THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY BOOK- Chapter 1 -The Lost Highway Tavern When last we left Travers McCraken, the outer doors of the Royal Harem of Amon Sin Algol were giving way under the combined weight of three large guardsmen. The sultan was due back from the Council of Sinister Magicianals by nightfall. He would not be pleased. To further worsen matters, the harem had only been half-serviced while cognac rations ran fearfully low. Hearing the sound of wood splintering at the other end of the seraglio, Travers knew it was time to get dressed and prepare an elegant farewell for the lovely ladies he so regretfully had to leave behind. Attention, m’ many loves m’ minutes that fly by oh so quickly,” He spoke in a clear Irish voice that rumbled slightly like distant thunder. It gently commanded all within the sound of it to listen. The one hundred and eight wives of Amon Sin Algol rose as one and moved closer to the young wayfarer. A toast, he continued, “I crept in t’ y’r beds like a thief in the night / t’ plow through y’r gardens o’ earthly delights /Alas I must go -but return o I will/ with a stiff drink in me one hand ... an’ in the other ... /somethin’ far stiffer still. For the next few moments there was much giggling and clicking of glasses. Suddenly the happy mood was broken by the sound of the inner doors to the harem bursting open. At the sight of the trio of burly men with their scimitars drawn high, Travers decided it was time to make his exit. He was above all else a lover, but since many a husband seemed put out by his chosen profession, being a fighter had become a necessary second vocation. Sadly, he grabbed the next to the last bottle of L’Espirt de Courvoisier cognac he had brought - then shattered it against the head of the first eunuch guardsmen to reach him. The defender of the harem fell like a stone. The wives of the sultan descended on the other two but reinforcements had already been summoned. Travers put on his boots and britches. He casually tucked in his shirt and buckled his sword belt as if time had agreed to go in slow motion until he was ready for his grandiose exit from this garden of pleasure. He then donned his longcoat, a gift given to him by the sorceress Tammera at the start of his ramblings so many years ago. With equal parts flourish and flair he snatched up his last bottle of cognac, flung open the tails of the longcoat and put his fingers to his lips bidding the harem a fond farewell. Before Travers could fall back into the folds of the coat as he had done so many times in the past, a jewel caught his eye. It was Margay, the olive-skinned favourite of the sultan. Her almond eyes pleaded for Travers to take her with him. He knew well why the sultry sultana was Amon Sin Algol’s favourite. In a move both fool-hardy and fateful he grabbed her warm, willing body. They kissed deeply. She closed her eyes and sighed as they fell through the portal at the back of his magical garment. When the royal guards finally made it through the beautiful multitude to where Travers and his eager captive once stood, all they saw was a magnificent longcoat, woven of the finest thread, free-floating before them. It hung in mid-air as if occupied by a headless phantom. Suddenly a hand shot out from the interlining, bejewelled fingers outstretched. It grabbed the lapel and disappeared back in -taking the free-standing coat with it. There was a rustling of heavy cloth flapping together, then abrupt silence. Next a tiny pop broke the stillness, caused by the sudden rush of air filling the space where the coat and the couple stood only a jiffy before. This was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the last bottle of well-aged French brandy shattering against the quartz-tiled floor. A familiar voice shouting, Noooooo, echoed on every wall of the marbled bath. Travers McCraken offered to Bacchus, the god governing such matters, a curse-filled prayer. He prayed that wherever their journey ended, a blazing fire, good companionship and a well-stocked liquor cabinet would bid them a warm welcome. The couple transcended both time and space as they travelled to a place at the very centre of creation. A feeling of pure exhilaration and wonder overtook the young girl as she held tightly to the rogue McCraken. In an instant the pair appeared in a great green glen circled by tall trees. The leaves in the branches filtered the evening light, creating an emerald world. Before them stood a wide oaken door, carved by Celtic hand and stained bright as the sun on the sea. It stood on a frame, free-standing - with neither wall, nor roof for companionship. Flanking the door on either side were lucid pools of indigo blue. They spent a long moment in this enchanted place. A feeling of utter peace overtook them. Margay turned to Travers, a sleepy smile on her face. She began to yawn. Travers knew it was time to go. With his right arm locked around the lovely sultana, Travers kissed her once more. His left hand grasped the fiery brass knob of the oaken door and then his shoulder pushed forward. They entered into one of the most warm and inviting rooms in all of the known worlds. To his good fortune, it was a place Travers knew well. The Good Lord gave us grace, but the Devil gave us style! exclaimed young McCraken. A bastard grin lit up the cosy little bar booth which had only seconds before been unoccupied. Next to him sat an unbelievable beauty. She was scented of cinnamon. Her almond eyes were now round and open wide. Her mouth was agape, fixed in stunned silence. “I’m so sorry darlin, there was little time to prepare y’ for our trip. Safe as a babe in a blanket y’ are… in the arms of a McCraken,” he said in earnest boast. “Where are we, Travers and what of the sultan? she asked him in a tone that was surprisingly calm. She shone like a dark jewel before him, everything a woman should be; round and full, upturned at the edges -a rose at the crest of bloom. His arms were still around her. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold. “We’re in m’ favourite alcove in the Lost Highway Tavern, at the junction o’ What Can an’ Can Never Be, second star t’ the right, straight on till mornin’ an’ so on an’ so forth,” he said as he waved his hand in a sweeping manner, “As for the Sultan Amon Sin Algol, he is not only worlds away, m’ desert flower, but probably lifetimes as well. All we need quench are our travel parched throats an’ achin’ loins.” He laughed and kissed her lips so tenderly, as if to comfort rather than seduce -but isnt that the cleverest of seductions? Travers knew her simply as Margay. Her true name was Marguerita Francesca de la Rosa - the daughter of Esteban and Esmeralda de la Rosa, a fact she was only dimly aware of. Esteban was a knight of the Holy Trinity, counsel to the court of St. Alphonzo and ambassador to the New Worlds. He was also the acting governor of the Spanish colony of Cibonay. Esmeralda, his wife, was a powerful figure in her own right and served as the high priestess to the Diosa Madre. She was a woman so remarkable that once your eyes fell upon her it took an act of will to look away. Margay had no true memory of any of this. She had disappeared under mysterious circumstances nearly eight years ago on the eve of her thirteenth birthday - taken by force from their family villa in golden Cibonay. All of this was but a distant dream to her with no faces or names as evidence of truth. It seemed more like a storybook she had once read a long, long time ago than an actual happening. From her earliest true recollections, she had been raised in the harems nursery. There she had heard tales of the brash and bold man by her side long before she was old enough to become a sultana. The great grey Madrina of the harem, reputed to be three hundred and thirty three, loved to tell tales told by her mother of the young rogue McCrakens amorous misadventures in the Royal Harem of the Sultan Amon Sin Algol. It was hard to believe that this boyish man that had held her so tightly was perhaps centuries old. He looked barely midway through his twenties but you could tell endless secrets lay just behind his steel-blue eyes. When the sultana recovered from Travers’ intoxicating kiss, her eyes began to explore the remarkable inn around her. It was so inviting with its great fireplaces and low thick-beamed ceilings. The smell of wild game cooking on the spit, the aroma of field onions and fresh picked herbs filled her higher senses. The room in which they now drew breath was warm. Not the dry heat of a desert evening, but more a cosy warmth -one that comforts and chases away the early spring chill when it knocks at the door and pushes against the panes. Margay rubbed her eyes at the sight of the strange and wondrous people who were milling about her -many of whom were not people at all. They were in such a wide array of dress as well as undress, but all had one thing in common -the unmistakable look of a traveller. The inn’s guests seemed to enjoy the night, this night, not thinking of the journeys tomorrow might bring. She stared at the scene before her, transfixed. A booming voice next to her broke her voyeurism. Two tankards o’ Imperial Stout, y’ pig o’ an inn keeper, Travers shouted around the high back of the bar booth. In seemingly less time than it took to utter those words, a mountain of a man bounded across the room. His broad face was mostly a bristling fire-red beard and baby-blue eyes that bulged in a berserkers fury. He held in one massive hand a meat cleaver, in the other, a large leg of mutton. Be gettin it yeself, ye insolent whelp, the great mans voice roared. Savagely an arm, thick as a tree limb, smashed the lambs leg squarely against the younger man’s jaw. Margay shrieked and rose to her feet just in time. The force knocked Travers free of his darling dujour. It sent him, as well as the bench on which he sat, first on its back, then sliding like a juggernaut toward the end of the room. The far wall abruptly stopped the booth, but the way-laid man then slid another six feet through the open doorway into the storeroom containing the aforementioned Imperial Stout. A crash, then clanking, followed by busting and banging, and then all was silent. Suddenly there came the sound of a fist smashing the top out of a wooden barrel. Lastly -one splash, two splash, three. McCraken sauntered out of the storeroom and leaned against the doorway. He had a sheepish grin on his face. He also held three tankards of dark brew in his hands. “No disrespect meant, Mother McCraken,” Travers said humbly to the giant man as he handed him one of the copper cups. “None taken, me baby-boy” the innkeeper replied, as he bear-hugged Travers. “Be sittin this lovely lass at a better table an’ Ill be off to get ye supper. Leg o’ lamb will be all right I takes it? It should be right flavourful seein as how we tenderized it an’ all.” His wide face had a grin from ear to ear. “Sure thin’, Mother,” Travers grinned back as he rubbed his swollen jaw. Margay, who had stood in stunned silence, now began to laugh a long genuine laugh that took well into the evening to completely shake off. The travel-weary couple had a hardy sup and some mulled winter wine by one of the many fireplaces at the inn. All the while, Mother McCraken entertained the pair with stories of the bold and sinful man he was in his youth. They were for the most part stories of his pirating days; tales of how he was made a galley slave by the conquering Milesians, then broke his chains, freed his people and became the captain of the rechristened Standing Hampton, -the most feared vessel to ever sail the Eternal Seas. The decks were awash in blood, dear-hearts, as I drove me cutlass through the bodies of those who would enslave me kith and kin.” On that note, Mother rose from his chair, stood his full 7’5’’ and drew breath in like a great bellows. As he continued, he began to thrust and jab with an imaginary sword, Travers politely excused himself while he and his comely companion quickly rounded the corner and headed up a winding oaken stairway. Mother continued unabashed, as by now he had drawn quite a crowd. “So Mother is your padre, your father?” Margay asked Travers, as they lay under combed cotton sheets and rich warm furs in an oversized goose down bed. They were now two floors above the great hall of the Lost Highway Tavern. A cosy fire flickered as lively shadows danced on the white washed walls. “Do y’ think I would take a blow like that from a mere acquaintance?” he quipped back slyly as he rubbed his haggard jaw. “Stop hoggin’ the wineskin, love. Canna y’ see? Im racked with pain!” She handed it to him. He winked, smiled and then drank long and deep as she kissed his chin. She paused at the cleft to take a nibble. Is that better, m’lord? she purred. Its gettin’ better, m’lady, he growled back. Hours passed as bodies rose and fell. Finally, in the wee hours, they lay still in the shadows. They spoke to each other, softly and sweetly as paramours do. The wine-skin went back and forth and back again. Moonlight shone through the intricate latticework of the half-open window making an otherworldly pattern on the lounging lovers. Finally they fell into a deep sleep that lasted well past cocks crow. As daylight persisted, the smell of smoked meat and fresh baked bread floated through the open window. Travers awoke first. He yawned as he stretched, catching a glimpse of his well-muscled body in the frosted looking-glass at their bedside. Though he wasnt quite as big as his sire, Mother, he stood head and shoulders above ordinary men. Also unlike his father, whose hair was red as embers in a dying fire, his was the colour of buckskin. It cascaded down his shoulders, wavy and unkempt most times. His full, slightly up-turned moustache gave him a cavalier look that suited him well. Except for the numerous scars that criss-crossed his body like an atlas of the Hellyards, the years had been extremely kind to him. He stood before the mirror and smiled to himself. So far time was literally on his side, space too for that matter. Turning back to the bed he gathered in his arms the still sleeping form of the ravishing sultana. She lay in deep slumber, wrapped in a pale flannel sheet. He slowly made his way across the room, careful not to wake her. Gently he opened the door to the water closet and stepped inside. He quietly closed the door behind them. A smile worthy of the Devil himself spread across his rugged face. He pulled the silver chain that lead to a trap door on the roof. Stored rainwater, cold and fresh because spring had only recently arrived in these lands, poured down upon them. Margay gasped, sputtered, then laughed and squealed as the water fell, soaking the moon-coloured sheet. Like a second skin it outlined her large full breasts and ample rump. “Soy frio! Travers it’s freezing!” she cried. A beautiful mass of wet, flowing curls cascaded down her back. They kissed as if they had just met. Her legs wrapped around his waist as she slid down his body. She arched her back and rolled her hips forward. A slight wince -then a broad smile slowly spread across her upturned face. Travers buried his face in her billowy breasts as the rainwater pooled around them. He hoped Mother would keep their breakfast warm -he was working up quite an appetite. It promised to be a cracker-jack of a morning. Worlds away, a desert storm began to brew.
Posted on: Mon, 01 Sep 2014 16:26:18 +0000
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