Inside Mosac's Almanac Book1 'Tendrils from Heaven'

By Graham H Kershaw

Adventurous Science Fiction wrapped in Mystery, Dark Romance and Fantasy
Belan hates his boatyard job, but with a ghostly rogue dog haunting his movements sets off to work as usual. The dog follows him and a red light heralds his suicide. He almost dies, but is saved by an old friend who arranges to meet him to set up a new life in the forest, should Belan choose to do so. Belan though is still in love with Mauree, his unfaithful wife, and he determines to make things right with her there and then. Unfortunately events soon confirm her infidelity in no uncertain terms.
Now Belan finds he is close to his friend’s meeting place and in his distraught state decides to leave his old life for once and for all. From this moment on everything changes for him and neither he nor Mauree have much control over the events that follow. Belan meets a woodland lady and to discover more about her visits Mosac’s mysterious and enigmatic Progue Temple, after which he soon finds he possesses a disturbing almanac. Meanwhile he returns to this strange lady, and with her at his side finds he is on an unbidden quest to find Moolbol, a beast from Eichroous, the Universe before time.
Left alone, Mauree faces terrible guilt, and dreams consistently beckoning her to die – but something controls these dreams, haunts her at night; some nasty elfin diminutive she half recognises. Someone guides the married couple’s fate for sure. Mauree’s father had abandoned her so she turns to her sister and to one of her childhood friends for help. If they reject her it will complete her isolation. Her life hangs on a thread.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham H Kershaw
• Release date: Feb 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463368091

Graham H Kershaw

As a youngster I remember reading a book from cover to cover for the first time: ‘Lord Billy Bunter’. I was on a compulsory visit to the school library. This humble beginning launched me into the world of libraries and book shops.By the late 1960s I was reading a variety of books from James Bond, horror and science fiction to fact, those that inspired my imagination. On Saturday afternoons I used to wander around bookshops with my friends. I dreamed of writing a book of my own.The subject for this was easy: ‘science fiction’, my favourite genre. I thought up ideas and put pen to paper on an evolving tale about the distant future upon a remote planet called Drallagoon and its links to Earth. I remember mentioning my story to a friend who was keen to read it, but soon gave it up as a bad job. I had no idea how to structure such a long piece of work.I tried again with a new story called ‘Leaf’. As before there were bits of it that were okayish, but certainly not good enough to be read and enjoyed.Years passed, I got married and forgot the stories, unless I happened upon them. When I did, short versions and new tales were started and left abandoned. Then in 1990, with a three-year-old son, a large tumour developed in my head. After some unpleasant operations and several months rehabilitation I began a new life as a volunteer worker for Social Services. This also led to a resurgence of my fiction writing.MY ONLINE PICTURE WAS TAKEN AFTER THIS SURGERY.I enjoyed the new work, and though not well enough to pursue a proper job found I was able to offer welcome support to several resource centres - from ‘The City of Plymouth’ to ‘Tavistock Town’ (about 12 miles). I became interested in teaching adult students with 'learning disabilities', and undertook teaching qualifications to help there.After the completion of a ‘Certificate in Education’, followed by a course on organisation, I came across these old writings and decided to begin a new tale from them. My recent College and University work helped me to plan and organise, and the writing soon became an enjoyable hobby.To further improve my voluntary work I returned to the University - this time for a ‘B.A. in Education and Training’. My story writing stopped again, but when I did return to it I was fresh and suitably critical.Despite all this the story still wasn’t up to scratch. I knew nothing of ‘passive speech’, ‘show vs tell’ or ‘omniscient voice’, and my editing was poor and inconsistent. Nevertheless I did manage to prepare and bind the books to an acceptable standard; I also self published them and sent them off into the world all under my own steam and for nominal fees. My local main library even stocked one - for a while.I didn't put much into the marketing side of course. I knew the books weren’t up to the mark; not as far as enthusiastic distribution was concerned. I needed to learn more so I joined an online community - writing.com - and began reviewing the stories of others, who seemed to suffer all the problems I had encountered. I slowly learnt and honed some of the required skills to write, publish and review until I was ready to use other online platforms such as:Twitter @bookwrite1, Wordpress bookwrite1.wordpress.com. Also Amazon and Smashwords.At present I review Indie novels for ‘The World Literacy Café’ and randomly as a customer of my Twitter follower authors. My novels are developing and I feel happy enough to post them on Amazon. No interest so far but that’s just fine. Small is good, and a start of ‘nil’ gives me super scope to improve.So, what of the tale? Well, it was my intention to produce a long tale, multi-layered with simple presentation, but complex motives - from different angles becoming clearer with each new book.The scene is set in the remote future, much as the first tale all those years ago. An alien invasion dominates the past, (our distant future) but few know of it. All appears tranquil, and yet a secret project is under way involving the mystery of God himself; it’s a project from beyond the dawn of time.

Book preview

Prologue

Lyrica and Mosac’s Almana.

Coson mutters whilst sidling up to Pogal. This is ridiculous. Why should we kowtow to Lyrica, a lowborn Poorac?

He sniffs. I’m an altogether larger and superior Burracanel, and you expect me to show servitude to that thing? He glares in their leader’s direction as he speaks.

Lyrica the Poorac runs this expedition. Is that a problem?

Coson has crossed a line, and he knows it. No, but why give a prodigious expedition to such Poorac trash?

He’s in charge because he knows what he’s doing. This expedition did not begin in Sentin, your backwater world or Turbor, Lyrica’s home. A Progo Thunderbolt picked up Lyrica; you fool! Do you think that happened without a reason? When else has a Thunderbolt bubble diverted for a Poorac? The Poorac you condemn is in charge of an important mission, and you, Coson, will respect that mission regardless of whether you agree to it.

You believe we head for Chysk, our Cradle World?

The evidence suggests we do, Coson. Earlier expeditions have found things there. Lyrica’s charts enhance our revered map of Chysk. When he says Coson, he has a distasteful tone.

Coson dare not argue. Yes, the dark piece of metal fashioned into a blade is still sharp despite its great age, he replies.

Don’t mess with me, Coson. I mean the rectangular slab, with the face and symbols. Lyrica deciphered them—no one else could; the slab says, Mosac’s Almana. Only Lyrica has the skill and ability to use this Almana, so he commands. Do you get that Coson? The face on its cover is human. We compared it to archive pictures. Humans are long extinct, but they bring our religion into focus. So leave Lyrica alone, or else!

I'll concentrate on Surruko then.

Lyrica chose Surruko as his novice, so you don’t have a say in the matter. Leave them both alone. I won’t warn you again.

Coson lowers his head and backs away. Why should I serve a Poorac? He thinks back to Lyrica’s speech on Sentin and snorts. They built it around ancient characters going to the Cradle World long ago. They were called Belan, Tyeainne and Derba and are legends from the Holy Canel Records, said to be chronicled from that Almana. Coson keeps his own thoughts private. Our Canel methods suggest Burracanel times saved us from extinction, but do these old myths hold 'water'?

GLOSSARY

Book 1 Glossary (no hyperlinks* in glossaries)

TENDRILS FROM HEAVEN

Almana- A type of almanack constantly updating itself from psychic material.

Arcanite- A sect of human wizards. Mosac was the last initiated.

asset- Currency: 1000 credits*.

Besue- On Planet Repus, Besue* is a religious clan of Quell worship.

beverum- A hot synthetic drink with a mild stimulant.

caref- A vicious, clever alien fish.

Contoid- A mysterious organisation.

credit- A unit of currency with the value of a small bag of sweets.

farrowirg- Alien conquerors with two major roots (extinct in Burracanel times).

field barrier- A simple magnetic field, powered by the gales it resists.

flalilium- A hard metal alloy, dustings of which help to generate a stasis*

fover- A huge alien bird with intelligence and skill.

Frice- First Red.

Grillots- Olave’s servants and hunters in his Grillot lands.

groat- A farrowirg* slave

hideout- A hologram face mask meant for parties.

Ikanwhistle- A Grillot* signalling device for kilps*

inprint- An interactive book.

kilp- A vicious semi-clever alien.

Lassap Council- The Landscape Council of the Milford Isles.

ongen- A genetic replacement for surnames. Discovered by Chy-Ru-Gu in PA10704.

onver- A system using Yubungu* light speed to keep different types of food fresh.

owscles- See book 2: Imagine a Time Capsule.

petter- Edible ground moss. See book 2: Imagine a Time Capsule.

poco- Distilled beverum* known for its toxic narcotic properties.

p sy-spy- A witch’s floating spy orb, said to reveal magical beings.

Quiktalk Transfer- An implanted device allowing translation, even between species.

skrirsh- A small adaptably born alien species with a strong empathetic ability.

skyraft- Rafts capable of flight.

Souper- A fog force field dividing Lammprayt’s islands from their mainland.

squelch mop- A floor mop that cleans only what its user wishes.

Squill- Olave’s victims and prey in his Grillot lands.

stasis- A living doorway of plants (plural: stases).

virtuama- A lifelike virtual reality experience (entertainment).

Yubungu- First Black; a constraining Universal physical presence.

Quell’s Timeline

The fall of the Gods- Not of our time.

Quell- The God of Creation. Not of our time.

White and Black Holes- Of our time since 15 billion BC.

The first stars- from 12 billion BC.

The new Universe- ‘Known as Yubungu* Time’ from 10 billion BC.

The Earth is born- 4.5 billion BC.

Ele Soole, Feele Soole and the Fee*- Too diverse to tell.

Moolbol- 1,200,000 BC.

The earliest branch of humankind- 1,000,000 BC.

The fall of humankind- PA11500?

The Burracanel Era- Over 100,000 Earthly years after the fall of humankind.

TIME KEY—BC- A long outdated and somewhat mysterious time system.

—PA- Post Apocalypse.

BOOK ONE

TENDRILS FROM HEAVEN

Contains interaction with various traditional European and Russian Elves

TENDRILS FROM HEAVEN (PA11166).

SONGS OF TIME [A wizard’s deadly plight; a single Arcanite] ‘Arcanite Treachery’- Chy-Ru-Gu (PA10723)

_____________

SONGS OF TIME

Enthusiasm

The howling wind threatens to blow Belan off the cliff. He skirts boulders, remnants from the last landslip; not that landslips worry him, for he knows this path's landslide patterns as well as he knows his ongen* (original nominated gene). Ongens have a hereditary connection to surnames, replacing them with database lists in the brain.

He protects his eyes from the wind as he passes the huge mirror-screen. Underwater laser light measures clearance depth below boats and sends it to the screen; valuable information for the helmsmen. Today no boats sail this bight. The screen just sends his squinted eyelids back to him as a glint of hazel in high-resolution set within his buffeted, half-shaved, chiselled face. He clenches his teeth. I must hurry past it, so I don’t have my image displayed too long.

A movement startles him. He spins round, before releasing a sharp breath and whistling with relief. It’s just a crow. The hungry bird picks at bloodied, matted fodder above the precipice. Caught by a sudden squall, Belan sidesteps from the cliff-face path and plants his feet against the gust before he loses balance. Breaking waves, way below, batter everything they meet apart from a stony beach dotted with boats. ‘The South Yard', my workplace. Why did I get stuck there?

The screen drifts from the cliff behind Belan on strings of colour to float above the sea, keeping the path safe from the pounding waves. A voice in his head disturbs him. You're stuck in South Yard because of Mauree. You should never have married her.

I don’t want to know! His voice rips through the air. Work colleagues crossing the yard’s field barrier* can't hear him. The non-verbal voice has disturbed his balance, but he bows his head to concentrate. Once stable, he looks round and smiles to see circling sea birds picking their moment to dive into a man-made inlet of calm. Fish, crustaceans and peoples’ leftovers abound in there. He watches and admires them. Feed up my beauties.

A low howl nearby wipes the smile from his face. Don’t look, ignore it. It's the wind playing tricks on my imagination? Despite this decision, he can’t resist turning his head, ‘eyes on stalks'. He reaches for his absent sword when a huge canine comes into view, but his elbow snags against a jutting rock. What am I doing? I don’t take swords to work. He grabs a stone and hurls it at his drooling attacker, dead on target. The stone soars towards the sea before it drops. The dog is just a dust devil whipped up from soft sand. It’s come to something when I see things from my imagination. At breakfast, the canine shadow had prowled his lane, a black phantom on four legs. Even Mauree was nervous, and she has never feared a dog in her life. They kept their silence, for they seldom speak together these days. What a wretched creature. He ploughs on, shaking his head. That imaginary dog is plaguing my mind. I can’t wait to reach the boatyard and grab a hot cup of beverum*.

You hate the boatyard, Belan, and it was Mauree who sent you there.

He answers from his mind. She didn’t send me to The South Yard. I could have chosen ‘Hurley’ and its lucrative partnership with Sailess Sails, my favourite firm as a boy.

But you feared Hurley, didn’t you? Sailess Sails might have remembered your antics in their yards as a youngster.

Belan quickens his stride to purge this alien thought, but another gust catches him. Blown sideways, he loses his footing on loose stones. He stumbles but leans back to wedge his shoulder under an overhang. Stable now, he confronts the chill wind with a deep breath of salt-scented air.

A shadow catches the corner of his eye—Canine, large. It disappears when he turns to it. Beyond and below, the beach comes into view. Many boats line its shingle bank top, and his own work project is amongst them—a white open cutter. The boat stands between two huddles of untidy buildings. He gives a grimace, rolls his eyes, and marches towards it, forcing his legs against the gale’s intensity. The voice in his head chatters again.

You pretend you hate this yard, but you need it. You have no other release from Mauree.

He ignores the intrusive voice and tries to calculate the high winds. Each gust feeds currents of air over the waters, before ascending the cliff to batter him.

The whole channel churns in frothy wild circles around pinnacles of tall, sharp-pointed rocks that protrude from the water—either by the cliff or out to sea, where violent eddies form. This treacherous channel, called The Strait of Lamprey, funnels such turbulence between two islands. The storm-prone Crystal Sea feeds its rage, except on ‘crystal days'. These are rare days when high pressure dominates, and a sea of ‘glass’ inspires its deceptive name.

He grabs a stunted tree to steady himself and survey the tempest. Round the coast, just out of sight, Hurley endures the same weather—with so much ease, for Hurley boatyard has a proper force field, not a mere field barrier. They can afford it. Ever since their merger, boats built at Hurley dominate the Sailess Sail boat fairs.

At double speed, he battles the wind amid screeching seagulls as a shadow solidifies alongside him. The dog takes form again! He shivers. I must get inside the yard to safety.

O’Fanor the elf strains to see from his incarceration. He has no form, but the hope of release alerts him to every move his abductor, Derba, makes whilst struggling to avoid the beast connected to this old man's imprisoning globe.

For an ancient wizard, the elf’s captor has an ‘eagle’s’ penetrating eyes fixed in rigid concentration. He sits on a rock above a wind-blown path wearing a full-length dark green smock. Under his determined gaze, a bamboo stake materialises to ‘shout’ its presence in silent colours—Pick me up. Pick me up. The elf and wizard watch a passing younger man who descends towards a line of boats. The man misses the stake, despite its lure, torn between the path behind him and windblown seabirds. As this man passes, the bamboo and its colourful filaments fade away.

The elf's captor grunts with inaudible displeasure and points a crooked finger towards a glass orb suspended above a fissure of intense black. O’Fanor holds his breath. The beast connected to the orb stirs, and its eye glints red. O’Fanor and the old man freeze. Moments pass before the terrible apparition averts its baneful eye. Not this time, Moolbol. Not this time. The dangerous game my master plays to use your power succeeds—today. Nervous and excited, O’Fanor waits with anticipation. I think Derba needs me outside with him.

A more controlled glint of Moolbol’s light inflected with dark gleams within the globe to bring O’Fanor’s body to the windy cliff, as a nasty, long-eared sprite. His trapped soul stretches and pulls, insides first, through a vortex to join this body.

The wizard’s greyed teeth draw near to him, and an acrid whisper escapes them. Ah, O’Fanor, good to meet thee again; can thou see Belan? Derba points towards the man on the path. I want thou to draw him to my knife.

Shall I kill him?

No. Just do as I ask. I will decide what to do next.

Caught in the glare of daylight, O’Fanor shrinks back.

His cloaked companion’s satisfied grin unveils those unpleasant teeth again. Fear not the brightness, my friend. I’ll leave my knife here for thou. With it, thy can conjure a cave for thy comfort. To move by day, thee must summon my dog’s ghost. Inside his shroud, thee’ll have mobile protection from sunlight. At night, thee has thine own invisibility powers to use. Rodsorg is wayward. Thee must control the canine shroud round him. He has phantom teeth able to bite, even kill the fearful. Stay him. A straightforward task for thee. No ghost can defy an elf.

O’Fanor overcomes his distaste for the shadow dog, and then he merges with it as ordered. The uncomfortable elf stops the ghost hound at the boatyard’s outer edge. He can go no farther, not past the powerful magnetic core in the yard’s field barrier. Very few elves indeed have the prowess to defy magnetism.

The dog must go alone. He retreats to a cave that materialises for him, leaving behind the old man’s knife. It will attract victims—as a sundew plant attracts insects. He wastes no time climbing from the dog and slipping into the opening’s welcome darkness.

Belan enters the barrier and waits for the air pressure to adjust. The dog’s here again. No, the dog doesn’t exist. I’m alone! After the barrier, he sees his workmate, Creel. A short, stocky, inoffensive man; useless as a Boatwright. Belan, himself no boat artiste, has accepted Creel. Their boat has a sturdy hull of knitted fibres, hardened to a glossy finish, then painted white. To save space, a steering wheel with awkward wires and pulleys replaces a tiller. Every pulley has seized and needs renewing.

Belan surveys his job list. I’ll start by replacing the keel band so the painters to scrape and paint the hull. Whilst planning the day’s work, he sees the seat he’d fitted yesterday but forgotten to fasten. It still rests against the hull, ready to secure.

He goes to the mess hut and pours a mug of beverum. Here he finds Hairline Creel talking to Grong, their main storeman. Hairline Creel has a brand-new bobbed quiff set in a rough but effeminate style.

Hidden from view, Belan listens to them talk, but one brief sentence from Hairline Creel is enough for him. The razor cut angles the hair. Grong gives Creel a polite nod.

Before he’s spotted, Belan edges to the door. He forgoes the beverum for a quick exit and heads to the box shed to pick up yesterday’s bag of tools. These he tips into his main toolbox. After this ‘delicate’ procedure, he refills the bag, ready for today’s workload. He thinks of how faith led back to manual work. Machines had done this crap in the old days, whilst people searched for immortality. That had been before the Prophet Mosac revised Quell’s religion, along with countless ancient crafts. The old prophet even made death fashionable—somehow?

He heads for the retail store to replenish his supplies—and to insult Grong the Younger, known as Combat Man. This young store assistant shares overenthusiastic banter with Belan—an act of anger, filled with good humour. The Store’s shabby red brick building now stands alone. Once it was one amongst many smart shops from a time before the boatyard, and in its day a renowned fishing tackle centre, although you’d never guess that.

At the boat, Belan finds his workmate ruining a brand-new pulley. He smiles and puts a plank of wood under the hull to lie on and replace the keel band.

A sound startles him. Something’s sniffing. Is the dog here? Think, man, think. The dog doesn’t exist. Now, ah yes, the keel band. Shit! I can’t find the screws. How the bloody hell can you lose a box of poxy screws? He slides along the floor to get out for a better view, unable to turn due to space restrictions. His hair brushes against the sealant and he bangs his head. The plank slips and off-balance, he squashes the sealant tube, face first. The momentum gouges a short channel through 'reluctant' stones before the beach stops progress. With a curse, he hits the offending screw with a hammer and hears Creel fumble with the ruined pulley in response. Belan rolls free to experience an unwelcome micro-moment, where the pulley hurtles past his head to shatter a large pebble. He ignores it, death by pulley far from his thoughts—instead, he searches for the dog, without success.

When he gets up, he sees the screws scattered everywhere: the plank had obscured them. Shit job! He trudges to the toilet, fingering his head but finding no blood there.

Pebbles crunching underfoot remind him of pleasurable fishing expeditions from his childhood. This calms him, and he seeks advice from Hairline Creel or his workmate, on the ‘big boat'. Interrupted by Belan, Hairline Creel uses the distraction to align his new quiff with a darkened window as a mirror. Work moves at a pace on the big boat. Creel, with the haircut, bobs to find the perfect angle; it amuses Belan, despite its repetition, so he dives straight in with light-hearted sarcasm. Busy then, are we?

Yes, my good man. We are always busy here, Creel answers, patting his head.

Belan hides a snigger. "How can I clean