Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet
Tasha O'Neill
Copyright © 2015 Tasha O’Neill
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This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to Mum and Dad. Thank you for all your commitment, support and belief.
Thank you also to my other Beta readers Kevin and Sally.
Contents
Cover
Hans Christian Andersen:
Prologue
The Family Stone
Rosemary Heights
The Search
Face in the Flames
Corn Pads, Crystals and Dental Floss
Fargale
Children of the Nymet
The Galleries
Wykenhall High
Mr Ransell
Syluria
Belleswater Hospital
Song of the Nymet
Charlotte’s New Skills
The Seelie Courts
The Warriors of the Oak
The Detention
The Manush de Bar
Rani Johari
The Blood of Diamonds
Procession of Gold
The Shriven
Charlotte Stone and the Albion Gate
About the Author
Hans Christian Andersen:
That ancient tree, don’t let it fall,
until old age is knelling;
so many things it can recall,
what tales it could be telling.
Hans Christian Andersen
Prologue
Quite spontaneously and in a matter of seconds, a rose bush bloomed, withered and died in the snows of an English winter. This was the only sign that anything was amiss, and it went unnoticed by all but one – unless you included the Echo. Deep below the surface, worms turned and wriggled away from the desiccated body that had, till now, lain dormant and harmless – held fast by the Golden Root.
The Echo had known what it was to be human once; but that was now a faint memory. However, it still felt ‘the bond’ to its kind and instinctively reached out to the mortal thoughts that drifted in the air far above.
Earth pressed down hard yet it felt the stagnant blood in its veins start to flow again, cold limbs warming back into life as the root slowly loosened its grip. In the mouldering dirt below the Great Tree it waited for each part of this body to awaken. Synapses started to fire in the brain while the heart jerked into motion.
The foreign lips twisted into a grimace as the Echo reviewed once again the moment of terror in these eyes. The terror of the original owner as they had drifted off into the abyss, light dying, ripped unceremoniously from the fragile threads of the life-giving Wyrdweb. The Echo liked to relive the firework display of raw light as the silver cord was severed and a new shadow was born, condemned to drift forever in the darkness of the Dreamtime.
A familiar pain started in the stolen body but he ignored the sensation. Well used to the process now, he knew the pain would soon fade. To kill time, he tested a few names and languages over his new tongue, trying to decide what this body’s new identity should be.
He had no idea how the Great Tree had loosened its grip but there would be time for that later. Plenty of time. All that mattered was he was no longer trapped in this crack in the Dreamtime. The whole Triverse spread out before him; oh such freedoms to savour – and scores to settle. For now though the Shriven could wait.
Transition complete, he simply extended long nails; and began to dig.
The Family Stone
PINAR, CADIZ
Remote mountains in the heart of Andalusia may not be a normal classroom for a thirteen-year-old girl, but Charlotte Stone was no normal thirteen-year-old girl. Being the daughter of explorers meant curiosity was in her genes (an argument she would often use whenever she wanted to do something her parents were against), and it was curiosity that had led her here.
In fact, it was more than that, because Charlotte had a gift. She was very good at finding things – and unlocking their deepest secrets simply by touch. Her parents’ research student Neva often joked she was more reliable than carbon dating.
Charlotte sat in the dark, cool cave halfway up a mountain in the Sierra Del Pinar, grateful to be out of the relentless Spanish sun. She looked at the large, lozenge-shaped stone, rolling it around in her hands as she tucked a stray lock of red hair behind her ear. Her strange visions had started when her family had discovered this cave. A withering rose, the symbol, a fireball and perhaps most disturbing of all, the blood-curdling scream in the darkness. Charlotte had hoped this stone might provide some answers.
It was smooth to the touch and seemingly undamaged with no obvious markings, yet she had no idea what it was. Charlotte would normally be able to at least identify the basics: location of origin, date and use. But this unusual object was totally silent to her – and it felt wrong. A shadow fell over the mouth of the cave.
‘You going to sit there with that thing all day, sweetheart?’ Ella Stone smiled at her daughter. ‘Pop it away now and let’s go.’
Charlotte placed the stone and its cloth wrappings warily into a padded box.
*
Strings of fairy lights twinkled on the bandstand that evening as both locals and foreigners alike enjoyed the balmy warmth in the numerous café bars of the main square in Pinar. The Stone family and their crew had been in town for just over a month and it was their last night. Richard and Ella were taking the opportunity to relax before their gruelling journey across the Sahara sands, and were currently taking in the fiesta atmosphere from a table at their regular haunt, Casa Vargas.
‘Unusual find by Charlotte today, love, any ideas?’ Richard said, swigging an ice cold Moritz.
‘I have some theories…’
‘No idea then.’ He winked at his wife but Ella didn’t rise to the bait.
‘There’s certainly something intriguing about it. Neva is still studying it now. Never stops working that girl.’
‘Perhaps it’s the elusive Benu egg?’ Richard was wide-eyed and made a mock gasp. Ella jovially punched her husband’s arm.
‘Don’t be daft. Anyway, you know she is the best research student we have ever had. OK, perhaps some of her ideas are a bit… wacky, but I’ll bet she’ll have some exceptional reports for us by the time we get back.’
Ella took a sip of wine as she tried to phrase her next thoughts.
‘I did see something weird today, as we were removing that stone.’
‘No, I know I’m not going mad,’ Ella said more harshly than she meant. Perhaps the heat was getting to her.
‘I didn’t mean it like that, love. Go on, tell me what you saw.’
‘You’ve got to promise you won’t mock.’
‘Promise.’
‘There was this plant, like a cyclamen I think, just above the cave where we found that thing. While you were busy digging it out… well…’ Richard was staring intently, urging her to go on.
‘… well… it sort of bloomed and withered right in front of my eyes.’ Richard raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m not joking, darling. And that’s not all… once we had the artefact boxed up and halfway down the mountain, this plant… it returned to normal, like nothing had happened.’ There was silence.
‘I believe you, love,’ Richard finally said, before adding, ‘not sure what to make of it though.’ He took another swig of his beer.
‘Where are the twins?’ Ella changed the subject.
‘You really have to ask?’ Richard laughed. ‘Edessa will be trying to find some way to get on the stage and Charlotte will be with Jairo doing what she does best – interrogation.’
‘Debating,’ Ella corrected with a smile. ‘I guess we can relax then.’ She sighed.
In the bandstand of the little town square a guitarist ordered them all into silence with a few bars of a flamenco folk song while a singer solemnly walked onto the stage. Richard and Ella looked at each other and a silent agreement was made to discuss the strange incident later. For now, they simply held hands and enjoyed the show.
*
‘Mishto… hom me… di… dikava tute.’ Charlotte stumbled over the words while her new Gitanos friends exploded with laughter. Charlotte blushed; Romani was proving to be her Achilles heel and she wasn’t used to failing at things. Jairo shook his head and waved his hands dramatically.
‘You are like timid rabbit, you will never learn this way. You have to be without fear, own the words. Mishto hom me dikava tute,’ he chanted in a sing-song voice, conducting as he went. ‘It means you are glad to meet, so fill your voice with gladness.’ Charlotte smiled in spite of her frustration.
‘Mishto hom me dikava tute,’ the others chorused before bursting into a fresh bout of laughter.
‘You must not be so hard on yourself, miri kushti,’ Jairo smiled as he boldly swept an unruly strand of hair out of her eyes.
‘Bet Edessa isn’t struggling like this,’ Charlotte smiled, trying not to feel so defeated.
*
Charlotte’s twin, Edessa was at the other end of the square loitering around the colourful vardos parked behind the bandstand. She marvelled at the polka-dot dresses as the dancers twisted and reeled through their final warm-up dance. Edessa loved to dance and flamenco was fast becoming her favourite – but it was the singers that fascinated her the most.
Edessa, like Charlotte, had a gift. Whereas Charlotte could read information locked in solid objects, Edessa could read information locked in people. Though she didn’t understand the words, she could still feel the stories and emotions in the Gypsy songs.
‘Flamenco is not just sound, not mindless entertainment, little one,’ said one of the older singers who had taken Edessa under her wing. ‘The song is always there, woven through all of creation, like a thread in a tapestry. We do not create the song, we simply carry it within us for a short while.’
Satisfied that Edessa understood, the woman smiled before continuing. ‘A true singer weaves the energy of that song into their own voice. They remind us of our place in the web of life, our interconnectedness. Gypsies call it Duende – that indefinable ability to communicate through emotions.’
The woman sang a string of notes and Edessa could feel the emotion pouring out of her, giving the simple tune a life of its own. Edessa could feel it vibrating her whole body, awaking shadowy memories that didn’t belong to her. Taking a deep breath, Edessa echoed the tune back and the memories flowed away.
The woman was clearly shocked.
‘There are few outsiders who can do that.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘It seems you might just have a little Gitanos blood in you, me chavi.’
Edessa beamed with pride. ‘I’ve been listening.’
*
The old Roma woman sat in the archway of her courtyard garden, smoking a pipe and watching the girl with the red hair and curious green eyes as she tried to learn their language. She had a feeling about this one. She was without the grace of the other, but she had the soul of an adventurer. Though not Gitanos, her family was another kind of nomad and she had a touch of destiny about her. Was it her own? the woman wondered.
‘Madame Cortes,’ Jairo said, bowing respectfully, the rest of the group following his lead.
‘You, child,’ Madame Cortes waved at Charlotte. ‘I have words for you, but not here in this… Jaleo.’ She emphasised the last word to make her disapproval of their raucous behaviour clear. ‘Come, come.’
Jairo pushed Charlotte to her feet and she followed the woman through the archway. The cloistered courtyard was much quieter than the main square and the air was full of the sweet smell of jasmine, which left her feeling quite giddy.
‘Sit,’ the woman ordered, ‘and listen, I won’t waste words on gadje.’
Charlotte sat bolt upright at that word: ‘non Roma’. It was the first one Jairo had taught her. If Madame Cortes was indeed suggesting she considered Charlotte as one of her own, it was a huge honour so Charlotte listened intently.
‘Let me see your hand, child.’
‘Are you a fortune teller?’ Charlotte asked, extending her hand.
‘Fortunes take care of themselves, have no need of me. I am Drabarni.’ The woman scrutinised the lines on Charlotte’s hands. ‘Is healer and seer,’ she said in answer to Charlotte’s unspoken question.
Madame Cortes seemed to go into some sort of trance and in the long silence Charlotte could hear the music of crickets and other night bugs. She got so caught up in the melody and the feel of the warm night breezes on her sun-crisped skin that she jumped when Madame Cortes finally spoke.
‘You have been dreaming of a tree I sense. Well, it has been dreaming of you too; for a very long time, miri kushti chavi.’ She smiled cryptically.
‘You have important work to do and many knots…’ The woman paused, her forehead wrinkled with concentration. ‘No… is not the right word, many… roots… to untie.’
Charlotte held her breath in anticipation. She desperately wanted to ask questions but suspected she would learn more by keeping silent and letting the woman talk.
‘Your hand shows you were born to travel, you are akin to us in some ways. How many countries have you visited already?’ Madame Cortes continued.
Charlotte had to think for a moment. ‘Ten.’
Madame Cortes smiled and nodded. ‘Very soon you will be going on a journey to a land not on any map, through a gateway that has long been shut. But it will start normally enough, with you voyaging to meet ancient family in the East… they won’t be going with you, however.’ She nodded towards the town square where Charlotte’s parents sat and Edessa danced.
Charlotte’s stomach flipped at those words. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Madame Cortes meant trouble was coming, but going anywhere without Edessa was out of the question.
‘Surely I can choose to…’
Madame Cortes would not entertain any interruptions and she had already moved on.
‘Your lifeline is broken too, see here…’ The woman indicated the crease sweeping around the base of Charlotte’s left thumb. ‘…See how it overlaps. You live both a normal life and a hidden one; this is how it is for all of your bloodline, but with you this duality must end. For the good of all worlds you must heal the severed root… it begins and ends with the tree. You must protect it at any cost.’
‘What about the scream? Have you any idea what it all means?’ Charlotte’s voice was small in the night air.
‘Ah yes, the scream from the Dreamtime,’ Madame Cortes nodded solemnly. ‘The space between worlds and home of the Fey. It has become a dark and dangerous place indeed since the Withering began; especially for the likes of you. You have great power indeed if you can sense it.’ Madame Cortes pulled Charlotte closer and stared at her with the darkest eyes she had ever seen. The Gypsy woman held Charlotte’s gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time and just as Charlotte thought that was her cue to leave, the old woman added: ‘You will need to overcome your innermost fears to recognise your greatest ally, but you can trust the diamond heart. Shala?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Charlotte said quietly, though she wasn’t sure she did.
‘Sleep soon, me chavi.’ Madame Cortes’ voice was gentler now. ‘Perhaps dreams will bring the answers.’
LOUVRE, PARIS
Paris was calming after the excitement of Spain and Charlotte loved walking the streets of Montmartre where their guardian, Morag, lived when she wasn’t in London. Morag De Beau was a naturally stern-looking Scottish woman in her late sixties with thick brown hair and a fondness for tweed. She was an old family friend and wife of the late Renoir De Beau who had been Richard and Ella Stone’s university history professor. They had been his favourite students and a friendship was forged for life.
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