Tag: Original Work

So this is a fairly short story I wrote a couple years back. It’s one of my few original writings, based on a mixture of Fallen London and a fever dream I had back then. I never got around to finishing it because I got really self-conscious of my writing at the time, but I had intended to make a whole book out of it. But I might get back to working on it, in the future. Here it is, just in case anybody’s interested in reading it. And as always, feel free to let me know what you think!

       Since the day I was born, I have never seen the sun. Nobody around me has, nor has anyone for a couple thousand miles. We’ve lived here, underground, cut off from what some say was the surface, for hundreds of years. Not one living soul remembers how we got here, or how to get back. Nobody remembers why, four hundred years ago, we fled beneath the world into the great cave systems we now call the Nightlands.

     Of course, there’s not much need to mull over questions like that, not down here. Asking “how?” or “why?” wastes precious time. Spend most of your time farming, hunting, mining, tending the lights around you. Always keep the lanterns lit. To stay dark is to die.

     Now, that’s not to say we live like barbarians down here. With some work, you can eke out a decent living and have enough to feed and clothe your family, keep your lanterns lit, and still have some left over. Folks in the big cities don’t even have to worry about their own lanterns, with most of that being under the purview of the Lantern Corps.

As for myself, I run a general store in the town of Gravert’s Hollow, a small little stopover on the road between Rockhammer and Coal Port. I inherited the store from my father, and he from his father. It supplies our small little town of two hundred, and feeds the odd caravan or two when they had to make their way southerly. Occasionally some well-lit sightseer wants to catch a ship from Coal Port to see the pitch-black oceans for themselves, in which case we’re more than happy to cut them a deal.

     When the bell rang that day, the man coming in didn’t seem too awful different from any normal customer. Quiet man, a bit on the short and husky side. Seemed a bit jittery, but nothing too unusual from someone who came down the road from Rockhammer, famously ill-lit as it was. His ruffled, brown greatcoat left a faint trail of black dust as he perused the shelves, nervously adjusting his glasses and glancing intermittently at the oil lamps on the walls.

     Feeling I could lighten his mood, I tried to talk to the nervous fellow.

     “Anything I can help you to find, sir?”

     His head jolted in my direction. “Hmm? No, no, thank you. Found the mushroom jam I need right here.”

     I nodded. He walked to the counter, carrying three large jars of our jam. Fresh Ketsbury mushrooms. I totaled up his purchase. Even as I did so, he was looking at the oil lamps, wincing at every slight flicker of the light. I sighed softly.

     “They’ve just been filled, sir. Will last ‘til third cycle tomorrow, at least.”

     He seemed to calm a bit at that, managing to focus long enough to pay me for the jam. As I set the jars into a small basket for him, he produced a beat-up leather book from one of the pockets of his greatcoat, seeming as though he didn’t want to look at it.

     “Listen,” he spoke softly, “d’you know anyone who deals with books?”

     I paused, surprised.

     “Umm… McLaverty’s Bookstore just down the road.”

     “You know him?”

     “Of course.”

     The nervous man nodded. “Please take this book to him. I can’t stand to keep the damn thing one more minute. Nobody in my business wants anything to do with it.”

     “I see. I understand, sir. I’ll take it to him right away.” When I laid my hand on the book, he immediately grabbed my wrist, whispering again.

     “Listen. Please. Don’t open it. Don’t read it. There’s some things about our dark little world we don’t need to know. Now, I know what you’re thinking, so I’ll tell you this. It’s an expedition journal. That’s all you need to know.”

     He stared into my eyes intently, refusing to look away until I nodded.

     “I won’t read it, sir.”

     With that, he nodded, turning for the door.

     “Before you go, sir… Where are you going now?”

     He stopped, holding the door handle and seeming to shudder as he thought of something unpleasant. Without turning back to me, he spoke.

     “I’m catching a boat to the Salt Coast. I want to get as far north as possible.” Before I could say another word, he hurried out the door.

I sighed again, taking a look at the book on my counter. It was a fairly unassuming thing, a decently thick book bound in carved, dark brown leather. The word “Journal” struck out from the front cover. I turned to the very first page, breaking my word almost immediately.

“From the hand of Jacob Pellon,

An Account of the Expedition Most-South

Led by Thomas Magrath and Cole Stockton”

Something seemed… Off, about that. I had heard about the Magrath-Stockton Expedition quite a few months ago. A couple caravans from Rockhammer talked about it. Not much word came up our way, after that. A month or so ago, there were some real hush-hush rumors that the expedition ran into something… Unpleasant. Especially seeing as how word came up quick that all but three of the explorers never returned to town, and the three who did weren’t in any state to talk much.

Before I read any further, I closed the book and tucked it under my arm. Outside, muffled, I could hear the town’s bell ring. The twentieth time today, signaling the start of Third Cycle. Time to lock my store and head home.

I checked the mountings for my oil lamps, made sure they were full. Kept the shelves as full as I could. Locked the door behind me as I left.

As I stepped out onto the lamp-lit stone street, I decided to make my way to McLaverty’s Bookstore. It was a few hundred feet south along the main street. It occurred to me that the nervous gentleman would have to have passed the store as he came to mine. Something about his demeanor, and something about the book I held in my hand, told me he wasn’t thinking straight.

Now, at this hour, the bookstore is staffed by the third shift, a small group of teenagers working off some perceived debt to their parents. It was one of the few places in town that was always open, even if Ephraim McLaverty himself was rarely at the sales desk these days.

I frequented the bookstore, so the employees knew me by name. One of them, a pale girl from one of the mining families, saw as I came in.

“Howdy, Mr. Pembroke. Looking for anything new today?”

I shook my head. “Is Mr. McLaverty upstairs?” He lived in an apartment built above his bookstore. She nodded in response.

“Yessir. Headed up about one bell-ring ago.”

The teens quietly resumed their chatting as I mounted the well-lit stone stairs to the second story. Ephraim McLaverty was a friend of my father, and made his home welcome to me no matter the time. I knocked on his door.

He wasn’t exactly a young man, now approaching his sixtieth year, so it took him some time to answer. The heavy cave-wood door creaked open, and the elder bookstore owner peeked around, peering at me through thick glasses.

“Ah, Marshall… Come in, come in. I just made mushroom tea, would you like some?”

“Thank you, Ephraim. But I’ll pass.” I stepped into the living room. Even this far from a large city, McLaverty knew how to get his hands on books. His living room resembled a homelier version of the bookstore downstairs, with an identical pair of leather chairs situated between rows and rows of shelves. I took my seat in one, and he in the other.

“So what brings you here at this hour, my boy?” He sipped some of his tea. McLaverty only drank Peterswort tea, made from a mushroom revered for its medicinal properties despite tasting absolutely putrid.

I handed him the journal.

“Fella came in half a bell-ring ago. Gave me this. Said it was an expedition journal. Something to do with the Magrath-Stockton Expedition.”

Ephraim’s weak eyes widened with intrigue. He inquired if the man spoke any specifics about it. I shook my head.

“Didn’t say anything about it. He was real jittery, I mean real jittery. Kept looking at the lamps like they were about to go out. And he specifically told me not to read the journal, just told me to give it to a book guy like yourself.”

The elderly bookkeeper began thumbing through the wrinkled pages, his eyes darting to and fro with a speed more suited to a younger man. After a few minutes, he paused, quietly closing the journal.

“Hmm…” Ephraim gently stroked his sizable sheet-white moustache. “Go ahead and leave it here for a couple o’ days. I’ll take a look at it.”

I thanked him for his help. With a thankful handshake, I went on my way, exiting McLaverty’s apartment, then his bookstore, sending a farewell to the employees inside. The door bell jingled as I opened it, stepping onto the frigid streets outside.

———————————————————–

The following week was uneventful. Eventually, I returned to McLaverty’s shop, rather concerned. The teens working the Third Cycle shift told me that Ephraim hadn’t left his house in that time, except to order employees to buy more lamp oil.

I walked up the stone steps to his apartment.

“Ephraim!” I rapped the door. “Ephraim, it’s Marshall! Can you let me in?”

Several minutes passed. I called out again, interrupted by the sound of locks clicking. Ephraim stood before the door as it opened.

“Come in, come in my boy.” He ushered me inside, closing the door after I stepped in. I slipped my shoes off, leaving them at the side of the fireplace sitting front-and-center in his living room. A fresh pot of mushroom tea brewed quietly above the fire.

“So, Ephraim… Is there anything new you can tell me about the journal I gave you?”

“Of course, of course, but be patient.” He took a fair bit of time making a cup of tea. This time, I indulged his offer of my own cup, feeling rather parched. We both took seats in his lavish armchairs.

“Now, Marshal, the journal.” He produced it from a coat pocket, passing it into my hand. “A fascinating read, to be sure. Though I’m not quite sure what to make of it all.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired, sipping the tea and recoiling at the foul taste. Though I was very thirsty, so I continued to drink it.

     “Some of the details of this journey make note of symbology and mysticism in which I am no expert, and I won’t claim to understand all of it. For all my reading and scholarship, I am a botanist and wordsmith. Mythology is not my area of expertise.”

     “Well, is there anything specific you can tell me about what you read?” I started to really dislike the taste of the tea, but I was already committed to finishing the dreadful cup of drink.

     “It’s much the same as any explorer’s journal I’ve ever read. Magrath and Stockton, two very close friends, wanted to see how far South our little world goes. They started gathering supplies and people in the city of Ambrose.”

     Ambrose is one of the larger cities in the Nightlands, sitting comfortably between a series of iron mines and oil wells, a port, and a cave-oak forest. It was an ideal place for shipping and receiving supplies, as its port connected to the ocean that ran along the Eastern Undercoast. It came as no surprise that a pair of wealthy explorers would shore up their numbers there.

     “To skip the boring logistical information and uneventful travelling, I’ll tell you that they headed south from Dusk’s End.”

I remained silent. Dusk’s End was more than a thousand miles south of here, and was the last stop before one arrived into the Deep South. I’ve heard tell of dangerous things that live in the dark past that city. He went on to detail some of what he read, skipping over parts that seemed of no use.

“… Though,” He began to conclude, “I believe that Jacob Pellon, the man who wrote this book, went a bit mad during the journey. I’m afraid it gets more and more disjointed as it goes on, or at least that’s how it seems to me. He does make quite many references to the Hitch, in the later pages of the book. Includes some primitive symbols that are vaguely reminiscent of what I’ve seen are used today by the Heywood Disciples.

“Like I said, I’m no expert in religion and mythology. Frankly, I believe they’re one and the same, most days.” A viewpoint I personally happened to share. “However, I do know a man who is. An old friend of mine, lives down in Ambrose. He’s an expert on all things Heywoodite, knows their history like it was his own. He’d be able to better elucidate what all this talk means. Marshall, my boy… Care to do old Ephraim a favor, and bring this book to him?”

My eyes widened, and not just because I finally finished the last of the damn mushroom tea.

“You really mean it, sir?”

He nodded, smiling.

“I know you’ve never been outside of Gravert’s Hollow, as I know you always wanted to do. And nearing twenty-three, you’re still plenty young. You’re more able to make the trip than I am,” seeing the look on my face, he stopped me. “and don’t worry. I’ll have my best employees watching your store while you’re gone. Believe me, if your father had the chance himself, he would’ve done the same.”

I hugged the elder bookkeeper, beaming with an energy I hadn’t had in a while. I thanked him profusely for the opportunity.

Eventually, we had to part ways, and I made my way to my own house, book in hand, ready for what would come next.

It was the same house I’d lived in my entire life. A small, two-bedroom affair up the road from the General Store, halfway between it and a small restaurant that dealt in freshly-hunted cuisine. You could always smell the restaurant before you could see it, since most of the animals dwelling in the dark stank like the dickens – A smell similar to a mixture between fish and musk.

Today was definitely the fourth day of the week, as that was the day they served cave-cattle, six-legged blind creatures that, while usually found wild, could also be tamed for use as pack animals. They also smelled horrendous when cooked, which meant that I fumbled for my house key with one hand and clamped the other hand across my face. Getting inside provided some much-needed relief from the smell, though it still pervaded everything.

My house was fairly well-lit, with an oil lamp on each wall in the living room / kitchen combination. I tended to all seven lamps in the house before beginning preparations for my journey. In two days, as per usual, a trade caravan would come down from Coal Port on the return trip to Rockhammer. I’d be joining them as they left.

This meant travelling on the Casper Trail, a poorly-maintained road that ran the forty-or-so miles between towns.

I packed a fair bit of supplies, even though the trip with a decent caravan should only take a day or two. Four jars of jam, a loaf of black peasant bread, dried mushrooms, and salted cattle jerky. I packed four days’ worth of clothes, including a leather greatcoat my father wore for hunting. A hand lantern and three cans of oil, topped with handles for being clipped to a rucksack.

Lastly, I grabbed my father’s blunderbuss, mounted above the hearth in the living room. It was a flintlock gun, with a brass barrel and smooth-finished cave-oak stock. Along with it was a still-dry powderhorn of black powder, and a bag with two or three pounds of lead shot, both of which I made sure to pack.

Once everything was ready, I took to my bed.

Right on time, two days later, the caravan sidled into town to stop for supplies. I let one of Ephraim’s workers, now manning my store, assist them with that.

The whole group consisted of two large wooden carriages, each pulled by a team of four adult cave-cattle. All four sides of the carriages were mounted with lanterns, and the left and right sides each had three circular murder-holes for firing at anything outside of the wagon. The caravan was commanded by the driver of the lead wagon, a gruff, old man by the name of Shamal. I’d met him before, enough times for him to know my face.

“Marshall, isn’t it?” He asked as I approached, my large rucksack on my back.

“That’s correct.”

“What’s with the pack?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you, good sir.” I put on my best salesman voice.

“Let me guess… You’ve got to go somewhere, correct?” I nodded in response. “And you’ll pay your way to get there, right?” Another nod. I had planned on spending money anyway. The older man smirked.

“That’s perfectly fine by me. I don’t see enough new faces on these roads as it is. It’d be good to have some fresh blood with us.”

He instructed me to set my belongings inside the lead carriage. It was very cramped, filled with everything from food to bullets. Up towards the front was a trio of small cots bolted to the floor, enough to have three people sleeping while the remaining three continued to run the carriage.