The hooded figure and the magnificent hound disappeared inside the castle. Sinead and Moonsprite followed, forced to walk singly in the narrow torch-lit passageway.
‘Courage, Sinead!’
The voice echoed in her head once again. She remembered when she’d first heard it: when she’d last gone into battle. But why the welcome and now the warning?
The voice continued. ‘Both good and evil lie within these walls and not everything as it seems. Remember this.’
Up ahead, the figure halted before an archway. The hound sat bolt upright, its attention fixed on whatever lay beyond. As Sinead and Moonsprite approached, the figure lowered its hood revealing the smiling face of an elderly elf. His green-tipped ears twitched merrily.
‘I am Tarron. I bid you welcome. This is the Hound of Hellidore. He will lead you to the Great Maze of Mandoran. Choose your path wisely and you will pass through unscathed.’
Sinead and Moonsprite stood before the castle walls. Sinead grasped the Sword of Elshain in one hand and buried the fingers of her other hand in the unicorn’s snowy mane.
The huge iron doors of the castle swung open. ‘Lay aside your weapon. We welcome you!’ Was the voice inside Sinead’s head or did it come from within the castle walls? Moonsprite nuzzled her shoulder and she sheathed her sword.
Together they crossed over the threshold. The doors clanged shut behind them.
Flowers carpeted the castle grounds. Breathing in their heady perfume, Sinead began to relax for the first time in many weeks. Moonsprite whinnied gently, burying her muzzle in the brightly coloured petals.
Ahead of them another door creaked open and a cloaked figure appeared, holding a massive hound on a leash.
The figure beckoned with a crooked finger. ‘Come inside, both of you!’
The challenge this week was leash. Photo credit: Kevin Jackson on Unsplash
Sinead and Moonsprite apologise for hi-jacking this week’s challenge, but they have an important quest to complete. Previous episodes of their quest may be found here
The sun cast its first golden rays across the heathland. Sinead and Moonsprite had been walking all night. They’d pursued the path in the starlight, pushing aside all thoughts of what lurked in the darkness beyond. Sinead had drawn the Sword of Elshain several times, but no creature had dared approach.
Both were tired now.
The path led to a stand of pine trees beckoning safety. They settled down on the soft-scented forest floor, guarding Moonsprite’s saddle bag and its precious contents between them. Sinead gathered her cloak around her, the Sword of Elshain under her hand.
Awaking to find the sun high in the sky, Sinead shared out the last of the stale oatcakes. She opened the Prophesy Book and continued reading. Raising her eyes she now saw a towering castle wall beyond the trees.
Foretold in the Prophesy Book, the first of the four last challenges lay within.
Sinead held the Blue Orb aloft. Moonsprite, her snow-white unicorn, pawed the ground while her Mistress uttered the sacred words from the final chapter of the Prophesy book.
The orb glowed more brightly, its indigo light shining across the wild heathland. A path appeared before them: the way to the Far Side, where the Edge of the World began. Sinead must commit the way to memory. The Blue Orb would not shine here again.
Night creatures skittered and slithered around their feet. Sinead gripped the Orb more tightly, willing her mind to absorb the knowledge.
The Orb ceased to glow, but the stars shone overhead. Sinead returned the Orb to Moonsprite’s saddle bag and took out the Sword of Elshain, strapping it around her waist. There were four last challenges to complete.
Moonsprite tossed her silver mane. The journey would be long, but together they would finish the final chapter.
Sinead stood defiant as last of the Oppressors tumbled into the cloud-cloaked abyss. She’d underestimated the power of the fabled Blue Orb, and thought the Prophesy must be flawed, but the magic she’d unleashed when she spoke the sacred words had felled them all.
That last one had laughed scornfully. How could a mere woman destroy the Patriarchy? But he was wrong. He sank, like the rest of them, crumbling to dust.
Sinead plucked the Book of Prophesy from Moonsprite’s saddle bag. The snow-white unicorn whinnied softly as her mistress turned to the final chapter.
The words glowed red.
At last Sinead realised what the Fourth Sacred Artifact must be. Slowly she led Moonsprite back down the Sunset Path. Once more their journey would be long, but she must gather the remains of the Sisterhood.
Together they would forge the Freedom Key which would unshackle the chains of Mother Earth.
– You know, my Big Red Button. The important one! I want one like everyone else.
– Everyone else, Prime Minister?
– Yes, Putin’s got one, Trump’s got one, that slitty-eyed fellow in North Korea, even Monsieur Whatshisname in France has one.
– You mean the MAD button, Prime Minister?
– Oh no, this isn’t mad, it’s actually quite serious.
– MAD stands for Mutually Assured Destruction, it’s a mnemonic, Prime Minister.
– Never mind how it works, Humphrey, get me the person in charge of our Big Red Button.
– That would be the Chief of Defence, Prime Minister.
– All right then, get the army chappie over here and tell him to bring me my Button.
Later that day.
– The Chief of Defence is here to see you Prime Minister.
A man dressed in uniform with lots of gold braid enters the PM’s office. He places a metal briefcase on the desk and opens it. The Prime Minister rubs his hands together.
– Excellent. Now show me how it works
– Once all the protocols have been agreed, Prime Minister, you simply push that button in the centre of the control mechanism.
– Oh, that one? It’s not very big, is it? And it’s not very red.
– Nevertheless Prime Minister, that is Britain’s Big Red Button. Only to be used in the most dire of emergencies.
– But I’m the one who gets to push the Button?
– Yes, Prime Minister.
– Golly, isn’t politics exciting!
Sir Humphrey shows the Chief of Defence out, closing the door behind them both.
– Tell me that’s not the real thing, Nick?
– Good heavens no, Humphrey! We wouldn’t want something like that in the hands of a politician.
– Does it actually do anything?
– Well, it is armed. Otherwise it wouldn’t look authentic.
– Armed? Good Lord. What might he set off?
– Oh, nothing serious, just a few fireworks in the shrubbery.
With sincerest apologies to everyone who was involved in that great BBC institution, the TV series ‘Yes, Prime Minister’. For anyone who’s never seen it, here’s a little taster:
The Queen gazed out of the window as a team of paramedics, flanked by dark-suited security men, slid the stretcher into the ambulance. Its occupant, whose face was covered, had been pronounced dead at the scene, slumped over his dinner at the top table in the Long Library. It had only been by great good fortune that the contents of the glass he’d been holding had missed her spangled evening gown. White silk was a devil to clean, apparently.
Standing by the back of her chair, her butler coughed discretely. The Queen turned to him and gave a conspiratorial wink. ‘Don’t worry, Watkins. You were only acting under orders.’ The Queen smiled serenely. ‘And I am monarch and above the law.’
‘Very good, ma-am.’
‘Worked a treat, didn’t it?’ she giggled. ‘Something Philip was given on a State visit. I knew it would come in handy one day.’
‘Indeed, ma-am. If I might be permitted to say, the poisoning was entirely justified. Not that one’s Royal Highness would need to.’
‘He might have been the Leader of the Free World, but in all my years as Queen, I have never, ever come across such an odious man.’
‘He actually asked for a Coca-Cola when Blenheim has such a wonderful wine cellar!’
They both glanced at the portrait hanging over the fireplace. ‘I’m not sure what Mr Churchill would have made of him, or his own current successor.’
The Queen raised her glass to the portrait. ‘He’s a problem for another day.’
Mickey, the young mantis, poked his head out of the bougainvillea bush. There she was, the lovely Marula, sunning herself on the trellis by the stoep. He watched her in admiration as she stretched out her plump olive-skinned limbs. His ardour was rising. She was a gorgeous creature. If only he could get her to notice him.
He crawled down to the windowsill where Gerald the Gecko was snapping at flies. Gerald followed Mickey’s gaze. ‘That mantis-lady’s a tough cookie, Mickey. You should steer clear of her.’
‘But she’s…’
‘She’s too old for you, Mickey.’
Charlie the Chameleon slowly made his way up the lavender bush, his colour changing from a dusty grey to jade green. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you two,’ Charlie said, rolling his eyes so that one fell on Marula and the other fixed on Mickey. ‘Don’t grow up too fast, Mickey, she’ll eat you for breakfast.’
– There’s a loada trouble goin’ down in the faerie ’hood.
– Like what?
– The Myco Boys are musclin’ in on our territory. Bringin’ in a whole bunch of new ’stools and ’shrooms. Stuff that’ll make your head explode.
– So, what we gonna do about it?
– We’re goin’ on the offensive.
– Doin’ what?
– Look here bro’, I got the seeds of a brand new product. Popweed from the Wealdan Woods. This stuff’s goin’ to blow their minds. It’s super-fast growing too. By next month’s Faerie-Fest we’re gonna have the pretty-wing girls’n’boys eatin’ right outta our hands.
People thronged around the marquee which had been erected on the tennis courts. Nobody knew why their little Lancashire village had been picked, but who’d question the Office of the US President?
The Women’s Institute had been tasked with preparing the celebratory supper. Mrs. Doubtworthy had suggested that they pop down to Asda for a brace of Hall’s haggises, but the other members of the WI were resolute. The haggis would be made from scratch.
Mr. Greenwood was ready with the requisite musical accompaniment. Everyone was familiar with his bagpiperly skills which he regularly practiced of a Saturday morning, when most civilized people were still abed.
At precisely 7pm, the motorcade swept into the village. Besuited security men shepherded their charge into the marquee, where the Mrs. Duckinworth, chair-lady of the Parish Council, bid him sit at the head of the table.
Mr. Greenwood’s pipes heralded the haggis which was laid before the President. Miss Lynch, the former language teacher, began the address.
The President prodded his haggis with a fork. ‘You Scottish people eat this stuff?’
Mrs. Duckinworth frowned. ‘Sir, we’re not Scottish. This is Lancashire.’
The President’s advisers muttered amongst themselves.
Mr Davies, the Geography teacher intervened. ‘Perhaps you’d intended to visit Lanarkshire?’
‘Whatever,’ growled the President. ‘I’m here now and I’m hungry.’ He stabbed a piece of haggis and thrust it into his mouth.
The room fell silent as he chewed.
‘Ugh! What is this?’ the President spluttered. ‘Forget my Scottish roots. Go get me a burger.’
Author’s note: I strayed far from the word prompt, not wanting to pass up the opportunity of writing about something so topical and so appropriate to Susan’s proud Scottish heritage. Burns Night, 25th January.
I give you the ‘Address to a Haggis’ by Robert Burns:
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