by Wade Ebeling
The Stone Wizard
Wade Ebeling
Copyright © 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be reproduced without consent from the author.
First Kindle Edition, April 2018
~ Author’s Note ~
Some high-ranking officials within the prodigious Order of Builders will look upon this book as an act of treason. Unfortunately for them, I have reached the age where threats of violence and censure are no longer viable deterrents, even if the eventual result is my untimely death. I write this hoping that others might use my breech in protocol to bridge the gap between those who horde knowledge, that was once freely given, and those who have forgotten their own history. Unquestionably, I will be slandered, my past philanthropy wholly discarded. By merely making this story public, I knowingly place others within the stark light of truth. An unwillingness to accept change to the status quo will force them to call me heretical, traitorous, insane and worse. These defamations will be done in a last-ditch effort to discredit me. I care not.
Having engrossed myself with this work, I now understand that the time has come for a great mending. The current society above, which we so nonchalantly call the ‘first world’, has lost its way. They are the mislaid victims of a targeted deception, left grasping at straws to make sense of the megalithic ruins that surround them. Mankind finds itself woefully clueless as to how so many of its ancestors rose and fell, having been purposefully denied access to the cave drawings and carved reliefs that would explain it all.
The Camaraderie, having cleverly changed forms throughout the years, has seized upon our absence. Left unchecked to use their corrupting influence over pivotal governmental powers, they ensure that key information, accumulated by countless previous generations, remains hidden away. However, whether this knowledge is stored in our own private libraries or sealed in catacombs beneath the Basilica, the results are the same for those veiled from
its foregone conclusions: the populace has become divided and, therefore, easily controlled.
I do not believe that we Builders few, safe in our self-imposed seclusion, can sit back and watch this travesty any longer. Everyone reading this, who feels the same way, has an obligation to reach out to those in need, just as our ancestors used to. Of course, there will be a great many that resist this absolute change in deportment. The power over others, being highly valued by leaders on both sides, will always be wielded right up to its brutal, ultimate end. The only way to prevent another conflict is for the masses to find commonality first. If a combined energy can get out ahead of the propagandists, we might be able to stand together to safeguard a lasting peace, well before the war drums get a chance to beat once again.
Think of this as my hand extending out into the darkness, searching for those brave enough to take hold. Let it begin here…
Table of Contents
~ Prefix ~
CHAPTER 1
~ Stone Sanctuary ~
CHAPTER 2
~ A Mission Unforeseen ~
CHAPTER 3
~ The Ritual ~
CHAPTER 4
~ The Journey Begins ~
CHAPTER 5
~ Fishkill ~
CHAPTER 6
~ The River ~
CHAPTER 7
~ An Animal Cornered ~
CHAPTER 8
~ The Length of Love ~
~ Prefix ~
This book is based upon the writings of Master Marcus Cahill Prathorn, who is widely regarded as one of the most influential stone wizards of the modern age. While some of you might know his later exploits, this story, I dare venture, pre-dates anything you may have read about the man before. Being such a prolific writer and protector of rare tomes, digesting summaries of his works in conjunction with making pilgrimages to his great library have become required activities for anyone wishing to delve into the field of alchemy. Truly, most reputable practitioners of the art consider him to be the patriarch of western potion making and the first to institute modern techniques for ingredient classification. Sitting as testimony to this fact, the discovery of over one hundred unique alchemical components have been attributed to his labors, most coming during his travels of the early-American frontier.
According to the most recent edition of Basilio’s Compendium, forty-seven novels have been penned about Marcus Prathorn. Scant few of these books deal with his productive interactions with the Huron tribe. Fewer still are of how he founded the remarkable Builder college ‘Grenaldt’, which still operates within the vast salt deposits beneath southern Michigan. By a very wide margin, the abundance of these books, being based on more thoroughly documented events, deal with the surrender of Fort Detroit during the War of 1812 and his subsequent efforts to reclaim the area from the British troops that were being aided by Tecumseh’s confederation. The first world still accepts that these occupational forces abandoned the fort in September of 1813 after it had supposedly become isolated from established trading routes. They believe this despite the fort having successfully turned away all previous reclamation attempts and that it was in possession of ample stores to endure the coming winter. We in the second world, though, know well enough the story of how Master Prathorn used a sapping technique to destroy sections of the fort’s outer walls, rendering it unserviceable, before doggedly chasing the British back into Canada.
This book will attempt to fill in a small piece of a much earlier puzzle. Little is known about what influenced a young Prathorn to abandon his furtive struggle against the Church of England’s arm of the Camaraderie and strike out to the west of the established colonies. That is, until now. After extensive research and some personal trials, I chanced into a descendant of James Foley, the owner of a tract of land in Pennsylvania where Fort Shirley once sat. This is where a twenty-three-year-old Marcus Prathorn waited out the winter of 1774. It was also where, quite miraculously, a personal journal of his survived these many years. Apparently, as the family secret went, the journal was stolen by Foley’s youngest son, John, who only admitted to such after Prathorn had left-out that following spring. From there, a byproduct of Prathorn’s growing reputation for fighting Deacons, the encoded book became a cherished possession. It was then handed down through the generations, the story of its procurement always told as faithfully as possible.
I immediately purchased the battered journal (at great cost I might add). The two-century old text took me a full year to transcribe since it had been written in ancient runes; a safety measure born from the real danger of being captured or killed that all Builders faced at that time. After this exhaustive chore was completed, I then studied the text at great length. Even though it only deals with a short span, namely between mid-September and early October, the sparse journal was still a virtual dearth of unknown factoids. Truly enlightening were the descriptions of the lost Stone Sanctuary and of its catastrophic fate. Being that current scholars still erroneously believe that this complex was destroyed during the British raid on New London, Connecticut in 1781, this document will completely rewrite that incorrect assumption. Another highlight was the complete listing of charms, tools and potions that Master Prathorn personally carried. There was even a brief mention of the infamous Deacon Blood himself! Most importantly, it solved the riddle of ‘why’ this influential man left his home, accompanied by a female companion, to undertake a perilous journey which saw them chased into the wilds, trapped, and left with dwindling options to escape an unpleasant fate.
I do want to make this perfectly clear: what follows are my words, not those of Marcus Cahill Prathorn. Truth be told, I have attempted to add a bit a flair to his rather dry writings because his journal was obviously never meant to be read by anyone else, being inscribed as mor
e of a shorthand notation system than anything else. Although, at times, he does get surprisingly personal, these instances are quite rare. I make all assurances that the subject matter has not been altered in any way and that I have done my very best to preserve the essence of what Master Prathorn intended. I do hope you, the reader, enjoy hearing this exceptional tale as much as I enjoyed working on it.
- the author
CHAPTER 1
~ Stone Sanctuary ~
New London, Connecticut - September 14, 1774
Marcus Prathorn turned down an alleyway no wider than a mule carrying its burden, puffing away on a white stoneware pipe. A stuttering chill funneled in from the north, autumn succinctly declaring its cruel intentions. The buffeting effect was amplified between the high brick walls, and the wind no longer tolerated the tobacco smoke that was trying to take form. The stronger gusts tugged resentfully at the natural curls of his raven colored, shoulder-length hair. Broad-leafed ivy clung to the rough masonry wherever it had been allowed purchase, its rippling surface only broken by the occasional stout iron gate or fieldstone pillar, which marked property lines for the homesteads on the other side.
By touching a simple button charm inside the hem of his travelling cloak, Marcus could see what lay in front with one eye and behind with the other. The talisman was made by ritualistically cutting the shape from an owl’s scull before cladding it in quicksilver, a final polish with imbued sandstone powder added the desired outcome. He was alone, the merchant row along Bank Street remained empty of obvious threats. The enchantments disorienting view of the world was very hard to control. It was only after long, considerate practice sessions that the effect had gotten easier for him to handle. Marcus could now manage several paces before drunkenly swaying off course, forced to break contact with the charmed button or risk diving head-long into the ground.
The sun had not yet fully yielded the day. Hovering just above the horizon, the amber orb cast just enough light for the last of the dock workers to return home by. With a dismissive wave of his calloused hand, the simple pipe clenched in Marcus’ teeth vanished. Then, a flick of the wrist later, the iron rivets in his dusky cloak forced the hood to flip up into place. An unnatural shadow seeped from his icy blue eyes and quickly crossed his angular, clean-shaven face, concealing all physical features from even the brightest of light sources. The obscuring illusion even blurred his outline, morphing it into something more reminiscent of an unkempt shrub than that of a man.
Marcus knew he was taking quite a chance using the hidden entrance at such an early hour, despite his standardized protections. To minimize some of the risk, he crossed intersections quickly and stayed to the backstreets wherever possible. When approached from town, this was the quickest route inside the school. Additionally, it meant he could circumvent the front entrance located on the crest of the hill to the west. Believing that he had a proper understanding of what had just transpired down in Boston, the Anglican Church of the Redeemer, which housed the main entry in its basement, was the one place that Marcus wanted to avoid the most.
Grenaldt Thressor, High Wizard of the Northern British Colonies and cantankerous headmaster of the Builder college, Stone Sanctuary, was a hard man to please. If the past ten years had taught Marcus anything about the surly, barrel-chested old man it was this: he despised failure, whatever the endeavor. Marcus paid his worrisome gut no heed, there would most likely be no punishment forth coming. Almost certainly, the tragic news he carried of the Assembly’s demise would be distraction enough. Regardless of thinking this way, the persistent, intuitive knot continued twisting his innards painfully. The visceral feeling had been with him for two full days of hard travel. Marcus had never failed his mentor before and, despite knowing everything possible had been done to prevent what happened, his pride was still bruised as a result. Just imagining the look of disappointment on Master Grenaldt’s bearded face stung in a way that his lash never could.
The single track of flagstones that Marcus grassed along gave way to a decorative courtyard. Situated behind wooden rowhouses, a clever pattern in the cobblestones spiraled outward from a low, wet well. To his right, the breadth of State Street emphasized the land’s contours as it slanted down to the New Thames River past numerous, more modest homes. Marcus took the wooded trail on the left that ended at a set of stairs cut into the sharp hillside outside of town. He gave the ‘owl-sight’ button another quick squeeze before starting up, just for good measure.
While each tread was uniquely shaped, all were made of the same light-grey pegmatite granite common to the area. To keep the pattern uniform, the staircase made several turns and switch-backs to climb the steep grade. Halfway up, in a stretch that went straight uphill, the Builders had sliced through a rocky outcrop to keep a perfect rise. Here, well out of sight from prying eyes, Marcus stopped to examine the stone face on his right.
Under the charmed cloak, Marcus wore a battered leather pouch slung over his head so that it rested on the right hip. With a practiced motion, he flipped the thick fabric out of the way and unerringly dipped a finger into the correct vial inside the satchel. Smearing the caustic glop across a mineral seep that stained the vertical wall caused a reaction to start immediately. Marcus quickly wiped the remainder of the ox bile mixture off on a clump of grass before it began to sting his skin. A butter-yellow fizzle built up on the seep that hardened for the briefest of moments then dissolved completely away, the wall dry to the touch once again. Five of the stair treads slid silently away, revealing a tunnel that burrowed into the hillside itself. Being close to six feet tall, he had to duck a bit to get through.
Much warmer and dryer air greeted a relieved Marcus inside. The narrow tunnel was arched making it comfortable to stand in and was made from burnished granite, its length smooth and gleaming. The pathway drifted off to the left, following the natural course of the vein. There were no visible sources of light anywhere to be found, but an adequate glow emanated from the imbedded charged quartz. After a few moments in true silence, his buckled leather shoes quieted by compressed, silver-moss soles, Marcus made it to the first barrier.
The tunnel widened upon reaching an underground chasm. The walls and floor fell away, disappearing into inky blackness. Undaunted, Marcus withdrew two leather flasks from the seemingly bottomless pouch on his hip, pouring a small amount of each onto the smooth floor. One bottle left a wicked-smelling heap of blueish powder made from heat-cursed zaffre, the other a small puddle of mercurial liquid that had been coaxed from soapstone by a spell that subjected it to immense pressure.
Tapping his toes into the powder first, Marcus then shuffled his feet through the quickly evaporating puddle. Without pause, he drew and held a deep breath before stepping out into the void, concentrating hard on keeping his head level. Just a glance downward would mean disaster. What his feet stepped upon felt solid enough, helping him maintain focus on the small point of light beckoning him closer. The light grew with each step, eventually taking the shape of the tunnel. Just moments before his lungs burned unbearably, solid stone was once again underfoot. Ten paces more and he arrived at the blockade.
The polished tunnel ended abruptly at a raw specimen of pinkish-grey biotite that completely walled off the way forward. From previous experience, Marcus knew it was five full paces until the tunnel started up again. After pulling his left sleeve up, he drove a thumb down into a wet scab on his forearm, hissing as his body tried to resist. Once the wave of nausea passed, he placed a shaking hand onto the cool, jagged surface. He concentrated on the pain, forcing the feeling down to his fingertips. Only his natural ability to control and manipulate stone would get him through. Slowly at first, his hand began to sink into the warming, now spongy rock. Pushing, just as it broke the surface, drove his arm and head into the softening boulder. Eyes closed and breathe held once again, Marcus forced his way through the claustrophobic nightmare, gasping for air once he emerged on the far side.
The passageway tapered downhill from this point
. The flickers of Grenaldt’s eternal flame, which warmed the cavern ahead, colored the floor with pumpkin-orange shimmers tinged by emerald green sparkles. The work of a true master, the flame had been forced to life using nothing but a piece of chalky limestone, it was also the only example known to exist. Marcus’ growling stomach reminded him how empty it truly was. His thoughts drifted to sitting in front of the flame’s warm hearth, dinning on stuffed cabbage and crusty bread, then to sipping blackberry brandy after his hunger had been sated. The persistent knot just below his stomach reminded Marcus that he should watch his tongue and tread carefully until his master’s mood had been properly read. Telling the whole truth, as an apprentice is oft to learn quickly, is a far different thing than what usually need be spoke.
Marcus made it to the end of the downward slope, stepping out into the main area of his home and place of study for the past decade. Thirty yards across and fifteen high, the grand space was a perfect half-sphere. Centrally positioned, the colossal sculpture of a fanned human hand divided the dome into two separate areas. Each of the massive fingers reached up to the ceiling and bore a different rune that matched the raised welts of past brandings on Marcus’ own fingers. Gaps between the digits let light shine through, giving an open feel to the room, but only a large archway under the thumb joined the different areas.
Glowing brightly inside a core that channeled right through the bottom of the hand was the inglenook that housed the eternal flame. On this side of the split room was a large forge drawing warmth directly from the flame and workbenches cluttered with all manner of tools. A sealed copper drum sat on rollers nearby, ready for its water to be heated into steam. Attached to this boiler was a large cog where a series of smaller gears could be meshed, providing power to leather bellows, mechanical belts and reed fans dotting the ceiling. The other side of the cupola was far less utilitarian, full of comfortable chairs and well-lit tables for study and meals. From here, three scrolled antechambers were carved into the continuous wall with passages that led deeper into the hillside.
