Behind the Sorcerer's Cloak Page 4

  Chantel’s eyes were enormous. “I get to do magic on my own?”

  “Especially you,” said Holly. “You were the first Magic Child. You were the first to hear Equus.”

  She stood up and stretched. “It’s odd. I’m terrified for Adam, and I know things are getting worse, but I have this feeling deep inside my heart that something’s changed and it’s going to work out.”

  Chantel leapt up and threw her arms around her cousin’s waist. “I love you, Holly Berry.” She reached out and grasped Owen’s hand. “You too.”

  Owen looked embarrassed, but he didn’t snatch his hand away. He returned a big squeeze.

  “Holly’s right,” continued Chantel. “Let’s stir up enough magic to beat the Dark Being and get Adam back.”

  As Holly and Owen left the patio to wake Chantel, Myrddin touched Mr. Smythe’s arm again. “We need a private talk, my friend.”

  “We certainly do,” agreed Mr. Smythe grimly.

  They stepped down into the garden out of earshot of the children.

  Mr. Smythe looked bitterly at Myrddin. “You and your magic,” he said.

  Myrddin did not meet his eyes.

  “This is hell. You must get Adam back without delay. He must be terrified. I am.” Mr. Smythe glared at Myrddin. “I’ve been entrusted with the children. And I trusted you. How can I explain Adam’s disappearance to his parents, and his aunt and uncle?” Mr. Smythe shook his finger. “Find Adam now. Only you can do it. And you must not put the other children in danger. I’m taking them home. You should never have involved children.”

  “We never intended to involve children,” said Myrddin. “They were the only humans who heard our messages. In your world, magic is almost gone. No adults hear us or believe in us. Even you have trouble believing what is happening.”

  Mr. Smythe dropped his eyes.

  “The children offered assistance of their own free will,” continued Myrddin. “It was their offer combined with their belief in the Old Magic and their innocence of the nature of darkness that enabled them to outwit the Dark Being and her supporters.”

  “Then they have played their part. Now it is too dangerous to continue,” Mr. Smythe said. His voice was stern. “The children could have been killed several times over. They were lucky. But not lucky enough. This time, Adam failed. He is lost, and Zorianna has your staff. It is over.”

  Myrddin shook his head and smiled. “No, my friend. Adam did not fail. Not only was he able to unlock the Earth Magic that bound the staff within the Tor, but by hanging onto Zorianna’s cloak he slowed her down. He gave Old Magic time to respond. The Mists of Time have been inactive for years. Now they are alive again, protecting Earth. They helped prevent Zorianna’s escape.

  “The sorcerer Manannan has confined Zorianna and she is unable to return to the Dark Being.” Myrddin clasped Mr. Smythe’s hands. “Adam gave us a victory, my friend. Zorianna and my staff are held in a place of safety, imprisoned by Earth Magic.” He smiled. “We will rescue Adam. Then the Magic Children have another chance to succeed.”

  “I’m taking them home,” repeated Mr. Smythe.

  “My dear Smythe, the Dark Being and her Shades are upon us. Gaia is on the verge of total annihilation. Don’t you realize what is happening? Wars are erupting in all parts of the world. No earthly superpower with armies and bombs can end these conflicts. They are fuelled by the Dark Being’s presence. However…” Myrddin peered under his bushy eyebrows at his friend. “However…Holly, Owen, and Chantel have the power to save both Adam and Gaia. Will you prevent them from doing that?”

  Mr. Smythe pulled his hands from Myrddin’s grasp. “The children are in my care,” he muttered. “I must protect them. I cannot allow them to face more danger.”

  “Yes, we must protect them. They are Adam’s and Gaia’s only hope,” repeated Myrddin.

  The two old men stared at each other.

  “We know we are Adam’s and Gaia’s only hope,” said a quiet voice. “We will carry on.”

  Myrddin and Mr. Smythe swung around.

  Holly stood above them, looking down over the edge of the patio. Owen and Chantel stood on her either side. All three children seemed to have grown in stature.

  “We know we are the only ones who can do Earth Magic,” said Holly gravely. “And you both know we cannot go home without Adam. We will continue to help you, Myrddin.” She smiled at Mr. Smythe. “Thank you for trying to protect us, Mr. Smythe. But you must understand. There is no one else.”

  “Yup. We have to get Adam back, and if we don’t help Gaia, we’re all goners anyway,” said Owen. His bluntness made Mr. Smythe cringe.

  “The Wise Ones’ light will help and protect us,” said Chantel. Conviction rang though her words, and her eyes sparked with fervor.

  “You must both help us, for we have no other choice. Let’s conquer the Dark Being. Then we can all go home.” Owen put his arm around Chantel and gave her a squeeze. “And we’ll think of a way to fix your mom,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, Magic Children.” Myrddin bowed regally to them.

  The three children bowed awkwardly back.

  Mr. Smythe threw up his hands.

  “There is no time to waste,” said Myrddin, as everyone gathered in the dining room. “We must re-enter the portal on Glastonbury Tor. The Mists have deposited Zorianna within the magic realm of Mann, the most mysterious part of Gaia, an island known to you humans as The Isle of Man. Her arrival there was no accident, for on that island the fourth Wise One sleeps. We will travel there.”

  Holly gasped. “To the Lady!”

  “Yes, Holly. We will go to Mann, retrieve my staff from Zorianna and wake the Lady. She will have the power to save Adam.”

  Holly gave a little sigh of satisfaction. “So it is my turn to help.”

  “This magical island,” interrupted Mr. Smythe. “Can it only be reached through the portal?” He struggled for the right words. “I mean…is it the magic realm you go to…or the real island? I ask because I know the Isle of Man.”

  Myrddin nodded. “It is both. Isle of Man is an earthly place. But like the Tor, it exists in magic realms at the same time. People live there, but most are unaware of the depths of its magic.”

  “So why go through the portal?” said Mr. Smythe. “Why not travel as normal people?”

  “Time,” replied Myrddin. “Magic is fast. We must be there and back in time for you to take the children home.”

  Mr. Smythe smiled. “For once I am ahead of you, Myrddin. While you were in the Mists of Time, I asked Holly and Owen’s mother if we could stay a couple of extra days…to give you time to find Adam.”

  Myrddin’s face lit up. “Despite all your misgivings, you are still my friend. Thank you for your support.”

  “Not so fast. Not so fast, Myrddin,” Mr. Smythe said. “You want my involvement? You have it. The children and I will come with you…” He held up his hand to quell the response. “But listen to my terms. Magic must be kept to the minimum. No more dashing through dangerous portals. I’ll take you. Have you forgotten I’m a pilot? I’ll hire a plane. We’ll fly.”

  The childrens eyes sparkled.

  “That’s going to keep him busy for a while,” whispered Holly. “Earth Magic, here we come.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ________________________________

  A BROKEN THREAD

  Holly shoved the last items into her backpack ready for the trip to Isle of Man, then crept out to the garden and sat behind a rose bush. She timed it for when she could hear Owen and Chantel making plans with Myrddin, and the drone of Mr. Smythe’s voice as he phoned about the plane.

  It was time to do what she had urged Owen and Chantel to do, time to try working magic for herself. If the Lady wasn’t contacting her, she would try to contact the Lady.

  Holly organized several objects in front of her, a small glass of water, a tea light and some matches. She lit the tea light, picked a fragrant rose from the bush beside her and held i
t while she thought. She needed to speak directly to the Lady, the same way Arto had during their adventure in the heart of the Tor. If she did it right, maybe the Lady would speak back.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Dear Lady, please hear me. I think something is wrong because we need you, and you’re not awake.

  “I kneel on the earth with the elements of fire and water.” She picked up the rose and wafted it gently. “I fill the air with perfume for you. Please wake up.

  “If you cannot wake, please send me a dream. Show me how to help you.”

  Holly crossed her legs and laid her hands on her knees, palms up in the classic yoga position, and closed her eyes.

  “I’m listening, Lady…Please talk to me.”

  A light breeze carried the scent of roses all around her. She breathed deeply. She could also smell wet earth and the sweet honey aroma of heather, mixed with a tang of salt. The breeze must be blowing inland from the coast. The city sounds of traffic died away, and the air filled with the cry of gulls…

  Holly’s eyes snapped open. The breeze had become a chilly wind from the sea. Myrddin’s garden was gone. She was ankle deep in prickly heather at the base of a tall round tower rising from the center of a rocky islet. Gulls wheeled above, and she could hear waves breaking close by.

  Holly crept along the tower’s base, hugging its walls and peering carefully around their curve in case someone—or something—dangerous was hidden on the other side. The tower was very odd. It seemed to have no entrance.

  A raven croaked.

  AARCK.

  Holly looked up.

  The raven was perched on the sill of a narrow slit, one of several small windows at the top of the tower.

  Windows were to give light, so there must be a room up there. And there was the door, but it was useless. It opened high above her head, halfway up the side of the tower. No steps led to it.

  Holly shook her head. It was clear she wasn’t on this windy wet islet to go inside the tower.

  The islet was tiny. From the base of the tower she could see the shoreline. The islet lay not far from land, between a river estuary and a wide sandy bay.

  The tide was out, and for the moment an exposed sandbank joined the islet to a headland. Across the sandbank was a trail of footprints.

  Holly crept farther around the tower and froze.

  On the rock-strewn slope below her stood the group of people who must have made the footprints. Some were young, some old. All seemed distressed. They’d gathered around a depression in the ground.

  Not sure if she was in a trance, dreaming, or somehow really there, Holly didn’t approach in case she could be seen. She huddled by the tower and watched.

  The women pulled woolen shawls over their heads and shoulders, and began to keen in high thin voices. The children, hanging onto their mother’s skirts, covered their ears and buried their heads in the heavy fabric.

  The men, most dressed in woolen tunics with sheepskins around their shoulders, stood by, still and silent.

  No one seemed aware of Holly, and she was too far away to see what they were looking at.

  Step by careful step, Holly inched her way down the uneven slope until she could peep between two young people. She stiffened and covered her mouth to silence a gasp.

  She was witnessing a burial.

  A dead woman, swathed in a hooded cloak of brown woven wool, lay in a shallow grave lined with rock slabs. Her face was uncovered.

  Holly’s eyes slid away. She had never seen a dead body before.

  No. She must look. This was why she was here. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Holly made herself watch.

  The body wasn’t really scary. The woman looked as though she was sleeping, only more still. In fact she was beautiful, not like a film star, but with an ageless beauty, seeming neither young nor old. Her skin was as white and waxen as a magnolia blossom.

  “Ah, Breesha, Breesha, I miss thy friendship and wise counsel.” A woman with two small children stepped forward and scattered a handful of wild flowers and fragrant herbs over the body.

  Holly smelled wild garlic, mint, rosemary and roses.

  “May these herbs protect thee and ease thy journey into the mist, as thy medicines and spells eased our lives.”

  A second woman came forward. She held out a small cloth bag. “Many’s the time thou baked our bread, Breesha. I thank thee and give thee flour for thy journey.” She knelt and tucked the bag into the folds of the cloak.

  “And I give thee seeds thou loved in a bag of thy garden’s soil. Use them in next spring’s planting in thy new world beyond the mist.” A third woman dropped a tiny leather bag beside the body.

  “I give thee a jug of the sacred water from Spooyt Vane to refresh you,” said a soft voice, as a young woman, barely out of her teens, placed a sealed water pot in the crook of Breesha’s arm.

  One by one, other members of the group stepped forward with gifts. Needles, shears, a workbox, a knife, a pestle and mortar, and a flint and some feathers were placed in the grave.

  Finally everyone returned to the circle and waited.

  Holly’s eyes prickled with tears. The woman was someone who was loved and respected. She must also have used magic, for elements of earth, air, fire and water had been given to her.

  A tall husky man took his place at the head of Breesha’s grave. He was the odd one out. Instead of being short and stocky with dark hair and eyes, this man’s red hair flamed and he towered over everyone. He held a long metal rod in his hand.

  “We named you Breesha, a name from Mann,” he said, “for you traveled nameless from the Mists of Time to our settlement. You brought wisdom and peace. You kept my hearth fire, became my helpmate and mother of my children. You showed us all how people from two lands could live together in peace.”

  The people around the grave nodded.

  Holly realized the man was a different race from the other adults. She stared around the group. It was clear some of the children were a mix of both races. While most were short and dark haired, several sported the red hair or tall stature of the man.

  The red-haired man looked down sadly.

  “Now your spirit travels back into the Mists from whence you came, Breesha. We wish you well and give you everything needed to comfort your journey, and earth, air, fire and water to protect you.

  “When you came to Mann, great magic came with you. So we bury you in a magic place surrounded by water, as you requested. We give you back the metal staff you wielded, the sign of a sorceress.” The man knelt, parted the cloak and tucked the rod beside the woman’s body.

  “Wait,” came a cry. “Where is Breesha’s necklace?”

  The woman who had scattered herbs and flowers over the body pointed to where the cloak had fallen open at the neck, exposing Breesha’s chest.

  A buzz of consternation ran around the group.

  The man leapt to his feet and turned to glare at a woman on the opposite side of the grave. “Mona, you washed and dressed Breesha’s body.”

  The woman named Mona held her own dark cloak tightly clasped to her chin. Her eyes met his defiantly.

  A raven broke the silence.

  AARCK. AARCK.

  The cry galvanized the man to action.

  He strode over and roughly twisted the woolen fabric from Mona’s fingers. He ripped her tunic at the neck and thrust her forward so all could see.

  A fabulous necklace of polished stones and glass spilled out and swung down against her upper body. Every bead was a different color and size. Some were colored glass, some were polished stones. Holly glimpsed beads of gold, of red, malachite, silver, and turquoise, and a large amber disk hanging from the center.

  Mona’s fingers closed desperately over the necklace. She bunched the beads up into her palms and clutched them against her chest. “Bury not the beads with Breesha. They carry too much magic. The necklace should pass to me. I carry the spell bundle and have the healing skills. I am the next sorceress. Br
eesha chose me.” Her voice rose to a shriek.

  The man’s eyes flashed, and the woman cowered. She froze as he stepped forward, pried apart her fingers and lifted the necklace over her head.

  Mona quivered, though whether with rage or fright Holly couldn’t tell.

  The man returned to the body. He knelt, gently lifted Breesha’s head and slipped the necklace around her neck.

  “Thou dost right, Sigurd. The necklace came with Breesha. It never left her neck in life. She must keep it in death,” said a voice from the crowd.

  “Thou dost not understand,” cried Mona. She ran forward and grabbed Sigurd’s arm. “Stay thy hand.” She glared around at the group. “The necklace has a magic more powerful than anything we own. Think before thou forfeit it so easily. ’Twas Breesha’s magic that saved us from deadly illness and starvation.”

  “Breesha’s magic was her own. Some she chose to share with you, Mona. She gave you her spell bundle, and you learned many of her skills. Be content and do not desecrate her memory,” said the red-haired man harshly. “The necklace came from the mist with Breesha. Breesha requested it accompany her return.” He pushed Mona away.

  She stumbled, lost her balance and sprawled across the body. Her hand caught in the loop of the necklace.

  The necklace snapped.

  Beads scattered.

  Everyone gasped. A terrible silence fell.

  Mona raised herself up on her arms and looked down in horror at Breesha’s body.

  Hands grabbed her, pulling back on her shoulders, dragging her from the grave.

  Mona shook herself free, adjusted her cloak and stared defiantly at the mourners. “That was not my doing.”

  All dropped their eyes.

  “Thou wilt regret this,” she spat and ran swiftly down the narrow track, between the rocks and heather, her cloak ends flapping like black wings.