The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light

by Tim Flanagan

  The morning sky had now cleared and the warm sun was starting to shine, drying patches of stone that had become soaked by the rain. After waking Georgia they cooked some bacon on a small camping stove while they waited for their clothing and supplies to dry. They had laid everything out in the sun, weighing them down with rocks to prevent them from blowing away.

  Steven took a gun and walked out of Hurst to survey the surroundings. Outside of the door they had broken the previous night, was a small jetty. At the end was a boat that had an open viewing deck to ferry tourists to the fortress from Keyhaven. In the lakes of water that were trapped between Hurst spit and the mainland, several smaller boats floated helplessly around the marshy grasslands, others had become washed up and were grounded on mossy silt banks.

  ‘Steven,’ called Georgia from behind. She was jogging through the doorway towards him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she smiled, reaching for his hand.

  They walked in the sunshine like two young lovers, kicking shingle into the sea, as if they had nothing else to worry them. But, although they had each other, their future was still far from certain. They had something bigger than their own relationship to think about, other survivors needed them. It would be easy to turn their back on the rest of humanity and let Coldred select his perfect human race, but the human race needed a variety of people in it to create diversity and variation, and that included the weak and the imperfect.

  From on top of the Keep roof, Tracker couldn’t help but watch the other two as they walked along the beach. He had noticed the growing attraction between them, and although part of him felt happy, there was a larger part that felt jealous. The life he had led had been solitary and lonely, restricted to mixing in the circles his parents thought appropriate. Being linked to the British royal family had a definite downside; you could not be who you wanted to be. Every day was a performance, playing the part the family and the public expected. In some respects, Tracker’s life had not been held under the spotlight like some of the young royals, but it had still been intrusive and exposed. When his parents had died, James Hallington had moved to Butterwick Hall and lived a quiet life in his grounds. When some of the locals in Parsley Bottom mistook him for the gamekeeper, he had been happy to play the part, using the first name he could think of: Tracker. Over the years, the public had lost interest in him and forgot about the young royal ancestor. Even Tracker began to forget who James Hallington actually was. But, ever since the world changed, Tracker had begun to see a faint hope that he could lead a normal life, one without the risk of cameras watching his every move. And maybe, just maybe, he might find someone to share it with. Someone who didn’t come with an upper class checklist. Of course, that could only happen if the human race survived the creatures.

  11. Beach Landing

  As Steven and Georgia rounded the side of a light house they could see banks of shingle that had been abandoned on the beach as the water receded back into the sea. Perched awkwardly on top of the shingle was a small fishing boat that had been washed ashore and stranded on its side. From the direction they approached, Steven and Georgia could only see the curved wooden base, its old paint peeling and blistered from years submerged in the water. Steven playfully leapt up and leant on the side of the boat to peer inside. Apart from a pool of water that had collected in the curve of the opposite side, the boat was empty. With Steven’s body weight leaning on the highest side, the boat began to move. Gravity, together with the loose shingle beneath the boat, was beginning to slide the boat down the bank towards the sea. As the boat tipped into an upright position, a thick twisted rope began to unravel itself from beneath the shingle.

  ‘Quick,’ said Steven, ‘grab the rope.’

  The rope was knotted onto a metal loop at the front of the boat. Steven and Georgia both grabbed it and pulled back, using their weight to prevent the boat from slipping into the sea.

  Now that it was secure they could see that it was a simple carcass of a boat with nothing left in it except for two thin beams of wood that were intended for the occupants to sit on. Everything else that might have been inside had been washed away leaving nothing more than the wooden shell and a twisted metal bracket at the back where a motor would have once been attached.

  ‘Look,’ said Georgia, pointing further down the beach towards a pile of driftwood that was tangled amongst black seaweed. Poking out was a long and perfectly round pole with a flat end.

  ‘An oar,’ replied Steven. ‘Help me pull the boat up the beach.’

  Once the boat was out of reach of the sea, they both began scouring the shingle, looking for a second oar that might have been washed up with the tide. Eventually they found one. They weren’t a matching pair, but that didn’t matter.

  They left the oars inside the boat and went back to Hurst to find Tracker.

  ‘It appears to be undamaged,’ said Georgia when they explained about their find.

  ‘If we wait for the tide to go out, the current might help make it easier to row across to the island,’ replied Tracker.

  ‘What if we end up getting blown away from the Isle of Wight?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘Then we could be in danger. If we end up drifting towards the south of the island we might get washed up on the rocks.’

  They collected their clothing that had dried in the sun, packed their bags and made their way towards the shingle bank where Steven and Georgia had left the boat.

  Tracker watched the sea for a few minutes.

  ‘Looks like the tide is slowly coming in,’ he said. ‘We should wait for a while.’

  With time to kill, they turned to the tall white lighthouse and its adjoining outbuilding. The door to the outbuilding was unlocked. Although they hadn’t seen any sign of survivors around Hurst, they still entered with caution and their weapons ready. Along one of the walls were rows of tools hanging from nails in chipboard mounts. Various pieces of machinery had been abandoned, as had the waterproof fisherman’s overalls hanging from coat hooks behind the door. They each stepped into a pair of large trousers that came up over their waists and were fastened by braces over the shoulders. The waterproof jackets gathered in at the centre, providing them with a water tight fit. There were other basic supplies inside the outbuilding which they packed into a box and took back out to the boat. They placed their holdalls into black bin liners to try and keep them dry during the crossing and positioned everything at the back of the boat.

  All they could do was to sit down on the shingle and watch the sea; waiting for the tide to reach it’s highest before they could attempt their journey.

  By late morning the time was right.

  Together they pushed the boat into the water. Tracker held onto the front to keep it steady whilst Georgia and Steven stepped inside, before following. He then took one of the oars and pushed against the shingle so the boat floated gently out into the Solent.

  The small boat was now at the mercy of the sea.

  The water on the eastern side of Hurst was calm, protected by the shingle spit from the current of the open water.

  Steven and Tracker sat beside each other and clipped the oars into half round metal hoops on the rim of the boat. Working together they both pulled the oars towards the back of the boat, causing it to move forward slightly. After a few strokes they had managed to synchronise themselves and got into a rhythm. As they rounded the shingle beach they suddenly felt the boat pull along the stretch of water alongside Hurst as the shallow water created currents that sucked them in different directions. They managed to angle the boat to face away from Hurst then row as hard as they could, fighting against the current. For each stroke south the boat drifted west by another two. Before long the boat had moved westward away from Hurst, but also away from the Isle of Wight.

  As the currents changed and the boat reached deeper waters, they managed to gain more control and turned it in a southerly direction. Away from the shallower waters where the water was being channelled throu
gh the narrower gap between Hurst and the Isle of Wight, the waves in the open water grew higher. Georgia sat at the back of the boat, her useless arm making her feel guilty that she couldn’t help. Steven and Tracker continued to pull heavily on their oars, pushing the water beneath the boat to propel them towards the Isle of Wight. Steven was beginning to feel the burn in his arm muscles, but he knew they couldn’t stop until they reached the other side of the Solent. With every stroke he could feel the skin on the palms of his hands rubbing and blistering against the wooden pole. Thankfully, the nearer they got to the Isle of Wight, they found fewer currents pulling them off course. The projection of land on the north side of the island provided some protection from the current that swept through the Solent.

  They turned the boat in an easterly direction, putting them back on course.

  As they both began to tire, the rowing become harder. Each stroke felt like it was going to be the last they could manage. The oars seemed to be getting heavier and heavier every time they pulled back. Ahead of them they could clearly see a yellow stretch of beach of the Isle of Wight. The sight of Colwell Bay spurred them on to keep rowing, knowing that each one brought them nearer to their destination. Beneath the boat shallow beds of sand slowly began to rise up nearer to the surface as the seabed ascended towards the beach. As they got nearer, the oars bit into the sand, swirling it in spinning clouds beneath the water.

  As they approached shallower water once again, they felt the bottom of the boat scrape across the top of an underwater seabed. Tracker leapt out of the boat. He was standing in water no deeper than his thighs. The waterproof waders they had found inside the outbuilding beneath the lighthouse, kept him dry whilst he pulled the boat further ashore. When the bottom of the boat became grounded, Steven and Georgia both jumped out and helped pull the boat onto the beach. Relieved and exhausted, Steven lay down on the beach taking in large lungs of air and allowing his arm muscles time to recover.

  ‘We can’t rest yet,’ said Tracker.

  They pulled the boat up the beach, over a line of old brown seaweed and onto a bank of shingle. In front of them, the edge of land rose sharply in layers of orange and white stone with tufts of dry grasses growing out from small crevices. To the north of the bay was a white square building that seemed to float just above the surface of the water. Nearer to them was a concrete road that led up through the bank of land giving them access to the world above them.

  They tucked the boat into a cove beneath a small stone cliff, covered it with old seaweed then began walking towards the access road, which took them up a slope towards rows of identical holiday bungalows. Although it was only mid afternoon, Steven and Tracker were exhausted. They broke into the first bungalow they came to and collapsed onto the soft beds inside.

  If their boat had been spotted, Coldred’s guards would be sure to investigate the area around Colwell Bay. But, until that happened, Steven and Tracker rested while Georgia kept guard.

  12. A Frosty Visitor

  Edgar, Flora, the Grey Man and the children spent the rest of the afternoon gathering supplies and vehicles ready for their journeys. They found no other humans in the village, at least none that were still alive and the original occupant of the cellar hadn’t returned. Now that they knew where they were going, there seemed to be a sense of purpose and direction that reassured them all. All except Edgar. He knew that the creatures poison was creeping round his body, making his muscles ache and his head pound with a thumping that was louder than his heart. He knew that if he completed the journey to Avalon, he would not have the strength to control the twelve swords of power. Controlling Ethera was becoming harder than ever, sapping the energy from his body as it had done in the forest clearing. The pain in his head reduced when he used the remains of Flora's Acai berries, but he knew that the poison had travelled too far to be reversed.

  In the dark cellar, lit only by a single candle, Edgar looked across at the sleeping figures of the children. All his long life he had kept a distance from everyone, lurking in the shadows, never revealing himself, but watching and protecting from a distance. But he had grown fond of these children, especially Joe and Max. The two boys had already demonstrated their courage and leadership, good qualities for Knights of the Round Table, but also good qualities in the new world. If they could cleanse the planet of the Moon Stealers, the boys would be the knights of the future replacing the greed that had overcome humanity, with good moral qualities. If Edgar needed to find the strength to fulfil his duty, he only had to look at the boys to know that there was hope for the future. Scarlet and Peter were different. They seemed to have formed a strong attachment to Flora, but both of the children had natural magical gifts inside them. Scarlet had learnt how to communicate with animals during her time in the underworld, whilst Peter could see things in their world that normal humans could not. They too had a place in the future. If the magic on Earth was to be ignited once again, Scarlet and Peter would be needed to help maintain and develop those skills.

  Edgar rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Below ground, the screams of the creatures were muffled and sleep arrived easier than it had done for several nights.

  Edgar awoke sensing that something was wrong.

  He sat upright and listened.

  It was pitch black inside the cellar; the candle had long since burnt out. The only thing he could hear was the gentle breathing from the children as they slept. Uncertain why he had woken, Edgar waited.

  And then he heard it.

  It sounded like a faint dripping sound that was coming from upstairs. But, then he realised that it hadn’t been the sound that had woken him, but a smell. The air inside the cellar had been damp and musky, but now there was a faint, but sharp, acidic smell. Edgar reached to his side, feeling in the darkness for a candle and lighter. He flicked the lighter and lit the wick, illuminating the cellar in an orange glow. Everyone was there, lying exactly where they had been earlier. Edgar stood up and listened for the dripping sound once again then turned towards the other end of the cellar which extended beneath the kitchen. The smell seemed strongest there. The light from the candle caught a movement on the floor. A small pool of water had collected and an occasional drip would land in the centre of it causing ripples to expand to the edges. Edgar looked up towards the ceiling. He could see a dark patch where the water had collected prior to dripping down. He knelt down beside the puddle and sniffed.

  The acidic smell was stronger at the water.

  For some reason it reminded him of Edinburgh Castle.

  He remembered the rusty gates in the tunnels beneath Edinburgh Castle and the creature that had pursued them.

  He remembered how the creature had dissolved the metal so that it could break through.

  Edgar looked at the puddle once again. He then realised that it did not consist of water, but was the acidic juices created by a creature dissolving metal. But why would a creature be attacking something metal inside the restaurant?

  Above his head something heavy and metallic thudded against the ceiling. Edgar tried to picture the layout of the kitchen area above him, but, if his mind still functioned correctly, he thought the only thing in that part of the kitchen would have been the walk-in refrigerator.

  Why would a creature be trying to break into that?

  Unless, of course, it was a creature trying to break out!

  As if to confirm his suspicion the ceiling above his head creaked slightly as something loaded its weight onto it and began to move around. Edgar walked beneath it, listening as it moved. With every step came a scratching noise as something sharp clawed at the ground. An occasional chirping sound also broke through the silence. After circling the kitchen, the sounds from above entered the dining area. Edgar was now standing over where the children were sleeping, looking at the ceiling above. Subconsciously aware of a change in the darkness, Peter opened his tired eyes and stared up at Edgar. Not expecting to see the glow of a face standing directly above him, he gave a little start that
woke the others.

  It also made the sounds from above stop moving.

  It had heard Peter.

  Edgar signalled for the others to remain silent. The Grey Man stood up, lit a candle and joined Edgar.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s the creature from the fridge,’ replied Edgar. ‘It got out and I think it knows we are down here.’

  ‘If it’s still night time, it might call for others to join it. The floorboards won’t hold it back forever.’

  ‘Do you think it will go?’ asked Joe.

  Edgar shook his head. ‘Not if it knows there is someone down here. If it calls for help we will be trapped.

  ‘Keep making some movement over here,’ said the Grey Man, ‘I’m going up.’ He began to carefully climb the ladder that led to the hatch behind the bar. The creature had stopped walking around the restaurant and was now beginning to scratch at the wooden floorboards directly above where the children had been sleeping.

  With every step the Grey Man took towards the wooden hatch he stopped and listened. To keep the creatures attention away from the bar area where the hatch would open, Edgar made little coughs. As the Grey Man reached the hatch he looked over towards Edgar who gave a nod. The Grey Man blew out his candle and allowed it to drop to the ground. Above them the creature heard something and began chirping a little. Edgar coughed once again, bringing the creatures focus back towards that part of the cellar. Above them the clawing sound began once again, only this time faster and more desperate. They listened in terror as they heard a splinter of wood being torn from the floor. The Grey Man knew he had to make a move before the rest of the floorboard was lifted, exposing the children. He slid the bolt across and raised the latch slightly so that he could see out. From where he was he couldn’t see the creature that would have been somewhere near the shop front, but he could hear the scratching noise it was making.