Chains of Perception

By Jo Pilsworth

It was the third planet orbiting the star Nusaka. It was home to three species. It was a planet at war, a war which had lasted generations with no end in sight. I was a boy. Just a peasant, I thought, no more than that. How wrong could I have been? I was a key figure in a struggle that engulfed a planet in war, just because of the identity of my parents. By the time I reached adulthood, I would have seen greed and death. I would have been manipulated and made to pay for a crime I did not commit. All because I was the child of my parents.

I promised myself I would forge my own life, and if it was within my power, I would break the cycle that had ruled my family from the time my great-grandfather had agreed to a symbiotic link with the true natives of the world we called home. But, could I do this if it meant the loss of those for whom I cared, both family and those I saw as family? Was such a loss worth it, or should I just have left things as they were?

You tell me. I am Jago de Carlo-Hunter and this is my story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Pilsworth
• Release date: Jun 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310353284

Jo Pilsworth

Too many nights away from home led to my joining an online role-play group based on Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Dark Hunters universe, giving me an enjoyable hobby whilst in hotels on my own. As a result, I became friends with some of my fellow writers, Tracy Andrews and Donna DeBoard, who joined me when I started what was known in the role-playing world as an ‘own character’ group. Thus The Hunter’s Arrow and the worlds of the Anghelescu Hellhounds and the Negrescu Cŵn Annwn were born.When not concocting fiendish plots, I work as a Store Manager for The Works, a UK-based chain of art and craft supplies. I am supported in my writing endeavours by my wonderful husband of more than 25 years, David, and my son, David Junior.The Diaries of the Cwn Annwn consists of nine books, so far, with at least a couple more in the works. The books available here start with Merysekhmet, then Toho, Medved and Ma'iitsoh. Omega and Gemelli are in the production stage. Dare you walk in our world?

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CHAINS OF PERCEPTION

Joanne Pilsworth

Published by Joanne Pilsworth and The Hunter’s Arrow Ltd

Copyright 2015 Joanne Pilsworth

Discover other titles by Joanne Pilsworth and The Hunter’s Arrow:

The Anghelescu Chronicles

Bound (planned publication October 2016)

The Diaries of the Cŵn Annwn

Alpha (planned publication May 2016)

Beta (planned publication October 2016)

Delta (planned publication May 2017)

Caduceus (planned publication October 2017)

Ddraig (planned publication May 2018)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chains of Perception

The diaries of Jago de Carlo-Hunter and Ciara Hunter-dePol

Chapter 1 - Musings from a prison cell

Chapter 2 - The early days and Katerina Hunter

Chapter 3 - My sister, Ciara

Chapter 4 - Elen Campbell

Chapter 5 - The price of silence

Chapter 6 - Colonel Jago

Chapter 7 - Ciara’s Interlude

Chapter 8 – Memories

Chapter 9 - My brother, my enemy

Chapter 10 - In search of the truth

Chapter 11 - The meaning of fear

Chapter 12 - An end to conflict

Chapter 13 – A light in the tunnel

Chapter 14 - Sailor to a Siren

Chapter 15 - Not the end, not yet.

About Jo Pilsworth and The Hunter’s Arrow

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Sample of Bound – The story of the Anghelescu Hellhounds

CHAPTER 1 - Musings from a Prison Cell

Had I ever screwed up this badly? Probably, but that was hardly relevant right now. All I knew at the moment was that a week is an incredibly short time in which to contemplate one’s life, particularly when every indication seems to be that said life is about to come to an end. Nonetheless, a week is all that I appeared to have available to me. A mere seven days would be all the time that I have left in this existence. That is quite a daunting thought for someone in their early third decade. Enough of the pomposity. Fair enough, though, since in writing my ‘memoirs’, quite clearly I did not die, and have a little bit more than a week’s worth of existence. But, that was not what I believed at the time. At the time, I had every reason to think that those people who had developed a strong dislike of me over the years, had succeeded finally in their attempts to end my life, by either direct or indirect means.

I was in a prison cell, about which there is nothing glamorous, just four bare walls, and a pallet on the bare floor. The pallet was, of course, too short for me, but at least it kept my butt off what would be a very cold stone floor otherwise, given the decidedly unseasonal weather. It was a cell intended for someone about to die, so why waste comforts on such a dastardly individual. I did have the luxury of a stone facility in which to relieve myself, but that was the extent of it. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I had even the pallet. I was being permitted one week between the first half of my punishment for inciting treason, and the second half of that punishment. My trial had been a farce, no doubts there. I doubt that there was ever an outcome more certain. I knew that I would be found guilty of incitement to cause mutiny amongst my fellow junior officers. I knew that none of my fellow junior officers would be found guilty of anything more than believing my traitorous words. I knew that I would be the one who would be punished as a result. I knew that those sitting in judgement over me had every intention of ensuring that my death was the outcome of this trial, and that, more importantly from their perspective, that they would be exonerated of any hint of a charge of the murder of one (brevet) Colonel Jago.

That final point was the key. I had been a thorn in the sides of several of my superiors since my arrival in the officer corps. It was not only that they knew very little about me. It was not the fact that I bore no family name. It was not the fact that I was, as it was phrased, a young man of independent means. I had the temerity to survive five years of what should have been a death sentence; what would have been a death sentence if I had not had assistance, to their minds. I had been given rank, inappropriate for one as young as I, and a rather plum assignment, having found favour, it would seem with Lady de Carlo herself. All these factors did contribute to their low opinion of me. But there was more. Someone wanted me dead, someone who had been trying to kill me on and off for some years, and that someone would not stop until that result was achieved. So, in order to flush that someone out, I had to play a role.

Had it been mutiny or even attempted mutiny? That did not matter. What mattered was that, foolishly, it appeared I had played right into their hands. Recklessly, I appeared to have followed a course of action that could only have had one outcome. In short, I appeared to have acted in a completely brainless manner, and thus, I had no one to blame for the result but myself. It was not as if I was unaware of their animosity.

My role was simple, and yet complex. It was that I had to give the impression that I had become bored with waiting. The impression that I had to portray was knowing that, for as long as I could recall, I have been playing a waiting game, knowing that I was part of something big. With my bloodline, when I had realised exactly what was my bloodline, came that knowledge. Those senior to me, who had known of that bloodline had cautioned me to wait. I could not know all the implications, so I had been charged to wait. But I had been waiting all my life, all of my colourful life, and in waiting, I had seen friends and those dear to me go to their deaths. I had lost too many friends and I needed explanations. There was only one person who could give me those explanations, and I had to act as if, for the moment at least, there would be none. The only advice that I would receive, and even that would be from an indirect source, would be to wait.

So, the image that I had to portray was that I had grown to hate that word and all for which it stood. ‘Wait’ meant that I would continue to be on the periphery of whatever ‘it’ was. I could not show that I had come to realise that I did not stand on the periphery, but that I was a central part of ‘it’. I had a pivotal role to play, and I knew now that the other players had wanted to ensure that I was ready for that role, when the time came. But, it was a fine balancing act and now, my greatest concern was that, by my precipitous actions, I may have ruined something that had taken several years to arrange. It was that thought, more than any concerns over my apparently imminent death, which occupied my mind as I waited.

I had been sentenced to be flogged, to the tune of 150 strokes. The panel of judges who had passed sentence had known that even someone of my size and my familiarity with the lash, could not receive such a punishment at one time without dying from my injuries, and so, the gracious allowance had been made that I should receive the first 75 strokes, be allowed one week to recover, and then receive the remainder of my sentence. That way, those who had sat in judgement over me would appear to be following the letter of the law with regard to the punishment for treason, and seeking to ensure that the guilty party would live with the effects of their punishment. After all, Soruan needed its people. For their sentence, their punishment in contemplating mutiny against the senior ranks, my friends and fellow junior officers had had prime positions from which to watch my punishment. One of them, Duncan, had even been ordered to maintain the count, to ensure that there could be no accusations of unfairness, or hint of my having received more than the strokes to which I had been sentenced. Even allowing a week between, had I received the very best medical care available, it is doubtful as to whether I would have recovered sufficiently. As it was, the best medical care was not what I had received. For that matter, it is doubtful as to whether what I received could even be termed medical care. My back had been washed down with a dilute solution of cheap wine. It has smelled quite sharp, from what I was able to recall. Unsurprisingly, it had hurt. After that, I had been left in the cell. I received basic food and water once a day. Apart from seeing the guard who brought my meagre rations, I was left to my own devices. So I had time to think, time to wonder, and time to consider all the ‘what ifs?’ that tend to plague one who is facing death. Not least of those questions was: what if my parents had been in a position to acknowledge me as their son when I had been born?

Chapter 2 - The Early Days and Katerina Hunter

New peasants are born with monotonous regularity. I remember overhearing that comment as a child, although I did not understand it at the time. At least, I did not understand the comment completely. At the time, I believed myself to be one of those peasants, living in the generously-termed ‘estate cottages’ that formed the living accommodations for the labourers on the Home Farms of the House De Carlo. One of my earliest memories is the swaying motion of my cradle and its accompanying sound and smell of the woman whom I believed at the time to be my birth mother. She was not, as it transpired, although she, herself, believed that she had borne me. As I was to find out later, she had, in fact, borne a stillborn girl. The woman who had borne me had replaced me with that stillborn child, because it was in her interests, and in mine, even if it took me a while to appreciate it, that it was believed that she had not given birth to a live child. The woman who became my foster mother was informed that she had passed out whilst giving birth, and that I was the result. It was convenient that I bore a reasonable resemblance to both her and the man with whom she lived, as it made the story more believable.

Peasants are the lowest social category, but probably the most numerous. This was hardly surprising given that peasants grew the food, looked after the livestock, and provided all those services that made the lives of those of a higher social class so much more comfortable. One thing that I can recall was that there was a dramatic change in our lives around the time I was four or five years old. Work was actually stopped one day, and the order given for us to assemble in the yards. Our days were long: dawn to dusk, and no variation. So the concern showed on all faces. There was a murmur which ran through the crowd, which was silenced quickly as an individual in uniform took a stand so that they were visible to the whole yard. My parents herded us together, reinforcing that this was a very unusual thing to happen. Other families were doing likewise

The cottage in which I lived was a single-roomed dwelling, with a beaten earth floor. It was better than most, since it had a fireplace and a chimney, where most had to contend with a fire-pit and smoke-hole arrangement. It was perhaps the only concession that my ‘parents’ had received in token of my birth. My ‘parents’ had a bed on one side of the chimney, and I and my siblings slept in a series of stacked beds on the other side, thus making the best possible use of the warmth left in the stones. The fact was that the cottage needed little else, other than a place to sleep and a place to prepare food, because as peasants we were all expected to work and work hard. There was little time for leisure, because as soon as a child was old enough to walk with some degree of steadiness, it would be put to work, albeit in simple tasks like crawl-weeding or stone-picking. My ‘mother’ used to take me, and in turn, my siblings with her, as she worked in the fields, keeping us strapped in a sling close to her chest initially, and then later, strapped to a board on her back. She had a position of some responsibility, in that she led a gang of other fieldworkers, with the task of ensuring that the group’s assigned tasks were completed at the end of the day. It did not mean that she would work any less than they; if anything, it meant more work, because if a task looked to be uncompleted, she had to ensure that it was not the case, or face the consequences. So, there were two things expected of peasants: work hard and breed more peasants, all for the greater glory of House De Carlo. I think I can say with some certainty that my parents did both of these things with efficiency.

In the time that I lived with them, my foster-parents provided me with five siblings: four brothers and one sister. My sister was the baby of the family. It was a shame she did not live very long. Call that one of the drawbacks of being a peasant. We did not get the best food available: it was mostly root vegetables, supplemented with whatever nuts and forest fruits my brothers and I managed to forage in the woods. As peasants, there was some appreciation that it was in the Estate’s interests to keep us reasonably healthy, if only because a good farm manager ensures that breeding stock is kept healthy. To this end, a pregnancy was greeted with much delight in the family, because it meant that there would be extra food, and once a month some meat. True, the meat would be the stock long-past breeding prime, and consequently, rather tough. But, one thing we did learn was that if you left it in the pot for long enough, and kept the pot topped up with water, then eventually, it would be edible. It may have been more of a meaty broth by then, but it still tasted good. I have heard it said that hunger is a good teacher, when it comes to knowing what one can and can’t eat. I think I can agree with that, because I remember learning very early on exactly what plants in the forest would make that broth taste even better. At that age, I did not understand about vitamins and minerals and trace elements. All I knew was that certain plants were good to eat, like the nettles that I would bring for my mother, which she would use to make a tea for us all to drink and certain plants were to be avoided. It was something that all peasant children learned very early on.

My mother was pregnant each year as was common with all peasant women. I remember asking her once about it, when I was six years old, and she had recently borne my sister, because I could not help but notice that it was hard for her, particularly as she came near to her time. She said to me that it was a price she was willing to pay given the benefits that each pregnancy accrued for her family. Not all of her pregnancies resulted in live births and two had resulted in twins. Sometimes she miscarried, or the babe came early and did not survive. When that happened, she and my father would endeavour to ensure that she conceived again, and quickly, because otherwise, she would be exposed to the other risk faced by a peasant woman: being considered by our betters to be ‘fair game’. That was another phrase that I did not understand when first I heard it. I wish to this day that I did not have to find out the way that I did, because I can still remember that day so clearly.

My mother had only recently given birth to my sister. She was still being carried in the sling, rather than on the backboard, and as a result, it was not immediately apparent that my mother had a young child, wrapped up as she was against the cold, biting wind. From the look of them, the riders approaching our cottage had been out hunting, and their hunt had been successful. I guessed their ages to be in their late second decade. They had rabbit and other small game hanging from their saddles. I remember looking at that array of meat, things that I had only dreamed of tasting. They wanted water, both for themselves and for their horses, and called to my mother and me to serve them at once. Despite the numerous pregnancies, my mother was still an attractive woman. She was in a quandary. We needed to be out in the fields, given that it was harvest time, albeit root vegetables. We were late as it was, but given her recently gravid state, there was some small leeway for her. I was permitted to assist her, as her eldest offspring.

You, boy! Come here, and bring that bucket of water. You, woman! Fetch us something to drink. One of the riders had ordered me to serve him. He was a large man; at least, he was large to me, and although I was tall for my age, at the time, I was only a six-year old peasant boy.

I had dragged the heavy bucket of water over to him, and watched as he dismounted and let his horse drink a limited amount. At least he cared that the beast did not drink itself to a chill, given the amount of exercise that it had had recently. When he was satisfied that the horse had drunk sufficiently, he shoved me with a kick to my behind over towards one of his friends, laughing as I measured my length in the dust underfoot. This appeared to give them an idea for an amusing game, and I found myself being pushed from one rider to another, as they used the butt end of their hunting staves to prod me in another direction. More than once I dropped my bucket as a result, which led to more jeers and more shoving. In the meantime, my mother was moving around the group, with another bucket, that we used to draw drinking water, and a dipper from which they could drink. I noticed that she wore the baby sling, and at the same time, I realised that the riders were tiring of the game of pushing me around, and their attention was focused on my mother. She realised it also. Ducking her head lower, she tried to make herself less conspicuous as she carried the drinking water to the next man. But it would have been impossible for them to not notice her. I noticed that four of them looked at each other. It was as if they had given each other some sort of signal, as they dismounted, casually tossing reins to their mounted friends. The four of them surrounded my mother, to jeers and catcalls from the other riders in the group of Get one with it! and Hurry up, if you must take a stop!

I had heard my parents talking about things like this in whispers. It had happened to several other women in our little group of cottages, because we had the misfortune to be near a well, and this was not the first time that a party of hunting gentry had stopped here for refreshments. My mother looked terrified. She knew that this was risk of being a peasant, but to date, her constant pregnancies had spared her from this. They didn’t even take her into the cottage, or even give her a chance to put my sister to one side. With a callous comment of You can breed another brat, one of the four had pulled the sling off her, and dropped it casually to the ground. My sister’s head hit the woodpile and the sling stopped moving. I heard the sound of tearing as they ripped her blouse away, and heard comments about the size of her breasts, hardly surprising, given that she had been a nursing mother. She was pleading with them, begging them to stop, and begging them to let her attend to her baby, even though she suspected that my sister was dead. Frantically, I looked at the other riders. They seemed to view this as a spectacle for their amusement, perhaps a bit boring, no more than that. It mattered not one bit to them that my sister had been killed. After all, she was only a peasant brat, and my mother was only a peasant woman. Not one of them was attempting or even considering an offer of assistance to the object of their comrades’ desires. That was all they saw before them: an object and not even a sentient object. My mother was a peasant woman who existed to serve their needs, whatever those needs might be. Even now, I can recall the scene so clearly. Just as clearly, I can recall the feeling of something snapping within me. Suddenly, it was not just my mother who was screaming. The horses were showing signs of agitation. Those still mounted appeared to be having problems with their mounts. The woodpile broke loose from the rack, and the logs rolled loose towards us. I ran to my mother, still holding my bucket, and swung it as hard as I could against the legs of one of riders. I was no more than a six-year old peasant, but