by Rink Wester
In his mind, where the cruelty of maternal instinct would not reach, Gærüt kissed Nänå as he shifted form, roared, and welcomed the full brunt of Aeyitria’s attack.
83
The seven brothers of the Øgdöåd felt hollow. For days they had listened to an insistent echo inside themselves. They sat slumped in steel chairs in the studio inside Gærüt’s lodge trapped in their Mother’s Hiklorik incantation and mågÿck rite raping their conscious minds, betraying their powers in impotent potential.
Almost in a bowel release of sweat and tension, that chain of spellwork broke and they were free. At that same moment outside the Mother had flown from the Despoiler’s body, leaving Tony once again human, body broken, once more mortal extremities bleeding and distended in a forgotten heap on the ground. Her curse realized, her charm was broken in disregard and Gröötslâng attention, and her sons were now free to again stretch their Øgdöåd powers.
Înköngönzélô sat guarding them and screamed in surprise and consternation as his Øgdöåd captives began one by one to stand and fume, cobwebs quickly melting in knowing haste. Victim to the tantrum screaming in his own mind, Înköngönzélô lunged at Örên, the nearest brother to his taloned hands, thinking to once more subdue the brothers of his Lord Ôlörûn once more and stave off the swift sure punishment of the Sky Father should they fail him. Again. Again Again. Örên’s eyes fogged over in the grimy overcast of a stygian sky as he grabbed Înköngönzélô’s wrist and forced a mågÿckal pulse back down the length of his arm so powerful Înköngönzélô was knocked into the adjoining room in a seizure of pain that undulated in ever increasing waves of fire-electric torture so singeing his body convulsed and fractured, disintegrating on the spot into the muck and puss covered forms of 4 twitching, unconscious Ájøgün.
Now stay down.
A noise like the psychic hiding place of all frightful conflicts and organic immortal bloodshed pierced the air outside and the minds of the Øgdöåd septet inside. Rage and a penetrating despair filled them as they burst onto that battlefield to help their brother or else perish in honor with him, sidestepping the bodies of comatose cryptids of every ilk as they ran. They ran towards the violent calamity of shifting light and fainting dark as the Gröötslâng King battled Mother of the Dark and his firstborn with impressive fervor and unlit hope. Bloodied but holding his own, Gærüt struck Lêlwåni and Aeyitria with twin gödbolts that seared them and knocked them into the westward face of the mountain ridge.
Aeyitria grabbed the stifling dark of shadow and space as Lêlwåni summoned Sihiosian fire and in tandem with Aeyitria’s suffocating dark onslaugh he hurled the dagger of adaronh, catching an already embattled Gærüt in the side and sending him crashing to the ground in a crater of relentless onslaught. Reality shook and the world around them shimmered and blinked in staticky panic. Hiklorim was winning. The Sky Father was dying.
Well, well, well. I see someone’s mouth has finally written a stamped book of travelers checks his highness’ ass could not cash. To think Åpsät and I worked so hard behind the wizard’s cape to forge this moment. Him, because he’s a whining pussy, and me, well, because I simply enjoy good old fashioned chaos. But what can I say? I had thought this moment would taste and sound like joy but alas and did my savior bleed yadda yadda yadda. We were mistaken. Our Mother is a bitch and my nephew needs his ass whooped. No one fucks over my brothers but me. What do you say boys?
Örên grabbed him by the throat, body growing and growling in the fevered forest of the wild bull scorpion of his inner Pabilsag as he snarled in muffled threat, Xiao Yu, You who above all linger in deceit and hunger for the fell things of the world. We shall deal with Åpsät in good measure but for you, this is but an act of long overdue attrition, brother. This does not, however, make you a saint.
Why not, you sanctimonious kiss-ass? Saints are merely sinners who survived the cock but swallowed instead of spitting. I bet you know alot about swallowing and spitting, don’tcha Òrúnmì’luv-you-long-time?
Instead of the altercation his brothers and Xiao Yu in timed experience and custom expected, Örên lowered his hand, stared at Xiao Yu’s bewildered expression and laughed. A deep throaty kneeslap that pulled humor all the way up from parts uncommemorated and rarely used. With war all around him, he laughed so hard his eyes teared over and he grabbed his sides in wild mirth there on that mountainside, his gleeful hysteria greenlighting a gospel he had spent far too long denying.
I love you Xiao Yu. I really do. You’re an irreconcilable bastard but you’re a funny, witty bastard and you’re ours. I have missed that. I’ve missed you brother.
And just like that the chain of brotherhood was again mended, chinks in their armor buffed and invisible to no prying force or Fae. They linked hands, airbrushing old conceits and pulling back the curtain of their full frontal glory as they poured every ion of their solitary, supreme power into their eldest brother. They unzipped themselves and let every mercuric atom of Hiklorik force and raw racking mågÿck flow from them into Gærüt’s trough. His brothers had not forsaken him and the Lords of the Cryptic Council blazed in name and majesty.
Gærüt slammed shut the glass facade of that barrage of Mother and Son mågÿck limping down the steep narrow stairway of war and twinging agony toward him and rose like pulsar. That Sihiosian galaxy of full Øgdöåd sorcery radiated around him and cast elongated shadows, deformed and grotesque in their intent, among the tidy, controlled rows of ancient Virginia pines.
His wrath was at once awful and insatiable and danced in solar flares of fleeting gödbursts battering and slugging Aeyitria and Lêlwåni in great booming hammer smacks of jeering whip cracks opening earthquakes in their skin and drowning them in mågÿckal rippling forces of agony. His brothers’ powers tethering him to this new obscene and bloated tumult of mågÿck, he was like a horrifying sun burning off the atmosphere and ozone of their onslaught. He cried out mentally in the tongue of Hiklorim and the Mother of Suffering for all to hear,
<ඉට් ඔස් ෆිනිශෙඩ් මිතෙට්ල්ල් ඔස් බිරිඑඩ් ඉන් උන්ස්ටිර්රෙඩ් ස්ස්න්ඩ් බෙෆිරෙ යොඋ.අරිඩ් අන්ඩ් ෆ්ස්ල්සෙ.ඉ අම් ර්හ්ර් ග්රෝට්ස්ලන්ග් ලොර්ඩ් ස්න්ඩ් ග්රෝට්ඩ්ක්ස්බ්ග් ඔෆ් ර්හ්ර් මොර්ට්ව්ල්න්රෙලම්ස්.තෙ එඅටෙර් ස්න්ඩ් එඉන්ඩ් ක්නිව් මෙ.ස්ටර්ස් ඔබෙය් මෙ ස්න් ඩ්ලිඝ්ට් ර්හ්ර් ක්ර්ස්ෆ්ට් ඔෆ් මෙන් අන්ඩ් ඩේප්න්රෝටෙඩ් විස්ඩොම් ඔෆ් ට්රේ ස්න්ඩ්නින්සෙෆ්ට්.ටොඩ්ස්ය් ...වෙ රිසෙ.නොව් බක්ක්න්ටො ඔබ්කිවිඔන් අන්ඩ් ට්ස්කෙ ස්ට්සින් අන්ඩ් ඩ්ස්ර්ක් මෙඅසිරෙනෙඉර්හ් යිඋ.ගෝඩ් බ්යෙ ණියව නැවත වරක් කියයි රුධිරයේ දිවුරුම හා උපත ලබා ගැනීම සඳහා තරු මිලෙන් අඩු කර ගැනීමටත්,අහස නංවාලීමටත් සිදු වේ!හිකෝරෝලිම්හිදී අපේ ගීතයේ ස්ත්රී අන්ධකාරය අහස හරහා ගෙන එන්න!
දැන් අපි මැජික් සහ මිනිසා නැවත වරක් සකස් කරමු
Every mind there was speechless. Rearranging the sequence of events unfurled around him, Gærüt struck Aeyitria and Lêlwåni full in the chest with a cord of red and blue power that thundered through them marrow-deep, siphoning loose their dark purchase and evacuating the bodies Gærüts power had now made alien to them. They fought and gnashed and howled in purple pangs of agony but in a biting swirling cloud of darkness and Sihiosian detritus, every fragment of shadow and grain of mågÿckal sediment was suctioned from the bodies of Nänåand Victœr Bååssë and captured in a screeing ball of elegant prison star mågÿck. With a flick of mental derision, Gærüt destroyed the dagger of adaronh tir and the pendant of Ëhiå and opened a rift in the air to a null void of ancient, malignant nothingness. Where for millions of years what remained of Łöståghår had lingered. Unfortunately, Gærüt realized trillions of years ago battling his parents, no göd can ever completely destroy the deep dark of Hiklorim.
Fold them. Bend them. Break them and lock them up even. But never destroy. Not utterly and beyond condition. He would man the gates as he had done long eons before the ages of bird, dragon and the sidelong glances of man. Long before daylight haunted the old places of the galaxy and those that dwell there. His was the final word spoken in the basin of things and these were his secrets to keep. The secrets of the true and eternal Lord of the Cryptid Council.
That for now, Gærüt turned to his brothers as elves and dragons and Pörø wizards began to stir and wake up, Would have to be good enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Until…
Epilogue
No secret is half truth. It is complete in its ownership. My son, the bullish Gröötslâng Lord, should have known better. That uncommon feast of Dark Mother and Bastard Beast ardor was a welcomed culinary surprise. Whipped to perfection, that bitch tasted like I knew she would. Sweet and filling.
Look at them all down there so very pleased with themselves. Irritating promises of peace and trust earworming a path through their collective derisiveness. I feel nothing but keen and animate contempt for them all.
The Gröötslâng triumvirate, Gærüt, Nänåand Prince Victœr Bååssë, now rid of curse and the rhyme of runic fate, once more whole in love and unit, whatever vomiting question mark that fills. His brothers, the 7 primeval Øgdöåd Göds of Hiklorim’s waste, once more glory ridden and Council ready. The Mystic Knights of the Pörø Ring,now joined by the lonely human sorcerer, Detective Tony Mozee, skillfully applying mågÿck to mountain and undoing the veridical beauty of kosher devastation. Asian Reptile Lords returning to connive and mob land and sky and everything bounded by its seam. The Ájøgün stripped of power and keyhole of rank and returned to dust. And finally the 10 kingdoms of the Elves reapplying comfortably their pillared masks of glåmöûr and rusted esteem.
The Elven horde. Chastened in my image. For thousands of years they called me “Ëzrå Mãiz”. ‘Breaker of the Way” and “Grandfather Of The Crossroads” in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor and Alagaësia. My long lined children of the twilight.
They will serve as easy dressing to what second course comes next.
Like a pulsar in my gut, that meal of Mother and counterfeit baseborn son was just what an old göd needed.
I am awakened and the low flying bees of my hunger are legion.
They thought my wife was mongrel in her hatred.
Wait until they meet my misanthrope.
The first dry ripple of a mighty lasting tide.
Sight will fall, sound will fury and the Deep shall swallow all.
Until…indeed, son.
Until indeed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express all humble and supreme thanks to the following:
First and foremost to all lovers of mågÿck and mysticism, friends and family members who have over the years been so gracious in inviting me into their lives and homes and to sit around their hearths to break bread and pirate their joys, pains, laughter and tears. This book would still be something unformed and fallopian without you all! Bravo!
To all the translators and biblical scholars, godlore and mågÿckal historians who without ceasing helped me to pick up what is so often lost in translation. No crumbs were left on the table. Thank you so much guys!
To my editors whose insight lit several lamps without which I would not have seen this path let alone known where to step.
To everyone on my Publishing team without whom this dream would still be on the pillow. Thank you all so much for your many indulgences on behalf of this book.
To my Aunt Jøłëtâ “JoJo” Douglas, my consummate literary “road dog”, editor and champion for almost 40 years! From day one in that hot North Carolina trailer, Long before I knew the power of my pen and my intellect, she knew. You are my Ground Control and my Major Tom. Thank you Auntiekins.
To my sister/aunt Lori Cummings who by merely being who she is brings me joy and gives me life hunty! Yaaaaaaaas!
To my Mama, Carrie Tyree (Rest in Immaculate Peace), and my Mother, Çåthÿ Wester, the two women who gave me life and raised me to stay humble enough to see my way through to the light. I love you both forever and always!
And finally to my unimaginably supportive fiancé, personal assistant, sounding board and life partner in every sense, Stanley Xiao, who knows where all the bodies are buried and who himself helped dig a few holes.
I love you beyond the script and off the page!我爱系你的不得了老婆!
CONTENT AND ILLUSTRATION CREDITS
-All Artwork and Photos Courtesy of Pixabay and素材中国.
-M.G. Easton M.A., D.D., Illustrated Bible Dictionary, Third Edition,
published by Thomas Nelson, 1897. Public Domain.
-Easton, Matthew George. "Entry for Mågÿck". "Easton's Bible Dictionary"
-Wikipedia open source Public Domain.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rînk Wéstër is the managing director and CEO of The Wéstër Group and The Rînk Wéstër 726 Foundation formed in 2012. He has over 15 years of experience in the areas of social and psycho-cultural anthropology. He specializes in leadership and mentoring and coaching programs with a particular passion for business ethics, research, team-building, conflict management and managing cultural diversity. An accomplished facilitator and speaker, he has engaged clients throughout Africa, Europe, the Middle East, Hong Kong, China, and the US.
Rînk Wéstër lives in both Shanghai, China and Atlanta, Georgia. He is an avid reader of philosophy and the human behavioral sciences. He is an amateur Chinese winemaker and collector of fine wines, enjoys world travel and is an Asian history enthusiast.
ALSO BY RÎNK WÉSTËR
Cornbread Suicides
a collection
Of Rue and Ruin
The Cryptid Council Book #2
(Coming Summer 2018)
Of Mën and Mågÿck
The Cryptid Council Book #3
(Coming Spring 2019)
For more information on Rînk Wéstër and his upcoming works, see his author’s page/website.
Of The Dark and The Deep
The Cryptid Council Series Book #1
Rînk Wéstër
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