A Soul Returns

By Phillip Wayne Cummins

Two ancient civilizations and two ancient religions collide once again. For generations, Sayyid Rashid, the wealthiest man in the world, has been manipulating the policies of both the Middle East and the United States to achieve his ultimate goal: the destruction of Israel. The owner of the world's largest pharmaceutical corporation, he uses his vast wealth and modern medical technology to create a leader like the world has not seen since ancient times. However, he does not anticipate the evil that will be brought in to the world. Could this be the fulfillment of two ancient prophecies? The Templar Knights is an ancient organization whose modern-day reason for existence is to protect the nation of Israel. Searching for the only people who can disrupt Rashid's plans, the Templars are led to the remote mountains near the Salmon River in Idaho. Will the Templars succeed in protecting them from Rashid's men, or will they be destroyed by their own internal struggles? Caught in the middle are twin brothers who were separated at birth and raised on opposite sides of the world. Now, one's creation is out to destroy the world; the other is out to destroy the creation. Will one or both survive? As the world moves toward peace, is it true peace or the greatest deception ever seen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647015534

Book preview

A Mother’s Sorrow

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

—John 15:13 (NKJV)

Kneeling next to the hand-hewn oak cradle, Brigid de Saint-Amand watched her month-old twin boys sleeping without a care in the world. Watching their tiny chests rise and lower with each gentle breath, she refused to allow the heart-wrenching decision she’d made overshadow her joy of being a new mother.

Born in Edinburgh in 1944 to Patrick and Adelaide de Saint-Amand, her sketchy ancestry traced back to Eudes de Saint-Amand, a twelfth-century warrior monk and eighth Grand Master of the Knights Templar who fought in the Crusades in the eastern Mediterranean.

Her grandfather, Nicholas de Saint-Amand, with whom she lived after her parents died in a car accident in the Scottish Highlands, was a Freemason and Grand Master of the Knights Templar that continued to assure future generations their foothold as protectors of Jerusalem.

Brigid’s grandmother, Catherine, disappeared shortly after her parents’ deaths. No note or evidence was found to indicate whether she left because of her husband’s abject cruelty, or his involvement with people possibly responsible for her son and daughter-in-law’s deaths. Or both, if Nicholas’s suspicions were correct.

Photos from the Edinburgh Police incident report revealed two sets of tire tracks where Patrick’s Morgan broke through a guard rail on the Bealach Na Ba, then rolled down the mountainside to the valley below. Their bodies burned beyond recognition, his dental records were confirmed by the medical examiner. None were located for his wife.

Consumed with finding their assailants, depression and alcoholism destroyed any remaining vestiges of Nicholas’s sharp mental acumen. With strict instructions to not be disturbed, empty whiskey bottles and trays of uneaten food piled up outside Nicholas’s study door, his violent outbursts becoming a daily routine at the two-story house overlooking Holyrood Park.

Lacking nurturing instincts—and because Brigid reminded him too much of Catherine—Nicholas turned her caregiving over to beady-eyed Margaret Buchanan, who knew how to run a household like a well-oiled machine, but knew nothing about the needs of a five-year-old girl.

Being homeschooled, Brigid’s tutor never suspected she didn’t have friends as she was vivacious and excelled in her studies. But with no friends or other family members to talk to, her loneliness fueled her anguish and bitterness.

Every drop of a utensil, every creak of a floorboard, every word whispered or shouted echoing in the Baronial building over the next ten years was a constant reminder that she was an unwitting bystander to her grandfather’s escalating madness.

One night while reading Jane Eyre in the dim light of her bedroom, Brigid heard angry voices emanating from Nicholas’s study. Quietly tiptoeing down the staircase, she sat on the last step and listened to the escalating argument.

I know they were murdered! Nicholas shouted.

Nick, it’s been ten years, and you’ve found no evidence of foul play by the man the Yard’s been tracking, a deep male voice with a thick Scottish brogue countered.

I was responsible for Patrick’s training, he was one of our best. You know as well as I do he wouldn’t have flown off that mountain. Your mate at the DCI said the brakes had been tampered with.

Bollix! Accidents happen. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, the man said, his voice angrily rising. Nick, you need to give it up.

You know Rashid won’t stop until the Templars are destroyed and we’re all dead, Nicholas slurred.

Nick, I love ye like a father. But the morphine’s makin’ ye delirious, the man said. I’ll have Doc Munson bring ye somethin’ to calm you down. Then I’ll follow up on his script for a live-in nurse.

I don’t need a bloody housekeeper or you telling me what to do! Nicholas shouted, followed by the sound of glass shattering against a wall. I need you to find out who’s been killing my family!

Seeing the doorknob turn, Brigid slipped into the closet underneath the stairwell, where she watched a tall, husky man in his midtwenties wearing a tweed bunnet open the study door.

Ye need to get yourself under control, man, the man said to a red-faced Nicholas, who was tightly embracing a framed photo against his chest. Don’t forget, you have your granddaughter to think of as well.

Get out, and don’t come back! Nicholas shouted, slamming the door in the man’s face.

Seeing Brigid peering through the crack in the door, the man winked, tipped his bunnet, then left through the front door.

Slowly opening the door to see if Margaret was squirreling around, Brigid walked to the study and placed her ear against the door. Hearing her grandfather’s incoherent ramblings, she ran to the top of the stairs and into her bedroom, the clicking of the door being locked echoing in the dark hallway.

A few days later, the man Brigid had seen leaving Nicholas’s study returned to the house and introduced himself to her as William MacDougall, a Templar and her grandfather’s comrade.

But ye can call me Mac, he said, appreciating the young girl’s lithe but strong countenance. In turn, his six-foot-five stocky frame reminded Brigid of the Celtic warriors she’d seen in Nicholas’s history books.

After the physician he brought with him diagnosed Nicholas with cirrhosis of the liver and an enlarged heart, William made arrangements for a live-in nurse. Cost is not a concern as Nicholas deserves only the finest care, Brigid heard him say as he placed a stack of fifty-pound notes into the doctor’s hand.

Several months later, upon overhearing Agnes Boyd—the nurse who always smelled like laundry detergent—whisper to Mac that she didn’t think Nicholas had many months left, Brigid lugged a heavy valise containing Nicholas’s rare antiquarian books and Crusader memorabilia to a shop on Royal Mile. The man excitedly revealed that the artifacts Nicholas had collected during his sojourns into the Scottish countryside were centuries old, but to Brigid they were only a means to finance her escape.

By the time Brigid was seventeen, a transition of power from Nicolas to William as Grand Master had been occurring underneath her very roof. Although she hadn’t understood her grandfather’s accusations when MacDougall had first visited years earlier, she eventually pieced together that Nicholas’s involvement with the Templars could literally mean life or death.

Having secreted away money from selling antiques she knew wouldn’t be missed, Brigid finally had enough money to escape her bondage.

Cracking the bedroom door open to find Nicholas snoring, and the live-in nurse asleep in a chair, Brigid closed the door, walked downstairs, and entered his study. Momentarily stopping when she heard Margaret whispering to herself outside the office, she walked to his desk to retrieve the objects he told her she’d inherit.

This kind of craftsmanship hasn’t been seen for hundreds of years, he said on her seventh birthday as he opened a red velvet case with two gold crosses on chains and an empty space for a third one. They’re very valuable since they were passed down through many generations of Templars. I gave one to your mother the day she and Patrick got married.

What happened to the third cross? Brigid asked as she touched the delicate filigree.

Never found it on her or in the car after the accident. Was probably destroyed in the fire. Placing the box in the right-hand drawer of his desk, he said, You’ll get yours on your eighteenth birthday, and not one day sooner.

Turning on the banker’s lamp, she retrieved a key from underneath the blotter, opened the drawer, and removed the box. Opening the lid, she picked up a cross and saw the Scottish Order of Templars’ insignia on the front and the initials EDSA engraved into its back.

Settling the cross into its place inside the velvet-lined box, she said, I wish I could see the look on your face, old man, when you realize they’re missing, as she closed the lid then slipped the box into her jacket pocket.

Placing a framed photo of her parents into her backpack, Brigid took one last look around the room and closed the door. Hearing Margaret humming in the kitchen, she left the house and walked to the bus station.

As she handed her ticket to the driver, she felt a fluttering of fear in her stomach and an icy prickling of the unknown creeping up her spine. Hoping no one would notice how badly her hands were trembling, or question why she was alone, she kept her eyes down as she worked her way to the back of the bus.

During the ride from Edinburgh to Cairnryan Harbor, an elderly woman sitting across the aisle asked her where she was traveling to.

Bob Dylan’s concert in Dublin, Brigid said, nervously looking around to see if anyone was listening.

Seems like half the people in the city are going there, the woman replied, nodding at the crowded bus. If you don’t mind me askin’, ye look very young to be goin’ such a long way on yer own.

I’m meeting my boyfriend there, Brigid lied, averting her eyes.

May’s a good time for a concert. Long days, good sunlight, decent weather, the woman assured. Well, dearie, I hope ye have a lovely time.

Nodding, Brigid laid her head back and dozed for the rest of the trip.

Keeping her head down as she exited the bus at the dock, she joined the long line of people waiting for the ferry to Belfast. Good, she thought as she climbed the plank. They’re too busy to notice me. Shoving her way through the overly excited travelers, Brigid finally found a seat away from prying eyes.

Covering her corn-silk blond hair with a silk scarf to block out the chilled sea air, she looked up to see a ginger-haired young man walking toward her with a broad smile on his devilishly handsome freckled face.

Leave me alone…Leave me alone…Leave me…

Seeing his sandaled feet stopping within an inch from her shoes, she heard him say, Mind if I sit here?

I don’t own the boat. Sit anywhere you want, she said, trying to avoid his intense gaze.

I thought you looked lonely sittin’ by yerself, he said, his jade-green eyes and shoulder-length hair too difficult to ignore.

There’s a big difference between lonely and being alone, Brigid snapped.

Michael Deraen Sullivan from County Cork at your service. Mike to my friends, he said, trying to light a cigarette in the ocean breeze. And yours is?

Brigid, she said meekly, noticing his hands had seen hard labor.

That’s a lovely name.

Mum chose it because it meant power and strength, she rambled, shyly looking at her hands. Or so I was told.

I’m going to Dublin. Can I assume yer headed the same way?

Might be. Might not be, she said, staring at the ocean.

Oh, so that’s how this’ll go.

Tamping out the cigarette with the toe of his sandal, Michael stood and pulled his jacket collar up against the wind. Well, then, powerful and strong Brigid, I hope you enjoy whatever it is ye might or might not be doing.

Seeing her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, he smiled, then left her sitting in stunned silence.

Taking a bus from Belfast to Dublin, she got directions to the Adelphi Theater from a flower vendor, then walked at a brisk pace to stretch out the cramps from her fourteen-hour journey.

Being shoved inside the building by the throng of excited concertgoers, Brigid found a dark corner where she wouldn’t have to constantly look over her shoulder. Closing her eyes, she swayed with the crowd to Dylan’s haunting lyrics when she heard, So this is where you were goin’. If I’d have known…

Opening her eyes to find Michael staring at her, she said, Why can’t you just leave me alone?

You didn’t come all this way not to dance with me, didja now, Michael said, his captivating smile overwhelming her sensibilities. Trying not to smile, she took hold of his strong hand.

Now, lass, don’t ever let go, he said, pulling her to her feet.

Leaving before Dylan’s last song to avoid being crushed by the crowd, they walked to a sidewalk café, where he convinced her to stay at his flat until she could find a place of her own.

Over the next few months, Brigid learned Michael’s family consisted of his father, Galen, a Presbyterian minister; his mother, Colleen, the church secretary; and an older brother, Lawrence, who’d attended seminary school to follow in his father’s footsteps.

Being pressed to learn her last name, she told him she was Brigid Campbell since de Saint-Amand would be a beacon for anyone searching for her.

Making his living as a stonemason, Michael never gave up on trying to convince Brigid to marry him. Though she grew to love him more than life itself, her fear of her past finding her shrouded their relationship in a veil of apprehension and distrust.

Many nights Michael was awakened by Brigid’s piercing screams. Rocking her to sleep while wiping tears from her face, he knew she needed to vanquish the persistent nightmares. But he didn’t know whom to turn to since she’d refused to talk about her family or to seek medical assistance.

The morning everything changed began with Brigid rising early to cook breakfast. Slipping his arms around her waist, Michael kissed her neck and said, One year ago, I fell in love with a beautiful blue-eyed girl on a ferry.

And how’s that gone for ye? she asked, turning to face him.

I’ll let ye know when I get home, he said, kissing her. By the way, yer puttin’ on a wee bit of weight eatin’ too many of yer fine scones.

I certainly am not!

I’m just sayin’…

Michael Sullivan, get out of here before you’re late to work, she said, tousling his unruly mop of red hair.

Passionately kissing her, he said, Make sure you put on yer Sunday best. I’m takin’ ya to McMurty’s for fish and chips when I get back, then left for a masonry project in downtown Dublin.

While putting laundry away in her dresser, Brigid pulled out the box containing the gold crosses. Running her fingertip over the delicate design, she knew her parents would have liked Michael’s exuberance and passion for life.

That afternoon, her neighbor, Eileen Kelly, excitedly popped in to ask if she’d heard the news about a car bombing in Dublin.

I haven’t been listening to the radio, Brigid said. I’ve been gettin’ ready for a night out with Michael.

Turn it on, Eileen said. The Garda Síochána think it was another IRA fracas.

In what part? Brigid asked as she tried to find a station without static.

The southern edge.

Oh my god. Michael went to work there this morning, Brigid said, dropping into a kitchen chair.

Seeing panic in her eyes, Eileen said, There’s been no confirmation about casualties. I’m sure he’s just fine.

You know how he is. Anywhere there’s trouble, you can be sure Michael’s thick in the middle of it.

Well, keep the radio on. I’ll let you know if I hear anythin’ more, and you as well.

After Eileen left, Brigid dialed the phone and asked the operator to connect her to the dispatch office. After a few rings, a male voice said, Southern Precinct. McElroy speaking.

G’day. I know this might be premature, but can you tell me if anyone was killed in the bombing in downtown Dublin?

After a few moments of hearing papers rustling in the background, the officer replied, Reports of casualties are coming in. But we can’t release names until we notify people’s next of kin.

Please, Officer McElroy. My…my fiancé was in that area.

I’ll put you on the notify list if you’ll give me your name and who you’re looking for.

Knowing she couldn’t reveal her true identity, Brigid quickly hung up the phone. The traffic’s probably bad, so he’ll get here when he can, she thought as she tried to control her panicky breathing. It’ll be fine, Brig. It’ll be fine.

But when he didn’t return home that evening, or the next, Brigid knew by the stabbing fear in her heart that she’d never see Michael again.

Two days later, a policeman from the Royal Ulster Constabulary knocked on the door. Apologizing for the delay in getting the news to her, he told Brigid the explosion caused the wall Michael had been repairing to collapse on him and his men.

Due to the excessive rubble, and the rioting and looting, we had a difficult time finding bodies, he said, unable to look her in the eyes. I hate to bring this up, Mrs. Sullivan, but you’ll have to come to the morgue to identify his body.

Mm-hmm, she said while thinking, He’s lying. The lines are down, so Michael hasn’t been able to call. He’s coming home. He has to come home.

I’m truly sorry for your loss. Had we known he was married, we’d have tried harder to find you.

Fighting the urge to correct him, Brigid mumbled, Thank you. I appreciate your help.

When he asked if Michael had any relatives, Brigid said he’d only received a few letters from his family after they moved to a small town in the States.

I don’t know if their address is current. In fact, I don’t know much about them.

Leave it up to us and we’ll notify them. Again, Mrs. Sullivan, I’m terribly sorry for your loss, he said, tipping his hat.

Watching him walk toward his patrol car, she closed the door and peered through the living room curtains. Thinking she saw a man who looked like William MacDougall watching her from across the street, she quickly closed the curtain.

That’s not possible as no one knows I’m here, she thought as she stood with her back against the wall. Waiting a few minutes, she then looked through the diamond-shaped window in the front door. Seeing the man had disappeared, she decided stress and fear was causing hallucinations.

Walking through the empty apartment to the bedroom, she crawled underneath the thick duvet and sobbed as visions of Michael lying dead on the streets of Dublin haunted her until she fell asleep.

The next month flying by in a blur, Brigid sharply awakened one morning and violently vomited on the floor next to the bed. After two more weeks of thinking she might have contracted the flu that had been in the news, Brigid finally went to a GP Eileen had recommended.

Lying on a table with her feet in cold metal stirrups, the doctor said, Your ‘flu’ will be cured in about seven months, his warm onion breath making her nauseous.

Leaving her alone to comprehend the news, Brigid finally found the strength to peel off the starched white gown and put on her clothes.

Later while drinking tea with Eileen, Brigid said, I have no job, and I can’t access Michael’s account because we weren’t married. Eileen, what am I going to do?

Alvin Donahue is hiring at the mill where I work, Eileen said, pouring cream into Brigid’s tea. He owes me a favor, and it’ll at least get you through to the holidays.

I’m not worried about myself, Brigid said, rubbing her stomach. But I wonder who will take care of the littl’uns if something happens to me.

"Ná bíodh imní ort, Eileen said, putting her hand over Brigid’s. Everything will work out fine."

During the last month of her pregnancy, Brigid devised a plan to protect her children’s futures. If her grandfather found her and forced her back to her bleak life at Holyrood, she wasn’t about to have her babies grow up in a house of subversion and lies.

Suffering through many hours of difficult labor guided by Eileen and a local midwife, Brigid named her ginger-haired, green-eyed boy Deraen, which meant thunder, and her blond, blue-eyed boy Faron, which meant lightning.

Thinking it best to adopt the boys to separate families, she asked the Mother Superior at a Catholic orphanage in Dublin to help locate Michael’s brother.

He’s my, um, husband’s brother who moved with his family to Idaho many years ago.

Upon learning that Larry Sullivan and his wife didn’t hesitate to adopt Deraen, Brigid asked that the files be sealed. When the Mother Superior said the courts were usually in charge of such requests, Brigid told her she had a heart condition and only had two months to live.

I realize this is an unusual situation, Brigid said, knowing she was already going to hell for perjuring herself about being married. But I know you can find it in your heart to help…just this one time.

Relieved when the local diocese granted permission, Brigid made arrangements with a Protestant orphanage in Ennis to adopt Faron to a childless couple in Lancaster, England.

Telling neither orphanage that she was adopting out two boys, Brigid left Faron with Eileen under the ruse of taking Deraen to the doctor.

Michael would have been so proud of yer beautiful boys, Eileen said, the baby’s hand wrapped around her index finger. By the way, I forgot to tell you a man showed up at my door askin’ about a young woman who fits your description.

What’d he look like?

Like my husband, Hugh. You know, a Viking with hair lit by the gods. A Scot by the sound of his accent. Maybe even South Queensberry, if I’m right.

Did you tell him anything?

I told him I didn’t know anyone like that, Eileen said, crossing herself.

Don’t worry. If anyone’s going to hell, it’ll be me, Brigid said, turning her head to prevent her friend from seeing fear in her eyes. Well, I shouldn’t be gone long. Ta.

Ta, Eileen said. Closing the door, she peeked around the front window curtain and mumbled, Somethin’s not right.

Letting Go

Parking Michael’s truck in front of the orphanage, Brigid cooed a lullaby to Deraen while wondering if she was making the right decision. Remembering Eileen saying a man had been searching for her, she placed one of Nicholas’s gold crosses and chain inside the blanket, climbed out of the truck, then carried him inside.

Two hours later, Brigid knocked on Eileen’s front door.

Jaysus, Brig. You look like death itself, Eileen said as she escorted her inside. Where’s Deraen? Is something wrong?

The doctor’s keeping him overnight to run tests for his cough. I’ll go back for him in the morning, Brigid fibbed as she wrapped the baby blanket tightly around Faron.

Can you stay for tea? You looked whipped to the bones.

I’d love to, but I have a lot to do before tomorrow, Brigid said, patting her friend’s soft hand. "Eileen, I don’t know what I would have done without ye all these months. Go raibh maith agat."

Just take care of yerself, Eileen said, opening the front door. Watching Brigid walk the stone path to the street, she whispered, Something’s not right indeed, then closed the door.

Turning the truck onto the highway, Brigid said, Faron, m’ boy, you best get some rest as it’s going to be a very long drive.

Driving southwest toward Limerick, she finally gave in to her feelings of despair and loss. Squinting through tears as she passed the hamlets of Borris-in-Ossory, Moneygall, and Birdhill in their quiet, lush green settings, her heart ached for a place where she could live in peace. But the sacrifice she was going to make to keep her boys safe ensured that would never happen.

Pulling into a service station in Limerick for petrol, she noticed a young couple holding hands and laughing as they walked past her.

Michael, my darlin’, she thought as she pumped the petrol, please don’t think I’m a coward because I want to come home to you. I just can’t bear the pain alone.

Driving the highway to Ennis while deep in thought, Brigid remembered being a young girl and seeing a crippled bird limp along the ground with its wing dragging in the dirt. As she started to run to help it, her mother stopped her and whispered, Brigid, see the cat skulking near her babies in the nest?

Mm-hmm?

The mother’s drawing it away to protect them. What do you think she’s thinkin’?

That she’s willing to die to save them?

That’s right. A good mother will go to the ends of the earth to protect her bairn.

That’s exactly how I feel, Brigid thought as she drove into Ennis, her mother’s words still echoing as she pulled in front of the orphanage.

A stipulation had been made that she wasn’t to be there when the Websters came for her son. Slipping the second cross and chain into his blanket, she whispered, May strong arms hold you, caring hearts tend you, and may love await you at every step. Be strong, my little man of lightning. I know God has magnificent plans for you.

After signing the adoption papers, then leaving Faron in the hands of the head matron, she drove northwest to St. Brigid’s Well, where the waters were rumored to have healing powers.

Barely able to see the sign through the thick coastal mist, she thought, I won’t stop as there’s no healing there for me. Just like Mum told me, I’m a mother bird drawing danger away from my babies.

Pulling off the road, she parked next to a weathered stone wall and exited the truck. As she walked the trail to the Cliffs of Moher, she felt the heavy burden of her decision sapping her strength. Digging deep to find the willpower to continue, she remembered telling Michael at the time she met him the meaning of her name. But not that it had been chosen due to her difficult arrival into the world via a breech birth.

I entered the world with a name meaning power and strength. I just hope I have the strength to leave this world easier than I entered it.

Reaching the top of the trail at the cliff’s edge, she knelt on the damp grass, put her hands together, and prayed.

Dear Lord, I beseech you to forgive what I’m about to do. Please don’t let my sacrifice be in vain. Keep my boys from harm. Guide them safely and joyfully throughout their life’s journey.

The freezing November wind whipping her long blond hair, Brigid stood and searched the heavens for a sign. Seeing a bolt of lightning spear the ocean, Brigid removed her heavy coat, spread her arms out like wings, and shouted, Faron and Deraen de Saint-Amand-Sullivan, I’ll love ye forever! then jumped off the cliff.

Flying headlong toward the rocks below, the Bob Dylan tune she and Michael had danced to fleetingly played in her mind until the world went dark.

Sunrise on the River

Blending in with his surroundings for the past two decades had become a tool for survival for fifty-year-old Deraen Sullivan. In spite of his tall, lanky build, red hair, and green eyes, he looked like any trail rider with his Winchester in its scabbard lying against Buck’s ribs—the same rifle he’d shot his first deer with thirty-five years earlier on Shingle Creek.

Since the people searching for him were deadlier than any predator he’d encountered in the Idaho wilderness, identifying signs of a threat to his territory meant the difference between a bullet to the back of his head or waking up the next morning.

While sitting in the protective shadow of a boulder below the canyon’s crest, a chukar partridge’s cackle echoing downriver indicated all ears and eyes were on the alert for intruders, human or otherwise.

The remnants of the previous night being chased into obscurity by sunrise, Deraen watched a doe grazing along a narrow game trail. Her ears suddenly cupping forward and her tail twitching, she scrutinized the river’s edge for signs of movement. He knew all was well when she finally resumed her meal.

After a week at the cabin, he was eager to get back to his house and five acres on the mouth of Rugged Creek, then downriver to Riggins for supplies and local gossip. Noticing his horse was lacking his usual eagerness to be on the trail, Deraen scratched the