The Moonchild Read online

  "Hurry, we can't stop here," she begged, "Only a little way further and we can rest."

  On they went, and when he began to think that they would never stop, she said,

  "We may rest here a while. We will be safe for the time being."

  Nightjar gestured with her hand and the cavern was filled with a gentle , silver light that Peter could see emanated from a milk-white ball in her other palm. For the first time, Peter got a good look his rescuer and saw she was clearly female. Nightjar was slightly shorter than Peter, slender with a muscular, agile appearance. Long white hair reached down her back and contrasted against her olive skin. Her eyes were large and almond shaped, but most surprisingly, they were pale ivory, in a delicate green setting. Peter had never seen anyone as strange, nor so beautiful. He gasped at her sight. She wore a pale green tunic, fastened with a delicate silver belt. Around her head she had a circlet of silver. In his imagination, he knew what a fairy should look like and Nightjar was it. In his imagination? This must all be his imagination. It must be a dream, he told himself. But what a dream!

  Nightjar noticed his stare and her eyes turned to the ground. She bowed her head and held out the light to Peter.

  "Take this. The Moonstone is yours."

  Chapter 4 - The Murder

  Peter just looked at the glowing stone in front of him. He sat and stared. Was this for real? Had he banged his head and been knocked out? It was all too much for him to take in. A part of him was back at Lightholm, waiting for the social workers to take him to Birmingham, and part of him wanted to believe in the magic.

  Nightjar gazed at him with longing and hope in her eyes. Peter reached out and took the stone. Somehow it seemed alive in his hand, sentient. There was a pulse, a throbbing and a feeling like a mild electric shock ran through his arm. The choice was made. The part of him that needed, wanted to believe, won the day.

  "The Moonstone is yours," she said. "Long have we been the keepers and many are the tales of heroism that have kept the stone safe. Now it is yours, by right. Use it well, Moonchild."

  "Moonchild? I am Peter Calender. I know nothing of any Moonchild. What is the Moonstone and what was that thing that was after us?"

  Peter was still out of breath and he noticed that Nightjar's chest rose and fell with the exertion of the chase. She looked at him and her eyes opened wider as she took gentle hold of his cheeks, with both hands. Her face, only a breath away from his, she spoke.

  "You are the Moonchild. You will use the Moonstone to take away the nightmares. You are our hope. The evil that haunts our lives must be driven away. You must destroy Fell Craven!"

  "But I am just Peter and I don't know how to use this stone. What can I do? I am just a boy. Maybe I am not who you think I am. I am Peter Calender from Lightholm. This can't be real. I can't save anyone. I can't even look after myself, now that my grandmother is no more. Take it back. You will be far more use with the Moonstone than me. This is just a dream. It can't be real. Take it back!"

  Nightjar's face fell, but only for a moment and then she smiled.

  "You are the Moonchild. Long have we spoken of your coming. The pipers have played and sung of your tale, so have no fear. It is written that the Moonchild is our hope for salvation from the nightmares of the darkness we have suffered for so long. The Moondial must be restored so we will be free again, or Fell Craven will rule for ever."

  "But, what can I do?"

  "Come, we must leave. We are not safe here. We will discuss this later. I think I know who can help."

  She rose and pulled him to his feet, though both still had to stoop. The cave led a long and winding path deep into the hillside.... and Peter lost sense of all direction and time. Nightjar seemed to sense her way through the black of the passage, as she didn't ask Peter for the use of the Moonstone, which he could feel deep in his trouser pocket.

  Eventually, Peter became aware that he could distinguish the pathway that Nightjar was leading him along. Nightjar pulled him towards a growing light with increasing urgency and Peter could feel her body tense. She turned to him and placed her finger on his lips. She let go of his hand and motioned for him to remain where he was. She crept towards the exit of the cave and was silhouetted in a circle of light. In a flash, she disappeared. Peter waited what seemed like an eternity, but she did not return.

  Standing alone, he felt vulnerable and afraid. He could bear the loneliness no longer and he crept towards the light. Slowly, he emerged into a new world. He was on a hillside with sweeping views across a heavily forested landscape. It was early dawn and two suns were rising over the distant horizon. One sun was much larger than the other, but both had a blood-red hue that cast a strange alien light across the world. But which world? Peter had no doubt this was not his world. He was a child of a different land and he had no idea how he had got here and now he was alone again. There was no sign of Nightjar and no sign of anyone. He looked again to take in the new world. The white smile of the moon was just disappearing below the horizon as the suns rose higher. He was alone. Abandoned!

  He studied the terrain near to him and suddenly realised there was indeed evidence of human, or other life. He saw a trail, badly overgrown, but clearly a track leading down the slope from the cave. Without hesitation he made his way down it, looking for clues of Nightjar's fate. He was no trekker, but he recognised the sign of an encampment. At the bottom of the slope, an area of grass was flattened and there were the remnants of a small fire. The ashes were still warm to his touch. Could whoever, or whatever had been camped here, have taken Nightjar? It was his only clue and his only hope. The trail led into the forest and after once again failing to find any other signs of Nightjar, he felt he had no choice but to follow it. Nightjar was the only one who could help him. The only one who seemed to know what was happening to him and she said she knew someone who might be able to help. Peter had seen the hunter and the beast he rode, and he did not want to meet either of them again.

  Very much afraid, Peter Calender headed down the trail at a brisk pace. As time passed, he became more aware of how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since early that morning in Lightholm and he had no idea how long ago that was; a day, a morning, a lifetime? With growing fear and hunger he followed the trail and entered the forest.

  He found it difficult to keep to the path. The way was barely recognisable in parts and clearly not well used. The trees became more dense and the light, even under two suns, became very dim. The twilight created a sense of foreboding below the green canopy, and Peter became more nervous with every passing moment. He recognised the source of the unease. There was a total lack of sound. The forest was silent and lifeless, apart from his own footfalls. This seemed so unnatural and yet nothing about his environment from the moment he had entered the garden could be described as natural or familiar. Two suns, Nightjar, the hunter and his beast, nothing was as it should be, and yet Peter knew his only hope of making sense was to find Nightjar. He believed she wouldn't have willingly left him alone and assumed that someone, or something, had taken her against her will. If that was the case then they couldn't be too far ahead. He hadn't waited long in the cave and the time taken to decide to follow the trail would not have allowed them to get far in front.

  The route showed little sign of traffic, but occasionally, he saw flattened grass that could be evidence of footmarks. Was he just fooling himself? Was he seeing things that weren't there? He needed to convince himself that he had made the right choice. His pace slowed. He was feeling tired, scared and alone. The forest seemed to press in on him. He felt small and the tall smooth trunks rose like columns, supporting a high, green roof canopy. After plodding along for what felt like an eternity, he knew he needed to rest. His thirst was becoming desperate and needed to drink soon or he would become seriously ill. As it was, he was becoming weaker and his vision bounced with each footstep. Plod. Plod. Plod. His steps seemed to echo through the silent forest as he staggered along.

  In his desperation
he thought he was beginning to hallucinate. Was that running water he could hear? Faintly he heard the gentle tinkle of water running over rocks. Not a torrent, but a gentle cadence of a small stream or brook. He stopped and listened. Yes. It was clearer now. The track seemed to be heading in the direction of the sound, so he set off with renewed speed. Within minutes he could tell the sound of water was louder and hope filled Peter's heart. Passing between two particularly large tree trunks he entered a glade and beheld a scene of hope and despair.

  The source of the sound was a small babbling stream that ran through a shallow gully gently cascading over rocks. The water looked clear and fresh. Peter could hardly believe it, but then on the other side of the brook he saw death! Carnage! Bodies, or the remains of bodies were strewn across the soft grass of the glade. Peter's heart stopped with shock. Whatever had happened was beyond anything he could imagine. He had seen death recently, with his grandmother, but he had never witnessed slaughter. The scene told of a savagery he couldn't imagine. The bodies and remains were scattered, torn apart with immense force and brutality. This was no battle scene. The victims had stood no chance. The contest was not equal. This was butchery, savage and wicked. Peter took in the view and his stomach heaved and he turned and vomited. But for the fact that he had was dehydrated, he was not sure if he would have ever stopped. He turned to view the glade again. Was Nightjar amongst the slain? He had to know. Being careful where he trod, he searched the remains and took some satisfaction that Nightjar was not one of the fallen. After the initial shock, he began to take in more details and he realised the massacre was recent, maybe a few hours old. There were signs that carrion had fed on the remains and flies were beginning to cover the bodies in a black mist. The fallen were armed, but in no case had a sword been drawn. Clearly taken by surprise, the killing was complete and sudden.

  Peter realised that whoever had Nightjar must have seen this sight and not lingered. They would be even further ahead by now. His thirst was still real and overpowering. He needed to drink. Moving upstream of the slaughter he dunked his head into the icy flow. The cold bite startled him and freed his thoughts. With steely reasoning, he drank his fill and decided to return to the charnel in the glade and arm himself. He wondered if food would be in their packs, but his stomach couldn't condone food from such a scene.

  Still gagging at the sight, he made a frantic search for weapons that he could use. He gazed at the faces of the victims, frozen in horror and they stared unseeing at him, as he searched their belongings. Rigor mortis had set into the remains, so he believed the attack must have been early in the morning. He knew it took several hours for full stiffness to develop and that it was lost after twelve hours. Peter found a sword that wasn't too heavy, so with care he removed the belt and scabbard, and he washed the weapon in the stream and returned to collect a small bow and quiver of arrows. He didn't know how to use them, but he knew that he didn't want to be defenceless. He belted the sword around his waist and the quiver across his back. Bow grasped in his hand, he set off along the trail with renewed urgency and caution. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the glade as he could.

  The day wound on and Peter felt his hunger grow as the temperature rose. He could only sense, the two suns as they approached the zenith, as the green canopy shielded him from their direct rays. The air grew still and oppressive as he trudged along the pathway. The sword at his side and the bow in his hand began to weigh on him and he wondered if he was being foolish carrying them. He had no idea how to really use them, but their weight did give him a sense of security, though he knew it had not helped their previous owners.

  After several hours following the trail, a gnawing thought began to fill his mind. Surely, he should have caught up with Nightjar and her captives, by now. If they were on horseback, then there was no way he would ever catch up, but what else could he do? He had seen no evidence of horses, so he continued on.

  Peter began to realise that the suns were well past their zenith and that it would be dark in a short while. The forest trees cast long shadows and he knew that he would have to stop soon, find somewhere to shelter and spend the night alone in the forest. It was at this moment that someone stepped out from behind one of the large trees to his left.

  Peter's heart jumped and instinctively he grabbed the hilt of the sword at his side.

  "I wouldn't draw that sword if I were you." said the figure. "You have the look of someone who would cause more harm to himself with it than to me."

  "Who are you? What do you want?" said Peter. " I swear I will use this sword if you come any nearer." However, he stopped drawing the sword, but the hilt remained in his firm grip.

  The stranger stepped out from the gloom into a pool of fading light and Peter could see that he was a tall, rangy man of an indeterminate age. He was dressed in an olive green tunic and leggings and a dark grey hooded cloak covered him from head to leather boots. His face was cast in shadow below the hood, but a large hooked nose was evident as was a short beard. Across his shoulders hung a long bow and quiver, but no other weapon could be seen.

  "Hold on, boy. I wish you no harm. If I did, you would already be carrion fodder. I merely wish to speak, to find out why you are here alone in Stonebeck Deep. None but a fool or a knave would be out here alone at night. I judge you no nave nor fool, so I am intrigued. What are you, boy?"

  "I don't know who you are. Why should I tell you anything?"

  "Fair enough. Clearly not a fool. Come, I was setting up camp not far from here when I heard you thrashing through the forest. I have food and drink to spare."

  "Thrashing? I thought I was being quiet. I don't know where I am or who you are, but if you have food I will follow you."

  "Come along. At least you will be warm and fed tonight. I cannot guarantee anyone safety in this land, but your chances are much stronger with me than alone. I am Ravenscort. Let's get off this trail. Others may walk this path tonight and I assure you, you would not want to meet them."

  He turned and headed back into the trees. Peter followed, struggling to keep up, but within a short time they emerged in a sheltered area between the tree boughs where there was a small overhanging rock. The cave was only shallow, more of an indentation, but towards the back a small welcoming fire burned and there was the smell of roasting meat. Peter's mouth started to water and the deep pangs of hunger re-emerged.

  The stranger indicated for Peter to sit and then he busied himself preparing the food. As he rested, Peter watched Ravenscort. With his hood drawn back, he saw the man's face in detail for the first time. His skin was worn and weather beaten. Lines etched his eyes and mouth and a long scar crossed his face from below his right eye to the edge of his lips. He had a beard of thick stubble and dark grey eyes , full of life and fire, showed from below a strong brow. He had the look of a hard man. Whilst busy, his eyes had kept flicking towards Peter as if assessing him.

  Peter could not hazard a guess what the meat was that was placed before him, accompanied by large hunk of bread but with no hesitation, he set upon devouring it all. He couldn't say that he even tasted it in his hurry, but his hunger was sated.

  "Not eaten recently?" Ravenscort quipped. "Here, there is more, but I advise that you to take your time. It is never good to gorge on an empty stomach."

  "Thank you sir. I don't know when I last ate."

  Peter's plate was refilled and this time he acted on the advice and ate at a more normal pace and savoured the taste of the roast, sopping up the juices with the bread. Ravenscort passed him a flagon of ale and Peter realised how much of a thirst he had. Sitting with his own food and drink, Ravenscort ate his meal slowly and when finished he turned to Peter.

  "As I said, I am Ravenscort and I mean you no harm, but I am intrigued as to why you are here in Stonebeck Deep. It is now your turn to tell your tale. Introductions work both ways."

  Peter was unsure what to say and how much to tell. Here he was, with a stranger, in a forest, on a world he knew nothing
about. After a pause he replied,

  "My name is Peter Calender. I live ... lived, in a village called Lightholm. My world has one sun and yet here there are two, so I am at a loss to explain how I got here. When I arrived I met a girl called Nightjar. She helped me. I believe she has been taken captive by someone, but I don't know who and I am trying to catch up with them so I can free her."

  His face fell. It didn't seem much of a story and certainly it wasn't one he would have believed before today. He didn't go into further details as he still knew very little about Ravenscort and if he had learnt anything about this world it was that its danger was very real. For all he knew, Ravenscort could be party to whoever had Nightjar.

  "You don't seem to know much, Peter Calender, but I sense a ring of truth in your words. I have heard of other worlds, and legends of them are many. I don't know the girl Nightjar, but I do know there are many things, both human and nonhuman that would take a girl travelling alone in Stonebeck Deep. Believe me, none of them would have good intent. Who, or whatever, has her will have to wait until the morrow. The night is not a safe time to be out wandering in the Deep. It is the time of the hunters, and few are brave or strong enough to safely travel the Deep in the dark. If I hadn't found you first, a hunter would have made short work of you, boy. Whether armed with steel and arrow, or not."

  As he said this, Ravenscort looked at the sword that Peter had fastened to his waist. A puzzled look crossed his face and he leaned in,

  "Where did you get this blade, boy? You don't carry it like a man familiar with its use. Let me look at it!"

  Peter flinched. The sudden change in Ravenscort's demeanour caught him off guard. He jumped up and thought about drawing the blade, but Ravenscort remained sitting and didn't appear to pose an immediate threat. Slowly, Peter drew the blade and handed it, hilt first, to the man sitting by the fire. Ravenscort took the blade and a look of recognition flitted across his face and he jumped to his feet.