Chapter 1
I had felt empty; as if something was missing, for a long time. Now, strangely as I walked back towards the little cottage I had leased in the West Country of England, on the edge of the village of Abury something had changed.
The cottage was a typical olde worlde English thatched cottage, one of only a few with the Tudor style wattle and daub walls painted white between the ancient oak beaming that gave the whole place a timeless feeling. The small cottage garden was a veritable rainbow of color. Foxglove and lupins seemed to be falling all over themselves behind the pinks and margaritas that filling the borders under the wall by the gated entry. The lawn covered now with miniature daisy-like flowers and dancing heads of buttercups with an apple tree and a mighty old oak that shaded the space between the building and the wooden style in the rampant hedgerow beyond which lay the rolling meadows so typical of the area, the only difference being the hills here where the outer edges of the ancient megalithic site which had drawn me here.
I turned off the main street to walk the short treelined lane where the cottage was and as I passed the village post office and corner shop the door opened and the large, round figure of the owner appeared carrying a box of apples to place under the awning outside. He placed it in a space between the assorted vegetables and a sack of new potatoes then stood and watched me approach. His dark-colored apron pulled tight under his extended midriff and his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows he reminded me of a bear.
“Afternoon Miss Aisha. You been down at the stones again?”
“Yes, Mr. Jones. I never seem to get tired of simply being amongst them.”
I laughed at the knowing grin on the old ruddy face of Mr. Jones. In a short time, I had been in the village I had found the locals very friendly, and Mr. Jones was no exception.
“You may think me mad, but it is as if the Stones have called me here. I feel so alive, and I have started writing again.”
I heard him chuckling as I continued past and into the dappled light of the avenue of beech whose ancient bows intermingled over the narrow lane.
“Nay, miss. I don’t think you mad. The Stones do call some to stay here, ay, and others visit only for a day in the summer to see them. You let them work their magic, miss. You let them work their magic.”
His final words carried to me on the warm, gentle breeze that seemed to come up suddenly.
Back in the cottage I had a shower, threw on my old jeans and a tank top, and my short toweling bathrobe while my hair dried naturally, then bounding down the stairs two at a time, I felt as if I had received a massive injection of energy. It was always the same after a dreamy morning meditating in the stones. Pouring myself a cold coffee I now moved into the lounge area and curled myself up in the massive old armchair.
My notebook in hand, I had been writing down by the stones and now would try and make some sense of the flow of incredible ideas that always seemed to tumble onto the pages when I was there.
A sound, no a voice startled me, I heard it in my mind. Or was it in my mind? I looked around. I was alone, yet still, I heard it again. Was it coming from upstairs? I unwrapped my legs and made my way up the narrow wooden stairs.
There it was again. I stood at the head of the stairs and listened.
There was a small voice... calling for help. Yet, so quiet, it remained just a distant sound. I had heard it before on waking but it was soon gone, pushed back to nothingness.
Other things filled my mind. I was still unpacking and finding my feet in this quaint place I was now calling home. I was open to things and always knew that a place so ancient would probably have portals to the other side and I expected to see and hear things.
Yet this was always, the same, I would ″feel″ that small voice. ″Help me. I am so cold″
Now I could hear it again. This time I answered straight from my heart.
″ I hear you. Lead me to you if you can″
Almost immediately in my mind’s eye, I saw a very large eye. It opened.
Around the eye, the flesh looked like scales the color of shimmering emeralds. The eye itself was a deep, rich hazel color.
The hold that it had over me was not frightening...but it was very real. I could feel it almost looking right into me to see who, or what I was. But with the immense power that I felt from it, there was also a gentle, deep, sadness.
It was as if the owner of that eye was surprised by my answering the small voice and was protective of whoever that voice belonged to. I could almost feel it reading my mind and my heart.
It blinked. The almost translucent, opaque membranes washing across the hazel eye momentarily.
Then in my head, I heard a honey-rich voice.
″You have found us. But hurry. The Princess, my friend, is very weak″
Without giving it a second thought, I answered. ″Where are you? Guide me.″
I took several deep infinity breaths and entered myself as I normally did when meditating, maybe this place really was magical.
On trust alone, calling for help from the unseen universe around me, those who, over the years have always helped me.
I felt I needed to go up into the attic room. It was still filled with many of my books still in boxes, I intended to make it into a small guest room. The bare wooden stairs creaked under my feet, thirteen steps and now I was facing the large wall tapestry that hung on the far wall. There seemed to be a light emanating from the edges. The small window was not getting enough sunlight in for it to be from that, so it must be something from behind the tapestry itself. Part of me just wanted to blot back downstairs and lock the door, but another part of me knew I had to go forwards. Gently and a little nervously I pulled the tapestry to one side. My heart pounding against the walls of my chest, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. I walked through the fluid membrane of the portal.
