Long Tale Press

Alternate.

Prologue.

20th March 2004.

Night coated the lonely hills outside of Long Compton with a smooth mixture of soft, purple hues.

The roads along the Oxfordshire countryside we bare at such a late hour. The chattering voices and rambling thoughts had all departed for the twinkling lure of the urban lights or the comfort of their safe warm homes.

Winter lingered for a few extra weeks that year. The snow of the festive season had long since melted but the air still carried a noticeable chill for a March evening.

The wind rustled through the trees and hedges along the road sides and across the speckled forests. The grass swayed and twitched as the fickle waves rolled over and over across the empty fields.

The farmer’s gates scrapped metal on metal with each gentle nudge to and fro.

Old fences squeaked.

Empty barns creaked.

The nocturnal world awoke to its freedom.

The owls stood in the trees and scoured the land below.

Rabbits and mice foraged and played.

A fox ran swiftly across the road, braving the danger.

The rural inhabitants at work.

Translucent waves cracked and broke as the tide rolled in, pushing the clouds to one side. The curved lines of these absent lands were blessed by the astral light of the stars and the moon. A silver glow left a gentle touch upon all creation keeping every blade of grass and every creature from slipping into darkness.

The clanging metal and the whispering trees filled the slopping hills with sounds and movements and shared its playful whims to its last remaining audience.

The country roads were narrow and wound vigorously through the landscape, ushering caution from the average motorist. The trees and bushes grew wild and closed in on all sides. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre; the restricted stretch of asphalt could barely house the two lanes it dared to boast.

Fortunately for the daring travellers that night, there was no opposing traffic and they had the run of the roads.

At a gentle speed of forty miles per hour, an old Red, Rover Metro 1.1 traversed a pre-chosen course.

The head lights parted the stagnant darkness as the wide beams proceeded them as vanguard and guide. Along the road sides there were no street lights and midnight persevered in full reign over field and forest. The head lights kept the occupants of the car safe and shielded them from the limbo beyond.

The solitary gloom of the hills and fields didn’t dissuade them, this was their destination.

An idea came to them.

A curious notion for half the party, a curiosity that inspired intrigue and the zeal of originality.

For the remainder of the group it was a unique chance, a chance that couldn’t be passed up, the rewards were far too tempting.

In less than twenty minutes of the idea bursting into conversation they packed up a few supplies and hit the road. It was only a short trip from the hotel and it was surprising how quickly this idea became escort and beacon for the rest of the evening.

They drove along the road with a singular destination in mind. The Rollright Stones.

A few miles ahead lay the focal point of their curiosity and an ancient army waited to greet them.

Anticipation grew but not from the wondering travellers.

The winds spiralled and whipped.

The ground, fertile and flat, hummed with sympathetic resonance with what lay beneath.

It had been waiting for so long. To call it consciousness would have been quite the exaggeration but that wasn’t to say it didn’t take its hallowed place in the grand design.

They couldn’t know what was ahead. The stories to guide them had been lost to time and foreign conquest.

Blind and deaf, they rode on.

From inside the car the surrounding fields were painted a crow black. A traveller on foot would have found their way in the astral light but for Samuel Colley, the landscape was a daunting void.

Much of that night had been washed down with booze but he was no where near his limit.

Beer, Jack Daniels and some disgusting poison called Sambuca, which his friends had dared him to drink, were his vices to whisk him away.

In his hands were two bottles of beer, both open, one full, one in progress.

‘That should keep this buzz going for a little while longer,’ he thought.

This trip wasn’t his idea, his friend Daniel was the architect behind the proceedings and the chauffer. Samuel followed his friend out of simple curiosity and to stay in the company of Alexandra Bell, another passenger in the cramped Metro.

Ever since they met a few days ago he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Alexandra’s father was English but her mother was Italian and she had inherited the long silky brown hair, dark brown eyes and a curvaceous body that sent all the boys howling at the moon. Of course, Alexandra was all business and had no interest in dating or relationships at that time in her life. For her suitors, that just made the chase even sweeter and Samuel joined their ranks.

The final passenger in the car was Castor Brentwood. He too had eyes for Alexandra but fate was smiling on Samuel that night and he got to share the back seat with the girl of their dreams.

They were all fresh faced psychology graduates, still in the infancy of their careers. It was how they all met and secretly it was also the fuel for their competitive sides. Graduation was only just out of the wrapper and all of them were eager to get things started.

A famous and well noted Doctor by the name of David Livingston had recently opened the doors to a series of lectures on abnormal psychology and to their hungry minds his words were a succulent meal.

The lectures were invaluable to their progression but after a solid week of seminars and Q and A’s, their endurance had been warn down to the nub. It was time to break away and have some fun.

First came the alcohol, then came the idea.

Daniel had always held a fascination for history and the ancient world ever since he was a child but growing up in America limited his reach.

All theory and no practice.

Before now he couldn’t afford the journey to the U.K to spoil his yearnings but this trip had presented an irresistible opportunity,

“So where are we going again?” asked Samuel.

He leaned forward from the back seat and filled the space between the driver and passenger seat with his whole body,

“The Rollright Stones,” answered Daniel.

“And why are we going again?” said Samuel with an immediate follow up question.

Samuel’s parents were American but he had been raised in England. The few years at NYU to earn his Masters degree had restored some of the heritage in his voice but not much.

Samuel had met Daniel at University and at first was the recipient of numerous questions concerning the history of England and a blatant fascination with its ancient ruins. Unfortunately for Daniel, Samuel didn’t share his undeniable passion and had no answers to give him. Samuel was a man of fact, who’s future lay in criminal psychology, and not of the old world,

“Because I’m heading back to New York in two days and this might be the only chance I’ll ever get to see an actual stone circle,” replied Daniel,

“Well why don’t you just come back during the day,” Samuel added, declaring a better option, “You’ll be able to see more, maybe even take a few photos. You could even chisel a piece off one of the stones when no one’s looking, you know, as a memento.”

Samuel chuckled and nudged Castor with his elbow to highlight the joke. Castor wasn’t biting,

“And, the most important factor, I only have two beers left and I really don’t want to run out tonight. I’m not quite at the right level of drunk yet,” Samuel continued.

“You could have fooled me,” Daniel replied in whisper.

Samuel’s breath told a different story to his claims of sobriety but he was in good company. Apart form Daniel, who remained faithful to weed, Castor and Alexandra were both well on their way to the blurred state of inebriation,

“No choice,” added Daniel, unwilling to budge.

“Well why in the middle of the night?” said Samuel, asking the most obvious question.

“Arr, well, that’s what the bag is for,” replied Daniel, pointing to the rucksack beside Castor’s feet,

“And what’s in there?” asked Samuel.

“A book, a few assorted items and an offering to who ever’s out there tonight,” said Daniel with glee,

“I’m with Samuel on this one,” said Castor, jumping in, “You’re going to have to explain this one.”

“Today is the 20th March; it is the point of transition between the light and the dark halves of the year. It is one of the many focal points of Pagan celebration and a significant time of the year.”

“So,” added Samuel.

“Pagan ritual is replete with acknowledgements of specific times and dates throughout the course of the year. Focal points. Studies of gateways to the Gods and other realms. Even Halloween, which we American’s love so much, is actually a Pagan celebration.”

“Are we going to raise Samhain?” said Alexandra, laughing at her own joke that no one else got.

“No,” replied Daniel, “Wrong time of year and not quite my intention tonight.”

“So, what is this, a Séance?” asked Castor,

“Actually this would be closer to a Sabbath,” replied Daniel.

“Is Ozzy Osborne going to meet us there?” Samuel joked, “I LOVE OZZY!”

His joke broke down Castor’s defences and both he and Alexandra laughed with him,

“Shut up, you drunk. Not Black Sabbath,” Daniel replied, “A Sabbath, an ancient but long enduring ritual in which people would get drunk, take drugs and dance around and open themselves up to the forces of this world and beyond.”

Samuel’s attention drifted. He slid into a gentle mix of half listening and half swirling along with his next sip of beer,

“Just like the Witchdoctors of Africa,” Daniel continued, “Or the Shamans of South America.

They too use drugs from plants and roots to break down the walls and expand into other realms. Just because Roman conquest and Christianity all but wiped them out, doesn’t make Pagan ritual any less potent.

They are our ancestors after all.”

“Sounds like a blast,” added Samuel, “I knew I came along for a reason. I’ll drink to booze and drugs and all the Sabbaths we can cram into tonight.”

Alexandra giggled to herself in the back seat as Samuel slurred the pronunciation of Sabbath. He heard her laughter and leant back, falling against the seat behind him,

“You’re not drunk enough,” he said,

“You’re right,” she replied.

She took one of the bottles from his grasp and started to drink. She held the bottle up and tilted her head back. Samuel watched her gulp down the beer and added,

“Is it wrong to find that really attractive?”

Alexandra laughed at the observation and almost choked on the beer. She pulled the bottle away and froth erupted from its neck.

They both laughed as Alexandra wiped her chin to dry off.

Castor grunted,

“And we’re here,” said Daniel in much delight.

A small recess in the bushes worked as a cramped but suitable space to park and Daniel pulled over.

The stone circle was concealed behind a thick woodland and shielded from the road, but a public sign had been put up at the start of a small pathway through the trees which read simply, ‘The Rollright Stones.’ There was more text on the sign which chronicled the history but it was too small to read from where he sat so Daniel ignored it.

Once the car stopped and the engine was switched off, all four companions stepped out of the humid confines and into the cold air.

Samuel was the first to notice how strong the winds had turned since they left the hotel earlier that night. The trees worked to amplify the roaring gusts as he stood at the edge of a thick net of trees, bushes and bramble. Ivy twined around the trees and thick branches barred the way. Nature’s subtle influence had worked to form an impenetrable barrier to protect the stones and ward off the uninvited.

Daniel collected his bag from the car, as well as a torch. He also opened the glove box and removed a lighter and a small tin cigar case. He closed the door, holstered the rucksack over his shoulder and proceeded towards the small pathway.

Along the way he opened the cigar case and removed a spliff he’d rolled earlier that evening and he lit the end with his lighter.

He wasn’t much of a drinker, but this he enjoyed.

Castor walked up alongside him and, as the others followed, they both shared the vice.

Samuel and Alexandra trailed behind.

Alexandra walked with a shaky stride. The cold air hit her the instant she stepped out of the car and stirred the effects of the alcohol. Those relaxed but contained thoughts quickly turned to lost ramblings and perpendicular steps.

The merriment of it all soon took her over and she chuckled quietly to herself.

The path ahead was dark and the finer details of the trees and footpath were lost in a sea of shadow and booze.

Samuel was no better off but he offered his arm as counterbalance and guide to help her passed the heavy brush,

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” Samuel replied, “Daniel’s nuts. Let’s just follow him, let him do his thing and then we can go find a pub or something.”

“You see, that’s more my style of thinking,” she replied.

“Cool. Come on, we’re falling behind.”

Samuel led the way passed a small iron fence that was waist high and held shut by a simple latch. He pushed the gate open and held it until Alexandra had stepped through. He then released the gate and a tight spring and a well oiled hinge slammed it shut again.

The sudden clang of metal surprised Alexandra and made her cling tightly to Samuel’s arm.

The path ahead was a clutter of swaying branches, twitching shadows and rustling new born leaves.

In the darkness, Alexandra encountered a whole host of imaginary monsters, lying in wait. The sudden calamity of the gate instantly brought them all to life and the horde drew close.

They crawled across the ground.

Inhuman forms lurked behind the trees.

They hunkered in the shadows, slobbering and snarling as they readied themselves to partake in their most sordid whims.

Alexandra regained her composure.

The nonsensical projections of an inebriated mind.

She pulled the projections back inside, hauling in the net with a freshly roused gusto, hand over hand.

Samuel laughed and Alexandra quickly joined him.

In the distance, Castor groaned.

After a few more staggered steps into the brush, Samuel stopped to observe a curiosity,

“Look at that,” he said.

His words and his heavy sway to the left directed Alexandra to a pile of ash. Moonlight broke the tree line and illuminated the selected area with a rich stream of silver radiance.

The ash was spread out over a small rectangular area, no large than one metre by half a metre. Sandstone rocks lined all found sides and kept it contained. The fire had only recently burned itself out and Samuel could still smell the smouldering wood. In the centre rested a bouquet of flowers made up of thistles, young sapling branches and dandelions. The flowers and twigs didn’t show any burn marks or scorched leaves and had been placed after the fire had died out,

“What do you suppose this is?” Alexandra enquired.

“No idea,” Samuel replied, “Some sort of offering? We should ask Daniel, he might know. But it seems we’re not the only one’s out here tonight.”

“An offering?” she replied in disbelief, “Some weeds and broken twigs, pretty crappy offering.”

“Probably hippies,” he replied in jest, “We’re probably about to stumble upon a drum circle or love orgy.”

“Maybe that was Daniel’s plan all along,” Alexandra replied with a schoolgirl giggle.

“The descent thing to do would have been to warn us,” replied Samuel.

They both laughed, toppling into each other.

Samuel almost spilt one of the bottles of beer in the mirth and quickly regained some of his balance,

“Hey, that’s a point, where are they?” he said.

He looked along the path ahead and his two friends were gone,

“That’s your fault, making us stop,” said Alexandra,

“Well come on then, let’s catch up.”

They both tottered along the dirt path with careful steps. The ground crunched under every footfall as loose stones and protruding wild grass bore the brunt of their intrusive weight. Shadows obscured both ground and the sky and made the narrow clearing a treacherous pass.

They pushed away a few wandering branches.

They trampled over bramble and barged passed the hefty foliage of a thick bush.

Eventually they made their way out of the woodland and into a clearing.

Directly ahead the peaceful landscape opened wide and stretched out for as far as they could see. A few metres ahead an old fence of metal wire and wooden posts separated the small stretch of grass at their feet and the vast fields that reached out for a few miles. Vivid lines of fences and hedges carved the lands into squares and rectangles, revealing the future harvest of a productive season.

The fields were bare now but the vast reach of this rural land left them both in silent awe.

With a clear sky filled with stars and not a sound to be heard, they could have stood there for hours, immersed in the tranquillity and simplicity of it all,

“Over here!” Castor shouted.

Both Samuel and Alexandra awoke from their gaze and followed their friend’s call.

Just to the right, over a few more metres of tamed and trampled grass, they found Castor and Marcus standing at the rim of the stone circle.

They quickly hurried along and joined their friends.

The Rollright Stones were a gathering of crooked shaped, limestone rocks, assembled in a circle of at least thirty three metres in diameter.

The stones had stood for over two thousand years and bore the weathered marks of hot summers, bitter winters and the constant rain.

No two stones were alike. Some were tall and thin. Some were long and broad. Others were short and fat. The occasional stone leant at a slight angle while the rest stood straight.

The surface of the stones held a rigid and uneven texture. The edges were jagged and brittle. Heat and cold had chiselled away at the rocks for countless seasons but their tenacity was proven with their continuing presence in the field.

The stones had stood for as far as memory could regress. Before the Romans. Before Christ. They stood, firm and enduring.

Moss and fungus clung to the rough surface and wild grass grew at the base.

They had been left untouched for many years but myth and legend accompanied the stones to uphold their glory.

The Kings Men held their ground. They stood in eternal congress, debating a challenge offered by the Mother Shipton. Their formation stretched both long and wide over the thirty three metres. The years had taken many of their number, the hands of man, the cruelty of nature, but their number held at seventy seven.

Sometimes a joyous privilege would be granted and a friend and brother would return to raise their number, but they couldn’t stay for long.

Patiently the soldiers stood, waiting for the group to gather, ready to reveal their forgotten purpose.

Samuel and Alexandra stumbled into the circle and found Daniel already preparing the curious ritual,

“Well this is a bit of a let down,” Samuel commented as he viewed the stones, “I was expecting something a bit more grand, like Stonehenge.”

“A stone circle and a Henge are two very different things,” replied Daniel in defence, “These sites are ceremonial. There were no homes nearby and very few encompassed graves.

This one is different, however, just a short walk from here, there’s a place called ‘The King’s Stone.’ A possible resting place of a Pagan ruler, proving that this place was once considered quite important.”

As he spoke, Daniel knelt on the ground and rummaged inside his rucksack. He removed flowers, weeds, a small can of lighter fluid and a thick, handwritten journal,

“It’s a hypothesis that these circles were a form of amulet or talisman to acknowledge and appease the various spirits of nature,” he continued.

Marcus arranged the flowers and weeds at the centre of the circle and proceeded to flick through his journal.

Samuel glanced over Daniel’s shoulder and was surprised by the detailed contents of the journal. Inside were pages filled notes, photos, clippings showing discoveries and hypotheses on the nature of Pagan artefacts, rituals and the names of religious sites. There were also hand drawn rune markings and folk lore creatures.

Samuel had no idea Daniel studied this wayward history so intensely.

‘He must have been following this for years,’ he thought.

“Some say every stone circle, monolith and Henge was built on a specific and carefully chosen spot. Perhaps and area of high magnetic properties, or a convergence of lay lines?

Sometimes gifts were given to those who worshipped the spirits in exchange for food, drink or the lives of others.”

With his final statement Daniel dove his hand into his pocket and pulled out a retractable Stanley knife.

Samuel instantly took a few steps back.

A cold rush sobered him up enough to approach the situation in a calm manner,

“Hey, come on now Daniel,” he said, speaking with a steady and neutral voice, “We’ve all had a lot to drink tonight, let’s not do anything stupid.”

Daniel looked at him for a few seconds with a blank stare and then laughed out loud,

“I’m not going to kill you, dumb arse,” he replied, “This is for me.”

“What the Hell are you talking about,” said Castor, stepping in.

“Pagans were firm believers in blood sacrifice. You ever watched The Wicker Man? They would burn people and animals alive to appease their Gods and seek blessings or favours in return.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Samuel.

“I’m not going to kill myself, just cut my arm a little and drop some blood onto the fire. It’s not the most popular hypothesis, or the most factually supported belief, but it’s possible that from these offerings the Pagans were granted insight into the future, or were bestowed Heavenly visions just like the Shamans and Witchdoctors I mentioned earlier.”

“And you think some flowers, a little fire and some of your blood will usher in some fantastic vision,” said Samuel, his pessimism laid bare.

“I found, or to be a bit more honest, one of my old friends at University found an old right of passage in a tome called, ‘The Book of Silver,’ written in the eighteenth century.”

The others looked doubtful, and Samuel appeared concerned for his friend,

“Come on, I need four people to make it work. And hey, if it turns out to be a bust, at least you can all have a good laugh…at my expense.”

There was a moment of silent contemplation as they all privately mulled over the concept ushered in by Daniel’s plea,

“Okay,” said Alexandra, holding her hand up as if in class, “I’m still drunk enough to think this is funny. What do you want me to do?”

“Fine,” said Samuel, “Let’s hurry up. I’m freezing out here.”

Castor simply nodded in agreement.

Daniel clapped his hands in excitement and was quick to give instructions,

“Okay, I need each of you to stand in a separate spot.”

Daniel removed a compass from his rucksack and continued,

“Okay, Samuel, you stand there in the Northern spot. Castor, you go there at the South and Alexandra, you’re East, so stand there.”

He directed the others to their specific areas by pointing a stone out as a marker, while he remained in the middle,

“And I’ll take the West, but first I have to set up the offering.”

“Why do we need to stand here?” asked Alexandra as she made her way across the circle.

“Four corners. Four sides. Four directions. Four dimensions,” Daniel replied, “The circle is an opening. The souls of an ancient army lie beneath the soil, their bones are dust but their souls linger here, holding the door open for those who care to look.”

His final words were lost to the others; they were either too drunk or too ignorant of legend to fully comprehend the story.

Daniel assembled the flowers and weeds into a neat stack and then dowsed them with lighter fluid,

“This is cheating a bit, I know, but it’s too windy to keep a flame any other way,” he whispered.

His words were not directed at his friends; instead he kept his head down and looked at the bouquet as if he was communicating with someone else present amongst the stones.

He used his lighter and a small fire erupted from the bouquet. The flames were contained within the centre of the circle; a perimeter of dry soil restricted the food supply and kept it contained.

With the fire burning, Daniel rolled up his sleeve and extended the blade on the Stanley knife. A single, smooth, swipe of the blade was all it took, Daniel winced at the initial pain but endured as he watched the blood drip from the cut down the side of his forearm.

With the offering set he quickly picked up his journal off the ground and ran to the edge of the circle and stood at the Western most point.

He turned to face the centre and opened the journal to a dog-eared section. Across the right page was a list of hand written words, depicted in a runic language.

Crosses, folks, tree shaped symbols, lines crisscrossed at differing heights and lengths over a vertical straight line. The symbols covered the page and left no blank space to be found.

Without a pause or further word to his friends, Daniel began to read from the journal.

The others listened but his words were alien to them. They had never heard anything even remotely similar to this unknown language and couldn’t guess at what was being said.

It wasn’t Latin, to fall on the old cliché in the movies. This was much older. Before those foreign bastards brought their taint, this was the first language.

His words quickened

His tone grew to a stern bellow.

This was an announcement, to command and to conjure.

Suddenly his stern voice turned to a frenzied cry. Daniel tilted his head back and called up to the sky, screaming at the top of his lungs for the attention of a hallowed audience.

The ferocity of the winds grew as if in unison with his cries. The trees roared and waved towards the circle; the winds pushing from all found directions at once. Shadows loomed over their heads with blackened, clawed hands clutching at the four souls trapped within.

Maybe it was the alcohol blurring his vision?

Maybe it was the pressure of the past week finally catching up with him?

He couldn’t be sure, but as Samuel listened to the shrilled cries of his friends he felt a distinct nausea pass over him.

An inner ear imbalance. Perhaps?

He swayed to and fro and found it a chore to keep his balance. The only way he could remain standing was to hold onto the tall, thin stone beside him.

He looked over to the others. They too seemed uncomfortable and Alexandra had taken caution one step further and had sat down on the stone behind her.

Castor remained standing but he was holding his head with one hand and a stone with the other.

Samuel’s eyes drifted. The world around them slid into a haze. Everything beyond the circle melted and vanished from sight in a smir of black. The world outside was swallowed whole. The only light came from the fire in the centre. Its flow intensified and the flickering yellows, oranges and reds merged into a pure white.

His nausea juggled the contents of his stomach and filled his head with swirling waters. An ambivalence soon found a seat as a surprising euphoria mixed with the dizziness.

He didn’t know whether he was going to throw up or burst out laughing.

Everything switched. His thoughts were then pulled in a different direction and then slammed hard against a wall.

An invisible force rolled in from outside the circle with a vigorous charge. It struck him from head to toe with a single and fierce punch and passed through him without resistance.

The impact winded him and he staggered back a few paces.

Silence came with the wave and the winds faded into emptiness.

Amidst the confusion of the unprovoked attack, an image flashed into his mind. It evaporated far too quickly to comprehend but even with the half-life of a second, the image was potent enough to leave behind an uncertain feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The image carried with it an echo of a dream, an after thought that was given rise from a flight of fancy. It was an inclination to interfere.

Such memories were normally shrugged off because, as a man of comprehensive thought and rationality, Samuel didn’t place much reason in the narrative of dreams.

This was different.

The image.

The flash of memory.

It wasn’t his.

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