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To rescue them, follow the way of the fen

The way of the fen. Fen Way. Yes, that's both a throwback to where Brett Poole lives: Near Boston AND reference to fens, bogs, marshes, swamps, or whatever murky name you wish to name this land. Victorian novels are full of descriptions of that dark, damp, scary place where one often witnesses supernatural events. Walking in a fen literally guarantees a supernatural encounter in most novels. Jamie's Way of the Fen continues the lore.

July is just a few days away when Destiny of the Departed becomes available for purchase. Here are sale prices if you need to catch up on other books. In the Halifax area, you can purchase books directly from me. Or, you can purchase them from my preferred vendors: Dartmouth Book Exchange or Cape and Cowl Comics and Collectibles.

If you are not in the Halifax area, Destiny of the Departed is available on your local Amazon store. Link provided is for Check your local Amazon for details.

Have a read of Jamie's adventures in the fen.

I slept. I drifted. I’d felt disconnected from the moment Mr. Akkad had put a knife to my throat.

I felt nothing. I am out of Time.

My body rose above violent waves. They slapped my face. Feeling returned like icy daggers. Warmth began at my feet and climbed to my knees. Hypothermia.

A wall of waves circled me like hungry buzzards.

I struggled to my feet.

Open your eyes. A voice spoke gently from somewhere. Accustomed to Voices, I obeyed without question. I opened them as if I’d slept comfortably in a feather bed. I wasn’t ready to wake up. I looked about. My eyes deceived.

The world reflected Technicolor hues as if I watched life on an old television. I steadied my feet as I observed more of my surroundings. Gone was the angry ocean. Gone was Manny and Mr. Akkad. The wind had died to a whisper.

In their place, a tree-lined marsh.

A fen, the voice corrected.

I regarded the fen. Soft, marshy ground with tufts of tall, greenish brown grasses, and the occasional withered tree. Fens lingered along oceans. In northern countries they were broader where the landscape flooded. Literature was full of scary stories about getting lost in fens…bogs…marshes…moors… Pick a name. It wasn’t an encouraging landscape, and I imagined terrible things happening here. Spectral beasts emerging to carry you away…

A circuitous trail started at my feet and trundled its way through the fen and into darkness. In the distance, green smoke lit the night sky. Was that Larupus or something else? Was this place superimposed over where I’d been? I squinted. The way of the fen, I thought.

Fen way. The voice held a hint of humor. It was my voice. It wasn’t my voice.

“Who are you?” I asked.

We haven’t met yet. Well, I’ve met you. You helped me. I’m here to return the favor.

“Who are you?” I repeated.

“Look around.” The voice, a young woman’s, sounded as if she stood near.

“I don’t have time. My friends…they’re going to die in the fire on the beach. How can I get to them?”

“Follow the way of the fen.”

A hand grabbed my ankle. I resisted the urge to scream. I was alone in this landscape. I looked down. I was far from alone. The fen was a place where bodies were naturally mummified. Peat and sphagnum preserved bodies, enveloping the tissue in a cold, immobilizing mix, impeding natural decay. Archaeologists had found dozens of these morbidly fascinating figures. They opened a window into the past.

Today the window had been thrown wide open.

A woman, untouched by decay, floated at my feet, hinting at hope for a future. She wore a fur cloak to guard against the cold waters. Her eyes, golden-green, stared unseeingly at the sky. Her hair spread unbound like wild streamers. A hand held my boot.


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