by T. Wyse
And he was back again, the shimmering orb blinding him. He struggled to free his hands, but the shining blue sand cuffed his wrists. Another shining white hand touched him upon his left, lapping away all the loaned energy. It stilled the trembling within his soul, the fury and burning quenched.
“Rest now. You have done more than we could have thought, child.” The soothing ripples flowed over him from his right, washing over him like a blanket of his own.
“I failed him, failed,” he managed, his words trickling down his shoulders.
“Yet you have accomplished something of interest, something uncommon. Focus up again. We will help you see, but only to see.” The blanket of words wrapped up, warming him about his neck to give a gentle push at his chin, nudging his spirit’s gaze one last time towards the darkened cube.
Though he stood outside of it, he knew the innards of the cubed space. The couch sat vacant, and a pale white glow defined the box of the room, the boy cutting a shadow against it. He stood there, gazing out into the unshared vision of the world, his eyes active and probing, his arms clasped behind his back, and his face ever thoughtful.
“He waits now, still wary. Too much doubt in his mind to fight as you have, but you have saved him from the trap.” The nudge ended and Kechua lay in the sand, his soul succumbing to exhaustion. “The clay was still wet, and you saved him from firing it into reality as it was.
“You have changed the birth of a god of misery, of wretchedness, into that of a neutral one; a watcher. You have changed the path of a prisoner into a guardian. Your passion moved the very ones who watch over The Light of the Wood, and that is an uncommon gift of note.”
The creature no longer wore Anah’s form, and it somehow stood close enough to him that he could feel the red glow of its presence. The light paled against the obscuring orb, and his strength was too far gone to attempt to feel it; to define the shapelessness of the red blur.
“Why do you hide yourselves from me?” His words trickled down in a drooling puddle across his cheek. Little blobs of red clustered around him, laying pointed muzzles across his arms and legs.
“We are not hiding,” the spirit whispered into his ear. “But to see any of us directly would be a conclusion, something fed to you, something that would be dangerous within the light of this place.
“I wanted to tell you that what you did was a good thing. I felt your anxiety in your heart, both at the summit as you claimed your throne, and in the face of the realization of the death of The Guardian.”
“Wolf said . . . ”
“Wolf”—she paused—“says a great many things. He is a creature of primal concerns, of base and ugly ideas. He has changed little over time, wallowing in brutality. He thinks of glory in taking what can be taken, in striking weakness without considering the purpose of the strike itself.”
“You followed your heart, telling you to be merciful, to not strike without using your mind. You followed the ways of your people and the ways of the kindness of the world. That alone would have been enough to grant you my respect, my boon, to prove you worthy . . . ”
“Then why . . . why are you not walking beside me?” The words came out in a whimper.
“I am ever watching, ever by your side, but Wolf eclipses my own presence. While he stands in that spot, I cannot,” the spirit whispered gently, apologetically. “I wonder, too, if you appreciate the guidance he offers. His lessons clash with who you are, but is that not the greatest of teachers?”
“I am by your side, Kechua. I watched you dance for your manhood; seek the answers in the despoiled lands, I and more. I am ever watching you, even when you cannot touch me, cannot see me.”
“These times are strange; uncommon. He is wild, cruel, yet not as full of malevolence as you might think. He is drawn to you out of curiosity, and he judges you as you travel together.”
“He . . . judges me?” Kechua’s words dribbled out. “On what criteria, on what right?”
“His own criteria, ever changing. His own right, primal and mighty.”
“When . . . when will he decide it is enough?”
“Only he knows. Stay true to your heart Kechua, and the way of the people. Wolf is cruel, brutal, yet he is a creature of respect. You act not only for yourself, not only for your people, but our way itself. He is judging you, and through you, we are judged.”
He stared silently into the world.
“Stay strong, stay true. We will meet, and from that day forward, it will seem as if we have always known one another.” The spirit’s voice became a whisper, and he accepted the smothering and warm embrace as a final and much larger jaw rested upon his chest.
***
Kechua shuddered awake, a chill shadow lurking above his body. He lifted his eyelids with fluttering care to see two fiery eyes glaring into him.
The creature gave a derisive grumbling snort as Kechua reached trembling hands for his clubs. “No battle to win today. I’m merely curious of what happened. Share your insight.”
“You . . . don’t know?” Kechua slid back to sit against his pack, his limbs waking.
The dome looked like a frozen piece of the night itself, scooped and planted like a bulbous fruit. Its skin shone just as his obsidian blades did.
“Whatever that is, it has changed inside,” Wolf rumbled. “I would leave this place. There is an ugly and uneasy energy here.”
“I feel it moving now, grinding and shifting, but much more quickly than you would think it could.” Kechua paused, the sharp vibrations coming in spurts, stopping and rotating again. “It’s like an eye, moving inside the dome.” His trembling hand found some meat and berries to gnaw.
“Even the night stalkers kept far away. Do you not want to leave?” Wolf rumbled, pacing in a safe arc around the perimeter of the wall.
“Not yet.” Kechua sipped at his water, finding the skin less than bulging for the first time.
For most of the morning, Kechua circled around the dome, stopping only when he came upon his own steps and onto Wolf, who had waited in his spot like some glowering statue.
“Well?” Wolf muttered upon the boy’s arrival.
“No doors, no windows, or anything like that. I hoped there would be some opening, some difference or flaw, but no, it’s all the same all the way around. I can’t even get any real sense of the insides either. I did notice something else though, that makes it feel even more like an eye.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not a dome. I think it’s a sphere. It digs into the earth as much as it rises above it. Whatever the surface is, I can’t really feel it when I listen, but the echoing of the layers below is warped in an evened-out way, it must be that.”
“Hm.” Wolf nodded. “If you are satisfied, then are we off to another silly errand?”
He returned to the black rock, his hand tracing down on the warm shimmering black. “I’m going,” he said, his words echoing off the shell. “This is your last chance. I don’t know if I’ll be back again.” His hand slipped to his side, his palm quickly chilling.
He turned and walked away with silence urging him on. His mind fought between two pictures. One was a young boy sitting vacant, staring in the pale blue light of a dreaming television set. The whispers of dark spirits unseen sent chills creeping up his neck. The other was the boy standing, arms clasped behind his back, watching the world outside and surveying for something Kechua couldn’t hope to understand.
“Home, I guess.” Kechua pointed east. “I think I need to rest.”
CHAPTER 8:
The Hungry
He didn’t run, his pace weighed down by his thoughts, and the pack took full advantage of this to sink his absent-minded feet into the soil. The swamp waited for him beyond a halo of rock shard, infusing dirt around the eye and collecting a shining layer of transparent water among the weeds. Each step into the soggy terrain slipped him to his knees. Pale leeches nipped at his legs, only to slip off when touched by the air. The flat lichen plants reached shyly upward
s, blooming into pointed fingers. Little turtles swam amongst squared flowering lilies and cattails bursting fat with cotton.
The stream arrived before him, though it foamed with furious rapids and fed into a widening lake. The swamp stopped the lake with a declared barrier Kechua couldn’t discern, but where this rule was set, only trickles of water were allowed to intrude inwards. None of the plants native to the riverside dared spread into the swampland, and even the contemplative hum of the flying insects was silent until the moment he crossed over from the swampland’s hush.
He followed the river back to the main arterial flow, which roared and cast a plume of mist above it, nearly blotting out the lone tooth upon the horizon from whence it came. The river sported rocky banks, the stem offering sets of rocks jutting helpfully upwards to allow passage over the subsidiary streams.
He followed the river, finding it in a similar pattern as before, where it would fatten and flatten into a deceptively smooth-skinned flow. The wild grasses reached for the horizon, swallowing all the remaining brown as he grew close to the mountain.
Flashes of daring fish broke the water, and sparkling scales decorated bodies as large as his arms. He took another rest at the bank of one of the smooth and quiet patches, though when he dipped his legs into the water, the current nearly dragged him in like some waiting beast.
He dug into the bank and leaned back, letting the chill and tugging massage his tired legs. He didn’t bother swatting at the buzzing creatures, almost enjoying the rasping hum they brought. His lazy meditation was split as he gazed into the sky and found an intruder upon the plain blue canvas. A single tendril of ashen grey cut a faint crack; one forming a worming knot in the sky. The worm never grew thicker, never split, and disappeared into a point upon the horizon, somewhere beyond the trembling mat of grasses.
“Up for a little more, Old Man?” He leaned back, viewing the creature upside down.
“Hm.” Wolf shrugged.
He gathered himself, tying his pants around his ankles, and prepared to cross one of the shallower sections. The river sensed his intent, and the water burbled and yawned, coming to a near halt. Stones trembled up to offer him a path, and when he crossed, the river’s white fury returned in full force, the rocks casting water in foaming arcs into the air.
He treaded towards the rising worm with care, allowing his feet to fall into a hurried tempo somewhere short of a run. He passed beyond the embrace of the river grass within minutes and tore a dusty path through the sleeping sands.
The tendril thickened with little passing of time, and a lonely forest of pale and leafless trees rose from the sands. The trees were lean creatures, but their branches jutted out thickly above like skeletal mushroom caps. Though set in deliberate rows around him, they crushed in together. Their branches tangled into a mesh ceiling, packed bodies forming an obscuring wall with a sort of hypnotic rhythmic light pulse. It slapped at his eyes as he walked through.
He pressed through the forest, the burning stink ambushing him and growing strong enough to force him to sneeze; to bite at his eyes before the trees broke into a clearing.
A fire, a simple thing, and yet he felt immediately repelled by it. He had tasted fire, created fire, even beyond the rather obedient blaze within the black tent. He knew its smell and taste, knew the raw burn of wilder flame. His eyes burned from staring through pensive flames and listening to stories and teachings inside the Black Tent, but this was not of the same world. A smoldering grey pile vomited grey smoke, not a single flicker of red flame lapping forth. Yet the fire crackled sharply, the heat warped the light, the air of the forest shuddering with revulsion.
He approached carefully, finding himself ducking to avoid the blasting waves of stinking char. Black smoke coughed from the invisible blaze, slapping him across the arm with clinging coal tint. Black fireflies shuddered towards the ground in place of embers, the soil shuddering at its touch and forming volcanic pumice when they mixed.
The entire body of the flame, the manifestation of the heat, seemed completely void of the passion it had represented; the beauty of the thing utterly gone.
“Somewhere, one of your kind is failing their duties utterly,” Wolf growled, appearing from the trees to pace around the bonfire.
“You actually sound disgusted, Wolf.” Kechua glanced at his strange companion. Wolf glared at the blank blaze as he circled, keeping a hefty distance.
“This is no fire, no nemesis to the dark. Ash without flame, a spark onto wet reeds. To use this to give security, disgusting.” Wolf made a growling chuff.
Kechua followed behind, and for the first time, he noticed the three lumps in the clearing, all traces of their demure drumbeats erased by the hot crunching pebbles underneath. He rushed to their sides, the stones concealing their hearts from him and forcing him to rely on his sight alone. Their eyes all shut tight, their faces painted black, their breathing hoarse and dry. Wet ink painted trails from their mouths and eyes onto the ground.
“Hello?” Kechua asked. “Hello?” he shouted. None of the three gave any response. There was a woman and two men. He went to the woman first, her lips cracking with dark red between the clinging black; her breathing weak and rasping. He produced a torn bit of fabric from his pack and fed it with his flask, using it to wipe the ash from her eyes and mouth. No fever, he thought as he checked her forehead. Her eyes reacted to light, but she could not be wakened. He had to place his head against her heart to get a glimmer of her faint and unravelling pulse. The same was true of the second man, though his face was ashen under the layer of black, the coil of his heart a tiny, twitching thread.
He moved to the third, repeating the cleaning and test. The man’s breathing buzzed like the aged smokers Kechua had known, most of them briefly, yet he could feel the rhythm of his waning life from the mere touch. The man erupted into life in the boy’s arms.
“Hahhhhh,” the man rasped with surprise at the boy’s probing. “He—” His voice crackled, the words caught in his throat. Kechua offered his flask, giving the man a gentle trickle of water.
“Are you”—the man gasped, the words catching in his throat—”a plane? Did you see?” His throat clicked, and he winced painfully. Kechua gave another drink.
“The others, Sally, Jose . . . are they?” He made a feeble effort to sit up but was forced down by Kechua.
“Alive, alive,” Kechua repeated, mopping the man’s face and doing the same to the others.
“Thank you,” the man said weakly.
“They’re still unconscious, but their breathing is better.” Kechua looked at the lifeless fire, crackling and vomiting smoke upwards. “How long have you been here? How long has the fire been like this?”
“Days. Thought a fire was a good idea. We walked for days. Couldn’t walk any longer,” he rasped deeply. Kechua let him drink from the flask once more. It withered, getting worryingly light.
“Water,” he declared, furious at himself for being drawn there without filling it at the river. He would need to camp there that night with them. They weren’t going to move.
“Rest a minute.” Kechua leaned the man back on his rut in the padded brown earth.
“Not a net this time. Think we can do the spring again?” he asked, shifting the staff around in his hands, trying to find some trace of a rune for water. It responded with an almost worried tremble.
Kechua closed his eyes, fighting against the weight of those fading heartbeats. He tried to fight the sting of the smoke and gather the sentiment of that moment; of the day in the circle when he met the silt the first time.
Grasping a single collected moment, he thrust the staff into the earth at the side of the fire furthest away from the other people. He went so far as to bury his hands to the elbow, until he could be sure he was through the layer of jagged pebbles.
He withdrew it after some pause, and yet no geyser spat the staff out. He ripped the staff upwards, flinging it into the air and catching it again, fully re-enacting the feeling of that mo
ment. A clouded snake of silt slithered from the crater, coiling once around the grey trail before slipping onto its own path skyward.
“Come on,” he growled, staring into the hole as the staff trembled loose the caked earth. “Come on!” he screamed, stomping to the other side of the camp and thrusting the staff into the earth once more. “Water! Give me water!” he screamed, his lungs and arms burning, and he coughed. “Why won’t this work?”
“Why ask me? Why not ask the sand and sky instead?” Wolf mumbled, having slunk to a laying stance, his eyes half open and not particularly burning the boy. “Perhaps you don’t want it enough.”
Furiously, Kechua tried to scratch out a circle. His trembling hands found one of the runes for water. He drew a circle in the stones near his initial cut into the earth, but the stones tauntingly slipped back into place, denying any circle he tried to make. The ashen spit sought out his crater too, and more of the pale and porous rocks filled the space he had cut.
“I want this!” Kechua screamed, glancing frantically back to the people. The man lay still.
“I don’t”—the man coughed—“think you can just scream at the earth and bring up water.” He bought an expensive laugh and ended up folded in rasping pain.
“I . . . there’s a river. I have to go back there. Drink the rest of this, but I need to take it with me.” He handed the skin to the man. “I have some food . . . um, berries and meat. All dried, but they’re good.”
“I don’t think I can swallow.” The man coughed.
“Softer, wet, what about fish? There are fish too. I’ll be back with water and fish!” he declared. “Do you have any containers, bottles, something? I can only bring back the skin’s worth.”
“No. Nothing.”
