The Vision Master

By William Hill

Liam MacDonald was just an ordinary fifteen year old. So everyone thought. As he also thought, until that fateful day when he discovered he was something more than ordinary. He discovered that he was actually quite extraordinary — he could make a daydream, a vision, become reality. He has a gift that has been inherited only by a few each generation throughout history. He is a Vision Master. His gift demands that he become a man before he's ready when he discovers by accident that others with the same gift intend to misuse their power and take over the government. When they learn he has uncovered their plot, they fear his ability stop them and, when they attack, Liam is forced to run and hide with his family and close friends. In time, others like him, equally persecuted, find him and he becomes their chosen leader. To save them, Liam decides he must use his ability to take on the enemy, regardless of the outcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Hill
• Release date: Aug 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476057620

William Hill

Born in Washington, D.C., and raised in Arlington, Va., the author now lives in California with his wife, sons, and grandchildren.For questions, or comments, contact the author at: [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter One: The Woods

"I had a dream, which was not all a dream."

Entering the woods he followed what was once a well trodden path now barely visible through the undergrowth that had almost reclaimed it, just as he had years ago as a child when he spent most of his days playing there, which seemed another lifetime, it had been so long ago. Then it had been, or so he remembered it, a massive forest, thick and dense with Pine, Oak and other kinds of trees, vines, ferns, and his particular nemesis, Poison Ivy. He was always catching it, the large red welts burning and itching unbearably until calmed by the soothing ointment his mother would dab on them (yet it seemed a small price to pay for the freedom and fun he had in his forest). And he remembered the taste of the forest — not just the fragrant smell, but the actual taste — on his tongue (if he breathed in through his mouth) of wood and Honeysuckle, that seemed to waft through the humid air.

Now, to his more grownup eyes, or maybe it was just the natural consequence of the cycle of life and death and decay, the forest was merely a scrubby woods, the trees farther apart and nowhere as dense, more like a heavily wooded park. Once it had been dark and foreboding, almost like after twilight when the sun finally sets and before the moon rises and the stars come out. Now it was light and airy. Then one could never see the sky because of the dense, green canopy above. Now one could watch the sun as it arched across the sky. Once it had been home to squirrels, rabbits, opossums, snakes — mostly Gopher and Corn snakes, with the occasional Black Racer (and there must have also been Rattlesnakes as his neighbor once found a baby one, about two and a half feet long with just two rattles on its tail, in his front yard, dead) — turtles and every kind of bird. Some said they'd occasionally seen fox. Then there had been the owls. He’d never seen one of them, but he knew they were there, he could hear them hooting to each other at night, during the summer after dark, after he’d opened his bedroom window before going to sleep. They fascinated him and he’d read every book about them at the library. He had even found a recording of the hoots of different types and by carefully listening one night discovered that the owls in his woods were Barn Owls — Tito alba’s — the most widespread species of owls (and ever since he could remember, for some reason, a Barn Owl had often appeared in his dreams. He could never quite figure out why). Now, except for a few squirrels, it was barren of life. Even his owls were gone.

He was soon in the heart of the woods, amazed at how fast he'd got there; as a young boy it had seemed as if it had taken him hours to get this far in. Before him was a small clearing. It used to be much bigger, he mused. In the middle of the clearing still stood a large Pine tree with rotted wooden boards and small sheets of tin lying strewn around the base. Nailed into the trunk of the tree, about three and a half feet above the ground, was what remained of an old bicycle wheel, just the rim with most of the spokes missing. Walking up to the tree, stepping carefully around the boards and tin, he touched the wheel rim and closed his eyes. He remembered. It was as if it was just yesterday.

Over the course of a week, borrowing what he needed, he had barrowed in his little red wagon the boards and tin sheets from down the street where they were building a new house (after all the workers had gone home for the day, of course), and erected a square around the tree. This had become his Neverland, his fantasy world, the place where his dreams came true (or so they really seemed to him). At times, it was a stagecoach and he was a Highwayman robbing it of its strong box. Or, it was a cavalry fort that as an Indian on the warpath he attacked. Or, he had been one of Robin Hood's Merry Men of Sherwood Forrest, attacking Prince John's castle where the fair Maid Marion was held captive, to be ransomed only with Hood's surrender, the trick being to rescue her without Robin falling into John's — or the dreaded Sheriff of Nottingham's — hands, a game he played quite often. But most often, it was a pirate ship and he was First Mate to William Teach, the most feared pirate on the High Seas, known to his victims as Blackbeard. He would climb to the very utmost top of the tree where he had nailed several boards together to make a small platform he could stand or sit on. It was his crow's nest, where he kept a weather eye out for a wealthy merchant ship he could plunder, or a Man-o-War that he'd have to fight (or run from to avoid capture). That high up the breezes would gently sway the top of the tree, and his crow's nest, but to him the movement was just the gentle rolling of his ship through the ocean. He could, and did, spend hours there. And when he did spy another ship he'd yell, Ship ahoy!, skinny down the tree trunk mast, grab his bicycle wheel rim ship's wheel, and steer into an adventure that usually ended when his mother called him home for supper.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up and saw a buccaneer wearing a tunic-like shirt and loose flowing britches that reached just below his knees, shoeless. He had a red bandana wrapped around his head, his eyes bloodshot and rather menacing. His crooked smile showed several missing teeth, and those he still had looked to be so black from rot they seemed as if they, too, would fall out if he ate anything harder than baby pap. With two pistols stuck in the front of his belt, a cutlass hung. He spoke, with a stench from his mouth.

A fat merchant ship lies off the leeward bow. Where's the Captain? What are our orders?

He took a spyglass, looked in the direction the pirate was pointing, and saw exactly that, a large tub of a boat, riding low in the water, so obviously laden that it could barely make headway through the ocean's swells.

I'll wager she's a Spaniard, coming from the Americas, loaded with gold and treasure! the seaman exclaimed as he danced a little jig, barely containing his glee.

Lowering the glass he smiled at the man and said quietly, Beat to Quarters, hoist all sail, man the guns, and raise the Jolly Roger! The game was afoot!

Aye, Aye! the old Salt happily responded and, yelling at the top of his lungs, he repeated the orders to the crew.

He looked around in all directions and saw seamen, all who looked more or less the same, jumping to obey. Men rapidly climbing the rigging up the masts to unfurl sails, others loading cannon and running them out their ports, the Master-at-Arms passing out pistols, cutlasses, pikes, and grappling hooks to snare the other ship when close beside, to enable boarding parties to jump over to the other ship.

As his ship neared the merchant, cannon roared, belching shot through great clouds of smoke. As it stung his eyes, he saw the other ship's masts torn away, falling onto the deck below, and heard men screaming in panic. Now nearer, the hooks thrown across the distance that separated the two ships, his crew quickly pulled until the two ships gently crashed together, side-to-side. His men swarmed over the side to the other ship, firing their pistols, thrusting with their pikes, and slashing with their cutlasses, at everything and everyone on the other side.

Dizzy with the excitement, he watched the sights and felt the sounds of fighting as he held the ship's wheel hard over to keep the two ships side-by-side. Men bloodied and falling, howls of pain, he himself almost loosing his footing as the two ships banged into each other in the ocean's waves, trying to part from one another yet bound together. He suddenly had an incredible headache. He saw the iridescent glowing of Lightning Bugs before his eyes. He heard a muffled roaring in his ears, as of surf crashing on rocks in the distance. He felt dizzy, faint and sweaty. Using his arm to wipe his forehead he saw it was red, bloody red. Steadying himself, he took stock. Obviously, he was alive. Gingerly he touched his brow and felt a small furrow. It was just a nick. I've been shot! As the pain waned, he began to feel pride; he had been in battle, wounded and survived, what a tale to tell! That'll leave a mark! he thought to himself, smiling. That Harry kid now won’t be the only boy hero with a scar! Then it was over. The merchant's crew threw down their weapons, surrendering. All went quiet, except the groaning of the injured and the creaking and rasping of wood-on-wood from the sides of the ships as they rubbed against one another, as he crossed over to the other ship with his Captain and stood before the defeated merchantmen.

Your ship is now mine. Buccaneer though I may be, I am not a mean man. No more life will we take, you have fought with honor. Take what men you have left, and any provisions you need, into your long boats, and the Fates be with you. With luck you may make land, and if you do, tell everyone about Blackbeard's generosity! he heard his Captain say, with a roaring laugh.

As the other ship's Captain and surviving crew scrambled over the side and into their boats, then pulling at their oars trying to put as much distance as far as possible between themselves and the man they thought of as the Devil incarnate, the mate again approached him and spoke to him through the stench of his rotten teeth.

It is truly a prize! There be gold, other treasures…and Grog!

Boy, could he really use a dentist! he thought. He knew what Grog was; he had once looked it up in the dictionary. It had something to do with Rum and said sailors supposedly favored it. Maybe it kept them happy and less likely to cause trouble, unless, of course, they had too much of it.

Take what treasure we can carry, and the Grog of course, set fire to the other ship and send it to Davy Jones' locker. Set sail to the South and breakout the Grog! he said.

He heard silence. His eyes felt shut. He opened them and looked around, found himself standing before the tree, still holding the bicycle rim, standing amongst the fallen boards and tin, and found nobody else there but himself. He touched his forehead, looked at his hand and saw nothing. It was so real! he thought, as he let go of the old rim. Sitting down and leaning back against the base of the tree, he thought of everything that led up to what had just seemed to have happen. This morning…

He awoke to the alarm. Sitting up, the book he had been reading the night before slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a great thump. It startled him, and looking down to see what had made the noise, he discovered he was still in his clothes from yesterday. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep reading. Again.

Rising, he stripped off to his boxers and headed for the shower, only to find it occupied by his oldest younger sister, Nel, with baby sister Nan patiently waiting her turn. With only one bath in the whole house, he knew he wouldn't get a wash this morning before he had to leave for school so, returning to his room, he dry cleaned, applying body spray wherever he thought he might have an offensive odor. He put on a fresh pair of boxers, black and tan argyle socks, the same black polo shirt and tan khaki pants from the day before, and slipped his feet into the oxblood loafers he favored. He knew his style of dress elicited groans and sighs from some of the kids at school, as they preferred oversized tees or saggy, baggy pants, and tennies. They accused him of being a Preppie, which he wasn’t; he accused them of trying to pass as hard-core skaters, which they weren’t. Maybe they were all unconscious poseurs, but he didn’t think he was, his style just felt better and, he felt, looked better. Moreover, he didn’t dress or do anything else to fit in with, or to please, anyone other than himself because to do so would be to be a conformist, and he was an individualist; conformity is for those who need the acceptance and identity found by running with the pack. He knew this made him look like a loner and a rebel, and if truth be told he preferred his own company over that of most others. Nevertheless, he wasn't a lone wolf; he did need the companionship and acceptance of his closest friends and family who, thankfully, accepted him as he was. He looked at himself in the mirror. His shirt and pants were only a bit wrinkled from sleeping in them, but he didn't care. Exiting his room, he headed for breakfast.

Apparently, his mother cared how he looked, because when he entered the kitchen she turned from the stove where she was cooking breakfast and saw the state of his affairs.

You look like you slept in those clothes, they're so wrinkled! Go and put on something else, no child of mine is going to school looking like that!

Without saying a word he just spun around to return to his room (he knew better than to argue with her — he'd lose anyway), but before he could go two steps his father looked up at him from behind his morning paper, where he sat at the breakfast table.

Good grief, boy, you smell like a French…

Will! his mother exclaimed, stopping his dad from finishing what she knew would be a rather uncouth comparison.

Sorry Louise. His father grinned and gave his son a wink.

"That son of yours uses way too much deodorant."

I’d have said more to him if I wasn’t choking! Will laughed.

He smirked sarcastically at his parents and started walking back to his room when his mother stopped him with a question.

Which do you want for breakfast, eggs or cereal?

Neither thanks. I’m not hungry, he muttered.

Having changed into a fresh white polo shirt he thought would look good with his tan slacks, he opened the front door to head to school. As he stepped outside, he realized he had too much time — not having breakfast and leaving so early, he'd get to school way too soon — so he decided to take a detour through the woods across the street from his home…

His body jerked, again he felt his eyes closed and realized he had fallen asleep. Looking at his watch he saw that it was now afternoon — he had missed school! He knew he'd be in trouble now. How will I ever explain this to my parents? He decided he'd wait until they found out and confronted him. By then, hopefully, he’d have figured out a believable alibi. So he got up and went home, sneaking to his room without his mother or sisters seeing him, where he stayed, laying on his bed, still recalling his adventure in the smallest detail until hours later his dad stuck his head through his door to tell him to come to supper.

As his dad turned, he stopped and said, You been playing with firecrackers again?

No. Why?

I smell gunpowder.

Oh. God, what do I say? Well, I did run into some guys who were, and I hung around to watch, but I didn't do any! he fibbed.

Uh huh, his dad said, with a grin as he turned and left.

Rising from his bed, he went to the bathroom to wash his hands. He noticed a thin streak of caked blood on his arm and rinsed it off, momentarily wondering where it came from when he found no scratch beneath it, gave it no more thought and headed out to the dinning room.

When he entered his mom looked at him and asked, How'd you cut your head? Your forehead, how did you get that scratch?

I didn't know I had one. I cut through the woods going to school. Maybe a branch, I guess.

More like you walked into a tree while you were daydreaming! Nel said.

He ignored her, left and returned to the bathroom. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he saw that he indeed did have a scratch, more than a scratch actually, more like an angry welt. He smelled his shirt. There was a faint smell of gunpowder! This is weird, he thought. How...? He knew, according to Sherlock Holmes, if one eliminated the impossible, only the possible — no matter how improbable — was left. He supposed it was possible he had bumped his head on a limb because the alternative was...impossible. But what possible explanation was there for the smell of gunpowder? There must be one, as improbable as it seems. Staring into the mirror, he forgot why he was there and started to take stock of himself, as he’d never really done before.

Liam MacDonald, at fifteen years old the most extraordinary thing about you is that you are so ordinary. Brown hair, hazel eyes, straight nose, and an unremarkable smile. At 5’7" and 135 pounds, not too short, nor too thin. A body defined and toned, but definitely not what one would consider that of an athlete. Nor are you particularly good at athletics; you’re never the first to be chosen, but never the last. Except rowing — you made varsity crew as bow oar on the Lightweight Eight your sophomore year. And, you’ve been a competitive swimmer for ten years. Not bad. Even so, the most remarkable thing is that overall you’re so unremarkable! And that’s what everyone else probably thinks of you as well, (if they think about you at all, except your parents; they’re always telling you that you are special and can do anything you might put your mind to, if only you apply yourself).

Well, Liam me boyo, to be sure, try as you might, you’ll never be the brightest, probably never the hero. But, there has to be something about you that, maybe, will make you somehow different from everyone else. But…until you can figure out just what that might be you’ll just have to continue to be content to be the kid that just sorta fits in with everyone else. An average guy. However, that’s okay, it makes for an uncomplicated life.

Shaking his head, feeling self-conscious about foolishly talking to himself in the third person, and a little narcissistic, he returned to the kitchen table and ate his dinner in silence. Nobody tried to engage him in conversation, which was just fine by him as he still had a lot to think about concerning the events of the day.

Chapter Two: Carol

"The woman’s vision is deep reaching. The man’s far reaching. With the man the world is his heart, with the woman the heart is her world."

There was one thing he was very good at. Well, better than most people, at least people his age. Actually, it wasn't a matter of how well as it was of how much. And that was reading. He read everything from the ingredients on soup cans to the dictionary. He knew that many scientists say that the one thing that separates humans from the rest of the animal kingdom is tool making, but he also knew many other animals — Chimps, for example — make or use things as tools. He firmly believed that the one thing that makes humans special is language, but not to be confused with the ability to communicate as bees and ants, even higher primates, elephants and porpoises can communicate with one another, using physical movements and/or sounds to denote specific meanings. Language means proper words. Moreover, words are power; the more words you know, the more educated you appear. And the better you speak the more people will listen and defer to you. That’s why he loved the dictionary. So whenever he read a word he didn’t know, the first thing he did was reach for a dictionary. If he had any advice, his only advice, to a young or new reader, it would be to always have one close at hand, and to use it. Memorize a new word’s meaning, use the word at least five times a day for a week, and it will become part of your normal vocabulary. You now own the word, it is a part of you. This had been instilled in him by his freshman year English teacher, Mr. Long, who lived the words of Kahlil Gibran (who wrote The Prophet), The wise teacher leads you to the threshold of your mind (taking you from what you know to what you don’t). He took as his credo the words of publisher Malcolm Forbes, who said, Education replaces the empty mind with an open one. Long also stressed that a writer’s goal should not only be to entertain the reader, but also to educate, and if by no other means, then at least by the use of language and vocabulary. Never use two fifty-cent words when one dollar word will say the same thing! And, Make the reader rise to a higher level — never write down to the reader’s level. Liam also liked another adage by Mr. Long: Brevity is a sign of a disciplined mind. However, as a writer, do not have a Swiss cheese imagination. Don’t make your reader guess at what you mean, fill in the holes! Mr. Long often accused him of having a Swiss cheese imagination, but he could not harmonize brevity with the necessity of filling in the holes with extra words!

He especially liked histories from where his family originally came from. He was mostly Norman French on his mother's side. He once read that they were Vikings, mostly from Denmark, that settled along the coast of France, and how they and other Vikings from Norway and Sweden (both whom had been under Danish rule at one time or another) had also established colonies in England, Ireland, Scotland, modern-day Turkey, Russia. And, of course, Vinland, and L’Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, Canada. The Vikings were sea-going farmer-adventurers (although most people considered them pirates, often with good reason) who left their snowy fjords between the sowing and reaping on their farms in search of new lands and new treasures. Basically, they were farmers with attitude. On his father's side he was, as his last name signified, a Scot. But not originally. His clan was from Ireland before they went and stayed in Scotland. They were called Gaels, a name given to them by the Romans that meant 'pirate'. In addition, he had learned that his clan began with a guy named Somerled who was born in Ireland of a king-in-exile from the Argyll region of southwestern Scotland, and a Norwegian Viking princess. Somerled himself also married a Norwegian Viking princess, went back to Scotland, reclaimed his father's kingdom, and it was his grandson, Donald, whom the clan was named after. Therefore, it seemed that if he was Gael-pirate, and Viking-pirate, he was more pirate than anything else. And, a royal pirate at that! He thought that was pretty dope. He often wondered if that's why he had liked to play Pirate so much as a kid.

If anyone read more than he did, one needn't look any father than the house he lived in. Every evening, once his dad came home from work and the family had their