[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Zachariah and Jarl looked at one another.

  “That's how it works with most souls,” said Yardalen. “Boredom, a sense of emptiness. Then curiosity. Then a rush of movement. Before it can be stopped, a moment of curiosity results in one hundred thousand agonizing births, deaths, and rebirths in a hellish and beautiful world. Don't look at him as if he doesn't know why he is on his path. It is the same for all of you. Let's go!”

  The woman turned and left. The others followed.

  ***

  Wodan became aware of someone following them, a small, simian presence that hung about the reeds far behind them. After a while Haginar quietly joined them, his legs covered in mud nearly to his waist. He said little and kept his eyes on Yardalen. Only when he grew tired did he let anyone approach, and then Magog picked him up and put him on his shoulders.

  Yardalen guided them over a descending path of stones. Gnarled, solitary trees clung to the rocks, and the lone trees were surrounded by small groves of moss and thin, brown waterfalls. At noon they reached terraced farmland, muddy places where farmers lived in soaking wet huts and called out to their pigs and small, leaping goats dressed in boots of mud. Still the sky was overcast with gray clouds tinged in blue.

  “I don't understand,” said Wodan. “How do they raise crops if the sun can’t get through?”

  “This is the planting season,” said Yardalen, smiling slightly. “Later comes the harvest.”

  One farmer with a long, thin reed stopped and stared at them. He gestured to a small boy who ran and disappeared within a hut. The farmer watched as they passed, and Wodan kept his eyes on him. At the edge of the farmer's territory stood a dead tree stripped of bark and topped with skulls. Among deer and smaller animal skulls, he could see a human skull.

  “Not quite as friendly as in Temple Grounds, are they?” said Jarl. “To be honest, I thought some of them would run to feed us.”

  “The only people who live in Temple Grounds,” said Yardalen, “are those who don't dare challenge the Temple.”

  “You sure?” said Wodan. “The village seemed like it had a different religion on every corner. Every house had a different holy symbol on its door.”

  “All head-oriented belief systems,” said Yardalen. “All subjects for thinking and talking. All tended by people who give service and money to the Temple. Are those really belief systems? Do they inform action? Or are they just philosophies that are discussed?”

  “So what about that guy's religion?” said Wodan. “That tree, the skulls, what's that about?”

  “Simple. It's just an icon of death. It means 'death is'.”

  “I saw a human skull.”

  “Most likely his wife. I didn't hear a loom or see any women nearby.”

  Wodan knew how much farmland it took to support a household, a village, a town. Estimating for population and varying crop yields, he said, “The people of Deepest Vale give a lot of food to the Upper Valley, don’t they?”

  “Give would be a generous term.”

  Wodan clearly saw the pattern he had seen so many times before: A lot of people beaten down and a tyrant demanding to be thanked. He suddenly felt as if he had greater reason to be on this excursion.

  “Tell me about Lucas,” he said.

  “I will,” said Yardalen.

  ***

  Years ago, when Lucas’s mother Yarmish was just a girl, an angel of the Lord came to her and told her that she would bear a son. The angel said that her son would be part man and part God, a prophet and leader who would free humanity from the cycle of enslavement and destruction. The angel terrified her, but she accepted the angel’s word. Twice it came and put her into a deep sleep, then she never saw it again.

  Yarmish became pregnant. She was already engaged to marry a man, but he agreed to quietly break off the engagement so that her reputation would not be unduly tarnished. But then the angel came to him, and he was terrified by the red flames around the angel’s eyes. He agreed to marry Yarmish and care for the child as if it were his own.

  ***

  “Hold on,” said Wodan. “If Lucas is still alive, then how did he end up with all this myth surrounding him?”

  “All lives,” said Yardalen, “are surrounded by what you call myth. His life only seems fantastic because he is too wise to pretend that his life is mundane. Anything that seems normal is artifice – nothing more.”

  “But the virgin birth… I've never understood why religious types are always uncomfortable with the dirty details of real life. Like making babies. Why is it always-”

  “Unliving beings twist the beauty of our world and make it hateful. It's not complicated. They make us feel guilty for existing – in particular, for making love. They want us to ignore the fact that this world may only exist because God and his First Thought are engaged in the process of making love.”

  Wodan was taken aback. “Un… un-living… beings?”

  “Yes.”

  “My lord,” said Jarl, “many times when stories speak of a virgin birth, what they really mean is divine birth. Gods and humans comingling.”

  “Hm,” said Zachariah. “I just wish they'd be a little clearer.”

  “An eternal mystery can never be cleared up easily,” said Jarl. “There are too many levels from which one can appreciate it.”

  “All of your analyses may be born of ego,” said Yardalen. “The mind is easily confounded, and tries to understand even at the risk of destroying what it looks upon. This story… it is literal. It is true. So please just listen, will you?”

  ***

  Yarmish married her husband and went to live with his family in the Upper Valley, but when it became obvious that she had been pregnant for some time, she and her husband were cast out for the sake of the family’s reputation. They stayed in a cave in the mountains, and there she had her child.

  When the child Lucas was old enough to walk, the family came down from the mountains and quietly returned to the Upper Valley. Lucas was a fast learner, and went to the Temple even on days that were not legal days of worship. He even debated with the black robes, and could quote scripture even from a young age. This was before Globulus came to Srila, in the days of High Priest Caiafas.

  The boy’s popularity grew in the Upper Valley and the black robes often spoke of him. High Priest Caiafas became jealous of him, thinking that the boy would usurp his position. The black-winged angel of the lord came to Yarmish’s husband and told him that the men of the Temple would have their son killed if they did not flee. That very night the family went down into the green depths of the Deepest Vale.

  In the darkness of the Vale, Lucas learned that the truth was not in books, that written accounts were only records of perspectives. He learned that one could see everything in a dancing flame, a stretching tree branch, a hawk's sudden descent to take a life, deer walking slowly through the mist, a mother curled up with her children, water flowing down the terraces, laughter echoing across the rocks. The world was an account documented by an intelligence far beyond mankind’s, and the tale was still being told. He began to see the tyrannical cleanliness of the Temple of the Summons in a new light.

  He was baptized by Sun-on the Immersionist, then he began preaching to the outlying farms, to the people who lived between the old gods of the Vale and the one God of the Temple. Eventually he came to Baalinar, an isolated village where the people sacrificed to a demon called the Dweller in the Cave. He made the people uncomfortable, so they decided to sacrifice him to their demon. He argued with them, and was able to turn them against their old shaman. The people freed him, and Lucas showed them how to make a powerful explosive using elements found in their territory. Unable to fight the demon directly, they blew up the cave, demon and all. Lucas told them that they had proven they were descendants of Bakka, and then he continued on his journey.

  ***

  “Wait,” said Wodan. “Who's this Bakka character? And Sun-on? I don't want to get lost.”

  “Forgive me,” said Yardal
en. “I assumed you knew the story of the founding of Srila. It happened at the same time as the founding of Ktari. Have your people been forced to learn the history of San Ktari?”

  “No!” said Wodan.

  “Hm. That's good, but I'm sure they will someday. Isn't that how it is? One either licks the boot of San Ktari, or one is crushed beneath it.”

  “Never,” said Wodan.

  “But you can't overcome them with force of arms. And what spiritual means do your people possess? They seem like children to me.”

  Wodan looked at her. How fanatical, he thought. But her fanaticism doesn't seem like it comes from the usual mind control programs… the kind offered by family and cultural institutions. I hope she doesn't think I'm insulted. I admire her will.

  “Again, forgive me,” she said. “You've come to learn our ways, not be lectured.”

  “What's the difference?” said Wodan, smiling. “I'm here to learn either way.”

  “Alright then. Long ago, four men led a rebellion that resulted in the founding of Ktari. One of those four men became the first emperor. Another was Kon Fyutzu, who formulated the philosophy that guides San Ktari to this day. The third man was the brother of the new emperor. He became fed up by the atrocities that he had seen during the war. He left and founded Srila, and became the first High Priest. The last man of the quartet also came with him to Srila. In all the old stories, he’s not like the others... he’s a comical figure, always drunk and playing tricks. His name was Bakka. At first he tried to work with his old friend the High Priest. But when he saw that his friend was more concerned with founding a church that was little different from the state they had once fought against, he left and came to the Deepest Vale. He was a wild man, as close to animals as a human could be. He had no interest in permanent structures, so other people who were sick of routines and wars and lies about prosperity flocked to him. They were the ancestors of a lot of the people of the Vale, and Bakka is still revered among them. That was a very long time ago. But you were asking about Sun-on, the man who had such an effect on Lucas. A lot of people believe that Sun-on is Bakka reborn.”

  “What do you mean… reborn?”

  “Same soul. Different body.”

  “Huh. And what do you believe?”

  “I think that belief is for the weak.”

  Wodan was taken aback. Wasn't he talking to a “spiritual” person who was influenced by a stack of beliefs, one on top of another?

  She saw the look he gave her, and shrugged. “Sure, we can't always be strong,” she said. “But whether or not he is the same man reborn… it's a theory. An idea. An image passing through a dream. Only a fool would grapple with the truth or falsehood of the thing.”

  With each word Wodan felt more drawn to her. He glanced at the others and could tell that they were having trouble following her as she confidently leaped from one unfamiliar idea to the next. They simply thought of Yardalen as a guide to Lucas, who was the main attraction. But Wodan always hungered to hear people speak confidently, even if they were confident that they knew nothing. He had seen good people wring their hands and sigh; he had seen villains proudly proclaim bad ideas that had festered in the darkness of their heart because no one had ever stirred them up and examined them in the light. Rarely had he heard that subtle mix of confidence and humble temperament that Yardalen exhibited.

  If I had a thousand… no, a hundred people like her, he thought, then I could crush all of demonkind underfoot.

  At once he thought of Dove Langley, and frustration bubbled up from within. Here was one with the power to fly, stop bullets, move things with a thought, kill with a thought… and yet she could not see any value in risking her life to be free. Such power… for what purpose? He found himself wishing that Yardalen had Langley's powers – and then buried the thought just as quickly. It's not fair to her, he thought. It's not fair to Langley, to think of her like that.

  “But why do we speak of Sun-on?” said Yardalen, pointing. “Look. He's right there!”

  On a terrace in the distance, Wodan saw a crazed-looking man with an intense gaze coming toward them. They stopped and waited for him.

  “Strange timing,” Jarl said under his breath.

  His hair and beard were matted with clumps of mud. It was obvious that he had slept on a bed of straw the night before because bits of straw were stuck to him. He wore a single garment of bear fur tied off with a hemp rope. Several hide-cloth bags jangled at his side. His stench was incredible. He had skin like cracked leather, making his age impossible to determine. If Yardalen was right about souls finding new bodies, then Sun-on’s soul was riding its body like a demon, whipping it on and on beyond its limits.

  Yardalen waved to the man as he approached. “Hello, Sun-on! Are you… are you going to preach to the outlying farms…?”

  “No, no, not at all,” said Sun-on. The ragged wanderer appeared relieved. “I'm going to the Upper Valley, to the people of Temple Grounds, and then to the Temple of the Summons itself. I didn't leave the Deepest Vale with the rest of you, when Lucas sent the disciples. But now I go to make straight the path of the Lord.”

  “To the Temple?” For the first time, Wodan could see that Yardalen was thrown off balance. “It's… time for that? Already?”

  “Of course. Of course it is! So you should be glad. Isn't this what we've been working toward all this time? A great host of unclean spirits have gathered about the Temple, like a rotting corpse thrown down into a well. Their master stirs in his sleep. And where they gather, so demons of flesh follow. All the sleep-walking men there dream of waking up to a day when the world outside of Srila will be a tomb, a world of eternal night, a playground for shrieking demons. And they will feed babies to their sleeping god and thus hold the leash of all demonkind. They think that all the refugees will come to them and thank them for a bowl of rice, and then thank them again when they take their children and feed them to a monster-god. This is after the foreskin has been taken first, of course. Doesn't that sound horrid?”

  “Of course.” Yardalen forced out the words through pinched lips.

  “Another sacrifice should be given, don't you think? Something other than children, yes?”

  Yardalen turned away, and said nothing.

  A cold feeling laid on the group. Wodan thought of asking the man what he meant, or perhaps mentioning that he had also set himself against the flesh demons, but he decided to remain silent. The wanderer seemed so completely engaged with his own affairs that Wodan wondered if he had even noticed him. As if meaning to reinforce Wodan's assessment, Sun-on turned and walked along the way they had come. He gave no words of farewell.

  Yardalen continued on as well. She did not turn to look at Sun-on, and said nothing to her companions.

  “What was that all about?” Wodan said quietly.

  “That was Sun-on,” she said. Her jaw muscles were set firm. “Sun-on the Immersionist. Perhaps I should tell you a bit about him? He's not one of the disciples. He has his own path. He has a ritual of water that he conducts... a ritual of drowning and psychic rebirth. He has no friends. He’s combative and stubborn, completely unable to cooperate with others. That is, until he met Lucas. Perhaps he felt as if he'd finally met one greater than himself. Though sometimes I wish… I wish those two had never met.”

  Zachariah glanced at Wodan.

  “A few years ago,” said Yardalen, “some black robes came down from the Temple. They do that sometimes, to give us trouble, but these black robes were actually excited to see the man who so embodied the nature of Bakka. They thought the idea of a wild man in tune with nature was quaint. Of course they were mortified when they saw the real thing. Sun-on wouldn’t stop arguing with them, and one black robe couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that a man who baptized in lakes and pools all day long could smell so bad! When they saw Sun-on dip a beetle in his bag of honey and eat it while it was still alive, they ran away. Well, the black robes found Lucas, and he had to listen to their complaints. They
surrounded him and warned him about Sun-on. But Lucas said, ‘What did you come into the Deepest Vale to see? The dew on the leaves? Well-dressed Temple patrons? No, you came to see a prophet. So you have.’ ”

  “He seems genuine,” said Wodan. “Single-minded mania turns off a lot of people, but I get it. But you have a problem with him.”

  Yardalen looked up at Wodan. “He's going to kill Lucas,” she said. “They are both strong-willed. But when Lucas met Sun-on… it was like they unconsciously infected one another with an appetite for death. Sun-on with his routine of symbolic death and rebirth, and Lucas with his insights into illusion and breaking free; it was a disaster for the two to ever come together.”

  “Killed how, exactly?”

  “By forcing the hand of the Temple. Specifically, the black robes.”

  “Just a lot of scribes, aren’t' they?” said Wodan. “They seem harmless.”

  “They're not. And they're not faceless by accident. They plot endlessly in the lowest basement in the Temple, critiquing rival philosophies, daydreaming about who should die and who should be allowed to pay to live.” Yardalen looked up at Wodan once more, and locked cold blue eyes on him. “But the black robes have no power in the Deepest Vale.”

  “So Lucas and Sun-on have to leave the Deepest Vale if they want to get killed.”

  Yardalen exhaled. “Exactly.”

  Wodan thought for a moment. “Does Lucas have people close to him? Special disciples, I mean, who might-”

  “Who might pretend to care about him but ultimately want him to die as a martyr and become a god that they can control? Yes. Yes, he does.”

  “Ah,” said Wodan. “I see.”

  Wodan suddenly felt gross. Not only was it eerily similar to the belief system he had been gently indoctrinated into as a child, but it reminded him of other instances he'd seen in the wasteland – times when the good and the bright and those with high potential were sacrificed for those that needed something.