All Collectibles in Banishers: Ghosts of New Eden

I remember the teaching of my masters (may God bless their souls): “against the threatening unknown, when the common knowledge is not enough to understand a situation, the sagacious and pious man will wisely turn to the very roots of his art, the words, their meaning, and the power hidden in each of them”.

“Nightmare” has nothing to do with a “nocturnal female horse”. As in the French Cauchemar or the German Nachtmahr, “mare” here comes from 12th century Middle Dutch and means “ghost” or “demon”. A Nightmare is not a puny fiend sneaking into the bedrooms to suffocate the dreamers, but one of the rarest and most powerful spirit defined by its only purpose: to spread its insidious and unforgiving wrath upon any living soul it may reach. According to my research, no occultist ever successfully banished a Nightmare. But why? Could a Nightmare be more than a ghost? I’m afraid so.

I remember a disturbing poem I read in London in my younger years, about the terrifying abilities of such entity, supposedly able to penetrate the dreams of its targets, to influence their thoughts and perception and make them endure their worst fear. Able even to bend the distance or alter time, creating tantalizing and personalized nightmare its victims can’t hope to escape from. Such a petrifying concept. I pray God with all my heart and soul that this is not what has risen upon us. How would we then escape despair, death and doom? I need more information. But where to find them?

Charles Davenport

As Banishers we are no spiritual guides or inquisitors. We are ghost-hunters for hire, specialized and sensitive crafters who train hard to protect the livings through our rituals and knowledge about ghosts and specters. We are no cult: There is no hierarchy nor established dogma among us. The most obvious reason why a Banisher becomes a Banisher is because he or she wants to protect the living from the dead, whatever the reason. We are efficient, adaptive, and versatile.

Our community is sparse and nomadic, just like our predecessors were. We wander the world in search of living victims of the dead, cleansing haunting cases using techniques tried and trusted and honed by generations of masters and pupils: Releasing or Banishing the ghost – rarely Blaming the living.

Unlike puny sorcerers, we do not waste our time crafting enchanted rifles, with the butt, barrel and stock engraved with runes and other symbols of power, for hunting specters or otherwise. Who would wish to depend on a single weapon? Instead, we bring our « bane-powder », prepared according to recipes handed down from generation to generation, rendering any firearm capable of shooting and damaging a supernatural target, no matter what the ammunition. Efficient. Adaptive. Versatile.

Our knowledge of alchemy and botany helps us selecting minerals and plants whose properties will support our work. We do not waste time in libraries or schoolrooms. We do not waste our time drawing, carving, or engraving complex circles of power, because what we gain in power or nuance, we lose twice as much or more in time, risking putting ourselves, and those around us, in unnecessary danger. Instead, a clever Banisher carries stamps, in wood or metal, with which to mark a door, wall, or stone with the necessary symbol for the appropriate ritual. We also wear rings upon our fingers with these symbols, so we always have a range of powerful runes close at hand, as it were. Efficient. Adaptive. Versatile.

Thus, we prevail. Thus, we fight. Thus, we send back the creeping dead where they are supposed to be.

From Death to the dead, by Balthasar H. Frenhofer

For civilians, never-ending wars or long-lasting battles are just fancy words or concepts for history books and stories. But for any soldier or officer, it is a grim reality which resonates with pain and fear beyond exhaustion.

Contrary to what most people believe, most battles are short and deadly. Troops meet, people die, victory is declared. To stand on a battlefield is exhausting for the body, the mind and the nerves. I have never personally spent more than a few minutes, an hour at most, in a combat situation. And I cannot thank God enough to have survived without any major injuries.

But then, why do I so frequently dream of such never-ending battles? Is it a way for my brain to let my deepest fears go at night, like some steam from a kettle? If only. For these dreams are awful and terrible, and I see myself standing forever on a rotten battlefield, unable to remember why I fight, or who I fight, only animated by the burning desire to keep on killing. And I stand there, drenched in blood, desiccated and grinning like the horseman of the Apocalypse, forgetting the reason why I ever started fighting, and forgetting about the idea of resting.

And when I wake up, I fear to touch my face, and feel under my fingers the barren mask of death in flesh that I am when I sleep. For these dreams are like another reality whispered by my brain, and a dark depiction of my true self to come.

The third settlement of New Eden town started during the spring of 1687. Less than a year ago. Most of them came from Yorkshire. They were looking for a peaceful place to live their simple and pious life without being harassed.

Fairefax Haskell was among the leaders. Protected by a small trainband led by Captain Pennington, they reached the abandoned colony of New Eden town and started the third settlement attempt).

Quickly enough, they hired people to fulfill the most needed positions. This is how I became the local schoolmistress during the summer of the same year. In the meantime, Lieutenant Sebastian Preese led the trainband to the mountains to inspect Fort Jericho and see if it could be militarily used again.

Soon enough, the mine was reopened. I made good friends, like Catherine and Jane, and for time life was good and rich, full of the most exquisite promises.

But now, as I write these lines, we are in the coldest winter ever and a deadly epidemic seems to have struck the miners. Fairefax Haskell, who is now the appointed governor, in been informed by Captain Pennington of the worrying situation in the vicinity of Fort Jericho.

Coming from the Mire Marshes but quickly spreading, this epidemic is very similar to smallpox (fever, vomiting, pimple and weight loss). People are worried sick the disease may reach town. Harsh words have been pronounced, words of fear and suspicion.

Dearth is upon us all. I pray for the brighter days of Spring to deliver us as soon as possible, for I love my life in here, and I would hate to see this promise of a beautiful life fade away, or worse, be abruptly separated from my dear friend Catherine.

Deborah Comenius, schoolteacher of New Eden, February 1688

“Exorízon”, an exorcism.

From the Old Greek root alēmōn (a wanderer), to the latin exulo (an exiler), to the Frankish bannjan (an exiler or banisher).

The wandering exiler.

The banisher.

In ancient Greece was there the metragyrtes, a cult of wandering beggar priests. From place to place went they, singing songs and banging drums that the spirits of the dead be calmed. Or set free. Or… exiled. This they did in honor of the long-dead Thracian magician Orpheus – he whose love for Eurydice was so powerful that he followed her through the land of the dead and into the abyss, won her freedom, and near brought her back.

As the world grew, so too did the knowledge of these sons and daughters of Orpheus. But some did not embrace the new wisdom. They learned not and remained forever beggar priests. Through shapes and patterns seen and heard, from antiquity to modern times, these wanderers use the hidden laws of the universe, to open the gates and send the spirits of the dead away. To serve the living, the banishers destroy the dead.

But they know little. They have forgotten their parentage. They have lost touch with we who see the colors and the shades of all the light and all the dark, the good and bad in everything, living and dead. The banishers have their uses, yes, as a hammer has its use when driven a nail must be. But the hammer does not care about the plank or the nail, nor does it understand it is made of the same wood and iron. The banishers know nothing of the Hem. For they are not, and might never be, one of us. They do not stand between the world of women and men and everlasting darkness. They do not minister to the dead so that the living may live. They do not know. For they are not witches. They are yet the children of Orpheus and they do not look back.

From Letters to Theano, by Mother Shipton

Never trust a Banisher, for even their name is a lie. Banishers are not the helpful agents trying to protect the rightful from the Devil.

They do not ban the evil spirits back to Hell, no! They make use of the most insidious and nefarious magic. Have you ever looked at their hands and forearms, decaying from the corruption of their black art? Have you ever read the despicable symbols they carve on the rings they always wear?

Banishers are not different from any sorcerer or witch or devil worshiper. And they lie to the face of the just! They do not ban the evil. They subdue and tame the immortal soul, tainted or pure, dead or alive. Through their fancy words, they transvestite the truth of the Lord. Essence, they say, and Residue, and Spectral Stains and Releasing and Closing. Lies! Lies! Lies! Do you know what they call a Blame? It is when they steal the soul of the rightful, before enslaving it for one of their many sinful activities.

So never trust a Banisher, since each time you make a deal with one of them, you may be the next they deprive of their eternal soul, if they decide to Blame you for any reason they choose.

From Naming the Enemy, by Fear-God Waterbury

We, soldiers – just like sailors – are very superstitious people, probably because we put our life on the line on a daily basis. I have known so many fellow comrades always carrying their lucky coin, or piece of clothes and be terrified enough to do a deadly mistake when facing danger, if they accidently forgot to bring it with them.

With experience, veterans instinctively avoid some places, abandoned buildings or deep forest, for they feel that death is awaiting them down there.

I remember, it was in Salem in 1679. I was leading an exploratory parry in the wild when we got lost in a mist while crossing an unknown and deep valley. I had never seen something like that. It was like a cloud of sticky cotton which had fallen upon our eyes. We could barely see our own hands. Our voices seemed muted. And we all felt that something was wrong, that there was something malignant in this mist, whispering its appetite for our souls. I swear we all felt it. And when we finally found our way out of the valley, we had lost two men, without a sound or a shout. Yes, there are some places lost in the wild, where no sane soul would go without fear.

I now know such places exist, and I’m convinced there is something awful hidden in the center of the New Eden valley. I have seen the mist. It whispered my name.

According to the resourceful Demonologist Henry Boguet, Banishers were initially called Exilers and are probably heirs of the ancestral tradition of the beggar-priests of the ancient Greece. \nWhatever their name, title and method, their main goal has not changed: It is to bring Closure (from the Latin claudere and the Old French “closure” meaning fencing – a field, a domain).

This is the reason why they are considered benevolent by most people (just like the Benandanti were for centuries considered “useful and benevolent witches” in Northeastern Italy): They travel and are paid to solve situation between the living and the dead. They come to put an end to each haunting case by bringing a conclusion. A “sinful tendency to deal with the unholy” would say Henry Boguet. But with a rightful desire to expel the roots of evil, may I dare to add.

From a Banisher point of view, a haunting case is a pending story waiting for closure. This “Closure” as they call it is conducted when a Banisher gathers the involved characters of a Haunting case to expose the situation and choose between different rituals to solve it. At the end of the Closure, the antagonisms have been cleansed – more or less painlessly for all the protagonists.

Through a Releasing Ritual, the Banisher claims to untie the ghost from the reason why he or she remained: unfinished business, promise made, anger, rancor, love, whatever. Freed by the Banisher’s powerful words, released from this bind beyond death, the ghost can now Ascent. Symbolically, the ghost has been heard, forgiven, guided or appeased, so he can now go peacefully. To release a ghost, a Banisher must have understood what was at stake, and the real reason why the ghost remained. This is probably the most disputable part of their trade, for no deal shall be made with no creature from the pit.

This is the very reason why it should always be beneficial for a Banisher to conduct a Banishing ritual, to renew with the real origin of their tradition and use. The Banisher does not lose time inviting the cursed spirit to gently go. He forcefully sends the ghost away: He sends it back to the abyss. This should be the proper way to deal with the reluctant and devilish offspring. This ritual should be performed against any spirit without discussion or investigation to be conducted, the said spirit being blatantly hostile or malignantly calling for our mercy.

From Of the Banishers, the historical and pagan roots of their disputable knowledge by Fairefax Haskell

Traditions and old writing teach us that ghosts are one of the many types of undead creatures lurking in the dark. Like the dreadful vampires I studied and observed in my younger years, they feed from the living and threaten them.

But I truly believe ghosts are mainly made of memory. Memory of who they were, what they did or what was done to them, memory of what they should have done, or not. May has it been happy, hurtful or vile, ghosts are tied to their past. And as they slowly decay and forget who they were and why they remained behind, ghosts can only rely to that particular event, item, word or emotion that provided them from escaping our world after death. Like snails and slugs, they leave fragments of these defining events wherever they go. Like shreds of the very fabric they are made of. Some call them vestiges. Others call them echoes. Banishers should always pay attention to these traces left by the ghosts: they often tell the very reason why they are still here.

The sad part being, as they constantly repeat and come back to the reason why they stayed, they irremediably forget everything else, until the day they cease to be who they were.

Charles Davenport

As a Christian, I fear hell and the eternal punishment of the sinners. As a minister, I believe in the holy power of forgiveness. As a philosopher and scholar, I know that knowledge is a wonderful fruit of a thousand flavors and seeds.

As a banisher, I have learned the power concealed in the words once known for what they truly mean. Ghosts and specters are but wandering souls, lost and found, sad and angry, irremediably attracted by the living for they crave their spiritual heat.

It is my duty, as a Christian, a minister, a scholar and a banisher to protect my brothers and sisters. It is my burden, to smite the unclean and make them vanish. And I must confess it is a relief, as a judge, If I came to destroy such poor soul who can’t be helped, if I was to permanently severe the tie which kept him or her among us, through my Banishment, yes, it would be a relief to know that I offered a better ending than the eternal flames awaiting the sinners until the end of time.

Charles Davenport

To give the ascent. To be blessed enough to be the bringer of good words. Of compelling words.

A true banisher does not come to the dead as a judge or a friend, but as the good pastor, the protector of the blessed herd. And through my words and my fingers, sometimes flows the will of God, calling to him through the Ascent the lingering dead. Kindly but firmly.

And each time I was blessed enough to give a lost soul his path to the light, I’m carefully listened to the ghost’s last glance and shivering. And I still shiver as I recall these previous moments, for I am convinced I saw a sparkle of the eternal Heavens in their eyes as they left. “In the beginning was the Word”, says the Scriptures. I dare to add “in the end too.”

Charles Davenport

You, young witch, call them ghosts. The spirits of the dead, bound to our world by business unfinished, conflicts unresolved, or wrongs unrighted. Spirits unable (or unwilling) to ascend to whatever lies beyond. But there are other spirits. Aye. A ghost may forget its reason-to-be. A ghost may lose its bond but yet linger. This we call a specter.

A weave of memory and emotion, a ghost is the sum of a life now ended. They know who they are because they know who they were. A specter has no such consciousness, no perception of itself beyond feeling. Shorn of memory, its emotions have been torn away to reveal the single feeling at the core - a feeling often ugly and always raw.

A specter is rarely content. Anger spurs it. Vengeance. Jealousy. Hatred. Retribution. It no longer knows who wronged it, and nor does it care. Craving the warmth of the living, its hunger cannot be sated and its thirst cannot be quenched. Complex and contradictory, always hungry but yet still capable of love and fear, of shame and anger, of joy and pain, ghosts linger. A specter, its personality lost, has forgotten why.

I do not tell you to love them. I do not ask you to forgive them. They pose a danger to the living, a danger against which only we witches can protect. But where the specter has forgotten that once it was alive, we should not. A specter is not inhuman, it is a human tragedy. It has suffered a fate worse than death.

From such a fate, a witch must protect the living. From such a fate, a witch must also protect the dead.

What came first? The innate gift of the oracles, seers, and shamans, or the painful knowledge made into a teaching to be passed down through generations? Impossible to know for sure. Maybe they both grew along, while a few lore keepers built a deeper understanding of the Incarnate and the Invisible, and of the thin veil, too, that hangs between them, and of the place and predicament of the lingering dead.

Long ago, even before we humans began to mark the passing of time, before we farmed snails or planted grain, perhaps even before we fashioned tools, the sharpest of us saw that within nature, as random and unpredictable as she could be, there were to be found shapes and patterns. The widening spiral of a seashell. The inter-locked hexagons of the honeycomb.

These nascent minds divined that there was meaning in these repeated shapes and, as time passed and humans learned to count and draw, those who stood closest to the veil noticed that representing the world in concept – words and numbers, lines carved in stone, inked on paper, or scratched in the sand, could not only reveal the other world – wherein live magic, and the dead – but also to impact upon it. Abstraction allows us to impose order.

In Sumer, we used our capacity to represent the abstract to count our corn and, soon after, to record our stories. Then, elsewhere in Mesopotamia, the Chaldeans looked to the stars and drew lines and saw patterns and repeating cycles. Astronomy was born, and from this science grew the art of divination by the stars – an art that would be sit close to the heart of many subsequent civilizations – in Greece, India, and Byzantium, and in the palaces and castles of Muslim caliphs and Christian kings, occidental and oriental.

It is in the patient and excruciating scrutiny of the stars, and in the delicate study of the tiniest shell or leaf, that the wise brought out the geometric rules which rule us all, dead and alive alike.

The Seeker

May it be called Arallû, Erṣetu, Irkalla, Kur, Kigal, The House of Dumuzi, The Great Below or The Earth of No Return, the Void has always been the land of the dead. The underworld, destined to hold the deceased for the eons to come, beyond the veils of lies weaved by the ignorant priests.

This is where the secrets of eternal life await the pursuer of immortality. This is where I must go but come back, like Orpheus before me. No judgement of morality, no weight of the soul, no reward for the dead once the anguishes of the flesh are finally extinguished. A destination only postponed by the lost souls who convinced themselves they still have a good reason to linger among the living. A destination for the pursuers to conquer before their final hour has come, if they want to escape this journey without return.

I leave the hope in some Great Beyond in the sky for those who seek redemption. I know it is not for me. Another lie forged by the priests. Hell may be void, but the Void is no hell.

E. R.

To know is not to control. To witness is not to understand. To explore is not to own. All these humble principles, my dearest disciple, are particularly true when it comes to the Void.

I wished I could tell you more, but my knowledge is crumbling. Have I known more? Will I? Never trust the Void. As witches, we take care of the balance between the living and the dead. We keep the gates. We heal the wounds.

But what sometimes sours from the other side is deadly. Soon enough, you have learned the rituals, the songs and the words. Soon enough, you will walk the threshold, like I did. Mark my words, my dearest: do not lose yourself in the obfuscating paths of this otherland.

Yes, we dare to travel the forbidden territory. Yes, we may sometimes hide under its cloak. But only like the nimblest fly through the fields of cobwebs in the darkest of nights. The deadliest risk is not the temptation to go further and beyond, too far from our dim lights to ever come back. No. The deadliest risk lies in the nature of the Void itself.

This is not only the destination of the dead; it is their very own domain. And time means nothing to them. Time, how it flies and vanishes like dried sand, is their deadliest poison for us. In the blink of an eye, you are fifty years older. In a heartbeat, you’re already dead.

As Theano of Crotone wrote centuries ago: “our world exists in two forms, depending on how humans perceive it. A place of heat and fire and warm earth, the Incarnate is the world as perceived by the living. A place of cold and water and iced earth, the Invisible is the world as perceived by the spirits of the dead”.

This is a truth unknown or misunderstood by most.

As witches, we are able to see the Invisible without supernatural help -- with innate talent or hard training. For most humans, perceiving the Invisible in its entirety requires that a willing spirit share their vision. This means that the human must be haunted by that spirit. There must be a soul-tie between them.

And while Ghosts may cross the boundary and affect the Incarnate in small ways (sound, cold or heat, dark shadows, that unnerving feeling that someone is in an empty room with you, etc.) for most of them see the Incarnate in all its dimensions (sounds, colors, living beings, etc.) requires a living human or physical item that acts as a “hook” or “beacon” into the physical world.

Both the Incarnate and the Invisible are defined by space and time Theano and all the antic seekers were so right about geometry and magic. Since I journeyed in both realms, I now understand the experience of a being within it is very different. A small room in the Incarnate could feel like the whole world in the Invisible. A short moment in the Incarnate could stretch for weeks in the Invisible.\nOr a week could pass in the blink of an eye. And although Spirits, having once been part of the Incarnate, may perceive it -- at times even interact with it, in limited ways -- they tend to see the world of the living as blurry and indistinct, or as a flat backdrop, like painted stage scenery, especially when they linger alone.

Only when they focus on a specific person or place can they see them as they are. They slowly forget the big picture. They lose the world as a whole, since they are lost in between. As witches, it is our duty to help them find their place and help the living be safe, even if those will hate is since they can’t see like we do, nor accept the truth we know.

The Seeker

One day to come, soon enough, I’ll order you to find a man unconscious by the shore. I already asked. I may again. These will be strange times, my dearest, so you must be ready.

Times of sadness and mourning through the courses of weird suns and moons in the sky. Frozen days in the eerie and cold air of a long-lasting winter. Repetitions of events you already lived. Unpleasant feeling of suspended time, endless days and weeks. I would not dare to claim I fully know how or why this will happen.

They are so many mysteries which elude me, for the better good I suppose.

When these times will come, be ready. Again. For the unbalance will be so strong, even the dead may come back from a future you already faced. And it will be our task to restore the balance. Again.

Be proud of what you know, my dearest disciple, for knowledge is what makes you who you are and how you challenge the world. But be wise enough to also know your limits: some things are not made to be approached, known or mastered.

Today, I’ll tell you about the things which never were human. The angry shadows which lurk and prowl at the doors of our world, out of reach and understanding for the mortals we are and must remain. Eternal they are, nameless and countless they are, strangers to the very principle of life they are. When younger, I believed they were our counterpart, misunderstood herders from the otherland. I now know better. Whichever their names (demons, fiends, devils, beasts) their nature and their goals, they are the Enemy, and we are the prey.

We are witches and we seek balance. We respect the wisdom of our older sisters. Let the foolish men lose themselves in the shallow hope of controlling the things which wait for them in the Void. The things which never were human.

Since I have arrived in New Eden, I have been amazed by the lack of knowledge gathered about the area. It is like, for the settlers, History of the place began when they arrived.

No wonder they often feel clueless when facing unexpected events, since they cannot refer to the stories each generation transmits to the next.

But we are far from being the first inhabitants of these wild lands. So, I intend to collect in these humble pages the fragments of this unrevealed past, thanks to the few Natives and elders who trust me.

For instance, sudden epidemics seems to have regularly struck this beautiful valley. According to my research, the many tribes of the bay agreed a long time ago it should be avoided, for their hunters and people who stayed nearby for too long often fell sick. Or even worse: brought back diseases to the settlements.

Theirs traditions talk of a hidden and forbidden place at the center of the valley, nicknamed “the ill mouth” or “the sick mouth”. \nThis is truly fascinating. Maybe this could explain why previous settlements failed.

I believe there is more than just fairy tales in these warnings. The wise observation of historical and repetitive events made into stories, like we do in the Old World.

According to the only Native of New Eden, this agreement to stay away from the valley approximately happened when the first White men disembarked in Roanoke Island.

So, around 1585? Does it mean nobody lived around in more than a century? I must learn more about this and about the past colonies in the area. I am sure my students will love to know more about all this.

Deborah Comenius,schoolteacher of New Eden, August 1687

In 1345, the Old World would have been saved from the Black Plague if only the cowardly merchants had not fled the city of Kaffa, bringing with them the disease across Italy and then the whole continent killing millions and despairing the rest.

Epidemics are the invisible enemy able to defeat the strongest armies, for they instill fear before any blood may be spilled, and they have struck and already condemned families to death way before the first grave may be dug. When facing disease, the wise men know there are no alternative but to isolate and lock down the sick until no more cases are reported among the healthy population.

This may sound cruel - and it is to some extent. But I have lost my parents and my six brothers to various diseases. I have witnessed the ravages of uncontrolled epidemics. It is a question of survival and sacrifice of the few for the benefit of the rest. Discipline is the key. And in that matter, officers are the best trained, them who already know the burden of command.

Is there any good reason to start a war? Yes, say the kings. No, say the widows. Who cares, said my military teachers. For we are soldiers, paid to fight, kill and die. Was there a way to avoid war with the Indians? Maybe.

But there has been too much betrayal, and too much blood spilled, to ever settle peace again. We failed, as a God-loving and rising nation. And I could be disposed for just writing this, by people who never saw the dead bodies of the women and children, colonist and native alike, in the burnt ruins of their farms and villages at rainy dawns.

I was among the soldiers who were sent to Bloody Brook after the massacre to count the bodies. I was among those who fought at the Great Swamp Fight of 1675, and I take no pride in this slaughter. My dreams are haunting me. I really hope this new command I took, in this New Eden town, will keep me away from any new war I would be asked to win.

I am afraid to read my previous pages and realize I have only written down incoherent babbling for months. I have tried to keep track of time, by carefully noting each say in a separate notebook.

But somedays, it is like I am not sure anymore that I marked the previous day, as if too much time had past since I added a tick on the paper. Too often in the last weeks, I have found myself by the shore, or the cliff, of the mill, without remembering how or when I went there. And when I ask around what day we are, it is like nobody can give me the good answer, and at least the same answer.

This is the curse all right, always more insidiously poisoning our minds. I think this is my last attempt to remember what happened to us all. Working is the only thing that matters and help me go through each day. I most not forget to work.

Tomorrow, I shall throw these pages away, as I promised to do so long ago. I must not forget to go to the hill, where the wind is the strongest.

Lucy B.

Why are they hunting us, blaming us, burning us? Hypocrites and simpletons, all of them! Hypocrites, those who spit on our back but visit our lairs at night, searching for protection from their foe or caress from their sweetheart.

Simpletons, those who praise the reckless Banishers or Demonologists while despising us, when we all share the same knowledge grown from the same forgotten roots. Why?

Because we refuse to serve them. Because we have looked through all the mirrors and came back wiser than most. Because trough eons we taught and forgot more than Banishers or Demonologists will ever learn.

Witches we are, proud and free. And if we sometimes take their money for our services, we bow only to our mothers.

In the end, they despise us for they secretly seek what we found.

The Seeker

Some of us say it all started with the long-lasting winter and the rarefication of food. But this is not true. We had all faced difficult times in the past, and we all are enduring people. Crispy cold, hungry wolves and meagre meals are not uncommon on these harsh coasts.

No, it all started with the dreams. Long, icky and loathsumptious dreams which sticked to the mind for days or even weeks. Tired eyes and nerves. Exhausted glances and hurtful silences. Anger above fear above hunger above pain.

When did it start? Who dreamed the first of these abysses and dark pits? Who spoke for the first time? I believe it was Hephzibah Perkins, that poor old hag, but cannot say for sure. It is so difficult to remember theses days. It is now too late to ask questions. Enduring people, that is who we are, that’s all that is left of us.

For what? Until when? We stand, that is all. The dreams are stronger. Mine are, anyway. Therefore, I have decided to write down these words, to keep record of all these events, if the New Eden Curse was to take us all in the end. And if the worst was to come, to leave a testament of what we did and how we endured.

Lucy B.

I miss my mistress so much. More than anything, I miss her teaching and her presence. Am I ready? I know she prepared me for something, but for what?

There is so many things I don’t see clearly. Why did Siridean remain so elusive when asked about what now awaits me? I never totally believed her when she told me so many mysteries were eluding her. I’m convinced she only tried to protect me by refusing to respond when I insisted. After their final meeting, it is obvious she knew exactly who old moss-head was.

The way the specter checked his watch, the anger in his voice, even his name. Aul’ Saul. Was that spirit some uncanny, horrid, incarnation of my father? I remember every word from one of Siridean’s most obscure teaching: “For the unbalance will be so strong, even the dead may come back from a future you already faced.” Was old moss-head some punishment conceived for me by the Nightmare hiding in New Eden? What did Siridean exactly knew about some events to come I already faced?

Like all the other inhabitants of New Eden, I’m afraid my fate relies to the thing hiding in New Eden’s meetinghouse. Soon enough, I better go there.

The Seeker

How was New Eden founded? When? By whom? It never ceases to amaze me how such information, from the recent past, already fades away in the fog of time. Maybe it has a lot to do with the settler’s lifestyle, mainly focused on their daily and pious routines. Is this nation in the making destined to forget about its past? Is it deeply rooted in my fellow colonists’ choice to travel an ocean to forget about their previous and often unpleasant life? I cannot say.

But since I believe it is essential to remember the past to forge a better future, I will keep on gathering information about the foundation of New Eden. Even if my curiosity may displease some of my neighbors.

I now know for a fact that the little hidden valley was first discovered by an exploratory party sent from the recently founded town of Boston. In the surrounding hills, they found precious ore and metals. Struck by its pristine and beautiful setting, the expedition’s leader named the valley New Eden, and with some selected men he decided to install a first settlement while the rest of the expedition went back to Boston to bring back more people and material. This was in 1635, according to Boston’s registers. I find it strange that the name of the founder is not known. But this is not uncommon among the myriads of newborn settlements blooming all around the coast at the time.

Maybe I should conduct more research about that man the next time I have the opportunity to travel to Boston? Or interrogate some more elders?

What is known for sure is that their presence in the valley highly irritated the nearby Native tribes who seemed furious of their presence. I have already found that the local tribes nicknamed the valley, or a part of it, “the ill mouth”. Settlers probably refused to leave, since a few skirmishes have sadly been recorded in 1636. Reinforcement was sent from a few Massachusetts Bay colonies, until the Native warriors abandoned the area for good. New Eden colony was officially founded as the blood of the first victims soaked the earth of the not so pristine anymore valley. A first copper mine was opened, then a second, while more White men and women joined the blooming town.

In the ancient governor’s house, I have found contracts of the building of a first mill by the seashore in 1637, belonging to some Anton and Esther Procter, who seemed to have acted like community leaders for a time before they mysteriously disappeared. Tragic events seem to be quite common around.

For that first settlement seems to have rapidly decayed. In less than two years, I could not find any trace of trade between New Eden and Boston. No more ore was bought by nearby colonies. Like many similar settlements, the small bourgade quickly vanished. The first rumors of a deadly epidemic started to spread around, mixed with weird tales about a swamp quickly growing in the middle of the valley. This should have been sufficient to keep the colonists away, but the rumor of the rich mines in the nearby hills has also spread.

Deborah Comenius, schoolteacher of New Eden, September 1687

Did I already write about the winter that never ended? Sometimes, I lose track of time. This is the reason why I keep these pages, until the day I’ll give them to the wind, to witness of what happened to us. 1694. Sickness was upon us. Chicken died first. Then the calves and lambs. Crops were bad in the summer. Autumn was grey and cold. Old people started to die.

I remember, I think it was in October when we buried the Hutchinson. A whole family taken by the disease in two days, children and adults all alike. Then, there was the fire on the docks. Or was it before? It is hard to remember anymore. Fear rose, and the decision was made to send the children away. By precaution.

The governor Haskell ordered the children to be sent away. Thickskin Newsmith and Nicholas Doolan agreed to lead the young ones to Boston. It was in December. I remember it because I wrote a long page in my journal that day. The 7th of December. Cold was already terrible then. It only went worst since. Spring never came. According to my notes, we are already in May and snow and ice is everywhere.

Our only visitor for all these months is that French friend of the Governor, Etienne Roulet, and even him cannot leave now. Minister Davenport has ceased to conduct prayers and guidance in the meetinghouse. The survivors are all hungry and cold. Soon, some help should arrive by boat. Banishers from Europe. I wonder if they will ever be able to leave, like the rest of us.

Lucy B.

The second settlement attempt of New Eden valley reached the hills during the summer of 1672 and was vastly financed by the rich Blight family of Boston.

The main goal of these new explorers was to mine the ore found thirty-five years before by the first settlers. It is during this second attempt that the first major construction efforts have been conducted.

Fort Jericho was built to protect the mine and miners in the hills. A larger dock was also built in New Eden, to welcome bigger boats destined to ship copper and goods to distant harbors. All these constructions were financed by Benjamin Blight, who also had a fancy house – almost a manor which still exists, even if abandoned nowadays - built nearby Fort Jericho, to please his beloved wife, Ethel.

For a few years, everything seemed all right for the settlers and the colony bloomed. But again, disaster stroke. Apparently brought by the fool fumes and bad air of the central swamp - which has widely grown - a deadly epidemic wiped the second wave of settlers in a few months.

According to my research, an hermit named Fear-God Waterbury was living in the wild and he apparently tried to warn the settlers of the bad influence of the swamp, but he was not listened to. In 1677, the second settlement attempt had failed, and, for a few years, the valley was given back to the crows and wolves, except for a few trappers who remained in the wilds, the poor Fear-God Waterbury who survived alone a few more years, and some isolated farmers who lived scattered by the sea.

Contrary to the late hermit, I doubt the disease regularly hitting the valley of New Eden is of “evil” or malevolent nature, but of this I am now certain: this valley is somehow the focal point of epidemics, and it is no coincidence the Native tribes avoided it for such a long time. To install a safe and persistent settlement in New Eden, people may have to drain that growing swamp, and be particularly cautious about infections.

Deborah Comenius, schoolteacher of New Eden, November 1687

According to tradition, only the dead may enter the Void, and none shall escape it. But the Tablets of Musaeus prove that breaches exist for the bold pursuer: in the burning or frozen deserts of the world, though the many wounds of the earth; at impious or forgotten burial sites.

The opening of such breaches, however, requires rituals and fortitude. For to contemplate the many secrets of the Void, the pursuer shall bypass or confront the guardians of these gates.

Baptized Petû ("gatekeepers" in the ancient tongue), these enslaved guardians are unsatiable watchers, assuming countless glorious forms to perform their task for all eternity. And amongst them, the sordid Sorrows, twisted and disfigured for they impious prying.

The Carcasoa’s Chapters – especially the third and fifth - also specify that many gates may lead to the domain of a unique Petû, regardless of the path taken. The true pursuer may even be able to reveal or breed such breaches (this is the exact translation of the expression found in the original Chapters, according to Mother Shipton, and this choice of word unveils so much undreamt atrocities).

But how? Traps for the fools hide everywhere in these pages, as in most of the forbidden texts which dare to speak about those rituals. I am not eager to by devoured, or worse, at the banquet of the Void’s eternal lords, like so many before me, turned into some afflicted Sorrow, punished for the teethy satisfaction of the Gallû always delighted to please their dreadful queen.

E. R.

Since Pandora broke the jar, releasing all the proverbial curses upon mankind, epidemics are often considered a punishment, or an ordeal imposed by the Gods. Stuck in their narrow sight, scientists beg to differ and prefer to search for natural causes to the many consequences.

As often, the answer is somewhere else: between these rival conceptions, and at the same beyond them. Undoubtedly, all the epidemics do not come from a breach in the fabric of the Incarnate, but the regularity, the periodicity and the malignity of such incidents throughout the world should all be counted as evidence of such breach and influence of the other side. The Arallû, the Great Below. After all, wasn’t Pandora’s true name Anesidora (Ἀνησιδώρα) “she who sends up gifts”, as in “from within the earth”?

Healers, doctors, priests and witches, all should search for those signs like the true pursuer does. For until they seal off the Void’s breach oozing of the gifts of the underworld, they will remain like ants trying to stop a forest’s fire. As long as blind zealots arresting and hanging sorcerers and worshippers who supposedly spread the disease – when most of the time those cultists assembled here because oozing gifts called them in the first place –, they will be like sheeps confusing the sheepdogs with the wolves.

Offering opportunities for the true pursuer to investigate without being noticed, I suppose. I am going to love looking for that ill mouth nearby New Eden.

E. R.

According to the second Chapter of Carcasoa, beyond the external desert run the icy waters of Hubur, which can be crossed only if Siluli “the man standing on the devouring river” accepts you on his boat. Some warlocks, like Musaeus of Athens when studying the roots of the Greek myths, believe that the river itself is made of the pain of dead thrown away by the boatman.

Then beyond the river stands Irkalla, the great citadel with its seven gates guarding the vast plains and plateaus where reside the dead around the glorious palace ruled by the dreadful queen Ereshkigal and her loving husband Nergal. There await also the crouching Namtaru, and the Anunnaki lords, the three hundred Potentates and the countless gallû.

Finally, at the center of the palace stands an empty throne. Whoever unlucky enough to sits on it may raise his head to watch the primordial stars telling the names of the true Gods who shaped the world and still rule upon everything. There hides all the magic in the universe. There burns the primal truth. There may ascend those who have been accepted by the celestial court. Beyond the Great Below. Unreachable for the most. Disdained by the pursuers like myself.

E. R.

I used to believe it all started with the bad dreams, but I am not so sure anymore. So hard to remember, when all the says look the same. The plants and the animals were struck first by the curse, I am almost certain. Last year, harvest has been insufficient. At the end of summer, I already had to find alternative to keep on brewing ale for the community. As long as the taste was all right, nobody complained.

Alcohol is a good way to forgive hunger. At least for a moment. So, yes, no more cattle, and no more game. Around Christmas, before they set out again for the woods, trappers Jacob Lynde and Benedict Stoughton had told me they struggled the whole year finding pelts and meat. The children were already gone.

After Caleb Wattson lost his family in a fire – I think it was in January – there was no grain left, and the mill ceased to turn. Roots and berries started to be a good meal. Maybe we noted the bad dreams first, but the animals were already dying in the woods, way before the cold and the sickness. When exactly did the curse fell upon New Eden? We will probably never know.

Lucy B.