by Luke Donegan
And he felt guilty because he had dallied and delayed.
I was going to do it. Please believe me.
I believe you, Erys.
It should be me. I am stronger than you.
Yes, you are stronger. But scion, you are not pure. There is a rage in you, a beast waiting to be released. No! Your power and wildness would only make things worse.
And his master’s final judgement broke his heart. Black tears splashed from his eyes.
And you will succeed? he asked.
Yes Scion. If you give me time.
And you will die?
Yes. My Passage will be the last Passage. My Spirit will be consumed, so that all other Spirits can be free.
Teacher? Erys wiped his sleeve across his eyes. I do not know what strength lies within me. But I will help you as I can.
He took a deep breath and moved to join the animists surrounding the statue.
He heard the Teacher’s calm voice in his mind.
Even I have hope for a beautiful world, Erys. Hear me when I say that I do not believe you are evil. You have surpassed your calling as a Teacher. You have a purpose beyond this world. And I am proud to call you my scion.
Paris Aristotle gazed upon the soldiers before him. The golden light of dawn spilled across their shiny uniforms and helmets. They looked almost beautiful in this light.
Behind this company the rest of the army approached. Like a deafening heartbeat the rhythmic stamping of their boots filled the air. The cloud of kicked-up dust billowed and obscured the sun, darkening the scene.
Paris and the Builder waited, steeling their courage.
That our days should end this way, thought Paris. Such strength and power in the hands of those who would forsake the Law. How did it come to this?
As the companies arrived they fanned out on either side of the first, forming an arc around the Museum’s entrance, ten companies long and two deep. An impenetrable barrier through which there could be no escape. The companies completed the formation, planted their feet and stood rigidly to attention.
In the sudden silence, Paris and the Builder faced two thousand soldiers. Dust lifted up and slowly drifted to the south. Each soldier held a baton at his or her side. Two soldiers in each company were armed with flame-throwers. Purple flame licked from the barrels of these metallic armaments. Twenty soldiers in one of the central companies carried a long battering ram. They had come anticipating resistance.
Facing these instruments of war, Paris felt his courage faltering.
“Who is your Commander?” he asked the nearest captains, his voice light and weak.
The captains did not reply, but there was movement as soldiers stepped aside to reveal the Commander of the army. The large man strode forward, clad in thick plates of polished black metal. He stood head and shoulders above the other soldiers. Spikes flared from the joints at his shoulders, elbows and knees. More spines emerged from the back of his helmet. He looked like a warrior from a child’s fevered nightmare.
Beside the heavy-set Commander, four soldiers held aloft a chair upon which sat another figure – the white robed, golden masked General. As the soldiers carried the General towards the landing, a black substance oozed from beneath his robes and dripped to the ground.
At the top of the landing the soldiers set down the General’s chair. The Commander stood beside his General as the soldiers retreated down the stairs.
Peace, breathed Paris. Peace.
He stepped forward. Ten feet separated him from the Commander and the General.
“I am Paris Aristotle, Curator of History. My companion is the Builder. We speak for the Museum.”
The Commander held a halberd across his chest. He swung it down and planted it with a sharp crack in the ground.
“I am Commander and Scion-General.” His voice sounded like a weapon, heavy and penetrating. “In the name of the Ascendancy, I am here to take possession of the Museum. Stand aside.”
Paris could not see the man’s face but he perceived a seething, boiling desire to fight. The Commander wanted them to resist!
The Curator lifted his arms up, his golden robes billowing like a sail. He spoke above the Commander and the General, so that all the soldiers could hear him.
“This is a place of peace. You are not welcome here.”
His voice, dignified and clear, carried across the ranks of soldiers.
“Peace?” said the Commander scornfully. “Your museum is filled with aberrations. You are enemies of peace.”
But unrest rippled through the ranks of soldiers. Some of the younger soldiers looked at their companions for guidance. Others barked antagonistic replies at the Curator.
“Fool!”
“Aberration!”
“Traitor!”
“Silence!” ordered the captains of each company.
The Builder braved a step forward. “Jack Gaunt was our Scion-Director,” he said to the Commander. “But he did not ascend. He was murdered by the Director, as you will be when the time comes.” He pointed at the General. “This man is not who you think he is.”
With lightening speed the Commander swung the halberd at the Builder. Its sharp tip halted an inch from the Builder’s naked throat.
The Builder closed his eyes, waiting for death. It did not come. Gently, slowly, Paris laid his hand on the halberd and pushed it away from his companion. He faced the Commander’s black mask, feeling the barely contained fury emanating from the man.
“This is a place of peace,” he said calmly.
In that moment sunlight broke through the dust cloud. A ray of light illuminated the Curator and the Builder where they stood. Paris felt the light on his face. In that warm moment he found peace. His strength and courage, and his pride in his companions, lifted him above the world. He breathed deeply and felt the taste of dust in his lungs. The aroma of the Earth. Regardless of what happened from this moment on, he had never felt more a part of the world. He had never felt a more certain sense of himself.
“Builder,” he whispered. “Go inside and ready the statue.”
“No Paris.”
“Do it. I will be right behind you.”
The Builder hesitated. The menacing figure of the Commander leaned forward.
“Peace, Lucien. Do as I ask.”
This is a risk, he thought, which I do not want you to share.
The Builder reluctantly stepped away towards the entrance. Paris watched him inside, then turned to the waiting army.
I know your minds, he thought as he faced two thousand soldiers. Most of you do not want this. But you are too afraid to be brave. Poor souls, be strong. And find your true selves in this moment of reckoning.
He spoke clearly across the gathered army.
“Remember the First Law of History: Thou shall not kill! Do not betray yourselves.”
Paris lifted his hand to his shoulder and grasped the purple sash of evil that crossed his robes of gold. He tore the sash from his robe and let it drop. The purple ribbon drifted to the ground.
He understood then that the struggle between good and evil was unambiguous. One man alone could save the world – the world inside his heart.
All it took to defeat evil was a simple decision.
Peace.
Paris Aristotle lifted his arms to embrace the warm light.
The Commander lowered the hard tip of his halberd towards the Curator’s chest ...
... and ran it through his glowing heart.
Chapter 20 BECOME
As the army charged the Museum, the Teacher steeled himself to pass between worlds.
“Quickly, Masodi. Samuel. It is time.”
Jay glanced from the Curator of Science to the Doctor. The boy and the man stood on either side of the bed, each taking one of Jay’s hands.
“Stay in control,” said Masodi. “Your Passage must be slow. If you transform into your Spirit too quickly, you will be lost. Maintain awareness, and focus on your objective.”
“Dark Matter is your
tool,” reminded the Doctor. “Use it. Control it.”
“I’m ready,” said Jay nervously. He breathed deeply. “Hold fast to my hands. If I can feel you, it will ground me.”
“We will be with you.”
Jay smiled. I’m scared, he thought. Rhada, I am going into darkness. Think of me! Remember me!
“We are with you, Teacher,” reiterated Masodi, squeezing his hand.
“Okay,” said Jay, closing his eyes. His last sight in this world was of the ceiling of the hospital, fading to dark.
Dark Matter emerged from his body. The viscous fluid seeped like black honey from every pore of his skin; his face, his arms and legs. It covered his body and thickened, clinging to him like slime. For a moment he struggled as the fluid filled his lungs. His body shook with the drowning reflex until the Dark Matter delivered oxygen to his body. It would not let him die.
Dark Matter surrounded him, and he was held inside like a pupa within a cocoon.
I will emerge, he thought. Like a butterfly into the Spirit world.
Though the black fluid flowed up their arms, Masodi and the Doctor retained their grip on Jay’s hands.
The next stage was simple. Passage. Ever since Restoration Day when he had been caught in the Teacher’s Passage, the process had been simmering deep within him, although Dark Matter had kept it from consuming him.
Dark Matter had been his savior. Dark Matter, that substance which had destroyed the immortal souls of countless creatures, had paradoxically been his ticket to immortal life.
And Passage, that process of consumption was now his path to the Spirit world.
He embraced Passage. Deep within him it bubbled. All he had to do was pull back the layers of Dark Matter that held it smothered. He peeled a small patch of the black fluid from his chest, exposing the pink flesh to the air.
His two companions watched the fluid draw back. Where the air hit his flesh, a small light appeared. A beautiful, golden light.
Pain, like a hot knife, speared his chest. He cried out silently. His body convulsed and lifted from the bed. Masodi and the Doctor held him down. In self-protection, dark fluid began to flow back into the clear space, but they scooped it clear with their hands until Jay regained control.
He gave Passage a little rein. It built slowly, urging to be free. The light brightened, glowing in his chest. As Masodi watched, the flesh of Jay’s chest began to disintegrate into light. Dark Matter surged through Jay’s veins, rushing to his torso to stem the flow of his Passage.
He could feel the two forces struggling within him, the light of his Spirit being dragged from without. Dark Matter within, fighting to contain the flow. Dark Matter was stronger. It would drown the light in a moment if he allowed it to. But he kept it back, allowing the light of Passage to build slowly.
Then suddenly, golden light sprang from his chest like a beacon. The force of the fire threw Masodi and the Doctor back. Jay was blinded by pain. Dark Matter surged across his chest to stem the sudden flow. It took several moments to regain control of the process. He felt his companions clasp his hands. He could hear them calling from a distance. He could not reply, his mouth and throat were filled with fluid. But he knew what had happened.
The Director and the Ascendants. They had caught a taste of him. Of his Spirit.
And he had such a strong Spirit. Pure. Untarnished. They ached for his Spirit like starving men.
Jay pulled it from their grip. Held it back. He needed to remain in control.
He fed it out little by little. But they wanted it all, immediately.
They called to him with their mind-voices.
We taste you, little bird.
Let it out. Let us eat you up, newling.
He ignored their voices and gave more fuel to his Passage. The fire burned outwards, consuming more of his chest. The brightness of the golden fire hurt his companions’ eyes. They felt its heat against their faces.
Kafka! said a petulant voice. He won’t let it go!
Then go to him, came the reply. Humans aid him. Consume them, and set him free.
Jay reached out with his mind, sensing movement in the Director’s sanctuary. The Director was on his feet.
Jay realised suddenly that Masodi and the Doctor were in danger. He tried to warn them. He opened his mouth to cry out, but fluid strangled his cries. He squeezed the hands holding his, but he could not get them to understand. They interpreted his motions as anxiety, the struggle against Passage.
Jay sensed the Director walk to the elevator. The immortal pushed its button and waited. The elevator did not come. The machine had been disabled.
Masodi! Samuel! You are in danger, he cried in his mind.
Oh yes, they are, came a reply.
His friends could not hear him. There had to be another way to warn them.
Erys! Scion, can you hear me? he called.
He felt the Scion-Teacher’s distracted attention.
Send someone! We are in danger!
But the only reply was an overwhelming despair. Paris! Oh Paris! resounded the cries in his mind.
Paris Aristotle was dead. Erys would not come.
He felt the Director break through the doors to the elevator shaft. Shoving the doors aside, the immortal stepped into space and plummeted down the length of the tower.
Jay sent tendrils of Dark Matter shooting from the cocoon towards Masodi and the Doctor. The tendrils wrapped around them and lifted them away from his body. But because he was distracted, the fire in his chest erupted again. It flared outwards, entirely consuming his chest. A column of fire rocketed upwards, disappearing beyond the ceiling.
Pain bleached Jay’s thoughts. He lost control and Passage boiled with fury. Dark Matter sprang into the column of fire, fighting for his survival.
Masodi and the Doctor fell to the floor, dismayed. “Masodi,” cried the Doctor. “Move back.”
And then, in that instant, the door behind them blew from its hinges and flew across the room.
The Director stepped into the room, black liquid splashing the floor behind him. Like a predator the immortal scanned the room. He spied Masodi and the Doctor sprawled on the floor a few feet away.
The Doctor sprang to his feet and ran to Masodi’s side. Without taking his eyes from the golden masked figure he helped the stunned boy to his feet.
The Director stepped further into the room. He approached the bed on which Jay lay in his cocoon of Dark Matter. He watched the fire leaping into the air above the boy, savoring its fragrance.
The Doctor slowly edged Masodi away from the Director. When he saw a clear path to the door he whispered, “Run.”
Too stunned to respond, Masodi did not move.
The Director turned his golden mask their way.
“Run!” cried the Doctor, shoving Masodi towards the door.
This time the young Curator obeyed.
The Director made to follow the boy but the Doctor stepped in his path. Dark Matter blossomed out like jaws on either side of the man. The Doctor swung his fists at the Director, knocking the golden mask from his face. The mask clattered across the floor, revealing the grimacing face of an old, ravenous man.
Jaws of Dark Matter snapped shut over the Doctor. His body erupted into Passage. As golden light consumed his body, the Doctor’s screams filled the room. Like a baby never fed, the Director sucked on his Spirit with a terrifying appetite. Within moments his Spirit was devoured and the Doctor’s body was no more.
The golden light faded to shadow.
Slowly, the Director wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His midnight eyes flicked to the Teacher lying defenseless on the bed, his appetite barely whetted.
The sight of their Commander defeating the Law roused two thousand soldiers. What power! they observed. As Paris Aristotle slumped to the landing, the swarm of black creatures swept up the stairs, hungry for battle.
Hands dragged the Builder back as he tried to reach Paris. An Umawari held each arm and a third hugged his waist, pul
ling him into the foyer.
“Paris,” breathed the Builder. He watched his friend fall and disappear behind a wall of soldiers.
A mass of writhing black forms surged across the landing.
“The doors!” cried Saskareth. And his voice changed. “Gob! Gob! Gob!”
Saskareth metamorphosed into his emu form. A rush of chemicals flooded the emu man’s body – his hair became feathers, his skin black leather. His eyes darkened, glinted like a bird’s eyes.
A score of the emu people, now in their animal forms braced the doors. This mass transformation garnered their strength. They planted their feet and shoved their shoulders against the doors as the soldiers slammed into them from the other side.
The resonant thud of impact filled the foyer. Half the Umawari were thrown to the floor. The doors sprang open and two soldiers pushed through. Swinging their batons they struck at any Umawari within reach. One emu man collapsed beneath a heavy blow. More Umawari surged in and the two soldiers were quickly overwhelmed.
Erys stood at the back of the Umawari. Tentacles of Dark Matter leapt from his hands and shot across the heads of the struggling people. Dark Matter gripped the doorframes and with the help of the Umawari the momentum of the soldiers was checked. This only lasted for a few moments. More soldiers pushed against the doors. The weight of greater numbers won and the doors began to inch open.
“Fire,” called the Commander. A flame-thrower appeared through the open crack between the doors.
“Help me,” said the Builder to the emu people with him. They rushed to the base of the statue and gripped the hanging ropes. “Towards the doors.”
The three supporting legs had been cut most of the way through and the goliath was ready to fall. The Builder tugged at the rope and pulled it taut. “Be ready!” he cried. “Tell them,” he said to his Umawari companions.
“Gob! Gob! Gob!” they cried.
The Umawari bracing the doors heard and were ready.
The soldier with the flame-thrower pushed into the widening space in the doorway and raised the weapon. An orange-red river of fire swept into the foyer. Umawari leapt aside but not before two were engulfed in fire. They rolled to the floor, fire melting their feathers.
