The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN'

by Peter Emmerson

  ‘I must speak with them, they must know the danger that threatens the northern lands, for we in the middle cannot hold much longer without their help.’

  “Okay, I suggest we close this little pow-wow, and give Jeanne an opportunity to set the wheels in motion, I think perhaps the Commander better start earning his salary and get us out of here. Do you think you could find your little tear again John?”

  “No, but Finn could find his.”

  Jeanne spun towards the SAS Guardsman turned artist, “Finn could?”

  “Yep, some of the Brosynan have a built in ability, magic, power; call it what you like, they are able to manipulate the divide between their time and ours. How do you think I got back to a point in time just a minute after I had disappeared, but four years older?”

  “The Brosynans helped you.”

  “Correctomundo.”

  “Okay, so we know it can be done, now lets get it done.” Jeanne stood decisively. She looked up at the camera which had been monitoring their every word and movement, “Got that lot, now act on it, your top brass get in touch with mine, I want a special ops command of company strength, that’s one hundred and twenty men and women, equal numbers American and British, you now know what weapons are compatible, each member mounted, with one spare mount each. I want your American contingent ready in three days, we will move across to the UK then.”

  Winn had been silently translating all the while; Ny-mo nodded his approval as the commands were relayed to him, enhancing his blossoming understanding of their spoken words.

  Without waiting for a response from whoever was monitoring the camera, Jeanne said good night to Ny-mo and left the barn with a muttered comment “I’m nacket, an I needs a coffee and ma bed.”

  The others trooped after her, leaving Winn with the Croninn warrior.

  ‘It is good, she is a powerful leader, I have much hope of success.’

  22.

  PAUL AND WINN

  Craigdendarroch Farm.

  Aboyne.

  June 2011

  “I’m bored,” Paul whined for the thousandth time, tossing his electronic-gaming-gizmo onto the couch. “When are my mum and your uncle getting back?”

  If I have to listen to him bellyache about being bored one more time...

  More than a little fractious, Winn felt like tackling Dr. McLennan’s son and tossing him onto the couch, just as he’d tossed his game. Nevertheless, mindful that Jeanne McLennan was Uncle Tom’s good friend, and that Uncle Tom before leaving had urged her to be good and act like an adult - mindful also that Paul was just a guy and probably couldn’t help himself - she gritted her teeth, striving for patience.

  “I don’t know,” she finally said aloud. “They’ll be here when they get here.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  Paul’s look was accusing - as if it were her fault his mom and Uncle Tom were delaying in Egypt!

  “Well, what else do you want me to say?” she snapped peevishly. Rising, she threw her own book onto the couch - well, it was Paul’s really. That volume of John Wilson’s artwork his bum dad had sent him for a birthday gift. Amazing how John, the artist, had managed to keep the trolls a secret for so long.

  “Look, I’m going to go take a nap. Why don’t you start doing some more research online?”

  “What for? It’s not like we’re going to find anything.”

  One, two, three, four... Winn counted.

  Gritting her teeth, the teen forced a tight smile. “Well, you never know about that, do you?” she asked almost pleasantly. “C’mon, Paul, I really don’t feel very good.”

  “Huh. Yeah, it’s probably cause it’s your time of the month,” the boy muttered under his breath, turning away.

  Heat, from the tip of her toes to the crown of her head, raced through Winn. “What did you say?”

  “I said,” Paul drew out snottily, “it’s probably your time of the month. That’s what usually gets women upset isn’t it?”

  No, it wasn’t. For his information, what had her upset was guessing the adults wanted to leave her behind - with Paul - while they slipped off to the netherworld to fight monsters. What had her upset was knowing Ny-mo had been her find, was her friend, and that she could communicate with him better than anybody else. Above all, she had a right to go...a right she was being denied because of her age. That had her upset.

  Worsening matters, what also had her upset were the headaches she couldn’t get rid of; steady, dull aches that had begun about the time she set foot on British soil and which wouldn’t let up. Even in her sleep she hurt, making true rest difficult to find. What had her upset was the heat in her stomach and, oddly enough, the soles of her feet, as if she had incessant heartburn and had walked for dozens of miles in ill fitting shoes. She couldn’t sleep, could hardly eat, and couldn’t concentrate on anything for long periods of time, including the research she and Paul had been conducting. Overall, she felt just plain awful.

  What had her upset was all this, plus Paul himself. Her time of the month or not, the kid should have stopped there. He couldn’t feel the heat building, rising inside her like she could. He couldn’t feel the headache increasing, the burn in belly and heels deepening.

  “I know, because I live with my mom,” he continued, still in that snide, snotty tone that made Winn want to smack him over the head with the binding of his own book. “Whenever it’s her time of the month I always have to tread lightly. She can be a real witch, and maybe if your Uncle Tom knew that he would quit sniffing around her like a nasty dog.”

  This last he levelled at her like an accusation - like it was her fault, again, that her adopted uncle obviously had more interest in his pretty mom than as a mere colleague. Well, Winn didn’t like it any better than he did. No better, in fact, than the kiss she’d seen Johnson giving Macy right before their party stepped on the plane bound for London. A kiss the Fed had thought was inconspicuous, but which the dumb head didn’t know was pretty hard to miss what with Macy gasping loudly and returning it vigorously like she had.

  Grownups.

  Sometimes the whole lot of them made her sick, but the anger they could inspire was absolutely nothing compared to the wrath mounting, mounting, and mounting as Paul kept on. Her uncle and Dr. McLennan had thought they’d be great friends, what with their common interest in fantasy. Little did they know how pesky, aggravating, and downright annoying Paul could be - especially when it was just the two of them, like it often was these days ... the adults in charge being too busy with their top secret expedition to pay either Paul or herself much mind.

  “And if he thinks,” Paul was concluding self-righteously, his words sounding suspiciously like someone else’s, “he’s going to take the place of my dad; he’s got another thing coming. If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s some upstart Yank from a backwater, no-name place like Oklahoma trying to step into my life and tell me what to do.”

  Oooooh, that did it. Everything he’d said up to this point was bad enough, but when he slighted her beloved home state...well, Winn just couldn’t take it anymore.

  She didn’t have to say a word. Paul must’ve read by face or body stance that he’d pushed too hard, stepping across the line. His mouth dropped, face paling. Just as Winn sprung, he let loose with an almost feminine shriek, whirled, and took off running.

  “Case, Case!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Somebody help, Winn’s trying to kill me!”

  The heat was exploding now, a purple mist before her eyes, mountains of amethyst lava erupting in her brain, sliding through her veins, intensifying both her wrath and her headache, spurring on the need to fight. White-hot, ultra violet fire consumed the teen; the strange slow burn cooking in her for days refused now to be repressed. The only way to satisfy it was to feed it, releasing tension with a good fight.

  Unaware, now, of what she did, Winn gave chase, careening wildly through the corridor and around a corner, arms outstretched, hands fashioned into claws like a liv
ing parody of some corny black and white horror movie.

  “Get back here, you little twit,” she snarled. “I’m gonna pummel you, I’m gonna beat you, I’m gonna kill you. You can’t mess with me and get away with it. You can’t -”

  Paul’s, “Help, help!” drowned out the rest of her tirade.

  Seeing daylight, the boy shoved open the sliding glass door and dashed out onto the garden, Winn in hot pursuit. He made for the group of men and women, no-nonsense Shelby was instructing out on the lawn. Perhaps he thought the female black suit would protect him from her wrath. Ha! An unnaturally wicked grin crooked Winn’s lips. Little does the brat know...

  An unexpected burst of energy inspired her sudden burst of speed. Three speedy, giant steps and she leapt, catching her enemy about the ankles and bringing him down.

  “Gotcha, jerk!” she cried triumphantly.

  Paul squealed, bucking under her. Just as they hit dirt, the writhing kid somehow managed to turn. Arms and legs flailing, fists flying, he probably didn’t mean to smash her right between the eyes like he did. Probably, he was merely trying to stave her off. Unfortunately for Winn, the blow came out of nowhere, catching her by surprise. Combined with the raging, rampant, uncontrollable tongues of violet flame leaping inside her chest, licking at heart, core, centre, brain, the crack was like a thunderclap. One moment she felt the insane wrath, the pulsing pain in her skull; the next Paul’s fist cracked against her forehead.

  A bolt of purple-white lighting. A thunder crack so loud and dizzying Winn toppled off her enemy, falling to the ground into the foetal position, moaning, and her hands clapped over her ears. Then there was nothing, nothing but blackness. Merciful blackness and merciful silence.

  23.

  BES

  Luxor

  Egypt.

  June 2011

  Jeanne lay on her back looking up at the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight, the sun was a ball of molten lead hanging in the void. The riverboat manoeuvred sluggishly towards its mooring.

  “Act like a tourist, and don’t make any bloomin’ waves, but find out what you can outside the official claptrap that’s leaking out,” were the Commander’s final words.

  “You coming?” It was Tom, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Aye,” she stood from where she was laid on the sun-bed, chance for another swift, free bronzie, she had thought as she took a last opportunity to catch some rays. “Gad it’s hot.”

  “We can get dressed and go ashore with the crowd.”

  “’K, see you in a bit.” She grabbed her towel, slung it around her waist like a sarong and threading her toes into the pink plastic flip-flops, schlepped off towards her cabin for a shower.

  Tom watched as she disappeared down the nearest stairway, his heart heavy. Jeanne had been so distant, almost aloof since their return from Oklahoma over a month ago.

  He put it down to the pressure of work, preparing for their trip into the unknown. Not knowing if they would return, not knowing outside what they had gleaned from Ny-mo, what they could expect, if and when they arrived in his time. Not knowing if she would ever see Paul again.

  Finn, Kesha and Ny-mo had spent what seemed like hours with ‘locked tongues’ - ‘downloading’ Jeanne had named it. Those times of deep concentration, thought mingling, were way beyond human comprehension, even so Ny-mo had to be re-introduced to the practice, for the technique had dwindled to no more than deep loving exchanges between mates amongst the Croninn.

  Every member of the rapidly put together military force, American and British had spent the time becoming conversant with finger speech; some like Winn took to it easily. Case found it difficult and even with personal tuition from Amy could still be heard cussing in his deep rumble as he struggled with the intricate finger shapes. They were more adept at employing effectively the air powered rifles, modern longbows, crossbows, lead shot slings and catapults, issued to the special-forces troopers.

  The expeditionary force moved to John Wilson’s farm. Tented accommodation sprouted in the fields close to his farmhouse. Sufficient fine horses ‘borrowed’ from the British Cavalry regiments were delivered and corralled in adjacent fields; it seemed that no expense was to be spared. The Holborn and Interlagos incidents had put paid to any financial restrictions that might have reared their heads. There they had spent many hours, practicing with swords and knives; their ability to attack and battle with diverse mêlée weapons from horseback was awesome to observe. They all wore custom fitted, lightweight modern armour, tough enough to withstand a light calibre bullet or even an arrow shot from ten meters.

  Six large, four wheeled trailers adapted to be pulled by horses in harness appeared one morning, they were packed full of equipment. Ny-mo was impressed, he had requested that one hundred shields made of the same lightweight material, and as many modern versions of the weapons, with which Finn and he were becoming exceptionally proficient, be included in the equipment they were taking.

  Kesha and the baby had remained in the Turner Institute for the sake of peace and security, although she was kept up to date by frequent visits from Finn, Ny-mo and Jeanne.

  ~

  The Commander had scrambled Jeanne and Tom to Luxor in Egypt.

  Ny-mo and Finn were returned to the Turner, both were fascinated at the speed the vehicle was able to move without visible means of propulsion. Finn however found it necessary to continuously spit out the pollution as they travelled; it was obvious he had enjoyed his time in the open; Ny-mo though was not affected.

  ~

  A street urchin had been knocked down by a speeding taxi on Nile Street in Luxor, not an uncommon event, but this one had a twist.

  The body lay in the city morgue under armed guard.

  This little beggar was unlike any seen in any part of the world, outside of Oklahoma and Aberdeen that is. A digital image of the little corpse had landed on the Commander’s PC desktop, courtesy of a well placed and well bribed mole. That had been just over five days previously. To give a semblance of normality, at the request of the Egyptian government, the pair had enjoyed four days of gentle cruising on one of the floating hotels that plied their trade up and down the river.

  As the boat made to dock in Luxor, Tom knew their enforced mini-break was over, a mini-break that he had hoped would rekindle the exquisite time of affection that they had shared in Oklahoma, but it was not to be, Jeanne had insisted on separate cabins, and so it was.

  An appointment had been made for them to view the little body at 5:00PM that day. The Commander had spent the previous four days of their ‘holiday’ pulling multiple strings and calling in favours from high up in the Egyptian government to facilitate it. Even so their time was limited to a single viewing, no photographs and under strict secrecy and security.

  It seemed that the last thing the Egyptian authorities wanted was adverse publicity depleting their already waning tourist industry. If it became public that strange creatures were lurking under niqabs in the streets of Luxor, incalculable damage could be done.

  It was just 4:30PM local time when an official looking black sedan drew up outside the hotel they had booked into. Jeanne and Tom were ushered into the rear seats. From behind the darkened windows they watched in amazement as the driver who seemed to have a death wish, whisked them along Nile Street, with much horn honking and cursing at the ancient blue and white Peugeot 504 taxis and horse drawn carriages, which were touting for trade from the tourists strolling along the Corniche.

  A guard lazing in the shade of a large parasol at the rear entrance of an austere building made no effort to hide the bulging outline of the automatic pistol under his grubby T shirt. A few swift words from their driver and the door was opened, they stepped into the cool dark interior.

  It was without a doubt a Boggart, a Troll, a Brosynan or whatever. The little creature looked almost pathetic in death. It was thinner than the three they knew, and almost black skinned, although the grey stripes and swirls were still much in evidence all over h
is body; yes again, unmistakably a male, thought Jeanne.

  Tom stole a look at their driver, who was staring at the little creature with wide eyes and open mouth. “Okay, we can go now,” Tom said. The man snapped out of wherever he had been, tearing his eyes from the little corpse, he turned to shepherd them through the door.

  The drive back to the hotel was silent; the driver seemed to have lost his intention of joining the elite band of Hollywood stunt drivers making their way through the crowded streets, and hardly used his horn. Jeanne reached across and took Tom’s hand, giving a little squeeze. It was almost as though the sight of the creature had brought home to her once again how important a task they had on their shoulders, she needed his strength to give her support.