The Garden of Eden isn't what it used be.

Fallen gods have risen. Evil witches prowl the streets at high sun. Satan's acolyte has opened a door to Earth. Behind it all is tycoon and magicker Morgan Heist. He doesn't care about the repercussions. The time has come to risk everything for... THE SORCERER'S KEY

REVIEW

THE SORCERER'S KEY is Clayton Bye's 272-page fiction debut novel that was published in January of 2005. While this novel of the Fantasy genre is Clayton Bye's first work of fiction, he is a seasoned speechwriter as well as a well-known author of motivational books, such as GETTING CLEAR, HOW TO GET WHAT YOU WANT FROM LIFE, THE IT CAN'T BE DONE, NO WAY, YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING, CRAZY OR UNBELIEVABLY STUPID TO TRY IT HANDBOOK FOR SUCCESS, and THE HUNDRED.

THE SORCERER'S KEY examines the reality of God against the backdrop of Eden (as the cradle of life) and Earth. Existing parallel to one another, yet with the majority of Earth's inhabitants blissfully unaware of the magical place that is Eden, the fragile border that separates both worlds is suddenly in danger by the workings of Morgan Heist, sorcerer and ruthless user of the "dark arts." Heist will stop at nothing to gain free access to both worlds, and seeks to conquer and rule both. In his path stands young Jack Lightfoot whose key allows him to travel between the worlds. Unfortunately, Jack is unaware of the powers that seek to control him, and he soon finds himself in mortal danger. Will Morgan succeed and literally take over the world? Will Jack stand in his way?

Clayton Bye's work of fiction creates a fascinating set of "what if" scenarios. What if God had tried to start over? What if the devil is still around and lending active support? What if magic and sorcery were God's gifts to mankind? What if they weren't?

THE SORCERER'S KEY is a fast-paced read that combines action, adventure, and even romance with the elements of spirituality, religion, and magic. Without taking the quick way out by route of an omnipotent deity and an equally formidable adversary, Clayton Bye avoids the easy answers to the age old question of good versus evil, and instead offers the reader a third version, what if God made mistakes? What if the devil is not as powerful as we would have him be?

An interesting read!

Reviewed by: Sylvia Chochran at Round Table Reviews

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE


Creote grunted when he hit the ground. He lay still for a moment, hoping to catch his breath. No such luck.

The heaves struck with an intensity that terrified, forcing his body up and away from the unyielding earth until all that held him aloft was his forehead at one end and his toes at the other. Comets of light stormed behind his closed eyelids. Blood roared in his ears. He struggled for air.

Another spasm wrenched his innards. Creote grabbed his stomach and fell back onto the sun-baked soil. Lying on his side now, he began to writhe, oblivious to the small bits of stone and twig that bit into his face.

Trembling muscles clenched again, forcing spew from the man's lips. He hadn't eaten anything this time, thinking it would lessen the ordeal. Even so, the heaves were so intense he felt as if his ribs were cracking.

He gagged, tried to get his lungs to unlock. Couldn't do it.

Flares continued to ignite behind his eyelids, becoming ominous, fluttering, black and red splotches that left him swimming with dizziness. Still he heaved.

There came a terrible braying in the background. Creote realized the sound had to originate with him, the knowledge coming as a cold blade of panic in his chest.

By sheer effort of will he pushed himself to his knees, ropes of mucous, puke and snot hanging from his nose and mouth. A second, Herculean thrust brought him to an upright kneel. In this position, with arms wrapped around his ribs, Creote looked as if he'd sustained a terrible wound and was trying to hold the pieces of himself together.

The watchers sat white-knuckled as another visible wave of pain ripped through the man's body. They were right to be concerned. This was Creote's third trip to Earth, and the effects of passage were probably going to kill him.

Creote swayed. His chest heaved. He finally managed to get some air into his constricted lungs. But it was wasted effort. He knew this. The torture would continue; the sickness would have to run its course.

So, on the edge of unconsciousness, slumping down to the ground beside a pool of his own waste, body jerking and weak, arms still forming a protective jacket around his torso, the man quit fighting.

A brutal half an hour passed.

The body spasms stopped. Creote's breathing steadied. His eyes opened. But he remained where he was, motionless, showing no other signs of life.

A gentle wind danced in and out of the clouds and filled the air with the melancholy rustling of leaves. Grasshoppers snap-snapped noisily in the long grasses. One of the insects dropped into Creote's field of vision, its weird, sideways flight allowing the human to watch the bug as it passed along the entire length of his body.

Somewhere in the pines that bordered the field in which the man lay an angry squirrel let loose a characteristic "Chitchitchitchitchit."

Then came the whoosh of giant wings as an ancient raven flew overhead. The bird gave one deep, reverberating croak and disappeared over the tree tops.

More long minutes trickled by.

Those watching him had given up, were discussing who they'd sacrifice next, when Creote stirred. He struggled to his feet, gave a halfhearted wave to his invisible audience and, taking staff in hand, began the long walk into town.


CHAPTER ONE


I was crouched behind a garbage bin at the Safeway building. Had to get to the docks on the other side of the store before the bounty hunter showed up. Needed to be quick about finding a ride onto the big lake. Maybe I'd steal a boat.

Lake of the Woods is a huge lake in Northwestern Ontario that extends southward from the city of Kenora to the United States. With over fourteen thousand islands and one millon miles of shoreline, it's also a vacation paradise, one of the hideaways of the rich and famous. I've never met anyone who knows just how many camps, houses, mansions and compounds have been built out there. (Think of a city that has been split into thousands of fragments and put afloat.) It changes all the time; you can come around the point of some island and find a sprawl of buildings that weren't there last summer. The way I figured it, nobody from away was going to find Jack Lightfoot once I put a boat under my feet.

I crossed the parking lot and headed down the runway to the docks. A few Lakers were loading groceries into their shiny water toys. Two girls were flirting with a blond boy who was leaning over the fence that runs alongside the parking lot. An employee was gathering up stray shopping carts. There was no sign of the bounty hunter.

One of the Lakers looked familiar, so I took a chance and said, "You're Ches Prescott, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"I did some work on the fireplace in your guest house a few years back. Bob Greenwood had the contract, and I was the summer help."

His wife smiled. "I remember him, Ches. He did such a nice job cleaning up after the work was done."

The compliment gave me an opening. I nodded my appreciation and said, "I'm sorry to bother you folks, but I need to get out to Martin's Island. It's right on your way... Would it be too much trouble?"

They looked at each other, communicating in that expressive silence reserved for long-time couples. I stood there, bit my tongue, waited.

After an interminable silence, Mr. Prescott made his decision. "Hop in boy," he said. "Guess it's the least we can do."

I was into the big Chris Craft and had thrown off the lines before Mr. Prescott managed to reach his leather captain's chair. His missus indicated I should take a seat beside her, and we talked while he cranked up the inboard. She was pleasant company; I was a wreck.

The hunter stepped up to the parking lot railing as we backed away from the dock. He stood there among the have-nots, those regular townspeople who can't afford the Prescott's kind of boat but who often congregate to dream the dream, just another pair of wistful eyes watching a coveted thing slip away.

I turned my back on him.

The motor gurgled in the creek water, and the sun beat down on us with all its summer heat. Mr. Prescott navigated the cruiser up the channel, under the bridge and then, picking up speed, turned south toward Devil's Gap.

With seagulls whirling and squawking high above, a silent enemy receding into the distance and the wind and water all around, I looked outward into the world I'd known since I was a toddler and wondered if it would ever feel safe again.


CHAPTER TWO


My trouble began at Hap's, a pub and grill on the Kenora harbourfront, and came to me in the form of a bounty hunter from Eden. He walked in when I was halfway through a Chicken Finger Platter. I recognized him immediately.

He was the man I'd been seeing in my dreams. One night he'd appeared as a store clerk who shot me in the eyes with pepper spray and locked me in a closet while he tried to collect the bounty on my head. Another time he'd been a voodoo cabbie who put the spell on me. The cazy islander stuck me in the trunk of his Ford and drove around for two days looking for a guy who knew a guy who said he wanted to buy me. Last Saturday I'd dreamt he was an old-time sorcerer out of Eden. Had a blue, peaked hat ornamented with a gold sun, moon and some stars. Caught me in the alley behind Century Cinema, broke both of my legs and dragged me into a hole he conjured in the air. I'd taken to calling him the Bounty Hunting Edenite Sorcerer Son-of-a-Bitch. My parents didn't like my language, but I thought the name fit the person.

Funny thing is, I would have figured out the guy was a sorcerer anyway. You see, it was raining when he showed up. Raining hard enough that the boats docked in the harbour were nothing more than vague, gray shapes. It was one of those summer storms that sometimes come rolling in off the lake, dump a ton of rain in about fifteen minutes time, then disappear as if they'd never been. The sky had opened up, but the stranger's hair and clothes were dry. Bone dry. Dusty dry. The kind of dry you'd expect to see in the Arizona desert on a hot summer day - not in Kenora during a squall.

Sorcerer's can do that. My friend and mentor, Jake Clairny, had once taken the time to explain how it was done. We'd been talking about the sorcerers of the old world: their egos, trademarks, signature spells and such.

"It's kinda like steppin' between the drops," Jake said. "You move where the water's not. An' it's hard to catch a fella doin' it. Only seen it once, myself. Wouldn't a noticed, ceptin' I looked at the fella outa the corner of my eye, an' there he was, all shimmerin' like. Kinda ripplin' in an' out, fast as you could blink."

The magic was called rainwalking. Jake told me it was something on which the best sorcerers prided themselves.

There's no way I'd have expected a rainwalking, alien sorcerer to drop in for a beer and a chat, but that's what happened. He came in dry out of the rain, ordered a pint at the bar and brought it to my table. He turned a chair back to front, set his walking stick down close to his left hand, placed the ale on his right and took a seat.

"Name's Creote," he said.

"Jack Lightfoot," I replied.

We spent a moment or two sizing each other up. He drank his beer. I dipped some crispy chicken into a tub of dill sauce, enjoying the opposing textures and tastes of the made-from-scratch meal.

"You want something?" I asked.

"Morgan sent me," he said. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

He was right. My parents had figured it out the moment I told them about the hunter in my dreams. Dad said I was experiencing the result of a weirding he'd put in place the night we came to this world. The spell was a form of portent, a kind of magical probability device that let us know of impending problems.

"I don't know why you're a target," he'd said. "But the dreams are clear: it's Morgan, and he's after you."

He'd paused for a moment, giving his next words some extra thought. "You need to understand that them coming after you instead of me... well... it's a whole different pile of dragon-shit, Jack. I don't know how Morgan would have figured it out, but I suppose it's possible. If that's the way it is... If you find yourself in that kind of situation, you just run. Run, and keep on running. You hear?"