The Shadow Concept: Psalm 23 Verse 4

By Jeff Bray

Set in an imaginary world where computer technology hasnt happened and the only way of survival is to keep ahead of game. Castindas is thrown into a perilous adventure, risking his life for a quest to the Dungeon of the Chingwatzi, sent by a mysterious master and shadowed by a companion that follows him to the end of his journey. Casindas does battle with not just his own demons, but those of his surroundings. Meant to be a moral, the story goes from suspense to humor and hopes to keep the reader guessing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546290766

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© 2018 Jeff Bray. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/17/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9077-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9076-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

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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.

Contents

Part 1 The First Encounter

Part 2 The Simplicity of Knowing

Part 3 The Passage to the Sanctuary

Part 4 The Beginning of the End Game

Part 5 The Journey Back to Chainmeadow

About the Author

PART 1

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

This is the day that the Lord has made were the first words Castindas Fairchild uttered upon opening his eyes from a troublesome night of erratic rapid eye movement.

After pondering for a moment, he added, Surely whatever has been gained by the day, whatever has been lost by the day, whatever is added to the day, whatever is taken from the day is taken from the day, whatever is given by the day is given by the day, and whatever is received of the day is received of the day. To the day it belongs, and it cannot be removed from that day by any power on the earth in the heavens or under the earth. God created the day to be enough for everything alive on earth so that nothing could ever be gained by clinging to the past. No one can reach and take hold of yesterday. That which remains in that day belongs to that day, not the day before or the day after.

Then Castindas rebuked the deceptiveness of his thoughts and spoke again. One day at a time. That is sufficient for me. Each day has its own troubles and joys, so why fret and chance cursing tomorrow?

When he had fully illuminated on this inspiring collection of insight gained on reading half a page of scripture from his tattered, well-read Bible, he thanked God that he had awoken and was alive, if slightly perturbed, by the visions and dreams of nights previous.

Castindas rose from the warmth of his covers to the winter chill of the bedroom. He leapt into the shower with the agility and speed of a gazelle being run down by a starving cheetah. This was all of ten seconds flat.

Five minutes later, he was showered, dressed, and grabbing a few miscellaneous items from a small table in the lounge. He walked outside to the freezing December air, and above him were the eaves of the cottages in Clearwater covered with hanging icicles that reflected in the moonlight.

It was snowing, as it had done all night and for most of the previous day. The snow covered almost everything in sight except for the small patches under some of the larger trees. It was about a foot and a half deep.

Castindas made his way out of the village in which he had lived since childhood, or at least for as long as he could recall. He travelled on foot out of the village and through the large marshland. This was tricky even for Castindas, who was well familiar with the regional landscape and geography. Then he went on into the woods. Chainmeadow, the area he was crossing, was still in darkness as it was well before dawn.

As Castindas entered the woods through a breach in the dense, tall oaks, a thick blanket of total blackness hid everything in front of him. Undeterred, Castindas used a kind of on-board, built-in navigator, a sixth sense he had acquired from his youth. He’d grown up spending many a long summer day during his college breaks adventuring and investigating the wildlife, as well as other interesting hobbies.

Interestingly, he had noted strange peculiarities about the caves and the woodland between them and the village. Part memory, part a sheer apprehensive forte on his part, and part luck guided Castindas through the darkness until he emerged exactly as he had intended, only a few yards from the dirt track. He stepped over a small stream and negotiated a stile before going up the track. The meadowland on either side resembled a large, ruffled, silken sheet spread over the uneven surface of the meadow grass.

The snow covered the area, and the deep ruts that were made by the farmers back when the meadow had been used to graze cattle were hidden by the thick snow. Castindas carefully hastened along the track, which was leading him to his appointment with the keyholder and his undisclosed task.

Castindas Fairchild had heard many tales during his upbringing in the backwater village. He had listened to them avidly and attentively, questioning every curiosity that he had failed to understand first-hand. In the taverns, veterans long since passed on had told stories and legends of the keyholder, some of which were adventurous and exciting for the hyperactive boy growing up. They told of mystery and dark shrouded in secrecy and fable.

Not surprisingly, this subject never arose during the service or mass in the chapel or at any other time within the confines of the perimeter wall and ancient chapel grounds. This may have been because of rumours—not to detract from the undeniably present evil—in old wives’ tales that were woven into the daily routine and instructions by the stiffer-necked and obstinate of the older generation. These included rumours of supernatural forces at war, good fighting an increasing and strengthening evil, magic, and unclean divinations attacking and oppressing the kindly, upright population of the land.

The chapel and its grounds seemed to be immune to the constant onslaught and devastating pummelling of this invisible enemy. The building, the land on which it was built, and its contents were to stay nurtured in an essence of deep spiritual holiness. No evil could enter there and survive in the presence that existed in and around the chapel. Castindas had been a regular member of the congregation at mass every week and a Christian for a long time now.

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As he approached the gates with their thick stone pillars, the dark and mysterious mansion appeared desolate and abandoned. This was where he had been notified to attend his meeting with the keyholder of the dungeon. The gates were locked by three large iron fixings on each side.

The stone pillars and outer walls had the appearance of a lot of now mostly desolate buildings aged and covered with mossy clods and thick, creeping, climbing poison ivy trailing down to the soil. It was nearly impossible to discern whether it had grown on the inside and gone over or had grown on the outside, where Castindas stood. Probably the buildings of this type had been used as refuges of eccentrics. He was puzzled as to how to bring to the attention of the occupants his arrival at the gates. It was freezing, and Castindas was eager to proceed.

A light flurry of snow drifted over him. Castindas could not see a great deal because it was still a few hours until sunrise. He gazed hard at what he could make out through the bars of the iron gates. The large building was silhouetted by an eerie aura enlightening the vicinity directly to the rear, giving it a terrifyingly gothic appearance. Seeing only a shadow, Castindas imagined tall, barred, and shuttered windows and turret chains over large tables. He glanced at his watch. It was 4.00.

He opened the letter asking him to attend and reread it. Make yourself available for present and urgent discussion, examination, and proceeding of an ensuing confidential matter. Come alone.

Castindas glanced at his wristwatch again. The letter had said for him to arrive at five minutes past four. His watch said it was now three minutes past. He was shivering from standing motionless and was damp because the snowfall had increased to a heavy downpour, covering all tracks he had made except those he made while stamping his boots to keep the blood flowing to his feet.

He reached into his jacket to relieve the numbness in his fingertips and took a quick, subconscious glance towards the large, dark, and mysterious mansion, but he failed to register that in his head. Instead, he felt excruciating pain on the back of his neck and passed almost unnoticeably into utter darkness and unconsciousness.

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It was five minutes past four exactly.

The figure now supporting the limp body of Castindas snapped open the catch of the wristwatch on Castindas’s left arm and placed it in his pocket. He then removed every item from Castindas’s pockets, along with all his jewellery, and placed them in a canvas wallet. He did the same with the wristwatch.

Castindas had been wearing a gold cross and chain that weighed twenty grams. The figure undid the clasp of the chain and, after looking at it, threw it about fifteen feet through the iron gates and into the grounds. Clothed head to foot in black, reinforced canvas garments, he was supporting Castindas by one hand under his right arm.

The figure would be a menacing adversary to cross, daunting even in daylight. The early hours before dawn set on him caused his awesome appearance to become terrifying.

As the cross and chain landed in the snow on the other side of the gates, two large, fearsome, Nebraskan wolfhounds converged on the spot. Smelling them, the larger hound picked up the chain and cross in its razor-sharp, gleaming white teeth. Then as quickly as they had arrived, they disappeared.

It was now six minutes past four. The stranger threw Castindas over his right shoulder and walked away from the gates. He walked silently and swiftly about thirty feet to the right of the gates and made a deliberate gesture to a reflective disc on the ground two metres from the wall. A moment later, a flap dropped open that had been concealed behind moss on the wall. The stranger reached in, turned the two-inch diameter ring 180 degrees anticlockwise, and punched in a security code. The eight-digit code could only be used once and by him alone, and then it was rendered obsolete. He then rotated the two-inch