Prologue
1821
It had been a miserable day, and the evening
was faring no better. What had started as a slight mist that
afternoon was now a raging, swirling storm, complete with howling
banshee winds and skin stinging rain. Thunder rumbled ominously in
the distance. Forks of lightning streaked across the heavy grey
sky.
Bloody great.
Jerrod Ross knew he should have hired his own
carriage, but with the skies so ominous and threatening, he did not
want the bother of trying to deal with a skittish horse. Or the
wait. Due to the inclement weather, there were no carriages to be
had at any rate, and blast the luck of his own carriage having a
cracked axle. He did not want to rent a horse and deal with the
wind and rain either.
And so he was stuck taking a public conveyance.
Deuce it all, what did he care? It was not like he was some
arrogant member of the peerage.
He looked at the other carriage occupants. The
young woman opposite him seemed positively ill, the rolling and
lurching of the carriage having the same effects as being tossed
about in stormy seas. The gentleman next to him, florid of face and
form, also looked unwell. The younger man just stared out the
window, showing no reaction to their situation.
For his part, Jerrod kept his own legs far
apart, bracing himself from the swaying of the carriage, which was
going far too fast for these conditions. Every time the wheels hit
a rut in the now muddy road, he felt his kidneys being
jarred.
The storm worsened. The leaves from nearby
trees were swirling in a vortex of heavy rain and humid, oppressive
air. Thunder now pounded mercilessly directly overhead. Jerrod had
never heard anything like it, like twenty cannons all being fired
at once.
He picked up his cane and banged on the roof,
trying to get the driver's attention. "You there, driver! Slow
down!" he yelled. But it was to no avail. He could not be heard
over the screeching wind and roaring claps of thunder.
Lightning cracked across the night sky, giving
the illusion of daylight. It struck a nearby tree, leaving a
smoking mess of singed branches and smoldering leaves. The young
woman screamed.
Before he could even offer words of comfort in
her fright, lightning struck the carriage.
Darkness. Unfathomable, bleakness. The absence
of all.
It seemed he was moving forward, but he could
ascertain nothing, see nothing, nor could he move, or even blink
his eyes. He was frozen in some dark place. He could no longer feel
the wheels touching the ground. The storm-torn ruts seemed to have
disappeared, almost like he was floating. Not bloody
possible.
He assumed he was traveling at a great speed.
He no sooner came to that conclusion than he seemed to slow down.
The blackness was interspersed with thin ribbons of light, and in
those ribbons of light he could see his fellow passengers
entangled, wrapped and being pulled in multiple directions at ever
increasing speed until they were gone. He began rippling slowly
toward a swirling vortex of dark and illumination. He still,
however, could not move.
This must be a dream. He had fallen asleep and
somehow was having this bleak nightmare of floating through...what
exactly? Mist? Air? The ceaseless beating of the rain was also
gone, as was the howling wind.
Silence.
His scrambled thoughts were soon interrupted by
faint sounds, coming from the ribbons of light. Voices. He
struggled to listen.
“Fourscore and seven years ago…”
Then a different voice, lost, ethereal,
everywhere and yet no where.
“The lamps are going out all over
Europe.”
Another man speaking about how the only thing
we have to fear is fear itself. Strange music played, changing
rapidly. What the deuce?
More voices. “Don't ask what you can do for
your country.” Some singing, about holding one's hand, and a hard
day's night. Bloody silly nonsense. Was he at some carnival?
Perhaps he was firmly locked in a cell at Bedlam, it would not
surprise him. He tried to shut out the voices, someone
1821
It had been a miserable day, and the evening
was faring no better. What had started as a slight mist that
afternoon was now a raging, swirling storm, complete with howling
banshee winds and skin stinging rain. Thunder rumbled ominously in
the distance. Forks of lightning streaked across the heavy grey
sky.
Bloody great.
Jerrod Ross knew he should have hired his own
carriage, but with the skies so ominous and threatening, he did not
want the bother of trying to deal with a skittish horse. Or the
wait. Due to the inclement weather, there were no carriages to be
had at any rate, and blast the luck of his own carriage having a
cracked axle. He did not want to rent a horse and deal with the
wind and rain either.
And so he was stuck taking a public conveyance.
Deuce it all, what did he care? It was not like he was some
arrogant member of the peerage.
He looked at the other carriage occupants. The
young woman opposite him seemed positively ill, the rolling and
lurching of the carriage having the same effects as being tossed
about in stormy seas. The gentleman next to him, florid of face and
form, also looked unwell. The younger man just stared out the
window, showing no reaction to their situation.
For his part, Jerrod kept his own legs far
apart, bracing himself from the swaying of the carriage, which was
going far too fast for these conditions. Every time the wheels hit
a rut in the now muddy road, he felt his kidneys being
jarred.
The storm worsened. The leaves from nearby
trees were swirling in a vortex of heavy rain and humid, oppressive
air. Thunder now pounded mercilessly directly overhead. Jerrod had
never heard anything like it, like twenty cannons all being fired
at once.
He picked up his cane and banged on the roof,
trying to get the driver's attention. "You there, driver! Slow
down!" he yelled. But it was to no avail. He could not be heard
over the screeching wind and roaring claps of thunder.
Lightning cracked across the night sky, giving
the illusion of daylight. It struck a nearby tree, leaving a
smoking mess of singed branches and smoldering leaves. The young
woman screamed.
Before he could even offer words of comfort in
her fright, lightning struck the carriage.
Darkness. Unfathomable, bleakness. The absence
of all.
It seemed he was moving forward, but he could
ascertain nothing, see nothing, nor could he move, or even blink
his eyes. He was frozen in some dark place. He could no longer feel
the wheels touching the ground. The storm-torn ruts seemed to have
disappeared, almost like he was floating. Not bloody
possible.
He assumed he was traveling at a great speed.
He no sooner came to that conclusion than he seemed to slow down.
The blackness was interspersed with thin ribbons of light, and in
those ribbons of light he could see his fellow passengers
entangled, wrapped and being pulled in multiple directions at ever
increasing speed until they were gone. He began rippling slowly
toward a swirling vortex of dark and illumination. He still,
however, could not move.
This must be a dream. He had fallen asleep and
somehow was having this bleak nightmare of floating through...what
exactly? Mist? Air? The ceaseless beating of the rain was also
gone, as was the howling wind.
Silence.
His scrambled thoughts were soon interrupted by
faint sounds, coming from the ribbons of light. Voices. He
struggled to listen.
“Fourscore and seven years ago…”
Then a different voice, lost, ethereal,
everywhere and yet no where.
“The lamps are going out all over
Europe.”
Another man speaking about how the only thing
we have to fear is fear itself. Strange music played, changing
rapidly. What the deuce?
More voices. “Don't ask what you can do for
your country.” Some singing, about holding one's hand, and a hard
day's night. Bloody silly nonsense. Was he at some carnival?
Perhaps he was firmly locked in a cell at Bedlam, it would not
surprise him. He tried to shut out the voices, someone
Similar Books
