Black.
Black everywhere.
Eyes stinging.
Sweat falling.
Headache pounding.
What happened?
"Don't you dare move." A voice calls out from above, then motions blur, fountains spray, gushing organs of gutted meat. So green, so pretty.
"Stop ya wriggling. It'll only make yer worse."
The surrounding warmth quickly recedes and the nearby space only grows darker, pulsing with a sickly light.
My eyes trying to out-blink this sudden strain of sting, only grow wetter with my every effort.
"Get up!"
Two hairy arms seize my collar and drag me upright, making my world a spinning contortion.
Fluid, black and thick drips down from my nose to my mouth.
"Morning, princess." that same voice greets me in hypnotic tones.
"Morning," I smile back stupidly.
"How was work director?"
"Bugger hit ya head pretty hard, huh?"
My drifting neck noddles along in confused agreement, staring at the talking shape.
"Yes. It was a bad, scary dream… but it's all gone now, don't worry about me, I'm perfectly fine."
I smile—a real tooth grin this time.
"That's good. Real good. We could use your hand right now, so I would really appreciate it if ya stop wobbling, you damn ill-balanced monkey."
My hands pull against a leather strap.
"Say director, where is your eye?"
"Tch, not gonna listen. This one's on you then… and it'll hurt."
EEEEEK!
Voltage-shock sears through my every nerve. Its origin unknown, but it all screams in the same flash of violent colour.
"Mother-fucker!"
"Sure am, what of it?" Jimson remarks, failing in his ability to hide his clear amusement.
"No! Not you. The pain!" I blurst outward.
"Stings, dunnit?"
"That's an understatement, and you know it." I spit, rudely pointing up to his face.
"No need to yap bout it, I know already. Makes your ass whimper like a lonely orphan that one." He chuckles lightly whilst looking away.
"Can't you do something for the pain? Pills, even… Nurofen?"
"Pills are for the weak... (And the wealthy.)" He mutters to the ground before turning back to look dead in my eyes.
"What is pain but the fruit of life? It's a core that blooms, withers, and dies slowly… until only death remains."
His cheeks curl upward as he gently nods to himself, eyes splitting blanks as they hide behind that pilfered smile.
"It's only sweet when ripe. The rest—bland, tasteless. Not very nice."
"Yonking hell, how am I supposed to feel good after hearing that?" I whine back in complaint.
"Feel good, heh... how cute. But yer made this man proud saying that. It was under my teachings you found meaning in 'that' word, and now look; you're using it like a Grand-Expert of the House."
Both his thumb and index finger start to rake through his gravelly stubble of dirty beard. Then, he hums a deep sonorous purr that makes my ear-hairs quiver.
"Just shut up and give me the sit rep." Snarling up, my teeth scrape against the blackboard of air before I jab up towards his throat.
"Sit rep…?"
His head sitting still, only slightly tilts with that beady eye, as if accepting my empty taunt.
"YOU!" My hands twitch with seething animation.
"When I ask for a situation report, you clearly tell me the danger we face, understand.. Private" Projecting with a clear cadence, I square my shoulders up.
"Why didn't you just say that in the first place—?"
"Tata, cease the back-talk soldier. Our lives depend on it!"
"..."
Taking his time before responding, he tilts his chin upward, eyes staring over my head before he finally probes.
"Scared, cultivator?"
"My name's Desmond and you know it. Now just please, tell me—what is going on here?" This time I ask in a softer tone.
However, to maintain my projected image of confidence, I lean backwards and using both my palms to rest behind my tangled mop of oily hair, I finish my pose.
Lightly, my nails scrape and bite off the flesh of my underhand, chewing up both dead skin and loose dandruff alike. He doesn't see this happen though.
Our gazes lock, with intent so thick it drips on both our sides.
Finally, raising a crooked finger he points far into the distance behind.
My gaze follows.
My mouth tightens.
This!
Swamp rats and prowlers clash. Earth, bodies, both hurled skyward in a frenzied melee.
Liquid, bestial and green showers down, melding with grunts animalistic; loud, and in pain they are as they die dog deaths.
Piercing their protective formation, a singular prowler ravages the vulnerable, the pregnant and juveniles alike. From the wombs of their deceased parents, emerge children—alive or stillborn, both are devoured with equal savagery.
Those alive flee, biting as they struggle. However, the strong can only watch, screaming and slithering forward, but they too fall to the hungry maw of this natural selection.
Is this what they call love? Repugnant.
I lift my fist between my teeth and bite down.
No matter how often I see it, it never grows old. Why sacrifice oneself for children not your own? And for what—to be discarded like yesterday's dinner?
Foolishness.
Where is the self-preservation?Many more could survive, replenish if they simply had just retreated.
"Sad, isn't it?" Jimson's voice interjects before going on another one of his tangents.
"Nature always tramples the weak. Sometimes, I like to think we're better—more evolved as a species, gifted with the gift of god's intellect. Yet…" He lowers his tone and gravely sighs.
"How can our compassion compare? The Great Reverend Khan once said: 'The World knows no greater fury than when one sacrifices love and life for kin.' His words remain prophetic, even here, so very far from the living world."
He pauses for a moment, eye wide with deep contemplation.
"And to think that our intervention caused this disaster," he breathes in resignation before coughing out a lung-full of black.
What do you mean by our intervention?
I'm not responsible for their deaths; how can I be responsible?
The predators came, nature happened as it always does. Right?
…
But no. They were after us—the pendant. Right, we cut through their territory, their homes.
Yes, it was for our survival; they would've eaten us if not for the prowlers; but still… Our actions, our intervention directly caused this outcome.
Faaahr
So is this all my fault?
What is my ethical obligation, is it to prevent the suffering of others, or is it my self preservation? If those were peopleinstead would I use the same justifications, or would I actually be just a disgusting piece of shit who deserves to die?
My head, fuck, where's the panadol when you need it?
Laughing loudly he cuts me off again.
"Ain't time to play yet boy, it's yet to happen."
"Huh! What's gonna happen?" Questioning back, this topic only continues to make my heart-rate spike.
Though, he takes his time. A long time. Just,smiling weirdly at me.
After reading my solemn expression, his neck cranes and fingers idly pick at his nose. A low moan escapes his nose in quiet satisfaction as he flicks away the salty residue.
"The aftereffects, of course. Everyone knows this. Everything has karma and that karma has a price. As such your dues should be arriving... Now."
Before he finishes speaking I feel it 'strange'.
Too late.
My body contorts, liquefying. I am become a dark spillage pouring into the recessive basin of my unconscious self.
A fire alights, ideas stick and stew together. The mix thickens as new flavours pour themselves in.
Ideas bubble up and pop from out the pot, staining the walls of coherent thought.
The simmering stew soaks away the toasted bread of my stale self—contradicting, blaming, defending, profaning.
With every interaction digested, my substance diminishes.
Every taste is sampled, served and plated onto a silver platter; yet my own diluted identity remains untouched, growing increasingly cold.
Even I barely recognise myself at this table.
The heat intensifies.
Voices erupt.
My brain swelters, every watered-down remark feeds fuel to the manic delirium further.
My skull throbs as the corrugated walls of sanity deform, tipping my lid over its edge. The roof ruptures, forcing me inward.
I fall, suffocating, a smoldering chunk at the bottom of this cranium pot, drifting beneath the infernal frenzy.
My focus sputters. My self melts away to discarded sludge.
I seep silently between sunken cracks, quiet, unnoticed, dissolving like a boiled frog in charred soup.
"Hey, hey—don't cry." A poke at my cheek digs into fatty blubber; smudging away my greasy tears, he appears to savor their salted melancholy.
"Unfortunate… is he too broken for that?" A low whisper lingers beneath the empty silence.
I lurch up, inhaling deeply as my throat crushes air inside like compressed trash.
"You Bastard!"
"Dad, he just spoke." A soft tentative voice chimes out.
"Ah, back with the living, I see. I still have an important job for you, so you must keep it together until then."
Important task.
No, not again.
I did not hear anything.
I did not do anything.Their screams—voiceless.
No.
I am safe.
I am calm.
I am free.
Must survive.
Move forward.
"Respond, boy!"
Reaching over from Cindy, a hand strikes my face.
I flinch and freeze.
"Please… don't. Hurts." I barely get to choke out.
Then, nothing?
Uncurling from my arm, Jim's face eases its tension.
He pats Samuel's fur as his demeanor shifts—no longer gruff, no longer dangerous nor calculating, but educated in tone; he speaks like someone with an abundance of wealth, stored inside memories of well-lived experience.
"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 greatly of. Back then he was just a boy, his name was Artie."
Looking away I feign my disinterest. However, unbeknownst to him, I process every word attentively.
Having been told my twitching ears are my tell, I just hope they don't betray my intrigue.
"We were orphans, Desmond. Refugees in a town whose name the wind has long forgotten. No parents. No history. Just the local parish and their 'saints' taking us in like stray dogs.
Our new home was strict, disciplined, but orthodox. They provided us food, warmth, and a sense of familial connection. To us, they were everything, and like the fools we were, we lived in their lucid dream of varnished hope, expecting to become what they expected of us like it was the given truth.
You see, we all longed to grab hold of our fates and save others. Instilled in upbringing with these temptations of ascendant knowledge; miracles, power and the heavenly law, dragged upon us, their false allures of transcendence within our very grasps.
Follow the path 'Esmerald' guides and all will go your way.. If only that were true.
Bitter as I may be though, they really weren't bad people; honest to a tee, open and receptive. There are reasons why they were considered the community's spiritual heart, but, in my view that only makes it more duplicitous.
I only found this out when the day came to test our potential and we came out like most... lacking. An aptitude so pathetic they called it 'the mundane'.
I cannot articulate how much this destroyed us. Barely fourteen and we learnt the first truth of the world, our dreams were only that.
Untenable.
You would think that kind of reality would be enough of a slap. After all, everyone's high expectations were instantly shattered—Jobs only grew scarcer too and as such, I took the easiest path I could: Service..
Maintenance, sweeping, cleaning, these were all miscellaneous jobs the church said they needed. But the thing was, Artie, he was a little different from the rest of us.
Being the sole inheritor of the mystical 'word', he chose the path of calligraphy as his profession.
Constantly, he professed how he wanted to 'share the love of the divine creator, repaying his dues and respect to those beloved pastors who took him in'.
He was naive and foolish and that soon became his immense burden.
I still remember to this day how they teased and mocked him.
'The False Prophet', he was called.
At first it was said to be all in good fun, the joke being about how good at literature he was compared to awkward with his words he was.
Looking back now, it was all just so... unfortunate.
This title stung deep in ways no one could have expected at the time. A lingering poison that slowly chipped away at his confidence.
With that strange power and his ability to write, he wrote articles about local gossip and passing travelers that were then orated about at our local community events; adding his own creative flourish to portray the orthodox houses as righteous of course.
But soon, things changed. Their newly implemented announcement system made his job redundant. People didn't need him anymore, and they surely didn't pay him if they did.
Run-down accommodations, scraps for dinner—is it unreasonable for his belief to slowly falter!
His scripture spoke proverbs and parables about how 'the hardest challenges were given to the strongest soldiers' but even then, they needed reasons to fight, of which he was lacking most."
Slowly turning my head to meet his gaze again, I absorb his sad-soaked words of forgotten pasts, reminiscing about how they were strangely relatable to me and my past.
Out of the corner of my eye, Tim listens in too.
However, his face is scrunched up in evident confusion; whether it was consideration or timidness, his hesitation was shown as he could never bring himself to interrupt his father's persisting words.
"After many years of rejection," he continued, "Artie gave in.
Unable to deal with his struggles anymore, he became detached, but even this new impoverished lifestyle also earned him a new moniker as 'The town's wandering blue'.
Drunkards picking up this name, started to follow him around; poking at this bear for their momentary thrills.
His myth grew commonplace in the town's culture. Being the man that mothers would warn their children about becoming, the man that juveniles would name to insult each other with. As time passed the crowd only grew.
Property damage and constant surveillance followed him to inside his keep.
This world was his breaking point.
As a tenant he was a risk, and as a member serving society, his only value was derived when living as an object of their squalor.
This turned him homeless, soulless, and so very far away from his original intentions.
We all knew, but sadly none of us really cared enough. Being the town's uncomfortable truth, no one wanted to even acknowledge him.
Such a close-knit community—who would ever want to associate with the trash outcast and damage their reputation?
Word then spread about how his mind was sick, suffering in various unseen ways.
But it was only after he almost ended his life and failed did he get any support though.
Thankfully, a junior nun unable to accept this treatment anymore, took him in.
She treated him with: pills, herbs, blessed water, ginseng, you name it all, and yet nothing ever helped.
They called it an untreated medical mystery and even labelled the cause as 'unknown'.
Even our surrogate parent Father Ming came out of his closed prayer to encourage Artie, even in his weary state.
Though helpful as it was, it wasn't enough. But like most things in life, hope yet remained.
Aisha, the girl that found him was luckily a servant to a regional young master of a saintly house.
He was currently going through his early education at our missionary grounds and held great authority.
She was new, temporarily in her tenure as an assistant 'sister in cloth' during her master's training. It was this great fortune that allowed her to be the one tasked with taking care of Artie's daily needs.
Due to this and her close relationship with the young master, she was afforded access to various remedies under the guise of medical study.
Finally the worst had passed.
We all saw it too—how they smiled, laughed, and even danced together during the primstone festival. Those were the simple days."
"..."
"Did they live happily ever after that?" I lean forward, fully immersed in his story.
"No, no of course they didn't" His hand shakes before a solitary tear runs down his sunken face.
"Years later they married and were with child, all under the young master's blessing of course. This child, my god-daughter was one of God's chosen. Sophia, her true angelic beauty was apparent to all just by a whiff of her vanilla scent.
She showed immense promise, and as such at only aged ten her potential was evaluated as 'Prophetic' by the sacred stone, thus all the righteous Houses competed for her mentorship.
But as parents whose mana-level was lacking, we had no power nor say to dictate our demands, or interfere with her decision-making process.
Then, they took her.
Nothing could be done. We could only wish for her happiness.
It was a hard but willing sacrifice.
In the end, she was chosen by the Heavenly Sky Palace. As the most esteemed faction, they supposedly stood at the righteous frontier of the transcendent world.
With our friend, the young master's backing, some leniency was thankfully permitted. Our visitation once every two years was sanctioned under the condition that only us direct family members were allowed to enter the sacred mountain where she trained.
Things were working well, until our third visit.
Aisha, pregnant again, traveled with us across those same mountains and valleys we had grown accustomed to.
Excitement was brimming as we hoped to introduce Sophia to her younger sibling, who would one day come to adore her
The weather was fierce, but Aisha was fiercer, managing to pull through until the very end.
When we reached the pearly white gates hidden beneath the mountain, two guards seized them on sight.
No warning. No explanation.
They claimed Sophia had "defected to the demonic side,"calling her a future calamity.
My goddaughter, little Sophia.
Impossible.
I rushed back to inform the young master of this, to plead for his help. But when I finally returned, it was already too late.
The village was cinders, the church, demolished.
What was once our home, was now gone.
The young master luckily survived by hair and tooth, but lost his righteous path in the process.
When he woke, he spoke of demons razing the town for nothing more than petty spite.
I didn't understand then and I sure as hell don't understand now.
I told him what had happened at the gates, and when he recovered enough to travel, we went to free Artie and Aisha.
But we were too late.
Aisha had died in captivity giving birth. Malnourished, she offered what little life she had left to save the child. Artie was kept alone in another cell for so long he learned the truth only when they threw the newborn at him without a word. He pieced the rest together himself.
He was always sharp like that, even when broken.
We never learned what they did to him in that place. He came out hollowed, the worst I'd ever seen him.
"Wow, that's… I'm so sorry. Is he alright? What about their child?"
"Gone." His cracked lips stick together as he grows increasingly silent.
"It's just when I look at you I'm reminded of what I lost that day." He taps at my skull, hard, as his chin vaguely quivers
"Learn from my mistakes Desmond. Inherit a d... Inherit a 'father's' will, tend to yourself, grow without further delay or you will rot like I have son."
I look back with glazed eyes of empty glass, not sad, not angry but dull, unable to console or respond in all the ways I know I should.
"That look! I know it intimately. That numbing fog that settles before the dark, you cannot hide it from me boy. Speak! Answer me! That's what your mouth exists for, is it not?"
"Um thanks.. (No! That won't do), thank you Jim, I really appreciate you taking care of me and I will remember your words for the rest of my life." Clearing my throat I tap at his shoulder.
"Learn well Eastern boy. Yer better not forget what I said earlier." Jim sniffles, wiping away at his eyes too.
"All right, let every rat and yonk hear my proclamation." I turn my head and cup my mouth.
"I am thankful for Jimboy, and I'll do anything he asks of me—once!" With my voice bellowing, echoes bounce around in distant lands, prompting several prowlers to turn their heads our way.
After a moment of quiet the voice trails its way back and repeats itself in tones hushed.
"Ya'll a bunch of crybabies" Tim interrupts bluntly.
"Why do you have to antagonise, you were just so nice and quiet before," I reply
"Maybe we been too nice, boy's gone quite arrogant, right, Tim?" He rests a quivering hand on Tim's shoulder.
"Yes, Father. Right as usual, you can punish him when we get back," Tim responds in his cheeky voice.
We all sit in this moment of pleasant company, catching our breath in silence, before spit flies and laughter bursts out; loud, brash, and all unrestrained. Even the dog barks up from my lap.
Minutes pass, and we slowly recover.
This,
The breath after laughter—that's where the real heart hides. Only now do I understand what you meant, old friend.
I sit on this for a moment before asking the real questions.
"Say they aren't going to chase us, right?"
"Oh yes, they will. Eventually though. Look at them—they are starving out here, even from so far away you can see them all grouped up. Takes some time for them to finish their meal all the way to the bone and by then we'll be long gone."
"I see, so the rumors from before were true?" I inquire.
"Indeed. More always do come. It seems he was right. Marcus, you should buy him a drink when we get back." He adds.
"Why me? I have not a coin in my possession."
"But he indirectly saved yer life."
"He saved yours too." I retort in my highest pitch.
"Bah, I do not want to hear it any longer, heathen. You're prohibited from speaking any further on this matter." He shoots me a strange hollow gaze.
"What do 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."
Old man, why are you so stingy? I don't even have any pockets to hold the money in.
"Fine," I murmur softly.
"So what was all that 'everything has a price' 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 a cute tsundere.
"Cool... But what is it?"
"Its a forbidden technique. Can't say much. Get used to it."
"You're not gonna explain further?"
"Too busy right now."
He lies down letting out another fit of wheezing coughs.
"Tim," I look over hopefully.
The old fart clears his throat, then Tim looks back at me sympathetically.
"…"
"Well great, can you at least explain to me how I hit my head?"
"Ah well, that we can do… boy," the old man nods, staring at his son, and Tim slowly nods in response.
"Well mister, this is what exactly happened"
He pauses.
"So you hit your head."
"And?"
"…"
"Here we are now."
I flick my fist backward and it collides with Samuel's rump. He releases a low noor in response.
Sorry, I lean closer whispering sugar-coated apologies down his ear, stroking his fur in recompense.
"Dad, I'm scared of him. I don't want to play this game anymore." His tone is mocking.
"Bwaha, you did good, son made yer pa proud."
Their fists collide. Knuckles cracking in bullied kinship.
"Stop it all, just… fine. Answer me this one question. Is my life in any real, measurable danger?"
"Yer a slow one, ain't 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.
"You think you know me like that. I've never heard someone cluck as much as you, Des."
He opens and closes his hand facing me as if mimicking me, speaking through it in an imitative tone.
"Thanks."
"Well, the truth is, you almost died. That's why we were so, how do we say the word, Tim"
"'Gleeful.' Is the word you're looking for father."
He stops, stating flatly, as he scratches his chin, slowly shaking his head, starting to purr again.
"What?!"
"Yes, you screamed just like that, an infant. That's the sound that 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 head. Knocked you out cold too, poor fella."
He lowers his voice.
I'm not already dead, am I?
"Aren't they poisonous?" My blood rushes.
"Yer a lucky one. Was only a hatchling. Weaker dose, not enough happy juice in its holes. It sure made you act funny."
"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 been told, it really is a spectacle."
"So… we're just extremely lucky, then?" My eyes blink in confused disharmony. Bewildered.
"That's right," he grumbles back, hand waving away the tension.
"Why are you both just so comfortable with all this?" I frown.
"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? Another one!" my nostrils flare.
"You must've really done permanent damage to your brain to forget about those damned traitors."
He violently coughs again. His shirt darkens with blackened stains.
"Wait… are you alright?"
"No… I'm dying." he croaks, voice slowly fading out.
"This isn't the time for jokes, Jim. Like you said earlier, tell me what's wrong."
"Not much left of me to fix."
Thud.
His body collapses, head hitting the yonk. The dog barks, frantic and piercing, echoing through the clearing.