Crystal, Fire and Water

An Introduction to

The Lazuli Portals

Joanna Gawn

with

Ron C. Dickerson

© 2013 Joanna Gawn

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Introduction

What this book is . . . and what it is not

At its heart, this book is an introduction to the work of Joanna Gawn and Ron Dickerson, two best friends who write and publish as The Lazuli Portals.

When we began writing together, our aim was to write a story we wanted to read – this evolved into our first novel, The Cordello Quest. Committing the first words to paper unleashed the long-suppressed passion we share for writing – and now storytelling is as essential to us as breathing!

Joining a local Writers’ Circle has meant that we regularly produce 1000-word short stories (some far longer). Together with the tiny tales we write when taking part in Friday Fictioneers (published on our blog) and for our Creations Newsletters, we have begun to acquire quite a lot of material!

Our first anthology of short stories, The House of the Stormwind, was published in March 2013, and a second compilation is underway. At the time of writing, we are also completing the first draft of our second Lazuli Portals novel: Mosaic of Light.

We wanted to offer you a book completely free of charge, something that will enable those of you unfamiliar with our work to have a taste, and to see if you like the flavour . . . this is that book.

Whether you like the 100-word flash fiction tales, the slightly longer 300- to 400-word stories or the 1000-word short stories (or even all of them!), we hope there is something here that you will enjoy. 

NOTE:

Some of these pieces – those in the flash fiction category - have been published on our blog, along with the photographs that inspired them. Therefore those tiny tales are already visible to anyone who happens to visit us there.

The Creations stories and poems have only been published to those on our mailing list.

The short stories are brand new.

CONTENTS

Creations and a Bitesize Tale

Three Matches

Dancing Light

The Crystal Cave

Yin and Yang

Flash Fiction ~ fourteen solo or duet tales of around 100 words or less

Moon and Sky

A Cordello Memory

Tideline Transition

The Horn of Truth

The Old Mine

The Angel Thinks

Expect the Unexpected

Left Behind

First Day on the Job

The Day Edward Met Helene

Spanning the Globe

Sun, Sea and Sphinx

Preying for Love

Solitude

Short Stories

The Restoration of Conover House

Sunrise

Delights of the Dart

The Haunting of Melton Grange

About the Authors

Creations and our first Bitesize Tale

The first three stories were written for our ‘Creations’ newsletter subscribers. The Bitesize Tale was written for our blog readers.

~~*~~

Three Matches

“You only have three matches,” the man announced. “Use them wisely.” He turned the key in the lock behind him as he left. The light was snapped off, leaving me marooned in the blackness. Heart plummeting, legs weak, I sank into the chair. Trapped. The only person who could get me out of this was me.

I lit the first match, a quivering glow of light leaping around the small room’s walls. It wasn’t long before the flame burned my fingers, the match dropping uselessly to the tiled floor. The darkness seemed even deeper than before.

I willed myself to sit in the darkness for a while, to let it become my friend rather than my enemy. I could see nothing - but that didn’t mean I needed to be scared, did it? It was just like closing my eyes; the room was still there, unchanged. Only my perception was different.

In response, my hearing sharpened. There was a scuffling in the corner. Rats?

When I could bear it no longer, I ignited the second match and peered towards the noise. Small black shapes milled around, tumbling over each other with fluid grace. A gap appeared; I could see the hole they were using to bring nesting material inside.

“Ouch!” I cried, the flame singeing my fingertips. The spent match slipped from my hand, darkness wrapping around me once again. I took a deep breath. Only one match left. Carefully, I moved towards the rats. My timing would have to be perfect. I struck the match, and the animals fled with high squeals. Grabbing the bundle of straw they’d been using, I set it aflame. Holding it high above me, I blew on the blazing straw, fanning the flames wider and higher, sending smoke billowing throughout the room.

The smoke alarm pealed and the door was flung open. Crouching low to the floor, below the smoke, I scrambled out, straight into the man’s legs. He grabbed my arms, lifting me upright.

He smiled his approval.

“Well done,” he grinned. “You passed that challenge with flying colours. Are you ready for the next one?”

“Bring it on!” I replied.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

The fire from the past still remains

Though darker and dimmed by the year

It guides, it answers and misleads

As memories mix and appear

The flame of today burns so bright

As source is consumed in its path

The flicker shows end is in sight

Rejoice in the light and the warmth

Don’t rush to the future bemused

In time the glow will all catch

Keep safe, keep dry, keep unused

The potent from belief will sure match

© Ron C. Dickerson

Dancing Light

The June sun is strong, powerful, forcing its way beyond the canopies of the woodland trees, sending Impressionistic reflections shuddering across the water. Keira’s attention is held wholly by the lush lime-green of the leaves mirrored in the pool’s surface.

Keira’s focus fascinates Jason. She sees things he cannot, and he feels a flicker of envy. Her gifts take her on paths he cannot follow, leaving him behind when he wants to be at her side. Guiltily, he pushes the feeling away, knowing that Lady Aida would simply tell him to accept what is, without resistance or fear. He sighs; he misses his one-time guide, her wisdom and her dry wit. He’d really felt a connection with her.

Searching for a positive feeling, he finds appreciation for the moment they are in, glad that he can share this quiet time with his fiancée without any other distractions or drama.

Looking about him, Jason realises that the air is motionless, and it occurs to him that time has paused for them, just like it did in the stone circle. He sighs again, louder than he’d intended, and Keira looks up.

“Are you ok?” she asks.

“Yes, fine,” Jason answers, smiling.

Keira sits back on her knees, and beckons him closer. “Look! Can you see it?”

Jason stares at the water, wondering what he’s supposed to be looking for. “Give me a clue, Keira?”

She winds an arm around his waist, pulling him nearer. She whispers, “Just there. Far side of the pool. The way the light moves, sparkles. Just watch.”

His breath hitches. He sees it. Tiny, silver dancing light, or . . . something. “What is it?” he murmurs.

“Lovelight,” his Keira responds reverently. “Energy made visible, right here, in our own world!”

Their eyes meet, sparkle reflecting sparkle, matching excitement and understanding.

This tale is based on our first novel, The Cordello Quest.

© Joanna Gawn

The Crystal Cave

A chill spiralled through me as I peered into the cave. It was so dark inside, yet I could see random twinkles of light flashing like tiny stars, as though fireflies were darting between the ancient crystalline formations.

Each flickering point of light empowered my need to explore the cave. It was as though I was being invited inside to seek out the lights . . . and to follow them.

Would they lead me to another dimension? Or was this lovelight, here in my own world? I had to know. There was no question of me walking away - synchronicity had led me here.

Holding my breath, I stepped between the blunt jaws of the translucent rocks and allowed the light to guide me.

This tale is based on our first novel, The Cordello Quest.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

Drawing dark with no depth within

Crimson, aqua, verdigris does streak

From point to point, just hiding sin?

Or more, beyond, whence deep violet leak

To venture and gain, or stay safe and lie?

Colours fast do speed with image contain

Bounce ear to ear, held fast centred eye

Draw strong; draw in no chance to feign

I reach and fail yet try once more

The gift is their and mine to hold?

Swift and strong they come to the fore

Protectors swell the charge foretold

Protect; secure; hold fast that hue

To feel their fear of loss and fail

“Be safe” I send, I want my due

They know they feel it is my grail.

© Ron C. Dickerson

Yin and Yang (a Bitesize Tale)

Yves threw a stone into the lake. It pierced the surface of the still waters, sending ripples feathering across the expanse.

Yvette scowled. “Oh, Yves! Why did you do that? I could see the mountains reflected in the water. It was beautiful.” She sighed. Her twin was always the same, always disrupting, always changing things and making noise.

Yves shrugged. “And now you have ripples, and movement, and the mirrored mountains are jagged and fractured. It’s still good.”

“Maybe to you. But I preferred it when it was flat and calm: the water quiet and the image fixed.”

Yves smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Darling Yvette . . . nothing remains fixed forever. It will always change. And change can be good.”

Yvette wasn’t sure how to answer. She watched as the ripples dispersed, as the lake regained its former composure. She knew change was inevitable. Nonetheless she was happier when things were ordered, well-behaved.

“There,” whispered Yves, a few moments later. “You have your stillness back.”

“Until next time,” she muttered, throwing a dark look towards her brother.

In uneasy silence, they sat side-by-side, gazing at the water, the mountains solid and sturdy, with fuzzy cloaks of green and grey, the vast blue sky striped with high cloud. The sun was eclipsed momentarily, leaving the air cool, and Yvette shivered.

Yves leaned back on his arms, studying the scene thoughtfully. “What about sunshine, Yvette?”

She started. “What do you mean?”

“Do you like it? Rainbows, too?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Well then. But you do not like rain?”

“Not particularly.” Where was Yves going with these questions?

“Well then,” her brother said, as though everything was as clear as the lake. “Without rain, you would not appreciate the warmth and glow of the sunlight. Without storms, you would not appreciate the magic and beauty of the rainbow. Do you not see? Contrast is essential for gratitude and appreciation.”

Yvette stared at her brother. Twins, yes, but so different in temperament. She’d always thought that was due to the fact he was male, unable to fully understand her. Now she wondered whether he was a rain-cloud to her rainbow, too. A means for her to understand life more deeply. A rush of affection charged through her and she reached out to him and hugged him.

“What’s this for?” Yves laughed, holding her close.

“Just for being you,” she said simply. “For being Yves to my Yvette, for being my contrast.”

Yves squeezed her tight. “That’s why I’m me, and you’re you. We’re Yin and Yang.”

© Joanna Gawn

Flash Fiction

These tiny tales have been written as part of Friday Fictioneers, a group of writers from around the world who get together to create and share stories and poems based on a photo prompt. If you like writing, come and join us!

We do not own the copyright for those photos, so have not reproduced them in this book.

Some of our pieces are intended to be read as a duet.

~~*~~

Moon and Sky

Wind howled, sending chills parading up my spine. How had I got here? Where was here? My hands brushed against fabric, identifying pyjamas, my blue robe. Shivering in the cold, I felt lost and vulnerable.

Rustling nearby, then a whisper. The moon teased the clouds, illuminating a dark figure not five feet in front of me. I whimpered, turned to run. An arm snaked around my waist and I tensed, jerking away, crashing into brambles. The moon retreated, leaving me blind. Stumbling, a sob broke free from my dry throat.

“We have to get her back inside.” The words were torn away by a gust of wind.

It was so cold. I felt slow, confused. “Mrs Holloway!” came a cry. “Oh, there you are. Come on, love, it's time we got you back to bed.”

Lost, I allowed myself to be led. And then I remembered. This is my home, now. The memory slithered away, leaving me confused and ....

© Joanna Gawn

A Cordello Memory

From the glistening meadow, a rainbow stretched wide into the never-ending sky. Within moments, my memories overlaid the present and I was back in Cordello, hearing the relentless hiss of the waterfall. I remembered the sacred, secret space behind the plunging cascade: the concealed rock ledge, and the tunnels and caves that had tested me.

In the world of my memory, ageless rock surrounded me, glimmers of shifting, ancient symbols gentle reminders of my past.

Opening my eyes, I returned to my own world, and smiled. There was a lot of magic still to come.

This tiny tale is based on our first novel, The Cordello Quest.

© Joanna Gawn

Tideline Transition

Tania concealed herself behind the dune, eyes fixed on the buzzard perched high in the black-fingered tree. She knew it was important that she remain silent.

Swooping gracefully, the bird touched down like a kiss upon the silver-black sand.

Wings stretched wide, as though embracing the hard grey sky, the bird let out a piercing cry. Tania shivered at the inhuman sound.

Waves fluttered at the tideline, timid and unsure.

The bird's outline flickered, its form gaining transparency, glassy like the ocean.

Transition! Tania exhaled her relief, ran to meet the man emerging from the powerful wings. Daddy was home!

© Joanna Gawn

The Horn of Truth

With gasping breaths, Alena turned to Kaden hovering nearby. The tree's energy-field was stronger than expected.

"I can't lift the Horn - it's too heavy!" Her wings fluttered, twisting in the whirling air.

"Let me," he offered. If he could retrieve the Horn of Truth, he'd be a hero – to his family, to his Alena.

The tree's rough, crackly bark grasped at his clothing, seeking to entrap with ancient fingers of distrust. Clinging, tightening. Pressure, imprisonment.

Determined, straining, he fought free.

His fingertips touched the Horn. Teasing it loose, it slid into his arms. They raced the wind home.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

Alena looked up at Kaden in awe as he hovered confidently between the boughs and reached toward the Horn of Truth.

Her hero! And her choice.

With a gasp he lifted the horn, and gazed longingly at his Princess with dreamy eyes. Would this persuade the King to accept him? She really was extraordinarily beautiful!

He fluttered down, not breaking the look between them, and placed the horn at her feet. Then, ever so carefully, he placed a kiss on her cheek.

Would this secure their future - and with it the future of the Kingdom?

© Ron C. Dickerson

The Old Mine

The ancient wheel strains forward on its circuitous path, unseen hands forcing the rim into motion.

More frightful beings arrive, bunching together, combining their power. I hide, quivering, inside the cottage. If they find me, my energy will be poured into the wheel. There is no-one left but me; it's my duty to survive.

I become light-headed - the wheel has quickened, its motion a blur, and the spell has taken me. I walk towards the door, towards their power.

The earth gives way with a startling shriek. The wheel, spinning, descends below ground, cutting and harming as we fall.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

Looking up through the spinning wheel into the blue sky I cannot see, but do feel her there.

Will the power of the wheel be enough to draw her energy in?

No. Then I move, and the buildings shudder, small gaps appearing, allowing whiffs to drift upwards.

I can feel her moving. She is losing.

I will have her in my domain.

© Ron C. Dickerson

The Angel Thinks

You stand and stare. You marvel at my gentle curves, my perfect angles, my graceful lines. Your whispers of my wings are like an echo. You recognise my silent strength, my unyielding surfaces. You run your hands over me and close your eyes as your fingers glide and caress. I am chill against your skin; you are heat and fever against mine.

But you do not see me.

I am more than my marbled figure. I exist beyond these confines. I have a spirit, roaming free, unbridled and impassioned, inspiring and empowered.

And so do you.

Come fly with me.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

Are you in there behind cold outer face?

Is there, inside, real sweetness and light?

Can you feel the touch, the need to know more?

Do you see me out here, my wanting desire?

Oh let's take to flight, on wings soaring higher

Not fixed to the ground, so solid and bound

There’s more in a thought, more is to be done

A wish and a dream takes higher and higher.

© Ron C. Dickerson

Expect the Unexpected

Jason followed the meandering path, searching constantly for Keira. Once again, she'd been snatched from him, drawn through a portal to fulfil yet another quest. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he fought to curb his sense of powerlessness.

“Keira, be safe – please!” he whispered. His feet scuffed skeletal leaves as he walked. Would he be allowed to follow Keira this time? Where was the energy portal? Was she alone?

Thoughts curled inside his mind like soft smoke. Then he saw it: a shimmering slab of energy falling like a cascade. With a grin, he stepped into the other world.

This tiny tale is based on our first novel, The Cordello Quest.

© Joanna Gawn

Left Behind

The room feels hollow. Jim’s heavy tread approaches; he stands at Martha’s side, a familiar, solid anchor. His hand winds gently around her waist.

“Where do you want to start?” he asks.

She shrugs, her mind blank. “I don’t know.” With Mother gone, the house seems suddenly a stranger to her. “I guess we work out what we want, and give the rest to charity . . .”

“Be happy for her, Martha. She’d want you to be.”

She turns on him. “I can’t believe she left us with all this to do!” Hot tears spring free.

“You’re just jealous, love. You know she’ll love Tuscany!”

© Joanna Gawn

First Day on the Job

Shaking with fear, Marnie stepped aboard the bus and took her seat.

She waited anxiously whilst the others boarded. They nodded as they passed her; she acknowledged them with a wobbly smile.

Sick with apprehension, she waited for the driver to start the engine. The bus eased forward.

Clutching her microphone, Marnie stood to address the crowd of faces.

Could she do this?

"Good Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," she said, forcing the words out. "I'm your new Tourist Guide."

Expectant faces swam in her vision. No - she couldn't do this!

"Stop the bus!" she screamed. "There's a bomb!"

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

How long have I been waiting for this break!

It seems ages since Bobby died. He said I should have a holiday on the insurance money after spending so long looking after him.

These seem like nice people; that lady I spoke to in the queue was so friendly.

Not sure about that guide though - not a word to anyone, and now she is stood at the front not looking at us, and I can see her hands shaking on the microphone. Must be her first time as well.

So what is she going to have to say . . .

© Ron C. Dickerson

The Day Edward Met Helene

The atmosphere is one of carnival, with the mouth-watering scents of hot dogs and soup trailing through the cool darkness.

Edward’s happy. He’s just met a girl. He is in love.

In shadow, hugging the ground, two anonymous, ordinary boxes sit.

Edward shifts position, his heel nudging the boxes. His attention remains fixed on Helene’s sparkling eyes and clever conversation.

Unnoticed, a gleam of light escapes from the box, a genie joyfully fighting free.

“I really want her to like me,” Edward thinks.

The genie-light approaches Helene, spins blue-gold tendrils around her head.

Helene kisses Edward. She is in love.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

Lounging in a box – seems like the world is having fun out there. Months since I have seen anything.

Hundreds of years with the same routine – waiting - then an escape, a moment of glory, and back to wait - in the dark but hearing so much around.

Not that I can get out to see what is going on or join in. Many powers I have, but none will allow me to lift that lid.

Hang on – ow, that hurt – light – I’m out weeeeee!

Not a wish so soon – I do not want to go back –

He’ll regret it . . .

© Ron C. Dickerson

Spanning the Globe

After his redundancy, Stewart had felt adrift. He had nothing in common with his neighbours, feeling awkward, uninteresting.

He didn't like loud music, or crowds, and had no hobbies except reading. Isolation folded around him like a heavy fog. Life had lost meaning. He'd become darkly depressed.

Then he stumbled across Facebook. Gradually, he found groups of like-minded souls. Spanning the globe were others like him, quiet people who longed to reach out and connect with others, who understood the joys and difficulties of being highly sensitive.

Friendships blossomed, and support made its way, pixel by pixel, to Stewart's heart.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

The final test result in the final country. When this comes back negative we will have beaten one of the great plagues. Polio will officially be gone. And it’s my job to signal this to the world from this remote valley on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.

What started with the idea of a single Rotarian in the 1970’s has grown into a worldwide movement taken up by the UN.

Those that started the campaign to eliminate Polio may have moved on - but millions of children will now be born into a world free from that dreadful disease, thanks to their foresight and commitment.

© Ron C. Dickerson

Sun, Sea and Sphinx

I take an energising breath of sea air. “What a gorgeous day!”

“That endless sky!” Suzie says, smiling. “Where d’you want to sit?”

My feet slither over warm, soft sand. “How about here?”

Suzie drops the towels with a contented sigh.

I shade my eyes with my hand. “What’s that huge hump over there?”

It sits proud from the sand like a half-collapsed sphinx.

It draws me closer. Unease coils around my spine like a serpent.

I raze some of the sand.

Something firm lies beneath.

I touch a hand: cool, human, lifeless.

“Suzie!” I cry. “Call 999!”

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

What was it I used to say, “Sun, sea and sex”. Well I have a nice tan, and swam a lot, but . . .

Still, the company has been good. Plenty of bars and dancing, and some good trips out. I just would have . . .

No, no matter now. This is my last trip for a swim and beachside sangria. Still hope yet, I suppose; always hope. Am going to miss this sun.

No, don’t ponder, enjoy the time left before the plane home and back to my solitary retirement bungalow.

Wish my walking stick didn’t keep getting stuck between these silly slats.

© Ron C. Dickerson

Preying for Love

Sat in my usual spot with my usual pint; just a bit smarter than usual, my eyes keep looking to the door waiting for a lone woman to walk through . . . that is if she’s remained brave enough to come. But then this is not a usual evening.

First dates!

Sara and I had met on Facebook, a friend of game friend. Not that either of us was brave enough to post our photos.

Now there she is, offering a welcoming smile, which expands over her face as she approaches.

It’s then that I notice two huge canines!

© Ron C. Dickerson

~~*~~

He’s at the bar, nursing a glass of rich, amber liquid. Shame; I would’ve enjoyed toying with someone with a sharp mind. I guess the alcohol will dull his pain later.

The woman he knows as Sara is only the latest persona in a very long line. I have been many women, lived many lifetimes. But, oh! this is my best! It’s been so easy to draw in my prey; technology has been a true ally.

I make my way towards him. His eyes brighten, and I smile, restraining the burgeoning growl.

This is going to be so much fun.

© Joanna Gawn

Solitude

I don’t know what I am. Never a solitary moment to taste the silence, find its flavour.

Wife, mother, daughter, friend, colleague. So many roles, so many faces. A whirlpool of colours, textures, feelings, attitudes. Biting my tongue, hiding my true feelings. Shielding my expressions, yielding to someone else.

Rule-maker, rule-breaker. Responsible and reckless. Which am I? Are they all me?

Where is my own voice? Where is my own soul in all of this noise?

I will write. My words will be alchemy. I will learn what is me, what is in my soul.

I will set myself free.

© Joanna Gawn

~~*~~

Deep in the middle of Cornwall, on the edge of the dark, forbidding Bodmin Moor lives an old woman.

Her cottage sits, hidden, at the end of a muddy lane that no one but she ever uses. The locals know better than to disturb her.

Day after day she toils at her craft. She wanders her collecting points salvaging all the material she needs for her horrific creations. All night the noises can be heard emanating from the smoking chimney.

The hideous clicks and gurglings as tea is consumed and knitting needles make more knitted monsters for her charity stall . . .

© Ron C. Dickerson

Short Stories

Many of our short stories are written for our local Writers’ Circle meetings and so are around 1000 words in length. Others are longer (up to 7000 words). The stories we share with you here are between 900 and 1500 words, so are fairly quick reads. 

~~*~~

The Restoration of Conover House

Evie followed Jack in through the front door of Conover House, peering with dismay into rooms dressed in peeling, yellowed wallpaper, choked with years of dust and echoes of the past.

Jack took her hand. “Just look at this place, love! I know you wanted a project to take your mind off things - but this might be taking it a step too far!”

She shook her head, lost for words. Uncle Don had left her Conover House in his Will, but she’d never visited him here, hadn’t realised the state the house was in. She’d just noticed a damp patch on the hall ceiling. Some of the rooms were musty; and there was a strange smell she couldn’t quite identify.

Then she recognised it. Hopelessness. The house smelled of lost hope. Well, she knew all about that. Another pregnancy over before it had really begun. She placed a hand on her flat belly, tried to imagine another new life taking root, a beating heart. Tears bloomed and she blinked them back. She knew she ought to look forward; but these days, everything was tinted in shades of grey.

A grandfather clock ticked in the hall, its sound filling the lifeless house. “It is what it is,” she replied. “Restoring it would take time, that’s for sure. But, Jack, it could be better than our flat, couldn’t it? And what a view from this window!” Her eyes wandered over fields of green and ochre and gold, and her mood lifted. Perhaps they had a chance here.

Jack gently untangled his fingers from hers. “I’ll get the bags from the car. Why don’t you look around upstairs?” The front door opened, and Evie heard his footsteps crunch across gravel. The banister was cloaked in dust; she rubbed it clear with a handkerchief so that it shone once more. It was a good, solid wood; this house might not be so bad once it’d had some attention lavished on it. She just didn’t know if she had the energy for such a huge project. She felt so tired all the time.

She made her way up the creaking stairs and followed a slant of sunlight into the main bedroom. An iron bed with a concave mattress dominated the room, and the wardrobe needed a good clean. But the view to the fields was even more beautiful from here. She moved closer to the window. Corner cobwebs danced in the shifting air currents, the only sign of life in the whole house. Her breath misted the glass. To her shock, words were coming to life within the vapour.

Welcome . . . we have been waiting for you.

Evie felt strangely suspended: caught between tranquillity and terror, between feeling ripped apart and completely whole. She strained her ears for the heavy tick of the clock; but the house was obstinately silent. Heart racing, breath shallow, a scream lodged in her throat, the rising panic leaving her dizzy. She laid a palm on the comforting solidity of the tired bedroom wallpaper, needing to centre herself. Jack felt a hundred miles away, a hundred years. The words on the window had faded, but she remained confused, scattered. Her breath misted the glass over and over; she wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. Her heart leapt then plunged when she saw new letters forming.

You are safe. This is your clearing. This is a clearing for us all.

“What do you mean?” Evie whispered. “I don’t understand.” She tried to step back from the window, to turn, to leave, but she was held captive by the power of the words, by the way they came into being and then dissolved, ebbing and flowing like her breath.

You are healing us. We will help you. It is an exchange of energy.

Evie rested her damp forehead upon the glass. If only Jack would come . . . she must be hallucinating; the miscarriage had upset her hormones, and clearly she was losing it. Nothing could be trusted: not these words, not this house, and certainly not herself.

“How can you help me?” she murmured. “I lost her. I’m broken. How can I possibly heal you? I have nothing left to give.” She lifted her head, watched for the next message.

You have to learn to trust in change. You need to let go of the soul you lost, Evie. Then you can create space for the soul who is waiting to come to you.

“Waiting to . . . are you sure?” She refused to hope, refused to believe it, not after what the doctor had told her. She heard Jack moving around in the kitchen below, the rustle of carrier bags as he unpacked their basic supplies. She tried to call for him, but her voice was powerless. Then the clock was ticking again, a thudding heartbeat flowing around the arteries of the house. Finally, Evie could speak; yet her next words were not for Jack, but for the house.

“I’ll fix you,” she promised. “I’ll restore your beauty and your heart, and Jack and I will live here. I’ll make you happy, and alive, Conover House. We’ll live here, Jack and I, and we’ll be happy.”

Evie watched for the words. They were slow in coming this time, and she sensed this would be the final message in the sequence.

You will heal us, and you will all be happy here. Jack and Evie. And your son.

~~*~~

Sunrise

Tara watched the sun as it crept over the horizon, spreading wide fingers of fire-red at the place where the ocean tipped over the rim of the world. She sighed. Her mind was on a flight of fancy again, but sometimes she wished she could make her way to that perceived edge, and fall into space. Being human surely had its challenges and today, like last night, she wasn't sure she was up to it.

Blinking back tears, she drew her knees closer to her and watched as the new light soared higher in the sky. A fresh day. Why, oh why, had she drunk so much last night? Enough to make her feel ill; enough to push her pain back where she could ignore it.

Her father had always told her that to move forward in life, you had to face your pain and overcome it. But this hurt too much, and every time she took a peek at it, it felt like a huge black ball of distress and heartbreak looming above her. It was overpowering; how would she ever find the strength to deal with it?

She shoved her hands through her hair, grimacing. She needed a shower. Sitting here on the beach for hours, getting cold and salty and ever more gloomy, had not perhaps been the best idea she'd ever had. But after . . . No, she couldn't bear to think of his name, not yet. She breathed as the knives stabbing at her broken heart sheathed themselves in the darkness again.

A sudden shadow on the sand startled her, and she leapt to her feet. A child, no more than six or seven years old, was standing, watching her with clear green eyes. His brown hair was lifting in the light breeze, his cheeks softly pink. The sun was rising higher still, casting rose-hued light over the sea and sand.

“Hello,” Tara whispered to the child. “Where’s your mummy?”

The boy didn’t answer her question, and his stillness scared her. It was unnatural for a child to be so motionless, those blinking green eyes his only movement. Then the child moved closer to her, and folded his small hand into hers.

“Oh!” Tara exclaimed. She’d never held the hand of a child before, was surprised by how deeply the boy’s act of trust impacted her. She couldn’t prevent her smile, or the warmth that flooded her chest. Kneeling on the soft sand so that her face was level with his, she said, “We need to find your mum or dad.”

The boy shook his head. “No,” he replied. “It’s just you and me for the moment.” His face was solemn, but he didn’t seem afraid.

Tara sat back on her heels, the boy’s hand still interlinked with her larger one. “Right. Why’s that, then?” Her eyes scanned the beach but she could see no other adult. She, at nineteen, just about qualified, but didn’t really want the responsibility for this child who had come from nowhere.

“Because I am here to help you, Tara. Not the other way round.”

Tara blinked. “What did you just say?”

“I’m here for you, not vice versa.”

Tara’s eyes were drawn to the child’s hand placed so trustingly in hers, then back at his face. He looked like a child, but he didn’t sound like one, at least based on her limited experience. Unless he was a child prodigy or something. And where were his parents? Or an older sibling?

“You have not listened, Tara.”

She withdrew her hand from his. “How do you know my name? Who are you? What is this?”

The boy merely answered, “I am here to help you. That is all you need to know.” He held his small hand out, his soft fingers brushing against hers, but she pulled away, rising to her feet.

“No.” Turning her back, she walked away, moving closer to the cliffs that wrapped the top of the beach in a protective embrace. Tara crossed her arms and held her pain to her, not willing to share it, not willing to uncover it. No-one could help her. It was too raw, too soon, too big. And anyway, how could a mere child - another male, at that - ever understand what she was going through, or what she needed?

“Tara.”

She spun round. “What, did you not hear what I said? I said No. You can’t help me. Leave me alone. Go home.” Tara turned away again but found there was no way forward. This small child had somehow backed her into a corner, rock on three sides, the boy on the fourth. How had that happened?

“You can trust me, Tara. You can tell me anything. I won’t tell anyone else, I promise.”

She stared at him. Gold lights glinted in the warm tones of his hair, and she followed the lights to the sky, where the sun had infused drifts of cloud with the most gorgeous soft reds, apricots and golds. The sky itself was a wash of palest lemon and opal, and suddenly its majestic beauty caught at her throat. “That’s . . . awesome,” she whispered.

The boy smiled and nodded. “It is. And only you, standing here in this particular spot, are seeing this sunrise in this particular way.”

Tara’s eyes roamed over the colours, the textures, sensing the feeling of space beyond the painted sky. The space drew her, but she realised she could enjoy it from where she was, no longer feeling the need to be part of it, to be gone. The sunrise was working its magic on her heart; it felt less brittle. Still cracked, but not broken beyond repair. And the cracks were allowing the light in, nurturing her inside as her skin tasted the sun’s gentle warmth.

She looked down at the boy, who continued to watch her in his gentle, quiet way. His hand reached out to hers, and this time she took it.

“How do you feel, Tara?”

A moment’s consideration, then she felt able to answer. “Scarred, but not beaten. Hurting, but still wanting to live.” She exhaled a long breath. It was a relief to have someone to share this with.

The small hand grasped hers more tightly. So small, yet she felt such strength and support from the gesture.

“I still don’t know what to call you,” she said.

“My name doesn’t matter. Only that you open your heart again. You see things from a perspective that only you can have. The world needs you, Tara.”

She looked into his face, so young and clear and fresh, hiding so much wisdom and . . . love. She saw love there.

“You are not of this world, are you?” she guessed. “You look like a child so that I wouldn’t be scared of you. So that I’d let you stay.”

“Yes.”

“So how old are you, really?”

“I have no age. It is of no matter. I am here to allow you to express your feelings to someone safe . . . and perhaps then you might be able to work through them. Please trust me, Tara. You may speak freely.”

Tara let out another breath. “I’m not sure I can.”

“Really, Tara. I know the source of your pain. You need only express it and so release it.”

“It’s not that . . . I don’t know how. The words aren’t there . . . I can’t . . .” She shook her head. “It’s too big for me to get my head round.” Her head was spinning with thoughts and feelings, but suddenly there was clarity, and the words came. “He - Mark - I thought he was my life. Now he tells me that he’s not ready to settle down and make a commitment . . . the change, it’s too wide for me to see beyond. . . I thought we had so many plans, and now my whole life has shifted in one night and I’m too scared to look ahead.”

“There,” the child said. “You don’t need to talk for hours. Just share the essence of the burden, and part of the pain is already releasing.”

Tara kneeled on the sand, facing the boy. “Thank you. For making me acknowledge it. I still have a way to go, but that was a first step, right?”

“Right,” the boy said, releasing her hand. He put his small arms around her neck and held her briefly. “You’ll be fine, Tara,” he said as he let her go. “Are you ready to talk some more, or do you want to make the shift by yourself?”

Tara smiled, lifting her eyes to the sunrise-streaked sky. “I can handle it now, I think. Thanks so much for being here for me. For the hug. For the support.”

“It’s why I am here,” the boy answered with a quick smile. “Love can heal anything. You just need to find it inside yourself.” Then he walked away, his small feet leaving no mark upon the sand. Tara watched him until he disappeared from view.

Then she looked into her heart and let the tears fall.

~~*~~

Delights of the Dart

Vicki’s sat nav instructed her to turn left. She drove through wide, open gates, passing a sign announcing her arrival at The River Dart Retreat, and followed the directions for Reception. With any luck she’d be met by a hunk with a warm smile, rugby player thighs, and a clear invitation to get to know him better.

One hand on the wheel, she stroked her silk-smooth blonde hair. She was ready for some fun. What had she been thinking, dating an accountant? She was so over Richard. Her friend Paula had promised her she’d have a great time at this place, and would return ‘feeling a new woman’. Vicki was sure she would have a great time, especially if this retreat included ‘feeling a new man’.

She parked her Clio and walked into Reception. A young man with auburn hair gave her the key to her cabin. Drat - not a rugby player, by the looks of it.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the man said, his mouth tipping into a shy smile. “My name’s Jim.”

Vicki muttered her thanks, took the key, and immediately forgot him. Pulling up outside her cabin, she unlocked the door, and walked in. To her shock, it was a single room, with a single bed, and a narrow wardrobe. Where on earth do I put all my clothes? The bathroom wasn’t much more than a cupboard. She huffed. And where’s the TV, for heaven’s sake?

Face pinched, Vicki unpacked her belongings from the car. Closing the door behind her, she sat on the bed. Minutes passed; she wondered how on earth she’d fill the next four days. A knock on the door interrupted the heavy silence. She opened the door.

“Hi, Miss Walsh,” Jim said, offering her a leaflet. “I forgot to give you this. We have guided walks at 10am every day. Breakfast’s at 8am; supper starts at seven. The rest of the time’s your own.”

Vicki stared at him. “Walks and meals? That’s all you offer?”

“Well, yes,” Jim said. “This is a retreat - for quiet time, y’know? Oh, there’s something else . . .”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, you’re the only guest this weekend; a stag party cancelled at the last minute. So, er, it’s just me on duty. I’ll be looking after you.” His face flushed.

“Just my luck,” Vicki mumbled. A stag party would’ve been ideal. A bunch of men looking for a good time. Here she was . . . and here they weren’t.

However, Jim was still here. His voice was hopeful. “So I’ll see you at Reception at 10 o’clock, then, for the walk?”

Vicki cast a desperate glance around the tiny cabin. “Yeah. Fine.”

Jim took his leave, and, with dusk falling, Vicki surrendered to the inevitable, and had an early night.

Waking rested, she had a shower, then realised there was no electrical socket for her straighteners. Annoyed, she waited for her hair to dry into its natural waves, arriving at Reception with barely a minute to spare. She hadn’t bothered with make-up; who was there to impress?

Jim was waiting, his eyes bright. He reminded Vicki of a perky red squirrel. She suppressed a giggle. “Where’s this walk go, then?” she asked.

“It’s lovely,” Jim assured her. “We go through some woodland, just over there, then we meet up with the River Dart, and follow it for a mile or so. There’s a lovely little bridge. I’ve packed a picnic since it’s just the two of us.”

Vicki couldn’t help but notice his eagerness. This could be a long day. She sighed. “Right then, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

As they walked through the trees, Vicki realised she was enjoying Jim’s company. He was knowledgeable about the area, knew the types of trees, even, pointing out leaf shapes, identifying birds by their calls, describing how the spores of the ferns travelled. Despite herself, Vicki found herself interested. They came to the river. Sharp flashes of light drew her attention over and over, the water glinting like tiny silver sequins as the river tumbled over boulders and rocks.

Sudden lightheadedness washed over her; she rested her head in her palms. A vortex of light spun around her like dancing sparks in the black; her eyes sensed a pressure, there was a stabbing in her forehead, an uncomfortable piercing sound resonating through her brain . . . then the fireworks faded away.

Dazed, Vicki opened her eyes. “What the heck was that . . .” she whispered. Now she could really hear the murmurings in the water, the chiff-chaff of the birds, the echoing knock-knock of a woodpecker. She was even aware of the stiff silence of the trees. And the air, it smelled of honey and warmth and soft earth.

Jim’s eyes were soft and knowing. “This place is magical, don’t you think?”

Stunned, she looked about her properly, for the first time recognising just how special this location was. For the first time, she appreciated the natural world around her, and felt somewhat shocked that she’d never seen it before, never even noticed it. There was life everywhere: constantly in motion, in growth, slowing and renewing. Dragonflies skittered over the river, darting iridescent shapes a blur of movement. She took a breath, held it, wondering at the transformation. A soft breeze whispered through her hair and she felt a welcome surge of freedom.

“Magical just about describes it,” she murmured, wanting to retain this hush, this sense of sanctuary.

Her red squirrel man, filled with vitality and purpose, seemed to look different, too. His clothes fitted well, and whilst he didn’t have the brawn she had thought she wanted, she realised that his lean body was all understated power and quiet strength. His movements were economical, and carried a grace she’d never appreciated until now. She began to wish her cabin had a double bed.

Jim’s smile was gentle, and just for her. “So . . . ready for that picnic?”

Eyes dancing, she nodded, and pulled him down to the ground beside her.

~~*~~

The Haunting of Melton Grange

Chloe jumped to her feet, glaring at the bottle of wine. Two glasses, and she was already hallucinating: she was certain someone had just tapped her on the shoulder. The wine in her near-empty glass sloshed over the edge, dark spots spattering her cream sofa.

Since Mac was out for the evening, and probably far more drunk than Chloe, then clearly she was imagining things.

Her gaze swept the room: empty, just as she’d expected. Just as it should be.

Every nerve on edge, she waited. The boiler groaned, the dishwasher hummed, but that was all.

“Silly mare,” she told herself. “Jumping at shadows just because you’re reading a spooky novel!”

She laughed, but it sounded forced even to her own ears.

She plumped down on the sofa, her mouth set firm, and retrieved the book. ‘The Haunting of Melton Grange’ was perhaps not the best book to read alone, especially since she was a bit on the jumpy side when it came to ghosts. But her sister had given it to her for her birthday and she felt guilty that she’d left it unopened.

Chapter One had set the scene. A deserted manor (naturally), with dark, overcast night skies and a young couple, Robert and Ursula, who had dared each other to spend a night at the Grange. It went without saying that a thunderstorm would follow, providing the perfect flickering atmosphere for ghostly goings-on.

But here, every light in the room was lit, the curtains protectively closed (Chloe always felt exposed if the darkness could see in) and the front door locked and bolted. It was just her and the book.

Perfectly safe.

Except that tap on the shoulder had felt so very real.

It felt just as real when it happened again a few minutes later. A pointed, firm fingertip pressing into the top of her shoulder. Chloe screamed, the wine glass falling to the floor along with the book. Shivers and chills raced through her. There was no denying it, someone had touched her.

She backed away from the sofa towards the kitchen. The door between the rooms was swinging slowly shut. She tried to hurry, but her legs were like jelly, and she watched, horrified, as the door closed with a click just before she reached it. She moaned, panic flaring. The door wouldn’t budge. She was trapped in the lounge, her mobile was upstairs, Mac wouldn’t be home for hours, and there was something in here with her.

She didn’t dare move. And so she simply stood there, waiting, watching, shivering with nerves. When nothing happened, she released the breath she’d been holding and crept back to the sofa. Maybe she was coming down with a virus and it was screwing up her senses. Maybe she just needed to sit down and rest, and close her eyes.

Back on the sofa, feet curled beneath her, she willed herself to calm down. But she wouldn’t read any more of the Melton Grange book tonight. She’d wait until daylight. Retrieving the book from the floor, it opened at the last page she’d read, and she felt the tap on the shoulder again.

“NO!” she cried out. “Stop this, it can’t be real, it’s ridiculous. Stop it now!”

There was a faint groaning, like the sound of wind forcing its way through the treetops. Another chill chased up her spine. She tried to put the book down, but it seemed to be glued to her fingers. The groaning became stronger, clearer, closer. Chloe stopped breathing.

“Help me,” a creaking voice said.

Chloe yelped. The voice had come from the book.

“Please! Help me!” it said.

“Noooooooo, this isn’t real, it’s a bad dream -”

“I wish it was,” cried the voice. “I want to get away!”

Chloe sobbed. “Away from what?” This was unreal. Talking to a book!

“You’re reading the book!” the voice replied. “Wouldn’t you want to escape if you knew you were going to be murdered?”

Chloe felt sick. “Are you . . . Robert?” Would he become the ghost of Melton Grange?

“Yes! And you have to get me out!”

Her nausea intensified. “I don’t -”

“It doesn’t matter how you do it,” the voice said, “but do it soon, before I’m killed!”

“You want to - you want me to help you get out of the book, out of the story?”

“We’re wasting time! Of course I do! I never wanted be trapped in a book in the first place. That’s what happens when you allow magicians to write stories. They put their enemies into their books, trapping them within the borders of their words! I should be living in the real world!”

Chloe’s mouth fell open. This Robert had been a real person? And magicians were real, too? She took a shaky breath. If only Mac was here to instil some sense into this bizarre conversation.

There was only one thing she could think of that might help Robert.

Destroy the book.

One by one, she tore the pages out. Her father would kill her if he saw this. A librarian, he was a man who treasured books and the words within their pages, the worlds and universes they created. Well, this was an evil book, and Robert deserved his freedom. The book was empty now, the pages scattered like torn autumn leaves across her carpet.

A pressure in her ears, a feeling that space was compressing, being squeezed - and a shadow appearing behind the sofa. Her nausea became overwhelming. The shadow gained form, colour, bones and muscles and skin. Robert, against all reason and logic, was standing in her lounge. Chloe swallowed. Now that he was here, real and breathing, she was terrified.

“Hello, Chloe,” Robert said with a disarming smile. “Thank you for helping me to move beyond the book.”

She took a step back. “Um. I’ve just remembered your girlfriend. Ursula. The one you went to the Grange with.”

“What of her?” Robert’s tone was frigid. “You can’t help her.”

“I can’t?”

“No. You should have read more of the book, Chloe. She’s the one who was murdered. Ursula’s the ghost.”

“Then what are you?”

Robert smiled.

~~*~~

About the Authors

If you have enjoyed these tales and poems and would like to read more from The Lazuli Portals, then you may find this section useful!

We hope you have a magical and inspired day. 

Joanna and Ron | The Lazuli Portals

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