The Dream-Quest of Mykel-Paul Hinojos

For Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020. Prompt word: “crawl.” Tuckerization: Mykel-Paul Hinojos

I started this Inktober experiment way back on October 1st, 2020, and this was to be the final entry for Saturday, October 31, 2020. That means it took me over 5 years and 8 months to finish what was to be a month-long project. Click on the link above to see all 31 entries.

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

Please note that in the opening paragraphs I have borrowed heavily from H. P. Lovecraft's The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath. The rest is from my own imaginings. 

EXCEPT FOR THE ILLUSTRATION, NO AI WAS USED IN THE WRITING OF THIS STORY 

 

The Dream-Quest of Mykel-Paul Hinojos

(with apologies to H. P. Lovecraft)

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Mykel-Paul Hinojos dreamed three times of a city seen from afar where animals did not crawl on four legs, but walked in the manner of humanity.

And three times, he was snatched away before he could walk the streets of this fabled metropolis. Still, he could only look with longing at the creatures who walked among the temples, colonnades, and arched bridges of veined marble, silver-basined fountains of prismatic spray in broad squares and perfumed gardens, and wide streets marching between delicate trees and blossom-laden urns and ivory statues in gleaming rows; while on steep northward slopes climbed tiers of red roofs and old peaked gables harboring little lanes of grassy cobbles.

Determined to find this paradise, in light slumber Mykel descended the seventy steps to the cavern of flame and talked of his design to the bearded dream guardians, Raimundo and Bartolomé-Cambranes. Mykel was warned that finding his fabled city might be impossible, but, being old in the land of dreams, he counted on many useful memories and devices to aid him. So, asking for a farewell blessing from the gatekeepers and thinking shrewdly about his course, Mykel boldly descended the seven hundred steps to the Gate of Deeper Slumber, only to find himself suddenly in an ancient wood.

Avoiding the pits and perils as the guardians had instructed him, Mykel searched for one of the special trees that grew wild in the wood. He was to gather four or five of the purple oblate nuts and carry them with him for later use. Eventually the wanderer came into a region of gently rolling hills and meadows with copses of trees unlike any in the waking world. Birds of rainbow hues busied themselves in the branches or reeds until, from afar, he saw the quaint hamlet of Nir, on the river Skai.

The guardians had instructed Mykel to look for an old shop on a cobblestone street. Its front windows would display various dolls for sale, and he had been told not to look too closely at their eyes lest his sleep be disturbed. He was told to enter the store and speak to the proprietress, but not to drink any tea he was offered lest he spend the rest of eternity staring out at the world through a storefront window.

The wizened old woman who greeted him behind the dusty old counter smiled at him with a toothless grin and asked what he wanted. Turning down the proffered tea as he had been warned, Mykel spoke of his desire to find the ancient dream city where animals walked as men.

The old woman scoffed until Mykel brought out one of the nuts he had plucked from the ancient wood.

She stared at the seed, her eyes growing huge, and she convulsively reached out for the prize, but Mykel snatched it away.

It was eventually agreed that the old woman would share what she knew, but only in exchange for more of the nuts she coveted. Mykel took out a second one and laid it on the counter.

She smiled. "To the north there is a town. She lives in Mnarstead, a gray-stoned village near the Mnarian wastes. She will likely know of what you speak."

"And how will I find her in this village?"

The old woman remained silent, a sly smile on her face.

Mykel took out a third nut and laid it on the counter. A clawed hand snatched away the proffered nut as fast as a serpent's strike.

"Magic, my young friend. Magic."

"And this magic?"

"It will cost you."

"I have one more nut. Give me this magic, or I will leave." He took the shiny seed and held it before her eyes.

With a sneer, she reached under the counter and brought out a small glass in a tiny wooden frame. "This is the Glass of True Sight. You will recognize her immediately."

The transaction was completed, and Mykel moved the tiny spectacle to his right eye.

"Not in here!" the woman hissed. "Our business is done. Leave!"

Mykel turned to leave, but, curious, he turned back at the door to impulsively look at the woman through the glass.

With a sudden scream of terror, he turned and, flinging the door open, he fled from the thing that howled at him from behind the counter.

+ + +

The next day, Mykel discovered a caravan traveling to Mnarstead. Having hired himself out as a sellsword, Mykel took his position riding next to the driver of the lead wagon. Fortunately, the four-day trip was uneventful, though tiring, and he arrived at his destination tired and disheveled, though with a heavier purse than when he first started his journey.

Finding lodging at the town's only inn, he found respite in the town's public baths.

The next day, feeling refreshed and much cleaner, he began his search in the marketplace. Discreetly, he would peer at the customers and vendors in the small market, but his glass revealed nothing special. Neither did the next day ... or the next.

Concerned about his money purse growing lighter every day, he turned his magical glass on a middle-aged woman on his fourth day in the market. In his shock, he almost dropped his precious glass.

Though clothed in a woman's dress and tunic, fur covered the fox's arms, neck, and head, fur as white as snow, and she walked on two legs. Carefully, Mykel followed her through the marketplace, keeping just enough distance as not to lose her. Eventually, she walked away from the street, and he followed her through darker avenues and alleys.

Eventually, in a street where the buildings were so crowded together they shadowed the cobblestones underneath, he saw her enter a storefront. After many minutes had passed and she did not reappear, he approached the door.

It was a bookstore.

Cautiously, he opened the door. Inside, he was surprised to find the woman had cast off her illusion and sat behind a counter, surrounded by books piled higher than her. In one five-fingered paw, she held a small tome, and in another, a steaming cup of fragrant tea. The fragrance mingled with the aroma of the universal bouquet of old bookshops. The fox lady looked up.

"You are late," she said.

"Late?" Mykel stammered.

"We wondered whether you would come."

"You know me?"

"Of course. We know all dreamers, and we know why you are here."

She casually took a sip of her tea, slowly closed her book, placed it aside, and shrugged. "It is because of who we are. Every century, one human is allowed to quest for Hlanath Vale; one who hungers for dreams more enchanting and more wondrous than what the Dreamlands usually have to offer." The fox lady smiled. She nodded toward the back of the store, swallowed in darkness. "There is a door at the back of my shop. It enters the land of your ultimate dream."

Mykel licked his lips. "And all I have to do is walk through that door?"

The fox lady nodded. "Yes, but ... well, there is a cost."

Mykel froze. "And that is ..."

The fox lady took a sip of her tea, looking at him over the rim of her cup. "If you walk through that door, you can never return. Never. Your dreaming body will never awaken. It will eventually weaken and die.

"But you will attain your magical city."

Tears came unbidden to Mykel's eyes. "How can fate be so cruel? To be so close to my dreams, my ultimate goal."

The fox lady put her cup down, a look of evident surprise on her face. "So you reject my offer? Explain."

There was a long pause. "I ... I must," was the choked response. "There ... there are people waiting for me. People who depend on me. I ... cannot abandon them."

There was a long silence as the fox stared at him. "Every century, a dreamer comes through my door, and I make the same offer. It has never been rejected."

"I must. I ... do not live for myself."

The fox lady paused in thought. "I can offer you no other choice, but know that I am astonished. I will tell you this. You may still see the city of your dreams from afar, so I make this offer."

She put down her cup and walked toward him from behind the counter. "I am a poor substitute for Hlanath Vale, but you are free to visit me in your dreams. This place, this shop, this home can be your sanctuary in the midst of the Dreamlands that can sometimes offer only nightmares."

"If this is the best you can offer," Mykel said with sadness, "I accept it."

"Of all the dream walkers I have met, you are the most intriguing."

She held out a paw. "Now give me the Glass of True Sight. We will need it one hundred years from now for the next one who quests."

Mykel reached into his pocket and offered it to her. "How did you know I had it?"

Suddenly, the fox expanded, and she began to shine with a supernal glow. Though the room did not change in size, from Mykel's perspective, she expanded beyond the confines of the little store.

"I am the Messenger of Inari!" Her voice rang in his head, and he fell to his knees on the wooden floor. "I am the Cadmean vixen! I am the Teumessian fox! I hold the Essence of Reynard!" Abruptly, the figure diminished until, once again, it was a snow-white vixen. 

The glass fell from Mykel's nerveless fingers onto the floor.

"I beg forgiveness for my ignorance, my lady," he gasped, but the vixen held a finger to his lips. 

"Hush," she said. "It is still in my power to grant a boon, and I will now give you one no human has ever been granted." He felt her furred fingers caress his cheek. "You will no longer need the Glass of True Sight," she said. "I grant you Pure Vision for your travels in the Dreamlands as well as the waking world. Use it wisely."

Suddenly, Mykel had a vision from afar of Hlanath Vale, and tears of joy welled in his eyes at the sight of its beauty once again.

Then Mykel awoke to the bright morning sun shining through his bedroom window.

Fogbound

For Inktober, Friday, October 30, 2020. Prompt word: "ominous." Tuckerization: Gregory Salter

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, no similar characteristics are implied. 

This story is a continuation of the city stories that began with Sarkomand in Some Would Call it Worthless and continued in The Library.

Fogbound

by Alan Loewen

Gregory Salter continued his trek toward the west, following the road until the city-sized library was merely a speck in the distance. Having escaped the ennui of Sarkomand, he left the Library behind to see what might lay ahead of him.

The plethora of books he read was fascinating, and he was enchanted with the hundreds of lives he had lived, but after a while, he noticed, to his growing horror, that his real life began to disappear in countless incarnations. When Gregory discovered the basement filled with living skeletons, impulsively grabbing and reading one book after another, he filled an improvised backpack with food and water and fled.

With the weather warm and comfortable, Gregory passed the next two nights comfortably on the eastbound road, using only the canopy of trees as his only shelter.

It disturbed him that he had met no other people on the road, and the woods bordering it were eerily silent, devoid of the usual sounds of animals and birds. However, he continued his journey, and on the third day, he found himself walking into a mist that soon turned into a thick fog. Still able to see the road under his feet, he wondered if he should turn back but decided to soldier on. To bolster his courage, he found a thick branch in the woods that doubled as a walking stick and an improvised cudgel.

To his relief, he came to a set of city gates set in a stone wall. The fog was so thick that it was impossible to guess their height. Cautiously, he stepped past the entrance, surprised to see no people on the cobblestone street before him.

It was only until he walked a reasonable distance that he saw people furtively moving through the mist. They occasionally glanced at him but continued on whatever personal missions they had. None of them seemed willing to stop and talk to him, even though he tried to stop a few to ask questions.

He decided to avoid the dark stores with large empty windows, and though he was tempted to knock on the doors of the brownstone houses, he continued his trek through the fog.

A sign above a door gave him hope of finding answers to this weird city that had entered. The Cobblestone Pub beckoned him, and when he walked through the door, the patrons, sitting at the scattered round, wooden tables or leaning against the bar, turned as one to stare at him. Within seconds, they lost interest in him and either returned to their whispered conversations or turned to stare sullenly into their mugs.

Wishing to stay invisible, Gregory made his way to the bar. He beckoned to the barkeep, who came and silently stood before him with raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me, sir, but …” Gregory began, but the man interrupted him.

“You came from the Library,” the barkeep whispered. “You should have stayed there or returned to Sarkomand.” Stunned into silence, Gregory stood there as the barkeep turned and filled a mug with a dark liquid.

“On the house,” the barkeep said. “You’ll have to find a job to pay for your livelihood. There’s a guesthouse just down the street. They’ll take you in until you settle. Just don’t be out in the fog when night truly comes.”

“But,” Gregory stuttered. “I’m just moving on.”

A grim smile came to barkeep’s face. “Bad news, newcomer. Those who enter this city can never leave. Surely, they told you at the Library that no one ever returns from following the eastern road.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Gregory snarled. “The gate I entered is just down the street from where I entered. I can leave anytime I want.”

The barkeep shook his head slowly. “When you walked through the gate, it changed into a solid, unclimbable wall. It was the same for all of us. There is no escape. Now, drink your beer and get to the guesthouse. We’re an hour away from nightfall. I have no rooms to let, and I don’t want you sleeping on a table.”

“What …” Gregory said. “What happens at night?”

The barkeep shrugged. “People just disappear. Sometimes, we hear screams when some idiot loses track of time and doesn’t find shelter. Now, let me be. I have work to do.”

The barkeeper turned away to check on other patrons, leaving Gregory staring at his own beer mug. Tentatively, he took a sip, and hunger and thirst made him drain the mug dry.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Gregory shouldered his knapsack and made his way to the guesthouse.

True to the barkeep's word, he was taken in and given a week to find a job and a place to live.

Also, the barkeep spoke truth about the gate. Gregory never found the entrance where he had entered or any way to leave. The stone walls surrounding the city were smooth as glass, and when he tried to talk to people about building a ladder to find the top of the fog-shrouded walls, they stared at him and passed on.

He found work with a mushroom farmer, as the various types of fungus were the only edibles that would grow in a city perpetually covered in fog. A two-room flat became his new home, and he quickly learned to avoid being out at night in the ominous fog. Occasionally, Gregory would be awakened by a distant scream of some victim of the night, and he would tremble in his bed until the morning, unable to return to sleep.

Countless years later, Gregory shuffled his way through the streets like the other citizens of the city. He never learned the name of the fogbound city. It was a mystery, a town without a name.

One evening, Gregory sat at his small dinner table and quietly spooned tasteless soup into his mouth. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. A sudden realization came to him. He hated this city more than anything. He hated his life, day by day, digging mushrooms out of offal and trudging home before the dreaded night claimed him.

He quietly put his spoon down and shuddered. Better an end to this nameless purgatory than another day of soul-crushing ennui.

Gregory got up, tucked his chair into its place by the table, and walked outside into the fog.

As night quickly descended. Gregory swallowed his terror and waited quietly.

He gritted his teeth until he feared they would crack under the pressure of his jaws, but he clenched his fists and refused to move, ignoring the other people fleeing to shelter.

Complete darkness crept upon him, and Gregory felt a cosmic cold envelope his body. He could not help it when a nameless dread made him turn toward his door for shelter, but it was too late.

He felt gravity reverse, and Gregory fell into the sky with a shriek.

He plunged heavenward, tumbling through the fog until he was above the clouds in a maddening fall upwards. He suddenly saw the stars. As he was swallowed up in their glory, Gregory, in his terror, abruptly realized he had discovered a way to leave the city after all.

The Library (Inktober, Thursday, October 29, 2020)

For Inktober, Thursday, October 29, 2020. Prompt word: “shoes.” Tuckerization: Colleen Cahill-Landis

This is a reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

The Library is an extension of what I call the City Cycle. It began with Some Would Call It Worthless , and those who continue on the eastward road find themselves Fogbound.

The Library
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

“Come in,” the Director said. An aide popped her head past the doorframe.

“Director, we’ve had some new refugees from Sarkomand.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“I will orient them in my Common Room.”

The aide nodded and silently closed the massive door behind her.

The Director looked at the stacked books that covered every available space in the office. She selected one at random and smiled. I have time to read one more book, she thought to herself.

Ten minutes later, she entered the Common Room where four people, three men and a woman, sat on the divans, the Director’s aide standing near the door. Their clothes and shoes were dusty from travel. None rose when the Director entered the room, but she was not insulted. The journey from Sarkomand to the Library was not a dangerous one, but it was exhausting.

“Welcome to the Library,” the Director said. “I am Director Landis, currently in my forty-ninth year of service. I know you are tired, hungry, and thirsty, and my aide will see to your needs as soon as I explain where you have arrived.

“None of you felt at home in Sarkomand, and you have journeyed here to see if life is better. You have arrived at the Library, a city-sized building four by four square miles in size and a consistent ten stories tall. Like Sarkomand, we have no idea who built the Library, but we do know its purpose: to store Earth's wisdom and written word and give shelter to the residents that live here.

“My aide will assign rooms to you and the various jobs you are situated for. The only other responsibilities are to enjoy the books in the library and to write the stories of your lives—your autobiographies—before you arrived in Sarkomand.”

The woman shyly raised her hand. “My apologies, but what are our options if we find life here that is not what we wanted?”

The Director smiled. “You are not prisoners here. You may return to Sarkomand or continue your journey on the eastbound road.”

“And that leads to … where?” one of the men asked.

Director Landis shrugged. “We do not know. People have never arrived at the Library from that direction, and those that have taken the journey have never returned.”

Another man spoke up. “So, all you want us to do is work at whatever job we’re assigned, read books, and write our bios?”

The Director nodded. “Yes. It’s a straightforward life, and many have started families here.”

The speaker snorted. “I’ve not read a single book since I left high school. I’m willing to work, but I have no interest in reading and writing and will not start now.”

The Director gritted her teeth but kept a smile on her face. “Ah,” the director replied, “but the books here are special.” She turned and picked one up off the coffee table. “Would you humor me and read the first sentence in this one?”

With a sneer, the man grabbed the proffered book and looked at the first page. “When a traveler,” he began, “in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork...”

Suddenly, his eyes glazed over, and he sat staring straight ahead.

The other three pilgrims moved away from him in surprise. “What did you do to him?” one demanded.

The Director gave a humorless smile. “The books in the Library have a fascinating effect on the reader. Once you read the first sentence, you live the story's contents. Though it only seems a few moments, our friend here will live each second written in the book, even if it covers years or even centuries. And it will appear as real to him as we are to each other." The Director smiled. "I have lived countless thousands of lives through the books here.”

Suddenly, the man with the book dropped it from nerveless fingers, his eyes bulging in horror. He jumped off the divan with an ear-splitting scream and ran from the door. Wrenching it open, he raced outside, his screams fading down the hallways.

The Director turned to her aide. “Please make sure our guest finds the front door.”

“What … what in heaven’s name did you give him?” one of the pilgrims asked.

The Director picked the book up off the floor, inspecting it for damage. “It’s The Dunwich Horror by an obscure writer named H. P. Lovecraft,” she said. “I do not recommend it for newcomers.”

Some Would Call It Worthless (Inktober, Wednesday, October 28, 2020)

For Inktober, Wednesday, October 28, 2020. Prompt word: “float.” Tuckerization: Bec J. Palmer

This is a reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

Some Would Call It Worthless is the first in what I call the City Cycle. It is continued in The Library, and those who continue on the eastward road find themselves Fogbound. 

 

Some Would Call It Worthless

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Visitors to the ancient, mysterious city of Sarkomand usually find it by accident, becoming lost driving on a dark country road, or being led astray by a shady tour guide in some foreign country. Others sometimes awaken in the city only to find their bed transported at night to a small, dingy room.

When Bec Palmer suddenly found herself a reluctant guest in the time-worn city, a glance at the narrow streets pitted with potholes, dark alleys filled with refuse, trash bins reeking with the stench of rot, and residents who would not stop for questions soon made her label Sarkomand worthless. Life for her became a mission to find an exit back to home. There was a road that led east and many people left Sarkomand to discover what lay beyond, but Bec wanted home, not more mystery.

However, Bec’s natural pragmatism soon led her to discover the city’s hidden charms. The owner of the darkened bistro, with its floor and tables covered with old stains, was quite capable of serving up dishes that tempted the palate of the most jaundiced gourmand. Stores with broken windows sealed with moldy cardboard often held rusty shelves filled with treasures from exotic locales. Dead-end streets led to gardens of exotic blooms and fragrances floating in the air. Run-down, store-front churches that appeared at first glance unworthy to bear the title “House of Worship” contained truths that spoke of Heaven itself.

Yes, many who found themselves in the city wallowed in spite and bitterness, but some, like Bec, soon lost their desire to leave. In Sarkomand, she found a home filled with wonder.

Lee, Marie Anna, "Children in an alleyway" (2010). All Photographs. 3282.

https://scholarlycommons.pacific.edu/kam-photos/3282

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn (Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020)

For Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020. Prompt word: “music.” Tuckerization: Mark Wilson

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

 

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Author’s Note: Yes, I am almost two years behind, but I slog ahead, fulfilling my commitment to write 30 flash fiction pieces for October 2020. I will not stop until I have completed my promise to all the people who desired tuckerization in a Loewen story.

 

The jeep bumped along the rugged road leading up the mountainside. Not that the South Mountain range could be compared to mountains like the Rockies or the Sierras, but in southcentral Pennsylvania, it was the adjective used to describe them.

Mark Wilson steered around a gully that had washed out part of the old, gravel road. Courtesy of Google Maps, he had found a small, isolated mountain pond. It would perfectly serve his purpose.

Next to him in the passenger’s seat sat two large backpacks filled with all that he needed for his project: a tent, food, some light camping gear, some recording equipment, and a Yamaha flute valued more than the Jeep Wrangler he drove. It would take two trips over rocky terrain to get all his equipment to the location, but the exertion would be worth it.

The late September air felt crisp and clean, making the journey to the pond enjoyable. Arriving, he paused and surveyed the area. The forest went directly up to the edge of the water, and the thick detritus of the forest promised a comfortable night in his tent.

The pond was less than an acre in size, and Mark could see no evidence of any presence of other campers or hikers past or present. Birds quietly sang in the trees, and a late-season cricket started announcing the temperature with his chirps. Mark counted twenty-seven chirps in fifteen seconds and added forty. The ambient temperature was a comfortable sixty-seven degrees.

He placed his equipment near a tree and made the return trek to his jeep.

An hour later, Mark set up the small tent and started hooking up his recording instrument to two microphones. Dawn would arrive at 6:30 in the morning, and Mark was determined to be up and ready and catch the background sounds of nature waking up. Back in his studio at home, he would lay tracks of his flute playing over the sounds of wind, birds, and any wildlife he hoped to record. Far away from roads and airports, he hoped to record at least a full hour of the environment free from humanity’s ever-present noise.

That evening, he sat around a small fire drinking tea before sleeping. The moon was full, and the pond glowed with its reflection. Occasionally a small fish would come to the surface to take advantage of an insect’s fatal fall onto the water. Deep in the woods, a green glow revealed a decaying stump succumbing to one of the fungi collectively called foxfire.

Later, as he fell asleep, Mark heard the distant yipping of coyotes and the bark of a lonely fox.

The following day as the east began to glow, Mark uncovered his microphones and began recording. Dawn started with no wind, but the air was filled with bird calls and an occasional splash from the pond, either a fish looking for morning breakfast or a muskrat looking for a meal. The occasional burp of a bullfrog competed with the incessant chirping of last night’s cricket and added more to the morning symphony.

Content, Mark leaned back to enjoy nature’s concert, and after an hour, Mark moved to turn off the recording equipment, delighted for what would now serve as the background of his flute solo.

After a gulp of his cooling coffee, Mark opened up his flute case and lovingly put the parts together. Done, Mark put the flute to his lips and began the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Playing for an audience of none, the solo floated over the pond where the trees swallowed it up.

Suddenly to his surprise, his flute was answered by another. He stopped playing to hear the counterpoint notes stop abruptly as well.

Blinking in surprise, wondering if he heard things, Mark again put his flute to his lips and began to play. Immediately, the music across the pond joined in, and, taken by the serendipitous opportunity of being united in a duet, Mark stood and continued his playing.

For an hour, Mark’s tune was pursued by his unseen companion’s artistry, a weird, haunting air that complemented his playing. When Mark stopped, the music continued, and now he had the opportunity to accompany his partner with an improvised melody made up on the spot.

Exhausted, Mark stopped, and the music across the pond concluded within a few moments. “Thank you!” he called, but there was no response. Waiting for a few moments, Mark reluctantly began dismantling his flute, storing it carefully in its case, waiting for the other player to call out or somehow reveal their presence. That was when he realized that, thinking he had turned off his recording device, it was still running. Delighted, he pushed buttons and grinned when he heard the duet that he thought was lost only because he did not know to record it as it was happening.

Mark again listened to the mysterious duet with his invisible partner that evening in his studio. With a smile, he sat back, closed his eyes, and relived that moment’s joy again. The soaring accompaniment brought back memories, and his senses remembered the aromas of the woods, the feel of a bed of forest leaves where he sat, and the vision of the sun reflecting off ripples on the pond.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie, and Mark opened the door to find Daniel, his friend, with a pizza box and a liter of soda.

Mark smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “You have got to hear this recording I made.”

After telling Daniel the story of his invisible partner, Mark replayed the music, and both men sat spellbound.

“What do you think?” Mark asked.

“That was amazing, especially since the instrument we hear is not a flute.” Daniel restarted the recording. “Listen very carefully.”

Mark listened intently and smiled. “Pan pipes,” he said. “And masterfully played. I’ve never heard pipes played with such range and depth.”

“It’s a pity,” Daniel said, “you don’t know the artist. This is worthy of a release on a recording label. You have to find out who this is and talk to them. See if they’ll agree to release the composition with you.”

The following day was blurred with activity. Once again, Mark examined the area around the pond on Google Maps but found no residence within a reasonable distance. Furthermore, he confirmed that his trip to the pond and the resulting hike was the only realistic path.

The only logical thing to do was to travel back to the pond and see if he could reencounter this fantastic musician.

He emailed Daniel about his plan, and he once again journeyed to the pond the following day.

Two weeks later, Mark’s parents reported him missing. With emails and telephone calls unanswered, his worried parents traveled to his apartment to find it undisturbed, with Mark nowhere to be found.

The police found his jeep in the South Mountain range abandoned near a gravel road with deep ruts, but the vehicle worked perfectly. An intense search by 200 volunteers failed to turn up any sign of the missing man. After five days, the search officially ended.

It was October when Daniel decided to walk the area where it was assumed Mark had disappeared. The sun, still below the horizon, turned the eastern sky into a riot of salmon and pink. Daniel parked his jeep where Mark’s car had been abandoned. Walking up the mountainside, he followed a dimly remembered description of the location Mark had mentioned in his last email.

The sun had just peeped over the horizon when Mark found the pond. He stood at the water’s edge and mourned for his friend.

Within seconds, the sound of a flute floated over the water, and Daniel’s jaw dropped open in shock.

“Mark!” Daniel shouted. “Mark!”

The flute continued as if the player was unaware of the interruption. Within a few minutes, the lone flute was joined by another, creating a haunting duet with the sounds of a forest greeting the morning.

Daniel listened for a few moments longer, mesmerized by the song.

Then, running as fast as the uneven ground would allow, he jogged around the pond to find his friend.

Daniel chased the flute players, but they remained invisible to his eyes. Calling out his friend’s name, the music never stopped, and the players always seemed just a few yards ahead of him behind a tree or boulder.

After a fruitless search, Daniel collapsed near a tree and allowed the music to wash over him. Tears ran down his face, but he did not know if they came from the ethereal hymn that plucked at his heart or the grief that he knew Mark was forever lost.

After a while, the music ended, and the forest was again abandoned to the normal sounds of wood, wind, and its denizens. Daniel struggled to his feet and slowly returned to his car.

Content that Mark still lived though in a plane or dimension he could not see, Daniel slowly drove down the mountainside. He sincerely hoped his friend was happy.

Resigned to the reality that his friend had been spirited away, Daniel never returned, leaving Mark and his unseen partner to greet the dawn with otherworldly music until time ended.

THE END

I Have Seen the Future and the Future Is Diesel, Part 2 (Inktober, Monday, October 26, 2020)

For Inktober, Monday, October 26, 2020. Prompt word: “hide.” Tuckerization: Carol Pelligrino

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

I Have Seen the Future and the Future Is Diesel, Part 2

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

(Note: This story is a sequel to I Have Seen the Future and the Future Is Diesel, published in my short story collection, Worlds of Mystery.)

The Ruins

Nurse Pelligrino tried to breathe through her mouth to keep out the ever-present stink of diesel. Here in the Ruins, the smell of diesel mixed with blood, used bed pans, and the various odors of the sick and dying. However, as a nurse, Carol had to leave the surface and do a two-week shift thirteen levels below in an artificial hell where even further, the ever-present hum of the diesel extractors kept the planet working for its masters.

When American scientists found a way to create cheap diesel fuel from elements deep within the earth, an unholy marriage of mechanical engineering, nanotechnology, and affordable fuel collapsed the government to make way for corporations, the true purveyors of power. The Middle East went bankrupt, the dollar soared, pollution went out of control, and life spans dropped. The Age of Diesel reigned supreme.

A robotic nurse’s aide wheeled by, leaving a thin sheen of lubricant on the floor from faulty hydraulics. “Nurse Carol Pelligrino,” its speaker rasped. “Director Manson wishes to see you in his office right away.”

Carol sighed and looked at the clipboard in her hand, listing dozens of patients that needed attention. She shrugged in resignation. They were all used to waiting.

Carol walked into Manson’s office without knocking. He didn’t deserve consideration. True to form, he sat glassy-eyed behind his desk, flying on whatever he could sneak from the pharmacy.

“Director Manson? Director Manson!”

Some form of sentience came to the director’s eyes, and he mumbled something.

Carol leaned closer. “Repeat that,” she ordered.

The director screwed his features in concentration. “Room 744,” he mumbled. “Rebel. They caught him. Roughed him up. Fix him up for …um ... interrogation.”

Carol shook her head, turned on her heels, and left the office. She wondered if this one would be alive when she saw him. With their computerized brains, the so-called Custodians didn’t practice restraint when chasing those who stood against the Corporation Hegemony.

As she entered the room, she first saw the Custodian standing in a cloud of exhaust, its diesel engine purring inside it. An ambulatory ball of metal and hate, it had its weapons ready and pointed at the human on the bed.

“Stand down,” she ordered and was not surprised when the Custodian ignored her.

Amazingly, the man on the bed was conscious. “I’m Nurse Pelligrino,” she said. “I’m going to check you over for injuries.”

The man nodded, pain evident in his eyes and on his features. “I have a broken arm and maybe internal injuries.” He nodded at the Custodian. “Those things aren’t known for their gentleness.”

“I’m going to give you something for your pain,” Carol said. She walked over to a counter and opened it with her handprint. She was surprised to find painkillers in the drawer. Usually, the nurses and doctors permanently stuck working here sold them on the black market.

After the injection and the patient visibly relaxed, Carol took the portable scanner out of her pocket and ran it up and down the man’s body. “You’re lucky,” she said. “Your arm is a greenstick fracture. Your spleen is bruised but not bleeding. What’s your name?”

“Nick Weaver,” the man said.

“And you think being a rebel can solve the world’s problems?” she whispered.

Nick smiled. “If I was the only one, most likely not.”

Carol shook her head. “Gotta love that idealism.” She turned to the Custodian. “I need an InstaSplint for this man’s arm. I have none in this room. I will return.”

Striding down the hallway, she returned to Director Manson’s office and walked in. He lay face forward on his desk, snoring away whatever drug he had taken to ease his misery of presiding over the Ruins.

Fifteen minutes later, Carol walked back into the rebel’s room carrying a box bearing the label InstaSplint. Opening it, she took a plastic wrap out of the box, wrapped it around Nick’s arm, and three minutes later, it had hardened to create support for the fracture.

Carol turned and addressed the Custodian. “I need to access the cabinet behind you.”

The Custodian obediently stepped forward, allowing her to work behind itself. A few minutes later, Carol returned to the bed.

She stood smiling at Nick until the Custodian started a loud clicking. Garbled speech suddenly came out of its speakers while a large puddle of diesel formed on the floor. With a burst of static from its speakers, it slumped forward, obviously inactive.

Carol shook her head. “What a pity it broke down.”

“What did you do?” Nick asked.

Carol laughed. “Little old me? I’m a nurse. How dare you say I did something to a Custodian? That’s rebel talk.”

Her face turned grim. “Now listen carefully. I will leave the room under the pretense of needing different painkillers. That will take about fifteen minutes.

“You will leave this room, turn left and then turn right. Walk right into Director Manson’s office. You have exactly three minutes to relieve him of his lab coat, ID card, and anything else you find interesting. He is sleeping and will not wake for at least a few hours. I made sure.

“You will then use his card to access the elevator to the surface. Nobody will stop you because nobody cares about anything happening in the Ruins.

“You will ditch the coat and ID and then hide. When you see the streets are clear, usually around 10 at night, you will head to the Robert Morris hotel at 10th and Arch. Tell the concierge you need a key for Room 453. Remember that number. The Resistance will help you past there.”

Nick’s look of surprise never left his face. “You’re a member of the Resistance?” he said

“Me? Carol asked. “I’m just a regular nurse doing her bimonthly shift in the Ruins. You have fifteen minutes before I return to this room and raise the alarm about an escaped prisoner taking advantage of a Custodian malfunction. Good luck.”

With that, Carol left the room and never looked back.

There were no repercussions from the rebel’s escape.

This place was, after all, named the Ruins for a reason.

THE END

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The Cave (Inktober, Sunday 25, 2020)

For Inktober, October 25, 2020. Prompt word: “buddy.” Tuckerization: Matt Alleman

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

 

The Cave

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The quartet stopped in front of the forested hillside and dropped their backpacks with sighs of relief.

The leader looked at the small crevice on the side of the hill with excitement evident on his face. Just wide enough for a man to enter, Matt approached it, holding out his hand. He smiled. “Just feel the breeze coming out of there! This system has to be huge.” Matt pointed at the ground. “No footprints or signs anybody else has been here. We’re going to be the first explorers.”

Brandon grinned. “Good find, Matt.”

Matt had found the crevice a few days ago when walking the woods near his home. The breeze from the gap implied it led to a cave large enough to be affected by the highs and lows of the weather. Contacting his three closest buddies, Brandon, Jared, and Ricker, Matt made them swear to silence as it was evident the cave was as yet undiscovered. This guaranteed pristine formations and rooms and hallways that had never seen the presence of any other explorer.

“Okay, gents,” Matt said. “Hardhats with helmet lights? Extra batteries? Good. Flashlights with extra batteries? Does everybody have at least four light sticks? Ricker, why are you carrying a knife?”

Ricker laughed, took the knife out of its sheath, and spun it expertly in his hand. “You know I never go anywhere without my Spyderco Bow River. We might run into some troglodytes.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “If it snags on a crawl, you’ll just have to leave it behind.”

Jared opened his backpack to reveal five energy bars and a bag of trail mix. “Can’t eat a knife, Ricker.”

Ricker shrugged. “I also brought beef jerky. Homemade. Anyway, like we all planned, we’re only going in for an hour and then turning around and coming straight back.”

Brandon tied his backpack shut. “Yup, one hour in and one hour out and turning around if we discover a technical climb.”

Matt nodded. “That’s right. Okay, light check.”

After being satisfied the helmet lights and flashlights worked, Matt turned to the group. “Okay, I’m first, and I’ll let you three fight it out as to what order you want to follow.”

With that, Matt turned around and, turning sideways, began to squeeze himself into the crevice while carrying his backpack behind him in his left hand. The way was tight but navigable, with a steady breeze blowing into his face. About fifteen feet in, the passage turned to the left and became so close, Matt had to exhale all the air out of his lungs. He pushed himself a few feet further where the passage opened enough to allow him to breathe normally. Behind him, Matt could hear his friends as they followed. “It’s real tight where you make a left turn,” he yelled. His voice echoed ahead of him.

In the light of his helmet, Matt could see the passage ended in a larger space that the light could not penetrate. Excited, Matt forced his way further until the crevice ended up in a much larger room, so large, his light could not reach the far wall. He moved to the side to let Jared, Brandon, and Ricker into the room. The combined light showed walls receding to the left and right into the darkness. The ceiling was a modest eight to ten feet high.

A breeze could be felt coming from ahead. “Okay, let’s be logical about this. Jared and Brandon follow the left wall, and Ricker and I will go to the right. If you find any passageways, mark them.” With that, Matt took out a glow stick, snapped it in half, and shook it until it gleamed with a bright white light. It would remain active for twelve hours illuminating the exit, long enough for a quick explore.

Slowly, Matt and Ricker made their way around the right wall as Jared’s and Brandon’s lights became smaller as they made their way around the cavernous room.

Matt and Ricker had not gone thirty feet before they found the remains of an ancient campfire, small but once a source of light. Now the cold ashes only spoke of a bygone time long before the four explorers had entered the cave.

“What do you think, Matt?” Ricker asked. “Indians?”

Matt nodded. “That would be my guess. I don’t know how old these ashes are, but this area was uninhabited until 15,000 years ago. I can’t believe the ashes are that old. Just don’t touch them. We’ll have to let some archeologists know eventually and let them sift through it all.”

The duo continued to follow the wall, and far across the room, they could see the twinkling lights of their friends. Then, a few minutes later, a glow stick glimmered from far across the room.

“They found a hallway,” Ricker said. Matt nodded in response.

Suddenly Matt and Ricker stopped as a burst of excited chatter came from across the room. The two stopped and tried to listen, but the distance could not carry the conversation.

“Let’s keep going,” Matt said. After a few minutes, Matt could see the far lights continue their exploration as well.

Twenty minutes later, the two groups met neither having encountered any other exits from the room.

“Guys, you are not going to believe what we found?” Jared said.

“A campfire?” Matt asked.

“What?” Brandon asked. “No, but you have got to see this. Come on.”

Matt and Ricker followed the other duo. Ten minutes later, they found themselves staring at the wall next to a large hallway leading into the darkness.

“Pictographs,” Matt said in awe.

“We’ll be famous,” Ricker said. “Have any ever been discovered in a cave?”

Brandon shook his head. “Not that I know of. There are a lot of rocks in streams and rivers, but none in a cave.”

The quartet stared in wonder at the figures carved into the wall.

“This is weird,” Matt said. "Pictographs that I know about are nothing more than symbols. This kind of tells a story.” He pointed at the carvings, crude images of men with spears and clubs fighting what looked like a …

“Is that a dinosaur?” Jared asked.

Matt scrutinized the carving. “No, it can’t be. It’s walking on four legs so I think it may be a cave bear. No way could they be fighting a lizard that big.”

Brandon gestured down the dark unexplored hallway. “Should we?”

With that, the quartet made their way into the stygian darkness, their lights for the first time illuminating cave formations. Flowstone, stalactites, stalagmites, and columns glistened wetly as they reflected back the light.

Ricker turned around to study a column they had walked past. “Um … guys!” he said. “Look at this!”

The rest turned about and mutely stared at the ancient skeleton half concealed in the column that had formed over it.

Matt stared in a combination of awe and wonder. “I cannot even guess how long that’s been laying here. This is a living cave with formations still growing, so I have no idea how long it took for that skeleton to be covered like that.”

“There’s another one over here,” Jared said. The rest turned around to see another skeleton, this one with a shattered rib cage. Next to it lay a stone-headed spear, the wooden handle mostly rotted away.

“I guess some of them didn’t get away from that cave bear,” Jared said.

“Glad those things are extinct,” Ricker muttered, his hand subconsciously dropping to knife sheathed on his belt. “He looked at the rest of the group. “We’re coming up on our hour time limit. What do you say about adding another 30 minutes? Our lights are going strong.”

Matt looked at Jared and Brandon who nodded in agreement. “Okay. Thirty minutes more, then we clear out and notify somebody who can make sense of all this. We’ve already made our mark in history.”

The group continued but hadn’t gotten more than thirty feet when they stopped again with yet another surprise before them. “Is … is that a cave bear?” Brandon asked.

The skeleton was monstrous, twice the size of a man, laying on its right side with several spears around it and two of them penetrating its rib cage. Under it, they could see a complete skeleton of a man, except the skull lay a few feet away from the body.

“Oh, man,” Ricker muttered. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

“Yeah,” Matt said in response. “Just don’t touch anything.”

Jared shook his head. “That is not a skull of a mammal. And those teeth! Look at the front fangs. They’re hollow. This animal was venomous.”

Stunned into silence, the quartet studied the skeleton and then, as one turned down the cavern tunnel and walked further done the corridor.

About forty yards, they stopped in shock at another unexpected surprise. Where the corridor narrowed, a primitive door blocked the way. The wood was at the point of crumbling, and remnants of thick vines littered the cavern floor.

“Now what?” Brandon asked.

Matt chewed his lower lip for a while, lost in thought. “Common sense says we turn around and let the experts handle this, but I have got to see what’s on the other side of that door.”

Carefully, Matt attempted to shine his flashlight through the gaps in the door. Still, the darkness refused to yield any discoveries. So finally, he turned to his companions.

“Okay, let’s take a vote. Who’s for opening the door?”

Three hands were raised. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

As Matt touched the door, it crumbled into dust and fragments. “Well, now we can tell the experts it was already in pieces when we reached this spot.”

The hallway continued into the darkness.

The group had not walked more than twenty yards when suddenly Matt was blinded by a flash of brilliant cobalt blue, and the next thing he knew, he found himself in a rushing torrent of water.

Desperately trying to keep his head above water, the water flowed so fast he could not gain a secure foothold on the bottom of the stream. A bright white light in front of him made him feel disoriented.

Gasping for air, Matt felt himself fall a short distance and plunge into a deep pool. As he struggled for air, he was stunned by the presence of the light, and Matt felt relief that he had clearly exited the cave for the surface.

He made his way toward a stone bank made slippery with algae. Behind him, he heard his friends sputtering and splashing about. Matt turned and grabbed Jared’s hand and pulled him toward the safety of the rocks.

Ricker came to the surface, and Matt pulled him to safety as well. “Where’s Brandon?” he yelled.

Further down the pool, still struggling in the current, Brandon surfaced, gasping for breath. Jared and Matt pushed off the shore and reached Brandon, helping toward more rocks further down the stream. Behind them, the small waterfall they had all tumbled over poured into the pool. The strong current flowing to the far side of the pool ultimately flowed into a …

“Where in the world are we?” Jared asked. 

Hugging the rocks, Ricker made his way to the group. Together, they struggled over the rocks and out of the water.

Soaked, they ignored the discomfort to stare in shocked surprise at the scene before them.

The fast-flowing stream from the pool ran about fifty yards before emptying into a sea that stretched to the horizon. To their right and left, massive cliffs soared into an alien sky composed of bright, roiling clouds that never ceased in their boiling, clearly the source of illumination.

The cliffs curved about the sea and disappeared in the distance, vanishing in the mist.

The shoreline was composed of large trees that swayed in a breeze. Thirty feet away from the breakers, the beach stretched to the right and left in an unbroken vista of glistening black sand.

“Now what?” somebody asked.

Matt turned and stared at his friends in shock, his emotions mirrored in the faces of all three.

He turned and looked at the cataract that spilled out of the cave mouth where they had just escaped. “I don’t know how we can return. That water … the current is just too fast. There is no way we can swim against it. We didn’t carry any pitons or any climbing gear because we weren’t going to climb.”

Brandon dropped to the ground, his head in his hands. “We’ve got to find a way out of here,” he said.

“Listen,” Matt said. “I left a note in our car giving the location of the cave and the time of our return. That’s what I do even when I’m just hiking. So somebody will find the car and come rescue us.”

“What do we do until then?” Ricker asked.

“We survive,” Matt responded.

Thirty minutes later, the group dried out their clothes over a campfire courtesy of Jared’s waterproof Zippo lighter. There was plenty of firewood from the trees, and the presence of a warm fire brought a modicum of feelings of calm and security.

After drying their clothes and the contents of their backpacks, Jared shared his energy bars with the group.

Brandon’s watch had not survived the unexpected swim, but when the rest of the watches said it was time for nightfall, there was no dimming of the clouds overhead.

Curious and careful, Ricker made his way down to the shoreline. Moments later, he ran back to the group. “Better put that fire out right now,” he said.

The group questioned his urgent command until Ricker motioned them down to the shore. There, away from the noise of the water that poured from the cave, they stood in stunned silence, listening.

At some distance away, the quartet heard the faint sound of drums.

“I hope we’re rescued soon,” Matt said. “The sooner, the better.”

+++

Days later, a large, hastily erected tent at the cave’s entrance served as a base of operations for several men and women who bustled about carrying exotic electronics. Occasionally a figure in a hazmat suit would make their way into or out of the cave’s entrance.

A woman entered the tent and stood before a man seated at a table covered with electronic equipment and paper reports.

The seated man looked up. “Yes?”

“We sent a camera on the back of the mobile robot down the hallway past the door. As soon as it goes twenty-three yards, it vanishes in a flash of harmless Cerenkov radiation. And the tether is cleanly severed.”

The seated man sighed and pushed the papers away from him. “So going down the hallway is a one-way trip?”

The woman nodded.

The seated man stood. “Okay. We’ll give up the four men for lost. Seal the cave with concrete and then bury the entrance in dirt and stone. We’ll explore the cave sometime in the future when we have better tech. Until then, all the reports are sealed." He sighed. "I suspect those four men are dead. Whatever happened to them, we can’t help them. Maybe someday, we’ll solve the mystery."

The woman nodded. “Very good, sir. I’ll make sure there are cover stories available for the missing men and the rest of our team. Nobody will ever know the truth.”

THE END

The Holy Well of Saint Blodeuwedd (Inktober, Saturday, October 24, 2020)

For Inktober, October 24, 2020. Prompt word: “dig.” Tuckerization: Joy Henley

On my honor, I am never doing this again. I’m getting closer to being a year behind on this project. Yet, I confess a cancer diagnosis can throw the proverbial monkey wrench into anything. (No worries. I’m going to be okay.)

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

The Holy Well of Saint Blodeuwedd

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

“Everybody, please watch your step but do come a little closer.” The tour guide motioned for the small crowd to join him. At their feet, white granite blocks surrounded a small pool of water. The visitors could see many feet down until sunlight itself could no longer penetrate. “Thank you all for coming and touring the British Museum’s latest archeological discovery. Here in the shadow of Mount Snowden, an obscure entry in an old hagiography revealed the location of the well and hermitage of Saint Blodeuwedd, a heretofore unknown Welsh saint from the 6th century.

“The well before you was the first item we uncovered, easily done as it feeds a small stream and the tiny pond behind you.”

As the tour guide rambled, Joy Henley turned to observe the various faces of the rest of her group from Eastern Nazarene College. Five of them had been lucky enough to be selected for doing a summer overseas course in Wales. Their expressions ranged from fascination to boredom, but all were delighted to be anywhere than the United States for 6 weeks.

One of the group raised a hand. “Yes?” the tour guide asked.

“How deep is the well?”

The tour guide shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We’re mostly interested right now in scouring the area around it for artifacts, but as you can see there is no visible bottom. Our next project is to fully dig out Blodeuwedd’s stone cell, and we may have gotten a lead on her grave. Speaking of her cell, please follow me as that is our next stop.”

As the group carefully walked over the uneven ground to a square of stones not far from the well, Joy felt a tug on her sleeve. Turning to see Deb, her college roommate, Joy whispered a quick, “What’s up.”

Deb pointed at Joy’s chest. “Your necklace popped out of your blouse again. You’re gonna lose that, ya know. I told you not to wear it today.”

Joy grabbed the pendant that had slipped out from where it hung suspended under her blouse. Her fingers ran over the delicate silver filigree of flowers and slipped it back into safety. “I told you I never take it off. It’s a gift from my parents.” Deb rolled her eyes.

The group stopped to hear the guide drone on about Blodeuwedd’s hermitage, a rough hut of fieldstone where people came to hear her wisdom and drink from the holy well. Today only the foundation existed, and some rocks to show where the walls stood.

Now that could be a life I’d like, Joy thought. Here in this quiet. In nature. Just me, God, and a few daring souls willing to travel to talk to me.

Afterward, the group broke up and gathered by the tour bus to eat box lunches purchased back at the hostel.

“Hey, Deb,” Joy said. “You can have my crisps. I want to get some pictures now that the well and hermitage aren’t surrounded by people.”

Deb nodded to busy eating to look up. Quickly Joy went up to the well and began snapping pictures with her disposable Kodak camera.

I wonder if I can take a picture looking straight down the well? That would be a fascinating picture. 

Carefully, Joy made her way around the mouth of the well looking for a good vantage point. Unfortunately, just as she attempted to frame a shot in the viewfinder, the granite block under her foot shifted, and Joy slipped into the well.

Joy’s last sensation was a panicked sense of incredible cold as she sank into the well's depths.

Three weeks later, archeologists carefully exhumed the stone sarcophagus of Saint Blodeuwedd. Unfortunately, the disappearance of a visiting student from the States had hindered the dig for a few days. That the poor woman had never been found only formed one more mystery near Mount Snowden.

Now she was forgotten as the archeologists and their volunteers celebrated finding the elusive grave. Discovered just a few yards away from where the saint spent her life in holy isolation and meditation, excitement ran high.

With bated breath, they carefully lifted the heavy lid. The body of Saint Blodeuwedd was little more than a skeleton covered with scraps of rough homespun wool. Yet the grave held one shocking surprise. A necklace around the saint’s neck had a pendent of flowers in the form of a delicate silver filigree.