The 13th Descent: Book One of The Rosefire Trilogy

  The 13th Descent

  Ky Lehman

  Text copyright © 2014 Ky Lehman

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely co-incidental.

  Cover image from www.dreamstime.com

  For Joshua Thomas

  If you have knowledge, let others light their candles at it.

  MARGARET FULLER

  Prologue

  SALZBERG

  (PRESENT DAY AUSTRIA)

  SEPTEMBER, 1539

  Against all warning, a middle aged couple desperate for a child of their own travelled from Rome to Salzburg to seek an audience with the great Paracelsus.

  After a strenuous journey and a windy day’s wait in the long line leading up to Paracelsus’ door, it was finally their turn to go in. They humbly sat before the wise man and spoke of their efforts and trials in the pursuit of their greatest desire. Paracelsus did not usually favour the meek, but their trembling voices and tearstained cheeks could not disguise what he had spent decades searching for.

  And it was as glorious and as unnerving as the sacred Shoshanna Pages had described.

  Every time the couple lifted their heavy heads and gazed into each other’s eyes, a seamless ripple of colourless light surrounded them, illuminating the hidden shards of golden amber scattered throughout the native dark brown depths of their irises. Only the privileged few who have studied the Shoshanna Pages would’ve been able to see this physical exchange between divine lovers. Paracelsus wondered if receiving this look was as moving as witnessing it. He invited the couple to stay and eat with him, eager to unearth more.

  Over a humble meal, Paracelsus discovered that the woman was born in Rome and was raised as a Catholic, and the man was born in Jerusalem and was raised as a Davidic Jew, but on becoming a young man, he joined the Essenes with his parents blessing. Many told them that their interreligious union was cursed and the reason why God would not bless them with a child. As Paracelsus prayed for guidance, ghostly whispers only he could hear spoke to him for the first time since his heretical research had begun. He closed his eyes and nodded in quiet satisfaction. At long last, he had been given permission to continue.

  Paracelsus went on to ask the couple about their wealth. The man explained that when he chose his common born Catholic bride and followed her to Rome, he was disinherited from his family’s fortune. Since that time, he had been tending to his ailing father-in-law’s crops until the farm was sold shortly after the old man’s death.

  “What of the proceeds of the sale?” Paracelsus asked.

  “The entire sum went towards paying back the family’s debts,” the man answered.

  “So, you own nothing?”

  “Nothing,” the man solemnly replied.

  With the man’s honest and vulnerable answer, the ethereal voices rejoiced, and in their happiness they instructed Paracelsus to immediately send the couple on a journey that would ultimately seal their fate.

  This huge undertaking involved travelling to the four corners of the earth to retrieve four sacred items: a vial of sea water, a small piece of volcanic glass, a large blue feather, and a sapling.

  “How long do we have to retrieve these items?” the man asked.

  Paracelsus shrugged. “You will know when your time has run out,” he unceremoniously replied. He gave them only a few moments to consider his proposal before he asked, “So, my dear ones, are you willing?”

  After briefly holding their divine gaze, the couple agreed.

  Overwrought by exhaustion and poverty, Paracelsus waited for them to ask how they would possibly get to these faraway places and return home. But the question didn’t pass their lips.

  Astonished and encouraged by their blind faith, Paracelsus embraced them, blessed them, and sent them on their way.

  Two years later, the man and the woman returned to Salzburg with the four sacred items. They were in good health and good cheer, and the only weight they carried was the gold and jewels filling their sacks. As they told Paracelsus about their venture, they couldn’t contain their excitement.

  They explained that when they travelled on foot to the coast of the Adriatic Sea to retrieve the vial of sea water, they came across a man lying on the shore. He was a Moorish pirate who had been robbed, beaten and left for dead. They tried to help him, but to no avail. His last words were a request: that they bury him at sea with a prayer from his homeland, and in exchange for their kindness, he would bequeath to them his boat and the contents that remained. Without a second thought towards the unlawful act they had been asked to commit, they promised their king’s enemy that they would abide by his dying wish.

  The boat was large, but it could be manned by two people. Before becoming a husband and a farmer, the man was once master to many fishermen and his wife was happy to learn that he was also an able sea captain. They sailed to faraway shores in search of the small piece of volcanic glass: to desert plains and green savannahs home to exotic creatures, over snow-capped mountains and through humidly lush jungles, although, after many months of trekking and hacking through the dirt, rock, and the challenges of these foreign lands, they did not find what they were searching for. Instead, their labours unearthed a bounty of natural treasures, that when sold, could feed them for ten lifetimes.

  As they lugged the last of their haul back to their boat, a pendant hanging from a worn string of leather fell from the woman’s neck. As it once belonged to her mother, she dropped to her knees and rummaged through the sand trying to find it. When she did, she marvelled at the jagged black jewel in her hand. She had worn it since she was a child, but had rarely looked at it. In that moment, she realised that the pendant was the small piece of volcanic glass they had been searching for.

  The couple then sailed to the Orient, and on their arrival, a young boy ran up to greet them like an old friend. Fascinated by the woman’s tumbles of golden-brown hair, her round doe eyes and the blush of her sun kissed skin, the boy insisted that they follow him to his family home. There, they met his grandmother, and although they could not understand her quick words, they happily conversed with one another through their actions and expressions. The couple were soon made to understand that the grandmother was the boy’s only surviving family, and that their livelihood came from the small gaggle of sickly-looking fowl scratching around their hut.

  The grandmother spoke to the boy and with a happy face he raced outside, and shortly returned with a plump, grandly coloured pheasant. Using the rickety wooden table as a brace, the grandmother broke the pheasant’s neck in one swift motion, plucked out its long royal blue tail feather and handed it to the woman. She then instructed her grandson to throw the carcass of the bird onto the fire.

  Knowing the pheasants flesh could feed the boy and his grandmother for many days, the man rushed to the fire to save what was left, but it was too late. Well satisfied, the grandmother bowed to the couple and the boy hurried them on their way by pushing them out the door.

  With three of the four items safely in their possession, the couple set sail for home. When they arrived back in Rome, those who knew them were surprised by their new found prosperity: few congratulated them, but most secretly env
ied their good fortune and cursed them. They returned to the farm: to the place where the woman was raised and the man tended to the family’s crops, and visited with the new owner to ask if they could buy a particular sapling from him. The owner, struggling with debt, proposed that they purchase more than just the sapling and proposed that they buy back their family home at a fair price. They happily accepted and agreed to claim ownership of the farm when they returned from Salzburg.

  “Your travels have taken you far and you have collected everything I asked of you. But, I must know, retrieving which of the four sacred items gave you the most satisfaction?” Paracelsus asked the bright eyed couple.

  “The sapling,” the man answered as his wife enthusiastically nodded in agreement.

  Now sitting on the edge of his chair, Paracelsus eagerly asked them, “Why?”

  “Because every time we searched for and found a sapling, and had to decide whether or not it was the one to bring back with us, our thoughts always lead to home, so it didn’t take us long to realise where we must go to find it. And, so, that is what we did,” the woman explained.

  Paracelsus made his pleasure with their answer well known by closing his eyes and smilingly reclining back his chair.

  “And the sapling will grow into what tree?” Paracelsus asked without his usual fervour as if he already knew the answer.

  “An apple tree,” the woman answered, confused by the wise man’s sudden change of temperament.

  “An apple tree,” Paracelsus happily parroted on a long sigh as a flood of joyous warmth quickened his heart and soothed his soul, leaving in its wake a weakened body and a soaring spirit.

  Paracelsus beckoned for the couple to come closer, cleared his throat and said, “Take the sapling to the island where you discovered the shard of volcanic glass and ask the ruler of the land for his permission to plant it in the richest soil he has to offer. And, as you water it for the first time, speak the name of the blessed child you are soon to bear.” The woman excitedly went to speak, but his solemn look immediately silenced her. “Use the royal feather as a writing tool to record all you have experienced since our first meeting,” he croaked and coughed as he placed his shaky hand on a wooden chest the size of a large house cat sitting on the table beside him, “and keep your writings, the feather, the fire jewel, and the vial of sea water together with the treasures in this box.” He attempted to sit up. “The key to this chest,” politely refusing help from the couple, with great effort, he removed a thick length of leather with a large rose gold key attached to it from around his neck and placed it in the woman’s small palm, “This key has kept you locked away for too long, Maria Rosa,” he rasped as he reverently gazed into her bright, amber-speckled eyes. Hearing the great Paracelsus say her name, the name he had never asked her for and the name she never offered to give, forced a gasp from her lips and tears from her eyes.

  Paracelsus then addressed them both. “Oceans, poverty, suffering, the laws of man and the church, all tried to keep you apart, but still you found each other. And, when following another of your hearts greatest desires, you found me. I sent you on a journey, far from all you knew, with only the clothes on your person and the hope in your hearts, but you still accomplished everything that was asked of you and you found your way back. You found your way home.” As a peaceful smile spread across his paling face, he whispered, “And now, a sacred child of Shoshanna will find their way to you.”

  Paracelsus then turned his gaze towards the man and softly said, “Name this blessed child for your beloved. Name all of the blessed children who follow for your beloved.” The tears trickling from Paracelsus’ heavy eyes dripped from the point of his bristly chin onto the couple’s joined hands, and acknowledging this, he said, “The tears we weep, the blood we spill, and the sweat of our labours all hold the same measure of salt as this world’s great oceans. So, as I bless your union with my tears,” he opened his hand to present them with the vial of water they had retrieved from the Adriatic Sea, “when the Rose and her twin soul find each other again, their union must be blessed with these tears from the sea, bringing the salt of the earth and the light of home together as one.” With the last of his strength, he wheezed, “Now, my dear ones, it is time for you to take your leave, as it is mine.”

  That night, a blessed child descended into matter. And the next morning, the people of Salzburg grieved the sudden death of the great Paracelsus.

  Chapter 1

  Woken by familiar whimpers, groans, and thumps, I lay still, holding my breath, trying to figure out if it’s coming from my grandfather’s bedroom or the piddle-stained sheep skin rug by the fireplace.

  I hear the tell-tale stumble...curse...stumble...clink...CURSE! and I know exactly what’s happening. Georgie Pa has drained the bottle and he’s searching for more, and Chip is either taking on a car or he’s in battle with one of the huge mutts from next door. For a mini Fox Terrier, he snores and dreams like a Rottweiler.

  I sit up, rub away the cobwebs and stare helplessly into the darkness. Georgie Pa made me promise to keep my distance when he’s like this. And I have learned firsthand that interrupting one of Chip’s dream tussles could result in the loss of a finger.

  I have just seen the people Georgie Pa has toasted every night for the past ten months. Sleep is the only time they come. Now I’m awake, I know I won’t see them, but I still search the shadows dreading, hoping. They don’t show themselves, but the tingling at the back of my neck whispers that they are near.

  During the day it’s much easier. These ghosts shy away from the light. But at night, they come out and dance to the tune of our nightmares. To keep them away, Georgie Pa drinks. Chip fights. I search the closets for their skeletons.

  Our house is small and the walls are thin, so it’s hard for the living to guard their secrets here. If Georgie Pa knew what I was up to, he’d change his mind and send me off to France in a heartbeat: off to Nanna’s family and their kooky post-pubescent pilgrimage. Apparently, the women in her family have been taking this trek for centuries. My mother included. Some of the stops along the way sound interesting, but it’s why they all go that once sounded like a lot of hocus-pocus crap to me. Georgie Pa used to make it painfully clear that he didn’t think much of the whole thing either.

  But now I think Georgie Pa and I could use a little bit of that black magic to help us to see through the heat of flames into the warmth of the past. Even though I’m breaking one of his rules, I still go through Mum and Nanna’s things looking for it. There are times when the heat subsides just long enough for me to sense their glow, but when I reach for it, it spits, fizzles, and falls to ash. Then I feel guilty about what I’m doing, until the next time.

  The old man would blow another gasket if he knew how many nights I have spent amongst their things, but in his present state, I don’t think he’ll be catching on anytime soon. It’s Chip I need to watch out for. Between his hyper highs, his sulky lows, his spontaneous barking at empty corners and his all-round weird behaviour, I have caught him, more than once, dragging random things out of my room to one of the many holes he has dug in and around Mum’s once beautiful rose garden. It seems we are both digging through the dirt searching for our dead.

  Georgie Pa says that Chip is grieving too. He believes that animals understand more than we give them credit for and because they can’t tell us what they are thinking and feeling, they do all they can to show us. Using Georgie Pa’s analogy, maybe Chip thinks that if I can’t find my things I won’t leave too? Or he’s trying to tell Georgie Pa that I’m hiding something? I think he’s just being a bratty little snot because he’s hoping Nanna will magically appear to tell him off.

  But Chip was the only one of us who was with them in their final moments. Another witness, Father Yarden, said Chip jumped out of the car window, barking hysterically at Mum and Nanna as they fought with the locked doors, heartbeats before the car blew up in flames.

  Chip used to go everywhere with Nanna. Every day she wo
uld walk him into town. Most of the local shopkeepers know him and the beef jerky treats he likes best. They miss him and they always ask me to bring him by, but these days, it’s a challenge to get him to walk on a lead let alone getting him to go anywhere near a car.

  I was supposed to go with them that night, but a sudden bout of stomach flu kept me at home hugging the toilet bowl. Georgie Pa mentioned that he was feeling squeamish, so Nanna insisted that he stay home too. Don’t want to spread it around, she said.

  All thanks to the holy man who brought the bug to Sky High in the first place. And he made damn sure we all caught it.

  When Father Yarden burst onto the scene two years ago, Nanna, Mum and I started going to St. Peter’s with Georgie Pa. Not to mass, but to the monthly GGM’s – Global Goodwill Meetings – the good Father started up shortly after he came to town. Morning teas to support cancer research. Fundraising for the orphans in Africa and such. No one has been game enough to ask, but most of us figure that Father Yarden is in his late thirties to early forties. He’s tall, dark, fit, and easy on the eye, well presented with not a hair out of place – I’m sure he’s no stranger to that Grey’s Away! hair dye – as well as being outgoing and friendly, so it’s no miracle why local women of all ages discovered that they did actually have some spare time to put towards a good cause. Word of this soon got out and a good chunk of Sky High’s male population started coming along too.

  Going to church was never Mum’s, Nanna’s or my thing. Nanna always said that true faith doesn’t need a name, and, on this, I have always gravitated towards her point of view. But after Georgie Pa dragged us all to the first GGM, we were hooked. These meetings became a religion the four of us wholeheartedly believed in and Georgie Pa loved every minute of it. We’d all leave the church hall on a high, chatting about the friends we caught up with and our shared plans for the upcoming event. I don’t know if it was the mixed spread of bakery treats and good company or because it soothed our consciouses and helped to put our first world problems into perspective, but we all looked forward to the first Saturday afternoon of the month.