Black.
Black, everywhere.
Eyes, stinging.
Tears. Falling.
My head, pounding.
What happened?
"Don't ya dare move." A command decrees.
The world's turn.
Contorting.
Blurs. Motion. Impact. Sound.
Fountains spray—green, gushing and endless.
What a jolly good show.
"Stop wriggling. This will only help you."
More green.
Dark green.
Squares, all dancing.
Pulsing.
Together.
In light,
So bright,
Around me.
"Get up."
Two hairy arms appear.
Their appendages grapple, seizing my collar.
Up, up I go. Dragged.
Head leaning back. Black leaks from my nose.
The world wobbles.
A voice calls out.
"Morning, princess."
"Uh… morning. How was work today?"
"You hit your head pretty hard, huh?"
My neck drifts like debris caught in wind, noddling along.
"I had a bad, scary dream… but it's all over now."
I smile—a real tooth grin.
"That's good. Real good. We could use your hand right now."
"Here, please be gentle. His name's Sir Hand."
My hands lift, brushing against an eyepatch.
"Say, Father? What happened to your eye?"
"It seems you're not quite with us now. This one's on you… and it will hurt."
EEEEEIIIK!
Voltage-shock sears through every nerve connection—origin unknown, but it all screams the same.
"Mother-fucker!"
"Yes, I am. What of it?" Jimson sneers.
"No! Not you. The pain!" I blurst.
The pain. Agony. Confusion.
All shouting, arguing. Neither one of them makes any sense.
Unintelligible.
"Stings, dunnit?" He retorts vaguely.
"Taaa… That's an understatement, and you know it." I spit, pointing at him.
"No need to tell me bout it, it feels like every damn meridian deviates simultaneously and your internal qi flows backwards. Make your ass whimper like an orphan that one." He chuckles lightly.
"Can't you do anything for the pain, like some pills; Ibuprofen even?"
"Ah, pills are for the weak." (And the wealthy, he murmurs under heavy breath.)
"What is pain but the fruit of life? The core that blooms, withers, and decomposes… until there's only one true remedy: death."
He nods to himself, eyes splitting blanks, hiding behind a pilfered smile.
"It is only sweet when ripe. For the rest, all that flavour's gone, bland. Not very nice."
His head shakes as he continues.
"Yonking hell, how am I supposed to feel good after hearing that?" I exclaim.
"Feel good, hahaha. You make this senior proud. It was under my expert tutelage you found meaning in that word, and now look; using it like a sect grandmaster."
Both thumb and index finger rake over his gravelly, stubble of whiskers. With his pharynx hummering a deep sonorous purr, he makes my ear-hairs quiver.
"Just shut up, and give me the sit rep, NOW."
Keratin teeth scrape against heavy air, snarling up at his throat.
Lively are my fingers, barking, unrestrained and rabid, like a stray hound.
"Sit rep…? Pfft." His head tilts slightly, eyes beady, as if accepting my taunt.
"YOU!" My hands open, shaking with seething animation.
"When I ask for a situation report. You respond with what kind of danger we find ourselves in, understand me, Mister!"
I project, cadence clear.
"Well, why didn't you just say that first, instead of dressing it up in flowery poetry to flatter me?"
"Cease with the back-talk. Our lives still depend on it!"
"Look at you, all nervous and confused. First time in real danger, cultivator?" He tilts his chin up, eyes staring over me.
"My name is Desmond and you know it. Now just please tell me—what on earth is going on here?"
Leaning back, two palms find their comfort behind my tangled oily hair. My nails lightly scrape, biting at the flesh of my underhand, chewing up dead skin and dandruff.
My eyes stare intently.
Raising his crooked finger, he points past me. Long into the distance behind and beyond.
My gaze follows.
My mouth tightens.
This!
Swamp rats and the unfathomable prowlers clash—earth and bodies, hurl skyward in a frenzy of melee. Bestial green liquid rains down, melding with grunts animalistic… disturbing and uncanny in their croaking.
One of the prowlers penetrates through their defences, hunting down vulnerable pregnant mothers and juveniles alike.
From the wombs of the deceased, more children emerge; alive or stillborn, both are masticated on like fine delicacy. Those alive flee, biting and struggling.
Those that watch screech all slither forward desperately, only to yield to the overwhelming, oppressive force. Though their sacrifice is not for naught, it paves the way of escape of the few surviving survivors to retreat, rest and recuperate only to be chased once again.
Is this what they call love?
It is repugnant.
I lift my fist between my teeth and bite down.
My lips to my throat all gag, draining colour from my face.
They would sacrifice themselves for children not their own.
And for what—to be discarded like yesterday's dinner?
Where is the self-preservation? Many more could survive and replenish.
"Sad, isn't it?" He interrupts.
"Nature always tramples on the weak. I sometimes like to think we're better—evolved as a species, gifted with intellect. Yet…" He points forward.
"Look. How can our compassion compare? The Great Buddhist Khan once said: 'The Dao knows no greater fury than when one sacrifices love and life for kin.' His words remain prophetic, even out here, so very far from the cultivation world."
He pauses for a moment, deep in contemplation.
"And to think that it was our karma that caused all this disaster to happen," he breathes in resignation. Shaking his head.
What do you mean by our choices? I'm not responsible for their deaths; how can I be responsible? The predators came, nature happened, like it always does. Right?
…But no.
They were after us; the pendant; we cut through their territory, their homes.
Yes, it was survival; they would've eaten us if not for the prowlers; but still… it's our actions, our intervention that directly caused this outcome.
Faar. So is this all my fault then? Am I actually just a disgusting piece of shit who deserves to die?
My head, fuck, where is the Paracetamol when you need it.
Clap, clap—his hands break me free from the stress.
"It's not quiet-time to relax here, it has yet to occur."
"Relaxing?… and occurring, what?"
Reading my expression, his neck cranes, fingers picking idly at his nose as a low moan escapes in quiet satisfaction.
Flicking away the residue, his pinked fingertips emerge through the gloves, rubbing together and blowing hot, impatient air into the frigid silence.
"The aftereffects of course, everyone knows this. You should be feeling it right… about… now." Jim says with a crooked smile.
I feel 'it' before words are spoken in finish. Too late.
My body contorts, liquefying, a dark spillage pouring into the recessive oblivion of my unconscious.
A fire alights, ideas simmer and stew together.
With each new taste deepening the complexity of my dissonance.
As each thought bubbles and boils over, it joins the ever-growing concentrated assembly of internal discord.
New voices insist upon fresh considerations, distinct perspectives, forming a diverse array of neural pathways and patterns of thought.
The entire concord chatters away at the bread of my individual self—contradicting, blaming, defending, profaning.
Every idea is sampled, tasted, served onto a silver platter; yet my own wishes remain moldy, untouched and foreign.
Unrecognisable before the table of which I laid.
With every interaction their substance diminishes.
Pallid, insipid, and simply uninspired flavours rampantly run infectiously, poisoning the narrative to incomprehensible babbles.
These targeted and expertly seasoned concepts strike with bitter precision.
Its pestilence; a catalyst, inciting mass hysteria and total cognitive paralysis in the collective consciousness.
The heat intensifies.
Booming voices erupt.
The left hemisphere and right tribalise, emboiled in infernal frenzy.
My brain is sweltering.
The watered-down remarks meant to de-escalate the situation serve to only increase pressure, further feeding the fuel of manic delirium, further.
My skull throbs, hemorrhaging.
The corrugated walls deform beneath the monstrous growth of bloat and fat, tipping my lid over the edge.
The roof ruptures.
Giving way, knocking down and forcing me in my place.
I fall inward.
Suffocating.
A smoldering chunk at the bottom of the pot, paved beneath all the perilous cacophony.
My heart sputters, my self melts away slowly, like a boiled frog dissolving into a drink of charred soup.
My discarded refuse seeps silently between the cracked rubble; quiet and never-noticed.
"Hey, hey, hey—don't cry."
A poke at my bloated cheeks, dig into the blubber.
His fingers chafe across the shadows under my eyes; Absorbing fresh, oily tears, tasting the gentle melancholy of my leaking soup.
"Damn… is he too broken for that?"
A whisper hovers beneath the empty silence.
"I… I am still alive! And free?"
"Dad, I heard him speak again. He's better now." A soft tentative sound chimes out.
"Ah, back with us here and alive, I see."
"I still have an important job for you, so you must keep it together until then."
Important job.
No?
Not again.
Nothing happened.
I did not hear anything.
I did not do anything.
Their screams—so loud.
No.
I am loved.
I am calm.
I am happy.
I have friends.
Remember: I am safe.
They don't exist here.
I am free.
No longer in pain.
But what now?
No.
Must survive.
Move forward.
Live.
"Respond, boy!"
Reaching over from Cindy, he slaps me.
His face scrunched; Biting his lip.
I flinch.
"Please… don't. Hurts." I choke..
His face softens, and he lets out a deep sigh.
"You know In all my various travels I've seen all kinds of people, all kinds of situations and all kinds of faces. But there is only one man I once knew, to which you remind me a lot of. He was a boy back then and his name was Artie.
You see, Artie and I grew up orphans, refugees in a small forgotten town. Not knowing much about our parents and the world we were taken in by the local Buddhist sect. It was strict, disciplined but orthodox. With all their abundance of love under the golden moon, they provided food, shelter and warmth. To us they were gods. And like the fools we were, we all dreamed of becoming cultivators too. Grabbing a hold of our fate and protecting others, the way they protected us.
"It wasn't their power that made us in awe, It was their kindness, and equality that moved the people. They were true practitioners of Buddhist philosophy, with their temple's stone unassuming walls always open to the masses. It was the artery of the community's spiritual heart. It was a true bastion of enlightenment.
However it was on the day of our adulthood when our potential was measured, and we came out like most… lacking.
This destroyed us of course. Barely fourteen and suddenly finding out we were helpless and of no real value to the world. You would think that kind of reality would be enough of a slap.
With everyone's high expectations shattered and limited options available, I chose the second best path that us non-cultivators could, in service. Security, maintenance, sweeping all miscellaneous jobs the sect needed it was our responsibility. But Artie, he was different.
Having the rare disposition of being able to read, write and articulate well, he chose the path of calligraphy as his profession, constantly professing how he wanted to 'share the love and greatness of cultivators to all those who live under the heavenly sky. To repay his dues and respect to those beloved seniors who took him in and cared for him.'.
He was naive and foolish and that soon became his immense burden.
I still remember to this day how they teased and mocked him. 'Artie the fartie' he was called by friends and family alike, all in good fun of course, because he was too good with a brush and feather but all too bad with his words. It was all just so silly looking back at it.
This title stung deep in ways he didn't even know at the time. A lingering poison that slowly chipped away at his confidence. He would write articles that were orated about at local community events, sharing the news of what he heard and obtained through word of mouth from travelers and merchants alike; adding his own creative flourish to portray the orthodox as righteous of course.
But soon that wasn't enough, people weren't listening hard or they weren't paying hard enough if you know what I mean.
Run-down accommodations, scraps for dinner he couldn't stand it anymore. Eventually he stopped trying, or more so he couldn't deal with the struggle anymore. He became detached from the rest of us, 'the wandering poet' they called him but in reality he was homeless, soulless so very far away from his intended purpose.
We all knew, but none of us realised it yet. The uncomfortable truth. He was sick, suffering in many unseen ways. He almost ended it all then too.
To some residents' chagrin they treated him at the temple with all the pills, herbs and ginseng available but to no relief.
A true medical mystery to which they finally concluded as an ultra-rare ailment of the mind. Such treatment was almost a lost cause. But it was also an opportunity to study, it was that justification that allowed it to be given a resource priority. For which we were thankful.
It took both his consistent bravery and discipline to face his demons and our tight community's delayed but loving support to help him through those troubles. Even our surrogate parent elder Ming came out of his closed meditation to encourage him even in his weary state.
It all was helpful, but not enough. In reality it was her that did all the work. Aisha. A servant to a regional young master who was going through his early education at the temple grounds. She was new, temporarily to the position as an assistant sister in cloth at the temple during the masters training, and it was ultimately her tasked with taking care of Artie's daily needs.
She was the hook that raised him from the sea of sadness. His new jaded moon.
We all saw it too, how they smiled, laughed and even danced together during the moonstone festival. Those were the simple days"
"Did they live happily ever after that" I lean forward, immersed in the story.
"No, no they did not" His hand shaking, a solitary tear running down his face. He continued.
"Years later they were with child, under the young master's blessing of course. A heaven defying daughter, she was, Olivia whose true jade-beauty was apparent to all just by a whiff of her vanilla scent.
When aged fourteen her potential was evaluated as heavenly by the sacred stone, and all the righteous sects competed for her discipleship. But as parents whose cultivation was lacking they had no power to dictate demands, or interfere with her choice making. They took her and as parents they could do nothing but only wish for their child to grow up proper and righteous; to support her growth with all their ability. It was a hard but willing sacrifice.
She went to train at the Heavenly sky palace, the most esteemed leader of the righteous face of the cultivation world.
With the young masters backing and supporting the two parents, they were at least given some permission to come and travel to visit her once every two years. Under the condition only her direct family were allowed to enter the sect gates.
It was on their third visit years later when it happened. Aisha was pregnant and I was free from my duties, choosing to come and support them, helping them travel the mountains and valleys all to tell and show Olivia what would be her eventual younger brother. The trip like always was long and perilous, compounded by the fact that Aisha was still pregnant.
It was at our arrival during the third visit when it happened, when they entered the pearly white gates they were held captive. After days of asking around and scrounging desperately, I finally found out why. They said Olivia had defected to the demonic side, spreading rumours how she was 'a demoness who will bring calamity upon the world'. Little Olivia, impossible.
I rushed back to inform the young master of this, to help them and that itself took me months, but when I returned it was already too late. The village was cinders, the sect destroyed, our home of fairness and equality was gone so very suddenly.
Eventually I found the young master in critical condition but alive, and as the sole survivor he was devastated. When he woke he said it was the demons that destroyed the town, our home for some mere petty gain. I didn't understand it at the time.
I told him the story of their arrest, so when he became stable we returned to get them out. But It was too late. Aisha was already dead, having had a child in captivity malnourished she gave her life-force for more food to the child and Artie he was all alone in that cell for almost a year, raising him. We still don't know what they did to him there. But he came out the worst we had ever seen him before."
"Wow that's…. Wow, I'm so sorry. What happened to him is he alright what about the child"
"Both dead, he killed himself and the child a few years later, their struggle for recovery was too extreme for both of them, with his rare condition and the child's circumstances they were doomed anyway. But I always wish it happened differently, that I did something more than just watch, if only I knew at the time. That death was the first one to truly hit me"
"That's why when I see you with my eye retreat your shell like that? I have to act, understand me. We need you, Desmond. I need you alive and here. Not in there" He taps at my skull hard. Lip vaguely quivering.
"You hear me. That head of yours, that condition you also have, Nothing darker and more self destructive than those unchallenged thoughts in your head. That's why your mouth exists. To speak to and call out to us, ok son. Communication is hard, incredibly uncomfortable and awkward too, but it is everything to us who get left behind"
"Thanks for that Jim I really mean it"
"Hehe you owe me now cultivator, don't forget what I said earlier." Jim says, wiping away at his eyes.
"All right, let every bug and yonk hear my proclamation! I am thankful for Jimson, and I'll do anything he asks of me — once!" I bellow into the empty lands, turning several prowler heads our way.
"One time, you better not forget it. Des… mud."
"Hey come on man, you were just so nice before" I look back incredulous.
"Too nice, boy's gone quite arrogant, right, Tim?" He rests a hand on Tim's shoulder.
"Yes, Father. You can punish him when we get back," Tim responds.
We all sit in pleasant company. Catching our breath in silence, before spit flies and laughter bursts out; loud, brash, and all unrestrained. Even the dog is barking from my lap too.
Minutes pass, and we slowly recover.
"Say they aren't going to chase us right." I question breaking the silence.
"Oh yes, they will, eventually though. Look at them they are starving out here, takes some time to finish their snack all the way to the bone"
"I see, so the rumours were true then?."
"Indeed. More always do come, it seems he was right, Marcus, you should buy him a drink when we get back"
"Why me, I have no cash in my possession"
"But he saved yer life"
"He saved yours too"
"Bah I do not want to hear it any longer cultivator. Your prohibited from speaking any further on this matter"
"What is it you mean"
"Pro-Hib-It-Ed, you're intelligent enough to figure out what that means Des, don't force my hand to slap your boy-face again"
Brother, why are you so stingy? I don't even have any pockets to hold the money in.
"Fine" I murmur softly, head looking down.
"So what was all that mental stuff anyway,"
"That" he points toward me, I look down and see the pendant around my neck pulsing again, its light diminished compared to before.
"Saved yer life twice now"
"Twice?"
"Yer mouth was real ugly, fixed it right up for you while you were asleep earlier, it was our apology to how we found you"
Now that he mentions it my jaw does feel better, he really is my fallen angel.
"But . What is it"
"Its a forbidden technique, causes you to face your regrets, get used to it son"
"So your not gonna explain any further"
"Nah, I am actually too busy to do so currently" He lies down, letting out a wheezing cough.
How dare this old man not elaborate.
"Tim," I look over hopefully.
"Ah well its like this" He squeaks.
The old man clears his throat and Tim looks back at him sympathetically. His open mouth shuts.
"..."
"Well great, can you at least explain to me how I hit my head"
"Ah well that we can do… Tim", the old man nods, staring at his son and Tim slowly nods in response.
"Well mister this is what exactly happened…
You hit your head." He pauses.
"..."
"And?"
"Here we are now."
I slam my fist backward, colliding with Samuel's rump.
He releases a loud noor in response
Sorry
I lean and whisper sweet apologies into his ear stroking fur in recompense.
"Dad I'm scared of him and I don't want to play this game anymore"
"Bwaha you did good, son made yer pa proud" Their fists collide. Knuckles cracking in dangerous threat.
"Stop it all, just. Fine. Answer me this one question. Is my life in any real danger" I cry out.
"Yer a slow one aint ya, think I would be playing with you if my life were in any serious danger too"
"?... Yes, Yes I do, that is what ultimately concerns me" I retort,
"Hehe, you think you know me like that. I've never heard someone cluck as much as you, Desmond." He opens and closes his hand, cluckering as if mimicking me, speaking through it.
"Jee thanks"
"Well the truth is you almost died, that's why we were so 'giddy'" He stops mocking, voice monotone, stating flatly as he scratches his chin.
"What?"
"Yes, you screamed just like that, an infant, the sound startled me awake, that's when the prowlers came, saved our hides too, although you startled one swamp-rat. It couldn't help itself and it flew straight into your mog, to shut you up. Knocked you out cold too, poor fella" He lowers his voice.
I'm not already dead, am I? My blood rushes "Aren't they poisonous" My pitch raises.
"Yer a lucky one, was only a hatchling, weaker dose, not enough happy juice in its holes."
"And the others"
"As you could see they prioritised the real threat to the territory, as they do, and attacked them first. Those guys are always fighting, especially in these lands or so I've heard."
"So… we're just extremely lucky, then?" My eyes blink in confused disharmony. Bewildered.
"That's right" he grumbles back, hand waving all the tension off.
"Why are you both just so comfortable with all this" I blurt.
"Why aren't you? How big of a spoon did they feed you, young master Des? Out here, we all fight for our scraps."
I sit up.
"You shouldn't have to. This isn't right, children. Tim shouldn't have to live like this."
"Yeah… what he said, Father." Tim interjects, hesitantly. Eyes shifting between us looking nervous.
"Tell that to the greedy wretches on the Heavenly Protection Board." Jim rasps, coughing violently.
"What?" I asked, confused.
"You must've really done permanent damage to your brain to forget about those traitors."
He violently coughs, and his shirt darkens with blood.
"Wait… are you alright?"
"No… I'm dying." he croaks, voice fading.
"This isn't the time for jokes, Jim. Like you said earlier, tell me what's wrong so I can help fix it."
His body collapses. Head falling so hard it bounces, hitting the yonk's spine.
The dog barks, frantic and piercing, his pleas echo throughout the clearing to the canyon ahead, desperate and unresponsive.