Worlds Beyond Within

By Steve Callaway

Jimmy Martin receives an unusual book in the post and is sucked headlong into a vortex of transdimensional space and time-travel, romance, intrigue and brouhaha. The first book of a series, it focuses on Jimmy's early travels in parallel worlds and time and his developing relationship with his offworld girlfriend, Sarah.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Callaway
• Release date: Jan 14, 2010

Steve Callaway

I'm a literate computer programmer at the bleeding edge of technology with a deep passion for language and languages of all flavours.

Book preview

WORLDS BEYOND WITHIN

Steve Callaway

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Steve Callaway

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Chapter One: The House of The Rising Sun

It was one of those dismal wet Wednesday mornings at the wrong end of October when a parcel arrived at Jimmy Martin’s home. He wasn't expecting it so soon, he'd only ordered it a day or so before on the internet with an expected delivery delay of about seven days. He signed for it, took it into the kitchen, tore off the cardboard wrapping and opened it: a book with the sobering title The Book of Words was within. It wasn't the book he'd ordered, he was expecting something else, a book on literary theory which he would in all probability need for university next year.

An only child, Jimmy fell somewhat uncomfortably into the gothic-artistic category, an 18 year old preferring to dress in black, borderline long black hair framing an almost consumptively thin white face. He was tall for his age, handsome in a dissipated sort of way, high-cheekboned and frail, and was by nature quiet, intelligent, thoughtful, and shy. His father worried about him. He'd done well in his A-levels, much better than his teachers or even he had expected, but he'd opted to take a year out before going to university to figure out exactly what he was going to do with his life. A few months on and he was none the wiser, just hormonally aching with teenage angst and a strange sensation in himself of alienation, that piquant yet uncomfortable sensation of estrangement from society.

Curious, though, his slender fingers pulled open the buff cover of the book. No author was credited on the cover, nor was there even a fly-leaf. It was blank from start to finish, flicking through the pages. It struck him as paradoxical that a book with such a title should be so devoid of verbiage. Something was wrong, probably just a stupid mix-up at the warehouse.

He was about to pick up the phone and complain to the company which had supplied the book when he felt driven by a sudden and inexplicable urge from within himself to get out and get some fresh air. Hemmed in and thoroughly oppressed by the confines of the walls of his suburban home he threw on a raincoat and walked out into the cold, driving, rain, blown hard in from the east, locking the door behind him.

He walked, heedless of where he was going, his mind trying to focus on something which was beginning to implant itself within, a sensation that things were not as they seemed. The wind swirled through the trees ripping the autumnal leaves into cascading spirals of manic animation, the rain sheeting in. He didn't noticed the elemental fury however, so wrapped was he in his thoughts.

He turned left into Hall Lane, a narrow, undulating road leading off into the countryside and nowhere in particular. He'd not been down this way in years, although as a child he had often cycled down to play with his friends in the ruins of a World War II aircraft hangar which stood rusting and overgrown in the middle of one of the fields. Thick fat black clouds careered across the sky, and the storm around him seemed wild beyond his comprehension. Strange, worrying thoughts began to flicker across his mind at that moment, that perhaps this was not as it appeared to be, that there were powers in play which he did not comprehend or understand. What on earth, he wondered, had made him come out walking in this awful weather? He pondered, unable to fathom own his reasons, his wandering thoughts echoing in time to his footsteps, before he dispelled them and carried on walking, the rain streaming down his face as it lashed in.

The sky grew ever darker, and, on the edge of becoming both soaked and chilled, he was considering turning back and heading for home when a swish and luxurious black car came burning down the lane towards him, headlights on full beam. Panicking, he jumped up onto the bank to get out of the way but the car purred seamlessly to a halt a few yards before reaching him. The woman driver wound down the window. He expected her to be about to ask directions but what happened next threw him completely.

Excuse me, she began, her purple eyes glinting in the elegant setting of a film-star beautiful face, Are you Jimmy Martin?

Er, well yes, he replied, his confirmation of his own identity hedged round with tentativity and uncertainty.

Then get in please, she said,and quickly. She smiled and motioned to the front side passenger seat.

He did as he was bidden, he could do no other, the door opened and he was drawn in as if by magnetism. Her perfume was heady and expensive above the smell of fresh leather of the car’s upholstery.

This is going to sound strange, and I can’t explain straight away how I know who you are, she said, Not just now, anyway. Time is too short and there is a great deal I have to tell you that’s far more important. Call me Sarah by the way. She started the car, drove down the lane a way to a field entrance, turned the car around and headed back in the direction from which she had come.

I‘ll try and explain as I take you to where we are going. It won’t take long to get there; you’ll be home before your parents return this evening. They sped through the countryside; the bleak black sky and the desolate horizons a dramatic counterpoint to the welling curiosity and trepidation bubbling up within him.

To Jimmy’s mind, her driving was awesome: fast, controlled, accurate, a clinical display of economy and efficiency of effort. What the hell, he wondered, aware of his circumstances, was he doing? Alone in a car with a stranger headed to who knows where? His mind did a 180 degree turn and he glanced for a moment at the lock on the car door at his side which was at least reassuring in that it remained in the unlocked position.

Relax Jimmy, we're not going anywhere you don't need to go, and, to paraphrase Jean Genet, you don't discover other countries without losing sight of the shore, she said, sensing his sudden discomfiture, The book you got this morning is a part of a gateway and you weren’t sent it by mistake. This is going to be a lot of information for you to digest all at once, but time is short and there are preparations which need to be made and quickly.

He looked across at her as she drove. She was well dressed, in an unusual long flowing black velvet dress, something possibly from another time or other place, and her manner was so warm and engaging that he felt relaxed and comfortable with her, despite the fact that they were thrown together in such unusual circumstances and that they obviously moved in such different social spheres.

For her part, he wasn’t what she was or had been expecting at all. He seemed nervous and shy and innocent for his years, fragile almost. What had she, she wondered, been expecting? From time to time she looked across at him, her eyes drawn to him, despite the need to concentrate on her driving in the appalling conditions.

A gateway? he asked. His mind was racing.

Yes, but I’ll explain about that later, just be aware that you must look after that book with care, certainly for the now. Eventually you won’t need it anyway, but at the moment it is the only thing which will allow you to step beyond within. You will find your own way through in time. She smiled reassuringly at him.

They crossed a bridge over a river in full spate, the angry waters black brown, edging ever closer to brimming over the top of the bank. A mile or so further up the road they turned left up a wide gravelled avenue of trees that led to an Elizabethan building which had been much messed around with by later generations, for there were echoes of rococo, Georgian, Victorian gothic, as well as a stark modernist annex to the architectural arrangement. At the side of the road was a weather-worn sign, blue background, gold lettering: Satis House, Centre for Transcendental Meditation, Visitors by appointment only, and a telephone number which seemed deliberate in its illegibility.

We’ll go round the back, she said, Follow me please.

They entered through the kitchen. It was the epitome of country living chic, gleaming and spotless, a shining sea of white tiled hygiene. The warmth of the kitchen hit him like a wave of unadulterated pleasure. She made coffee, gave him a towel for his hair, put his coat to dry on a chair in front of the Aga. Then she sat down beside him. Smile, relax, she said, sensing his nervousness, This is going to be fun.

She opened her hands so her palms were cupped. Do this, she instructed. Now close your eyes and envision the book in your hands.

He put down the towel, cupped his hands, closed his eyes, trying to imagine the book in his hands, the plain buff book with its unremittingly blank pages. But the picture which came to his mind bore no resemblance to the book which had arrived in the post earlier. This was an altogether different artefact; a huge, heavy, leather bound tome, the binding chased with an intricate finery of metallic laces and meshes that suggested a bestiary of creatures whose nature eluded him.

Now open your eyes.

He did as he was bidden. There in his hands lay the buff covered book. He opened it. But it was no longer blank, just a single sentence. And it was weightless, lighter than a feather, warm to the touch.

"Between time and dimensions, words and language act as a unifying link."

He showed her the book; she smiled.

Yes, she said, They always start out like that. They talk directly to the owner. And as you travel more and acquire more knowledge, so the book will reveal itself to you more, and reveal more of yourself to yourself. She waved her right hand in the air and commanded: Book. A plain black book appeared in her hand, the title, The Significance of Beauty in silver gothic script upon its cover. I might let you read it later, she said, But not right now....

Bring your book with you Jimmy, she said, We go to meet Mikha in a few minutes. Mikha and I will teach you how to step beyond

They went out into a long corridor, past a spiralling narrow staircase, and into the entrance hall. The polished wooden floor of the hall gleamed. They headed to the log fire burning in the marble-surrounded fireplace, and sat down in a long Georgian sofa at one side of the fireplace.

So who is Mikha? Questions were rushing at him now; a tumult of questions.

"He's one of us; some consider him one of the greatest of us. I just know him as Mikha, the