Lykandir: Ghost Ships (excerpt)

 

THEY FLEW, by pre-arrangement, northeast at first and negotiated the small strait created by the proximity of the mainland to the island at it northernmost point, maintaining lift that was a low profile but high enough to not cause ripples on the water.

Swinging thereafter directly to the east, the ship captains maintained a trajectory that kept the spit of land in sight, clambering upward for a bird’s eye view, and saw the small stone building nestled into the rise. The barracks appeared unattended; not even a trail of smoke wafted into the early morning air.

Shifting south, the invisible vessels tracked the land’s line and, based on the map Kilian drew for them, headed for the jutting spur that was the most eastern point of all Lykandir. There was, as the mage had revealed, a generally level, if rock strewn, area hidden from the rest of the isle by boulders that had folded into immovability an age ago. It was windswept and hostile, apparently, and no mage or soldier had built a cottage in the area. Yes, he had stated, it would prove as hostile for them, but he guaranteed no one would see them.

The Mage Keep itself was out of sight; situated to the west. It meant climbing far higher to view it and that, as Torrullin had murmured, was tempting the fates. Given how contrary the wind was this day, he was right in every way.

As the twenty-second minute commenced, the first ship touched down. It immediately reassumed solidity of sight, although no soldiers or sailors could be seen on board. A ghost ship. They were all as ghosts in this present. No outcry sounded. Kilian was right; no one kept even spurious presence here.

The rest of the fleet landed and rematerialized. That had as much to do with safe landing - they needed to see each other - as it had to do with the difficulty of maintaining a shield in gale-force conditions. The wind howled.

By touch, the soldiers soon formed up, many stumbling on the rocks, although their mates could not see them in their ignominy. Kilian could have told them that more rocks were now present, uncovered no doubt when the ocean heaved onto land in its initial restart, but as no one was permitted to speak, they remained ignorant of that fact. Again, by pre-arrangement, they immediately headed for the boulders and started climbing. Small sounds gave them away, but it was also a truth that the wind snatched those tell-tale noises away.

Hearts thundering, feeling as if the world had ended, they attained the higher ground on the other side, and there they squatted in terrible silence only the wind called a lie.

LYKANDIR: The Measured World

Excerpt: Thomas at the farmer's market

 

Thomas Henson was born close to a silver-spoon-in-the-mouth situation. Society adored him … and now ignores him. Judgemental freaks. That is ISSUE FOUR.

Society, however, is in the mind. While it is a living, breathing entity, society remains a concept of intellect more than a physical one. You either take it or leave it, but Thomas cannot do this. He requires validation. He is inflated by it. He becomes more.

Ethan Danwick-Blythe, case in point.

Thomas had the misfortune to play witness to the laughing bastard’s elevated status in society. It was at a social gathering on the common before the village - farmer’s market, actually, but Thomas Henson will NEVER admit to curiosity over produce and handmade goods, and thus a social gathering it is.

Ethan Danwick-Blythe swanned in with arms loaded. Flowers, from his perfect garden! Such colours, so much greenery. A heady perfume. And was greeted as a conquering hero by all!

While he, Thomas Henson, was ignored, even shunned. Sure, he brought only his smile (his mother ever says it needs only a smile to gather the masses to you), but he used his smile everywhere and folks frowned and moved away as fast as the excuse they could imagine was uttered … why?

Thomas Henson has issues, thirteen of them, and, indeed, one of them is superstition.

When his life of luxury ends and he is dumped into an impoverished state, all these issues come home to roost, making it impossible for Thomas to stand up and take responsibility for his life. He even despises his name! Most all, however, he hates his neighbour, the ever laughing Ethan Danwick-Blythe, who has a perfect name and a perfect garden. 

Thomas is being lied to, however, and those lies will upset everything our Thomas hopes for. As he plots revenge on his neighbour, the time for all lies to be exposed approaches. This amusing little tale of self-delusion is Thomas Henson’s debut into real life.

THOMAS

Latticework: 14 excerpts!

A space lattice, in the three dimensions, is any of fourteen possible geometric arrangements of points, at which, at the very least, the components of crystals may form.

 

A space lattice, in the realm of sorcery, is all of fourteen possible and impossible arrangements in the geotic fields, and includes the laws of necromancy and the location of high magnetic energy points of sacred sites.

 

A space lattice, in the fourth dimension and those beyond, is the fourteen impossible arrangements of will and thought, where the continuum is temporal and spacial simultaneously, at which point space-time unfolds and space-folds are beyond measurable time.

 

In this lattice lie all possibilities, where not even imagination has ever been.

 

Watch yourself, friend.

(Quoted from the LORE Series)

14 excerpts from the 14 stories - enjoy!

THE PILLAR FELT rough and pitted under Callie’s fingers. She knew it as rock, although she could not see anything in the blackness. She also knew the feel of this particular standing stone; it was akin to a friend, a haven, a beacon in the dark. There were no night noises, not even the resident frog to confirm where she was. She always listened for him when she came here in summer.

She had been here before. She was not lost.

Biting the inside of her cheek to contain hysterical sounds, Callie put her fingers to work. They were her eyes now and she could trust them. They reached up, sensing, exploring, and, yes, there it was. The small voice of doubt was stilled.

SEVEN YEARS AGO I was thirty-eight and considered young among those who walked the corridors of power and felt young and empowered, all-powerful. You may laugh, but let me tell you politics and deals can make one old long before due time, while imparting a sense of omnipotence.

I was also foolish, very ambitious, without scruples and morals, and utterly selfish. I looked out for number one only. Hard lessons had to be learned; I understand that now.

SHE LEANS ON her elbow, chin in hand, and stares out over the bay. The sun is bright on the water and the sun worshippers are out in full force on the narrow strip of beach, their colourful umbrellas and sunshades drawing the eye.

Bronzed bodies languish amid reddening skins. She, however, is uninterested in people silly enough to burn to crisps in such heat; she watches the water intently, staring through the hot silver stripes upon the waves.

LISTEN UP. Stop a moment for this.

There is a place I used to pass on my way home every day in another country, another time. For whatever reason - no place to pull over, I am not the one driving, time is of the essence - I never stopped. This place is nothing special in the grand design of nature and yet I found myself preparing to really look every time I approached, and did.

Every time. I wish I followed an initial instinct to begin a photographic record to capture the moods and seasons day by day, but … ah, well.

SHE IS THE silent watcher. She has no name, and is without feature and visible form. Her task is to watch and to know.

Why?

The simple answer is that someone has to. We require a witness, always. This is the nature of sentience.

SHADOWS SHUTTER LEAF behind frond until sight is hallucination. A forest in sunlight during a windstorm deludes the senses. What should be ordinary leaps into something else entirely.

Scarlet is not fooled. Sharp blue eyes pierce the veils of shadow and light. Hearing is impaired in the sliding, grating, rustling dryness of a forest in movement, but sight never fails her. And neither does taste.

THERE IS A small glade in a forgotten forest and in its centre there is a tree so ancient it no longer resembles a tree. Where this is, is unimportant. For this is not about place; it is not even about time. It is about worship, and it is also about remembering.

A long, long time ago, a lone wolf, starving and desperate, slaughtered an innocent boy out walking the countryside. The boy was loved well by his parents and they planted a tree in the place where his blood was spilled, a memorial to stand the test of time.

“BACK IN VALARIS’ beginning, once it became a habitable world, there was no sentient life. The humans of today did not evolve here; they came from faraway worlds, much the same as happened elsewhere. One starship came and saw it was good, and then there was another and another, a familiar tale. This was, and is, a paradise world and the humans who settled were happy, but, being human, being sentient, they were selfish also - another familiar tale - and denied entry to other races.

“Now, around the time that selfish mind-set began to take root, a space warp materialised in the heavens above, which made it impossible to travel the stars again, the same warp still in position today. It also, of course, denied entry to other settlers, and permanently put an end to other races interfering with the humans already here. Thus, without any great effort, the humans got their wish, and the Valarians were born as a people apart.

MIRRORS MAKE ME.

And mirrors break me.

Shards of shiny glass, reflection pond, polished metal, ornately framed, it is of no import.

As you read this and I play the role of storyteller, a new looking glass rises from the mercury I wade through. I have not seen one like it before and momentarily its existence stumps me. Only momentarily, for a mirror is a mirror and here, now, another lesson awaits.

HERE WAS A man who had just lost the woman he loved and he was now either suicidal or hyper aggressive. This man was a king, although uncrowned. This man was a sorcerer, although unwilling in the talent. This man was of another race, although he passed for human with his fair hair and grey eyes.

This man sought distraction. Now.

He went to Lax, that underbelly world of crime and corruption, and the one who nominated himself as this man’s personal guard accompanied him. The companion appeared less human, for his eyes were tawny.

HALLOWEEN. All Hallows Eve.

Some call it a pagan festival. Others know it as an evil feast. Time and technology has not yet forced it into the recesses of memory and myth. Some see it as a carnival of fun. Others regard it as the worst manipulation humankind has confronted, and continues to face. Relegate it to the past, bury it in layers of legend and let us be done, they say … and are ignored.

This is the greatest night of all dark nights for the dead.

WHEN HUMANKIND tore through the fabric of space they came in vast numbers on ships the size of cities.

This was a one way journey, for they left behind a planet ruined by war, pollution and over-population. Perhaps those abandoned would discover the courage to find solutions for Earth’s varied problems, but those that left travelled too far to make their way back. The ships were indefinitely self-sustaining, but man needed solid ground beneath his feet and a friendly sun on his face. His mission always was to find a land to plant and root and grow and prosper and conquer.

MERRY HEFTED the rucksack by jerking at the shoulder straps. The weight pulled at her neck muscles and she swore under her breath.

A whack on her upper arm nearly paralysed that side of her body from head to toe. She glared at the woman a step behind her, to see the offensive cane complete its downward arc.

“Ladies do not cuss, Merry.”

IT SMELLS OF INK and parchment, and ancient dust. The corners furl inward as if once someone rubbed it repeatedly between a sweaty thumb and forefinger. I know this, because I have the same habit.

Look over there at my shelf, pull that book to you and note the thumbed edges. I know, wrong of me, so sue me. Of course, mine isn’t always clean sweat; probably a few jam rubs, possible biscuit crumbs …

Sigh, I am off subject.

LATTICEWORK

A latticework creates a mesmerising pattern, to please the eye and draw the onlooker closer. Emotional lattices connect strands to amplify the human experience; our melancholy, our mistakes, and our residual power.

Fourteen lattices by a diverse author makes Latticework an occult treat, worthy of fans who dip into the disturbing and diabolical. This collection of soulful tales embodies the macabre and the metaphysical, with insights so serrated it cuts to the marrow.

Fallen from the Sky

Confession

 African Moon

Stop!

 Sentinels

 Fox Tale

Awareness

 Well of Crystal Sound

 The Mighty Mirror

 Gordon Grey

 Feast Night

Repeating History

 The Hole

 Quill

FingerNale Tales: 10 excerpts!

FingerNale Tales: 10 Bite-sized morsels!

Read the first 2 paragraphs for a feel of the shorts 😍 

These are the afterthought tales, bite-size chunks of a life’s grander design, something to gnaw on briefly before moving on.

 

The Old Man – a child’s perspective on meeting an unknown uncle

The Royal Feline – it’s a cat life indeed

The Mountains Burn – the destructive power of fire

Morning Rainbow – when a rainbow is a sign

Blood Moon – when reality feels entirely unreal

Veils of Sleep – what happens in the realms of oblivion

Winged Wonder – a winged creature walks the city streets

Glass Dreams – every time a man closes his eyes, glass shatters

First Day – a child’s perspective on her first school day

At the End – life’s long years

 

A few recorded moments in time that will ask of you a few minutes of your day. A breathy laugh might follow, or ‘oh, yes, I see myself in there!’ Maybe a morsel gifts a smile, while a tale creates a sense of wonder. Enjoy!

THE OLD MAN knocked on the door quite loudly. Dad told me in no uncertain terms to stay put - children do not open doors, he said.

I stayed put with reluctance at the round kitchen table where we were having tea, and heard the weather-beaten wooden door creak open and my dad peremptorily demand an explanation for this interruption.

THE CAT HAS no name she is aware of. She sleeps most of her days away curled up and silent, and most of her nights, too. Occasionally she stretches, and enjoys the attention it brings her. When she chooses her place of slumber, it is best to leave her in peace.

Sometimes she hears a sound, and it is familiar to her, a sound often repeated, but she cannot duplicate it, for it has no meaning to her other than that sense of familiarity. She knows this word heralds a summons for her presence. She sits up from her slumber and listens briefly, and then chooses whether to answer that command or not, for she is in control of her fate, not another.

LOOKING ACROSS THE waters darkened and stilled by night’s undeniable influence, I viewed the shadowy silhouette of the far mountains highlighted by the half-moon setting beyond. It was a familiar sight, one I often stared at during daylight, and watched at night as the moon tracked across the heavens.

This night familiarity was altered.

In the centre of the rugged range an almighty scarlet glow dominated the night sky and seemed to flow into the invisible waters of the bay, like a sphere vanishing into the depths.

AS WE DROVE along the quiet road in the early morning, a young couple embarking on an adventure with the tank filled, trailer loaded, kids sleeping on the back seat, we wondered if we had made the right decision.

Others told us we were mad, but we ignored them. Was leaving civilisation behind for a life in the wild a choice we could deal with long-term? Those others - family - said it was stupidity.

ENTERING THE TOWN, it felt as if we had entered another time and dimension. The name on a signboard about a kilometre back told us we were on the right road, this was the town we had marked on a map, but what we found could not have been explained by any means.

The usual was in place. Store fronts were lit for temptation at night, and some shops were still trading. There were streetlights, the typical tarred main street, a park opposite - fronting the ocean, for we could hear waves breaking - bins for rubbish, advertising on walls and boards, street signs and so forth, but there the usual ended.

THE VEILS OF sleep take my consciousness into the sub-conscious, layer upon gradual layer. When my imagination departs from my body, I open my eyes upon a different set of veils. These are as diaphanous, but they are not as benevolent.

Sticky crisscross patterns adorn my path, then another pattern and another veil, seemingly into eternity. No arrangement is quite the same, although they are entirely geometric, therefore deliberately designed. I am faced with an elaborate set of traps, webs meant to ensnare.

THERE ARE EYES on its wings. Many have this subterfuge somewhere upon them, out there in the wilds, and therefore the concept is not exactly strange. Used to fool predators, it is an effective tool of disguise. But this is not a creature of the wilds.

This is a …

That is the problem - what is it?

This is not the wild either. I am standing here at the corner of a high-rise building, seeking escape from the frigid wind howling through this city, and this winged wonder does not belong here.

THE GLASS SHATTERED first and then the roof shook resoundingly. One would think it should be the other way around. First the roof shake and then the glass breaking. Warnings came first. One would expect the warning to come first, a herald to danger. But no; the glass shattered first and then the roof shook resoundingly.

But this was not real.

He was in an aeroplane.

Snorting, he snatched the first breath of sudden awakening and stared around him. Right. The flight from London to Glasgow.

MOM IS AWAKE first, as always, but this is a special day. My heart pounds when I hear her slippers slapping as she goes down the passage towards the kitchen.

Today I will go to big school for the first time.

I hear the kettle make a noise, and know she will soon come in with my tea, but today I will wear my uniform, not my normal clothes as I did before to go to my old school.

I NEVER THOUGHT I would get old. It comes as a surprise to sit here at age ninety. Really it does. This, for me, is merely a number, for I do not feel nine decades old and, despite those sets of ten and the various injuries sustained over their progression, my body tells me it is a lie.

Is my mind as sharp as I believe? You be the judge of that. Base it on these ruminations, perhaps.

Excerpt: Minstrel of the Water Willow - Marking Time

 

To step from shadows is to know light

  

Storms came and went.

A fire swept through the valley and annihilated great swathes of land. Many of the trees on the fringes of the forests all around succumbed, although the deep regions remained untouched. Drought was supreme for two summer seasons. The coldest winter in all memory followed.

Erin remained despite every tribulation. She had chosen to remove herself from her society. After the death of her daughter she lost all interest. He no longer cared much for his social circle either. The unhappier she became, the more he withdrew from others close to him, including his parents. Most days he hunkered, watching Erin. It was a senseless obsession, but truth was there was no Fay woman who drew him as much as she did.

While he was older than she was in years, he appeared far younger, and thus kept his distance. She would see him as a youth and would not understand the years already in his mind.

How utterly unfair. He wished he was human.

His music suffered. More correctly, his reputation as a minstrel suffered, for he rarely took to the circuit to play for others.

He played for Erin, softly, on the edge of hearing.

Kell watched her gradually regain her physical strength and her purpose for life. He saw how she tended her vegetables in the fields in view to him and noticed fat and healthy chickens roaming freely. She was successful at both growing and rearing and soon had excess with which to trade for other goods. Twice a month she loaded her small cart, and set off to market.

Often he would then head into the smaller villages and make music for his own keep.

When Erin turned forty, with fine lines at her eyes, he noticed how she gazed across the river as if sensing his presence when he merely watched her, when he made no lyrical sound. Was she as aware of him as he was of her? If she was, never did she say a word, although once or twice she did smile secretly.

His heart set up an uneven rhythm when she did so.

Many of the Fay moved into the highlands in those years, for more humans had entered the valley. His parents too chose to relocate, but he was determined to stay and thus took possession of his childhood home as his own. His mother was sad, reading in him the signs of unrequited love, knowing also the choice was his. He was considered adult among his kind.

Humans, however, would regard him as a youth.

On the banks of a river, a boy sees and hears a girl laughing, the most glorious music, and falls in love. Time, however, is not the same for them. Erin is human; Kell is something other.

 Kell watches her from the shadows under the willow at the water’s edge, refusing to surrender to their differences. For Erin he plays the most beautiful music, for he may never speak to her and she cannot ever see him. Music becomes their words.

 Love, however, cannot measure time. The minstrel maintains his vigil; his muse listens for his song, and both move through the years alone, until the day something changes …

MINSTRELMINSTREL

Excerpt: T I N S A L - About junipers & March hares

 

“Who is that?” Terra pointed to the right, squinting in the new shadows thrown by the ancient tree beside them.

An old woman, bent over with age or cares, ambled slowly along the far hedgerow, seemingly sniffing at the berries and blossoms there. Terra had the distinct feeling that she sent her gaze at Broadwood more often than was necessary when out walking in the fresh air.

“That would be Ma March,” Folly muttered. “Mad as the March Juniper, probably how she got her name. She lives in a cottage on Ferntree.” He frowned and began to glance repeatedly over his shoulder.

“What is it?” Rhodry asked in a low tone.

“Jonah will do his nut when he sees her.”

“Why?”

“He hates thinking of Ferntree even by indirect reminder, you know that. Its proximity to Broadwood …” Folly gestured beyond the hedgerow. “… often keeps him from visiting here. When he surrendered his assets to the Church, he thought he was doing the right thing, as a priest has no need of earthly wealth, after all, but now he begins to wonder if he erred.’

“He erred,” Rhodry said.

Folly placed hands on hips. “How is that, my friend? Jonah will never further his line. Why keep a manor house, one ageing year by year into disrepair without adequate maintenance? For his old age? The Church will place him in care. More than likely it will be decent care after his very generous gift. How, therefore, did he err?”

“He was too hasty after his father died. He allowed grief to–”

“Grief had nothing to do with it. Jonah’s conscience came into play.”

“But you must admit he was too hasty,” Rhodry insisted.

Folly swung away. “Maybe. Still, what is done is done. And it is also a truth that he hates reminders of his departed legacy … and Ma March is a direct reminder.”

“How?” Terra asked.

“She was his nursemaid for many years.”

Rhodry made a face. “Perhaps she stalks that hedgerow for a reason, one other than smelling the bounty.”

“That’s what worries me,” Folly muttered.

Terra was decisive. “Then you two distract Jonah while I talk to her.”

Without awaiting confirmation, she headed down the steps to walk with purpose across the manicured lawn towards the far boundary. She hoped the two men would heed her, but did not look back to check. She had to seem authoritative to the waiting watcher.

Yes, Ma March had straightened and was waiting.

 

 

“WHO ARE YOU?” the older woman demanded as Terra came to rest on her side of the hedgerow. “I must speak with Jonah.”

Terra eyed her. “I am Terra. You’re not mad at all.”

A blink, then a twinkle appeared in faded blue eyes. “A mad woman is allowed certain liberties. No junipers in my line. My family name is, in fact, March. Suits my purpose to appear mad, it does.”

“Your purpose?”

“I swore to look out for the young master of Ferntree, and I aim to keep that promise until I draw my final breath. His mother entrusted his well-being to me and if there is one woman I have every respect for, it is Ruth Ferntree, bless her departed soul.”

Terra frowned. “Why are you telling me? Why trust me?”

“You are Terra.”

Terra abruptly bent over, hands to knees, sucking in deep breaths. “Someone has said that to me in my dreams since I was a child. You are Terra, she says, many nights. You? How? Why?”

“Dear, calm yourself. There are connections everywhere. In some manner or another we are all of us linked. You heard me, I saw you, and now we meet.”

“How?” Terra whispered, managing to straighten.

“There is magic in the world, dear. This particular society may not feel it as it should be felt, but it exists nonetheless.” Ma March changed direction then, much to Terra’s consternation. “Do you know of Amaris?”

It took Terra a fair few moments to focus. “The witch?”

“Many call her that, yes, and she has power, thus they are not wrong … only misled about what exactly a witch is. Amaris is dead.”

A blunt statement, that, one which served to further confuse. “That’s terrible, but–”

“Zanderin visited with her this morning.”

Terra was silenced.

“Now you wonder how Amaris is connected to the Stone. Not so? She was the love of Kell Sindaland’s life, that’s how.”

Terra puffed out her cheeks, feeling completely lost. “She died because a dead man once loved her?”

“Yes.”

“How terrible.”

“What is terrible is that Rhodry Fairweather has lost the ability to use her wisdom, and that means Jonah loses some of the protection that surrounds Rhodry.”

“What?” She sounded wholly ignorant, but this old woman now spoke in riddles. “You are not making sense.”

A wrinkled hand reached across the hedgerow to grip her wrist. “Dear, just listen. You are Terra. Listen and tell them.” Maintaining a paralysing grip, she glanced over her shoulder. “The holier-than-thou churchmen search for me. Part of the deal for Ferntree is my continued existence, something Jonah insisted upon. Makes them avid little watchdogs, I’m afraid.”

She turned back to capture Terra’s eyes in a fierce, intense gaze, one as paralysing as her hold on her wrist.

“Listen. Many years ago Amaris spoke words of protection for Rhodry Fairweather, but its efficacy is less now that she is passed beyond. It’s there, but less. The danger to all of you young ones is thus greater than it was just an hour ago. Be aware of this and help Jonah where you are able, for I cannot do so myself, other than to speak the warning. And know this also, many will die before this is over. The Tinsal whore cannot be turned from her path. She has a tarot card, one she allocated to herself, for she is part of the net of connections after all. Clever girl. It binds her to see it done.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I have the same card, dear. Oh, it wasn’t delivered me by that fool Zanderin; it is a card handed down in my family, woman to woman, until it came to me. One will be left, our story goes, and she will be the one who knows of the other.”

“I don’t understand,” Terra urged.

“The Manipulator, child. We call it Destiny. I am the last of my line. My destiny is to know when another takes up this eccentric card, and Bronwyn has now done that. And not even Zanderin knows. Tell Rhodry. It gifts him insights Zanderin is forced to overlook in his ignorance … oh, here they come, my watchdogs.”

An astonished Terra witnessed an utter transformation. Within moments Ma March was again bent and frail and seemingly as crazy as the juniper with which she was associated. Ma March winked at her and shuffled away. She wandered into the clutches of three robed figures and did not look back.

The priests merely nodded in Terra’s direction. Thank heavens they were an incurious bunch.

Why were junipers considered crazy? It had something to do with dwarf trees and souls within, a children’s tale once, now folklore. Drawing breath after breath, never mind the bloody junipers, she berated herself, Terra strolled back to Broadwood.

Rhodry was outside, waiting.

His seductive smile drew her ever nearer.

Fantasy with a twist; akin to an alternate Assassin’s Creed, where tarot cards are the weapons.

Bronwyn, a woman scorned, loses her honour, status, and her leg, and now the time has come to exact retribution.

Zanderin, a sorcerer bound to her, waves his magic over the attention seeking cards, each with a name attached, and every card becomes a symbol of doom. This is a cosmic deck, dealing in fate. Via his swift carriage, hooded and cloaked, he is the harbinger and assassin.

Terra meets her betrothed, Rhodry, when Zanderin gifts his first card. Rhodry and Zanderin are connected, and everyone linked to them is on Bronwyn’s list of names.

TINSAL is about bloodlines, secrets, and a controlled society. As the cards are dealt, death follows, until the endgame moves to Castle Tinsal itself.

TINSAL

Excerpt: The Orphan - Rose scented shampoo

 

HE RETURNED AFTER hours of waiting. Her nerves screamed at her to go after him, help him, he may be in trouble, but just as she was about to abandon the dry hollow where she hid, he appeared.

Sunflower hit him in the shoulder. “Don’t do that again,” she snarled.

He merely laughed … and held out a holdall.

Eyes narrowed, she snatched it, opened it. Oh. Fresh clothes. Toiletries, including pads.

“We can wash in the pond we saw a way back.” Adin watched her rummage, clearly enjoying her reactions. “But first …”

She accepted the brown bag he shook with wiggling eyebrows. Food. Proper stuff-it-in food. Sunflower sat flat on the stony ground, and stuffed her face. Although cold, it was delicious. Fries, deep fried fish, pork sausages, savoury tarts, and a yummy chilli dip.

“How?” she asked around filled cheeks.

“Raided the clothes recycle bin to look presentable enough, washed up in a toilet in back of the local gas station, and then went shopping. Got some funny looks for the girl stuff, but so what?” He peered at her. “Charged my phone at the diner.”

Sunflower stared at him. “You went online?”

“That’s what took so long, yes.”

“And?”

“Your father put out a fresh appeal for you on your birthday, but I didn’t find anything else about you.”

Sucking the last of the sauce from her fingers, she prompted, “Fred?” She still called him Fred, easier to deal with him, as if he were no more than a character in a play.

“Dug some into Paul Paterson’s life. Seems he vanished around the time you did, so it’s definitely him. Folks have the kind of money to put him in that fancy school, but he was the fifth son, won’t inherit much. The bulk of the estate goes to the oldest.”

“Explains why he took me for ransom.”

“His folks have a reward out. They’re looking, as your folks are looking.”

“But he can’t go home, not until I’m dead.”

Adin nodded.

Sunflower rose to gather the remains of her meal. “Let’s get to that pond.” As they walked on after shouldering their gear old and new, she asked, “What are you not telling me?”

“He broke out from an institution. Committed for some mental disorder. His parents want him found because they say he is a danger to society.”

Closing her eyes briefly, she walked on. It explained his odd behaviour. How he taunted her. How he watched her. Yet, to be truthful, he did not actually hurt her. In some ways he, in fact, cared for her. Monthly feminine products. New clothes. Books, including the cookery kind. Sleeping tablets. Cough mixture when she had a chest issue.

It didn’t make sense.

She said as much.

“There’s such a thing as mental torture,” Adin murmured.

And wasn’t that the truth?

They reached the pond, and as the first rays of sunshine peered over the towering mountains, Sunflower forewent everything else to become as clean as she could be, revelling in the rose scented shampoo Adin had bought for her.

Ever would the smell of roses bring him to mind.

An orphaned boy searches for a lost girl.

A woman abandons her new-born at a motel in the back of beyond. Adin grows up unloved, bullied, and no one remembers him. He doesn’t exist.

Until he sees a poster for a missing girl on a lamppost. There is an instant connection to little Sunflower, kidnapped for ransom, only to disappear after the money is paid. He exists because he must find her. Alone, he searches, a journey that takes him into the wild places, meeting along the way some interesting characters.

In dreams he speaks to her, for she is the one who will remember him.

THE ORPHAN

Ancient Illumination: Temple Dancer (excerpt)

 

Dark eyes roll back and Halley’s hands commence a peculiar pattern of movement, as if they too are dancing. This isn’t pole twisting, I sense; this is more like temple worship.

Winter murmurs, softly, “Please listen to her. This is the Movement of Memory.”

It is not as if we have the power of speech anyway, for we are all of us mesmerised by Halley’s flowing hands and sinuous body. She is indeed a dancer.

Halley begins to speak in a hypnotic tone. “The Giants laid down the great stones and carved upon them words of power. The Masons settled rock upon rock upon these foundations, revelling in the perfection. The Magicians created arches for ingress and spheres for light in the sheer edifice, and were satisfied. The Mistress waved her wand and, lo, a star appeared in the marvellous ceiling. The Artists played with gold and gems and covered the very walls and floors with otherworldly ostentation. Many came to gawk, it was that beautiful. The Master was displeased and sealed mighty Castle Drakon for all time, to all outsiders.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand stiffly to attention. Somewhere, perhaps in a dream, I have heard this before. I know this legend.

Fire spews and ice follows. The world Drakonis is near death and all life has fled. Except for Brennan, the thief who hears mysterious directions to Castle Drakon on the wind, and brothers Bastian and Cole, who choose to follow her. Then there’s Halley, an exotic dancer from the burning cities, and Audri, who refuses to speak.

 These five are the last and it is their task to ensure at least memory remains, or Drakonis will be eternally forgotten. To ensure this, they must find Castle Drakon.

 In a grotto under the ice they discover three others alive and before the warmth of a fire hear of a mighty legend. Unravelling its mysteries could lead to a way off a dying world. An ancient light will illuminate their path.

ANCIENT ILLUMINATION

Excerpt: House of Valla - every 1000th page

17 Books, over 7000 pages (small print).

Below are excerpts from every 1000th page.

Page 1000

Gillil, a red Sylmer, bright red tail and hair, his eyes as blue as the daytime ocean, also glowing, surfaced, powerful arms holding Saska horizontal on the bouncing ocean. She was still unconscious, but seemed not to have suffered from the dunking.

“It’s too rough out here!” he called out. “We’ll go around to the long island.” He vanished into the water briefly to come up under Saska, using his back as a raft for her still form. His arms wrapped backward about her, and he used his powerful tail to propel them forward.

Stirri said, “Enchanter, you have extra biology within; you are able to breathe water, did you know? No? Well, now is not the time to learn. Put your arms around my waist.” He turned his back to Torrullin and, once Torrullin complied, set off just below the surface to pull his burden along with powerful strokes.

Page 2000

TYMALL HUDDLED ON the dais. He was bound with Valleur rope that had none of the properties of vulci, but nevertheless held him. In truth, he could have freed himself upon regaining consciousness, being Valleur, but had chosen not to. He would have succeeded, although not easily, not with four guards over him. Tymall was fatalistic, his anger dissipated.

Torrullin approached with a measured tread his son knew well. His father attended to his emotions before he lashed out. When he attained the platform, he halted. “Did you hurt Taranis?”

Tymall was confused. It was not what he expected to hear first. “Ask him.”

Torrullin placed one foot on the dais and leaned forward on it to stare into his son’s grey eyes. “I cannot. Taranis is dead.”

“I did not touch him.”

“You lie, Tymall. His injuries were internal, a ruptured spleen, collapsed kidneys, broken ribs pierced his lungs, put pressure on his heart, his liver was torn, and his intestines were as liquid.” Torrullin was silent for a beat. “A pulse at short range, Tymall, with venom, and exacerbated by sustained kicking.”

“I did not kick him.”

“Then you hit him with intent to cause as much harm as possible. Margus may have thought it necessary to subdue Taranis, and Taranis would have fought, I know, but Margus prefers direct death when time is an issue. Vulci achieves imprisonment once the pain barrier is too great; Margus would not have used a pulse.” Torrullin straightened and stepped onto the dais. “My father was also hit about the head. Slapped. Spat on. Viciously gagged.” He hauled his son roughly to his feet and stood him up. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if you caused your grandfather harm.”

Page 3000

Millennia back Beacon laid claim to a sister world in its solar system, a world that became a hungry nation’s breadbasket. Known as Beacon Farm, it was sparsely populated, as available land was relinquished to farming. Farmers rotated through the system and permitted no casual emigration from Beacon to Farm. Still, produce from Farm was insufficient and imports were of paramount importance. It seemed to work; Beacon was a clean, well-governed world with no poor and hungry. But there was a dark side.

Manufacturing was done under license on other, less congested worlds, with no qualms about pollutants and no compassion for those exploited. Beacon’s powerful business cartels strip-mined, denuded forests, and quarried with no thought for the future. They paid high prices, yes, but left nothing but sterility and poverty behind, and moved on to the next proposition. Beacon was hated by other worlds.

Spacefaring for eons, they were also arrogant and superior. What was once regarded as a survival necessity, those pathfinders to other worlds, transformed into greedy business practice. The might of the cartels respected only two other human worlds; Valaris, for limiting Beacon to normal, healthy trade, and Xen III, for denying them access to long dormant minerals and ores after the domes were brought down.

Page 4000

KNOWING A NETWORK of sites existed meant it could be felt. There were now faint tugs at the subconscious, although without definition and direction; on Ceta also, a world chosen from a proverbial hat for a showdown, and thus they transported to a statue of an angel in a forest.

“Cetans were more comfortable with religious figures,” Elianas said. He frowned at the angel, not liking it. He always felt statues of angels and cherubs were no more than a soothing device. Akin to a lie.

“Likely,” Torrullin said, and moved away. “There is nothing to learn here.” He did not like the angel either.

“Has our focus changed? We intended to track history of others; are we now tracking the net?” Elianas demanded.

“Gods, how can we not?”

Lowen now knew of the ancient connection between worlds. “It seems to me early history will have a Valleur connection - any world.”

Page 5000

Elianas raised an eyebrow, the first sign of underlying emotion. “If that is how you prefer looking at it.”

“That is what I prefer, yes. So bloody what if you are Warlock. So what if Lowen has mighty Wings. So what if we stepped over lines in that nowhere place; it did not translate to here, unless we reveal results.”

“Crap. I am Warlock here and Lowen does possess her shadows. It translated.” A thread of frustration now weaved into Elianas’ speech.

“But no one knows.” Torrullin tapped the table, frowning.

“You are fooling only yourself.” Elianas’ eyes narrowed. “You have had a vision or visitation or something like it, haven’t you, something pretty enlightening. This is why you regard our issues as small; it has nothing to do with the reality of death and destruction.” Elianas’ hand whipped across the table to grip Torrullin’s wrist. “What changed for you?”

Torrullin suffered the grip without complaint. “Tarlinn.”

Elianas removed his hand with a snort of disgust, before muttering, “What happened?”

Torrullin smiled inwardly. Now they could talk. The man’s curiosity had been aroused. The Throne’s involvement meant questions and answers they had not before considered. “I revealed all.”

Page 6000

Hunkered on the bank of the Lare River, exhausted after the night’s ferrying, but relieved they had found everyone that needed finding, Karydor watched the water gradually turn to sludge. Pulling his cloak’s hood further forward to afford him breathing room, he swore soundlessly.

When Echayn’s long legs appeared in his field of vision, he snorted. “Lord Sorcerer could probably have done something about this.”

“Perhaps,” Echayn murmured.

“That’s a mighty secret you kept from me, Echo.”

A sigh sounded first, before the Valleur spoke. “Way back, in Lorin time, sorcery was untamed and that meant signs and prophecy was rife; even the less proficient among the Valleur could read images. When your son was born, certain women of a certain caste understood how important he is. He was and is needed for the cycles, for the then and for the now, and especially for the time the circle is opened, and time is made new. They saved him by placing him with parents genetically identical to you and Cylene. Rebirths? Yes and no. The genes speak of a rebirth, but his mother and father have not been either you or my sister, nor will they be in this cycle. It’s complicated. Even Elianas would not be able to explain it.”

Page 7000

Torrullin glanced at Elianas. “We need the Kaval.”

“And we have no time to waste,” the dark man nodded. “I will accompany Nefilim to Sorison, and aid in delaying the event, while you go to the Dome.” Reaching out, he gripped Torrullin’s forearm. “Already you are sifting through likely containment fields, something Elixir excels at, but be careful. Let this not harm you.”

“I’ll be careful,” Torrullin murmured. “Elianas, you get the hell away if that weave shows sign of eruption, hear? If you vanish into the netherworld, I am coming after you. Reaume cannot deal with what I will do to extricate you.”

Elianas smiled. “I’ll be careful, promise.”

“Then go. I will come to you.”

“Shall we, Nefilim?”

The massive dragon lumbered to hindlegs. “Follow my signature.”

He dissipated, and Elianas, after sending Torrullin a brash grin, followed. Torrullin stood and paced to the edge to stare down into the darkness filled with nightlife of the natural order, and inhaled a shuddering breath. Change cannot be avoided, he mused. Change now bites me in the arse.

Saluting the world, he vanished.

A Golden bloodline through the Ages. Indeed, for the Valleur are also known as the Golden, the race of Master Builders ruled by the mighty House of Valla. From then to now, into the future and back, the Vallas transform not only Time but also alter the dynamics for all civilisations.

Nemisin is First Father, or so he believes. Vannis is known as the last Vallorin … until Torrullin Valla steps forth. He changes everything; the House of Valla will never be the same as Torrullin battles darklings and dragons, a Darak Or and a Warlock, witches and soul takers, a Timekeeper and the evil lurking in his own family.

House of Valla brings together 17 volumes in the Vallas’ history. Prepare for the long haul, for this is a mighty tale …

HOUSE OF VALLA