Colin and The Little Black Box

By M. E. Eadie

In the second book of the Colin Series, Colin and The Circus of The Moon face a new host of enemies intent on ruling not only their world but the world of Faerie as well.

With Zuhayer finally dead, a power vacume is created and Bevis, one of Zuhayer's followers, and Count Blandicus a Vampire, rush in to fill it. While both have different reasons, their methods to take power are equally ruthless.

Colin is seperated from his father, his aunt, and the Circus of The Moon, who have to face Count Blandicus in Faerie. Colin, Rhea and Spike are left to deal with Bevis, but they are not alone.

With Maestro, Grandma Li and The Hunters, they still face enormous odds, because Bevis is transforming everyone into servants, and has summonded a Pooka, a demon, to do his bidding.
Colin discovers that at the heart of the matter, is a little black box hidden by his great grandfather in one of Rivertown's murals. Contained within the box is a power that will either destroy their world or heal it.

The problem is that the only person can open the box, and that person is Colin, and Colin must open it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adambooks
• Release date: Apr 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9780981001678

M. E. Eadie

Michael lives on an island in the Ottawa River with his six children and wife. Formerly a visual artist, he has turned his attentions to writing. The cover of "A Thousand Kisses Deep," is his own art work.He binds, by hand, his hard cover books. In his opinion it adds to the emotional value of the book.He invites any conversations on the matter of art.

Book preview

Colin and the Little Black Box

by

M.E. Eadie

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PUBLISHED BY:

ADAM BOOKS on Smashwords

Colin and the Little Black Box

Copyright 2011 by M.E. Eadie

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Big Gold Book

Chapter Two: Forgotten

Chapter Three: Library Lost

Chapter Four: The Pagoda

Chapter Five: Great Dilemmas

Chapter Six: Harpies and Murals

Chapter Seven: The Hunters

Chapter Eight: An old Friend

Chapter Nine: What to do

Chapter Ten: Dreams and Reality

Chapter Eleven: Lessons of Fate

Chapter Twelve: Interrogation

Chapter Thirteen: Becoming a Hunter

Chapter Fourteen: Rhea’s Choice

Chapter Fifteen: Plan

Chapter Sixteen: Three Doors

Chapter Seventeen: Assault

Chapter Eighteen: The Trap

Chapter Nineteen: Slow Down at Town Hall

Chapter Twenty: The Summoning

Chapter Twenty-one: Of Boxes and of Justice

Chapter One: The Big Gold Book

Never had there been anything like this: it caught on and spread through Rivertown like a contagion, a peculiar thing, because the book had yet to be released. A digital marquee ran in a continuous cycle on large billboards everywhere. To each person the message was different, a message immediately forgotten, leaving only delightful vestiges of anticipation, of something exciting to come. Everyone wanted to buy the book, even though nobody knew what it was about, or when it was going to be available. There were reports about town of author sightings, of a small man, impeccably dressed, red cravat tucked in tightly between neck and shirt, but it was all hearsay. Nobody had really seen the illusive A. E. Muss. On television, and on the web, the intrepid journalist, Mable Worthy, would smile a smile large enough to invite the world in and extol the virtues of Mr. Muss. According to her, he had climbed the Himalayas, sailed the Indian Ocean on a raft, endured and overcome every privation known to man. He was a man’s man, a woman’s man, an idol, a god. When she had finished her spots, nobody thought to ask about what was in the book; they just knew it had to be good. Such a person as A. E. Muss did not write boring books. Soon, every media outlet was asking questions. Experts clashed, sages opined, but they all agreed on one thing, that A. E. Muss was the writer of his generation.

Hordes of people fought to enter a local contest: Spot A. E. Muss and Get your Shot. The idea was the brain child of Omega Channel and Mable Worthy. The channel paid people to dress up as A. E. Muss. Contestants would then have to find and photograph themselves with the fake author. The innuendo was that the real A. E. Muss was walking around town. This was far from the truth. Mable Worthy didn’t know exactly where he was, but she did know that his identity -- his physical identity -- had been stolen.

Is everything going according to plan? asked the silver haired gentleman with the red cravat, as he stepped out of the editing room. He looked like the old professor, but he was not.

Yes, she responded tightly. She knew what he was, and hated him, but hate was all she had. A few days ago she had been a simple reporter, and then a creature with red, bushy hair had appeared and, with a jagged smiling snarl, had destroyed her life – not that she had been all that happy in the first place. Only now, she was miserable. As a small consolation, she felt an odd relief that the real A. E. Muss, whoever he was, was also suffering.

***

One morning, on the doorstep of one newly-retired professor of ancient literature, Niord Gustavsson, a book- sized package appeared. He pulled his robe tightly about his shoulders and looked down at the package between his corduroy slippers. Strange, the only thing that ever arrived at his door in the morning was the paper. He regarded the package, cautiously scanning the shrubbery to the side of his house. No threats there, or none that he could see or feel, so he just continued to stare at the package as though he was trying to look through its brown paper wrapper. He was beginning to regret moving back here to retire, after having been away for so long.

The house he purchased had given off all the right signals; an unassuming little bungalow that would never attract any attention. Tucked high into the side of the old riverbank, it had a perfect view of the small tributary that fed a bigger river just around the bend. It was surrounded by trees on one side and bordered by a road on the other. It provided the best of worlds: a medium-sized town and nature. It wasn’t old, nor was it new, and it was both close to Horwood House and the mortuary, but not too close. He could feel their power from here, just enough to appreciate but not desire. He had spent a lifetime avoiding that, hiding from it. He knew why this bungalow was purchased for so little; it’s why he bought it. Anything Tellings touched developed a taint as palpable as smoke from fire. Then there was the undeniable satisfaction of possessing the domicile of his old friend: the satisfaction of outliving your enemy. He knew Tellings was gone, that Zuhayer was gone. The only one that could provide a threat now was Bevis, and who knew where he was. He continued to look warily down at the package with the neatly tied string. That wasn’t a knot Bevis would tie. He made a decision, bent over and fingered the bow. Then decided to pick it up and was immediately met with a sharp pain in his lower back. It was as though the package had been cemented to his walkway. Curious, he mumbled, circling the package. Usually such heavy items would be deposited at the Post Office for him to fetch by order of a notice. He stared at the brown package, reached into the front right pocket of his robe and found his spectacles and placed them on his nose. On hands and knees, he examined the package closer. Nicely wrapped, crisp edges, pretty string bow. Hemp, the bow was made of brown hemp, not the white cotton stuff. Obviously, whoever wrapped it had taken care to do it properly, but there was something odd about the return address.

Curious, he mumbled again into his red cravat.

The return address read: A. E. Muss, 777 Enchanted Crescent, Rivertown, J0X-1M0. The number was his number -- his address. There must’ve been some mistake because he was definitely not A. E. Muss. Then again, nor was he Niord Gustavsson.

The other thing about the package that fascinated him was that it was humming melodically, far away but distinct. He cocked his ear to the vibration and tried to decipher the musical pattern. It was strangely familiar. He was trying to hum some remembrance back into consciousness when the garbage truck pulled up to the curb. Tom jumped down from the back of the big truck and emptied the recycling bins.

G’morning Professor! You got a bit of garbage there you want me to deal with?

The man in forest green overalls and florescent orange vest was big and strong, with a cheery disposition that made him immediately likeable. His face was round and ruddy, full of good will and always ready with a smile.

No, Tom, but if you don’t mind, would you bring this package inside for me? It’s awfully heavy and has gotten the best of me.

No problem Professor, always pleased to do an educated man a good turn, said the good natured Tom, his face splitting with a grin. You know, he bent over, grasping the package, for what he thought would be an easy lift, if a man wanted to broaden his horizons, but didn’t have the time to go to school, him being too old, what would you recommend?

Well, said Niord thoughtfully, I would say to that man, read poetry. Get your hands on a nice thick, juicy anthology, and read it while you sit upon your throne each morning. There’s nothing that keeps a man more fluid in mind and body than poetry! Something cathartic in that.

For a moment Tom looked a bit confused, and then gave a great laugh as he lifted the package from the ground. Laughter turned into an effort-filled grunt as he strained. What is this thing? he said in disbelief as he struggled. From the look of it, I thought it was a book or something, but this feels like metal! He staggered under the weight. Where do you want it Professor?

In through the front door, you’ll see the kitchen. Just put it on the table there. Gold, thought Niord, yes, it could be heavy enough to be gold, or lead.

Niord followed the husky garbage man into the house. With a great grunt of relief Tom deposited the package onto the table that seemed to groan under its weight. They both stared at it, and then Tom shrugged. No idea what’s in it?

None.

Too heavy for a bomb, so, I’ll leave you to it. You have a nice day, Professor, and if you need any help lifting anything, just give me a call. Either I’ll come myself or I’ll send one of my boys over.

Tom had three fine boys, all named Franky. An odd chap Tom, but he was a trustworthy man. Niord’s survival had depended on his ability to judge personal character, and Tom was without reproach. Wait, just a moment! shouted Niord, stopping the big man as he was about to exit the door. He rushed into his little study whose walls consisted of shelves of countless books. He stepped up on a stool, grabbed a small hardcover book, returned to where the garbage man stood and handed it over. Here you go, Tom. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

The big man took the book reverently in his hands and looked seriously at the cover, his eyebrows furrowed. When he looked up, eyes wide with disbelief, he spoke: You were serious then?

Of course, when one of my students asks a question, I’m always serious. It’s little, but still a great book of poetry.

Tom held the book up in his left hand while shaking the professor’s right hand vigorously. Thank you. I promise to read it, every day, on my throne. He said his farewells to Niord, left the house and strode down the walk, jumped onto the back of the garbage truck, and pounded it on the side. The truck roared off down the road to the next pile of garbage.

Tom pocketed the book of poetry. It wasn’t poems he was interested in, just surveillance. The professor was much more than he seemed. The taint of madness, even though it was old and benign, still hung around him like a rotten scent. Once the natural order of things had been twisted and magic invoked, it could never be entirely removed. Niord, or whatever his real name was, had been easy to track. Tom touched a thick finger to his temple and sent a message to the editor/publisher of the Occasional Observer. Sam, everything normal with subject at Nest One. Will proceed to Nest Two. Their next stop was Horwood House.

After the truck had disappeared from sight, along with its noise and its acrid diesel smell, Niord retreated into his house. He made his way over to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup, put a crumpet into the toaster and waited for it to pop. He purposely kept his back to the package on the table. Although the distant music inside the package had stopped, its presence seemed to swell, filling the entire room, demanding his attention. Niord ignored it. He felt like he was in class again, and there was an attention-deprived student trying to dominate. This type of student always disconcerted him. How could he fill in the blanks left by negligent parenting? But the package wasn’t human…or was it? He laughed at the bizarreness of his thought. His crumpet had popped and he proceeded to smear butter on it. Glancing up, he looked out his kitchen window and noticed that a thick, impenetrable mist had begun to fill the ravine, obscuring the little river there. Strange, the sun should be burning that away. By the time he finished his crumpet and coffee, the mist was beginning to prowl about his house, sniffing for a way to get in. To keep it out, he went to shut the window, but it was stuck. He stepped back and watched as the mist, like a waterfall, poured into his kitchen, swathing everything in cloud-like cover. Peculiar, he thought, and finally turned his attention to the package. As he approached it, the package began to play music again. Then he recognized the melody. It was an Irish tune his nanny used to sing to him. The words eluded him, but the feeling of her came back to him. Part of him wanted to leave the package there, unopened. Some things should remain mysteries, because once opened they were impossible to shut. Zuhayer, much to his destruction, had found that out. But the tune was driving him to unwrap it. He sat down, and with shaking hands, he reached for the package. For a fleeting moment he thought about calling someone, but realized he had no one to call. He was the last of his line, brothers and sisters all gone; even his colleagues at the University were gone. He had long outlived them all. The image of an interesting woman he had met at the farmer’s market bustled into his mind. She was pushy and full of likeable spunk. She seemed steeped in the things of the old world. He wondered if she would know anything about this. What would she say: ‘Doing no good just sitting there…Open it up!’ Probably, probably, so throwing caution to the wind, he got up, went to the sink, opened a drawer, pulled out a knife and turned on the package. With one sawing motion, the hemp twine holding the brown paper folds together was severed, and the brown paper opened, like the petals on a flower, revealing... Niord dropped the knife.

Oh, my, he said in quietè bated tones. He fell back, stunned, into his chair and stared. Sitting on the table was a large chunk of solid gold.

Not bad, for a little nugget, is it?

Niord whirled around to search where the diminutive, high-pitched voice had come from. Sitting on the edge of the sink, legs swinging playfully, was a little man dressed in a red, silver-trimmed frock coat and knickers. His red hair jutted out from beneath a black bowler hat. Niord noticed that the little man didn’t have any shoes, and his feet were decidedly grubby. They also smelled. There was something disturbing in the smell, not in the redolent odour, but in the familiarity of it: the smell of embalming fluid.

What … who are you? This is gold? stuttered Niord.

The little man, with surprising strength and agility, jumped from the sink to land on the table where he patted the solid gold chunk like a friend. He gave a disconcerting smile, disconcerting because his teeth were sharp and jagged. Now, with your permission, I will answer the questions buzzing in your substantial cranium, said the little man with a deep bow.

Niord also noticed that the little man had pointed ears and the irises in his eyes were the colour of rust, blood rust. He swallowed hard, the full, urgent silence prompting him to action. Oh, yes, by all means, you have my permission. He knew that some seniors suffered from dementia, but he thought that it happened slowly, not all at once as seemed to be happening to himself at this very moment, but then again he was old, so very old.

The little man gave an amicable nod. Excellent! Now, as you can tell, I am a Logheryman. My name is Angus Campbell O’Brien, and indeed, this is gold, not just normal gold, but Log gold…. he said waiting.

A Logheryman? asked Niord more of himself. He did know what a Logheryman was. The little people were called different things. I thought Leprechauns would be somewhat larger, mumbled Niord to himself.

O’Brien’s face took on an irritable shade of red as he rolled his eyes, and his teeth flashed. Listen, I will say this once and once only. I am no more a Leprechaun than you are an ape, no more an apple than you are an orange, no more a peach than you are a pomegranate, no more….

Niord stared at the little man as he continued to bluster, the bluster swelling in size until he filled the kitchen with his disturbed nature, threatening to blow a hurricane.

Right, sorry. I won’t make the mistake again, offered Niord in a conciliatory manner, hoping this dream or delusion, or whatever it was, would soon come to an end so he could get on with his day.

Immediately the little man shrank back down. His blustering fury deflated. Apology accepted. Now, as I was saying, Log gold has special properties….

I always thought for Leprechauns, sorry, Logherymen, to be cooperative they had to be caught, stated Niord quietly into his cravat, being careful not to excite.

Listen, I hope you’re not going to do that for long, because it is rather irritating, grumbled O’Brien.

Do what?

Talk as though I don’t exist, because, he twirled about, here I am! He drummed his fingers, his long, dangerously sharp nails clicking irritatingly, And here is the Log gold!

Niord leaned in and peered at the little man over his spectacles. Yes, for now, but isn’t this a trick? I’ll do something, or say something, then you’ll disappear?

O’Brien gave a despondent groan. I wish people would give up on the stereotypes. Well, under normal circumstances, yes, but these are not normal circumstances and I am not your normal Logheryman, he said, polishing his nails with pride against his red frock coat, in fact, I’m a bit of a rebel.

Back to his thoughts about dementia: Niord had tried to keep his mind young, and pliable, but obviously he had failed or maybe he had succeeded and his old neural synapses were over firing. He blamed his self-imposed task of committing to memory the old English epic Beowulf in Saxon. That was enough to give anyone nightmares, or, in this case delusions. He sighed. If he had to go mad, he might as well be entertained while doing so. But he really had no interest in Celtic mythology. He thought about calling Tony O’Mally, his old colleague at the university, but then remembered Tony had died ten years ago. He laughed.

What are you laughing at? bristled the Logheryman, fists on his hips, teeth looking decidedly sharp.

Niord saw that he had somehow offended the fellow, and he didn’t want to test the authenticity of those teeth. I am sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I just thought of phoning a friend and asking him about Leprechauns, sorry, Logherymen, but the thing is, he has been dead years.

O’Brien’s disposition softened and a strange look played across his face. Ah, yes friends, friends are important. It is the sad fate of mortals, to lose, everything. He paused as if contemplating some deep and poignant matter, then shook it off and snapped, As I was saying, he patted the gold, this is special Log gold, trust me. Well?

Niord felt a bit embarrassed. Well…what?

O’Brien groused something under his breath trying not to yell. Unfortunately, he needed this bleary-eyed, hoary, old traitor. It had been years, but the deserter was as cautious as he always had been. Listen, my friend. This is how things work. I can’t do anything unless you request, or inquire. It’s like opening a door, unless you do it, I can do nothing; and because I came to you, you have full control. You can ask me anything.

Anything? probed Niord. He had remembered some things Tony had said that had piqued his curiosity. All right. I hope you’re not offended but I was always interested in how Leprechauns, sorry, Logherymen, came to be. Some references say that they are the product of a union between degenerate fairies and evil spirits.

DEGENERATE FAIRIES! blasted O’Brien, his hat shooting off his head, propelled into the air like a missile, while his hair burst free in a puff of furious red shock. The little Logheryman’s face turned purple with panegyrical fury. Then with an effort verging on heroic, O’Brien managed to calm himself down with several deep breaths. By picking up his hat and slowly screwing it back onto his head, the little man composed himself. When he was done, he held up a hand, palm outward, the universal symbol for stop. Now, it seems that you’ve been swimming in the scummy pond that leads to nothing but prejudices and misunderstandings. Now, if you were asking me, which I shall assume you are, because you need some elucidation, and not eradication, I’ll be giving you some TRUTHS. Now, am I to be understanding that this is the situation?

Niord shivered, rather at loss for words, which was rare, he could only nod. Someone else had often used the exact same logic in his rhetoric, but Niord could not remember who it was.

Good. The Logheryman seemed to visibly relax, his eyes sinking back into his head. Now, this is how it is. YOU live in one world, WE live in another. You’ve heard of the three dimensions, well, I’m talking about the fourth: worlds within worlds. There’s a little space Inbetween for traveling, but if you don’t know how, you can’t get through Inbetween. Not a nice place, Inbetween. Wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.

Fascinated, Niord leaned forward. He knew about Inbetween, knew who amplified it, and he also knew Zuhayer had wanted it destroyed. There was more to this little man than met the eye. He also knew about Faerie, but the best tact now was to pretend ignorance. He would have to be cautious. So, you’re from another world?

One so close to yours that we almost have a mutual history, said O’Brien, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips, eyes darting around the kitchen stealthily. You and I are closer than you think. You wouldn’t have anything to wet the whistle would you? Getting here with that lump of gold was heavy work. By itself, that’s no real problem, but passing through Inbetween does present some logistical problems.

Niord got up, opened up the cupboard, and paused. He wasn’t at all sure what a Logherymen would drink. Then he remembered that Tony had mentioned they were partial to spirits. Unfortunately, all he had was some ale. He reached for the stein embossed with words Immer lustig, immer drustig. He blew the dust off it and wiped it down with a cloth. Would ale be fine?

Fine, indeed, said O’Brien, his face relaxing, I thought you would be giving me water. The little man’s face twisted with distaste.

Niord poured the ale and handed it to him. Angus Campbell O’Brien, with surprising strength, lifted the stein into the air, admiring it: Immer lustig, immer drustig. I couldn’t have said it better if I was a Bergmonck. Not a talkative crew, that lot, but can they brew a good batch of beer.

It seemed that as he tilted the big stein up that the ale would rush out and overwhelm him, a breached dam descending, but it did not. Niord watched the Logheryman’s adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed the entire contents of the stein.

Ahhhhh! he exclaimed, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. I’ve always said that beginning your day with a libation is a necessity. Thank you kindly, said O’Brien sitting down, more relaxed.

What is your world called? asked Niord. He was actually beginning to enjoy this delusionary experience.

Faerie, he sputtered, his face twisting in distaste. Now, quell your urge to ask any more questions, so we can get down to why I’ve risked life and limb to get this Log gold to you. His teeth flashed and his eyes went hard. We Logherymen are considered solitary, but that’s a lie. We are solitary because no one wants to be around us when we lose our tempers. We don’t mind the pomp and circumstance of the trooping fairy class, especially of the feminine sort, but don’t get us mad. Just a warning.

O’Brien looked longingly down into the empty cavern of the stein. You wouldn’t have a little more, would you? Talking is thirsty work.

Niord got up to get another bottle of ale from the cupboard to pour into the stein. He held it up and the Logheryman nodded.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know how I came to be. I just was. No degenerate fairy stuff for your sordid little mind. But that’s not why I’m here. It’s about the gold I have come, spouted O’Brien watching greedily as the ale filled the stein. Everything has to do with Log gold. He took a more leisurely drink from the stein, put it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That’s what I’m here for, his eyes narrowed, to offer you a deal.

Here it was, thought Niord, the reason to be cautious. This was how it sounded when years ago The Compact had sent their emissaries, all offering him a deal. Every warning alarm inside him began to sound; yet, it had been so many years ago. He reminded himself that Bevis was still around. What deal would that be? he leaned forward whispering in a conspiratorial tone, suddenly drunk with the sensation of risk. It was as though he had been transported to a secret shrine and was listening intently, waiting to hear the mysteries of the universe.

This gold, whispered O’Brien patting the solid block which surprisingly began to turn colour from metallic gold to shimmering white, is Log gold, and I am offering it for a greater purpose.

Purpose? The change in colour interested Niord very much. This has something to do with the deal?

Yes. Watch, said O’Brien tapping the top of the Log gold with his finger.

Lit from within, the gold began to pulsate, growing brighter and brighter with each successive pulse, so much so that it seemed