The Burning Man

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My name is Jack Churchill, known to my friends as Church, and I am only a man. This is a story of gods, and powers higher than gods. I write these words in my head, and thus on a page, and thus throughout all Existence, as I stand here, at the end of the world.

From the first day that I accepted my role as a Brother of Dragons, I have struggled long and hard. At the time I didn’t understand the full nature of the responsibility thrust upon my shoulders. Now I do.

Looking back, I can at least begin to glimpse the great, hidden pattern and how apparently random events came together, all the mysteries and secrets gradually emerging into plain sight.

But at the start I had no idea of the bigger scheme.

In my past life, what I used to call my ‘real’ life, I was an archaeologist, but my days had been blighted by the death of my girlfriend, Marianne. I’d lost all hope. And then magic and wonder and terror returned to the world. The ancient gods of Celtic mythology — the Tuatha De Danann, who called themselves Golden Ones — invaded an Age of Reason unable to cope with their irrationality. Society creaked and groaned and collapsed in the face of such a supernatural force.

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