Goddesses of New Eden
Copyright© 2026 by Northman
Eight from 1985-89
At 29 years old, Jane Entwistle was establishing a decent career for herself as one of the junior members of the team at Castlegate Dental Practice, Stowcaster. Moreover, she was beginning to feel that soon the time might be right to find somebody to settle down with who would adore her intellectual and gentle northern tones and healthy figure, as her slightly greying black hair in a pony tended to remind her. Moreover, at this workplace she was close to the English Lake District where she loved to get away on the solitude of moderate difficulty walks, as respite from the intensity of poking or drilling around in under-18s mouths (she tended to get allocated them). On a pristine July day in 1985, she was just doing just that – half way up Ambleside’s Loughrigg Fell – when it happened.
When what happened? What in God’s name...?
The grassy and rocky terrain itself, along with the sky and noises of the breeze, birds and other walkers had vanished in a haze-out in the space of no more than a couple of seconds. She had not fainted, though, nothing like that; because now, after more brief seconds, she was seeing a strange, clean, simply-furnished and modern-looking little room materializing around her. Basic hotel room was her first thought, complete with little bathroom and shower off to one side and little bed and table where she stood. The only thing unchanged was that she was still wearing her walking clothes and rucksack.
---
This was deffo not France, thought Connor Moss. Well, it was, about 5 minutes ago, the Hôtel Cezanne in Provence to be precise. This was possibly to be his last family holiday – the last time of tagging along with his irksome older sister and his dry parents for the foreseeable future – ostensibly a reward-celebration for finishing his A-levels at Boy’s Grammar School and looking ahead for the start of his first Autumn term 1986 at Exeter University in a few week’s time. Hopefully keep his Stowcaster-based girlfriend going, if they could survive the apartness. If not, oh well, at least he had now finally got himself fucking and found his confidence that he had a lithe and desirable young-guy physique at 18 and nice come-to-bed-eye looks of a slightly effiminate kind. One or two of his former friends at the school, like Phil, had deffo fancied him. Hilarious.
This, though – not hilarious. He stood there alone, still wearing his Manchester United top and swim shorts, starting to feel panic. It was a room; a comfortable but clinical little hotel-style room had emerged around him, replacing the hotel room he thought he was in, and he was apparently bloody locked inside this one. The only visible exit was a grey lab-style door that absolutely would not open, and knocking on it or calling out brought no result. Deffo not France, judging by the landscape visible through a large bay window. On a table by the window, a small black-stemmed console that had looked dead until now flickered into life...
---
The fuck, thought 18-year-old Tiffany Brookes. The fuck am I??
Five minutes ago in Crystal’s Nightclub, Stowcaster, getting jostled on her way to the bar to buy a cocktail prior to having a dance session and to flaunt her 5 foot 7 skinny blonde looks. The elbows and accidentally-on-purpose hip nudges were annoying enough, but being a good-natured soul she could take that, but what was this great sick joke? A little hotel room of some kind that had formed around her after the nightclub and all its noise had faded out. Silent and alone here. Not the cool silence of a backstreet on this January 1987 night, but apparently a daytime silence in some wilderness place. It was sunny outside a window that ran right across the front of the room, that was one obvious wrong thing, together with it not looking like any countryside she knew in her life or had even seen in photos or TV. Tropical but not tropical, a lot of pinkish trees – cherry blossom jobs, yeah? – and endless rolling hills.
What the hell was that moon-sized red thing in the sky?
“Hey!” she tried calling again. “Anybody there?”
She tried knocking on the door again and turning the handle, but the only thing that happened was the the little black-stemmed console on the table came up with a message.
‘Welcome, Tiffany Brookes,’ it said in big white letters.
Seconds later it was replaced by: ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
Seconds later again: ‘Another message will follow in 10 minutes.’
---
19-year-old Stephanie Swinton had been walking through an alleyway in town, one she often went through after leaving her favourite café, the Upper Crust, Stowcaster. She knew very well where it led – where it was supposed to lead – except it bloody well hadn’t this time. Instead of being in the Market Square, she’d found herself beyond all sane explanation in some... ‘room-cell’ with a large bay window, desk and console, single bed and a bathroom. Furthermore, the drab March 1987 day seemed to have suddenly become a bright summery one out there, with what looked like a setting sun to go with the normal sun. All very nice, but all very shit-scary now, a quarter of an hour in. Nobody answered, and there was no getting out, not through the solid-as-hell window either.
Well, she still had her shoulder bag and the jeans and cardy she had been wearing. She had decided to take her anorak off and put it on the bed, as somebody evidently knew her by name and that she was here and was running this whatever it was. So she waited.
‘You are 1,012 light years from planet Earth,’ came up.
She was actually a fan of Star Trek and its four movies, thinking the last one – The Voyage Home – really slick and amusing, and she gasped a laugh, impressed and scared in equal measure by the joke.
‘You will never leave this world,’ came up.
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