“We will need some time to prepare.”
“Agreed. Let us meet with the others and put the final steps in place.”
Moc’Tor stood before the Leaders’ Council and scanned the group. He could not help it; his thoughts returned to a time an age ago when he had stood facing a sea of dark-haired Mothoc bodies, explaining to them that their culture had to drastically change if they were to survive. “Despite our efforts to ensure the separation of our people from the Sassen, the memories of Kthama still haunt the Sassen’s memory. Recently, a faction tried to re-take Kthama Minor. Their plans were thwarted by my brother, but in time, others may build their courage and try again.”
He continued, “Centuries ago when I stood before those of you who started this journey with me, my brother and I knew there might come a time when only a spiritual solution would seal the division between Straf’Tor’s people and ours. This time has come.”
Moc’Tor paused a moment for what he was saying to sink in. “Go to your quarters. Rest. In the morning, I will tell you what must be done. If any of you do not wish to be involved, then tell me after I have explained what we must do. But I beseech you to stay; it is imperative that we all agree and act together for the sake of our people and Straf’Tor’s and for the sake of Etera herself. It will take all of us to put an end to the Age of Darkness, the Wrak-Wavara”
Moc’Tor dismissed the assembly but intercepted Hatos’Mok. “A moment, please.”
The two Leaders spoke for a while. When they had finished, Moc’Tor went to ensure that Tyria was settling in. His oldest daughter, Vel, had taken care of her.
“Tyria is here under our protection; be sure she is welcomed into the community.” He looked deeply into his daughter’s eyes as he spoke. “I am holding you responsible for her care and well-being. She was apprenticed to the Healer at Kayerm, and others may see that as a betrayal. Vel, she is seeded.”
“Yes, Father. I will take her under my wing, and I promise no harm will come to her in any way. It is good she is here because Kthama needs a Healer,” Vel added.
“Good. Thank you. Oragur offered to provide training once we found a Healer. Introduce her to him when you can and she can go to him at the Deep Valley after things have calmed down.”
Moc’Tor kissed his daughter and headed toward his own quarters to spend with his mate whatever time she had left. A Healer coming to Kthama. That was the missing piece. It was all falling into place.
The next morning, having finished laying out what he was asking them to do, Moc’Tor stood waiting before the Leaders. Silence filled the chamber.
Hatos’Mok spoke up first. “I agree. This is the only solution, though it is drastic. But it is necessary if we are to secure the future of the Akassa. We agreed long ago that the Sassen blood must not be any further diluted. This is the only way.”
“Fear is all the Sassen understand,” Straf’Tor said. “So fear is what we will give them.”
The other Leaders nodded their assent.
“You have heard what is planned,” said Moc’Tor. “Once this is over, return to your communities, but, except with other Leaders, speak nothing of what happens here. The story of Wrak-Wavara, the Age of Darkness, must pass into history.”
Reverence filled the air. Each soul there knew that the role they played would make the difference to whether Etera herself survived. Slowly, they dispersed, all except for Oragur.
* * *
“Moc’Tor, there is something you must do. A message you must leave, though I cannot say I understand it. It was given to me in a dream.”
Moc’Tor listened, and though not understanding the significance, he agreed.
When the room was empty, the Guardian thought once again of his beloved Kthama. Then he closed his eyes and prayed to the Great Spirit who had brought him down this painful journey. Look after our son, Dak’Tor. Look after our daughter, Pan, and her sisters. And please, give me the strength to do what lies before me.
Everything was prepared just as Moc’Tor had ordered, although it took longer than he had hoped. Dochrohan was careful only to use those materials that Moc’Tor had specified. In between the preparations, the Guardian spent as much time with E’ranale as he could. The medicine Oragur had brought was working, though the dosage had to be increased and she now took it throughout the day. And though there was no hope for her recovery, at least she was not suffering, and he knew that in time she would have peace.
Moc’Tor sat next to E’ranale with his hands covering hers. She dozed on and off. In between, when she was conscious, they talked about the future.
“We knew this day would come, my love,” said E’ranale. “After all, you are a Guardian. We both knew you would at some point go on without me. But I know we thought we would have decades yet to spend together—even centuries.”
“When my father returned to the Great Spirit, I remember consoling myself that if my faith was true, I would see him again. Now more than ever, I need to believe that,” he said.
“You, more than anyone, understand the mysteries of creation. In all the wonders you have seen and told me of, it seems impossible that we do not continue as ourselves after this vessel has failed,” she said.
“I am worried about Pan and Dak’Tor,” he said, raising her hand to his lips.
“This will be hard for them. But they will have each other, and you,” she whispered.
“Stay awake a bit longer if you can. I must tell you our plans. You remember long ago when we vowed to one day put an end to this age? That time has come. Straf’Tor’s followers have been influenced by the rebel Ridg’Sor. A band of them were on their way here to try to take back Kthama Minor. They were turned around. My brother executed Ridg’Sor and threw out the rest of his group. All talk of Kthama is banned at Kayerm, and for now, there is apparent peace. But memories have a life of their own.” He paused as she started to nod off again.
He waited for her to awaken. Finally, her eyes fluttered open. “I am sorry. I drifted off. I remember you saying that at Kayerm, talk of Kthama has been banned?”
“Yes. Let me try to condense the story. It is time to finish this; Straf’Tor and the other Leaders are here. When we are done, there will be no more thought of contact between the Sassen and the Akassa.”
“Never?” she asked.
“For long enough. In time they may outgrow their ignorance. If wisdom dawns, then they will find their way through to the next age. All we can do is set it in motion. The rest will be up to them.”
“As for Pan and Dak’Tor, they will have to lead without me,” he added.
“Dak’Tor, and Pan, they will be alone now,” she said sadly.
“They will not be alone; they will have each other, their sisters, the other Mothoc, and the Akassa. Yes, it will be hard, but I have faith in them,” he tried to console her.
E’ranale groaned and grew silent before speaking again.
“Will you be with me in the Great Spirit?” she asked.
“In time, yes,” he said. “Sleep now. I will come and get you when it is time.”
Moc’Tor sat next to her awhile, watching her sleep. I did not tell her Ushca has been murdered. She will find out soon enough when Ushca greets her in the afterlife.
At the appointed time, in the secret depths of Kthama Minor, the selected Leaders came together to take the final step on the journey of leading their people through the Wrak-Wavara.
Kthama Minor was deathly quiet. All activity had been stopped days before. An air of reverence permeated every thought, every feeling, every intention.
Moc’Tor had placed E’ranale gently to the side on soft bedding prepared ahead of time. Next to her was a woven basket. He covered her to make sure she was warm and comfortable, and then he signaled that it was time to begin.
The members of the inner circle took their places. They chanted the ancient sacred words, words which created the vibrations designed to invoke the state of Ror’Eckrah, the One Mind, used to unify their souls and
collectively call forth the creative power of the Great Spirit.
In the quiet sanctity of the night, into the mind of every Akassa and Sassen on Etera—a Connection opened. More powerful than had ever been experienced by any of them.
Each one found him or herself pulled into a darkness bleaker than could be imagined. In total silence, a light slowly dawned, just bright enough to reveal a circle of dark-haired, faceless bodies. Though they were legion, they spoke in one voice.
To each Sassen, they said, “We are Mothoc. We are keepers of Etera; our blood and the Aezaitera are one. What had to be done was done. But no more. Never again, the Wrak-Wavara. This is Rah-hora. Sassen, make no contact with Akassa lest you yourselves are destroyed. Leave the Others to them. We leave you to the future of your own making. When the Wrak-Ayya falls, the Age of Shadows, the true test will begin. We will be watching.”
For each of the Akassa, the People, they had a different message— “We are Mothoc. We are keepers of the Others. What had to be done was done. But no more. Never again the Wrak-Wavara. The Others who are our wards are now your Brothers. Learn their language. Make amends. Regain their trust. Leader to next Leader—Kthama Healer to next Kthama Healer—only these may speak of this past. This is Rah-hora. We leave you to the future of your own making. When the Wrak-Ayya falls, the Age of Shadows, the true test will begin. We will be watching.”
And then, just as those in the inner circle had opened the Connection, so they closed it.
Moc’Tor looked over at E’ranale, and she smiled weakly at her mate before meeting the gazes of the others. They nodded at her and then turned to each other. The time for goodbyes was at hand. Soon they would disperse, each to take the last steps needed to end The Age of Darkness.
Before they parted, Moc’Tor uttered the last words ever to be spoken in Kthama Minor.
“Kah-Sol ’Rin.” It is done.
Silently, gently, Moc’Tor picked up E’ranale and the basket at her side. He headed down one of the corridors, stopping to make sure Straf’Tor was following. They entered a small chamber, which had been prepared ahead of time. It was circular, with high walls. To the right, as they entered, was a giant boulder lying on its side. A pile of wetted clay was in the corner.
Moc’Tor gently placed E’ranale on a stone seat with a solid back and armrests carved into it, one of three situated around the perimeter. He took a large portion of the basket’s contents and handed it to her. She looked at him with such love and tears of gratitude in her eyes before weakly placing her hand against the side of his face. Then she chewed and swallowed the large portion of A’Pozz that he had given her. He stayed by her side until her head nodded down. He was not sure, though, if she was sleeping or whether the leaves had already taken effect.
Then he and Straf’Tor moved the boulder into place and sealed it from within with the wet clay. When they were done, they brushed their hands off and looked around. Over the door was the painting Oragur had insisted must be there. High up on the wall was the message that would wait through eternity, never to be seen by anyone if Moc’Tor was wrong about what would come to pass.
Straf’Tor took his place on another of the chairs and signaled to Moc’Tor that he was ready. Moc’Tor took another portion of the basket’s contents and handed it to Straf’Tor.
He returned to E’ranale, whose breathing had slowed. Gradually, it became slower, shallower. He was unashamed when tears rolled down his face as his beloved took her last and final breath on Etera. Moc’Tor placed a kiss on her head as it slumped forward.
Straf’Tor put the A’Pozz in his mouth and settled back against the stone chair on which he was seated.
In the quiet sanctity of the chamber, Moc’Tor waited for his brother to pass. It was eerily peaceful, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
Suddenly, Moc’Tor was standing in a meadow overflowing with flowers. A beautiful field of unspeakable beauty. The colors were more vibrant than he could have imagined, and the air was fresh and invigorating. A vitality coursed through him that, even as a Guardian, he had never known. Wherever he was, it was a hundred times more beautiful than Etera, and he wanted to stay there forever. Every aspect seemed to be alive, and in the background was a loving Presence. It was as if the life force he knew as the Aezaitera had taken physical form. In that moment, Moc’Tor knew that every soul, every creature, every aspect of their realm was bound together by a love surpassing any understanding.
As he looked around, he saw a figure approaching. It was Ushca. He started running to meet her, but she was already at his side.
“Ushca. It really is you!” He laughed with joy. “Where are we? Is this what I think it is?”
“It is one step along our return to the Great Spirit, yes,” she smiled.
E’ranale, he thought, and then she was also at his side. He threw his arms around her and held her tighter than ever. He soothed her hair, gently touched her face, looked her up and down. “My love, you are really here. We are together again. The Great Spirit, it is all true! Life does not end when our forms perish.”
Then he stopped. “But I had not yet taken the A’Pozz.”
“This is all true, my love,” E’ranale said. “But your time to join me in this place forever is not yet at hand. You were brought here for your own peace of mind, so you would know that we will see each other again, and so your faith in the Great Spirit would be restored for what it is you have before you to do—” and her voice trailed off.
In his heart, Moc’Tor knew she was right. He knew that it was not his time to join her. He had known that all along. His part in this was not yet completed.
“My father—” he said.
“He is here. We are all together,” said Ushca.
Although it was broad daylight, crystal clear, yet gentle to his eyes, a light brighter than could be imagined began to appear on his right. E’ranale and Ushca turned and followed his gaze.
A figure formed whom he did not recognize. It resembled an Akassa, though he was more heavily coated with what looked like the silver-white body covering of a Guardian. The hairs seemed to move as if each were alive in its own right. He had long flowing silver-white hair on his head, and his eyes were the steel grey of the Guardians. The energy and unimaginable peace and love emanating from him had the same irresistible quality as the life current, and Moc’Tor found himself drawn to the figure as a moth to a flame.
“Welcome, Moc’Tor. I know you are wondering who I am. I am An’Kru, but my name is unimportant. In time you and I will come to know each other well. But for now, because you are filled with self-doubts and self-recriminations, I brought you here to see your beloved and your brother’s beloved. You need to hear that you have been a good and faithful servant, that you have led your people with honor and integrity. Do not fear the future. No matter the appearances, no matter what happens, remember my words—everything is unfolding as it should.”
As the figure was speaking, Moc’Tor realized he was not hearing words as much as feeling them—that their messages were simply appearing in his mind.
“So am I truly not dead?” Moc’Tor managed to say. “What is this place?”
“No, you are not dead. Your body still lives back in the Chamber of the Ancients as the tomb will become known. This is the place we come to when we leave our bodies in death. But this is only one step along the journey to reunion with the Great Spirit. We call this the Corridor. Does this experience here not feel more real than the one you just left?” the figure asked.
“It feels more real than anything I have ever experienced, yes.”
“That is because this is more real than your lifeforce as it lives on Etera. The world of Etera is only a projection of this world, a pale echo of the reality which is our true home.”
“In a moment,” the figure continued, “you will return to your body in Etera. You know what you must do. Your daughter Pan has a hard path ahead of her, as do the Sassen and the Akassa. Without your help, the strain of all she must bea
r will be too much for even her, even as a Guardian. Without your help, your sacrifice, she will not be able to fulfill her role.”
Moc’Tor nodded. He had known for some time that he would not be joining his beloved in any afterlife for a long time yet.
“Remember my words,” said the figure. “Remember this moment. They will give you comfort through the lonely centuries to come.”
And then, as easily as he had appeared in this place, Moc’Tor became aware of the stone chairs in the dark chamber and the bodies of his mate and his brother Straf’Tor positioned next to him.
What was now a tomb was still and silent. He sat there for a long time, in the dark, filled with awe and astonishment at what he had just experienced.
No matter what—
Moc’Tor looked over at Straf’Tor. He was still alive, but his breathing had slowed, as E’ranale’s had done. In the next moment, Moc’Tor watched his brother take his last breath.
He is with Ushca now. He has the answers to the greatest mystery of all time. And my E’ranale is waiting for me; in time, we will be joined. But now, I have a duty to do. The last part of my role—my debt, perhaps. Whoever that figure was, I look forward to meeting him again.
Moc’Tor positioned himself on the stone seat and released the tension from his body. He had no need to look upon the bodies of his beloved or his brother. He knew that what was left of them were only empty husks. He knew now they had continued on and that, in time, he would join them.
In time.
Moc’Tor closed his eyes. He sent his consciousness down into Etera. In the next moment, he was immersed in the ecstasy of the creative life force, the Aezaiteria. He drank up every moment, and then, knowing it was what he had to do, sent his consciousness further into the vortex and joined with the Order of Functions, where he would wait—trapped for eternity, if the promises made in the Corridor proved untrue.
The Age of Darkness: Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness Book 1 (The Etera Chronicles Series Two - Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness) Page 22
