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65 pages

English

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Chulyin, shaman of the North, is on the wind of time. He flies high above man and watches with interest as the prospect of nuclear war begins. Chulyin chooses Eleanor, a scientist at an Oceanographic Institute in the United Kingdom to help him avert international disaster. Eleanor is working with a team of other scientists, all of whom are attempting to translate the language of the killer whale. The shaman makes sure that Eleanor's dreams take her on journeys across the threshold of man's dominions and into the shaman's world.

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Adventure (Guyana)

Adventure

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	30 avril 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528906463
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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Voices in the Sea
John T Kinsella
Austin Macauley Publishers
2018-04-30
Voices in the Sea About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Chapter 1: The Shaman Chapter 2: Eleanor Chapter 3: Simon Chapter 4: The Professor Chapter 5: Annabelle Chapter 6: The Cabinet Chapter 7: Dreams and Whispering Sleeps Chapter 8: The Barents Sea Chapter 9: The Lieutenant Commander Chapter 10: The Oceanographic Institute Chapter 11: The Coming War Chapter 12: HMS Vanguard Chapter 13: The Shaman Returns Home
About the Author
John T. Kinsella lives in Hertfordshire where he was born. One of his many interests include our ‘Ocean Environment’ and its species and in particular the Killer Whale, Orcinus orca. For many years John worked within the Offshore Oil and Gas Construction Industry on whose behalf he travelled, worked and lived in differing countries such as Ireland, Iran, Brazil, Qatar, Nigeria, America and Abu Dhabi; he has also travelled to many different parts of the World such as New Zealand, Canada, Norway, Sweden, France, Spain and Portugal among others. The travel stimulated an interest in life including man’s preoccupation with discovery, a subject matter which intrigues him to this day.
Dedication
For Nicholas and Kristin
Copyright Information
Copyright © John T. Kinsella (2018)
The right of John T. Kinsella to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN (9781788239974) (Paperback)
ISBN (9781788239981) (Hardback)
ISBN (9781788239998) (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2018)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter 1: The Shaman
“I, Chulyin, Shaman of the North, am the Peregrine, and I am flying upon the wind of time. At this very moment, my wings craft the wind, its waves of tumult throw me higher and higher, but this wind is not the wind of the African Savannahs; blown from the Gods sleek copper trumpets, nor is this wind of the Mongolian plains where the Gods brush the sharp tips of the long green grasses that whisper quietly like the willowy flute’s most sympathetic notes. This wind is neither of the European gusts, that merrily dance up hill and down dale, whilst throwing up autumnal leaves in the silence of the glistening silver symbols final cascade. Nor is this an Arctic wind that sounds its blustering snowy chill, calling, always calling like the soft voices of one of the Gods choirs. This is the wind of the desert; sharp and vivid yet whipping and tumbling like the almost silent echo that follows a lasting beat of the drum. Beneath my outstretched wings, drums are sounding, as men divided by malevolent and egotistical quests for power not made of tradition, pray in unison to the words of a book of good yet some of these men are folding and turning and twisting the pages and words beyond the realms of their God’s redemption; whilst further below and amidst the rubble of man’s dominions; red blood rivulets of creation run thick and sticky from innocent man, woman and child alike leaving a raging flooding stream of the teacher’s angry memories to quickly congeal in the wounded mentality of the newly born child. Behold, the sound of a soothing choral choir; there are protests, but the noise of conflict and war are drowning out this clarion call for peace, and all this is happening whilst one man and then another beat the same drums sounding out the echoing debates, that passionately claim jurisdiction over the minds of the Gods.”
“I, Chulyin, Shaman of the North, know that the existence of all life depends on resolutions, and so I, once the Peregrine and now the Arctic Tern, fly again in the North and out to sea and beyond these raging angry scenes of death, and I watch as long grey boats of war thrust their way forward against the Gods currents and tides to honour promises that some may never keep. He hunts doth man, and yet mankind has always been obliged to hide; from predators, from weather and from each other and as distrust, born as it is from ignorance, endows itself with power, until power itself reaches onwards and upwards unto that threshold of a debacle which may herald the prospect of the final extinction of life. East and West are in conflict again, which may result in the war to end all wars and all of life, unless the Gods decide that I, Chulyin, Shaman of the North, should intervene. I do not lament for what would be the purpose in lament when I am aware that all of life is forever in the process of leaving, or staying whilst the spirits in the guise of beings, which only ever borrow the clothes of nature, continually arrive and depart, and as man’s measurement of the hour, the minute and the second disappear into the rushing past, bringing forth a present and future, which are nothing more than more of times discarded moments. Alas, for those that wish to keep, for nothing that the spirit sheds, will the spirit have ever owned and only the creative moment will exist until second by second, life’s experiences are cast into a past that was once the present. I must fly again on the wind of time, and I fly with no apprehension, for no two flights are the same, and no two actions are the same, and no two beings are the same nor thoughts are the same as of those that had preceded the former, and so it is that all living things follow the infinite reality of life.”
“I, Chulyin, Shaman of the North, am the Peregrine again, and I soar above the jumbled ruins of the ‘Temple of Zeus’, and way beyond broken stones that were once fashioned by hardened hands that toiled with only the fertile imagination and tools of pride to pile high these stones and one above the other bringing forth the magnificent edifices of Olympia. I ask myself, what has become of this ‘Temple of Zeus’? But before I can ponder on this question further, I am thrown aside and amidst the wind of time and within a millionth of a second the Gods are allowing me to soar above the sumptuous and flowing green and frothed white tumbling River Alpheus and the sumptuous and flowing green and frothed white tumbling River Kladeos and above this ancient land of Greece where a man of noble birth, Solon, will in time wrestle with the idealistic to lay thick upon the mind of mankind the prospect of democracy, but now, I must watch as the Games have started in Olympia, and a first race has begun, in which proud and able-bodied men compete for the honour of wearing the ‘Olive Green Wreathed Crown’ which, in this time, is the universal symbol of peace. I soar way above this city of Olympia, and I watch closely with forty thousand or more excited and cheering souls from different dominions, who have come to encourage champions of political difference, but just and peaceful men of sinew muscle and bone, who all run fast in pace against the will of each other in ardent competition and in honour of their God Zeus, God of sky and thunder, God and King of all Gods, who watches over all proceedings that happen to occur, farther and wider than the blue red sky above which orbits all of earth’s creation. Such is man at peace, but the ever-present rumblings of war make passage for new Kings to come and old Gods to disappear, leaving past homage to new wisdom and unto the annals and pages of disbelief. The wind of time is taking me back into the present; I go to look for more evidence of man at peaceful competition, and Zeus and I depart from each other’s company, as we both travel in different directions in time. The wind of time is taking me to a time of consolidation, a time of peace, but again, it is the calm before the storm to come, as man once again demonstrates man’s inhumanity to man.”
“I, Chulyin, Shaman of the North, am on the wind of time. Now, I am the Raven and I am watching man again from above on soft and lighter airs at more peaceful competition below my outstretched wings, but yet again, I sense the rumblings of war and even here amongst the peoples of a peaceful nation. A boat race is beginning in a city named London, and I watch closely as one of man’s ceremonial coins, a golden and British sovereign, spins in the air of a balmy Easter afternoon, and it spins like one of the God’s silver planets and against the gravity of the Gods until its momentum falters, and it falls again unto the earth. The moon has moved again, and one of the God’s flood tides has returned and begins to sweep up this river that man has named ‘The Thames’ and a fluttering and dignified umpire’s bright red flag ceremoniously drops. Another race is beginning and multiple oars, held very firmly in already blistered and bound fingers and thumbs begin dipping silently in the water, seemingly trying to save seconds of time after time, and both boats of man’s blues speed across the surface of the greyish-green Thames water below as if propelled by nothing more than an invisible wind, but each member of the blue boats crews are pulling lifting and pulling and lifting both port and starboard oars as if their lives are depending on the perfection that man will always strive to reach; the blades of the oars turning time and time again to the horizontal and then twisting perfectly towards the vertical before dipping beneath the surface of the greyish-green water again and again and again, and all of this motion installed in the minds of all in order to defeat the turbulence and spray of oncoming rushing air, wind and water. I