Curse: The end has only just begun

by Rich Hayden

  “It directed and maintained the flow of time itself. Now, it does nothing. My name’s Arcanus Tyme,” the man said, with an offering of his hand.

  In an act that felt wonderfully familiar, Amil introduced himself as he briskly walked over to Arcanus to shake his hand.

  “I don’t mean any offense, but you’re in desperate need of some new clothes,” said Arcanus, with a smile as he swept his eyes over the shabby condition of Amil’s rags.

  “I’d just settle for an explanation of things.”

  “Fair enough. But may we continue this conversation somewhere a bit more comfortable?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Amil followed Arcanus with a sense of awe as they slowly plodded through the massive room. The wonders that he saw previously were matched, and in some cases surpassed by the things he was given the privilege of seeing. Machines of impossible construction and elusive purpose stood quiet in various states of neglect. Small and trivial items, much akin to the brainteasers that usually grace the tops of office desks, could be found hiding in corners and slumped over the larger creations. But for as mesmerizing as all these inventions were, they all shared a common bond: rot and decay. Rust was the color of their skins, and all the metals were weak with corrosion. The plastics were warped, and the instruments were dead, their needles long ago frozen in place. Yes, everything in the room looked to be long past servicing, or even salvaging. Everything, that is, except the impeccably clean and polished object that made Arcanus most proud.

  A light of soft amber drifted from a corridor that looked no cozier than a warehouse lunchroom ripped from the time of America’s industrial revolution. There was a chipped desk, stacks of yellowed books that knew no proper order, and a few pieces of furniture that obscenely exposed their springs. A dirty sink with patinated pipes of copper protruded from the cracked block of the wall. A small, wobbly table was placed nearby, and upon its scratched face, an ancient percolator sat, practically tethered to the surface by streaks of dried coffee.

  With a squeal almost as wretched as the screams of a Waste, Arcanus pulled out his chair. As he plunked down, he motioned for Amil to sit. He poured them both a cup of the burnt liquid without any prompting, and picked up a dented lunch pail that slept under the table. He cracked open the metal box and offered a stiff roll to his new friend.

  “Sorry, I know they’re dry,” he said, as he ripped the hard bread asunder. “So, young man, what is it you want to know?”

  “You’re a god, aren’t you?” asked Amil slowly, with the eyes of a wondering boy.

  “I never really cared for that title. A bit arrogant, don’t you think? I always thought of myself as a mechanic, more or less. A creator of things, I suppose.”

  “Did you build that thing, the thing with the gears?”

  “There’s something you need to understand, it is not a thing. Things are simple and insignificant. That is so much more than just a thing. It is time itself, and yes, I built it, just as I constructed everything else in this room.”

  “By yourself?” Amil asked, perplexed.

  “Me and no other.”

  Amil’s mind was beset with confusion. But he didn’t move or even exhale. He was simply stunned by the enormity of Arcanus’s words. It might have been the logical path of thought, but he didn’t consider of how, or even why, Arcanus had built the things he had seen. Rather, he thought of the immense amount of time that must have been used to create such a vast network of machines. It gave him a vague understanding of the old man’s age, and as Amil thought of it, he felt that eternity was probably young in comparison.

  “What do you mean that it’s time itself?”

  “Forgot what you know of the earth. Hours, minutes, and so on. They’re not accurate, barely real, even. Anyway, my machine has been the catalyst for all change. It created the very fabric of time, and was designed to ever preserve its flow,” he explained while gnawing through the bread.

  “What happened?” asked Amil as he rubbed the key that peeked out from the holes in his shirt.

  “I’m sure you know that answer,” stated Arcanus solemnly, as he noticed Amil’s fingers.

  “Aphelianna.”

  “This is my curse, son. She ruined my machine. And although I know it’s beyond repair, every day I attempt to revive it.”

  “Why?”

  “You have a key, that tells me there’s something that you haven’t given up on. I don’t know what that thing is, but even you can surely admit, it is an endeavor far less important than my labor.”

  The words stung, but there was no use in trying to deny that hard truth of the lesson. Arcanus was right. Amil’s pursuit was relatively meaningless, and only held value for one soul. Mr. Tyme’s work however, affected the entirety of existence.

  “Since her hexes, the days fell apart, the world grew stagnant. The flow of time was set adrift, and the beast that I once tamed has grown feral again. The measurement and meaning of time was lost. It troubles me to talk of it, and yet I find it comically ironic, that human beings are the one creature largely unaffected by the cruelties of time, and the ultimate failure of my work.”

  “How do you mean? I don’t understand. How are we unaffected?” asked Amil.

  “Beyond the ones like yourself, who have felt Aphelianna’s touch, the condition in which humans arrive here will never heal, nor will it ever naturally deteriorate further. Humankind is, for all practical means, locked in a state of suspended animation. The Spirit ages and yes, it will die one day. The life of a Waste then awaits, but it takes a very long time. It is a change that even I don’t fully understand. And so I, like many others have already assuredly done, will attempt to convince you to abandon your quest.”

  “I won’t do it, and I’m tired of hearing that. I don’t care about your curses,” Amil said, harshly.

  “The lifting of my curse has the potential to restore order to the world. I pray for that day to come, and, in a way, I dread its arrival. I dream of the day when my machine will roar back to life. But I accept that no human will ever find Isadora. The challenge is much too vast. That is why I selflessly beg of you to stop.”

  Amil said nothing, as he stared down at the cracked veneer and picked the scabs that had formed on the table’s face.

  “Let me tell you something, Amil,” Arcanus said softly, before the introduction of a long and melancholy pause. “When Aphelianna gave you that key, she also gave you a gift. Unlike the rest of your kind, your health was restored, your vitality, and your vanity. Furthermore, any injury you suffer will heal rapidly. You are not made perfect however, as I have seen your condition before. Be careful. If you suffer traumatic injuries repeatedly, a massive loss of blood, maybe, with no time to heal, the Spirit will wither, and you will die again. You will become a Waste. If you manage to avoid these things, you will live forever. Find a place to call home, forget about what hides behind the many doors, find that Eternal City, and be at peace. You have a gift that so few enjoy, don’t allow it to become your curse.”

  The argument was spoken with quiet conviction, and its words were so strong that they could not be disputed. Arcanus mildly contradicted the words of the musician, and of Aphelianna herself, when he spoke of a new death. Amil knew not who to believe, but there was something in the old man’s speech that rang of truth. He then contemplated the notion that his questions would forever endure without the companionship of answer. Maybe so much time had ebbed away that even the minds of gods had grown murky and unsure. Perhaps it didn’t matter who was wholly correct. After all, only suffering awaited Amil’s failure. He then thought of it, finally, the prospect of eternal health. For a moment, Amil felt a renewed feeling of safety that he forgot existed. Beyond the salvation of Ali, Aphelianna offered him little, and, with a long, hard thought of himself, Amil contemplated taking the old man’s advice.

  “Blood,” whispered Amil. “Why blood?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the old man. “Maybe the loss of enough blood tric
ks the mind, or, better stated, the Spirit, into thinking that the body is about to die, and therefore it does. Maybe it is your essence. Maybe it is actually your soul.”

  The words stuck in Amil’s mind the way moss slowly spreads over an old gravestone, as he thought of the chilly and thick fluid that rested in his veins. He wondered if blood had always been something more than science was able to detect, or had it been recently changed, mutated like everything else that entered into the house of Aphelianna?

  “There is something else that you should know,” said Arcanus softly.

  By the tone of voice used by the ancient engineer, Amil knew to fear the words to come. They were going to bring only sorrow, and he contemplated the usefulness of hearing them spoken aloud. With a deep breath in his lungs, he nodded at the old man, foolishly thinking that he was adequately prepared for the revelation.

  “There are those who will suggest that the dead human will endure forever here. This is wholly untrue, as they lack knowledge of the Spirit. Other than those like yourself, who have been granted exception from decay by either Aphelianna or Isadora, every human will one day become a Waste. All of you. This is not a new death, but the final form, the last and most torturous stage. It may take thousands of years, to put it in a time frame that you understand, but it will happen, as all the blood within the body slowly dissolves. It seems harsh, and indeed it is, but I believe that humanity was never meant to enter here. I have a theory that Aphelianna was never meant to escort humans here. There has been some mistake, a transgression, and there is a consequence for this failure of time.”

  “Stop. Stop, enough,” said Amil, exasperated, as he raised his hands in front of his face as though to shield himself from the spears of Arcanus’s words. “Maybe...maybe if I succeed, I can take Ali to Isadora,” he said to himself, in desperation.

  “Amil,” begged Arcanus. “You cannot save her. Remember what I said, take my advice.”

  “Arcanus, I truly can’t tell you what I’ll do,” he admitted as a tear broke from his eye. “But can you do something for me?”

  “Of course, my boy, just ask,” he replied gleefully, happy to be moving on from such a sorrowful subject.

  “How did this happen? The gods, the curses. Please, help me to understand.”

  “It’s a painful history that hurts me to repeat,” Arcanus paused, contemplating the ending of this discussion. “But, I suppose that you’re just as much a part of it now as I am. Perhaps you are entitled to hear of it. Hmm, for that matter, you’re the first person I’ve talked to in a long time. Who knows how long it will be before someone else trips through my home...disturbing my gauges,” he said, with a grin of disapproval.

  “Sorry,” Amil said with a smile.

  “So, where would you like me to begin?”

  “With Aphelianna. Why did she do this?”

  “This was once called The House of the Divine, and in it, all the deities of the world did reside. From our grand home, we worked together to maintain order and the existence of all things. We each had our own charge and responsibilities, as you have no doubt gathered by now. Once a Mortal had passed away, they were ushered into different areas of the house, based on their actions in life. Here, they could mingle with the gods they once prayed to, and in some cases, they could attain godhood as well. It was a truly beautiful way of life.” Arcanus stopped and looked into the bleak distance of the world he knew, and in his tired eyes, Amil could see a reflection of a paradise lost.

  “After an interminable amount of time, Aphelianna grew jealous of the other gods. The Mortals never prayed to her in life, they feared her in death, and once they were here, they avoided her completely. She was a beautiful woman, truly kind, but hers was a dark task that could undo any of us, I am most certain of that. She longed to be free of her duties, and I voted in support of her.”

  “Voted?” Amil asked, quite surprised.

  “Yes. The council of gods had a meeting, and after much deliberation and a speech by Aphelianna that still calls water into my eyes, we decided her fate. By three voices, she lost her bid to leave her morbid occupation. It was ruled that she should remain the Goddess of Death for 1000 more aeons, at which point she could apply for dismissal again. But Aphelianna didn’t take to the news very well.”

  “Arcanus, did you pity her?”

  “Yes. By some measure, I still do,” he admitted, after a long and pained absence of speech.

  “Anyway, on with this, I suppose. She was furious with her sister, Isadora, the Goddess of Life, who did not support her plea to be relieved of her post. She blamed Isadora for nearly everything, and turned her back on the other gods, even the ones who spoke in favor of her. From that day on, she relinquished her duties without sanction.”

  “What happened to the people who died?”

  “They wallowed in the fields. Starved of sunlight and swollen with the weight of the dead, the grass died and the soil became poisoned with their waste. And all the while, Aphelianna sat upon her fountain and stared into the darkening water.”

  “That water, or whatever that sludge is, what is it exactly?” asked Amil.

  “The essence of life. It was once clean and pure, and of the mightiest blue. When the dead arrived, they would wash themselves in it and prepare for a cleansed rebirth in the afterlife. But as Aphelianna grew negligent, the water turned sour. I can only think of how black and acidic it must be now. It very accurately tells of how sick life has become and just how close we are to absolute nonexistence.” For the first time, the cadence of Arcanus’s voice had changed. The warmth of his brogue died away, and the strength of his words faltered.

  “Then one day, the whole fucking world fell apart. Pardon my language. It was decided that Saint Calvino go and speak with Aphelianna. He loved her so deeply, and once, so very long ago, she loved him as well. It was felt that she might listen to him. But he never got the opportunity to make his pitch for the other gods. Instead, he first tried to rekindle the love they once shared.”

  “They were together? I thought he was barely a man?”

  “He was the eternal boy,” said Arcanus, with a fake exuberance and a sweep of his hand. “He was the God of Love. The perfect mix of adolescent passion and boyish innocence. But do not be fooled, he was no child. Anyway, Aphelianna rejected his advances. He was a god, after all, and she had grown to despise him. She slapped his face and dirtied his shoes with her spit. With her cheeks wet with tears, Aphelianna hurled insults at him and renounced any affection for him that she had once held.”

  Amil thought of Ali, and the last fight they ever had. He remembered the terrible things that they said to one another, and felt an eerie similarity to this epic example of the imperfection of life and of the irrational behavior born from savaged feelings. He shed a tear for Ali, and, in what felt like a continuation of his punishment, he allowed another to fall for Aphelianna.

  “Arcanus, I was told that this Saint Calvino raped her. Is that true?”

  Old Father Tyme rubbed his closed eyes, and as he did, tears wetted the dried tips of his fingers. His face exposed more wrinkles in its saddened state, and his chin trembled as Arcanus fought valiantly to suppress a breakdown.

  “Yes, it is,” he said finally, with a nod. “He held her face under the water of her fountain and beat her body until she had no will to resist. He then took his time in the desecration of her, and then he left her there. Naked! Cold! In front of all those Mortals...why do you make me do this!?” shouted Arcanus as he rose from the table. A spark of sadness ignited a fury within the old man. In his grief, Arcanus dashed random items to the floor and bloodied his knuckles upon the coarse stone of the walls.

  “Okay! Alright, I’m sorry! Just please stop!” pleaded Amil.

  “No, no, no, I’m sorry, my young friend,” whispered Arcanus, once he had moderately composed himself. “It is not your fault.”

  Slicked with sweat and wheezing on the foul composition of the stale air, Arcanus stood with his back to Am
il as he caught his breath. He rubbed his face and flattened his hair back down with the application of a greasy palm, and once again motioned for Amil to sit as he resituated his chair.

  “Would you like me to continue?” Arcanus asked.

  “I just want to understand all this, as best I can.”

  “Very well then, moving on. That night, Aphelianna put curses onto us all. She shackled every one of us to tasks or conditions that we could never break on our own. This was all done in an effort to silence Isadora.”

  “Why her? Why didn’t she just curse Calvino?”

  “In the great order of things, he’s quite unimportant. But still, I’m sure Aphelianna reserved a particularly nasty curse for him.”

  Amil said nothing, and, in his telling silence, Arcanus took solace.

  “In order to escape her godly task, her torment, as it had become, Aphelianna knew that she had to silence Isadora. Her sister is the Goddess of Life, and if she can no longer create, then eventually all life will expire, and there will be no more dead to shepherd.”

  “And then Aphelianna will be free.”

  “Exactly. Aphelianna knew the other gods would try to save Isadora, and so that is why she cursed the rest of us. Do you remember that great throne you surely noticed in The Hall of Worship?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I could forget it,” said Amil.

  “That is the seat reserved for the god of gods, and no one has ever sat in it. It was constructed of invincible materials, regrettably, it now seems, and was meant to remain empty as a reminder to us all that no one god was all powerful, that we all depended on each other for our own survival. Aphelianna knew that without interference from the other gods, she would be free to claim that power.”

  “Why couldn’t she have just sat in it before the curses? I could have,” said Amil in astonishment.

  “No, my boy, you couldn’t have,” said Arcanus with an irritated laugh. “Had you placed yourself in that chair, a Waste’s body you would now have, maybe worse. During the better times, no god could take the throne, either, as a unanimous vote of approval from the other gods was required before any one of us could claim almighty power. This, of course, was something that was never going to happen, and so we were all forever protected from treason. But now the other gods are rendered impotent, and Aphelianna is all that remains. So, now as to why she could not have taken the throne for herself. You see, once someone becomes the God or Goddess of Death, as it is in Aphelianna’s case, they are prohibited reentry into The House of the Divine until they are succeeded.”