Jonathon Goode: Honorary Witch

PROLOGUE

Twelve thousand years ago — when mankind was very young and civilisation was just beginning, there was an island so fair and proud it was the wonder of the then-known world. From her were born all the arts and all the sciences; and her people took them to far-off places and brought light into the new lands. Farming, wine-making, weaving, pottery making and writing were some of the skills they brought; astronomy, engineering and medicine were the sciences they taught. They knew the secrets of building in stone, and massive monuments were built all over their empire — for empire it was — as testament to their greatness and fame.

These were the days before history began; and in that far-flung time, great sheets of ice gripped the Earth and all the northern lands were buried far beneath them. The waters of all the seas and all the oceans were much lower and much more benign; the distances between continents were much shorter. This island was known as Aztlan, and it stood beyond the Pillars of Hercules in the waters of Okeanos, the great ocean between continents. And the people of Aztlan plied that ocean with their ships of painted sails and no part was unknown to them, for they were the first explorers and knew the secrets of the Earth. They knew the secrets of crystals and with those secrets they knew how to draw energy from the very air and ground and water, and channel it into power that they could control; power to lift great stones. Power to heal. Power to calm the waters. For the people of Aztlan were the first magicians and none could stand before them; all peoples bowed to them.

Yet, all things are fleeting — and in one single day and one single night, the Earth convulsed, tore itself apart and erupted; and the proud island of Aztlan fell beneath the waves, never to rise again. The fabled isle became shrouded in myth and legend.

Legend says that all her secrets were drowned with her; myth says... maybe not.

It all begins in the little village of Upper Uffing — with the thought that every single event has a beginning and an end.

Sometimes, the tricky part is trying to find out which is which... because they’re not always blindingly obvious. If other ingredients are added to the equation, say, “when,” “why” and “where,” then beginnings and ends start to occupy vague and somewhat unclear points in time and space; they become subjective, and very, very hard to pin down. That’s because lines of reasoning diverge or converge or just plain merge; opinions are like noses, everybody’s got one; a point of view is just mental sightseeing and attention spans are always different lengths — but it is universally recognised that everything has a starting point, a beginning. Somewhere. That’s definite. And everything has an ending. Somewhere else. That’s also definite. But sometimes, they overlap, and sometimes they’re in the wrong order. Or place. And sometimes the bits in-between get all jumbled up. It’s all very definite.

Probably.

People trying to be mysterious or clever have a saying for it, a metaphor; they say, “Worlds collide”. They don’t mean real worlds or real collisions, because that would only happen once and then there would be no-one around afterwards to make up clever sayings; although you could imagine the last one ever starting with “I say, did you hear a big bang just then?” No, they just try to glibly explain their confusion and uncertainty of a time they are struggling to come to terms with. Reality is the problem — reality can be very confusing. On the other hand, there is a theory that states that there are many realities. And these realities are variations of a theme arrayed throughout time and space, a multiplex of universes separated from one another like the pages of a book, close, but always separated by the thickness of nothing much at all; and, to follow the analogy, by the lack of a giant, ephemeral, god-like finger to turn the page.

What if — maybe — just maybe — it was these worlds that could collide? Hmmm? Let’s then consider a moment in this reality; let’s consider a beginning and a journey — although not necessarily in that order. Let’s consider Jonathon Goode.

Deep in the canal-crossed, water-laced Fen-country of England’s eastern coast, summer was making its presence felt in rare and pleasant fashion. The sun was just warm enough without being too hot, the breeze was gentle enough to cool but not ruffle, the sky was blue and high and the fragrance of the countryside filled the very air. Jonathon Goode thought that the day was almost perfect. There was the security of the solid roof-deck of the narrowboat “Lady Daphne” under his shoulders, there was the faint rumble of the motor in his ears and the burble of dark water beneath the keel and there were, if he turned his head to one side and looked, the canal banks slipping by at a comfortable three miles an hour. There was just him, his folks, and his aunt and cousin; a rare holiday for five to be enjoyed with diligent sloth and dedicated inaction. As an indication of his commitment to this holiday, he’d even turned his mobile phone to message bank; he was too tired to text. The real world seemed a million miles away.

The unreal world, however, wasn’t that far away at all.

Jonathon Goode was a lad nearing a crossroad. Childhood — seconds away behind him; his future of unknown prospects — far, far away in front of him. And at the start of the year that future had indeed seemed a long way in front; but now, as the school year approached its final term, he could hear his futures’ stealthy approach in the way his parents were suddenly talking about it. Casual questions about his subjects for his penultimate year at school; should he stay on and try for university, was there any particular field of trade or commerce he felt draw to? The questions were as endless as they were insistent. His cusp of ignorant adolescence was rapidly diminishing.

These were the thoughts that were lurking in the back of his mind, putting a little cloud over his holiday as he was carried, very slowly, along a ribbon of golden water into the glow of a setting sun. If Jonathon Goode had known what was coming towards him up that ribbon of gold, he would have been too terrified to think of a future! Because something was coming towards him. It was nothing physical, metaphors never are, yet it travelled just the same. Something from the past — the ancient past — was moving towards a predestined point in time and space; secret and secretive yet absolutely certain of what it sought — Jonathon Goode!

There is an unknown force in our lives that you could call Fate, or you could call Destiny, or Bad Luck or even It’s All Your Nigel’s Fault! It doesn’t matter what you call it, because you can’t control it because you don’t even know it’s there! And even if you could guess at its existence, there’s no way you could possibly know when it will make its presence known. But it does.

So, soporific in the sunlight, Jonathon Goode let the miles and the day slide gently past his lazing body. The water ahead disappeared into the golden orb of the afternoon sun and it seemed to his sleepy imagination to point, straight as an arrow, to some unknown, far-off horizon where adventure awaited someone just like him. A shadow replaced the sun and a voice said, ‘Jack, you’re wanted.’ He knew the voice and refused to look up; his cousin Elizabeth, or Lizzie to him and no-one else, was the only one to call him Jack and she had the unhappy knack of knowing when to disturb him at exactly the wrong time.

‘Dishes,’ the voice persisted. ‘Your mum says so.’

With a feigned groan, Jonathon uncoiled himself and stood up. He was very tall for his sixteen years, and quite thin, and the combination gave him an angular, awkward appearance. Unruly waves of burnished copper hair haloed his head and the greenest of eyes looked out onto the world. There was something about the lad that commanded attention, something that drew the eye.

Without a word, he turned and climbed down into the boat, and his cousin seated herself cross-legged on the vacated deck. Even to anyone who didn’t know them, the family resemblance was obvious; she was almost as tall as Jonathon, but that height made her willowy and slender. Her hair, too, was similar, but of the more subdued tone of honey-gold that was cropped short. Hazel eyes completed the picture. But Elizabeth Waterhouse had a serious advantage over her cousin, one that really counted for something — she was older. Oh, not by much, four months, give or take a day, but that difference was like a bullet in a pistol that she could fire any time she liked. As many times as she liked. Primogeniture? Not quite, but she was older than Jonathon and her mother was older than Aunty Penelope, therefore there had to be proper order of things. And that order was with her at the top — naturally. Anyway, as much as she cared for her cousin, when it came down to the picky, niggly, aspects of familial point-scoring, only one thing mattered — he was a boy and deserved everything she could get away with. A smile of satisfaction crossed her lips as she pulled her ‘phone from her pocket, checked her text messages, and began to respond. Lizzie had a lot of friends and they all demanded attention; her thumbs literally danced across the keys.

The day continued to slide serenely by.

One year ago to the day and very close to Upper Uffing — Sir Percival Malmsley-Groyne read the few, sparse words with cold, dead eyes and knew that the Random House Unabridged Dictionary could not capture in so few words the reality of the subject.

“Cen-taur n 1. Class. Myth, one of a race of monsters having the head, trunk and arms of a man, and the body and legs of a horse.”

The dictionary could in no way capture the brutal power of the — the — thing! Anger burned inside him, hidden from without by the coldness of his gaze, a gaze that now turned to survey the ruins of his laboratory. He should know! Oh, yes! He should know! And he knew, because, just eight hours previously, in the cold, early hours of morning — he’d seen one! Now he needed to think! To collect his thoughts, to make some sense out of things, to go back over events, to see what he might have missed! To find a meaning for this insanity. Let’s see — last night, at two in the morning the security alarms had gone off and he and his staff had raced down to the little laboratory, only to find it totally destroyed. Everything was smashed, and the crystal, the precious crystal ball — missing. With hands shaking from anger, he had replayed the security cameras, and there, on the screen —

— the crystal ball sat all alone on its pillar of white plastic tubing, in the centre of the laboratory, as it always had, when, suddenly a halo appeared around it. A bright nimbus that expanded and expanded until it filled the very room. Then the nightmare began. A form appeared within the light — a large, dark form. It looked like a man, but then it stepped forward. On four legs. Four hoofed legs! And towering above the front legs was the torso of a man! Centaur! Chain mail covered his right arm and chest and a steel helmet with two great horns crowned his head. His right hand grasped a wicked-looking trident and he carried a net in his left. A massive curved sword was strapped to his back. With wild rolling eyes he looked about — saw the crystal —one deft flick of the net — and the crystal was gone. One vicious backwards kick of the powerful rear legs and the work of years lay in ruins.

Then the Centaur was gone, back into the light. Then the light, too, was gone.

Sir Percival realized that there was much more to the crystals than had been foretold; more than had ever been dreamed about. Much, much more! The strange creature was confirmation that the crystal was a source of great power; power to breach another world — another time, maybe. He didn’t know. But he would find out. Oh, yes, he would find out. And when he did — his hands involuntarily formed into fists, as if squeezing the truth out of the very air — when he did —

Upper Uffing today — is a rather small and quaint village built around a lock on the canal. Its little cottages and crooked lanes were a relic of the halcyon days when the canal was first built and Queen Victoria’s England was the world leader in cutting edge technology. The magic of gravity raised and lowered the boats and the areas either side of the lock had been widened to provide moorings for those boats waiting their turn. Negotiating the lock was a lengthy process and this provided Upper Uffing with a regular supply of tourists who were only too happy to sample the hospitality of the old waterside pub and the wares of the village craft shops.

It was into this idyllic setting that the “Lady Daphne” cruised just on sunset, and moored by the bank at the end of a line of similar craft.

An hour or so after arrival, when the sky had just begun to cross over from serious dusk to early night and the canal water had turned as black as ink, Daniel Goode, mug of coffee in hand, stepped down from the boat onto the tow path. His wife Penelope and her sister Diane had gone for a walk into the village as soon as he’d moored the boat, and he’d stayed behind to help Jonathon and Elizabeth tidy it up. The coffee gave up tiny wisps of aromatic steam that matched the mist rising from the water. All about there was silence and a damp, pervasive, earthy smell.

The decision to take this holiday was starting to pay off, he mused, because the stresses he had been under lately were lifting and his easy-going nature had returned. Daniel Goode was a free-lance journalist, an occupation not known for its regular pay cheques, pleasant subject matters or longevity. Yet, he was good at it and always seemed to get the stories others would love to attach their names to, but it was hard work and deadlines were merciless in their punctuality. He’d needed a break. Well, not just him, the whole family needed one; he was under no illusion as to how much of his stress flowed into the family. Fortunately, it was school holidays and a week on the water had seemed the perfect choice. Penelope had agreed and, as luck would have it, her sister and niece were also available and eager to join them. Daniel Goode had the happy circumstance of getting on very well with Diane and her daughter Elizabeth. He enjoyed their company. It was a bonus that his son Jonathon and Elizabeth were also good friends.

‘Dan!’ The shout broke into Daniel’s thoughts and the figures of the two sisters came out of the evening dark, striding down the towpath. Anyone could tell they were sisters; both were tall, both had almost identical auburn hair, and both affected that dress code favoured by those not particularly interested in clothes... denim jeans, sports trainers and shirt. The only differences between the two sisters were in the colours of the shirts and in the choice of accessories. Although the years had mitigated somewhat their original svelte figures, both were still capable of attracting an admiring glance or two. Similar the sisters may look, but there was a fundamental difference between them. Or rather, within them. Both were educated and held good jobs; Penelope worked as a solicitors’ secretary while Diane was an assistant editor for a publishing house. All very modern and normal. Except — except that where Penelope had a cool, urbane assurance about her that was part and parcel of a secure, moderately affluent family lifestyle, with a marriage and a future that beckoned brightly, Diane, the elder one, didn’t. Oh, she was comfortable in her job and certainly met the obligations of mortgage and bills; but the veneer of assurance on her was thinner — more brittle. It had been that way for the last eight years, ever since her husband had decided that the young secretary in his office offered more excitement than mortgage drudgery and family responsibility.

And that had been hard; but she’d managed. Her whole focus since then had been to steer Elizabeth through the eddies and rapids of adolescence and school. And she had done a very good job. Everybody said so. But, as any decent physics teacher would tell you, there’s an equal and opposite reaction to all things. In other words, there’s a cost. And Diane had paid it. No social life. At all. And that meant no love life. At all. Not that she had ever thought — well — sometimes, but it didn’t matter. Really, it didn’t. Then, you wake up near the end of your daughter’s school years and find eight years have flown by and that didn’t matter either. Really. It didn’t. Because you know that soon you’ll be able to find that social life. Soon you’ll be able to join the world again. Soon. You hope. Oh yes, you really hope.