The first boats landed on the narrow strip of rock and shingle just as dawn was breaking. Suddenly, men were falling before the sound of enemy gun fire from the cliff tops could reach those below.

An officer was heard to shout, 'Tell the Colonel the damn fools have landed us a mile too far to the north!'

They were, in fact, at Ari Burnu. Some two miles away from Gaba Tepe, where they should have been.

It was the 25th of April, 1915. And the soldiers of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps were about to make history. Although many would say for all the wrong reasons.

The planned campaign to capture the Turkish held Gallipoli Peninsula, approved by the British War Cabinet in an effort to clear the Dardanelles and allow free passage to Constantinople, was a disaster from its inception that would become a monumental tragedy.

Dear Mum and Dad

I have just heard that the mail bag closes tonight so I must hurry up and get a letter off to you. We had a very comfy trip over from Alexandria (Egypt) and for the last four days we have been lying at anchor in this harbour and thoroughly enjoying ourselves...

...It has been awfully jolly having these few days with absolutely nothing to do...

...We have only had one mail so far. I wish we could get another. It is a perfectly glorious evening. The sun has just set just like it did back home and now there are only cool shadows with blue hills - very broken - in the distance.

Your loving Son

Francis

Dear Mum and Dad

At last I have a chance to write you a line. I am afraid that there is a long gap between this and my last letter posted just before we landed...

...The country here is hopeless for moving guns over. No roads but sandy tracks and all the rest is boulders and prickly shrubs...

...We were shelled out yesterday and so last night we moved, and I hope there will be peace for a little...

...War is a frightfully tiring sort of game, you shoot all day and dig all night until you are so tired that your knees literally knock. The snipers are jolly bad. They paint themselves green and hide in trees and bushes, and have a pot at you as you go past...

...Half a mile from shore the troops were under shell fire and many a poor chap never got off the destroyers and many more were killed in the boats both by rifle and machine gun fire. One boat was struck on the waterline by a concussion shell and of course sank. Some of the men were drowned. One chap swam ashore with the whole of his kit and rifle though how the dickens he did it I do not know...

...A couple of pontoons loaded with troops broke loose from the tow and the Turks got the machine guns on to them and killed every man...

...When our boys got ashore they soon rooted out all the Turks. They charged them with the bayonet. I heard that one officer bagged five with his revolver...

...I was fine until I saw the bodies of four poor beggars on the destroyer covered over with a tarpaulin. The blood was running out from under it and it quite upset me. Didn’t get my nerve back until we got into the rowing boats...

...The shrapnel was bursting all around us but our boat escaped and landed without any casualties. When the boats got fairly close in we hopped out. I picked out a nice shallow part up to my knees but didn’t get three feet before it was almost to my waist. One of our boys stood on a stone and it rolled and he went right under...

...After a short rest in a ravine we pushed on. We had to pull ourselves up the hills by the undergrowth in places. None of them were very high but they were all very steep and we had to stop for a spell every little while. It was during one of these short spells that we had our first casualty. A bullet got Sergeant Cavill in the neck and killed him dead...

...The bullets from the fighting in front were flying around pretty thick. You could hear in every direction the sharp crack as they passed. Finally we got on top of the hill with a pretty good trench in it. The fact that it was a Turkish trench didn’t worry us in the least. We just took possession of it and inwardly thanked the Turks for saving us the trouble of digging one...

...It (the trench) had no field of fire so we got up on to the crest of the hill and tried to pick out some of the Turks who were now potting at us both with rifles and machine guns. But we could not see a sign of them as the whole country is covered with scrub...

...About noon we had the artillery turned on us again. We had no protection against the shrapnel so we had to grin and bear it. Every few seconds a shell would burst - sometimes near us and sometimes a bit off - and they kept our nerves on edge all the time...

...Our Company Sergeant-Major was shot dead by a sniper. The bullet hit him between the eyes...

...We got practically no sleep on the Sunday night as the enemy kept up a persistent fire the whole night long and threatened us with bayonet attacks several times. Just after sunset I took some ammunition to the right where they were running out. I was warned about a bit of open ground that I had to cross so I rushed over. Luckily the beggar missed me and I got over. It was funny coming back. I made a rush and fell over half way but got up mighty quick I can tell you. He must have been unprepared because he did not pot at me. Next day was pretty warm work. They (the Turks) never gave us a minute’s peace.

Your loving Son

Francis

Dear Mrs Briggs

It is with the deepest regret that I sit down to write this letter. I feel that mere words are utterly too feeble to express my feelings of sympathy at your great loss.

It was a most unfortunate accident, as your son Francis was sitting in our Dug-out when a shell came through the sand-bags severing his left leg and injuring the other to such an extent that it would ever have been useless.

Your son was immediately taken down to a field hospital and expired early the following morning.

As his constant companion for nearly a year I am proud to think that we had made a lasting friendship, I cannot tell you how he will be missed as the best of good comrades.

It is bitter to leave so many of our dead friends in their lonely graves.

Yours deeply sympathising

R. H. Peel

It had only been 14 years since the separate colonies had agreed to become a "federation" that would be called Australia. A young nation without a sense of national identity or pride would find it on a foreign and fatal shore.

The only light came from an open hatch in the deck above. The air was stale and foul with the stench of the Thames; full as it was with every imaginable waste the city of London could need to dispose of. Still more chained convicts were herded below to stumble in the half-light. When the prison ship had taken some 180 men aboard, they were each given a wooden bowl, tin spoon, and a dipper for water: and were fed that day's ration of hard biscuit and boiled salt beef.

"Farewell to my rum culls as well."

After a month at sea in the English Channel, they anchored in Portsmouth, and a physician was sent for. Speaking through his handkerchief, the doctor declared the necessity of fresh meat and vegetables. They were served the same hard biscuit and boiled beef that day, but a pot of fermented cabbage came with it. The sick continued to die, and were left as they lay, in their own filth. When the forward hatch was finally opened, it was not to dispose of the dead, but to replace them with yet more convicts. There were now more than 200 prisoners packed into a space some 70 feet in length and 35 feet at its widest.

"Farewell to the Beaks of Old Bailey."

An officer of marines more senior than a lieutenant was rowed out to inspect the ship in the company of a surgeon. The Major would now be responsible for their persons and their lives, he informed them: the ship's captain having other concerns. The conditions were not nearly satisfactory, he said, but that would be rectified while they remained in port. The dead were taken away, the sick were moved to a hulk that served as a hospital, and the ship was cleaned and fumigated.

"The bastards that sent me to Hell."

Any and all future transgressions, the Major warned them, would result in a flogging. Where a whip or a cane would raise welts, the 'cat' - with small lead pellets at the end of each of its nine knotted tails - would tear the skin with its first strike. Having witnessed for himself what damage as few as twenty lashes would do to a man's back, that number being the usual punishment for something as minor as stealing a crust of bread, Jim made damn sure he never once gave the marine Major a reason to let the cat out of the bag.

"Singing too-ra-lie too-ra-lie al-lit-y."

When they were well out to sea, with no possible way to escape, other than leaping overboard (and drowning), their leg-irons were removed and the convicts were allowed on deck. The slightest roll of the ship was enough to set young Jim Dawes to heaving. He was leaning over the starboard gunwale, forward of the main, and green to the gills, when a marine corporal said in passing... 'It won't last, lad. Or you won't. One or t'other.'

"Singing too-ra-lie too-ra-lie ay."

Around them, some scattered as far as the horizon, were the other ships of the fleet. Escorts: HMS Sirius and HMS Supply. The Convict Transports: Alexander, Charlotte, Friendship, Lady Penrhyn, Prince of Wales, and Scarborough. And three Store ships: Borrowdale,. Fishburn, and the Golden Grove. All sailing to the far side of the world. To a place Jim (and many others) had never heard of.

"Singing too-ra-lie too-ra-lie al-lit-y."

On the 19th of January, 1788, the converted slaver Alexander, having sailed 15,034 nautical miles in 251 days, set her course between Cape Banks and Point Solander to anchor in Botany Bay. There, with the ten other ships of the fleet, to establish the first of Britain's penal colonies in New South Wales.

"We're bound for Botany Bay!"

The decision (to establish a colony) was made by Thomas Townshend, Lord Sydney, Secretary of State for the Home Office for two reasons: the ending of transportation of criminals to the 13 colonies in North America, which had lead to the overcrowding of England's gaols, and the need for a base in the Pacific to counter French expansion. In September of 1786, Captain Arthur Phillip was appointed Commodore of the fleet to transport convicts - both male and female - with a guard of marines to establish the colony at Botany Bay. Upon arriving there, Phillip was to assume the powers of Captain General and Governor in Chief of the new colony. A subsidiary colony was (also) to be founded on Norfolk Island to take advantage, for naval purposes, of that island's native flax and timber, the Norfolk Pine.

Dearest Sister Anne.

I have arrived. Tho where, with any certainty, I know not. But can honestly say it is no place I wish to remain. No sooner had the Guv'nor stepped ashore only to declare it unfit for human habitation, and to order the fleet to sail North'ard to an harbour by name of Port Jackson.

It is here at Sydney Cove that we are to build an settlement. From what, or with what, we are none the wiser, and have no suitable tools. The trees here are too hard to be sawn. There is clay for the making of bricks, but no source of lime for mortar. The soil is poor and will not grow sufficient crops, so all food is rationed, and the stealing of it to be punishable by hanging.

I have heard, from an fool of an Irishman, that China is but an stroll o'er the mountains, tho to reach such requires braving the native Indigenes, who are repulsive in appearance, lack all modesty, and are murderous in their intentions toward us.

Of animals, other than those what 'companied us on our voyage, I have seen few. One is said to resemble an horse, but bounds on its strong hind legs much like an flea, using its long tail much as an ship would its rudder. An nother, of brown or gray furring, with four short stubby legs and shaped like an small keg o rum, does burrow into the earth like an Welsh miner.

Of birds there are thousands, all very pretty in their bright colours, but none as can be eaten. There are enormous tree climbing lizards. Biting ants as long as an finger. Venomous serpents, and jumping spiders, also venomous. The rats, fleas, lice, and other assorted vermin, are the same ones as we brought with us, and multiply here where nothing else can.

Still, I am alive, and hope to remain so. Five more years and I shall be an free man, to make such an life for myself as I am able. And not yet twenty!

Your Brother,

Jim.

The majority of the people travelling with the fleet were convicts, all having been tried and convicted in Great Britain, almost all of them in England, for crimes including theft, perjury, fraud, assault, or robbery, for which they had variously been sentenced to death, but this was later commuted to penal transportation for 7 years, 14 years, or the term of their natural life.

"Aint leaving old England we cares about."

Four companies of marines volunteered for service in the colony, these marines made up the New South Wales Marine Corps under the command of Major Robert Ross, with a detachment on board every convict transport. The families of some of these marines also made the voyage.

"Aint cos we mis-spells what we knows."

The chief surgeon for the First Fleet, John White, reported a total of 48 deaths and 28 births during the voyage. The deaths during the voyage included one marine, one marine's wife, one marine's child, 36 male convicts, four female convicts, and five children of convicts.

"But cos all we light-fingered gen'lemen."

On the 3rd of June, 1787, the fleet anchored at Santa Cruz - at Tenerife - where fresh water, vegetables and meat were brought on board. Phillip and the chief officers were entertained by the local governor, while one convict tried (unsuccessfully) to escape. On the 10th day of June they set sail across the Atlantic to Rio de Janeiro in Portuguese Brazil.

"Hops 'round with a log on our toes."

Leaving Rio de Janeiro on the 4th of September, to run before the westerlies to the Table Bay in Dutch southern Africa, the fleet arrived on the 13th of October. This was to be the last port of call before crossing the Pacific Ocean to what was then Van Diemen's Land, now the island of Tasmania, but on Lieutenant James Cook's charts was shown as being connected to the mainland, and New South Wales stretched all the way to the northern most tip of what is now the separate state of Queensland.

"Singing too-ra-lie too-ra-lie al-lit-y."

It was soon realised that Botany Bay did not live up to the glowing account that the explorer James Cook had provided. The bay was open and unprotected, the water was too shallow to allow the ships to anchor close to the shore, fresh water was scarce, and the soil was poor.

"Singing too-ra-lie too-ra-lie ay."

On the 21st of January, 1788, Phillip and company departed Botany Bay in three small boats to explore other (possibly) better suited sites. Phillip discovered that Port Jackson, some eight miles to the north, was an excellent site for a colony with its sheltered anchorages, fresh water, and fertile soil. Cook had seen and named the harbour, but had not entered.

"Singing too-ra-lie too-ra-lie al-lit-y."

The First Fleet encountered Indigenous Australians when they landed at Botany Bay. The Cadigal people of the area witnessed the Fleet arrive and, six days later, the two ships of French explorer La Pérouse - the Astrolabe and the Boussole - sail into the bay as the British were sailing out. On the 26th of January the Fleet weighed anchor and sailed to Port Jackson. Phillip named the new settlement Sydney Cove, after Lord Sydney, the British Home Secretary, and this was later shortened to just Sydney.

"We're bound for Botany Bay!"

In the beginning all the land was flat and featureless. There were no rivers and no mountains. Nothing grew on the land. There were no trees. There were no birds or animals. And no people. There was only the Sun, his wife the Moon, their children the Stars, and the Great Rainbow Serpent; Julunggul.

Where the Rainbow Serpent crawled Julunggul moved the earth and made the mountains, the hills, the plains, and the valleys. Julunggul made the rain, and the rain flowed down into the valleys until the creeks and streams joined together to make the rivers. The rivers made the lakes and the seas. And where the seas came together they made the ocean.

Julunggul was happy with the land that he had made. He made the trees and the grasses grow. Where the Sun touched the leaves of the trees they grew flowers, and the flowers grew seeds or berries, or sometimes fruit. Then the Rainbow Serpent thought how quiet the land was, and so Julunggul made all the different kinds of birds and taught them how to sing, and how to fly with the wings that he gave them. The Rainbow Serpent thought these were all good things.

Some of the birds were too lazy to fly and they became the animals. When there were too many animals to live on the land some became the fish and all the other creatures that live in the water. Where there were many rocks and stones he made the lizards and the snakes, and the ones he could catch he painted with bright colours, while those that hid from Julunggul remained a dull brown, or green like the leaves of the trees in which they had hidden.

Having made the land and the water and everything that lived the Rainbow Serpent was tired. He burrowed under the mountains where it was cool, and where the Sun's light would not keep him awake. After a long sleep, Julunggul came out from under the mountains, and out of the hole he left behind him came the first people. These were small people and their skins were white. They ate the fruit from the trees. They caught birds and hunted animals, and they ate these too. The more the people ate the more they grew. They lived long lives, these people, and the longer they lived the darker the Sun burned them, until the people were tall, and their skins were black.

They lived many years, but all things must die. The dark skin dried on their white bones, but their spirits remained to walk the land at night. Because these spirits did not see the sun, their skins faded back to white like their bones. It was only natural for the dead to miss their friends and families and want to visit them, and the ancestor spirits decided they would do just that. These ancestor spirits had wandered far, some had crossed the oceans, so to return to the land of the people they cut down a tall tree to make a canoe large enough to hold them all. It was in this canoe that they came across the water.

Many of the people were pleased to welcome the ancestor spirits. They sang their songs for them, and they danced their dances. But the dead had forgotten these songs in their long wanderings, just as they had forgotten the dances. They had become strangers to their friends and their families, whose names they could not remember.

The ancestor spirits wanted what the people had, and if the people did not wish to give them these things, then the dead became angry and took them anyway. Only then did the people learn that these were not the spirits of their ancestors, but a different tribe from a far away country. A country where the sun was too weak to have burned them, or perhaps because they covered themselves during the day.

The people of the white skin tribe were too many to count. They were like the termites that pour out of a flooded mound. They could be killed, but they could not be stopped because, always, there were more canoes. For every white skin person the first people killed two more took his place. Soon they covered the land. They cut down the trees and ploughed the soil. They brought strange animals with them to eat the wild grasses. They dammed the rivers. And they dug out the sides of mountains. All the land was theirs, they said, and they could do with it as they pleased. But the land did not belong to the white skin tribe, any more than it belonged to the people. The people belonged to the land.

Julunggul, the Great Rainbow Serpent, could not help the people. He had gone to live with the Sun in the sky. The first people could not live with the white skin tribe. Their ways were not the same ways. Their songs were not the same songs. Their laws were not the same laws. And yet so powerful had the white skin tribe become, the people could not live without them.

Part 2 of The Dragon Pearl

Aldhyrwoode was troubled. He sat at the kitchen table in the crofter's house, holding a horn of untasted mead, thinking he might have made a terrible mistake. The cat-woman, Shadow, stood behind the wizard's chair, while two of the Skraaal guards patrolled the yard outside.

Is something wrong? The crofter asked.

Hmmm, said Aldhyrwoode, still deep in thought.

I'll pour you another, said the crofter.

But Aldhyrwoode waved him away, saying, You have horses?

Yes?

We need them, said the wizard. And he pushed his chair back to leap to his feet so suddenly, Shadow had to move aside just as nimbly.

Where will you go? Asked the crofter.

To Castellayne first. To speak with King Aldhyn. And then, said Aldhyrwoode, I will need to go to Qin Xa, and the Jade Temple.

What if the dragon returns? The village is in an uproar as it is. What with the forest burning and...

Her Imperial Highness will not be back, Aldhyrwoode told him. It was Eav she wanted, and Eav is not here.

Take me with you, said the crofter. If Eav is in danger, I want to help.

The child's life is not at risk, said Aldhyrwoode, but ours might be. All of human-kind. Oh, I'm a fool! A fool! Come if you will - And be quick about it!

In the century since Aldhyn's great-grandfather had founded the kingdom, Rhealmyrr had grown in power and influence to rival its much larger neighbour, Navarre. The two were now bound firmly together by blood, the Duke of Navarre being Aldhyn's cousin, Rafael, who was the son of Duke Rhowyn, who was the son of King Robin, who was the son of Rhealmyrr's first king, D'Arturian. And the wizard, Aldhyrwoode, after whom Aldhyn was named, had been there from the very beginning.

Where is my rug? Aldhyrwoode asked loudly, striding through the doors of the Great Hall at Castellayne.

Presumably where you left it, replied King Aldhyn, seemingly not the least bit surprised by the wizard's sudden appearance. But might I ask why you need it? And who is this with you?

This is the crofter, said Aldhyrwoode. His name is...

Colm, Your Majesty.

Comb? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

Not Comb. Colm.

That is what I said!

C o l m, spelled the crofter.

Whatever, said Aldhyrwoode. Where is my rug?

Do you mean my grandmother's flying carpet? Asked King Aldhyn.

That is exactly what I mean. Where is it?

You had it last, said the king. What did you do with it?

Aldhyrwoode threw his hands in the air. If I could remember, he said, I would not need to ask!

Take Shadow, Aldhyrwoode told the crofter, and go and find my rug. She knows what it looks like. I must speak to Aldhyn - Alone.

What is it? Asked the young king. Is it about the child?

Aldhyrwoode nodded. Eav is who I thought. She is The Dragon's Pearl.

And her mother?

The Empress of Qin Xa was there.

Did it go as badly as you feared?

It did not go well, said Aldhyrwoode. The De-Xian were there, as arranged. And I gave Eav over to her father. Or I thought I did. Only, now...

You have doubts?

I think The Dragon Emperor was someone else. An imposter. I did not recognize him in the confusion. It only came to me later. The Emperor's human form was a bit too human. And, if I'm right, then...

If it wasn't the real Emperor, said Aldhyn, who was it?

It was your father. The Snow Bear - Felix Ulveus.

There were a thousand questions. The crofter, Colm, asked most of them. Aldhyrwoode did his best to explain.

Ulveus is the bastard son of Don Matteo, the younger brother of Don Sebastian, who was the Duke of Navarre, with one of Bjern Bearskinner's three daughters. When Don Sebastian's son, Alejandro, died at the battle of The Isle Of Bones, against the Clan uprising, Sebastian adopted Prince Rhowyn as his grandson, and nominated him to be the next duke. The council of Navarre's most noble families agreed, but only after Rhowyn was betrothed to the daughter of Don Javier Des Santiago. The dukedom was never offered to Matteo when Sebastian died, even though he had as much right to be put forward as anyone. Ulveus and his father, Matteo, were frequent guests of King Robin and Queen Saavi at Castellayne, until Ulveus raped the Princess Marisanne. King Aldhyn is their son. But Felix Ulveus also could have become the Duke of Navarre, through his father's side, and would have if he could have, if the noble families had not concurred with Rhowyn's wish that his first born son, Rafael, succeed him. Rafael being half Des Santiago made all the difference. That and the fact that Ulveus has never been...

The full bale of straw? Suggested Colm.

Yes, said Aldhyrwoode. Exactly.

The "rug" was found rolled up and shoved under Aldhyrwoode's bed.

It's always the last place you look, grumbled the wizard.

Where are my spectacles? He asked Shadow. Have you seen them?

They are on your face, Master.

And my hat? I will need my hat.

You are wearing it.

Eh? Oh. Right. Spectacles. Hat. Staff. Magic carpet. We have everything we need!

Yes, Master.

Then what are we waiting for? Said Aldhyrwoode. Let us be off!

Shadow followed the wizard to the door of his chamber, where he suddenly stopped and, over his shoulder said, And bring my spectacles with you.

On the ground outside the wizard's tower, two of the castle guards unrolled the flying carpet for another eight to stand on its edges and corners until Colm, Shadow, and Aldhyrwoode were sitting comfortably. The guards were ready to step back and release the magic carpet when King Aldhyn appeared, dressed for an adventure in a pair of old boots, russet brown hose, and a forest green tunic that was belted at the waist. The short steel sword in its plain leather scabbard at his hip was plain and practical.

Is there room for one more? He asked.

The Stairs To The Eternal Throne formed a natural border between the lands surrounding the fortress city of Jal Naghrahar and the federation of nation states and their provinces ruled by the Qin. The mountains' snow-capped rugged peaks were higher than the clouds. The Jade Temple was exactly that; built using solid blocks and columns of the green stone that had been shaped and intricately carved by no human hand.

Must be a bugger to heat, said Colm.

It would be, Aldhyrwoode told him, if the mountain was not a volcano. The De-Xian use vented shafts inside the walls to circulate hot air, as well as thermal springs that flow through pipes under the floors, to regulate the temperature. And there are gardens, in raised beds watered by mountain streams, all under artificial lights powered by energy generated from underground rivers using pressure to turn turbines.

Like a mill-wheel grinds flour? Colm asked.

Yes and no, said Aldhyrwoode. The technology is a bit more complicated than that, but the theory... I can explain it to you later, in more detail, when we have time. And, perhaps, even show you. If the De-Xian allow it.

What kind of welcome are you expecting? Aldhyn asked the wizard.

Let us hope it is a warm one. replied Aldhyrwoode, but not too warm.

Is my father there, do you think?

Unlikely, said Aldhyrwoode. He would have known we would come here.

How did he manage to get one of the airships? Said Colm.

By force, said Aldhyrwoode. That is how Ulveus gets most things.

The evidence was there, scattered all around them, when they landed in a large paved courtyard behind a crenellated wall that was draped with the bodies of dozens of dead Imperial Guards.

The halls of the Jade Temple were silent and empty.

We are too late, said Shadow.

No one, it seemed, had been spared.

The dead lay piled, one on top of another, where they had fallen, in what must have been one last stand of desperate and savage hand to hand fighting.

Most were Qin, but more than a few were De-Xian, and among them lay the bodies of their attackers.

These are Horned Men, said Aldhyn, kneeling to inspect one of the corpses.

This one is Gir, said Shadow. But there are others with painted faces and feathers in their hair.

And there are Leopard Men here, said Aldhyrwoode, from the jungles of Zuul.

Mercenaries, said Aldhyn. They must be. Here is another from Navarre. And there a Petroan. And these two are raiders, from Greyshale.

The defenders did not die easily, said Shadow.

I think this one might be Skraaal, said Colm, but I can't be sure. He could be De-Xian. How do you tell?

Their colour, said Aldhyrwoode. The Skraaal are always varying shades of green. The De-Xian are blue. Or silver.

Or gold, said Shadow, like the Empress.

No blade did this, said Aldhyn, who was crouched over the body of a Qin warrior. The throat has been torn out... By some kind of animal, it looks like. A wolf, maybe. Or a tygre. What do you think? He asked Aldhyrwoode.

But whatever the wizard was thinking, he kept to himself, saying only, We have no more time for the dead. Let us worry about the living.

The Dragon Emperor had been mortally wounded. They found him slumped at the base of the Imperial Throne, somehow, by some miracle or sheer strength of will, still alive.

In his true form, Ataam was more reptile than human, though no less noble, or handsome. Layer upon layer of irriedescent silver scales shimmered from the top of his ridged and crested skull to the very tip of his long sinuous tail.

Hearing the echo of footsteps, he stirred and called, Who is there?

It is King Aldhyn, answered Aldhyrwoode, of Rhealmyrr.

Aaaaah... A king has come to bury an emperor.

What happened here? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

I know you, said Ataam. You are the one they call Al Den Whyr.

It is a name I have not heard for a very long time, said the wizard.

What is a hundred years or so? It means no more to us than a single grain of sand in an hour-glass.

Who did this? Aldhyn asked. Was it Ulveus?

There was no reply.

The Dragon Emperor was fading.

Do something, said Aldhyn.

But Aldhyrwoode shook his head.

There is nothing he can do, said Ataam. I feel no pain. I am beyond that. Be quiet now and hear me. Ulveus supplied the temple with eunuchs. That was how he was able to come and go without suspicion. We never thought... We did not expect... He came for Eav. Xer Xia took our daughter and escaped. I did not know where until a raven came... It brought a message from the other side of the world. Ulveaus was still here then. Do not blame yourself, Al Den Whyr. You could not have known. You must find The Empress. Xer Xia is not of our race. Not De-Xian. She existed before... Before the world. Before the mountain. And, yet, Xer Xia is the mountain... Eav created the world. But Xer Xia is the world. The... Life... The Spirit of... Qi. Find her. There is a monastery. Tell the Abbot. The monks will care for the -

He is gone, said Aldhyrwoode.

There is something over here I think you should see, said Colm.

Aldhyn and Aldhyrwoode stepped over bodies to where the crofter had found the dead Skraaal. Or so he had thought.

The wedge-shaped head with its long lower jaw and prominent brow above the eye were the same, and so were the muscular torso and serpentine tail, but the forearms were shorter, the legs more like a bird than a lizard. And there was something else. The most obvious difference.

That is not green, said Colm, or blue.

How odd, mused Aldhyrwoode. Most peculiar. The scales are larger, and more coarse.

And black, said Colm.

And note the roughness of their edges. They are not uniformly curved.

And they are black, said Colm.

Note also, said Aldhyrwoode, the lack of a crest or ridges on top of the skull.

Black with a dull red at the throat, said Colm.

Look at the tongue, the wizard continued, see how it forks? Now, that is different!

There is more of the same red on his abdomen, said Colm, and the underside of his tail.

I wonder, said Aldhyrwoode, if he might be a separate species...

The tongue would make clear speech difficult, said Aldhyn.

As yet undiscovered, said Aldhyrwoode. Imagine that!

But mostly black, said Colm. Not green. Not even a deep blue.

Aldhyrwoode looked up the crofter - finally. What are you waffling on about?

Shadow had joined them. Who are the painted men, Master? She asked.

They have the same coloured skin as the Gir, said Aldhyn, a dark copper. And the same, or similar, hair. Shaved on both sides of the head, but with a braided top-knot, or stiffened like porcupine quills with... What is that?

Whatever it is, said Shadow, it smells!

Aldhyrwoode rubbed the greasy substance between his thumb and forefinger, and raised them to his nose, sniffing. It is some kind of animal fat.

What of the animal pelts? Asked Aldhyn. I know buckskin when I see it. And wolf. But what are those hanging from his shoulders? Beaver?

Or possibly otter,' said Aldhyrwoode.

Then this man, and the others like him, Aldhyn gestured, must come from...

Aldhyrwoode beat him to it. The New Worlde!

Eh? The crofter looked confused.

It is the only place where otters can be found, the wizard explained, and it may be where the odd looking fellow you showed us comes from.

Do you mean the black one?

Yes, said Aldhyrwoode. But why do you keep harping on about his colour? Shadow is black, and you are not obsessed by her... Much.

Returning to the magic carpet, they rolled away the dead guards they had used to hold it to the ground.

Colm said, We cannot leave them like that.

The monks will perform the proper funeral rites, Aldhyrwoode told him. And burn the bodies.

And Ataam?

Will lay at rest in a magnificent tomb, befitting The Dragon Emperor.

And what about us? What are we going to do? Look for the Empress?

Greyshale first, said Aldhyrwoode. To speak to Harald.

Do you think he might know something?

Aldhyrwoode shrugged. He is Bearskinner's grandson. And cousin to Ulveus. But that is not our reason for going there. We will need a small army, if we are to have any chance of rescuing Eav. And to move such an army, we are going to need ships.

The De-Xian have ships, said Aldhyn, Ships that are faster than longboats.

You are forgetting something, Aldhyrwoode said. We do not know how to fly them.

Aldhyn grinned. How hard can it be?

They separated to search for the airships. Aldhyn with Shadow. And Colm with Aldhyrwoode.

One thing still puzzles me, said the crofter.

Aldhyrwoode raised an eyebrow. Only one?

What Ataam said about Eav and Xer Xia. How could the Empress be the world before the world was created.

So, what you are struggling with, said Aldhyrwoode, is which came first: The dragon or the egg?

Well?

Well what?

Which is it?

Fortune favours those who procrastinate. They were still debating the advantages of airships, Aldhyrwoode arguing he had never seen a longboat fall out of the sky, when Colm spotted the saffron robes of monks approaching the Jade Temple.

We have company! He called.

Ascending the thousands of steps cut into the steep slope of the mountain, the monks were closely followed by as many as five score De-Xian, and the same number again of Qin. But these weren't warriors. They were farmers and herdsmen, armed with hoes and axes, and anything else that had been near to hand.

Someone must have gone for help, said the crofter.

The De-Xian, as many as half their number mounted on yaks, were very definitely not farmers. They wore moulded plates of armour, and carried what looked to be short spears, made of the same dull grey metal as the airships.

Maybe they were out on patrol, said Colm, and are just now returning.

Whoever they are, said Aldhyrwoode, we had better go and meet them. They will have a lot of questions... And we have a lot of explaining to do.

They were joined by Aldhyn and Shadow.

You did say we would need a small army, said Aldhyn, pointing toward the De-Xian. I think we may have found one.

The Qin stayed to gather the dead, before returning to their farms and herds.

The De-Xian paid their respects, bowing their heads as The Dragon Emperor's body was carried past them by the monks. There would be no tomb for Ataam. His corpse would be cremated with the others and the ashes scattered to the four winds. It was their way.

When it was done, the De-Xian commander, Draaal Vooor, appeared before Aldhyrwoode. Fully the height of two men, he towered over the wizard. who was taller than most.

Goodness, said Aldhyrwoode, craning his neck to meet the Draaal's gaze. You are a big fellow!

Althen-ood, Vooor rasped, sounding like two giant boulders grinding against each other in a landslide. Half go. Half stay.

Fifty will do very nicely, thank you, said Aldhyrwoode. If the other chaps are anything like you, they will be more than enough.

The Draaal nodded curtly and turned to stalk away, signalling to the yak riders to mount their shaggy beasts.

Did you ask him why the monastery is so heavily guarded? Said Aldhyn.

It would seem, replied the wizard, that the Draaal is tasked with protecting all the different peoples of the mountains, not just the monks, from a very large, very hairy, hominid.

A what-in-id? Asked Colm.

A creature that walks on two legs.

Like a man?

Like a man, yes, but not exactly. They call them Yeh Ti.

Aldhyn asked, Does the Abbot have any idea where Xer Xia might be?

We do not need the Abbot to tell us that. The Dragon Empress will be wherever Eav is.

But we do not know where the child is.

Oh, I don't know. I think we could hazard a guess.

West, said Shadow.

With the otters, said Colm. And the painted men.

A story from Flyn that I entered part of in a challenge; but here it is in all its glory. Some of you may remember it from before.

There was a new boy in Theo’s class. He seemed familiar, though Theo was certain he’d never met him before. Walking home that afternoon, the boy fell quietly into step beside him. They didn’t speak. There was no need to. It felt to Theo as if he and the other boy had been friends all their lives.

At the corner of Theo’s street the boy stopped.

All he said was, “Later.”

Then he turned around and headed back the way they had just come.

“Wait!” Theo called. “What’s your name?”

“Dion.”

The next morning, Theo woke up with no clear memory of his dreams, but needed to launder his sheets again. That afternoon, he and Dion walked home from school together, just like they had the day before. When they reached the corner, Dion didn’t stop, but kept walking until they reached Theo’s house.

Upstairs in Theo’s bedroom, they undressed without saying anything. Theo couldn’t explain why, but being naked with Dion just felt right. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dion had more hair from his navel down than Theo might have thought of as normal. But what was normal?

They lay down on Theo’s bed. Their hands and mouths exploring each other.

They slept like that. Locked together. It was late when Theo finally woke to find himself alone.

The next morning, Dion was there at the corner, waiting.

Cradled in a valley between wooded hills, Theo’s village was hundreds of years old. He wasn’t sure how many hundreds, exactly, but the village church dated back to the fourteenth century. The same families had farmed the land for generations, and before the farmers, shepherds had grazed their flocks in summer pastures.

Occupying Romans had built stone bridges over the river to join their hill forts. And nomadic tribes of hunter-gatherers had left behind cave paintings of antelope, and auroch, and mammoth. Celebrating a successful hunt, or praying for one.

Nobody laughed at the village drunk when he told them how, as a young man, he’d found the ruins of an ancient temple, its pillars broken and fallen and overgrown with ivy.

For as long as people had lived in the village, they had left offerings in the wood’s sunlit glades jewelled with wildflowers. A fresh baked loaf of bread. A new set cheese in an earthenware pot, infused with lavender, or drizzled generously with honey. A bottle of virgin-pressed olive oil. A flask of wine. The sweetest apricots from their orchard.

No-one had ever been lost in the woods, not truly lost. The soil on the sloping hills was too thin and full of stones for the olives, pines, and oaks to grow too closely together. Sometimes the very old or very young might become disoriented, but they always came back, and always with the tale of how a beautiful youth had taken them by the hand and led them home.

Ask anyone in the village and they will tell you: The woods are a wild and magical place.

It was into the woods that Dion led Theo. Past swathes of blazing jonquils that bowed their heads, not in mourning for their too fleeting beauty, but in reverence. A god walked among them.

“We’re going to be late for school,” Theo said to Dion’s profile, getting no response. “My mother already thinks I’m some kind of delinquent. Where are you taking me? Don’t say much, do you?”

The sun warmed them. Theo began to sweat. Dion picked a peach from a low hanging branch and gave it to him. The peach blushed at Theo’s touch.

“When the green woods laugh,” sang Theo, “with the voice of joy. And the dimpling stream runs laughing by. When the air does laugh with our merry wit. And the green hill - ”

Dion stopped, regarding Theo quizzically with his head tilted to one side.

“Not a fan? Okay. I’ll shut up.”

It was only then that Theo realized how far into the woods they had come. He looked around for anything familiar. A tree. A rock. A stream. Something. He wasn’t frightened. He could never be, not with Dion. He was simply wondering where they were. A weathered piece of fluted column caught his eye. Then another. Then a block of limestone that was much too regular in its form to be natural.

“Who are you, really?” Asked Theo. “What are you?”

“Your servant,” said Dion.

“I don’t need one. I have a mother for that.”

“Theo Acorn Child.”

“I’m not a child.”

“It is time.”

“Time? Time to go home?”

Theo checked his watch. It was only 11:40.

“It is your time.”

Dion put his hand on Theo’s cheek and gazed deep into his eyes. “Theo.”

“Yes?”

“Acorn Child.”

“Look, we’ve been through this. I - ”

“Theo..... It is time.”

And suddenly Theo knew: Everything.

“I..... I’m not ready.”

“Three times I lay with you,” said Dion. “Three times I scattered my seed on your earth.”

“I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk dirty.”

“In three days you will be ten summers and six.”

“Yes, I know when my birthday is. So?”

“In three days time I will die.”

“What? No! You can’t..... Don’t say that!”

“I will die,” said Dion, “because you will kill me.”

“Uh-uh.” Theo shook his head. “No way!”

“You must.”

“No!”

“Theo.”

“I swear, if you call me Acorn Child one more time - ”

“It is who you are.”

“No, I’m not. I’m Theo Pellier. My father is Georges Pellier. My mother is Mariette Pellier. I won’t do it! I won't! ”

“But the woods. The village.”

“Fuck the woods!” Theo screamed. “And fuck the village! I won’t do it! And you can’t make me!”

Theo ran. He was sure Dion would chase him. But when he looked back, he was still sitting on his haunches in the middle of the clearing, staring at the sky.

There was no wet dream that night. Dion wasn’t waiting at the corner the next morning. And he wasn’t at school. Theo didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep, his head was too full of questions he had no answers for.

When his father picked up the phone after only the third ring, Theo said, “Tell me about the woods.”

Total silence. Then the line went dead.

Three minutes later Theo’s phone rang.

“Hello? Papa?”

All his father said was, “You know.”

“Yes. No. Tell me. You grew up here. You must know something!”

“The Acorn Child.”

“Not you, too!”

“Theo.”

“Why are the woods so special? And what does the village have to do with it? Who’s Dion? Why does he come to my room and - ”

“I was hoping it wouldn’t be you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve been chosen. It’s your time.”

“You’re not helping!”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why the people in the village leave gifts for - ”

“It’s just some dumb old superstition.”

“I wish it was,” said Theo’s father, “but I think you know better than that.”

Silence.

“Theo?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t explain it over the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk more then.”

“You’re coming here?”

“Yes, of course. But, Theo?”

“Yes?”

“How many times have you ah.....?”

“Tomorrow,” said Theo.

And pressed disconnect.

Theo ran into his father’s arms. “Please, don’t make me do it, Papa!”

His father hugged him tightly.

They stood in front of Theo’s house, crying on each other’s shoulder.

Inside, upstairs in his room, they sat on Theo’s bed.

Georges held his son’s hand.

“Tell me everything.”

“You first,” said Theo.

“Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine years ago the village was almost wiped out by the Black Death. There was no one to work the fields. The few who’d survived the plague were starving. The village priest knelt in a field at the edge of the woods for two days and two nights, flogging his back and shoulders with an oak branch until they bled, and all the time he prayed for a miracle. On the morning of the third day, at dawn, his prayers were answered. But not by the Christian God. A creature came out of the woods. Not much more than a child. Half boy half goat. The priest thought he’d summoned the Devil himself. But he was a practical man, and any kind of help was better than no help at all. A deal was made. The priest offered his immortal soul as payment, but the goat-boy shook his head. A dead man was no use to him, he said. Let the blood that has soaked the earth around you be sacrifice enough.”

“In return the goat-boy - ”

“Dion.”

“Hmm? Yes. Dion. Is that what you call him?”

Theo nodded.

“In return Dion asked that every three-hundred-and-thirty-three years, on the third day of the third month, the village priest - whoever that might be - must choose a handsome youth, someone who wasn’t a child but was not yet a full grown man, to perform the ritual of re-birth.”

“I’m not handsome,” said Theo.

“No,” said his father, “you’re not. You’re so much more than that. You’re the most beautiful boy in the world.”

“You’re my dad,” Theo said, blushing. “You have to say that.”

“It’s true. Even more so because you can’t see it.”

“My nose is too long.”

“It’s perfect.”

“My ears stick out.”

“They’re perfect.”

“My feet smell.”

“Yes, they do.” Georges laughed. “But you’re still perfect.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You’re special,” Theo’s father told him, “because you don’t know how truly special you are.”

“Right,” said Theo. “I’m so special, I have to kill the only person I will ever love.”

“Well, yes. And no. Not really. The ritual of re-birth isn’t about death, or dying. It’s about living. Giving new life. New growth. A way of making everything good again. Not just here in the village. Everywhere. For everyone.”

“So, now I’m supposed to save the world?”

“If anyone can,” said his father, pulling Theo close and hugging him. “You can.”

“I don’t have to get pregnant, do I?”

Georges laughed so hard tears rolled down his face.

Leaving his father sleeping, Theo went to the village church. He hammered on the vestry door.

It opened slowly. Father Benoit regarded Theo with a flicker of uncertainty.

“Why?” Asked Theo. “Why me?”

“Faith.”

“Faith?”

“Faith in you, Theo. Faith in you.”

Dion met him at the edge of the temple clearing, taking both of Theo’s hands in his. “I knew you would come back.”

“Let me guess,” said Theo, “because you had faith in me?”

“You are a good person, Theo Pellier. You have a pure heart.”

“I didn’t think it was my heart you were interested in.”

“Your heart always,” said Dion. “How could my sacrifice truly be a sacrifice if I did not love you?”

Theo sat down in a patch of sweet smelling clover, pulling Dion down with him.

“What’s your name? Your real name.”

“Some call me Satan,” Dion chuckled. “Or Bacchus. The Greeks called me Dionysus. I always liked the Greeks.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine why.”

Dion actually laughed. “I think you can, Theo..... Acorn Child.”

“What are you?”

Dion shrugged. “I’m me.”

“My father said you were some kind of beast. Part goat.”

“I am,” nodded Dion. “And we both know which part.”

“Tell me about the ritual.”

“You must bleed me.”

“Really? Urgh!”

“Do you see that tall tree?” Dion pointed. “It is the Sacred Oak. It grew from an acorn that broke away from the branch the first priest used to beat himself with. It has stood there for a thousand summers.”

Theo could believe it.

“Tomorrow night the moon will be full,” said Dion. “You must come here, to this grove, alone. And there, under its spreading branches, you will slit my throat.”

“Can’t I just prick you a little bit?”

Dion shook his head. “If I do not die,” he told Theo, “the world cannot be reborn.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“That is a selfish thing to say, Theo Pellier.”

“It’s true.”

“But you will do it, won’t you? You will come?”

“And if I don’t?” Asked Theo. “What’s the worst that could happen? Drought? Floods? Famine? War? Some kind of global pandemic? All those things are happening now!”

“Yes,” said Dion. “But for all the sorrow and evil in the world, there is more good. You are proof of that. Without you all that is right, and just, and light, will vanish. Leaving only darkness.”

Theo hugged his knees to stop the shiver that ran through him. He looked at Dion, but couldn’t hold his lover’s gaze, so he stared, instead, at the Sacred Oak.

Then he said something he’d never told anyone - Ever.

“I don’t like the dark.”

Theo still had questions. So did his father.

Georges drove them to a secluded spot a short distance from the village, where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“You first,” said Georges. “Tell me about Dion.”

“Everything?”

“As much as you’re comfortable with.”

Theo recounted his strange awakenings. The afternoon he and Dion had had sex. He told him about the temple ruins in the woods, and what Dion had said, and that he’d run away, so scared and sick in the stomach he’d thought he might vomit. The waiting, praying, needing, aching for Dion to come to his room again. The feeling of being more lost and alone than he’d ever felt in his whole life when he hadn’t shown. Going back to the glade. The Sacred Oak. The ritual. The village being more than just a village, but the world, and everyone in it. Promising Dion he’d be there, at the next full moon. The bleeding.

“The rest you know,” he said. “But what did you mean by Dion wouldn’t die? Not really?”

“Do the math,” said Georges. “Why didn’t Dion die six-hundred-and-sixty-six years ago? Maybe that Dion did, and another took his place. Or maybe..... ”

“He was reborn!”

“If a jewish carpenter could do it,” said Georges, “why not a being older than time? A god with a small g is still a god.”

“Do you think he regenerates like Doctor Who?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Theo’s father asked him. “Can you do it? All of it? Right to the end? Even the bleeding?”

“I don’t want to,” said Theo. “I have to.”

“I feel sorry for Father Benoit. All that responsibilty.”

“Twenty years ago,” said Theo’s father. “He was just Luc Descartes. Always had his nose in a book. Smart, like you.”

“The priest?”

“He wasn’t a priest then. He was my best friend. And the only one I ever told.”

“Where is this going?” Asked Theo.

“One morning, a week before my sixteenth birthday, I woke up and my pyjama bottoms were gone. I didn’t remember taking them off. I found them on the floor next to my bed. They were..... Anyway, the same thing happened the next night. I don’t know why Luc wasn’t at school, maybe he was sick, but there was a new boy sitting at his desk. I couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked so..... Our house was at the top of the valley, halfway up a hill. It was a long way to walk, but there was a shortcut, through the woods. He was waiting for me. I’d never..... But with him it felt..... Your mother interrupted us. She wasn’t your mother then. She was the prettiest girl in the village. I’d always loved her, secretly, but I was never brave enough to..... One minute the new boy was there with me. And then he wasn’t. I never saw him again.”

“Oh, Papa!”

“I guess I failed the test.”

“Do you.....?”

“Regret it? No. How could I? We were married in the village church, your mother and I. Luc flew back from Rome to be my best man. Then you came along. We were happy..... For a while. But I guess I failed at that, too.”

“Not a total failure,” said Theo, kissing the tears from his father’s cheek. “You had me.”

“Yes, we did,” Georges smiled. “The best thing I ever did. Or ever will do. And now you have Dion.”

“Do you think.....? After..... Will he know me? Want to be with me?”

“I hope so. If anyone deserves to be happy, you do. God knows the two of you will have earned it.”

“There is no God,” said Theo. “Only a god with a small ‘g’. And an Acorn Child.”

Father Benoit disagreed with both of them.

“The existence of other deities doesn’t necessarily exclude God,” he told Theo. “He was there before the creation of the universe, and He will still be there when the sun’s light is nothing more than the dying flame of a candle, soon to be extinguished.”

Georges had stopped to visit his old friend on their way back to Theo’s house. They sat in the rectory’s small study, Georges in the only chair, and Theo squatting on a stack of books there was no room for on the already crammed, sagging shelves, while the priest stood at the open window, smoking.

“And you were never chosen, Georges. The timing was wrong. You were..... How do the English say? A bit of crumpet.”

“Eh?”

“I’ve spoken to several men and boys from the village, and they’ve all had similar experiences. Some only the once. Others frequently and regularly over an extended period, depending - it seems - on how ‘agreeable’ they were.”

Theo tried to imagine only having sex every three-hundred-and-thirty-three years. He couldn’t blame Dion for wanting a bit on the side.

“But, isn’t it a sin?” Theo asked Benoit. “I know the Church doesn’t exactly encourage homosexuality.”

The priest ashed his cigarette out the window and shrugged. “We’re all human, Theo. Confession is about forgiveness. Haven’t you ever said sorry for something you might have said or done? And didn’t you feel better afterwards? It’s the same thing.”

The woods were dark. Theo didn’t like the dark. He stood at the edge of the trees and waited for the promised full moon to reappear from behind a cloud. It was the ides of march, spring, but the night air still gnawed at him with the teeth of winter.

It was all planned. Theo’s father would take Theo’s mother out to dinner, to reminisce, and keep her out for as long as he could. Father Benoit would hear Theo’s confession, bless him, and walk with him as far as the Archambaults’ peach orchard, where he would later return to wait for him. Dion was going to meet Theo at the old stone bridge, and from there they would go to the temple glade together. It had all sounded so simple.

Only, now, it wasn’t. Theo was alone. And he was scared. “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow,” he sang to himself, “don’t be a - ”

“Theo?”

“Dion?”

“Yes. Come.”

“Where are your clothes? Aren’t you cold? And why don’t you look more like a faun? You are a faun, aren’t you? Why don’t you have a goat’s legs? And hooves? Or a tail? Mister Tumnas had a tail.”

“I appeared to you first in a form you would find more acceptable. More pleasing. Would you like me better if I had a tail?”

“It might be cute,” said Theo. “And uhm..... you know.”

Then, as if it had been there all along, and Theo had simply not noticed it before, Dion had a tail that he twitched from side to side alluringly.

A large bonfire was burning in the clearing. Dion handed Theo a horn of mulled wine.

“Drink.”

“What is it?”

“Drink.”

Theo sniffed. “It smells funny.” He sipped at it. “Urk! What are the green bits?”

“Herbs,” said Dion. “They will give you strength. And courage.”

Thinking he’d need all the help he could get, Theo closed his eyes, held his nose, and emptied the horn in one long swallow.

A loose sheaf of clean wheat-straw had been spread out on the temple ruins’ mosaic floor, and on it was piled every kind of produce the village was famous for, fruits and vegetables, breads and cheeses, oil and wine.

“Eat,” said Dion.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat.”

Theo picked at a bunch of grapes.

“Strip.”

“It’s cold.”

“Theo!”

“Okay! Okay! I’m doing it. See?”

“Kiss me.”

Theo didn’t argue.

“I just thought of something,” said Theo. “I didn’t bring a knife with me.”

“You do not need one.”

“But, how am I.....?”

“With this,” said Dion, reaching behind the stump of a broken pillar and holding out a shard of polished, black flint. Not just flaked to form a wickedly sharp edge, Theo saw, but fitted with a wooden grip or hilt that had been carved into some kind of.....

“What is it? A horn of plenty?”

Dion shook his head. “Turn it over.”

Theo did. There was a scene of the crucifixion on the reverse side of the haft. Only, instead of a cross, Jesus was nailed to an oak tree. He could tell it was an oak tree because the crown of thorns had been changed to a wreath of leaves and acorns.

“Did you make this?” He asked Dion. “It’s beautiful.”

They made love under the silver-frosted, new-budding branches of the Sacred Oak.

Theo would have sworn he’d caught the gone just as quickly flicker of a burning torch out of the corner of his eye. There it was again, but closer now, and another, and then a third. More. A dozen. Twice that number. A ring of orange light. Surrounding the glade. Encircling them. Drawing ever nearer.

“Somebody’s here.”

“Do you have the blade?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

The honed edge of the flint knife, clenched white-knuckled in his fist, sliced cleanly through skin and muscle, tendon and artery.

Blood gushed.

Dion choked.

Coughed.

Spat.

Collapsed.

Theo gagged. His throat was full of hot, scalding vomit. He forced it back.

It was done.

Dion lay sprawled. Dead.

In the spreading crimson.

The white-blossomed clover.

The dispassionate, defiled, derelict moonlight.

Strong hands clamped around Theo’s right arm. Bren Archambault. A scowling, grizzled bear of a man. His son, Mattias, had hold of Theo’s left. They hauled him to his feet and half carried half dragged him to the trunk of the Sacred Oak. Suddenly, Theo was weightless, hoisted over Bren’s shoulder as easily as a sack of grain. Then up, with a jerking motion, and up again, and Theo saw the wooden rails of a ladder sinking into the loose soil under their weight as Bren climbed higher.

Theo’s back slammed against the trunk.

A voice: “Gently!”

Archambault’s left hand pinned Theo’s wrists together, lifted his arms over his head, held them there, bone grinding against bone. The man grumbled something unintelligible around what was clenched between his nicotine stained teeth.

What were those? Were they..... Nails?

A hammer in Bren’s right hand.

A nail spat into the fumbling fingers of his left..

Theo rag-doll. Helpless.

The hammer swung.

Theo screamed.

Distressed rungs creaked as Archambault descended.

His spittle splashed Theo’s right foot.

His left hand gripped Theo’s ankles.

Another nail.

Another swing of the hammer.

Archambault’s rasp, like gravel sliding out of the rusted bed of a truck, calling to the men and older boys from the village who’d gathered around him. “See the Acorn Child! See how he takes upon himself all the weight of the world’s suffering!”

A new face. Mattias had climbed the ladder. Tears streaked his sunburned cheeks. He placed a wreath of woven oak branches on Theo’s brow.

“Be brave, Theo. It will be over soon.”

Day.

Night.

Day.

Night.

Morning. Three women from the village entered the glade, followed by Father Benoit and Georges Pellier, carrying a ladder between them. The two men worked silently at prising the nails free. Theo was beyond pain. They lowered him carefully, step by step, to the ground. Where his mother, Mariette, wrapped him in a shroud of white linen.

Part 1 of The Wizard Of Whyr

No one in the village thought her odd or peculiar at first, indeed the child was thought by all to be uncommonly fair, but fey she was, and fey she proved to be.

The child could recall no memory of having a mother or father, nor any kind of family at all, before the crofter had come across her, wandering lost and alone.

She had fallen from the sky, she said, and so they called her Raindrop.

By some dark magic, her thoughts became realities. The child need only imagine herself biting into a soft ripe peach and the fruit would appear in her hand. She thought her narrow cot with its coarse woollen blanket cold and uncomfortable, and slept that night in a proper bed, under a thick quilt of goose-down. The small dank cottage of the crofter who had taken her in became a spacious house, two stories high with a thatched and gabled roof, and filled with sunlight streaming through leaded-glass windows. There were servants to bathe and dress and cook for her. And instead of an old cart, there was a fine and handsome carriage, drawn by a team of four white horses in splendid gilded harness.

When the crofter worried how he was going to pay the servants and feed and keep the horses with only the few coppers in his purse, she changed them for gold. A grove of alder trees became an apple orchard. Grape vines covered what had been a bare and barren hill-side. Fields of barley and corn ready for the harvesting appeared where before there was nothing but marsh and bog. And the crofter himself awoke one morning to find his bald pate crowned with thick black curls, and his mouth full of strong white teeth in place of those that were once yellow and rotten. His crooked stoop was gone, and his bones no longer ached, nor did his joints creak. His eyes and ears were as sharp as they had been in his youth.

She cured the sick and healed the lame, the old and infirm, those whose minds were afflicted with the moon madness. Livestock grew fat in fertile green pastures. Geese and chickens lay eggs with double yolks. There was wheat enough to grind until heavy sacks of flour were stacked to the mill's rafters. No one in the village need go hungry, nor fear the cruel bite of winter when their larders were empty.

Such a change in fortune could never be kept a secret for long, and as word of the witching child spread, so with it gathered the crows - wicked souls who sought to use her gift for their own profit; but she would suffer no such evil to prosper, and the cruel and the corrupt simply vanished, never to be seen again. Only then did the people of the village begin to wonder what the child might do next. And even though the girl had never harmed any of the villagers, they were country folke, and it was in their nature to fear what they could not explain. Nor could the child explain her mysterious powers, or where she, or they, had come from. She was an angel, some said. A blessing from the heavens.

Others believed her to be faerie. A wood-nymph. But nymphs did not fall from the sky. They were of the earth. Bound to the old and sacred places by bonds they could not break.

A witch.

A miracle.

A puzzle.

Rumour and gossip brought an old man to the village. His robe and cloak were of no particular colour, but shifted with the light from brown to green to blue, like the feathered wings of a kingfisher. He walked with the aid of a tall staff, and told any villager he met that he wished only to ask the child if she might soothe his bunions.

The inn-keeper's goodly wife said to soak his feet in vinegar while he waited, and brought him a jug of it, along with a basin and a towel.

You're too kind, said the old man.

Pish-posh, replied the inn-keeper's wife. Brown vinegar for bunions, my old mother used to say, and white for blisters.

A boy was sent to fetch the crofter, who appeared with the child some short time later.

Raindrop looked at the old man curiously.

I know you, she said. You are the wizard, Aldhyrwoode.

And I know you, said the wizard. You are the Dragon's Pearl.

The Dragon I speak of, said Aldhywoode, is the Emperor of Qin Xa. And Raindrop is his daughter.

The crofter couldn't hide his disbelief. Does she look Qin to you?

The Emperor of Qin Xa is not of the Qin, Aldhyrwoode told him, but of a far more ancient race. The child looks like any other human girl, but perhaps you cannot see her as clearly as I do.

I found her in the forest, said the crofter, almost petulantly, and the forest is a long way from the Jade Temple.

It is, agreed the wizard, but not for a flying machine.

The crofter looked lost. Eh?

Aldhyrwoode lit his pipe. Order us a pint of the inn-keeper's best, he said. And something for the girl.

Raindrop had been listening the whole time. Tell me more about my father, she said. Why don't I remember him? Do I have a mother?

And how did the child know you? Added the crofter, returning with two foaming mugs of ale and a glass of cold butter-milk. When she doesn't know her own name. Her real name. Or anything of her past.

So many questions, sighed Aldhyrwoode. You had better get another round in. It's a long story.

Your father's name is Ataam, he told the child. And yours is Eav. Your home is a palace built on the side of a high mountain, that rises above still more mountains, and these mountains are said to be the highest in the world. The Qin call these mountains The Stairs To The Eternal Throne. And your father, The Dragon Emperor, is believed to be the Sky God come to earth. Your powers come from your mother, but I cannot tell you her name, or where she is. That is something you must ask your father.

When can I see him? She asked.

Soon, said Aldhyrwoode. He is already on his way here.

And what of me? Asked the crofter. I love the child like she was mine own. What if I don't want to hand her over?

Would you really be so selfish? Said Aldhyrwoode. Or so foolish? Eav does not belong here. She does not belong to you. Or to this village.

Others might not agree.

Then you must convince them. You are a good man. They are good folke. And none of you can say you have been poorly rewarded for your kindness. Must I tell you right from wrong?

The crofter looked at the girl and shook his head. No. But it might be wise if...

The wizard touched a fingertip to his nose If Eav was to vanish as mysteriously as she appeared.

Why don't I? Asked Eav. I could think myself home.

Then you would be there, said Aldhyrwoode, and your father would be here.

Oh. Right. So I should wait? Why do you smell of vinegar?

Aldhyrwoode had forgotten all about his soaking feet under the table. He pulled them out of the basin and wiped them dry with the towel.

Eav laughed and said, You don't really have bunions, do you?

I really do, said Aldhyrwoode. And the inn-keeper's wife was right. They don't ache at all now!

Where does Raindrop - Eav - know you from? The crofter asked. Have you met before? Is her memory returning?

It is her blessing and her curse to know everything and everyone, said Aldhyrwoode. It was Eav who created the world with her thoughts. She is Mother Earth. And we are all her children. And - Aldhyrwoode held up a hand - before you say she is still only a child herself, Eav is older than time. The child you see is not who she really is.

Then why does she not remember? Said the crofter. Making the world is not something you would forget.

Oh, I don't know, said Aldhyrwoode. I'm always forgetting where I left my keys, or my spectacles, or my hat...

This is no time to jest!

Who's joking? I don't see anything funny about it.

Tell me about the flying machines, said Eav.

Yes, said the crofter. What are they?

The flying machines, said Aldhyrwoode, are machines that fly. What else would they be?

If you had told me such machines existed before I knew Rai - Eav - I would have thought you too far in your cups, said the crofter, but now...

And why not? Asked the wizard. Birds fly. All that is needed is enough power to lift an object off the ground and keep it in the air. The De-Xian discovered a way to create such power by harnessing the energy of the stars.

The De-Xian?

Are Eav's people, said Aldhyrwoode. De means new in Qin, and Xian means star. So they are literally the new star people.

So, what are you saying? That Eav fell out of one of these flying machines? And survived?

Fell, said Aldhyrwoode. Or was pushed.

Pushed?

Or perhaps the machine crashed. I cannot say until I have looked in the forest. Or it may be that Eav was never in a flying machine at all. That she thought herself here - for some reason. And cannot remember because she wished to forget.

Why would I do that? Asked Eav.

Indeed, said Aldhyrwoode. Why?

So, I could remember if I wanted to?

I think so. Yes.

But I don't want to?

Aldhyrwoode nodded. It would appear that way.

The door of the inn creaked open and a red cloaked and hooded figure stepped inside. Hands with long claw-nailed fingers pushed the hood back, revealing a strikingly beautiful woman the colour of ebony with high cheekbones and emerald-green eyes. Master? How much longer? The De-Xian are here.

Ah! Aldhyrwoode clapped his hands together. Thank you, Shadow.

To Eav he said, Your ride is here.

The girl only had eyes for the woman. Or, to be more precise, the soft-furred black ears that twitched so beguilingly. Are those... ?

Shadow was my cat, Aldhyrwoode explained, but cats are not practical companions.

Reaching across the table, he closed the crofter's slack-jawed mouth.

A pair of Skraaal guards were posted outside the inn's door. They bowed to Eav and called her, Mother.

The Skraaal are descended from the De-Xian, Aldhyrwoode told the crofter.

Where is the ship? He asked Shadow.

There is a clearing in the forest, she said, not far from the man's house.

Eav held Shadow's hand, and the cat-woman purred.

A few steps behind them, the crofter was fascinated by the swish-swishing tip of Shadow's black tail, where it poked out from under the hem of her cloak.

Aldhyrwoode nudged him with an elbow and said, Eyes on the path.

The trees were giant Redwoods, tall and straight, with hardly any undergrowth, and a full moon made the trail easy to see. More Skraaal guards joined them as they neared the wide shallow bowl of the clearing. The crofter had regained his senses somewhat, and looked from the tall green skinned lizard-men to the fair-haired child.

Is that how the girl really looks? He asked Aldhyrwoode.

Her scales are smaller and closer together, answered the wizard, and more silver than green.

Like a fish?

Not exactly. More like a serpent.

A snake? Said the crofter.

Uhm... Not exactly.

What hovered silently above the ground of the clearing was a long slender tube of some dull dark grey metal. There were no obvious windows, but a circle of soft blue light from an open door illuminated a ramp. Around the De-Xian airship, a score or more of Qin warriors in gold armour stood ready.

Why so many soldiers? The crofter asked. Are you expecting trouble from the village?

Not the village, no, said Aldhyrwoode grimly, searching the night sky above the treetops.

Who then?

Eav's mother.

The crofter looked even more perplexed than usual. All this for one woman?

Aldhyrwoode shook his head. No. Not a woman. Eav's mother is... something other.

The crofter clutched at the the sleeve of Aldhyrwoode's robe. What are you not telling me?

The wizard shook him off impatiently. No more questions. Say your goodbyes and let us get the child safely onboard.

But surely her mother would never harm her!

Pushing past the now panicked crofter, Aldhyrwoode said, We cannot be certain of that. Females are often unpredictable.

And he urged Eav and Shadow to, Hurry.

They were nearly at the ramp when Eav's father strode out to meet them. Like his daughter, he had assumed human form, and wore long flowing robes of black on black embroidered silk that accentuated the paleness of his complexion, and his hair and eyes shone silver. Just as Eav let go of Shadow's hand to run to her father, there was a terrible piercing shriek, and the sound of air rushing over enormous wings. And a great beast was silhouetted against the moon as it rushed towards them. Skraaal archers loosed crossbow bolts to try to fend it off, while the Qin warriors closed protectively around The Dragon Emperor and his daughter.

Go! Aldhyrwoode urged them. Quickly!

Shadow hissed, baring sharply pointed teeth.

The crofter stood frozen to the spot. Is that... ? It can't be!

Oh, yes it can! Said Aldhyrwoode. Run, you fool!

All was chaos.

The great golden dragon roared.

The Emperor lifted Eav in his arms and all but threw her up the ramp, into the airship.

The Qin warriors did not follow, but formed a shield with their bodies, prepared to die defending their Sky God.

And with them stood the wizard, Aldhyrwoode.

He pointed his staff and a streak of ear-splitting lightning burst skyward, only to be engulfed in dragon-flame.

Again came the terrible piercing shriek.

Still the wizard stood defiant.

Again the great golden dragon came sweeping spiralling down out of the night sky.

And again that sky was lit by bolts of crackling searing lightning from Aldhywoode's staff.

The De-Xian airship accelerated away, a streak of grey in a vacuum of white noise.

The piercing cry echoed one last time.

(An excerpt from)

Cradled in a valley between wooded hills, Theo’s village was hundreds of years old. He wasn’t sure how many hundreds, exactly, but the village church dated back to the fourteenth century. The same families had farmed the land for generations, and before the farmers, shepherds had grazed their flocks in summer pastures.

Occupying Romans had built stone bridges over the river to join their hill forts. And nomadic tribes of hunter-gatherers had left behind cave paintings of antelope and mammoth. Celebrating a successful hunt, or praying for one.

Nobody laughed at the village drunk when he told them how, as a young man, he’d found the ruins of an ancient temple, its pillars broken and fallen and overgrown with ivy.

For as long as people had lived in the village, they had left offerings in the wood’s sunlit glades jewelled with wildflowers. A fresh baked loaf of bread. A new set cheese in an earthenware pot, infused with lavender, or drizzled generously with honey. A bottle of virgin-pressed olive oil. A flask of wine. The sweetest apricots from their orchard.

No-one had ever been lost in the woods, not truly lost. The soil on the sloping hills was too thin and full of stones for the olives, pines, and oaks to grow too closely together. Sometimes the very old or very young might become disoriented, but they always came back, and always with the tale of how a beautiful youth had taken them by the hand and led them home.

Ask anyone in the village and they will tell you: The woods are a wild and magical place.

It was into the woods that Dion led Theo. Past swathes of blazing jonquils that bowed their heads, not in mourning for their too fleeting beauty, but in reverence. A god walked among them.

“We’re going to be late for school,” Theo said to Dion’s profile, getting no response. “My mother already thinks I’m some kind of delinquent. Where are you taking me? Don’t say much, do you?”

The sun warmed them. Theo began to sweat. Dion picked a peach from a low hanging branch and gave it to him. The peach blushed at Theo’s touch.

“When the green woods laugh,” sang Theo, “with the voice of joy. And the dimpling stream runs laughing by. When the air does laugh with our merry wit. And the green hill - ”

Dion stopped, regarding Theo quizzically with his head tilted to one side.

“Not a fan? Okay. I’ll shut up.”

It was only then that Theo realized how far into the woods they had come. He looked around for anything familiar. A tree. A rock. A stream. Something. He wasn’t frightened. He could never be, not with Dion. He was simply wondering where they were. A weathered piece of fluted column caught his eye. Then another. Then a block of limestone that was much too regular in its form to be natural.

“Who are you, really?” Asked Theo. “What are you?”

“Your servant,” said Dion.

“I don’t need one. I have a mother for that.”

“Theo Acorn Child.”

“I’m not a child.”

“It is time.”

“Time? Time to go home?”

Theo checked his watch. It was only 11:40.

“It is your time.”

Dion put his hand on Theo’s cheek and gazed deep into his eyes. “Theo.”

“Yes?”

“Acorn Child.”

“Look, we’ve been through this. I - ”

“Theo..... It is time.”

And suddenly Theo knew: Everything.

“I..... I’m not ready.”

“Three times I lay with you,” said Dion. “Three times I scattered my seed on your earth.”

“I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk dirty.”

“In three days you will be ten summers and six.”

“Yes, I know when my birthday is. So?”

“In three days time I will die.”

“What? No! You can’t..... Don’t say that!”

“I will die,” said Dion, “because you will kill me.”

“Uh-uh.” Theo shook his head. “No way!”

“You must.”

“No!”

“Theo.”

“I swear, if you call me Acorn Child one more time - ”

“It is who you are.”

“No, I’m not. I’m Theo Pellier. My father is Georges Pellier. My mother is Mariette Pellier. I won’t do it! I won't! ”

“But the woods. The village.”

“Fuck the woods!” Theo screamed. “And fuck the village! I won’t do it! And you can’t make me!”

The Curious Case Of THE CRUMBS IN THE NIGHT

'Crumbs!' Thought Monkey. 'There are crumbs in my bed!'

But how did the crumbs get there?

Monkey was not a midnight snacker. He nibbled no nibbles nocturnal.

Thinking the what might give him some clue to the who, Monkey found his magnifying glass, and picked up a crumb to study it more closely.

He would have twirled his waxed moustache - if he had one.

He rubbed the crumb between his finger and thumb.

The crumb crumbled into even smaller crumblings.

It might have been cake.

Or it might have been a cookie.

Or maybe a cracker.

His pet tortoise, Forthright, had trundled out for his usual morning plod. Three laps around the large rock in his tortorium, then back to the hollow log for a breakfast of moss and yesterday's lettuce leaf.

'Did you make this mess?' Monkey asked him.

If Forthright had, he wasn't saying. But then, Forthright had never exactly been forthcoming. He was an introvert, preferring the quiet solitude of his shell where, Monkey imagined, he sipped chamomile tea and nutted over that day's cryptic crossword.

But Monkey wasn't crackers! He was certain the crumbs hadn't been there when he'd snuggled under the covers. And crumbs were something he would have noticed. Somebody had been in his room. And not just in his room, but in his bed! And not just in his bed, but in his bed while he was in it!

But how? There wasn't enough room in the bottom drawer of the dresser for a Monkey plus one.

'Unless...' Monkey thought to himself. '...it was a small plus one.'

Monkey picked up another crumb and held it under his nose.

It didn't smell like much of anything.

He was just about to taste it when he had an idea.

'Wait a minute! What if they weren't crumbs? What if they were mouse poops?'

He looked at the crumb through his magnifying glass again.

No.

Not poop.

A mouse might have left it behind, but it hadn't come from a mouse behind.

It was definitely a crumb.

Monkey held the crumb out for Forthright to see. The tortoise paused in his constitutional to inspect it through the green-tinted glass with a quizzical expression. Like all tortoises, Forthright regarded the world around him with a look of both surprise and consternation.

Pondering the possibles, much the same way Forthright often meditated on the complexities of the universe, Monkey decided he could cross Henry off the list of suspects. Cats were fastidious creatures. Obsessive-compulsives. A cat would never have left crumbs.

He could forget about Gus the dog. Gus was a mixed breed; part rottweiler, part golden retriever, part garbage disposal. No crumb could ever hope to escape his keen nose and searching tongue.

'There must be an explanation!' Said Monkey.

But Forthright had wandered away. Perhaps to play the violin. Or to smoke a pipe.

Gus did not like bananas. He craved no Cavendish and relished no Red Jamaican. He peeled no plantains - Period.

'So, why...' he wondered. '...was there a banana skin in his bed?'

'Did you leave this here?' Gus asked Monkey.

All Monkey would say was, 'Crumbs.'

'Who's Crumbs?' Asked Gus.

'Whose indeed!' Said Monkey.

Monkey thought the crumbs in his bed might have come from a crust of toasted sourdough, but couldn't say so with any real certainty.

'The question we should be asking is how.'

'How?'

'Prexactly,' said Monkey. 'And why.'

'Why?'

'Why ask why? Because the why and the how will lead us to the who!'

'Go away.' Gus told him. 'You're making my brain hurt.'

'But I haven't examined the evidence!' Monkey protested, holding up his magnifying glass.

'Just go,' said Gus, 'and take your banana skin with you.'

Henry the cat was shocked and disgusted to find what little was left of half an avocado in his basket.

'Avo-bloody-cado?'

Henry desired no dietary discipline. He much favoured flavour over fibre. Fruit, in Henry's opinion, was one of the many things that was wrong with the world. Vegetables were another. Add legumes into the mix and you had an unholy trinity.

'Avo-bloody-cado!' He repeated himself. 'It doesn't even taste like anything!'

Monkey agreed. 'Soap without the rope.'

Even Gus wouldn't touch avocado.

'Where's all this rubbish coming from?' He asked.

Monkey had his suspicions, but bit his tongue.

He had to be sure.

In the kitchen, standing on a chair to reach the counter top, Monkey trowelled smashed avocado onto an inch thick slice of golden toasted sourdough. Over the forked green smudge he laid slabs of banana like roof tiles. And on top of that, Monkey poured maple syrup. Then he dusted it with an avalanche of icing-sugar, and tucked in a sprig of freshly picked mint.

Carefully setting the plate down next to Forthright's tank of green tinted glass, Monkey stood back - And waited.

It didn't take long for the tortoise to come out of his shell.

'Is that for me?' Asked Forthright.

'Yes,' Monkey replied. 'It's all yours.'

'Can you lift me out, please? I can't reach it.'

Monkey shook his head. 'If you want it, you'll have to come out and get it.'

Forthright looked vexed.

But he disappeared inside the hollow log in his tortorium...

And when he came back out, he was swinging a grappling hook attached to a length of coiled rope.

'A-ha!' Thought Monkey. 'So that was how!'

He watched as Forthright scaled the vertical glass wall of his tortorium with all the skill of a mountaineer and abseiled down the other side.

Monkey's marvellous creation was demolished in less than a minute.

Forthright belched.

Excused himself.

And wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief he pulled from somewhere inside his shell.

He thanked Monkey with a nod. 'Better than lettuce.'

'Don't you like lettuce?' Asked Monkey.

'It's always limp,' said Forthright, 'and tastes like wet cardboard.'

For somebody who ate avocado, Monkey thought Forthright was being more than just a little fussy.

'But why eat in my bed?' Monkey asked him. 'Or with Gus in his bed? Or in Henry's basket?'

'I'm always alone,' said Forthright. 'I have no friends. Everything in my tank is cold and hard, but you're all so soft, and your beds are warm.'

Monkey knuckled a tear from his eye.

'You're not alone.' He told Forthright. 'I'm your friend. And you can leave your crumbs in my bed any time.'

Monkey's Christmas Crackers

Monkey was too excited to wait any longer. It took him all morning to carry cardboard box after cardboard box out of the garage -

Looking for the one box with a picture of a Christmas tree on it.

'Huzzah!' Monkey cheered. 'Found it!'

But when he lifted the lid off the box there were only long strands of red and silver tinsel tangled together with strings of little green twinkle-twinkle lights.

'Hurry up and put it together,' said Gus the dog, 'so I can piddle on it.'

'Not gonna happen,' said Monkey.

'Why not?' Asked Gus. 'A Christmas tree is still a tree, isn't it?'

'There isn't any tree,' said Monkey. 'There's tinsel and lights and all kinds of decorations. But no tree.'

'Where is it then?'

Monkey looked at the wall of boxes as tall as a house he'd made in the driveway. 'It must be in one of these others.'

It took Monkey hours to look in all of the boxes. But there wasn't a Christmas tree in any of them.

'What do we do, now?' Asked Gus.

Monkey scratched his head. Scratching his head always helped Monkey think his thinkingest thinks.

'Maybe it's inside somewhere.'

Leaving the Great Wall Of Boxes across the driveway, they went through the back door and into the kitchen. Marlowe had baked gingerbread men. There were trays and trays of them cooling on the kitchen bench. They smelled so good Monkey's tummy rumble-grumbled and he wished he could sit in his high chair with a big glass of cold milk and eat them all.

NUM! NUM! NUM!

He saw the tubes of red and green and white icing Marlowe would use to draw eyes and smiles and buttons and belts and hats and boots, and because he was a Monkey, and all Monkeys are a little bit naughty sometimes, he used a tube of icing to draw a dick and balls on one of Marlowe's gingerbread men.

'That one's ours,' Monkey told Gus.

He didn't dare draw on more than one because the gingerbread men were gifts for family and teachers and school friends. Six to a cellophane wrapped and ribbon tied bundle tagged and signed "From M".

Monkey and Gus shared the gingerbread man Monkey had drawn a dick and balls on, and Monkey laughed so hard at the idea of nibbling the gingerbread man's nuts he almost choked on a bit of leg.

Mum came in and asked him what he was doing.

'I can't find the Christmas tree,' said Monkey.

'That old thing?' Said Mum. 'I threw it out.'

'You can't have Christmas and not have a tree!' Said Monkey. 'Where will Santa put the presents?'

'We have a new tree,' said Mum. 'Hunter and Paige are putting it together now.'

'I'll bet they're not,' grumbled Monkey. 'I bet they're kissing! URK!'

Every time Monkey walked into a room where Hunter and his girlfriend were together he had to push them apart and remind them about social distancing.

And Monkey was right - They were at it again.

'Stop that!' He told them. 'You don't want to catch any of them covidses.'

'I'll risk it,' said Hunter, and he nudged Monkey away with his foot.

The new Christmas tree was standing in a corner of the TV room. It didn't really look like a tree. It was white instead of green, and its feathery-silvery branches spread up and out from the X of a bright shining metal base. But Monkey still thought it was beautiful. He stared at it with a little bit of dribble leaking out of his open mouth.

'Earth to Monkey. Come in, Monkey.' That was Paige.

Monkey looked around and saw her smiling at him and his sock monkey heart went flibble-flobble. Her skin was the colour of gingerbread. Her eyes shone like beads of amber in her pretty little heart-shaped face. She swept a loose strand of her long black hair behind a pretty little ear with her pretty little fingers and Monkey's heart went flobble-flibble.

'We were waiting for you to help us decorate it,' said Paige. 'Do you know where everything is?'

Monkey slapped his forehead. The box was still in the driveway.

'Back in a minute!' He said, running out of the room as fast as his sock monkey legs could go.

Flibble-flobble went Monkey's heart.

Wibble-wobble went Monkeys legs.

Hunter sure knew how to pick them.

It was the second week of December when Monkey sat at the kitchen table with his box of crayons and paper to make Christmas cards for all his friends. Some he folded very carefully and slipped into envelopes to be posted later, and others he would deliver himself. His letter to Santa was already on its way to the North Pole, and this year it wouldn't be returned to sender because of insufficient postage. Monkey had registered the letter with the post office to make sure.

In his letter, Monkey had asked Santa to say HI to Mrs Claus from him and Gus, and did she remember them? A sock monkey and a talking dog would be hard to forget, he thought. He didn't ask for a present for himself, but wished a safe and happy world for everyone with no more corona virus, and hoped he could sit on Santa's knee to have his picture taken next year.

He climbed the grandfather eucalypt in the backyard to give Nobby the koala his card. Nobby had never heard of Santa, or reindeer, or Christmas, or the three wise men and the baby Jesus, or any of what he called white-fella magic.

But he did know Dick the horse.

'Who?' Asked Monkey.

'Dick the horse,' sang Nobby, 'eats lots of lollies. Fa La-La La-La. Fa La La La!'

'Do you mean Deck The Halls?'

'Dunno,' said Nobby. 'Do I?'

The galah brothers, Colin and Colin, said they knew a Christmas song.

'We sing 'im yous?' Asked Colin.

'We sing 'im good.' Said Colin.

Then they ruff-fluffled their pink and grey feathers and...

'OH, COME, ALL YE FART FULL.'

'BUM GAS IS EXPLOSIVE.'

'SO FART YE. SO FA - ART YE.'

'BUT DON'T POOP YOUR PANTS!'

Monkey didn't. He wasn't wearing pants. Sock monkeys don't. But he did laugh so hard he nearly fell off the branch he was sitting on.

'MUSH!' Yelled Monkey, twitching the lead he'd clipped onto Gus the dog's collar and looped around the handlebars of his bright blue tricycle.

'MUSH!' Monkey yelled again.

But Gus didn't MUSH.

'Why aren't you MUSHING?' Monkey asked him.

'I look silly,' said Gus, too embarrassed to leave the garage.

Monkey had used a red crayon to colour in his nose and tied jingle-jingle bells on his collar, but the one thing Gus didn't want anybody to see was the set of reindeer antlers on his head.

'But you're Rudolph,' said Monkey. 'You're s'posed to pull my sleigh.'

'Not bloody likely,' said Gus. 'You'll have to walk.'

'But I got a sack full of cards to deliver!'

Gus still didn't MUSH.

Monkey scratched his head, thinking his thinkingest thinks. Henry the cat was too lazy. Nobby was too slow. He could try Hunter's chickens, he thought, but would four be enough? And how would he steer them around corners?

That was when he saw a fishing rod leaning against the garage wall.

Monkey had an IDEA!

No hook. Fishing hooks were dangerous. Monkey wasn't stoopid. He tied the fishing line (no hook) around a tennis ball, and let out just enough line so the ball dangled right in front of Gus, close enough for Gus to see, but not so close that he could get it in his mouth, then - holding onto his Santa hat - Monkey swished the fishing rod to make the ball bounce in the air.

'MUSH!'

Gus barked.

Tyres screeched.

And Monkey's tricycle was a streak of blue lightning!

57:03 seconds.

They were back in the garage.

The Christmas cards were still in their sack.

They'd gone around the whole block.

With Monkey screaming all the way.

'Stamps.' Thought Monkey. 'I'll buy stamps. Let the postman deliver the cards. Yes. Stamps. Stamps were safer.'

There were only three more sleeps until Christmas morning when the postman knocked on Monkey's door.

'No!' Said Monkey, seeing the postman standing there. 'Go away!'

It couldn't be his letter to Santa. It just couldn't be. Not again.

'Keep your pants on,' the postman told Monkey, even though Monkey wasn't wearing pants. 'I have a package for you.'

It was a wooden spoon.

There was a tag tied to the handle of the spoon with Monkey's name and address on it, but no note or letter.

Monkey didn't need to scratch his head to figure out who the wooden spoon was from. And he wasn't surprised when, some time after midnight, he woke up to see a mysterious figure wearing a black mask with pointy ears and a flowing black cape standing on the narrow ledge of Hunter's wide open bedroom window.

'You.' Said Monkey. 'What do you want? You're not going to spoon me again, are you?'

Bat-Baby was trained in the ancient martial art of SPOO NING.

Nobody spooned like Bat-Baby spooned.

'We have a problem,' said The Cribbed Crusader, jumping down from the window ledge, his black booties not making a sound. 'Christmas has been cancelled.'

That Monkey was really the sock monkey superhero Super-Sock was still a super secret.

Working together, Bat-Baby and Super-Sock had almost, sort of but not prexactly, foiled the evil plans of the super-villain Vulpus, whose plot to take over the world by turning everybody into brainless morons had actually succeeded. It was only because there were so many brainless morons in the world already that nobody noticed.

'What do you mean cancelled?' Asked Monkey.

'Santa Claus has tested positive. He caught it from Mrs Claus, who caught it from an elf, who caught the virus in Gnome.'

Monkey was shocked. What was an elf doing in a gnome?

'But the reindeer are ok, aren't they?'

'Tickety-boo,' said Bat-Baby. 'Only there's no one to drive the sleigh.'

'But - '

'But - '

'But - '

Bat-Baby held up a black gloved hand. 'But me no buts. You might as well forget about mistling your toes and logging your yule. Feliz Navidad is now Feliz Navidud.'

Monkey told Bat-Baby to go home. 'It's past your bedtime,' he said. 'This is a job for Super-Sock!'

'I wasn't aware you'd passed your sleigh driving test,' said Bat-Baby sarcastically.

'How hard can it be?' Asked Monkey.

'More difficult than you think,' said Bat-Baby, 'when you can't reach the pedals.'

'What's that s'posed to mean?'

'Santa is a fully grown adult male. The sleigh was custom built for his height. How tall are you?'

Monkey was 4 feet - or 120 centimetres - and that was tall for a sock monkey.

'Admit it,' said The Cribbed Crusader. 'You need my help.'

Monkey didn't think so. His sock monkey cousin, Gladstone, could help him. Or even Gus. Gus was a smart cookie. Anyone would be better than a psychopathic toddler in a bat costume.

'I thought you were ready to give up on Christmas?' Asked Monkey.

'I don't remember my first one,' said Bat-Baby. 'I want to see what all the fuss is about.'

Monkey just shook his head.

Bat-Baby was fruitier than a mango chutney and nuttier than a nut loaf - With extra nuts!

Wearing his blue tunic and cape with its big red S on a yellow shield, Super-Sock was ready for anything. Anything but a rocking-horse called Dick.

Monkey didn't know any horses and wondered if maybe they were all Dicks. But he didn't think so. It must have just been a coincidence, because a rocking-horse made of wood wouldn't eat lollies.

'Why Dick?' He asked.

'Why not?' Said Bat-Baby. 'Don't you like Dick? I'm really rather fond of my Dick.'

Monkey could believe it.

They were in Bat-Baby's super secret Bat-Cave. Gladstone was holding Dick's reins while Bat-Baby stroked the rocking-horse's mane. Riding Dick the rocking-horse was how, Bat-Baby said, they were going to the North Pole.

'What do you think of my Dick?' Asked Bat-Baby. 'You'll never see another one like it.'

Monkey wasn't sure how sitting on Dick was going to work, but he was ready to try.

Dick was no ordinary rocking-horse.

'Faster!' Said Bat-Baby.

They rocked on Dick as fast as they could. Up and down and backwards and forwards. They rocked until Monkey was feeling giddy. He had to hold onto Dick so he wouldn't fall off!

There were bright coloured lights all around them. Then...

WHIZ! BANG! WHOOOOOSH!!!

'You can stop now,' said Bat-Baby. 'We're here.'

Monkey opened his eyes and looked around. There was ice and snow and trees with snow on their branches and elfs and snow and a house with snow on its roof and Rudolph and the other reindeer and snow and a sleigh full of toys and more snow and -

'Santa!'

A big man in a red suit with a beard as white as - ah - snow looked at them with surprise in his twinkling blue eyes and yelled, 'Bugger off!'

'But - '

'But - '

'But - '

'Stay away from me!'

'I'm Super-Sock,' said Monkey. 'And this is Bat-Baby.'

'And Dick the horse. Don't forget Dick.'

'We came to help you.'

'You really shouldn't be outside if you're ill,' said Bat-Baby.

Climbing down off Dick, Monkey said, 'Mrs Claus knows me. You were sick last year too and she brought me my blue tricycle.'

'Monkey!' That was Mrs Claus. 'Is it really you?'

'The one and only,' said Monkey.

'You didn't bring the cat with you, did you?'

Mrs Claus was allergic to cats.

'No,' said Monkey. 'No cat. Henry's at home with Gus.'

'They're some kind of superheroes,' Santa said to Mrs Claus. 'Come to help. Something about me being sick, but I'm as fit as a - '

THWACK!!!

Suddenly, without any warning, Bat-Baby was a blur. His Bat-Spoon glowing with an unearthly blue light. And Santa crumpled under a series of savage spoonings!

Then Bat-Baby was running for the sleigh full of toys!

'MINE!' He cried. 'ALL MINE!'

Super-Sock's super fast reflexes kicked in. He dived and caught Bat-Baby by the ankle. The Cribbed Crusader went down. Hard. And came up with a face full of snow!

'Let go of me, you silly sock!'

THWACK!!!

But Monkey held on. 'You can't have them! They're not yours!'

'I'M - NOT - SHARING!'

THWACK!!! THWACK!!!

They rolled over and over in a flurry of snow. Bat-Baby was like some kind of wild animal. Kicking and clawing and biting. But Super-Sock was stronger. He twisted the Bat-Spoon out of Bat-Baby's white-knuckled fist and snapped it in two!

'NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!' Wailed Bat-Baby. 'NOT MY SPOOOOON!!!'

Monkey woke up in a twisted tangle of blankets. He was covered in a cold sweat.

No. Wait. It was dribble.

Hunter drooled in his sleep.

It was Christmas morning!

Monkey jumped out of bed and ran into the TV room to look under the tree.

There were presents for everyone! Lots and lots of presents!

Monkey ran through the house, with Gus barking behind him, knocking on doors and yelling, 'WAKE UP! WAKE UP! SANTA'S BEEN! HUZZAH!'

He wasn't expecting a present from Santa. He hadn't asked for anything in his letter. But there was a big, brightly wrapped box with his name on it. He bit through the ribbon and tore at the paper like only a Monkey can.

'What is it?' Asked Marlowe.

'Show us.' Said Hunter.

It was a chemistry set. There was a book of instructions (with pictures) and everything Monkey needed for all kinds of fun experiments!

'Oh, great.' Said Mum. 'I'd better renew the house and contents insurance.'

There was one last present. It was wrapped in paper-bark and decorated with leaves and gum-nuts. Written on it with charcoal were the words...

TO MUNKI

HAPY KRISMES

Monkey opened it carefully.

And inside was...

A chocolate rabbit.

Too Many Monkeys

Mirrors were funny. Any time Monkey saw one he would stop and make silly faces. Sometimes the silly face in the mirror on Monkey's wardrobe door wasn't the same silly face as his, but Monkey was having too much fun to see it. Until, one day, it wasn't the same silly face at all.

It was Monkey's face.

But it was a serious face.

Something wasn't right.

'Had the wind changed?' Monkey wondered. 'Would he stay like that forever?'

Monkey tried making a different silly face.

The serious face stayed serious.

'Now, look here.' Suddenly serious Monkey scolded even more serious Monkey in the mirror. 'This simply will not do! You're my reflection. If I make a face, you make a face. The same face!'

'Sorry,' said Monkey in the mirror. 'But this is no time for silly faces.'

Monkey was gabberflasted!

'Eh? There's always time for silly faces. It's what Monkeys do!'

'Please,' said Monkey in the mirror. 'I need your help. Something has gone very wrong here.'

'Something's gone very wrong here!' Said Monkey.

Had he lost his marbles?

He shook his head and heard them rattle and clink reassuringly.

Nope.

His marbles were still there.

'Can I come through?' Asked Monkey in the mirror.

'What? Out here? Through the looking-glass?'

'Please!' Said Monkey, who wasn't Monkey but was. 'We need to talk.'

'You're darn tootin' we need to talk!' Said Monkey, who was Monkey but wasn't. 'We can't have me going off and doing my own thing any time I - You - feel like it.'

Monkey in the mirror stepped out of the mirror.

And then there were two Monkeys.

'You're a handsome fellow,' said Monkey.

'Thank you,' said Monkey. 'So are you.'

Some might say two Monkeys were two too many.

But not Monkey.

And not Monkey.

'What's your name?' Asked Monkey, thinking (naturally) that it would be Monkey.

'Monkey.' Answered Monkey.

'Really?' Asked Monkey. 'Not something silly like Yeknom?'

Which was Monkey spelled backwards.

'What's so silly about Yeknom?' Asked Monkey. 'My father's name is Yeknom.'

'So...' said Monkey, whose father's name was Monkey. '...what's happening on your side of the mirror that a clever chap like me can't fix?'

Monkey who wasn't Monkey but was Monkey, and whose father's name was Yeknom, said, 'I don't know how to have fun any more. If I ever did then, maybe... I forgot.'

Monkey was agog!

His gogs could not have been more gogged - Whatever that means.

A Monkey who couldn't have fun was just a sock!

'If the Blue Fairy can turn a puppet into a real boy...' said Monkey. '...then I can make a Monkey out of you. I mean me. Or do I? Anyway - It can't be that hard.'

But it was. Nothing Monkey tried could turn Monkey's frown upside-down.

Monkey said, 'Jump on the bed.'

But Monkey didn't want to.

He was scared he might bounce off and break a leg.

'Pull my tail.'

'I'm not falling for that one.'

'I said my tail, not pull my finger. Swing from the light-shade.'

'Isn't that dangerous?'

'Do a cartwheel.'

'I'm not wearing panties.'

'Eh?'

'What?'

'Stick your thumbs in your ears and wriggle your fingers.'

'Why?'

'Cross your eyes and poke your tongue out.'

'I'd rather not.'

'Knock. Knock.'

'What?'

'I say Knock. Knock. You say Who's there?'

'Who's there?'

'Do not.'

'Donut?'

'Not Donut. Do not.'

'What do I say?'

'You ask Do not who?'

'Do not who?'

'Do not tumble dry.'

'I don't get it. Shouldn't it be Do not what?'

'Never mind the semantics. Try walking on your hands.'

'My brains might fall out.'

'Trust me,' said Monkey, 'that's not going to happen.'

'Why? Because I don't have any brains? What a mean thing to say!'

'I'm sorry.'

'I don't want to do this any more!'

'I didn't mean to be mean.'

'I want my Mummy!'

Then Monkey was crying.

And Monkey was crying.

And things weren't going well at all.

'You really don't understand, do you?' Said Henry the cat, who'd been under the bed, watching and listening. 'You don't want others to know when you're hurt, or sad, or worried, or lost and frightened. So you hide those feelings. You mask your disappointment behind silly faces and play the fool. But those feelings can't be locked away so easily. Sometimes the mask slips.'

'What are you saying?' Sobbed Monkey through his tears. 'Can't you see I'm trying to help this... this... poor Monkey?'

'Who?' Asked Henry. 'What Monkey?'

'The Monkey from the mirror!'

Henry sat with his tail curled around his paws and yawned.

'You're the only Monkey here.'