Description
A Strange Place in Time, Book One: The Recalling of John Arrowsmith
– Alyx Jae Shaw
What’s a biker, who (along with his monstrosity of a motorcycle) gets thrown into another world, to do? He rolls with it. Join John Arrowsmith as he navigates the strange new world in which he finds himself. Peopled with elves, wizards, and shape-shifting wolves among others, one thing is definitely clear: we ain’t in Canada anymore.
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EXCERPT:
Harley didn’t say much. John Arrowsmith could tell what the massive, custom-built red and gold motorcycle would say about almost anything without the bother of asking him. However, as Arrowsmith and his motorcycle soared easily down the road, winding their way through Fraser Canyon, he wondered what the machine was thinking.
To his right, sheer grey cliffs rose high above his head, a slightly darker shade of grey than the dimming November sky that threatened to drop rain on him. The walls were jagged, as though chiselled by some disinterested god, counting on rain and wind to smooth his work. To Arrowsmith’s left, the Fraser River crashed and writhed within its deep canyon like a muddy brown dragon, reminding him that this was a road to be careful on.
A sudden, ice-cold splash of water on his neck told him this was not the time of year to be out on a motorcycle. Another drop hit his fringed black glove, sliding quickly down the glossy leather, and he sighed heavily. He was cold, he was tired, and now it was raining. With his luck, the rain would wash boulders down on top of his head and send him into the river.
“What are we doing out here, Harley?” Arrowsmith frequently talked to his bike. He had yet to get an answer.
The bike passed through one of the many short, dark tunnels that lined the way to the area of the river known as Hell’s Gate. As it left the shelter of the passage, another drop of rain struck Arrowsmith, this time in the eye. He wondered if there was a place ahead to pull off the road for a while. He’d never been on this road before, and for the life of him he didn’t know why he was there now.
The rain began in earnest, slashing down like the scratches on a foreign film. Overhead, the sky had further darkened as night approached. Then he noticed a widening of the road; a small gravel parking lot where tourists could stop to take photos of the area. He was shocked to see a huge brown motorhome in the lot as he pulled in. He would have thought it late in the year for tourists. The front of the vehicle showed British Columbia plates. Arrowsmith decided it was probably a family heading to Mexico for the winter. He pulled up next to it, using it as a shield against the rain.
He reached down one gloved hand to idly stroke the glossy, rain‑soaked gas tank of his bike. Harley wasn’t a Harley; at least, he wasn’t a purebred. Arrowsmith had built Harley out of a jumble of bike parts, some of which he had designed and put together himself. He was “the biggest fucker you ever saw,” as Arrowsmith’s adopted father put it. The bike suited Arrowsmith perfectly; a huge, mellow beast that looked like it could climb up the ass of an eighteen‑wheeler and chew his way through to the radiator. Big cars that normally ignored bikes respected him. Little cars thought it prudent to stay behind him. Harley could travel down roads motorcycles had no business being on. Brian used to say that Japanese bikes committed hara-kiri in shame at the sight of him.
The enormous bike seemed to have his own personality. “Friendly bastard, ain’t it?” Smash used to say, when the skinny biker came around to see what his ‘nephew’ was doing. Harley did seem to be friendly. Worse, he was almost alive, especially with his horse skull mounted over the headlight and wolf skin decorations draped across his back. It wasn’t unusual for people to greet the bike as well as the rider. For a few brief years, Arrowsmith and Harley were part of the local colour in the town of Courtenay, and they had their photograph taken by more than a few tourists. Arrowsmith would have been shocked to find out most people just wanted a shot of the bike’s strikingly beautiful owner.
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