The Magic Lands

by Mark Hockley

Wherever he was going, Jack was unafraid. He had left the Beast far behind. He would be safe now.

  Stumbling a little, sand disintegrating underfoot, Tom trudged on. It seemed to him that he had been travelling for a very long time, the yellow horizon unchanging.

  If only he could find Mo or Dredger. He needed them now more than ever before, the solitude of this land insinuating futility, the anger and frustration he felt at his inability to find Jack gnawing at his mind.

  The simple truth, he forced himself to realise, was that it was all up to him now. He was the only one who could save Jack.

  Where are you, Wolf? Why don't you show yourself?

  Glancing over at the blue sea, the water scintillating, sparks of light darting through the waves, Tom noted that it had become markedly rougher out there, a lively wind urging it to roll and bluster.

  He paused and gazed back along the deserted strand, following the trail he had made and it occurred to him then that if someone else had come this way before him, they too would have left footprints, just as he did in his wake. But the sand was flawless. No-one had been there.

  Something brushed his cheek, cold and insubstantial, and touching his face, Tom felt a slight dampness, as if sea-spray had somehow found its way to him. Hesitating for a moment, he looked down at his hand and saw a delicate, almost transparent substance

  resting there, a residue of water on his fingers. He looked up toward the sky and a billion white petals were descending upon him.

  "Snow," he breathed with a sense of wonder. "It's snowing."