The Sun and the Starlings

By Barbara Hills

 

When Queen Stellaria (known as Queenie—she can't bear starchiness) and her court jester, Chucklegorgon, are threatened by a famine, everything starts to go wrong.  Hunted by horrors and unnerved by shape-shifting deceptions, the friends must face their own fears and find a way through shadows from the past.  They are so small and the darkness seems too big for them.  How can they save their Kingdom?  If you like 'The Chronicles of Narnia' you will love this world where loyalty and friendship are tested to the limit in a desperate battle against a hidden enemy.  

 

'The Sun and the Starlings' is a fantasy mystery adventure for children of nine years upwards and contains fifteen beautiful colour illustrations by the author.

 

'A great storyline that embodies many of the traits, morals and mores of the real world ... aspects of self-image, how we are perceived by others, gossip, adversity and relationships jump at you right off the page ... excellent for adults to read with children ....'   Archbishop Brian Putzier, Ecumenical Patriarch of the United Episcopal Catholic Communion, USA.

 

'The fresh, vivid narrative flows effortlessly.  Barbara weaves delightfully, drawing the reader into a tangled world of magical childhood mystery.  A piercing light in the darkness connects us with what is true and what is hidden.' Julia Avery, Western Australia.

 

'This book will undoubtedly keep primary school children (Middle Graders) spellbound and wanting to hear the next chapter ... I recommend it as a great classroom resource for KS2 (Middle Grade) teachers.'  - Paul Goodman. Primary Teacher, United Kingdom.

 

40,855 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: House In The Wood Books
• Release date: Aug 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781919602400

Book preview

1

The Little Kingdom

The air was still, as still as a millpond in the summertime. Queenie wandered about the shady woods, kicking at twigs and telling herself it was not a very ladylike thing to do. Her reflection sneered up at her from a puddle and she stuck her tongue out at it.

Mould and Misery! Why me? Why did I have to be born a Queen? She stamped hard in the reflection. Her ankle-length dress, already spattered with mud, was now soaked and clinging to her podgy legs.

I don’t look like a Queen. I certainly don’t feel like a Queen. She bent down and picked up a stone to throw at the nearest tree.

Queenie had problems. Like everyone else in the Little Kingdom, she was short, but she was also fat and had one blue eye and one green eye. She did try to be dignified. She tried very hard but something was always wrong. Hair would be sticking up over one ear or one side of her collar would be tucked in or she would suddenly find she was only wearing one stocking. And when the occasion demanded a stately bearing and a cool, collected manner, she was always stifling yawns.

Yes, the Queen lacked style. Most of the time she simply couldn’t be bothered. But the next day she would have to attend a state banquet and, horror of horrors, entertain. Now, entertaining can be fun with your friends but Queenie had to have parties with people she didn’t even like, which was why she was feeling so grumpy.

It was their fault–Graften and Lily, the King and Queen of Dalmia. It was the same every time they came. He would drink all the best wine from the cellars and tell everyone how much better theirs was and she would criticise the furniture, the food, the beds–everything. Her room was always the wrong colour and never light enough or airy enough or cosy enough or interesting enough.

Queenie knew she would have to ignore it all, smile sweetly and remember that soon enough they’d be gone. But this year it would be harder than ever. The Dalmians were claiming that part of the Little Kingdom belonged to them. A prize pumpkin had been squashed. An orchard had been raided in retaliation. Things had been getting out of hand.

On and on the Queen grumbled. Finding the stone still in her hand, she flung it as hard as she could. It sailed in an arc and fell with a thud right into a thick bramble patch. Immediately there was a terrible squawking and screeching. The briars trembled and heaved.

Alarmed, she hurried forward, thinking she must have hit a squirrel.

I hope you’re satisfied, squawked a voice.

Startled, the Queen looked round but there was no one in sight. Then, turning to the brambles, she saw a large beak poking out and a beady eye surveying her.

Queenie talks with the mysterious bird.

Well, aren’t you going to get me out? rasped the bird.

Oh. Yes, yes. She was quite taken aback. Never in all her days had she met a bird that could speak.

I don’t know! Woods aren’t safe these days. Can’t even have a quiet nap without being set on by roughnecks.

Roughnecks? I am a Queen. She said it slowly and importantly so the creature should be left in no doubt.

Queen … hah! The creature struggled but his feathers only became more entangled in the briars.

I am the Queen of this kingdom I’ll have you know, she said, and if you’d keep still for just a minute I might be able to get you out of there.

The bird sat quietly while she disengaged his feathers from the sharp thorns. With an almighty effort he lifted himself out of the prickly pit and alighted on a low branch. For a moment he sat flapping his wings to make sure they were still there.

That’s better, he shook his shiny black head, So, you’re a Queen are you?

Queen Stellaria, if you must know, said the Queen, Queenie to my friends. That way they remember I’m sovereign without being starchy about it. Can’t bear starchiness.

Mmm. I can see that, said the bird.

Two wet shoes peered out from beneath a torn and muddy hem.

I’m not usually quite as bad as this, said the Queen, I suppose was in a bad mood.

The bird cawed softly, swaying his head from side to side. Bringing his beak right up to her nose he said,

I was in a bad mood too. That’s how I got in the briars. Master sent me out to look for toadstools to make his ink. I’ve been searching all day. I only found one and even that was mushy and half eaten by slugs. It slipped out of my beak and slid deep down under the bramble bush. I was so cross I pecked at the flowers. That’s how the thorns caught me. Now I’ll have to go back to Master and explain why I’m so late and why my feathers look such a mess. Craww!

Master? Who is your Master?

Tumblehorn. Of the grey tower. You know, beyond the bracken thickets.

I know the bracken thickets but I don’t know a Tumblehorn and I’ve never seen a grey tower.

Hah! That’s because you’ve never looked. My Master is very clever and very wise. You would find him if you looked for him.

What does your Master do? she asked.

Craw. Must be going now. Can’t stop, can’t stop. Thanks for setting me free. With a single flap of his great, bronze wings he was off.

The Queen shouted after him.

There are shaggy inkcaps by the pond!

He circled for a moment.

Many thanks, he cawed and was away.

Oh, please wait, just for a minute! Please!

Soon he was nothing but a speck above the trees, lost in the fading light.

Queenie wandered back to the Palace. Perhaps if it hadn’t been twilight she might have noticed the grass was yellowing there a little and the flowers were very slow to blossom this year. As it was, she collected her skirts together in a vain attempt to hide the mud splashes and crept in secretly by a back entrance.

The moon rose and the Little Kingdom slept peacefully beside the branches of the Nether Wood.

Chucklegorgon riding a snail.

---

The sun smiled a blushed dawn and drew it into a morning of birdsong.

Chucklegorgon the jester was sitting on the fence down by the Great Snail Pond. He had spent the early hours of the morning inspecting the more robust snails and trying to make up his mind which ones to enter in the Grand Tournament. He had also helped with snail schooling, a very tiresome and frustrating occupation for as soon as you mount a wild snail it just tucks its head into its shell and refuses to come out.

Many and varied were the tasks that fell to the jester and this was one he could well do without. These large creatures, carefully bred for strength and speed, were intended to impress neighbouring Kings. Chucklegorgon remained quite unimpressed with them. For days now they had been stubborn. Some had spent hours in their shells from which not even the most succulent of weeds would tempt them. Others would slide coyly past each other when instructed to charge.

Chucklegorgon frowned at the large shells. He could hear snoring and whistling as the snails slept. It occurred to him that he felt worn out himself. Something was very wrong though just what, he couldn’t rightly tell.

The two head gardeners, Forklemud and Richinberry, were making their way towards him, both looking extremely harassed. Richinberry hailed him.

Hey there Chucklegorgon! Can you spare a minute?

The jester jumped from the fence.

Gladly! he said, What’s the trouble? Don’t tell me you’ve been having a rough day of it too.

Forklemud’s long face, melancholy at the best of times, was even more pinched and strained than usual.

Something’s very wrong, he intoned as if reading the jester’s thoughts. It’s the plants. All of them. They’re dying. Just turning slimy yellow and dying they are. It started about three days ago along the banks of the Moonflow and since then it’s been spreading. It’s already halfway through the grunzle patch and we can’t stop it.

Richinberry tried to sound as calm as a gardener who is just about to lose his job because he has nothing to garden, can sound.

It’s probably something we can clear up quite easily. If only we could find the cause. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve tried all sorts of sprays but nothing works.

It’s an evil omen, that’s what I say, Forklemud’s expression was glum, Happenings these days have been very strange. T’other day I saw a bird. Big it were, and black. With wings of bronze. Flew over them there woods three times, he pointed with a knobbly finger, then it vanished.

Richinberry glanced scornfully at his partner and tucked his thumbs under his braces.

That’s as may be but it don’t help us none do it.

A bird you say, black with bronze wings? The jester scratched his tufty head.

Yep. In the evening it were. Not much light about.

Richinberry scoffed.

He’d be afraid of his own shadow which is probably what he saw anyway.

Now look here, I know what I saw. And it were no shadow.

The jester frowned.

Marcus? Could it be? Have you mentioned any of this to the Queen?

Yes. Well, we had to tell her about the plants. She’d have seen for herself anyway if we’d put it off any longer. It may be that food‘ll have to be rationed. Richinberry sighed and shrugged, We thought you might have a few suggestions. We could certainly do with some.

Chucklegorgon grimaced. He could think of nothing at all.

I’ve to see the Queen now, he said, I’ll discuss it with her. This seemed to pacify the gardeners a little and they walked part of the way to the Palace with him. They left him at the fork in the main road and he continued alone, staring at his feet.

Chucklegorgon had to report his progress with the snails every day. It was fast becoming a miserable procedure. He pulled at a tall grass and draggled the seedhead in the dust as, lost in thought, he approached the Palace Gates.

The two guards of the Gates were playing marbles and Chucklegorgon unthinkingly stumbled through them, sliding and skidding, arms outspread in a vain attempt to keep his balance. Only by a lively gambol was he able to evade the shell hats, which came hurtling after him accompanied by shouts and curses. The two guards glared.

Ruined our game ‘e has, ruined it. And the first time I looked like winin’ in seven games, moaned Andgermus, a powerfully built fellow with a face given to ferocious expressions–a bit unfortunate according to some but he got his job on the strength of the habit.

Poor little fella, replied the other, Bet we scared ‘im stiff. Quick though wasn’t ‘e?

’E’s got to be. It’s ‘is business. Where you bin Grayling? Never seen ‘im at court?

Aven’t ‘ad much chance to see court life yet, said Grayling, This is my first Palace shift.

Oh, you wouldn’t know ‘im then, the jester, Chucklegorgon. There’s some as says ‘e runs the place.

Andgermus glowered in the direction the unfortunate jester had taken.

How do you mean, runs the place?

Well, growled Andgermus, "It’s easy to see innit. Times are strange and so is ‘e. Turns up ‘ere from out of nowhere. Suddenly ‘e’s with the Queen ‘alf the time.

Is ‘e ever outside the training paddocks or the Palace? Oh, ‘e might be entertainin’ an’ all but as soon as the performance is over we don’t see ‘ide nor ‘air of ‘im do we? Eh?"

I ‘aven’t seen ‘im yet. To speak to, that is, replied Grayling.

Course, you know where ‘e is, Andgermus narrowed his eyes to slits, "’e’s out there in those woods of