The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four)

by Ivory Autumn

  Where there are holes, there is absence of dirt.

  Where there is doubt, there is absence of hope.

  Where there is loneliness there is absence of friends.

  Where there is ignorance, there is absence of knowledge.

  So then the question is, what is absent in your life? For where there is absence, there will be your worst fear and foe, teacher, and refiner. Fill in all the empty holes in your life with goodness. Open your arms wide and let in the light. Welcome it. Embrace it. Let your life be filled with hope and warmth. Gather close to your friends, and rejoice in those whom you love. Fill your mind with the knowledge of truth so that when darkness comes, nothing will be vacant and empty for it to fill. And then it cannot cause you to bend to its will.”

  ~~Rhapsody, Rumble The Grand~~

  The moon was an eerie color of orange as it rose slowly over the mountains like an unblinking spy who looked down on the earth every night, neither in anger, sadness, nor joy---it just was. It hung in the sky, a silver orb, far from the world. Distant, untouchable, collecting the information it saw through the ages, both good and bad, terrible and lovely, absorbing it all into silvery light.

  Lancedon gazed up at the moon. Even though he could not see its light, he could sense it, like it was a weary lamp trying to light up the cold world. The earth was filled with a pensive, strained, impregnated feeling of desperation and fear. It was as if the night’s sky knew that it would soon be empty of light. It was as if the heavens were beaming down silent pleas of desperation.

  Lancedon could feel it---the heaviness, the solemn ache that emanated from both earth and sky. In their unspoken words, he knew that something was brewing, waiting, lurking, watching, ready to consume without restraint. Even without his sight, Lancedon could feel the light of the stars. They gleamed and sparkled as if they were saying their last prayers before the dawn of their own execution. They shone like flowers of the sky, blooming in their full glory before a winter frost obscured them forever.

  Night. A word once welcomed by tired souls in need of rest, now was a word that lingered, hovered, like a sticky paste that would not wash off. Every evening the sun went down, and night came, bringing with it a darkness that was far more sticky, far more dirty, far harder to shake off than the previous night. Many wondered, would this be the day the sun did not rise?

  Lancedon closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the tension, frost, and melancholy of the night flow over him. Rumors of a boy who had unleashed a chest of forbidden, unsaid words had reached him and his growing band of men. These were the very words Lancedon had felt and heard and welcomed. These were the very words that had gone before him like a herald, helping him to gather those who were ready to listen.

  Lancedon’s heart swelled within him, for he knew that the rumors could be about only one boy---Andrew.

  Andrew was still alive.

  That thought gave him great hope.

  Andrew may not have known it, but the words he had unleashed had helped him. Like water on dry ground, the words Andrew had unleashed had transformed the soil of hardened, cemented, hearts, into fertile ground. These changed souls who heard the call came to Lancedon, ready to fight. They came not in great numbers, but as individuals and small groups. Yet still they came. Like small candles they shone, rallying behind Lancedon, the blind leader with more vision than those who could see. To Lancedon’s camp, men trickled in from the towns and cities, one by one. They came, bearing weapons, their eyes vivid, their hearts soft and their minds opened by the truth that they heard spoken, without reserve. The city, Summits cracking, and the waking of unsaid words smote them to their core and caused them to act.

  Lancedon’s small army made their camp in a field of dead corn that had long since been harvested. It was covered in frost and patches of snow. In the darkness he could hear many of his men conversing around small fires, as they tried to warm themselves. He listened to their voices, wondering at their numbers. How many days more would it be until his army had grown large enough to even consider going to battle? How many more sunrises were left before all was darkness? He had heard another rumor of a great battle that had taken place on a sea of ice. A battle so terrible that all who had fought against The Fallen, had died. Ever since that battle all gathering had ceased. It was as if the summoning was indeed at an end. No one else dared to raise their voices, no one else dared fight. Even his men were growing restless and worried.

  Was he too late? This question haunted him. Had Andrew already fought and been defeated?

  Coral leaned against Lancedon’s shoulder, and laced her fingers through his. “What are you looking at?” she mused.

  “You should know better than to ask that question.”

  “No,” she continued. “You looked as if you were studying the moon.”

  “No. I do not study it. I only feel it, as I feel you by my side.”

  “And what does the moon feel like?”

  “Cold, compared to your warm touch.”

  Coral smiled, and lay her head on his chest. “I envy the moon.”

  “Why?”

  Coral sighed, and looked at the moon with gleaming eyes. “I envy its highness, and its all-knowingness. It rises high above the troubles of earth, untouchable and distant enough to see both good and bad and make it all into beautiful moonshine.”

  “I should think the moon envies you,” Lancedon replied.

  “Envies me?” Coral said. “Well, I guess it should. For it does not have your strong hands to protect it as you protect me.”

  Lancedon’s voice filled with bitterness. “Protect you? These days, it seems as if you have protected me far more than I have protected you.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Coral pulled him back to her. “There are many ways in which a girl wishes to be protected. Some means of protection are far more important to a girl than protection by muscle and sword. You have protected me by your gentleness, by your companionship, by your very presence, by your voice, by your words. By your kind hands and conviction, you have protected me from self-doubt, loneliness, and...”

  A long, low howl of wolves cut through the darkness, woeful and sharp. Coral stared at the sky in dismay as the moon gradually turned a brilliant red, the color of blood. Howls filled the air as wolves called out to the moon as if in sad farewell. Then, a terrible hush fell over the whole earth as if every soul who had ever been born was holding their breath. The moon started to fall under shadow, until it became only a crescent, then it vanished altogether---eclipsed by a great darkness, and not from the earth’s shadow. But something far more sinister.

  Lancedon stiffened, listening to the eerie howls. “What is happening?”

  “It is getting darker,” was all Coral said, clasping Lancedon’s hands tightly to hers.

  “Darker?” Lancedon asked. “It’s hard to imagine anything darker than what I live with every day.”

  Coral’s eyes grew wide. “I’m worried, Lancedon.”

  Lancedon pulled Coral into a warm embrace. “As long as we have each other, it doesn’t matter how dark it gets. We will have enough light to see by.”

  They both sat together, holding one another, waiting for the night to end, waiting for the sun to rise. Time dripped as if frozen by the cold, unable to move as quickly as it once had when the earth had been warm.

  Finally the dawn came. The sun shone down over the hills, lighting the frosty landscape in a cold warmth. There was still another day.

  “Ah,” Lancedon said, feeling the heat of the sun on his face. He smiled, and nudged Coral, whispering into her ear. “The sun still shines.”

  Coral stirred and slowly opened her eyes. “It does?” Her voice stopped short. She gasped and quickly stood, gazing at the rising sun, her mouth agape. “It can’t be…”

  “Coral?” Lancedon questioned. “What’s wrong?”

  An unsettling sound smothered out any answer she might have given him. The sound surged through the land like a strangling hand that cut o
ff air, cut off light, cut off goodness. The sound was as bitter as hatred, as chilling as fear, and as pungent as death. It made those who were already fearful even more afraid. It heightened pain, sharpened malice, and shut out light. A cry of dismay could be heard all through Lancedon’s camp as a darkness the world had ever seen spilled out over the sky.

  “Lancedon!” Coral cried, grasping his hand, and pulling him to her.

  “What is it?” Lancedon asked, feeling more frustrated than ever that he could not see. A heavy smell of sulfur pervaded the air, heavy and stifling.

  “The sky!” Coral cried, her voice wracked with fear. “The darkness has finally come.”

  Lancedon’s face showed no alarm. In his already dark world, the concept seemed strange. Such darkness was not a stranger to him.

  Darkness. Its sound was stiffing, constricting, obliterating. Onward it came.

  The earth rumbled. The ground shook as the stars fell like autumn leaves blown by a cold wind. Down they came, crashing towards earth with little regard to where they landed, combusting in fiery explosions. It felt as if the world, and time itself, froze in that moment. A falling star, flaming like a demon, fell and hit the earth near their camp, causing the earth to reel and shake, and trees to burst into flame.

  Then suddenly all was silence. Lurking, horrible, forsaken silence. In that awful silence, the sun fell under shadow so thick that its rays gradually vanished as if the sun had never been. Then the noise returned, doubled in volume, violent and rushing. The shadows coursed through the earth. Fingers of darkness spread through the sky, reaching out clutching, and devouring light with its powerful hand. It rolled over the world like a wave, drenching the world in its shroud. It was as if in a single instant an explosion of darkness coursed over the earth, sinking its jaws deeply into the soil’s crust. All light was blown out, suffocated, devoured in a wind that drank up all light. The darkness was a living thing, as if it had a pulse, a breath, a heartbeat and voice. Its breathing as was somber as a death, and as chilling as eternal sleep. It ate away at every form of light, from the greatest flame, to the smallest candle, leaving in its place a darkness so heavy, so thick, so stifling, that no one could ignite any light. The darkness rolled out in sheets, feeding off the light like a specter devouring a struggling soul. The light that it devoured would flame up for one moment, as if fighting the darkness, giving depth to the darkness, form to the void, making it appear alive and far more endless than space itself. This violent darkness washed over the earth, snuffing out light, lamp, and beacon. From lighthouse, to fireplace, to the humble lamp, to lusty beacons---all was devoured. The darkness flooded in around every soul, from old to young, rich or poor, lowly, or high of station. None were left untouched, untainted. It clutched at throats, pricked the blood with fear, stifled life and light, coating the earth in a darkness thicker than ashy smoke.

  It was a shadow so deep no one could escape it. Every candle was snuffed out, every campfire, every lamp, every star, every reflection, every color was consumed by it. Every hope---great or small, every dream, every light, both great and small, was instantly stifled. The earth shook and groaned. Crags opened up, as if the darkness itself had been encrusted deep within the depths of the earth and was now bursting out to greet it.

  The chains of darkness bound the earth with such gripping fear that none could speak, none could move.

  In one instant, all was changed.

  Darkness had taken power. Yet the power the darkness took was only the power that had been given freely by those who dwelt side by side with it. It had gained power a day at a time, a word, a thought, a deed at a time, until this darkened now.

  Who could not bend to such power? What soul could not cry out in fear, and frustration, paralyzed in place where no flame could be ignited, no hope kindled?

  Every soul groped in the darkness, trying to grasp onto the things they had lost. All was darkness, all was heaviness, all was cold, deplorable, clutching, lost. Light had died. Its soul was consumed, its home was now a wasteland of darkness where shadows picked the cold bones of the last crumbs of light.

  A stench of death and destruction lingered over the land, foul and ugly.

  Who could wake the light now, a light that every one had abused, misused, and had treated lightly? All mourned, not just for the lack of light, but for the light they had lost inside themselves. They had been groping in darkness long before this awful time, lost to the truth and light that could have guided them in a far better direction they were now heading.

  Every soul cried out in despair---all except one.

  Lancedon stood amidst this darkness. He could feel the heaviness weighing on him, its coldness eating at him, trying to make him bend his knees and worship at its feet. It penetrated every crack on earth, chilling it with its message of utter submission to its terrible, and great power of darkness.

  “No,” he cried, struggling to stand erect. He straightened his back, and lifted his head. He had already faced this foe. He knew that it could not triumph.

  It would not.

  He had already conquered darkness once.

  And he would conquer it, still. Darkness was not his king, and never would be.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The Birth

  Gogindy moaned, struggling to wake up. He felt a terrible jabbing pain in his head and neck. He tried to open his eyes, tried to move. But he felt paralyzed. A strange tickling sensation rustled through his fur. He could hear a steady humming, bug-like click, click, click. The sounds were metallic, all encompassing, as if whatever it was had crawled inside his ears, and into his fur. Then the sound faded as quickly as it had come. His body felt strangely naked, and bare. Alarmed, he squirmed, and howled until he was able to open his eyes and move his limbs once more. His whole body was sore, and stiff. A pile of snow had accumulated on him, causing him to feel frozen in place. He groaned and glanced around in fear. He saw only darkness. How long had he been unconscious? His body felt so stiff, he could have been asleep for days. It was so very dark. Darker than ever before. Darker than even inside his head.

  Something felt strangely missing. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. But its vacantness was all consuming, all around him. He whined and whimpered, stretching out his hands, feeling only cold stone and drifts of snow.

  “Where am I?” he whispered, rubbing his wet, frosted fingers. They were so frozen he felt like they could crack in half like stiff twigs. “Oh. Oh.” He moaned. “It’s so dark. So scary. So black.” He felt as though the very darkness itself had caused his headache and was now threatening to crush him.

  The air though cold, was heavy, strangling, and oppressive. He shivered dusting off a heap of black frost and snow from his body. He wondered if he had died. There was no moon in the sky, no light---nothing. No way where to tell where he was.

  “Where am I?” he whimpered. “Oh, my head hurts so. Oh, but it’s so cold. And I’m so hungry. And oh, what time is it? It feels like 6,000 O’ clock, and as dark as the inside of a demon’s mind.

  He fished around in his pack for his glowing mushroom. But when he found it, it did not shine. No light came from anywhere. He whimpered again, shivering as he groped around in the darkness for his dropped-bell ringing stick. Finding nothing, he sat in the snow and cried. Oh, he was so very cold. The darkness had invaded his lungs, filled his nose, and caused him to cough.

  Sitting there, alone and cold, he came to another startling realization. Two things he dearly loved were missing. The light, and all his whiskers that had covered his body.

  All was completely gone, down to his last whisker.

  His body was completely naked. He felt the area around his nose, his backside, his three tails, everywhere. He was shaved, clean, sheared like a sheep.

  “OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Gogindy howled. “Oh woe is me! That bug, that evil, nasty bug shaved me. Oh, I am the miserablest of all miserables! He shaved my winter coat, trying to freeze me to death in
this darkness. Oh, I feel faint and feeble. My strength is gone. Everything that I ever cared for is gone, consumed, darkened, sheared. Everything that made me, me has vanished. I have no identity. I am naked like a newborn mouse. I am nothing, a nobody. My identity is lost forever. A Twisker without whiskers might as well be dead. My Twiskerhood has been stolen. My whiskers will never grow back. No, a completely shaved Twisker is no Twisker at all. His whiskers never grow back. Oh. I will be a stunted Twisker, scarred for all eternity. Hh…ah…chooo….sniff, sniff. I think I’ve caught pneumonia, or it has caught me,” he wheezed. “Oh this is terrible.” Sniff. Sniff. “I must have died and gone to the bad place. I knew I was destined to go there. But so soon? I should have known that IT would be a bug to send me to my doom, something crunchy and shiny, something small, something that has always been my distraction. Oh, the horror of it, to be shaved, and sheared, and now to be as bald as an overgrazed mountain top! Hope is indeed lost. I can do nothing without my whiskers. My strength was in my whiskers, my courage, my resolve. It is all shaved away with my wonderful whiskers. I am helpless as a newborn babe. Soft, and without my armor, I might as well be dead.”

  He cried and moaned, and coughed, and sneezed. “I think I’m allergic to this darkness. I truly am. It’s making me break out in hives. Not that I can see them. But I can feel them, itchy and bumpy. I’m sure I look a sight. Bald, and ridden with spots. But then again, it’s so dark, what does it matter? No one can see me. And come to think of it, I’m glad it’s dark. Now I can’t see me. I’ll just freeze twice as fast. Oh it’s so quiet. Oh, it’s so very dark. Oh, it’s so cold. Oh, it’s so horrible. So horrible and inky black. I’ve failed. I’ve failed everyone, including myself.” Tears fell freely down his face. “Failed, miserably. Oh I have no friends, no one to talk to, no one to tell my sorrows…oh, I am a cursed Twisker if ever there was one.” His fingers went into his small pack searching for his footprint stone. “Oh,” he murmured. “I forgot. I used you to crack across that nasty bug’s skull. Now even you are gone. What a kind friend I turned out to be. Replaced you with a devil bug. I am very sorry. So very sorry. Oh, moon, oh stars, oh sun, oh world, oh Andrew, what have I done? What have I not done? I resolved to ring that bell, and I was tricked by a bug? I failed because of a bug? A bug! Who is so distracted, and set off course so easily by such a silly thing as a bug? Who, but me, I. I the foolish Twisker, shaved, naked, lost on a tower. I have indeed met my match. A bug. Oh, that miserable bug. All hope is truly lost. I feel not an ounce of hope left in all myself, or in all the world. Yes, all hope is lost and dead, just as I am lost and dead.”