Somehow conveyed to the island of Fairlon, Chicagoan Jim Connors is brought before King Jochanan of Soglarn, ruler of one of the island's three realms. After Jim is condemned to a quick death the next day, he is taken to the dungeon, where he meets Princess Aurora of Nolan, who will only be released when her father yields his crown to King Jochanan. But Jim readily helps Aurora escape, King Jochanan initiates a pursuit that is bent on being lethal, while in the meantime, Jim is truly surprised to learn where he is. Find out why by reading The Travellers, While Weeping Lasts.
THE TRAVELLERS
Book I, WHILE WEEPING LASTSBy James R. PoynerAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 James R. Poyner
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-0958-6 Chapter One
THE STORM
JIM CONNORS WAS in it, all right! A lengthy, stormy ordeal in a boat and a fair cruise on an unusual ship had netted the husky, dark haired youth, snaring him in a great tangle of trouble, cruelly embracing him in a hold that threatened to become smothering. So far, though, all of it was just part of the adventure, just living on that fine edge between life and death. At least, for Jim, it was just that.
Sure, the transplanted native of Chicago would be the first to admit that just then he was up to his neck in a rushing flood of trouble, with the dark, swirling waters rising ever higher, his wading feet already starting to lose touch with the riverbed as the current drew him upward. It might have been enough to make most people throw in the towel; cast their three aces on the table in annoyed resignation; hurl their frustration and disappointment at the reaching hands of the would-be, gloating winner. Trouble is, Jim was the kind who needed to see that he was beaten. He always called to know for certain that the other player did indeed have four treys to beat his threesome of aces. Jim was the kind who only gave up when the grinning, proven victor was engulfing the sea of red, white, and blue chips with both arms, hauling in the catch. Then Jim would just shrug, nod in acceptance, and ready his ante for the next hand, because, after all, life goes on.
Of course, Jim Connors always did have a different take on things. Maybe that had something to do with all that happened. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe that was part of his birthright. Maybe that was why a few of his old associates had often wondered if there was a huge power plant hooked directly to the wires in his head, shooting him full of confidence—too full for his own good, the others reasoned. Jim would have laughed at the analogy, before suggesting that it was best to think that he just had a different outlook than most. He also would add that part of that meant a better and more accurate view of things, which might explain why he was able to quickly arrive at a serviceable plan for confronting any problem.
And while it was not really a flood of trouble swamping him just then, that was the analogy he arrived at, just before he told himself, Well, hey, who really minds getting wet? It just happens, right? Look, I get wet all over every time I take a shower, don't I? If getting wet is all that happens, if it isn't enough water to drown me, if I'm not otherwise threatened by the water, then so what? Really, it's just the old bit about making a mountain out of a molehill. Why go to the trouble of climbing up or over such a blockage, when it's easy enough to just step around it?
Right then, though, it looked like a pretty bad hand, but Jim was too much of an optimist to throw in his cards, even if he was given the chance. What good is folding without seeing your opponent's hand? Are you just giving the other player your money, because you assume he or she can beat you? Might as well not play, at that point. No, in Jim's book, his manual for life, you had to keep trying until you were clearly beat, until you saw that there were indeed four threes to beat your trio of aces.
Then, as he marched amid the quartet of brute guards and in the wake of their ever-scowling, bloodthirsty commander, Jim observed anew to himself, I'm just not the kind to quit, no matter what I'm holding. On the other hand, if I call, the other player might think I'm going to surprise him or her with a better hand. That means he or she could be the one compelled to fold, but only if I don't. So I should always take the chance and see what happens—make the other player beat me! Where's the harm in trying?
That time was really no different, even if it looked like circumstances were pretty bad. Jim knew by then that things were not right, both in the regal residence and its surrounding lands, and he further knew that he was just about the only one who was willing—and able—to take a shot at setting them right. He also was too much of a knight to turn away from folks in need, to abandon his quest. There was too much wrong in all that he had heard and seen for him to do anything but play out the string. Then, too, his malicious host had only condemned Jim, not nodded at his henchman to inflict the fatal stroke. Jim was still alive. That was enough of an opening. The fourth trey had yet to show up. No one was raking in the chips. There was still a jolt of power—of faith-driven determination and acceptance—surging through the wires attached to his noggin; there was still his wonderful conviction that things always worked themselves out for the better; there still was no reason to fold.
Yeah, either shoot me in the head and get it over with, right off—or learn to live with the consequences, he concluded to himself and glanced back over his shoulder, in the direction of his chief adversary; back toward the Great Hall in the modernistic Palace of Soglarn, white elegance masking red horror; back toward the den of lechery, darkened by the malice and violent lust of its master.
* * *
TO SOME, THAT walk through the Palace en route to his cell, amid the foursome of brutish guards led by the grim, murderous Colonel, might have been a last, dreadful journey. It might have been a slow mournful parade to a ready gravesite. Then, on passing through a formidable iron door, the route took them down a long file of steps into the very bowels of the netherworld, into King Jochanan's dimly lit Tomb of the Living, into a gloom reeking with the stench of the dying. Could one get much closer to Hell and still be alive, still not taste the flames?
That darkness and its associated murkiness, enshrouding the lost sailor with its foreboding shadows and tormenting dreads, might have been oppressive. The sentence of a quick death the next evening, when he had his youth, might have been depressing. The hanging, human horror, in the sprawling, dimly lit, second-floor room, might have crushed his optimism forever. The quartet of mountain-size guards, sternly watching the break-proof iron door that sealed the steps to the dungeon, might have spoiled the last ounce of hope he had for escaping the place. Yet, thanks to his faith, the author of his brand of determination—flashing with the brilliant white of lightning—Jim was not put off by any of it, nor even, by the staggering combination of all of that plus all the other dreads, misgivings, and misfortunes he had experienced up to that point.
Even when they finished descending the long, crumbling flight of concrete steps and stepped into the raggedly-lit cell room, which was as dreary and unwelcome a sight as anyone could imagine—or want—even then, Jim was not put off. At most, he allowed that the place was aptly named, and that he was about to be enclosed in what was meant to be his reserved crypt. Yet, he still could not buy the idea that this was the end of the line. He just could not see it that way, which was why he was ready to call his captor's bluff—ready to play his own hand—ready to learn why he had been brought there! No, not just the there of the dungeon! There had a much broader sense. Readily, it applied to the mysterious island that, more than...
