Fellowship of the Snow Leopards: The Journey Begins

By Joy O'Dwyer

You can conquer your fears and slay your dragons!
Children are as much the hope for the future of humanity as this earth is the center of our existence. A belief in magic is the glue that keeps it all together.
The Planet Shilough and their higher level beings, fairies and elves, have been watching our planet as environmental destruction, cynicism, and consumerism plague our world. Michaela thirteen-year-old Vancouverite who lives in fear of bullies and pain from the tragic loss of his fatheremerges as an unlikely hero. He is filled with wonderment as he explores Shilough and is schooled in higher laws. Plagued with insecurities, he begins to realize that the most powerful force in the universe is love. He learns of the sacred and eternal nature of all beings. He comes to understand that on a planet with no incongruity, the vibratory levels are so high, that anything is possible.
The ways that Michael overcomes obstacles bent on his destructionfrom a schoolyard bully on earth to a nine-headed serpent on Shiloughteach us powerful lessons. As Pancras, Chancellor to the Faerie Queen, explains to Michael, as he struggles with acceptance of his divine destiny, The greatest battle that you will ever face is the one within your own mind. Conquer the dragons within, and you will never fear any dragons without.
In this other world expos, could some of the methods that Michael uses to overcome his fears apply to us?
Could we harness other energy sources that cause less environmental destruction?
Could music play such a pivotal role in aligning our planet?
What lessons do we learn from the Cronusans?
What about life after death?
How can we heal our planet?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452578965

Joy O'Dwyer

Joy O’Dwyer, LLB, MH, CHt, formerly practiced law. Concerned about the environment and fascinated with the power of the mind, she wrote Fellowship of the Snow Leopards, winner of 2012 Christine Kloser Transformational Author contest. In 2013 she became a Certified Clinical Hypnotherapist. She lives in Vancouver with her son, Michael, and her calico, Cali.

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Copyright © 2013 Joy O’Dwyer.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-7895-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-7897-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-7896-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013913752

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/29/2013

CONTENTS

Dedication

Epithaph

Preface

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1     The Auction

Chapter 2     The Land of Shilough

Chapter 3     You Must Come With Me

Chapter 4     The Enchanted Forest

Chapter 5     Time of the Mist

Chapter 6     Dragon Dreams

Chapter 7     Athena and the Garden

Chapter 8     The Library

Chapter 9     The Throne Room Meeting

Chapter 10   The Training Begins

Chapter 11   Perfect Order

Chapter 12   The Dark Forces

Chapter 13   Music for the Gods

Chapter 14   Home Again

Chapter 15   The Intruder

Chapter 16   The Way of the Peaceful Warrior

Chapter 17   An Ancient Order

Chapter 18   The Menancing Sword

Chapter 19   The Only Hope For Change

Chapter 20   White Knights—Black Knights

Chapter 21   An Enemy in Our Midst

Chapter 22   Kid Power

Chapter 23   Athena’s Garlands

Chapter 24   The Costume Shop

Chapter 25   Facing Miltiades

Chapter 26   The Healing Center

Chapter 27   Creatures of the Night

Chapter 28   The Micro Blaster

Chapter 29   First Mission

Chapter 30   War on the Planet of Peace

Chapter 31   The Grand Council

Chapter 32   The Interrogation

Chapter 33   A Dangerous Mission

Chapter 34   A Joint Operation

Chapter 35   The Swamplands

Chapter 36   Base Camp

Chapter 37   Crocodile Vessels

Chapter 38   The Vortex

Chapter 39   Land And Air Attack

Chapter 40   The Snow Leopards

Chapter 41   The Blue Crystal

Chapter 42   A Snake Pit

Chapter 43   Angelica’s Forces

Chapter 44   The Battle of the Skies

Chapter 45   To the Faerie King

Chapter 46   A Ring of Fire

Chapter 47   A Symphony of Light and Sound

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR

FELLOWSHIP OF THE SNOW LEOPARDS

Joy O’Dwyer’s engaging debut novel speaks to your heart because it deals with everything that’s really important in life including the extremely dire environmental issues we are facing right at the moment. I thought it was engaging your imagination throughout by bridging fantasy and science fiction in a believable way. Fellowship of the Snow Leopards" is a moving and captivating story for all ages.

Helena Cynamon, Executive Producer,

International EMMY Best Children’s Drama,

Magician’s House

DEDICATION

Dedicated to the children of Planet Earth

EPITHAPH

We need to be the change we wish to see in the world.

Mahatma Gandi (1869-1948)

PREFACE

A s a child living in rural Nova Scotia, I felt a deep connection with the land. With a natural curiosity for all creatures, I loved to walk the meadows and streams with my favourite animals, dogs and farmyard cats trailing behind. Despite the violence and betrayal of my childhood, I could always count on my animal friends for comfort and solace.

My adult life was one of academic success and achievement. However, I could not seem to escape the violence and betrayal in my personal and business relationships.

I commenced writing this novel at a time of my deepest pain and depression. It served to heal my soul and I believe it will heal the souls of others who have lost hope and are struggling with fear and gloom. I used the genre of fantasy/science fiction to raise social consciousness to understand that we are all part of a whole, that the earth is a living entity and of our interconnectedness to all life.

As Fellowship emerged, it took on a life of its own, and I with pen and notebook in hand, wrote the words that flowed effortlessly. As I immersed myself in the work, despite ongoing accidents, including two concussions, broken right hand and wrist (not great for a writer!), and two bouts of cancer, I continued to write. I was, along with Michael, fighting my dragons, and I finally learned to trust my inner voice.

As I watch the earth being ravaged and destroyed environmentally, I believe that the time is right for the emergence of the Fellowship. There is a growing awareness and concern that so called progress at any cost is not what is in the best interests of our planet.

As Athena (the heroine) says to Michael: From small things, great things come to pass. Never underestimate the power of one.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

W hen I reflect on all those who have been part of the process, my heart is full of gratitude for the role that each played in the emergence of this work.

To Christine Kloser, Transformational Author, for her inspiring seminars and contest without which I would not be here. I did not realize that I was indeed a transformational author.

To my editors, Carolyn J. Rose and Elizabeth Lyon, for their input and insight.

To Balboa Press, and all those who worked on making the book a success.

To Julia Cameron for her inspired books which assisted me in remaining true to the artist within me.

To my dear family physician, Dr. Donald Stewart, for his ongoing encouragement.

To Dr. Lance Patrick for his noble spirit. He was the first to hear my prose and confirmed the title.

To Eleanor Lipov, who guided me to a safe place and inspired me to continue.

To Bob Bircher, for support throughout my transition from lawyer to author.

To Friends For Life, staff, volunteers and members. They helped lift me from gloom to hope.

To the Minerva Foundation for their wonderful program facilitated by Helen Dewar; to my mentors, and fellow classmates.

To my legal college students, who loved Athena’s Garlands.

To my friends who assisted me on this journey and continued to believe in me and my message: Lee Sheldon, Karen Ranville, Anita Biro, Rachelle Painter, Kent & Kiki Smith, Gary Sandine, Ruby Villones, Jared Burrows, Donna Semenoff, Cristie Chandler, Al Gibson and Sherry Hood.

To my family who are always a part of me: To my sons Greg and Michael, my daughter Gabrielle, and granddaughters Samantha and Alyna; To my brother Carl, my nieces Theresa and Lisa; my nephews Johnnie, Michael, Gary and Timothy; and to those who have gone ahead: my children Chris and Joanne, my father Carlyle, and my brothers Peter and Gary.

Chapter One

THE AUCTION

T he phone slid from her slender hand as her face turned the colour of a gray marble casket. She gasped, clutching at her throat. Michael would never forget the words his mother mouthed, half to herself and half to the universe. They’re missing ! Her emerald eyes became dark pools of anguish, and tears which refused to be contained, flowed freely down her cheekbones.

His world changed forever that gray and foggy day. He was now thirteen in grade eight at Vancouver Point Gray School, as if any of that mattered. Had it really been a year? It seemed like yesterday. Her words kept ringing in his mind with all of the terror that a vicious storm at sea could envision. Had they suffered? Were their bodies bashed to pieces by rocks and sent back out to sea? Did they become fish bait? All he knew was that the father who he adored, and who had taught him to sail along with so many other things, was forever gone. The uncle who called him little dude was gone. He still had the baseball glove dude had given him. Two of the most important people in his life had evaporated as if they had been seized by aliens. No bodies for burial. Lost at sea, they said. Does that mean that some day they will be found? He didn’t think so. He remembered reading seafaring stories about fishermen lost at sea, and houses with widow’s walks: outside verandas upstairs where families would pace and peer out at sea, waiting for their loved ones to come home. He sometimes wished they had such a balcony, where he could watch for their return. But he knew in his heart of hearts that it would be a waste of time. They weren’t coming home. That was a hard cold fact, as cold as their icy grave on the ocean bed.

Next time you can come when the weather is warmer. Look after your mum. Those were his father’s last words as he smiled and gave Michael a big bear hug. He could still feel the warmth of his body. His dark brow furrowed as it always did when deep in thought. How could they be lost at sea? It doesn’t make any sense. His dad was an environmental scientist and excellent sailor. And besides, this was the 21st Century, and they were sailing off the coast of Vancouver, Canada, not some remote island in the middle of nowhere. Not even pieces of the boat had been found. What had really happened?

He shook his head. Stop driving yourself crazy. Sometimes life just sucks. Get used to it. He reached for the remote and flicked the TV from channel to channel. Mostly junk, what else is new? Scrunching his thirteen year old frame down into the sofa, he rested his legs on the other end. I wish I wasn’t so tall. He towered above some of the kids in his class. Not that he was big for his age, but some of the Asian kids were short, and he sometimes felt out of place. His mother kept reminding him that his Cree grandfather was six foot, four. Good for basketball he thought. He enjoyed basketball, as well as other sports; soccer, baseball—anything with a ball really. He was a whiz at floor hockey and golf. But it just wasn’t the same since his father and uncle had died. It was like part of his heart had died with them that day.

The past twelve months had been like a dark fog for him. He went to school, came home, hugged his dog Sasha and asked why. Now his mother wants him to go to some stupid auction on a rainy Friday afternoon.

It will be good to get out for a while. You might see something you like, she called from the bedroom, with a cheery tone in her voice.

Fat chance of that, he thought, I don’t like much of anything anymore. He sunk his slender frame deeper into the sofa. Dark brown curls clung to the back of his neck and fell over one eye. He searched the channels again looking for something of interest besides death and destruction. Why doesn’t she just leave me alone? Why didn’t I go with my dad? She’s the one who said it was too cold. Sometimes I wish I was with him and not stuck here. I feel smothered. I need my dad.

He heard her footsteps coming from the bathroom and looked up to see her smiling face, dark auburn hair freshly brushed, and wearing red lipstick. A sure sign she was serious about going out. When he was little, he always drew his mother with red lips. It was her trademark. His dad used to look at his childish drawings, and say Yes, your mother does have beautiful lips. Nice job. Those were the good days he thought as he heaved his shoulders and sighed.

Come on Michael, humour me, his mother pleaded, as she bent over the sofa and gave him a smile that could usually melt his heart.

Oh alright, he said, as he flung the remote aside. But this is the last auction I’m going to ever, he announced with finality in his voice as his dark brown eyes flashed in exasperation. His family used to go regularly to the auctions. It was such fun with his father and uncle as they laughed and joked together. They always found cool things, like the old wooden sleigh, and miniature metal military pieces. One time they brought home an ancient sea captain’s clock. It was still mounted on the wall beside the fireplace in the family room. At first his mum objected, saying it didn’t fit in, but his dad soon won her over and there it sits to this day.

Nothing’s the same any more. It’s just not fair, he thought, as he traipsed behind her. They both glanced out the window at the waves bashing against the shore. It’s a nasty storm, she remarked. Better bring your umbrella.

I’m not a little kid anymore, he muttered under his breath, but in many ways, he felt like a child, and wished he could go backwards to happier times.

Dragging his feet, he followed his mother up the stone steps, and through the double wooden doors into the auction house. Inside the sights and smells rekindled old memories. He could almost hear his father’s laugh. Wish they were with us. A twinge of pain pierced his chest. He shot a glance his mother’s way wondering if she felt the same. She seemed more interested in the antique furniture and was already eyeballing a massive wardrobe. Let’s go down this way, she suggested, oblivious to his discomfort, as she pointed to a narrow isle bordered on each side with high backed chairs and fat legged dining room tables.

I think I’ll just stay here for a minute, Michael mumbled as he drew in a deep breath. I might check out the miscellaneous boxes. He really wanted to get away from her. Doesn’t she remember or doesn’t she care?

He was deep in thought as noises and scents swirled around him. He glanced to his right, and became transfixed. A tingling sensation ran up and down his spine. It beckoned to him—a large painting shimmering from across the room. Magnetically drawn, he maneuvered his way through a throng of people, his eyes glued to the object. As he got closer, his whole body tingled. A palace resembling crystal invited him in with faeries dancing as elves peeked out from behind trees and flowering bushes. He could hear music and laughter. It touched something deep within his soul, like a familiar ring. What is it? I feel like I’ve been there before. Was it in a dream?

Mum! he called, as he ran to find his mother. Her head poked out from behind a large bookcase. What’s wrong Michael? she asked with a concerned tone in her voice. I want that, he said looking straight into her eyes and then pointing across the room. His mother walked slowly towards the painting pursing her lips as she examined it. Frowning slightly, she said, Oh, Michael, are you sure? She stood with her hand on one hip, and a look on her face that said she was poised to make her argument. Where would we put such a thing, with faeries and castles? She shook her head. It doesn’t match our décor. I don’t want it to end up in a donation box.

Michael was prepared to counter any objection she might make. You know that spot on my wall where you said yourself it was bare and needed something, he said in his best please Mum voice. I really want it, he pleaded, as he gave her his round eyed look that she could rarely resist. Her eyes misted over as she looked away and grew very quiet. He knew that she was remembering his lost father. She often reminded him that he was a mirror image, with his dark curly hair and long lashed big brown eyes. My Italian prince, she would call him. Her face broke out in a soft smile. Okay, what number is it on the list?

He shrugged. I don’t know, he said, twitching with excitement. Can you find it on that paper?

His mother quickly scanned the list clutched in her hand. "It’s number 65, Fairies Dancing. Let’s see where the bidding begins. She glanced at her watch. I want to check out some desks and antique lamps before the auction starts."

Thanks mum, Michael murmured, feeling guilty that he had been angry with her moments before. The aroma of grilled smokies hit his nostrils. Glancing around, he noticed a refreshment stand across the room. I think I’ll grab a hot dog, he called to his mother, who nodded as she edged her way to the back of the crowded room.

As he stood munching his smokie, with mustard dripping at the side of his bottom lip, two kids from his school meandered towards the outlet. He lowered his head as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He didn’t want to catch their attention and tried to avoid their eyes. Momentarily, he was staring at their feet. He had no choice but to look up.

Hi, Mike, Seth said, What you doin’ here?

Seth’s square face matched his square spiked corncob colored hair. His buddy Todd, his backup, with light gleaming off his freshly shaven head, cracked his knuckles. Michael noticed a black and red snake tattoo covered his right hand and wiggled up his wrist.

Just hanging out, Michael replied with a slight quiver in his voice.

We’ve come for the sports stuff, Seth bragged in a loud voice. There’s a couple of dirt bikes for sale. My dad is going to take us dirt bikin’ this summer. Michael lowered his head again, and didn’t say anything. If my dad wasn’t dead, he’d buy me one, he thought. Seth towered over Michael, who for his 13 years, was above average height. His muscles rippled under a black skull bone tea shirt. His one odd eye stared at Michael while the other pointed in a different direction. At school, in front of smaller kids, he would raise his right arm, bend his elbow, and flex his muscles. As he did this, he bragged ‘Bullies rule’. Michael remembered the many times that Seth had knocked him down at school, called him names and laughed in his face. As his palms got greasy, his gut felt like a twisting lizard lived inside. Go away, his mind screamed, as he gorged the rest of his smokie.

Just then his mother approached them. He had never told her about the bully problem and had explained away the bruises. He thought she had enough to deal with losing his dad and her brother. Besides, they had threatened him that if he told, they would kill him. Michael’s chest tightened.

Hi boys, she said. The two boys gave her sullen looks, and didn’t respond. She gave them the once over, and then shrugged as she smiled at Michael. We better hurry and get a seat if you want that faerie painting. I’ll meet you at the benches, when you’re finished here, she said, as she walked away.

Michael remained frozen, unable to move, and humiliated to the core. He wished that the floor would reach up and pull him under. His face felt flushed and warm, but he didn’t want to run off with his mother. Then they would really think he was a coward.

Oh, faeries, is it? Seth chided. Wait ’til the kids at school hear this. Both boys laughed, made chicken noises and flapped their arms like wings. Seth gave him an ugly stare. What are you, a he-she? he asked as he cracked his knuckles in Michael’s face. Todd pointed his finger at him and turned his hand so Michael was staring into the snake’s fangs.

Fear gripped him. He felt his face getting hotter. His eyes could not meet theirs. He pressed his hands together to keep them from trembling. In his mind, he pretended they were not in front of him and concentrated on the painting, which gave him some strength. With all the effort he could muster, he turned his back on them and with his head lowered, trudged away. Their laughter and jeers taunted him as he withdrew. With his hands still shaking and his face flushed, he joined his mother on the benches. She was talking to someone about an antique desk. He shook his head. She doesn’t have a clue. I wish dad were here. I’m thirteen years old, and still afraid of them he thought as he heaved a big sigh, realizing that she just didn’t understand guy stuff.

What is it Michael? she asked, turning her head towards him with a quizzical look in her eyes.

Focus on the painting, he thought, as he took a deep breath and shook off the negative energy. Remember when I was little, and believed in faeries and elves?

She smiled and nodded her head. How could I forget? You were drawing them on everything, including our living room walls.

Michael smirked. It’s called creativity. He blushed slightly. Sorry about the walls.

I loved your art. She opened her eyes wider as she stared at him intently. Is that why you want that painting, it reminds you of your childhood?

Sort of, he said. It’s more than that, but how could he explain feelings he didn’t fully understand. He just knew he had to have it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some paper bills. "I only brought $30.00 from my allowance. If I don’t have enough money with me today, will you help me out?

I’ll try, she said. Michael’s shoulders drooped. Don’t worry, we’ll get it. She put her arm across his back and gave him a hug. She was always confident that things would turn out alright. He sometimes wondered how she stayed so positive, especially since his father’s death.

As he listened to the drone of the auctioneer’s voice, a nervous energy ran though him. Shuffling in his seat, he peered around wondering if anyone else was interested in Number 65. Finally, his number came up. The auctioneer started the bidding at $100.00. Oh no, he thought, I don’t have a hundred dollars. He had been at enough auctions to know that if they start at one hundred, it usually goes up quickly from there.

An old man with straggly gray hair and speckled beard, coughed loudly as he waved his card. We have one hundred. said the auctioneer. Let’s make it one fifty.

Michael’s heart pounded. I can’t lose that painting, he thought. He was about to raise his card when an elderly woman’s bushy eyebrows shot up, touching the fuzzy red tam propped on the side of her head. Her crimson painted mouth opened wide as she bellowed, Freddie, you don’t have a hundred bucks. She grabbed the old man’s uplifted arm and thrust it down. Her befuddled partner shot a dirty glance her way, got up from his seat and stomped out.

The auctioneer grinned and nodded. Okay, I guess we don’t have a hundred. Fifty then. Michael’s head swiveled to see if any card went up; still no bids.

Twenty-five, the auctioneer shouted.

Michael’s hand shot up waving his card. His mother whispered, Good Michael.

The young lad has bid $25.00. Do I hear thirty? rang the auctioneer’s voice.

The crowd grew silent except for a muffled sneeze near the back. The auctioneer looked around the room hopefully. Michael drew a deep breath. Still no bids, going, going, gone for $25.00, sold to the young lad! The gavel made a resounding crack. He snickered as he shook his head. I guess there’s not much interest in faeries here tonight.

I have it, I have it, Michael cried, grinning from ear to ear. He thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out the cash.

Yes, you do, said his mother smiling. She rose from the bench. We’ll pay for it right now and take it home.

Hold it! a menacing voice boomed from across the room. A tall man with steely eyes and a long narrow pale face, wearing a fedora and dark raincoat, strode defiantly towards them. I came for that painting. He pointed the steel tip of his umbrella at Michael’s chest. Michael’s face drained of blood, and he felt a shiver down his spine.

Well, I’m afraid you’re too late, interjected his mother, staring down the contender as she stepped in front of Michael. And please lower that umbrella. The stranger’s eyes sharpened and the muscles in his face grew taut. Then his jaw relaxed and he put his umbrella at his side as he appeared to be studying her face.

Michael was a little surprised by her courage. This guy is scary. Isn’t she afraid? Then he remembered the day he had seen her in action in a courtroom. She had whooped one of the toughest cops on the force. At the end of her cross examination, he could barely remember his own name. He was so proud of her then, and she was just as fearless now. He knew that this man was no match for her when it came to winning an argument, especially if she knew the law was on her side.

She’s right, the auctioneer’s assistant announced. The boy won the bid fair and square. You’re out of luck. Other bidders in the audience nodded in agreement.

With that, the stranger’s face broke out in a thin lipped grin. A cold chill ran down Michael’s back.

Well, I’m so sorry, the man said soothingly, first glancing at Michael’s mother and then at him. Shall we go for coffee and discuss what you would consider a fair price for the painting? My principal’s daughter, who is sick in a hospital bed, has her heart set on this art work. She saw it on-line. She will be most disappointed if I don’t bring it back.

Michael shuffled his feet. He felt sorry for some sick girl, but then he remembered the pointed umbrella. I don’t believe him, he thought.

His mother looked straight into the stranger’s eyes, and said in a clear unwavering tone, That is most unfortunate, but my son has his heart set on this painting as well, and we couldn’t possibly consider selling it.

The stranger glared at her momentarily, and then his face softened. Not even if the price was right? he queried, reaching for his wallet. He displayed a leather pouch bursting with currency.

Michael gaped at the wallet. He had never seen so much money. Wow, he thought. I could make lots of cash today. Then he gazed at the painting and knew he could never sell it. He looked at his mother and shook his head. His mother reiterated, as she glared into the stranger’s eyes, Not for any price.

Perhaps we will meet again at another time, the stranger seethed, as he gave them a cold, icy stare. With that, he turned on his heel, and slammed the door with a loud crack as he left the building. Michael shivered. Let’s get out of here.

He peered around as they started towards their BMW, half expecting the stranger to loom out from the shadows. With his dark curls falling across his forehead, he carefully laid the artwork in the back seat of the car and jumped in beside it. I’ll sit back here so it doesn’t get damaged, he said. Don’t stop for anything, he cautioned his mother.

What do you mean? she asked, glancing at him in the rear view mirror.

I don’t trust that guy.

Well, he lost. What could he possibly do now?

Michael didn’t want to even imagine an answer to that question. He remained silent as they drove on in the slashing rain. His mother switched on the stereo. The music did nothing to soothe his nerves.

Please mum, he asked, could you turn the cd off.

Oh, I forgot, you don’t like my Andrea Bocelli, she said apologetically.

It wasn’t so much the music as it was that he wanted to remain alert to any sounds that were out of the ordinary. He wished their dog Sasha was with them. He’s a great guard dog, Michael thought. Dogs have extra senses and really sharp teeth.

The rain beat furiously against the windshield, as the wipers kicked into high gear. The car swerved violently as a large dark object flew in front of their faces.

What was that? Michael screamed.

I’m not sure. He could hear the tension in his mother’s voice, as she tried to regain control of the vehicle. The street was slick and the car was careening into a tree. Hold on, she cried. Michael braced for impact, as the wheel turned sharply. They flew by the tree, branches beating against the side of the car as it mounted a curb and landed on a side street. The brakes grabbed and the vehicle jerked to a stop. That was a close one, she murmured, looking back over the seat at Michael. Are you okay?

Michael had been frozen in fear and could barely speak. Yeah, I guess so, he mumbled.

I don’t think it hit us because I didn’t feel any impact, but let’s check for damage. She reached for the door handle.

Michael suddenly jolted into awareness. Don’t get out of the car now, mum, he cried as he touched her shoulder. We can check when we get home. Please. He looked at her imploringly with his dark eyes wide in apprehension.

She stared into his face for a moment. Maybe you’re right, Michael. Let’s get out of here. She shoved the car into reverse and quickly headed back onto the main road. As they drove along in silence, the image of the angry stranger came into Michael’s mind, as an icy tremor ran down his spine.

As they came down Pacific Avenue, waves pounded angrily against the shoreline. They seemed to be in the same sort of mood as the stranger at the auction. This is the kind of storm that took my father and uncle. Lost at sea he mused, as he became lost in thought.

He felt the car slow down, as his mother pulled into the underground parking lot of their condo. His uneasiness lessened. She got out and examined the car.

How strange, come and look at this Michael, she called from the front of the vehicle. His heart jumped. He sprinted out of his seat, and saw a large black cloth plastered across the front of the bumper, partially obscuring the headlights.

He felt his skin crawl. Don’t touch it, he cautioned, you never know where it’s been. He had just seen an historical movie, and immediately thought of poison. That’s what they used to do in the royal courts. Maybe the rain has washed it away, but who knows. That guy was totally weird, and he really wanted that painting,

This is bizarre, to say the least, his mother murmured. Maybe it flew off someone’s clothesline in the storm, she reasoned. He could tell that she was trying to make sense of the inexplicable. I wondered why my lights were so dim. She stood staring in disbelief at the black intruder.

Michael grabbed a stick leaning against the concrete wall. He kept his distance, as he gingerly poked at the object and caught it on the end of the stick. He lifted it into the light. It’s a hooded cloak. His stomach went into a knot. His mother continued to stare silently at it. I’m going to put it in the outside garbage, he announced. She hit the button for the garage door opener, as he ran outside and dumped the cloak. Be careful, she called in a high pitched voice.

Good riddance, he muttered, as he banged down the heavy lid with a great thump.

We’re safe now, he thought, and we have the painting. He felt more lighthearted thinking about it. Can we hang it on my wall?

We can try, his mother smiled. We’ll see what kind of hanger it needs.

I want to be able to look at it when I’m lying in bed, he said as they carried it in. The canvass was dusted off and hung on the wall at the foot of his bed. The lamp in the corner reflected lights off the scene. As he examined it more closely, he saw flashes of white at the top right of the artwork, deep within the purple mountains. What is that, he wondered.

It’s a remarkable painting, his mother said, It seems to be almost moving. You’re quite the auction buff. She smiled as she patted his shoulder. Congratulations.

Thanks mum. Michael grinned and gave her a big hug. He was glad that she had stood up to the stranger at the auction. He knew he could always count on her in a crunch. But can she ever count on me? She’s not afraid of bullies, not like me. And my dad was not afraid. He was a courageous environmentalist. Michael remembered his lectures and papers on endangered species. He cared deeply about the earth, and had faced off with powerful people and big companies. I will never be half the man that my father was. He glanced at his Malamute husky, looking for some