A Love Story With Ghosts, Aliens, Villains, Pandora’s Box, Time-Travelers, And The Timekeeper

By William Penick

WEAPONIZING TIME

A ferocious storm lashes Skellig Michael, a barren piece of rock in the North Atlantic west of Ireland. Stranded and alone, Bill and Julie must spend the night in an ancient stone hut. After enduring the tempest's fury, they discover a mysterious scroll inside their hut that had not been there when they went to sleep.  

 

Written on Skellig Michael by a "Brother Niall" 1400 years in the past, the scroll describes the visit of two strange beings from a distant star who had given the monk a magical box containing a wondrous assortment of gifts to help mankind. But when his abbot returned to the island and heard Niall's story, he accused the brother of consorting with the Devil and condemned him to death. Unwilling to recant, Niall secretly penned and hid the missive before the abbot and other friars drowned him in the ocean, chained to the very instrument of their fear: Pandora's Box.

 

Unbeknownst to Bill and Julie, by uncovering the truth of Niall's message, they have set into motion a series of events that trigger not only an interplanetary crisis but an existential one, which changes the history of our world as well as the whole universe.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Penick
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223038047

William Penick

Since retiring as a trial lawyer after 32 years, William Penick has written a book entitled Beyond Faith: Our Role in Transforming God, a play (with his son) entitled Endings, and numerous short stories. Countless adventures with his wife and three children in the wilds of North and South America and Europe, including two surreal encounters with a hummingbird and a sea lion, inspired in him a deep curiosity about the daunting mysteries of the Universe. He is currently working on another book.

Book preview

Note to Reader

Before you begin, I have a confession to make. As much as I’d like to claim the credit for creating such an awesome character as Julie that you’ll meet very soon, I can’t in good conscience. You see, Julie is based directly on the real Julie who transformed and augmented my life for 55 years – and who, by way of example, may have saved my life by actually chasing a very large and hungry black bear out of our campsite in a remote Canadian wilderness. All I did in writing this book was to invent some bizarre and dangerous encounters with ghosts, aliens, and other creatures to demonstrate the abundant wisdom, courage, humor, and love of the real Julie.

Part One: The Box

Puffins and ghosts! Tons of each! All located on a mystical splinter of God-forsaken rock in the North Atlantic called Skellig Michael off the west coast of Ireland. It offered a perfect habitat for the puffins, but why all the ghosts? Ironically enough, the island was the home of some very hardy and devoted (or demented) monks for eight centuries starting around 500 CE. When they died, they apparently just hung around their old homestead as ghosts.

And that’s precisely why Julie, after visiting the Skellig Experience Centre during a vacation trip to Ireland, was so hell-bent on going to see the island for herself, despite previous problems with seasickness. She’d always been fascinated by ghosts and often summoned them to entertain her young children and their friends. But Julie and her husband Bill could have never guessed that their little day-trip to Skellig Michael would involve real ghosts, real aliens, real danger, and a mysterious box, not to mention time-travel and the Timekeeper later on.

It was the summer of 2026 when Bill and Julie initially traveled to Skellig Michael in an 18-foot fishing boat with, of course, a jolly captain named Patrick. After a one-day postponement due to weather that was, according to Patrick, a wee bit too rough to sail the open sea, the three of them departed from the lovely town of Portmagee on the west coast of Ireland.

Julie and Bill sat on benches in the wide open back of the little vessel that had a freeboard of only three feet, so they spent the whole voyage quite up close and personal to the rolling sea. It was like crossing the Gulf of Mexico in a pirogue. Instead of crested waves, there were rounded swells that seemed gigantic to the two landlubbers. They rode every one of those swells from the very top to the very bottom and up again. When their little craft had dropped into the trough between swells, they were 15 feet below the top of the next incoming swell! It was exhilarating – in a heart-stopping kind of way – something like an eight-mile roller-coaster ride, with an occasional shot of icy water for good measure. Fortunately, the old tub was seaworthy, the captain knew what he was doing, and Julie handled the situation with aplomb like the champion she always was.

Bill and Julie noticed there were a few other visitors on the island, which was reassuring. But within minutes of arriving, they discovered just what an astounding – and forbidding – place it was.

I can almost feel the ghosts, said Julie, somewhat giddily.

Aren’t the puffins enough? asked Bill, his eyes darting around for ghosts.

Puffins are wonderful, but how many people have encountered a real ghost? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for us, exclaimed Julie.

I can’t wait, muttered Bill, before Julie squeezed his hand.

Skellig Michael is the pinnacle of a huge underwater mountain that rises 715 feet above the sea at steep 45-degree angles and is estimated to be 370 million years old. It first appeared in pagan mythology 3400 years ago and, more recently, was actually used as a setting in two Star Wars movies. It also served as the mythological site of St. Patrick’s final victory over the snakes and dragons that had plagued Ireland. Soon after he converted the Irish to Christianity in the fifth century, a few local monks decided to abandon the mainland for this tiny, inhospitable island eight miles out to sea. Despite the whims of Mother Nature and a few bloodthirsty Vikings, they established a small colony of 10-12 monks that persisted until the 14th century.

But even that unusual history did not prepare the two visitors for the otherworldly sight before them. Crude stairways carved in solid rock that led to a cluster of equally-crude structures at the very top of the island provided the only signs of human habitation. Not a single tree sprouted from the terrain, which boasted very little vegetation of any kind. However, there were birds galore that lived in rock crevices and fished in the surrounding sea – peregrine falcons, gannets, petrels, and especially those incredible puffins, thousands of them. Julie and Bill could approach within arms’ length of the puffins without disturbing them. Not surprisingly, Skellig Michael seemed much the same as it likely was 1500 years earlier, when the same puffins and friends supplied the main item on the monks’ diet: birds’ eggs.

So how did the monks survive in such a spare and hostile environment, wondered Bill and Julie? Obviously with lots of back-breaking work and much architectural ingenuity, based on what remained of the monks’ ancient home. Using nothing more than primitive tools to shape the slate and hard rock, they had somehow managed to carve in solid rock three very steep sets of stairs with about 600 steps each. Treacherous, yes, but still the only way to ascend to the top of the island, where the monks lived, far away from the turbulent sea.

There they constructed a system of massive, drystone retaining walls to create fairly level terraces for their vegetable gardens and monastery, which included six beehive-shaped huts just big enough for two monks each, a primitive church, two small chapels, a hermitage, two cisterns, and even a small beehive bathroom over a steep ravine. All their structures were built by laying flat stones horizontally on top of each other in such a way as to divert rainwater to the outside and keep the inside dry. Even though no mortar of any kind was used, most of the buildings were still intact after 1000-1500 years of severe North Atlantic weather, which was lucky for Julie and Bill as things turned out. Right next to the sleeping huts was an ancient cemetery with over 100 Celtic stone crosses.

Since there were no walkways or railings and nothing to see at the lower levels, Julie and Bill carefully marched up all 600 of the ancient steps to the living and working quarters. They explored every structure exhaustively and tried to imagine what it must have been like to live there 24/7 back in the sixth century.

How did they do it? wondered Bill out loud. No flashlights, phones, ice, Gore-Tex, radios, or medicine. Not even real toilet paper.

And no pistachio ice cream! added Julie with a grin. Not sure I would’ve survived without that.

Bill laughed. But, dear, you did survive very well without any ice cream and many other modern conveniences for a week or so at a time when we backpacked into the mountains with only what we could carry on our backs, including just one change of clothes.

Not the same, said Julie. We always knew there’d be a Burger King, telephone, hospital, and even an ice cream parlor just a day or two away. And we were out no more than ten days max, as I recall. Those old monks lived on this island for months if not years at a time. To get back to the mainland, which was certainly no Shangri-La way back then, they had to cross eight miles of treacherous ocean in a small, primitive boat of some kind.

Good point, Bill conceded. The ride out here today was pretty scary even in a modern boat.

Then it dawned on them how tired they were after climbing just one flight of steps with only light daypacks, compared to what the monks had to endure. 

Can you imagine spending all day cutting those steps into the hard rockface and  carrying very large stones to the top to build the huts and chapels? Bill huffed. Ten hours or more of grueling labor every day.

I’ll stick to my 25-pound backpack and good boots on a nice trail, thank you, said Julie.

They paused, feeling their own fatigue and remembering their own hiking experiences in the Rockies and Alps.

Not only were the trails we hiked well-marked usually, they were not nearly as steep as the rocky steps we just climbed up, added Bill. We also had it much better weather-wise. The storms on a barren rock like this in the North Atlantic must have been horrendous.

So true, said Julie, but we had our share of bad electrical storms while camped above timberline at 12 or 13,000 feet in the Rockies.

How can I forget? The worst was that big storm on our second trip to Lake El Dorado in southwest Colorado. You remember that one? Weary, Bill sat on a nearby rock.

Sure do – vividly, answered Julie. It was like the end of the world. Never seen so much rain and lightning, all night long.

And we had no place to hide but in our little tent with its aluminum poles. Neither one of us slept a wink, Bill recalled, wondering how they survived.

The nearby alpine lake overflowed and flooded our tent with about three inches of water. Everything was soaked, including us. Julie shuddered just thinking about it.

Yeah, that was one very long and scary night, Bill remembered. And then we still had to get down the mountain the next morning. Our packs weighed a ton because of all the wet stuff. He laughed, nervously.

I’m sure you remember that flooded stream we had to cross. 

It was a barely the size of a creek on our way up but became a monster after the storm. We threw our packs over it before trying to cross it ourselves.

You insisted on going first to make sure we could do it safely, said Julie. I was terrified you were going to be swept downstream, but you made it and then threw me a rope to tie around my waist, just in case. Julie sat down beside Bill and hugged him.

Just like we did on that flooded river in the Ozarks when our canoe crashed on that island, Bill said.

That’s when you almost drowned. Yep, I remember that well, sighed Julie, hugging him again.

I’d guess a good number of those ancient monks out here actually did drown or were killed by lightning or blizzards. Tough place to live.

They both sat quietly for a few minutes, admiring the monks of Skellig Michael for what they had achieved in building a viable community on a remote island under such adverse circumstances. Everything about the island was fascinating, but it was comforting to both of them to know they were a boat-ride away from a hot shower, a tasty meal, and a comfortable bed.

Or so they thought.

When it came time for Bill and Julie to depart in the late afternoon, they were so intent on their mission of exploring every structure and befriending as many puffins as possible that they didn’t notice they were the only visitors left on the island. Or that the sun was about to disappear behind an ominous bank of very dark clouds and the seas around them were starting to agitate like the inside of a washing machine. They raced down the stairs to the dock where Patrick was to meet them, but his boat was not there or anywhere at sea. Both felt a moment of panic.

So much for that hot shower, bottle of Chardonnay, and three-course dinner. Instead, it was going to be spending a stormy night on the hard floor of a tiny stone hut alone with whatever furry (or otherwise) little critters lived out there. Eerie, yes, but both Julie and Bill were also a little excited by the prospect. If they could survive alone in tiny tents in terrible weather at 12,000 feet in the Colorado mountains, they could survive one night on Skellig Michael, even if there happened to be any unreconstructed Vikings around, because the storm would prevent them from landing, as one of the monks noted in the margins of an ancient manuscript they’d read about: The wind is rough tonight, tossing the white-combed ocean. I need not dread fierce Vikings....

They huffed and puffed up those 600 steps again to the only shelter at the top of the island and dove into the nearest beehive hut just before the deluge began. As luck would have it, their new home was the one closest to the monks’ ancient cemetery. Happily, they had brought ponchos, jackets, snacks, and water. And, as camping veterans who learned the hard way, they had also remembered to bring toilet paper, not that there would be much opportunity to use it. After blessing the monks for somehow building waterproof huts but cursing them for not installing an elevator too, they spread their ponchos on the ground and considered their predicament.

Another adventure! laughed Julie.

All the comforts of home, right? Bill responded, dubiously.

Not to worry, sweetheart. Those old monks spent every single night for years in these huts and survived. And they didn’t even have ponchos.

That’s very comforting, dear.

Julie laughed again at his distress. We’ll be okay, my love. Don’t forget we camped out many times right near bears, cougars, moose, wolves, and other dangerous creatures, including a grizzly bear that attacked someone just a few miles from our campsite. If we survived all of that, we’ve got nothing to worry about here.

Bill shifted his weight uneasily. What about snakes? Or rats?

Julie was having fun at this point, as the wind and rain howled around them. Why not dragons? St. Patrick may have overlooked a few. Or ghosts? It’s a good neighborhood for them. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Meeting some real ghosts. I’m sure they must be dying for company. And, between laughs, she started calling any nearby ghosts to come in and get out of the rain: Greetings to all ghosts who might be listening. We come in peace and would love to meet you all in person, so you’ll be most welcome in our humble abode.

Please, Julie, don’t encourage them. The cemetery is six feet away. And just because they may love you doesn’t mean they’ll feel the same about me. 

Julie laughed and nudged him playfully. Don’t worry, dear. I’ll protect you, just as I’ve always done. And besides, our next-door neighbors were Irish monks, so they’re bound to be friendly.

But they surely weren’t very sociable if they chose to live on this barren speck in the middle of nowhere. They must have been a tad wacky, Julie, and wacky ghosts are not on my favorites list, said Bill as he drew his poncho more tightly around him.

So what are we to do if they come calling in the middle of the night? she asked calmly. We have no weapons to fight them, we can’t run away or scream for help, and we can’t call 911, so maybe we should just treat them like friends and see what happens.

What! Should we offer them tea?

Tea would be nice, dear, but we don’t have any. Perhaps they would like a granola bar, said Julie with a twinkle in her eye.

At this point, Bill toyed with the idea of tying his sweet wife to one of the tombstones as a peace-offering to the local gods and/or ghosts.

I ate them all, Bill confessed, dropping his gaze. He needed a big glass of wine, quickly. Maybe two.

Everything will be okay, Boo. Bill sent up a silent prayer that their neighbors had not heard Julie use his nickname. She continued: Trust me – I know all about ghosts. They don’t like rain any more than we do, but if they do drop in, we’ll have a nice chat. I have a good relationship with those guys.

But what about me?

No response.

Julie, we’re a team, right?

Well, I dunno, she responded, flashing her most impish grin. What’s it worth to you, dear?

As usual, Bill was not in any position to negotiate with his savvy wife, so he played the only card he had left, which hopefully would be enough: I have nothing to offer you, my sweet, but my undying love and devotion.

Julie rubbed his face affectionately, crawled under her poncho, and immediately went sound asleep without a worry in the world, which reminded Bill of the time she did the same exact thing in the Canadian outback while an angry bear circled their little tent. Aside from a few hundred leeches, Winnie the Pooh at his worst, and the prospect of starving to death, their ten days of canoeing alone through the magnificent Quetico National Park in the Boundary Waters area were extraordinary. They encountered the leeches while dragging their canoe down the muddy bed of a river dammed up by some nasty beavers, but they got really good at pulling them off their legs every hour or so, except for one fat and happy bloodsucker that hid on the arch of Julie’s foot for two days.

Then, in the late evening of the third day, Winnie, a 400-pound black bear, snuck into their campsite, ate their dessert consisting of a whole pot of chocolate pudding, and started in on their foodpack. Julie had just finished cleaning the dinner dishes at the water’s edge when she turned around and saw him. Instead of running away, she ran straight at him, yelling her