Visions of the Black Heaven Ii

By Daniel Zien

Visions of the Black Heaven II

This is about a clash of a few chosen and antediluvian, interdimensional entities seeking control of a forgotten ancient technology. The struggles between light and dark, good and evil, and rich and poor produces a thrilling, fast-paced novel opening possibilities of old and new concepts in ancient history, physics, dimensions, and other realities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984511102

Daniel Zien

* to follow

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Small clouds of frozen mist formed as his gloved right hand steadied the door. His gloved left hand inserted the key into the lock. It opened with a sharp snap.

He enjoyed the sound of the welcome bell as the door opened and hated the sound of a squeaky door hinge. The squeaky noise robbed him of the calm control his store offered, a calm control he enjoyed and demanded. He oiled the hinges weekly.

Closing the door and walking his customary twelve steps into the small but efficient store, he passed the three red sculptured Victorian chairs, two gray and white marble-top end tables, being pleased with the positioning of the furniture—two chairs and an end table on the south wall and one chair and end table on the north wall. He smiled, remembering the Johnsons sold him the furniture at a fair price when they decided to move out west.

He walked past his displays of antiques, watches, rings, gold and precious collectables. One of his favorites, which a Ms. Alice Strader had sold him, was a women’s golden pendant watch. It was not the pendant that was so special, but its unique shape was larger than most women’s watches and had a cover that made it desirable. The watch cover was solid gold, fashioned like an iris in full bloom, with a diamond in the middle of the petals. It had a delicate two-foot gold chain with small opals in the decorative choker. He had never seen anything like it. Inside the cover was engraved A. Strader with the date July 4, 1893. Every time he held the watch, he felt a strange sensation of power, confidence, and pride.

He walked past counters made of oak, walnut, and mahogany displays showing his collection of fire arms, Remington and Colt pistols, Winchester and Springfield rifles. Every man wanted the best pistol, Colt 1873, the Peacemaker, or the Remington-Beals 1858 revolver. The Springfield 1875 lever action .45 caliber rifle was the next most popular firearm in his store.

Next were his displays of men’s pocketknives of all fashions and sizes. He had pocket knives with bone, wood, or mother-of-pearl handles and two-, three, four-, and five-blades displayed under locked glass. It was said the first pocket knife we know of was found in a central European Hallstatt culture, which existed around 600 BC, and that a real man always carries a capable pocket knife—one never knows when such tools are necessary.

There was a separate display of men’s pocket watches, the gold open- and closed-faced on the right, the silver open- or closed-faced on the left. Each watch had its own history. Smiling to himself, he reached into his vest pocket to feel his favorite, a closed-faced Waltham watch. The gold cover had a unique display of the six-point star of David.

On the wall behind the counters were a variety of Swiss- and German-made grandfather, cuckoo, and mantle clocks, which sat idle. He did not allow the timepieces to chime. Some chimed on the hour, some on the half hour, and some on the quarter hour, and the noise distracted the customers. In reality, the customers did not mind the noisy clocks. He just did not like the clocks constant ticking and chiming.

At the back of the store, he put several pieces of kindling and three hickory logs into the belly of the black wood-stove. His gloved fingers fumbled striking the white- and red-tipped wooden match against the stove’s cast-iron belly. The sulfur tip exploded into orange and red fames, and he threw the burning match on the resin wood kindling. The fire started to burn.

Walking across the back wall to his desk, he heard his footsteps echo under the wooden floor as he passed the wall of displays and bookshelves. He touched the hidden lever inside one of the shelves that locked a false door to a secret room and his safe from people who didn’t need to know what he had or where he put his most-valued possessions.

Sitting down at the wooden chair matching his desk, he inserted the skeleton key into the lock, and the wooden cover rolled up inside the desk effortlessly.

Opening the top drawer and pushing his Smith & Wesson .44 pistol aside, he pulled out his daily ledger to start an entry, Business transactions, December 21, 1897.

Leaning back in his chair to read the morning paper and wait for his first customer of the day, he smiled listening to the crackling of the fire, feeling the heat, and smelling the aroma of the hickory wood.

The welcome doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of his first customer. Looking up over his paper, he felt a rush of cold air, watching a tall slender man walk in and close the door. His riding coat hung open and showed no sign of a gun belt. His hat and cloths were dusty. His jeans showed signs of saddle wear. He assumed the stranger had been riding a long time.

The stranger carried a double saddlebag over his right shoulder, a saddlebag which appeared to be full, and a burlap sack in his left hand. The burlap sack swung in step as the stranger walked. This stranger held his head high but wore his hat low. The hat’s rim covered his eyes and looked dusty, weathered, and worn.

Looking over his paper, he watched and listened to the stranger’s slow, strong steps, steps that did not reveal a state of panic like most customers did. The stranger silently put the burlap sack and saddlebags on the glass-covered counter.

He heard himself say in a dialect not his own, G’da partner as he got up from his desk, walking to the counter to meet his new customer.

The stranger stood silently, eyes covered by the rim of his hat.

Walking with a spring in his step, he once again looked him over and tried to start a friendly conversation to break the uncomfortable feeling and get a sense of what this stranger wanted.

What do we have here? he heard himself say.

The rim of the hat rose to reveal the stranger’s face and eyes. He was taken aback by the deepest darkest and most intense blue eyes he had ever seen, eyes that had a razor-sharp focus, eyes that seemed to be able to look right through you and peer into the very core of your soul.

Standing behind the counter and feeling uncomfortable, he realized that he had seen every kind of eyes imaginable, scared, desperate, lying, happy, bored, sad, corrupt, and yes, even mean eyes. He prided himself in his ability to read a person’s eyes and know if they were desperate, fake or just evil. But the eyes of this stranger were different. This stranger had a young-looking face with old wise eyes. The face was expressionless; the only movement was his constant razor-sharp focus. He looked into a face as solid and motionless as a stone statue.

The stranger opened the burlap bag and brought out a large bronze helmet

then put the helmet in his hands. It was cold and had to weigh at least twenty pounds. It had strange writings on the top, and the sides showed signs of dents and scuffs of battle wear.

Again the burlap bag opened. Seven metal spearheads appeared. Each spearhead eight to fourteen inches long and weighed up to ten pounds. The spearheads were made with an opening large enough to mount it to a handle the size of a small log. The spearheads showed sharp edges that had been dulled through use.

The burlap bag opened again to reveal a dagger with a metal sheath. The dagger was about twenty inches long and had a large loop on top of the metal sheath. The dagger was made for a hand more massive than his and had several gems inlaid into the base of the handle. He had never seen the kind of wood that made this handle.

The stranger silently handed the dagger to him. It almost looked like a dirk but not as elaborate. The dagger’s blade made a tiny noise of metal scraping metal as it was pulled out of its sheath. Its razor-sharp edge glistened in the sunlight, and he thought he knew what the dark blotched stains on the strange wooden handle was.

This is a rare and unique find, he thought to himself. All the articles were made of a wood and metal he had never seen before. The workmanship was magnificent, the detail was exact, and each article displayed the same form of writing.

After several minutes of inspecting the articles, he carefully put the items on the counter. Knowing the saddlebag had something in it, he waited to be shown the next exhibit.

The stranger opened the saddlebag, pulled out a golden disc about six inches round, thicker in the middle and thinner on the edges. Silently the stranger put the object in his hands.

It was cool to the touch, it looked like gold, it was heavy like gold, and it had that smooth creamy feel of gold. Examining the article carefully, he observed this was not a disk per se, but more like a medallion. The medallion had the same kind of writing on the face, edges, and the rim as the other articles.

He thought to himself, I have seen many languages, languages of the Egyptians from 3,000 BC and writings of the Sumerians written in a cuneiform style. Yet this writing does not resemble either of these. The writing almost seems to be symbolic of ideas like the Asian languages where each figure has a meaning unto itself. But these figures are not as complex as those of the Asian languages.

He carefully examined the medallion. On one side of the medallion was displayed a picture of a solar system with twelve planets. It clearly showed the sun with twelve orbiting objects. Each planet had a position, and all the planets seemed to have a flat orbit in this solar system. On the other side of the medallion was a picture of two men. One looked like a warrior, and the other looked like a farmer.

Looking away from the article, he saw that the stranger’s face had not changed. His eyes were expressionless, stone cold, revealing no emotion. The stranger’s hand reach into the saddlebag and brought out another kind of medallion. This one different, it had a solid gold core and what looked to be some kind of cloth or fiber coating on its surface with writing on the gold-rimmed edges. The stranger’s hand reached into the saddlebag again to retrieve two more gold medallions and two more gray medallions.

Looking into the stranger’s eyes, he wondered where he had found these artifacts. Hurrying to the front door, he twisted the key in the lock, flipping the sign to read closed. As he turned back toward the stranger, he felt a moist heat and smelled a scent of a humid rotting vegetation. He saw something like a shadow in the corner of his vision.

Feeling his face contort in a strange question, he wondered where that stench might be coming from. It was the middle of winter, and there was no sign of vegetation anywhere, let alone rotting vegetation. The thought of the shadow in the corner of his vision puzzled him, but right now, he was too busy trying to finalize this purchase to be concerned with that thought. He wanted this stranger’s articles but did not want to show his desire.

Slowly walking back to the counter, he was frustrated. He could read anyone’s mind, but this stranger was different. The stranger had not moved, didn’t seem to breath, and still had not even blinked his eyes.

As he walked behind his counter to face the stranger, he heard himself say, Well, these are interesting things you have here. I am sure we can do some business today.

Thinking for a moment, he spoke a number then watched the stranger’s expression. It did not change, yet his actions spoke volumes as he shook his head in an almost imperceptible no.

Thinking for another moment, he spoke another figure. Again the stranger shook his head no. Frustrated, he thought for a few more seconds. Quickly calculating, he offered another figure.

The stranger shook his head no.

Taking one of the medallions, holding it up, and feeling the cool metal in his hands, he knew gold, and this was positively gold. It had that feel of gold.

He knew the pieces were priceless. The etchings and carvings were worth more than the gold will ever be all by itself. He wanted these pieces, and he wanted them bad.

Just before putting the medallions on the counter, he felt the same hot moist air and smelled that pungent stench as before. Suddenly a wave of panic developed as the thought of losing this sale crossed his mind. He forced a smile, feeling beads of sweat form on his face. He was experiencing a deep desire, a strange need, almost lust to have these objects in his possession. A shortness of breath, cold sweat, lightheadedness had overcame him; he quickly made another offer, knowing that he was offering almost all that he had and this would put him out of business if he could not move some of these pieces fast.

The stranger nodded a silent yes.

Smiling, he gathered up the articles to take them in back of his office. He felt a searing pain on his wrist. Looking up, he saw that the stranger’s hand had caught his arm in a vice-like grip, a grip of strength that he had never experienced before. Looking into the stranger’s face, his eyes exploded with anger, almost hatred.

The stranger shook his head a silent no.

Knowing what the stranger meant, he left the items on the counter. He felt the stranger’s eyes watch him as he hurried to the back of the store, reached in a shelf, and turned the lever to open the secret room. Behind the wall, his nervous fingers fumbled with the lock, twisting the combination knob over and over until he finally got the combination correct. The large safe door opened with a soft click.

The light revealed stacks of paper money, each stack counted out in the same denomination. He needed more than the cash on hand. The light shone on bags of gold and silver bullion, each bag tagged with the exact weight and value.

Counting the exact negotiated amount, he put the money in a leather bag. He tied the bag shut and walked back to the counter. He handed the bag to the stranger.

He watched the satchel of money disappear into the stranger’s saddlebag. Then the stranger silently walked out the door, mounted his horse, and rode down the street.

After the stranger rode away, he went outside and waved a cowboy down. Follow that rider. Tell me where he goes. Tell me where he lives. There will be one hundred dollars for you if you are successful.

Yes, sir! the cowboy shouted and took off after the stranger.

He told another cowboy, Tell the telegraph operator to come to my store and handed him a five-dollar gold piece.

Yes, sir! shouted the cowboy. He ran down the street.

A few minutes later, the telegraph operator knocked on the store front door and entered.

Looking at the small fragile man’s eager eyes, he said, "Send this message as soon as possible.

To Boston, stop, rare find, stop, come to Chicago immediately, stop. Sign my name to it. He handed the telegraph operator a twenty-dollar gold piece, and the telegraph operator ran out the door.

Walking back into his store, he closed and locked the door and carried the articles to his desk. He then found his book about ancient languages.

Striking a match he put the flame to the oil lamp wick. The flame glowed, and he sat down, opened the book, and started looking at the pages of the many languages listed.

Sitting back in his chair, his eyes stung from reading. Looking out the window, he noticed the setting sun and realized how long he had been at his desk. He saw his reflection in the window. He smelled the same putrid stench and felt the humid heat as before. Sitting higher in his chair, he looked into the front window, watching darkness cover the landscape; he saw his reflection sitting behind his desk and sensed a wave of disbelief as his image in the reflection moved from behind the desk and changed. His suit was replaced with a leather and burlap garment, and his chest was covered by an armored breastplate with the same writing as on the medallions.

He watched the shadows move in the window’s reflection. Shadows on the walls, shadows on the stores displays, it was like seeing shadows of shadows. He heard the distant echo of words La Shilda For.

Silently watching the reflections, he listened to the words until the reflections and shadows vanished as the sun slowly set behind the horizon.

He returned his attention to the book and medallions sitting before him on his desk. The oil lamp flame created a cacophony of light and shadows that danced on the walls, ceiling and floor. Using a magnifying glass, he looked carefully at the etchings on the gold surface; a sense of satisfaction and awe overcame him as he felt the medallions’ creamy, smooth pure gold rest in his hand, a creamy, smooth feel that only a real expert in gold could detect. He liked that feel of smooth pure gold. He ran his fingers over the gold again and again, enjoying the sensation of pleasure the pure gold gave him.

Feeling a shiver, he exhaled deeply, seeing a cloud of white frozen mist form before him. He could not move. His fingers, arms, legs, and back hurt. His head was still lowered, eyes still fixed on the gold medallions sitting before him.

His body was stiff from sitting in one position all night long. He exhaled deeply, watching another cloud of frozen mist from between himself and the medallions.

Raising his head, he looked out the window and saw the morning sun start to peek over the city’s horizon, the sunrise creating shades of light and shadows on the streets and buildings visible from his store window. He realized he had been at his desk looking at his new possessions all night long but did not remember one minute of it.

Looking at the paper in front of him, he read the phrase written in his hand, La Shilda For. He had written the phrase in large letters, small letters, letters pressed hard, letters brushed softly, words written over and over and over again.

Opening his desk drawer, he found his ledger. He recorded the purchase of December 21, 1897.

CHAPTER 2

The sun’s rays had turned from dark amber to crimson red; lengthening shadows devoured the skyline, hiding the city in a husk of darkness yet allowing him one last glimpse of the vanishing light and his reflections in the window.

Hans, dressed in a handsome gray pinstriped suit, confident, educated stood facing the wall of windows in his office, Every night, he made it a practice to watch the sun set over the city’s horizon, watching the sun’s rays slowly give way to the grip of darkness. He enjoyed watching the sun set, not to