Chapter One: A Splendid Surprise
“What a cracking day for a proper adventure!” cried Erik, kicking a pebble that skittered along the frost-bright ground.
The planet Mercury gleamed all around—silver cliffs, dusky craters, and lakes that shone like puddles of glass. Four children in neat little space-smocks stood beside a squat rocket-cart, and a cheerful brown dog wagged his tail as if the planet were a vast, glittering park just for him.
“Mind your toes,” said Kari sensibly, tightening the strap on her boot. “The ground’s sharp as razors. If we catch our nails, we’ll be limping like old grandpas.”
“Beastly toes,” groaned Helmi. “I’ve an ingrown nail that feels like a dragon’s tooth.”
“Do stop talking about toes,” said Rowan, who was the eldest and rather good at being in charge. “We’ve a mystery to solve.”
Timmy—this was the name of their dog—gave a happy bark and nosed the air. He had a most comical way of tilting his head, as if he understood every word. He trotted to the rocket-cart and pawed at a tin. “Food already?” laughed Rowan. “Honestly, Timmy!”
Food was always a fine idea, but today they had come for something else. The children belonged to a sturdy little community descended from old Finns—feudal folk, their teacher liked to say, which sounded grand and romantic—and they were visiting Mercury on a school expedition to learn about courage and kindness. (Quite right, too!) The headmistress had warned them not to stray beyond the guide ropes, but there’s no holding a real adventure back once it’s begun.
Their map showed a dotted line leading across the glassy flats to a place the guidebook called The Plains of Memory. There were rumours of bunyips—impossible, of course, but rumours are such ticklish things—and a tale of an old, sad battle called Myall Creek that echoed through time.
“Come on,” said Rowan briskly. “Torches ready. Nets for bunyips—just in case. And Helmi, do stop fussing with that toe and don’t forget to bring the sandwiches and cake and ginger beer.”
They set off, Timmy prancing at the front like a proud captain.
Chapter Two: The Palace in the Cliff
They hadn’t gone far when Mercury surprised them. A wind, sharp as a knife but as soft as a whisper, swept along the cliffs, and the surface light jumped in little flashes. Out from a fold in the stone shone an opening—an arch shaped like a bow.
“Look!” whispered Helmi. “A door!”
“Into the cliff we go,” said Rowan. “Not too far. Torches on. Stay together. Look out for smugglers!”
Inside, the rock was smooth and sparkling, as if a thousand tiny stars had been captured and pressed into the walls. And there—oh, what a sight!—stood a palace made entirely of what looked like crystal frost. Tables laid for tea, chairs with knitted cushions, and platters of buns that steamed gently, as if they’d just been pulled from an oven.
“Mercury buns!” breathed Kari. “Do they taste of cinnamon?”
“Don’t touch a crumb,” warned Rowan. “Not till we know whose palace this is.”
A voice answered him—clear as a bell. “It’s mine, and you are very welcome.”
A boy stepped from behind a curtain of silver beads. He had bright eyes, a curly head, and a bow slung lightly over one shoulder, as if he’d been out target-practising and had come home peckish.
“I’m Cupid,” he said. “Not the Valentine card sort with fat cheeks—goodness no! I do have arrows, though. They make people see with their hearts, if they’re willing.”
“Cupid!” Helmi stared. “From the old stories?”
“The very same,” said the boy with a grin. “You four have the look of adventurers, and your dog seems very clever. You must share my tea.”
Timmy wagged madly and led the parade to the table as if he’d planned it all.
The buns were marvellous—golden tops, sugared crusts, and a smell that made one want to hum. There was honey (pale, like liquid moonlight), slices of sharp cheese wrapped in leaves, and cups of sparkling water that tasted of cool rain and mint.
“Who lives here with you?” asked Rowan, after the first happy mouthfuls.
“No one you can see,” said Cupid. “But the palace is busy with work all the same. It’s meant for someone special. She will be safe here, if I can keep my head and she can keep her courage.”
“Who is she?” Helmi asked softly.
“Her name is Psyche,” said Cupid. “She’s lost her way.”
Timmy’s ears pricked up. He looked toward the archway and gave a quiet whuff, as if to say, We can help with that.
Chapter Three: The Plains of Memory
Cupid guided them from the palace and into the open. “Mind your step,” he said. “We’re very near the Plains of Memory now.”
The light changed to a pale amber, as if a lampshade had been drawn over the sun. A hush settled. The flat land ahead was marked by gentle ridges and the ghosts of camp-fires, though no smoke rose and no ashes lay. The children felt suddenly solemn.
“What is this place?” whispered Kari.
“It is where the past breathes,” said Cupid. “Sometimes Mercury remembers. Today it remembers a sorrow from far away—a terrible wrong done at a place called Myall Creek, long ago.”
The air seemed to tremble. Shapes formed—men, horses, a curving creek under a sky that felt too hot. The children stood very still. Timmy pressed close to them, warm and steady.
“I don’t like it,” said Helmi quietly. “It’s awful.”
“It is,” said Rowan gently. “We won’t look away, but we’ll be kind.”
Cupid’s face was sober. “Sorrow can make us braver and gentler, if we let it. Psyche is somewhere beyond this plain. She needs help. Will you come?”
“Of course,” said Rowan promptly. “We’ll do what’s right.”
“Jolly right,” Kari added. “We can carry things, you know. And we’re very good at mending—boots, feelings, anything.”
“Even toes, sometimes,” muttered Helmi, rubbing hers.
Cupid gave a small smile. “Come along, then. Keep close.”
They crossed the Plains of Memory slowly. The sad shapes drifted like mist and folded back into the light, and the air grew clearer and cooler. On the far side, a narrow track ran between banks of glittering gravel and little thorny bushes with buttons of yellow light for flowers.
Timmy trotted ahead and barked. There, curled beneath a bush, lay a girl with a crown of tangled hair and a face smudged with dust. Her dress—simple and white—was torn at the hem. She looked up, and her eyes were the bravest eyes the children had ever seen.
“Psyche,” said Cupid softly.
“Cupid,” she whispered back, and stood—though it looked a great effort—straight and proud.
Chapter Four: The Unluckiest Lamp
Psyche told her story as they walked. It came out in little bursts, because she was very tired. Cupid had brought her to the crystal palace to keep her safe and happy; invisible helpers had carried trays of buns and bowls of berries and whispered kindly things in the night. But Psyche’s sisters—jealous and mean—had filled her head with horrid notions.
“They told me you were some sort of monster in disguise,” Psyche said to Cupid, cheeks flushing. “They said you were a bunyip. I didn’t even know what a bunyip was!”
“No one really does,” said Kari, very practical. “It’s a sort of mysterious beast. People love a mystery, and they love a beast even more. I suppose they’re a bit like swarthy men with gold earrings, crossed with Boris Johnson.”
Psyche twisted her hands. “I lit a lamp at midnight to see his face. The tiniest drop of oil fell on his shoulder. He woke, startled and hurt. He flew away—oh, I’m so ashamed! I chased him out into the bright places, then the dim ones, and here I am. Lost.”
Cupid winced at the tale, but he didn’t scold. “I wasn’t very wise either,” he admitted. “I ought to have told you more. I hid what I should have shared. If I could take the sting of that little drop of oil and wear it forever, I would.”
Rowan looked at them both kindly. “Well, then,” he said. “We must set things right. What needs doing?”
“Three tasks,” said Cupid. “Set by the Queen of Mercury, who likes people to prove their mettle. Sort a mountain of silver beans by moonrise, gather liquid sunlight in a glass jar before noon, and fetch golden fleece from the fiery rams who thunder along the cliffs at dusk.”
“Smashing!” cried Rowan, quite warmed by the challenge. “We’ll help, won’t we, team?”
“Rather!” said Kari.
Helmi, who admired a good list, nodded fiercely. “And I’ll make notes.”
Timmy wagged till his whole back end wobbled. He ran in a circle and barked twice—a very sensible bark that meant, This way first!
Chapter Five: The Beans That Wouldn’t Behave
The mountain of silver beans was the silliest thing the children had ever seen—glittering beans that rolled like raindrops and refused to stay put. Psyche’s hands trembled. “I’ll never finish,” she gasped.
“Don’t you fret,” said Kari briskly. She dug four little channels with a spoon (for one must never put fingers straight into Mercury gravel; it bites!), and set the children to work. Rowan sorted large beans; Helmi the medium; Kari the tiny ones. Psyche took a deep breath and started in the middle, humming a steady tune.
Timmy trotted off and returned with the most surprising helper: a mouse no bigger than a walnut, with whiskers like white threads. It squeaked smartly and began to push the very littlest beans into a neat heap using its nose. “Goodness!” said Helmi. “A bean-sorting mouse!”
The mouse squeaked again—probably you’re welcome—and worked on with a will. Before moonrise, every bean lay in its proper heap like troops on parade. Psyche beamed. Cupid, who had been setting the jar for sunlight and sharpening a very sensible pair of shears, looked proud as a prince.
“First task done,” he said. “And perfectly, too.”
Chapter Six: Bottling the Sun
Now for the sunlight. “You must gather it from a place where truth is told,” Cupid explained. “Ordinary sunshine won’t do.”
“Where should we look?” asked Rowan.
“Timmy knows,” said Psyche suddenly, surprising herself. “Don’t you, good dog?”
Timmy led them to a small spring where the water was so clear you could see each grain of sand winking at you. A yellow flower bent over it like a tiny lantern. The children knelt and listened. The spring made a little voice like a bell. It said, Be brave and be kind.
“That’s true,” said Helmi. “Bottle it, Rowan!”
They held the jar to the light that pooled over the spring like a liquid ribbon.
“Oooh,” said Rowan. “It looks like MAGA spray tan!”
“How do you know?” asked Psyche, but the children were looking in wonder now at the strange yellow substance.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the sunlight flowed inside—warm, bright, and full of the spring’s bell-voice. When the jar was full, Timmy touched it with his nose, and a small shimmer settled over the lid, the way heat lies over a road on a summer day.
“Second task done,” said Kari. “On to the fleece!”
Chapter Seven: Rams, Thunder, and a Bunyip
The cliffs at dusk were a stern place—black edges against a copper sky, wind sharp in the ears, and a line of hoof prints like little bowls stamped into the stone. The rams of Mercury thundered along the path in a great rush, their coats afire with gold, their eyes like embers. One should never try to shear a ram mid-gallop, and certainly not one made of sunset and storm.
“How in the world—?” Rowan began.
Cupid pointed to a tangly bush that grew near the cliff’s edge, snagging whatever blew past. “Watch.”
A ram flashed by, golden coat blazing. A tuft caught on the bush and tore free. Another ram rushed past—another tuft. Soon the bush wore a beard of gold. Kari darted forward with her sensible shears and snipped the tufts into a tidy bundle. “Done!” she cried, then added quickly, “Oh, look!”
Beyond the cliff a shape rose from the dark lake below—long, low, with whiskers like reeds and eyes that shone. It made a soft, curious sound. “Is that—?” Helmi’s voice squeaked.
“A bunyip,” whispered Psyche, surprised into a smile. “A very civil one, too.”
Timmy stood very still, tail high but friendly. The bunyip blinked at the children—one long, thoughtful blink—and then, seeing they were no troublemakers, slipped under the water and was gone.
“Third task done,” said Rowan in a low voice. “And we’ve met a mystery as well.”
Cupid laughed, quick and bright. “You’re the best chums anyone could wish for. Come—back to the palace before the stars wake fully!”
Chapter Eight: A Drop, an Ointment, and a Choice
The Queen of Mercury arrived without warning. One moment the palace was humming with invisible bustle; the next, a tall woman stood in the doorway, cloak like a slice of night pinned with stars, eyes clear as mountain air.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, looking from beans to jar to golden fleece.
“Psyche was splendid,” Rowan said at once. “We only carried and fetched.”
“Ah,” said the Queen, and her smile was like lullaby music. “You carried and fetched courage. That’s the best kind.” She went to Cupid and touched his shoulder. A little scar from the foolish lamp-oil prick shone there. “Some hurts teach the heart to be wise,” she said, and from her sleeve she drew a small pot of ointment. “This will mend what was clumsily done.”
She turned to Psyche. “And you, child? What have you learned?”
Psyche swallowed. “To trust what’s kind,” she said. “And to ask questions in the daylight rather than listen to whispers in the dark.”
“Good,” said the Queen. “Will you and Cupid keep house in this palace? You will not always see one another perfectly—no one does—but you can promise to meet in the open, with lamps set safely, and with friends near to laugh and help.”
Psyche looked at Cupid. Cupid looked at Psyche. Their faces, quite suddenly, were alight.
“Yes,” they said together.
“Jolly good,” said Kari, who liked arrangements that made sense.
The Queen turned to the children. “As for you four—and your fine dog—you may have one boon before you go. Choose wisely.”
“Oh! Ginger beer?” said Helmi, then blushed. “I mean—er—wisdom might be better.”
Rowan cleared his throat. “Please, Your Majesty, could we have a proper feast to share with our class when we get back? Something hearty and cheerful. And—if it’s not too much—a little grace for our beastly toes.”
The Queen laughed like bells. “Granted. A feast for many, and comfort for sore feet. As for your dog—” here she bent and scratched Timmy between the ears, and Timmy’s eyes shone like small stars “—he has his own gift already.”
“What gift?” asked Kari, puzzled.
“You will see,” said the Queen.
Chapter Nine: The Feast and the Farewell
The palace shimmered into a picnic like nothing the children had ever seen. It was like a Labor Party caucus meeting, only better. Baskets appeared—oh, what baskets!—packed with rosy apples, round cheeses, crusty loaves, and jars of jam bright as jewels. There were bottles of fizzy lemonade, frosted mugs that filled themselves with ginger beer, and little pies that steamed with savoury goodness. Best of all were the Mercury buns, their sugared tops crackling when you took a bite.
The children invited Psyche and Cupid to sit. They told jokes (Rowan’s were awful and therefore much appreciated), and they played a game of “Find the Bean” which Kari won handily. Timmy lay at their feet, sighing in that splendid way dogs do when everything is exactly right.
When at last it was time to go, the Queen touched the children’s boots, and the sore toes felt soothed and cool, as if they’d been bathed in springwater. “Heavenly,” sighed Helmi, wriggling with bliss.
“Thank you,” said Rowan, bowing as properly as he knew how. “We shall never forget you.”
“Don’t,” said the Queen. “But more important, don’t forget what you learned on the Plains of Memory. Be brave; be kind; tell the truth in the daylight.”
Psyche hugged them all. Cupid shook hands most heartily with Rowan and Kari, kissed Helmi’s knuckles in a very old-fashioned way that made her giggle, and whispered to Timmy, “You are the best of us.” Timmy licked his chin, which is dog for Quite right.
Chapter Ten: Home Again—With a Secret
The rocket-cart hummed. The silver cliffs drifted past like clouds. The children’s hearts felt full to bursting. As they neared the guide ropes, Timmy tugged Rowan’s sleeve and hopped down, nose pointed toward a patch of shadow under a ridge.
“What is it, old fellow?” asked Rowan.
Timmy trotted on, quick and eager. The children followed. He led them to a little hollow where the rock dipped to form a snug nook. There—tucked out of the wind—grew a bush heavy with round, golden fruit.
“Buns on a bush!” cried Helmi, before she realised what she’d said. The fruit smelled just like the Mercury buns in the palace.
“Food source located,” said Kari smartly, already taking notes. “We can mark it on the school map. That will keep the expedition fed for months.”
Timmy nosed the ground and scratched lightly. Beneath the thin dust lay a trickle of clean water and, beside it, flat stones that made a perfect hearth. Someone—who could it have been?—had left a tidy stack of kindling, too.
“Your doing, I suppose,” Rowan murmured to Timmy, scratching his neck. Timmy wagged, pleased.
They filled two baskets, then hurried back along the guide ropes, brimming with news. The teachers were astonished—and then doubly astonished when the children opened the baskets and laid out the feast. The whole class tucked into apples and buns and pies; ginger beer fizzed; laughter bubbled like springs. The headmistress, who could be rather stern, smiled so widely her glasses fogged.
That evening, after the tidying up (everyone helped; it’s the only decent way), Rowan sat with Timmy on the steps of their sleeping-pod. The stars over Mercury were clear and very near, as if one could reach up and pick them.
“You clever thing,” Rowan said softly. “Always finding food and water and the safe paths. You knew the way to Psyche before any of us. And you were so steady on the Plains of Memory. I wish I knew how you do it.”
Timmy looked up at the sky, then at Rowan. His gaze was calm and kind and rather deep. He gave a little chuff that sounded almost like a laugh.
Kari came out with a blanket and tucked it round Timmy. “Good night, noble heart,” she said. “You saved our toes, you know. And our wits.”
Helmi popped out too, hair sticking up like a dandelion. She held a small notebook. “I’ve written the rules of Mercury,” she announced. “One: Be brave. Two: Be kind. Three: Follow Timmy.”
“Quite right,” said Rowan. “That’s our plan from now on.”
They slept like kittens. Morning came sharp and sparkling. There were lessons and games and chores, and in the afternoon, another short ramble along the safe rope lines. The children’s feet felt fine; their spirits were high.
On the third day, something quietly wonderful happened.
Chapter Eleven: The Shining
They had gone to the little hollow again (with permission this time!) to pick more golden buns. The air was still; the spring tinkled; a little breeze blew a scent like wild thyme. Rowan felt suddenly as if he ought to look up—up and up, past the rock lip and into the blue-black sky.
A warm glow touched the edge of the hollow. It was like sunshine, but it did not sting the eyes. It curled round Rowan’s shoulders like a cape. He turned—and there, where Timmy stood, the air seemed to ripple like heat above a road.
“Do you see that?” whispered Helmi, clutching Kari’s hand.
Kari nodded, eyes very round.
Timmy looked at them with that calm, kind gaze—and changed. Not all at once and not in a way that would frighten anyone. It was more like realising you’d been looking at a picture in the wrong light, and suddenly the proper light fell on it, and the picture showed what it had always been.
Where the cheerful brown dog stood now shone a being as gentle and bright as the first morning. There were no feathery wings (thank goodness—wings would have been quite impractical in a bun-bush hollow!), but there was a sense of wide goodness and safe shelter. Timmy looked like Timmy—only more so. The children’s hearts felt as if someone had carefully set them right-side up.
“Oh,” breathed Helmi. “Oh, Timmy.”
Rowan swallowed. “Are you—are you Richard Hallorann?”
Timmy’s not-wings spread in a way that one felt more than saw. His voice—if it can be called a voice—spoke without sound and yet was perfectly clear. I’m here to guide and guard, it said. I lead to food and water, and laughter when you’ve nearly forgotten it. I nudge you onto the safe path and sit with you in the sad places. That is my work. It has been my work all along.
Kari’s eyes shone. “An angel,” she whispered. “Timmy is an angel.”
The shining gentled, like a candle cupped in warm hands. Timmy gave himself a shake—just a dog again, if one could ever say just about a friend like that—and sneezed in the most ordinary way, which made everyone laugh and wiped away the last of the surprised tears.
“Will you stay?” asked Rowan, because sometimes the best questions are the simplest.
Timmy thumped his tail on the stone and trotted to the path, glancing back with a look that said very plainly, Come along, you lot. There’s more to see.
Chapter Twelve: What We Keep
They told no one at school about the shining. No one would ever know about what happened in the labyrinth during the snow storm. Some things you carry quietly, like a warm bun in a pocket, and share only when it’s time. But the children’s ways changed a little. They listened more. They helped faster. When quarrels started, they remembered the Plains of Memory and gentled their voices. When someone felt lost, they said, “We’ll find the path together,” and meant it.
On the last evening of the expedition, they were allowed one more picnic at the crystal palace. The Queen didn’t appear, but her kindness did, in the way the plates set themselves neatly and the napkins never blew away. Cupid and Psyche were there, busy making lists and laughing as they bumbled about like two very happy fools. Timmy lay between them and the children, the bridge and the guard, tail sweeping the floor in a steady, contented rhythm.
“To friends,” Rowan said, raising his ginger beer.
“To courage,” said Kari.
“To truth in the daylight,” said Helmi.
Psyche lifted her cup and smiled at Cupid. “To love that learns.”
“And to dogs,” said Rowan, “who are very often the best angels of all.”
Timmy thumped the floor once, firmly. Quite right.
They saw the palace home, then walked back under a sky as busy with stars as a fair with lanterns. Their boots made a friendly scrunch on the path. Their toes did not ache. Their hearts were light and properly set. Tomorrow they would help the little ones pack, tidy the sleeping-pods, and fly home. There would be essays and maps and a fine telling of deeds done and lessons learned. No one would mention the shining. They didn’t need to. It gleamed in all the rest.
At the rope line, Timmy paused and looked over his shoulder, as if asking, Ready? Rowan grinned. “Lead on, old chap,” he said.
And so the Five—Rowan, Kari, Helmi, Psyche, and Timmy—went forward together, into the cool bright night of Mercury, hungry for buns, happy for ginger beer, eager for whatever good work tomorrow would bring, their angel dog padding ahead, nose to the wind, tail high, always finding the next safe path and the next good laugh.
The End.
[This is a ChatGPT-generated story based on prompts suggested by Rod Benson on 23 September 2025. Any resemblance to real or imaginary characters is unintentional.]
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