Resurrection Gone Wrong

By John H. Carroll

Book 1 of the Wronger Series

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if YOU were suddenly transported to a fantasy world?

Jael is stuck in the middle of the park during a thunderstorm. An explosion of light and sound overwhelms her and consciousness fades. She wakes up in an unusual room where two women are dressed like they’re at the renaissance festival. That's when things take a turn for the weird.

A land of magic, unfamiliar wildlife and dangers at every step surrounds Jael as she explores this new environment. The sun is further away, the stars move and the air is oppressive.

Will it be possible to get back to Earth? Is her body still alive there? The search for these answers lead Jael into perils where the fate of her life and others hang in the balance. Fortunately, the witch, Merina, who brought her into this world aids Jael in understanding the ways of this new world called Ryallon.

Along the way she befriends a cleric of the Sun Goddess, a Druid on a mission and a . . . zombie? Flowers speak to her and shadows sooth her. Knights, Dryads and fairies present problems to be overcome. Join Jael as she does her best to survive in a world of swords and sorcery. This truly is a Resurrection Gone Wrong!

The Wronger Series is set in the world of Ryallon and follows the travels of Jael, a woman originally from Planet Earth, who tries to find her way home. Beings of great power manipulate the world, sometimes to the benefit of mere mortals, but more often to their detriment. Join the odd and often unwilling heroes of Ryallon as they face threats to their existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John H. Carroll
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215814543

John H. Carroll

John H. Carroll was the youngest of seven children and was born in Atlanta, Georgia in 1970 where he was kept in a dresser drawer with the clean socks. Luckily, he wasn’t kept with the dirty socks or else he might have grown up to become slightly warped.As a child, John spent most of his time wandering through the Mojave Desert in an attempt to avoid people. He would stare at the sky, imagining what it would be like to explore different worlds. One of his favorite memories is watching his dad build the fuselage of Evel Kneivel’s skycycle in their garage. One of his least favorite moments was watching that skycycle fall into the Snake River. (Not his dad’s fault and he has documentation to prove it, so nyah)As a teenager, John spent most of his time driving wherever he could in an attempt to avoid people. He would stare at the road, imagining what it would be like to explore different worlds. He was the captain of the chess team, lettered in golf and band while in high school, and wasn’t beaten up anywhere near as much as one might imagine.As an adult, John spends most of his time staring at a computer screen in an attempt to avoid people. He stares at the monitor for hours, imagining what it would be like to explore different worlds. Occasionally, he looks around to see what’s happening on planet Earth. Quite frankly, it frightens him. He’s just going to do his best to write as many books as he can before aliens disintegrate humanity for being so irritating.Emo bunny minions surround John at most times. He is their imaginary friend and they look to him for guidance. At one point, they took over the world. No one noticed because they left everything exactly as it was. They gave the world back after a week because it was depressing.The Ryallon Series is his most popular endeavor into the field of writing. His Stories for Demented Children have lightened the hearts of many strange children and adults. He writes in the evenings and weekends whenever possible.

Book preview

Map of Nulanea

Chapter 1

Jael, come meet Antonio.

The sound of Kiara’s voice above the murmur of conversation and clinking of glasses causes me to wince in dismay. I take a sip of cheap wine and pretend I don't hear her, instead studying this painting of . . . something . . . in order to get away from her introducing me to even more people. I’ve never met anyone with so many friends as my cousin.

The painting is a riot of colors splattered on a canvas titled ‘Spring of Io’. I sort of like it. Not enough to pay the three thousand dollar asking price of course, even if I had that kind of money. Thunder rumbles outside, causing the painting to vibrate on the wall and people nearby to look up in concern.

Jael, come on. Kiara grabs my arm to drag me away from the painting.

As she marches me past other exhibits where artists schmooze potential buyers, I notice her hair bounces nearly as much as her fake personality. It occurs to me with a slight shake of my head that I shouldn’t be so critical. Kiara has been nothing but nice to me this whole visit.

The gallery draws wealthy people who want to brag about buying from starving artists, which most of Kiara’s friends are. The walls are austere, which I suppose allows focus to be on the paintings. The exposed ceiling is painted black, which doesn’t do much to hide ductwork and vents. I’ve never liked the look, but I’m probably not supposed to be looking at the ceiling.

Kiara pulls me toward a table with glasses of box wine and hors d'oeuvres. I can’t tell if the hors d'oeuvres are made of real or fake ingredients. Either way, the two I tried were horrible.

Antonio stands waiting with his goateed chin held high. His French beanie and rose-colored sunglasses make him look like a man who desperately wants to be a fifties beatnik. One look at his condescending smile and I already hate him.

Antonio, this is my cousin, Jael from Colorado. Jael, Antonio teaches art appreciation at Berkley. You should hear his opinions on Monet.

Cool. I’d rather find an exit along with a place to dump this glass of warm wine I’ve been nursing for the last two hours. Instead, I take a sip and try not to grimace.

The art scene in Denver doesn’t begin to compare to the Bay Area. Antonio’s fake accent assaults my ears worse than the bitter wine assaults my taste buds. How can you stand it?

Lots of hiking. I should attempt to have a real conversation I suppose. I appreciate the art here. I gesture with my glass at a wall of paintings created by someone who wasn’t sure if they wanted to be Picasso or Salvador Dali. But nothing compares to standing on a mountain and soaking in miles of scenery in every direction. The sky is bluer in Colorado than anywhere else in the world. Mother Nature is the best artist in the world.

Standing on a mountain? Antonio’s condescending smile became a condescending sneer. Seriously?

Jael likes to climb them, Kiara explains helpfully.

Antonio’s face twists in confusion. Why?

It takes all of my willpower not to slap the goatee off his face. Here. I hand him my glass, which he takes and stares at in confusion. Having disposed of the wine, I turn and head to the exit I’ve been gazing at with dreamy wistfulness all night.

I almost make the door before Kiara grabs my arm again and stops me. Jael, where are you going? That was rude.

I love you, Kiara, but please don’t grab me. I remove her hand from my arm and hold it in both of mine. You and your parents were wonderful to bring me out here for the month, but I can’t handle all the people I’ve been introduced to. I need to be in nature so I can recharge.

Get over yourself. Kiara stands in front of me and shoves my shoulder. These are my friends. I’m taking time out of my schedule to show you around. My parents invited you here to investigate real colleges. You’re being disrespectful.

I respect it, but this just isn’t me. I gesture vaguely at the people more fascinated with their own lives than they are the art. I think it’s great that you have so many friends here and I’m sure they’re awesome, but I need mountains, trees and sky. The exit beckons me. I squeeze Kiara’s hand. I’m going to go back to your parents’ house and relax for a couple of days before going back home.

Kiara flicks a glance in Antonio’s direction. What about college? You haven’t made a decision yet. Your mother wants you to go to a real university, not that stupid community college.

I can’t afford it.

She shakes her head in disgust and shoves my shoulder. My parents are going to help. They’re not rich, but they’ve always made sure you were taken care of since your father died. They paid for your kung fu lessons and that crappy car you drive.

It’s not kung fu . . . Arguing is futile. Uncle Jeong and Aunt Michelle have been awesome, Kiara. I close my eyes and take another deep breath. They really have been, to me and my mother. I don’t know where we’d be without them.

You’d be homeless of course.

No. My mother is tough and she got us through the worst times. We would have been fine.

She spends all her time drinking with different men each week. You just told me she lost her job again last week. Kiara leans forward and puts her hand on my arm. I’m not surprised you climb mountains all the time to get away from her.

You know . . . maybe you should go hang out with Antonio and see who can be the most condescending. I stomp toward the door, holding up my hand to stop anything she may have to say.

She follows me. Do you even have money to get across the bridge? It costs a lot to get to Oakland.

I don’t have the money, having used my last paycheck to buy groceries since my mom was out of work again. Her ability to take care of us was a lie just like Kiara said. I’m just going for a walk. I’ve wanted to see Golden Gate Park since getting here.

It’s raining, dumbass. You can’t go into the park. She gestures at rain flowing down the windows and splashing water illuminated by the headlights of cars driving past. A long awning protects the walkway beyond the door, but I’ll be soaked the second I tried to cross the street. Even if it wasn’t raining, bad things happen to women who go out in the city at night.

I know kung fu, remember. I strike a silly martial arts pose. Go enjoy yourself. I need to get out of here. I turn to the door yet again.

No. I won’t let you. She grabs my arm again.

I shake it off. Quit grabbing me, Kiara.

She tries to grab me again. "I’m not letting you go out there, dumbass."

I dodge her and dash outside. Drops splatter upward after hitting the sidewalk on either side of the awning, soaking the cheap red carpet. Thunder rumbles over the pelting of rain on the awning and the roar of cars zooming through puddles. The scents of ozone and wet fabric fill the air. This is probably a bad idea.

Kiara follows me out to grab me again. Stop being stupid, Jael. Seriously, come inside.

Quit grabbing me! I shake her off with a violent shrug. Seriously.

She backs off with hands in the air. Whatever. Just knock off your crap and come inside.

Instead, I stomp to the end of the awning where I’m instantly drenched. The warm summer rain is the opposite of Colorado rain, cold no matter when it falls. It smells and feels different, wetter somehow. I stare up at the drops glistening in the lights of the city and wonder if I’ll die from acid rain if I stick my tongue out.

Jael! Get out of the rain! Genuine worry distresses Kiara’s voice. I’m not coming out there after you.

I spot a break in the cars and run across the street. A speeder lays on his horn as he zips behind me. He rolls his window down far enough to flip me the bird as his horn fades away.

Jael!

I flee Kiara’s voice, running onto a trail into the park. Glad I didn’t wear Kiara’s heels. She had been mortified when I put on my favorite flats from the thrift store while getting ready.

Jael!

If Kiara shouts anything else, it’s drowned out by thunder. The sound of cars fades under the steady drone of rain as I make my way further into the park. At this point, I’m drenched. My skin and clothes are waterlogged. Ahh, nature. Just what I asked for, right? I heave a sigh and continue along the path.

A few minutes into the park and all sound beyond the storm has disappeared. The glow of the city against the clouds gives me enough light to make my way along the path, but there are a lot of shadows in the trees. Your average mugger wouldn’t brave this weather, so I feel safer than I probably should. Homeless people camp here even in bad weather. Most are harmless, but I need to be careful.

Lightning jogs across the sky, etching its imprint into my vision and memory. Reaching a light post, I stare at my hands. They’re already wrinkled. Even with how warm the rain is, I’m starting to shiver. What the hell am I doing out here? I turn back toward the art gallery. Maybe Kiara won’t want to introduce me to anyone else now that I’m soaked. I’ll find a corner to drip in.

I slip out of the lamp light and make a slow turn to see if anything moves in the darkness. If I’m aware of my surroundings, there’s less chance of having to use kung fu as Kiara calls it. No one is around so I break into a jog while keeping my eyes on the sides of the path.

The hairs on the back of my neck tingle and a metallic taste fills my mouth. The sharp odor of ozone grows drastically stronger. My eyes widen as I slow to a stumbling walk and look up at the clouds. In less than the time it takes to blink, a streak of blinding white light appears. Intense, burning heat wallops me and blinding pain becomes my universe for the briefest of seconds before everything goes dark.

Chapter 2

Conversation tickles the edge of my awareness. Perhaps tickle is the wrong word. It feels more like a cat having its fur rubbed backward. The words don’t make sense, the letters are mixed up and the sounds are in the wrong places. There are too many vowels and the consonants are long.

Lightning. I remember lightning. I think it was lightning. Darkness overtakes me again.

***

A groan rumbles through my sore head. My cotton-tongue hasn’t known a glass of water in what feels like years. I open and close my mouth a few times in hopes of creating moisture, but it’s agonizingly dry. Heavy incense that does little to cover the stench of something decaying makes matters worse. The air is warm and humid but my skin is dry and uncomfortably cold. Every part of my body aches. Another groan rumbles through my sore throat and weak chest.

I struggle from my back to my side, feeble muscles protesting. With a weak hand, I unsuccessfully attempt to brush away hair clinging to my face. Dry and crusted eyes make it difficult to discern my surroundings when I open them. Vague shadows flutter within dim light.

Lightning. The imprint of it is etched in my memory. I must be in a hospital. It’s a miracle I’m alive. The bolt drained me of all my energy and my skin is uncomfortable, unreal somehow. The voices must be the nurse and doctor . . . or my mother, heavens forbid.

It’s awake. Words spoken by a woman have an odd accent, not just foreign, but . . . I can’t tell. Definitely not my mother.

I push myself to a sitting position, arms protesting at the effort. My legs flop over the edge of a stone platform, bare heels thumping against a cold surface. I squint with my cheeks squeezed upward and my brow furrowed low. My face is crusty and my hair heavy. Surely they would have cleaned me up if I were in a hospital.

A different woman speaks, also thankfully not my mother. It’s not Kiara or her parents either. Her words are sharp and angry. "Zombies don’t wake, but it is animated. Perhaps you’ve succeeded after all, despite your best efforts to change my spell. You added words and gestures to the ritual and I’m more than displeased with you, Merina."

What the hell are they talking about? Wait . . . The word comes out as a dry unintelligible croak. Everything about my body is off. With arms as weak as a newborn babe, I rub my eyes. At the same time, I move my aching jaw to generate saliva so I can speak.

The woman named Merina speaks, this time closer to my face. Careful, you don’t want to accidentally pop out your eyes.

The other woman pounds something against the floor in frustration. Absurd! There is too much misinformation about zombies. I keep telling you they won’t pop out their eyes just by rubbing them. After time, they get milky and decay, that’s all.

With effort, words make their way from my mouth. Zombies? What? My hands slide down my cheeks and over my beard as I’m finally able to see. Definitely not a hospital. I might finally win that award for understatements I’ve been trying for all my life. Do I have a beard? It can’t be. I’m just out of sorts from the lightning strike.

It’s difficult to comprehend what I’m seeing. Merina’s dress is the most authentic renaissance faire outfit I’ve ever seen. Floor-length cobalt-blue linen fabric sewn with silver runes is cinched at the waist with a leather belt. Numerous pouches, a knife and a pair of daggers hang from it, all of which look handcrafted.

Frazzled auburn hair frames an intense face. She appears to be around thirty. Beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, making the cold, clammy sensation of my own skin seem even more out of place. Her eyes are the steeliest grey I’ve ever seen. They must be contacts, yet look surprisingly real. She touches the back of her long fingers against my forehead. In a voice barely above a whisper, she says, It worked.

The woman behind her is a villain out of a fantasy movie. An ugly scar mars the side of her temple above her right ear. Her blond hair is kept short and feathered forward, though not well enough to hide the scar. A pair of skinny braids hang down to her chin, tied off with leather bands adorned with raven feathers.

Her robe is blacker than I’ve ever seen fabric dyed. I barely notice the glint of black thread in designs similar to the first woman’s. She also has pouches hanging from her belt, made of some sort of black dyed rope. Their outfits must have cost a fortune.

My eyes are drawn to the staff she leans on. It’s made of black wood etched with more of the designs like their dresses. At the top are a series of small crystals set in curved branches. They glow with an unnatural light.

The woman taps her staff on the ground. I don’t like the way it’s looking at us. She moves forward to stand next to the first woman and leans toward me. There’s far too much intelligence in its eyes. What did you do?

I raised it like you showed me! Merina flicks a glare at the villain woman and places her hands on her hips.

What by all that is unholy are you talking about? My voice sounds bad. It’s too deep and the words are clumsy in my mouth. I try to get the sensation out by smacking my lips and rubbing my tongue around. Do you have any water? The lightning must have ruined my vocal cords somehow.

Both women’s eyes widen as they back slowly away from me, which is the oddest reaction to a request for water I’ve ever had.

There must be water on a nightstand or table, but my scan of the immediate area proves me wrong. I swallow hard as I realize I’m on an altar. Around it is a circle of silver paint with more of those bizarre designs drawn from the edge to the bench. Maybe homeless people dragged me to a satanic ritual in the park.

I’m wearing undyed linen pajamas. They’re comfortable and probably expensive if it’s real linen. I get off the altar, careful not to step on any of the designs. My muscles are taught like ropes wound too tight. I need a massage.

The women take a few more steps back. The blonde aims the top of her staff at me like she’s going to shoot me with it.

The rest of the room impinges upon my awareness and the sensation of being in a renaissance festival is even greater. The ceiling is thatch like you’d find in medieval times, as are the rock walls and hardwood floor. Tanned skins covering the windows are painted with scenes of nature. Trees are a predominant theme. None of them are particularly well done. Who knows, they might be able to get a few thousand dollars for them at the gallery. Two rustic wood doors are open to smaller rooms that appear to be bedrooms. A larger door is on the opposite wall, probably the exit.

A cauldron is over a small firepit near cabinets and a counter for cooking. I don’t remember every seeing an actual cauldron. Near it is a roughhewn table surrounded by wooden stools topped with cushions made of stuffed hides. Furs on a wicker couch along the wall and a large chair with multiple cushions look more comfortable than they should. A fireplace is empty and clean. In a corner, a tall loom stands where linen thread from a basket is being turned into fabric.

I turn to the women. Am I at the ren faire? My voice is still deep and rough. Ugh. I hold my hand to my throat at which point I definitely feel a beard.

I’m a woman. I shouldn’t have a beard. I put my hands to my face. Rough scraggly hair covers my cheeks, chin and upper lip. Panic grips me as I pat it. I hold my hands out. They’re muscular with protruding veins, rough skin and surprisingly trimmed fingernails. Back arm hair peers out from the edge of my sleeves.

Looking down, my chest is flat and my shoulders are wide. Masculine feet are further away than they should be. I cross my hands on my chest and feel muscles under the shirt. Closing my eyes, I sense my body and realize it’s . . . not mine.

Dizziness overwhelms me. I let myself down to my knees and place elbows and forehead on the cool floor. Everything is so, so very wrong.

Merina squats in front of me. Are you alright? What do you feel? Can you speak? Are you aware?

No. That doesn’t answer all of her questions, but it does the first one. "I am not alright. I rise to a kneeling position. What the fuck did you do to me? I hold out my hands and look at them again. Why am I a man?"

The villainous woman limps forward and slams the butt of her staff on the floor. "By the rot of Awdami! How are you alive? You should be a zombie. She points at me and yells at the woman. What did you do, Merina? How did you resurrect him?"

Merina looks up at the woman. I didn’t, Athaly . . . I just . . .

You just what? Athaly’s face reddens with rage and the scar whitens in contrast. There were additional words and gestures in your casting. The casting wind threw you violently against the altar and even my poultices haven’t fully healed the bruising from it.

Merina stands. I thought if I could add some of my teachings from the church and the book I brought, I could create a longer lasting zombie that didn’t decay.

Absurd! Athaly throws her free hand into the air. My zombies are the best in the world. You can’t improve on them. She thrusts a finger at Merina’s face. I took you in when your church threw you out for turning your girlfriend into a zombie. She smacks her chest with the heel of her palm. Her voice is shrill with rage. "I saw your potential and taught you how to properly raise zombies. She flings her arm at me. I gave you the perfect subject for your final test: a misbegotten rogue far from his home who had the misfortune to fall prey to one of the many thousands of insects from the marshes. And what do you do? She gestures at Merina. You bastardize the ritual with holy teachings and the writings of a crazed madman?"

They stand silent for a moment before turning to me. And now you have this. Athaly gestures dismissively at me and her words take a casual tone. It’s not a zombie. It’s not dead. And it wants a glass of water. She smacks Merina on the back of her head. So get it a glass of water and then both of you get out of my tower.

Merina covers her head with both arms. Athaly . . .

Her voice is shrill No! I gave you a chance! I taught you my art. She lowers the top of her staff near Merina’s face. Get out.

Merina steps back in fear and dismay. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Your things are there. She points to a corner where a pack rests on the floor next to a bow with a quiver of arrows. Clothes are folded on a chair and a sheathed sword leans against the wall.

I hold up a hand with lifted finger. There’s so much wrong with this . . . I turn my head and close my eyes to try to get my thoughts together. It’s impossible to figure out what I should ask. Listen . . . Just . . . where am I? I open my eyes while fighting the urge to cry. My eyes are too dry to form tears.

Athaly growls in irritation. She shoves Merina. Get your things, fool. I’ll get your abomination some water and refresh his memory as much as I can, though there’s no telling how much damage was done to his brain while he was dead or what you damaged in the process of raising him.

Yeah, I’m going to have a lot more questions about that too. I put my hands back on the floor. I’m sick to my stomach.

To begin with, I’ll answer your first question. Athaly shoves Merina towards one of the bedrooms before limping toward the counter, flipping over a wooden cup and pouring water from a pitcher into it. You are on the edge of the Partade Marshes outside the town of Khoikye in the Country of Tableen, Continent of Pomelea, World of Ryallon. How much of that do you remember?

Fuck. I press my forehead against the floor and cover my head with both hands.

Well, that’s an odd word to answer with. Not sure if that signifies everything, nothing, or something in between. She limps back to me. One of her feet is thumping on the floor along with the staff.

None of the above. I lift my head to try to look at the leg but Athaly’s robe covers it. Did you kidnap me? Is this some sort of perverted game you’re playing with me?

No. She wiggles the cup of water. I’m not bending over to hand this to you. You’ll have to reach up to get your water.

I reach up to take it from her hand and then look at the water inside. Is it drugged? I must be hallucinating, right? My voice sounds so bad.

There are no drugs in it. Athaly leans heavily on her staff. So you don’t remember where you are. Do you remember your name?

At this point I don’t care if the water’s drugged. I’m dying of thirst so I gulp down half the cup. My name is Jael, from Aurora, Colorado, United States of America, Planet Earth, Solar System Sol, Milky Way Galaxy. I can play this game too. Now that we have that out of the way, where am I really? I finish off the water. It’s warm and the cup makes it taste a little woody, but it’s clean and my dry mouth craves more. I hand it back to her.

She steps aside and gestures toward the counter. I’m not your servant. Drink as much as you like.

The water has made me realize exactly how thirsty I am. I grunt at the effort of getting to my feet and cry out in pain. It’s a masculine cry, more of a yelp really.

Your muscles will be stiff for a few days and you’ll have cramps. My repose spell kept you from reaching full rigidity, but move carefully so as to avoid tearing tendons. Athaly limps toward the cushioned chair. And we didn’t kidnap you. You were dead in the nearby ruins. We found you and dragged your body here.

While she’s speaking, I shuffle toward the counter much like the zombie she wanted to turn me into. That’s an elaborate story. And whatever you’ve done to me makes me half believe it. Nicely done.

Athaly sighs and carefully sits in the chair. In a raised voice, she says, Merina, get your abomination out of here. I’m sick of both of you. She mutters in a lower volume, I’d almost rather be back with the stupid cows. At least they didn’t talk back.

I manage to make it to the counter and fill my cup with water. After downing half the cup, I slam it down and lean on the counter with both hands. Are we in a psychiatric ward? We’ve all been given mind altering drugs, haven’t we?

Athaly’s voice lowers in anger. "I made it clear you haven’t been drugged. Get your things and get out. I will kill you if you persist in irritating me."

I turn sharply, just as angry. Fortunately, I’m still holding onto the counter with a hand because the world keeps turning after I stop and my balance disappears. I . . . uhg . . . shit.

I told you to move slowly. Now get your things. Athaly points at the belongings in the corner. Her staff is lying on her lap, but the business end is pointed at me and the crystals glow brighter. It has to be some sort of battery powered light, but right now nothing is real and I’m not willing to take a chance it’s not dangerous.

Martial arts are no good if I can’t stand on my own two feet . . . looking down, the feet are terribly far away . . . so someone else’s two feet. I finish off the water in the cup and refill it before shuffling over to ‘my’ belongings.

The bow looks well made, if archaic. It’s carved with a pattern of leaves. The quiver is worn leather with six rough arrows sticking out. My eyes are drawn to the sword. I set my cup down on a nearby end table, pick the sword up and draw it, setting the sheath back against the wall. It’s lighter than I expected. There’s a dim sheen of oil on it. Is this sharpened? I press my thumb gently against the edge. Fortunately it doesn’t cut me. I hold it up and wiggle it. I could kill someone with this.

Athaly lifts her staff. You’ll die before you get anywhere near me, fool. Her voice becomes a hiss. Sheath it and get out.

You’re . . . serious.

Yes. Get out.

I would never kill . . . I stare at the sword. Blood drains from my face and my hands shake. I put it away before I can hurt myself.

Merina comes out of her room wearing a sturdier dress, a cloak and a low brimmed hat. She throws a backpack over her shoulders and hustles over to me. Get dressed, she tells me in a low voice. Her patience is gone. Merina glances over her shoulder. Fear is palpable in her eyes when she turns her gaze back to me.

Staying is the last thing I want to do anyway, so