The Once and Future Queen

By Maggie O'Brien

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie O'Brien
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005446093

Maggie O'Brien

Maggie O'Brien was born in Bristol, UK of an English mother and Irish father. She lives and writes in Ireland. With an Honours degree in Philosophy, English Literature and German, she has performed her poetry and was broadcast by the B.B.C in the early 1990's. Maggie also paints

Book preview

For the children of Ogma

Books by this author

In Other Words- illustrated book of verse ISBN 978 1-4707-059-5

The Once and Future Queen ISBN 978-1-4834-5826-6

Thumbing Through the '70s ISBN 978-1-5434-9636-4

A Story of Stories ISBN-1-9845-9515-7

All books available on line or direct via www.maggiespages.com

Copyright @Margaret O’Brien

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means-auditory, mechanical, or electronic without written permission of the author, except for brief excerpts used strictly for purposes of critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part is illegal and punishable by law.This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Contents

Part 1 Deeply Asleep

Chapter 1 Mens in White coats

Chapter 2 Beneath the Surface

Chapter 3 All in the Mind

Chapter 4 Yesterday Upon the Stair

Chapter 5 Order from Chaos

Chapter 6 Funny Old World

Chapter 7 Old Familiar Faces

Chapter 8 Inside Information

Part 2 Stirring

Chapter 9 Can You See Yourself Out?

Chapter 10 The Spirit Level

Chapter 12 Out and About

Chapter 13 Seeds

Chapter 14 Busy Bodies

Chapter 15 Fair’s Fair

Chapter 16 Well, what do you know>?

Chapter 17 No Strings Attached

Postscript

Illustration: Maggie O’Brien

Cover:The Enchanted Forest

PART 1 Deeply Asleep

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

Carl Jung

1. Men in White Coats

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

The 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 caseload 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. To his delight, he had discovered that his new property 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 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. ’Voluntary isolation. Supressed creativity. Automatic writing. Compulsion to paint and draw. Some hallucinations and visions with vivid dreams. Recurring sleep paralysis? Disassociation? Fear of madness. Repressed talent? Why? Since when? Fear of white coats. Holding back. Gave her my book, possibly too difficult. Hypernesia? Fear of socialising. Reclusive. Highly intelligent with low self-esteem. Brilliantly articulate. Reconcile the equivocal other? A sensitive with psychic ability?’

The bell sounded. The doctor 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 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 writing! She offered his 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 then laughed aloud.

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. People who appear in thin air, characters who come to my room to have their own dreams. I can’t see their faces but I can eavesdrop on their conversations, and see what they are 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 is to say, I may appear to be part of that reality, initially at least. It is much the same as when sounds around the dreamer affect the dream. It is 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 wounded warrior, stirring. Her head ached, as did her limbs. Her energy was spent. She searched her memory for how she came to be here, lying motionless at the edge of a forest. Yes, there had been a battle. She could not fathom if the battle was won, or lost. Her light armour now seemed unbearably heavy. She had 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 her old ally assessing her for any damage sustained to her brain?

Gwendolly? She answered, clearly. The old sage sighed.

Gwendoll-y? He repeated the strange Welsh sounding name.

This was a distinctly odd feeling. For a moment, Maddie was in two places at once, her normal self looking on, yet somehow feeling the same hurt.

Dr. Thorn kept an eye on the girl’s body language. He took her deeper. Assured that she was now deep within the dream state, he did not speak. His client was gesturing and mumbling incoherently, as if in conversation with one significant other. Most was indecipherable but had the cadence of Welsh. At last, she settled again. He returned to her side.

You are happy and well. A 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. There was silence. Thorn waited.

I’m moving, or being moved. I am enclosed in this casket, this box. I can hear horses’ hooves and cries and clamour from angry men, outside. ‘Be quiet! Wait.’ Wait for what? For whom? This pain is dreadful. Her voice betrayed anxiety. Small beads of perspiration formed on her brow. The therapist decided to bring her back.

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

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

Oh, hello.

How are you feeling, Maddie?

Calmer, thanks

Do you remember anything?

She checked. Not a lot. Trees, a forest.

Good, good, good. The therapist mumbled, reassuringly. Let us 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. Maddie practically 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 they have hidden from themselves. They have tucked them away in an inaccessible corner of the mind so as not to deal with them. Sometimes, these events or traumas are so devastating that they begin to affect the client’s life and personality. We need to step gently to try to uncover these and gradually re-introduce the patient to the painful memories. 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 is that forest?

Your imagination is at work. At least, imagination 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?

So that you may solve them in your own good time. These are all excellent questions and why I find yours a fascinating case.

You do?

Oh yes. When I was telling you about why we induce amnesia. I was explaining how I probe to find the deliberately forgotten. When I listen to you, I realize you are already doing the same for yourself. Through cryptic dreams and visions, you provide yourself with information in a way that demands you take your time. Decoding makes you step lightly. Nothing will shock you. Do you know the human mind stores memories in picture form?

Explain?

If, for example I ask you to name say, your first teacher? Even if you cannot recall, your mind will not stop searching for the answer. An image of your teacher is the first thing to come to mind. When that image is clear, your mind will keep searching for the 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. She pushed the book further forward on the desk but he nudged it back at her, implying it was a gift. You write about reincarnation. I’m not sure I believe in it, reincarnation that is, but you write about it convincingly."

It is perfectly fine to disagree. The world would be a very dull place if everyone agreed, would it not? Tell me your favourite writers.

There are lots and for a lot of reasons.

Tell me a few.

Hesse, for a sense of companionship. Shakespeare, for the richness of colour and 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? The doctor paused, realising that if someone were to ask him that question, he could not possibly answer, but the girl tried.

You’d have to ask rather,’ 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 nonsensical question. What book is it, right now?

‘Black Elk Speaks’. Ever read it?

Thorn smiled. He had not read that for many, many years but remembered it vividly and with great fondness. Yes, but not for a long time. It is a remarkable account. Why that book right now? He asked to tease out her reasoning. After the clues she had given him about the state of her mind, the book was a perfect choice.

Because I’ve been there. Sorry. Maddie needed to rephrase that. I’m popping in and out of those realms that Black Elk describes. It’s great to read them as so matter-of-fact, and by someone else. It helps. And, before Black Elk had his visions, or heard 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, sleepwalking, around the house, mumbling what everyone said was gibberish. 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 am to get to know you, the more you open up the better. Do not 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 are 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 to write about the fairies, ghosts, and witches that I meet in my 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 forever and that I’m not allowed to speak out. It could stem from when I was a kid, and I’m here to untangle fears, and anxieties, that are blocked. I’ll have a ponder about that.

Not allowed? Her confidante sounded surprised, and was scribbling 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 tell even you.

A secret?

Yes. It’s not only you. I’ve never told anyone. 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 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 as nutty as a fruitcake. Could be you’ll pass me on to the real white coated gurus, the ones with the medication and straight-jackets. She studied his facial response.

I promise I shan’t. I am 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.

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

Thorn could not 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, at least.

No probs.

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

Oh, I know what I wanted to ask.

A nod of the head was his acknowledgment. He waited for her question.

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

Absolutely. The doctor answered. Thorn was intrigued as to whether, or not, the content of her hypnotic experience had prompted her question, and so soon. Death can be the most traumatic experience of all. For good, or for bad, it would be memorable. It makes an imprint. Understandably, it frequently marks the point where successful regression begins.

Thanks, Maddie smiled. Just curious.

Thorn drew back the flowery curtains. The sudden flood of early summer sunlight was blinding. She felt deeply relaxed and deeply confident. She was not thinking about a thing.

Wilfred Thorn lingered in the sunlight. Truth be told, he admired 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 smelt the forest with her. It was remarkable. His present surroundings stole his thoughts.

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

Had his young patient taken her usual preferred route home at that moment, her path would have crossed with this 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 had always loved. 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 had been keeping forever; the very personal experience she had held inside for years, and still could not 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 and sealed it in an envelope, before she could chicken out. That done, her whole world felt 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 very different from consciously trying. Seeing things in her mind’s eye and making up stories was not real writing. Her fears resurfaced. What if?

What if the host of characters running around in her mind, started to get ideas and plots of their own? What if she gave them the oxygen to come alive, by means of 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. Was she about to open the door to even more characters, the further she went back?

Whenever she accessed her memory bank, she found things she could not possibly know, life-like experiences she never had, and memories of doing things, she could never have done. It went on ad infinitum. Where would she start? 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, and 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, the plaits’ reference was bugging her. Never short of notebooks, Maddie grabbed one and scribbled down some ideas.

‘First real session. If my plaits are, say, those of a 6-8 year old, am I emotionally arrested? How do I begin to sort myself out? Do I heal that inner child, and what does that mean, exactly? How does a book begin? How would that child begin her book? Ah, ha! It has to be Once Upon A Time. But why write, at all? Answer? To get myself together, to un-arrest my emotions. Male and female aspects not in synch. Think of a title like you were taught to write stories 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. In this realm, were butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, and every kind of person you could dream of, with a few extra that perhaps you couldn’t. Lots of children lived in the realm too. There was ample space outside to play. They put it all to good use.

There was one rule. They weren’t allowed into the woods. They had no idea why. They accepted, without question, that mums and dads had funny ideas, and that the rule 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 that ‘gossip is for idle minds. Everyone agreed that the castle was "best left alone’.

Kids being kids, they played as close to the woods as they could, without actually stepping into them. The old trees made it easy to play at monsters, bandits, giants, or great warriors like the ones in all the best stories. Not far enough into the woods to be quite out of bounds, was a tump. They played at battling there. Everyone said the tump was the secret burial site of a great warrior. After the fighting, they’d roly-poly down the sides, giggling and squealing 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, whooping, and winning 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 that as if it was a bad thing, but she needed it for playing. She noticed imagination wasn’t much admired, or needed at school, where all she ever needed was memory. She had a great one of those too, and so found school easy.

One day, when all the kids were 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 ordered fear to go away. She sang the command. That always helped. She sang, ‘I’m not scared’, in a lilting, sing-along kind of way. Actually, there was a lot of fear around. That made her wonder 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 aloud 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 ever so big for ever such a big reason. Morgan settled for it being due to the fact that people, who had big castles for houses, needed big doors to put them behind. That was that. The hunt for a knocker, or bell, proved fruitless. Perhaps these castle people weren’t so different, after all. Back in the village, everyone left their doors on the latch. 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 had told her ancient stories where heroes, and heroines, got stymied 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, when actually, the monsters were keeping worse things in! Even still, she touched the big door very gently at first, to see if it moved. She tiptoed to add a sprinkle of respect. No way did she want to disturb anyone, or interrupt anything. The door creaked as it moved oh-so slightly.

Phew, all those old rumours were rubbish! She let out a big sigh of relief, although she had to admit the words didn’t come out sounding quite as confident as she’d hoped. In fact, they came out sounding as if they were trying to convince her of something.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Morgan the Adventurer sang in her best ‘skipping song’ voice, tossing her lucky coin and catching it, spectacularly. Heads go in, tales stay out. It was heads. She was chuffed. She’d come 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. However, right now, Morgan 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 had to 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. ‘Stunned’ was more accurate. What she, or rather Morgan, had come out with was stunning. Words had flowed effortlessly onto the computer screen. This was exciting but draining, too. It was genuinely surprising 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, half-scared to death, daring each other to knock and run away. The witch! She had totally forgotten all that. Why recall that 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. Very rarely, they included a fourth. This dream was one of those; one of those where odd characters came to call, enacting their own dreams. They materialised and got on with it for her delight. She was their only audience. Only one thing helped her keep a grip on her sanity when they turned up. That was a book she had come across once, and had to buy. It was one of those books whose spine said it all. There was no need to open 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 capture in words? ‘What’s with the ‘ought to’?’ Her good angel chuckled. You do have a choice, you know?

Does she? The bad angel scoffed.

Keep it down you two! Maddie interrupted the argument. Her head went quiet, for now at least. Was this repeating process the origin of the expression ‘to be in two minds about something’ ? That brought a smile to her face. Common expressions had the knack of dispelling fear.

Loud laughter rattled around her. She must have dozed off, because she came to with a start. The loud laughter was real, in the street below, and had merged into the fabric of her dreams. How it did that was hard to fathom. Thorn had implied it was a recognisable phenomenon. Why was that reassuring, too?

Peering around her attic flat, Maddie waited 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, was magic o’clock.

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 such elusive dreams. Pen and paper were urgently needed.

Do I have a choice? seemed to sum it up. It was irritating. She couldn’t recall the characters, or what they had said. She grabbed her dressing gown and wrapped herself in it. Clutching the soft fabric, she headed for the kitchen to make a cuppa.

Her beloved pastel chalks 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 for her hand to capture. Something about their size, and the light beyond them, showed this forest was ancient.

Maddie was putting herself in the picture. That figure of speech was suddenly hilarious. Thousands of years ago, before large-scale trade, symbols, and hieroglyphs spoke directly to the heart and mind. That was long before any alphabetical symbolism. How could she recall that? However, remember it she did.

Back to the pressing task of sketching and Time slipped away. Led by her mind’s eye, with no worries, and no boundaries, she watched her fingers frantically chasing bold images materialising from within the smudging colours on the page. Every stroke or dash of the chalk turned a static image into film before her very eyes. This place was all instinct.

As swiftly as the compulsion had begun, it ended. Maddie came back out. It was always delightful to see what had drawn itself and where it had taken her, to look at the drawing through the eyes of the viewer not the doer. She didn’t remember drinking her 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, no today, was Saturday. A day off.

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? Where am I getting the name? 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, she asked,

Oh yes. What was Morgan up to? and fell soundly asleep. 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 hopscotch. 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, pleeeeeease! 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. 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 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. Branches covered the entrance and twigs, gathered up, and knitted 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 had ever given to anything. There were marbles and a bottle with some water in it (to drink now but also to send a message when she was 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 that she had lost 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 same music it made when it 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 wasn’t quite right so she kept picking. Standing back to admire her masterpiece, Morgan wondered why there were no great artists made