Frank Penny & The Well of Darkness

By Jeremy Elson

There's something in the forest. Something hidden. Something ungodly. Something to shake you in your boots. A place where only the lost and forgotten dwell, where death and terror lurk and where only a fool would care to step.

Will Frank, Cas, Gabby and Anya be reckless enough to try and uncover what lies within, to discover the secret tha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oddsocks Puddles Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739661311

Book preview

Before      The Wildfire

She’d pretend to be asleep. Every night. Every endless night, while her nerves burned. And her mother would sit or lie next to her on whatever bed she found herself in this time, her gentle fingers ghosting through her untethered hair, thinking she was dreaming with the carefree abandon of all young girls.

She’d feel the comfort of her fingertips; tender, unhurried, the very opposite of the lives they led. Then the warmth of her tears and the hard edge of concealed sobs, caught in her throat, in a shallow attempt to keep them inside in case her daughter should hear.

She heard them all. Enough weeping to fill two lifetimes.

So she’d pretend, just another easy lie for a young girl, not understanding just how out of reach sleep really was. But she did it for her mother, to absorb her mother’s pain, the depth of which she would never understand.

She’d stay for an hour, sometimes more, until her father beckoned her away from the bedside, her warm lips brushing her cheek.

Every night. Every endless night. Pretending. Her mother’s tears stretching her wakefulness into the early hours.

Sometimes she’d sit at the top of the stairs and listen to her parent’s hushed conversations, their whispers muddling her young mind, her world, her complicated world that young girls should never have to inhabit.

‘I won’t let it curse her like it’s cursed me,’ her mother whispered, concern pitiful and heavy on her fractured voice. ‘Not my child.’

She had never understood, not back then and not now, now that she was older. Exclusion had been her constant companion. But she knew, as all children do, that a curse was not a thing to be welcomed, not in her house, not in her short life.

Her mother would fret endlessly about the smallest things, about everything, about nothing, and rarely went out, preferring to confine herself to the house where she’d prowl the floor like a caged animal, constantly chewing her fingernails, pulling at the edge of the curtains. Her only respite when she played her lyre. Even then, there was nothing remotely joyous in the melodies which strung themselves throughout the house like songs from tortured souls, so she’d go out or confine herself to her room with silent pleas for them to stop.

They moved from house to house, never stopping in one place long enough for her to make any friends, the way that normal children do. At first it all seemed like a great adventure, new places, new worlds, a different town, different country but their lives always beating to the same unbearable, nervous rhythm.

But as she got older and able to think and act for herself, the constant changes became increasingly difficult to bear.

The clashes with her mother increased in regularity and in venom. Arguments that shed tears, her mother’s tears. Her face clouded by ghosts, her body burdened as if her spirit had been broken by a weight that she was never fit to carry, never letting go of the reason why. The distance between them began to grow like a twisting vine, pushing slowly and unnoticed until they were strangers in the same house; she would sit in her own room, her own world, her escape, and dream of a life when she was old enough, away from her suffocating mother. Alone. Free. Happy.

So she waited, and pretended to be asleep.

Then she burst into her world. Like a wayward meteor. Full of colour and laughter.

A chance meeting by the lake where she lived and she was completely hooked. She was everything she’d ever wanted to be, the image she’d tried so desperately hard to see in the mirror day after day but always failed; the life she’d led in her head for a long as she could remember. Anti-establishment, unafraid, hopelessly carefree with a beauty beyond her teenage dreams. Becky wasn’t like wildfire – she was wildfire. Completely untamed. Completely feral. Completely without boundaries. No more than a few days in her company and rebellion bit her hard; sending her beyond the margins of unruly, the confines of the years spilling out in a new found confidence on the heels of the young maverick that had entered her life, uninvited. They immediately became best friends, completely inseparable; tearing up the neighbourhood like unruly twins with no thought or heed of the consequences.

Becky taught her. Skills and secrets no one else could possibly have imagined or understood. But she did, as if something had lay buried beneath her skin waiting to be discovered by this gorgeous rebel. They grew together; the perfect couple and, for the first time, she began to create a thin but sweet layer of normality as the blank pages of her life story began to fill with the vivid colour it had always lacked. Until now.

And her adolescent fire was lit. She felt her skin spark and her blood ignite just at the thought of being with her. The way she played with her wild blonde hair, slow and sultry, twisting it around her fingers as she spoke; the way she teased her tongue between her teeth when she smiled; the way she’d throw her head back and laugh with unedited abandon and the way she moved her small, slender figure like a the stem of a lily in the breeze.

When they weren’t together her stomach churned, tightening at their separation, restless for the nights to end so she could consume herself with her newly-discovered treasure once more.

The days together seemed without end, time spent walking around the lake, swimming naked in the cold water, touching the goose-bumps on each other’s young skin, feeling the warm ache of desire amidst the long, cold, innocent touch. The deep long look in her eyes that spoke a thousand words of how she felt.

The first kiss had set her alight, turning her bones to ice and fire at the same time; lasting for a lifetime but over too soon. Unfamiliar, yet like she’d known it forever and all the time she kept wondering how long the dream would last. They’d lay on Becky’s bed in the tiny cottage by the lake, gazing into the aching depths each other’s eyes and swore to each other that nothing would tear them apart. Ever.

And Becky’s mother wasn’t like her own; the short, hardy woman whose gruff curses easily concealed her kindness let them do just as they pleased, with a freedom even her dreams couldn’t begin to conjure. She would always vouch for them, when the authorities came knocking, on the occasions when they weren’t caught and hauled back home where her own mother would show her usual lack of understanding.

But this time her family stayed. Maybe it was because her mother saw a new colour in her daughter. A spark of starlight about which she could never ask and although her mother remained anxious, the summer passed in the kind of idyllic freedom she’d always believed was reserved for others.

But then the winds changed.

As the days darkened, so did her mother. She could sense the change at home, in her mother’s behaviour. Sense the unsettling atmosphere, the familiar signposts and the pathway to which they pointed. The increase in the cleaning, the lack of melody through the house from her mother’s playing, more standing at the window watching as the invisible spectre that forever followed them neared, threatening to call.

The day had been soft and green, spent by the shimmering crystal of the lake, the fading early autumn sun keeping them from the eyes of the world. They laid down their unbreakable bond, writing it, encircling it with a magical heart, believing it could never be broken. She’d kept one half, Becky the other, two parts of the same token, understood by those who knew the true meaning of their love. She would keep it always, its touch reminding her of what it was like to be so alive in the arms of another. But Becky’s perfection left her unprepared as she skipped through the front door, to be confronted by her father packing their things into the worn and scuffed cases that told the story of a life drifting on the wind. Her life.

She took the stairs two at a time, finding her mother in her bedroom. She stood in the door and felt the anger on her skin. She could barely make eye contact, but her mother didn’t stop, stalking her room to pack her clothes, making no attempt at tidiness, the drawers left open and hanging.

‘I’m not going.’ She could taste the bitterness in her words. Her mother’s haunted eyes just looked through her, to the unpacked clothes in the drawer and kept on. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going.’

‘You don’t have a choice, we have to.’

‘Where are we going?’ Her question met with silence. ‘Why? Why do we have to move all the time?’ Her mother’s weary, lifeless eyes stopped on her.

‘You wouldn’t understand; you’re —’

She snapped, her voice high, wielded like a razor. ‘What? What am I? Still a child?’ Her mother’s face tensed. ‘Only because you still treat me like one,’ she shrieked. ‘I’m nearly sixteen.’

‘I said…’

‘I heard what you said.’ She felt her blood start to simmer, her fists clench at her sides. ‘What’s this all about, Mum. What are you so afraid of?’ She pinned her eyes on her mother. A stare that wished her dead. Her mother flinched but still refused to share the burden she carried. Only the sound of heavy breathing fractured the silence. Her mother went for the door, but still she blocked the way.

‘I don’t want to go. I have a life here now, a friend. My first real friend.’

‘I’m sorry, but we leave in the morning, it’s too dangerous here.’

Her emotions boiled over. ‘I hate you. I wish you were dead.’ No regrets at her words, designed to more than wound. ‘I’ll stay. Stay with Becky. I’d do anything for her and she’d do anything for me.’

Her mother stopped, looked lost in her thoughts but, before she could answer, the pile of clothes was knocked from her arms and the doorway emptied.

She’d fled the house. Desperate tears swept down her face as she ran, ran all the way to the little cottage by the lake, to the only person who truly understood her.

She pressed herself into her arms. Her last evening breathing in Becky’s beauty; her golden braids and blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight. She couldn’t bring herself to look into them, couldn’t bear that her mother would tear her from her salvation as if she were ripping at her heart, but that’s how she felt. In Becky she had been rescued but now, lying next to her on the warm grass by the lake, perhaps for the last time, she felt truly alone.

‘You’re troubled,’ Becky said. An observation rather than a question. Her eyes burned as she forced a smile; tears ran hot and fast down her pale cheeks and her resolute emotional wall, unerring throughout her childhood, crumbled under Becky’s sweet smile. There was no judgement, no questions as she held her and kissed the tears from her face, each a reminder of what she was going to lose. She told her everything – of the unknown reason for her mother’s torment, how her feelings crushed in from both sides at the thought of being prised from the girl she’d found and loved; the pity she felt for a life on the run and how she could rip her mother’s throat out at the same time for taking her away from the only whisper of happiness she’d known. As she listened, Becky stroked her face so gently she could barely feel it, yet it set her alight.

‘I wish she was dead,’ she said. ‘Dead. So I could stay here, with you.’

Becky paused, then ran her fingertips over the worried lines of her brow, over her cheeks and breathed the words gently.

‘You know I’d do anything for you,’ she said, her warm breath moistening her ear, the barest touch of her lips sending a single hot shiver through her.

‘I know,’ she said, her words barely audible over the slight ripple of breeze on the water. Becky sat up and held her head between her hands, turning her face towards her, locking her eyes with a hard intensity that made her freeze, made her feel a little frightened without knowing why.

‘No, you don’t understand.’ Despite the sweet smile, Becky’s voice was suddenly serious. ‘I mean it. Anything.’

1      The Rage

Frank pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to slow his breathing; tried to hollow out the dark anger in his head, tried to make it bleed quickly from him. The glass jar lay smashed against the wall, the spilled liquid on the floorboards leaching like a dark phantom towards him. He got to his feet and paced the small bedroom, grabbing at his hair, then dumping himself down on the bed again, the sliver of early morning light that the curtains let through ran down his face; an angry scar.

The vile image he’d just thrust away started to hunt him; a restless beast, snarling at his heels. He was unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to believe that Blackburn’s clever formula had revealed he was the son of Dagmar Dag. Relentless hot emotion surged through him, unabated; pitching him sideways and he could never imagine it stopping.

He jumped to his feet again, hesitating before punching the wall, feeling unusual comfort in the pain. He punched again, letting out the shout that brewed in his lungs. And again, then leaned his head against the wall, knocking his forehead gently, eyes tight shut to will away the horror. Still the image taunted him, wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t let itself be unseen. He licked at the grazed knuckle, sucking on the sweetness as he bled.

He caught his reflection in the mirror. He stared, focused; unfocused. The face was familiar but in the few minutes that had lain waste to his existence he didn’t recognise himself, didn’t know who he was anymore. Rage ran hot under his skin, bending his mind in different directions. They lied; they were all liars. And his dad was the greatest liar of them all.

Despite the hour he was tired to his guts. A heavy consuming tiredness that clung to his skull and fogged his mind. The pressure inside his head was unbearable. He needed air, something to cleanse him. He needed to get out but, more than anything, he needed someone who could make sense of all of this, who could give him answers he couldn’t hope to find by himself, who could tell him this wasn’t happening, to stop his young life disintegrating before his eyes before it was too late. But there was only one person who could tell him but, at that moment, he could never imagine setting eyes on him again, so deep and red was his rage.

He grabbed his bag and headed downstairs, taking two steps at a time, thunder in every thud of his feet. Knox would be arriving soon, tasked with taking him back to Smithwood. He wouldn’t go. Not for all the gold in Byeland.

He was relieved to find that Polly was in the shop at the front, preparing for opening but Maddy sat at the table with another girl, doing a jigsaw. Both looked up as he rushed into the room; Maddy’s reluctant smile and the smear of freckles on the other girl’s face looked back at him. Neither spoke.

‘Can you tell your mum I’m going to stay at my gran’s for a bit,’ he said, hoisting his bag further on to his shoulder and turning towards the back entrance, flexing his hand against the pain.

‘But aren’t you going home today?’

Frank looked at Maddy and had to stop the anger in him biting at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not,’ before turning and heading out.

‘But what about Mr Knox…’

But Frank had gone, out into the street, into the warmth of the mid-morning, determination in his steps, trying to clear the thick fog of confusion that wouldn’t leave him.

The side streets around Murgatroid square were quiet, although had they been as crammed as they were during the week of the festival, Frank wouldn’t have noticed. He stopped. People passed unnoticed as he wondered what he was going to do. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go to his gran’s, he wasn’t certain where he was headed, he just felt like he was falling, not knowing when he was going to hit the ground. He began to wander aimlessly through the streets of Rhaeder; familiar, yet he felt like a stranger, a stranger in his own life peering helplessly in at the shambles, at the aftermath of the disaster yet to be picked through.

He walked up Iron Lane and stopped at the edge of the marble plaza, looking over to the academy and the great stone vulture that kept guard. Just looking at the place made him boil, simmering hatred for the place that had brought him into contact with the Simbrian, with Dagmar, with everything he now despised. He grabbed a small rock from the ground and headed across the plaza and, once within reach of the huge statue he hurled it with as much venom as he could muster. It bounce off the underside of the vulture with little more than a faint thud. It was laughing at him, they were all laughing at him. Well, he didn’t need them and they could all go to hell.

2      The Love Letter

The view across the lake began to take the edge off his anger. The gentle hills that ascended on either side were soft and green and flecked with pink and purple from the heather, reflected perfectly across the water’s rippled surface. He sat, arms folded across his knees and felt the cool of the breeze that blew down the valley, caressing his face, a soothing balm that brought some calm away from the confines of the town. His eye was drawn to the flitting of a dragonfly as it skimmed the water. Everything looked just as it should, but everything was different.

‘Frank?’ He turned; his gran stood at her back door, her squinting eyes fixed on him. He turned his head towards her, gave her the briefest of looks and turned back to the lake, unsurprised at the brusque footsteps that followed, approaching him from behind. ‘I thought you were going home today?’

‘Well, I decided to stay for a bit.’ He didn’t look at her, but could sense her stare on him. He imagined the shrug in her shoulders as she turned and headed back to the cottage.

‘I’ll get you some cake,’ she said.

Frank stayed looking across the water. He stood, picking up a handful of large stones scattered at his feet. He threw the first one in, then another, harder, more venom in the recoil of his arm. Then the next, until he’d thrown them all and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears and his short breath through his nose. He closed his eyes, tried to relax and stop the gradual fraying of his emotions, then headed into the cottage.

His gran had some limewater and fruit cake on the table, as if she knew he’d come in, given time. If she’d seen him trying to bust the lake with the rocks she didn’t say anything and he found the quiet of her kitchen calming. None of this was her fault, so he tried to push the events of the morning from his mind.

‘I see Phanderas has gone then.’ He couldn’t have missed the huge black stag, even if his mind wasn’t entirely focused. His gran nodded as she stood at the sink, carelessly bashing some empty dishes as she washed them up.

‘Got himself up and off to unwanted island yesterday,’ she said. ‘Best place for him and Menetti will look after him, although I was getting used to having him around the place.’ She turned and grabbed a tea-towel. ‘Something on your mind?’ She didn’t look at him or break the rhythm of her voice. Frank just took a bite of cake. Iris didn’t appear concerned about his lack of response, instead, she grabbed a crust of bread and, stepping to the back door, threw it out into the early afternoon sun where Ingozi lay against the outside wall. She paused, her eyes staring to the lake, before turning to him.

‘You know, your dad’ll be worried if you don’t go home,’ she said. Frank felt himself tense. ‘If you’ve got a problem with him, you’d best talk it over.’ He avoided her old weather-beaten eyes, giving her all the confirmation she needed. She let out a breath through her nose. ‘Never mind. Anyway, I’ve got something interesting for you. I found something that belonged to your mother.’

With a seamless flick of her unusual conversation skills, she veered Frank to the nearest side-street and down the road of a completely different subject, whether by design or not Frank couldn’t really tell as she carried her diminutive frame through into the living room.

Frank stuffed some more cake into his mouth and followed her in to see her reaching for a small box on a shelf. She sat in her old wooden chair and placed the box in her lap. She looked at it, holding it still in her hands with unusual care like it might disintegrate if she dropped it. She rubbed the tips of her fingers over the polished wooden lid which was inlaid and patterned with orange and black intertwining circles. Her fingers followed the pattern with just the faintest of sounds, like a whisper on a still night.

‘These are the letters your dad wrote to your mum.’ She didn’t look up. Frank stared at the box, thoughts of Dagmar slipping silently, unnoticed, from his thoughts. ‘I found them the other day when I was clearing out one of my bedroom cupboards. I’ve not read very many, just a few to know what they are. Not really a mother’s place to read her daughter’s personal things. I’d never look at her diary when she was a teenager. It’s important for kids to have their secrets; I’m sure it’s the same with you.’ She raised her eyes, then held the box out to Frank.

He took it gently, embracing it as he would an injured bird. The corners of the lid were worn and scuffed, faded with wear, from his mother’s touch. He lifted the lid up an inch, peering through the thin gap into the dark interior. The dull, fusty scent of aged paper rose in the air, making him sniff. He flipped the box open, breathing in the heartache of a stash of treasure he never imagined he’d get to see. The underside of the lid was lined with patterned paper the shade of daffodils.

He looked at the top piece of paper; scruffy black ink, smudged in places, filled the page. Blots, large and small punctuated the spidered lettering that slanted to the right. Unmistakeably his dad’s handwriting; he recognised it immediately and was instantly brushed with both the tender shiver of fondness and the crimson burn of resentment. He lifted it from the box and scanned it quickly, turning it over. The letter was a single sheet, written on one side, the other blank. The letter started with My sweetheart Becky and was signed with a simple letter L, together with a small, badly drawn heart.

His grandmother looked on in awkward silence.

‘Do you mind if I take these outside?’ said Frank.

‘I think that would be for the best, Frank,’ she said with a thick slice of relief. ‘No good having your grandmother looking over your shoulder when any fool should know these are best read on your own. I hope they’ll show you how much they meant to each other. Go on. It’s a lovely day. You take your time, Frank; come back when you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere.’

Frank put the letter back in the box and closed the lid. Given what he’d just found out, his gran’s timing could have been better. Nevertheless, he gave his gran a fond, thankful smile and went outside into the sunshine and over to the lakeside, sitting on his favourite fishing spot.

The day glowed warm and pleasant, the heat wave during the festival had waned and there was a slight, comforting breeze that picked at his hair. Ingozi followed Frank out and plonked himself clumsily on the warm flat rock next to Frank, looking out from under his saggy black brow. Frank put the box down on the rocks beside him. He leaned down and brushed the surface of the water, feeling its cooling balm. A small fish rose to kiss his fingers, then darted to the depths.

He sat for a few minutes, gearing himself up before the inevitable foray into the contents of the box. His long breaths told him he wasn’t sure he was ready to see the most intimate jottings from his dad. His dad? He wasn’t sure he even knew what that meant anymore.

Frank looked down to the box, catching Ingozi’s eye.

‘What are you looking at?’ The dog raised its eyes. Frank huffed and picked the box up, flipping the lid open, running his fingers along the edge of the yellow lining paper before lifting the pile of letters out.

There were about two dozen in all. Frank read each one, taking his time to draw in the most personal words of his teenaged father. The passion within them stirred something in Frank, the depth of feeling his dad had for his mum was undeniable. And she’d kept them all, she hadn’t discarded them like they were just the jottings of a love-struck young man. Each one was carefully folded and placed inside the box away from the prying eyes of her mother. The final one was short:

Becky,

Please don’t go.

If you do, I don’t know what I’ll do. The thought of not seeing you again is tearing me apart.

I know you don’t love him.

Please stay. Please.

L

There it was, with a palpable sense of pleading. He didn’t need to stretch his mind too far to know what it was about, where his mum was going, and who she was going to. Frank re-read and re-read, felt himself wrestling with his thoughts, wondering what their relationship was really like, what had happened to drive her across the border and into the arms of Dagmar. The letter made it seem very real.

He grasped the lid and went to shut the box but, as he did, he caught his thumbnail under the patterned paper, cursing to himself as it tore slightly. He swore again; the box had survived for years with his gran but ten minutes with him and he’d already damaged something beyond precious.

He pushed the paper back up, hoping it would stick back to the lid but it was no good. He’d have to fix it. He gave it a close inspection, checking the damage and trying to console himself that he’d be able to repair it when he noticed something unusual between the lining and the lid; the corner of a slip of paper nestled innocently in the opening he’d carelessly created.

He turned the box up and gave it a slight shake to move the trapped piece of paper forward. After a few further gentle shakes, the corner of the trapped paper protruded slightly from the gap in the lining, enough for him to tease it between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled at it gently, but it was immediately apparent it was too big to fit through. With no other option, he gave a sigh and carefully tore the lining paper along the edge and eased out the hidden sheet. He paused for a moment, staring at the single folded sheet of paper clasped tightly between his thumb and forefinger, wondering why his mum might have kept it hidden, then slowly opened it up.

He wasn’t sure what he would find but, as he unfolded it, he realised it was just another handwritten letter. He thought it might have just got stuck inside the lid lining and had stayed there ever since, long forgotten amongst its paper companions – but the lining had been sealed.

Frank shrugged and was about to place it back in the box with the others when he realised there was something different about it. The handwriting – it wasn’t his dad’s, it was written in a different hand. This time, the script was neat and upright, vaguely familiar although he couldn’t recall exactly where, or if, he’d come across it before. And there was something else. Although the message appeared complete, the page had been torn in half, the bottom section missing. He read:

Becky

My first love

You are my breath, my blood, my bones.

Our bond will not break.

Whenever we are apart, we shall never be.

The hand of the earth and the breath of the wind both bear witness to this solemn vow.

As I am you and you are me.

Forever, without end.

He absorbed the prose, the words a thing of beauty, the bare passion and emotion, a window into the soul of whoever wrote them. He couldn’t imagine writing something so simple yet so intricate to anyone, not even Libby. He noticed how the ends of the y’s looped in an unusual way and the i’s were topped with small circles rather than dots. It looked like the work of a talented artist.

Encircling the writing was a large, hand-drawn red heart, incomplete where the paper had been torn in two across the centre of the page. Frank prised the lid lining open to see if the other half had got stuck inside, he shook it with a couple of sharp jolts. Without the paper packing the inside of the thin compartment, something else moved inside the lid; not paper, something small but solid, heavier. He shook it some more until a small, coin sized object fell from the box, bounced on his lap and sank in the shallows of the lakeside with a hollow splash, sending ripples out across the surface of the water.

Frank bent down quickly as the tiny waves cleared and dipped his hand into the cool water, feeling its bite, grabbing the object as it lay, blurred and innocent, under the water. He pulled it out and opened his hand, familiarity jolting him as he looked down on the black disc, edged in gold – a Dahke pass. Exactly like the one Dagmar had given him in Kzarlac weeks before, the strange permit that would allow unrestricted and unquestioned access and travel in and across Kzarlac to anyone who produced it.

He rubbed his thumb across the wet surface, feeling the relief of the scorpion image on one side, then turned it over. The token bore the number one – the first Dahke pass? Was that right? Whatever he thought, this vanished any doubt he might have had that his mum had been to Kzarlac. There was simply no other way she would have come to possess it. A potent symbol of her past, of his past and he suddenly felt a separation from his dad, a wide chasm that he might find impossible to bridge and, despite the words, both spoken and unspoken in his letters to his mum, the rage started to bubble beneath his skin. However much he tried not to think about it, he felt the pull of his new-found connection to Kzarlac and the lure of the Simbrian and Dagmar’s promise of bounty beyond his wildest dreams.

Dagmar, the image he couldn’t dispel. Telling him time and time again through his ruthlessness that his dad was a coward, that Frank didn’t really know him and now the feeling burned as bright as the orange streak in his hair. Dagmar was right, he didn’t really know anything.

He inspected the scorpion symbol, his mind taking him back to the chamber where he’d witnessed the awesome power first-hand and wondered if the signposts in his short life pointed