The World Maker Parable

by Luke Tarzian

  She started at a tug on her hand. Looked down and saw the spirit of a young girl. Realized it was pulling not on her hand but on her illum. "Please," it groaned, siphoning more of Rhona's illum. "I…I am so…hungryyyyy..."

  Rhona tore her arm away. The spirit fell to mist with a rasp; more manifested in its wake. Silhouettes with stark white eyes and the slightest hints of facial features. Rhona ran. They followed. She sprinted blindly, purpose momentarily quelled in favor of safety, solitude, anywhere these things couldn't find her.

  This must be what it feels like, what it looks like when guilt manifests, she thought, pushing back tears. Ghosts of yore, harbingers of sorrow, bannermen for a lady of woe. They were her legacy, and what an awful thing that was.

  She stopped, turned to face the past. The spirits encircled her. They stood staring, little more than incorporeal effigies. What were they doing? What were they waiting for? Rhona opened her mouth—to say…what? To ask what?

  "I was a farmer," said one.

  "I was a nursemaid," said a second.

  "We all of us were something to someone," said a third, brighter-eyed than the rest. It approached Rhona, stopping just a foot or two away, boring into her with a full-moon stare. "You stripped us of our futures. You mistook subjugation for harmony, mistook individuality and freedom of speech for sedition. You whom we adored, whom we looked to for guidance. You are a lie."

  Rhona swallowed. The words stung more than she had ever thought they could. "Is this why I have come? Is this—are you what I was meant to find?" She felt another tug on her illum. It was greater than the first and this time Rhona did not flee. Despite Fiel's frantic pleas she stood her ground, watching her illum leave her flesh in wispy, luminescent threads.

  Djen—Mother Woe said the Bone Garden is the birthplace of clarity. Rhona faltered, dropped to one knee as the garden waxed and waned. What… Images flashed across her mind. They were little more than swirls of color. What…am I…supposed to find…? Who—

  Who.

  The wind howled and a shadow reared up before Rhona, more monstrous than anything she had ever seen. Her vision steadied, she went cold. Never before had she felt such dread. Lithe and winged, an orb of brilliant light where once a face had been or should have been. It plucked her from the earth with ease and held her to the blackened sky.

  I will break you, it hissed, and its words were like the sea crashing against rock. I will break you a thousand times. You are false. You are ruin. A portion of the faceless orb dilated to reveal a maw, a pit of absolute and utter emptiness. You are mine.

  Rhona wailed.

  She fell.

  Rhona bolted upright from the grass with a gasp. Before her stood the Lost Tree. Beside her, a familiar figure.

  "I should like to tell you it gets easier," Equilibrium said. "So much of me wishes I could—but that would be a lie. Nothing will ever be easy for you. You saw to that long ago, my dear friend."

  Long ago. It was a phrase of such simplicity, yet the way Equilibrium said it told her there was a deeper meaning. Rhona could feel it in every fiber of her being and it made her cold. If she could only see behind the curtain of it all…

  "Before this I was somewhere else," Rhona said. "The Bone Garden. And before that, with Mother Woe—with Djen, a name she claimed she hadn't used in centuries." Her brow furrowed. "I think I've lost all sense of time. All sense of…everything."

  "On the contrary," Equilibrium said. "You are regaining sense. Fantasies and falsities, memories and dreams—all have brought you to this point. Your existence is a parable of utmost import. It will shape the future of your world."

  Rhona's frown persisted. "What does that mean? Mother Woe said the same thing, my existence being a parable." She punched the grass and growled. If she could only see what she was being pointed toward!

  She blinked and Equilibrium was gone. Snow fell; the meadow was a blanket of white through which the Lost Tree rose. A familiar figure stood beneath its branches, staring directly at Rhona. She knew that white-eyed gaze intimately and stood, approaching hesitantly, trembling not from the cold but from the confusion of it all.

  "Djen?"

  "Memory is a complex thing," Djen said, walking to meet Rhona.

  A ragged sigh escaped Rhona's lips. "Is…is that all this is? Is that all you are, here?"

  Djen shrugged. "I…am many things everywhere."

  "I just…" Rhona reached for Djen's hands, held them tightly. "I feel so lost."

  "Such profound guilt has a way of doing that," Djen said sadly. "Just as power and authority dull one's sense of morality. One's compassion. Do you see the irony of it all?" She pulled Rhona to her, kissed her deeply. "The taste of regret is strong."

  Rhona pulled back, tugged herself from Djen's grasp. Mother Woe stood staring back.

  “Hell is a place of one's own making,” Mother Woe said, holding her arms out to the side. “And the irony? In seeking to create utopia you did the exact opposite, you and Varésh Lúm-talé alike. No perfect world—only entropy. Only the beginning of the end.”

  The meadow darkened, melting away in rivulets to reveal the Bone Garden. Rhona's vision waxed and waned. Her equilibrium fluctuated violently. Had she ever left this place? Had she ever actually spoken to Equilibrium, to Djen, or had everything been a lie? She fell to the ground. All around her spirits moaned, tugging on her illum.

  “As I said…” Mother Woe knelt beside Rhona, leaned in. Her breath was cold and sharp against Rhona's ear. “I will break you.”

  Then—

  Vela and her prisoner were halfway through the woods.

  It was cold here where the sun was silent, where the world was quieter still. Her mind was chaos. Why had her village chosen Vela for a task so horrible as this? How could they reasonably expect her to spill the blood of the woman she had known since childhood? The questions were rhetorical—Vela knew the answers.

  "Are you going to kill me?" asked Djorev for what felt like the millionth time.

  Vela was silent. How was she to answer? Sacrificing Djorev would keep their village and the land of Jémoon safe; it was Vela’s duty as a Walker. But it would break her heart. To sacrifice Djorev was to betray their friendship. Vela tightened her grip on Djorev’s leash, cursing alf elo nor. The Jémoon tenet decreeing one for all was a wretched thing.

  "Are you ever going to answer me?"

  "I don't know," Vela said finally.

  "I wouldn't blame you if you did," said Djorev. "I'm spellscarred."

  The word stung every time Djorev used it.

  Curse you, Vela thought of the Raven, the deity warding Jémoon. This is your fault.

  "You shouldn't blaspheme so loudly," said Djorev. "It's only going to make this worse."

  Vela stopped and wheeled around. Djorev’s stark white eyes gazed back from the depths of her hood. "How could this get any worse? Why should I care if the Raven hears what I say? It's that overgrown bird's fault you're tied to this leash. If it had done its duty to Jémoon and kept the Vulture quelled, you wouldn't be infected by wild Dusk."

  "But the Raven didn't, and I am," said Djorev. "Now here we are in a dark forest, arguing as the wolves descend." Vela gave her a questioning look. "I heard them a mile back. Except for the obvious stigma, being spellscarred isn't all bad."

  Vela drew her dagger, wondering how close the wolves were. "I wish you would take this a bit more seriously."

  Djorev grinned. "Afraid the severity's slipped my mind?" She snapped her fingers and her bonds and tether turned to ash. "Hmm. Wonder what that little magic trick cost..."

  Vela groaned. She didn't want to think about it. The price of a spellscarred's power was terribly unpredictable and unpredictably terrible. It was a small part of why Vela made no move to apprehend Djorev. The bigger part was because it was Djorev—Vela trusted her to stick by her side regardless of the circumstances.

  "About four or five wolves half a mile behind us." Djorev grabbed Vela’s hand and yanked her along. A bead of li
ght bloomed overhead and proceeded to illuminate their way as they fled.

  "We could take the wolves," said Vela.

  "Or we could save our strength and run," said Djorev, and that really meant, "Or we could not risk me blowing us up."

  Vela decided it was the right call.

  The trees had thinned by the time they stopped running.

  Vela doubled over to catch her breath. Djorev leaned against a tree, singing softly, indiscernibly. How long had they fled? How long ago had they left the village? Had the sun still been up or had it been night?

  "I wonder if I could kill the Vulture," Djorev said. "I wield what wrought it, after all."

  Vela rose to her full height and frowned. "More likely than not, you would destroy Jémoon if you tried. Or, at the very least, yourself, and then what would I do?"

  Djorev shrugged and pulled her cloak a bit tighter. "Find another spellscarred to love?"

  That stung more than the word spellscarred did. Vela swallowed her rage and the lump in her throat. "Doubtful."

  There was a long, cricket-filled silence between them.

  "This is a really shit situation," said Djorev with a noticeable quiver in her words. Such evident fear was rare in her. It was often times masked by grins and forced jokes, much as she had been doing ever since they had set out on this wretched task.

  "Djorev..." Vela pulled her into her arms and held her tight.

  "What if I promised not to use my power?" Djorev whispered. "Could I go back? Could things go back to the way they were?"

  Vela knew the answer. Village law was strict. To be spellscarred was to be a sacrifice, and sacrifices kept the Raven strong. The way Walkers saw it, bleeding a spellscarred dry took strength from the Vulture, especially if it was true the spellscarred were manifestations of the Vulture. She buried her face in Djorev's hood and sighed.

  "Are you thirsty?" Djorev asked.

  Vela chuckled softly. "Terribly." She pulled away from Djorev and knelt by the tree, digging half a foot into the earth. She pricked her finger with the tip of her dagger, intoning, "Alf elo nor," as the blood dripped onto the roots and into the dirt. In return, the tree presented them with the means to quench their thirst. As it was in life, alf elo nor was the way of things in the woods.

  "How far from the Nohl Waypoint do you think we are?" Djorev asked when they had finished.

  "A day or two," said Vela. "Hopefully not longer." The Raven only came to the shrine once a month, and a missed sacrifice meant further catastrophe. The Vulture's strength would grow, the Raven's would wane. Rivers would dry up. Game would grow sparse. Plagues would spread and people would starve.

  Vela stood and helped Djorev to her feet. "Come on. We can sleep when the longest yawns come."

  It was still dark when those yawns came, but the darkness was peppered with stars as Vela and Djorev emerged from the woods. Before them stretched a meadow; the forest path had turned from dirt to a mottling of stones. A gentle breeze tousled the reeds and a perfume of vanilla and honey permeated the air. Vela breathed it in with a contented sigh. It had been at least a year since she had smelled it; it relaxed her mind.

  She looked at Djorev, who beckoned to her from the grass.

  "Promise I won't accidentally blow you up with a snore," said Djorev with a weary smile.

  Vela chuckled and joined Djorev, pressing against her for warmth. She closed her eyes and sighed. The world could wait for a night.

  Vela stared at the oak tree and she knew this was a dream. The tree was beautiful in its gnarled and twisted way, its white leaves like suspended snow. She had dreamt it many times before, though she could not say why. As she had the oak tree, she had dreamt this meadow too, its grass a golden sea.

  The Raven stood before the tree. It was larger than a horse, with feathers dark as night and eyes like mid-month moons. Beside the Raven stood a man with feathered wings and charcoal eyes. He was called Varésh and she had dreamt him many times before.

  "Child, you return." He took her in his arms. He was warm and smelled of cold nights and campfire smoke.

  "I do not know why." Vela sighed into his chest.

  "Don't you?" Varésh asked, and he pulled away to look her in the eyes.

  She had seen that stare before, soft and knowing all at once. "I am scared."

  "Tell me," said Varésh. "Tell me of your fear."

  Vela eyed the Raven. Its wings leaked gossamer threads of Dusk. The meadow wilted and the oak tree fell to ashen rot. The Raven met her gaze before it too was ravaged. In its wake a single night-black talon lay.

  "Failure," said Varésh. "I am very intimate with failure."

  "How do you face it?" Vela asked. "How do you face the fear of failure when your own morality holds you back?" Tears stung her eyes. "I never asked to Walk. I never asked to sacrifice my friend."

  "And yet you know you must." He kissed her forehead. "Lest you doom Jémoon to rot."

  "Alf elo nor," she whispered, and the world dissolved.

  Vela walked with heavy legs and a crick in her neck. She had slept little the previous night and the dream still clung to her like a shawl, light but heavy enough to perceive. Her conscience was compromised and it put the people of Jémoon at risk. What was she to do?

  You know, a side of her hissed.

  It is not right, another argued. It is not fair.

  Life is not meant to be, the first side said. Everything dies; every soul is alf elo nor.

  And yet the notion of taking a life— Djorev’s life—still felt wrong; it made her stomach churn. She balled her hands into fists and growled to herself. Why could they not simply pray to the Raven? Why could it not subsist simply on praise?

  For the same reason courtship is more than handwritten letters and words, said the voice in her head. Action says more than a word could ever convey.

  In most cases.

  What would you have me do? Vela asked of nothing in particular.

  Djorev was silent as they walked, and that was probably for the best.

  The early morning sun beat down upon them, tempered by a mottling of clouds. Save a trio of snowjays, Vela and Djorev were alone. In a way it was nice. To be alone in the wilds was something Vela had dreamt of for years. The reflexive nature of home had grown to be gratingly dull.

  But it was harrowing, too. Save Djorev, she was alone with a knife, her fears, and her thoughts—and that was a dangerous thing. The fate of Jémoon rested on her shoulders, and Vela was not sure it was a weight she could bear.

  They kept on. The clouds devoured the sun and a gentle breeze swept across the meadow, tousling her hair. Even though they were alone Vela could not help feeling as though their steps were being watched. Spirits lurked in the plains, but they were rare and mostly kept to themselves.

  Perhaps a jétjune, she thought. The fox-like sprites were notoriously drawn to Walkers.

  Or maybe the feeling was nothing at all. Djorev had yet to notice anything, and her senses were greater than Vela’s.

  At length they came to a ruin through which a river ran south. It was the village of Yahn, marked by a crumbling tower of stone. Yahn was the precursor to Nohl, or had been at least. Now it was dead and guarding the forest passage to Nohl.

  "Cheery," Djorev said.

  "It was beautiful once," said Vela. "Or so I have read."

  She walked the weed-covered streets in a daze, Djorev haunting her steps like a silent wraith. How long had it been since Yahn stood whole? No one could seem to recall. For that, Vela was sad. How many names had been lost to time, never whispered again? The wild Dusk did terrible things and the very thought of Yahn's desolation filled her with fear. A cold sweat blossomed on her brow. Was this what fate had in store for her village if she failed to bleed Djen dry at the shrine?

  They came to the village square. Djorev sat, massaging her legs while Vela wandered. Just north of the square was the tower. Vela approached it and ran her hand along the weathered white stone. She felt a connection, an attachment to Y
ahn born of study, stories, and dreams. So many times she had climbed to the top of this tower, so many times she had run through these streets chasing children or dogs.

  She ducked beneath its crumbling archway. Inside it smelled collectively of dust and wet earth, of history. Even now, Vela could make out the remnants of inlays depicting the Raven, wide-winged and dark. She bowed her head to the image. It was a reflex born of reverent superstition, though this time it was meant as an apology for the previous night's blasphemy. Outwardly, she placed the brunt of the blame on the Raven, but in her heart she knew the Walkers of yore were equally to blame with their belated offerings. As important as alf elo nor was, the Jémoon tenet nor elo alf—all for one—was equally as significant.

  "Want to have a deeper look?"

  Vela started. "Must you always be so silent with your steps?"

  Djorev poked Vela in the small of her back. "Is that a yes?"

  "So long as we don't disturb anything."

  "If we do, I shall be the first to know," said Djorev, tapping her skull. "Come on."

  The tower bloomed with strange pastel light the deeper in they went. It was peaceful and brought a bit of majesty to a place ruled by utter desolation. How beautiful the tower must have been in Yahn's heyday, filled with scholars and mages dedicated to the wellbeing of Jémoon.

  "I had a dream about Yahn last night," said Djorev. "At least, I think it was Yahn."

  Vela had dreamt as well, though hers had be decidedly different. "I once read dreams are sometimes more than dreams." She wasn't sure how much stock she put in such a notion but it was fascinating to think about nonetheless. "What did you see in yours?"

  "Yahn as it once had been." Djorev pulled her hood back. The extent of her spellscarred transformation was jarring even now. Pale flesh, cracked and mottled; stark white eyes encapsulated by dark circles. "You're staring again."

  Vela averted her gaze. "Sorry."