Pagewalker Read online

  Pagewalker

  C. Mahood

  In association with PanicPress

  Copyright © 2016 by C Mahood. All rights reserved.

  Cover & Illustrations by C.Mahood

  Special thanks to all Beta readers and Editors

  (You know who you are)

  Table of Contents

  Forward By Author

  1 Where it all began

  2 A new life

  3 The birth and death of a story

  4 Back to bite me

  5 It's all changed

  6 The road to Renir

  7 Uncharted Waters

  8 Rat bottle pub

  9 The big tent

  10 Dawn Dawning

  11 Not quite a return

  12 Aondor

  DERTRID’S DEED

  Prologue

  1 Escape from Sáann

  2 The Forest Pass

  3 The new comrades

  4 A new adventure

  5 The search for the brotherhood

  7 Arrival at Xill

  8 The road to destiny

  9 The fate of all

  Forward By Author

  I was in a coffee shop in Belfast one morning, after leaving my wife to work. I had two hours spare until I had to begin work myself. I decided to use that time to open the laptop and finish the final chapter of this book. It was something I had been putting off, not for any creative reasons, just simply because I did not want to close the final chapter on this labour of love. I was late for work, so badly that I had to cancel the afternoon altogether. I was forced to order a total of 6 cups of coffee, a sandwich, a small portion of chips and a whole plethora of treybakes, to stop the dirty looks I was getting for taking up an entire corner booth to myself. (I know I hate those people too.)

  I did manage to finish the last chapter however, just in time to pick up my wife from work.

  7 hours later.

  Pagewalker has been in the works for over 15 years; I began writing it as a hobby and an experiment while at high school. It turned into much more than that. After sitting back down to it years after the first draft was finished I began expanding and expanding. It became a true escape, and my own form of free therapy, working through issues, memories and insecurities as I wrote. By throwing my fears and worries onto paper I felt them falling from my shoulders and soul like weights from a hot air balloon, allowing me to once more soar into new dreams and possibilities.

  I truly hope that you enjoy reading and living this story with me. You are more than welcome along for the ride.

  Please, after you finish, feel free to contact me on social media and share with me your feelings, good or bad, towards this tale.

  Remember to rate, review and share.

  For Sarah.

  My reason to live and inspiration for everything.

  One

  Where it all began

  My Name is Christopher Garry Mahood. I am a husband, Musician, Artist and Pagewalker.

  A what? Oh yea, I was married last year and we are both really happy.

  Oh wait, the last thing? Right, yea, of course! A Page-walker! To put it very simply, I can step into the pages of a book. Literally, and VERY literally.

  I suppose I should add author to that list now too? Huh?

  Before things get all serious and philosophical and you look for deeper meanings in my multi-layered memoir I would like to point out that yes, I do actually stand on the pages of a book. I set it down on the ground, open on the page I so desire, take a step onto it and stand on the book. It doesn’t really matter about the size or the make, hardback, paperback. Hey, I even did it with an e-reader once! That was cool, but it didn’t have the same….well….smell to it?

  Yea that’s the best way to describe it. It missed the old page, dusty paper smell. You know the one? Yea, you do.

  So besides looking like an absolute fool on day release from the loony bin, standing on hardbacks in my spare bedroom, I go inside there. Into the pages, swim through the words like a raging current. Paragraphs crashing over me like waves pulling me under and deeper into the book until I feel the soft sand or gravel under my feet and I walk onto the shore of the world I was reading.

  There really is no other way to explain it. I am not a space physicist or do not have a PHD in inter-dimension mechanics!

  As I said, I am a music teacher, and a drummer at that.

  Yes I have heard all the drummer jokes!

  As I was saying, there is no way to explain it, other than telling you my story. I am Irish, so storytelling is in my blood. I will however restrain from weaving several back stories that cross as separate T-junctions.

  I will hold back poetry and song from my own mind, but in turn tell the tales I have been given and lived.

  Like all great tales I must start at the beginning. Not the very beginning, because until I was 10 years old my life was very uneventful. I had a good childhood; I grew up in a stable home, part of a close family and a large group of kids my age, in the suburban middle class neighbourhood in which I was raised. I did what any Irish boy did growing up. I explored the fields and forests near my house. I built forts and played hide and seek. I fought goblins and demons with my friends using swords and spears we fashioned from the twigs and branches on the ground. Our imaginations grew like ivy on ruins.

  Each day after school we all met at the broken, rusted cattle-gate that hung half way off the bracket on a rotten ancient hinge. Grass grew out from the hollow steel brackets at either side. It lay like a reminder of the old pig farms and cattle fields that once carpeted my area, but now simply slept under the new houses built over them like spoilt teenagers skipping over a grave. We met at the entrance to the old abandoned lead mines. After a few arguments and tears over who was to be with whom we would divide into two teams. One team would be the knights, the other the Goblins. The next day it would be Allies and enemies, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians.

  One day, however, after a visit in school from the local history re-enactment group, part of the Newtownards Historical Society, we became obsessed with Vikings, Druids, St. Patrick and the Celts.

  So that day a new game began; “Raiders and Celts”. One team would be the invading force, seeking to cut down the forest to build houses and plant crops, raid the towns and pillage whatever was available. The other team became the Celtic Druids, defenders of nature. They would stop the raiders by capturing them in traps and snares.

  This game consumed our summer holidays, weekends, evenings, and every fleeting thought and whim and every daydream.

  For years, the transition from primary school to high school was a massive one. Childhood was expected to be left behind and adolescence picked up along with the new itchy and starchy, one size too big, school uniform. I can safely and proudly look back and remember not agreeing to those terms and conditions. Not then and some may say, not even now.

  My childhood dreams and imagination has never left me and I hope they never do. Dreams make a man. Why live one life when you could live many, right?

  So that summer the obsession was “Final Fantasy 7” on the PlayStation and researching Vikings, Celts, Irish Mythology and fairy tales. I would quiz my grandpa on all types of myths and history.

  He was the secretary of the historical society in our home town so he had a wealth of material for me to read and ponder over.

  I would make huts the way early men did in the early Bronze age I would make weapons like arrow heads and axes from flint, spears from branches sharpened with tools I had made myself and then continue in the evening to defend the forest from Northern Invaders.

  We would fight alongside Cú Chulainn, throw boulders the size of towns with the help of Fionn macCumhaill and scare the Invaders at night with Clíodhna, the queen of the Banshees
.

  However the one piece of mythology and folklore that always stood out to me, were the luchorpán, or as you may know them, Leprechauns.

  There was something about that secretive race that withstood the many changes in Ireland, that endured the struggles and the conflict and which yet remained silent and hidden. I had read J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” that summer and had fallen in love with Halflings, the amazing little people that Tolkien had created. I considered them wonderful and acknowledged them as saviours of Middle Earth. I felt that, as an Irish boy, I had a form of ownership of the Luchorpán. They were like my version of the Hobbits.

  I had however crossed over a line between imagination and reality.

  Growing up in church I always felt uneasy with the stories there. I found God in a very different way as an adult, but back then, Sunday morning stories were just myths from the Middle East. I remember one morning however, the minister saying that `belief reaps rewards from the almighty.’

  I translated that in my childish, innocent and un-spoiled youthful mind as, `if you believe in something hard enough, it will come true.’

  I wanted to find the Luchorpán. I wanted to be the great adventurer who discovered the truth of the Irish myths, the Indiana Jones who uncovered the great mystery and who brought back artefacts to the world. I wanted to be the first person to make contact with the Luchorpán on behalf of this world and prove they were more than just mythical characters.

  As the summer holidays continued, the games in the woods ran for longer and longer. From morning until after sunset we would be out there. I, however, veered deeper into the trees each time. Hoping that this would be the day I would find something.

  More and more children came to play each day too. The numbers grew and skirmishes turned to great battles. More and more were converted to the ranks of Vikings and the numbers of the Druids fell. We had to be smart. We made more traps and pits for the invaders to fall into, until one afternoon, while I was digging a small trip pit, my hands gave way. I was digging deep into the ground, leaning in as the hole got larger, until suddenly, I lost my balance. My knees slipped from the ledge, and as I put my hands out in front of me to stop my fall, the ground swallowed me up. I must have been digging at the roof of a cave because I fell deep into the dark hole.

  I fell down at least six feet. When I landed I felt a deep, throbbing pain come from my shoulder and my head. I had landed hard. The dirt and soil continued to fall on top of me as I ungracefully made it to my feet. I brushed the dry dirt from my hair and clothes. Using the inside of my jumper I cleaned the mud from my glasses and on seeing clearly again, I could observe my landing place. I had fallen into a large clump of thick, mossy, clover. My eyes adjusted to the dark and as my vision cleared I began to see my surroundings clearly.

  I had stumbled across my greatest dream. A room-like cave. The walls were of clean, white chalk stone and the light from the large hole I had accidentally created bounced off the clusters of flint embedded within it like mirrors. Beams of light scattered the room like torches shining in the dark. The dust was thick and the beams of light almost looked like woven ropes holding the walls together. There was a small fireplace in the corner. Nothing but embers glistened in it, as the smoke flew high into a large chimney above. The fall and sudden gust of air must have extinguished the fire as I crashed, uninvited into this home. On closer inspection I could see that the chimney was, in fact, a hollowed tree trunk that rose high into the forest. The inside was black with soot and I could not see the top. A little stool was perched in front of the fire and a stove with a cast iron pot, no bigger than a teapot, was hanging from a short black iron chain. The stool was no bigger than a sewing stool, less than a foot from the ground. The base was as small as a saucer and would only seat a very small child.

  Behind me there was a table with books piled high on top of it. The work area was so minimal that to even open a book there would push the towers of literature to the edges and cause them to topple. Some were piled as high as the ceiling allowed. Touching the roof, they were jammed so tightly that they must have acted as a support beam.

  I continued to look around the room in pure awe of its tiny glory. Not in my wildest dreams could I construct an underground fort as well as this. The floor was clean, despite the dust in the air and the grassy area in which I had landed. It was not made of stone but of trodden dirt. Grass and moss grew in the patches not often walked upon. There was a small bed in the far corner the size of a cot or a small ‘Moses’ basket. I went over to the bed and sat on the straw mattress. I could feel the pain returning in my shoulder and head. I winced as I tried to stand but fell back onto the bed as the pain shot down my back. I could feel my eyes heavy and my mouth dry. I had never fainted before but I was sure this was how it felt. I rested my head against the wall and slid down the bed so that my legs were extended and I was practically sitting on the dirt. All was silent as I slipped into unconsciousness until something snapped me awake.

  To this day, and even as I write this, I will never forget the sound that probably saved my life.

  Imagine you are in your bed. You are alone. It is late at night and you are slowly drifting to slumber. Your eyes are heavy. Your breathing slows and you sink into the mattress. Your head has already sunk into the pillow and you are resting peacefully. Your duvet is tight to your chin and you are warm and comfortable. Just as your eyes roll back into your head and you exhale that last conscious breath, imagine the sound of a small and distant cough coming from the darkest corner of your room.

  Imagine, if you can, my fear at realising that this was not a dream. It was the sound of someone approaching. With my eyes wide open, heart beating, palms sweaty and pain irrelevant, fear and adrenalin forced me to my feet. I tried to scream but my voice was lost. I backed up the wall, scanning frantically for a way out. All that could be seen was the dark tunnel from where the sound had come.

  Again the cough came and from the dark, a whisper,

  “Fáilte?” It said from the darkness.

  I still could not speak, frozen, with my back to the wall and my arms outstretched grasping the stone behind me, pressing me tightly against the cold chalk wall.

  Again I heard “Fáilte?”

  Still unable to answer I racked my brains for how I knew that word.

  “Fáilte?”

  Suddenly it hit me, the meaning of the word that is, not the owner of the voice.

  The voice from the dark was greeting me. I breathed a sigh of relief. A wolf didn’t greet its prey. It simply attacked. I was still alive so I felt no danger. I still had that childlike, innocent trust.

  “Dia dhuit?” I said hopefully. “Uh, Dia dhuit, I think my Irish is very bad, and do you speak English?”

  A slight chuckle came from the darkness,

  “Aye, sure I do so, are ye alright? Ye took a wild wee fall there so ya did.”

  “Yeah, I’m ok,” I replied, rubbing my head. “I’m really sorry about your roof, I had no idea you were under here. We were playing Druids and Vikings; I was trying to make a trap to stop them burning the forest,” I began to explain.

  “So ye are a druid then, are ye lad?”

  “Well yea, for today at least. I was a Viking yesterday and the day before, but I prefer defending the forest. It feels better protecting rather than destroying.”

  “Ahh I tell you this for a matter of truth, son. There are few and far between like ye. Ye have a true kind heart. I can tell it already.”

  I coughed out a laugh and began to explain, “Well I’m not a real druid, you see it’s a game where…”

  “Do you like books?” The voice interrupted me, “Do you read, Druid?”

  Startled, I agreed, “Um, yea. My grandfather lets me read books in his study. I read about ancient Ireland, the myths and legends.”

  “Myths you say?” the voice inquired, still hidden in the darkness.

  The light was shining farther into the room from the hole above us. The sun shifted in
the sky and the line of shadow was retreating closer to where the voice came from. I could see feet protruding now from the black, wearing the shiniest shoes I had ever seen, black leather that reflected the light back to me. Two large buckles were on either side of each shoe, which on closer inspection and in hindsight were, in fact, boots.

  “Are ye deaf boy? Hello?” The voice snapped at me.

  I tend to do that. I drift, daydream, or so I’m told. My mum and teachers are always on at me about lacking concentration and `disappearing into my head’ as they call it.

  “Oh sorry, I tend to do that, I don’t mean to be rude but I have no control over my mind. It tends to drift off.”

  “Ah, ha, not to worry. I was just saying, what myths have you read? Tell me what you know.”

  “Well my favourite story is of Finn McCool the giant of Ulster and when he challenges the Scottish giant Benandonner to a duel, then gets scared and pretends to be a baby when Benandonner arrives for the fight. It always made me laugh at how clever Finn’s Wife was!”

  “Ahh hmm, ok, aye, Finn McCool sure was a wild one, bit of a fool though if you ask me!”

  “You say that as if you knew him?”

  The voice grunted a dismissive laugh then stepped forward a little bit. I could see most of him now, all but his face. He stood no taller than two feet tall. He wore a long grey jerkin which looked hand made from leather and deer hide, like a poncho tied at the waist with a leather strap. Hanging from it was a small tankard. It was a burnished silver tankard, the kind you see at baby christenings with the child’s name engraved on it. It was dented and stripped from many, many years of regular use, by the looks of it. He had another strap over his shoulder. This strap was made from thick white twine and hanging from it was a green bottle with a thick cork in it. A golden looking liquid lapped around the bottom of the bottle as he moved. His arms were covered in many, many tattoos, circles and leaves from what I could see. There was writing on his arms too but I could not make it out from where I was standing.