Man of Destiny: Castaway on the Planet Therium

By F. V. Hank Helmick.

Kerry Sean ODonnell, a thrill seeker, is sailing tranquilly above the Austrian Alps in his soar plane when he is suddenly sucked into a vortex that sails him out over the Planet Therium where an enormous dragon knocks him spinning from the sky. He crash lands and within the hour he is fighting for his life defending a beautiful woman that has been attacked by a grotesque water creature. Sean is badly wounded and the womans friends operate on him genetically; and save and transform his life.

He is propelled from one strange race of people to another and from one fight to another, as he fights and hacks his way looking for the women he has seen and fallen in love with. His opponents range from the crudest to the most sophisticated, and there appears to be no end of them, but his finesse in making friends saves him again and again from extermination. The story is one of action bestirred by more action and Sean and his friends take on all comers, but not without consequences. The fast paced story is truly a Sci-Fi fantasy for action lovers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475963878

F. V. Hank Helmick.

The author was an Army First Lt. in WWII and recalled to serve in Korea. He was awarded two Bronze Stars for valor. He married an American girl in Berlin, Germany in 1947 and they had six children. In civilian life he was a business man and was an Assistant Vice President for a financial institution. His wife Barbara died at age forty-nine and he remarried twelve years later. His second wife, Lois died twenty-years later. He and his first wife have thirty-eight grandchildren and great grandchildren. He owned his own Antique Business for twelve-years and retired in 1986. He has written four books plus his memoirs and has an unfinished book on Korea and is now working on a sequel to his western story. He works four-hours a day on his computer, and goes to Church on a regular basis.

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Copyright © 2013 by F. V. Hank Helmick.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Cover photograph by Christian Ortiz from www.pathosphotos.com

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6386-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6387-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922166

iUniverse rev. date: 01/26/2013

CONTENTS

Synopsis

Preface

Prologue

Chapter One: Fantastic Flight

Chapter Two: The Rubyotts

Chapter Three: The Conspirators

Chapter Four: Trouble In Paradise

Chapter Five: The Charge Is Treason

Chapter Six: The Old Mill

Chapter Seven: Caught

Chapter Eight: The Attack

Chapter Nine: The House Of Folly

Chapter Ten: The Suitor

Chapter Eleven: The Devil’s Own

Chapter Twelve: The Exorcism

Chapter Thirteen: The War Of Good And Evil

Chapter Fourteen: The Bear Goths

Chapter Fifteen: The Forces Of Evil

Chapter Sixteen: Gideon

Chapter Seventeen: End Of A Myth

Chapter Eighteen: Wileen Franziska Draconium

Epilogue

Dedication

I dedicate my Sci-Fi fantasy to Jeanne Moree Lobel my never complaining caretaker, my companion, my friend, my critic, and my fan. Jeanne is my step-daughter. Thank you, Jeanne for who you are and for what you have done for me. I love you as one of my own flesh and blood daughters. May God bless and keep you in the palm of his hand.

Synopsis

Tired of heroes who are worse than the villains who oppose them?

Tired of heroes who bed someone different every other page?

Tired of heroes who resort to senseless brutality for the sake of brutality?

Tired of heroes whose idea of true love is lust?"

Tired of heroes who have been divorced half a dozen times?

Tired of heroes who have the character and the manners of a sewer rat?"

Read on friend, this fantasy was written for you.

The story is written in the genre of Edgar Rice Burroughs and Jules Verne. The story is based on the ageless conflict between good and evil. Kerry Sean O’Donnell, the protagonist, is a self-made American. He is a college all around athlete, martial arts expert, financier, and ex-fighter pilot. Sean, while flying his soar plane over the Alps, is snatched through a space anomaly onto the Planet Therium. He beholds an exotic land of orange forests and immense volcanoes. Suddenly, Sean is knocked spinning from the sky by a huge flying dragon. He crash-lands and in time learns that he has become a castaway on another planet. Before he can get his breath, he is suddenly involved in defending Princess Sirina, a beautiful water sprite, from a hideous water monster. Sean is severely wounded; however, Sirina’s grateful people save his life by genetic surgery. Born with a sixth sense, Sean finds he now has eidetic memory and unique powers, which he develops and uses throughout the story.

Sean encounters many strange cultures, creatures, and weapons. Aided by his strange powers he finds himself enmeshed in intrigue, romance, and wars, battling with the forces of the Nation of Harmozein against the forces of evil. To establish a setting for the story, a fictionalized account of the history of the Earth is offered in the opening chapter entitled, Ten Million Years BC. The prologue sets the scene and the problems of, the quaint people of Harmozein.

In the first chapter, Sean is attracted to the beautiful Tina, princess of the Kingdom of Harmozein. Strange plant life, animals and creatures abound in the story. It is a world of contrasts of modern, futuristic, and ancient cultures intermingled with a dash of the supernatural. Sean, it develops, is the long awaited man of destiny whose coming has been foretold by Nestor, the Old Man of the Mountain. Nestor is a seer from an ancient culture thirty thousand years old. Sean is Catholic and the Hermozeins being of ancient Teutonic heritage from Planet Earth, are likewise Catholic. There is a religious thread throughout the story as Sean follows the dictates of his heart and his faith.

Sean first saves his benefactors, the Rubyotts, from a plot by the rebel, Alastair Brier, who was plotting to subjugate them. God then ordains Sean, through his prophet Nestor, to punish the evil Jupiterites, an underground race of green men, whose foreheads are emblazoned with the Seeing Eye of Satan. Enemies from the courts of the Rubyotts, Harmozeins, Tumultans, and even an evil professor from Earth beset him. The professor, along with Harmony’s Prime Minister, plots to overthrow the King of Harmozein. Sean has one adventure after another, while wooing the Princess Tina. The story climaxes with the solution of the serious problem of K-Dor, the flying dragon, who, for a decade, has been kidnapping teenagers of the terrified citizens of Harmozein.

F. V. Hank Helmick

Preface

The story of Harmozein is a fantasy, pure and simple. There is no intent on the part of the author to contradict the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. Ten Million Years BC fantasizes the Garden of Eden episode as a background for my story. However, in the body of my story, I have attempted to adhere to the basic teachings of the Church to the best of my ability. Of course, there are the exceptions when it comes to the worship of the Rubyotts. There is often a kernel of truth to be found in many myths. I often wonder how many of the old Greek Myths have a foundation in fact?

My prologue is the result of a dream I had one night. I awoke at one in the morning and it took me an hour and a half to jot down the gist of what my dream had triggered in my imagination. My first intent was to write a story for children age twelve or thereabouts. Once I started writing, however, I decided to write it for the adult market. I would have enjoyed such a story and now that I am much closer to a hundred and twelve, I still enjoy such plots. Yes! I sometimes watch children’s movies on television.

A possible sequel will deal with Gideon’s struggle to convert Earth from its evil ways. His old nemesis, Alastair Brier will be there to greet him and attempt to thwart his efforts. I enjoyed writing the book, I trust, you will enjoy reading it.

F. V. Hank Helmick

Prologue

On the mysterious Planet Therium, in another dimension, there exists a tiny harmonious kingdom appropriately named . . . Harmozein. There are no automobiles in Harmozein, the mountain air is sweet ever scintillating and the land is rich and fertile. Situated in an oval volcanic valley, the little kingdom is only two hundred and sixty kilometers long, but not nearly as wide.

The Holly Bolly Rosebush is found only in the volcanic valley that is home to the Harmozeins and other nations on the Planet Therium, and it radiates an orange color. A rosebush in name only, for the thorn-less plant is really a massive tree. Its floral appearance is similar to a combination of the Indian Paint Brush with its orangey-red flowers and the Holly plant with its pointed, waxen-green leaves and red berries.

The fragrance of the Holly Bolly is like an aroma from heaven. Its odor is delightfully light and exotic and clings sensually like a warm embrace. The Holly Bolly has orange leaves, gold blossoms, and reddish-orange berries. The plants grow only at three thousand feet or more above the valley floor. As seen from the river basin, the eye beholds an orange-gold swath, which encircles the valley. The gold swath is caused by the Holly Bolly Rosebush, which circumvents Harmozein and a few small neighboring Nations. The color merges into the heavens creating an orange halo around the pocket sized countries.

All the creatures of the country side love the wonderful bushes. The bees, the humming birds, and all the Lilliputian insects are wild about the sweet syrupy nectar. The humming birds are but a blur of shifting, golden light that shuttles from one superbly lustrous blossom to another. Only those with the sharpest of eyes, and the keenest of ears can detect the tiny birds as they siphon the delicious nectar from the clusters of flowers cradled amidst a sea of orange petals shaped like pointed hearts.

Lovers enjoy plucking the leaves while quoting an age-old rhyme:

Holly Bolly Rose of mine

Is he going to be mine?

If he is fickle—I’ll be blue

If he is faithful—I’ll be true

My heart is yours

Your heart is mine

Our hearts will ever be entwined.

Pollen spews forth from the stamens of the plants like manna from Heaven. Due to its ever-blooming cycle, an orange carpet of leaves covers the forest floor. The fruit of the tree, a reddish-orange tear-shaped berry, is delightful to the taste.

The Guppies are among the remarkable species of animals and humanoid creatures that have evolved in the forests and mountains of the Planet Therium. The Gupla Bears [Goll-Ursus-Pous], commonly called Gups, simply go guppers over them. They eat, they gulp, they cram and they gorge until their tummy’s ache. Then they eat some more, but then they eat the bark, which is good for stomachaches.

When the Guppies are not eating, they plague the larger creatures with their games. Their favorite is to fold themselves into a ball and roll down hill with dizzying speed. Some times they pile into peaceful groups with all the finesse of a bowling ball. However, all too soon, the gups are again gorging themselves until they get so fat they can hardly waddle. Then—they eat even more. How, you ask? Why they roll and eat and eat and roll until they can’t even blink an eye let alone move a single muscle. When the Quats that is what the natives are nicknamed, find them in this comatose state, they take them home as toys for their children. The tots love the Guppy Bears, because over the eons, the bears have evolved into cuddly creatures with bulbous snapping black eyes, immense bellies, gold wool-like fur, long red snouts and large pointed ears. Their flashing eyes make them life like, because of course they are.

When the guppies Tummy’s shrink, they rouse from their trancelike state in the dead of night and waddle off seeking again the delights of the Holly Bolly Forest. Even the roots of the Holly Bolly are edible, and are similar to the Indian Yamps, but oh so much tastier, Their flavor is so uniquely exquisite that no one has ever been able to agree as to its taste. Some say candied yams, others say squash, and yet others say strawberries; and so it goes . . . no one can agree. However, no one ever seems to get tired of the delicious treats.

Do the birds like the berries? You just bet your bicuspids they do. The branches of the trees serve as homes for thousands of birds, and a myriad of forest creatures. It is even thought that the very fragrance of the forest is beneficial to one’s health . . . and who can be found to disagree?

The trees grow to a height of about ten feet before their vine-like branches sprout to form an interlocking arbor that spreads the length and breadth of the forest. The twisted gnarled trunks of the older trees grow to maturity with a girth of more than forty feet and attain an age of thousands of years.

Because of its secluded location and natural barriers, the average citizen of Harmozein except for their immediate neighbors, know very little about the human inhabitants of their own Planet. Few express curiosity about the outside world, and of those who do leave—most quickly return. The horror stories they tell do little to tempt the quaint natives to stray from the gentle land of Harmozein.

There is only one land entrance in Harmozein leading to Earth’s dimension, and it is secured by the King’s Guard. The Guard does not keep people from leaving, but are there to repel any possible invaders. This is happened only once during their unique history, when the Goths stumbled into their entrance and tried to invade Harmozein. Soundly defeated, they retreated east to Oftberg Mountain below the Holly Bolly Forest where the forests were similar to those they had known back home on earth. Occasionally visitors do drift in from the outside world, but few come, and none of them have been known to leave. The entrance is known to but few people of either planet; for the entrances between the planets lie in isolated regions, and there is little chance of their being discovered.

Harmozein’s primary river Burgundy Run seemingly goes nowhere. The tributaries originate in the glaziers of Gudberg Mountain and tumble into the southern most end of the valley by means of an awesome waterfall. The river then wends its way north only to run smack dab into a solid granite cliff at the end of the valley, which the natives have named Pointless Rock. There the river is suddenly sucked underground like a flushed toilet.

The land entrance into Harmozein is well hidden. Even if a person were successful in locating the entrance to the Valley it would lead them nowhere. Only during the vernal and optimal equinox, and the first day of summer and winter does the dimension open its passageway. During the equinox when the days are exactly equal with those of nights a time warp creates an opening into Harmozein for a twenty-four-hour period. Only then can one enter or leave the Valley. There are other entrances, but that is another story. Only by the sheerest of accidents, or perhaps by the design of the good Lord Himself, does man or beast find their way into Paradise Valley . . . for Paradise it is.

The granite walls of the pre-historic volcano go up-up-up, and then up some more. It is this wall of rock that shelters the Valley from severe northern winds and the fury of mountain storms. Mild winters, balmy springs, temperate summers, and gentle fall seasons bless the sweet ever simple people of Harmozein.

During a vernal equinox a few wild shoats were among the very first creatures that found their way into the Valley. After having tasted the fruits of the Holly Bolly Rose, a pack of wild dogs could not have driven them from their new found Hog Heaven. By the time the ancestors of the Guppies migrated into the heavenly Valley the pigs had been there for ages. They had evolved into an entirely new breed appropriately named Holly Bolly Orang-O-Swine. The children soon named them Holly-Boos.

The little pigs color evolved to match the Holly Bolly plant as did many other creatures of these unique forests. The Holly-Boo’s hides turned orange with mottled gold and red spots they blended right in with the foliage. The people had to be extra careful when in the forest for fear that they might step on one of the midget sized creatures.

The Holly-Boos and the Gups were not the only creatures unique to Therium. There’s also the Hop-A-Lops . . . They are the closest thing to a rabbit the planet offers. The creatures have long reddish-orange fur with golden powder puff tails. Their tummies became so large that they evolved long and powerful hindquarters to support the extra weight.

Graceful animals also evolved among the deer family. In their desire to feed upon the choice tidbits dangling over their heads the deer develop 9 foot long necks with bison-like shoulders to support them. They stand four feet at the hindquarters and five feet at the shoulder. With their long reach, they keep many of the trees cropped to a neat fifteen feet above the ground. Their name is Hotten-tot-Giraffe, and they had evolved with the underside of their tails a bright scarlet hue. When danger threatens . . . up go the tails flashing a red signal. The entire herd of Giraffes gallops off with what proves to be a deceptively slow pace for they soon outdistance most threats.

Sometimes the stags catch their magnificent antlers in the lower branches of the trees, but the does quickly come to their aid and eat away the offending foliage . . . freeing them. The deer’s golden fur is laced with orange stripes and their long necks look just like barber poles. They are most difficult to see in the colorful forest, and they seldom stray from its benevolent depths.

The Owl-Imp-O-San Apes are one of the strangest of all the creatures of the forest. Actually it is a marsupial. It has a large pouch on its stomach where their young are born and reared. It does not need such a big sack just for the babies. The extra space is used as a storehouse for food. The Owl Eyes or Owlees as the children call them, like their food moist. When they come to a stream, they carefully dip each tidbit in the water before eating it. Their favorite position is hanging by their tails from a low-hanging branch while they sop their food in the water. The baby Owlees cling for dear life to their mother’s long hair. Sometimes, if the Imps have been too greedy, their pouches cannot hold all the goodies, and out they spill into the stream making the fish a delightful repast. How the little Imps howl with rage when this happens.

The older people called them Imps because of their mischievous ways. When excited they sweep through the top of the forest like a crimson wave. There scarlet hair, bare orange bottoms, pink, snout like noses, and their huge inquisitive golden eyes are a grand sight to see.

Also living in the trees are the Whoop-A-Loops. They have orange wings mounted on a vermilion colored body, and their canary-yellow beaks are nearly twenty inches long. They used their strong beaks to tear the bark from the Holly Bolly Trees seeking insects. It is lucky the trees are so hardy for the Whoops are larger than turkeys. Their full strident calls of Whoop, Whoop-A-Loop, Whoop-A-Loop, resound throughout the forest with a pleasant resonance when heard from afar. If one is unfortunate enough to be standing beneath a Whooper when it begins its call, one is liable to jump right out of one’s shoes.

The colorful birds once flew high and ranged over the entire planet; some still do; but the Whoop-A-Loops one sees flitting about in the Holly Bolly Rose Trees have made the trees their homes, and they fly high no longer. Instead, they live amidst the matted pathways of the interwoven branches. They are never seen on the ground, and while they can still fly, they seldom do more than fly from one branch to another.

Remarkable species of animals and humanoid creatures have evolved in the forests and mountains of the Planet Therium. Numerous races populate the Planet. Several of which can be found on or under the huge crater that shelters the Kingdom of Harmozein.

The Rubyotts live west of Benevolent Falls, sheltered in sophisticated underground cities. They are the direct descendents of Adam and Eve from the race of Chevro El. East of the falls, there resides an evil branch of the same race. They are the Jupiterites, a race of green men devoted to the Evil One.

Northeast many miles over the mountains and far beyond the huge crater that shelters the Harmozeins, there also dwells a wicked race of Tumultan’s dominated by a renegade Culture Bearer who originally came from the land of Chevro El. Their country is located in a deep rift were the sunshine never penetrates. It is appropriately named the Valley of Shadows after the evil Shadow People it shelters.

Inhabiting the deep water caves beneath Benevolent Falls are the Malthrossians. They are underwater creatures of powerful proportions and previously have been considered non aggressive creatures.

The gentlest race of humans is the tiny Chimazenians who live independently in the forest north of the Rubyotts. Their home is amidst the tangled foliage of the Holly Bolly Rose forest. Well-traveled paths and lanes traverse the upper reaches of the great forest leading to a myriad of tree top villages. Their snug homes are made from the hollowed out trunks of the Holly Bolly Rose Trees. Their primary village is due west of Harmony, the Capital of the Kingdom of Harmozein.

The Chimazenians can be found anywhere in the Holly Bolly Forest amidst their beautiful life sustaining trees, and they are most capable of fending for themselves.

The Geezeedazees are an advanced culture of dinosaurs, and owe allegiance to no one of human origin. Further north, inhabiting the icy glaziers of Nordberg Mountain is another independent race of Thermadynians. They are warm blooded creatures who evolved into a distinct separate species allowing them to survive in their icy habitat.

In addition, the Bear Goths, like the people of Harmozein, also stumbled upon an entrance to the Planet Therium. Unable to return to Earth and unable to dislodge the well organized Harmozein, but still militantly independent, they made their home in the mountain forests located just below the swath of Holly Bolly Rose Trees on Oftberg Mountain.

It would take volumes to list all of the strange birds and animals in the tiny kingdom let alone all of the creatures and races of men scattered about the Planet of Therium. Not strange to them of course for they have lived there for thousands of years, but most certainly strange to you and I. For example there are the Royal Flying Squirrels, half the size of the ones with which we are familiar. By spreading the skin between their legs and bodies they sail effortlessly—carried aloft by the strong mountain thermals. They play games of follow the leader amid the trees each trying to outdo the other.

I am so sorry but I must stop. There is so much to tell though I just do not have the time to relate all the stories. Oh! I nearly forgot. In any Paradise are always seems to be a thorn. Yet there are no thorns in the Holly Bolly Rose Forest. However, a live thorn too the residents of the Valley—is K-Dor, or Draco the Terrible, also called the Fire Dragon.

K-Dor is bigger than a house with a thirty-foot leathery wing span but come to scalloped points. The creature’s reptilian body is long and slender and ends with a wicked spiteful tail that can encircle and crush even a large barn. The creature’s fiery baleful red eyes curdle the blood of even the bravest of the brave. The beast’s crested arched neck rises twenty feet into the air and gives the creature a malicious aura that petrifies the imagination. Two stubby legs protrude beneath him and are sheathed with hide as tough as sharkskin. Enormous talons and terrible sharp spurs complete the awesome appearance of the forty-foot long throwback to King Arthur’s days.

Once a month Draco the Terrible strikes fear into the hearts of the trembling citizens of Harmozein. From his den, situated in an enormous cave on the western face of Beftberg Mountain, K door raids the peasant’s homes . . . he takes one teenager . . . and then flies back to his gigantic lair. First, he takes a girl, the following month he takes a boy. The creature never changes his pattern. Frequently the dragon takes cattle, and even deer are not safe from his vicious talons. The beast rips entire small Holly Bolly Trees from the ground and carries them back to his cave. Even the tree’s tenacious roots are no contest for the fearsome monster.

It was obvious to the people that K dor was not eating the children, at least not all of them. From the Valley floor, the natives could see tiny figures of people standing in the entrance of the dragon’s great cave. It is a great mystery, a real head scratcher. Why, by the eternal fires, would a reptilian creature, a throwback to the Mesozoic age, kidnap human beings and hold them captive? On the other hand, he may simply store them to eat later?

The legends of the creature predate the written history of Harmozein, but these same legends fix K dor’s age in the thousands of years. There are many tales of the ancient flying reptile, but previously the beast had never been known to be anything but a benign curiosity. The kidnapping of the children had not begun until the middle of the past decade.

Tradition also tells of the Harmozein’s ancestors first arriving on Therium after being lost in a terrifying tunnel. There are many strange tales that seem to mix some fact with much fiction. Another myth relates the draconian reptile’s reproduction cycle as every thousand years. Legends of the Therrmadynian’s, an ancient race native to the Planet Therium predict the birth of countless dragons in the year of the millennium. If true, were they going to be inundated with thousands of the creatures? The people waited fearfully the dreaded wings that could blot out the very sun. They waited, they trembled, and most of all . . . they prayed, and they hoped.

They prayed for the return of their children, and they wished for an end of Draco the Terrible. They hope for a champion. For had not their seer, the old man of the mountain, predicted the coming of just such a person? Their champion would be their protector . . . their very savior.

What they hoped for, however, did not come; what did come was even more trouble; the kind of trouble with which this simple people were ill prepared to cope. Unknown to the citizens of Harmozein, unrest amidst the nobility had been brewing for some time; fermented by the ambitions of nefarious schemers. In addition, a threat from the outside world had already been set in motion; a threat that involved a technology completely alien to this simple people.

Could these burdens be the proverbial straw that would break the back of the people of the tiny Kingdom of Harmozein?

F. V. Hank Helmick

Chapter One

Fantastic Flight

The glider’s gauge registered my air speed at one-hundred and forty knots per hour. I was flying at an altitude of thirty-two-hundred feet with the tree tops only five-hundred feet below. The air was so turbulent that I knew that after I gained altitude I would have to be careful not to dive too steeply, or I ran the risk of shearing the wings from my soar plane. With the assistance of Arne Ingram, my friend and fellow soaring enthusiast, I had spent the winter building our sailplane. The wing tanks were heavy with two-hundred and sixty pounds of water ballast to bolster the sixty-foot wings and increase the air speed. It was her shakedown flight. Arne and I had tossed for the honors. Arne had lost.

Little did I know that it would be many months before I saw Arne once again; tall freckled Arne, with his unruly hair and honest Irish mug, I didn’t then realize how much I would miss him and my family back home. My sailplane’s engine is the sun. Solar energy absorbed unequally on the multi-surfaced earth generates currents in an ocean of air. The air then rises vertically in heated bubbles . . . called thermals. Winds blowing horizontally against the sides of the mountains are also deflected upward. These updrafts were what I now sought.

At the first crack of dawn, Arne had towed me aloft. Releasing the tow cable, I was immediately caught in a surging updraft from the mountainside. Within two minutes, I was soaring two-thousand feet above the Valley of Ammer about forty-five miles SSW of Munich, Germany. On a knoll below, I could see the tiny figures of Arne and our truck. Then I was passing directly over Oberammergau, famous for the presentation of the Passion of Christ every ten years. I firmly intended to attend the next event. In small clearings quaint, doll-size houses with stone-weighted roofs dotted the slopes and valleys. Living there were some of the most famous wood carvers in the world.

I planned to travel south, so, when I caught another updraft, I swung along a ridge and headed for a great day of flying. I heaved a sigh of satisfaction. Arne was right on, this Bavarian range was perfect for soaring. Nothing I had experienced to date could compare with this alpine paradise. The sky was flawless except for gatherings of cumulus clouds clustered about distant peaks. Little did I dream that by the toss of a coin would I be caught up in a chain of events that would alter my entire life.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly noon, March 21st. 2015 AD. I would have to turn back soon. To my right loomed a great peak shrouded in clouds. Off to my left front at about eleven o’clock another huge peak crowded the horizon. Even from a distance of thirty-kilometers, I could see a great glacier glistening in the cold March sun. It was time to turn back, but something inexplicably drew me on like a magnate. I had to see that valley, view that glacier. I promised myself I would turn back just as soon as I satisfied my curiosity.

Like a giant bird, the plane’s wing tips were flapping up and down performing giant, eleven-foot arcs in the turbulence. As I flew over the edge of a knife-like-ridge, a savage updraft shoved my glider upward so violently that the G-Meter on my instrument panel registered the force of six times my own weight. I was smashed back into my seat, and the G forces ripped at my body unmercifully. The G’s did not relent until I leveled off at ten-thousand feet. My discomfort quickly faded when I caught a close-up view of the winding river of ice.

I revel in the glory of sailing alone like a great bird. I am a friendly person, but I dearly love the periods of beauty and solitude that surround me at moments like these. I feel like an eagle looking down upon a pristine earth perhaps never before seen by human eyes.

My reverie was blasted to eternity as before me gapped a great black blotch the size of a football field. I blinked my eyes. Except for the cloud-capped peaks, the sky was empty. Yet here, without a cloud to mar its perfection, a black void stood directly in my path. It looked solid, but, as I stared open mouthed, it began to take on the shape of a gigantic tunnel.

Shimmering waves of energy outlined its edges, and now, down its black maw, I could see the walls pulsate and glow. Frantically I executed a hard right rudder, but the plane was in the grip of a force far greater than that of earth’s gravity, or the laws of aerodynamics. The craft shuddered with the effort, but it was as though we were in a force field like that of a gigantic magnet.

Sensing a potential danger of what, I knew not, I desperately thrust the stick full forward. It was useless. I had absolutely no control of whatever was taking place. Crossing myself . . . I sat back . . . resigned to whatever fate had in store.

With a hiss like the sound of escaping steam my plane shot through the opening, and I found myself plunging down an endless abyss. As so often happens when I am first committed to one of my thrill seeking escapades. I felt a surge of excitement. Any fear I may have felt of the unknown left me at that moment. Not the excitement—just the fear. I eagerly looked forward to the adventure. The thought of death never entered my mind, and even if it had, I had resolved to live my life to the fullest. Peace with my God had been made long before, and I believe that if a person lives a good life that he has nothing to fear . . . except fear itself.

My hand relaxed on the steering column, and I concentrated on the tunnel. Long streaks of greens, yellows, and blues mixed with startling hues of red and purple whipped past at an ever-increasing rate of speed. With a start I realized my speed indicator was registering no speeds whatsoever. I must be in some sort of vacuum, I thought. For the first time, I noticed the wings of the plane were stationary as though I were sitting on the ground. The air took on the penetrating odor of ozone, and I seemed to have peaked out at whatever my top speed had been. Then, I saw a speck of light ahead. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, I mused.

With dismay, the thought struck me. If I reentered the atmosphere going at such an extreme rate of speed, the wings would shear from the plane leaving me no hope for survival. I shrugged. What would be . . . would be. However, as the light drew near, it seemed that in direct proportion to the increasing size of the light . . . the slower became the speed of the plane. However, I could not be sure.

As the exit loomed near I gripped the wheel firmly, braced myself against the back of the seat, prepared myself for the worst, and hoped for the best.

As the plane reentered the atmosphere I was ejected from the tunnel like a rock propelled from a sling. Suddenly I was sailing serenely surrounded by snow-capped, mountain peaks that boxed the Four Corners of the compass. My wing tips were flapping reassuringly like a giant condor.

I looked around curiously. Where on God’s good Earth was I? Then again, was it Earth? At least was it the Earth with which I was familiar? I did not recognize a single landmark. I banked the plane in a shallow turn and glanced over the edge of the cockpit. Below was a huge, oval valley. I looked . . . and did a quick double take. The valley was rimmed with an orange forest. I must be seeing things, I groused to myself. I came about executing a one-eighty-degree turn. I was stunned with the view of a magnificent waterfall that had to be at least twenty-thousand feet in height. I should say a continuous series of connected falls formed by many feeder streams from a glacier high on the slopes above. This was not the same mountain, nor the same valley I had just left. These mountains were enormous. The topography was radically different.

I was filled with awe The Mountain had to be at least forty-thousand feet high. It dwarfed by comparison any mountain I had ever seen, even Mt. Everest. Why the glaciers themselves had to start at thirty-thousand feet high. Obviously, the temperatures varied greatly here.

I was getting too far out over the valley, and I began to lose altitude. I glanced below trying hopefully to catch a glimpse of a wind rippling the leaves of the forest for signs of a possible updraft. From my peripheral vision, I caught sight of a huge object as big as a house swooping down upon me. It had a neck as long as eternity and great leathery wings, wings, it seemed, even longer than those of my plane and much heavier. Instinctively I kicked a hard right rudder, and pushed the wheel full forward. My nightmare from Aesop’s Fables struck me a glancing blow, and I felt like a locomotive had hit me. I found myself in a tight-right-hand spin, and I popped the steering column forward and kicked full left rudder. Gradually pulling back on the stick I slowly, ever so slowly, regained control of my craft. However, I had lost too much altitude, and my sailing for the day was over. My rudder was damaged, but for now, I still had command of the plane. However, pieces of fiberglass were flapping in the air stream. I had no choice but to land.

The controls began to lock up. I looked back only to see a gaping hole in my rudder. Exerting all my strength, I managed a bank to my port side. I gasped; ahead lay the immense waterfall I had observed when I was ejected from the tunnel. I gasped partly from its primitive beauty, and partly because I was headed dead center for the falls.

I tore my eyes from the gorgeous rainbows formed by the sun, and the roiling mists of the falls. I had to land now. To do so I had to complete a one-eighty-degree turn or I was fish bait. To turn again with my torn rudder was foolhardy, but I had no choice. Luckily, the updraft from the pounding water at the bottom of the falls caught my wing tips and brought me some air.

I breathed a sigh of relief for just ahead I caught sight of a reasonably flat plateau. I began whistling for a thermal much as the sailors of old had whistled for a wind when becalmed. I nursed the big bird along and uttered a quick Hail Mary as the craft faltered. I came down hard and hit with a bounce. The plane ripped through the heavy meadow grass, and for a moment, I thought I was home free. At the last possible second fate dealt me a fickle hand. The nose of the plane struck a projecting ledge that flipped the fiberglass bird about twenty feet into the air. It stalled—and hung suspended for a moment. Then, the dead bird fell straight down on its belly with a rush, and a dull thud.

Stunned . . . I sat motionless for a moment. Gingerly I popped open the canopy and stepped out onto good solid earth. Relieved of my weight the plane sank over on its side with a little sigh as though uttering a groan of relief. That goes for both of us, partner, and I fondly slapped the nose of the big bird, breathed a prayer of thanks, and looked about.

The sun was suddenly blotted out as though from a low hanging cloud. Silhouetted by the sun, I saw the creature that had batted me from the sky. The monster cocked its head to one side and our eyes met. With horror, I realized I was still in immanent danger. With a graceful maneuver the flying reptile circled eyeing me all the while as though sizing up the potential risk that this strange bird might pose. Perhaps it was thinking that the intruder appeared to have died, but now it was spewing forth humans from its mouth. Apparently satisfied, and evidently not thinking me a tender enough morsel, the beast made a beeline down the valley its wings flapping in a nonchalance that belied its bulk.

My God! I gasped out loud. The thing had looked like a medieval dragon right out of King Arthur’s time. I slapped the side of my jaw. I must be dreaming. The creature had to be forty-feet long if it was an inch. I shook my head to clear it of the mental image. I looked around to see where chance had cast me . . . and none too gently at that.

Hearing a muted roar from behind me I turned and gazed out over the most spectacular sight, I had ever beheld in my entire life. The waterfall as seen from the knoll was awe-inspiring. It was so high that it was lost in its own mists for several thousand feet. I knew I would have to view the falls from many miles to the south to gain the total perspective of its height, and its splendor.

As noted from my plane the river had been formed in the glaciers above. Its final tributaries merged about twelve-thousand feet above the valley floor seething and roiling in their bed of solid granite. After thousands of years, the churning water had cut itself a deep-channel. In turn, the savage fury of the cascading water had formed a tremendous basin at the foot of the falls.

Multiple rainbows stepped their way up the tumbling ice water refracted by billions of fine particles of spray that glistened in the noon day sun. With a start, I realized that the sun was not like our sun. The entire firmament was a hazy, sandy color, and yet, the sun’s rays penetrated, and refracted off the spray of the waterfall. That is impossible, I thought. The sun’s rays would not be at the right angle to refract rainbows so early in the day. I was truly confused.

For the first time, I could see the cause of the orange effect as seen from aloft. A great timberland garlanded with orange leaves encircled the entire valley. What a beautiful effect, I thought.

I had two years of geology to my credit, and the valley’s appearance suggested the implosion of a gigantic volcano millions of years before. The walls rose sheer and great talus slopes lay at their feet. The walls looked impenetrable, perhaps unscalable, and they gave me a feeling of foreboding. What if there wasn’t any way out? This valley could become my prison . . . even my tomb.

From the knoll, I could see for miles. A winding river ran from a lake formed by the falls, and it seemed to bisect the valley. From the river basin, the land rose gradually to form a gently rolling terrain that slowly gave way to undulating foothills. Above the hills a normal looking forest gradually climbed to about thirteen-thousand feet, turned orange and then marched right back to the edge of those stark walls of granite separated only by their growing talus slopes. The forest was many miles wide, and from what I had seen from my plane, it seemed to encircle the entire valley.

With the heel of my boot I scraped some soil and picked up a handful of loam. It was rich, black, volcanic dirt; much like the loam that had given the Italian wine makers the materials with which to make their famous wines. It was a farmer’s paradise, but not a house, a barn, an animal, or a person was in sight.

With my twelve-power field glasses that I always carried in the plane, I finally focused in on some cattle and horses grazing on lush meadows near the river. Perhaps there were people here after all? Several birds darted aggressively about my head performing their inherent, protective rite to guard their territories. I recognized a stork-flying overhead with its black feathers marking the trailing edge of its wings. However, for the most part, the birds, and animals I had seen, thus far, were like none I had ever seen before. What a weird place. Strange and exotic, and through my glasses, even the river appeared to be a scarlet color, but tinged with orange. Most likely, a reflection caused by the orange forest, I assumed.

Where were the people? Perhaps there weren’t any? I felt a chill run down my spine. It is one thing to be stranded in a strange world, but it is quite another to be marooned in a land where there were no people. My reason told me if people did exist, they would be near the water. All major civilizations began on waterways according to the historical record of humankind. Perhaps here it would be different? Intelligent life might be completely alien from that known on earth. I had to be in another world. Nothing else made sense, I concluded. Perhaps even in another dimension from the extraordinary manner in which I had been snatched from the Planet Earth.

I decided to head for the falls, and I began to gather my survival gear. I always fly with a pack of emergency rations and water. Included were a small hand ax, a bowie knife, a waterproof veil of matches, a small flashlight, a thermal blanket, and a compass.

Recently a soaring friend of mine had been set upon and killed by pot growers in the Sierras of California. As a precaution, I now carried a 10 shot .22 cal. Colt Woodsmen Automatic armed with high velocity, exploding ammunition. I smiled. I had completely forgotten about the weapon. It was just part of my pack. I hadn’t even declared it coming through customs. It must be the luck of the Irish, I thought.

Actually, I am not overly concerned about survival. I have taken survival training in the military, and I am a crack shot with nearly any weapon you wish to name. I am a martial arts expert, and I held the saber and fencing championships at my University. I earned five letters in college, and managed to graduate Cum Laude in engineering. Yet, I knew I must never become complacent or over confidant. Over confidence creates carelessness, and, if I hoped to survive, I would have to remain alert at all times. I knew my capabilities, but I could not overlook the fact that I was in an alien land with the unknown facing me at every turn. However, if I were given the choice to stay . . . or return home . . . I knew what my decision would be. I slung my pack and set off for what . . . I did not know. I did know that nothing could have suited me more.

I took my time averaging about two miles an hour. The terrain was deceiving for the gentle swells seen from the distance were screens for a multitude of gullies, small canyons, and several streams that had to be crossed. Speed was not essential . . . scouting and reconnaissance were. I was in a bizarre and perhaps hostile land. I was not likely to forget. Every gully and every canyon brought me face to face with some of the most exotic birds and animals I had ever seen. I felt like a kid at the zoo for the first time.

The orange forest above beckoned enticingly, but I resisted the impulse. Larger, fiercer, animals are known to frequent the deep recesses of the forests of Earth. At least, in the open, I had a chance to see what was coming. My greatest concern was that throwback to the medieval ages . . . the fiery eyed dragon. Yet, the creature had flown on and had not attacked me. Against such a beast, my only defense was a .22 cal. Colt automatic. It would be like taking on an elephant with a peashooter.

When I first began learning to shoot, I happened to read about a famous husband and wife travelogue team. They traveled extensively photographing the jungles of South America. Because of weight, they carried only .22 cal. pistols for protection. They became so proficient they could shoot out the eyes of a charging jaguar. Now I never met a jaguar face to face to test my own shooting skills, but, inspired by their expertise, I became most proficient with the handgun. I was confident, that when the time came, my skill would serve me well.

When I was younger I had tried my hand at hunting, but I quickly lost interest when I realized the poor animals never had a chance against my weapons. Before long, I began stalking them with a camera. To this day, I take a great deal of satisfaction with the photographic trophies that I have hanging on my walls. I am sure the animals are just as pleased.

Only in self-defense would I shoot out the eyes of any animal. A well-placed shot in the nostrils would then finish the fight. A sightless beast, unable to smell anything except its own blood, could be easily avoided. My automatic was loaded, and on my hip, I carried an extra box of 100 long-rifle, explosive cartridges in my pack.

From time to time I stopped and carefully scanned the terrain with my binoculars. Every quarter mile, or so, I placed rocks atop one another with a third on the side that indicated the direction of my trail back to the sailplane. I turned frequently, trying to fix permanent landmarks in my mind so I could find my way back. Perhaps later I could salvage my plane.

Strange creatures browsed in the shadows of the forest. From a thicket, a great long necked giraffe-like creature sprinted for the safety of the trees. It looked like a deer, but had all the characteristics of a giraffe. Just call me Alice, and color me orange, I murmured.

Nearing the top of a hill, and not wishing to skyline myself, I branched off and followed the course of a small wash. I soon exited under cover of a small grove of poplars. As I crested the hill, the full force of the great waterfall struck my eardrums with the shock of millions of tons of cascading water. The scene was unbelievable. A lake about a mile wide had formed at the base of the falls. The falling water was crystal clear as it fell. When the water boiled up from the depths, however, the water looked like a bubbling cauldron of pink champagne. The river was scarlet, and any tinge of orange I had seen previously from afar was evidently caused by reflections from the orange forest.

My heart leaped, and skipped a beat. A horse! I had seen a horse, and a rider, or my name isn’t Kerry Sean O’Donnell. I whipped the glasses to my eyes and swept the terrain until I picked up the trotting animal. What an animal, I thought. A high stepping stud with its head held high, and its tail pride’fully arched. I dialed the range finder, and the horse and rider burst into perfect focus as though by a stroke of magic. From that second on I gave the beast not a second glance. Riding sidesaddle was a girl. No! Not a girl . . . a young woman. The most beautiful woman, the most exquisite female I had ever had the pleasure to feast my eyes upon. She looked like a princess, was dressed like a princess, and rode like a princess.

I am a man of twenty-eight years, a star high school and college athlete. Frankly, I have had my fair share of dates with some of the most beautiful girls the old USofA A. had to offer. I have traveled the world over after having made a killing on the stock market. Being independently wealthy has its good points, and its bad. Over the years I had learned the hard way what my grandma often tried to teach me with her endless adages. Her favorite being; Beauty is as beauty does. Consequently, I learned not to be overly impressed with a beautiful face or a curvaceous leg. Not too much . . . that is.

For some reason, I found this woman different. Perhaps that’s the way it is when a man first sees the woman he thinks has been created . . . just for him. However, after that first breath-taking sight of her, I found I was more impressed by her poise than by her beauty. I decided right then to meet her at all costs. After all, she just might be that special girl that I had always dreamed about?

It was a beautiful march day. About seventy some degrees I estimated. The sun was balmy and cheerful, and I took off down the hill in a steady jog that I hoped would allow me to overtake her on the trail. At the foot of the hill, I found my first evidence of civilization; a paved road. A road that I recognized from the history books as like those built by the Romans during their thousand year’s reign. Large flat stones were fitted together and from where the road was exposed here and there; I could see what appeared to be a crushed stone base. In addition, running parallel to the road was a graveled bridal path that bore signs of much use. Horses were obviously used frequently. Perhaps they were the primary means of locomotion?

I was pleased . . . at least there were people here. I had learned my first lessons about this new land. However, I must be careful not to presume too much. I did not yet know the customs, by which this race of people might live, and die. It was obvious I had much to learn.

At the same time, as I was to learn later, Princess Tina was staring at the immense falls with the heart of a poet. She stood poised . . . beautifully erect, and slimly beautiful. Mesmerized by the booming falls she gazed pensively across the crimson lake into the heights where tangled orbs and droplets of water fought to merge, and to reunite with the giant cascade that fell like thunder into the roiling cauldron below.

The sun seduced the falling spray into refracting a startling double rainbow. The soft violet of its inner band climbed gently like a ladder into green—into yellow—into orange—into red—only to renew its vow of beauty in its outer band with its gentle red—rising into orange—into yellow—into green—and merging finally into a submissive blue. Supernumerary arcs, as though to accentuate perfection . . . rainbowed . . . and ascended like a colorful grand stairway that stepped endlessly upward to eventually blend into the infinite mists above.

When troubled, Tina often chose this spot to be alone, to think, and to sort out her problems. The roar of the falls effectively shut off the world in a hard, but merciful clamor of deafening wonder. The sound in no way diminished the beauty of the sheer cliffs, or the aggravated waters of the inner lake. A deeply trenched riverbed confined the savage waters, but it was unable to restrict the perpetual, wind-swept spray that fed the nesting beds of moss that bred profusely. The moss in turn grew abundantly on the towering-gnarled-ageless-oaks that grew generously on two spits of land on either side of the falls.

The water lapping against the shore where Tina stood was calm and serene. Perched in the trees colorful birds tilted their heads in what appeared to be a soundless pantomime of singing. Below, resting in a grove of aspens, a colorful escort of cavalrymen awaited their princess. For princess she was . . . and soon to be crowned Queen of Harmozein.

Usually the young women came to meditate, to be alone as young maidens will. To dream perhaps of phantom lovers whose heroic acts and romantic deeds know no limits. Today, however, she came to dwell on matters that were more serious. The future and welfare of the people of Harmozein would soon rest in her hands.

In a few days, Tina would be crowned Arch Duchess of Harmony Hall. The young princess straightened imperceptibly. The title was the beginning process that would make her the mistress of all of the land, the people, and the responsibilities that had heretofore been laid at the feet of her father, the King.

Tina gazed vacantly at the falls only to be startled as a Kildee dove past her head with its shrill, Kil-a-me-kil-a-me-me, that was barely discernable above the roar of the falls. A fierce territorial bird that was afraid of absolutely nothing. It had a brilliant red crest, red wings, a white body, and long red tail feathers. It was blessed with a nosy ever-noisy temperament that made it both a favorite, and often times a nuisance. Tina smiled faintly. You are so like my father, my brightly feathered friend, she exclaimed to the Kildee, who was peering at her with one-eyed inquisitiveness from above.

Her father, King Charles Aldrich Leopold the IV, was so lively. Wanting to be part of everything that went on, he sometimes managed to step on the toes of some of the Nobility. No matter how well intentioned his efforts, some of the Lords and the Ladies of the Court often considered him a nuisance. After all . . . he was a commoner.

Leopold was a plain man. He had never allowed the exalted rank of his office to change him in the slightest. Consequently, he was loved and respected by the common people, well regarded by most of the Lords, barely tolerated by others, and despised by the few.

As tradition dictated, he would abdicate his throne the day before his daughter’s coronation a year hence. She smiled, pleased for him with the thought. Since her mother’s death the previous year, he had become withdrawn from the court life. He would be happy to be relieved of the burden of the throne. With his commoner background, he would gladly relinquish his kingship for a fishing pole, a few good friends, and a deep mountain pool teeming with trout. Again, she smiled, but sadly. Her scant twenty years seemed meager for the awesome task confronting her.

The Rule of Royal Succession stated that on her twentieth birthday she must assume the duties as the Duchess of Harmony Hall. That was only the first step to the throne. Within a year, she must select her mate. Like her mother before her, she must choose her husband from the ranks of the commoners. Such a brief time left in which to find her friend and lover. A gentle person, she hoped; but one that was firm and capable of sharing her throne. She must choose wisely.

If she did not select a husband for herself by her twenty-first birthday, the Court of Nobles would choose for her. She must be crowned Queen, and her commoner husband entitled Prince Consort on her birth date. Anytime within five years of her coronation her consort could be crowned king, and joint ruler, if, the spouse ruler, the people, and the Council of Harmony so ruled.

Her mother had been the first Queen to request that her husband be crowned king at her Coronation. The people were ecstatic, and those Noblemen who objected were afraid to flaunt the will of the people. Tina hoped that she could be so fortunate as to find such a man. A man she could love and respect; a man with whom she could share the responsibilities of ruling the Kingdom of Harmozein.

The law of royal succession had been legislated centuries before when the people of Harmozein had revolted against their rulers. Intermarriages among the ruling class had led eventually to a class of degenerates that were not fit to rule swine, let alone a nation of moral citizens. Consequently a Council was formed and aptly named after the Nation’s capital, the Council of Harmony. It was resolved that the royal heir must always select a commoner as their prince or princess consort. It applied as well to the nobles. However, the royal name of Leopold would ever remain as the surname of the royal family.

Other rights were enacted that guaranteed the citizens freedom of speech, of religion, of the press, and the right to a fair and speedy trail before an elected panel. In capital crimes, the King or Queen was the adjudicator. They