by Garon Whited
Nightlord
ORB
Garon Whited
Copyright © 2016 by Garon Whited.
Cover Art: “Orb” by R. Beaconsfield ([email protected])
ISBN: 978-0-692-71770-7
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Other Books by Garon Whited:
LUNA
Nightlord, Book One: Sunset
Nightlord, Book Two: Shadows
Short Stories:
An Arabian Night: Nazin’s Dream
Clockwork
Dragonhunt
Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel. Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are.
— Niccolò Machiavelli
Prologue
Why am I telling you this?
Because someone should know, and I don’t count.
The story of me is scattered among all the people I have ever known. No, it is scattered among all who have ever known me. None of these are all the truth. They are guesses, estimations, opinions, and lies—and many of the lies are mine.
I lie about as much as anyone, I suppose, but I am especially talented at the lies I tell myself. If you have paid attention, you have doubtless seen many examples.
Yet, buried in the lies I tell—thinking them facts—perhaps there are some fragments, some shards of that most elusive of all treasures, the Truth. Enough, perhaps, for a clever mind to sift them from the dross of my thoughts and assemble them, piecewise, into something that might pass for objective reality. But only if the lights are kept dim and no one tries to touch it.
Is the truth whatever we believe? In a limited sense, belief can define truth.
What I believe may also be discovered, although any relationship to truth is questionable. I have a nasty habit of being wrong.
As for any other bits of broken truth, shattered dream, gems of wisdom, or worthless drivel you may find, please remember that, for whatever reason, some force in your universe chose you to be the reader of this diary. You were selected to be a home for the memories that make up who I am. If I am gone, you are the place where I may yet remain, living on in your thoughts and feelings. I hope I am not too inconvenient a guest.
I often wonder about immortality. It has been said a person lives for as long as a memory remains. In a blind, mechanistic, uncaring universe, we live only as long as someone remembers us. But I have seen universes that seem to live and breathe with a strange sort of vitality—neither blind nor uncaring. There, every soul is as immortal as the world itself, for such a world remembers even when men forget.
Undead or no, I find that oddly comforting. Something will remember me even after my inevitable demise. After all, everything must end. Even a story.
Although… perhaps not today.
Basement
It feels weird to be inside my own head like this. I—if I may use the pronoun—“I” feel weird. I feel disjointed, dissociated, fragmented… as though I am a puzzle, trying to assemble myself. There are pieces missing and no box top to guide me. I know who I am and how I got here, but there’s something more, somewhere, and I’m not sure what it is.
It’s hard to concentrate on abstract concepts when I’ve got running to do.
On the other hand, I’ve given a lot of thought to the word, “basement.” “Base,” as in the foundation, and “ment,” as in “mental.” The mental foundation. The foundation of the mind. That is obviously not the real derivation of the world, but it’s oddly appropriate at the moment.
Mine’s full of garbage and unpleasant Things. I should know. I’m stuck down here.
Lopsided and gutted buildings give the landscape a drunken look as they lean at odd, uncertain angles. They seem distorted, somehow, making perspective a subjective thing and given to rapid, unpredictable changes. Small fires burn fitfully, throwing patches of light and shadow into dancing alleys of not-quite-there surreality. Smells of smoke and decay drift through the darkness like ghosts of old memories drawn from under houses and forgotten cellars. Bits of broken things—lost toys, old cars, fractured dreams—litter the cracked and sunken streets. A stream of something dark and acrid slops, gutter-like, down the middle of a ruined street. The occasional ripples have nothing to do with anything on the surface.
I like my study much better. This place is a nightmare.
Yes. A nightmare. How apt. Where else do nightmares come from, if not from this rusted, blasted place, a rotted slice of lukewarm Hell?
Of course, no Hell is complete without the damned. I’ve seen little things emerge from cracks and crevices, some as small as scuttling beetles, some as large as rats. They come out by the hundreds, perhaps by the thousands, wherever I pass, following me, licking at the bloody prints of my bare and bloodied feet.
I don’t dare glance back. I can hear the skittering and pattering of tiny feet and tiny claws, sometimes hear the lapping and slurping as they lick at my bloody footprints. That is more than sufficient. I don’t want to see them.
I don’t want to see the ghostly, nebulous figure of an unborn baby boy, either. But it’s there, hauntingly present, always behind me, following me like a balloon. Sometimes I can lose it, temporarily, but it always finds its way to me. Whenever I think I’ve lost it for good, it floats up behind me and makes a gurgling wail, a skin-crawling, nerve-wracking sound, and attracts scuttling things.
Other apparitions actively chase me as I run naked through the ruins. There’s a man, for example. He’s a little taller than me, a little more broad-shouldered. He looks like me, but with a more chiseled jaw, and eyes that flash with charm and humor. He’s immaculate. He smiles at me, always understanding how I’ve failed to live up to my potential. He’s perfect—so perfect, he magnanimously forgives me for being a failure by comparison. And yet, he won’t leave me alone, either
Another problematic figure is the fiery lady. A giant made of bloody flames, she laughs as she stomps after me, leaving footprints full of sullen, greasy fire. She carries the remains of a child in her left hand and occasionally pulls pieces from the charred corpse to eat them, crunchingly. She’s not fast; she can’t catch me. She shows up unexpectedly, like an incendiary bomb, and always when I least expect it. Then I have to run from her as fast as I can. She’s too powerful to face.
And then there are the harpies, swooping down whenever they find me, defecating and shrieking. Their bodies and faces are familiar, but twisted—cruel, angry, evil versions of the women I love. They dive at me, screaming epithets, accusations, remonstrations, blame. Sasha screams about how I am unworthy; Shada demands to know why I didn’t save her; Tort always shrieks the question of why couldn’t I love her. As they dive, sometimes one or another will swipe at me with slimy talons, forcing me to duck, driving me to the ground.
I am filthy, covered in the muck and grime of a lifetime of regrets, anxieties, fears… What are the deadly sins? Avaritia, gula, ira, invidia, superbia, vanagloria… have I forgotten some? Surely I have. But whether I remember their names or not, they’re here. Oh, yes; they lurk around every corner, spring forth from every shadow, and wear my most terrible memories like masks made from the skins of corpses.
Nothing will let me sleep. Even when I slip down narrow alleys, shake whatever pursues me at the moment, endure th
e burning of the foul waters on my bloodied feet, and leave no tracks to a hiding-place, I can only rest. There is no sleep in nightmare.
Then something finds me again and I run. It’s hard to stay hidden for long. Some of the things in the depths of my mind never come out into the light. They lurk in the darkness inside gutted buildings, scrabble in the deeper shade between a wall and a leaning billboard. And they watch. Always, they watch, with eyes that reflect the guttering fires with a sickly, yellow gleam.
Freud was wrong. Perhaps he would say I am a dethroned Superego trapped in a dream of the Ego and the Id. It’s not that simple. If there were only three of us, I might reach some sort of accommodation, some sort of balance or agreement. I have a million adversaries hunting me and haunting me, all spread through the landscape of my forgotten unconscious, all wanting to punish me for creating them, or for allowing them to be created.
Perhaps I’m the one who’s wrong. Maybe they want more time, a greater sense of self and self-control, of independence. I don’t know. They may be parts of my mind, pieces of me and my thoughts—those little voices that urge me to do or think things I choose not to do. If so, I still don’t understand them.
“Know thyself” has taken on a whole new meaning.
Got to run; my demons are catching up to me.
Basement Two
Here’s a thought. Am I running for my life? Or am I running for my sanity? Or am I already insane?
Goodness, but I ask tough questions.
If I’m mad, what am I running for? If I’m sane, I certainly know what I’m running from.
Wait. Back up. If I’m sane, what am I running from? A sane man, almost by definition, understands his own mental problems and overcomes them. Well, maybe he doesn’t understand them, but he’s aware of them and deals with them. I mean, I know I’m a self-centered, insecure, self-righteous jerk. I have problems with expressing how I feel and I tend to be somewhat reactionary. I also have a badly distorted self-image, which pretty much assures that I don’t know what I’m talking about when I talk about myself. There’s a nice paradox. There are a hundred other things which might be regarded as part and parcel of a deeply flawed character, none of which I care to address. How many have you got?
Is that my trouble? Is running through the darkened wastelands of my mind a metaphor for denial? Ask me again when I feel like facing my fears.
Another question. How long can I keep running? If I am avoiding facing my darker aspects—a not-unreasonable course, I think, if the Black Copy is still empowering them—how long will that work? And am I getting anything out of it?
I suspect my darker self isn’t paying me much attention. The trapdoor hasn’t opened, at least not that I’ve noticed. The original mob that seized me and dragged me down dispersed once the door slammed shut. I don’t know if that cut off his influence or if he lost interest, and that’s a serious point in any plans I might make.
Besides, there are other things demanding his attention. He’s got an immortal body to play with and a kingdom to rule.
And Tort.
And Amber.
And Tianna.
Suddenly, I’m in a hurry. I have to do something about this besides bide my time. My granddaughter—and a lot of other people, yes, fine; she’s the one who inspired my sudden hurry—is out there in the world and thinks I’m still driving my body. That thing is driving my body around and nobody knows it! He’s all the things that make me a monster, but amplified and with all restraint removed.
I don’t want him anywhere near anybody I love.
I have to get out of here.
No, I put that badly.
I’m getting out of here.
Basement, Too
Ever tried to break out of the basement of your subconscious mind? It’s not easy. I wonder if coma patients ever go through this sort of thing.
I’ve been scavenging a bit among the trash and litter of the city landscape. Some wire and some remnants of old tires make pretty good sandals; my feet feel better about running, at least. I’ve also found a few bits of metal—a length of rusty pipe and a jagged bit of something. I used a broken piece of concrete to scrape the jagged metal into a serviceable shiv. Nothing to wear, yet, but I keep hoping to find something—an old trash bag would do. I don’t like running around naked, not even in my imagination.
I’m doing less running and more searching. This is the junkpile of my mind, presumably the place everything goes when I stop paying attention to it. Somewhere down here are bright things, good things. There have to be. Didn’t I call up a butler? A teacher? A warrior spirit? There have to be more aspects to my personality than the dark and terrible things pursuing me.
Don’t there?
Are they buried under masses of evil thoughts and ugly feelings, unable to join with me? Or are they already part of me? Could I be the sole representation of all the good pieces of my self? I certainly don’t feel like everything good, noble, and righteous. If this is all I have in the way of decent bits, it does not encourage me to think of myself as a good person.
I keep searching. Occasionally, I crush smaller things if they get too close. If it fits under a foot and sniffs around in range, I stomp it into the ground. Interestingly, these things crush like a sand sculpture. They resist being crushed, at first, then crunch underfoot. The bodies turn to powder and blow away. I’m not sure if that means they’re insignificant, utterly annihilated, or simply re-forming elsewhere.
Here’s another thought. If I’m facing my mental demons—admittedly, tiny ones—and occasionally crushing one into nonexistence, does this count as psychotherapy? Maybe I am crazy, and fighting my inner demons is how I get more sane—by asserting my conscious dominance over my subconscious fears and baser urges. Or, maybe I’m destroying pieces of my mind and going crazy.
Is there a psychiatric doctor in the house?
Basement, Still
Today I found an unusual structure.
Wait, back up again. When I say, “today,” I mean I found it recently. I have no idea how long I’ve been running, scavenging, searching, and intermittently slaying. I can’t regard the progress of time by the days; there are no days, only darkness. I can’t even count days by the times I sleep; I don’t sleep here, even when I try. For all I know, this whole experience is only an instant out in the physical world. By the same token, my personal psychodrama could be dragging on slowly while centuries pass.
So let’s just say I found an unusual structure.
The thing is a giant head. It puts me in mind of a Greek statue of Hercules I once saw in a museum, only this one is huge, masonry, and buried up to the jaw. Fitted stones interlock to form the thing, and what I can see of it is about forty feet tall. There was no door to be found, but I managed to climb up and wiggle in through an ear. The entire space was empty, hollow; I’m still not sure what holds it all together. Far up, the holes of the eyes are like windows, letting in a faint trace of light from one of the trash-fires outside. I had the place to myself.
For the first time in forever, I had someplace to sit down and really rest. I did. It was really quite nice. I don’t recall the last time I enjoyed sitting down so much.
Naturally, this acted like a magnet on everything unpleasant. Or like a dinner bell.
I felt a bit rested when the first of them showed up. They were mostly small things, like mutated crabs and scorpions. They scrambled in through the ears, two, three, four at a time. I got to my feet and started stomping; it was either that or try climbing to the eyes, and the flapping sounds outside told me the harpies were back. There was also the crimson light of fiery hatred shining in through the eyes; she has her uses, I suppose.
The problem with a space with limited entrances is the limited exits. Anything hard to get into is hard to get out of. Point for future reference. You’d think I’d know better than to try and maintain a fixed address by now. All it does is let everything know where to find me.
Things crunched under my tire-sandal
s as I danced around—sort of a cross between ballet and clog-dancing. I made sure stomping anything with a stinger was a priority; I didn’t want to crush something and get stung by a neighbor. That helped, but I still had to whack a couple of crablike things with the pipe to dislodge them from my toes. That hurt, but it was better than letting them stay.
How many? I don’t know. A few hundred? A thousand, maybe? I was busy doing the Panicked Pogo Stick Stomp and I didn’t keep count.
Finally, when I settled down again, I evaluated at the carnage. Black powder was everywhere, slowly sinking into the floor and vanishing. I wondered what it meant.
Then a harpy dive-bombed one of the eye openings and sent in a shit-missile. It splattered everywhere and I could hear the raucous laughter outside.
Wrath—Ira—is one of the sins. I remember that. At that moment, though, I didn’t much care.
I wriggled out through an ear and stood there, eyeballing the circling flock of foul-smelling things. The distorted faces of women I have cared about sneered and screeched at me. The one with Tort’s face dove at me, talons out.
That’s not Tort, I realized. That’s some monster that’s using her face—that dares to use her face.
Instead of ducking, I dealt that face a two-handed blow with my length of pipe. The harpy came to an abrupt halt in mid-swoop and fell to the ground, stunned. I hit it again, cracking the skull, before I stepped on its throat and put my makeshift knife into its left eye.
It shuddered and quit, crumbling to a fine, black powder.
Everything else scattered. The flaming figure went out; the handsome man faded back into the shadows, and the other harpies screamed and shrieked as they flapped away, shedding greasy feathers. I watched them go, wondering.