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The prologue and first chapter of Anglezarke — Putri Naga dari Gunung Merapi. No sign-up required. Just read.

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Prologue

Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela — 1979 

Jasper Moffett III wiped the driving rain from his eyes, slung his kitbag onto his shoulder and started down the companionway to the supply boat. Mid-afternoon thunderheads were all too common on Lake Maracaibo, and the hawsers creaked loudly as the vessel swayed in the choppy water at dockside. He’d been making trips like this to his father’s oil rigs in Texas and the Gulf of Mexico since he was nine years old. Now as the Head of Exploration & Production for Wolverine Petroleum, his family’s company, he needed to see that their newest and most expensive investment was finally going to make them money. The expansion into oil-rich Venezuela was a very big bet for an ambitious company, and Jasper had put everything on the line to make this rig happen – things needed to turn around down on Lake Maracaibo, and fast.

The dockhands released the moorings. The supply boat shuddered as the helmsman opened the throttles. They eased away from the berth, picking up speed as the vessel turned in a long arc toward the navigation buoys that marked the lake’s deep-water channel. The trip to Wolverine’s concession blocks in the south-west corner of Lake Maracaibo would take a good six hours. At these equatorial latitudes, dark would fall quickly, but tonight there would be a full moon to steer by. Jasper stowed his gear in the small passenger saloon amidships and headed back out to the open cargo deck aft. The boat was heavily laden with equipment for the drilling rig, a variety of pumps, piping and colour-coded toolboxes lashed to eyebolts on the checker-plate deck. He tested a couple of the heavy slings to make sure they were tight. Then he looked back and could see the lights and neon of Maracaibo’s Avenida de los Milagros shimmering between the curtains of rain, while the flares from the Venezuelan government’s huge oil refinery on the far shore reached long, orange reflections across the dark waters.

Once in the channel, the helmsman turned the boat south, changing course every so often to steer around the thick floating beds of water hyacinth that were a feature of the lake, especially in its brackish northern reaches near the ocean. The lights of the city receded to a dim glow on the aft quarter, and the tang of salt on the breeze disappeared, to be replaced by the sharper scent of gasoline from the oil which constantly seeped into the lake from below. Jasper leant on the rail and grinned. He had convinced his father and brothers – not to mention the bankers in Houston, New York and London – to bet the company on this Venezuelan venture. It was a huge risk for a small independent producer like Wolverine: Lake Maracaibo sat on an ocean of oil, some of the lightest, sweetest crude in the world, but thus far the drillers had hit nothing but dry holes or deposits which looked good for a few days and then petered out to a trickle. Jasper knew that the big score, the motherlode, sat waiting for him somewhere under these shallow, oily waters, but his time was running out as the operating losses mounted into the stratosphere. He couldn’t keep the bankers off Wolverine’s back for much longer, and if he didn’t hit paydirt soon, his Daddy would stake him to the ground and let the fire ants eat him for lunch. Those had been Daddy’s exact words to him as he left Houston, but Jasper could taste the big strike, as easily and vividly as he could taste the oil on the air around him as it evaporated off the lake’s surface. When he hit it, he’d take Wolverine straight to the top, and neither the bankers, nor his father, nor anyone else would be able to stand in his way.

The supply ship maintained a steady speed through the late afternoon and entered the oil-rich blocks of the southern lake. The captain slowed the engines as the navigation lights and outlines of the derricks and other oil installations that dotted the waters on either side of the channel came into view in the evening haze. The rumble of thunder now began to rival the constant thrum of the ship’s twin diesels, and the sky flashed with lightning, welcoming them to the unique phenomenon that was Catatumbo.

Jasper moved round to the bow. He never tired of watching the lightning storms of Catatumbo, a combination of the geography and air currents where the Catatumbo river entered Lake Maracaibo, a microclimate which produced an almost constant barrage of thunder and lightning. In fact, he mused, he had become something of a connoisseur of the spectacle, and felt a shudder of disquiet as he surveyed the bruised and sullen storm clouds that loomed low and ominous ahead. Suddenly, the ship lurched beneath him, and he had to grab for a hawser to stay upright as a vicious blast of wind and rain tore at him and the remaining light of day was obscured. Deafening thunderclaps rolled like an artillery barrage as the lightning intensified. Jasper looked back to the bridge. He could make out the helmsman frantically signalling him to take cover, but could not hear a single word above the tumult. He tightened his grip on the cables and faced forward into the Catatumbo storm, while the ship pitched and yawed beneath him and he was pelted with rain and spray.

For a few seconds, the rain abated and half a dozen rapid bolts of lightning allowed Jasper to see ahead clearly. Some two or three hundred yards away on the starboard quarter was a small island, the trees on its nearer shoreline standing out in chiaroscuro detail as the lightning pulsed, whipping from side to side in the tempest. The next bolt of lightning hit the island with an ear-splitting crack of thunder, and an explosion of splintered trees and shattered rock blasted into the air. From its centre rocketed the huge shape of a dragon, straining to climb as flames tore at its ragged wings and a blue caul of electricity coruscated around its body. At the zenith, the dragon seemed to hang in front of the moon as it was speared by another thunderbolt, before it collapsed back toward the ground. The dragon’s anguished scream as the second bolt of electricity smashed through it sent Jasper crashing to his knees. He clapped his hands to his ears but he could still feel the creature’s pain rolling though his mind in sickening waves as it plummeted to earth. For a moment there was silence, and Jasper tried to struggle to his feet, but was thrown to the deck once more as an ancient voice filled his mind, and screamed, “HELP … ME!”

Jasper gasped for breath. “Who … what … are you?” he groaned, still pinned to the deck by the dragon’s torment. 

“HELP ME…”

”I … AM…”

“I … AM…”

“I … AM … OIL!” 

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Chapter One – Ormerod

You could hear the motorbike climb the hill into the village from the main road, the crescendos between the hedgerows as good as markers on a map, the occasional chuffing sound of a misfire as good as a fingerprint for those in the know: Elizabeth Jade Carver had finished her last exam that morning and was on her way home. At last, Norton Magna could breathe easily again. 

Though no one in the village ever called her Elizabeth Jade: She was just known as EJ (pronounced Edge) by the whole of Norton Magna, or at least the ninety-nine per cent of it that passed through the doors of The Grouse and Hare, the village pub on the south side of the Green. They’d all known her since the pub’s landlords, George and Maureen Carver, had adopted her when she was barely two years old, and had shared in all the significant moments of her upbringing. That morning, EJ had sat her final A-Level in English History. George, Maureen and the whole of Norton Magna were on tenterhooks. 

EJ swung around the Green and turned her motorbike down the side of The Grouse and Hare to the broad cobbled courtyard behind the pub. The air smelt of freshly mown grass, and the barest of breezes ruffled the leaves of the tall beeches and chestnuts beyond the pub’s outbuildings. The engine made its usual wheezing complaint as she switched it off, and EJ wondered whether she’d ever manage to get her old ‘bike fixed. She gave the tank an affectionate pat then dismounted and hurried in through the back door to the pub’s ample kitchen. George and Maureen were happily preparing sandwiches and other fare for the lunchtime trade, working in tandem in that comfortable way of married couples that EJ found so endearing. She stopped at the door to unclip her chinstrap and take off her helmet. George Carver looked up and smiled broadly. “Hello, EJ. How’d it go, then?” 

“Alright, I suppose, Dad. The first essay was a bit tricky, but the rest were fine.” 

“Oh, I’m so pleased,” said Maureen, wiping her hands on a chequered tea towel and bustling over to hug her daughter. “Hardest three weeks of my life, these exams!” 

EJ grinned at her mother’s relief. “Haven’t been much of a picnic for me either, Mum,” she said, disentangling herself from Maureen Carver’s embrace. 

“Oh EJ, I know, dear. You’ve worked ever so hard, and we’re so proud of you! Now, you go on upstairs. Everyone knows your father wouldn’t open up today until you’d got home. They’ll all be dying of thirst on the doorstep.” 

EJ shrugged out of her battered leather jacket and rummaged amongst the assorted coats, scarves and waxed jackets at the back door until she found an empty hook on which to hang it. She kissed both her parents, picked up her rucksack and headed for the stairs to the family’s rooms on the pub’s second floor. 

“Come down when you’re ready and get some lunch. The usual suspects’ll all be wanting to see you,” her mother called after her. 

The pub was a large one, and had been in George Carver’s family for six generations since its beginnings as a coaching inn. The three of them lived comfortably in the spacious suite of upstairs rooms. At the top of the stairs was an occasional table that by custom received the morning post and any other items of general family interest. As EJ passed it, she noticed a parcel there and was surprised to see that it was addressed to her. 

“Mum,” she called down the stairs, “This parcel’s for me?” 

“Came this morning, love. One of those motorbike fellas delivered it and had your dad sign for it.” 

Intrigued, EJ picked up the packet. It wasn’t especially heavy, and a tentative shake didn’t reveal much about it either. Just a normal parcel wrapped in brown paper. She tucked it under her arm and went into her room. 

EJ dropped her rucksack by her desk, fished out her laptop and phone and checked her emails, DM’s and other feeds. Nothing required her immediate attention, so she sat down on the bed and inspected her parcel. It was an oblong roughly ten inches long and four wide, wrapped in waxed brown paper. There was no return address, and EJ knew she’d been way too busy to order anything online in the past few days. She fished the small Swiss Army knife that she always carried from her jeans pocket and carefully slit open one end of the package. EJ eased the wrapping paper aside and sat back, her eyes widening. Inside was a plain wooden box of varnished oak with a simple clasp. She lifted the lid to find an envelope addressed to “Miss Elizabeth Jade Carver” in a bold copperplate hand. She took it from the box and laid it on the bed beside her. Beneath the envelope lay a small pouch of cordovan leather fastened at the neck with a crimson silk ribbon. EJ untied the ribbon and shook out the contents. Onto the bedspread dropped a white gold pendant of a dragon on a fine gold chain, its body studded with tiny sapphires and garnets, its eyes two brilliant small diamonds. EJ gasped. The dragon was exquisite, with even the smallest details of scales and claws clearly visible. EJ held it up in the sunlight and studied it carefully, its body seeming to come to life as the tiny jewels caught the light. She was overcome with an intense feeling that she had seen the pendant before, but couldn’t quite grasp the hazy memory. 

The envelope was of a heavy, cream stock. Turning it over, EJ saw that it was sealed with crimson wax that bore the impression of a dragon – the very same dragon as the pendant that she held glittering on its golden chain. EJ felt another strong frisson of recognition. 

With great care and no little difficulty, she eased the seal up with the tip of her knife and lifted the stiff flap of the envelope. Inside was a single folded page written in the same bold copperplate hand: 

 

Dear Miss Carver, 

May I congratulate you on your completion of the A-Level examinations. I have every confidence that you will be rewarded with a superlative set of results. 

Acting in loco parentis for your paternal grandfather, Joseph Simeon Livesey, as I am so empowered by your grandfather’s deed to this effect lodged with the Lord Chancellor at Westminster on the 29th of May, 2011, I have been instructed by my client and your grandfather’s business partner, Michelangelo de St. Exupéry-Antoine, to extend to you an annual stipend of £500,000 as well as certain other assets and benefits to be determined in due course. 

The above stipend and benefits are subject to your meeting with my client at his residence in the village of Anglezarke in Lancashire within seven days of the receipt of this letter. Please be kind enough to visit with me at my bureau, No.16A Albemarle Street, London W1, tomorrow at midday, at which time I shall endeavour to answer the many questions you no doubt have, with as much clarity and empathy as I am able. I remain, 

Your obedient servant, 

Selwyn Ormerod Esq. 

 

 

EJ folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Anglezarke? Her grandfather? She had a grandfather? EJ had known for several years that her biological parents had died in a car crash when she was barely a toddler and the Carvers had adopted her soon after. When at eight or nine she had inevitably become curious about why her unruly blond curls, green eyes and olive complexion were such a far cry from George Carver, whose ruddy face and prop forward’s build were so perfect for a publican, or from her mother, who could have starred in any number of television serials as a typical English farmer’s wife, George and Maureen had been conscientious in their explanations. They had told her that they had already been on the local authority’s waiting list for adoption for two years. When they had received a phone call that she had been orphaned, they had jumped at the chance to adopt her. EJ loved them both very much as the only real mother and father she had ever known, but even then, she had been more than intelligent enough to realise that there must be more to her story. 

EJ leant back and closed her eyes. As she thought about the letter and the dragon pendant, it was as if a key had been slowly turned in a lock, and once fleeting memories began to form, breaking the surface of a dark, still pool. She remembered a tall man with large hands and a ready smile. There had been a sprawling, unruly garden behind a large stone house, and a rambling orchard beyond, and she recalled clumsily running in the dappled sunlight between its gnarled apple and plum trees. Then she remembered the steep hill that rose beyond the orchard, and a stone arch with a heavy, iron-studded door, and it was as if a curtain of midnight blue velvet had been pulled aside in her mind. With absolute clarity, EJ remembered being taken through that door and into the hill by her grandfather on her second birthday, to a large, well-lit chamber that smelt pleasantly of leather and tobacco, to be introduced for the first time to Michelangelo, and EJ wondered how on earth it was possible that she could ever have forgotten that Michelangelo de St. Exupéry-Antoine was a dragon. 

 

* 

 

EJ opened her eyes, fastened the pendant around her neck then tucked it inside her shirt. She looked at herself in the mirror. She would be eighteen in two months’ time, a tall young woman with a mop of medium-length blond curls that seemed to refuse, Medusa-like, to behave in any reasonable manner, no matter what preparations or techniques she tried – and EJ reckoned that by now she had tried them all. Basing her opinion more on instinct than experience, she felt that she might not be considered pretty in a conventional sense, but there was something about her face that could certainly be called attractive. Her nose was maybe a little small and her lips could have been a little fuller, but her emerald green eyes were intelligent and expressive. She was blessed with flawless skin, and her light olive complexion offset her other features well. Tomboyness as a child had morphed into an easy athleticism. She knew she looked good in a dress, and enjoyed the opportunity to wear one, but normally preferred the comfort, as today, of worn jeans and a flannel shirt. 

She picked up the envelope from where it lay beside the open box and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans before she ran back downstairs, where she could already hear the pleasant hum of voices from the bar. 

 

* 

 

The Lounge Bar was already half full of regulars. Her father stood in his customary position behind his beer pumps, slowly polishing a pint glass and chipping in with an occasional bon môt to the usual barroom banter of weather, football and politics. He looked over inquiringly at his daughter as she slipped in behind the bar. 

“Not too tired, are you? Did you open your parcel?” he asked. 

“I’m fine, Dad. Let me get an apron and I’ll help out with the food. The parcel was … interesting. I’ll show you later.” 

George nodded and set to pulling a pint of bitter. “Well, if you’re sure. Check with your Mum – Gibby’s usual should be about ready.” 

EJ pushed through the serving entrance to the kitchen, where Maureen Carver was ladling mushy peas onto a large plate of fish and chips. She looked up as EJ came in and smiled broadly. 

“I knew you’d be down to help. You don’t have to. Not today, love.” 

“I want to, Mum. Anyone else besides Gibby?” asked EJ. 

“There’s a platter of beef and mustard sandwiches for the table in the corner. Be a love and take them too.” 

“Okay.” 

EJ added the sandwiches to the tray and took the orders back to the Lounge. She served the two local businessmen their sandwiches and then brought the fish and chips over to the spritely older man seated on his usual stool at the corner of the bar. He put down his copy of The Times, turned as ever to the crossword, and examined her at length over the top of his half-moon spectacles as she placed his meal in front of him. 

“Am I to understand you did battle with old Oliver Cromwell and his cohorts this morning, EJ?” asked Archibald Gibson. 

EJ grinned broadly and said, “Took him and his roundheads to the cleaners in two of the essays, Gibby.” 

“Good girl! God bless the Lord Protector and his little cotton socks! I expect great things, EJ, great things.” 

EJ grinned at the usual repartee. “Enjoy your lunch, Gibby.” 

Gibby tucked into his fish and chips. EJ spent the next hour and a half in a relaxed mix of filling lunch orders, pouring drinks and satisfying the regulars’ curiosity about her A-levels and what she planned to do with the stellar results that all were convinced she would receive. By two-thirty, the lunchtime’s drinkers had departed, all except for Gibby. He drained the last of his pint, handed the empty glass to EJ and said to her quietly, “Did I ever show you my signet ring, EJ? Here, you really should take a look.” 

EJ leaned over the bar a little to inspect the gold signet on the little finger of Gibby’s left hand. She’d seen it a thousand times of course, but had never paid it any real attention. She now saw that the insignia was a dragon – the same dragon as her pendant. She was silent for a few seconds, then stepped back and looked Gibby in the eye. 

“I suppose I should be surprised, Gibby, but to tell you the truth, I’ve remembered quite a bit already. Before anything else, I think I really need to have a chat with Mum and Dad.” 

“That, EJ, would be an excellent idea. Great things, my dear! Great things!” Gibby folded his spectacles into their case, and picked up his newspaper. “Give my regards to Selwyn when you see him, won’t you?” 

EJ followed Gibby to the pub’s front door and watched him leave, then turned the key in the latch. She could hear her parents moving about the bar as they cleared the last of the glasses and tidied the room ready for the evening, so she wandered back to the kitchen in search of her own lunch and to wait for them there. A large plate of assorted sandwiches and quarters of pork pie sat on the kitchen table, together with a fresh pot of tea. EJ poured herself a mug and realised just how hungry she was. It had been quite a day so far. She picked up a random sandwich – cheddar and chutney as it turned out – and took a ruminative bite. She briefly wondered whether George and Maureen would be upset or worried by the parcel and its consequences, but quickly realised that they probably already had a pretty good idea of what was going on. 

EJ had just picked up a piece of pork pie and was giving it a generous swipe of mustard when her parents came into the kitchen. She looked up at them and smiled, and could see the wave of relief on their faces as the tension was released. She put her hand to her throat and lifted her dragon pendant from beneath her shirt. George and Maureen Carver looked at it as if mesmerised, and EJ imagined she could see the sparkling diamonds and gold of the dragon reflected in their wide eyes. 

“You’ve always known, haven’t you,” she stated gently. EJ took the envelope from the back pocket and handed it to her father. He read the contents intently then passed it without a word to his wife. George Carver looked at Maureen, who nodded for him to answer. 

“We’ve always known. When I signed for that parcel this morning, I had the feeling it might be from Selwyn. He arranged the adoption …”  

Maureen interrupted him impatiently and continued, “We’d tried everything to have a child, but it just seemed like it would never happen, and then one night came this ‘phone call, and it was Selwyn Ormerod.” 

George put his arm around his wife and continued, “He said he’d heard about our situation and that there was something he could do to help. Well, we were sceptical at first,  of course we were. But the next day he came into the pub and introduced himself.” 

“Oh, EJ, he was ever such a nice man,” added her mother, tucking the letter back into the envelope and placing it on the table in front of their daughter. “Anyway, Selwyn explained everything and we thought it all sounded so … hopeful, so right. He picked us up the next morning and we all went up to see your grandfather. That was the day we met you for the first time.” There were tears in Maureen’s eyes, but EJ could see that they were tears of happiness as her mother relived the day in her mind. 

George Carver took up the story. “Your grandfather was worried. For your safety, EJ. He and Selwyn had decided it’d be best if you were hidden in plain sight. Those were his very words.” 

George got up and walked over to the kitchen window. He stood there and EJ could see that he was gazing back across the years to the day in Anglezarke that had changed his life forever. He then turned back to EJ and said, “Your parents died in that car crash, but your grandfather said it was no accident. He said they were murdered. You always were a perceptive girl, EJ. You’re not upset we kept this from you?” 

She touched the pendant at her throat and said, “This opened up memories … Ones I didn’t know were there. But now that I’ve begun to remember, everything seems to fall into place. My grandfather. Michelangelo. Even Gibby. No, Dad, I’m not upset at all.” EJ looked at the two people who meant the most to her in the whole world. “You’ll always be Mum and Dad, and I love you very much.” 

 “Gibby moved here not long after we brought you home. Selwyn said he and Gibby had done something together in government, and Gibby’d be on hand to keep an eye on things,” explained Maureen. “Those first few months we were so worried something awful was going to happen. We couldn’t bear to have you out of our sight. Many’s the night Gibby’d look after you on his own. He was a Godsend.” 

“But nothing ever happened,” continued George. ”And pretty soon we all just seemed to forget about how you’d come to be here. To be honest, until this morning it had been quite a time since I’d even thought about Selwyn Ormerod.” 

“But what do they want from me?” asked EJ hesitantly. 

“We met Michelangelo,” said Maureen. “That same first night we went to Anglezarke. Came as quite a shock, I can tell you! He explained he’d never interfere with your upbringing, but if you ever needed anything we only had to ask. He hoped to see you again when you were old enough. I suppose this is what he meant.” 

“It’s strange though, isn’t it? The letter says they’re acting on my grandfather’s behalf. I don’t understand that bit.” EJ looked at them both in turn, then quietly asked, “What do you think I should do?”  

George Carver took EJ’s hands in his own and said, “You’re our pride and joy. There’s not a parent anywhere could ever have wished for a more wonderful daughter. But there comes a time when you have to find out for yourself who you really are.” 

“Dad! I already know who I am! I want to know who these two think I am!” laughed EJ. 

“What I mean is, all this money and meetings in London and what have you. Must be something pretty important,” said George, nodding at his own wisdom. “I’d better run you to the station in the morning. You go down to London and find out what’s going on.” 

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