Welcome, traveler. Come on in and relax. My name's Caedmon, and I own this place. It's just a replica of an Irish pub on a small side street in New York, south of Houston. That's why this area is called SoHo. As for me, I'm a writer and an artist when I'm not tending bar.
It's not very busy here in the summer, so I head down to the Keys. I do a lot of fishing and hang out in Sloppy Joe's in Key West. I know it's a little campy, but it's Hemingway's old hangout; I guess I go hoping that something he had will rub off on me. It's hot as Hell down there, but it's the off season, and I don't have to wait in a line of tourists for a dinner table or for a boat charter. I don't dislike tourists as individuals, but when they're traveling in a pack, they can turn downright mean, especially if they're spending more than they planned.
I like the comment George Carlin made about them. He asked, "If it's called the tourist season. why aren't we able to shoot them?" I have a little house down there, tucked in a cluster of mangroves right by the water. I had it about ten years so I don't consider myself a "tourist," but the locals do.
That picture up above is one I took at the sunset on Islamorada last summer. It was a lot less crowded than Mallory Square in Key West. The only other one watching it with me was a lovely lady that I met . . . . Well, that's another story. I hated to leave her in September, but I had to get back here. I stopped in Stone Harbor, New Jersey on the return trip, but I couldn't get her out of my mind. I didn't sleep too well the first night. I was up before dawn and decided go down to the beach to see the sun come up. Maybe it was just to recapture that moment when she and I watched the sun set in Islamorada. What I remember, I set down in this poem called "Night Beach."
Night Beach
by Caedmon (a.k.a. Francis Eaden)
Water sliding up grey, satin sand,
dragged, soundlessly, back.
Rolling, crashing, spraying,
then again,
a white, laced coverlet pulled
upon the land.
Loon-white light of stars and moon,
cold points balanced on curling
forms:
They fall, leap, scatter in endless
dance
before a somber audience of dune.
A primal world held half in shadow,
half in light:
moon-white world of pearl.
Peopled with crouching shadow shapes
that cling,
like lovers to the fast-receding
night.
Breathless sounds, like skis,
on powder far away;
small armored bodies scuttling
on the sand.
The crashing of westward-rolling
waves that,
like cymbals, proclaim the coming
of the day.
Frozen in phantom light,
the little world must stay.
Night creatures scurry home,
like worshipers from mass.
A lonely gull hangs silent in the
sky,
then falls
and calls for all to come and prey.
(copyright Francis P. Eaden)
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____________________________________________________________________________
Back so soon?
No, I don't mind. You're good company. I do wonder why you're so interested in me though. Ah, that's who told you. Well, it seems like we have a mutual friend. Yes. I wrote "Webspinner."
You can't find it because I pulled it from the market. It had been published by an underground press. It became a cult classic.
Why? I just didn't want it to be a mass-market phenomenon, And I certainly didn't want to spend all of my time doing book promotions. I had an art gallery in London with my wife.
This is her picture. I always keep it in my wallet. I drew it when she was sitting in the garden one morning about a month before she died; it's one of the last ones I have of her.
I've never known any people happier than we were.
She died, and I died with her. That was ten years ago. Now I'm trying to return to the human race. That's why I'm telling you these things. I'm going to let you read "Webspinner." I'll print out a few chapters at a time then, if you don't like it, you can quit, and I'll never ask you why. Okay? Here's what its all about:
In 960 A.D., the world was a violent and fearsome place. For a thousand years, the British Isles were a battlefield for the Romans, the Celts, a variety of Germanic tribes, and the Vikings. Human life was cheap and, in the struggle for survival, the line between good and evil was indistinct even among their pagan gods. By the fifth century, the Roman church was sending missionaries, like St. Patrick, to convert these violent, aggressive people to a gentler view of life. It was a slow process; there was a continuing conflict between the image of the Christian God and Wyrd, the pagan goddess of destiny. In the time of this story, England was officially Christian, but many fragments of the old beliefs persisted and still do today. This is an adventure interwoven with threads of early Christianity, the love story of Trystan and Iseult, the legend of King Arthur, and Milton’s, Paradise Lost.
Trystan was the ward of a Benedictine monastery in southern France. He appeared young but had been there as long as the oldest of the monks could remember. He had no memory of any other place even though, in a previous time, he had been part of a classic love story involving a maiden named Iseult. In that place, he was called “Tristram.”
Iseult, Trystan’s lover, slept through the ages in a mystical bower on a parallel world called Gnomenklache, which was much like the English Cotswolds. It was inhabited by small people called tonttins.
Cormac, a druid who lived on Gnomenklache, watched over Iseult and traveled frequently between there and the Earth. He had strange powers over the natural world.
These three had the responsibility of keeping Satan and his hordes in their prison on a burning lake of magma underneath the crust of the earth where they had been consigned when they attempted to overthrow God. Cormac was the watcher who summoned Trystan and Iseult when they were needed. They also had an ally, Gwyn ap Nudd, who had been king to a race that had lived under Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, England. Due to their subterranean existence, they lacked skin pigmentation and had an almost transparent appearance. Humans who saw them, on their rare excursions above ground, called them “fairies” because of their fair complexion.
Satan was getting stronger and had almost solved the complex puzzle of his prison. He knew he would be able to escape but worried about Cormac, Trystan, and Iseult. His spies had told him of their existence, but they were the only creatures that he couldn’t see with his mind. In frustration, he ordered Trystan killed. The attempt failed, but it began an awakening in Trystan directing him to travel across the channel to the abbey of St. Sampson in Cornwall to meet his first contact in a long quest, the nature of which he was still unaware. After having to fight his way into the abbey, he found the Abbot, Bedwyr, on his deathbed. After Bedwyr’s death, he was discovered by a band of Berserkers, violent Viking madmen who had become Satan’s shock troops. He killed one but lost the use of his arm in the process. With the coming of night, he crawled into a malevolent forest that almost swallowed him. He was rescued by Gwyn who had been trailing him knowing that he was still oblivious to his real identity and to the danger he faced. Gwyn transported him through a portal leading to Gnomenklache unaware that Mammon, one of Satan’s own, had come through with them.
In Gnomenklache, Gwyn took Trystan to Cormac’s cottage and repaired his arm. Cormac wasn’t there. Slowly, Trystan’s memory of the past returned, helped by Gwyn. He was The Webspinner and his job, with the help of Cormac and Iseult, was to rewind the cocoon from which Satan had almost freed himself. To do this, two swords were needed: the dark one carried by Trystan and a silver one called Caliburn. Trystan learned from Gwyn that this sword, hidden in a cave and thrust deeply into a stone, had been accidentally discovered by a minor wizard, Merlin, who recognized its power. Merlin gave the blade to a young warrior named Arthur who he hoped could bring peace and justice to England. Arthur called the sword Excalibur. After his death, it disappeared.
Cormac was gathering herbs in the woods, when he realized something was wrong. The feeling of the woods had changed, and it was getting colder. While he slept, he was attacked by fire ants, which had never existed in this world. He went to the closest village, and his worst fears were realized. There had been instances of killings and mutilations on the roads. Violence had been previously unknown here. He knew that something evil had come to this world, and he knew that the sleeping Iseult was in grave danger. He sent three tonttins to Iseult’s bower to protect her, until he could get there, and one to go back through the woods to his cottage to intercept Gwyn and Trystan and warn them of this new danger. The tonttins were too late. Mammon had awakened Iseult and tricked her into transporting to Earth where Satan could possess her; he also sent two of the tonttins, Olav and Sigurd. The other, Tompte, refused to go and was saved from being killed by the arrival of Cormac. Mammon, no match for Cormac, told where he had sent Iseult and the tonttins.
Cormac, Trystan, and Tompte crossed over to Earth to save Iseult; Gwyn was dispatched to Glastonbury, the supposed burial place of Arthur, to find the second sword, Caliburn.
After many adventures and battles, Iseult and the tonttins were rescued. Caliburn was recovered, but Gwyn was killed. The little band started south toward Bodmin Moor and Tintagel in Cornwall. Underneath this ancient rock was the mouth of Hell. Satan had finally broken free of his bonds and caused a great, ugly castle, Pandemonium, to rise on the site.
Cormac sent the tonttins home; the danger for them was too great. He, Trystan, and Iseult traveled to the castle to fulfill their destiny to rebind the demon and return him to the pit. In a terrible confrontation, they finally understood that they represented the three natures of a triune God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. In these names, they drove Satan and his minions down into the burning lake. Then it's a deal. Here's my laptop. Just click on the link below and go to the novel.
This RingSurf Rainbow Dragon Ring Net Ring Want to join the Rainbow
Dragon Ring?? If you have comments or suggestions, email me at caedmon670@aol.com
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