Codes Set in Stone

By Rory Ross-Muller and Pippa Duffy

Imagine a suburb beneath the waves; contemplate the idea of palatial living in a pyramid amongst the stars. Codes Set in Stone embraces both of these somewhat grandiose scenarios in a story set in the not too distant future. Containing the essential ingredients of Relationship, Romance and Rescue, the novel tells of men on a mission to solve mysteries and investigate intrigue and skulduggery - a mission that takes them from Belgium to Venice to Rome to the Himalayas and back again and finally culminates in the discovery of an age-old promise contained in a revelatory book with its conundrum of a final code set in a bright, white, shining stone.
It is interesting to note that several of the hitherto fictitious events in the story subsequently became fact after the initial manuscript first saw the light of day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781479730520

Rory Ross-Muller

Rory Ross-Muller hails from Cape Town, South Africa whilst Pippa Duffy comes from Bristol, England. Rory is a story-teller whose interests include current affairs and history. Pippa currently teaches English, but it is her theatrical career as actor, director and playwright that has had a direct bearing on the unusual dynamic of this novel. For almost five years Pippa and Rory worked together, fleshing out the characters and events that finally brought Codes Set in Stone to life.

Book preview

black.jpg

CODES

SET IN

STONE

black.jpg

a novel of types and shadows

Rory Ross-Muller

&

Pippa Duffy

Copyright © 2014 by Rory Ross-Muller & Pippa Duffy.

ISBN:                  Softcover                           978-1-4797-3051-3

Ebook                                978-1-4797-3052-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Most Scriptures taken from The Authorised King James Bible

Also:

The Holman Christian Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers.

The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

The New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved."

Authorised King James Version.

Rev. date: 07/03/2014

Xlibris LLC

0-800-056-3182

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

304982

CONTENTS

Forward

Prelude

PART ONE

THE ALPHA CODE

1   Subterranean Homesick Blues

2   Some Enchanted Evening

3   Strangers in the Night

4   Stranger in Paradise

5   Blue Moon

6   You’re So Vain

7   The Windmills of Your Mind

8   Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

9   Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

10   Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport

11   Spinning Wheel

12   Falling in Love with Love

13   There’s a Method to My Madness

14   Ahab the Arab

15   Put Your Head on My Shoulder

16   You’re So Young and Beautiful

17   I’m Sitting on Top of the World

18   Suspicious Minds

19   Octopus’s Garden

20   Nature of the Beast

21   There’s a Kind of Hush

22   He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother

23   Life’s a Riot with Spy vs Spy

PART TWO

THE BETA CODE

24   Living on a Prayer

25   Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters

26   He’s The Rock That Doesn’t Roll

27   Morning Has Broken

28   Somebody’s Knocking at Your Door

29   Waltzing Mathilda

30   Cabaret

31   We All Stand Together

32   Heresy in Disguise

33   All Roads Lead to Rome

34   Do You Want to Know A Secret?

35   Falling in Love Again

36   What Needs Must Be

37   Let’s Do the Time Warp Again

38   Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

39   In the Ghetto

40   The Answer Is Blowin’ in the Wind

41   The Times They Are A-Changin’

42   To Hell and Back

43   A Twist in the Tale

44   A View To A Kill

45   The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes

46   The Holy City

47   Happy Birthday to You

PART THREE

THE HEBREW CODE OF THE STONE

48   Joy to the World

49   Where Have all the Flowers Gone

50   The Final Countdown

51   It’s a Mystery

52   The Great Pretender

53   Temple

Afterward—Trouble

Notes

Bibliography

Close the words, and seal the book, till the time of the end.

Many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.¹

FORWARD

T he notion of a suburb under the sea or a live-in pyramid in space may seem somewhat far-fetched, but many innovations that we take for granted nowadays have their roots in fiction. The Science Fiction Research Association has listed several one-time fictitious inventions that have subsequently become part of everyday life.

Novelist HG Wells introduced us to a door that slid open as one approached it, Bradbury wrote of ear-bud headphones, and Gernsback introduced Telephot, which was similar to Skype. Actiniscope was Gernsback’s version of radar and Arthur C Clarke came up with a Newspad, now familiar as an iPad, as well as a space elevator the like of which is being developed in our own day and age by teams of scientists around the world.

Internet sources inform us that a submarine leisure resort is at present in the pipeline. Reinforced with concrete and steel, having Plexiglas walls and bubble-shaped domed ceilings, this Hydropolis complex could soon be situated sixty-six feet below the surface of the Persian Gulf. A connecting tunnel has been planned to transport guests by train from the mainland to an hotel encompassing two hundred and twenty suites. It is estimated that an area approximating the size of London’s Hyde Park would be utilised for this ambitious task—if it were to be given the go-ahead. The question of how to deal with the displaced water has led to the project being put on hold.

It follows that the idea of underwater human habitation might not be so hard to grasp after all; amphibian-style living could be feasible with a breakthrough in engineering and a little help from our friends out at sea. Dolphins and whales have already been used to facilitate man’s naval defence strategy so why shouldn’t they aid him further as he continues in his endeavour to conquer the remaining frontiers of his environment?

In this novel of types and shadows facts are not always separated from fiction; fiction there is aplenty but fact lies embedded within most chapters. We’ll never know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, this side of eternity, but pondering on the possibilities is a pursuit in which many have indulged. By the same token, no one can pretend to know who the future heroes or villains on the world stage might turn out to be. The characters in the book are fictitious, but in all men, women and children of fiction there are elements of fact.

From media reports we can safely gauge that tough times lie ahead, and even the NASA Internet site tells of signs in the heavens that, when placed alongside other linked information, seem to hint at the possibility of alarming apocalyptic events taking place in the near future.

No doubt conspiracy theories will continue to abound and then be debunked; perhaps as part of some cunning plot devised by the overlords of society to make the cynic increasingly sceptical of anything pertaining to the seemingly surreal. And yet, reputable scholars with their readily available, thought-provoking eschatological messages and well-balanced warnings will undoubtedly be scorned and ridiculed. Their predictions might just turn out to be accurate, although not necessarily politically correct. Could subversive political intrigue ultimately culminate in the majority of the populace being blinded to the truth and deceived into rejecting the real McCoy? Many people are sure to be lulled into a false sense of security just when they need to be on their guard.

So often we strain at gnats and swallow camels in the process, routinely feeding on a diet of propaganda that conditions the mind and renders us immune to insights that we might otherwise have gained. Caught up by developments that affect day-to-day living, the propensity is for human beings to remain largely unaware of what is really happening around them; after all, wars and rumours of wars have always been a part of global life.

Could it be that behind the scenes of the world stage, a cabal of power-hungry men with grandiose yet ghastly motives are furtively playing out their own secret agenda?

Perhaps, hidden from the public eye and its glare of accountability, they are biding their time; planning economic strategies in corridors of power behind closed doors, strategies that will finally impact upon humanity in unimaginable ways. They strike; first introducing some craftily contrived monetary mega-crisis of their own making before taking charge. Emergency measures are put into place and solutions are imposed—solutions initially welcomed with relief by a gullible public. Then suddenly, the world finds itself under the control of a few unsavoury master-puppeteers headed up by some two-faced jack-in-a-box. The blindsided, unsuspecting public is appalled and finds itself facing the shocking consequences of an opened Pandora’s Box, one that chillingly determines its fate.

Be that as it may, the reader is invited to travel alongside a certain John Eric Ellis as he embarks upon his odyssey to seek and find an outside source of illumination* beyond space and time.

It is hoped that in the following pages, there will be plenty to challenge, encourage and spur the reader on towards that dimension beyond the veil where the eye of a needle becomes navigable—in a realm where all things are possible.

So consider for yourself which possibilities ring true and if you so desire, examine further the theories espoused by delving into various Internet sites that can take you further on your journey, remembering at all times that the Internet may be a great source of knowledge, but that many weird and not-so-wonderful theories can also be found within its pages. May we all read with discernment and be blessed with enlightenment!

*The stone is bright or shining, either from itself

or from an outside source of illumination.

-Professors Harris/Wallace/Chisholm (N.E.T.) ²

The allusion on which it (the stone) is founded is obscure,

or even unknown.

-Albert Barnes ²

34609.png

Shadows on castle walls—echoes in the stones.

Inscribed on stones in Cas-gwent (Chepstow)

PRELUDE

Morgan

L ove you! Owen held her close, and kissed her lightly.

Outside it was pelting with rain, but they were contentedly snuggled up in bed together, at peace. Morgan smiled into the darkness; this was their oasis, their sanctuary in a world where nothing was certain; they had each other and that was enough. The only sounds were the drumming of the rain on the roof and the ticking of the bedside clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock; tonight, sleep was an elusive bedfellow for Morgan.

Tick-tock, midnight; tick-tock, one o’clock; tick-tock, tick-tock. No use, she couldn’t turn off the rain but the clock was a different matter, best put it elsewhere. She grabbed her dressing gown, slipped her feet into fleecy-lined slippers and walked down the passage to the linen cupboard, placing the clock inside where it could tick-tock its way throughout the rest of the night, happily buried under a pile of towels.

On her way back to bed she noticed that the curtains were half-open and went to close them. The rain had almost stopped and scudding clouds parted to reveal an uncanny glow coming from the moon, it hadn’t looked like that yesterday; the trees and bushes glistened in the opalescent light, and mist cleaved to the shadowy castle on the other side of the river. She could hear a car in the distance; it seemed to be winding its way down the hill through the town towards the bridge. She wondered what kind of people would be driving around at this time of the morning. Ah well, it was none of her business. She closed the curtains tightly and climbed back into bed.

The car was coming closer, up the hill now, travelling far too fast considering how wet the road must be. Instead of the sound passing by and fading off into the distance, light suddenly flooded the bedroom as the vehicle turned into the driveway and screeched to a halt. Car doors slammed, dogs started barking—someone had a flash-light.

Owen! she whispered.

He sat up and put a finger to his lips, Shush!

Someone started hammering on the door, ringing the bell incessantly at the same time.

Open up or we’ll break the door down! a man shouted.

Paralysing fear gripped Morgan’s heart and Owen took charge.

Get dressed—warmly—quick as you can.

The adrenalin kicked in as she pulled on a track suit and tied a sweater round her waist, grabbing a scarf and anorak for good measure whilst Owen peered through a crack in the curtains.

Darn! Three State security police and two Alsatians; Morgan, listen carefully, you’ve got to be strong, remember what we said. Go to the castle—I’ll meet you there later. Sorry but you’ll have to leave via the landing window; I’ll keep them busy in the front. God help us, he added softly, handing her a small torch and the keys to the castle.

And you? asked Morgan anxiously.

He took her face between his hands and kissed her gently, Come darling, no time to waste. As I said, I’ll join you later.

He opened the bedroom window and called down, Okay, I’m coming! Just going to put on a gown! then hurried his wife to the back of the house and opened the landing window. Right, all clear.

Morgan slipped onto the roof of the conservatory which was conveniently placed just below the bedroom window, then down to the ground, landing awkwardly and spraining her ankle; there was no time to sit and recover. She heard Owen open the front door and speak loudly enough for her to hear, Please—come inside—no point disturbing the neighbours.

Morgan limped off, gathering her thoughts. Be thankful for small mercies, it’s stopped raining and the moon’s back behind the clouds. Gotta get to the castle, ignore the pain.

Chepstow Castle was just the other side of the bridge, but the ankle was hurting badly. She moved under the trees and sat down to bind it up as best she could—thank the Lord she’d brought the scarf along. Off she set again, keeping to the wooded area that ran alongside the pavement. The moon came out from behind the clouds illuminating her path. She kept on moving, heart pounding, ankle throbbing. Over the bridge now; reflections of the moon writhed upon the water below, the silhouette of the castle appearing ominous and eerie in the strange light. She was almost there when a shot rang out—this couldn’t be happening, surely she was in the middle of some terrible nightmare—running, running in slow motion, until it seemed that her legs would support her no longer.

At last Morgan reached the castle entrance, turrets loomed above her. Large key for outer door; into the lock, turn it, that’s right, do it by numbers. Push open the door, go inside, lock it; safer now. Small key for souvenir shop, open, shut, lock. Fumble for switch under desk, release display cabinet behind which lies concealed room and former prison cell, go inside, pull cabinet back and breathe.

She started to talk out loud, listening to the sound of her own voice as it helped her focus on what had to be done. Got to get the heater on, don’t want to die of hypothermia; there’s a river on the other side of the wall and it’s winter. Better not switch on the light though, don’t really need it anyway, only a few earwigs and spiders around and they’re all quite harmless.

Realising that her ankle had swollen considerably, she eased the makeshift bandage and huddled on a beanbag next to the ineffective panel heater of the small office hidden behind the recently renovated ticket office and souvenir shop. Tightly wrapping the anorak round her as best she could, she lay down and waited for the dawn to break. How odd to think that here in her cold hiding place the ticking clock that had so irritated her earlier on, would now be a welcome companion.

She must have dozed off eventually because the next thing she heard through the merciful haze was a familiar voice calling her name softly, Morgan! Morgan, are you awake?

The display cabinet slid forward and swung open.

Gwyneth! Am I glad to see you! exclaimed the shivering Morgan.

Thought I might find you here, said her loyal friend, coming into the room and giving Morgan a warm hug. Hey! You’re ice-cold, not surprising really. Here, I’ve brought you some coffee. She poured the coffee into the cup from the top of the flask she’d brought along, Get this down you and we’ll talk later. Heater’s on in the car; you’ll soon be warm as toast.

Thanks Gwyneth, ouch—I’m so stiff! Gwyneth started to massage Morgan’s shoulders and then checked the ankle.

It’s not as bad as it probably feels; it’ll be fine. Now, let’s get you home, she said, smiling.

Gwyneth helped her friend to the waiting car. Once inside Morgan was able to relax a little as the warmth eased her discomfort.

Did you see the moon last night? It looked really weird.

Yeah I saw it, heard about it on the news too. That was a penumbral eclipse we witnessed Morgan, it started after midnight and lasted a couple of hours.

Penumbral?

It’s when the moon passes through the earth’s penumbra—the outer part of the earth’s shadow—makes the moon look subtly darker.

No wonder it looked eerie!

It was only when she was safely tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle at her feet, and breakfast on a tray in front of her that Morgan asked, Did Owen tell you where I was? He said he’d meet me at the castle. Did they take him for questioning? Is he coming on here later? It was then she remembered the shot. Perhaps it hadn’t really registered at the time, or maybe the shock had made her forget.

Sweetheart, Gwyneth said, taking her hand, You’ve got to be strong, we’ve got to be strong for each other. You remember what happened to my Llewellyn last year? I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news—but Owen was shot last night.

Morgan somehow knew what her friend was going to tell her but asked anyway, How is he? Is he in custody? Hospital perhaps? Where have they taken him?

There was an awkward pause before Gwyneth replied, Oh Morgan, I’m afraid he’s dead, they killed him. Rhys came with the news at five o’clock this morning, the underground grapevine works fast.

Morgan was silent for a few moments, the colour draining from her face as the impact of what had happened slowly began to sink in.

Eventually she spoke, It was something we knew we might have to face one day, in fact we’d kind of prepared ourselves in some way, but the reality of it actually happening is so hard to accept because at the same time, we’d also felt invincible.

~~~~~~~

Morgan finished telling her story to the man standing opposite her.

"I stayed with Gwyneth after that. She and her husband were Welsh-speaking and had come down from Betws-y-Coed to translate the pamphlets and help with their distribution in the South. The Welsh language was our safety code, and we encouraged those who took a tract to use their dictionaries—although we printed a few in English as well. Llewellyn was arrested and executed a few months ago so Gwyneth was glad of my company which in turn was a great comfort to me. The two of us carried on our work together hoping and praying that we wouldn’t be discovered.

Do you know Chepstow Castle at all? It’s a ruin of course, but a popular tourist destination in summer. Gwyneth and I worked in the souvenir shop as volunteers; it was a front for our little printing venture. One day I was followed to the castle by a government agent posing as a tourist. He was carrying a pamphlet of ours, given to him by a friend, he said, who’d spoken to him about God. He’d even been able to mention her name—she was one of us. He said that as an Anglicised Southerner he didn’t understand Welsh and it had been suggested that he contact me for an English copy.

Unfortunately my guard was down that day and I took him at his word. To cut a long story short, he found the little office in our hiding place behind the display cabinet and naturally BOSS closed us down, destroying our resources and everything we’d built up. I was taken to the Bureau in Cardiff, charged with being an enemy of the State, dispatched by ferry to Ostend en route to Brussels, no doubt to be sent on to Rome to stand trial at the State of Emergency Court. The rest you know."

Agent Davidson stood there looking at her, without saying a word.

Part One

THE ALPHA CODE

1

SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK BLUES

Joric

I t’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog . The words of the old Beatles song sung themselves into Joric’s tired mind; he had a song for every occasion, and that was the one for now—even though it wasn’t night. He yawned; it was the end of another tedious day’s work in Atalanta, State housing and office precinct in a rather novel suburb of Ostend situated in an underwater location offshore.

When the poet Swinburne had spoken of Atalanta as somewhere with shadows and windy places with lisp of leaves and ripple of rain, he could have been describing Leopold Park’s leafy recreational area where Joric might just end up this evening, but certainly not the Atalanta pyramid where he spent most of his days and nights. Shadows there were aplenty, but not a breath of wind nor the slightest ripple of rain.

The lights were on in the otherwise empty compartment and he sprawled untidily across a double seat on the sub-train taking him to the mainland, wondering what the weather would be like at sea level; he really should have checked before leaving the office.

Vindictive Laan was the strange name of his welcome escape route to the park; it would take him past the Marina with a right turn into Leopold II Laan. On the other hand the beach was to the right of the station, along Visserskaal and onto the sand just past Montgomery Dock where he could watch the ferry on its way to good old England, beckoning him to come back to the green grass of home. Tonight, weather permitting, he might just jog along Albert Promenade which ran parallel with the beach, before continuing along the sand which stretched for miles. He’d pass the row of old flagpoles near the palace, of late proudly displaying five different flags flying and flapping in the inevitable breeze.

First but not foremost flew a flag bearing the crest of the BruSSels Bureaucracy. This was a griffin, a beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, known to represent the guardian of the treasures of divine power from the capital city of Rome. The capital letters in the middle of BruSSels denoted that State Services were centralised there.

The Total Federation Flag towered above the rest, displaying a yellow sun in the top left hand corner with a green sickle moon and star opposite; below were ten smaller stars representing the ten suzerains.

Then there was the Hejazi Kingdom flag of the Dominions. Joric had once seen a far larger version almost the size of an American football field, flying from a 136 metre pole in Aqaba. It could be seen from Eilat where he’d been holidaying at the time, making the most of his student vacation. Even then he’d thought it strange that the Hejazi flag dominated, taking precedence over the Transgordonian national flag.

Next in line was a mercury and gold triangular flag sporting the now familiar image of the phoenix. This mythical bird had previously appeared on coins of the late Roman Empire, symbolising the Golden City of Rome. Rome was sometimes referred to as the Eternal City, thus affirming her status as an undying empire. The phoenix reappeared in 2005 on the Belgian ten Euro silver coin, celebrating sixty years of peace and freedom and representing Europe’s Unity in Diversity. Several years later, the Eurozone became known as the USE, The United States of Europe.

Interesting to note that in 1957 during the signing of The Peace Treaty of Rome—the first modern day European unity agreement—the Belgian foreign minister and secretary-general of NATO, Paul Henri Spaak, said in a BBC documentary, We felt like Romans on that day . . . we were consciously recreating the Roman Empire once more.

A new one dollar coin of the Empire had been minted soon after the turn of the decade, this time representing the greater monetary system of G.O.D. as in Globally Obligated Dollar. The new coin bore feathers of the phoenix on one side and the words Oneworld—Unity in Diversity, on the other. Somehow the diversity had been smothered by blanket uniformity somewhere along the way!

Although not the tallest, the flamboyant ensign of the Imperial City of Rome stood out prominently, displaying a crown of leaves and acorns encircling the head of King Solomon with raised sword in one hand over baby, and scales of justice in the other. He bore an uncanny resemblance to someone of whom Joric would rather not think at present, one who’d forcefully driven through the merger that had steered the world clear of bankruptcy after the global stock market crash. An historian might be forgiven for asking why the wise King of the Holy Land should be lumped together with an unholy Roman Emperor from a much later era.

Joric eagerly looked forward to evenings spent basking in the heart-warming glow of the sun as it inexorably fell through deepening shades of blue into depths of glorious gold, until it finally sank ablaze as a fireball igniting the western horizon. As he chose to ignore the ugly city sprawl behind him, with evening spread out against the sky, his subterranean blues would slowly dissolve and vanish like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. Restoration would flow through his being and he would be at one with nature, in touch with himself and perhaps with God. But why on earth should God be concerned with one measly person in over seven billion when countless millions had come and gone before him? There was certainly no hotline to heaven for the likes of him.

Changes in the seasons were never noticed by those living in Atalanta, thus the polite conversational topic of the weather hardly ever arose. Now and again someone would surface for some air that wasn’t conditioned and then return to inform the others down below of sunshine, snow or the occasional angry winter waves causing consternation at the surface exit.

The sub-train used to run until midnight, but with the yobbo element on the loose in recent times, danger of thuggery on trains had increased, causing the night schedule to be scrapped. Hard to believe, but it had been suggested that the absence of healthy old-fashioned church activities for the youth was partly responsible for the juvenile delinquency and general moral decline seen of late. Such behaviour was punishable under the Law Against Deviant Antisocialism, with sentences of reformatory incarceration and young-adult hard labour being carried out under the supervision of the Bureau of Safety and Security, commonly referred to as BOSS. However, Joric reckoned that public violence was just as likely to be fuelled by soccer fanaticism stoked by the Oneworld’s Ministry of Sport and FOFA—to satiate unruly passions that could otherwise lead to political uprisings.

Something more sinister that had to be taken into account was the amnesty granted to certain prisoners at the time of the takeover by the new world order. Those convicted of so-called petty crimes had been officially pardoned in an expansive gesture of goodwill by the head of the regime, and released en masse. Obviously this had been due to hopeless overcrowding in gaols, mutinous penal colonies and the cost of running such establishments. Ironically, having flown the coop, these gaol-birds, now on the streets, were given train passes to go job hunting, giving them carte blanche to vent their frustrations on public transport commuters and other innocent bystanders.

Further aggravating this sorry state of affairs was the flood of poverty-stricken Central African immigrants desperately seeking escape from squalid, overcrowded conditions in the outlying squatter camps. Yet there were propaganda posters plastered everywhere as part of a highly publicised Five Year Campaign of Affirmative Action espousing equal opportunity, a euphemism hiding glaring inconsistencies with the uneasy truth of the matter.

The official explanation given for the withdrawal of nightly public transport was that the authorities couldn’t provide enough after-hours security. But Joric reckoned that here was a solution to the unemployment problem. Armed and uniformed safe-guards were sparingly supplied by the Safety & Security Department’s Sheltered In Employment Legionnaire Division, simply known as SHIELD. Largely manned by awkward squads of raw recruits press-ganged from the impoverished African continent, SHIELD was a paramilitary organization set up to kill two birds with one stone, firstly to beef up the martial State and secondly to provide employment for the literary challenged refugees. Why not just boost the numbers already being churned out, by training other misfits from the sprawling townships eager to make a living? Surely public transport safe-guards needed minimal training, and even language proficiency was not a requirement.

For now at least, there were no more nights out on the nearby coastal town for the people of Atalanta. Anyway, most Atalantians wouldn’t have the necessary G.O.D. dollars for partying on the mainland unless they’d had the foresight to keep a stash hidden under a mattress. Alas, the tills on shore only rang to the sound of good old-fashioned hard cash! But the closeted sub-marine dwellers were certainly not living in lowly sub-economic circumstances, lulled as they were into living it up in cashless freedom.

‘No worries about overspending,’ Australasian regionals would comment. Atalanta being so cosmopolitan was the one thing that made life interesting in the new down-under.

Joric’s reverie came to a halt as down-under abruptly gave way to up above and the train sped into the watery sunlight which milkily shone through the Polymethylmethacrylate tunnel-bridge which stretched all the way to Ostend Metro Station. Joric really should have checked the weather report at lunchtime; it was drizzling. A pale rainbow arched over the sea in the weak sunlight as the Ramsgate to Ostend ferry slid noiselessly by. Suddenly homesick, he imagined he was on board aiming for the pot of gold at the Ramsgate end of the rainbow, where seagulls shrieked above the white cliffs that stretched along the coast at Dover and beyond. Behind the cliffs lay Kent Global Airport from whence he’d once flown to faraway places, back in the good old days. Instead, here he was disembarking at Ostend Station; what should he do on this damp and dreary day? Joric had read in The Fantastic Atlantic that the traditional student parade of the dinosaur dragons, labelled Creatures from Hell, would be doing a restaurant circuit for charity in the early evening; but that would now be cancelled due to the weather. Ah well, maybe it would clear up and he’d still be able to jog.

No chance! On the big square outside the concourse hall, it was now raining cats and dogs. Come rain or shine he was happy to be there, just singing in the rain, but it wasn’t half cold! Oh well, nothing to do but seek shelter and browse through the shops.

He checked his pockets and hey presto, produced a few dollars saved for a rainy day such as this. Emergency money really, but this evening Joric might just have his arm twisted to spend it, tempted as he was by all the luscious continental aromas assailing his nostrils. He was feeling daring and decidedly debonair, and wished he could afford the warm feeling of being shown to a table in some comfy upmarket bistro. He’d probably only be able to order a garlic roll, and then there’d be the tip which would no doubt earn him the commonly known tag of tipping en Anglais, a poor reflection on the perceived tight-fisted habits of the Brits. Well, he’d blow the lot anyway.

Perhaps some chic and slick city chick strolling thereabouts might want to go Dutch with him on a Mac Happy meal at McDonald’s. That would make it a ‘co-operative meal!’ Atalanta’s shabby bureaucratic new-speak with its chauvinistic and desensitising side effects had clung to him like a damp shadow; he was going to shake it off and enjoy his two hours on the prowl as a sophisti-cat landlubber away from the usual sub-standard of Atalanta’s shopping alleys.

Close by was the old-style grandeur of St Petrus-en-Paulus Kerk built in 1907, its ornate cathedral twin peaks stylishly peeping out above the dreary shop fronts. Looking for he knew not what, Joric crossed the road, negotiating the rush-hour traffic, weaving this way and that and getting splashed in the process. It was worth the adrenalin rush, but he’d better refocus on the city’s careering four-wheeled vehicles, prone to skidding on the wet roads and making for a somewhat alarming experience compared with his usual amble around the lanes of Atalanta with its slow, battery operated tri-cars.

Strolling further down the road, he could see a few fine old shop façades coming into view. He meandered on, taking a step back in time as he moved away from the hustle and bustle of interconnected chain stores, through the arcade and into the side streets. Once upon a time the old city must’ve looked really first-rate.

Joric took great pleasure in all that was olde-worlde; he was after all, a crusty old-fashioned historian. Not too stuffy hopefully, and with England being a nation of shopkeepers, it was in his blood to enjoy browsing in fascinating back streets.

Suddenly he found himself outside a delightful old three storey building with a charming Juliet balcony. Aha! The shop sign was in English, ‘Second-hand Rose.’ Below was an interesting-looking curiosity shop that thankfully hadn’t been pretentiously portrayed as an antique shop, with a ‘we-can—always-bang-out-another-period-piece-around-the-back-in-our—workshop’ mentality.

Wow, a beautifully arranged display window framed a rather wowish saleslady. She was blonde, but for some strange reason Joric felt she should’ve been brunette. Whatever made him think such a daft thought?

She looked in his direction, O brightening glance, and he took her warm smile of acknowledgement as some sort of invitation. His hands and feet were icy, so he made up his mind to go inside as casually as he could and circle around in feigned concentration, hoping to remain there browsing and availing himself of the central heating for as long as possible.

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose.

-William Wordsworth

2

SOME ENCHANTED EVENING

W ind chimes jingled softly as he opened the door. The blonde shop assistant, now on the other side of the old oak counter, turned and greeted him with yet another friendly smile. Evening was drawing in and she started switching on an assortment of amber lights which gave the place a welcoming glow.

Good evening! It’s so lovely and warm in here—so cold and wet outside—brr—may I? asked the shivering Joric with as much charm as he could muster.

May you—what? she asked quizzically.

Brr—brrrowse for a while and thaw out?

You may indeed.

She laughed, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He hesitated, perhaps expecting her to say more. Well come on in and shut the door before we both catch pneumonia!

Joric closed the door behind him and stepped into the shop which offered all the cosiness associated with collectables, items once loved but no longer needed by their former owners. The pleasant mustiness of old leather mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee—what he wouldn’t give for a cup right now!

You also speak English, he continued, With an American accent? Glad about that—uh—that you speak English that is, although your accent is quite charming as well. I—I’m from England, my French is not too hot and my Flemish is non-existent!

Mine too! Oh, excuse me.

An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a bookcase carrying a music box with a little ballerina on top.

Does it still work? he asked.

Oh yes, she replied, I now keep the key behind the counter; the temptation for small fingers to over-wind was too great.

She produced the key and carefully wound up the music box which then tinkled out its tune as the ballerina began to pirouette on her tiny pedestal.

Perfect! the man exclaimed delightedly, I’ll take her; a present for my granddaughter. It’s her birthday tomorrow—glad you were still open.

The two of them waited for the little dancer to stop twirling; then she was gift wrapped and ready to go to her new home.

Meanwhile, Joric had walked to the back of the shop and was now running his eyes along the shelves of bric-a-brac. His attention was drawn to a wooden box intricately carved with undulating patterns of grape and vine; it appeared to be very old. He looked at the price tag—a bargain at nineteen dollars and fifty cents—and counted his money. Drat, only seventeen dollars and a few coins; oh for a few dollars more! He’d have to plead poverty and ask for a discount.

Joric couldn’t believe his luck when he opened the little clasp on the side of the box and it swung open on brass hinges to reveal a beautifully bound book. A book?

The government had ordered that all books be impounded and it was certainly not permissible to sell them anymore. Reading material was now only available on Holographic Versatile Disc, having been carefully assessed and edited with educational guidelines vigorously applied. By now every household should have taken their literature to the closest depot where names and addresses were electronically filed for future compensation, possibly by way of goods in kind obtainable from the Information HVD Store or State shops. Joric wouldn’t darken their doors in his spare time; that was for sure. Those were the kind of places where his work ended up, helping to substitute all the books in the world with Oneworld government propaganda and inaccurate easy-viewing trash. Some historical items on HVD bore his name, but certainly not his stamp of approval.

Joric suspected that there’d be many people who’d hidden favourite volumes and nervously awaited the knock of officialdom on their front door.

Joric glanced up as the shop door opened. A truck had pulled up outside and two men were busy offloading furniture. The saleslady smiled apologetically in Joric’s direction, indicating that she hadn’t forgotten him.

I’ll be with you soon. I first have to check-in a consignment from a deceased estate. The truck is holding up traffic.

No problem. I am quite happy back here—just browsing my way along the shelves.

He turned his back to the shop front, took the volume out of its box and read the gold embossed title on the cover—The Mystery of the Fellowship. He then quickly returned the book to its hiding place and fastened the clasp.

It wasn’t only literature that had been targeted. Many freedoms of the past were rapidly being curtailed and restrictions placed on all manner of previously enjoyed intellectual pursuits, along with a clamp down on all that was considered immoral or antisocial.

The Internet, known as the Information Hi-way and commonly referred to as ‘Hi,’ was centralised in Brussels and filtered to the Oneworld from the rigid control of its regulatory body. It was now within the bounds and bondage of the New Order’s governmental net. Access to porn and political websites deemed undesirable had been blocked or curtailed, blogging had been outlawed and of course books no longer appeared on-line. Yet Hi-way spyware had trapped many a cyber-dissident or ‘sourcerer’ of illegal information.

Cardozo once said Freedom of expression is the matrix, the indispensable condition, of every kind of freedom. The Oxford & Cairo defined a matrix as an environment in which something developed. The counterfeit matrix being worked upon by the New Order, ironically tagged as NO, was the very antithesis of Cardozo’s understanding of freedom as it deceived the unsuspecting majority into believing that they were free indeed.

But was true freedom to be gained by simply having the entire world’s uncensored grand poetry and prose readily available? This sceptic bookworm seriously doubted it, and he should know after all the reading and pen pushing he’d done. The mystically titled book he’d discovered might just throw some light on the subject, and an otherworldly sixth sense whispered in his ear that he really ought to read it even though he suspected that the subject matter wasn’t going to be his cup of tea. What if it turned out to be socio-political, or worse, socio-religious? Perchance he was in for a leap of faith!

As he was well aware, biblically branded books were being handled at NO’s so-called Divine Division, a totally secure section of the Socio-Religious Department where such books were analysed and disposed of by properly trained DD staff. Considered dangerous, they were certainly not to be coveted by acquisitive collectors as keepsakes from a lapsed literary era. Mystery? Fellowship? He needed a liberal dose of both in his rather drab and dreary life.

Joric closed the box and took a deep breath. He was going to take up the challenge and see to it that by hook or by crook, he’d be the owner of the book!

The question now arose as to whether he should mention the contents of the box to the pretty blonde assistant, or trust that she would simply take his money and wrap the little treasure chest unopened. She glanced in his direction, a comforting spark from the corner of her eye once again acknowledging his presence. Joric knew instinctively that he should nurture the warmth of her gesture and responded with his most endearing smile. She looked delectably sweet, and he reckoned that she was also probably quite naïve. Yes, he’d take a gamble and keep the box closed.

The decision immediately made him feel guilty. Here he was, a totalitarian Federal employee of all people, about to take forbidden fruit not meant for extramural consumption. The sudden thought that he actually existed under the rule of a tyrannical Mediterranean megalomaniac made him realise that he shouldn’t take such a harebrained risk—a risk that might end up with him out on the street, behind bars—or worse! He’d almost lost his head there for a moment on a mad hatter’s flight of fancy.

The truck had pulled off but the striking saleslady was now waylaid once more, helping a couple she seemed to know, judging from