Little Death

Simon Murtagh

Description

"What if she is not dead and she should remember who she is?" The older man stopped, barely able to support his own frame at the mere idea, he placed a trembling hand on her shoulder, "If that happens," he said, "pray she is not who we think she is." Who sends a seemingly mute child with a bomb as a gift for a tyrant? To what extremes will The Brotherhood, and the dreaded Sisters of Vengeance go in order to achieve their ends? Who are The Children of Summer? Will they decide the fate of the world, and everyone in it? Or will a mysterious girl known as Little Death?

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 31 mars 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528964449
• Langue: English

Extrait

Little Death
Simon Murtagh
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-03-31
Little Death About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment The Beginning The Islands The Emissary The Rhyme and the Reason The Old Woman The Hill Tribes The Lizard The Gift The Boy The Message The Old Man The Question The Dream The Letter The Return The Heralds The Desolator Epilogue
About the Author
Simon Murtagh, born in Kent, England, is a first-time author. He is passionate about political, social and economic issues. When he is not painting or writing, he enjoys a good tale, movies, food, drink and good company. He now lives with his wife, Karen, in beautiful British Columbia, Canada.
Dedication
For Beth.
Copyright Information ©
Simon Murtagh (2020)
The right of Simon Murtagh to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Austin Macaulay Publishers will not be liable for any and all claims or causes of action, known or unknown, arising out of the contents of this book.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528925792 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528964449 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgment
Cover illustration by Graham Chorny.
Whilst much of what you hear will seem familiar, you should know this: this is not your Earth. It is an earth; it is Earth, just not the one of your intimacy or understanding.
The Beginning
The last rays of the setting sun were streaming through the windows of the cedar-lined room making the walls glow. The red and orange tones in the lumber made the room seem warmer than it actually was. The man dressed in white sitting behind the large oaken desk could see his hands turning blue. He formed them into gnarled sinuous fists and breathed on them, but it made no difference, they were still frigid.
He pushed himself away from his desk, the small brass wheels of the plush leather chair squealed as he did. He shuffled over to the large, red brick fireplace and threw a log onto the grate while cursing his poor circulation. The sombre black slate clock with the delicate porcelain face struck a single chime to mark the arrival of eight-thirty.
The dry log had ignited almost immediately, crackling and spitting as it did, sending a shower of sparks recklessly up the chimney. He turned away from the heat and placing his hands in the small of his back, stretched until his bones popped. As he settled back behind his desk, he was joined in the room by a valet who skirted the walls, lighting candles as he went. He exited the room as silently as he had entered it.
The man had no time to re-acquaint himself with his solitude as the door opened again almost immediately, and a red-faced man who had clearly been running came panting into the room. “My lord,” he gasped, placing his sweaty palm on the desk trying to catch his breath. “Beneath the old oak on Gallows Hill…”
The other man raised his hand, “You’re making no sense, slow down, order your thoughts; now begin again.”
“Apologies, my lord,” the red-faced man stuttered, “I have just received a report from the sisters at Gallows Hill, they said they have found…” he paused as if reluctant to finish his sentence, “they said they have found a Summer Child.” The man in white listened intently, making no comment nor interruption. “After the storm last evening, the old oak inside the convent walls fell, and there she was in among the roots and earth.”
The other man was standing once more. “She…” he repeated softly, “she was alone?”
The red-faced man nodded by way of confirmation. “More than that, my lord, she is a baby!”
A carriage with four horses was hastily readied and soon on its way to Gallows Hill, no more than an hour away without stopping. The moonless night was now deep and dark, and the lanterns on the carriage barely lit the road at all. The convent, however, stood on Gallows Hill like a lighthouse. There appeared to be candles in every window. As the carriage shuddered to a halt at the thick foreboding door, the one passenger was spirited inside and down its narrow stone corridors to a small shuttered room at the back of the building, secured and safe from prying eyes.
The room was warm and crowded, there was an overpowering aroma of incense clouding the air. At least a dozen sisters in black stood about mumbling almost silently. The man in white made his way directly to a small, simple, wooden crib which stood in the centre of the room. The crib had no decoration, it was clearly not an object made by an excited parent awaiting the arrival of a precious child.
“Sister Prudence,” he called, craning his head to see her whereabouts. The sister emerged from the ranks and grasped his hand, raising it to her lips.
“My Lord Keeper,” she said.
“Are you sure she was alone?” he asked.
The woman was certain, a gardener who had worked at the convent for many years was on the hill when the tree fell. “He was on it in a matter of moments, hoping to catch squirrels or collect eggs from its fallen branches,” she explained.
“So,” he said, “there was no possibility another was removed before he arrived, or could he himself have removed another before he informed you?”
“None,” she assured him. The gardener not only lived within the walls of the convent, but he had, in the past, been tasked with sensitive operations on behalf of the Brotherhood itself. Sister Prudence trusted him implicitly.
The Keeper thanked the Sister and her order for their diligence and asked them to leave the room. The man, now alone, looked at the child, who was, as far as he could tell, unremarkable in appearance. She seemed to be three months old, even though she was discovered only a day hence, and was sleeping serenely.
“My lord,” came a voice from behind, causing him to turn with a start. Another man had entered the room, tiny in stature and clad in the reddest of robes.
“It is true then, they have sent…” he paused, “…it?”
“It would appear so,” came the reply. The man in red circled the crib and extending a finger, poked the child with a pointed fingernail.
“Why a baby?” he finally asked.
“I have been wondering about that myself, I assume they think we will care for it, learning the value of parenting perhaps,” he sneered. The man in red prodded the child once more and lowered his voice so it became cold and calculating. “We already know how to dispatch it. We should get rid of it quickly before it grows.”
“Again, this is something I have considered, but if we do that, they will just send it again, and next time, we may not be as fortunate to discover it ourselves.” The man in white crossed the room and closed the door. “Consider,” he said, “I believe we have a unique opportunity to…” he seated himself on a nearby stool, “…to use this occurrence to our advantage.”
“As long as this child is here,” he continued, “we should protect it.”
“After all,” he continued, “we already know how to restrain them, and as you say, how to dispose of them.”
The short man in red was listening silently, but suddenly became very animated, “I could further my research, and what better a subject to work with,” his thoughts were racing ahead of him, “we could keep it here indefinitely.”
“Yes, my friend,” smiled the man in white. “Not only can we confound their plans, but more importantly,” he raised a hand and the man in red helped him to his feet, then staring once more into the crib, said, “this child will make it possible to execute our own.”
The Islands
On maps, the islands were shown as two primary landmasses. The first comprised Anglia in the south, and on its northern border were the Celtlands. To the west was a separate smaller island called Erin, and in the far north, there were several dozens of much smaller islands scattered in the northern sea.
The islands had known peace in one form or another for centuries. Its scattered towns and villages, pastoral by nature, hushed and ordered. Each region from the chalk cliffs on Anglia’s southernmost coast, to the rugged grandeur of the isles in the north, ruled with even-handedness and cooperation. The heads of the free tribes welcomed each other’s patronage in matters of trade and celebrated each other’s distinctness.
The coastal fishermen at Appledore and those further to the west at Exe bartered with the Northumbrian cattle farmers. Shepherds from Trent would trade in harmony with the cider apple growers of Rochester; commerce aside, the people also came together to give thanks.
The solstices, winter and summer would see an enthusiastic migration to the island’s most westerly tip, the home of the Brotherhood of the Celestial Majesty. The celebrations were stuff of legends. Highland games, wrestling, and rodeo. Singing, dancing, and carousing, colour, pageantry, and carnival.
Tented villages would appear overnight. Roaring campfires regaled with barely plausible tales of swaggering adventurers and miscreant ne’er do-wells. Ale would flow, hogs seasoned with sage and wild garlic, roasted. All the while music of fiddle and drum would weave through the scented smoke-filled air.
At sunrise, the white-robed Brot