1
Face It, We’re Lost
The ground was dry as bone, the soil baked to concrete by the merciless summer sun. In the middle of the field stood a lopsided scarecrow, its arms spread wide in a forlorn pleading gesture. Perhaps it wanted to escape this place, as though it knew its presence wasn’t needed; for nothing grew here, only jagged flints sprouted from the cracked, hardened earth. It was a barren scene, which did little to lift Bryony’s spirits after two hours of walking.
“Can you see the footpath?” Bill came clambering over the stile to join Bryony in the deserted field.
“There’s no footpath, Dad.” Bryony stared glumly at the horizon. “Face it, we’re lost.”
“Impossible.” Bill shook his head. “I never get lost.”
Bryony knew that wasn’t true. “You once got lost getting out of the bath.”
“There was soap in my eyes,” explained Bill. “And no harm was done, after I apologised to our next door neighbour and her twenty party guests. Mind you, it would have been quite embarrassing if it wasn’t for that flannel.”
Bryony’s stepmother Jane was next over the stile. “I don’t see a footpath,” she announced, surveying the landscape. “You said it continues through the field, darling.”
“It does,” insisted Bill. “Or rather it should, according to my map.”
“Which you left at home,” pointed out Bryony.
“I did not leave the map at home,” contested Bill. “I put it in my back pocket before we left the house. It must have fallen out somehow.”
“Along with your brains,” muttered Bryony, who wasn’t in the mood for her father’s feeble excuses.
Jane’s son Edwin was the last to climb the stile, and needed his mother’s help to negotiate the rickety wooden structure. Normally Bryony would have mocked him for being a weak little cissy, but she was too tired and miserable to start on her stepbrother. In any case, there was someone far more deserving right now.
“We’re lost,” she fumed, directing her furious gaze on Bill. “And it’s all your fault.”
“We’re not lost.” Bill raised his hands in a calming gesture. “You are only lost if you don’t know where you are. And we know where we are. We just don’t know how we got here, or how we’re going to get home again.”
“That’s very much like being lost,” reflected Jane, her usual cheery smile replaced by a weary grimace.
“To the untrained layman,” conceded Bill. “But I have a keen sense of direction, and don’t need maps to guide me. I can plot my position from the sun, even from the direction of the wind.”
“And most of that’s coming from you,” grumbled Bryony.
“I was in the Boy Scouts,” Bill reminded his daughter. “It may have been a few years ago, but I’ve brought all those hard earned skills into my adult life.”
“Along with the uniform.” Bryony was trying not to look at her father’s grotesque baggy shorts.
“I’ll guide us home,” promised Bill. “I just need a few seconds to get my bearings.”
Bill licked his finger and held it in the air. Then he pointed at the sun. Then he turned and pointed in the opposite direction. Then he turned back and pointed at the sun again.
Bryony watched despairingly as her father performed a series of strange bodily movements. She knew he didn’t have a clue where they were, and that it would probably be hours before they made it home.
If ever.
Byrony sat down on the stile, and slipped off her shoes to massage her weary feet. If she’d known they were going to be out this long she would have worn comfortable trainers. And a hat to keep the sun off her face, just like the one that scarecrow was wearing. Perhaps she could borrow it for a while?
Bryony examined the lopsided figure in the middle of the field. As well as the large floppy hat, the scarecrow wore a dark dinner jacket and a loud stripy waistcoat. It was quite well turned out for a scarecrow. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of bother; although Bryony couldn’t see why, as nothing was growing in the field.
It was, she decided, a depressing place. It wasn’t just the barren soil, there was something else about the field that made her feel uneasy, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. The sooner they were on their way home, the better. But from the way her father was still prancing about, Bryony guessed that wouldn’t be any time soon.
Bryony continued to rub her feet, wondering why she had let herself be talked into this ‘pleasant afternoon stroll’.
Edwin, on the other hand, was enjoying every minute of it. It was a beautiful late summer’s day and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Unlike Bryony, he was wearing sturdy walking boots and a wide brimmed hat. Bryony had laughed at him when they’d left the house, but he took great delight in noticing that she wasn’t laughing now.
So far so good.
There was movement in Edwin’s shirt pocket, and he looked down to see a mouse’s head poking out.
“Aren’t we heading back yet?” asked Stubby, twitching his whiskers impatiently. “We’ve been walking for hours.”
“What do you mean we?” Edwin scowled at his rodent friend. “I’ve been doing all the walking. You’ve been resting in my pocket all the way.”
“I wasn’t resting,” said Stubby. “I was dealing with some outstanding paperwork.”
“You mean chewing up bits of kitchen roll.” Edwin noticed flecks of white on the mouse’s whiskers.
Stubby shook his head. “One day in the distant future, when you grow up, you’ll understand how important it is to keep on top of admin.”
Edwin wondered what sort of ‘admin’ a mouse had to do, but decided against asking. There were more important matters to see to.
“Anyhow,” he replied, lowering his voice to a whisper, “we’re not heading home just yet. Not until I’ve spoken to Bryony.”
“Ah yes, your little scheme.” There was a wary edge to Stubby’s shrill voice. “Are you sure you want to go through with it?”
“Of course,” said Edwin, vehemently. “And anyway, we don’t really have a choice now.”
“Be careful,” warned Stubby. “No good ever comes of you mucking around with magic.”
“It’s all in a good cause,” insisted Edwin. “And don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Careful is my middle name.”
“True,” agreed Stubby. “Along with ‘Anything’ and ‘But’.”
Edwin looked up again. Bill was still meandering around the field, right forefinger in the air. Jane was sheltering beneath a straggly hedgerow, fanning herself with her hand. Bryony sat slouched on the stile, staring solemnly at the ground.
“Keep your head down,” Edwin warned Stubby. “It’s time.”
Stubby retreated into Edwin’s pocket, muttering misgivings about his involvement in proceedings. Edwin strolled towards Bryony, trying his best to look nonchalant.
“Seems like we’re lost,” he observed, adjusting his hat to shield the sun from his eyes. “Probably be hours before we get home.”
“I thought you and your mum enjoyed hiking,” replied Bryony, without lifting her head.
“We do,” agreed Edwin. “When you and your dad aren’t around to mess things up.”
Bryony glanced up, her dark eyes narrowing as she met Edwin’s gaze. “It’s not all Dad’s fault. You two were slowing us down.”
“Sure.” Edwin chuckled. “Bet you would have got lost a lot quicker without us.”
“I wish you’d get lost,” hissed Bryony. “Like, forever.”
Edwin bit his lip. He didn’t want to get into an argument with Bryony. She was obviously in a bad mood, even more than usual, and he would have to choose his words very carefully in case he made things worse.
He adjusted his hat again, cleared his throat, and then smiled at his stepsister. “Can’t wait to get back home. Mum says it’s sardines for tea.”
Bryony wrinkled her nose. “I hate sardines, they make me feel sick.”
Edwin winced, feeling he should have known better. Bryony hated everything he liked, and vice versa. But he knew what might help sway the argument. “And Mum says there’s chocolate éclairs for dessert. You like chocolate éclairs, right?”
Bryony’s face creased with displeasure. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“Of course not.” Edwin was finding this even harder than he’d feared. “I’m just saying I can’t wait to get home.” He peered down the field to where Bill was still pacing around. “And sooner rather than later.”
“Dad will get us home,” said Bryony, as much to convince herself as Edwin.
“Yeah, but when?” Edwin moved closer to his stepsister. “It’ll be getting dark in a couple of hours, and I wouldn’t want to sleep out here in the open countryside. When the sun goes down the temperature will plummet. And there’ll be loads of creepy crawlies.”
Bryony shrugged. “But nothing creepier than you.”
“I’m serious,” said Edwin, casually slipping a hand under his hat. “There’s a very real chance we won’t get home before nightfall. So it looks like we might need help.”
Bryony’s eyes widened as they beheld the object Edwin produced from under his hat. It was a large metal key, with three irregular shaped teeth at one end. The other end was circular, embossed with a weird half-human, half-animal face. The face belonged to Inglenook, Keeper of the Ancient Wisdom. And the key was the Wychetts Key, the source of the Guardian’s power when away from the magic cottage.
“What are you doing with that?” gasped Bryony, scowling at her stepbrother.
“I asked Inglenook if I could borrow it for the day.” Edwin did his utmost to seem matter-of-fact. “After all, you never know when it might come in handy.”
“Put it away.” Bryony turned away from Edwin. “That thing is nothing but trouble.”
Edwin shook his auburn head. “It only got us into trouble before because we misused it. But now we’ve got an agreement, right?”
“Yes,” said Bryony. “The Wychetts Key should only be used in emergencies.”
Edwin nodded. “And this is an emergency.”
“We’re just a bit lost.” Bryony kept her head angled away from Edwin and the Key. “It’s not like the whole of civilisation is under threat from evil forces of darkness.”
“Maybe not,” agreed Edwin. “But we can still use magic to help us. We’re Guardians, remember. What sort of Guardians are we if we don’t use our magic?”
“Maybe I’m not cut out to be a Guardian,” pondered Bryony. “Maybe I’ll take early retirement.”
Edwin was flabbergasted. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Can’t think why.” Bryony made an exaggerated shrug. “Apart from being shrunk, flushed down a dirty toilet, and nearly being eaten by criminal rats and insane spiders, not to mention flying fire-breathing snakes.”
“There was that,” conceded Edwin, ready to acknowledge their experience of magic hadn’t been without the odd awkward moment. “But this time will be different. All we’ll do is ask Inglenook to take us home.”
“No.” Bryony was adamant. “We don’t need the Key. Dad will get us home.”
At that moment Bill came pacing back up the field. Bryony sprang from the stile and walked eagerly towards him. “Well?” Her question was more from hope than expectation.
Bill smiled at her, still holding his finger in the air. “Gentle south-westerly. Sun at forty degrees. Slight tingling in my left big toe. Which means we should head that way.” He pointed left.
“Look!” Jane came hurrying over, pointing the other direction to Bill. “I’ve spotted a sign for the footpath.”
Everyone looked, and sure enough there was a marker post visible at the edge of the field.
“We need to head right.” Bill spun round to point where Jane was pointing. “Told you I’d find the way. Now come on everyone, let’s have a brisk march home. On my command: left right, left right…”
Bill set off towards the marker post. Jane followed, beckoning for the children to do likewise.
“See,” said Bryony to Edwin. “We didn’t need magic to help us.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Edwin. “But we haven’t made it home yet.”
Edwin slipped the Key under his hat, and hurried after his mother. Bryony did her best to match his pace, but her feet were aching and she struggled to manage anything faster than a weary stumble.
Something made her glance round, and she caught sight of the scarecrow again. Strangely, it seemed to have moved. It looked closer now. So close that she could see its face.
And what a horrible face it was.
A sack covered the scarecrow’s head. A slit had been made for the mouth, a jagged slit that was set in a threatening grimace. The eyes were just holes, but they seemed to be staring at her…
And as she stared back at that ugly sack face, Bryony felt a chill run through her body. The flesh on her arms puckered, and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled.
But it wasn’t just the spooky scarecrow. Bryony felt a cold, clammy presence seeping up from the ground beneath her feet. And then she heard a voice: a soft whisper, from somewhere inside her head…
“Bryony!” Jane was calling out. “Don’t get left behind.”
Bryony needed no second bidding. Ignoring the pain from her aching feet, she turned and ran as fast as she could from the field.