Into the Abyss: A Prologue

By Charles Martin

Two years after waking up in the tiny village of Great Oak with no memory of where he came from or how he got there, Ishmael sets out into the world to find his answers. But with no clues to guide him, the road is ahead seems to be as murky as the one that brought him to Great Oak.
And who (or, indeed, what) is the man who calls himself the Keeper?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312672574

Charles Martin

Charles Martin is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. He and his wife, Christy, live in Jacksonville, FL. Learn more at charlesmartinbooks.com; Instagram: @storiedcareer; X: @storiedcareer; Facebook: @Author.Charles.Martin

Book preview

Into the Abyss: A Prologue

Into the Abyss: A Prologue

a novel by Charles Martin

Copyright © 2014, Charles Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-312-67257-4

Chapter 1

Night had fallen over the village of Great Oak. A gentle breeze, born in the frigid northlands, swept over the clustered roofs and sent the small branches at the tops of trees shivering as if in anticipation of storms to come.

In her house up Cenne Hill, Asha the Cenne sat in her rickety old chair by the window, gazing out at the night-shrouded village below. There was no moon and the starlight was hopelessly impotent, but she did not want for either. Almost all her evenings since becoming Cenne had been taken up with sitting in that very chair by the window, a plate of food or a cup of tea in hand – whichever suited her fancy. Now, veiled as it was in the darkness of that late summer night, she could see her beloved village as clearly as if it were a cloudless summer morning.

She took another sip of her tea and settled back in her chair, appreciating the creak and strain of the wood – like the voice of an old companion. Another day gone and soon another night would follow it. Sometimes she wondered where they had all gone, her sixty-three years. Had it not been only yesterday that she had sat by old Marthe's elbow reciting the ingredients to the most basic healing broths that every Cenne must be privy to, anticipating all the while the cane that would descend upon her wrist when she inevitable made a mistake? Asha smiled; Marthe may have been old, but even at her youngest and swiftest Asha had not been able to snatch her hand away quickly enough to avoid that cane.

Had it not been only the day before that she and Marthe had strolled over the rolling fields behind their house picking out, by eye, the manifold herbs, roots and leafs that would aid a Cenne in her duties as healer of the village? Had it not been early that very morning that she and the other girls had laughed themselves silly when Timothy Crath had fallen off a tree into the Gettybry River while showing off his climbing skills?

But that was a long time ago. They were all gone now; her mother, Marthe, Timothy; taken away either by marriage or death. Only she remained, a withered echo of the young woman who had pledged an oath in this very room to uphold the traditions of Great Oak and fight whatever illness may threaten its people.

A wind-borne leaf smiting against the window shook her out of the reverie. The withered reflection staring back at her with those pitiful, erstwhile eyes seemed almost a stranger. Did she always look so forlorn? It was no wonder some of the children were afraid of her.

The image blurred as she allowed the village beyond to dominate her vision. That was one thing that had not left her: Great Oak. It had been there long before her grandmother was in swaddling clothes, and it would be there long after she herself were nothing but a fading memory on a dying wind.

She sipped her tea, sighing as the warm brew suffused her body. She should probably get some sleep soon; it was bound to be a long day tomorrow. Old Benigh had started complaining about stomach pains. Up the hill had come the stooped old man with a speed many in the village had hitherto believed beyond the capabilities of a man of his years. He had pounded so hard on the door that she feared it would shoot off its hinges and out the other side of the house. She had refused the old fool any herbs or medicines for the time being, instead telling him to try and sleep it off, and if he felt the same the next morning, then she would reconsider. She had smiled as she watched his bent figure receding down the hill path; Old Benigh, always the loudest to curse ‘that dratted woman and her dratted herbs', and always the quickest to her door, nursing the most insignificant malaise.

The final drop of tea drained, Asha was just about to withdraw to bed when a violent series of knocks assaulted her door followed by cries of, 'Asha! Asha, open the door! Quickly!'

'Fial? Is that you?' What could the rascal want at so monstrous an hour? Her nose wrinkled as she rose; something had changed in the air: there was a foulness, a sort of metallic rancidness.

'Yes!' The voice was gasping, 'Yes, please come quick! Something’s happened at the Den!'

Rushing to the door she flung it wide, the hinges squealing at the rough treatment.

Fial Drathorn stood before her, holding up a battered old lantern. He must have left the inn in great haste; his sandy hair was unbrushed, his shirt was only half tucked into his trousers and his bare feet were muddied to the ankles. Her stomach jumped at the smell leaping off him; a sort of burning bitterness.

His face was a mask of panic in the flickering light. Hazel eyes bulged in their sockets and he was sweating despite the dying summer coolness. She also noted the black stains running like ink along the creases of the quivering hand that held the lantern aloft.

'By the names of all the stars, Fial,' Asha said. 'What is the matter?'

Fial tried to speak, but faltered. He swallowed hard, licked his lips and tried again, 'At the Den, someone’s been brought in, covered in...' he broke off, glancing down at his empty hand. Following his eyes, Asha frowned; it bore the same black stains as the other hand. 'Oh, please come, Asha!'

'Calm down, Fial,' she said. 'Who is it?'

'We don’t know,' he gasped. 'He’s not from the village. Oh, please Asha, we have to hurry.'

'All right, all right,' Asha said soothingly. 'Just let me get some items together.'

'I’ll help,' said Fial, moving to step into the house.

'Don’t think you’re setting one of those muddy feet anywhere in my house, Fial Drathorn!'

He paused, one foot hovering over the threshold. 'But we must hurry!'

'Hush up, Fial, I won’t be long. Just be a good lad and wait out there.'

She vanished into the kitchen, leaving poor Fial to stand alone in the brisk night air, shifting his weight from one foot to the other then back again, casting nervous glances back the way he had come. He really should have put on his boots. He could hear the sounds of clattering and rummaging issuing from the open kitchen door. He shivered; this had to be the coldest midsummer night of his life. Where the blazes was she? He craned his neck to try and afford a glimpse into the kitchen. Perhaps he should go in after her. He chewed his lower lip; he did not like to provoke a sleeping giant, but this was an emergency.

His mind was made up. He took a step over the threshold.

As his luck would have it, it was at that moment that Asha chose to reappear, her infamous medicine pouch slung across her shoulder.

'I thought I told you to wait outside, Fial,' she said.

He contemplated telling her that he was not technically inside, but thought better of it.

'We have to hurry, Asha. Please.'

'Well come on then,' she said, bustling him outside. The door clicked shut behind her. She produced an ancient iron key and, fitting it to the lock, twisted it. The mechanism rasped and grated. Asha was the only person in Great Oak who locked her door.

'I thought we were in a hurry, Fial?' Asha snapped, pulling her shawl tighter about her. 'Now come on,' she held out her arm. 'Help an old woman down the hill.'

Swallowing a grumble, Fial took hold of her arm and, holding the lantern high before them, led Asha down the dim, tortuous path of Cenne Hill.

#

The Fox Den was the largest building in Great Oak, humbling even Mayor Thrain’s house. Built of grey stone and capped with a roof of thickly woven thatch, it loomed three storeys over the village square.

Of course Asha and Fial could make out little of this in the feeble light of the dented old lantern. Window shutters all over the building had been closed against the night air, but slivers of firelight seeped out through cracks and splits in the woodwork obscuring the windows which the Cenne knew opened on the common room. Snatches of mumbled conversation drifted out to them as the pair mounted the doorstep. Fial did not bother to knock. He released Asha’s arm and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Not inclined to wait for the boy to stand aside on his own, Asha jostled her way passed him into the fire-lit interior.

The stench hit her like a slap. Tears leapt into her eyes and her guts squirmed like dying serpents. She pressed her palm against her nose and mouth as the tea in her stomach threatened to boil over. Had Fial not rushed to seize her arm, she was sure she would have collapsed right there. Stars above, what was that stench?

Slowly, her insides settled. Removing the hand from her face, she raised it to brush the tears from her eyes.

They had stepped into a small waiting area. Across from them was the bar. On her left, fenced off from the waiting area by a wooden railing, was the common room.

Asha dropped her eyes to the floor, swallowing down a mixture of bile and tea. There were stains everywhere, as if a cauldron leaking black tar or oil had been carted, sloshing and dripping, through the door, across the common room and up the stairs at the far end. But that stench... it did not smell like any oil or tar she had ever come across.

'What in the stars...'

'Don’t rightly know, but he was covered head to toe in it.' 

Asha looked towards the speaker. Standing behind his bar, Jarith Crath was an intimidating sight with his thickly muscled forearms folded across his deep chest and his biceps swelling impressively beneath the sleeves of his light cotton shirt. He was completely bald, save for a belt of dark brown hair that covered the sides and back of his head.

'Where is he?' Asha said.

'Cassan and father moved him upstairs,' Tarra Crath said. A very handsome woman, Tarra was Jarith’s eldest daughter. With her large warm eyes and slight frame all in the village remarked that, were it not for the brown hair inherited from her father, she would have been a perfect mirror of her deceased mother. She was also, as indicated by the healthy swell of her belly, a good six months pregnant. 'Shara stayed with him to see if she could do something about his hurts.'

'And where is Cassan?' Asha asked, searching about for Tarra's husband.

'He stayed upstairs in case Shara needed help,' Tarra said.

'Which floor?'

'First,' Jarith said. 'First door on the right.'

Without another word Asha marched into the common room, following that black sludge up the stairs.

She staggered on the small landing between the first and ground floors, overcome by a fresh wave of nausea; the stench was almost unbearable up here. The very air felt heavy and humid with it. For a few moments the world pitched before her eyes and she clutched at the railing as if fearing she would be swept away. Her stomach settled as did the world. Steeling herself, she mounted the remaining steps to emerge on the first floor hallway.

All the doors were shut except for the first on her right. As she approached it a man stepped out and though a cloth veiled the lower half of his face, she recognised the tawny hair at once.

'Cassan.'

'Asha!' Cassan Drathorn cried out, his voice muffled by the makeshift mask. 'Oh, thank the stars. Shara! She’s here.'

He disappeared back through the door for a moment and then reappeared, clutching a damp piece of cloth similar to the one he was wearing.

'Here,' he said, thrusting it out to her. 'This will help with the smell.'

Snatching it from him, Asha wrapped the strip around her mouth and nose and breathed deep. The cloth had been soaked in Silk Star sap and although it did not keep out all the foulness, enough was ebbed so that she could at least breathe comfortably.

'What is going on?' Asha demanded.

'See for yourself,' Cassan said.

The room was small, furnished with a single bed and a bedside table upon which stood a pitcher and two lit candles. A desk stood against one wall. Sitting in chair by the bed, clad in her nightdress, her mouth and nose covered with a damp cloth, was Shara Crath, Asha's own Apprentice-Cenne. In her lap she held the bowl that went with the pitcher.

There was also a long black staff in a corner she did not recognise as belonging to anybody in the household.

But all this was peripheral. The full measure of her attention was devoted to the man on the bed.  

His coat was torn and frayed in several places and his boots were scuffed through the uppers. She could not see much more than that; every inch of him was drenched in that noisome black foulness. It pasted his clothes to his skin and his shoulder-length hair hung like a wet mop around his head. His breathing was loud and frantic, as if he were fighting a fever.

'Asha,' Shara said, standing respectfully. The strong smell of Silver Star sap emanated from the bowl the younger girl held and Asha could see strips of cloth floating in the clear fluid.

'Well?' The Cenne came forward, pressing the mask so hard against her face she could taste the bitter sap.

'There’s nothing seriously wrong with him,' Shara said as if this were one of her lessons. 'A few cuts and bruises, but nothing life threatening.'

Asha reached a tentative hand towards the stranger’s face, then paused, fingers curling and uncurling. 

'It doesn’t burn,' Shara answered her unasked question.

Asha laid her palm over his forehead and gasped: the sludge was ice cold and slick as melted lard. Strange, then, that he was not shivering; he should be having fits with stuff this cold. 

She did not dwell too long on the matter. There would be time for questions later. Rummaging through her pouch she withdrew a small phial, unstopped it, and pitched the contents between his parted lips. He swallowed. It was a simple potion, one that would calm his heart; bring his breathing back to normal. Imagine then her shock when his eyes snapped open and, swift as the lash of a cat, his hand shot towards her, seizing the neck of her dress so hard she heard the tear of fabric.

Shara let out a cry, the bowl clattering to the floor, spilling its fragrant contents around their feet. Fury, primal and savage as the wolf, boiled within his eyes. When he spoke the words were hot and venomous, spittle frothing between clenched teeth: 'Where is he? He can't escape! Not this time! He...'

Asha never panicked, never once cried out. Only dimly was she aware of Shara trying to force the stranger’s shoulders down to the mattress and of Cassan clutching and wrenching in futile desperation at the fingers that gripped like a vice at the neck of her dress. There was an intangibility about the two of them; as if a part of her had been pulled out of the world they occupied into one where only she and the man on the bed were real. Placing a soothing hand upon the arm that held her, she whispered: 'It’s all right, you’re safe now.'

The madness in his eyes retreated, like morning mists parting before the first rays of the sun. Tranquillity tempered his features as the strength withered from his fingers. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed in a weary heap against the sheets.

Chapter 2

The morning came clear and bright, stirring to life the farms and villages strewn across Shiloeh Valley. Everywhere, women, in their plain dresses and scarves wrapped tightly across their foreheads, threw open their shuttered windows to welcome the brisk air into their homes. Great dogs stretched the last fragments of sleep out of their stiff limbs, jowls creaking open in whimpered yawns. Cats longed in doorways or perched atop windowsills, coolly detached, wrapped as they were in their own little feline worlds.

Great Oak bristled with activity as the villagers settled into their morning routines. Wil the butcher could be seen in his small dark shop hacking away at the firm red meat with raw abandon (although he had spent a lifetime assuring people that it was a duty that called upon the ‘utmost precision and skill’). Mayor Thrain stretched in the doorway of his commodious house wearing the bright purple top hat that he had picked up years ago off a rickety old merchant’s stall and had since come to be accepted as a symbol of his office. Serth the blacksmith, with his great walrus moustache and bald head, heaved open the great window of his forge wherein his wife worked furiously at the bellows.

All three: mayor’s house, butcher’s shop, and blacksmith’s forge, overlooked the village square. Right in the middle of which, surrounded by four stone benches, grew a large oak tree. Old Benigh sat at his usual spot on one of the benches watching the passers-by with keen eyes whose edge had not dulled with age. Many people felt a type of pity for the old man, sitting there on his bench, leaning on his crooked walking stick, and watching life flow by him day in and day out. But those people were outsiders so they could not possibly know, let alone understand, that Old Benigh actually enjoyed the current trend of his life, in his own way. He enjoyed watching folk pass by, enjoyed their friendly greetings and well-wishes. But to a passing wayfarer he appeared as gnarled and indifferent as the great oak that loomed up behind him. 

Many outsiders on their first trip through the village were under the impression that it was this oak tree, called Youngster, from which the village derived its name. They were wrong, for there are two oak trees in Great Oak. The second grows atop Cenne Hill and is named Elder. A titan of a tree, Elder rose proud and imposing against the sky, as it had long before there was ever a village called Great Oak. In the shadow of the sheltering boughs of this silent sentinel reposed Cenne House; a large yet modest construction of pale grey stone.

It was on this particular morning that Shara Crath emerged from Cenne House, her crimson hair gleaming like fire in the young sunlight, clay jars and phials rattling in the small wicker basket on her arm.

'And don't forget, Shara; a phial of entweed in the morning, and one in the evening,' Asha the Cenne followed her out onto the step. 'That should keep him healthy until he wakes up.'

'Yes, Asha,' Shara said. They had been over all this already, but one did not presume to instruct the Cenne on how to dispense her advice.

Asha sighed. 'Are you sure it was gone, Shara? All of it?'

'Every last drop, Asha. We woke up this morning and all the black stuff was just gone.'

'You're sure you checked everywhere?'

'I'm telling you, Asha, we looked all over. Common room, stairway, doorstep, everywhere. Even his sheets were dry.'

'And the smell?'

Shara shrugged, 'Gone. As if it had never been.'

'Strange,' the Cenne said. She did not doubt Shara's word on the matter – the girl had a sharp wit and a quick mind. If she said there was nothing to be found, then that was how it was.

'And our patient?' Asha inquired.

'No change,' Shara said. 'At least not when I looked this morning.'

Asha nodded, but the troubled look did not leave her eyes.

'Where do you think he came from?'

'I don't know, Shara,' Asha said. 'Go home. Give him a dose of entweed. I'll check up on his progress later.'

'Good morning, Asha.'

'And don't forget your lessons this evening,' Asha called after her.

'I won't.'

The Cenne retreated inside, slamming her door behind her. Asha did like slamming doors.

Shara took a long, deep breath of morning air. It felt good to be out and about at this time of day. Her work waiting tables at The Den had never allowed her many opportunities to indulge in the outdoors, but now, with Tarra's pregnancy being as advanced as it was, Shara was more or less imprisoned within the walls of her father's inn. So she relished this moment.

She had always loved the view from atop Cenne Hill. From here, the entire village sprawled out below her; every house, every garden, every path, every square-inch of earth with its own story to tell. Someone could have pointed out a house at random and she would have been able to tell them a tale or two.

She could have told them of the Brohms and their son who had run off when he had been no more than seventeen summers old to marry a Calaharian girl. She could have told of the Kursh family and their daughter, who could carry a note like an angel. There was the Dalen family who lived in that large house at the southern end of the village for a few months of the year; horse owners with a few ranches down south. Good folk, the Dalens, if a bit reclusive. A few decades before Shara's birth, the Dalens and others like them had struck it rich when the Horse Plague swarmed across the northern territories. Desperate, the Royal Army turned to the southern lands for fresh stock. No price was too high and a few ranchers retired early. 

So many families, so many stories.

Blowing a stray lock of her fiery hair from her face, Shara set off down the hill, jars and phials rattling as she went.

#

She had not yet set foot in Youngster's Square when she found herself beset by a mob of the village’s young ones. The small children of Great Oak had always loved the Crath daughters, but since Tarra’s marriage only Shara had been left with enough time for the little ones. Cries of ‘Auntie Shara’ from boys in shirts and trousers and girls in cotton blouses and dresses filled the air.

'Auntie Shara, do you have a story for us today?' they shouted.

'Not this morning,' Shara said, beaming as she knelt amongst them. She did miss spending time with the children, but with her alone to wait tables at the inn there was simply no time. 'But tell you what; if you all promise to behave yourselves today, I’ll have one ready for tomorrow. How does that sound?'

There were smiles and nods and promises of good behaviour all around. It would take some talking, but she was sure she could convince her father to give her an hour off. The children loved Shara's stories, and the reward of one had always been ample incentive against misbehaving.

Old Benigh grumbled from his bench under the oak.

Shara exchanged a knowing glance with the children before standing up, 'And good morning to you too, Master Benigh.'

The old man swept his sharp little eyes across the younglings, who tried their hardest to look at anything else. 'You ought to be more firm with that lot, if ye ask me, girl,' he rasped.

'Now why would you say that, Master Benigh?' Shara inquired.

Benigh grunted, 'Sneaky little sots came a-knocking at my door yesterday morning, then ran off afore I could answer.' He grunted again, 'It don’t do, ye know? Treating a man o’ my age such.'

Shara turned to the little rascals around her, eyes stern. She had always said that Benigh and children shared a love-hate relationship: they loved to provoke him and he hated that.

'All right,' she said to her group, placing her hands on her hips. 'Who was at Master Benigh’s house yesterday?'

A dozen small arms simultaneously pointed to little Harold Walthern, Serth’s boy. Shara lowered her brows at the boy; she might have known. She knelt down in front of Harold, who lowered his head and stared dejectedly at the ground between his feet.

'Harold?' Shara said.

There was no response. He dug the toes of one foot in the dirt between two cobblestones.

'Harold,' Shara said again. 'Did you go knocking at Master Benigh’s door?'

Again there was no response and Shara feared she was going to have to get stern with the boy, but just then he gave the faintest of nods.

'Then you're going to have to apologise,' Shara said.

'I'm sorry,' Harold mumbled.

'Not to me, Harold,' Shara said. 'To Master Benigh.'

He looked at her as though she had just told him the world was going to end. Backing away a step, he shook his head vigorously