The Curse of the Silvan Oaks

A thrilling magical fantasy debut about an ancient feud between Queen Titania and King Oberon.

“A fantastical treat for readers of 10 and up.”  — Literary Review

All is not well in the kingdom of Silvanland. An ancient feud between Queen Titania and King Oberon has turned into a merciless war, and a deadly curse festers in the sacred woods.

When young Prince Cory is kidnapped by Oberon's ruthless soldiers, the Silvan forces think all hope is lost. But fate has other plans. In the mortal world, hidden away in an old oak tree, there lies a portal. And through this portal a girl called Oli will soon fall. Her arrival in the magical land will change everything...

Thrown together unexpectedly, Oli and Cory find the fate of the Silvan kingdom now rests on their shoulders. Together they must escape the clutches of the wicked Queen Hellebore and travel to the very ends of the magical kingdom on a dangerous quest. They will face ruthless monsters and old, wicked magic, and will find help in the strangest of places.

The Curse of the Silvan Oaks is the sensational debut novel from author Georgia Channon, inspired by Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It is a richly imagined, multiple perspective fantasy novel, set in the opulent fairytale world of Sacromund. With echoes of the great fantasy classics such as The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, this feast of a novel is sure to delight any reader looking for a magical new read.Table of Contents
Titania Silvanhart’s Prophecy 9
1. Evil Visits Onda Castle 11
2. A Strange Discovery 17
3. A Castle Within a Castle 29
4. The Hidden Room 37
5. The Dark Tunnel 44
6. Kidnapped 50
7. Hecate Cobweb 56
8. All’s Well That Ends Badly 62
9. Hellebore Penumbra Makes Plans 67
10. Zandor’s Decision 72
11. A Visit From a Golden Cat 84
12. What Is Your Name, Mortal Child? 89
13. Escape 96
14. Something Moving in the Hedge 103
15. The Woodland Path 114
16. The Black Wood 121
17. Darker Than Black 128
18. Titania’s Story 141
19. The Dungeon Wall 147
20. Much Ado About Quite a Lot 154Georgia Channon wrote her first story aged seven, about a frog who lived in a tree. Sadly, it didn't get published. As an adult, she pursued other things like acting and selling pyjamas. But she constantly imagined different characters and stories, scrawling ideas in notebooks. Out walking in woods or fields at dusk, she often dreamed of disappearing through the evening mist into another world or another century. When she got fed up of waiting for this to happen, she wrote her debut novel, The Curse of the Silvan Oaks. She now spends most of her time living in the magical world of Sacromund.Hornet Tail, the highest of the Catacomb Mountains, rose up above its lesser peaks like a monstrous, pointed gravestone. The Silvan moon, although not as strong as it had been in older days, was full and fierce. Its harsh light poured down onto the Penumbran side of the mountain, into the caves and crevices as if trying to burn away any lurking shadows.
Four miles below the razor-sharp peak, a golden- coloured cat picked his way up a track, weaving through the debris of fallen rocks. Occasionally, he darted under the shelter of an overhanging ledge and crouched there for a moment, to escape the relentless glare of the moon.
Crack!
The sound of a dry branch snapping cut through the still air. The cat’s eyes flew wide. Hair by hair, the fur on his back rose up.

A dark shadow crept towards him. A wolf slunk out of the gloom into the moonlight, teeth bared, growling horribly. It was as big as a pony, with a matted coat, scarred muzzle and white, sightless eyes. The cat stared at it, his yellow eyes flickering. The wolf grew nearer, growling and snarling in anticipation of the kill.
Still the cat watched. Suddenly, as quick as the wind, he turned and streaked down the hill. The wolf hurtled after him. It was hard on his tail, coursing over the ground. The cat stopped, whipped round and faced the wolf. He reared up and roared.
The wolf crashed to a halt. The small cat had gone and, in his place, towering over him, was a mountain lion. He was strong and lean, every muscle in his mighty body quivering with power. The lion let out another echoing roar.
He lifted his giant paws and struck the wolf a vicious blow. The wolf went flying across the ground, thudding into a rock. It heaved itself up, hunched and bleeding, and limped off into the mountains.
The lion dropped back onto all fours and stood, catch- ing his breath. Then he padded down a narrow path that led to a stretch of black water, a deep mountain lake with a slender crescent of white beach.
The lion walked down to the sandy shore and drank. When he had finished, he looked at his reflection in the moonlit lake. A small golden cat looked back at him. He shook himself and moved off further down the mountain.

Not long after, he left Penumbra behind him and crossed the Silvan border. He was surprised there were no guards on duty, that he met no trouble creeping through the watchful hill forests. And in the distance, he could hear the sobs of the melancholy bears that lived in the branches on the lower slopes. He was in Silvanland, the southernmost region in the continent of Sacromund.
He crossed the wild moors, the fields and orchards until he reached Onda Castle, a vast, pale stone building, perched on a peninsula overlooking the sea.
Like a shadow, the cat slipped into the old castle gar- dens. He crept through the tangle of greenery. A lone guard patrolled around the perimeter of the castle.
The cat waited for the sentry to pass, then he scrambled up the weathered stonework, landed sprawling on a flat ledge and walked down it until he came to a half-opened window in a tall tower that faced the sea.
A grey seagull named Piper was sitting on the ledge outside the window. The cat arched his back, ears flat against his head. He hissed with sudden ferocity, so fiercely that the bird almost fell off. The gull fluttered his wings and flew away with a startled cry.
The cat stood on the windowsill and looked into the dark room.
The waves crashed and roared on the rocks below.
Using his nose, the cat pushed the window further open. He listened. He could hear the heavy breathing of someone deep in sleep.

Silently, he jumped down onto the floor, just missing a desk, piled high with papers and books. The room was a mess, with clothes and more books all over the floor. On a small bedside table, a glass jar with two fireflies in it gently flickered.
A boy slept in a carved wooden bed.
The cat walked towards the bed, his claws making tiny clicks on the stone. With impatient paws, he pulled at a pouch that hung loosely around his neck. He drew out a purple leather book, the size of a large matchbox, shuffling the pages to make sure that a thin silk ribbon was marking the right place. Then he rose up on his back legs and leant it against a tiny sculpture of an oak tree that sat next to the firefly jar on the table.
As the cat clambered down, his right paw knocked the sculpture and both it and the book fell with a crash onto the flagstones. The noise was startlingly loud in the quiet night.
The cat shot behind the bedside table. The boy sat up. ‘Who… who’s there?’ he called. ‘Zandor, is that you?’ The cat crouched, still as a statue.
The boy climbed out of bed. His grey pyjamas, embroidered with moons and stars, were too short for him and the buttons were done up wrong. He blinked sleepily, held up the firefly jar, and looked around the room.
‘Is someone there?’ he said, in a faltering voice. ‘Zandor, please come out. Stop hiding. I know it’s you.’

The fireflies’ yellow light danced over the wall. The boy looked down and saw the smashed sculpture and the purple book on the floor. He gave an exclamation of surprise.
Picking up the book, he flicked through its pages, squinting as he tried to make out a map that was drawn on the fly leaf.
Giving a shuddering yawn, he walked over to the desk by the window to try and find his magnifier. He shuffled and lifted the books, but couldn’t find the instrument in amongst all the chaos. He yawned again and his eyelids started to droop. He placed the little book on one of the crooked piles stacked on the desk and went back to bed.
It wasn’t long before he fell asleep.
The cat extricated himself from his hiding place and crept closer to the bed. He sat down, watching the child’s sleeping form with cold, yellow eyes. The boy muttered in his sleep, his body moving restlessly under the blankets. The cat went on staring at him, his gaze unwavering.
The cat spoke.
‘You will feel courage,’ he said in a harsh whisper. ‘You will go alone, down the tunnel to the hazel grove.’
Very slowly, he raised his left paw and there was a sudden flash of blinding white as his hooked dewclaw caught the moonlight and the dark magic drifted around the room.
Out in the savage, silver night, the seagull flew as fast as he could to the stony bay that was called Moonchapel Cove.

‘Coraline! Neptuna! Pearl!’ he cried. ‘Where are you?’ Frantically, he twisted his head, scanning the surface of the water. ‘Are none of you moon mermaids here?’ he called. But no sound came back.
The gull plunged his head under the waves and cried out again, and his words floated down to the depths in a stream of murmuring bubbles.
A head popped out of the water. It had pearlescent hair, scaled skin and silvered green eyes.
‘What do you want, Piper?’ it hissed. ‘We are building our coral nests for the young ones, deep, deep down. Why do you shout for us in this manner?’
‘Prince Corylus!’ the bird cried, choking and squawking
in his panic. ‘Our Hazel Prince! He is in great danger. There is evil at the castle. The cat man, William Goodfellow is there.’