GENESIS (GODS CHAIN) Read online

  GENESIS

  Nikolaus Baker

  Gods Chain

  GENESIS

  Book One

  in the

  Gods Chain Tetralogy

  GENESIS

  Book One in the Gods Chain Series

  Copyright © Nikolaus Baker 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

  manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever,

  electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, or mechanical ( including

  photocopy, file or video recording, internet web sites, blogs, wikis,

  or any other information storage and retrieval system) without the

  prior written permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by M. Hlibyczuk

  [2010]

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: www.godschain.com

  First Edition, 2010

  Second Edition, 2012

  This book is dedicated to

  my father Michael who I love and respect

  and also to

  my wife Aileen for her love, support and understanding.

  They will come first and smite

  All will shake in terror

  Cold is the land

  Nowhere to hide

  Index

  PROLOGUE

  It was on the morning of the sixth of May in the reign of King Charles II and James VII, 1685. One could almost see the translucent, silvery green dew changing to a misty grey vapour. Dancing droplets of water warmed with watery energy and dissipated throughout the green meadows. The sun’s rays rose kindly, chasing the early morning moisture over the peaceful countryside and forming a distilled mist around the brown trunks of a grove of Scots Pines. The loose ground mist cleared in sections that wisped around the bases of enormous boulders that squatted on the top of the hill. Fresh water condensed rapidly, beading on the rough surfaces and, like the many rivulets of sweat, ran down from the rocks’ stony faces.

  Pilgrim was troubled. He stared anxiously out from the tall shield of the great stones that towered over him. Peering from his hiding place long and hard, he looked into the golden grey mist. He knew they were coming....

  There they were! Numerous shadowy grey figures flitted in and out of his blurred vision as a group of obscure figures slowly ascended the hill from the village. Pilgrim had company.

  The sun’s intensity increased as the orb began to rise up from the east and lift itself over and above the massive stone boulders, silhouetting them as powerful dark shadows. Stealthily, the figures crawled up to the hill top. Sparrows whistled tunefully as they flew from tree branch to bush and then fled suddenly in panic, soaring away from the hazy mists.

  Inside the mist of dark grey shades and shadows of boulders, he knelt in prayer for the salvation of the men down in the village, hovering over an ancient stone slab imbedded in the earth. Pilgrim held high in his clenched fist the object—an object he would give his very life to protect. In his final worship, Pilgrim looked up high in wonder towards the Supreme Architect.

  **********

  On the day before this fateful morning, a new regiment of royalist dragoons had arrived in the village and were billeted at the castle. They had come in support of the local garrison—the “Scots Greys of Foot”—and were loyal to the crown. As five men were marched brutally in chains to the nearby inn, the dragoons walked alongside to quell any thoughts of rebellion, flashing their full-skirted crimson coats, their leather gambados and the buff, gauntleted breeches. It was Judgement day!

  The men in chains wore dirty clothes, ragged and threadbare. Their arms and legs were skinned and bloodied from the weeks-long forced march over the countryside. These men were ordinary men, with ordinary lives, ordinary families. And each had been pushed too far, as had many of their kinsmen. With tousled and matted long hair, they looked more like beggars than the farmers they were. Their beards were shaggy and unkempt, faces matted in hair, all except for one young boy who stood there in line with the others, staring out in terror.

  After being held prisoner in the castle for several days, all were roughly assembled together by the soldiers this morning at bayonet point and musket barrel. Their wrists were bound and ankles shackled by iron as they stood proudly, resolute to mumble and muffle defiant sounds of insurgence before the royal jury.

  Keeping his back to the scrungy men who stood in a line behind him, the judge looked firmly forward, towards the assembled jury. A few local villagers witnessed the trial but were greatly outnumbered by the royalists at arms. The judge smiled, his lips extenuated by his thin moustache. His thick, long wig was tightly curled and well kept. He proudly stood in full uniform, his red sash and long grey coat perfectly stitched and tailored. Although now dressed as pretty as a peacock, Lieutenant-General William Drummond was a warrior who had seen a great deal of active service and campaigning.

  He had surmised in deliberation that he would give them a last chance to repent if they gave him what he wanted and, in addition, signed a declaration against the Reformation. Such was his clemency.

  ‘In this reign of his majesty King James the seventh, each of you have been apprehended and stand trial today. You have been brought to me and before God.’ The judge had not yet turned to look at the five accused persons, content to observe the fifteen soldiers in regimental grey uniforms that sat at the front of the galley, above the jury. His smile changed to a wide grin as he looked at his men, and the troops laughed loudly, in high spirits. This was always the case.

  Drummond arrogantly portrayed himself to stand as an equal to God on this day of judgment. ‘You all stand before me accused as Covenanters!’ he shouted at the men, turning towards them unexpectedly. A rage fired from within his belly and deep loathing spat anger from his glaring eyes.

  The accused men staggered in awe, shocked at their accuser’s ruthlessness. They knew his reputation, knew that he was not known for clemency. The men accused were all covenanters and herded together like cattle. The young lad could barely stand. His legs were shaking and lips quivered in terror.

  ‘In case any of you doubt my authority, I am Lieutenant-General William Drummond and Commander of the King’s Arms in Scotland.’

  ‘Long live the King!’ the court chorused.

  The Lieutenant-General began to strut along the line of prisoners determinedly, glaring into each man’s soul in turn. Lashed together by their wrists, the men could not move much more than shuffling a little along the makeshift dock.

  ‘You all stand before me: Peter Gilles, John Bryce, Thomas Young, William Fiddison and John Bruning. You are accused for adherence to the Covenance work of Reformation. How do you plead?’ The Lieutenant-General paused and then continued, with a sneer. ‘Speak while you still have the breath of life.’

  The prisoners said nothing except for quiet grunts of loathing at this man and the cruelty of him and his strange audience of highland locusts.

  ‘All of you stand together accused of stashing weapons, conspiring against and attacking the King’s Tower at Newmilns. How do you plead?’ he shouted. ‘I said, how do you plead?’ He struck his fist off the dock in rage.

  Laughter again came from the court as the judge paced arrogantly back and forth, for he had done this justice many times before. There was a quill pen and paper on the dock.

  ‘Place your mark here—it is your last act against the Reformation of Covenance.’ The accused were now completely silent. They nervously shook their heads, every one of them, uttering not a single word. They still were men and proud to be Covenanters; they would not agr
ee to the Inlet of Popery.

  ‘One last thing,’ the man lowered his eyes to look at the ink pot.

  Here it comes, thought the young boy.

  ‘Who knows of the whereabouts of the holy bond, the Link of God? It was said to be in the hands of the Covenant. Is that so true? I have been told of this!’ His voice lowered and seemed almost friendly. ‘Speak and I will pardon that man. I will spare his life for knowledge of this kingly treasure.’ The Lieutenant-General’s eyes did not rise to meet the accused as he spoke his soft words of deceit.

  It was much more than a kingly treasure and much more than a priceless artefact. Dating so far back that no one could remember its origin, the relic was elusive as the Holy Grail. As rumour would have it, this thing could exhibit strange and awesome powers. God’s link, as it was called, was veiled in secrecy; if it had been found it remained masked somewhere in the kingdom.

  The boy, Bruning, had been tortured and forced to expose his uncle’s part in a rescue attempt at Newmilns and spoke much under duress to his captor, Bloody Claverhouse. He’d witnessed his uncle, John Brown, be shot six times in the head on his doorstep!

  But he didn’t tell Claverhouse that, days before the dragoons arrived, a visitor had come to his uncle’s abode, a holy man who had visited for shelter and for prayers. That the visitor, the ‘pilgrim’, was a bearer of a great and holy gift! The young boy knew that he was doing wrong when he looked—he was starving and had peeked inside the man’s satchel for food and saw the great charm. The holy man had discovered the boy’s indiscretion and forgave his sin. The boy’s word of silence was enough. In his terror at the discovery, the boy had the wit not to speak of this thing. It would be his bond until death.

  The Lieutenant-General closely scrutinized each one so accused, hatefully, his malice overwhelming and complete. The accused felt his chill breath on their eyes and said nothing.

  ‘Where is it hidden?’ he roared. No one would speak. Rebellion! Still, he had nothing more than a rumour to go on. It was no use—these men knew nothing!

  The accused silently waited for his judgement, their mouths gagged tight.

  Such was their defence.

  ‘Men of the jury?’ the Lieutenant-General prompted.

  They were his own men, his troops, the men of the jury. All stood up as if commanded to do so. ‘These men will not repent,’ the Lieutenant-General continued. ‘They remain defiant and are traitors to the King and unto God! I have pleaded with them and offered them pardon if they would speak. Such is my clemency; they will not agree.’ His tone lowered. ‘How do you find them—guilty or not guilty?’ he paused, for effect. ‘Guilty or not guilty?’ he thundered.

  ‘Guilty, sir!’ the men of the jury chorused, laughing loudly. The prisoners moved with fearful excitement, trying to break their bonds in defiance and moaning at the injustice, voicing their disobedience aloud. There could only have been one verdict. The soldiers raised their bayonets, quickly suppressing the men’s attempted revolt.

  The Covenanters then stood still and waited for their sentence to be passed. Many of their kind had already been sent away on ships to the colonies and new lands; numerous had drowned in shipwrecks, while others had been executed. They waited on fate.

  ‘A just verdict.’ Lieutenant-General William Drummond’s arrogance showed no bounds as his rage transformed to a short smile. ‘You have all been found guilty. I now will pass the King’s sentence. As is the custom, you are all sentenced to hang until dead. You will be buried under the gibbet and not suffer us to hear you pray nor read God’s word. You will be taken from here and hanged tomorrow morn.’

  The jury laughed and jeered, although their smiles were short lived and quickly disappeared. A soldier stepped forward and saluted the Commander.

  'Sir, there is no rope!’ he announced. ‘No one would give us the rope to hang them.’ ‘What?’ the Lieutenant-General’s face beamed red at the villagers’ insolence.

  A voice spoke from the back of the room. ‘I have a rope, your Lordship.’

  It was the innkeeper, Mr Fisher, knowing that he would be paid handsomely for his magnanimity. The men were

  immediately taken from the inn and marched at bayonet point

  back to the castle.

  **********

  And so, on the sixth of May, the accused were taken and dragged to the gibbet and hung until dead. Drummond and his regiment of horse then departed, leaving his garrison of greys to watch the village.

  From that day forward, Fisher’s Inn was cursed.

  And on the stone imbedded among the boulders were found these sad words:

  “Bloody Dumbarton, Douglas and Dundee,

  Moved by the Devil and Laird of Lee,

  Dragged these five men to death with gun and sword,

  Not suffering them to pray nor read God’s word;

  Owning the word was all their crime,

  The eight-five was a saint-killing time.”

  The lone stranger, kneeling there atop the hill, prayed for the souls of the men who died below. The holy man wore a bark-brown monk’s robe; his rod sat resting on the large rock surface beside him. He bore a fine chain around his neck, on which hung a small silver charm of intricate design—the crossed star within moon crescent, the symbol of unity and covenant with God.

  Concealed behind the large monolith and wrapped within the fast-depleting grey mist, Pilgrim knew that now was not the time of the prophecy. But the stones and relic would wait, and someday....

  His great secret was safe for the moment, if only he departed immediately from this rough and lonely place. He would need haste, for those grey figures could be seen clearly now through the fleeting mists. They closed slowly in on his position.

  The holy man looked up towards the Great Architect’s sky in wonder, waiting for a sign. In his mind he heard the words speak: as for me, behold, my covenant is with you, and in that moment Pilgrim knew that the prophecy would someday come to pass. It was not this day, however. For now, it would be his responsibility and obligation to protect God’s Link and keep it safe.

  For inevitably, others would come and seek it....

  CHAPTER I

  THE PROPHET MONUMENT

  Life in the village of Mauchline was often quite tiring and slow paced—most excitement occurred on Sundays, when the latecomers were running to church. It was late afternoon and the last warm embers of autumn rays streamed down their dying light, dousing the countryside with yellow-golden shades of sunshine. Scott took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed for a long moment, drifting his eyes lazily over the view from his bedroom window. Today, there was a great deal of activity. The boy listened to the sound of a waning, monotonous whine, and then saw Farmer Drew Kirkland’ red tractor about half a mile away, making slow progress up the hill at the end of town. It was the last trim of the year—Drew Kirkland was cutting away the yellow-browning hedgerows of hawthorn and beech that divided the once green meadows from the quiet back road that led out of the village.

  The autumn grass had become so long that it swished back and forth in a fast-flowing breeze. The boy listened sleepily as the wind swept across the high sloped meadows and rustled over the tree-lined hilltop.

  The cows still pastured in the nearby fields outside his home would soon be herded into their byres for the winter. A sudden cold gust drifted through the cracked-open window frame and struck his young face. Scott narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips. It was a neat wind that touched his skin, warning him that the definite shift was on its way.

  Scott still had not settled in after two years in the village and found life to be less than dull, especially compared to the busy seaside town of Ayr, which used to be his home. Why did dad have to go away? The boy thought forlornly of his father. God had not listened to any of his prayers...why not?

  He continued to stare out towards that steep country road that divided the autumn pastures. Trying not to dwell too much on his past, Scott’s watery eyes fixed onto those far-off green mix
tures of Scots pine and other blue-green Norwegian firs. The trees were moving slowly in the breeze and stood banded tightly together on the hillside, forming a natural wind break to the winter gales. This tall timber held the ridge above the village. The boy had never grown used to those creepy old woods on the hill.

  Ancient standing stones could also be seen from the boy’s window, small and delicate-seeming on the remote hill top northeast of the village. These seven solid bastions were rooted deep and firm in the rock beneath the thin hill soil, standing there in a natural formation at the highest height of the ridge. The tallest of the boulders far exceeded the rest; it dominated the hill. They all stood silently, rough and dry, ancient and true, sentinels.

  The principal primeval rock was encircled by other sizable boulders, and all seemed to challenge on-comers, or so Scott imagined. The young man thought it odd that he imagined their presence, their ever-readiness to burst to life and crush anyone that might wander their way. How old and long they had been standing there, centuries maybe, millennia likely.... No one knew, no known written words told when these old stones had first come to be. The ancient monoliths had always been there....

  In the twilight of October, the days were coming short. The light already began to fade, casting a yellow-orange tinge over the once rich-green pastures. The treetops swayed to and fro, gathering momentum, preparing themselves for another stormy evening. Near and far the branches of trees could be heard in the distance, creaking in unison, protesting the wind. Occasionally one heard the mighty groan as a branch was pressed to far...and then snapped. Scott shivered.