Thomas Kindercook and the Pink Pyjamas

THOMAS KINDERCOOK

  AND THE PINK PYJAMAS

  By Gerald Feather

  Copyright 2012

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  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter One: SAMMUEL KINDERCOOK

  Chapter Two: THE BOOK

  Chapter Three: ENDLESS NIGHT

  Chapter Four: GATSBY

  Chapter Five: VICTOR

  Chapter Six: SILENT MISTS

  Chapter Seven: EARLY MORNING VISITOR

  Chapter Eight: ALANNA

  Chapter Nine: ESCAPE

  Chapter Ten: AGREEMENT

  Chapter Eleven: LAYING IN WAIT

  Chapter Twelve: SURVIVING ETIQUETTE

  Chapter Thirteen: BATTLE ON THE BREEZE

  Chapter Fourteen: THOMAS AND THE KING

  Chapter Fifteen: CONDITIONS

  Chapter Sixteen: ALANNA'S ROOM

  Chapter Seventeen: INK AND NIBS

  Chapter Eighteen: PAGES

  Chapter Nineteen: TRAPPED

  Chapter Twenty: HOMECOMING

  Chapter Twenty-one: REVELATIONS

  Chapter Twenty-two: SHADOW ON THE ROCKS

  Chapter Twenty-three: THE SEER

  Chapter Twenty-four: BETRAYAL

  Chapter Twenty-five: VISIONS

  Chapter Twenty-six: UNWELCOME WELCOME

  Chapter Twenty-seven: BATTLE OF THE CLOWNS

  Chapter Twenty-eight: SEETHING RED

  Chapter Twenty-nine: BIRTHDAY

  Chapter Thirty: COTTON CANDY, CAKE AND KISSES

  Chapter Thirty-one: SHADOWS, SLINKS AND STORM DRAGONS

  Chapter Thirty-two: AND THE PINK PYJAMAS

  Chapter Thirty-three: LEFT IN THE COLD

  Chapter Thirty-four: MRS INK

  Chapter Thirty-five: THE CAPTURED AND THE KINDERCOOKS

  Chapter Thirty-six: IN THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON

  Chapter Thirty-seven: JUDY

  Chapter Thirty-eight: FORCES GATHER

  Chapter Thirty-nine: BATTLE

  Chapter Forty: SEALED

  Chapter Forty-one: RETURN

  I would like to express my sincere thanks and appreciation to my mother, who went over the book and provided a wealth of insight and to friends Joanna and Jennifer for the same. To my wife, I would like to express my undying love and admiration for putting up with the multitude of papers and notes, for taking care of me through hard times, but most of all for being the one that keeps me going.

  This book is dedicated to my daughter Ariel, who spent countless hours walking to school through the rain listening to me babble on about characters and plot, and provided me with endless feedback and support. You are an amazing and creative person. All my love and thanks.

  Dad.

  PROLOGUE

  The screams of death had all died down, but the clouds of billowing acrid smoke continued to rise from the once beautiful city of Valencia. The wind whipped at the highest peaks of Skyloft Mountain, threatening to blow the Auroral Citadel clean off the grassy plateau of the highest knoll. Despite the harsh winds, the sun shone brightly over the silvery shining fortress, reflecting light into the valley below.

  Rivulets of red crisscrossed down the intricate carvings on the door of the king's chamber. Eiden Hawthorn leaned heavily against the frame, fighting to keep himself upright. He was wounded, mortally, and he knew there was not much time left.

  The Elementals of the PitchGoth Void had made their final assault, and Valencia had managed to stand against the harrowing attack. The toll in lives had been far greater than any of the dragon nations had anticipated. Many leaders had fallen. Most of the outer lying cities had been thrown into chaos, but at the very least, the land was safe from the Elemental's wrath, for now.

  The blood pooled at the bottom of the door. Eiden coughed, fighting off a wave of fatigue. There was one task left to do. It would require all the strength he had left. He could only hope it was enough before he succumbed to his wounds. Eiden was the fifth son in the house of Hawthorn, and as such, had been blessed with the gift of sight. The Elementals had been stopped, but they would come once more. Eiden had foreseen a battle the likes of which dwarfed the epic battle of his beloved Valencia. It would take place many years after his passing, and by then, most of what he held dear would be lost. The new king would need to restore the realm, and in order to do that, he would need the power of the house of Hawthorn on his side.

  It took most of Eiden's strength to wobble over to where the nightstand sat. He reached up and removed the ancient crown from his head, and placed it with care beside the tiara of his long lost Graceline. Being careful not to bleed onto the nightstand, something that Graceline would never forgive him for, Eiden lifted the glass up and placed it over the crown and tiara. He lingered only a moment, letting the satisfaction of knowledge that he had a small part in the survival of the future sink in before turning to seal the room. The king's chamber would remain untouched until the next King of Valencia came to revive the land. The door slid shut behind him for the last time as he exited the room where he had slept for nearly twenty-five thousand years. A long and full life, by dragon standards. Slumping to the floor, Eiden began his last spell, and offered up a prayer to the next king. “May the next ruler of Valencia fare better against the Elementals than I have.”

  CHAPTER 1

  SAMMUEL KINDERCOOK

  Derelict. Decrepit. There were lots of words to describe the house Thomas Kindercook lived at. It was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the oldest house on the lane. The ramshackle building, which had been added on to many times over, was now standing on its last legs. The walls leaned here, bowed there, and many of the rooms still sported turn of the century (not this century) wall paper which was losing its battle to stay adhered to the ancient boards. If you were to brave going up to the attic, you would immediately notice the rhombic quality of the room. The walls at one point in history, may have been squared off, and the rooms, possibly, could have been various combinations of squares and rectangular cubes, but now they all had a nice shift, twist and skew to them.

  This house, was his grandfather's house. It was the house where his grandfather had grown up. Thomas' own father had grown up here as well, and had planned to fix it up, and raise him here. At least that is what Grandpa Kindercook had told Thomas. Thomas' mother and father had been killed in a car accident when Thomas was scarcely more than a year old. Ever since, he had lived with his Grandfather.

  Thomas was lying on the floor of the upstairs common area lazily staring at a spider who was indecisively making its way across the old wooden boards. Outside a large flash of light accompanied by the booming growl of thunder berated the house. The house just ignored the weather as it had for the last 150 years or so. It shifted, groaned and bumped in the wind, but that was about all. It was a Saturday evening late in November, and the weather was anything but inviting for a 14 year old boy who had nothing to do. Despite the wind and cold of winter, the only thing that came down from the sky was icy rain, which made for miserable conditions to do outdoor activities. The derelict old house was in a more rural area just outside of town, and lacked many of the city amenities. Water was still drawn from a well here, and cable television hadn't found its way out to their area. Power outages too lasted longer, as rural outages fell a lot lower on the city's priority list. So it was that Thomas found himself on the floor with nothing to do as the power had gone out hours before leaving no hope that Thomas would find a bit of excite
ment this weekend.

  Laying on the floor looking every bit as hopeless, was a book that looked as old as the house it belonged to. Thomas shoved the end of a pencil under it, and flipped the book up onto the couch just as his grandfather came in. Grandpa Kindercook paused and sighed, “Old books are like old people. You need to show them a little respect.”

  Thomas wasn't sure if this was really the kind of book you show respect to. It looked more like the kind of book you would see in a museum. You would pick it up and look at the fancy lettering, and let it transport you to a time long before computers and movies, or anything else remotely interesting. Then, upon reading a word or two, you would lose interest, put it back, and never lay eyes on it again.

  “You know what this reminds me of Thomas?” Mr Kindercook latched on to the corner of the couch with his gnarled fingers, slowly lowering his body to the waiting cushions below. His bones creaked, clicked and clacked as if they were a part of the house moaning and creaking in the storm that was raging outside. He finally managed to get his body low enough to release his weight, safely plopping down on to the soft surface below, and letting out a big, “AHHH” in the process.

  Thomas waited expectantly as his grandfather made himself comfortable.“This night reminds me of another night long ago, where another boy sat here pouring over this very book.” Mr Kindercook slowly moved his hand over to the book that Thomas had just flicked up onto the couch. His skin as dry as the book he held, the sound of his hand running along the cover reminded Thomas of the sound of cardboard being slowly cut by a knife.

  Thomas refrained from stating his true opinion of the book. It made excellent flicking material, but little else.

  With a careful movement, Mr Kindercook lifted the book and adjusted the glasses on his head. “Ah yes. This was his favourite book.” A sad smile crossed his face. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts. Thomas waited patiently. This was normal procedure before the onset of one of his grandfather's stories. “Do you know WHOSE book this is Thomas?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “This book, was the favourite book, of my brother Sammuel.” Mr Kindercook paused and opened it up with the loving care one would show for their most prized possession.

  It was here when my parents moved into this house many years ago. It was Sammuel who found it while exploring the dark old corners of the attic. It's rare to find a book that is entirely hand written and bound. As a young boy however, I had little more than a passing interest in books as it was, and this book was a hand written, barely legible book of riddles. Not the sort of thing that I was interested in. Sammuel was the more academic of the two of us, the uniqueness of it intrigued him, and he took to carrying it around, trying to make out the flowing text, and crack the riddles that lay within.” Thomas' grandfather's expression grew far away. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “It was on a night like this that my brother came to me to tell me about an 'exciting discovery' that he had made. I was too busy playing with my friends to pay any attention to what he had to say, and I shooed him away. That night,” Grandpa Kindercook paused, “my brother disappeared.”

  Grandpa Kindercook closed the ancient text and sighed again wistfully. “The police blamed his disappearance on a vagabond that had been sighted hanging about town. There was a string of disappearances back then. But I never believed that. I knew that it had something to do with what he had found in this book. I spent a long time looking over it, trying to figure out what it was that he might have discovered.” With a look of distaste on his face, Thomas' grandfather stared down his nose, through the thick rimmed glasses, at the spine of the book. “I never did however.” Passing his hand gently over the cover Grandpa Kindercook grew quiet, and it was hard for Thomas to make out what it was he was saying. “The words in this book still make as little sense to me today as they did when I first read them.” With that, Thomas' grandfather fell into a contemplative silence.

  Thomas had sat quietly through the story of his great uncle's disappearance. He had known about the abduction, but this was the first time he had heard about the book. He knew old people liked to make stories a little more colourful sometimes. Bend the truth here, tailor a fact there in order to make a rather sad story into something more mystical. The look on his grandfather's face was so earnest, distant and sad however that Thomas found he was getting more and more curious about the book he had been flinging around. A book that stole away his grandfather's brother. Could something like that actually exist?

  The wind outside gave a tremendous shove at the old beams resulting in the building groaning. This seemed to snap his grandfather out of his reverie. “Well Thomas. It's about time you got ready for bed young man!”

  Thomas grimaced. The tale of the disappearance of his grandpa's brother had made him a little nervous. With the power out and the wind pushing the house around, this house wasn't just old and creepy anymore. It was super old and creepy!

  Grabbing a candle from the mantle above the fireplace, Thomas made the ominous trip up the stairs from the warmth and security of the fire and his grandfather's company, to the dark, musty, cold attic where his lumpy mattress awaited. The only comfort Thomas took in retreating to the dark recesses of the top floor, was that it put distance between him and that book. Not that Grandpa Kindercook's story had scared him or anything. Thomas simply felt there was something off about that book.

  As Thomas climbed the stairs, he couldn't shake the feeling that the book was watching him. Thomas clutched his head and grunted, trying to drive the feeling away. He needed to get ready for bed.

  The bathroom was exactly what you would expect of a house that was more than 150 years old. Little in the way of innovations. The only good thing in the strange smelling room was the extra large cast iron tub. Sometimes, the thought of the colossally heavy iron tub, sitting full of water on these old planks made him nervous, but the benefits of being able to bathe in a tub large enough to swim in outweighed the risks of falling through the ceiling. No power also meant no water as the pump that ran the well, fed off the house's electricity. Thomas finished up brushing his teeth, a grim task without working water, and was ready for bed. As he climbed up on to the bed, his mind wandered to the story about his great uncle and the book. Curiosity started to gnaw at him like a mouse at cheese. Curiosity and a fourteen-year-old are seldom a good mix. Could it really be true that there was a link between that book and his great uncle's disappearance? It seemed unlikely. His grandfather would have figured it out long ago if that were the case, and surely the police would have made the connection. Or would they? They were convinced it was the work of a known serial abductor who was kidnapping boys around the time of his disappearance. They probably wouldn't have bothered themselves with even checking about a book in that day and age.

  Thomas tossed and turned. The house shook and groaned. At times the wind seemed to be trying to tell him something... But what? Finally Thomas had enough. He quietly got up and crept down the stairs, being very careful not to make too much noise. Not that it would matter much. His grandfather's hearing wasn't that good to begin with. It would take a fair bit to wake him up. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he was sure it was late as the fire in the fireplace was down to embers only, and there were no signs of his grandfather.

  On the table in front of the fireplace, rested the book. Oh good, grandfather hadn't taken it to bed. He had half worried after the reminiscing earlier on in the evening, that his grandfather would carry the book off to some forgotten shelf in the house and he would never see it again. Thomas reached the table, picked up the book and flipped it over. The light was dim, so it wasn't easy to make out anything by the dying embers in the fire. He would have to take it upstairs to look at it. The house was old and the power frequently went out. As a result, Thomas kept a flashlight around as well as a fairly large stockpile of batteries. His grandfather had expected that he would use these to do reading and homework in such cases. Well... at least he was
partially right. He was going to read and study, but the subject of his work would be something not taught in school.

  Thomas returned to his bed, plunked down the book and got out his flashlight. There was something eerie about reading by flashlight in an old creaky house in the middle of a storm.

  The book lay on the bed expectantly and Thomas was quick to oblige.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE BOOK

  “A hand bound, hand written book of mystery.” Thomas whispered to himself. He carefully opened up the book to the first page. No publishing year. Well that made sense. This was hand written, not published. He flipped the first couple of blank yellowed pages and came to the first page of text without a title.

  In this book the secrets lie,

  of tales grown old and time gone by,

  If it is escape you seek,

  Dally here a day, a week,

  Careful follow the rules apply,

  Follow them not and you may .

  The words simply stopped at this point. That was strange. There was little mystery about the next word in that last sentence. It was as if the book was asking the reader to say it. The wind outside howled. Thomas shivered and decided that it was a word best left unsaid. Without giving it too much thought, Thomas flipped over to the next page.

  The rest of the book seemed to follow suit. A series of riddles , each one ending with a missing word. Curious. It seemed the words were purposely left out.

  Thomas began to read the first entry. It was titled:

  Riddle of the Pink Pyjamas

  The writing was hard to make out. Not really messy as much as overly flowing. It seemed archaic in some respects. So heavily accented that it was hard to make out what letters the hand flowered symbols were supposed to represent. After much muddling, Thomas deciphered:

  Through the misty grasp of the unknown plane,

  Where darkness comes and light does wane,

  Travelling there through time and space,

  Fit on your garments of pink and lace,

  Should you forget the ring of silver and gold,

  Engraved with things both new and old,

  Without it on you can't go there,

  Forever barred from the dragon's lair,

  There you go where things stand still,