PURE MAGIC

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Contents

Preface........................................................ixDragon Man.....................................................1Commander Niko.................................................36Thomas and the Witch Of Pig Prophet's Peak.....................55Siena Chapters.................................................74A Day in the Life of Victor....................................102The Meaning of Matteo..........................................127

Chapter One

The morning was fresh as fresh can be, in the full-blossomed month of May; the air as crisp as any morning's breeze can be, at the start of a brand new day; and the world was beautiful. Only a few puffs of baby white clouds ran riot across the bluest of skies playing cowboys and Indians as they drifted high and low, racing above the mountains and valleys stretched below, and briefly casting their passing orderly shadows over them. Eagerly reaching upward to the sparkling sun-bleached sky, an extravagance of wild plants and flowers echoed the glow of the fresh day. Covered with a profusion of color, the dazzling meadows full of hearty vegetation vigorously soaked up the warm new day of late May; green grasses and pretty flowers slowly awakened to grow hardy to the tempo of the spring winds, their measured movements attracting tons of brilliantly colored butterflies and busy bees all hungry to land on them and taste the dew-filled sweetness of their nectar.

The sun was piping yellow, splashing everything with gold. There was joy all around the overgrown country side full of red poppies and white yellow daisies, wild purple thistles, yellow and orange marigolds, chamomiles and dandelions, sweet balm and hemlock, and a myriad of other frail baby flowers too shy to brag their beauty, too many to call by name, all coyly hiding among the tall weeds and grasses. The sky was full, as full could be, with birds of blue, and green, and red, all darting up and down, and back and forth, rambunctiously bursting with unbound energy across the blue heavens and scaring the multitude of flying insects and other wing-buzzing treats into a flurry for cover. The newly arrived from the south swallows fought furious territorial battles first among themselves, and even worse, with the single-minded, stay-at-home fearless sparrows. All were busy building their nests from scarce dry twigs, left over dry hay, or pieces of string or animal hairs mixed with mud and gathered from leftover little puddles. In the front yard, the new born kittens were nipping at each other's ears, playacting ferocious games, while the formidable, proud king red rooster stood guard over his handsome well layered hens as they nibbled the fresh sprouting greens and cackled with contentment and high gossip among themselves. Whistling winds crisply rushed through the swaying tall trees, and bushes, and shrubs spreading sweet Mediterranean cool air all around, joyously clearing the way for another promise of a rich and abundant spring. Once again the world had erupted into a rhapsody of spring excitement with the immemorial songs of perpetual youth. Contentment was in the air and all life was full of expectation.

* * *

George Peter had just woken up and was still in his underwear standing on the old rickety wooden terrace of his grandfather's farmhouse in Arcadia, Greece. The stone farmhouse was decades old, built on top of a small hill, and from its terrace he could see far and wide and all around the country side. Like the big boy he was becoming, he took a deep breath, sucked in the cool morning fresh air, and stretched his arms over his head to wake up all his muscles. He loved standing on the terrace and looking out far into the green valleys and rolling hills, as far deep as the repeating high mountains and beyond. He liked waking up while it was still very early in the day; he loved the coolness of the morning and he didn't want to miss a minute of it. Although it was rough waking up so early in the morning, all the excitement of the farm made early rising well worth it.

George Peter rubbed his still sleepy eyes with his fists as he looked out from the old farmhouse terrace. He leaned carefully on the wobbly railing and saw his grandfather milking Fofo, the old goat, and he wanted to run to him. He hoped he wasn't too late for the milking because his grandfather had promised to teach him how to milk the goats. His grandfather always milked Fofo first and then Fofo's daughter goat, Fifi, who had less milk than her mother because, naturally, she was younger.

He ran down the stone steps that led from the house to the old barnyard where his grandfather was sitting on a small wooden stool milking old Fofo into a shiny, large, deep, copper kettle. As he ran towards him, he could see the broad back of his muscular grandfather tipping his stool backwards so that he could better reach old Fofo's udders. He had watched him milk the goats before and as he was running to him, George Peter would clutch and squeeze his own fists in imitation of his grandfather, his eagerness to partake in the milking of old Fofo filling him with joy.

Grandfather would milk his goats in the morning and then again in the evening. Each time he would take some of the milk from the goats but he never took all the milk from them because he had to save some of the milk for Fofo and Fifi to suckle their baby kids too. And after every milking his grandfather would allow the baby goats out of their pens so they too could feed on what there was left of their mothers' milk. That spring, Fofo had given birth to three kids and Fifi to two. They were clever little Billie goats full of mischief. They ran and hopped and jumped all over their pen, constantly butting each other and anything else in their way. When they were out of the pen, George Peter loved chasing the baby goats in the field around the barn but they were awfully tricky to catch, easily hopping and jumping over rocks and the low stone fence walls. One time, when he wasn't looking, one of Fofo's baby Billy goats butted him and he fell on his butt.

"Papou, Papou, wait for me," yelled out George Peter as he picked up speed running downhill to the barn.

He called his grandfather Papou because his grandfather was Greek and the Greek word for grandfather is 'papou'; it was an easy word to remember, though he called his grandmother 'Granny'.

"Don't get all the milk out of them yet, Papou. Save some for me."

His fists in imitation of milking were pumping harder and faster the closer he got to the milking.

Surprised by the unexpected voice coming so early in the morning, Papou looked over his shoulder and saw his recently arrived from the US eight year old grandson running towards him. Papou loved George Peter because, in spite of the boy's slightly oversized ears, he was a handsome and daring lad with light brown hair, always somewhat messy, clear brown eyes, and a spotless complexion symmetrically spaced across his happy face. He was a natural born explorer completely unafraid of anything and always ready for new discoveries. Ever since he was six years old he had travelled from his home in Arcadia, California, usually during spring and summer school breaks, all the way to Arcadia, Greece, all by himself. He was a boy who could take good care of himself pretty much in all surroundings and everyone was very proud of him, especially his...