THE DEVIL WORE GLASSES preview

book preview of THE DEVIL WORE GLASSES


 


PAPERBACK
BOOKS

THE DEVIL WORE
GLASSES


 

The demonic powers of the local witch doctor and his beautiful, seductive
daughter are alive and well in the remote villages of the African jungle. A
young Australian priest is challenged when he enters the domain of this satanic
control, which has held the natives in fear for centuries. The spiritual beliefs
of this vocationally-charged missionary are tested to the extreme, with dire
consequences.

 
A dark story emerges, where evil carries its venomous outrages out of Africa and
into the halls and minds of the rich and famous in the top end of Sydney
town.

 

A must read.

 

Book number three from an author who is prepared to peel back the layers of
human frailty and reveal its underbelly.

 

“Well
done sir, yet again!”
Vince Chumney.

In Store Price: $20.00 

Online Price:   $19.00

ISBN:
978-1-921240-96-6





Format: A5 Paperback

Number of pages:104

Genre: Fiction

 

Author:
Peter V. Maloney

Imprint: Poseidon

Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2007

Language: English

About
the author

 

Peter Maloney
has previously published a book of poems and short stories and The
Devil Wore Glasses
is his second novel.

           
After five years of boarding school experiences in
Ireland

, a stint as a barman in
London

’s West End as well as time served in the Royal Australian Air Force in Canberra
, Peter has many more yarns left to tell.

           
Arriving in
Australia

in 1955 as a ‘ten pound migrant’, Peter spent most of his working life as
an Industrial Engineer in Sydney
. With his family up and running Peter now lives in
Bundaberg

,
Queensland
.

The
banshee

 

 

Come
on, old son. You’ve had your run,

The
Banshee croaked her tune.

It’s
time to go, this fact you know,

The
rising of the moon.

 

I
cannot do the shriek and howl,

My
throat is burning raw,

So,
hang on tight, our time is right,

We
must uphold the law.

 

Who
could have thought, I would have caught

The
dreaded Asian flu,

It
was that trip, the sinking ship,

Atlantic
storms on cue.

 

Souls
submerged, but soon emerged,

From
deep within the wreck;

Now
on their way, with naught to say,

Their
stories ‘neath the deck.

 

I’m
here, I’m there, I’m everywhere,

As
busy as a bee;

With
planes and rockets, mines, plug sockets,

They’ll
hear a wail, that’s me.

 

 

Beware,
take care, now don’t you dare

To
listen to OLD NICK.

He’ll
smile, beguile, rewards a pile,

Your
soul to take, his trick.

 

He’s
out there now, don’t ask me how,

In
places dark and scary.

Your
mind to win, yes, that’s the sin;

He
wants you, Dan and Mary.

 

Your
time is up; you’ve drained your cup.

Don’t
fight me, you can’t win.

I’ll
guide you where there is no care,

No
pain, no gain, no sin.

 

Your
memory bank becomes a blank,

There
are exceptions, rare.

You’ll
stay there halled until you’re called

To
join another lair.

 

Peter
Maloney  April  2007

 

1
( Part Sample)

 

Jungle
fever – Africa , 1949

 

As
the native canoe rounded the last bend in the slow-moving river, Father Michael
Donovan could almost taste the adrenalin coursing through his body, as he sat
upright, two large suitcases lashed tightly together at his feet. The steady
strokes of the two strong paddlers, sweat glistening in the afternoon sun as
their muscles rippled beneath tightly-drawn ebony skin, seemed to pick up the
tempo as the signs of human habitation appeared ahead at the river’s edge.

            Well-worn
tracks from the brown water’s edge lead upwards into the dense foliage of the
surrounding jungle. Three canoes, similar in design and size to the one the
priest was travelling in, lay side by side, pulled well up on the muddy bank,
their paddle handles showing above the sides of the solidly-constructed hull of
seasoned bark and wound jungle hemp bindings.

            At
last
, he thought, journey’s end. Many years of study in the holy
college and monasteries of
Ireland

, the land of saints and scholars, and finally returning to his homeland,
Australia
, to complete his religious studies lasting two years before ordination. His
chosen order, The Society of Missions to Africa , had honed his Christian missionary zeal to a knife edge.

            “Take
your beliefs and spread them amongst the pagan souls of the African continent,
Father. Your vocation, given by God, calls upon you to instruct these neglected
people in the ways of the Almighty. A noble calling indeed, as was His during
His short life on this earth. Go forth and save souls, my son. Make us proud of
you.”

            With
those inspiring words still ringing in his ears, Father Michael was eager to
establish himself amongst the residents of this far-flung African village, where
word had it, pagan rituals were still practiced.       
‘Once I bring the holy truth amongst them, showing the way to the
heavenly kingdom that awaits all believers, then my life’s work on this
troubled earth will be rewarded beyond human measure.’

           
The young priest heard distant
drumbeats carry through the still, humid air, spreading their mysterious message
deep through the jungle. A strange silence descended from above as birds ceased
their shrill cries, and monkeys fell curiously aware as they gazed down with
large, suspicious eyes from their lofty perches amongst the dense overhanging
tree branches at the possibly-threatening sight gliding soundlessly over the
water beneath them.

            Father
Michael noticed an eerie quiet creep over the two paddlers, who, up till this
time had called out a rhythmic song to blend with the timing of their paddle
strokes.

            The
canoe was expertly guided to the shore edge beneath the pathway leading upwards,
where all was still, except for the lapping of the disturbed waters of the
river. No welcoming party waited to greet this strange visitor, dressed in
black, with white skin and blue eyes.

            One
paddler quickly untied the two cases and stood them, side by side, at the
river’s edge. The priest left the canoe, stretched his lanky muscular frame,
and turned to thank the guides, who by now had the canoe turned about, and
without a glance in his direction, paddled strongly back down the river to their
own village, fourteen miles south, where the priest, hours before, had been
delivered onto a makeshift airport runway.

            A
much older fellow priest, Father Connors, still speaking with the lilting brogue
of the west coast of
Ireland
, and with many years of African missionary work under his belt, stood sweating
liberally under the glaring morning sun, eager to greet this new missionary
priest as he stepped off the small plane.

            He
hopefully offered the hospitality of his humble abode, a stopover for the day
and night. Of course the older priest longed for all the latest news from the
other world of their church, yet with an understanding nod accepted the new
arrival’s decision not to tarry further.

            Father
Michael thanked him, but chose to continue his journey to his assigned patch,
eager to join his parish and get settled in to apply his fervent zeal to his
anticipated missionary project, challenging though it may surely turn out to be.

            He
knew that his guides had been well paid for his passage, so with a farewell
wave, he turned and gazed upwards at the muddy pathway ahead, strangely aware of
unseen eyes watching his every move.

            “Hello.
Hello. Anybody there?”

            A
boyish giggle escaped from the surrounding bushes, only to be stilled by the
gruff warning of an adult, well-concealed, somewhere above him.

            Those
drums must have been the natives’ bush telegraph announcing his arrival, so
where was the welcoming party? The priest knew that out of protocol, his first
duty was to make his presence known to the village chief, so picking up one of
his heavy bags, and using his free hand to steady himself, he climbed up the
muddy pathway to the level ground above.

            Leaving
the bag, he slid down and repeated the job of carrying the second bag upwards,
also. Panting from his efforts at the top of the pathway, he, to his amazement,
discovered that the first bag was nowhere to be seen.

             As
he took in his surroundings, a large, cleared area where up to thirty huts stood
in a semicircle facing the river, he noted that each hut, or tembe in the
local Bantu language, was constructed of river mud, topped off with layers of
large leaves cut from jungle palm trees, forming a roof secured firmly in place
with expertly interwoven hemp binding. This roof, overhanging the stout walls,
provided necessary outdoor shade from the burning sun.

            Suddenly,
from above, a young, naked boy swooped down from an overhanging branch and
snatched his black hat off his head, dancing brazenly across the open space in
front of him, the hat jammed firmly on the boy’s curly head. This cheeky act
caused the surprised priest to burst forth with peals of laughter, which in
turn, brought suppressed giggles, then loud laughter from all sides of the
clearing. Cracks in the palpable tension surrounding his arrival in this village
were now appearing, to his intense relief.

            Heads
appeared from around each hut; young, naked children ran giggling towards their
new visitor, stopping and staring shyly, each pushing and shoving ever closer to
the delighted man, who had shown a strong sense of understanding child play; a
promising sign. Father Michael reached down and collected one young girl from
the pushing crowd into his strong arms, and with a whoop of sheer delight,
tossed her high in the air, catching her safely, as she screeched with pleasure
at this game.

            She,
smiling broadly, eagerly reached both arms upwards for a repeat performance, as
did twenty or more other young, eager, naked boys and girls.

            “Suffer
the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not!” Father Michael was
delighted, and his laughing, handsome face mirrored his intense pleasure at this
unexpected turn of events.    

            Now
closely surrounded by the shyly giggling throng of children, he grabbed his
second bag and confidently strode through into the centre of the clearing,
placing it on the ground beside him, and with arms folded, stared about him,
waiting. The villagers slowly retreated to the edge of the clearing, whispering
quietly to each other as the anxious mothers gathered their excited children
around them, watching closely.

            He
did not have long to wait; a hush fell over the gathered throng as a tall,
well-built native, adorned in impressively colourful plumage emerged from the
largest hut and approached, carrying easily an intimidating assagi, or
spear in his right hand. Stopping in front of the priest, the chief of the
village brought his painted face within inches of this visitor and silently
stared deeply into his eyes for what seemed to the now nervous white man
standing alone in the centre of his future, an eternity. No job interview could
have been as intense.

            Father
Michael, realising that he was being tested for whatever qualities the chief
deemed most important, returned the stare without flinching. Finally, after what
seemed an age, the tall, bare-chested man, his face and arms proudly displaying
the tattoos and scars symbolic of his high office, stepped back, turned slowly
to face his followers, then raised both arms high above his head, calling out
loudly words in the Taal dialect, a language as yet unknown to the young priest,
that brought forth cheering and wild dancing from the previously tense
gathering. 

            Father
Michael had passed the test, winning acceptance from the village leader. Now his
pounding heart steadied and a thrill of sheer joy filled his being.

            Things
happened in quick succession. The chief strode majestically back to his hut
without a backward glance. An old woman, her dried breasts resting against her
thin, bony ribs, beckoned eagerly with her stick for the priest to follow her.
This he did, holding his second bag securely by his side.

            She
led him to a hut at the far end of the clearing. Sitting proudly in the centre
of the freshly-swept floor was his other missing bag. Many dried animal skins
covered the mud floor, especially in one corner, where he guessed the space was
intended as his sleeping area.

As
the old woman turned to leave, she screamed angrily at the gathering of young,
curious eyes staring in through the hut opening. Swinging her stick, they
quickly scattered, allowing Father Michael the privacy he needed to unpack,
change out of his sweat-sodden, black suit into shorts and an impressive sweat
top which displayed the handsome and all-forgiving face of the Lord of Heaven.

            This
informal attire was more suitable to the humid climate he shared with his newly
acquired congregation, and finally falling onto his knees, he gave thanks to his
adored Master in Heaven. His mission had begun.

 

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