The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Interrupting them, Wetiko said, “Those who do not understand power should not attempt to manipulate it.”

  Trickster spat. “This was your doing.”

  Wetiko laughed. “Of course. While you two squabbled, I sought out Octavian and guided him to power. With your representatives gone I control Rome, and the world, once again.”

  The Logos

  by M H Toner

  It was dusk, or something close to it, but who could tell in the swirl of simmering ashes? Cursing, a figure slowly moved through the gloaming that shrouded what had been, until recently, the greatest city in the world. But its accomplishments – and his – were now lost in the smoke that hung over the vengeful survivors.

  At the crossroads below, the mob had gathered around a few of their fellows. Silent faces, stakes, shirts stiff with wax, wrapping tight their unwilling wicks.

  And then torches, human and otherwise. The glow filled the bowl, flattening their features. But there were no cheers and now, finally, no sound of the viol. Just screams.

  After a time, the spectre cursed again before turning from his people and stalking deeper into the lost night. Another figure waited for him at the terminus of the Appian Way, seemingly untouched by the silent judgement of the blackened bricks.

  If any human eyes were allowed to pierce the Veil surrounding the two brothers and see them – truly see them – it would avail the watcher little. Though human-like in form and raiment, their features were muted, indistinct, softly focused.

  As the two came together, their steps were soundless and their footfalls light enough to raise no dust. After a time, they spoke.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “No need. It’s obvious she will win.”

  The younger, defiant: “Her Time has not yet come.”

  “That’s not up to you. Look at them.” A tide of humans trickled past, ebbing and flowing around them in the grim watches of the night.

  “A setback.” The younger one, pausing. “They say that fire cleanses.”

  “Then this, brother, is the cleanest city in the world.” The elder turned, eyes glowing as golden as the dim light cast by the savagery below. “A pity: I think it worked better dirty.”

  “No matter. Her barbarians are not yet at the gate.”

  “The gates may be the only things left unburnt. For now.”

  “This changes nothing. My time is not yet over. Nero will control the people. He has given them an enemy.”

  The elder cast an eye over his shoulder, snorting. “You mean those unfortunates below? Once the winter comes, it will take more than a few scapegoats to appease the mob. He will need a veritable bonfire.”

  “Then there will be bonfires!” The younger’s voice was shrill. “There are many of these followers of the fish waiting to be burnt, and more with each passing year, and more still with each fresh martyrdom. Supply will meet demand.”

  “Will it?” Now it was the elder’s turn to pause. “And where do you think they are all coming from, these spawn?”

  They drifted through the cinders, unseen, until they reached the charred stakes. Little remained of those who had hung there. And the muted mutterings of their fellows were made reluctantly in the wake of what they’d done.

  Oblivious to this, the younger moved forward to run his fingers along the still-warm wood. “Do you think she has somehow involved herself in this new religion?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the elder, sighing. “She is Ianna, then she is Freya, then she is Gaia, then she is Bast, the slut-goddess. And now – irony of ironies – she is the Virgin.”

  “She is voracious. She keeps grafting herself onto each movement, leeching off their energy, growing stronger all the time. Surely this disturbs the balance!” The younger cast his arms at the carnage. “Her time will come; her tide never was so high.” Shuddering. “And it will be a dark age.”

  A shrug, uneasy now. “A dark age for one is a golden age for another.”

  The younger, pressing. “But brother, hers will be a night unlike any we have ever seen. Centuries marking time as all progress unwinds. One generation after another, made duller by superstition. They will come to fear nights filled with her creatures.” Sneering. “These lovers of the Jesu man will burn scrolls of ancient knowledge just to keep the shadows at bay until another dawn. Is that what you want?”

  The elder began absently tracing glyphs in the ashes.

  “It is said that this sect is different. That they actually worship an incarnation of the Logos.”

  A cold laugh. “Brother, humanity will worship anything. The skull of an ancient, the lights in the northern skies, an oddly shaped potato. They even worship us, once we are perceived.”

  “With some cause. If we’re not gods, then there are none.”

  “There are none.” Finality. “I have trodden the four corners of creation and never have I seen anything that suggests a divine hand at work. Neither have you. If there are gods, we’d have met them.”

  A silence. Then the elder, his words feeling their way through the grit: “Perhaps she wants us to take the mantle of godhood. Formally. Announce ourselves. Perhaps that is her real message in all of this madness.”

  Again, a cold laugh. The elder, bridling. “Well, why not? Are we not a trinity, of sorts? Are we not laws unto ourselves? Do we not move among them, ageless and eternal?”

  Slyness then, from the younger. “Oh, I’ll grant you all that. What do you think she is proposing? That we three somehow unify into one magnanimous being to rule this earth? That we have these dullards throw up altars and frescos in our image? That we start sending forth our divine dictums through smouldering shrubbery?”

  His hand made a pass, erasing the other’s markings. “No, it’s a ruse to lower our guard and bring about her Time eternal. I would have thought you of all people could recognize a trick.”

  “What matter? She is too strong. It will be as you said.”

  “Yes, but this time the scales will do more than just tip. They may break. And then what?”

  A silence, as time slid. The dull orange embers were muted now, the crowd dispersing as false dawn began to feel her way amongst the ruins. The elder stirred himself as the two slipped deeper into the final shadows.

  Furtively then, from the elder. “I can get you more time. A few years, a decade at best...”

  That is all I need. We will stand against this tide. All will not be lost.” The younger’s eyes were shot through with blue fire.

  “No. It will not be enough.” Reflecting. “But there will be time to gather the best seeds. From the Serapeum, the Musaeum, the Great Library. There are other places. I will go forth.”

  The younger waited, expectant. His elder continued, “Fire does more than cleanse. It prepares the soil for the next season. This field has been harvested, brother. Truly. Let her burn down the leavings. I will plant the seeds for the next crop.”

  “Make sure our sister does not interfere.” A shrug, as the fire in his eyes was banked.

  “I will not need to: she but watches. But she no longer waits. She is on the move and the Time of Change is at hand.” He gathered himself. “This city wasn’t built in a day, brother, but it burned in one night. You won’t be able to resist for much longer. Let us use this time wisely.” Then, with a thought, he was gone.

  Alone, the younger withdrew into himself to plan his closing acts. And, in a small part of his being, to being fearing the new nights that were sure to come.

  The Last Words of Antonius Pius

  by David Ray

  I’ve thought a lot about the last thing my father said before he died. “Equanimity”. It means calm, evenness of mind, balance. A pedantic, old word, spoken by a pedantic, old man. But it was more than that. It was a password. The one he gave his Nightwatchman to keep me out.

  It’s only natural for a child to rebel against their parents. Father was boring, with his politics and platitudes. They called him “Pius” because he was pea
ceful and that much was true. There were no wars while he was Emperor, not for twenty years, and that’s a long time in a great age.

  He was always soft. After my mother died, he built a temple to her and had her deified. He built a 20 meter high statue and carved her name on the walls. Her name was Faustina, but just in case you forgot, he put her name on his coins as well.

  We shared the same name, mom and I, but that’s where it ended. I liked to have fun. In the tunnels beneath Appia I came across the Cult of Prometheus, the one who stole fire from the gods. He liked to have fun, too. A charlatan who didn’t respect the status quo. I stole food and wine from the palace and shared it with the subterraneans. Dad could have Mother, but I wanted to keep company with the Trickster.

  Dad didn’t approve, of course, but what did I care? I didn’t approve of him either. And besides, as I grew older, I realized how empty his words were. He kneeled before a woman and talked about giving more power to the fairer sex, but how far would he go? I decided to put his words to the test.

  I broached the subject of succession with him one morning outside the senate. Being a career bureaucrat, he gave me a pat answer. The question was moot: so long as I had older brothers, there would be no question of my ascension.

  He was a fool. Was power ever given freely? He could pray to a deceased spirit, but I would invoke a greater one, he who secured power for Zeus. When the war with the Titans was lost, Prometheus changed sides and brought the pretender to power. It’s true, stealing fire for us mere mortals got him in trouble, but the punishment was revealing. Zeus’s anger at Prometheus took the form of Pandora, the first woman, a creature he created to plague the hearts and souls of men. She had beauty, seduction and cunning. I often wondered how father reconciled her with his religion.

  Poison is easy to secure and even easier to administer to older siblings who don’t even know that you’re there. With all the boys dispatched safely to the afterlife I decided to send my sister there, as well. She was a pain and what can I say? I was a teenager.

  With only one child left to take the reigns of power, I forced my father’s hand and he had no choice but to anoint me. But his response was another tired expression you might carve on a fresco: “Mos maiorum,” the ancestral way, and custom was to adopt an heir. You’d think he didn’t have any say in the matter. I always thought that was ironic, seeing how all my ancestors were raped in Sabine. For his homage to Mother, he conveniently forgot that the mothers of Rome were stolen from the Apennine Mountains.

  Res, non verba.

  I had no choice, so I bided my time, eager to meet my new family. He adopted two boys, as was the custom. Marcus and Verus. Killing them was pointless now, but what other avenues lay ahead? Could a sister even marry a brother?

  Yes, it’s not like we were blood or anything. And here custom indulged me – but which one would I choose? If I bet on the wrong one, it would be difficult to extricate myself from the situation. To make up my mind, I merely spoke to their tutor, for both boys had the same one, a Numidian named Fronto. Being proud, he bragged about his “crop,” but it didn’t take me long to realize he valued Marcus’s acumen over Verus’s.

  Knowing it would please the masses, father approved of my choice, if only to get me out of the house. In April I was married to Marcus. I was a relatively good wife, in that I had lots of children, but I never lost sight of my goal.

  With every step, Marcus was groomed to be the next Emperor. A successful lawyer and quaestor, he moved in all the right circles. But as much as I enjoyed his rise in prestige, there were a couple of things that distracted me.

  First of all, most of my children died. Second of all, Marcus started growing suspicious of my advice. Sure, to everyone else he was the doting husband, but he tired of my ambition.

  Like my father – and perhaps this is why they got along so well – Marcus was austere, modest and content. He did not have the same thirst for power that I was ingrained with. He was an affluent man and he never knew what it felt like to be passed over.

  There was another development of note. Marcus started getting sick. It wasn’t good – and I had nothing to do with it – but what troubled me was my father’s good health. There was a real possibility I would become a widow while my father was still keeping power.

  In order to move things along I decided to act. Father was old and if there’s one thing I learned from my god it was not to leave your fate in the hands of another. But somehow the old man got wind of my plan and fled to Etruria. Fortunately for me the Nightwatchman was an old lover of mine back in the tunnels of Appia. He gave me the password. “Equanimity”. A dose in an old piece of cheese and I was in mourning for the man who deprived me.

  Antonius Pius died in the year 161 and from the chorus of grief you’d think he was a martyr. But life has a habit of moving along and soon the masses were clamouring for guidance.

  Marcus was asked to be Emperor, but he refused their entreaties! He knew of my plans and retreated. But the senate proved dogged and he reluctantly agreed – so long as he could share the power with his other “brother” Versus.

  Like that could stop me now. Marcus knew I was smart, but he had no idea. I was descended from Pandora. All of these years I had kept council with Prometheus and was well advised. Versus, I might add, had a great fondness for cheese as well. With him safely beneath the ground I finally had everything that my birthright could ask for.

  Now that I have power, glory and a husband who knows better than to slight me, I can sit back and reflect on my days. The sacking of Ctesiphon, war with Samartia and oppression of Germania; we’ve kept the Legions of Romans busy. But it’s funny, through all of “our” victories and mischief I’ve laid, the wars and the discord, I keep returning to my father’s last word.

  You see, it’s clear who the next one in line to the throne is. My eldest boy Commodus.

  Like any good mother, I have removed any obstacles to his rule and as soon as he turns nineteen it will be his.

  The problem is, he never took a liking to my god. That he rejected his grandfather’s temple is no surprise, but now he’s found another deity that makes me think twice. He worships a dark one that hides in the shadows, and has grander ambitions than mine.

  I spoke to Commodus about this and he was furious. For some reason he thinks that his god is more powerful than my father’s and mine combined. He believes the Trickster is chaos and the Mother ineffectual, unable to assert any kind of dominion. But there’s something in his eyes that makes me nervous: no dreams, just a hate for all living things.

  He has sensed his father’s fear of me and begun to suspect I may be the only one that could give him trouble. I reassure him endlessly, but there’s a gulf I can’t fathom. Now that he’s in his teenaged years I wonder if I’ve lost him completely.

  Which brings me back to my father’s last word. Fronto, the tutor, told me that Equanimity is two words the Greeks put together: “Equal” and “spirit.” “Aequus” and “Animus.”

  Did the Emperor, my father, mean to warn me? Some insight into the forces that guide me? He knew I was coming. He knew I was cunning. And nobody stood in my way.

  Perhaps he meant to send me a message. That the spirits we know of are equal. We throw out the old and find a new beacon if it burns up the ones in their stead. Those early years, when power is elusive and we reach out like children for someone or something to show us the way. It’s only natural that a child rebels. And it’s assured that he finds a voice that consoles him. My only hope is that the dreams in my son’s head don’t lead to nightmares for our people.

  And what is a god without someone to follow? If my father is right, then we’d better be careful. By placing one above the others, they mirror our ambition and leave trouble and strife in their wake. If the gods are all equal, then perhaps the people are, too. It’s been said we were created in their image.

  If there was only some way to communicate this to my son. Perhaps I should alert the Nightwatchman. It’s
time I found a new password.

  The Unicorn's Lament

  by Cat Rambo

  A good mother doesn’t tell which child she loves best, and Gaia would not have admitted it, but there was a small and very soft part of her heart devoted to one of her animals in particular: the unicorn.

  She made it during the Dark Ages. That time wasn’t dark by day. At night, though, that was a different story. Most people didn’t live in castles or cities. They lived in villages and farms and tiny hamlets, spread out few and far. Between them were the forests, and those were very dark indeed.

  To fill those dark and empty spaces, Gaia made fabulous monsters: dragons and hippogriffs, scaly basilisks and stinging manticores, harpies that shrieked and sirens that sang. And the unicorn, which she loved most of all.

  How could she not? It had long soft white curls falling from its mane and tail, and a horn that was arrow-straight and curled at the same time: a tapering spiral coiled into a weapon as deadly as any sword. It had a soft, melodious voice that made you stand still to listen to it, and a wicked sense of humour, and sometimes it was not as kind as it could be, because it knew how much Gaia loved it.

  That was the problem, actually.

  The unicorn also knew that it was a very special animal. Its horn was magical. It looked like a magical thing: it shone very faintly in the dark and in the sunlight it sparkled more than it had a right to. It cured things: it healed wounds and made colds and fevers disappear, it made boils shrink and sore teeth fall out on the spot, without hurting at all.

  This led, as you might think it would, to many people making demands on the unicorn’s time, asking it to heal their coughing baby or their grandmother’s wart or even just to take away a blister or small hurt that a bandage might have treated just as well. Sometimes they would try to get the unicorn to come and stand by, just in case they got hurt.