The Sacred Ash

What if a man was transported ninety years into the past, and thousands of miles away, into the body of a child, with no memories other than a vague feeling of destiny?

A mid-summer's nightmare opens The Sacred Ash: A Modern Myth in Three Seasons, forcing Stephen Elwin to travel through fire and into the past. He is magically propelled into the body of a pre-World War Two Danish child, Jens. The boy has paranormal capabilities and an overwhelming sense of destiny: he struggles through German occupation, eventually as part of the underground resistance movement.

Meanwhile, back in the future, we meet Stephen's two children, Heather and William, and their new stepbrother, Howard. Howard has multiple personalities, and because of extensive drug use and brain trauma, has become capable of transfiguring himself physically into many alternate personalities. Summer ends with a horrific and vicious murder.

Autumn continues the post-war life of Jens, and his relationship with a gypsy refugee and concentration camp survivor. She makes it to Canada, and late in her life, gives birth to a son who may well be the saviour of the Elwin family. Meanwhile, Heather, suicidal and hopelessly addicted to drugs, is kidnapped by the embodiment of evil. In Winter, Heather's life spins out of control as her entire world disintegrates into chaos.

The Sacred Ash: A Modern Myth in Three Seasons is a tale of the clash between Norse mythology and Christianity, and the scepticism that either even exists; the Old World meets the New World in an epic struggle between good and evil. The Sacred Ash is the key to solving life's mysteries, and may also be the solution to preventing Armageddon.

The Sacred Ash: A Modern Myth in Three Seasons is a thrilling adventure teeming with mythical allusions and religious symbolism.

DRINK IN HAND, I try to manoeuvre to the couch, but the carnival spinning around me pushes like a centrifugal force, and it keeps me in place. Music is exploding through my chest. Too much alcohol. I don't like beer, it makes me feel bloated, I tell myself and I begin to giggle. Somewhere my girlfriend is orally fixated with her friends; in a parallel room she fawns over the artist with the guitar. No. She is my wife, and she is laughing hysterically with friends as she bursts forth from the elevator, leaving me embarrassed, dejected and alone. That's just like her to enjoy my awkwardness. That's just like me to complicate my life and desecrate hers.

Faint and nauseous, I'm in the hallway and someone is in front of me: I remember flirting with her somewhere; she allowed me to stand too close and touch when no-one was around. Now she is so close that I can smell her. The perfume explodes into my lungs and invigorates my body. That crooked smile and gleam in her eye suggests that she can read my mind: she knows everything. Lust swells through my loins; and as I lean forward, I almost topple over her. Her hand is on my chest, steadying and frustrating me at the same time: she is playing with the green button of my shirt. Through her fingers, I can feel the music and her own electric presence. I want her, but remember something. "Whersh your boyfren?" I slur. I cannot seem to remember his name. He's in the room somewhere, but pretends not to care. I hate the confident bastard; no, I envy him.

"Boyfriend? Ha! He's nowhere," she says. "By the way, he wants his skates back. They're supposed to be really expensive." And then she leans into me fully. Her flesh presses against mine and I can feel her hair sweep across my face and neck. A voice purrs into my ear, "Meet me in the bathroom in three minutes." I feel her pull away, and she is gone.

I smile at my arousal and begin to stumble around, pointing my way. It is so hard to focus that I close my eyes to avoid the strain. I imagine that I am blind. Again, I giggle. Someone shows me a painting of a whirlpool, and as I try to reflect on its swirling colours, I become dizzy. The room spins around the image and I feel a magnetic force. It sends me to her like an asteroid drawn into a planet. I know that I am a slave and she my taskmaster, but I don't care. Everyone is smiling at me and winking. Did they hear her or can they just read my lucidly amorous face? Should I go? Of course I will -- because I am under her spell, and I have no choice in the matter. Her earthly power trumps my free will. Ayn Rand would be pissed, I think to myself.

"Good one Elwin!" It's Mr. Ferret, my high-school history teacher. His ruddy, tanned skin serves as a garish back-drop for his gaudy gold chains; too much sun, I think. He leers and squeezes my arm, holding on too long before I am able to spin away.

Empty bathroom. The door swings closed behind me and I am locked in a coital embrace. It is wonderful: the smell of her hair, the munificent weight of her body, and the warm, sweet taste of her tongue. I give in to her fervour, and I am drawn in. Pressing against her, my hands hungrily seek pleasure and seize her fleshy essence. I am consumed. And instantly I feel overwhelmed with guilt. I can't do this to my wife; I can't do this with her -- somehow, I know that it's wrong.

"Helen," I appeal, ignominiously pushing her away. "We shouldn't. We can't."

"Maggot!" The fury of her visceral voice sickens me.

She has changed and I recoil. But, with scaly hands erupting from a slimy cadaver, she slams me against the wall. I am immobile with fright as she slithers into me. The foul stench of her breath sprays against my face like vomit. Closing my eyes, I hear her hiss, "I will eat your first-born from the inside out."

The twins. Oh my god, she's going to kill my children! And then I scream as I'm consumed in fire.

A review for The Sacred Ash by Emma Patterson of The Wendy Weil Agency in New York:

“This story has a captivating, original premise, and you write it with great strength and liveliness. I was mesmerized by the utterly wonderful and distinctive worlds you’ve created here. Stephen, too, is an especially memorable narrator…I think the structure is impressively ambitious…and it lends to the originality of the novel.”