The Avatari Read Online Free PDF Page B

drill.
    ‘You guessed that this Burqan Qaldun was some secret mystical place, something like Camelot,’ Ashton interjected, finally latching on to the thought that had occurred to him and then slipped his mind. ‘To get to Camelot, we need to find Merlin.’
    Busy concentrating on the road, Duggy did not answer.
    Ashton too lapsed into silence; he found himself going back thirty years. He had just got back from Malaya and was still waiting for clearance from the Medical Board because of his wounded leg. ‘Rest a while,’ they had advised and, characteristically, the doctor would not commit himself to a specific date. The army had asked him if he would prefer a stint as an instructor at Salisbury. There was also the opportunity of taking a sabbatical and doing a course at Cambridge on study leave. It was the second option he had jumped at. He had gone in for political science, with a special emphasis on the Far East, hoping that his own service there would come in handy.
    Undergrad life, especially when you are ten years older than your classmates and a lifetime ahead of them in terms of psychological and emotional maturity, can be quite an experience, but Henry Ashton settled down to it with stoic good humour, even enduring without fuss the nickname ‘Uncle Ash’ which the local wag had bestowed on him. Owing to his injury, cricket and rowing were out for him, but he participated actively, if somewhat silently, in all college activities and worked hard at the books. He had a good head for liquor and it often fell to him to lead a roistering, staggering band back from a pub crawl in the wee hours. The local bobbies who were quite deferential often enquired, ‘Could we give you a hand with that lot, sir?’ It was here that he had fallen in love with Hilda, a girl from his class. They were married the same year.
    Every college has its gallery of characters who live on in memory, sometimes growing larger than life with time. In Ashton’s case, it was Tim ‘Merlin’ Grahams, an exchange student from southern California. Belying the common perception about people from that region of the world, Tim was a wiry, bespectacled and bearded fellow, with a pipe perpetually stuck in his mouth. Gifted with exceptional oratorical skills, he was ardently pursued by the dramatics and debating societies, but forsook them to found his own – the Aleister Crowley Society, not very originally named after the famous occultist. The club was much in demand, its popularity stemming, in part, from the immediate appeal of devil worship to young people. What added to the attraction was Tim’s energy, along with the bevy of young women he had managed to persuade to be on the committee. The society was an erudite pastime, holding a hint of mischief and rebellion for most members. But for Tim, it was a passion into which he poured his considerable scholarly talent. There was also an underlying honesty of purpose that drew the casual observer, who expected a degree of charlatanism. Tim was a true believer. His interest in Oriental occult practices had led him to take up courses in history, where Ashton was a first-hand witness to his sharp mind and prodigious memory. Tim lapped up dates, names and events, correlating them with an astuteness which startled his tutors. He had the American openness of manner which appealed to Ashton and they were friends of a sort. Tim enjoyed talking and Ashton was a good listener. When they finished college, Tim opted to stay on in England, a decision which did not surprise many people.
    When Ashton and Duggy got back home to Stiles, the colonel tried looking up Tim’s name in the directory. There were several people, similarly named. He tried three of those names, calling the numbers listed against them, only to find that his friend was not among them. He then rang Diane Trent, another college mate.
    ‘Hello, Diane, it’s Henry Ashton.’
    There was a momentary pause. ‘Henry!’ Diane exclaimed. ‘What a