The Roswell Discrepancy: A Human Romance in Three Parts

By A. G. Davis

After “the incident” and years of self-imposed exile, Desmond “Deetz’ Mac Innes returns to Wales. His father has died.

In the preceding years, Deetz became a skilled martial artist, slept with everyone - every which way - from San Francisco to Thailand, all the while improving his psychic powers and insightful wit.

But on his journey home, he is confronted by another problem, an old crush on his childhood best friend, Angus Reese, soon to be the 12th Earl of Glamorgan.

Amidst international intrigues and historical misrepresentations, between hozer beteshuva (“returning in repentance”) and fy anwylyd (“my beloved”), Deetz must lead a unique crew of talented reprobates, including a lusty talking dog and a vengeful chatty cat, to reveal the curious truth within the Roswell Discrepancy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: May 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781912192113

Book preview

Chapter 1

I thought I’d run far enough and long enough. My sister Ciara knew I had good reason to leave home. And when four years at the University of Cardiff wasn’t far enough away, I crossed international datelines studying mixed martial arts from whatever master pushed me the hardest - first in America and then China, to study with monks at a Shaolin Temple. After that it was the Philippine jungle to learn Doce Pares. There were a number of places in-between but Ciara’s one and only outreach in the last three years found me in Bangkok where I was learning Muay Thai and teaching English to rich high school students.

It’s time for you to come home. Now.

Did I tell you my sister is a year younger than me? Bossy cow. And I love her dearly.

I should have anticipated my ‘aunt’ had her pilot standing outside the airport with a handwritten sign – ‘Desmond Mac Innes’. Not that I minded much – a thirteen hour flight in economy class to London with another five hour train ride to Cardiff is too much time to spend trying to remember why you’re supposed to give a shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so bitter. How many folks fly in a luxury private plane owned by a member of legendary London peerage? Lady Nora Llewellyn is not really blood to me. My father, Fearghal Mac Innes, is the valet to her brother the 11th Earl of Glamorgan. Her nephew and I grew up together. When my father’s wife abandoned us, Lady Nora tried to be loving toward me in the way only the well-off can. But I get ahead of myself.

Daisy, the flight attendant, looked at me and my torn duffle bag in astonished disgust. His Lordship is in the lounge area, she said receiving this luggage while trying to keep it from infecting her dignity. The pilot indicates that we will be taking off in five minutes. I simply nodded. I’ve never been one to argue with my betters.

I had hardly reached the plane’s interior before I was greeted by Angus’s booming voice. Deetz! He used my childhood nickname. Good to see you, mate! How long has it been, eh? His handshake, which startled me, was formal even though his tone was more light-hearted.

Angus Reese, the Earl’s only child, stood 6’2" looking like Colin Farrell in Miami Vice, long hair, unshaven, Florida casual and all. The Angus I remembered from childhood was a charmer, good natured, and always rescuing the injured animals around the family estate. Eventually though, he was sent away, as all good boys of the rich gentry are, to a boarding school and then Oxford. I would see him on a few holidays during our teen years and never once after I entered Uni. He looked somewhat like that Angus but something wasn’t right. Nice to see you as well.

Have a drink! By the unsteadiness of his hand, it was likely he was already bladdered. Scotch, gin, vodka? You know Aunt Nora always keeps the plane well stocked. I would have taken mine but she insisted. He must have noticed me staring at the Druidic symbols tattooed along both his arms. Brilliant, aren’t they? Dad’s always going on about pride in my Celtic heritage. His voice seemed to drift off to some unhappy place.

I have a few brands and tats myself, I said, rescuing him, doing what I always did. It was marvelous how quickly we fell back into our assigned roles. I’ll just take a water, I said while taking off my jacket. He must have noticed how my travels were inked, burned, or carved across every centimeter of my arms and hands. I had no intention of ever working in a respectable setting.

Ah, a teetotaler? He handed me a bottled water from the bar’s Frigidaire. Someone’s working out.

He wasn’t looking bad himself. Something like that.

He took my lead by sitting on a chair across from me while I sat on the couch. Any idea why the family is calling us back?

Nope, I answered. You haven’t been home?

He took a long sip from the shot glass. I’ve been away quite some time on business. My curious look must have cued him to offer more – his family was one of the few of London’s peers that had been smart about its money through the 20th century. While others had to liquidate estates, lands, and assets that had been in their families for centuries, previous Glamorgan Earls had, instead of excessive spending, whoring, and gambling, smartly invested and ensured their farmlands remained profitable. As long as any upcoming progeny didn’t squander too much, future generations could afford to be politicians, philosophers, or writers. I never finished Oxford. I took Mother’s money and used it as venture capital to start an investment company. I wanted something of my own. I primarily do phone apps, energy systems, startups that look ready to expand and the like. I was closing a deal in Tokyo when I got the call.

Nice story but his tone of voice said that he was leaving something out. I had a talent for recognizing lies of omission. Very good, I said.

What about you? I thought you were supposed to go to the seminary or something, he asked.

I have never been very verbose and having spent much of my young adulthood living like a monk from a 70s Kung Fu movie hasn’t done much for my social skills. Ciara always repeated the line ‘still waters run deep’ when referring to me and acted like my silence held some profound biblical interpretation. Truth was I rarely encountered people who want to listen and what passes as conversation nowadays was nothing more than folks tossing cheap trinkets into one another’s emotional waste buckets. Traveling as well. It seemed a better option.

Angus nodded understandingly as if his reasons matched my own. Like me he had lost his mother to ovarian cancer two years before mine left. However, I didn’t recall problems between him and his family, not that at that time I was paying much attention. Did Lady Nora call you?

Yes! And at the most inopportune time too! These negotiations with Samsung are complex, to say the least. I left my best man on it but still, it’s the thrill of closing the deal, isn’t it? he said smiling like a gambler with the winning hand. Damn cryptic too. ‘Come home now’ or something like that.

And we came running like obedient puppies, did we not?

He lifted his glass to add emphasis, Hey, I tried calling her but just got another ‘Come now’ text. He gulped the last of his drink. I guess I didn’t leave things well when I was last home, he shrugged.

Now we’re getting somewhere. You didn’t finish Oxford? I said plainly.

He looked at me quizzically, It was rather abrupt and all.

Knowing things, things about people, it’s one of my talents. His Lordship must have been furious? Attending Oxford was a family tradition and all.

Well, we’re not living in some fucking episode of Downton Abbey! Angus put his shot glass hard on the table. The Queen is lucky she’s still got a job.

I had to smirk at that comment and it got him to smile in agreement – I’d forgotten how much I liked that smile. So you haven’t even been at Morganwg for Boxing Day? I was teasing him somewhat. The Morganwg Estate in Dyffryn, about seven miles outside of Cardiff, abuts numerous farms and villages that for centuries have looked to the Earls of the estate for governance, support, and favor. As a child, Angus would be dressed up in a suit and forced to join Lady Nora around the countryside passing out Christmas gifts to the town folk, as is the tradition on Boxing Day in the UK. It would always end at the servant’s quarters where he would hand me a gift that the two of us would play with the very next day. He would complain to me bitterly that he felt foolish handing you something like I was better than you.

He let out a genuine laugh, the kind you get when a truth is exposed. Ah yes, those days of childhood! He stood up and walked over to the window. The plane had taken off and the mid-morning sun was leaving long shadows over the people and things on the ground. Angus ran his hand through his shoulder length hair – a broody, dark skinned Welshman with emerald eyes and newly reforming facial hair like something ripped from a historical romance. Sunshine and rainbows, yes it was, wasn’t it?

Living as a butler/valet’s son taught me that sometimes those we serve are best served by our silence or reassurance. Irritating as that advice was to hear as a child (as I was not going into service) right now it was sounding sensible. Well, we’ll face the mob together, eh? If he heard how odd those words sounded coming from me he didn’t act like it. He just stood looking through the window. I’ll leave you to it then, I said getting up.

Yes, yes Daisy said your bedroom was upstairs in the back.

Seriously? The flight attendant really is a royalty snob. Put the valet’s son in the small cabin? Was someone from the Crown’s Master of the Household going to be checking up behind her? Tea then? He didn’t say anything. I took it as an affirmative and left to get a shower.

I was wrong. Daisy had, likely reluctantly, placed my things in one of the suites – ‘Mr. Mac Innes’ was written in calligraphy on the door tag. It’s been a while since I’ve been around opulence and this plane was brilliant. You know you’re in luxury when you have to take a lift to the third floor to get to your room.

Shades of brown everywhere matched the dark oak hardwood paneling and floors. The furniture was matching, hand-crafted wood as well. Beige Egyptian sheets were tightly wrapped around a queen-size bed against the windows, with a small end table on the other side with a small Victorian lamp. Next to the lamp, as you would find in any hotel, an in-house phone, a leather bound book with instructions for contacting room service, explanation of the suite and plane’s accommodations, as well as today’s menu choices. Turns out mine was one of five guest rooms, each complete with its own bathroom. This was a far cry from the jungle paradises in which I’d recently stayed which made an outhouse connected to a rustic English seaside cabin seem welcoming. My mind may have been craving self-punishment but my body was now crying Thank you!

According to the book, this was a converted Airbus A380, the world's largest private jet. It had a wingspan of 262′, a length of 239’ – enough space to comfortably seat up to five hundred passengers. There were five private suites all with king-size beds, a Turkish bath for four and somewhere to put the Rolls-Royce - not to mention a boardroom with holographic screens and a concert hall. I wonder what the fifth person was supposed to do while the other four bathed? I read further and got my answer. She or he could relax in the ‘wellbeing room’, with floor and walls turned into a giant screen showing the ground down below and scented breeze blowing into the room to give one that ‘top-down, drive across the countryside’ feeling. Ah how the rich have become lazy!

A bit of poking around in the end table drawer and I found the remote control for an entertainment center, which was well hidden behind cabinet doors across from the bed. I plopped myself on the mattress, having decided that I would indulge in something I hadn’t in some time – television. Unfortunately, having been away from pop culture for nearly five years, I lost the context and couldn’t find anything to watch. I switched over to a station streaming Chopin and got up to find my things. In all likelihood, Daisy had tossed my duffle out of some discreet chute while the plane was over the ocean. However, she had emptied the complete contents of it into one dresser drawer, leaving my only luxury, an iPad, up top, exactly perpendicular to the dressers’ edges. I wondered if I should insult her and leave a tip.

Books are my only real passion. I read when I have free time at the dojo or the menial jobs that pay for my one room rental. Kilgore Trout, Stephen King, and Carl Hiaasen are my most consistent downloads but right now I’m loving Ready Player One. Sometimes I listen to music – classical and jazz/blues mostly, sometimes a thoughtful rock piece - so an iPad, battery operated charger, and cheap ear buds come in handy. The only possession of more significance – oh shit! I rustled through the drawer desperately looking only to find it tucked under my shaving bag. The dark velvet pouch was likely mistaken for another set of grooming accessories. I unzipped it to check that everything was there - one Tallit, a traditional prayer shawl - Tefillin, leather straps with a box to place on one’s head during daily prayer - and a skull cap. Everything a nice Jewish boy needs to fully participate as one of the chosen. I looked at my watch, trying to calculate evening prayers but gave up in favor of a shower. G-d would forgive my failure to pray for my desire for cleanliness. And, according to the guest book, another one of the plane’s conveniences was a prayer room featuring computer generated prayer mats which always faced Mecca. I’ll call Daisy later and have that adjusted.

I stripped and folded my dirty clothes for a nearby hamper. I put the old clothes in the hamper wondering if my funk could overwhelm the scent of artificial freshness. From the drawer, I pulled out my only collared shirt, boxers, socks without holes, and matching jeans. I put my grooming bag under my arm and went to the shower. Any more glass, lighting, and reflective gold paneling and I would have been blinded. I leaned into the oversized vanity mirror. I needed a shave bad, but then again that would be true two hours from now. I’d always wished that the hair on my face grew on my chest but no such genetic luck. My bald head was just starting to sprout – better let it continue as Father didn’t know curly locks were one of the first things I got rid of when I left home.

I pulled out my shaving equipment. I like to shave before showering, unlike most men. As I lathered then leaned in to make that first stroke, I noticed just how craved and fit I’d become over the years. I hadn’t seen myself in a full-length mirror since leaving home. From the neck down, I looked like Bruce Lee with a white man’s tan. I twisted to the right to get a better view of the latest bruise that wrapped around my left internal obloquies and side – Hu Yeng, my sparring partner, got a lucky kick in during our last practice. The guy’s strong and quick but not quick enough, otherwise I would have a couple of broken ribs as well. I turned to the other side and then caught my reflection on the back full-length mirror. I had forgotten the Irezumi tattoos on my back and shoulders. Hiroshi, the artist, was well sought after. I wanted him to cover a brand that rests in the center of my back. After examining it and its features, he refused by saying in broken English that he, Didn’t want to interfere with my destiny. I knew what he meant but was determined and he knew it. Instead of letting me go to one of his less qualified competitors, he caved, somewhat. He took the small brand of a tree with deep roots and created a forest of Japanese maples with ancient Tengu spirit snakes dancing around. He insisted on adding figures of Ronin, a masterless samurai from Japan’s feudal period, on my shoulders. The heads of the warriors were lowered, their faces obscured by a large bamboo hat. I should have been angry but the job was so beautiful and intricate that I was nearly in tears when I first saw it. I asked him several times what it all meant. He said, Now your destiny is expanded. I also asked him who the Ronin were, assuming they represented famous figures. He replied as if the answer was obvious, Help, of course! There are a few other tats and brands on my thigh and calf, mostly taken after drunken bouts with fellow fighters in Singapore or LA. I didn’t exactly lie to Angus – I don’t drink like that now.

A quick smirk and nude pose in the full-length mirror and I think I look good. I turned back around, quickly shaved and jumped into the nice, hot shower. I realized that I had forgotten my soap when I saw a shower shelf full of my favorite men’s products from Apothecary87. On my travails, I had given up such luxuries, thinking the indulgence just kept me trapped in Father’s world, but looking at them then I became giddy – it was my third favorite thing after all. Standing under the shower, enjoying the water flowing down my body, and over my muscles and face, I sniffed the soap, and inhaled the mild, woody Indian sandalwood. I ran the soap bar between my hands and then rubbed the lather on my arms. It felt like psychic tension was being lifted, dissipating like a child’s blown bubbles in the air. I rubbed the soap on a luffa then scrubbed my chest. As the sponge and soap crossed my chest, I started to get excited. Then I stopped, feeling kinda funny about what I wanted to do – I was in my elderly aunt’s extra luxury plane, after all. But I kept rubbing the thick, milky lather on my chest and then on my nipples and, well…

To my right was a panel with a number of buttons. I pushed a few and got music and then luckily quickly found something with an appropriate beat – Death Cab for Cutie doing Transatlanticism.

Moving the showerhead toward me so the water pressure massaged my upper stomach, it fell down my pelvis and thighs then circled around my legs once I leaned my upper back against the opposite wall. I again lathered my hands and the luffa. I let my right hand continue massaging my nipples, making each erect, tugging punitively to make them just a little bit sore. The luffa in my left hand spread copious, thick suds around my scrotum. What didn’t cling to my pubic hair swirled teasingly down my body with the water. My balls were taut, which made the surrounding skin extra sensitive. Abandoning my nipples, I used the newly freed hand to take the luffa, push my dick aside and massage the sack slowly with deliberate attention to that spot underneath. My head rolled back and my bottom lip dropped ever so slightly. We’re just starting to get to the good part.

Social conventions and progressive obsessions aside, my body knew what it really wanted. I abandoned my initial efforts, turned and faced the wall. Twisting obscenely, I contorted my body so that the brush could run across my perturbing asshole and then went up and down on my toes to increase the sensation. My breathing was shallow and a hushed growl came through my teeth. I needed, I had to put something in there, not far in… just enough to massage the entry walls.

The luffa wasn’t enough so I tried my index finger. I am flexible and could reach but the leverage sucked. I became impatient, desperate and so close to that earth-shattering feeling. I opened my eyes quite accidently and saw my toothbrush on the sink. The hair brush was closer to the right size but toothbrushes are cheap. I nearly leaped out of the shower, grabbed it as well as a small jar of Vaseline and got back in. I turned the heat up on the water and greased the brush’s handle. I faced the wall, placing my head against the crook of my elbow and leaned in. My other arm reached around, positioned at the entry. The shower water scorched my tender bum as I slowly pushed the handle halfway up my asshole. I enjoyed the quiver your sphincter does initially when it’s stretched even the smallest amount. All I had to do now was match the music’s rhythm – in and out of that right spot.

I clenched my teeth together so as to not scream too loud. I swallowed hard and let go. A rush of tension and then exploding release ran down and then up throughout my body. In a few more thrusts my thighs went into spasm and my legs shook so harshly that I nearly fell. I dropped the toothbrush and began tugging at my penis, which was now quite engorged and feeling neglected. It’s been ready to explode for weeks - I hadn’t done this in a while. It’s hard to get any ‘Me Time’ when you’re sharing dojo quarters with six other guys. Soon sperm splattered and dripped slowly down the shower walls like paint on the canvas of some modern artist. I’ve always liked coming twice, and in two completely different ways.

Straightening up a bit, I caught my distorted reflection on the shiny panels across from the shower. The brand on my back was shimmering, sending out tiny sparks like some private fireworks show. It did that whenever I got excited or overly emotional. I tried to hide it when I was shagging but lately that hadn’t mattered as I have stuck with prostitutes too blathered to know the difference – one girl (at least I think it was a girl, I mean it was Thailand after all) caught a glimpse and thought I was a fairy who blessed folks with happy dust. Another time I had a guy hunt me down in a club because he wanted to Get that same hallucination again. I’m not ashamed of my exotic erotic predilections; at least not as much as I used to be. But typically, I did business on my back – no explanations necessary and the ladies think I’m being ‘considerate of their needs’. But I get ahead of myself.

I left the shower after rinsing off the wall and myself. The familiar feeling of shame started to bubble up from that mental file where I keep such things. I put on the bathrobe and immediately sat on the bed. I started doing the exercises Master Ho taught me – three breaths in and six out – over and over again until at least my mind is under control. The memories aren’t so easy though and I wondered if it’s the wanking off or the unexpected trip home that’s brought them out for a visit. A therapist I saw while at Uni gave me some stupid visualization exercises that I tried a few times before learning alcohol did the same thing but with additional benefits. I quit drinking completely some time ago after I nearly killed someone in a bar fight and woke up not remembering a thing about it.

Before I took off the robe, I texted my sister, Why come back now? I didn’t get an immediate response so I put the phone on the side table. The brand isn’t sparking anymore and hadn’t left any marks on the robe. Grabbing my iPad, I got under the covers and decided to read. I adjusted the music back to Chopin, pianist Brigitte Engerer – a personal favorite - playing the complete Nocturnes. The breathing exercises seemed to have contained the memories as they weren’t sending me into a panic attack – I was out of Xanax, which is really the only successful intervention when things get really, really bad. This time I caught things soon enough – I had gotten good at that too. Falling into the story within the fantasy of Ready Player One settled me completely. There’s nothing like someone else’s family misery to reduce yours to the level of some American Life Time movie.

I must have dozed off because the vibration of the phone startled me. Ciara’s text said, ‘Dads missing, presumed dead’.

When you’ve been angry at a parent for as long as I had, you don’t know how to react to such news. Are you supposed to be scared, angry, glad, or hurt that things will never be resolved? What is the proper British reaction to the possible death of a parent who you’ve been distant from for fifteen or so years? I am Jewish and we have prayers for every damn thing. Where could I find one for a missing-presumed-dead parent? Truth was I hadn’t thought much about my father since I left home. When Ciara arrived for my graduation ceremony with a note indicating that he was ‘unavoidably detained’ and confirmation that the inheritance from my mother was secured in my accounts, I turned around and got on a flight to Paris. Ciara tracked me down there four months later…

Wait, did she mean Dad’s or Dads? That would change the whole story. The phone said it was after 4pm, close enough to tea time so I got dressed and went back to what the guest book called the ‘well-being room’. Normal people would call it a living-room or a lounge area. Along the sides were a row of couches, some with recliner attachments. Every second seat had a side table and cup rest. Seating was darker beige leather with the occasional matching hand embroidered pillow. At one end, there was a small bar station while at the other, a buffet serving area. I suppose an entertainment system was stashed behind one or two of the wood panels along the wall.

Angus was there, sobered and looking rested. I got a closer look at him as I entered the area and realized he was more handsome than I originally recognized. He was bulkier than I but muscle curvy like a GQ cover model. The beard was nicely trimmed and his long hair was tied in a ribbon like some 18th century red coat. White tee shirt and jeans tore at the knees was stylish but not what one would expect from a member of British peerage. I figured he was owed since we weren’t due at Cardiff International for several more hours. I also got a closer look at his tats and brands – various common Celtic symbols cast around faces of priests and priestesses on his arms, biceps, and triceps; signets for each of the four elements on the fingers of his left hand while the fingers on his right had the signs for divine justice, stabilization, protection, and transformation. I couldn’t see the ones on his knees clearly but it was all making me wonder what exactly he’d been doing in the last fifteen or so years – I’ve heard venture capitalists tend to be a wacky denizen but I knew that the acquisition and location of these particular tattoos and brands were more than just an indication of Welsh pride.

His pensive stare out the portal at formless clouds answered my question. I guessed it was time for me to resume my expected role again. Your Grace, how may I be of assistance in this time of enormous loss?

He faced me and offered a queer look, Deetz! This is a loss for you too, you know. He seemed to have remembered something that answered his question of why my response was so nonchalant. And don’t be so quick to assume they’re dead. At this point, they are only missing, he said thoughtfully.

Obviously he knew more than I. Still, for Lady Nora to summon us abruptly like this has unnatural forebodings.

True, he said, Aunt Nora is never one for melodramatics. He walked over and sat by me.

Daisy came in the area and placed a tiered stand with an assortment of small seasonal fruit scones with clotted cream and jam, Battenberg cake, and Victoria sponge. The latter was a potential problem. Miss! She turned and looked at me with irritation. I didn’t care. I walked over to the service area and pointed at the Victoria sponge, Was this made with hazelnut or almond nut flour?

She eyed me curiously, I believe chef used hazelnut flour.

His Grace is severely allergic to hazelnuts, I said in a voice of superiority. I picked up the tray stand and handed it to her. Please check with chef and if hazelnut has been used, all the items must be removed, the trays cleaned and the food items replaced.

With all new foods? she asked incredulously.

His Grace’s allergy is quite severe, I retorted – I love how we British use logic to excuse meanness.

Daisy took the items and stormed out. I returned to Angus, who was grinning. Did you really need to be so harsh on the girl, old man? She was just doing her job. How could she have known I had an allergy?

I believe your aunt would say it was her job to know. He was right too, of course. But another old feeling was coming back, the sense of duty to the head of the family. I recall a young master Angus spending four days in the hospital because of an unsuspected hazelnut.

True. At one bite I was likely to end up with severe stomach cramps. At two, I’d have to dive into my suite for my Epipen, he winked. But listen, Deetz, no one, particularly me, is expecting you to jump into the role as my valet, even if our fathers are dead. You’re a free man. I’m sure you have wider prospects than serving the over-privileged.

Angus was right, of course. All my childhood I’d been told that I had two choices in life either become the valet for Master Angus or the rabbinate. Both involved centuries of tradition, right up to my father and uncle, and neither of which appealed to me at all, albeit one once did. Since the ‘unfortunate incident’, only the former was insisted upon – something of a booby prize for what I had endured, it was said. Now I was falling into that role like I’d just received an order from Her Majesty. We’ll see what happens when we land. Only Americans toss away traditions easily.

Yeah, but I draw the line at dressing me!

I shrugged.

Daisy came back in with a refreshed tray and then a tea setting. She stood by while we served ourselves, of course giving me a constant evil eye. I didn’t care and didn’t bother staring her down. That is one thing about me. Once I determine that I am right, I couldn’t give a bloody shit about how anyone feels about it. That attitude hadn’t won me any popularity contests and had ended several friendships – not that I had many to begin with.

I looked over at Angus. He was eating but his mind was still elsewhere. I sensed self-recrimination, regret, longing, and apprehension. And he didn’t want to talk about it. Likely he had secrets too. What do you say in a moment like that? Here’s something stupid, We’re getting in at 11pm?

He mumbled through the end of his cucumber sandwich. I’m sorry for being so aggro. I’m not ready for this.

I went to the bar. What will you take?

A bit early, don’t you think?

"Depends on which dateline your using. Somewhere it’s after 8 P.M.

A Martini then.

I served it to him. He took a long sip. This is delish! How did a teetotaler learn to make a drink this brilliant? Okay, you don’t have to be my valet but you can be my bartender – same salary but less work.

I smiled and bowed slightly. Two more of these and I’d get everything out of him.

Chapter 2

I only know part of what happened after Angus’s mother died and most of that comes from the mind and memories of a child. Before then, there were magical Christmases, chasing puppies along the beach, and putting frogs in Nanny’s purse. Because we were nearly the same age, no one thought twice about the servant child playing with the future Earl. I appreciated it because, as a small, sickly boy who was the target of any bully needing a victim, Angus was my champion. I was an easy target – skinny, geeky, with thick glasses. Being Jewish didn’t help either. Additionally, I was horrible at football and got good grades. Someone was always looking for an opportunity to push me over, throw my book bag in the mud, or spit in my lunch. But if Angus’s status as royal didn’t keep village meanies away, his right hook gave them second thoughts. Angus never held it over my head – he was kind before most kids had learned how to spell the word and I loved him for it.

Angus’s mother, the Lady Glamorgan, Mairead (Humphreys) Reese, died of ovarian cancer – it was described as a bad tummy ache to us children. Until she became sick, she was a kindly woman, but frail. Earl Glamorgan doted over her when he was home, which wasn’t often enough. He took my father, his valet, away with him on these important business trips, though neither Angus nor I knew exactly what that meant. When she died, the absences weren’t more frequent, just longer. At first, Angus was lonely, sometimes sullen and I tried to cheer him up with silly faces or agreed to participate in his mischievous schemes.

My favorite was the time Prince Charles brought Camilla Parker Bowles to Morganwg for an informal dinner. This was shortly after his divorce from Diana but before he came out with Camilla in public. Lady Nora, as I was allowed to call her at that time, was a great ally of Charles. She felt (and pronounced frequently) that Her Majesty’s demand that Charles marry Diana was premature as he was clearly not mature enough to appreciate the burden that royalty adds to the whole endeavor. During the marriage, Lady Nora found Princess Diana to be conniving and emotionally unstable. Once it was clear Charles had made up his mind to divorce, Lady Nora fully supported it. According to the downstairs gossip, Lady Nora spoke to Her Majesty and paved the way for the divorce and the Queen’s acceptance of Camilla. Additionally, while implementing her plot, Lady Nora would invite Charles and Camilla over for dinner so the couple got a chance to do what normal people do when they’re together.

It was during one of these dinners that Angus and I contrived to unleash ants on the dinner – I gathered the creatures while Angus made sure they made it to the table. The prank worked better than expected, despite the fact that Angus lost track of them almost immediately after opening the vial I had given him. To this day, we don’t know how several of them ended up in the Prince’s soup. Charles took it well (his sons had pulled the same prank several years earlier) and laughed heartedly, however Lady Nora was furious.

This, as during most occasions when we got caught (which was often), Angus would be severely reprimanded, reminded of his position and the expectations that came with it. The pranks were nothing more than attempts to get attention. But when Angus turned ten and I was eight or so, he started talking back, challengingly, stating that he wasn’t any different from any other boy and the aristocracy was a dead idea anyway. This led to punishments such as the infamous write a 3,000-word, annotated essay on the history of the Royal Family (and this was in the days before Wikipedia let alone Microsoft Word). I was ignored in all this as such naughty behavior was expected of someone of my class, unless my father was around, in which case I got a good thrashing. My true punishment came when, feeling that his negative behavior and attitude was getting out of control, the grown-ups agreed it was time for Angus to go away for school at Eton. My great defender was gone and when it was time for me to go to the village high school, I was left to fend for myself.

Now I was sitting across from him on that plane, wondering what kind of man my boyhood friend had become. I didn’t quite understand my curiosity frankly, except that it was going to be a long plane journey. I see you’ve avoided marrying, I noted.

Oi! he replied. Another reason to avoid home! He took another drink from his Martini glass, nearly draining it, and then pulled out a pipe and leather pouch. The pipe was something his grandfather would use and may have been the old man’s, considering its worn state. The pouch was the size of a normal envelope and had dark Druidic markings on the outside and closed on top by a zipper. He looked up questioningly, ensuring that smoking was okay. I nodded affirmatively. Nah, I doubt I’ll marry, Deetz. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE women and I have had my fair share falling all over themselves to get to me but, nope. I can’t see myself saddled with babies and royal obligations. I noticed, as he dug the pipe inside, that the leaves in the pouch were a dark green and tightly packed. Your sister actually gave this to me when I left for Oxford.

Designed it herself likely. Ciara had a young girl’s crush on Angus. She would pick flowers from the garden, sneak upstairs, and put them on one of his dressers. She’d hold tea parties with special cakes she made and, get me to invite him. She would even try to participate in our pranks, typically acting as lookout. He was always quite sweet about her affections and conscious of her feelings though. I don’t think it went any further than a few thank yous and kind smiles. I wondered who she was making tea cakes for now.

Angus took out a lighter that had a cover matching the pouch’s design. He lit his pipe, inhaled deeply, and then let the thick smoke slowly trail out of his nose. He put the pouch and lighter on the side table and took a couple of shorter puffs from the pipe before placing the pipe on the resting block. It took a minute for the smoke to reach me and for me to identify the aroma. Luckily this is a smoking flight, he joked after coughing for a moment. I’ve got numerous investments in Colorado pot companies – a fresh supply comes in monthly - one of the perks. He turned toward the window and looked out. I felt his negative emotions start drifting away and the drug’s calm sedation slip through. He continued, Don’t get me wrong, I like women, a lot! I just left a sweet something back in Tokyo but I… I don’t know, but nothing has stuck… I get bored, irritated. Hell, even my dick stops… Well, oops. TMI, I guess.

If he was looking to relax, the pot was working. Your aunt…

I know, he sighed. I think I can keep her at bay for long enough, until she dies, then I can relinquish the peerage. He sat up and leaned forward toward me, acting all earnest. Have you heard the latest? If the Labour Party has its way, the entire system will be purged before we reach 2020. Shit, we haven’t had a guaranteed seat in the House of Lords since 1999. If it wasn’t for Diana’s murder, the whole crap would have already died.

I listened to him while sipping from my cup – Glengettie, a full bodied and brisk tea with a rich flavor reminiscent of imperial gunpowder and the dried, roasted prostate glands of English nobility - a favorite in Wales for over fifty years. Okay, I don’t hate the English. But the British are sbwriel - rubbish, which causes all sorts of self-esteem dilemmas. Frankly, what the Americans define as ‘British’ is either late 19th century country gentry, some charming drunk asshole from London’s East End, or Sherlock Holmes. Truth is those who call themselves ‘English’ are an intersex of Romans, Normans, Anglo-Saxons (we call them Germans today) Gauls (the French, for those historians out there) and two people who archeologists call Britons. The rest of us – the Scots, Welsh, and Irish – got caught in England’s desire for manifest destiny - just like the itch they had for India, the Caribbean, and much of Asia. Hell, where do you think the Americans got the idea from?

The House of Lords, which is what Angus was referring to, was another part of British madness. Unlike the elected House of Commons – where at least the government pretends it’s some kind of democratic republic, most members of the House of Lords are appointed. Short bit of history - in the 14th century, two distinct Houses of Parliament emerged. Representatives from the towns and counties began to meet separately as the House of Commons. Archbishops, bishops and sometimes abbots and priors, and noblemen, formed the House of Lords. You automatically got a spot if you were born to it but after World War 2, the British peerage truly hit the skids; there were loud calls for the whole thing to be abolished. There have been fits and starts but the only significant reform came with 1999 legislation which reduced the number of peers who were allowed to sit but didn’t go all the way toward making that part of government controlled by the people. Diana’s, ‘the people’s princess’, death, touched something within the average person and that bought the monarchy a few years. William and Kate’s ‘reign’, well, who knows?

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like the peers are all a group of useless poofters. Many, like Angus’s father, took their role very seriously and acted in the interests and desires of the people of their area. Most were patriotic, loyal to the crown and King or Queen. Some had given their lives, both during and after the two World Wars. Many entered intelligence services during the Cold War - women and men lost their lives without any public recognition or honor. Also, I never heard a negative word against Earl Glamorgan, not even whispers of philandering. But an accident of birth or strategic marriage doesn’t make you more loving of land and country nor does it make you a better human.

Angus seemed to still agree with that stance. But he also raised another complaint – peerage granted celebrity status that few, other than those without talent, seek much of. I don’t like cameras. I’m really a shy bloke! he winked. Obviously, the pot had fully sunk into his head. He grabbed his pouch, pipe, and lighter and motioned it toward me. I thought about it but decided against it. He shrugged and put the items back in his jacket pocket.

I may avoid alcohol – makes me do stupid stuff I later regret, but cannabis makes me do stupid stuff I want to do again. Angus was looking quite hot in that outfit but I was certain he would not welcome advances from a bloke, particularly one like me. I don’t know how much of my ‘reputation’, real or gossiped, he knew about but I’d rather leave sleeping horses lie.

Mate! I’ve been running my mouth. How about you? You look great. What have you been doing, really? he asked abruptly.

Traveling mostly, I replied, wondering if he noticed my wandering eye. Keeping a lean diet. Working out a lot.

What do you think about the idea of our fathers being dead?

I’m not sure mine was ever really alive.

Same here.

Chapter 3

An American would call Ciara Mac Innes a full-figured girl - us Welsh would call her perfect. She was 5’6" with long auburn hair with dark red streaks, and light brown eyes that would get grayish hues around the pupils whenever she was excited. She didn’t have many friends while growing up but not because people teased her, like they did me. Ciara simply preferred the company of animals and always had some type of animal companion following alongside her. Yet, she was kind, kind to everyone, even the mean girls at our primary school. Because of that people called Ciara melyster, ‘Sweetness’. But, Lady Nora called her Ysbail — the Welsh version of Isabel, meaning ‘consecrated to G-d’. Never understood that. She encouraged Ciara’s ventures into the way of the Druid, such as herbal cure gardening and sacred healing rituals. My father hated it and would chastise Ciara for it (albeit he never said anything to Lady Nora as such would have been improper). But my sister was a