Illegal Aliens 6

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.

This blurb starts after he’s caught a cab back home, or close enough (his local).


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 face below the timber and stucco; 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 much nicer than the terrace they lived in, but events had intervened.

He pushed the door open, relaxed in the comforting familiar buzz of voices, 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, “Directors’ ale if you have it.”

The barkeep drew him a pint, placed it on the bar, and 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,” 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.


My sincere apologies for abusing semi-colons.

Courage_Brewery_logo Using Courage here is a bit of an anachronism. Founded in 1787, they finally closed in 2010, but until then were based in Reading. You could see the brewery from the M4. It’s still brewed by Charles Wells, but it isn’t quite the same.

You can find my, well our, works here.

Illegal Aliens 5

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 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 and this time there was nothing there. Roland straightened up, “Well then, I’ll leave you to it Mr Shah.”

“No problem.”

Roland paused for a moment; then he said, “I hope so … you know there’s another translation for that inscription – do not disturb.”


horus The eye of Horus is one common protective symbol from Ancient Egypt.

Depending on which legend you choose, and in the book we’ve chosen the Osirus/Isis/Horus/Set one, Horus is a protective hunting god. Set, the evil god of the desert, killed Osirus. Osirus’ wife, Isis, after she resurrects Osirus (or at least most of him – his male member is lost) conceives a child – Horus. Since she had taken the form of a falcon, Horus has a falcon’s head. At his mother’s urging, Horus has an enormous fight with Set where he defeats Set. More than simply defeating Set, he rips off Set’s manhood. There are other versions of this myth, which aren’t suitable for a family blog.

You can find my, well our, works here.

Illegal Aliens 4

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.


“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.”


There’s a promo this weekend.
unnamed (3)

We, among others, are in it.
coverAn Eorl of the Kingdom of Wessex, in desperate love with a woman doomed by the “coughing sickness”, Cynric grasps at the straw a visitor from the stars offers him. Use his prowess with a sword to recover a precious red gem and his love will be cured. He no sooner boards the strange ship than things begin to unravel for him. Instead of an honorable quest, the alien is a criminal, a pirate. Interstellar travel takes longer than he could have imagined. True to his oath to return for his Bridget, he returns home, only to find things have changed in the mean time. Steorrum is Old English for ‘to the stars.’ This is a short work of about 13000 words.

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

Draft cover

This shows a draft cover for the sci-fi-fantasy-romance that my co-author and I have put together. It’s what were doing right now for weekend writing warriors. I’ve also put a couple of chapters up on here

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.

Illegal Aliens #WIP #amwriting

More on our latest installment, by my collaborator. The ancient gods are alive and up to mischief in modern Britain. Spooks, both the human and the supernatural, are causing trouble.

Another installment of our latest #WIP.

Chapter 3.

Things have progressed.  The series starts here and the last installment is here.

Saturday, Saturn’s Day.

 

Breathing, someone else breathing in bed. She’s still here!

Roland rolled over and put his arm around her. She slept curled tight, but snuggled into him, sharing warmth in the cool of the morning.

“You’re still here.”

She purred back to him, “Yes. I like it here.” Then she nuzzled at his neck, tickling his earlobe with her tongue.

“It’s Saturday.”

“I know.”

“I have a tour today, would you like to come?”

“A tour?”

“I show a bunch of rich tourists around, act the tame archaeologist.” Seeing her sceptical look, he continued, “It gets me out, seeing people, and … a lecturer isn’t paid that well. I might strike it lucky.”

“You have.” She laughed, a normal laugh, not the deep one, “I’ll come with you, Mr Tame Archaeologist.” She gave him a playful kiss and rose, splendid and graceful in her nakedness. She smiled back at him from the doorway, on her way to the bath.

****

The caterwauling started while Roland was still in the shower. It continued, outside the kitchen door, while he dressed. He looked down at the back garden from the bedroom window. It was filled with cats, and more important to him, with Diana. They were bringing her presents, a dead mouse, or a nice fresh bird. When they didn’t do that, they shepherded kittens toward her. She bent down, and stroked them with what reminded him of a high priest giving a benedictory blessing.

She noticed him, and put her finger to her lips, asking the cats to be quiet.

He leaped down the stairs and dashed into the kitchen. She stood in the doorway to the outside. The light framing her from it almost forming a halo or aura around her. He stopped, but then she said, “Come, stand with me. Meet my friends.”

He joined her, standing next to her with his hand in hers. Cats filled his, now their back garden. Their unblinking eyes studied him, piercing deep into his mind. One large tom, full of himself, gave a peremptory hiss. She meowed back, and he – the cat, slunk forward and arched his back against Roland’s ankles. Diana said, “That was rude of him, and now he apologizes. Do you accept?”

“I do.” Roland reached down to stroke the cat. He purred his new friendship. Roland asked, “Should we feed them?”

“Not today. They have come to honour me, and to protect us.”

“Protect us? From what?”

Diana squeezed his hand. “I don’t want to speak the words. It might summon.”

“Oh,” Roland was silent, remembering the curse Welchmann had tried to get him to say aloud. “I think I understand.”

She squeezed his hand again, “I’m hungry, but my followers should eat these gifts themselves.”

“I’ve never been fond of mouse fricassee. I have some rashers, eggs, toast.”

She nodded, “That would be acceptable,” smiling she added, “better than acceptable. Let me finish instructing my followers.”

The sound of the door shutting interrupted the sizzling sound of the rashers. Diana slid behind him and hugged him. “Smells good, thank you.”

“I didn’t know you were a cat lady.”

She nipped his ear, almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Ouch. That hurts.”

“Do not be irreverent.” She let him go and sat at the table, “Though cat lady is a good description, only perhaps not in the way you mean. How does this tour work, Mr Archaeologist?”

Roland cracked a couple of eggs into the frying pan before answering. “Sometimes I meet the bus in town, but today I’ll, we’ll drive to the site. We’ll meet them in the parking lot.”

****

Roland pulled his antique Golf into a parking place in the unpaved lot near the National Trust’s Landover and put his pass on the dashboard. After he helped Diana out, they walked to the attendants.

“The tour here yet?”

“No, the driver called, they’re running late. Be here after lunch, say two or half-two. He mumbled something about bloody yanks, so you’ve got your work cut out for you.” The attendant inspected Diana and kidded him, “I see you’ve brought an apprentice?”

“Not an apprentice.” Roland smiled at Diana, “May I present my companion Diana Filiasolis.”

The attendant laughed, “I’m glad to see you’re dating again. I hope…”

“It was hard, losing Janet.” Roland paused, “But I’ve found someone. If the tour coach shows up before we’re back, we’ll be at the Red Lion.”

“Why not the Circle Café, the?”

“Diana isn’t exactly vegan. They haven’t added meat to the menu at the Circle, have they?”

“The beer’s better at the Lion too.” The man winked.  Diana and Roland started down the narrow paved trail that led through the circle and to the village.

They followed the path to the cobbled street, past the shops selling Neolithic and new age souvenirs to the tourist trade, to the Red Lion. The rough trade, tattooed devotees of the Goddess, hitching a ride after the spring equinox festival loitered outside where they could smoke and drink.  Roland wondered if it really were Bacchus they worshiped.

One, deeply tattooed with the marks of his faith, bearing enough metal to set off an airport scanner, and reasonably sober, put down his cig. “My Lady.” He bowed to Diana. The others rose and bowed to her together.  “You do us great honour, Goddess.”

She nodded back to them.  “May the sun be with you, children of the light.”

The first man knelt before her, “Bless this poor sinner.”

She touched his shaved head. “Be blessed.”

Then the man picked up his cig and joined his friends in generating a blue haze.

“Diana,” Roland asked, “What was that about?”

“Nothing.” She quickly looked away from him.

“Don’t lie to me. Please. I would like … I need to hear the truth.”

Diana faced him and stared into his face. Roland lost himself deeply in her eyes. She broke the link. “My love, my poor love, there are things I cannot tell you, not now.” She smiled at him and touched his lips with her fingers. “At the right time, when you are ready, all will be revealed.”

She added, as a final argument, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t worry. Forget.”

Roland paused, blinked, the details slipping from his mind, “Let’s find a table.” He led her past the bar, picking up a menu on the way, and into the front room. “This table, over the old well?”

“No. Please, there are voices.”

Roland shrugged and then led her to large room in the back. “You’ll want to wash your hands – the ladies WC is that way.”

****

They were still eating when the bus driver found them. The barkeep pointed Roland out. Roland took advantage of the time it took them to walk back to the parking lot to ask about his charges.

“Bloody Yanks. What a dog’s dinner.”

“Can they walk? I’d like to take them to the long barrow.”

“Most can, it’s like herding cats. That’s why we’re so late. Keep an eye on that one.” He pointed to an older man. “That Mr Levine, he wanders.”

“Cats? Diana, you’re good with cats. I may need your help.”

She laughed, “I’ll do what I can to keep them safe.”

Roland walked in front of the motley crowd, almost all grey haired, all bundled against the cold of the English spring, and waved for their attention. “Hello there, or perhaps better said, Salvete! Quid agetis?”

They turned, stolid to the last one, and looked at him as if he were from Mars or parts beyond.

“I just said, hello, how are you? Nomen mihi est Dr Stevens, Dr Roland Stevens from Reading University. I’ll be your guide.”

This drew little response.

“I thought it would be good to start from the long barrow, we’ll walk by Silbury Hill on the way there and then return up the ceremonial causeway before we look around the ring. It’s an easy walk, maybe three miles total.”

Someone from the crowd shouted, “So we have to? It’s a long walk.”

The lack of enthusiasm from the rest was deafening.

“There will still be time to visit the gift shop.”

This brought forward volunteers.

“Great! The view from the Kennet Long Barrow puts the whole valley in context. Everything from Windmill hill to the White Horse and Ridgeway.”

Roland and Diana counted off the ones who would go with them. It wouldn’t do to misplace any of their herd. Then they shepherded them across the A-4361 and down the footpath to the long barrow.

The crowd assembled on top of the barrow while Roland pointed out the sweep of prehistory in the valley below. Everything from the Ridgeway, through the circle and Silbury hill, Windmill hill with its barrows, and then far to the west the ridge fortifications that continued, each within line of site of the other. Below them, by the mouth of the barrow, devotees of the ‘old gods’ danced and chanted. Although they stopped and bowed when the noticed Diana.

“We should take a look inside. The barrow is as old as the pyramids.”

Diana nudged Roland, “Almost, dearest, almost.”

“It’s still one of the oldest buildings in England, and typical of a chambered tomb.” Roland counted off his party, and then said, “Where is that Mr Levine. Don’t tell me he’s gone walkabout again.”

“I won’t” Diana said, “He’s already in the barrow, taking in the straw dollies and offerings.”

The entrance snaked its way through stone pillars to a dim narrow hall. Except for Mr Levine, who haunted the furthest recess, the tourists looked at each small chamber and then shuffled out.

Roland eventually had to walk behind Mr Levine and say, “Time to go.” Then he tapped the man on the shoulder and led him out of the tomb where they both blinked in the sunlight.

Diana nudged Roland, “That Mr Levine. Is he well? He’s wincing in the light.”

“I hope so – at least I hope he’s well enough to make it back to the village. Then he’s not my problem.”

Roland addressed the crowd, “Now back down towards the road, and we’ll catch the footpath to West Kennet.”

Both Diana and Roland made certain everyone was with them.

****

Everything else went well until it was time to reassemble for the coach ride back to London. The driver counted his passengers off, and then did it again. “Where’s … what is his name? Mr Levine. Can’t go without him.”

“I think he’s still in the shop.”

He wasn’t. Nor was he in the Circle Café, nor the Red Lion, nor even the museum or the manor. He wasn’t in the loo either.

Roland, and Diana joined in the search. Then they waited while the police came, and gave their statements. They took 19 people to the barrow, and they brought the same 19 back to Avebury. One of them had been Mr Levine.

More and more panda cars arrived; then they stopped coming and those that were there drove off. The head sergeant came over and explained.  “Mr Levine’s been found.”

“He has, where?”

“His hotel room. He’s been dead at least two days.”

Roland started to say, “He was …” when Diana stopped him. “It is what it is.”

Roland stared at her. She put her finger to his lips. “Later, look.” The sky grew dark, cloudy. A chill wind blew through the parking lot. “It is coming, has come.”

Above her, on the wires over the hedgerow, a murder of ravens squawked; then flew away.

****

Roland’s mobile exploded into life while they were on the M4. He handed it to Diana.

“It’s that Dr Welchmann.” She said. “Say’s he’s a friend of yours.”

“I don’t think. What’s he want?”

“Your, our company. Could you give a talk, on Demotic and the book of the dead?”

“It’s not my field. It’s what I did to fill in the time after losing … “

“Janet.” Diana spoke away from the phone. Roland nodded, still keeping his eyes on the car ahead. 80 was far too fast for the old golf and the cars were far too close together for his comfort. He muttered, “I’ll do it. Tell that bastard, that gentleman I’ll do it. I’ll call him when we’re back home.”

After Diana put the phone away, Roland turned on the radio. “That man … I hope there’s something decent on.”

The local Oxfordshire radio cut through BBC4, “Hello folks, that crocodile has been seen in the Thames again. This time with photos. C’mon Mates, it’s too cold for ‘em. Turn ‘em into the zoo if you’re done with them. Traffic news, the A34 roundabout at”

Roland turned it off.

“Sobek, why now, here.” Diana muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” She reached over and gently stroked his left arm. “Don’t worry, and that Welchmann. I’ll come with you. It will be fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”

 

 

The Girl in the Machine

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Along with many others one of my books is in this.
The_girl3Free this weekend.