Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  “Two suns light the heavens above the Void,” the man said in a voice that crackled like paper being scrunched up. “An unusual sight for an Earth-boy, and even more so for a white one.”

  Sammy sank back into the chair and shut his eyes tight. If he tried hard enough he might find himself back at home.

  “You are not dreaming, boy.”

  Sammy heard the man shuffling toward him and began to shake. Heat fell on his face, feeling like the time he’d gotten too close to the fire at the Winter Fest pig roast so he could watch the fat dripping and fizzing. Rhiannon had pulled him away by his ear; told him he’d be roasting on a spit if he did it again. He opened his eyes a crack and peeked at a face of golden flame. He blinked against the glare, but couldn’t look away. The blazing eyes made him keep looking, silently promising him a secret that seemed as necessary as breathing. Tears blurred his vision as the heat burned his skin and stung behind his eyes. Sammy began to whimper, his head rocking from side to side. Sweat soaked his clothes and streamed from his forehead. He shook so hard the chair began to clatter against the floor, scraping and twisting, jumping on the rug. His breathing grew quicker, high up in his chest. He felt his heart thumping, the blood rushing in his ears. His eyes widened, fixed upon the burning face, and he opened his mouth to scream; but the scream turned into a gasp as something unseen stabbed his heart. White-hot flames ripped through his innards, singeing, melting, blistering. A burning coal lodged in his throat, choking him. Steam seared his nostrils, and the tears streaming down his face sizzled and boiled.

  The hooded man turned away, and the pain stopped. Sammy sagged in the chair. He was panting like a dog after water. He lifted his arms and saw no blisters. The skin was unharmed. His hands patted his chest. Nothing. No hole, no blade. He looked to make doubly sure. He was drenched in sweat, and the skin of his chest rippled like a beaten drum, but there was no blood—not like there had been with his dad.

  “I am the Archon,” the cowled figure said. He parted the curtains slightly so he could look out. “Come.”

  Sammy forced himself out of the chair and stood at the window. One of the suns appeared larger, as if it had drawn nearer. The dot circling it was now a ball of grayish-blue.

  “Aethir,” the Archon said. “The world of the Dreaming. Watch as it turns.”

  The Archon waved his fingers, and time seemed to speed up in response. The suns shifted across the dark, the planet turned on its axis, and blackness crept over its surface.

  “Two sides to the Dreaming, boy. Light and darkness. You are now looking at Qlippoth, the dark side of Aethir. These are the nightmares of the Cynocephalus.” Light spilled from the Archon’s hood as he spoke. Sammy had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Huntsman’s people have a connection with Aethir. They worship the offspring of its creator, but the lord of Aethir is a pitiable creature, frightened of his own shadow.” The Archon bowed his head as if remembering. When he looked up, he pointed to the smaller of the two suns, its own orbiting planet a black speck.

  “This other world—” He took hold of Sammy’s shoulders to grant him a better view. “—is known to its inhabitants as Thanatos.”

  Sammy felt the tug of the dark world. It drew his eyes, called to him. He felt himself reaching toward it.

  “It does not belong here.” The Archon’s hands felt oddly cold as he pressed Sammy’s head downwards to look upon the inky black hole beneath, its emptiness covered by the misty web he’d seen from the top of the pillar.

  “And neither does the Abyss. My brother is the great deceiver. Where I brought with me the laws of our father, he brought nothing but despite and disorder. Even when I cast him back into the Void, he found a way to survive.” The Archon’s voice spat and popped like a bushfire. Wisps of smoke escaped from beneath his hood, and his fingers dug into Sammy’s shoulders, spreading their peculiar chill. “Tell me, child, would you go there?” The Archon released his grip and lowered his voice. “Would you enter the Abyss if the fate of worlds depended on it?”

  Sammy stared at the mist covering the Void and felt it pulling at him. He knew he should be scared, but he felt only calm. He started to imagine a tunnel through space connecting him with the Abyss and gawped as a spiraling green cone began to form in front of him.

  The Archon touched his hand to it, and it disappeared. “Good,” he said. “Now listen to what I expect of you. I have granted you powers to rival even the greatest of the Dreamers. You will make the journey to the Abyss soon. Someone is trapped there.” The Archon’s hood rustled as he shook his head. “Without him, we may not be able to stop the coming crisis.”

  Something felt wrong. Sammy didn’t like the way the Archon was telling him what to do. It wasn’t as if he was his dad. “I’m with Huntsman,” he said, hoping that would make things clear.

  “Huntsman serves the children of the Cynocephalus,” the Archon said.

  Sammy stuck his bottom lip out, not understanding.

  “Murgah Muggui, Baru and their kind. Children of the Cynocephalus and grandchildren of my sister, Eingana. They have pledged themselves to me so that together we may thwart the Unweaving.”

  “But… But what—?”

  “Did Huntsman ever tell you about the Reckoning?”

  Sammy shrugged. He’d mentioned it, but most of what Sammy knew came from listening to Elias. They’d taught about it at school, too: stuff about dragons and demons pouring from the sky and destroying the world of the Ancients.

  “Huntsman saved your world from Sektis Gandaw, a scientist of the worst kind who saw the creation of the cosmos as imperfect and believed he could make a better one. His long and murky history began centuries ago when he was first contacted by the Liche Lord, Otto Blightey.”

  “The bogey man?” Sammy said, remembering stories Elias used to tell the kids about Jaspar Paris and Renna Cordelia, and an evil skull that drank souls.

  “Sektis Gandaw’s dark science developed out of Blightey’s magic,” the Archon said. “Both bear the mark of the Abyss.”

  Sammy was completely lost now. He screwed his face up into a frown. Rhiannon would have called it his “old man” look.

  “The Unweaving is like seeing someone else’s picture in the sand and raking over it in order to start your own,” the Archon said. “Everything would end. In effect, it would never have started. Do you understand what that means?”

  Sammy thought he did. “Sounds like a selfish clacker. Least that’s what my sister would say.”

  The Archon chuckled. “A little more than selfish, I think, but that will do. He has been stopped twice before, but he is determined. There is so much you don’t know: the relationship of the Supernal Realm to the Earth; the changes brought by the Abyss and Aethir; the closing of the Void; the mechanics of the Unweaving…”

  Sammy’s head hurt. He wanted the Archon to stop; needed him to stop. He bunched his hands into fists and struck himself on the temples.

  The Archon turned toward him, flame erupting from beneath his cowl. “Too much for a child to comprehend,” he said. “All you need to know is that Huntsman serves his so-called gods, and they serve me. You are his apprentice, and I have a task for you.”

  Sammy looked away from the Archon and back down at the wispy mesh of the Abyss. “I don’t want to go there,” he said in a weak voice, while an altogether different part of him wondered what it would be like, what secrets it held.

  “What is happening now has happened before,” the Archon said, coming to gaze at the darkness with Sammy. “Last time we failed. I trusted a philosopher named Aristodeus to bring down Sektis Gandaw, but he was not equal to the task. He succumbed to the deceptions of the Abyss, and it is there he now languishes.”

  “You want me to bring him back?” Sammy asked, feeling suddenly rather brave.

  “No.” The light spilling from the Archon’s hood flared. “He has sunk too deep into the mire of the Abyss. Yet he has a new plan to avert the catastrophe. He has cheated time, changed
things in the past to influence the future. Players have been assembled and the game has commenced, but now our greatest hope has fallen at the first hurdle.” The Archon rested a hand atop Sammy’s head. “Events are moving inexorably toward the Unweaving. Aristodeus’s hubris may have led him deeper into deception.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?” Sammy asked.

  The Archon began to break up into tongues of fire that swirled around Sammy’s head. “Deacon Shader,” a voice like a storm sounded from the flaming vortex. “The man who loves your sister.”

  Sammy stared into the fire, knowing he had only moments left and so much still to learn. “Deacon? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

  “Everything,” said the voice of the Archon. “He was slain before his time and does not know the perils his soul now faces. I will go ahead of you. I cannot remain long in the Abyss, but I will leave a beacon there for you, something to guide you. Find him, child. Bring him back.”

  ***

  “The Archon hasss accepted him.” Mamba’s yellow eyes bored into Sammy’s skull as he came to in the cavern beneath the Homestead.

  A shadow alerted Sammy to the looming presence of Murgah Muggui. “What did he say to you?” she said, mandibles clacking with every syllable.

  Sammy sat up and rubbed his pounding head. Ignoring the great spider, he sought out Huntsman.

  “Who is Deacon Shader, really?” he asked, staring into Huntsman’s eyes as if he could read the truth there.

  “I do not understand,” Huntsman said.

  Sammy nodded. Huntsman wasn’t lying. No matter. He knew who Shader was to Rhiannon, and that was more important to Sammy than all the confusing things he’d heard from the Archon. “He’s lost,” Sammy said, pushing himself to his feet.

  The hybrids formed a circle around him: Murgah Muggui as massive and as solid as the Homestead itself; Baru glaring like he meant to bite, but with his arms folded across his chest and great head nodding; Thindamura crouched, bulbous eyes rolling and tongue flicking. Mamba’s snake-head bobbed upon its long neck, the opening and closing of his mouth suggesting concern.

  “His piece of statue?” Huntsman took a step toward Sammy and abruptly stopped.

  Sammy smiled to let him know everything was OK, but then noticed how quiet the others had gone. They were rooted to the spot, staring at him like they’d seen a ghost.

  Golden light danced on the tips of his fingers. He lifted a hand and watched the color change from gold to blue, then red and green. With a thought, the light faded, and he thrust his hands behind his back.

  “I don’t know about the statue,” Sammy said. “But I know what I need to do.”

  He raised his hands and let brilliant green light burst from his fingertips. He turned his wrists, tugging the light into circles that pulsed before him, growing, deepening, swirling into a shimmering tunnel in the air.

  “Hold me,” he moaned, feeling his body give way.

  Mamba’s arms closed around him and lowered him to the floor beneath the mouth of the tunnel of light. Sammy let his eyes close and heard a sharp click as he drifted into the air. With a last look at his body lying on the floor of the cave, he allowed himself to be drawn into the tunnel.

  THE WAY BACK

  Shader sat beneath a gnarled oak in the forest of his youth. Soft sunlight edged the overhanging canopy of leaves with gold and filled him, body and soul, with warmth. He was clothed once more in a white tunic bearing the red Monas of the Elect; he wore sandals rather than boots, and he sported no weapons.

  Luminary Tajen sat opposite him in the shade of a gigantic yew, his expression a mixture of dour brooding, frustration, and excitement. “See how Araboth reflects our innermost needs and desires,” Tajen said, indicating the trees.

  “It’s a pleasant change from Sahul,” Shader said. “I’d forgotten how comforting the sun could be. In Sahul, we avoid it at all costs. I once saw a man brought to the abbey after being found in the bush without shade or water. Skin was a mass of weeping blisters that burst at the slightest touch. Flesh practically dripped off the bone. The Gray Abbot did what he could, but the fellow was dead within hours, all dried up and shriveled like a mummy.”

  “The same sun,” Tajen said, “only from a different perspective. Here in Araboth you see the one you love the most. I often found myself on hills like those of my homeland, or beside a great and tranquil river such as I had known in Aeterna.”

  “Ah, the Tiber,” Shader said. “I imagine the view has changed a good deal since your time.” The banks of the great river were flanked by vast buildings with intricate domes, sprawling colonnades, and high arches, inspired by the drawings of the pre-Ancient civilization that had flourished by its banks. Tajen would have known only the ruins of the Ancients’ own city, functional and uniform, towering structures that kissed the sky and declared the triumph of humankind.

  “It is my doom—” Tajen’s voice was low, tinged with sorrow. “—that I cannot bask in the reflections of my soul like the others can. This is the Araboth Milo expected, but it is nothing like I ever imagined. It’s pleasant enough, I admit, but it has the quality of a dream.”

  “How can we know which version is real?” Shader asked, suppressing the feeling that the earth was about to open up and swallow him.

  “I am not a man who trusts the fulfillment of his own desires. Nous is my life and my master. I am content to follow where he leads.”

  “But how can you tell this isn’t what he wants?”

  For the first time since he’d settled in Oakendale—since he’d been with Rhiannon—Shader was almost at peace. So what if Araboth wasn’t the promised land; it was good enough for him, and he was tired of trying to guess what Nous did and didn’t want.

  “Because I have never felt so removed from life,” Tajen said, ‘so disconnected from the world and its people. I feel safe here, but with that safety comes complacency. In one such as myself that is the recipe for despair. I’m not saying that Milo and the others are entirely wrong about this place. It may well be a taste of Araboth, but it is too closely allied to our expectations. Our journey is not yet complete, and I have a suspicion we have tarried here too long. It seems the more time passes, the deeper we grow enmeshed in delusion.”

  “You think something has gone wrong? Ain’s salvation is thwarted?”

  “Perhaps.” Tajen studied Shader’s eyes. “Although it makes no theological sense. How can an omnipotent god be thwarted? It may be that I am mistaken, that we are still on the path to salvation, and my own failings are limiting my experience of Ain.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.” Shader felt the heaviness of tension returning, settling upon his shoulders like a sodden coat. A chill breeze rustled the leaves of the forest, and cloud smothered the light of the sun. Shader felt an icy prickling at the nape of his neck.

  “Something terrible has happened,” Tajen said, cocking his head and shutting his eyes.

  “What…?” Shader began but was arrested by Tajen’s silencing hand.

  The color drained from the luminary’s face as the enormity of what he’d perceived dawned on him. “Death.” His eyes snapped open, the pupils like two gaping holes onto the Void.

  Almost immediately the sky blackened with thick clouds, and a shrill wind began to gust about the clearing. Screams sounded in the distance.

  “Come,” Tajen said, winking out of existence.

  Shader followed, instinctively knowing the luminary’s destination. They appeared in the darkness of an immense cavern. Stalactites glistened with droplets of a reddish liquid and spread an eerie haze throughout the interior. There was a dim glow coming from something on the ground, a dark and bloated shape looming over it. The other luminaries began to materialize, visibly shaken and gasping at the sight that greeted them. The lifeless body of Jarmin the Anchorite lay sprawled upon the rocky floor, his luminescence fading as the thing straddling him sucked and slurped at his mouth.

  Jarmin’s assailant was a
pitch-black avalanche of blubber with squat arms and legs; a grotesque parody of a man jiggling with rolls of fat, its swollen face dripping cheeks that melted into the torso.

  Shader took a step towards the monster, but froze as it raised its head and let out an anticipatory sigh, shifting its bulk to get a better look at him.

  ‘So,’ it gurgled, ‘you followed me, little man. You realize you are mine. An agreement was reached.’

  ‘Agreement? What agreement?’

  ‘Oh, of course, you weren’t present. Nevertheless, a deal’s a deal. If you have a grievance, address it to Dr Cadman.’

  ‘Cadman?’

  ‘What’s up, honey, don’t you recognize me? Don’t you remember my touch?’

  Shader stiffened at the memory of the demon’s noxious belches, its tentacles cutting into his flesh, its undulating bulk smothering him.

  ‘The Dweller.’ His voice quavered, and the demon closed in like a shark scenting blood. Shader scrabbled about for time. ‘Cadman sent you?’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’ The Dweller gave a sickly grin. ‘You were promised to me, and believe me, it’s better all round if you come quietly. By the way, how do you like my new look?’ It lifted up the apron of flab covering its loins and wobbled it about. ‘Come on, my darling. Give us a hug.’

  The Luminaries backed away and Shader felt hands tugging at him, but he shrugged them off. Ice formed in his veins as he watched the Dweller in fascinated horror. His guts churned in revulsion. He wanted so desperately to scream, to turn and run, but he was rooted to the spot as the creature lumbered towards him. The Dweller’s tongue ran across its lips, thick ropes of drool oozing down its cheeks. It belched and held its belly, lifted the flab to reveal a flaccid maggot between its legs. With one hand, it began to rub there until the maggot starting to swell at an alarming rate.

  The air shimmered and a cowled figure appeared between Shader and the Dweller. It held out a shortsword with intricate letters etched into the blade. Shader recognized it instantly, as if it had cut through the fog of his amnesia.