As a child, did you ever hear a story that changed your view of the world? Are

you still moved by a great play, book or film? If so, you already appreciate the power

of story to transform how we see, relate and behave towards each other and to the

world around us.

Introduction

You are not alone. For some, it begins by listening to Grandparents sharing

stories of old. For others it may involve falling in love with a character from a novel or

possibly that magical first trip to the theatre. In all forms, this ancient art entices and

transports us to wonderful new worlds that inevitably infuse our perceptions of daily life.

Once bitten, it is a source of joy for life. The book in your hands is a work of fiction

created to remind us of an important truth.

Holme is enchanted.

We would like to say a huge thank you to everyone who helped and supported

us throughout the whole process of enchanting Holme.

Thank you!

In particlular we would like to thank Andrew McCaul, Alice Hilton, Luisa

Townsley, Keith Griffin, John Curry, Bill Macbeth, Rebecca Mckenzie, Peter Rock,

Andrew Heath Beesley, Neil Worthington, Ajaz Ahmed, Linda Williams, Brent Woods,

Sally Osman, Lee Corner, Prof. Bob Cryan, Prof. Tim Thornton, Laurence Boldt,

Barrie Robertshaw, Sophie Jones and Barry Sheerman.

We would also like to thank The University of Huddersfield, Duffield Litho & Digital, Huddersfield Media Centre, Kirklees Council, The Bigger Boat and Make Believe.

This book is for Maisy, Georgia, Sebastian, Nelly, Gabriel,

Zachary, Stanley, Lauren, Libby, Ben, Lucas, Harry, Pheobe,

Scarlet and the child within everyone of us...

HolmeThe Enchanted Valley

Written by Paul Wilson

Illustration by Christian Waterson

Design, digital illustration and typography by

Lee Boothroyd and Douglas Main

ost people put it down to her age, after all, seven wasn’t so old. A child’s

fantasy, nothing more, nothing less. Yet, there was always a painful pause

when others saw it for the first time.

A normally shy little girl rolling around in the grass, chatting away or giggling

with laughter with invisible friends. At other times she would be reduced to tears,

sobbing without explanation in parks and gardens, or down by the river.

M

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It was all perfectly natural for Scarlet of course as she had been talking with

plants, trees and animals as long as she had with people. Trees in particular reminded

her a lot of people.

Some are tall, well groomed and look down on you. Others are more friendly

with rich blossom and open branches. A few sag and slope, turning their back on

the world. Others are lost to shadows, leaned on by cast iron railings, over run by

aggressors. Forgotten children, looking for someone to talk to.

That someone was Scarlet.

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he tree at the back of Almondbury church stood alone and Scarlet felt it was scared. Petrified even. But it was not lonely because a crow with oily wings

sat still against the wind on a low swung branch. A guard with black eyes, staring. She introduced herself again, but the stubborn old bird would only mutter a

single word she did not understand.

T

She couldn’t remember seeing a tree that looked so worried. Twisted andgnarled with a hunched look about it. Deep marks were etched into the bark and twisted along its length, up the trunkand around every branch. Letters, symbols and drawings. A charm inked on skin.

Scarlet jumped as her mother pulled her back into her father’s arms.

‘Take her to the church’ she barked, her father already retreating.

‘Quickly Stuart’ she snapped.

Over her father’s shoulder Scarlet could see her mother in a rage. Puffed up in

anger, finger pointing at the crow. She ranted in a language Scarlet did not recognise.

Harsh yet poetic. She knew she was upset, but this was different.

She’d never heard her screaming before.

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Her Mother scrawled strange lines and symbols in the soil

at the foot of the tree, still staring at the crow. She lowered her

voice, muttering something, then knelt in front of it. A black flash

as the crow swooped from the branch, slashing her face with its

talons. She fought back a scream as it landed, standing proud

in front of her.

Whatever her mother had said the crow had understood.

But why had she never spoken with animals before?

Her mother retreated, clutching the pendant around her neck.

A flat semi circle of polished sandstone held firmly in her grip.

Scarlet lost sight of her mother as she rounded

the corner of the church.

She made a vow to ask about the crow later.

When she had calmed down.

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ld Bill was far from the most popular person in the village but there was still

a good turn out at the church that day. Huddles of friends, backs to the wind

offering their condolences. Not bad for a man notorious for never leaving his remote

farm or speaking to another soul for over fifteen years. The heavy iron gate of his farm

had been welded shut in recent time following a suspected break in that resulted in

one of the barns being burnt to the ground. From that day he hid himself away,

surviving on essential goods, passed through a small side gate.

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Truth be told, not many would miss him, apart from the local storekeeper who

made a tidy profit from the special delivery arrangements. There was, however,

another reason for the attendance at the church that day. Old Bill owned all the

surrounding land including that of the church, village and farmsteads. This was the

first chance for people to meet their new landlords and listen for clues as to what the

future may hold. There had always been a love hate relationship between the villagers

and their keeper despite his curiosities, Old Bill hadn’t collected a single penny in

rent for over a decade.

Now that his only daughter had inherited the land there was a real fear that

this would change, rents would be high and some people may even be evicted. One

man had come prepared with an offer.

Lord Harton had been trying to buy Old Bills land for as long as anyone could

remember. His motives were uncertain but rumour had it that he wanted to create a

new rail line from his colliery in the south to his factories in the north.

Straight through the village centre.

A stocky, powerful man with a booming voice, his success was only

overshadowed by his ambition. He wore a black, full length suit with silk turns and a

single red rose in his button hole. In the inside pocket he had an envelope sealed with

his personal stamp containing deeds of purchase that he intended to present to the

family as a once in a lifetime opportunity. How could anyone turn down one million

pounds for such a wretched jag of land? Knowing the daughter Emma from when she

was a tot, and confident she had no intention of relocating from London, he puffed out

his chest and made his way through the crowd.

lthough Emma could hear him talking she was too distracted to listen to

Old Fartin, as the children used to call him. Her eye was fixed on Scarlet,

standing in front of the Old Oak she used to swing on as a child.

She looked distant, despite being only a few feet away. She remembered the

tree. It used to be much grander, healthier, with a rope swing thrown over the lower

branch. She could still see her father pushing her.

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Up and over.

That was before the disappearance, after which she was sent to stay with

family in London at the tender age of ten. On leaving the valley she had spent many

years denying the voices, whispers and howls that surrounded her wherever she

went. Practice had made her deaf to the other world.

Yet, despite her best efforts, she could hear this tree now hypnotising Scarlet

with its charms. She hoped her daughter would be different, denied the gift.

Yet, despite her best efforts Scarlet spoke with the others at every opportunity.

It must stop, before Scarlet was taken. As she once had been.

The shadows crossed the churchyard in a frenzied dance, but nobody was

watching. The day had been more eventful than any could remember with the

flamboyant funeral and fracas between Emma and Lord Harton. How the crowd

cheered as she threw the envelope flatly in the bin without even opening it. The

crowd’s cheer was short lived.

Mrs Crowther, the baker’s wife had seen Emma on her way from the church

retrieving the envelope from the bin whilst hiding her face with a silk scarf. There was

blood on her jacket and she had a wild look. ‘Her hair was like a hawthorne bush’

Mrs Crowther chuckled.

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Probably from the nosebleed the child had suffered just after the service

some offered.

‘Maybe, maybe not’ said Mr Pollock, the butcher, ‘but I can tell you this much,

she has her Grandfather’s eyes, no mistaking’.

The small crowd collectively breathed in at the suggestion, then dispersed. But

not before Mr Fletcher added ‘But why retrieve the envelope if not to consider the offer?’.

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