Fantasy Novel!

A great Fantasy Novel!!!

Vol. 1: Tribe of Light

CHAPTER 1

The Honey Pub

After a long period of inactivity, the residents of Blue River were buzzing with excitement about a certain bit of news, the veracity of which had yet to be established. Some people expressed their doubts and chose to avoid the rumour-mongers, who were simply enlivening the story: the rumoured return of Mrs Beatrice Cartland.

Every nook and cranny was alive with the gossip, and for a week now, people had been talking about little else: when would Mrs Cartland turn up? Rumours that people would have paid no heed to in the past, now took on a life of their own, as everyone thirsted for information about Mrs Cartland. The news spread with lightning speed, and the quiet and peaceful Blue River community soon became a bustling hubbub of gossip.

Who is this Mrs Cartland that everyone wishes to see again? If you were lucky enough to have heard bits of gossip about her from young people, those who hadn’t had that honour would have done anything to hear the gossip from you. Over the years, those who had known Mrs Cartland passed away, while those who had been little boys and girls at the time and were now adults could no longer remember what Mrs Cartland looked like. As time passed, those people who put little faith in the return of Mrs Cartland were not sorry to hear her name mentioned again. According to Old Man Howard Shacklebolt, who was over 70, Mrs Cartland had been very humble and had never agreed with those who had said she was a great witch. But she was far more than just a humble person. Returning from long, far-away trips, Mrs Cartland often brought back presents for ordinary people, who led simple lives, and to whom she had a strong attachment. No one knew where she went on these trips, to which part of the world. It was rumoured that she would travel to far away places that only now existed in legend and that people could not set foot on anymore.

On Sunday, when the sun was still lying halfway between the mountains, the bridge over the Blue River was bustling with pedestrians, who paid little attention to the fact they were making the bridge oscillate, focused as they were on exchanging information with those who were in an equally excited mood. Today is the day of the rumoured return of Mrs Cartland, and the rumours had reached far and wide. Men from the Blue River community agreed amongst themselves to keep their mouth shut when at home so as not to be overheard by their beloved wives, whom they were sure would be angry if they knew their husbands were gathering to gossip in small pubs on Aromatic Wine street. So instead, information about Mrs Cartland was exchanged by the men loitering on the bridge, some of whom would click their tongues and shake their heads when talking about how their ‘other half’ had reacted when they had expressed their desire to spend a bit of private time away from home at the end of the day.

On crossing the Blue River, these men would suddenly quicken their pace on the dirt road the other side, before turning off down a street lined with luxuriant green trees leading to Aromatic Wine street, the location of many a pub. As the clouds began to gather in the afternoon to offer battle with the fireball, crowds dispersed into smaller groups that filed into one of the street’s formally quiet pubs; and soon the noise of guffawing and shouting and screaming was spilling out onto the previously peaceful street outside. In the distance, down the street, a group of about ten people were walking leisurely; they must have just emerged from Honey pub, famed for its unique wine that was made by the owner, Old Man Ham Mandelson.

The last person in the group was a tall man, about 40 years old, who suddenly stopped on the threshold of the Horse, the biggest pub in the area. His eyes were riveted on the Honey pub over the street.

‘Let's go, Eric.’

That was all he said to his friend, who was standing just inches away, before hurriedly crossing, while the others in the group looked on wide-eyed.

‘Hey! What's going on?’ said a chubby man angrily, his fat-face a mixture of pink and white blotches. ‘Peter Gamgee! The pub’s shut. Old Man Ham is not there,’ said Eric, gasping. ‘You know I'm not interested in snooping!’

‘Shh!’ hushed Peter, his face glued to the window while his eyes scanned the dimly lit interior of the pub.

‘Didn't you hear anything?’ said Peter disappointedly, squinting at Eric.

‘No,’ Eric replied bluntly.

‘I heard a sound from the pub.’

‘A sound?’ guffawed Eric, rudely.

‘I’m shocked! I have been your friend for many years but didn’t know you had such a special talent, until now.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Peter, folding his arms and muttering to himself.

‘Your hearing’s acute!’ said Eric, before raising his voice and exclaiming: ‘How can you hear anything with this racket going on!’

‘But why did Old Man Ham decide to shut his pub today?’ said Peter. ‘I bet you he knows more than any of us.’

‘About what?’

‘Idiot!’ snapped Peter. ‘About Mrs Cartland! What else could it be about?’

‘Ah!’

‘Old Man Ham wants to keep what he knows to himself.’

‘And chose the best way of doing that�"shut his pub!’ said Eric, nodding.

‘That's right! Avoid us so he’ll be left alone.’ Peter’s forehead creased into a frown.

…………………………………

After some time, Eric raised his eyebrows and tucked in his chin, a process that served to accentuate the dewlap of flab on his neck. The short, chubby man felt ill at ease standing here questioning the integrity of such a figure as Old Man Ham, and his discomfiture manifested itself in an awkward shuffle of the feet and a wobble. His friend Peter, however, had no such qualms. He was far from ill at ease as he glowered through the dusty glass, his blood boiling with suppressed rage.

‘Peter!’ hissed Eric.

‘What?’

‘Do you think Mrs Cartland will show up here?’

‘That witch will turn up … but God only knows when … or where.’

Eric’s expression took on an air of profundity. ‘No one knows the future,’ he said sagely. ‘Tonight you might be planning to make salted eggs for breakfast, but tomorrow morning, you might end up eating apple pie instead.’

‘What are you taking about!’ snapped Peter.

‘No one knows for sure if Mrs Cartland will ever show up,’ said Eric, concluding his line of reasoning.

‘There is no doubt about it! The rumours are TRUE.’ Peter’s eyebrows shot heavenwards.

Eric raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘But I think we are wasting our time here on a load of old gossip. Why do people, you included, care so much about whether she is coming back? Haven’t you got something better to do?’

Eric glanced unconsciously at the pub opposite. Peter caught the look.

‘You think about nothing but wine!’

Eric ignored the outburst.

‘Old Man Ham must have lost the plot when he decided to close for the night. I would’ve been happy just to have a drink. I would have minded my own business and not bothered him about anything else.’ Eric involuntarily licked his lips.

Peter glared at his friend.

Eric pressed on undeterred.

‘I haven’t had any peace at home for a week now because my wife and my daughters chatter on like tailorbirds about Mrs Cartland from morning till night.”

Eric was the picture of despair as he continued miserably.

“I thought you had invited me to come here for a glass of wine. Instead I have to stand here in the street arguing with you.” Eric’s lower lip began to tremble as he thought about what might have been.

Despite Eric’s obvious distress, Peter knew his dearest friend would not abandon him. But Eric’s words had hit the mark, and the thought of sharing a few glasses of wine over the road began to appeal more and more. But with a muffled ‘grrr!’ Peter shook the thought from his mind. He could and would not quit now! Surely, Old Man Ham would not renege on his responsibilities to his customers. Peter stubbornly held on to the belief that Ham would at any moment fling open the doors to the Honey pub and welcome in his guests. But then doubts began to beset him again. ‘Was Eric right, after all?’ Perhaps he had imagined hearing a sound coming from inside the Honey pub? He felt a fool standing there in the street on a windy night like this for nothing.

But certainty reasserted itself. Old Man Ham knew more than he was letting on! He remembered how the landlord would disinterestedly sidle away when customers began gossiping about Mrs Cartland. The image of the old man sitting in the armchair behind the counter idly stroking his skinny cat Han suddenly passed before his eyes, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ham’s indifference to the talk of the town was an act.

No, Ham had not shut the pub because he was ill or tired, or too old. True, he might have had enough of all the stuff and nonsense�"if it was stuff and nonsense�"about Mrs Cartland. Then a thought struck him: Perhaps Old Man Ham was afraid! Peter shook his head irritably. He was getting fed up with second-guessing the old man’s motives for shutting the pub. One thing was clear, Old Man Ham knew more than he was letting on and held the key to the conundrum.

Peter looked over at the group of friends standing outside the pub opposite. They were looking back at him and laughing as they gulped down the glasses of wine a waitress in a pale-pink apron had just served them. Peter felt himself blushing.

Eric, who had been silently studying Peter’s face, lifted his nose as if savouring a tantalising aroma and glanced enviously at the group of men over the road as they clinked glasses. Finally, Eric broke the silence.

‘My friend, stop wasting your time! There must be a dozen people in the pub over there who are more than willing to let you in on what they know about Mrs Cartland.’

‘What they know, I already know,’ said Peter curtly.

‘Alright,’ said Eric, scuffing the toe of his shoe in the dirt, ‘tell me why you are so certain Old Man Ham knows so much about Mrs Cartland?’

‘Well, I don’t know how to make you understand right now,’ said Peter, blinking his dark brown eyes, before going off at a tangent. ‘I have a bad feeling about Mrs Cartland’s motives for coming back here.’

‘But she hasn’t returned yet!’

Peter paused and puffed out his chest. Instead of justifying himself, he went on the attack.

‘Eric, you’re so out of touch with what’s going on. The world you know is changing. You’re obsessed with trivialities. You keep yourself occupied so you don’t have to think about what’s really going on around you. You dismiss what others think because you want to stay above the fray, aloof and safe. You don’t want anything to disturb your peace of mind.’

Instead of getting angry, Eric smiled at his friend.

‘You’re always having a go at me,’ he said without rancour. ‘Despite the fact that the stories about Mrs Cartland don’t interest me much, I don’t think anyone should get overly excited about something that hasn’t even happened. We are driving ourselves nuts with all this speculation.’

Peter suddenly looked tired and old.

‘You’re right. There’s no point hanging around here. But I just know Mrs Cartland is coming back home to help us. It’s not like in the old days. I have been busy trying to get to the bottom of all this because it’s important, not because I’ve got nothing else to do.

‘Haven’t you noticed how strangely Old Man Ham has been behaving recently? I’m sure he’s hiding something very important. And yet, he was the one who started all the talk about Mrs Cartland. Don’t you think it strange he doesn’t want to talk about her anymore? It’s almost as if someone told him not to …’

Eric frowned in thought before adopting a conciliatory approach.

‘You used to complain that you were fed up with the tediousness of life in Blue River, so much so you encouraged kids to play pranks on people to stir things up. You should be happy that you’re getting your wish: Things are going to change around here. If Mrs Cartland does come back, it would certainly liven things up. So why are you grumbling?’

Peter shook his head slowly.

‘You are underestimating the significance of all this.’

Eric looked at the men over the street as they clinked their glasses, as if on cue. ‘Come on, man! Look at them. They are restless with excitement.’

Peter felt his resolve weakening. How could he deny his friend the opportunity of enjoying a drink? Besides, the aroma of wine had worked its magic on his mind. Peter suddenly felt ridiculous standing outside a shut pub waiting for … what? Automatically, he began to cross the street, casting a backwards glance at the Honey pub as he did so.

As he walked trancelike the short distance to the Horse, he tried to unravel the thoughts in his head. He would surely have been angry with himself if he had known that a skinny, golden-haired cat had just jumped up onto the windowsill of the very window that Peter had been peering through only moments before. The cat sat there for a few seconds twitching its tail and blinking its eyes as it looked out onto the street before suddenly turning round and jumping down into the dimly lit space behind the bar.

Reviews

[Tracy]

Thanks Barbara and Kuro. Thank you for the advice:)

[Tsubaki Kuro]

Ok, I read part of it. So far, it is really good. I'll add it to my library and read the rest later and give you another Review. I agree with Barbara Tennyson though, make the font bigger. You don't want to blind your audience. :)

[Barbara Tennyson]

Try a bigger font and double space between all paragraphs.