Persistence Of Memory

By Laurie Woodward

Saving an art-created world changed little for Bartholomew Borax III. His germaphobe mother still makes him bathe six times a day. He can’t tell anyone about the mystical Artania. And he still must sculpt in secret. But when Bartholomew, alongside skater girl Gwen and fellow artist Alex, are yanked back to the magical world of Artania, they discover that much has changed.

Artanians are being infected with amnesia and no one can find a cure. With epic battles, surreal creatures and a growing threat, the trio race to save Artania from certain doom. But are they already too late?

A magical fantasy adventure for young and old alike, Laurie Woodward's 'Persistence Of Memory' is the fifth book in the Artania Chronicles series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 19, 2023

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rubbing the dust from his eyes, Bartholomew Borax III glanced up at the crumbling arch. The curved monument teetered and several of its carved bats took to flight. A few bricks overhead wavered and loosened. Alex, watch out! he cried, shoving his best friend out of the way.

Alexander Devinci bounced off a wrought iron post bordering the wide promenade to land safely on all fours a few feet away. The mass plummeted downward a split second later and crashed with a tremendous boom. Choking dust swirled, darkening the painted sky.

Bartholomew knelt at Alex’s side. The fifteen-year-old’s face was streaked with dirt and his brown curls had a coat of dust You okay?

Coughing, Alex gave him a thumbs-up.

The ground rumbled again, and long, jagged cracks appeared in the crushed granite pathway. They widened and dark heads emerged from the splintered soil. Yellow eyes glared from hairless brows as porcine noses sniffed the air.

Alex groaned. No freaking way.

Bartholomew pulled Alex to his feet and surveyed the triumphal arch. The red monument was roughly ninety feet high and half as wide. It looked Moorish and both sides were framed with pairs of brick columns capped with decorative crowns. The front frieze above the arch was carved with multiple people, who were now whimpering and cowering in fear. Above them two sculpted lions held up a large shield and crown.

Help us! Bartholomew cried.

The stone felines bowed noble heads and roared. They hurdled off their perch and landed with a thud. Their etched muscles rippled before turning to face the emerging army.

It won’t be enough, Alex said.

I know. Bartholomew turned in a circle. True art? True art? What can I create?

He had only been in this unfamiliar place for scant minutes so didn’t know the lay of the land. But after multiple journeys into the mystical Artania, the blond teen had learned that if he could work paint, clay, or wood, the Creation Magic would do the rest. He and his fellow Deliverer, Alex, had made amazing things these past five years. From swords to skateboards and dragons to great snakes they had wrought weapons and comrades in this long war against the Shadow Swine.

But still Sickhert’s army returned. Ever stronger. With new tricks and powers.

Like today.

An axe-wielding Shadow Swine swung at the first lion. His blade skirted the beautiful sculpture’s mane and a furry clump fell to the ground. With a snarl, the lion jumped back.

Bartholomew grabbed Alex’s arm. We have to do something.

Tell me something I don’t know. Alex kicked at the pile of dry leaves crunching underfoot, and they fluttered through the air.

Bartholomew glanced at the drifting leaves. Might it work? He closed his eyes and focused on the image. Scooping up a handful, he turned to Alex. Remember Subterranea? They battled well.

Of course. I should have thought of that. Bending down, Alex brushed away debris, exposing the moist soil below. He plunged his hands into the clay and formed them into a mound.

Bartholomew plopped some leaves onto Alex’s s pile. Then more and more.

The two boys molded the materials into an animal shape. Without a word, they both knew where to place their hands. They scooped, pulled, and smoothed as if their minds were one. Fingers tugged and pressed, sculpting faster and faster. A leg appeared. Then another. Paws. A larger-than-life head. Soon, they were moving at the speed of light.

One final pinch, and the sculpture shimmered. Fur sprouted all over its body. Two silvery eyes looked up at them. Bartholomew sat back on his haunches and smiled. Glorious.

He had but a microsecond to admire the work before the hunchbacked Swiney was upon them. His yellow eyes narrowed as he bared jagged teeth. With a long swipe of his battle-axe, the pig-nosed creature chucked a stone lion aside. He raised an arm to attack the second when the newly sculpted wolf lowered its head and butt him in the gut.

The slimy creature toppled over.

More! Alex scooped up a fresh handful of mud and the boys repeated their sculpting performance, this time faster than the speed of light. Within seconds half a dozen wolves were growling and snapping at the jackbooted army.

For a moment all was silence. Then, as if a great unmute button had just been pressed, a cacophonous roar filled the air. Wolves ripped into the burly Swineys. The largest leaped at a tall Shadow Swine, knocking the monster on its back.

Others hurdled toward a dog, Mudlark, with red glowing eyes, one ear completely gone and the other in jagged shreds. The black lab’s contorted face was scarred and twisted as if raking claws had hollowed out great swaths of skin. Still, it dodged two swipes before falling.

Three snarling wolves closed in on a spike-wielding Swiney. The monster swung once. Twice. Three times. The newly formed canines snapped at his heels. Then one wolf clamped down on the Shadow Swine’s trench coat. The monster stumbled.

Bartholomew had just dug up a handful of soil to form a sword when he felt the vibration. His hand began to shimmer. Shaking his head, he glanced over at Alex who appeared to be filled with sparkling glitter. He shrugged at his friend.

And Artania faded from view.

Chapter 2

Teetering, Alex thrust out his arms and blinked. He was back in his garage studio, paintbrush still dipped in the palette and the half-finished canvas as wet as it’d been when he’d been sucked into Artania. No mud stained his jeans. No rocky debris dusted his hair. It was as if the past hour had been but a dream.

This had happened to him so many times you’d think he’d be used to it, but it still was pretty friggin’ weird to be painting at home one second, and in an art-created world the next.

His Australian shepherd, Rembrandt, wagged a tail once and nuzzled up against his leg. Alex bent down and rubbed the dog’s ears.

More weirdness, boy. It’s looking bad.

The Artanian journeys weren’t the only thing Alex had to get used to. His family had recently undergone major changes, namely the birth of his sister, Destiny, in April. A full-on surprise since his mom was in her mid-forties, had seen specialists just to get pregnant the first time, and had a heart condition that nearly killed her when Alex was eleven.

Not that everything had changed. Dad still quoted from Dr. Bock’s How to be a Perfect Parent and worked on his mathematical theorems as a university professor in Santa Barbara. Between feedings and diaper changes, Mom still experimented with recipes for her cookbook series. And Alex still skateboarded and painted.

But there was this fear looming over their little tract home. As if something terrible might happen at any minute.

And with Shadow Swine waiting to cross over and invade dreams it sure as rat farts could.

We were losing, Alex said to Rembrandt. Gotta get to work. He picked up the paintbrush and faced the canvas. Although he had set out to create an Impressionist river scene, the jolting journey compelled him to alter it.

Alex closed his eyes, recalling details from the arch and its environs. Had there been Artanians nearby? If so, what type of art were they? He recalled something in the corner of his eye right before Bartholomew had shoved him. A creature made of squares and blocks.

Cubism. Should I?

Rembrandt wagged his tail as if to answer yes and then sat with an expectant look in his silvery blue eyes.

Okay, you’re the boss.

Alex closed his eyes again, imagining some square-edged soldiers. They had to be strong, so he gave them broad shoulders and muscular arms. Then he put bayonets in their hands. They would need them when they came to life in Artania. He had just put the finishing touches on a blade when he heard his mom call from inside.

Alex!

Dropping the brush, Alex raced inside. His voice was quivering when he asked. Everything okay, Mom?

Cyndi Devinci glanced up from her seat on the couch. Alex’s little sister, Destiny, was nestled in the crook of her other arm, a few drops of milk on her pink cheek. Brushing her disheveled hair out of her face with the back of her hand, Mom tilted her chin toward the five-month-old. Can you grab her?

Alex nodded and scooped up his little sister.

Are you alright? he asked.

Just tired. Didn’t sleep well. Between feedings and bad dreams, I barely got any sleep. She buttoned her blouse and took a long sip of water from the glass on the coffee table.

Alex gulped. Bad dreams?

Yeah. Strange because each started out happy. The four of us picnicking at the beach. Then all of a sudden, the sky darkened, and there was this horrible voice. Deep and gravely, threatening little Destiny. She shuddered and kissed the top of the baby’s head. Every time I scooped her up to escape, it got louder.

What else?

Crazy words about art. Its wrongness in the world. But I don’t want to talk about it. She smiled at him. Could you watch her while I take a nap? It won’t be too long. Dad should be home from the university in about an hour.

Sure, Mom. No problem.

Don’t forget to burp her.

Alex lifted Destiny onto his shoulder and Mom slogged down the hall toward her room. He thought back to his first trip into Artania when the captain of the Shadow Swine had warned him. We invade all dreams. Even the mother of a chosen one.

Having experienced the Shadow Swine nightmares himself, Alex hated to imagine Mom dealing with them. Her recent pregnancy had put a real strain on her heart, and he lived in constant fear of a repeat of her episode a few years back.

Shortly after that heart attack, he and Bartholomew made their first trip into Artania. There they discovered that evil creatures were entering Earth to twist people’s dreams into nightmares. These Shadow Swine gained power with every person who turned away from art.

Only Alex and Bartholomew could paint, sculpt, and sketch beings strong enough to stop the dream invasions. Their Knights of Painted Light came to life as soon as humans drifted off to sleep, ready to do battle. Alex took this responsibility very seriously, never going long before painting a new canvas.

This was why Mom’s nightmare was so perplexing. He was continually painting, so why weren’t the Knights protecting her?

Patting his sister’s back gently, Alex coaxed a small burp. He started to reach for the towel on the kitchen counter. Too late. A second later, spit-up was soaking into his T-shirt. He dabbed at it and shook his head, adjusting her on his shoulder.

Wanna play with Rembrandt? he asked. Taking silence as a yes, Alex picked up the tennis ball from the basket of toys and called for the dog to follow them out back. Kicking a lawn chair out from the table, he sat Destiny in his lap and whistled.

Rembrandt wagged his tail, and Alex tossed the ball. The Australian shepherd chased after it, but Destiny didn’t notice. Instead, she puckered her bow mouth and stared at a fluttering leaf.

No, watch, Destiny, Alex said, waving the ball in front of her face.

He threw it, and this time Destiny’s eyes grew wide. Rembrandt leaped over the lawn as she let out snickering giggles. A grinning Alex repeated this several times before his baby sister’s down-covered head started lolling over.

With one last ball toss, Alex cradled Destiny in his arms and went back into the house. After a soft Eskimo kiss, he lay her in her crib, turned on the baby monitor, and tiptoed out of the room.

Planning to complete his painting, Alex pushed open the garage door. He grabbed a fresh brush from the coffee can, turned toward his easel.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

Every soldier had been altered. Black paint seeped from stomachs. Faces contorted into screams while eyes cast downward reflected large gaping wounds. All four corners of the canvas were blotched with dark smears shadowing the bright colors he’d applied earlier.

Alex sucked in a breath and looked fearfully over his shoulder.

Shadow Swine here? What the—

Chapter 3

Bartholomew held out a hand to steady himself. He was back in his hospital white bedroom, unchanged. Even the mud under his nails was gone.

Bartholomew quietly slid back one of the wooden screens that separated his room into two sections. This half of his bedroom suite had a fireplace with brick so white you’d think it had never been used. And of course, it hadn’t in years. Not since Mother inherited the estate.

Ignoring both the cold hearth and the leather loveseat in front of it, he headed straight for his writing desk, yanked open the drawer, and felt around for the latch to his secret compartment. He started to pull out some pencils when he changed his mind. He should make something larger. But his rumbling stomach told him to snack first.

Bartholomew tiptoed down the sweeping staircase and started to turn toward the kitchen when hushed voices down the long hall made him pause. At first, he ignored them, but then he heard his name and curiosity got the better of him. Slinking along the wall, he crept toward Mother’s office.

Mr. White’s clipped British accent made Bartholomew frown. He steals away for hours.

Be more careful. Bartholomew shook his head. Artania needs you.

Is he clean? Or?

Yes, yes. Always. But he barely focuses during his studies.

It is your job to make sure he does.

I do endeavor, Mrs. Borax. However…

Bartholomew started to turn away. It seemed like his tutor was always complaining to Mother. And he used to care. But Bartholomew was tired of trying. From the cleaning army shooing him from one room to another, to faking focus during Mr. White’s boring lessons, to Mother’s panic attacks, it was too much for this fifteen-year-old.

Mother’s voice lowered until it was barely audible. You haven’t shown him you-know-what?

Of course not. That would be folly. If he knew—

Which he won’t. Ever.

Not by my admission, ma’am.

Filth splashed across canvas! Why haven’t the lawyers been able to do more?

What is she talking about? Mother hates art. Bartholomew thought. She won’t even allow it in the house.

Most of their mansion had bare walls with the exception of a few framed mirrors, a handful of family photos, and the Cleanliness is Next to Godliness poster glaring daily in the schoolroom.

I hate that stupid poster.

Did you hear something? Mother said.

Dust bunnies! Bartholomew whispered turning toward the stairs.

Master Borax, what are you doing? his British tutor asked before he could take a step.

He’d hoped bolting down the hall would make it look like he had just arrived, but his tutor was too quick. Keeping his back turned, Bartholomew tried to think of some reason for lurking outside Mother’s office.

Mother’s voice joined Mr. White’s. Bartholomew?

He pivoted slowly. Hello, Mother.

Hygenette Borax was seated behind a computer at her clear plexiglass desk, platinum blonde hair pulled in a tight bun. She wore a white silk blouse with matching slacks. Bartholomew’s middle-aged tutor stood next to her, filing his fingernails.

"Don’t hello mother me. Mr. White asked you a question. Now answer it."

I was just coming to ask you, to ask you… He trailed off, chewing on his lower lip.

Mother thrust her pale hands onto her slim hips. Well?

Just ask her what you always do. Even though you know the answer. I was wondering if I might be able to go back to school again. Alex says that Santa Barbara High is amazing. All kinds of interesting classes. Like—

Absolutely not! Too dangerous. Filth. Disease!

But… Bartholomew began but trailed off when she glared at him with those diamond blue eyes. He hung his head, All right, Mother.

Now why don’t you be a good boy and go take a bath. Mr. White and I have business to discuss.

Bartholomew smiled sweetly as if ready to comply while thinking. Of course, I’ll take my third bath today. Not.

Just then Hygenette’s desk phone rang. Smoothing her blonde bun with a pale hand, she looked to Bartholomew’s tutor.

Pausing from filing his nails, Mr. White tucked the manicure kit in his upper righthand coat pocket and picked up the receiver. Borax residence. Whom may I say is calling? He glanced at Bartholomew and nodded. Yes, I will summon him.

A few moments later Bartholomew was in the kitchen using the wall-mounted phone. Since Mother was sure that cell phones were a petri dish for germs, the Borax household only used landlines.

Hello?

Dude, you okay? Alex asked from the other end.

Yes, you?

It’s starting again.

I know.

No, you don’t. Another one was, he lowered his voice, changed.

No! I thought that was over. Bartholomew shook his head.

Can you meet Gwen and I you-know-where?

Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder, darted around the pool house, and started to trot across the grounds. Taking a deep breath of bleach-free air, he ripped off his tie and headed for his special place.

Although Mother had replaced most of the estate’s plants with plastic ones, one corner remained as wild and glorious as when Grandfather Borax was alive. And Bartholomew would forever be grateful. Grandfather’s will required that the area near the glass conservatory remain untouched and even today, lush vines, vibrant flowers, and moss-covered fountains graced every corner.

Bartholomew had first discovered the hidden space right after his eleventh birthday when a trap door opened and dropped him into the underground room. There, a message from Grandfather Borax explained how he’d designed a concealed studio under the greenhouse with enough art supplies to last years.

Bartholomew supposed that if Grandfather had lived, he would have shown off this amazing place himself. He often imagined the two of them sculpting or painting side by side.

He closed the hatch to the hidden studio before settling into a chair across from Alex and Gwendolyn Obranovich, the only other person who had ever traveled to Artania with them. When it first happened back in seventh grade, he didn’t understand why. She wasn’t an artist. But he sure was glad. That tough redhead had saved his rear more times than he could count.

Ever since he’d shown them the secret space beneath the conservatory and how to circumvent security at the front gate, they’d often met there to catch up, make plans, and talk in private. He was pretty proud of all the art supplies there. And not just a few crayons. Oh, no! There were shelves from floor to ceiling with bags of clay, potter’s wheels, and sculpting knives. Large canvases were stacked in one corner with an assortment of paintbrushes, paints, and pencils above them. A huge gas-fired kiln stood in one corner near the trap door where they now sat.

"Mom has been having the nightmares."

No way, Gwen said.

Bartholomew was perplexed. But you’re creating. Right?

Some. But Mom needs help. I was painting warriors when she called me to take care of Destiny. And when I got back, the painting was all messed up. Alex shook his head. Like someone had snuck in while I wasn’t looking.

There’d been a period a couple of years back when every canvas Alex painted, and every sculpture B-3 formed became a macabre horror overnight. After some experimenting, they realized that the only way to keep them from changing was to make them together. So, they created Knights of Painted Light side by side. And for months now everything returned to normal.

If you can call popping in and out of an art-created world without warning normal.

Gwen clenched her fists. Swineys. Friggin’ a.

Sludge up to his old tricks, Alex spat.

Your mom doesn’t need that crap. She has enough to deal with.

Alex’s face blanched. I know.

Gwen was a doer. If there was a problem, she jumped into it as quickly as she leaped onto her skateboard for one of those tricks she was always working on. And she liked Alex’s mom. Always had. Gwen said Mrs. Devinci was so gentle you expected fairy dust instead of words to come out of her mouth.

So, what are we going to do?

Bartholomew sighed. What we always do, he said picking up a lump of clay. Come on. Let’s get to work.

Chapter 4

Captain Sludge trudged past Swallow Hole Swamp toward the shack on its banks. This dwelling was unique in all of Subterranea. Whereas other Shadow Swine lived inside stony caves in his underground home, Crone alone dwelled among wood. The hut appeared small and dilapidated from the outside, but Captain Sludge had discovered long ago that this was an illusion.

Here untold rooms held oddly shaped cauldrons. From perfect ovals to warped and twisted metal to huge vessels of iron, each unique pot boiled a magical brew. Full of answers.

Most of Subterranea’s underground residents shied away from Crone. But not Captain Sludge. From the time he was a pupa wading through swampy waters, he’d watched her with fascination. He was constantly drawn to her power. Later, when he morphed into a nymph, he braved the swamp’s shore to seek answers from this wizened woman.

Of course, each reply came with a heavy price. The hardest one was his height. He would have been just as tall as any other Shadow Swine had she not given him the knowledge, molding his natural intelligence into genius. Or so he liked to believe.

Yes, he gave her a few inches of his height. And spiked his hair to look taller to underlings. But it was all worth it. She made him the most powerful Shadow Swine of them all. Save Lord Sickhert, of course.

He glanced back at Swallow Hole Swamp. There he’d crawled over pupae and nymph alike. Even before he’d bowed before Lord Sickhert on the banks of the River of Lies, he’d practiced dream draining on his peers.

Not that they liked it much. But he didn’t care.

"So, you