The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  They wanted to be led, but they offered no answers—no answers to how she could stop the Cleansing, no answers to life, or death, or why there were seven gods, or who the First Seven truly were, or what happened to the old gods, or what would happen to her, or how the hell her friend had become a storm dragon.

  The only source of answers came from the massive two-story library of the Silver Citadel. Its walls that were lined by books, rows of them. Leather-bound with silver engravings, they were all identical—identical except for the strange markings on the books’ bindings. By some hidden knowledge, somehow, Mea could read them and knew that the marking were numbers. All of them were lined up perfectly and numbered, like a law library. Numbered into the hundred-thousands, the volumes of the ever-expanding series seemed like they were never ending.

  They didn’t seem to have a beginning either. Though she looked through the long rows of books on the first floor and scaled the spiraling sterling-silver staircase with the gold railing up to the second floor and looked through its long rows of books, she never found it, the beginning. And even after she finally asked for help and, as a result, received a series of shrugs, bad directions, and Socratic answers; Mea never found any of the answers that she was looking for. And for that matter, Mea never even found the first book of the series nor did she find any book numbered below 5,000.

  Still Mea worked with what she had and studied whatever books were available. Strange markings filled the insides of the books, and again through some unknown knowledge that she didn’t know she had, Mea could read them clear as day. But that talent proved itself of little use, and the markings and the books that contained them said little about little. Containing numerous variations of stories she had heard before—in Sunday school or in a thousand other stories from Norse, Greek, and Roman mythology, the books offer no helpful information Other books held even less useful information—birth lines that she didn’t recognize, that went back thousands of years. Someone begot someone who begot...

  And for some reason, the room had a clock on the wall. A simple, round, white thing with two hands; it was always accurate, and for days it read 2:47. Studying endless books for endless days, Mea worried that she would be gone for too long, but when she looked up at the clock, it only read 2:49. Seconds became an eternity, but the endless reading offered little, and Mea ran out of the patience for such things.

  And after seeing the Guf, the Treasury of Souls, and the once-beautiful, enormous Tree of Life that sat in the center of it, in the middle of a golden lake, Mea only grew more discouraged. She remembered how it used to look, when its fruit—flawless, sparkling fruit that looked like big golden peaches—fell and splashed down into the lake of liquid gold… life burst forward. The fruit would splash down and send golden waves rippling over the surface of the lake, and with that… a new soul was created.

  And Mea remembered an ancient memory. Within the silver-walled room without shadows, she would watch the Tree of Life and the Guf and would smile as its fruit would fall like rain—each one creating a splash and a circle of golden rippling waves. When each time, when each new soul was created… Mea almost thought that she could hear them, all of them, the echoing cries of the newborn babies that were spread across the world. A good memory. But now, now the Guf was…

  It was hard to look at and would be harder to deal with, and she didn’t stay long.

  Her trip to hell was shorter yet more productive. Using an old, barricaded doorway to hell—one she had learned about from one of the less-useless angels, she stepped out of a free-standing door of golden light and emerged on the cusp of a vast, desolate wasteland. It was less frightening than last time, she remembered. Last time—before she became who she is now, when she chose to take the flesh and be reincarnated as a mortal—when he was in hell, the demons stalked her every step, hunted her nonstop, and stalked her around every turn.

  This time was different. Last time hell’s inhabitants could sense her presence and hunted her like ravenous wolves, and she was vulnerable. But now the same demons that would have loved to tear her to shreds were now cowered in fear from her. Her presence, her essence, seemed to repel them. Now she was too powerful and too deadly for them to hunt or hurt her.

  Mea proceeded on her self-guided tour, tracing her same path from last time, and walked through the same desolate metropolis and the same white desert that she had escaped from. The landscape was different, different from her last visit—Raven had called it a combined common perception, and everything had changed. The buildings were larger. An old, abandoned tunnel-system now ran beneath the urban metropolis of the netherworld and was filled with an army of shadowy demons. As Mea stepped through the dark tunnels, the demons scurried away, and she never really got a good look at them. Regardless, she quickly grew bored of what the lands had to offer and went on with her journey.

  The desert proved just as useless. Watching the demons and other bright-eyed shadows flee from her, some burrowing through the white sand to escape, Mea’s continued search for answers only brought more somberness and no answers.

  Mea wandered through the white desert for longer than she could remember, and time felt like a forgotten memory. Then she stumbled onto and into a new desert—a cracked, clay-colored one. And the journey had felt so long that she no longer remembered when she entered the clay-colored desert, how long she’d been there, or why she even came. She kept walking.

  Passing through another city (or the same one) and both deserts, Mea saw some evidence that something was wrong in the underworld. Armies of reapers would fly overhead and circle her from time to time. More bold and adept than the demons, they always lingered a bit longer than the latter. And in the deserts, they’d land and pull their weapons like they were going to attack. But as Mea neared, they retreated no differently than the demons did—again flying away like a flock of frightened birds.

  Other reapers fought against the demons, sometimes. During some time in the cracked, clay-colored desert, a few hundred yards in front of her, Mea saw the oddest thing. A handful of long, snake-like demons shot out of the red clay and into the air, snatching a few of the hovering reapers from out of the air. As their jaws snapped shut and slivered back into the desert, the other reapers would swoop down. And with their swords, spears, twin-daggers, or maces in hand, they’d slice through the snake-like demons until they became nothing more than a flurry of smoke and obsidian shards.

  And Mea kept walking and continued through the infinite desert.

  And after walking for another bout of unknown time and distance, inadvertently she came across the stone tower. From far away it looked no bigger than a thumb tack. Up close, it was the massive smoke stack, taller than anything she had even seen.

  Mea stared at, lingering on the stone tower, I could take it, if I wanted to. Or I’d die trying. I’d kill whoever was now holding it—the who-or-what-ever that was coming, the one Anna had mentioned. I could take it, take it over, and whatever creatures were still lurked within it—the ones that didn’t fall in line, I could just kill them. I could free him, Azazel, my brother. Mea’s hand slid over to her sword and she squeezed the grip of it like a vice—an angry, frustrated squeeze. I could do it. And after one final blaze of glory, one last heroic act before the end, she thought, then I could just…

  Mea loosened her grip and shook off the dark, grisly thoughts brewing inside her. Then a different idea replaced the dark thoughts; it was more like a seed than an idea. A plan. Smiling, Mea turned away from the stone tower, and it would last at least one more day.

  Mea continued walking, and after some more time, she entered the Valley of Forgotten Gods. Though she didn’t remember how she got there or when the scene changed, she was there all the same, and her surroundings were completely different and a complete contrast to both heaven and hell.

  The Valley of Forgotten Gods, it was less of a valley and more of an island. Mea looked up and around and saw that she was surrounded by rushing waterfalls on all sides. Almos
t looking like the waterfall that she had disappeared into, the crashing water broke against moss-covered stones and carved through walls of slanted forests that grew from the sides of the cliffs. They were lusher than any forest that she had ever seen before. They were vibrant with life, and the trees grew down the sides of the cliffs and beneath some of the waterfall, disappearing somewhere far beneath the Valley of Forgotten Gods. The surrounding walls of waterfalls did the same, falling somewhere far below her, and the crashing water created a white foamy mist that surrounded the Valley of Forgotten Gods and made it appear more like a hidden island cupped within the circle of hanging waterfalls and forest surrounding it.

  Nearer to Mea and stretching across the same plush glass that she was standing on, there were two rows of statues. She never saw how far the rows of statues stretched or where they ended, but it was further than she could see.

  The valley itself was filled with lush green shrubbery that was perfectly landscaped, and the grass was plush and groomed well enough to be the fairway of any luxury golf course. Walkways of polished marble ran parallel to the statues of the old gods, the Forgotten Ones. Between them, there were rows of bushes that were perfectly-trimmed and the plush trees that had their plump limps perfectly groomed and rounded-off. The statues, they were set up in two perfectly straight rows, and they were all equally spaced between one another. It was all simple, green, and beautiful.

  The statues of forgotten gods all looked alike, from a distance at least. But when Mea neared them, the blurry marble took form and became beautifully sculptures made from skillfully crafted stone, metal, and gemstones—it varied from god to god. Each statue was unique and mesmerizing.

  But when Mea passed by one of the statues and moved on to the next one, and looked back at prior statue, the blurriness returned and it again looked identical to the one she was currently standing in front of. Then it happened again. And with each new statue she visited, the same thing happened, every time.

  Each of the statues was glorious and glamorous, and they all had a strange, powerful aura that seemed to encompass them. And despite the name of the locale, Mea expected to recognize at least one of the gods in the Valley of Forgotten Gods, but she didn’t, not a single one of the forgotten gods, not really, and the valley seemed to have lived up to its namesake.

  Still the statues were something to marvel; each glorious, expertly carved, jeweled and dusted in glinting gemstones. One was a god carved out of black-and-white marble and looked like a Viking standing atop a pile of skulls—some human, others monstrous and beast-like. Another god was fashioned in animal furs and had jewel-covered snakes covering his bulging arms and chiseled legs. A different one was that of a nude goddess whose skin was crafted in polished gold. Standing atop a giant ocean wave carved of white-marble and dusted with crushed crystals and sapphires, her onyx eyes seemed to follow you. Another goddess was carved of cedar and had on a large winged helmet that covered most of her head. She sat atop a reared up crimson stallion that had the legs of a tiger. Her sword was pointed towards the heavens, and she was screaming, most likely going to war. Another god—winged, armored, and carrying an elegant sword and shield that were both made of glass—was twisted around a long, winding dragon while his blade opened the creature’s belly. Like a sculpted water fountain, some sort of bright-red, blood-red, liquid bubbled out of the dragon’s wound and flowed down the glass blade’s fuller, dripped off its notched tip, and bubbled into a fountain of blood.

  Eventually Mea came to a statue that almost looked familiar, Fenrir’s father—she assumed it was his father, the old wolf-god. The statue was five-times larger than she was, and it was surrounded by a pack of expertly-crafted wolves. Though his beard was longer, he and Fenrir had the same facial features and both had identical smirks smeared across their lips. Larger and older than Fenrir looked, the statue’s eyes were edged with deep, sharp wrinkles. Cold, hard eyes. His armor was thick onyx, and each shoulder was covered in a silver, snarling head of a wolf. A hard god, Mea knew, somehow. The old gods were always harder… and crueler.

  Moving on to the next one, Mea saw… herself. At least the statues face was nearly identical to her own. The goddess was on her knees, and seven spears were piercing her, bursting out of the front of her chest. Her wings were bundled and restrained by nets made of golden ropes that were pulling them down. Similar ropes were bound to her wrists and were pulled them down as well. Her beloved swords were notched and dulled and laid in front of her of her bend knee, just out of reach. One of her bound hands was stretching out to the side, reaching for something, and her eyes were staring up at the same unknown object, reaching or it as well. Whatever the statue was reaching for, Mea never found out.

  Then the statue looked at her. It beady, glossy amber irises spun to the side and looked at her. Mea was suddenly spooked and took a step back. She shook her head and took a few deep breaths. It’s not real, she told herself, now shaking her head around and blinking—trying to shake and blink away reality.

  It worked, and the disturbing image was gone. Her death was replaced with a different statue. A heroic goddess in golden armor that was holding a golden whip in her left hand and a large golden sword in her right. Her right foot was hiked up on the back of some scaled beast, and the statue looked like it had been victorious—with whatever it was doing. Mea noticed the bottom of the golden sword, its pummel. It was a large, carefully engraved golden lion’s head. The Golden Lion of Elysium? she wondered, is that me?

  Although, unlike the last statue, this one didn’t look like her, at least not in the face. Its hair was gold and silver, and it stretched past the middle of her back and was wildly hanging in the air behind her. Other strips of her gorgeous mane were frozen in time, in front of her, while other bands of hair were frozen across her chestplate or off the side. Her eyes were narrow, cold, and merciless, the eyes of a killer. The golden whip was frozen as well, hanging in the air— presumably mid-lash, and the thorn-tipped end of it was dipped in the shimmering crimson of crushed rubies. Blood. Is that who I’m supposed to become? she wondered, a killer? It’s too late, she thought sadly, I already am one, a killer.

  A car horn honked loudly and slapped Mea out of her memories and back into the present. She was once again standing across the street from her apartment and staring up at it, and her emotional burden was beginning to boil over, again. I can’t go home, not this time, she thought.

  Turning her back on the apartment and her family, she looked up at the heavens. Her wings shot out of her back, out of the back of her black hoodie, and slammed down on the pavement, sending Mea blasting off like a rocket and disappearing beneath the scattered stars. Beneath her a flurry of popping sounded followed, and the yellow street lights that lined her block began popping. The street lights on each side of it then started popping as well, exploded one by one, like microwaved popcorn.

  CH 8: Shut the Door

  Lacking the courage to face her family, Mea left. Right now she had something more important to take care of. And while facing her family was something that she just couldn’t do, not now, there was something that she could do, close another one of the gateways to hell.

  One such gateway was the Darvaza gas crater in the Karakum Desert. Located in Derweze, Turkmenistan, its name comes from the nest of ignited flames that inhabit it. Fed from the vast natural gas reserve buried below the crater, the flames burned nonstop for nearly forty years. And though this Door to Hell is now only a colloquial nomenclature, the Darvaza gas crater was said to lead directly into—and out of—hell at one time. It did.

  Open and ignored for centuries, the gateway was always more of an exit than an entry. And aside from the few foolish, brave, misguided souls that entered it; most showed better sense and stayed away. For the ones that did escape hell, freedom didn’t come without a cost—for both the doorway and the individual.

  You see, the Karakum Desert wasn’t always a desert. It was once a lush, jungle-green pasture that nurtured life. But ov
er the eons, it changed and became nothing more than the dry, desolate beast of dirt and rock that it is now. Each escape from hell had torn a hole between the realms, and with each additional escape, the wound grew larger. And like an untreated stab wound, it kept bleeding out while draining and leaching away the life-force that surrounded it. And with each exit, the lush pasture that it was rotted away until it became the dry, desolate, and nearly-lifeless desert it is today. And eventually and over time, it became known as the Karakum Desert.

  While the wound, the Door to Hell, sucked the life from the surrounding areas, it left behind something to replace it. Natural gas, death. As the doorway remained opened and utilized; each exiting patron left behind elements of death, the same elements that they had brought with them during their unnatural return. And as the once-dead patrons of hell walked the earth again, the plants and grass that surrounded the Door would wither and die and turn to dust. Then it would happen again, and life took on a new form, a desert, and the desert grew.

  The eerie spot was known to attract death as well. Over the innumerable cycles and Cleansings, it became somewhat of an elephant graveyard. Death attracts death. With that, the body count grew and sank beneath the Karakum Desert with everything else. Over the countless years, all that death and dead bodies that surrounded the dead doorway eventually fermented and became what we now call fossil fuels. Nowadays the lifeless desert is nothing more than the thin mask of one of the largest natural gas reserves in the world… the life-blood of the dead.

  Left undiscovered until recently, the dead lied undisturbed for longer than mankind could has been walking upright—during this cycle at lease. And we only grew to know of its existence sometime in the late sixties—when the Soviets thought it an oil field. But after an unfortunate drilling exploration, the Darvaza gas crater—the actual crater itself—came into existence and the gas ignited, and it’s been ignited ever since. Though, in reality; it’s nothing more than a pilot light that’s gone out of control.