Hearing how driven the man was, Wodan remembered Yardalen's request. “Yardalen says you're going to get yourself killed. She's worried about you.”
“Worried!” he said, as if shocked by the very concept.
“She thinks you've started a cycle that always ends in martyrdom.”
“Then she's missing the form by looking at the shadow. I'm not trying to get myself killed, Wodan. I'm trying to show people that life isn't what they think it is. It's more. It's not about gritting your teeth and hanging on until they finally toss you in the ground. Listen, they say you fight demons. What if I told you that you might survive for a while, but in a year, maybe ten years, you'll finally be killed by demons. Would you stop?”
“No.”
“Would you keep doing what you want because you don’t believe me, or would you keep fighting because you don't care how it ends?”
Wodan laughed quietly and turned away. Lucas had a point. Wodan could see that words would not convince the man to take caution. Only watching over him could save him. Wodan sighed with frustration, because he knew such a task was completely impractical. He had his own life, his own affairs. How could he possibly smooth out the rough edges in someone else's destiny?
“Fine,” he said. “I understand. But you said Yardalen mistook… shadow for form? What does that mean?”
“It's an old idea. Very old. It goes to the heart of many spiritual beliefs. It's the idea that reality… matter, us, our ideas, our stories, laws, sex, life, death, all of it – are shadows cast by something else. By a timeless, endless form that exists outside of our comprehension. The world of everyday appearance, all the things that make up human experience, even all the ideas a human allows himself to have, are only a dim shadow cast by the eternal form, which is always beneath the surface of things. Our brains are hard-wired to see and understand shadow. All trivia, all so-called knowledge, concerns only the nuance and shades of gray that is shadow. Only a few can see through the veil and into true form, and even then only for a moment.”
“Do you mean,” said Wodan, “the difference between subjective experience and objective reality?”
“No. It’s more than that. Even if you deal with objective reality, even if you learn the things you need to learn in order to survive, things like raising crops, healing the sick, building homes, looking after your family – it's not enough. Even unrivaled mastery of objective reality can result in falling prey to something unknown and unseen projected from the true form.”
“Ah,” said Wodan. “Like flesh demons coming without warning.”
“Or, in my case, a joyless existence forced on my people by those who use the name of God for something other than living a good life.”
They stopped at the peak of the spine. In the east, thick cloud cover was touched by blue and dim violet. As they drew near the edge of the rocky ravine, Wodan was struck by a sense of timelessness once more. They were no longer two men having a conversation. They were ideas in the mind of a dreaming being who stood at the edge of the moment before creating an infinite array of worlds and more beings like itself.
“Maybe the thing we're fighting,” said Lucas, “isn't really what it appears to be. Black robes, flesh demons, whatever they are… maybe those are simply shadows cast by something else. A form much more powerful. Much more horrifying, more obsessed with control. Something much more stupid. And maybe we're something else too. Everybody worships something. Don't you think that everyone is deeply religious, when it comes down to it? Whether your god is wealth, or power, or the feeling of joy, or routine, or beauty, or even the creator of the universe… maybe we're both of us, all of us, on a journey to find the thing that we pray to. We want to find out if it is worth all the attention we give it.”
Wodan felt a strange sensation. He felt as if something wasn't right. “I think I agree,” he said. “But, do you...”
He turned and saw Lucas staring at his hands, then at his forearms. Suddenly he fell in a heap. In a slow echo along the spine of stone, Wodan heard the echoing crack of gunfire.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Mighty Hunter Before the Lord
Vendicci, the last of the ghouls, laid around in bed in the Temple for many days. His sores and bruises healed, and even his broken ankle and arm felt fine. He grew fat and strong on all the food they gave him. He noticed the looks of the orange robes as they held their breath while serving him. They were too weak to enjoy the natural, musky odor of one such as himself. But what did any of that matter? He had lived on the point of starvation his entire life. These days, he felt better than ever!
Weak as they were, he had to admire them. They never hunted, but their food never seemed to end.
He learned to ignore the guards, the blue robes who stood in the corners of the room. They never replied to questions or insults, but they also didn't give him any trouble, except for a few disdainful looks. That was fine with Vendicci, as long as they kept their hands off his comic books. The nagging idea that his comics could be stolen from him was no mere paranoia - the black robes had already tried it once. He had stopped them, but they had fought back. The most difficult part of the awkward struggle had been trying not to crush their frail bodies as they assaulted him. He had mostly rolled around, waiting for them to wear themselves out. There was no doubt in Vendicci’s mind that the blue robes kept them around as unwilling sex partners. Why else would they act the way they did?
Then one day a particularly old and spindly black robe came to see him, a man with pale eyes and long teeth and a strip of red cloth hanging off his shoulders. An old chief of some sort. Vendicci woke from a nap and the silent man was there, sitting on his bed. He wondered if it was a dream. The man rambled on at length, calling him Golem, and at one point Vendicci even fell asleep again and dreamed of the strip of red on the man’s robes. But when Vendicci woke once again, he became annoyed at the man’s presence, because it seemed that the little man was desperately in need of him for some reason. Vendicci wanted him gone so that he could urinate without someone watching.
“It’s our will,” the man hissed, leaning toward him. “Our will that makes us one. And we are one. The same! With the same intentions!”
“Oka-a-ay,” said Vendicci. “You the cook? I’m hungry.”
Vendicci chuckled as the man tried to pick up his train of thought. Vendicci slept again. When he woke the man was gone. In pure terror Vendicci reached under his pillow, found that the comics were still there, then sighed in relief and waited for meal time.
Not all the people in the Temple were annoying. Vendicci had one friend who came to see him, an orange robe who seemed a little older than the others, though as Vendicci understood it they were all ancient. The orange robe introduced himself as Nobody, but they all went by that name. Nobody often sat by Vendicci’s bedside, and sometimes they spoke of trifling things like food or the weather. Talking helped him practice new words and learn better ways of saying things so that others could understand. Nobody never forced himself on Vendicci as the black robes did, so Vendicci even showed Nobody his comic books.
Vendicci liked Nobody, but he wasn’t sure if he respected him. Nobody was small, his mind was not the mind of a hunter or a warrior, and Vendicci was afraid that the often violent comic books would be too honest an experience for the little monk. Instead, Nobody surprised him by pointing out various color techniques used in the artwork, then laid on him the heavy notion that color could describe a mood, or even create a mood in the heart of the audience. Vendicci was deeply shocked and had to go through his entire collection once more, just to look at it from a new vantage point.
“There are so many things in these books!” Vendicci said under his breath. “So much stuff to find. Am I ever gonna know everything about them?”
Sometimes the monk asked him about his anger. Vendicci knew to avoid the matter. Why bring up stuff like that? A few times Nobody pushed him it, forcing Vendicci to bury the feelings even deeper than usual for fear that h
e might lash out and hurt Nobody.
“Imagine a very special animal in the forest,” said Nobody. “And let's say that if you caught it, it could grant you peace of mind. What would you do?”
“Hunt it down,” said Vendicci.
“But what if it could not be caught in the same way as other animals?”
“I’d figure out how,” said Vendicci. “I’d watch it and learn.”
“Why?”
“Sounds worth catching,” Vendicci said slowly. “You said it brought peace, right?”
Nobody nodded. “And if that animal was hidden away in yourself, would you still be brave enough to hunt after it?”
“What, like worms?!”
The monk laughed. “No, friend, it’s a symbol. Think of this. A serene bird of flight that lies within yourself, difficult to catch because your mind is built for struggle, for problem solving, for movement… for unhappiness.”
“Symbol, sure. I get it.”
“But it's still very real. What if you had to be very still inside, very calm, so that you would not frighten the bird. And not just still of body, but still of heart. Would you still think it was worth the hunt?”
Vendicci thought for a long time. He knew that even though he was finally well-fed, even though he was not being hunted down by men with guns, he was not happy. But it wasn't his fault for being unhappy, and he didn't want any blame for it. He could not help but resent Nobody for pressing the matter. “I’d do it,” he said finally.
The next day, Nobody tried to show Vendicci a little bit about meditation. It seemed simple enough to Vendicci; relaxed posture, breathing, watching the thoughts as they come and go. But somehow it was impossible and frustrating. It turned out to be the best way to make his body itch in a hundred different spots, as if hunting that mythical bird only stirred up a nest of stinging wasps.
“We have a lot of work to do,” said Nobody.
“Work!” said Vendicci. “How can you call it work? We were just sitting around!”
“Listen at yourself, friend! Don't you hear your own violence? Listen, there will always be fighting out there as long as there's fighting in here.” Nobody tapped Vendicci's chest lightly, then left him for the day. Only later did Vendicci realize that a few weeks ago he would have slain anyone who tried to touch him.
Sitting up alone at night, Vendicci felt as if Nobody had stirred something within him. Not any bird of peace, but more like a dark cave full of bats, ideas and feelings better left buried, forgotten. Awful things shrieking for attention, filling his ears in the dark so that he couldn’t sleep.
He saw the face of the Evil King, the monster who had destroyed his people. The face so terribly smooth and flawless. Was there really a divine being who had created both people, the highborn king's sons and daughters as well as Vendicci's lowborn people? For what reason? Was there any reason? Was Vendicci's family made simply to go hungry and then provide target practice for the highborn people?
Vendicci had a terrible nightmare of coins cast upon a table, shining as they rolled from one end to another. When he woke up, he remembered that he was the one who had sold out the last of his people. He had sold their lives for one chance to kill the Evil King… and he had fouled it up. He wondered if he himself had died on that day, and now he was living in some sort of afterlife. Well-fed and comfortable, but forced to think of every mistake, every wasted opportunity.
***
One day a black robe came and broke the casts from his wrist and ankle. The man seemed surprised that the bones were completely healed, which in turn surprised Vendicci. Hadn’t they been feeding him better than any of his people had ever been fed? What did they think happened to hunters with broken bones? Did he think they lived out the rest of their days complaining about bones that would never heal?
Though he felt like running around the chamber and leaping from the walls, Vendicci decided to act like he was out of breath after limping around the bed one time. He knew that their kind got a kick out of seeing others being weak.
“Sir,” said Vendicci. “Can I go look around? I have not had... uh, fresh air... for so long.”
The black robe looked him up and down suspiciously. Knowing it would be a bad idea to stare him down, Vendicci turned away and looked about the room, making a show of sudden curiosity over the room's minor details. The black robe hummed and Vendicci glanced at him, eyes turned upward like a whipped dog. A part of him wanted to push the little man aside and throttle the guards and simply take his leave, but he knew it would cause an uproar. These people did not take well to intimidation. No, for them, it was better to fawn and crawl and lick feet. That was what they found admirable.
“We shall see,” said the black robe. “Pray on it, and we shall see.”
The black robe left. Because of the blue robe guards standing nearby, Vendicci refrained from picking up his bed and smashing it on the floor. Instead he laid back and flipped through his comics so quickly that he saw nothing on the pages. What was he supposed to do? Pretend that he didn't want very badly to go outside? Suppress his desire even more than it already was?
To his surprise, within the hour another black robe arrived with two tall, burly dogmen in blue robes.
“Ready for a walk, Golem?” said the black robe.
Vendicci laughed and tumbled out of his bed with such glee that the black robe turned away in embarrassment. He handed Vendicci a thick, coarse shirt and pants and two soft slippers. With the black robe in front and the blue robes on either side of him, they walked the halls of the Temple. He did not feel like a prisoner, but like a lord surveying his domain. It felt so good to move around, feeling bigger and better than ever!
They saw many orange robes moving quietly about their work. Apparently they did more than simply bring him food and take out his bedpan. Vendicci was amazed at the size of the Temple. The hallways went on and on. It was like a cave, but clean and dry.
They came to a hallway that was open on one side. Between rows of pillars he could see an amazing view of the mountainside into which the Temple and its surrounding structures were built. Dizzying gray stone ascended into a vast roof of gray cloud tinged with blue. Vendicci stopped and looked at the expanse of the world, his breath coiling like smoke around him, and was filled with wonder that such a world, such a desolate paradise, could exist. It was hard to believe that he was being given the opportunity to see it and take it all into his heart.
“Let’s keep moving,” said a blue robe.
Content, Vendicci nodded. Then he whirled on one of the dogmen and grinded his fist into his ribs. The ribs gave way under his huge fist and the dogman folded in half. The second blue robe raised his iron staff and swung at him. Vendicci felt strangely calm; it seemed as if the dogman was unnaturally slow, his killer instinct dull and blunted from a lifetime of inactivity. Vendicci grabbed the staff in both hands, twisted, lifted the dogman into the air, and threw him and his staff through the window. After a long moment he heard a wet impact and a yelp followed by the high-pitched clattering of the staff.
Though the black robe looked as if he had never exerted himself, he now rose to the challenge and raced toward Vendicci, shrieking like a child with little fists wind-milling on either side. Vendicci backed away, unwilling to hurt the man, but since he would not back down Vendicci pushed against his chest lightly. The man hit the floor and went limp.
Vendicci leaped from the Temple, felt cold air whistling against his skin, then hit the hard stone. As he leaped from stone to stone his soft slippers flew from his feet. He saw the corpse of the dogman, blue robe twisted around bent limbs. As he ran he picked up the iron staff.
The air was sharp and cold, perfect for a run.
***
Vendicci did not hang around the Temple or the village. He assumed many humans would be hunting him, and his smell could give him away. This was not like the week-long journey through the sky, where he was completely bundled in thick winter clothes and a cloak. On the airship, he had stay
ed on the deck the entire time, where it was freezing and the hellish wind could keep him hidden from human noses. For an entire week he had gone without food, and had only stolen a few morsels during the trek up the mountainside. He had been nearly starved to death when he faced the King. It would not be so this time.
He followed streams of water making their way down the rocky paths and avoided any human habitation. He came to green, wooded lands, and spent his days hunting game with a small handmade spear or the iron rod. He did not have any particular destination in mind. He was happier than he had been in a long time, and travelled for the sake of moving in a beautiful world full of new sights.
One night, when creeping among rocky hills in search of a fat, white-feathered bird that he thought had a beak that could be shaped into a dagger, he found a red-armored soldier sitting on a perch. He sat and listened to voices in the distance. Still he watched the man. The man often knelt forward slowly, then jerked up quickly, as if bowing to oblivion.
Go on and sleep, thought Vendicci. Make this easier on both of us.
He crept up directly behind the soldier. A rifle laid between his legs. He spied a small gun holstered at his side. He knew that one gun could end a life as well as another, plus he did not want to stir up a nest of dangerous humans by taking something of great value. He slipped his hand forward, as quiet as a snake, wrapped his fingers around the sidearm, and plucked it from the holster. The man did not stir, so Vendicci let him live.
Looks like that bird got away, he thought. He crept away from the hills and lost himself in the woods. But if I'd caught it, I would have eaten only enough to last until the next hunt. But now I've got something that will let me hunt my final prey. Then my journey will be over… and I can rest.
***
Vendicci travelled deeper into the valley, sleeping when and where he wanted. The loss of his comic books brought him some amount of grief, but he made it a ritual to always find high ground to watch the sunrise and sunset, when it seemed like the world opened up and turned into something beautiful. During those times, when his heart felt full and overflowing, he wondered if his life and his death would make a story, a work of art as mysterious and meaningful as the comic books he once kept. He knew that he would never know, and that was part of the great mystery.
Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants Page 42