Time Sphere: A timepathway book - Softcover

M.C. Morison

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1782793305 ISBN 13: 9781782793304

Publisher: Lodestone Books, 2014

Synopsis

When a teenage priestess, living 5,000 years ago in Ancient Egypt, connects with Rhory, an English schoolboy visiting the British Museum, she puts herself and him in grave danger. The link they forge through the pathways of time is noticed. She must escape the murderous followers of the God Set, and Rhory is hunted by their modern counterparts, the nefarious Society of Secrets.

About this title

About the Author

Murray C. Morison lives in Crete, and has studied how the Hermetic mysteries spread from Egypt through Greece and into Europe, being hidden in plain view up until the present day. He has worked as a lecturer in psychology, a psychotherapist and business consultant.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Time Sphere

By M.C. Morison

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2014 M.C. Morison
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78279-330-4

CHAPTER 1

A Stranger Calls

England – about now

"Ouch ... stop! Stop it, you furry monster!"

I sat cross-legged on my bed, having finished with homework. Jester, intrigued by the 10 little grey mice at the end of my feet, pounced. His claws went right through my socks.

"Ow."

I pushed the cat onto the floor but he jumped straight back and started washing himself. I continued sorting out my notes for my English project.

The doorbell rang. "Mum! Mum!" No reply, so taking a deep breath, I shouted, "Muuum ... it's the door."

I waited. The doorbell rang again and echoed through the silent house. Actually, I could hear something; faint strains of violins wailed classical something or others from Juliette's bedroom. Why my sister didn't just wear earphones remained a mystery. The loud music gave her the perfect excuse for not answering the door though.

"Mum!" I tried again, shouting even louder, before remembering that she had gone across to the library. Bother, I don't need this. I padded down the stairs, jumped the last four steps and landed more noisily and painfully than I'd intended. I yanked on the front door, as it always stuck.

"Good evening, my friend!"

A young man stood there. He'd spiky dark hair, a little moustache painted on his face, and a black jacket with bits hanging down to the back of his knees, like someone at a posh wedding. He wore white gloves and ridiculously shiny shoes.

"Er, hello."

"May I enquire, is the lady of the house at home, or indeed your esteemed pater?"

He didn't look dangerous to me, but you never knew. Whatever they were that began with the syllable 'pea', and threatened children, came in all shapes and sizes; though I admitted, I never imagined one with a little black moustache – unless it was Hitler of course.

"No, um that is, they'll be back any moment. Can I help you?"

"That's very kind of you. I am collecting signatures, but they have to be from the householder. We are trying to save the local bandstand. The council wants to bulldoze it and put some awful leisure centre there. It's historic and, as I suppose you know, young sir, we do little entertainments under its ancient roof, throughout the summer. Here's my card."

He slowly held up his empty-gloved hand. He showed it on both sides and then proceeded to produce a business card out of thin air. He held it out to me.

"Wow!" I reached for it a little gingerly. "Are you a magician, then?" "Not really," he replied, flicking the card up in the air, where it promptly vanished and appeared in his other hand. He held it out again.

I took it, thanked him, and put it in my trouser pocket.

"How'd you do that?" I asked, my voice sounding a bit loud in my head.

"Ah, now, that would be telling wouldn't it?" He held up a clipboard. "It's quite tiring walking the streets, though I've a goodly number of signatures."

He swayed a bit and his eyes lost focus. I was about to ask if he wanted a glass of water, when a long, straight walking stick appeared in his hand. He leant on it.

"That's better." He smiled at me and I noticed how blue his eyes were: bluer even than Mum's. He flourished his stick and it turned into a snake that disappeared slowly up his sleeve. I'd never seen that trick before and could feel giggles developing inside. My shoulders crept up towards my ears.

Perhaps he sensed my discomfort because he stepped back until he reached the gate to our tiny front garden.

"Have you noticed?" he said. He pointed up the street towards the railway line at the end. There above the trees hung a huge, yellow full moon.

"People say when it looks that big, it's an illusion, but I don't know. It looks real to me! Thank you anyway, young man. I might come back to see your parents later, if that would be all right with you?"

I didn't answer, because the moon was, well, actually ... enormous. I'd never seen it so big. I stared up our road at it for a moment or two before I remembered my manners. I turned to answer the strangely dressed guy, but he wasn't there.

I couldn't believe my eyes. He'd just gone. Even if he'd run, he would've barely made the corner as I turned.

A little way down the pavement, a small black and white dog scrabbled about chasing its tail. It stopped. It looked at me, or possibly the moon, barked a couple of times, then ran down the road towards the park and disappeared around the corner. I'd no idea where it had come from or if it belonged to the strange man who seemed to have just vanished.

Moments later, Mum appeared at the same corner.

"I thought you were doing your coursework, Rhory. Remember, we are off to London tomorrow. Why are you out on the street, and why aren't you wearing shoes?"

"Someone rang the doorbell. You must've seen him. He was dressed like ... well like someone at a wedding. You must've passed him coming back from the library, didn't you? And there was a small dog."

"I don't think so, dear. No, I'd have noticed a man in a morning suit with a dog, I'm sure. Goodness, you look pale, Rhory. Are you okay?"

"You must have. He was right here." I nearly stamped my foot.

Mum smiled her, you're-having-me-on-again-Rhory smile.

"He gave me a card, actually," I said, a little too loud, and reached into my trouser pocket, where I found only a broken pencil. I tried the other pocket. The card took a bit of extracting as it had fused to a half-sucked boiled sweet, wrapped in a bit of Kleenex that had in turn welded itself to my pocket.

Finally, I retrieved it.

"Look, Mum," I said, waving the card. But Mum had also disappeared and I could hear her calling up to Juliette inside the house. I read the card. On one side it said simply,

Caduceus Productions

On the other it said, Magic, Mystery and Illusion we are at your service

There was no name or phone number.

CHAPTER 2

The Egyptian Room

The following day a London taxi whisked Mum and me past cafes, newsagents – with tempting displays of crisps and sweets – and little shops offering Chinese prints, obscure books and small statues. A window with chipped paintwork displayed posters of Tutankhamen. Finally, I saw one place that might be worth visiting, a shop with a huge collection of comic books.

"Hey, Mum! I could wait in there, couldn't I?" It looked more fun than the museum.

"Where, darling?"

"The comic shop ... back there."

"We might go after I meet up with you, dear. I think you'll find there's more to see in the museum."

The taxi drew to a halt.

"Okay then, I'll pick you up in about an hour and a half, when I've got the tickets. Make sure your mobile's on."

Mum leaned over and buttoned up my jacket. I grimaced. Once out of the taxi I undid them again.

"And, Rhory, wait in the foyer, in case the ..." My mum's voice floated out of the departing taxi's window but the whole message didn't. I assumed she was worried the mobile might not work inside the huge building that housed the British Museum.

I strode up the entrance steps narrowly avoiding a school party coming in the other direction. Excited voices shared intense experiences, and dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. I didn't understand a word, as they chattered to each other in Chinese.

The chilly wind found its way inside my open jacket as I reached the top of the stairs.

"Your bag, please."

A burly man in uniform protected the main doors. He pointed at my little rucksack, the one with the picture of the skateboarder doing a somersault.

"I need it with me," I said.

"I'm not going to take it. I already have that one in my collection." His grimace, an attempt at a smile, revealed a missing front tooth. He had the look of a boxer. "I just need to check inside," he said.

He rummaged about, finding a pack of chewing gum and examining two sandwiches made by my mum. ("Just in case, dear.") My book about the history of dragons appeared briefly and then slipped back inside. Apparently none of these things caused alarm. There would be no headline tomorrow saying, "British Museum demolished by a prawn, lettuce and mayo sandwich."

"Enjoy your visit, sonny," he said as I made my way to the huge doors.

Sonny! I resisted the urge to be cheeky and entered the enormous foyer. It was full of noises, echoes and people.

The entrance doors swung open letting in a cold blast of air. Something moved in the breeze by my feet. A feather hovered and twisted on the ground. I picked it up. The colours were various greys with more than a hint of very dark green. It looked a little longer and wider than a pigeon's feather, and appeared too exotic for a standard London bird.

A group of kids chatted noisily in French in front of the signboard that showed where to go for the different exhibitions. One girl, with her hair in a high ponytail, wore a long white padded parka and short red boots. She turned her freckly face and looked at me standing there with the feather in my hand. I slipped it into my jacket pocket, feeling slightly silly.

She gave me a grin highlighted by a flash of braces and went back to chewing. A bubble of gum expanded out of her mouth and popped on her lips. It confirmed my opinion that the French are not as cool as they sound.

Where should I go first? A large poster advertised the Chinese Vase exhibition with the title 'Porcelain and Plunder'. Even that catchy description couldn't disguise the fact it would be a room full of old pottery. 'Coins Through the Ages', declared the next poster. My heart sank.

The French children left and I watched Miss Red Boots moving her arms about as she chatted to one of her friends. It proved she could walk, talk and chew at the same time, which impressed me. Where they had been standing, a display showed two bronzed men fighting with each other. I moved closer and read, 'The Battle of the Gods'. Now that showed distinct promise. A special exhibition in the Egypt Room explored the never-ending fight between a dude in bandages and one with a head like an outraged anteater. Just my sort of thing. I might not have to visit the comic shop after all.

On the landing above the stone steps descending into the Egypt Room, a black woman with a lioness's head sat on a cold stone throne. Her bare breasts were at eye level and I tried hard not to stare. According to the little printed sign, she went by the name Sekhmet and had been worshipped as an Egyptian goddess. Some hard-working sculptor in ancient times had carved her out of one piece of black basalt. Below her, the exhibition hall could have comfortably housed two basketball courts. Way up above, the glass roof cast a cold light on rows of statues so huge that the visitors wandering around looked a like a race of pigmies on a Sunday outing.

I went in and skimmed stuff about the Rosetta Stone, and a Frenchman with a long name who had cracked the code of the Egyptian language. Further down on the left, two huge cardboard cut-outs stood on either side of a doorway. One showed the bandaged man wearing a tall white hat with a feather on either side; he looked a bit like an overdressed extra from The Return of the Mummy. His face had a sickly blue colour. The other man stared at him with reptilian eyes. His large square ears and coal black face, sporting a huge snout, didn't make him very cuddly. His body would have impressed the girls on any sun-lit beach though. He had the distinct advantage over his murdered brother, of being alive.

I passed between the two effigies and entered a dark corridor. It opened into a room that glowed with three-dimensional and coloured holograms. My heart beat a little faster as I moved between transparent Egyptian gods hovering in space, their ghostly eyes watching me.

Immediately on my left, the creepy god with big ears invited his handsome brother to get into a coffin. The coffin maker went by the name of Set, according to the sign. He was tricking his brother Osiris to try the coffin out for size. At this stage Osiris displayed a handsome tanned face and clearly enjoyed life.

"Amazing aren't they," said a tall man. He bumped into me as he passed. The man didn't apologise and continued his loud conversation with a woman in a close-fitting dress, who had to be way younger than him. She hung onto his arm and clacked through the room on startlingly high platform heels.

As I walked around the exhibits, I learned how the clever god Set chopped up his brother and scattered him all over Egypt. It was cool though, because Isis, his sister-wife, gathered all of his bits and stuck them together again. Well, one embarrassing bit was lost, eaten by a fish, but somehow Osiris managed to become the father of a child. I allowed myself to think for a millisecond, about marrying Juliette, my older sister. I decided I'd prefer to be chopped up into small pieces.

The next exhibit showed Isis. She looked very content hovering on a throne in the air, her little baby on her lap, with his hair in a rather neat top knot. The chair was covered with tiny golden hieroglyphic carvings. I walked around it and looked up as the French kids came into the room filling it with what sounded like 'Ooh La Las' and 'Mon Dieus'. I couldn't see Freckles with the bubble gum and white parka.

To keep away from their continuous babble, I moved swiftly towards the next room. The description at the entranceway told how the priests of Egypt had battled against each other in support of their various gods. They backed pharaohs they liked and murdered those they didn't. A bit violent for priests. Under the text, a picture of a pharaoh embalmed as a mummy, emphasised the same point.

I passed through an unlit tunnel that opened into a darkened space.

"Gosh," said a woman's silky voice, "but it's sooo real."

The young woman with the tight skirt, stood next to the man who had bumped into me earlier. An olive skinned head of a queen, complete with blue and gold crown, floated in front of them – the best hologram I'd ever seen. The woman laughed as the man passed his hand through the coloured light that made the queen's face. As he did so the laser beams flashed on his ring, producing lightning strikes of bright purple light. I blinked and moved.

The rainbow colours from the hovering bust of Nefertiti played on his face and made the man look somewhat grotesque. Dark shadows replaced his eyes and in the gloom, his skin looked scaly. He stared right at me. The ring on his hand continued to glow with a purple light all of its own. I swallowed and decided the noisy French kids were preferable to a ghoul, and walked back the way I had come.

CHAPTER 3

The Egyptian Room

The following day a London taxi whisked Mum and me past cafes, newsagents – with tempting displays of crisps and sweets – and little shops offering Chinese prints, obscure books and small statues. A window with chipped paintwork displayed posters of Tutankhamen. Finally, I saw one place that might be worth visiting, a shop with a huge collection of comic books.

"Hey, Mum! I could wait in there, couldn't I?" It looked more fun than the museum.

"Where, darling?"

"The comic shop ... back there."

"We might go after I meet up with you, dear. I think you'll find there's more to see in the museum."

The taxi drew to a halt.

"Okay then, I'll pick you up in about an hour and a half, when I've got the tickets. Make sure your mobile's on."

Mum leaned over and buttoned up my jacket. I grimaced. Once out of the taxi I undid them again.

"And, Rhory, wait in the foyer, in case the ..." My mum's voice floated out of the departing taxi's window but the whole message didn't. I assumed she was worried the mobile might not work inside the huge building that housed the British Museum.

I strode up the entrance steps narrowly avoiding a school party coming in the other direction. Excited voices shared intense experiences, and dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. I didn't understand a word, as they chattered to each other in Chinese.

The chilly wind found its way inside my open jacket as I reached the top of the stairs.

"Your bag, please."

A burly man in uniform protected the main doors. He pointed at my little rucksack, the one with the picture of the skateboarder doing a somersault.

"I need it with me," I said.

"I'm not going to take it. I already have that one in my collection." His grimace, an attempt at a smile, revealed a missing front tooth. He had the look of a boxer. "I just need to check inside," he said.

He rummaged about, finding a pack of chewing gum and examining two sandwiches made by my mum. ("Just in case, dear.") My book about the history of dragons appeared briefly and then slipped back inside. Apparently none of these things caused alarm. There would be no headline tomorrow saying, "British Museum demolished by a prawn, lettuce and mayo sandwich."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Time Sphere by M.C. Morison. Copyright © 2014 M.C. Morison. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Lodestone Books
• Publication date: 2014
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1782793305
• ISBN 13: 9781782793304
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 392