Illegal Aliens XVII

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland awoke after bringing an attractive young woman home, alone. Something of a surprise, and in some ways a shock. His mobile chirruped into life and the works manager – where he’d been called to examine a mysterious block of Roman concrete – told him the “bloody German bomb, it went.” A knock on the door interrupts their conversation just after Mr Shah explains that one of his workers couldn’t even stand the firecrackers on Guy Fawkes.

One of a somewhat menacing pair of visitors finished last week with “that is irrelevant.” Maybe for them.  The visitors found a mysterious note in what looks vaguely like Arabic, in a somewhat illegal search. Roland, in a mixture of embarrassment and pride read it (or at least its summary) last week. Another element from Roland’s past gets introduced this week.


A cat scratching at the outside door interrupted them;  the woman rose, “I’ll get it,” and let an animal in; a sleek, dark black animal, with glossy clean fur shot in and jumped into Roland’s lap; she, for it wasn’t a tom, purred; after inspecting the room as if she owned it, she turned and hissed at his two visitors.

“Did you own a cat … it’s not in your files, and I don’t see any cat dishes.”

“I guess I do now,” Roland stroked the cat, which had resumed purring and nuzzling him; he asked his uninvited guests “Are you done with me?”

The woman said, “Not yet;” then her mobile chittered away, playing ‘Rule Britannia’ as a ringtone.

“Not exactly subtle,” Roland said.

The man replied, “We’re not undercover.”

Roland and the man both listened to half of the conversation.

“So it really is Demotic.”

“A love note … that’s what he said too; read it to us.”

“No … it’s to Roland Stevens, he’s a lecturer at the local,” She handed the phone to Roland, “I’d sent a copy to our specialist, at Oxford. Professor Welchmann.”


My sincere apologies for abusing semi-colons.

Illegal aliens is up for order on Amazon. I tried using kindle creator on it to control dividers and formatting, and worked from a pdf file. The results are not as good as I’d hoped, but Amazon – in its wisdom won’t let me change it now that the kindle create program actually works from word files. It has, as usual, laid an egg.

You can get a copy of the first four chapters on instafreebie.

You can find my, well our, works here.

The Art of Deception, first in a series of late Georgian/early Regency spy novels is available for preorder. You can get the first part here.

Illegal Aliens 8

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground. After an interesting conversation on the train, he arrives to find the odd item – a block of Roman Concrete which is covered in inscriptions.

Roland’s dinner continues, with an unusual choice of meal. He has just asked his visitor if she’s hungry.


She laughed, a laugh that pierced to his core, then said, “Yes, very hungry;” she kept staring at him; he wasn’t sure he liked it; she smiled, at him; he decided he did like it.

“Let me order you something, I’m having the curry; it’s usually good.”

“Meat.”

“Meat it is,” Roland looked at today’s menu – on the chalkboard, “Paul? A beef burger for the lady and a bottle of that Romanian plonk, two glasses.”

“Rare or well done?”

Roland looked at the woman, “How do you want it cooked?”

She grinned and licked her lips, “Raw.”

Roland said to the bartender, “Make it two burgers for her, rare as can be and go easy on the chips,” after that, he patted the seat next to him, “Do you want to sit here?”

She continued to stare at him, which made him nervous, then glided to the chair next to him; not the one he’d offered; she sniffed him, “Yes, you’re the one.”


My sincere apologies for abusing semi-colons.

One of our books is in Patty’s promos. Don’t let that dissuade you from taking a look at the many fine authors who have made their work available at a hefty discount.

 

You can find my, well our, works here.

Illegal Aliens 3

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground.  After an interesting conversation on the train, he arrives to find the odd item – a block of Roman Concrete which is covered in inscriptions.


Two and a half hours later, after the train ride to Paddington, a shunt in the rattling cars of the circle line and a shuttle along the new but unopened tracks, with his bright yellow vest – lined with reflective tape, and a yellow hardhat Roland met the works manager at the site.

“So Mr Shah, where’s this block?” The works manager insisted on the ‘Mr’ so Dr Stevens used it, rather than the informal first names he usually found worked better with people; he wasn’t sure he even knew Mr Shah’s first name.

Mr Shah pointed the way, “You can see it’s right in the middle of the line; I’ve had the diggers expose as much as I can; as much as is safe, we think might be a UXB left nearby – from the war.”

“Is that why Carter’s here?” Roland waved at an army officer who was drinking a cup of coffee while he stood by the works office, a mobile shed constructed from a shipping container; he waved back.

Mr Shah spat, “Of course; we scanned the area with a metal detector; there are so many bomb fragments and other bits of metal rubbish around here – too many for my taste … and there’s something big near that bloody piece of concrete.”

“Best then if I take a look,” Roland and Mr Shah walked to the block.

After he inspected it, Roland said, “You’re right, definitely Roman mortar.”


Mithras, a Persian god, was widely worshiped in the Roman Empire. Most, if not all, of the legions participated in his cult before the emperor Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the empire (mind you, he adopted what is known as the Aryan heresy but that’s another story).

The cult was squashed by the early Christian church. Unlike the Olympian gods he didn’t get re-cloaked as a saint. There are several reasons for this.

  1. It was a mystery religion. You weren’t supposed to know about it until you were initiated and you weren’t supposed to proselytize. There were a series of initiations – think of the scene from the Magic Flute and you’ll get the idea.
  2. The early Christian church was a social welfare agency. After it more or less ‘went public’ and was (usually) tolerated, it fed the poor and helped the sick. This gave it wide support among the commoners. It also abraded the rigid class distinctions of the Roman Empire because it taught that all people were equal before God (if not each other).
  3. The mythological structure of Mithridates almost mockingly mimicked Christianity (though had things gone differently we might reverse that). Mithridates had twelve apostles, died for three days and rose (about the time of Easter), was born on December 25th, and performed miracles.

Mithriadic sites were typically in caves and a surprising number of them are underneath churches. The similarities between two faiths are not surprising – both were mystery religions in the 1st and 2nd century AD or CE. Christianity because the authorities did not like it and Mithriadism because of choice. Undoubtedly there were individuals who attended both and mixed the ideas.

Illegal Aliens 2

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground. Something dashed odd has turned up and he’s on his way. This continues the conversation he’s having in the train.


“People didn’t always believe that; the prayer I’m working on is to Bastet, Goddess of cats, and healing; would you like to hear it?”

The boy shrugged, “My family is from Egypt.”

“I call upon thee, Bastet queen of my heart, to come and succour me, upon thee I call, o Bastet my queen.” Roland looked up at ceiling; the train carriage seemed lighter, somehow filled with the fragrance of flowers. “That’s as close as I can make it in English – they often wrote palindromes – to reinforce the magic.”

“What’s a palindrome?”

“Now leave the poor man to his work.” The boy’s mother said, “Enough of your silly questions.”

“A palindrome runs the same backwards and forwards.”

“Neat.”


My close collaborator dabbles in these sorts of things. I quote him below:

The jug with the falcon (of Horus) reads:

For my strong staff, the god Osiris, my spirit adores him.

The one with the baboon reads:

For my strong staff, the gods Osiris and Hapy

Illegal Aliens 1

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground. Something dashed odd has turned up and he’s on his way.


Roland settled back in his seat on the 15:11 from Reading to Paddington, and pulled a sheaf of papers from his bag; he was working through them when a young boy committed the social solecism of asking what he was doing.

“Are those hieroglyphics?”

Roland studied the boy for a moment; he was about six, maybe seven; his son Thomas, if he weren’t at the bottom of some lake in Wales or rotting in the heather nearby, would have been that age; he said, “Not quite, they’re Demotic, almost hieroglyphic, but…”

The boy’s mother started to apologize for her son.

“No, it’s fine; I like children; this is how ancient Egyptian people wrote; something like cursive instead of printing.”

“Cursive?”

“I guess they don’t teach penmanship in school these days.”

“What’s it say?”

“This is a religious book, a codex to the book of the dead, invocations and prayers to the Gods.”

“Gods, they teach that there’s only one God at my mosque?”


Great Britain and England in specific, is layered with history. You can’t stick a spud in the ground without finding something (well you can, but you know what I mean). Reading University runs an excavation at the nearby Roman site of Calleva, where they are doing their best to undo the depredations of earlier, less skillful archeologists.
IMGP3173 This picture, from 2010, shows the works.

Calleva itself, was roughly the size of Londinium, but for a number of reasons (mostly that it isn’t on a navigable river and the Anglo-Saxons sadly let the road network go to Hades) was abandoned. Today it’s a walled livestock field about 10 miles to the south of Reading.

You can, if you are somewhat bored and insane, sample my writing here.

Another installment.

This is the next chapter in the horror story (at least what we hope will be a horror story, may turn out to just be SFR). The first installment is here. Something has awoken, not a very nice something.

Next morning.

Sunlight streaming through his window finally wakened Roland. He rolled over in bed, reaching for her, hoping last night had not been a dream. He had a panicked moment, “She’s not here!” Then he heard a tuneless humming from downstairs.

Then the humming stopped. Evaporating like the dew in the sunlight of the morning.

Roland leaped out of bed and took the stairs at a bound. There was no one down there, not in the kitchen, nor the front rooms, nor even the loo. The loo he, and … it was too much.

Then his mobile shot into life, “Bloody hell!”

He answered it, “What the hell now?”

It was Mr Shah. “Did you hear the news?”

“What news?”

“When we lifted that damned block of yours. The bomb, the bloody German bomb, it went.”

“Shit.”

“I lost two men. Two of my best men.”

“I’m sorry. Is there something I should do? Their funerals?”

“When they finally scrape up enough of the bodies … The bomb, it may have, must have been inside that block.”

“What?”

“Captain Carter examined the area before the blast. There wasn’t any bomb.”

“He must have missed it. That was Roman concrete, and you know as well as I do that the Romans didn’t even have gunpowder, let alone high explosives. What does he say about it?”

“Nothing. Can’t. He caught it.”

“Oh … I’m sorry.”

“Well. Just a head’s up mate. Expect you’ll get a call. They’re thorough bastards.”

“Who?”

“MI6. There’s a chance it wasn’t a German bomb.”

“Shit.”

“All I can say is it’s a good thing I’m Indian, Hindu. They’ve already interviewed Na’el. Gave it to him.”

A loud knock on the front door interrupted their conversation. Roland said, “There’s someone at the door. I’ll need.”

“May the Gods smile on you Dr Stevens. I think you’ll need them.” Mr Shah hung up.

Roland grabbed one of his wife’s old aprons and wrapped it around him in a semblance of decency. He hadn’t been able to face clearing them away. Then he answered the door.

A man and a woman, dressed in conservative suits. Suits that signally failed to hide the bulges under their shoulders waited outside.

“Yes?”

“Dr Stevens?”

“Yes, I am he.”

“Good. May we talk to you?”

“Who are you?”

“That is irrelevant.” The man pulled a warrant card from inside his jacket and showed it to him. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“For me or for you?”

“Very funny, Dr Stevens. May we come in?”

“I suppose. Not like I have much of a choice, is there. I need to shower. Do you mind waiting?”

“Not at all.”

The man followed Roland upstairs and waited outside the bathroom while he showered. The woman used the time to search the downstairs rooms. She found a letter, written in an obscure script, one that looked suspiciously like Arabic or maybe Farsi, on the kitchen table. After sending a picture of it to the office, she pulled a chair from the breakfast table and sat. Satisfied with her efforts, she’d await the outcome.

Roland refreshed from his shower and decently clothed, with his escort, walked down to the kitchen. “Care for some coffee?”

The woman rose when he entered. “What’s this? Arabic text from Al Qaeda or Isis?”

Roland looked at it. “No.” He paused, “Damn. Not ever. I couldn’t.” He laughed, “She’s good.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a note from my … I don’t know. She was here last night. It’s just I’ve never had a note left for me in Demotic before.”

“Can you translate it?”

“Am I a specialist in Roman Britain?”

“What’s it say?”

Roland blushed, “It’s sort of personal.”

“Translate it, or we’ll take you in and hold you while someone else does it.”

“Oh. Well. Here goes.” He cleared his throat and started, “Dearest love. Thank you for last night. It was wonderful. It was so good that I’ll have to sleep it off. By all the Gods, even if it risks his revenge, even Zeus wasn’t that good, nor Jason.”

He stopped for a moment. “I told you.”

“Keep going.”

“May I skip the details? She’s telling me what she liked last night. I think it’s encouragement for tonight.”

The woman laughed, “Embarrassed Dr Stevens? I’ve heard it all, done most of it.”

“The touch of your tongue upon my.”

She stopped him, “You can skip it.”

“Embarrassed after all?” Roland read, silently, until he reached a final passage that he could read aloud without a blush. “We are of one flesh, one blood, one people. It is foretold my love and so it shall be. I shall be back tonight. With all my love, Diana.”

Roland paused; then stared at his two visitors. “Not exactly subversive.”

The man said, “We’ll take it none the less. It’s evidence.”

“As long as I get it back. I don’t have many love letters. Do you mind if I take a picture of it?”

“We’ll see. Now what were you doing last night? You can skip the night-time acrobatics.”

Roland started with Mr Shah’s call when he was teaching, and ended up recounting his dinner. “Then we, ah, came here.”

“When did you meet your Diana?”

“I don’t know exactly. I was at the Roebuck when she walked in and asked for wine. There was some bloody murder mystery playing. Must have been eight maybe half-nine.”

“Then?”

“We ate, and came here.”

A cat scratching at the outside door interrupted them.  The woman rose, “I’ll get it,” and let an animal in. A sleek, dark black animal, with glossy clean fur shot in and jumped into Roland’s lap. She, for it wasn’t a tom, purred. Then she turned and hissed at his two visitors.

“Did you own a cat? It’s not in your files, and I don’t see any cat dishes.”

“I guess I do now.” Roland stroked the cat, which had resumed purring and nuzzling him. He asked his uninvited guests “Are you done with me?”

The woman said, “Not yet.” Then her mobile chittered away, playing ‘Rule Britannia’ as a ringtone.

“Not exactly subtle.” Roland said.

The man replied, “We’re not undercover.”

Then they both listened to half of the conversation.

“So it really is Demotic.”

“A love note. That’s what he said too. Read it to us.”

“Roland Stevens, he’s a lecturer at the local.” She handed the phone to Roland. “I’d sent a copy to our specialist, at Oxford. Professor Welchmann.”

“I know him.”

“He wants to talk to you.”

Roland sighed, Welchmann wasn’t his favourite person, not since that time when he was a post-doc and the professor had made a pass at Janet. More than a pass in fact, but the police hadn’t been very enthusiastic about pressing charges. Not against an eminent and well-connected scholar when the charges were based on the word of a grubby post-doc and his wife.

He took the phone. “Yes,”

“Ah, Roland, I hear you’re reading Demotic now. Quite fluently if you translated that. Fairly obscure.”

“Yes.”

“Not a lot of call for that in Roman Britain, so I’d think.”

“You’d be surprised, besides I was thinking of a trip, need a change of scene.”

“No news about the lovely Janet … or your boy, whatshisname, then.”

“No.”

“Sorry, anyway there are a few cryptic inscriptions I’d like you to look at.”  Roland looked at his male guest. The man’s mobile buzzed and he jumped.  Welchmann continued, “I’ve sent them to our mutual acquaintance.”

The man handed Roland his phone, there was an image, a scan of a fragment on it.

Roland started reading, darkness, despite the sunny morning, surrounded them and ‘his’ cat hissed. Roland stopped and the room lightened. The cat resumed her purr. “It’s a curse. Not to be read aloud, at least not if you don’t mean it. It invokes Apep.”

“Who?”

“Apep, the God of Chaos and Evil. Not to mention destruction.”

“You don’t believe that tripe, do you?”

Roland shook his head, “No, not really, but it’s been such a strange last few days. I’d rather not tempt fate.”

The next image was spray-painted on a brick wall. “It’s from here, painted on the new biochemistry building, off Sherrington Road. Keeps coming back, no matter what they do to clean it.”

“It’s a warning, about transgenic animals. Bringing a curse from Bastet upon their efforts.”

His cat purred louder.

“What?”

“The transgenic is spelled phonetically, you know as well as I do that the Egyptians didn’t have them, but the curse is a standard boiler plate of a curse. May his … genitals … drop off. That sort of thing.”

The next two images were Arabic and Roland simply said, “I don’t read that. Not my period.”

The last image provoked a derisive laugh, “Are you sure, Dr Welchmann, that you can’t read it? The passage is from the book of the dead, a blessing. I mean, it’s in the textbooks. Even your books.”

The doorbell interrupted the readings. The woman went to the door, and after a heated discussion at the door, reluctantly escorted someone in. He said, “Ah, Roland, I see you’re entertaining the funnies. What happened?”

“Apparently they’re worried about that explosion in London. Think I had something to do with it.”

“Did you lay gas lines in 1950, and not bother to put them on the map?”

“No.”

“Then it’s hard to see what you have to do with it. It wasn’t a bomb, it was a gas leak. Small comfort to the injured, but nothing to do with,” he nodded at the MI6 agents, “that lot.”

“Thank you John. I’m sure you didn’t visit just to tell me that.”

“No, this is … official. About Janet and Thomas.”

“News?” Roland’s attention focused on him.

“Good and bad. Something’s been found, but …”

“Not them.”

“Not a trace.”

The man from MI6 stood, self-important to the end, “Who is this?”

Roland said, “Sorry, I don’t know your name, but this is D.I. Davies. He, John, worked my wife’s disappearance. She and my boy … three years ago. We’re … friends, now.”

“I see … I’m sorry.”

“Yes, so am I” Roland shrugged, “I’ve been keeping busy … all I can do. That’s why I know Demotic. I’d taken Welchmann’s course as a student, but it was useless. I’ve been studying … thought maybe a sabbatical in Egyptian studies.”

John cleared his voice, “Roland, you remember we found her car, by Grwyne Fawr, dragged the reservoir and searched the hills.”

“I know; there wasn’t anything.”

“Some hikers, doing their Duke of Edinborough award and taking a short cut through the heather. They found a child’s clothes. There was a name tag – Thomas Stevens.”

“You want me to take a look at them?”

John nodded, “If it won’t be too hard. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but-“

“I know. Were there any remains?”

“No … That’s probably good news.”

Roland paused, and then said to his guests, the spooks from MI6, “Are you finished with me?”

“For the moment.”

****

John drove Roland to the police complex in the hexagon, next to the county hall, in the centre of Reading. Then he led him inside, “I could have brought this to you, but with DNA evidence, we don’t want a chance of contamination. Gloves and facemasks when we handle it.”

Roland nodded, “If it helps.”

“We’re pretty sure it’s his. The amulet you described was attached.”

“The bulla I gave him? Didn’t work.”

“Maybe it did.” John opened the door to his office and showed Roland what he had.

It didn’t take Roland long to confirm that the clothing had been his sons. “It’s in good condition for three years on a Welsh mountain top.”

John replied, “It wasn’t there three years ago. There’s no way we could have missed it. No way I could have missed it, because my team swept that area, twice.”

“Shit.”

“With a cherry on top. There’s something going on.” He waited, examining his friend’s expression, “There isn’t anything you need to tell me about?”

Roland said, “No. It’s been classes, study, and that contract with the underground people. I’m one of the archaeologists they call when they find something. No one’s contacted me, no ransom … no nothing.”

“That woman last night?”

“You’ve been thorough … She walked into my life at the Roebuck. Never saw her before, but … well … we hit it off. I hope she’ll be back. She said she would.”

“That’s what Paul said; more like you had it off.”

Roland snorted, “Janet’s dead, probably. That’s what you told me. I suppose these clothes.”

“As I said, Roland. Something’s going on. If you are involved, even if you aren’t, be careful.”

Roland shook his head, slowly, “Bloody Hell. I was just beginning to put my life back together.”

“Need a lift back, a talk?”

“I’ll walk, it isn’t far.”

****

Roland didn’t go directly home. He walked several miles along the Kennet and Avon towpath, past a pub, the Cunning Man, and past an ancient brick blockhouse. A blockhouse from 1940 that smelt of urine. It had been boarded up in a futile attempt to keep the vagrants out. Then he returned to the Cunning Man for a lunchtime beer or two. Or three.

It was almost dark when he finally returned to his terrace. The cat, now his cat, scratched to be let out, so he let her out the kitchen door and put the kettle on.

A minute later, the doorbell rang. It was her, Diana.

“Miss me?” She said as she stepped inside.

Anger, annoyance and love fought inside Roland. Love won, “You’ve no idea how much. Where were you?”

“Around. Sniffing out … things.” She wrinkled her nose. “Still stinks of those men.”

“Which men?”

She ignored him and walked to the mantle on his fireplace. It was, like most fireplaces, blocked. A bouquet of dried, dried for three years, flowers sat in a dried vase in front of it. She picked up a photograph and turned to Roland. “This, this was Janet?”

“Yes.”

“She was pretty. I can see why you miss her, and that boy.”

“How?”

“How do I know about her? Reading library, the stacks. I read English well.”

“Then we’ll have to work on your speaking it.”

Diana smiled at him; she had a smile that he could get lost inside.  Then she said in English, “Dinner … I … am … have hunger.”

“Am hungry. I am hungry.”

“You as well? I’m starving.”

“First,” she said, “My bags, can you help me with them?”

“What?”

“If I’m to stay here, I need my things. I brought them, had to retrieve them from the station.”

“But?”

“I meant it to be a surprise.”

Roland kissed her, went outside and brought the bags in; then he kissed her again. “Where would you like to eat?”

“It’s your civitas, city.”

Roland chuckled, “Then what would you like to eat, besides meat?”

“I’d like to dance, too. Have fun. How do you say it? Walk a little wild.”

“Walk on the wild side?”

She grinned. “Yes. It has been a long time without that.”

“Me too. It’s been so long that I’ll have to google a place … That note, your Demotic is excellent. It’s the first time I’ve had a love note in Demotic.”

She continued to smile at him, “I hoped you’d notice. Univerisità di Roma.”

“And the … Latin, not modern Italian is it?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t have noticed me if I’d just asked for wine.”

“Fine, why me? It’s not like I’m exactly famous, handsome or desirable.”

She shrugged, “It was, how do you say it? Something of a lark. I finished my degree, there aren’t positions for me in Italy, and so I thought I’d make a tour of the Empire. I didn’t think I’d.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, “Didn’t think I’d fall for you.”

Roland smiled back, “I suppose you picked Reading on a lark too.”

“No, I saw you give a talk last year. I doubt you’d remember me.”

Roland tried, but had to admit he couldn’t remember her.

“I called at your department, but they said you were in London. One of them told me that the Roebuck was your usual pub. I waited outside, and followed you inside.”

“I’m glad you did, but have you heard of stalking? That’s illegal.”

“Stalking,” she licked her lips, “Yes, stalking. I’m good at stalking. Besides,” she smiled, “You called me.”

“I did?”

“Yes, from the void in your distress. Clearly you don’t remember.” She smirked, “But I do … Now about that dancing?”

“I don’t remember calling you.”

She stared at him, forcing him to look into her eyes. They pulled him in until he was lost in their depths. Then she laughed with a peculiar deep laugh. “No, I wouldn’t expect that you would, but you meant what you said when you read that verse. I heard you and I came. We are of one kind, one flesh. I knew where you were, where you are.”

He shook his head, the spell broken. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be.” She squeezed his hand again, “It is the way of us both of us. Now forget.”

Roland’s eyes briefly defocused and then his attention snapped to her. “Diana, where should we go?”

“Why don’t we just head to the centre of town? There’ll be something to do.”

“The Oracle, I don’t think. If worse comes to worse, there’s always the Roebuck. Trivia night.”

 

A New Direction.

This is the start of a story my co-author and I are writing. It’s something of a radical change, both trying horror and setting it mostly in modern Britain. Something, long buried, is about to awaken.

Londinium, Roman Britain 400 AD.

“Horatius,” Marcus said, “It’s in there.”
Horatius nodded, “Yes. Those druids, that mistletoe drink. It’s powerful stuff. Remind me never to accept anything eat or drink from them.”
Behind them slaves pounded the damp sandy mortar mix of the coffin into a solid box. A coffer to contain the thing, the unspeakable thing. Only the druid’s magic had contained it and that barely.
Horatius continued, “If it wakes, it’s trapped.”
Marcus laughed, nervous, “I pray Lord Mithras sees it that way.” Then he offered his hand to Horatius, in a gesture of trust, one devotee of Mithras to another.
Horatius politely shook hands; then he crossed himself. “Lord Isus willing.”
After giving him a sharp look, “You’re one of them, Christians, aren’t you?” Marcus pushed the slaves away, “It’s done.” He took a stylus and scraped words into the top of the coffer. In Latin, Pictish, and Greek, he warned everyone to leave the unspeakable thing inside; let it rot for all time in its concrete tomb. “That will do. The language of the empire will never die.”
“Are you sure Marcus?”
“Absolutely.”
“Should we leave a man to watch?”
The slaves looked nervously at each other. The phrase ‘a man to watch’ meant one of them, buried alongside the concrete block to keep it company through the ages.
“No. It ate enough men.” Marcus paused; then shouted at the slaves, “Bury it. Bury it deep.”
Horatius said, “Wait.” Then he scribed a cross and a fish into the side of the block.
Marcus followed with the bull, reborn, the sign of Mithras.
A slave said, “Sire, may I?”
“What?”
“Add the eye of Woden.”
Marcus, followed by Horatius, agreed. “We need all the God’s on our side.”
That slave, and then the others, scribed the holy seals of their faiths. They added symbols ranging from the falcon and eye of Horus to the horned man of Cernunnos to the block.
Horatius said, “It looks like a bloody temple.” Then he turned to the head slave. “Get this damned thing buried … before night falls.”

London, today.

Roland’s mobile exploded into life. He stopped lecturing his class on Roman Britain, and with a modicum of embarrassment answered it. “Dr Stevens here.”
His class could only here one side of the conversation.
“Roman?”
“Interesting, a large concrete altar. That is unusual, Mithradic, Christian and Pagan symbols on the same block.”
“Are you sure? It must be a fake. There are almost never Mithradic and Christian symbols together.”
“You are sure. Fragments of Latin inscriptions. I’ll catch the next train, after I finish class. I need to see this before you move it.”
“Yes, I’m certain I need to see it. Sorry.”
He shut off the phone, cleared his voice and said, “Field archelogy is never dull. That call was from the works in London, the new underground line … found something that could be Roman. Odd that, it was in an area that the Blitz pulverized so no one expected anything important. I’d have had John fill in for me if I’d known it was likely for anything to be there.”
He looked back at the board, and then commented, “I guess Goering’s chaps weren’t quite as thorough as they thought. Let’s see. Yes, I was describing the overlap we see between the Celtic and Roman roads in Calevia. It’s fascinating to see how the Romans integrated the existing village into their town.”
Then he brought up a picture showing the university’s ongoing work at the nearby Roman town of Calevia. “Right now these works are covered by tarps, but we’ll be resuming excavation in the summer. And we do use student interns, if you’re interested.”
****
Roland settled back in his seat on the 15:11 from Reading to Paddington, and pulled a sheaf of papers from his bag. He was working through them when a young boy committed the social solecism of asking what he was doing.
“Are those hieroglyphics?”
Roland studied the boy for a moment. He was about six, maybe seven. His son Thomas, if he weren’t at the bottom of some lake in Wales or rotting in the heather, would have been that age. He said, “Not quite, they’re Demotic, almost hieroglyphic, but…”
The boy’s mother started to apologize for her son.
“No, it’s fine. I like children. This is how people wrote. Something like cursive instead of printing.”
“Cursive?”

“I guess they don’t teach penmanship in school any longer.”
“What’s it say?”
“This is a religious book. A codex to the book of the dead. Invocations and prayers to the Gods.”
“Gods? They teach that there’s only one God at my mosque.”
“People didn’t always believe that. The prayer I’m working on is to Bastet, Goddess of cats, and healing. Would you like to hear it?”
The boy shrugged, “My families’ from Egypt.”
“I call upon thee, Bastet queen of my heart, to come and succour me, upon thee I call, o Bastet my queen.” Roland paused, the train carriage seemed lighter, somehow filled with the fragrance of flowers. “That’s as close as I can make it in English. They often wrote palindromes.”
“What’s a palindrome?”
“Now leave the poor man to his work.” The boy’s mother said, “Enough of your silly questions.”
“A palindrome runs the same backwards and forwards.”
****
Two and a half hours later, after the train ride to Paddington, a shunt along the circle line and a shuttle along the new unopened tracks, with his bright yellow vest – lined with reflective tape, and a yellow hardhat Roland met the works manager at the site.
“So Mr Shah, where’s this block?” The works manager insisted on the ‘Mr’ so Dr Stevens used it, rather than the informal first names he usually found worked better with people.
Mr Shah pointed the way. “You can see it’s right in the middle of the line. I’ve had the diggers expose as much as I can. As much as is safe, we think might be a UXB left nearby. From the war.”
“Is that why Carter’s here?” Roland waved at an army officer who was drinking a cup of coffee while he stood by the works office, a mobile shed constructed from a shipping container. He waved back.
“Of course. We scanned the area with a metal detector. There are so many bomb fragments and other bits of metal rubbish around here. Too many for my taste … and there’s something big near that bloody piece of concrete.”
“Best then if I take a look.” Roland and Mr Shah walked to the block.
After he inspected it, Roland said, “You’re right, definitely Roman mortar.”
“I told you,” Mr Shah replied, “I’ve seen enough of it in my time. Look at these.” He pointed to the inscriptions. “My son did a project on them, in school, for his a-levels.”
“And that is the Bull of Mithras. Odd to see it on the same block as a cross, a fish and Horus’s falcon.” Roland paused, “You said there was an inscription.”
“On top. Badly damaged. There must have been a near miss during the Blitz.”
Roland hoisted himself up to where he could see it. “Not an easy translation.” He studied the words, “Almost a curse, possibly a warning … explains all those religious symbols. They invoked every deity they could.”
After a few more moments, he pulled out his camera and took a few photographs. Then he slid down and carefully photographed the images on the front of the slab. He stepped back and photographed the whole thing after setting a meter stick in front of it for scale.
Mr Shah called his notice to the back of the block. “There’s a crack on this side.”
Roland hurried around, and clicked his tongue. “I see. Looks like it could break in two. Best if we can pull this out in one piece. Do you think it will work?”
Mr Shah laughed, “Easy-peasy. We’ll put a beam underneath on each side and hoist.”
Roland studied the crack; something about it attracted him, and focused his attention on it. He bent down and shown a light, using an app on his mobile, into it. Something looked back. A brief touch, a flicker of pain, of fear, and then … he shook his head. “Nothing. That can’t be.”
He looked again. There was nothing there. Roland straightened up. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it Mr Shah.”
“No problem.”
“I hope so … you know there’s another translation for that inscription – do not disturb.”
“The line’s going through here one way or the other. Hoisting that block out of the way is better than shattering it with a pneumatic hammer.”
“Right.”
****
As Roland left the train, back home in Reading, he looked at his watch. It was later than he liked, and the busses had shifted to the hourly late schedule. He hailed a cab, “Do you know the Roebuck?”
“Near the uni?”
“Yes.”
“Ta. Hop in.”
A few minutes and twenty pounds later, Roland stood in front of the Roebuck. He paused before entering the old pub; through the door in the brick. It had been his local when he had started as a junior faculty member at the university. It was still his local, after … after his wife and son had disappeared. They’d planned to move, even looked at houses that were nicer than the terraces, but events had intervened.
He pushed the door open and walked up to the bar.
“The usual?”
“Nah, maybe curry for a change, and a pint.”
“Courage?”
Roland laughed, the local brewery’s name seemed oddly appropriate. “Abbots ale if you have it.”
The barkeep drew him a pint, placed it on the bar, and then went to place his order in the kitchen.
Roland found a table, off in a corner by himself where he could watch the television. It was playing reruns of some murder mystery or another. A show that wasn’t entrancing enough to distract him from his thoughts. He took out his camera and studied the pictures.
“Odd all those religious symbols. It will make a good paper.” Then he started transcribing what he could make out of the inscription onto a sheet of paper. Fragments of Latin eroded by time and bomb damage. There were hints of Greek, and a run of Occam’s runes. It was the kind of puzzle he liked.
“Placere vinum. Falerian. Si quis est in vobis.”
He looked up, hardly expecting to hear archaic Northern Italian in this pub. There was a woman, a pale woman with long black hair, a strikingly attractive young pale woman with long black hair, and she was having difficulty making herself understood.
He said, to himself, “Must be a foreign student, just arrived,” and then returned to his work.
The bartender called to him, “Hey, Roland, you speak this language?”
“Yes.”
“What’s she want?”
“She said, she’d like wine, Falerian if you have any.”
“Falerian? Never heard of it. We’ve got red, and … we’ve got white.”
“That Romanian plonk, Bulls’ blood. That’d be about right.”
The woman turned to study him. She smiled, her dark eyes and deep red lips a striking contrast from her pale skin.
Roland asked her in the same tongue, “Are you hungry?”
She laughed, a laugh that pierced to his core, then said, “Yes. Very hungry.” She kept staring at him.
“Let me order you something, I’m having the curry. It’s usually good.”
“Meat.”
“Meat it is.” Roland looked at today’s menu – on the chalkboard, “Paul? A beef burger for the lady and a bottle of that Romanian plonk. Two glasses.”
“Rare or well done?”
Roland looked at the woman, “How do you want it cooked?”
She grinned and licked her lips. “Raw.”
Roland said to the bartender, “Make it two burgers for her, rare and go easy on the chips.” Then he patted the seat next to him, “Do you want to sit here?”
She continued to stare at him, which made him nervous, then glided to the chair next to him. Not the one he’d offered. She sniffed him. “Yes, you’re the one.”
“The one?”
“Yes.” She moved across the table from him, “This ‘beef burger’ of yours. It is meat?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” She licked her lips. However, she also reached over and took his hand. “You’re nicer than I thought.”
Roland found himself getting lost in her dark, her deep dark eyes. “Good … Are you a student at Reading?”
“No.”
“Oh. I thought you might be, speaking that Italian dialect.”
“No … I am a student. Is not this the language?”
“Sorry, no. You’re speaking an old Italian dialect, almost Latin.”
“And they speak?”
“English.”
The woman broke eye contact and studied the ceiling in thought. She listened to the television, chattering away in the background, “It sounds somewhat like those barbarians, the northern barbarians.”
“There is some German in it, along with many other languages.”
She switched to something that sounded like German, and Roland replied, “German’s not my strong suit.”
The barkeep put the bottle on the counter. “Roland, lad. Here’s the plonk.” Roland started to stand but the woman reached over and touched him. The barkeep laughed, “I’ll bring it over. Time you met another girl.” In the background, his cook called out, “two burgers, one curry.”
The woman looked at her plate. “This isn’t meat.”
“Take the bread off.”
She still stared in confusion, and then tentatively picked up the patty.
“That’s not how you eat it.” Roland reached over with his knife and fork, cut a piece, and offered it to her. She put her mouth over the piece and pulled it off.
She swallowed, “Meat, it is meat.” Smiling at him, she picked up her fork, and her knife, and after some initial awkwardness, cut a piece of her burger. “For you.”
Roland accepted it; then he fished a piece of lamb from his curry. “Try this.”
She did; then drained her glass. “Spicy, but good.”
They continued until all the meat, both the small amount in the curry and the two almost raw beef burgers were finished. Roland offered her a chip. “It’s not meat, but man does not live by meat alone.”
“There’s wine … and fish as well.” Still, she tried it and pronounced it palatable.
In the process of eating, she slipped her feet from her shoes and ‘played footsie’ – tickling his legs with her feet. Eventually, when the meal was finished, she slipped onto the bench next to him and cuddled up. She chewed, gently, on his ear while encouraging him to place an arm around her shoulders, to pull her tightly against him. She was guiding his other hand to explore parts previously unknown when Paul, the barkeep shouted, “Here you two. Get a room.”
It sort of broke the mood, but only for the time being. Roland asked, “Do you have a place to stay.”
“I do.”
“You do?”
“With you.” She smiled at him. “Unless?” She pouted.
He smiled back at her.
As they rose, to walk the short distance to Roland’s terrace, the television changed. The news came on with an important bulletin of news. The camera showed the worksite where Roland had been that afternoon. “There’s been a bomb discovered from the war on the new underground line.”
Roland stared at the screen, while his companion urged him onward. The concrete block was hanging from the crane, suspended over the hole, and cracked into several pieces.
“Several workers were severely injured, and construction is halted while the bomb ….” It then went on to describe the area evacuated, but by then no one was listening. Least of all Roland and his new friend.
As they walked down Saint Peter’s street, arm in arm their paces matching, Roland asked her, “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Is it important?”
“I’d sort of like to know, especially um … if we’re going to do what I think, I’d like to do.”
“You haven’t told me yours, but I know it. Roland, Dr Stevens, of Reading University.”
“How do you know that? You haven’t been stalking me.”
She smiled, “In a way, yes, I came to find you. But no, I was not stalking you. Not the way you mean.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We are bound to each other.”
Roland stopped and pulled his arm from her. “Bound?”
She laughed, a deep laugh, one that resonated and echoed from the houses that lined the street. “Didn’t you know? Two bodies, one flesh. We are one kind, kindred.”
Then she smiled, “You’re scared. Don’t be. I won’t bite. Not much anyway.”
“Still like to know your name.”
“I have many names, but … for you, for now, Diana will do.”

The Berkshire Lady is out.

My latest is now on Kindle and will soon be on hard copy as well.

“Fight me or Marry me!” Frances Kendrick was not a woman willing to sit idly by and wait for her Prince Charming. An heiress, the best rider, hunter and swordsman in the Royal County of Berkshire in the last year’s of good Queen Anne’s reign, she found the men presented to her either boring, stupid, or most often both. Until she met this scapegrace of a lawyer, Benjamin Child. This sweet romance with a paranormal twist follows their developing passion and the means they used to bring their romance to fruition despite the objections of her trustees.
Set in Reading and thereabouts in 1714, the story commences with the memorial service for Frances’ older brother. Since she is the heiress to a baronet, Miss Kendrick did not want for suitors. She wanted for acceptable suitors, as the men she met were simply not up to her standards. When she finally meets one who is, a circuit-riding barrister named Benjamin Child, her trustee’s refuse their approval. He’s too much of a fortune hunter, gambler and wastrel for their tastes. Despite their difference in rank and fortune, he’s the man for her and she’s the woman for him.
Complications abound in the story, ranging from a gypsies’ curse, to highwaymen, to nobbling jockey’s before a critical horse race, and even to the activities of the Hellfire Club.

In the meantime, my next, “after the convergence” is about 2/3 there at about 33000 words.