Aemily

By Jo Saunders

Emily is a young girl who can hear other people’s thoughts. She lives in Natal in the late 1900s.

Ben lives in England five centuries earlier. From his dying father he inherits the powers of flight and telepathy. Untrained, he starts experimenting with both. He flies further and further afield until one day he passes through a time barrier.

Young Emily is gardening when she becomes aware of Ben, a hazy youth in strange, pixie-like clothes. He is different from other people and is interested in her plants. He calls her Aemily.

They become friends.

This is the story about Ben’s obsession with Aemily, and Emily’s determination to live an ordinary life despite Ben. As Emily grows through adolescence she falls in love with her step-cousin, Michael. This triggers a rage in Ben which leads to devastating events.

And then there is Donal, a black druid from Ben’s era who is awed by Ben’s powers. In the guise of mentor, he uses his own arcane knowledge to manipulate Ben. Donal hopes to win Aemily for his own nefarious ends.

Magic, intrigue, love, heartache, and loss combine to weave a tale of mystery and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Saunders
• Release date: Nov 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370532629

Book preview

Aemily

By

Jo Saunders

© 2017

Having purchased this eBook from Amazon, it is for your personal use only. It may not be copied, reproduced, printed or used in any way, other than in its intended format.

Published by Ex-L-Ence Publishing a division of Winghigh Limited, England.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. All the names characters, incidents, dialogue, events portrayed and opinions expressed in it are either purely the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as representing or expressing the views and policies of any department or agency of any government or other body.

All trademarks used are the property of their respective owners. All trademarks are recognised.

The right of Jo Saunders to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

Letter from the Abbot, 1499, extract ...

… I found myself compelled to take a late afternoon walk past the church. That was where I next saw Ben, in the graveyard, with this silent, shimmering form of a woman, who wore short trousers which exposed much leg, strange large white shoes with coloured laces upon her feet. She wore no coat, only a shirt with buttons in a style never seen in these parts. She was under-dressed for winter, but showed no sign of suffering. On her wrist was a strap upon which was a shiny disc attached; I heard Ben tell that it was a timepiece.

Fearing for her health, I approached and put my cloak upon her. But the garment sank through her to rest on the lawn. I snatched it back, but it was already damp from the wet grass. I looked at her face, lovely, red hair falling back, young. As I beheld her, her eyes opened and looked straight into mine, her lips moved. Ben has taken me, she mouthed, her eyes closed and she spoke no more. She seemed to sleep.

There was a crowd of about twenty villagers assembled, gazing at this strange being. Mindless of them I shook Ben by the shoulder and said, Ben Sargatto, tell me what we have here? In God’s name, what have you done?

Ten years earlier …

A black ex-Druid sits cross legged in his webbed lair like a great black spider.

His back straightens, his eyes snap open. There! A tendril of psychic energy has reached his barriers.

The psychic ambiance is changing, a new talent is emerging nearby – raw talent, untrained, recently acquired. And strong. With a familiar signature. The auguries were right. A Sargatto son is coming to power.

His eyes gleam, reflecting the slight light in this dark place. Soon, soon, his patience will have paid off. All he has to do is wait … he, Donal, thinks back, remembering …

Twenty-seven years before that …

One glorious morning in the Westwood, Donal, a young Druid, is meditating, But the forest conspires to distract him. The breeze frolics with the new green leaves causing the forest floor to become a carpet of patterned movement, young daffodils joining the dance. Dew is shaken from the overhead leaves giving him an occasional shower. Beside his head he sees, fashioned into the foliage of a bush, several perfect white spider webs, the proud owner happily at the centre of each, waiting for the meals adhering to the strands of silk, now also sporting many rainbow coloured dewdrops. The world is joyful. The birds sing and a small rabbit bounces through his dell, a young buck in its wake.

His reverie is broken. The creatures are running from something. He hears the crackle of twigs and a shout – no forest dwellers these. Soon two men emerge into the clearing. The elder wears the brown habit of the local monastery, the other is in his twenties, fit and bright looking.

Hail, Druid! says the monk, I have business with the Head Druid.

Aye, said Donal. Welcome to our glade. Arch-Druid Aefric awaits you.

There was slight confusion on the older man’s brow, but the younger was amazed.

"You are taking me to see the Druids, Father Abbott?"

Aye, Roland, my son, don’t fret. We have taught you all we can; you need their teaching now. All shall be well.

Donal’s curiosity is triggered. He prepares to learn what he can. He loves a mystery and craves excitement. Not letting his thoughts show, he leads the pair to the cavern.

Chapter 1

Archived copy letter to the Bishop of Buckingham, written by Abbot Alexander Neville of Bucknioth Abbey, 1499 …

My Lord Bishop, I kiss the ring,

Further to Abbey business you need to be privately and personally appraised of the events leading to the death of one Benjamin Sargatto some years ago. His parish falls into your see. I detour from the conventions of my order in writing to you so.

Pray let this letter bear the seal of the confessional; I would come in person but I am ailing.

In sooth all was not done right by this boy, though not by the will of any man, but of circumstance.

I took a last confession from one of our older monks earlier this year. The tale is strange and were it not for recent witnessed events I would have passed it off as the ramblings of a man whose sanity had left him.

It seems that my predecessors had an understanding with the Druids of the West Woods that the Magic of the family Sargatto males be contained by this Abbey for the good of the Community at Large. This was a sacred Writ to which only Very Few on each side were Party; the origin of the Compact is lost in Legend, but the old Monk insisted; and the story was later told to me by a Druid. It went thus: Twin Brothers, parted at birth, had by chance worked together to save their young brother, a Talented Child, from a hostile force, before they had realised the enmity between their chosen faiths. When the twins respectively became Abbot and Chief Druid, they met and swore an oath to support and train the line, the offspring of their sister, married to an Italian called Sargatto; the line was bless’d – or curs’d – with strange powers, healing being not the least of them; mainly an affinity with plants and also, it is told, an ability to speak without voice, even to travel outside their bodies – some said outside their time as well. …

Ben Sargatto. 1487, South Northamptonshire.

Ben is seventeen when his spirit first takes off.

He sees with surprise that his body is being left beneath him, lying on the uncut grass outside his family home, where he had been watching the sky before dozing off. First his prone body, then the walls, candles glowing through the windows and the dark thatched roof of the house, visible against the moonlit lawn and the goat pen and stable alongside, get smaller as he soars with his thought, up towards the heavens. Looking up he sees the grinning moon and the stars and a few silver-lined clouds. He revels in his sense of freedom. He rolls onto his back, putting his arms behind his head and gazes up at the firmament.

But – he’s left his body lying on the grass below; what is happening? Is this a dream? He has dreamed of flying, but never as clearly as this. He holds up his hand, sees it, but can also see through it. So, not a dream then, this is his spirit self, that can travel. Glory be.

He recalls the words of his father, Roland Sargatto, "… one day you will fly… go with care … let yourself learn slowly … be gentle with yourself … coming down too quickly can kill … remember to think of ‘Home’ ..." His father had spoken thus to him each year since his tenth birthday, stressing that this was a secret between them, not to be told to anyone on pain of death. Those mystery words and no more. Ben would agonize over their meaning for a few days but quickly forget, until the next year. Now much is being revealed.

When he looks down, the few twinkling lanterns of his village are barely discernible, he panics. He wishes he were back at home. That thought seems to be heard … he remembers in time not to drop too quickly, to slow the thought. He spreads his arms, making paddles of his hands; it seems to work, he drifts down.

Nevertheless, when he returns to his physical body with a jolt, nausea hits and he needs to roll over to be sick. How he wishes that his father were here to advise him. But that is not to be; his father is in a Dutch gaol.

His mother, hearing the retching, comes out. That you, Ben? What is it that ails you, lad? Come now, drink … He’d need to be careful; if his mother were to think that he’d flown, she would be distraught. This awareness comes as from nowhere … but now he remembers hearing, when he was younger, her weeping beside his father’s sleeping body, saying ‘Roland, I get so scared when you fly …’.

She helps him over the wooden threshold, along the creaking irregular passageway to the room that served as both kitchen and dining room.

Now in you come, my dove, there you are, sit in your Da’s chair. Only his father had a chair; the rest of them used three legged stools.

He sits at the rough-hewn table to oblige her but is already feeling better. He watches the flames from the dying range which still hold enough heat and light to cheer.

Here’s water, drink it down, now. You men, never drink enough water. Ale now – that’s different. But a body needs plenty of water, especially now that you are earning and your Da’s away.

She busies herself around the room, tidying, the ever present dust-rag flicking at the plates on the dresser, she has become obsessive with the duster since her husband left, while he drinks. He hears her say, When will my Roland ever come home? We need him so …

He can see how she makes an effort, straightens herself. She comes back to his side. All well at old Fred’s, then? He’ll be busy now the hedgerows are out.

Yes, mam, but not Fred, he stays in the shop. We’re out most of the day, me and the lad, gathering. And Mrs Fred dries and bundles.

Fred be getting on. Will you be ready? To take over when the time comes?

Oh Mam, you fret so, I’ll be fine, He be teaching me all there is to know and there be plenty life in him yet. He already calls me his apprentice; not long and I’ll be an apothecary too. But he says I need to change my diction, for selling to the gentry. Ben gives his mam his best smile, showing the dimple in his chin.

Ah, no bad thing. Your Da’s mum, now, she spoke like a real lady … his mam always gets a faraway look when speaking of those she deemed her betters.

… but when you do qualify, you’ll not be gathering herbs all the time – there are other things to sell. Make more money too, spices and peppers.

Alas, too true. Would that we could focus only on the healing.

You’re too soft, my son. We’ll feel the pinch soon enough and you’ll learn the value of money. She looks at her gnarled hands.

But people count for more than gold. We’d make enough, without charging a fortune for common herbs. He yawns. This is an argument they have had before. And the flight has tired him, he realizes.

Ben stretches, flicking his lanky limbs to check that all is well.

Thank’ee Mam. Better now. Something I ate, perhaps.

They both settle on the wooden benches by the dying fire. Ben knows his mother wants him to stay with her a while. She is worrying about his father, Roland, suffering in a Dutch prison. But she has been warned against going over to him, as the circumstances of the arrest are uncertain. There is evidence that his Dutch host was arrested as a subversive and that Da’ had been taken as an associate. They do not wish to draw attention to him just yet. They have been told that the way to proceed is through the clergy, slowly.

You’ll need to look after the young ‘uns, when I go to see the Bishop, she says. I’ll not be gone above a few days this first time. The vicar has given me a letter.

Ben grunts. Just as well Penny is trained, he says, referring to his twelve-year-old sister. I’m not much of a cook; they hate the wonderful fresh greens I eat. He wriggles on the bench. It has been recently carved and there are still rough patches which catch his hose. His father would have chiselled it smooth … maybe he’d try and do something about it in the morning. His father’s rudimentary tools were in the shed.

Hunger is good sauce, she says, and don’t tell me you’ll not be enjoying the good broth she makes from potatoes and beef.

That’s all we’ll be having, then. I can find some vegetables to bulk it out.

Of course you can. Ben knows his Ma is very proud of his vegetable garden, which he has been maintaining since he was a child. Thank the Lord one of us was born with green fingers, she says.

You’ve got ’em too, he accuses, you’ve got your herbs.

That’s different, says his mother. That’s work. How could I offer cures if I had no herbs? And I don’t like foraging now, with my knees. Need ‘em growing close. And them monks o’yourn are no help. You’d think I were the devil hisself when I ask them for a cutting.

Tell me when you need something and I’ll go. They’re nervous of women. I still enjoy visiting the old cloisters. Ben had been schooled at the monastery.

Didn’t you learn herbs from the monks?

Old Brother Cyril, he was the cellarer, felt I’d wreck his precious garden, kept me well away … Me and all the other lads … No, we were there for book learning, learnt figures and Latin … and of course to read the bible .... But there were tracts on plants in the library … forbidden to us … I’d love to see them … I learned what I know about plants from you, he insists, although old Fred and his Missus have also taught me things. But you’re better than they are.

Don’t say that to them! They may take it amiss.

Worry not, mam. I pretend not to know aught. That way they tell me all they know. Ben gives his mother a swift kiss on the top of her greying head. We’ll be a’right. And he goes up the rickety stairway to his cot, barely broad enough for him now, in a tiny room beneath the eaves, thinking that he has never had such a long conversation with his mother. So that, together with the flying, is the silver lining around the cloud of his father’s absence.

It is some time before Ben gives in to the allure of flying again. This time he goes more slowly, exploring his surrounds, the houses and the trees around his home. He views neighbouring properties with interest; some are better maintained than others. On subsequent occasions he goes further afield, gradually to other villages and towns, then one exciting night, to the ocean. He has only read and heard about the sea … and here it is, pebbly beaches and frothy waves, even a fishing smack, eerily lit by its lantern, some way off the shore. He skips along the stones in delight, a child again, in and out of the water, sad that he has no sense of feeling or smell. But he can see the patterns made by the waves, the sky and the shingle, the vastness of it all. And he enjoys the strange sound of the water washing at his feet and the cries of the night birds.

At this stage he only ever flies at night, when there is a moon. He needs to be able to leave his body at a time and place where he’ll not be found.

He learns that by thinking lovingly about his home, he will drift back there, to re-enter his body with only the slightest of jolts.

One night Ben has a fright. He flies much further than he ever had before. He crosses the channel and flies south, over plains, rivers and mountains, seeing the glittering lights of towns and hamlets flash beneath him, until he again comes to a sea, on the far side of a great rock. He flies on. Suddenly he passes through a barrier. It does not slow him down, but he has the distinct impression that he has gone through something significant, as he feels a tingling all over his body. And he has become accustomed to the lack of sensation in his spirit self. He has passed through something, he knows not what. Worried, he backtracks. Again it allows him through, with the sensation that all his nerves are tingling. Thoughtfully, he returns home.

Donal’s eyes glint. Another shift in the energies causes the spider webs in his lair to billow. He waits, not noticing the stench of decay around him.

He has arranged the skulls of the creatures that feed his magic into patterns around the limits of his cavern, their small bones neatly arranged to form frameworks.

Donal ponders; he’d had no success with the father as the green Druids’d had too firm a hold. His hope is that he’ll succeed with the son.

He takes his scrying bowl to the stream and fills it with clear water. He settles the bowl on a flat rock beneath an overhang of thicket which is festooned with cobwebs, far more so than any surrounding bush. and sits cross legged, facing it. He closes his eyes and chants an incantation, murmuring the name ‘Ben Sargatto’ three times.