A Medieval Man's Search For God

By Raymond Towers

When the corruptions of men become too great, the gods will come down from heaven to shake the world. This time, the gods have conspired to create the new world of Albion. At first, only the most devout were selected to live here, but new corruptions have arisen to taint this paradise. Only a few will question their gods and begin their search for Truth elsewhere. Rating: MEDIUM controversy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Towers
• Release date: Feb 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370565870

Raymond Towers

Raymond Towers is an author of fantasy, horror and science fiction that strays away from the mainstream, plus a little in the way of true paranormal and other genres. He has written and independently published over forty titles, most of them full-length novels and collections, with several more on the way. The author has been a lifelong resident of warm and sunny southern California, a location that pops up frequently in his writing. At the moment, the author is looking for ways to reach new readers all over the world, in addition to pursuing his great love of writing and taking it to the next level.

Book preview

A Medieval Man’s

Search For God

Raymond Towers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Raymond Towers

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Content Rating: All of the characters in this e-book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental. This e-book contains a MEDIUM amount of controversial subject matter.

Cover Image: The cover image is titled Knight Without Sword. It was produced by Nejron and can be found at Dreamstime.

Thank you, Jenny, for inspiring me and for making this book possible.

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Table Of Contents

Prologue

Part 1: New Rome

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part 2: New India

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

About The Author

Author Website

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Prologue

And so, it came to pass that the gods looked down upon the Earth to see all they had created. To their dismay, they saw their words had been twisted and perverted by vain men, and their edicts were no longer obeyed. Men had forgotten their gods, and now Men looked to other Men for guidance. Men began to worship other Men as gods. Men were rapidly becoming the downfall of other Men.

The gods said, We should destroy them, and begin anew with a new race of Men, who will honor us and give us respect. We have done this before.

They were all in agreement, and they took their petition before the Father Of All Gods, the All-Father, through whom all other gods were created.

They said, Let us destroy mankind. Let us end the madness of Men and begin again with a new race of Men, who will honor us and give us respect.

The All-Father said, No, we will not destroy Men. We have done this before, and still Men have disobeyed us and forgotten us. Time and time again they have forsaken us. This time, we will leave Mankind to his own destiny. We will create a new world. We will leave Earth to the hands of Men, that they might learn after a time to no longer quarrel among themselves and to be at peace with one another. We will populate this new world with only those Men who have kept to the old ways, and who to this day honor and respect us. Each of you will go to the four corners of the Earth and gather up these Men who have kept our edicts. Each of you will bring seven thousand Men and seven thousand Women, from out of each of the seven races of Men that are spread all across the Earth. You will bring all of these Men into our new world that we shall create.

The gods asked, And what will be the name of our new world?

The All-Father said, The name of it shall be Albion.

- Excerpt from The Book Of Sevens

His name is Archibald. He has served in armies both great and small, under kings and would-be kings who built their castles, and under chieftains who had nothing but trees and hills and rocks to hide behind. He is a proud man who holds his head up as high as any other man. He is a good man and just, although some would not see him that way at all. He is a man of much wisdom, with an ease of words that I do not share.

Yet, he has told me to write this story. He hopes to bring the words out of me and to cause me to become as eloquent as him. I envy him for his ease of words, for they slip from his tongue as poetry, while my own words come out as dust from a saw. He tells me that there are matters he does not understand, but that I do. This is true enough, for my wisdom is nearly equal to his, but in matters he has never studied as I have. I will write my part in this, because there is no other who can write it, because I was a witness to the goings-on where others were not, and because I could decipher certain signs much better than he. He has called me indispensable. I suppose this is true, as there were many times when he looked to me for guidance, and for counsel.

I will write my part in this, but he, he will write his own.

- Quote from the Lady Genovefa

Her name is Genovefa. She has been called many things by many people, among them Diviner, Sorcerer and Witch. She knows the arcane arts through inheritance, as her people have practiced the occult teachings for ages, and despite the best efforts of the Church of New Rome to eradicate them. I remember clearly, the day I first set eyes on her, one day long ago in a forest, in some meager village whose name has long since been vanquished from my mind.

I was as a man lost in the darkness, until that day when the gods chose to cross our paths together. Since that day, she has been the torch that has lit up the ground before me, that I might know where to place my next steps.

I have given her instruction to write down our story, so that it might be preserved for those that come after us when we are no longer here. She hesitates in doing this. She distrusts her own skill in telling a story, by thinking it over in her mind a thousand times and still finding some fault in it. She will become a steadfast woman, I will make sure of it, for I have seen what she is capable of. She is much more than most women, and yet after all we have gone through she still thinks that she is less than them.

Perhaps I will allow her to only write down her own part in this, and I will write the rest. The certainty of it is that this story must be told and remembered.

- Quote from Sir Archibald

I remember thinking to myself, what sort of man is this, who can curse the gods, and yet the gods leave their signs all over the land for us to find them? - Lady Genovefa

I remember thinking to myself, what sort of woman is this, who can question the gods, and the gods will always answer her through her divining cards? - Sir Archibald

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Part 1: New Rome

Chapter 1

There are times when a man might be compared to a stone sitting on the ground. As a stone, that man would hardly move except to breathe, and even this caused only the tiniest ripples of air to enter and exit his nostrils. This man would not be seen, if he were to first ensconce himself at the side of a road, with tall trees and brush to obfuscate him from the ever watchful eyes of the sun and moon. This man would not be heard, for his body would be well accustomed to remaining in a still position for a lengthy time, if this man had practiced this same posture for months, or perhaps years.

But a man is not a stone, and when that man would choose to move, he would move as a man. If he were a clumsy man, he might give away his concealed place by trampling twigs or leaves. But if he were a man of war, a student of strategy and tactics, this man might move as a shadow over a narrow path he had cleared during the daylight hours. His tread would be sure and fleet, his body in a low crouch, his short sword held close to his body to keep it from snagging on limbs of brush. This man might move fast enough that two other men, thieves who pounced on passerby in the night, would not know he was among them until it was too late.

The man, who had pretended to be a stone, might hack out at the first thief, to maim him and put him out of the fight. This man would then thrust the tip of his blade into the second thief, with one full thrust, followed by a pull to withdraw his weapon, and a second thrust to finish the thief permanently. The man would then crouch, listening to the gasps of the first maimed thief, making sure there was no attack coming to him, before he would let stab his blade once more and finish the last thief as well.

Two dead men, cowards who would prey on innocents, would lie dead, while their judge, the man who had pretended to be a stone, would scavenge their bodies for coin or goods. One sword, a good sword tempered in a master’s forge, wept blood. This was the way of the world known as Albion, and the name of this vigilante was Archibald the Fifth of New Sussex, who came from a long line of warriors and men of faith that stretched back in time by over two hundred years.

At the end of it, two dead men lay stripped in the brush to serve as nourishment for the forest, while the living man carried their meager clothing and belongings with him.

The walk into the nearest village was a short one. It would have to be, as Archibald assumed the dead thieves were residents there and wouldn’t stray too far from home to carry out their evil deeds. He passed a few houses constructed of wattle and daub, small homes for people with no wealth, but homes nevertheless, before he came to what he assumed was the brothel or tavern.

There was no door to the place. Through the open doorway Archibald heard the notes of a stringed musical instrument, being played by a man or a woman with hardly any skill at all to play it. Perhaps the musician was drunk instead of incompetent, but the atrocious noise this person made was more in accord to a wailing cat than it was to a genuine song. This unruly caterwauling made the hard man grin.

He walked inside, prompting half a dozen patrons to turn toward him, including the musician who was an old woman. They all looked closely at his stranger’s face. These people weren’t well illuminated, for there were only a handful of expensive tallow candles to give the large room a dim, wavering glow.

You had two thieves down the road, waiting for victims to claim. Archibald announced, as much a challenge to the crowd as it was a declaration. And now they are no more.

At this, he tossed the bloody garments he’d taken from the dead men, onto a table that had no guests around it. Archibald also held a purse of coin aloft, which he’d taken from the belt of one thief. He held it up high so all could see it. I claim this for myself, as my reward for having rid the road of these two thorns. Is there anyone here who would contest this? Let him come forward and speak.

There was no outright answer, only a few angry faces, a stifled cough, and a man who left his chair to walk around Archibald and step outside.

Serves them right. One man said, finally. We’ve told them plenty of times to be less sinful men, but the sin waxed strong in them both. Let them go before God and plead their case to Him now.

Aye. The barkeep nodded. They only rob to come in here and pay for their drink, instead of working the fields all day like the rest of us. We’ve told them plenty. They got what the good God thought was best for them.

Thinking the tension over, Archibald lowered his arm and took one last look around, before he stepped up to the barkeep’s counter. What do you have in the way of food?

The man shrugged back. Some bread, cheese. You’ll have to come back in the morning if you’d like some pigeon stew. It will have fresh onions and potatoes in it. Can you wait that long, stranger?

Archibald went to the nearest candle, using its weak light to empty the contents of his confiscated purse into his hand. The thief had a pittance in it, he discovered, but it would be enough to procure a morsel or two. He dropped the currency before the barkeep. Here, take it all. I’ll take as much bread and cheese as I can buy with it.

Fresh or old? The keep asked. The old costs half as much as the fresh does.

What sort of bread is it?

Barley, cooked with acorns and beans."

Give me the old. Archibald decided.

If you want the old, I’ll let you have the rest of it. The barkeep informed him, as he moved to retrieve the items from behind the counter. You’ll have to eat the bread soon, stranger, before it all spoils away. The cheese isn’t so bad. That’ll keep longer. Did you want a drink with that?

Do you boil your water?

No need to. We have a spring that isn’t too far from here. I have two boys each bring me two full buckets every morning. None of us have gotten sick from it.

I found your spring earlier. Archibald nodded slightly. I thought it was safe to drink from as well. I’ll take one cup before I go.

You’ll be walking out there in the night? An older patron asked.

Why not? Archibald asked. It is a good night for walking, as long as no thieves are out there to harass me. Is there something I should know about?

The old man glanced at the bloody clothes on the table. Not anymore, I don’t think. All the trouble’s been taken care of by God.

By God, and also by his sword, thought Archibald, although he didn’t voice it. Everything, no matter if it was good or bad, always came from God.

Archibald walked through the night and slept through the morning.

After this he ate his bread and cheese, and drank his water from an old, cured goat bladder he carried with him. He also had a small sack with him in which he carried a few small, leather books with pages of sewn vellum, an old leather helmet that he used on sunny days, and a leather arm-guard for whenever he might handle a bow. This sack he always hid at the outskirts of a village, in the bushes where it was unlikely to be found. It would serve as a marker for him to find his personal purse of coin, which he also hid or sometimes even buried. If he was traveling, this sack could be found hanging from a leather cord wrapped around his shoulder and his personal purse would be inside of it. Any other purses, such as the one from the second thief of the night before, he would tie around his belt so that any people he came across would think this was all the currency he held.

As evening approached, Archibald would halt his steps and consider his surroundings. He would find a place near the road to settle into, where he could hear what sounds might carry into his ears and sense when animals or men would come by. It was doubtful that he would run into any bandits or thieves on this night, because he was far from any villages. Still, he kept to his routine, as he was accustomed to it, and also because on a number of occasions from the past, keeping to it had kept him out of dangerous situations.

On this night, he chanted to the god of New Rome, because this was the god of his people from ancient times. He knew the name of this god, of course, and so did others. It was forbidden by law to say the name aloud, and so he referred to the god simply as Lord Of Heaven. In occult circles, it was rumored that the god of New Rome once had a son who had become a man, but that son had been left behind in another world, so that only the holy father had come to Albion. Archibald doubted this rumor was true, for there were many other such rumors of ancients gods that had been forgotten in an old world, and of gods who were born as men and were blessed with supernatural powers. Still, with his own eyes he had seen miracles performed by the god of New Rome, for his followers and against his enemies. He had no doubt within his heart that this was a true god.

But this wasn’t the only god, Archibald knew. The god of New Rome would win battles for his armies, but he would also lose battles to rival gods or even to goddesses. There was no single god who could claim all of Albion, for there were many true gods who constantly bickered over land and resources, just as their many followers did. It was an eternal balance that existed on that world. Gods could not acquire too much power, but if they did, multiple rival gods would come against them until that power was diminished.

There existed false gods as well, but these did not last very long at all. Once word of these false gods would become known, all of the true gods would come together to stamp the life out of every one of the blasphemers, for all gods were jealous gods and would tolerate no new gods among them.

And so, Archibald chanted for a time, and prayed, and also meditated on this familiar god. On occasion, he would receive a sign or a vision, but more recently, there was nothing new to guide him on his path. This is why he left New Sussex and the lands around it, to seek out a true god who would choose him as a follower, instead of bowing down to the god of New Rome that he’d worshiped from childhood. He’d become highly disillusioned with his god, but regardless of this, he would still pray to that god until such time as he was away from New Rome, and away from his god’s vengeance.

During the night, Archibald walked down the road. The light from the moon was adequate, as the moon was in its waning cycle. He had no worry of being attacked out here in the middle of nowhere, for there was no reason for thieves to come out that far. If he were to be accosted, there were measures, both physical and spiritual, that would protect him. Physically, Archibald could fend for himself very well, and especially in the dark that he’d grown so accustomed to.

Spiritually, he had guardians that could not be seen, but that had presence and followed him wherever he went. This is how he had known that the god of New Rome was not his true god, for the priests of New Rome knew nothing about his ghosts or how to banish them. The priests said he was a cursed man. They tossed their holy water at him and made their signs with their hands. They expected Archibald to willingly give up his sword, so they could flog the evil out of him with their whips, or torture him with their vile instruments until the evil demons left his body. Archibald would refuse and not relinquish his weapon, and he would call upon the same god as the priests did, the god of New Rome, to give him might to stand against these men who sought to harm him. Always, there was a standstill between the priests and he, because they served the same god, and because he was a warrior while they were not.

He was a veteran of many wars, and fully capable of becoming hired by any number of wealthy men, to serve in their armies as a captain, or as a qualified trainer of knights and soldiers. This is not the sort of life that he wanted because it was an easy life, to fight for his pay, to live a warrior’s life, until another man ran him through with a sword and ended him. He did not expect to live long enough to grow old and silver-haired, and he had been close to the grave many, many times already.

What drove him to leave that life were the shadows that were always present around him, and the thought that there was another god out there waiting for Archibald to find Him, or Her. This is why he left behind all that he had known, and why he walked his path alone, with neither a woman nor land to hold him bound.

He slept during the morning, and set off walking past noon on the next day, as he’d been doing for a few weeks now.

Wayland’s Ditch, that’s the name of the next village. An old traveler he’d met up with told him, later that day. It’s hardly a stone’s throw from here, off the beaten path a bit, but there’s a sign on the roadside to point you to the right place.

The traveler had a donkey and cart with him, half filled with cabbage, carrots and potatoes that he sought to trade down the road. Archibald bartered his old bread and cheese for a bit of the produce, resulting in his sack becoming overfilled for once.

Don’t drink the water at Wayland’s. The traveler recommended. It’ll uncork your arse like the Devil’s fork. Drink the ale instead. If you can afford it, have a try of the sauced pork at Matty’s Tavern. Matty gives his old ale to the pigs to drink, so the flavor sticks to the pig’s meat. Best serving of pork you’ll find anywhere in these parts.

Archibald found the sign, and soon enough, the village. He counted nearly twenty hovels, all mediocre and built of wattle and daub, in this case mud mixed with dung and straw. The homes all had their own particular smell to them. He chewed on cabbage leaf as he walked through the place, and gifted leaves of it to the children who stood by to stare at him as if they hardly got enough to eat.

He found the tavern, open and airy with wide windows and doors. A couple ran it, a man who did the cooking and serving, and a woman who did the talking. He didn’t mind the woman’s chatter so much after having spent so much time walking alone.

They had two rooms in back, which he could rent if he needed to sleep, and three women to choose from if he wanted company. The locals wouldn’t trouble him, as long as he didn’t look for trouble first. Archibald managed to barter the produce he had for a serving of stew. When he added a small sum of coin, he traded up to a serving and a half of the sauced pork he’d heard about. The cook didn’t want his old bread, so he kept it, but the man did want his cheese, so he ended up getting another portion of pork to make two full servings and two cups of ale. As his food was prepared, Archibald went to the end of the tavern where the girls sat, but while they were pretty, they were also young. He wasn’t in the mood for any of them.

He walked outside, knowing that the village men would be out working the fields with their wives, while the old women and the older girls would watch the entire lot of the village’s little ones. He went to one of the elders and asked if there was a woman in the village with no husband, whom he could share a meal with and talk to. As a reward, he gave this old woman the last of his bread and a small clump of cheese. The old woman sent a little boy off to fetch his mother.

Understandably, the woman who returned with the boy was wary of him. At least, she was until he walked her back to the tavern and sat her down at a table, where the cook came and set the two servings of warm food before them. Then, she began to eat. The boy came along too, but Archibald didn’t mind this so much. He paid for the child to be fed as well, and he watched the boy’s antics with a sort of quiet amusement.

Since the woman he’d borrowed wasn’t saying much, Archibald spoke to her. I had a wife once, and three children. A chieftain hired me to protect his settlement. This was by a river, some distance from my home. My wife refused to come with me. I spent five months at that settlement, until all of the chieftain’s enemies were dead. When I returned to my home, I found my wife and children were gone. I don’t know where she went. She took my wealth with her. Once my wife had left my home, my neighbors came in and took whatever remained for their selves. I returned only to an empty house.

The woman glanced over at the younger girls, who any other man would have chosen over the older woman. Her face and hands looked worn, her hair lifeless, her vitality near gone. Still, she said nothing, but she continued to eat and to feed her child. It was only when the meal was finished that she said more than a word or two.

I am a widow, but I would accept a man again.

Archibald wondered how his god could bless some of his followers with great wealth, and cursed others with such poverty. There was still a small amount of coin in the thief’s purse that he carried. He tossed the purse on the table, before he stood up and left the tavern and the woman and child behind.

Before Archibald left the village, he traded the last of his cheese to an old farmer, in exchange for two empty, well-worn sacks. It bewildered the farmer that anyone would want those sacks in the first place, but it bewildered him even more when Archibald cut holes into them, removed his clothes, and put the sackcloth on in their stead.

It is a penance. Archibald explained. For the sins I have done and for the blood I have spilled.

Still, the farmer stared back at him incredulously.

In the more populous centers of New Rome, the priests will flog a man who has committed a great sin. Archibald said.

We have no priests here, only the one who comes by to collect his taxes once every new moon. The farmer replied. We don’t need a priest to chastise a man here. The good God will see fit to do such a thing Himself. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Through God’s will, a tree will up and fall upon a man, or the ground will open up and swallow him clean. Not too long ago, the best hunter in this village went out to hunt boar. He’d caught hundreds of them, and never a scratch on him. Not this time. What happened this time was that he was on the hunt for one boar, when another one came up behind him and near bit right through his lower leg. The rot set into the wound like the Devil, no matter how we much salve we used, or how much we tried to burn the rot out. The pain was too much. That’s what killed that hunter. The pain was too much.

Archibald wondered if this hunter could have been the husband of the woman he’d broken bread with, but no, a hunter of boars would have to be young, agile and strong. The woman he’d eaten with was none of those things.

It was some time later, when the seasoned warrior sat quietly in the forest. Years ago, monks from some long forgotten order had taught him how to chant and meditate, and both disciplines he still practiced. He’d strayed from the road and into the groves to do this, to forget the sight of dead and dying men that always haunted him, and also the sight of his sword that bled at times. Some would argue that it was the sword that brought calamities upon men, and not the wielder, but Archibald thought this manner of thinking an insult to his intelligence. He knew the truth of it; the sword did what the man who held it dictated, and not the other way around.

He contemplated the natural works of God for a time. At first, he tried to chant, but it was not in him to do this today. He meditated on the sounds of the forest, on the sounds of animals that lived there. The chirping of birds he found especially captivating. If he were to achieve a deep state of trance, he could sometimes hear the heart of the forest beating, or of the wind whistling softly through the tall grass. Alas, this state of quiet bliss also eluded him, like the chanting had, for there were worries on his mind, always worries.

There was a rustle heard through the leaves, that Archibald recognized as a human presence, for it strode wide as a man or a woman would. Guardedly, he stood up, using senses honed by war and battle to calculate where this person was, and what they were about in doing. He’d removed his belt, sheath and short sword earlier, before he’d begun his meditation. Now, he took the moment to put his weapon into his grasp, and he prayed to God that he would not have to use it on this day. He had no desire to spill more blood, and especially not in such a serene spot of land as that.

The strides went off in another direction, thanks to God. This gave Archibald the moment he needed to don his belt and sheath, before he grew curious enough to follow and find out the identity of whoever was out there. No person from the village would come out that far due to simple curiosity, and especially not alone. Wondering if perhaps some form of Deviltry were afoot, he kept his sword at the ready.

It was a girl, he soon discovered. He gauged her to be of over twenty years, perhaps as many as twenty-five but surely not more than that. She was pretty and of red hair. He thought back to his brief time in the village, but could not recall if he’d seen her there or not. Regardless, she was far from safety, out there in the wild, and he thought her intrepid to have come out so far. He followed her for a time, seeing that she carried a small woven basket. Every so often, she would stop to inspect a bush or a flower, and would pick fruit or leaves or twigs from the foliage.

After several minutes of trailing this girl, Archibald decided to make his presence known. He called out to her. You there!

His voice was strong and carried out like a hammer, frightening the girl. When she spun about to see him she became frightened even more. She dropped to the ground, too afraid to run, as if she hoped to hide her body there among the dirt and grass.

Archibald did not know what to make of that, for what sort of person simply falls over and pretends to be dead in that way? It was odd, but as he stepped closer, he considered how he appeared to her. He had a scraggly, unkempt beard, clothing made of sackcloth because he was in penance, his face and arms showed scars of old battles, and he held in death in his hand. Hard men who encountered maidens in the woods were never kind to them. He thought he might look like a demon to this woman.

Sit up, girl. He called out, once he stood at two strides from her. I mean you no harm.

She trembled there on the ground, but made no move to comply. Her eyes were large and bright and blue, reflections of heaven. Her clothing was a simple woolen dress, dyed in an earthy brown, with an embroidered collar and a length of twine as a belt. Her shoes were worn, misshapen, ugly.

Archibald sheathed his sword, hoping to pacify her a bit. Sit up, girl.

Still very afraid, she did move, crossing her arm over her breasts as if to keep his eyes away from them. In truth, he had been looking at her chest, but not on her bosom. Instead he was scrutinizing a crescent pendant she had on the end of a leather thong necklace.

What is that on the end of your necklace, girl? He asked. What god do you worship?

It is a symbol of the moon. My goddess is Diana.

You are a pagan then.

She looked at him with gaping eyes, as if fearing he would draw out his sword and use it to smite her.

Archibald did notice that while most of her hair was red, the roots of it were brown. You change the color of your hair?

I do. She admitted, turning her face away from his. I use henna to make the dye.

What are you doing here in the forest?

Her eyes went to the ground.

Go on. Archibald demanded.

I am gathering herbs. She revealed. I am also in search of a certain mushroom. It is said that with the proper mix, the essence of this mushroom will allow me to speak with my goddess.

You are a pagan and a witch then?

Not a witch! She countered, turning her face to him, showing him that she was a woman capable of fomenting fire within her. I am a diviner, such as your church would seek to burn for heresy! I was born with the gift of sight, and not given my gift by your Devil! It was given to me by my goddess Diana!

Her words were surely enough to burn her, if any zealous priests were around to hear them. Archibald, however, was not the sort of man who murdered young girls in the forest, only infidels that came at him with raised swords, or thieves who thought to plunge their daggers into his heart.

On a lark, he asked, In your divination, have you been warned about me?

He meant to tease her, and did not expect an answer. He was surprised to hear that she had one.

Yes. The girl said.

Go on. What was the warning?

Beware of the man who walks in the light of the god of New Rome, and who also walks among the shadows.

She was correct, of course. The shadows always swirled around Archibald. At times, he could see them, as ghosts, phantoms, or perhaps demons. He’d always wondered if he might have been cursed at birth, to carry these beings around with him all of his life.

Tell me more. He said.

I cannot. The girl turned away. That was all I was given. It appeared to me in a vision.

Archibald thought this over. Your mushrooms, will they allow me to speak to these shadows?

"No,