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Poised to champion Indie Writers and encourage professionalism and excellence in all we do, Escapistpress is the place to find well-researched, immersible books that entertain, period.
Escapistpress is an artist's co-op where you can find the village it takes to write a successful book. We believe that the landscape of the publishing world is fundamentally changing. These changes afford the opportunity for like-minded professionals to strengthen promotional activities as never before.
Escapistpress fosters relationships and promotes members both within our organization and in the publishing world at large by banding together and sharing resources.
Poised to champion Indie Writers and encourage professionalism and excellence in all we do, Escapistpress is the place to find well-researched, immersible books that entertain, period.
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Excerpt from Abyss of Chaos
Chapter One
Aksum, Ethiopia
Present day
Thousands of tiny points of sunlight played over the length of the granite obelisks, called stelae, that stood guard over the ancient city of Aksum. There were stelae all over Aksum; the oldest – and incidentally, the smallest – dated from between 5000 and 2000 BC.
Cellist Maxwell Sinclair sauntered across the field with his professor godfather, Dr. Phineas Monroe, as the merciless Aksum sun beat down on their necks. In the mid-morning heat, his godfather’s droning lecture only seemed to make Max’s discomfort worse. Phineas’ idea of casual conversation was usually anything but. Max winced inwardly; he just knew there was going to be a test later.
“A stele,” Phineas was saying, “may have been a grave marker for a deceased king. Of course, they may also have been part of a Temple of Satan, depending on what historical sources you are referencing.”
Temple of Satan? Max blinked, eyeing the structures warily. He gazed up at the nearest stele and muttered, “Yes, Phineas. But nowadays we’d call this ‘little man’s disease.’”
“I beg your pardon?” His godfather looked at him with mild puzzlement, but Max merely shook his head. Unperturbed, the old man resumed.
“The plural is stelae...” From Phineas’ lecture, Max gathered that the stele nearest them, making him feel slightly emasculated, had been King Ezana’s. It was close to eighty feet tall – another fact Phineas cheerfully supplied, along with, incongruously, its weight: one hundred and sixty tons.
“Why do you know that?” Max interrupted. “The weight? Really? Phineas, how can that possibly be useful information?” He turned to his godfather, whose eyebrows rose. Max’s conversations with his godfather often went this way – the man was a walking encyclopedia, and just about as boring. It was annoying. Still, Phineas continued.
“I know that fact because September marked the anniversary of its re-erection in Aksum. You see…”
“Hold it,” Max snapped. “When we’re looking at giant phallic thingies like this, you’re going to have to avoid using words like re-erection. You can’t just spring that one on my delicate sensibilities.” More politely, he added, “Go back to the Temple of Satan thing. That was interesting.” His godfather’s expression was unchanged. Perhaps he didn’t hear me.
“The D-amat and Saba monarchy combined their power to rule northern Tigray and Eritrea roughly between 800 and 500 BC.” They continued across the field. The sun turned his godfather’s wind-swept white hair yellowish as Phineas added in his strained falsetto, “Now pay attention to the name Saba, Maxwell.” He paused, raising a finger for emphasis. “One might infer that the name Sheba is derived from Saba.”
Where are Fabrizio and Rene? Shouldn’t they be here to save me from this?
The two brightest stars of the University of Chicago’s archeology program were, he had discovered, lumps of coal, and always conspicuously absent when Phineas decided it was time for someone to learn something. In fact, Fab and Rene’s only redeeming qualities were that they also knew Aikido, and could help Max prepare his test for fourth-degree black belt.
Max turned his attention back to the old man beside him. “What do you mean, ‘infer’? Don’t we know where the Queen of Sheba was from?” Swallowing his annoyance at Fabrizio and Rene, he grabbed Phineas’ arm and hustled him across the broad paved road towards the building directly ahead.
“I’m not an invalid,” Phineas cried, snatching his arm back.
Max stopped to direct a level look at his godfather. Phineas’ clothing was well-worn with age, like the man himself. Shirt tucked in haphazardly, shoelaces never properly tied, his godfather gave the impression that he’d been the victim of a wardrobe mugging – but then, he always looked that way. The famous Dr. Phineas Monroe needed a chaperone on these trips, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
I’m not gonna tell him to tie his shoes again. I’m not.
Max sighed and turned back towards the building, away from the hurt look on his godfather’s face.
“As for your question, Sheba was something of an enigmatic figure, I’m afraid,” Phineas took up the lecture again. He’s relentless, Max thought to himself. “At any rate, we really don’t know much about local history between 500 BC and the arrival of the Kingdom of Aksum, which saw its rise in the first two hundred years or so of our own era.”
“Then, what’s the point?” Max stopped. “Are you really going to go through two thousand-plus years of history this afternoon? Phineas, Dad wouldn’t approve.” They were supposed to be on vacation, after all.
“Your father isn’t here, and I always said he was a lazy student.” Phineas smiled. “Not like you at all.” Max blinked. Was that a compliment? In spite of himself, he stood up a bit straighter.
“The point, Maxwell, is that this goes to the very heart of the Aksumites’ identity! You recall your lessons on the Kebra Nagst?”
Max nodded. Phineas had already told him all about the Kebra Nagst during the flight. It was the Ethiopian people’s ancient sacred text, which chronicled the origins of the Solomonid Dynasty; something about the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon getting it on.
“Good. Then you’ll remember that the Kebra Nagst was written at a time when the notion of the Ark of the Covenant residing here in Aksum was an incredibly politically sensitive claim. One that went to the very heart of the Solomonid Dynasty. The Ark was ‘historical proof,’ so-called, of the claim that the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon had indeed produced a son named Menelik. The same Menelik who was said to return later with the Ark and assume his royal lineage, which was now a veritable powerhouse dynasty. These two kingdoms would be bound by faith and love. To question the Ark’s presence here was to question the royal lineage, and to question the identity of Saba…” His godfather’s voice trailed off.
Max nodded that he got it. After all, it was why he was here in the first place, instead of dividing his time between X-Box and preparing the Kodaly Solo Sonata for the Weill Hall gig next month. At twenty-six, this former child prodigy generally had a lot of X-Box to get to, but the Ark of the Covenant was a pretty cool distraction.
Max and Phineas stopped at the bottom of a rough path leading to the very center of these claims: the Treasury, the Church of St. Mary of Zion. Dots of perspiration beaded their faces. Phineas withdrew a yellowed handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead as the pair stood, transfixed.
“Do you think it’s there?” Max asked.
Phineas arched an eyebrow at him and pocketed the handkerchief. He let the question dangle, and turned back to face the unassuming old church.
The Aksumites’ claims were extraordinary, and conveniently unprovable until they’d let outsiders in to see for themselves. But if they were true, then just inside that church, the Aksumites were guarding the one and only golden chest that held the Ten Commandments God gave Moses at Mount Sinai. If the old writings were true, Max and Phineas were standing chillingly close to history’s most famous relic: the Ark of the Covenant.
Read more of David Beem's exciting new novel, Abyss of Chaos!
Aksum, Ethiopia
Present day
Thousands of tiny points of sunlight played over the length of the granite obelisks, called stelae, that stood guard over the ancient city of Aksum. There were stelae all over Aksum; the oldest – and incidentally, the smallest – dated from between 5000 and 2000 BC.
Cellist Maxwell Sinclair sauntered across the field with his professor godfather, Dr. Phineas Monroe, as the merciless Aksum sun beat down on their necks. In the mid-morning heat, his godfather’s droning lecture only seemed to make Max’s discomfort worse. Phineas’ idea of casual conversation was usually anything but. Max winced inwardly; he just knew there was going to be a test later.
“A stele,” Phineas was saying, “may have been a grave marker for a deceased king. Of course, they may also have been part of a Temple of Satan, depending on what historical sources you are referencing.”
Temple of Satan? Max blinked, eyeing the structures warily. He gazed up at the nearest stele and muttered, “Yes, Phineas. But nowadays we’d call this ‘little man’s disease.’”
“I beg your pardon?” His godfather looked at him with mild puzzlement, but Max merely shook his head. Unperturbed, the old man resumed.
“The plural is stelae...” From Phineas’ lecture, Max gathered that the stele nearest them, making him feel slightly emasculated, had been King Ezana’s. It was close to eighty feet tall – another fact Phineas cheerfully supplied, along with, incongruously, its weight: one hundred and sixty tons.
“Why do you know that?” Max interrupted. “The weight? Really? Phineas, how can that possibly be useful information?” He turned to his godfather, whose eyebrows rose. Max’s conversations with his godfather often went this way – the man was a walking encyclopedia, and just about as boring. It was annoying. Still, Phineas continued.
“I know that fact because September marked the anniversary of its re-erection in Aksum. You see…”
“Hold it,” Max snapped. “When we’re looking at giant phallic thingies like this, you’re going to have to avoid using words like re-erection. You can’t just spring that one on my delicate sensibilities.” More politely, he added, “Go back to the Temple of Satan thing. That was interesting.” His godfather’s expression was unchanged. Perhaps he didn’t hear me.
“The D-amat and Saba monarchy combined their power to rule northern Tigray and Eritrea roughly between 800 and 500 BC.” They continued across the field. The sun turned his godfather’s wind-swept white hair yellowish as Phineas added in his strained falsetto, “Now pay attention to the name Saba, Maxwell.” He paused, raising a finger for emphasis. “One might infer that the name Sheba is derived from Saba.”
Where are Fabrizio and Rene? Shouldn’t they be here to save me from this?
The two brightest stars of the University of Chicago’s archeology program were, he had discovered, lumps of coal, and always conspicuously absent when Phineas decided it was time for someone to learn something. In fact, Fab and Rene’s only redeeming qualities were that they also knew Aikido, and could help Max prepare his test for fourth-degree black belt.
Max turned his attention back to the old man beside him. “What do you mean, ‘infer’? Don’t we know where the Queen of Sheba was from?” Swallowing his annoyance at Fabrizio and Rene, he grabbed Phineas’ arm and hustled him across the broad paved road towards the building directly ahead.
“I’m not an invalid,” Phineas cried, snatching his arm back.
Max stopped to direct a level look at his godfather. Phineas’ clothing was well-worn with age, like the man himself. Shirt tucked in haphazardly, shoelaces never properly tied, his godfather gave the impression that he’d been the victim of a wardrobe mugging – but then, he always looked that way. The famous Dr. Phineas Monroe needed a chaperone on these trips, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
I’m not gonna tell him to tie his shoes again. I’m not.
Max sighed and turned back towards the building, away from the hurt look on his godfather’s face.
“As for your question, Sheba was something of an enigmatic figure, I’m afraid,” Phineas took up the lecture again. He’s relentless, Max thought to himself. “At any rate, we really don’t know much about local history between 500 BC and the arrival of the Kingdom of Aksum, which saw its rise in the first two hundred years or so of our own era.”
“Then, what’s the point?” Max stopped. “Are you really going to go through two thousand-plus years of history this afternoon? Phineas, Dad wouldn’t approve.” They were supposed to be on vacation, after all.
“Your father isn’t here, and I always said he was a lazy student.” Phineas smiled. “Not like you at all.” Max blinked. Was that a compliment? In spite of himself, he stood up a bit straighter.
“The point, Maxwell, is that this goes to the very heart of the Aksumites’ identity! You recall your lessons on the Kebra Nagst?”
Max nodded. Phineas had already told him all about the Kebra Nagst during the flight. It was the Ethiopian people’s ancient sacred text, which chronicled the origins of the Solomonid Dynasty; something about the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon getting it on.
“Good. Then you’ll remember that the Kebra Nagst was written at a time when the notion of the Ark of the Covenant residing here in Aksum was an incredibly politically sensitive claim. One that went to the very heart of the Solomonid Dynasty. The Ark was ‘historical proof,’ so-called, of the claim that the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon had indeed produced a son named Menelik. The same Menelik who was said to return later with the Ark and assume his royal lineage, which was now a veritable powerhouse dynasty. These two kingdoms would be bound by faith and love. To question the Ark’s presence here was to question the royal lineage, and to question the identity of Saba…” His godfather’s voice trailed off.
Max nodded that he got it. After all, it was why he was here in the first place, instead of dividing his time between X-Box and preparing the Kodaly Solo Sonata for the Weill Hall gig next month. At twenty-six, this former child prodigy generally had a lot of X-Box to get to, but the Ark of the Covenant was a pretty cool distraction.
Max and Phineas stopped at the bottom of a rough path leading to the very center of these claims: the Treasury, the Church of St. Mary of Zion. Dots of perspiration beaded their faces. Phineas withdrew a yellowed handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead as the pair stood, transfixed.
“Do you think it’s there?” Max asked.
Phineas arched an eyebrow at him and pocketed the handkerchief. He let the question dangle, and turned back to face the unassuming old church.
The Aksumites’ claims were extraordinary, and conveniently unprovable until they’d let outsiders in to see for themselves. But if they were true, then just inside that church, the Aksumites were guarding the one and only golden chest that held the Ten Commandments God gave Moses at Mount Sinai. If the old writings were true, Max and Phineas were standing chillingly close to history’s most famous relic: the Ark of the Covenant.
Read more of David Beem's exciting new novel, Abyss of Chaos!
