The World Maker Parable

by Luke Tarzian

  The World Maker Parable

  A Shadow Twins Novella

  Luke Tarzian

  Also by Luke Tarzian

  The Shadow Twins Series

  Vultures

  Anthologies

  Dark Ends

  Contents

  1. Pendulum Dance

  2. Open Water

  3. Flightless Bird

  4. Manifested Falsities

  5. Mother Woe

  6. Father Sky

  7. Forest Dark

  8. Imposter Syndrome

  9. Dear Insanity

  10. Luminíl’s Lament

  11. Where the Sun is Silent

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The World Maker Parable

  Copyright © 2020 by Luke Tarzian

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are products of the author’s imagination.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by Tarzian Book Design

  For Celia and Naomi…

  Daddy loves you

  “Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

  ― Dante Alighieri, The Inferno

  1

  Pendulum Dance

  Hang-Dead Forest north of Banerowos was aptly named. Rhona had lost count of the corpses half a mile back. She towed her prisoner on a length of cord. Thus far she had ignored Djen's every word, half because she was tired of listening to the woman spit hatred, and half because Rhona wasn't entirely sure how to respond. Leading the woman you loved to the tree from which she was sentenced to hang had that effect.

  "I do as the Raven wills," Rhona said.

  Djen spat. "Fuck Alerion. Fuck you and your reflexive bullshit."

  They ducked beneath a trio of low-hanging corpses. The dark bones were long picked dry. Only tatters of clothing remained.

  "It's the truth," said Rhona. "Alerion's will is our command. Those who ignore him are a threat to the continued unification of home.”

  "You really are full of shit," Djen hissed. "Alerion's words are so ingrained into your skull they may as well be his hand shoved up your ass and moving your mouth." She heaved a sigh. "Never in all my years would I have thought you'd be the one to dance on strings. I suppose I never really knew you at all, Rhona."

  Rhona halted. She had tried these last hours, these last days, to ignore the bitterness Djen spat her way. Some of it was rightly earned—Rhona didn't deny that. She just wished Djen could understand why she had done what she had done.

  "I suppose if I had," Djen continued, "I would have foreseen you betraying me to Alerion."

  "How could I not?" Rhona asked. "You unleashed the Vulture from her cage."

  "I had to, you idiot," Djen snarled. "You and Alerion all but doomed us when you imprisoned Luminíl. What I did was for the future of our home. For the survival of this country and its people. If you would open your eyes—if you would all open your eyes—you would see how absolutely wrong you were to have kept such power in chains."

  Rhona yanked the cord and they continued on the way. She focused on the forest; she had always found peace here among the dead. For that, some called her mad, but what did she care? She inhaled deeply. The trees smelled of death and fear, if fear could be said to smell like anything at all. To Rhona, fear smelled like a foul breath clouding in the night, and that too was a very particular scent. In Hang-Dead Forest a foul breath was defined as an odor of iron and rain—magic. Mirkúr.

  They marched on through gnarled and twisted trees. Guilt nipped at Rhona's heels like a hungry dog and her heart stung. It wasn't supposed to have come to this. She loved Djen for all her flaws, for the gravity of her sin—could she really string her up to rot amongst the dead? Could she really watch Djen join the countless corpses in their pendulum dance?

  "You'll have to whether you like it or not," her conscience said. It called itself Fiel. "Country over person—it is the Raven's way. Alerion's will is our command." It sighed. "How could we have ever loved such a thing as Djen Shy'eth?"

  Rhona frowned. Ever the formal voice of woe, she thought. Fiel—the vocal trauma to her silent grief. Loving Djen had come easily to Rhona. In fact, it had been the easiest thing she had ever done, which made it all the more nauseating how quickly she had turned Djen over to Alerion. Had Rhona always been so fickle?

  "No," Fiel said. "You are doing what you know is right. Country over person. If minds like those of Djen Shy'eth and Sonja Lúm-talé can be so easily swayed by the darkness of the Vulture Luminíl then what reason do you have to believe a word they say? The Vulture is the personification of entropy—Luminíl had to be contained."

  They came to a small clearing in the depths of the forest. At the center was a tree unique from all the others: white of bark and black of leaves. For that Rhona called it the Lost Tree; it seemed so out of place in a wooded world of death and fog.

  Yet by branches have so many lives been claimed, she thought. From the branches of the Lost Tree she would hang her beloved Djen; to its roots Rhona would give her own blood in reverence. Blood paid was a debt owed and it was best to curry favor where you could, especially in times like this where uncertainty was king.

  "If you would stop taking sips from the wine Alerion serves," Djen said, "you would know how absolutely wrong he was, how wrong you are. You would understand the severity of what you did to Luminíl." She sighed as they stopped at the base of the Lost Tree. "You will..."

  Rhona turned to look at Djen. It was the first time she had done so since leaving Banerowos. For a moment she allowed herself to get lost in Djen's full-moon eyes, to imagine the taste of her lips and the gentle warmth of her breath.

  "Keep your tongue," said Djen. "You have that look, but your words mean nothing."

  Rhona flinched and it pulled her from her dream. She dropped Djen to her knees and drew a dagger from her cloak. "I wish things could be different."

  Djen smirked. "No you don't—but you will. Get on with it."

  "Alf elo nor," Rhona chanted. "Nor elo alf!"

  She punched the blade into Djen.

  Then she did the same to herself.

  "Once more you return."

  Rhona opened her eyes to the ethereal voice she had heard so many times before. Before her towered a lithe figure of smoke and wings. It called itself Equilibrium. It offered a hand and pulled her to her feet.

  "It has been a while since last we spoke," said Equilibrium.

  "It has," Rhona said. She gazed into the vast whiteness that encompassed them, feeling peace where others had undoubtedly felt dread. The Silent Place was many things to many different souls. She heaved a sigh.

  "You have questions," Equilibrium said. "As you always do." The spirit brushed a hand against her cheek and she felt a modicum of weightlessness. "What brings you to the Silent Place this night?"

  Rhona did her best to breathe evenly, composing her thoughts as best she could. She wanted everything to be presented as clearly as it could be. With her left index finger she traced the air, leaving gossamer symbols in her wake. Equilibrium reached out with its right index finger and traced them in reverse.

  "So much conflict," the spirit murmured. "So much heartache."

  The whiteness of the Silent Place dissolved in rivulets. In its place a meadow manifested. A sea of silver grass beneath a moon like none that Rhona had ever seen. Several yards away stood a tree. The tree. T
he Lost Tree. Equilibrium led her at an even pace, its great wings trailing into the ether.

  "This is new," Rhona remarked. The Silent Place had never before been more than a brilliant void of nothingness. "Have my memories done something?"

  "You are the first to whom the truest nature of the Silent Place has manifested," Equilibrium said. "This is a realm of memory and thought, a means for introspection, for retrospection, however they may be achieved. It is a haven for the dreaming dead."

  Rhona brushed the trunk of the Lost Tree. She felt a tingle in her chest—but of what?

  "Was I wrong?" she asked. "Has my life these many years but nothing but a lie?"

  "You present your question broadly but you focus solely on the woman Djen Shy'eth," Equilibrium said. "What do you think, Rhona? What does your mind tell you that your heart does not, that it refuses to?"

  "Only that I am conflicted," Rhona said. She felt stupid for her answer, for the ignorance and simplicity of her words. "I loved Djen, but I love Jémoon—I love my home. Our home. What Djen did threatened the livelihood of all I hold dear…"

  "But?" Equilibrium asked.

  "But…but…" Rhona wrinkled her nose. "I pushed her to recklessness. I pushed her to unleash the Vulture Luminíl—but why? Why would she do something like that? And what did I do to push her away?" She looked up at Equilibrium. The spirit gazed back from the darkness of its cowl. "I'm confused by it all."

  "Condemning loved ones to their ends has that effect on everyone who swings the sword," said Equilibrium. "The guilt and retrospection manifest far quicker in some than in others. In you, long before Djen's end. The heart often acts on impulse; it is fueled by desire strong enough to suppress logic either temporarily or permanently. What did you desire most, Rhona? What did your heart scream for?"

  She opened her mouth to speak but the meadow had already begun to fade. Like the whiteness before it, the meadow dripped away in rivulets until the Silent Place was an endless void as black as the abyss.

  Then, she saw a light.

  The gray of Hang-Dead Forest was soothing to Rhona's eyes. The smell of rain and death upon the breeze eased her mind as she strung Djen's corpse to the lowest branch of the Lost Tree. As Rhona worked the memory of her time in the Silent Place returned and she found herself asking repeatedly the question Equilibrium had posed:

  "What did my heart scream for?"

  "A great many things," Fiel remarked. "A great many things, amongst them Djen Shy'eth."

  Something more than Djen, Rhona thought. Something strong enough to push her away.

  "Power has the tendency to do that," said Fiel.

  Rhona frowned, turning away from the tree. What are you saying?

  "What, for the longest time, you sought yet at the same time denied you did," Fiel said. "Control. Authority."

  That's madness, Rhona thought.

  "Is it?"

  Rhona was silent. Her body ached, her mind howled with the pain of uncertainty. She turned to Djen and brushed her cold cheek. She looked her in the eyes and in them saw a thousand possibilities evanesce. The future was forever fickle. Did that mean Rhona was as well?

  She pressed her lips to Djen's one final time.

  Then she walked away, waiting for the words that Djen would never say.

  2

  Open Water

  Then

  "I love you," Djen said, and Rhona nearly toppled over the balustrade.

  Rhona steadied herself and looked Djen in her brilliant, stark white eyes. Had she heard her properly? Had Djen said what Rhona had been dying to say? She took a deep breath then exhaled as smoothly as she could so as not to betray her nerves.

  "And I love you," Rhona said. Whispered, really. She was trembling. The moonlight shone upon them, upon the distant lake, unobstructed for the first night in weeks; it made Rhona feel warm. She focused on that warmth as she once more tried to compose herself lest Djen think her words were false.

  Djen took Rhona's hands in hers. Her trembling subsided almost as quickly as it had come and for that she was grateful. For Djen, she was immensely grateful. They stood in the silent night, the winter chaos of Banerowos's streets little more than a dull buzz below.

  "I've dreamt of this for so long," Rhona said, caressing Djen's knuckles with her thumbs. "Of standing here with you, everything else little more than an afterthought." Her cheeks were hot. "Djen…"

  Djen smiled. "Me too."

  She pulled Rhona toward her. Their faces were just inches apart. Rhona could feel the warmth of Djen's breath and it smelled like mint. Her hair smelled of vanilla and… Rhona shuddered at the pure intoxication of her scent. She wrapped her arms around the woman's waist and pressed her lips to Djen's. A spark rippled through her body—this felt right. This was right.

  "I've been wanting to do that for…I don't know how long," Rhona murmured when they finally pulled apart. "Years. Decades, even."

  “Me too," Djen whispered. She turned, resting her elbows against the balustrade. "I've never seen the lake so bright before, at least not that I can remember."

  "I saw it once," Rhona said, mimicking Djen's posture. "Long ago when Banerowos was little more than a skeleton of its current self. You were speaking to Alerion about something. I don't recall what, but it must have been important to you. You jabbed him in the chest with your finger and whatever he had been so eager about vanished from his face."

  "Mmm. I remember that," Djen mused softly. "Don't remember what we were arguing about but I most certainly won."

  "And Alerion's been calmer ever since," said Rhona. "Silly winged man."

  "Careful now," Djen said. "Gods aren't fond of such talk."

  Rhona rolled her eyes. "Luckily Alerion seems to have developed an aptitude for discerning sarcasm and fun."

  "You have a point. Humility is an appealing characteristic for a god to possess."

  "I spoke with the Vulture today," Rhona said. The abruptness of her statement drew a gasp from Djen. "Calm, now. You'd think I told you I murdered someone. I met her in the Raven's Wood for meditation."

  Djen offered a slight frown.

  "What?"

  "Just…be careful around her," Djen said. "She can be volatile."

  "As can the Phoenix," said Rhona, "but only if provoked."

  "I suppose," Djen said. "Thankfully we've Alerion to keep them both in check."

  "Exactly," Rhona said, leaning into Djen. "Besides, they helped to form what we call home. Without that winged trio of creation Banerowos would be little more than a dream. Jémoon would be little more than a dream. A fantasy."

  Djen sighed. "I suppose you have a point. It's just…such power makes me wary. I'm not the only one. The three of them could destroy us with the snap of a finger. We're little more than playthings for gods if you really think about it, Rhona."

  "I have thought about it," Rhona said. "Sometimes the notion makes me feel smaller than a speck of dust. But mostly…it makes me feel safe, if that makes any sense. It makes me feel important such primordial beings would see us as their equals in a way. They walk amongst us willingly. That counts for something."

  "It does," agreed Djen.

  Again, they stood in silence.

  "It's enchanting," Djen said.

  "Hmm?"

  "Each ripple on the surface of the lake," Djen said. "A thousand possibilities manifest and evanesce repeatedly."

  Rhona had never thought about it like that. "How many ripples do you think were involved in our creation? In that of Jémoon and Banerowos?"

  "Impossible to say," Djen said. "To comprehend, really."

  "Probably best not to lest we drive ourselves insane," Rhona said.

  "Probably."

  Djen draped an arm around Rhona's shoulders. They stood and they stared.

  Luminíl was beautiful in the same way death inevitable. She was entropy where the Phoenix Mirkvahíl was creation. She was destruction for the greater good, for the evolution of their world, and her power was such that Rhona c
ouldn't help but feel small in her presence despite being half a head taller.

  Luminíl stood at the base of a great tree in the center of the Raven's Wood. Where the others bore leaves of red and green, this one's leaves were black and its trunk was whiter than virgin snow.

  "I have been waiting for you, Rhona," Luminíl said. Her voice was a gentle breeze.

  Rhona approached at a measured pace. She felt little reason to be afraid, anxious—but there was still reason. She stopped several feet shy of where the Vulture stood and bowed her head.

  "You need not be so formal," Luminíl said. "Long have we known each other, after all."

  "Of course," Rhona said. “What’s on your mind?"

  Luminíl turned to her. It was all Rhona could do to stifle a gasp. Dark veins webbed outward from her once-white, now-red eyes. Rhona had never seen Luminíl so…so…

  "Something is wrong with me," the Vulture said. "I am ill and have been for some time."

  "How?" Rhona asked. "What's happening to you?"

  "I do not know," Luminíl said. It was the first time Rhona had ever heard fear in her voice. "It started in my dreams and has since manifested itself physically."

  Luminíl had never mentioned her dreams to Rhona.

  "Have you told Mirkvahíl or Alerion?" Rhona asked.

  "I fear their reactions."

  Rhona frowned. "But why? You are each one third of creation. And Mirkvahíl is your beloved. What harm could they do?"

  Luminíl extended a hand. "I could show you. I could show you everything, Rhona."