The Well Below the Valley, Episode 5: And There Is Nothing Green That Remains

A bleak, leafless tree against a sepia-toned sky. Text reads: Space Whales Press presents The Well Below the Valley, an audio drama

Dramatis Personae
(in order of appearance)

Dr. ERNEST Wilde, a man of reason caught up in an unreasonable set of circumstances. Male, early 30s, Northern English accent.

FREYDÍS Emundrsdóttir, a woman with questions. Female, late 20s, slight Icelandic accent.

KURT Cross, an actor and detective perpetually unlucky in love. Male, early 30s, New York accent.

Detective Chief Inspector ISKANDAR Meshkia, a stranger in a strange land. Male, late 30s, strong Turkish accent.

William “WILL” Grey, bartender and host to several of London’s strangest characters. Male, late 20s, London accent.

Eloise “ELLIE” Westmont, private investigator, photographer, picker of locks, and actress in her own right. Female, mid 20s, posh English accent.

NIGEL Blackthorne, established ranter on a particular street corner. Male, early 30s, posh British accent.

Constable John TAYLOR, a useful tool for an unseen force. Male, early 20s, London accent.

Scene 1: Int. University of London laboratory – Day

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The Well Below the Valley, Episode 4: Lost Daughters

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Dramatis Personae
(in order of appearance)

Professor Josef DIETRICH, colleague of the murder victim. Male, mid 40s, German accent.

Detective Chief Inspector ISKANDAR Meshkia, a man who has held many titles in his life but none more important than “Baba.” Male, late 30s, strong Turkish accent.

Dr. ERNEST Wilde, botanist and puzzle enthusiast. Male, early 30s, Northern English accent.

Eloise “ELLIE” Westmont, a private investigator of many skills. Female, mid 20s, posh English accent.

FREYDÍS Emundrsdóttir, the late professor’s next of kin. Female, late 20s, slight Icelandic accent.

The memory of MUSTAFA Effendi, Iskandar’s childhood friend, now deceased. Male, early 30s, could speak with a Turkish or English accent.

The memory of HALIME, a princess in her father’s eyes, now deceased. Female, about five years old, could speak with a Turkish or English accent.

Mrs. JUDITH Rosenfeld, who was very proud the day she installed a telephone in her building. Female, late 40s, slight Yiddish accent.

EMILIA Niyazova, flapper and velocipedist. Female, early 20s, slight Russian (actually Kazakh) accent.

Constable John TAYLOR, just doing his job. Male, early 20s, London accent.

Constable ANTONY St. John, fencing enthusiast and important alibi. Male, early 30s, London (specifically Estuary) accent.

Chief Superintendent Winston PEMBROKE, Sr., a representative of the system. Male, early 60s, English accent with audible mustache.

Scene 1: Int. Oxford Faculty of History – Day

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The Well Below the Valley, Episode 3: Oxford

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Dramatis Personae
(in order of appearance)

KURT Cross, car owner and actor on his current most steady job. Male, early 30s, New York accent.

Eloise “ELLIE” Westmont, the only actual consulting detective in this cast. Female, mid 20s, posh British accent.

Sebastian MILTON, dealer in rare books. Male, mid 50s, London accent.

Detective Chief Inspector ISKANDAR Meshkia, descendant of a long line of Ottoman cavalry officers. Male, late 30s, strong Turkish accent.

Mrs. Mary HOWARD, concerned mother of a missing son. Female, mid 40s, London accent.

Dr. ERNEST Wilde, field medic turned adjunct botanist. Male, early 30s, Northern English accent.

Professor Josef DIETRICH, Oxford professor of history and a friend of the late Professor Ragnarsson. Male, mid 40s, German accent.

Professor Frederick HALE, Oxford professor of history and lurker in basements. Male, early 50s, posh British accent.

The voice of Professor Emundr RAGNARSSON, speaking from beyond the grave. Male, late 50s, Icelandic accent.

Scene 1: Ext. South Bank market – Day

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The Well Below the Valley, Episode 2: Flora and Fauna

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Dramatis Personae
(in order of appearance)

Dr. Howard COMPTON, remarkably cheerful coroner. Male, mid 50s, London accent.

Inspector ISKANDAR Meshkia, Scotland Yard detective troubled by poor sleep. Male, late 30s, strong Turkish accent.

Dr. ERNEST Wilde, University of London adjunct botanist. Male, early 30s, Northern English accent.

Richard PRYCE, grower of rare orchids. Male, early 40s, posh British accent.

Henry CARLTON, Ernest’s army buddy. Male, early 30s, London accent.

Two or three CULTISTS, all male; accents and age can vary.

Eloise “ELLIE” Westmont, intrepid lady detective. Female, mid 20s, posh British accent.

KURT Cross, her long-suffering assistant and face of the operation. Male, early 30s, New York accent.

Constable John TAYLOR, cog in the machine. Male, early 20s, London accent.

Chief Superintendent Winston PEMBROKE, Sr., Iskandar’s superior and keeper of a certain sort of peace. Male, early 60s, English accent with audible mustache.

William “WILL” Grey, bartender who regrets several of his life choices. Male, late 20s, London accent.

NIGEL Blackthorne, a man who has read too many tomes of forbidden knowledge. Male, early 30s, posh British accent.

The memory of HALIME, Iskandar’s young daughter, now deceased. Female, seven years old, could speak with an English or Turkish accent.

Mrs. JUDITH Rosenfeld, Iskandar’s landlady. Female, late 40s, slight Yiddish accent.

Scene 1: Int. London hospital – Day

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The Well Below the Valley, Episode 1: The Books of the Dead

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Dramatis Personae
(in order of appearance)

Professor Emundr RAGNARSSON, Oxford professor of archaeology. Male, late 50s, Icelandic accent.

Professor Josef DIETRICH, Ragnarsson’s colleague. Male, mid 40s, German accent.

Frederick MATTHEWS, anxious hotel owner. Male, late 40s, London accent.

Eloise “ELLIE” Westmont, lady detective. Female, mid 20s, posh English accent.

KURT Cross, American expatriate actor and private detective. Male, early 30s, New York accent.

William “WILL” Grey, bartender and owner of the Cross and Coin. Male, late 20s, London accent.

NIGEL Blackthorne, gentleman occultist. Male, early 30s, posh British accent.

Eli ROSENFELD and James BIRCH, local students and involuntary debate participants. Both male, early 20s, London accents.

Constable ANTONY St. John, London beat cop. Male, early 30s, London (specifically Estuary) accent.

Inspector ISKANDAR Meshkia, detective for the Metropolitan Police. Male, late 30s, strong Turkish accent.

EMILIA Niyazova, Iskandar’s personal assistant. Female, early 20s, slight Russian (actually Kazakh) accent.

Chief Superintendent Winston PEMBROKE, Sr., Superintendent at Scotland Yard. Male, early 60s, English accent with audible mustache.

Constable John TAYLOR, Metropolitan Police officer. Male, early 20s, London accent.

ESTRILDA de Westemond, 13th-century witch and stand-in for a number of women lost to history. Female, early 20s, North English accent.

Howard COMPTON, coroner for the Metropolitan Police. Male, mid 50s, London accent.

Scene 1: Int. Oxford University, Faculty of History – Day

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Journey to the Water Chapter LXVIII: The New Phyreios

Journey to the Water cover image: three evergreen trees stand on a hillside, shrouded in bluish fog. Subtitle reads: the sequel to Beyond the Frost-Cold Sea.

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Here stood Phyreios, the holy city, much diminished: the great Iron Mountain was no more than a gentle hill, lower than the spires of the newly rebuilt temple complex. No paths etched the rust-colored earth, and the black maw of the mine remained closed, perhaps never to be opened again. The towering forge had not yet been restored, and the place where it had once loomed over the industrial quarter was only empty sky.

In my memory, Phyreios was a ruin, its pale stone scarred by fire and cast down to lie in broken piles of rubble. I had not seen it for more than ten years. How strange it was to behold the walls rebuilt, the great gate remade and standing open to let in a procession of travelers and merchants, the streets cleared of debris and paved smooth and even. Guards in white tabards stood smiling in the sun, greeting each of the passers-by with a nod. Overhead, a new aqueduct came down from the mountain, water sparkling like silver and babbling like the laughter of children. There were children, too, clean and well-fed, running through the market square, asking the shopkeepers not for money but for sweets. The dark, reeking slums outside the walls were gone. Colorful tents spread out like bright insects from the gate, and fresh water flowed easily from a pump beside the wall, where the women of the caravans gathered with their baskets and jugs. The passage of the great worm was like the dream of a dream, forgotten upon waking.

But I, who had seen the city fall, knew where to look for its scars. The stones that made the arch over the gate had scorch marks on the underside, and the columns holding the aqueduct aloft were rough with chips and scratches. As I passed through the gate and wandered away from the market, the city fell quiet, and empty houses with dark windows sat silently on either side of the thoroughfare. Even now, with travelers coming and going each day, not enough people lived in the city to fill these rebuilt dwellings.

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Journey to the Water Chapter LXVII: The Long Way Back

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I awoke to the sound of water lapping against the hull of a boat. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my body shook, my teeth chattering and my hands trembling. I had gone numb from the cold. An indigo sky greeted me when I opened my eyes, and the stars danced in my vision. I exhaled a white cloud that obscured them until they stood still.

I pushed myself up. I lay in the hull of my boat, in a layer of water a hand’s breadth deep. All around me, the sea was black, and stirred by the whistling wind. It lifted my tiny craft, pushing it along to some unknown destination. The stars stretched across the sky down to the horizon in all directions, with no landmass to obscure them. I was lost, and I was well on my way to freezing to death.

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Journey to the Water Chapter LXVI: The Crumbling World

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“Flesh,” the sharp-toothed one repeated, a keening whine that made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Hush, Kelast,” the one who looked like Khalim said, soft and placating. “You’ll be all right.”

He sounded like Khalim. I searched his face, looking for some flaw that might give away a shapeshifter, or a detail that would prove that my eyes did not deceive me. There were his dark eyes, untainted by the deceiver’s gold, exactly as I remembered them. There was his smile, warm and guileless.

Khalim had left the citadel where the god Torr had confined him—that I knew. I also knew that he would seek out the lost and wounded, and how else could one describe these strange people gathered around the fire? They showed no visible injuries on the hands and faces that emerged from their robes, but their eyes—the eyes of deer and frogs as well as of men—were hollow and hungry.

But I had been deceived before. I was spared, then, by having witnessed the serpent-god of the desert reach into my memories and put on the image of Khalim. This vision might have been more of the same.

I reached out, and the image of Khalim did the same, but my hand passed through his. I drew it back, startled.

“You really are made of flesh,” he said, awe and wonder on his face.

The sharp-toothed man, Kelast, made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

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Journey to the Water Chapter LXV: The Long Walk

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Fearghus waited, ginger brows raised in an unspoken question. He’d always called me impatient, and said that his fiery hair belied which of us was the more hotheaded. I had missed him so—even in the long years when I had thought of nothing and no one but Khalim, I carried Fearghus with me. I dared not reach out to touch him for fear that he would vanish into the salt-heavy air.

“What are you doing here?” I said, finding my voice at last. “You should be upon the summer plains, hunting with the gods of our people. Please, tell me that you haven’t been banished to this desolate place.”

The gray sea broke against the shore in a whisper, lifting my boat and pushing it further into the rocks. I’d have to pull it farther ashore if I ever planned to return to it, but for now, I could not tear my eyes from Fearghus’s face.

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Journey to the Water Interlude Six: The White City

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Khalim’s fist struck the vast marble door and made no sound. The wall of the white city loomed above him, high as the red twilight sky, its perfect flat surface marred only with its faint, gray veins. The seam between the doors let none of the perpetual low sunlight escape. The city was exactly as Khalim had left it: flawless, impenetrable, and silent.

Khalim did not belong here, and he never had. His hand was dark against the great door, the tattered threads of his clothing brighter than even the sky. He had left the dust of the road and the wet earth of the forest behind, but he felt as though he would leave a mark on the marble just by touching it.

He knocked again, scraping his knuckles against the stone but leaving neither dirt nor blood on the surface. The marble only appeared smooth.

“I know you’re there,” Khalim said to the door. “I was in your presence for fifteen years. I could find you again even in this place.”

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