The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light

by Tim Flanagan

  Everyone held their breath and waited. Waited for a sound or scream to echo from beneath the floor, or a creature to leap out and attack them.

  There was silence.

  Edgar moved closer to the edge of the trap door and tried to look inside, but he still felt vulnerable. He could see the outline of a simple wooden staircase that went down sharply towards the floor. The cellar then seemed to expand beneath the full length of the building, leaving dark corners and shadows they would not be able to explore until they were physically inside.

  ‘Look,’ whispered the Grey Man. He was pointing to an empty mattress that was lying on the floor of the cellar. A jumble of sheets and pillows were scattered on the top whilst an empty wine bottle lay upturned by the side. The Grey Man also noticed something beside his hand. On the underside of the hatch door was a shiny new bolt.

  ‘Someone’s been sleeping in here,’ said Edgar.

  ‘And, whoever it was put this bolt on the inside to lock themselves in.’

  ‘As we managed to open the hatch from this side. I think we can assume the cellar is currently empty.’

  Edgar leant further into the opening so that he could peer inside. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he took the first step onto the ladder. It creaked slightly beneath his weight, but he continued down into the cellar. The Grey Man let the trap door rest on the floorboards, grabbed more candles from behind the bar and followed Edgar.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the floor felt cold and damp beneath their feet. The uneven stone that made up the walls was black with age, but had white salty crusts where lime and minerals had leached out of the stone and crystallized in the air. Along one wall was a crudely made wine rack that allowed the bottles to be stacked horizontally, as well as some cardboard boxes that sagged slightly at their sides from the dampness in the air.

  The Grey Man lit some more candles and began placing them around the room. Edgar walked over to the mattress. As well as the empty bottle of wine beside the bed, there was also a kitchen knife and an open first aid box. Bandages had been pulled erratically from the box as if someone had been desperate to use them. Blood soaked gauze was tossed against one of the walls, confirming that the owner of the mattress was probably injured.

  Reassured that the cellar was empty, they blew out the candles, leaving them positioned where they were, and climbed back up the staircase to the restaurant.

  ‘Someone’s been living down there,’ said Edgar as he emerged from the hatch. ‘But, whoever it is has been injured, maybe when they trapped the creature inside the fridge.’

  ‘While you were in the cellar, I found out where we are,’ said Flora with a smile on her face. In her hand was one of the menu cards. She turned it over and showed Edgar. Printed on the back was the address of the restaurant they were in. ‘We are in a small town called Ingleton,’ she explained.

  ‘Where about's is that?’ the Grey Man asked.

  ‘On the western edge of the Yorkshire Dales. My ancestors come from Pendle Hill, just to the south of here.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Pendle Hill before,’ said Edgar, trying to search his memory for the information that was attached to the name.

  ‘I suggest we gather as many supplies as we can and find some transport,’ said the Grey Man. ‘We should then leave here as soon as we can tomorrow.’

  ‘Pendle Hill,’ repeated Edgar.

  ‘Where will you go?’ Scarlet asked the Grey Man.

  ‘I will start the hunt for my son where my journey began, back in the Forest of Dean.’

  ‘The Pendle Hill witches,’ said Edgar, as the name clicked into place.

  Everyone stopped talking and turned towards Flora.

  ‘You mean you’re a witch?’ asked Max.

  Flora looked uncomfortable, knowing the reputation witches had in this world.

  ‘Well yes,’ she replied, ‘but technically I’m a Shaman’

  9. The Pendle Hill Witches

  ‘A witch!’ said Peter with an element of fear.

  ‘Not a witch like you think,’ Lady Flora replied, aware of a space that seemed to have appeared around her. ‘In this world your opinion of witches is very misunderstood. They are not something you should be afraid of.’

  ‘What’s a Shaman?’ asked Scarlet.

  ‘It’s a type of witch that can interact with the spirit world,’ replied Lady Flora.

  ‘You mean they talk to ghosts?’

  ‘No,’ Flora replied with a smile. ‘A spirit doesn’t just exist once you have died. You are born with a spirit, it’s inside you. Every animal and plant has a spirit; it’s also called a soul. That is why I can mentally enter a plant or animal, see what they see, and feel what they feel. I can also influence a spirit to behave in certain ways, but ultimately they still have overall control.’

  ‘How do you know Pendle Hill?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘Pendle Hill has long been recognised by the people in this world as a centre for those who possess supernatural powers to congregate. In the 1600’s two rival witch families called the Demdike’s and the Chattox’s lived around the hill. On the whole, both families used their powers to earn a living by healing and creating L’Elisir d’Amore.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Peter.

  ‘It’s a magical charm or potion that makes someone fall in love with you.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ added Scarlet.

  ‘Why do we always think that witches are evil?’ said Max.

  ‘When King James I of England and Scotland took the throne, he made witchcraft punishable by death. Ever since a Scottish witch had been successfully convicted of using witchcraft to send a storm against a ship that carried him and his wife Ann from Denmark to Scotland, James had been determined to outlaw witchcraft. But, unknown to James, not all witches deal in curses and death. There are white witches too, witches that do good and follow our laws.’

  ‘Are there still witches that live at Pendle Hill?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘No. The 1600’s were hard times. Lancashire was known as a wild and lawless region. Earning a living was becoming harder than ever and in this struggle the Demdike and Chattox families began to turn on each other. Each family made wilder and wilder claims of their powers, trying to out-do each other. Accusations of bewitching local children, murdering and making lame by witchcraft were thrown between the families. They were summoned before Roger Nowell, the Justice of the Peace for Pendle and were later tried and hanged for witchcraft.’

  ‘So what is your connection with Pendle Hill?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘The Pendle Hills were home to many witches whose families would mix and extend into every other witch family. My name is Flora Southerns and I am a distant relative of the Demdike family of Malkin Tower. Although I have never been to your world before, some of my relatives once lived here before moving to be with other magical folk in the Underworld. They took the witch laws that were passed at secret meetings within Malkin Tower, with them. In my world, to posses magic is not considered abnormal, but here, witchcraft became a dark art that was suppressed and with it the laws that govern it, throwing it into turmoil and chaos.’

  There was silence inside the restaurant. Edgar and the children were finding it difficult to get the image of a black witch out of their heads, the visions of witches in films and fairy tales was so engrained in their brains.

  ‘I came across a few witches during my time in the underworld,’ said the Grey Man noticing the resistance from the others. ‘Although I was unsure whether to trust them at first, it was because of a witch called Cloverfae that I learnt how to control my skills as a healer.’

  Lady Flora extended her hand towards Edgar, her palm open and inviting for him to take. Hesitantly he placed his rough dry hand in hers. She folded her palms over his and closed her eyes. With a force that nearly knocked him backwards, Flora projected herself into Edgar’s mind. He closed his eyes. Images from Flora’s life were rewinding at a tremendous speed inside his head. He was whisked from a
scene of Flora talking to a Dragon in an underground cavern to an elaborately decorated hall and a king sitting on a throne. As soon as Edgar recognised the king, the image had changed; Flora was now kneeling in a meadow surrounded by a blue carpet of forget-me-not flowers. Lying on the floor was a young deer, its foot wounded and lame from a rusty hunters trap. Magical golden lines traced from Flora’s fingers along the deer’s arteries towards the wound, healing it in a glow of light. The image quickly morphed to a darker scene and a younger looking Flora. In it she was walking through a burnt forest. White smoke still hung in the air but behind her ants, beetles and other insects buried the charred remains of scorched plants. Pushing out from beneath the blackened surface, small green shoots burst with life once more. Scene after scene changed until finally Edgar sees Flora as a young child. An elaborately dressed man presents her with a beautifully coloured paradise bird inside the most elaborately decorated gold cage. As soon as her little hands touch the cage a tear wells in the corner of her eye. She unlocks the cage door and the bird flies out sweeping high into the sky. The tear dries and is replaced by a smile.

  When Edgar opens his eyes he finds himself staring directly into Flora’s, seeing a deep mossy green colour flecked with rusty orange for the first time. He knew that what he had just seen were moments in Flora’s life and he realised there could not possibly be anything evil inside her.

  ‘Thank you for leaving your home,’ he said. ‘You knew the suspicion and mistrust that surrounds witches in our world, but you came anyway.’

  ‘And,’ added Scarlet, ‘if it hadn’t been for you hiding us amongst the tree roots last night, we wouldn’t be here now.’ When Scarlet had been in the Underworld, Ralphina, the Caniard, and her wolf Raelyn, had shown her how to talk to animals in a way she could never have imagined. Scarlet understood Lady Flora's ability to communicate with nature.

  Lady Flora smiled. ‘When we were in the council chamber of King Conroy The Enlightened, I agreed to help you rid your world of those black creatures we met last night. Our worlds are more closely bound than you realise. We are like twins that had been separated at birth. Both worlds possess magic in many different forms, but one of them has forgotten how to use it. At the core they are the same, but the landscape is different and the people who live here have forgotten who they are. When Arthur sealed the portals, the two worlds divided. To use magic in this world became a dangerous skill which became so suppressed that over the years you forgot it was possible. But you are all blind to the magic that you see all around you: the birth of a child, the visions in your dreams and the unspoken connection between two lovers. If you are to survive, the magic that exists in this planet needs to be woken once again. There needs to be unity between every human survivor and between humans and nature. Edgar, you possess one of the most powerful magical weapons that still exists in your world. Made by the magic in Avalon, Ethera can cleanse this world and ignite the magic once more.’

  ‘I don’t know if I am strong enough, my blood has been poisoned by the creatures,’ said Edgar as he rolled up his sleeve and unwound the green sash that Lady Flora had used to bind it following their encounter with the Moon Stealers the previous night. The children watched as he revealed the blackened network of veins that traced their way up his forearm.

  ‘It happened the night we left Parsley Bottom,’ he explained to the children. ‘It was only a drop. It didn’t seem to make much different at first, but now I can feel it invading my body, making me weaker every day. I don’t know if I will have enough strength to control the twelve swords of power.’

  ‘You heart is kind and strong,’ replied Flora placing his hand back in hers. ‘It will take more than a drop of poison to invade it. You have the strength. You have the children. They give you courage and hope.’

  ‘You are not alone,’ added the Grey Man. ‘We will help you in any way we can.’

  Lady Flora shook her head. ‘No, you must all follow your own path. Yours is to find your son, if he is still alive,’ she said to the Grey Man. ‘You and your son have an important part to play in this new world.’

  ‘If we have to follow our own path, then I believe that mine is with Edgar,’ said Joe.

  ‘And so is mine,’ added Max quickly.

  Lady Flora nodded.

  ‘Where’s your path?’ the Grey Man asked Flora.

  ‘Mine is to a place called Burnham Beeches,’ replied Flora. ‘There I will find an ancient tree called the Druid's Oak. Its strong roots stretch deep underground and travel great distances linking oak tree to oak tree. In my world, the Druid Oak is a door to greater wisdom. From there I will awaken the magic in this land once more.’

  10. Watching the world from a distance

  The storm blew over sometime during the night. Until then they had slept in pairs whilst one person stayed awake, just in case their progress along the shingle spit had been noticed. Stuck in the middle of the Solent, they had been left alone by the creatures who appeared to concentrate most of their attention over the land. By the time the sun appeared above the sea and the dawn brought a new day, Steven had climbed onto the top of the fortress where he had a clear view across to the Isle of Wight, as well as the south coast of England. He watched the all too familiar black shadows circle in the sky, then plummet to the ground when prey had been spotted. In a strange way, from this safe distance, they almost seemed to be performing a poetic dance, like some elaborate mating ritual of an exotic bird. Despite the deadly nature of the creatures, Steven couldn’t help but be fascinated with them. A foreign creature had quickly flicked the human race of its pedestal of superiority within a matter of days, like an insignificant piece of dirt on a dusty sleeve. To Steven, this was incredible. He had noticed that some of the creatures had even now begun to work intelligently in packs, several would break away from the group and make fake attempts of attack, driving their prey out of hiding, whilst another creature waited above ready to make the fatal blow.

  Above the Isle of Wight, the sun began to burn away the dark clouds leaving the sky a wonderful mixture of salmon pink and orange. The island floated harmlessly across the short stretch of water. From where Steven was, it looked quiet and showed no signs of life. The chalk and flint cliff face was topped by lush green grass that signified the end of land and the start of the sea. What was interesting was the lack of creatures that were hunting above the Isle of Wight. Had the creatures crossed the water to the island? He scanned the horizon waiting for a black shadow to dive to the ground, but saw nothing. Did the lack of hunting creatures signify a lack of humans on the island? Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Coldred hadn’t moved the community to the Isle of Wight. Steven glanced along the coastline, looking for the port of Yarmouth where the ferries would usually be taking tourists to the island. If Coldred had left a division of guards at the port to secure the stretch of water, surely there would be some sign of activity, but from this distance, the island appeared lifeless.

  Steven thought back to the note they had found on the car outside the Bank of England. They assumed it had been left for them by a man called Trent, who had survived the creature attack together with his son and joined the Bank Community in London. After Coldred had left Steven, Georgia and Tracker at the mercy of the creatures in Greenwich Park, they had returned to the Bank to collect their supplies. It was then that they noticed the piece of paper tucked beneath the wiper blade. On it were three letters - IOW. At the time, Steven had instantly recognised the initials, but as he now looked at the island, he wondered if he had been right.

  There were no signs of life to be seen.

  What would they do if they crossed the water and found the island deserted? If the other survivors were not on the island, where had they been taken? The roads leading toward the dock at Lymington showed signs they had been cleared, as if a convoy had passed. They had to assume that Coldred’s survivors had made their way to the Isle of Wight and continue with their plan.

  Steven’s thoughts were suddenly disturb
ed by the sound of footsteps echoing off the stone walls of a medieval circular staircase that wound up the centre of the Keep. Although none of them had been aware of anyone else arriving at Hurst during the night, they hadn’t had the chance to search the fortress for other occupants that may be hidden amongst the numerous rooms and tunnels. The footsteps slowly got louder as the person got nearer to the top of the staircase. Steven didn’t bother to move, despite being tired from their trek along the spit, there was also no where else to run. Whoever it was would soon emerge from beneath the stone arch that led onto the roof.

  Steven gripped the handle of his shotgun and directed it towards the arch. Survivors were becoming fewer by the day, and the last thing he wanted to do was threaten one with a gun, but from experience, he knew that not every survivor was friendly.

  Tracker ducked beneath the arch and stepped out onto the roof.

  ‘At least the weather’s better today,’ he said as he stretched his arms.

  Steven lowered his gun.

  ‘Do you think we should make our way across today or wait for the cover of night?’ Steven asked.

  Tracker remained standing as he looked out over the Solent.

  ‘Crossing during the night would certainly have its advantages. If there are guards near the port, they will probably be indoors in fear of the creatures and our crossing will probably go unnoticed.’

  ‘If we crossed at night we couldn’t do it blind. We would need lights to see the way,’ said Steven. ‘The weather might also get worse. Storms can whip up quickly along the English Channel. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘If we take the opportunity to go during the day while the weather’s better, we run a greater risk of being seen.’

  ‘I’ve noticed there are several boats that have worked themselves loose from their moorings and become washed up on the shingle beach. Anyone watching the Solent might not be so curious about another boat that was drifting slowly across the water.’