The Elf Wands.

By Phillip Scaife

The Elf Wands is a tale of Myth and Magic, which sees Meric the Picht (a gnome like creature) embark upon a quest to find his missing companions. His journey takes him into dangerous lands where the Green and Grey Elves of Mortlake and the Thin Woods do battle against their old foe, an evil Sorceress, the Black Annis. Meric's quest becomes entwined with that of the elves, who desperately seek a magical wand - an elf wand - which will help them defeat their enemy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781291115864

Book preview

The Elf Wands.

The Elf Wands

Version 1.1

Copyright © 2012 Lulu Press

All rights reserved.

ISBN : 978-1-291-07006-4

From the hand of Auldelf, three wands….a gift,

That ye may know of all worlds;

For gold or greed or heroic deed,

All worlds are yours with these but heed;

Look deep into your heart to see,

Their use, therein, for you;

Be careful how you use them now,

And what in life you sow!

….Ancient elf proverb.

FOREWORD

In ages past, when the earth was one land surrounded by one vast ocean, the great elf wizards held favour with the Gods.

Paradise was theirs in the form of lore which granted the wizards the power to access all worlds. But as the millenia passed and the lands flooded and parted, so too, the unity which had flowed through the veins of the elf wizards, began to disintegrate. Bloody wars were fought, and with the demise of the wizards, the ancient lore perished too.

However, before his death in the battle of the Deep Marshes, an elf wizard by the name of Auldelf saw fit to leave a gift; a legacy of the lore of old. Auldelf made three wands…..the elf wands; one silver, one gold, and one made of oak. The wands would grant power to those whose time was yet to come, a power that enabled the wielder to cross worlds, dimensions, and freeze time if they so chose.

Myths grew as vast as oaks, celebrating the power of the wands, and the years saw mighty armies clash in pursuit of the riches which they promised. Demons and tyrants alike had murderously pursued the wands with greed in mind and lust in heart.

As the years fell away, most people grew to deny the very existence of the wands, saying they were but a fairy story fit for the minds of children, tales to distract from more pressing concerns. And as such, the Elf wands of Auldelf, fell deeper into the realm of myth and legend.

But those with wiser eyes knew all too well the truth of the elf wands and the power they could bring to friend or foe. They knew that with a wand in hand all worlds were but a moment away…….and yes reader….your world too.

PROLOGUE.

The heartland of the industrial north of England had seen the vast majority of its workers home for the evening, where sitting before welcoming fires, the aches and pains of the day eased from their tired limbs. The night had drawn its curtains early, for the month was late in the year and the bite of winter could be felt approaching, its teeth nipping at the bones of anybody straying out upon this late hour.

The village of Cottingley, a few miles from the looming chimneys of the region’s textile past, was as quiet as a graveyard, save for the graceful murmur of the river Aire as it caressed its way through the Bluebell Woods. The birch and the beeches lining the river stood sentinel, as if waiting for a thousand year old spell to be broken. To the south, the amber haze of urban street lights, fought against the pitch of the night sky, their orange glow waning, before finally succumbing to the black void above it.

A wind blew softly and the moon, which had until now been obscured by a ceiling of cloud, managed a brief wink upon the trees below. The light caught an owl's eye which glowed for an instant as if fired by an inner spark. The owl took to flight, its silhouette across the now exposed moon startling a more terrestrial life form as it hurriedly sniffed the ground.

A young squirrel’s search for beech nuts, was further distracted by a noise which emanated from beyond a high mossy wall, a wall which was boundary to an old manor house whose grounds ran adjacent to the copse which hosted the creature’s activities. The squirrel carefully pushed its nose through a patch of tufted vetch, before sniffing at the mossy obstacle.

In scaling the wall with it’s long clawed feet, the animal discovered the sound to be nothing other than a creaking shutter which hung loosely over a dark pillared cob-webbed entrance.

The manor’s crumbling entrance spoke volumes for the building’s imminent fate, for indeed, a demolition notice, itself peeling from the probing fingers of frost, stood at the foot of the grounds, declaring an intent to raze the premises, in the ever growing demand for new roads. Not that anybody in this instance minded.

The house, buried beneath a funeral shroud of ivy, had a dark history, a history which was further fuelled by the disappearance six months ago, of the ageing crone who had lived there. No one realised she had vanished until the house fell into disrepair, for she kept herself to herself and would entertain nobody. Indeed, nobody had ever seen her during daylight hours, and rumours had spread that she was some kind of vampire or witch.

'That new roads going right through there,' the relieved locals had declared after the notice had been erected.

‘Good thing an’ all,’ many replied.

The squirrel sniffed the air.

'Perhaps beech nuts are hidden on the other side,' its nose told it. 'Another squirrel’s hoard is fair game come weather like this,' it convinced itself after descending into a sea of creeping unkempt crowberry shrubs.

The old manor house was a cold sinister looking hovel and as the seeker made its way through a stalky jungle of dead foxgloves, cockleburs and advancing weeds, two bats shot from a broken upstairs window, inviting the squirrel to forgo its search and return to more familiar ground. The animal stood on its hind legs and sniffed inquisitively….afraid. Something strange was in the air, something unlike it had ever tasted in its nostrils before. Curiosity won the day and further on the creature slowly went, carefully skirting the remnants of a stagnant pond where the bones of dead fish broke the surface. Huge weeds seemed to lunge and grab at the squirrel, before all of a sudden it fell upon a more solid looking object.

A smiling gnome with a bright red coat, looked down with a grin as wide as the moon itself. The figure displayed large hands tucked firmly into a big black belt which in turn surrounded an ample belly. The plastic gnome stared motionless. The garden ornament was dismissed with a cursory sniff as the squirrel made its way.

'Doesn't seem to be anything here,' thought the rodent, as it bounded through the weeds heading back for the copse. It had done no more than three or four leaps when a quickening breeze  carried once again that strange uncertain smell.

Following the cue from its nostrils, and creeping ever lower, the squirrel slowly ventured on, before very carefully pushing its nose through a densely growing patch of nettles which appeared to be harbouring the source of its curiosity. 

The moon now shone with vivid intensity as the vanishing clouds cleared its moonbeams a path earthward. The celestial light painted the sight before him and struck the squirrel with a terror like it had never experienced before. It beheld the spectre of two more gnome like beings, but quite unlike the one it had just seen. That had had a cheerful smiling face with its large hands tucked into a big fat belt. But what stood before him now were tortured thin faces, faces which looked alive, but captive, held by the monstrous stinging plants which grew around them. The moonlight played upon their eyes which appeared to follow the squirrel as it fearfully backed away. The animal, its heart beating rapidly, left the pleading eyes behind, and once over the garden wall, vowed never to return to that dreadful place again.

.

Episode One.

Chapter One: The World’s Smallest Giant.

A sharp draught beckoned Meric to the slightly open window of his sitting room, where distant sounds of revelry could be heard emanating from the picht village of Much Tump in the valley below. The village nestled amidst the glens and valleys of the roaming dales of Belldock, a descent of some two hundred feet from the hilltop cottage. Meric opened the rounded window a little further and leant half of his nineteen inches of height outside, where a canopy of stars and a shining moon coated his well kept garden in a silvery hue.

Singing and laughter was borne on the smoke scented air, as the villagers of Much Tump partied away merrily. But all festivities had long felt hollow in Meric’s heart. He shortly turned back toward the fire in his sitting room, where the dying fingers of flame fought to the last. A chill nipped at his feet as he headed for the covers of his bed and another restless night. He knew it would soon be time to act.

***************

Dark sky turned to blue as the dawn illuminated the morning dew, creating an ocean of white crystals and pearls over the surrounding hills of Belldock. The sound of chirping starlings was dampened by the lazy atmosphere of the cool winters morning. Much Tump began to stir under a blanket of mist, where early morning fires punched smoke through a silvery grey roof like so many smoking geysers.

Much Tump was an isolated village, consisting of roughly twenty or so - four and a half foot high - thatched cottages, each occupied by on average, two and three quarter pichts.

Being descendants of gnomes, and similar in shape and character to their more renowned ancestors, pichts were an impish race of folk who loved and lived life to the full.  Gardening and partying were a picht’s reason for living, and Much Tump was a village that witnessed both these things to the full.

There was one tavern, one grocer, one baker, a market place, and most visited of all, the one and only gardening accessories shop run by Hilly Scree.

The village lay nestled between a large forest – the Leshy Forest - with mountains beyond and to the east, whilst the north and west held nothing more than swampland, and the rolling Cotton Weed covered hills of the dales of Belldock.

The pichts who had lived here for generations were a happy folk concerned mainly with their gardens and content as long as there was ale in the tavern. Days were spent gardening in quiet comfort, whilst the night heralded the start of festivities.

Above the hills overlooking Much Tump, lay the abode inhabited by a fellow who had forgone those festivities for some time now. Meric’s cottage, with its brown thatched roof saw a winding garden path climb up thirty steps from the garden gate to his oaken front door. Any visitor climbing this path would have witnessed the most varied collection of flowers and greenery that couldn’t be matched by any garden in Tump. All this watched over by a mountain of an oak tree, whose very roots threatened to lift and carry the whole dwelling down the hill any moment.

The present sole occupier of this abode which housed three till not so long ago, was a young picht who stood a proud nineteen inches high in his stocking feet, although you may have been forgiven for adjudging him to be a good two foot tall, because the blue pointed hat which forever sat atop his cropped red hair was – apart from bedtime – a permanent feature of his attire. Meric was proud of his height, nineteen inches being a good two inch taller than your average picht. So proud in fact that he had convinced the more gullible in Much Tump, that he was indeed the ‘world’s smallest giant!’

Meric’s rounded jovial features displayed a character of good humour and many in Much Tump were surprised to find that his deep blue eyes had indeed seen almost eighteen summers when most wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if the local tavern had refused him entry on account of his youthfulness.

Not that Meric frequented the tavern all that much anyway. Like his missing companions, Meric’s passion was his garden. Every available minute he had was spent tending to his roses, dahlias, orchids, poppies, cacti and bonsai’s, to name but a few of the delights which grew behind his garden wall. There were red bells, orange bells and well, just about every coloured bell going. All except bluebells that is. No picht had ever seen a bluebell. They were the stuff of legend.

The sun had risen above the eastern mountains by the time Meric emerged from his slumber. A hurried cup of tea and two eggs later, he was off, making in haste for the market which was held every day including this snappy morning. His pace down the hillside was sharper than usual and he almost came a cropper once or twice. The purchase of provisions was on the young picht’s mind for he had resolved that a journey was in the offing and things would of course be needed.

This early in the day, the village observed Spartan activity, as many a sore head was still being nursed from last night’s ale. Woody Splints the carpenter, who was out mending a garden fence, studied Meric’s eager approach. His greeting of ‘Good morning’ was met only by a quick wave of the hand from the hurried figure.

‘There goes a troubled fellow indeed,’ Woody thought to himself as he turned back to his fence. Like the rest of the villagers, Woody thought they’d seen the last of Grimbald and Aida. Six months was a long time for a picht to be gone. Too long. It was rare for a picht to leave his garden unattended for more than a week, let alone six whole months!

‘They’ll not be back now my friend,’ thought Woody, as the figure of Meric vanished apace into the market place.

Without seeming too uncourteous, Meric speedily purchased his goods and made his way home without pausing for civilities which he would have normally liked to do on shopping trips. Many a stall owner and shopper looked on with concern as the laden youngster beat a path homeward.

‘Too much for one,’ observed Ed Green, the flower pot maker, as Meric struggled back up the steep hill eyed by wild rabbits as he went. Shortly, and with great relief, his winding garden path was soon before him, and on entering the cottage, Meric closed the door and immediately set to work.

***************

The Leshy Forest adjacent to Much Tump, was a labyrinth nightmare to the pichts whose height barely enabled them to see above the forest scrub. However, for the hermit dwarf Dan, this meant all the more peace and quiet from those ‘darn little folk,’ as he was wont to call them.

A pair of wood pigeons looked on as an unkempt bearded figure rustled furiously through the undergrowth surrounding a makeshift home of rags, leaves, mud and branches. Empty moonshine bottles clanked about the dwarf’s hairy feet as he went.

Darn ‘em…Darn ‘em blasted squirrels, he cried, as he poked through the long grass. The old dwarf stumbled about, cursing and kicking a few empties as he went, almost falling at one point into his bubbling still, whose precious fluid he would avidly preserve in the said bottles.

"Where’d they ‘id it then? Where’d they ‘id it?’ he blasted, looking angrily for his wooden whistle, an object he’d last seen in a squirrel’s mouth as it tried to make off with it. At last, the stubby gnarled fingers of the searcher fell with great relief upon his pride and joy, and caring not for the dirt about the mouthpiece, he placed the instrument between his lips - buried somewhere between the tangled cloud of curly hair which passed as a beard - and immediately fell to playing. The local squirrels upon hearing this abominable racket once more, and having failed in their prime purpose of parting player and whistle, took to holding their ears or making sharply from the vicinity. Meanwhile the bedraggled whistler took to his instrument in perfect bliss.

Dan was a solitary dwarf. A hermit, living in and off the forest. He troubled no one – save for the animals within hearing distance – and nobody troubled him. It was a mystery to most how this lone figure had arrived in the Leshy, or where exactly he came from.  He stood some four feet high in his hairy feet, which all said and done was tallish for a dwarf. His beard and hair were of equal length meeting somewhere around his midriff, in fact he was so hairy front and back, you hardly could tell which side you were looking at. Dan’s huge feet hadn’t seen shoes since the last blue moon was high in the sky, and as such, the soles of his feet had grown so leathery over the years they were better equipped for tramping the forest scrub than any footwear this side of the Hollow Mountains could have provided.

The