The Golding
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Sonya D Terry
Print edition published 2016
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9942167-0-0
ePub ISBN: 978-0-9942167-7-9
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9942167-9-3
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Sonya D Terry
Structural edit by Deonie Fiford
Copy edit (partial) by Abigail Nathan, Bothersome Words
Front cover design by Jesh Snow of Jesh Designs
Front cover text by Lorie DeWorken of Mind the Margins
Additional elements by Vecteezy
CONTENTS
What readers are saying
Book Description
Prologue
Chapter One
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<><> I <><>
<><> II <><>
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Chapter Two
<><> III <><>
<><> IV <><>
<><> V <><>
<><> VI <><>
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Chapter Three
<><> VII <><>
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<><> VIII <><>
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Chapter Four
<><> IX <><>
<><> X <><>
<><> XI <><>
<><> XII <><>
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Chapter Five
<><> XIII <><>
<><> XIV <><>
<><> XV <><>
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<><> XVI <><>
<><> XVII <><>
Chapter Six
<><> XVIII <><>
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<><> XIX <><>
<><> XX <><>
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<><> XXI <><>
Chapter Seven
<><> XXII <><>
<><> XXIII <><>
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<><> XXIV <><>
<><> XXV <><>
<><> XXVI <><>
Chapter Eight
<><> XXVII <><>
<><> XXVIII <><>
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Chapter Nine
<><> XXIX <><>
<><> XXX <><>
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Chapter Ten
<><> XXXI <><>
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Chapter Eleven
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<><> XXXIII <><>
Chapter Twelve
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<><> XXXV <><>
Chapter Thirteen
<><> XXXVI <><>
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<><> XXXVII <><>
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Chapter Fourteen
<><> XXXVIII <><>
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Chapter Fifteen
<><> XXXIX <><>
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Chapter Sixteen
<><> XL <><>
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Character List
18th-century England
CORNWALL
Prehistoric Norway
ELYSIUM GLADES
THE GRUDELLAN PALACE
The Dream Sphere
Modern Australia
SYDNEY
ALICE SPRINGS
What readers are saying
online about
Epiphany – THE GOLDING
‘Sweet, whimsical and visionary...brilliantly done.’
S D Anderson PhD – Visionary Fiction Author
USA
‘...Like a delicate piece of lace
...masterfully looped and twisted into intricate patterns...’
Marta Tandori—Mystery/Suspense Author
Canada
‘...The writing is nothing short of spellbinding.’
Rosey
UK
‘Absorbing and atmospheric.’
Cancerian9
Australia
‘For those who wish to explore thought-provoking possibilities in relation to a better world, interwoven with mysteries, romance and humour, this is the book.’
Robyn Kelly
Australia
‘A deep, gripping and wildly creative plot.’
Veritas Vincit “Bill”
USA
‘...The book of tomorrow. It will become a classic in years to come.’
Cilla Wilson
Australia
‘Warm, humorous, intuitive and imaginative...’
Grady Harp - Top 100 Hall of Fame Reviewer
USA
‘...Brilliantly enchanting...I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.’
Payal Sinha
India
‘I was never bored...a fresh, unique plot.’
LA Howell
USA
‘The best I can say is “Wow!” Great story with wonderful characters. Tremendous! I can’t wait for THE SILVERING.’
Melinda Hills - Readers’ Favorite Reviewer
USA
‘Ms Terry’s writing style is creative, highly descriptive and powerful.’
Stephen Fisher - Readers’ Favorite Reviewer
USA
‘...Intriguing and mesmerizing...’
Owen Robinson
USA
‘The characters are delightful.’
Lynne
USA
‘Kindness as a currency is a remarkable plot vehicle, and it's enjoyable to see that measured out...This is a book we want to stay in for as long as possible.’
Writer's Digest
USA
Accolades
GOLD MEDAL Winner
Global Ebook Awards USA 2016
SILVER MEDAL Winner
Readers’ Favorite Awards Contest USA 2017
GOLD AWARD Winner
Literary Titan Book Awards USA 2017
(The complete Epiphany series compilation)
B.R.A.G. MEDALLION Honoree
Book Readers’ Appreciation Group USA 2018
(The complete Epiphany series compilation)
RED RIBBON Winner
The Wishing Shelf Awards UK 2016
5-STAR SEALS (x4) Recipient
Readers’ Favorite Reviews USA 2015
BEST BOOK WE’VE READ ALL YEAR Finalist
Read Freely UK 2018
Book Description
‘Sophisticated and thought-provoking
... an urban fairy tale for grown-ups.’
– Avid Ashley
A story within a story
History, mystery, contemporary romance and magic…
A whimsical tale about money and its unknown otherworldly origins.
‘A fantastical, highly addictive first novel.’
-The Wishing Shelf Awards
It is midnight, and you are sleeping.
I am here at the table with a candle at my elbow, penning the most difficult letter I have ever had to write.
They are coming for me. Samuel Withers saw them in the village…
ENGLAND, 1767
Edward Lillibridge is writing a farewell letter to his son. The controversial author faces trial for heresy after revealing, in a book, the true beginnings of money.
FAST-FORWARD TO 2008
&nbs
p; …six months before the Global Financial Crisis rocks the economy. Lillibridge's Our True Ancient History, published under the guise of fiction, is out-of print, available only at antiquarian bookshops and largely overlooked. Until now.
Rosetta Melki, an idealist whose dream of starting a worldwide charity has been all but crushed by her sole-parent struggles, is enchanted by Our True Ancient History. Lillibridge's tale about a gold-obsessed kingdom (and the sprites they enslave: elfin clan dwellers whose currency of choice is kindness) has ignited a memory Rosetta cannot explain.
Rosettta's website surrounding the reading group she's begun with friends has inspired the emergence of other Lillibridge book clubs. Her own Sydney group meets fortnightly at a vintage bungalow, the rental home she secured to escape a gruesome intruder.
In a more affluent part of Sydney, finance executive Matthew Weissler (polished, successful, admired) has been questioning his slave-to-the-dollar existence and his marriage to a tantrum-throwing shopaholic. And now he's questioning his sanity after finding he's been followed by an elf.
Rosetta’s intruder still lurks in the shadows, but who could the stranger be? A prowler from the suburb Rosetta and her teenaged daughter fled...or a traveller from the past, determined to suppress an ancient memory that will change the world forever?
*** Detailed Character List – See Contents
*** The Epiphany series alternates between Our True Ancient History (by an invented author) and the lives of those who examine the novel within their book club. The Our True Ancient History chapters are presented in lighter font/print. No need to adjust your e-Reader--the contrasts promote a smoother reading experience!
Prologue
An excerpt of a letter from
Edward Lillibridge
to his sister Meredith
— Written in the autumn of 1760 —
...The boy has led me of late into an extraordinary situation.
Several days ago he traipsed to the wood on the morn, telling me he would return to the cottage in time for dinner. Midday passed, as did the afternoon. Ned was nowhere to be seen.
When orange and violet streaked the heavens, and smoke whirled and curled from chimneys in the dale, I stood on my doorstep, paced for a spell and watched the shadows beyond the oak grove, anxious for Ned’s return. Ned did not arrive home, and so I donned my cloak and ventured into the darkly mossy sanctum of the towering pines and elms.
At the edge of a clearing, I encountered a clue. Ned’s wood-cutting axe lay discarded upon a nest of pine needles. My heart became chaotic then. All through my chest and head was the thud of fear. I could not for the life of me see any sign of my dear son, and I thought of my Mrs Lillibridge, peaceful now in her grave, and my thoughts dwelt horribly on the morbid. In my fettered imagination, I saw two gravestones side by side and felt the familiar ache of woe that Iona’s demise had so thoroughly instilled in me.
It is with great relief I report to you, Meredith, that this awful image I had conjured, of my son buried beside his mother at the mere age of one-and-ten years, was not to be a forbidding omen.
Presently, I heard the promising sound of rustling leaves. I dashed towards the leaves that alerted me and found my son by a thicket, prone upon the ground with eyes closed. I cried out his name in despair.
The thicket’s leaves parted then, and there before me stood a woman of considerable beauty, her dark hair not gathered upwards as is proper for that sex. In an accented voice, she said: ‘He fell from the tree.’ She gestured to the boughs of an oak above. ‘He attempted to chop one of the higher branches.’
Ignoring her, I knelt by my son. Trembling and frantic, I listened for a heartbeat. Meredith, I speak the truth when I tell you I am certain his heart had stilled.
‘Please…’ The woman—a Gypsy—persisted with bothering me. Me in my ill-feared mourning! ‘Allow me to return this boy to health,’ she said. ‘Allow me, sir, I beg of you!’
One who is immersed in the horror of a loved one’s passing is loath to succumb to doubt when a ray of hope offers forth its glorious beams.
After consenting to her plea, I looked on dismally as the stranger waved her hands about in the air. She warbled a song—strung together with nonsense—and clutched at a pendant adorning her neck , presumably stolen, for it was an elegant gem of palest rose, one that would more than likely fetch a pretty penny at a London jeweller. She removed the pendant and placed the stone upon my Ned’s left ankle.
Resigned to exclaiming, ‘Cease mocking me, woman,’ I was taken aback when I heard the word ‘Father?’ And there, in the clearing of the woods, was my awakened son: recovered, sitting upright, a startled stare marking his ashen expression, blinking at the Gypsy, who bowed her head and retreated whence she had come.
Once I had established my lad was perfectly all right, I hastened after the mysterious Samaritan, intent on conveying my gratitude. Upon reaching her, I was overflowing with questions. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked. ‘How did you learn to wield magic?’…
Chapter One
Autumn, 2008
A little after midnight, Rosetta threw down her tapestry and rescued the screaming kettle. Cluttered kitchens, she decided, were an unrivalled comfort. Earthenware, hanging copper pots...her latest home an echo of the last, complete with mottled assortments that brightened the emptiness between stove and sink.
Smoothing a strand of long hair aside—a lighter shade of brown now that the burgundy had washed out—she refilled the teapot and reached for the carton of soy.
Izzie dawdled in. Snatched up a slice of French loaf from the tray. Hacked away at it absent-mindedly.
‘Teenagers,’ Rosetta said with an affectionate smile. ‘Always hungry.’
Izzie wandered out. What she did these days, Rosetta could only wonder. Giving the girl space, though, was a huge priority. The stern upbringing Rosetta had endured—in a Greek foster family who’d kept her away from friends—had, she supposed, compelled her as a mother to place freedom on a par with safety.
She returned to the couch with her mug, hopeful the tea leaves would cluster into hearts and flowers. The previous night’s brew had only resulted in a bird with an impressive wingspan. A falcon in her future? Or had it been an eagle? Nothing romantic about that.
Maybe Izzie was doing homework. Maybe not. Talking to boys, perhaps, on the quirky phone Rosetta had saved up for months to buy her? Pencilling-in a new painting?
Rosetta’s last boyfriend said it wasn’t surprising the girl was artistic with Rosetta for a mother. One glance around the cosily crowded sitting room with its gallery-like walls, and guests assumed artists lived here. Or Gypsies. There was something almost Romani about the crimson rugs and vases of fake Spanish orchids. Lamps glowed ruby in the corners, illuminating a scattering of Victorian prints that spoke of dancing feet and caravans. Incense smoke rose in frenetic wisps to the sculpted ceiling as though eager to mock post-midnight stillness, clouding the crystal ball that glinted amber on the mantelpiece.
Yes, he’d been lovely, the one who thought the way she arranged things was arty, a refreshing antidote to cautious Benjamin, who considered her taste tawdry and dropped her with the explanation that drifters weren’t his style. Poor precise Benjamin. If he’d understood the treasure status she’d given her belongings, he mightn’t have been so dismissive, although ‘treasure’ was probably too mild a term. These were more than that. They were magicians, able to spin out renewed contentment to quell the strangeness of each new tenancy.
Izzie emerged from the hall and sorted through a pile of newspapers by the fireplace. The girl was not in an amiable mood. For this reason, Rosetta didn’t rush to ask how her day was. Instead she sipped her tea and cuddled Sidelta, the silvery moggy they’d discovered in a thunderstorm and had struggled to soothe throughout every address-change trauma.
She scrolled through her mental checklist for the Lillibridge website. Blog page: now set up. Homepage: almost done. Background on the author: Lena had
phoned earlier to say she’d get that written by tomorrow. Lena’s research surrounding the eighteenth-century creator of fictional dimension-crossing people such as Pieter the elf had inspired speculation among Rosetta’s book-group friends. ‘Imagine if the events in Our True Ancient History were actually real,’ Lena had said at the book group’s last meeting. ‘I mean, I know it sounds outlandish, but what if Lillibridge based his novel on intuitive visions? What if he’d somehow got a glimpse of a forgotten part of history?’
‘Bunnies in bonnets. Sooo adorable.’ Izzie held up a clipping of three live white rabbits decked out in beribboned hats, a news item promoting Sydney’s Royal Easter Show.
‘You haven’t told me how your day was, Izzie.’
‘Hm, well, it wasn’t all that interesting.’
Sidelta curled herself into a spiral of softness. The faint oceanic rumble of her purr rose up amid the papery swish of tabloid sorting. Warmth. Safety. She and Izzie were sure to feel more protected here.
The recurring images accosted her then, unexpected, as they always were.
The outdoor laundry in darkness.
An intruder’s leer.
She calmed her breathing. ‘Well, I had an interesting day.’
‘Mm?’
‘Did at least five tarot readings.’
‘That’s nice.’
Her daughter’s tone was condescending. Ignoring this, Rosetta went on. ‘Ooh, and that guy I like came into the shop again. You know who I mean...um...’
‘The “gorgeous” GEG?’
‘Yeah! The gorgeous Green-Eyed Guy. Looked like something out of a business-suit catalogue.’ Rosetta smiled into her tea, enthused by the memory of her afternoon’s work at Crystal Consciousness Books & Gifts in the city when the man whose name she could only dream of knowing had wandered into the shop. He’d thrown a packet of gift-wrap and some loose change on the counter, grinned at her and then sauntered out. On his way to the train he’d made another stop, to buy a finance paper at the news stand opposite. He visited the news stand every evening. Every evening, around the time she was due to shut shop, Rosetta looked out for him.