Tales of Loss and Dispossession | 8
You Don’t Know What You’ve Got
Tales of Loss & Dispossession
A Gryphonwood Anthology
Gryphonwood Press
YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’VE GOT… TALES OF LOSS AND DISPOSSESSION Copyright 2009 by Gryphonwood Press
Each story is the property of the respective author.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.
Published by Gryphonwood Press
www.gryphonwoodpress.com
Edited by David Wood and Ryan A. Span
Cover Art by Jan Pospíŝìl
Concept and Cover Layout by Ryan A. Span
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9795738-6-6
ISBN 10: 0-9795738-6-6
Printed in the United States of America
First printing: February, 2009
This anthology is dedicated to the memories of:
Forrest J. Ackerman
Robert Asprin
Arthur C. Clarke
Michael Crichton
Tony Hillerman
Existence
Jim Bernheimer
Silence greets your request. The gods glare at you, their loyal Priest-King. They have the power to grant your deepest desire, or destroy you in an instant.
Dra, the ebony-skinned goddess of fertility, shakes her flowing mane of silken hair and delivers a smoldering look, capable of leading faithful husbands and even wives astray. You focus, trying not to be consumed by lust as her throaty laughter speaks directly to your loins. “Oh my, the human is serious. He wishes us to elevate him to an equal among us. Had you begged for a simple coupling, I would have granted it, but you astound me with your audacity!”
Finding your tongue amidst the roaring laughter, you plead your case, “Great Goddess, I have served you and the rest well. Many sacrifices were made in your honor. The altars run red with the blood of enemies, non-believers, and followers of false gods. Your people are united and, under my hand, their petty quarrels are no more.”
You are ill at ease in the role of fawning sycophant, but you are not like most people. You are the Priest-King – the voice of the gods. Command a mother and she strangles her newborn child with the flesh that still connects them. With a simple gesture, brothers draw knives and fight until one or both fall dead.
Power, followers, and concubines – everything a mortal can want – is yours. It is not enough. There is more, so very much more, and you are one who dares where others only dream!
Their presence and tangible power fills the massive temple and you feel a crushing weight on your soul. Pungent odors assail your nostrils and breathing becomes more difficult. The assembled omnipotent beings continue to openly mock you, but you’ve come too far. The only course is to continue. To turn back now would mean a certain death.
“My magic is strong. I am as powerful as a human can become. I merely wish a greater role in this existence, to never die, and serve you forever. Reward me and I will be your eternal servant!”
The laughter stops and the taste of bile surges to the back of your throat. Vais, animal skins draped over his mighty frame, thumps his spear against his great wooden shield. The god of war enjoys the sacrifices, but abhors the order you have brought to the people. “Arrogant worm! I thought you beneath my concern, but I cannot ignore such idiocy. Brothers and sisters, a mortal demands that we raise him up as an equal! What say you?”
Dra shifts and her eyes narrow in anger. Even her fury is sensual. “It is a rare occurrence when I find myself agreeing with Vais, but I too, find this request ludicrous. How shall we punish you, mortal?”
Instinctively, your magic senses the forthcoming attack. Against beings such as this, your inner light is a lit torch held in the face of a midday sun.
Vais smiles like the jungle cat preparing to pounce. “I say we strip him of his vaunted magic and let the peasants tear him to pieces when they learn he no longer has our favor!”
“Not enough,” insists Ura of the sky, seeing his chance to impress Dra and curry her favor. “Were we to do that, he would just be returned to being a mere human. To truly teach him the error of his ways, we should make him less than human.”
His twin, the Sea Lord, speaks. His voice is a growl – an icy chill from the depths of the ocean. “Oh, a very interesting idea brother, I agree. Let him serve as an example to all those beneath us to remember their station. My dear Dra, you know beauty in all its forms. Can you shape this maggot into a form which no one will ever find beautiful?”
You now realize what capricious and uncaring beings those who rule the Earth and heavens are. Vais rips your magic from your soul. Years spent in meditation and battle, nurturing the light inside, are lost in an instant of anger. The others exert their influence on your body as a potter would work a lump of clay on a wheel.
They amuse themselves at your expense. The pain defies description, as flesh is replaced with mud, then straw, then stone. Eventually, you lose track amidst the horrible agony. Your pleas for mercy only serve as encouragement for them. Each tries to outdo the others with a new form of humiliation.
“Our Priest-King rules from a magnificent palace full of finery. Let us bind him to a marsh and give him the place amongst us he so richly deserves – a kingdom of his very own!” The Sea Lord pronounces to the enjoyment of all.
Ura replies, “Yes! Well said, brother. But I ask, what is a king without subjects? Let the winged bloodsuckers worship at his misshapen form. Let them be drawn to his smell, to partake of his flesh, and take sacrament from the juices that flow through him!”
Dra, whom you hoped to mate with and watch her birth your children, pulls the hardest on your body, giving it a simian appearance. Thick, knotted hair grows all over this hideous form.
She hisses, “The swamp shall nourish and replenish you. The fine meals, delivered by naked women, will be replaced with fungus that grows on bark, moss licked from the rocks, and grubs that you will dig from the damp soil with your clawed hands. You shall endure as long as the land, an everlasting warning to those who make demands of us. You shall be a beast of the bog – a monster of the marsh!”
The others dub her decree a masterstroke. She turns to the one being who had not participated to this point. “My sister, what gift shall you impart upon him?”
The Goddess of Wisdom, Drea, scowls at her sister for interrupting her unending meditation and considers you. She is beautiful, but not overpoweringly so. Seconds pass before her lips part, “I give him the gift of tongues. He shall continue to recognize what the mortals say about him and know the meaning behind their shrieks of horror, but no words they shall ever recognize will come from his lips.”
The torture lasts for days without end. When they finally grow bored with you, Vais hurls you out of their sacred valley and into the forsaken swamp from which you can never willingly leave.
You pray that it is over, but they are not done with you yet. Vais comes whenever he is spoiling for a fight. You have an inhuman strength, but it is nothing compared to his glory. He pummels and abuses you with vicious savagery knowing that the swamp eventually heals your wounds and makes you whole again. He does his worst when you refuse to engage in pointless battles or on the rare instances when you manage to inflict a slight injury on his body. Sometimes, heroes are sent. Some win, most do not, but the swamp and the mud endlessly mend your wounds.
Dra’s visits are every bit as humiliating. On a stone altar, just outside your domain, she brings lovers for moonlit encounters. Like a moth to the flame, these wanton acts draw you. When she finishes, she stares at you and never says a word.
Ura plays with you as a feline would a small rodent. From his winged chariot he hurls thunderbolts as you scurry for shelter. His twin batters your sanctuary with wind and water that leave you shivering and wet for days at a time.
Oddly, Drea visits only once. She walks gracefully through the bog observing the creatures, the trees, and the insects that constantly gnaw on you. You follow her journey waiting for something, anything. Is she here to restore you, humiliate you, or destroy you and end this miserable existence? She sits on her sister’s altar and looks at you trapped at the edge of this foul prison.
“I have no mercy to spare for you, creature. You have your path and I have mine. I do not see them crossing again. Perhaps one day, you will truly understand. Farewell.”
Her words are full of cryptic meanings, but they become clearer as the gods gradually disappear from the world. There is a change that you can sense. Your battles with Vais are less intense. Dra’s brazen escapades lose their luster. The skies and nearby ocean are calm for weeks at a time. You conclude the gods are leaving, because the mortals no longer heed them. Are they dying or just going on to a different realm? What is to become of you? Uncertainty reigns and answers elude you.
The years turn to decades and the decades to centuries. Those mighty gods, their names are forgotten by all save you. The marsh ebbs and flows as the years pass. Sometimes, it even envelopes Dra’s altar and you sit on the crumbling monument and search for deeper meaning. Other times, the draining bog forces you to retreat towards the safety of the center.
Occasionally, you see men. Some are light-skinned and come from some part of the world unknown to you. Did the gods leave and go there? Are other gods coming? These newcomers wear different clothing and bring four-legged beasts with them.
You judge their worthiness. Those failing to meet your standards never leave the swamp. Those who carry trinkets and baubles that interest you rarely leave the swamp. Those few that you allow to leave your kingdom carry warnings to their brethren that there is something less than pleasant here.
The travelers become less frequent, but your method of discouraging visitors attracts the attention of a new breed of would-be heroes and braggarts. You learn what a musket is. The crude ball of metal is but a tap compared to the rage of Vais. You discover that a steel breastplate is no match for your claws.
Often, you simply exist – no real thoughts, just feeding, pacing, brooding, and sleeping. Immortality is far less than you had hoped. Weeks are spent pondering the trinkets taken from the travelers. You understand their words, but they have a written language that is rather complex. Still, you have plenty of time and little else to do.
When you accidently detonate yourself with barrels filled with a black powder, you destroy your cache of books and this greatly angers you. It takes years to acquire new books and the language has changed again forcing you to start anew.
More time passes and now the beasts are replaced with large metal objects that men call machines. The first ones frighten you, but you learn to accept their presence. You regret that now.
Larger machines follow. The men on them look for something below the swamp – the gasses that make fire. They value this and begin building permanent structures in your swamp. No, this is not allowed! You kill again, hoping to use fear as you have in the past.
Striking at night, you rip their flimsy metal shelters open and attack the workers in their beds. They scream, they run, they beg, but you show precious little mercy. Who has ever shown it to you? You make certain that one is left alive to tell the tale.
Material possessions no longer hold any value for you. Perhaps that is why you think they will flee and abandon their fire-gas gathering machines. It is a gross error on your part and wherever Vais and Dra are now, you are certain that they again mock you.
Murky-brown water splashes away from your clawed feet as you rush through the marsh. Flattening your hulking mass between a rock and two trees growing together as one, you rest. Though you should keep moving, continuing is too exhausting.
In the distance, the noise from their machines can be heard and the penetrating light from the orbs mounted on them flash through the patches of trees like deadly fireflies. All your usual tricks fail. The guttural howls from your lips do not scare them off. Instead, it brings them closer. While they searched the southern edge of the swamp where you left conspicuous tracks, you ransacked their campsite. The destruction was quite thorough, but they refuse to leave! Determination runs deep in their veins. Only now do you conclude that they are not more fire-gas gatherers, they are hunters, and you are their prey.
These hunters travel in larger packs than the heroes of old. Their weapons throw tiny darts of light which rip through your flesh like daggers. Beneath your matted fur, dozens of these small wounds oozed with blood. Covering them with the mud of the wet land beneath your feet starts the healing process, but it does little for the pain.
Dozens now chase you; they have sky chariots that circle the sky probing the darkness with beams of light. In a sick way, you admire them. Their actions strike a chord in your memory of the days when you walked as a man and flaunted your power. Rest eludes you – ironic that an immortal beast should now be regretting a few missed days of sleep.
You can’t afford to spend much longer here. Still, the gods of old gave you a savage strength and a massive body. Even with no magic, you will not fall here. Survival is all that matters! Brute force topples a small tree as thick as your closed fist. They have their weapons, now you have one as well.
The years of living in this forsaken place give you knowledge of every pile of moss-covered sludge, grouping of trees and the location of every sinkhole. You crouch on the rocks nearby and howl, knowing it will draw one or more of their wheeled machines towards you.
Their mechanical torches illuminate you as a pair of their machines approach. You scream at them, urging them on. They think you are a dull-witted beast. It is time to remove that notion. The smaller machine travels through the water and hits the sinkhole with one of its wheels. That sends the contraption careening through the air and the two riders with it. They are of no consequence.
The larger vehicle with the four wheels and the platform commands your attention. Two of the men on the platform fire large barreled weapons. Instead of stinging darts, the metal ball explodes into nets that even your claws can barely rend. You have no intention of thrashing in the muck trying to free yourself for their entertainment. Instead, you thrust your makeshift staff out and the nets wrap around it.
Roaring, you vault towards them, so confident in their machines and weapons, so certain of their superior intellect, so very wrong. The machine shudders with the addition of your sudden weight. They drop their net-firing weapons and reach for their stinging ones. You will feel more pain, but so will they.
“Shoot it! Shoot it!” the female driving the machine commands. In times of old, a female would never command males. One of them stings you several times, but you backhand him off the machine.
Another clubs you with his net-caster as the other remaining man and the female use the smaller stingers to further injure you. Your clawed hand catches the weapon swatting at you and with a violent pull you swing the man between you and those armed with stingers.
The darts are much more effective against his pale, pasty flesh. Perhaps you should learn how to use these stinging weapons. You thrust his body towards them and squeeze onto the platform. Both claws work together and rip the final man in half, coating you with his gore and filling your ears with the sound of his screams. The weak female is all that is left.
Her ebony skin is as dark as charcoal and her build is athletic and muscular. Her beauty is akin to Dra’s. Perhaps it is she reincarnated? The slight pause costs you dearly as her stinger sends jolts of pain directly into your head. You vision darkens in one eye and bones shatter in your jaw. Enraged, you lash out at this avatar of a long departed goddess. She leaps off the platform into the bog below.
The wounds take a toll and slow you down. The cursed land heals, but not immediately. This is not the first time you've given chase half blinded. The cramped platform hinders your pursuit, but you free yourself and fall down to the marsh below.
For now, you must pursue this female and learn her secrets. If the gods plan to return, you must know why! This new goddess will suffer. You are now powerful and she is weak.
The female has a large lead, but even injured, you are faster. Did they not make you this way? She deserves to see firsthand her handiwork, does she not?
Arms and legs propel you on all fours – more like an animal and not a man. Her fleeing form weaves in and out of your field of vision. Nostrils flare and you inhale the scent of her fear, rejoicing in it. She screams, but you aren’t even listening to the words. All that matters is that you feel her in your grasp and give her a taste of retribution.
Sheer determination keeps you moving after her. To the right, the ground is much more compact. You should have gone that way. Even so, you are almost upon her. There is no escape!
She rushes into the clearing, where you often dry your fur under the sun. In days to come, it will be pleasant to lie under the warmth of the great orb and recall the righteous fury you are about to inflict. Perhaps the insects will echo her screams…
So consumed in thoughts of revenge, you barely notice the others waiting in the clearing. No! The goddess tricked you! It's a trap. The nets fly as even more of the thrice-cursed stingers rip at your flesh like a swarm of angry insects. You stagger forward, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge failure. The nets make it harder to move and a powerful blast sends you sprawling to the ground.
Frantically, you rip at the mesh, but there are too many of layers. Screams of pain and frustration come unbidden from your lips. More stings and soon your screams are reduced to pitiful moans. Are you finally dying? Is the technology of man finally superior to the powers of the ancient gods? The stings stop abruptly, but the damage is more than you can stand.
In a fog of agony you hear voices. “Sweet Jesus! The thing’s still alive! We must have shot it a hundred times!”
“Shock it!” The goddess commands and her worshippers obey her. A different kind of net is thrown over you. It appears more delicate, but you're still pinned by the others and lack the strength to even try.
The humans yell to each other and then your muscles convulse in pain, much like the night you stood next to a cypress tree watching a great storm. The god of the sky spotted you and sent a thunderbolt down upon you, shattering the tree and injuring you for days to follow.
Perhaps the goddess, in her new incarnation, is not as weak as you thought her to be? She demands her followers inflict even more harm on you, a reminder of how the most beautiful people can be the cruelest.
After two more powerful jolts, you can take no more and succumb to unconsciousness.
You’re moving, which is strange because you are lying down. Your body throbs with a dull ache. It takes a moment to process what has happened. Your injured eye has not been restored, which troubles you. Simple meditation fights off the pain coursing through your body and grants a level of clarity. The rustle of thick chains greets your movement.
A prisoner in the belly of one of their moving machines – that is what you are! There is a new sensation, one of weakness permeating your flesh. The connection that you share with the bog is frayed. This mechanical carriage carries you beyond the swamp. Fear and trepidation consume your thoughts and lead you to renew your assault on the heavy shackles.
Eventually, your rage is spent. You lack the strength to break free, so you must rely on guile. For too long you have relied on the instincts of a misshapen beast. You must remember what it is to think and reason if you are to escape.
Pulling your sore frame into a meditative position, you relax and wait for this journey to end. Hours are nothing to one that has existed for centuries.
“It’s just been sitting there for the last ten hours. The thing gives me the willies, Kendra! We should just keep shooting it until it dies.”
The female is aptly named – Kin of Dra. Cleansed of the muck of the swamp she is very beautiful. If she is not the goddess reborn, she must be a daughter. Destroying one of her children will certainly be a fitting revenge.
She speaks, addressing the fearful male warrior, “That’d be my preference, but Mr. Daniels here is bringing in scientists to study it. I put a slug through its left eye at point blank and all I did was blind it. Even a gorilla would be dead!”
“You probably missed and it was blinded by the muzzle flash.” A second male says. He wears different clothing than the others and carries no obvious weapon. “What I want to know is if there are any more of them. The safety of my workers is the number one priority! That’s what I am paying you for.”
Kendra answers, “I’m well aware of that, sir. That thing killed a dozen of my men over the last three days. We’ll scour the swamp and make certain there are no others before you send your workers back in. Even then, we’ll have squads assigned to your engineers. So, when do the researchers arrive?”
“They'll be here in the morning. Assuming the thing is still alive, filming it and producing a documentary should fetch a tidy sum.”
You try to follow their words, but they mean little without the proper context. One thing you can tell is that the warriors and their employer are greedy. It is a flaw you know very well – something you can use. What failings the others have remains to be seen. When the time comes you will show them your wrath!
Meditation helps, but you continue to weaken. Without the healing powers of the swamp, your time will soon be upon you. It will be a humiliating end to a humiliating life. Faced with your own mortality, you worry that your true tormentors await you in the next realm, ready to resume their torturous ways.
“Hair samples recovered from the specimen show that the DNA is closer to human rather than simian. This is unexpected. Doctor Albright has already theorized that this might be a missing link along the human evolutionary chain.”
The new female is a pretty thing. Her hair is like spun gold. She dresses in a white jacket and has bands of metal encircling her right leg. A cane helps her to walk. She is one of the five “scientists” trying to explain your existence. Mankind no longer believes in such things as magic, so you continue to defy their explanation.
Her blue eyes and the intelligence behind them capture your attention along with one other detail – her name. The one known as Doctor Albright referred to her initially as Doctor Jacobs, but then addressed her as Andrea. Is she Drea the Wise reborn? If she is, how can you possibly escape?
The others do not remind you of any of your gods, so you focus on her.
She uses a long pole and pushes a tray towards you. There are two metal bowls on it. One is water and the other has a butchered fish in it. The water slakes your thirst, but the fish does not come from the swamp and your body rejects it with a violent spasm, as it did with the meat and vegetables the day before. You drink the remainder of the water to try and rid your mouth of the foul taste. Kicking the tray away in disgust, you listen to it clatter against the bars.
Drea tries to use the pole to retrieve the tray and bowls through the narrow slot at the bottom of the cage, but she is having precious little success. She looks around and mutters about no one else being around. There are guards outside the door who check on her periodically.
Uncertain of the reason; you shuffle forward. The chains impede your progress, but you can stretch out your right arm and grasp the tray. You place the two bowls back on it and push it out the gap towards her.
Drea stares, holding the pole uselessly in her hand. She shakes her head to clear out whatever is vexing her and retrieves the small black box which she speaks into.
“Specimen just displayed problem solving skills with its dinner tray. I will attempt to test its cognitive ability.”
She hobbles around the room looking for things and returns with a series of objects. Onto the tray Drea places two balls, a metal cube and three wooden blocks. On her table, Drea has a matching set. You wait while she repositions the object that they often look through.
Drea speaks to this camera, “Cognitive test of specimen.” With the pole, she pushes the tray with the items to you. She places the three blocks on top of each other and sets the cube on top of them and then takes the two balls in one of her hands.
It reminds you of games played by mothers with their babies using sticks and rocks. Is that what she thinks you are, a child? Deciding to humor her, you duplicate the pattern. Other than letting a captive survive for a few days, this is the most interaction you’ve had with a human in probably a century. This begins a rather humorous interlude of her arranging the six objects into a pattern and you responding in kind. It is only interrupted by the guard checking in.
All the while the female speaks aloud to her small black box and the object on the tripod. It is when she announces that she intends to summon the others to show them that your temper flares. You smash the tray against the bars and thrash in your chains. You will amuse Drea, with the hopes of gaining your freedom, but no others! You are not some entertainer. You were once a king!
“Is everything okay, Doctor Jacobs?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Okay, shout if you need me.”
She stares at you for a moment and resets the pieces on her desk. It takes a few moments for you to recover the scattered objects.
After three more patterns, she stops and addresses you. “I want you to put two of the wooden blocks on top of the cube, one ball on each side and hold the last block in your hand.”
When you comply, she gasps and almost faints. For minutes, she stares at you until she finds her wits. “You can understand me?”
You nod.
“Can you speak?”
You shake your head.
“This is incredible! This is huge! I have to tell the others. They have to see this!”
You smack the ground and shake your head. You will barter with Drea for your freedom and not the others. She asks why, but you have no real way to answer her.
A gradual dialogue builds between you and Drea. She asks why you will not eat and eventually you manage to convey that the food must come from the marsh. She says that it will be difficult, but she will try to get some of it for you.
Two of the other “scientists” enter the room. Drea rises from her seat. “Good morning, Brian, Sean.”
“Anything new?”
She pauses for a moment and then shakes her head. “No, I tried cognitive testing just for the heck of it and all it did was toss stuff around the cage. It drank, but still vomited any food. Maybe we should try food from its habitat and see if that works?”
The one called Brian scratches his chin. “Not a bad idea. I had a cat that threw up for a week after we moved one time. Is the tape already out?”
You watch as she removes a smaller object from the tripod. “Almost, I just want to review it in my quarters and see if there’s anything I missed.”
“Fair enough, but get some rest.”
You are impressed. Drea did not betray you. She is as curious about you as you are about her.
In the nights that follow, Drea comes to you. Even with food coming from the swamp, your condition worsens. Using the simple hand gestures she teaches to you, you tell her that you must return, even if it is just to be buried. Drea says that she will try.
In her foolishness, she brings the other scientists and the man named Daniels. Perhaps she still lacks the real Drea's wisdom. Also in the room are Dra and two of her warriors. Drea explains and shows them how you communicate with this sign language. She tells them that they should return you to your habitat. The other scientists are skeptical and think that she has trained you to mimic her actions. The one called Albright knows this sign language as well and he asks you simple questions which you easily answer.
“This is amazing,” he declares. “It’s the find of a lifetime!”
The cold words of Daniels interrupt, “No, the amount of natural gas under that marsh is the find of a lifetime. Do you have any idea how much it is worth? If word gets out about this thing, the government will shut us down. All for something that’s already killed more people than Manson. Ms. Reid, destroy it!”
“With pleasure,” Dra moves closer and pulls out her large stinger.
Drea and the other scientists protests, but when the weapons of Dra’s warriors point at them, they fall silent. Daniels tells them that they can have your body to dissect afterwards.
Hoping Drea remembers what you told her, you fight against the chains with what little strength remains. It comes to no avail as the ebony skinned woman and the others raise their weapons. There is a steady roar as the stingers dig into you shredding your flesh and cracking your bones. Falling to the ground the stingers continue to gnaw at you…
For a time, there is nothing. You drift in an out of this void as consciousness returns. Deep in the core of your being, you feel the connection to bog. They defeated you, but Drea fulfilled your wish. Entombed in the swamp's embrace, you let its caress renew you.
Time passes and you dig your way to the surface. It is dark out and you rest until morning. In the early light you forage for food and quell your appetite. The sound of an approaching machine interrupts your meal. Three men and Drea are on the platform. They descend from the side of the machine and begin looking around.
“Are you certain this is where the body was buried?”
Drea looks angry at the warrior’s question. “Yes. The fire in the lab destroyed everything; we’re going to dig it up so we can get more samples. You have your orders!”
“Why'd you bring it back here to bury in the first place, Doc?”
“It asked me to.” She answers.
“Asked you to? Do you really expect us to believe that? Whatever, you eggheads are a buncha' nutjobs. C'mon guys.”
Minutes pass and you watch them draw closer to your shattered grave. The one who scolded Drea spots it. “Looks like it wasn't buried deep enough. Something beat us to it.”
They gather around the hole. Drea appears confused. “Something doesn't look right. This grave is all wrong. Where are the tracks and signs of the body being dragged?”
Your lips curl into a cruel smile as you watch them start to look around nervously. One of the men suggests they leave. Oh no, not yet. Rising out of the bushes near them, you make additional noise on purpose. You want them to hear you. They need to know what's coming for them.
They only have the small stingers and those prove to be only an irritant. Tethered to and reborn by the energy of this land, they are easily ignored. One of the men pushes the female towards you in hopes of making his escape. Ignoring the screaming scientist, the final man dies trying to scramble back up onto the machine. You turn back to the lone survivor.
She is understandably confused. “It’s impossible! You can’t be alive.”
You greet her with her with the hand gestures she showed you.
She stammers and tries to deny what is in front of her. Finally, in hysterics, she falls into the muck. In a small voice, barely a whisper, she says, “Are you a god?”
Eons since the real Drea visited, you finally understand what she meant. Ironically, those vanished gods granted your request! The real Drea obviously knew this. For a moment, you wonder if the others suspected. Still, a god with no followers is simply an immortal husk with no real power; it is the faith of their followers that is the source of their power. Perhaps this is why they left rather than weaken and become what you are, but you have known an eternity of that hollow life.
You nod to Drea and feel the flicker of your inner light suddenly returning, fueled by Drea the believer. It is faint, but you reach into down into your soul and grasp that gossamer thin thread of power.
So it begins. Gods can fall, but they can rise just the same. You pull her upright and look at the slime covered metal brace on her leg. Reveling in this renewed strength, you peel the metal away and ignore her cries of pain. It's time to reward Drea's newly discovered faith.
Drawing on that tiny flame your clawed hand moves over her appendage. It is a supreme effort for such a paltry spell, but you relish every second of using magic again. Finishing, you release her and she stands unassisted on her healed leg.
Drea stares at you reverently and the flicker grows. She will be your high priestess and bring more followers. They will make the inner light stronger and when that light is strong enough, you will reclaim your true form and ascend to your rightful place.
“If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Damn cultists!”
Daniels and Dra speak while several of Dra’s warriors walk nervously among your followers. As much as you want to rend the man limb from limb, Drea says that he has wealth and power in the mortal world. Bringing him into your fold is sage advice. Even in this incarnation she offers wisdom.
The priestess greets them, adorned only from the waist up in beads and body paint.
Daniels is startled, stunned by her appearance. “Doctor Jacobs? What madness is this?”
“It is the light. It is the truth. I have found it and hope you will as well.”
Dra’s face contorts in rage, “Where are my men? What happened to them?”
The warrior draws her weapon. You do not approve. A gesture produces a simple illusion, tricking her into believing the stinger in her hand is a snake. Dra instinctively tosses it away. Your followers leap upon Dra’s warriors and quickly disarm them. Some die, but they die for your will and that is enough for them.
Daniels is dragged away, pleading and begging. His calls for help and mercy provide a bit of amusement. Breaking him down into nothing and rebuilding him will be rather enjoyable.
Still, there is one final thing that requires your attention. Dra stands with a knife in her hands – encircled by your followers. They part as you approach.
Unlike others, she fails to revel in your grandeur. Dra must be fought on her terms. Very well, her wish shall be granted. The blade pierces your flesh. The sensation of pain is muted by your power, reminding you of how far you've come. Vais would have ignored such an attack. There is still a long way to go.
Your clawed hand snaps out and grasps her wrist. Opening your other hand, you smile and force the knife completely through your palm. Let her see how little it harms you. You yank the hand away and hold it in front of her. Focusing on your magic, the knife dissolves before Dra's fearful eyes. Your palm is spread open and you allow her to see your wound mend.
The woman's legs falter. She's beginning to accept the unacceptable. She whimpers as vines rise and wrap around her limbs like serpents. Several of your followers take her from you. They will prepare her. You walk towards Dra's former altar – recreated and now claimed in your name. The irony is delicious. Looking to the sky, you wonder if they can see you.
“You have been chosen,” Drea whispers to the captive warrior. “This is the moment your life changes. Before there was darkness, prepare yourself for the light. It will cleanse you.”
Dra protests as her clothes are removed and runes of your ancient language are painted on her flesh. “This is madness. You can't believe in this monster! This is all a lie!”
Drea shouts to the rest of the followers. “Remember those words. After Dra comes through the light, she will sing the praise of our lord as well.”
Your high priestess leads Dra to the altar, a magnificent offering of decorated flesh that will soon be a devout concubine. Assuming a more pleasing human form you approach the terrified female.
The chants of your faithful urge you on. You look first to your new concubine and then up to the sky searching for those long departed. The old gods were decadent. Perhaps one day, you too will fade and discover what is next. That next life may allow you revenge at those who wronged you so long ago, but for now there is so very much to be done.
The Precision of Clockwork
by Bobbie Metevier
Much had been written about Dr. Cambridge in the years leading up to the destruction. In his youth (according to biographers) Dr. Cambridge was not so harried. He was not above making sport of the scenery. Once, just for fun, he moved ahead of his schoolmates on a path breaking winter ice with a hickory stick. The chunks came away as thick as bergs.
“Every idea in my life was born from that moment,” he wrote in his memoirs. “When the ice had been liberated, sluicing down the sidewalk and into the gutter, I too found freedom.”
Dr. Cambridge was quite mad of course, but madness is often secondary to genius.
His insanity made no difference to the alumni at Chester College, and it certainly felt like old news in 1936 when he purchased a mansion high atop the cliffs overlooking lower Belle Isle.
The question of his sanity was not taken to task until much later--1969 to be exact, a few years after his life's work chugged down the cliffs, single file, and invaded all of lower Belle Isle.
Dr. Cambridge always set the clocks so that they chimed within five minutes of each other. This task alone took up most of March.
“My logic, Jack, is simple; at each interval of five, I should find myself at a new chore.”
The fourteen-year-old boy only nodded. It was such a treat to be in Cambridge's workshop that he felt he shouldn't speak. It was enough just to absorb the setting, to look at the coils and springs that littered each table. The bleak lighting and decrepit wood paneling were part of it somehow as if all the things in the sepia-toned room were linked to Cambridge's creations.
“Tomorrow, Dolly will join us,” Cambridge said. “She will work with us, but we mustn't ever tell her the true meaning behind our work.”
Dolly was new. She'd arrived at the mansion the previous week. Jack didn't ask where she'd come from. If he had to venture a guess, he'd say she came from the same orphanage as he had--not that it mattered. It was enough just to have a companion closer to his own age, a girl who always wore a flower in her hair to boot.
“Be mindful of Dolly now,” Cambridge warned. “She is a hardened and resourceful girl. We shall groom her together, but in the meantime she should not get in the way of the work. Everyone is expendable when held up against the work. She will be a gopher, a look-out for the work, if you will.”