Legend of the Lost
Ian P Buckingham
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by
The Book Guild Ltd
9 Priory Business Park
Wistow Road, Kibworth
Leicestershire, LE8 0RX
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Copyright © 2018 Ian P Buckingham
The right of Ian P Buckingham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.
ISBN 9781912575923
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
For Holly and Alice Buckingham, our own heroic duo.
You were the creative inspiration
and wind beneath the wings of this series.
You helped me remember that children’s books are never a fantasy if we all keep believing.
Contents
Foreword
Book 1: The Moonstone and Rubyrobe
Book 2: The Willowand’s Alive
Book 3: Voyage of the Romany Soul
Book 4: Ravenring
Foreword
One of the decisions a writer has to make, especially when creating characters never shared before, is whether to include pictures or illustrations.
I have chosen not to in the first book as I believe it is important for my readers to blend my words with their imaginations to visualise the characters, creatures and places. Your mind is where the magic really happens, as you know.
However, we have created a special range of online places for inquisitive brains and curious folk who would like to explore the Legend of the Lost in more detail and perhaps share thoughts and ideas with others.
We will be posting bonus material from the author, puzzles, quizzes and advance notices of forthcoming events as well as unique extracts from the next book in the series, The Ends of the Earth.
Simply connect with us on one of these sites and just mention who your favourite character is, for exclusive access.
Fans of the Legend of the Lost saga are most welcome to join us via:
Twitter: @ConnectLOL
Facebook: Legend of The Lost
Instagram: connectwithlotl
Book 1:
The Moonstone and Rubyrobe
Holly gasped.
The sweat was flowing, running into her eyes, burning as she ran.
Lungs screamed, heavy, horribly dry.
She gulped down hot air, chest heaving with terror.
She could hear herself crying in panic – “faster, run faster” – and she could feel the fine hairs, taut all over her body, prickling with fear.
She clawed through the mud and threw herself between the dark roots of an ancient tree.
Yet still the thud, thud, thud of the footsteps came.
They were relentless, like a pack of rabid horrors on the hunt.
And they were chasing her through the dark woods that everyone had told her to avoid at all costs.
But now it was too late.
She was on her own.
They were coming for her.
They were here…
Just two days earlier, the Savage clan had woken to dappled golden seaside sunlight streaming in through the bay window of the impossibly pretty Mermaid Cottage.
The smell of freshly baked bacon butties filled the air, as it did every morning of their holiday, while excited seagull shrieks drowned out Dad’s dull radio.
“There they go,” said Dad, “pebble-dashing the car again.”
Holly and her sister Lucy giggled. They still weren’t sure what “pebble dashed” meant but they knew it was rude. Most of all they enjoyed watching their dad chase the birds away, only for them to settle on their roof rack again as soon as his back was turned, laughing like they were teasing him.
Nanna Jo shuffled in, her face buried in the local newspaper, and announced, “I knew it! It’s beachcombing Saturday this weekend, girls.”
“Arrrrhhhh,” said Dad, pretending to be a pirate, badly. “Thas yr wall be dagin up treasure, sure we shall.”
The girls fell about shrieking as he chased them round the room, hopping on one leg, hunching his back and tossing a tea towel over his shoulder to form a makeshift parrot.
“Well, we may not have found as much as most in recent years, but we wouldn’t have the Moonstone if we hadn’t searched those rock pools, now would we?”
A shadow passed fleetingly over Dad’s face as Nanna Jo opened the top of the stable-style doors that led from the kitchen; she couldn‘t help but smile, as she always did when talking about their now-famous “magical” archway.
Family and friends had collected the “found things” that decorated the arch above their bright yellow front door.
Emerald, sapphire and ruby sea glass worn smooth by the waves and, as they liked to imagine, the fond caresses of mythical sea folk were set into the stone next to silver and pearl-white shells.
Once-colourful starfish appeared here and there along with bright red and jet-black stones, perfect spheres that Dad said were a little bit radioactive. They were the “danger rocks”, as little Lucy had called them ever since she could talk.
Twisted and tangled driftwood picked out the outline of the arch.
Mock seaweed trails decorated the bumpy plaster.
But, in pride of place, at the pointy pinnacle of the uppermost triangle right above the cottage door, was the now-famous, milky-white stone that flashed with rainbow hues in all of the different kinds of light they got here on the south-west coast at the tip of ancient Britain.
“It’s so pretty,” sighed Holly, her arm around her Nanna’s waist, eyes twinkling.
“Yes,” she smiled. “It is, m’dear. And Saturday night is the first time we’ll see it when the moon is at its best.”
“Will the fairies come again?” asked Lucy. She famously loved all things with wings, especially the glittery things. “And their magical friends?”
Everybody laughed, including the little redhead, whose face slowly turned the colour of her slightly curly locks.
Everybody, that is, apart from Nanna Jo, who simply smiled, with a knowing twinkle, and slowly polished the warm mist of her breath from the translucent stone with the palm of her outstretched hand.
“Who knows, Lu Lu? Who knows, m’love?”
Mermaid Cottage nestled snugly in a terraced row of brightly coloured houses that lined Porthleven harbour.
Each house was painted in its own unique style that gave the harbourside a lovely liquorice allsorts style.
The seaside town’s famous seafront was a popular pet-exercising promenade for local Cornish folk and holidaymakers alike. It was a favourite spot for long lazy walks or storm-watching along Smuggler’s Row. There, the waves were known to break right over the tall clock tower, which could be seen for many coastal miles.
Although the sun twinkled peacefully o
n the flat, gently ebbing water today, like an inviting, refreshing pool, even someone of Holly’s ten tender years was very aware that the sea could be spiteful at times.
A plaque on the harbour wall recalled an infamous storm at the turn of the century that claimed the lives of two local policemen. They had been swept down to the dark deep in their panda car, lights still flashing. It was an image that, once in your mind, it was hard to forget.
Another sign, in the ancient smuggler’s Ship Inn pub that served the “tastiest fish and chips on the Lizard”, told the story of a shipwreck that claimed the lives of a whole family on the same dismal winter’s night.
Holly had often thought about those poor, faceless folk.
She and Lucy sometimes built sand people on the beach, dressed with lost flip flops, bits of bottles, fishing line and other high-tide flotsam in tribute to the shipwrecked souls, long before they really understood the tragedy. They even gave them names.
But then, as always, the high tide would return and the waves would claim them all over again.
It was during beach play dates like these, often with their friends Reanna, Alex and Niamh, whose families also holidayed here and who loved to build castles or comb the rock pools, bursting with wriggly life, that they sometimes found the treasures for their famous cottage doorway.
Because of their collection of shiny things, you could usually spot their house, across the bay, glistening in the summer sunlight. Over the years the smiling sun had gradually bleached the Mermaid Cottage driftwood and slate sign.
The moment they found the Moonstone last year wasn’t any special sort of a day, just another long and lovely afternoon spent rock pooling down at nearby Coverack beach.
Nestled amid the blue-and-yellow striped cushions, Holly cast her mind back to how the usual excited groups of families had gathered in a multicoloured straggle of smiling strangers hoping to speed up low tide.
Just as soon as enough soggy sand was showing, they had set off armed with buckets, spades and nets, as they always did, to find the pretend “pirate hoard” discreetly hidden by the friendly team from the National Trust.
This ritual was as popular a part of the holiday calendar as the sandcastle competition, especially with the tourists. But, although they knew the best spots to look and had often won on sheer quantity of finds, the girls had never found anything particularly special in the past.
It was Holly, of course, who found the stone last year. Her Pops had always said that she had special powers of brave intuition.
Others (usually her sister) just called her a bit bossy and headstrong. They were, of course, wrong.
Holly had been searching a stretch of rock pools she’d investigated many times before and was casually admiring a collection of bright purple anemones when she first spotted something glinting under a rock shelf, just below the water line.
When she reached her hand out to touch it, taking care not to attract the attentions of a grumpy crab, the stone had frightened her at first because it tingled as her hand got close. It wasn’t a stingy tingle, more like touching a hot cup on a really cold day.
But it was an odd feeling at first and she pulled her arm away, sending the surrounding tentacled ladies scurrying back into their simple green huts as if they had been guilty.
Yet something nagged at her to persist, to reach through the water again. And then, after a few brief moments of sifting with her hands, she was holding up an object both dull and beautiful. It gleamed against the sun and drew her companions to her, who gathered round, all excited.
“Oooh,” said Reanna. “Is that a pearl? Did the National Trust Team hide it for us to find?”
“No,” said Niamh. “It’s a precious stone, I think.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Lucy. “It’s been left by a faerie, of course.”
But as the girls giggled Holly examined it closer. It had dried out now and its glow was fading like the last embers of a beach fire. Soon it just resembled another piece of wave-polished sea glass.
So, after the briefest of debates, with a collective shrug they popped it into the blood-red bucket and set off again looking for the real treasure, which somehow seemed to elude them for another season.
Later, sensing their disappointment despite the usual excited chatter as they trudged back, Nanna Jo met them at the door with a smile as broad as the beach and a tray of freshly baked shortbread that they could smell halfway home.
“So,” she twinkled. “What pirate booty have you brought for me this time?”
She had then reached into the bucket, sifted through the flotsam and pulled out the stone, which had now taken on the hue of Cornish clotted cream.
“Well, look at this. It will be just perfect. Just the right size,” she smiled to Pop, a knowing grin on her face.
He looked up over the top of his glasses, put down his book and made for the glue in the half-stuck kitchen drawer.
While the girls washed the shortbread down with fresh strawberry smoothies, Dad got the rickety stepladder and fixed the stone in place at the top of the arch.
“I am going to call it the Moonstone,” announced Holly, “because it looks like something Tim Peake would have brought back from space.”
Being fans of the UK’s famous astronaut, the girls nodded their agreement then headed back to their families with tall tales to tell.
The little cottage then settled back into its gentle holiday rhythm.
Later that night, however, a particularly humid and light night, the first of the stories stole into the girls’ room and danced wildly upon Holly’s dreams.
Storms broke across the shoreline of Holly’s consciousness while she struggled for deep sleep in the witching hours nearly a year ago.
Brightly coloured visions of fantastical creatures burst into her mind like the giant waves that crash over the harbour walls and threaten to drown the famous church tower.
Fantastical images swam into and out of focus in her dreams. Shiny tails, fancily clad folk, horns, wings and hooves flashed past the horizon of her mind, tossed in waves like a herd of wild white horses, frothing, foaming and crying out a sound, a word, a name… her name.
And all the while the roars of the bullying wind failed to drown out the sweet sound of organ music, like a crazy fairground carousel.
When she surfaced back in the real world she had been calling out “Those animals! Those creatures,” arms flailing wildly.
She only calmed down when she realised she had escaped the clutches of the dream and was actually safe once more in her father’s arms.
“Wake up darling,” she remembered him mouthing softly. “Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
And when she managed to focus her eyes, she saw Lucy over her Daddy’s shoulder, her eyes as wide as saucers, pointing.
“Holly,” she mouthed… “you’re on fire.”
When Holly and Dad looked up, startled, her bed and her wall were alive with flickering orange and golden lights. For the briefest of seconds, the bedroom lit up like Christmas night.
Then, just as suddenly, before she could reach out to touch the fireworks, they went out, disappeared.
“What was…?” mouthed Holly.
“I have absolutely no idea,” her father replied, an unusually worried look on his ever-calm face.
“I know!” Lucy said, jumping out of bed and taking down a large, battered book from the top of the chest of drawers.
Recognising it instantly, having spent many a sleepy hour in its company lulling the ladies off to sleep, Dad simply smiled indulgently.
“I’m not sure the Ashridge Forest fairies have found us down here yet, darling. It’s a long way for little wings to fly from Hertfordshire.”
Lucy wrinkled her brow and frowned, with determination, leafing through the big book, searching.
Meanwhile, Pop kiss
ed his youngest on the top of her head and tucked her back in with the book before heading to the kitchen with Holly, who seemed much better now, to warm up two mugs of chocolate milk.
Predictably, Lucy had fallen fast asleep by the time they returned to the pastel bedroom. So he sat on the old green chair and sang gently to his eldest daughter.
She smiled and gradually drifted off as her breathing became heavier and deeper. The soothing drink and soft song were working their magic.
On his way out, just before reaching for the crescent moon night light, he bent down to pick up the Book of Fantastical Faerie Folk. It must have slumped to the carpet when Lucy sank back into the land of nod.
As he went to put it back in its usual place, he was momentarily drawn to the last page she had been looking at.
It was a story about a Cornish mermaid. But strangely it was not a story he could recall reading to them before.
It was beautifully told and artfully drawn.
As his imagination folded into the evocative tale, there, in the skilfully crafted picture of a Cornish scarlet sunset breaking through a malevolent storm, he was greeted by the sight of a young girl at sea.
His mouth opened slowly as the realisation dawned that it was a very familiar face staring back at him, smiling.
Whether the sudden decision to leave early the very next day had anything to do with the odd events of that night, the girls never really discovered. But the adults were already packing to leave for the long drive back to the Shires when they awoke in the morning.
Of course, both sisters asked a hundred times why their holiday had been cut short so suddenly.
They even tried to drag their feet by insisting that they visit each of their friends before leaving, making them late taking to the road.
But their father wouldn’t say why they left early. He simply blamed the weather as they raced the gathering storm clouds all the way back up the motorway evading the forecast full blue, magical harvest moon.
That was last year and for two girls doing so much growing up so fast it seemed like an age ago.
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