Lilly turned her head, just so. Though they could tell that she was no longer human looking, through the black haze and the emerging wings, Daikon and Mea only caught a peak at her face—black scales. Her eyes were polished rubies bathing in flames. Over her shoulder, Lilly winked at the them then turned back to where she was walking.
The black haze thickened, grew black, obscuring their view of Lilly even more. The black haze closed inwards—like slamming a book shut—then exploded outwards; thinning, dimming, and dissipating into the air. As it cleared, Lilly was gone.
CH 33: Walkin’ After Midnight
It’s strange—so strange; don’t you think? Mother Earth. Mother Nature. The mother of everything, the source of nourishment for every man, woman, animal, bird, and insect. And mankind know this, and they claim to come from the earth, to love it, that they want to preserve it, but then… they don’t. In truth, I don’t even hardly blame them for it, not really. Life is hard, harder for some people than others.
But really, what makes Mother Nature so great? Yeah, there’s some cool stuff out there, but Mother Nature… Earthquakes, volcanoes, flood, droughts, tsunamis; is she really that great of a mother? I mean, if she was a person, human, she’d be in jail. As for her children, DCFS would have taken them away a long time ago. I mean, really, it’s domestic violence 101—Mother Nature feeds us, clothes us, provides for us. Then all of a sudden, she just takes it all away—beats her children, leaves them starving, killing them beneath mud slides, leaving them wallowing in poverty. Then she gives it all back again—food, shelter, etcetera. Mother Nature gives us a hug, rubs our head, and hands us a cookie—and we’re supposed to be forgiver her, to be okay with that. But no, I don’t think…
I’m sorry. I’m rambling. It’s the End of Days, and I’m rambling on like there’s all the time in the world. The End of Days… a strange title. Gods, we are strange things as well, I suppose.
The Ancient of Days, that was what they called God—not me, but ‘a’ god—a long time ago, a very long time ago. I mean, the name is used in the Bible, in the Book of Daniel, but it originates from the Zohar, the sacred text of Kabbalah, an ancient Jewish mysticism.
Its true origin, a version of it anyways, comes from a time before that, truly—before the Cleansing, from the old world, from one of the old worlds. Who knows which one. There have been so many… so many Cleansings. Really, who can keep track of them all?
Still it’s not an exact origin of the name. Something’s always lost with time, within the translation of languages, from different periods. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
Oh, now what was it—the original name? It was… let me see… ‘the One Who Rests Outside of Time.’ That’s what it was. Me. Still, I must admit that Ancient of Days, most certainly, has a much nicer ring to it. But yeah, it was an old name, older than any man could truly remember—from a past that I—even I—can barely remember. Still the name remains.
You see, here’s the thing… names, memories, feelings; they echo through time, through eternity—all of them. Even if you don’t remember. They’re like a whisper, a thought, that that little voice in the back of your head whispers to you in your dreams. They’re the warm thought that you unknowingly hold onto, for dear life. You hold on to them, squeezing them against your heart, against your soul—to keep them safe. Then, not even knowing that you’re doing it, you tuck those ancient memories away, somewhere safe—beneath the pillow-top mattress of your self-conscious, inside your secret lock-box. And it’s that, that feeling, that… thing that—regardless if you believe it or not—you know is true. Call it instinct, love, a soul, a calling; call it whatever you want, but it’s special. It’s magical. It’s that strange, secret magic of the world that’s hidden within all of us, that makes life worth living, at least in my opinion.
Shit. Sorry. I’m rabbling again. I promised you answers. Well, I promised your brother that I’d give you answers—and I will. But first…
Mea. Mea, I need you to open your eyes. See me. Feel me.
It was a shotgun blast of sensory overload. Conversations raced past by her, sounding like a sped up voice recorder. Other voices carried from the floor beneath them. It was dark, dark with flashing lights. LEDs. The bass rattled her ears. The rhythmic beats and the autotuned voice (a woman’s voice) pulsed through her nerves and left her skin tingling.
Mea could feel that she was glistening. Her shoulders were bare, and she could feel them shimmering from a thin layer of sweat mixing with her perfumed lotion. Her dress was thin and soft, a little too short for her, and after a sip of water, Mea found herself squirming around—rocking side to side in her chair, adjusted her dress as she did so. It was awkwardly sticking to the backs of her legs, and she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs to relieve herself of some of the sticky uncomfortableness.
“Here are your drinks. Sir, Ma’am.” The server set down some shot glasses filled with something green. Green and frothy, they had a faint lime scent to them, and they looked delicious.
“Thank you,” said someone, a man’s voice. “Can you put that on my tab? Okay, thanks. Yeah, I think we’re good for now.”
Mea smiled at the waitress then looked down. A small circular table was in front of her. Her green, frothy shot was on her right. Her glass of ice water was next to it, resting with a ring of cold condensation. A brass railing was on her left. Below it was a dance floor covered with beautiful people. All of the dancing men were handsome and were dressed in crisp, sheened suits. The women were all thin, beautiful, and dressed in fancy dresses. Mea looked over to her right and saw some booths. They were filled with more fancy people, all laughing and smiling around black-lacquered tables. On the tables, flickering candles and carafes of liquor were crowded together and nested between sticky rivers of spilt orange juices, soda, and wet napkins.
Beyond the booths, there was a bar. Its countertop looked like it was made of lacquered Cherrywood, and it shimmered beneath the soft, red-maroon lighting shining down on it. A glass chandelier hung over the bar and was lit up from the same red-maroon lighting. It was all a little too much.
And it was a little warm—which only made the frothy green drink in front of her look even better. Eying the delicious shots and her ice water, Mea licked her lips, trying to relieve herself of dryness in her mouth. Just then, she felt a bead of sweat break free from beneath the hairs of the nape of her neck. The bead of sweat ran down her neck, turned and slid over her collarbone, and continued downward, down her chest and between her cleavage. Cleavage? Surprised, Mea brought her hand up to her chest and discovered skin. Looking down, she realized that she was wearing a fancy black dress—not a t-shirt or hoodie that were usually her clothing staples. The dress was slightly too revealing, too fancy—for her at least, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable. Discretely as she could, Mea hiked up the sides of her strapless dress, as best as she could, then she saw something else out of the corner of her eye, something on her wrist. Diamonds. A thick diamond bracelet was covering the better part of left wrist. A matching ring was on her right index finger. A smaller bracelet (also diamonds) was on her right wrist as well. Wiggling her toes inside her high heels, she could feel something around her ankle, but she didn’t bother looking, figuring that it was something else covered in diamonds and white gold—or platinum—as well.
“Mea,” the man said, sliding the frothy green shot closer to her. “Here. This will help to cool you off. It’s a little warm in here. And you… You, ah… You look a little nervous.”
“Nervous?” Mea said, finally looked up at the man sitting across from her. Short blond hair, dimples, piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones; damn he was good-looking. “Well,” he said, now fidgeting, “nervous and beautiful.”
Mea didn’t say a word, opting instead to just gawk at him.
“What?” he said, finally breaking the silence and shrugging at her. “What?” he repeated. There was no answer so he just cocked back his head and laughed, revealing a set of perfect
white teeth as he did so. He sighed, adjusted his seat, then leaned back and shook his head. And as he did that, Mea finally saw his outfit. A black suit and a white dress shirt; it was simple but sharp. He didn’t have on a tie, and the top of his shirt was unbutton—edged open, just enough, and the top of his sculpted chest was wedged between the two perfectly-set, sharp angled shirt collars of his dress shirt. And while Mea didn’t know for certain, but from the looks of it, both the suit and shirt were ridiculously expensive. “Mea,” he said, his voice strong yet comforting, like hearing your favorite song. “C’mon, drink up. You ordered it.”
Almost instinctively, she lifted up the frothy green shot. “What is it?”
The man smiled and picked up his shot, chuckling lightly. “It’s called Angry Green Fairy. It’s absinthe, lime juice, and… some other stuff. Cheers.”
Both drank their shots, and Mea could taste the absinthe (black licorice) and lime juice. She could feel the burn of the alcohol on the back of her throat then feel the warmth of it spread across her chest. Not bad. Still Mea was very confused. Where was she? Who is this guy?
“I apologize,” he said, “for us meeting like this.” He wiped his finger over the rim of his empty shot glass, wiping away the frothy residue and the sugar crystals that still remained on the rim. “I thought…” he said sadly. Pausing, he put his finger into his mouth and sucked away the froth and sugar crystals that he had collected. Finally removing his finger from his lips, he continued. “I just thought that we should meet, before it happens. But… for us to meet in person, that would be… messy. My awakenings tend to be… large. Violent, dramatic, dangerous. Out of respect for you, I thought that I would avoid that, at least for now.” He smiled at her. His azure eyes were hypnotic. Mea caught his eyes drifting lower, checking her out. Then, seemingly knowing that he got caught looking, he shook his head and snickered. Then he grabbed at his suit’s lapels and adjusted his suitcoat. Then he brushed off his shoulders. “Sorry. I apologize for gawking at you. But, you must admit, you do look quite stunning tonight.”
Mea was still trying to figure out who the man was, trying to put the pieces together, but the handsome man sitting across from her was quite distracting. He was too attractive, too disarming. Still there was something about him—his eyes. Sharp, azure, they were most-certainly hypnotic, but there was something about them. Glaring at her, his eyes were… narrow, crisp, cold—the eyes of a villain from a Hollywood movie, the eyes of a psychopath. “You,” she muttered. The First, the First of the First Seven.
“Yes, I am him, Dante. I’m not particularly fond of the name, but I didn’t want to complicate things. You know, when I was visiting your brother. I mean, he’s just a kid. I didn’t want to give him some strange, complex name derived from some long-dead, mistranslated culture, you know? So… I came up with Dante, and it seemed to work okay. And when you consider that Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy molded the modern world’s interpretation of hell, it just seemed fitting.”
Mea leaned back and brought her hand up to her chest again, shocked. This can’t be real, she thought. I feel… human, completely human. It was an odd feeling, to feel normal, like a person. It wasn’t even six months ago since she’d realized her powers. It, feeling human, was now a strange, foreign feeling, felt like it might as well been a lifetime ago, or something that happened in a dream or never at all. “Why… You… My…”
“Yes, I visit your brother in his dreams, while he’s sleeping. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but there were some things he needed to know, to make an informed decision—good kid, and I’m glad to see that he passed on my message to you.” The man began fiddling with something in his lap. “So,” he said, pulling out a loose cigarette. “What do you want to know?” He started tapping the end of his cigarette on the glass tabletop, packing down the tobacco towards the filter. Finally looking at Mea, he held out the cigarette to her, offered it to her, but when her face curled up in disgust and he shook her head, he shrugged and retracted his offering. “I’ll give you a minute, if you like, to think about what questions you would like to ask.” Dante put the cigarette into his lips and pulled out a lighter, about to light it, but he didn’t. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at Mea—and saw the same disgusted look on her face from before. Snickering again, he removed the unlit cigarette from his lips and tossed it over the railing. “My apologies. It’s just… a different time, I guess. Right? It used to be that everyone smoked, but now… not so much. So, what are your questions?”
“Where are we?” Mea looked around, down at her fancy dress and jewelry then out at the upscale club and its pretty patrons.
“You know,” Dante said. “Think about. Just think about it.”
Mea looked down at the dance floor. The edges were blurred, like the smeared edges of a photograph. She looked at the DJ; his face was a bouncing blur as he adjusted some sliding switched on his keyboard then threw his bouncing hand in the air. The people dancing; the beautiful dancing people; their faces were blurry as well. The hot waitress that brought them the shots, Mea remembered. She wasn’t beautiful; she was blurry. “I’m dreaming.”
“Yes,” he said, “you’re dreaming. It was the only way for us to meet—the only way where hundreds—thousands—of people don’t have to die. My last awakening, my last true awakening; it was in Italy in… seventy-eight, seventy-nine. A.D. It was at Mount Vesuvius, when it erupted. That time, I think it was roughly 1,200 people that ended up dying, you know, give or take a few hundred.”
“Why?”
“Hey.” Dante waved an excited finger at Mea. “Did you know that there have been over 500 impact craters, from meteors, that have hit this plant, Earth? Only about 190 are confirmed by your scientists, but there have been a lot more—if you go back far enough. Oh! But I’m not talking about impact craters, I got sidetracked, sorry. I wanted to talk about craters—craters in general, not impact craters. You know, the ones resulting from volcanos—volcanos like Mount Vesuvius.”
“What about them?”
Dante shrugged and smiled his evil, million-dollar smile. “I just think they’re cool. A bunch of molten rock shoots out of the center of the world, changing it, scarring it, and the only reminder is a giant crater—a massive bowl—that proves that it really happened at all.”
“So?”
“Two more,” Dante shouted over Mea’s head, mouthing the words to someone behind her. He waved two fingers at her, smiled, and then pumped a thumbs-up at the waitress. “So? So I came from a crater, from a volcano, and it makes you think…” Dante grabbed his glass of beer— a thick, almost-black ale. He lifted it to his lips, like he was about to take a sip, but he didn’t. He paused and said, “If I came from Mount Vesuvius, what else got spit out of the bowels of the Earth?” He shrugged and finally took a drink of his beer.
Dear god, Mea thought, what if he’s right? What if demons, monsters, and whatever else have been roaming the surface of the Earth, erupting out of it—like Dante supposedly had done—and hiding in plain sight. Or were they hiding—hibernating or hiding, for millions of years, waiting to rise, waiting for the Cleansing. Considering everything that has happened so far, neither theory seemed particularly farfetched. “Why?” she said, lowly. “Why are you doing this, the end of the world, the Cleansing? What’s the point of it? Why do any of it?”
Dante’s eyes snapped open, even wider than they already were, and flashed sapphire-blue. Still drinking his beer, he held up a finger—Yes! but… one moment please—then he tilted his glass back a little further and finished off his beer. Dante smacked his lips and finally set down his glass. “Yes, that’s the question I was waiting for. That—that—is the million dollar question: why? Why, why do it. Why do any of it?” Dante paused and took a moment to gather his thought. Sighing at first, his eyes drifted towards the floor, and he looked like he was really trying to select the proper words to say. He took a deep breath, exhaled it, paused, and then said, “Why am I doing it? The simple answer is: becau
se it’s what they want. It’s what the mortals want—wait… Please.” Dante held up a hand, trying to stop the Mea’s imminent objection before it could pick up steam. “Mea, please. Please let me finish before you object. You see, Mea, when mortals pray—to God, to the gods, to… whoever they pray to—someone who certainly is not me, the gods hear them. We do, whether we want to or not.”
“I don’t.”
“Because you haven’t slept. If you had slept, if you had rested, you could. You’d hear them, all of them. I mean, think about it. You haven’t slept for… too long—your brother too—and Blackwell, you know, before he died—or got killed, whatever. Otherwise you’d hear their prayers, their pain, the whispers of their souls. But yes, the mortals want this. They want the world to end, even if they won’t admit it. In their prayers, deep within the subtext of them, the… feeling of them, that is where the truth lies. Like a whisper, a wink, a fleeting glance across a crowded room, it tells us what they truly want… the kind of person that they truly are. It’s like, when someone prays for health, they really just fear death, fear the unknown. They’re afraid of the pain that comes with it. Or when someone prays for wealth, they don’t really want wealth; they just want a break. They’re just tired, tired of living from paycheck to paycheck, tired of fighting tooth and nail for a better life—for them, for their children… just something better, something they’re scared will never come. And beneath all of that, buried deep within their prayers, within the dark corners of their souls, they want this, the Cleansing. I mean, not all of them, but enough.”
Dante took a breath and paused. Scratching his chin, his icy eyes looked even sharper as he brooded over his words. “And Mea, for as long as I’ve slept… I’ve slept for so long and… I hear them. I hear them all, all their prayers… billions of them—billions of prayers about this or that—every day, for thousands of years.”
The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones) Page 45
