Kindle Edition
Download to your Nook (eBook)
Download from Smashwords (eBook)
Teresareasor.com
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: Teresa J. Reasor
ISBN-10: 0985006978
Pages: 46
Copyright: March 2013
ISBN-13: 9780985006976
Price: FREE! (eBook)
A young boy's spirit possesses an automaton he and his father are building to offer his grief stricken parent comforting messages.
When the man who killed him becomes obsessed with the machine, he and the boy’s father are set on a collision course guaranteed to cause tragedy.
After his wife’s death, clockmaker Alan Cartwright focuses all his energy on his work and his eight-year-old son, Brenton. Father and son bond by building a lifelike automaton, designed to resemble Brenton in looks and talent: The boy is an extraordinary artist. Before the automaton is finished, Brenton is run over and killed by a carriage driven by Sir William Tyndale, a decorated soldier and knight who lost his own wife and son during service in India. The accident leads to strange occurrences and an unholy obsession.
The automaton comes to life, communicating with Alan through written messages and drawings of the past and the future. Alan is convinced Brenton’s spirit possesses the machine and refuses to sell it. Sir Tyndale sees the likeness of his own dead son in the device and is determined to have it by any means.
Driven by grief and fatherly love, the two men are set on a collision course with the soul of a young boy trapped between them, and Brenton's reasons for possessing the automaton a mystery to them both.
Excerpt
Cotter’s Confections waited at the end of the block. Eager to be there, Brenton skipped beside him. “I think I will get some sugarplums, Papa. I will share them with you.”
“Why thank you. That would be kind of you,” Alan said with a laugh.
“Out of the way!” A shout came from just behind them.
Alan swiveled to look over his shoulder. The huge shape of a pale gray horse filled his vision. The animal struck him chest-to-chest, spinning him around. His head struck the sharp edge of a brick window facing. He cried out and fell to his hands and knees. The large, highly polished wheels of a buggy rolled past his face.
Stunned, he lay still, his head throbbing. “Brenton?” Alan staggered to his feet and braced a hand upon the wall as the world tipped and whirled. Blackness threatened to overtake him, and he shook his head. When his vision cleared, he saw the small form that lay crumpled face-down just beside him on the sidewalk.
“Brenton!” Fear chocked him, strangling his cry to a whisper. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees next to his son. Grasping his shoulder, he eased the boy onto his back. Blood colored his son’s lips with scarlet and ran in thin rivulets from his nose and ears. Alan placed his hand on the little chest and, feeling no movement, pressed an ear to his torso. The brittle thrust of broken bones jabbed against his cheek. Brenton’s heart lay still and silent.
Agony poured through Alan, stealing his breath, as though the horse’s hooves had pulverized his heart to mash. “Brenton!” The cry burst from him and climbed to a high-pitched wail. He gathered his son’s body close and rocked, his pain too much to contain.
The sky opened up in a torrent. And the rain blended with the tears that streamed unheeded down Alan Cartwright’s face.
|
