The Twins of Noremway Parish

The Twins of Noremway Parish

By

Eric R. Johnston

World Castle Publishing

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

World Castle Publishing

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © by Eric R. Johnston 2012

ISBN: 9781938243103

First Edition World Castle Publishing March 5, 2012

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover: Karen Fuller

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Tracy Deitch and Alexis Johnston

Prologue:

The Story Teller’s Tale

As I survey the desert, I see everything and everyone. I am a story teller whose eye sees far. I am a courier, an envoy, a messenger to all, yet you would never know my presence. My stories are sacred—from the Gospels of Christianity to the pericopes of
The Book of Ragas
. You will have read my work, and I’m sure will have admired it well.

I have a new story to tell, one that everyone must hear.

Years of warfare, chaos, and evil have laid their waste upon the earth, making it nearly unrecognizable. Perhaps there are some remnants of the old ways still present in Noremway Parish, the largest of the small villages in what is often referred to as the Inner-Crescent.

Noremway Parish has the great Ragas himself to thank for its founding, continued existence, and protection from the chaos of the Dark. He defeated the Darkness 2,000 years ago, banishing it from the land and condemning it to the west.

The Darkness is an ancient evil that came upon this world even before the story tellers. Some have said—although no one could ever know for sure—that the Darkness existed before the Creation. They are creatures of the shadows, of the unformed. Nothing good can ever come from their presence.

They are pure evil.

Long ago, the earth was a sacred place–– a holy place where the Darkness could never dwell. The Gaia-Spirit of the earth, an entity of ultimate goodness—a being named Moria—lived here and offered protection against any evil that threatened it. Alas, she left this planet behind for reasons we story tellers can only speculate about.

I still wait for her return, but I do not expect it.

Over the eons, evil has devastated the planet. Saline swatches across the landscape are the only evidence of oceans having been there. Dry yellow sand blows loosely in the wind, but there are no leaves to rustle upon a light breeze. The trees, once plentiful and green, are now few and far between, dead or dying. The sky is an ugly yellow on most days because of the amount of sand in the atmosphere. The beautiful blue of yesterday rarely shines through; the occurrence is rare, but when it does occur, it is an occasion to celebrate.

In the Inner-Crescent, the water supply is concentrated under the parishes, but between them are the vast desert wastelands populated by vagabonds, the remnants of the fallen Outer-Crescent parishes known to those in Noremway Parish as the “caravan-folk,” but who call themselves the
Ujimati
. The Outer-Crescent, unlike the Inner-Crescent, was unable to successfully defend against the Darkness and fell to the chaos in that long ago battle.

Emaciated wolves and other ghostly predators also roam this vast land, but they are not like the wolves of eons past. They are deadly phantoms who are at once creatures of the Dark and dogs of the wild. These deadly beings often find their way
through
the great wall surrounding Noremway Parish during the night. No one knows how they materialize out of the darkness.

Let us now drift beyond the great wall and meet the mayor of Noremway Parish. Tomias Waterman stands among the golden grass of the Inner-Crescent, wielding a great scythe, slicing the grass at its base. It is harvest time, and harvesting is afoot all over the parish. You could say he leads a peaceful life; I think his wife Lynn would agree. A beautiful farmer’s wife, she is now sitting at the house, rocking in the high-backed rocker that she loves. She’s knitting a blanket for her child that will soon make its debut in the world.

Their house stands as a testament to the ages. They say it’s the oldest in the parish…possibly even the whole world. Some have said that it is as old as the parish itself. You could describe the house as being of the “Gothic revival” style, if that is your preference. The vertical windows, skinny and long, are its most distinguishable feature. The house stands tall—much taller than any other house in Noremway Parish—with gray-green slats in need of a fresh coat of paint.

Let us take a look inside. I have only observed this place from a distance, and am now indulging myself in this opportunity to spy on the inner lives of our esteemed mayor and his wife. They wouldn’t mind, for they are part of an even broader tale.

The house opens into a vast dining room. This must be where the mayor entertains the other parish officials: Friar Decon Mangler, Chancellor Ghora Urey, the physician Bartholomew Plague, and the sheriff Franz Phoenix. The oak dinner table’s eating surface is beautifully engraved with ornate carvings. The legs stand tall and firm with impressions of the emblem of the Inner-Crescent—a half-moon turned so the “horns” are facing up with a star in the middle.

Continuing through the house, there are portraits of the great Ragas Moliere adorning the walls looking upon me with the approving gaze of a forgiving man. In the portrait, Ragas stands in the full body armor of a medieval knight, holding a sword high over his head. A dark being—a creature of the Darkness—lies vanquished at his feet. Two large fangs protrude from its wide mouth, and the concaved snout offers an almost “faceless” appearance. A scatter-shot of yellow and red eyes appears on every part of the body but the face–quite a bizarre looking creature.

I continue through the house until I reach the parlor. There is a piano in the corner, adorned with similar carvings as those found on the dining room table. Large bookshelves line the walls, filled with the ancient writings of long gone eras.

On the center shelf sits a large book with a leather spine:
The Life and Moral Teachings of Ragas Moliere of Noremway Parish
; or, more simply
The Book of Ragas
. This 2,000 year old tome teaches the people of Noremway Parish how to live. It includes the history of the great defender against chaos, and offers tales of morality from which children and adults can learn.

I remove the book from the shelf and open the front cover, and as I do a piece of old yellow paper falls to the floor. I bend to snatch up the note. Upon it, written in an antique scrawl, read the words: Story Teller. This is unexpected. I unfold the paper and read its contents.

We have our own story to tell.

—
The Chaos of the Outer Dark

With the suddenness in which events sometimes occur, the floor beneath my feet begins to rise and fall in violent convulsions. I don’t know what’s causing it, nor can my story teller’s eye enlighten me. I can only see so far and so much.

The floor rips open beneath me, and I’m pulled down to an uncertain fate. It feels like I am falling for miles before hitting the hard surface. I look up; my vision blurs, and I see shadows moving in the darkness—unholy creatures coming for me. A thin mist of black, wispy smoke drifts out of the darkness, grabbing at the world around me–grabbing for me. The darkness covers me. My vision turns black, and I see no more.

Part One:

Alone

Chapter 1

Decon Mangler, Friar of Noremway Parish, who often went by the affectionate moniker “Brother Decon,” knelt in prayer in front of the great statue of Ragas Moliere, founder, savior, and protector of Noremway Parish. The statue showcased Ragas’s warrior physique as he was depicted with the Angled Cross of the Inner-Crescent held high above his head, ready to rain down a blow on a creature of the Dark. This cathedral was a safe place for all, but Decon had a bad feeling––a very bad feeling. He feared the Darkness had returned.

Things were already changing; they had been for weeks. In a way, he felt like a minor character in a story, suddenly thrust into the lead role by a design beyond that of the story’s teller. Not that he knew about such things–not consciously anyway–but the subconscious mind is a trove of wonders the surface of which can only be scratched.

Ragas must have felt the same way when he rose up against the Darkness
, he thought. Which was true: he probably did.

This seemed like something more, like reality was breaking down in some way; as if the natural order of things was being rearranged by some evil force. He prayed, because that was the only thing that could shake this feeling. He prayed for continued protection and continued security.

“
Is something wrong, Brother Decon?” a voice asked behind him. He opened his eyes and turned to see the parochial vicar, Teret Finley—she who was in charge of all teaching duties—walking up the aisle. In the flickering light from the lanterns lining the cathedral walls, she was even more lovely than usual. In fact, he felt a rush of lust for this woman; a forbidden feeling that he would have to suppress. Her long, flowing red hair bounced as she walked, and her eyes appeared to glow: perhaps a trick of the light, or perhaps not. Either way, the effect was lovely. The suit she wore (per custom for the parochial vicar) was tight and fit perfectly to her form; the contours of her considerable breasts, the flatness of her stomach, her long legs coming together at the sweet spot that was the source of his hidden lust.