When Jonathan visits his eccentric grandfather for the first time in years, the teen is haunted by nightmares and a foreboding feeling. His curiosity leads him into the attic, where he discovers an unopened trunk-and his grandfather suddenly appears wi

BEWARE THE DRUID MOON

By John Kenneth Martin

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 John Kenneth Martin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4656-7

Contents

Chapter One: A Visit With Grandfather........................1Chapter Two: Another Funeral.................................35Chapter Three: The Netherworld...............................53Chapter Four: The Castle of Lord Samhain.....................71Chapter Five: Samhain........................................89Chapter Six: A Time of Magic.................................98Chapter Seven: The Holy War!.................................108Chapter Eight: Betrayal!.....................................118Chapter Nine: Samhain Again..................................124

Chapter One

A Visit With Grandfather

I was born, I'm told, during a lunar eclipse in a blizzard shortly after the Great War; the war to end all wars, or so it was said. Looking back over the great many years man has ruled this planet, I suppose there hasn't been a time when war wasn't evident. Since the end of the Great War in 1918, there has never been a moment without war or hostility somewhere in the world.

Yet, the Greatest of Wars this planet has ever seen is one that was never marked down in the history books. It was briefly alluded to in the Holy Bible, but most people don't even know it ever happened. Ironically, it is without a doubt the most important war ever. This is not a conflict of territories or egotistical supremacy of leadership. It is a war of conscience. It is a war of souls, a war of spirituality, a great sacrifice for the lives of the dead. Yes, the lives of the dead.

The dead who, with the permission of the God of the Underworld, would visit us on Halloween.

I never would have known anything about it myself, but for the adventures I would encounter in my youth. It all began with a simple visit with my Grandfather.

Grandfather was rumoured throughout the family to be an eccentric old man who was "a little off his rocker". I never saw him that way. He was a grand old man; tall and robust. His billowing white hair shone bright compared to his tanned skin. The crow's feet that extended his eyes became more pronounced as he smiled. And what a glorious smile he had. It was all he had to do to make you feel at home. The warmth and love this man emanated from every pore of his being was unbelievable. Grandmother was the female version of him. She also had thick white hair, which she bundled into a bun behind her head, but she had the most gentle eyes you could imagine flanking her tiny round nose. I guess two people living together for all those years tend to rub off on each other.

Every year while my Grandmother was alive they would come from New Brunswick to visit us at Christmas. They always brought neat gifts, like when I was thirteen, they bought me a bike. Not just any bike; but a state of the art, aerodynamic, Motorbike. It didn't actually have a motor, but it looked like a "hog" ... It was chocolate brown from the rack behind the seat through the frame towards the front where it melted into caramel. The fenders and chain guard were also caramel. The white-wall balloon tires were basically dark strawberry as were the handle grips and pedals. But the pièce de résistance was the fibreglass "gas tank" atop the frame. It sported a beautiful white wing sticker with black letters, "MOTORBIKE". It was a little big, but of course they assumed I would grow into it, which I did—and just as quickly grew out of it.

"You must always be prepared for anything," Grandfather would always say. He gave me the bike in hopes that I would join the Boy Scouts. I did, and I mastered all the knots and earned all the badges.

Grandfather stopped coming out when Grandmother died, but he would still send a card and a present at Christmas and on my birthday.

We lived in a lower duplex in Montreal. This is a house with another house built on top. A spiral banister flanked the outside wooden balcony and stairs, the wood always painted in battleship grey and the wrought iron in black. The basements were always whitish-grey cement while the façade was red brick. The houses joined together, row on row, to the end of the paved black street. Each morning you could hear the clippity-clop of the horse-drawn milk wagon delivering bottles of milk to all the mothers in the neighbourhood. In the back was a small yard separated from our next door neighbour by a fence of various sizes and colours, while the neighbours behind us were also separated by a lane, where all the kids would join us to play.

Dad rented the upstairs to a young French couple that wanted to have children but were having problems. He said that their rent paid our rent. We lived for free, or so he thought until Mom would nag him about repairs, which he said he couldn't afford.

It was south of downtown, a very quiet residential area with lots of immigrants, mostly European nationals, but it was a very inexpensive area.

This is where the immigrants would live until they could afford to live in a slightly higher, socially acceptable town.

Next door to us lived Antoinette. She was the most incredibly beautiful woman ever; and she was only thirteen. She was tiny and well shaped with long flowing black hair and a little button nose. Her chestnut eyes glittered when she smiled and it took but a glance for her to see right through your very soul.

I used to go into the fenced-in backyard just to show off to her. And she would do the same. She would simply smile and I would melt. She would laugh and the world was right. I knew without a doubt that this was the girl I would marry some day and I believed that she felt the same.

Nothing in the world could keep us apart. We both knew it was written in the stars. Jonathan and Antoinette destined to be the greatest lovers this world had ever known. Together we could conquer the world.

Her parents did not think so, however, and always seemed to accompany her everywhere.

If she went to the store, they were there. If she went to the park, they were there. If she were caught talking to me or getting too close, she was told to come in the house.

They were old world people with old world values. I didn't care about their values or their worlds. All I knew was that Antoinette and I were meant to be together. I loved her and she obviously loved me. As far as I was concerned, that was all that mattered. Had I been older, and more independent, I would have asked her to marry me, without hesitation on my part at all. But then again, I was only about fourteen at the time.

One day, we went to visit my Aunt and Uncle in the country on one of those long, hot summer long weekends. They had a small red brick bungalow with a good parcel of land, still half forest-like. The roads were unpaved with old oil splashed on them to keep the dirt from flying everywhere, and ditches were trenched to drain water on both sides of the streets. We had a great time eating barbecue and going to the old pond, swimming, and hanging with my local friends. Not a care in the world. Summer was meant to be this way.

It was only three days, but it seemed like a whole vacation. What a great time we had. Life was so good to me. What in the world could possibly go wrong to a fourteen year old? I passed my grade. I had a lot of friends. Not too many enemies. And I had a girl who loved me and who would have made anybody envious. I was on top of the world.

When we returned on Monday evening, I saw people moving into Antoinette's upstairs flat.

Franticly, I asked her twelve year old...