Moon King

By Steve J. Burford

1869: Emma awakens from a terrifying dream of fire and shadows to find herself in an unknown English town – on the Moon – with no memory of who she is or how she came to be there. Though everyone she meets is unfailingly kind and helpful, no-one can help her with her missing memories, and no-one appears to find their unusual location at all odd.

Joined by James and William, two 'orphans' like herself, Emma sets out to uncover the secrets of her new home, chief among them, who or what is the mysterious Moon King?

Apprenticed to a psychic, and an eccentric fossil-hunting lord, Emma, James and William are separated. But when William goes missing, and everyone around them denies he had ever even been there, Emma and James must reunite to find their missing companion, before their memories of William are also taken from them.

Pursued by the ominous Boatman, their search takes them deep into a system of underground canals and caves beneath the lunar surface, and to a final, terrifying confrontation with the Moon King itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grey Wolf
• Release date: Sep 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915692818

Book preview

Part One

New Moon

-1-

Smoke.

Darkness.

She couldn't see. Couldn't breathe!

Eyes stinging, lungs burning, she stumbled in confusion. The darkness was filled with hard edges and sharp corners. She had to get out, had to escape! But how? Her ears were filled with terrified shrieks. Were they hers? Emma! Emma! And behind it all was the dull roar, coming closer, closer.

Fire!

Emma screamed and threw herself up and out of the bed. Immediately, she crashed into something at the bedside. It gave way under her weight and tipped her onto the floor in a shower of breaking glass and china. She struggled to stand, but a thin cotton sheet caught round her feet and sent her flailing to the ground, thrashing and terrified. Help! Someone, please help me!

She didn't hear the rush of approaching footsteps over the sound of her own cries. When hands took hold of her, she automatically struggled against them.

There, there. It's all right now. Let me help you. Don't fret yourself so, child. You're safe now, my dear. Safe. Nothing's going to hurt you.

Slowly, the words sank in. I... I..., Emma gulped. Her throat stung. She tasted smoke.

Shhhh. There, there.

Arms cradled her protectively, rocked her gently backwards and forwards, and a hand smoothed her hair. Gradually, the soothing actions and calming words did their work. Emma’s breathing slowed to something like normal, though she couldn't help the odd hiccoughing sob, and she stopped fighting the arms holding her, though her body still trembled like a frightened bird's. Is it ...? She coughed and swallowed. Speaking was so painful. Is it gone?

Is what gone, dear?

The .... Emma stopped. She couldn't say. Only a few seconds ago she had been terrified, but now, when she was asked what she had been so frightened of, she couldn't say.

It's all right, the voice said. Better if you try not to speak for a while, at least until I've given you something for that nasty throat of yours. You sound like a proper old sweep, so you do. Come on, let's get you back into bed shall we, then see if we can't clear up some of this mess before we have another little accident.

Emma was helped to her feet and guided back onto the bed, and for the first time, she got a good look at who was looking after her. She was a large woman dressed in crisp, starched black and white, something like a maid's uniform, that rustled pleasantly as she rearranged the pillows and replaced the blanket, smoothing it down and tucking it in. As she worked, the woman absen

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mindedly pushed back a lock of hair that had escaped from the mop cap she was wearing, and Emma could see that it was quite white. She could have been the perfect grandmother the way she fussed and kept up a constant stream of cheerful talk. She was kind, and certainly old enough, but there was something else about her, something too... efficient for an ordinary grandmother.

There now. That's better isn't it? the woman said, straightening up and running her hands down the front of her apron. Now, let's see what we can do about this little mess, shall we? With some awkwardness, she lowered herself to her knees. Dear me, dear me, she muttered, before clambering to her feet again, one hand on the bed to support herself. I shall have to take my brush to this, I shall. Now don't you go trying to walk anywhere in your bare feet until I've had a chance to sweep some of it up. I'll be back in a jiffy. She gave the bed one last pat to smooth out a small wrinkle, turned and walked away. I'll bring some honey and lemon for that throat of yours too, she called back, and then she was gone.

Alone again, Emma lay in the bed in exactly the position the woman had left her. She closed her eyes and tried hard to make her shaking stop. Only when it had slowed considerably did she open her eyes again and look around to find out exactly where she was.

It was a large room with five other beds like hers. They were neatly arranged in two rows on either side of the room and, except for hers, were all empty. The bedsteads were a soli

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looking brass that glowed warmly in the light from the gas lamps fixed to the walls. By each bedside was a small table, and on each of those was a china bowl and pitcher for washing, and a small oil lamp.

Emma looked over at the side of her bed. Yes, it had been her table that she had knocked over in her panicked leap. Her bowl and pitcher lay broken on the carpetted floor, as did the lamp from which a dark, oily stain was spreading slowly. A new wave of shivers shook her body, and for a second Emma was back in her nightmare, obscured shapes moving in the darkness and a voice calling out.

All right, dear?

The old lady was back, Her warm, cheery voice yanked Emma out of her dark dream. She nodded gratefully.

Good, good. Now just you try a drop of this. Made it myself I did, and if I say so as shouldn’t it's very good for what ails you. There's many a boy and girl who's said thank you for a drop of this in their time, I can tell you. Mine and others. Let's just prop you up a little. There was a quick movement of the pillow and Emma found herself sitting up. Now, just you drink this down.

Emma went to take the cup herself but the old woman kept hold of it, so she allowed herself to be given the drink like a very small child. It was warm and sweet, and straight away she could feel it soothing the pain of her throat. Doesn't taste like any medicine I've ever had before, she thought. As if by itself, another thought followed that one: What other medicine have I had before? She tried to remember. She could not.

There now. Better?

Oh, yes. Yes, thank you mum, much better.

Good, good. The woman chuckled. And you don't have to call me 'mum'. I've enough of my own as does that without you doing it too. When she was sure Emma had drunk every last drop, the woman took the cup away, and with some difficulty and a lot of sighing, got down on her hands and knees again to deal with the mess on the floor. There, she finally said, that's a deal tidier. I'll take my brush and soap to that stain in the morning and it'll be as good as new. You'll never even know we had a bit of a spill. She stood up again slowly and reached out her hand to put it on the girl's forehead. Still a bit hot? Emma nodded. Well, that's only to be expected. A good night's sleep is what you need and you'll feel much better in the morning. She smoothed the girl's hair one more time, giving it a gentle pat.

Please, said Emma suddenly, afraid that the woman was about to go and leave her alone with her thoughts and dreams again. The woman looked at her kindly, and suddenly Emma wasn't sure what she wanted to say. The lights burned warmly around her with the cosy, soft burring of gas lamps, but in some ways she felt just as much in the dark as she had been in her dreams. I don't really want to sleep.

The old woman sat down on the very edge of the bed, and took Emma's hand. Frightened of your dreams? Emma nodded. Well you don't have to be my dear. Not here. Bad dreams can't find you now. She patted the girl's hand. Here's somewhere wonderful.

Where is here?

The woman hesitated. Well, this is the Infirmary, she said, waving a hand around to take in the room. For them that's infirm.

No, I mean.…

I know what you’re wanting, the old woman said, interrupting her. You’re wanting a song to take you back to the land of Nod. I always used to sing songs to my boys before .... She hesitated again, as if she had forgotten for a moment what she had been about to say. Well, it's just something as I used to do. Would you like that?

I'm too old for songs, Emma thought. Then, How old am I? I don't like nursery songs. But then, why can't 1 remember any? She nodded quickly, shaking the confusing, frightening thoughts out of her head.

The old lady folded her hands in her lap, looked downwards as if running through the words of her song in her head before starting, cleared her throat, and began.

Her voice wasn't strong, and the notes quavered more often than not, but the song was simple and sweet, and while it lasted Emma did indeed feel the darkness move away from her a little. She made no effort to separate the words from the tune, and most of the meaning of the song washed over her, except for the chorus which was repeated several times:

No shadows of dreams

Or fears of the night

Need ever disturb us

‘Neath the Moon King’s clear light.

The last note hung in the air before fading away. Shadows and fears. That was exactly what Emma felt surrounded by, unseen, but waiting for her. And who was the 'Moon King'? Had she ever known? She couldn't remember.

The old lady sighed, patted Emma's hand one last time, and went to get up.

Wait! Emma called out almost without thinking. Please, she added. The woman turned and looked down, waiting. I'm sorry, but ... but I don't know who you are.

You're sorry! The woman rolled her eyes and tutted with mock annoyance. Why save us, no. It should be me that's sorry, my love. What with one thing and another it clean went out of my head that you wouldn't know me. She straightened and with a pretended seriousness she held out her hand. I am Mrs. Kendall, and I'm in charge of the Infirmary here. I looks after all the New Arrivals for their first few days. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. There was a pause. Mr. Kendall, my husband, is the Beadle, she added. She let her hand fall when Emma didn't take it. Is anything the matter my love? she asked anxiously.

The darkness was swirling in Emma’s head again. It wasn't what the woman had said that made her feel this way. It was what Emma had wanted to say in return, but had suddenly, shockingly found she could not. Emma. Emma. The name from her nightmare went round and round in her head. It had to be her name, but it might just as well have belonged to someone else for all it meant to her. I want to tell you who I am, she said, her voice made thick by the sobs that were building up inside. Really I do. But I can't. I can't! She reached out and grabbed hold of Mrs. Kendall's hand as if it could keep her from falling back into the blackness of her nightmare. Who am I, Mrs. Kendall? Who am I?

Mrs. Kendall shook her head sadly, gathered the girl into her arms again and rocked her like a small child. Emma cried more and clung harder.

At last, she fell into an exhausted sleep, but even then, at intervals she would wake up, often with a shout or muffled scream. Whenever she did, Mrs. Kendall was there, murmuring soothing words or simply sounds, until Emma fell back into sleep again. Eventually though, her exhaustion overtook even her misery, and her sleep became so deep that if she did dream, she didn't remember it.

She had no idea how long it was before she awoke fully again. She lay on the unfamiliar bed making the most of the stillness that is there for just a few moments after a sleeper opens her eyes. She gathered her strength. She knew that she would need it.

Very carefully, as if reaching out for something that might fly away at the slightest clumsy movement, Emma tried to remember her full name. Just that. But there was still nothing there. Immediately she tried to think of something else, anything rather than face that frightening emptiness in her head.

From somewhere to her left there came a noise. It was a bit like the dry bubbling of the gas lamps but deeper and louder. Moving her eyes rather than her head, Emma looked to see what it was. It was Mrs. Kendall. She had pulled up a chair beside the bed and was sitting in it, head leaning back over the antimacassar, asleep. A lock of white hair hung unbothered from her mop cap. She was snoring.

Moving her head as little as possible, Emma scanned the room. It looked exactly the same as before, and for a moment she didn't know why that seemed odd. Then it came to her. Surely she had been here for hours. If it had been night when she had first awoken here, then it had to be day by now. But the lamps were still burning and seemed to be the only source of light in the room. There were no windows but at the far end there was a large curtain reaching from ceiling to floor and almost filling the wall. There had to be a window behind that, though not a hint of light could be seen through the heavy velvet folds. To one side of it, in the little space that was left on the wall, was a painting, though of whom or what she couldn't possibly tell from her bed.

She wondered about giving a little cough to wake up Mrs. Kendall, but something made her stop. Not yet. First she wanted to see if there was anything else she could find out by herself. Her life so far, the life she could remember any way, had been very short, and had been filled with fear and tears. That, Emma grimly decided, had to change.

Very carefully she slipped out of the bed on the opposite side to Mrs. Kendall whose snores easily drowned out the rustle of the cotton sheet. At first, she tiptoed, nervous in case the floorboards beneath her creaked, but the floor under the carpet seemed completely solid, and after a few steps Emma felt confident enough to walk normally.

Where now? There seemed only two choices: to the left and through the door Mrs. Kendall had used earlier, or to the right and to the curtained window. Left meant passing the old woman and possibly waking her up. Emma turned right,

The curtain was a rich, red velvet with gold tracings down its length. It hung from rings and a rail of the same brass as the bedsteads. Emma went to lift up just the one edge of it so that she could see what lay outside, but before she did her eye was caught by the picture to one side. This close she could see it clearly. It was a painting of a woman, middl

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aged possibly, although there was something terribly serious and almost old about her expression. You couldn't say she was beautiful, but she was certainly gorgeously dressed in magnificent robes that fell in waves to the ground at her feet. Of course. Emma could have laughed. Who else? It was the Queen. Emma stepped a little closer to take in more details of the portrait. How wonderful to be as calm and in control as Queen Victoria.

Emma flinched as if someone had slapped her. How did she know that? How could she know this woman's name, but not her own? She stepped to one side, suddenly dizzy as the questions once again reared up. Her hand fell to the thick velvet of the curtain, and she yanked it to one side as if, by looking at whatever was on the other side, she could put that picture of the Queen and all the questions it raised out of her mind.

Silver light flooded into the room making Emma gasp at its brilliance. For a second, her eyes were blinded by the brightness. Gradually they adjusted, but as they did, what she saw only increased her fear and confusion. She hadn't known what to expect outside the Infirmary. Buildings probably, or perhaps lawns, fields or trees. But not this.

Mountains stretched to the horizon, but Emma knew she had never seen mountains like these before. They were bleak and harsh, grey and silver in the light, solid black where the shadows fell. Even those furthest in the distance seemed crystal clear, and all the edges looked razor sharp. There were no gentle curves, not a hint of green and not a trace of snow even on the peaks, just rock and dust, from the horizon right down to the window where she stood. There was no sign of any living thing. Beyond the jagged peaks the sky was black velvet. And in the sky...!

After so many hours in dimness the light hurt Emma's eyes but still she forced herself to look up and into it. The source was huge, larger than anything that should be in the sky. The light it cast was silver, but the object itself was streaked with shades of blue and white that almost seemed to be moving as Emma looked at them.

From behind her, Emma heard the sound of Mrs. Kendall's footsteps, but she was too entranced by this spectacle in the sky to turn around. The Moon, she said. It has to be the Moon. But what's happened to it? Why does it look so strange?

Mrs. Kendall laughed quietly and Emma felt her hand on her shoulder. Bless you, no my love. That's not the Moon. That's the Earth. This, and Emma heard the sound of Mrs. Kendall tapping the Infirmary floor with her foot, this is the Moon.

-2-

Emma sat on the heavy wooden chair drawn up beside her bed, and Mrs. Kendall fussed over her, doing up buttons, brushing out imaginary creases, adjusting and readjusting the large velvet bow that went with the smart blue