With some trepidation the king thought about Des Octilli’s proposition. He reasoned that the gods would not come to Des Octilli in the dream as shadows. He knew the dark figures were surely evil beings, trying to cause disaster, and they were sharing forbidden secrets with Des Octilli. To salve his conscience, the king did not allow Des Octilli to discuss the matter anymore but warned him not to tamper with forces he did not fully understand. The warning was weak, at best, and the priest decided to defy the king’s half-hearted orders.
Des Octilli set out for the place he had seen in his dreams and sought to bring magic back to the Atlantean people. Traveling away from the coast and into the great forests beyond, he came to the place he’d seen in his dream. Here he performed the rituals shown to him by the shadows, opening a doorway into another world, where he traveled across a desert to a mountain made of deep blue stone. With him he took special jars he had made and painted himself, just as he had been shown in the dream, for collecting chunks of magic blue rock from the mountain. Through the door he walked again, returning home carrying five large jars of magic on his back, bringing them home in secret. For many months Des Octilli had dreams. The dark shadows came to him again and again, teaching him how to use the magic. Boldly, he approached his king again, once he had confidence in his ability to use his new powers. The Atlantean king was outraged at first, but Des Octilli impressed him and the other priests. The king bestowed on Des the title of se ceri, meaning “great wisdom.” In doing so he renamed Des Octilli, from that point to be known as Des Se Ceri, the first sorcerer in the history of the world.
The day the Atlanteans left the land was the most wonderful day in their people’s history. By the thousands they transformed their bodies and left their old kingdom behind, descending to Atlantis, a fantastic city the magical shadows had created on the sea floor just off the coast from their old villages. Here they celebrated their success and the sorcerer Des Se Ceri’s discovery of the magic that allowed them to do the impossible. For a short time Atlantis was the mightiest city anywhere in the world, either on land or in the sea. Many tribes of people followed the Atlanteans into the sea, including the merfolk who would one day become the Oi’tan, led by Oi’alli. However, the day came when Des Se Ceri began to have dreams again. These new dreams were ominous and difficult to interpret, but the sorcerer teased out their meaning. With a trembling heart Des Se Ceri warned the king that in his dreams he saw the coming destruction of Atlantis. He had become convinced that if they gave up their magic and returned to the land, they could be saved. The king ignored these warnings, and Des Se Ceri could do nothing to prevent what happened next.
Atlantis was shaken by a great earthquake that tore open the sea floor. Liquid fire came up from below and crawled through the city, leaving behind snaking black trails of sharp rock. Palaces were broken in two, temples fell into abysmal lakes of liquid fire that ate holes in the city, and the people could not escape. Darkness strangled the city because in the world above, powerful storms blocked the light of the sun. The merfolk could not see. As he watched Atlantis falling, Des Se Ceri heard the voices of his gods berating him for taking magic from the forbidden world beyond. He could no longer pretend his innocence regarding the true source of the magic. Evil beings had shown him where and how to find the magic, not his benevolent gods. He had angered them, and now the Atlanteans, who had brought magic into the world, would be punished for their selfishness.
The mountain of blue rock from which Des Se Ceri had stolen magic could not be returned to the world from whence it came. The gods could not undo what the sorcerer had so recklessly done—open the door to the world they had so carefully hidden. The evil beings that had told Des Se Ceri to open the doorway had entered the land and quickly fled to hide in the darkest places of the world of mankind. Two worlds had been joined forever. In order to restore the balance of these worlds, the gods cast Atlantis out of the world of mankind, setting it in the desert where the blue rock mountain had once been. The mountain, in turn, rose up from the earth in the deep forest where Des Se Ceri had opened the forbidden doorway, closing it for good. The Atlantean people also vanished into the next world, disappearing forever.
A special punishment was reserved for Des Se Ceri, the sorcerer who had been so ungrateful as to steal magic and give it to mankind. He alone was imprisoned in Atlantis, which now sat in a great desert, empty and eternal. All of mankind lost its immortality, and now people aged, became sick and could die. Their loved ones, confused and terrified, cried and mourned when their mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, wives, husbands and friends suddenly ceased to speak, breathe and move, motionless and cold as they passed into the afterlife. People could not live without their souls, which the gods had placed inside them, making life unpredictable and fragile. The threads of every soul on earth were spun and bound to Des Se Ceri, who was given the responsibility of calling each soul to rest when its time came. For the rest of eternity, the great sorcerer would escort every soul on its journey through the first life and the second, which has come to be known as Des, or death.
“This is my prison,” said the Octopus, raising many of its arms and running its fingers along the many soul threads that suspended it in the air before Tom, like a harpist would strum their instrument. “Atlantis is forever the place through which all lives are called to end and begin. Here beneath me you see the pool of souls.”
“Souls, you say?” Tom stood and walked toward the swirling, shimmering pond of light beneath the specter, touching the thread that tied his own soul to the Octopus.
“Yes,” said the Octopus. “No child is born immortal any longer. Each is given a soul, unique from all others.”
“And you create them?” asked Tom.
“No!” The specter was emphatic. “No, these souls are not created here in the Divide. They are part of the mysteries beyond.”
“I see,” said Tom. “And the demons? There was a shadowy giant chasing souls and eating them out there…”
“That was a collector. They catch the strays, particularly the ones destined for unpleasant afterlives, swallowing them and sending them on their way.”
“If Atlantis is your prison, is it also mine?” Tom asked. “Is this eternal punishment, as I suspected?”
“You do not understand, Thomas.” The Octopus paused for a moment, its bony neck rising up as two of its arms fiddled with a particular soul thread wound up in the glimmering mesh that filled the atrium. “You have not passed into the Beyond. We are in the Divide. It is the life between lives. The souls that die and cross into the Beyond never set foot in this place. They are here for a moment so brief, they hardly know it.”
“Then why am I here? Don’t I deserve punishment for all the things I’ve done? Or have my judges not decided what they think of my deeds?” Tom asked these questions in the face of many mysteries he could not possibly have understood, even if the Octopus were allowed to reveal such truths to him. The nature of Tom’s existence did not make sense to him. He’d been delivered to neither a paradise nor an inferno, yet before him he clearly saw the real souls of all living men, women and children of the world he had left behind.
“Hell is not a place we go, Thomas, it is a feeling we carry with us,” explained the specter, pinching the threads and handling them as delicately as a tailor. “Wicked souls create their own Hell, just as good souls create their own Heaven. And your ‘judges’, as you call them, are beyond your understanding, and very far from this place. And besides, you are not traveling toward your ultimate end. I could not carry you to your destination because of laws beyond my interference. Forces, strangely enough, that I created.”
“What do you mean? Make yourself clear, specter.” Tom felt he had no control of his soul or his destiny in this place the Octopus called the Divide. He knew not what it was or what it meant, and a fear slowly rusted his iron nerves.
“The blade which you carry is called Yatagarasu. I made it with my own hands. It holds the limited power to sway the
nature of life and death. As long as you possess it, I cannot control your fate in this world or any other.” Carefully, the specter pulled at the threads and separated out a single one, which it pinched between two fingers and severed. “Ah, there,” the Octopus said, winding the broken thread around one finger, then squeezing the clump into a neat ball, which it released to the air and watched as it flew from the atrium and out of sight, wondering where it had been called to go. “Until the sword leaves your ownership, you will remain in the Divide.”
“Forever? Here?” Tom scowled and shook his head. “No, I think not. I was not finished with the life I had, and believe me, I mean to see it through.”
“Some people are special. Some souls, I believe, are crafted to be stronger,” the Octopus said. “They fight so hard and for so long. They can hide, struggle … I find them all eventually, but some of them—like yours—I cannot control. They find their way here, which is most unfortunate. I regret that even a handful of souls share a fate with me.” When the Octopus spoke of these special souls, Tom remembered the old prophet he’d spoken to on the shores of the Chthonian Sea. The old man had been wearing a small piece of genamite around his neck, and Tom realized that because of the magical properties of the genamite, the old man had cheated death but was consigned to the Divide.
“We do not choose death, Thomas. Death chooses us,” said the Octopus, speaking of itself in more than one voice this time—the ghost known as the Octopus and the sorcerer Des Se Ceri.
“Be that as it may,” Tom said through his teeth, “I am not spending eternity in this place. You said yourself that you cannot control my fate here or anywhere else. If I have the means to leave this place, I will, no matter what was meant to have happened to me. I know it is possible,” said Tom, drawing Yatagarasu from its sheath and pointing it up at the specter. “I was told that there is a doorway through which souls enter and leave this place, and if you won’t tell me where it is—”
“If I won’t tell you …” For the first time the Octopus laughed. “You will do what? Kill me?” The old eyes on its dried up head scrunched in amusement. “You can no sooner kill me than you can offend God or impress the devil.”
“Do not mock me!” Tom shouted, keeping the blade raised. “I’ll bet this weapon is good for more useful things than killing you.” Tom raised the sword, preparing to hack away the thread that connected him to the Octopus’s great weaving of souls. He hesitated, and then swung the blade. The Octopus watched calmly and quietly as the blade passed through the thread, never touching or severing it. Tom swung again and again, but to no avail.
“The blade has the power to sever a soul from my hands, but only the rightful owner of the blade has that authority. I assume you have borrowed it, since stealing it isn’t possible. Now that I see it in the hands of a mortal such as you, I must admit that creating it was a mistake. Return it to me now.” One long, dark arm reached out and held out an open hand, beckoning Tom to hand over Yatagarasu.
“There has to be a way,” muttered Tom to himself, looking at the thread, then all around the atrium. “I know there is a doorway, even if it isn’t here.” Turning around, he stormed away from the Octopus. He would be getting no answers from Death itself. Somewhere in the desert he would surely find something more, and if not, he would wander the Divide until he did.
“You should know,” the Octopus called after him, “though you may have the power to leave, as long as the blade is not returned to me, I will not allow you to enter this place again.”
“Is that so?” Tom spun around and laughed loudly. “And why would I ever want to come back to this terrible place? What’s possibly worse than being dead?” he challenged.
“Being the last one alive,” returned the Octopus quickly. It sat calmly in place, its arms slithering about in the air. “The prospect of death is not the greatest burden resting on the shoulders of the living, Thomas.”
“No? Then what is?” Tom spat out the words, cocking his head and sheathing Yatagarasu.
“Why, I am surprised that you of all souls do not know.” The old head of Des Se Ceri, resting on the neck of the Octopus’s body shook sadly and closed its eyes. “Being alone,” it said, quietly. “Without others, we are purposeless. By ourselves, how do we understand what it means to exist? How can we know happiness if we cannot share it? We cannot ponder the purpose of life if there is no one else with whom to question it. Companions are the only comforting reflections of our existence. Without them, how can we even truly believe we are living or dead, real or imaginary?”
“And what is the purpose of living, then, alone or else?” asked Tom, arms crossed.
“The purpose of life is to give purpose to life, of course.”
“Well reasoned, specter,” said Tom, turning to leave. “Now I think I will take this great wisdom and act upon it. Farewell.”
“You will not resign the blade, I see?”
“I am not finished with it, and it belongs to someone else,” Tom called over his shoulder.
“Then you will not enter this place again until you change your mind,” declared the Octopus.
“I have no reason to return.”
“Can you think of nothing? No one?” the ghost said softly, so that Tom did not hear. “You take your Molly for granted.”
Tom’s heart couldn’t have been heavier when he left the spire and the Octopus behind. Down he climbed through the great white city of Atlantis, this time taking his steps slowly and thinking to himself about his fate and what would become of him if he remained there in the Divide. The Octopus was right about everything it had said. Being alone proved itself again and again to be the worst kind of tragedy that could befall a man and Tom was a tragic man if ever there were one. As he walked through the skeletal remains of Atlantis, he counted the things he had lost: his family, the woman he loved, his life. And as he questioned these punishments—as he asked himself why he deserved the fate he had received—the only person he always came to blame was himself. Molly had once told him this, but he hadn’t listened. She had looked him in the eye and told him he created a world of misery and pain for himself because he couldn’t forgive anyone or show mercy. The Octopus had been wrong about one thing, Tom decided. Death hadn’t chosen Tom; he had chosen it for himself. Leaving Atlantis behind him, he wandered into the Chthonian Desert and walked … and walked … and walked.
When Tom realized he couldn’t remember the way back to the sea, he stopped. Climbing to the top of a high dune, he sat down in the sand to rest, feeling as though he were walking around in an hourglass. The blade on his belt rattled, and Yatagarasu leapt from its sheath, transforming into the familiar form of a magnificent wading bird. Around the dune it walked, chattering quietly to itself before finally coming to stand next to Tom, who stared off at the horizon.
“I wonder where Molly is now,” he said, talking to the bird. “I hope she isn’t angry with me.” He squinted and watched the sand blowing around. Yata shut its eyes and turned its head as the wind picked up. “I need to get back to where I was, but I need to find that door. Want to show me where it is?” he asked Yata, who ruffled its feathers and shook off the sand. “You’ve been here before, right? You must have some idea.”
Yata stood up tall, chattering and clicking its beak. In a flash, it took the form of the blade again and fell to the sand, lying still.
“That’s not entirely helpful,” Tom complained, reaching to pick up the sword. It was then that he noticed something peculiar. In the surface of the blade he could see a place he recognized, as if he were looking through a window. In fact, the place he saw was the genamite mountain from where Death had taken him. He was seeing the place he’d died. Several things occurred to him at once. He remembered the first time he’d been shown Yatagarasu by Ine, recalling the night she had used it to help him combat Decius and Macius. The faces of fallen warriors had appeared on the surface of the blade shortly before Ine called them to battle. As he remembered this, the words of the old prop
het came to mind: “Each time you take a step forward, the way back takes a step forward. Death’s Door is the way back.”
“Of course,” Tom said aloud. The way back—Death’s Door—had been with him all along. Yatagarasu was not just a sword. It was a doorway from one life to the next. How else could Ine have called the Emperor’s soldiers back to life?
With newfound hope, Tom scrambled to his feet, picking up Yatagarasu and turning it over and over in his hand, looking into the surface at the image of the mountain, where he had been just before he died.
“How does it work?” he asked the blade, thinking that surely Yata could hear and understand him. “What are the words? What kind of spell do I need?” He received no answer. “Open the door!” he yelled at the blade. “Take me back!” He waited, but nothing happened. “What do I have to do? There must be a reason why…” Tom became quiet, and then he had an idea. If dying had brought him to the Divide, perhaps dying in the Divide would take him back to the other life. With no better options and little reason to doubt his logic, Tom turned the blade around in his hands and held it out from his chest. He could hear his own loud, ragged breathing. A tingling fear ran through him, and he could feel his heart beat just before he shut his eyes, gritted his teeth and ran the blade through himself.
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 73