Mirror of Pharos , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - S Landor J

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133 pages

English

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An action-packed, high concept, time-travelling adventureFull of animal magic and with an epic wolf characterLinked to a website with 'Meet the Character' profiles, book excerpt and background storiesJack Tideswell's parents died in a tragic diving accident while exploring the underwater ruins of the Pharos lighthouse in Egypt. So Jack wants nothing to do with adventure. Until, that is, a seagull delivers a strange disc - addressed to him in his own handwriting - and he's catapulted briefly into another time.In the blink of an eye, all kinds of magic are let loose, and Jack finds himself aboard an ocean liner in the throes of a Titanic-like disaster. It all links back to Pharos, the seventh wonder of the world. An ancient power needs to be restored. Can Jack learn to navigate time before it's too late to save the one person who can help him unravel the secrets of the disc?Whether he likes it or not, there's no more hiding away. And no looking back. Especially when Alpha is watching. A wolf who sees all there is to see...For readers aged 10 plus, The Mirror of Pharos is a contemporary fantasy with the inventiveness of Philip Reeve's sci-fi, the excitement of J.K. Rowling's plots and the timeless quality of a Philippa Pearce classic.'A wonderful mix of magic and reality that reminds me of the early books in the Harry Potter series.'The Bookbag

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Children's

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 novembre 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781788034159
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0000€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Copyright © 2017 J S Landor
Cover and illustrations copyright © 2017 Amanda Pike

The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No similarity to any person living or dead is intended or should be inferred.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781788034159

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Rob and Ben

In between the doors of time
Lies a sacred space
Enter those who wish to climb
To the Magus place.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements

Chapter 1
The circle begins
In the hour before dawn, two amber eyes patrolled the sky over the hushed town. From their hiding place in Osmaston Wood they could see the world and when the fluttering white shape appeared, they were ready. They fastened onto it, glistening fiercely, and gave a quick blink.
Instantly, the wind stirred. Copper leaves fell from the trees and a thick seam of fog stole down the hills, wrapping the town in a ghostly shawl.
High above the rooftops a large seagull circled about, surveying the maze of streets below. He’d flown many miles through a long night to reach this place deep in the Rollright Hills. And now, at last, his journey was almost done.
In his beak he held a flat, brown parcel, not much bigger than a child’s hand. All he needed was to find the right address.
But this was easier said than done. The sprawling fog had invaded every nook and cranny and large chunks of the town were completely hidden from view. There seemed little else for it – he’d have to fly in for a closer look.
No sooner had he begun his descent than a sharp wind blew up, blasting the leaves on the pavement skywards. The seagull swerved wildly, beating his wings hard, but before he could regain his balance an even more savage gust forced him in the other direction. From the streets below, it looked like he was dodging bullets fired by a deadly enemy.
A third icy blast sent him nose-diving towards the market square. He flew dangerously close to the church spire, whistled past a line of open-mouthed gargoyles and narrowly missed a statue of the town’s founding father, William Godley.
Behind the plate-glass window of the baker’s shop, a wedding cake loomed nearer. The seagull gave a desperate squawk and banked steeply upwards. For one heart-stopping moment, before his wings carried him clear, he clipped the face of the town hall clock and the package glowed faintly blue.
It had been a close shave. He was a rugged bird from the weather-beaten cliffs of the Pentland coast, yet the freak wind had caught him completely off guard.
Several dizzy circles later, he swooped down to a small red-brick house on the outskirts of town. It stood on a steepish bit of road at the end of a row of terraced cottages. Number 12, Hill Rise, Morton Muxloe. This was the place!
He skidded to a halt on the gravel driveway and sat with his breath making little clouds while he studied the front door. It was yellow with an old-fashioned bell pull on one side and a brass door knocker near the top. But what interested him most was the vertical letterbox in the middle. It looked exactly the right size.
Hopping boldly forwards, he tried pushing the package through the narrow opening. It wouldn’t go. Even with his head cocked on one side, he couldn’t get the angle right – the parcel kept jamming. After several more attempts he shrieked in frustration. There had to be some other way to make his delivery.
He took off, climbing high over the slate roof and soon spotted the answer to his problem. At the back of the house, half overgrown by trailing ivy, another door beckoned. This one had what looked like a much larger letter box close to ground level. With a delighted cry he dived down, determined to finish the job once and for all.
Inside number 12, Jack Tideswell woke with a jolt. A moan erupted from the knot of bedding which seemed to have turned him overnight into a human sausage roll. He struggled free and yanked back the curtains. Not morning already! He felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink.
Flopping back, he stared blankly at the ceiling and wondered what day it was. Saturday? Sunday? The answer came to him like a stab in the stomach. ‘Noooo!’ he groaned. Monday.
In the kitchen below, the clanking of cups and plates competed with the news on the radio. ‘Give me a break!’ he yelled, pulling the duvet over his head. Instantly, the radio volume turned to full blast. His fist thumped the mattress. ‘Not fair!’ Nan could blame her hearing all she liked, but her tactics for getting him up were just plain sneaky.
‘Storm-force winds and torrential rain are expected by this evening,’ blared the weatherman. ‘As deepening lows sweep in from the Atlantic, the Met Office has issued flood warnings … Take extra care on the roads tonight …’
The seagull glided silently past Jack’s window and came to rest on the garden wall, folding his wings like a cape around his large body. In the kitchen, he could see a small thin woman in a multicoloured dressing gown, buttering a slice of bread. His belly rumbled and he let out a hungry cry.
Nan looked up. Her corkscrew hair stuck out at odd angles and the expression on her face suggested she’d got out of bed on the wrong side.
‘What do you want?’ she said, jabbing the butter knife at the gull. He was staring at her with such intensity it looked as if he might actually speak. She pulled her dressing gown tightly around her. ‘It’s no good. There’s nothing here for you.’
The bird gave another plaintive cry.
Nan put down the knife and banged on the window. ‘You’re not wanted. Go on. Push off – shoo!’
The seagull ruffled his feathers but made no attempt to move, and when she looked back a few minutes later he was still there, his head drooping with exhaustion into the pillow of his chest. Behind him, the mist had cleared to reveal an angry sky flushed with red. The light seemed to give his body a strange, luminous quality. Nan shivered. Her mother had told her once that seagulls were the ghosts of drowned people.
‘Oh … all right,’ she said, opening the window at last. She flung some crusts of bread on the garden path and the big bird hopped after them, flapping his wings and shrieking his appreciation.
Nan watched him and, for a moment, a giddy, faraway feeling took hold of her. An icy breeze lifted her hair and she reached out to steady herself.
To her relief, a furry head met her hand.
‘Odin! For heaven’s sake, where’ve you been? Get in, will you.’
With a yowl, a large black and white cat leapt down from the windowsill and wound himself jealously around her ankles.
‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Nudging the cat with her foot, Nan hastily shut the window.
‘Time to get up!’ she bellowed at the ceiling. ‘Bacon sandwich on the table – twenty minutes and counting!’ She knew Jack’s routine: five minutes to wash and dress, five minutes to eat breakfast, five minutes to pack his school bag and five minutes to spare. Except there never was any time to spare.
Jack didn’t feel like breakfast, not this morning. He had a tight knot in his stomach which felt like an iron fist squeezing his guts. Swinging his legs out of bed, he dragged himself to the bathroom and stared sternly into the mirror. Come on, get a grip, he told himself. It’s not as bad as you think.
The round face beneath the mop of black hair looked unconvinced. Perhaps he wouldn’t be in such trouble if he appeared a little more lean and mean.
Twenty minutes later, he stood beside Nan in the hall. At twelve years old, he was already able to look down at her, although he had to admit that didn’t take much doing: his grandmother was barely five feet tall.
Out of habit, she tapped the barometer. The needle twitched nervously from Fair to Change , then right around the dial to Stormy . She pulled out a red anorak from the coat rack under the stairs.
‘I don’t need it,’ mumbled Jack.
‘What is it with boys and coats? You can’t be “cool” when you’re wet and freezing.’ Nan unzipped the anorak and held it out with a flourish, like a matador tempting a bull.
Jack rolled his eyes. Reluctantly, h