GLIMMER IN TIME: hIDDEN HISTORY
Also “tHE sECRET OF THE aGES”
by Lynda A. Calder (c) 2008
Prolog
- Introducing the Nephilim
Chapter 1 -
The World of CJ Reid
Chapter
2 - A Familiar Visitor
Chapter
3 - The Golden Glimmer
Return to Home Page Go to Book 2
Prolog. Introducing the Nephilim
5:12pm, 11th November, 2017
-
“Bring me that Storyteller!”
Cronus flung the days’ newspapers into the air.
Pages separated to cover the three-tiered platform.
A man in a pin-striped suit bowed to gather
the paper fluttering to his feet. “Mighty Cronus, I am sure the media will come
back around to-”
Cronus rose from his throne. “Bring me that
Storyteller!” The booming voice seemed to echo from every surface.
The man froze, abandoned the newspaper and
skittered from the hall.
Cronus stamped the day’s headlines into the
ground. He paced backwards and forwards, his flowing toga swishing aside the
previous day’s news with each turn.
Minutes later the hassled pinstriper
returned. He straightened a purple tie and snapped crisp white shirtsleeves to
his wrists. Taking a deep breath he bowed.
“Emperor-King Cronus, the Storyteller.”
The man stepped aside to reveal a bent
gentleman who could have spent the last week sleeping in his grey suit. His
temple curls showed a hint of the same colour.
Cronus surged down the tiers to tower half a
metre over the newcomer. “Storyteller, you will stand erect when you come into
the presence of the Emperor-King.”
The Storyteller sighed and rolled back his
shoulders. His head lolled upwards to stare despondently into the giant’s face.
Cronus snarled. There was no other response.
“Page three, Storyteller! No mention of the
Nephilim until page three! Your duty is to write the stories to ensure these
news... papers,” Cronus kicked any loose paper lying nearby, “report on the
magnificent and terrible deeds of the Mighty Nephilim of the gods. You have
failed.”
“My duty,” the Storyteller drawled with a
shrug. “My duty. Cronus-”
“Mighty Cronus!”
“Mighty Cronus,” he corrected in a monotone,
“you seem not to understand that modern society has a short attention span and
the media cycle is short. Without momentous happenings to report, they will move
on to other stories.”
“Without momentous happenings?” Cronus held
up his arms. “But the Mighty Nephilim of the gods are here. We are momentous in
our very being. But if they wish for momentous happenings... Bring me the
children!”
Cronus spun, waving off the older man. In
three strides, Cronus was again lounging in his throne. The Storyteller
followed after him, setting a single tentative foot onto the first tier.
“Your berserker soldiers left my school an
empty shell,” he accused.
“And, yet, the people do not fear us.”
“Oh, they fear you. They fear you. But they
move on, they move away from the disasters you have brought on their families.
A person cannot dwell-“
“Dwell? They will dwell. No one ignores the
Mighty Nephilim of the gods.” Cronus turned from the Storyteller’s castigating
look to the stone-faced pinstriper in the purple tie.
“James Oliver Porter, my loyal vassal, it is
time. At 17:20.11 on 11th November, 2017, the Nephilim will seek vengeance.”
The Storyteller whirled between the bronzed
Nephilim and James Porter.
“No, James, you can’t. If you are the man I
know you to be, you will not send the EMPs.”
James’ muscles seemed to lock and his lips
clenched. Defeat filled his eyes as tears welled.
“And then go to the houses. Start with this.”
Cronus’ toe sent the remaining newspaper cascading onto the next tier. “If
mankind is not content to write about the Nephilim, then they shall write about
nothing. They shall not read and they shall not write. Build bonfires to
brighten the night sky. They shall have nothing to distract them from the
Nephilim. Crush anything and everything that is a testament to the foolishness
of men. They will dwell.”
Cronus turned a grin on the Storyteller.
“They will dwell, at last, in complete servitude to the Nephilim. We will no
longer hide our greatness behind feeble men.”
A tear ran down James’ cheek as he took stiff
steps out the door.
The Storyteller straightened, his eyes
narrowed at the muscular hulk reclining in the throne. “You may destroy
everything we know, but there will be one lady to stop you. She knows all there
is to know about you.”
Cronus considered the Storyteller’s
statement, then hollered with laughter. “One lady will not stop the Mighty
Nephilim of the gods. The Nephilim have founded and obliterated the greatest
civilisations in history. Your threat is irrelevant, as are you, for at the
Summer Celebration in two hundred years the Nephilim will call forth their kin
from the beginning of time. At that time, we will cleanse this land of human
pestilence.”
James Porter returned as hunched as the
Storyteller had been only minutes before. James nodded. The Storyteller shook
his head. Cronus smiled.
“The Nephilim will finally end their journey
through time and make this the age of the Nephilim of the Gods.” The building
rocked. Light bulbs exploded raining glass down on the three men. Cronus raised
his hands. “It begins.”
1st February, 2003 -
Cassandra Jessica Reid looked up from her diary, pen in her mouth. Alone
in her quiet corner of the playground, she spied on the new Year Seven students
enjoying their first day of High School: forming new friendships and
establishing the pecking order that would see them through the next six years.
Cassandra sighed and returned to the only friend she had ever known, to
record her thoughts. Perhaps this year someone new would come to the school.
No comprehensible English filled the page. She had done that four years
ago and a boy in a higher school year had entertained his mates through recess
by reading it out loud. Cassandra had to burn those pages. A part of herself
had gone up in smoke. Then there was no more writing.
Until a chance find in the library, where she spent most afternoons,
gave her new hope and the ability to write down her inner-most thoughts once
again. She found a book on codes. At first she used only simple codes: pig-pen
code, Morse code, number codes, but as the months and years progressed,
Cassandra developed her own, increasingly complex codes. Her code of the moment
was a binary code: 00001 represented A, 00010 for B, 00011 for C, 00100 for D
and so on.
The ability to hide a message in plain sight was very useful, especially
when it came to concealing her thoughts from Rebecca Shepherd, the most popular
girl in the year.
Cassandra munched on a ham sandwich, pulled out her new science text-book
and flipped to the article she had read in the previous lesson. In World War
II, Allied spies into
It was a delightfully complicated coding system that utilised a special
coding word or phrase known only to the user. But she would not limit herself
to a single “coding word”.
Cassandra smiled. And the way to determine which coding word she had
used was provided on the science text’s next page: Greek letters. The code was
becoming more complex by the second. If she started the code with a Greek “a” then the coding word would be
“alphabet”. Greek “b” would mean “Lennon” and so on until “W” for “watch”.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
Cassandra turned back two pages to admire the map she had spent all
holidays drafting in the style of the ancient mapmakers. Scattered across the
page were little drawings of whales, mermaids and dragons. One regal-looking
square-rigged ship sailed out to sea under full canvas. All it needed now was
labels... in code, of course.
And now Cassandra had the perfect code: binary coded Code Wheel letters
with the Greek letter coding words all in one. No one would crack it... not
ever.
Cassandra stared at the map. What to write? Her mind wandered back to
the beach where her fun-loving family had spent every hour of every day of
their customary summer holiday. That last day had been perfect: the tide just
at the right height to give the waves enough curl as they passed over the sand
bar. Each wave broke without dumping, carrying a long line of last minute
holiday makers on boogie boards, including her parents, all the way to the shallows.
The surfers would jump up and prance back out to catch another wave ducking,
diving and crashing into the next wave of surfers. So much fun, but her parents
seemed unable to understand there were things more important than what shape
their sand castle should take.
Spinning the Code Wheel backwards and forwards she translated her map
labels into complete gibberish and transferred them to the map in tiny, almost
microscopic writing: little 1’s and 0’s began decorating her map.
“Mermaids and Sirens” labelled the beach on her map. The forested hill
behind became “Here be Dragons”, the peninsula on the other side of the bay was
“The Land of the Elves” and a small island in the middle of the bay Cassandra
named “
“And what have we got over here?”
Cassandra cringed as a familiar voice cut through her very being. The
usual tightness gripped her stomach. Cassandra’s hands slid down her calves to
push the long black socks around her ankles.
“Well, hello. The Brain with all her friends.”
Cassandra looked up into the sneering face of Rebecca Shepherd; fiery
red hair accentuated her spitefulness. Rebecca’s gang of look-alikes crowded
around with fountains of hair flicking back and forth. All their socks were at
half mast and drop-waist belts showed little regard for school rules.
“Bland Cassandra is reading, as usual,” Rebecca tormented and the girls
twittered. “What are you reading, Bland?”
Rebecca reached down and snatched Cassandra’s diary. She stared at the
open page.
“Please, give that back,” Cassandra mumbled.
Rebecca tossed the book to her nearest gang member. “What’s this?”
Rebecca retrieved the book lying open beside Cassandra. “A science book?”
Rebecca laughed and threw it back at Cassandra. “What a nerd!”
The book slid down Cassandra’s flat chest and into the dirt.
“Please don’t.”
“What was that, Bland?” snarled one of Rebecca’s friends.
“Nothing.” Cassandra stood and stretched out her hand. “Please... give
me my diary.”
Cassandra cowered eye to eye with Rebecca even though she had grown
taller than her Nemesis over the holidays (her mother had to buy a new
uniform).
“No! What’s this?” Rebecca seized Cassandra’s Code Wheel. She spun it
around a couple of times and threw it, Frisbee-like, over the fence into the
busy street. “Flies well.”
The gang laughed. One of them moved behind Cassandra to yank her waist
belt. With a rip, the carriers came free from the fabric and the belt fell to
Cassandra’s hips.
“I’ll be seeing you later, Brain,” Rebecca threatened. The gang departed
taking Cassandra’s diary with them.
She should follow. She should report them. But Rebecca was at her most
convincing when wheedling out of trouble. And then Rebecca would come after
her.
Cassandra fingered the torn carriers. Her Mum would be furious – a new
uniform ruined already – and no diary to record it.
“You are a nerd.”
With a sigh, Cassandra returned her socks to their rightful place. She climbed to the top of the wooden fence and watched as car after car ran over her Code Wheel. It ripped in half.
English was the last lesson of the day and Cassandra’s class awaited
their teacher: the new Principal, Mr. Andrew Maxwell, the youngest in the
school’s history. Cassandra surveyed the room. They were in Year Ten and still
paper aeroplanes flew backwards and forwards, girls shouted and chased each
other around the room and two lookouts were in place to announce the teacher’s
arrival.
Cassandra rolled her eyes. She looked at her watch, a prized possession
with a very cute picture of Snoopy hitting a tennis ball: every minute the ball
on the second hand connected with the racquet on the hour hand. The teacher was
over ten minutes late.
Rebecca Shepherd entered the classroom followed by her gaggle of
yes-girls. Late, as usual. They all glared at Cassandra with malicious grins.
Cassandra’s insides twisted.
“Oh look,” Rebecca taunted, “Bland Cassandra is sitting at the back of
the room with her mates, again.”
Rebecca’s gang laughed.
“Where’s my diary?” Cassandra called across the room.
“What was that?” Rebecca sneered, feigning deafness.
“My diary. Can I have it back, please?”
Rebecca laughed and dropped into a mock English accent. “I don’t have
it. It was rubbish: too full of high and mighty ideas.”
The gang fell into boisterous laughter. “Good one, Bec. High.”
“But I need it. It’s everything...,” Cassandra said under her breath.
Looking out the window, Cassandra wiped away tears. There was no way she
would let Rebecca, or anyone else, see her crying. And there was no way anyone
could know that the diary was her only way to maintain this mask of mediocrity.
The diary was her world of excitement, her shoulder to cry on, her very being.
A forlorn face reflected in the window. Cassandra’s fingers ran through
her curly hair, pulling it into a ponytail. Removing the backdrop from her face
only made her look gaunter and more like a giraffe than ever and escaping wisps
of hair made her look like a long-necked giraffe with a brown lion’s mane. Why
wouldn’t her hair grow?
In the school quadrangle below, Mr. Maxwell’s tight curls bobbed up and
down as he rushed towards the stairwell. His arms were filled with a pile of
novels. Almost at the entrance to the building the pile toppled, fanning out
across the entire pathway. The classroom uproar continued unabated. No one but
Cassandra seemed to have noticed.
Obviously startled, Mr. Maxwell crouched down to start picking up the books.
A tall, thin girl wearing jeans and a t-shirt stepped from behind the
stairwell. She seemed to appear out of thin air. At her side was a bulging
canvas bag. She helped Mr. Maxwell restore the book tower. He moved to
continue. The stranger touched his arm.
Mr. Maxwell stopped. He frowned and shook his head. The two engaged in
an animated conversation. Mr. Maxwell dropped the books again and his face
changed from stern to surprised. The books remained in a muddle on the concrete
as the two spoke more calmly.
A paper aeroplane slid across Cassandra’s desk, knocking her collection
of coloured pens to the floor. Cassandra spun around to determine the culprit.
Finding the class ignoring her as usual, she looked back. Mr. Maxwell had
disappeared from view. The lookouts flew into the classroom.
“Maxwell!” they yelled in unison.
Cassandra stood and pressed her high forehead and long nose against the
glass. Mr. Maxwell’s shoe protruded from the side of the stairwell. The girl
below was still talking. She looked up at Cassandra, flicked her
shoulder-length, greying brown hair and winked.
Cassandra pulled away from the window. The girl looked up a second time,
smiled and stared deep into Cassandra’s eyes. There was a strange feeling of
familiarity. Did she know this girl? At this distance it was hard to be sure.
Mr. Maxwell gathered the books once more. The girl reached into her bag
to produce a large yellow envelope and a small brown paper bag. Holding them
up, as though she wanted to draw Cassandra’s attention to them, she handed them
to Mr. Maxwell. With one more wink the girl disappeared behind the stairwell.
Things were quiet outside for some time, although inside the classroom
the noise had lifted to another level. The lookouts had returned to their
position.
As she waited, Cassandra slumped forward onto her desk to think about
her lost diary. She wanted it back. Maybe she could search all the bins after
school.
The lookouts were back. “Teacher’s coming!”
Every student dived behind their desks and tried to look as though they
had been sitting there for the past half an hour. Cassandra sat upright and
glanced out the window. There was no sign of that girl.
“Good afternoon, class,” Mr. Maxwell panted as he dumped the collection
of novels onto the teacher’s desk. They fell over and slid onto the floor one
at a time. He glanced at his watch. “Dear me the lesson is almost over. Sorry
I’m late. Something very important came up, which I had to... uh...” Mr.
Maxwell looked at Cassandra, “take care of.”
The entire class turned to see who or what Mr. Maxwell was looking at.
Cassandra’s face flushed with warmth as Rebecca and her girls guffawed.
Mr. Maxwell pointed to the books now lying all over the floor and
addressed the girl seated in front of him. “Could you please pass them out?
Everyone, tomorrow we begin by discussing historical fiction in different
literary genres: romance, science fiction, adventure and so on. Start reading
your book. Jot down any historical references and features that might classify
it as a particular literary genre.”
The bell went. The class was short and over.
“Everyone take a book as you go,” Mr. Maxwell called over the commotion
that had erupted. “Everyone has a different novel.”
Students threw belongings into their bags, banged chairs onto the top of
desks and scrambled for a book before speeding out the door. Cassandra placed
each pen and book in its rightful place before sauntering towards the teacher’s
table. There was no point in rushing to the bus lines until after Rebecca’s bus
was long gone. Cassandra could see the curious yellow envelope sitting open on
top of Mr. Maxwell’s mark book.
As Cassandra passed, Mr. Maxwell handed her the last remaining book. She
took it without making eye contact. He did not release.
“Cassandra, when I arrived at this school during the summer holidays I
perused the permanent records of every student. Do you know what I discovered?”
Cassandra did not speak, but finally looked Mr. Maxwell in the face.
“I discovered a gifted scholarship student who is almost failing at
school, Cassandra. I discovered you. And you know what I discovered attached to
your record? A note from the School Governing Council: ‘If this student does
not perform to expectations in the next six months, rescind her scholarship.’”
Cassandra’s stomach sunk. What would her parents say?
“But, I’m confident it won’t come to that. While I cannot know the
future, as much as we cannot properly know the past without having been there,”
he tapped the book clamped between their two hands, “I have no doubt that
together we will ascertain and rectify your troubles. You have an enormous
potential that is going to waste.”
Cassandra blinked. She tugged at the book. He still held fast.
“To begin, you will give the class a synopsis of your book before we
begin our discussion tomorrow.”
Cassandra eyed Mr. Maxwell. He expected her to shine in front of the
class. She couldn’t. She had once and now she was paying for it. What excuse
could she use? She had many.
“I guess,” she lied, and he released the book. Cassandra shoved it into
her bag without even bothering with the title.
“Also, I think you might wish to reclaim this.”
Mr. Maxwell produced the brown paper bag received from the mysterious
girl. He reached inside and pulled out... her diary!
“How did you...?” She hugged it to her chest. “You didn’t...”
“No, I didn’t even open it. But, I want you to read my book. First
lesson, remember? I’ll be expecting that report,” called Mr. Maxwell as
Cassandra rushed out the door.
Cassandra took a blue pen from her bag and slipped it back into the
diary’s spine, where it was supposed to live. She paused on each step in the
stairwell as she flicked through her beloved diary. All the pages were there.
She turned the page to her new map and found a message scrawled in the margin on
the opposite page.
Dear Cassandra,
I’m sorry I didn’t get this back to you sooner. It took me a little
longer to find than I anticipated. Perhaps this has taught you a good “first
lesson”; don’t let this diary out of your sight. It isn’t “rubbish” and you are
going to need it soon.
A Friend.
She re-read the message. “First lesson”. “Rubbish”. How did that girl
know? Cassandra looked around the quadrangle. What did it mean? What friend?
There was no mysterious girl, no one at all. But there was something.
Nestled in the concreted space, where the two school buildings joined,
was a beautiful golden glimmering. It was beautiful; nothing like anything
Cassandra had ever seen before.
Cassandra stood beside the glimmer watching a continuous flow of tiny
golden sparks appear from a single point in thin air a metre above her head.
The sparks spread out to form a metre wide cylinder and drifted to the ground
to disappear into the concrete. What was it? Was it a trick of the afternoon
light filtering into the quadrangle? Cassandra held her hand beside the sparks.
No heat. No cold. Nothing.
She inched her index finger into the glimmer. It tingled. She withdrew.
No damage.
Cassandra poked two fingers into the glimmer, then her whole hand.
Golden sparks passed through her flesh and changed colour to create a shower of
floating red. The intermingled gold and red formed a sunset. She turned her
hand over. Could she catch the sparks? They just passed on through with that
wonderful tingle. She flexed her fingers. The red sparks came alive, doing an
intricate dance from her hand to the concrete.
Her gaze transfixed by the new discovery, she caught sight of something
in the corner of her eye. A shower of blue sparks spread across the golden
cylinder to meet the red. Above the blue was an ethereal hand and arm reaching
out of the solid wall. Her brain was saying run, but her body would not move.
The hand grabbed her. She screamed.
“Let me go!”
But where was the ear to hear her cry?
Cassandra yanked backwards. She twisted and pulled but the disembodied
hand was too strong. It dragged her forward, drawing her body into the golden glimmer.
Everything went red.
She screamed again. “Let me go. Please, let me go.”
Her arm disappeared into the wall and went cold. Her heart tried to
escape her chest. She could barely breathe.
She strained to be free. A sudden jerk and she stumbled forward, through
the classroom block wall. She shrieked.
“By mighty Zeus, be quiet!” Strong hands released her arm and shook her
shoulders until she was spent.
It was dark. A cold breeze played over her face. She stared, wide-eyed
into a darkened hood. She shivered. She drew breathe to scream again but the
young man’s other hand clapped across her face.
“Do not do that again.”
“Wait. She is cold. Eu, turn off
the cup.” A quiet female voice with a strange accent spoke to Cassandra’s left.
Warm fabric touched Cassandra’s shoulders. She blinked a few times.
Where was she? Why was it dark? Was it night time? Had there been a black out?
Why was it so cold?
The young man’s hand lifted cautiously from her face. “You must not make
noise. If we are found here we will be sent away as well.”
Cassandra nodded, fighting down the urge to resume her screeching. She
spun. Where had she come from? She jumped at another cloaked figure hovering by
her rear.
The hand gripped her wrist once more and dragged her down a slight hill.
Her eyes were taking too long to adjust. It was so dark except for a heavy,
glowing fog that clung to the ground on their right.
“Where am I?” Cassandra begged, but they continued on, picking up speed
as the mist swirled and parted like a gossamer curtain.
The quarter moon and several bonfires revealed the hidden proceedings
within. Two hundred metres away flames reached into the sky. The fog rose on
their heat currents and their light flickered off the sides of large standing
stones. Was it
Snippets of sound carried: children screamed, women wailed, men howled.
Despair was thick.
Cassandra’s heals left divots in the soft grass. Grass? But she had been
standing on concrete. She lumbered on guided by the hand but her eyes never diverted
from the illuminated scene.
The dark shape of swaying trees loomed ahead. The young man sprinted
headlong into a small grove. He released Cassandra’s arm. Respite at last.
Cassandra’s lungs burned. She doubled over.
The silent one, called Eustace, leant against a nearby tree gasping as
much as herself. The young man paced. The girl just stood facing Cassandra with
her hands clasped. All three wore cloaks like the one draped over her own
shoulders and school bag. Cassandra looked back the way they had come. She
should go back and find a way home. Something was not right here.
A yell cut through the air. “No, don’t!”
All heads jerked in the direction of the stones. A man in a red jacket
pulled a struggling child from a long line. A woman fell at his knees, her
cries still audible even at this far distance. She reached for the child.
“Don’t take my only baby!”
Another red-jacketed man jabbed a staff into the woman’s back. There was
a flash of yellow. The woman collapsed. The line shifted backwards like a
living entity.
Cassandra’s mouth fell open as she moved with slow steps to the edge of
the trees.
Biting his captor’s hand, the child broke free. Another yellow flash on
the woman’s body. The child kicked the owner of the staff in the leg. The staff
flashed yellow on the child’s chest. A high pitched squeal. Cassandra winced.
Her feet took two steps from the trees. The men in red dragged the prostrate
women before four men; two of them more than a head taller than the others.
The tallest of the giants pointed to the centre of
“What is this place? What’s going on?”
Cassandra rambled forward three more steps.
“What are you doing?” hissed the young man, his hooded face calling to
her from the shadows.
“It is the Cleansing,” said the
girl as though it was obvious. She moved to Cassandra’s side and stroked her
arm. “Come back into the trees. It is safer.”
The girl had thrown back her hood. Even in the dim light she was
stunning. Long, blond hair flowed past her face and over her shoulders. She was
slender with fine features and twinkling blue eyes.
“What Cleansing? They’re taking
the kids. Why doesn’t anyone stop them?”
The young man crossed his arms. “Why, by Hades, did that man insist we
do this tonight, of all nights?”
“He was not to know it was The Cleansing. No one but the Nephilim know,”
the girl whispered.
“And if we do not keep moving the Nephilim will come and take us, as
well.”
Eustace remained silent. Clasped in the chubby hand poking from his
cloak was a wine goblet. Shadows played across his face. His grimace looked
almost like a smile.
“Please, we must keep moving,” urged the girl. She pushed Cassandra’s
arm. “The Storyteller will explain.”
The child on the ground moved. A head lifted and Cassandra could have
sworn the child was looking at her. With no one nearby, the child darted in her
direction.
“He’s seen us,” Cassandra exclaimed, walking towards the fleeing child.
“No, do not go,” moaned the girl behind Cassandra.
But Cassandra was jogging. The child was coming closer. Another child
broke free from the line and followed, then another, until half a dozen little
people were spread out across the open grass all running in her direction.
“Stop this,” yelled the young man behind her.
Men in red pointed at the escaping children and started pursuit. Yellow
points of light glowed as the first child came down with a yelp.
Cassandra was running, weariness forgotten and her backpack flopping from
side to side. Whomp! Hands wrapped around her legs. She fell. Wind left her
chest.
“Keep your head down,” whispered the young man in her ear.
He wrenched the hood over Cassandra’s head and held her face to the damp
grass.
Another child went down in a screaming heap, then another. The original
child was only metres away. Cassandra could almost reach out to him. But the
men caught him. They poked the yellow lights into the child’s back. The little
body jerked with each prod to lie still when they were done.
The men in red dragged the conscious children back to the giants. The
limp body of the first child hung from a jacketed shoulder. Two men scanned the
grassy field, waving the yellow lights before them. The young man pressed on
Cassandra’s head. Blades of grass spiked the inside of her nose.
He held his breath.
His heart raced, as did her own.
“Stupid little kids,” growled a man.
Two sets of footsteps moved away. The pressure on Cassandra’s head
lifted. The young man took Cassandra’s hand in a vice grip but she needed no
encouragement to dash back to the trees. He threw her hand aside and paced.
“Do you want to be killed?” he accused. “This is The Cleansing and they
are the Nephilim. No one goes against them, especially not just one girl from
out of nowhere.”
Cassandra’s stomach churned as she looked back to the stone circle. The
line had snaked back into place and children were leaving their parents in an
orderly fashion once more, disappearing into the centre, never to come out the
other side.
“If Father finds out we have gone… If the Nephilim find out… You were
nearly seen! We must not stay here.” The young male reached for Cassandra’s
hand. But Cassandra heaved to relive her ham sandwich in technicolour, narrowly
missing his outstretched hand.
The girl rubbed Cassandra’s back. “We will take you to safety.”
“I was safe before I came here.”
Cassandra peered up through the leaves of the trees. Where had the
school gone? What had happened? Who were these people?
The Milky Way stretched its way across the heavens. At least the
Southern Cross was still recognisable. Cassandra stopped. But she shouldn’t be
able to see the Southern Cross from
“Where am I?” she wailed.
“The Basileus Gateway. Eu, what did you say that cup was again?” asked
the girl.
“I do not know,” the silent one finally spoke. “I think it is some sort
of transporter. But from where it transports, he did not say.”
“We are still not safe here,” growled the angry young man. “We must
deliver her to the Storyteller and return before the Cleansing is complete.
Hurry up.”
The girl nodded and the young man sprinting off at speed. Eustace jogged
after him, followed by the girl who beckoned for Cassandra to follow. Another
scream split the air. Cassandra looked but the mist swirled once more and
wrapped around The Cleansing. Secrecy was restored. She wiped her face and
scuttled after the others. She couldn’t be left behind.
(c)
2008 Lynda A. Calder. Updated 15th July, 2008.