Through the Kisandra Prism

by Jack Challis

  He would wait till they lost interest in him and flew to the many nectar-rich wild woodbines and the mellow smelling, pollen-laden plants of the night. He was also aware of the beautiful green-tinged, water-loving Silky Changelings were now swimming down the Pandy River out to the cold sea of Cardigan Bay; their splashes could easily be mistaken for leaping wild salmon and sewn. Bryn Jones had once spotted a lovely naked Silky sitting on a damp rock at the river’s fringe at dusk, combing her jet black hair with a fish bone in the moonlight and singing a sad Gaelic song; the melody and the feminine voice had enchanted and beguiled him. But at present, the Wino felt happy: still unaware of the horrifying experience that awaited him during the coming false dawn.

  Chapter Two

  The Arrival: The Sillian

  The song of the Bat-faced Sillian

  Beware all life-forms in the Antares Cluster.

  Be careful not to walk over my sticky, gossamer tread;

  for I lie below my trap-door in darkness,

  Waiting and spinning your web death shroud:

  lounging in my silken bed.

  Bryn Jones the wino made himself comfortable, rolled a thin cigarette and listened to the promising hiss of his can of strong lager. After a long thirsty quaff he turned and looked into the dark, dappled shade of the surrounding trees; he knew the first watchers had gone. He could now sense that he was again being watched from the green, silky dimness of the woods on that late June evening. But this time these eyes did not belong to small, colorful nectar-sipping Changelings but rather to three, black, bullet-eyes brutish beings. Hurriedly he tucked into his wild herb-flavored dish of rabbit stew and rich gravy, eaten with chunks of fresh bread; the Wino of Tala Pandy’s first meal of the day.

  Suddenly the three powerfully built, obscenely naked, dangling Tartarus Hobs silently appeared out of the shadowy trees and joined him at the fire without word or invitation.

  They had been silently watching him, making sure no other Terasils were about. The smell of the wild rabbit stew and alcohol had tempted them out of their deep rocky burrows. These three flea-ridden, guzzling-gulpers also looked forward to Bryn Jones’s pension day: they also worshiped at the alter of Dionysus.

  The three Tartarus Hobs were known to Bryn Jones as Bulrus Khan, their leader, Bellbinder and Bunderhund - the least intelligent of the three. These three grotesque, mono-syllabic troglodytes smelt of damp, rotten dog. They only visited Bryn Jones for the strong drink and to eat his supper, if he dallied. They would drink anything – eat anything, for Tartarus Hobs are devoted skip-miners, dump investigators and road kill inspectors. Hobs are also capable predators when the opportunity arose. Their Mistress was the beautiful Grunwalde Angharad, Queen of the Fairies.

  Tartarus Hobs were no ordinary grinning goblins in the flower bed. They were not beyond hiding in the undergrowth and passing lecherous comments on any attractive passing female. Hobs were well armed with long canines that could bite through any car tyre! They also possessed the dew claws of a feline. These three obscene males were at the bottom of the pecking order in the female dominated Ling and Fairy clan. Tartarus Hobs were the servants of the Fairies; they were only crude Shape Shifters, not True Changelings.

  The only price these greedy, guzzlers paid for their pleasures at Bryn Jones’ rough log table was listening to his often repeated war stories of his time as an ex-marine; not that they understood or gave a tinker’s damn about them.

  Bryn Jones the Wino was the only Terasil whom the powerful, bullet-eyed brutes would show themselves too, albeit with the young Fairy Queen’s consent. For Bryn was discreet in some of the strange and incredible happenings that he witnessed on the Pandy Mountain and about the magical beings he knew dwelt there. He also showed the Fairies and their kin respect.

  ‘Ahoy – shipmates!’ greets the wild looking, ex-marine, stuffing the last piece of gravy soaked bread into his mouth, as the three Tartarus Hobs appeared out of the balmy gloom to settle around the blaze on rough logs that sufficed as seats. After a quick bout of scratching; they immediately set about the contents of the cast iron pot with out a “by your leave”, eating everything, bones included.

  They shouldered and jostled each other like a pack of hyenas, softly cackling, their short tufted tails standing rampant. Having licked the cast iron pot clean, the three Hobs settled around the hot blaze. The resident fleas on their thick hides, which at that point were happily going about their usual business with sanctimonious fervor, soon objected to the heat of the roaring fire. They began to jump from one Hob to another to seek cooler accommodation.

  Noticing this, Bryn Jones quickly moves his log seat to the opposite side of the three brutes, to keep out of jumping distance; a generous three feet, he estimated from past experience.

  ‘Nothing personal ship-mates,’ he excuses. ‘I might be an alcoholic tramp but I am still accepted in the community. Spreading a flea infestation in Tala Pandy… would go down like the Titanic! I am happy to share my strong drink – but I would rather not share your fleas – with respect like…no offence meant see.’

  ‘Fleas full of blood are tasty,’ announces Bunderhund, carefully placing a troublesome individual into the corner of his hyena like mouth, between two squat molars. ‘I hate seagulls!’ says Bellbinder.

  ‘Sea gulls always beat us to the dump!’ Bunderhund adds.

  Bryn Jones handed Bulrus Kahn a large earthenware jug of home made rocket fuel. Bulrus Kahn gulped greedily, the fiery liquid spilling down his hairy barrel chest.

  Although Bryn would have preferred the company of his own kind, these three ghoulish, gulpers were welcome at his fire despite their grotesque appearance, nakedness, bad manners, overpowering doggy odor and their thriving flea population; for they were good listeners. Tartarus Hobs had the powerful body of a male chimp; a face that resembled a cross between a hyena and a rottweiler. Bryn discreetly never asked or talked about their beautiful mistress, Queen Grunwalde Angharad.

  Little did the Wino of Tala Pandy know, as he sat there in his cups, that the most frightening event of his life was drawing nearer! Towards midnight, Bryn Jones was on the last of his war tales:

  ‘Under fire see…I was hiding in this hole…a**e in the air. The Sergeant, English he was… shouts: ‘Jones – you horrible, little Welsh shower – out of that hole you Celtic cretin! You are a marine – not a bloody rabbit!’

  The Hobs cackled and grunted at the rude words. Swearing was forbidden by the Queen of the Fairies: this privilege was solely hers. If her Hobs were caught swearing, she would bite their fat fingers with her sharp, beautiful white teeth: she was very partial to biting when cross. Their screams would echo on dark nights, ricocheting off the granite mountain slopes like the wails of demented banshees.

  Finally, Bryn Jones and the three Tartarus Hobs just sat around the warm blaze quaffing silently and looking up at the stars; each with their own thoughts. The Wino often wondered what the origins of these three brutish beings were. What were they thinking about as they silently tilted their over-large heads and cast their gazes upwards at the stars with small, black, bullet eyes? What secrets did they know about the universe? One thing was for certain, they never shared their knowledge with the Wino of Tala Pandy. Bryn Jones was curious. How did Myfanwy Jenkins whom he had known as a little girl become the new Queen of the Fairies? What power did she have over these powerful brutes?

  He had an idea and produced another jug of rocket fuel. Waiting ‘till the second jug was nearly empty he asks Bulrus Kahn:

  ‘How did you boys end up working for…err…you know… her…the boss…you know?’ he nodded towards the enchanted glen.

  The leader of the three Tartarus Hobs spoke after draining the jug.

  ‘The first Queen of the Star-worshipers captured us… when we fell from our horses … fighting for the Great Khan.’

  ‘You mean you are that old?’ asks the wino with interest.

  ‘Ask no more questions, idiot,’ snaps the ungrateful Bellbinder, ‘ou
r Queen can hear over a fairy league’s distance!’

  ‘Ooookay…,’ answers Bryn Jones, gingerly looking over his shoulder into the balmy gloom. Although a little puzzled, he held his tongue. He had to live on the mountain after all. He knew for certain that Myfanwy Jenkins was now a Changeling; he had seen her transforming herself into an old hag, before riding the bully Cradock Morgan over the sticks and biting his little fat lug-flaps when extra speed was required from his chunky legs. He had also watched her from the moonlit shade as she changed into a massive Harpy eagle and launched herself skyward.

  As the evening mellowed into dusky haze and darkness finally left the underworld; just a few minutes before the magical witching hour, a meteor cut through the starry glaze, trailing a long streak of orange spangled light. The tail of the meteor then took on a red glow as it entered Earth’s atmosphere.

  Bryn Jones observes with mercurial interest, that the meteor was heading straight for the marshy valley between their Mountain and its nearest neighbor – Cader Idris. Bryn the old marine threw himself to the ground. The Wino felt only a dull impact as the meteor struck the valley above.

  He and the three Tartarus Hobs then listened intently to the eerie, expectant silence that followed. Bryn watches as the Hobs lift their pug-snouts and began to sniff the warm night air; nostrils flaring. Their short-tufted tails quickly stood rampant in trepidation. They seemed to be tuning into a particular scent – one that they knew – but did not favor.

  The three Hobs began to make low, nervous, hoots as if not wishing to draw attention to themselves. Then, without word, scrambling and clawing their way up the river bank, leaving a cascade of pebbles in their wake; the echoes of their soft, hyena-like cackles fading as they entered deeper into the dark wood. They knew something their new young Queen did not!

  There was something unnerving about the Hobs’ reaction and their sudden departure: “what had they sensed,” the Wino pondered? Normally, as he knew these mountains intimately he would have investigated immediately for there was value in fragments of stellar debris which could fund a week or two of detached, alcoholic oblivion. But instead he became afraid, unnerved. He decided to investigate in the early morning, at first light, when his confidence returned.

  Bryn Jones stares into the darkness that surrounded the fire’s blaze, instead of gaining comfort from the warm glow, an uneasiness stirred within him, silhouetted in the fire’s flickering light. He felt too conspicuous sitting where he was. He quickly put out the fire.

  Climbing into his battered sleeping bag he now merged with the darkness and felt more secure but not safe enough to sleep: the total silence frightened him. Not a single night bird’s song or insect hum floated on the warm night breeze! It was as if every living creature on the mountain was afraid to advertise their whereabouts. What became just as frightening was that he was not sure of what he was actually frightened of? At first light he would find out where the meteor had landed. He would do this before he tidied himself up for Blodwyn Jones’ birthday party.

  Only one other person saw the meteor in Tala Pandy that night: Blodwyn Jones. She was now letting her dreamy gazes wander beyond the fat anemic-looking moon to the stars beyond. She wondered where the beautiful Quilla Prime might be – the planet that contained False Arcadia and True Arcadia. “Was True Arcadia heaven?” She wondered: “Why did the Shi-Larriss, hide their faces behind a flexible golden mask? Were these aliens ashamed of a physical feature?” A red streaking tail of a meteor caught her eye. Being lower down than Bryn Jones, she just saw the meteor pass out of sight behind the Pandy Mountain. As she felt no impact she presumed the meteor had passed on. Blodwyn looked at her watch; it was five minutes to midnight. She considered herself lucky to have seen this rare sight: little did she know.

  Blodwyn would have changed her mind if she knew what sinister creature was cocooned within that streaking meteor! She looked at the clock again – it was just past midnight – she was now seventeen years old. Good bye to puberty – hurray. Some of her relatives were arriving from Ireland tomorrow; for now though, time for bed. It was going to be a very busy day.

  Early the following morning, as the false dawn was breaking, Bryn Jones impatiently climbed the stony path upwards. Reaching the high shoulder of the mountain he began to descend into the mist covered valley. His fear had not left him from the night before. False dawns had tricked man since distant times and had earned their reputation well; “the bringer of false hope from the fearful night: only to cruelly deceive when darkness reappeared.”

  As the false dawn faded back into darkness, so did Bryn’s Jones’s frail confidence. The only visible objects were the white swirls of mist on the valley floor. Like ghostly drapes the twirls of mists rose and fell, briefly exposing the dim outline of boggy peat with clumps of spiky rushes.

  Dead tree stumps stood like petrified dark mummies, their life-less black branches looking like distorted human limbs beckoning him onward. These ancient dead trees stood like eerie sentinels guarding a terrible secret!

  Bryn Jones entered this spooky world, walked a dozen paces and then stopped. He inexplicably became very afraid: terrified. The ex-marine was ashamed of his inner demons. But why was he afraid? He had cut peat in this lonely place for many years without fear. With pumping heart the Wino of Tala Pandy continues, the high price of meteor fragments spurring him on. Through the chilly mist Bryn Jones slowly walks, his hands extended to feel for the many obstacles the long, dead tree stumps presented; this was not a place to fall.

  Bryn Jones the Wino needed a strong drink; alcohol was his chloroform for the mind, it would also provide a shield for his fear. Then a noise. His heart leaped and then raced. This was not the kind of noise he was used to hearing, or expected on a lonely mountain in mid-Wales… a long sharp hiss! The hiss was not the type a feral wild-cat would have made: the hiss sounded reptilian!

  The noise was behind him: his line of retreat was now blocked. Immediately he saw and smelt sulfurous brimstone rising from the meteor, but it was the accompanying odor that frightened him. This stink was even worst than that of an alarmed polecat, it was the kind of stench from something alive not dead, something dangerous and very near! The ex-marine’s courage failed him: he began to run.

  The Wino of Tala Pandy regretted his decision to investigate, even though true dawn was now awakening. He just wanted to get back to higher ground, to the clear air where he could see his surroundings clearly once again; but he had lost his sense of direction.

  Layers of mist floated around him like ghostly, low, air-born death shrouds, confusing him. Panicking and stumbling he tried to reach firm ground, away from the direction of the hiss.

  At last his foot struck something solid. Bryn Jones looked down. A dark object lay at his feet which he knelt down to touch. It was still warm and was definitely part of the meteor. His rough hands also brushed against something sticky that covered its surface, the source of the terrible smell. Only half of the black meteor was visible and was slowly sinking into the bog. Bending to pick up a valuable fragment, he could just see some kind of silvery strands, the thickness of string, extending from the meteor into the mists. It reminded him of the kind of wide silken treads that some ground-dwelling spiders leave behind. He placed the object into his pocket.

  A movement to his front caught his eye and made him jump! There was something sinister about this movement – it was just too swift to be made by a mammal. Bryn Jones now lost his nerve completely and ran blindly in the opposite direction through the mist; he had a terrifying feeling he was being followed. Reaching firm ground he ran back down the mountain path, looking over his shoulder every now and then to check if he was being pursued. Finally reaching his sleeping bag he quickly climbed in; he was shivering, not from the cold: but from fright.

  He lay listening, but all he could hear was the musical sounds of birdsong welcoming another glorious June day as if to thank their creator for the wonderful gift of song and flight. The red orb that is the sun
began to peep over the middle slopes of the next mountain, Cader Idris. Bryn Jones, the alcoholic tramp, could feel warmth on his face, he looked at his piece of meteor and smiled; it was worth around fifty pounds he judged. He would only tell his friend Peter the Goat about his discovery.

  His thoughts then turned to the coming birthday party. Bryn was friendly with Blodwyn’s male cousins from Ireland; this was a rare social event, where strong drink and music would flow. Although forced to sleep rough, Bryn Jones always kept himself neat, clean and tidy. Now it was time to prepare himself to the best of his ability, for the Birthday party of Blodwyn Jones. He began to tune his treasured instrument.

  Bryn Jones always contributed to such events: on this occasion he would take a couple of wild sewin, (sea trout) a brace of pheasants or wild-duck and a basketful of mushrooms. His friend Peter the Goat would be lending him his best Sunday suit, perhaps a little short in the arms and the legs for the tall ex-marine, but acceptable for the occasion nonetheless; everyone being aware of his circumstances.

  The Wino of Tala Pandy was looking forward to his first drink, his bones were stiff; he was no longer in his prime and sleeping rough was becoming harder. He left his sleeping bag. Washing and shaving in the cold Pandy River, the ex-marine contemplated the experience of the morning and then pushed it aside. He was thirsty and took his first strong drink; it was seven am on a fine June morning.

  Chapter Three

  Terror at the Door

  Sounds of terror outside the Shepherd’s sturdy door.

  An Alien creature there lingers: lurking!

  It is trying to gain entry,

  digging betwixt the thick

  wooden beam and the cold earthen floor.

  Peter the Goat now lived high on the Pandy Mountain, part of the Cambrian chain of mountains. The town of Tala Pandy nestled snugly in the green valley below the peak like a picture post card village. Peter the Goat was a Shepherd and his flock consisted of two hundred Welsh mountain sheep; he always had half a dozen goats in his flock of hardy sheep, for he was partial to goat’s milk and enjoyed drinking his fill.