Lost Letters of Henry O’Neal

20170314_084644

THE LOST LETTERS OF HENRY O’NEAL 

By Thomas J. Callahan

February 2017/northern Europe/Location Ragnar 

INTRODUCTION 

During Henry’s illness, he wrote several letters for his grandson, Rand, to open upon his death. However, only one letter was passed on and it appears in the book, “Alexandria Rising.” Why this is, we do not exactly know. Perhaps, in his state – physical and mental – Henry lost track of these letters, forgot them, discarded them. Perhaps, he wrote them and then decided to destroy them (in one of the recovered letters, part of the page itself shows signs of being singed as if he thrust it into a candle or in a fire). The answer is only known to Henry, who is no longer with us.

That said, I have worked diligently the past several months in recovering what I can and editing them. There are 5 letters here which begin in January. If you recall, in “Alexandria Rising” Henry’s letter to Rand was addressed March 5. Henry died in early June. I have done the best work I can in trying to assemble some type of narrative flow or chronology with them.

Some portions of the letters are disjointed, unreadable, appear to make little sense or the writing ceases altogether. I have put my notes throughout the letters in indentions to clarify.

I hope these letters provide some insight or clues into Henry’s journey and what the future may hold for Rand.  There are rumors that the author Mark Wallace Maguire might write a sequel, though it has not been confirmed. If so, I would expect for him to expound on these passages below.

NOTE 1: I still have not been able to obtain a copy of the map that was destroyed.  Apparently, it was the only copy and is lost forever.

NOTE 2: As of this writing, I have an update on Rand. The last dispatch I received was he that was in stable condition. I’ve received reports both from Berlin and eastern North America, but cannot confirm more than that. I am sure more will be revealed of his status in the sequel.

January 3

To my dear grandson Rand,

There is knowledge that must be known, passed on and protected. Perhaps you can consider this a last confession or a call to arms.  There is no real way to start this, except at the beginning, I suppose.

   [Illegible writing for three paragraphs, the only words decipherable are, “changes,” “at present,” “you to know.” Then the writing trails off. New paragraph begins. He appears to be writing about his father, Patrick]. 

Oh yes, then my father, Patrick, when he returned, as I said, he was lucid as ever, but distant. And there were other things. Letters arrived more frequently with air stamps from faraway places like Kiev, Rhodes, even cities I had not heard about in the Far East and the Pacific Rim.

There were also visitors who arrived at all hours. Strange men. They were kind enough. They always brought my mother yellow roses and gave me candy, but after the brief introductions of, “some of your father’s friends from the war,” they would be sequestered to my father’s study where a great quietness would descend for hours, their only presence in the house betrayed by the pipe and cigarette smoke that emanated from that great room.

Father also began keeping strange hours…I was only [Illegible] developing my own night-owl routine that would never leave me. (You, like me, enjoy the silent hours, the moon-washed nights, the times between dusk and dawn). Often I would creep throughout the house, sometimes hoping to steal to the backyard to climb our magnolia tree where I dreamed I could get a better glimpse of the stars, other times I would just meander about, sneaking into the library to sift through the mounds of books and curled up maps. Even though I was 14 or so, I still possessed quite a bit of the child in me and still wanted to find final frontiers to explore, maps to buried treasure and more.

   [The writing breaks off here and is unreadable for four sentences with the only decipherable words being, “cough” and “Anor.”]  
door to his study closed, but behind it I could hear evidence of his presence – the crackle of a fire in the Winter, the occasional sigh, his voice low and muted. We only saw each other once during those hours that was when he surprised me by leaving his office as I was on my way to the backdoor to sneak into the yard. I feigned sleepwalking and the good man he was (he really was a good man, I want to assure you, no matter what else I write, he was a good man Rand) he took me gently by the arm and led me back to my bed. Afterwards, he waited by the door smoking his pipe making sure I was tucked in and past any chance of getting back up. Finally, I heard him leave to [Illegible].

But it wasn’t just the house. He also began keeping odd hours with his job. Mother did not take to that at all. She understood [Illegible, word, “night” only decipherable]  but coming home at 2 or 3 a.m. and some nights not at all took a toll on her faith and she questioned his fidelity. Finally, I later discovered, she had him followed by a private eye for an entire week. She was greatly relieved when the report came back that he had no visitors during

20170314_084644

these hours at his office on campus and seemed only to study. Years later my father confided in me, “Of course, I knew I was being followed. Remember I was Counterintelligence in the Army – they just don’t teach you how to break codes, but necks as well. But I let it be. She needed that peace and I needed space to do my work.”

January 12

To my dear grandson Rand,

When I left for college, I didn’t think much about father’s strange work. I attended college at Harvard as you know and was spending a semester overseas during my sophomore year studying Medieval Literature at Oxford when World War II  broke out as the United States entered the war, “officially” (we had been aiding the Brits for years.) I wanted to contribute. Though I only had a few weeks left, I contacted the consulate and enlisted with the Army Air Corps and was preparing for further orders. Shortly after filing my paperwork, I was visited by a man named Eliot Waterstone. [The name Eliot Waterstone crops up regularly in regard to The Organization. The most I have been able to discover at this point was a message I received via post which only had the words ‘ultra vos sunt 3.3.7’ written on a white sheet of paper. The phrase translated from Latin means, ‘you are not authorized’ or ‘beyond you.’ The numbers could be translated as a holy pattern with the religious symbolism of 3s and 7s or it could be a warning as the addition of the three numbers equals 13, a number used as bad luck or a warning.]

Waterstone told me he was [Illegible for four sentences except for the word, ‘position’] even the survival of my species. Of course, I shrugged him off. How could one serve one’s country better than by fighting? And survival of the species? We all hated the threat of mustard gas, but thought that was a bit overdramatic and sounded borderline psychotic with a bit of Darwinistic tendencies to boot. And why would I want to run from it? But Waterstone pursued me again found me at the pub enjoying lunch, stalked me on my walks. On my final evening before returning to enlist, I returned from a goodbye party at the pub to find him sitting in my room waiting. He said he had incredible things to tell me, amazing things to show me, new, unimaginable ways I could contribute. He was good at persuading, but I began to find him tiresome and was at the point of shoving him out my door when he produced an envelope. Inside was a hand-written note from my father:

Henry, 

I have been in correspondence with Mr.Waterstoneand his Organization and I believe you are in a great place to help a great cause. I have secured you a deferment over here – completely dignified of course – so you can contribute to his operations as we fight a much Greater Enemy than you can imagine. Please follow his advice. I will contact you by phone in a week ortwo. Your loving father

I found the letter unnerving to say the least. But, it was my father’s handwriting and I trusted him more than anyone else, including my own instincts. At Waterstone’s urging, I tossed away my train and ship tickets, told no one of my plans and met him the next morning. I felt awful about leaving, but he promised me it was all being taken care of, that I would return after the war more of a hero than I could imagine and my final work at Harvard would be taken care of. I expected us to catch a train heading south to London, the de facto hq of the Allies at the time, but instead we were picked up by a car and began travelling north toward Scotland. The roads were nothing like they are now and it took us a day and half a night to reach our destination. We drove through dozens of tiny towns, through Glasgow, past Inverness, out into the wilds and the Highlands and toward what I called the end of the world.

[Here the text ends. The next letter starts without a date, but appears to be in the same vein.]

Date Unknown

To my dear grandson Rand,

   [first four sentences unreadable] ….. distant. Every venture into conversation, including Chamberlain’s failures to appease Hitler to the flappers dress to war rations and even Swing music ended with Waterstone barely uttering a word. Eventually, I quit trying to talk and between naps wondered what the devil I had got myself into. Finally, we came to a cluster of standing stones, just under the shadow of Ben Hope Mountain. The stones – half destroyed by weather [Illegible] car drew nearer, I noticed a clump of radio antennas a hundred or so yards away. The car stopped and Waterstone ushered me out. The car drove off with Waterstone and my suitcase inside. I started to run after the car, but stopped. Looked around. I was seemingly left alone. The space inside the stones appeared vacant as if no one had been there for centuries. Then on closer inspection, there was the shape of a man in the shadows of the largest stone. He was clad in a type of drab military fatigues and walked toward me. He introduced himself as “Matthew.”

And that is where my adventure really began.

February 5

I tire quickly and find myself taking more breaks than I intend to. This cancer with the mighty morphine drip cripples my mind. I have appreciated your constant visits and help. Your grandmother often talks very fondly of you. You have given me great comfort and your attention has not been in vain…. But sentimentality has its place and it is not here…

As I was writing before, [Illegible for six or seven sentence] from Mr. Waterstone and a letter from my father. “Good,” he said, apparently pleased with the situation.  I was growing irritated with the lack of information so I finally stopped walking and asked him what was happening, specifically where we were going and what this had to do with the war effort. He clasped me on the shoulder and looked deep into my eyes, staring for what seemed like minutes before finally telling me we were almost to our destination and this had everything to do with the war effort. That the work my father Patrick had started (I was surprised he knew my father’s name) needed to be carried on and I was a perfect candidate. He also assured me I was under no pretense of harm and all would be explained shortly, telling me, “I was in a greater war than I could imagine.” I remember those words precisely, not because of what they meant at the moment, but at what they would mean for the rest of my life…and how true they would become.

February 21

  [A large part of this letter is burnt. I have salvaged what I could] 

At the bottom of the stairs, I was met with the unnerving site of a warren of dozens of desks occupied by plain clothe personnel. There were people typing, listening on headphones, talking into microphones and conversing with each other. A pallor of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Maps, pricked with dozens of red thumbtacks covered the walls. No one took notice of our arrival and after giving me a minute to catch my senses, Matthew directed me to a hallway beyond the warren. We walked by the throng of workers. I tried to take it in, but was overcome by the flurry of action, the rat-a-tat-tat of typewriters, the various languages being spoken into the microphones. It was dizzying.

We came to a doorway and ventured down a hallway, doors on each side, people in those rooms too. Everyone busy. Everyone talking. But no uniforms. Even if this was clandestine counter-intelligence, I expected to see some type of rank and file or decorum, but everyone was dressed in the same olive and khaki. At the end of the hall, we entered. Matthew left me with a handshake and I sat in a waiting room, hopelessly trying to flirt with a pert secretary.

Eventually, I was led into a room where I met Dr. Jefferson Fleming, a man who was to change my life forever. In short, Fleming told me I was being inducted to a group called The Organization, or The Guardians, or to many then, a bastardized version, the Tutores – meaning tutors or protectors depending on which pretentious scholar was translating the name from which language.

         [It appears as if several paragraphs or even pages are missing here]  

But in all this, I was one of the dirty men, forgive me. [Indecipherable writing here for several sentences] 

In your studies, do you recall reading about Hitler’s unusual obsession with the occult? He was fastidious in his search for sacred objects, for tapping into the occult, into what he believed to be super powers to extend his empire.

March 1

I do not want to die with this undone

[Indecipherable writing here for several sentences] 

Once I was sharp, but this illness has dulled me. [Indecipherable] things we have kept secret are in danger of being exploited again.

I have hidden it here for years

Verum in Aeternum

Interviewed on NPR’s Dante’s Old South

I was honored to be interviewed on NPR’s Dante’s Old South in late April. This eclectic radio show is based out of WUTC in Chattanooga, Tennessee and hosted by Clifford Brooks and Richard Winham. My interview and reading are around the 50 minute mark, but I encourage you to listen to the entire show for a great experience of the written word and music. Link here.Screen Shot 2018-06-09 at 6.24.32 PMtang

The Wasteland and Alexandria Reborn

Was T.S. Eliot aware of the existence of The Slendoc Meridian? Lux? Where is the red rock? What will Rand find there? Who is Waterstone? This passage above from, “The Wasteland” appears at the front of Alexandria Reborn. But why? What is the correlation between this passage of The Wasteland and the book? Click for clues. Delve deeper into this decade’s best action adventure trilogy.

Interviewed on A Taste Of Ink

check it

I was honored to be recently interviewed  by  on her podcast A Taste Of Ink. We talked for almost an hour and covered a variety of topics, including The Alexandria Rising Chronicles, the writing process, inspiration and even my non fiction books. You can listen to the interview here.

Mark Wallace Maguire

Mark Wallace Maguire

The story behind Alexandria Rising Rhythms

=-0

What is Alexandria Rising Rhythms? 

>>>It is instrumental music inspired by the novel Alexandria Rising.

>>> It is a unique album as it was written, recorded and mixed in four cities  spanning thousands of miles apart during a 10-month span.

>>>It has drawn comparisons to soundtrack music, ambient music and psychedelic rock and broke new ground in the creative recording process.

>>> It is available on all streaming services, iTunes, amazon and such and for purchase here.

So who are the people behind the names? Here is a quick look:

Mark Wallace Maguire – guitars, bass, synthesizers.

Clint J. Meador – drums, synthesizers, mixing and mastering.

Glen Denig – bass.   Allen Bell- synthesizers.

So, let’s get back to the origins of the process. Why make a music companion to the book? How did this evolve? What was the recording process like?

Maguire dreamt up the idea of a musical companion to the book in Winter 2017 and began testing the waters to see if anyone was interested. He had released two musical projects inspired by books before, including the lauded, ‘Art from the Silent Planet’ music inspired by C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy with the aforementioned Meador in 2015.

Maguire & Meador had also worked produced music for the podcast, ‘200 Seconds in Hell with C.S. Lewis’ and as part of the score for the indie film, ‘Tears of Bankers.’ Maguire calls Meador, “a wizard in the studio and the true backbone of Alexandria Rising Rhythms.”

Denig and Maguire had written and performed in bands and ensembles throughout the 1990s, in particular, the mercurial power trio, Green Tea Knives that toured in the Carolinas and Georgia in 1992 and 1993 and received airplay on various college radio stations.  Denig has played with every type of ensemble, band and choir imaginable and has been dubbed, “the world’s best unknown bass player” by many, including Maguire.

Bell has been a regular on the music scene throughout the Southeast in an informal role and, formally, as an arts administrator on many state and federal levels. Bell has a good ear and was able to contribute more than his opinions to this project when he played synthesizer during a session recorded in Ellijay, Georgia in June 2017.

Here are your requisite liner notes:

The Letter: This was the last piece I wrote. We needed a strong major chord piece on the album and I thought the idea of The Letter which spurs the whole adventure in Alexandria Rising would be a strong theme to play off of. I recorded the guitars and bass and then Clint added drums. At a remote recording event in north Georgia called the Ellijay Sessions in July 2017, Clint and I wrote the horns and strings you hear at the kick off of the second section.

The Cavern: This piece was extremely fun and intense to write. It also was written and recorded at the Ellijay Sessions. Clint set up an initial beat and effect, then Allen and I wrote the synthesizer parts in tandem live on the first take. Later we added more drums and additional guitar. Adding the guitar was a challenge since we did not know which key we wrote it in. I really enjoy the textures of this song and the mood it sets.

Ich Habe Die Macht: Wow. This was one of the first pieces of the album. Clint composed this piece and sent it to me. He really captured the intensity of The Slendoc Meridian and the reaction of the characters to it in the book. I love the intensity of this piece. Clint wrote it and sent it to me and I added guitars. Then, over the course of a couple of months, we sent it back and forth and did the final edit together during December 2017.

Hope: The third piece written and recorded at the Ellijay sessions, the drums and bass were written and recorded live on a third take before lunch. Later, that day as the sun set, the guitar part was added. This was probably my favorite to write since it was played live together and birthed during the course of a day. You can really hear the depth of the live recording on this one with the guitar and drums bouncing off of each other as they add echo and buoyancy in the piece.

Kent St. James: I sat down one night and wrote the nastiest, angriest, disjointed guitar parts in my soul. I didn’t know if it was too much, but Clint gave it the green light. He then added drums, bass and synthesizers. This piece is a guilty pleasure and I think captures the evil nature of the novel’s chief antagonist.

Ancient Scrolls: One of the first pieces of the project was sent to me in Fayetteville, Georgia all the way from North Muskegon Michigan courtesy of bass genius Glen Denig. Though it was the first piece, this one might have undergone the most editing. It was sent between the four of us over 10,000 miles over its nine month gestation. The final late addition was the drums which really add the gravitas to this piece. I find the mood of this piece the most intense on the album and a capitol way to end it.

 

What’s in a name? Meet Rhodes

rjones

Ron and I were exchanging jokes on the loading dock at the newspaper, the smell of newsprint and fresh ink creased the air. It was winter 2017 and the breeze caught the blue smoke from his cigarette and whisped it across the street where it scattered and dissipated over the muddy park. As usual, our conversation jumped from observations on people, basketball and stories from our old lives, including Atlanta’s dynamic music scene in the late 1990s, of which we both enjoyed and had small roles in.

I asked him if I could ask him some questions for my new book. Though he enjoyed Alexandria Rising, he still shot me a cursory look, not quite sure what the mad man had up his sleeve.

Ron was an army veteran, had his share of martial arts training and had tasted his share of street fights. I was developing a character to train Rand in some of the finer arts of hand-to-hand combat, but, like any smart author, always prefer getting authentic information from people, instead of only books.

He showed me a few moves. I asked questions. And more questions and more questions and Ron gave me a wary eye again a few times, not quite sure where I was going. Over the next 15 minutes, a few shiny cars filled with our fellow workers passed us by and we knew it was time to get back to work. It never bears good witness to be seen in the same place twice.

A few hours later, Rhodes was born.

 “So, this is him.” A deep voice came from behind them. Rand turned and was met by a tall man with the complexion of dark coffee. He had long arms and legs with the build of a basketball player, a couple of inches taller than Rand. But, he wasn’t skinny. Even though he was clothed in utilitarian tan cargo pants and T-shirt, Rand noticed the wiry muscles underneath his skin, ripples of tendon and muscle twisted over and across bone. He had bright, brown eyes. A two inch long goatee with sparks of grey mixed in. Rand knew the type. Could almost smell it on certain people. This man had the killer instinct. 

This scene is from when Rand meets Rhodes for the first time.

As I mentioned in prior posts, one of the most enjoyable things about written fiction is concocting names. It is by far one of the hardest, yet most fulfilling tasks of writing. Rhodes was one of those beautiful unexpected characters. By that, I mean when you begin a book, you may have an idea of the plot – which will change – and characters along the way – which change as well.

In his physical appearance and disposition, Rhodes drew a lot from Ron – though thankfully Ron is not nearly as intense as Rhodes, is more gregarious and quick with his wit.

The character Rhodes was also inspired by Coach Rodney Webb who I had the honor of playing basketball for at Monroe High School in North Carolina many moons ago. Coach Webb always had that push, that nudge – and sometimes not so subtle – to challenge you to do your best.

So, finally, back to Rhodes. How did I conjure the name Rhodes? It is a mix of Ron’s first and last name – which shall not be published here at his request. Rhodes also has connotations in the ancient world as the island and its immediate area is drenched in history and mythology. And if you’ve read the Appendices from Alexandria Reborn, Rhodes’s middle name is Reuel, which resembles Tolkien’s middle name as well. As many of you know, I love to give Easter Eggs to my favorite authors and since Ron is a fan of LOTR as well, this was an easy choice.

Want more?

The best way to get to know Rhodes, of course, is to read the Alexandria Rising Chronicles.

The mysterious Mary Celest…and what might be next

 

The doors leisurely opened and a tall, willowy woman, her skin the color of cinnamon glided out, braids of silver hair dangling regally down her neck. She wore a long silk dress, the hue of a pale morning sky. Despite the heat, a royal blue shawl adorned her shoulders. 

“My friend,” she said in a melodious voice. A voice as serene as the patter of raindrops, but also with a strength of thunderclaps, Rand thought. 

And such is the introduction to the lead female protaganist Mary Celest who makes her first appearance in Alexandria Reborn. But how much do we really learn about Mary Celest? In the Appendices of Alexandria Reborn, we learn: “She worked with Winston for years in The European Sector primarily in Berlin and London. Interestingly enough, the name, ‘Mary Celest’ also appears to be tied to the ship Mary Celeste. This mysterious ship was found abandoned and adrift in the Atlantic Ocean in the 1870s and is a source of mystery even today.”

More of the other mysterious clues as to her shadowy past might be the phrase near the end of Alexandria Redeemed, where this scene takes place:

Mary Celest was cradling a Barrett M82 sniper rifle, a slew of magazines peeking out from a backpack that lay by her feet.

 “Mary Celest, I never took you for a, well, someone who used guns,” Rand said, the three of them standing in a circle checking guns, sifting through ammunition. 

“No, most don’t. That is why I was so successful many moons ago. They used to call me the. veuve noire. »

“Sorry, ma’am. My Latin isn’t very good.”

“It’s not Latin, it’s French. It means the Black Widow.” 

There was no trace of ego in her words, just facts. She read the expression on Rand’s face.

“Stories for another time, another place, Rand. I was a different person then, but, none of us are who we were.”

If you like Mary Celest, there is a rumor she might appear in a piece of short fiction starring Winston Worsley that takes place in 1983. Stay tuned. Publication date and title TBA.

Maguire interviewed: The story behind the story on Jessie’s Coffee Shop on KLRN

Jessie hosted me for an interview on KLRN’s Jessie’s Coffee Shop. She was an outstanding host, asked some prime questions – even stumping me a few times – and really nailed the interview. Below is the link to the audio or you can visit their home page. Thanks Jessie!

https://www.spreaker.com/user/klrnradio/mark-wallace-maguire_1?utm_medium=widget&utm_source=user%3A6293772&utm_term=episode_title

%d bloggers like this: