The Shining Cities: An Anthology of Pagan Science Fiction

by Lauren Teffeau

The night was warm and still. Not even the slightest breeze was in attendance. It was almost as if, in protest of coming events, the wind had boycotted the square. The gathered townsfolk shifted uncomfortable as the night grew stale and even warmer. Several people started and cried out as the torches suddenly flared up. Without the wind there was no reason for them to do so. The spirits around them were not pleased. Many began to mutter that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Like sheep without a shepherd, the villagers were losing their focus on the burning.

  Liam knew better. The flaring torches were a sign, but not the one that the villagers believed. The flare was caused by a little cantrip Justin had once used to cause a certain lady’s dress to burst into flames. Liam had taught it to Anton. That sign meant that all was in place. It was time for the show to begin.

  As if on cue, a loud chanting began from directly below Liam’s feet. Father Santiago exited the church below, Dominique, held by two more guardsmen, following him. In the fading light of evening, the torchlight danced on her hair and face causing them to glow, giving her an almost unearthly appearance. No doubt this was the very effect Father Santiago had wished to achieve by picking this particular time for her punishment. Liam sat patiently; it would do none of them any good if he revealed himself prematurely.

  The trio sat back to watch them from their various vantage points as events began to unfold. Although she had never met Dominique face-to-face, Arianna tried to catch her attention to reassure her as she went by. Dominique, however, seemed either resigned to her fate, or confident she would not meet it; she refused to look to either side at the crowd around her. Stately, she let the guards escort her up the platform to the stake, then stared off as they bound her hand and foot to the beam.

  “Dominique Delarouche!” Father Santiago addressed his prisoner. “The charge before you is witchcraft. How do you plead?” He waited for an answer that apparently was not forthcoming. “The Bible states ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’. Do you understand the punishment you must face?”

  “The Bible also states ‘Thou shalt not kill’ but you seem to have no problem ignoring that law,” Dominique countered. Several cries of dismay rose from the crowd.

  Father Santiago, on the other hand, obviously had expected no less.

  “Often times in my duties as an Inquisitor have I heard my beliefs twisted and tossed back in my face. But faith and God are on my side. The truth always comes out, as do their accomplices.” The friar glanced around the square once more, perhaps looking for the Witch’s nephew, as if knowing he was out there plotting to save her.

  The gathered crowd shifted again, even more restless. Scowling, apparently realizing that he would have to act to placate the mob or lose his momentum, Father Santiago began a prayer; not in his normal Latin, but in the English of this strange foreign land. He called out to God for guidance out of the darkness that surrounded them, that haunted the land. He prayed for the divine soul of the sinner before him. He prayed for blessed judgment and divine justice. When he could stretch it out no longer, he finished his prayer, took a torch from one of the town watch, and stepped forward to light the pyre.

  Liam stepped into the light at the top of the steps leading to the church.

  “Father Santiago!” Liam’s call caused not a few cries of surprise from the gathered crowd. No one had noticed him appear on the steps of the church, nor did they expect the nephew of one so damned to be able to do so.

  “Ah, Liam,” Santiago’s voice was honey, the very voice of reason, “have you come to join your foul kin? To take your rightful place beside her on the cleansing pyre?” Santiago’s confidence was seemingly unshaken by Liam’s sudden appearance.

  “Nay, Father,” Liam answered. “I have spent this day sequestered within these hallowed walls seeking guidance.” He indicated the church behind him. “I have been praying for the enlightenment you so often tell the villagers to seek within the church’s sanctuary. I believe my Aunt to be innocent of all charges and sought wisdom to prove her innocence.”

  “She’s a witch!" a new voice shouted. Liam did not need to look to know who it was. The barber was out there trying to incite the crowd. He wanted revenge for being made a fool of. "How else but through black arts could she bring healing of the plague that ravishes our lands? It would be easy for one who brought the plague to us to begin with!” Several in the mob cried out in agreement.

  “Am I to be ridiculed for my search for truth, Father? Are the ears of the Holy Church stopped up, as if with wax, by the wounded ego of a layman?” Liam waited and watched as Father Santiago was forced to turn and hear him out. “You believe in visions, do you not Father? That many, lay and holy alike, are granted visions by our Lord?”

  “You believe yourself to have been granted such a vision, my child?” Santiago’s voice now dripped with sarcasm and disbelief. His smug smile faltered a moment, however. Perhaps the memory of how many pagans had been converted by such visions flashed through his mind.

  “Father, it was you who said that the Lord of Darkness walks among us this night, correct? If this plague is His workings, then we need to bring him to light and force answers from Him directly.”

  “And how do you propose we force the Demon of the Pit to our bidding, my child?” Some of the sarcasm had dropped from the friar's voice.

  “As many in the Bible had done when in need of a miracle, Father: we pray. We pray,” Liam reached out to with his will as Justin had taught him, reinforcing the last two words in his mind. Father Santiago, compelled by an almost uncontrollable urge to do as Liam ordered, raised his voice. He called out to the heavens in Latin. Liam joined, reciting the words that Justin fed him as he spoke. Magick was easy to teach, Latin took a bit longer. As their voices rose, others took up the prayer in the crowd. Liam took this as his cue.

  “Demon of the netherworld, by the mutual powers of knowledge and faith we command thee, show thy form!”

  A frightening apparition appeared in the midst of the crowd. A hooded cloak rose slowly before the platform, roughly from the same area Liam had spotted Arianna near earlier. Though the hood was plainly empty, the inside of it visible in the torchlight, the cloak filled and took on the shape of someone wearing it. That is, if the someone were wearing it was invisible and able to float above the heads of the crowd. A crowd that was swiftly parting around the space from which it had risen.

  “Impertinent mortal foolssssss!” a voice hissed from the cowl of the cloak. Liam suppressed a smile. Anton had gone further with what Liam had taught him, adding a voice to the apparition; a new depth to this masquerade. Then he caught himself. If he lost himself to the moment, he might lose more. Already, the prayer on Father Santiago’s lips was faltering. Horror filled the priest’s eyes. Liam stepped forward and put a friendly hand on the friar’s shoulder.

  “Do not falter, Father. As we stay strong in the face of evil, so will it show its weakness and cowardice, for such is the way of the Dark Lord.” Santiago looked blankly at Liam, then showed comprehension. He nodded quickly as the prayer once again gained the strength of his full voice. “Demon, I demand of thee,” Liam called out to the floating specter, “who or what is your mortal agent in this world? Does this woman call you forth to do her bidding?” Liam indicated Dominique, still tied to the stake above them.

  “Noooooo!” the phantom rasped from on high. “I move through another creature. The ratsssss carry my curssssse. Where there is filth, there are ratsssss. Where there are ratsssss, my death walksssssss.” Cries and gasps arose from the villagers at this admission. Several of them made a pointed effort to move away from the litter strewn alleys.

  “Then by your own admission is this woman innocent!” The cowl nodded in agreement. “This said, I command thee, Demon, be gone from our lands. Plague us no longer with thy foul pestilence!”

  The ghostly ghoul flew in a circle around the pile of wood that was to be Dominique’s funeral pyre, the folds of the cloak catching fire on one of the torches held
by the terrorized watchmen. Then it rose up, the flames licking further up the fabric. Soon the heat grew intense, igniting the boards of the barrel wrapped up inside. With a sudden concussive blast and the lingering odor of gunpowder, both the barrel and the cloak exploded.

  The mob fled.

  Liam had heard that large explosions often caused sudden downpours. The brief dousing was barely enough to put out the still burning torches, eliminating the chance of an accident or change of intentions.

  ***

  Anton cut Dominique down as Liam helped the now prone figure of Father Santiago to his feet. The five of them stood in the empty square, the only ones not to flee the explosion.

  “You see, Father, there is much we can learn from each other. Knowledge is not mutually exclusive to the clergy or the wise women in this day and age. It’s only through cooperation that we can truly learn all there is to learn.” Liam spoke as much for Dominique’s benefit as for Father Santiago’s. Santiago slipped away from Liam to apologize for the hardships Dominique had borne. As he did so, Arianna slipped herself into Liam’s arms.

  “Justin,” she spoke hesitantly, “I love you!” The shock of hearing Justin’s name instead of his own was almost as great as the shock of beginning to fall away from Justin’s body just as Arianna moved in to kiss him. He watched as she removed a thong from around her neck and placed it around Justin’s. “My father once told me that this ring was his second greatest treasure. He also said that I would not fully understand its value by selling or hoarding it, but when the time came to give it freely. I would then know all.” When the ring on the necklace rested firmly on Justin’s chest, she kissed him again ....

  Part III: Awakening

  All things must come to an end. -- misquoted by Liam Kendrick

  Liam sat staring into the mirror of a borrowed compact. The fact that he woke from the meditation with silver streaks in his hair just at the temples had caused quite a stir. Of course, he didn’t mention the ring hanging around his neck -- the twin of the one Arianna had given Justin -- nor the warmth of emotion he felt emanating from it. Later he'd have to suss out what the talisman was for. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched as Theresa helped serve the departing customers.

  “So are you going to tell me what the hell happened to you?” Rhiannon was becoming quite impatient. Liam handed her back her compact. He watched as Emma and Theresa all but shooed the last of the non-regulars out the door.

  “Not just yet, Rhi. I’m not ready for that. However, there is something I need to do.” She followed his glance to where Theresa was finishing up her paperwork. Sensing what was to come, she excused herself and stepped outside to join Emma and the rest of the smokers.

  “Theresa, can I talk to you for a moment?” Theresa looked up at him with her bright eyes, expectantly. “Well, I have to tell you that …”

  The bells rang as a strange man walked in. Tall, dark, handsome. Everything Liam dreaded.

  “You ready, T?”

  “Yeah, let me get my stuff.” She turned back to Liam. “Can we talk later?” She grabbed her bag and was out the door before he could respond.

  Shoulders slumping, he reached out with his mind and, with a soft click, closed the shop's door.

  The Scroll of Kali

  by Quincy J. Allen

  Kerani stood in a river of blood as she stretched her four aching arms. The Four Teeth of Murugan -– dagger, scimitar, short-pike and sickle -– felt heavy in her taloned hands. Even demigods grow weary with sufficient motivation, she thought. Pulling blood-soaked ebony hair out of her eyes, she straightened her sleeveless, filigreed blue halter and adjusted her necklaces so that they once again draped evenly down her chest. Her long, red loincloth had also shifted during the battle, so she straightened it as she scanned the now-silent battlefield around her.

  Normally an irregular, bumpy carpet of fist-sized stones that shone a glossy, mottled blue, the shoreline reflected bright crimson in every place that wasn’t shrouded by a leather-armored corpse. And every armored corpse that sheltered a slick stone had been slashed, severed, pierced or punctured during Kerani’s defense of the Kali Scroll. Returning her weapons to their intricate, jeweled scabbards at hip and back, she knelt and feasted upon the blood of the nearest slain, for demigods do not live on meditation and worship alone. As she drank, something formless tickled at her thoughts, struggling to set itself upon her mind like a small tooth scraping against the inside of an eggshell.

  Over a thousand decimated bodies stretched along the rocky shore in both directions and up the dry river-bed behind her. The piecemeal corpses were scattered haphazardly, well beyond the palpable edge of swirling mist. The mist rolled off a still, black surface that was the ethereal manifestation of Lake Manasarovar in the Himalayas. Some bodies lay in large piles two and three deep where men had tried to surround and overwhelm Kerani. Others had been tossed in twos and threes as long-time comrades vainly worked together to bring her down and take the intricately carved silver scroll-case at her hip. If that place had flies, a storm-cloud of them would already be feeding and breeding upon the dead. The gentle tooth-scraping turned to an insistent scratching at the back of her mind.

  Not a single man had died with his back to me, she thought.

  It struck her as odd -– and impressive -– that even as she hacked and hewed at their soft, vulnerable bodies, slaughtering them by the score, not a single man had turned to run -– not one. The legion had come up behind her as she meditated upon a large blue stone at the base of the river-bed, and Kerani fought the nameless souls for seven hours down the river bed and along the shore. There were no whips driving them, no threats of bloody vengeance upon those who might consider retreat. In fact, virtually every man had fought with a steely resolve that was full of grim purpose or frantic zeal. Their bows, blades and spears rarely touched her, and when they did, they merely glanced off her dark skin – such is the gift of a demigod – and yet on they came.

  This was the third attempt by an army in as many months. Different armies, different standards, and many of the men in the other two armies had cowered or run as she killed them. But before these three attacks, in all the three hundred years she had been keeper of the scroll, there had only been two other attempts by large groups. All other attempts had been by individuals or small groups seeking the riches and power promised by the scroll.

  What could possibly drive so many men to such futile and certain oblivion? she asked herself.

  There it was: the question. The scratching in her mind had form. It began to claw at her consciousness as relentlessly as the brave, dead men surrounding her had attacked her body, insisting upon an answer. Kerani turned her blue, almost black face to the sky, her forked black tongue snaking forth and cleansing blood from teeth, skin and the bony pearls which decorated her cheeks and forehead in intricate patterns. There was no sun in that half-place of gods, only an eternal light that emanated from the peak of Mount Kailash, permeating everything. She turned her face to the light and hungrily soaked up the warmth of Shiva and Kali. She had not spoken to them nor been summoned in over a hundred years, but there had not been any need, and their warmth still sustained her. The question of what drove the men raked at her mind, a will of its own driving her to distraction, interrupting her enjoyment of divine bounty.

  “Enough!” Kerani’s deep, throaty shout sent ripples across the still water of the lake and echoed off the hills behind her. She was not one to easily tolerate discomfort. For three centuries she had borne the mantle of protecting the Kali scroll, caring for the travails of mortals less and less with each passing decade, despite the occasional plea for help from them in prayer. In that time she had all but forgotten what mortality felt like and didn’t remember what her human self had been, never mind what it had concerned itself with each day. She was Kerani, keeper of the Kali Scroll, and that was enough.

  She made her way to the edge of the water, stepping delicately over corpses and across blood-slick stones as the
mist parted before her. Wading into cold, black water she cleansed herself of the blood and flesh which covered her like a second skin. The question waited expectantly. With a deep sigh Kerani returned to the shore and made her way along the beach to the west until she reached a particularly deep pile of bodies.

  Every Sikh who had faced her had been clad in red robes underneath a boiled leather breastplate, bracers and thigh-guards dyed bright yellow. They all bore a red tiger-standard etched into their bracers and wore a red and yellow striped turban… all except one. The man who had directed most of the battle and stood amongst the archers donned a turban of deepest midnight blue adorned with a gold star above his forehead that held in place a long red feather. When the archers had run out of arrows, this man had led them in a charge against Kerani. He had fought valiantly and with a supreme skill. Against other men he would have been more than a formidable opponent, but against Kerani he became just another corpse among the thousand.

  She picked through the pile of archers, casually flinging their bodies to the side with careless ease and stopping when she spied the dark turban. Grasping him by the neck of his breastplate, she heaved and dragged his armless body out of the pile, leaning it up into a sitting position against several of his archers. His heavily bearded face looked calm in death, and Kerani ran her hand down his black and silver hair to straighten it, giving him an almost dignified look.

  You deserve it, she thought. She placed her hand on his forehead and concentrated upon what fading tendrils of existence remained within him. Under her breath she began chanting Budha, the traveler’s song of passing. A delicate green light glowed around his body, coalescing slowly into his face as the song reached its close. As the last word passed her lips, the green glow condensed into a small mote of deepest emerald and rose away from the corpse.

  Travel back, Kerani wordlessly commanded.