Seamus Tripp & the Ozark Terror

By Jon Garett

When a pleading letter from a long-lost friend summons renowned adventurer Seamus Tripp to the backwoods of the Ozark mountains, he is drawn into his most harrowing quest yet: to discover what is stalking man and beast in the town of Red Lion, Arkansas.
But once Seamus and his companions arrive, they discover that a trophy hunter is already two steps ahead of them and a mysterious local seems to be following them two steps behind. Nonetheless, they plunge deep into the Ozarks to find the elusive creature, risking life and limb in the snowy hills and the deep ravines of the Arkansas mountains. They soon discover that their adversaries are greater even than their worst fears.
Stand with Seamus Tripp as he confronts the cold wind of the Ozark winter and a fiercesome predator that is the key to secrets as old as the hills!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Garett
• Release date: Sep 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301714001

Jon Garett

Jon Garett and Richard Walsh are the creators and co-authors of The Adventures of Seamus Tripp.Jon and Richard are both Virgos, and they throw the full planning and attention-to-detail typical of the sign into the world of Seamus Tripp. The stories are woven with humor, a memorable stable of characters, recurring narrative arcs, and - of course - lots and lots of adventure.The authors have been friends and creative collaborators for more than 20 years, with much of their previous creative energy going into roleplaying games, board games, and individual projects.The world of Seamus Tripp represents an equal partnership that blends their shared interests in genre fiction, world religions and spirituality, cryptozoology, and - of course - adventure.

Book preview

Seamus Tripp & the Ozark Terror

By:

Jon Garett & Richard Walsh

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jon Garett & Richard Walsh

Cover art by H Elizabeth Killmer

Cover design by Tom Vogel

Chapter One: A Telegram from the Ozarks

Gordon Tripp looked at the bits of glass shimmering in the sunlight, scattered in an uneven circle centered where the jar of valerian had just shattered. It had fallen eight feet from the shelf of herbs and potions and other sundry ingredients that stood against the outside wall of the shop and landed next to the over-stuffed reading chair Gordon’s uncle, the world-famous adventurer Seamus Tripp, used when he needed to sit and read something pulled from the room’s small library. The pattern of light from those bits of glass was fascinating.

Hate to interrupt your reverie, said Seamus, breaking Gordon out of his reverie, but the blasted mess isn’t cleaning itself, and you’re monopolizing the implements.

Gordon was holding a broom and dustpan in either hand. He had quite forgotten his task – to clean up those shimmering shards of glass – when he had paused to admire the scene.

Sorry, he said, and proceeded with the job. Bits of shriveled root were mixed in with the glass, now that he stooped to look closer. Those would be the remnants of the herb, valerian root, which looked like small broken twigs, bitter and dark.

To say the jar had fallen was not exactly accurate. The jar had been pushed, there was no doubt about that, and the culprit was still close at hand.

Beast! yelled Seamus, startling Gordon again. He was motioning frantically to the top of the stairs, but Gordon could only detect a blur of motion before the shape was out of sight. Damnable beast, Seamus muttered, wiping at his trousers with a napkin. They were sodden from the tea spilt in his lap when the jar had shattered. He continued on this way for some time, cursing under his breath about wild animals run amok in the shop.

Tell me, Gort, said Seamus once his lalochezia had run its course. What would a civilized gentleman such as I have to do for some blessed domestic tranquility in his own store?

Gordon stopped sweeping again. He was nearly thirteen years old, but nonetheless knew very little about domestic tranquility or how it was attained. I have a suggestion, Uncle, he said after a moment’s thought. An ascetic might suggest you let go of the desire for blessed tranquility...

But it’s not unreasonable to presume I ought to have some peace and quiet?

...as a means of attaining it.

Entirely beside the point. Let me finish.

But you asked…

Purely rhetorical. Shouldn’t I at least have peace in my own shop?

Yours and Mr. Fish’s.

Yes. Mine and Myron’s. Certainly Myron could be partially to blame for this mess.

Perhaps, yes.

For bringing the beast inside in the first place.

Him or Elie.

Or even Mrs. Doolittle?

Gordon thought it unwise to speak ill of the housekeeper, to whom he answered for many of his chores. Even if she did not appear to be around at the moment.

I’m not sure, he said finally.

Whoever it was, a man cannot even sip a bit of tea and read an old book without hell raining down from above.

I know you enjoy tea when you read.

I do. I enjoying drinking it, not wearing it.

No, Uncle.

And that valerian! Five dollars worth, mixed to ruin with shards of glass. The cost at least should get Myron’s attention.

It probably should.

Well, thank you for your admirable loyalty in the midst of this catastrophe, dear nephew. I intend to retire to my room to change into dry trousers. Carry on with your cleaning, such as it is.

Gordon turned back to the broom as Seamus mounted the salon’s grand staircase toward his room, the same direction the beast had fled moments before. Seamus appeared to be moving more slowly than normal; Gordon guessed warily, on the lookout lest the animal reemerge.

Once his uncle was out of view, Gordon took another break from sweeping to consider writing in his journal. The whole episode with the jar had inspired a short passage he wanted to record before it slipped from his mind. He put the broom down and hurried over to the small writing desk situated just feet away, in a nook beneath the stairs. Taking his journal from the front pocket of his jacket and placing it on the desk, he removed the pencil nub where it marked his place in the book and sat down.

Any bright intellect, he wrote, engrossed in slurping upon tea and focused on the contents of a particularly dense old tome, would be justifiably thrown out of temper by the sudden crashing to the earth of a vessel of herbs. For such a noise would surely distract

He gasped. An idea had occurred to him just as he wrote. Gordon had few rules when it came to writing, but the most sacred of those few was to never rewrite. So it was with a fair degree of hesitation that he looked at the sentence he had just written and carefully drew a line through the last word.

distract jar the reader from his reverie.

He took a moment to admire the work. Such clever wordplay, he thought to himself. Then the floorboards overhead creaked, a sure indication that someone was descending the stairs, and he hurried back to the task of sweeping up the glass.

***

Mrs. Doolittle had worked daily in the shop, Tripp’s Imports & Antiquities, for years. The proprietors, Mister Tripp and Mister Fish, were an odd pair, what with the clutter of strange merchandise about the place and the strange business trips and the strange customers who would arrive at all times of day – and night – to buy the merchandise or inquire about the trips. Not all of their clients were strange, however, for the shop’s front room contained a variety of non-magical items, though many of these still seemed sinister and pagan to Mrs. Doolittle.

But she regarded the two men highly nonetheless. They were good employers, and they allowed her room and board in addition to her wage, meaning she did not have to travel across Boston to the shop on Charter Street.

And being as she was a widow, with her children grown and living away, she had come to think of the men as sons. Adopted sons, and exceedingly strange, but fine gentlemen in their way.

Certainly, her favorite granddaughter, Elaine, thought highly of the men too. Elie, as she preferred to be called, was in fact staying with them at the moment. She was in her grandmother’s care while Elie’s father and mother traveled to some distant foreign country in the service of the United States government. Mrs. Doolittle looked forward to spending some time with the girl. Perhaps they would take a trip to the harbor if she could find an afternoon free.

But she knew the trip would not be that afternoon, not with the commotion caused by their new tiny guest. Mrs. Doolittle looked about the shop from her vantage point at the staircase landing. No sign of Ragamuffin or Elie or Master Gordon, who had recently been tasked with cleaning the shattered remains of a jar and its strange contents.

Ragamuffin was no more than a kitten, a wee orphaned alleycat who had strayed from his mum and mewed plaintively until someone from the shop had rescued him. Elie had taken a great interest in the little visitor, immediately giving him his endearing name.

Elie was somewhere around, no doubt lying in wait to try to catch Ragamuffin, lest he destroy yet