by Paul Heron
The Second Renaissance Series, Books 1 - 3
The Second Renaissance
Paul Heron
Published by Sirani Publishing Limited, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE SECOND RENAISSANCE SERIES, BOOKS 1 - 3
First edition. July 14, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Paul Heron.
Written by Paul Heron.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Second Renaissance Series, Books 1 - 3
Prologue
Part One - Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
PART TWO | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
FATHER’S KEEPER | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
TOGETHER | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the Author
FREE BOOK – Sign up for Paul Heron’s mailing list and receive a FREE urban fantasy book. Details are at the end of this box set. Enjoy the first three books in THE SECOND RENAISSANCE SERIES
Prologue
IN THE SCRIPTURES OF Bruce’s Cave, and the never before told story: The Truth About Irish Myths and Legends, it tells...
Elisabetta Sirani was an Italian Baroque artist who, in addition to creating magnificent works of art, had a burning desire to create literature that would be remembered long after she was gone. She was fascinated by stories of mythology. Greek, Egyptian, Norse, and even her native Roman mythology all captivated the young lady’s heart. What Elisabetta found more intriguing were the stories of Celtic mythology, in particular those that found themselves on the shores of Ireland. She wanted to know more about this rebellious tribe of celts who refused to bow to Roman rule, and who founded their stronghold in Ireland – the only country not to have been conquered by the Romans.
After an extensive search for literature on the subject, Elisabetta came up short. Not due to lack of searching, but for the simple fact that there was nothing documented to clearly outline tales of Irish mythology. This had to change, and her opportunity to create something original was born. Stories of Loki, Odin, and Thor of Norse mythology; or Jupiter, Venus, Pluto, and Mars of Roman mythology; or even the adventures involving Zeus, Apollo, and Cronus from the Greeks would all one day stand in the shadows of their Irish counterparts. Elisabetta had found her new purpose. She planned to visit Ireland and document a story that would define who the gods and goddesses of Irish mythology were.
In 1664, the opportunity came knocking at the door of her farmhouse. It arrived in the form of a wealthy English landowner. Touring Europe as part of the grand tour, Herbert Noring from Little Camberly – a secluded village sixty miles north of London – was so impressed by Elisabetta’s artwork that he offered to fund everything she’d need to come with him to England and start a school of art that would bring an emphasis on post Renaissance style of work that was, by that time, taking Europe by storm. Elisabetta agreed on one condition: that she be funded a trip to Ireland. A trip to seek out more about the gods and goddesses of Irish myths and legend. This was her only condition. Herbert accepted.
Promising her sick father – who’d relied on her artwork to support their family – that they’d be supported by Herbert, Elisabetta left immediately, bound by a sense of urgency. In the summer of 1664, her first visit to Ireland was to Rathlin Island: a tiny piece of land that sat in the Irish Sea three miles from the Antrim coast. The locals told of the legend of Bruce’s Cave that lay on the eastern edge of the island. About how this cave was named after King Robert the Bruce of Scotland who, within that cave, became the man who would return to his home land and eventually win Scotland’s freedom from English rule.
Elisabetta needed to know what was in that cave that influenced the Scottish king.
The people who lived on the island believed Bruce’s Cave was the doorway to the Otherworld – another dimension, and land of the Irish gods and goddesses. Elisabetta found her story’s beginning – a solid foundation, to tell the tale she was about to write.
Once she’d finished, Elisabetta wanted to leave her mark on the cave. A signature perhaps. She decided her mark would have to be something spectacular, and therefore sent for her friend and colleague in Italy – Pietro Mancini. She instructed Pietro to bring with him her materials for creating a sculpture.
Pietro: tall and slim with messy black hair, and mahogany brown eyes, a rather charming man arrived the following week. Elisabetta got started. When asked by Pietro, she told him she was creating a sculpture of the world to represent her love for life, and her gratitude for the opportunity to travel.
After finishing the sculpture, she chiseled off the piece of her home nation
to bring back to her family as a gift. What Elisabetta didn’t expect was, that chiseling into the walls of that cave, she unlocked the magical powers of the most powerful god of all the Irish gods. The God of the Dead, also know as Donn.
Elisabetta became a walking, living, modern day goddess of a nation in which she was not born. And in trying to do something good, she now possessed the gifts of Donn. Donn was the most evil god of them all. He’d taken the powers from the other gods and goddesses as a toll to enter the Otherworld through his doorway.
When Elisabetta held in her hand the piece of Italy – the fragment which she’d removed as a souvenir – and chanted a particular phrase, it would bring to her whatever she asked. She asked for rain, she got rain. She asked for thunder and lightning, she got thunder and lightning. She asked for knowledge, she got knowledge. She asked for gold, she got gold. All in abundance.
Unsure of what to do with her new found gifts, Elisabetta returned to Little Camberly to keep her promise to Herbert.
Pietro Mancini, knowing of Elisabetta’s powers, and the powers of the cave, wanted to capitalise on this. Human greed was never far away. While she wasn’t looking he’d chiseled off pieces of France and Spain, and smuggled them out of the cave with Elisabetta by his side.
The God of the Dead was furious that his powers were now in the possession of a mere mortal. He banished all humans from the cave. And until this day nobody has been able to enter it. Except for Elisabetta, being equally as powerful.
Mancini grew angry when he couldn’t conjure up what he asked for when he held the pieces of France and Spain. He couldn’t understand why. He didn’t realise a particular chant was needed to release what was asked. Growing tired of living in the shadows of Elisabetta, he sold the pieces of France and Spain to the rulers of those countries, tricking them into believing they were magical, and would one day be the most valuable rocks on earth. But as his greed grew, his wealth diminished, and he lost everything. He tried to convince Elisabetta to return to the cave for the rest of the sculpture. She refused. He tried to obtain the piece of Italy that she’d kept, but she’d predicted this and hid the piece, even from her own family. She knew her time would one day come to pass, and therefore left in a coded message the location of the piece and the chant needed to unlock it’s powers. Only those she felt worthy of it would be granted it’s sacred power.
In 1665, Elisabetta died of mysterious circumstances. Her family at the time thought she may have been poisoned but could not prove it. She never got to finish the story she’d started. The story of Irish myths and legends. Along with the location of the fragment of Italy, and the words needed to release it’s power, she’d recorded ideas for which the new Irish story would be told. It wasn’t until over three centuries later, when the world was getting ready to go to war for a third time, that she decided those worthy should be informed, with the hope of continuing her story.
Part One - Chapter One
DEAR MICHAEL,
It is with great pleasure that I write to you, and officially invite you to study with us at Little Camberly University. Here, at the institute, we believe we can help you excel at whatever you decide to major in. We would be very proud to have you here.
Judging from what Principal O’Kane of St Malachy’s High School has told me, you’re quite a talented young man. Your sporting achievements, your excellent results in various different languages classes, but most importantly, your apparent natural talent for creating stories that capture the minds of all who read them.
I personally took great pleasure in reading the story you wrote. The story you titled “Irish Myths and Legends – New and Untold”. The students here at the University, thus far, have enjoyed the story, too.
I am filled with excitement at making you this offer, and of course, I hope that you will accept.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Warmest regards,
George Keys
Principal and Director of Education
Little Camberly University
THE DEPARTURES LOUNGE of George Best Belfast City Airport was quieter than usual.
Michael O’Hagan struggled to stay awake. Each time he nodded off, a couple of rowdy teenage boys seated nearby, startled him awake.
It was seven twenty-five in the morning and he hadn’t slept a wink the night before, which wasn’t surprising. The thought of leaving Ireland for a new life in England would be nerve-wracking for anyone, let alone a seventeen-year-old.
But Michael wasn’t just anybody. He had received an invitation to attend the prestigious Little Camberly University without even applying; he was only seventeen, a month away from turning eighteen, and he had no qualifications to grant him entry. Yet, he was offered a full scholarship to attend the institute and “find himself and his major”.
Sitting in the the lounge, Michael killed time scrolling through his Facebook news feed through bloodshot eyes. A photograph posted by his friend, David, made him snigger – photos of his dinner plate, before and after. Silly dinner shots were priceless; just one of the many ways that social media helped him feel closer to the family and friends he was leaving behind.
As he continued to scroll through the usual motivational quotes and videos of noisy cars, he caught a glimpse of the coolest image he had ever seen. It was an enchanting cave, posted by the administrator of the Little Camberly University members’ page. It wasn’t necessarily the image of the cave that struck Michael the most, but the quote below it. The Cave You Most Fear to Enter Contains the Greatest Treasure.
He felt drawn to the picture of the cave, almost as if it was pulling him in.
But he shrugged off the mystical feeling. Really? Pictures on Facebook trying to get my attention? He rolled his eyes at himself. If only the illustrious Little Camberly University admissions department knew the deluded thoughts he was having; they would have second thoughts!
‘What do you think of this?’ he asked his father.
Mr O’Hagan was pleasantly distracted by his new smartphone. ‘Oh yeah, nice pic, son. It looks like the cave on the Antrim coast, can’t remember the name. God, what’s it called.’ His attention swiftly returned to his own device. ‘But it seems like things around the world may start getting a little dangerous, son. There’s a lot of weird stuff happening. Global politics is erupting for some stupid reason. Things seem very unstable, Michael. Lets hope there won’t be a world war. Even though the news has mentioned the possibility a few times.’
Michael wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stop looking at the image, zooming in and out in awe. ‘I’d love to visit that place.’
He all but forgot he was in the airport – the endless flight announcements, babies crying, and deafening squeak of carry-on luggage rattling past him began to fade away. He’d zoned in on the five-inch bright screen in his hand.
After a few seconds, his eyes felt heavy. He sat back in the seat and closed his eyes, falling asleep.
MICHAEL WOKE WITH A burning sensation accompanied by a blinding light, trying to break through his eyelids. He opened his eyes. He was standing, upright. Not sitting. Not in the airport. On his feet, he acknowledged the ground beneath. ‘Is that gravel?’ He kicked the small pebbles underfoot and stomped his feet on the ground to be certain that the dry dirt was real. A cloud of dust enveloped his shins. He used an arm to shield his eyes. He yelled just to convince himself he was awake. He spun around in a circle, looking all around, in a bid to understand exactly what had happened and where he was. He was on a farm. Feeling out in the open, he crept across the yard, towards the old red brick house. And an old house it was: no car, telecommunication systems, or telephone poles. No technology whatsoever. A sprawling rose bush crept along the side facing Michael, obscuring it with red and green spots.
He pushed a thorny stem from a window and squinted as he peeked through the dusty pane. But there was no sign of life except for spider webs. The house looked deserted. He saw a rustic kitchen that had no electrical appliances. Ther
e were candles on the counter, as well as a pile of pheasants, feathers and all, their necks bent. ‘Who buys their poultry with the feathers still attached in this day and age?’ The thought of plucking feathers sent a chill through him. He was thankful for the ready-packaged food from supermarkets and wondered why anyone would choose to live without modern conveniences. ‘Where the hell am I?’
Voices carried in the wind. Just murmurs. He crept around the side of the house to see who it was. Perhaps they could help him.
As he got closer to the back of the house, he heard a lady’s voice. He peeked in through the door and saw a lady dressed in old fashioned clothing talking to a man in a navy suit. From where Michael was standing, it looked like the man was pleading with her. Why was she in costume? She looked like a woman in one of those Renaissance paintings, a small waist and a hoop skirt.
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure they could hear it. What would happen if they saw him? Feeling nails dig into his right shoulder, he froze. Feeling caught. Turning his head, he expected to see someone behind him. But it wasn’t a someone, it was a something. A crow, black and heavy. Without any sudden movements, he turned his head and met the bird’s gaze. It spread it’s wings and jumped off his shoulder. Flying ten feet from Michael, in mid-air burst into a puff of black smoke. After a few seconds, the smoke dispersed. A tall thin lady with waist length blond hair, dressed in dark rags was walking away from him. He was chilled to the bone. Frozen on the spot at what his eyes were seeing. He watched the lady walk away from him, casually, as if shapeshifting from a bird to a human was as natural as breathing. Raised voices turned his attention back to the man and woman. He was feeling ever stranger about what he was seeing.
‘I’m always watching over you,’ the lady said. She spoke with an accent, he estimated that it was an Italian accent but what concerned him more was this voice sounded awfully like the voice he’d heard all his life. He’d heard this voice whisper in his ear from time to time and had grown to ignore it. He never told people about the voice, fearful he’d be locked up in a padded room.