Echoes from a Time Passage

Susannah MacDonald

Description

Markas, son of an inter-plane diplomat, is obsessed with two things: dance and the image of a girl from Earth. When his sister vanishes and his father fails to return from one of his forays to Earth, Markas decides to traverse the dangerous Time Passage to find them. 'I have been afraid before in my life, but this, I decided, was like that which, in the books of Ezsk, seemed to be like the descent into the Afterlife for the wicked. I seemed to be pulled from the main passage down a narrower tributary which reminded me frighteningly of lungs I had dissected in anatomy classes. My chest felt tight as if a great weight were pressing down on it. The plates were all but pinning me to their very surfaces; the excruciating sensation, hot or cold I could not tell, either freezing or melting me.'

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 mai 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528954211
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Echoes from a Time Passage
Susannah MacDonald
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-05-31
Echoes from a Time Passage About the Author About the Book Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgement The Book of Markas Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
About the Author
Susannah MacDonald is an artist, illustrator, cartoonist, writer, poet and teacher of art and flute. She lives in Takapuna, Auckland, with her husband and fellow artist, Alan MacDonald. Susannah has a special interest in mythology and alternative theologies. She draws inspiration from the natural world, all creatures – great and small, seismology, volcanology and the concept of plate tectonics, which formed the basis of her degree in visual arts and which provided added inspiration for this book.
Susannah has an extensive background in both the visual arts and music, education and is a spiritual counsellor.
About the Book
Markas, son of an inter-plane diplomat, is obsessed with two things: dance and the image of a girl from Earth. When his sister vanishes and his father fails to return from one of his forays to Earth, Markas decides to traverse the dangerous Time Passage to find them. ‘I have been afraid before in my life, but this, I decided, was like that which, in the books of Ezsk, seemed to be like the descent into the Afterlife for the wicked. I seemed to be pulled from the main passage down a narrower tributary which reminded me frighteningly of lungs I had dissected in anatomy classes. My chest felt tight as if a great weight were pressing down on it. The plates were all but pinning me to their very surfaces; the excruciating sensation, hot or cold I could not tell, either freezing or melting me.’
Dedication
I would like to dedicate this to my parents for their unconditional acceptance of some pretty strange ‘characters’ who populated my world as a child. They would love to have seen how these ideas have come to fruition. I would also like to pay tribute to my late great-uncle, Maurice Willson Disher, who gave me my first critique.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Susannah MacDonald (2019)
The right of Susannah MacDonald to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her 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.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788481526 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788481533 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781788481540 (Kindle e-book)
ISBN 9781528954211 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
I wish to thank my husband, fellow artist, writer and philosopher, Alan MacDonald, for his unconditional support and understanding as I routinely buried myself in my cave to write this book. I also wish to thank my friends, colleagues and family members for their support and encouragement.
The Book of Markas
If I stretch my arms towards the stars of day, I can almost reach there. As I stand in a dancer’s preparatory stance, my fingertips reaching into Infinity and the unknown and music as yet unheard. Time ceases to be. There is only me and Infinity and the One—the name which must not be uttered—and that of His Prophet, Ezsk.

As I write this, I am aware that so much of what is here is unbelievable to many people—mine and hers. But it is necessary. As our worlds collide, I realise that in this position of honour in which I have been placed, I must describe my experiences as they relate to this position, as strange as it may seem. I am doing my best to use terms which will be understandable to everyone, so if I fail from time to time, bear in mind that I am a dancer of a sacred order and not a writer. The scribe who is assisting me has infinite patience as I must go back to the beginning of this life, and perhaps enter the loop so to hear the echoes of the others. But I will start in an understandable place in the world of a young one.
Chapter 1

I cannot remember exactly when I developed a passion for dance. I just remember it had always been there—I just “did it”.
My nursery school friend Salema said, as I “did it” in our music and dance class, with the frankness of a little young one, ‘Why can’t I do that just like you, Markas Xanders?’
‘Copy me,’ I had said with the sureness of smallness and went whirling off across the schoolroom floor. My friend scrambled up and followed me. The other little ones just stared. Mistress Chzinva, our teacher, simply played something a little faster, her fingers flying across the strings of her harp.
Our family belonged to the priestly order of The Order of Eternal Darkness. This name was, to my young ears, both slightly frightening but hopeful at the same time. Our Seers of the Predictions said that this propensity for dance is written in my Life Chart and is an important cycle in this strange sounding “Eternal Darkness”, which sounded like bedtime which never ended, but in which I also imagined, as I listened, a bright white spot far into that blackness.
‘That which is written,’ the Seer intoned, ‘includes a preoccupation with people different to you and, therefore, your family, tribe and race.’
I didn’t understand this as I had just completed nursery school when Father took me for this first reading with the Seers. At that age, I could not conceive of other people and places. How could I ? But at the same time, an impression leapt to mind of a host of imaginary “other” friends for whom I made up dances. They were real enough, so I thought of them as the Seer droned.
I tried to listen solemnly to him, dressed in his dark robes, streaks of dark paint drawn down either side off his rather long muzzle, and the white paint between his eyes radiating like the stars of light. But as I stared at him, my eyes round with concentration, into my mind danced my imaginary friends. Father sat beside me as we examined the symbols on my chart, his usual approving expression in his eyes, his hand laid on my wrist as he was wont to do even when he supervised my lessons. I wanted to ask Father and the Seer what these people looked like as we sat there in the mysterious room with its vaulted ceiling covered with curiously marked tiles and the walls full of deep narrow niches. But I didn’t.
Instead, I went on to think about my new favourite word—niche. “Niche” was a word I had only just learnt to use. I said something to him about the holes in the wall. Gently, Father said that they were not “holes”.
‘Holes,’ he said patiently, ‘are places were our food creatures live. These niches are where the saints’ souls reside when our Seers give us readings. They wait in attendance on us at such times. That is why, little Sticky Fingers, you must not poke your fingers into them.’
At first, I thought Father was reprimanding me as Mother would have done, but when I looked up, there was a twinkle in his dark eyes, and his expression was one of gentle approval.
How I honoured and trusted Father. Mother, I was terrified of, but Father was, to my child’s mind, like one of the saints we learned about in scripture class and the Prophet Ezsk himself.
As we returned to our mansion, I held Father’s hand and chatted away merrily about what I thought the predictions meant and tried to visualise those other Beings from other planes. Perhaps I was wrong about other Beings. I had misunderstood the Seer. No matter.
Father didn’t correct me, so I thought happily about music with Mistress Chzinva, who played so wondrously on the harp while we little ones made up our dances to match her chosen lesson from scripture.
But dancing did something else for me for which I had no means of expression. For as long as I cared to remember, I suffered from night terrors and dreams so frightening that my screams brought our nursery maid rushing to my side night after night, as I shrieked in my distress. She could do little but pat my back and rub my hands and murmur soothingly to me.
In the morning when the schoolroom resounded to Mistress Chzinva’s playing, I found myself calming down and feeling the terrors of the night slide out of the tips of my fingers and toes and merge with how I imagined the Universe to be—full of shining stones, glittering lights, and saints everywhere.
Sometimes during recess at nursery school, one of the Sorceresses of the Prophet would sit with us children and let us play with her box of shining stones. She told us that God Most High had sent them to us so we would feel happy. I remember her gentle shining eyes beaming into mine as I scrambled up to dance to music floating in my head. With my hands full of precious stones, the terrors slipped even further away from me.
It was not until sometime later, when Father allowed me to watch transmissions from the other Planes of Existence, that the Seer’s prediction made sense. I was, indeed, fascinated by the idea of other Beings. The Seer was correct after all. One day in Temple, the High Priestess was reading from the Ezsk Book of the Dying. At first, as would be expected, I didn’t understand her words which floated through my mind like so many dust motes. I wriggled on my mat, thinking of dinner. Then she read something which made me sit bolt upright:
’They who wander the desolate realms, mourning their lost forms,
May yet again take form
And dance into the Realms of the Living
Where they who greet them dance the same dance’
She continued her recitation, but I never heard the other words for all I could think of was something about