The Children of Frevallion

Chapter Five

That night, I dreamt of strange swirling mist and cobbled streets, an old Victorian horse and carriage sat beneath an ebony sky. Someone cracked a whip. The horse whinnied and galloped away. Then the cobblestones dissolved into sand falling with a dizzying swiftness through an hourglass. At the bottom was a city wrapped around a hill and capped with a palace. The sand threatened to bury the city whole. Everything went black. Creaking noises like old rusty hinges echoed in blackness. Then, a phone rang, and it was my dad's voice.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Then urgent whispering. I could only make out a few words: portal, Sinéad, Antioch and "danger? When?" His voice was staccato and frantic.

What a strange dream, I thought... until I heard the zip being undone on the tent. "Margot? Margot, wake up. Get dressed. We need to leave."

"What?" My voice was thick with sleep.

"Get up, dress, pack." Dad wasn't messing around this time.

For a few minutes, everything felt surreal, like I was caught in a thick fog. But, then I heard him giving orders to Frida and Miles. Poking my head out, I could see him packing up the picnic table. I quickly zipped the tent closed and changed.

I quickly packed everything into my bag, rolled up my sleeping bag and deflated the mattress, my hands moving on autopilot. Once I'd gathered my gear, I stepped out onto the dew drenched grass, shivering slightly. Outside, I found a very grumpy Miles and Frida packing up the cooker and food, their expressions mirroring my unease.

"Dad! Just tell us why we're making a quick exit." Frida hissed, her voice barely contained.

Dad held up a finger, urging silence. "Not now."

"No, explain!" Frida snapped, eyes flashing in indignation.

"I will when we're not going to wake up the kids sleeping in the tent next door," Dad asserted. Frida had a temper, but Dad—usually laid-back—matched her fury with his own. There was no mistaking that this was not a morning to cross him.

As we packed, I watched him closely. Tension stiffened his shoulders, and he worked fast—like we were trying to escape a bomb zone, like our lives depended on it. He moved with purpose, as though on a mission.

Then it hit me. Whatever had happened, whatever had compelled him to wake us up at 3 a.m. and rush us out, it was serious.

Everything was packed in just twenty minutes. We shoved the gear into the campervan without a second thought for neatness, and piled in, jostling for space in the booth or window seat as Dad slammed his door shut. I squeezed into the window seat, pressing my legs against the wall, in an attempt to find comfort. I closed my eyes, but the uneven road sent my head bumping painfully against the wall.

Half an hour later, we hit the gravel road, jostling us all awake in the campervan. It wasn't dawn yet, and we all glared blearily out of the windows, too tired to talk. The campervan lumbered gracelessly down the road, and I could see the smidgen of goodwill we had left for our father slowly dissipating. I wondered which of us would be the first to snap at him.

Then, mercifully, the roads were paved again, and we managed to drift back to sleep for another few hours. Miles slid into the window seat beside me, gently settling my head onto his shoulder. I wondered if he'd come to keep the dreams at bay, to shield me from whatever shadows lingered in my mind.

I wasn't sure what I became aware of first, the fact that the campervan had stopped moving, the morning gradually dawning, or the smell of coffee. I wiped my eyes free of sleep and looked up as Dad held out a steaming cup. I accepted it with a quiet "thanks," testing the temperature with a tentative sip. Miles, whose head was now nestled on my shoulder, groaned.