www.hachettechildrens.co.uk
For Claire and Eve.
The magic in my life.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One: Foul Smells and Magic Spells
Chapter Two: Missing Glasses and Nasty Lasses
Chapter Three: Two Inquisitors and Strange Visitors
Chapter Four: Mum Troubles and a Pig Called Bubbles
Chapter Five: One Lost Child and Merdyn the Wild
Chapter Six: Horseless Carriage in my Garage!
Chapter Seven: Broken Cars and Long Lost Stars
Chapter Eight: Time for Bed/There’s a Wizard in my Shed!
Chapter Nine: Returning These Pages To The Dark Ages
Chapter Ten: Warlocks aren’t Cool in School, that’s the Rule!
Chapter Eleven: Interesting Books and Disparaging Looks
Chapter Twelve: Where Eyes are Deceived and Stories are Weaved
Chapter Thirteen: Cunning Ploys and Top Boys
Chapter Fourteen: The Fashionarian Gets Thundarian
Chapter Fifteen: Hell’s Belles and Flying Spells
Chapter Sixteen: With Friends Like these, who Needs Anemones?
Chapter Seventeen: Potions and Commotions
Chapter Eighteen: Filthy Liars and Town Criers
Chapter Nineteen: “Pardon, Mrs Arden, there’s a Wizard in our Garden”
Chapter Twenty: Lovelorn Coppers and Second Thoughts in Choppers
Chapter Twenty-One: Forget what Thou Doth Know about the Magic Show...
Chapter Twenty-Two: An Audience is Dazed and the Curtain is Raised
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dreams Killed and Hearts Spilled
Chapter Twenty-Four: A Failed Ham, and a Sandwich of Jam
Chapter Twenty-Five: Hooks, Crooks and Spellbooks
Chapter Twenty-Six: From Lame to Fame – ’Tis a Funny Old Game!
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Of What Fame Smells and Pinecone Spells
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Enough Blathering, Storm Clouds Gathering
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Spells Unwise and Merchandise
Chapter Thirty: Lightning Strikes Twice, this Wizard’s not Nice
Chapter Thirty-One: The Tricks Mix
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Ascendance of the Descendants
Chapter Thirty-Three: Look Who’s Walking, Look Who’s Talking!
Chapter Thirty-Four: Trouble Doubles for Rose and Bubbles
Chapter Thirty-Five: One Big Surprise and no More Lies
Chapter Thirty-Six: Revenge at the Henge! (Aka the Groans Betwixt the Stones)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Fortunes Switch and an Unlikely Witch
Chapter Thirty-Eight: All’s Well that Ends with a Spell
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Vets, Pets and Unlikely Duets
Grasses – a guide
About the Author
If you liked this, you'll love...
Copyright
To begin our story, I need you to cast your fertile imagination back to a time that history forgot. No, not the dinosaurs, that’s too far … no, not the Vikings, that’s not far enough, and besides, libraries are full of books on those hooligans. No. I want you to imagine THE DARK AGES. The year 511 to be precise, right in the middle of the Dark Ages, which makes it a contender for the darkest year in all of history.
The Dark Ages were called the Dark Ages not because it was always dark (like Iceland in winter) but because nobody REALLY knows what happened during this time. Nobody wrote anything down or took photos (obviously). The Dark Ages were a time full of menace, mystery and, crucially, magic.
Having said all that, one fact I can tell you is that on a crisp spring night in 511, King Paul and his justice chiefs gathered at a clearing in a forest near the village of Hupton Grey – a place now known as the Oldwell Shopping Centre, near Bashingford, just off the M3 – for the trial of a notorious criminal. The forest looked a lot different back then, of course. The trees were still there for a start, large and imposing, especially when the makeshift court’s lanterns cast flickering shadows upon them.
A crowd of around two hundred people had gathered to watch the spectacle about to happen. The smell would have been intolerable to modern noses, as even noblemen didn’t bathe for months on end, and most of the audience were peasants, who rarely bathed once in their lifetimes. They elbowed each other and stood on their tiptoes to see the action. You must remember, there was no TV, and no laptops or iPads in those days. For the local folk, this was the equivalent of going to the cinema. Some even brought snacks. Not popcorn of course, but smoked pig snouts and pickled eggs. A trial of a famous criminal such as this was blockbuster entertainment. And what’s more, it was in 3D.
“Will the defendant pray riseth!” boomed the master of ceremonies.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as the defendant rose all right, but not using his feet! Instead he rose, cross-legged, until he was floating some two metres above the ground. His chains tightened around the huge boulder they were fastened to, making a chilling sound: CRINK! And there the famous felon bobbed, like a human-shaped balloon at a birthday party, eyes closed, a playful smile stretched across his filthy face like a schoolboy who knows he’s done wrong but couldn’t care less. This is the hero – or should I say the anti-hero – of our story. His name? Well, you probably read it on the cover of this book, but just in case you missed it, his name is … Merdyn the Wild.
King Paul and his chiefs shook their heads. They had hoped that the presence of Evanhart – the King’s daughter – might temper Merdyn’s mischievous nature. The two had been friends at the School of Alchemy (Magic School to you and me) until, in adulthood, Merdyn chose the path of darkness. Now Evanhart barely recognised the man floating before her, his robes grubby, his beard long and straggly and his hair matted and adorned with stolen trinkets. He looked more like a pirate than a wizard.
“For the prosecution, I calleth Jeremiah Jerabo,” boomed the MC.
The smile quickly fell from Merdyn’s face. Jeremiah Jerabo had also been at the School of Alchemy, but Merdyn’s memories of him were very different from his memories of Evanhart.
Evanhart had been Merdyn’s best friend and confidant. Jerabo, however, was a jealous snitch. Every time Merdyn had engaged in anything fun, such as turning the teacher’s apple into a toad just as he was taking a bite, Jerabo would tell on him. And here he was, at it again, telling teacher! Except this time it was the King, and there was more at stake than a cane on his backside.
Jerabo swaggered to the centre of the court and cleared his throat like an actor preparing for his big moment. He’d waxed his blond bouffant hair into a point and shaved his yellow beard into a goatee, making his head look not unlike an ice-cream cone.
“Merdyn the Wild!” he piped with great pomposity. “Thou standeth accused of multiple crimes against the Alchemist’s Code. Thou art a thief, a vandal and a mischief maker who knoweth no bounds. Very few of us are born W-blood …”
This is probably not a blood group you’re familiar with, but in those days, it was quite common, and basically meant being born a wizard or a witch with magical abilities.
“… and those of us who art, must use their powers for good, like myself and Evanhart. But thou, Merdyn the Wild …” Jerabo had reached fever pitch – “II putteth it to THEE that thou have become the worst W of all – a WARLOCK!”
And I put it to YOU that you’re probably wondering why there are so many thees and thous in that sentence. Well, it was the old way of saying you, yours etc. So thou had better get used to it.
The crowd gasped when it heard the word “warlock”. Some felt lightheaded, while one or two even fainted and had to receive medical attention. A warlock is basically a bad wizard, times a thousand. The
y use their magic for nothing but mayhem.
“That’s right,” Jerabo hissed. “Do thou have anything to say for thyself, Merdyn the Warlock?”
This was where Merdyn was supposed to defend himself. This was the moment he could have told them where he had put the giant rock he’d stolen from the ancient Magic Circle (he’d carved the face of Evanhart into it and shrunk it to fit in his pocket). He could have pointed out that the gold he had stolen from the royal war chest had actually prevented the King from starting wars, and wasn’t that a good thing? He could have made the case for all his actions, but in truth Merdyn didn’t care what anyone thought of him any more. So instead, he slowly lowered himself, put his feet upon the ground and announced in a gruff, powerful voice:
“I AM MERDYN THE WILD!
THE GREATEST WARLOCK OF ALL TIME!
DESTROYER OF ENEMIES!
ALL WHO KNOWETH ME DO
BOW DOWN BEFORE ME!
THOU THINKETH THOU CAN CAPTURE ME?”
He let out an almighty howl of laughter.
“THOU MIGHT AS WELL TRY TO SHACKLE THE WIND!”
Never mind gasps, the crowd was now at the part of the movie where they felt genuinely frightened. If there had been a sofa available, they would have hidden behind it. But sofas wouldn’t be invented until 1465, so they just closed their eyes instead. It was testament to Merdyn’s powers that they felt so scared, even with him chained to a rock the size of Wales.
“Now,” said Merdyn in a quieter voice, “if thou will excuseth me, I’ll be off.” And with that, he opened his tunic to reveal a belt with little leather pouches tied to it. In a flash he took a pinch of herbs from one of the pouches, slapped his hands together – CLAP! – and chanted:
“LYCIUM BARBARUM!
GRABACIOUS! THUNDARIAN!”
Thundarian was the name of Merdyn’s staff. It had been taken from him upon his arrest, and his plan was to summon it with this spell.
The plan seemed to be working. A great wind swirled around the court and, from behind the chiefs, Thundarian came floating towards Merdyn’s outstretched hand. It was a wonderfully gnarled piece of oak around two metres in length, with an intricately carved eagle perched on top.
It was almost in Merdyn’s outstretched hand. Had he grasped it at that moment, he would have unleashed all measure of heinous magic on his captors. He would have turned Jerabo to stone, then shattered him into a million pieces with one flick of his finger. He would have turned the King and his chiefs into stinking goats in a thrice. He would have turned on the crowd and magicked their eyes – which were now as big as saucers – into actual saucers.
These revenge fantasies were swirling in Merdyn’s warped mind as Thundarian got to within millimetres of his straining fingers. But suddenly … CRIIINK! Merdyn hadn’t realised that there was also a chain attached to his staff. The chain pulled tight, the staff came to a standstill and Merdyn collapsed in a heap, his energy and chance of escape gone.
In the silence that followed came a hearty laugh. Jerabo had been watching all this with great pleasure.
“I thought thou might try that,” he said, and pulled an ornate black and gold spellbook from his tunic. Each witch or wizard had their own way of casting spells and Jerabo, being a stickler for tradition, liked to use a spellbook. “CASIAN WALLAT FLOATABOAT!” he muttered, thrusting his hand out, causing Thundarian to drift towards him instead. Then he grabbed Merdyn’s precious staff and snapped it over his knee.
“Nooooooo!’ yelled Merdyn.
Even Evanhart winced at this cruelty. She’d seen Merdyn lovingly whittle that staff over hundreds of hours at the School of Alchemy. Merdyn’s heart might have closed off over the years, but Thundarian was the one thing he obviously still cared about.
“Curse thee, Jerabo!” Merdyn wailed. “Thou art a scurrilous coxcomb1!”
Jerabo merely chuckled and threw the broken staff pieces down the stone well that stood in the forest clearing. Tonk, tonk, tink, tonk, tink, tonk, splosh, went the broken timber. Then he turned to the King.
“I hope this final act of defiance will convinceth Thy Majesty that we must mete out the very harshest of penalties to this warlock.” With great fanfare, Jerabo licked his finger and used it to turn the pages of his spellbook slowly. “The prosecutor recommendeth to the court –”
* FLIP – “that he be sent to the Rivers of Purgatory –” ** FLIP * – “for eternity!”
The crowd murmured, for they were truly out of gasps by now. Finally, someone was compelled to speak for Merdyn, and that someone was … Evanhart.
Everything about Evanhart said ‘mellow’. If she were living in the present day, she would no doubt be a yoga teacher, horse whisperer or your favourite auntie. She had long flowing red hair and silver-grey eyes like still pools of calm water.
“Father,” she said to the King now. “Please have mercy upon this man. His powers are great. Perchance he could learn to use them for good?”
“’Tis too late for that, Evanhart,” spoke the King. “Thy pleas are wasted here.”
“Do thou not remember, Father?” Evanhart persisted. “How he did fighteth for thy army in the great war? Brave and fearless was he. Thou said so thyself.”
“But Evanhart, that was a long time ago. Since then, he has shown himself a villain time and time again.”
“Show him mercy then, dear Father,” Evanhart pleaded. “Send him to the Rivers of Purgatory but for a short time only, five years or so … Maybe then he will reflecteth and changeth.”
“He will never changeth!” bellowed Jerabo. “Why, only last week I was riding my horse and he did turneth it into a chicken! Imagine what a fool I looked riding around on a chicken!”
The crowd couldn’t help but laugh when they thought of this. But the King wasn’t laughing. He was lost in his daughter’s pleading eyes, the goodness radiating from them and clouding his better judgement. Eventually he spoke.
“I have decided,” said the King, “that Merdyn be sentenced to seven years in the Rivers of Purgatory.”
“Wha—?” Jerabo swallowed before beginning again. “Very well, Thy Majesty,” he seethed through his pursed lips. “Seven years in the Rivers of Purgatory it is.” With that he turned the pages of his spellbook once again – * FLIP, ** FLIP * – and read out the sentencing spell.
“FRANDALIN, BUGANTI,
RIVERO. CLOCKASHOCK!”
The court shook for a few seconds before the ground in the centre of the clearing opened up like a giant mouth. A green light shot from the gaping hole and lit up the sky like the aurora borealis. The crowd oohed and aahed as if watching a firework display on Bonfire Night.
On seeing the green light, Evanhart’s expression turned even graver. “Father!”
“No more, child!” snapped the King. “Sentence has been passed!”
“But the light. It should not be gr—”
“I said no more!”
The King’s men walked Merdyn to the edge of the great hole. For a second, he looked back at the princess. “Worry not, Evanhart. I shall be back sooner than they knoweth,” he said, with a charm that Evanhart recognised at last. But before she could reply, Merdyn was pushed into the glowing green mouth and it snapped shut, causing a mini-earthquake to pulse through the wood.
In the silence that followed, a villager said to his wife, “I’m definitely coming to the next one of these.”
Evanhart, however, was in no mood for pleasantries. She marched up to Jerabo and grabbed his spellbook.
“Hey! Snatchy Sue!” Jerabo protested.
“Why was there a green light above the mouth of the Rivers of Purgatory?” Evanhart asked, flipping through the book. “It should have been red!”
“How should I know?” said Jerabo. “I don’t maketh the rules.”
The King looked at his daughter with exasperation. “Why must everything be a crusade with thee, Evanhart? Women are equal to men. Donkeys have the same rights as horses. Rivers of Purgatory should be red and not
green! Must everything be questioned?”
But at that moment– * FLIP, ** FLIP * –Evanhart found what she was looking for. It made her usually rosy freckled cheeks lose their colour entirely.
“‘Clockashock?’ I knew it. ’Twas the wrong spell! Jerabo didn’t sendeth Merdyn to the Rivers of Purgatory!”
Voices in the crowd rang out with confused exclamations: “What?” “Another twist?” “I can’t take it no more!” All eyes turned to Jerabo, who squirmed like a worm on a hook.
“Oh, didn’t I? I’m sure I did,” he said. “Although my Latin is a little rusty …”
“So, where did he sendeth him?” asked the King.
“To the Rivers of Time,” said Evanhart softly, her heartbreak obvious to all.
“But what does that mean?” asked the King.
“It means Merdyn is lost. For ever.” And Evanhart cast her wide, glistening eyes up to the heavens in despair.
Oh gods, hear Evanhart
plead like a child,
begging for mercy
on Merdyn the Wild.
Note
1 In case you’re wondering, scurrilous meant vulgar in the Dark Ages. Coxcomb referred to a cockerel whose ‘comb’ is a bright red crest on top of its head. Basically, it’s a very long-winded way of calling someone a show-off.
“Please welcome to the stage, Rose Falvey!” boomed a very different Master of Ceremonies, for the stage in question was that of Mountford High School, Bashingford (just off the M3), and we are no longer in the sixth century but the twenty-first (when YOU live).
Mountford High School was having its very own version of the TV programme called Britain’s Got Talented People, imaginatively entitled Mountford’s Got Talented People. There had been qualifying heats throughout the spring term, and now there were only two chances left to reach the grand final next term.
Rose Falvey didn’t want to wait for the last heat, the last chance – that would be too much pressure. She was pumped for this, NOW. So pumped, in fact, that on hearing her name from the wings, she sprang on to the stage like a gazelle and overshot her spotlight mark. The spotlight then had to try and find her again, while Rose ran around in a panic trying to find the spotlight in return.
The Wizard In My Shed Page 1