...While deep within the chapel, praying hands are trembling low, And a feeling of dread descends on us, no matter where we go. Our spirits are disconcerted, like a most discordant song, Something is supernatural here, there is something going wrong. You and your companions are trapped in an ancient and mysterious fortress, but you are not alone. There is also another one present who walks the darkened halls. He seems to oppose you, though he has not openly regarded you and your friends as an enemy. He is tall, dark and handsome - very well educated and much experienced in the ways of life. He may even be considered wise. He speaks to you, and at times even sings to you with a deep, beautiful baritone voice. He is charming and charismatic - and one thing more... He is the Devil! If you could save your souls buy losing your lives, or save your lives by risking your souls, which would you choose? If he has foresworn to answer 33 questions truthfully, what would you ask him? Could you trick the devil; would you even try? But wait - act quickly... for the solstice is upon you! Winter Solstice is the first volume of the Alaric Trilogy. It will follow the devil's trail from Eastern Europe through Western Europe and eventually to America. But more importantly, it will show how he has changed his ways to adjust to mankind's adapting to the rapid changes in 20th century society and technology. But be not afraid. The Alaric Trilogy will help you spot him, whatever form he takes.
WINTER SOLSTICE
By David CaldarolaAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 David Caldarola
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4670-6287-9Contents
Chapter I Adventure's Spark.........................1Chapter II Weighing Anchor..........................51Chapter III Evil's Door.............................94Chapter IV Ancient Lore.............................131Chapter V Shadowy Lair..............................181Chapter VI Baritone Allure..........................214Chapter VII Ways of Intrigue........................259Chapter VIII Cryptic Runes..........................307Chapter IX Tryst with the Devil.....................349Chapter X Grand Inquisition.........................403Chapter XI Canister Coffins.........................456Chapter XII Eternity's Gate.........................491
Chapter One
Adventure's Spark
I have counted the myriad blessings, that bridge a life-long span, And found there lives within me, a dour, ungrateful man. I have pondered the many years, that drew me near a lifetime goal, And found there suffers within me, an unhappy and restless soul.
My heart has yearned and moved me, to search for adventure's spark, That flickering inspiration, which seeks the light within the dark. And so it came to pass, when boredom on the holiest day, Caused the glory-hound within me, to finally go astray.
N.
In 1898, in the south of England, in the town of Exeter, in the stately dining room of a scholar's abode, four disparate friends gather to bemoan the inconveniences of the forthcoming holidays. These friends may be called disparate in that they are more distinct than likewise, more contrasting than complimenting; as the colors of the rainbow compete against one another for the eye's attention, yet blend together in a most harmonious way; as the sparkling bursts of fireworks separately work to forge a single display.
Now, my curious one, do attend, and I shall relate to you as they relate to each other as a friend, this extraordinary story from its confused beginning to a sharply pointed end.
As is the case with all friends, there are still a number of sufficient similarities between the four that act as a bond which keeps them together, which perhaps more importantly, keeps them interested in each other's welfare. In the positive sense, each are credited by their peers as being, to some degree more or less, a master within his appointed trade; the scholar, the minister, the artist and the soldier. Each member of this unique foursome understands and sympathizes with each other regarding their collective need to advance their professions to greater heights of enlightenment, and not merely by the orthodox, casual, tedious and snail-like increase of the profession's sum total of current knowledge. Likewise does each person of the party appreciate the other men's stubborn persistence to overcome the even more stubborn resistance to their professional contributions by the elite guardians of their specific calling; those stodgy traditionalists who will not be swayed from their long established and nigh immobile stance.
The first of the four principle players of this soon to unfold gothic mystery is one Clark Edmondson, a youthful scholar of forty-eight years of age whose boyish good looks, accentuated by fluffy light brown hair and dark brown eyes, whose smile of near perfectly set snow-white teeth and a certain disapproval for the adorning facial hair of the times, all conspire to render the appearance of a younger man in his early thirties. Clark has obtained four degrees from three different universities: a Bachelor's degree in Anthropology, and a PH.D. in Archeology from Oxford, a PH.D. in European History from the Sorbonne in France, and a Master's degree in Biology from the University of Rome. In exercising his mind to a degree most flexible, his tongue has become equally dexterous at English, French, Italian and Spanish—as well as minor familiarity with various Eastern European languages.
Clark was, perhaps, destined for a life of study and the attaining of greater knowledge as was demonstrated by a youthful endeavor when he disassembled his father's pocket watch. This is no rare feat for a child, only in Clark's case, he reassembled the device quickly and in, arguably, better working condition than when he first laid hands upon it. But such childhood successes as these gained him no credit as the other children his age simply regarded his abilities as a manifestation of an inner conceit that was not there; but in what esteem is the opinion of children held? As his boyish good looks lingered well into his teenage years, Clark appeared more like a dandy than a person destined for any manly occupation. This caused him to initially take up fisticuffs to prove his manhood since he was not about to change his personal appearance or mannerisms to satisfy his detractors; all of whom were, of course, his intellectual inferiors. As a young adult he immersed himself in study and forsook the boxing gloves, although he found pleasant physical therapy in track and field.
Originally from Manchester, he eventually called the hallowed halls of Oxford his home. Yet oddly enough, once degreed, he had only a casual interest in pursuing a career in the fields he had so arduously studied. Having been more comfortable as a student, he pursued higher learning first in France and then later in Rome. To augment his earnings he has held many seminars and lectures and has authored over a dozen successful books on a number of themes; whether he was degreed in those subjects or not. This is the beauty and efficacy of innate intelligence; it gives one an ability to discern the nuances of a subject with more credibility than a dull student's ability to declare superficial facts; a betrayal of what little said student was able to learn.
Later, Clark accepted a teaching position at Eaton and eventually the role of a staff administrator. But he soon became tired of being forced to strictly follow university protocol, no matter how pointless the rules were. He became equally frustrated by the attempts of the society patrons to encourage him to wed their daughters. He had no interest in intimacy or in marriage and family life which he felt would stymie his further educational pursuits. He thus took up residence in Exeter where he lives with an older woman, Svetlana, who is also a scholar of note; but more on her later. Clark, well past the age of physical maturity; although his mental progress still endures, stands at five feet ten inches in height and is trim in build; although this does not indicate weakness from a lack of physical activities as he still engages in an occasional cross-country run to maintain his stamina and energy. For the moment, this stamina is being put to the test as he, a rare drinker, shuffles several bottles and glasses in almost a teetotaler's traditionally awkward attempt to prepare the drinks for his guests.
The room is rather quiet now, although a few moments ago the last of a pleasant and pleasurable discussion was still in progress; slowly drawing to a close. From the kitchen nearby can be heard the muffled chattering of three ladies, two of whom have agreed for fair remuneration to tidy up after the four excellent gentlemen and will soon be leaving for home; preparing their own abodes for the forthcoming holiday as it is now; this very moment to be exact, 9:43 pm of the clock on the eve of Christmas Eve. The third lady, the eldest and most educated of the three, Svetlana, suddenly emerged into the room silently, gathered the few remaining dishes that still adorned the table, and quickly returned to the kitchen. The room in which they dined, relieved of its supper clutter now appeared to be much more fine; more like the dwelling of a fastidious scholar sublime; with painted walls of a cheerful and light green not like the rind, but more like the tender fruit of the stimulating lime. Accented with wooden scrolls of white, the walls contrasted remarkably well with the ebony lacquered table and chairs which were upholstered with dark evergreen velvet cushions.
As Clark turned around, looking over his left shoulder, having momentarily lost memory of who drinks what concoction, the first to attract his eye was the Reverend Harold Avery. Difficult is he to miss. For Harold, even seated and partaking of one of his two vices, if vices they could be called for he attends them infrequently, is not only tall at six feet four inches in height, but he also bears a near Viking-like girth about his chest and midsection. Originally from Scarborough, Harold never imagined in his youth that he would someday pursue a passionate spiritual life. He was, after all, a sportsman in his university days: a Wrestler, Cricketer and Oarsman to name just a few. As a man in his twenties, athletically built, even for a man of such height and near to 250 lbs., feminine companionship was never far away. Yet, inexplicably, as soon as one would think that a life of carnal hedonism was his fate, something caused him to lose interest in such dalliances.
Some have proposed the notion that his lack of feminine devotion came from a sudden dissatisfaction from the physical surge of sporting locomotion; as if to posit that since he had already vanquished the world of temporal rigors, his only suitable challenge came from on high; a field and profession no single man—with the obvious exception of Jesus Christ—had succeeded in besting in a single lifetime. But those who know him best would quickly recall the summer of illness that led to an autumn of soul-searching during which time Harold composed a beautiful prayer to a Lord he had hitherto ignored:
Be now with me, oh my Lord, in my times of illness, be my sacrificial lamb; alleviate an illness which sapped my strength and exposed the fragile man I am.
Turn not thy ear from me my Lord, hearken unto the call of one would not listen to your gentle words of care, nor offer in return even a whispered adoring prayer.
Judge not my foolish ways as I squandered precious days of that gift of life that only you can give—or take away.
For from the beginning of everlasting time, the Father kept me in his heart sublime, waiting for the time when that single beat, as a life-giving bell tolls in single chime, declaring through the universe that now the gift of life is mine.
Hear my words, oh Lord, from the foundation of my soul to the end of all my days, shall I hold myself devoted to all thy words and all thy ways.
This led to his belated entry into theological pursuits. Yet, even after attaining the title of vicar in the Anglican Church, he found his interest in shepherding a flock to be less than a true man of the cloth should possess. Perhaps, as is often the case with fallible men, Harold, long and longer still separated from his bout of illness, taking a prolonged endurance of good health for granted began to forget the honorable sentiments he once transcribed to his maker. However, because of his size, matched with a genuinely pleasant nature, he rose through the ranks of his calling rather quickly. The zeal for being a pastor neither increased nor diminished, and this problem seemed to be compensated within him by the perks of such a profession which supplies earthly needs quite adequately without the need for anything closely resembling manual labor. At first, this was an equitable situation for Harold throughout his middle-age years. But as time passed and he matured, he began to take his calling more seriously.
Still, it can be said that the formidable minister is still a work in progress, even at sixty-one years of age. It is arguable that he is not sure, even now, of what he wants in life. Sometimes he desires to reform the faith in his own image and likeness; at other times he would simply like to inaugurate his own little church and be free of the shackles of higher authority. He married only once, an ill-fated union indeed as his young wife perished in a carriage accident only one year after they had taken their vows. She bore him no children. For reasons known only to him, he has had no inclinations over the years to either marry or to even court again.
Now, in his elder years, he is about 280 lbs. and still quite healthy and strong. His black hair having long since turned salt and pepper; although it bears more salt than pepper now, is combed straight back and he has well formed, almost excessive, sideburns. He is rock-jawed with dark brown eyes, and he has a tendency to vocalize the sound "ay" when he speaks—as in the expression "Hey, what?" minus the "what" and with the "H" in the word "hey" dropped according to popular English tradition. This expressive habit usually manifests itself at the end of a question, or a remark that seems to infer a question that seeks a comment in return. "Clark, where in heaven is my gin, ay?"
"Coming right up, Harold," was the somewhat truthful if not entirely sincere reply by Clark who had momentarily forgotten that gin was Harold's brew of choice. For the moment, Harold would have to be content to puff away at his Calabash; a large curling pipe that extends initially downward from the lips and then suddenly curves upward again granting the smoker a fine opportunity to sample a full wisp of discharged smoke before it ascends heavenwards. With a glass of gin smartly poured and standing at attention on a sterling silver tray, Clark's next preparation of the entity of libation was performed with neither reservation or hesitation; a small glass of sherry for the gentleman sitting to Harold's right, the well groomed and proper Peter Allen Daniels; artist most excellent in both painting and sculpture, although he is better known for the former than the latter. Now, bear in mind my friend and I will try—to explain that biography, like sherry, can often be dry. But if you do not know where they have initially come from, you cannot discern where they currently stand or why.
Peter is the only person in the room who was both born and raised in Exeter. His early studies included critical thinking and debate in addition to the arts. By the time he turned twenty years of age the arts became his sole passion, although he is still quite capable of the reasoning of a sound debater. As his early works of art were somewhat unappreciated by the local population of Exeter, it became clear to him that he needed to present his work throughout the country where it would be exposed to people of various tastes. This led to some success sufficient to allow him to travel to the continent where he gained a more than modest level of wealth and recognition.
As is the case with art amongst the enlightened and modern man, Peter's progression, often seeming to exceed the cultural curve, as it were, began to outpace even the most open-minded patron. But there was a catalyst to that progression, for like a lovely tree that had fallen across a determined traveler's path to Nirvana laid Elinor—Peter's muse and model. She is barely more than half his age and is indeed guilty of once providing her youthful beauty for profit—and would still be plying that trade if she were not found by Peter, who treats her much more like a daughter than an object of affection. Still, having a young lady in residence without the bonds of matrimony to ennoble the relationship, their association has been the source of untold rumors by the town's old ladies, if lady is a proper description, as their incessant chattering and gossip is born out of many inner feminine faults none of which are ladylike, nor even Christian. Though not fully scandalized, his reputation took something of a bludgeoning, enough for him to remain quietly in Exeter where he augments the wealth of his initial successes by accepting commissions from society patrons. This, however, was not the career path he had hoped for. Such commissions are necessary to keep him from drawing funds away from his principal savings, but they are not the kind of artistic work he either enjoys, or wishes to pursue professionally. And yet, Peter has acknowledged to himself, almost disturbingly, that as his artistic vision continued to develop in his heart and in his mind, the necessity of apparel worn by his model seemed to diminish proportionally. Peter's fondest dream would be to uncover a similar progression in artistic thought from a more ancient time; thus showing that his development is rational and normal to other more previous cultures. Unfortunately, virtually all of the examples he has found so far are the product of either extremely dated civilizations which are dismissed as barbaric, or by the great masters whose legacy excuses them from such carnal thought patterns; something the less than great Mr. Daniels cannot yet lay claim to. Thus, for him, tradition is becoming the enemy and he is becoming desperate for a way to channel his artistic passions in a way that will command the assent of his peers.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from WINTER SOLSTICEby David Caldarola Copyright © 2011 by David Caldarola. 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.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
