Note: These short stories are set in The Magical World of Zealandia, offering glimpses into its adventures and mysteries. While they can be enjoyed on their own, reading Zealandia: The Dreadstones Grasp will provide deeper context and enrich your experience!
It began, as most magical catastrophes do, with something muddy, mysterious, and entirely Emily’s fault.
That morning, the kids had been poking around past the herb garden, chasing what Emily swore was a swamp spirit. It was a frog. A very ordinary, very squishy frog.
One muddy misstep led to another, and suddenly half the group was wading knee-deep in swampy sludge, loudly debating whether they were cursed.
Now the townhouse was streaked with bog footprints, the hall reeked like compost, and their clothes looked like they’d lost a fight with a swamp.
Worse still: no adults were home.
Hazel and Elter—the bears with terrifyingly high hygiene standards—were out for the afternoon.
Which meant nothing—absolutely nothing—stood between the children and their next disastrous idea.
That had been twenty minutes ago.
Now, they were ankle-deep in consequences.
Victoria, with her long, glossy black hair and eyes like an annoyed cat, stood in the middle of the lounge. She was examining the muddy mess like she could will it into cleaning itself.
"No way I’m walking round stinking like duckweed," Alex declared, yanking off his soggy jumper and holding it like it had insulted his ancestors.
His nearly-white hair was streaked with mud, and his pale grey eyes were scanning the mess like he was already calculating exit routes.
Tom sighed. “Alright. We clean everything. Starting with the laundry.”
Tom ran a hand through his tangled golden-blond hair, stormy eyes full of the exact dread this plan deserved.
“The what?” Alex asked, as if laundry was a mythical beast from a forgotten land.
“The laundry,” Victoria echoed. “The thing Hazel tells us never to touch. Hazel's sacred ground.”
They changed out of their squelchy clothes, dumped them into a basket, and tiptoed down the back corridor—until they reached a heavy oaken door none of them had dared open before.
The laundry room smelt like lavender and clouds.
Sunlight streamed through tall glass windows. Copper pipes gleamed. Clothes floated gently on invisible lines above a circular stone well at the room’s centre.
Its rim was carved with ancient runes, and beside it sat a neat wooden box filled with glistening blue, red, and white pebble shards.
“Aetherstones?” Tom asked.
“Too small,” Alex said. “They look like scraps.”
Above the well, a message was carved in swirly lettering: “Tidy hands make tidy minds. Use responsibly.”
They stared.
Emily, whose eyes sparkled with the kind of excitement that usually led to explosions, began knotting her damp clothes onto a dangling rope. “Clear enough.”
The others followed, stringing up muddy socks, shirts, and throwing their clothes into the well.
“Now what?” asked Victoria.
“Throw in the blue pebbles?” Alex offered.
“How many?” Victoria asked.
“Three?” Tom guessed.
“Five,” said Emily, immediately tossing them in before anyone could stop her.
The pebbles clinked against the water. A soft blue shimmer rippled across the well’s surface.
Emily raised her arms dramatically. “WASH!” she declared.
The others blinked.
“What?! I don’t know the Latin!”
The well burbled ominously. The rope tugged once, then twice, then spun like it was auditioning for interpretive dance.
And then… stillness.
They leaned in.
Tom gave the rope a cautious pull. It resisted. “Still working.”
They waited.
Eventually, the rope loosened. Emily hauled the clothes back up.
Victoria squinted. “Still wet.”
“Drying,” Tom muttered. “That’s a thing.”
“Hazel always gets dry clothes,” said Alex. “And folded. And smelling like cinnamon.”
Emily reached for the pebble box again. “Red and white—air and fire, right?”
Victoria said nervously. “What if fire is… too much?”
“We’re not hanging it out,” Emily said firmly. She threw one pale white stone and one red. “DRY!” she shouted.
The well wheezed like a teapot with the flu.
The rope jumped.
“That sounded bad,” said Victoria.
“It’s fine,” said Emily. Too quickly.
Tom reeled the rope up.
Out came shirts.
Tiny shirts.
Out came socks.
Tiny baby socks.
Out came someone’s cloak.
Now the size of a napkin.
They stared.
Alex, very softly, said, “At least it’s dry.”