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    Patchwork Quest
    Patchwork Quest
    Patchwork Quest
    Ebook178 pages2 hours

    Patchwork Quest

    By Jon Jacks

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Mum’s gone missing.
    But I know where I have to go to find her.
    Because I’ve seen her; trapped amongst all the forests, stars, unicorns and dragons of my patchwork bedspread.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJon Jacks
    Release dateAug 13, 2017
    ISBN9781370020591
    Patchwork Quest
    Author

    Jon Jacks

    While working in London as, first, an advertising Creative Director (the title in the U.S. is wildly different; the role involves both creating and overseeing all the creative work in an agency, meaning you’re second only to the Chairman/President) and then a screenwriter for Hollywood and TV, I moved out to an incredibly ancient house in the countryside.On the day we moved out, my then three-year-old daughter (my son was yet to be born) was entranced by the new house, but also upset that we had left behind all that was familiar to her.So, very quickly, my wife Julie and I laid out rugs and comfortable chairs around the huge fireplace so that it looked and felt more like our London home. We then left my daughter quietly reading a book while we went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat.Around fifteen minutes later, my daughter came into the kitchen, saying that she felt much better now ‘after talking to the boy’.‘Boy?’ we asked. ‘What boy?’‘The little boy; he’s been talking to me on the sofa while you were in here.’We rushed into the room, looking around.There wasn’t any boy there of course.‘There isn’t any little boy here,’ we said.‘Of course,’ my daughter replied. ‘He told me he wasn’t alive anymore. He lived here a long time ago.’A child’s wild imagination?Well, that’s what we thought at the time; but there were other strange things, other strange presences (but not really frightening ones) that happened over the years that made me think otherwise.And so I began to write the kind of stories that, well, are just a little unbelievable.

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      Book preview

      Patchwork Quest - Jon Jacks

      Chapter 1

      Naturally, I’m picked on a little at school, and not just for the weird colours of my skin.

      It’s also said that my mother’s a witch, which isn’t true; she just turns into an owl every now and again, as it’s an easier way of getting around.

      Who wouldn’t, really?

      Thing is, the brighter of the greens, the sunny yellows, the sharp pinks, have faded since I was small, visible on my skin now only in particularly strong sunlight. Mum assures me the colours will continue to fade, just as she continually assures me that I shouldn’t concern myself with who my father was; a father isn’t essential in my life, she tells me.

      We can manage as we are.

      As no one knows who my father is, the joke around school is that Mum must have used her witchcraft spells to conjure me into life, probably having put me together from scraps of materials much as she created my much admired patchwork bedspread. And it’s true, I’m afraid, that the faded scarlet you can still see on certain parts of my skin bear more than a passing resemblance to the smartly uniformed soldiers that march across my bed, while the blues could indeed be the seas on which sailing ships scud across my pillow.

      Some of the kinder kids at school actually think this is wonderful, making up stories from the fading images they believe they can just make out on my bared arms or legs. Naturally, their imaginations take even wilder flights of fancy whenever they see my patchwork bedspread, its colours all still wonderfully bright, the air balloons, swans and flowers all looking as wonderfully fresh as they were originally intended to be – probably because it doesn’t need cleaning as often as an adventurous little girl.

      Whenever I arrive home from school, I can never be quite sure if Mum’s going to be around; she has a lot to do, she says, apart from taking care of me.

      Taking care of me means a stew bubbling on the stove.

      ‘Be careful of the flames, dear!’ she always says on the note she’s left for me telling me she’ll be back soon.

      Today, however, there’s no stew waiting for me.

      There’s no note either.

      Ah well; I’m sure she’s just a little busier than usual.

      I help myself to some bread and jam.

      This way, there are no flames to take care of.

      I sweep up a little around the cottage. When Mum’s still not home and it gets dark, I light the lantern (being careful of the flame!).

      I blow it out when it’s time for bed and she’s still not returned.

      I light, instead, the small candle I always use to light me to bed.

      It’s as I’m getting undressed by the end of the bed that I notice something unusual about my patchwork bedspread.

      In the silvery moonlight coming in through the minute window, the colours are muted, of course, even transformed into wholly new colours. But the oily yellow light of the candle flame picks out the end corner in much clearer detail, particularly a white slash of what could be white feathers that have stuck to it after drifting in through the open window.

      When I take a closer look, I realise it’s not loose feathers at all, but an embroidered part of the patchwork square.

      Which is odd, because I can never remember seeing it there before.

      Odder still, it’s an owl.

      An owl just like the one I’ve seen Mum transform into.

      *

      It’s a flying owl, yet perhaps it’s – she’s? – going nowhere; she’s on what is effectively an island, for it’s not only the very last, corner square of the patchwork, it’s also bordered on its two sides by water, one inhabited with swans, the other with sailing ships.

      The island’s a strange place for an owl to be; the patch is otherwise mainly one of trees and people, whatever creatures there are being incredibly small and partially hidden amongst the bright green vegetation. It’s all overlaid with a silvery embroidery of a wheel of stars, which uncharacteristically stretches over one of the nearby seas.

      Has Mum stitched the owl here, rather than leaving me a note, as a means of telling me – what?

      That she’s going to be late?

      No.

      It would be easier to just leave a note, wouldn’t it?

      Picking up the flickering candle, I stride over to the window, peering out into the darkness. Hoping I’ll catch the flare of the fluttering of white wings, of Mum’s return.

      But all I see is the woodland, shrouded in the moon’s mercurial veil.

      Then again, why should I be worrying?

      Mum’s a big girl, who can take care of herself.

      Besides, can’t an owl see in the dark better than we can see in daylight?

      And now I come to think of it, didn't all this happen once before, long ago? And didn't Mum simply turn up safe and sound after all?

      Or maybe all that was just a fanciful dream.

      I slip back to my bed, blow out the candle.

      Slip under the bedspread, blow out a shivering sigh as the cold sheets wrap around me.

      I might as well go to sleep.

      Mum will be back in the morning.

      *

      Chapter 2

      In the moonlight, pigs aren’t as brightly pink as they are throughout the day.

      The grass, too, isn’t that wonderfully bright green.

      Everything is just shadows, with a silvery sheen.

      Another shadow moves almost silently amongst the pigs, a taller shadow, a slimmer shadow; a man.

      He’s herding the pigs, using the prodding of a stick to force them towards a number of waiting wagons, where other tall, slim shadows force the pigs on board.

      The shadows talk in whispers, if at all.

      They’re stealing the pigs; what other reason could there be for all this taking place on a night?

      If I’m right, it would be dangerous for me to ask them what they’re doing; but as I can’t recall getting out of bed, or of ever even seeing this field close by our home, I think it would be safe for me to assume that I’m dreaming.

      Which means it should also be safe for me to ask this man what he thinks he’s doing.

      ‘Are these your pigs?’ I ask him, stepping closer towards him.

      If the man’s surprised to see me here, he doesn’t show it.

      ‘It’s a fair trade,’ he replies brazenly, indicating with an airily waved arm that the men by the wagons are unloading other animals; horses and hounds. ‘A dozen mounts, and a dozen dogs; a fair exchange, I think, for pigs that by rights shouldn’t be even here!’

      ‘Why shouldn’t they be here?’ I ask.

      ‘Well, just look at them,’ he retorts. ‘Can’t you tell when you see creatures from the otherworld?’

      It’s true that these pigs look like otherworld shadows; but then, so does this man, and the men unloading the horses and dogs.

      ‘If they’re from the underworld,’ I persist with my questioning, ‘then why would you want them?’

      ‘They’re not for me; they’re a gift for King Math of Gwynedd,’ he says, adding with an exasperated snap as he swipes his switch across a pig’s back, ‘And I’m his magician, Gwydion; so if you don’t wish to join this herd, might I suggest you leave me and my men be?’

      Even in the darkness, I can see the sparkle of his eyes as he glowers at me before turning away to continue with his corralling of the pigs.

      If he turns me into a pig, what’s that to me, when all this is nothing but a dream?

      I’m about to call him back when one of the pigs hanging towards the man’s rear hisses at me.

      ‘He means it!’ the pig conspiratorially whispers.

      ‘And this isn’t a dream!’ another pig insists, keeping his voice equally low.

      *

      ‘If this isn’t a dream,’ I whisper back to the two pigs, ‘then why would you think that I think I’m in a dream? Besides, pigs can only talk in dreams, can’t they?’

      ‘It isn’t a dream – but it’s still a place where worlds overlap and mingle,’ one of the pigs replies.

      ‘Weren’t you listening to the magician, when he told you we’re from the otherworld?’ says the other.

      They continue following on after the other pigs, which means I have to walk alongside them to ensure I can hear their quietly mumbling voices.

      ‘Then, if this isn’t a dream,’ I ask, now a little puzzled by everything I’m being told, ‘then what am I doing here?’

      ‘Because this is the best way to enter this world, of course,’ snorts one of the pigs, rushing ahead now to make sure he’s not left behind.

      ‘But now you need to head west of here,’ the second pig assures me, as he too breaks into a trot.

      ‘West of here?’ I repeat uncertainly, looking nervously about me as I try to work out where west might be. ‘Why would I want to go there?’

      ‘Well for one thing,’ the pig says, glancing back at me over his shoulder, ‘because when the prince realises we’ve been stolen, there’ll be war!’

      *

      Before I can ask the pigs anything more, they’re being gleefully, almost brutally, prodded up onto the waiting wagons.

      The wagons’ ramped backs are hoisted up into place, shut tight with the slamming of bolts. The shadowy men pull themselves up onto the seats, whipping the wagons’ teams into a hurried gallop.

      No one bothers closing the gate to the field behind them but, thankfully, neither the horses nor the dogs they’d left behind seem in a hurry to leave. Rather, the animals demurely and placidly settle down upon the grass, as if exhausted by whatever exertions they’ve already been put through.

      I wish I could wake up from my dream; nothing much seems to be happening in it now, which is a little unusual as far as dreams go – normally, a dream simply takes an even crazier turn, throwing you into some other unexpected situation that, strangely, all seems perfectly reasonable at the time.

      As if the dream has responded in some way to my wish, the straggling column of wagons rapidly retreating down the road are almost briefly forced into the gutters as a heavy coach coming from the other direction imperiously tears through them. Even in the darkness, I can make out the coach is richly gilded, the moon’s light making it all glow spectrally.

      Naturally, the road the coach hurtles along passes the deeply rutted track that connects it to the field’s gate. If I’m going to make this dream interesting once again, I realise, I need to get on board it; so I sprint down the muddy track, waving my arms to grab the driver’s attention.

      If the coach driver sees me running towards the road, then he doesn’t seem prepared to stop, just as he hadn’t seen any reason to give way to what could have been farmers going about their legitimate business. There’s no slowing of the coach’s speed, no effort by the driver to prepare the team of eagerly snorting horses to prepare to slow down.

      I rush out into the middle of the road.

      The driver’s going to have to wildly slew out into the mud lying either side of the road; or run me down.

      But he’s not making any

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