Tide Turns

By Doug Glenning

Lance Olwen has no idea what's coming, or who's looking for him, or why. He's spent the last year suffering from nightmares related to the original timeline. On a vacation to Hawaii his nightmares become his reality. With the timeline in jeopardy and his life on the line from not one, but two evil organizations, Lance is about the face his biggest challenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9780359048823

Book preview

Tide Turns

TIDE TURNS

Copyright © 2018 by Doug Glenning

Cover Design by Doug Glenning.  All rights reserved

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means - except in brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews - without permission from its author.

In Memory of Mae Allen, who was a wealth of knowledge in poetry and narrative, and inspired many young people to love literature as much as she did, even after her retirement.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.

William Shakespeare

Do just once what others say you cannot do and you will never pay attention to their limitations again.

Captain James Cook

Contents

TIDE TURNS

Prologue

Part I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Part II

18

19

20

21

22

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

23

24

Epilogue

[]

Outtakes

TIDE TURNS

Prologue

[]

[]

[]

Part I

1

2

3

4

5

[]

6

[]

7

8

9

[]

10

11

12

[]

13

14

[]

15

[]

16

[]

17

Part II

18

[]

19

[]

[]

20

[]

[]

21

22

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

[]

23

24

Epilogue

[]

Outtakes

Prologue

The cool chill of the ocean breeze whips through the port town of Waterford, much like it does every morning.  Grey, ominous clouds loom overhead like heralds of the impending downpour.  None of this is new to Conn Mullins, and frankly he likes the routine of the ins and outs of his day. Early to rise and out to the harbor port where he prepares his nets and readies his boat each morning.  His partners will stagger in during the next twenty minutes, often finishing their breakfasts.  After a day’s catch has been hauled in and prepped for transport to the markets its back home to tend to his family and meager amount of land.   For generations his family has been fishing off the coasts of Waterford and as far as Conn is concerned none of that is going to change. 

His uncle and brother have been trying to talk him into giving it all up for months now, though.  Waterford has built itself into the third largest port in all of Ireland; trade with other nations has opened up the once small port city to the rest of the world.  The pub, where they invited him for supper, was situated near the River Suir.  Give it up Conn, his uncle laments, can’t you see the writing on the wall?  You’re living in the past--the world is changing.  Your brother and I are making money hand over fist! Cattle is where the money is, especially now that there is heavy trading with Newfoundland, and this is just the beginning! 

Clearing his throat, his brother interjects.  "Come on, Conn!  You’ve said it yourself: the herring aren’t spawning like they used to!  Do you honestly think you’ll get wealthy trying to pawn off gurnard and codd?"

Not everything is about money, Denis.  Tradition matters, too. 

Conn’s uncle huffs at this last statement.  Well your tradition is not doing much to feed your family, is it?

Conn, growing red in the face, blasts at his uncle, My family is my concern! I will manage them however I see fit!  Turning his back on his brother’s pleas to settle down and come back Conn storms off for the road to home.

[]

Steaming anger continues to boil inside of Conn for more than half of his journey home.  He hates his uncle for suggesting he can’t provide for his family, he hates his brother for implying that their family tradition doesn’t matter, but what he hates the most is that he has been thinking the same things.  The fishing industry is not as strong as it once was.  Everyone is moving toward building the city up, making tradable goods to swap with each other, with other lands.  Cattle is where the money is!  His uncle’s statement plays over and over again in his mind.  He wants his family to have all that they need, and he wants it to come from the work of his own hands. How can he just toss aside the work of several generations of his family history?  Conn sighs.  Maybe, I should’ve--.

Help!  Help me!  A man’s voice calls from the thickets just up the road ahead of Conn.  He rushes in the direction of the voice. 

Hello?  There’s no answer comes as Conn approaches where the voice came from.  Where are you? 

Here! comes a strained plea for help.  Conn steps off the road and into the thicket. As he bursts through to the other side two ragamuffin boys take off, the youngest kicking the man in the leg near a bleeding wound.  Several meters in lay a man in tattered rags clutching a bag.

I’m here. Conn announces, hoping to comfort the man.  As he kneels he looks the poor fellow over.  His body is bruised badly.  Despite the bleeding wound on his leg, he has a wound bleeding from his shoulder with another on his right side with several burn marks located on his torso.  What’s happened to you? What weapons did they use?

These wounds aren’t from them. Can you help me?  Are you a doctor?

Ah, no.  No I’m a fisherman.

Can you help me, please?  I need to get better--I need to get home.

I can take you to the town, to Waterford.  Someone there can help you.

Waterford?  Where is that?

It’s not far, only a couple of hours walk from here.

No, no I don’t think I could survive that length a walk.

Well, Conn tries to think of what else can be done.  There’s an inn not far from here.  Only about twenty minutes or so.  You could make it there.  There’s no doctor, but perhaps the innkeeper--

Take me there, please.  Conn helps the bedraggled man to his feet.  He is unsteady.  His clothes are not only covered in mud and grime, mixed with his blood.  Perhaps instead, Conn proceeds, we should try and find a doctor.

I’m...fine.  The man struggles for a breath to finish his sentence.  I just need to rest and get cleaned up.

You’re wounds--you are still bleeding badly! 

Don’t worry about those now.  Please, take me to the inn, and if we could not talk, that would be wonderful.  I must conserve my strength.

Before the hour was up Conn Mullins managed to help the injured man to a bed at the inn.  It was slow going because Conn didn’t want to risk injuring the man further.  There is only one bed, as it is all he can afford, and so Conn sleeps on the floor that night.  He sleeps fitfully, waking every so often to offer his patient water and to change the makeshift bandages over the victim’s wounds, which looked even worse than they first seemed.

Just before the dawn Conn is up preparing to leave.  What little money he has left from paying for the room he will give to the innkeeper with promise for more to repay for any additional charges the injured man incurs.  Ugh…  A moan emanates from Conn’s patient.  He rushes to the man’s side as he tries to sit up. 

Lay still.  You must rest.  You’re not ready to be up yet.

I must go.  I have to find a way home.

When you’re strength has returned you will be able to go, but not yet.  Where is your home?

The man lay back down.  He sighs deeply.  Too far, I am afraid. I only hope that the compass can get me there.

A Compass?

"The Compass, and yes; it’s in my satchel.  Conn reaches the bag.  The satchel is completely empty except for a small, handheld device, black with eight sides. The man tries to sit up, his breathing is labored.  Be...careful.  It’s---time."

Time?

Time...in a...bottle.  Without another word he falls asleep again.  Conn wanders over to toward the window to shed some light on the object.   Conn turns it over in his hand looking over every inch of the strange object.  His eyes fall on a small inset piece.  He runs his thumb over it.  The piece pushes down under the weight of his thumb. 

The cry of gulls falls on Conn’s ears.  Voices of dozens of men shouting to one another come from behind him.  He turns and notices that He is onboard a ship, one he has never seen before.  Across the water is an unfamiliar harbor.  Panic wells up within him.  He releases the button and just as suddenly finds himself back at the inn standing next to the man’s bed.  All is quiet within the room as the early morning sun begins to leak in through cracks in the wall.  Below soft voices stir in the air as the innkeeper and his family begin to prepare breakfast for their guests.  Conn begins breathing rapidly. He charges out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. What was that?  He looks at the device in his hand.  What are you?  He hears footsteps.  The innkeeper comes out behind him.  Conn sticks the object in his pocket.

You’re not heading off without breakfast, I hope.

No, no.  I’m just getting some fresh air.  The innkeeper nods and goes back inside.  His wife comes out just after him, tossing a murky liquid out from a tub.  When she goes inside he walks off toward the alley between the inn and the house next door.

Conn again looks over the strange object his patient called ‘The Compass’.  Just then he hears footsteps behind him.  Supposing it to be the innkeeper he shoves the object in his pocket, and prepares to turn and head in to breakfast.

Look what we have here.  says a voice from behind him.  Something hard strikes Conn on the back of the head.  As he blacks out he hears the same voice say, Our first recruit.

[]

The pain at the back of his head is the first thing Conn experiences as he comes to.  Surrounding him are several others moving about.  One burly man with a gnarled face looks in his direction.  About time you woke up.  We was beginning to think ye dead.  A realization hits him.  Conn reaches in his pocket.  The object is missing.

Where am I? 

Plymouth.

No, no.  That can’t be.

The man chuckles.  Go topside and see for yourself.

Topside?  Conn dashes up the wooden steps to find himself aboard the deck of a sailing ship.  Several men are moving about the deck working rigging, or any number of other tasks.  Conn looks around at the others.  Please, where is the Quartermaster?  I’m not supposed to be here!  Everyone goes about their business ignoring him.  Frustrated, he moves toward the quarter deck.  Pardon, sir!  Conn calls out.

Back to work! a man yells in his direction.

I just need to see the Quartermaster, or perhaps the Captain. I’m not supposed to be here!

Then jump overboard, if you can swim!  We won’t be turning around.  Conn looks out over the side of the ship and across the water judging the distance.  A shock overtakes him.  He is staring across the unfamiliar harbor he recalls from the strange dream he had once he touched his patient’s compass.  He turns back to the man standing above him.  I need to return home! 

You will, once the voyage is over with.

When will that be?  The Quartermaster sneers.  "When we’ve circled the

globe." 

Suddenly, another man comes up alongside the first.  What is the meaning of this raucous?  Conn determines by the dress that this man must be the captain.  The Captain looks down at Conn.  Get to your post!

Please, captain!  I’ve been taken against my will.  I need to return home.

What is your name sailor?

I am Conn Mullins of Waterford, sir, and I must get home quickly!

Well I am Captain James Cook, and we have already set sail.  There is no turning back until our voyage is complete.  There is nothing I can do.

Sir!

You heard the captain!  Back to your post! booms the Quartermaster.

Conn ignores him.  Captain, I had a box in my pocket. It’s very… He hesitates to say dangerous.  Valuable. Was I brought aboard with it?  Captain Cook lingers, looking down at Conn.

You had nothing in your possession.  Whatever it was, it’s lost.  Conn hangs his head, dejected.

[]

At suppertime Conn is sent into the captain’s quarters with his meal.  Captain Cook stands at a table with charts and instruments scatter aboard it.  Your food, Captain. The tone in Conn’s voice is loaded with despair. Cook points to a smaller table off to the side, saying nothing.  Once Conn leaves, Cook casts a glance toward the door, listening for Conn’s receding footsteps. 

Cook reaches into a drawer near his bed.  He pulls out the black, octagonal box that the Quartermaster had taken off Conn while he was unconscious.  Cook originally took it because he thought it to be ebony.  He turns it over in his hands. 

Valuable, eh? He studies each inch of it.  "It’s such a small piece.  How could this be valuable?"  Cook’s finger brushes the button.  He finds himself standing on a sandy beach.  The waves are crashing angrily on the shore.  He recognizes several of his men rushing into longboats.  Off to his right he hears his Quartermaster scream,

Captain!  Get in the boat!  They’re coming.  Cook follows the man’s finger as it points behind him.  Cook’s eyes widen in horror at the sight of hundreds of native warriors rushing toward them!  Captain, look out!  One of the warriors is closer than he realized.  A spear is hurled in Cook’s direction.  In panic, he backs up, tripping over his own feet.  His finger releases the button on the object.  He is back in his cabin. 

Cook stands, heart racing, examining himself for the spear’s puncture wound.  He looks about the cabin.  A sigh of relief comes across his lips, but as he looks down at the object in his hand a gasp emits.  Witchcraft!  Cook tosses the object back into the dresser drawer and collapses onto the side of his bed.

8

Part I

1

Lihue Airport

Kaua'i

Waves are pounding Lance Olwen, shoving him beneath the surface.  Struggling to keep