KING ARTHUR AND THE DRAGON OF CAMELOT

Like a snake they began their trek to the forest, eldest leading, Diane next, Mark in third place and Joan bringing up the rear. There was to be no loud talking, no complaining, and if anyone got sore feet from their Wellington boots Diane would pass them a plaster from her first aid box. They had covered every eventuality. A heavy drizzle set in as soon as they left the farm and they quickly agreed it was one of the most cold and miserable December days they had had, shrugging their necks as rain water trickled coldly off their hair. The distance to the forest was about half a mile over broken ground and took them through the apple orchard, a neighbour’s sheep field, and then over several wire fences, across a cold stream, and finally amongst the forest trees, which were surrounded by clusters of hanging ivy and evergreens. They dragged their coat collars together until only their eyes peeped over the tops. It felt really creepy walking under the dense trees and Diane glanced back nervously. Timothy followed her glance and he too began feeling uneasy. Was someone following them? He shook his head wondering, then right up ahead he recognised a tree with a great split through the trunk. They were going the right way after all. But then he saw no other signs he recognised and gradually began feeling sick as they tramped through the dense and dark trees. Had they wandered onto a deer path or fox track? After twenty minutes more walking he knew they were utterly lost. Diane began making wide sweeping movements with her arms, wanting them to fan out and search for a better path. Timothy glared at her, knowing they were lost; he should have been better prepared and taken compass bearings. He wished he had made some special marks the last time they had come into the forest, like a secret trail. It was too late now. What a prize idiot I am, he thought. Mark and Joan stopped chattering noticing the tense atmosphere around them. Timothy raised his hand and everyone trudged to a weary halt, all feeling dispirited and tired. If he told them they were lost Joan would probably start crying, and he knew from years of experience that her crying would upset the others. Mark swiped his foot at a dried up fir cone. “We've got to keep going. We’re nearly there. Come on everyone, follow me.” And he rushed ahead, dashing forwards, calling directions over his shoulder and racing into the undergrowth. “Left here! Right here. And then we reach the funny stones.” The children ran after him, wellington boots slap, slapping loudly on the forest floor. Mark came to a halt in front of a barrage of ivy. “We're back on the right track now.” “How do you know? And Mark, what stones are you talking about?” asked Timothy breathlessly. Mark grinned jubilantly then plunged beneath some heavy gnarled ivy limbs and disappeared. “The stones are here. They’re really weird looking.” “Don't touch them,” called Timothy. “Remember what Mum said. And we’re supposed to keep together.” “Okay. Okay. I'm coming back.” A few crashing sounds brought Mark onto the path in front of them again, grinning helplessly and dragging pine needles from his hair. “Wait until you see what I've found!” he laughed, freckles racing across his face. “Is it the giant's secret world?” piped up Joan excitedly. “Of course it is,” teased Mark. But then he clamped his mouth shut, suddenly feeling uncertain. How did he know about the stones when they couldn’t be seen from the path, and why did this dark dense place seem familiar? Timothy moved in front and began hacking away at the branches to clear a path for the girls. When he reached the stones he hesitated. “This place feels creepy. Perhaps we ought to leave now, and go home.” Diane began to argue, but when she saw the stones behind Timothy her voice dried up in disbelief. Mark’s ‘weird’ stones were huge and stood many hands taller than Joan. They were ragged around the edges and looked like a giant’s hand had ripped them from a gigantic quarry in some mad satanic frenzy, before heaping them in a crazy profusion of lines, one on top the other. These ghastly stones formed a vast wall which seemed to push its way into the forest before disappearing beneath a dense wall of giant vegetation. Many of them were thick black Joan noticed and gave off a feeling of evil “What is this place?” she whispered. Mark pressed closer to the strange wall, noticing a faint mixture of lines and odd markings gouged into the surface of each black stone. The nearer he got to the wall the stranger he felt. “Be careful,” said Timothy, closely following his younger brother. The girls tucked in behind the boys, once more in single file, and once more with Timothy taking the lead as they found themselves on a thin path running alongside the wall. Sometimes Timothy missed his footing and all the while a growing sense of fear swelled through him. How he wished he hadn't brought the others; Joan was far too young to cope. Soon she would grumble she felt cold, and he would get the blame. He shook away his doubts and hoped they would soon find the rifle range. He remembered how the temperature had dropped on their earlier visit to the forest, and how it felt as if they were entering a world of winter. It was dropping now. Plummeting faster than a broken icicle. Every now and then his hand touched a stone through the mounds of ivy, and as it did a tremor rushed through him. The stones began changing shape beneath his fingers, becoming newer, modern, and identical in size. Rapidly he started hacking at the ivy