Macdougal’S Pride: A Choose-Your-Path Fantasy Adventure

By Greg Kauffman-Starkey

Donal Cavanaugh is about to take an unexpected trip through timeback to the days of his Irish ancestors in 1763, a time of land wars between rival clans and battles with invading barbarian hordes bent on bloodshed to anyone in their way. Donal assumes the identity of a member of the MacDougal clan and must use all his wits and abilities to serve and protect the lord king of MacDougal Castle in order to protect his own future and the MacDougal legacy. How the story progresses depends on the choices made by the reader along the way. Will Donal survive to return to his own time? Or will he find a reason to stay in his own past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524581596

Greg Kauffman-Starkey

Greg Kauffman-Starkey grew up reading Choose Your Own Adventure type books and has amassed a collection of over 2100 of these books. Always a fan of interactive fiction, reader-participation novels, he set out to write his own. Inspired by the writing styles of Terry Pratchett (the 'Discworld' series) Stephen R. Donaldson ('The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant'), and C.S. Lewis ('Narnia') among others, he has worked to create a unique world that is both real and fantasy for his characters to inhabit. Born in northwest Wisconsin and growing up in northeastern Michigan, he currently resides in southern Florida with his husband. He is currently working on his third book.

Book preview

Read This First

Like other Choose-Your-Path Adventure books, the reader will be making the decisions that will move the plot forward, for better or for worse. Some choices will lead to victory, fame, and riches, even love; others will lead to failure, humiliation, and even death.

In this adventure, you take the role of Donal Fitzgerald Cavanaugh, heir to a mighty Irish estate. His widowed father has betrothed him to someone he does not love in order to carry on his family line. He must endure many hardships, battles both physical and emotional, and the fury of a rival clan who wish to discredit him to gain his family’s acreage and fortune. It will take all his ingenuity to come out the victor.

If you are ready to undertake this incredibly complex adventure, turn to Chapter 01.

Chapter 01

A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

Lightning flashed, immediately followed by the ear-shattering boom of thunder, sending shivers through the wooden planks of the pitching decks of the embattled ship. Men tumbled to the deck in a tangled mess of thrashing arms and legs. The storm had come up suddenly, far too quickly for the captain and crew of the Moira James to prepare. Sails were still at full, bending the stout masts almost to the point of breaking in twain.

Another flash of lightning, this one striking even closer to the tossing ship, sent jolts of electricity through the tall waves. Sheets of rain soaked the decks, men’s feet sliding precariously along the slick surface. Captain Colm MacDougal held fast to the ship’s wheel, fighting to keep his grip. Ennis Taggart, his stalwart first mate, was on hand, helping his captain keep the ship right. They had lost two good men overboard already with the thrashing of the sea sweeping them into the turbulent waters.

Taking a blessed moment to wipe the rain from his haggard face with a tired, blistered hand, Captain MacDougal shouted orders to his men at the top of his voice, orders that went unheard over the roar of the winds and the spattering of the torrential rains. He felt the water streaming through his thick, red beard, plastering his shoulder-length hair to his skull. He squinted into the maelstrom, teeth clenched defiantly.

Finnian Quinn, one of the more spry members of the crew, sprang onto one of the ropes dangling from the sails and fought the rain to scramble his way up to the crossbar, where he planted his feet as steadily as he could and took his knife from his belt, slashing madly at the sail fabric in an attempt to let the winds pass through the sails and lessen the chance of the ship capsizing in the storm. The ferocious gale caught the rent material and slapped Finnian from the bar, sending him soaring through the air with a cry to fall heavily into the sea, where he disappeared from sight.

A sudden lurch of the ship sent the captain sliding, losing his grip on the wheel, hurtling his body against the railing. He felt something in his back snap from the impact. Taggart clung strongly to the wheel, his feet unable to catch a steady foothold on the upper deck. MacDougal gritted his teeth against the pain. He threw his gaze skyward, noting that the looming storm clouds seemed to pile on top of each other in an effort to doom the Moira James. We have lost good Finnian! he barely heard Ennis cry out. He fell to the sea!

Staggering to his feet, tightly holding the rain-slicked railing for support, Captain MacDougal felt as if his body was about to break in two. He knew he was hurt badly, but his duty as captain was to ensure the safety and health of his crew. He fought his way back to the wheel, where he again took hold of the spokes. Captain, are ye alright? Ennis Taggart cried out, seeing the pain in his captain’s face.

"I have to be, MacDougal shouted back. The lives of my men are at stake, and it is a duty I dare not shirk. Another crash of thunder split the air, nearly drowning out his words. He felt the severity of the percussion in his chest as the thunder roared and the rain pounded. He had never in his life upon the oceans encountered such a storm, and he began to imagine that Llyr, Celtic god of waters and the sea, was displeased with him for some unknown offence and was seeking bloody vengeance upon him and his crew. Hold fast, Taggart, hold fast to the wheel! We may survive this yet!"

Taggart renewed his grasp on the wheel. He loved his captain and would do everything in his limited power to make certain MacDougal’s orders were met with the strictest adherence. He felt the deck pitch under him again, and he fell to one knee, his hands still strong on the spokes. MacDougal dragged him upright again, and together the two men held the ship to as steady a course as they could. Pelted mercilessly with large, heavy drops of rain, they watched as the men on the lower deck strove to maintain some semblance of order and sanity as they worked to fight the storm.

The rope binding a stack of wooden crates to the deck snapped, sending the boxes hurtling across the deck. One sailor was caught unaware and found himself crushed against the railing by the largest of the crates. MacDougal could hear the men screaming, but could not make out a word they were saying. He imagined they were shouting prayers to their various deities to preserve them from the storm. He and Taggart exchanged worried glances. The wheel began to fight them, twisting one way one second, then the other the next. It felt as if it was attempting to wrench itself from their hands.

Beware! Taggart screamed as he saw the wind catch the nearest sail, swinging the boom toward the captain. If it struck him, MacDougal could be killed! Taggart released the wheel and threw himself at MacDougal, tackling him to the deck with a single movement. The wheel spun wildly, uncontrolled by human hands, spinning the craft in insane, tumultuous circles. Taggart regained his feet and sprinted back to the wheel, leaving MacDougal lying against the railing. Pain tore through the captain as he lay there, watching his first mate battle the storm virtually alone. He smiled to himself, thinking how proud he was of the young man who had just saved his life and who was now striving to keep the ship on the proper side of the waves.

Yet another flash of lightning tore through the air, this time uncomfortably close. The concussion shook the ship, knocking everyone to the deck. Is there no end to this storm? the captain thought, gripping the railing and looking at the ominous sky full of the darkest clouds he had ever seen. This hell could test the virtues of the sainted! The crash of thunder rumbled through the wooden beneath him, and for the first time in his long career sailing the many oceans as both captain and cabin boy, Colm MacDougal was afraid.

Taggart ducked handily as the loose boom swung over his head, his grip of the wheel iron fast. The deck lurched under his feet, causing him to stagger. He barely recovered his balance when the boom swung back at him, slamming into his back. He gave a cry as he felt his spine splinter under the impact. Pain erupted through his entire body for an instant, then he felt nothing. The first mate folded and fell to the deck, unable to move. MacDougal watched in horror as his friend lay on the wet wood, staring at him with pleading eyes.

MacDougal fought to crawl across the deck to aid his friend. Cries from the lower deck sounded as the finality of their situation sank into their minds. The captain managed to reach Taggart’s crumpled form and leaned over him. I’m sorry, Captain, Taggart moaned, almost inaudible through the gale. I did not see the blamed boom coming.

MacDougal wiped the rain from his friend’s face, hovering over him to try to keep the rain from him. Not your fault, dear friend, he assured the first mate. Are ye in much pain?

Taggart gave a forced chuckle. I feel nothing at all, to be honest, he said. My back is shattered into a million pieces. I am lucky to still be breathing.

When we reach land, I will see to it that you get the best care, MacDougal promised, squeezing Taggart’s hand, even knowing the man could not feel his touch.

Do not deceive me, Captain, for we all know we will never see land again, Taggart moaned. This storm will be the death of the lot of us.

MacDougal looked off into the distance, past the rain-soaked sails. He gave a heavy sigh, turning his gaze back to his friend. He had been fooling himself as much as Taggart with any hope of returning to the port. Ye always did see through me, he admitted. That is most likely why we have been such good friends for so many years.

So many good years, Taggart smiled weakly. I have ne’er had a better friend, and if we are meant to die today, I consider it an honour to die with me greatest mate ever.

MacDougal felt tears well up in his eyes as the truth of Taggart’s words, coupled with his acknowledgement of his own mortality, came crashing in on him.

The sky was split with another wicked bolt of lightning, lighting up the entire area with its violence. The bolt struck the ship with a sharp, angry shudder, sending splinters of broken, scorched wood flying. The men on the lower deck scrambled away from the strike. The frantic bearded face of Quinn O’Mooney crested the top of the deck from below. Captain! he cried. We have taken a fatal hit! The lightning shredded the hull! We are taking on water!

MacDougal looked once at Taggart. The first mate lay still, open eyes glassed over and staring blindly at him. Poor sot, he thought, closing his friend’s eyes. At least he won’t need to be bothered with drowning as the ship goes down with all hands. He looked to the skies again, mouthing a silent prayer to Manannan Mac Lir, Patron Saint of Sailors for swift deliverance from the impending terror of the sinking ship to the embrace of the world beyond.

Another bolt of lightning struck, demolishing what was left of the foundering vessel. MacDougal felt his broken body flying as if in slow motion through the rainy air and falling toward the open arms of the eternal sea.

* * *

Terror filled his heart as he sprang suddenly awake, eyes wide with horror, a scream tearing itself from his throat. His eyes flew around the room, scarcely recognizing where he was. Slowly realizing he was home, he sat up in his bed, nightclothes rumpled and disheveled from the nightmare that seemed to infest his dreams more and more often of late. Sweat roll down his face. He felt his night sweat had again soaked the sheets of his large bed.

He swung his feet to the floor, sliding them into his leather slippers. Standing and walking across the room, peering at his reflection in the large oval mirror, he saw the face of Donal Fitzgerald Cavanaugh, only son of the county’s most powerful patron, Sir Domnall Courtney Cavanaugh. He saw the red hair he had worn shoulder-length every day since he reached manhood. He stared into the bright green eyes of the image before him, a shade of Irish green that was a trait of his family for many generations before him. His neatly-trimmed beard framed his face which some would say was handsome. He had been pursued by many love-struck women for several years, but he never took one to bed, wanting to wait until he felt the true blossoms of love before he gave up his virtue. He knew he was rather old to still be pure, but he had never found one who made his heart melt when he saw her. His father felt that once his son reached twenty-five, he should be already in the throes of some wild romance. Donal had recently had his thirtieth birthday and remained unsullied. He pulled on his day clothes, a loose white linen shirt and a pair of dark cotton trousers. He had a feeling he should wear casual garments today and slid his feet into his favourite soft leather loafers which he preferred to wear without stockings.

Through the aid of Cullen Brannen, the old house-man who had served the Cavanaugh house since Donal was a young lad, his father had summoned the boy into his library, where he sat at his over-large executive desk, which was usually piled high with stacks of multi-coloured papers. Cullen left Donal at the doorway into the library and resumed his duties elsewhere. Donal knocked upon the heavy oak door with its ornate carvings of trees, leaves, and vines. Enter, the deep voice came from inside.

Donal pushed the door open. His father was indeed seated at his desk. Behind the desk was a set of dark wooden shelves lined with volumes of books, both thick and thin and of various sizes. Domnall was bent over his desk, writing furiously on a paper with his favourite quill pen. His black, wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on his nose and always looked as if they were in danger of falling off. He finished what he was writing with an extravagant flourish before laying down the quill. He peered at his son over his glasses and waved Donal forward, offering him a seat in front of the desk. I heard you cry out again, Domnall informed him as the young man sat in the overstuffed chair. Was it the nightmare again?

Donal nodded affirmation. I’m afraid it was, he replied. It was exactly the same as it always is. A storm at sea, lightning destroying the ship. I wish I knew why I keep having this dream. It’s more than a little disturbing.

It’s just a dream, my boy, his father answered, tapping his thick fingers on the paper on the desktop. Dreams don’t have to necessarily mean anything. Some of them are just what they are, dreams. He leaned forward on his desk, propping himself up on his elbows, his neatly tailored long-sleeve shirt looking even more impressive in his pose. Domnall wore his traditional dark blue vest over the white shirt with blue stripes running down the sleeves and the torso. He liked to look impressive for people on the other side of his desk. Being a lord of the manor and a very proper businessman, Domnall Cavanaugh cut a most imposing figure in the community. He laced his fingers together under his chin and rested his freshly-shaved head on them. Donal instantly felt intimidated, as he normally felt when in his father’s library. The dark red moustache on Domnall’s face curled above a toothy smile as he regarded his son. I have far more important news to impart upon you today, my boy, he said, cryptically.

Donal squirmed in his chair. What news is that, Father?

The cheshire smile got wider, exposing more teeth. Why, your engagement, of course, the elder Cavanaugh responded. He drew his eyeglasses from his nose, keeping his eyes fixed on the boy’s face and saw the very reaction he had expected. Donal’s eyes grew wide with surprise, and his mouth dropped open. He had known his declaration would stun his son, but he hoped to see the exact expression on Donal’s face as was actually there.

’Engagement’, Father? he stammered. I am betrothed to no one to my knowledge. Why do you say I have an ‘engagement’?

It is high time that you married, my lad, Domnall stated, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied air surrounding him. With a finger, he twirled the curled end of his moustache like a clever villain in an old picture show. You have surpassed thirty years of age, and it is my determination that the Cavanaugh lineage must continue. You are my only son, and I am too old to be fathering another child to further my legacy. It falls to you, my son, to marry and bring new life into our line.

Donal cast his eyes to the floor, knowing his father was right. He had known that one day he would be responsible for the Cavanaugh name enduring in history. You arranged an engagement then? he asked. Domnall nodded curtly. The young man’s head swam with images of women he might be tied to romantically, none of whom made him feel as if he could truly love them, let alone be forever linked to them and their houses in marriage.

I have betrothed you to Adelaide Boyle, daughter of one of my business partners and heiress to a vast fortune of her own, as you are heir to mine, Domnall told him. Lord Boyle will tie his business affairs to mine should you wed Adelaide, easily doubling our fortune. He opened his upper right desk drawer and pulled out his bulbous pipe. Tapping a pinch of tobacco into the bowl, he casually lit the pipe, taking several deep puffs, the aromatic smoke encircling his head. When your mum died, I swore on her death-bed that I would see you married and a father before you became thirty. Your reluctance to court has made a liar of me to your mum’s memory. My desire to rectify this by ensuring you marry young Miss Boyle and become a father.

Father, I don’t know her and I do not love her, Donal said sharply. I cannot in good conscience marry someone I do not love. How can you ask such a thing of me?

Because as my son, my legacy is in your hands, and I will not have my hard-earned estate tended to by a lay-about with no interest in the family name, let alone the family business, Domnall explained, his brusque voice rising with each syllable. I will see you married if it be the death of me, Donal. My estate must be run by someone responsible in all aspects of his life, and that falls to you, my son.

The boy slouched back in his chair, crossed his arms, and grumped. Adelaide Boyle, he mumbled unhappily. She sounds like a frump and a goose.

A goose she may be and a frump she may be, but she is also your future wife, Domnall stated pointedly, jabbing a finger toward his son. If you value your inheritance, my boy, you had better start thinking like a married man.

Sometimes I wish I were not of your bloodline, Father, Donal grumbled.

Domnall stood suddenly, his face red with anger. I disapprove of that attitude, he thundered. "You are of my bloodline regardless how you feel about it, boy! If you choose to disregard your inheritance, that is completely up to you. If you want what I have built up for you once I am gone, I demand you respect my wishes and marry Adelaide Boyle as I have arranged. There will be no further discussion on this."

Donal stood up from the chair and turned away from his father, walking across the thick carpeting to the library door, seething with bitterness. "Since what I desire doesn’t matter to you, there will be no more said on the matter," he said, facing the door. Turning the knob with a trembling hand, he opened the door, slamming it shut behind him with a rattle that echoed throughout the hallways of the massive house.

Inside the library, Domnall Cavanaugh sank back into his chair and moaned softly, covering his disappointed face with his hands.

* Continue to Chapter 02.

Chapter 02

A TRIP TO THE COUNTRYSIDE

His foot hit the floor, accelerating his expensive cherry red original vintage Aston Martin in an acrid plume of exhaust smoke along the road out of the city. Donal liked the feel of the wind in his hair, so he put the top down and sped along the roadway, far exceeding any posted speed limits by at least double what would be posted. He was angry. He had grown up domineered by his father, the great industrial magnate Domnall Cavanaugh, and had always resented being treated as just another of his father’s belongings.

His father had not always been a rich man. Domnall had grown up among the poorest dregs of his little village, which was so impoverished that it was not even given a name. When people asked directions to reach the village, they were always told that it was roughly ten miles past Mullingar and if you reach Tullamore, you have gone too far. Domnall grew up with an abusive mother, his father having passed away in a mysterious fashion just after the boy’s birth. Agnetha Cavanaugh was a harsh taskmistress to her children, particularly young Domnall, who had the unfortunate distinction of being the middle child of three.

Beaten even when occurrences were not his fault, starved to the point of emaciation, Domnall grew to be a very bitter teenager who, when left to support his mother on his own when his brothers left the village to seek their fortunes, grew to despise her with every fiber of his being. She had abused him, humiliated him, nearly driven him to suicide on so many occasions, yet she had convinced herself that there was absolutely nothing wrong with what she had done. Domnall was her son, to be treated as she saw fit.

Agnetha died suddenly from a cerebral hemorrhage while she was screaming insults at a neighbor child who had ventured innocently into her fenced-in yard to retrieve an errant ball of twine. She had stormed out onto the slat-wood porch and began to berate the children when she collapsed into a pile of wet mud that her son had left beside the fence gate. The boys naturally ran and hid, thinking she was attempting to trick them into coming into her yard close enough for her to grab hold of one of them.

Domnall found his mother lying in the mud pile, still, unbreathing, her silver hair tangled with drying mud. He had turned her over, overwhelming joy filling his spirit as he realized she was dead and would no longer be the cruel parent she had always been.

Domnall’s brothers came home for her burial, but Domnall stayed away. He did not want his brothers to see his glee at being released from his life of terror, always wondering what new form of abuse she would inflict on him next.

Now free from Agnetha’s suppression, Domnall moved from the village, eventually settling in Kilkenny, where he set about founding a brewery that manufactured and exported some of the finest Irish ale ever produced. In a matter of months, his reputation as a brewer was made, and he opened a second brewery in Killarney. In just under a year, young Domnall Cavanaugh, barely twenty years of age, was a very rich man.

He met Donal’s mother Desdemona MacGuire at a church fete and fell instantly in love with her. Her raven hair was piled high atop her head, held in place by a glittering golden tiara inlaid with rubies. He was most impressed with her buxom figure, clad in a low-cut, very tight chemise and complemented with a long, flowing blue ball gown. Her full lips were the reddest red Domnall had ever seen, and her emerald green eyes transfixed the young man to the spot when she deigned to look his direction. He approached her very shyly, virtually unable to meet her gaze. She lifted a dainty white-gloved hand, which he took, pressing his lips to the fabric, feeling every bit unworthy that she had even offered her hand to him. He finally looked up at her face and saw a smile there, a faint smile but a smile nonetheless.

Desdemona’s aristocrat father fully approved of the young man who sought to court his lovely daughter, and encouraged their time together. Lord Walcott MacGuire held a high post in the parliamentary class and had always held strong hopes that Desdemona would marry a wealthy man. He found those hopes realized in Domnall Cavanaugh.

The first years of Domnall and Desdemona’s marriage were seamlessly lucrative for both sides of their family, his alcohol business moving into exports to the United States and South America. Desdemona followed her father into the political arena, and more than once made enemies of the working class population. Her husband’s brewery business sometimes suffered for her unpopular political stances, but they strove to persevere and once again flourished.

Domnall had been extremely pleased to hear he was going to be a father. If he had known that his son would come to be someone who did not appreciate his father’s wealth and ambitions, he would have forced his wife to stop the pregnancy. As it was, he was happy when the child was born, naming the boy after his great-grandfather Donal. Little did father or son know that Desdemona would die before the lad turned six years of age.

Losing his beloved bride hurled Domnall into endless fits of rage and drinking, cursing everyone around him, and blaming young Donal for the loss of his wife. A rift was born between Domnall and Donal, one that would cause the two men to scuffle and fight on many occasions over the slightest thing, even to the point of the physical altercation that built the wall between them forever. Domnall, in blind anger, disagreed with Donal so strongly during one of their many arguments that he struck his son across the face so strongly that the boy flew across the room, landed in a bundle against the far wall, nose broken and bleeding and three teeth missing. Even though Domnall pled temporary insanity and nearly apologized, Donal decided never to forgive the older man. The rift was in place, and the bridge was burned.

* * *

The countryside was a blur as Donal sped along the roadway, his foot slamming the gas pedal to the floor. Trees, fields, houses all passed by at a high rate of speed. His anger at his father made him blind to what he was passing, and he found he did not care. All he could feel was hurt by Domnall’s disregard for his feelings by forcing him to marry a woman he did not know. All he could see was his father’s grinning face when the old man gave him the news, piercing his heart with words that damaged him more than a knife could have.

When he finally slowed the car, he noticed a battered old sign that was painted on the face of a tall grey stone on the roadside. The words had long since faded from legibility, but below the unreadable words was a freshly-painted arrow pointing up a nearly-hidden side road. The side road was overgrown with dangling branches and leafy limbs. What in the world…? he wondered aloud. His car idled as he sat at the head of the roadway, both curious at what he might find and frightened that something ominous might be waiting for him.

Shrugging, his curiosity getting hold of him and taking him by the hands, Donal turned the car onto the less-traveled road and gunned the engine, speeding away from the highway into the unknown.

Long branches swatted at his car as he passed. He put up the top, enclosing himself in the hurtling metal vehicle. Again, the scenery sped by at top speed as he navigated his way along the winding roadway in the thick forest.

He nearly missed the black wrought-iron gates just off the left side of the road, and he might not have seen them at all if the woods had not thinned temporarily and a glint of sunlight caught the weathered metal. The dirt and dust choked the air as Donal slammed on the brakes and slid to an eventual stop. Looking back over his shoulder, he shifted the gear into reverse and back the car up until he was sitting outside the closed gates. He scratched his beard thoughtfully as he eyed the unexpected obstruction.

Wonderment overtook him. What is a set of gates doing way out here in the middle of nowhere? he asked himself. He opened the car door and walked the fifteen feet from his car to the gates. His eyes ran over the entire expanse of the iron gate, his hand stroking the cold metal. There was no lock or chains anywhere he could see. The tall black gates had arches at the top with three spikes pointing skyward from each gate. There was no intricate design other than the spikes. He had expected to see some form of artistic denotation somewhere on the gates, like a stylized letter or a rendition of a flower, but there were none.

He gripped the gates in his hands and pushed lightly. With a loud, squealing creak, the gates’ hinges broke free of the rust that had been clogging the moving mechanisms for unknown decades. He pushed the gates open until they stopped moving against the foliage just inside. Donal wiped his newly-dirty hands on his trousers legs, looking at the dirt road that lay beyond the gates. It appeared to climb a small hill with bushes and trees lying beyond.

He climbed back into the car, backed up a few feet, then turned into the new path, passing easily between the gates and giving in a cloud of dust forward.

He watched as he drove past a small cemetery with seven crumbling headstones and surrounded by a short iron fence that closely resembled the gates he had just come through. Tall, browning grass tried in vain to hide the headstones. A towering tree shaded the cemetery from the midday sun like some hunchbacked guardian.

Donal crested the small hill he had seen from the roadway and brought the car to a rolling halt. Between his vantage point and the stand of trees, he found a half-circle clearing at the front edge of the woods. In this clearing was a circle of Standing Stones, three tall ones and four smaller ones. Putting the car in park, he stepped from the vehicle again, slowly walking toward the Stones. The sun shone off their faces like the sparkling of a thousand diamonds, mesmerizing him. The pure beauty of seeing them standing so majestically against the dark trunks of the forest behind them struck him speechless, the power radiating from them filling him with awe as he stood there, unmoving.

Silence surrounded him, a thick quiet he could feel more than hear. He felt the silence throbbing at the back of his skull. It was the most complete absence of sound he had ever experienced. If he had been able to move, he would have held the quiet in his hand, it was so physical. Just when he thought the hush would drive him quite literally insane, Donal heard a soft whispering, barely on the edge of being audible. He strained his ears to discover what the voices were saying but found they were speaking a tongue he did not recognize.

Feeling he no longer had a will of his own, he felt compelled to take a step forward. Then another. Then a third. Before he realized what had happened, he found himself standing exactly in the center of the circle of Standing Stones.

The whispers became louder in his head, still speaking the unknown language. Louder they became, and louder still. He fought to raise his hands to his ears, but he was paralyzed again, standing still within the stone monument. The circle’s power crackled around him; the whispers became shrieking screams, heard only by him. His own cries joined the bellowing voices inside his head. He felt his hair standing out straight from his head, his fingers becoming pain-wracked claws as the noise deafened him. He felt his body contort, bend in on itself, twist backwards, and levitate off the grassy ground.

His eyes rolled back in his head. His red beard bristled with electricity…

…Then he was gone.

* Continue to Chapter 03.

Chapter 03

THE POWER OF THE STANDING STONES

The feeling of floating carried Donal through wavering states of consciousness. At one time, he felt completely aware of everything that surrounded him. At others, he felt as if his skull was filled with wet cotton, his thoughts barely able to form cohesively. Between the two, he felt weightless, as if flying through space like a self-contained vessel. His eyes saw glimpses of swirling colours, speckled with blacks, whites, and greys against the vibrant, pulsing hues and tints that rushed past him at the speed of thought.

He was aware of the grass against his cheek, but he felt unable to address it as such. It was a surface, something for him to lie on while his mind played, skipping in childlike games across whatever planes of existence he happened to have appeared on.

He could hear muffled voices, some raised into shouts; others were barely whispers. Were these the voices he had heard before being overcome by this somewhat pleasant but still disorienting feeling of travel while standing still? He could scarcely form the question in his addled brain before the sensation shifted, his entire body tumbling erratically through the void, his mind a mass of mush as he attempted to lure himself into lucidity.

He tumbled through space, through the shifting waves of colours and designs, his only touchstone to sanity was the brief second he swore he could see his father’s face among the patterns dancing before his eyes. The older man was scowling at him, eyes blaze with indifference, his moustachioed mouth drawn down into the angriest frown Donal had ever seen. The face vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the young man to question if he had actually just seen Domnall Cavanaugh’s face, or if it was another hallucination.

He tumbled on, heels over head, twisting and turning with unfelt buffets of wind that seemed intent on driving him past the precipice of sanity into the dark realm of madness. There were many pinpoints of light exploding all around him, disappearing in swirls of flashing colours only to ebb brilliantly elsewhere.

He knew he was screaming. He felt his mouth opened wide in terror, his vocal cords vibrating with the most ferocious outcry he had ever made in his entire life. But there was no sound. That same deafening silence that he had felt in the center of the stone circle again filled his ears with its tangible quiet. He was growing more horrified by the passing second, his fear of the unknown overwhelming him with leaps and bounds of unfettered, icy knives of fright stabbing him repeatedly. He bled dread. He wept dismay.

All he wanted was an end to this alarming thing that was happening to him. Yet he fell on…

* * *

His senses returned slowly. The first thing he noticed what that he no longer felt as if he was airbourne. His vision gradually cleared, and he saw that it was still daylight. The sunlight shone down on him, warming his skin and brightening his mood substantially. He felt long, springy grass beneath his hands as he stroked the earth. He was lying down, his slender belly against the ground. His legs encased in his dark trousers were splayed on the grass. His shirt was untucked, which was unusual for him – he was always particular about making certain his shirt tails were tucked into his belt-line whenever he was out of the house. He lifted his head and peered around, squinting in the bright sunlight. He lay in an open field, a vast expanse of tall grass and numerous bushes and trees at irregular intervals across the ground.

He heard the soft burbling of a stream nearby. Looking up, he saw there were no clouds overhead from horizon to horizon. There was no sign of the forest where he had just stood among the circle of Standing Stones.

The Stones!

Wheeling about excitedly, he saw that even the dark grey Standing Stones were gone!