HAWTHORNE: Chronicles of the Brass Hand: Mystirio Astronomiki Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Upcoming Books

  HAWTHORNE

  Chronicles of the Brass Hand

  Book 1

  Mystirio Astronomiki

  Christopher C. Meeker

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, transcribing, or by any information retrieval system without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2014 by Christopher C. Meeker

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, or locations are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Victoria Shockley

  victoriashockleywrites.wordpress.com

  Cover Art by Paul Dolgov

  pauldolgov.com

  First edition: March 28, 2014

  ISBN 978-1-63173-222-5

  For

  Lisa, my amazing wife, who is worth more to me than all the treasures of the world.

  Proverbs 31:10

  and for

  Kristen, Lindsay, and Alexis, the arrows of my youth, and pride before my enemies at the gate.

  Psalm 127: 3-5

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to give special thanks to the following for their continued support throughout this project and for their generous donations.

  Wendy Campbell

  Lynne Fordham

  Todd MacLean

  Michelle McClave

  Kevin Noone

  Travis Perry

  John Bobek

  Tracy Lacovelli

  Patricia Ash

  Melissa Conroy

  Roscoe B. Copley

  Crystal Simons

  Jennifer L. Sobotka

  Foreword

  When I was seven years old I came across an early edition of Tarzan and the City of Gold in a box of books that had been stored under my bed. At my first glimpse of this broad chested, commanding man with bow and arrow fiercely drawn and aimed at some horrible, unseen beast, I was pulled in. That cover oozed escape and fantasy. Something about the temples and spires of the City of Gold, the fact that a white man could be part of such an exotic location (for me, living a sheltered, nervous, late 70's/early 80's middle class life full of cold war jitters, oversized spectacles, trips to Niagara Falls, shopping malls and diet soda commercials; exotic was going to my Aunt's house on the weekend and swimming in her pool), the other-worldliness of it all beckoned to that inner part of me: a boy that craved adventure, desired danger and longed for exploration and discovery over peace and prosperity. Without knowing it I was longing to be part of that world of Tarzan and his lost city, and if I couldn't be transported to the African jungle in person, I could be in spirit, just by staring at the cover.

  I never did end up reading Tarzan and the City of Gold; the copy was lost to the yard sale table (though I have read other works by Edgar Rice Burroughs, most notably his Princess of Mars series). Instead the travesty of the 80's took hold: hair bands, too many trips to the movies and MTV abounded. But that boy looking for exotic adventures with man made weapons, single-syllable named women, and loads of well tethered vines never died. He stayed quiet, was sublimated in disastrous attempts of normalcy, but that boy never died.

  He awoke when I read Stephen King's It during high school, and when I truly understood Alan Moore's Watchmen for the first time; when I discovered the road trips of the Beat Poets, the music of Bob Dylan and Richard Wagner, and the playfully worded adventures channeled first through James Joyce and later through Michael Chabon. He stood up and demanded to be heard when I discovered the 1933 version of King Kong (and he then further demanded of me, his host, that I go and do likewise, or at least die in the attempt, which I seem to be currently doing). But, this overly demanding, insolent, refusing-to-be-silent, adventure-seeking boy most recently awoke when I was reading an early draft of Hawthorne, written by my good friend Christopher Meeker, the book which you are now holding (or beholding should you have a digital copy). In here you will discover airships, adventure, gun battles, jungle explorations, lost temples, mysterious women, fiercely territorial primates, assassins by the boatload, and extraterrestrial conspiracies, all woven across a tapestry taking you from London to South Africa and beyond. You will discover a new mythology for the heroic odyssey; the story of a boy going out on his first expedition into the unknown and finding out how much of a man he truly is.

  This book is both an homage and a new beginning; it hearkens back to the adventure stories of Edgar Rice Burroughs and the pulp writers of his day, but also challenges us with the prospect of a new ideal in fantasy writing. Like the best Jules Verne novels, this book does not speak down to it's audience, in fact is does something that most media shies away from: it trusts it's audience, immensely so. The sentences form a complexity that both stimulate and resonate with the careful reader. It gets the mind moving with sights and sounds and the feel of a world so foreign but so familiar. It echoes of the adventure we all wish we had when we were younger. (And lest you think that this is a boys only club, I can attest from what I have witnessed in my wife and daughters that adventure and danger is not only for the Tarzan gender, and in fact may be better suited to the gender that tends to not hesitate when over-analyzing things.)

  The Brass Hand Media Project, is a multi-media adventure series, consisting of books, films, music among other things that seeks to draw talent from all creative media outlets and concentrate it into the tale of Edgar Hawthorne, a man of many worlds and many ages. With the publication of Hawthorne: Chronicles of the Brass Hand – Book 1: Mystirio Astronomiki by Christopher C. Meeker, it is kick-started in the most amazing way imaginable. That small voice in us that yearns for something more has found its next outlet. The soul that resides in us that eschews 9-5, political sound bites, cultural animosity, and mindless entertainment, but instead seeks its fulfillment in exploration, youth, discovery and imagination has found its transportation to a Continent of Dreams.

  So strap on your goggles, get up on on deck, feel the wind on your face as the airship turns due west into the setting sun: the adventure is about to begin.

  Todd J MacLean

  Writer~Storyteller~Filmmaker

  March 2014

  “...intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.”

  — H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

  Prologue

  They think me mad and perhaps well so, for at times I believe myself quite mad and would accept with impassivity, had I not recorded in total the sum of events past that others have also witnessed, these ideas of such dementia without question. Nevertheless, that which I relate to you within this journal is factual in each detail and recorded in as precise a manner as I was able even through those times in which the circumstances surrounding these events became quite tumultuous.

  Thus
I write these things not to tether my mind to this material world alone but to warn those who may come after of the dangers all about them of which they remain unaware and perhaps as a legacy to those who might choose to take up the task which was set before me just as I had done. A most challenging endeavour indeed, and one which I am loath to confess I was unable to see to its conclusion.

  They live amongst us and make their lives in polite society with intent to control and manipulate those policies, laws, and ideals that govern each of us to the end they might rule over all, usurping power and establishing dominion over the world. From where and whence they originate and of the matter of their being I cannot at this time say, lest the watchful eyes of those who will to do evil upon us should discover the plans and mechanisms by which we mean to disrupt their schemes and render all for naught.

  There are nevertheless those within our midst who are worthy of our trust and, like those who wish us harm, hold positions of influence as well. It is with their aid that we seek to disrupt the designs of the opposed and drive their forces back to the place of their origin.

  I’ve enclosed here every note I have ever taken concerning my experiences. These entries are but a hint of all that I have encountered, and I include them here for the simple reason that through the publicising of this information I might bestow upon mankind a more enlightened vision of the future, the forces which seek to unseat us from our rightful place on earth, and our consciousness concerning all which we affect as well as that which affects us all.

  Chapter I

  IN WHICH EDGAR LEARNS OF A MOST AMAZING DISCOVERY AND MAKES PREPARATION FOR A GRAND JOURNEY TO BE WITNESS THEREOF

  It is my greatest desire to record here the deeds and adventures I have experienced these past months, before the memories of those events vanish from my mind as the morning mists under the heat of a summer sun, and I am left with merely a general remembrance of what I have experienced, not wanting to exclude even the finest detail in order to make an accurate account for those who come after me and read of these astounding happenings.

  Thus, the recollections counting forward from that single day in 1835 on which I had decided to embark upon a most exciting adventure, one to which I owe the very formation of my character and persona, are chronicled within these pages. It began with my departure from Willesden on a solo journey to the southern tip of the darkest continent, which is Africa, or to the Cape of Good Hope, to be more precise.

  However, before I continue further I should like to introduce myself. My name is Edgar J. Hawthorne. My proper name comes from my great-grandfather, Edgar Simon Hawthorne, and my father, Edgar Richard Hawthorne. The “J” represents James, the proper name of my mother’s father and her brother, Uncle James, the most amazing gentleman I have ever known and whose exploits across the seven continents of this magnificent globe are well published within the newspapers and periodicals of this modern age. He is the man after whom I most desire to model my life, Father notwithstanding.

  I am twenty years of age, rather strong, healthy, and quite athletic. I am of normal height but rather muscular for my age and have indulged myself in many of the activities and sports that are common to society, save for bare-knuckle fighting, to which Father is in vehement opposition; however, I continue to participate in it for the sheer enjoyment and, though I disdain boastfulness, I am also rather competent, having been victorious in nearly every bout.

  I am also fond of fencing and swordsmanship in general and was quite eager to take up the pursuit when my father suggested it in my teenage years. Father is quite affluent, and many of my endeavours would not have been made real to me without the support of his great wealth. Father is very gracious to me, and to others as well. He would just as soon divide all that he was in possession of and distribute it in equal proportion, without favour, to as many of those who are in want as possible. In particular the wretched, the sick, the poor, the outcast, the widowed, and the orphaned: those from whom society has turned their eye. I admire my father a great deal and all that I have and am, I owe to him.

  But my lust for adventure was always sparked by Uncle James. He would return from some unknown part of the world with tales of adventure, discovery, and danger. My sister, Ophelia, and I would sit in silence, listening to all the wonderful tales of his experiences for hours, imagining what it must be like to travel the world and discover new and exciting things at every turn. It was always this way when Uncle James came to visit, several times per year. Is it a wonder then that I too should long for such experiences as I grew into adulthood and began to make my way in life?

  It was this sense of adventure that drew me, unerring, toward things yet undiscovered, to adventures and exploits that, as I always put to Father, begged to be embarked upon. That is not to say that every moment of my life was filled with wild fancy and fits of unrest. To the contrary, many times I would entertain myself by sitting upon our lawn on a warm summer day, tea at the ready, reading the latest scientific articles, as I am quite fond of the sciences, in particular astronomy and the invention of mechanical devices of unique design. I would allow my mind to imagine all the things that could be, and in all likelihood were, out there in the wide expanses of this earth and perhaps the heavens beyond.

  It was on just such a day, the beginning of June, 1835, during the summer break from university, whilst reading the latest article of discovery in the Edinburgh Journal of Science, to which my father was an occasional contributor, much to my pride, that I had come across the most amazing piece I had ever read. The article first caught my eye because it seemed to be a report of a discovery made by our good friend John Herschel, who was at the time manning the great telescope of the Royal Observatory at the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa. However, it was the content of the report that caused my jaw to slack and mouth to fall agape. The article, after short introduction, stated that new life, both flora and fauna, had been discovered on the very surface of our planet’s moon!

  With great astonishment and excitement I hastened to the office of my father, which he kept within our home, to bring the matter to his attention. Upon examining the article Father removed his spectacles and, without so much as batting an eyelash, stated that he had known Mr. Herschel for quite some time and if he, being a man of honesty and forthrightness, claimed these facts to be true, then he accepted them as stated. Knowing the true nature of Mr. Herschel, however, father suspected that there was in all likelihood a deeper mystery to be revealed than what had been presented in the article. I agreed and suggested to him that there would be no better person to investigate this matter than himself, and that he might take it into consideration to travel to the observatory and speak with Herschel in person.

  Much to my surprise Father declined the notion on the grounds that he was far too busy with his work and could not afford the time it would take to embark upon such an endeavour. However, what he proposed next sent me reeling. His suggestion was that I travel in his stead and accept this opportunity to expand my horizons, as it were, and to feel the freedom of life that a young man of my age ought to feel, at least once in his lifetime, before settling down. So it was decided that I would undertake the mission of seeking out Sir John Herschel of the Royal Observatory at the Cape of Good Hope and determine the true nature of what had been written in the Edinburgh Journal of Science. I would also, to some degree, stretch my wings as the saying goes.

  The next several days were spent in preparation for the voyage to the southern tip of Africa, where in all hopefulness, John Herschel, being alerted to my arrival by telegraph, would be prepared to receive me and make claim to the truthfulness or falsehood of the whole affair. We felt that travelling by sea would be too arduous and of such length as to make it inconvenient for appointments to which I had already made commitment, most notable being my return to university in autumn, so we decided to secure another means of transportation that would expedite the journey.

  As good fortune would have it, however, my father, having served
with His Majesty’s Royal Navy, was able to secure passage for my voyage with assistance from the Commodore at the Dover Naval Yard. I would travel on one of the finest and newest airships in the fleet, the H.M.A. Stratos, whose destination was in fact, by impossible coincidence, the Naval Shipyard at the Cape of Good Hope. The purpose for the Stratos' tour was nothing more than to complete her Air-trials, a common practice for new vessels, and a final fitting-out by the Airship division located there.

  After some debate, it was decided that rather than take the train to Dover, we would travel to the base in Father’s beloved steam carriage. I was rather pleased at the idea, for there was little that was more enjoyable than a jaunt through the countryside atop the carriage, for the freedom one felt was quite indescribable and being that there was none other like it in the whole of London made the experience all the greater. I looked forward to the trip and felt that my adventure was already beginning, and I had yet to leave the grounds of our estate.

  The steam carriage, first purchased from a Mr. Richard Trevithick, was singular of its kind, and it was as close to Father’s heart as any inanimate object could be, and to mine as well. Many nights were spent tinkering with the smoke-belching contraption, improving upon its design and efficiency, as well as reducing the amount of fuss required to operate it by no insignificant amount. The original version of the carriage could carry no more than one passenger and a few parcels and demanded that the boiler valves be fiddled with at rather regular and frequent periods throughout its operation. The adjustments Father and I made increased the boiler output while requiring less attention during its operation, increased its speed by more than three times, and allowed for the carrying of at least two passengers and a significant amount of baggage. Father had also fitted the carriage with a rather smart windscreen and a sort of canvas top that kept the driver and passenger dry in all but the heaviest rain. A person’s baggage, however, did not fare quite as well so special precautions were needed to keep one’s items from becoming wet, which was accomplished in a rather crude method with a simple tarpaulin and a bit of rope.