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The Purging of the Great Thorns

The sun was not merely a ball of burning gas to the folk of the Sandleford Warren; it was Frith, the Great Eye, the golden source of all life and the witness to every twitch of a whisker. But on this day, the air felt heavy, tasting of ozone and the cold, sharp scent of worked iron. Fiver, the small, twitching seer of the rabbits, sat atop the Honeycomb, his ears flat against his back. "It’s coming, Hazel", he whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. "A great white light. Not the light of Frith that warms the fur, but a light that eats the world. Man has grown too clever. He has stolen the fire from the center of the earth and pointed it at the sky". Hazel looked toward the horizon. He couldn’t see the, "Great Thorns"—the long, silver cylinders Man had hidden in the ground—but he felt the vibration in his paws. The world of men was screaming. They had built machines that could turn the grass to ash and the rivers to steam. They were ready ...
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Whistle a Tune of Twinkle

Whistle a Tune of Twinkle




Whistle a tune of twinkle,
A melody in the night,
With stars up in the heavens,
That sparkle pure and bright.

The moon is softly glowing,
As shadows dance and sway,
While fireflies are drifting,
In their own sweet ballet.

There’s music in the garden,
Where dreams and laughter play,
With whispers of the breezes,
To guide us on our way.

So whistle a tune of twinkle,
Let joy and magic soar,
For every note is precious,
And life’s a song to explore!




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