Chapter Sixteen The Lewis List: Bletchley Park

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(Derek’s Note: Bletchley Park was purchased in  May 1938 by Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair, head of the Secret Intelligence Service(SIS or MI6). He bought the mansion and 58 acres (23 ha) of land for £6,000, using his own money after the Government said they did not have the budget to do so, for use by GC&CS and SIS in the event of war. The time frame for the Lewis List is during this period of 1938; the buildup towards World War II.) 

 

Night fell as the Lorries carrying the Lewis List – as they were now calling themselves – drove onto the grounds of Bletchley Park in the midst of a downpour. The lorries passed a huge mansion and pulled up in front of a number of bungalows. William Stephenson exited his Austin with Margaret and was met by a large Viking of a man dressed in oilskins followed by a squad of men equally large carrying umbrellas and blankets. The List was quickly bundled into one of the huts where a number of women – WRENs (Women’s Royal Naval Service) – efficiently separated the men from the women and escorted each to a different hut for the night.

Jackie found himself in a hut with Arthur and Tecumseh; Doc, Sherlock, Challenger, and Bass were in a hut next door. Ronald, Hugo, and Owen had stayed behind as their responsibilities required their presence. The three had agreed to cover for Jackie’s absence at the college. The Mother, Margaret, King George, and William disappeared into the large mansion across the road.

Once the men were settled in their hut, Jack’s professorial curiosity took over…with a nudge from his imagination…and the questions began to flow. The three men talked until after midnight. Arthur and Tecumseh explained the unique nature of the Graal Corporation and the Fellowship of Those that Remain, to Jack. How the Two Witnesses of Revelation were supported by the Fellowship’s activities throughout history. The main purpose of the Fellowship is to document the crimes of Satan throughout the Church Age. That Jesus’s mother…The Mother Mary…was the head of the Fellowship along with a core group of the original disciples who have been alive since the beginning, and that Father God periodically added to the ranks of Those that Remain. That many of the events in history were incorrect as Satan was actively in the process of rewriting history to remove the witness of Jesus Christ from the history books.

Jack sat mesmerized on his cot wrapped in two soft wool blankets and listened without more than a few questions about how all this was possible without the general public knowing about it. Arthur explained that Graal Corporation was as busy as Satan was in the world’s most intense Psy-Ops battle to sway the hearts and minds of the average human being.

Eventually, the events of the day took over and the lights went out and the three men drifted off into sleep.

At exactly 02:00 AM an intensely bright light exploded on the footpath that ran along the road bordering the boundary of the Park, the light moved with amazing speed down the path illuminating the raindrops in excruciating detail and casting dark contrasting shadows across the lawns of the park. As the light moved to a point opposite to the door of Jackie’s hut it stopped and an excited voice shouted, “Wee Hoo! What a Joy! Thanks for the lift, Fred! You are still the best! Just remember to return the bicycle to the Magdalen College dormitory. I am sure there will be a consternated student if you don’t!” A quieter, but equally excited voice said, “Talley-Ho!”, and the light launched off of the footpath and streaked through the trees and rain into the clouds.

As the light receded a short individual wearing a dark grey full length hooded cloak stepped through the hedge bordering the footpath and walked to the door of the hut. The man stood for a moment before the door with an otherworldly shimmer and steam streaming from his shrouded shoulders. He seemed to be whispering to himself. Then out from the cloak, a dark and gnarly staff was produced. Nearly the same height as the man it had a large white moonstone agate embedded into the top of the staff and bronze cap over the business end of the staff. The staff hovered before the door as he considered knocking, but realizing the time decided against it.

A strong but wiry hand reached out and opened the door and with the confidence of familiarity walked down the hall and across the room until he stood over the form of Arthur Mac Aeden.

The man set his staff against the wall and then pulled his cloak off; all in complete silence. The only sounds in the room being the gentle snoring of Tecumseh and C.S. Lewis. Standing over Arthur was an unremarkable senior citizen. He had close-cropped reddish hair with streaks of grey. His ears were the ears of a wrestler and painful to look at. His eyes were large, round and green and set in a round jovial face that looked like a Scottish Fold Cat or a cross between a Barn Owl and a Librarian. He stood over Arthur for a few moments with the look of a Father standing over his sleeping child. But, then a mischievous smile spread across the round cherubic cheeks and he held his rain-soaked cloak over Arthur and began to shake the water off and onto Arthur’s upturned face.

“What the Devil!!” Arthur came off of the cot with all the instincts that a lifetime of one thousand five hundred years can give and found himself face to face with the owlish intruder. Who immediately grabbed his staff and knocked Arthur on the forehead with the agate and said. “Sit down Arthur! I would have thought I had taught you better! In times of war to keep a better watch on the gates! It was altogether too easy to find you and your resting place. Why I could have been one of those devils that Judas himself is breeding in the dark dungeons of Baghdad or even a dragon…if those even still exist. Well, you catch my meaning.” The old man started to knock Arthur on the head again as if to emphasize his point. But, Arthur managed to grab the staff and stave off the knocking.

Tecumseh and Jack sat up in their cots to witness the bettering of Arthur King of England by a man two thirds his size.

“Merlin!? What are you doing here? Why do you always have to sneak up on me like that? And, how in Jesus name did you know to find us here?” Arthur rubbed the small knot that was developing where Merlin had smacked him.

Without answering the questions from his ancient and hereditary king, Merlin stepped over to Tecumseh and held his hand out. “It is a pleasure to see you again Tecumseh. It has been altogether too long. I didn’t get the opportunity last time to tell you how much I admired your brother. I think we would have gotten along quite well. His grasp of what Creator originally wanted for the land was profound. Too bad he was a bit of a hot head, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, I am glad that you are along for this ride, to keep an eye on my young charge here.” Merlin nodded in Arthur’s general direction.

Then he turned and leaned close to Jack’s face. “So you are the writer that Fred and The King of Creation have chosen to lead this enterprise. Pleased to finally meet you.” Merlin stuck his hand out and leaned in even closer and with a conspiratorial whisper he asked, “Any chance you could write me into one of your stories? Would love to get to know Aslan on a face to face basis.”

“You’re Merlin?” Jack asked now fully awake.

“In the flesh as they say in all the classic novels. I’m a big fan, by the way! Have all your books in my library at Baker Street. I hear that The King brought Sherlock Holmes to life. Big Fan, Big Fan! I’m somewhat of a sleuth myself. Kind of helps being a wizard and all. Of course, I only get to use my skills when Jesus allows it. But, that’s not so bad. Next to Jesus, there are not many that I call family. Arthur is one, and my oldest friend. We both came into the Fellowship at about the same time. Jackie, is there anything in this hovel to eat? The RAF give you men anything that could be considered victuals?” Merlin held his staff up over his head and the agate blazed forth with a brilliant and glorious rainbow of colors that played over the walls, beds, and windows allowing Merlin to give a visual once-over to the barracks.

Jack looked over at Tecumseh and recognized a look of awe on his face. But, Arthur’s was more a look of exasperation. Similar to when a parent misbehaves in front of his teenage children when their friends are over for lunch.

“Okay, Grandpa!” Arthur sighed. “Let’s go over to the kitchen and see what the cooks have stashed in the icebox. Not everyone can live without sleep like you can. So let’s go so that these two can get some shut-eye. Shall we?” Arthur finished putting on his boots and held his arm out towards the door in an invitation for Merlin to lead the way. No doubt in his mind that he already knew exactly where to find the kitchen.

Merlin grabbed his cloak and expertly threw it over his head and shoulders. “Oh hey Arthur, do you think they’ve got any Haggis?” He asked as the two of them stepped into the now gentle drizzle.

 

 

 

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Chapter Fifteen “The Lewis List”: Darkness and Light!

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Photo by Good Free Photos on Unsplash

 

“That is indeed the case gentlemen,” Mary answered Sherlock and Challenger. “I would expect that considering your own situation as newborn creatures, that it would not be beyond understanding that I could be alive at this end of history?”

The group of men mostly followed the logic of the situation and shook their heads as if they understood The Mother’s logic.

Sherlock, however, was not so fast to just accept the non-explanation. “I would agree with you Madam, except I for one have always maintained that you and your Son are as Mythical as I was Fictional. So regardless of the reality I, Professor Challenger, and Mr. Savage there find ourselves in. I must maintain a certain skepticism. Label me a modern day doubting Thomas if you will. But, I find it difficult to the extreme to admit that I have been wrong all these years about something so important. And, yes, I realize the importance of that decision. I just have never been presented with any cogent facts in a precise and convincing manner to change my mind.”

Sherlock looked at Challenger and Doc as if to say, “Back me up here fella’s”! Then continued

“However – again – considering the mounting evidence. I…Did you feel that?” Sherlock turned to look behind him as if there were someone approaching with ill intent. Doc, Bass, and Challenger all turned as well. Then Joan of Arc began to sing.

Her voice was strong as a trumpet rallying the troops. She stood before the door of the pub with her arms outstretched and her face to the sky. Jack realized that she was singing the 91st Psalm in an archaic style that evoked images in Jack’s mind of nuns and monks chanting in St.Paul’s Cathedral in London. And, for a moment Jack caught a glimpse of an army of dark creatures streaming down the street. Emerging from the ground, and falling from the sky like dark and putrid coals of brimstone. His attention, however, returned to the young woman and the boundaries between the natural and the supernatural continued to blur revealing Joan encased in a circle of brilliant light radiating out from her body in all directions. And, as she sang the words of the psalm exploded out towards the creatures hiding in the darkness.

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”

Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.

If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.
For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
With long life, I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”

Joan’s words broke the darkness like a strong wind on a foggy day and a sense of peace fell on the street, and the vision changed to one of panicked creatures fleeing from the angels that now appeared behind the words of light.

The vision ended as quickly as it started.

As the peace came over the street it touched the hearts of everyone standing in front of the pub, leaving Sherlock with a profound sensation. For the first time in his short corporeal life, he was clueless as to how to respond. Looking at Challenger as if he might have an answer, he saw that the professor was as lost as he was. Then they heard the trilling sound and turned to look at Doc. The giant bronze man was looking into the sky with that same rapturous look on his face and realized that the strange whistling or trilling sound that was coming from Doc had been harmonizing with Joan’s song. Challenger then grabbed Sherlock and pointed towards where Tecumseh and King Arthur had been standing near Joan. The two men were kneeling and also had the same looks of reverence on their faces.

Challenger looked at Sherlock and remarked, “It seems there is much more to being a human than what our creator has led us to understand. And, considering the fact that Mr. Bronze statue himself seems to understand this, perhaps we should investigate further. Although, I for one despise having to admit my personal conundrum in the matter of spiritual things. I deplore ignorance in any matter much more.”

But, as Joan sang the last verse – and before Sherlock could answer Challenger’s question – she began to run down the street with the butcher’s knife in her hand raised above her head as if it were a sword, her spirit had drawn her attention to the small man at the end of the street holding a cane over his head and chanting loudly.

Everyone except for the mother and the Inklings ran after the young woman. Surprisingly, Challenger caught the teenager and passed her and shouted, “There on the corner! A decidedly evil looking cretin is attempting to flee! After him gents!”

However, as the group arrived at the corner they found their quarry was gone.

“Quite interesting Savage. Don’t you agree?” Sherlock asked. “The man seems to have simply disappeared. Normally, I would ignore such an illogical suggestion. But, considering today’s events, I am disposed to believe that something supernatural may be the most logical conclusion.”

Doc turned to Sherlock and nodded in agreement. “Hard to come to any other conclusion. As there are not any doors near the corner for the man to disappear into, and there are no vehicles on the street in any direction that are close enough to be considered a likely mode of escape.”

Challenger looked at his partners and just shook his head. “I’ve seen some pretty amazing things in my imaginary life. But, this reality business is not what I had imagined life would be…if I had actually been able to imagine.”

Joan of Arc looked at everyone and waved the Butcher knife in their faces. Her petite face glowing with pure warlike aggression. And, since Challenger’s face was the closest to her own, Joan pressed her face up to his and whispered, “He is Devil…Demon!”

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen the Lewis List: The Cowardice of Evil

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(Photo by JR Korpa on Unsplash)

 

The Tilly drove off down St. Giles street with the two Bosniaks under the watchful eyes of the Section D men passing an innocuous-looking character standing on the street about a block away from the action. A small wizened man dressed as a professor stood leaning on an ornate cane topped with a golden apple. His weathered face, sprouting a wispy gray Fu Manchu beard, held small beady eyes shaded by a bowler hat that watched the Tilly drive by. He seemed to blend into the weathered tan plaster side of the building on the corner. If anyone had noticed the diminutive figure they might have mistaken him for an oriental mannequin escaped from a wax museum. His breathing was shallow and controlled as he chanted a quiet incantation. As he chanted; dark forms appeared in his sight, and a powerful sense of superiority rose up in the man’s soul. The demons obeyed his commands to descend upon the group surrounding the King of England.

Imam Sabri Demir imagined himself standing in the place of sacrifice deep underground at the ancient altar built by the hands of Nimrod himself. The most ancient of evils, conqueror of peoples, the hunter of men. Sabri Demir held to the exultation of Satan. He was an adept of adepts. Master of all the channels to the underworld. The Demons answered his beck and call. Isis, Nut, Athena, Minerva, all answered to him. The end would come and he would rule. The ancient rule would again rise up. Hitler was a tool and he would play him like an instrument of destruction. Himmler was his vehicle.

Himmler had been there at the altar in the ruins of Babylon south of Baghdad when the invocations were performed. Himmler believed the ceremony would guarantee the victory of Hitler’s Aryan Empire. But, Demir was following his master’s design and was dedicating Himmler to Satan’s uses. Legion now was Himmler’s eternal partners.

Thousands of years of ritualistic murder and dedication was coming to its conclusion with the wars that were brewing. It was inevitable. Satan would rule this world forever. His power would never be relinquished to that illegitimate child Jesus. Myths! All of the sacred scriptures were myths. The only true power was that of Lucifer the Brilliant One! Demir could hear the war cries of the demonic horde that he had unleashed on the streets of Oxford. The smell of sulfur and the cries of the dammed mingled with their screams of delight as their imaginations played with the thoughts of destruction and death.

As the chant propelled the demons towards the Eagle and Child, Demir raised his cane over his head in anticipated victory. The King of England would die today and his soul would be Satan’s. His exultation continued to rise up and the desire to sing a song of devastation fought with his intention to remain unseen.

As the demonic horde approached the pub darkness began to overshadow the street and as it did, bystanders who had been watching the proceedings began to disappear into their businesses like people expecting a rainstorm.

Imam Sabri Demir began to laugh as his occult trance began to overtake his desire to remain hidden.

 

 

 

Part of A Conversation with Michael…

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(Derek’s Note: Had a long session in the early morning with The Holy Spirit as He downloaded ideas for my current WIP. This is part of what I received. Please take this as tongue in cheek. It seems the Holy Spirit has a sense of humor.)

Michael the ArchAngel: “Lucifer was my equal in many ways. The most beautiful of all Creator’s creatures. His Music soared through the universe, and we all worshipped along with him.

But, then he lied…

The Creator stripped Lucifer of his great power and left only the lie. Now he is the master of lies, of prevarication, of the grey areas between truths. It’s all he has now. Unless his lies can convince you, humans, to give him your power.

Truthfully, the angels all mock him now. Indeed, his nickname is “Lucy”!

He was given one job to do, the highest honor. He chose to Lie.”

 

 

 

Holy Pollination

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Photo by Zac Durant on Unsplash

(Derek’s Note: Will post another chapter of “The Lewis List” later today)

Yesterday, as I was on my prayer walk, I walked through a part of the street – about two blocks – where the houses all have the same type of tree in their yards. I have no idea what kind of trees these were, but they were all attracting bees.

They were good-sized trees (30 – 40 foot high), and since yesterday was the first day of fall here in Northern California, the leaves are all still green and lush. And, the trees almost formed a tunnel over the street. As I walked into this part of the street, the sound of the bees was profound. It was loud enough to be the only thing I was thinking about…like hearing a jet taking off from a distance. I was fascinated. I could see that they were attracted to what looked like very small flowers at the apex of where the leaves sprouted from the branch, and thousands of tiny brown petals were raining out of the trees and covering the sidewalk and street.

Beyond the fact that this was the end of summer and the beginning of Fall, it seemed strange for bees to be this active pollinating these trees. And, I remember thinking, “Every bee in Butte County has to be here!”

Then The Lord began to speak.

He said that the act of prayer is like pollination. That as I walked the street and prayed for the people living in the homes, I was pollinating them with the hope of Jesus Christ. That just like the bees transferring pollen from flower to flower fertilizing them. As I prayed over the people in those homes, God would begin to move over their lives pollinating their destiny, potentially producing fruit. I may not be the harvester. But, fruit would be produced because someone prayed/pollinated for them.

I was given a vision a few months back that I blogged – “Changing of the Guard…or saving the Prayer Orphans. – about the prayer orphans. That was actually my purpose yesterday, to pray over the prayer orphans. Those families/people that used to have someone to pray for them, but now they don’t, because that person (Grand Parent, Parent, Aunt, Uncle) has passed away. These people are flowers that need their pollination to be finished.

The Lost need Holy Pollen! Without it, fruit won’t be produced for the Kingdom. As we pray we are storing up treasure (Honey) in Heaven. Golden Holy Honey!

 

 

 

 

 

Evil Incarnate

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(By Harald Köster, Bochum, Germany – Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=539611)

(Derek’s Note: The above picture is one of the sites where Heinrich Himmler indoctrinated his SS troops into his ideology. The Wewelsburg was the most important site in Himmler’s pseudo-Germanic religious doctrine.)

 

Chapter Seven

Evil Incarnate

 

Heinrich Himmler held the jewel-encrusted chalice in his left hand, his forearm draped with a red and black trimmed towel depicting a black eagle clutching a black swastika inside round wreath. His adjutant Hermann Gauch followed behind with a tray with five brand new Totenkopfrings. Lined up in front of Himmler stood five of the largest “Aryan” officers Gauch had ever seen. Each of these new officers was hand picked by Gauch himself. Prime specimens, pure Aryan genetic examples of Nordic superiority. And, now each would take the blood oath and vow fealty to the Fuhrer, even unto death. Herman noticed the zeal with which Himmler was imitating the role of a priest in administering the cup of blood for the five initiates. Holding the chalice just so that the initiate’s lips could reach the cup, but not allowing them to grasp it. As each of the initiates leaned forward to sip the blood Himmler would rotate the cup and wipe the cup with the towel. The initiates all towered over Himmler and needed to bend down to the chalice. And, to a man these men kept their eyes fixed on Himmler. Their gaze one of adoration and expectation.

Gauch, watched as each man enthusiastically vowed to give his life in defense of his Fuhrer. The level of fanaticism exhibited on the faces of these men – each so physically similar as to seem brothers – a testament to the efficacy of the indoctrination these men had gone through over the last few years. But, these five were different. They had been selected at an early stage of their development. Each had risen through the ranks of the Hitler–Jugend and their development monitored personally by Gauch. These men were the continuing realization of a dream. The creation of an elite team of assassins within the ranks of the already elite Schutzstaffel called the Einsatzgruppen.

Sitting in the main ceremonial hall against the wall near the huge blazing hearth, were the special invitees for tonight’s ceremony, family members, and party functionaries. Plus, three men, mostly unknown to many in the leadership of the Nazi Party, from Turkey. Standing partially hidden in the rear of the room, they watched intently as the men were given their rings. These three men were Nizari’s. A sect of Islam most considered extinct. But, now reborn amidst the chaos of a coming world war. This ceremony was not so different from their own. The same level of devotion and intensity existed in the eyes of these young men as in the eyes of their troops in Syria.

Herman Gauch had encountered the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem on one of his expeditions to retrieve archaeological artifacts in Iraq. Himmler’s effort to prove the validity of his theories of Aryan history in Eastern Europe and the Middle East resulted in extensive travels for Gauch over the last few years. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem Amin al-Husseini had prophetically realized the need for the tactics of strategic elimination of his enemies. In essence, the need became apparent for a specialized team of assassins, whom the three in shadows was an example of. Husseini understanding the value of calling upon history to supply inspiration, decided to resurrect the infamous Azeri Ismaili sect early in his tenure as the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. “Once in Power, Never to relinquish!” Husseini reminded himself every morning at dawn prayers. He intended to not only stay in power but to be the instrument for the removal of every vestige of Jewish influence in his Palestine. Gauch recognized an asset with similar goals as his mentor and boss Heinrich Himmler. Although Husseini had declined the offer to visit Berlin, he had sent the three assassins to Berlin as a gesture of future good relations. These men were led by a man they were calling their Imam; Imam Sabri Demir. The other two – Salah Khan and Hilal Cady – were ethnic Bosniaks, and Imam Demir was a Syrian.

Gauch kept his eyes on the Imam. The Imam seemed an enigma and exhibited a one track anti-semitic mind. The Bosniaks hardly spoke and allowed the Imam to do the communicating. Gauch was impressed by the level of training the three Nazeris exhibited and grateful for the subtle skills of infiltration and quiet death they had taught the Einsatzgruppen trainees. But, still there existed a mutual distrust as the understanding became more and more apparent that only their mutual hatred for the Jews was keeping this alliance together. His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that the Imam was staring back, and as their eyes locked a darkness descended on the fringes of Gauch’s peripheral vision. Darkness with movement, as if there were something behind the darkness. And, a coldness that brought a shiver to Gauch’s already darkened soul.

Imam Sabri Demir held Herman’s gaze and smiled.

Chapter Six The Lewis List: The Savage Doctor!

Doc Savage

 

Chapter Six

The Savage Doctor!

“Let me strive every moment of my life to make myself better, that all may profit by it. Let me think of the right and lend all my assistance to those who need it, with no regard for anything but justice. Let me take what comes with a smile, without loss of courage. Let me be considerate of my country, of my fellow citizens and my associates in everything I say and do. Let me do right to all, and wrong no man.” -Doc Savage

 

(Derek’s Note: Writing a Mashup Novel that mixes fictional characters with historical characters can be a challenge, as I tend to get off on bunny trails about how that fictional character might think about suddenly becoming flesh and blood. Plus, the idea of how three characters such as in this chapter how they might relate to each other and the perception of their situation. Enjoy! Please feel free to comment or critique!)

 

The voices in his head were competing to be heard. Monk, Ham, Renny, Long Tom, Johnny…and a strange low guttural human growl. Vertigo kept Doc from being able to distinguish where the voices were coming from. His eyes were dazzled by the spinning colors and judging from vertigo he realized he was caught in some form of a whirlwind. The voices were there, but nothing else. After a few moments to analyze the sensation of spinning through the colorful whirlwind Doc recognized that just beyond the colors was what looked like a countryside.

The brilliant colors and the speed of the whirlwind began to dissipate and the Man of Bronze began to settle to the earth. Clark Savage, Jr., better known as Doc Savage America’s most enigmatic and yet philanthropic crime fighter, realized that he was alive in the real world! These were his first thoughts! The recognition of his unique situation; a fictional character taking on flesh! Doc knew who he was, and the flood of sensory input as a fictional body became a physical body was almost overwhelming. But, Doc’s fictional training took over and his mind gained control of this new experience. As Doc was floating to the ground, his heightened senses began to take in everything. Directly below and to the right was a row of houses facing a wide paved tree-lined street. And, from the names on the businesses Doc realized he was descending onto a British street.

Settling to the street Doc looked to see if his powerful six-foot-five-inch frame – Doc was wearing his riding outfit; khaki breeches, immaculately shined calf-high riding boots, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt under a leather hunting vest – or his unorthodox arrival had attracted any attention. There were a scattering of people walking the street, but no one seemed to notice him…except for a rough looking horse-shaped face surrounded by a great black mane of hair staring from the window of the establishment directly in front of his landing spot. Doc looked up from the face and saw the name of the establishment, “The Eagle and Child”. “Something about that name,” Doc thought. Doc queried his cavernous memory and found a reference to a group of writers in Britain called the Inklings that used this pub as their meeting hall. “But, why am I here? And, why is that man the only one to notice my arrival?” Doc thought.

Barely, had the thought finished when the door to the Eagle and Child opened and out stepped the largest and oddest looking large but small man Doc had ever seen.

The man reminded Doc of his friend and compatriot Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett “Monk” Mayfair, who’s arms resembled those of an Orangutan. But, this specimen standing here was a darker and more sinister looking individual. His head was a size larger than the normal homo sapiens specimen and had the remarkable resemblance to a horse. Long and prodigious nose, huge penetrating dark brown eyes, and a huge mouth that held a grin that seemed to be attempting to decide whether it wanted to be a smile or a grimace. A body that was almost as wide as it was high and again the jet black hair that cascaded over the monolith of a head.

“George Edward Challenger’s my name.” The mini mountain offered as he gave a short quick bow and extended his hand. “Might you be the great philanthropist Clark Savage, Jr.? No need to answer that my good man, I already know it’s you. Only one individual in this world would fit the description of the person standing before me. Considering you have arrived in this place in a manner similar to my own a few moments ago. I can only assume that some poor fellow or tribe needs the services of the world’s greatest minds.”

Doc looked Challenger up and down, smiled and took the offered hand. “Yes, you would be correct Mr. Challenger. I am indeed Clark Savage. And, I would have to agree with you if only on the point that this is a remarkable situation we find ourselves in. Because, if I am correct; you sir are an imaginary character straight from the imagination of one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Oh, we are going to match attitudes are we, my rebellious yank? You would be correct! Except that for a juxtaposition to your observation, I seem to be as real as you. And, I would remind you my good man that you also are a figment of the imagination of an author that writes a style of fiction that if placed next to the achievements of my creator, yours would be considered of an inferior rank.”

Doc looked Challenger in the eyes and a strange trilling sound rose up from the ground and enveloped the two men as they engaged in the time-honored tradition of a “Stare Down”. Dark brown eyes drilled into and were consumed by gold flaked eyes. Each the outlets of two of the greatest imaginary detectives written into fiction in the history of literature.

The stare down was only interrupted by another voice in close proximity clearing its throat.

Doc and Challenger turned to see another man standing close at hand with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing an expensive obviously tailored tweed wool suit under a tweed greatcoat, that the man began to remove and casually give a once over. Satisfied as to the quality of the greatcoat the man looked up at Doc Savage and George Edward Challenger, with the same piercing gaze that the other two had been employing with each other.

The man stepped closer and the other two detected an indifference to the trivial in the haphazard manner his clothes – although expensive and clean – hung on the incredibly thin frame. There before the two men stood a veritable scarecrow. But, each could feel the charisma emanating from the visage of the man. The man was wearing a soft cloth cap which barely touched the high forehead and seemed to form merely an exclamation point at the top of his long thin nose. This man’s face was as thin as Challenger’s face was broad, and held grey sunken eyes of someone with a bird’s appetite.

The man raised his cigarette to his mouth, extended his hand and said, “Sherlock Holmes at your service! I must say that I am more intrigued at this moment than I can say I have been in my many adventures. Considering I seem to have been granted the dubious pleasure of gaining a corporeal body. And, the opportunity to meet my alter ego that my creator has audaciously seen fit to bring to life. It escapes me, however, why both of our presences would be required, when one of us should be sufficient for any situation that my mind could conceive.”

Holmes looked from Challenger to Doc and allowed a civil if perfunctory smile to transform his haughty features. “And, you must be none other than the famous, if somewhat larger than imagined, Clark Savage, Jr. So, our mutual and momentary befuddlement aside. Have either of you had a thought as to why we are outside the hauntings of that group of stuffy academics known as the Inklings? I have never found much use for Fantasy writers. There are enough fantastical goings on in this world without creating more to distract those of limited mental faculties.”

 

 

Chapter Five: Lester Dent

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Chapter Five

Lester Dent…

(Derek’s Note: Lester Dent (October 12, 1904 – March 11, 1959) was an American pulp-fiction author, best known as the creator and main author of the series of novels about the scientist and adventurer Doc Savage. The 159 novels written over 16 years were credited to the house name Kenneth Robeson.)

Lester Dent – author of the famous pulp-fiction series Doc Savage – finished describing his famous character for his next installment in the series – The Submarine Mystery – and leaned back in his chair. “Good old Doc!” Lester thought. “But, I think you need to change. Just like I am growing old, my old friend. It’s time for you to grow older also. No longer will you be completely infallible. You need to become more human, same weaknesses, same propensities.” Lester leaned forward and reached out to the page with Doc’s description; …giant of a man. Trained from birth to be an expert in multiple disciplines. Deductive reasoning of his mind trained to a razor’s edge, body trained beyond Olympic standards. His bronze skin stretched over perfectly proportionate muscles, Doc stands closer to seven foot than six. Close napped hair a shade darker bronze than the skin framing golden flake eyes. An imposing awe inspiring giant of a man…

Lester began to pull the page from the typewriter. But, as his fingers touched the page the words began to vibrate and bounce upon the paper, bulging on the page pushing themselves off of the paper. With a definite popping sound they jumped into the air and ignited. Slowly the words began to swirl before Lester’s eyes, gradually picking up speed and scrambling themselves until the only thing visible to Lester was a miniature fiery multi-colored tornado. As the tornado began to pick up speed Lester stepped back in amazement not sure of what to do next. And, as the last syllable of his question disappeared from his mind, the tornado began to advance towards the bookshelf. Eventually, the tornado stopped before the bookshelf causing the books and knick-knacks to rattle and jump where they had been carefully placed by Lester’s wife Norma.

Lester stepped closer to the tornado to get a better view of what it was doing, and realized that the tornado was whistling. But, not just whistling, it sounded like Doc’s trademark trilling sound. Lester watched as the tornado began to pull books from the shelf and opening each one the words were “peeled” from the pages. Faster and faster the books began to fly from the shelf until volume after volume were suspended in the air while their words were stripped from the pages.

“Norma!” Lester called somewhat weakly. “Norma, come here please! I need you to see this! Please hurry!”

Lester could hear Norma walking quickly down the hall as one final book came off of the shelf, and he realized which books the tornado was pulling from the shelves. These were all the Doc Savage novels – his first editions – Lester could see that the words were gone. Each book was now empty! Every printed word of every first edition of his novels had been consumed and now were spinning in the ever expanding kaleidescope of a tornado right before his eyes.

Norma came around the corner from the kitchen almost at a run and almost ran right into the tornado, which startled her so much that she screamed at the top of her lungs and slipped on the throw rug in front of the book shelf. This caused the tornado to disappear, and sparked action on Lester’s part to keep his wife from falling on her derriere.

Lester dragged a struggling wife over to his typing chair, set her securely upon it, and turned to look at the heap of blank books on the floor before the shelf. A sense of incredulity set itself upon Lester and he whispered to himself. “My Books…”

 

 

 

Chapter Two: The Story Writes Itself…

Empty Pages of a book

(Derek’s Notes: This is the second chapter of The Lewis List. The characters begin to arrive.)

 

Chapter Two

The Story Writes Itself

Days passed and the book sat next to C.S. Lewis’s bed…undisturbed and actively ignored. Until one day returning from classes at Magdalen College. Lewis, on his way to change out of his formal clothes, noticed the book was balanced on top of the typewriter in the drawing room, and instead of continuing the path to the bedroom turned into the drawing room and picked the book up. It fell open to the front page and now had writing on the first few pages. The front page exhibited the bold words; TITLE! The next page – in the same font and bolding – CHARACTERS:.

“How do I know?” Lewis thought. But, then something seemed to impel him and he sat in the overstuffed reading chair with his pen in hand and settled the book on his lap. Sitting for a moment in the declining light of the early evening, listening to the sounds of Janie and Maureen preparing tea in the kitchen, raised his pen and then hesitated. “Title? What do I call a book I have no idea how to write? This is so preposterous in so many different ways God.” Jack turned the page and stared at the heading CHARACTERS.

The thought came in like a shot from the enemy trenches. “The savage doctor!”

Jack put pen to the page and wrote; The Savage Doctor. “Well then, right! That sounds correct. But, who ever heard of a savage doctor?”

The second thought followed the first with the same sharp dictation of certitude. “Mr. Holmes! And, his Challenger!”

No sooner the thought echoed on its way out of recognition, the words appeared on the pages of the book. Before, even the pen could contact the paper.

Next, “Tecumseh!”, “Mr. Reeves!”, “Shieldbearer Peggy Carter”, “Maid of Orleans!”,”Artur!”.

As each thought shot through Jack’s mind the words appeared on the page until the page was full.

Quietly put the pen back into his pocket and looked out the window. “The story is writing itself,” Jack whispered into the room. “So what do you need me for God if you are going to write the story for me? Am I a first-year student in need of instruction?” Jack chuckled to himself. “Actually, I suppose from your perspective I still have quite a distance to go to achieve first-year status. Who am I to complain? Here I sit grasping a book well beyond anything I could imagine a man could produce. Watching words appear upon the page as a disembodied voice speaks to my mind. I should be amazed. Instead, I sense a very healthy spirit of skepticism, tinged with an equally insistent curiosity.”

The words still hanging on his tongue, and still gazing out the window, he watched as a huge horse appeared on the street at full gallop with a small child on its back. It was pointed towards the garden and in a bound vaulted the hedges and came to a skidding stop in the midst of the Roses.

Jack pushed himself out of the chair and ran to the door in time to see the child dismounting from the Horse. It was a magnificent black stallion covered with the slather of having been ridden extremely hard. Its eyes were wide with excitement and nervously stomped back and forth in the garden barely resisting the urge to continue its flight. The child – barely standing to the horse’s chest – grabbed the reins and was attempting to quiet its nerves. It was now obvious the child was a female and wearing leather armor of an ancient pedigree. Her hair was cut roughly in the form of an unruly child…or perhaps if she were attempting to look like a man. Which became evidently the purpose as the face of the girl…woman…was pretty and petite. But, then she turned and looked at Jack standing there in his professor’s clothes(minus the robes).

She stepped to the side of the horse still holding the reins and then produced a short sword from her belt. “Qui es-tu?” She said with the force of one accustomed to being promptly answered.

“Mon nom est Jack!” Jack reflexively retreated from the sword and the aggressive approach of the diminutive little warrior. “ The thought erupted, “The Maid!” “Es-tu celui qu’ls appellent la Pucelle d’Orleans?” Jack asked.

“Oui!” Joan of Arc answered. Then sensing no danger, but an overwhelming curiosity, she began to look about the garden. And, now at the two wide-eyed women in aprons standing in the doorway of the house. “Ou’ suis-je?” Joan whispered.