The Once and Future Queen

By Maggie O’Brien

"No popular culture. No gossip. Loved it."
-Clare Stephenson

"l like the history in this book"
-Michael Nally

We spend a summer with an unlikely collection of strangers for whom, for whatever reason, the past is important; but it is more important than they imagine. The strands of their lives unexpectedly interweave. Each is a piece of a living jig-saw. They eventually put us in the picture. These extraordinary, ordinary people share with us a world where life’s casual and inexplicable mysteries are discussed and accepted as commonplace. O’Brien explores themes of life, death, belief in a warm-hearted and easy style that is both beguiling and funny. Her undemanding intellect brings ‘ologies and ‘osophies out to play. There is an unworldly, fascinating mischief afoot here. You can’t help but think out of the box.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483458373

Book preview

O’Brien

Copyright © 2016 Margaret A. O’Brien.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5836-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5837-3 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 11/18/2016

Contents

PART 1: DEEPLY ASLEEP

1 Men in White Coats 1995

2 Beneath the Surface

3 All in the Mind

4 Yesterday Upon the Stair…..

5 Order from Chaos

6 Funny Old World

7 Old Familiar Faces

8 Inside Information

PART 2: STIRRING

9 Can You See Yourself Out?

10 The Spirit-Level

11 Out and About

12 Seeds

13 Busy Bodies

14 Fair’s Fair

15 Well, what do you know?

16 No Strings Attached

For the children of Ogma

Part 1

Deeply Asleep

Those who look outside dream; those who look inside awake.

Carl Jung

Chapter 1

Men in White Coats 1995

Beneath the seemingly rational exterior of our lives is a fear of insanity. We dare not question the values by which we live, nor rebel against the roles we play, for fear of putting our sanity in doubt.

Alexander Lowen

T HE OLD GEORGIAN TOWNHOUSE stood detached and proud on the brow of Wiglow Hill. It defied the encroachment of development. Over the years the side lane that once shaped the corner of its extensive front gardens had grown into a small avenue of tightly-packed housing. Its name, now as ever, was Stanton Row in deference to a row of standing-stones that once marked an ancient trackway down to the river some distance below. Only one or two of the stones remained upright.

At seventy, Dr.Wilfred Thorn had bought the house because of its conversion into bedsits. The rental income allowed him to cut back on his case-load and to be more selective in his choice of client.

Intrigued by the names of both hill and avenue, he had spent some considerable time at the central library researching the area. He’d discovered to his delight that his new house stood on the very spot where an Abbot of Glastonbury once had his chapel. The Abbot, in time-honoured tradition, had himself selected the vicinity because of a mound or barrow that had long marked the place as ‘sacred’. Further research revealed that the ‘low’ in Wiglow evidenced that such a mound had indeed existed under the very room he had chosen as his surgery.

The alterations to the house had left the rear basement self-contained with French doors to a side entrance, perfect for the surgery. Here, thick stone walls gave clues as to the true age of the present house. They were simply whitewashed and permitted an earthy smell to greet the visitor, not unpleasant and strangely reassuring. The large room overlooked an ancient landscape, camouflaged by urban sprawl itself dissected by a motorway some way off. Through the sliding glass doors behind his desk, he could clearly make out thirteen steps marking the start of the original trackway. His gaze always followed this path down to and through the allotments and out along the river, coming to rest on the tall spire of the mediaeval church, mostly hidden in the valley below.

His first two clients of the morning came and went. Sipping black tea, he swivelled in his black, leather chair to reach for the next set of notes in a red cardboard folder. He studied them with some interest. The cover read Miss X, a title he had written with the intention of using it for his next book. Even after the first and only consultation, she fascinated his prying mind. There were only a few leaves inside the jacket. He scanned them.

First session: Voluntary isolation. Supressed creativity? Automatic writing/Compulsion to paint and draw. Some hallucinations/ visions/ vivid dreams *(recurring sleep paralysis?) Disassociation? Fear of madness. NB. Repressed talent? Why? Since when? Fear of ‘white coats’. Holding back. Gave her my book/ too difficult?) Hypernesia? Fear of socialising. Why? Reclusive at present- understandably. Highly intelligent. Low self-esteem. Brilliantly articulate. Reconcile the equivocal other? A sensitive? Psychic ability?

The bell sounded. He was snapped back into the present and the matter in hand. The young woman entered.

Come in, Come in…..sit. Sit, sit. How have things been since last week? How are you?

Can you ask me an easier question? She smiled and sat down in front of the solid mahogany desk.

This is an amazing house, beautiful, full of character.

Yes it is. I haven’t owned it long. He paused. She knew he had not finished. This room is built on the site of a chapel or shrine of an abbot of Glastonbury. It has a good feeling about it, don’t you think?

It’s got a ….monkish feel to it for sure. They both took in the room again until the doctor’s tone of voice became more serious.

Well, you look a lot more relaxed than when we last met.

That’s because I trust you now.

May I ask why?

She leaned over and fumbled for something in her large, fabric shoulder bag.

It’s thanks to your book! She offered the book back to him.

No, no, no, he chided her kindly, I wanted you to keep it until you’ve read it.

Oh I’ve read it. I read it about ten times actually.

You didn’t have any problems with the terminology or concepts?

No. She said it with the intonation of surprise. Why do you ask that?

What did you make of it?

Honestly?

Honestly!

Well I wondered if you’d put me into some kind of post-hypnotic trance, handed me a blank book and I’d written it all myself.

The therapist choked on his last sip of tea. He laughed out loud.

That he chortled has got to be the best compliment a writer could ever get!

Now there was mutual recognition in their eye contact.

It was like water to a very thirsty woman, she continued.

There was a pause. He began to probe again.

You told me, last time we met, that you are afraid of socialising. Can you elaborate?

His question was a tricky one. It brought up a lot of her fears. At last she formulated a response. Um, to put it mildly, I’ve got a lot on my mind. She heard herself laugh nervously but carried on. I know that most people wouldn’t want to hear what’s going on in my head. Still, if I can barely cope with it why should they? I come across as intense and mad, a bore, I guess. I know they’d call for the men in white coats.

How do you know that? That was an even stranger question.

Well look what happened when I did actually spill the beans. Thorn laughed. He had forgotten he was wearing a white coat. He changed tack.

Have you had a recurrence of automatic writing or remarkable dreams? They are food to a hungry therapist.

Of course. What scares me the most are the things I see. Things and people that appear out of thin air, characters who seem to come to my bedroom to have their own dreams. I can’t see their faces but I can eavesdrop on their conversations and see what they’re up to. I record a lot of those goings-on. I am mad you know. I’m sure.

You say these things appear out of thin air, can you be more specific? What I mean is, do they appear anywhere at any time? When you are shopping for example?

Oh no. God that would be horrendous. No. I mean in, my room or around my flat and usually at about 3 o’clock in the morning. I also can’t look at poorly painted walls, for instance, ‘cos whole worlds appear and move….filled with all kinds of stuff, creatures, people. She had never actually voiced this before. It sounded completely bonkers.

Tell me, he said deliberating and obviously nudging towards a crucial point, If you see things and people materialising in mid-air, you are considered ‘mad’ are you not? She nodded. What would you be if you drew and painted what you see? Put it onto canvas or paper? He was sensitive to her resistance and fears that were stirring.

An artist? she half whispered, questioning.

And if you put your scribblings in order? he prodded further.

Oh my God! Are you suggesting…..a writer? Shock coloured the words. But I can’t be a writer or an artist!

Why not?

Artists and writers are talented, clever and skilful. I can’t put myself among my role models, I wouldn’t dare.

But you are clever and talented.

Nice of you to say so but I’m not, you know. I’m quite stupid and probably quite insane.

Ah! Ha! Then that’s what we have to tackle, where we begin. He grinned a ‘eureka!’ grin and his body language grew less formal. I would like to hypnotise you and induce amnesia, to take a look at what’s what in your imagination, if I may?

Why not? I trust you.

I would also like to record the session?

Okay by me.

I might add that it can happen that my voice may interact with your separate reality when you are first under hypnosis. This is because I am the last person you see and hear. That’s to say, I may appear to be part of that reality, at least initially. It’s much the same as sounds around the dreamer can affect the dream. It’s perfectly normal. Last time we did not venture so deep.

I’m with you..

Pop up on the couch then, would you? Make yourself comfortable. He began his magic. Watch the end of my pen. Focus on the pen. Focus on the pen. Your eyelids are becoming heavy, heavy, heavier and heavier. You are more and more relaxed, deeply relaxed. You are not worrying about anything, not thinking about anything, deeply relaxed and feeling sleepy, deeply relaxed, deeply confident, sleepy and relaxed, deeply confident. You are deeply, deeply asleep. The logical part of her brain was reacting as it had done in the last session. Her inner voice was insisting that this was ridiculous and never going to work. Then she felt a familiar rushing sensation. It was something she had experienced all too often in her dreams. She was elsewhere.

Lying motionless at the edge of woodland she was aware there had been a struggle, a battle; she was a warrior, stirring. Her head ached, as did her limbs. Her energy was spent. She searched her memory for how she’d come to be here, lying motionless at the edge of a forest. Yes, there had been a battle. She couldn’t fathom if the battle had been won or lost. Her light armour now seemed unbearably heavy. She’d become so used to wearing it that it had become part of her. Her head and face rested on her bent right arm. Was she alive or dead? Why couldn’t she move? Forever seemed to pass before she heard the deep velvet tones of her old friend the Ollave.

Where are you? Thorn asked from within the dimmed room.

Over here, the woman on the couch replied, by the edge of the forest.

Who are you? Thorn asked.

A peculiar question. Was he assessing any damage sustained to her state of mind?

Gwendolly? she said clearly. She heard the old man sigh. Gwendoll-y? She repeated the strange Welsh sounding name. This was a very odd feeling. She was in two places at once, with her normal self ‘watching’ but feeling this too.

Dr. Thorn kept an eye on her body language. He took her deeper. Assured that she was now deep within the dream state, he didn’t speak. She gestured and mumbled incoherently as if in conversation with one significant other. It was indecipherable but had the cadence of Welsh. At last she settled again. He returned to her side.

You are happy and well the deep, velvet voice repeated. You are not to worry about anything. We are going back, back in time a little. Relax. You are deeply, deeply relaxed. Where are you now?

Am I in my coffin? The girl’s voice had deepened and there was a silence. Thorn waited.

I’m moving…or being moved. It’s completely enclosed, this casket, this box. I hear horses’ hooves and cries and the clamour of angry men…outside. Be quiet! Wait for what? For whom? I’m in pain. Her voice betrayed anxiety and small beads of sweat formed on her brow. The therapist decided to bring her back.

When I count down from 5 to 1 you will wake up. You will feel deeply relaxed, deeply confident and you will not be worried about a thing. Deeply, deeply confident. 5-4-3-2-1.

Hello, Thorn said warmly as his patient gradually came to.

Oh hello.

How are you feeling Maddie?

Calm and stronger, thanks

Do you remember anything?

She checked. Not a lot…trees…a forest.

Good, good, good he mumbled reassuringly. Let’s have a chat before we finish up for the day. Take your time and then come over and sit down when you’re ready. He walked back to sit at his desk. She almost floated across the room.

Do you have any questions? he began.

Why did you induce amnesia? Is it because I might make an ass of myself?

No, no, Thorn chuckled. It’s rather that the mind is complex and well adapted to survival. Many clients have hidden traumas, stored memories of painful events mainly, that they’ve hidden from themselves. They have tucked them away in an inaccessible corner of the mind so that they don’t have to deal with them. Sometimes, these events, traumas are so devastating that they begin to affect the client’s life and personality and need to be found gently. In those instances we step lightly to try to uncover these and gradually introduce the patient to the ideas. It’s for your own mental health.

So, did you find out I’m a multi-phrenic?

I like the word! But why do you ask that?

‘Cos I’ve got loads of characters running riot in my head without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Isn’t that madness?

It can be symptomatic of a writer, as I said.

I don’t know, I don’t know. I find it scary.

How so?

Who’s actually doing my automatic writing? Where’s it coming from? I mean….when I saw a forest … who’s the me doing the seeing and where’s the forest?

Your imagination at least that is what we call it here in the West. Some call it Dreamtime, the Spiritual plane, the astral plane. Whatever one calls it, you are doing the seeing, the writing, the drawing, the questioning and….in visions and dreams….the answering. That’s the mysterious world of imagination.

Why is it all so cryptic then? Why don’t I simply tell myself the answers and be done with it?

Fundamentally so that you can ‘solve’ them in your own good time, - gently….but also these are all excellent questions and why I find you a fascinating case.

You do?

Oh yes. When I was telling you about why amnesia is used, I was explaining how I probe to find the deliberately forgotten. When I listen to you, I realize you’re doing the same for yourself already. Cryptic dreams and visions give you information in a way that demands you take time to decode them. They won’t shock you. Do you know the human mind stores memories in picture form?

Explain some more.

If, for example I ask you to name say, your first teacher at school and you can’t remember, your mind will not stop searching for the image of him or her. The image is the first thing that comes to mind. When the image is clear your mind will keep searching for a name.

That’s all well and good but what about the dreams of fairies I get?

There I’m not going to comment. You will decipher it all when your conscious mind is ready for the information.

If you say so.

Any other queries?

No. I don’t think so. Oh yes. There is one thing. In your book (do you want it back now by the way?) She pushed the book forward on the desk but he nudged it back, shaking his head. You write some pieces about reincarnation. I’m not sure I believe in it, reincarnation that is, but they are beautifully written."

Thank you and it is okay to disagree. The world would be a very dull place if everyone agreed, wouldn’t it? Tell me your favourite writers.

There are lots and for a lot of reasons.

Tell me a few.

Hesse for a sense of companionship somehow; Shakespeare for the richness of colour and the tapestry of it all. Borges for the bravery to include the incredible, Hardy as a yarn spinner, Agatha Christie for her sheer blag and eye to commercialism. Need I go on?

So what is your favourite book? he paused, realising that if someone were to ask him that question, he couldn’t possibly answer, but the girl tried.

You’d have to say, what’s your favourite book right now. Sometimes I go back to books I read years ago, I dunno. It changes with my mood or state of mind… I guess.

Yes. I apologise. It was a bit of a senseless question. What is it right now?

‘Black Elk Speaks’. Ever read it?

Thorn smiled. He hadn’t read the book for many, many years but remembered it vividly and with great fondness. Yes. Not for a long time. It’s a remarkable account. Why that book right now? He only asked to hear her reasoning. After the clues she had given him about the state of her mind, the book seemed a perfect choice.

Because I’ve been there…sorry, she needed to rephrase that. I’m popping in and out of those realms. It’s great to read about them described matter-of-fact by someone else. It helps. And, before Black Elk had his visions and voices, he was ill and had delirium. When I first read that my heart jumped out of my chest. At the same age, five to eight years old, I had recurring tonsillitis and went delirious a lot. I went off to, and I’m sorry to repeat the word but it’s the only one I’ve ever found to fit, a different realm. I can remember wandering, like sleep-walking, around the house, mumbling what everyone said was ‘gibberish’ but the constant thing I was saying was I don’t want to play this game anymore. She stopped abruptly. Oh my God! I’m so sorry. I’ve been talking way too much. I’ll shut up now."

Please don’t! If I’m to get to know you, the more you open up the better. Don’t apologise for helping me do my job. Carry on. Carry on.

It’s only that I’ve never, ever spoken about all this to anyone. I’ve been afraid to.

Why afraid?

Well like Black Elk says, to paraphrase, ‘I wanted to tell everyone where I’d been so that I could share it but I was afraid because I knew no-one would believe me.’ Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comparing myself to Black Elk, I wouldn’t dream of it. She giggled at that turn of phrase. The doctor shared the humour. I owe him a debt of gratitude for letting me know I’m not alone. Didn’t we get distracted from something?

Not exactly. I was asking you why your belief that you’re mad should stop you from becoming a writer. Do you not think any of the writers you mentioned ever felt a little mad?

Maybe. But wouldn’t it be insane if I wrote about the fairies, ghosts, witches, different levels and odd characters I sometimes see and hear in art and dreams? If I wrote down what they say and do?

Shakespeare did.

There was an abrupt silence. The doctor noted a light bulb moment in her mind. His long years of experience told him to leave the revelation alone to let the penny drop as far as it could. He changed the subject completely. May I mention your plaits? She began to fiddle nervously with her hair.

What about them?

It’s that they evoke girlishness, childishness. How do you feel when I say that?

I’m thinking about it. I suppose you’re right. I feel as if I’ve been silent for ever and that I’m not allowed to speak out. It could be that it stems from when I was a kid, and I’m here to untangle fears and anxieties that are blocked so… I’ll have a ponder about that.

Not allowed? he sounded surprised and scribbled a note to himself. There is a lot to keep us going for next week’s session, isn’t there? Good, good. Anything else?"

There is something else. I have a secret that I can’t even tell you.

A secret?

Yes. It’s not only you. I’ve never told anyone ‘cos it would sound deranged.

We’ll most definitely have to look at that, he said kindly. After a considered pause he added I wonder if in reality you feel the need to talk about it. Why else would you even mention it? Does that make sense to you?

You’re probably right but….and it’s a big but, it’s tricky. Like I say, I do trust you and now that I’ve got someone I can actually talk to about all the craziness that’s going on…well…I don’t want you to turn out to be one more person who thinks I’m genuinely insane. Maybe you’ll pass me on to the ‘real’ white coats- the ones with the medication and straight-jackets. She studied his facial response.

I promise I shan’t. I’m confident nothing you can tell me would warrant that or even shock me. I see you as a person of heightened awareness and very capable.

A heightened awareness? Is that a euphemism for ‘off your trolley’?

Thorn couldn’t hold back a loud laugh. Maddie joined in.

Perhaps you might consider revealing this secret to me next time? He smiled encouragingly, standing up to signify the session was over. Think about it, he added, As you know, I’m in the business of confidentiality.

She stood and walked towards the French doors.

If you write or paint anything in the coming week, I wonder if you could bring it next session? Also, it might not be a bad idea to make a note of exceptional dreams….an outline of the imagery.

No probs.

He reached out his hand to shake hers. The handshake was firm and genuinely warm.

Oh, I know what I wanted to ask.

He nodded in acknowledgment and waited for her question.

I heard somewhere, or perhaps I read it, that when people remember past lives under hypnosis, or if they recall any, the first point they remember is right before death. Is that true?

Absolutely the doctor answered. He was a little surprised that the content of her hypnotic experience may have prompted that question so soon. Death is a traumatic experience for good or for bad and is memorable. It makes an imprint. It is understandable that it would be the point where successful regression starts.

Thanks, Maddie smiled, curious that’s all.

He drew back the flowery curtains. The sudden flood of early summer sunlight was blinding to step out into. She felt deeply relaxed and deeply confident. She wasn’t thinking about a thing.

Dr. Thorn lingered in the sunlight. If truth be told he envied this client. He envied her unbridled creativity and free spirit. There was something about her. In all of his years of practise he had never before experienced so graphically the environment that a regressed client was describing. This time he had seen and smelled the forest with her. It took him aback. He scanned his present surroundings.

Down and quite some way off, a young man was paying considerable attention to the standing-stones and the lay of the landscape. Thorn smiled. Despite the constant media condemnation of the ‘youth of today’, here was evidence that curiosity and questing continued. It warmed his heart. As the young man took notes, the old man was reminded to quickly write some of his own.

Had his young patient taken her usual preferred route home at that moment, her path would have crossed with the young researcher’s. On a whim however she grabbed her bicycle and pedalled towards the main road. She had a powerful desire for ice-cream, a delicacy she’d loved when she was a kid. For some reason she felt like that kid again right now.

Unusually, the traffic was light. Her first stop was going to be an off-licence to get a small bottle for Danny. Her second was to buy an ice-cream. The ice-cream won. Secured and eaten, she got home quite quickly. She had forgotten the whisky completely. With a very welcome cup of tea in hand, she reflected on everything that had happened in the session. Her gut feeling was telling her one thing. It was time to break the silence of the ‘secret’ she’d been keeping; the very personal experience she’d held inside for years and still couldn’t fathom. When she checked her mental notes it was obvious nearly all her inner characters or aspects were on hold. Opening up to someone might release them. What did it matter? No-one but Dr. Thorn was going to know. The only way she could think of broaching that deep secret was by letter. She wrote it as fast as she could then sealed it in an envelope before she could chicken out. That done, the whole place seemed a bit calmer.

Alone in her quiet room it became all too apparent that there was a world of difference between talking about being a writer and becoming one. Automatic writing was different than consciously trying. Her fears resurfaced. What if?

What if the host of characters running around in her mind started getting ideas and plots of their own if she gave them the oxygen of being made real by the written word? It was easy for an old guy in a white coat to suggest writing or drawing as some kind of career path but could it be? And there was something else. She was the only one who appreciated how far back her memory went. Would she be opening the door to more and more characters, the further she went back?

Whenever she accessed her memory bank she found things she knew that she couldn’t possibly know; life-like experiences that she’d never had and memories of seeing and doing things she could never have seen or done. It was infinite so where on earth would she start? Come to think of it…where would it all end?

Give it a go, whispered the clichéd good angel over her right shoulder.

Who do you think you are? chided the bad angel on her left.

Shut up both of you or I’ll bang your heads together! shouted the child within mimicking her dad. She laughed out loud. It felt good.

Endless cups of tea and several ciggies later she sat down to write and see what happened. Her mind turned to the strange session. Of all the topics they had covered it was the ‘plaits’ reference that was bugging her. She wasn’t short of notebooks so she grabbed one and scribbled down some ideas.

First real session

■ Plaits? 6-7-8 year old? Am I emotionally arrested?

■ Where and how do I begin to sort myself out? Heal the inner child? What does that mean?

■ How does a book begin? How would that child begin her book?

■ AH HA! ONCE UPON A TIME

■ WHY WRITE AT ALL?

■ To get myself together! UN-ARREST my emotions

■ Yin and Yang? Male and female aspects not in ‘synch’

■ Think of a title like you were taught at Primary School!

■ There was only one name it could have…

THE REALM

By

Morgan. The Keeper of the…………

MORGAN

Once upon a time, but not so long ago as to be quite forgotten, there was a realm. In this realm there was a castle, a river, bridges, woods, an ancient pool and lots of different people. There was a King and a Queen of course, and butchers and bakers and candlestick makers and every kind of person you could dream of, with a few extra that perhaps you couldn’t. There were lots of children in the realm. There was ample space outside where they could play. They put it to good use.

There was one rule. They weren’t allowed to go into the woods. They had no idea why. They simply accepted that mums and dads had some funny ideas and that it was probably to do with ‘forgetting the time’ and being late for something. By the woods lived a witch in a ramshackle cottage. The Realm had everything.

The King and Queen had kids too but hardly anyone ever saw them. This gave rise to rumour. Some said they were quite mad and had to be locked away for their own safety. Some said they were ugly and the King and Queen didn’t want their kids to find out how ugly they were. Some said they were special, and if they mixed with normal kids they might get ‘diluted’ and We couldn’t have that could we? or Imagine! and Where would it all end?

Most said it was all stuff and nonsense anyway and didn’t get the bread baked or the baby bathed and ‘gossip is for idle folk. Everyone agreed ‘the castle is best left alone’.

Kids being kids, they played as close to the woods as they could without actually stepping into them. The trees made it easier to play at monsters, bandits, giants or great warriors like the ones in all the best old stories. Not far enough into the woods to be ‘exactly’ out of bounds was a tump. They played at battles there. Everyone said it was the secret burial site of a great warrior. After the fighting they’d roly-poly down the sides and giggle like mad.

One of the kids was called Morgan. It was an okay name for a girl because it could be a boy’s name too. She loved the ‘tump’, mostly because it was a splendid word for anything but also because she liked warrior stuff. The games she liked best were the ones where she could get messy, dirty and run around hollering. She loved yelling and whooping and winning great battles.

Morgan picked everything up quickly and was forever being told to get her head out of the clouds. It seemed a daft thing to say because she’d never once managed to get that high, even at the top of her favourite oak tree.

Everyone said it because she had a very active imagination. They said it as if it was a bad thing but she needed it for playing. She’d noticed imagination wasn’t much admired or needed at school, where all she ever needed was memory. She had a great one of those so found school easy.

One day, when they were all packing up to head home for supper, Morgan decided today was the day. Today was the day to find out for herself what exactly went on behind the castle wall. She wasn’t much one for rumour and liked to find things out for herself.

She marched to the back wall of the castle and told fear to go away. She sang it a bit. That always helped. She sang, ‘I’m not scared’, in a lilting, sing-along kind of way. She was surprised there was so much fear around and wondered if it was coming from the castle or if she’d brought it with her.

Blah! I’m not afraid of old rumours, she said out loud, and instead of climbing the back wall she marched round to the front gate. That felt better. ‘Sneaking over back walls’ wasn’t her style. Even so, the gate looked ever-so big and was obviously very big for some very big reason. She decided it was big because people who had big castles for houses needed big doors to put them behind,that was all. She looked for a knocker or bell but couldn’t find one anywhere. Perhaps the castle people weren’t so different after all. Back in the village everyone left their doors on the latch, so there wasn’t much call for bells there either.

It’s not to keep people out after all, said Morgan, it’s just a way in. She could’ve kicked herself. Her grandad had taught her that most people get put off their quest by the very same thing. He’d told her ancient stories where heroes and heroines got blocked by skeletons, three-headed dogs, one-eyed giants and everything. He said most people read the stories as if these monsters are trying to keep the adventurer out but actually the monsters were keeping worse things in! Even still, she touched the big door gently at first to see if it moved. She tip-toed to add a sprinkle of respect. She didn’t want to disturb anyone or interrupt anything. The door creaked as it moved ever-so slightly.

Phew, all those rumours were rubbish!, she said, letting out a big sigh of relief, but she had to admit her words didn’t come out sounding quite as confident as she’d hoped. In fact they came out sounding like they were trying to convince her of something.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she sang in her best ‘skipping song’ voice as she tossed her lucky coin and caught it again. Heads go in, tales stay out. It was heads. She was chuffed. She’d got this far, hadn’t she? And now the coin gods were with her. She pushed harder and inched forward.

The point of no return she said solemnly. There wasn’t any point in being brave if you didn’t build up some suspense for yourself. But right now she was wishing she hadn’t said it. There was quite enough suspense hanging in the air already. Pull yourself together my girl! she chided herself, in her best grandad’s voice,

Are you not the Unnamed Warrior? She made a mental note to work on that. She must find a name. It was deadly quiet; so hushed that even the songbirds were holding their breath.

Maddie’s stream of consciousness dried up. Startled wasn’t a strong enough word for how she was feeling. She was stunned at what she, or Morgan, had come out with. Words flowed effortlessly onto the computer screen. She was excited but drained. It was a surprise to read the mention of the witchy house in the lanes near her own childhood home. Back then all the kids used to run past it, scared to death, daring each other to knock and run away. The witch! She had totally forgotten all that for years and years. Why recall the witch now?

She lay on the bed and reflected on the hypnosis, the writing and the summer day. Picturing her own inner child as Morgan was, well, strange. She liked the kid. How weird would that be, if she didn’t like her own inner child? With that she drifted off to sleep, perchance to dream and dream she did.

The categories she had invented for different dreams numbered three but included, very rarely, a fourth. This dream was one of those. The dreams where odd characters came to her to enact their own dreams. They simply materialised and got on with it. She was their audience. Only one thing helped her keep a grip on her sanity when they turned up. It was a book she’d come across once and had to buy. It was one of those books whose spine said it all. She had never opened it. It was Six Characters in Search of an Author by Pirandello. Now that her new mentor, Thorn, was talking along the lines of her being a reluctant writer, the title seemed more poignant than ever. Were these characters coming to enact short stories or novels she ought to write? What’s with the ‘ought to’? her good angel barked, You do have a choice.

Does she? the bad angel scoffed.

Keep it down you two! Maddie interrupted the argument. Her head went quiet, for now. She wondered if this was the origin of the expression ‘to be in two minds about something’ and chuckled.

There was very loud laughter. She must have dozed off because she came to with a start. A clamour of loud laughter in the street below had merged into the fabric of her dreams. She couldn’t fathom exactly how. Peering around the attic flat, she waited a moment for her night vision to take over. Pale moonlight was penetrating the Isfahan cloth that served as a curtain. With its help she could make out the time on the wall-clock. It was quarter- past three. No surprise there! Creativity always struck her about now; three or near as damn it.

Her dream was flashing through her mind in annoying fits and starts of colours, pictures and feelings. Like the expression, on the tip of my tongue for escaping words, there should be one like ‘the tip of my brain’ for elusive dreams. She reached for the pen and paper. Do I have a choice? seemed to sum it up. It was irritating. She couldn’t for the life of her recall the characters or what they’d said. She grabbed her dressing-gown and wrapped herself in it. Clutching the soft fabric, she headed for the kitchen to make a cuppa.

The chalks she loved were spread across the table next to paints, brushes, pens, paper and everything she needed during these early morning escapades. Tea in the left hand and chalk in the right, the textured paper drew her in. The paper revealed huge trees that her hand rushed to capture. Something about their size and the light beyond them showed it was ancient.

She put herself in the picture and laughed at the figure of speech. Thousands of years ago, before large-scale trade, symbols, hieroglyphs and ideograms spoke directly to the heart and mind; long before any alphabetical symbolism. She remembered that but how could she? but remember it she did.

Back to the pressing task of sketching. Time slipped away. She was led by her mind’s eye. There were no worries now, no boundaries, only the frantic chasing of bold images across the smudging colours on the page. Every stroke or dash of the chalk turned the static image into film before her very eyes. It was all instinctive here.

As swiftly as the compulsion had begun, it ended. She ‘came back out’. It was always delightful to see what she’d drawn, where she’d been; to look at the drawing with the eyes of the viewer not the doer. She didn’t remember drinking the tea but it was gone. Pastel dust was everywhere.

Best wash this off then she said aloud. Her voice was reassuringly ‘real’. Thank goodness tomorrow….today…was Saturday, no work".

Clean hands later she snuggled back under the duvet. She scribbled in her trusty notebook….. Gwendoline? Gwen de Lee? Gwendoll….y? I was but wasn’t a warrior woman with flaming red hair, a mound, man in white, leather armour…."

She stopped for a moment then wrote Morgan’s writing? Dr. Thorn-white coats? But where am I getting the name from? Felt anxious, calm, worried about a book…not surprising I guess. Is this something to do with the hypnosis?

The dream flashed at her again. What had happened? There was the image of the group of nocturnal visitors. It flooded back. She saw a sketchy outline of the scene. There were two men heavily painted with strange tattoo- like lines and symbols. One was stereotypically Druid, robed and hooded. The other man made her think of Robin Hood because of his camouflage. There was a woman, very witchy, her face covered. They sat on a windy hill, in the shelter of some tall, old trees, gathered around a fire chattering about a missing woman they needed to find. Or were these recollections like the pastel dust, merely a throw away by-product of the delving made by hypnosis? She jotted down, Too much going on already! Don’t want to know! (Yes I do!)"

Across the room the new pastel picture brought back a long forgotten tune from childhood. Half-asleep, half-awake she smiled and sang it,

If you go down in the woods today…you’re sure of a big surprise.

She fidgeted. The words of the song were strange. What was it with so many cultures and their eerie feelings about the woods? Was it the fear of wild animals like boar and their hunters or something more? She reached inside her head for Dr. Thorn’s velvet voice. With that, feeling deeply confident and deeply relaxed; deeply confident and deeply relaxed, she asked,

Oh yes. What was Morgan up to? and fell soundly asleep as Morgan was stepping through the gate. Morning and her computer brought Maddie her answer….

GIRL MEETS BOY

With her absolutest and silentest sneaking-up-on-something walk, Morgan poked her head inside the gate and crept forward. She caught her first glimpse of the gobsmackingly beautiful garden. It was as calm as the riverbank on a lazy summer’s day. She could see the air hovering. The place was hushed.

Gotcha! yelled a disembodied voice. Morgan jumped out of her skin.

As luck would have it the voice was attached to two arms sticking out from behind a tree. These in turn were attached to a boy who grabbed her around the waist as he again hollered. Gotcha!

Don’t do that! Morgan snapped, her heart playing hop-scotch. It was a pretty natural response, under the circumstances, or so Morgan thought, but the boy attached to the arms got all uppity.

Do what I want, he chant-shouted, sticking his nose in the air, ‘cos I’m the king of the castle and you’re the dirty old rascal.

Am not! Morgan insisted, and I don’t take kindly to people telling me what they think I am ……especially when they don’t even know me and even more especially when I’m nothing of the sort!

His mood changed instantly, Oh, don’t shout at me pleeeeeeese! He whined, cowered and started to skulk away, head downcast, I was only playing.

Okay. Okay said Morgan, Let’s start again. Shall we make friends?

Can’t, said the Boy somewhat dejectedly. Don’t know how, I usually play alone, play what I want, whenever I want and if any adults want to join in to keep me happy and quiet, I tell them what to do.

Oh, she sighed, feeling his nervousness and not wishing to make him even more dejected. Well, I can’t teach you how to make friends. It’s something you kind of make up as you go along.

Go? Go? No, No! No! he interrupted her, I’m not going anywhere with anybody. He trembled as he spluttered that out and looked terrified, like a startled deer in the woods. Pleeeeeeeease don’t drag me off anywhere or make me go somewhere. I promise I’ll never tell a soul you ever came here, I promise I won’t, I won’t tell anyone anything. I’ll make myself forget the whole affair.

Slow down. Morgan tried to calm him. It’s only an expression. It means, ‘We’ll see what happens.’ She reached out her hand in friendship but he shied away as if her hand had something smelly in it. Look. Shall I come back another day and we’ll see how we get on? That’s the only way to make friends, you know. You can’t do it all in one go. It grows.

I would feel happier if you went away now, I think, he said-stuttered.

Morgan knew he was simply stating a fact and that he sounded ruder than he was. She thought that, as a fact, it was a pretty accurate one.

You are funny, she laughed.

Am I? asked the Boy

Well you make me laugh.

Good grief! It’s a strange thing you know. I do want you to go but I want you to stay too; but when you go I think I’m going to want you to come back.

Good grief is right, crossed her mind. What a state to get in! She didn’t say a word but smiled her biggest, brightest smile. She shook her head at his muddles. I’ll see you soon then, shall I?

Yes. Can you make a loud noise or whistle or something, when you want to come in again? he asked. You see, I don’t like people creeping up on me suddenly and making me jump. It makes me nervous. You see, people like you, from the village, always want to come here and take control and that’s what I’m supposed to do because I’m a prince.

Nobody wants to take control, said Morgan reassuringly. She was also dumbstruck about the ‘making people jump’ bit. Boy, did this kid have a short memory! She was wondering what other rumours were going round inside here about the people out there. Okay. I’ll call first, she agreed, as long as you know I don’t much like rules. I do know what respect means, and I don’t want to make you any more jittery than you already are. It’s just that me and my friends come and go as we please.

Oh! he said, his face turning serious.

Now, don’t go getting all serious on me, said Morgan, I’m simply telling you how things generally are.

I make a serious face to show I’ve understood something, said the Boy, don’t you? My tutors pull serious faces when they teach me something and I’ve discovered whenever I pull the same face back and nod, they shut up and think I’ve got the message. It’s a habit now.

Not such a head-case after all, said Morgan, patting the Boy on the shoulder and smiling. I’ll be back she said in her best monster voice. She waved, winked and slipped out of the gateway.

THE HIDEE-HOLE

It was another brand new day; the first day of the long school holidays. She jumped up out of bed. After breakfast she felt like singing. Meeting a new friend made her feel good. The episode in the castle garden had tickled her. She didn’t tell anyone about the Boy, not because she liked secrets but because no-one asked. It was a warm day that promised to get warmer. The sky and clouds had other ideas. Soon the heavens opened. Huge loud raindrops splattered and spluttered, bouncing all over the place with their mischief. They danced and leapt off window-ledges and leaves. They made up fantastic tunes and washed the garden and the air as they went. She picked up a book. She’d been practising her reading and writing a lot lately. She was especially practising reading between the lines. She wasn’t sure what it meant but it sounded like magic, so it was okay by her. It was fun.

There were lots of different sorts of fun. She did think a bit more about the strange boy but was glad she lived where she did, getting dirty when she could, rolling around in the grass and straw, talking to trees and cows and everyone. She toyed with the idea of going to see him again but the rain washed that idea away too.

She liked the people in the village. They were always busy doing things. Sometimes they got crotchety but they were even very good at doing that. So, friendly or not, shouting at each other or whatever they got up to, they did it all so wholeheartedly, and that was what Morgan liked best about them all. Wholeheartedness was a quality she greatly admired.

She was wandering around the house singing a song she was composing called ‘Different Shapes of Grass’, when she spotted an old scrapbook with a picture of a mole on the cover. It gave her a brilliant idea. She remembered an adventure she’d been postponing for far too long. Dashing to get her raincoat and wellies, she raced out to the garden shed. She grabbed the small spade and headed for her hidee- hole.

Morgan’s hidee-hole was a very secret place. It was hers, all hers and nobody else’s. It was sort of under the ground but not quite. The only other person to know about it was her grandad who said it was an old Nissen hut. Nissens, she assumed, were a lost race of warriors, who occupied the area long, long ago. Morgan suspected they were descendants of the Tumpers, the mound builders. Her grandad was a very wise old man who taught her lots but knew even more.

When she first found this den she had to dig around a bit and strip away huge clumps of grass to get inside. It looked like it was going to be small inside but she was gobsmacked to find it was ever-so big. Her grandad told her stories of souterrains that, rumour had it, ran from somewhere near their house to the tump in the nearby field. He said souterrain meant underground tunnel in French. He knew some French from the Great War. She never understood why it was called ‘great’ ‘cos it sounded awful. But the war had taught her grandad how to say, It doesn’t matter-san ferry-ann - and ‘knowing’ was savvy.

A man called the Kaiser had taken a lump out of her gramp’s foot, goodness only knew why and Morgan never asked. She should, but now wasn’t the time. She was on the hunt for secret tunnels and the past, lost Somewhere in the mists of time…dum deed um dum boom tish!

The den wasn’t boring. She’d made it her own. The entrance was covered by branches and twigs, gathered and knit together. Inside was her treasure trove of all the precious things she found out and about on her adventures.

She had to be quite strict with herself sometimes and have a ‘clear out’.

A clear out was when she looked at all her stuff and noticed that some of it had become boring, lost its ‘shine’ or she’d simply had it too long. When this happened she threw it away or buried it with a ceremony. A ceremony was something you made up as you went along. You had to look serious and use long words that are impossible to understand and hard to remember. If it all got too much she made some up.

At the moment in her hidee-hole she had a piece of very ancient pot, a painted dustbin lid for her shield, a feather (that was also a pen and might come in handy one day), and a brass curtain ring that was in fact, The Ring of the Love of All Things. She loved that name! She was rather proud of it, it being one of the finer names she’d ever given to anything. There were marbles and a bottle with some water in it (to drink at the moment but also to send a message in when she got stuck on a desert island.) She had loads and loads of stones and kept moving them around to change the shape of the place, for her different moods. She had so many things she couldn’t count.

The biggest of the stones was over to one side. She went up to it now and polished it hard with her skirt until she nearly wore a hole in the fabric.

Yes! Yes! Ye-e-e-e-es! she squealed. The rain had got even louder. It was pelting. This was some serious rain alright. She ran over to the part of the den that had a metal bit up by the roof. Serious rain on tin made a completely different kind of music altogether. It wasn’t the music it made as it gently touched the branches and the hedgerows. It clattered and it hammered. This was one of Morgan’s favourite sounds. Caught up in the music, she stomped out a tribal rain dance. Puffed out, she pulled herself out of her dancing and shouted Phew! The excitement had distracted her.

What was I doing? Oh yes! Moles. Mole tunnels. Souterrains, hmmm..where to start digging? Since the answer didn’t come immediately, she began to fiddle with a bit of corrugated tin that had got rusty and worn itself into a small hole. Very quickly the hole grew. Bits flaked onto the hard floor. She found the hole was beginning to look a lot like her teacher. Her mouth