The Stone Road

by Trent Jamieson

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

Award-winning Australian author Trent Jamieson presents a haunting, bittersweet fantasy where the dead speak beneath your feet and twisted monsters hunger for their lost humanity.
On the day Jean was born, the dead howled. A thin scratch of black smoke began to rise behind the hills west of town: Furnace had been lit, and soon its siren call began to draw the people of Casement Rise to it, never to return.
Casement Rise is a dusty town at the end of days, a harsh world of grit and arcane dangers. While Jean’s stern, overprotective Nan has always kept Casement Rise safe from monsters, she may have waited too long to teach Jean how to face them on her own. On Jean’s twelfth
birthday, a mysterious graceful man appears, an ethereal and terrifying being tied to her family’s secrets.
Now, Nan must rush Jean’s education in monsters, magic, and the breaking of the world in ages past. If Jean is to combat the graceful man and finally understand the ancient evil that powers Furnace, she will have to embrace her legacy, endure her Nan’s lessons, and learn all
she can—before Furnace burns down her world and everyone in it.
With the lyrical cadence of The Last Unicorn and intense imagery of A Wizard of Earthsea, The Stone Road is a timeless story of hope, belonging, and growing into your power.

Release date: July 19, 2022

Publisher: Erewhon Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Furnace woke the day I was born. The earth shook, birds clotted the skies, and the dead, suddenly blinded, howled low and loud enough that almost everyone in Casement Rise heard them. Afterwards, a thin scratch of black smoke rose from behind the Slouches, the low hills west of town.

Furnace had been lit, and soon it began to call: a deep humming in the earth and the air. A deep humming that burned right through the body.

Nan sent three men that way to find out what caused the smoke, what it meant. Good men; strong and trustworthy. They did not come back for weeks, and when they did, they were changed. Quieter, sullen, whispering of a promised land. They called it Furnace—so did everyone, after that—and they soon left again, going back to Furnace. Three others went with them. Those six were not the last to be called, but no one else came back.

My life was bound with Furnace, and that was a bleak and thorny tangle of a thing, worse than the angry mysteries of my mother.

I was born mad, she said. Born with teeth, and I bit Dr. Millison’s hand as he cut my cord, tasting blood before milk. Suckled hard, and gave pain before I shed any tears. That was her version, anyway. I was a baby. It was all heat and light and touch in my infant mind. I knew nothing of my own ragged birth or the earth’s agitation. Didn’t know when Furnace called my dad, and drew him away from my mother, who took to drink and nights of crying not long after.

I knew nothing about all this until the dead man spoke, and I was older by then. Before that I was walking, talking, singing, and crying, always with Nan, thinking the whole world was all about me, the way children do.



The dead man grabbed my leg, as hard as you could imagine, his fingers digging deep into my skin. He pulled me down to the black earth, and whispered, “Finally! I gotcha! The light burns down here, but you I could see. Listen. There’s a hungry fella coming for you. Listen to me. Listen.” His breath was hot, his eyes white, the pupils pinpoints scratching for sight.

I didn’t listen; I howled.

I don’t remember what else he told me, but I will never forget Nan’s response: the sudden sourness of her sweat mingled with tobacco, like it had turned all at once to fear; the way she yanked me from his dead grip, swift but gentle (and she could be anything but gentle). There was a part of me that watched, distant and cold, oddly satisfied as she struck the dead man hard with her walking stick. Then he was gone, like he had never been there at all.

But my leg stung, and his fingerprints would mark me for days. The first touch is like that.

“Keep your feet clear of the earth, Jean! You must keep your legs up. Higher, now. Higher, Furnace take you! You’re not ready.”

I cried, and she held me steady, and stared hard into my eyes. I stared back—I was never one to look away—and she smiled at that a little. Nan always respected strength, even as she hunted out weakness. I sniffed and snuffled, and the tears came. She rubbed her thumbs across my cheeks.

“This has started too soon. The dead are always talking, and there are so many of them now, but you shouldn’t hear them. Not yet. I’m so sorry, child.”

She didn’t sound sorry; she sounded angry, perplexed. Maybe other things as well, but what do children know? She held me up from the earth, hard on her hip, her other hand tight around her walking stick, until we were home. I wasn’t a baby anymore, and Nan wasn’t a young woman, but she carried me all the way, and she didn’t falter.

From then, until I was much older, I was forbidden to walk barefoot outside. Even in boots, Nan told me, I had to be careful wherever the earth was clear of grass. Because that’s how the dead speak. That was how Nan and I heard them: up through the earth and the soles of our feet.

That is the first thing I distinctly remember, that dead man’s touch. From that point on, memory came to me clear and true, at least with most things.

Furnace called others in our town, but even then I was heading to the Stone Road. I was called to death. Nan did her best to keep me from it—keep me from the town, too—and saw to my education. I learnt more from her tales of the town than I ever did from walking through it. I rarely walked outside without her company, and hardly saw anyone on my own. And I guess it worked, for a while.

Then it didn’t.



On my twelfth birthday, a man came to visit, uninvited.

Twelve is a lucky number, though it didn’t turn out so lucky for me. I suppose that’s no surprise; it was my birthday, after all.

There was a party. There had been cake, and fairy floss made from an old hand-wound machine that Aunty Phoebe brought out with great delight every time someone in town had a birthday, whether they had a sweet tooth or not. Nan’s friend Jacob had come over with his placid pony, May, both pony and man possessed of infinite patience. He let me and the other children ride her even though I was a bit old for such things. I’d received from my aunts, who were generous that way, exactly three books, all of them printed by publishers in the Red City, all of them adventures. I liked that kind of book a lot. In truth, I’d rather have been reading them than playing party games.

I was the only one who saw the man, at first.

He came up from the creek, dressed in a cloak of leaves, walking daintily, like a cat crossing a puddle. He moved so gracefully that it was hard not to be captivated. I held my breath, watching him. It was the sort of grace that threatened to become chaos, but never did.

I might have run if I had more sense. Instead, I watched, waiting for it all to come undone. He was the most interesting thing I had seen that day. Which was why it was all the odder that no one else seemed to see him.

However, they did move to let him pass, with troubled looks on their faces that rippled out from his passage. Soon enough, everyone was frowning like someone had been sick in front of them, but no one was ill. Lolly Robson had thrown up on himself from all that fairy floss, but that was hours ago, and his mother had taken him and his brothers home—much to their horror, and his shame.

Even though it was my party, the guests were happy to leave me alone. My birthdays had a reputation for hazard. I was different. The other children weren’t grabbed by the dead when they walked barefoot. Their nans didn’t get up before dawn, and go out into the dark doing whatever it was that mine did. Seeing to problems, she called it. I just saw it as a secret. But I didn’t ask. I’d given up on asking. I never got an answer, just reproach.

I stood alone, a bit distant from everyone, watching the adults and their reactions to that graceful man’s approach.

He was swift, though he didn’t hurry, just walked right up to me. “Miss March,” he said. His voice had a chill to it. “I believe it’s time we met.”

He smelled of rot and river water, with a deeper scent of smoke. That last one was familiar: It filled the town whenever the wind blew in from the west over the Slouches, carrying the smell of Furnace with it, and giving me migraines. One was already coming on. Why did he smell like that? It brought back memories, things I thought I’d forgotten from my most babyish years. That smell. A chair. My nan holding me.

I was frightened, but he positively beamed at me, as though I was the cleverest, most enchanting thing he had ever seen. “I came to say happy birthday. Why, it’s my birthday, too, don’t you know?”

“Happy birthday,” I said, and he clapped his hands.

“She speaks!” He touched my face. I flinched—his fingers were clammy, the smell of smoke rising harder against the rot. I moved to step back, but he grabbed my wrist. “Thank you for the birthday wishes. They’re much appreciated, Miss March. I was beginning to think you were a mute.” He glanced at my boots. “You’re half-deaf as it is, wearing those. What’s your grandmother doing? You take those heavy boots off sometimes, I bet? Don’t you? You’re not all timid.”

He crouched down, and peered into my eyes. I tried to shut them, but I couldn’t. I tried to yank my hand from his, but he held it, steadily. He kept up his study of me. “Right. Don’t talk too much, now. It’s better if you keep your mouth shut, and listen.”

His eyes shone gold. They were quite beautiful, but there was something wrong in them: a shadow, and a hunger of sorts. How did he know my nan? He certainly thought little of her when it came to me.

“Don’t you want to know how old I am?” he asked.

When I shook my head, he seemed ready to slap me. I knew that look, though I mostly saw it on my mother’s face. I flinched.

Instead, he smiled. “I’m twelve,” he said. “How am I twelve when I’m a man? Do you know?” His grip tightened, and his mouth unhinged. His teeth were dark and sharp, his breath smelling of ash. “How am I twelve when I feel so old?”

I shrugged. How could I possibly know the answer? He came even closer, close enough that our lips almost touched. The world buzzed and popped, and my heart lost its rhythm, turning into a painful clenching. All I could smell was smoke. Time stilled. His hands that threatened violence lifted, and he reached up and pulled a golden coin out of my left ear. I swear, I’d felt it swell there.

There was a cruel delight in his eyes, almost as though he hadn’t expected that to happen. He winked. “Birthday magic,” he said. He pressed the coin into my palm. “This is my gift to you. If you want it.”

I nodded, clenched my fist around it. He smiled like he was truly happy. “I’m so very pleased,” he said. “Magic is the key to a good friendship, they say.”

“Get away from her.” And there was Nan. Face bloodless, full of fury. “Away.”

“I only came to wish her happy birthday.” He sounded surprised, almost offended.

“You weren’t invited.”

“I should have been.”

Nan held her walking stick like a club. “Get away from her.” She didn’t shout it, just said it cold and calm. In that moment, I was more scared of her than him. I’d not seen her like this before. A little moan passed my lips.

The man laughed. “You’ve coddled her, Nancy. Why? You weren’t treated so gently. She’s a mouse; a tiny, frightened mouse. Look at her, not a single bruise. At least, not from you. And there you are, weakening, weakening, and she’s never been tested. Doesn’t even suspect the troubles coming her way.”

I looked from him to her. What troubles? But Nan wasn’t looking at me.

“Get!” She swung her stick, and somehow missed.

“You shouldn’t do this,” he said. “You should have invited me. We’ve had our chats, but she’s my concern now.”

“Go,” Nan said, and swung again.

He danced backwards, out of reach.

“Happy birthday, Jean,” he said. “It’s going to be an interesting year.”

Then, without a hint of hesitation, he turned, so gracefully, and dived at my grandmother. What she did next was not at all graceful, but it was precise. She swung her stick, and there was such a loud crack that my ears rang. The world stopped buzzing, and the graceful man was gone, with nothing left of him except a pile of leaves that Nan quickly threw a match into.

She grabbed my shoulders, looked in my eyes like she was hunting something there. I wanted to turn my head, but that gaze held me. What was she looking for?

“You still in there?”

“Yes,” I said.

Something loosened in her. “Did he hurt you?”

I realised I had pissed myself, and I started to cry, full of shame. I knew that he had wanted to hurt me, though I didn’t know why.

I shook my head. Behind her, far too many people were staring at me. The children had stopped playing. Some folks were leaving, herding their children before them. I couldn’t see my mum. Later she’d come home, smelling of liquor, and she’d hold me, her eyes hard, like it was all my fault, like I’d called trouble down on me, and she was comforting me despite herself. But she’d hold me anyway, and I’d let her.

Nan leant down by the burning leaves, not much more than ash now. She jabbed at them with her walking stick, and they fell apart.

“Go clean yourself up,” she said, tapping her stick against her heel. “You’re safe now.”

I didn’t believe her. I didn’t know what to believe, but I knew I wasn’t safe. Troubles were coming, no matter what Nan said.



I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Every birthday of mine was a challenge. Mum and Nan would grow tense the day before; they’d start whispering, stopping before I entered the room. Who could blame them for being so anxious?

When I turned one, the townsfolk say, a big grey bird the size of a dog with a beak like a hawk came, and sat on my window. When I reached for it, it tried to peck out my eyes. But I was quick, and I laughed and swatted it away. That bird went and ate Mrs. Card’s tiny dog, Beatrix; so I heard. Nan never spoke of it, but my Aunty Liz told me.

On my second birthday, a column of fire burned right in the heart of town. It died away as soon as Nan went to it. No one else could have banished such a thing, or so Jacob whispered to me one evening when I asked him about my birthdays. “Your nan’s special. So are you.”

“What about my mum?”

“Of course. She is, too.” But he made the circle of the Sun upon his palm, and people don’t do that unless they’ve said something bad. Then the conversation stopped, and I didn’t learn what that special thing was.

On my third birthday, there was a storm so hard-edged that buildings fell right over, and four people went missing, blown out of town like that girl and her dog and the twister in the storybooks (though some say that all they did was go to Furnace). I never thought it odd that the world could, on a whim, just yank people away. That’s what I grew up with.

When I turned four, the sun was sealed up by the moon, and there was a distant howling, like a hundred wolves had been set loose upon the land. The howling didn’t last long, falling away to a silence that was, somehow, far worse. That one I remember: The land grew so still it made me cry. Nan held me until the sun returned. The memory remains so clear to me.

My fifth birthday was marked by a cloud of locusts that ate most of that year’s crop. They called that year Jean’s Famine, though no one would say that to my face. Nan discouraged it, but I still heard it when no one thought I was around.

On my sixth, three people were found dead in their homes. Whispers of a man without skin, a monster, went around town.

On my seventh, there was a distant ringing, and a rope appeared, hanging from the sky. The farmer, David Preston, decided to climb it, despite Nan warning him not to. Soon after, the ringing stopped, and we watched David’s head fall to the earth. People blamed us, particularly his brother Myles, who has been punishing us ever since.

When I turned eight, a tall tree in the park flowered with sweet-smelling stone fruit that made anyone who took the smallest bite sick for weeks. Somehow that fruit ended up finding its way into every kitchen, lurking in every pantry. Myles came at the tree with an axe, but Nan wouldn’t let him chop it down. She consumed the fruit herself, staying at its base throughout her sickness. From that point on, the tree stopped producing fruit, and instead shone white and ghostly. Townsfolk called it White Tree, and were banned from going near her.

Nine, and something stole the Robsons’ best cattle. Took all Nan’s skill to stop a war.

On my tenth, there was a fire upon the river, a twining flame that raised itself high, like a demon, or a twister. It didn’t make a sound, but it set the birds restless. No one was stupid enough to swim to it, which pleased Nan, so we stood upon the banks, and watched it burn, town on one side, birds on the other.

On my eleventh birthday, nothing happened, but a few weeks later Jim, the trader, arrived, and said that there had been an insurrection in the Red City, and five Masters had been dragged out into the day. A terrible death for them: The sun set them alight and screaming at once.

The Council of Teeth, the rulers of the Red City, were swift in retribution. They feared a loss of face almost as much as open rebellion. I remember Nan demanding that Jim be specific about the date, then looking at me with a grim horror, a look that I’d never seen her give me before. It went away quick, but I didn’t forget. Since that dead man’s touch, I’d not forgotten anything.

All these things happened, and the town saw me at the heart of them.

Nan said that there were bad occurrences every day, some you needed to look for, others you didn’t, and my birthdays weren’t that special. I didn’t quite believe her, but felt lucky that, except for the bird, none of these things really happened to me, until the graceful man and his golden coin.

My coin, now. I didn’t tell Nan about it. Something stopped my mouth. I took it to my room, and hid it beneath my bed.

Every night I’d look at it, and I’d smell smoke, and the hint of a headache would drift behind my eyes. Sometimes the coin would burn hot in my hands, and the next day I would hear of so and so, gone west, gone to Furnace. Despite the horrible prick of my guilt, I never told anyone about that coin. Not when I was twelve, or for a long time after.

Well, I told someone.



There was one person I could talk to about that coin, though he wasn’t really a person anymore.

That evening, while Nan and Mum held a whispered conference in the kitchen, I snuck outside, sat on the edge of the stairs to the verandah, slipped off a shoe, and touched a single toe to the earth.

The dead boy was there. Sometimes he wasn’t, and I’d lift my foot up straight away, lest an angry man start talking or moaning about the blinding light, and the closed gate. I had no patience for the other dead; they scared me. But I liked to talk to the little dead boy.

The dead below couldn’t see where they were, but they could see me, and Nan. The boy had forgotten his name, but he remembered other things.

“Jean?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Good. Your nan, she’s a terror!”

“I was nearly killed today.”

“Don’t you horrify me so, Jean! Nearly killed on your birthday? Your birthday, it’s always your birthday!”

“I’m all right now.”

“What happened?”

“There was a man, a graceful man.”

“Oh, the one that treads so lightly out of the west! The one that catches us like fish. I don’t like him. Keep away from him, Jean.”

“I will,” I said, wondering why he’d never mentioned him before. “But he gave me a coin.”

“I wouldn’t take a gift from him.”

“Too late.”

“I suppose you must keep it, then.”

“He reminded me of the chair,” I said.

“Oh, that was a ghastly thing.”

“Yes,” I said, and shuddered. Not wanting to think on it.

“Did you have a good birthday?”

I thought about that instead. “Until then, yes. I think.”

“Was there fairy floss?”

“Yes.”

The dead boy sighed, the sort of sound that could break your heart with sadness. “Was there cake?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“Chocolate, of course!”

“Oh!”

“Do you remember chocolate?”

“I’ve forgotten so much down here,” he said. “It seems so long ago, all those foods and sweets. But I’ll never forget chocolate.”

That made me sadder than I cared to admit. “Would you like a story?”

“Yes, for a little while. If you don’t mind.”

I looked around; no one was about, so I opened one of those adventure books, and started to read to him. There were pirates and everything. The dead boy helped me with the difficult words, and I forgot about the graceful man.

But Nan didn’t.



It started raining that night, and kept raining for five days straight. Nan would leave before dawn, and come home, cursing, around midday. She’d be drenched to the bone, feet covered in pale mud. She took it out on me and Mum. Stared like a trapped hound out at the rain. Our dog Elic, who was a trapped hound, stared with her. We all got that way. Everyone in a mood. The house damp, the only dry spot the kitchen, where the stove burned day and night.

Maybe it wasn’t the rain that bothered her, though.

Finally, Nan brought out a long length of fine-woven cord, slender and pale, and then she cut my hair, which had never been cut before. She hacked at it with scissors until it was little more than a finger length, me howling and moaning all the way. Once she was done, she sat down, and started tying little knots in the cord, each pulled tight around a strand of my hair, daubed in her blood. She sang as she worked, a low and mumbling melody.

I asked her why she’d done something so cruel. She scowled at me, and said that a woman had to have a hobby, a busy woman even more so, and there wasn’t a person in town as busy as her, and I should be happy that it wasn’t my blood that she was using, and that if I didn’t stop asking stupid questions, she might just start using mine instead.

There were metres of that cord, and she worked for hours, hardly making any progress at all. But it kept the ill humours from her, mostly, and it kept me free to go read my books. I’d check on her, from time to time, and she’d look up at me. “Find something better to do,” she’d say. “Can’t you see I’m concentrating?”

There was no talk of the graceful man. We hardly talked at all except to snap at each other. But every so often, Nan might put down her knotting, and say something like, “The rivers north will be rising.”

Mum would nod. “People will be drowning.”

Hardly inconsequential talk!

I couldn’t help but think of those poor souls caught up in the river struggling at first, then growing still from the i. . .