The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  Still growing but seeing their mother in pain, the wolves snarled at Daikon and Mea then walked past them. No longer their concern, the wolves had more pressing matters to attend to, mourning their dead and consoling their broken mother.

  Daikon whispered over his shoulder and into Mea’s ear, “We should go.”

  Mea nodded, and they backed away from Nisha and her pack. Wanting to offer some condolences, Mea muttered, “Nisha.”

  Her efforts were cut short and caused her to become the target of Nisha’s pain. Nisha yelled, “Get out!” while still sobbing. And as Nisha’s wailing made Mea’s heart hurt, she couldn’t help but think about her family.

  CH 28: Pikes Peak

  Asleep, exhausted, and dying, she was dead to the world. She barely felt Asher’s (Azazel’s) arms beneath her nor stirred as he carried her off the balcony, through the living room, down the stairs, down the hall, down the other staircase (a spiraling one), and into her bedroom. Gently as can be, he lied her down on the oversized California King and rolled her on to her good side. Then, after folding the comforter over her, he began examining her face. Pale yellow, sunken in, thin. The smell of decay was subtle, but Asher could still pick up on it as he gently sniffed at the air. She’s dying, he thought, that much is certain. He rubbed a few strands of her hair between his fingers. Brittle. With one hand on her wrist and two fingers on her neck, Asher checked her pulse. Weak, slightly irregular (just barely).

  Asher stepped away from the bed and looked behind it. A waterfall, inches behind from where the headboard should have been. There were two paintings on the right wall. Rembrandts, if I’m not mistaken. Nice, but a little too religious for my taste. Two more painting were on the left wall. Picassos, abstracts. A man and a woman, abstract. The other was from Picasso’s Blue Period. A skinny, old man. Nice.

  His arm was bleeding. The blood trickling down his forearm and dripping onto the note that Daikon had given him. Asher held it up and thought, don’t need this anymore. Concentrating for a moment, a green flame swirled up, from his elbow to his fingertips, and he was no longer bleeding and Daikon’s note went up in bursting green flames—like a magician’s flash paper.

  Off to the side, Asher noticed a pad of paper and a pen. He jotted down some numbers and left it for Diana. Then he left, stepping out the glass door in the middle of the glass wall.

  A digital number pad was off to the side. Asher punched in the same numbers he wrote down, and then he left again.

  A few steps down the hall, he noticed that the walls were plain with no sheen. Ceramic? Ceramic? Asher put his ear to the wall and rapped his knuckles against it. He heard a familiar ding, and a split-second later, he heard a weaker ding. A split-second later, he heard another ding. Asher glanced at the ceiling. It’s ceramic too. Asher smiled and shook his head. Blackwell thought of everything. Hollowed walls—made of hard, brittle compartments, ready to crash down and cut into any intruder. He looked back at Diana sleeping in the most elegant room in what was probably the most fortified bomb shelter in the world. She’s safe now, at least safer than she was.

  Asher turned off the lights, climbed the spiraling staircase, then entered the hallway. He paused to admire the walls and the artifacts in glass boxes that donned them. An old journal written in Greek and signed Alexandros. Alexander the Great? The next was a curved sword, spear, and helm. From the Greeks? From Sparta. Next was a brown stone tablet. Hieroglyphics, pictures, Ancient Egyptian. Drawings on large sheets of papyrus. Blueprints, Italian, Da Vinci’s lost designs.

  The last one he noticed was a large curved blade. The size of a scythe, it was yellow, see-through, and had a razor’s edge. What is that? wondered Asher. Unlike the other artifacts, this one was labeled. Middle Claw of the Long-Clawed Mammoth Sloth. Huh? Unfamiliar with the animal, Asher recited the words inside his head, and then he did so again. Repeating them again like something he forgotten, he studied the blade, the claw. “From the old world,” he muttered to himself.

  He glanced at the object next to it, a painting. It was a water painting of an old man walking with his grandson, hand in hand. A signature was scratched into its bottom-right corner, Darius Xavier. “Huh,” Asher said. “Talented artist, not famous but—Shit!” Asher darted down the hall.

  The boy in the painting reminded Asher of something he forgot about. The boy, I forgot about the boy. Turning the corner hard, Asher hit the double-decker staircase, clearing the stairs two at a time. Rushing into the living room, Asher slid to a stop and franticly looked for Ryan. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? I told him to stay put.

  Strange boy, Asher thought. Ryan had been peculiarly cooperative when he told the boy that they had to leave. And when they stepped into the shadows—with Diana in his arms and Ryan at his hip, he was odd as well, being particularly quiet and agreeable with that as well. And holding onto the side of Asher’s ratty hoodie as Asher held his sleeping mother in his arms, Ryan hadn’t objected in the least. And when they stepped through the lightless tunnel and emerged in the strange penthouse, he remained silent. Still, Asher could feel Ryan judging him with each step and every look. Ryan, his new half-brother, the same brother he was so close to killing, just one day ago.

  Outside, silent as Ryan had been, the lightning flashed and lit up the sky. Through the glass partition, Asher saw the stone balcony light up, and he saw the carved gargoyles that made up its railing light up. Finally he saw the flashing lightning reveal something else, a little smiling boy. There he is, on the balcony… him and the storm dragon. Rushing towards the glass door of the glass partition and swinging it open, Asher burst out on the balcony and grabbed Ryan’s arm, jerking it around as he yelled at the boy. “What are you doing? What are you doing here? It’s not safe. Answer me. I told you to stay inside.”

  The storm dragon let out an unapprovingly howl, and the thunder cracked so loud that Asher’s bones rattled. The lightning followed and stretched across the sky in angry tentacles. As the lightning flashed again, it traced over the storm dragon’s scales, and it was suddenly very close… and angry. Asher glared at it. Don’t start, Anna… but you’re right. He huffed and let go of Ryan’s arm. “Sorry… I don’t… I don’t have kids, alright.” Pausing, Asher took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Ryan, what are you doing out here? It’s not safe.”

  Ryan shyly swayed back and forth and looked at the ground. “I don’t know. I just wanted to see Anna.”

  Asher hid his surprise. How’d he know? How does he know so much? Does he know that I tried to kill him? “Well, now that you’ve seen her, please go inside, like I told you to do. I’m sure Anna won’t mind. She wants you to be safe, just like I do.

  A weak clap of thunder told Asher that Anna was still a bit bitter about him killing her. That didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. “Anna, tell him. Tell him to go inside where it’s safe.” Asher gave the storm dragon a look, and lighting flashed further away and silently. “See, Ryan? Now, alright… say goodnight to Anna and get inside. Alright?”

  Still swaying shyly, Ryan’s attention shot up. Pointing, he said, “You’re bleeding,” and he reached for Asher’s injured hand.

  “Get back,” Asher snapped at him and pushed Ryan away with his good hand, keeping the boy as far as possible from his injury, from his blood. “Don’t touch that. It’s just… It’s bad. Okay?”

  The lightning lit up the sky again, and the storm dragon reappeared. Even closer than before, it was now half-perched atop the balcony railing—fighting to balance its four clawed feet on the railing as it used its wings to balance itself. Now no more than a few feet from Asher, Anna’s jaws were stretched open as far as they could go, and unbalanced or not, she was close enough to swallow him in one lighting-filled bite. It now appeared that Ryan had a new guardian, an angry, protective storm dragon.

  The thunder and lightning grew angrier, and the storm dragon was snarling with her large, sharp teeth (large as swords) dangling like a row of oversized icicles. Asher could feel the electri
city coming off her snout. Considering that it was inches from his shoulder, it was no surprise. Asher finally got a good look at the storm dragon, who was once his follower, before he betrayed and killed her. Each of her eyes were as large as his head and filled with dashing bolts of electricity. The golden lighting seeped from her eyes and traced over her scales and the bones and veins of her wings, leaving her eyes filled with nets of purple lightning and looking like two angry plasma globes. Asher said, “Watch him,” then darted inside.

  Holding his hand, Asher was careful to ensure that he wasn’t dripping any blood. Rushing into the kitchen, he made his arm light up with another swirling snake of green flames. Still bleeding? Dammit. Concentrating again, Asher closed his eyes and did it again, this time with larger flames. Nothing? Still bleeding?

  Asher made a fist and squeezed hard. The pain screeched through his forearm and past his elbow until it bit into his shoulder. Wincing with pain, Asher watched as drops of his black blood seeped through the tattered cotton of his sleeve and splashed onto the kitchen floor. Inkblots on cream-colored marble. “Shit,” he said, wincing from the pain and his increasing distress.

  Slinging drawers open and slamming them shut, Asher frantically searched for… something. Finally, towels. Throwing a few on the ground and using his foot as a mop handle, he cleaned up whatever blood he could. Then he went about to treating his arm, wrapping the towel around it and using his teeth to tie it off.

  When he looked up, he saw Ryan watching. How long had he been there? How long was he watching? From the look on Ryan’s face, Asher knew the answer, long enough. He sighed as he examined his make-shift bandage before grabbing another towel and caring for his wound. “Hey… I just… I didn’t want to get any blood on you.”

  Blinking and looking blankly at him, Ryan didn’t say a word.

  “Kid, look… I… I’m bad, okay? My blood is bad. I don’t… I don’t want you to get corrupted, by my blood… by me.”

  “But you gave it to my mom,” Ryan said, “to save her.”

  “Yeah, but… how did you know? How do you know all… this?”

  “I don’t know,” Ryan said as he watched Asher struggle with his bandage. Then he went over to a different drawer, opened it, pulled out a first-aid kit, and then slid it across the counter at Asher. “How does a bird know how to fly? How does a fish know how to swim? I don’t know, I just know. Dante told me some stuff too.”

  Looking at his poorly bandaged arm, Asher flung aside his make-shift bandages and dug into the first-aid kit. Pulling out some gauze, tape, and some medical scissors, he started over. Tugging at his sleeve, Asher shot a look over at Ryan. I don’t want him to see, he thought… screw it, and then he pulled up the tattered sleeve of his hoodie, up to his elbow.

  Embarrassed, Asher sighed as he looked at his arm. It was pale and cracked, and his black blood was seeping out of the cracks, like motor oil from a cracked engine block. He flexed his hand, and the cracks spread over it with thinner ones spidering over his knuckles and fingers. His hand suddenly looked like it came from an old, decrepit stone sculpture and could fall apart at any second. “Not much of a god, huh?” Seeing his inky blood beginning to seep out of the cracks, Asher turned away and began wrapping his arm with the gauze.

  “You know,” Ryan said, “your blood isn’t tainted. You’re not corrupted.” He paused so that Asher could give it some thought, and then he continued. “It’s not the blood that’s tainted. It’s your actions, the guilt from them. It’s the same for mortals. We do bad things, we feel ashamed. We feel… dirty.”

  “Kid, what do you know about shame, about being dirty?”

  “My mom says that it’s like falling into a hole. Everyone falls in a hole sooner or later, and we all get dirty.”

  “Great story. Now toss me those paper towels over there.” Asher taped up his arm, over the gauze. He cut the tape and tossed the scissors aside, just in time to catch the roll of paper towels Ryan had thrown. “Thanks.” Asher gave Ryan a look, a sad one. I was going to kill him, a boy, an innocent child. “What’s the end of your story, your mom’s story.”

  “Well,” Ryan said. “She says that you only feel dirty if you stay in the hole. And the longer you stay in the hole, the dirtier you feel—is that why you tried to kill me?”

  “I…” Asher was shocked. Though Ryan was sleeping at the time, Asher considered that the kid might know what happened (somehow), but being confronted with it was harder than he thought, a kidney shot, a sucker punch. “Sorry about that. I just… I was angry. I wasn’t thinking. I thought… I thought I could end it, the Cleansing. You have to die, you know that right?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said as he noticed Asher fumbling with his bandages. He took a step backwards, out of the kitchen area. Looking at a black panel of the wall, he pushed on it, revealing a well-concealed closet.

  An odd closet, it was. The hidden door was lined with a row of hanging knives, below it was a row of swords—their jeweled and engraved hilts peeking out of from the tops of their scabbards. Eyelevel with Ryan, they were hypnotic. He turned away from them and looked into the closet. A gaggle of garments hung from its closet rod. Two fur coats. A leather jerkin. A light, stiff chestplate with the look and feel of carbon fiber. Ryan slid them all aside and went for the corner of the closet, for the black, wool overcoat—the sort that a businessman might wear. Digging into the pockets, he dug out a pair of black leather gloves, and tossed one—only one—onto the countertop. “For your hand, the injured one… and I know I have to die. I do… but not like that.”

  I know, Asher thought, it has to be a sacrifice. He huffed and lowered his head, ashamed of himself, for so many things. Only through the sacrifice of innocence and the burden of eternal grief can life be purified and the tarnished souls cleansed. Asher shook his lowered head and thought, such a heavy burden… for the boy and the one giving him up. Asher tapped his newly-gloved fist on the countertop, trying to defuse some his pent up frustration. That’s the way it was, the way it’s always been, Asher knew, somehow. “Look, kid… You… you’re mom’s going to be okay. And you… you’re going to be fine.” A lie. “Five. Nine… Four. Two. That’s the code to the safe room. Go there. Stay with your mom. It’s… safe.” A half-lie, though it was safer than where they currently were standing. “Your mom, she’s… she’s a good person. Go to her. Watch over her. She’s going to need you.”

  Behind Ryan, Asher could see out the balcony through the glass partition, and he could see the flashes of lightning. Far off in the horizon, they were silent yet frequent, the way Anna wanted them to be. And with each flash, he could see the storm dragon turning increasingly restless.

  Now it was perched somewhere above the glass partition, Asher’s view cut off from the angled roof. The dragon’s giant head dripped down and hung just above the balcony. Looking off into the horizon, it turned towards Asher and nodded at him, gesturing for him to get ready. They’re coming. With each flash of lightning, the sky grew darker, fuller… with Malick’s pets.

  Then, when the thunder finally came crashing down—loud and angry, Asher knew that it was time. He looked at Ryan, huffing and shrugging with his hands up. I don’t know what to tell you, kid. Asher jabbed his chin towards the sink area.

  Still oddly calm, Ryan didn’t need to turn around to know that it was time. A bored, pouting kid, he lightly kicked at the bottom corner of the kitchen cabinet. “You have to do it,” he said with a sad, heavy tone. “You have to or… or my mom or Mea will have to, and they… I don’t want them to carry the burden. And you… Like you said, you’re already dirty.” Ryan looked up at Asher with complete seriousness, yet neither apologetic nor maliciously.

  Asher nodded, knowingly. He’s right. He jabbed his chin at the countertop, near the faucet. “Take it… in case I don’t… It’s as close to a sacrifice that I can do.”

  Ryan leaned onto the countertop and saw it, a pocket watch. He grabbed it and ran his thumb over the golden lion’s head engraved on the
front of it then gave it a long, hard look. To Asher, he said, “So Mea doesn’t have to do it, right?”

  Asher nodded. Then, after a long pause, he forced a smile. “Yeah, don’t know how it works, but I’m sure it’ll get you up there, to Elysium. And then… then you know what to do—if you want to.”

  Ryan did know, but it was heavy burden. Thinking about it made it worse. Transgressing the long hallways of the Silver Citadel of Heaven, climbing its mountainous staircases of glass steps, up to the fifth floor. Walking down the long silver hallway, through the two towering doors engraved with battling angles and demons—all etched in precious metals and gems. In Remembrance of the Fallen, the doors were called, he knew somehow. Through them was the Calm, a long hallway composed of silver and white lights and void of all darkness. It ended in two towering doors, tall as redwoods and all silver.

  Behind the doors was the inner chamber—the Chamber of Past Creations, it was called. The hallway was long and filled with warmth. Holding two rows of crystal pillars, the Pillars of Unseen Purity, each one stretched endlessly towards the sky and into a ceiling of blinding white light—The First Light. The walls of the hallway melted and morphed constantly, streaming pictures across it—pictures of the universe, when it was young—exploding stars, quasars, ravenous black holes. The Mural of Creation.

  Beyond the inner hall and behind two giant, silver doors lied the Guf, the gold lake of creation. Inside a silver chamber that seemed to never end, golden ripples stretched across the surface of the lake’s calm waters. Within the lake of liquid gold was the Tree of Life. A beacon of bark and hop shooting out of the center of the Guf, the golden lake, it was a mountain of bark. Wider than blossomed into a mushroom cloud of dark-green leaves and golden ones and gold fruit—the fruits of life, the seeds of unborn souls. And that was where Ryan was meant to go, where he was meant to die, so that the world could live.