Whilst I’m wondering whether to self-publish or not, here’s an extract from my recently completed first novel, “The Scrying Stone”. Each chapter is prefaced by an extract from a literary source, relevant to the upcoming part of the story. Each “source” is entirely fictional, of course.
The following is an excerpt from “My Final Journey” (M.K. Lawson, 1879) detailing his most succesful at attempt at scrying, and his success in peeling back the layers of time, only to glimpse into a forbidden yesterday.
” going beyond the physical eyes and letting the inner psychic eye open to allow visions and information “
The stone stands upon the Wye path. The walker will feel its vibrations long before it enters sight. Standing upright some 6ft tall, it is pockmarked with the tell-tale signs of its unspoken history. Mysterious to those enquiring minds but my own mind, whilst no less enquiring, is in no doubt of the solemn truth.
I am no artist, no poet. I am no industrialist or land owner, and no right is mine upon these things, but I give you the weight of my mind and the strength of my eternal understanding. The stone is an evil thing. It’s original purpose is lost, forgotten perhaps forever but it’s usage of recent times leaves no doubt that those who seek communion with that most evil of entities empower this unholy totem have returned to the grove. I see the spill of blood from days gone by, I see the stain that looks like rust and the mark of the serpent.
Now, I cast my mind, gentle and still I cast back. Reverse. Slowly at first but like a river flowing downhill, it gets faster. Through closed eyes I see the birds fly backwards. The sun moves from west to east a dozen times over. Paths less walked, rocks less marked. The trees shrink back and the plants sink back into the forest floor. The grass becomes young and fragile. The temperature is falling fast. I hear a chorus, a distant chant growing louder. Upon reaching my destination I see my worst fears are borne out. Figures dressed in black have congregated around the stone. The Perfect steps forward shrouded in the purest of white. The hood falls back as chestnut locks blow in the wind and I glimpse her unblemished face. She asks to pray but does she not know? Whatever Gods there may be won’t hear her words. My heart lurches as her arms and legs are splayed by subhuman hands, upon the stone she is led.A glint of steel flashes in the moonlight. The figure stands tall and raises the blade. Words are spoken and the chants quicken before the implement makes its evil journey through the bitter night air until it finds home, embedded in the virgin bosom. No screams, just the lingering bitter tang of blood in the air. The chorus is unbridled fever, unsurpassed evil in delivery of those unearthly words. Every man falls silent to their knees except. The blade thrown to the ground and the shadows lighten with a deathly glow. The ground shudders, cries echo across the chasm and the grove is bathed in eerie bright blackness. The beast has stirred and whatever power or secrets Lucifer wishes to share are bestowed upon these heathens, these examples of the greatest of human un-kind. The beast spreads evil, glories in chaos and revels in carnage.
. . . .
I return through the passage of the years. I have seen and understood, felt and cried tears for the long dead Perfect.
I worry what gifts were the heathens given? What knowledge do they hold? Literates among them are few but even so, how much has been written or passed down through the generations? From the Dark Lord, through His followers and into this world. The stone is not the conduit, the people are the conduit! The believers make the path and through it evil enters our Earth, it walks the land unseen and stalks it’s victims.
[ Continued ]
It’s been six nights since I saw without my eyes and now the things I’ve witnessed must be purged from the Earth. I write now in the hope that one day somebody will read these words. I took a chance and I thought I was free but last night I heard the baying cries and I am too much of a scholar not to know what they mean. The portents were there, the warnings were embedded in me from my earliest years but my curiosity won. I travelled back and I cannot forget.
Today the cries are soft and distant, and I know what that means. Will the Cwn Annwn rip out my throat? Or will I be taken between their teeth and carried back? Has the Faery King finally allied himself with Satan? Has mankind lost the fight, condemned forever to wander in the darkness created by our human sin?
I urge you, forget your material possessions, forget any wealth you may have because none of it is real. They are the tools given to you from the devil, the tools to help him rule the Earth unseen. It is people such as those in the grove that have unleashed it upon all of our lives forever more. Christianity seeks to oppose the devil but through their narrow-minded persecutions, through the bickering and warfare they have merely enabled the Beast to put a greater stake upon us. Only the noble arts can save us now. Find the texts, hunt the history and learn all that we have so stupidly unlearned. Before it is too late, before you too become destined to spend eternity in the places Merlin so rightly feared.
The howls of the hounds are silent now and soon, so shall I be.
Copyright Martin Gregory