The Seeds of Beyond

By May Koliander

Jack Cormac, standing over 6 feet with plenty of muscle mass certainly wasn’t to be fooled with. But there was an invisible chink in his armor. Downers and lack of purpose sent him to lick his wounds in the Alaskan wilderness, living a lonely trapper’s life. And then a troubling message from his past found its way to his old cabin from across the ocean, disturbing his peaceful routine and rousing him to carry out a promise made to his grandfather before his death. Who was Jack really ? Would he find the answer in France as, alongside a mysterious siren, he pursued a quest begun centuries earlier that far transcended him ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: May Koliander
• Release date: Jan 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9782970088295

May Koliander

I was born in the States, the outcome of an Oklahoma - Pennsylvania love story, but bred in Europe. My taste for stories started a long time ago with Mom reading to us every evening for hours and giving us free access to the stash of Classics Illustrated a mile high she had thrown into the great ocean liner trunks along with other artefacts, such as vegetable peelers and pie tins, when she decided to cross the seas with her brood. As we grew in years, we graduated from Uncle Wiggly, Uncle Remus and Pogo to the great epics and then on to the world's classics. I still remember my brother's laughter when we got to The Pickwick Papers and must confess I fell asleep during most of The Brothers Karamazov, but was totally enthralled by War and Peace. I sometimes try to draw up a list of my most loved books, something like a top ten. It would read - today - like this : Lolita by V. Nabokov War With The Newts by K. Capek God's Grace by B. Malamud Anna Karenin by L. Tolstoy La Soif et Autres Nouvelles by Ivo Andritch Ferdydurke by W. Gombrowicz The Barsoom Novels by Edgar Rice Burroughs The Things They Carried by T. O'Brien Le Testament Français by Andreï Makine A Good Man is Hard to find and Other Stories by F. O'Connor Us by E. Zamiatine Frankenstein by Mary Shelley Of course, it's easy to remember the works that have marked generations. However, we don't only feed on 'literature' - there are myriads of other books out there of a less lofty nature that we have read and thoroughly enjoyed, but whose titles or authors have faded from our memory. So, the big blank space in the middle of the list is for all those writers whose work has given me countless hours of excitement and pleasure - writers of genre fiction. One day, however, the unthinkable happens - you reach for a book and after a few pages, you let if fall back down. It's not what you wanted - the shoe doesn't fit - so you pick up another and it happens again... Then there's only one thing left to do - sit down at your computer and start writing...

Book preview

THE SEEDS OF BEYOND

May Koliander

Copyright 2020 by May Koliander

Cover design : Bruce Rolff

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-2-9700882-9-5

Also by May Koliander

The Dragon’s Pearl

- Welcome to Freakdom

- Freaky Pearl

- Freak Away !

Love Code

Quicksands

The Cave of Treasures

Genewise

Spaceheim

Contact : [e-mail]

THE SEEDS OF BEYOND

To Peter, whose love we feel from beyond death…

"Humans are the stuff of the cosmos examining itself…"

Carl Sagan

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Alaska

Chapter 2 The hunter

Chapter 3 Lara

Chapter 4 The Taklamakan desert

Chapter 5 Sibelle

Chapter 6 Trouble in paradise

Chapter 7 The skull

Chapter 8 The dive

Chapter 9 Getting down to business

Chapter 10 After Mexico

Chapter 11 Moving on

Chapter 12 The camp

Chapter 13 The siren’s call

Chapter 14 Europe

Chapter 15 The meeting

Chapter 16 The city of Ys

Chapter 17 Dark clouds

Chapter 18 Behind the wall

Chapter 19 Lilas

Chapter 20 Down to business

Chapter 1 Alaska

Iron… Jack dropped a clinking handful of his grandfather’s marten traps onto the snowmobile sled. And shivered. He peered up at the whitish sky, cut out like jigsaw pieces by the tall dark firs, and zipped the collar of his parka up. Overhead, light years away, blasting madly eons ago, red giants had showered space with iron. Peppering the cosmos with the oxygen-carrying molecule found churning in the core of the planet he stood on and in nearly all life on earth, including the blood running through his veins and the old army revolver that fit snuggly in the back of his jeans. Jack shook his head, heaving a sigh that made the fur trim around his hood flutter. Dreaming about the cosmos took his mind off the unopened letter lying on the old scarred wooden table. The letter was the only white object in sight inside the honey-hued cabin. It uncannily drew to its pallid surface the pale winter daylight peeking in through the small window panes. After a last look at his gear in the sled, Jack got on the vehicle, resisting the impulse to glance back into the cabin as he started the engine and plunged into the forest, intent on following his trap line to the very end. Right now, he needed to get on with the job. The fur season had started all right, funnily enough, as Jack was rather new to the trade in spite of spending many a winter holiday helping his grandad set traps. Nail Cormac was a tough old timer who lived like a hermit and didn’t tolerate fools gladly. Jack remembered his parents wondering about the old geezer’s sanity when, having raised his family, he set out on his own - at a late age - into the wild. Up here, in Alaska, the path he had chosen was nothing special. If you wanted to live off the land and trap seriously, you needed space. Unfortunately, however far away one is, you are always too near the next bunch of bastards. After a few weeks of settling in, Jack had a taste of the delights of human contact just a couple of days ago. It was on one of his forays into the small hamlet of Tok - if one could call it that - five blood-red wooden buildings huddling together at the end of a small track. Three guys were already in the shop which served as post office and gas depot when Jack opened the door, stamping the snow off his boots before entering. He smelt trouble immediately.

All three men turned to him, faces grim. The middle one, a heavy, thick-necked blond guy with cheeks like slabs of marbled steak, took the lead, his voice astonishingly high for such a beefy dude.

You the guy who took over old Cormac’s trapline ?

Yes. Why ? Jack asked, taking a step closer to the men.

You’re not from here. How come you’re using his trap line ? The weasel-faced one spat out. He was short, with narrow shoulders and a hard beer gut filling his parka.

Jack took his time answering, Who’s asking ?

We are, Blondy said, guys born here.

And that gives you the right to ask questions ?

You bet it does. This land is ours !

Technically, it’s neither yours nor mine but the Inuits’. Jack inched closer, jaw set. This was going nowhere. The guys spat on the floor when they heard the word Inuit. They were riled up and would attack the second they sensed fear.

He decided to give it one last shot, Old Cormac was my grandad. He willed his property to me.

That’s what you claim, but Marvin here was led to believe that trap line would be his after the old git kicked the bucket, the heavy one said, pointing at the tall, skinny, buck-toothed individual next to him.

Now why would you suggest such a thing ? Jack inquired, taking a deep breath and bracing himself for what was bound to happen. Before going native, he had been an army instructor, teaching survival skills. He could hold his own in any brawl. And his sheer size and determined look had often been enough discourage those out for trouble.

The old man asked Marvin to work the line when he got weak and said he could have it once he’d gone, blondie said, voice stridulous, chin jutting out.

Jack shook his head, keeping a keen watch on them. Sorry guys, that’s a load of BS if I’ve ever heard one. Grandpa was right as rain until found dead on his porch. These hoodlums must have thought the old man was alone in the world.

You calling us liars ? Marvin, the bean pole erupted, moving closer to his buddies.

The outcome was as plain as the nose on your face and Jack meant to control the trigger.

That cabin and that trap line are rightfully mine. I’m sorry for you guys, but there isn’t the slightest doubt on the topic. So, I guess you’ve found the right word for it - I’m dealing with a bunch of liars.

You’re just a fucking town boy. There’s no room here for strangers ! Tow-head squeaked, charging. But Jack was ready. The blow intended for his chin went over his head as he ducked and rammed into the guy’s middle, letting him have him a taste of his bulk. Blondy landed on his back with a thud while Marvin circled around, seeking to kick Jack off balance, none too eager to face the man. Meanwhile, Weasel-face was inching towards the door.

Just as Jack was about to tackle the bean pole, the shopkeeper rose from behind the counter with a 12-gauge rifle.

I’ll wing the first one who moves, and that’s just for starters ! the man boomed. At the sound of his voice the trio froze. Old Blinking Talbert meant business and they knew it. Couldn’t have kept shop in the wilderness otherwise.

Get out now, you skunks ! he bellowed, following them with his rifle.

He kept the gun on the men until they had beaten a retreat. Then he turned to Jack.

Sorry, pal. I was out in the shed checking supplies when it started.

I was expecting some trouble when I took over Grandpa’s cabin and this is probably not the end of it, Jack said, passing a hand through his dark hair. Slamming into Blondy’s gut had been quite an experience. To his surprise, the guy’s beer belly had felt like a memory foam pillow.

There was a lot of gabbing when you suddenly popped out of nowhere… but that don’t excuse them acting like assholes ! The guys around here are entitled to a little gruffness, but to lay claim to old Cormac’s trail ! They’ve got some nerve !

Grandad sure was not one for sharing or asking for help. I don’t know where they got that idea from.

True. I bet the wood creatures or perhaps the Canadians understood Nail better than the people around here. It almost sounded like pidgin when he opened his trap. But you two communicated fine ?

Thanks to all those French lessons my parents made me take. Jack took a sip of the steaming mug of coffee Talbert had placed on the counter as he looked around the shop. The bullies had knocked a few packets of soap powder off the shelves as they trudged out and Jack picked them up.

The shopkeeper sighed. When old Nail Cormac was found frozen stiff on his porch steps, rifle close at hand, it was jabber-jabber for weeks. Had he tripped and banged his brains out on the handrail post ? Or received a nasty blow to the head ? Jim Murdoch went around sniffing with his dogs but the ground was frozen solid and there were no tracks to speak of. The hounds did go after a trail, but when they hit the dense forest where the snow was softer, it became clear they had been following a wolf. The creature must have drifted up to check out the old man’s body. Hadn’t touched it, mind you.

I’m not surprised. He had a special connection to those beasts. Never sought to catch a wolf and when one did step into one of his traps, he would release it if the beast could still run off. He often told me these creatures were related to the movement of the sun and moon. I guess what he meant was that he saw them as the embodiment of the instinctive forces of nature. Jack looked at Old Talbot with a wry smile, knowing what to expect.

The sun and the moon ! Whatever else ? the old man spurt out, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Pappy Nail sometimes talked like some kind of priest, that’s for sure. When he brought in his load of pelts and sat in that corner over there, hand cradling his glass of whisky, I would hear him mumble to himself. I could feel it hurt him to trade pelts for money. He had the greatest respect for the animals he put to death. Not many like him, Talbert sighed before banging the counter with his fist, With all this hullabaloo I nearly forgot - you’ve got mail, boy, and he pulled out a longish white envelope from under the counter.

Mail for me, here ? You must be joking !

Both Jack’s parents were dead and his only sibling - a brother - had died before Jack’s birth.

He gingerly took hold of the envelope and frowned. His name and the hamlet’s were duly written on it but when he turned it round a shock traveled up his fingers. There was nothing on the back of the envelope save a small sign, and he would have recognized that sign anywhere. In green and blue ink, it was the triquetra or trinity knot - the symbol found carved on tombs thousands of years old as well as on a pendant worn by a woman from his past.

He needed to be alone and welcomed the diversion when the door flew open and an old timer stomped in with a gust of cold air. Fingers shaking, but not from the cold, Jack slipped the long envelope into his parka’s inner pocket.

There’s a skidoo lying on its side out there, beached like a Goddam whale ! the old man burst out.

Jack snapped out of his trance and got to the door before it slammed shut. His snow rider - a beast that had cost him a substantial lump of money - had been toppled and was already white with fresh snow. The old man had followed him out and under Talbert’s gaze, they righted the machine.

Bet those guys have been tinkering with your ride, the shopkeeper said, blinking like mad as he always did when outside the shop. He claimed it was to protect his eyes from the glare of all the winter whiteness. However, come summer, he blinked just as hard…

Jack was frowning, wondering what exactly the gang had been up to. Nothing looked out of place but when he tried to start the machine there was no reaction. They had cut away the spark plug wire. Simple but effective… You had to give them that.

You’re old Nail’s young one, aren’t you ? Better look out for them bad ones - saw them sneaking around your pappy’s cabin when he was still there, the old man warned him.

They got the machine into the shed alongside the shop where Talbert stored dry goods and sundries and Jack borrowed an old pair of reindeer herders’ skis. His grandad also owned a pair, given to him by a Finnish woodsman who had crafted them himself, so Jack had practiced how to handle their great length. He wasn’t wearing the traditional lap felt and leather boots with turned up tips, but managed to keep his feet in the leather straps nevertheless.

The spark plug wire had to be ordered from Juneau and would take a few days to get to Tok.

Half way home, pulling his sled loaded with flour, bacon, powdered egg, beer and household goods, he stopped for a breather and, as the snow had ceased falling, pulled the letter out to examine it again. That mark on the back could only be from one person and he felt both a deep unease and excitement at the thought of being taken back to those days, over six years ago. It had been a stressful time, to say the least. The impulse to tear the thing up and let the confetti slowly dissolve in the snow was strong, but some part of his brain urged him to open it and discover its contents. Like a bottle cast out upon the ocean, this message had managed to reach this backwards neck of the woods. Can’t stop stuff happening, he guessed. He fitted the letter back in his pocket. The decision what to do with it could wait. Skiing through the forest was good exercise and would allow him to check out a few new sites where to set traps on pine trees, but it was no way as pleasurable as tearing through the fresh snow on a smoothly functioning machine.

He cursed like a madman when he finally got back that day to find fresh snowmobile tracks on his property and a ransacked cabin. Pots and pans were pulled out of the cabinets, the dresser drawers were hanging out, and his clothes strewn all over the place. Clearly, whoever had taken advantage of his absence had been looking for something in particular. What could they have been after ? This wasn’t gold panning country and to his knowledge, his grandad owned nothing beyond the boots he had died in and the gear needed to survive in these wilds.

Jack ran out to the shed where all his equipment was stored. Surprisingly, his collection of spare snares was untouched, but the gun box housing his grandpa’s treasure trove of ancient Alaskan artefacts had been overturned, its contents spread out over the pine flooring. Well, from now on he wouldn’t leave home without his rifle and his old army M9 and it certainly wasn’t to protect himself against four-legged beasts in spite of a recent news item he’d caught on the radio. Down in Canada, a bear had attacked and killed a camper, tearing him out of his tent by the neck and dragging him into the forest, only to abandon the body without chowing down on it.

Since the day of the attack in Tok, the letter sat plumb in the middle of the cabin’s only table and was still there, untouched, when his skidoo was repaired. The incident in Tok had made him lose precious days of trapping and Jack was thankful he could again travel the length of the trapline which meant camping out for a night or two. But that was a bonus. It suited him just fine - the temptation to open the letter was getting hard to resist. So, when he set off, his spirits rose as the cabin receded and the excitement of the ride freed his mind. Right from the start, the harvest was plentiful, the martens mostly good-sized males with dark chocolaty pelts. Properly handled, they would bring in a tidy sum. It was as easy as plucking fruit off a tree and Jack had to refrain from whistling, as he replaced bait in the traps, to avoid breathing on them, all the while sucking candies to mask his scent. As he got near the end of the line his line bags were bursting at the seams. In spite of the heavy haul, he had covered the whole distance surprisingly fast as it hadn’t snowed much these last days, but light was already getting low. Time to set up camp. Slightly off the trapline, he dug out snow from the natural cavity formed by the downward sloping boughs of a giant fir, and built a sort of hut with thick freshly cut branches. Jack removed his down parka as he toiled. Working up a sweat in freezing temperatures could have dire consequences, as he had learned the hard way. The job done, he grinned. Protected from the windchill by snow banks, once tucked into his sleeping bag on both his insulation and his army reflector mat, which served to reduce conduction, he would be as happy as a pig in clover ! It was dark now and a blazing fire was next on the list. Checking the two dozen traps he had set around a nearby lake to try for mink would have to wait until morning.

After enjoying the last of his food, as he absorbed the fire’s warmth, he looked up at the vast field of stars so far above. The heavenly bodies were totally unaware of the little planet on which he was seated in the middle of a boundless forest and yet, they seemed to be winking seductively at him, as if to draw him up to swirl around with them in their frozen reaches, luring him up and away from these snowbound lands.

Next morning, he woke up with a start much too early and looked around in a kind of panic, expecting to be surrounded by a sea of steel and concrete - back in his boyhood room in a city high-rise. The sight of fir boughs over his head soothed him. He must have been having an unsettling dream. The letter on his cabin table had apparently journeyed with him out here, and was opening floodgates, plunging him back in time to his life with his mother, an epoch he had thought well buried. Wriggling deep down in his sleeping bag and pulling the cord close around his face, he cursed the damn missive.

*****

I’ve got a blinding headache, so I must ask you to please stay in you room ! Coleen was on the main sofa, a hand on her forehead, her features slack. The boy shut his door and kicked it but not too hard, least his mum hear it and find the energy to come and lecture him. He’d heard the homily a thousand times if he’d heard it once : Can’t you have some respect for your mother’s pain. There is no call to raise a tantrum when I ask you to act in a perfectly reasonable way ! Teeth clenched, he crossed over to the window but from the 18th floor there was nothing to see, not like in the old house where they had lived until dad began to absent himself for most of the year, called off to digs all over the world.

That rambling old house was Jack’s real home along with his grandad’s cabin in the Alaskan woods. Mom was only too happy to let him travel there during the long summer holidays - only too happy to be relieved of the burden of her only son. Jack had even been lucky enough to get sent there a few times at Christmas. Mom would have a spat of fainting spells, triggered by the news her husband would be abroad for the celebrations, and retreat to a nursing home for a few weeks. On his return, full of glowing memories Jack needed to share, the only person available was an old spinster his mother employed to see to the cooking, cleaning and to his basic needs on the days she found it impossible to rise from her oversized bed. His mother was slim - always counting calories - and she had reminded him of the pictures of queen ants he had seen, as she lay prone in her room doing nothing, until he realized that he was being unfair to ant queens who