DAGGER IV
The Tankar Dawn
by
Walt Popester
PUBLISHED BY:
Walt Popester
[email protected]
Dagger IV – The Tankar Dawn
Copyright 2017 Walt Popester
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are the product of the author’s mind or are used in a fictitious way.
Cover art, copyright 2017 by Silvio ‘Simbio’ Costa.
facebook.com/SilvioCostaSimbio
Edited by Sheryl Lee
http://sherylleee.wix.com/editor
To the one individual who never let me down.
Oriental Overture
1. Among the Catacombs
2. On the Shoulders of the Giant
3. The Three Arches
4. Chasing the Ghosts
5. Gone with the Wind
6. Noises in the Head
7. And the Tankar Plays
8. Written on the Walls
9. The Twilight Hall
Epilogue
Note from the author and boring thanks page part four.
To the reader:
The following novel contains coarse language, unavoidable elements of Satanism and scenes of graphic violence. The reader’s discretion is advised. It is recommended for an adult audience. However, due to its contents, it should not be read by anyone.
The author guarantees that he’s always been lucid during its drafting; that he promotes a healthy lifestyle and he’s against any form of dependency on things or persons. Hey, don’t pay attention to the pink elephant. I’m talking, damn it.
The author dissociates himself from the politically incorrect and socially irresponsible behavior of his characters.
Anyway, this is just a book and real life is still out there.
Enjoy.
Oriental Overture
The young Tankar emptied the last bucket of shit into the bottomless, black central pit. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up to the south.
Light a fire a thousand miles away, to show my long way home.
His thoughts were broken by a far but approaching voice, “Shit boy! Where are you, shit boy? Shit boy!?”
The shit boy spun. He picked up the pole with the buckets at the ends and loaded it on his shoulders. He scampered in the amber night to reach his master, who was calling for him. Darkness slapped him and made him trip face-down in the sand.
At the end of the long night, he couldn’t even take the chance to rest a little.
The master grabbed him by the throat and lifted him like a disobedient dog. “Dawn is near, and you must still empty the southern cistern. What were you looking at?” His cold Kahar eyes penetrated him.
The shit boy shook his head and didn’t dare to answer. He knew he was forbidden to speak since always. He knew what the consequences would be if he but opened his thin, black lips.
“If by daybreak your work is not done, I will use you as fertilizer instead of all this muck. Wouldn’t that be better for you too?” The master stared at him, a sneer on his face. “The end of all your sufferings, your useless pain. You’re alone. Nobody loves you. Sometimes I wonder what you’re living for, if not to empty my precious cisterns night after night.”
The shit boy didn’t answer. Like every time that he accepted the cruel cynicism of his fate without opposing, his fate let him go.
He picked up the buckets and stumbled away. His master didn’t pile it on, a sign that it was really late.
The fault is mine, all mine. I was thinking of home…never think of home, I promised that!
Even the cursed city’s remains tripped him, and he fell to the ground. Stubbornly, he got up to finish his fetid job. He walked by the endless building site of the new temple to the mistress of the road. It was being erected on the ruins of an older compound destroyed for that occasion. He headed toward the southern area of the gigantic ruin group known as Hakanui village, the core of the Kahar-Tankars’ lives.
The three arches of an ancient, disused aqueduct cast long moonlight shadows on the miseries and sterile monotonies of his world. He approached the tank, put one of the buckets under it, and pushed the heavy metal bar at the bottom. As always, the dry, inferior layers slowed the flow. The boy used the pole and then his hands to break them. He knew his master spot checked his tanks, and knew how he was quick to anger.
As the miasmic substance dripped down in the bucket, the shit boy watched the votive chapel down the way. It was once dedicated to the god of Emptiness, but it had been converted to the new goddess that Asmeghin Nehorur was imposing on his Tankars. Nailed to the red-painted apse, Our Lady of Sep-hul was watching him.
The shit boy had never seen anyone approach her for a request, a prayer, a tear. He always felt sorry for her, crucified to the wall and alone in the middle of nothing.
Just like me.
But that night a whole family kept her company. Hanging upside-down, father, mother, and son—a boy about his age—swung to the thoughtful sighs of the desert, their arms outstretched, their heads unnaturally bent, their eyes empty and lifeless. Their bellies were ripped open, and their intestines bonded in a horrid and complicated pattern, probably a five-pointed star. It was hard to tell, since the vultures had already checked the place.
The sense of Tankars for art…the shit boy thought, switching the buckets under the tank. Nothing compared to that of Gorgors, anyway.
Now the sweet family was dead, but the shit boy would never forget having seen them starve and die of thirst night after night, when he emptied the southern tank.
Infidel, was written on their foreheads, with more anger on the young one’s face.
The Tankar swinging in the middle, with a mane like fire, had told Nehorur that the new goddess could well build her temple on her own. The guards who silenced him had been so clement to allow his family to keep him company.
So now all the people of Hakanui were building a house to the new goddess. But during the endless working days, many of them shielded their eyes and looked southward, waiting for the answer of their god.
And Ktisis’ answer had been quick. The first to get sick had been the animals, then the children. In the end, the women.
It was that temple, I know it. It’s the curse of Ktisis.
The shit boy shielded his own eyes from the light of the moons and watched the mighty, megalithic walls. The sick had been exiled beyond, together with the rejects and the assassins.
But beyond was also the world where he belonged.
I was there, he thought. I was there with my father.
The shadow of a man had said the mistress of the vagabonds had come to save them all, although sickness and death seemed the only trace of her passage; and the fraternal war, at first between Kahars and Nehamas, then among the same Kahars killed in the name of a god or the other, who seemed to care little about the fate of mortals.
The young white Tankar thought he heard a sinister calling and turned to the three infidels. The little one had been the last to die. Water, he had implored until the end. Water, as if all his world and life was in that word.
The shit boy knew he was walking a fine line; to help someone who had publicly repudiated the mistress of the road was a very effective way to break it. But he had quenched the thirsty. He had lifted the naked and mutilated boy on his own shoulders. He had leveraged on his hind legs to let the dying boy swallow the few sips of water, desire for which had kept him tied to the world.
Tha
t was the last thing the young Kahar had done. He had watched the shit boy one last time, as if he wanted to thank him, before drawing his parting groan.
The shit boy knew the Kahar would never accept the new goddess coming from the west—a divinity belonging to humans, not to the sons of the desert. The retaliations would go on until Nehorur understood that too, or until someone found a way to make him see how frail was the power ruled by sole violence.
Kahars were as famous for their cruelty in war as for their stubbornness.
In the dead of night, he could hear a distant clandestine chanting raising from one of the peripheral buildings, For the glory and the triumph of Ktisis. Of Ktisis. For the glory and the triumph of Ktisis. Of Ktisis.
He smiled. It sounded like a funeral song, that of a whole people. The Tankars on night watch didn’t seem to hear it anymore. The Tankars on watch kept themselves far from that neighborhood, and none wore the goddess figurine around their neck. The air was filled with corruption. The silence among the ruins grew thicker day after day.
The shit boy raised his muzzle to the sky—vultures, day and night. They had found their land of abundance, the never-ending repast Ktisis himself had promised Tankars at the dawn of time.
The young Tankar pulled the metal bar, loaded the buckets on his shoulders, and made his way toward the central pit. There his master gathered the precious waste before sending it to the young farming colonies built on the land and blood of the Nehama clan, annihilated by Kahars just one year before.
The shit boy bent his head, suppressing thoughts and memories too dangerous for the time being.
At the end of the night, the young Tankar sat on the edge of the putrid pit and raised his eyes. A shooting star crossed the amber sky. It had waited for him, he knew it. He looked for his star and found it, as always, in the middle of the Skyrgal’s belt, the biggest and most visible constellation.
The star seemed to shine.
The boy closed his eyes. I know. Oh, I know, you’re watching over me, Dad.
He lay down with hands laced behind his head, on the boundary between his dreams and his filthy world, and remembered, What’s in the heart, goes from father to son. From father to son.
He repeated that in his mind until he fell asleep.
The wall trembled, again and again. Alone in the middle of silence, the little Tankar watched it crumble before his eyes. Dust settled and revealed a shadow with red, cruel eyes, darker than the starless night behind him.
The shit boy was awakened by a stone hitting his flank. He managed to keep his eyes open. He remembered his name. He remembered who he was and the world he lived on, but once again he missed why.
He jumped on all fours and growled.
She was sitting at the side of the road. Fascinated, he watched in silence her shadow enclosed in the halo of a faraway torch. He moved but a step and she turned to him, patting the ground beside her. The shit boy reached her and sat, hugging his knees.
“You could at least say hello,” she said. “I’ll tell no one that you spoke. The stink of this place keeps away everyone but me, who loves you.”
He shook his head.
“Bai—”
The shit boy snapped, “Don’t say my name, Tusday!”
Tusday hurried to put her hands on his mouth. In the heat they went down, one above the other. They looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
“Ah, ah! I got you talking. I could snitch on you and have them cut your tongue, Bai!” she snarled.
He growled, and she growled louder, then hugged him close. Bai surrendered to her embrace.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“I was dreaming it again,” the shit boy answered. “The night that must be forgotten. But I can’t. I can’t forget it.”
She caressed his mane. “And I can easily understand why.”
Bai didn’t answer, shaking his white head and muzzle.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Have a guess.”
“A shitty one?”
“Yay.”
They laughed together. He sniffed the pleasant stink of her head, but she turned away. He kept her still with two fingers on her cheeks. Only then did he notice her black eye. “Who did that?”
“I don’t—”
“Tus. Who?”
Tusday stood up and turned her back to him. “Vektor.”
“Ktisis!”
“But this time I had it coming, Bai. It was my fault.”
“Did you slip once again?”
“I got into the rooms of the true sons.” They both remained silent after that. “I’m not one of them,” she continued. “I should have known my place.”
He hugged her from behind, nibbling at her ear, which she wiggled as she always did. “I have a bad effect on you, if you don’t remember your place anymore. The true sons are spoiled and evil, like everyone who never fought.”
“Yay,” she answered, vaguely.
“Then why do you keep on trying to mix with them?”
“Because I want to know how it feels.”
“What?”
“To be less alone.”
Bai breathed out. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, “You’re not alone. You have me. We’re like the two moons chasing each other in the sky.”
“The ones that never meet each other?”
“You’re very kind, you know?”
She broke away. “You know what I mean.” She moved a few steps toward the setting red moon. “There’s no place for me in my father’s family. Today, Vektor reminded me where I belong, in the background, the right place for those who are in the world only for their gentle concession. Funny, that.”
Obstinate, he hugged her again and she didn’t fight. “No one’s got the right to make you sorry for yourself.”
“Do you care for me?”
Their fingers interlocked. “You’re the one light left to me, squirt.”
“You liar.” Tusday smiled. “I saw the way you look at the stars, at night. What do you think about when you do it?”
“About freedom.”
“Don’t do that.” She was serious. “Don’t ever think about freedom, here, or the thought will kill you. You’ll never be free. Accept it or die.”
“Then why are you losing your time with me?”
“Because you and I are two of a kind.” Tusday put her head on his chest. “We’re the ones left outside in the night. And the ones left outside always find a way to stick together.”
The boy caressed her. “You dope.”
“You fool.”
They lay down.
With her head on his shoulder, Tus watched the sky with Bai. “Will you and I ever see the end of the road?”
“Ask Vektor. It seems he’ll become the next apprentice to the Last Shaman,” he answered.
“Did I already say what an ass you are?”
“Just a couple of times.”
“Don’t envy Vektor. They say the Last Shaman is so old he loses his shit as he walks, can you imagine? And it’s his apprentice who has to take care of his divine body…”
The shit boy laughed.
“And Vektor is scared.” Tusday laughed louder. “He won’t stand for it. He’s sure he’ll have to clean that dodderer from sunrise to sunset. Even in our rooms we can hear them argue—he and his father. Last night he screamed, Well, what do you think, that I’ll become like the shit bo—” She broke off, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged with only one shoulder, fearing that his slightest movement could take her forever away from him. “My father was Skalmold’s apprentice, before being murdered,” he said. “He never cleaned anyone’s shit.”
“Don’t talk about that, you know it’s forbidden.”
“Like talking to me?”
“You fool.”
“You tramp. Vektor is not even worth his shit. He was my best friend, before…” Bai closed his eyes. “Before that night.” Like wind in the desert,
a memory blew in his mind—the walls of Assado crumbling down, and that first shadow who broke inside. Once again, he pushed it back down in the depths. “The sons of the Asmeghins must grow up together, you know, but I and Vektor were really out of control. We just lived for fun, the bad things in life were so few.” He opened his eyes again. The shift between the world of his memories and the present was abrupt as usual. “What is the worth of one who betrays his friends because someone told him to?”
“Well, that someone is his father, Nehorur. You probably heard about him, the guy who is slaying dogs and pi—”
“Bah!”
“Vektor is sick too for the way things stand.”
“Bah. Bah!” the shit boy said. “I know your opinion.”
“Don’t think about it, then.”
“Do you think that’s easy?”
“I think you have no alternative, Bai. Vektor has erased that part of his past, what else could he do? When someone mentions that once you spent your whole summers training together, he knocks his fangs out. He’s become violent. Violent, and mean.”
He’s alone too. Bai stared into space. My friend… “Once, he was not like that.”
“Once a lot of things were not like that. Then some stray dogs dug in the sand and found the entrance to a temple, remember?”
The shit boy breathed faster at the thought. He remembered. “Vaguely. I’m so angry, Tus. He could have… he should have—”
“Bai…”
“I’ll defend you, at least. We must make him pay.”
“Don’t do anything.”
“If you didn’t want me to do anything, you would have told me nothing.”
She smiled, and didn’t answer.
Ktisis, don’t I know girls… “Tus. Where?”
“The ruins near the northern boundaries of the village. But seriously—”
“Where?”
“The old labyrinth near the…” Tus didn’t continue.
“Near the northern shit tank,” he finished for her. “Yes. I think I know that place.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I know what I am. They never let me forget it.”
The Tankar Dawn Page 1
