Somehow conveyed to the island of Fairlon, Chicagoan Jim Connors is brought before King Jochanan of Soglarn, ruler of one of the island's three realms. After Jim is condemned to a quick death the next day, he is taken to the dungeon, where he meets Princess Aurora of Nolan, who will only be released when her father yields his crown to King Jochanan. But Jim readily helps Aurora escape, King Jochanan initiates a pursuit that is bent on being lethal, while in the meantime, Jim is truly surprised to learn where he is. Find out why by reading The Travellers, While Weeping Lasts.
THE TRAVELLERS
Book I, WHILE WEEPING LASTSBy James R. PoynerAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 James R. Poyner
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-0958-6 Chapter One
THE STORM
JIM CONNORS WAS in it, all right! A lengthy, stormy ordeal in a boat and a fair cruise on an unusual ship had netted the husky, dark haired youth, snaring him in a great tangle of trouble, cruelly embracing him in a hold that threatened to become smothering. So far, though, all of it was just part of the adventure, just living on that fine edge between life and death. At least, for Jim, it was just that.
Sure, the transplanted native of Chicago would be the first to admit that just then he was up to his neck in a rushing flood of trouble, with the dark, swirling waters rising ever higher, his wading feet already starting to lose touch with the riverbed as the current drew him upward. It might have been enough to make most people throw in the towel; cast their three aces on the table in annoyed resignation; hurl their frustration and disappointment at the reaching hands of the would-be, gloating winner. Trouble is, Jim was the kind who needed to see that he was beaten. He always called to know for certain that the other player did indeed have four treys to beat his threesome of aces. Jim was the kind who only gave up when the grinning, proven victor was engulfing the sea of red, white, and blue chips with both arms, hauling in the catch. Then Jim would just shrug, nod in acceptance, and ready his ante for the next hand, because, after all, life goes on.
Of course, Jim Connors always did have a different take on things. Maybe that had something to do with all that happened. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe that was part of his birthright. Maybe that was why a few of his old associates had often wondered if there was a huge power plant hooked directly to the wires in his head, shooting him full of confidence—too full for his own good, the others reasoned. Jim would have laughed at the analogy, before suggesting that it was best to think that he just had a different outlook than most. He also would add that part of that meant a better and more accurate view of things, which might explain why he was able to quickly arrive at a serviceable plan for confronting any problem.
And while it was not really a flood of trouble swamping him just then, that was the analogy he arrived at, just before he told himself, Well, hey, who really minds getting wet? It just happens, right? Look, I get wet all over every time I take a shower, don't I? If getting wet is all that happens, if it isn't enough water to drown me, if I'm not otherwise threatened by the water, then so what? Really, it's just the old bit about making a mountain out of a molehill. Why go to the trouble of climbing up or over such a blockage, when it's easy enough to just step around it?
Right then, though, it looked like a pretty bad hand, but Jim was too much of an optimist to throw in his cards, even if he was given the chance. What good is folding without seeing your opponent's hand? Are you just giving the other player your money, because you assume he or she can beat you? Might as well not play, at that point. No, in Jim's book, his manual for life, you had to keep trying until you were clearly beat, until you saw that there were indeed four threes to beat your trio of aces.
Then, as he marched amid the quartet of brute guards and in the wake of their ever-scowling, bloodthirsty commander, Jim observed anew to himself, I'm just not the kind to quit, no matter what I'm holding. On the other hand, if I call, the other player might think I'm going to surprise him or her with a better hand. That means he or she could be the one compelled to fold, but only if I don't. So I should always take the chance and see what happens—make the other player beat me! Where's the harm in trying?
That time was really no different, even if it looked like circumstances were pretty bad. Jim knew by then that things were not right, both in the regal residence and its surrounding lands, and he further knew that he was just about the only one who was willing—and able—to take a shot at setting them right. He also was too much of a knight to turn away from folks in need, to abandon his quest. There was too much wrong in all that he had heard and seen for him to do anything but play out the string. Then, too, his malicious host had only condemned Jim, not nodded at his henchman to inflict the fatal stroke. Jim was still alive. That was enough of an opening. The fourth trey had yet to show up. No one was raking in the chips. There was still a jolt of power—of faith-driven determination and acceptance—surging through the wires attached to his noggin; there was still his wonderful conviction that things always worked themselves out for the better; there still was no reason to fold.
Yeah, either shoot me in the head and get it over with, right off—or learn to live with the consequences, he concluded to himself and glanced back over his shoulder, in the direction of his chief adversary; back toward the Great Hall in the modernistic Palace of Soglarn, white elegance masking red horror; back toward the den of lechery, darkened by the malice and violent lust of its master.
* * *
TO SOME, THAT walk through the Palace en route to his cell, amid the foursome of brutish guards led by the grim, murderous Colonel, might have been a last, dreadful journey. It might have been a slow mournful parade to a ready gravesite. Then, on passing through a formidable iron door, the route took them down a long file of steps into the very bowels of the netherworld, into King Jochanan's dimly lit Tomb of the Living, into a gloom reeking with the stench of the dying. Could one get much closer to Hell and still be alive, still not taste the flames?
That darkness and its associated murkiness, enshrouding the lost sailor with its foreboding shadows and tormenting dreads, might have been oppressive. The sentence of a quick death the next evening, when he had his youth, might have been depressing. The hanging, human horror, in the sprawling, dimly lit, second-floor room, might have crushed his optimism forever. The quartet of mountain-size guards, sternly watching the break-proof iron door that sealed the steps to the dungeon, might have spoiled the last ounce of hope he had for escaping the place. Yet, thanks to his faith, the author of his brand of determination—flashing with the brilliant white of lightning—Jim was not put off by any of it, nor even, by the staggering combination of all of that plus all the other dreads, misgivings, and misfortunes he had experienced up to that point.
Even when they finished descending the long, crumbling flight of concrete steps and stepped into the raggedly-lit cell room, which was as dreary and unwelcome a sight as anyone could imagine—or want—even then, Jim was not put off. At most, he allowed that the place was aptly named, and that he was about to be enclosed in what was meant to be his reserved crypt. Yet, he still could not buy the idea that this was the end of the line. He just could not see it that way, which was why he was ready to call his captor's bluff—ready to play his own hand—ready to learn why he had been brought there! No, not just the there of the dungeon! There had a much broader sense. Readily, it applied to the mysterious island that, more than once, had showed a great desire to be the site of his tomb, to crush him in Earth's final embrace.
Yet, as they reached the anteroom, Jim looked toward the run of cells, gave a start, and fairly gaped at what he saw.
* * *
THE GULL AND the storm were the first signs of what was to come. They were the peculiar beginning that led Jim into the great adventure of his life, the singular episode on which all the others were built. They were the first grabbing ripples from the huge swirling stem; the first clues that his old life, his prior existence, was over. The white bird and the black tempest were the dire omens of what was to come, signposts pointing the way to Jim's proposed meeting with King Jochanan's executioner.
Otherwise, it all began innocently enough. Jim had borrowed his sister's old boat, the deep-hulled dinghy that had a modest sail to augment its oars, and so, he went to fish and to think about what he wanted to do with his life. He was no longer under orders to march for his country, and like Helen, he was now an orphan, living well away from Chicago, where both had been born, and where the fatal strokes had been applied to their three loved ones. Marriage had brought her there, while their uncle's imminent move to California meant that only Helen and Rob's place kept Jim from being homeless.
Then the seabird had come along, interrupting Jim's thoughtfulness. In fact, it seemed that he had done little more than drop his line in the water when the gull swooped down, and with a contentious, complaining squawk, plucked the rod from the lad's hands. Then, to make sure Jim understood the gull's edict—no fishing—the seabird dropped the pole well beyond his reach. Yet, before Jim could give any real thought to going after his pole, thunder boomed behind him, and he looked to see the looming, growing threat advancing out of the west. It was more ominous than any storm he had ever seen. Lightning raged anew and was followed by a still closer roar. With a powerful swiftness, as if driven by more than wind, the fury came upon him. After only a few minutes, the black cloud mass had consumed the boat and Jim, along with much of the daylight. Only the bird was allowed to escape, but then, the gull did not belong in that fateful embrace ... nor was it wanted! It was also in its place.
So with that same terrible suddenness, Nature's trumpets thundered in the iron-gray sky. Again and again they sounded, singing the tale of each lightning flash—the hammer of Heaven beating on the anvil of Earth. Soon, the crescendo of the on-rushing waves filled the great expanse with a rising and falling bellow that was accompanied by the hiss and drum of foaming waves rhythmically crashing against the old boat's hull. Adding to that eerie symphony, the sail twanged its lines and rattled its canvas, while the rain pattered on the wood and canvas in varying tempos. Most would never appreciate such music, but Jim really did not mind it. It went with the awful majesty of a storm at sea ... and what a foretoken it was!
That he was already drenched from the rain and spray made it still more ironic to reflect that only a short while before he had been trying to peacefully fish off the coast of South Carolina. Just taking it easy while thinking things over until dinner, and then it would have been time to watch the ball game with Helen and Rob Johnson, his sister and brother-in-law. The Cubs were at Atlanta, he recalled. Then, maybe later, they would get on the horn and talk to Spencer Connors, their California-bound uncle, and then they would find out how things were in the Windy City. Otherwise, Helen and Rob were Atlanta Braves fans, except when the Chicago Cubs were the other team.
Now, though, ending that contemplation and more, the great black storm, on powerful wings, had swept over Jim, bringing strong winds that made it impossible to turn toward shore. Now, the concern was no longer grounded in getting back to Helen and Rob. Now, it had become what should be every person's prime directive—surviving. Toward that end, Jim, just then, could see doing no more than riding out the storm, while also clinging to the resolve that he ultimately would walk away from the boat.
Yet, there had never really been an opportunity for him to turn back. Sometimes you are not allowed to turn aside from the path that leads to your destiny. Fate can be pretty tenacious when She has something in mind for you. Not knowing that, Jim still figured it was best to let the storm take him where it would, and to put his trust in the Maker, while the dark-haired youth employed his strength and his reason to keep his life. Reason told him to maintain a good hold on the line and tiller, while his strength firmed up that grip of both, and then his heart, the third part, steadily believed that all would be well—believed that he had found the best solution for overcoming the current dilemma.
So it was that Jim and the old boat rode out to sea—always sailing farther east, always meeting greater waves, always finding stronger winds—roll on, forever-on! All too soon, or so it seemed, the deep-hulled boat rushed down the back of the first house-size wave. Salt spray broke over the bow and stung the young man's face before they swung up toward the crest of the next one. That he and the boat climbed and fell at an acute angle made the ride all the more maddening, and so, he further tightened his hold of the cord and rudder, sensing that it would be fatal to let go of either. For Jim, that was his role in battling the storm. It was the best he could do to try and maintain control of the situation. The strongest card he could play.
Before long, they had climbed and fallen from at least a dozen such waves, and each time, just when it seemed the steep angle would make the boat flip on its back, the craft would dip down to the horizontal, hang at the crest for a moment, and then plummet down the backside. For most, no roller coaster ride could be more terrifying. Perhaps, that was so for the simplest of reasons—this ride could end, not by simply walking away, but because Death had claimed another chip! Jim guessed that, like a vulture, the black rider on the pale green horse, hovered nearby, ready to swoop in at the last moment.
Yet, again, Jim was not like most. During that ride, he never experienced a moment of terror. That was because he had something powerful to fall back on. That is, his faith—the third part—kept him thinking that he would indeed simply walk away from that boat ride, and that he would go on, his life bettered by the experience. It may be that, as a result, he had no fear of death, or was that great quality something that had long been present in the lad? Even what happened next did not really shake that faith, or perhaps, all that occurred somehow strengthened it, made him even more immune to the sharp concern that so often troubles others.
It began as the boat hung on the crest of the twelfth great wave. Jim's eyes widened with just an inkling of concern as he focused on the next breaker. Already it was curling into an angry white fist, primed to smash anything wooden ... or made of meager flesh! Still, he hung onto line and rudder with a firmer grasp and let it come to him—let it play its cards. Wham—the broiling curl hit as one three fell. Crack—went something wooden and near at hand, spilling another trey. Hiss—they knifed through the wall of water and came out on its far side, mildly inundated, but unharmed, as a third three landed face up on the table. Was the fourth three one of the two down-cards, would it show on the next up card, or be dealt facedown as the last card? Did his opponent grimace, because he would be obliged to start the betting and thus be unable to make a raise, or because he did not have the fourth three?
Yet, Jim still felt that he had the better hand. He had survived that hit. The Maker had answered. The lad's faith was boosted. He had done the right thing by not giving up. He would raise to show that there was more to the two aces he had showing, that the third bullet was in the hole, and he would call when his foe raised his raise.
Then, as they finished riding over the next wave, he saw the eddy. Was it the fourth three? It looked large enough to swallow a 300-foot freighter, booms and all. Already, the old boat was caught in its whirling pull, slowly circling towards its vast, deep stem. Greedily, Death was stretching His open hand toward Jim; ominous and dark like the storm itself, reaching, and ready to grasp, ready to claim the pot. Yet, even then, the youth refused to give up. Even then, he failed to see his stormy cruise ending in that vortex; failed to see the funnel as the trey that beat his three aces; failed to concede. He was not dead yet. He had yet to fold. Death's smile began to falter. The dealer prepared to deal the sixth round.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE TRAVELLERSby James R. Poyner Copyright © 2011 by James R. Poyner. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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