Stone Guardians and the Rise of Eden

By Jem McCusker

Peter Walsh and Evie O’Malley are two children unaware of their magical abilities until they stumble across a portal that leads them to Eden. Suddenly they are guardians in training, preparing to destroy the evil witch holding their parents hostage and save Eden and Earth from destruction.

On their journey, they are joined by Fable—a charismatic frog with a penchant for folk songs and storytelling, the stoic Horses of the Hill, and Eammon the Great, Master Hunter.

Peter and Evie find themselves on a life changing adventure, discovering secrets to a past they never knew and the possibility of a future they never dreamed of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jem McCusker
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780987632913

Jem McCusker

I’m Jem McCusker, author of the Stone Guardians and the Rise of Eden. Book one of the Stone Guardians Fantasy Series. This will be my debut novel and I’m delighted to have the opportunity to share it, with it’s release scheduled for December 2018, followed by book two, Stone Guardians and the Sons of the Master in June 2019. I live in Brisbane, Australia with my husband and our two children. My eldest son, Sean asked me to tell him a story instead of reading one. I didn’t know where to start so I asked him what it should be about. He said he wanted it to be in Ireland because that’s where daddy is from and granny and granda too. Right, I thought, no pressure here. I’d half thrown something together in my head when he then requested it be about a frog. As it goes, I managed to craft up a little something that has a taste of Ireland and a quirky frog with long legs and personality to spare. I enjoyed the story so much that I created a cast of accompanying characters, a dash of humour, a lot of adventure and a large dose of imagination.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The blistering February winds swept through the air, ruffling the short cap of shaggy brown hair on Peter Walsh’s head. He pulled his snow cap down and closed his duffle coat tighter around him. The thin material was no match for the wind’s fury. His brown boots were weathered and a size too small, his toes peeking through the worn cotton socks and boot tip. Head down, he hurried on. If he was late for dinner, he would have a tanned hide.

As he turned into the estate, he saw Evie O’Malley, her boots far worse off than his own and not so much as a coat on her. Her flaming red hair tumbled in curls around her, hopefully shielding her neck from the chill. He hurried over to her, pulling off his coat as he went.

Evie O! he called.

Hugging herself, Evie trudged over to Peter.

Peter, you need to hurry. You’ll be late for your dinner and Big Mick will skin you.

Here, have my jacket. I’ve another inside. Peter passed the jacket over, halting Evie’s objections, before rushing into the house.

The house was no warmer than outside. The scent of burnt wood lingered, indicating the fire had long since burned itself out. Heading to the front room, he loaded more wood into the fire before starting on his chores for the evening.

He was pulling out the boot polish to shine Big Mick’s boots when the front door crashed open, with Big Mick himself behind it. Slobbering drunk, he heaved himself up only to fall across the table.

Peter inhaled sharply, frozen and too scared to breathe for fear Big Mick hadn’t passed out and was just taking a moment.

The time ticked by and the snoring started. Relieved, Peter returned to his chores and served their dinner, placing Big Mick’s on the hot plate to keep it warm, though he knew it wouldn’t be eaten.

Big Mick wasn’t big like you would think. In fact, he was very small, and legend said he was once a champion jockey until drink and meanness got the better of him. All the same, his meanness made up for any height deficiencies. His reputation was known county-wide and nobody messed with Big Mick Murphy or his crew.

Peter approached Big Mick cautiously, ensuring he was asleep before bending his arm and lugging him across his shoulders. Feet dragging, he hauled him to the bedroom before layering the thick wool blankets over him. Peter took a moment to rub the blankets between his fingers, savouring the warmth they offered. Heading back to the front room, Peter took out the cot mattress hidden away behind the sofa and the two thin blankets that had been his as long as he could remember. Adding more wood to the fire, he settled down for the night, pulling out a worn copy of a magazine he’d found in town.

Evie was more fortunate than Peter. She had a bed and bedroom of her own. The only trouble was it came with a lock and, if Missus was out on the town for a big night, it could be late the next day before she remembered to unlock it. Peter helped her jimmy out one of the window latches so she could get out if that happened, but she would be skinned if Missus ever found out about it.

Missus was as tall as Big Mick was short. She was pick thin and seemed to accentuate this whenever possible, wearing clothes so tight Evie often pondered how she could breathe. The only thing about Missus that wasn’t pick thin was the size of her nose. It had a giant bump on it, so it hooked over. Evie thought this made her look a little like a witch.

She didn’t have Big Mick’s meanness so much as she just didn’t really think of anyone but herself. She saw Evie as something peripheral to her, loitering about but mostly looking after itself and was handy to do things she herself couldn’t be bothered to do. She put the lock on the bedroom door at Big Mick’s suggestion, as he said, Girls are wily and sly and if they don’t go looking for trouble it will surely come to them.

She came to live with Missus at the same time Peter came to be with Big Mick Murphy. You see, Peter and Evie had been in and out of the system most of their lives, but Big Mick and his sister, known only as Missus as far as Evie knew, found out they would get a lock of pound for taking a kid in. So, it came to be that Big Mick took Peter and Missus took Evie. The only problem was they had no interest in raising kids, just the extra pounds they received each month. Evie supposed it could be worse. She could have no bed or, worse, no place to call home.

Missus had given Evie errands to run after school the following day. She was ordered to fetch groceries from town and dry cleaning, as Missus insisted on having and looking the best always.

Despite being eleven, Evie didn’t have much size about her and, with a scarce diet, she was wafer thin so hauling all those items back would be a challenge with her school bag on top of it all. Peter was twelve and was much taller than she could ever hope to be. Despite being lean, he seemed strong enough. She hoped Peter would have errands and would be able to help too. Tired and chilled to the bone, Evie settled into her bed, doubling over her blankets and hoping for a warmer day tomorrow.

The sun rose late, as it always did in February. Evie rushed through her morning chores in the hopes that her speed would produce more body heat. Peter met her at the end of the drive, as he always did, to walk to school. It had started sleeting and the drive was slick with black ice from the frost overnight. The best part of going to school was the clothes they got to wear. Warm, thick blazers, jumpers, lined trousers, thick tights, and polished shoes that fit with scarves and hats to match. It was one thing for Evie and Peter to have the basics at home and on the weekend, but Big Mick was suspicious of schools and didn’t want to be drawing attention to himself or Missus. He said, Schools have a direct line to the authorities and you don’t want a suit-and-tie knocking on your door.

Peter’s day seemed to be dragging. He had to take a science class and, for the life of him, it couldn’t hold his attention. They had frogs out today, for them to dissect and he just couldn’t do it. Not that he was a wuss, it just didn’t seem right. The poor frog hadn’t done a thing to harm him and, with technology, they could have just watched it on film or the like.

All the same, Mr Hegarty sent him to detention to write lines during his lunch break. Peter didn’t mind it so much. He hadn’t more than an apple for his lunch anyway. He’d managed to pocket ten pounds in coins that had fallen from Big Mick’s pockets the previous night and was going to treat himself and Evie to a meal from the bakery that afternoon. Mrs Mahon made the best pies in town and they had a good drenching of gravy and chips. His tummy rumbled as he lost himself in daydreams of hot food and good company.

With detention finally finished, he made his way to the art block for his last class. He had his satchel over his shoulder and took out his oil pastels and a tea cup and saucer before tucking his bag under his desk.

Are you making tea for the class today? Mrs MacDonald asked as she passed by on her rounds, nudging the tea cup with her hand. Today her hair was jet black with streaks of blue. It was always jet black; the colours of the streaks always changed. Cut short, it fell in a sharp bob under her chin that accentuated a long neck decorated in an array of floral tattoos that sprang with life and colour.

A shy smile creased the corners of Peter’s mouth. Not today. It’s part of my piece.

I’d love to see what you have so far. She walked around to stand beside him.

Shuffling his papers to the side, Peter opened his tray and pulled out a football carved from wood.

Mrs MacDonald’s hands immediately reached out to touch. Oh, Peter, this is wonderful. Look at the detail. She held it up for closer inspection, tracing the grooves and outlines with her finger. I didn’t know you worked with wood.

Peter shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. It’s just something I mess around with from time to time.

Tell me, where does the tea cup and saucer fit in? I understand that creating a piece that reflects what family means to you may be difficult in your situation. She pulled up the seat beside him and sat down. Her eyes reflected sincerity and understanding.

Peter cleared his throat to speak but was saved from having to reply, thanks to Brian McManus knocking over his easel and paints.

Brian McManus, you were blessed with two left feet! Mrs MacDonald laughed as she headed over to help him.

Peter wrapped the tea cup and saucer in a canvas bag before taking it over to the bench. He used a small hammer to break it and spent the next hour gluing the broken pieces onto the football.

His fingers began to ache just as the bell rang. He gathered up his satchel and headed down the hall to meet Evie.

Evie O, you ready? Peter asked. He leant back against the wall, one leg crossed comfortably in front of the other.

Yes, Evie groaned her reply as she lugged her bag over her shoulder. Missus has a million things for me to bring home for her today and I don’t have enough hands.

I’ll help you, but first, how does a pie from Mahon’s sound? Peter wiggled his eyebrows as he jingled the coins in his pocket.

That sounds heavenly, Peter. I’m absolutely starved. Evie linked her arms through his, all but dragging him along.

Mahon’s bakery was packed with the afterschool crowd. People of all shapes and sizes filled the small entryway, their faces transfixed by their phone screens.

Brian McManus, you put that phone down, you hear? Honestly, can’t even look at the woman putting a full belly on you! Mrs Mahon scolded. 

But Mrs M, you make the nicest pies. Sure, I’m just taking a few pictures of them to show my pals. All sweetness and light, Brian scooted out of the way before Mrs M’s hand connected with the back of his head.

Peter and Evie chose to walk along the river as they headed for home. Peter carried most of the groceries and two of the garments while Evie managed the rest. The walk was peaceful and the ground was covered in a light layer of sleet.

Evie stopped to lay her hand on Peter’s arm as she noticed the small black rings under his eyes. You look tired Peter.

No more than usual. Was a bit cold last night after the fire burned out and had to keep getting up to add wood. Big Mick says he may get a stove in before next winter.

I can spare a blanket, Peter. I’ll try to get one over this evening.

 Don’t bother yourself, Evie. I’ll be grand.

Aye Peter, if you’re sure?

Come on, let’s get Missus her outfits. The sooner she has one on, the sooner she’ll leave to show it off!

Evie offered one of her mischievous grins and a high-five before scooting off toward home, bags and dresses in hand.

The river ran by, setting its own pace as Peter and Evie followed the bend.

Evie stopped abruptly.

Peter, look, over there! Evie clasped her hands together in delight, her eyes sparkling with joy. Mushrooms in the winter. They’re red, just like a wee faery garden.

Evie ran over, dropping her parcels on the way. Kneeling, she peered closely at them. Peter strolled over, noticing the discarded soft drink cans as he went. As he drew nearer, he could see she was right. He’d never seen the like of it before. It was as if they’d been cut and pasted out of a faery tale. He looked over at Evie and her green eyes were sparkling with delight and her cheeks were glowing a soft pink from the brisk walk and chill in the air.

How about I sneak Big Mick’s camera tomorrow so we can come back after school and take a picture of them? We can use the photo lab at school to print it off.

Oh, Peter, that would be just wonderful. I’d love to put it up on my wall so I can look at it every day.

Chapter 2

The cloaked man could command attention, but he chose not to. His blonde hair hung to his shoulders and flicked out in any direction it chose, on its own whim. His eyes, usually a jovial green, had been dulled to a muddy brown. At six foot two, he towered above most but for today he stood a little over five foot four. Crouching low as people moved around him, he noticed their unease in his presence. He directed his energy that way, with deliberate intention. If no one wanted to be near him, then nobody would come close enough to get hurt.

He wound his way through the streets of Dublin, his tanned boots travelling easily over the cobblestone paths. He traced the energy like a hound on a hunting expedition but kept to the shadows, the place he worked best. Down an alley he went, and flattened himself to the wall. The smell of whiskey and cigars permeated the narrow passageway. To protect himself he cast a light shield, filled with clean air and the smell of rain over his body.

Winthrop was who he hunted. A clever little man with clever little ways and a bold streak of greed. He had been born with magic but used it for self-indulgence and destruction. He was charged with using magic to destroy protected nature reserves to make way for developments and city centres. He used his magic to make the land sick so everything died off and wouldn’t grow again. This time, he had gone too far, creating a forest fire that had taken lives. He did this to ensure he got planning permission approved. He had amassed endless amounts of wealth, but it was never enough and it was toxic for this world.

Eammon watched as Winthrop met with another, the city council member he had researched. They exchanged brown envelopes, one with approved planning slips and the other with a down payment of cash. The wastefulness and deceitfulness never failed to disgust him.

Eammon waited for the city council member to leave before making himself known. He restored his eye colour first, with the green weaving through the muddy brown like a mist. Next, he returned to his full height and let his weight stretch and proportion back to muscle. Then he made his move.

Winthrop Williams, I’m here today with an order from the Council. You are to be stripped of your magic, effective immediately. Your charges are listed as follows. Eammon produced a notarised list and handed it to a puzzled-looking Winthrop.

What are you talking about? Magic? Have you had one too many whiskeys next door? He managed to laugh and scoff at the same time, lacing his voice with an aristocratic English accent that was as fake as the day was night.

We can do this the hard way or my way. Your choice, Winthrop. Eammon’s voice was as dry as the winds in a desert storm.

I want a fair trial, Winthrop demanded.

You took lives. There is only one outcome when your actions result in loss of life.

Damn homeless people should have better sense than to sleep out in the woods, he spat.

Like lightning, Winthrop sent out an energy blast, but this was no surprise to Eammon. His shield was cloaked and firmly in place. The energy blast ricocheted off the shield and went directly back into Winthrop’s chest. He stumbled back and tripped over a garbage can. As he stumbled to get up Eammon sent out a rope of energy and secured both his wrists.

Fear in his eyes now, Winthrop began to realise the gravity of the situation. He wasn’t too proud to try and negotiate his way out of it. I’ve got money. I’ll give you a hundred thousand euro right now to leave and forget about this.

Having wasted enough time on him already, Eammon began the unpleasant process of stripping Winthrop’s magic. He created an arch of pulsing energy and light and positioned it above him. He directed the energy from the arch down and into Winthrop, so every part of him was lit up. Using his hands, he directed Winthrop’s energy into his chest. He leaned forward and extracted the magic the way a farmer collects eggs from his chicken. Magic in hand, he transferred it into a small pebble he carried in his pocket. The pebble lit up brightly before dimming down and returning to its original colour.

Gasping for breath, Winthrop stood frozen while his eyes darted left and right, looking for a way to escape. Eammon took a letter from his pocket and pinned it to Winthrop’s chest. Eammon had secured him with energy. He would not be able to move a muscle until they arrived.

The authorities of this world are coming for you now. The note on your chest details all your crimes. Thievery and underhanded deals with local council members. They are named too. It also lists down to the last euro how much money you have made from the proceeds of crime. You will never be able to do magic again, but you will be able to see it, which will serve as a reminder to tell others like you to make wise choices.

On a shaky breath, Winthrop managed a few words. Who are ye? His native Dublin accent had returned.

I am Eammon, a master hunter. Tell those of your kind I am coming for them. Without so much as a look back over his shoulder, Eammon left the alley as discreetly as he’d entered, placing a call to the Garda before heading for the nearest portal back to Eden.

Chapter 3

Peter entered the foster system six months after he was born. He had been with eight foster families since. When he was nine, he moved in with Jimmy and Irene Walsh. He had loved it there. He’d had home-cooked meals every day, clean and warm bedding, bedtime stories, and fun. Oh, did he have fun. Jimmy was mad for football, so if he wasn’t talking about football or watching football he was out in the backyard teaching it to Peter. He had a small workshop at the back of the house and he used to make all sorts of things in it, from window frames to coffee tables. He caught Peter playing with a small pocket knife one afternoon and Peter dropped it immediately, scared he would be in trouble.

I don’t mind you using the knife, Peter, but let me show you how so you don’t hurt yourself. Irene will never forgive me if I take you in there bleeding.

Out to the workshop they went, and that was Peter’s first lesson carving wood. He was clumsy at first, but Jimmy encouraged him and told him he was coming along just fine. It was the first time Peter could recall someone telling him he was doing well at something. He set himself the task of practicing every day and, although in the first few months he was clumsy with it, he got better and so good that Irene had Jimmy put up a special shelf in his room so he could put them on display. It was the proudest day of his life.

One afternoon, Jimmy gave Peter a brand-new piece of wood and said how Irene had a birthday coming up and how it would be special if Peter made her a small carving to put on some leather that she could wear as a necklace. Peter worked tirelessly on the project until it was perfect. He made her a heart with a Celtic knot pattern carved into it. Making the back of it flat so it would sit flush against her chest, he left the front raised so it curved out. He couldn’t wait until the following week to give it to her.

A few days later, Peter came home from school to find the house empty. There was a note on the bench with his name clearly marked across the top. He felt the panic spread over him from the heckles on his neck to the tiny goose bumps that chased up his arms. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to read it.

"Dearest Peter,

We are truly sorry, but we have been called away. We love you very much and promise to return to you soon. We know you don’t understand but please trust us when we say we will return for you.

Keep the knife on you always and practice your carving daily.

We will