The Girl Mystic & the Muddle

Chapter One: Trouble with Trousers

Harry Rotter had never fully trusted stones. Not the pebbles that sneak into your shoe on a walk, nor the ones that lie in wait to stub your toes when you’re barefoot in the garden. But most of all, she distrusted ancient stones—particularly the kind that stood upright in lonely fields looking far too pleased with themselves. Haroldstown Dolmen, squatting like a giant’s forgotten sandwich, was no exception.

“That,” Harry announced, brandishing a sausage roll like a wand, “is quite clearly a portal to the otherworld.”

Box Privet, her cousin and reluctant travelling companion, shielded his eyes from the drizzle. “It’s a rock, Harry. A big one. Two uprights and a capstone. Probably for druids. Or picnics.”

“It hums when the wind’s right,” she said, leaning toward it like it might whisper its secrets. “And besides, it glowed on Google Maps.”

They were supposed to be on a relaxing cultural trip to County Carlow, but relaxation is a relative concept when Harry’s involved. She had come equipped with a wand (cleverly disguised as a crocheting hook), a suspiciously magical guidebook titled A Tourist’s Guide to Possibly Dangerous Irish Antiquities, and a duffel bag containing eight tins of emergency baked beans.

Box had come with a raincoat and regret.

“Can we not just look at it, nod thoughtfully, and then go have tea somewhere indoors?” he asked.

Harry sniffed the air. “Too late. The vibes have shifted. Can you feel that? The atmosphere’s gone… tingly.”

Box folded his arms. “That’s just static. You’re wearing a fleece.”

Harry took a step forward. “I’m going to poke it.”

“Don’t poke it!” Box cried. “Why do you always poke things?”

“Because,” she said, wiggling her sausage roll, “poking reveals secrets.”

With great ceremony, she stepped up to the dolmen, raised her wand-sausage roll hybrid, and tapped the mossy stone.

Chapter Two: A Sheepish Situation

The dolmen emitted a low hum, like a sleepy bassoon. Box yelped and stumbled backwards, landing in something damp and unpleasant. The wind stopped. The clouds seemed to hold their breath.

Then the stone shuddered.

“Harry,” Box said, his voice now two octaves higher, “the rock is… moving.”

“I noticed,” she replied calmly, backing away as the capstone lifted ever so slightly.

There was a flash of greenish light, the smell of singed toast, and a sudden vortex of air that pulled at their clothes. The dolmen emitted a wet-sounding thwomp, like someone slapping jelly with a slipper.

Without warning, the ground tilted beneath them, and the two cousins were slurped into the dolmen with the speed and grace of eggs down a sinkhole.

They tumbled through kaleidoscopic colours, strange smells (cinnamon, vinegar, possibly sock), and snatches of music. Box swore he heard someone whisper, “Return the lemon scone,” but there was no one there.

Then, with a final puff of glittery smoke, they landed.

Box hit the ground bottom-first. Harry landed like a cat who’d been taking judo.

“Where… are we?” Box asked, brushing custard-coloured grass from his trousers.

Harry grinned. “The Dolmenverse.”

Chapter Three: The Dolmenverse

The landscape around them defied logic, gravity, and at least seventeen clauses of common sense. Giant puffball mushrooms loomed overhead, their spots blinking slowly like sleepy eyes. Floating islands drifted lazily in the air, tethered by strings of licorice. Trees swayed without wind, their leaves shaped like biscuits.

The sky was a warm marmalade orange, dotted with jellybean stars. A distant hill sneezed, sending a flock of pancake birds flapping skyward.

Box looked as if he might faint.

Harry was thrilled. “Isn’t it marvellous?” she said. “Just like I read in Portals, Pastries, and Peculiar Realms: A Beginner’s Compendium.”

Before Box could respond, a goat trotted into view. Or at least, it was mostly a goat. It had too many legs, a monocle, and a body made of what looked suspiciously like damp umbrellas.

“Halt!” it declared. “Who dares trespass in the Land of the Underfolded?”

“I do,” Harry said proudly. “Harry Rotter. Traveller, wand-wielder, and pie enthusiast. This is Box. He does admin.”

“I do not do admin—”

“Silence, scribe,” Harry hissed.

The goat-creature inspected them, sniffed, and muttered, “Early. Very early. The prophecy wasn’t due to kick off until Thursday week.”

“What prophecy?” Box asked, but no one was listening.

“The Reckoning of Scones is nigh,” the goat intoned. “The Butter Witch stirs. The Yeast Eternal awakens. All shall rise.”

“Literally or metaphorically?” asked Harry.

“Yes,” said the goat.

Box looked up at the jelly sky and groaned. “I knew I should’ve stayed in the car.”

Chapter Four: Scones of Destiny

The goat-creature—whose name turned out to be Crumplehoof, Second Keeper of the Scone Sigil and Warden of the Walnut Archives—led them down a jellybean-strewn path toward Crumbopolis, capital of the Pastry Realms.

The city shimmered in the distance like a dessert hallucination. Towers of sponge cake jutted into the sky, each window dripping with frosting. The streets sparkled with sugar glass cobbles, and a gentle mist of icing sugar hung in the air.

“Is it safe to breathe this?” Box asked.

“Only if you enjoy your lungs slightly glazed,” Crumplehoof replied.

The citizens of Crumbopolis, most of whom resembled baked goods with faces, lined the streets as the visitors passed. A choir of sentient eclairs sang an operatic welcome, while marshmallow pigeons wheeled overhead in formation.

At the centre of the city stood the Grand Scone Dome, shaped like an inverted teacup and surrounded by custard-filled moats. There, on a throne carved from crusty sourdough, sat the Mayor: a squat teapot with spectacles and an air of serious spillage.

“She has returned,” the Mayor wheezed, steam puffing from his spout. “The signs were clear: butter ran uphill, jam refused to set, and someone spotted a unicorn in the rye loaf. The Prophescone has awoken.”

“Are you sure it’s me?” Harry asked, frowning.

“You poked the dolmen, didn’t you?” said the Mayor.

“Well—yes.”

“Then it’s you. That’s how it always starts.”

A ceremonial apron was draped over Harry’s shoulders, and a golden rolling pin placed in her hands.

“You must enter the Bake-Off of Becoming,” the Mayor declared. “Win, and you shall be granted the Spatula of Infinite Batter. Lose, and the Yeast Eternal will rise.”

“Can we just go back through the dolmen?” Box asked.

“Dolmen’s closed for repairs,” said Crumplehoof. “Won’t reopen until either the Reckoning ends… or begins. It’s one of those prophecy things.”

Chapter Five: The Baking Trials

The arena was vast, constructed entirely of gingerbread stands and marshmallow railings. A colossal colander hung from the ceiling, rotating slowly. Thousands of cheering fans—pastryfolk, enchanted crockery, and at least one suspiciously large profiterole—watched from their tiers.

Harry, still adjusting her apron, was ushered into the centre circle. Box was placed in the Official Taster’s Booth, alongside a stern-looking tart with arms.

Her competitors were formidable:

• Dame Fluffernutter: a cream-filled juggernaut with a monocle and a scowl.
• The Crumb Golem of Butterscotia: an oozing, hulking mass of scone and rage.
• Biscuit the Dog: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who wore a chef’s hat and yapped in perfect Italian.

The first round was Shortbread Sculpting. Harry carved a magnificent likeness of the dolmen itself—until it collapsed into a buttery mess.

“It has… symbolism,” offered one judge, licking it thoughtfully.

The second round: Scone Summoning. Each contestant had to magically manifest a batch of scones using only flour, jam, and raw willpower. Harry’s scones floated briefly, then exploded into warm, delicious clouds. The audience applauded wildly.

By round three—Experimental Éclairs—Box was slumped in his tasting chair, frosting on his collar and cream dripping from his ears.

“I’m losing feeling in my tongue,” he moaned. “I think my teeth are turning into sugar cubes.”

“Keep going,” Harry shouted from across the arena. “There’s a flan finale coming!”

Chapter Six: The Return of the Butter Witch

Just as Harry piped the finishing swirl on her experimental éclair volcano, the skies above the arena darkened.

A thunderclap rang out. Lightning streaked across the sky in the shape of a whisk.

Then, with a dramatic whoosh of burnt caramel, a figure descended upon a flaming tart.

“She has returned,” whispered Crumplehoof, who had been hiding inside a napkin.

The Butter Witch was tall, terrifying, and iced to perfection. Her hair was spun sugar. Her cloak was layered filo pastry. Her eyes gleamed with the fury of improperly chilled custard.

“WHO DARES COMPETE IN MY NAME?” she thundered.

“Technically, I was forced,” Harry offered.

The Butter Witch summoned the Croissant Kraken—an eight-limbed beast of buttery horror. It smashed through a ganache gazebo and flung jam grenades across the arena.

The crowd screamed. Biscuit the Dog fainted into a souffle.

“Harry!” Box shouted, taking cover under a biscuit bench. “DO SOMETHING!”

Harry straightened, raised her wand, and pointed it at the Witch.

“Enough!” she cried. “I invoke the Rite of Rolling!”

A glowing pin appeared in the air. The Witch lunged. Harry lunged. There was a flash of blinding light, a gust of sugar wind, and a noise like whipped cream colliding with a trombone.

When the light cleared, the Butter Witch was encased in a giant jelly mould, her screams muffled by lime wobble.

Silence fell.

Then the crowd erupted into wild, sticky applause.

Chapter Seven: The Coronation

The battle was over, and all that remained in the sky was a faint shimmer of icing sugar. The arena floor, once a battlefield of butter and batter, now sparkled with confetti made of grated nutmeg and celebratory sprinkles.

Harry stood at the centre, sticky, flour-dusted, and victorious.

The Mayor of Crumbopolis—teapot-shaped and trembling with emotion—shuffled forward, followed by a procession of pastry monks, custard guards, and one reluctant Biscuit dog.

“The ancient prophecies spoke of this day,” the Mayor said, adjusting his monocle. “The day the Butter Witch would be defeated by another—a new wielder of the Whisk, a champion of Crumb and Clarity. A pastry sovereign for the New Dough Order!”

A cheer rose from the stands as the Royal Tiara of Crumbs was lowered onto Harry’s head. It was large, golden, and slightly sticky. The Spatula of Infinite Batter shimmered in her hand, humming with strange and buttery power.

“You are henceforth Queen of Pastry,” the Mayor intoned, “First of Her Flans, Duchess of Drizzle, Protector of the Yeast.”

“I accept,” Harry said solemnly. “Though I must warn you, I tend to burn toast.”

Box stumbled to her side, his hair full of whipped cream. “Please, can we go now?”

“You’ll stay for the Banquet of Buns, surely?” said the Mayor, aghast.

Box’s stomach made a noise like a grumpy accordion. “If I eat one more thing, I will become a pudding. Literally. You’ll have to pour custard over me and give me to the Council.”

The Mayor nodded respectfully. “Then you must be sent home with honours.”

A silver trolley, shaped like a fondant narwhal, rolled into the arena. Upon it sat the dolmen—now portable, now shimmering with ready magic.

“It’s returned,” Harry whispered. “The portal knows our story is reaching its final act.”

She turned to the crowd, raised her spatula in farewell, and with Box close behind her, stepped into the dolmen’s shimmering light.

Chapter Eight: Back to Reality

They emerged in the same sheep field from whence they’d been swallowed, blinking against the grey light of a soggy Irish afternoon.

Everything was perfectly, maddeningly normal.

A single sheep eyed them with suspicion, then turned away with a grunt of indifference.

The dolmen sat still and cold behind them, no longer glowing, no longer humming, no longer doing anything except looking ancient and smug.

Harry wiped her brow. “Well, that was bracing.”

Box dropped to his knees. “I smell like jam. I think I have a scone lodged in my left ear. And I may have promised a sentient éclair that I’d write him a postcard.”

Harry pulled out a notebook and began jotting things down.

“What are you doing?” Box asked.

“Taking notes,” Harry said. “We’ll need them for the sequel. The Dolmen’s magic won’t stay quiet forever. I’ve got theories. Also, I might have accidentally married a cinnamon bun.”

Box groaned. “No more magical landmarks. No more pastry politics. I want one weekend where the strangest thing I encounter is a slightly rude barista.”

“Next time,” Harry said thoughtfully, “we’ll go to Ballykillduff. There’s a haunted fish-and-chip shop I’ve been meaning to investigate. Supposedly the cod whispers prophecies if you batter it just right.”

Box started walking away. “Nope. No. I’m joining a monastery.”

“A haunted monastery?” Harry asked hopefully.

“No.”

“A time-travelling monastery?”

“No!”

Harry grinned and followed him anyway, wand tucked behind her ear, the Spatula of Infinite Batter now carefully hidden inside her bag.

Behind them, the dolmen shimmered once, very faintly.

And somewhere in a distant realm, the Butter Witch twitched inside her jelly prison.

The dough was rising again.