Jon Nowthen

By Ian Whippey

Jon Nowthen leaves the apathetic city in search of love and/or adventure.
Hopefully, both.
However, he discovers a metaverse full of far more than he ever thought was possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Whippey
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463294727

Book preview

Chapter One

It was obvious that the morose-tinted evening was mourning. There was an ominous sense of oppressive lethargy souring the moment. The immanence of Jon Nowthen’s departure seemed like a pessimistic consequence as insistent rain appeared to be attempting to drown all life in the apathetic city with its despondent tears of sorrow and despair.

Jon was meditatively thankful to be sitting in the train. His holdall was safely stowed away on the rack above his head, and the pulse of his heart was quickening with the mounting excitement of anticipation. The magazines he had bought to defer and while-away any boredom during the journey lay in a discarded pile on the threadbare and dusty seat beside him. He was alone, and beginning to grow a little impatient for the train to lurch forward, so as to introduce him to his own impulsively constructed and designated future.

His destination – a small village, supposedly nestling within comfortably contoured folds of Cotswold countryside – was called Adlestrop. Jon had never been to Adlestrop before. Neither did he know anyone living in the vicinity. In fact, his only validity for going there – and Jon was still contemplating this – was because the rubicon of his past had already pointed to his oncoming future.

His spontaneous attitude would, perhaps, lead most observers to believe that he was some kind of eccentric. But, in his own mind, his reasoning was straight-forward; his actions merely tacitly concurring with the three darts he had mysteriously acquired that very morning. It was his birthday, and Jon, in a lonely act of self-pity, had pinned a large road and rail map of the British Isles to one of his bed-sit walls, and he had then thrown the darts at the map in a fighting effort to throw off the yoke of frustrating monotony which he felt was striving to suffocate his soul. It was, in a sense, a silent scream for help to the unknown writer of his fate.

The first dart had pointed to the letter ‘S’ of the North Sea as a proposed recess from the city bedlam, but this had offered Jon no real view of satisfaction. The second dart had prescribed the choice of Adlestrop; while the third had suggested the uninvigorating prospect of the mouth of the River Severn. So, and in immediately acting upon a vague impulse, Jon had decided to escape his negative existence and go in search of fulfillment - if there was any to be had - at the map-reference located by the second dart.

He felt a sense of relief as the fractal chaos of the drowning city was left behind. He was comforted by the vitality of colour that filtered between the opaque teardrops of rain dribbling remorselessly down the carriage window.  Shades of green quickly replaced the dirty greys. Trees stood motionless in the fading light of day – their elaborately multi-hued and autumnal-dressed branches stretched out to the world, as if imploring for their own deities to come and breathe in on the splendours of their own creation. Nature deserves an untroubled sleep this winter, Jon thought.

The magnanimous exhilaration within Jon’s mind was boundless. He could feel liberty flooding his heart with euphoric energy. He couldn’t remember leaving the city before in such an unfettered state of mind. He knew he had sampled the sweet taste of freedom in his childhood; for then, he had had no understanding of the constantly recurring nature of problems and strife in life. But now, through the adult reality of age, the childish naivety was gone. He had no desire to remain just an insignificant cog in the unfathomable relativity of the universe. His intention was to step out from under the shadows of discontent, so as to reap the optimistic sunlight. He desired, more than anything, to find and to share love; to feel wanted as part of his own family. However, if this was not to be forthcoming, then he would settle for adventure. He wanted, at least, a sense of fulfilment; a challenge that would afford him satisfaction with life.

He was still a young man – in his middle twenties – and, as yet, without even the suggestion of a beer-belly. Essentially, Jon was a little taciturn; a bit of a loner – though, in the light of his own shy and humble truth, a loner who wasn’t entirely secure with the internal comfort of being left with only his own company. Outwardly, his sensitive brown eyes and external leonine charm and confidence usually ensured his acquisition of the remedy to most of his passing needs – be it the evil of employment, or the pleasure of romantic attachment. He had never particularly desired material objects. He didn’t even own a watch. And, he had always been more interested in truth and idealism, than the beguiling, web-like and imprisoning desires of religion and capitalism.

He rarely needed, or felt, any desire to wear anything more formal than a pair of faded jeans, a rumpled and plain t-shirt, and a brown suede jacket that was obviously well beyond its prime. He had bought the jacket a few years previously, second-hand, from a friendly fellow at a jumble sale, and he had refused to be parted from it ever since – even though various girlfriends had suggested otherwise. His shoes were also old and in need of replacement; but they were still comfortable and, therefore, still some distance from being replaced. His dark, tousled hair was usually unkempt and overly long, but fashion and style were not his forte. And, sometimes, he wished he could discover just exactly what was.

A squeaky noise, made by the carriage door as it was opened, caught Jon’s attention, and he found himself confronted by a large man wearing an off-white linen jacket with plaited epaulettes of golden string, and baggy, charcoal coloured trousers. The lower half of the man’s left sleeve was covered by a white cotton towel which was splattered with brown stains. His friendly and slightly podgy face was topped with busy, ginger eyebrows, and a shock of carrot coloured hair. Jon took him to be a railway steward.

Just lettin’ yer know the bar’s open in the middle carriage, sir, the steward said.

Thanks, Jon replied. By the way, he added as an afterthought, how long will it take to reach Adlestrop?

Ooo! the steward answered, while proceeding to wriggle his eyebrows in a silently comical expression of deep thought. ’Bout an ‘our from ‘ere, mate. Providin’ we keep the wind be’ind us.

Jon smiled as the steward left the carriage with twinkling eyes and chuckling to himself. Jon got up, slid the door shut, then went back to his seat by the window and peered out into the enveloping darkness.

Even though the defeated twilight was embroiled in a ragged and rapid retreat from the totalitarianism of unreasoning night, Jon was still granted the vantage and favour to view the waning vestiges of spacious countryside that were now constantly passing his carriage window. Here and there in the deeper darkness was the occasional glimpse of sheep and cattle chewing contentedly on grass or cud – with some of the cows lumbering methodically towards the evening liberation to the cream of their circadian rhythms. In the further distance, the lights of a small town seemed to encroach upon Jon’s solitude, and appeared to lure the train towards it. He relaxed into his dusty seat, raised his feet to rest them on the seat opposite, and closed his eyes to listen to the hypnotic click-clack mantra of the train passing over the jointed railway tracks and to picture the existence he was leaving behind.

Through the disappointing experiences of his working years, Jon had grown tired and disillusioned with being expected to sweat and slave in order to further someone else’s fortune and greed. He had had enough of being constantly harangued by the insidiously false promises of advertising. He was weary of the cynical abuse constantly committed by uncaring and obfuscating politicians and multinational corporations. He was certain, despite the lack of a university education, that life was not meant to be wasted in pursuing what other people selfishly expected or demanded of him. He had never been interested in chasing any dream that materialism had to offer. All he had was his will to survive, and this had taken a lot of mental and physical punishment over the years – especially from some of the foster-parents who had had no real understanding of love, or of lonely, unwanted children.

What armour, Jon wondered, can protect the soul against the crippling strife of loneliness and, at the same time, defend against the nefarious subterfuge of capitalism? Is it really possible for everyone to be successful in acquiring enough of both love and money? No, of course not, he decided; and yet, he also realised that, paradoxically, these are two human shibboleths that endeavour to keep the world turning, while, in correlation, being two of the main sources for many human problems – one of these problems being the complication of the equation mutating out of balance, and often degenerating into the love of money. Most people are sane enough to agree, Jon viewed, that it’s not everything to win – even though many so-called relationships are nothing more than power struggles; yet, most people will still compete, in some way, and will not be put off.

Jon’s mind wandered back to his childhood. Apparently, he had been found only hours after his birth abandoned in a telephone kiosk. His parents had never been traced, and he had been raised on a diet of foster-homes and government sponsored boarding schools.

He had been named Jon by the nurse who had first tended to his needs after he had been found. The name ‘Nowthen’ had stuck because the nurse would often whisper the refrain: ‘Nowthen, Jon. Nowthen,’ whenever he had found the need to cry his baby tears.

A sense of somehow being different to his peers and contemporaries had remained with Jon from his earliest memories. There were times, also, when he felt as though something important was about to happen. And, even though the sensation would persist, sometimes for hours or even days at a time, nothing ever did.

Jon’s thoughts were interrupted by the steward gently tapping him on the shoulder.

’Ere, mate, said the steward. Come on. You’d better wake up. You’re ‘ere now. We’re coming into Adlestrop.

Cheers, Jon replied. It’s alright. I wasn’t asleep. I was just thinking.

Yer. Well, whatever. It’s all the same to me. But you’d better ‘urry up – unless you wanna end up in Worcester!

Jon stood up and stretched – while silently wondering how he hadn’t noticed the train making any of the programmed stops at stations previous to Adlestrop.

You were lucky I were passin’ yer door, said the steward. Or you’d ‘ave missed yer stop. You wan’ ‘and wiv yer bag?

No thanks. But you could keep the outside door open for me ‘til I get there.

Sure thing, said the steward, who then disappeared down the corridor in order to comply with Jon’s request.

Jon quickly grabbed his holdall from off the rack. Then, after bundling his magazines under one arm, he hurried down the corridor in search of the exit. Through the passage windows he could see the station name – ADLESTROP – slowly passing by. As the train came to a shuddering halt, Jon found the steward standing by the open exit door, smiling a huge grin.

Come on, mate, said the steward. You’ll ‘ave to ‘urry. We only stop ‘ere for ‘alf a nano.

Jon smiled in appreciation, thanked the steward for his assistance, and clambered down the steps to the station platform whilst, at the same time, accidentally dropping his magazines onto the wet flagstones. As he bent to pick them up he heard the carriage door slam shut and the train begin to move off. He straightened and turned to say goodbye to the steward, but he had gone – leaving Jon standing alone on the platform, watching the train fade and disappear into the dark maw-like void of the night.

As the sound of the train’s engine was muffled and overcome by multiples of distance Jon felt a sharpening pang of loneliness. In a blunt attempt to alleviate this, he turned his attention to the station which was now to play host to his sense of adventure.

* * *

The station appeared empty of life – except for Jon, and badly lit. He was careful to avoid numerous puddles as he made his way toward the exit sign at the far end of the platform. The station buildings and the wooden and cast-iron fittings looked in dire need of a coat of paint. The air smelt of rust and despondency. Jon glanced at the railway tracks and saw them to be overgrown with weeds and rubbish. The continuous rain gave off an atmosphere of tearful rejection. Only a couple of weak electric lights made it look as though anyone ever had any need to visit the station. And yet, even with all this melancholia, the station still seemed to be, somehow, somnambulantly poetic in its sturdy, stoical silence.

Jon was beginning to question his own decision to bring himself to such a place. But as he passed the waiting-room, through the open doorway he could see the warm, amber glow of a coal fire. He could see its friendliness flickering on the inside walls. The fire’s shadowy fingers seemed to be reaching out, towards Jon, enticing him with the promise of warmth – and, perhaps, some company.

He stepped through the doorway to find that he was still alone. By the fireside was an ancient-looking rocking-chair, which was gently rocking backwards and forwards as though it had recently been vacated. Jon glanced around the rest of the room, at the same time calling Hello, to see if anyone was waiting in the darkened corners. But no answers came, except the room’s hollow reverberations.

The sound of his own footsteps followed Jon as he walked across the room to the time-scarred rocking-chair. He placed his holdall and magazines on the floor next to the wooden chair and sat down. There was little else in the room. Set against the wall on the right-hand side of the fireplace was a small oak table. On the hearthstone was a battered brass bucket, half-filled with damp looking coal, with a small brass shovel placed casually on top. A few old posters proclaiming the advantages of rail-travel and holidays in foreign climates were the only scattered adornments to the walls. A couple of the posters were in tatters, with torn strips hanging limply or fallen forlornly onto the floor. There were no windows. The fire looked as though it had been recently stocked with coal and was burning quite fiercely. There was no other light in the room. Jon knelt down on the hearthstone and held out his hands to warm them by the heat of the flames.

Hello, Jon! a woman’s voice said from out of the shadows behind him.

Jon was momentarily startled. He turned and saw a woman standing behind the rocking-chair. He gasped audibly as he felt a distant recognition. But, as he was unable to immediately place where his recognition came from, he busied himself for a moment by studying the woman.

At first, he thought he was looking at a ghost of some phantom memory. He wondered if it was his mind, or the light, that was playing tricks with his imagination. He felt positive that he knew her from somewhere, and that he could see right through her body.

He blinked, and during that single fragment of eternity the woman’s form became tangible. He shivered, without feeling cold. He silently joked with himself that someone must have just walked over his grave. He wondered if he might be dreaming. Perhaps he was having a nightmare while he was still awake. He wondered if there is such a thing as a daymare. He felt confused. Was she a ghost? Was she a memory? Or was she just a figment of his imagination?

He wasn’t sure whether the woman was young, or old, or somewhere in-between. She had long, light-coloured hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a curly profusion of artistic chaos. Even in the subdued firelight Jon could see that her green eyes were spellbinding. Her honey-coloured skin looked as soft as any sunset-tinted cloud, and her small pouting mouth seemed to infer many silent promises of the highest sensuality.

She was wearing a short, silky, white dress that clung almost provocatively to her shapely breasts and body. Her long, bare legs were perfection to Jon’s mind – as were her slender arms and graceful hands. Her tiny feet remained bare of any shoes.

As he stared at the woman Jon sensed an attraction which was so profound that he felt intoxicated. It was ridiculous, but he felt entirely ready to immediately fall in love. There was a mysterious presence about her which he found intriguing. There was something magical about her. Something, that if he was to try to explain it to someone else, they would probably laugh at him and tell him he was being a fool.

You startled me, Jon said, suddenly finding his voice as he stood up and turned to face the woman. Anyway, how do you know my name?

You, Jon, are from my past, answered the woman. And, you are also from my future. I am from your future, and also from your past. You, Jon, in your present state, cannot accept this future without your mind relating to your past, as you remember it. All your present thoughts are related to your past. And all this is known to me.

The woman paused, as if to give Jon a little time in which to comprehend all that she had been saying. It didn’t make the slightest iota of sense to Jon. He didn’t understand a word of it. But, he didn’t say anything, and he motioned with his hand for her to continue.

You belong here, Jon Nowthen, as your own name denotes. Don’t laugh, though, or think of lunatic asylums, because you will discover, in due course, that I am speaking the truth. My name is Cereta. And, as yet, you wouldn’t know how much I have been looking forward to being with you again. Your visit here is not entirely through pure chance, as you think, but purposefully engineered. You sat on the time-chair for exactly nineteen point zero five one seconds. That simple act has brought you here, nineteen thousand and fifty one years’ forward from the time you started from.

Jon was thinking to himself that at least one of them was mad and belonged in a mental home – and he was certain that it wasn’t him. Nineteen thousand and fifty one years into the future! Hh! Good grief! It wasn’t that the chair was on rockers – but rather, that she was off hers! She was obviously completely insane. Beautiful, but bonkers!

I can see that you don’t believe me, Cereta said. So, I would suggest that you take a look outside. Then you can tell me what you see.

This proposal seemed, to Jon, to be somewhat pointless, as he could tell her from memory. But, seeing a prompting sparkle in Cereta’s eyes he resolved that he might as well humour her – at least for a little longer.

Cereta stepped back a couple of paces to let Jon pass. He walked purposefully to the open door and looked out.

Hh! At least it’s still night-time, he said, as he looked for the platform and the pouring rain. He noticed then, that strangely, the light was somehow different to how it was when he had first entered the waiting-room. The rain had stopped.

Why don’t you take a closer look? Cereta questioned, with an amused tone to her voice. Why not go outside. There’s a beautiful full moon.

Jon felt slightly niggled by Cereta’s tone of voice. He thought she might be laughing at him – and he didn’t like that. He compelled himself to put an end to the nonsense she had been telling him. So he pulled his ailing confidence together and stepped through the doorway while expecting to find himself standing on the concrete flagstones of the station platform. However, to his complete amazement and total disbelief, he saw that the platform and the rest of the station – apart from the open doorway to the waiting-room – had gone! Completely disappeared! All that was left, that he could see, was the open doorway – with firelight somehow playing on an inside wall that didn’t seem to be there, ankle length grass, and a forest of gigantically tall trees that were reaching up towards the light of a full moon!

Jon heard Cereta laugh. He turned and stepped back inside the waiting-room. He didn’t know what to say – or what to think! He didn’t know what to believe. He had never felt so dumbfounded; or so suddenly frightened!

There’s no need to feel so indignant, Jon, Cereta said. Neither is there any need to feel so worried. After all, you did come in search of adventure – if you remember! You weren’t to know that all this would take place. You still have much to rediscover about yourself!

Jon walked back to the fireplace with his mind in a maze of bewilderment. He felt numb. In a state of shock. What was happening? Surely all this couldn’t be real? He decided that he must be dreaming. Yes, that would explain it. The steward hadn’t woken him. He was still on the train, and all this nonsense was a dream. He reached the rocking-chair and looked for his holdall and magazines.

You won’t find them, Cereta said. Your belongings were left behind when you sat on the time-chair without holding them. But, don’t worry, Jon. You don’t need them.

Jon looked around the whole of the waiting-room, but his holdall and magazines were nowhere to be seen. He wondered for a moment how he could see the inside walls when he couldn’t while he was outside. He fumbled through his pockets – looking for his rail ticket. Finding it, he flourished it the air in front of Cereta – as if to show her that he did still have proof of his arrival by train. He had arrived by train. How could anyone dispute that? How can anyone arrive by rocking-chair? He began to feel a little uneasy as Cereta continued smiling.

If all this is true, he wondered, would he ever be able to get back to the time he had left? Moreover, how could he get back? By sitting on the rocking chair? But that might only take him further away in time! He wondered if it was all a joke. But, no, he suddenly realised that Cereta did seem to know his mind. Could she read his thoughts? She had been answering his questions almost as soon as he had been able to think of them.

His thoughts rambled on. Am I really here? Perhaps I am! No! No!  No! It’s too absurd! Too incredible! Too preposterous! Over nineteen thousand years into the future? No! Surely not! But, what if it was true? What had happened? Why had it happened? Yet, if it has happened, then ... why not? After all, as Cereta seemed to know, he had left the city in search of adventure.

Countless thoughts thrashed and cascaded through Jon’s mind – all of them tangling together like clothes in a washing machine. Question followed question. Theory followed theory. His mental and emotional confusions colliding and entwining together and making his mind feel like the entangled entrails of a soggy bramble bush.

He looked at Cereta and saw that she was still smiling. It was the kind of smile that seemed to state that she empathically understood everything he was thinking and feeling. She beckoned for him to sit with her by the fire.

Stop worrying yourself, Jon, she said softly, while seating herself on one of two white cushions that had appeared on the hearth. Jon had no idea where the cushions had come from, but he sat down on the spare cushion and looked at Cereta.

He could see the firelight reflected in her eyes. Through the thinness of her silky dress he could see the swell of her breasts rising and falling with her breathing. He felt so strongly attracted to her. Even through all the confusion still creating havoc in his mind he could feel an emotional yearning for her. He was positive that he had met her before, somewhere. He just couldn’t remember where. Or when. He reached out to touch her hand – to see if she was real, or just an illusion. He felt the need to ensure himself that she wasn’t just a figment of his unconscious desire let loose by the lonely reality of his own dreams.

No! Not yet! Cereta said, at the same time pulling back out of reach from Jon’s outstretched hand.

Sorry, Jon said. I’m not trying to attack you. I just wanted to see if you’re real. That’s all.

I know, Cereta said. And I am real. But when the time is right, and you have more knowledge of what you are about, then we can come together, in a complete reunion.

There was an air of mystery, and a sense of promise, in Cereta’s voice. Jon’s mind was again muddled by a further barrage of silent questions. Nothing seemed to make any sense. Every time Cereta spoke she seemed to confuse him even more. Her eyes were filled with honesty – and yet, at times, her words seemed to hint at truths that were too large to comprehend. And, Jon suddenly felt that if he did discover these truths, it could be that he would not like them.

Are you hungry? Cereta asked, breaking a short silence.

Jon instantly reflected that he was. Cereta gestured toward the oak table. On the table Jon could see a metal goblet and some thin wafer biscuits on a wooden platter. Like the cushions, Jon had no idea where they had come from. He stood up and walked over to the table.

I wouldn’t eat too many, Cereta advised. Those wafers are more filling than they look.

Don’t tell me, Jon said, with a wry grin. I bet it’s elf food, or something similar. Hh! And you’ve probably come here via Lothlórien!

Cereta didn’t answer. Jon picked one of the wafers and gingerly took a nibble. It was dry and tasteless – and it reminded him of his recent attempt at humour! There was no taste to the cold, clear liquid in the goblet either. Yet, the wafer and the liquid, together, were refreshing – and with a couple more wafers, surprisingly filling. Jon offered the food and drink to Cereta. She declined with a wave of her hand.

Come and sit with me by the fire, Jon, she said. I’ll explain a little more of what you need to know.

Jon did as requested. He didn’t dare to sit on the rocking chair for fear of it leaving him stranded in yet another time. He settled himself comfortably on the cushion and looked at Cereta with an expectant expression.

My brother, Norton, is being held prisoner by a suitor of mine, called 3on, Cereta began. We need you, Jon, to help free Norton.

I don’t really understand what you’re saying, Jon said. Why is your brother being held prisoner? And what’s it all got to do with me?

3on wants me for himself, Cereta explained. But my heart belongs to someone else.

As she said this, Jon felt a savage twinge of jealousy strike his heart.

I refused 3on’s advances, Cereta continued. 3on then kidnapped my brother. He has since stated that he will keep Norton hostage until I give myself to him. You, Jon, have assisted before. Many times. This is your destiny.

Hh! I don’t know about that, Jon replied, with complete disbelief. Destiny, or not, all this sounds like sheer lunacy to me.

You may think so, Cereta said. And, it is understandable. But I can see from your mind that you’re tired, Jon. Perhaps it would be wise for you to get some sleep. We can continue in the morning.

Cereta stood up and retrieved a large piece of silky, white cloth from out of the cushion she had been sitting on. It looked like the same kind of material as her dress. She proffered the cloth to Jon.

Here, she said. Use my cloak as a blanket for the night.

Jon found himself agreeing with her suggestion. All the confusion he was feeling was taking its toll. He could feel weariness creeping