Legend of the Lost Read online

  They were here…

  At first she thought she had managed to confuse them as her fall had left her deep in the cradling fronds of a clump of ferns and tree roots.

  But then she heard the distinctive noise of something hound-like, sniffing at the air, filtering each tiny breeze for any trace of human scent.

  Trembling, she pulled the red robe close about her as if it were her father’s arms. Yet her blood froze as the hunched, dribbling abomination inched closer to where she was hiding, trying to stem her heavy breathing.

  As the second vile creature joined its fanged companion, she could barely stifle a scream, so bit down hard on what she realised was the golden clasp of the cloak.

  Just as she did this, both demon dogs snarled savagely and tore into the foliage where she lay.

  But what happened next took everyone by complete surprise, not least our raven-haired reluctant warrior.

  Holly suddenly experienced a sensation she later described as what she imagined spiders must feel when mistakenly sucked up the vacuum cleaner. She was somehow propelled backwards at a rapid rate of knots through blinding, rainbow-coloured light until, looking up, everything had changed.

  The shade was ethereal and sparklingly brighter. She could see everything in bold colour. The plants were suddenly huge but somehow still in perfect proportion as they were before.

  Everything was so much clearer, smelt rich and vibrant and fresh and, best of all, she was, yes, she was flying.

  Holly noticed that her cloak had now gone and had transformed itself into a pair of translucent wings, like the tangerine gelatine from packet jelly.

  The beasts were fast disappearing into the depths of the dark woods now, tails between their legs as if terrified of the glow her whole body seemed to be emitting.

  Instead, from everywhere, flying creatures were emerging to join her: ladybirds, lacewings, fireflies and bumblebees, seemingly smiling as they teased and tumbled about.

  “Hello, little ones!” Holly whispered in a relieved tone, but loudly. “Nothing to fear now; they’ve gone.”

  But then she remembered the last time she saw her companion and her thoughts changed from delight to dread in an instant.

  As Holly reached the edge of the forest clearing, she seemed to find her feet instinctively and by the time she broke from the cover of the trees she was walking again, cape blowing in the stiff breeze.

  She ran to the cliff side, then slowed tentatively as she reached the edge, half afraid of what she was likely to find.

  Looking down, however, there was nothing but the wild water crashing on the hungry rocks below.

  There were two dark, shaggy shapes in the water, which she took to be the monsters.

  But there was no sign of Savannah at all, just a group of gulls crying hauntingly in vain at the last breath of a very long and incredibly traumatic day.

  Book 2:

  The Willowand’s Alive

  Alice had never seen their hero like this before. Her blessing bow was broken and limp, she gripped her spear tightly, her face was soiled and her eyes were frozen with a wild fear.

  “We must reinforce the shielding spell now.

  They’re upon us.

  We’ve been betrayed.

  Move…!”

  Willow trees throb with an ancient magical power.

  Of all the trees that inhabit the forest, it is the tree most associated with water, the moon, the Nature Goddess and all that is feminine.

  But, like many of nature’s subjects, it also has a sinister, even malevolent side.

  It has dangerous associations with tragedy, with mischief arising from tricky things not being quite as they appear.

  The willow is the tree of dreaming, of intuition, of knowing things by instinct. It is the tree of deep emotions and magical sensations.

  It can heal and it can harm. The powers of the willow are considerable, but, like many things about the forest, the willow is mostly mysterious and not fully understood.

  Its powers are said to be at their greatest at the beginning of spring, when all life is stirring. For the willow often leads the way in rebirth, in giving life to new growth.

  Is it any surprise, therefore, that so many magical artefacts are fashioned from the boughs of such powerful trees?

  Or does it shock you to hear that it was in such an ancient tree, by a deep, dark pond into which its emerald leaves were reflected like a mirror, that on one bright moonlit night a baby was found by the faerie folk, hidden in its boughs?

  Deep in the forest was the second birthplace of this very special – some say magical – child.

  There, by the glade, next to the twinkling, crystal pool, in the most magical and mystical of places, was where the special child was discovered, giggling as butterflies and ladybirds tickled its toes and its nose.

  And it was deep in the darkest reaches of this forest that this special child was nurtured and taught the ways of nature by two households, and where it was destined to decide the fate of the child’s entire family, a family the child never guessed they had.

  Alice yawned and rubbed her eyes. The sweet birdsong that first caused her to stir was in full chorus, echoing gently around the glade.

  She glanced over towards Henry, her brother and best friend, and could tell by the smile on his face and the faint mumbling noises and sudden jerky movements that hinted of sleepy adventure, that he was still dreaming.

  Lifting the heavy, rainbow-patched eiderdown that was probably a bit much for this time of year, she did her best to slide out and into her raspberry fleece without waking anyone and slipped quietly outside.

  It was a little damp where the mist met the dew on the lush green grass. But dawn was already starting to chase the last of the dark night over the hills that cradled them in their ample, pink bosom.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” she thought to herself, as she did most days, except the drizzly ones, then she slipped on her yellow boots, chilly without socks, and headed for the glade.

  There were to be no forest school lessons with Mother today. So she was hoping for a glimpse of badger cubs returning late to their sett amongst the tangled and crazed roots of the great oak, or perhaps surprise the young rabbit family nibbling the first dew-soaked growth for breakfast.

  Alice picked her way carefully through the wild rose and bramble bushes, already alive with mini-bear-like bumbliebees.

  She picked up a hazel switch and used it as a sword to slice a path through the abundant cow parsley and could smell the crushed wild garlic as she hopped over the trickling stream to where the gypsy strawberries grow.

  Sometimes she would come across a deer and her fawn drinking the fresh hill water here. Neither ever seemed to notice her and she sat for what seemed like ages watching them, so comfortable together.

  But not today. There seemed to be no furry friends about today. In fact, she thought suddenly, as she left the simple path and pushed through the long ferns, taking care not to disturb the abundant red-and orange-capped toadstools that sometimes exploded with powdery seed, even the wood pigeons had stopped calling now.

  After another dozen steps, which she counted out in her head, the rich smell of lichen-infused damp leaf mulch competing for her attention, she arrived at what looked like a curtain of verdant, spear-shaped leaves. They were cool to the touch and almost seemed to shrink a little, shyly, when she moved to part them.

  Alice didn’t know what she was expecting as her eyes adjusted to the shade beneath the leaf canopy. But it certainly wasn’t the sight of a tiny home and the brittlest, most beautiful creature she had ever seen, fast asleep inside, cosy on a bed of fresh, jade-coloured moss.

  Wood nymphs are misunderstood.

  True, some like to think they are the very definition of sweetness and light we see in the films. You know, all smiles and soft voices, glitt
er and sparkles and such?

  But more often than not, they aren’t like that at all, at least not all of the time.

  In fact, some nymphs, like pixies or even goblins, but without the snot, of course, can be very, very mischievous indeed. They also have famous bad tempers if you get on the wrong side of them.

  And they really don’t like being woken up.

  Somehow, Alice suspected it would be a bad idea to disturb this tiny creature. They had lived in these ancient woods all her life and she had learned that it is best to let sleeping things lie, both the normal and the mystical ones.

  So she closed the leaf canopy carefully behind her and very, very carefully, retreated.

  But now that her eyes had become accustomed to the light, she noticed that she seemed to be surrounded by a village of little houses. Since she noticed them, she also couldn’t but notice that it wasn’t shadowy in this part of the forest at all. In fact, there seemed to be a gentle light kissing the shade away. It was just the sort of light she was used to at home when she left her pretty string of night light candles on, as she did most nights.

  It was fascinating to cast her eyes around the space.

  There was a tiny bench made from what looked like bark and, yes, some pretty white mushrooms conveniently arranged around it. Or perhaps the mushrooms had been there first. She couldn’t tell.

  On one side of what looked like a tiny street was a rainbow-coloured cottage. She peeped inside and hanging from the thorns of a perfumed wild tea rose was the most beautiful buttercup-yellow little tunic with embroidered slits, which must have been for a delicate pair of wings.

  A very handsome chest, encrusted with what looked like precious stones or jewels, glistened in the half-light, catching Alice’s eye.

  She knew she really shouldn’t, but, like a jar of forbidden sweets, she was drawn to it and before she could draw another breath she had very carefully opened the lid.

  To her surprise, there was a stick inside.

  But, before she could make up her mind what to think, a voice like someone gently shaking a glass bell tinkled very clearly in her ears, as if someone her own size was speaking.

  “Well, what do you think you’re up to, young lady?”

  And she knew at once that it was the previously sleeping nymph. She was presumably the owner of the house and the chest and now she was in trouble. So, faced with an impossibly embarrassing situation, Alice did the first thing that came into her mind and started to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t know anyone lived here, I’ve never been to this part of the forest and…” but she noticed that her mystical companion wasn’t looking at her any more.

  Her attention was captured and held by something at Alice’s feet.

  Alice’s heart skipped more than one beat when she looked down and saw it. It looked like a brown snake, twisting and swelling beneath her. It was coming for her, scarlet mouth agape.

  Then she screamed and she ran. Alice had run all the way back to their forest cabin and curled up in a ball on her patchwork quilt before the reality dawned about what she had actually just witnessed.

  Of course, the kerfuffle she created trying to get back into the cabin in such a hurry had woken Henry and Mother up. But, after reassuring them both that she was fine, which given Mother’s condition wasn’t the easiest of jobs, they eventually settled back down to sleep.

  Alice then lay there and stared at the patched holes in the wooden roof, images swirling through her mind and blurring into a whirl of glitter, laughter. “That voice,” she thought, and “what on earth was that disturbingly sinuous snake doing in that lovely box?”

  She couldn’t throw off the feelings of nagging guilt for having trespassed into that secret place uninvited. So she made a promise to herself that, this very evening, she would try to make her way back to apologise in person.

  The rest of the day dragged its feet after she had made up her mind. All the usual chores that she normally tolerated out of necessity, like cleaning out the chickens and washing the pots or sweeping the porch seemed particularly painful today.

  As a result, her brother was even less responsive than normal and spent most of the day reading while their poor mother sat sewing in her chair, singing quietly to herself, as she often did, even more distracted than normal.

  “Why can’t you concentrate, Alice?” she had said when she had burned the breakfast sausages. “You normally love cooking and now they’re ruined,” she complained. “It’s like you’ve been during your lessons this week, head right up in the clouds rather than in your science books. You’ve not been yourself. Anything you want to talk about?”

  But Alice simply smiled and made up for it all when she went out hedgerow-scrumping with Henry and they then made a delicious summer fruit crumble for dinner, bursting with early bramble berries and rhubarb.

  She then started the singing, after dinner, with one of her own compositions, Henry’s favourite, The Tale of Creepy Creek, strumming her dark blue guitar and wailing together:

  That creepy creek

  it comes a creep a creep creep creeping

  to take away the weak fore sunrise

  They sang as their own sun set between the oak trees, the leafy guardians who formed their cosy canopy.

  Later, when the trio had downed the sticky dregs of the last of their supply of cocoa and wild honeycomb, Mother and Henry headed to their beds.

  Alice, however, forced herself to stay awake, until eventually even the final stubborn candle flickered and sputtered, surrendering to the draw of the dark.

  All cautious thoughts somehow disappeared then and she slipped into the night once more and started to pick her way through the trees and bushes by the light of the moon and stars.

  All around her, nocturnal creatures were sniffing and snorting in their hunt for fruits and grubs.

  A hundred little eyes reflected the moonlight in the bushes and the bracken, like dim torches.

  Strangely comforted rather than perturbed by the noises, Alice worked her way, faultlessly, back to the willow tree canopy in the glade that they had never noticed before this morning.

  She retraced her steps easily, as if it were a path she had been drawn down many times before.

  A strange green glow lit up the glade as the little girl approached as quietly as she could manage.

  She could feel the thrilling sensation in her chest that comes from the promise of great fun, but with a tinge of something dangerous in store. It was that scary, dare, double dare sort of thing that grown-ups must somehow choose to bury deep inside or just let go of at some point.

  Alice didn’t have to wait for long for the fun to begin because, before she even reached the willow tree, she noticed that the curtain of leaves and branches had been parted, as if the tree itself were ushering her inside.

  “About time,” tinkled that crystal voice again. “You have some explaining to do, missy,” she said. And there, at her feet, lay the snake, seemingly frozen solid.

  As she got closer, Alice could see that the object, which was about two reasonably sized feet long, wasn’t in fact a snake. It was a piece of wood, sort of a few thin branches wound around each other. She also noticed that, while everything beneath the willow canopy seemed to emit light, it was giving off a very definite, low, emerald glow.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem very surprised to see me,” said Alice, her voice coming over a little more fiercely than intended, a trait often commented on by her mother when she was caught doing something she shouldn’t.

  “What a strange thing to say,” said the delicate little person in a voice like crystal stars tinkling together in a hot summer’s breeze. “But I’ve known you all your life, Alice.”

  And with that she reached down and offered her a tiny silver goblet and what looked like the tastiest honey biscui
t she had ever seen.

  “Remember these?” she asked, before taking a bite of her own and drinking from the vessel, encouraging Alice to do the same.

  And when she did, to her surprise Alice found that she could drink and drink the sweet liquid nectar. It tasted a bit like peaches, plums and pineapple juice, but lots fresher, if you can imagine that.

  The biscuit was also a lot larger in her mouth than out and, when it popped, it tasted of the most delicious nectar cream she could dream of.

  It was only then that Alice realised that part of the reason why her nymph companion wasn’t at all disturbed was that, somehow, they were now both exactly the same height, same shape and same size.

  This came as quite a shock to her.

  “Oh, here we go again,” said her new, or perhaps not so new, friend, noticing the shocked look on Alice’s face.

  Alice had to sit down when Sylvane or Sylvie had finished explaining, as she had done countless times before, it seemed, that they were actually very good or the very best of friends.

  They called her “the Changeling” because, for as many moon cycles as Sylvie could remember, her friend had appeared during the start of the crescent phase of the moon all empty-minded and confused.

  She then grew increasingly more confident and learned during the gibbous phase: waxing with enthusiasm and power to half-moon and then bursting with faerie zeal during full.

  But then the waning moon would come again as inevitably as the leaves colour and fall from the trees. So they would eventually have to start all over again when she reappeared, as she had done yesterday.

  As the nymph (or sprite, as they are also known) explained all of this as patiently as she could, pointing to her few possessions, her pretty little room and her buttercup-coloured coat on the same peg she had seen the night before, the rest of the village started to drift over, beaming with fond greetings.

  “Ah, merry new moon,” smiled a rather chubby, ruddy-faced fellow, sporting wings that looked like they would struggle to keep him airborne for long.

  “Oh, Nimbus,” Alice surprised herself by saying. “I’ve missed you,” she announced, hugging him as she spoke.