by J S Landor
The Mirror of Pharos
J S Landor
Copyright © 2017 J S Landor
Cover and illustrations copyright © 2017 Amanda Pike
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No similarity to any person living or dead is intended or should be inferred.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Rob and Ben
In between the doors of time
Lies a sacred space
Enter those who wish to climb
To the Magus place.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
The Circle Begins
In the hour before dawn, two amber eyes patrolled the sky over the hushed town. From their hiding place in Osmaston Wood they could see the world and when the fluttering white shape appeared, they were ready. They fastened onto it, glistening fiercely, and gave a quick blink.
Instantly, the wind stirred. Copper leaves fell from the trees and a thick seam of fog stole down the hills, wrapping the town in a ghostly shawl.
High above the rooftops a large seagull circled about, surveying the maze of streets below. He’d flown many miles through a long night to reach this place deep in the Rollright Hills. And now, at last, his journey was almost done.
In his beak he held a flat, brown parcel, not much bigger than a child’s hand. All he needed was to find the right address.
But this was easier said than done. The sprawling fog had invaded every nook and cranny and large chunks of the town were completely hidden from view. There seemed little else for it – he’d have to fly in for a closer look.
No sooner had he begun his descent than a sharp wind blew up, blasting the leaves on the pavement skywards. The seagull swerved wildly, beating his wings hard, but before he could regain his balance an even more savage gust forced him in the other direction. From the streets below, it looked like he was dodging bullets fired by a deadly enemy.
A third icy blast sent him nose-diving towards the market square. He flew dangerously close to the church spire, whistled past a line of open-mouthed gargoyles and narrowly missed a statue of the town’s founding father, William Godley.
Behind the plate-glass window of the baker’s shop, a wedding cake loomed nearer. The seagull gave a desperate squawk and banked steeply upwards. For one heart-stopping moment, before his wings carried him clear, he clipped the face of the town hall clock and the package glowed faintly blue.
It had been a close shave. He was a rugged bird from the weather-beaten cliffs of the Pentland coast, yet the freak wind had caught him completely off guard.
Several dizzy circles later, he swooped down to a small red-brick house on the outskirts of town. It stood on a steepish bit of road at the end of a row of terraced cottages. Number 12, Hill Rise, Morton Muxloe. This was the place!
He skidded to a halt on the gravel driveway and sat with his breath making little clouds while he studied the front door. It was yellow with an old-fashioned bell pull on one side and a brass door knocker near the top. But what interested him most was the vertical letterbox in the middle. It looked exactly the right size.
Hopping boldly forwards, he tried pushing the package through the narrow opening. It wouldn’t go. Even with his head cocked on one side, he couldn’t get the angle right – the parcel kept jamming. After several more attempts he shrieked in frustration. There had to be some other way to make his delivery.
He took off, climbing high over the slate roof and soon spotted the answer to his problem. At the back of the house, half overgrown by trailing ivy, another door beckoned. This one had what looked like a much larger letter box close to ground level. With a delighted cry he dived down, determined to finish the job once and for all.
Inside number 12, Jack Tideswell woke with a jolt. A moan erupted from the knot of bedding which seemed to have turned him overnight into a human sausage roll. He struggled free and yanked back the curtains. Not morning already! He felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink.
Flopping back, he stared blankly at the ceiling and wondered what day it was. Saturday? Sunday? The answer came to him like a stab in the stomach. ‘Noooo!’ he groaned. Monday.
In the kitchen below, the clanking of cups and plates competed with the news on the radio. ‘Give me a break!’ he yelled, pulling the duvet over his head. Instantly, the radio volume turned to full blast. His fist thumped the mattress. ‘Not fair!’ Nan could blame her hearing all she liked, but her tactics for getting him up were just plain sneaky.
‘Storm-force winds and torrential rain are expected by this evening,’ blared the weatherman. ‘As deepening lows sweep in from the Atlantic, the Met Office has issued flood warnings … Take extra care on the roads tonight …’
The seagull glided silently past Jack’s window and came to rest on the garden wall, folding his wings like a cape around his large body. In the kitchen, he could see a small thin woman in a multicoloured dressing gown, buttering a slice of bread. His belly rumbled and he let out a hungry cry.
Nan looked up. Her corkscrew hair stuck out at odd angles and the expression on her face suggested she’d got out of bed on the wrong side.
‘What do you want?’ she said, jabbing the butter knife at t
he gull. He was staring at her with such intensity it looked as if he might actually speak. She pulled her dressing gown tightly around her. ‘It’s no good. There’s nothing here for you.’
The bird gave another plaintive cry.
Nan put down the knife and banged on the window. ‘You’re not wanted. Go on. Push off – shoo!’
The seagull ruffled his feathers but made no attempt to move, and when she looked back a few minutes later he was still there, his head drooping with exhaustion into the pillow of his chest. Behind him, the mist had cleared to reveal an angry sky flushed with red. The light seemed to give his body a strange, luminous quality. Nan shivered. Her mother had told her once that seagulls were the ghosts of drowned people.
‘Oh … all right,’ she said, opening the window at last. She flung some crusts of bread on the garden path and the big bird hopped after them, flapping his wings and shrieking his appreciation.
Nan watched him and, for a moment, a giddy, faraway feeling took hold of her. An icy breeze lifted her hair and she reached out to steady herself.
To her relief, a furry head met her hand.
‘Odin! For heaven’s sake, where’ve you been? Get in, will you.’
With a yowl, a large black and white cat leapt down from the windowsill and wound himself jealously around her ankles.
‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Nudging the cat with her foot, Nan hastily shut the window.
‘Time to get up!’ she bellowed at the ceiling. ‘Bacon sandwich on the table – twenty minutes and counting!’ She knew Jack’s routine: five minutes to wash and dress, five minutes to eat breakfast, five minutes to pack his school bag and five minutes to spare. Except there never was any time to spare.
Jack didn’t feel like breakfast, not this morning. He had a tight knot in his stomach which felt like an iron fist squeezing his guts. Swinging his legs out of bed, he dragged himself to the bathroom and stared sternly into the mirror. Come on, get a grip, he told himself. It’s not as bad as you think.
The round face beneath the mop of black hair looked unconvinced. Perhaps he wouldn’t be in such trouble if he appeared a little more lean and mean.
Twenty minutes later, he stood beside Nan in the hall. At twelve years old, he was already able to look down at her, although he had to admit that didn’t take much doing: his grandmother was barely five feet tall.
Out of habit, she tapped the barometer. The needle twitched nervously from Fair to Change, then right around the dial to Stormy. She pulled out a red anorak from the coat rack under the stairs.
‘I don’t need it,’ mumbled Jack.
‘What is it with boys and coats? You can’t be “cool” when you’re wet and freezing.’ Nan unzipped the anorak and held it out with a flourish, like a matador tempting a bull.
Jack rolled his eyes. Reluctantly, he pulled the coat on.
‘And don’t take it off the minute you get to the corner,’ Nan called after him.
Jack set off at a run, the bacon sandwich he’d forced down churning in his stomach. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he took the coat off and bundled it into his school bag.
Back in the kitchen Nan sighed, knowing he would. Stop fussing, she told herself. If she wasn’t careful, she’d worry herself into an early grave. After all, there were far worse things in the world than catching a cold …
Outside, while the clouds bulked together in the stormy sky, two amber eyes watched Jack sprint into the distance. A wolf sat at the corner of Hill Rise, his head lowered between his broad shoulders. When Jack finally disappeared from view, he lifted his nose to sniff the air. As if responding to a signal, a fierce wind began to blow once more.
Chapter 2
The traders were busy setting up their stalls in the market square. Rows of brightly striped canopies billowed like balloons, tugging at the metal frames that held them. ‘Batten down the hatches, lads,’ someone cried out.
A flock of pigeons took off, their wings producing a clap-clap-clapping as Jack raced towards them across the cobbles. Several heads turned to watch.
‘What’s his hurry, then? Seen a ghost or summat?’
‘Nah, late for school more like. Look at ’im go. Aye aye, watch out … Ow! Bet that ’urt!’
In his haste, Jack had skidded on the uneven stones. Face down, arms outstretched, he lay sprawled beneath the statue of William Godley like a slave paying homage.
For a moment he didn’t move. His eyes closed and briefly the flapping of the canopies grew louder. Then it faded and what he heard next made him wonder if he was about to pass out. Blowing in his ears like a whispered message came the distant roar of the sea.
He shook his head, trying to chase the sensation away. Seagulls! He could hear them gabbling. He must be imagining it. Morton Muxloe was in the middle of England, more than a hundred miles from the coast.
‘You all right, mate?’ someone shouted.
Jack sat up, spitting the grit from his mouth. The town hall with its imposing clock tower loomed over him and, above that, great fleecy clouds rolled across the sky. He felt small as a speck of dust.
‘Oi! I said, are you okay?’ The fishmonger, a burly man in a brown apron, lumbered towards him.
‘Fine.’ Feeling like an idiot, he scrambled to his feet, grabbed the books and pens which had spilled from his bag and tore off through the broad arches at the end of the square.
Despite the stitch in his side, he kept going. ‘You can do this,’ he muttered. Not so long ago, when he’d swum for the Dolphins, he could run the mile to school in under ten minutes. Those were the days. He pictured the bright yellow caps of his club mates slicing through the water. By now, morning training would be over and they’d be having breakfast in the canteen, laughing and bragging about lap times.
He crossed the bridge over the River Churn. He’d never told anyone why he’d quit the sport he loved. He could barely admit it to himself. But it was the selfsame reason that had him running like a lunatic through the town centre. Fear. Simple as that. He was trying to avoid another ambush.
Glancing left and right, he sprinted past the black railings of St Mark’s Church. Apart from an old man raking leaves, there was no one in sight.
His chest deflated in a sigh. He had to be so careful. They could be hiding anywhere: behind a hedge, in a shop doorway, under the stone bridge, in the churchyard … With a shudder, he remembered how they’d pinned him to a gravestone and threatened to bury him six feet under.
Turning into School Lane, he raced for the gates of Muxloe High and for a moment he thought he’d made it. Then, above the hubbub of voices in the playground, laughter rang out – a hard, merciless sound like crows cawing. It was them.
They stood just inside the gates, their arms locked together like rugby players in a scrum: Fakes, Suttle, Gormley and Blunt, the meanest gang of thugs he’d ever known. They were having fun tormenting a first-year girl who scampered backwards and forwards like a rabbit, trying to dodge past them.
‘Let me go!’ she whined. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Whassat?’ Blunt bore down on her. While the other boys sniggered, he caught hold of her ponytail and twisted it around his wrist so she was forced to dance on tiptoe. ‘Gotcha by the tail,’ he said, holding up the mane of hair. He produced a pair of scissors from his pocket. ‘You squeal and I’ll cut this off.’
Jack stepped forwards and tears of relief welled in the girl’s eyes. Everyone knew he was the gang’s favourite victim.
‘Aaah, Tideswell!’ crooned Blunt, stretching out his arms in a mock welcome. ‘At last!’
The girl scurried away, tripping over Suttle’s outstretched foot as she went.
‘Bin jogging ’ave we?’ Blunt hawked the phlegm from his throat.
Jack stared at the glob of spittle on the tarmac and said nothing. If he responded, the bully would find some way of turning
it into an argument.
‘Look at you, Jacko. You’re sweating! Maybe you need to lie down.’
The school bell rang.
‘Out of the way,’ said Jack, barging past.
‘Saved by the bell, eh? I don’t fink so. Floor him, Fakes. Gorm, you get his feet. Suttle – ’ere, the scissors.’
Before he knew it Jack was sprawled on the tarmac. Fakes sat on his chest, a grin of anticipation on his face. ‘You’re gonna love this,’ he said.
Gasping for breath, Jack tried to see what the others were doing. But Fakes rammed his head back down. ‘No peeking. It’s a surprise!’
Hands pushed down on his ankles and he realised they were removing his trainers. Struggling hard, he kicked out and one of the mob yelped. ‘Hold him, dammit!’
A horrible ripping sound followed. Unable to move a muscle, Jack closed his eyes. Will it always be like this? he thought.
Someone’s breath blew down one side of his face. ‘Such a loser,’ hissed Blunt in his ear.
Jack’s eyes flashed open again.
‘Snip!’ laughed the bully, pressing the open scissors to his throat. ‘Got anyfing to say?’
Jack held his breath while Blunt slowly ran the blade over his Adam’s apple up to his mouth.
‘Nah, thought not. Sensible boy! You keep this shut, right, or we’ll ’ave you. And that old bat you live with. Wouldn’t take much to fix that heap of scrap she drives.’
And then it was over. Fakes’ backside lifted from his chest and the boys moved away, crowing and slapping each other on the back.
Jack crawled over to the trainers which lay a few feet away. They had slashes down the sides and the laces had been chopped into pieces. With a sniff, he pulled the bits out. Then, ignoring the glances of the latecomers who hurried past, he put the trainers on and shuffled into school.
In an alleyway nearby, the wolf sat quietly watching. When the playground emptied, he padded across the road to where the shoelaces lay. With unblinking amber eyes, he stared down into the pile. The pieces began to move and within seconds a mass of fat, white worms slithered beneath him. One by one, he ate them all.
