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Unlock the Past. Rewrite the Future.
When Richard begins to relive the memories of his ancestors, he’s thrust into a life he never knew existed—one tied to a mysterious island and secrets buried deep in time. Destiny, survival and the human experience are woven into a narrative that’s as thought-provoking as it is thrilling.
If you’re drawn to stories that blend mystery, memory, and meaning—this one’s calling your name. Ready to dive in?
Death under the Vermilion Cloud may be a blessing.
Lying awake at night, with the darkness surrounding you, the silence ringing in your ears. A vision in your head like a movie projected onto a white sheet held in a soft breeze. Sand clings to the perspiration glistening over your bruised and cut body. You hold the familiar shape of a sword while another man, twice your size, sculpted, eyes dark and lifeless approaches from the side of the arena………
Each memory from your ancestral line, your father before your conception, your mother before your birth, each physical and mental attribute occupying your own being. Would madness win or would you see the world for what it is?
Chapter 1 from Vermilion Cloud by William Soppitt.
Dust fell from the ancient walls of the arena as the stone itself trembled. Small grains of sand jumped in time to the sequence of loud thuds from the now exasperated crowd, stamping their feet, screaming, shouting, caught up in a singular moment.
A semi-naked figure knelt forward, his face practically touching the shaking ground. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, hitting the dust, taking it prisoner. In obvious exhaustion, his very breathing falls in time with the waves of noise from the baying crowd.
No one voice singled itself from the unity around him, yet he could still distinguish the sound of metal slicing against metal. Rolling to one side he briefly caught sight of the thin long chain spiralling towards him, more importantly, he could clearly see the expression of the huge man running directly at him.
With the chain grazing his bare shoulder, he lashed out with his left arm, flinging the sword towards his target. Reaching its victim, it glanced off a shield that seemed to come from nowhere and fell to the arena floor. Within moments, the huge man was upon him, the bulked muscled frame blocking the bright sunlight as thick long fingers curled around his throat and lifted him from the sand.
Quickly glancing towards a large overhanging balcony, taking pride of place at the midpoint of one of the high walls, he could see two figures dressed in black robes. Each figure sat blindfolded and to the right of a large ornate chair.
Turning his attention back to the man attempting to crush his throat he struggled to free himself from the tightening grip as his toes skimmed the bleached surface. The crowd suddenly fell silent. Like the eye of a tornado, the booming noise gave way to an unseen wall of silence. The huge man, his eyes black and face mapped with scars, dripped blood from one corner of his gaping mouth. The struggling victim looked down between them and found himself inches away from the tip of a sword impaled through the back of the huge man who, even now, still clung defiantly to his throat.
At that moment, a single voice broke the silence. The image of the arena and the man blurred and vanished, replaced by a cool, soft, darkness.
A woman’s voice interrupted the silence and pleaded, so near to him, that he gripped the sheets around him, nearly tearing them in the process. “Richard, Richard! Wake up.” Quickly sitting up, he knocked the damp cloth from her hand. Gradually, he released the sheets under his now whitened knuckles and breathed deeply as the darkness of the room disappeared.
The now familiar surroundings caused him to bite his quivering bottom lip as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared down at the pale carpet. Kay, his wife, moved behind him and stroked the back of his head. “Was it the same dream?”
Briefly pinching and squeezing his left leg before standing up, he broke away from his wife’s teasing fingers and walked in silence towards the adjoining bathroom. Switching the light on he stood at the sink, staring at the stranger mimicking his every movement in the large mirror. His short dark hair matted against his forehead as beads of perspiration ran down his face before gathering and dripping from his chin. His eyes stung from the salty water, causing him to close them tightly before opening them wide again. For a few confused moments he tried to recognise the bare-chested, slightly athletic man staring back at him before catching sight of his wife’s reflection standing by the doorway.
“Are you okay Richard?” she said, taking a step into the room.
Shrugging, he knew that if he tried to answer, his voice would have trembled. Reaching forward and turning the tap, he cupped a handful of water before drenching his face. Grabbing the towel from her outstretched hand, he hid his face in the soft fabric, thankful for the moments of anonymity it offered. Releasing his face, he attempted a vague smile as he held the towel in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said, as he stared, apologetically into her eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she said, already knowing that he would say no. He had only told her of the dreams twice. Now they had become more frequent and more real. Once, he had even lashed out, catching her arm before she had managed to wake him.
Shaking his head, Richard attempted another smile. “I’m okay now, besides, I’ll be seeing my shrink later this morning.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that, he’s a psychoanalyst, and he’s going to help you.”
“It’s the psycho part I don’t like,” he said, still smiling.
“You’re not going to end up like your father,” she snapped back. Immediately she regretted the words and stepped closer, slowly wrapping her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”
“Listen, why don’t you go back to bed while I take a quick shower?”
Lifting her head from his shoulder, she smiled at him. “It’s 2:30 in the morning!” pausing she gently kissed him. “Okay, but don’t take too long.”
Richard silently watched the slim figure leaving the bathroom, her blond hair spilling over the back of the dark blue full-length nightdress she knew he liked. As she walked out of sight, he turned towards the shower cubicle. Stepping inside, he turned the tap on and hid his tears in the downpour of hot water.
Placing his palms on the side of the shower, he mumbled to himself. “I’m Richard Whyte. I’m Richard Whyte. I’m Richard Whyte.” Closing his eyes tightly, he tried to remember moments from his life that defined who he was. Flashes of memory came back, marrying his childhood sweetheart, Kaylanna, over ten years ago; the birth of their first child, Luke, five years ago; University, holidays, family, and work. All of it poured back into his consciousness. Opening his eyes wide, he turned the shower off and stepped from the steamed-up cubicle. “I’m Richard Whyte.” Sighing, he wrapped the towel around him and headed back to bed. He knew sleep was impossible. He would just lay there, frightened to close his eyes, but he had to attempt to keep some semblance of normal life, at least for Kay.
The alarm clock insisted to an empty room that now was the time to get up. Richard strolled back into the bedroom and casually pressed the button to silence it. He stood, staring down at the ruffled bed he had vacated hours earlier, before Luke, very much awake, ran into the room and clambered on to it.
“Dad,” he said excitedly, holding out his hands for him to grab.
“Not this morning Luke,” he replied, grabbing him by his waist and lifting him off the bed. Playfully he tucked him under his arm. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
Carrying his laughing and struggling son into the kitchen, he sat him down on one of the breakfast stools. “Look what I found!” he exclaimed to his wife, messing up his sons curled hair even more than it already was.
Placing a bowl of cereal in front of Luke, she briefly smiled at him before turning her attention back to her husband. “If you’re going in early, then you need to go now or else you’ll hit traffic.”
“I’m on my way out now,” he glibly replied, grabbing another piece of toast.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up for your appointment?”
“Yes and no, I will go and no, I won’t be late,” he said, smiling as he leaned forward and kissed her. “Besides, it’s you who found this guy, so I’ve no doubt you would find out if I skipped, which, of course, I wouldn’t dream of doing.”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t dream of asking Alison the next time I see her at yoga,” she said, kissing him back as she handed him a blue bottle. “Don’t forget your Zero Cal. You’re going to need it today; forecast says it’s going to be hotter than last week.”
Smiling, he headed for the door. “You be good for your mum Luke. I’ll see you both later.” Closing the front door behind him, he made his way to his car, parked pristinely outside the garage on the gravel driveway.
The drive to work at 6 am through downtown Los Angeles, was uneventful. Few people drove into the city at this time of day, and even fewer knew the shortcuts that he knew. The normally forty-five-minute journey, through the outskirts to his offices, took only half the time. The vast space of the underground car park was practically deserted, save for the two cars parked there for weeks now, occupying one space at each end of the car park.
The noise from the closing metal door echoed through the grey cement columns as he stepped from the car. Looking around, he stared directly into one of the cameras nearest to him before locking the car and moving towards the elevator. Even as the doors closed behind him and the small camera, perched like a bird’s nest in the top corner, captured the back of his head, something unnerved him.
His pace quickened as he exited the elevator and headed towards his office. Reaching the door marked Richard Whyte. Head of Marketing. He flung it open and rushed in. Closing it quickly he briefly smiled to himself as he removed his dark suit jacket and placed it on a hanger before making his way to his desk.
The new catalogue lay untouched in front of him. Still covered in its see-through dust cover with a yellow Post-It note attached to the top corner that read ‘Final copy. Awaiting your approval.’ Picking it up, Richard slid it from its jacket and stared at the cover. ‘Atlanook. The country’s largest sporting goods store.’ His attention moved to the yellow sheet of paper in one of the trays taking up space on his desk. A list of twenty-five names in alphabetical order, typed down one side, along with a hand-written tick confirming each name for the upcoming weekend retreat. Various suppliers and internal staff followed the first name, being his own, plus family. Looking thoughtfully at the list, he tried to recall if he had even told Kay anything about it. He recalled that last month’s offering was far from a success.
This particular weekend excursion, scheduled for two weeks’ time, included several regular suppliers, one of which supplied the majority of the crossbows they sold. Looking at the details, he tried, in vain, to take his mind off the 11 am appointment. Making his way over to his jacket, he retrieved the plain white card from the inside pocket. ‘Peter King. Psychoanalyst.’ Brief and to the point, he thought. On the back, the phone number and address appeared in smaller lettering and was about twenty minutes’ walk from his office, which had somehow taken on the feeling of being in a waiting room.
Looking at his watch, twice in quick succession, he sighed loudly before glancing into the central office slowly filling up with other staff members. He was aware that he was becoming agitated at the countless people who had stopped by and asked why he had come in so early, a prelude to asking about vacancies on the upcoming weekend retreat. When the clock eventually reached 10:30, he grabbed his jacket and made his way, quietly, down to the busy sidewalk. Stepping out into the glaring sun, he headed towards the offices of Peter King.
Walking along the busy streets, he finally arrived outside a glass door emblazoned in large black letters with the name on the card, with an even larger font for the word psychoanalyst. He hesitated as he checked his watch again and swept a tissue around the back of his neck.
‘Ten minutes early,’ he thought.
Looking down the street, he continued walking through the oncoming crowd. Glancing into each of the shop windows, he eyed an empty bench near the approaching corner ahead of him. Making his way to it he sat down in the middle and placed his folded jacket across his knees. Once again, he glanced at his watch, shook his wrist, and then looked at it again. Staring down the street toward the building he licked his now dry lips as he eyed the doorway through which he would soon have to pass. Taking a fresh tissue from his pocket, he patted his forehead before catching sight of his reflection in the nearby shop window.
While blankly staring at his reflection a high-pitched ping sounded from his jacket pocket. Retrieving his phone, he punched in his key code and read the text message on the screen, r u there yet x. His wife’s use of text-speak always made him smile. His thumbs quickly stroked over the keypad, yes, waiting x.
Standing and placing the phone back in his pocket, he made his way back down the street and took a deep breath before pushing the door open.
The reception area was an inviting contrast to the heat outside. A faint smell of lavender, something he remembered his mother liking, wafted from somewhere near the single desk perched against one blank wall. The whole room, two bland dark leather chairs. Desk, complete with a phone but no computer. One small clock, showing nine o’clock. No pictures, magazines or television, looked as though it had been put together on a strict budget and in a hurry.
Sitting behind the desk was a twenty-something girl with shoulder length red hair attempting, without success, to hide a magazine under some papers. Smiling briefly at him, she picked up a pen and placed the nib on the paper before asking him if he had an appointment.
“Yes. Mr. Whyte, I’m a couple of minutes late,” he said, checking his watch again before looking over at the clock with a slightly confused look.
After writing his name she invited him to take a seat while she excused herself and disappeared through the one door opposite the entrance.
Misjudging the height, Richard sat heavily on one of the chairs before clearing his throat. The low chair began to agitate his left leg and after a few minutes sitting he stood up and stiffly walked over to the small desk. Moving the paper, he glanced at the magazine article, ‘Ten ways to know he’s the one!’ Placing the pad back over the top of the magazine he wandered around the small room. At the clock, which had progressed five minutes since he had entered, he fought the urge to reach up and correct it. Eventually, he concluded that it wasn’t a good idea. Grabbing his jacket, he began to walk toward the door he had only recently come through. Before he could reach it the door the girl had disappeared behind swung open as she stepped back into the reception area.
Apologizing for the delay, she held the door open as she beckoned him in.
Sidestepping past her, he stood motionless in the dark walled room as the door behind him closed. Looking around the large office, the central point of which was two large leather sofas, one black, one white, he failed to see anyone else in the room. Impressive looking thick leather-bound volumes sat on the bookshelves at one side. An old and large heavy looking desk fronted several paintings of beaches and palm trees and one of a snow-capped mountain, all in total contrast to the rest of the room. The desk itself was bare except for a black antiquated telephone, which he suspected had not worked in a long time. On most of the far wall three large white framed windows looked out against the wall of an adjacent building, blocking most of the natural light.
In the far corner of the room stood another door, open several inches, beaming a bar of light into the room and scattering itself over the desk. As the door opened further Peter King stepped forward while rubbing his hands with a small orange towel which he then lazily discarded onto the back of his large black leather chair. Making his way over to him he held out his hand and greeted him like an old friend. “Richard! It’s good to see you.”
Richard held out his hand, slightly unsure of the warm and slightly clammy hand offered to him. “I had an appointment for eleven, but I’m a little late.”
“Of course, you are,” Peter said, smiling. “Would you like iced tea?”
“No. I’m fine, thank you,” he replied, clasping and rubbing his hands together.
Peter excitedly barked several times for him to sit. Waving his arm towards the two sofas like a game show host presenting all the prizes he made his way to the office door. Pausing, he held the handle and swiftly opened it. “Could you get my guest an iced tea please? That’s a good girl.” Closing the door, he walked back towards his desk. “Richard, please sit, you’re making the place look untidy,” he pleaded.
“Where do you want me?” he said, pointing to each of the sofas in turn.
Smiling, Peter waved his hand again. “Either. Your choice.”
Regaining his confidence, he stepped towards the white sofa. Pausing, he looked over at Peter. “Is this part of some appraisal?”
Peter held his hands out in front of him showing Richard his palms as though he was putting on a magic act. “No tricks here Richard. It’s just somewhere to sit.”
Choosing the white sofa, he tried to make himself comfortable against one of the armrests before seeing his slightly overweight host smiling. Watching him as he walked back towards his desk to collect a half-filled glass, Richard tried to fathom out his over excited long-lost friend. Guessing, in his fifties, his round face faintly pockmarked on each cheek. Slightly greying hair, what there was of it, was tidily cut around his ears and brushed forward over his brow. Dressed like a university professor, in dark slacks and padded jacket, he certainly looked the part even if his manner was somewhat puzzling.
Sitting down opposite, he briefly smiled as he searched his inside pocket and brought out a small pair of spectacles which he then placed on the armrest of the sofa. “Once we have our drinks we’ll get started.”
On cue, the door opened, and the red-headed girl walked in clutching two Styrofoam cups each printed with the name of the coffee shop next door. Handing them to each in turn, both Peter and the girl smiled at each other before she turned and walked towards the door. Richard watched his host as his gaze followed her out of the room.
“Well Richard, shall we get started?” he said, returning his attention back to him.
“I’m not quite sure what to say,” he said, shifting nervously. “In fact, I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“Well, you’re here because you need someone to help you. Someone to understand why you need that help. I believe your wife made the appointment for you so why don’t you tell me why you think she made it?” said Peter in a surprisingly sympathetic tone.
Richard shifted uneasily again, as he tried not to spill his unwanted drink. “Well. For the past six months I’ve been having…” pausing he was conscious of the fact that he was about to say visions, coughing he continued, “dreams, nightmares but different.”
Pressing down on the back of his pen, Peter spoke while writing in a small black notebook. “What do you mean, different how?”
“It’s not me.” ‘There’, he thought to himself, ‘I’ve said it. Now for the, you’re not crazy speech’.
Peter, briefly and silently, looked at his pen, seemingly distracted by something.
Agitated by the silence Richard wondered if he had heard what he had said. “I mean that’s right isn’t it. Normally you would see yourself; it would be yourself doing these things. But in these visions, it feels like me, but I look like someone else.” Sighing, he realised he had used the one word that he wanted to avoid.
Peter continued to scribble something down before speaking. “What sort of things happen in these visions?”
“Well firstly, I think visions is probably the wrong word.”
“Yes, but it was your word,” Peter said. “Okay, why don’t we call them dreams then? Would that be more comfortable for you?”
“In these, dreams, I’m riding horses, I’m a captain on a tall ship, I’m playing the piano…”
“Not all at the same time I hope?” Peter interrupted, continuing to scribble.
Ignoring the question, Richard continued. “In every dream it feels familiar, something that I’ve done or experienced, yet it’s not me. It’s me but with someone else’s face.”
“When you wake up after the dream, do you remember the details?”
“Yes,” Richard continued thoughtfully, “Yes, I remember nothing but the details. Afterwards, it takes me awhile to recognise myself, to remember who I am. Ever had to think hard to convince yourself of who you are?”
Peter smiled but didn’t answer. “Any single dream set itself apart from the others?”
“I have one dream that keeps coming back. Keeps playing itself exactly the same each time. It’s the reason I decided to get help, especially after I hit my wife while I dreamt it. I woke up with her crying, screaming for me to stop. I knew then I had to do something.”
“Tell me what you remember about that one. The reoccurring one.” Peter said, without looking up from his notebook.
“It’s a red-hot day; the sun is high. I guess about midday. I’m a sort of gladiator…”
Peter stopped writing and lowered his notebook. A more intense look drew his lips together as he leaned forward. “Tell me about your opponent.”
Richard closed his eyes before speaking. “He’s huge, at least a foot bigger than me, bare-chested, like a beer barrel. He uses a sort of metal chain and a shield.”
“His eyes, what colour are his eyes?”
Richard opened his eyes and looked at Peter. “Why do you want to know about his eyes?”
Peter sat back into the sofa. “Richard, the details are the most important thing. After all you’ve heard it said the eyes are the windows to the soul.”
“His eyes were black, lifeless, put in to distract his opponent from the fight.”
“To distract YOU from the fight,” Peter said, growing more serious. “What about the crowd, what were they shouting?”
“At first, they were shouting, what sounded like Rule, but towards the end it was just feet and fists banging, people screaming for the kill,” he said, thoughtfully.
Peter had closed his eyes while he listened to the details of the dream. At the end, in a hushed voice he whispered “Raoul” before opening his eyes to a confused Richard. Smiling broadly, he suddenly stood up. “I’d like to try something. You mentioned that you played the piano in one of your dreams. Do you play?”
“No, it’s something I’ve never tried,” he said. “It could have been Raoul the crowd was shouting. Why did you say, Raoul?”
“Never mind that for now, I would like to try something,” he said, marching towards the reception door. “Come on Richard.”
Standing up, he hurriedly made his way to catch up with Peter as he opened the door to the street. Keeping up with him, he looked nervously sideways at him. “Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
After dodging the street traffic for at least a block and a half, Peter paused briefly before opening the door to one of the shops and stepping inside. Richard paused to look at the name over the large window filled with various instruments, ‘Rona Music’, before following him in.
Walking through the store, Peter stopped beside an upright piano before turning back to Richard. “Right, sit yourself down and let’s hear you play.”
Stunned, Richard shook his head. “I’ve already told you; I can’t play.”
Reaching forward, Peter grabbed his shoulder and pulled him towards the piano stool. Gently pushing him down, the smile gone from his face, he lifted the lid off the top of the keys. “I want you to close your eyes and place your fingers on the keys. Try to remember what was happening around you while you were playing the piano. Describe the scene to me.”
Richard bit his bottom lip softly. Glancing at the hand still firmly planted on his shoulder, he turned and placed his fingers on the keys and closed his eyes. Silent for a moment he tried to remember the dream. “The room is in semi-darkness. Above the piano are two candles covered over with glass, some people behind me are laughing, and someone else is arguing about something, I’m not sure what.”
“What else? What can you smell?”
Richard breathed in deeply through his nose, sucking in the air around him. “Flowers,” Pausing he continued, “lavender.” Opening his eyes, he looked up at Peter.
“Close your eyes. Hold that moment,” he said, tightening his grip on Richards’ shoulder.
Richard closed his eyes and continued to breathe in loudly through his nose. After a few more seconds, he continued with his narration. “It’s cold, but not too cold; I think there’s a small fire near my right side. Someone brings me a drink and places it on top of the piano, slaps me twice on the shoulder and walks away. I reach up and take a drink before placing it back. I look down at the keys and start playing.”
His dream filled his vision, his fingers sliding over the contrasting piano keys as they coaxed a long-forgotten melody. Both the vision and the shop merged as Richard himself began to play the same musical piece to a now growing audience. After several minutes, he suddenly jumped up, and with a frightened look stared at a now smiling Peter, his hand still clutching his shoulder. Twisting away from him he rushed through the store and out onto the street. Without looking back he started to run towards the direction of his office.
Trying to keep his mind focused on getting back as quickly as he could he attempted to block out what had just happened. Quickly running up the stairs he rushed past curious staff into his office and closed the door behind him. Throwing his crumpled jacket onto a chair in the corner he slumped down at his desk and buried his head in his hands.
Available from:- Amazon – Apple iBooks – Barns & Nobel – Google Play – Kobo – Scribd
Also by William Soppitt : Unknown Object Summers & Winters