Prologue

The Misadventures of Leighton Fig

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Prologue

The Professor waited in the dark at the far end of the graveyard near the river. The streetlights cast shadows into the old churchyard. Beyond the gate, the dead lay in perfect rows of headstones and crosses.

Oxford was quiet. The Thames moved behind the Professor like a silent serpent ghosting through the forest. The Professor held a large, illustrated copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to his chest, embracing it with both arms, his breathing short, his mind anxious.

A tall figure, walking with a cane and wearing a black trench coat and a bowler hat, approached the graveyard from the street, opened the gate, and walked through the ivy-covered archway. The Professor stepped backward against the stone fence and clutched the book harder.

The man stopped in the center of the cemetery. Covered in shadows, he scratched a match and lit his pipe. The Professor watched, held his breath, and tried to sink into the shadows. He smelled the tobacco and watched a gossamer cloud of smoke rise through the shadow and into the streetlight, filtering through the treetops.

The Professor watched the fiery pipe bowl move towards him. The figure stopped, drew on the pipe, and then moved into the shadowy corner where the Professor stood.

“You got my note?”

“I did,” said the figure. His accent wasn’t the round Oxford Queen’s. It was thick, like clam chowder.

Wales? No, West Midlands, thought the Professor, but he was too nervous to pinpoint it. “I—I didn’t know who to trust,” he said, stumbling over his words.

“You made a wise decision.”

“I’m not sure—were you followed?”

“No,” said the figure, stepping closer to the Professor.

“Stop right there. How do I know it’s you?”

“You don’t. Isn’t that the point? Did you bring the star map?”

“It’s close,” the Professor gripped the book harder. “But I need assurances, some—”

The sound of steel met the Professor’s ears, followed by a sharp pain in his abdomen. He dropped the book and crumbled to the flagstone pathway. Numbness moved on his body, swift and quiet like the Thames behind him. He rolled to his back and looked up.

With whipping fluidity, the shadowy figure returned the rapier to its sheath—his cane. He drew on the pipe, puffed another cloud, and picked up the book.

“Off with her head, eh?” said the figure, opening the book and thumbing to where a large square was cut into the remaining pages, creating a secret compartment. There, he found an old, folded parchment. “Wonderland ends for you tonight, Professor. ‘The Queen’ sends her regards.”

The Professor coughed, groaned, and stared into the dark trees as the figure returned to the cemetery gate and vanished. A chill passed through him. He shuddered, laboring through each breath. The limbs above him moved in a dappled dance of streetlight.

Then, he heard a whisper. The voice was close. The breath on his cheek. The accent, American.

“Professor O’Malley,” said the voice, calm and direct. “Try to breathe. I’ve called for medical.”

“The map …” Professor O’Malley tried to respond, but the voice cut him off.

“Was it in your possession the entire evening? Think.”

“Who … are you?” said the Professor, his words fell out in a whisper of pain.

“Think back,” said the voice. Professor O’Malley felt a large hand lift his head as something soft slid under it. “All night, you held the book. Even at the pub, it stayed under your arm.” The voice rang calm in Professor O’Malley’s ringing ears. “Then, the lecture,” the voice continued. “You removed your overcoat, covering the book on the seat beside you. You didn’t worry. After all, lectures on the life of Charles Dodgson aren’t fashionable these days—a scant audience.” The Professor shuddered again as he felt something heavy cover his shoulders and chest. “It was the only time it left your arms. A window was all I needed.”

“How did you …”

“It’s what we do—what we’ve always done.”

“Intelligence—C.I.A.?” The professor felt himself losing consciousness and heard the voice moving away over the wall toward the river.

“Intelligence, yes,” came the distant reply. “Of a kind, ancient and invisible.”

Professor O’Malley’s eyes widened. He coughed, and, with a hard push, he tried to roll towards the stone wall.

“It can’t be. That’s a … you’re a … myth—Nav …” he coughed again and rolled again to his back.

The voice was gone. Only the sounds of the Thames remained. The next sounds he heard were sirens and feet running on the flagstone towards him.

In moments, four paramedics loaded the Professor onto a stretcher and carried him to the ambulance. The Professor mumbled as they took him.

“He’s fading; we don’t have time,” said one of the carriers.

“Load him up, let’s go,” another voice shouted.

“He’s trying to say something,” said the young female paramedic following the crew who carried the Professor. “Hold on, give me a moment.” She drew close to the Professor, held his hand, and bent towards his face. “Yes, sir. What is it? What happened to you? How can I—”

The Professor whispered to her. “Stars … con—stellations.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand. What?”

“Peri … grin—”

“We’re losing him!” shouted one of the carriers.

With his remaining strength, Professor O’Malley grabbed the young lady’s arm, pulled her to his mouth, and whispered.

“Navigators.”

He let go and fell limp.

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Thank You

Thank you for reading the Prologue of The Misadventures of Leighton Fig.

I hope you enjoyed it. Join me next week for Chapter 1: The Pasture, the Map, and the Missing Stars.

If you have friends or family you think might enjoy this novel, please share it with them. I welcome your thoughts and reactions in the comments below. If enough of you ask in the comments, I will acquiesce and post Chapter 1 over the holiday weekend for your reading pleasure. :)

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The Tempest and The Bloom

If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy my serialized novel, The Tempest and The Bloom. I’ll be posting the final chapters of this story this winter! Get caught up by clicking the button below.