He had failed to hear anyone approaching until it was too late. He looked up to find Brother Gorn standing before him, towering over him.
"The Moonstone. Give it to me!"
"I think not," said Peter, "and you can't harm me here! Go away!"
"I can't harm you in the Gill, but I can when you leave. Goodbye, Peter Calender. Enjoy your trip!"
Gorn pushed Peter and he fell backwards into the pool. He expected to hit the shallow bottom, but somehow it was much deeper than he expected. Down he fell, spluttering with a mouth full of water, and it crossed his mind fleetingly that he had entered the fishes' world. Down! Down! Was there no end, he thought? His last view of the Gill was of a circle of light that quickly shrank and the cowled head of Gorn and his echoing laughter fading with the light.
He wasn't sure how long he fell, but suddenly he emerged gasping, with a mouthful of putrid pond water. The only shock was that he was not standing in the pond in the knot garden of the Gill, but in the village pond in the square at the centre of Lightholm.
The village square was cobbled and four thatched public houses surrounded it, with assorted cottages and a village store. Ice cream signs and newspaper posters adorned the entrance to a post office and standing sentinel was the bright red post-box. Car parking spaces were marked facing the buildings, but all were unoccupied and the square was deserted, which was fortunate as it would take some explaining why he was emerging from the pond and, even more, why he was dressed as he was and carrying a sword.
Peter stood in the water, shocked and scared. He recognised where he was immediately, but was non-plussed as to how he had got there. He remembered sitting on the pool edge, and then.... Gorn! Gorn! He had demanded the Moonstone. He threatened Peter that when he left the Gill, he could attack and take the stone by force. Peter clambered out of the pond. For some reason, he was not as wet as he thought he should have been. Somehow the cloak and boots had kept out most of the water, though he did feel he had swallowed more that he should have. Standing on the cobbled square he gazed around. By the look of the light and the shadows, he reckoned it was still very early morning and the warmth suggested it was summertime.
He made his way over to the post-office and looked at another poster. Lightholm Manor was holding a re-enactment of the Battle of Lightholm. Peter had heard about this before he had found himself in Demeter. Enthusiasts went around to various sites and re-enacted battles. Some groups from the Civil War, some from the middle ages and, in this case, the battle was between the Saxon settlers of the shire and the Viking raiders. This was an annual highlight for the village and surrounding area and great crowds would descend on Lightholm.
Just as he thought this, there was the sound of a bus driving into the square. The mini bus belched out a cloud of smoke, pulled to a stop and the doors opened and a group of Viking warriors and wenches piled out, laughing and chatting. They did not look particularly threatening and certainly did not seem intent on raping and pillaging the locals and local area. They did seem quite keen on having a good time and drinking themselves senseless at the end of the day's activities.
One of them, a particularly large and rotund Viking, dressed in fur jerkin, leather breeches, carrying a large round wooden shield with large heavy steel boss, and with a large double-headed battle axe strapped to his back, caught sight of Peter and called to his comrades.
"Hey! There's one of the Saxons! Shall we start the battle now?"
"Hang on, Hardgrist. We need to check into the hotel first. Plenty of time for that later!"
"Lucky for you, lad! See you soon then."
For a moment Peter had nearly drawn his sword. He wasn't sure whether they were players in the re-enactment or whether they could be Gorn's henchmen. He could only think of one reason why Gorn would have pushed him into the pool and out of the Gill, and that was to take the Moonstone.
He had been sent home, away from help, vulnerable to attack and where no one would believe what was happening. With the battle being staged over the weekend and, he gathered, starting today, it must be Saturday. There would be untold numbers of fighters in costume and it would be an ideal environment for Gorn to send his creatures to deal with him and to take the stone.
He thought of the others, Constant, Nightjar and Ravenscort. Would they know what had happened to him? He felt vulnerable without them. He wished they were here with him.
****
It was a while before Nightjar thought that she would go and see what Peter had decided. The other two were content to let him have his time and space, but she felt responsible for him and his predicament. In the short time she had been with him she had developed a bond with the strange, surprising young man. She wondered what the world where he came from was truly like. He had described some of the things about it and it fascinated and frightened her. Could it really be like that? Demeter was dangerous, but she had lived her whole life knowing its perils and surviving.
She entered the grounds and gazed around to locate him. He was not in sight. There was a fleeting pang of panic, but then she remembered that this was the Gill and that they were guaranteed safety whilst they were in its boundaries. She strolled the grounds, enjoying the brief peace of the warm air. The twin suns shone down and the light added a sparkle to everything. She wandered around the corner of the building and took in the view before her. Sitting on the edge of a pool at the centre of the formal garden was Peter. She was about to call to him when she saw that he was not alone. Before him was a tall, dark, cloaked figure. There was clearly a conversation and the body image suggested it was not a calm one. Suddenly, before she could react, the figure pushed Peter backwards into the pool and he disappeared beneath the water. She expected him to immediately reappear, but he didn't. She called out in panic and the figure turned. It looked at her, and then like smoke in an breeze, it faded and disappeared into the four winds.
Nightjar just stood stunned. She wasn't aware how long she stood, but at some point, she found herself running along the gravel path to the pond. She searched the water for any sign of Peter, but all she could see were glimpses of flashing silver and gold fish. She turned and fled back to Ravenscort and Constant. If anyone would know what had happened and what to do, they would.
She blurted out what she had seen and both men looked shocked.
"I never should have let him wander off alone!" said Ravenscort.
"He was safe in the sanctuary of the Gill." said Constant.
"Obviously not!"
"No harm could come to him whilst he was here, but I never thought that he could be sent out to face those who would harm him. What did the other person look like Nightjar?"
"He was cloaked and had a hood, so I didn't get to see him properly. He was tall, but he pushed Peter into the pool and, by the time I got there, both had disappeared."
"Who could it have been? I haven't seen anyone else since we've been here?"
"The Gill is sanctuary to all who seek it. There are others who you would not see, unless they wished it. The Gill welcomes all, good or less so. It makes no judgements, but ensures no harm can happen whilst under its protection. The problem here is that Peter was sent out of the Gill's protection and now those who wish him harm have free rein. I believe that Brother Gorn may be at work here. I have sensed his presence in the Gill, but I have not seen him. He has been after the Moonstone for many years. If he knows Peter has it then it would explain what has happened. He can't forcibly take it within the Gill, but once out of its influence nothing is preventing him, apart from Peter's own resources."
"But where will they have sent him? Can we follow?" Demanded Nightjar.
" He will be within the seven worlds," replied Constant, "but it is likely he has left Demeter. The easiest way to be sure is to follow the path he has taken. We must be quick, before the way is closed. Come, to the pond!"
They quickly made their way out of the house and into the grounds. As they hurried, Constant spoke again.
"I cannot interven
e further. I must remain within the Gill. Are you willing to follow? Wherever he has gone he needs your help."
"I will go. He is too important. He is the Moonchild and I must help and preserve him." said Nightjar.
"I too will do all I can. Together we will find him and protect him, or die trying!" Ravenscort added.
"Good! I thought that would be the case. Here, you must follow him into the pool! The way will be closing, but the link should still be active. Quickly, step into the water!"
Without thinking, they took each other's hands and stepped into the dark pond, amidst the flashes of silver and gold. They found no purchase and they fell deeper and deeper through the water. Staring upwards, Nightjar saw Constant's face silhouetted in the circle of light, but rapidly diminishing in size. The feeling was like being swallowed alive. They sensed they were falling, but there were no visible signs.
Afterwards, neither could say how long they had fallen for. Time had no reference, neither did distance. They expected a sudden jolt, perhaps injury, but in reality they felt nothing. They became aware of light again and then gradually sounds. It was like waking after a deep, peaceful sleep.
The light was the first indication they were no longer on Demeter. They both were staring upwards and they were shocked to see just one sun. The second was the noise of large crowds of people. Looking around them, they realised that they were in the midst of a throng of happy, chatting, laughing people of all ages. It was a warm day and then sensed people's attention focusing on them. Both simultaneously realised that they were standing in a large ornamental pond surrounding a fountain.
"Why are they in the pool, Mummy?"
"I don't know, darling. Just cooling down maybe. Don't stare! It's rude!"
Aware they were drawing attention to themselves, Ravenscort and Nightjar quickly clambered out of the pool. Luckily for them, most people seemed preoccupied with their own activities. They moved away from the water and took some time to take in their surroundings. The single sun wasn't the only difference to Demeter. They were startled as a car drove through the square, followed by several others. The noise and sight shocked them, but went un-noticed by everyone else. For quite a while they just stood, stunned, their senses overloaded.
Neither had seen such crowds before. Such gatherings would have quickly fallen prey to Fell Craven's hunters. As they thought this, a shadow fell across the square. They looked up and cowered, as a great flying beast shot across the sky from horizon to horizon. Their initial fear was that it might be an attacking Arnn and rider, but then Nightjar recognised what it was.
"Peter told me about these," she said, pointing, "They are machines that fly. They carry people from place to place. In which case, I know where we are. We are in Peter's home world. This is Earth and this is his home, Lightholm."
"Well, it looks like the pool has brought him home. We are fortunate that we followed when we did. We must find him and quickly, before Gorn does. It may not be easy. This is a strange land. We do not know where he would go or what he will do. It will be hard to find him where there are so many others."
"Maybe that is good. If we will find it difficult, then anyone else hunting him will have similar difficulties."
At that point, a group of swaggering and loud Vikings passed, and one called out.
"More Saxons, Hardgrist."
"More fool them. They'll realise the folly of being here when the sacking of Lightholm begins."
At this, he addressed Nightjar, "Hey, you're a comely wench! Fancy some raping and pillaging?"
Immediately, Ravenscort drew his blade, stepped forward and his face darkened.
"Prepare to die, knave! I will protect Nightjar's honour with my life!"
He lunged at the Viking. Hardgrist had just time to fall backwards before he would have been skewered on Ravenscort's sword blade. As it was, it slashed through the leather jerkin, striking the shield and, luckily, nothing else.
"Hang on, mate!" stammered Hardgrist. "I, I, I meant no offence. You, you could have killed me then! Look what you've done to my jerkin. I paid a lot of money for it."
Ravenscort was about to follow through and finish the Viking there on the spot, when Nightjar stayed his arm. The other Vikings took this opportunity to pull Hardgrist back. The Viking's face was almost white with shock, and he no longer had any bravado left.
"Begone! If I see you again I will ensure you feed the worms tonight!"
The Vikings quickly dragged their almost tearful companion away and Nightjar and Ravenscort could hear,
"This is getting ridiculous! These Saxons are nutters. Someone is going to get killed in these re-enactments. This is supposed to be for fun! Did you see what he did? He could have killed me. That sword was sharp like a razor!"
"Come on! Let's go get a drink. They're not all like that. Come on, you'll feel better after a pint. My round!"
The vikings disappeared amongst the crowd. Ravenscort and Nightjar, just stood where they were and Ravenscort sheathed his sword. Strange as this occurrence was, it seemed to go unnoticed amongst the festivities. Weapons were common amongst the crowds, where Saxons and Vikings mingled with the local inhabitants and the many visitors. Children were eating ice-creams and candyfloss and there was a noticeable direction of movement. The crowds were haphazardly making their way to the fields adjacent to Lightholm Manor. The two stared around in wonderment. Stone and brick cottages, cars and buses, post-boxes, lamp posts and all the trappings of modern English village life, amazed and confused them. The dress of the locals was similarly shocking; bright colours, skimpy covering and a total lack of weapons contrasted with the more usual tunics, breeches, cloaks, swords, axes, halberds, helmets, bows and shields. This was indeed a strange world.
With no other plan than to find Peter, they decided to follow the crowd and hope that Peter was doing the same.
*****
Peter had also made the same decision, but somewhat earlier. He had followed the crowd to where the re-enactment was to take place. The area was a large section of fields that rolled gently through the English countryside. It was green, predominantly grassland with small clumps of trees and occasional hedgerows. Through the fields a small stream wended its way, with brief areas of gentle rapids that added music to the scene. Along one side of the show area were a series of marquees and tents, and within these was a host of items for sale and activities to educate and interest the patrons. A forge was operating in one, and the ringing of hammer on steel and anvil rang over the landscape. Within the forge, the smell of the furnace and the intense heat of the air produced a pungent, but somewhat attractive odour. Peter went into the tent, partially out of curiosity and partially to gather his thoughts.
As he entered, the smithy turned to look, and his eyes fell upon his sword.
"That looks a mighty fine sword, if you don't mind me saying. Can I have a look?"
Peter drew the blade and handed it hilt first to the blacksmith. The smith held the sword, felt the balance and gazed with wonderment at the blade.
"Now this is a sword! A true craftsman has made this. The blade has been folded many times and the balance and weight has produced a sword that will not quickly tire the bearer, break, or lose its edge. This is craftsmanship that I have never seen before. Where did you get this blade, if I may ask?"
"It was given to me and I know very little about it," Peter replied.
"Well, whoever gave you this must hold you in high regard. I have never seen a better crafted sword. It is well beyond my capabilities and I am renowned for my skill. Take care of it, boy and take care of yourself. Believe me, this sword will serve you well."
Quietly, he whispered to Peter, "This is a warning: there are some rum people around today! Don't let your guard down, son. There are those who want what you have. Keep it close!"
The smith went back to his work and Peter stood puzzled and confused.
'What did he mean? Did he know what he was carrying? How could he?'
Still bemused, h
e left the forge tent and joined the bustle. Large numbers of Saxons and the opposing Vikings were gathering and there were demonstrations of axe throwing, falconry, weaving and other skills and trades from the period. Peter was at a bit of a loss what to do, when from behind one of the tents emerged a strange character. The man was dressed in a long black pin-striped coat, which reached to his knees. He has striped trousers and spats and patent leather shoes and, more unusual, he was wearing a bowler hat and carried a long umbrella with an ivory and silver handle. Peter found it striking that amidst the many strange costumes of the re-enactment, that this was the most noticeable.
The man seemed unsure what to do. He stood there scanning the crowds and his eye movements were jerky, almost mechanical. He marched forward and walked off into the distance and he would have just thought it was part of the colourful characters and entertainment, if not for another similar character appearing from behind the forge tent. The second figure also moved in a stilted manner and he also seemed to be scanning the crowd. Instinct told Peter to step between the tents, out of view from either man.
Another sound came from behind him and quickly turning, he saw a third coming towards him. The man, only ten yards away, pulled out the handle of the umbrella to reveal a stiletto thin sword-stick. The figure advanced with the same stilted gait and, as a reflex, Peter drew his own sword. In silence, the man charged with surprising speed and Peter just managed to side step and parry the attack. The thin blade was deceptively strong as was the assailant. Peter just had time to take his guard, as Ravenscort had shown him, when the second attack took place. The man advanced and there was a slash of the blade that would have removed Peter's head if he hadn't thrown himself to the ground on his left. He rolled and regained his feet in seconds, but the assailant was quicker and he advanced ready to impale Peter with his sword. Peter struggled to take avoiding steps, but he was still unbalanced and fell to the side. He lay there, staring up, and the bowler-hatted figure smiled and prepared for the final act. Peter shut his eyes at this point and expected oblivion.
The Moonchild (The Moondial Book 1) Page 8