The Curse of the Camerons [Free Chapter]

An adult story of horror and the supernatural

The Cameron men had abused women for centuries, and bullied and assaulted anyone else standing in their way. But ever since 1830 when one of them was executed in France for assaulting and murdering a young woman, they had been under a curse. Now, the end of the family line was in sight and the curse was about to become active. The remaining men of the family would suffer. Supernatural forces were at work, taking them again and again as they slept to suffer pain and torment at the hands of a cloaked woman, and each time returning them to their lives in extreme discomfort and haunted by the sounds and visions of those they had mistreated.

CHAPTER ONE

The year was 1830.

A woman hurried towards the La Conciergerie prison with an urgent message for a prisoner due to be executed.  The woman was only twenty-seven, and much responsibility rested on her shoulders.  It was essential that message arrived in time.

She knocked on the big oak doors under the towers, and when one door opened she showed the guard a piece of paper.  He examined it carefully before letting her pass.

Immediately inside was another guard, who greeted her and ushered her along a stone-paved corridor.  Their footsteps echoed as they followed the long corridor passed passages to their right that led into the centre of the prison, but they turned neither right nor left.  Finally, they descended a narrow stone staircase and stopped at a large interior door where the guard knocked and called loudly, “The Marquise, Madeleine Leclerc, witness to the execution.”

The door opened and she was allowed into the huge chamber with arched ceilings.  In the centre was the guillotine, the blade already raised and only a single rope preventing it from falling, and in the corner, behind bars, was the prisoner.  The executioner stood ready at the side of the guillotine.

She approached the executioner and said, “I would like to talk to the convicted person before you carry out your task.”

As she spoke, she noted that a clerk at a table in the corner was writing everything she said in a leather-bound book.  As she turned to walk to her seat, the prisoner gripped the bars of his cell and said, “Madame Leclerc, for what I did I deserve to die.”

She stopped before she reached her seat and turned to face him again.  “May God show you more mercy than you showed your victim.”  She then put a gold coin in the executioner’s hand and said, “Make his death fast.  There is no need for him to suffer.”

The executioner gave a small nod and replied, “As you wish, Madame Leclerc.”

The prisoner was brought from the cell and placed behind the guillotine.  As he knelt down, a priest gave him the last rites before he placed his head under the blade.  No more was said as the executioner pulled the lever and the blade fell, slicing his head off instantly.  Madame Leclerc stood up and shook the executioner’s hand.  She then gave another gold coin to the priest as she told him, “See that he is given a Christian burial.”

The young woman walked out of La Conciergerie prison as quietly as she had arrived.

* * * * *

Hamish walked into the kitchen and stared at his wife, Jeanne, standing by the cooker.  “Is the food ready, woman?”

“It will be ready in a few moments, Hamish.”

“You’re bloody useless, woman.  You know that I am home every day at the same time, and you still can’t manage to have the bloody food ready and on the table.”

“I do my best, Hamish.  There is a lot more to looking after this house than just standing here cooking food all day.”

He stepped forward rapidly and grabbed her by the throat with one hand and raising the other to strike her.  “Who the hell do you think you are?  Start talking to me like that and I will give you a bloody good thrashing.  I am the man that puts the food on this table and you will do what I damn well tell you to do.”

Jeanne looked at his wavering hand.  There was an edge to her voice as she spoke, “If you, Hamish, ever hit me with your fist, I will make it my life’s ambition to make sure the rest of your life is both painful and miserable.”

Hamish sneered at her, but there was something about the way she looked at him and the tone of her voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.  Hamish had struck Jeanne on many occasions in temper, and frequently when he was drunk.  He had never punched her, but his backhanders had left marks on her face many times.  He looked at the position of his fist and then at Jeanne’s face once more, and slowly he dropped his hand.  “Get my food on the table and we will talk about this later.  My father has told me on several occasions that you need a good hiding.

Jeanne placed his food on the table and moved away from him.  She told herself that she would have her food once he had gone to the hotel to drink himself silly with his friends.

A few hours later he had washed and he left the house.  Jeanne watched him go down the path, and then she went back into the kitchen.  She had her meal, thinking about the life she led and how much she would like to change it.  She knew that tonight Hamish would return home the worse for drink and take it out on her again.  He would shout at her, abuse her, but hopefully he would not touch her.  She wished she was living somewhere else, away from him, but where would she go?  This house in the country outside Glasgow had been given to them by Hamish’s father, and she knew she would never be able to afford somewhere of her own to live.

Jeanne was tall and slim, her long auburn hair curling down to just below her shoulders.  She was twenty-four, nearly twenty-five years old, and she knew she was nothing special to look at.  Her looks were average, no more, but there were already lines in her face that showed how hard her life had been.  She had no relatives.  In fact, she was an orphan, left in a box on the steps of a hospital on the south coast with just a letter that said she was French and her name was Jeanne Juliette Leclerc and giving her date of birth.  Somewhat bizarrely, the letter also said that she had been left a great sum of money that would be given to her on her twenty-fifth birthday, but it gave no clue as to where this money would come from or by whom it would be given.  No one had taken that part of the letter seriously, although at least they had told Jeanne about it when she was old enough to understand, and she still kept the letter hidden away.

She met Hamish Cameron in college while he was doing a course in engineering and she had been finishing off her own studies.  They married as soon as they had both finished at college, but then Hamish seemed to change.  Much later, his friends told her that he had always been a bully, although if that was his natural disposition then he had managed to suppress it all the time they were at college.  He had, so she was told, inherited his behaviour from his father, who owned the local estate and treated his workers like slaves.  No one liked John Cameron, and there did not seem much doubt that his son Hamish was following in the family tradition.

By the end of their first year of marriage, Hamish was treating Jeanne as no more than a slave, a possession that he owned and could do with as he wished.  He expected her to wait on him hand and foot, and pander to his every whim, and he was not slow with the abuse, both verbal and physical, however hard she tried to please him.  In short, he turned from the loving fiancé she had known at college to a despicable husband who was both an arrogant bully and a wife beater.  She had also heard that Hamish had often been seen in the company of a young woman who was, apparently the wife of one of his father’s workers.  Jeanne knew the girl they were talking about.  Once, while shopping in the village, they had met.  Not a word was said, but Jeanne saw the smile on the girl’s face and she was sure it was a mocking smile.

Tonight would be a bad one.  She already knew that from his attitude when he came in earlier.  She went to bed early, hoping that if she were asleep then at least she could not be accused of doing anything wrong to upset him, and perhaps she might avoid the abuse that would otherwise be inevitable.

Well after midnight, she was suddenly woken by the sound of someone banging about downstairs.  It was followed by the sound of unsteady footsteps walking up the stairs, and then the door burst open.  Hamish staggered in and fell onto the bed, reeking of alcohol.  He looked at Jeanne as if he was going to say something but his eyes closed before he said a word.

The next morning, Hamish came down the stairs looking hung over, as usual.  Before he could open his mouth she placed his breakfast in front of him.  He just looked at her.  He was already late, and he knew it.  He had to be at his father’s estate, and his father would shout at him if he was not on time.  He ate as quickly as he could, but when he had finished and stood up, he turned to Jeanne just before he walked out of the kitchen.

“I will be back at six.  You had better make sure my dinner is ready, or there will be all hell to pay.”

“I have to go into Lid-Brook today.  I need to get some shopping.  Have you any money?”

“Use your card.  That’s what you have it for.”

“That draws on my savings I had before I ever met you.”

“Why, you contrary bitch, I’ll show you a thing or two,” and he walked towards her with his hand raised.

Jeanne snatched up a kitchen knife and pointed it at him.  “I warned you last night that you had better not ever touch me again.”

Hamish stopped in his tracks, startled.  Jeanne’s expression was emotionless, and a chill ran up his spine.  “Don’t think this is the end of it, because it’s not,” he sneered.  “You won’t be so cocky when the room is finished in the big house for us.  There will be no more of this walking to the village then.”  Hamish gave her one more look before he walked out the door.

* * * * *

Jeanne’s bankcard did not work.  She stood at the cash point for several minutes, feeling like swearing and trying to work out what had gone wrong.  She knew there was enough money in her account, and yet it persistently told her to “refer to bank”.  Finally, she went into the bank and explained her problem.  The man behind the counter tapped a few keys on his keyboard and then spoke into the phone.  A few moments later, the manager came out.  “Would you come to my office, please, Mrs. Cameron?”

“Is there something wrong with my account?”

“Good heavens no.  I needed to speak to you urgently, and I have been unable to contact you by telephone.  Please forgive the inconvenience and accept my apologies, but putting a temporary stop on cash withdrawals was the easiest way to make sure we didn’t miss you when you came in.  If you will come with me, I will explain.”

In his office he held a chair out for her, and once they were both seated, he began to explain.  “Mrs. Cameron, I have been contacted by Giles and Peacock, the solicitors just up the street.  The details, I’ll leave for them to explain, except to say that it is most urgent you deal with this straight away.  I have been asked to give this letter to you, confirming their wish to see you.  I knew you came to the bank each Friday, so when they contacted me I was able to say that I was likely to see you, and I made the arrangements, for which I apologise again, to make sure we didn’t miss you.”

“How did they know I banked here?  This bank account was given to me on my birthday.”

“I have no idea.”

Jeanne opened the envelope and read the letter.

Dear Mrs, Jeanne Juliette Leclerc,

We have been trying to contact you for several months.  We are the holders of your late mothers will, and we would be grateful if you could attend our offices at your earliest convenience for a formal reading.

At the bottom of the letter was an illegible signature and the solicitors’ stamp.

Jeanne stood up and shook the bank manager’s hand, feeling more than a little bemused.  She collected her money for shopping before she left the bank, and a few minutes later she was at the offices of Giles and Peacock.  As soon as she told the receptionist who she was, she was ushered into a plush office where a bespectacled elderly man was seated behind a desk.

“Please sit down, Madame Leclerc.”

He had a slight accent; French, she thought.

He continued, “I am so glad you came to see us today.  I understand you may not have seen your mother for many years.  May I ask, do you know much about her?”

Jeanne had often wondered about her mother, but had never found out anything at all.  “No, I was left outside a hospital only a few days after I was born.  There was a letter that gave my name and a bank account number, and there was a short birth certificate that confirmed I was a French national born in England.  There was also a note that said I would receive wealth, whatever that meant, on my twenty-fifth birthday, which is now in three days time.”  She opened her purse and took out her birth certificate, handing it to the man behind the desk.

He smiled, examined it briefly, and handed it back.  “Do you speak French, Madame Leclerc?”

“Yes.  I’m fairly fluent.  I studied the language in college, and I spent a year in Paris working as an interpreter.”

He handed her an envelope with her name on it.  Inside was a small gold wedding ring and a letter written in French.

Dearest Jeanne,

It broke my heart when I left you on the steps of the hospital, but I had no other choice.  I have contracted a very rare, contagious disease while on holiday.  I’m sorry to say there is no cure and I very much doubt that I will last the year out.  I have instructed your nanny to take you to the hospital and leave you near the door.  She will stay until a nurse finds you, to make sure that you don’t come to any harm.

If the solicitors have done their job properly, you will now be a few days from your twenty-fifth birthday.  A very large sum of money will have been deposited in your bank, which will, as promised, be available to you on your birthday.  The solicitors will give you all the details, as well as the other rights and responsibilities that go with your inheritance.  If you have any questions or need any help, do not hesitate to ask them.  They will support you for as long as you need them, and I strongly suggest that, when the time comes, you recommend them to your heir.  They have served me well.

In with this letter is a gold wedding ring.  I would like you to wear it in place of any that might be on your finger now.  It has been passed down in our family from as far back as our records go, and it will explain to you anything that the solicitors cannot.

I can only wish you a happy twenty-fifth birthday.  I will die with the knowledge that you will never want for anything again.

With undying love, from your mother, Jeanne Juliette Leclerc

Jeanne placed the letter back into the envelope and gave it to the man behind the desk.  She looked at the ring noticing an inscription inside.  She took a closer look and read, “Feel the power.”  She looked at the wedding ring she had bought for herself because Hamish had forgotten.  Taking it off her finger she slipped on her mother’s ring, and she felt a little shiver run through her body.

She put her wedding ring in her purse, and looked at the solicitor once more.

“A deposit of one million eight-hundred thousand British pounds will be cleared into your bank account on Monday.  On that date you will also take ownership of a chateau worth a little over three million Euros, just outside Epernon in France.  The chateau is fully staffed and permanent arrangements are in place to cover all running costs and to pay the staff.  The domestic servants all knew your mother, and they are waiting for you to return to your home.”

Jeanne was shocked.  She could feel her heart thumping, and she struggled for a while to regain her composure.  For a moment, she thought about Hamish and how he had turned into a brute who gave her nothing.

“Could I leave all this in your hands for the moment?”  She looked at the name on the desk, “Mister Giles?”

“I am Joseph Barbier, and I will be honoured to be your personal lawyer as I was your mother’s.  Of course you may leave it in my hands, Madame Leclerc.  If and when you decide to return to France, I will be in our offices in Paris.  You will have realised that your bank is a subsidiary of a much larger French bank, and we also operate our legal practice in both France and England.”

* * * * *

Jeanne completed her shopping in a daze, and then went home to prepare Hamish’s dinner.

He came in his usual surly self, not seeming to notice that she seemed distracted.  He ate and then went up to the main bedroom.  After a minute or two, he called down to her.  “Jeanne, can you come up her a moment?  I have a problem.”

Jeanne went up the stairs, but as she entered the bedroom his fist struck her on the jaw.  “That is the last time you will ever pull a fucking knife on me, you bitch.  Do you hear me?”

The room was spinning as Jeanne tried to focus on Hamish and what he was saying.  Before she could reply, he had smashed the back of his fist into the side of her face.

“Do you hear, bitch?” he yelled.

Jeanne fell to the ground, unconscious.

“That’s good enough for you, bitch, and there will be more of the same when I get back.”  Hamish left her where she was on the floor and left the house.

Several hours later, Hamish was in the Half Moon public house with the wife of his father’s employee, talking to her and to the barmaid.  As was usual on a Friday night, all the village regulars were in there, and Hamish was talking loudly and arrogantly, as he always did, as if he owned the whole village.

“Are you not with your wife tonight, Hamish?”

“Don’t be silly, Wendy.  Wives stay at home looking after the house while their husbands get down to the important business of drinking and socialising.  Don’t worry, I put her in her place good and proper tonight.  She won’t dare to criticise me again.”  Then he looked at the knuckles on his right hand as if he were appraising them.

An old man was sitting at the end of the bar was listening.  “My, you are a hard man.  Punched your wife twice, did you, just so you could come to the pub to make love with another man’s wife?”

Hamish turned round rapidly, looking to see who had spoken.  “I’ll kill the man that said that.”

The old man replied calmly, “I am seventy-five, and I don’t doubt you could kill me if you had the guts to do it, but you really don’t have the guts, do you?  You just beat up women.  You are no more than an arrogant and ignorant prick, just like your father.  He regularly beat up your mother, right until the day she died.”

Hamish stepped forward, his fists raised.  “I’ll show you what I dare do, you old fart.  How dare you call my father and me names?”

He took another step towards the old man, who raised a walking stick and brought it down with a thwack! on the back of Hamish’s hand.  Hamish screamed in pain.  “You’ve broken my fucking hand, you bastard.  I will make you pay for this.”

The old man smiled, and picked up his drink.

“My father will see to you, you just wait and see.”  Hamish was holding his hand in pain as he threatened the old man.

“Your father couldn’t see to me when your dear mother was alive.  You just tell him the man that bruised your knuckles was your mother’s brother, and see what he says to that.”

Hamish left the pub and walked home.  He went straight to the drinks cabinet where he pulled out his favourite bottle of whisky.  Although his hand was hurting badly, he managed to undo the cap and pour himself a large glassful.  He looked at the injury, decided it probably was not broken, swallowed the whisky and poured another glassful.  By the time he decided to go upstairs to bed his head was spinning, and he had only staggered as far as the bottom of the stairs when a police car pulled up outside.  As he turned to answer the knock on the door he lost his balance and fell, knocking over a glass vase that smashed on the stone floor.

The police heard the noise and forced open the front door.  On seeing him on the floor, obviously very drunk and trying to get up, the police officer said, “Hamish Cameron?  I am arresting you for threatening behaviour earlier this evening at the Half Moon public house.  “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”  The officer then cuffed his hands behind his back as Hamish struggled ineffectually.

The other officer went up the stairs and re-appeared a few moments later.  “The information was correct, George.  I’ve called an ambulance.  His wife is upstairs, still unconscious.  Looks like the bastard gave her a right beating and then left her unconscious while he went to the pub.”

* * * * *

It was two days before Jeanne woke up and saw a woman police officer at her bedside.

“You are in hospital; Mrs. Cameron.  You have been unconscious for three days.  Your husband is locked up and will be appearing in court this morning.”

Her jaw was hurting, and it gave her a great deal of pain to speak.  “Hamish did this to me?”  Her eyes closed, and there was a bleeping from the monitoring equipment and lights flashed.  Two nurses and a doctor ran into the room, and the police officer stood back.

After a few minutes, the doctor turned to the police officer, looking serious.  “I don’t think you will get any more from Mrs. Cameron for a while.  Her consciousness has shut down, not uncommon after a severe blow like this, I’m afraid.  She may be in a coma for quite a while.”

“Have you any idea how long she will be like that, Doctor?”

“How long is a piece of string?  She might wake up in a few hours; it might be days, or weeks, or…”  He shrugged.  “The brain is a strange thing.  With this sort of injury, I can’t give any guarantees.”

Moments later, the policewoman was out of the ward and talking on her phone.

* * * * *

Hamish woke up in the police cell, and for the next few hours did very little except to protest his innocence.  His father and a lawyer arrived, demanding that he be released, but the custody officer flatly refused.  “He’ll be brought before the magistrates on Monday, and they’ll decide whether he can be released.”

“We’ll have you out on Monday,” Hamish’s father told him.

* * * * *

The charges against Hamish were assault and threatening behaviour.  The magistrates decided it was a case they could deal with immediately so as not to waste the court’s time at a future date, and very quickly Hamish was given a twenty-eight day prison sentence, suspended for twelve months.  His defence lawyer looked smug as Hamish was told he was free to go.

As Hamish left the courtroom, two police officers marched up to him.  One of them grabbed him by the arm and snapped handcuffs on his wrists, while the other went into the courtroom.

Hamish’s father, shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

“Mr Cameron,” the police officer told him, “Your son is going to be charged with more serious offences.”

At that moment, the Clerk of the Court appeared with the police officer who had gone into the courtroom.

“The magistrates are prepared to hear the new charges now,” he said.  “It’s a little unusual, but they’re on some sort of drive to save court time and they don’t see the point in having to allocate extra time in a day or two when they’re able to do it now.”

“Absolutely not,” said the defence lawyer.  “We’re in no position…”

“You’d better tell the magistrates, then,” said the Clerk.  “They want everyone back in court.  And, the mood they’re in, I wouldn’t want to risk them holding you in contempt.”

* * * * *

In court, while the magistrates listened intently, the police put the charges to Hamish.  He was then officially brought before the court and the charges again read out.

The magistrates glanced at each other and seemed to be in agreement.

“Mr Cameron, because of the seriousness of this matter, we find that we cannot hear this case in this court.  We remand you in custody until a date is set for a hearing at the Crown Court… no…” the defence lawyer had stood up and opened his mouth to speak.  He sat down again.  “…there will be no bail in this case.  It is our opinion that the defendant is a dangerous individual who may re-offend.”

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Curse-Camerons-Ian-Johnstone-ebook/dp/B00DQ05EF2/ref=sr_1_35?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1417520305&sr=1-35&keywords=ian+johnstone

The argument for e books, one point of view

There are still many writers that shun e books and think they are cheap and badly written. In many ways I agree with them, that some are badly written. However that does in no way means the story is bad. There are many stories that I have read that have many typo’s, but if the story is good and is compelling me to read on, then in most cases I can read over them.

In my 67 years of life I have read many books a long time before the internet was invented let alone the e book. I lay on my bed most nights in the barrack room for seven years reading just about every genre that every other soldier bought. There was an endless supply of free reading that in some cases after reading some other soldiers book, we bought the next one in the series from that writer.

I have only been writing stories for ten years, and it was not until six years ago I started getting them published. Reading books up until then had not been a problem, but all that changed. I wear glasses now and I find they make it seem like hard work to read a book.

I have now been writing and reading mono on my desk top and lap top for eight years and it affects the way I read books. My brain had come accustomed to looking at only one page in front of me like all writers. I would think most writers can put this aside and pick up a book and read.

Just over a year ago I had a mini stroke that for ten days had me almost paralysed down my left hand side. It took ten days of hard work by me, and perseverance and dedication by the occupational therapy nurses. I now have all my movement back and consider myself very lucky that I am alive still and able to write.

However it did leave me with a slight problem with my vision, but not severely impairing it. It has also got part to do with my brain that was slightly affected. I can still read and write with no problems, but only mono pages. I had not realised until I arrived home that when trying to read a hard back book I was going to have problems. The problem started in the hospital but in my semi confused state I never gave it much thought. I put my problem down to concentration, and forgot about it once my daughters brought me my lap top.

I was almost two months at home when I found the problem reading was still there. I opened the book and started to read with no problems. I turned the page and read page two and it was on page three my original problem I found in the hospital was still persisting. As I was reading page three on the right my left eye was picking up writing on page two and confusing me. The other thing I noticed was the writing was hard to read as it was too dull on a, white page that looked grey.

I tried for many days to get past the third page without success and gave up, my daughters bless them realised the problem and bought me a kindle. The kindle being mono and electric white background I had no problems.

The point is without the e books now I would have a problem reading any stories. There is now the app to download kindle onto a desk top or lap top. This is a must for those people that have a problem reading even with glasses on because the print is bigger. The argument for and against e books is a no brainer, because there are people out there that wish to read books that cannot afford the hard back copy.

Be well

MARINA [The Eye of the Fallen Angel]

CHAPTER ONE

At the edge of our universe is a void.  There are no planets, stars, comets, meteors or even dust – at least, not more than a few scattered grains accelerated in one direction or another by dark energy.  Otherwise, it is a great nothingness.

And far beyond this void at the edge of our universe are other universes, separated from us only by the vast distance, so great that by the time we could possibly become aware of their existence, by the time the light from them has reached us from their very beginnings, our universe will have ceased to exist and our suns no more than glowing embers or black holes.

Of course, with an infinite number of possibilities on perhaps an infinite number of worlds, there are inevitably other beings.  Unsurprisingly then, somewhere there are remarkable similarities to our own world, and somewhere there are remarkable similarities to some of our myths and legends.  Perhaps, for us, our myths and legends are from partially lost memories of actual events on our world; perhaps they are from a world around us in our own universe that we cannot see or feel, or perhaps we have some connection to life in other universes and it is events and beings on their worlds that sometimes intrude into our dreams and imaginations.  And perhaps we will never know for sure.

That said, as we travel through the medium of fiction towards and then into a distant universe, we find gods, both good and evil, and Creators who are the ultimate force on these worlds, who make the ultimate decisions and yet who are sometimes reluctant to take a hand in the battles between good and evil.  In this distant universe, there is a warrior they call Enforcer, much as the Creators on Earth, in the dimensions usually hidden from human senses, have their Last Warrior, who is not of them yet still part of them.  It is said that the Enforcer, like Warrior, was selected after drifting into the Mists of Time and meeting his own Creators.

* * * * *

 “Tell us the news as you see it, Enforcer.”

“My Lords, it is as bad, if not worse, than you could ever have imagined.  There is not one smidgen of goodness to be found on the surface.  Even the newborn are filled with the evil, passed down to them by their parents, and that evil surfaces long before they come of age.  Even the priests are evil and greedy.  They steal and they cheat their own just to survive.  Their gods let them down by not calling on the Creators for help.  I searched the surface to find, perhaps, just one redeemable mortal, and yet I found none.  My disappointment is absolute, my Lords, but I did not visit the gods for fear of showing favour, my Lords.  I cannot answer any questions to which they do not already know the answer.  Was I wrong, my Lord?”

“Your actions were correct, Enforcer.  Go about your business, and our blessings are with you.”

As Enforcer travelled through the Mists of Time, he sensed that a great evil had abruptly been removed from the universe, and he knew that the Creators had given their verdict and executed the ultimate punishment.

* * * * *

 Several million light years away, Warrior was standing outside the tigers’ cave on the mountains, looking outward toward space.  His eyes were alert, as if he was looking for something approaching.  While he was there the Creators appeared and Warrior bowed.

“You are troubled, Warrior.  Is there a reason?”

“My Lords, I sense an evil approaching.  This evil is unlike any I have ever sensed before, and I feel that it is alien to our universe.”

“We also sense this evil, and we too feel that it is alien to this universe.  It is powerful, and we think it would be wise to find its origin and evaluate its power.  Use your senses to take you to its source, and our blessings go with you, Warrior.”

Warrior bowed, and faded into the Mists of Time.

* * * * *

 When Warrior reappeared, he was on the surface of rock formation no bigger than a meteorite.  He found it difficult to work out why he had ended up there, because he had followed his sense of the evil’s source through the Mists of Time and yet arrived alone on this rock that was clearly too small to be hiding anything or anyone, and he could feel the evil moving away from him.

Even when using all the powers of perception allowed to him, he still could not see anything.  Warrior knew that whatever the evil was, by the direction it was taking it was now on a collision course with Earth.  It had to be some sort of entity, a being of sorts, but that it would be a waste of time to chase it.  His only option was to return to Earth to wait for it to arrive.  He did, however, sense that whatever this evil was, it was losing strength as it moved silently through space.  He hoped that by the time it reached Earth it would be less powerful.

Using the Mists of Time, Warrior appeared back on the mountains, just outside the cave, to resume his vigil.  He did not need to report to the Creators; he knew they could see his thoughts and they would know he had found out nothing new and so had returned.  The evil would take several days to reach the surface of Midgard, so whatever mayhem it intended to create would not happen until then.

Warrior decided that it was time he went and informed the gods.  It was in their interests to know what was happening.

“Valkyrie, we are going to meet with the gods in Asgard,” he announced, and faded, reappearing almost instantly outside the Well of Urd where he waited to be summoned by the gods.

Odin saw him first and beckoned him inside.  “Enter, Warrior, and speak with the gods.  I sense you have something on your mind.”

Warrior came to where Odin was standing beside a plinth, and then he addressed the Council of Gods.

“I am once again the carrier of bad news.  There is something evil travelling through our universe, and it is now heading towards Midgard.  I have been far out into the universe, near to it, but as yet I have not seen it.  It is invisible to the naked eye, yet I can sense that it is real and it is a threat to us.  I do not know where it has come from or what it will do.  I only know that it is a powerful evil and it appears to be moving towards us with a sense of purpose.  It is not from our universe.”

Lord Forsetti stood up.  “I suppose it is far more evil than the last evil that was here?”

Several gods laughed.  Warrior took no notice of the offensive remark.  He had expected it.

“Well?  Are you not going to answer me, Warrior?”

“Sorry, my Lord.  I had no idea that you intended that as a genuine question.  I thought you were having a joke with the other gods.”

Lord Forsetti looked as though he was about to explode with rage.  “How dare you make a joke at my expense.  I demand an apology.”

“My Lord, the gods did not laugh at my remark, but they were laughing at yours.  I naturally assumed that it was a joke between them and you.  You should also note that I will not apologise for informing you of the facts, and that is what I have done.  Those are the facts as the Creators and I see them.  I tire of being ridiculed every time I enter the Well of Urd to inform you of impending danger, and it is always you or one of the other key gods who seems to take a great deal of pleasure in doing it.  Is it, perhaps, some sort of competition between you to see who can come up with the most effective ridicule for whatever I say?  You continually disrespect me, my Lords, for no reason that I can see other than to amuse yourselves.  It seems I have no alternative other than to leave it to my Creators to inform you of Midgard’s fate.  I shall not waste my time standing here to become the focus of your scorn and the source of your amusement.”

Warrior faded back into the Mists of Time, and he was joined by the Creators.

Warrior bowed, and asked, “Why do the gods continually ridicule me?  Have I done something wrong that they must treat me less than a serf?”

“We know of your direction, Warrior, and go with the Creators blessing.  All of the Creators are aware of this childish friction, and we are going to nip it in the bud.”

As Warrior and the Creators were speaking to each other in the Mists of Time, no time passed, so to the gods the appearance of the Creators at the Well of Urd happened the moment that Warrior left.  Before any of the gods had a chance to speak, the Creators said, “Lord Forsetti, we are now informing you personally that there is an evil heading towards Midgard and its source is unknown.  We the Creators believe this evil to be more powerful than Midgard has felt before.”  They said no more, and the silence felt as though it could be cut with a knife.  “Well?  We are waiting, Lord Forsetti.”

“For what, my Lords?”

“We are waiting for your joke.  We know you like to share your humour with other gods that think it good to laugh at your remarks.  We are also waiting for you and those same gods to show us the disrespect that you showed our envoy.  After all this time, gods of Asgard, you still have not realised that Warrior speaks for us and will not lie to make you feel safer.  I know which of gods laughed at your comments.  You, and they, are now on probation.  The path you are treading is the same path taken when the child of the gods was in front of you.  Do you wish to have another lesson in respect?  You have been officially warned, and there will be no more disrespect of the Creators’ envoy.  Warrior tells you what the Creators wish him tell you in times of duress.  I will leave you, Lord Odin, to bring your Council of Gods into line.  Our blessings are with you.”

The Creators faded into the Mists of Time.

Lord Forsetti sat down with his face in his hands.

Lord Odin gazed at him for a few minutes.  “My Lord Forsetti, and all you other gods that think it is funny to ridicule and disrespect Warrior, you have all heard the word of the Creators and you know the likely consequences.  I will not delve any further into this mess, except to say that whatever you suffer is of your own making, but you will not be allowed to drag the other gods down with you.  I also think it fair to assume that once Warrior gains knowledge of this evil he will be back to inform us.  I believe that right now we ought to step up our guard and secure the Realm, at least until we know what exactly is threatening us and where it is coming from.”

* * * * *

 Warrior travelled the Mists of Time once more with the three Valkyrie, appearing on the surface of a new world.

“Valkyrie, we must go onto the mountains.  I have a meeting, and I must not be late.”

The mountains were only a short distance away, and they rode like the wind.  At the bottom of the mountains, just inside the foothills, Warrior slowed his horse to a walk and then stopped and dismounted by an overhanging piece of rock.

“Wait here, Valkyrie.  This will take a short while.”  As he spoke, there was a sudden displacement of the air in from of him, and Warrior walked forward into a shimmering bubble.  The bubble disappeared, just as the Valkyrie expected it to.  They had seen this phenomenon several times before.

Warrior walked to the light at the end of the darkness and then stepped into a large open space, around which were walls lined with books.  To the young woman sitting at the table, he said, “Greetings, Oracle, and I wish the blessing of the Creators be with you.”

“Greetings to you also, Warrior.  We meet once more in trying times.  If you will be seated, I will relate to you the missing Pages of Time.”  She waited until Warrior was seated, and then she closed her eyes and spoke:

“There is an evil force coming towards Midgard, as you know.  You also know that as it travels through the universe it is decreasing in power.  It will still be strong when it reaches the mountains, and then it will sink to the depths of the Underworld.  However, this is not important.  The evil will be absorbed into the evil gods, never to surface again.

“The danger comes not from the evil that penetrates the ground.  There is no danger from that, but the essence it leaves on the surface is the essence of evil.  It is not as powerful as the Creator that you are part of, but all the same it is powerful.  It is the essence of millions of evil souls that perished on another world.  This world was far beyond the edges of the known cosmos, but the essence will search for a lonely soul already powerful with evil and on the surface.  It will cling like a magnet until it too loses its strength.  How long this will take is not written; it can only be measured by the world it left.  My best estimate is that each quarter of the essence of evil will be absorbed every six weeks, but I cannot be certain.  The evil essence will touch many and you must fight many, but only the already strong and evil that it touches will be endowed with its power.

“If you follow the line of Jupiter and Mars in our Solar System, past the outer limits of the universe into and into the open space beyond, there is a green planet totally void of life.  It is the safety marker for this universe and the one beyond.  Go to that planet and wait, but under no circumstances must you go any further.  You will be met by Creators of the next universe, and they will decide how long you must wait before they see you.

“Your own Creators know of your journey and give you their blessing.  You must not take your Valkyrie with you.  The sisters know of the evil ones that you must destroy, but until these evil ones are tainted with the essence, the sisters are as blind as you.  That is all I can tell you, Warrior.  If there is anything more that is relevant to your task, then I will be in contact.  Good hunting, Warrior.  I pray that your Creators stay at your side.”

“Thank you, Oracle, and may your Creators guide you.”  Warrior turned and walked towards the light.

Once out of the haze and into the warmth of the sun, he told the Valkyrie, “You must go back to Asgard, as I have to go alone on the Creators business.”  They did not complain or argued.  Warrior’s word was as good as a command from the Creators, and their loyalty to him was absolute.

Once the Valkyrie had faded, Warrior did the same and appearing on the planet that the Oracle had described.  There seemed to be no sun or moon, but there was light all around him.  He dismounted, and walked over to a rock and sat down, knowing that this meeting might well be more important than any other.  He sat for what felt like an age, probably two full days by the time of Midgard.  All at once he stood up, alert without knowing the reason for doing so? But feeling a presence close by without it appearing to any of his usual senses, and not knowing how he could feel it.

In front of him, twelve Creators appeared.  Warrior bowed his head, and then lifted it to look at them.  He said nothing.

“Warrior, you have travelled a long way with questions for us.  We read of your coming in the Pages of Time and we know your questions.  What we do not understand is why the answers are relevant to you and to your universe.”

“My Lords, a cloud of evil has descended onto one of the worlds in my universe.  The evil is not the problem, as it will be soaked up by the evil Underworld gods, never to be seen again.  The problem is the essence that it leaves behind.  We estimate its power to be close to that of the Creators I serve.  This evil has travelled from your universe, and it comes from a world several million light years from my own world.  I have to know the strength of the world that produced this evil, so that I might know its strength and what I will need to fight it, my Lords.”

“We know of the world, Warrior, and we fear you have a hard task ahead.  This is a whole world of evil you face, complete and without exception.  The essence of evil cannot be destroyed, yet you may destroy those that gain and use its power.  The essence will, in time, weaken and fade away, but you must not become complacent.  That is all we can tell you, so go and take charge of your destiny.  The blessings of the Creators go with you.”

Warrior bowed, and the Creators faded into the Mists of Time.  Warrior took one last look at the vast void separating his universe from the next, and then he faded to return to his universe and his Creators.  As he travelled through the Mists of Time, he considered the immense power of the Creators and the power they had placed under his control to do their will.  He shuddered, momentarily overawed by his responsibilities.

Warrior reappeared in the cave with the tigers, and as he did so the Valkyrie appeared behind him.  He was thinking about what the Creators from the other universe told him, and considered the power that would have been contained on a planet that was totally evil.  If unleashed, such power could create havoc, and he wondered for a moment if even the powers of all the Creators, let alone the power they had bestowed on him, would be able to contain it.

He stood for a while as though listening, and sensed that the evil had arrived and the essence was, even now, finding one or more hosts to start propagating its wickedness.  Straining his senses, he tried to establish how many hosts the essence had touched, how powerful each would be and what form that power would take.  He was unable to feel any of it.  The evil was the aggregate of a whole world of evil, a force that might be impossible to destroy, yet its power had diminished over its long journey and he was far from certain how much of the power the essence would be able to pass on to its new hosts.

Warrior knew that the essence itself could not be destroyed.  The host or hosts could, and yet any hosts the essence found would already have evil of their own.  Indeed, it was their existing evil that enabled the essence to latch onto them, clinging as fiercely as two magnets pulling towards each other and making an unbreakable bond.

This might be a long battle, and the forces of the enemy remained unknown.  Worse, for Warrior, without knowing what shape and form the evil would take and what tactics it might use.  Warrior had no idea what evil thoughts and ideas the essence might have brought with it.

He looked out into the falling snow as if looking for guidance.  He felt that his thoughts and questions might be answered when the Creators appeared.

“Warrior, we read and understand your thoughts, but at this moment you can do nothing but wait.  We the Creators know, as you know, that the evil has been swallowed into the interior, leaving only the essence of evil to roam.  We also know that this essence, although strong, is not as strong as the Creators you serve.  This means that once again you are more powerful and that it can be defeated.  As before, the entire Council of Creators is there beside you if you should need help or guidance.  We will always be but a thought away.”

“My Lords, by calling you away from your tasks so often, does this not hinder your work?  I always sense that I am pulling you away from your important tasks of overseeing the universe.”

“Warrior, stopping to converse with our most obedient servant whose job is to police the universe is very much part of our work.  We have told you on many occasions that you are an extension of the Creators that guide you.  Where we go, so too do you, and in your battles against the evil we will always be at your side.  This unity of great forces cannot be matched by anything in this universe.  Never feel that when you need guidance or just want to hold counsel we will be annoyed, because that moment will never arise.  Trust your instincts because they will never let you down.  You have extreme powers and you use them well.  You have never let the Creators down and your character is without blemish.  As the evil powers become strong, so too will yours, because you have the capacity to wield the power of the Creators, and they will never leave you wanting.  We will depart now, Warrior, and before we leave we are pleased to be able to tell you that Lord Odin has his Council of Gods back in line.  Once again they too are there for you to converse with, and we give you our blessings.”

“Thank you, my Lords.  Your words have not fallen on deaf ears.”  Warrior bowed as the Creators faded.

Once the Creators had left, Warrior and the Valkyrie faded and reappeared in Asgard.  Warrior was seated in the great hall in his own seat, and his eyes closed and he fell into sleep.  This was the first time ever that he had slept in Asgard.  He knew that he was potentially vulnerable while he was asleep, but Gunn and Geirahod were on the alert, while Hild went to report to the gods.

At the Well of Urd, Odin beckoned her to enter and she informed him of everything that had happened.

“Where is Warrior now?” Odin asked?

“He is asleep in the great hall, my Lord.  Gunn and Geirahod are at his side for his protection.”

Odin dismissed Hild, and he looked to the gods, asking, “Your comments, please.”

Thor stood up and addressed the gods.  “Warrior has great knowledge of the evil about to strike, yet he sees fit to go to the great hall and sleep.  Does he not think?  The wise thing to do would be to announce his presence in Asgard to his gods.  I have heard what the Valkyrie has told the gods, and so we know what the Creators told Warrior.  I can only say that I think that he again considers himself better than us.  He is getting above his station.”

“My Lord, you seem to forget that Warrior is an envoy to the Creators.  He is also an extension of them, and where he walks so too do they.  Warrior has had very little sleep, and I know that his sleep is frequently disturbed by the weight of information his mind has to absorb, hold and process, and in a potential crisis like this, that information increases hour by hour.  I would advise, my Lord Thor, to think on what the Creators spoke about when they were last here.”

“Warrior announced his presence by allowing, and yes, I do mean allowing, a Valkyrie to come here.  I believe that when Warrior comes here to the Well he will personally tell us everything that the gods need to know and not what they think they should know.  If there were an immediate threat to the Realms and Midgard, I believe that Warrior would not be where he is now, as he would never leave his beloved Midgard wanting.  We the gods must allow him a little rest when he needs it.  Also, we must remember that over a hundred year has passed since Warrior was made immortal by the Creators and arrived in Asgard.  He has been fighting the evil for all that time, and watching over the universe constantly, even when there was no threat and nothing to fight.”

The Goddess Jord sat down, and Odin said, “Well said, my Lady.  We have no need to give Warrior more stress than he already has in doing his job.”

* * * * *

 Warrior had fallen asleep but, as always, he started to dream.  However, this dream was unusual, in that it was about his mortal life.  It was the middle of winter, and he was on the mountains.  The snow was heavy and he was injured, with his left arm hurting and giving him a lot of pain.  He knew that he was on his own because the rest of his command had fallen in the last battle with the white guard.  He was on the lower part of the mountain, walking higher and trying to escape the small groups of white guard that were following.  The wind was becoming stronger, and he had to find shelter and fast.  It pleased him to know that the group behind, trying to track him, would be thinking the same.  The battle between the reds and the white guard had drained his strength, and now he felt that every skirmish was taking away another small piece of his life until eventually he would have nothing left.  He found himself on a small plateau between the higher mountains, about a hundred and fifty metres higher than the lower hills.

Nicolai could feel the cold biting into his chest as he breathed it into his lungs.  It was hard to breathe up here because the air was so thin.  He could hear the sound of the men’s gasping voices not far behind him, and knew they would chase him until he dropped.  He turned to face them, drew his sword and dropped onto one knee.  He shouted above the noise of the howling wind: “My Lord Odin, it is I, Nicolai Kandinsky.  Behind me I see the freezing cold and the hunger that will be followed by a slow death.  In front I see the charging white army who are allowing me no rest.  I respect the power of both but I fear neither.  I ask of you and the gods of battle to look down on me and give me your blessing, although I know that your hands are tied and to change the Pages of Time would be reckless.

“To my own goddess, the Goddess Jord, I am sorry, my Lady, that once again I will turn the white snow red with the blood of others.  These are your mountains and your land to look after.  As long as I live, I will fight for the right for beings to roam free here.  I know too, my Lady, that you will be keeping vigil over my battles this day.  If I die, I will die the death of a warrior, so that I may serve the gods in Valhalla.”

The white guard were as tired as he was, and the first one that came at him was dispatched with a clinical stroke of Nicolai’s sword.  These were but poor peasants, and they had no idea how to fight with the sword.  They had rifles, but their firing mechanisms had frozen and failed long ago in the damp and cold.  They had bayonets on their rifles, and some presented these before them as they charged at him, stepping over the headless body as it rolled towards them.  Two came at once.  Nicolai avoided the first thrust and took hold of the rifle of the man to his left, pulling him past and throwing him to the ground.  As the white guard on Nicolai’s right pulled his rifle back to stab again, Nicolai thrust his sword deep into the man’s chest.

As if in slow motion, the man fell backwards, freeing Nicolai’s sword.  He turned sharply before the man on the ground could react, and he thrust his sword through that man’s chest as well, before turning to face the other oncoming soldiers of the white guard.  None were close enough to pose an immediate threat to him.  He could see two more, further down the mountain, but after seeing their friends die at his hands they seemed reluctant to move forward.  One shouted out, “Freeze to death, you red scum.  We will be waiting for you down below.”

As the two men turned and walked away, Nicolai fell on his knees, exhausted but alive, although he felt that his life was ebbing away.  He was hungry and tired, and he knew that if he sat down now he would never get up again.  The cold and fatigue would take over, and then he would die of exposure.

Nicolai pointed his sword to the sky.  “My Lady, once again I have defaced your blanket of white, but I am still alive to fight.  My Lord Odin, I thank you and the gods of battle and war for giving me your blessings.  I am tired and weak, and I must find shelter, so until we talk again I salute you.”

Nicolai turned and walked forward to find shelter.  The snow was falling heavily, but the wind had stopped and it did not feel so cold.  He picked up his fur gloves and put them over the top of the leather ones he wore for the fight.  With his fur coat and fur hat, he looked like a brown bear from the back.  It was pointless walking back down the mountain, as he knew the other two groups of white guard would be waiting.  He had to move forward to find a cave or some sort of shelter.  If he could rest and gain strength, then he had a chance.  It was his only hope of survival, but without nourishment as well, he would still not last long.

How long he walked he had no idea, but eventually he saw a small hole no bigger than a metre high.  Perhaps this would be what he so desperately needed, and he slipped easily through the entrance.  Inside was a little bigger; three metres by three, and Nicolai stumbled to the back wall.  He pulled out his pistol, checked its movement, and found it to be working, and then he lay down with his back to the wall of the cave, feeling the warmth slowly return to his body.

He fell asleep, although he had no idea how long he had been asleep when he was woken by a gust of warm air on his face.  He feared the worst, and opened his eyes to find he was right to fear it.  Two huge eyes were fixed on him from no more than a metre away and he could see the thick, furry head of a Siberian tiger.  The large cat stepped back as Nicolai pointed his pistol at the beast, and he could also see in the failing light that the tiger was heavy with cubs inside her.  They stared at each other for several, and then Nicolai lowered the pistol and said out loud, “You have as much right to live as I do.”

The big cat came towards him again, and Nicolai closed his eyes and waited for the worst to happen.  To his surprise, she simply lay down in front of him and closed her eyes.

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CHAPTER ONE

Surely that was someone standing near the rosebush?

No, his mother had no friends in the house today… adoptive mother, Douglas corrected himself.  His mother had died when he was three, and Douglas could remember very little about her.  Her closest cousin Lady Stanley and her husband Lord Stanley had adopted him, and now he lived in their mansion with free rein to roam the huge gardens.  His schooling was from private tutors that visited the mansion near Kelso, Scotland, for half a day on three days each week.  Lord Stanley was away most of the time – his work as a financier taking him all over the world – and, as much as Douglas was well taken care of and very much loved Lady Stanley, who he called ‘mother’, he was lonely.  He desperately wanted friends of his own age.

That was someone standing by the rosebush just out of the wooded area at the end of the garden… a girl, he was certain.

His mother was calling him for the evening meal, but Douglas’s curiosity had been aroused and he headed down the garden again, stopping by the rhododendron bush that, along with the creeping rose, took up a vast area just before the trees.

There was no one.

Douglas looked in every direction, shaking his head in confusion.  He could not have imagined it.

“Hello?  Is there anyone here?” he asked cautiously, hoping to hear a reply, but all that could be heard was the sound of insects and the chirping of birds.

He stared at the empty space behind the rose bush, almost wishing for someone to either answer or appear, and then stepped a few paces to his left to look inside the ornate iron gazebo, but behind all the climbing plants that covered the ironwork it was empty.

“Douglas!”

He heard his mother call his name once more, urging him to resume his journey back to the house.

The head housekeeper was looking out of the door when he arrived.  “Oh, there you are, Douglas.  Your mother was worried.  She sent me to find out where you were.”

“Meg, are there any other houses near this one with children my age in them?”

Meg thought for a moment before answering, “Not that I know of.  Why are you asking?”

“I thought I saw someone near the rose bush at the end of the garden.  At first, I thought my mother might have friends over and one of them had gone into the garden, and then I thought it must be someone else.”

Meg looked up at the small clouds crossing the sun, hiding its rays now and then.  “It was most probably shadows at this time of day, and your eyes were playing tricks.”

* * * * *

Douglas went into the lounge where his adoptive mother was sitting at the table.  “Ah, there you are, Douglas.  Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“Yes, Mother, but I thought I saw someone by the big rose bush near the rhododendron at the bottom of the garden and I went to find out who it was.  Meg said it was the shadows playing tricks with my eyes, but she looked very real.”

“She?” his mother queried.

“Yes, it looked like a girl, about the same age as me, but her clothes were a little strange.”

“How do you mean ‘a little strange’?  Do you mean she was wearing foreign clothes?”

Douglas thought about it before answering.  “No, I think they were Scottish, but very old fashioned.  If it was the shadows playing tricks with my eyes, I would not have thought I could have seen so much detail about her.  She looked so real, so… alive.”

His mother was now looking concerned.  “Were you frightened, Douglas?”

“Why would you think I would be frightened, Mother?”

“Well, this is a very old house and gardens…” his mother answered cautiously, looking as though she was considering her words very carefully.

Douglas smiled, and asked, “Do you think she might have been a ghost?”

His mother looked straight at him and saw that he was smiling.  She returned his smile.  “Yes, I did think that for a moment, but it’s a really silly thought, isn’t it?”

* * * * *

There was no more spoken about the girl as they had their evening meal, and she was quickly forgotten.  Later that night, Douglas went to his room, leaving his mother down in the dining room.  He sat down at his desk where he did his schoolwork, although the formal lessons from his tutors were always held in the drawing room.  They always left him plenty of work to do and to revise, and Douglas usually did it in the evenings before he went to bed.

Douglas opened the top drawer and pulled out a light coloured wooden box.  It was about the same size as a shoebox.  On the edges of the lid was an ornate inlay of different coloured veneers, and in the centre of the lid was the word Legacy written in large italics.  He lifted the hinged lid and looked at the contents, although there was not very much in there and what was there was as much of a mystery to him as it had been on the first day he looked inside.

He could see a small, rolled up scroll that looked ancient but was in fact modern.  It was six inches in length, with strange writing that could be seen when it was opened out.  He had tried to read it every time he took it out of the box, without success.  It was written in a foreign language, and one that he certainly had not mastered.  In fact, he still did not know what language it was.  He had looked at it so many times with the same questioning eyes, and every time it made him more frustrated.  Without unrolling it, this time, he placed it to one side of the box before he looked again at the other pieces.

There was a key with a label that had more confusing writing on it, but at least it was in English.

“This is a key to your destiny and the Stuart legacy.  One word is needed for the Lord of the horses to follow the trail.”

It was signed: “Robin Beatrice Stuart.  Stirling.”

Douglas had always believed that was his mother’s name.  His surname was Stuart, which he had kept when he was adopted, it also being his adoptive mother’s maiden name.  The ‘Sterling’ at the end must have been the surname of his father who, for some reason, his mother had never married.  What the key unlocked he had no idea, because it was not like a normal house key or even a drawer key.

He placed the key next to the scroll, and picked up a heavy, solid cube.  He had no idea what this was, but it was glazed or very highly polished.  It was rectangular, two inches deep by four inches long and three inches wide, made of what Douglas thought was green marble.  There was nothing on the cube that told him what it was for – or, for that matter, why it was there, but this was one of the strange items that his mother had left him.  At one end of the cube was a faint engraving of what looked like half a crest, with a horse at the side of a half shield.  Douglas had looked at all the clan badges and crests, but none had anything similar on it.

Douglas placed the block to one side with the key, and picked up the scroll again.  The words on the scroll were also written in italics, and he had read them so many times that he almost knew them by heart.

“Die Karte wird den Weg in die Burg Schloss zu zeigen, wenn Sie verlassen.”

Douglas let the scroll close on its own, once again leaving him with a frown on his face.  Lowering his hand into the box, he lifted the last remaining item.  It was a small envelope with writing on the front, but this too was a mystery to him.  This writing was also in italics: ‘Insel-Schloss’.  Inside was a silver coin in a plastic presentation case.  There were two side-profile heads on the face, of a man and a woman.  He had taken a photo of it to a coin collector who said it was very rare and was worth a considerable amount of money.  He had informed Douglas that it was a silver Ryal.  The side profiles were of Mary Queen of Scots and Lord Darnley, with the date 1565.  It had been struck to commemorate their marriage.

On the back of the presentation case was a square scratched on the dark plastic.  There was on one end on the inside of the square another smaller square.  On the opposite corner was a small circle with a cross in the middle.  Douglas placed it back in the box with the other items, and closed the lid.

There was a gold cross on top of the desk, but not on a gold chain.  A thin, black woven silk cord ran through the eye of the cross.  Douglas had been given it a few months before, on his fifteenth birthday.  It had been a present from his mother and had been kept in his adopted father’s safe for that day.  There had once been a note with the cross that had also been in a presentation box.  Douglas had destroyed it, but he had memorised the content.

Dear Douglas Ahearn,

By the time you see this, I will have been dead twelve years and it is your fifteenth birthday.  I am thinking that by now you have looked at that box of items many times.  Each time you have been probably wondering if I was making some kind of sick joke.  I assure you that I would never do such a thing to my only son, and the heir to the Stuart fortune.  There is a large sum of money in a bank, held in trust, and you will be given full details on your eighteenth birthday.  You have probably already been told that you are the owner of Stuart House in the highlands.  The house is of great importance to you in the future.

Each item in that box will help you solve the mystery of the Stuart legacy that has been in our family for many years.  I solved the mystery to the legacy, but knowing of my forthcoming death I have had to keep it secret.  The items in the box are all clues, and they will take you to your destiny and the legacy.  The truth about the Stuart legacy has always been kept secret.  No one knows the full details, and I would not trust others to find it for you.  No one, other than the true heir, has ever been privy to the information that will take you to the legacy.  It is yours alone to find.

There will be someone who will help you to reach your destiny safely, but you alone will know who that someone is.  It is time to ask your adopted mother all about me, as she has had a letter instructing her to answer your questions.

Please, for your own safety destroy this letter, because there will be those that would wish to cheat you of your inheritance if they only knew what you were searching for.  The cord attached to the cross is the original and must stay with the cross.  It is unique in a way that only you will know.  To all others it is only gold.  Sleep with it, and follow its secrets.”

“Your loving Mother.”

Douglas had done as his mother had asked of him, and he burned the letter not long after he had read it.  The only thing he had not done was to ask about his mother, not out of fear but because he had forgotten about doing so.  He slipped the gold cross cord over his head before he got ready for bed.  He had never placed it over his head before, and he could feel its weight against his chest.

* * * * *

That night, Douglas dreamed.  He was standing on a walkway several metres above the ground, with a sheer drop into a courtyard on his left and a wall at shoulder height on his right.  The structure was made of large pieces of grey stone, of the sort he had seen in old buildings and churches.  There was a slapping noise coming from the other side of the wall, and curiosity got the better of him.

He felt compelled to look the other side of the wall, and what he saw was a shock to him.  There was a sea of rough water, but for some reason he believed he was not on the coast.  Land could be seen a long way off in the distance, which gave him the impression that he was on either an island or on one side of a wide river.

Douglas turned his head to look down into the courtyard.  Towards the rear, behind where he was standing, he could see what he thought was a small dwelling.  There were longer buildings running along the side of the walkway wall below him.  To the other side of the courtyard there was a tall, square building with wooden steps leading to a doorway.  Looking at the position of the windows, he estimated it to be at least five storeys.  There were dull, flickering lights coming from three of the windows, either from candles or perhaps burning torches.

The day was coming to an end as Douglas looked up to see a dark cloud rushing over the sky, propelled by a fierce wind.  Although he could not feel the wind, it was obvious from the way the water slapped at the walls that there was at least a strong breeze even at ground level.  At some time, he could see that it had been snowing, enough to leave a light dusting on the ground.  The snow on the walkway was reflecting a little light back, but soon the moon was covered by the cloud.

Douglas moved forward along the walkway, feeling as though he was gliding more than walking.  He heard noises below as three men appeared from a doorway in the long building.  They were each carrying a burning torch, and after a few words that Douglas could not hear they walked off in different directions.  Each time one of the men came close to a torch on the side of the wall, it was lit, and in no time at all the courtyard was shimmering in a flickering half light.  The flames were reflecting on the thin coating of snow and, as he watched, Douglas shivered in his sleep.

There was snow on what he knew now to be the castle battlements, and some of the snow had landed on the stones where he was walking.  It was then he noticed footprints below in the new snow covering the courtyard.  They were small, like those of a young girl, and not at all like those of a man would look.  He looked over the wall at the water slapping against the walls of the castle.  On seeing the small waves being blown by the wind only made the night feel that much colder.  Douglas could not feel the coldness of the night, but the sense of seeing the elements made him shiver in his sleep once more.

He heard a rustling noise, which made him turn his head quickly to the left.  Down in the courtyard he saw a woman in a long dress that trailed on the ground behind her.  As she walked close to the light, Douglas could just see that the dress was a light red with thin gold cord embroidered on top of the material.  The cord had been sewn over the material in a way to make it look like squares.

She was walking around the courtyard following the walkway.  Although she was looking towards Douglas, she appeared indifferent to him being there.  It was as if she was looking straight through him at something else.  As the woman reached the corner of the walkway, she stopped and turned into what he assumed was a doorway.

The most striking thing about the woman, even at this long distance, was her beauty.  She had a heavy cloak around her shoulders with a headscarf pinned to her hair.  It was only an instant before she appeared again and was walking towards him.  Douglas could see her lips moving as she approached, and he heard her say, “The night is cold, George.”  Now, it seemed, she had seen him and for some reason had addressed him as ‘George’.

Douglas watched as she came closer still, talking but now too quietly for him to hear what she was saying, and then suddenly in the courtyard below a boy appeared in front of her.  When they were closer together, he said, “You should not be out here, my Lady.  Let me escort you to your room.”  Moments later they became a blur in his dream, moving away from where he was standing, and Douglas was left in a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

The following morning at breakfast, Douglas asked, “Can you tell me anything about my mother?  I really know very little about her or what she did.”

“I have been wondering when you would ask me a question like this, and I will try to answer with all the knowledge that I know about her.  To me, your mother was my first cousin and we were very close.  We both went to the same university but studied different subjects.

“While at college, she found out that she had a gift for solving cryptic clues.  There were a lot these types of clues used in the car rallies we participated in.  Not only was she good at working them out, but also she had correspondence with a leading newspaper.  Now and again they would ask her to write cryptic clues for their crosswords.

“She qualified as a history graduate and was top of her class, specialising in Scottish history.  Although both of our surnames are Stuart, only your mother’s was steeped in history.  We were in our last year at college when her life changed and she became more serious.  We had the same lodgings in Stirling.  I would be forever returning home after a night out, and find her curled up with a book or writing in one of her many folders.

“In that last year, she spent some time visiting mediums and mystics, but I have no idea why.  I did ask her once, and I remember her saying that it was a project she was working on.  She never visited the same one twice, and I also asked her why that was.  Her answer was strange.  She said, “I don’t want them knowing too much about my life.”  Your mother never told me anything about the project, if that’s what is really was, or whether what she was doing was connected with one of the many courses she was enrolled in.

“In that same final year she decided to learn German, but I am not sure for what reason.  She could already speak French almost as fluently as the French.  On weekends, she travelled all over Scotland, but again she never told me why.  What I mean is that she would tell me the town she went to, but not the reason she went there.

“She was a historian, so I never delved into her business, and when she left college she took a great chest with all her folders and writing packed away in it.  It is upstairs in your room at the bottom of the large cupboard, but you cannot get into it.  There is a lock on the box with a six-figure combination, and we have been told that without an acetylene torch you would never get in.  However, opening it that way would destroy anything inside the box because of the structure of the lock.

“Your mother wrote in her will that she wanted the chest to go to you.  She had a great deal of faith in your ability even then, and when she died you were only three years old.  She wrote in the will that you would work out the combination when you came of age.

“As you probably know by now, your mother was very wealthy, and there is an extremely large sum of money in trust for you, that will mean you will never want.  You also own a large house the same size as this one here, but with much more land than we have.  You already know about it being way up in the Highlands.  The estate is being looked after by the trust your mother set up, and the servants are also paid by the trust.  There is another three years before you are eighteen, and then you will take it over and receive the inheritance that is due to you.”

“When you said my mother’s name, Stuart, was steeped in history, what did you mean?”

“Your mother’s side of the Stuart family had royal blood in the mixture that came from many directions.  There are lords and ladies that are close relations to you, but I have no idea who they are because your mother never told me.  I know that I am telling you a lot of things that leave a lot of open ends, but in many ways your mother was a very secretive person.”

“I am glad you adopted me, but why did you undertake to look after me when my mother died?”

“I was your godmother, and your mother made me swear on the Bible in church that when she passed away I would look after you.  She made me take that oath, not just before you were born but before she even had a man.  She knew that I could never conceive children because of a defective gene in my body.

“The man she picked was known to be promiscuous, and she knew he would not hang around if he thought she was pregnant.  She never told him about you.  Unfortunately, he died six years ago in a car accident.  He never knew that you existed.”

“Why would she do that, knowing I would be brought up an orphan or, rather, an adopted child?”

“I asked her the same question.  She told me that whether she had a boy or girl she wanted an heir to her fortune and the Stuart legacy, whatever that is.  All of those artefacts that you have were in your mother’s family, handed down through the generations.  I think the key and the scroll is modern, but that’s all.  I hope that has helped clear your mind and given you food for thought.  It is all that I can think of for the moment, but if any more comes into my mind I will tell you.”

Douglas had finished his breakfast.  He stood up to leave, but stopped, bent down, and kissed his adopted mother on the cheek.

She looked up and asked, “What was that for, Douglas?”

“That was just a thank you for being my mother, even if you are only my adopted mother.”

* * * * *

After his tutor had left, just after noon, Douglas took his usual stroll around the garden.  There was many wild bird nesting boxes on the trees, and in the bushes the birds were caring for their young.  He sat in the iron and stone gazebo, resting in the afternoon heat, and suddenly the girl he had seen before appeared opposite him.  Rather than feeling startled or frightened by her sudden appearance, Douglas was somewhat relieved to know that he had not been hallucinating the previous time he had seen her.

She was dressed in really old fashioned clothes, in keeping with the dream he had had the previous night.  Hanging down to her waist was a gold cross, similar to the one he had worn.  On noticing the similarities, he automatically put his hand up to feel his chest and realised that the cross was not there.  He had removed it before he washed that morning, and now he assumed that he had forgotten to put it back on.

The girl was wearing a lace bib over her shoulders, covering a little way down her chest.  The dress was long and spread out near the ground, in such a way that he could not see her feet.  The whole dress was a royal blue with finely embroidered artwork in gold thread.

When she spoke to him, her voice took him by surprise.  In a very soft voice she said, “Hello, Ahearn.”

He was astonished.  “You know my name?”

“Of course I know your name.  I know the names of all the Stuart family.”

“Who are you and what is your name?”

“I am your guardian angel and my name is Maria.”

Douglas was about to mock her, but looked again at how she was dressed and thought better of it.  “Are you not hot with those heavy clothes on, Maria?”  Then he thought about who and what she told him she was, and quickly asked, “You don’t mind me calling you Maria, do you?”

“Of course not, silly, but I would like it if you would call me Marie.  If I wanted you to call me something different I would have told you.  There were very few people in my life that called me by my given name, but we will not talk about my life.”

“I have heard others say that their guardian angel was looking over them, but what do you do?”

“I look over you and see that no harm comes your way.  However, if it does, then I can guide you with the power of thought to avoid that danger.  If there is something that you wish for or need, then I can help you achieve your wish and reach your ambition.  I cannot do these things for you, but I can help you spiritually, in thought.  I already know what your destiny is, and I will help you fulfil it and get there safely.”

“Then what is my destiny, Marie?”

“It would not be right for me to tell you your destiny, but I should be able to help you get there.  There are many paths through life’s journey, and it is my task in your life to see that you get there without going into the maze of indecision.  Your path through life has been mapped and shown to me, and it is my task to see that you travel the one that has been designated.  From this day forward until you die I will only be but a thought away.”

“Will you always appear when I need help?”  As soon as he had asked the question, Douglas felt foolish.  She was, after all, a guardian angel, and he only had her word for that.  Then he laughed at what he was thinking, but her next words shook him.

“Yes, I really am a guardian angel.  In answer to your question of whether I will always appear, no, sometimes I will be able to help you in other ways.  Do not expect the help to come in an instant.  I cannot change the destiny of another to keep you going in the right direction.  I can only work with you, and influence time to some extent.

“You have all the tools of time to help you get to where life ends.  You must work out what their uses are, and what gain you will achieve by using them.”

“Will you ever get old, Marie, as I get old?”

“No, I will remain the age I am now until you realise what the Stuart legacy is.  It will be then that I will appear in the way you should have always known me.  I must go now, because your mother will soon call you for your evening meal.”

“Wait; please wait.  I have one more question.  Did you ever visit my real mother?”

Marie smiled before answering, “It is late and I must go, but I will always be here for you.”  Then, before his eyes, she faded away.

He was only half way across the lawn when he heard his mother call.  After he had answered, Douglas turned about to look at the gazebo, but there was no one.  As the maid opened the door for him to walk through he felt something heavy on his chest.  Thinking that an insect had gone down his collar, he looked down inside his shirt.  There was the cross, hanging in place as he had worn it the night before.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Guardian-Angel-Ian-Johnstone-ebook/dp/B00NMYTAXY/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1417187581&sr=1-13&keywords=ian+johnstone 

The death of Hippolyta

The anxiety over the death of a fictitious character

I was on chapter six of my new story yesterday and I came to the part that I was dreading to write. The story was in the Hippolyta series, and between the one that is published Hippolyta, [Ultimate loyalty] and the one I am now writing there are another seven that read in sequence.

In the time that I have been writing these stories about Hippolyta, I have had her fighting against and with the Hun. She has fought with and against the Alans. She defeated the Goths and the rogue Vandal general and his army, just to look after the trade route that ran from the Orient in the east, to Britain in the west.

I have written 90 chapters, and 480.000 words about this most fierce queen of the Amazons. As silly as it might seem I have ridden next to her in all of her battles and they are many. I have watched her lead her army of fierce warriors into battle with the Hun, bringing generals to their knees. I have not just written these stories of her and her exploits, but lived every chapter and paragraph. My imagination has taken me east of the black sea to war on the plains north of the Caucasus Mountains in the realm of Hippolyta. She lived in the middle of the fifth century, and she was a person I pulled out of mythology and gave her a real life.

I knew a long time ago that what I did in this book would be inevitable sooner or later. I had to kill Hippolyta, or to be more precise allow her to die. I never realised how attached I was to her until her death scene and her last words. I knew the reality was that she was fiction and I could erase her death and rewrite a recovery, but I thought that by doing that I would be trying to cheat death. My story in my mind was so real that I knew that I could not cheat life and time or go back.

After I did it I felt a great feeling of remorse and anxiety as if she was a real person. I felt no different after writing her death than I did when my real life wife passed away seven years ago and the sensation spooked me a little. In my mind she was a real person to me, because I created her and nurtured her through all of her battles. It was me and not her faithful barbarian, Danilo that found out the secrets of her enemies, to relate to her at her council fires. It was me that dedicated my life to protecting her and placing her a day in front of her enemies.

She was Hippolyta, queen of all Amazons, and it was me that was mesmerised with her exploits. It was me not Danilo, who was sitting near her while she made her battle plans. I was living the story I was writing. I could imagine the smell of the pine forests she made camp in, and coughed when the wind blew fire smoke in my face. My imagination has no boundaries and they are only mine alone making me unique among many.

When starting her stories I had no idea what would take place, only that another nation of warriors wanted her realm. Her battles were always as much of a surprise to me as they would have been to her had she been real. As I would be writing I would rest for just a few minutes. It would be then when my imagination would take me a few paragraphs forward, and a battle or crisis would be there for her to deal with. My first story about Hippolyta which is now published on Amazon as an e book I have to admit is a good story, but I don’t think it compares with the seven that were written afterwards.

She has carried out horrific punishments that existed in the time. I had made her so real in my mind that I at one time I sat back and called her a wicked bitch out loud. I then laughed when I realised I was so deep into my own story, and it was not her carrying out these horrific punishments but me. I have moved on to another chapter and hopefully I can leave Hippolyta in the mists of time, as I move forward with her daughter. Hippolyte, queen of all Amazons.

Be well Ian.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hippolyta-ebook/dp/B00DEFTT0A/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1373886403&sr=1-1&keywords=hippolyta

Almost one death, but two Types of fear

There were all types of death in a police or militarised state and some can be put down as murder. Just as there are two types of fear which are the opposite of each other.

I always told myself that I would never use my blog to make a political statement, but after being touched by the death of a 5 year old Palestinian child, Inas Shawket, I have allowed it just this once. There has not been a day or night gone by when I do not think of this innocent child at least once.

First though the story below took place during my time on the streets in Northern Ireland, William is my middle name, and this extract is from my story. The Dunce at the back of the Class [soldier on] It is a true account of what actually took place in my life at the age of 23.

While William’s mortar platoon was in the house at the bus station, there was an orphan boy no older than fourteen.  He was autistic, and although not clever he had a heart of gold.  He would do anything for the mortar platoon and lived between the police station on Divis Road and the mortar platoon house.  On patrol one morning, the section had found him on the side of the road.  He had a bullet hole in his forehead with a note pinned to his coat, “British Sympathiser.”  Before the police and the press got there, the note was taken from his coat. William never knew who took it.  But it made no difference.  The boy was known to be a Catholic, and the press built up the story that it was another sectarian murder.

The only time that William felt real fear in Northern Ireland was during a disturbance in the Falls Road area of Belfast.  It was at a weekend when there was a large riot taking place just off the Falls Road.  Their section, with another, pulled up on the outskirts of the trouble in a back street.  The two sections debussed, and Shinner told William to stay with the vehicle with the other driver, as guards.  The other radio operator went with the sections as they headed towards the end of the street.

William was sitting in the back of the Land Rover behind the front seat, looking out through the back.  It had been only a few minutes since the others left for the disturbance when a child appeared.  He was no older than fifteen and may have been as young as twelve.  He put one foot on the tow bar of the Land Rover and stared at William with a wicked smile on his face.  In his hand, he held a Molotov cocktail, basically a petrol bomb, with the wick already lit.  Where he came from or how he passed the security forces, William had no idea?

In his young Irish accent, he stated, “I am going to throw this at you, soldier, and watch you burn.”

Calmly, William cocked his 7.62 FN rifle and held the end of the barrel inches away from the boy’s eyes.  He had taken off the safety catch with his thumb and took the first pressure of the trigger.  Trying to keep his voice level, he said, “Then let’s see if I burn or you die, it’s your choice.”

It seemed as though they remained in that position for many minutes, but in reality it was probably no more than a few seconds before the boy dropped his arm.

“Throw it away from us, lad.  You are too young to die.”

He threw it to his right, and William watched the bottle smash in the middle of the road.  Only moments later Shinner came back with the two sections, but William had already lowered his weapon.  The boy was now looking really scared, surrounded by twelve agitated Paratroopers.  Shinner looked at the boy and then at the petrol burning in the road, and asked, “What the hell happened, Spike?  We’ve only been gone ten minutes.  Who threw that?”

William looked at the boy, who still looked terrified, and answered, “He’s long gone, Shinner.”

The boy ran away, and the sections climbed into the vehicles.

They were soon on the way back to barracks.  William took the magazine off his rifle and was removing the round from the chamber while Jimmy watched him.  Back at the barracks, Jimmy asked what the live round was all about.  It was not normal to make a weapon “ready” – by pulling back and releasing the cocking lever so that a round went from the magazine into the chamber ready to be fired the moment the trigger was squeezed – except on direct orders or if under fire.  William told him what had happened, and asked, “What would you have done, Jimmy?”

Jimmy just put his hand on William’s shoulder and answered, “It was the right decision, but a tough one.”  They never talked about it again, out of respect for each other, and neither William nor any of the rest of his section ever experienced anything like it again.  William, however, had nightmares about it for a long time afterwards.

In fact, very much later when William was at home on leave and his father was discussing the province with his mother, William related the story, mainly because his father was making it sound so easy for the army.

One of his brothers asked, “What would you have done if the boy hadn’t dropped the cocktail or tried to throw it?”

Without thinking about it, William replied, “I would have squeezed the trigger.”

His father said in his mocking voice, “That would have been murder, you stupid boy.”

William replied, “Yes, you’re probably right, but I would still have been alive to do the time.  One other thing,” and now William was speaking aggressively, “Don’t ever call me a stupid boy again.”  Once again William had closed the mouth of his mocking father.

This is not in the story

In those few moments that the young boy and me were looking at each other I saw the real expression of fear for the first time. Realisation had hit the boy that he was at a point in his young life where he knew that his next movement would most probably be his last. At that point he knew it was not the same as when he and his friends throw stones, bottles and lumps of metal at us.  He knew that this time we were not going to drive on and forget about him.

I am in no doubt that he saw the fear in my eyes; it was not the fear of my imminent death. There was not a bats chance in hell that I was about to die, because it was me holding the instant death. The fear in my eyes was from the knowledge that if this young boy never did exactly as I had asked I would squeeze the trigger. Yes it would have been murder and hard to prove self defence, but I would still be alive to go to prison if convicted. It was the only time my father had ever said anything about me or my life that was honest.

A point I would like to make is, that from beginning to end I was never in any danger of losing my life. The irony was that the boy was a Catholic and he was the reason I was in N Ireland, to protect him from the Protestant Unionists, my own countrymen. If I had been the stupid boy my father called me, I would never have shown the boy mercy and allowed him a second chance.

That was the way the British Special Forces treated children, that threw stones and bottles at who they think were the oppressors. They were driven by loyalty to parents in their fight for equality and freedom.

The picture below is how the Israeli Defence Force do the same task when controlling stone throwing children. Then Israel has the nerve to say to the world and believe the lie, that they are Gods chosen. Well I hope sincerely that he is not my god, because his eyes must be closed.

ISRAEL'S Netanyahu's cabinet backs bill to jail stone throwers for up to 20 years.

But for killing a Palestinian 5 year old child by an Israeli, not so much as a caution.

Be well Ian.