Way of the Tanan
Book One
The Dead Wind
Dennis Monaghan
Copyright © Dennis Monaghan 2018
The Dead Wind
Book One, Way of the Tanan
Cover Art by Ravven http://www.ravven.com
Books by Dennis Monaghan
Way of the Tanan Series:
The Dead Wind
The Red Priestess
The Broken Stone
Coming soon
Rat Girl
Visit wayofthetanan.com for news and updates.
Contents
Books by Dennis Monaghan
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
Excerpt from The Red Priestess
One
A Desolate Vibration in the One Wave
Formless, imprisoned in a desolate vibration, Noster raged. There was no time, no ticking of the hours, only forever. With no voice he screamed revenge, revenge on Anaso for the trick he had played that bound Noster in this nothingness. Without body, still his hunger gnawed. The craving to suck the life energy, so sweet, from living beings tortured him like an addiction. He vowed, again, that he would return to Pearl.
Woodside Mill
Bell opened herself to the One Wave. The vibrations of the environment faintly shimmered before her. She took a two-step run and launched herself down the dry grass slope of the ridge on the seat of her pants. Bell whooped with delight as she careened between two granite boulders and on down the hill.
Grandfather Lute watched her childlike glee. He marveled at her ability to anticipate and respond to the vibrations of the One Wave. His own talent manifested only when he was working metal at the forge. He watched her scramble back up the ridge for another run. Bell was becoming a woman; her body was no longer boyish, and she had grown taller.
Grandfather Lute smiled and called, “Last one, Bell. Your mother wants those Wobble mushrooms. We better start looking.”
Bell waved from the top of the ridge. Opened to the One Wave, took a two-step dash, and sped down the slope on the seat of her pants at breakneck speed; hit the bottom and popped to her feet, exhilarated.
Bell saw Grandfather Lute watching with a smile. “Why don’t you give the hill a try, Grandfather?”
The old man laughed and shook his head. “Not even in my youth could you get me up there. Now, Bell, to work! I’ll look in the trees, you try those rocks.” He pointed to a line of rock running down the ridge.
Bell moved toward the foliage growing in the shelter of a surface vein of rock, where the energetic signature of the golden Wobble mushroom caught her attention. Bell could dimly perceive the vibrations that made up all things. Her intention to find the Wobble mushrooms made the mushroom’s emanation stand out in the One Wave. She pushed aside the leaves of the shrub and peered underneath. Nestled among the golden Wobble mushrooms, she found one that was dark, a blood red.
“Grandfather, look at this mushroom! It’s red!”
“Oh my!” he said. He dug the black red mushroom free with his belt knife and held the fungus up for inspection. He turned the mushroom on his palm and though he opened to the One Wave, his perception of the mushroom did not really change. “What do you see, Bell?”
“The energy is distorted, not like the other mushrooms. I think we should be careful. The vibration is somehow wrong.”
“Poisonous?”
“No, not like the death mushrooms or a snake bite. But I don’t think we should eat it.”
Grandfather Lute folded a cloth around the deep red mushroom and placed the fungus in their gathering basket. He harvested the golden Wobbles and placed them in the basket. “We have more than your mother needs. Let’s head back to Woodside Mill. It’s starting to rain.”
Bell led the way across the grassy slope on the game trail that took them down the oak-studded hill to Mill Creek and into the towering redwood trees. They crossed the wooden bridge next to the mill, stepped onto the porch of their home and sat on the hand-planed wooden benches to remove their muddy boots. Bell tossed her boots under the bench and burst through the door. “Mom, we’re back! We found a strange mushroom!”
Sal came out of the kitchen and hugged her daughter. “What mushroom?”
“Grandfather has it,” Bell said.
“Here it is!” he said, leading them into the kitchen. He opened the cloth containing the red mushroom and placed the fungus on the table.
Sal bent closer. “Why, it looks like a Wobble, but it’s red, almost black. I don’t think I want to eat that. You best get rid of that, Grandfather Lute.”
“You’re right about not eating it,” Grandfather Lute agreed, “but I want to study the mushroom further. Don’t worry; I’ll keep the mushroom safe.”
Grandfather Lute, with Bell following close behind, took the mushroom to the workroom off the kitchen, placed the blood red fungus in a glass jar, clamped the lid and held the jar up to the light.
“Something piques my memory about this red mushroom,” he mused, “maybe from an old Tanan story. When I was very young, say four or five, there was an old man, a Wizen, who came and stayed here with our family. He was a Tanan master. He used to take me walking in the hills and woods and told me lots of stories and rhymes, but I must have been too young because I can’t bring them to mind. My brothers will remember something about the Tanan stories. They are much older than I am. Run over and tell them to come and look at the mushroom.” Shaking his finger at her, he said, “You don’t need to say anything to them about them being old!”
Bell smiled. Pulling on her coat and stomping into her boots, she sprang off the porch. The rain had let up. The air smelled fresh.
The Butte
Ardo trudged up the dirt track toward the crest of the small hill. The long walk back from Bottom market was becoming harder each time. Hiking the bag of unsold mushrooms higher on his shoulder, he took another slow step toward the peak.
Ardo paused at the top to look at the Butte. Sheer walls rising out of the earth formed a jagged table of land a hundred paces high. Though the day was clear, a foul smelling fog, derived from the festering swamp at the base, hung around the perimeter like a dense shroud.
Ardo scowled as he looked at his home, his temple; he considered his wasted life. He had believed his father’s words; Noster would return when the Winking God opened his eyes and stared down on the planet Pearl. Power and glory would be bestowed by Noster upon the faithful lineage of high priests that kept vigil in the chambers of the Butte.
Noster had not come in Ardo’s father’s lifetime, and in spite of the appearance of the dark red Crim mushroom growing among the golden Wobble mushrooms, the likelihood that Ardo would live to see the great day of Noster’s return seemed increasingly unlikely.
He spat in the direction of the Butte. The futility of his life, like the stench of the Butte that tainted his very skin, hung heavy on him. He would have thrown off the high priest’s duty years ago if he had not felt the power lying dormant deep in the Butte, at times pulsing through the amulet hung aro
und his neck. This gem had been passed on to him by his father as the badge of office.
During one of those times of power, Ardo’s anger at a wayward goat had manifested as a blast of clear wavy energy that incinerated the animal on the spot. Ardo had been so stunned he passed out. He had not been able to summon such energy again, however, no matter how great his anger.
He pulled the chain out of his shirt and suspended the amulet before his eyes. A fine dark gray metal net held the dark amber stone. The inner fire was dim but apparent. Ardo squeezed the stone between his finger and thumb and the surface seemed to give slightly. He let up quickly, afraid of what might happen if he somehow damaged the stone.
Ardo let the amulet drop to his chest. In truth, there was probably nothing that he could do to damage the stone. But he mistrusted the power, fearing what it could do.
The bark of a dog pulled Ardo from his musing. A shepherdess stood near the edge of the track watching him. Her sheepdog cautiously circled toward Ardo.
“Call off your dog, Boh,” he shouted at the young woman. “I mean you no harm.”
The dog backed off but was still circling Ardo. The woman watched for a moment. “He’s not stalking you, Stink Priest. He’s trying to get upwind of you.”
Ardo’s face darkened. “Have some respect for the Order of Noster, girl! When Noster returns you’ll be sorry, you and that Blood Witch mother of yours!”
Boh looked at him scornfully and said, “How many hundreds of years have you Stink Priests been waiting for the great return of Noster?” She pointed toward the Butte. “And how long has it been since you could even get into the place?” She turned toward her sheep but stopped and looked back. “Furthermore,” she said, “that’s Blood Magic, as ‘in the blood’.” She walked on, leaving Ardo mumbling.
A great earthquake during his grandfather’s youth had closed the cliff-face entrance to the vast chambers and tunnels that honeycombed the interior of the Butte. Only the guard chamber at the right side of the cave mouth was spared. Thus, this became the only chamber accessible to the Order of Noster. Since that time the fortunes and influence of the order had diminished. At this point, Ardo was the only priest left; there was no hope of a successor. Forlorn, he took another labored step toward the Butte.
Two
Woodside Mill
Grandfather Lute ran the forge. Bell’s great uncles, Till and Salt Miller, ran the mill and the livery. Their houses were just down the path that ran through the tall, thick redwood trees. Bell made a quick visit to each uncle, inviting them to view the unusual mushroom.
Bell returned and found Grandfather Lute arranging the chairs around the fireplace. Her mother was just bringing the tea service in from the kitchen.
There was pounding at the door. Uncle Till stepped in with Uncle Salt right behind. They hung their coats and sat in the soft leather chairs by the fire.
Uncle Till picked up the jar that held the mushroom. He unclamped the lid and sniffed the aroma. He pulled his face back sharply. “Has a swampy stench.” Cautiously, he put his nose over the jar and sniffed again. “Sort of grows on you though.”
He handed the jar to Uncle Salt, who peered at the red mushroom, lifting his glasses to look with his naked eye, and then looking through the glasses again. He, too, sniffed it. Wrinkling his nose, he said, “Pungent, like a spice from Bottom.”
Uncle Salt put the jar on the round table and looked around at Bell. “Is that tea ready, Bell?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Bell said, and she began serving tea.
Uncle Till took his tea, sat back in the chair, and shook his head, “Crim mushrooms, blood red among the golden Wobbles; supposed to mean the return of Noster. Superstitious poppycock, stories to tell children—the Way of the Tanan, the One Wave—just stories.”
“Well, that’s not what Mother thought,” Uncle Salt put in, taking his tea from Bell.
Bell looked over at Uncle Till and saw him frown.
“She was brought up with these tales,” Uncle Till told his brother with a glare. “Couldn’t help herself. But she never said much about the Way of the Tanan. Father wouldn’t have it.”
“You always saw things as father did. But mother made it possible for Old Wizen Tob to stay that summer.” Uncle Salt took a sip of tea. “That was when we heard all of those stories.”
“Only a fool would think they were real: Anaso the Trickster and Noster the Betrayer.”
Bell cut in. “Wizen Tob, what did he look like? What is the story, Uncle Till?”
“Ask your grandfather. The Old Wizen led him all over the hills and even took him to some secret Grotto I could never find. He must have heard all the stories and poems.”
Bell looked to her grandfather but he was shaking his head. “I have vague, happy memories, but no stories. I haven’t thought about the Old Wizen in years. Maybe more will come back to me in time.”
Uncle Salt held out his cup for more tea. As Bell poured, he said, “Master Tob was tall and skinny with nut brown skin. He wore white baggy shirts and white baggy pants. Sometimes he had a wool shawl, the same color of redwood bark.”
Uncle Till sat forward in his chair, looked at Bell, and he began the story. “The last time the Winking God opened his eye, a long time ago, maybe three hundred or a thousand …”
Bell interrupted. “Is the Winking God that constellation in the southeast sky that looks like a face with one eye opened?”
“Yes. In the past, another star appeared beside the original, and it looked as if the Winking God opened his other eye. We have not seen that in our lifetimes, but one of the farmers at the mill told me it is due to happen soon.” Uncle Till threw up his hands with a skeptical look and continued his story. “Well, anyway, there was a great earthquake and deadly wind that killed many people. At the same time the Butte rose out of the earth. It was thought that some bad energy within the Butte was the source of the dead wind. A group of travelers went to investigate the Butte.”
He took a sip of tea. “Noster and Anaso were among the travelers, along with some other people: Yil and Tok. After many attempts, they were able to get inside the Butte and found concealed tunnels and passages.” Uncle Till paused.
“Then, ah … Noster, ah … got lost in the Butte. At some point his body was taken over by a malignant force. Noster found his way out, leaving the rest of the party trapped by slime worms. But somehow Anaso helped everyone escape.” He paused again, turning to Uncle Salt “I’m a little fuzzy on the details. What do you remember?”
Uncle Salt shifted in his chair and said, “Sometime later, a great battle outside the Butte was initiated by Noster against Anaso. Supposedly, they shot energy and fire from their hands against each other. Anaso tricked Noster and banished him into the One Wave.”
Uncle Till shook his head skeptically. “I ask you, how can any of that be real?”
“The Butte is real!” protested Uncle Salt “You can’t deny it is a foul place. Most of the citizens of the city of Bottom would tell you Noster was real. The reading deck used by the Blood Magic women to tell the future are filled with the figures from the stories the Old Wizen told.”
“That just makes them a foolish, superstitious people,” put in Uncle Till. “Anaso and Noster and all the people in the stories have powers that are not granted to the likes of us, or anyone we have ever known.” Uncle Till put his cup down and struggled out of the deep chair. Grandfather Lute rose from his own chair and gave Uncle Till a hand up.
“Thank you, Lute. Anyway, the red Crim mushroom you found means the coming of Noster, so you had better watch out,” Uncle Till mocked. He looked at Bell. “You had best look to becoming a City Scout like your grandfather and your dear departed father and forget this superstitious nonsense.”
Uncle Salt rose from his chair. Putting on his coat, he said, “I remember the Old Wizen saying the power is dependent on seeing and using the patterns of the One Wave. As a youngster I used to try and try to see the One Wave, but I never could.” He st
epped out of the door, calling back, “Thanks for the tea.”
Grandfather Lute helped Uncle Till with his coat and walked him out the door. Bell stood with her grandfather as they watched the older men make their way home. Night had fallen and wisps of fog played through the trees.
“What do you think, Grandfather? Were the stories real?” Bell took his hand.
“Yes, Bell, I think it all happened, Anaso and Noster and the rest. The reason I believe this is that when I’m forging metal, I can see and use the One Wave. So, it’s easy for me to imagine someone with more power than I have, someone who can throw fire from their hands.” He smiled at his granddaughter, who was looking up at him with concern. “You run off to bed, Bell. I’ll clean up.”
Bell hugged her Grandfather. “See you in the morning, Grandfather, maybe you’ll remember the stories.”
Wind Point Plateau
Lieutenant Bartok spurred his horse to follow the mule-drawn supply wagon. He and his squad had been assigned rear guard. Bartok spit dust and silently cursed Captain Stoneman. Bartok knew rear guard duty was punishment though the Captain had not yet officially called him on his “misdeed.” Earlier the City Troop had been dispatched to Fisher Bay to distribute a notice of higher taxes to the residents. The citizens had objected so loudly that Bartok sent his squad of horsemen into what he perceived as the start of a riot. His troopers managed to bloody a few heads before Captain Stoneman ordered them off the residents.
Bartok looked down the thirty paces to the waves splashing on the rocks. The Coast Road had been dug along the face of the cliff. Long, and narrow, the road rose from the last stretch of beach to the south. The narrow, steep ascent made for a hard, daylong climb to Wind Point Plateau. The end was in sight. One by one the supply wagons disappeared over the lip of land onto the plateau. The sun was low on the horizon. Bartok could smell the evening meal. “Food and rest,” he thought, “if old Stonehead leaves me alone.”
He topped the last rise and rode out onto the plateau. The camp spread before him, organized to the lay of the hard, windswept land. He escorted the last of the wagons to their assigned area and led his squad to their bivouac.
The Dead Wind Page 1