Morfius

By Ross Nacey

In July of 2014, turmoil prevails in many countries around the globe by mere coincidence or possibly by design.

James Lane is a moderately successful Australian businessman who receives a strange summons. His presence is requested in London by an acquaintance known as Barnaby which he feels compelled to accept. The only explanation he receives is an old leather box file that he finds waiting on his aeroplane seat.

Travelling via extravagant private jet James soon learns that the box file once belonged to an English shipping magnate named Jon Calder who died over seventy years ago.

Teaming up with semi-retired Special Air Forces operative Jack Warner, it becomes apparent that James is becoming entangled in the sinister dealings of a powerful organisation. The enigmatic Barnaby and his extraordinary capabilities afford some protection, but for how long?

What does Calder have to do with James? How is Barnaby involved? Who or what is behind the looming threat? Whatever the answers, Calder somehow foresaw the events of 2014 and the part James would need to play in them. Someone or something called Morfius may hold the keys to answering these questions.

It is up to James and Jack Warner to find the truth, before its too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491774694

Ross Nacey

Ross Nacey has spent forty years in the global freight industry. He earned a master’s of business degree in 2001. He lives in Bowral, New South Wales, Australia, with his wife, Cindy. They have three adult children, two grandchildren, and a twin-engine Cessna airplane. www.rossnacey.com

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 Ross Nacey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7468-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7469-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915071

iUniverse rev. date: 10/29/2015

Contents

Preface The Morfius Perspective

1 The End of the Start

2 The Portfolio Box—1948

3 The Portfolio Box Files—Jean Cartwright

4 Jean and Jon

5 Contents of the Box File—Remaining Pages

6 Barnaby, the Celts, and Druids

7 The Liverpool Warrior

8 France

9 Nemesis

10 Crimea

11 An Organization

12 Marseille

13 Cat and Mouse

14 Montbeliard

15 Foundation

16 Destination La Tène

17 The Fifth Dimension

About the Author

In memory of Patricia Carelli.

March 22, 1944—October 6, 2014

PREFACE

The Morfius Perspective

What differentiates the Celtic god Morfius from Morpheus, the Greek god of sleep and dreams?

It is apparent that common mythical and religious themes existed across the many nations of the ancient world. Each society, however, adapted these archetypes to its own distinctive deities and religious practices. No greater diversity exists than that which developed between the beliefs of ancient Celts and their perhaps loftier Greek counterparts.

What is clear from my research of the period from the late Bronze Age (circa 800 BC) to the period when Rome dominated much of Europe and Britain (AD 200) is that mysticism and science were closely related, if not considered to be a single specialty. It is easy to imagine that a largely superstitious people would find it difficult to see a difference between a purported scientific discovery and something more sinister—sorcery, perhaps.

In Greek history, people such as Pythagoras, Plato, and Socrates contributed significantly to scientific discovery, mathematics, and logic, as well as religion. The origins of the planet, the climatic and natural phenomenon that occurred, were largely attributed to the Greek gods.

Because the Greeks—and then the Romans—left a written record of their discoveries, myths, and legends, they have been thought of as the most advanced of the folk that occupied the known world during that period. Conversely, the Celts, being particularly secretive about their ways, have seen their discoveries, tactics, beliefs, and religions portrayed as backward, particularly by the Romans and their descendants.

If one accepts that knowledge is power, then the ancient Celts can be more easily understood. During a period of constant wars, knowledge of one’s enemy could often mean the difference between victory and defeat. Not surprising, then, that all knowledge was valued by the ancients, and to the Celts, who already had a long history of facing would be conquerors, it was important to keep their own intelligence a secret.

Similarly, it is likely that the Celts were the most superstitious of the folk that existed across the known world. Anything and everything had the potential to be an omen to them. Their thirst for knowledge covered a wide range; they wanted to know what neighboring tribes were up to, when or what crops should be sown, predictions of health and wealth, the meaning of the heavens, and simple weather forecasts.

Enter the Druids!

It is easy to imagine how unique these little beings (both men and women) were when compared to the surrounding Celtic populace. The Celts of Gaul and Britain were huge men and women—tall and broad. Their stature alone would have been intimidating to any enemy. Add to that a penchant for a fight, and it is easy to visualize the imposing figures that both male and female Celts were.

The Druids, by contrast, were probably the smartest among the Celts, albeit likely to also be the most physically feeble. While it is evident that across the Druid sects there were many followers and, therefore, a range of small to medium builds, a Druid master would have been the slightest in stature, bordering on puny.

With only their intelligence to depend on for survival, the Druid masters had to make the most of the superstitions pervading every inch of the Celtic culture around them. They had learned quickly that fear was their greatest ally and that understanding of both the unusual and the innovative could be used to advance their personal value to the ruling class of warriors.

They studied their surroundings to a greater degree than their peers, inventing predictors of climate, crops, and other sources of food along the way and identifying medicines and treatments for illness ranging from bizarre sacrifices of small animals to simple mixtures of plants and animal secretions. They studied the celestial universe in order to predict the seasons and to navigate across what must have seemed like a vast land at a time when twenty-five miles was a good day’s journey. As this group evolved, they became more and more controlling of the societies in which they lived, ultimately adding astute political manipulator to their raft of skills.

From the perspective of religious belief, the Celts, like the Greeks, had their gods, although theirs were much less grandiose. Mostly they were past warriors, kings, or queens who had been responsible for great victories or momentous events in the past. Over time, their deeds became exaggerated or romanticized into folklore and elevated to the status of legend.

The Druids’ penchant for legends and mythical characters gave them an opportunity as well to exploit the warring and farming populace, to further their quest for power and influence. Many of the commonly accepted gods of the time were reinvented over the eons to be portrayed as original members of the Druid class, only capable of the deeds they performed because they possessed metaphysical gifts.

Their version of the god of dreams was, in fact, a Druid who possessed powers beyond the bounds of human existence. While the Greek equivalent had an uncanny ability to change himself or any mere mortal from one human form to another, the Celtic version was able to transcend life itself.

Morfius, then, was a mythical Druid who held two mystical gifts. On the one hand, he held the keys to the afterlife, particularly the ability to bestow on deserving Celts the ability to return from death into another mortal existence—that is, to reincarnate into a future human life.

The second gift, and one no less important to a Druid master, was enabling the power of dreaming. Through Morfius, in other words, the dreams of selected Celts could be explained. Often the interpretation would be in the form of a life-defining vision, by providing either knowledge of significance from an earlier life or a prediction of what was to come in the present one.

To kings, queens, and the ruling Celtic class, the genius of the Morfius Principles were particularly advantageous. Foremost for a warring lord was an ability for Druids and their god Morfius to engender a heightened sense of fearlessness among their troops, for surely a warrior who was not afraid of death would fight harder than any other. If, in addition, the potential to transcend to the afterlife was dependent on how well a warrior fought, then the credo was even more valuable. The ferocity that the Celts exhibited in war is woven into the fabric of history—to no little degree from the writings of their enemies.

No less important was the desire of Celts—wealthy, influential, or otherwise—to understand their dreams. Druids who were open disciples of Morfius were credited with such a gift. To the more politically motivated of these mystics, the content of dreams provided the ultimate opportunity to manipulate. A Druid would ingratiate himself into the court of a king or lord by exalting the man’s dreams to the lofty heights of prophetic vision, pandering to the subject’s sense of self-importance. Once established at court, a successful Druid would need to eradicate any local opposition, and this could be achieved by interpreting dreams as omens of future betrayal by other previously-relied-on advisors.

It is apparent that the Druids filled a number of roles in the ancient Celtic states: doctor, scientist, inventor, religious leader, political advisor, and so on. Not all were devious schemers. Some provided significant knowledge and innovation, collaboratively advancing the sophistication of the Celts to a level well beyond our retrospective understanding.

In this work—the first book of Morfius—the legend of the Celtic god is used as a critically recurring theme, developing around the nonphysical parts of our universe. While the work is purely fictional, readers are encouraged to accept elements of the myth as true and to consider its propensity to have perpetuated throughout our subsequent history and even still today.

The spelling is deliberately unique, in order to differentiate the Celtic manifestation of this god from its Greek namesake.

CHAPTER 1

The End of the Start

It was remarkably comfortable for a chair of its vintage. Semicircular wooden back and arms, olive-green leather seat secured by dozens of brass pin tacks at the edge—something he thought was more like a seat for a typist than the head of a major corporation. Surprisingly snug, though. Perhaps a sign of two different times—that an ugly-looking chair would be way more practical than the high-backed, modern leather things that were popular in offices around the world in 2014. I could sit in this thing all day! he mused as he sat down and surveyed the room for the first time.

Everything he saw was in immaculate condition. Although he knew this room—this office/apartment—had last been used some seventy years ago, its condition belied its age. Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to preserve it. The decor was definitely from another era, but the spit and polish—that was evidence of a daily cleaning ritual that had not missed a beat since the last resident walked out through that single door for the last time.

He sat back and, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes. To say it had been an intense five days was an understatement.

Since receiving a message in his private in-box on July 7, his life had been a whirlwind, to say the least. And what about that e-mail? The message was not totally unexpected, but the method of delivery had surprised him at the time. On reflection, he wasn’t really certain how he had expected to be contacted; he just didn’t think that a modern, electronic mode of communication would be used to deliver such a momentous message. The penchant for drama in him led to an expectation that maybe a burning bush or a blinding light on the road would be the delivery of choice—something more spectacular than an e-mail!

Then again, the message was not that remarkable either.

You are to report to the Hawker Pacific Flight Centre, Hanger 390, James Smith Avenue, Mascot, at 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday 9 July. There will be full instructions for you at the reception desk on arrival. Bring your passport and sufficient clothes for 5 days, summer season. All arrangements have been taken care of. Barnaby.

Neither was it surprising. While he hadn’t actually met Barnaby in person, he felt that he had come to know him pretty well during the ten years since they had first started to converse. Barnaby was not prone to overuse of the English language (nor, one would assume, any other language that he might be able to speak). It seemed he had a sense of humor, but more of a dry one, where the funny side took a second or two to register.

James smiled as he rocked gently on the old chair, growing more comfortable by the minute, now slouching into the padding on its curved back, which nestled therapeutically into a knot in the middle of his spine. Barnaby would have known that James wouldn’t hesitate to follow his instructions to the letter, so his words were kept to a minimum; two days later, James was standing in front of a plush counter at the corporate jet center at Mascot Airport, asking a laconic young lady if she had instructions for a Mr. James Lane.

What if she had said no? The question made him shiver. When he had walked into that lounge, the realization hit him that he didn’t really belong there, considering his attire and battered travel bag set him apart from the evident wealth among the half dozen or so guests in the waiting room. If he was in any doubt that he was out of place in this small corner dedicated to the rich and famous, its receptionist, name-tagged Jennifer and looking resplendent in her corporate uniform, looked down her nose sufficiently to make certain of it.

To her apparent surprise and chagrin, a Mr. Lane was expected, and once proof of identity established the fact beyond reasonable doubt, she reluctantly gave him a prepared envelope, asked him to make use of the facilities, and assured him someone would be along to assist him momentarily.

Since in his mind, momentarily could mean anything from less than a minute to over an hour, James grabbed a copy of the Australian Financial Review and proceeded to the barista counter for a cup of coffee; at least this bloke looked a lot friendlier than the shrew behind the reception desk.

Coffee in hand and a matter of moments later, he settled into a comfortable lounge chair, still under the ever-watchful eye of Miss Reception 2014, and opened the newspaper wide in an effort to disguise the envelope he was about to open. He hoped it would reveal to him what was ahead.

As before, the note was short and to the point:

Sydney to Perth. Await further instructions on arrival.

James recalled how he had broken the news to his wife, Eleanor, that he was about to head off on a wild goose chase and that he was short on details. No, he did not know where and … had only an inkling who was funding it, and … no, it was neither odd to him nor dangerous, when in fact to any sane person it would have seemed highly irregular and inherently risky.

Surprisingly, she was understanding and took very little time to be convinced that he had no choice but to go. Perhaps, he reflected now, she was happy to see him go. Although he knew that not to be true, as Eleanor was the most loyal and devoted person he had ever encountered. He had talked to her a lot over the past ten years about Barnaby and some of his experiences with that intriguing personage—though without actually revealing a lot, he concluded—just enough to ensure that she understood him and some of the out there things he had the habit of saying or doing. Anyway, combined with the fact that she had her own problems to work through and was heading home to America during the coming days, she had acquiesced without too much discussion.

Barnaby’s brevity was not just for comic effect, James decided. Clearly, it had been important to keep the whole venture under wraps. Secrecy suited James Lane. Bitter experience had taught him at a very young age that sharing one’s innermost thoughts, desires, and plans could only ever result in vulnerability. Invariably, he had learned, a confidant would use information for his or her own purposes and neither thank nor respect the source of the confidential material later. During his adult life and particularly since he had met Barnaby, James kept his thoughts to himself and only revealed his innermost observations and plans when the time was right.

With the benefit of time to reflect again on the circumstances in which he now found himself, James reconsidered his judgment in deciding to accept Barnaby’s note without question.

Barnaby had proven to be a defining influence ten years ago, when James had an unforeseen falling out with his close friend and colleague Zac Tannour. The distress he had felt at the time had rocked him to his core. So much so that even with the support of his loving wife, Eleanor, James had not been able to overcome the anguish he was experiencing. Barnaby had provided a level of logic that had hitherto eluded James. And as James learned more, his trust in this newfound voice of reason grew exponentially.

James recalled that time as when his outlook had started to change. His approach to work became more deliberate, less stressful, and his successes more frequent. He opened up more to Eleanor, and she in return was able to provide an even greater level of support than he had anticipated.

Years later, when a more mature James Lane had been introduced to Jon Calder, he was able to be more accepting of the potential significance of a man who had lived—and died—several years before his own birth. Barnaby always had a good reason for everything, so he might as well go along with him this time until the full relevance would be revealed. At least, that is what he had figured back then.

In the period since, James had figured Jon to have been born with the gift of being able to see the future or elements of it. Indeed, the man’s name was firmly planted in James’s brain by the time he had received news of the trip to England. As a result, he was certain that he would learn more about this personage of the past during his travels.

No small wonder, then, that he trusted Barnaby without question now. The purpose for this journey was a mystery, but Barnaby undoubtedly knew that James would go on it without hesitating, any question of trust having long since been answered. As it happened, James was surprisingly excited about the trip, with the prospect of meeting up with Barnaby again and, this time, on the other side of the world.

Mr. Lane? a pleasant-faced and immaculately uniformed young pilot inquired. We’re ready for you, Mr. Lane, if you would like to accompany me. Despite glares from the Reception Dragon, James made it across the room without incident, went through security in a matter of seconds, and was soon walking briskly across the tarmac, second-class bag in tow. Striding next him, the pilot, Ronald … call me Ron busily explained the nuances of aviation security and that non-ASIC holders—Aviation Security Identity Card—must be accompanied by someone with an identification card at all times.

A pleasant fellow, James decided, one with whom he would enjoy flying to Perth.

Of the airplane—a brand-new Nextant 400XTi, the first of its kind in Australia!—Ron’s enthusiasm was infectious.

On board, doors shut, engines started, briefing card read, listening through headphones, one-minute taxi onto Sydney’s runway 25, cleared for takeoff, and then, like a rocket, they were hurtling down the runway, lifting off, and climbing to forty thousand feet for the 750 km/hour cruise to Perth. Another Jennifer (no relation) was in attendance on the plane, to make sure he didn’t break anything and to offer refreshments. Aside from her, he had the cabin to himself.

The only thing that looked out of place to him was an ominous-looking brown portfolio box that had been positioned on the rear-facing club seat opposite—in order to amuse him during the flight, presumably. Jon Calder’s notes, he concluded. It has 1948 written all over it, James thought—what kids would call old school.

The flat, leather box was fit for A4-size documents and no more than four inches high, with a thick string wound around a small button on its side next to the opening, holding the lid in place. The securing string was sealed shut with red wax, of a type prevalent in a bygone era. The wax was embossed with a mark or seal that had a crest and the letters APSL. He immediately recognized the acronym for Atlantic and Pacific Shipping Line—all-in-all, adding a nice touch of authenticity.

He returned to the present with a shake of his head. That was more than forty-eight hours ago now: a second jet, one more brief note, an overnight stopover, an express pass that took him through Gatwick Airport in no more than three minutes, and a limousine ride straight to the north London office, in which he now found himself.

He opened his eyes and slowly looked around the room. In front of him on the desk was the brown leather portfolio box, open to its contents, an inspection of which sadly provided no inkling as to the impending future or any reason for the elaborate journey he had embarked upon. Beside him, his trusty pack for five days bag was the only thing in the room that carried the slightest resemblance to 2014.

Jon Calder had chosen his location carefully when, in 1936, he had decided to reposition his office and living quarters from central London to the northwest of the city. War was imminent, and Jon had, for some time, been in no doubt that it would soon arrive on his doorstep in some form or another. Likewise, the offices of A and P, located more centrally in St James, where the majority of Britain’s ship owners, brokers, and support businesses were located, would be well known to any potential aggressor. And whether they invaded or not, advancements in aerial warfare at the time were such that targeted attacks designed to wreak havoc on commerce were more likely than not, in Calder’s view.

The basement quarters served a number of functions: Close enough proximity to the southeast of the city meant a brisk walk would have him at the premises of Atlantic and Pacific Shipping Lines in less than thirty minutes most days. Construction (circa 1925) of the building he chose to live in was sufficiently modern to render the basement of use as an air-raid shelter for all but a direct hit, the ceiling and wall posts being of reinforced concrete so as to hold up the three levels of apartments existing above ground. The space was ample, and during those prewar years, Jon had set about the task of supervising design and construction with a heightened sense of purpose.

The entrance was modest from the street view; most passersby were not likely to notice the polished brass plaque announcing the address, 32 Craven Terrace, opposite a small, iron-gated landing leading to an entry staircase.

The front door itself was of solid oak with a paneled-glass upper, so that callers could be identified at any time of the day or night under the adequate (although dim) light of a single globe