The Morgens' Lair

Book summary

In 2018 Cornwall, recent graduate David Johnson relocates to Brittany's Rennes, captivated by its rich myths. Meanwhile, in 940 Audierne, young fisherman Felis seeks solace at a mystical menhir after his mother's passing. As their paths converge in the enigmatic city of Ys, both must grapple with malevolent forces from the past. In John Bentley's 'The Morgens' Lair', can David and Felis navigate this treacherous intersection of time and mystery, and who is the enigmatic Maiden awaiting them?

Excerpt from The Morgens' Lair

Truro, Cornwall, August 2018

It was a pleasant summer afternoon and, having nothing particular to do, I went into the library. Two entire walls were covered by bookshelves, whose top row of books was not far from the ceiling, and you needed wooden steps to reach the highest. My gaze passed over an eclectic mix of genres: from Greek mythology, medieval history, science fiction, mysticism, Dickens, sport, psychology to forensic criminology – especially the latter.

I ran my finger casually along the spines of a group of some ten volumes, “The Complete Works of Carl Jung”, and randomly selected the third along that slid effortlessly from between the two companions to its left and right.

On the shelf below, “Sir Bobby Charlton – My England Years”, caught my eye. Although he played before my time, the Charlton name was legendary compared to the current journeymen footballers of my beloved Plymouth Argyle. I placed my chosen titles on the enormous old pine chest flanked on either side by two sumptuous armchairs upholstered in soft green leather and sank into one, letting out a sigh of pleasure. When Sophie and I were young, we strayed into the library at our peril – ‘No place for children. It’s Father’s room’, mother advised us. Her words lent a mysterious allure to his den, the quiet place in our house where he would retreat for hours on end, not to be disturbed. As an adult, I now appreciate its singular quality, its silence and the slightly musty smell that emanates from old books. The child in me longed to go inside, although I never did, fully expecting to be confronted by wizard or, worse, a monster! The only concession to the twenty-first century was a computer and its accessories on a corner unit.

I glanced again at the bookshelves, the plush sage-green carpet, the deep bay window that let daylight flood in and the open fireplace complete with a cast iron dog grate filled with a display of pretty silk flowers. Though it was suitable for log burning, mother was categorical: ‘It’s for decoration only. We should all play our part in protecting the ozone layer.’

We didn’t disagree. Mother, an assertive but fair-minded woman, was not the sort with whom to argue. I can see why Father was attracted to her: a tall, slim woman with shiny black hair ending just above her shoulders with a pageboy fringe that was redolent of the 1960s. Her smile revealed even white teeth that lit up her face and a twinkle in her deep, blue eyes could melt a man’s heart in moments.

She and Father had met when students at Cambridge and, while he continued in the world of academia, she was content with her first degree and raising her children. But it was never a burden against which she railed, unlike many of her contemporaries, and I always get the impression that she’s satisfied with her lot. For as long as I can remember, she’s been involved in the Women’s Institute as an activist and local President. By activist, I don’t mean demonstrating outside Government buildings or chaining herself to railings to draw public attention to this or that campaign, but working with ladies who are struggling through domestic violence, poverty, entitlement to benefits and substance abuse, that sort of thing. I think it’s called outreach. From what I know, she’s well-respected within the organisation that’s unapologetically entered the twenty-first century.

Opening the Jung tome to its first chapter, headed “Psychological Types”, a lower-case number referred me to the Editor’s Notes: “Carl Jung held an interest in Typology.” I scanned down to “Psychological types posed an intellectual problem for him, from the outset. A person’s judgment is determined by and limited to their type, whereas Adler and Freud shared a denial of the existence of different fundamental attitudes in such classifications.”

Sounds a bit dry, I decided, as the door creaked open for Father to appear. He’s over six feet tall, broad-shouldered with a square-set jaw, but the feature that most people remember is his shock of wavy, brown hair that tumbles over the wire-framed glasses, despite frequently pushing it back. I think he’s fondly described as the mad professor – a tad eccentric, perhaps, but mad? There’s certainly nothing remiss with his mental faculties!

“Here you are, David. You’ll not get a job stuck in the house all day, you know.”

“True enough.” I spoke in a deferential tone. “But after three years of hard graft at university I reckon I’m entitled to chill out and gather my thoughts before taking my next step into the big wide world.”

“I’ll give you that,” Father conceded, “and, nowadays, you’ve got just as much chance using the internet as queuing up in the Job Centre.”

I nodded and watched him take a sheaf of papers from the printer tray, staple them together and sit in the chair opposite.

“Have you got a lecture coming up?” I asked. Whatever he did fascinated me.

“Yes, next week. But tomorrow, I’m due a tutorial with four particularly self-assured final year students and I want to be prepared.” He turned over a page and continued. “I’ve asked them to carry out some basic research on Bildungsroman.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a literary genre, stories about characters psychologically growing from youth into adulthood. They frequently suffer from profound emotional loss. Then, it’s their journey through conflict to maturity at the end.”

I closed my book, looked into Father’s eyes, and mused of course I know, it’s the subject of typology, more or less.

“Anyway, what’s that you’re reading?” he asked, raising his gaze from his papers. I held the spine towards him.

“Ah, Carl Jung. He was the topic for my PhD thesis. It’s on the shelf over there.” He rose from his chair and pulled out a bound edition, thinner than the rest.

“Here, take it.”

Its black front cover bore the tooled gold letters,

Doctoral Thesis

Brian Johnson

The relevance of the work of Carl Jung to modern policing through criminal profiling

“Thanks, Father. I was forgetting you’re a doctor. I’ve got a pain in my stomach; can you prescribe something for it?” He chuckled. “Seriously, though, I didn’t realise you’d gone so deeply into the dreary old chap. I’m impressed.”

“Yes, umm…” But he was already absorbed in the Bildungsroman.

I admire my father. He possesses an intellect and knowledge of his subjects that I can never attain. Ever the academic, he shows amazing practical skills, surprisingly turning his hand to everything from electric wiring to plastering. This house is a testament to his ability. He bought it when Sophie came along since the previous two-bedroomed modern place – in any case, mother thought it ‘lacked soul’ – was inadequate for our enlarged family. Father had always yearned for a project, a challenge, something to provide respite from his bookish world.

I’d just started primary school and Sophie was at the crawling stage when we moved into this Edwardian residence, previously inhabited by an elderly spinster who had, for whatever reason, allowed it to crumble around her. It took several years before my parents, with bated breath, exchanged proud smiles and finally uttered the words: Its finished.

I’m no expert to express an opinion on such things but they’ve certainly given the home a new heart and renovated it to a high standard. Father’s role was largely as the builder-decorator, with mother the artistic advisor – choosing paints, wallpapers, and carpets. They are as well-matched in marriage as in their renovation work and she was not averse to wielding a lump hammer or mixing cement when requested. I recall one day when I was probably eight or nine years old, sitting cross-legged in front of the television, enthralled by a nature documentary showing dolphins and whales. From another room came raised voices that I paid little heed to.

‘Blue? Mary, you must be joking!

It will go well with…trust me, I’m going with blue.’

The credits for the programme rolled with its title first in large letters: ‘Blue Planet’. The dolphins were swimming effortlessly through a dark, blue sea that lightened as they forced up towards the surface. Just before their final thrust and leap into daylight above; aquamarine, in a flash, became a pale hue but remained undeniably blue. So, it was with the whale, moving gracefully with an occasional swish of its fluke, to drive it elegantly through the sapphire of the deeper ocean. The whales and dolphins were a greyish colour, but it was blue that penetrated my brain.

That’s strange, I thought, and dismissed the coincidence. But that’s where it started. As I grew older and more experienced in life, it disturbed me. That was about the top and bottom of it. But tell me, who likes being disturbed? It’s fair to say that it leaves me with a curious sense that I should pay more attention to it. When my inner world of emotion connects with the outer world of people, places, and things, it becomes a mystery, a problem – forgive me for repeating the word – that’s arcane and fascinating.

Father dropped his papers on the chest and declared,

“That’s done! I know more than enough of Bildungsroman to be, if not forty then fifty steps ahead of my students. And I’m best out of your mother’s way today.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s making jam. You should see her stirring her cauldron.” His voice became a cackle. ‘When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.’

“Macbeth. I studied it for A-level but, surely, you’re not -”

“No! She’s no witch! It’s my warped sense of humour. On the contrary, she’s an angel. Right, I’m off for a walk. I need to get my head round a case for the constabulary. It’s a real puzzle…” His voice trailed away as he got up and left without further ado.

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