Chpt. 20 - Don't Shoot the Messenger by Daniel Grant Newton (SEASON FINALE)

For the previous chapters of Daniel Grant Newton's online book Don't Shoot the Messenger, click below:

Chapter 1      Chapter 2      Chapter 3      Chapter 4      Chapter 5      Chapter 6      Chapter 7      Chapter 8      Chapter 9      Chapter 10     Chapter 11      Chapter 12      Chapter 13      Chapter 14     Chapter 15     Chapter 16     Chapter 17     Chapter 18     Chapter 19

Irene and Jude took their hands off the ancient chest and peered into the darkness.

“This is different,” whispered Jude, cocking his gun.  “When is this?”

“Well, I guess we are with the box just before Alexander bought it,” Irene replied.  “That was our intention.”

The lights overhead blinked on, temporarily blinding them. 

When their eyes adjusted to the brightness, the two time travellers were face to face with a room full of soldiers in black jumpsuits, with the Nordic Mjollnir (Thor’s Hammer) symbol emblazoned on the front of their uniforms.

The soldiers held futuristic-looking rifles at Irene and Jude that hummed and contained glowing cartridges. 

Someone approached the two visitors.

It was Alexander, dressed in a long black gown and gloves.  He wore a silver pendant of the same symbol as that on the soldier’s jumpsuits.

“Just on time,” he said, greeting Jude and Irene.  “Beauty and the beast are here as I said they would.”  He rubbed his hands together.  “Welcome to the year 2043.  I thought I’d bring you both back here to show you what you helped create.”

“What’s going on Alexander?” said Irene, after exchanging a glance with Jude.

“You all played your parts perfectly,” he scoffed.  “Naturally, having to read the probability hologram by myself meant I was never quite sure which outcome was most probable, but this one was a good one.  I did think at one stage having a scientist help me read it could be useful, but I couldn’t risk them getting all ethical on me, now could I?  Just as no one, including Spider, could be witness to my entire master plan.”  He beamed.  “Doesn’t matter, anyway.  I had a plan for every possibility.”

“Jesus didn’t die,” Jude muttered.  “So your plan failed.”

“You are part right, my friend,” Alexander nodded.  “Jesus didn’t die.  But the Roman Empire did, and so did Christianity.  Well, there are a few pockets of those who follow the teachings of Christ, but I am gradually quietening those rabble makers.  Killing them for the good of the whole.  I am still considering on going back to kill the pest you guys failed to kill, but as it is, Christians are a minority that hide in the alleys like cockroaches.”

“I don’t understand,” said Irene, shaking her head.  “You destroyed the Roman Empire and wiped the Christian Church from history?”

“Correct.  It was all part of my master plan, as aforementioned.  The team was delivered a number of bombs through the chest the day you both split from the rest of the group.  One was meant to blow Irene and the temple up, but the rest were nuclear weapons given to a nasty resistance group.  I believe you met their leader, young lady.

“Anyway, this group was shown how to detonate the bombs in the letter Spider gave their leader, and they were also given the artillery to get them into the heart of Rome, supposedly in exchange for your capture.  Without Rome, Christianity as you both knew it could not spread.  The note also requested they kill the two of you and any of the team you didn't manage to kill.  I do hate loose ends.  But in the end the only one they killed was Kofi, because you do what you do so well, Jude.”

Jude and Irene stood in silence.

“Your majesty,” said one of the soldiers, bowing his head to Alexander, “shall we lock these time outlaws away?”

Alexander nodded and the soldiers stamped their feet signalling that they accepted the order.  Irene and Jude were grabbed from behind by a number of soldiers.

“Your majesty?” Jude exclaimed, squirming his muscular body out of the hold of the four soldiers around him.  “What does he mean by that?”

Alexander moved right up into Jude’s face.  “Do you really think I got to where I got by being nice, Mr. Stone?  By helping people?  The three missions I sent you on were all designed to give me the opportunity to inherit my kingdom.  And get back what fate had stolen from me – the Mjollnir Kingdom.” 

He turned to the men holding Irene and Jude.  “Lock them up.  Tomorrow morning we will give them a public execution to honour the Great Odin.  I want the message to be loud and clear: No man shall pass through time without my command.”

To be continued...

Season 2 coming in 2013...

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And do not forget to tune in on Monday for the first part of The Last King of Shambhala.

Chpt. 4 - Don't Shoot the Messenger

Click here for Chapter 1

Click here for Chapter 2

Click here for Chapter 3

Irene pressed the folders and files Alexander had given her to her chest, eyes down at her feet as she scuttled through the corridors towards the briefing room, all the while berating herself for the choice she was about to make.

As she turned the corner, she crashed into someone coming equally fast in the opposite direction, spilling all the folders and files across the floor.  Irene’s line of vision shot up and she caught her breath.

That someone was Jude Stone, the leader of the field team.

“Next time watch where you are going, soldier, and don’t…” she muttered to herself, swallowing hard, her deep brown eyes flicking between his eyes and the files splayed out on the polished timber.

He glared at her, looking her up and down with contempt.

“I guess we both weren't looking where we were going.  Too preoccupied with our thoughts, hey?”  She shone a quick, polite smile before bending down to pick up her files.

Jude Stone didn't respond.  Instead he just peered at her, chewing his gum rhythmically, before pushing past and continuing on his way.

She glanced back at him as he made his way in the opposite direction.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

Irene picked up her papers and files, and made her way to the briefing room.  As she walked into the small office, one of the security personnel closed and locked the door behind her.

Inside was a solid-wood oval table with Alexander and seven of the soldiers she saw yesterday seated around it.  There were two spare seats.

Irene searched the stone faces of the soldiers.  Jude was the only team member missing.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Alexander sighed, gesturing to the two spare seats.  “I was just introducing you to the team.”

There was a silence, so Alexander spoke again.  “This is the team bar the almighty leader, Mr. Stone, who had to rush out and tend to something.  Do not worry, doctor, he will still be on the mission.”

“I think he didn't like the fact you recruited someone without our okay, Lord Cartwright,” chuckled Spider.  “Especially appointing someone who's not even part of the forces.”

Irene sat on the seat at the end of the table and opened a folder.  Her ears burned.  She took a few deep breaths, and then focused on sifting through her prepared documents with quivering hands.

“In the next mission, you will be very thankful for Doctor Hadar and her expertise,” Alexander swallowed.  “I do not think Mr. Stone understands how respected a researcher she is in her field.  He would treat her much differently if he did.”

Spider leaned forward and pointed a finger at Alexander.  “I don't think you understand what it's like in our field.  Each one of these boys brings something to the table we actually need in completing a mission.  And we rely on each of these parts to keep us alive. 

“This woman is not just going to hold us back, her lack of training, Lord Cartwright, will put each member at risk.  That's why Jude stormed out.  No offence, doctor, but one wrong step and someone could die.”

“Excuse me gentlemen, perhaps I can introduce myself as Lord Cartwright had previously offered.  It is probably appropriate given the partnership we find ourselves in, although I do condition that formality by saying I wish not to form any real relationships with any of you, and have no intention of winning the respect of the ‘boys' club’.  I'll leave that to the yard spitters and booze guzzlers,” Irene interrupted, looking at the two men in between setting out documents on the desk.  “My not wanting to socialise with you all is no  reflection on any of your individual characters, which I am sure sparkle like diamonds and drip with charm.  It is, in truth, rather an unfortunate bias formed by the aggregation of military personnel I have previously encountered.  And had the misfortune to tolerate the company of.  An unfounded bias, no doubt, but a bias all the same.”

The men glared back at her in varied states of confusion.

“My name is Doctor Irene Hadar.  The letters after my name won't mean anything to you, as a soldier ... just as the lettered agencies you served under mean nothing to me ... so I'll get straight on to why I am here.  Your next mission is to go back to the year 31 A.D., in what is now modern-day Palestine.  I believe many of you have been posted there before in more modern times.

“There your task will be to take out a revolutionary connected with the Zealots, an underground resistance group.  I believe Mr. Stone was to brief you all, but as he has had some other business to tend to, I'm more than happy to.  It will perhaps be refreshing for you all to have a leader in the field talk to you about your next destination, and I invite you to ask questions regarding the time period at the end if you would like to learn more.

“The revolutionary we are to locate goes by the name of Yēšûă, or what can be anglicised as Joshua. 

"According to the research notes Alexander has provided me, collated by an adequately impressive research team, Yēšûă never raised arms in his time, preferring to travel throughout the region spreading insidious ideas that incited violence and led to countless deaths for centuries to come.  After a failed attempt at killing him by the Roman Empire, he left for Asia and possibly lived out the rest of his life in Kashmir, India. 

"Yēšûă must not be killed in public view as this will create a martyr, which will only fan the fire of his words.  In fact, he may well wish to be made a martyr.”

“Sounds like a standard job for us, babe,” sniggered a marine with a bent nose and bushy eyebrows.  “We don't need any textbooks to tell us how to make someone disappear without a trace.”

“If you did, I wouldn't expect any of you would be here.”  She smiled, satisfied the backhanded compliment would be lost on the men.

“The difficulty with taking out Yēšûă is that his group stay underground most of the time,” continued Irene.  “The only time he can usually be found is during his public lectures when he comes to a town.  These are kept secret until the last moment, as he had a significant amount of Roman gold coins on his head.

“And it seems he used a myriad of underground passages and supporters in every village who helped hide and protect him.

“There is not much accurate information regarding his whereabouts at any point in history, however the researchers have narrowed down one window of opportunity.  A location and time period with an 84% historical probability.”

“Can't that hologram web tell us where he is?” asked Spider.

“Despite Alexander's confidence in his new toy, I spoke with the research team and they revealed they couldn't fully harness its power yet.  They can access likely probabilities, but nothing they glean is 100% foolproof.

“On top of that, they tell me you only have one opportunity.  Once you travel to a specific time, Spider glanced about the room and sniggered.  "Thanks for the history lesson, Doc, but we'll do better without you.  Believe it or not, accomplishing a mission like this needs a lot of high-level training."

Doctor Hadar paused and handed out pages with the basic elements of the mission.  “If you want someone to help you track down a man who will be harder to find than Osama bin Laden and Where's Wally's adopted love child, you might want someone who knows the terrain, knows the customs, and can speak Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek and Latin.  It's your choice, Spider.  Just say the word and I'll get back on my plane out of here, and leave the babysitting of marines to somebody else.  I have a very important dig on the other side of the planet that I'm happy to go back to.”

Everyone looked at Spider.

“You are a feisty one, aren't you?"  He smiled.  "I guess it's up to me then, since that pretty boy Jude ain't here,” he added.  He looked at the document Irene had handed him.  “He ain't going to be happy about it, but I guess we could do with more intel than a few bullet points on a page.  Just do as we say or you'll end up dead.”

Click here for Chapter 5

If you enjoyed this chapter post a link on Facebook for your friends to read!
 

Dear Reader, the Death Star is close to almost somewhat fully operational… perhaps.

I don’t like to blow my own horn but…

No, actually.  What am I saying?!?  I love to blow my own horn.  It has such a unique vibrant resonance that echoes across green valleys with rivers and waterfalls.

My horn blowing is a crystal clear harmonically-perfect masterpiece that is at just the right pitch to make David Hasselhoff gasp and lay the back of his rugged hairy hand to his chiseled forehead, before spontaneously combusting to the tune of ‘Jump in My Car’.  (I love that guy!)

I also love my horn, so much so that I blow my own horn about blowing my own horn.  Cue comedic honk.

But before I indulge in such vocal self congratulatory adulation, I must warn you that if you’re reading David, the avid week-to-week reader you no doubt are, find the strength to stop reading.  K.I.T. can’t save you now, either can a slow motion CJ with breeze blown hair and a bouncing standard issue lifeguard safety float.

We simply cannot lose you, David, king of suave and comedy.  Respect.  Big up yourself.  Comin’ at ya like Cleopatra.

So with that said, here I (finally) go, blowing my own horn, for everyone’s benefit bar the Hoff, trumpety trumpety like the introduction of a king to an archery event.

My novel has been chosen as a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Review's Best Indie Books of 2012, in the Sci-fi and Fantasy category.  Since I am in North America now, I have the liberty to call it the World’s Greatest Independent Authors of 2012 Championship.

And unlike the World Series, it is an international competition.  Without the drugs.  Actually, I cannot be certain there hasn’t been some Lewis Carol performance enhancers used by any of the other competitors.

(For the record, for complete openness and transparency, I did drink 9 coffees one school night to help me write a short story called ‘The Coffee Whisperer’… it was about a guy who discovered he could talk to coffee beans.  But that was a long time ago and I regret my actions.  Actually I don’t.  But I’m presuming I would if I had a publicity manager on my imaginary payroll.)

Anyway… You can help be my further success.  I will mention you in my Academy Awards speech when the movie adaption wins the best negative cutting category for a foreign film with product placement set in three or more different locations and time periods, and containing an original music score comprised only of horns.

Or whatever award it wins in the hypothetical future.

(Note that that is to say in this particular hypothetical future event … not to say the future is hypothetical, because it invariably and inevitably will happen, but will instead be called the present to those experiencing it.  Don’t ask me why.  I didn’t make the rules… of the universe.  Or the linear timeline we perceive.)

So if I win, your efforts will be recognised.  My movie will no doubt have tough competition though as it will probably be competing with the likes of movies like Dainty Green Tree Frog Man and Google Cars.  Maybe even The Coffee Whisperer.

Anyway, point is, your help will help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi.  

(Do not be concerned if your name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, I am not stalking you, but merely inserting a cultural reference for comedic purposes and peer approval.  You should be more worried about why your parents gave you that name, and named your little sister ‘The Little Ewok’.  Also, by the same token, do not be alarmed if your name is not Obi-Wan, you have not by some freak metaphysical accident taken the identity of a fictional character.)

Anyway, that is my long winded Hugh Grant way of saying that I … erm … love you.  And am asking for your help.

So how can you help me?  Great question.  I am excited you finally asked the question and won the prize.  The prize being the illusive answer.

By buying The Last King of Shambhala on Amazon and leaving a review, that’s how.  By sharing the love, you will help me (I think) reach the finals, and then perhaps become THE Kindle Book Review's Best Indie Book of 2012 in the Sci-Fi and Fantasy category.  And then we can build a Death Star together with only one small but very important design flaw.

Join me, insert your name here, and leave a review.  I am your father.

Novel Writing Hacks from Author Daniel Grant Newton

 

Have you got a novel in you that you've always wanted to write?  Perhaps you haven't had the time?  Or you get started, but can never finish it?

Well, as someone who spent most of his life trying to get one of my ideas into a finalised manuscript, and now being someone who has done it, I've found a few secrets of the trade to make inspiration easier, improve your story, and importantly, get it done.  This isn't an exhaustive list, but very powerful all the same - I may write a follow up article later with more tips.

1.) Write about what you love.

Writing a book takes a long time (although perhaps shorter with the tips below :P), so you need to be passionate about the subject to keep going: researching, idea generating, editing, etc.  This might be the most obvious of these tips, but it is one of the most important, and overlooked, pieces of advice since the people of Troy were told that curiosity kills the cat.

 

2.) If you're bored or aren't inspired with a section, scrap it and get more creative.

If you're bored with your story, so will your readers be.  You may have planned for 'A' to happen, but if it is a task writing it, think about other possible outcomes - and go wild.  If any bit of your book didn't fully engage every cell of your body, it needs to go!

 

3.) Daydream about your characters and story for the pleasure of it.

This is when you get your best ideas.  It also allows you to get better acquainted with your characters.  It gives you out-of-the-box ideas.  It gets you in the flow.  I don't know how - but it does - so try it.

 

4.) Jot every idea down.

Good, bad or ugly, write them down, or you'll forget them.  I wrote enough alternate story directions for The Last King of Shambhala to complete at least ten completely different books, allowing me to choose the best and build on them.  Sometimes an idea will seemingly be useless, but it will later spark a better idea, or will fit perfectly somewhere else later on.

 

5.) Create impossible problems for your characters, plan them out, and then look for creative ways to solve them.

The bigger the problem, the more tension and excitement.  These can be physical disasters, or emotional tangles ... But a combination is even more powerful.

 

Further to this, in those "will he make it or won't he", there is nothing like (even if it is a BIG cliche) a character seemingly dead, but then to emerge out of the smoke alive to the relief of their companions.

 

6.) Want to write quicker, plan out every chapter.

I wrote The Last King of Shambhala in five or more years.  There were a few reasons it took half a ten year old's life, but one big one was I planned it out as I went.  

 

This meant it was more creative than it may have otherwise been, but if you have a more simple storyline, and want to write it quicker, plan it out chapter by chapter.  It doesn't need to fit the chapters, you can be open to new directions, but it will save so much time.

I wrote the novella Don't Shoot the Messenger in three weeks.  Why?  I planned out every chapter (and it was about 35,000 words rather than over 100,000, I guess).

 

7.) Show not tell.  Adam is NOT "angry".

 

 

Everybody makes assumptions of others by how they perceive them, therefore readers will get to know your characters better when you 'show' not 'tell'.  

For example, don't say "Adam isn't happy and wanted his boyfriend James to know, no matter how childish he seemed", instead say "Adam crossed his arms and glared out the window, periodically glancing back at James and huffing until his lover diverted his eyes from the Playstation and onto him."

 

Yes, I made that example on the run, so it isn't Dickens.  Or even Meyer.  But you get the point.

 

8.) Research - the key to opening creative doors

Research, research, research.  If you have followed step one, this will be fun. If not, read step one again.

 

Knowing more about the subject allows for accuracy, but more importantly, it expands your mind, dude, and allows for more creative direction and solution.

 

9.) Quick 'cheat' way to bulk up the persona of your characters - write in another's voice

 

 

A quick way to create better characters is to play about with the voice or mannerisms or persona or beliefs of a famous movie or book character, or famous person, or of someone you know.  

Your character shouldn't be a rehash of some other character however, by doing this, you might be able to develop your character in another direction by mixing elements and mannerisms of this character with your current character.  

I'd suggest even mixing multiple characters with your original character, but still keeping the essence of him or her.

Extra tip: Try using a character that is completely out of place.  Like Fran Fine as the voice of an evil warlock, or the Terminator as a flight attendant, or Goofy as a werewolf.

 

10.) If uninspired, watch inspiring videos on YouTube before getting into writing

Some times you just aren't in the zone.  If you have a chapter about a romantic date, go onto YouTube and watch a montage of BBC adaptions of Jane Austin movies for five minutes.  If it is a boxing scene, watch a Muhammad Ali fight montage.  This isn't for copying, it just gets the juices flowing.

If you'd like to see the result of putting these tips into practice, you can now buy The Last King of Shambhala at any good online book store.

New Book Trailer: The Last King of Shambhala

Part Two: The Last King of Shambhala Preview

The below is part two of a preview of my latest book 'The Last King of Shambhala'. Click here for part one.

“I have never been here before,” I said, pausing briefly to listen to the echoing of my voice. “Well, I don’t think I have. I have no memory of a life before.”

“I am Vibhishana, the Protector of Lanka,” the being responded, now talking with perfect articulation in a language I could understand. “Welcome back.”

“Sri Lanka?” I asked.

Amisha used to sit me down with a map and ask if any countries looked familiar. Or if I felt a connection in my heart to any. To her disappointment, none looked familiar to me, nor incited any special feelings, but the practice did improve my geography.

The being shook his head, and a smile formed on his pussycat lips. “What you call Sri Lanka is a sacred place of beauty, but it is not Lanka. This is Lanka, although very different to how Lanka once was. But it is still surrounded by the Trikuta Mountains,” he said, pointing a paw to the surrounding mountains out the windows. “Still an inland island. A fortress of secrecy.” He paused. “And still, only through Lanka, can one find Shambhala. However, the door to Shambhala is not found within the temple walls, but found within.”

“Within Lanka?” I asked.

Vibhishana leaned forward and placed a stubby index finger on my forehead. “Within,” he said.

After an initial static shock that emanated from his finger, my vision blurred and filled with vibrant colours, some outside the spectrum of human perception. My eyes adjusted and the colours faded.

The temple was as it was before – but Vibhishana was no longer to be seen.

Suddenly, an apparition of a monk clasping a chicken to his chest floated past. His image was smoky, semi-transparent and bathed in a warm light.

As quickly as the figure had appeared, it disappeared.

Then another two appeared. Women dressed in bright saris, one red and one blue, with gold trimmings and vivid patterns. They danced, and as they did, their long brown hair swished and sparkles flew from their saris and glistening eyes.

As they passed, my vision blurred again, and I marvelled once more at the kaleidoscope before me. But as the colours faded this time, the chamber appeared completely different.

It looked brand new and was filled with people dancing, drumming, laughing and singing. There seemed to be representatives from every culture in the world on the shimmering floor. There also seemed to be creatures that were humanoid, but not quite human, and cows and goats intermingling.

In the middle of the hall was an ancient-looking, sandy obelisk. Coming from the top of the obelisk were ropes with fluttering flags attached to them.

I approached the obelisk and noticed people praying around it. When I put my hand on the structure, symbols on it lit up and glowed with an ethereal light.

My eyes drifted upwards. Where the ceiling should have been was a white light emitting heat and a thin veil of smoke.

My eyes scanned the room again. Occasionally, as my eyes zoned out, I caught glimpses of the crumbling temple I’d left behind. I must admit this made me wonder whether I really had left the temple, or was merely having a hallucination of some kind.

“They are celebrating your return,” came a voice beside me. It was Vibhishana.

“None of them have noticed me,” I muttered, turning to him.

“They cannot see you yet,” he answered simply.

“Then why are they celebrating my return?”

“Because they trust in the process of life, and they do not need to see you for them to celebrate you being here. They understand when you feel the essence of something, and celebrate it, it will come.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

I peered at Vibhishana’s curling cat lips.

“Who am I?” I asked. “That is why I am here, isn’t it? I am here to find out who I am.”

“This question evades most on your plane of existence. You are not the only one who has forgotten who you truly are. Perhaps only the newborns that cannot yet talk know the truth of their being.”

“Do you know who I am?” I pressed. “Because if you do, can you just tell me? None of this is really making any sense at all, and I’d prefer it did.”

“Here, it is the search, not the answer, that we cherish. For even the most revered mandate is not fixed, but constantly explored.” He paused to gaze into my eyes.

His large round eyes were rather hypnotic. When I looked into them, I became lost in an endless ocean of nothingness. A feeling very hard to describe, but akin perhaps to a vivid daydream you cannot remember once it has finished.

“Amisha told me I could read the Akashic Records, and that would enlighten me to who I am,” I said, still in a half-daze. “Of course, you could just tell me and save me the trouble.”

“Amisha knew who you were, but she did not tell you because she knew the value in the search.”

“I take it I can still read the Akashic Records then?”

“Come,” said Vibhishana.

He led me out of the hall and into the night air, under a sky speckled with stars. We walked among towering ash trees with little star-like lights in their branches. The trees grew by a sparkling lake that reflected the starry sky, and the mountains were inky and jagged in the distance.

We then trekked up a grassy hill towards a hut.

Upon reaching the doorway, Vibhishana gestured for me to enter. “Inside you shall find Sangoma. He is always happy to meet those at the crossroads of dimensions.”

I ducked my head inside and sat at a pine chair opposite Sangoma.

Sangoma had dark wrinkly skin, with long, intricately beaded hair raining down from under a faded bowler hat. His suit and gold alligator-headed cane gave the impression of a distinguished gentleman, but his unkempt bushy black and silver beard, bare feet and assortment of jingling bracelets and anklets told a different story.

A scrawny dog came from outside and lay by his feet.

“Namaste,” I said to him, and bowed my head. “I am called Damon. And you must be Sangoma?”

“I am not interested in labels,” sniped the elderly man, as he emptied a sack of shells onto the floor and inspected where they fell.

“You are in search of the Akashic Records,” he said, glancing up at me.

“I am in search of the truth; if the Akashic Records is the label you give it, then yes, that is what I am after,” I said, grinning.

“Your quest is a noble one,” he said, expressionless, save for the blinking of his eyes.
“I’d like to know who I am,” I said. “It has been about 12 months now, and I am no closer to learning who I am, or rather, was.”

“Who do you want to know?” Sangoma asked. “The dream character or the one who is dreaming?”

“Neither,” I grumbled. “I think something has been lost in translation. I want to know who I am in real, physical life.”

Sangoma stood up and hobbled over to a bookcase at the back of the hut. His finger traced along the spines of the heavy, leather-bound books on the shelf. He stopped at one with a maroon cover and pulled it out.

As he placed it on my lap, I read the title embossed in gold on the cover:

The Last King of Shambhala, Akashic Records.

I paused.

“Is this the story of my life?”

“This is the first book I give everyone who comes here wanting to know who they are,” he replied. “This book belongs to the final King of Shambhala, but the story within the leather cover changes depending on the reader.”

I flicked through the pages. “The pages are blank,” I said, scratching my cheek. “How can I learn who I am when the pages are blank?”

Sangoma’s face crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. “Trust that the words will come, just before you need to read them.”

With this, he stood up, twirled his alligator-topped cane, and left the hut.

I focused on the first page and tried forcing words. Nothing happened.

After a few minutes of effort, I took a deep breath, relaxed my eyes and gazed back down. I spoke aloud. “Who am I?”

As I spoke, the words began to appear...

The Last King of Shambhala

Chapter One to follow. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)