Legend of the Lost

by Ian P Buckingham

  “But in the end the mood of some inevitably turned. And it turned against the Trelgathwin family.

  “One particularly dark night, a group of the villagers, armed with a pack of mangy dogs driven half mad by starvation, stormed the Trelgathwin family home.

  “A fierce fight ensued between the mob and those who remained loyal to Lord James. They fought hard but there were just too many and the position became hopeless.

  “After subduing them, the villagers allowed the family to pack a few trunks of possessions, then they marched them down to the harbour where James’s ship, his pride and joy, was docked.”

  “The Romany Soul,” cried Holly, hands to her mouth.

  “Indeed,” whispered Ziggy, his cruel scar glowing a little with the excitement of the telling.

  Nelson picked up and continued the tale, his voice also soft and respectful, like he was talking in church.

  “The family were ushered aboard by the angry group of Mousehole villagers who had hog-tied Lord James’s loyal men, hungry hounds snapping at their heels.

  “Faced with no other choice, the father and mother secured their children below decks. They wrapped them in the blood-red cloak Elouisa always wore and comforted them as best they could.

  “Between them, the adults then mustered as much sail as they could handle before steering that beautiful golden vessel straight down the throat of the hellcat storm where it rose once, high above the gaping crowds, but then disappeared beneath the gigantic waves never to be seen again.

  “That was also the last seen of the family. The last, that is, until now. And we should knows.”

  “Why?” blurted Savannah, forgetting herself at the excitement of knowing.

  “Why? Well, you see, we were there, that fateful night many, many moons ago,” said the pirate leader. “And so, oh fair one, were both of yous, I reckons.”

  It is a well-known fact that the werewytch kind can sniff out faerie folk as certainly as a hungry child can taste a chocolate cake in the air while it is still baking.

  Back in the dark cabin in Ashridge Forest, Mother paused at the threshold, an unmistakably sweet scent invading her nostrils like a footpad creeping through the fog.

  She gave nothing away but for that pause, simply hung the brace of young dead rabbits on the hook in the pantry then made her away over to the shelf in the opposite direction of the now closed book.

  However, out of the corner of her eye, she could see the heat pattern of the errant nymph hiding under the table, following him as he darted quietly between objects, making for the still available crack in the door.

  As we all know, Nimbus, despite his name, is not the nimblest of sprites. While weaving between a footstool and chair leg, he tripped over the lip of the carpet and before he hit the floor was held fast in the jaws of a foul-smelling white ferret.

  “No point wriggling,” the woman taunted him in her tired voice.

  “Faustus has you fast and your magic has no dominion here,” she laughed, drawing back the carpet to reveal the witches’ magical pentangle etched into the wood, just showing through the dust.

  “It is just as well he’s been fed tonight or you would have been quite a satisfying meal,” she cackled, poking him in his wriggling belly with a long-nailed, bony index finger.

  Then, almost before he could blink, Nimbus found himself unceremoniously bundled into some sort of large pickling bottle (judging by the overwhelming vinegary smell). He was relieved if a little alarmed when she then punched holes into the lid with a knife, allowing him to breathe.

  Now, when she peered at him through the glass, her face appeared cruelly distorted.

  But he could still see the beauty behind her eyes, although worn down by the heavy burden of a deep and obvious sadness.

  “You and I are going to have a very long conversation very soon,” she threatened. “But first, we must eat.”

  And with that she covered the jar with something that blocked out all the light and set it down on a shelf with a thump, leaving Nimbus to fret and sweat whether that something she meant to eat would, in fact, be him.

  Mermaid Cottage was a welcome sight when the girls approached it again under cover of darkness.

  The family car wasn’t there. So, using the key hidden in the faux wooden chest of the plaster garden gnome, Holly let them both in.

  They were surprised to find the cottage empty.

  On the table was a note in her father’s scribbled but ornate hand:

  Darlings, I have had to leave in a hurry.

  I have tried to keep our precious peace.

  But once we saw Savannah and the Moonstone together, we knew that the rest would fall into place for you quickly as it has, once again, for us.

  I know now what I must do and we have to return north to fulfil that part of our family’s destiny.

  We didn’t know when you would return but, with Savannah at your side, I know the two of you will be safe and secure here until we make it back.

  Be gentle with NJ.

  I love you and we will be together again sooner than you know.

  P x

  There was a creaking on the stair.

  Holly’s heart jumped as she realised it was Nanna Jo, red from rubbing her eyes, either from tiredness, worry, crying… or all three.

  “Darling girls, I can’t say how very, very happy I am to see the two of yous safe and well, come here.”

  She threw out her arms, bedspread attached, and encircled them in her loving embrace.

  Several minutes of excited chatter followed until, suddenly, Holly remembered that they weren’t alone.

  Crossing quickly she unlatched the top of the stable doors and with a flourish introduced the small gathering of rakishly clad companions outside.

  “Nanna Jo, please allow me to introduce Nelson and his Sea Gypsy clan.”

  They all bowed theatrically towards the figures framed by the light in the door and were a bit disappointed when Nanna Jo, embarrassed by her state of undress, simply said, “Well you had all better get in out of that chill wind before you wake up all the neighbours.

  “I’ll put the kettle on the range, but heaven knows where we’ll find enough milk.”

  And, with that, Nelson, Ziggy and another seven souls wound their way into the cottage.

  “Well, seldom have so many ’andsome Cornish fellas been seen in one room,” Nanny Jo said unintentionally out loud with a smile.

  It disappeared just as quickly when one with a grey beard and black neck scarf seemed to read her thoughts and winked.

  “You know where the biscuits are, Holly, come on now, make yourself useful,” she said, blushing and quickly changing the topic.

  The talking started late and went on all the way through dawn, during which it soon became clear that the adults knew a great deal more about the Legend of the Lost than they had realised.

  “Your father felt it best to keep it that way, child. For we lost so much during that terrible storm.

  “Took him a very, very long time and much magic to come to terms with the loss of your mother and sisters during the worst of the storm, when the boat hit the rocks.”

  Nanna Jo looked grave with concern as she recounted those dark days.

  “But we didn’t lose our mother in the storm. Mama died from the sickness, shortly after Lucy was born, you know she did, NJ,” Holly cried, clearly badly stung by saying the very words.

  “Sally-Anne was my niece and she was also a wonderful mother to both you and Lucy, my gorgeous, brave girl.

  “She was, however, your father’s second wife. She helped him get over the loss of your mother, darling.

  “So it nearly killed him to be robbed of two wonderful women in a single life time. Even though an enchanted and blessed Trelgathwin – or, as you know us, Savage – lifetime is a very different l
ifetime.”

  At this the various men, squeezed into every available nook and cranny, sipping their drinks and listening respectfully, nodded in knowing but concerned unison.

  “But the legend tells of at least four sisters. So what of the other girl in that picture? Who is she and where is she?”

  “Well,” replied Nanna Jo, “That is why your father left so suddenly. Having regained the parts of his memory that he blanked out in pain, Savannah has given him fresh hope, something he never dared feel before.” She smiled. “A day ago news arrived at the cottage of something reappearing in Ashridge Forest.”

  “Near our home in Berkhamsted?”

  “That’s right, child. The omens were too hard for him to ignore so he has taken Lucy, and JJ of course, with him to seek out what it means.”

  “But they are heading into grave danger. There are things in the dark woods here and, I suspect, there, that mean us and all good and magical folk harm.” Savannah rose to her feet as she spoke.

  “We must go to him, he will surely need our help.”

  “I’m sure it can wait until everyone has rested up. It’s a long journey by train; they don’t run today and I did promise your father…”

  At this, Nelson stepped forward and with a flourish announced, “Perhaps we may be of service again, ladies? Were it not for your father and your family, none of us would be here. We may have our faults but we owe him our loyalty and our troth and we travelling folk are nothing if not loyal in honouring an ancient debt of honour.”

  Madame Rebecca was the flamboyant matriarch of the Sea Gypsy band and she dressed to impress.

  Wild floral patterns were coupled with a crystal and diamanté-encrusted tunic and lace-lined, billowing skirts in primary colours.

  She kept a large knife in her belt, a warm heart in her chest but an ice-cool head.

  She was clearly quite the eccentric.

  Nanna Jo felt they were all going to get along splendidly.

  “So, the legend has finally come to life. I guess you’ll be looking to take the Aquavans then?”

  “Aqua? Sounds like some sort of ship,” enquired NJ. “Well, unless something dreadful has happened while we’ve been away, Hertfordshire is landlocked.” She giggled at the challenge.

  “But then you didn’t consider the canals, dear lady,” chirped Ziggy, flinching instinctively, expecting a flying shoe or swinging arm from Madame Rebecca.

  “A genius plan,” she snorted, screwing up her face. “If you have a taste for that stagnant canal water where ducks and all sorts do their dirty business.”

  Holly and Savannah didn’t bother to question the merry band as they were soon drawn down to the casting-off point at the foot of the ancient smuggler’s pub.

  A secret doorway concealed a boat house that used to be the primary route for contraband and a way of avoiding the port authorities.

  It was here that the strangest of vessels lay in wait.

  Part boat, part Romany caravan and part submarine, Nelson and his Sea Gypsies were very proud of The Changeling.

  It was deceptively roomy inside, a bit like the belly of a very large, wooden fish, and was powered by a blend of mystical mechanics. The craft drew energy from a bank of quartz blended with the sort of atomic rocks abundant on this coast. The rest was, well a mystery.

  Soon, they were gliding out of Porthleven harbour and heading north-east, where they would eventually intersect with the river and then the abundant canal system.

  The journey promised to be a long one, in theory.

  But there was something about the manner of these merry men that calmed and reassured the girls that, despite the scale of the trip, they would get there in good time.

  As Nelson pointed out when they asked, “Ever seen a gypsy caravan actually travelling? That’s the thing with we ancient travelling folk, plenty of orn’ry people see us there when we’re there. But who actually sees us getting there, eh?”

  No doubt, magical gypsy time just isn’t like the passage of minutes and seconds dictated by any normal wristwatch. So this trip was to prove, as no sooner had the passengers nodded off in their hammocks while they cruised quietly under the sea than they seemed to wake to bright skies and the neighing – yes, the neighing – of horses. And, no, not seahorses, because they sound very different indeed.

  Outside was a hive of activity as men were hauling panels and parts off The Changeling and tugging at levers and turning cogs.

  “Ah, glad you’ve woken up finally. You can see a sight few get the chance to,” announced the Sea Gypsy leader.

  And what followed had them fascinated. The Changeling, true to its name, was being transformed into a rather unique-looking, but completely serviceable canal barge. The whole process, using so many specialist hands, took less than one hour.

  While this was happening, on the bank of the canal, four burly piebald ponies, just like so many you will now notice in fields up and down the country, “neigh, neeeeighed” with excitement. They pawed at the floor impatiently and longed to be getting on with the business of marching inland.

  Tossing their shaggy black manes, stamping their hooves until sparks flew and whinnying with joy, they too seemed to know that adventures like this, even for mystical creatures, don’t come around very often.

  In no time at all the enchanted piebald ponies were harnessed to the barges and this colourful army of all sorts set off on the final leg of their journey.

  Now they were travelling at an unexpected pace towards a destiny not entirely in their own hands.

  The sisters tingled with an equal measure of excitement and pit-of-the-stomach dread of forces they still couldn’t quite comprehend.

  Deep in the forest, in the place human eyes seldom venture, through a thicket of gorse and bramble and devil’s thorns, Henry sat and cleaned his heavy coat with his own tongue.

  He loved the freedom that his true form gave him. But, sometimes, being a lycanthrope or, to use the name he preferred, weirwylde, had its drawbacks.

  Fur balls and mucky tongues were no fun.

  But, oh, the feeling of living in a world where every sight was so much brighter and clearer, every sound so much louder and every scent overpowering and delicious and alive.

  Back at the village school the nastier children had laughed at him in human form for as long as he could remember, called him “slow brained”, “stupid” and, worst of all, “special needs” just because he was quieter and therefore different.

  Well, if only they could see him now, in his true form as he ran miles without catching his breath, bounded over the highest of boulders with ease and, with one call, summoned up his friends, his pack, his gifted like minds. Now that was being alive; that was being popular for what you truly are; that was power.

  “Are we really ‘hunting’ berries and nuts again tonight?” grunted a sulking Sam, the only one of their pack with a long ginger and silver stripe running down his ruff. “I would really like some flesh, just this once.”

  “Every time!” replied Oliver, the smallest of their number, showing his frustration.

  “It’s always the same story, Greytail. You howling about how hard done by we are, just because our ancestors took the ‘no harm’ pledge.

  “Next comes the bit where you tell us that you get meat at home and one of us explains the difference between farming and wild spirits etc. etc.”

  “And then we eat,” announced Tod Catchall, one of three young wolves to join the party slightly later, as he and his companions slid unheralded beneath the perimeter.

  To snuffles and grunts of approval, they threw a sack filled with raspberries, blackberries, last season’s hazels, ground nuts and loganberries into the midst of the gathered pack.

  “Great. Now we don’t even get to compete on the hunt for food tonight either,” Sam moaned.

  Tod just smiled as
if to say “looks like you’ve lost there too.” But he didn’t, to keep the peace.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge, Sam, old friend,” said Henry. “You don’t yet know what we have planned for our pack. For the next few nights, the blood moon returns to the skies above our forest home.”

  “Meaning the curse – sorry, the pledge – is lifted until the old moon returns,” replied Sam, the excitement building in his voice.

  “Indeed. But, as you’re well aware, we have an ancient debt of honour to uphold and there’s much work to do.

  “Something, as you know, is wrong with the balance of the forest and, unless we become part of the solution, the fate of our way of life, our homes and our families will be at risk.”

  Sam, however, had stopped listening. They now had the opportunity some had been waiting for since the teasing, humiliation and bullying first began when they each entered village school life.

  The way Sam saw it, the villagers had made outcasts of him and his kind. He had put up with their nastiness for a very long time. He had turned the other cheek and all they ever seemed to do was slap that one as well and call him a fool for his trouble. He hated them and he hated school and he despised the bullies who tormented him with their idea of normal.

  These evenings of freedom with the pack were his only release from that life. But now he was being told that was under threat too. It was all too much for his young mind to take in.

  He now could only think of one thing, and that wasn’t obeying some ancient order. It was revenge.

  But that revenge, under the blood moon, would be red in tooth and in claw.

  “Sam!” called Tod, noticing that he appeared distracted again. “Did you hear Henry? We’re setting off on a trek, before dawn, to get to the bottom of the rumblings in the Fireills. That should be adventure enough even for a restless soul like yours.”

  “You go ahead. Let me catch up with you,” he said. “First there’s something I can’t put off any more.”

  With that, Sam was away beneath the ring of thorns and off into the shadows of the forest.