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FAR HORIZONS DISTANT DREAMS 

FAR HORIZONS, DISTANT DREAMS

Far Horizons, Distant Dreams follows the fortunes of Morgan Sanderson, when at the age of seven, she begins to have strange recalls.

As the sole survivor of a tragic murder suicide, she is relentlessly hounded by the local priest convinced she is possessed or a witch.

Finding refuge within the walls of a convent, she sets off a strange series of events in which her closest companions are inextricably involved.

Dreams of distant times become memories of past lives lived in the service of the Great Goddess Gaea. Morgan recalls two past lives in which she learned the ancient wisdom long since lost or dismissed as myth in the present day.

A strong storyline and a real page turner—Editor

 

In Store Price: $AU22.95 
Online Price:   $AU21.95

ISBN: 1-9208-8404-1
Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 308
Genre: Fiction

 


 


Author: Jeannette Y. Davis 
Imprint: Zeus
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published: 2004
Language: English

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About the author     

 

Jeannette Davis was born in the UK and migrated to Africa at the age of twelve.  She worked in the offices of a copper mining venture and rose from junior data processing clerk to become supervisor of the section. 

Jeannette went on to become head of a teaching program that trained young African women to enter the workforce. 

She migrated to Australia in 1975, where she owned and ran a small business. 

Later she became involved in residential care of the intellectually challenged and is currently living with her family on a forty-acre farm.

Chapter 1: Awakenings  (part sample)

The clear grey eyes flashed with such intense anger he was taken completely by surprise.  George Slater had not expected such a strong reaction, from a junior pupil, to what he saw as a simple statement of fact. He studied the child whom until now, he had thought quite unremarkable. Morgan Sanderson stood before him diminutive in stature her clear grey eyes a dramatic contrast to the blue black of her hair, which was drawn back in a carefully braided plait. Around her delicate face tendrils of hair suggested the black mop might be curly if unrestrained. She moved with a grace which belied her tender years and spoke of a beauty yet to come. 

He was somewhat amused to see such animosity in one so young and although he was annoyed by her defiance, his years of teaching primary school stood him in good stead. So calling on all his patience he addressed the class.

“King Arthur was a legendary character from British folk lore. Now, I have just explained the meaning of legendary. It means it is fiction. Fiction means not real, like a fairy tale. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Intoned twenty-four children, only one sat in sullen disagreement. The grey eyes flashed as she sprang to her feet.

 “You are wrong, he was real!  Only his courage and honour were untruths.”

“Tell us how you know all this, so that we may share your vast wisdom.” George was fast tiring of the subject and although he was struck by her choice of words, wondering where she had learnt to construct such a sentence, he was in no frame of mind to pursue the issue and chose instead to ridicule her. His voice was scathing. The very tone would have stopped a lesser child in their tracks, but if this was his intention, he failed miserably, the little girl glared at him in defiance. Jumping to her feet once more she seemed to grow in stature and in a voice unlike her usual lisping tones she cried.

“How do you know all this to be untrue? Were you there?”

“Of course I was not there.”

“Well I was!”

     “Don’t be so stupid!” George burst out laughing and the other children joined him. He expected the little girl would sit down in confusion, instead she drew herself up seeming again to grow in stature. She turned a withering gaze from the laughing children to the teacher, and all, including George, became uncomfortably subdued under that stony glare, as that strangely mature voice echoed once more around the room. 

“When fools teach simpletons what else can one expect?”  She turned on her heel and walked across the room, out through the door, slamming it behind her.

Consumed with anger he rushed to the door and yanked it open intending to demand her return, but the corridor was empty. He looked about but could find no trace of the wayward child.

Later, in the staffroom, he made himself a cup of tea, settled into his favourite chair, and gazed out the window. He loved the view from this window; below lay the green fields, where he so enjoyed walking.  One could not see the small town from this vantagepoint thus creating a wonderful feeling of isolation. As he sat studying the view his mind returned to the little pantomime of the morning.  He began turning the strange events over and over, trying to make some sense of it all, he shook his head slowly, gave a rueful laugh and voiced his thoughts aloud.

“Pull yourself together George, it was just a child’s prank. Forget it!” 

To his surprise someone chuckled behind him and the unmistakable Irish brogue of Father Patrick O’Malley followed.

“It must be pretty serious if it causes you to be talking to yourself. Will you be needing a friendly ear to bend for a while?” The cleric proceeded to help himself to a cup of tea, then settled comfortably into the chair opposite and looked expectantly at George, who smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry I disturbed you I didn’t realize I had company. Anyway it really was nothing, I must be getting soft in my old age, I should know better than to worry about the antics of a seven year old.  So like I said before, forget it!” The priest was not so easily put off; he began probing, wheedling, and coaxing. His soft voice, usually so soothing, began to irritate George to a point where he might loose his temper, so in desperation he blurted out the events of the morning hoping to stem the flow of questions.

To his absolute horror instead of laughing the priest became like a man possessed, ranting and raving.  Words like exorcism, possessed of the devil, and the depths of hell, issued from his lips.  The chubby cleric was not a pleasant sight, the usually placid almost comical figure was gone, replaced by this nasty vision with glaring eyes and droplets of spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth like a mad dog. 

“For God’s sake father.” George shouted in an effort to bring some normality back to the conversation. “Listen to yourself, we are talking about a child, not some bloody witch from the dark ages.”

“Well might you say ‘For God’s sake’,” Patrick O’Malley’s eyes burned with indignation. “For that is the very reason we must act against this demon. I know the child in question; she challenged the very teaching of the church last week. I asked the children what they thought our God was like and this abominable creature said she did not understand my concept of God but was willing to concede there was a supreme being who created all and ensured the smooth running of the universe. When I tried to stop this outburst. She jumped to her feet and seemed to swell up, expand in some way. Then glaring at me she cried out in a changed, much older voice ‘Not everyone follows the Gallilean priest, some of us still honour the Great Goddess and the Motherhood.’  Then she turned on her heels and swept out of the room.  When I ran out after her, like you, I found nothing. Don’t you see we must act before she pollutes the minds of the other children?”

George could see where things were heading and was not inclined to join the priest’s private crusade.

“Sorry Father, I am six months off retiring and I’m not about to blot my record with a witch-hunt on a seven-year-old, in any case no name has been mentioned so it may not be the same child.”

“It has to be the same child, there cannot possibly be two like that in the small community of Bridehaven. Indeed it would be odd if there were two in the whole of the British Isles. Think man, we have discovered such evil we must terminate it now.” The priest was beside himself with rage. “The child, if that’s what she is, is Morgan Sanderson.”              George was stunned, this was indeed the name of the child, however, he made no sign of recognition and calmly studied his companion before replying.

“In six months I shall retire and I want my exit from this profession to be as unheralded as was my entry some forty five years ago. I refuse to become embroiled in this nonsense.” Father Patrick would have interrupted but George held up his hand. “I warn you, don’t start broadcasting this, because, I promise, I will deny everything.”

“But that would be a lie.” The priest screamed the words. 

“Exactly, my friend, exactly.” George rose from his chair, crossed to the door, opened it and with a serene smile exited the room leaving his companion to fume.                                                                                       

Patrick O’Malley was not one to give up without a fight and over the next few weeks he tried hard to convince George to change his mind. But it was as if their conversation had never taken place, George was quite blank and annoyingly absent-minded about the whole episode.

While trying to convince George still remained his top priority he tried several other lines of attack. He called the little girl to his office and gave her a note, addressed to her parents and suitably sealed in an official envelope to avoid tampering, in which he outlined some of his concerns, being careful not to alarm them. The child took the note turning it over in her hands, studying it for a moment, and as he watched he became convinced she could read the words inside.  She looked up into his face; her eyes mocked him, her smile never quite reaching them.  Raising the note in a gesture of salute, she turned on her heels and left him feeling very inadequate. He was not surprised by the lack of acknowledgement from her parents.  He was sure she did not deliver the note. 

He tried to phone but there was never any reply just a recorded message asking him to leave his number so that his call might be returned, which of course it never was. And to his utter frustration he could not even find an address. The cleric searched long and hard, through all the school records, to no avail. It was as if the child did not exist. The fact this was a simple clerical error did not enter his mind, convinced, as he was that she was the Devil’s spawn. Finally he decided the only way round his problem was to follow the child one afternoon after school. To this end he stationed himself out of sight near the main gate, awaiting his quarry.

The children came running out, happily calling to each other as they took their various routes home.  Morgan farewelled her classmates and was soon heading towards the town into the main shopping area. This made it easy for him to follow but soon he became bored as the child dawdled along the rows of brightly-lit shop windows, as children are wont to do. He expected her to turn off toward the new town area where the lower class housing estate was situated, but instead she turned away and continued along the main road leading out of the town.  He hurried after her not wanting to be left behind. He cut a ridiculous figure ducking into bushes and hiding behind trees like some comic sleuth. Still he was sure he could accomplish his mission without too much trouble.  Soon he was having second thoughts, the child continued on the road leaving the town behind. 

She turned off the highway and took a path leading up into the surrounding hills, higher and higher she climbed never once looking back. The rotund priest found the going hard, his breath was coming in painful gasps and perspiration ran down his face.  Still higher she climbed and he began to think she was well aware of his presence and had deliberately chosen to lead him along this gruelling path, to punish his persistence. 

Then, as if she had read his thoughts she paused by a large boulder, turned to face him raising her hand in acknowledgement of his presence before she disappeared behind it.  Running to the spot the priest quickly passed the rock, but the child had gone, he could find no trace of her anywhere.  He sat down to catch his breath and wondered what his next action should be. The answer was only too clear.  He would have to return empty handed to the town.  On beginning the long walk home he had cause to give thanks that it was all down hill, having to concede that he was not built for this kind of activity.

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