Magical Adventures & Pony Tales Boxset (Vol 1 - 6)

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Magical Adventures & Pony Tales Boxset (Vol 1 - 6) Page 8

by Angharad Thompson Rees


  ‘Sorcerer Scridgemore told me that even all his magic could not find my parents.’ Hannan looked at the lake and felt his heart ache.

  ‘He also told you that if you have an ache in your heart, you must follow it as if your very soul depends on it.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Hannan asked.

  And with a flash of ruby red light, the pony transformed into a man.

  ‘Because I am Sorcerer Scridgemore.’ He bowed a low bow and his long, salt and pepper beard grazed the sand upon the ground. ‘At your service!’

  Well, poor Hannan hardly knew what to do or what to think. His lips formed an ‘O’ shape, but no words escaped from them.

  ‘My magic cannot help you find what you seek. But your magic can!’ he said.

  ‘But I’m no magician; I have no magic.’ Hannan’s upset and frustration caused him to cry. He missed his parents now more than ever. But presently, a beautiful tune filled the air.

  ‘Follow you heart,

  right from the start

  believe in what you seek.

  Follow your dreams

  and life will deem

  an adventure at your feet.

  Be brave, be bold, be open

  and sing from your heart a song,

  and soon you’ll realise your dream

  has been with you all along.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing else for it!’ Hannan proclaimed, watching as the old magician coughed and spluttered from his singing dream. Running through the bone fence, Hannan raced towards the edge of Lake Furkan and dropped to his knees. Searching through his little bag of belongings, he brought out a small, empty bottle, the contents of which he had already drunk. And with all the belief in the world, with all the hope, and with all his bravery, Hannan plunged the bottle into the water, careful not to get his fingers wet. He instantly replaced the cork top. Then before he had time to reconsider (as it was very tempting to swim in the lake), he ran from it towards Sorcerer Scridgemore, whose smile reached from one ear to the other, exposing his ruby tooth.

  ‘Well done, boy! Well done!’ he called. Hannan felt incredibly proud, and embraced the sorcerer, who had become a great friend as Sahar within his quest. But Hannan’s attention wandered when a familiar smell wafted through the air. Lavender and primrose, a sweet gentle aroma he had not smelt for years. And then spices, old spices he held only in his memory. Through the desert’s breeze, he heard his name whispered.

  Looking up, Hannan watched as the bone fence rattled, then shook, then transformed. He saw skin emerging, and eyes and long, flowing hair. What were once skeletons, were now people, rearranging themselves out of their awkward positions, and straightening their tight limbs. They all looked rather baffled; rubbing their eyes and yawning as if waking from a deep sleep.

  ‘Hannan, Hannan!’ a voice called, and the goat-less shepherd could barely believe his ears.

  He turned to see both his mother and father disentangling themselves from the fence before running towards him, their arms flung wide.

  ‘You came for us!’ his mother cried, picking up her son and swinging him around and around.

  ‘You are lucky you have such a clever son,’ Sorcerer Scridgemore said. ‘Many people have waited hundreds of years for someone to undo the curse caused by ignoring the lake’s promise.’

  Hannan’s mother finally put her son down, and his father knelt before him, holding Hannan’s shoulders.

  ‘We bathed in the lake to heal your mother,’ Hannan’s father began. ‘But then we also drank it, we were so thirsty.’

  ‘I bet not as thirsty as you are now!’ Hannan laughed, as he was picked up and squeezed just a little too tightly by his father.

  ‘Did you hear us whisper to you?’ his mother asked with a face full of smiles – her melancholy completely cured. ‘We felt you watching us from your mountain top with your goats. We called to you every day.’

  It was then Hannan knew his parents had always been with him, even when they were not – because they had kept him in their hearts, and he had kept them in his. He clutched his bottled magic tightly, incredibly grateful to have followed his heart’s desires, and to have found enough courage to become a true Seeker.

  7

  A FOND FAREWELL

  And there one quest ends and another journey, another adventure, and another story begins. I know this because I lived to tell the tale. The desert holds strange powers over people: mirages, mysterious lakes, magic even. My family and I returned home with the help of Sorcerer Scridgemore, but this was not my last time in the desert, nor indeed, my last time with Sahar. But that dear friend, is another thrilling tale I’ll save for another time…

  So this is not the end but rather, another beginning.

  Hannan.

  THE WOODEN PONY

  “The pony looked skywards and felt tiny snowflakes rest upon his skin. ‘Look, it’s snowing. Come on. If I only have one night of freedom, let us use it wisely. Let us have the best adventure of our lives.”

  1

  LONDON AT NIGHT

  The darkening evening swallowed what little warmth the winter sun had provided throughout the day. However, streets still bustled with people, and elegant horses pulled along lavish carriages. Water splashed as the wheels broke the surface of fine ice atop puddles on cobbled stone roads. The horses’ hooves felt neither the chill in their hooves as they trotted through the town, nor did their skin feel the icy air as they glided through it. But besides the warm-blooded beasts, everyone else wore scarves and gloves and big, thick woollen coats.

  Thomas watched the shadows with his freckled face pressed up against the windowpane. His nose tingled with an icy burn.

  ‘Oh look, Father!’ Thomas yelled. Both his hands pressed against the glass and his nose squeaked as he scrunched it harder against the night’s reflection.

  His father smiled, not looking up from his chore. He was used to Thomas waiting eagerly at the window every evening for the same event.

  Thomas’s green eyes widened as he watched the first warm glow light up the dark night – followed by another, and another. Soon, a trail of blazing lights followed a lantern burner’s shadow as he continued lighting the street lamps.

  ‘London always looks best by night,’ said Thomas.

  Now the street lamps were lit, he could see passers-by and make out the details of their faces properly. He watched big carriages rocking along the roads, transfixed by the handsome horses pulling them. Against the night, their coats shone as if covered with magic.

  Thomas liked magic. He also liked hot chocolate, but as much as his mother pestered him, he could never bring himself to like sprouts. This fact didn’t stop sprouts appearing on his plate every Sunday though – much to his annoyance.

  ‘I wish I could have a horse,’ Thomas said, watching a fine pair of black beasts trot by. Thomas’s father gave a tut and carried on with his work.

  Both Thomas and his father were in the workshop. Many lanterns lit the room with a yellow glow, casting flickering shadows against the walls and sawdust-covered floor. The room smelt earthy and familiar, and Thomas closed his eyes and imagined he was standing in a forest. But the sound of his father sanding, chopping and grinding wood didn’t make Thomas’s illusion work particularly well. He knew he was in London, no matter how hard he imagined standing in the green countryside.

  Thomas’s father was a carpenter, and a very good one at that. He carved the finest flutes and musical instruments in London and all around. He also carved beautiful wooden dolls (but of course, Thomas never had much time for such girlish things). Thomas’s father often crafted great games made from fragrant smelling pinewood. They gleamed and shone and felt smooth in the hand. But as much as Thomas liked musical instruments and great games, he could never keep any of them.

  ‘That is worth a lot of money,’ Father said, eyeing Thomas, who was inspecting a flute in his hand. ‘Put it down; I already have a buyer for that.’

  So you see, even though all T
homas’s friends had wonderful gifts made by his father’s hands, Thomas had none.

  All he could do was look and dream. And he could only imagine what his father was making this night.

  ‘What’s it going to be?’ asked Thomas, cocking his head to look at the big chunk of wood.

  His father looked up and lay down his chisel.

  ‘Going to be?’ he asked, looking puzzled. ‘It already is. All I have to do is cut around the bits that aren’t it yet.’

  This might have made sense to his father, but it made no sense to Thomas. So he shrugged his shoulders and shuffled back towards the window to watch the passing horses and carriages. After only a moment, his curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘Can’t you give me a clue?’ he asked.

  ‘It will be a horse,’ Father said eventually, finally settling Thomas’s inquisitiveness.

  Thomas’s eyes widened. ‘A horse?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, a horse, and a very fine horse too – a rocking horse.’ Father got back to work.

  ‘Who’s it for?’ Thomas asked. He wasn’t jealous as such, although his stomach did twinge a little with envy. He had long given up on being hopeful to receive such treasures. But that didn’t stop Thomas from prying.

  ‘It’s for a very important person. Very important indeed,’ Father said, chiselling away and crafting the wood that so far looked no more like a horse than you or I do.

  There were lots of gentry who exchanged big velvet bags of gold for the gifts and toys the carpenter made. Thomas wondered who could be quite so important. Perhaps, thought Thomas, it was for the Prime Minister, or maybe even the Queen herself. Either way, Thomas knew he would enjoy watching the wooden horse being chiselled into life.

  ‘Look!’ Father said to Thomas, nodding his head towards the window.

  Once again, Thomas pressed his face up against the pane with a squeak. Thousands of tiny snowflakes fell from the sky. They were so tiny that Thomas could only just make them out when they danced against the light around the glowing lanterns.

  ‘Magic,’ he whispered. Magic always seemed to happen in London when it snowed, perhaps because it snowed so little in the town.

  A door creaked open.

  ‘Come on, Thomas. Off to bed with you.’ Mother’s voice was smooth like honey. ‘Leave your busy father to his work, and I’ll get you a hot chocolate and read you a story.’

  Thomas smiled and followed his mother, peeking one last time at the piece of wood, only just beginning to look like a horse.

  2

  MANY COLOURS

  During the night, Thomas tossed and turned, so much so his sheets became tangled tightly around his feet. Hence, when he woke with a start and attempted to rush out of bed, he collapsed head first to the floor.

  ‘Oomph!’ he said, rubbing his forehead and untangling his feet. It was still night-time, although Thomas could not tell quite what time it was. There was no hint of dawn through the bedroom window, and a stillness only known during the midnight hour had settled.

  Reaching for his bedside lantern, Thomas’s eyes scrunched together the way eyes do when they first open from sleep. He raced to the window.

  ‘Wooooow!’ he whispered, drawing the word out for several long seconds. ‘There’s so much snow!’

  And he was right. London town was under a white blanket, sparkling beneath the moon and street lanterns. But it wasn’t just the possibility of snow that caused young Thomas to lose sleep.

  He had been thinking and dreaming about the wooden horse.

  Have you ever been so curious that you’ve done something you knew you were not meant to do? Well, this is what happened to Thomas. He knew he was not allowed into the workshop without his father. He also knew he should not be creeping around at midnight. But still…

  His stomach ached with nerves and excitement. His hands shook with the cold and the worry of getting caught. But still, Thomas opened his bedroom door, which creaked in protest, and his footsteps padded almost silently as he tiptoed down the stairs.

  The scent of pine wafted from under the crack of the closed workshop door before Thomas reached it. In the darkness, lit only by his lamp, he felt strangely grown up and only a little bit scared. There were no sounds in the house except the ticking of a clock, and snow muffled any sounds from outside. Slowly, very slowly, Thomas opened the workshop door. His heart beat hard against his midnight crime.

  The door opened. Thomas froze.

  ‘Argh!’ a strange voice called.

  ‘Argh!’ Thomas called back, forgetting his need to remain silent or risk getting caught out of bed.

  In his panic, he stepped backwards, crashing into a shelf and sending several wooden toys clattering to the floor. His hands raced with a frantic pace to save any more toys from falling to the ground, and he dropped his lamp in the process. The room blackened with a sizzle. The lantern went out.

  ‘Oh no,’ Thomas groaned.

  Standing as quietly as he could, he waited for his parents’ footfalls upon the stairs. They didn’t come. Thomas breathed out slowly, relieved that the clatter had failed to wake them, before remembering he was sharing the room with a stranger.

  ‘Who’s there?’ his voice croaked in the darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ another voice croaked back.

  ‘I asked first,’ Thomas said with furrowed brows.

  ‘I asked last,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Well, this is a stupid game,’ Thomas said. But at least his eyes were adjusting to the night.

  ‘I agree, it’s a very stupid game,’ a little voice said.

  Thomas was no longer afraid. He could tell the voice belonged to someone young like himself. But he was getting rather impatient.

  ‘Who are you?’ Thomas asked again. ‘Show yourself. Come to me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said the voice sadly. ‘I can’t see.’

  ‘Your eyes will soon adjust to the dark, don’t worry,’ Thomas said.

  ‘No, I don’t mean I can’t see in the dark. I can’t see at all.’

  Thomas felt sorry for the stranger. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to see nothing.

  ‘Why not tell me where you are and I’ll come to you?’ Thomas said, thinking it was a good suggestion.

  ‘How can I tell you where I am, when I can’t see where I am?’

  Thomas held his chin with his thumb and forefinger while trying to come up with another idea.

  ‘Keep talking and I’ll follow the sound of your voice until I’m next to you.’ He wasn’t so worried about moving around the workshop now his eyes had adapted to the darkness. The moon shone through the window, casting shadows and highlighting the outlines of many toys on shelves and benches. Slowly (with his arms outstretched just in case he hit his head again, which already bore a lump from tumbling out of bed), Thomas followed the voice. Soon he reached the lump of wood his father had been working on earlier in the evening.

  ‘Good gracious!’ Thomas yelled, completely forgetting to remain quiet. ‘You’re the horse, the rocking horse!’

  Thomas stroked the pony – I say pony, for although the rocking horse was tall, he wasn’t as tall as a horse. His outline had been carved, but he was nowhere near finished. He had no eyes or mane or tail, and still looked like a lump of wood in the vague shape of a horse. But his mouth was carved, which we can safely assume is how he had the ability to speak.

  ‘What does the world look like?’ the pony asked. He liked feeling the boy’s hand upon his neck and whinnied in friendship.

  ‘It’s looks different all the time,’ Thomas said. ‘Tonight, the town is covered in white snow so it looks rather beautiful.’

  ‘White?’ said the pony. ‘What is white?’

  Thomas wondered how on earth he could describe colours the pony had never before seen.

  ‘Well, white feels like the cold,’ he said, hoping it made sense.

  ‘I was cold when my maker stopped working on me.’

  ‘That’s right!’
cried Thomas. ‘Father would have let the fire go out after he left the workshop. White is just like that: cold. And the colour orange is like the warm fire.’

  ‘Oh! I like that colour!’ said the pony.

  ‘Hotter than the fire is red and a little bit colder might be yellow,’ Thomas said. He was really getting into this way of thinking. Thomas continued for many more minutes, describing blue and purple and when he came to green, Thomas grew a little sad.

  ‘Don’t you like the colour green?’ asked the pony, hearing the change in the boy’s tone. ‘Does it look like sadness?’

  ‘Oh no! I like green very much,’ Thomas said, thinking of his summer holidays when he stayed in the countryside. ‘Green is the colour of trees and nature. It’s the colour of freedom.’

  ‘Oh! I would love to see green,’ the pony sighed.

  The grandfather clock chimed, giving Thomas a fright and making him jump. It reminded him of how very late it was. And although he would have loved to continue talking to the wooden pony, he knew he should make his way back to bed. Sleepily, Thomas said his goodbyes and promised to speak with the pony again the next day.

  3

  EYES OPEN

  Although tired from his midnight adventure, Thomas was eager to return to the workshop the next morning. In a swirl of activity, his feet hit the floor and he darted down the stairs – his pyjamas a blur of red and white stripes. Bitter coffee scented the air, meaning his father was already awake. By the sound of the sandpaper grinding like footsteps upon gravel, Father was already working too.

  Thomas took timid steps inside the workshop. A twinge of guilt worried his stomach. He wasn’t altogether sure if he had got away with his night-time adventures.

  ‘Good morning to you, Thomas,’ Father said warmly. He didn’t take his eyes from the wooden horse he was crafting.

  ‘Good morning,’ Thomas said. His cheeks flushed a little red, but he relaxed when Father continued to work without distraction.

 

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