The high priest was there, bent double, trying to hide his rapid breathing. I bade him to rise. He only got up to my waist, which was big for their kind. Greenish skin, with yellow spots on his hairless jaw line. Patrician blood of the Arek tribe. As you may have guessed by now, I am a god in this place, and the subjects are essentially what you would call goblins. I had named this strange land Kearth (Kevin-Earth). I know it’s corny. Despite my promises to someday come up with a better name, I never have.
The high priest mouthed a series of official compliments (not my idea), then jabbered on and on, recounting various prayers/requests. Small things, below the threshold of my concern. Their language was very simple. Two tenses, very little conjugation, no gender-specific nouns. I learned theirs quick, but teaching them my tongue was a colossal feat.
When I asked about my construction project he crumbled back to his knees, lips quivering.
“Have mercy Kevin!” he cried. I did not allow them to call me god or even lord- it just never felt right when I came back home to my lousy basement apartment and a dinner of cold pizza. His face still down, he told me of a fever plague and an alligator attack (think caimans, they’re not that big), and all sorts of goblin tomfoolery. They hadn’t gotten very far since my last visit, which for me had been two days, but in their time covered roughly a month.
I had to walk over to the construction site to see what the real hold up was. The trek would take a few hours, which was why I was trying to build the second temple. Kearth is essentially a single long island, like Cuba or Crete. I can reach either end in about 10 hours, but why walk when you can teleport back and forth in a heartbeat? I hadn’t worked out the technicalities yet, but I could figure it out, with time.
Surrounding my temple was a capital city of sorts that I founded, which would be a farm town by earth standards: a knot of mud and stone huts, a communal silo and a water wheel for grinding pine nuts. Farms lined both sides of a canal that I dug to prevent flooding. I had to teach them farming too, which was tough, because I didn't know much about it myself.
As I traversed the town I waved to various subjects as they went about their labors, some excited, others scared. After climbing a wild, forested ridge, I crossed a stone bridge (one of my first builds) that traversed a lazy, swampy river full of leaches the size of a banana. The construction site was on a short but noble mesa overlooking a calm shoreline of amber sand.
The lack of progress certainly disappointed. Stones were strewn about and foundation trenches were filing with water. The remaining laborers slept in trees or wrestled in a muddy pit. But at the sight of me, they scattered like cockroaches to paw at the closest thing that resembled work.
Calling upon the full majesty of my godhood, I ordered them to start a prayer cycle while I found my vizier, an older, mottled goblin with a dozen beaded chains about his tiny neck. Though his true name was something unpronounceable, I called him Bert, due to his tall head with a little patch of hair on top. Yes, it’s silly, but I can call him whatever I want. Bert was the best English speaker, and he tended toward honesty, a rarity on Kearth. He was essentially my right hand, and, honestly, a friend.
He bowed, in case anyone was looking. “The Coral tribe laborers deserted,” he said in a heavily accented and sing-song voice. “They hate the hetman in charge of labor, a cruel Arek princeling." He paused for a moment. "The metal tools are, um…missing.”
I cursed. That would come back to haunt me. Any metal they could get ahold of would be forged into either weapons or false idols. I audibly reprimanded him, but it was a just a show to motivate any lower ranked foremen in ear shot. Then, in order to demonstrate my godly powers I levitated a few massive foundation stones into place. I wasn’t some absentee lord; I actually put in work.
With Bert’s help we finished the base course of stones and got construction back on track. It’s like having homework over spring break, but I didn’t mind. At least they listen when I raise my voice.
Before we move on, I’ll try to explain how my powers work. Magic isn’t quite the word for what I am capable of on Kearth. There is a constant flow of invisible energy, like a magnetic field, that responds to my thoughts. I started with small feats, and when I got the hang of those, I gradually expanded in terms of power and range. It required heightening desire, focusing will, and an unfettering belief in my own efficacy. And the worship- it builds inside you like nervous electricity, yearning to burst out, for good or ill. Too bad it didn’t work back home. I wouldn’t have been making glass cabinets, that’s for sure.
I was by no means omnipotent. Despite my godhood, I couldn't stop the priesthood, mainly Areks, from being jerks. Being the first tribe to worship me got to their little pointy heads, so they try to boss around the other tribes. They're manipulative jerks, like a tribe of spoiled fifth grade boys.
3
I awoke on my Lay-Z-boy as if from an unwelcome nap, limbs heavy and numb. My left foot tingled painfully- beyond asleep. Lips were glued shut and gums felt like velvet. I guzzled the pitcher of water that I kept on the end table. The water awakened my hunger, which motivated my sleeping limbs. I hobbled into the kitchen for a frozen burrito.
The clock on the microwave said I’d been in Kearth for six earth hours, which gave me only enough time for a quick nap before work. I crawled into bed and fell asleep atop the covers with all of my clothes on. Even my shoes. My nap turned into a full-blown sleep, so I woke up late. During my visits I may appear comatose on my Lay-Z-boy, but the time spent over was anything but restful. Mainly because things there rarely went my way.
I could say the same thing about good old Earth. I suffered from ingrown toenails (yes, plural) parking tickets, lemon cars, shady credit card companies and my debt from when I actually had a life. When I first discovered Kearth, I gave it nearly all of my free time. One by one, my friends lost interest. My own apathy at fault. And forget about the ladies. I am still paying off a trip to Puerto Rico that I never went on because my gal at the time broke up with me a week before the flight. She said I was acting “distant.”
Rousing myself was tough, but the commute to work woke me up. I work in a squat, nameless brick building with the windows painted green. I manage two behemoth machines: loading material, pressing buttons and measuring they spit out. As my boss always says, “Get with it, Kevin, that button don’t push itself.”
Just as I was beveling the edge of a piece of mirrored glass, I heard a voice so out of place I nearly jumped out of my shoes. I looked around, but knew it couldn’t have been a coworker. Nobody at the shop spoke goblin. The voice returned, elongated and quiet, as if from a distance. Lost in thought, I botched my cut and broke the cutting tool. With shaking hands, I tried to replaced it, but felt a tug on my attention that was impossible to ignore, an unnerving itch, as if someone glared at the back of my head, just outside of my peripheral vision.
I feigned sickness and asked my boss for 15 minutes to gather myself. I was actually sweaty and befuddled, so it was a convincing lie.
This was bad, bad bad bad.
4
Let me take a step back to tell you how I first came to my strange vacation home. Four years ago I bought the mirror in an antique shop in a small town in eastern Iowa. I am (or was) an avid antiquer, and I naturally focused on mirrors. I even made some side cash, buying low in rural backwaters and selling high in the big city. The mirror of note was conspicuous because I couldn’t place the age or country of origin, and therefore couldn’t value it on the spot. A simple design of unidentifiable dark wood. Minimal wear on the reflection. No maker's mark, registration or writing of any kind.
So I bought it, and it sat in my living room while I tried, in vain, to discover it’s provenance. I even looked up the man I bought it from, named (not kidding) Don Donaldson. He didn’t remember buying it, and figured it may have been there when he bought the whole building decades ago. So if you were secretly hoping for a connection to ancient Tibet or Tiahuanaco, tough luck.
O
ne summer night, I awoke on the living room couch. Because I prefer to spend my evenings in total darkness, I was surprised by an unwelcome light coming from somewhere in the apartment.
At first I suspected a lightning bug, but no, it was too consistent, an oval of flickering pin-pricks. Crouched before the mirror, it seemed like I stared straight down at a distant forest from a silent helicopter. The lights were fires shining through ephemeral gaps in a thick, undulating canopy. I was incredulous and so filled with awe I thought my head would pop. After a few moments it faded away, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. Every night for the next week I yearned for it to happen again. I hid the mirror in the darkest hole I could find, a windowless closet that used to house the landlord’s rusty bike parts. I built the moving bookshelf to hide my new hobby from my girlfriend at the time, Lidia. Try explaining that to a girl who liked current, earthly stuff: magazines, movies and the hot new thing.
***
Despite my lack of sleep I plunged back into Kearth to find out who contacted me, and more importantly, how. The reason didn't matter – I was putting a stop to it. To my dismay Bert had nothing of value to report. The perpetrators were smart enough to hide it from him. Usually when things go down goblins of middling rank line up to snitch on the culprit for a rise in prestige, so the silence was disconcerting. I had to take care of this myself.
First I visited the Coral tribe on the west coast, fishermen of the reefs and calm lagoons. They lived in mud and stick mounds like beaver dams, each with a single hole from which unwashed baby goblins peered up at me with wide eyes. At the center was a longhouse that held their holiest relics, talismans made of the salt-cured hides of their most powerful ancestors. It was the only building tall enough for me to crawl into, so despite my discomfort, it was there that I met with the chief.
He was short and bow-legged, with pointy features and a gray eyeball. For a staff he leaned on some strange animal’s femur. While his dead relatives looked on through the stitches on their eyelids, the chief swore that he and his tribe were model citizens, and that he was unaware of any attempted summoning going on. Despite the Coral tribe’s recent desertion at the construction site, I believed him.
Goblins are generally terrible liars, and he showed none of the common tells, like licking fangs or scratching the belly. Though the Coral tribe hates the Arek tribe, they generally kept to themselves and their venerated ancestors. They were dismissive of my attention, not covetous.
It was a long shot, but on the way back I popped in on the Salamander Clan that lived in the swamps that cut though the center of the island. As usual, they scattered in all directions at first sight of me. After a tiring slog through a knee-deep bog, I cornered their leader, a young and athletic chap that appeared to be drunk. He also passed the interview, as did the rest of the leaders and shamans that I could round up. I had learned nothing.
It turned out the truth was much closer than I expected. Dejected and unsure of my sovereignty, I went back home to check on the Areks. Some lived in the village and surrounding farms, but most lived in the nearby forests where they use the trees for everything – fruit, oil, wood and wine. An eerie calm reigned, as if the tribe had planned a surprise party for me that night and were trying not to blow it.
Finally, an ambitious young Arek prince arrived to rat out the rebellious cabal, in exchange for petty favors. They were holed up in the very hills overlooking my capitol, in an ancient family burial cave. I stomped my way over there, red steam floating off of me for dramatic effect. The cave opening was tiny, so I ripped open the side of the ridge. It was like an ant hill in there, deeper than I expected. Though empty of the living, it was population with totems to the hideous and absurd gods that predated me. All were covered in dust, except one. To my chagrin, it was me, but strangely distorted and sporting a wickedly barbed phallus. The offerings of clotted blood seemed fresh, the cones of tree gum may still moist. A heaviness washed over, as if it held a much deeper, maybe ancient meaning, just out of mind’s reach. It took a few moments to get over it, but when I did I bashed the cavern and all its contents into a sandbox. On top of it I planted a noble Arek tree, the only thing the local goblins had any respect for.
5
It was Arek trees that I saw through the mirror four years ago. After a week-long vigil in my musty secret closet, it happened again. Transfixed, I peered into a glass window into another world. My stomach twisted and my hands shook. It clearly differed from earth. Though it was night, the trees looked monstrous and misshaped, like a mix of a giant fern and bamboo.
Was my mind just conjuring up a world based on the many, many fantasy novels I've read? I considered it a distinct possibility. I remember thinking, “I want to get in there.” Suddenly I felt like I fell off a high dive, though I didn’t fall down, I fell into the mirror.
A moment later I was lying naked on my side, atop a bed of soft ferns. Despite the dark I could make out mossy stones just out of reach, and behind them the behemoth trunks of impossible trees. I thought it was a dream, but the pukey feeling was realistic, and all of my senses were working. Warm and pungent air. Soft, damp moss between my toes. Through the distant gaps in the canopy shined the light of stars, oddly blue and pink. All was quiet, except for the buzzing of invisible flies and an intermittent croak. But I wasn’t alone. A few steps away, a short, greenish, bipedal creature cautiously approached. When I stood up tall it cowered in fright, then fell to its knees and groveled in a foreign tongue.
I still don’t understand why, but the worship energized me. I felt compelled to live up to his devotion, and empowered to do so. I also wanted more. Later that night, when his whole village got into it, I nearly feinted.
***
wish I could go back to that simpler time. How did things get so crazy? I decided it was time for a break. Last time I got so emotionally invested in Kearth, I lost my girlfriend of over two years. Anyway, from what I learned from the Gods of earth, we are supposed to be aloof.
I didn’t go back for five days, which I hadn’t done in quite some time. Work was uneventful and the evenings boring, which was perfect. I got to the bottom of my stack of laundry and worked an extra five hours. I even got invited to a Tuesday night poker game with some coworkers. I was excited to hang out with people my own size that didn’t worship me or fake it.
But my mysterious enemies had other plans. On the way to the poker game they contacted me again, while I rode the bus. In addition to the voices, visions rushed past my eyes of masked goblins chanting around a cylinder of blue flame. By the tall, broad trees, it had to be Arek territory, but that covered a lot of ground.
I tried to refocus on my present, on the other passengers and the city rushing by. The moment my concentration faltered just a moment, I was sucked back to Kearth. The transition sickened me, like the first drop of a tattered carnival ride, or the moment your car starts to skid into a ditch.
The other riders on the bus must have passed me off as a junkie, as I teetered on my feet unresponsive. I didn’t know I had passed out, until I awoke with my face in the lace-covered bosom of a shrieking old lady that cursed me out in Polish.
I had barely fought off the contact, and they were getting better at it. Obviously, destroying the shrine in the hill wasn’t enough. My vacation from Godhood was over, and though I hated doing it, I had to crack some heads. But how would I explain to the fellas why I had to miss the game?
6
When I returned to Kearth the evening sky was illuminated by a blaze consuming the town's pine nut silo. Packs of armed goblins, presumably the rebels, chased villagers around the town, looting and pillaging. Pockets of my loyal subjects fought back, albeit timidly, but most were hunkered down in or around the temple. Like opossums, some played dead, but some really were dead, or getting there fast. Their screams of agony filled me with sadness and rage. What a waste! And for what!
I bellowed a curse. Time to punch the clock. At the top of my temple's high tower, I spared the usual theatr
ics that accompany godly punishment. Siphoning water from the sea, I called up a hurricane of epic proportions. Goblins dropped what they were doing and ran for the trees at the sight of the roiling darkness. With a gale wind I blasted the village. Nearly horizontal rain knocked down the remains of the silo (and a few homes). The slowest looters were picked up off their feet and blown like tumble weeds into hedges and bush rows.
The battle was over, but I kept a solid rain going just to buy some time. A bit drained, I retreated to the inner lounge of my temple, where I sat with a visibly shaken Bert. He said the rebel army, maybe 50 strong, had made it all the way to the gate of the temple, before my priests, with religious fervor, fought them back to the tree line. I had arrived shortly after, to witness the free-for-all.
“There is a schism within the faith,” Bert explained. “The rebels worship you alone, but with heretical rites.”
“So they still like me, but they fight my priests? What is there to gain?” I paced the damp quartzite floor, trying to let the cool wind howling through my temple settle my nerves. “There has to be more. Who’s really behind this?”
9 Tales From Elsewhere 7 Page 2
