Guardian of the Sky Realms

By Gerry Huntman

Maree Webster—an "almost-emo" from the western suburbs of Sydney—hates school, has few friends, and is obsessed with angels and fallen angel stories. Life is boring until she decides to steal a famous painting from a small art gallery that has been haunting her dreams: swirling reds, greys and oranges of barely discernible winged figures. There, she meets a stranger who claims to know her and stumbles into a world where cities float in the sky, and daemons roam the barren, magma-spewing crags of the land far below. And all is not well—Maree is turning into something she loves but at the same time, fears. Most fearful of all is the prospect of losing her identity—what makes her Maree, and more importantly, what makes her human. Guardian of the Sky Realms takes the reader on a journey through exotic fantasy lands, as well as across the globe, from Sydney to Paris, from the Himalayas to Manhattan. At its heart, it is a novel about transformation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meerkat Pups
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781946154385

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GUARDIAN OF THE SKY REALMS

Copyright © 2020 Gerry Huntman

Original Text Copyright © 2014 Gerry Huntman

First printing 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For information, contact Meerkat Press at [e-mail].

ISBN-13 978-1-946154-37-8 (Paperback)

ISBN-13 978-1-946154-38-5 (eBook)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Hoangtejieng

Book design by Tricia Reeks

Printed in the United States of America

Published in the United States of America by

Meerkat Press, LLC, Atlanta, Georgia

www.meerkatpress.com

For my daughter Erin.

Prologue

The Painting AD 2015

It was a balmy night but Maree shivered, buttoning up her coat. It was fear. Not for something specific, but the unknown—the back lanes of the Rocks were dark and menacing at midnight.

This was one of the oldest parts of Sydney and many of the narrow buildings she silently passed were over two hundred years old. In the old days, footpads and other villains frequented the narrow byways. They killed for a few shillings. The history of the area was tangible; you could smell it, taste it, and every shadow seemed to form into a knife-wielding psychopath.

Maree kept reminding herself that she had an overactive imagination as she continued down Kendell Lane, looking for No. 42. Still, she glanced over her shoulder every few seconds.

There, she whispered, when she spotted the rusty number in the dim light. The sign underneath it read: Azimuth Gallery. Viewings by appointment only

Not this night.

Maree made sure no one was in sight. She pulled out a pair of stiff wires and clumsily picked the old lock, following the instructions of a dubious website she had looked up the previous night. It took a while, but she won the struggle when she heard the tell-tale click.

She quickly entered the old building and shut the door. She pulled out a pocket torch and flashed it around to get her bearings. It was, in some ways, scarier in the gallery than in the lanes, as the paintings in the shadows appeared to come to life, shifting as the torch flickered by, the eyes of abstract figures seemingly following her. She shivered again, wandering into the next room, picking up her pace as if to avoid the gaze of the phantoms behind her.

Her torchlight almost immediately found the painting she was after. Wings in Despair. The picture she saw on the web; the magnificent work of art she had to have. This was not going to be theft for profit—this was for her.

She had been dreaming about the painting for weeks, the swirling reds, grays and oranges of barely discernible winged figures; angels perhaps, but the subject matter wasn’t angelic. There was grief and death in it. She needed to study it alone, to absorb the artist’s impression, to feel the bumps of paint under her fingertips, to grasp the complete meaning of the work.

Maree held her breath and approached the painting. It was larger than she thought, almost four-foot square. The colors were also richer, more vivid, and the winged man and . . . yes, woman! were more evident. She was in awe, frozen with wonder before it.

A beautiful work, no? came a deeply masculine voice from behind her.

She started in surprise, but she didn’t move an inch. She was frozen with fear.

The voice came again, this time a little closer. Don’t worry. I’m a stranger in this gallery as well. I too have an . . . affinity with the painting.

A cold sweat bead ran down Maree’s neck. She found the courage to turn around. A tall man stood before her, no more than five feet away. He had short-cropped hair—light, but the exact color was unclear in the shadows. His eyes were pale, perhaps gray; his face was thin but his body seemed full and fit. It was hard to tell his age; perhaps in his early twenties, possibly older.

I suppose you are wondering why I am here?

Maree’s voice was weak, still with fear. I . . . I suppose so . . .

I also wanted to see the painting. I have looked upon it before but never tire of viewing the captured emotions on the canvas. He slipped past Maree and came within a few feet of Wings in Despair. Do you mind? he asked, pointing to her torch.

She complied, standing next to the stranger, and illuminated the painting.

The mysterious visitor’s voice mellowed, almost breaking with emotion. This is the story of Alanar, Guardian of the Northern Sky Realm, and his share-heart, Mirriam. They were Protectors and fought the daemons of the Fire Lands valiantly, never allowing the enemy to taint the Homelands. Protectors always work in pairs, as a team. The stranger started to cry, not vocally, just allowing the tears to slowly flow down his cheeks. "One day a stray arrow dug deep into Mirriam’s breast, piercing her heart. Alanar was devastated, and he caught her as she fell and carried her in his flight to the Homelands.

This painting captures the moment when Mirriam’s body was caught. It faithfully portrays the agony of Alanar, his yellow-tipped wings rippling in the wind as he concludes his terrible descent. The swirling colors reflect the awful light of the Fire Lands but they also depict Alanar’s darkened heart. I look upon this work and I cannot but weep.

His words rang true to Mirriam. How could this be? she asked herself, for this was but an artist’s fantasy; and yet she now realized why she was drawn to the painting. There was some inherent truth on the canvas. It said something to her that she needed. She also began to weep.

He turned his gaze to her. You feel this too?

She could only nod. Words were too difficult at that moment.

And why?

She shrugged her shoulders. She still couldn’t speak.

Come with me.

Maree turned to the stranger. She saw compassion in his face, and yet they only met a few minutes ago. Maree wanted to instantly reply yes but all she could do was stare at him quizzically.

He laughed while he cried. Look at the painting again.

She did. The swirling colors suddenly came to life; they actually were swirling.

You are linked with this painting in so many ways, Alanar said. From the moment you were born you were meant to do this.

She didn’t know why but she allowed herself to fall into the painting, and then, without warning, she unfurled her expansive, blue-tipped wings, and flew into the maelstrom of colors.

Alanar gently grasped her shoulders, to steady her clumsy flight.

It has been a long time, Mirriam.

Chapter 1

The Obsession

Two weeks before the break-in

Maree collapsed backward onto her bed, allowing her body to bounce once and sink into the tangle of unkempt linen. Her short cut hair barely ruffled, only a single dark brown lock flicked across her eyes, but what she felt inside was far from well-ordered. Aaaargh! she screamed in frustration.

The voice of her mother came from beyond the bedroom door. That’s enough, Maree! If I say you can’t go out, I don’t expect it to turn into an argument. Pauline Webster paused, no doubt expecting a response from her daughter, but on hearing no answer, sighed. "You have to stay home tonight. I need help getting things sorted, so the property inspector gives us a clean bill of health. We can’t afford any more bills than we normally get."

Maree theatrically sat up, despite the fact that there was no one who could see her. "Mum! Jeez, I’m fifteen! I’ve got things planned, things to do! Ayesha is expecting me at Macca’s."

And she’s mature enough to get over the disappointment, her mother replied, even-voiced.

"Why do we have to tidy and clean that much? Maree asked. It’s only a freakin’ inspection. The real estate ain’t going to bill us!"

Wrong, Maree, wrong! Pauline’s patience was fast running out. "The lease is clear about these things and I know they will inspect the curtains and the oven. Don’t you understand? I can barely keep our finances in the black. I don’t want to go through the pain of paying back the credit card, like last year."

Maree hated it when her mother detailed their difficulties with money. Things were never right since her father had abandoned them. What she hated most was that her mother was right. Not that she would admit it, not in her mood; not when she so much looked forward to having dinner with her best friend. She sighed. Alright. You win. Can I have an hour to talk to Ayesha?

OK. It means we might have to work until quite late. I’ll keep you to your word—you have until eight-thirty.

Maree responded with an inarticulate sound, making it loud enough so that there was an acknowledgment and passive enough in tone not to sound too insulting. She heard her mother’s footsteps disappear down the stairs.

She collapsed again onto her bed. Maree frowned and closed her eyes tightly, enough to have dark shadows rim her vision when she opened them again. It helped calm her down. She grabbed the phone and tapped the first memory store key.

There were two rings and a boisterous answer. Maree! What’s happening? I thought we were going to meet at eight. Ayesha had a wonderful way of speaking, a little like the Sydney western suburbs migrant accents—like the second or third generation Lebanese—but hers was more musical, melodic. Maree never tired of it.

"I’m grounded tonight. Got stuff to do for Mum. I’m really sorry."

Oh my Gawd! What a mess! You’re not in trouble, are you? Ayesha had this habit of saying Oh my God a lot of times, and exaggerating God with a very long o—just like the stereotyped ethnic characters on television. There was always an irony in the use of the word God, as Ayesha’s parents—the Modjganis—were Iranian and devoutly religious.

No, nothing like that. Just got to help out. I’d have liked to come and hang out.

Ayesha giggled. I know we’re best friends, but you were also hoping Jason Randall would be there too! Admit it!

Maree fell back onto her bed for a third time, stretching the old telephone cord to its limit. She sighed. I suppose so, but . . . you know. I’m not sure about him, and I know he isn’t that sure about me.

"Oh my Gawd! How can you say that! He always smiles when he sees you, and he always tries to talk with you. He’s got the hots for you!"

Maree giggled this time. I doubt that. We don’t have that much in common—he’s popular at school and I’m not. He’s handsome and I’m plain. He’s talented—plays his guitar all the time, and I have nothing.

How can you say that? Ayesha interjected. "You are beautiful—especially your big green eyes . . . and . . . and . . . I see your drawings and doodles of angels and stuff. You’re talented."

And that’s all I do. I can’t draw for nuts. All I can sketch are angels with big wings. I always think about them, and drawing them helps me concentrate . . . and calm down when I need to. Maree realized that as she was talking her eyes were darting to her sketches that were pinned to her walls, and the posters of popular fantasy artists’ watercolors, oils and computer images of angels, or the like.

Speaking of angels, Ayesha said, changing the tone of the conversation, I was browsing DefiantArt.com this morning and found a really cool painting of angels. I thought of you straight away. I emailed you the link.

Maree perked up, always excited by something new for her hobby—her obsession. Thanks. Appreciate it. I’ll look at it tonight after I do my chores.

Go, look at it now. I might as well do my chores as well. Call me back when you finished seeing it.

Maree smiled, appreciating how Ayesha could read her mind, and her emotions, so well. She was definitely the best best-friend a girl could have. Thanks. I’ll phone you in a tick. The call ended.

Maree sat at her cluttered study desk. The computer was old, and the line was slow, but she was grateful that she had something at all. She booted the machine and impatiently waited until she could open her browser and get into DefiantArt, her favorite website, except perhaps for EmoGirlWriters—where the best stories written about fallen angels could be found. Not that she was an Emo herself; this didn’t stop her contributing what she thought was bad poetry and short stories—about fallen angels of course.

She copied the URL sent by Ayesha into her browser and saw the photo of the painting slowly resolve on her screen. At first it seemed a mess of reds, purples and browns. Little else; all mashed together, in a set of swirls. At that point, she thought little of it, but deep inside her, somewhere between her heart and stomach, there was an excitement. An awakening. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, and watched the final resolution of the image of the painting. She caught her breath with the shock of the image.

Despite the vagueness of the sweeping action of the brush strokes, and the predominance of only three colors, the image of two angel-like figures could be discerned. One was in the arms of the other, although she couldn’t be sure whether they were male or female. The painted form that was holding the other had large, spreading wings, with rich yellow tips on each feather, while the figure that was being held was smaller and the wingtips were light blue.

Maree quickly looked for the artist’s name and spotted it in the right column of the web page: Wings in Despair—by Paco Salazar Barcelo (oil on canvas). So, she thought, this wasn’t made for the site—someone liked it and posted it. She then noticed that it was painted in the year she was born. Creepy, she whispered.

She looked again at the image on DefiantArt.com. Her eyes always returned to the smaller of the winged figures. Her stomach started to knot uncomfortably, but at the same time the swirling colors surrounding the frail, tragic character, drew her to it like nothing she had ever experienced before. Tears welled in her eyes and she realized she was completely hooked.

She forgot about calling Ayesha, and with the little time left before she had to help her mother with the chores, she furiously tapped on her keyboard, researching as much as could about the painting and the artist.

Chapter 2

The Rebirth

Maree was held under her armpits by a man’s strong hands, her blue-tipped wings stretching out nearly as long as her own height, at each side. He was above her, and she could hear his wings slowly, powerfully, beating, carrying their combined weight.

It has been a long time, Mirriam, he said.

The stranger in the gallery—he must be Alanar!

She wanted to tell him her name was Maree, not Mirriam, but she was distracted by the world she appeared to have fallen into, through the painting. Around her was a cream-colored sky, with white clouds tinged with glowing reds and oranges sourced from far below, and beige and pinks from above. There was no sun to be seen: the flush of light emanated from the entire length and breadth of the heavens. Peering down, she could see a blackened landscape of mountains and deep pits, with volcanoes and magma pools spewing gray puffs of smoke, and radiating the deep colors that reflected on the clouds and the undersides of their bodies and wings.

You will soon fly by yourself, Mirriam, Alanar said. Don’t worry; it will come easily.

What? she cried, twisting her neck so that she could see him from the corners of her eyes. Maree gasped when she glimpsed Alanar, as his face was much the same as in the art gallery, but it was . . . more alive, vibrant, and energetic. He only wore a light loincloth and his body was like a gymnast’s—lean and muscular. His white wings were tipped with vibrant yellow. He had a fine leather belt with a long, curved, ruby-encrusted sword and scabbard tied to it, with the lower end strapped to his left leg. Despite the crimson and apricot glow, she could see that Alanar’s hair was a wondrous silvery-gray—much like a wolf’s, and his eyes were a light gray. He had straight, generous lips.

He laughed. I swear you’ll be fine. Don’t think—just breathe the air and feel the wind rush over your wings. Before Maree could respond, Alanar released her.

Maree screamed but quickly noticed that she was not falling; rather, she was gliding clumsily. As her companion had stated, without even willing it, the muscles in her back reflexively caused her wings to beat in response to the air currents and the direction she wanted to fly.

Fly! I am flying!

Alanar swept down and matched her pace, at her side. See? he shouted over the rushing air around them. That simple. In only a few hours you will have all of your flying skills back. It has always been this way, and it will always be—it is how rebirth works.

Maree had many questions

Reviews for Guardian of the Sky Realms

[urbanaudreye · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This wasn't a bad book, but it didn't really suit my tastes. It is marketed as a middle grade novel and perhaps that is why it didn't quite hold my adult attention. It would appeal to a reader interested in angels and demons.*I received a copy of this book for free. The review is my own, honest and unsolicited.