The Way

  LORE BOOK ONE

  The Way

  Janet Parsons

  Potoroo Publishing

  www.potoroopublishing.com

  First Edition Paperback: October 2017

  Published by Potoroo Publishing

  Lower Templestowe, Victoria, Australia

  Text Copyright © Janet Parsons 2017

  Artwork Copyright © Jessica James 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission from the publisher.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Janet Parsons, 1967 –

  Title: “The Way” Lore Book 1

  ISBN: 978-0-9942839-3-1 (pbk.)

  ISBN: 978-0-9942839-5-5 (MOBI Amazon)

  ISBN: 978-0-9942839-6-2 (EPUB)

  Subject: YA Urban Fantasy

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental or simply some kind of crazy magic.

  Captivating cover art and illustrations by Jessica James 1993

  Dazzling design by Caroline Gliddon

  Proudly printed in Australia by Digital Print Australia, on environmentally friendly paper, by a great team of people.

  WITH LOVE TO

  Dr. Stephen Flew who lit the flame for great literature, starting with Charles Dickens at the age of four. Madeleine Flew; “Keeper of the Fȁeth”

  And the entire Feehan-Flew clan.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: (Orphan)2

  Chapter 2: Called

  Chapter 3: Ellucidae

  Chapter 4: Depth

  Chapter 5: Substitute

  Chapter 6: Missing

  Chapter 7: Illusion

  Chapter 8: Portal

  Chapter 9: Hiatus

  Chapter 10: Composition

  Chapter 11: Tunes

  Chapter 12: Subterrain

  Chapter 13: Tripping

  Chapter 14: Nightfall

  Chapter 15: Qualm

  Chapter 16: Rush

  Chapter 17: Flight

  Chapter 18: Secret

  Chapter 19: Being

  About the Author

  Love & Gratitude To

  Glossary

  CHAPTER 1

  (Orphan)2

  “To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness”

  – OSCAR WILDE

  Her heart pounded so loudly that it felt strapped to the outside of her chest, and her palms were awash with sweat. Sticks and razor-like thistles scratched and gouged at her bare legs and feet. Blood oozed in crimson rivulets from a deep wound in her shin. Wiry tree branches reached out like desperate, bony fingers, grasping and tearing at her shirt. She didn’t seem to be touching the ground, racing so fast through the dark, dense woodland, and she wondered how her feet were keeping up with her legs. A quick peripheral glance revealed the dark-haired predator was only a few feet behind; her throat and lungs were raw and burning and she could almost feel her pursuer’s hot breath at the back of her neck. The dark green foliage ahead seemed to become overwhelmingly dense. The undergrowth was much higher and met with a draping mass of heavy vines, creating a tangled wall.

  Just as she reached the wall, she felt two muscular hands pick her up under her arms, and then toss her like a limp ragdoll onto a timber platform. Upon landing, she rolled over, looked up and saw a shadowed, male figure crouched down, his finger pressed to his lips…

  “Beth Harlow, paging passenger Beth Harlow, please make your way to Gate Nineteen, as your aircraft is in the final stages of boarding.” The voice seemed to echo off every wall. Beth sprang awake from her terrifying, recurring dream and found herself bolting along the crowded corridors of Beijing Airport. Sense of direction wasn’t up there in her life skill set. At seventeen, travelling solo wasn’t new to her, but the vast maze (that described every major airport) never got any easier to navigate. Finally spotting her destination, she raced to the boarding desk and held out her ticket for scanning.

  “Nice of you to join us, Miss Harlow,” the thin-lipped hostess quipped, as she looked Beth up and down, and spotting her boots, said, “You had best shake the mud off those boots before coming on board.”

  Beth was puzzled at this last comment as she had cleaned her comfy travel boots before leaving for the airport. She looked down at her feet and, to her total dismay, found fresh clumps of muddy, moss-like debris across the top and, on the soles of her Docs. A trickle of bright red blood oozed from a thin scratch down the front of her left shin.

  “Sure,” Beth answered, feeling totally perplexed. She hastily undid the laces, banged them together over the rubbish bin and then entered the jet bridge, boots in hand.

  When she was finally seated, the engines started and Beth sat back and took a deep, slow breath. How she had endured the last four weeks was a mystery. The boarding mistress of her school, Miss Chan, had delivered news of her parents’ plane crash as she left the classroom after the last exam. Blindsided, she had collapsed in a quivering heap on the corridor floor. Miss Chan’s voice seemed to be playing in extreme slow motion, a muffled rumble surrounding each syllable. She explained that fierce lightning had struck their plane, sending it slamming into a cliff face in the Tibetan Highlands; the massive explosion had left no physical trace of any of the souls aboard. There was no funeral, just a memorial service at the University Chapel, with her parents’ colleagues from the Archaeology Department standing beside her at the lonely service. She felt she had cried every tear possible in the first two weeks after their death, and then…numb.

  Beth’s parents had worked as archaeologists, lecturing at Peking University between digs. Beth had spent most of her life either on dig sites or on university campuses throughout China and India.

  She had spent the last four years at Graystone Academy, a private girls’ boarding school in Beijing. The strict regime of study, sport and sleep had made her feel like a caged bird. At her psychologist’s suggestion, her parents had placed her in boarding school in the hope that Beth’s overactive imagination and relentless dreaming would abate while she was in a more stable, structured environment. No amount of normal student life had curtailed her vivid dreams, and they had only intensified after news of her parents’ accident.

  Studying the backs of her hands, she marveled at how pale they had become. The thick, gray Beijing skies would soon be a distant memory. In a flurry of decisions made between the executors of her parents’ estate, arrangements had been made for her to stay with a woman called ‘Aunt Maggie,’ who had always sent birthday cards and postcards, though she had not met her in person or via Skype. Aunt Maggie was the lighthouse keeper in a small, coastal town, Scituate, south of Boston, and had an aversion to all communication that was twenty-first century technology based, including cell phones and computer access.

  Beth was an adopted only child. She often wondered if her parents had really considered whether they had time for parenthood with their extraordinarily busy academic schedules. Apart from her four years at the Beijing school, her family had consisted of her parents. Her extended family members were faculty members at various university campuses. One of the extended family members would often step in as her sole carer when her parents were on digs that were considered ‘not child friendly.’ The extremes of temperature, arduous terrain and isolation made many of the expeditions fit this category.

  Reflecting back though, she now appreciated the various cultural and lifestyle o
pportunities afforded her. When most kids were in elementary school, her childhood lessons were often in makeshift tents on mystical sites. She had, packed in her bag, two faded photos from her two favorites, the Xanadu dig on the Mongolian Plains and the Terracotta Warriors and Horses in Lintong. Both she and her parents were in these pictures and, to Beth, the photos were the only remaining tangible link with them.

  This trip marked Beth’s first time to America and her first chance to see the ocean. Scituate was home to some majestic coastline and, from her research, was a quaint, scenic village. Beth studied the notes she had printed out and attempted yet again to have the pronunciation roll off her tongue, “Sit-chew-it”. She repeated this several times until the airhostess interrupted her train of thought with the meal service.

  After picking at the food, she flicked through the movie selection. Not seeing anything much that appealed, Beth stood up and walked up and down the aisles, casually glancing at the rows of passengers and wondering what their individual journeys entailed. She had an innate curiosity about people, what their real-life stories were, and loved to imagine their various scenarios. Back in her seat, she put on her eye mask and tried to grab some shut-eye. When sleep finally came, it was as usual, fitful and filled with incredibly vivid dreams.

  The lights came up as the clatter of the breakfast trolleys began. Beth found the familiar scent of the Earl Gray tea comforting, and the strawberries on the fruit plate had an amazingly fresh tang. She made her way to the restroom, running her fingers through her ruffled mop of streaky titian hair, and then she brushed her teeth. She peered into her bright, emerald green eyes. Their striking color always made the dark shadows under them less noticeable.

  “Cabin crew, please be seated for landing,” the intercom announced, heralding their arrival at Logan Airport, Boston.

  Upon landing and clearing customs, Beth wandered into the arrivals lounge, dragging her small case behind her, scanning for her ride. Aunt Maggie didn’t drive so she had organized a town car. She spotted the capped driver with her name on his sign and approached him.

  “Morning, Miss Harlow, welcome to Boston. How was your flight?” he greeted her.

  “The flight was incredibly long. It’s so nice to be out of that plane,” Beth replied.

  The driver took her case and led her out through the sliding glass doors. The morning air was crisp and refreshing. Beth’s research revealed the trip to Scituate was about an hour.

  Scituate lay on a rocky outcrop of exposed granite, coastal marshes and a sandy harbor. The area was home to acres of scenic green woodland, with several brooks and rivers feeding into the ocean, including the Satuit, which was a Native American word meaning cold brook, and the town’s namesake. There were no freeways through the town and this gave it quite an independent, detached feel from the rest of the southern coastline. Beth settled in and took in the waking Boston city.

  “Gauging from your accent, you aren’t a local. What’s the drawcard for Scituate?”

  “I’m moving here to be with family,” Beth responded. She didn’t have the inclination or the energy to elaborate on the answer.

  “I was a little surprised when the base told me I had a fare there. I’ve lived in the greater Boston area for over thirty years and I don’t often get a fare down that way. I suppose that’s because there are no major routes through there.”

  “So, it will be your first time to Scituate as well?” Beth queried.

  “Yes, indeed. Well they say you learn something new every day. Guess this is today’s lesson.”

  The Boston precinct was very different from the electric bustle and high-rise mayhem of Beijing; traffic flowed well and soon the freeway stretched out ahead. Beth was amazed at how quickly the city streets turned to thick, leafy foliage on both sides of the road. A blurry, dense, green curtain ran along both sides of the highway as they sped along.

  “Here we go, this is your exit. We head up Driftway to Scituate and out to Lighthouse Road.”

  Driftway. Even the road names sounded intriguing to Beth. The town was so picturesque; driving through the streets revealed various charming cottages. The striking white lighthouse was a prominent landmark at the end of a peninsula known as Cedar Point. There was a one and a half story cottage attached to the lighthouse. The faded gray shingles allowed white timber-framed windows to stand out against the walls. There were flower boxes under the windows with sunny blooms galore. It resembled a life-size, old-world, model dollhouse. As the car drew up towards the lighthouse, a large red-haired figure came out of the cottage, arms waving madly, bright red curls bobbing about. A huge, boisterous German Shepherd dog ran circles around her, barking excitedly.

  “Welcome me darlin’ Beth. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.” Her musical voice was rich with an Irish lilt. “Don’t mind Aristotle,” gesturing towards the big hound, “he won’t hurt you.”

  Beth stepped out of the car and Aunt Maggie flung her ample arms around her with a warm embrace. She then drew Beth back to arms’ length and took a long, careful look at her.

  “Oh my! You’re an absolute vision! So like your mother was at your age, it’s uncanny!”

  Along with such an encompassing embrace, the comment sent a shock wave through Beth – surely Aunt Maggie was aware of her adopted status.

  “Come on, Aristotle, away from the nice man there.” The driver was quickly raising his window as the dog was now up on his hind legs and looked a formidable sight, with his paws on the roof of the car. Maggie managed to pay the fare by squishing the folded dollar bills through the small gap left in the window, and thanked the driver.

  “Come inside, I have your room all ready. You must be tired after such a long flight.”

  The cottage door opened to reveal a cozy living and dining area, leading into a small timber kitchen. Catching Beth’s eye, above the fireplace in the corner of the living room, hung a majestic mural of a sunrise over snow-capped mountain peaks and an enchanting forest scene of incredible color and detail. The painting was most unusual as it followed the line of the corner like the center pages of a book. The remaining walls had some shelves adorned with books and trinkets. Although heavily bedecked, there wasn’t a feeling of clutter; it was so warm and welcoming. The décor was a mixture of seaside charm and whimsy.

  “And here you are. Your room is just at the top of this staircase.” Aunt Maggie took one step at a time, a little out of breath when she got to the top. She opened the door and Beth followed her into a small, bright, room with a charming, white-curtained window seat looking straight out onto the ocean. The bed covers were a pale blue and white check and a stack of crisp, white pillows sat arranged near the timber bedhead.

  “Wow, it’s absolutely beautiful. Thanks so much, Aunt Maggie, for allowing me to stay with you.”

  “You can drop the ‘Aunt’ now dear and just call me Maggie; we won’t need formalities. You don’t need to thank me, my darling heart. You poor lass, what an abysmal time you’ve had. You can unpack and have yourself a rest. Is that all you brought?” She shot a concerned look at Beth’s petite case.

  “I just grabbed a few things. I’m having the rest sent by ship and I’m hoping it will arrive in about six weeks.”

  “Of course, dear, that makes perfect sense. You’ve had quite enough to deal with during these last weeks.” Maggie showed her the wardrobe and drawer space.

  Beth unpacked her suitcase, but she was too full of excitement and curiosity to take a nap. As soon as she finished unpacking, she headed down to the kitchen.

  Maggie was at the table with a pot of tea, shuffling and laying out a deck of tarot cards, studying them intently. She looked up as Beth came back into the room. “Ah, there you are already, dear. Oh, to have your youthful energy after such a long flight.”

  “I can’t possibly sleep yet; I’m just so excited. I’ve never been in a lighthouse before. I would love to see the rest of the house and then check out the beach, if that’s okay with you?”

&nbs
p; “Lighthouses moan and groan, with a life all their own. Yes, indeed, the old gal takes a bit of getting used to. It will take some time for you to become accustomed to the soundscape here. You can hear her breathing from the bottom of the staircase as air moves up and down the tower. Often it echoes a heartfelt sigh, as if over two hundred years of sentinel duty are wearing thin. Of course, dear, you go along and explore. We have an open house scheduled in a couple of weeks. There’s a small gift counter, which you’ll be able to help me run. It will be great to have another pair of hands, as it gets busy. You have a wander through and make yourself at home. Just call out if you need anything.”

  Beth looked over the rest of the cottage. Each room had its own unique character and charm. It was bigger inside than it appeared from outside. It really was like a life-size dollhouse. She went through the walkway with small porthole type windows along each side and came out into the shop gift counter area, with the lighthouse stairs behind. Maggie wasn’t joking, the sounds in this area were just as intense as she had described. The slightest noise was amplified due to the confined space, and even the sound of her light footsteps reverberated off the walls. The tiny counter stood unlit, though streams of light filtered through the windows, casting a hazy view. The shelves were laden with all sorts of seaside merchandise and, in amongst them, many New Age charms and relics. Two sections of books featured, one relating to Scituate history and a smaller selection of books on a higher shelf, with titles Beth couldn’t decipher because they had strange fonts, mainly in veneered gilt formats. A subtle fragrance floated in the air, emitted from the vast selection of candles near the compact register.

  Beth stepped around a circular white half wall and found herself at the base of the lighthouse stairs. She peered up the aged, narrow, stone spiral and decided to tackle the staircase later, preferably with Maggie. The sounds were eerie enough in the morning light. Beth could only begin to imagine the heightened sensations that would occur at night. She opened the side door and stepped into the sunlight. Cool wind whipped at her hair as she made her way across the rocky steps onto the beach. The coastal vista was breathtaking. White capped waves rolled in melodically over the deep pea-green of the Atlantic.