Through the Kisandra Prism (3 page)

He had an idea and produced another jug of rocket fuel. Waiting ‘till the second jug was nearly empty he asks Bulrus Kahn:

‘How did you boys end up working for…err…you know… her…the boss…you know?’ he nodded towards the enchanted glen.

The leader of the three Tartarus Hobs spoke after draining the jug.

‘The first Queen of the Star-worshipers captured us… when we fell from our horses … fighting for the Great Khan.’

‘You mean you are that old?’ asks the wino with interest.

‘Ask no more questions, idiot,’ snaps the ungrateful Bellbinder, ‘our Queen can hear over a fairy league’s distance!’

‘Ooookay…,’ answers Bryn Jones, gingerly looking over his shoulder into the balmy gloom. Although a little puzzled, he held his tongue. He had to live on the mountain after all. He knew for certain that Myfanwy Jenkins was now a Changeling; he had seen her transforming herself into an old hag, before riding the bully Cradock Morgan over the sticks and biting his little fat lug-flaps when extra speed was required from his chunky legs. He had also watched her from the moonlit shade as she changed into a massive Harpy eagle and launched herself skyward.

As the evening mellowed into dusky haze and darkness finally left the underworld; just a few minutes before the magical witching hour, a meteor cut through the starry glaze, trailing a long streak of orange spangled light. The tail of the meteor then took on a red glow as it entered Earth’s atmosphere.

Bryn Jones observes with mercurial interest, that the meteor was heading straight for the marshy valley between their Mountain and its nearest neighbor – Cader Idris. Bryn the old marine threw himself to the ground. The Wino felt only a dull impact as the meteor struck the valley above.

He and the three Tartarus Hobs then listened intently to the eerie, expectant silence that followed. Bryn watches as the Hobs lift their pug-snouts and began to sniff the warm night air; nostrils flaring. Their short-tufted tails quickly stood rampant in trepidation. They seemed to be tuning into a particular scent – one that they knew – but did not favor.

The three Hobs began to make low, nervous, hoots as if not wishing to draw attention to themselves. Then, without word, scrambling and clawing their way up the river bank, leaving a cascade of pebbles in their wake; the echoes of their soft, hyena-like cackles fading as they entered deeper into the dark wood. They knew something their new young Queen did not!

There was something unnerving about the Hobs’ reaction and their sudden departure: “what had they sensed,” the Wino pondered? Normally, as he knew these mountains intimately he would have investigated immediately for there was value in fragments of stellar debris which could fund a week or two of detached, alcoholic oblivion. But instead he became afraid, unnerved. He decided to investigate in the early morning, at first light, when his confidence returned.

Bryn Jones stares into the darkness that surrounded the fire’s blaze, instead of gaining comfort from the warm glow, an uneasiness stirred within him, silhouetted in the fire’s flickering light. He felt too conspicuous sitting where he was. He quickly put out the fire.

Climbing into his battered sleeping bag he now merged with the darkness and felt more secure but not safe enough to sleep: the total silence frightened him. Not a single night bird’s song or insect hum floated on the warm night breeze! It was as if every living creature on the mountain was afraid to advertise their whereabouts. What became just as frightening was that he was not sure of what he was actually frightened of? At first light he would find out where the meteor had landed. He would do this before he tidied himself up for Blodwyn Jones’ birthday party.

Only one other person saw the meteor in Tala Pandy that night: Blodwyn Jones. She was now letting her dreamy gazes wander beyond the fat anemic-looking moon to the stars beyond. She wondered where the beautiful Quilla Prime might be – the planet that contained False Arcadia and True Arcadia. “Was True Arcadia heaven?” She wondered: “Why did the Shi-Larriss, hide their faces behind a flexible golden mask? Were these aliens ashamed of a physical feature?” A red streaking tail of a meteor caught her eye. Being lower down than Bryn Jones, she just saw the meteor pass out of sight behind the Pandy Mountain. As she felt no impact she presumed the meteor had passed on. Blodwyn looked at her watch; it was five minutes to midnight. She considered herself lucky to have seen this rare sight: little did she know.

Blodwyn would have changed her mind if she knew what sinister creature was cocooned within that streaking meteor! She looked at the clock again – it was just past midnight – she was now seventeen years old. Good bye to puberty – hurray. Some of her relatives were arriving from Ireland tomorrow; for now though, time for bed. It was going to be a very busy day.

Early the following morning, as the false dawn was breaking, Bryn Jones impatiently climbed the stony path upwards. Reaching the high shoulder of the mountain he began to descend into the mist covered valley. His fear had not left him from the night before. False dawns had tricked man since distant times and had earned their reputation well; “the bringer of false hope from the fearful night: only to cruelly deceive when darkness reappeared.”

As the false dawn faded back into darkness, so did Bryn’s Jones’s frail confidence. The only visible objects were the white swirls of mist on the valley floor. Like ghostly drapes the twirls of mists rose and fell, briefly exposing the dim outline of boggy peat with clumps of spiky rushes.

Dead tree stumps stood like petrified dark mummies, their life-less black branches looking like distorted human limbs beckoning him onward. These ancient dead trees stood like eerie sentinels guarding a terrible secret!

Bryn Jones entered this spooky world, walked a dozen paces and then stopped. He inexplicably became very afraid: terrified. The ex-marine was ashamed of his inner demons. But why was he afraid? He had cut peat in this lonely place for many years without fear. With pumping heart the Wino of Tala Pandy continues, the high price of meteor fragments spurring him on. Through the chilly mist Bryn Jones slowly walks, his hands extended to feel for the many obstacles the long, dead tree stumps presented; this was not a place to fall.

Bryn Jones the Wino needed a strong drink; alcohol was his chloroform for the mind, it would also provide a shield for his fear. Then a noise. His heart leaped and then raced. This was not the kind of noise he was used to hearing, or expected on a lonely mountain in mid-Wales… a long sharp hiss! The hiss was not the type a feral wild-cat would have made: the hiss sounded reptilian!

The noise was behind him: his line of retreat was now blocked. Immediately he saw and smelt sulfurous brimstone rising from the meteor, but it was the accompanying odor that frightened him. This stink was even worst than that of an alarmed polecat, it was the kind of stench from something alive not dead, something dangerous and very near! The ex-marine’s courage failed him: he began to run.

The Wino of Tala Pandy regretted his decision to investigate, even though true dawn was now awakening. He just wanted to get back to higher ground, to the clear air where he could see his surroundings clearly once again; but he had lost his sense of direction.

Layers of mist floated around him like ghostly, low, air-born death shrouds, confusing him. Panicking and stumbling he tried to reach firm ground, away from the direction of the hiss.

At last his foot struck something solid. Bryn Jones looked down. A dark object lay at his feet which he knelt down to touch. It was still warm and was definitely part of the meteor. His rough hands also brushed against something sticky that covered its surface, the source of the terrible smell. Only half of the black meteor was visible and was slowly sinking into the bog. Bending to pick up a valuable fragment, he could just see some kind of silvery strands, the thickness of string, extending from the meteor into the mists. It reminded him of the kind of wide silken treads that some ground-dwelling spiders leave behind. He placed the object into his pocket.

A movement to his front caught his eye and made him jump! There was something sinister about this movement – it was just too swift to be made by a mammal. Bryn Jones now lost his nerve completely and ran blindly in the opposite direction through the mist; he had a terrifying feeling he was being followed. Reaching firm ground he ran back down the mountain path, looking over his shoulder every now and then to check if he was being pursued. Finally reaching his sleeping bag he quickly climbed in; he was shivering, not from the cold: but from fright.

He lay listening, but all he could hear was the musical sounds of birdsong welcoming another glorious June day as if to thank their creator for the wonderful gift of song and flight. The red orb that is the sun began to peep over the middle slopes of the next mountain, Cader Idris. Bryn Jones, the alcoholic tramp, could feel warmth on his face, he looked at his piece of meteor and smiled; it was worth around fifty pounds he judged. He would only tell his friend Peter the Goat about his discovery.

His thoughts then turned to the coming birthday party. Bryn was friendly with Blodwyn’s male cousins from Ireland; this was a rare social event, where strong drink and music would flow. Although forced to sleep rough, Bryn Jones always kept himself neat, clean and tidy. Now it was time to prepare himself to the best of his ability, for the Birthday party of Blodwyn Jones. He began to tune his treasured instrument.

Bryn Jones always contributed to such events: on this occasion he would take a couple of wild sewin, (sea trout) a brace of pheasants or wild-duck and a basketful of mushrooms. His friend Peter the Goat would be lending him his best Sunday suit, perhaps a little short in the arms and the legs for the tall ex-marine, but acceptable for the occasion nonetheless; everyone being aware of his circumstances.

The Wino of Tala Pandy was looking forward to his first drink, his bones were stiff; he was no longer in his prime and sleeping rough was becoming harder. He left his sleeping bag. Washing and shaving in the cold Pandy River, the ex-marine contemplated the experience of the morning and then pushed it aside. He was thirsty and took his first strong drink; it was seven am on a fine June morning.

Sounds of terror outside the Shepherd’s sturdy door.

An Alien creature there lingers: lurking!

It is trying to gain entry,

digging betwixt the thick

wooden beam and the cold earthen floor.

Peter the Goat now lived high on the Pandy Mountain, part of the Cambrian chain of mountains. The town of Tala Pandy nestled snugly in the green valley below the peak like a picture post card village. Peter the Goat was a Shepherd and his flock consisted of two hundred Welsh mountain sheep; he always had half a dozen goats in his flock of hardy sheep, for he was partial to goat’s milk and enjoyed drinking his fill.

His liking for goats and their milk aside, Peter did have a certain affinity for goats; he also had a rather goat-like appearance himself. Even his peers at primary school noticed this ‘kid-like’ resemblance; even though at that time he did not have the whiskers to grow a goatee beard, something which in adult life gave that final touch to his goatliness. The Shepherd had come to notice that goats were far more intelligent than sheep and better company. These agile hersine ruminants seemed on occasions to stand still and ponder certain facts, such as: ‘The goodness of all goats and the wickedness of man.’

Peter had taken his flock onto the high pastures in early May to enjoy the young spring grasses and herbs. He knew these mountains well and lived in a small round, sturdy, stone spittle with a heavy oak door and thick slate roof which was held in place by gravity and a heavy carpet of deep grassy turf.

These one-roomed shelters were built in medieval times to protect travelers from the packs of wolves preying on humans and livestock that were caught crossing the mountains after sunset. The humble but sturdy shelter in modern times was still good protection from the storms, cold wind and rain to which the mountains at that high altitude were still prone to during early summer.

It was just as well that Peter the Goat’s humble abode was solidly built. Although the packs of wolves had long disappeared, another far more dangerous and determined alien life-form would appear at his door this very night. This predator was not only hungry: but extremely intelligent!

Peter the Goat did not sleep peacefully that night; his two dogs were restless. If his dogs were uneasy so was Peter the Goat, for he relied on their keen noses. Around midnight he heard a dull thud further down in the valley, followed by a slight vibration. He thought little of it; small earthquakes in the Cambrian Mountains were not unusual occurrences.

However what he heard an hour later was most unusual. Some creature was persistently shuffling around outside the sturdy door of the stone hut. Whatever animal it was continued to linger by the entrance… regardless of his shouts and the barking of the dogs. Then it began digging in the earth at the bottom of the door! This was no bold fox or hungry badger that could smell the lovely cold, roast leg of Welsh lamb in his lunch bag. Little did the Shepherd know that it was not the smell of roast lamb that attracted the digger: but the warm-blooded life-forms within!

When the noise continued he noticed that his two sheep dogs looked intimidated, though fully awake. They lay quietly sniffing and staring at the bottom of the stout oak door instead of barking: they whimpered.

There was no doubting in Peter the Goat’s mind that his two dogs were afraid of the creature outside. This fact had an unnerving effect on the Shepherd. The powerful sound of excavation was accompanied by impatient grunts and hisses coming from the very base of the door; these unusual noises and the apparent confidence of the digger were beginning to intimidate the lonely Shepherd. Like most people who lived alone, he had a vivid imagination.

Peter wished he had borrowed Morgan the Milk’s shotgun! Slowly getting up, he could just make out from the light of his peat fire that the small gap at the bottom of the thick door had now been enlarged by about three inches! He spotted movement – as did the two dogs. They began barking, albeit more in fear than aggression.