Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  — o O o —

  Times were hard for Marc: Too much cold, not enough food and a once good friend had turned against him. Then his life grew even more complicated as magic invaded his world. Little did he know that discovering the Haunted Tree would change him in ways he could not imagine. Under the tutelage of the mysterious wizard Oren, Marc, and his lifelong friend, Valeria, found themselves on the path to learning the greatest secret of magic. But this journey would come at a price. Together they struggle to not only discover and fulfill their destinies, but to also survive the evil that wants them dead, all within the shadow of the Haunted Tree.

  — o O o —

  HAUNTED TREE

  Book One of The Magus Family Chronicles

  Copyright 2014, Scott Robert Scheller.

  Please support copyright. Authors rely upon it for their livelihood.

  Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this work. Please do not reproduce and/or distribute this work in any form or by any means without written permission of the author. Small segments of this work, such as a paragraph or less, may only be used for review or promotional purposes as long as the title and author are credited along with such use.

  This is a work of fiction. As much as the author wishes otherwise, all characters and locals in this work are fictitious except for Gildas, but he’s not around to comment. Therefore, all names, places and incidences used herein are the result of the author’s strange imagination, and have no bearing upon, association with, or even a passing resemblance to, actual persons, whether living or dead. Except for our buddy, Gildas. Even he is used fictitiously.

  Acknowledgements

  As this is my first full-length novel to be published, there are a ton of people for me to thank. Over the years, many have helped guide my path and even, on rare occasion, given me a swift kick in the pants when needed. With so many to give credit to, I cannot begin to list them all here, but they are remembered.

  My deeply grateful and heartfelt thanks to the Tuesday night writing group, led by our mentor, Elnora King. If any one person may be credited with teaching me the craft of writing, it’s her. Many budding writers became published authors under her wise and patient tutelage. Including me. Thanks, Elnora, and God bless you.

  With an equal measure of gratitude and love, I want to thank my parents, Bob and Becky Scheller, for all their incredible support and encouragement. When the company I co-owned closed down, I wanted more than anything to write the “great American novel”. At the time I was barely making ends meet and couldn’t afford a computer. My parents, even though they were retired and really couldn’t spare the expense, bought me one. Wow. What can I say? It made a difference, so much that this story may not have come about without their loving help.

  I also need to express my profound thanks and love to my wife, Susan. She has been more than tolerant of being a “writing widow”, having to constantly share herself, my first love, with writing, my second. Many a day I would come home from work and disappear into my office to write, giving her far less attention than she deserved. In her way, she invested her time in this story as well, making it as much hers as mine.

  Every writer needs outside help at one time or another. For me, it was translating English into Latin. My sincere appreciation goes out to Dr. Marshall Johnston of Fresno Pacific University for putting me in touch with Anthony J. Fredette, Latinist extraordinaire. Mr. Fredette not only superbly translated my English words and phrases into Latin, he went the extra mile and researched the most applicable forms of Latin used during my story’s time setting. Amazing. Thanks, Anthony. Any error seen in how I applied his expert advice is mine, not his.

  The captivating cover image, Fog Tree, is Copyright 2008 by Gary Philbin, and is used with his generous permission.

  Of all the individuals that in some way helped me on this journey, I wish to mention two of them by name as they both participated in the genesis of Haunted Tree, and are no longer with us to see my work come to fruition.

  Benjamin Gordon Brown, a good friend since college, was a font of Anglican historical facts. He encouraged my early efforts with Haunted Tree and helped me better understand the lives of the people in my story. He became so drawn in by my wanting to write, he caught the bug, too, and began a promising series featuring a blind detective. Sadly, cancer took him far too soon. I still miss ya, buddy.

  Another of my post-college friends was Mariel Long. Fairly reserved, she loved F&SF stories, and seemed to really like hearing all my strange ideas for books I wanted to write. Suffering from chronic diabetes, her health continued to decline to the point she lost her kidneys. Near the end, I did what little I could to ease her spirits, often entertaining her with fanciful tales about a family of wizards who lived next to a mysterious Haunted Tree. It took a long time, but this book’s for you, Mariel.

  — o O o —

  If you like my work, please tell others about it. Independent authors have few avenues of promotion better than word-of-mouth. Fans are our best asset. So, please, chat me up to your friends, family, co-workers, neighbors—heck, even the clerk at your local grocery store. Maybe leave a nice review on Amazon, too. Thanks!

  I appreciate feedback, both positive and negative. All I ask is that it’s civil.

  — o O o —

  For more information, please visit: www.scottrobertscheller.com

  Chapter 1

  Marc was hungry. He was cold, tired, but more than anything else, hungry. For the last two of his sixteen years, he knew nothing but desperate hardship. What had been a reasonably comfortable life changed overnight when the darkness descended upon his world. A great cold came upon the land, a winter without end. The trees produced neither leaves, flowers nor fruit. No grain grew in the fields. With each passing day, the once plentiful deer, rabbits and other game animals became ever more scarce. He feared that soon no one in Britannia would remain.

  Before him loomed the fog-shrouded bluffs of Red Cliffs. There he might find food, meager though it may be. But getting to it would not be easy. The half-melted ice covering the rocks made climbing difficult. Every few steps Marc would lose his footing and slip downhill a bit, knocking loose snow which the frigid wind whisked away. As he struggled, a pair of calloused hands gave him a rude shove up the slope.

  “Move!” Donald said, his displeasure naked and unrestrained. “You hold us back.”

  Just minutes before, Marc stood at the base of the cliffs and, following some inner urging, selected the area where they should search this day. He reluctantly faced his tormentor, knowing it would do little to change things. “If you wish to lead, do so. I told you where I thought more birds were.”

  Donald responded with a bitter scowl Marc knew well, one often accompanied with a less than polite reminder that he was both a year older and the son of the village leader. Once they had been the best of friends, but over the past year the young man behind him grew ever more arrogant and disdainful, much of it directed toward him. Marc could not remember doing anything to anger Donald during that time. The loss of their friendship was one of many hard changes brought about after the sun left them.

  And Marc hated it.

  “Out of my way.” Donald scrabbled impatiently past him. “We have little time to waste.”

  Tired of this nonsense, Marc almost responded with something rude when the next boy, Sean, shook his head, indicating Marc should not irritate Donald further. Glancing behind, Marc witnessed the embarrassed looks of the younger boys; they did not care for Donald’s attitude either. Following Sean, Marc considered telling Donald what he thought of him and his attitude despite Sean’s pe
acekeeping efforts. While it would feel good to vent his frustrations, doing so would probably spark another confrontation. For now, that needed to be avoided. The good of their village mattered more.

  Once they reached the bottom of the cliff face, he untied his pack and pulled out two long, braided leather ropes, handing one each to Donald and Sean. Even though Donald began to direct the group’s actions, there was little need; they had done this for months now all along Red Cliffs and had it down to a routine.

  Being the largest and strongest of the young men, Donald and Sean would find a secure place higher up, wedging themselves into clefts in the ruddy stone. Firmly holding their ropes, each suspended one of the smaller boys as they searched in the dim light for birds frozen within the various pockets and niches covering the face of the cliff. Often their prizes were entombed with a covering of snow and ice. After a bit of work chiseling away with a knife, the remains could be freed and tossed to the others below. It was hard, slow work, usually yielding two to three dozen birds for a day’s effort. Sometimes they were lucky and found larger, meatier birds such as gulls, doves or swallows. Otherwise, the much smaller sparrows or wrens would have to do.

  It had been a scant five hours of constant labor when Donald eyed the sunless sky. “We are finished. Pack up.”

  Marc looked upward as well. The ever-present grayish-brown haze, thicker than any thunder cloud he had seen, grew darker by the minute, leaving just enough light for them to return to their village of Oak Creek. Seeing the misery heaped upon his friends and neighbors, he deeply wished he could do something to improve their lot. Sometimes he felt as if he should be able to do so, but the how of it escaped him.

  While lowering his charge to the ground, Donald shouted at the younger boys below. “Willie, what is the count?”

  “Fifty-one,” the lad said with delight, hoisting the bulging sack of birds over his head. “And many are doves.”

  A cheer erupted from the others.

  “Fine work, all,” Donald said, coiling his rope. He and Sean descended together until they stood upon a large, flat rock ten feet above Marc. Clearly in discomfort, Sean rubbed his arms and shoulders. Pink stripes marked his hands and wrists where the leather had bit into his flesh. Donald poked Sean’s shoulder with a finger. “Sore, are we?”

  Sean smiled. “As sore as you.” He tossed his bound rope down to Marc.

  Doing the same, Donald chuckled, “What we need is a good rubdown by a couple of pretty ladies.”

  Sean’s smile drooped, his uncomfortable gaze momentarily glancing Marc’s way. “If you say so.”

  Donald’s bravado disgusted Marc. For a while now he repeatedly made advances toward many of the girls, none more so than Valeria. The thought of them pairing turned Marc’s stomach. Climbing down to where the others waited, he packed away the ropes then scratched some letters on a large, reddish-brown boulder with the tip of his knife.

  Sean leaned over his shoulder. “What does that say?”

  Marc looked up and saw with relief Donald was elsewhere. Sean remained a good friend, treating him with respect. “Fifty-one, followed by the date. Today was good.”

  “Thank God. Fortune smiled upon us today. Not as many empty holes.” Sean’s storm-grey eyes surveyed the cliffs, then met Marc’s gaze. “Every time you choose where to look, we seem to find more and better birds.” Leaning closer, he dropped his voice and added, with amusement, “And I think Don is jealous of that special skill of yours.”

  Marc’s stomach quailed in discomfort at his friend’s compliment. He shook his head. “It’s just luck, that’s all.” Assuming Sean would let the subject drop, he rechecked his pack, stood and hefted it onto his shoulder. “The day seemed longer. Have you noticed that of late?”

  “Yes. I could almost see the sun for a while. Maybe that means things will be better soon.” Hearing the tenuous, almost desperate, hope in his friend’s voice renewed Marc’s frustration at being powerless to improve things. Sean headed toward the path and Marc followed.

  “Maybe. By the calendar it should be early spring now, but we still—” A crunch of gravel to Marc’s right indicated they were no longer alone.

  “No,” Donald said, louder than necessary. “No spring this year, either, but me and my father will see us all through. You can rely on that.” Casting him a reproachful look, Donald moved off and began gathering the boys for the trip home.

  Marc ached to counter Donald’s self-serving prophecy but decided it would do little to change his once-friend’s negative outlook. Marc had never stopped hoping for a better future, one where life was no longer a daily struggle to merely survive the darkness. Tightening his cloak about himself, he remained silent for the rest of the journey.

  By the time they neared home, the fullness of night had fallen and seeing the guiding fire far ahead gladdened him. Built some hundred feet above the surrounding terrain on the southernmost point of Rocky Hill, the fire helped them find their way in the dark. While not very large, its light shone for several miles out, visible in an arc from the east to the northwest. More than once it proved its worth, leading a lost hunter safely back.

  Following the well-worn path, he and the boys passed beneath the guiding fire and entered the southern end of the village. Laid out in a long, north-south oval just east of the base of Rocky Hill, Oak Creek had a central communal area surrounded by two rings of huts spaced at intervals of twenty to thirty paces. Dominating that area was the common house—a long, low, rectangular structure large enough to hold everyone in the village with room to spare. Used for everything from meals to meetings, it was in many ways the heart of Oak Creek. Set in the middle of its floor was the knee-high stone ring that held the great fire. Nearby, the talking stone protruded four feet out of the earth. North of the common house were two smaller structures, one for storage and one for cooking. East of the cookhouse stood the Sabbath altar with a dozen log benches arranged before it. The family huts, forty-two in number, were mostly four to five paces square, with thick stone walls and steeply-pitched thatched roofs. Marc’s home was the northernmost one. In all, one hundred and thirteen souls called his village home.

  To the southeast of the village lay the cemetery. Marc usually avoided moving through that area for it awakened unpleasant memories. Further to the east and southeast, the rich soil of the grain fields stretched out well beyond a thousand paces. From the southeast to the southwest stood the northern edge of the great forest, thick with many leafless trees. To the west, past Rocky Hill, the trees were less numerous, mostly appearing in spotty clumps as the land gradually descended until it reached a wide, flat valley that was once lush with wild grasses and grains. Near the southern end of that valley was a landmark known as Broken Rock. Marc liked that place because it seemed mysterious. Further south, the land rose in a series of steps until reaching Red Cliffs.

  Most of his neighbors had once tended the fields while others hunted or plied trades such as carpentry, metal working, woodcutting, weaving and such. Marc’s family trade used to be tanning and leatherwork. But none of that mattered anymore. Now all the men were hunters and woodcutters while the women saw to the fires, cooked and cared for the other needs of the village.

  Luckily, Oak Creek had stored up a surplus of wheat, oats and barley before the darkness came—but only enough to keep them from starving. That’s why the men and boys hunted for game. The meat they brought back was a much needed supplement to the daily ration of grain and dried vegetables. They were too poor a village to afford any other sources of food, such as the very expensive dried fish transported from the coast by several traveling merchants.

  While Donald carried the bag of birds to the women at the cookhouse as he always did, Marc and the rest of the boys joined the men in the common house and found they had a good day, too, catching a goose and two squirrels. Everyone would eat better tonight. Waiting for the meal, they rested and warmed themselves around the great fire.

  “—and you should have seen it,” one man
said with a toothy grin. “That goose tried to fly away with the snare about its leg. The string caught on a branch, pulled tight, and that bird went all the way around the tree and bam,” he said, smacking his fist on his palm, “hit the trunk, knocking itself out.”

  Once the laughter died out, another added, “We were lucky. Had it not got caught in that tree, it would have likely flown into the Forbidden Vale.” The man’s demeanor sobered. “Hungry or not, I would have let it go.”

  Many of the men voiced their agreement.

  “Why?” Marc asked suddenly. He wasn’t sure why; it just popped out. “Do we really know if that place is truly evil, or just a legend? Have any of us actually known someone who has gone in there and had terrible things happen to him?”

  One of the older men, Domas the metalworker, gave Marc a serious look. “My grandfather knew a man who foolishly strayed into the Vale. The next day they found him wandering about, blinded, but not just blind, mind you. Skin covered over where his eyes should have been. He said he saw many frightening things, like skeletons and rotting bodies hanging from pikes with strange serpent creatures eating their putrid flesh. A few hours later he died in terrible pain.”

  Another nodded solemnly. “My father also told me such stories. Some date back to before the Romans left. Only the wizard Oren may pass safely through that place, for foul magic lives there. It will leave us alone if we leave it alone.”

  “It is haunted indeed!” a third said with a tightlipped grimace.

  “But how do we know?” Marc’s father never warned him of the Vale.

  “We cannot,” Garrett said, his voice calm and even. As the village leader, Marc respected his opinion. “Grandfathers tell fathers who tell sons. Each generation warns the next. We honor their wisdom and take it on faith they know best.”

  Marc felt the tap of a stick on his shin and saw it was wielded by Donald who flashed him a sly grin. “If you are curious, why not see for yourself?”