Cameron Ayers [Ayers - The Truth Circle

T he Truth Circle by Cameron Ayers

2019 Cameron Ayers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events in this book are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental. Any chance youre actually reading this is just about zero.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

For permissions contact: cameronayerswriter@gmail.co m.

For Stephanie

Because I keep my promises

Acknowledgements

Writing a novel is very much as people imagine it: a solitary figure hunched over a computer screen, pecking feverishly at the keys for hours on end. But taking those reams of words and shaping them into a coherent product requires help. Lots of it.

Id like to thank my early readers, all of whom provided valuable insight and gave selflessly of their time. Without these eagle-eyed individuals, numerous mistakes and leaps in logic would still be stinking up this book. Thanks go to: Michael Cipriano for all of the above plus translation help, Greg Salvatore, Tamra Sami, Wesley Elmore and Elizabeth Hollis.

Proofreader Jessica Filippi deserves props for catching tons of typos, as does Unesh Saini for creating a pinwheel text effect.

Lastly, Id like to express my gratitude to graphic designer Andrea Orlic for producing the remarkable cover.

On the E-Book Edition

Portions of this novel employ experimental formatting techniques to enhance the reading experience. Due to the limitations of the Kindle publishing platform, these are presented as non-scalable images embedded in the story.

So whats all that gobbledygook mean? If you purchased the paperback, absolutely nothing. But if you bought the e-book, parts of the story will be locked into a single font and size.

For this reason, the digital edition is best read in Bookerly with a Kindle font setting of 3 or 4. If you're using a tablet, dont muck with the device settings and you should be fine.

Heres a simple way to tell: if this section appears on a single page, you should be fine. If its two pages, consider changing your settings, as some sections may prove jarring otherwise. And if its three or more pages, then get ... off ... your ... phone!

Saturday

Ugh, what is this place?

Its the same address on the brochure.

This cant be right.

Says so on the sign: Mystic Tours.

I dont like the energy of this place.

I cant believe I shelled out $900 for this.

You paid in advance? Sucker.

Six strangers stood in the parking lot of a rundown strip mall in the foothills of rural Pennsylvania. The complex housed only five buildings, two of which a boarded-up Blockbuster and a hardware shop whose sign had faded past the point of readability were abandoned. The nearly empty parking lot was similarly neglected, with weeds poking out of numerous seams in the uneven asphalt.

The morning sun still had yet to produce any real warmth, leaving the group chilled and anxious on this blustery day in mid-October.

On the end of the row was a stucco-encrusted, single-level building that looked like a repurposed convenience store. The stenciled logo over the display window identified it as Mystic Tours, with the words separated by the image of a bald eagle in flight. Parked beside it was a late-model Chevy Astro being loaded by an older man whose silver hair spilled out across his shoulders as he worked. A feathered dreamcatcher decorated the vehicles rear window, its crimson frame glinting dully in the sunlight.

Behind the group, the shuttle bus that had ferried them from the airport closed its doors and sped off down the tree-lined highway. More than one of them looked back at the bus longingly, wondering if they hadnt made a terrible mistake.

The offer had sounded irresistible: a fun-filled week of rugged adventure and spiritual growth in pristine mountain country, all under the tutelage of a Native American guide. The brochure showed smiling participants living off the land during the day and performing ancient purification rituals in a sweat lodge at night. That promise rang decidedly hollow in this dreary shopping center marooned in the backwoods of nowhere.

One of the strangers, an attractive woman in her mid-30s whose dark complexion and curly black hair revealed her Hispanic heritage, cupped her hands together and blew on them for warmth.

An older woman standing nearby her taut face and frosted blonde hair said 50, but her prominent crows feet and liver-spotted hands grudgingly admitted to 60 fished into her jacket and offered a pair of expensive-looking calfskin gloves. The Hispanic woman gave a small smile of gratitude but shook her head no.

Behind the pair stood a small and wiry man whose open-toed sandals and long, flowing robes seemed better suited for a sultry summer night than a nippy autumn morning. He adjusted the tortoiseshell glasses on the bridge of his nose and flashed an uneasy grin at the man to his left, a surly-looking fellow sporting a woolen Cowboys cap and a serious case of sunburn. The smile was not returned.

Standing off on his own was a heavyset black man whose scraggly goatee did little to disguise the fact that he was barely out of his teens. He stretched his back, causing his T-shirt to ride up, exposing his potbelly to the others. Embarrassed, he hastily sucked in his gut and the shirt descended on its own.

At the sound of the shuttle buss departure, the old man loading the van looked up and spotted the six. He smiled and waved them over.

The last member of the group, who stood a head taller than the others, took a drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the asphalt and stamping it out with the heel of his hiking boot. He gave a resigned shrug as he exhaled and said what all of them were thinking.

Well, too late to back out now.

* * * * * *

As the group drew near, the old man loaded the last of the supplies and turned to greet them. He looked to be around 70, with skin like worn leather, marred by deep furrows and pockmarks. His Native American heritage was evident in his sun-reddened cheeks and the gossamer strands of his thinning silver hair.

Despite his advanced age, he showed no signs of infirmity. He moved with the speed and grace of a man 20 years his junior, and his only protection against the chill morning air was a pair of navy blue dungarees and a light camelhair jacket. His eyes twinkled with irrepressible enthusiasm, like he had a secret that he couldnt wait to share.

Greetings everyone, gather around, he said with a broad smile. Bezon and may the Earth Mother smile on you. My name is John Lightfoot. I am a pure-blooded Shawnee of the Chalakatha tribe and will serve as your spiritual guide for the next week.

It was immediately apparent from the ease of his delivery that John had given this speech many times over the years and had honed it to perfection, pausing at all the right points for dramatic effect.

For those of you familiar with my peoples history, I am a distant relative of the great Tecumseh, who stormed Fort Detroit during the War of 1812. And as anyone whos been to Detroit will tell you, not much has changed in 200 years.

John waited a beat for the usual polite laughter from his audience, but when none came, he continued as if nothing was amiss.

Over the next week, I will train you in the ways of the Shawnee, teaching you how to commune with nature and helping you discover your true selves, stripped of all the 9-to-5 stresses and excesses of modern life.

The tallest member of the group, whose breath still stunk of cigarette smoke, rolled his eyes.