George P. Matheos combines his storytelling talent with his real world experiences to create six captivating tales that will delight and amaze in this fun short-story collection. In "Dragon Man" George Peter experiences a most memorable vacation laced with fear, adventure, love, and humility in a strange encounter with a disfigured man. A brave hero blasts through several universes seeking out Pure Mind to get the magic word that makes him a superhero on command in "Commander Niko" Modern knight Thomas falls in love with good witch Samantha while battling warlocks and dragons in "Thomas and the Witch of Pig Prophet's Hill" In "Siena Chapters" Siena makes friends with mermaid Sirenia and hears the tragic story of the beautiful Melusina and handsome Prince Brandon. "One Day in the Life of Victor" sees Victor splashing in pirate games and victories at sea in his backyard pool with his talking mice friends and mean and hungry cats. In "The Meaning of Matteo" four year old Matteo stumbles upon hermits, werewolves, Little Red Riding Hood, and Cassiopeia before fastening on his Iron Man boots in the safe haven of his bedroom. Bursting with colorful characters and rousing adventure, Pure Magic shows how the magic of childhood is filled with unending journeys into the imagination.

PURE MAGIC

By George P. Matheos

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 George P. Matheos
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-1617-4

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

Dragon Man

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 Papou.

"Not so fast," yelled Papou, watching his grandson running towards him.

George Peter was just too anxious to get to the milking of the goats to listen to his Papou. There was no slowing him down now; and from a distance he could see his Papou's happy face as he ran towards him.

"It's about time you woke up sleepy head," he said, as George Peter wrapped his arms around Papou's neck in a great big hug. "I've been up for hours already. I've been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for you. Did your Granny give you some breakfast, or did you come here for a shot of good fresh goat milk?" and without further ado his Papou aimed one of Fofo's tits towards George Peter's face and squeezed a bulls-eye shot of warm milk directly into his mouth.

"Hmm, good," said George Peter. "Do that again, Papou!"

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, and three more perfect shots of warm goat milk found their way into George Peter's waiting open mouth.

"This will take too long," said Papou. "Here, quickly drink this glassful of milk but don't tell your Granny because she'll get angry again because you know why. After you finish drinking your milk, I'll show you how to milk old Fofo."

George Peter cautiously drank the warm, delicious milk keeping a sharp eye least Granny catch him drinking goat milk before he had his breakfast.

"Where's your Granny?" asked Papou who was also very aware of Granny.

"Come on Papou; did you really wake up hours ago? I thought I heard some throat clearing coughing, you know, cough, cough, cough, just a little before I woke up. Cough, cough, I hope no one heard me, Papou," he laughed.

Papou smiled at his clever grandson.

"George Peter, you get right back up here and put your pants and shoes on and have your breakfast."

It was Granny butting in again.

She meant well, but she was a girl and she treated everybody like a girl, thought George Peter, who otherwise loved his Granny even more than his Papou, sometimes.

Put your pants on, wash your hands, where's your shoes, don't throw stones at the chickens, don't go far from the house, wash your face when you wake up ... were the very words that Granny forever reminded George Peter. Of the same, but more frequent, were the ever more present prodding, Are your hands clean, don't put that in your mouth, don't touch that, don't pick up that dirty stick, what will people say?

Ugh! She meant well, but what fun was there in not touching anything?

"And you, you stubborn old man, aren't you ever going to grow up and do the right thing for once? Bring that boy back up here right now," yelled Granny.

"In a little while, Granny Jane; we're in the middle of milking the goats right now," said Papou and he winked at George Peter who hid a huge smile in secret agreement with his Papou.

"Just as soon as I finish milking old Fofo, we'll be right up, Granny."

He watched his Granny going back to her chores inside the house. He knew that his Granny was very happy whenever he was near her. She was a beautiful woman with the hugest, happiest smile who loved the world and found great joy in loving everything and everyone around her, especially playful Papou. Even more, she loved cleaning the house and cooking new meals for her visiting grandson. She was a good cook and George Peter always loved her meals. He especially liked Granny's octopus cooked in olive oil and fresh tomato sauce. Of course, it wasn't the whole octopus that she cooked, but rather the octopus cut in small delicious pieces of white meat. Sometimes though, when the octopus was rather small, she would cook the tentacles whole. As he waited his turn to milk the goats, he couldn't quite decide which he liked better, the octopus or the fried squid that Granny often cooked just for him.

"Come on George Peter," whispered Papou out of hearing reach of Granny. "Whack that chicken away and come sit here and finish milking old Fofo because her babies are getting hungrier by the minute waiting for their breakfast. Don't forget to leave some milk for the kids."

George Peter chased the old squawking hen away and afterwards sat on the stool behind old Fofo full of excitement at his turn of milking. He pretty much knew what he was supposed to do, but he also knew that there's a big difference between knowing and actually doing. He knew that he was supposed to squeeze lightly and pull gently on the two tits sticking out from under old Fofo's udders, but then, how much was lightly and how much was gently? He was soon to find out.

"Spread her legs apart and keep them that way with your arms," instructed Papou and George Peter did. "Now grab both her tits with your hands and squeeze hard and pull gently – one, two, one, two, - into the kettle in front of you."

George Peter pulled hard and squeezed gently and old Fofo turned around to see who it was and caught him with a pretty good butt against his forehead knocking him off his stool and right into some muddy fresh wet chicken droppings.

"Phew," said George Peter, but he had been able to keep his hands from touching the ground. As he got up he looked at his underwear and wondered what he would have to say to his Granny who, he was sure, would have some goods words for him.

"It's a good thing I'm still in my underwear and not in my clean pants, isn't it Papou?" he a bit embarrassed volunteered out loud.

Papou watched his bright-eyed grandson and smiled to keep from laughing.

Angry for getting thumped by a goat, George Peter picked himself out of the chicken poop, walked up to old Fofo, gave her a swift kick in the butt, and sat down on his stool behind her. Without instruction from his Papou, he spread old Fofo's legs apart, grabbed her tits again and began squeezing and pulling. The milk shot directly into the kettle, making huge white foaming bubbles. He knew he was doing it right, now, because even old Fofo wasn't protesting; she was chewing her cud in contentment. George Peter also was full of smiles as he pumped away getting the milk out of Fofo.

Easy, he thought.

While George Peter was milking away, his Papou was watching him with immense pride. It was obvious to him that the boy was born to milk goats. He decided right then and there that he had to figure a way to convince George Peter's parents to let him stay with him and milk the goats all winter long and beyond, maybe forever. To heck with school! They don't teach you anything in school now days, except how to sit politely at a desk, indoors, and breathe stale air.

"I was about your age when I milked my first goat," said Papou, slyly.

Pump, pump, pump, went George Peter's hands. Determined now, he didn't find it necessary to respond to his Papou's remark given that what he was doing was more important work. Squeeze, pull, squeeze, pull, pump, pump, pump, and there you have it.

"Of course, in those days, we used to milk our goats down by the cave."

There followed a moment of fumbling silence; there was a slowing down of the milking of old Fofo at this important new pronouncement by Papou.

"Cave, what cave?"

"Of course we had many more goats, then."

"What cave, Papou?" George Peter stopped milking altogether and turned to face his Papou. "There's no cave around here!" he smiled at his Papou.

"Yes there is! A big one, too! But you finish milking old Fofo, now."

George Peter's mind was trying to focus on some cave that Papou had now tossed at him. What cave was Papou referring to? What was it like? Where exactly was this cave? Why does Papou say these things that can drive a person mad?

He lost interest in finishing milking old Fofo. He knew from his readings (he loved mysteries) that any cave in the world was more interesting than milking a goat. Caves hold the fantastic possibilities of fabulous mysteries and unknown findings. A good cave is full of surprises. You want to experience something new? You find yourself a good cave to explore! Caves have hermits, caves have treasures. Bears and wolves, and maybe even ghosts live in caves. There are old cavemen drawings and prehistoric carvings in caves. Also, there are underground lakes, and stalagmites and dripping stalactites. And, they say, once in a while, you come across human remains, stuff like skeleton and skull bones thousands of years old, if you go deep enough into a cave. You may not find the whole of the skeleton, but you definitely find lots of dried out skulls with jangling jaws and loose teeth, and huge empty holes where the eyes once were. Skulls, and skeletons, spiders and all sorts of other unknown creepy and crawly creatures, and many times blood sucking bats, all waiting to be found in caves!

Definitely more interesting than milking an old goat, even an old goat as nice as old Fofo, thought George Peter.

"Papou, you must tell me where that cave is, right now! Otherwise, I don't believe there is a cave and I think you're making this whole thing up as you sometimes always do," he half teased his old Papou hoping to draw him out more.

"The only thing I can do for you right now, George Peter, is point to where the cave is," said Papou in a crafty indifference. "But don't think you will be able to see it from this distance because it's much too far for you to see."

"How far is it?" he asked, still testing the old man.

"Oh, easy two or three hours by foot," replied Papou.

Definitely more than twenty blocks, thought George Peter, who up until then, had never done more than four or five city blocks on foot.

"OK, Papou. I believe you that the cave is very far. Now, show me the direction where it is at," he said.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from PURE MAGICby George P. Matheos Copyright © 2011 by George P. Matheos. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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