Cameron's Bluff

By Seth Bird

How would you react if your childhood nightmare began tormenting your present?

Scott Larsson, a gifted yet troubled man, finds himself descending, almost hopelessly, into the life he dreamt of and feared as a child. After finding his curious cat cozied up by the wood-burner, merely minutes after laying the creature to rest beneath a mysterious tree, he finds himself lost between times.

Scott is caught in a paradox, where reality reflects his dreams and people from his dreams show up in his life, but how can he prove these people are really from his dreams? Does his secret illness alter his reality?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463828533

Seth Bird

Seth Bird writes fantasy and science fiction from his home in Hampshire and a winter escape in Finland. His former professional career in Psychology gives him a broad palette of experience to adapt into his gripping novels, leaving the reader wondering, ‘Do I do that behaviour too?’ With a broad interest in Astrophysics that he weaves into his plots, you’ll be asking yourself, ‘Is this for real, or is this just fantasy?’

Book preview

About the Author

Seth Bird writes fantasy and science fiction from his home in Hampshire and a winter escape in Finland. His former professional career in Psychology gives him a broad palette of experience to adapt into his gripping novels, leaving the reader wondering, ‘Do I do that behaviour too?’ With a broad interest in Astrophysics that he weaves into his plots, you’ll be asking yourself, ‘Is this for real, or is this just fantasy?’

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Dedications

Dedicated to Michael Thatcher, and to all creative people who use their imagination to enable love and compassion.

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Cameron's Bluff

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018, Seth Bird

The right of Seth Bird to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

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www.austinmacauley.com

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Cameron's Bluff, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 9781788482813 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788482837 (E-Book)

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First Published in 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers.LTD/

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

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Chapter One

For Christ’s sake leave me alone, I know he’s going to die, do you think I’m stupid?

He was becoming a pain in the arse, waking me up at sparrow’s fart, five days in a row.

It’s not as if I hadn’t bloody realised his time was short. The Indian was beginning to wear me down.

Urging me out into the forest if the poor sod so much as looked out the window.

This morning was no different, my eyes reluctantly opening to the dark, and again he’s off. No, Get yourself a coffee, let’s follow him when you’re dressed.

Oh no! More like, Come, we go follow, before too late!

Too many early mornings and I was mighty sick of him recently, I’d have dug out my own ears if I thought it would shut him up. If only it were that easy. He’s in my fucking head and learning ways around my disregard…

It’s just a cat, what’s your problem you leather clad Comanche!

Not Comanche, Lakota Sioux… one day you remember!

Good, well I’ll be buggered if I’m rushing out at this time, and if you keep this up I’ll stick my head in the gas oven, so help me God!

Don’t be so hard on yourself, he’s only trying to help.

Huh, Funny! Who asked you… can’t you see the time? It’s 4.45 in the morning again, what don’t you get?

I sat exhausted.

Staring over the golden sun-tinged and frozen heather, daydreaming, I’m miles away as dawn’s light grows. Minus 14 degrees outside, icy paintings of intricate, frosty feathers grown to perfection across the windows this January morning. A blackbird jostled down from its roost, hooting excitedly, jolting me back to the present, dropping me back into the here and now, perched on a kitchen stool, coffee gradually kicking in. Among the remains of last night’s logs in the wood burner, a faint ember glowed. The house was cool, but with a quick riddle, a turn of the damper and a few logs, the stove glowed back to life. Soon warmth returned and old Chester, our ancient and fading cat stretched, then staggered from his snug hairy pit in the corner of the settee, back onto the fur in front of the fire. We’d been saying that this old smelly creature was not long of this world, but somehow he keeps on with his daily routine of eating and sleeping and peeing in the corner right next to his litter tray, deliberately. Almost as if to say, I’m not getting in that stinky box. This was something I viewed with disgust. Threatening him numerous times, I’d take him out into the woods and free him of his tired stiff old bones with my rifle. I never could bring myself to do it though, as he was quite the friendliest cat ever; always greeting me with gentle, trusting, half-purr, half-meow chirps and a forehead shin massage, notwithstanding the inevitable fishy dribble that went with it. He’d used his allocation of lives long since, clinging on to the ninth like a limpet. And when I say, clinging on, it’s more than a metaphor in his case, age seems to have addled the retract ability of his claws, so having him on your lap—if you ignored the musky scent—was like having a spiked Velcro toy attached, if you got up without unhooking him! His longevity is astonishing, twenty-nine human years at least, maybe even a record of some kind? It’s even more impressive as this winter is as hard as I can ever remember and on his brief forays into the woods, he seems to come back with more spring in his wobbly steps than he went out with, and this lasts well into the evening. Nonetheless he’s just an old cat, yet the Indian was creating a mini hell by depriving me of sleep, it was bad enough without his help!

I’d had the damn nightmare again, waking me at 2 am. A bizarre vision of who I was to be. The premonition tormenting me my whole life, an image I’d grown to loath for its 47 years of dogged persistence. One of me as an old man with a Labrador, living on my own in a bleak solitary croft in the mountains, in the highlands of Scotland. My wife laying murdered in a small grave I’d hewn out of the scree at the back of the house. A dreadful image I’d had from a very young age. I remember answering the routine question during childhood from wondering parents, teachers and other adults of, What do you want to be when you grow up? My dream conditioned and quite short reply being,

I’m going to be an old man with a pipe and a beard, living in a mountain cottage with my dead wife and a dog! I’d say it gruffly too, as if I meant it… Always raised eyebrows and wishes that they hadn’t asked…

Why should a young boy have such a desire? Little did I know that old Chester was soon to lead me to the answer, with terrifying consequences.

Building timber-framed houses for a living wasn’t so exciting after twenty years. As is typical of midlife, I began to need more purpose, feeling there must be more to life than knocking up luxury oak homes. My beautiful wife Becky loved me dearly—more than I deserved I suspect—and my children had become their own people and more remote, as is the nature of things. I’d always managed to survive and was doing well for myself; however, at forty-seven, I needed something else, or I would end up as I dreamed I would as a child.

Still playing rugby, despite my age and unable to listen to my Inner Parent’s pleadings again – to retire from the battering, bleeding and week-long stiffness that followed! I was at home on Saturday afternoon, due to yet another injury. I noticed Chester about to head off on one of his woodland forays whilst splitting some logs. Out the cat flap he went in his usual comical ‘try not to let the flap close on my tail’ kind of way. I had to be wary not to let him see me follow him, he was always a very secretive cat outside. I let him get to the stile, the forty or so feet away that led into the woods at the back of the garden. We lived half a mile from our nearest neighbour, so it was always quiet. I followed, thinking he wouldn’t be far into the woods, as his trips were always very brief. Once I’d crept up to the stile and peered down the track, I was staggered to see him nearly out of sight deep in the woods! Fantastic pace for an old cat that can barely manage a wobbly walk at best. Over the stile I went, unbelievably having to rush to keep up! I followed at least three miles into the forest, unable to gain any ground. Further on both of us went, now beginning to climb the Blackdown Hills. For some reason, I began to think that Chester’s latest outing might be his last. Animals always know when their end is near, and cats in my experience tend to go and find a ‘special’ place to meet their maker. I was beginning to dread what I might find when I finally caught up with him. On another mile or so and then, on a path I had been down many times before, looming like a gigantic green Hydra, something grasped my attention. Such was the grip, I lost thought and sight of Chester momentarily. But there on the path raised up on a small false summit to the main Blackdown Hill was an immense and eerie Oak tree.

Large trees were not unusual for these woods, but this tree dominated its neighbours. However, the thing that stood out like a whore in a convent, was the fact that it was fully covered in bright, spring-fresh green leaves in the middle of one of the coldest winters for years! I was stopped in my tracks, but soon began walking towards the huge may-green tree, pondering an explanation for this bizarre phenomenon. Suddenly, I realised I had lost track of Chester, looking all around, but he was nowhere to be seen. I thought he must have gone into the dense undergrowth, and I was furious with myself for what I felt was losing him for good. Again, I checked around and called him—I don’t know why, he was as deaf as a post! Realising I wouldn’t find him, I began investigating this amazing tree.

As I got closer, the size became more striking and soon the gnarled old root structure and deeply fissured bark revealed a most beautiful old tree with a trunk too wide for even my whole family to link arms around. But why was it in full leaf now? Thoughts rushed through my mind infused with a sense of excitement; however this was quickly dashed as there, curled up in a cosy ball, nestled among one of the many twisted root bundles, upon a nest of dried grass, was dear old Chester, looking as peaceful as I have ever seen him. I was so relieved, greeting him in the usual way by gently stroking his head. Being very deaf, sudden moves usually made him jump, as he couldn’t hear things approaching, not good if he was on your lap! But this time, it was different, very different! I was filled with a sense of sadness and relief all at once, for old Chester was stone cold and quiet stiff.

My earlier senses were right for a change; he had indeed come out to die. He must have been to this same spot many times before as there was a good deal of his fur lining the ‘nest’. The tree had now gone to the back of my mind and memories of Chester and his pure friendliness began to overwhelm my thinking. Chester was truly a people cat, he loved being handled and made a fuss of. He would even hold your hand with his quite a large feet, gently gripping with his needle-like claws, never too hard. He’d lived a good life, to a great age for a cat. In his prime, he was a big chap, with a big belly and was a cunning scrounger at meal times. However, he had recovered from a stroke over the last five or six years, but never fully, becoming very thin—but always bright in his eyes and young in his face. Finally, dear old Chester had gone to the great mouse forest in the sky, but now I had a dilemma. Do I leave him here in what appears to be blissful heaven, curled up upon his self-appointed deathbed, or do I take him home and bury him in the garden beside Attila? Attila being another large cat we’d had, who met his maker rather more rapidly at the hands of a cretin in charge of a VW Golf in our narrow country lane. If I left him here, I was guessing that the foxes and crows would pick him to the bone, not the ending for such a good friend that Becky would like, but in the back of my mind, lurking with the imaginary ‘Sioux brave’ character—my lifelong alter ego and Native American Indian ‘friend’ Running Bear—I was thinking that this was truly a wonderful sacred spot, a spiritual place far away from disturbance, where I could come and visit to remember him. My mind was made up.

However, the thought of foxes and crows tearing his old carcass to bits didn’t sit well with me, despite Running Bear in my mind insisting, This a good death, the crow and the fox help his spirit to happy hunting ground! I compromised and spent the next couple of hours gathering boulders and gently piled them over his old body into a small memorial. Once complete, I gave him a last goodbye and left this beautiful spot, tinged with sadness.

When I began the three or four mile walk home, I again became aware of how cold it was. The frost hadn’t cleared all day and there was still snow from a brief flurry over four weeks ago. I hadn’t even noticed the cold while I tended to Chester, I must have been lost in the moment. Now, however, I was feeling icy cold and my hands were hurting, especially the twice rugby broken thumb! Give it up, again pleaded the Inner Parent. One day, one day, I replied, Running Bear also bemused. Thoughts now were turning to how I was going to break the news to Becky. It wouldn’t be too upsetting I guessed, considering his stroke five years ago, but losing a friend is never easy, and I was still upset. Becky will be even more so, animals were her life. She was sadly never able to have children when she wanted them, but made up for it by piling huge amounts of love, care and attention upon her pets. We had a horse, a cat and a great dog called Magnus. As I approached the house, the weather seemed to brighten up despite the cold, and what must now be nearing dusk. With thoughts of that wonderful old tree and poor Chester in my mind, I expected to see Becky’s car parked in the drive given the time. But she wasn’t home yet. The smoky scent from the wood burners’ chimney always made me feel like I was home. I hopped over the stile, made my way to the back door and went in. Switching on the kettle, I walked through to the living room and was immediately stunned by what I thought was impossible—a phantom, a dreadful mistake!—but there, curled up in his usual place on the settee, was Chester, ragged as usual, but warm, sleepy and still alive!

Immediately, the obvious explanations ran through my head; no wonder he moved so fast through the woods, no wonder I couldn’t keep up—it couldn’t have been Chester. I must have entombed another dead black cat! All that time, all that effort, I know I’d had a beer with lunch, but I wasn’t pissed. Maybe I was? What a prat! Embarrassment started to creep its ugly head into my psyche. Running bear mocked me, Why you not listen?

Would I tell Becky about my afternoon? I quickly began inventing reasons why I shall say nothing to anybody of this ghoulish and humiliating farce. Why wasn’t Becky home yet? Why was it still so bright outside? It must be nearly five! I looked at the old clock and was stunned; the time read 1:30 p.m.! I ran to the clock in the kitchen… 1:30 p.m. I fell into the chair, weak-kneed. According to the clocks, I had been gone no longer the thirty minutes! Impossible, I thought… I looked at Chester who seemed to have developed an uncanny but comforting grin.

The phone rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin! It was Becky.

Would you open the gate around half past four? I’ll be home in about two and a half hours, she said. We would always do this for each other as it made driving in easier, but I could barely speak!

Scott, you still there? she said. Err, yes, yes, sorry.

Everything okay?

"Err, yes — well, kind of, I’ll tell you when you get home. Nothing serious," I added, hoping to pacify her worrying mind.

You sure? she said. Yeah, yeah, I replied, by now trying to hurry her off! The time ‘really’ by now was 1:45 p.m. I knew the track in the woods; I’d have around two hours to get back to that weird but beautiful tree and check out my sanity before Becky was home and darkness would fall. I hurried out into the cold crisp afternoon sunshine, it seemed even colder now. I’d been no longer than five minutes into the return journey when I came to the track where I should have turned off, but this time, it seemed different. I couldn’t be sure which path to take. In the woods, many of the paths are very similar looking and the trees in their bleak winter bareness offered no clues. I scanned around, desperately trying to see what ought to be an obvious mass of green among the vast empty canopy.

Nothing…

My mind raced for explanations. Perhaps the upset of seeing what I thought was Chester, dead, deep in the woods had fooled me into this false sense of time. Maybe the journey into the woods was shorter than I had first appreciated? That must be it. I had followed another cat, found a similar one dead, got upset, nostalgic, etcetera, lost my sense of time and that was that. Now, all I needed to do was find the tree, undo the stony monument and confirm that I wasn’t barking loopy. So where’s the bloody tree? Further down the track I went until dusk started to creep in. I had to turn back now or it would be dark, and I had no torch. Still no tree, bugger! It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

On my way back, I’m thinking that Becky would be sure to ask what was wrong earlier. Should I tell her? Well, having already decided to seek out the magnificent Oak tree tomorrow, I knew I’d need to say something—just be honest, I thought, and maybe we could look for the tree together, take Magnus for a good long walk.

So it was to be, I was just quick enough to get the gate before she got out of the car. In she came and before anything else, looked at me and asked if I was OK. Fine, why do you ask? I replied.

Well, you look really well, like you’ve been on holiday! Like, better than I’ve seen you in ages. And not only that, but earlier you sounded really odd.

Not sure what you mean about the way I look, but I can explain about earlier, my reply, her now looking a little suspicious. I told her about my weird afternoon.

I explained to her what had happened, and we agreed to go out tomorrow and find the huge beautiful tree and the memorial I had built, in what I now perceived to be a mild state of confusion.

I remember the following evening well. I felt excited for the first time in a while and Becky’s earlier comments about how well I looked seemed to be confirmed, for when I washed my hands before supper and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I had a slight tan, a good rosy glow to my cheeks and my hair seemed sun bleached. Best of all, I felt full of energy. Must go for more walks outside, I thought. After supper, we discussed the many tracks in the woods that we don’t usually use and Chester’s ability to cling on to his mortal coil. The fire burned well that night with more bluishness to the flames than normal, reminding me of my Irish uncle, who used to advise of imminent intense cold weather approaching when the fire burned blue. We retired at around 10:00 p.m., and I dozed off to sleep eagerly anticipating tomorrow’s trip.

Despite Running bear relenting at last, I woke up earlier than usual the following morning, yet it seemed bright for so early.

I peeled back the curtains and was greeted by a howling north-easterly, near white-out conditions and ice on the inside of the windows! My excitement now erupted! From a very young age, I had loved the snow. I pestered Becky out of her slumber and urged to look at the winter wonderland. Great, she said with a note of sarcasm. She glimpsed at the clock and grumbled that I should close the curtains and wake her when it was later,

The time was 6:00 a.m. and Sunday morning was her lie-in time. I left her in peace and went downstairs to save the last embers of fire, and watch the snow falling from the comfort of a cosy crackling wood burner.

With at least twenty inches of level snow and deep drifts building in the lee of the house, passing the window ledges six inches up the glass and all the hedges and fences, our small corner of Blackdown forest had become an arctic snowscape! The snow still falling hard, an intense and chaotic mix of different size flakes, making seeing past the end of the garden impossible. I sat and watched in childish awe for what would be about two hours. By then, the snow had eased, as had the wind and diamond dust drifted in the icy breeze, twinkling as bursts of winter sun pierced the clouds. Becky called down, Is it still snowing? she inquired, Only lightly now, but it’s been tipping down for a good two hours since I woke, I replied. She drew back the curtains and shouted out, Wow! The fences and hedges were now indistinguishable from the lawn, and the windows on the ground floor facing the weather were completely covered. I took up a cup of fresh coffee for her, but by the time I was upstairs, she was dressed in her snow suit and teased me, What are you waiting for? She had a liking for snow despite her earlier sleepy reluctance. However, this was no ordinary snow! It had been a freak blizzard for these parts, and she wasn’t going to miss out on the fun. I hurriedly dressed, hopping and trying not to trip while pulling my socks on. Once into the pristine squeakiness we pelted each other in soft snowballs, larking around, jumping into the huge drifts to make snow angels, all the while being watched by Magnus, our dog, who couldn’t quite get his head around the depth of the snow. It was way passed his snout. He tried to come out but quickly turned back when he realised that no matter how hard he bounded through it, it kept on going up his nose, down his ears and in his eyes. He fought his way back indoors and watched from the upstairs window yelping questioningly, all the while. You could almost feel his urge to play. It was his half-bark, half-whelp that said ‘Me, me, what about me?’

It wasn’t long before our hands were painfully cold, so we came in to thaw them. This always hurts, You never learn, Inner Parent quipped, Running Bear mystified that two normally sane people could get so excited about ‘a bit of snow’. This wasn’t even a one dog winter to him. Winters being gauged by the amount of dogs he’d need in his bed to keep him warm at night on the plains of Dakota.

We warmed up, had a good hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, beans, fried bread and good fresh coffee. Over breakfast, Becky sensibly advised that our trip into the woods ought to be postponed as it would be very hard going in such deep snow. I almost found myself agreeing, but the urge to go was too great, protesting that the paths were fully exposed by the icy blasting wind from the north-east. We’d only have to negotiate the deep lying snow in the bowl of the garden, then take care passing further drifts we might come across, plus the sun was peeking out and it really was looking magnificent out there.

Okay then. She surprisingly agreed,

We’ll go, but not for too long! I gathered our walking boots, a camera and a compass and made up a nice flask of hot coffee, cutting a couple of wedges of Christmas cake to bring. Becky came in to the kitchen and looked at me with a ‘we’re not going out for good’ look on her face when she saw the provisions.

It’ll be nice to have a snack out in the snow when we’re cold! I hastily added. She just shook her head slowly, a mildly amused half grin and a raised eyebrow betrayed her thoughts, that she had married an overgrown boy scout.

With our winter gear on and a snack in my ruck sack, we ventured out into the frozen landscape. Leaving Magnus at home, a desert bred Saluki and not equipped with the coat required for deep snow and ice. We trudged through the deep lying snow of the garden and over the stile into the woods, where the snow had mostly blown from the path, being so cold and powdery. There was enough to get your boots into and it was too cold for it to be slippery, the thin layer making that lovely, squeaky, crunching sound that fresh fallen snow