Dr. Bianchi remained silent and looked curiously on as they approached the light source.

Prof. Abrams noticed what seemed like tiny sparkles upon the passage’s walls. The ceiling disappeared into darkness. As they approached the light sources, she could make out etchings of some sort.

“Hieroglyphs,” Dr. Bianchi said.

Prof. Abrams studied them from a closer vantage point. The carvings were etched upon different elevations within the tunnel. To her, they seemed to represent various scenes—some were of men chasing herds of wild animals, while others were of women weaving baskets or people of all ages dancing around bonfires or strange objects.

But there were other images—a group of men speared someone on the ground; two men held an infant over a deep crevice; a group of what looked like Shaman knelt before a large, indescribable mass.

Prof. Abrams pointed at the latter. “Look at that one, about fifteen feet up.”

Dr. Bianchi scrutinized the thing that the Shaman knelt before. The hieroglyph was hard to decipher since it was further up on the wall. “Probably a Shinari deity they worshipped. Do you have any information on that one?” he said without looking at her.

“I’ll have to come back with something high to stand on so that I can compare it to my notes, but off-hand I’d say it could be Ngwe, the Shinari lord of corruption and possession. These all look amazing though. The Whilowhen probably…looks like they used some sort of glowing lichen to illuminate them,” she remarked. “We better turn back pretty soon. I’ll collect a sample on the way back.”

Dr. Bianchi picked up a long, sturdy stick. He proceeded to walk on using it as a walking stick.

They walked on a little ways. Their torches blew around in the increasing breeze as the glow of the hieroglyphs faded and were replaced by another light source ahead. A few leaves dotted the passage’s floor.

“That looks like natural light,” Prof. Abrams said.

“Seems to be,” Dr. Bianchi agreed. “Let’s put out our torches for now to conserve them.”

The two scientists snuffed out their torches as the tunnel widened until its ceiling was far above them. It finally gave way to a large, partially lit chamber just ahead.

The two explorers walked into a sprawling, oblong space that seemed to be naturally formed within the mountain. Stalactites covered the lower latitudes of the chamber but as the elevation rose higher they could see an open hole in the ceiling and the strata changed to hard-packed dirt around it. Through the hole, they could see a break in the fog and part of a blue sky.

Off to their left side was a row of stone huts partially covered in vines and lichen. Some of them had stone roofs while others were covered by rotting rows of thatch. Sunlight cascaded down from the hole in the ceiling and fell on the roofs of the huts, making their squared entrances seem even darker. A few large stone columns loomed in the background and hung over the huts like guardians while both trees and bushes grew at certain junctures of the space.

To the right, the cave wall sloped and the chamber disappeared around a bend in the cave’s far wall.

“My God,” Prof. Abrams breathily exclaimed as she put a hand to her mouth.

Dr. Bianchi looked on in stunned silence.

Prof. Abrams approached a nearby tree. “Look at these…they’re so unusual looking,” she said as she traced a hand along the tree’s dark, horribly twisted trunk. She looked at the other trees. “The bark on these…has a…an almost grey cast to it.”

When she didn’t hear a response from Dr. Bianchi, she looked over to see that he was walking towards the bend in the cave’s far wall.

Prof. Abrams began walking toward the huts. As she moved, she studied the large pillars that rose toward the hole in the ceiling and a sense of drowsiness began to inundate her. She almost stumbled a few times as her legs became heavier. It was as if time had somehow slowed. The sensation reminded her of the nightmares she’d had as a child, where she’d be trying to outrun something but felt as if she were moving in slow motion.

Her eyes drowsily moved upwards towards the hole in the ceiling and the sun’s rays broke through the fog and fell upon her face. The lethargy that had inundated her just moments before suddenly lifted and she felt buoyant again. That gave her a few moments to take some deep breaths and finally reach one of the huts. She glanced at the hole that the sunlight was filtering through and noticed that even though the sun shone, its rays seemed strangely muted. Even the sun’s rays that now enveloped her body appeared to be dimmer than usual.

“Maybe an altitude phenomenon,” she muttered to herself.

She looked at the pronounced entrance of the hut, which was flanked by a pair of columns and various carvings of symbols she’d never seen before. She took a breath and cautiously crept into the foreboding hut.

The post Shadows of Ebonwood Chapter 5 – Hall of Tainted Light appeared first on Fathoms of Yiqomec.

For locations, consult the map of the Ebonwood Region on homepage.

The totem pole stared silently down at Professor Mila Abrams. She figured it must have been around seventy feet tall and probably carved of red cedar like many of the others in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

They were in the Western portion of the Sierras at the base of a particularly enormous mountain called Split Cloud Peak, which was revered by the area’s Native tribes. Patchy snow covered its upper regions and fog permeated its lower, forested areas.

This totem had what appeared to be a fox at the very top and beneath that, a larger human head with wings sprouting out from where the ears would be. A humanoid body was beneath that which held a small figure within each hand. The rest of the totem pole was obscured by a tall, slatted steel fence with a padlocked door at its center. Some of the fence’s slats were covered in graffiti.

The fence spanned the width of an immense, teardrop-shaped cave opening. Two men were currently unlocking the locked gate and a third, taller man stood by to one side. All four of them wore outdoor clothing with reflective vests with the letters “APRI”—which stood for Algen Paranormal Research Institute—emblazoned across their front and back sides. Each of them was also equipped with wooden torches.

Dr. Bianchi called out to her in his slight Spanish accent. “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Very,” she answered, looking at the totem pole through the fog. She could barely make out its top.

Doctor Claudio Bianchi was a brilliant geologist from Argentina. He was also the head of the Exploratory Department at the nearby branch of APRI, nestled in the Red Feather Valley north of Farsdale. The other two men were employees of APRI who worked for Dr. Bianchi—she knew them only by their last names. The short, middle-aged, overweight man was Nichols; while the young, slender one was Brannon.

“Our guide from the Mekoshe tribe told us this totem pole was crafted by the Whilowhen tribe,” Dr. Bianchi exclaimed.

“Yeah, I figured. I’ve seen some similar ones scattered around Ebonwood.”

Dr. Bianchi looked at Prof. Abrams curiously. “How could you tell?”

She pointed at the totem’s hands. “See those smaller figures in the hands? Some of the other ones have those too. We’re not really sure what they represent but we’ve come across a couple of dolls that the Whilowhen left behind. They could represent the dolls.”

“Totem poles aren’t native to this area, right?” Dr. Bianchi asked.

“No. They’re mainly found in the northwest regions—Washington State, Alaska, British Columbia…”

Dr. Bianchi looked slightly perplexed. “I wonder when the Whilowhen first brought that cultural aspect here with them.”

“I hired a dendrochronologist to do some radiocarbon dating on one of the larger totem poles like this one.”

“What were the results?”

Prof. Abrams looked down at the ground in dismay. “There were none. At the site, he apparently had some sort of nervous breakdown. He’s been suffering from mental health issues ever since.”

“The local folklore must have gotten him, then?”

Prof. Abrams shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been in touch with a Professor William Hagel. You’ve probably heard of him; he’s an archeology expert who’s been studying Ebonwood for years.”

Dr. Bianchi nodded. “Yes, of course—he’s an award-winning scholar.”

“He had some rare data that he wanted to share with me and was scheduled to meet with me at the Tryffid Inn a few days ago. But he never showed up and I can’t seem to reach him.”

The chains around the gate fell to the ground and the two other men turned to Dr. Bianchi, who in turn looked at Prof. Abrams and smiled.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Dr. Bianchi unslung his torch from his utility belt and held a large lighter to its head. He lit it ablaze and the others followed his actions in kind. A pronounced squeaking noise sounded as Brannon pulled the large door open. The four walked through the gate door led by Prof. Abrams and Dr. Bianchi, with Nichols and Brannon taking up the rear.

Now Prof. Abrams could see the bottom of the totem pole. Beneath each of the humanoid figure’s feet were two large heads with what appeared to be red tears streaking down their cheeks.

“That’s odd. I haven’t seen these types of carvings before,” Prof. Abrams remarked.

Dr. Bianchi kept walking towards the cave entrance without looking at the totem. “We thought so too when we first discovered this cave.”

Prof. Abrams caught up with him. “You said this was one of the major caves that you discovered…”

Dr. Bianchi stopped in front of the cave opening, which must have been over eighty feet in height. “We gated this one-off because our guide had mentioned that the Whilowhen considered it special. It was a great research opportunity.”

Nichols chimed in from behind them. “Yeah, we just call it Cave Number 112.”

Prof. Abrams looked back at him. “You mean…as in there are over a hundred caves around here?”

“That’s right,” Nichols answered.

Dr. Bianchi waved his hands all around. “The Caves of Mourn encompass 143 caves, at least that’s how many we’ve documented so far. We’ve only explored about half of them; many ended up in dead ends while some others connect to each other.”

Prof. Abrams looked knew that the caves were so named because they had an unusual geographic feature to them—their entrances were shaped like teardrops. “And you mentioned before that only a few of the larger ones have totems outside of them?”

“That’s right, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that there must be something special about them…” Dr. Bianchi’s sentence trailed off into a snickering, high-pitched laugh.

Prof. Abrams knew that he was being ironic since he’d been IQ tested and was technically considered a genius. Still, she found his sense of humor strange and often unfunny. She did consider him attractive, however. His mid-length dark hair framed a long face with angular features, with green eyes that sparkled with immense intellect. She wondered if he found her attractive at all. She was middle-aged, like him, with dark blond hair and a sturdy, yet comely, Midwestern appeal that men of all ages seemed to find attractive. Like him, she wore glasses.

They gazed into the cave’s maw for a moment. It was impenetrably dark after twenty or so feet. They began walking in.

The post Shadows of Ebonwood Chapter 2 – The Caves of Mourn appeared first on Fathoms of Yiqomec.

For locations, consult the map of the Ebonwood Region on homepage.

The handsome edifice of Café Balasco was cracked in places and its sign hung at a slightly crooked angle, evidence of the damage that the entire area had recently sustained. All along the tree-lined avenue, one of the main ones within the town of Farsdale, were other damaged buildings; some more than others. The mid-morning sun shone through patchy clouds above and birds chirped noisily overhead as they glided through the air overhead.

Two people sat at a small table with a rail that separated a roped-off outside patio which faced the street. A female server was just delivering a pair of breakfast plates to the café’s two guests. She then turned to attend to a few other patio guests.

“So, Prof. Abrams, your records indicate that the Whilowhen tribe might have originally migrated from Alaska, that long ago?”

Prof. Mila Abrams stared across the table at her breakfast partner, Dr. Claudio Bianchi. “More or less.” She didn’t want to let on that she knew as much as she did. She wanted to see how much she could learn from him first and didn’t want to arouse too many suspicions as to how she gained her knowledge. The less she said, the more she hoped that he’d reveal, after all, his organization had contracted her, not the other way around.

“We know that American settlers coming out from the East Coast encountered the Whilowhen and other Native tribes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the mid-nineteenth century. As you probably already know, the town of Hobb’s Reach was established and it seems that the two parties got along decently. The Whilowhen were a reclusive people and only traded with a few other tribes, mainly the Mekoshe,” he said in his Argentinian accent.

Her patience had paid off, he was revealing more. But was he giving her accurate information?-she thought to herself.

“But by then, the Whilowhen had already moved much of their tribe into the caves from their home in Spindle Valley, right?” she queried.

“The Caves of Mourn; where we’re going later,” Dr. Bianchi clarified.

“No, that was later. In 1892, Hobb’s Reach, with government assistance, built the Rathmore Indian Industrial School and began rounding up the Whilowhen in order to ‘civilize’ them, as they claimed.”

“So, the Whilowhen tried to escape by moving into the caves?”

‘That’s where it gets…” Dr. Bianchi leaned forward slightly in his chair with a look of seriousness. “The following year, in 1893, the Rathmore school burned down and Whilowhen people vanished. Many of the citizens of Hobb’s Reach began to disappear soon after. It’s as if a black hole came through and sucked everyone away.”

“So that’s what happened. The remainder of Hobb’s Reach residents left the town because they believed the area was cursed.” Prof. Abrams took a sip from her steaming dark coffee.

“Yes, we believe so. And, a couple of years after these events, this town, Farsdale, was founded.”

Now it was Prof. Abrams’ turn to lean forward with an incredulous expression. “Wait…after that…the founders of Farsdale didn’t care about the supposed curse?” She glanced outside and down the avenue. A few people shuffled around here and there but the mood was muted. As she figured it would be after such a severe crisis. She looked back at Dr. Bianchi. “I mean, Hobb’s Reach isn’t all that far from here.”

“No, there was so much opportunity for mining precious metals in these hills that the greed overcame any sort of…eh…that’s the word? Tre-trepidation.”

Prof. Abrams sighed and shook her head.

“I know, it is a lot to take in,” Dr. Bianchi remarked.

Prof. Abrams looked back out at the streets. A raggedy-looking raven, perched atop a building across the street, cawed loudly.

“Wait a minute, the earthquake that struck three days ago…how many people are missing now?” Prof. Abrams querried.

“Thirty-six.”

“And, I’ve heard reports that some of them weren’t even out on trips or anything, right?” Prof. Abrams took another sip of coffee.

Dr. Bianchi leaned back and checked his watch. “I’m pretty sure that’s just the news trying to dramatize things.”

“Was there a mention of an earthquake back before the Hobb’s Reach was deserted?”

“I don’t know.” Dr. Bianchi scratched his scruffy chin, smiled, and glanced at his watch again. “Anyway, we’ll talk more about this later, we have to meet my assistants at the caves soon, so let’s get some food into our stomachs.”

CAW!—the scrappy raven startled Prof. Abrams and she looked outside to see that it had flown over and was now perched upon the café’s entrance gate. It was larger than it had initially seemed and was facing them. Prof. Abrams felt for a moment as though the raven’s black eyes were boring into her.

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