Witches of Sark

By Shiloh Noone

The pages that you are about to read will sever any doubts you have about the ghoulish possibility that witches truly do exist in the darkly momentum of human sacrifice, riding broomsticks and hovering around boiling pots, conjuring spells. My name is Shiloh and what I am about to reveal is based on debatable true-life experiences that still rake my sweaty sleep even though they happened about twenty-four years ago.
Although names and places changed what is said and delivered is for you, and the countless, so that you may have oil in your lamps for the arduous times to come.
What you are about to receive is a mixture of fictitious fact riddled with altercations and alterations protecting the little I have achieved in this global testing ground. 'Witchy wonder' has always been hovering like a dead catalyst, forever disturbing our perspectives on life, I mean how could the Witch of Endor have called up Saul's soul, or what of Mother Shipton, the seer who now seemed, precise with her predictions? The millennium saw the arrival of the Blair Witch scam, yet garage bands like the Outcasts were carrying her message through the mid-sixties.
 

Cape Argus Journalist Owen Coetzer  

Not all is well if these are truly the happenings that fester within the unseen boundaries of our existence, Shiloh's around the world mystical charter, fighting witches, fairy encounters and battles with goblins and dragons are simply out of this world or very much in it. Shiloh is the perennial drifter, backpacking through a maze of hippy encounters that captures the sincerity of a seeker on a quest for the truth. 
This book is truly part two of Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road', although far more sinister with apocalyptic dimensions. Even more fascinating is the way Shiloh 'trips' through the corridors of Prague hunting vampires alongside the Russian Mafia and in the next instance, fights Caiman with his bare hands up the Amazon. In my thirty plus years of journalism, nothing like this has ever been applied to paper, I'm still recovering……!! 
 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shiloh Noone
• Release date: Apr 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312703063

Book preview

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Witches of Sark

SHILOH NOONE

First Edition

Text Copyright © 2023 Shiloh Noone

Typesetting: Colin Newman

Front Cover: Stehn Botha

[e-mail]

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-312-70306-3

Introduction

The pages that you are about to read will sever any doubts you have about the ghoulish possibility that witches truly do exist in the darkly momentum of human sacrifice, riding broomsticks and hovering around boiling pots, conjuring spells.

My name is Shiloh and what I am about to reveal is based on debatable true-life experiences that still rake my sweaty sleep even though they happened about twenty-four years ago.

Although names and places changed what is said and delivered is for you, and the countless, so that you may have oil in your lamps for the arduous times to come.

What you are about to receive is a mixture of fictitious fact riddled with altercations and alterations protecting the little I have achieved in this global testing ground. ‘Witchy wonder’ has always been hovering like a dead catalyst, forever disturbing our perspectives on life, I mean how could the Witch of Endor have called up Saul’s soul, or what of Mother Shipton, the seer who now seemed, precise with her predictions? The millennium saw the arrival of the Blair Witch scam, yet garage bands like the Outcasts were carrying her message through the mid-sixties.

Upon careful research, the Blair Witch has reappeared at various places around the globe, no less than sixty times over the last three hundred years, yet authorities put it down to serial killers never apprehended.

Even more ghastly is the legend of the Bell Witch of Tennessee, one of the best documented cases of a violent haunting in American history.

Of course, now in the year 2013, witches and spells have become box office hits casting their darkly acts through Hollywood, amongst other children’s stories. I tell you this: no person is prepared for what I must share. This true-life story whether you believe or not carries all the darkness and evil that the Book of Shadows has spun on this gullible and easily fooled world. The motivation or mission of this book is not to dispel the Wicca group, who have successfully penetrated the dimension of children and spell casting media TV, but rather bring out the darker realities that lie in the white curve balls of fashionable New Age Magic and Masonic rituals.

Whether you believe me or not, I, Shiloh Noone, have seen these ghastly creatures in the dead of night when the skies are torrid and hideous, riding their prosthetic wooden chariots like whoring banshees.

Our journey starts in the bohemian spaces of Amsterdam where fellow seekers congregate and revel in the canal coffee shops that scent the cold Dutch air with sweet smelling hashish.

The hippy clan moved South with a brief skirmish amongst the Romani encampments that dance through sorcery and erotic seduction, until the pale cobbles of prostitute Paris where the most despicable darkness envelopes the weak and sickly. In flight and fear, I find myself hurtled across the channel into a forgotten crag of cannibalism that has lived under the noses of the British Government for the last three hundred years.

Flung by God’s grace across the Northern spheres I was delivered into the crest of a divine plan where the very root of Israel is about to be savaged by the brooding beasts of Armageddon.

After a short engaging enlightenment with Kali in India, I escape southward and find myself waging war with Macumba, a defiling sorcery that has cast its voodoo rhythms amongst the Catholic masses of South America for hundreds of years. My journey goes north into the fabled city of Prague where the pestilence of vampirism has raised its incestuous head.

Countless young tourists were being washed up under the Charles Bridge while authorities fail to find clues. It is here in the dark underworld of the Russian Mafia that able assistance was offered as I ventured into the forests of Hungary with a group of hardened ex KGB Georgians, a Prague dot.com Mafiosi that control the clubs and parlours of this cathedral city.

Shaken and wounded, in mind and body, I flew back to Africa for a brief sabbatical, but interrupted by Father Thomas who calls me up to assist in a Vatican adventure, into the heart of Libya, where the last dragon wing was discovered, under the sands of the Sahara.

This monumental discovery awakens a far greater threat, its mate that has slept in the labyrinths of the Acacus Mountains for a thousand years. A battle likened to the apocalypse takes place, as the very foundations of man’s faith are tested beyond the limit of willpower.

Dedication

This devilish paperback Witches of Sark is a fictional reality account, based on a mixture of legend and truth. Ideas and experiences conceived by the author Shiloh Noone who in his travels has used the remnant of dairies and liner notes to create this mystical journey.

Approximate period that these fictional accounts transpired was between 1978 -1987. Please take note that not all characters are fictional, and the author apologizes for any ill effect, which may have been brought on by those that read this book. He pleads emphatically to only enter these pages if one truly has a steadfast faith in the Lord above. X rated!

Argus Journalist Owen Coetzer

Disclaimer

The poems and stories are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices mentioned may be true, but the characters involved are imaginary and may represent fifty imaginary incarnations of the author. This is a work of fiction. Although its form is sometimes reflective of an autobiography, it is not one.

Space and time have been rearranged to suit the convenience of the stories and with exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the authors.

All pictures were publicly photographed by the author or borrowed from public domain, however if an artist or sculpture is not mentioned the author will gladly update if informed.

Van Groot’s Wailing Windmill

Escaping the 1976 political chaos of South Africa in the late seventies was a natural reaction for hundreds of young white Anglo refugees who refused to accept the political status quo. Young girls flocked to London with the hope of returning to their heritage by marrying young English gentlemen, while the boys, ravaged by their compulsory Angolan military excursions, could only find solace in the Ouzo-soaked sex of a Grecian beach with a final baptism in an Israeli Kibbutz.

Twenty years of my life had passed by, and I felt gutted, insecure, and desperate. The year of 1976 only brought back the stench of fascist schoolteachers and that cigarette government stench that reeked from the uncomfortable wooden desks.

Heavily laden with Irish roots, but regarded as the English ‘communist’, I felt chosen to make a form of individual stand. In one sense, I would like to think that in-between a world of Bob Dylan and the confusion of political riots, stoning cars, and military call-up papers, there was something more for this lost soul.

I was now free, and with a tingle in my stomach, I purchased a plastic money-belt from Cape Union Mart and a flimsy H-framed backpack. Two years of service to a Música Record Store gave me the currency to take the step to the North lands. After carefully selecting my visas for every country of destination, I settled payment to Luxavia for a two-year return ticket.

The moment had arrived, and the farewell greetings were brief and tearful for I was alive and pulsing with African energy.

Enclothed in Woodstock hippiedom and an excited naivety, I was ready to brave the new world that I had only seen in magazines and TV. Nurtured in the calm waters of folk and blues music, for me it was the chilling coyote whine of Neil Young or the easy vibe of Jackson Browne that pacified my teen years in the countryside.

The closest that I could get to heavy was the occasional fair-weathered grasp of Hendrix, The Who or Jethro Tull. My upbringing occurred in a small coastal town called Strand, where one is brought up on surf, beach parties and the occasional joint. Laid back, was the name of the game and I was centre field with an eye for women, love, peace, and poetry. Strand was a touristy rural outback with its beach cottages and gravel side-streets. My dad chose this village because of its offset posture. He believed, ‘if a man cannot ‘piss’ in his own front garden, then he is living too close to town’, so I inherited a trailer park styled residence, with its playing fields being the sandy dunes and concealed shrubbery and believe me it was good in those dunes.

Strangely, even though distant from the racist cannons of Cape Town central, my matric years were a nine-month ritual of catching the doomsday train to the city, and the very cause of my political escape.

The 1976 riots had forced me to put pen to paper which found its way into the local newspapers, resulting in numerous visits from the Bureau of State Security.

I was a marked man from that day, for even the Boers knew that the pen is mightier than the sword, thus the silencing of Steve Biko, a man of great vision exposed to me through his good friend and attorney, Peter Jones, my gym partner. (I took battle against the traumatic political status quo with the power of the poetic pen.)

‘Graffiti Trains whistle a nation’s pain as they crawl through the townships filled with hanging limbs and freedom hymns. Rubber smoke blotches the horizon, George Orwell helicopters rattle the townships that shivered with battle, as Black people, are herded like cattle.

Anyhow, let us depart from my red neck upbringing and left-wing poems, for now I was free and determined to seek out the strange, unsettled feeling that had stirred within my belly for so many years. Scooped into the corner of a Luxavia flight with delays at Johannesburg, Nairobi, and Cairo, did not deter the pounding that rumbled from within.

Seat eighty-seven gave me illusions of being smothered between two sensual blondes for the duration of a twelve-hour flight. Alas, for destiny was already at play and all I got, was a pale bespectacled reborn Christian who honestly believed it was her moment to convert, baptise and rehabilitate me before the plane touched down. Bedraggled and bible bashed, I descended the flight steps to my newly acquired haven of adventure. The air, fresh and biting, I found myself filled with a sense of déjà vu as the mist perspired under the struggling summer halo of Luxembourg.

As I huddled into the corner of the bus, guitar and backpack awkwardly stabbing the already seated herd of Germans, I felt somehow consumed by the possibility that a plan was at hand and my destiny was about to break forth.

The fragrance of Europe, their history thick with ghosts of the past, and all around the ancient architecture, so different from the barbecue lifestyle of sunny white South Africa.

My destination was Amsterdam with its free love and drugs, where I was sure the roadmap for my journey was to begin. With my long hair fresh on my shoulders, I felt qualified to melt into this hippie environment that had pressed so deep into my soul after years of bathing in subculture music. My knowledge of the music gave me confidence, for had I not studied it so deeply through the countless rock albums that I had accumulated back in Cape Town. In one sense, I lived it, even with my short hair and playing the conservative patriot game in the government schools.

I could feel an anthem lifting me into that stream of consciousness; the trumpets were calling as the theme from Tommy charged through me. The Who had plainly written that tune for me and the awakening was at hand. There was no doubt, that I had been destined by the hand of my maker, to complete some hidden work for the testimony of my generation.

As the bus cracked the icy air of the autobahn, making its way south, I pondered the heritage of my ancestors. My mother’s side, rich in Dutch ancestry and on my father’s side, the Celtic Irish spirit, rebellious and ever seeking, yet ill placed and reaping the mistakes of my ancestors. What lay ahead was a tangled web of uncertainty, for truly now I felt even more isolated than ever before. The passengers around me seemed directed, certain, and almost habitual in their passage.

I must have stood out so awkwardly with my large backpack, which stifled everybody’s movement. My awkward descent from the bus, was hunched, schizoid and apologetic, as I buffed every dodging Dutchman in the process of tightening my backpack.

As soon as I descended from the bus a strange and excited surge erupted in my belly as the crisp Amsterdam air whistled through the scurried bicycles and beeping trams. My first vision of Amsterdam remains with me even to this very today, the countless canals that criss-crossed every intersection, reflecting the cramped gabled cottages that clung precariously for fear of falling.

The spiky bicycles, moving back and forth reminded me of the ants of Africa that move with absolute destination and never collide. With the first strain of that H-framed backpack tightening my neck muscles, I brushed passed the heroin addicts that were hanging like wet limpet mines on the side of the Central Station. Their gaunt half-starved faces, reflected an undead shimmer that I would later see emanate off the Aids victims of Africa. The hotel houseboat that I was looking for was one out of hundreds that beckoned my call. The accurately drawn-out map seemed to disfigure under the gusty winds that bounced off the walls of the cottages around me.

Amsterdam was a mindfuck in every sense of the word with its sweet, scented coffee shops, desirable ‘Hookers,’ and Thai food takeaways. Everybody seemed free and colourful in their busy bicycle matrix of trams and taxis.

After being run over about ten times, I took shelter at the nearest coffee shop called the Bulldog, which seemed justified for I was wonderfully lost, delirious and did not really care.

It was not long before I immersed myself into a smoky conversation with some Dutch intellectual who felt that Cape Town should have embraced the socialistic principles of the East Bloc and separated entirely from the Nationalist apartheid regime of South Africa.

Watery-eyed, I agreed. In fact, anything he said, I agreed to, because I was so stoned and jet-lagged, that all I could see was a blur of purple smoke belly dancing to the sound of Golden Earring, Yea eight miles high and shit it felt good, miles and trials away from the killing fields of Angola.

You not going to believe this, but it took me a week to realize that the exotic sweet smell that hovered around every pub was hashish, and not continental perfume.

Back in Africa it was Durban Poison and Malawi Gold, no spacey exotic fragrances. This was just the start of my problem, the other, having a weak bladder in Amsterdam could cost you a fortune. You think I am joking; you cannot just walk in and make for the bog, you must order a beer, which does not exactly hack it for me when your bladder is bursting and you hobbling like a Faulty Towers Manuel.

Then again when you are six foot tall and quite broad, you are lucky if you can fit into the toilet, which is eight foot down into a basement where they used to hide Anna Frank during the Nazi occupation. Whatever you do when you are sitting, do not turn, lest you wipe out the 17th century toilet base holder.

Mind you, the Dutch are big, so how do they do it? Have you ever seen a Dutchman take a ‘piss’ in one of those toilets? I have not.

I think we have been taken for the Mickey; those toilets were built for the French when they invaded. I bet there are amazingly large toilets hidden in a secluded basement or the outside possibility that Duchies do not ‘piss’ inside, but rather fill the canal?

Even more enlightening was the anxious attempts by the African aliens to greet me