The Well Below the Valley, Episode 9: Green Grows the Lily

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)

CLAIRE Cooper, harbinger of the new world. Female, late teens, Northern English accent.

Dr. MARJANI Kaur, caretaker of the women’s home. Female, early 30s, could have a British or Indian Accented English accent.

JASMINE Indrani, no longer an academic. Female, late 20s, could have a British or Indian Accented English accent.

Dr. ERNEST Wilde, torn between horror and scientific curiosity. Male, early 30s, Northern English accent.

Eloise “ELLIE” Westmont, heir to ancient secrets. Female, mid-20s, posh English accent.

KURT Cross, who has accepted the occult but doesn’t like it. Male, early 30s, New York accent.

Inspector ISKANDAR Meshkia, believer in a better world despite all evidence to the contrary. Male, late 30s, strong Turkish accent.

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

JONATHAN Martel, long-serving butler of the Westmont estate. Male, mid-50s, Northern English accent.

AURELIA Westmont, sole resident of the Westmont estate and Ellie’s favorite cousin. Female, late teens, posh English accent.

Sheriff Norbert OAKS, Whitmoor gatekeeper. Male, mid-40s, Northern English accent.

JAMES MacDonald, friendly neighborhood bookbinder. Male, early 30s, Northern English accent.

The voice of ESTRILDA de Westemond, witch in captivity. Female, early 20s, Northern English accent.

Scene 1: Int. Whitmoor Area Women’s Home, upstairs bedroom – Day

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Journey to the Water Chapter LXII: Farther Shores

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.

Table of Contents

“So,” I said to Cricket, trying to appear nonchalant, “you’ve been reading.”

She regarded me with a look of utter disdain. Of course she’d been reading. “First, I read the safe books, and I learned to bind the monsters between the pages.”

As if in response, the bookshelf at her side shuddered, its heavy tomes shifting in place. I took an involuntary step back toward the stairs.

“Then I read the others,” she continued. “I didn’t sleep for four days. I know all of Deinaros’ secrets, and some he didn’t even know. He wasn’t all-knowing, after all.”

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Journey to the Water Chapter XLIV: Beside the Water

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I spent three days before Deinaros the All-knowing summoned me. The three floors of the tower to which I had been confined soon lost their novelty, and I wandered the city instead, taking in the sights and sounds of the sprawling metropolis. The markets beckoned me with the scents of fresh fish and warm bread, and the taverns promised strong drink—with some effort, I avoided them, to keep my wits about me. Wherever I went, the steepled temple looked down on me from above, its seven carved pillars a constant reminder of Phyreios. What relation the Ascended had to these tall, faceless gods of the West, I could not deduce. These seven stayed confined to their temple and the small carved icons in the windows lining each winding street, and for that I could only be grateful.

Cricket left each morning to sell her trinkets at the harbor. I went with her, on the first day, curious as to why her teacher sent her alone to the market. At best, I feared she would be robbed, weighed down as she was by such a quantity of silver; at worst, I had just recently learned of the flesh-markets of Nyssodes. A clever kidnapper needed only to coincide with a waiting ship, and Cricket would never have returned to the tower.

She bade me keep my distance, though, when we reached the docks. She had charms to sell, and my looming presence frightened away her customers. I asked if she was afraid, and if she had the means to defend herself.

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Journey to the Water Chapter XLIII: The Book-Collector

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With the book removed from my care at last, a weight lifted from my shoulders. The relief came with a flare of panic—had I handed my one and only lead to the realms beyond death to a charlatan? Deinaros turned the pages, his brows furrowed in concentration and a pleased smile playing upon his lips. I had already faded from his awareness.

If nothing else, Deinaros knew this book. On the word of his young attendant, he had expected it, like an old friend returned at last from a journey of decades. He greeted each horrifying diagram with a nod, each twisting line of text with a tap of one long finger.

“Well done,” he said, more to the book than to me. “This copy is nearly complete. The only things missing are the long, rambling musings of my former master. Everything useful is here.”

“Your master wrote it?” I asked. “He must have traveled nearly as far as I. I retrieved this book many months ago, from an island in the southern sea.”

Deinaros glanced up for the briefest moment before his eyes returned to the page. “No, he only penned the original, centuries ago. He never left the city of his birth. His followers, myself among them, made copies, and those who found those copies made more still.”

My heart sank. How many ambitious rulers became like the king of Salmacha, their souls clinging to their bodies even as their flesh rotted and fell from their bones? A second, selfish question followed the first: how many ill-starred lovers, grieving parents, and lonely widows had taken the book and attempted the same task I had undertaken? Had the gods already taken up arms against a sea of sorrowful humanity, chasing away any chance I had of breaching their ordained defenses?

“Very few now,” Deinaros said. “It was purged from the kingdoms of the West. So many were burned that the pyres reached the heavens. I have not seen a word or line from this book in many years.”

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Journey to the Water Chapter XLII: The Sorcerer’s Tower

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The girl led me through the market, her trinkets ringing like tiny bells and catching the afternoon sunlight. She glittered from shoulder to wrist. She wore straw sandals with fraying edges, and her steps on the stone pavement whispered like wind through a stand of reeds, disappearing under the din of the market and the roar of the surf below the cliff. The smell of salt and fresh fish filled the air.

I had missed the sea. My persistent melancholy lightened, like a small weight removed from the heavy pack on my back, as the white sails bloomed like flowers on the far horizon and the sun touched the waves with gold. Perhaps I should not have gone to Nagara, and instead stayed with my companions on the Lady of Osona, making my way here by means of the trade winds. There was no guarantee that Captain Hamilcar would have brought me here any faster; he followed his own maps, and went where the call of treasure and adventure led him.

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Journey to the Water Chapter XLI: The City on the Cliffs

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I left the tiny commune around Isra’s well, and I left the serene face of the goddess, and I wandered across the desert to the lands of the West. Somewhere beyond the northern horizon lay the lands of my people, where our gods walked the plains of endless ice in pursuit of the great beasts that ever eluded them, and my dragon-headed ship lay beneath water cold and dark as death. My journey would not lead me back there. I had to press forward.

Once, my friend Aysulu had told me of the gods of the West. There were seven of them, she had said, like the seven Ascended of Phyreios, though they moved between faith and legend and metaphor and not in the streets of their cities. Isra was one of them. Like her, the others had wind-scarred faces and the faded implements of their stations held in their stone hands: a shepherd’s crook, a set of balancing scales, a scepter, a smith’s hammer. They towered over the dunes, their eyes long since etched away, the human hands who carved their figures buried beneath centuries of sand. At their feet, the remains of their temples crumbled into dust.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Three, Chapter Twenty

Fortress

The Book of the New Moon Door cover image: A book with yellowing, wrinkled pages lies open on an old wooden desk, with a sprig of lavender lying in the center.

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The Temple of Ondir is full of books. A stack of this year’s mathematical textbooks, the cheap pulp paper already yellowing, sits beside the hallway leading to Father Pereth’s office. Beside it, a nobleman’s collection of encyclopedias, dust filling in the faded, embossed titles on the spines, leans precariously against the wall. There are handwritten manuscripts, unbound account ledgers, popular novels with titles like The Vampire in the Castle and An Ill-Advised Match, and a child’s alphabet primer, etched into a flat wooden block. A case of leaden printing letters, the hinges badly damaged, sits on top of a pile of catalogues of ladies’ fashions, just underneath the painted image of hooded Ondir carrying his lantern. The entire space under the dome is ringed in books, in stacks up to Isabel’s shoulders, and it still isn’t enough.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Three, Chapter Seventeen

Knowledge

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Around the ruin of Father Pereth’s office, Isabel has constructed a wall of books.

It’s really more of a low fence, three or four books high, depending on thickness. She stacked them haphazardly at first, but that prompted probing investigations from glowing tendrils and many-jointed fingers. Now, church records, illuminated manuscripts, and typeset prayer books stand in neat rows like bricks in a wall. She adds one more at the edge of the gap, a bound copy of the Kalusandr Scrolls, and winces as the already yellowed pages make contact with the heavy, damp air.

If this works, and this defense holds long enough for someone to find a way to send the thing beyond the wall back to the undreamt-of abyss from whence it came, all these books will be ruined. Centuries of church doctrine and millennia of history are only as durable as paper and ink. How can the church rebuild when all their knowledge is covered in mildew and mud?

It’s more important to save the people, she reminds herself. Knowledge survives when people do. What use are books in an empty city?

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New Patreon Post/ The Well Below the Valley, Episode 7

The newest chapter of my Lovecraftian audio drama is now available on Patreon! This is a project that’s only available to subscribers, but you can see a free preview below the cut:

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Journey to the Water Chapter XXI: Calm Seas

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With the terrible book in my hands, I retraced my steps through the neglected garden and returned to the palace. A cold wind had come in from the sea as the sun set, and the strange warmth of the book’s leather binding cooled until it felt like the skin of a dead man. I considered throwing it from the ship as soon as I reached open water. I could only guess at its contents, but I was filled with the grim certainty that it was an evil book, and I would find no help in its pages that did not cost me my very soul.

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