The grey clouds, magnificently lit by the soaring silver moon, were watching the girl once again. They had lost sight of her a day or two earlier when she was unexpectedly eaten by a giant lion.
Miraculously the clouds chanced upon her again. The girl was in a small row-boat, aimlessly drifting down a fast flowing river. She seemed to be quite worried and with good reason too.
A spectacular waterfall, which plummeted several hundred feet into blackness, was only a short distance ahead of her vessel.
The girl, urged on by a frantically-meowing cat, was desperately swinging a lasso of silver rope above her head. As she released the hoary-cord it arched through the air, stretching impossibly far. The roaring river was lined on both sides with overhanging trees. The foliage offered the ideal anchor for the searching loop of twine. The rope found a desirably thick bough. It latched on, looped around and formed a knot. The girl braced herself on the side of the boat as, like a length of retracting elastic, the rope began to shorten.
Moments later the craft collided with the bank with a clatter. The wishkamog abandoned the doomed dinghy first. The twelve-legged feline landed skilfully and quickly meowed for her to follow.
The girl leapt from the unsteady boat. Her ragged, red cloak billowed in an odd manner. It seemed, to the eagerly watching clouds, to propel her across the gap to the shore. Evidently this was no ordinary girl and that was no ordinary cloak.
Free of its anchor the boat sped to the roaring crest and disappeared from sight. The clouds continued to watch as the little ship sailed over the torrent-crowned lip.
The clouds fully expected the boat to plummet. This was not out of the question, even in a magical-world gravity reigned supreme. However, the boat had no intention of falling.
The clouds gasped as they watched huge, mechanical wings unfurl from beneath the wooden hull. They flapped in unison; gently guiding the boat through the air with the intention of drifting to the river beneath.
Unfortunately, after only a short distance the little flying-boat was struck by a flock of two-headed birds. The feathered creatures squawked as several of their company thudded against the side and spiralled, unconsciously, to their deaths.
The winged-vessel swerved to avoid a second collision as the flock sought revenge for their fallen comrades. They swarmed on their wooden adversary, pecking and scratching. Working as a team they forced the boat towards certain doom. The craft crashed against the cliff face with enough force to crack its hull. Cogs rained from its underside.
The bow of the stricken vessel became lodged in a fissure. A shower of sparks, coupled with the unmistakable sound of metal grinding on metal, heralded the boats demise. The huge wings shuddered and then stopped moving altogether. Satisfied the boat posed no further threat, the flock of birds moved on.
Back on the safety of the river bank, Harmony laughed. The exhilaration of escaping death was intoxicating. She felt amazing! Now she understood why people did dangerous activities, like jumping out of planes or swimming with sharks. By escaping death she was reminded of being alive; of how miraculous and wondrous life is. She wanted the sensation to last forever (which seemed possible given that narrowly escaping death was becoming a common occurrence).
Of course she owed her life to the magical rope gripped in her hands. She lifted the coil to her lips and kissed it. “An enchanted rope is an essential for every budding adventurer. Never leave home without one,” Harmony laughed. She smiled at Articus.
The Wishkamog purred his appreciations for the timely rescue. He rubbed his flank against the side of her face. Harmony stroked him back and then sat up. She looked around at her location.
The forest was dark. Inky-black shadows lurked beneath the dense canopy. Such depth of murk would have normally terrified her, but not today. Thankfully, in this moment, she felt invincible. She understood what it meant to feel courageous; to face a fear and become victorious.
“There is nothing to fear when you’re filled with courage,” she announced.
Harmony got to her feet and carefully followed Articus as he valiantly led the way. The darkness was not so intense once out of the moonlight. Harmony happily discovered she could see quite well. A soft yellowish glow, emanating from the buzzing insects, resulted in a relatively constant light source.
Harmony paused for a moment, distracted by a memory. The recollection of seahorse creatures, which had chased her in a dream, flashed across her mind. It wasn't possible. Surely such a creature couldn’t exist? If it did, as ridiculous as that thought was, how could she have dreamt it without ever having seen one before?
She approached and inspected the light source. Harmony shook her head in confusion, she was witnessing the impossible. The bright-gold seahorse had tiny, delicate wings. In its wake an iridescent trail of tangible shimmer smeared the air. The creature was hovering above a patch of velvety, green moss. Its long trunk-like mouth sipped drops of moisture from the sodden greenery.
Harmony straightened up again and stepped carefully away from the apparition. She was utterly astonished. This world just kept getting stranger. Her initial conclusion, that this adventure was simply a lucid dream, seemed all the more likely now.
The Wishkamog, standing a few feet ahead, meowed for her attention. Harmony smiled at him as he beckoned with his bushy, ginger tail. She obeyed his command and walked carefully in the direction he wanted.
She supposed the cat was trying to lead her back towards Sanctorium. Obviously she had no intention of returning; nevertheless she was lost. As his was the only help on offer, she had little option but to follow.
After only a short distance Harmony heard the tinges of a gentle, tinkling sound. Both soft and melodic it drifted through the dark forest in elusive wafts. The jingle evolved into a haunting, beautiful tune. The arrangement willed her to seek its source.
Against her better judgement, Harmony followed the ringing deeper into the forest. As she neared her quarry the melody became more complex. The music filled the air as if she were accompanied by her very own soundtrack.
An aroma, drifting in tantalising pockets of mouth-watering splendour, enveloped her. The scent was unmistakable; smoky and meaty it could mean only one thing… Someone was having a barbecue! The instantly recognisable tang permeated the air and she licked her lips. Harmony crept forward, cautious not to make a sound. As she neared the edge of a clearing she spied the music maker.
A man, his back hunched and crooked, sat next to a roaring fire. He was taller than any person she had ever met. His clothes were old fashioned, the style almost Dickensian. On his head he wore a shabby top hat, he was every bit the archetypal-beggar.
Opposite the man sat an old, bowtop-caravan. Harmony had seen many of these as she and Rose travelled around, though this one looked to have known better days. The paint was tarnished, cracked and dull, yet it was the imperfections which relayed its deep history. This wagon had seen many grand adventures.
Across the wooden boards, the once glorious colours of red and gold were painted in intricate, woven patterns. Harmony considered the design to be of a Celtic origin, though many of the shapes seemed almost hieroglyphic.
The fire’s light shone against the wagon. Flimsy shadows danced across the painted surface and around the edges of large, metallic letters fastened to the side. Harmony read the sign:
Heckler's Emporium.
Trader, procurer and collector of all things, both mordinary and mundaine.
Harmony thought procurer sounded far better than smuggler, which she suspected was his real profession. It was at then, as she watched him, that she became aware of a peculiar detail. Her gaze fixed onto his arms, all four of them…
Two of the appendages were playing a bizarre, musical instrument. The device looked somewhat akin to a accordion. The only variance being the concertina in the centre had been replaced with three violin bows and their accompanying strings. Each bow was orchestrated by a series of small, mechanical arms which worked in perfect unison. They drifted across their set of vibrating threads, resulting in the sweet music she had been so compelled to follow.
His remaining two hands were busy frying, aggressively spitting and deliciously smelling, sausages. Their heavy scent, wood-smoke and meat, greeted her again. Harmony was salivating. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was.
The moment he stopped playing the instrument, carefully returning it to a box at his side, Harmony's stomach gurgled from hunger. The bodily-noise echoed around the clearing, filling the silent void left by the music’s absence.
Apparently oblivious to Harmony's digestive plight, the man continued to cook his sausages. She gave a silent prayer of thanks that he had not heard her.
“You may as well come and join me. I can't eat all these by myself,” he announced without looking up. He tilted his tall hat with one of his spindly arms in Harmony’s direction.
Harmony looked at Articus. She could have sworn he shook his head. The ginger cat turned and trotted off, clearly indicating for her to follow. If she went with Articus he would lead her back to Sanctorium. That was not a direction she wanted to go. Besides, she couldn’t just walk away, it would be incredibly rude and the man was already aware of her presence. There was little sense in hiding any longer.
Harmony unclipped her cloak, folded it up and packed it into her backpack. She didn’t want to take any risk of being recognised as a Red Ryder. With all signs of her identity concealed, she took a deep breath and stepped out from the tree line.
Unbeknownst to her, deep in the undergrowth, Articus turned and caught sight of her intentions. He looked toward the four-armed man, groaned and rolled his eyes…