Free Magic Parcel by Frank English Page B

of a gull superimposed on the back-drop of a country meadow in early summer.
    Confused and yet overjoyed at the re-awakening of some of their half-forgotten memories, Tommy and Jimmy stumbled on through undergrowth they couldn’t see but felt, as its springy whip-like grass stems returned to their starting places on their passing.
    â€œI’m thirsty,” gasped Jimmy after half an hour or so, “and I ...”
    â€œSh!” Tommy hissed, stopping sharply and grabbing his brother. “Over there,” he whispered, “see, the mist is thinning out, and I can see ... people!”
    â€œWhere? Where?” Jimmy asked, craning his neck and shuffling around in what felt like heath tussocks under foot. “Show me. I ... Arghh! My shin! My leg!”
    He had broken away from Tommy’s grasp, and collapsed somewhere in the thickening mist. His pained groans and gasps came from somewhere below the knee height of his brother, who immediately dropped to a crouch to feel around for his younger brother.
    â€œJim. Jim,” he croaked. “Where are you? Groan a bit and then I can get a fix on your position.”
    Jimmy didn’t find that remark in the least funny, but obliged with a heart-felt moan nonetheless, which resulted in his brother finding him.
    â€œCareful, can’t you?” Jimmy complained at last. “That’s my eye you’ve got your great ... elbow ... in!”
    Jimmy had finally realised that the mist had disappeared, as if some huge vacuum cleaner had removed all trace of the obliterating nuisance, and what he saw in no way even approximated what he had imagined. Barren hills are what they saw, bare of all vegetation apart from the springy tussocky heath grass they had been stumbling along, and mountains - stretching endlessly in a great crescent far away into the blue haze off northwards and out of sight. They had been to the mountains for holidays many times before father had died, but compared with the grandeur and scale of these, their mountains were as a rash on an animal’s back.
    Jimmy’s gaze swept around following the range until his eyes became watery with the strain. On their return journey, his eyes lighted on the object which had brought about the untimely meeting of his knees and the ground. Cold, it felt against his skin, and hard and unyielding under his hand.
    â€œBut ... but ...” he stammered, taken very much aback by its sudden appearance. “It’s a ...”
    â€œGrave,” Tommy finished off for him. “Overgrown it may be, but still very much a ... grave ...”
    His matter-of-factness quickly evaporated on looking up from the hard, glossy rectangularity of the grey granite grave surround, withstanding the continual onslaught of weed and weather, to catch the shadowy outline of some indistinct figure in his eye corners. He nudged his brother who had already seen their ghostly spectator and was slowly dragging himself to an upright position, eyes firmly fixed on the apparition. Large in the extreme, with huge hairy arms folded across its chest like scaffolding, its unblinking eyes peered out of a face totally surrounded by black, grey-flecked, dishevelled hair, fixing them to the spot as effectively as tying them with rope.
    The Old Man of the Mountains sought an explanation from those disturbing his rest!
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Chapter Eight
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    The darkening storm gathered about the pinnacles and battlements of Seth’s castle. Black clouds formed their battalions, marshalling their dark troops ready for battle with the Master of Mystery. Lightening began to flicker and play, adding a silver circlet to the crown of clouds the castle already displayed.
    The first rolling clap of thunder startled the surrounding countryside and even rattled the thick stone battlement tops. This would be a conflict to end all conflicts, and one in which the elements, after centuries of perseverance, would crush utterly the upstart