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Laura Hart

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The Toy Sorcerer - Synopsis Trapped as a mortal in a dimension where human dreams become reality, Alice Towers endures a journey of unmerciful persecution and excruciating self-discovery. Guided by an extraordinary realm creature named Shammerwack, she must find Magog; a boy imprisoned for over three centuries who holds the key to her release. Unaware that her incarceration heralds the dawn of the Final Prophecy; Armageddon, Alice is pursued by an ancient being that plagues humanity with relentless nightmares, until the world hovers on the brink of insanity and self-annihilation. Alice’s only earthbound ally, Leona, is also an antediluvian soul who has lived and reincarnated as a human for thousands of years. As one of the Ancient Coven and practitioner of the old knowledge, Leona summons shadows to protect Alice’s slumbering body and Magog’s timeworn effigy. But Leona’s maleficent sister, Lillian, another of the ancients, is equally as determined to capture Alice; the vessel by which the Demon Lord of the Realms intends to escape the confines of his nebulous world. A bloody battle ensues on Earth as Lillian’s underworld demons and Leona’s defensive forces tear lives apart, whilst an increasingly insane world creeps inexorably closer to the Final Prophecy.

Searchable Keywords

Young Adult, Contemporary, Fantasy Fiction

Specialties or Categories of Interest

Fiction Writing

Excerpts from Reviews or References

The Toy Sorcerer is beautifully crafted; witty, sinister, tragic, and superbly engaging from the first word. Wonderful characters weave through a maze of twists, turns, and brain teasers to keep you guessing throughout. A stunning opening to the trilogy. I simply adore this book! Bring on book two, ‘The Final Prophecy’. --Susan Mary Malone. Bookideas.com This is a charming tale for readers of all ages. A very impressive debut for Laura Hart; I encourage everyone to pick up The Toy Sorcerer - may it captivate and leave you anticipating the next in the series as it did for me.

From The Book

The Toy Sorcerer

Part One

The Warming

Chapter One

The ancient shadows stirred: the scent of freedom had begun to penetrate the crumbling sorcery that had held them for so long. As they sloughed off an eternity of enforced slumber their anger began to swell. The heat of it spread slowly at first, creeping through the earth like viscous jelly gaining speed and liquidity as the fury grew. Once free, the heat of the dark shadows’ rage spread quickly, reaching out to the malevolent souls who would recognise it and seek to liberate them.

The animals felt it first. The unaccustomed sensation -- and yet instinctively familiar -- unnerved them. A distant memory stirred, something learned and passed on from generations ago. This heat was a bad thing; an ancient and wicked thing. And it was just the beginning.

“Scream, Alice, scream,” the beast urged as Alice stumbled and staggered through sticky mire. “It’s close behind you and gaining,” the dream demon warned, prompting her to shriek.

The forest was swallowing her; flanking like a pack of wolves, forcing her closer and closer to oblivion. The eyes would appear soon, glaring at her, blaming her, despising her. The beast drove her on, pressing her along an all too familiar path.

The game would be over soon. Alice was close to the gate, but the demon slavered with pernicious glee as it meted out her torment; savouring each epicurean moment of her terror.

The door appeared in the clearing up ahead; an obsidian monolith writhing with the amorphous faces of a thousand captive horrors. Her pursuer’s breath roared in her soul. So close she could almost taste the foetid stench of it. The demon. The door. The

demon. The door. The rhythmic thundering of fatal choices. Only insanity could save her now.

Madness manifests in myriad form.

The demon. The door. The demon. The door.

Powerful muscles flexed and bunched beneath her. Thundering hooves pounded out a new rhythm of choice. Alice opened her eyes and grabbed a handful of mane. Her valiant rescuer tossed his head. A livid flare of nostrils. A fiery glint in black eyes. He snorted and powered away from the beast behind. The horse veered away from the dreadful portal and galloped into the darkness. The beast of her nightmare bellowed its anger as she sped out of its reach.

The Gate swallowed her up.

All but a desperate breath remained of her screams as Alice passed back to wakefulness, her eyes bulging with terror, mind grasping for reality. Had she escaped the nightmare? She was never sure. Her heart still pounded to the rhythm of galloping hooves. The earthly scent of her mother’s lavender sleep pillow tugged gently at the sleeve of her fractured senses and the tension stiffening her slight frame released its grip. This was merely the dark hour before dawn and not the blackness of the forest that held her.

She flicked the switch on her bedside lamp and a welcome pool of diffused yellow light drove away the last of the night demons. The livid scar crossing from left to right across her shins itched like crazy and although she’d been told to resist the urge, she scratched furiously at it. The doctors said that the wound would heal to a bruised bluey grey in time, but would never completely disappear. She didn’t care, but they’d insisted she had counselling to help her deal with the psychological effects of the . . . crash. Counselling! Hah! Weeks of being harassed by a sickly sycophant who never stopped trying to make her talk about . . . it. That’s what said they wanted to do. ‘Help her let go of the pain’. Make her cry in other words. As though she didn’t cry enough as it was. How could she possibly ‘let go’ of this pain! How could they possibly have any idea!

Alice covered her legs and stared at the ceiling, identifying and counting the animals and other objects she’d created in the random Artex plasterwork. She knew every inch of her bedroom ceiling; it had distracted her from dwelling on unpleasant thoughts a thousand times. But this night was the last she’d spend under her canopy of imaginary creatures, for tomorrow she and her father were leaving the concrete and congestion of London and heading for the green pastures and serenity of the North Devon countryside. Alice had been looking forward to the move for months, but now that the day had arrived its imminence prompted a deluge of memories and an unmerciful agony gripped her, squeezing an already broken heart.

42 Jay Crescent had been the family home all her life; stuffed with fourteen years of memories, none of which she ever wanted to forget; good or bad. To forget one moment of her mother’s or brother’s lives would be to betray them. And yet, everywhere she looked were constant reminders that they were never coming home again; her mother’s unfinished sewing in a bag by the machine, Tommy’s school books still irreverently stuffed on the book shelves. Little things, insignificant details like the stain on the sitting-room carpet where Tom had spilled blackcurrant squash years ago and tried to hide it rather than own up. By the time they found it the stain was there to stay and now proved a source of torment and despair. A memory so trivial and yet so clear it cut like a razor through Alice’s heart. Neither she nor her father could bear to continue living with the constant pain of such recollections littered about the house, snapping at them like bear traps.

Alice reached under her pillow and pulled out the dog-eared copy of estate agents details she’d kept since they first went to see Sunday Cottage. It wasn’t exactly the idyllic picture postcard she’d always imagined. The tatty little house was in desperate need of attention, but had enormous potential. And if one had the vision to see beyond the flaking paint, saggy roof, and bramble-choked garden, it was rustic perfection.

Her mother would have loved it, would have spent hours choosing pretty materials to make curtains and bed throws. And Tom, how he would have enjoyed hacking his way through the overgrown garden pretending he was in some X Box war game.

Alice chastised herself for including them in her vision; she’d broken her own rule. But too late, the images persisted and squeezed her heart, forcing the well of tears to rise to the surface. She rolled over and stuffed the corner of a pillow into her mouth. Mustn’t disturb Dad again tonight. He was exhausted. And she’d promised herself that today she had to be strong.

Chapter Two

The long summer had been unusually hot. Even in late September when normally one would expect the mornings to be a little cooler and crisper, the temperature still reached the eighties by nine a.m. Leona Heggarty strode purposefully down Bramble Hill, past Ley Fields Farm and Sunday Cottage then turned left onto the grassy footpath leading to the winding stream at the bottom of the steep slope. She wore her wide-brimmed straw hat as usual, her sensible black lace-up walking brogues and her favourite pure cotton, floral print dress. Still quite remarkably stunning despite her years, Leona could quite easily pass for a sprightly sixty-five despite being very nearly eighty. Her hair was still extra-ordinarily black with only a feint veil of grey peppering the surface and her cobalt blue eyes sparkled with a youthful glow that defied the rigours of time.

Black Jack, her Jack Russell terrier, scampered ahead snuffling under hedges looking for rabbits, hoping they might break the habit of a lifetime and pass the time of day instead of scuttling down their warrens and cowering until he’d passed. Black Jack didn’t have the killer instinct for which his particular breed was famous. He was prepared to be friends with anything or anyone who’d pass the time of day. But then, Black Jack had been many creatures throughout his many lives and a vestige of all remained.

They reached a narrow footbridge and crossed the sparkling little stream to a shady clearing. Leona sat on the smooth barkless trunk of a fallen oak and rested her chin on the handle of her walking stick.

“Good morning to you, Priestess, Black Jack. Mighty hot for the time of year, don’t you agree?” a rich dark voice said from within a thicket.

Leona nodded and blotted her forehead with a large green spotted handkerchief. “Good morning, Herne . . . Do you sense it too?”

A faint chewing sounded before the voice answered, “It’s in the air, Priestess, no doubt about it.”

“Hmmm,” Leona said. “How’s your leg this morning by the way?”

Leaves rustled and dry twigs snapped as the stag emerged from the dense undergrowth. “Very much better thank you, Priestess. That lineament of yours worked a treat.” He held up his left foreleg for Leona to inspect.

“Oh yes, that is better.” She smiled and patted the stags shoulder. “Much better.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Priestess. Thought I was finished for sure this time.”

Leona huffed irritably. “Bill Thorpe is such a careless man; leaving rolls of barbed wire lying about willy-nilly. Barbed-wire fences are an abomination in any case, especially when they replace ancient hedgerows.” She tutted with gusto and sighed wearily. “How long will it be before humankind realises that nature is and always will be, wiser than they are? How are we meant to maintain terrestrial and spiritual harmony in a world full of beings that no longer care?”

The majestic chestnut-coated stag nodded and chewed on the thought for a while. “The Warming has begun again.” he said in a deep whisper.

Leona shook her head slowly and her brow furrowed with ancient worry lines. “It’s not as though we weren’t expecting it. In fact I expected it a lot sooner. There are only a few months left before the Final Prophesy must begin.”

The stag stepped closer to the fallen oak and nibbled the brambles creeping around its exposed roots. “The badgers are getting agitated too,” he said, as he deftly plucked the ripe blackberries from the thorny shoots. “Azelrod says the cete is being terrorised by weasels. He’s worried about his grandchildren. Do you think they’re under orders? The weasels I mean.”

Leona harrumphed dryly. “Weasels of all species are under orders, Herne, believe me.” She rose and ran her pale hand over the stag’s nose. “Try and keep the forest calm, old boy, we need level heads, not buried ones. Come on, Black Jack, time we were off home.”

Black Jack sat in a patch of wild geraniums enjoying the cool shade. A red admiral perched on the tip of his nose. His eyes looked as if they’d crossed right over and swapped places.

“No time for chit chat, Black Jack. Say goodbye to the gentleman, we’ve got things to do.” The butterfly settled atop the stag’s princely antlers and Black Jack trotted dutifully across the footbridge.

Leona lagged behind a way; she needed a little time to think before answering questions and making decisions. A truly loyal companion, Black Jack was getting on in years in this life and if her hunch were correct, both of them would need to regenerate in order to cope with the rigours of the task ahead. Regeneration was something she’d managed to avoid throughout the last few incarnations. In order to maintain her disguise in a tight-knit community like Sampford Parva, she had to age normally -- Black Jack too. Though, the temptation to cast off the aches and pains of old age had tempted her on more than one occasion.

Five hot, sticky hours after they’d left Jay Crescent, Michael and Alice Towers reached Sunday Cottage. All Alice really wanted to do was flake out, but no chance of that, especially since the beds were at the back of the lorry. She rummaged about in the packing cases for the kettle and tea things. The removals men had that, ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ expression on their faces. Dad hadn’t packed very well. He wasn’t the organised type. Loads of things were bound to be broken. If Mum had done it -- with Alice’s help of course -- everything would have been neatly packaged and labelled. At last she discovered the kettle under a pile of crumpled sheets in the carton marked, ‘Bedroom things.’ But could she find the tea bags and sugar? Could she heck. She was just about to start checking through all the boxes again when something whizzed past her legs and scuttled into the kitchen.

“Did you see that?” she exclaimed.

Michael was helping the removals men try to persuade the settee through the front door. “See what?”

“Something just ran past my . . .”

A little black and tan terrier popped his head round the kitchen door, yipped at her and wagged his tail. Alice beamed with delight. “Hello! Where do you come from then?” The terrier scurried over and rolled onto his back, begging for a tummy rub. Alice perched on the edge of a packing case and obliged him heartily.

Michael pulled and the removals men heaved once more and the settee finally surrendered, bursting through the doorway like a padded battering ram. “Phew! I was beginning to think that was going to be stuck there forever. Definitely time for a cup of tea, I think, Alice.”

The removals men murmured in agreement and wiped perspiration from their necks as though to accentuate their need for liquid replenishment.

“I’d have it made by now if I could find the . . . ah, here are the mugs . . . in the box marked washing powder, etc. Dad, really! I can’t find the tea bags anywhere, though.”

Michael ran blistered fingers through dark blonde curls and heaved a weary sigh. “I’m positive I put them in one of the boxes, tea’s a priority after all.”

The little dog trotted into the kitchen and re-emerged carrying a brown paper bag. He stood on his hind legs and offered it to Alice.

“What’s this then, eh? Hey, look! Dad, there’s some tea bags, sugar, a carton of milk, and a bag of home-made biscuits. It must have been ever so heavy for such a little dog . . . oh, and there’s a note.” Alice admired the beautiful handwriting for a second before actually reading it aloud. “It says, ‘Welcome to Bramble Hill. This is Black Jack. We live just down the lane at Beltain Cottage. Perhaps we may introduce ourselves formally when you are settled. Best wishes, Leona Heggarty.’ Isn’t that sweet?”

Alice was mightily impressed with the gesture, especially in its brilliant delivery. Black Jack yipped again and she ruffled his ears. “Thank you, Black Jack, it’s just what we needed. How clever of you and Mrs. Heggarty.” Black Jack lolled a hot-pink tongue and licked her hand, then trotted out the front door.

That evening, after unpacking most of the boxes, Alice and her father took a stroll round the garden. Michael wore a pair of khaki shorts and a white ‘T’ shirt sporting the word, ‘Cybergeek’ in large 3D letters -- a birthday gift from Alice. He carried a length of broken branch, swiping at the undergrowth as they walked. “I know it’s not as picturesque as we’d hoped, but it will be, believe me.”

His voice was tinged with apology, but Alice had no trouble believing him, no trouble at all. In her mind’s eye she could see the cottage fully restored, envisioning every last detail. But standing there, seeing it in the flesh so to speak, reality clouded her rose-tinted vision. The slate roof sagged ever so slightly, the whitewash had mostly flaked away and a furry carpet of brown-green moss crept up the north-facing gable end. The interior was like something out of a very shabby time capsule. ‘A wealth of original features are retained in this delightful little hideaway . . .’ the agent’s details boasted. The truth was somewhat less inspiring. The floors were creaky at best, rotten through in places. The heating was limited to a double-sided open fireplace and an ancient cast-iron range in the kitchen. The bathroom consisted of an old-fashioned chain pull toilet, a bath that resembled an oversized loaf tin and an enormous butler sink almost as big as the bath. The exposed beams were festooned with cobwebs, which suggested the house featured its original spider population too. Nevertheless, Alice knew from the moment she first laid eyes on Sunday Cottage she was meant to live there. It seemed to whisper to her, “Look no further, this is the place of your dreams.”

Dad must have heard it too because he made a handshake offer straight away -- after gaining Alice’s approval, naturally.

Michael Towers strode ahead, hacking at the forest of tall weeds and brambles with his stick whilst Alice sailed along behind him using her crutches like vaulting poles, digging them into the ground and swinging her legs across the rough terrain. They stopped for a breather and surveyed the wilderness that was their back garden. The lawn was mostly smothered in a tangle of bramble and weed. The fruit trees needed trimming and the few shrubs and cultivated plants had grown leggy and weak in their attempt to breach the undergrowth for a glimpse of sunlight.

Michael licked a trickle of blood oozing from a nick on his little finger. “It’s going to be hard work, but there’s plenty of time to get the priority stuff done before winter sets in. I’ll get started on Monday,” he said, scanning the roof. “Where to start though, that’s the question?”

Alice’s heart slumped into her stomach. She looked down at her disobedient limbs and cursed them silently.

Deep frown lines creased Michael’s glistening brow. “Sweetpea? Sweetpea, what’s the matter?”

Alice sighed heavily. “Oh, it’s nothing . . . I just wish I was able to help you, that’s all.”

“But of course you’re going to help me! It won’t get done without you. It’s up to you to choose all the paint, wallpaper, curtains, carpets, et cetera, and to make sure I finish a job once I’ve started it. You know me. If I don’t have you to keep a watchful eye on me everything will end up half-cooked!” He winked and Alice grinned back. Dad did have a tendency to get bored with a task halfway done and move onto something else entirely. The jobs always got finished eventually though -- Mum used to make sure of it.

Alice puckered her lips and planted a big kiss on his cheek. “We’re going to be really happy here, Dad. I can feel it, can you?”

Her father was sniffing the air, a little like a hound trying to locate the scent of its quarry.

“Do you smell it?’ He asked, sniffing harder. “Honeysuckle. It’s so sweet you can almost taste it. Glorious. Only, I don’t see any, unless it’s buried under all this weed somewhere.” He parted the brambles with his stick and uncovered a cluster of lemon yellow flowers.

The heady perfume rose to greet her and Alice drew it in. “Yes. Yes I can. It’s lovely. There, just a few flowers, but so sweet and strong!”

Michael kissed Alice’s hair. “Just like my little girl.” He said, smiling, though his eyes were filled with sadness. He swallowed hard and gazed at the tenacious cluster of yellow. “Honeysuckle was one of your mother’s favourites.” He took another deep breath and his hazel eyes fluttered shut.

How gaunt his once rotund cheeks had become. And how sickly the pallor of his complexion. He’d aged so much in the last few months. He was still the same kind, loving, gentle, man he’d always been. But his erstwhile, seemingly boundless vigour and zest for life had bled away.

Alice swallowed down the lump in her throat and wrapped her arms around his middle. Nestling her head into his chest, she whispered, “I love you madly, Dad. Forever and ever.”

Chapter Three

The moon hovered in the gloaming, impatiently awaiting the idle descent of the sun, whilst the sinuous finger-tips of silver birch crept in black tendrils across saffron-tinted pasture. Nightfall was just a whisper away.

Leona knelt at an altar bearing a circle of five tiny white candles. Before them, lay a small ornately carved ebony casket, exquisitely decorated with leaves of gold and glistening gemstones. Gazing at the full moon, she meditated in silence.

The last century or so had been relatively peaceful for Wiccans; the burning times long gone. The worst thing witches suffered these days was public ridicule. After the terrible persecution they’d had to bear, ridicule was a stroll in the park. Of course a few vociferous radicals were still around, but too few to cause any concern. Christianity had lost the potency of its former burn’em and hang’em years and faded into quaint, politically correct oblivion, whilst its younger rival for the Godspot, Islam, was far too busy flexing its muscles in other directions to prioritise its own witch killing policy.

The local churchman, The Right Reverend Oswald Molly, rotund and cheerful, was a man who genuinely adored his little parish and its people. Although, according to Valerie Anker -- one of Leona’s midwifery patients, who lived next door to the church -- Reverend Molly had recently confined himself to the vicarage suffering a severe attack of gout, no doubt due to an over-fondness for his parishioners’ cake-baking and brewing skills.

The Reverend’s fifteenth century edifice, St Michael’s, was built upon an ancient pagan site, the Pan ring, where the horned God made merry at the summer solstice. Leona doubted that anyone but she remembered the existence of the stones anymore. The church itself had fallen into lamentable disrepair; its foundations cracking as the clay soil upon which it stood dried out and shifted; even more so this past blistering hot summer. The locals did their best to raise funds for repairs, but the paltry few pounds mustered from fetes and sponsored dog walks was poorly insufficient and only managed to pay for some scaffold and temporary shoring of the crumbling walls. Even the diocese refused the Reverend’s passionate pleas for financial assistance. The church was as doomed as the irrelevant theology it represented.

Leona’s thoughts flowed back through the ages to a time before patriarchal monotheism engulfed the world, a time when every community prized its wise woman and treated her with respect. But the new religion swept the globe, systematically decimating the Pagan way of life. The patriarchy outlawed polytheism and enlisted merciless bigots to hunt down and slaughter the ‘heretics’ with impunity. The most-recent campaign lasted nearly four centuries. Thousands of innocents were tortured, burned at the stake, stoned to death, drowned, or disembowelled, until barely a man, woman, or child didn’t live in abject terror of the megalomaniacal crusade. Consequentially, the old knowledge was forced underground by an over-zealous, intolerant new age.

The Coven of Immortal Souls survived and taught the old ways in secret, but they were scattered around the globe trying to keep the old ways alive. Despite one of the longest and most brutal campaigns against any creed, the Wiccans survived. They had to. If the old knowledge was lost there could be no resurgence in the Aquarian age -- the new millennium -- and that was preordained millennia past.

The memories of twelve thousand years jostled for position in Leona’s mind; some so terrible they still made her flesh creep. She suddenly felt so dreadfully tired of it all. Humans were such stupid creatures; ignoring their history or choosing to reinterpret it to suit new ends. A species guilty of such consummate arrogance and treachery they denied the instincts with which they were born. Some had become an abomination not worthy of a God; even one of their own making. Sometimes she simply wanted to wash her hands of them, but that would mean admitting defeat. And she’d never been prepared to do that. Even when the odds were stacked so high they seemed insurmountable, the Coven remained steadfast. They’d sworn an oath of eternal allegiance to the Ancient Ones and that included suffering the consequences for as long as it took to guide humanity back to the right path.

The New Age was burgeoning; but how would it begin?

The image of her devoted apprentice, Magog, suddenly shone brightly in Leona’s mind, begging her to protect him from the wrath of Belial’s Priestess. Such a brave young man and so loyal. He didn’t deserve what she had to do, but she’d had no choice. Still, now at least there was a chance his ordeal may soon be over. If Magog hadn’t given up all hope of ever finding his Champion -- if he was still searching -- he’d find Alice as easily as though she were a shaft of light in a dark room. But he would have to find her soon. The Warming was just the beginning. The Herald of Eternal Darkness. And Belial’s Priestess would have already begun to prepare for Armageddon.

Leona let the memory fade back into the past where it belonged, but the image of her former incarnation persisted, staggering through the woods with Magog’s effigy tucked under her arm, searching for a safe place to hide it before her soul left her battered body.

“Leave me,” she demanded. “You belong in the past. I have work to do!” She glanced over at Black Jack dozing on the back doorstep. He hadn’t been disturbed by her unintended outburst. Good. He could sleep a while longer.

She took a tiny golden key from the pocket of her cloak, placed it in the ornate clasp and unlocked the casket. Reverently, she lifted the lid and removed her athame. One side of the dagger’s hilt bore a symbol of birth and rebirth; a magnificent tree bearing a rich bounty of fruits, its trunk and branches set in flawless blue white diamonds, its fruit in apple green emeralds, cherry red rubies and the swirling rainbow hues of teardrop opals. The other side of the hilt bore a symbol of death, his hooded cloak set in a swathe of midnight blue sapphires and his scythe a glistening curve of steely marcasite dripping with blood rubies.

Leona raised up the ritual dagger and the pure white light of the full moon flashed in its gleaming silver blade. She began the ritual by drawing a pentagram over the face of the moon, invoking the power of the ancient deities. With her athame, she linked the names of the ancient gods to the points of the sacred pentagram.

“I, Leona, am Diana incarnate, Goddess of the waxing moon, the nurturer. I, Leona, am Selene incarnate, Goddess of the full moon, the infinity of solution. I, Leona, am the High Priestess of Hecate incarnate, Goddess of the waning moon, of birth, life, and rebirth, dispenser of all justice. I, Leona pay homage to Kernunnos, God of love and fertility, and Pan, God of mirth and joy. By the One Power, Ancient ones, hear me. Give me the strength to defeat the enemies of the Great Mother. To restore harmony in all things when the prophesy reveals.”

Her shoulders hunched under the weight of responsibility she’d borne for millennia. The New Age would not birth quietly if she and her scattered compatriots failed. She shuddered and cast away the moment.

Framed in an aura of flickering candlelight, Leona scattered a dozen tiny cube-shaped bones onto the altar and cupped her hands together, palms down, above them.

“I bid thee, Astragali rise.”

The altar candles guttered at first then gradually their flames grew taller and brighter. Leona closed her eyes and murmured, “Astragali rise, rise Astragali rise,” in a low breathy chant. Moments later an orb of intensely bright shimmering energy began radiating from the cup of her hands.

Black Jack woke sharply and pricked his ears. He sat and watched his mistress working; his gentle amber eyes glinting in the golden glow filling the room.

As the incantation reached its climax the altar candles fizzed like sticks of dynamite, showering Leona in a glistening cascade of spell dust. Gradually the orb began to subside and the firework spectacular with it.

Leona smiled at the tiny creatures scurrying about the altar table, keen to pursue their task. “Now then, pay attention. Less speed, more haste, my little friends.” She chuckled.

Alice lay awake, gaze fixed on a patch of the ceiling where the plaster had bubbled and yellowed with damp. The roof was probably missing a slate just above. She’d have to tell Dad in the morning in case rain was on the way. Moonlight glared unimpeded through her curtainless bedroom window. She smiled, recalling the battle of the boxed-in staircase. Dad was brilliant at making up funny catchlines.

They realised it would be tricky getting her up the stairs, at least until Dad got around to removing all the plywood casing that had been thrown up to replace rotten spindles. But it turned out to be a lot trickier than they first thought. First attempt he carried her in his arms, but the stairway was far too narrow and they got stuck in the sharp return half way up. Next they’d tried piggyback style, but Dad couldn’t bend low enough to get her safely under the squat little door at the bottom. A fireman’s lift seemed the only answer and she’d giggled and screamed all the way up whilst he pretended to beat back imaginary flames and falling timbers. After they’d done with larking about, he’d read her favourite story to her. Most people might think that at fourteen she was a bit old for bedtime stories, but the stories Dad read were his own. He’d started making them up after she and Tommy got bored with Goldilocks, Rapunzle, Little Red Riding Hood and the like. She never tired of hearing her father’s favourite story, though: Alice in Wonderland. The book after which she was named and the inspiration for Dad’s own tales. His most recent and best to date in Alice’s view, was The Black Knight of Eringore. It had been published in an anthology of short stories just a few weeks before. . . it . . happened. Okay, it might only have been an amateur writing competition and loads of other stories were published also, but her father was going to try and get them published for real now that he’d been forced into early retirement.

He used to design software for 3D applications; a real creative genius as well as a geek, but due to his head injuries he couldn’t concentrate for extended periods without suffering excruciating headaches and blurred vision. He’d loved his job. When told he must give it up or run the risk of suffering a stroke or worse, the blow was crushing.

Tommy had wanted to be like his father. He took to computers as though born to them. Alice had never been terribly interested beyond the basics, despite computers being around the house ever since she could remember. Tommy used to play with their PC and X Box for hours, though. Mum even had to resort to putting a lock on the study door just to keep him out long enough to make him eat his dinner at the table with the rest of the family.

Alice grinned at the memory of Tom gobbling down sausage and chips without pausing for breath so he could get back to his beloved machine, but her happy reminiscences were soon engulfed in despair. She cursed herself for allowing the pain to overwhelm her again, but the tears trickled down her cheeks anyway. Alice quietly cried herself to sleep. Just as she did most nights.

Descending into deep sleep, Alice passed into a melancholy Forest Realm. Her crutches sank into a dense mulch of mouldering leaves as she dragged her damaged legs one reluctant step at a time. Tears streamed down her cheeks; her breath caught in a staccato of wretched choking gasps. She was no stranger to this miserable place, though she didn’t know its name, but she knew what was going to happen there. As always number 42 Jay Crescent appeared in a clearing. Her recurring nightmares allowed no deviation. She obediently moved toward the house. Her soul screamed for her to turn and flee, but her mind was inextricably bound by the unrelenting dream. She pushed the front door ajar, calling out the same words she’d called out countless times before.

“Mum . . . Dad . . . Tommy? Are you there?”

She hobbled down the familiar hallway and pivoted left into the sitting room -- only it wasn’t the sitting room; it never was. It was always a hospital morgue and on two marble slabs shrouded in white sheets lay the bodies of her mother and brother. Abruptly -- as she’d come to expect -- her legs were strong again. She gripped the doorjamb trying to fight the overwhelming urge to cross the room and pull the shroud from her mother’s face. Before she even imagined herself doing so, she was once again lifting the cotton sheet and staring at her mother’s pale features. Sophie Towers opened her eyes right on cue and looked straight through Alice. Then she rose, pulled the sheet from Tommy’s body and scolded him for sleeping late.

Alice followed her family from room to room, watching and listening, unable to participate. Mum, Dad and Tommy would be laughing and joking together one moment and weeping in each other’s arms the next. A cruel emptiness echoed in the place where her heart should lie, as though the core of her being had been cut out with a blunt knife. Even the pain felt dull and lifeless. Heavy as lead and twice as cold. Wake up, she told herself. But her unconscious refused. So she endured once again.

She stood at the end of Tommy’s bed listening to her father read a bedtime story. As always he read her and Tommy’s favourite, The Black Knight of Eringore. Alice looked across the bedroom to where her bed should have been; knowing that in its place would be a white coffin. She never looked inside or went anywhere near it. It just lay there, forcing her to stare at it.

Dad finished the chapter, kissed Tommy on the forehead and told him, “God bless.” Then he switched off the bedside light. The dark rushed in. Alice’s heart quickened. Sweat broke out on her palms. Her flesh crawled. Somewhere in the darkness a hellish creature lurked, ready to pounce. She’d never seen it, but she could sense it creeping stealthily toward her. She fumbled for the door handle. It would no longer be there. Nothing existed in this terrible place but the dark. And the monster.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the beast to attack.

“Alice? Alice, where are you? I can’t see you. Speak to me so I can find you.”

For a divine moment, Alice thought she was home. But only for a moment.

“Alice, I can help you, but you need to let me in. I promise, I am a friend.”

Whoever - whatever - it was, it had to be kinder than the demon at her heels. “Over here! I’m over here! Help me please, it’s coming for me,” she cried out desperately.

“Don’t worry, Alice, it can’t harm you. Just don’t move until I find you.” The voice drew closer.

She stood trembling, not daring to shift one inch. Was this new development her salvation or a fresh horror? The blackness choking her began to slip and Alice felt writhing anger as it withdrew its malevolent embrace; revealing what had engulfed her so completely. She faced an immense wall of undulating black, like a suspended ocean of crude oil. She sensed it searching for a way to break through as it rippled back and forth, struggling against an invisible restraint.

A blob bulged out of the wall and started to take shape; almost as though pouring itself into a jelly mould. Envisioning terrifying images, Alice blocked them instinctively, knowing that if she allowed her mind to see a monster then she most surely would. The voice in the dark wasn’t the voice of her tormentor, she felt certain of that much. She let her mind go blank and allowed the blob to form its own image.

A cloaked figure stepped out of the oily sea and walked toward her. “Hello, Alice. Thank you for waiting. I’m Magog. I’ve come to ask you to be my Champion.”

Alice woke to the sound of tiny scuttling feet scratching about in the roof space above her bed. She stared wide-eyed at the unfamiliar ceiling, struggling to quell the panic and call her mind to order. Was this real or did the dream still have her? She smelled lavender. Felt the smoothness of cotton sheets. Silvery moonlight filtered through the branches of the apple tree outside her open window and a cool Earthly breeze ruffled her hair. She lay back and listened to the scurrying and scratching of tiny claws. Mice.

Panic over, she tried to focus on her new dream. The boy had told her he was under a curse that, ‘. . . only a child with a broken heart,’ could lift. She struggled to remember the rest before it faded away, as dreams do after that brief moment between sleeping and waking. Something about a dark book of shadows and Dream Realms and . . . and . . . would she be his Champion and walk with the gods? Or something like that. She did remember his name, though. Very clearly. Magog. He was an apprentice sorcerer.

The mice sounded as though they were doing a clog dance right above her head. Irritating. Finally, exhausted, she drifted into a deep, restful sleep.

Copyright 2012 - 2013, Laura Hart

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Author Reference Number	wr12001001
Author Name	Laura Hart
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