Jessie Mason lives with her nose in the pages of history. But she is about to discover that the past is a dangerous place where she doesn't belong, and knowledge alone is not going to save her.
In Jessie’s troubled life her aunt is the only constant and comfort she has. But when she inexplicably disappears, and Jessie uncovers her mother's Time Stone, that unhappy life turns unreal and terrifying.
She is summoned to a world in crisis, 250 years in her past, to three unlikely companions, and the aged Onondaga shaman, Nishkamich, who promises an education in the powers of the stones which they each possess.
Over one glorious summer, Jessie reluctantly settles to village life and the developing bond with her prickly friends, until they are forced to accept that their stones are being hunted through history.
But in the depths of winter, their friendship, their wits, and the very limits of their endurance, will be tested by an unforgiving Nature as war finally erupts around them.
Excerpt
The darkness lifted to reveal the same monotonous landscape which Jessie had come to detest; white snow, grey light, dark trees. She couldn’t remember what warmth felt like. How many days ago was it they left the village? They had been so free of cares that morning; their earlier trials now seemed insignificant. The villagers’ fears, the council, the false faces and Tip’s dreams, were all just nothing now
Her thoughts turned to the cause of everything: the stones. No, not the stones. It was this man, this…Count. She should now add Mr Messersmith; Abe’s surveyor, and Tip’s nameless conquistador. The Count of Monte Cristo! The name was a fiction from another century, a disguise. And although they knew nothing about him, he seemed to know a great deal about them. How was that? How had he found them? His was a face to remember, and she had definitely not seen him before. And what did he mean she had been hidden?
She watched Kes striding purposefully through the snow. What had he called Kes? “The new shaman. Nish’s young protégée.”
Jessie stopped mid step, her foot hovering above the snow, the breath forced from her chest in a sudden, shocking clarity.
How had he said it? She remembered his mocking tone. There was only one explanation for his familiarity. This Count, this man, knew Grandfather. He knew him well enough to call him Nish.
“What’s the matter?” Abe had caught her up.
“Just taking a breather,” Jessie replied quickly and started walking again.
Surely, Jessie thought, Grandfather must have recognized the description Tip gave the night of the false faces. Drawing a scar down her face would have been sufficient. Why had he remained silent? Maybe he wasn’t scarred when Grandfather had known him. But Jessie could still see the roughly crimped edges and the white scar tissue. It was an old wound. No. The shaman’s face had given away his fear at the time. She just hadn’t known what it meant. And he had taken Kes’ stone hadn’t he, immediately afterwards, to go and investigate. He had known and said nothing. Why not?
A shout cut short her deliberations. Abe had left the path. He called again. Tip was way off their track, ensnared in a thick mass of undergrowth. Jessie dragged herself to where Kes stood, and watched Abe spend an age carefully plucking Tip free of the thorns. Tip just stood unmoving the entire time; didn’t try to help and said nothing.
“What are they doing?” Jessie stamped and hugged herself in a vain attempt to generate some warmth. Her fingers were blue and swollen. She frowned in concern. She glanced at Kes. His ears were purple, and his teeth, like her own, chattered uncontrollably.
Abe eventually freed Tip and led her back to where they waited. It was clear by the way he steered her across the snow, something wasn’t right. She gazed around vacantly, with blank staring eyes.
“She is becoming too cold,” Kes said between his chattering teeth.
“Well, she’s not alone there is she.” Abe fought a constant shiver.
“But Tip is too cold,” Kes said. “She is on the journey to the world of the spirits. If she travels further, she will not return.”
Jessie understood, whether it was the call of the spirits or the onset of hypothermia, Tip was in grave danger. They all were. Her own dizziness had been constant for a few hours now. Kes and Abe were both showing the early signs of exposure. They wouldn’t make it back to the French, even if they started out now.
“I can carry Tip; it will be quicker. You two keep going.”
Kes crouched, grabbed Tip behind the knees, scooped her up across his shoulders and stood up. He hoisted her up to spread the weight, blew out hard and started off after Abe.
Jessie fell in behind him, amazed at his endurance, and wondered how long he would be able to carry Tip. A quiet voice suggested, “That should be me he’s carrying.” Jessie quickly admonished herself. But the voice wouldn’t be silent, and in the wandering hours, when her mind was dulled, it kept reminding her that Kes had saved her life, had held her hand, not Tip’s.
They kept moving for the remaining daylight hours, and as the sun disappeared, so did their last reserves. Kes was the first to succumb. He had given everything, pushed himself through torture over the final few hours, and now he was spent. He tripped, staggered, his legs buckled, and he and Tip pitched over into the snow. Abe turned back at the sound, and collapsed where he was. Jessie followed. They lay there, freezing to death, in the frigid night.
Jessie’s mind sought safety in thoughts of home: discussing her life to come with Auntie and the track coach, reading in Auntie’s flat, even arguing with Linda seemed comforting now. Memories swirled around, disturbed finally by voices: muffled, urgent voices. She ignored them. The snow crunched, and her eyes fluttered open. There was only snow. A snow shoe and a fur boot appeared beside her head. She felt herself rising from the snow, and a blurred face appeared. Her eyes slowly focused, her mind engaged. She saw a face, a dark red face with two bright white eyes behind a mask of black, before her own eyes dimmed and darkness took her.
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Books have been an important part of my life as long as I can remember, and at 54 years old, that’s a lot of books. My earliest memories of reading are CS Lewis’, “The Horse and His Boy” – by far the best of the Narnia books, the Adventures series by Willard Price, and “Goalkeepers are Different” by sports journalist Brian Glanville. An eclectic mix. My first English teacher was surprised to hear that I was reading, Le Carré, Ken Follett, Nevil Shute and “All the Presidents’ Men” by Woodward and Bernstein at the age of 12. I was simply picking up the books my father had finished.
School syllabus threw up the usual suspects – Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dickens, Hardy, “To Kill a Mockingbird” – which I have reread often, and others I don’t immediately recall. By “A” level study, my then English teachers were pulling their hair out at my “perverse waste of talent” – I still have the report card! But I did manage a pass.
During a 35 year career, briefly in Banking and then in IT, I managed to find time, with unfailing family support, to study another lifelong passion, graduating with an Open University Bachelors’ degree in History in 2002. This fascination with all things historical inspired me to begin the Time Stones series. There is so much to our human past, and so many differing views on what is the greatest, and often the saddest, most tragic story. I decided I wanted to write about it; to shine a small light on those, sometimes pivotal stories, which are less frequently mentioned.
In 1995, my wife, Michelle, and I moved from England to southern Germany, where we still live, with our two children, one cat, and, when she pays us a visit, one chocolate labrador. I have been fortunate that I could satisfy another wish, to travel as widely as possible and see as much of our world as I can. Destinations usually include places of historic and archaeological interest, mixed with a large helping of sun, sea and sand for my wife’s peace of mind.
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