Rite of Passage
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
by
Kevin V. Symmons
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Rite of Passage
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Kevin V. Symmons
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
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Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-387-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-388-7
Published in the United States of America
and
RITE OF PASSAGE
“An intriguing read. The characters are very strong. It has the sense of foreboding on a summer day. Sort of the feeling when a thunderstorm is approaching. You know it’s coming but you don’t know when it’ll crash around you or what damage it will be caused.”
~Jo Ann Ferguson, best-selling author
~*~
“A haunting period piece with memorable characters and all the paranormal bells and whistles. Breakneck pace, romance and clever plotting.”
~Arlene Kay, author
~*~
“A delightful read. A wonderful mix of Wiccan ritual, fantasy, destiny, and karma woven together to create an imaginative and engrossing tale. I recommend it highly!”
~High Priestess Ellen Anne Donovan Townsend
To all those who had faith:
my loving wife Joan, my children,
and my fellow writers.
Thank you.
Prologue
March 21, 1947
Three Months Prior to the Summer Solstice
Twenty years of patience, hiding in shadows, changing his name and face. The high priest sat, surveying the Druid elders.
Soon it will be over, and you will have brought me my revenge.
These Druids viewed themselves as the elite of the pagan world. The high priest wore a scornful smile beneath his hood. In the months since becoming their leader, he’d driven them toward a dangerous precipice. A place he could find the closure he sought. The twelve men and women seated at his front were tools to support his brutal plan. Nothing more.
He stood, knowing his stature intimidated them. “Twelve weeks until the summer solstice,” he began. “The night she’ll be sacrificed.” He pronounced the sentence without emotion.
As the dying sun filtered through the thickets, the high priest scanned the low hills bordering the nemeton, their sacred place of worship. He could allow no witnesses to this ritual. Nothing moved. Only the vagrant breeze stirring branches on the ancient oaks.
The
spring equinox symbolized rebirth and fertility, a harbinger of celebration and joy. The meeting on this sparkling evening had a more ominous purpose. They would sanction the flawed pronouncement he had duped them into believing.
The twelve met at their ritual site on the Welsh island of Anglesey—where the Romans had slaughtered their ancestors in the first century. His heart quickened imagining the magnificent carnage. Heads skewered on pikes, shamans impaled by Roman short swords, and innocent women and children dragged to slavery in chains. The Druids had been a peaceful people—philosophers, scientists, and teachers. More primitive interests motivated him. The high priest allowed himself a moment of optimism. No conscience. No emotion. He had one purpose: repayment of a long overdue debt.
He surveyed his companions. Membership in this innermost circle was coveted and anonymous. They knew each other by a secret name. His was Gottfried. Membership and elevation to their leadership was a testament to his guile, ingenuity, and the gullibility of these fools.
They represented others, descendents of those who ruled this land before the Romans and the Christians corrupted it. Their ancestors used the planets, stars, and the monoliths surrounding them to predict the future.
The group sat on worn granite pediments facing their leader. Two concentric circles surrounded them. Each of the outer monoliths was in perfect alignment with its mate on the opposite side. Despite many centuries, the stones still enabled their users to find meaning in the heavens.
The inner circle held smaller stones. These azimuth stones predicted planetary paths to help foretell significant events. The high priest made an impressive show, using the stones to confirm their fears, assuring this small band that his observations predicted a cataclysm of such cosmic import it would force them to take action. Hazelwood torches flickered, illuminating the circle’s perimeter. As if drawn by an invisible force, the thirteen stood in unison.
“For centuries,” the high priest commenced “we’ve awaited this terrible event. It will occur on the night of the summer solstice. The witches intend to celebrate their chosen one’s rite of passage. They’ll invoke the ancient spirits to make the young beauty the embodiment of a goddess. That will bring catastrophe.”
“But she’ll be gone,” protested a figure. “And human sacrifice is against everything we believe in.”
“You question me?” the leader asked, knowing his
followers must never guess his purpose
. “
Everything has been planned to the smallest detail.” He closed his eyes while fingering the gold medallion that adorned his neck. He would succeed.
“We will not be deprived,” another celebrant agreed. “The natural order will be restored.”
He’d waited for this:
her
sacrifice. Twenty years was a long time, but not too long. Three short months and his patience would be rewarded. The debt repaid. He’d used these Druids, warning that her ascendance would bring havoc. By the time they realized the extent of his lie, he’d be far away and anonymous once again.
“She is the fortieth in her line,” said another in the circle. “That signifies great power.”
“It could be.” The high priest nodded. “But it will be of no use. She’s mastered their craft. But she’ll find her way to our altar nonetheless.” He shook his head in mock regret. “Taking the life of one so innocent and so beautiful cannot be viewed lightly, but we must do it,” he added, “
for the greater good!”
“Yes. She is
a witch
,
young, sentimental and devoted to the occult,” another agreed. “A sad, sweet creature. Mysticism and meditation rule their lives.”
The high priest nodded again. “It will be her undoing.” He stared at the elders knowing the chain of events he had set in motion. “Enough!” he commanded. “No more debate.”
“How can you know all this?” asked another. “Are you a telepath?”
“No,” he lied. They could never know his true identity and the powers he possessed. “I have more practical methods. A confidant. Someone close to them. When our task is complete,” the high priest promised, “nature and mankind will be in balance once again.”
“Yes.” All repeated the chant in their ancient Celtic tongue. “Nature and mankind will be in balance once again!”
****
Early May, 1947
Six Weeks Prior to the Summer Solstice
Briarwood Estate, Gloucestershire, Western England
The tall man bent, watching the young woman curled up in the silk comforter. Duncan Wellington watched Ellen’s daughter impassively. She’d grown into a beauty. Innocent and shy, Courtney carried the look of an angel. But she was a burden he’d borne far too long. That would soon be over. Moving in her sleep, the girl’s dark curls fell in disarray across her pillow, cascading over the stuffed horse she clung to.
“Courtney’s become a beauty. Has the look of her mother,” he observed. His words were bitter. He turned to Megan McPherson, his daughter’s Scottish nanny. “It’s her mouth,” he said as Courtney’s lips parted, curling into a dreamlike smile. “Striking and sensual. Just like Ellen’s.”
“Aye, sir, my Courtney does have the look of Mistress Ellen,” the old woman said, brushing aside the tears on her ruddy cheeks.
“It’s best if she leaves as soon as possible,” he whispered. “She needs to get away. Too many bad memories—of Ellen, the accident.” Wellington’s words trailed off. He sighed deeply, taking one last look at the sweet, wounded young woman he was banishing. Backing out, he closed her door as he turned toward Mrs. McPherson.
“Sir
?
” She stood, searching his face. “Please, sir.” Mrs. McPherson clutched her employer’s arm. “This is where she belongs—with us, with me. She’s still a child in so many ways and loves Briarwood so much. Miss Courtney
needs
to be here,” the woman pleaded. Her words echoed past the ancestral portraits standing guard in the hallway.
“This is not a debate, McPherson,” he said, removing his servant’s hand. “I’ve spoken to Gretchen, her aunt. She’s agreed to allow Courtney to live there.” He played with his mustache. “Have her things packed by the time I return.”
Mrs. McPherson raised her hand.
“One more word and you can draw your salary.”
“All right.” She walked past him in defiant resignation. “I’ll pack Miss Courtney’s things and then”—Mrs. McPherson stopped, downcast eyes showing resignation—“I’ll draw my salary. I’m through, sir!”
Chapter One
June, 1947, Eight Days Prior to the Summer Solstice
The Evanses’ Estate, Southern Maine
Life can be cruel, displaying forbidden pleasures, showing us things we want desperately, things that remain just beyond our reach. That was Courtney, a vision of innocence and perfection I could worship but feared I could never possess.
Entering the dining room on that June evening, I walked through the thick air, my shirt clinging to my skin beneath my dinner jacket. My mind wandered as I surveyed my surroundings, drained after my long drive from Boston, an afternoon in the June sun, and three games of billiards with my host.
“This is Robert McGregor. You may remember him.” He slapped me on the back. “Going to Harvard Law this fall. Wonderful lad! Harvard summa, looks of a matinee idol, and tore up the playing fields to boot.” Jonathan Evans, my father’s best friend, slapped me again, displaying me. The prize bull at the county fair. “Hasn’t been to one of our events since before the war, but I think of him like a son,” he added, smiling with the flush of too much wine.
I shook my head. “Please, Uncle Jon.” I was less than half the age of those surrounding me. I wished again that I’d turned a deaf ear to my mother’s pleas to attend. I dreaded playing the role of mascot for this group.
Some of my two dozen dinner companions approached and pumped my hand. None under forty. This would be an interminable weekend. Waterford crystal filled with red and white from the Evans cellar rested in their hands as they withdrew, smiling and nodding, consuming the canapés that drooped in the damp air.
I took a glass of vintage red from Jon’s magnificent cellar. Men patted my back. Middle-aged women shared looks of admiration and provocative smiles. Clumsy flirtations from those old enough to be my mother. The names of my admirers were lost as I moved from one to the next.
