The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  The floor was now littered with Patterson’s clippings and research, and Daikon could finally see the wall behind the plastered pictures. Charcoal shading, precisely angled. He moved closer to get a better look. He saw something, something that looked like miniaturized handwriting, hidden within the black carbon shading. It was…

  His research was interrupted by a duo of sensual voices.

  “Come and see.”

  “Come play with us.”

  As Daikon turned around, he saw them, the banshees. Both had silky white hair that looked like satin while their flesh seemed to lack any color whatsoever but still, somehow, looked healthy and flawless. Draped in their shredded black dresses, they looked quite vulnerable.

  “Well,” Daikon said, grunting as he stretched out his chest and shoulders. “Hello ladies.”

  “Come play with us,” one pouted, pretending to be the young, vulnerable, beautiful woman she looked like.

  “Yeah, we’re bored,” said the other, now tugging at the bottom of her dress and bashfully swaying side to side. “Come play with us.”

  They clearly did not know who they were talking to. Daikon grinned and said, “Oh, I appreciate the offer, but I believe that I will have to decline. I can’t say that I feel much like playing right now.” He pulled back the side of his trench coat to reveal his katana and the knife scabbard behind it. Tucking his coat behind the knife’s scabbard, he added, “And that’s a good thing.”

  “You’re no fun.” They pouted. “You’re no fun.”

  “Now, now. Don’t be sore about it. I’m sure your queen has something else for you to do. Now, go on. Run along now.” Daikon looked down and scrunched up his face. Barefooted, both women are barefooted. Barefooted, both banshees were still playfully swaying back-and-forth and now wiggling their toes around, all playfully and child-like. “And tell Lilith to get you some shoes.”

  “Oh,” they groaned. “You’re no fun—no fun.”

  Daikon raised his eyes and blinked. Something changed. The number of banshees, it had doubled from two to four. Then as he blinked again, there were suddenly eight of them.

  “Oh,” they groaned again at each other, pouting. They started speaking in their echoed, overlapping voices. “He doesn’t want to play—to play. Why doesn’t—why doesn’t he want to play with us? He hates us—thinks we’re ugly-ugly. He hates that we’re ugly. Run along—he told us to run along-run along to where?”

  Suddenly in perfect unison, they said, “We can’t run along. There is lust in your heart.” They were now all staring at Daikon and completely serious. He saw their fingernails stretching out into silver stilettos. “There is lust in your heart—in the hearts of all men, but he is not a man—not a man, but still full of lust. He is no different—he’s the same—all the same—they all are—all the same and just like the rest.”

  “Well,” Daikon said. “I wouldn’t call it lust.” He shrugged and unintentionally blinked again. The banshees were now shifting into clones of some different-looking, beautiful, young woman. Their pale hair darkened into a golden brown. The black-and-white eyes turned hazel. Their shredded black dresses turned into long sleeping shirts, elegant dresses, black hoodies, t-shirts... The banshees suddenly looked like Mea, all of them did. All eight of them.

  Daikon blinked again. Now all sixteen of them looked like Mea. He shook his head and thought, damn it, quit blinking.

  Starting out as muffled whispers, their volume gradually grew louder. All men are lustful. Men hurt. They should be punished. They must be punished. The burned us, called us witches. They should burn. They will burn. Suffer. Let them suffer as we have. Vengeance. Justice. All men must die. They stepped forward, and Daikon took a step back and bumped into the wall behind him.

  Daikon sighed. “Well… Alright then.” He tucked his trench coat further behind his scabbard then waved his hand over the naked side of his waist, the one opposite his katana. Three daggers appeared. “Have it your way.”

  The banshees screeched, signaling their attack. The banshees turned pale again and their nails became talons. Their mouths became wide caves filled with large fangs, and they charged Daikon.

  Ducking a swiping claw, he pulled out one of his daggers and punched it into the pale chest of his attacker while his swinging, slashing katana kept the other at bay.

  The banshees hissed at him then lurched at him again. Daikon, backing away towards the door, slashed at and through his first set of attackers. Making it into the doorway, he jabbed another dagger into another one, but the next one was coming in fast. Daikon decided to yank out the dagger he was using and used it again. Ducking the swiping banshee’s claw, he hammered the dagger into her forearm and tacked her arm to the doorframe he was now stepping backwards through.

  Daikon continued easing backwards through the short hallway in slow, stunted steps—a dagger in one hand, his katana in the other. Though he still hadn’t used his original silver dagger. Pausing midway through the short hallway, he stopped and thought about it, exchanging one dagger for his silver, polished-to-perfection dagger that he came in with but decided not to. He soon realized something else. It’s quiet. They’re not following me. Some of the other banshees finally appeared, peeking out of the room at Daikon and in front of their pierced, squirming sister. “Come on,” he invited.

  As he waved them on, a pale claw burst through the drywall and blindly swiped at him, swinging just past his eyes. Another one burst through the wall and swiped at him as well. Swiping wildly at him, the two banshee hands banged against the wall of sheetrock and made a thumping sound after each rapid swipe. Thump-thump-thump. A hard swing of Daikon’s katana ended all that, and the two wild arms were left the flopping on the ground like fishes out of water.

  From the doorway, the banshees finally resumed their pursuit. More animal than mortal, the banshees leapt into the hallway on all fours and charged forward. Others leapt out of the door and crawled over the walls and ceiling, all charging at him.

  Daikon grabbed his third-and-last knife (from his newly appeared bundle) and stuck it into the closest one and jabbed his katana through the next one—the one scurrying over the wall like it was a racetrack. Then he stuck the one galloping over the ceiling.

  The hallway was small, and Daikon was now backed into the shabby off-white kitchen as he parried more swiping banshee claws with his blade. But when one of the banshees managed to nick his arm, Daikon decided that he had had enough. He kicked away his attacker then flung his empty hand out to the side and flared out his fingers. His leather glove turned into a glossy black, armored gauntlet, and five razor-sharp talons tipped his newly-armored fingers. Now nimbly and quite casually, he dodged the swiping pale claws while countering with his own set of swiping talons. His katana took care of the rest, and he fought his way back into the hallway.

  The banshees retreated while hissing at Daikon. The ones with missing limbs grabbed them and took them with them as they fled, hissing before they leapt into whatever dark corner was nearby. The uncut ones helped the wounded, and fled into the shadows as well. Now all was silent.

  Daikon held out his hand, and his dagger jumped off the floor and into his hand. After giving it a look, Daikon sheathed the blade and made his way back to Patterson’s conspiracy room. With his enemies dead, he watched as his copy-cat knives sparkled like glitter and vanished. The few banshees that remained backed away as Daikon approached. Then after a spiteful snarl they turned to into smoky ghost-like versions of themselves and vanished.

  Entering the room, Daikon was taken back. There was one left that was neither attacking nor retreating. Looking innocent enough, she swayed side-to-side while she tugged on the ends of her tattered dress.

  With her bottom lip puffed out, she asked, “What about me?” Then she showed her fangs and claws and lunged at Daikon.

  Grabbing her by the neck, he spun her around and down, and in the end, she was flat on her back with his knee on her chest, and his blade at her neck. “Where’s Lilith
? Tell me and you can go free.”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the banshee said in a too familiar voice, Mea’s voice, and it gave him pause.

  The banshee’s pale skin and hair darkened just enough and shifted, and it suddenly looked identical to Mea.

  Daikon started to doubt his own eyes and began believing that it was really her. “Mea?”

  “Leave me. I don’t ever want to see you again. You’re a killer. Everything you touch dies. Since you’ve enter my life, everything has turned to dust.”

  “I’m sorry,” Daikon mumbled, his lips quivering. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you love me, if you really care about me, you’ll leave. You’ll leave and never come back. Now, please… go.” Tears trickled down Mea’s cheeks.

  “I… I’m sorry,” Daikon muttered again, confused and tormented by his worst fears brought to life. “Mea, I just…” He eased his knife away from her neck, and then…

  A set of long, silver spikes stabbed Daikon just below his ribcage.

  As the spikes curved up under Daikon’s ribs, he grunted then pulled the banshee’s claw out of his side while stabbing his dagger into its other claw then into its side.

  But it still looked like Mea, and she groaned. Seeing her in pain, that he had stabbed her, Daikon shuffled away from her, scurrying away in some fear-filled crabwalk. His mind had been playing tricks on him, and he had to convince himself that it wasn’t really her, hoped that it really wasn’t her. “You… You’re not real. You’re not her.”

  Mea’s hair and skin turned white again, and her tattered black dress returned. The banshee gave a dying cough and turned it eyes to Daikon. Only then was he convinced that it wasn’t Mea, and Daikon let out a sigh of relief.

  The banshee’s pale face turned less evil and scared. Brightening with a pinch of color, her hair turned black as coal. “I’m dying,” she whimpered, “again.” Suddenly more human looking, she forced a weak smile. The banshee was a girl no older than Mea. Plain looking and all skin-and-bones, fear was written all over her face. “I’m scared.”

  Her fingers twitched, and Daikon came over and held her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said emptily, as a forced pleasantry. Empty words from my newfound humanity, he told himself.

  “It’s okay. I was already dead.” She gasped for air. “I… I wasn’t always like this. I was a settler, in the new world. But I… Me and the other girls would go out to the woods and dance around the campfire. We made our own fermented wine or would steal a bottle from the men.” The banshee smiled as she reflected on her mortal life. Her smile suddenly turned sour, just like her story would. “They called us witches. We weren’t witches; we were girls. We just wanted to have a little fun but… When we got caught, the other girls apologize and begged for forgiveness. The girls from the more prominent family got it but me… I was… stubborn. I was too…” She snorted than said, “The foolishness of youthful rebellions, huh?” She tried to laugh, but it hurt.

  “I… After I died, part of me went away. Part of me remained and became… this.” The scrawny girl coughed heavily and grunted in pain. “Those foolish, arrogant men. I hated them, and I wanted revenge. On the men of my village, all of them, I wanted them dead. I was disgusted by the sight of them. And then… then it became all men.”

  “You weren’t wrong to want justice but…”

  “No, not justice, revenge. All that anger, it became rage, and I just wanted to hurt something, someone. And I became this. You see, I didn’t want justice, I wanted to hurt them, the way they hurt me.”

  “That’s… understandable.” Part of Daikon wanted to condemn her notion of vengeance but he couldn’t. He knew too much of the world, and of the horrors that men do.

  Daikon plunged his hand into the pile of ashes that once was Dr. Patterson. He folded open the redeemed banshee’s hand and placed his own ash-covered one over it. “Be at peace, finally,” he said, releasing the ashy gold coin into her palm. “And in your journey from this world to the next, be free from the judgement of the gods… and of the judgement of men.”

  “Thank you,” she said weakly. “The sisterhood, when we were bound with Lilith, Lilly. I heard them speak. Some were from places devastated by the… the one they called Vandriel. Hordes of people, villages, they just disappeared completely, wiped off the face of the earth. Vandriel, he… it commanded the shadows themselves. They’d grab humans, to feed its horde—the shadows would just pull them in, and they were never seen again. Then, Vandriel would just vanish, sleeping for hundreds of years before he’d wake the shadows, to feed again.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because they’re coming for the wolves. He needs their strength, to go forth with the Cleansing. I heard them say as much, maybe it’s just rumors but…”

  Daikon required one more piece of information before he let her die. The notion of vengeance was still of great interest to him. In fact, just like the banshees themselves, he craved a bit of vengeance himself. He wanted to hurt something, to make it feel his pain. Vengeance may be a bottomless pit, he thought, but it will still taste sweet, for the moment at least. She had killed him, thought she had killed him (who he was), and Daikon wasn’t going to let that slide. He asked, “Where’s Lilith?”

  Lilly answered, “Behind you.”

  Crimson ribbons sliced through the dying banshee. Before Daikon’s eyes, the gasping wisp of a girl turned to ashes.

  Before Daikon could even react, something yanked off the ground and slammed him into the wall. A noose was around his neck and choking the life from him. Not a noose, a glove. A white one with a red ribbon streaming from its wrist. Dainty as it was, the gloved hand seemed five sizes larger, and it took Daikon both hands and all his strength to keep it pried open and from choking him to death—and to keep her fingernails, which looked like the tips of a scorpion tails, from digging into his neck.

  It was Lilly. Her forearms and hands were covered in sparkling white, laced bridal gloves, and they were quite nice. Her crimson ribbons swirled around her arms before draped over her sun-kissed skin and under her golden locks. Her dress was white and lacey as well, and she looked like a wedding bride, but that wasn’t what Daikon noticed. Just like her banshees from earlier, Lilly was barefooted as well.

  “Doesn’t anyone wear shoes anymore,” he quipped.

  Daikon’s words were ill-taken, and Lilly huffed at him. He looked strangely familiar—the strange man in the trench coat that she was currently choking. Still Lilly couldn’t put the pieces together, not yet anyways. Let’s see what he’s made of, she thought. Then, with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his neck, she swiped at his stomach. But as the sharply-tipped hand swung at his belly, a well-placed, flailing kick from Daikon sent it reeling backwards. Lilly was surprised that he was able to make such a move, and she paused to examine him. “Who are you?” So strange, yet so familiar, she thought. It’s almost like I know him.

  This time she was too fast, and a quick jab to Daekon’s stomach loosened his prying hands on her stranglehold, and Lilly used that hand, the hand wrapped around Daekon’s neck, to turn his head left then right, so she could study his scarred face.

  Whether it an illusion or real, Lilly didn’t know, but Daekon’s face began shifting and changing. The scar on his cheek faded away. His eyes glinted red and cold, like frozen rubies. Lilly smiled and now remembered the man, the face. He was familiar, too familiar—and too dead… at least he was supposed to be. “Blackwell,” Lilly said. “I killed you.”

  “Yes, you did,” Daikon said, his voice struggling through his squeezed throat. “And yes, I was.” He looked around for his dagger, and on the ground, under some scattered books, he found it… and with it being a good ten-feet away, it was all but useless. “Oh yeah, and it’s Daikon now, by the way.”

  He gazed back at the elegant hand that was currently strangling him and the beautiful arm it was attached to. He noticed something as well. “Hey, you got your arm back. Good for you.”


  Lilly ignored his words and continued examining his face. “You… you’re supposed to be dead.”

  “And you have a new arm. It looks like we’re both full of surprises.”

  “Yes,” she sighed, “a new arm.” Lilly smiled and proudly displayed the elegant glove that covered her new arm. Then, as mercurial as can be, she slammed Daikon against the wall with renewed spite. “No thanks to you.” She tried to squeeze his neck but, albeit with considerable effort, Daikon managed to keep her hand opened just enough to keep the air flowing into his lungs and Lilly’s venom-filled fingertips from tearing into his throat.

  Lilly thought back to that night in the stone tower, when she sank her fangs into Blackwell’s neck and drained him, when she took over the stone tower. “That’s why. I knew you tasted… empty, chalky. That night in the stone tower… That wasn’t you. It was a shell.”

  “Mostly,” Daikon grunted. “Now how about you put me down and…”

  Lilly slammed him against the wall again, cutting off his words as the ridge of Lilly’s hand slammed into Daekon’s throat. “You talk too much. You’ve always talked too much.”

  Suddenly smiling, Lilly’s eyes lowered to her beautifully-gloved hand, the one wrapped around Daekon’s neck, and she couldn’t help but to admire herself. Then she saw how Daekon’s hands were wrapped around hers, struggling to pry her dangerous hand loose. She realized something else, someone else she strangled. A reaper. Daekon’s face shift again and she saw it; the reaper, Raven. “You merged with… that reaper? That… thing. That’s how you did it. You made yourself into a freakin’ half-breed.”

  “Bingo.” Daikon dropped his left hand to the side as Lilly’s lacy vice grip tightened around his throat and her venomous fingernails plunged into his neck. His dagger leapt through the air and into his hand, and then as fast as he could, he slashed Lilly’s arm before plunging the dagger into the belly of Lilly’s beautiful, lily-white dress.