant to say anymore.
Why did the Wolf come?
Tom Lewis slept fitfully on a train taking him home. He dreamed he was a little boy again, but still the questions that he asked remained unanswered.
"Wake up," said a voice at his side.
"Uncle Ira?" muttered Tom, opening his bleary eyes and running a hand across his face.
"No, it's me, you idiot. What's the matter with you, every time I look around you've fallen asleep." Jack gave him a disbelieving glare.
Tom rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. I must be tired I suppose."
Jack shook his head and pulled a face. "You're weird!"
"Who you calling weird?" Tom said, prodding his friend.
Jack slid across the seat laughing. "You!" he said at a safe distance. "You keep falling asleep and mumbling."
Tom scowled at him. "What do you mean, mumbling!? What kind of mumbling?"
"I don't know…sounded like something about a wolf, but who knows with you. Like I said, you’re weird."
Tom didn’t answer and turned to look out of the window, an old verse returning from long ago into his head.
Far away, where truth is a lie,
is a wolf who is white,
is a wolf who is sly
Far away, in a place with no name,
is a girl in a dream,
is a girl and a game
Far away, in the realm of the cruel,
walks a boy who must be
both king and the fool
Far away, in the time that must be,
meet the wolf and the girl and the boy
by a tree
And the flower that must die,
is the dreamer who will wake
for this is the road that they all must take.
This was a verse that his Uncle had often recited to him. Time and time again Tom asked him to repeat it.
"Will your Uncle meet us at the station?" asked Jack and Tom turned back to face him.
"He said he would.”
Tom had told Jack so many things about the man, recounting all of the best stories about the times they had shared together, just the two of them. Tom had known Jack for a long time but oddly, until now, he had never wanted his friend to visit his home. Many times his Aunt had bid him invite Jack home for the holidays, but he had been strangely reluctant. When he had asked his Uncle, all the old man would say was, ‘wait until you feel it's right.’ And that was what he had done. Now was the right time.
"What shall we do first?" asked Jack.
"Anything you want to," smiled Tom, brightening a little.
"Okay then, I want to see the garden. Every time you've told me a story about you and your Uncle, it's always been in your garden. It must be massive!"
Tom shrugged. It was true, it had always seemed a gigantic place to him, where you could so easily get lost. But he had always been safe with Ira. They had often gone exploring, searching through the shrubs and trees, examining the flowers and plants which grew there unchecked, even wild in places where Ira had allowed them to go their own way. He was sure there were a thousand different varieties in that garden. It was his favourite place in the world.
"We're almost there," called Jack, his head poking out of the window, the cool breeze blowing through his hair, leaving it a straggly mess.
"Watch out you don't get your knocked off!" Tom warned with a chuckle.
Jack grinned and made a strangled sound, but withdrew his head just the same and they both laughed as the train slowed and pulled into Tyro station.
On the platform stood a single figure. He wore his hair long and although there were signs of grey here and there, it still retained most of the glory of its original colour; a fiery red. He was a short fellow, but muscular and upright. He had the look of a man used to hard work, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that betrayed a deep wisdom, untold secrets held within.
As the train came to a standstill, he saw the two boys step out of a carriage and moved toward them, smiling broadly. "How's my boy?" the old man said, clapping Tom on the back.
"I'm fine," the boy smiled and then turned to his friend, "this is Jack."
"So this is young Jack Barton, is it," Uncle Ira said, holding out his hand. They shook hands and Ira gave a deep chuckle, clearly amused.
"You've got quite a grip there, Jack. Careful you don't break one of my fingers!"
Tom and Jack both laughed and the three of them made off toward the station exit, Ira striding along in front carrying Jack's case with ease.
"I'm afraid we have no transportation, Jack," began the man as they left the station, "so we'll have to rely on our legs to carry us home."
"We'll keep up, don't you worry," promised Tom.
Ira set off along a winding stone road which seemed to carry on endlessly up a hill before them, twisting through tree-lined fields like a discarded ribbon.
As they began to walk, Jack could hardly believe the pace the old man set for them. He found himself almost jogging just to keep up. Glancing at Tom between gulps of air, he noted that his friend, although labouring, was faring rather better than himself.
"Keep up, boys,” called Ira without looking back, a little way ahead.
After ten minutes or so, Jack was beginning to struggle. "Tom," he gasped, "I don't think I can keep this up for much longer."
But Tom just gave him a quick glance and Jack thought he saw a look of desperation momentarily play across his friend’s features.
"Come on," urged Tom, dropping back slightly to come along beside
the other boy.
"Why is he going so fast?" Jack asked, breathing very heavily now, the air he swallowed feeling harsh in his throat.
"He's testing us."
Jack didn't understand what Tom meant by this, but could sense it was important to his friend to keep up with the old man, so he renewed his efforts, forcing himself on.
"Let's catch him up," Tom said, gritting his teeth.
Ahead of them, despite the camber of the hill, the old man seemed to find it all no more than a casual stroll and finally, as they came up by his side, he looked at each in turn, his eyes keen as diamonds.
"We're almost there," he barked and with that, he increased his speed, lengthening his stride and soon began to leave them behind again. Jack almost stopped. "I can't," he wheezed, mostly to himself.
"Come on!" pressed Tom, irritation and anxiety in his voice.
"Why do we have to go so fast?" Jack managed.
"We mustn't fail the test," insisted Tom, grabbing Jack's arm and pulling him along. Jack could hardly walk now, his legs feeling like jelly. He just wanted to stop and sit down. The road seemed to snake on and on into the distance, always climbing.
Tom, still hauling Jack by the arm, forged relentlessly on, his Uncle now more than ten yards ahead of them. He knew he must keep up. To fall behind would be to fail.
He remembered the stories. And he was afraid.
Make haste along the path, for the wolf is always waiting for the lamb who is weak. Never fall behind the flock or the wolf will be sure to come for you. The road is cruel and dark, my friend.
"We can do it, Jack," urged Tom.
As Jack stumbled along beside his friend, not knowing what this was all about, just for a moment he thought he saw something, in a meadow beyond some masking trees. Something white. It moved dextrously through yellow buttercups, its progress torpid and dream-like.
But then Ira called from ahead and Jack lost sight of it.
"We’re here," the old man rumbled as they came around a bend and saw the old house that Tom called home.
Ira gave both boys a good-natured smile as they passed through the gateway. But then he cast a glance back along the road as if checking that no-one had followed. The road was deserted, the day still bright, the sky clear but the old man's smile faded. Shutting the
gate firmly, he went quickly toward the house, but even as he reached the doorway he couldn't shake the feeling that something crept behind him and that cold, amused eyes bored into his back.