Tale of the Week 286: But use this, to summon one another as spirits, cross the gaps between the worlds and engage in jolly cooperation - VOTING THREAD
"But use this, to summon one another as spirits, cross the gaps between the worlds and engage in jolly co-operation!"
- Solaire of Astora, Dark Souls
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Submission 1 Maxa stood at the center of the cliff, overlooking the vast green mountains surrounded by lush jungles. Today was a good day to die. The storm crackled with the might of the mystical Gods fighting in the Heavens. In anger then, Maxa thought. In anger for his inability to protect his family and his city. He took off the large box he had been carrying all the way from his ruined city. A heavy rainfall descended down upon the mountains. Truly, the Gods were not in a good mood and were in no mode for tribute. Maxa packed his shield and sword, putting them behind his back. Descending down towards the cliff, he moved slowly, knowing the sign of the clouds. Anger and torment. Pacing his feet and arms as he climbed down the back of the mountain. The forests roared with the might of a mighty tornado, a powerful wind whipping itself back and forth through the leaves.
Rumbling rocks shook the mighty earth. Maxa glanced at the arriving horde of jaguar warriors that had destroyed the once great city of Copal. One day, Maxa swore in the back of his mind. He would take Copal back and rebuild it to honor the Gods. This was not his time now. The jaguar warriors hurried like rats before stopping. A great feathered serpent stood on the crest of a mighty helmet, paving its way through the crowd of warriors. The ginormous figure stood, holding a golden obsidian sword and a mighty shield. General K'ak. A man he had considered a brother. No longer a kindred soul, now the destroyer of cities. All the knowledge he had given to him was posion. The warrior of destruction. The one they called to honor the Gods. Maxa smirked.
General K'ak stepped forward. 'Where are your ancestors now Maxa? Do they weep?'
Submission 2 At the edge of the world there are cliffs and precipices, walls of ragged sandstone and shale peaked in everlasting green, the brittle breaking stones echoing to the sound of gulls, razorbills, and the more melancholy notes of selkie in the shallows below. It is a place of beauty, power, strength, but it is more than that. It is a door.
“Brother, can you hear me? Brother?”
The distant waves below thunder and boom without meaning, their din nearly overpowering the cry of the seabirds.
“Brother, give me a sign. Some signal to mark your presence.
An albatross wheels above, its great span blotting out the sun ever so briefly, casting the prostrate figure in shade. Her eyes dart up for a moment and then just as quickly return to the bones and stones that surround her cowled form. With menacing purpose she reaches for a slender blade of marrow etched in scrawling figures.
“Blood of my blood, kindred child of a dying race, call my name that I might know that you too have not forsaken me.”
Her wrist flashes ivory in the afternoon sun, driving the bone-knife deep into the bloated stomach of an elder goat, spilling his entrails over the high blown grasses. A tribute to the Tuath Dé, that by their intervention her cries might not go unheeded, but still the coldsome downs ring with silence.
“Son of my father, child of my mother, why do not listen? Can you not hear my wretched soul weeping for your company? Can you not feel my tears falling headlong into the void?”
The crimson-stained blade falls from her listless fingers and she raises her hands, clawing at her hair, smearing the raven curls with clotting death. Blood above, blood below. A sacrifice in all forms, yet ever found inadequate. Hope draining from her trembling shoulders, she casts aside the rude attempt at mystical communion, thrusting the books and bones and oozing corpses over the long cliffs before her, and ultimately she gives herself to despair, to grief. Heavy silent sobs rise within her, carrying her heaving breast to the brink. The drops of sea-salt misery fall from her sun-spotted cheeks and oaken chin freely, and when finally they strike the earth below a shade rises before her, his hand outstretched and beckoning.
Brigid looks out and down and then back up at her limpid brother. Her lips tremble but her eyes are stone.
“So be it, Finn.”
She takes a step forward, swinging her leg out past the edge, and then she steps again. The rocks below will send her the rest of her way.
Submission 3 “Quickly, brother. It is not much further.”
For two days we had made our way through the gorge, the sun a fierce constant overhead. It had been a perilous trek, following a single path that barely functioned as such; all my concentration went into not stumbling over the stones that filled the track. Having reached the bottom, I was utterly relieved.
“How do you know it’ll be here?” I asked, recovering my breath.
“I’m certain of it.” Sweat dripped from my brother’s brow, but he refused to wipe it. “I saw the sign.”
It had come to him in a dream, this sign. He had woken me one humid night, blathering about some mystical herb that could save our sick mother. All we had to do is find it and bring it back – she would it ingest it as a tea and all would be well again. He spoke as though it would be as simple as picking an apple from our garden.
Of course I was skeptical, but my brother and I had always been kindred spirits – I trusted him completely, and he was never one to conjure up fairytales. It was a tribute to our bond – if he believed his dream, I would too.
“Remember, the herb is red – we can’t miss it. Look for a stream. That’s where I saw it in my dream.”
I nodded and squinted through the sunlight at the path that stretched before us. We had descended down into the gorge proper, beyond the woods of its entrance. Peering out, it was still hard to see, but I was certain of what I saw – a glimmer in the distance.
“Look,” I called out. “The stream!”
Hope filled my heart. Though I trusted my brother, I could not help but worry his vision might’ve been a delusion. I was glad to have been wrong.
We dashed toward the water, eyes agape. My brother pressed on before me. Where was this red herb?
For about half an hour we wandered about this stream, which to be frank was rather pitiful, little more than a drizzle. My earlier ecstasy at seeing it had been replaced by a growing hatred for it – it had teased us with the prospect of salvation, yet the red herb it promised was now nowhere to be found.
“It was supposed to be here,” my brother muttered, now sullen and resting by a boulder. The sun continued to beat down on us.
I did not know what to say to him. Part of me felt suddenly ridiculous. Of course there was no red herb – of course it wouldn’t save our mother. It was just a dream.
As I peered round a final time, the sun now hidden behind the crags of the gorge, I saw it. It was a vivid red, just as my brother had said. I could not believe my eyes, but there it was.
“Mother,” I managed to whisper.
Submission 4 Screams muffled, blood upon stone and a great sigh of relief. The ritual was complete, the encroaching evil of the World Beyond sated, at least for now. The Saints, guardians of the land and people were revitalised
“By the Blood of Hecatomb! What we do this day brothers and sisters ー this tribute we offer ー will strengthen our kindred ties as one people” began the Hierophant, interpreter of sacred mysteries, mystical principles and arcane knowledge “with one mind and one cause and one leader” The people looked on, the terror in their eyes abating as each, be they prince or pauper was blessed by the blood of the sacrifice. “Unity!”
“Unity!” The people echoed
“It is all a lie” whispered the Archon as they looked down from the dais “all of it, a damn lie and for what? So that we might breath and extra breath, drink that one last drop of water?” The Archon’s faith had been shattered long ago, it seems
“Come, come now” the Hierophant chided, turning away from the masses below “Oh great Archon, a descendant of the Saints and the protector their people mustn't utter such blasphemies” they spoke as though parent to a child “you and I both know that this ritual is the only thing keeping us alive down here. Be thankful it wasn’t you who was chosen”
“By the Blood of the Hecatomb” the Archon raised their hands, as though in mockery of the holy rites being performed
“And the Sacrament of the Saints” the Hierophant reminded
“And the Sacrament of the Saints” the Archon repeated.
And so the people of the Great Vault, the last Kingdom of Humanity were safe for another year. The ritual culling,the Blood of the Hecatomb, a practice that had evolved out of a need to ‘thin the herd’ as it were, centuries ago was completed. The lives of one hundred men, women and children extinguished so that the last of the human race might survive, one more year.
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