Cameos is a novel that has romance, history and the spiritual mystery of reincarnation woven through each page.

The story centres around the lives of three people who are intertwined, one with the other, through reincarnation. 

Meggan is a young woman who lives in the 1800s in Ireland, and who, in the 1900s and through reincarnation takes on the persona of Jeanne. 

Set in England, Jeanne is the central character of the story and it is her life’s experiences around which this novel evolves. 

Her unexplained dream of another existence offers her solace in troubled times, yet remains a mystery to her until her own demise when all things are at last revealed, and Jeanne is faced with a dilemma only she can resolve. 

The third life is set in Africa and is that of a newborn child, a baby boy born to a harsh and unforgiving landscape. 

Reincarnation is his only hope of survival, his only hope of resurrection to another realm, for without the gift of a soul he will perish, return to dust, as though he had never been.

But the choice is Jeanne’s. Only she can decide.  

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ISBN: 978-1-922229-35-9   
Format: Paperback
Number of pages:264
Genre: Romance Fiction

Cover: Clive Dalkins

Author: Joan V. Griffiths
Zeus Publications

Date Published: 2014
Language: English


Author Biography 

Joan Valerie Griffiths lives in a coastal village in northern New South Wales. She is married and has three sons, three daughters-in-law and six amazing grandchildren.

Cameos is her first novel, although she has written many short stories, some of which have been accepted for magazine publications.

At one time she was a member of the University of the Third Age during which she wrote her life story, an insight purely for her family, revealing the mysteries of life as it was in a different age. 

She and her husband enjoy life at their beachside retreat and she lists writing stories, travelling and playing lawn bowls as her interests.









Her hands pressed firm against her ample belly, for she was heavy with child, Meggan stood at the window of the small, stone cottage, gazing out at the splendour that was her true native land.

Ivory pale was her skin, eyes green as her own emerald isle, and her long, dark hair, pulled back from her face, was held secure with a strand of faded ribbon. With her proud bearing, she looked, perhaps, like some ancient warrior queen of Celtic folklore, yet she was dressed only in the simple clothes of a farmer’s wife, for this was never a place of grandeur.

From its vantage point on the hillside the small, stone cottage looked out over a valley of verdant green, a promise of much fertility. Yet this was just an illusion, for the valley below was strewn with rock, as if, perchance, long, long ago when the land was new, a legendary giant of mythic proportion might have passed this way and played a game of marbles here. Then, tiring of his sport he had walked on, leaving the marbles behind him, scattered far and wide. Some of these rocks were quite small, others as large as boulders, and it was from this stone the cottage itself had been built, for nothing was wasted here and every stone and every rock had a useful purpose.

To all intent, this land was a working farm, a small holding of sheep and crop, but on such harsh terrain the yield of crop was of meagre issue, reaping scarcely enough fodder to feed the small straggle of motley sheep. Yet, as it was with the stone and rock, the sheep too, had a useful purpose, for their soft downy fleece was a source of warm bedding on cold winter nights, the meat from their scrawny bones providing sustenance.

Now, in the valley below her, Meggan could see Tom hard at work repairing a breach in the wall that marked the boundary of their land, the halo of his fierce red hair a distant, yet welcoming beacon against the drabness of the day, for the sky was bereft of the sun and turned grey, casting a dark and gloomy mood across the land.

The hint of a smile played softly at the corners of her mouth as she contemplated the vagaries of nature, for, to be sure, Tom’s fiery locks flew in the face of all reason and he was, in truth, a gentle man, a compassionate man, and how proud she was to be his wife. She paused a moment, recalling treasured memories of days gone by, of her surprise when Thomas Riordon had asked to come courting, having first, of course, spoken to her father; after all, proprieties must be observed in matters such as these.

She’d known Tom well from their school days and he really was a handsome lad. All the girls in the village had set their cap at him, often flirting outrageously, but never in her wildest dreams did she ever believe he would be interested in her. He surely could have had his pick of many a young lass, that much was true, yet he had chosen her.

Their courtship was brief, just a decently considered interlude before they were wed, and it was during this time their love for each other flourished and bloomed. In the early days of their marriage they’d rented a room in town, but Tom had worked hard as a farm-hand and in no time at all, it seemed, they’d been able to purchase their own piece of land complete with a small, stone cottage, a humble dwelling to be sure, but one which she had soon transformed into the peaceful haven they now called their home.

The sound of children’s laughter came to her, filling her ears, shaking her from this reverie, and she shifted her gaze from the valley below to watch Kate and Brian playing stick and ball in the yard with Sooty, their black, mongrel dog. She smiled a mother’s smile as she looked upon her own dear children.

At ten years, Kate was the elder of the two, dark of hair and fair of skin, a quiet and sober child with a knowing air well beyond her tender age. And Brian, well, what was there to say? Already, at only six years, he truly was a copy of his Da, the same fiery red hair, eyes blue as the sky, his nature gentle and kind.

The children should be gathering the firewood Tom had chopped this morning, the thought crossed her mind. A large stockpile of wood kept dry in the shed would soon be needed, for even now, as they ran laughing in the yard, white puffs of steam came forth from their mouths, a sure sign of the chill in the air, the onset of winter days. Yet she could not bring herself to chide them for neglecting their chores. Heaven knew, she sighed, they had little time for laughter these days. A pang of guilt clutched at her as she stood there and she was filled with a sense of shame for the poor mother she had been of late. Her children knew she loved them dearly, of that there was no doubt, but she was just so weary all the time.

As if it sensed some inner turmoil, the child within her body kicked out violently and she rubbed gently at her belly to soothe the troubled babe. Surely her babe was strong and healthy to be kicking so, she told herself, yet she felt, deep down, all was not as it should be. She could not put a name to her fears, it was just a feeling she had, a vague disturbance in her mind.

Never before had she felt so tired, so listless, and her beautiful hair, once so dark and lustrous, had become lank, lifeless, but she was too exhausted to care. Even her garden, of which she had once been so proud and had always lovingly tended, had now become overgrown with weeds, the vegetables, neglected, turning to seed.

Turning away from the window, she pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders as if to ward off the sudden chill that passed through her. She wished only for her time to come, for as her pregnancy advanced and with each passing day, she felt, more and more, a deep sense of impending doom. 

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