The Summoning
Requiem
for the Forgotten Path
The Second Novel
in the Seventh House Series
Robert Wingfield
The Summoning
This novel is a work of fiction. Apart from some historical figures referenced, names, characters and locations are the subject of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations, locations or objects, existing or existed is purely coincidental.
The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Copyright © 2020 Robert Wingfield
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9780463467299
Dedication
Marita Monaghan, Margy Almey, Gary Hill
Special Thanks to
Jessica Holsgrove
Gordon Napier
Sir Michael and Lady Diana Leighton
Illustrations
Gordon Napier
https://www.deviantart.com/dashinvaine
Notes
While most scenes are contemporary, a few are set in sixteenth century England, during the later years of the reign of Henry VIII. For readability, characters in the book are not going to speak quite how they would have done at that time; it would drive you mad. Apart from occasional throwbacks in Ankerita’s dialogue when she gets stressed, please accept that discussions will be interpreted into modern language.
The arcane procedures detailed within the book are a combination of actual rituals and methods, and are not guaranteed to work, but the techniques of scrying and use of spirit guides are familiar practises.
As per ‘Ankerita’, the first novel in this series, the supernatural content is based on existing sightings, legends etc., some of which have been experienced by the author personally.
“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.”
Joseph Conrad
1. The Monk
“Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.” Lao-Tsu
A
full moon shone on broken walls, highlighting the ancient stonework on one side but creating a gloomy contrast on the other. The heat of the day still lingered in the ruins of the twelfth-century abbey as a car pulled up on the road outside.
A slim figure got out of the driver’s seat. She pulled a black leather coat, lined and trimmed with purple lambs’ wool, around her shoulders, and gazed into the night sky; at an alignment of five planets, unseen for half a millennia.
She withdrew a thick book from her bag and laid it on the bonnet of the car. Her fingers traced ancient words, glowing unnaturally in the moonlight. Inside the custodian’s hut, the security cameras locked, and the data stream to the internet froze.
The Summoning had begun.
The Previous Year
T
he city was hot and oppressive on this late August evening. Most of the workers had deserted it for homes and bars in the West End, and the streets were empty and eerily silent. High in one of the many darkened tower blocks, there was a light still showing. In a plush office at the top of the building, a man leaned on a mahogany desk, his head in his hands. An elaborate nameplate, lettered with gold leaf, announced him to be the Chief Executive Officer. Scattered around him were letters from the Financial Conduct Authority, demanding explanations for various ‘irregularities’ which had caused serious ‘inconvenience’ and ‘risk’ to the entire economic system.
The CEO stood up. His face was unshaven, collar awry and hair, normally well-groomed, was untidy and lank. He helped himself to a large glass of Glenmorangie, took a gulp, and went to open his window. This extended to the full height of the room, and the stifling night eased its way in around him, displacing the sterile, air-conditioned atmosphere. He took a deep breath and stepped out on to the false balcony. His way was blocked by a triple safety rail. He leaned on it and looked down, twenty floors to the empty pavement.
At least, it should have been empty at this time of night but below him, a dark figure stood unmoving, staring up at his window. He could not make out any features, but the street lights reflected off the whiteness of a man’s face. As the CEO watched, the figure pulled a large hood over his head, and disappeared under the canopy of the office entrance.
The Chief shrugged, drained his glass and put it on his desk. He took off his jacket and went back to the balcony. With a deep breath, he began to climb over the safety rail.
Twenty floors below, the hooded man glided towards the main entrance of the office building. The door was sealed at this time of night, but the apparition waited patiently. The security guard on duty behind the front reception desk ignored him.
A couple appeared from the lift. The man had his arm around the woman, and she was laughing. The guard allowed himself a secret smile. These people were ‘working late’, but he knew what had been happening. There was CCTV in places that people did not expect, and he watched the tryst on one of the monitors. His phone recorded everything from the screen; the quality was not perfect, but it would give him and his mates something to amuse themselves with later, down the pub.
The couple wished the guard good night, and pushed hesitantly at the side entrance, the main revolving door being locked in the night condition. The guard released the interlock to let them out. As they went through, the figure from outside slipped in. The man held the door open. Unfazed, he observed the long brown habit and hood pulled over the white face of a monk, something unusual, even in the city, and then promptly forgot as the woman tugged him towards a passing taxi.
“Did I just let someone into the building?” he asked his companion, uncertainly.
“Of course not,” said the woman. “That would be a breach of security. There was no one there.”
Inside the office block, the monk strode towards a lift. The sentry stared as if trying to focus, but did not attempt to stop him. The lift doors closed and the guard shook his head, as if he was trying to remember something.
At the top floor, the monk stepped out on to the plush carpet. He noticed the security camera and smiled. Downstairs, the guard stared, baffled, at his monitor, as the lift doors opened, and he saw nothing.
The figure stopped at a door. The nameplate proclaimed ‘Chief Executive’. He turned the handle, and went in without knocking.
On the balcony outside, the Chief Executive himself leaned over the drop. He heard the door open, and turned guiltily. He saw what appeared to be a monk, face in shadow, arms folded into large sleeves, standing by his desk.
“Who are you?” the CEO challenged, half-heartedly.
The monk remained silent.
“You can’t stop me,” added the Chief, after a short pause.
“Why?” The monk spoke. His voice was soft, and a feeling of calm seemed to spread through the room.
“I’ve made some bad decisions.”
“Such as?”
“Why do you want to know. Who are you?”
“You can call me Brother Francis. Come off that ledge, and talk to me.”
“I can jump.”
“What and get me the blame for pushing you?”
“Or the praise,” muttered the Chief.
“Let’s not go there.” The monk advanced slowly. “You are not
really a bad person... are you?”
The miserable man appeared to reconsider, as the monk’s voice flowed around him. He swayed backwards into the room, and strong bony hands pulled him to safety.
“Take a seat,” said Francis, “and let’s talk.” He refolded his arms, and sharp blue eyes transfixed the Chief from inside the cowl.
The man sat trembling in his executive chair. “Will you remove that hood, so I can see who I’m talking to,” he said, eventually.
“Of course.” The monk set the hood on to his shoulders.
The Chief let out a gasp as the light fell on his visitor. The man in front of him looked old, very old. His skin was dried and shrunken, as though the body was only barely alive. The CEO shuddered as he noted the similarity to one of the Stone-Age sacrificial victims recovered from peat bogs. The eyes however were piercing, and studied the Chief’s face, as though staring into his mind.
“Why are you here?” The CEO began to recover his composure.
“I have come to help.” The monk was forthright, as though he assumed he would be accepted.
“Help? What can you do to make it right?”
“You mean all this rubbish?” Francis indicated the FCA letters. “It is only paper.”
“I have made some bad decisions, hurt a lot of people, and they want my blood.”
“That is why you were on the ledge?” said the monk. “All this though, does it really matter? You are young, healthy, have the model family...”
“But my work is my life.”
“And will people remember you for it?”
“They will, now. I am ruined. I will never be employed again, and probably spend years in prison. I didn’t think what I was doing, always trying to maximise profits, pander to the shareholders, and it all went wrong.”
“For you, and a lot of your staff. They relied on you.”
“I should have listened to what they were saying.”
“You should. They were telling you, all the time, but you would not heed. If you are guilty of anything, it is of arrogance, but you can recover your dignity by having the courage to stand up and take what is due to you.”
“How did you get in, and why are you here?” The CEO’s hand brushed a panic button under his desk.
The ancient face cracked a smile; it was not pleasant. “Your questions are easy. The guard did not see me, and I am here to prevent you killing yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because I can. You will talk to me, and we will make a decision. If, at the end of our conversation, you still want to jump, I will not stop you.”
“You think you can talk me out of this?”
“No, I will talk to you, and you will make your own decision.”
“You are a stranger; what do you care, and why should I share my thoughts with you?”
The monk sighed. “I am here. Do you need another reason?”
“Are you from the FCA?” The man behind the desk regarded Brother Francis suspiciously.
“If you think that, perhaps I am simply an illusion brought on by your guilt.”
“I expect you are.” The chief stood up again. “I have probably drunk too much whiskey. There is nothing you can do. I have made my decision.”
“Of course you have,” said the monk, “and God forbid that you should listen to the voice of reason.”
“I make the decisions; someone has to be in control.”
“Please go ahead, if you are absolutely sure.” Brother Francis sighed, and spread his hands.
The Chief did not reply. He went to the window and took hold of the rail. He looked at the monk, who stood watching him, with the hood pulled up again, and the eyes glowing blue in its shadow. The CEO climbed over the rail, stood with his back to the room and took a deep breath.
“Then you are sure, and as such, your life is mine.” The monk gripped the CEO’s arms, and the man seemed to deflate as he clung to the guardrail. The hold released. The body fell through the stifling air towards the ground. There was no scream, because the chief was already dead before he fell.
“Killed by the same arrogance that caused all your problems.” The monk stared sadly down at the wretched remains on the pavement. He sighed, pulled the hood away again, and went into the connecting executive washroom. The face that stared at him from the mirror was not the wizened face that the Chief had seen, but a man in middle age, distinguished, tanned and lean, with chiselled features and the brightest of blue eyes.
Brother Francis poured himself a glass of water and patted his lips dry with a paper towel. “Nearly too late, that time,” he muttered to himself. “Too sad.”
He returned through the office and headed for the lift.
2. Stormcrow
Present Day
A
s the cloud of dust cleared on top of the mountain, Anna pushed back her own hood. The mist swirled about her, and mixed with the tears cascading down her cheeks. It was only a short while since the interference of the psychic, Tox, had unwittingly released her from half a millennia of imprisonment in her grave, and she had suffered a whirlwind of events that had taken her from one crisis to the next. When she looked back, she realised that everything had been pointing her towards the inevitable conclusion: Tox had taken the place of her long-dead husband, Richard. She had killed Richard five-hundred years ago, and scarcely had she found him again, when she discovered that only one of them could exist in this time and place. There was no way they could ever be together again. To Anna, her long journey and wait had been in vain. She had been through all the torment for nothing.
The mountain mist soaked the girl’s hair. Previously, she had felt almost immune to the elements, but the ghosts of the past had deserted her, and she was now totally human, prey to human frailties. Before she finally discovered this truth of her rebirth, she had been able to see the spirits and demons that inhabit the shadowy worlds between life and death; now they were all gone. She was bereft: no purpose, no reason to live.
Her sobs were replaced by shivers of cold, as the mist tendrils forced their way under her cloak. It was a cloak Anna had made for her in the style of her former life; thick wool, to keep the elements from her body. Underneath she wore a long dress. Her clothing was warm on the way up, but the sweat had cooled and the material clung to her body, draining what remained of the warmth.
“What is there for me, Richard?” she wailed at the grey mist, the dust of Richard’s body, flowing around her, seemingly reluctant to disperse. “Why could you not stay?”
Anna already knew the answer. She had been frozen in time by sorcery. Richard had been called across the ages by the potency of the song still ebbing and flowing around her head, ‘Seasons lost in Time’. She knew there was magic there; music is the voice of power, perhaps even the voice of God. She also knew that was why the chants in the abbey, she had been buried in, were so potent. But ‘God’ had deserted the monks when King Henry destroyed the authority of the monasteries, and now he had deserted her. The monks had deserved it; their opulence and arrogance had swamped them. Anna had been made to atone for Richard’s death by becoming an anchoress, locked in a cell for the rest of her life; she had changed her name. She could not remember her birth name, but only her given name, Ankerita.
“Yes, I shall die here as Ankerita,” she said, “Ankerita Leighton-Mynde shall be inscribed on my new tomb.”
“If I get a tomb,” she thought wryly. “Who is to know what lady lies atop this rise? I shall lay down and die here; life, for me, is over.”
Part way on the ascent of a rugged hill in the Lake District of England stood a tall young man. Since he decided to begin the climb, the weather had changed from golden autumn sunlight, into a swirling sea of mist. The GPS app on his phone was all that was guiding him to the top. He was hoping to see three counties from the summit; instead he realised he would probably see nothing, unless the peak was above the clouds. He was getting wet and cold and miserable as
the damp air found its way inside his Parka, and turned his unruly long hair into a mat of strings.
This was Wesley, and Wesley was different from the usual hiker; Wesley was a harbinger of misfortune.
He smiled to himself as he thought about the situations he always found himself in. When he was younger, he went on holiday a lot, and would nearly always find himself in the middle of some natural disaster. He had been in Cyprus when the forest fires broke out. He had been in Turkey at the time of the earthquakes. He had escaped to Italy only to barely hold on to his life as other tremors shook Assisi and Umbria. The Italian one seemed to have been centred on the Franciscan Monastery there, and he had wept with the monks, regarding the loss of the priceless works by the Roman artist, Pietro Cavallini.
He wondered about contacting the Italian authorities and seeing if they would pay him to keep away from Naples, bearing in mind that the massive volcano, Vesuvius, was due for another eruption. Mount St Helens was one of his, as was that unpronounceable volcano in Iceland. Wesley had been to San Francisco. He smiled again. They have earthquakes all the time there; he should have known better.
A storm crow was what Wesley was, and Stormcrow was what he was thinking of changing his name to. It had to be better than his current one. His parents of course were dead against it, and it was that, and a few other reasons, that had caused him to leave home.
Wesley toiled along the path. The wind had brought a fog in from the sea, and with it, the damp cloying mist that penetrated every crevice of the soul. He kept up a good pace to keep warm, but the clothing he was wearing was not good enough to keep the damp out. As with some dedicated hillwalkers, he was soon radiating an unfortunate combination of mustiness and over-ripe sheep.
He plodded on upwards, scanning the few metres of track visible in front of him; “One day, Wesley Stormcrow,” he muttered for the umpteenth time since he had taken up this hobby, “I’ll meet someone wonderful on the track. A lady lost, who will talk to me, be grateful for rescue and a Mars Bar, and perhaps agree to marry me, instead of simply nodding the time of day as she goes by.”
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