Veneficus: Stones of the Chosen

VENEFICUS:

STONES OF THE CHOSEN

BOOK ONE OF

THE VENEFICAL PROGRESSIONS

By

Chris Page

Veneficus: Stones of the Chosen published in 2010 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Chris Page

The right of Chris Page to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Aut disce aut discede

Either learn or depart

Death stalked the venefical gift, those who

opposed it and those who supported it

There simply was no other way

To Lindy
, In Saecula Saeculorum

A veneficus is a hybrid of sorcerer, magician, hermit, alchemist, oracle, wizard, and wax-pale ghost. Each one lives for exactly one hundred years. All are born on All Hallows Day (Halloween - 31
st
October). Venefici cast no shadow, leave no footprint, and have an individual aura. They do not need sleep after childhood. They do not eat food or drink liquids after childhood. They can be born to any parents but are extremely rare. Venefici do not feel physical pain but are susceptible to emotions. They can be killed, but it takes a skilled and deadly opponent - or another veneficus to do it. They have been on this earth for ten thousand years. The Wessex venefici are buried under their named Destiny Stone at Avebury.

Each one needs to be trained by another in the use of the enchantments. It usually takes twenty years, although Twilight only had seven years with Merlin.

There is at least one in Wessex at all times. There is one there now. There may be more.

As the late afternoon gloom of winter began to thicken, the boy, mounted behind his father on the back of a tired old horse, moved slowly, unknowingly, toward a destiny that would last for another eighty-seven blood-soaked years and see him take the lives of many thousands of people. That most of those lives were taken in an attempt to maintain an allegory of noninterference, independence, and redemption by a peaceful, poetic, and elegant Celtic nation against murderous, power-hungry invaders was a conundrum only the spell-bindery and stardust sprinkled by a veneficus could bring about.

As the boy and his father progressed through the rolling Wessex sward, they remained aware of the pitched escarpment of huge trees as the great Savernake forest loomed ever larger on the horizon. Even the old horse, head held permanently low and many years beyond the age of any form of spirited response or skittishness, began nervously switching its tail from side to side as the dark mass grew closer.

Their first set of directions, given by a gaily singing woman rinsing worn tunics in a stream, took them along a track toward the highest, darkest part of the tree line. As its own shadow stretched to embrace that thrown outward by the approaching curtain of forest, the horse faltered and bent to nose at some lush grass by the side of the track, all the while keeping one wary eye on the towering beeches that guarded the forest entry.

As they paused to consider a way into the menacing forest, they noticed the smoldering fires of a young charcoal burner. So intent was the young firewatcher in attending to his sticks and blowing into the glowing embers that the mounted man and boy stood for some time in the shadowy shafts of his wood smoke before he turned to acknowledge their presence. Without a word he suddenly raised his arm and pointed toward a narrow path disappearing into the dark, brooding trees. Moments later the boy looked over his shoulder from his seat on the back of the plodding old horse, just before they entered the dark forest. The young charcoal burner, his smoking camp, and piles of glowing sticks had disappeared.

It was then the boy first knew.

Time, the obstinate, irreversible, invariable witness to the history of the turning world’s infinite occurrences, and its only utterly irrefutable given, was an irrelevancy under the mighty canopy of this great medieval forest. Seasonal sequences, day and night, generations of animal, plant, or human life, even centuries, were all insignificant measurements. Only history was measured here, waypoints recorded at minimum intervals of five hundred years, anything lower a transient speck of dust, an invisible incidental with a negligible contribution to the life span of such a mighty forest. The five-hundred-year-old beeches just about qualified, but even they were infants. A thirty-four-year-old man and his thirteen-year-old son astride a broken old cob were an immeasurable inconsequence when placed against such fabulous leaps of time.

The mighty medieval Savernake of Wessex was no ordinary forest. Renowned for its stillness and silence, the normal rhythms and cadences of nature’s growth patterns were inverted here. Plant and sapling growth were very limited because of the lack of sunlight, but the gloom was perfect for fungi, which varied from the small, deadly opaque whites, delicate pinks and purples of death cap, fly agarics, puffball and stinkhorn tubers, to the cankerous great brown-and-cream clusters of spongiforms spreading their morbid spores in ever-widening circles around the bases of the great trees. These odorous fungoid malformations had colonized parts of the forestry floor to the exclusion of all other fauna, drawing their life blood from the damp, rich humus of the yielding earth and smothering and poisoning anything else that attempted root purchase.

Those who lived near the great forest seldom ventured in; tales of its dark demons and mystical wraiths abounded around the fires of the peripheral hamlets and settlements. Much of this demonry could be laid at the door of the abundant fungi, the combination of poisonous delicacy and mutant gigantism perfect fare for ghoulish fable, the horrors magnified by mead and embellished by fireside recital. Add to that what had become known locally as the Lament of the Sorrows; the wind keening in high register through the canopy like a mythical choir of female sirens trapped forever in the treetops, waiting to accompany those bold enough to venture through its menacing avenues. A soaring requiem, it was said in whispers, that was a prelude to a dark, phantom-embraced death.

Yet, for the man and his son on the ragged old horse, the demons had to be faced, the journey made. Destiny, duty, and simple desperation on the part of the father demanded that they brave all the legendary Savernake wraiths to meet with a man who lived at the forest’s epicenter, and who, according to their local holy man, was the only one who could help with their dilemma.

The mighty veneficus known as Merlin.

The dark, foreboding secrets that constituted the Savernake’s legends were as nothing compared to those surrounding Merlin. Iridescent wizard, oracle, alchemist, prophet, and onetime counselor to King Arthur and the great court of Came-lot - or just an old fraud and savant hermit whose day was done and undeserved reputation founded upon trickery and deceit?

Whatever he turned out to be, he was the only one the desperate man on the horse could turn to.

The dark path snaked unerringly through the grotesque fungi and the huge gray and green moss-covered trunks of the towering beeches, many of them so big that it would take eight grown men with linked hands to embrace their massive girth. It was a strangely silent, haunting world beneath the high canopy with just enough afternoon light filtering through in places to show them the way. Stillness enveloped their uncertain progress: no birds sang, no animals flashed and sought cover from their approach, no breezes stirred the mutant undergrowth, and even the plodding hooves of the old horse were muffled by the deep, mottled brown carpet of mulch that covered the forest floor. Each time the path seemed to merge into the darkness, muted shafts of light would filter down from the great spread of branches overhead to guide them onward.

Emerging suddenly into a small clearing, the old horse swished his head, let out a low snort, and stopped. Blinking in the bright afternoon light, the man urged the horse forward.

He would not budge.

Then the man, with the boy looking around him from his straddled position behind, saw why.

Standing in the shadow of a great spreading oak on the other side of the small clearing was an unkempt, gray-robed old man. His silver beard and shoulder-length hair were matted and dirty, and the length of coiled jute holding his tattered robe together was shiny with age and use. His feet were bare and dirt-encrusted, and his thin body, bent forward with age, was supported by a gnarled old staff. He did not appear to be aware of their presence, so intently did he stare at the ground by his feet.

The man on the horse was just about to call out and ask for directions when he was stilled by a sudden movement in the grass at the old man’s feet. The boy, his black, luminous eyes expressionless, watched quietly and without fear as the large, flat head of a huge snake lifted itself from the grass and, tongue forking, began to coil itself around the old man’s staff. The horse snorted again and was steadied by the boy’s father. The fact that the snake’s body was almost twice as thick as the gnarled old staff didn’t impede its progress. The markings along the snake’s head and back were white and black chevrons, its shiny body gray and green with a white underbelly. Perfect camouflage for the forest environment.

Slowly the snake worked its way around and up the staff until it reached the old man’s withered hand. Pausing momentarily to check and sniff out its route along the dirty old robe, the snake continued up the old man’s arm until it reached his shoulder, at which time its tail left the grass. The old man never once moved his soft gaze from that of the reptile. They seemed eye-locked.

Snapping out of his fear-frozen reverie as the snake’s tongue began to fork around the old man’s face, the man on the horse made as if to jump down and go to his assistance. With surprising speed for one so old and without taking his eyes from those of the snake, the old man thrust out his free arm, his hand palm out, indicating that the man should stay put.

Just when it seemed that the frail frame of the bent old man couldn’t take the weight of the huge, coiled serpent any longer, its head slowly moved on upwards to bridge the gap to a thick, low-hanging branch of the spreading oak tree. With its tongue flicking and the great body moving in glistening folds and curves around the old man’s arm and up to the oak, the snake continued its inexorable climb until all of its length lay along the shaded branch. Then it looked down at the old man, flicked its tongue once, and closed its eyes. The old man then turned toward the mounted pair, smiled broadly, mumbled something unintelligible, and, almost absentmindedly, as if his mind was on much weightier matters began to hobble away.

A dirty old hermit suddenly confronted by other humans,
the boy thought,
will always take refuge in foolish mumbles. Lax in his manners to honest wayfarers, preferring the attentions of a cold-blooded serpent, such a man is not to be trusted.

As if stung, the unkempt old man suddenly snapped out of his reverie, straightened his bent old body, and turned a level, knowing gaze to the boy. Then he scowled, bowed almost mockingly, jabbed the gnarled old staff toward a gap in the trees, and leaned back against the massive trunk of the oak to watch their progress.

Tired and frozen with snake-fright, the old horse remained rooted to the spot. Still shaken himself by what he had seen, the father slapped the flanks of the beast several times before it began to move slowly forward. The boy never took his luminous dark eyes off the old man until he was lost to him, as he and his father plunged once more into the gloomy avenues of trees. After ten more minutes of slow plodding, the gloom became even more impenetrable and the old horse began once more to switch his tail in a show of nervousness. Pulling to a halt, the father dismounted and, putting one foot carefully in front of the other in the darkness, began slowly to lead the old horse by the rope around its neck, the boy moving forward to sit on the warm blanket that served as a saddle. The blackness that enveloped them was such that even the path beneath their feet became invisible as they edged carefully forward. Above them the winds in the canopy began to make a low moaning sound that quickly gained intensity, through a wringing dirge to a full-blown plangent wail. For once the fabler underscored reality as the canopy thrashed and heaved as if inhabited by screaming hordes of invisible demons, the Lament of the Sorrows giving full reign to its tearing, breast-beating agonies.

With a loud snort the old horse dug his front legs into the deep, soft humus and refused to move another step. With the Sorrows hurling their deafening lamentations on their heads from above, the fearful father reached for his mounted son’s calm hand in the glue-black earthlight and tried to squeeze it confidently. Then froze as another hand, sensuously female, slowly caressed his neck and cheek.

Erotic voice-breath hushed into his ear, most of the words lost in the swelling requiem that seemed to fill the entire forest. The horse shuddered and whinnied in terror as the father let go of the rein and his son’s hand. Raising both of his now free hands to his softly caressed cheeks to engage in a finger-dance of erotic abandon, he began to moan and sway in a form of possessed ecstasy. With the Sorrows soaring above him, the rapt father gave in completely to the unchaste sensuality of the gossamer-soft fingers running down his cheeks and the Zephyrus endearments in his ears. Slowly, he began to step away into the surrounding darkness.

Ignore the inflamer, my father. It is an illusion that would cause you harm. Turn now; I am by your side. We will continue our journey together as we began. Our destination is close by. Turn and take my hand … now.

The possessed father stopped, shook his head dumbly, and turned. He could see nothing in the blackness. He reached out for his son and felt the smaller, cool fingers grip his larger, work-roughened hand. As their fingers closed, the caressing hands around his face fell away, and there was a scabrous scream in his ear as the hushed, ecstatic spell was broken. At the same time the cacophony of the Lamenting Sorrows died away, and the glue-black earthlight lightened.

All was as it had been.

Except for the horse.

The loyal old cob, after a hard lifetime of wooden plough shafts between his shoulders and the burden of firewood, produce, and occasional humans, had succumbed to the surreal surroundings of the mighty Savernake. Nothing in his simple life had prepared him for this menacing journey, but he had done his duty to the last breath and had almost got them to their destination. For that he would be the first to be remembered by the boy in a special way.

The father removed the blanket from beneath the fallen horse and handed it to his son, and then he gently lifted the shaggy head and removed the jute rope rein. They stood in the forest gloom for a few moments of quiet reflection over the old cob’s corpse, and then continued on their journey. Another few minutes of steady, untroubled walking brought them to a large clearing, in the middle of which stood a stockaded compound with a pair of tall, intricately woven willow gates.

They had reached their destination. This had to be the home of Merlin.

All gods, no matter how big and important their domains, reported to Zeus, who became leader and king of the gods, father of the Olympians, sky and weather, hospitality, rights of guests and supplicants, sending of omens, punishment of injustice, and governance of the universe. Governance of the universe. That covers pretty much everything a god could want. The ancients liked to have a god in place for everything. An immortal omnipotent in the Presidium of Mount Olympus who would oversee the fates, rules, and spheres of each domain. Among the nine principal gods and goddesses, Tiresias, the Seer of Thebes, was the god of the Domain of the Cowering Dead. He is the god responsible for a great deal of the trouble herein.