The candle flame guttered, casting twisted shadows over the beast-like face carved into the thick wooden beam above the fireplace. A pair of eyes blinked open, and Inglenook’s mouth curved into a welcoming smile.
“Young Mistress. What brings you to me at this late hour? It has gone midnight, and you should be asleep.”
“Sorry.” Bryony lowered the candle. “I just wanted to talk. It’s OK to talk, isn’t it? I mean, you are… um… open?”
Inglenook chuckled. “The Keeper of the Ancient Wisdom never sleeps, if that is what you are inferring.”
“You’re always dozing off,” countered Bryony. “That’s basically what you do all day.”
Despite Bryony’s criticism, Inglenook’s smile broadened into a grin. “As I said, the Keeper of the Ancient Wisdom never sleeps. But children do, and you have school tomorrow.”
“I need to talk, and I can’t leave it any longer.” Bryony took a deep breath. “First, I want to say sorry.”
“You just did,” pointed out Inglenook.
“I don’t mean sorry for waking you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Yeah, whatever. I meant sorry for not speaking to you for so long. It was rude of me.”
“No offence was taken,” said Inglenook.
“But there was a reason.” Bryony raised a crumpled piece of paper in her left hand. “I found this in Mr Cuddles, my toy. It’s my mum’s writing. My real mum’s, that is.”
“And what does it say?” asked Inglenook.
“Read it.” Bryony held the paper in front of Inglenook’s wooden nose. “Well?”
Inglenook said nothing, so Bryony had no choice but to repeat the words.
“Beware the Moon of Magister.”
Inglenook remained silent. Bryony lowered the paper. “What does it mean? I’ve heard those words before. Katya mentioned the Moon of Magister when the Shadow Clan tried to take Wychetts. And at the farm, I saw my mum’s face in the sky. And she said the same words, and then Dawes and Katya freaked. They said ‘He is returning’. So who is returning? What’s the Moon of Magister? And how is my mum involved in this?”
Still Inglenook said nothing.
“This is what scared me.” Bryony waved the paper in front of the carved wooden face. “This is why I couldn’t speak to you or use the magic. So tell me what all this is about.”
Inglenook stared impassively at her.
Bryony’s temper rose. “You must know, wooden chops. You know everything. So why don’t you tell me? Or have you dozed off again?”
At last Inglenook spoke. “Magister was a Guardian. But he perished many years ago.”
Bryony chewed her bottom lip. “But if he’s dead, how can he be returning?”
“I cannot foretell the future,” said Inglenook. “No one ever could. Not even the Wise Ones. Neither did they try, for they understood it is not right to live life in fear of what might happen. Fear drives irrational thought. Fear causes hatred and despair. Fear creates only fear.”
Bryony wrinkled her nose. “So…”
“It is best to live life without fear of the future. The future is not pre-ordained; the future is yours to make what you will. And without fear, that future can be anything you want it to be.”
Bryony lowered the paper. “So you’re not going to tell me about Magister, or how my mum is hooked up in all this magic stuff?”
Inglenook smiled again. “I understand you are concerned for your mother’s safety. But I am watching, and I promise no harm will befall her. Nor you. Especially not you, Bryony.”
Inglenook seldom spoke her name, and it seemed strange to hear the word resonating through the cottage in that familiar deep voice. But comforting, too.
“Thanks.” Bryony managed a smile. “So what do I do with this?” She held up the paper, which suddenly fluttered up out of her hand and into the flame of the candle. There was an orange flare, and then the paper was gone.
At that very same moment, deep in the darkest pits of human imagination, deeper even than the Dungeon of Despair, and two doors down from the Cavern of Cruelty, a figure sat on a throne carved from the frozen tears of orphaned children. His face was hidden beneath a pointed hood, and his skeletal fingers were tipped with sharp talons. All around him was blackness, the cold blackness of Dread and Loathing. But he rejoiced in this blackness, he inhaled it and savoured its stark chill that coursed through his ancient, desiccated being.
For he was the Dark One: Lord of the Night, Emperor of Iniquity, Baleful Baron of Blackness, and Hated Harbinger of Hellfire to All Humanity.
But he liked to be known as ‘Colin’.
A flame appeared in the blackness, the flickering ball of light hovering nearer to where the Dark One sat brooding.
“What is this?” demanded the Dark One, his voice deep and whispery. “Who dares to pollute my realm with cursed light?”
A figure materialised in the glow of the flame, a slender form clad in a pale hooded cloak. The figure bowed before the Dark One, a slim gloved hand reaching up to pull back the cowl from its head.
It was a woman, with blonde hair and luminous emerald eyes.
“Leader,” purred the woman. “I crave an audience.”
“Miss Pauncefoot.” The Dark One’s voice rose in pitch. “I have been expecting you. What news of the Barrenbrake project?”
Katya lowered her head. “Failure, oh Maleficent Master.”
The Dark One hissed, and his skeletal hands clenched into fists. “This is grave news. I made you head of that project, and this disappointment will be reflected in your Annual Appraisal score.”
“That is not important, oh Tyrant of Terror.” Katya lifted her head to stare straight into the Dark One’s hood. “He is returning.”
“Again?” The Dark One tensed. “But I thought I’d convinced him that as an evil Lord of Darkness I have no need for additional living space with garden views and relaxing ambient light.”
Katya frowned. “I didn’t mean the conservatory salesman.”
“Oh.” The Dark One relaxed, but then tensed again. “Don’t say it’s the taxman? I’ve submitted all my expense receipts in triplicate, and told him that weekend in Skegness was for purely business purposes.”
“I don’t mean the tax man either,” said Katya. “I speak of Magister.”
The Dark One leaned forward, and there was a long pause before his whispery voice sounded again.
“That cannot be.”
“The words have been spoken.” Katya nodded slowly. “I heard them myself. He is returning, oh King of Chaos. And soon.”
“Then the Shadow Clan must prepare.” The Dark One stood up, raising his arms to claw at the air with those sharp bony fingers. “We must prepare for War.”
THE END
Wychetts and the Farm of Fear Page 23