Curse of the Firefly

By S. A. Cornwell

This story is from the Robin Goodfellow series, as told by the enigmatic Traveller.
Curse of the Firefly is a magical fantasy adventure set in the fictional Dwerger Mountain valley in rural England. Sixteen year old college student Faye, a ‘gifted’ artist, bears the ‘mark’ and is estranged from her superstitious village community and her own stepmother, due to a tragic childhood ‘incident’. A deadly foe has been unleashed in the valley…who are the mysterious Alterterraneans? Follow Faye’s heart wrenching journey of empowerment, aided by the arrival of a mystical Rider. A lively cast of colourful characters contribute humour and intrigue to this tale, which is packed full of enchantments, transformations, dilemmas and dangers… will Faye and those who help her manage to vanquish the evil? The odds are stacked against her…!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781291677911

Book preview

Curse of the Firefly

Curse of the Firefly

From the Robin Goodfellow series

By

S. A. Cornwell

Copyright © 2013, S. A. Cornwell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

1

This book is dedicated to my children:

Danni, Bex and Andrew

And to my mother, Jill, and my husband Mark,

For all their support.

A special thanks to all my friends (you know who you are!) who have expressed interest in my books, thanks mates!

2

This is a work of fiction

All characters, actions, scientific information and places in this book are fictitious

Prologue

In the airport departure lounge, the Traveller drained his glass and plonked it down firmly.

Another, please, my friend, he said, belching.

Pardon me! he exclaimed, reddening. But that was an incredible flagon! He gave a very large chuckle from the depths of his belly. Wiping his mouth with the back of his brown leathery hand, he continued, It reminds me of the draught I had in The Ancient Saxon, summer just past.

He leaned forward as if to impart a secret. This beverage needs to be celebrated…with tales of valour, hope and victory…amongst friends, of course! he said, grinning, as he patted his nose with one finger.

The barman raised his eyebrows and he continued to polish a glass with his cloth, avoiding eye contact. He sighed and shook his head. All manner of odd folk pass through this bar...this fellow is no exception, he thought, as he glanced briefly at the Traveller.

Slurring and swaying, the Traveller’s tall lean frame was slumped over the bar counter. This drunkard was weather beaten and dusty, his black unruly hair fell almost to his shoulders. He smelt bad. He wore a tattered looking black leather jacket, black denim jeans, black shirt with gold metal tips to each collar point and dirty black biker boots.

Breaking up the sombre attire was a surprisingly flash silk waistcoat, decorated in paisley swirls of bright green and gold. His berry brown face was timeless, as his cheekbones protruded from remarkably supple skin. Guessing the Traveller’s age, the barman supposed he was mid-forties... because flashes of grey streaked his hair at each temple.

As The Traveller repeated his request, his curious bright emerald eyes flashed, crinkling up at each corner.

Another drink here, my good chap? I shall recount a truly incredible tale for you.  It concerns the firefly, or lightning bug... and the reasons why they should be left well alone! My story begins in a place called Puccaley, a small hamlet down south. You may have heard of it. This tiny village lies between Sutton Stilwell and Norton Winston, he said.

The barman shook his head, still wiping. The Traveller fumbled in his waistcoat and removed a deck of playing cards, a few of which landed every way up the counter. He took out his battered pocket watch and consulted it, peering closely at its face, trying to decipher the time. Then he ran a dirty brown hand through his curls and smiled at the barman.

Plenty of time, my good friend, to regale you with my adventure! he said, taking a deep breath. To the east of Puccaley lies the town of Morton Newton, famous for its college of further education. Perhaps you are familiar with that establishment?

The barman sighed. He looked up, caught the traveller’s eye and again shook his head. Shrugging, the Traveller continued. Puccaley nestles in the Dwerger mountain valley. They have built the bypass now, from Sutton Stillwell to Norton Winston. One could easily miss the place altogether.

Hiccoughing, he smiled, revealing large even teeth, the white matching the three inch scar he sported on his neck below the jawline. Picking up the six of hearts, the Traveller turned it between finger and thumb. Bear with me, my friend, whilst I set the scene…

The Traveller paused, looking from face to face at his fellow passengers who were attending nearby. Some looked bored, indifferent, tired, others were just eagerly waiting to continue their journeys. A few people, uncomfortable in his gaze, looked away. More than a few heads, however, bobbed up, turned around and stopped what they were doing at the sound of the Traveller’s voice.

For it t was a peculiar voice, not unpleasant to the ear, soft and round, deep and melodious. It was rich and rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The barman sighed again and set down a fresh pint of ale.

He had a certain style of speaking, this one and he also seemed to be good for my business, the barman thought, as he looked at the crowd forming. The people arriving at the bar were all hoping to be entertained, at least for a while, before it was time for them to depart.

Some boisterous young men, on a rugby tour, by the look of them, sat closest to the Traveller. They also smelt unwashed and the barman wrinkled his nose. A young couple were sitting quietly, patiently, waiting at the table near to the announcement board. They were trying to ignore their over excited offspring... their twin girls were engrossed in a game of squealing chase around the suitcases. An elderly couple, dressed in their best holiday clothes, rested at the table to the right. Their grey foreheads were touching as they helped each other with the paper’s crossword. Other people approached the bar drawing up stools and ordering drinks, all of them starting to listen intently to the Traveller’s tale.

It all began with young Faye Miller, running hell for leather through Puccawood like a thing possessed…, the Traveller started.

Chapter One

Her breath escaped from her mouth in heavy silvery gusts of mist hanging eerily in the cold night air, like forgotten spiders’ webs. She was desperately tearing through woodland. Feelings of dread, of doom, of fear and sickness threatened to overwhelm the fleeing girl. Her bare feet snapped thick curls of bracken, crushing the foliage, leaving a trail of tiny brown indents behind her.The smell of damp wood, of mould and decay, of steaming fumes of bark and bracken filled her nostrils and threatened to choke her.

Nausea bubbled uncontrollably and welled up from her stomach’s depths, like a witch’s cauldron filled with an unspeakable brew of disgusting ingredients coming to the boil. Her breath grew harsher, hoarser. It was getting harder to suck air in, too quick were her shallow gasps, not long enough to replenish her aching limbs with life giving oxygen.

Despite her efforts, she was slowing down.

The blackness was stifling, closing in around her little form like a heavy woollen cloak. It wrapped her up in a bundle as if she were rolled up in a carpet, crushing her, closing over her head and pinning her arms by her sides, fusing her legs together, making it harder and harder to run forwards. But run she must and run she did, crashing through all manner of foliage in the forest.

The trees were menacingly alive with whispers and groans. Their wizened branch fingers were catching and pulling at her dress, twig fingernails scratching her stricken face and slapping her legs until they stung. A dog barked in the distance, a hollow, sharp noise, like hands slowly clapping.

She looked over her shoulder and ran, as if her very life depended on it.

Clouds covering the moon suddenly parted, allowing a single shaft of moonlight to fall on the child’s face. Her eyes wide with terror, she thought she saw shapes in the gloom, moving towards her. Her mind immediately flashed back to the scene she had left far behind.

She remembered seeing a young child’s pale form lying supine and motionless in the meadow. The child’s unseeing blue eyes, fringed with golden lashes, were staring up at the moon. A single silver moonbeam fell from the inky sky, illuminating the body in the glade. Crouched over it was the shadowy image of the ancient apple tree. Fiercely black, the gnarled and knotted branches were outstretched and hovering... as if with evil intent. There were several fireflies angrily buzzing around the motionless face, flashing red, amber and green like fairy traffic lights.

The face was of a beautiful six year old girl, just like her. Faye ran on blindly forwards... she had to get away from the glade... she had to escape the evil she knew had been awoken there. She was running further and further away from her home. She was running in the opposite direction, away from the open space of the meadow. She thought she might hide between the pine trees, thought that they might not be able to find her if she was hidden in the forest.  Shadowy shapes in front of her loomed up and started to form.

Immediately, she tried to scream, but only managed a tiny whispery squeak from her raw throat. She heard voices, adult shouts of alarm.

She’s over here!

The shapes moved quickly, rushing past the frightened little girl. She had stopped moving now and her hands hung limp by her sides, her legs and feet bleeding. She pressed her back hard up against the bark of a pine tree. The bark’s rough texture scratched her uncomfortably. The only perceptible movement her body made was the rapid rising and falling of her small chest, as she struggled to catch her breath.  As the shapes thundered close by, they passed so close to her that wind whipped up her hair, sticking it to her tear-streaked face.

The adults ran towards the apple glade.

Come quickly! Oh please, no! went the cries.

Chapter Two

Hello Faye, open your eyes, honey, a male voice said.

Upon hearing the familiar kindly voice, Faye opened her eyes.  One eye remained pale blue, but the other had turned emerald green. She blearily registered that she was lying in her own warm bed. Blue Rabbit was there in her room, sitting propped up on the carpet beside the lamp table, his ears flopping forward over his face. Next to him was Dolly, then Train, then dolly’s house on the floor by the window. Turning her head, she looked at her father, sitting by