Aubrielle's Call
Authors: C. Marie Bowen
Aubrielle’s Call by C. Marie Bowen
Copyright © 2016 C. Marie Bowen
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-945215-02-5
Edited by Liette Bougie
Cover Design by J.M. Walker with Just write. Creations
Published by Pixler Publications
Discover other titles by C. Marie Bowen at
cmariebowen.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Dedication
For my father, Eugene Nelson Pixler.
Dad was born in Benkelman, Nebraska on July 30, 1923. He moved with his family from Benkelman to Denver, Colorado in the late ’30s, during the Great Depression so his father and brothers could find work.
When he was seventeen, he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps and worked out of Morrison, Colorado from July to December 1940. He listed his occupation as a cabinetmaker.
After the attack on Pearl Harbor at the end of 1941, like all patriotic young men, Gene joined the service and volunteered for the U.S. Navy. He was honorably discharged as a Seaman 1
st
Class on October 25, 1945.
He married Inez Christopher on November 12, 1944, in Englewood, Colorado. My brother, Jerry Eugene, was born in August 1945, and my sister, Rama Lee, was born the following year, in September.
On August 25, 1950, he reenlisted and served during the Korean War as a Steelworker R 2
nd
class in the Seabees at the U.S. Naval Construction Battalion Center. He was honorably discharged on April 12, 1953. I was born in December 1958.
Dad was a stainless steel worker and owned his own kitchen installation business. He and mom built a cabin in the mountains where the family spent many wonderful holidays and weekends.
He rebuilt player pianos as a hobby. He loved to sing and watch science fiction. He had a kind heart and gentle disposition. I think he would have liked this story.
Dad died on April 9, 2002, in Denver from Alzheimer’s disease. Forever missed.
Contents
Acknowledgments
The research for this story took me down many unexpected paths. Each time I thought my hero would do something simple, like board a ship from America to England, he was thwarted by facts. It made for interesting turns, letting John solve the impediments I discovered while combing through historical documents. John made interesting choices. And while that enhanced the story, it always involved additional research.
A big thank you to the
Banque de France
for answering questions about banking before—and during—the first part of WWII and for providing me with banking regulations used during this time.
Many of the descriptions and incidents I describe during the evacuation at Dunkirk were fashioned from eyewitness accounts.
A big thank you to my wonderful editor, Liette Bougie. You’re amazing. Your knowledge and love of language is impressive. I’m thankful to have you on my team.
Merci beaucoup.
A special, heartfelt thanks to my critique partner, C.A. Jamison. To have someone know and care about my writing as much as you do lifts me when I am down and struggling to get the words onto the manuscript. I’m lucky to have you as a critique partner and honored to call you my friend.
And lastly, to my husband, Todd Bowen. Your knowledge of all things nautical and military kept me on the right track. Your unwavering support and love made this story, and all my writing possible. I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.
Aubrielle’s Call
The world careens towards war…
Consumed with grief over the death of his soul mate, immortal John Larson trades his spurs for the scent of the sea and the life of a merchant marine.
Condemned by an ancient curse, he’s bound to await her rebirth, for a threat to her life, and for the magical summons that will draw him to her side.
In the heart of Paris, Aubrielle Cohen struggles to survive. Resolved to support her dying father, she sells flowers from a horse-drawn cart to tourists, who now flee the onset of war.
Beneath the Eiffel Tower, she learns a hard lesson about trust and meets a stranger whose presence evokes an irrational yearning in her soul.
As the Nazi war machine stands poised to invade Aubrielle’s homeland, John must gain her trust, defend her life, and rekindle the passion he hopes still stirs deep within her heart.
September 1939
Able Seaman John Larson swung onto his lower rack as the overhead light in the seamen’s quarters winked off, and the red light came on.
The Yankee Dream
would make Boston Harbor the day after tomorrow. The run from Panama should prove profitable for the small merchant vessel. Lucrative enough, the shipmaster had hinted, that there might be a bonus to the crew’s regular wages.
John closed his eyes and prayed for a dreamless rest. A nightly ritual ever since the death of his wife, almost twenty years ago. How long would her face haunt him?
Until the magic beckons and I find her again
.
As memories edged into dreams, he watched his wife call flame to her hand. In the glow of the fire, her perfect silhouette stole his breath. Her smile and sparkling eyes nearly broke his heart.
Alyse, my love. How I miss you.
Emotion closed his throat, and he clenched his teeth, awake once more
.
John hunched his shoulders and rolled to his side. A seaman’s rack didn’t fit a man his size. To curl his six-foot-five frame onto a six-foot long bunk became another nightly torture. Still, work on a ship offered enough change from working cattle. These reflections only plagued him at night.
After he had lost Alyse, he buried the man he'd been beside her. He chose a new name. A new profession. A new life. The in-between years stretched before him. The years, decades, centuries, after his soul mate's death.
What if I never feel her call again?
The recollections of their recent life together were still too raw and painful to bear. Eventually, he would cherish the memory of Alyse as he did all the lives she had lived, back to the beginning.
Back to Agaria.
Agaria sim Biraci.
My life changed forever because I loved Agaria and rejected another.
As if summoned, the sharp specter of the Druidess Nescato scraped across his mind. Her jealous, contorted face encircled by the Biraci tribe’s most sacred pelts. The embodiment of evil. Bitter with envy, she raised her staff to the heavens, spoke her curse, and then pointed the staff at him and Agaria.
Nescato cursed his soul to endure the centuries alone, unable to love another. Bound forever to await his soul mate’s rebirth, for a threat to her life, and for the magical summons that would draw him to her side. Not always able to reach her or save her, he would forever be compelled to try.
He pushed the image of the sorceress
away and rolled to h
is other side, seeking a comfortable spot, both on the bed and in his heart.
“Hey, Big John, you’re rocking the rack,” Elmer Jones called down from above.
“He’s rocking the ship,” Fred Harmon said from across the way.
“Sorry,” John muttered.
Lie still. Rest.
The motion of the ship relaxed him, lulled him to sleep. At first, a deep, restful emptiness soothed and replenished his mind and body.
And then he dreamed.
He stood the first watch, waiting in a darkened room. Silent as the night, Alyse joined him, slipping her small hand into his.
Further back.
Alyse laughed when she took his arm, and he escorted her to the family dinner table.
A sweet reminiscence.
Their first kiss. A promise made a hundred times over.
I love only you
.
His dream darkened.
He waited inside a circle scored in the dirt. The intense heat of a summer sun beat down on his shoulders. Others fought beside him, but dust obscured his vision. He wiped a sleeve across his eyes, and Alyse stood before him. Fire cradled in her hands. Hatred bled from her eyes like tears.
Out of the shadows crawled a monster. The threat to his beloved’s life. The reason for his summons. This prophetic evil had threatened Alyse since the day she’d been born.
John raised his rifle and took aim. The name he once called himself rang through the apparitions of sleep.
“Jim, wait!”
“Wake up, son.” Fred nudged John with his boot. “It’s time for morning muster.”
John rolled from his rack and stretched, pressing his palms against the overhead steam pipes. Most of his shipmates had already dressed and headed aft for breakfast. He pulled on his dungarees, buttoned his shirt, and followed Fred up the ladder to the main deck.
At muster, Bosun Garza assigned John to mend the mooring lines damaged while in Panama. When he finished that task, he was to chip and paint the bollards with young Elmer.
Clear blue sky and southerly winds stayed with them as they sailed up the coastal waters. The crew moved about their tasks with a light heart. Tomorrow they’d make port.
At evening mess, John
consumed a bowl of soup and a slice of bread.
“Will you join us in town tomorrow night, John?” Elmer asked.
“Of course, he will.” Fred dabbed at the last bit of soup in his dish with a crust of bread. “We’ll unload the ship, collect our pay, and depart. Ain’t that right, Big John?”
John shook his head at his friends. “How can I argue with the two of you?”
Elmer, a farm boy from Nebraska with a large head and a shock of white hair, rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
The oldest of the three, Fred took a sip of his coffee and laughed at Elmer.
After another night at sea,
the morning found
them moored in Boston Harbor.
The long task of
unloading the cargo and waiting in line to see the ship’s purser took most of the day.
They crossed the gangway
at dusk and headed for Gull’s Tavern.
Early evening customers filled the bar. The friends found a small table near the back.
“I’ll buy the first round,” Fred said and made his way through the jam-packed bar.
Elmer pointed. “There’s a barmaid.”
The buxom server shoved mugs of brew across a table filled with sailors. She pulled a pencil from her curls, prepared to take their orders.
“She’s busy.” John pulled out a chair. “Let’s wait for Fred.”
On the shelf behind them, a radio played a swing melody. As the song ended, a Glen Miller tune began to play.
“Look, they’re dancing.” Elmer nudged him and pointed at three couples near the bar.
Fred wove through the crowd with mugs of beer and set them on the small table. “Drink up, shipmates. Next round’s on John.”
“Are we going back to Panama, have you heard?” Elmer asked Fred.
Fred took a swig from his mug and wiped the foam from his mustache. “Seems likely. Bananas, coffee, and sugar sell well in the States. Master Riley welcomes the profit, and so my friends, do I.” He smacked his lips and took another drink.
The music changed to a slower song and a woman’s lilting voice crooned about the memory of a lost love. John’s stomach clenched each time they played this song. It reminded him of Agaria. He drank his beer in silence and watched the dancers.
“Will you stay on
The Dream
, Big John?” Elmer asked.
He shrugged. “No reason not to. The master is fair and the pay, as you say, is good.”
The barmaid offered to bring another round.
John pulled a bill from his pocket. “My turn.”
As the dark-haired server returned with their mugs, the radio changed from music to news. Several patrons shouted for her to switch the station to dance music, but she hesitated, listening to the announcer.
“News today from Great Britain. German forces have invaded Poland. German planes have bombed Polish cities, including the capital, Warsaw. The attack came without any warning or declaration of war. Britain and France have declared war on Germany in support of Poland. They have mobilized their forces in preparation to wage war on Germany for the second time this century.”
A cold chill ran down John’s arms.
The barmaid reached for the dial. “I hate those lousy Krauts,” she told John with a smile and a wink as the first notes of a jazz tune played on the radio. She let the music play and took an order from the next table.
The noise in the bar became muted and distant. A familiar high-pitched whine bled into John’s brain.
His mouth went dry as his heart thundered alongside the shriek in his ear. A cold sweat plagued his brow.
It’s been only twenty years since I buried Alyse.
He shook his head and stared at Elmer and Fred.
The in-between always lasts longer.
The men talked and laughed. Elmer nudged Fred and pointed across the bar, but when they spoke, John heard nothing.
The call has come so soon. She must be a child.
His stomach twisted with certainty as pain pierced between his eyes and shot through to the back of his skull. John set his mug on the table and missed. Released from his hand, the beaker fell and then slowed to a stop in mid-air. The beer’s foamy head froze in its splash toward the floor. His hand, a hairsbreadth from the handle.
In the next instant, time resumed.
The mug shattered and the barmaid spun in surprise.
The pressure in his head expanded, pushing outward until his vision filled with white light. As the glare faded, the pain contracted to a single point above his right eye.
“I’ll get that.” The barmaid pulled a towel from her skirt pocket and tossed it over the spill.
“You feel all right, John?” Fred raised an eyebrow and took another swig.
John squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heel of his palms against his eyelids “I’ll be all right.” He lowered his hands. When he moved, the point of pain sliced across his forehead. He tilted his head the other way until the sting settled between his brows. He didn’t have to step outside to know he faced east-northeast.
Across the sea, Agaria calls.