Necrosis (The Omens of Gaia Book 1) Read online

  CHAPTER 14

  THE AUGUST MONK

  Darkness, dripping, eternal. Sleepless dreams that materialized from nowhere, and fled as swiftly as they came. Memories of light piercing the foundations of creation. And a gray plain, hazy with paradox: the meeting point between two worlds. On one side the light beckoned, rapturous and terrifying in its glory. On the other side, a black void from which insidious whispers stole. He stood upon the plain and felt as if his being were torn in two. He stretched his hand towards the light – burning, longing – but could not reach it.

  He woke in terror, not knowing where he was.

  There were strange rumors among the brethren. Something which they hinted at, but feared to name aloud. They urged one-another to be ever vigilant of the plots and betrayals brewing in the hearts of their prisoners. The other tribes of men were envious of Lord Belshazzar, and sought always to challenge His reign. And yet, the brethren were wary not to draw too close to the minds of their captives. Strange waters lurked beneath the surface of men’s minds; waters a Necrow could drown in if caution was not exercised.

  Fascinating, their prisoners were. Yet at the same time, exceedingly dangerous. Like the moonlight, something deep and arcane dwelt in the depths of each man’s heart. And not even men understood what it was. The experienced Necrow could herd the minds of men like sheep, fomenting the surface of their thoughts, churning up the middle layers, and slowly bring their minds to ruin… but only so long as they did not disturb the depths.

  Lord Belshazzar continued to rule from his throne: proud, dispassionate, pitiless. After the young Necrow was slain by his hand, there had been no more talk of the dreams that haunted the brethren. One could quell them, for a time, if one wore a mask as one should, and did not gaze too long at the moon. But the mask could not stop one from looking into a man’s mind, and if one looked too long and too deep, the dreams would come again.

  This time they were as nightmares: the light receding as he was dragged furiously backwards, repulsed, exiled. Rapture was consumed by terror, a desperate scrabbling as he was cast from a cliff, falling into endless darkness.

  Always, in either dream, there was pain. Pain when he reached for the light, and pain when he was dragged away from it. Both were unbearable. So he learned, in time, to avoid both. He forgot the words of his younger brother, the one who had been killed, and was careful to turn his inner eye away from all sources of temptation.

  That was until one night, when he could bear it no longer and crept onto the roof of the fortress to catch a glimpse of the virgin moon. When he discarded the mask and opened his eyes, however, he was met with a haunting sight.

  One of the brethren knelt on the parapet, bathed in moonlight, face clutched in his hands. He was laughing and weeping simultaneously. His mask lay broken at his feet, and his whole form shook with the force of his feeling.

  The dull embers of his life burst, suddenly, into ravenous flames. Like a torch it burned, hot and bright, and where the newly-kindled flames licked, his body was transformed. Scarlet blood surged through living vessels of flesh. Dark clay grew rigid and transmuted into bone. Ash condensed and flowed into fine plumes of hair. The Necrow’s laughter was choked off, and he screamed as his figure was catalyzed by ethereal fire.

  When it was finished, a man huddled on the stones of the parapet. He shivered in the cold, gazing around at his former brethren in bewilderment. His eyes bore the colored iris and dark pupils of the living, wide with ardent feeling. His mouth broadened, and again the manic laughter welled up out of his chest.

  The new man looked to the sky as if to share his joy, and gradually the laughter died. A look of horror gripped his features. “What…what’s happened…I don’t understand…”

  He walked over to the man, regarding him in bewilderment. The man’s mind was a churning maelstrom of thought, leaping at everything but grasping nothing. It searched, but did not know what it searched for. It crashed into his awareness like a rogue wave, but did not register his existence.

  “What’s happened to you?!” the man cried, shaking his fists at the heavens. “Where are you hiding? Why won’t you speak to me? Come back!!”

  ‘Who are you talking to?’

  “Leave me be, you scarecrow, you treacherous demon spawn! Where is the light of my life? Where is my beloved?” He sobbed and beat his fists against his chest, screaming as if all the rage and loss of the world was locked inside of him.

  It was as if the deep waters had burst to the surface; an uncontrollable geyser that threatened to wash away all remnants of sanity. He withdrew from the man’s mind in alarm, fearful of contamination.

  Suddenly the brethren gathered around them, seizing the newly-formed man and dragging him from the roof. He writhed against their grip, straining back towards where the moon shone, cold and silent. “I am still here! Where did you go? Answer me! ANSWER ME!!” He turned to them, eyes bulging, screaming: “Everything is wrong! You are beasts, monstrosities, mere husks of men! Where is love, where is justice, where is dignity?! There is nothing in you! NOTHING!”

  As the brethren led him into the darkness, however, panic overcame his rage. “Where are you taking me? I don’t want to leave, I don’t want – why aren’t you listening to me?!”

  ‘You are a man now,’ the brethren intoned. ‘Therefore you will be put with the other men, to work and die as they do. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  “NO! No, I want to live! Why can’t you understand? You are all guilty! You gorge yourselves on the light, but refuse to devote yourselves to it. Traitors! Parasites! You are all damned –”

  The Necrow dragged the man out of earshot.

  Only one of the other brethren remained on the rooftop with him. ‘This is where corruption leads, brother. These are the fruits born of one’s surrender to temptation. To sympathize with human nature is to lose one’s sanity. Only Our Lord has succeeded in overcoming His nature, to rise above other men. This is why He is entitled to rule. He alone possesses the wisdom to overcome the calamity of the living.’

  ‘Human nature…’ he mused. ‘Is it true, then, that men have souls, and the Necrow do not? How can it be a loss, if one becomes human, but gains an immortal soul?’

  ‘Wisdom you have not, brother. Again, Our Lord tells us what is true. Mankind’s belief in a soul is yet another facet of their madness; a lie they tell themselves to give comfort amidst a tumultuous and uncaring world.’

  ‘Have many of the brethren fallen to madness?’ he asked.

  ‘In time, all the brethren fall. The only difference is how long their devotion to our Lord lasts against the seductions of this world.’

  ‘I see.’ He nodded in obedience to his brother’s words. No traitorous thoughts must they suspect…

  When the other had gone, he turned again to the firmament of night above the fortress. For a moment he hesitated, then placed the mask over his face. It was best not to risk it. If he looked too long, he would fall, he would lose all that he was, and then he would die. Why risk that on the foolish hope that immortality could save him?

  Still, the face of his fallen brother lingered in his mind. The look of joy as he had died by their master’s hand… What had he seen, in those final moments?

  If he gave in to death…

  No, he dared not risk it. He dared not risk meeting the darker things which lurked beyond death’s borders. The Necrow might not believe in souls, but they did believe in Samael. So he resumed his watch outside the prison cells. He did his best to carry out his duties and brood no longer on the fate of men.

  §

  It took many days to descend out of the mountains of Iru Mori. Neither Keren nor Akar spoke much during this time; both carried their own burden from the final encounter with Amaterasu and the Kirin. Keren especially sensed a weight on Akar’s mind that had not been there before. Curious as she was, she was afraid to intrude upon its thoughts. The Necrow was not the same as when they had entered this land, and that troubled her, f
or Keren had always assumed the Necrow were unchanging.

  As they traveled, Keren noticed with disquiet that the seasons were changing. The waters of the Well had been the source of Iru Mori’s eternal youth. Now the green leaves of spring were fading to brown and gold, and a cold frost settled over the land each night, freezing the newborn flowers where they lay. Green buds which poked their hopeful heads above the soil were reduced to withered stems upon the next morning. It made Keren grieve, to see the twilight of eternal spring.

  She wondered how the villagers of Reihai and Shinrin would cope. Would they be able to survive the coming winter? Would they know how to store their grain, salt their meat and preserve their victuals underground? Would they know how to keep their cheer and sanity through the long nights and freezing gray days when the sun hid its face? Would they even recognize their land as it withered and withdrew into long slumber, hidden beneath drifts of faceless snow?

  Would Tsune recognize her betrothed, the god-slayer, when next she saw him?

  Keren’s heart burned when she thought of Irumi, the so-called savior of his land, desecrator of sacred things. He was not worthy to rule. And yet, he had managed to seize power all the same. The Kirin had not accepted him, but neither had it stopped him. The Harbinger had altered Keren; had laid a kind of curse upon her heart. Why hadn’t it done the same to him?

  What use were the messengers of the gods, if they were unable to overcome injustice? What use was a Harbinger of Kings, if it could be so easily spurned by a young tyrant? For the briefest time Keren had allowed herself the hope, however faint, that some higher spirituality existed which desired the good of mankind. Perhaps one did, but it wasn’t the all-powerful being the Herayon elders had spoken of.

  For several days they traversed the foothills of Iru Mori. The ancient forests wept tears of blood; their brilliant leaves falling like showers of fire. Storm clouds threatened the near horizon. Arcs of lightning pierced the night, but where they camped, no rain fell.

  At last they reached the edge of the forest. They had been careful to avoid any villages on the way, and had taken a different pass north of Reihai. Keren didn’t want the responsibility of telling those people what had become of their land and their future. Prosperous it might still be, she told herself. Still, she did not want any part in it.

  Now the plains stretched before them, their grasses rippling like waves on the sea, ruffled by fickle gusts of wind. A few miles westward they found a road that led north toward the border of yet another unknown nation. The ‘road’ was marked on the map, but in reality it was little more than a dirt track, parallel ruts vanishing toward the horizon.

  The two of them stopped to rest and break fast at the edge of the prairie, as if taking time to bid farewell to the titanic trees. Akar’s face was turned towards the mountains. Whether it looked with its eyes or its inner sight, Keren could not tell. She was kept busy with savoring her meal and keeping an eye out in all directions at once. Her nerves had never quite recovered from the yokai’s attack in the forest several weeks ago.

  So it was that she was the first to see another traveler approaching along the track. He was on foot, features blurred by the distance. At first Keren could only make out a long dark robe and a walking stick in one hand. As he drew nearer, she saw his head was shaved to stubble, the robe was dyed richest purple, and his shoulders were adorned with wooden plates of armor. The stick in his hand was a golden staff, its top a closed circle hung with many bangles. They leapt and chimed with every step.

  She had finished her meal by the time the stranger reached them. He was a monk; that much she could tell from simple deduction, despite his outlandish garb. His face was that of an older man, worn by the weather but still handsome, wrinkles of laughter adorning his eyes. Streaks of gray highlighted the stubble about his proud temples. He looked very much like one of the elders from Keren’s village.

  The monk bowed to them, then leaned upon his staff. A rope of prayer beads hung from his sash. “Hail, children.”

  Keren bowed in turn. “Greetings, holy one.” She offered him what remained of their food, but the monk declined.

  Akar turned to view the stranger, its expression perplexed. Keren wondered if it knew what a holy man was. Surely it had some idea…

  “Who are you?” the Necrow asked.

  “Just a simple traveling monk,” the man replied. His dark eyes glittered with humor.

  “Why are you here?” the Necrow said. Its voice was hoarse, roughened by some strange emotion.

  “I wander wither the Divine directs me,” the monk said merrily. “What else is there in life, but to follow the Divine will? One often does so, whether one intends to or no.”

  “Why has the Divine will directed you here?”

  “My son, I have been brought here because it is intended that I give you a message. Are you willing to hear it?”

  Keren was curious despite herself. Holy men usually had an intriguing aura about them, and this one was no different.

  Akar fell to its knees beside her. She looked at it in alarm, its head suddenly on a level with her shoulder. Its hands hung limply at its sides, its dark face upturned towards the monk. What was it doing?

  “Ready and willing, to hear all you have to say,” the Necrow murmured.

  The monk looked at her. Apparently she needed to give her consent as well. Keren felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if she should have thought to kneel too. But why should she? This wasn’t even a priest, let alone a saint! There were no rules about having to kneel before monks! Usually it was them kneeling as they begged for alms…

  A strange current flashed through the man’s eyes, and Keren felt suddenly afraid. She knelt beside Akar. “Please, tell us,” she squeaked, unable to look at him.

  “Very well,” the monk said. He struck his staff against the ground, its sweet chime carrying across the prairie. Even the winds hushed themselves to listen. “You must journey to the north; there you will witness the doom of men. From there continue into the valley of mist to the east, to the place called Oración where the sages dwell. They will enlighten you; from there you will know what you must do.”

  The doom of man? Valley of mist? What on earth is he talking about? Keren wondered.

  Do not question it lightly, the Necrow thought. If you must make inquiries, make them seriously.

  “Um…” Keren stammered, unwilling to meet the monk’s ferocious gaze. “You sound like…you knew you would meet us here. As if everything that’s happened to us so far has had a purpose.”

  The holy man said nothing.

  “We will follow your advice, and go where you say, if – well, I was wondering if you could answer a question –”

  “You wish to test me in order to see whether I am what you believe me to be,” the monk said. Was that sarcasm Keren heard in its tone? “Very well: ask your questions.”

  “I wanted to ask,” Keren stammered – how did he know I had more than one question? I suppose one question is never enough when people want to interrogate a holy man – “About the conflict that recently happened in Iru Mori. The gods sent a holy creature to intervene there. What exactly was it trying to do? If it meant to help humanity, why did it allow the enemy of man to escape?”

  She expected the monk to give, at best, a vague made-up answer that required a rigorous imagination to interpret. Instead he replied: “You speak of the reign of the Fox and its overthrow by the Kirin. As you have deduced, the Fox was not destroyed, but banished to her own realm. I can say only this: that the Divine shows mercy to the least of its creatures.”

  “But – but why did the Kirin then destroy the Well? Why would it allow the yokai to rule for so long, but not men?”

  “The Messenger healed men as a token of its goodwill. It overcame the enemy of men so that they need not suffer injustice. Still they turned against it out of greed. A young warrior overstepped his bounds. His intentions to protect his people were noble; those that drove him to claim the F
ox’s power were not. Man was never meant to inherit such vast powers over the earth.” The monk looked askance at the Necrow, who still knelt unmoving. “Your comrade knows this well.”

  Keren opened her mouth to protest, but the monk held up a hand in warning. “You have exhausted what questions are allowed to you, child. Now I must see to more important matters.” He looked again at Akar. “Draw your sword, my son.”

  The Necrow started. Then, with hesitant fingers, it produced the blade. It held it out gingerly, as if afraid to give offense by proffering a weapon to a holy man.

  The old monk laid his hand upon the sword. He closed his eyes, and tapped his staff thrice upon the ground. “By the authority that has been given me, I lay my blessing upon this blade. May it strike true when the bearer’s heart is pure. When Pride’s stain is wiped away, the Divine shall grant a power greater still. Rise, my son, and go forth with goodwill.”

  Akar slowly rose to its feet, its head bowed. As it sheathed the sword, it said: “This one is not worthy of any blessing. Still, thanks is given, whoever you are. Gladly will I go where you instruct.”

  Keren still knelt, glowering sidelong at the Necrow’s knees. Why did it get a blessing? She had a weapon too, and she’d even used it more than that thing had –

  “You already bear a blessing on your soul, child,” the monk said. Keren risked an upward glance, and saw a smile tucked into the corners of the man’s stern mouth. “If you truly desire another, I will give it, though you do not seem to appreciate the one you already have –”

  “I’m just fine, thank you very much!” Keren cried, scrambling to her feet. “And I’ll go where you suggested, but only because I don’t have any better ideas!”

  The monk twirled his staff casually and for a moment, Keren imagined she saw a vast shadow hovering over him. His eyes smoldered with dark fire, and his face seemed then very ancient and very terrible. “Be careful what you say, child, and to whom you say it. Powers beyond your imagining walk this earth. There is a battle for the fate of men which rages in every soul. Virtue is the only true defense against darkness and despair.”