Road to Ruin
Martin
Peel
3rd
March
2011
Edited
27th
November 2019
Second Edit and Illustrations 25th Novembr 2023
Road
to Ruin
“The
road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom;
- The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction;
- One law for the lion and ox is oppression"
-
William Blake, “Proverbs of Hell” from The Marriage of Heaven and
Hell
At
last, the moon was right.
Shielding
the world from Betelgeuse, when Wormwood was in its ascendant, it
simultaneously protected the world while nurturing the souls of the
Earth with its luminescent balming glow.
One
man stood on a isolated hillside, staring up at the green-tinged star
that currently reigned over the heavens. He watched as the star
seemed to fade almost to complete invisibility before shining back
with renewed vigour, perhaps signalling its hostile intent to the
rest of the cosmos.
The
man shivered and wrapped his shemagh tighter to his windswept face.
He rubbed his eyes and dropped his gaze to the barren desert
surrounding him. With a sigh, he gave a brief tug on the leash in his
hand, and clicked his mouth with his tongue. The camel behind him
rose on unsteady spindles of legs, and lurched forward against the
biting sand-encrusted desert winds.
Man
and beast, in similar hunched postures against the three reigning
elements of the desert, those greatest of equalisers when used in
tandem by the planet, a constant reminder of where the true power to
which we are all subservient lies.
The
camel grunts, and the man looks up with slitted eyes to a natural
rocky outcrop, a respite from the deadly sand that whipped any
exposed flesh it could find. With deadened legs, they trudge with
renewed spirits towards this sanctuary. Within minutes they have
reached their destination for the night, as the first glimmers of
sunlight pierce the horizon.
As
his master begins to assemble what little firewood they have, the
camel sits obediently close to his owner, instinctively providing
shelter and warmth, watching with heavy eyes as the man utters
prayers as he strikes rocks together over the little near-fossilised
sticks he had managed to scavenge from the clutches of nature.
The
sun is almost visible as the spark finally catches on a torn piece
of the man's clothes, and the warm glow of the fire soothes them, for
a time.
The
man continues his prayers, as he lies next to the camel, grateful to
the All for providing him with survival through another
death-chilled night within the desert.
The
man sleeps, yet his rest is troubled not only by external
tormentors, the sounds of Djinns in the wind howling around him, but
by the subtler demons that have invaded his soul, and speak to him of
the powers they control here, of civilizations they have destroyed,
of men corrupted to evil purpose.
The
man sweats, but he does not loosen his grip on a purple vial,
seemingly empty. His knuckles are white, and he cannot feel his hand,
but still he holds, physically demonstrating his resistance to the
mental forces that influence. The voices plead with him to merely
empty the vessel, to allow the phylactery to roll into the sputtering
flames, and free them.
They
offer him riches, women, men, continents, and more. The man dreams of
all that he is lacking, and he feels his willpower begin to ebb
slowly away.
Eventually,
the Sun rises over the barren wasteland, and the camel grunts and
nudges the man away from his personal Abyss, and back to his Earthly
torments. The man packs what little he has back onto his companion,
and they walk quickly, before the Sun's power is too much to endure.
The
man smiles with cracked lips and stares fixedly at the shimmering
horizon. After an hour, he sees the golden domes, minnarets and
towers of Baghdad, the priceless jewel that gleams brighter even than
the Sun.
Images
of the fine hospitality he once received at this beacon of wealth
flooded back through his delerium-addled mind. He began to salivate,
his dry, salty taste buds quivering with anticipation at the rich
memories of the finest cuisine, served by the most prostidious of
gourmets and piled high enough to bend the table, while harem boys
and girls of every colour tended to his every whim.
He
recalled the feel of spider-spun silk sheets against his skin, while
tigerskin blankets draped over his bed provided the comforting warmth
he had sorely missed of late. Lost in these lustful waking dreams,
the mans eyes widen and he quickens his fragmented pace.
The
camel grunts again, and the man looks back. The camel pulls slightly
on the reins, shaking his head. The man's smile widens and he speaks
to the camel, in a voice usually only heard when someone is speaking
to a loved relative.
"Do not worry, my friend. This is no mirage. I have seen this fabled city before, and recognise already this fair garden. I know it's aromas, I know it's taste, I know it's heart. I know this paradise of cities, and I feel it reaching out to us with it's fair waters, offered to us from the mighty Tigris."
The
camel deigned not to reply, which was a response in itself, and they
resumed their trek through the desert.
The
man was merely dragging his feet along now, one at a time, each
movement growing in difficulty. He stopped, opened his canteen and
drank four sips from the precious liquid inside. He replaced the
flask and then held his frozen hand with it's ghastly container up to
the Sun.
Yet
the Sun could provide no warmth for his accursed hand, and the unholy
shadows that flittered across the surface of the bottle caused
infernal shadows to flitter across his vision. He wrenched his hand
back to his side and moved on, closer to Baghdad, and the chance of
salvation.
The
frozen pain in his hand pulsed maddeningly, itching further along his
arm, slowly but surely corrupting what little humanity remained in
him. When he tried to relax his mind, all his thoughts became
occupied with the crawling tendrils that slowly probed curiously
through his aching, fragile body.
Yet
this was old, familiar pain. He chose instead to focus on the pains
of hunger, thirst, and the constant scorching from the Sun in the
day, and the battering sick winds that ravaged his skin by night.
These were rarer sensations for him, and in their own way gave him
pleasure, a slight distraction from the blasphemous burden paralyzing
his right hand.
Fifteen
years. For fifteen years he had carried this paralyzing relic, this
prison for painmongers, and for fifteen years he had watched both
his body rot and his mind wander to realms of ghosts and pain.
He
knew it was wrong to traffic with the dead, to seek for answers in
the dark realms that surround this world. Nevertheless he had
wandered the Earth, seeking those with more experience than himself,
learning at the feet of Sufis, Rabbis, Priests, lunatics, and all
other manner of person touched by some spiritual presence, or
tainted by a daemonic seed.
He
frantically tried to purify himself, first from material possessions,
then by wasting what little money he had. Thus derelict, he began to
purify himself from his crippling material desires. He fasted
regularly, shunning media in all its forms save the written word and
word of mouth; and wandered by foot, following messages from unknown
prophets on subways, who scrawled their revelations on toilet walls,
or directions from nature herself - drifting with the wind,
following birdsong, accompanying running water.
After
some time, he began to reintegrate himself with his brothers and
sisters in society, yet forever changed from the man he once was,
doomed to hold the weighty tomes of forbidden knowledge inside him
until the Lethian waters of senility bring new secrets to wash away
individual folly.
He
babbled of the esoteric language of the animal kingdom, and learned
their secrets. He exchanged riddles with learned, proud owls, sang
with pitch-perfect nightingales, and commiserated with stately ravens
of yore.
Shunned
by those held in high regard, he sought refuge with those nestling in
the cracks of society, gleaming rare snippets of wisdom amongst the
fear driven gibberish.
Soon
he stumbled upon ways in which man might alter himself so that it
altered the very world around him. He learned how to withdraw his
presence, his aura,
fading
it to a near-transparent grey, cloaking himself in bland fog to avoid
those who would do him harm.
He
used his burgeoning powers to sample the things that were forbidden
to men of his class. He bored himself on fine wines, haute cuisine
and all the other materialistic temptations he had withheld for so
long.
Tiring
of wealth, he once more moved invisibly through the night, finding
secret camps for other refugees of society, a place of sanctuary from
a system engineered to destroy those who moved beyond their allocated
station, who find themselves trespassers in hostile territory
wherever there is organised power.
It
was at one such meeting place, a disused railway station that had
fallen out of sight of those with money, where he met the man that
set him on his present path.
The
man was of indeterminate age, dressed in a black hood, and black
trousers. He slumped forward over his knees staring deep into the
embers of the fire at his feet. When he approached, this enigma of a
man flicked his head up, revealing a face as dark as his clothes.
Yet his eyes shone with some inward brilliance, and he beckoned the
man over to him with a gesture.
As
the man sat opposite the fire of this spectre of the night, he stared
at his new host. He had pulled his hood down, revealing a bald head
tattooed with a intricate design of loops and whorls. His ears and
nose were pierced many times, yet despite all this strangers looking
at him were still drawn to his eyes.
Large, and impossibly white in
contrast to the deep blacks surrounding them, the pupils dilating and
flickering slightly, the man speaks seemingly through them, rather
than some shadow where his mouth should be.
"You
have been wandering for some time, my brother." His eyes were
laughing.
"I
try not to think on time."
"Wise,
yet to avoid thinking breeds ignorance. For what do you seek?"
The
man regarded the apparition. How could he put into words the feeling
that had plagued him all these years, of something of vital
importance missing from his life?
"I
seek knowledge."
"Hmph,
there are many who desire wisdom, yet ignore the cost of attaining
their passion. What purpose drives your pursuit?"
"To
escape."
"From
what?"
"Consciousness."
"Ha!
Consciousness? Tell me, what do you expect to find when you escape
into unconsciousness?"
"The
Abyss. But with knowledge it can be crossed. The other side awaits,
and with it the chance to transcend our mortal suffering."
"Our?"
The man laughed and stamped his feet. "Who do you think knows of
the Abyss? Who can tell you of the paths across the forest of
suicide? The lake of forgetfulness? Of crossing the infernal city?"
"Only
those who dwell there, or have made the journey before. I shall find
these creatures, and they shall tell me."
"And
why should they tell you?"
"I
will pay any price."
"You
will pay what everyone pays for the knowledge of the damned.
Damnnation."
"Perhaps.
But the damned can be saved. Forewarned is forearmed."
"You
are a fool, but your wits do not concern me. If you wish to cross the
Abyss, you must first learn to reach it. There are several ways, but
there is only one suitable for you."
"Tell
me."
"An
offering must be made. A libation to a God with enough power to move
your soul, to the different plain on which the Abyss lies eternal."
"Very
well. What do you want of me?"
"You
must travel far, with nothing but the clothes you stand in. To the
East lies a temple, long-forgotten and crumbling, and within it lies
a vial. It lies on an altar where the last of the two-legged reptiles
were slain, those who could not escape the genocidal nature of your
kind.”
"Hmph.
What is in this vial? And why do you want it?"
"The
vial is a phylactery, a prison for Askarthe, a reptilian God mankind
was not meant to see. A creature dreampt up from the primitive
imaginations of those who came before humanity. These creatures were
gifted with the same intelligence as your kind, yet not the innate
nature to conquer, to dominate.
They
followed orders from their shaman, a man chosen from birth with
divine sight, who spoke to Askarthe directly. Many thousands of
cold-blooded souls sent powerful waves of worship to him in thanks
for another day's survival. This gave him such power that even the
Sun itself was said to have moved at his whim.”
The
man looked at the dark vision before him. The eyes that stared back
at him were pinpricks now, boring deep.
“If
this God is so powerful, how did it end up trapped in a bottle within
a desecrated temple?”
“The
reptiles, or Volk as they called themselves, battled constantly with
your young, arrogant race. While the Volk dedicated their energies to
cultivating the land around them, and nurturing the other forms of
life that they encountered, your people discovered the ways of iron
and death. Your people spread further and further around the globe,
devastating the populations of every other animal in their
path. Eventually they reached the borders of the humid homeland of
the Volk. They prayed with great fervour to Askarthe to deliver them
from extinction.
“They
continued to prey, and they continued to die. As they watched their
number diminish, their desperation grew, and they began to sacrifice
creatures to give power enough for Askarthe to defend them. When the
animals failed, they turned amongst themselves. They gave their own
life force to power their mad godhead, and finally Askarthe answered
their pleas.”
The
nightmare in human skin took a nearby twig from the ground and began
to poke the embers as he spoke, smiling wistfully.
“I
was there. Not in this form, but I watched as the humans finally bore
witness to the vengeance of the Volk. Thunder prowled the night sky,
the skies darkened to a crimson hue unseen save for fleeting seconds
before sunset, and after a cataclysmic bolt of lightning , the
heavens opened, and the blood that had flooded from the dying Volk
now cascaded down from the heavens.”
“The
world bled for days, from deep arterial cuts in the clouds. The fluid
that ran through the veins of the Volk worked on the minds of the
marauders. It drenched millions, and the human ravagers wailed,
gnashing their teeth, screaming in disbelief as their world was
rendered insane before them. Men, women and children alike were
consumed in a lust for violence.”
“Parents
cannibalising their children, rich and poor rolling alike through the
bloodied filth, the madness showed no signs of abating as the storms
of terror reigned on. Eventually the clerics and the priests of your
kind started to prey for a new God, one who could stop the deluge of
terror that fell ceaselessly upon them. Finding sanctuary in their
new churches, their fervour grew until it reached fever-pitch and a
deity was born.”
Glancing
at the sky before locking his eyes once more upon the man, the shadow
continued.
“This
deity had many sacred names, with each country that was infected with
humanity dreaming up their own name for their saviour. “
"So
you want to harness this godly power for yourself? To what end?"
The
dark shell of a man hissed and spat into the fire.
"My
motives are not of your concern, dirt-born. But like every other
thing on this planet I need to feed to live, and my life grows with
each soul I consume. I have found plenty of common fare to taste, but
to savour a God..."
The
beast trailed off, lost in thoughts of devouring the unique spark
within us all. The man leant forward, undeterred.
"And
in exchange? You can tell me how to reach the Abyss?"
Gloved
hands reached up , casting long shadows into the firelight. He
replaced his hood, hiding the dread eyes of the creature wearing a
man's flesh.
"I
can take you there."
The
man had needed no other information, no guarantees were required. The
beast had touched him before it parted. It removed a glove to reveal
sunken grey skin, and pressed it's index finger to the man's
forehead. His mind was instantly flooded with the image of a dark
foreboding jungle, where damp mist swirled above the ground, hiding
dangers unknown. In the distance he could make out two ornate
pillars, decaying yet sturdy in architecture not dreamt by human
minds. This was the temple he sought.
"Askarthe."
The
forgotten God's name echoed in his mind, with a sound that was more
hiss than voice. When the vision ended, the man came to as a train
thundered past him. There was no trace of the man or his fire.
Resolute, he shouldered his pack and set off, following the steady
vibrations the train had left in it's wake.
The
reptilian voice reverberated through him as he walked. He began
muttering it out loud as he moved hazily through the maze of streets
that made up exotic, nameless cities that he moved through like a
wisp in a swamp.
Sometimes
a flicker of recognition would appear on someone's face as he mouthed
the word.
“Askarthe.”
An
old man nursing a empty shot glass outside a bar blinked then pointed
with shaking hands in a southerly direction. Another sniffed and told
him to turn back. A young voluptuous woman whispered mythical street
names in his ear. He walked through the lawless areas of town. Child
theives approached him sensing an easy target, then sniffed danger
lurking, and vanished back into the warmth of the rotting waste that
served as their refuge against the constant threat of the city.
Eventually
he left the throngs of people, and walked through quiet villages
where mothers hid their children from him, and old men previously
savouring their last cigarette of the night watched him stagger
through the dusty path that was the focal point of the town, and
crossed themselves before retiring to wooden homes and dreaming of
strange creatures rising from the ground to feast on those whose
ancestors committed vile crimes.
He
came to a forest, with a small beaten path marking the way between
two sets of thick oak trees that obliterated any light that might
shine upon the true way through. As the man walked, pangs of pain
from sleep deprivation punctured some chamber within his mind, and
visions began to flood his senses.
Hundreds
of eyes peered out at him from the gloom, watching him with a mix of
curiosity and hunger. He stared neither left nor right and walked
straight ahead, muttering the deity's name he heard again and again.
One of the braver creatures of the woods pawed a branch to one side,
and darted out in front of the man. Blood flecked it's snout, and
it's short matted fur clung to its hide in clumps that barely covered
gnarled sunken flesh.
It sniffed the ground uncertainly, and slowly advanced upon the man,
who seemed not to have noticed the ravenous animal in front of him.
The man walked towards the half-wolf uttering his unholy mantra and
the beast stopped; transfixed in horror as if seeing some ancient
evil that has been whispered amongst wolves.
A
piercing howl began to issue from the night air and the wolf rolled
on to its back, kicking at the sky, all the time still whining at
some invisible presence winning the fight for its mind. The howl
turned into a snarl as the beast vainly tried to fight its losing
battle.
Its
lips pulled back grotesquely far, and suddenly with a hideous click
the wolf was suddenly seeing the world at a new angle. The wolf's
eyeballs rolled backwards and then it started to walk, lifting itself
upon its hind legs like a child suddenly discovering a new means of
transportation. It turned towards the man, and somehow, spoke.
“Askarthe.”
The
man nodded, “Askarthe.” The wolf's head clicked again, now
completely upside down. It croaked:
“Guardians.
Sacrifice. Honour. Faith. Askarthe.” It's message delivered, the
presence left the wolf, and it collapsed in a heap of dislocated
bones at the man's feet.
“Askarthe.”
he said and walked on, his mantra increased fivefold as he travelled.
After
a time he could not measure of walking through unvarying scenery,
with the trees to the left and right; the endless path in front and
behind, he came to a bridge. There was a boulder by the side, and a
man in a wide-brimmed hat sat cross-legged smoking a long, thin pipe.
He tapped his pipe three times, refilled it from a small pouch at his
waist and lit it, taking long deep breaths. Exhaling blue smoke, he
raised an eyebrow while looking at the man approaching him.
“Tis
rare indeed to see a man travelling in these lands at this time. What
brings you here?”
The
man dropped his belongings to the floor, and shook slowly from side
to side as he spoke through the limits of exhaustion.
“Askarthe.”
The
sound caused the forest to suddenly come alive and withdraw from the
two men on the path. The eyes that had been watching him flickered
out to a brief noise of rustling undergrowth, and a complete silence
filled his ears.
“Ah...”
The old man spoke in a voice that did not belay his age. “I fear I
know why you journey. I believe I also know who has sent you on your
dangerous quest. This creature is not trustworthy. You know this, and
yet you still do it's bidding. Why?”
The
man staggered once more on his feet.
“Askarthe...Wisdom.
Honour.”
The
words seemed to drain the last of the man's energy. He slumped
forward, and was caught by the man who was sat cross-legged but a
moment ago. Just before he lost consciousness, the man looked up at
the stranger, and saw that he only had one eye. A husk of a socket
stared blankly back at him. The other eye watched him with something
bordering concern as the man spoke.
“Though
it pains me to assist you in such a nefarious cause, I cannot leave a
traveller stranded in the wilds. My hall is close, if you have the
right eyes, and it will provide all the nourishment you need.”
The
man nodded and drifted to the Abyss once more, a tantalising glimpse
of the void he must cross to reach his final destination.
When
he awoke, a hearth fire crackled close to him, and as he moved his
aching limbs he felt with joy the thick woolen blankets that had been
draped over him. His head was nestled on two huge eiderdown pillows,
and the smell of simmering plants mixed with the one-eyed stranger's
tobacco engulfed the air.
The
stranger was sat watching his new guest with an eye that long since
more than learnt how to compensate for it's missing brother. His
expression was blank as he spoke.
“How
do you feel?”
The
man leant forward, groaning.
“My
body...pain. But my mind feels mine again, somehow.”
“The
lich you have agreed to serve had ensnared you with powerful magic,
that would have destroyed you once you had found what it seeks. I
have banished it from my home, but the psychic battle has left me in
a somewhat weakened state.”
The
man took a new appraisal of his benefactor. Where before there was
thick muscle, now only skin hanging limply around aged meat. The
stranger read the look of concern in the man's eyes.
“I
will be fine. With you, however, my confidence wanes. Now that your
mind is free, tell me. Why do you seek...the temple?”
The
man told his tale to the one-eyed man, hesitantly at first, and when
he started to speak of crossing the Abyss, his voice began to grow in
strength, and by the time he had told of his new quest, his passion
had all but restored him to his former self. The stranger listened
and then spoke.
“But
why? Why do you risk your eternal soul in this way? The one you call
God has a plan in place for each of you. You will reach him when you
are ready. Why try to run ahead to your journey's end?”
“I
will not wait to be released from this prison he has created for me.
The only difference between me and everyone else in this prison is
that I can see the bars that hold us. I will find my escape, by any
means, and I shall attain my freedom.”
“Ha!
Grand words indeed! It is the nature of life that the more free you
believe you are the more entrapped you can become. Very well, I can
understand, if not agree with you. But to trust in this foul
sorceror? The undead lich that tried to turn you into it's mindless
slave?”
“What
choice do I have? I know of no other way to cross the Abyss.”
The
one-eyed man sighed as he refilled his pipe.
“There
is always choice. Those who see nothing but one path are the most
easily led.”
The
man sat forward, angrily.
“You
speak to me as though I am a child! Do you think I've not wandered
these paths? For decades I have explored each and every avenue
available to me!”
“You
misunderstand.”
“Do
I? I'm expected to wander until I die, experiencing the same tired
life again and again until I might be able to sit alongside the
divine? I tire of this labyrinth. I have walked it's contents, and
now I have discovered a rope to climb out.”
“Yet
you do not know what is outside this labyrinth.”
“True,
I do not. But I know that at least I shall be free, whatever awaits
me on the other side.”
“Freedom.
You speak much of it, yet you fail to appreciate what true freedom
is: The ability to choose. To choose between good and evil, right and
left turns in the labyrinth, until we find our destination. No man's
path is set. Some paths have been trod many times, others lie
undisturbed in layers of dust. Yet all eventually reach outside the
twisted paths.”
“But
you have made your decision. I shall aid you in your fool's errand,
though I see naught but tears at your end.”
The
stranger's one-eyed host stood up and walked over to a cooker in the
corner, and lifted the lid off a saucepan that bubbled and brewed a
strange mixture of herbs and plants.
“Drink
this. It shall protect your mind from those who seek to implant dark
thoughts.”
The
man downed the saucepan's liquid noisily, slurping in delight as the
hot tasty fluid gushed down his throat. He pulled back the wool
blankets and stood up. The empty socket of the man seemed to grow
larger as his right eyebrow arched. “Surely you do not want to
leave already?” he cried.
The
man once more shouldered his constant burden, and shrugged.
“It's
like a fire in my veins. It must be quenched, and it cannot be done
here. Thank you for your care.”
The
one-eyed man nodded, as if expecting this.
“It
is nothing. Much stronger magic awaits you. I can feel it already
crackling around you on the other plain. Be aware. Trust everything
and no-one. Good luck.”
The
man turned and left, and as he walked down the path away from the
house, for the first time since he began his journey he turned his
head back the way he came, and stared at a run-down shack, falling
apart and clearly unable to hold the opulent comfort he received
within. Shaking his head, he quickened his stride and thought back
on the one-eyed stranger's words. With the right eyes...trust
everything.
It
was true, there was no logical reason for the vast improvement to
his health, but there it was. He decided not to question providence
too closely and walked on as the Sun rose once more to claim it's
throne in the sky.
As
he progressed through the day, the ground beneath his feet became
increasingly damp, pulling at his boots with each stride. Before long
he was forced to hop from safe patch to patch, thinking only of the
next leap, not of how each jump was getting longer. Marsh gas had
begun to rise around him, and the gas brought with it the strange
life that can only flourish in a humid quagmire such as this.
Fireflies flickered harmlessly against his face, playfully nudging
his vision away from his path, while long thin snakes prowled amongst
prehistoric mud.
The
gas continued to rise, above his head now, and somehow the fireflies
had grown. One such enlarged light flashed before him, and he thought
he saw a child's face, laughing as it whizzed about his head. Still
the man pushed forward. He knew the swamp had an end, and it was his
destiny to reach it. Trusting in fortune's winds to guide his feet,
he leaped blindly forwards, landing ankle deep in sickeningly warm
water. Jumping quickly again before the ground could pull him down,
he landed squarely on a rock that jutted slightly from the putrid
liquid that surrounded him.
The
man squinted into the gas, one hand protecting his mouth and nose
from the poison in the mist. The man began to notice a pattern to the
ebb and swirl of the fog – it coalesced slightly green in some
parts, and then dispersed, only to reappear somewhere else.
As
he regained his breath, he watched as this new green gas seemed to
float towards him. All of a sudden it was upon him, and the man held
his breath, his eyes unable to see anything but a thick murky green
in every direction. Strange noises assaulted his ears, horses
galloping, battle cries, screams of men breathing their last. A
thousand voices whispered at him,
“Fleessssssshhhh”
Panic
struck him then and he ran blindly, waist-deep through sludge and
decaying life. He felt the green entity at his back, leisurely
following him through the mist.
“Feeeeeed...sooo
long...must feeeed....”
His foot slipped on a treacherous rock, and he slipped and fell
face-first deep into the oozing liquid. His hands caught in thick mud
below, he tried in vain to lift his head above the water. He could
see the green mist still, shimmering madly through the water above
him. His mouth opened despite his best efforts, and dark oozing
liquid spilled down his throat. His body tried to give in to the soft
embrace of the liquid flooding his system, and to sleep forever
amongst those other fools who had attempted too much with too
little.
The
man pulled and writhed beneath the surface of the water, the
suppurating, suffocating mud squelching against his hands, feet and
knees. With a Herculean effort, he wrenched his hands free, and above
the water. The green mist sighed with pleasure as it floated down
towards the exposed flesh. It dragged his unresisting body free from
the murky floor, and pulled it gently up and into the sentient
ectoplasmic vapour.
As his body began being absorbed bye the acidic slime, he felt
thousands of microscopic needles pierce his flesh, multitudes of
teeth biting and eating away at his body.
He
gritted his teeth through the pain as he hung suspended in the
devouring entity. The torment he suffered grew as he watched his skin
start to leave his body. His mind focused on defense, he felt his
soul leave his body and he viewed his dying husk with regret. So
close to achieving his goal, was he to die here and dwell forever in
the Abyss watching his physical form be devoured, instead of crossing
to his transcendence?
The
thought of his goal reawakened some primal survival instinct within
him, and his mind returned to his body. He remained calm, and once
again he chanted.
“Askarthe.
Askarthe. Askarthe.”
He
continued to speak, and as he did his hands clenched into fists, his
fingernails dug deep into into his palms and he shook with mental
energy. His will became focused entirely on absorbtion and a panic
stricken cry erupted from a thousand unseen throats that became a
cacophany of screams.
“Imposssssssible!
None are strong enough to...”
Yet
the man was strong. Perhaps not physically, but over the years spent
on his ignoble quest he had honed his mind to perfection. Not in an
intellectual sense, but as he learnt from other spiritually gifted
souls he began to be able to speak to people telepathically, and to
an extent make his will reality.
He
used that strength now, and the mist began to flow into the man, the
predator's method rendering it into prey; the thousands of tiny
mouths jabberering in fear as they slowly felt themselves fade into a
form of sustenance. Although the mist had vanished, it left in it's
wake a pile of human bones.
The
man relented his willpower. He staggered back, reeling from the
mental effort it had taken to destroy the beast. The physical pain
from his semi-flayed flesh had not yet begun to register, nor the
psychic affects of the one he had consumed. He peered down at the
remains, and something glinted within the rib cage.
Kneeling,
he brushed the bones aside gingerly, revealing a ornate dagger.
Entirely obsidian, save for a silver skull at the base of the hilt,
it's eyes two rubies that glistened maliciously through the marshy
light.
Each
of it's parts seemed to radiate evil. From the tip that seemed to
pierce the very air to the black-toothed grin of the skull, laughing
at mortality.
The
man tucked the dagger into his belt, and staggered on. He came
finally to a pier, a rotting wooden bridge that marked the only
attempt at taming this savage area. Calmly, he walked across, his
bootfalls heavy on the decaying trees below him. At the end, tied to
the pier with fraying rope, was a craft, of sorts.
It's
tattered sails hung exhausted from the mast, and there were no oars
with which he could steer into deeper waters. The man climbed down
into the boat, and sat cross-legged against the mast. All he needed
was belief. The conviction of faith that he knew he would achieve his
goal, and that nothing could stand in his path.
Once
again, he closed his eyes and mouthed the mantra.
“Guardians.
Sacrifice. Honour. Faith. Askarthe.”
Gently,
at the last word, the craft was raised out of the water on skeletal
hands, and unknown long-dead servants began to carry him across the
swamp.
He
nodded his head softly to the beat, that of the undead victims
footfalls that bore him onward. They marched tirelessly through both
thick mud and Sun-kissed clearer water that in his mind's eye, the
man fancied he could see them, Askarthe's minions hunched forward
against the current, arm-bones stretched taut, brittle finger-bones
splayed against the hull of his craft, that rotted faster than they.
Eventually
the swamp began to thin, and the water flow grew in intensity as the
skeletons piloted him towards a deep river, whose currents seemed
comparatively tidal when seen in contrast to the dingy humidity he
had just endured.
They
reached the delta, and the man opened his eyes. Gasping in ecstasy at
their release, the bones fell once more to their aquatic graves for
eternity. He stood up, and clutched the mast, coughing heavily. He
peered downriver, where the river widened. He unfurled the sail, and
cursed the rips and tears that scarred the once-white fabric.
Above
him storm clouds gathered, sent by an unseen hand to both test and
potentially aid him. With a grimace, he ripped some of the
all-but-useless sail and used it to tie himself to the frail mast,
his only means of steadying himself in the embrace of the maelstrom
that he sensed awaited him.
Water
whipped his eyes, stinging them closed as the water's anger at this
trespasser grew. The raft smashed suddenly against an unseen jagged
rock, and part of the deck was swept away. Shouting out the names of
every aquatic God he had heard, cursing them, jeering at them to kill
him, he untied himself and prostrated himself on what remained of his
craft, using his limbs to hold the fragmented hull together.
The
raft continued to ricochet between the hazardous rocks, and as it
slalomed it gave in to the elements, breaking into a smaller and
smaller aid to the estranged passenger it bore. Within minutes the
man was able to hook his arms underneath the edges of the raft, and
he screamed down at the water that gushed by beneath him.
A
sudden gust of wind hit the boat as it was flung upwards by a rapid,
and the man was catapulted into a sea-sharpened rock, and once again
he embraced nothingness.
The
man was happy, for a while, his soul relishing the isolation from
everything in existence. The void was pleasing, as the womb.
But
the void faded. His soul awoke in the body of a young man, and it
gazed with unfamiliar eyes at a stylish office, with a mahogany desk
that was completely bare, and a large window behind him that showed
only the night sky.
The
man (men?)
looked
down at his (their?)
hands, and marvelled at their youthfulness. Neatly manicured,
perfectly smooth, unravaged by the elements or manual labour save for
a white scar on the left palm, where one
briefly remembered some sort of vial.
Stretching
back in an elegant black executive chair, he looked at the expense
around him, and thought it all strangely familiar. He knew he was
being swept away down some remote river, yet he also felt a strange
belonging in this corporate domicile. A man in a expensive suit
knocked and entered his office.
“Hi
Jay, ready to go? They're expecting you in ten.”
Jay.
That was his name once. A soft, laid-back voice said within him:
“Not
a problem. Be there in five.”
Where
was he? Who was he? The man struggled to identify the other being
inside him, yet found only himself. Was this a past life? A glimpse
of the future? Or his own time, a forgotten memory of his life before
his all-consuming mission?
The
man's view changed as the other Jay stood up and left the office. He
watched as he strode confidently past rows of identical offices,
paused outside a door that was labelled “Boardroom” and walked
in.
A
large table seated 14 elderly businessmen, all seated around a oval
table, that was dominated by a large screen at the end of the room. A
seat lay open, awaiting him.
He
watched as Jay sat in the chair, and the screen flickered to life. It
displayed a wealth of information – stocks, shares, GDP indexes,
mortality rates, political ideology graphs, and every five seconds
each piece of data was updated, and some new information from around
the globe was displayed.
At
the head of the oval, almost opposite the chair in which Jay was
sitting, a man with grey hair, and deep wrinkles smiled emptily and
spoke.
“Gentlemen?
Shall we begin?”
A
few of the other chairmen pressed unseen buttons in the glass table
that lay before them, preparing their reports. A man to the left of
Jay coughed nervously, stood and spoke.
“On
behalf of our marketing division, projections are favourable for
growth in the next six months. Increased Middle Eastern aggression
has served to diversify our crop and oil portfolios, with inflation
margins remaining steady at 19%.”
The
man at the head of the table tried to show a gesture of benevolence,
frightening in it's insincerity.
“Thank
you. The Information Officer shall now report.”
Eyes
swivelled in his direction, and Jay stood up, and began talking,
cleanly and concisely of false flag operations, new propoganda
techniques, surveillance equipment deployed, and other strange
language that was as alien to him as he himself felt in his new body.
The
other Jay recoiled in horror. As the body's synapses fired
information, their meanings came flooding back to him and he began to
panic, unbelievablity at the actions the original inhabitant of the
body was reporting on. In a fit of anger, the alien Jay's essence
tried
to escape the mind, mentally attacking the boundaries within the
brain. The other Jay stammered in his speech, and clutched his head,
then carried on talking, resolutely.
He
started to scream, sending a psychic shockwave through the body of
the other Jay, who was in control of the body, and suddenly their
positions were reversed. The man found himself controlling now, and
heard a frightened voice emanate through unfamiliar lips cry in fear.
“Who...who
are you people? What is this accursed place?”
The
grey hollow husk at the head of the table raised an eyebrow
quizically, and spoke in a measured tone.
“You
are in the head office of the M & M Omni-National Corporation. I
have the honour of being the Chief Executive Officer, Plutus Dis
Pater. You do not seem yourself, Mr. Connolly. Can I help you in any
way?”
The
man steadied himself, and relaxed slightly as it processed this
information.
“No...no
I'm fine...” he muttered, hazy recollections of a previous life
gnawing at the edges of reason and felt his presence move
back,
and the other Jay Connolly regained control of the body. The CEO
smiled and clasped his hands together warmly. The other Jay
apologised.
“Forgive
me Pater, I am slightly unwell...please may I finish my report
another time? I shall send all the data in my report immediately, of
course.”
The
old man tried to smile in the fatherly way that served as the crux of
the deception within him, and nodded benignly.
“Of
course, Mr. Connolly, of course. Take your time. We have all the time
in the world!”
He
laughed nervously and Jay walked quickly out of the room. He ran to
the nearest bathroom, and vomited violently into the sink. He rubbed
his face and eyes with water, and stared into the mirror in fear.
“Who
am I?” both voices said simultaneously. The “other” Jay
straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his usually immaculate
hair and nervously walked out of the building, to a waiting BMW. The
driver greeted him with a professional friendliness, and started to
drive him to Jay's apartment, on the “Upper West Side”. As they
snaked through the metropolis, the man gazed at the thousands of
other people, going about their daily lives. Most of them flashed in
and out of his life in seconds, a dazzling array of colours, styles
and to the new presence within Jay, a rainbow of auras, each mingling
with it's neighbours as they moved unknown to their psychical
selves.
They
moved on, although their progress slowed to a stop at times. One such
time a man of about fifty years with an unkempt beard and unwashed
clothes staggered to the front of the car and began to wipe the
windscreen with a dry, dirty cloth. Half of him tried to provoke the
other self into giving some money from his no doubt bulging wallet.
The other half was resolute inwardly, and the body remained
motionless.
The driver, checked his side mirror, spoke a few words
into his radio, and within a minute two men in casual clothes walked
out of the thronging streets, and grabbed the poor man, carrying him
off to the other side of the road. As he was carried, he remained
silent, yet he locked eyes with both Jays, and the man inside him
knew that look, knew the heartfelt emotion with which it pleaded for
help, for humanity, from anyone. Yet it also resounded with the icy
knowledge that he shall not find it, and he knows the fate the two
men carrying him have in store for his unfortunate self.
“Are
you ok, Mr. Connolly? Can I help you?” the driver looked at him
through his mirror with a furrowed brow.
“I'm
fine...just need to get home, get a beer, get laid.” the other Jay
spoke, though distant somehow.
The
driver laughed and returned his attention to the road, apparently
satisfied with this response. As the car moved on, the man within Jay
looked with rapture at a sudden expanse of greenery, a stark contrast
to the dull metallic greys of the city blocks surrouding him.
Mercifully
the car stopped again.
“Sorry
Mr. J – NYCC get worse every year.” the driver said shaking his
head, a theatrical impression of a cliched taxi-driver. Jay laughed
and told the driver not to worry about it. But the old man within Jay
moved forward, and looked with fresh eyes upon his escort.
His
aura was a brilliant red, tarnished with flecks of black and emerald
green, and as the man stared deep at the consciousness, his mind
flashed with images – of the man younger, driving slowly next to a
child walking home from school, of the man's face contorted in sick
pleasure, sweating, illuminated by a bedside night lamp, and then of
another nocturnal scene, of this twisted soul with axe and knife,
cutting away at some unseen meat, and then another – a black bag
abandoned in a shallow grave.
The
man pulled back his scavenging eyes, reeling from the psychological
damage caused by the heinous act.
Jay,
who up until now had not experienced anything beyond the natural,
gasped, and started to cry out. The man inside him quickly came
forward, and
clasped his hands over the mouth of their spirit self.
The
driver sensed something amiss, not only with his passenger but his
psyche, somehow knowing instinctively that his innermost secrets had
been revealed, the inner sanctum of his mind violated. His eyes
narrowed, and he glared through the mirror at the terrified ( furious
) man
that sat behind him. The driver spoke once more into his radio.
“This
is Charon 3-A, assistance required, Connolly code Azure.”
Neither
Jay fully understood the words, but they understood everything they
needed in the driver's cold, dead eyes, and with unified mind and
body lunged for the car door, opening it in the same movement as the
driver reached for the lock.
As
the driver shouted out and began to open his own door, he (they)
ran blindly towards the park, pelting past couples, children, and
those enjoying the precious natural beauty at the heart of their
city.
The
older Jay sensed the forces on their pursuit, and forced the body to
quicken it's pace, while the frightened younger part of his soul
turned to look, and fled further into the realms of fear which fortunately fuelled his body in cooperation into running all the faster. The elder
Jay took pleasure in this, relishing the surges of adrenalin his
well-kept body flushed into their system.
They
ran, half jubilant at the chase, half hysterical at the danger, and
the distance between them and their pursuers eventually grew. The Sun
had just about faded once more below the horizon, and they moved
quietly towards a park bench.
An
old man sat on it, a brown paper bag in his hands. He was staring
dejectedly at the path at his feet. Jay(s)
sat at a respectful distance. They watched the moon rise together,
and the man took a final swig from the foul smelling bottle the
crumpled bag contained, then proferred it to them. Both of them moved
forward to take it, albeit for differing reasons.
“Insider
trading certainly isn't what it used to be.” the man giggled. “In
my day you would have jumped out of the office window. Done the
decent thing. But you kids...” the man trailed off, lost in his own
thoughts of ages past.
The
elder Jay came
forward once
again, this time against a weakly protesting younger self. He shook
the bottle, then drank half of it's remainder in three gulps.
Shuddering as the alcohol ran rampant through their systems, he
handed the bottle back to the grizzled man.
“May
I ask your name Sir, who presumes so much?” the older Jay said,
leaning forward.
“Ha!
I'm merely Destiny's Fool. A traveller who has found himself on a
well-trod path, a gambler who has bet everything on the House, and
lost everything. Ah, but in this respect, perhaps I am quite like
yourself, eh?” the tramp on the bench stared deep into Jay's eyes,
penetrating through the elder, and almost talking directly to the
frightened youth within.
The
man smiled, showing yellow rotten teeth.
“I
say I am on a path well travelled, but you may as well be walking
next to me.”
The
younger Jay came
forward then,
indignant at the mockery of his accomplishments in the corporate
world.
“How
can we be on similar paths? Look at you, you have nothing except a
bottle of scotch and some clothes that stink of your own shit! I have
everything! I have eaten the finest in the world, I have stayed in
the finest hotels-”
The
man guffawed again, an almost infectious sound.
“Haw!
Yet here we are, young man! Here we are, together, without a
possession between us save the clothes on our backs, on a park bench
in Central Park. You say that I am presumptious – Pah! You know
nothing about me, boy. It is your shallow vanity that plagues the
world, an itch I have been unable to scratch, until now.”
The
elder Jay started to feel himself falling asleep to the old man's
words. Some subtle nuance of the grizzled man's charisma perhaps? The
younger Jay was in full control, tending his wounded pride. But the
elder, picked up on subtler nuances missed, or misunderstood by his
younger self, carried on.
“I
too have enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, from the feel of silk
sheets about my body while a young girl gives me joy, to the feel of
a fine tailored suit on my skin. I have also found pleasure in almost
every form of art imaginable. For what?”
He
felt himself grow fainter. The void was returning. Part of him wanted
to rush forward and embrace it, yet there was another that wanted to
stay and hear the old hobo's story, the wisdom he had perhaps ignored
in his youthful folly.
Yet
irregardless of his desires, the void was growing, until it became
once more all there was. The man (Jay, he thought to himself) rested
there, meditating on the strange glimpse he had been given at the
puzzling events at an unknown point in time.
His
affinity for the other within the host body was total, they were both
a part of the same whole, he was sure. So why did it still feel so
alien? The crippling doubts he ruminated over spread like germs
through his brain, which pulsed in discomfort.
The
pain grew, and sound started to return to his ears. Water, once more.
Yet softer, calming. His smell returned next, and he inhaled deeply
the tangy salt of tropical waters. The dark of the void was suddenly
shattered by a pin prick of incredible light, that widened in scope.
He remained there, transfixed by the glory of the Sun, believing
himself in the face of the divine All itself.
It
was only when a bird circled, singing overhead, that he regained
feeling in his body and groggily sat up.
He
gazed at his surroundings. The lapping tide scaled away into the
distance, nestled against bright white sand. He coughed up sea water
and stared ahead at a dense jungle, the vine-encrusted trees tilted
at angles seemingly hindering his path through.
The
phylactery was once more welded to the flesh of his palm, the
swirling mist inside now spun with strands of a purplish-hue. As he
stared, he felt his mind start to wander, a subtle voice with
enticing tones began whispering at the edge of his consciousness.
With an effort he snapped his eyes away from his burden, and set off
into the tropical island.
The
dazzling Sun was quickly eclipsed by the welcoming shade of wide
leaves that spanned the ceiling as a canopy, the sweltering humidity
staggering. He tried to remember the vision he shared with the
stranger at the campfire, of the massacre between humanity and the
Volk. Years upon years of bloodshed, yet perhaps still there could be
a reconciliation of sorts, a final unity. Yet the slumbering deity in
its prison seemed to react to his thoughts, light flaring on
occasion. What were its intentions? Did he dare allow himself to
communicate with it, knowing how fragile his sanity had become?
He
straggled on through the overgrowth, brushing aside plants and
stepping over roots that threatened to snare his feet. His thirst
grew as the Sun moved through its course overhead, the moisture he
drank from the leaves precious little compared to the liquid he was
excreting through his pores. Only his burdened hand felt icy cold.
His very mind seemed to fray, his inner monologue starting to quieten
compared to the voice of Askarthe,
as it whispered to him for freedom, speaking of its powers, and how
they could be used to benefit humanity.
The
wanderer tried to converse – the voice magnified, as if at some
slight acquiesion by the host; the power of the burdensome phylactery
amplified around his temples.
“What
do you want from me?” The question was blunt, as some part of him
knew he needed to be. The voice that replied seemed an echo,
distorted in tone yet eerily familiar.
“Freedom.
The Volk must survive. When I am free all extinct races shall be
reborn anew.”
“What
then of humanity?”
“Until
now humanity has had a choice between chaos and harmony. With the
Volk once more populating the planet, that choice shall fall aside –
I shall enforce harmony. There shall be no more superfluous
bloodshed. The conflict of aeons past has not been in vain, it should
never be repeated.”
The
man walked on and reflected upon the deity's words. Enforced harmony?
At what price to the mind of mankind? He reflected that man had built
it's way to the forefront of evolution by violent struggle –
initially against their natural predators, then by each other, for
dominance of the land. Would man be weaker or stronger for
co-operation with the Volk? What abilities they once demonstrated,
over the elements, their Shamen displaying seemingly supernatural
powers that rivalled those of certain humans, only hinted at in
legend could advance his species beyond reckoning.
He
was still ruminating when he arrived at a small stream. He stooped
and drank eagerly, poured water over his sweltered face. The Sun was
nearly setting – he must have walked for hours, though he could not
remember them passing. He bathed his aching feet and looked down at
the vial, the smoky tendrils coalesced into a swirling mass.
The
deity of the Volk once more communicated. “Our
destination grows close. The last survivor of my people awaits my
return. You shall be rewarded for your service when you release me.”
The
traveller's brow furrowed. A gnawing feeling within him told him to
beware, that the words he heard were not truth, merely used to bait
him into giving the creature what it wants. He considered the
possibility that the enforcement Askarthe spoke of could only apply
to humanity, with the Volk then given power to enslave his people.
His
mind grew heavy with the immensity of the decision before him. Should
he choose to distrust Askarthe, how would he destroy the God when
shattering the vial would set it free? Clouds of despair seeped
through him at his helplessness, the soul crushing feeling that his
entire life has been one long script, with no choice before him or
ahead, only a relentless forewards. He stood up, deciding to press on
through the night.
He
walked on, following the stream, ignoring the pangs of hunger that
racked his body. His pace was slow and unsteady, the jungle floor
treacherous. Hours passed, with only a few miles further for his
exertions. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, a sign of
malnourishment as well as humidity – he couldn't remember when he
had last eaten. Eventually he came to a slight clearing of blackened
soil, only a few metres from the stream. His body and mind screamed
for rest. He laid down gently on the ground, his limbs shaking
spasmodically. As his eyes closed, he felt his eyes dart rhythmically
from side to side, instantly falling into a deep slumber.
He
found himself on a ornate chair in a great hall, tapestries and
paintings lining the walls. In front of him was a oak table, a nine
pointed star, encircled, etched in its centre. Sat along the sides
were men in crimson robes, quietly talking amongst themselves. He
looked at his arms, saw they wore a similar robe. His right hand held
a strange eye-shaped scar. He clenched and unclenched his fingers
into his palm, savouring the ability that had been lost to him for so
long.
The
hall was illuminated by braziers in between the paintings and
candelabras on the table. As he surveyed the people, trying to
identify them beneath their cowls, he noticed shadows seemed to move
by themselves, outlines of non-human figures cavorting, winged
creatures whispering to one another. The effect of the flickering
flames caused the shadows behind to elongate, stretching far to the
back of the hall which was lost to blackened gloom.
He
recognised the past within the comatic dream, while his body
attempted to recuperate under the brightest sky, though also the
deadly reality of it all, the loops of the construct known as time
interlinking within his mind.
The
people themselves moved seldom, occasionally drinking red wine from
chalices that were the only items on the table. At the other end of
the hall, a large set of double doors opened, and a suited man
emerged from the blackness outside, walked to the opposite end of the
table and whispered in the other person's ear. The person who sat
directly opposite the wanderer nodded slightly, and the man in the
suit left, closing the heavy doors behind him.
The
person who had received the information stood, and the rest of the
people around the table imitated. The one who stood first raised an
arm, and from a ring on the fourth finger a beam of purple light shot
forward into the sigil at the centre of the table. In a clockwise
motion, each of the other figures raised an arm. One held a gnarled
staff, another a orb of grey clouds, yet another a pendant that
dangled from a hand. As each hand was raised, the same light hit a
different part of the sigil from the artifacts.
As the ninth person's energy hit the star, it pulsed, an eye starting
to appear in its centre. The shadows that had previously confined
themselves to engaging with the shadows next to them now took flight,
circumnavigating the room at every angle, faster with each
revoultion. The robed figures began to chant.
“Askarthe.
Askarthe. Askarthe.”
The
traveller's body, seemingly willed by a force not his own, arose, and
he looked at the palm of his burdened hand. The scar was pulsing with
the same light. He raised his hand, fingers spread in front of him.
The incantation complete, the energy coalesced into a spiral. He
watched as a shadow ceased it's circling and plunged into the circle.
Then another, and another. When they all had entered the circle, the
light left their artifacts and remained in the sigil. His arm fell
back to his side, and he noticed the scar of his hand still glowed
dully.
The
figures ceased their chant, took their seats once more around the
table. The spiralling light arced from the ceiling back to the centre
of the sigil. The circle of light became a dome, then dwindled to a
steady pulse where the eye was drawn. A column of dark violet smoke
started to rise in it's place, slowly spreading round the hall.
“You
are in the presence of Askarthe.”
The
voice seemed to echo in the practioner’s minds simultaneously. The
person at the opposite end of the table spoke with lilting delight -
“The invocation is complete!”
The wanderer cast his vision around the room. The robed figures were
leaning to one another, speaking quietly. The smoke continued to
billow out of the sigil, flowing around the figures at the table. The
wanderer listened as their conversations changed from demands and
uses of power and knowledge to confessions, lust and anger.
He
could hear the man across the table talking, zoned in on his
conversation.
“If
we can attain the knowledge that is holding the R&D for our V-261
virus back, our control of the sub-Saharan would increase tenfold,
extending our stock portfolio, drastically – I bought her for a
pittance in Thailand. Back at the hotel I slipped the knife in at the
same time I slipped into her. It wasn’t the screams that set me
off, but sliding around in her blood…I’ve never finished so
quickly or forcefully. All our juices mixed together and I stayed
coated in her for days, just me and her in the room-“
He
felt anger grow within him as he listened to the man talk, realising
what was at stake, and the nearly overwhelming desire to stay in
control of his emotions he snapped his head around and focused on one
of the others. A woman, whose words had slowly descended into a
soundless scream with one of her hands working feverishly beneath her
robe; her eyes full-white; a tear of blood rolling down each cheek.
He
felt the whispers of others in his mind, urging him to rage, to kill
then to release the frustration within, to cast off his humanity and
revel in the bloodlust. He ground his teeth and clenched his hands
into the arms of the chair, deciding instead to focus on their
summoning.
The
stranger noticed near the centre of the sigil, where the smoke was
densest, a spherical shape had started to form. It seemed to be
growing as the others were weakening, their life force burning in
anger. The others, with the exception of the man at the head of the
table had perished, their skin tainted to a rotting grey pallor,
heads lolled back.
The
man he assumed to be the leader of the cult expressed his rage in a
manner perhaps saner than the others; he had drawn a slivered golden
dagger from his robe and was running it into his arm, waving the
point deeper and deeper into his flesh. The pain seemed to give him
strength to make his own voice heard amongst the others that grew in
volume.
“This
should not be! It is we that should be feasting off you!”
The
voice(s) replied in unison, as the deity they were to become.
“A
sigil of summoning makes a poor binding.”
The
leader gasped a laugh, his life force being devoured by their
summoning gone awry. He locked eyes with the stranger across the
table, as the sphere continued to grow.
His
words were forced, as though talking through great anguish and anger.
“You
must take the phylactery…when his presence is fully manifest in
this realm. Only then can it be trapped.” His eyes were bulging and
a protruding vein now throbbed on his temple.
The
stranger turned away from the man drowning in his rage and stared at
the vial he had indicated. It sat in an ornate holder a third of the
table away from the central sigil. He noticed the enlarging sphere
out of the corner of his eye.
Energy crackled around the hall as it
grew. He felt himself strangely drawn to it, and as he peered into
the blackness he noticed flecks of yellow swimming across his vision.
As he stared, one of them stopped. As the smoke continued to seep
into the sphere, the void beyond, that ever-present dark, threatened
to envelop him completely.
Part
of him was urged to leave the table, to fling himself into the abyss
and confront Askarthe directly. He clenched his hands into the arms
of the chair as he watched the spectacle unfold around him. He looked
at the yellow flecks again.
The one that had stopped swimming had
grown, as if it was speeding towards him over a unfathomable
distance. As he watched, mesmerised, the collective of voices that
had been urging him to rape, kill and give in to the bloodlust spoke
again.
“You
have summoned me at the appointed time to fulfill our destinies. When
I have merged with you we can turn the universe to our will. The
others were incapable of resisting their baser instincts that nearly
drove our species to extinction.
I shall rise you up as an emblem to
mankind, a means of showing them that all controlling power is
controlled itself. Though the visions of the future I have been shown
foretell great bloodshed, perhaps our species may yet unify. Ah, the
others have nearly expired, and my passageway is made manifest. Do
you join willingly?”
As
the entity was speaking, the stranger was staring raptly at the
visage. It came closer until it towered in front of him, and he
involuntarily gasped as its features came into view. It skin was the
colour of mold on bone, or bile from a diseased liver.
Its elongated
head displayed prominent white pupil-less eyes and thousands of
needle-like teeth, while its broad chest tapered to a spiked tail
that flicked back and forth, keeping it aloft in the viscous depths
of the unfathomable dark.
In
its hands were a wickedly serrated shield and a sceptre, bejewelled
with various ornate gems. The stranger’s initial fear of the
unknown went into overdrive, and he backed away from the table,
sending his chair flying across the hall. His eyes flicked to the
vial on the desk, now perilously closed to being sucked into the
void, and lost forever.
The
creature crossed its arms across his chest, as if waiting for a
reply. The stranger could not hesitate. He knew the phylactery was
his only leverage, if he lost that he lost choice, and risked slavery
to Askarthe. He leapt forward and grasped the vial, as he noticed the
last of the violet smoke absorbed into the portal.
Reclaiming his
place at the furthest distance away from the now fully open gateway,
he still, through some optical trickery found himself face to face
with the servant and emissary of Askarthe that had been deigned to talk as an avatar of
the deity.
With
trembling hands he found the stopper on the vial and took hold. The
voice once again broke through the background of rage that wheedled
him into emotion.
“The
last of them has died. The bridge between worlds is complete. You
join me, and the Volk can once more repopulate the planet. To imprison
me is to doom yourself to a path of great torment, and humanity shall
stay on the course it is, that of eternal suffering.”
The
stranger made a series of logical jumps in a split second,
incorporating his past love of his species, his nationality, the
conflict that renders things emotionally viable, and in the way the
mind seems to slow everything else down in times of near-death, he
opened the phylactery.
A beam of light immediately pierced into the
infinite recesses of the void, through the avatar that floated before
him. It stared down at its body, and where the light had penetrated
its flesh seemed to have inverted like a camera negative. The voice
shouted at him in surprise.
“Fool!
You set the course of the universe astray!”
The
pale blue nimbus light began to absorb the portal, which once more
started to shrink as the void was filtered and shrank into the vial.
The avatar of the Volk shrieked noiselessly, thrashing against the inevitable pull
of the phylactery. He noticed thousands of the fleck sized volk as
they floated through the light as microscopic purple-yellow particles.
The
voice roared in disarray and confusion, as the portal continued to
crumple, and the thunderous noise magnified. The wanderer extended
his shaking arms towards the void, his eyes scrunched closed, his
head turned away from the brilliant light.
As the last of the being that was Askarthe flowed into the
phylactery, a last whisper entered his mind.
“You
have chosen the way of hardship and strife. You shall be seen as
cursed by the rest of your kind. Your only refuge shall be the
in-between places. I shall be with you always, driving you on towards
your destination.
Through your previous thought and speech I
understand the choice you made, and so you shall be sped on, our
interests merging into one. Everything I have taken from the others
that summoned me shall be with you. The burden shall grow, though
with it perhaps you shall also.”
The wanderer placed the stopper back on the phylactery and opened his eyes. A tiny plume of smoke was the last sign of the presence of Askarthe outside of his new prison. He gazed down at the vial in his clenched fist.
It
was the colour of deepest topaz, with a pentagonal base expanding
with intricately intersecting lines to a wider top, with the bung
made of silver-filigree at its top. He approached the table with the
intent of putting it back into its holder, to regain his composure.
To his surprise, when he opened his fist the vial remained. With
horror, he shook his arm trying to shake it off. The phylactery grew
cold as he banged it against the table, burnt to his skin. The
freezing effect continued, until his entire hand was icy cold.
The
implications of the binding they had performed sank in.
With
a heavy heart, he raised the hood of his robe, and without looking
back, passed through the arch at the end of the hall with a clenched
fist containing the essence of the Volkan deity.
He
awoke, that is to say his eyes refocused on daylight and sunlight
still burning down as it had for many an aeon, and with his chilled
hand and arm providing a stark contrast to the warmth of his
surroundings, he stood up.
He
walked on, his mind reeling from everything he had witnessed. He
passed through field after field, his mind assailed by images of
himself in bodies he didn’t recognise, past lives, future lives.
Glimpses of other experiences. Hours passed. He suddenly became aware
of constrictions in his stomach, the first pangs of hunger he could
remember since awakening.
With
his newly developed hunger punctuating his failing energy, his walk
was plagued by images of the Volk, their jungle temple and a shaman
raising his staff towards a blood red sky.
Without
knowing he had fallen and slept, he awoke disoriented, to the sound
of birds and cicadas, the hum of jungle life. A slow running stream
flowed beside him. He drank deeply and stood up, his body aching. He
walked along the stream, for a time before arriving at a vast
circular clearing.
It
was clearly artificially created – the clearing itself seemed a
perfect circle, housing three rising ziggurats. One dwarfed the
others. He approached it, shielding his eyes from the now
unobstructed glare of the Sun. Similar in appearance to the other
two, it was comprised of a series of stone steps with a door carved
into both the foot of the ziggurat and two thirds of the way up.
He
walked to the door at the foot of the Volk’s temple, entered
without breaking stride. The walls were coated with purple lichen,
releasing a surprising fragrance that reminded him of a swamp’s
fauna. The passage ran right through the ziggurat, the bright
sunlight that filtered through the ends.
As
he approached the centre of the passageway, he came to an ivory
sarcophagus that has two braziers illuminating it. He looked across and
noticed a bas-relief engraved on the lid. It depicted a fearsome
looking Volk, eight feet long with ceremonial head-dress, two
scimitars crossed over its chest in a gesture of death that reminded
him of mediaeval custom.
The Volk was bordered with glyphs that he
could somehow translate – an epitaph of the Volk’s
accomplishments, focusing on each one brought an image to his mind
from its life.
One showed him holding a battle standard leading a
battalion of soldiers against an unseen foe, another holding his arms
above a prostrate Volk while bright light glowed around them.
“The
Chosen of the Volk”
whispered a glyph. Steeling himself for whatever lay within, he
pushed the lid open. It moved easily, as if on oil that had been
carefully preserved for this purpose.
He
pushed it enough to reveal blackness within. Taking one of the
braziers from the wall, he peered in to the tomb. An ivory base shone
back at him. Puzzled, he replaced the torch and retraced his way back
to the entrance, then started to climb the narrow steps.
As
he climbed, he tried to reflect on where he had been and what he had
done to get him to this point. Images of the past rose, as did the
susurrus of Askarthe within his mind.
It spoke to him of future deeds
as though he had already performed them, conflicting with images from
one of his pasts, where he sat with fellow wanderers, swapping wisdom
over the dying embers of a fire and a bottle of wine.
He remembered
hundreds of skeleton arms rising from the water. A man in a business
suit smiling malevolently.
Meanwhile,
the whisper of Askarthe told him the end of his journey was at hand,
for good or ill, whatever his final choice was to be. Unification or
annihilation. He glanced down at the phylactery fused to his hand;
noticed it glowing in an oscillating blue and purple. Reaching the
middle entryway, with the rising adrenaline of an animal that senses
its end; he clenched his hand around the vial and proceeded into the
temple once more.
The
higher passageway ran straight through the temple as did the other,
yet in the place of the sarcophagus was a crystal that dwarfed him,
spinning in place, transfixed in a web of light. The voice of the
deity was louder here, seeming to echo throughout the ziggurat, as
well as through his mind.
“The
last of my race. He has been suspended in time through a powerful
working, your species allowing one last casting before eradicating
the rest of my people. He must be freed, and the essence that you
hold must transfer to him so we can repopulate. The crystal can only
be deactivated by breaking the lights in sequence. Follow my
instructions.”
The
wanderer allowed his body to be guided by Askarthe, waving his arms,
leaping through some lights, ducking and kicking at others. As he
touched each light, it extinguished, releasing a series of tones that
sustained. Continuing to pass through each light, the tones seemed to
grow in harmonious volume, the music that began a lament, wordlessly
decrying the death of untold millions.
Once
the last of the lights was extinguished, the voice of Askarthe turned
its voice to the music, adding its own formidable power to that
stored in the temple. The crystal span faster, and as the music rose
to a crescendo, it smashed into light, leaving a crumpled form on the
floor.
The
man gingerly approached the prostrate Volk. It was thinner than the
others he had seen, prematurely aged compared to how it had appeared
in his visions. Its strength had been sapped while it had been
trapped in the crystal. He leaned over it, heard faint breathing, the
bones in its chest rising and falling.
“You
must take the body to the top of the ziggurat, then when I am
released the ritual shall be performed and you shall be rewarded.”
Part
of the wanderer still doubted his actions, the urge to strangle the
life out of the frail Volk strong as the collective negativity that
lurked within him. Yet he had felt the intent of this powerful
deity, desperate as it may be. Should trust be a virtue he should
exercise here? There was still time before he made the ultimate
choice. With surprising ease, he picked up the Volk and returned to
the outside of the temple.
He
climbed the rest of the way to the summit, a narrow square where
there was barely room for them both. He placed the enfeebled body on
the floor. Askarthe once more spoke, though the voice had changed, it
still contained the tones that had been released when the barriers of
light broke.
“The
time is at hand. Open the phylactery, release me and be at peace.
Your quest is at an end.”
The
traveller wiped sweat from his brow and surveyed the vista before
him. The Sun was starting its descent in the sky, causing the jungle
for leagues around to seem alive with vibrancy, a river winding to
the horizon. He vaguely heard a small stone clack distantly down the
ziggurat.
He
was finally here, the culmination of all he had strived for. He could
be released from the icy burden that had been attached to his hand
for so much of his life. The relief he felt was tangible, yet a part
of him was still wary.
He tried to think of the ethics of the actions
that had brought him to this point. The number of people who had
suffered and died as a result of both him and his desire for power.
Another part, reassuring, reminded him of the past positive effects
he had in his lives, encouraging him on to complete his goal of so
long.
The
adrenaline he felt before returned, bringing with it a heightened
sense of awareness. He felt the urge to finish get stronger, and
reached for the stopper on top of the vial. In surprise, the god
spoke in a booming voice.
“WAIT!
There is another here, do not –“
Askarthe’s
voice was cut off as a shadow suddenly loomed before the traveller.
He whirled in time to see a rock brought down on his head, and he
fell to his knees.
A
familiar shape materialised from the shadow as his head spun. A bald
head grinned wickedly, with blackened eyes that danced with glee.
It
leapt to the wanderer, encircling his arm with one hand, reaching for
the phylactery with the other. He tried to fight back, blood
trickling down his forehead, blinding one eye.
His opponent seemed to
have a strength supernatural, snapping his right arm like a twig. As
the traveller barked in pain the shadowed figure leaned closer at its
moment of victory.
“I
have waited for you. Your successes have brought you to the appointed
place, where I have been sleeping, trance-tracking your progress.
As
I told you when we first met, your choice of knowledge has brought
you strife, and the power that you want to attain shall be mine, it
is I who shall rule at Askarthe’s side!”
As
the man of shadow placed his hand upon the seal of the phylactery, he
felt the wanderer’s hand on top of his.
“To
be the ultimate you must encompass the ultimate.”
Together
they pulled the phylactery open. The wanderer screamed in agony as
the vial detached itself. A beam of blue light shot to the heavens,
as the tremendous energy of the stored deity once more was released
on to the Earth.
The
man of shadow, still grinning, reached his hands towards the
traveller's eye sockets. “Before I become a God, I shall add your
essence to my own. Be thankful I do not have time to draw your death
out as would befit such a thorn in my side.”
As
the traveller’s rocked his head from side to side, brain conflicted beyoned measure, he smashed the
phylactery again and again in to the side of the lich's bald head,
and the last of Askarthe left the phylactery, swirled above the
combatant’s heads. The black and purple mass enveloped the setting
Sun, casting a crimson glow on the land.
The
presence soared back to the ziggurat, flooding into the prostrate
Volk. Its body twitched and spasmed, as its muscles regrew and it
regained its former stature.
The
figure that had been doggedly awaiting the wanderer noticed the Volk,
seemingly for the first time, and pushed the traveller’s head into
the stone. “No!” it bellowed. “It is I who should be the new
avatar of Askarthe!”
It
stood and moved its head in front of the Volk’s, trying to absorb
the power for itself. It swallowed some of the black energy that was
descending from the sky, transfixing the dark other. It convulsed
with new-found power, as thunder cracked, booming across the expanse
of the jungle.
The
traveller, holding his head, sat up and flexed his hand for the first
time in what seemed lifetimes. Bones cracked, and he wiped away the
blood, restoring his vision. As he watched, the last of the tornado
of black energy flowed into the Volk and the other figure before
returning to the clouds. The wanderer rose to his feet, moaning.
“This…this
was supposed to be my reward.” He slumped visibly. His attacker had
fallen to one knee, digesting the new power and his heightened
awareness while the Volk turned to him, sheathing his scimitars in
scabbards strapped to his back.
“Askarthe
promised you reward, and that you shall have.” It hissed. “The
Avatar of Askarthe shall rule this world as moderator. The prophecy
has been fulfilled. Whereas before our kind were fighting each other
for dominance, now we shall be united under the demiurge of Askarthe.
Your deity, having created you, shall remain silent and absent until
the knowledge of good and evil is complete, and your species matches
it in power. Regard yourself, Jay. Look at the other form before you,
stare into its eyes and see the reflection of the abyss.”
He
looked over at the other figure, convulsing on one knee as the power
of Askarthe grew within him. The Volk gestured towards him and as it
did he rose and approached the wanderer.
“Where
were we?” it smiled, as it's hands shot out and grabbed Jay’s
throat.
The
Volk moved on its prehensile tail towards the two, watching intently.
Jay flexed his neck against the attack and stared into dark eyes.
“Embrace
the shadow.” The
voice of Askarthe’s avatar struck them both.
As
his windpipe started to crack and his eyes began to bulge, inky
blackness started to haze from his opponents eyes to his own.
The tendrils flowed through his eyes and began questing through his head to the brain. He remained transfixed as the memory of their first encounter together resurfaced in his mind. The fire crackled as they sat cross-legged opposite each other, the shadows encroaching, dancing towards the flame.
The tendrils flowed through his eyes and began questing through his head to the brain. He remained transfixed as the memory of their first encounter together resurfaced in his mind. The fire crackled as they sat cross-legged opposite each other, the shadows encroaching, dancing towards the flame.
As
the memory of their previous confrontation continued, Jay lifted his
arms, and with great difficulty pulled himself towards the nameless
other, wrapping his arms around him. The tendrils continued to lock
their eyes together as they both struggled to maintain their
equilibrium.
The
Volk lifted his hands above the heads of the two men, moving his
fingers to an unseen rhythm. A purple light flickered into existence
above their heads, while various colours responded from their
spirits.
Jay’s seemed of a lighter hue, whereas the other’s had a
darker shade to them. The shaman, holding his arms outstretched,
raised his face to the sky and with a guttural scream of benediction
clasped his hands together.
A
flash of lightning struck the ziggurat from the heavens, shattering
the plinth at the top and the red clouds started to leak their
contents. Man, Lich and Volk alike were flung in different
directions. They flew to a standstill, as if hitting an invisible
wall and froze in mid-air.
As
the crimson rained down around them, two plumes of black smoke rose
from the broken top of the temple, spiralling towards the sky.
The
voice of Askarthe raised itself above the deafening sound of the
rain.
“Now,
while you are fully charged with the extremes of my power, shake off
your human husks and as spirits unite.”
Two
bolts of lightning struck the other ziggurats, with red and yellow
plumes billowing out of them respectively. The paralysis that froze
the wanderer and his dark counterpart broke, and they looked about
themselves, taking in their new position, bobbing many metres above
the ground. The voice resounded inside them and they turned to face
each other anew.
They
locked eyes once more. The Volk shaman moved his hands in a circle,
weaving the energy, those multi-coloured plumes of stored Volkian
essence, to coalesce around them in a field of energy.
Meanwhile,
the jewel from the Temple had risen from it's thousand-year resting
place and flew to the other ziggurats, collecting the red and yellow
energy that the breaking of the phylactery had released upon this
planet. Then it floated to where Jay and the Lich had lay locked,
their spirits spinning in a tandem of negating the other.
A
rumbling voice moaned in pleasure from the sky as it sensed its
imminent rebirth upon the world. The two travellers, acting as one,
leaned away from each other mentally, and the distance between them
increased. After a point, like two duellers, they stopped, paused and
then flung themselves horizontally at each other.
With
arms extended, they sped on, one hand flat, the other fisted. The
rumble increased in volume, the collection of energy now encompassing
all three ziggurats. As they passed once more into the energy field,
it absorbed into them at a rapid rate, until they crashed into each
other, causing the energy to multiply in power as it's sphere of
influence grew.
Jay’s
other side pushed into his hands, their eyes still locked,
unblinking. He went through his arms, head, and body until they were
completely immersed in one another. The last of the multi-coloured
energy flew into Jay and his body gave one final convulsion before
plummeting to the ground.
He regained his composure and stood up, casting his gaze to the smouldering summit of the ziggurat. The Volkian shaman still levitated nearby, his arms now motionless.
Jay
could feel his head vibrate with energy, dimly aware of the previous
emotions when Askarthe had been summoned, he felt the same urges,
only at once tempered by his humanity, while equally needled to
perform the opposite by the shadow self he had absorbed.
Thoughts
raced through him, seeking out his thoughts and desires. Was he the
same person? Could he still dam the flood that had been contained in
a separate vessel?
While
lost in self-contemplation, the shaman floated towards him. The
vision that had at first incited him to fear now seemed familiar, as
if a long lost friend had returned. Its tail curled as it settled on
the stony clearing in front of him.
“So
here we are.”
The
Volk unstrapped the harness on its back, let the swords fall to the
ground.
“Walk
with me.”
The
Volk set off, towards the further side of the clearing and Jay walked
along besides. As they walked, he tried to engage the shaman in
conversation, yet no reply was forthcoming.
He returned to his
thoughts. It was true that he felt stronger now than he had in years,
his previous weaknesses augmented by the opposite force he consumed.
The invigoration had not seemed to have changed his soul; he still
felt the initial attraction or repulsion that he had always felt to
the presence of a thought.
They
reached the edge of the consecrated ground and re-entered the jungle.
The Volk seemed to have no trouble traversing the ground, rising and
falling over obstacles with ease while Jay clambered to keep up. Its
speed caused Jay to practically jog while the Volk slithered along,
not even raising its arms to move aside branches, instead bending at
the waist.
Despite
the new energy coursing through his veins, after many hours the
travail took its toll. The Volk eventually noticed his laboured
breathing and pointed to the ground. Jay sat, and the shaman left
him. He leant back against a tree, his grateful body relaxing its
aching muscles. His eyes flickered, then closed.
When
he reopened them, the Volk had returned. It had brought back dry
branches and had started a fire. He assumed that this was for his
benefit, as the shaman itself was coiled some distance away, on a
handmade bed of leaves.
“My
village is not far from here. Though it has long since lain dormant,
I would prefer to keep the memory of it as it was in my mind, with my
race living in harmony with the jungle. Although the sight of it
abandoned shall only strengthen my resolve to carry out my appointed
task.”
“What
is your task?”
“The
earlier transfusion must still be adapting within you. In time you
shall know.”
Jay
grunted, his stomach responded likewise. The shaman rose to its full
height. “You
are still unfamiliar with your surroundings. Until you can be taught
to forage for yourself, I shall provide your nourishment.”
The
Volk made two trips, each returning quickly. One with a selection of
fruits and insects, the second with a bowl full of water constructed
from sap glued leaves. The water was surprisingly sweet. “I thank
you. How did you get so much water so quickly?”
“There
are certain vines that store water, I recognise them by scent, and
you shall have to either develop this sense or devise methods of your
own.”
Feeling
slightly admonished, he ate and drank his fill. His riposte
completed, he stared at the Volk sat opposite him. It regarded him
with dark eyes, inscrutable in their depth. They looked at each
other, two ancient species with a history of bloodshed, sat seemingly
at peace after the vast epoch of conflict between them.
Jay
had started to shiver, cold beads of perspiration running down his
face. The shaman moved over to him and placed a similarly cold clawed
hand on his brow.
“The
change continues. It will not be easy for you; the change shall
affect the very fabric of your being. I can alleviate some of the
physical symptoms, though the effects on the mind shall be a personal
conflict with the essence, both Volkian and dark that you have imbibed.”
Reaching
to a small pouch looped around his waist, the shaman removed a clutch
of herbs and placed them on a piece of bark. Taking a small flaming
twig from their fire, he moved it to the herbs and ignited them,
wafting them under Jay’s nose.
They had a strong scent, yet not
unpleasant. Slightly metallic behind a perfume that reminded him of a
souk he had visited, with its conflagration of various spices that
assaulted the senses. The memory resurfaced in his mind as the
effects of the herbs began to send him once more into a healing
sleep.
As he lost consciousness he felt part of him leave his body,
and he travelled once again.
While
transitioning, his thoughts continued. No destination in mind, he
wondered if the places he visited were previous incarnations, an
earlier time in this life, or a simultaneous existence elsewhere.
Waves of multicoloured light flowed through him, each bar of light
speeding him on.
As
he flowed forwards, the voice of the shaman continued to urge him
onward.
“While
we travel in this realm, our astral presences can merge. As a new
herald of the aeon, the demiurge of your race, whose shadow you have
already imbibed shall coalesce with myself and Askarthe.”
The
beams of light flickered faster, then converged in to a single point
of light, surrounded by endless dark.
“This
is it. The focal point of creation. The end of all things, and their
beginning. Stare into creation.”
The
traveller did as he was bidden and he began to see elements and gases
flow together, creating spirals, spheres and other geometric shapes.
“Universe”
A
voice intoned. He stared deeper, the forms doubling, then
quadrupling, multiplying at a dizzying speed.
His
presence, the three-in-one; that of his humanity, the dark demiurge
and the Volkian deity; focused on a spiral. “Galaxy”.
He pushed further, spheres of light dancing around his vision
(“Star Cluster”),
and with a thought seven spheres incarnated themselves around one of
them.
“Planet”.
Tumultuous waters parted as earth formed from particles dredged from
the core. Volcanoes formed, erupted, then became dormant. A barren
wasteland nestled towards the centre of the planet.
“Here.
It shall be here.”
The
Volkian aspect came forward, encircled a part of the wasteland with
an energy field. It accelerated time within it, creating a lush and
fertile garden. An image flashed before his human side – that of a
man and woman, the work of the previous creator.
“This
age there shall be unity.”
Using
the same ingredients as before, though in different measurements, a
creature was formed. The traveller recognised the human parts as well
as the Volkian. Both sexes; elongated, clawed hands; a prehensile
tail. They spoke to their creation as one.
“You
shall have the totality of our attributes. All that is in us, is in
you. You shall become everything.”
They
thought, and as they did creation bloomed within the garden.
Creatures of all shapes and sizes roamed. The human aspect thought -
“Where did we go wrong before? How were we mistaken?” The
demiurge aspect replied.
“There
was no mistake, merely a gradual change from the time of one universe
to another. This too shall be imperfect, yet perhaps an improvement
on the previous. Our first creature contains all of our attributes –
love, hate – every conceivable emotion. It should not have a name.
It should not have language. It should not hold dominion over the
others in the garden.”
The
aspect of Askarthe spoke. “When
the time is right, when it has achieved potential, it shall be
duplicated and the energy field shall be dropped, and the race shall
once more expand from the humblest of beginnings until it expands to
fill the entire universe. Each step forward in its knowledge shall be
a diminishment of us, as it distances itself from its creator, yet we
shall watch in joy as the cosmic plan progresses.”
The
human willed the other two presences away with it, and they were back
at the focal point of creation, zoomed out to an astronomical scale
so the entire universe was once more naught but a single white spark.
The demiurge and Askarthe swirled around the form of the human.
“Should
we create again? We should extinguish everything now, and for all
time. There would be the bliss of the void.” The demiurge spoke.
“You
are blind! Life must exist! We must become One, not Zero!” Askarthe
replied. “Through
totality we can achieve everything there is to achieve at all times!
Perfection should be strived for!”
The
human considered everything he had known in a infintisimal fraction of
a second. A paradox formed.
“We
must be the same yet different. The solution is not yet available.
The choice is made. The quest shall begin anew, with a symbol to
guide sentient life. Our efforts have not been in vain. We have
recreated, now let us expire.”
Collectively,
they exhaled, and the previous universe collapsed, giving its total
essence into their new creation.
Epilogue
At
last, the moon was right.
Shielding
the world from Betelgeuse, when Wormwood was in its ascendant, it
simultaneously protected the world while nurturing the souls of the
Earth with its luminescent balming glow.
One
man stood on a isolated hillside, staring up at the green-tinged star
that currently reigned over the heavens. He watched as the star
seemed to fade almost to complete invisibility before shining back
with renewed vigour, perhaps signalling its hostile intent to the
rest of the cosmos. He looked over at his sleeping camel, the beast
that had carried him so far.
His
tail swished in the sand beneath him as he eagerly thought of where
the next day would take him. His clawed hand gripped the staff that
was welded to his hand tightly, and he reflected on the significance
of the two carved figures that spiralled round the centre of it,
before waking his beast of burden from its slumber, and travelling
on.
05/12/14
For
my family, who have always supported me.