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Vagabond Banquet
Vagabond Banquet
Vagabond Banquet
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Vagabond Banquet

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An intriguing and tantalising journey, which grips you by the throat without mercy! This is a fascinating voyage exploring the dark, yet beautiful characteristics of love and betrayal, trust and revenge and the dynamics of friendship and family loyalty. This trip into the mysterious world of demons and the damned will have you laughing one moment and gasping in terror the next. This absorbing battle between the forces of good and evil, culminating in one of the bloodiest conflicts encountered will give you all the clichés, twists and turns expected from a great vampire novel; but who is good and who is evil? Whose side will you be on?

LanguageEnglish
PublisherNael Roberts
Release dateMay 5, 2014
ISBN9781311506818
Vagabond Banquet
Author

Nael Roberts

Nael Roberts (Nael is pronounced ‘Nile’) was born in 1964 in the North East of England and later moved to London, where he worked briefly for the BBC.In 1988, he wrote the original version of ‘Legacy of the Vampire’, which was called at that time ‘Seduction of Evil’. Its title was changed after advice from a publisher, recommending that the subject matter of ‘vampire’ should be put into the title.The original version was revisited in 2013 and subsequently published as an e-book, closely followed by the second and third instalments that year also.Nael attributes much of his fervent imagination to watching many old Hammer Horror movies and comic books as a child, culminating in his own publication of comic books with his grammar-school classmates.Each book generally takes Nael a month to actually write, but several months to research.All of the characters are derived from Nael’s own personality, however the names of the characters are derived from associates’ feline friends.Books 2 and 3 of the Communicator/Vampire Chronicles were based in Durham, a city which he still visits to this day.

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    Vagabond Banquet - Nael Roberts

    Vagabond Banquet

    Nael Roberts

    Copyright 2013 by Nael Roberts

    Smashwords Edition

    All rights reserved, without limitations the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of Nael Roberts the owner of these works and the Characters within. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, be they living, dead or undead.

    All artwork is by Trevor Storey, concept: Nael Roberts

    www.naelroberts.com

    DEDICATION

    Mary Jane - John Patrick; Karen, Reb & Dan; Jean and Paul

    Note to the reader: Mica is pronounced Meesha

    Books by This Author

    1. Shadow Behind the Sun (sci-fi)

    2. Legacy of the Vampire (Book one of the Vampire Chronicles)

    3. Vagabond Banquet

    4. Fall from Grace

    5. Fires of Eden

    6. Communicator Chronicles

    7. Echoes through Time

    CONTENTS

    1. A New Dawn

    2. Egypt

    3. Hell Hath No Fury, Like...

    4. A Bitter Sweet Goodbye

    PROLOGUE

    It was as if the night were full of ghosts as the rain tapped and danced down the cold windowpanes, calling to those warm within to join them in this, their cold and malevolent world. Above, the dark skies were littered with mischievous and sinister storm clouds, which gathered in their cabalistic confederacy.

    The witching hour had passed almost a lifetime ago, taking with it the memories of yesterday; wiping away the day's trauma off the slate of life and leaving it virginal and ready to accept the passions of the day to follow. Overhead the pale moon shone, casting its bright silver light into the darkness of winter’s shadows, and it was from these shadows that the stranger stepped, her cumbersome frame somehow distorting the smooth resonance of the cold unforgiving night. The figure, wrapped in a heavy grey overcoat, blindly wandered in the depths of her own hostile existence. She was alone, an outcast of this world. A lost child of a lovelorn and wasteful society, which lived for the moment and forgot about life, her life, and that of the child, which she carried.

    The light from the street-lamps offered subdued warmth, as the heavy rains ceased their downpour, relinquishing their bitter command over the sweet solitude of the night. Freshness enveloped this gentle seaside town that huddled against the coast, as if for refuge, in a vain attempt not to fall into the virulent waves of the icy North Sea, which lapped hungrily against its rocky shores.

    The stranger moved slowly along the deserted streets, catching her reflection momentarily in a shop window; she turned bitterly away and urged her body forward in a vain attempt to find refuge. She could feel the torment within and gently placed a hand upon her stomach to ease the distress that expressed itself within. She knew that her time was imminent and so her tormented eyes search for comfort from where they could. Ahead, along a long tree-lined pathway, stood the once impressive set of iron gates, which led into a dark, yet comforting graveyard.

    Blindly urging herself forward she reached the gates and held tightly onto their cold bars in a vain attempt to give her weak body time to gain a little of its strength. Pain seared its way into her every nerve. The contractions were now regular and demanding, she knew that in a brief moment, the world would have another innocent soul to contend with and her position in life would be inexorably changed for an eternity. She let out an almost inaudible whimper, as the pains once again returned; this time their message was more than apparent.

    Within the graveyard, a gentle mix of dark shadows and pale moonlight danced across the gravestones. To her right stood several chairs in a grass clearing and beyond them the welcoming mercy of a haven of trees. The bitter February wind had ceased its torment, taking with it the remnants of the cold rains.

    As she entered the shelter made by the natural arc of the trees, the stranger to this unconventional paradise slumped harshly again one of the ivy-covered gravestones. She sat in silence for a moment, gathering her thoughts, she drew her legs tightly up to her chest; this seemed to ease the pain a little. The contractions were now occurring at an almost constant rate. Sweat ran down her forehead, its salt touch stinging her tear-filled eyes. With as much effort as she could muster, she pushed with every muscle that her exhausted body could evoke, forcing the unborn infant forward. Pain ripped through her, tearing at her body and mind collectively. She parted her lips in a vain effort to scream and release the torment from within, yet only the slightest of protests issued from her imploring mouth; a nugatory whisper that was lost in the sounds of the night. The pain assaulted her again; each minute passed as if an hour as the torture built in its ferocity. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over and her offspring lay motionless before her, its mucus and blood stained form lay motionless in the soft moonlight that drifted down from the heavens, steam drifted skyward, the only witness to the emergence of this new life. Not daring to look, this unwitting mother listened for signs of life, her senses searching the night. Silence greeted her, all except the sound of her own demanding heartbeat. Forcing herself, she looked downward at the hideous child that lay in tatters between her blood-stained legs, its deformed limbs contorted in disapproval of its barbaric conception. The girl screamed and gripped harshly to the gravestone in a vain effort to pull herself away from the abomination that has come from deep within her own womb.

    A dark realisation filled her as her body began to shake and convulse.

    ‘Could this be retribution for her immoral acts?’ she thought. 'Had the lord truly abandoned her'?

    Pulling her body upward, she made an effort to stand. Only moments had passed since the birth and yet she knew that all evidence of this event must be eradicated. The infant, being stillborn, had irrevocably changed the path from which she had perceived that she had to follow. From the time, she had discovered that she was pregnant until that very night, she has manufactured a plethora of interwoven tales to account for the changes, which consumed both her body and her mind, and now, except for her own sanity, the world remained the same. The mountains rose to touch the sky, as they had always done, as sure as the waves lapped tenderly against the gentle shores. Life continued, its fragile flame shining provocatively against the darkness that was this mortal existence, and each individual lost within their own existence and blind to the suffering of others by the superficial needs of their own transient reality.

    She gathered her broken thoughts and for a brief moment, languished in the pleasurable torment of a promised perfect child and the sweet dilemma of which adolescent parenthood could bring. From around her neck she unravelled a scarf and reaching down, she wrapped it around the stillborn infant and drew it close to her breast; she could feel the softness of its touch against her own flesh and wept for her loss. A lifetime had passed in that night and with the dawning of a new day the secrets of an innocent soul would be lost forever to the mortal world.

    Dawn was less than an hour away and the sky above was streaked with vibrant reds and yellows. She moved from the gentle concealment of the graveyard and rushed along the street, this stranger, concealing her secret with a heavy overcoat, raced towards the sea front. She hurried along Erskine Road and turned into Salisbury Place and then onto Beach Road.

    Before her stood the seaside amusements, big dippers and children’s rides mocking her with the stories of a childhood that her unborn would never know. Rushing into the fairground, through the unlocked gates, she searched for a place to deposit her tender gift. Against the far wall of the café, which was set to the right of the amusement park, sat a series of crates, differing in sizes. Rushing over to them, her eyes searched for one, which would suit her malevolent task. One hand holding her child as the other tore mercilessly at the paltry offering, and then she found her quarry, a box, a little larger than her infant with a lid atop. Looking about for unwelcome attention, she lowered the box to the ground and opened its lid; she then gently placed her infant child within and quickly closed the box, more for her own sake rather than for detection. She closed her eyes and stood proud, her task was almost accomplished; she took in a deep breath and tasted the salt of the sea air, as all about the gentle sound of the waves echoed as they lapped the shore. Opening her eyes, she looked alone the mist-covered coastline; she watched with a newfound innocence as the sight of a distant stranger walking his dog caught her attention. How normal life seemed to her, how unchanged. Then she brought her own attention closer to herself and focused upon the object, which lay closer to her upon the soft white sands of the beach. There, abandoned and in full working order was a small rowing boat, large enough to take one adult. Rushing over, she placed the box on the ground next to the vessel and opened the lid. Turning, she lifted several large smooth stones from the beach and placed them within. Closing the lid, she then placed the box into the boat and dragged the craft to the shore.

    It took all of her strength to set her plans adrift but within moments, she was rowing awkwardly towards the deepest part of the harbour, between the twin piers of North and South Shields. The choppy sea buffeted the small craft as it manoeuvred itself into position, overhead the seagulls cried as they bore witness to this inhumanity. The morning was now only moments away and life was beginning to stir in the small seaside town. She knew what she must do, and so lifted the small crate and held it gently on the side of the boat. Closing her eyes, she whispered a brief prayer for the son, which she would never know; a child that was already forgotten to this cruel world.

    Opening her eyes, she look up and observed the gulls turned and dived, their cries filling the air. She then let go of the crate and allowed it to splash harshly onto the surface of the cold, black waters of the harbour. She closed her eyes as icy water began to fill the casket. The gulls began to scream in their rage, as they swooped and danced in the air. It was then that she heard it; it was then that her imagination began to play tricks upon her tortured mind; it was then that the makeshift coffin sank forever into the black, unforgiving waters of the harbour. The sound of a child’s first infant cries echoing in the morning air. She rushed to the side of the boat and plunged her hands into the freezing water, clawing at the depths in desperation, in a feeble attempt to salvage her own innocence. She fell back silently onto the floor of the boat and screamed at the impending dawn.

    Part One

    A New Dawn

    One

    The doors to the emergency room burst open. Voices raged in organised chaos, their orders colliding and merging into one.

    We’ve got a burns victim, found on the banks of the Thames, and don’t know how long he’s been in the water. Can’t get any life signs. Monitor shows a flat-line.

    Somebody get a drip into his arm, The duty doctor screamed. We’ll need saline solution and a stat dose of morphine, 10mg I.V, he looked to the duty nurse, her hands shaking as she teased the needle of the drip into the arm of her patient. Its razor sharp point buckling against his stone white flesh.

    "What’s the matter woman, after ten years in accident and emergency you can’t put a drip into a man’s arm? He cried.

    Her eye’s flashed, as she looked deep into those of her accuser.

    It’s not that I can’t, it’s more of a case it won’t. His flesh must have hardened because of the intense heat from the flames.

    We’ll try putting it somewhere else. The bottom of his foot, we have to get that fluid into him one way or another, he took his stethoscope from around his neck and placed it again his patient’s blistered and broken chest. Listening deeply he called to one of the nurses.

    What did the paramedics say about his condition?

    D.O.A. John Doe, she replied.

    Hold it people, he called. I can’t hear a heart-beat. Allowing his hands to touch those of his patient he felt for the gentle rhythm of a pulse, however, none was forthcoming. Calling to another nurse, he barked out his orders.

    Get the paddles to 200.

    There was the faint sound of electricity humming in the air.

    Everybody stand clear, he shouted, as he leaned forward in readiness to shock his patient back into life, back into that realm from which it had passed centuries before. Lowering the paddles onto his chest, the doctor lifted his thumbs in readiness to deliver that life-giving blow, momentarily he paused. His eyes searching, scrutinising the body, all about the air was tense with anticipation, deep within his sub-conscience he could feel the dark waters of his inner doubt beginning to stir and a sliver of recognition pierced this dilemma, which lay before him.

    Dr Swindon. Are you alright? the nurse enquired. There was no response. Dr Swindon, she repeated, her words more demanding, this time.

    What? he said, as if drifting in and out of his lethargic catatonic state.

    I’m, I’m.

    Doctor, she repeated. Are you alright, do you need something?

    His head snapped sharply in her direction. How he disliked her, this catalyst for change and how he disliked change. First he hated change, for this led to fear, which in turn led to hate, a hate that built up within until it was all consuming, torturing, burning. This hate, which he now directed with an unmitigated passion, towards Nurse Bradford.

    Yes! What I need is for you to shut up and let me get on with my job.

    Well why don’t you and we’ll all be able to go home, sometime this week. Maybe even our friend here she replied, cuttingly pointing to the patent on the trolley.

    That’s, if you feel obliging.

    Doctor Swindon held her gaze for that brief moment. He could almost read her thought, and for that, he resented her all the more. He knew that her faith in his abilities as a second-year graduate were unchanged since the day when he first began his residency. He recalled her criticisms, her jibes, and their echoes almost fresh in his inquisitive virginal mind.

    ‘What’s the difference between Doctor Swindon and God?’ she would taunt. ‘God doesn’t think he’s a doctor.’

    Her words still haunted him, plague him. He could feel them race clumsily about his mind. Stumbling inadvertently into his pharmaceutical thoughts, blinding them to their duty, their destiny. His mind had been cultivated over the years towards the aid of others and now he stumbled blindly into its prophylactic darkness, as those around him listened as the seconds of his patient’s life tick away. The sound of the wall clock began to increase until its presence almost filled the room, each second were as if it were a pendulum moving rhythmically back and forth, perfectly slicing each moment of life away from the embodiment of his patient’s existence.

    Closing his eyes, Doctor Swindon lowered the paddles onto the patient’s awaiting chest, his thumbs pressed hard down onto the switches, sending great volts of electricity into an already dead heart.

    The nursing team looked pleadingly at the monitors, which surrounded their patient.

    There’s still nothing. No pulse. No synaptic response. No heart rate, Nurse Bradford said, in a softer, more encouraging tone.

    Right! Let’s get a result shall we? Doctor Swindon said. Turn that thing up to 300 and give this man a fighting chance.

    300, Nurse Bradford said.

    Clear everybody, he said, as he slowly lowered the paddles closer towards Christian’s naked chest.

    As they made contact with the charred flesh, a gentle aroma greeted his senses; his mind became a rage with dark pictures of what could have been and what is. Suddenly his mind jumped sharply back, as the patient's hand tightly gripped his wrist. His eyes opened in horror as the ice blue of his patient’s eyes stared back at him, and bored deeply into his own, almost freezing his soul with their inhuman presence.

    He’s alive! he said, the words fighting to escape from his mouth.

    Nurse Bradford looked to the monitors.

    That’s impossible; he’s not showing any vital signs. His brain waves are flat-line, she rushed to Doctor Swindon’s side.

    There must be some mistake… she began, but her protests died in her throat.

    Slowly Christian sat up on the hospital trolley, his hand still tightly gripping the wrist of the erstwhile saviour. His eyes were looking blindly into middle distance, but gradually he turned his head until his eyes met those of his would be redeemer. He smiled a cadaverous smile. The flesh of his face contorting in grotesque disfigurement.

    I thank you for your endeavours, but they, as you, are no longer required, With these words, Christian effortlessly snapped the doctor’s wrist, shards of bone piercing the flesh, allowing the rejuvenating blood to flow from within.

    Nurse Bradford screamed as witness to this abhorrent horror, stumbling blindly backwards she fell against the other team members, who moved forward in their blind ignorance to offer their assistance. Chaos reigned all about as Christian drew his victim closer.

    Two

    For Ann-Marie, emotionally it had been a tempestuous time. Her journey from London, back to Barnstable Farm, her palatial ancestral home in the windswept wilds of Durham's wastelands, brought back a familiar security to her battered emotions. It had been over two months since her confrontation with Christian and in that time, her world had changed beyond recognition. Yet, in many ways, it had reverted to the time before she even aspired to leaving the comfort of her family residence. Granted, it had some hidden dark shadows, which dwelled in its long and forgotten past, but generally, it was a place filled with happiness and comfort. The journey from London had taken longer that she initially anticipated but she was pleased that the removal firm had left several days earlier and most of her possessions would be in situ for her arrival. As she pulled into the long drive of the farm, she smiled to herself as she recalled how smoothly the sale of her London property had gone, and although she had assumed a considerable wealth following the death of her father, she had amassed a small fortune from her own endeavours, culminating in the profit from the sale of her London flat.

    The tree lined avenue leading to her home offered her emotional comfort and a natural smile broke across her lips.

    It was early evening and the March skies were drawing a little longer, offering a gentle orchestration of crimson blush across the darkening heavens. Her memories of childhood flooded her thoughts with pleasure seeped emotional images. She could sense the house drawing nearer as her journey continued until its impressive shadows reached out to greet her. Ann-Marie stopped her car outside of the entrance to the farmhouse and felt a welcoming warmth as the light from the windows stretched across the courtyard and onto the driveway. Gathering her over-night bag, she stepped from the vehicle and marvelled at the impressive grandeur of her own, once magical kingdom.

    Slowly the door to the property opened, offering welcome to this weary traveller, which was reciprocated by the dweller within.

    "Mica! Ann-Marie cried.

    As she ran forward, she threw her arms about her beloved friend. Mica reciprocated her embrace with an almost human compassion, and kissed Ann-Marie gentle on the cheek.

    You found it then? Ann-Marie enquired.

    The directions you gave me were exact and I arrived several days ago and I've endeavoured to make the place more homely for your returning.

    Ann-Marie pulled herself gently back and looked into Mica's eyes.

    I can't wait to see, and before Mica could stop her, Ann-Marie ran into the farmhouse.

    Inside, the subtle light from a multitude of lamps bathed the rooms in a gentle and warm inviting glow, enticing the visitor to enter and relax. Ann-Marie smiled and turned to Mica.

    It's perfect, she whispered. Internally, the property was a reflection of her London flat, but this was now on a much grander and opulent scale.

    Ann-Marie walked tentatively into the spacious living room, her emotions almost childlike in their wonder. She marvelled at the intrinsic quality of Mica's homely design for her living environment and whispered a thank you to her friend.

    At that moment, the seductive spell was broken by the technological call of this modern world. Mica jumped in an almost human start of emotions. Ann-Marie laughed as she lifted her hand to her mouth.

    It's the phone! It's only the telephone, she said.

    Mica laughed nervously.

    I don't know if I can get used to this modern world with all of its wonders, she exclaimed.

    Ann-Marie picked up the receiver and tentatively held it close to her ear.

    Hello, Barnstable Farm, she said.

    Almost immediately, a comforting recognisable voice issues from the airwaves.

    Ann-Marie! Ann-Marie! Is that you?

    Ann-Marie paused for a moment as recognition assaulted her mind.

    My God! she exclaimed Ronan! Ronan Faust.

    Ann-Marie sat heavily onto the sofa, aghast but pleased as emotions brought distant memories to the forefront of her mind.

    Someone told me that they had seen lights on in the old farmhouse and I thought that it had either been sold or the great wanderer had returned. I am so pleased that it is the latter. How the bloody-hell are you? he asked.

    Ann-Marie squealed in delight.

    Oh Lord Ronan, you wouldn't believe what's happened, let's just say I've had some adventures and met some amazing friends along the way she said, offering Mica a reassuring smile. Look, I've literally just walked into the house. Can we meet up tomorrow night in Durham? It will have to be in the early evening as I've become a little nocturnal. It would be so great to see you again, how I've missed you.

    No problems darling, he said, I'll meet you tomorrow after eight, outside of Abbey House, next to the cathedral. I have to work a little late so we can meet up, go for a drink, and catch up. Love ya.

    Almost instantly, the telephone line went dead and static filled the air. Ann-Marie sat in silence as her previous life assaulted her emotions.

    She turned and looked to Mica.

    Now there's a blast from my past. Ronan Faust. A man with a brain the size of a planet and blessed with an eidetic memory. I went to university with him to study to be a journalist. He dropped out after the first year and went on to be trained as a priest at Ushaw College. Last thing I knew he was deputy head of Theology and Religious Studies at Durham University.

    I would like to meet your friends, Mica said tentatively.

    And so you shall. I think you will get on. Ronan is a lovely man. Full of life and knowledgeable about almost everything. Sadly his father sort of disowned him when he discovered he was gay.

    Mica stood back in horror.

    That's terrible. He should rejoice that you have friends who are happy, Mice said in innocence.

    Ann-Marie thought for a moment as realisation hit her with the reality that several hundred years of language evolution has become derailed in a matter of seconds.

    No. I mean that he's.., she paused for a moment and realised the insurmountable complexities of endeavouring to modernise this creatures mind in a single sentence.

    Forget it, she said, smirking to herself. I'll explain it to you when you're a little older.

    Wishing to change the subject, Ann-Marie enquired about her other immortal companions.

    Is there still no sign of Darius?

    Mica shook her head.

    As soon as he had recovered from his wounds attained during the confrontation on Westminster Bridge he momentarily graced us with his presence. As for Callum. I have endeavoured to keep my distance from his company as I feel my emotions are still too raw to endure his presence. He supported me in relocating here to Barnstable Farm, but as of yesterday, he informed me that he was to visit a settlement of vampires based just outside of Berwick, on the Scottish Boarders. He has said that he would return soon and wished you to grant his pardon as he was not here to greet your arrival.

    Ann-Marie smiled.

    That may be so, but my true and just friend was here, she said.

    A recollection jumped into her thoughts. Did you use the rooms in the cellar as a place of sanctuary? Ann-Marie enquired.

    Mica Smiled. Yes, I made it into a bedroom.

    Ann-Marie was taken aback by how human Mica had become over recent months.

    I feel that we're going to be very comfortable here, she said.

    Mica nodded This house has a comfortable vibration. It is as if it were trying to console you the second that you enter into its welcoming embrace. However, I cannot help but feel that there is a conflict in the area above this room. A change in the emotional stance of the property.

    Ann-Marie looked to the ceiling.

    That was my parents' bedroom. I used to go into that room after my mother left and I always felt that she was close. It was as if she had died and her spirit was sent to comfort me.

    You never discussed your past with me, at least to any great depth, Mica said, Did it cut you deep, your mother’s disappearance?

    Ann-Marie looked tenderly into the shadows that filled the corners of the living room and gently sighed, as if to appease the pain within.

    It all seems to long ago, I was only a child. I understand that all children view the world through slightly rose-tinted glasses, but I never heard my parents argue or even have a cross word until that night when she left. My father did his best to bring me up as a single parent, but by the time I was sixteen, he was plagued with illness and died shortly after my birthday, leaving everything he owned to me in trust until I was twenty-five. What made it worse, I suppose, is that friends and family would get letters or have sightings of her, but she never contacted me and I was left alone in this big old house. I lived here all until I went to live in London at thirty and here I am aged forty, back in the same position. But that was ten years ago, and apart from being a little older, a lot wiser and with a friend I cherish above all others, not much has changed apart from having the blessing of you in my life, Ann-Marie took a deep purposeful breath before continuing. "You know, I used to stand in my parents' bedroom and talk to them as if they were there, especially my mother. It was as if she were embracing me through my troubled times. Don't get me wrong, as a teenager I was not the hell-raising type, far from it. I was generally in my bed by 9 p.m. and when I was a student that time had increased to 9:30p.m. It was only when I moved to London did I purposefully take up drinking. Initially it was to be part of the crowd, the ‘done’ thing. Everyone in journalism seemed to smoke and drink very heavily, they always seemed to have the weight of the world on their shoulders and a home life that was always coming apart at the seams, but as time progressed I realised that everything was never as good as it initially seemed and I drank more to blot out that life. I missed my home. There isn't anything worse than being in a city where the only people you know are your work colleagues. Your family and friends are hundreds of miles away and your life consists of work and pretty much nothing else.

    Then, after the recent events, which we both experienced, I realised that I should come home and if I were to be alone, then I should be in my own sanctuary. My own beloved abode. But, this is now even more perfect, as I have you here with me and your friendship to comfort me."

    Mica smiled and sat next to Ann-Marie.

    I know that we have only known each other for a short time but I really do feel that I have met a true friend of my soul. Before we met, I was truly lost. There was a point in my life when I justly believed that it would have been easier to put out the gentle light that is my soul rather than live in this perpetual suffering of darkness that is immortality. When I stopped being a mother, I felt that I had ceased existing, but that in itself became a paradox, for I realised that the paramount problem with a mother's love is that it is unconditional and damning. It ultimately destroys the child of whom its initial purpose is to protect and it moulds them to have a distorted view of both themselves and the world around them. It offers injustice when justice is paramount and protects when chastisement is apparent. If it were not for Callum's distorted love then my son would be with me now. Maybe it would have been better to embrace those trials, which I have endured, rather than to push them away. If I had a faith, then that could have given me a greater solace and guidance in this life, as faith inspires great deeds, but at times, it also inspires even greater violence. That is what scares me, for how I hate what I have become, she smiled and looked to the floor to conceal the gentle emotions that welled up within. How Jess would have loved this time. The electrical lights and speeding vehicles and the television that brings you colourful visions and insight into other’s lives. The wonders of this century are truly magnificent.

    Mica's demeanour then changed to that of concern as she realised that the long journey had tiered her mortal friend.

    Are you feeling well? You look a little pale.

    Ann-Marie stood.

    I need to get something to eat, that journey really took it out of me.

    Mica rose from the sofa and walked quickly to the living room door. Attempting to lighten the mood, she smiled.

    I too, must attain nourishment. Remember, if you need anything just whistle.

    Ann-Marie looked at her in amazement.

    What!

    You know how to whistle don't you? Just put your two lips together and blow, Mica stated.

    Ann-Marie lifted her hand to her forehead and sighed.

    All-right. That is it. I'm restricting your television, no more cheesy black and white movies for you, she said.

    Mica grinned.

    Frankly my dear, I don't give a Damn, she replied.

    Mica laughed hearty before stepping into the night, leaving Ann-Marie to her own devices in her old family home.

    Three

    The following day continued without incident and Ann-Marie filled her time with the primping of the farmhouse furnishings. It was not until the early evening that her emotions began to fill her with anticipation at the prospect of meeting Ronan after such a long time. Their friendship had been a strong one, but since she moved to London, their telephone calls to one another became less apparent until realisation had assaulted her with guilt, as the evidence of years rather than months had passed since their last communication. By then it was too late and their friendship had been consigned to the annals of past tense, leaving a mortal space that could never be filled by another. Ann-Marie always cherished the individual and respected them for the gift of friendship, which they brought to her life, but ambition and career had severed their relationship at such a crucial time and left pure emptiness in its wake. Time had been unkind, the years following the death of her father culminating with her graduation had not been easy for her, and escape was the only aspiration, which filled her thoughts. However, that was ten years ago and returning to her home felt in some way like a rebirth, the completion of a cycle of her life, and everything was now beginning anew.

    Looking from the bedroom window she could see the subtle darkness as it reached across the evening skies and stretching to the horizon beyond. How romantic it looked, she thought, this relinquishing of tenancy from the day to the night. She recalled how she would stand in this very spot and watch the evening clouds with her mother by her side, making up stories, related to the shapes. Her mother would say, ‘That cloud looks like Noah's Ark.’ and she would recant the tales of the animals, and how they entered in sevens and not two by two as was misleading in children's tales. Her mother was gentle and loving but because of her scientific practicality even its calculating presence got in the way of mundane childhood nursery rhymes.

    Ann-Marie smiled to herself and looked at her bedside clock as its red luminous numbers flickered seven - fifteen, there was just enough time, she thought, for her to collect Mica and make her way to Durham city centre to meet Ronan. She lifted a small bottle of perfume from her bedside table and sprayed it into the air in front of her and gentle walked through its mist. Turning she lifted her purse from the bed and checking it contained her car keys, she then left the bedroom and made her way down to the living room.

    There she met Mica who sat in silence and smiled as Ann-Marie entered.

    Are you sure your friend won't mind if I accompany you to this rendezvous, Mica enquired.

    Ann-Marie stood in startled silence. She smiled to herself.

    Talking like that makes me feel like I’ve just walked into a Bronte novel, she turned to Mica and smiled. I'm sure he'll be fine and it means that after we've met, I can show you around Durham and you can savour its delights.

    Mica Smiled.

    Delightful, I'm sure it hasn't changed since the last time I was here. However, that was in 1603.

    Ann-Marie gasped at the longevity of the life experienced by her friend, but this outcry brought concern to Mica.

    Are you alright? she enquired.

    I'm fine she reassured her, It just takes me aback when I realise how old you are. You know, one of these evenings we are going to have to sit down and tell one another all about our past so we feel that we truly know each other. I know that it will hurt but I even want to know about your time with Christian.

    Mica smiled. You mean Marcus.

    Ann-Marie looked at her with inquisitive eyes.

    Marcus. Who is Marcus? she enquired.

    I will save that tale for another time; now we must hurry, otherwise we will be late for the meeting with your friend, Mica said, with a coy smile.

    The journey into Durham was idyllic as they drove through winding country lanes and entered

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