by Lee Isserow
“Faith,” Tali said, with a massive amount of hesitation. ” I know you're not going to want to hear this, but there's only one person any of us know that has led the charge against a god and survived. . .”
“I know,” he spat.
“And given what happened with Comstock, maybe he'd be more willing to work with us. . .”
“Just bloody call him already.”
“I can't just call him, I have to go to―”
“I don't give a damn! Go wherever you need to, and call Shaman bloody Kahgo in!”
32
The wrong path
PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Tali took a door, and stepped out into Prague's Old Town Square. She looked up at the dials and hands of the astronomical clock, that had stood there for over six hundred years, and waited patiently for it to strike, as she had done so many times before.
As the figures of apostles emerged from the face of the ancient timepiece, she heard a whisper in her periphery, and accepted the call.
“I'm sorry to be calling,” she said, anticipating that her communique might be an interruption.
“There is no need to apologise,” said the speaker, in a deep voice of indeterminate European accent. “I have been expecting to hear from you.”
“Didn't think we'd need you on this one. . . and I know you're not fond of the Circle. . .”
“It is not that I do not have fondness. My vow is only to remain impartial.”
“And I keep dragging you back in. . .”
“When a time comes such as this, a crisis on the scale to the one that has dawned, there is nothing else that matters. I had hoped that the Circle might be able to see what was coming forth, and remedy it of their own volition. . . but as with all things―”
“They chose the wrong path? As men often do?” she asked, with a small, wry smile. She had heard his proselytising of the issue many times in the past.
“I am, it appears, a record that is broken.”
Tali chuckled, it was not an idiom that she ever thought she'd hear the ancient magickian use. “Only a little. . .”
“But they have proven it true yet again, this is not something that can just be re-written. . . The Old Ones' influence is no simple thing to be fixed by common ritual.”
“So you'll help? You'll come in and speak to Faith?”
She felt him nod his head.
“I am already here.”
33
Back in the game
EPICENTRE, THE CIRCLE
Isaiah Faith stared with a glower on his brow as Shaman Kahgo stood opposite his desk. He could remember a time when the old magickian was a welcome ally at the Circle. . . but that was long ago, and much had passed since his former employment with the establishment.
“You are not pleased to see me,” Shaman observed.
“Too bloody right I'm not. . . that whole thing with Comstock was a clusterf―”
“And yet I am here at your request. . .”
“A reluctant bloody request.”
“You have found yourself facing something the likes of which you have not witnessed before.”
“You don't have to tell me twice. ”
“Then you know, by bringing the Circle to convene, you spread the words far and wide. Beyond those that it was able to reach under its own auspices.”
A chill went down Faith's spine. That was not something that he had considered. He had wanted more than anything to believe that it was just a coincidence that the mass suicides came so soon after their grand ritual. The incident with Raven had clouded his judgement, made him overlook the Occam's Razor of it all. The simplest explanation was correct, and in this instance, it meant that all the death that had occurred was in no uncertain terms, his fault, for bringing he Circle together.
“But. . . We re-wrote it, dialled everything back. . .”
“The will of gods cannot be 'dialled back'. Some words cannot be unsaid, that which has written cannot be unwritten, and that which is known. . .” Shaman trailed off, knowing that it would do no good to labour the point. Faith was going to have to deal with his guilt before he was able to progress any further.
However, time was not on their side. And as Isaiah Faith glanced off into middle distance, Kahgo surreptitiously let a long, slow breath leave his lips and cross the desk towards Faith. And on that breath, was everything he needed to get his head back in the game.
34
So close
LONDON, ENGLAND
Mark Shapiro left his house and made the journey across the city. On any other day, the trip would be arduous, monotonous, and soul destroying. But this was a day unlike any other.
For the first time, in a long time, he had purpose once again. The loss that had made its way through his entire being was finally shed, a new resolution staking a claim in his heart and soul. One in which he knew, without a doubt, that he was going to be able to reclaim what had been taken from him when the dreams were cut off.
He left the underground station with a smile on his lips that refused to shed―even when he got the most wary and curious of expressions from passers-by. He no longer cared what other people thought of him. All he cared about was the act that lay ahead. One that was going to make his dreams come true.
He walked in, with a cheery “Hello!” to the receptionist, and went straight into the refrigerated room at the far end of the building. The smile on his lips became all the wider, for as much as he was alone in the act that was to come, he was by no means alone any longer.
There had been others, so many others, who had paved the way for what he was about to do. They had taken the first steps in making his part possible. And he was as much a part of what they had done, as they were a part of his actions. Even though they had passed on, left their mortal coil, he could still feel them, they were united, in a manner unlike any he had felt before.
Mark had never understood what it meant to be truly connected to another human being. As much as he had had relationships and partners, and even had siblings and of course parents, if he were to be honest with himself, he had never felt as though those people were a part of him―not in the fashion that television and movie romantic and familial connections were portrayed.
But now, for the first time in his life―and not just his life, but for the first time in the lives of many of those that he was able to feel on the periphery of his senses―they were connected. And it was an incredible and beautiful thing to experience, even if he didn't have the words to describe it.
That, he decided, was because there were no words that could elucidate on such an ephemeral notion. Human beings were not designed to be bound together at that level, with psychic and metaphysical bonds. And given how hard and awkward he found the physical interaction of the human experience at the best of times, it was a surprise to him that he would enjoy this connection quite so much.
It was time.
Mark did not know how he knew that, for he hadn't checked his watch or his phone for the literal time on the clock. It was something in the ether, in the inexplicable connection, that tingled at the base of his spine to inform him that the moment was approaching for him to play his part in the global endeavour, for all those who felt the loss, to bring the dreams back.
He opened the refrigerators and grabbed all the blood he could. His hands were not big enough to take all he needed, his dexterity not refined enough to balance the plastic sacks on top of one another. He went to an adjacent room, found a box that contained flyers full of information about donating blood, and turned the box upside down. Flyers littered the floor, but he spared no thoughts to cleaning up the mess he had made. That was the least of the messes he would be making as he embarked on the task ahead.
Returning to the refrigerated room, Mark filled the box with the bags of blood, stacked them as efficiently as possible to maximise the available space, and took the box to the kitchenette. He went through the drawers until he found a knife that was small and sharp enough to se
rve his purpose. If it were too large, or blunt, then he would not be able to paint the pattern he saw so clearly in his mind's eye―and he knew he had to paint it perfectly if it was going to act as he wished. One mistake, one stroke that was too thick or thin or placed incorrectly, and this would have all been for nothing. He would have not only let himself down, but let down billions of others in the process. And he would not let that happen.
Once he found a knife that fit his purpose, he stepped out into the corridor, and laid the box on the floor. He grabbed the first bag of blood and took the knife to it, being careful not to squeeze too hard and let the sanguine fluids flow. He laid the knife down on the floor and slipped his first finger into the hole, coating the tip in blood, and placed that finger against the white wall of the corridor. He closed his eyes, and was able to see the pattern more clearly than ever. His hand felt as though it moved of its own volition, drawing out the image that had been imprinted on his subconscious. He only opened his eyes at the moment when his fingertip was dry, and slipped it back into the bag to saturate the surface with blood once again, then continued painting his grand, grotesque mural on the wall.
He paused. Footsteps were coming from further along the hallway, coming towards him. And even though he knew time was short, he remained dead in his tracks, and turned to the source of the sound.
It was the receptionist. Her eyes were wide, mouth agape, as her eyes scanned the mess he had made on the wall, travelling over to the bag of blood in his hand that was now half-full, to the box full of bags, then to the ground, where the knife lay.
Her pace slowed, but she continued to walk towards him, her eyes darting between his, the wall, the bag, the box, and the knife.
Mark felt the hand that held the bag loosen its grip, his other hand stretching out, his knees unlock as he prepared to bend down to take the knife. She wasn't going to get in his way―nobody was going to get in his way. He dropped down and grabbed hold of the blade before she could get anywhere near it, he pointed it at her with a shaking hand, the sharp point quivered ahead of him as she came within striking distance.
But the receptionist did not express any fear. She leaned down and grabbed a bag from the box, brought it back up with her, and took hold of his hand that held the knife. She brought it close to her, and used the tip of the blade to cut through the top of the bag.
“Time is short,” she said. “You could use some help.”
His lips parted, but he had no words with which to express gratitude. She stepped past him, and faced the wall opposite the one Mark had been painting. As she closed her eyes, the image in her mind's eye became clearer than it had ever been before, and she began to paint it just as she saw it.
As the day went on, others came to join them, not only people that worked there, some just straight off the street. The community was coming together to make their dreams reality. And when the walls were painted, they moved to the outside of the building, drawing on it and around it, the spirals and archaic letters spilled out onto the pavement, then the road, then the buildings opposite.
They were united in a joint purpose, each of them having been gifted a new lease on life by the dreams that had been taken from them. And they were so close to getting them back. . .
Mark looked out at what they had accomplished, all these men and women and children that he had never met before. He had never felt so proud. And with one last strike of his first finger against the ground, he finished the painting that they had created together.
35
A nightmare made flesh
Rays of light shone out across the capital. They tore through the sky, and burned through the clouds that hung over the city to reveal a perfect, serene blue to one and all.
The citizens stopped what they were doing, and even those that were not prone to rubbernecking found themselves compelled to look towards the site of the glare.
The light was unlike any that they had seen in the past. A liquid texture to its shimmer that was stunningly beautiful. It cycled through hues, from blue to green to yellow to orange to red to purple and back to blue, where the cycle started all over again.
But the light was not the only thing to come to London in that moment. Something else was present. And as the mundane public witnessed scant glimpses of it beyond the magnificent glow, they found they couldn't look away. Their eyes were fixed. Their minds went blank. They were transfixed by the beauty and the horror, by the splendour and by the terror.
What they saw was unlike anything they had witnessed in the dreams. What they saw was nothing short of a nightmare made flesh. And each of them knew that this creature was only there because of their actions, because of their loss, because of their desire for the power they once harnessed as they slumbered.
This hideous sight brought to life was, in no uncertain terms, all their fault. But they could not put that into words, for they no longer had words.
Some of them laughed, not just laughed, but cackled loud and uncontrollably. Others forgot how to operate their legs, and collapsed to the ground, defecating and urinating on themselves. Some launched themselves from windows in the hope that the horror would not follow them into the afterlife. But they found that their eyes were still locked on the beast as they plummeted to the ground below, the image of the creature still frozen in their minds at the last moments of their lives. Such a thing could not be forgotten so easily, by the mere transition from life to death. Some nightmares spanned beyond such mundane constraints.
London came to a standstill, as every eye across the capital found itself transfixed by the incursion of something so unbelievably monstrous into their realm―a world in which they had been told time and time again there were no such creatures, that there were no monsters in closets or under beds. This creature summed up every one of those fears. And even though it moved at what felt like a snails pace to transition through from wherever it had existed until that moment, it was coming. And there was nothing they could do to stop it.
36
The size of a damn city
EPICENTRE, THE CIRCLE
Shaman did not want to pressure Faith, as he continued to come to terms with how his actions had led to the whispers getting an even greater stronghold on the minds of the mundane world. . . but there was no more time to let him stew.
“London,” said a voice in their periphery. One voice that was three voices speaking in unison.
Faith glanced past Shaman to the main floor, where every operator and operative was staring at a holographic projection of rolling news coverage.
He stepped from his desk, and walked out to get a closer look. “Where's the audio? What are they saying?”
“There is no audio,” Tali informed him. “It's just a fixed camera. . . I. . . I don't think the mundanes can handle it, to see something that old. . .”
“It is not the age,” Shana said, as she stood by her side, holding her partner's hand tight. “It is the magick. . . Mundane minds are not meant to witness such power, they cannot comprehend it, the aura of such a thing.”
They stared at the live feed, as the creature beyond the light moved as if in slow motion. Its entire body was undulating, a mass of tentacles that were each the size of skyscrapers, if not larger. The bulk beyond the swarming, slithering tendrils looked as though it were a pulsating ooze of boils, a thick glaze on its surface, slime that dripped along its skin―and just downwards, as if heeding the call of gravity―this beast was not harboured by such things as the constraints of physics. The slime appeared to be moving in every direction, up and down, left and right, a thousands unruly tides all moving at once up against one another.
“Everyone. . .” Faith stammered, “We need to get down there, to London. . .” he looked around the room, from operative to operator, a heavy sweat on his brow, and a lump in his throat. “I. . . I don't care if you're field rated or not. I want every single bastard magickian on the ground, sending this thing back where it came from!”
The operatives mad
e no move to act on his command. Their gazes were locked on Shaman Kahgo, who appeared to be making no move to act on Faith's orders.
He turned and glared at the ancient magickian. “You're here to lead the charge,” he growled. “So bloody lead already!”
Shaman looked at all those assembled, then turned his attention to Faith. “That is not necessary,” he said.
“Why bloody not?”
Kahgo indicated to the projection. The light that poured out of the void in London was starting to fade. Not by any act of the horrific creature that was behind it, the gargantuan monstrosity was still attempting to make its way towards the opening. There was magick afoot, and each of those in the Circle could feel it, a tingle on their skin, as if static electricity was being run across them―or magick was being siphoned from them.
The light began to shed faster, the tear between realms sealing up on itself. And in an instant, it was gone. The creature no longer visible. But London was still frozen in the aftermath of having witnessed something that mundane eyes should have never seen.
“Thank you,” Shaman said, with a glance off to middle distance.
“You're welcome,” three whispers said in his periphery. “But it was likely to close before a crossing could be accomplished. . . mundanes only have so much magick in their blood with which to fuel such gateways.”
“What the bloody hell was that?” Faith growled. “Is it done? Is it over?”
“That was us,” Three told him. “Acting in the greater good of the Natural World. We dipped into the ether that binds all magickians. . . but it will not work again. . .”