text: It was 2am when Pot presented himself at Owen’s bed. It was a queen-size bed, which is rather a large bed for a 7-year-old boy. However, it did not look out of place in Owen’s considerable bedroom. The bed was decorated with a Harry Potter duvet, which complimented Owen’s Harry Potter pyjamas. Pot is a sprite. He is 2 feet tall with the same anatomy as a human. A constant grin stretched across his sharp facial features. His whole being appeared to be made of an icy translucent white light. It was as though he was being projected. “Wakey wakey,” whispered Pot directly into Owen’s ear. Most children would scream at the sight of a ghostly sprite within face-biting distance, but not Owen. Here is a child that has spent the entirety of his seven years within his own head. A head that contains magic, mythical creatures and all manner of fantasy. This is a child who needs to be called at least three times by his mother before his focus leaves the world of fantasy. A child who received the magic set he had craved for Christmas. As an only child of affluent parents, he got most of the presents he wanted. This wasn’t some high-street rubbish, this was the best magic set that a father, desperate to please, could find after several weeks of searching. He went on to perform the magic. Of course, such a child has no interest in instructions so his parents were required to look away as Owen made the coin ‘magically’ disappear. “Child, I’m looking for a skilled warrior to help me in my quest to uphold the good and vanquish the bad. Do you know of such a warrior?” said Pot. Owen managed to lift an eye lid. “Aye. I could be a warrior. I know kung fu.” The grin across Pot’s face stretched implausibly further. “You’re amazing. I could tell from the moment I saw you that you have the potential to be a great hero.” Owen lifted his head. His cheek was connected to his pillow by a string of saliva. He managed to lift the second eyelid. “Who are you?” “Great question. I am Pot. The Sprite. I fight on the side of goodness but I cannot do it on my own. I need the help of a great hero such as yourself.” Owen managed to get himself completely upright. He started to feel the chill and so stretched for his comfy grey dressing gown. When Owen pulled the hood over his head it made him look like a wizard with long grey locks, which covered his own shaggy tussled blonde hair. Owen started life with blonde hair. If he was like the other men in his family, Owen was around a year away from his hair darkening and settling into mousy maturity. He turned on the light, which illuminated his loft-converted bedroom. It was the largest bedroom in the house. It was situated on the other side of the house to his parents, which was beneficial for his mother and father as they couldn’t hear his yells as he played with his toys, of which there were many in all areas of the room. The walls were decorated with space-themed wallpaper but you couldn’t see much of it as it was covered with movie posters. Owen had a good look at Pot. He stretched out to shake Pot’s hand. Pot moved backwards just as Owen’s hand reached Pot’s fingers. Owen’s fingers passed straight through Pot’s fingertips as if they were a hologram. “Are you magic?” asked Owen. “Another great question, young adventurer. I am indeed magic. I believe you are magic too. In a way. And I believe you have the necessary characteristics required to defeat the agents of evil. There is one such monster present here tonight. Are you brave enough to help me defeat this beast?” Owen straightened himself and tied the belt on his dressing gown before saying, “Let’s do it.” “The creature we must defeat is a grizzly bear. Each monster has a weak point that we must exploit. This monster is particularly fierce...” Pot noticed that Owen was fidgeting and wiping his clammy palms on his dressing gown. “You’re not scared, are you?” “No. I want to fight. It’s my destiny!” “Wow! You’re a natural. I’m very impressed. The grizzly’s weak point is being confronted by his own reflection.” Without hesitation, Owen said, “I know what we can use! There’s a mirror on my wall.” “Fantastic idea, but do you think it will work?” “Yes,” said Owen and without having a clue, “it will absolutely work.” Owen dangerously climbed on top of three toy boxes that he had stacked and gently removed the mirror from the picture hooks that were embedded in the wall. He was doing so well. He reverse stepped down from the boxes but just as he was going to place the mirror against the wall it slipped from his grasp. The frame hit the floor. Cracks spread up the mirror on impact. To stop it from clattering on the floor and waking his parents, Owen dived at the falling mirror and cushioned the fall with his hands. Large shards of mirror fell out of the frame. Owen carefully withdrew his left hand. It was unhurt. He then withdrew his right hand to discover it was spurting out blood. Shock started at his feet and raised like a wave throughout his body. “Let me look at that brave lad,” said Pot. Owen stretched out his arm and pointed his bloody fingers towards Pot. He turned his head away. Tears surfaced in his eyes as he suppressed his wails. Owen felt a sensation like no other he had felt before. His hand felt moist and warm, hot even, but not painfully so. Owen managed to turn his head and face his outstretched arm. In disbelief, he brought his hand close to his face. The blood had gone. “Not so bad after all. Warrior,” said Pot. Owen took his focus away from his formerly injured hand and squinted his eyes in the direction of Pot. He looked different. It was as if he was a whiter white. As if he had gone up on the scale of whites at a fancy paint manufacturer. Farrow and Ball would say he had gone from “strong white” to “Wimborne white”. “Get the mirror ready. Hold it out in front of you,” said Pot as he placed his hands on the bedding. Owen did as he was told. He placed one of his socks over his hand and picked up a shard. He began to feel nerves. “In 3, 2...” Owen noticed that Pot was somehow now able to clutch the material of the bedding. He also began to wonder how a grizzly bear could fit under the bed. “1!” Pot drew back the bedding. Owen winced with his sight partly obscured by the shard of mirror that he held outstretched in front of him as if it were a shield. He glanced with one eye but couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was his Winnie-the-Pooh soft toy, which he hadn’t seen for so long that he had forgotten that he ever had it. Owen looked at Pot to see if this was some sort of joke. For the first time Pot’s face was not adorned with a grin. He looked serious. Scared even. He started to realise that this was some sort of game that Pot had set up. He had a choice: confront Pot and say that this was just an old Winnie-the-Pooh toy; or play along and battle Winnie as if he was a real grizzly. Only one of those choices would lead to fun. “Charge,” whispered Owen as he lunged towards the stuffed toy bear. He wrestled with the bear. Rolling around on the carpet with the toy animal clutched in his arms. He rolled this way and that while trying to keep an eye on the sprite to gauge if he was impressed. “Careful, stay away from his jaws,” advised Pot. Owen wrestled some more before kicking away Winnie. The bear landed in a seated position. Owen brought the shard of broken mirror up to the bear’s eyes. “Shield your eyes,” said Pot. Both Owen and Pot covered their eyes with their arms. They froze in that position for a few seconds and then in unison looked up at the bear. Winnie remained unanimated. Pot’s enormous grin had returned. “That was amazing.” Owen crawled over to Winnie. He carefully lifted the bear’s right arm. He let go. It flopped down by his side. “He’s dead.” “You truly are fulfilling your potential as a great soldier. You did it.” “Is that it? Have we defeated evil?” “Well... we have defeated that one evil monster.” “There’s more?” asked Owen. “You have probably had enough adventures for one evening.” “No. I can battle on. I have stamina.” “Well there is one more monster nearby but we would need to lasso it like a cowboy capturing a wild stallion. And in order to create a lasso we need rope and I just don’t think a 7-year-old boy would have a rope in his bedroom.” Owen scanned the bedroom in the hope of seeing some rope. He couldn’t. “Perhaps we fashion a lasso,” said Pot. Owen looked around. “Could we cut up the curtain and use the fabric?” asked Owen. “Although, it is of course a great idea, we just don’t have the time. We need something that is already a long rope type piece of fabric.” Pot looked towards Owen midriff. “I’ve got it. Let’s use my dressing gown belt.” “Warrior lad, you are a genius. I’m very impressed.” Pot explained to Owen how to make the lasso in great detail. He told Owen how to place into an ‘s’ shape and then pinch and wrap the rope into shape. He pulled it tight as instructed. “Tell me about the monster,” said Owen. “Look over there. He is on top of the wardrobe.” Owen looked over and knew straight away that the sprite was gesturing to the Buckaroo mule. Owen did not have an inkling where the mule’s box was, or indeed any of the other contents of the box such as the saddle or the small plastic lamp that you dangled from the saddle while avoiding the buck. “He is a violent and very powerful beast. Although you have shown great strength, it is going to be very difficult for a boy of your age to out-muscle the monster. I suggest you secure one end of the lasso.” Doing as he was told, Owen placed a chair atop his bed, which he proceeded to climb. He precariously bobbed around on top of the chair as he unscrewed the star-decorated light shade and attached the belt loop, which he had been instructed to make, to the light fitting. He pulled it tight. Pot was clearly pleased with Owen’s effort. “Now, we only have one attempt to capture the awful beast, so you must test the lasso. Put the loop over your head and down around your neck.” Owen obliged. “Pull it tighter... Tighter still... Tighter...” As the boy had been tricked to tie the noose tight enough around his neck, the malevolent sprite mustered all his might to push the chair off the bed, leaving the boy dangling and helpless. As Owen kicked out his legs in all directions, Pot assumed the lotus position beneath the child. Pot began chanting. Owen tried to scream for help but he couldn’t force any sounds out of his mouth. He was confused and couldn’t understand. At the moment of Owen’s demise, the light that filled Pot’s being drifted upwards leaving his small remains in a heap, a bit like the leftovers from a snake when it sheds its skin. The cool white light entered the boy’s deceased body. The boy’s eyes opened. He lifted his arms and grabbed the light fitting. He was able to exert enough strength to lift his body in the air to stop the strangulation. He unscrewed the light fitting and fell backwards onto the bed. The boy mostly had the same appearance as he did before his untimely death. Except he now had a slight ungodly glow about him and a grin that seemed unhealthily large. The boy sat up. He loosened and then took the belt from around his neck. He chuckled as he threw the belt towards the inanimate plastic Buckaroo mule. He stood, took off his dressing gown and straightened his pyjamas. He put on a pair slippers. He bent down and picked up the pointiest bit of broken mirror that he could see. He walked over to the bedroom door and opened it. In a perfect imitation of Owen, he shouted as if in distress.