Necrosis (The Omens of Gaia Book 1)

by H. C. Damrosch

  And yet, what was the source of this path of lies? Where did it originate, but from one man? The man who claimed men had no souls, when in fact there was something in men the Necrow did not understand. The man who said the Necrow and all other things existed to please his every whim. Why his, and his alone?

  He was haunted by doubt, but did not know where to turn. There was something wrong with him. There was something wrong with all of them. He stockpiled supplies in preparation for flight, but could not bring himself to act. Where could he go? What was his purpose in life, other than to serve a master as the brethren did?

  Each night he walked the halls of the keep, the stench of death wafting against his skin, the cries of the innocent sharp in his ears. Pain. There was no escape from pain. No matter how far he sought to retreat into darkness, it followed him. He felt the eyes of men upon him: fearful, despairing, accusing.

  All men succumbed to madness eventually. Soon after, the torches of their life went out. When that happened not even the brethren could see where their spirits fled. All that remained was darkness. Perhaps there was nothing more to a man than a body of ash, so like the Necrow’s body of clay.

  And yet…

  There was one that did not succumb to madness. A female, smeared with grime and huddling silently in the corner of a filthy cell. This one had discovered some trick of avoiding the Necrows’ methods of manipulation. He had witnessed it first and second-hand; the girl responded normally to their rebukes and punishments, but did not seem very affected otherwise. Still she huddled silently among her comrades, saying little, thoughts brewing just beneath the level where he could perceive them. She lived off her fear, her sorrow, and most of all, her hatred. She fed upon it, used it to build a barrier to all intruders. The torch of her life smoldered obstinately in the dark.

  One of her kin was among the more interesting captives he had spoken with. The man was full of unusual stories, most of which made no sense. Still, a peculiar hope was strong in him. In the bleak hours of exhaustion between labors, he prayed. Prayers that some of his people may yet survive; prayers that his fellow prisoners might be spared; inexplicably, prayers also that the Necrow might be redeemed.

  This man, however, was not immune to the mind-twisting effects of the Necrow’s influence, and fell to madness like all the others. The girl mourned the loss, clutching the body possessively when the brethren came to take the corpse to the burial pits. She grew sick soon after, her body declining along with her hopes. Still, the spirit of rebellion did not quite die. Still, she did not go mad.

  This was perplexing – and fascinating. He came to welcome her hatred, like a fire greeting him amid the dark and the damp. Whenever her body grew ill, he channeled his life-essence into her – essence stolen from other prisoners, which he was certain would cause her to hate him more, had she known.

  He would not allow this girl to die while her mind still lived.

  There was also the matter of redirecting the attention of the more predatory brethren. Though he had no taste for such things, he knew in what ways many of his brothers used the female prisoners. He also knew what befell them afterwards in Belshazzar’s chambers. Such would not be this girl’s fate.

  He could not be ever-vigilant, however. At one time fewer villages were being incarcerated, and the supply of young maidens ran out. One day Malthusias discovered the grime-covered girl in the neglected cell. He took her to his private quarters, and had begun to pleasure himself with her before he burst into the room. With luck, he was able to catch Malthusias off guard. It was a fairly simple matter to overwhelm and pin him to the floor. Violence against other Necrow was rather similar to violence against men, so long as one properly accounted for their physiological differences.

  It was a fairly simple matter to smuggle the girl out of the fortress. He had kept a horse prepared for some time, cautiously pondering such an exodus but unwilling to take action. Now there was no other choice. He was unlikely to find another that was so resistant to Necrow influence. The tribes of Herayon would eventually be obliterated.

  He was unlikely to ever discover the truth about himself or his brethren if he remained in the keep. In the end, there was no other choice to be made. Escape, or death by lies. In the end, the Necrow were no more immortal than men were.

  He did not wish to die. And so, he must find some way to live.

  §

  Keren slept restlessly, and awoke at sunrise. She poked her head out of the hut, squinting in the golden light that seeped over the edges of the hills. It was hardly brighter than it had been at night under the full moon, yet still Keren felt that instinctive relief from danger that came with the arrival of day.

  Raisa met them soon after sunrise. Without a word, she gestured for them to follow her. They left the horse at the hut and made their way down the path. To every side, hidden by morning mist and the folds of the valley, were chanting voices continuing the mantra Keren had heard the other night.

  “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “It is one of the many exercises which members of our Order practice to detach themselves from this world. The purpose is the seeking of a clear mind, emptied of self, focused outward towards the Absolute,” Raisa said.

  Keren pondered this as they walked, gazing around at the valley in wonder. The trees were ghostly, barren of leaves, their pale limbs forming intricate silhouettes against the backdrop of the black hills. Mist cloaked the valley, luminescent in the upper reaches, gray and serene below. The only green here were the mosses which grew between the rocks, offering bouquets of tiny white flowers to the sun.

  Raisa ushered them up the hill to a clearing. Seven elders sat in a half-circle on polished black stones. They all wore white robes with prayer beads hanging at their waists. The men’s heads were all shaven bare. Several of the older ones wore long whiskers and beards; the eldest held a staff on which hung six golden rings. Raisa and the one other woman, by contrast, had long, flowing manes that reached almost to their ankles. Keren wondered if they had ever cut it in their lives.

  Keren and Akar stopped a few paces away. Raisa introduced the Master of the Order by name, before taking up her place in the circle.

  “Why have you come to us?” Asked the Master, whose name was Ignati.

  “We were sent here by an armored monk we met on the road. He wore a purple robe, and carried a golden staff with rings hanging from it. Like that one there,” Keren said, pointing.

  “This is a Sounding Staff, carried only by the most accomplished of our order,” Master Ignati said. “The six rings represent the Six States of Existence.”

  “What are those?”

  The Master sighed. “This knowledge at least is free to be spoken. The Six States are thus: human, animal, yokai, yurei, deva, and asura.”

  Keren blinked. “Could you please explain those last three?”

  “What we call deva and asura, your people call gods and demons,” the Master said. “There are many nuances ignored by that simple translation, but it cannot be helped. The yurei, if you know naught of them, need not be explained.”

  “Then who was that monk we met? Was he one of your Order? Akar said he wasn’t human!”

  Master Ignati’s blue eyes gazed at her imperturbably. “You say he was dressed as one of us? How many rings hung from his staff?”

  “Um…more than six. Maybe ten.”

  The Master’s eyes flashed. “We know the one of whom you speak, he of the purple robe and twelve-ringed staff. He was one of those who founded our Order generations ago. He often appears in visions to those who are chosen to serve a deva.”

  Keren gaped at him, not knowing if he was mocking her. “Are you being serious –”

  “In any case,” Raisa interrupted. “You have been sent here for a reason, and it should now be discovered what you were meant to learn.” She looked to Akar. “You – what sort of creature are you?”

  “Can you not tell, with all your arts?” Akar murmured. “We were told the
sages of this valley possessed great wisdom.”

  Keren gaped at its insolence. What did it have against these people? The Necrow had seemed to be in an irritable mood ever since they arrived.

  Raisa nodded. “So it is said. Come forward, and we shall determine your identity.”

  The Necrow swept its cloak aside, and knelt in the center of the circle. Keren stepped back uncertainly.

  The monks folded their hands inside their robes. An eerie thrumming arose from their throats; a pure note that vibrated in the cool air, hanging over them like a spell of protection. A dim awareness flickered in Keren’s mind. It fluttered, light as a butterfly, creeping as the legs of a spider. It brushed past her and encircled the presence of Akar, which she could now sense even when it wasn’t trying to contact her directly. She saw the Necrow flinch in surprise, its hands clenched on its knees.

  They sat in silence for many minutes.

  Finally the Masters opened their eyes. “A mind, it has, and a will…though there seems to be no soul. The emotions are lacking as well. What does this mean? It is not one of the yokai, but neither is it human.”

  “Is that your final judgment?” Akar asked. Keren could hear the tension in its voice.

  “No,” Master Ignati said. “There is a part of your mind which you keep shielded from us. You must reveal all, if you desire an honest judgment.”

  The Necrow said nothing. Keren was surprised; never had she seen it so reluctant for no apparent reason. It was acting far too much like her for her own comfort.

  “What is it you see in your dreams?” Raisa asked softly.

  Akar flinched. “My kind does not sleep. How could we possibly dream?”

  “Just tell them whatever you’re hiding, for God’s sake!” Keren hissed. “You’re being more annoying than I am right now!”

  Akar glared at her. “It is not an easy secret to tell. It is the source of the Necrow’s madness and devastation. It is – it is painful to speak of.”

  The Master tapped his ringed staff thrice upon the ground. The sweet chimes rang out, curiously muffled by the mist, mingling with the intonations of the devout in the valley below. “Pain is a sign, suffering a guide to truth. It is beneficial to hear of those things which bring pain.”

  Akar looked at him in bewilderment. The Necrow’s eyes were open, but the Masters seemed unperturbed. “What nonsense do you speak? How can suffering be good?”

  The Master levelly returned his stare. “How can suffering be wrong?”

  “What manner of question is that? Is it not self-explanatory?” Akar snapped.

  “Isn’t it? What evil is there inherent in suffering? One suffers pain from disease; yet it is not the pain which causes damage to the body. One suffers hunger, but this is only a sign that one is lacking nourishment. One grieves the loss of loved ones, but there is nothing wrong with grief so much as there is something wrong with separation from them. One of the goals of our Order is to recognize that suffering itself is based on illusion. And yet, the first illusion one must overcome is that pain itself is evil. It is not. It is merely a symptom of disorder within oneself. The foolish man observes his pain and fears it. The wise man sees his pain as a valued advisor. The enlightened man accepts all pain for what it is: a symptom of separation from the Divine.”

  Master Ignati looked at the Necrow, and the Necrow gazed back. “You will tell us now what it is you dreamed of.”

  “I dream of light,” Akar whispered. “A light that existed before all of creation. It was – it lies beyond the boundary of a gray plain. Unreachable, it seems. And yet, on the other side of the plain, there is a great darkness, a pit from which no escape is possible. I stand between the two; pining for one and fearing the other.”

  The circle of sages sighed. “Ah. There is the truth of it.”

  Keren looked around wildly. “Truth? What truth? Akar, what are you talking about?!”

  “The Realm of the Devas, and the Realm of the Asuras – they wage eternal battle in the hearts of men, but few notice their presence in this world,” Raisa said. “That one should dream of them…”

  Keren was incredulous. “You think he’s human because he has dreams? Even dogs have dreams!”

  “Perhaps they do. Yet do dogs dream of the borders of the world, or the clash between order and chaos, or the fulcrum between the living and the dead?”

  “Is he a Deva? Is that what you mean? Some kind of fallen angel?”

  “No, nothing as breathtaking as that.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “Our Order has some records of the works of necromancers in ages past; experiments rarely tried, and even more rarely accomplished. One of these works is the joining of a human soul to a figure of ash and clay. A golem, it is called. It is distinct from other deathly creations in that it is a shadow of a man, its soul imperfectly joined to its body. As such it is possible for it to have some memory of a previous life. The union between soul and body is completed only after the golem accepts its human nature.”

  “Then how do you explain his freaky powers?!”

  “They are not as outlandish as you may think; certainly not the equivalent of a god or demon. We have witnessed his proficiency in Unspoken Understanding. This is a skill that we of the Order also practice, though not nearly to such effect. We have also sensed his connection to life-energy.

  “These abilities can both be explained by the unnatural state of his soul. All natural-born creatures are bound by rules which restrain their ability to steal the life from other creatures. Animals must capture and kill their prey; yokai must ensnare and drink the hearts of men. A body with an ill-joined soul possesses none of these metaphysical inhibitions when it comes to the taking of other life.”

  “It is easy to see why such practices are forbidden,” another sage remarked.

  “You say my body possesses a soul,” Akar murmured. “But where did it come from?”

  Master Ignati spread his hands. “Where do all souls come from?”

  Keren was taken aback by the naked longing in the Necrow’s voice. “I…I do not know…”

  “That is what every religion seeks to understand. We possess our own theories on the matter, which are not revealed to the uninitiated. You must find such answers elsewhere.”

  Akar’s face went rigid. You dare to keep this from me –

  Keren knew that look. Please, don’t. Haven’t these people been helpful enough? You can find some other way!

  The Necrow clenched his fists, glaring at the ground. Slowly he closed his eyes. “If you will not answer that – can you tell me why…why it is painful for the Necrow to look at the moon, or the flesh of a beautiful woman?”

  The Master looked at him curiously. “Why do you think it is so?”

  “It…the light…beauty…it seems so familiar. A shadow of something we once knew, intimately. All things similar to it call out to us with the same voice. Perhaps we knew it well, before we were trapped within these false bodies. We yearn for it because it speaks of home…of peace…of endless glory.”

  “Again I say: suffering is a symptom of separation from the Divine. You suffer to witness what you have lost, for you came to know the in-between state of the soul better than most creatures.”

  Keren looked back and forth in confusion. “You’re talking about primeval spirits of light and dark, fighting each-other on the edges of creation? Why don’t we ever see them?”

  “How would such a tremendous spirit manifest itself in this fragile reality, this weaving of air and water and stone?” Ignati asked. “Should they ever interfere too closely, the world itself would be ripped apart. A child who builds a castle out of sand, should he attempt to live in it himself, would only succeed in destroying it.

  “That is why the battleground of the spirits lies within, and can only be seen with the eyes of the soul. The aftershocks of their clashes radiate through all levels of being; mind and heart and body alike. Those who do not see with the eyes of the soul miss the battle pr
oper, and explain away its casualties as the effects of chance.”

  Keren was eager to keep questioning them, but at that moment Raisa raised her hand. “That is all the time the Order is willing to give to you. They have addressed the mysteries which are of greatest concern to you. Only the initiated are privileged to know more.”

  “You were allowed to enter Oración only because it was foreseen,” Master Ignati said. “But we have no stake in the battle for your country. The wisdom we were meant to pass to you has been given. You must leave here by next dawn, to meet whatever destiny has determined.”

  Raisa rose from her place and led them back down the hill. The sun was nearly overhead by this time, yet still the mist lay thick in the lower reaches of the valley, wreathing the skeletal trees. Dim shadows could be seen moving beneath the barren boughs. Still the sounds of chanting echoed ceaselessly.

  Keren asked, “Are there many sages, here?”

  “Sages?” Raisa replied. “Well, if you mean the Masters, only a few. But there are many Novitiates and Devout as well. They are sent here to dedicate their lives to prayer and enlightenment. Some, like you, come seeking knowledge. However, the greatest secrets are only earned through strict dedication and denial of one’s self. Many fail the tests and depart. Still, many others prove their strength of spirit, and remain. Our devotions to the Divine are unceasing. Always there is prayer in Oración.”

  Keren eyed the dark shapes in the trees. “What about the yokai? Do you get along with them?”

  “Of course.”

  “But…don’t you fear them? Aren’t you afraid that they’d turn on you?”

  “You may not have realized, but the Aranae watch us even now. They may scorn the consciences of men, but nevertheless, they are intrigued by what we do here. Every day they watch us, trying to fathom the mystery of how a man’s heart can create untold riches, like a well always brimming with cool water. No matter how many lips drink from it, it never runs dry.