Wicked Runaway: A Mark Cannidor Adventure

Chapter One (Part One)

Some time ago…

Mark Cannidor was not an average 12-year-old boy, but he was extraordinary in his own unique way. He worked on his parents’ farm at Battalion Manor, a small mining village in the north-east of England. Due to the nature of their work, Edward and Hazel Cannidor made the decision to home school their son many years ago. His parents were very well-educated, and they had traveled the globe together when they were young, but when Mark was born, they bought a farm and settled down to a more peaceful life where they could give back to their communities.

Mark was passionate about literature and would spend hours during the day reading, writing, as well as working for his parents on the farm. On Sundays, the Cannidors would attend church in the nearby village, where they would meet with the locals and sell some of their stock to the vicar’s family and the local residents. Sunday afternoons would be spent reading his father’s newspapers, which was his opportunity to explore what had happened in the past week. Mark was a rather intelligent lad, but also quite mousy and adventurous. Whilst he was interested in stories, he loved the great outdoors. His home gave plenty of choices for books and wildlife.

The winters were difficult for the Cannidor family, but the summers were glorious. That is why the family worked especially hard during the summer period to prepare all the food required for the winter ahead. After a day of work, Mark would often take trips into nearby woodlands, exploring the local area, watching birds and collecting rocks of interesting shapes and sizes. Evenings were spent reading his very own collection of novels.

Their home was located within a rural country farmland within the depths of Garble Woods. It was located nearby a small village called Battle Hill, which consisted of a church, a school, a post office, and several small homes inhabited by families and the vicar. Mark enjoyed the days where he could explore the local land, visiting the village for a bite to eat using the little money his parents could pay him for his work. He also managed to meet up with some of his friends in the village.

Overall, Mark considered his life a quiet one.

However, he wanted so much more than that.

Mark dreamed of writing novels and traveling the world. Just like his hero, Charles Dickens. At a younger age, Mark was taken down to the Docklands on various occasions, where he watched in awe numerous ships carrying cargo and people from all over the world attending to their business and setting off on holiday. Mark dreamed of a world outside of England, where he wished to travel to mysterious islands and grand cities all over the globe.

All the great places he dreamed of were places he had read in his favorite books. New York, Paris, Sydney. They were the fields of dreams for young Mark. He wanted to take his parents with him, and he wanted to read his works in theaters, cafés and on the streets of different places. He didn’t expect a luxurious lifestyle, but he wanted one where he could travel.

It was a shame that his parents had little money to spare for his adventures. They were once wealthy people and had everything they ever wanted. Mark wasn’t entirely sure why they decided to settle down at Battalion Manor. Maybe they had enough of travel? Or was it because they had Mark and needed somewhere convenient to stay?

Nonetheless, Mark worked hard every day. He would wake up at the c***k of dawn with his parents, eat breakfast then tend to the crops and animals that lived on the farm. After a quick lunch, he would sow vegetables, collect firewood for the evening and help his mother to clean the house in preparation for dinner and an evening sat by the fire reading a novel.

He was also in the process of writing his very own novel (a tragedy about love and loss). He concentrated on the farm every day, and he attended monthly community meetings with his parents. He supported some of the older members of the community, and he helped his father to deliver supplies around the local area.

Overall, Mark was a committed, hard-working and caring individual. He had everything he could possibly need in his life.

And in a few weeks, he would turn thirteen years old.

Of course, Mark had no qualms when it came down to the age of the people he was surrounded by. Whilst he enjoyed playing with children his own age, he preferred the company of his parents and elders within the community. They dealt with their business, they enjoyed quieter activities such as reading and walking, and Mark had many intelligent conversations with the elders he respected within the village. This wasn’t because he didn’t enjoy playing games or going on adventures with his friends. It was because he enjoyed work and getting things done. He looked up to those who were older than him and felt strongly about looking after those who were most in need.

However, in the days before his thirteenth birthday, his entire perspective on the world changed.

To start with, a few days before he turned thirteen, he woke up early and was greeted by some of his friends from the village. They explored Garbles Woods, and one of his wealthier friends (the son of the vicar) had brought corned beef sandwiches and apples. After sitting down to eat lunch, they went swimming in a lake, and sat in the cool summer sun as they talked about books and adventures.

His friends teased him for being the first of the group to turn thirteen. Mark found this highly amusing. Whilst he was the oldest, he was the smallest, the fastest, and as Rupert noted, the wisest.

‘Do you think you’ll send your work to a publishing house then?’ his friend Nicholas asked in true amazement for Mark, who laughed in response.

‘Doubt it!’ Mark trilled. ‘I don’t think they accept work from kids my age’.

The group of boys laughed.

‘You better write something soon,’ Rupert said. ‘My father says they’re always looking for people to write in the magazines. Where was it you wanted to travel? New York? Paris?’

‘Sydney’.

‘Where?’

‘It’s in Australia,’ Mark explained. ‘It’s on the other side of the world, in all fairness. I couldn’t tell you how you would get there. Or how long. But it would be exciting to see somewhere that far away from home. My dad says it’s a big island which looks like a dog’.

The other boys laughed.

Mark dreamt of a land far away as he returned home shortly before supper. He was greeted at the door by his father, who was emptying sacks of potatoes into a wheelbarrow. He was merry as always, enjoying the afternoon sun and whistling another made-up tune.

‘Afternoon, son,’ Edward Cannidor said cheerfully, lifting his sun hat up to his son. Edward was a happy sort of man, who had everything he could possibly desire: a family, his own farming business, and good connections with the local people in the village and down at the Docklands. He didn’t consider himself the sort to work too hard, but he put in all the hours sent to him and remained calm and polite throughout and enjoyed everything that came with it.

‘Hello, father. Are those for the villagers?’ Mark asked, pointing to the potatoes.

‘I’m taking these up to the vicarage shortly after supper,’ Edward said. ‘They invited us up this evening for pudding, but we have a lot of work to do on the farm. So, they sent some pudding to us. They have supported us so much during these difficult times, so I thought I would offer them a small favor. My goodness, you’re wet!’

Mark looked down at his suit and, surely enough, he noted that he was indeed soaked in certain places. The sun had not dried him off enough. His mother would kill him. It was the only decent outfit he owned.

‘I’m sorry, father,’ Mark muttered.

Edward chuckled.

‘It’s not me you’ll want to be answering to, son,’ Edward said with his eyebrows raised.

His timing could not have been better, as they were joined at that moment by Hazel Cannidor, Mark’s mother. She was short and mousy, just like Mark was. However, she had long black hair, a pale complexion, and gave the impression that she was a demon headmaster. However, she still smiled down proudly at her son, her eyes a glowing blue.

‘Hello, love,’ she said. She leaned in to kiss her son on the head but drew back as soon as she noticed how wet he was from the swim.

‘What have I told you about swimming in that lake?’ she snapped.

Mark shook his head.

‘Leave him alone, Hazel,’ Edward requested of his wife. ‘It’s just water, there’s little need to make a scene’.

Hazel hesitated. It would just be more work to clean up, let alone cost her cleaning supplies which she did not have enough of. However, she snapped out of her frustration after several long moments.

‘Very well!’ she snapped. ‘Suppers ready. Come along!’

Supper in the Cannidor household was a fairly basic affair. They had beef, carrots, and bread for supper that evening. It was never anything too fancy, but for what they had, it was more than enough.

Mark wolfed his dinner down quickly and excused himself from the dinner table soon afterwards. He never really stuck around for pudding, which was a simple sponge cake donated to the Cannidors by the vicar’s wife. However, his mind was now focussed on writing. It happened every evening. He wasn’t sure whether this had anything to do with his appetite, but Mark always noticed that food gave him inspiration to write.

That evening, when Mark was up late writing a chapter of his own novel, he overheard a strange conversation between his parents. He was concentrating with all his might to make sure that the story he was writing made as much sense as possible, as he wanted to share this with his parents at dinner tomorrow evening. However, as soon as his name was brought up, he stopped writing. He looked across the room, focussing on any other mention of his name.

There it was again.

The mention of his name sent shivers down his spine. He was curious to know exactly what it was that they were concerned about, and the reason that they were concerned about him. Was it something he said? Something he had done. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gone down to the lake with Nicholas and Rupert after all. Or perhaps they thought he was going to change soon? He was only turning thirteen tomorrow. What could the harm be with that?

He stood up, sneaked quietly across to the other side of his bedroom, and pressed his ear closer to the wall to listen, trying with all his might to remain quiet. From what he heard, his mother was in tears and his father was pacing up and down, the floorboards creaking unapologetically with every step. Surely, they couldn’t have been arguing. Or were they?

‘We must tell him,’ Edward explained quite sternly. Mark had never heard his father sound so serious. He was normally upbeat, friendly, and enjoyed company and the time with his family. This time, it was different. This time, he was unusually strict, which was quite concerning.

‘He must know. One way or another. We would be lying to him otherwise. It would be damaging for his mental health if we didn’t say something’.

‘I’m just…frightened, Ed,’ his mother Hazel responded. ‘The truth is going to break his heart! I just know it. If we expose ourselves…’

If we expose ourselves? What did this mean? Mark leaned in closer to listen, trying to remain as silent as possible in case they heard his breathing or any creaks of the floorboards.

‘I just remember that promise we made to ourselves,’ Hazel continued dryly. ‘He was to grow up as a normal boy. Away from all that! That was it! We would keep him away from it all…until we know for certain that he’s ready. Age was just a number back in our day. Our parents gave us the nitty gritty details the moment we were born. It’s different now. He doesn’t need to know anything just because he’s turned thirteen!’

‘Hazel, I don’t think you understand. He needs to know the truth. He needs to be…prepared…a grown boy his age could be capable of anything…if he doesn’t know the truth…’

‘Nothing can prepare him for the truth, love,’ Hazel said, much calmer than she was a few moments before. ‘I’d just hate to see his reaction…he could be so upset, or angry when he finds out. And what will happen to him if he gets into any danger? He cannot control his powers. He is so vulnerable’.

Powers? What on earth was that about? As far as Mark was concerned, he was just an ordinary boy. True enough, he had some talents. But they couldn’t necessarily be considered powers. Unless he had got that completely wrong.

Danger? What danger could he possibly find himself in? Mark Cannidor was normally careful when he went out. He never picked any fights and did not go too far away from home by himself. No – Mark was quite alright just as he was. Apart from the fact that he had gotten himself wet down at the lake. So, why were his parents so worried about him? At this point, all he wanted to do was burst into their room next door and reassure them that everything was alright. Although, if he did that, his parents would know he was eavesdropping. And that could land him into a lot of trouble indeed.

There was silence for a few more moments. Mark wanted to move away from the wall at that point. He wanted to go to sleep and forget about the conversation he had overheard. Yet, he was curious to know more. He wanted to know the secret his parents had kept from him. This was about him, after all. He had every right to know what they had to say.

‘It’s getting late, Hazel,’ Edward said. ‘I’ve got to be in the village tomorrow. I’ll talk to the boy when I return home. For the time being – try not to worry too much. And don’t mention anything to him. Is that understood?’

Mark couldn’t hear Hazel’s reply. He guessed that she had simply nodded. That wasn’t good enough. He required facts, more information. If they weren’t willing to go further with their conversation then, when would they?

Mark heard creaking outside of his door. Quickly, he jumped back into bed, threw all of his writing materials onto the floor under the bed, and pretended to fall asleep. He didn’t know whether it was his mother or his father who came in to check up on him. All he could sense through his closed eyelids was that the flickering candles by his bed had been blown out, and there was a peck on the tip of his forehead. His mother’s lips. Moments later, she closed the door behind her. And young Mark Cannidor was left restless, swimming inside his own thoughts.

Mark couldn’t sleep that night. He tried to distract himself by writing some more. He even took himself downstairs through the night to take in some of the warm summer air, hoping to relax his mind. It was no good. Mark had made himself ill with worry. Nothing could distract him now. Not even the thought of his beloved novel.

It was far too overwhelming for the poor lad.

His parents knew something that he didn’t. And somehow, he had to learn the truth.

He tried not to feel guilty throughout the days that followed, yet somehow Mark was under the impression that he had done something wrong. His parents left him to his own devices, giving him space, knowing that something was wrong with him. Mark wasn’t himself. He wasn’t as gleeful or as sociable as he normally was. He tried to help with the jobs on the farm, yet somehow, he couldn’t concentrate. He struggled, and his parents were concerned.

Mark even tried to forget about the conversation his parents had that previous evening. It was no good. It just kept playing in his mind like a reel that kept repeating itself.

He just felt devastated and hurt.

‘We need to do something to help him,’ Hazel said one afternoon as she was preparing dinner for the family. ‘It’s not usual for him to be like this. We don’t know what to expect when he turns thirteen. Do you remember what happened to your cousin, Charlotte?’.

Edward could remember all too well. It happened many years ago. That was a tragic story he would never wish to repeat to anyone else.

‘Listen, love,’ Edward responded. ‘I understand this is tough. This time is difficult for any kid his age. But I am going to talk to him. Don’t you worry’.

‘When will you talk to him?’ Hazel asked.

‘Soon,’ Edward replied. ‘I know the perfect time’.

Mark stopped sweeping the front yard and listened intently to his parents as they were stood at the front door. Edward hugged his wife. Mark did not dare to ask what was happening. He didn’t want to know. He just didn’t want to be overwhelmed with the pressure.

Then the day before his thirteenth birthday arrived.

Usually, at this time of year, Mark would be excited for the day when he could have a large feast of food to enjoy. There would be cake, soup and pie brought to his house by the villagers of Battalion Manor. His friends from the local village would visit his home. They would all play games, eat delicious food, and sing and laugh together. This year, it felt different. His mother had tried to have a conversation with him about his birthday. But it was no good. Mark just wanted to be alone.

Every effort his parents made to cheer him up failed dismally.

However, that evening turned out to be a little bit different.

Mark went for a walk to a nearby forest, where he needed some time to think. He sat on a log for hours, contemplating how he was going to approach this bizarre mystery with his parents. He did not know whether he should be the one to ask, or whether he should wait until his parents were ready to talk to him. Miserably, he decided to wait until his parents were ready to speak to him and returned with an intention to spend some alone time in his room.

When he returned to the farm, he noticed his father in the study, reading a newspaper and taking some notes in a small brown notepad. The door of the study was open, which was unusual for his father as Edward preferred to enjoy his own company whilst he worked and read the daily newspaper. However, Mark saw this as an opportunity to speak to him. He tried to remain as positive as possible about this. He didn’t want to sound too pushy, but he wanted answers. He deserved to know the truth. He had to know.

As he reached the doorway, he cleared his throat and knocked on the polished wooden door.

‘Oh,’ Edward trilled, looking surprised to see his son. ‘My goodness, it feels like such a long time since I’ve seen you. Is everything in order?’

Mark remained quiet. He tried to smile, yet he still did not look happy. He did not feel comfortable. In fact, it was difficult for Mark to make eye contact with his father, the man who gave him everything he needed and made him feel happy. His eyes fell to the floor. Edward realised at that moment that something was wrong. Something did not seem right.

‘Sit down, please,’ Edward requested. Mark was rooted to the spot for a few moments, but after a few moments, he followed his father’s polite request and sat opposite Edward in the study.

‘Son,’ Edward continued. ‘I understand how uneasy things are for you. You will be a teenager soon. I understand. It’s a scary time for you. I spoke with your mother a few days before. It’s about time we had a similar conversation’.

Mark gulped nervously. This was it. The conversation he had been waiting for.

‘Well…’ Edward began. However, he was interrupted by a knock on the front door.

‘Goodness me!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Who the devil could this be at this hour?’

As Edward excused himself to deal with the visitor, Mark looked around the study. Edward Cannidor was a well-known traveller. He had years of experience visiting to faraway places – Panama, the United States, Australia…to name but a few. Mark chuckled as he noticed the figure of a Mermaid his father brought home from Poland many moons ago. Then there was the wheel he brought home from Ireland, as a reminder to Mark that the Earth was a small place. And the pot that was gifted to Edward and Hazel by a king from a faraway land…his father told Mark once that it was supposed to be for luck. Mark agreed. There was a picture of a monkey on the front, and the monkey smiled as he ate a banana and sat on a tree branch. How jolly it was.

Mark began to study his father’s books. Books containing maps, recipes, and facts about all different subject areas. Mark admired his father’s collection and wanted to read these so badly, but his father always asked for him not to go anywhere near his books. Mark couldn’t see why there was any harm in looking through them. Especially as reading was an interesting activity in Mark’s eyes. These books didn’t contain any confidential information, and they were suitable for children to read. And in any case…

Suddenly, Mark’s eyes stopped on a curious book. It had a purple spine, and on the spine, in golden lettering, were the following words:

Mrs Humbles Guide to Magical Dishes and Desserts

Mark reread the title over several times, studying the title on the spine. It was an odd title for a book. He would never have guessed that his father was interested in cooking. It was Hazel who made most of the meals in the Cannidor household. Then again, perhaps this book belonged to Hazel? Mark continued to study the title. It was rather strange. He was an expert with books. He could tell the difference between an original copy and a reprint. He knew a genuine to a knock-off.

This book was weird. To the untrained eye, this would appear to be any normal cookbook. So why did something not look right about this? Mark looked over his shoulder, making sure the coast was clear. His father was still talking to someone at the front door. Perfect. He had a few moments to figure this out. He took the book off the shelf and studied the front cover.

There a golden embossed diagram of a woman holding a thin stick. The stick was pointing towards a bowl of what looked like dough. Was this woman using the stick to make the bread? Mark had never seen anything like this in his life. He knew that Edward had travelled all over the world. Where could such a book have come from?

It must have been a joke book.

He flipped the book over to read the blurb.

Mrs Humble teaches you to make the finest recipes using nothing but magic and love. Create amazing breads and pastries, delicious stews, and superb desserts in just minutes! The only thing you need is your wand, a few dishes and a clear image cooked in your mind. You don’t need to be a professional chef to make the dishes that even a cook could write home about.

This was rather unusual. Just what would his father be doing with a book like this?

Mark opened the book.

The strangest thing was that the book remained shut. It was stuck. Try as Mark might to open the book with as much force as possible, it was like the entire think had been frozen solid. It was impossible to prise the pages apart.

It couldn’t be…

Then again, Mark remembered some of the stories his father would tell him on winter nights when he was around seven years old. His father was once a fine actor, playing medieval characters in stage plays. He would tour around Britain with a group of actors for months, entertaining audiences of all ages, playing in different venues. Edward Cannidor would play the warlock, the wizard, the sorcerer, the antagonist in various forms. That character who possessed wisdom and charm. The character that was so evil, so dastardly, he was full of dark powers. So, how did Edward find this book in his possession?

Was this what Mark thought this was? Surely, there must have been other books like this one.

It felt so much like a prop. But there was so much detail…it felt so real somehow. Perhaps the theatre company had gifted this to him. Yes, that would be it. A gift. Given to him for his work. That would make sense. Still, it did not explain exactly why a book like this would be kept shut for so long. Perhaps it had collected a lot of dust in the years it was stored. Or, as Mark thought was more plausible, perhaps this wasn’t really a book at all.

‘Pleasure doing business with you, sir!’

Mark paused. His father was coming back. Quickly, Mark stuffed the cookbook back onto the shelf and raced back to the chair he was sitting in before. Remaining as casual as possible, he concluded that that was what the book was. A prop. A gimmick. One of those books you might find in a joke shop.

There was nothing for him to worry about.