Welcome to The isle of Osiris

If you're unfamiliar with the Jamie Poole Books series. This blog is for YOU!

An introduction: So, here we are. At the beginning of a blank diary, clean white pages, pregnant with possibility. I fidget with the pen. I’m nobody special, and yet here I am. Center stage. I touch pen to paper and write the first sentence, permanently staining the vast expanse of white: I resurrected a Druidess.

(We’re past the part where I introduce myself.)

I scribble further: In my defense that was an accident.

There. I said it. But that wasn’t really the beginning. I should scratch that out.

I feel inclined to add that I had help. Not that this in itself spares me any of the responsibility. I bear full responsibility, but this diary remains blank despite this abrupt admittance. It sits patiently, awaiting a full confession. I must give it what it demands.

Join Jamie Poole in this debut novel, first in a series. It is a confession. It is also the journey of a young woman written in her own words. Growing up, she didn’t know her dad. When she finds him, she uncovers so much more. She finds herself and her destiny, but it is tied to something dark and sinister. To understand her mysterious dad, she must unveil her adversary. Has she what it takes to match him? He always seems so many steps ahead.

Everything changes when you resurrect a Druidess. There is no undoing that even if you try.

And here is how it begins...

***

Then and Now: How it began

This is the beginning, isn’t it? My name is Jamie Lane Poole.

And you have found my secret diary. You must have gone to extraordinary lengths to locate it. I know, because I know how carefully I hid it with its companions. Perhaps one day you and I will meet. You can tell me what risks you took to uncover my secret. I trust you will preserve the knowledge within these covers.

My story is lengthy, sometimes a bit complicated, but it’s a story worth telling, even if hiding it was necessary. I did so regretfully.

While these diaries bear my name they are but one chapter in the history of an ancient relic: an Otherworldly sword called Lumen. I have been charged to protect it and use it for good. Its story, expanding beyond me, encompasses many women of many ages—ordinary women like me, bound as Sisters by a sword that is anything but ordinary. Others before me have written their own accounts—and hidden them. Like you, I uncovered some of them. One day I hope to pass Lumen to a chosen Sister.

You’re probably asking who this Jamie Poole is. I’m not so different from you. Just a kid trying to find her way. I’m neither pretty nor ugly. I’m not rich. I grew up in Alexandria, Indiana, part of a close family—minus a dad, who disappeared when I was six months old. Mom worked two jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on my back.

I met Dad when I was twelve. My dad is a complicated, secretive man. Not his smallest secret, but one of his most complicated ones, is the fact he studied as a paleontologist and somewhere along the way became fascinated with Egyptology and “converted” to an archaeologist. Related bedfellows, true. I wish I had an easy answer for his choice. That, amongst other things, has prompted me on a venture to uncover his many secrets. In doing so, I will better understand him. It will help me understand myself.

All of us are born with destinies. You were born with a destiny, even if you don’t realize it yet. My destiny comes with a unique gift. I hear the Dead. I am called to help those who died too soon or at the hands of Evil and right the injustice.

To be honest, I was utterly and wholly unprepared. But really, how can one prepare for something as astonishing as this? If you have ideas, I’d love to hear them. But this is my story and how I came to accept the unexpected: that first time the Dead spoke, and I realized who was speaking.

Quickly, Dear Reader, go now to the next page! See how it all began…

Chapter 1

Bozeman, Montana

Today.

Let’s take a trip back in time.

Not literally.

Just as a mind exercise. Not everyone can travel in time. I can’t presume you can, but I want to go back to where it all began. I want you to experience what I experienced: the sights and sounds, the smells, every detail as if you were there. It’s important. To me. I’m leaving this diary as a testament to what I’ve done.

I’d also like you to understand what motivated my choices. Perhaps what I did was unconventional, but sometimes it’s necessary to take that leap of faith and trust you’re making the right choice even if, in the moment, it might feel misguided. You must trust that when you land, it will be on solid ground…

…instead of into an abyss…

…which…

…isn’t amusing…

…Trust me.

So, here we are. At the beginning of a blank diary, clean white pages, pregnant with possibility. I imagine the stage is set and the play is about to begin. Do you hear the applause? The restless audience is out of sight on the other side of the curtain. What do you suppose they expect? Have they any idea? I fidget with the pen. I admit I have a bit of stage fright. I’m no actress. I’m nobody special, and yet here I am. Center stage.

Raise curtain. I touch pen to paper and write the first sentence, permanently staining the vast expanse of white: I resurrected a Druidess.

(We’re past the part where I introduce myself.)

I scribble further: In my defense that was an accident.

There. I said it. But that wasn’t really the beginning. I should scratch that out.

I resurrected a Druidess.

I feel inclined to add that I had help. Not that this in itself spares me any of the responsibility. I bear full responsibility, but this diary remains blank despite this abrupt admittance. It sits patiently, awaiting a full confession. I must give it what it demands.

Is this what my audience expected when they purchased their ticket? I must do this justice.

I rest my hand on my chin, thinking. It’s too soon to speak of the Druidess. I haven’t mentioned Lumen, the otherworldly sword, or the alabaster statue, or even about finding my dad. How could I forget! The events surrounding these objects led my dad and me to the Druidess.

I stand stiffly and can’t see past the stage lights. Just as well. The audience might strike me dumb…

I wish I had a cup of tea with lemon. Perhaps that would soothe my nerves. Perhaps I need something stronger…

I admit I’m rewriting this diary before it’s placed in its final hiding place. I used to keep it under my mattress. Rookie mistake. I found the perfect spot—as you know. When I finish I’ll take it there immediately. I know a secret way in.

No one can know…

Initially when I’d written this I’d grabbed the first notebook I could find at a corner drugstore. Back then it had been important not to forget a single detail. My mind was reeling. It had all just happened. It was fresh and new—and overwhelming. Hastily I’d scribbled into the night. My woeful penmanship was the least of the problems with that notebook.

I regard the line I just scratched out in this new diary and cringe. I’m not off to a good start. This time I want to do better. The years haven’t been kind to the first notebook. It’s battered and beaten, perhaps an extension of my own condition. It’s faded here. Stained there. Torn everywhere. This kind of notebook doesn’t stand up to time.

Now, having a bit of spare time, I’ve bought a new, leather-bound book with gold trimmed pages and am copying over each detail, mindful of my penmanship. I find I must make some adjustments now that I’m older, and I know what has happened since. I know the ending, but this is the beginning, I remind myself. I can’t begin with the Druidess.

I rewind my thoughts to the summer before her resurrection. That’s where it all began, when everything changed. Just before my thirteenth birthday.

I know. Everyone says that’s the year everything changes. Old…older people... say ridiculous things to a kid who’s turning thirteen: “Just think, in five years you get to vote!” or “In eight years it’s legal to drink!”

Seriously? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, time isn’t linear. Any thirteen-year-old can tell you that. Five—eight years from where they’re standing seems an eternity. You just want to get past the embarrassing skin blemishes, the awkward body changes, the hair sprouting in funny places, and all the awkwardness of the first kiss and the first date. You probably don’t even want that first date. Well, you might, but that sends you into a tizzy of nervousness about bad breath and, well, you get the idea.

Back then I had hopes and dreams. Dating the right guy wasn’t one of them. I wanted to see the world. I had no idea—no plan—on how I could make that happen. It was simply a dream hanging up there somewhere in space.

Undefined. Blank.

Like this paper. Minus the line I scratched out.

I’m doing more thinking and not enough writing. I shift in my chair. My foot has gone to sleep.

I grew up in Alexandria, Indiana. It’s a great place to be from. Not a great place to be if you have the desires I had. The sign coming into town reads: “Alexandria: Small Town USA.” It could have read: “Alexandria: Sleepy Town USA.” Just as accurate. Elek, locals call it, is a farming community where everyone knows everyone. Pretty much everyone is related.

Why did they name it Alexandria, then strip it down to Elek? It doesn’t sound like the same word. Why not Alex or something closer to the original pronunciation? Did the founding fathers have hopes of grandeur? I saw no grandeur. Not that there’s something wrong with that, but I wasn’t one of those people who could embrace a mundane life day in and day out. I wanted more.

Elek summed up my motivation—my need!—for more. In Elek every day was the same. Time didn’t exist in that town. Perhaps if I hadn’t been restless none of this would have happened, but somehow I doubt that. Everything happened asit should. When my cousin Margie turned eighteen she graduated from high school and almost immediately married her high school sweetheart. She levitated with joy as she flaunted an engagement ring. She was tall and darkly beautiful. She was pretty enough to be a model, clever enough to be an actress, but she was marrying a farmer’s son. She would become a farmer’s wife. She couldn’t imagine a better future because he was her sweetheart. Meanwhile, all I could think was: I can’t wait to get out of this town where nothing ever happens.

I was happy for her. Ecstatic even. But my dreams were different. Color me weird. I dreamed of pyramids, pharaohs, mummies…and dinosaurs. I wanted to be part of uncovering those ancient things in faraway places.

As I said, color me weird.

Despite where I grew up, my education had been supplemented by science books meant for scientists and not kids, and this, if nothing else, had planted the seeds of what was to come…

I’m still unsure what to write. I have to write something. The audience is waiting, and I’m standing center stage like an idiot who’s forgotten her lines. I didn’t ask for this life. It was thrust upon me.

And yet, didn’t I embrace it?

Of course I did!

Margie knew a Siren called my name, beckoning me to leave. I suspect she knew before I did, even if she teased me about it instead of speaking seriously. Kids are never serious. Did it bother her when I left? I don’t think I ever asked. How insensitive. I’m sure she didn’t want me to leave. We’d grown up close as sisters. When you’re young you have no idea the sacrifices you’ll make if you want to take that leap of faith.

And while I still love Margie dearly, I can’t remember when I saw her last. I can’t remember when I called her last. Or when she called me.

Sacrifices.

I didn’t realize how many were necessary for the life I’ve chosen to live.

God, I miss her and my mom and…

With determination, I begin again: When I was twelve I was visited by the Dead and by those who come from the Otherworld, a place set apart from our world by a tightly knit veil.

Is this the right place to start? I’m committed now. I feel inclined to explain what the Otherworld is. Like time travel, I can’t presume you know. I suppose no one can until they’ve been there. But then you did find this diary, so I suspect you have an idea.

These worlds co-exist, but that veil is in place for good reason. The planes must remain separated, except at specific times of the year when the veil thins temporarily. Celts refer to these times as Samhain and Beltane. If the veil thins or is ripped at the wrong time, things—beings—collide that should never meet. That’s never good. Lumen was bestowed upon me help the Dead and protect our world from the wrong things crossing from the Otherworld.

I lean back and study my words. That feels right, even if Lumen didn’t come into my possession immediately. When I first saw it, it knew me, but I didn’t know it.

I scribble further, less concerned about perfect penmanship:

Growing up is hard enough. When you start hearing voices, believe me it gets crazy. Either that or you’re going crazy. Finding Dad who had his own secrets only increased challenges for me to come into myself. His mystery cast a shadow on whom I was and where I came from. I can say that now that I’m an adult. Looking back, I know it all began with that defining moment of trying to find Dad. I had a purpose. I had a calling. Voices of the Dead begged me to help. What could I do? Grow up and take control. Sounds easier than it is. There might have been other options but not for the daughter of Brett Poole, the most stubborn man I knew. Dare I admit I wasn’t so different?

Cue the music. I still have stage fright, but I think my stomach is settling a little. I glance out the window to my left. The sun is starting to set behind the mountains. It’s about time…

The words flow freely from the pen now.