The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light

by Tim Flanagan

  ‘Do not worry my little friends,’ Francis said. ‘Like your time on earth, your path is shorter than most.’

  Max stood at the edge of the terrace and cautiously placed a toe onto the path. Nothing unusual seemed to happen so he brought his other foot through the gate so that he was standing on the soft springy grass. Joe hesitated slightly, waiting to see if anything happened before following, then he too stepped through.

  ‘Is this the same path we take to come back?’ Max asked, turning round to address Francis, but he had vanished. Where they had just been standing on the solid surface of the terrace, at the top of the building, was now replaced with endlessly rolling fields. Grasses swayed gently in a breeze that they could see but not actually feel whilst the sun blazed high in the sky, but didn’t burn their skin. Everything in Avalon didn’t seem to be exactly what it appeared.

  Max and Joe were alone once again.

  ‘We better take our path to that building,’ said Joe, pointing to the low castle on the top of the hill ahead of them.

  They began walking along a path that cut through the meadow and was bordered on both sides by wild flowers. The playful call of the birds sang out all around them, but they never saw one flying in the sky.

  ‘What do you think will happen to Edgar’s body?’ Joe asked Max.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I hope he finally made it here.’

  After a while, the path reached a brow on the hill. Below them their route disappeared into a dark mesh of brambles and thorns which the sun didn’t seem to touch, but on the hill beyond, the path emerged once more and rose up towards the castle.

  ‘What do you think that place is?’ asked Joe who had stopped walking and was now looking wearily at the path ahead.

  ‘Francis said that the path is a reflection of our choices in life. I guess the dark brambles are our punishment for any bad things we’ve done.’

  ‘I think I can guess what the brambles represent in my life.’

  Max turned to his friend.

  Joe continued. ‘When my mother died, six years ago, I blamed my dad. That’s when my gran came to live with us. She helped me understand that it wasn’t my dad's fault at all, but by then, the damage had been done. I know dad was hurting just as much as I was. I never apologised for the way I was, and I don’t suppose I will ever get the chance to now.’

  ‘Come on,' said Max, placing a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. 'We can’t put it off.'

  As they got nearer, they could see the brambles were a lot higher than they had looked from the top of the hill. Above this part of the path, the sky was black and the twisted thorny branches awaited them. The path had changed too, and what had once been a soft bouncy layer of grass, now appeared to be uneven and covered with sharp edged pieces of flint which, in the limited light, made it difficult for the boys to see the evenness of the path they were walking on. Max and Joe looked nervously at the wall of giant brambles in front of them. There was no way in except through a twisted arch of branches that formed an entrance. Max took the huntsman’s bow off his shoulder and passed it to Joe.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what might be inside, so we better be prepared.’

  Joe nodded.

  Max raised Ethera and hacked at some of the loose branches that hung in their way, then stepped inside. Immediately it was like they had stepped into another world. Only moments ago they had walked in the sunshine and smelt the flowers, but now they were in a dark place where the air seemed heavy and gathered around the base of the trees or hovered amongst the web of branches that seemed to go on for ever in all directions. The sounds they heard amongst the brambles were different too. No longer were there cheerful birdsongs, but strange indescribable croaking as if the brambles covered a swamp of frogs.

  The mist had begun to obscure the path, making it even harder and slower to progress forward. Neither boy spoke to the other; they were both too busy cautiously watching and expecting something to happen.

  They crept on.

  Max glanced behind, but the path they had already trodden looked exactly like the one they were walking along. The twisted arch they had come through was no where to be seen, even though it should still have been visible. It looked the same in every direction. Max chipped a wedge out of the thickest branch he could see.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Joe, not wanting to make too much noise for fear of disturbing anything that might live inside the thorny forest.

  ‘Marking our way,’ he replied moving forward and chipping at another branch. ‘Every direction looks the same and we can’t see the path anymore. If we go the wrong way, we should be able to retrace our steps by the marks on these branches.’

  They moved forward another few steps and Max cut a wedge into a thick and gnarled stem that branched and twisted above them like a deformed and arthritic hand projecting its disjointed fingers into the sky. Above them, all they could see was a densely woven network of bramble branches, casting them in long shadows and blocking out any light.

  The sounds inside seemed to get louder. A grating sound made by a chorus of crickets rubbing their back legs in rhythm with each other. The heady buzz of flies droning. The caw of a solitary raven camouflaged amongst the canopy of twisted black branches.

  There seemed to be a feeling of expectation and tension building within the bramble forest.

  The boys remained on their guard, slowly edging forward, hoping to see an exit around every turn in the forest and a way out to the green field they knew was on the other side. But every turn looked exactly like the last. Max even thought that he was recognising the branches that he had marked; only they didn’t have any cuts in the surface. He stood and examined a particularly thick stem that was strong and covered in a thick gnarled bark. He looked up and traced the stem as it split into the shape of a hand with its fingers stretched out above them, exactly like the one they had just passed.

  ‘We're going round in circles!’ shouted Max, realising they had passed that particular giant bramble before. He dashed forward looking for the next branch that he knew he had cut, desperately checking, but knowing, that they had not progressed any further inside the forest.

  ‘We aren’t getting anywhere! How are we supposed to get out if we can’t move forward?’

  ‘That must be what Francis meant when he said that sometimes people never make it from their path,’ explained Joe nervously.

  ‘So we are trapped inside the forest!’ Max was frustrated.

  ‘No. I think I understand what we have to do. It’s a test. The path represents our lives and the choices we have made. If we can learn from our decisions, we can move forward.’

  ‘But what has being trapped in a forest of brambles got anything to do with you blaming your dad for your mother’s death?’ Max ran forward once again, checking the next tree for a missing wedge of bark he knew he had put there only moments before. Frustrated when he found nothing he rushed towards the next branch. Before he reached it his body suddenly vanished, dropping like a heavy weight into the mist that covered the path.

  ‘Max!’ shouted Joe, seeing his friend disappear. He rushed over to the spot in the path where Max had just been standing. He pulled the bow from over his shoulder and prodded it towards the ground. But he couldn’t see where the ground was, the white mist that swirled around his feet was too dense, preventing him from seeing anything. He prodded some more, trying to locate Max with the bow and find where he had fallen. But it seemed that Max had been swallowed by the mist into the ground. Joe moved the end of the bow further forward and suddenly felt an edge to the path and a gap beyond. Max had not tripped, the path had abruptly ended and Max had fallen down. Joe knew he had no other choice but to follow.

  He stepped forward slowly until he could feel the edge of the path with his toes. Then he crouched down until he was sitting on the edge and his feet were hanging below him before taking a deep breath and launching himself off the path. Immediately he dropped down, he could feel a
loose surface beneath him allowing him to slide down on his back. The white mist enveloped him, preventing him from seeing where he was going, except for the occasional blackened branch that whipped past him, catching against his body. Suddenly the surface changed direction, like a water shoot swinging from side to side, and he found himself dodging twisted trunks of brambles until he landed heavily within a small clearing with a flint path cutting directly through.

  Joe immediately looked up.

  He was not alone in the clearing. A hooded figure was sitting on a giant bramble that had been chopped down and carved out as a seat. Max was laid out on a bed of dried moss and ivy, looking pale with a deep gash across his forehead that was having trouble clotting as the blood flowed freely from the wound. Max still held Ethera in his hands, the metal blade rested along the length of his body, just like the statue they had seen in Sir Hadwyn’s tomb beneath Edinburgh Castle.

  ‘Your friend hit his head badly on his way here,’ muttered the hooded figure. The voice sounded like an old woman’s, frail and awkward.

  ‘Is there nothing in this forest that can help him?’ Joe asked desperately as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled over towards Max.

  ‘Everything you see in this forest is dead or diseased. The light does not penetrate here and the soil only hold bad memories, fertilised by hatred and negativity. There are no plants that can help him. Only one thing can save your friend now.’

  ‘It’s me isn’t it? This is my test?’

  The figure bowed her head slightly. ‘Like everything in life, you have a choice.’ She lifted an arm. A bony hand, the skin tightly stretched across the knuckles, slowly emerged from the large folds of her cloak, and plucked a small bottle shape from the carved seat. Immediately it turned into glass and the red contents swilled freely around inside. She laid it gently beside Max’s head then removed another bottle from the wood, but this time with blue liquid inside and placed it at the other side of his head.

  ‘If you take a drink from the blue bottle, your friend’s wound will heal and he will live and you can continue trying to search for the exit.’

  Joe had already begun reaching for the blue bottle, but then he paused. ‘What about the red bottle?’

  ‘That will also save your friend's life, but at the cost of your own. The red liquid will also cause the brambles to shrink back and reveal the exit, so that he can continue to the castle on the hill.’

  Joe hesitated. He thought of the world outside the gates of Avalon and the Moon Stealers attacking the human race. He thought about Edgar leading them to Avalon with the purpose of joining the swords together and cleansing the planet in white light. But the boys were lost amongst the bramble forest. They had searched but the path was unclear and they seemed to be forever chasing themselves and getting nowhere. For the sake of the human race, they needed to get out of the forest as quickly as possible. He looked at the sword resting on top of Max. The power flows from the person holding the weapon, just like the Silver Bough worked for Joe. In the absence of Edgar, Max should be the one to join the swords together. Joe moved his hand away from the blue bottle and took hold of the red one.

  ‘Good luck Max,’ Joe whispered. He pulled the cork from the top of the bottle, lifted it to his lips and emptied the contents into his mouth. He suddenly felt a burning sensation in his throat that made his eyes water. He crumpled to the ground, clutching at his neck. Through his blurred vision he saw the mesh of brambles recede back, allowing more light to penetrate the clearing. As he closed his eyes and lay his head to rest against the sharp flint path, he noticed that at the edge of the clearing the path joined up with a lush green field and at the top of the field was a low castle.

  Everything went black.

  The only thing Joe was still aware of was the thumping of his heart that began beating slower and slower.

  ‘Come on, we can’t rest any longer.’

  Joe’s eyes sprang open. He was looking up into the blue sky. His hands were resting on the soft bouncy grass of the path they had been on before they entered the bramble forest. Max was stood at the side with his hand stretched out, offering to help his friend up.

  ‘The castle isn’t far now,’ Max continued.

  ‘How’s your head?’ Joe asked as he took Max’s hand and pulled himself up.

  ‘Fine.’ Max looked confused. Joe could see that there was no longer any cut on Max’s forehead.

  ‘Don’t you remember falling off the path in the forest?’

  ‘What are you talking about? How can I fall off a path? We’ve only been walking through the meadow.’

  Joe looked behind them; all he could see was a lush field of wild flowers and grass with a path running through the centre. They had rested at the bottom of the hill, ready to climb the next one up to the castle. But, where once there had been a dark forest of twisted brambles and thorns, there was now a shallow stream with ducks playing in the water and birds bathing.

  Joe smiled to himself.

  He had made the right choice. Instead of thinking about his own life he had thought about the lives of others and in doing so, he had proved himself worthy to enter Avalon.

  They began to climb the hillside towards a low round castle, home to Nimue, Priestess of Avalon.

  31. The Uprising

  Inside the Pavilion basement at Osborne House, Steven stood up from the guard's table and began to stroll amongst the survivors. He watched as each survivor carefully slid the key to their unlocked chains into the hand of their neighbour, shielding them from the sight of the guards whilst they bent down and unclipped their own restraints. When that survivor was done, the key was slid to the next person at the table; a frail looking woman with nervous shaky hands. As she leant down to unclip her chains she dropped the key onto the floor. It bounced off the stone floor, turned in the air then struck the ground again. Steven watched the key somersaulting in the air almost as if it were in slow motion. The resulting metallic clatter bounced loudly off the walls, sounding impossibly loud.

  Everyone turned towards the nervous looking woman.

  She looked up, sweat forming across her brow. The guards had also turned towards the table, curious as to the source of the noise.

  Steven thought quickly, the plan relied on the survivors being unchained and able bodied, otherwise it would be harder to overpower the guards. He needed to diffuse the situation and draw the guard's attention away from the sound. 'Tidy those bowls up,' he shouted at the survivor sitting next to the woman. 'And you,' he pointed rudely at the shaking lady, 'pick that spoon back up.'

  The woman ducked down beneath the table and pretended to search for a spoon, but instead she palmed the key and quickly unclipped the clasp around her ankle. The guards seemed to accept Steven's explanation for the sound and continued laughing and joking amongst themselves, paying no further attention to the fragile woman.

  Steven patrolled around the survivors, until he had seen that they had all unclipped their restraints, then returned to the guard's table. Within a couple of minutes two of the survivors began shouting at each other, one complaining that the other had stolen the last sip of water from the jug. They stood up and pushed each other in the chest, knocking some of the chairs over whilst some of the other survivors edged away from the fight. In the dim light no one saw them reach over and collect the equipment they had brought back from the garden.

  All of the guard's attention was focussed on the two men fighting amongst the clutter of chairs. Two of the guards stood up, walked over and began trying to separate the two men, but they quickly became engulfed in a circle of survivors, loudly encouraging the two men to fight.

  When they didn’t resurface and the chanting continued, another two guards stood from the table and began shouting to the survivors to stop. They too quickly disappeared in the sea of bodies.

  The other survivors that had moved away from the crowd then struck. Left at the table with Tracker and the other three were eight more guards. From amongst the shadows a spa
de swung through the air, the flat plate of metal hitting one of the larger guards across the side of the face and knocking him to the floor. Instantly three of the other guards noticed, grabbed their guns and aimed them towards the shadows. Steven and Georgia were closest. They too pulled out their guns and aimed them at the guards.

  'What are you doing?' spat one of the guards. 'They just hit Johnson in the face. Take your gun away.'

  'No,' said Steven.

  'Don't move.' Another survivor stood behind one of the guards, a three pronged fork pressed into his back.

  'What are you doing?' shouted another guard.

  'We're taking control of the rest of our lives,' said a voice from behind them. The fight had stopped and the survivors began crowding around the guard's table. Behind them, the guards who had gone to try and stop the fight were now lying on the floor with their hands and feet chained together and cloths tied around their faces blocking their mouths.

  One of the other guards stood up and pointed his gun at the survivor who had just spoken.

  'Take one more step and I will shoot you,' he said coldly. 'Look at you! You're nothing more than a mob of peasants waving your pitchforks in the air. Your gardening tools are no match for real weapons. And I'm only too happy to put a bullet through your head, it's one less mouth to feed.'

  Tracker stood up from the table and moved beside the other guard who confidently assumed he had the support of a colleague. Instead he felt the force of the butt of Tracker's gun driving up under his chin, shattering some teeth and immediately knocking him unconscious.

  Tracker addressed the guards around the table. 'Gentlemen, we are taking control of this community.'

  Some of the other survivors moved forward and began stripping the guards of their weapons before pushing them into the corner with the others to be chained and gagged.

  'Where are the other guards and survivors held?' Tracker asked Russell, the survivor posing as the fourth fake guard.