Abney Park's The Wrath Of Fate
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Authors: Robert Brown
© copywrite 2011 by Robert H. Brown
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the copywrite holder.
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Text set in Times New Roman
Designed by Robert H. Brown
Cover art by Robert H. Brown
ISBN: 9781618429520
BOOK I
PROLOGUE
Show me a man who grew up with a happy childhood, no blood or broken glass in his youth, and I will show you a man who likely has nothing to contribute to society. The same wounds that can turn a man into a villain, might instead turn him into a hero, an artist, or a leader.
Scars add character.
The history of mankind is like that, too. If you could go back in time and erase the wounds, take away the Holocaust, take away slavery, take away every time two cultures were forced to blend, take away every time something so horrible occurred that it forced the rules to change – forced people to change – if you could take away the pain of history, mankind would not be as strong as it is today.
… for better or for worse.
FIRST MOTION
There are Moors just south of the ancient and tiny town of Whitby England. Greenish-brown grass on rolling hills so steep that from the top of a hill you cannot see the bottom of the valley around it, and from the bottom of the valley all you can see is the sides of the hill but not what is on top of them.
At the top of one of these hills stood a tall wooden platform. At twenty-feet high it was almost a tower, freshly built of raw unadorned lumber. Standing on top of the this was a man, gray -bearded and balding, wearing a herringbone coat with a fur collar. His eyes sparkled with excitement and mischief, in them you could see a nine-year-old boy, breaking some very important rules just for the sake of breaking them. Also behind those eyes was an egotistical man who knew without a doubt there was no one within a hundred miles who could understand what he was up to even, if he had stopped to explain it to them, which he certainly would not have. Protruding from his pockets was a collection of slide rules, broken pencils and little rolls of paper, upon which there were little sketches and equations. He had a fresh cut on his right hand that was bleeding a little but he would not notice this until he sat down to lunch, if he even remembered to have lunch. Around the edges of the platform were a series of glass orbs, and inside each was a coil of copper wire wound around a ceramic spindle. Each glass ball was also attached to the other by series of thick copper pipes, which fed into a large machine on the edge of the platform. The machine was covered with gauges and dials, along with one very large throw switch – the kind you would see in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. There was a small cage filled with a half dozen rabbits. The old man pulled up the sleeve of one arm, and reached into the cage. Grabbing a rabbit by the scruff of its neck, he gently lifted it out of the cage, and limped to the center of the platform (he normally walked with a cane, but today he had mistakenly left it at the bottom of the tower), he set the rabbit on top of a pile of carrots, before hobbling back to the machine at the edge of the platform.