The Darkfern Lexicon
Book 1
Webway
Benjamin Feral
Copyright © 2015 By Benjamin Feral
The right of Benjamin Feral to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him.
All characters, names, places and everything else in this book are a work of fiction, other than those clearly in the public domain. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission please contact the publisher on the email provided - benjamin-feral.com
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Sections of this work were first published in the United Kingdom under the title, Tales of Darkfern
The Darkfern Lexicon
Book 1
Webway
from the mind of
Benjamin Feral
Dedication
For my niece, Elie, who fell asleep before the story finished.
The Darkfern Lexicon
Book 1
Webway
The clouds above listened well,
To a tale of a girl,
Two wands,
And a spell.
Through The Webway,
A world awaits,
For the young witch who dreams,
Of clockwork gates.
Cloaked in red,
She'll run from her past,
But with the wolves at her back,
Each breath is her last.
Now, let it be said,
Yes, let it be known,
The last Ryder has come,
To take back her throne.
CHAPTER 1
Percival’s Obligation
Huge, grey clouds loomed ominously over London. They had been gathering all morning; lazily blotting the blue with their grey-bulk as they clumped-up over the capital city. As was often the case their coming was not by chance. This meeting was for one, singular reason. In this place a rarity was about to occur; an event which no cloud living could claim to have witnessed. Whispers of a tale untold...
The clouds pushed and shoved as they shouted greetings to one another in booming, thunderous voices. The noisome-gaggle created quite the racket as they took their seats and began to settle down. The eldest of the clouds, ancient, gnarled and hard of hearing, cleared her gullet grumpily. Her throaty-rasp signalled the commencement of the story.
And so it began...
A roll of thunder informed a squadron of rain drops, patiently waiting at the cloud’s edge, that the time had come. They reacted immediately, eager to fulfil their orders. The small group of comrades had served together before, but never on a mission of such importance. None had ever dreamed of instigating destiny, of being the catalyst that would change everything.
A message from the drops scouting ahead informed the squadron their target had been sighted. They moved into the attack formation, saluting each other and glinting with pride, as they accelerated towards the ground.
The squadron plummeted, their descent a well-practiced manoeuvre. The droplets moved like a shoal of silvery fish, turning and twisting as one; not a word uttered amongst them.
They didn’t speak because each could see their target. As a unit they fixed their gaze on the well-dressed man; he was the first of many cogs... The gentleman was standing, shiftily one might add, on the corner of Baker Street. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat. This choice of attire narrowed their available landing spots considerably. They couldn’t very well start a story off without full-contact; a splash was called-for. With little other option they aimed for his left shoulder and increased their momentum. The man’s narrow shoulder was clothed in a perfectly-ironed raincoat and it shrugged irritably as he looked the length of the road.
The formation of droplets was less than thirty feet away from contact when, with sudden and inexplicable ferocity, disaster struck. Half the right flank became embroiled on a cable which connected one building to another. So close to completion they hung from the length of metallic-sinew as their comrades flew on.
The remaining drops could not falter now not when they were so close. Neither could they return to help their fallen friends. The mission, above all else, must succeed. Down they flew growing ever closer until, with an almighty thunderous-cheer from the clouds, they touched down on the left sleeve.
Splash!
Percival Montague tutted as the first few drops of rain landed on his new jacket. Even though it was a raincoat, a garment quite suited to getting wet, he did not like the dark patch of beige that now marred and disrupted his otherwise pristine appearance.
He tucked his perfectly folded newspaper under one arm and removed an ironed handkerchief from his consistently lint-free pocket. He dabbed gently in an effort to dry the blemish. However, as a second clash of thunder rolled overhead he rapidly abandoned his quest for another. He hastily opened his black leather briefcase and removed an umbrella from the interior; even when fair-weather was forecast he carried one with him. In Percival’s opinion the key to success was preparation.
It was not like Percival to be loitering idly on a street corner. Unfortunately for him today was the type of occurrence that was wholly unavoidable; no matter how much he objected or complained. Much like the arduous task of attending a birthday party, no doubt held in the honour of some disliked relation, he too had a family obligation to deal with.
His task however did not involve a neatly-wrapped gift adorned with frivolous ribbons. His reason for standing on the street corner was considerably more mundaine. He was to deliver an envelope. Actually, to be more specific it was the letter within the sealed, paper folds that he was to hand over. The envelope had been passed down from father to son, treated as an heirloom more valuable than gold, for generations of Montague men. It was to be delivered at the designated place and time by whoever had it in their possession. As Percival had no son (a decision he made given his intense dislike for all children) it fell to him to deliver the damnable thing.
Percival placed his hand into his pocket. His fingertips touched the smooth paper and at once his mind became washed with the calmness of familiarity. Throughout his life his relationship with the papery concealment had shifted and changed as often as the weather. As a child he had struggled with the temptation to open it. As a young man he had done his best to forget it. Now, as he approached the end of his life, he loathed it.
This letter had been a millstone around his neck; a burden that was his simply because he bore a particular surname. He had spent his entire life waiting for this day, this hour, this moment, to arrive. His was a life half-wasted on waiting. He had spent so many years tarrying the delivery that he hadn't given any thought to what happens next. Percival was not the kind of man who could exist without focus. He was not the kind of man who relished the idea of freedom. He was the kind of man who liked organisation and rules...but there would be no more rules after this day.
Percival lifted the ancient letter closer to his old, bespectacled eyes. Despite being slightly yellowed with age the envelope was otherwise pristine; it was the one thing he liked about it. Not a crease, scuff or blemish marked the immaculate, paper surface. Nevertheless, much to Percival's disgust no length of time had faded the garish and, in his considerable opinion, unnecessarily flamboyant, purple ink.
&nb
sp; His greatest concern was the ink. As one would expect the purple scribble of words had always read the same; To be confirmed. Those three words had remained constant throughout his entire life. Until a few months prior that is, when without rhyme or reason the writing inexplicably changed...
How this occurred flummoxed Percival. Try as he might, even with all his intellect, he failed to find a reasonable explanation. The envelope had been locked away in his wall safe and no one but he had a key. Even his wife, Mavis, didn’t have access. Of course this didn’t stop him from accusing her. It was Mavis, in an effort to clear her name of any wrong-doing, who suggested the use of invisible ink. He decided to accept her idea as it was both logical and sensible one...and he couldn’t think of a better one.
Percival momentarily pondered the likelihood of this letter being a long-running family joke. He discounted the notion almost instantly; no one in Percival's family, himself included, had a sense of humour to speak of. He carefully folded up his doubts and neatly packaged them away in a dark corner of his mind. This would all be over soon and then he could go home and pack for his holiday.
Mavis Montague, Percival's long suffering wife of forty years, was addicted to competitions. She entered every one she found from crossword puzzles and adverts on TV, to game show phone in contests and cereal packets. Not only did she enter them but she also had the fortuitous-habit of winning.
Mavis had received quite a lot of prizes over the years. The rewards ranged from boxes of chocolates and a lifetime's supply of washing up liquid, to dinners in restaurants and even a brand new car.
So, a few mornings prior as Percival had been eating his usual, unexciting breakfast of porridge, he was not at all surprised when Mavis excitedly waved a letter under his nose and announced that she had won them a two-week break in the Lake District.
Percival did not like the countryside. Given the choice he preferred to holiday by the sea. The ocean’s fresh, bracing salt-air was considerably more appealing than a breeze soiled by the rampant-trumpeting of a cow’s back end. If the pong wasn’t bad enough the countryside had a slow, dawdling pace to life that made his blood boil. He was a man of rapidity and action. By far the worst thing about the countryside, in his opinion that is, was the people who inhabited the winding lanes. Most didn't know how to dress appropriately or speak clearly for that matter. He shuddered at the thought of interacting with...locals.
Abundant misgivings aside, even Percival wasn't about to pass up the offer of a free holiday. He quashed his doubts with his desire for a bargain and convinced himself that it was his choice to go; though, if truth be known, he knew that Mavis wouldn’t have taken ‘no’ for an answer anyway.
Percival cleared his mind. His eyes settled back on the envelope and traced the address. So many times over the last few months he had looked at it and every time he winced in disgust at the purple ink:
Miss Harmony Ryder,
The Purple Ambulance,
Traffic Lights,
Baker Street
April 21st 10:34am
“Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous,” Percival said, accidently speaking aloud. This indiscretion was quite against his own nature; he normally made a point of avoiding people who talked to themselves in the street.
He placed the envelope back in his pocket, careful not to get the letter wet in the now pouring rain; his umbrella doing its best to protect him. Percival extended his arm and looked at the watch securely fastened around his wrist. He had been given it as a birthday gift from his wife; no doubt she had won it. Her ability to acquire such gifts was something that he was pleased about. The watch was well made and expensive looking and would have cost far too much money had she purchased it. However, the undeniable fact that it kept such excellent time superseded any internal quibbles he had regarding cost and worth.
The slender, silver hands were indicating that the time was 10:31am. He raised his head and looked along the road. There was no purple ambulance, in fact there was little traffic at all which was surprising given it was late morning in the centre of London.
A strange feeling was rising inside Percival and he did not like it one bit. He had never felt indecisive before. He had never questioned any thought that had occurred or any order given. Nevertheless the urge to abandon his quest and ignore his lifelong duty, to not deliver the letter was almost overwhelming.
He quivered at the thought of not completing the task. His turbulent mind flipped between stay and flee. How was he supposed to take this task seriously? There was no ambulance anywhere in sight and the, now heavy, rain had managed to bypass his umbrella and soak the bottom half of his new raincoat. His feet squelched uncomfortably in his shoes as he checked his watch again.
The reassuringly precise and ordered mechanics seemed to calm him for a moment, a fleeting fragment of time that passed all too quickly. The time was 10:33am. A sickening wave of panic flooded his stomach. An image suddenly invaded his head. What if the ambulance did, by some miracle, arrive on time? Everyone would see him handing over the letter and, worst of all, they would think he knew the kind of reprobates that would drive a purple ambulance. Would that not be worse than just throwing the letter away? Or maybe he could just keep it and open it for himself.
At that very moment several things happened at once. Their happening was ordained, fated to occur. Little did he know that this sequence of happenings would bring about the end of a life he so desperately clung to.
Firstly, Percival panicked. He turned around and made to walk swiftly away from the clearly stated delivery point. In an instant his mind was made up, deposit the letter in the nearest bin and forget this ever happened. His foot had yet to claim that first step before a thunderous (badly in need of a mechanic) engine demanded his attention. His head slowly turned to the side as his worried eyes looked for the source of the horrendous noise.
Horrified, he caught sight of an old, dangerously-rickety and disgustingly-purple ambulance. The visually-offensive vehicle was travelling along the road at an alarming speed. Foreseeing the impending accident Percival glanced from the speeding motor to the red traffic lights. Clearly the driver had not done the same.
Whilst his mind attempted to divine the future Percival’s body continued to walk forwards. His attention was so captivated by the ambulance that he failed entirely to see another, looming collision.
Unbeknownst to Percival a large group of Japanese tourists, all dressed in matching yellow-ponchos, emerged from the Tube-station entrance. Similarly to him the excitable throng of visitors were likewise enthralled by the purple vehicle skidding to a halt at the traffic lights. They surged toward him and collectively whipped out their cameras to capture the moment for posterity.
As if fate had expected him to leave without handing the letter over Percival was swept up by the huddle of tourists and dragged back towards the ambulance.
Caught in the surge Percival felt his feet falter; the ground beneath them was suddenly no longer solid. He reached out a hand, attempting to steady himself by grabbing the slippery, wet shoulder of a Japanese woman. She screamed as she hit his hand away and began shouting angrily at him. He barely had time to mouth an apology before he felt himself begin to sink. Instinct took over and his mind gave the order for his hand to brace for impact.
For some inexplicable reason his hand decided to play the traitor and defy his command. Instead of helping, the hand thrust itself into his pocket. His fingers gripped the letter and raised it above his ever-sinking head.
The excited crowd chose that precise moment to start taking pictures of the ambulance. The furious clicking of buttons commenced as a young, red-haired girl wound down the window. A hundred camera flashes blinded poor Percival and he unwittingly let go of the letter. He fell painfully to the ground and lay amongst the forest of shuffling feet.
Having escaped the confines of the pocket, the letter flew into the air. Dancing in a sudden gust of wind
the envelope teased the tourists' snatching hands. Like crocodiles trying to seize a fleeing bird they scrambled to catch it. For a few more seconds it hovered in the rain, just out of reach. Then, having had its fill of flirting with the desperate hands, it slipped effortlessly in through the open window of the ambulance. With a heavy plop it landed on the lap of the red-haired girl.
The lights shifted to green and the ambulance lurched away. Through a haze of yellow-plastic Percival made eye-contact with a small, pale face watching him through the wing-mirror. The young girl, gave a concerned smile then disappeared from view as the garish vehicle dangerously rounded a corner and vanished from sight.
The throng of tourists moved on without any offer of help to Percival. He sat for a moment, still slightly dazed. The rain, it seemed, fell mainly on him.
He breathed a sigh of relief. The burden he had carried all his life had been lifted; if ever he had a reason to celebrate this was it.
Percival picked himself up off the pavement; a little embarrassed but unhurt. He quickly collected his scattered belongings together. His briefcase, other than a few minor scratches, was relatively undamaged and it lay abandoned a few feet away. His umbrella, however, was beyond repair. Its spider-like legs had been mangled by the stampeding crowd and it could no longer offer any respite from the rain. He folded it as best he could, which wasn’t very well at all. Then, deciding that perhaps it was time for a new one, he stuffed it unceremoniously into the nearest bin.
Percival was on his way home feeling happy. In the end he was happy that he had delivered the letter. He was happy that the delivery had not been a joke. Happy that he had completed the task given to him by his father and happy that now he was going on a nice, quiet holiday; safe in the knowledge that nothing as strange as today would ever happen to him again...how wrong he was.
CHAPTER 2
Harmony’s letter
The clouds had yet to gather as a purple ambulance sped along the motorway showing little regard of the speed limit. The fast-moving wagon passed by a sign for London. Without so much as a hint of an indicator the plum-coloured vehicle veered across all three lanes and exited via a slip road. A symphony of car horns followed the dangerous manoeuvre and the unnerving screech of rubber tyres punctuated the morning.