The Unexpected Quantor: First in the Quantor Chronicles series

By Jane Snookes and Sophie Phipps

When Al ventures into the mysterious Little Treeby Forest he discovers the truth behind the tales of Quantors and the secretive Elequai.  It seems grandad's tales were true and the Elequai, a family of humanoid stones can make the Quantor's thoughts become real. 

With Al's new found powers he begins the search for his

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Quantor Chronicles
• Release date: Jun 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916080416

Jane Snookes

Jane Snookes is author of The Unexpected Quantor the first adventure in 'The Quantor Chronicles'©. She lives in a small village in Leicestershire with her husband, three energetic children, her horse and pony, noisy spaniel and four chickens. She has been around horses since she was six years old and in her spare time you will find her riding and being servant to her horse, Santella, and pony, Hugo. The majority of Jane's working life has been spent as a hypnotherapist, helping people to alleviate anxieties, build confidence and self awareness. She also has two degrees, is a bookkeeper and Clerk to Governors of two primary schools. It is all this work, her growing family and horses that led to the creation of the Quantors and the Elequai and a desire to promote the healing power of the imagination. To learn more about The Unexpected Quantor please visit: www.thequantorchronicles.co.uk

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The Unexpected Quantor

The first adventure in the Quantor Chronicles

Jane Snookes

First published in Great Britain 2019

Little Treeby Publishing

ISBN pbk: 978-1-9160804-0-9

ISBN ebk: 978-1-9160804-1-6

www.thequantorchronicles.co.uk

Copyright © 2019 Jane Snookes

Jane Snookes asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Illustrations by Sophie Phipps

Typeset by www.shakspeareeditorial.org

Thanks to

Martin, Ella,

Joseph, Oliver, Kate

and Margie

MAP OF LITTLE TREEBY

Five years ago....

No, Pinter my dear, you absolutely can’t. The Elequai’s words broke the unusual silence of the forest.

I’m peskily sorry about this, Jocelyn. Pinter’s South American drawl made him sound like he meant it. Come here Chief, I didn’t mean to pitch a fit.

He held out one skinny hand and rubbed the other over his sleek, midnight blue hair and flicked his thick plait down his back.

The Chief stepped forward, his body shining brightly, dark arms outstretched, bearded mouth in a relieved smile. The collective Elequai let their breath go. Only Jim, Meredith and the Quantors, Gary and Aloisious, stayed motionless.

Chief and Pinter embraced.

Sorry, you varmint, whispered Pinter.

Too late. The Chief realised Pinter’s intentions.

His vision became dark as his energy drained into Pinter. His arms and legs faded away, then his face full of fear and sorrow as his turban unravelled one last time.

Pinter let go and an ornate rock fell to the floor. The Chief had returned to his original state.

No, Meredith ran forward as the red-stoned ring that the Chief had worn transferred to her finger.

Like I said, you’re all darned FOOLS! Pinter laughed, his body glowing all over. I’m in for it now, there’s no stopping me.

He pointed a short, scrawny arm towards Meredith and the energy exchange began.

Run, yelled Gary, rushing forward to push Meredith out of the way. Everyone run. Get to safety.

Instinctively, most of the Elequai shuffled as fast as they could on their short legs towards the large oak tree. Others swung their arms in an arc, producing circles of pure white, shimmering, molten light. They jumped in, to safety.

You can’t all go, exclaimed Jim. Gary and Aloisious need us.

Some Elequai stopped, confused and scared. Pinter began to pick them off, one by one. Those he drained fell down as rocks and he grew brighter.

The two Quantors – one a devoted dad, the other a beloved grandad – stepped forward.

They focused, imagined and protective, clear bubbles quickly appeared first around Jim and Meredith and then around all other Elequai still present. The bubbles covered their star-like bodies and human-like heads but gave their arms and legs the freedom to move.

Get to the tree, Aloisious bellowed. Gary, we need to drain his energy.

Together they imagined a laser gun. It developed in Gary’s hands, large, powerful and lethal.

Do it! commanded Aloisious, bracing himself.

Gary pointed the gun at the laughing Pinter and pulled the trigger just as Athena, a bubbled, confused Elequai, stumbled into him from behind.

The explosion from the combined forces would have been heard in space but for Aloisious’ protective bubble around the forest.

As the dust settled Aloisious, Meredith and Jim surveyed the damage. Elequai slowly stood up. Pinter, Gary and Athena were gone and in their place were two shimmering white circles fading into the darkness.

Chapter 1

As Al glanced at the ancient Little Treeby forest on the other side of the paddock, he noticed a curious light. It moved slowly and, as he watched, faded away.

Strange, he thought, what’s that?

But it didn’t matter what it was, he would have to stay away. Since Gary – Pip’s Dad and Grandad’s best friend – had ventured in and disappeared, Grandad had forbidden anyone to go in there, despite its close proximity to their home.

Come on, Aloisius, Pip’s voice commanded from the horses’ stables, separating out each syllable of his name: Al-o-i-shus.

Al dragged himself away from the intriguing light and did as he was told. Pip being mad at him was never good. Despite being best friends and next-door neighbours he wasn’t immune to a lashing from her acid tongue.

Aloisius Benson hated his name. It had been his grandfather’s and his great-grandfathers’. His father was called Peter, what was wrong with that? Or a normal name, like his brother Justin? Aloisius meant fame in war. While this may have been suitable for his adventurously tough grandfather and great-grandfather, who had fought in the two World Wars, Aloisius felt strongly that it was not suitable for a schoolboy from Leicestershire whose only knowledge of fighting, so far, had been on the games console. Al was much more suitable. Use of his full name meant he was in trouble.

He ambled over, despite Pip’s instruction, patting Abbie the dog. Pip glared at him through her brown eyes. Her round, baby face screwed up and her blonde ponytail flicking in irritation as she swept the concrete. He immediately regretted his actions.

You knew I can only help with the horses today if I’m quick. Mum’s upset again over nothing. I keep telling her she’s doing too much but she doesn’t listen.

It was the usual start to the holidays. Al wondered if the prospect of six weeks of Pip’s unrelenting bossiness was the cause.

Grab that food and give it to Stella, Pip continued, surveying her work. It’s so hot, I’m fed up of it.

It was the hottest summer on record, they said. Who ‘they’ were, Al didn’t know. He just knew it was oppressive and tiring. The sun was scorching, even this early. The surrounding meadows, usually emerald green with lush grass, had polka-dots of yellow and brown. All the animals – cows, sheep, horses and dogs – squabbled over the shade. Only the deep-rooted hedges seemed immune, lining the path where the water still flowed.

Despite the heat they wore T-shirts, jeans and boots; standard work clothes for proper protection. Pip flicked an irritating horsefly from her arm, swearing at it loudly. A gentle breeze gave a moment’s relief, but carried with it the stink of cow manure from behind the hedge.

The small piece of unremarkable land where Al’s horse and pony lived was bordered by Little Treeby forest where Al had seen the light. It was at the end of a short track from Al’s house. After Grandad’s death, Dad had transformed it from a simple field to a useful working area. He had converted a dilapidated brick barn into stables and storage, which separated a riding arena on the right from the paddocks for grazing on the left, all surrounded by wooden fencing.

Pip often rode with Al’s Mum and Al helped out with the horses when he could, especially in summer. It was relaxing, a break from normal life and a million times better than vacuuming, dusting or, worst of all, cleaning bathrooms.

The friends exchanged their usual banter as they finished the work.

Come on then you two, let’s put you out,Al said as he walked past Rambo, a solid chestnut pony who was kicking the door impatiently, to Stella, the horse. Rambo whinnied like an out of tune trumpet in protest while Stella made a gentle, throaty birdsong sound in satisfaction.

Al, Justin and Pip had learnt to ride on Rambo, as had most of the children in the village. He had been great fun and very mischievous. He would jump anything he felt like, stop instead of gallop, gallop when he should walk. He ripped every jacket pocket he thought contained mints and barged through any fence with a weak joint. He’d eat grass anywhere – including the pristine, manicured lawns of Little Treeby Manor on the occasion he’d got out. But no one got hurt, well, not that often. Now retired at twenty-eight, he was just a bossy companion for Stella, but he remained a village celebrity.

Estelle von Crankleworth, or Stella as she was affectionately known, was Mum and Pip’s pride and joy. Sixteen hands two inches of pure magnificence, calm and loving. Each long leg ended in a flattering white sock, her dark-brown coat had a shine more impressive than any mirror and a delicate white stripe ran down her regal face. Her movements were fluid, graceful and mesmerising.

Hello girl, Al spoke softly and stroked her silky muzzle. He imagined this made her smile. She responded softly, moving her nose to his cheek, blowing on him, acknowledging who he was.

The familiar smell of chickens wafted up Al’s nose as he led Stella to the field. He glanced over as they pecked away in the corner, clucking; six in all, different colours, different sizes. He’d always hated chickens; their stupid flapping run and their tickly feathers. Their eyes followed as he walked past.

I wish I could still ride him, said Al, as Pip marched by, pulling Rambo along. He was so much fun; thundering across the fields.

You can’t. You’re too big and you chose to play the piano instead. Anyway, Rambo’s retired and you’re scared of riding Stella.

Pip let Rambo free in the field and promptly went back to tidying up.

Al sighed. It was true he’d chosen the piano over riding but, scared of Stella? No. Well, not really. Just because he preferred being on the ground to being so high up. That’s not being scared. Pip and Mum might have had the skill to ride her but he felt a connection. He patted her as he led her out to the paddock.

She ran off in glee with Rambo. They leapt about, squealing, blowing off the confinement of the stable. As he marvelled at Stella’s movement, something in the forest caught his eye again. Just a glint, there for a moment and then gone. Al’s interest was piqued.

Great Grandad Aloisius had been an adventurer. He’d challenged a rich tyrant to play cards and won the deeds to this land and forest when he was barely in his twenties. The livid tyrant had been unwilling to let it go so they’d fought to the death (of the tyrant). At least that’s how Grandad’s bedtime story had gone. He’d had hundreds of fanciful tales of wild battles between heroes and villains.

After Gary had vanished, Grandad introduced a new story. He would tell Al how the Quantors had helped the Elequai (pronounced Ella-kwhy) beat their evil nemesis, Pinter. He would skulk around the room with a South American drawl and a shuffling walk, pretending to be Pinter looking for human minds to control. Al would jump up and down on his bed being the Quantor, imagining clever objects to foil Pinter’s plans. Al’s round lamp would be the Elequai – stones that shine like a light and make creations come to life. Al loved it. Mum would come in and tell Grandad off for getting him all excited before bedtime. They didn’t care. They had such fun and it seemed so real.

Grandad had forbidden anyone to go into the woods. Even now no one knew why Gary had gone in that day or what had happened – or no one was saying. Grandad refused to talk about it though he often spoke fondly of Gary, until one day he’d changed. The stories had stopped and he became quiet and sombre. His health quickly deteriorated and shortly after, he’d died.

With his last dying breath, Grandad had grabbed Mum’s hand and said, Keep the forest safe. Keep people OUT. Promise me.

Mum said it was all a load of superstitious twaddle and the forest was just a bunch of trees. That Grandad loved a good drama and it was his way of keeping him in their minds. Grandad and Gary had been distracted for months before the disappearance; whispering in Grandad’s study, constantly discussing things no one else could hear. She hadn’t been surprised something had happened. Still, it was Grandad’s wish, so they had put a protection order on the forest so it would be left alone.

Recently though, Al had felt drawn to it. Like the most delicious bar of chocolate, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d find himself staring at the trees. The moving light had aroused his curiosity even more. Maybe that was the Elequai? he thought, laughing to himself. He knew they weren’t real, that they were just one of Grandad’s stories. He was trying very hard to resist the temptation to explore; he knew it would upset everyone.

He leant his chin on his arms and his weight against the fencing as he watched the horses play. The sun was warm and he felt sleepy. His vision blurred and he yawned. The light in the forest glimmered.

Chapter 2

MOVE. MOVE. MOVE. BATTLE IS UPON US.’

Al was dragged along with his fellow soldiers, slipping and sliding in the mud.

Hold on, he thought, where am I? Where have Pip and the horses gone?

The terrible stink of sweat and fear filled the cramped, dark trench; constant drizzle made everything wet. There were occasional shouts: instructions, cries for help, prayers.

The first soldier put his foot on the ladder, his leg visibly shaking.

What am I doing here? shouted Al in panic. I want to go home.

An ill-fitting helmet tilted on his head. His feet were cold in his leaky boots and the woollen uniform was heavy on his shoulders. He tried to turn but they were packed in tight. He slipped in the knee-deep mud, landed on all fours and came face-to-face with a pair of black boots, the shine of polish still visible under the dirt.

THAT’S WHAT THEY ALL WANT SOLDIER, BUT THE ENEMY IS THAT WAY, the boots yelled back.

Al tilted his head up, squinting to see the owner. It was an officer’s uniform; the one in charge. He could see a familiar thick brown moustache twitching above the bellowing mouth, short stocky legs, a round belly and eyes covered by a regimental cap.

Grandad? he shouted. Grandad, is that you? What’s going on?

The moustache twitched again but before he could respond, someone dragged Al to his feet and the soldiers shoved forward. Al glanced back, he was sure it was Grandad Aloisius but it couldn’t be.

A sharp cry brought Al’s attention back to his predicament. The first soldier climbed a short way up the ladder, closely followed by another. Near the top they waited for the instruction to go into the unknown; grim mouths, helmets over eyes.

WAIT...! HOLD THOSE WEAPONS ‘TIL YOU SEE THE WHITES OF THEIR EYES. HOLD NOW. HOLD! Grandad yelled.

Silence fell.

All of a sudden, the sun came out, the air warmed and the drizzle stopped. A different stench filled their senses, musky and disgusting. Everyone groaned. It got into Al’s eyes, up his nostrils and filled his mouth. It was familiar, but Al couldn’t quite place it.

ATTACK.

Soldiers thrust forward, keen to end the torture of the trench.