The Tankar Dawn

by Walt Popester

  Mumakil shook his head. “The cancer,” he said. “And you’ve seen proof enough of that. Humans believe their eyes are open when in fact they sleep, and sometimes it’s hard to say which dreams are more fictional, the ones with their eyes closed or the ones they create when they’re awake. They think themselves stand-alone creatures when in truth they’re part of the one being populating the world. You must get into its web if you want to gain control over it. You must be like Hanoi.”

  Dagger sat on a big fossilized shell. “You mean sticking my white appendages everywhere?”

  The black man cut short on his irony. “You can’t use half measures when you fight your demons. The Disciples know how to use time control and even Crowley—that little pissant—could do that thanks to the Armor.”

  “I should have never told you that.”

  “But you did. Now I can hold against you that you’ve been weaker than him, the shell of a man preserved for a thousand ages.”

  Dag pulled the sword from the scabbard on his back, staring once again at his distorted reflection in Solitude. A wrinkle furrowed his right cheek, where there had never been any.

  “If you can’t stop a bird, how do you expect to stop a Tankar armed to his teeth?”

  Dag rolled Solitude in his hand. That was some sort of answer.

  “Are you sure that’s your strong point?”

  “Which one?” Dag asked. He wasn’t surprised by the response of his master—he parried the thrust and counterattacked, pushing back the black man. Yet his opponent had already experienced death and couldn’t fear it. With a series of exasperating fakes, Mumakil penetrated his guard, grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the wall of a house. He shifted his weight on Dagger and tightened his grip, as the white cloud of debris settled to the ground.

  Now. I need you.

  Everything stopped.

  As the boundary between reality and perception came undone, Dagger felt his rage and accepted it. He saw the indomitable beast beyond the bars get closer and closer, his bloody fangs bigger and bigger.

  He heard the shadows clinging to the roof of the cosmic mind warn him as they looked down. They accused him. “You can’t. You won’t. You can’t! YOU WON’T!”

  The beast roared. Anger exploded inside him, branching out and taking control. He heard an animal thought, “I am the answer you need, the dream when you sleep and you don’t want to wake up. I am the plan that won’t fail, the crime without trace, and I only need you. You! YOU!”

  The doors flew open.

  Shaken by a sinister mortal beat, the black roots sprang from Dagger’s body and pulsed in unison, forming an impenetrable cage around Mumakil which tightened and suffocated him.

  Dag saw the black aura emanated by his body. He brought a hand under his eyes—it was the clawed paw of a jackal.

  The black man succeeded in putting one arm out of his existential prison and cried. The white roots of Hanoi sprang up all around and pierced Dagger’s chest, pushing the dog back into his cage.

  Everything came undone as they both fell to the ground.

  Damn, you crab! Whose side are you on?

  Mumakil put a hand to his throat and breathed again, but slowly and with fatigue. “Admirable,” he managed to say after a long pause. There was no trace of mockery in his voice now.

  Dagger got up and sheathed his sword on his back, where his muscles seemed carved one by one. His skin slowly got back from black to white and the minute silver writings returned in the emptiness inside, from which they had been born.

  The Pendracon came forward and pushed him down. “You can’t do that!”

  Dag watched him in silence, then snarled, “You’re the one who taught me how to free him!”

  “Not now, damn you! That’s the most dangerous power, Dag, and it should be used sparingly, not at every opportunity!”

  The boy looked at him. “What’s the limit?”

  “Limit? There’s no limit, not with him. He’s been forced to a long lethargy, but he could wake up any moment if he’s continuously solicited. A one way street was taken that night at the Fortress.”

  Dagger lowered his eyes as he remembered that night at the Fortress—the three-third of Ktisis, of Kam Konkra, high above everything. With a motion of his arm he had sliced Tankars, Gorgors and Guardians alike. That emptiness he couldn’t accept had sowed death and destruction.

  Then, without desiring it, he remembered his friends, who had pulled him out of the rubble and watched over his unconscious body while he was harmless. What would happen now? There’s no one here, only the desert I created around myself.

  An ancient memory tried to take over. Another desert, far broader, more solitary, of which he had been the architect.

  He put his hands to his head and clasped his lips to keep from screaming. Since he crossed the cursed arch inside him, his memories were getting more and more violent every day.

  Was it Skyrgal’s blood to curb them? That beast was not him, no matter if it was his nature.

  Even if he couldn’t read the torment in his head, Mumakil could read that on his face. “One day he may decide not to get back in the cage.”

  “I will keep it at bay. He is the host, not me.”

  “No, he’s not. This is not a story of demons living inside humans and coming out at the right time, Dag. There’s no place for demons when you’re possessed by yourself. You are Konkra, always remember that. Do you think you have control of it just because it’s your heart?”

  “Aren’t you worrying about me? In all these years you missed a little company, and now that you’ve found it—”

  Mumakil brought his hand on the boy’s face in a flash, slapping him. “Use the rest, damn it. You don’t need the power of Konkra. Lower enemies, lower powers. Don’t run when you can walk.”

  “Never wound a foe when you can kill him.”

  Mumakil tilted his head sideways. “Nice bullshit. Where did you hear that?”

  “Around.”

  “Now there’s the cursed Hanoi to stop you. There’s something in his nature that opposes itself to the Void. But what will you do out there, where no one will save you from yourself?”

  Dag shrugged. “Then why did you teach me to free him?”

  “Because the power of Konkra might be the only one which will allow you, one day, to face the source of all your disgraces.” The black man sat and spat a viscous blood clot. “Using that power to disarm your old teacher in training is a risk almost as stupid as you.”

  Dagger looked at him, guilty. He sat at his master’s side on one of the calcified fragments around them—what was left of the house collapsed moments ago under the blows of their training.

  “You’re a raging river, boy. You’ve always been. You must control yourself or the beast will lead you straight to your ruin. It’s always been like that, didn’t the story of Crowley teach you anything?”

  “Yes,” Dag answered. “Telling you his story was really a bad idea.” He pointed his sword to the ground, holding it tightly in his hands. He looked at himself in the shining blade, studying the wrinkle on his right cheek. I’m going through changes.

  “What do you see in that distorted mirror?”

  Dagger watched his own yellow and tearless eyes. “There’s a shadow hunting for me, his presence is growing increasingly threatening. I think it’s me, or what I’ll become soon.” He stroked the blade. Mumakil circled his shoulder, but Dag freed himself. “Whether you are dead or alive, I won’t fill any gap in your life. I’ve already lived that experience. It’s no good for anyone to chase ghosts. Maybe not even for the ghosts.”

  The black man shook his head, deep in his thoughts. “You couldn’t save Olem from himself, stop tormenting your conscience.”

  “You know a bit too much.”

  Apatridus turned to Dagger and stared at him in silence. It seemed offended.

  “My faithful companion has watched over you for most of the journey that brought you here,” said the black
man. “But you were too busy to see that.”

  “Oh. There were so many that at one point I stopped counting them—those of the Sanctuary, the Disciples’ ones and apparently even your mean bird.”

  “Hey, show some respect for my Cruachan.”

  Dagger suddenly turned to Apatridus. Of course, he thought. The wingspan, the look in his eyes…“That’s where I’ve already seen one!”

  “The ones you saw where a little blacker, I suppose.” Mumakil grinned. “Those poor creatures were changed by the Red Dawn. Something of that cursed god has penetrated them, too. Apatridus…it’s been out of trouble, so to speak. We went out of the crab together when Angra freed me. It proved a faithful servant and an infallible spy.”

  I stopped believing in the goodness of the gifts rained down from the sky. “I wish I could talk to it myself.”

  “Oh, I can see you. The bird whisperer.”

  “Hey, that’s my joke!” When he exchanged glances with himself reflected in the mirror, Dagger was not in the joking mood anymore.

  * * * * *

  If the training repetitive rituals warded away the pain, the end of the day always found him helpless when Mumakil retired in the crab’s belly. Sometimes at sunset—just like that evening—Dagger sat on the ledge of the carapace to watch the desert pass slowly and inexorably beneath him.

  When the red sun gave way to the moons, Dagger felt miserable. He wished someone, anyone, even Warren, was there with him. He had not often been alone like this, and he didn’t like it. When he was alone he began to think, and these days his thoughts were unpleasant. Like the adults, he was falling into the habit of thinking of the past, and the dead.

  He had no news from the world beyond his narrow and precarious horizon in motion. What had happened to Warren, Aeternus and Araya?

  And Kugar…Did she laugh and joke with the Nehamas and the Hammer Guardians, or at night, maybe even that night, did she raise her eyes to the sky and look for some light that could quell her uneasiness?

  Her doubts tore her just like me, pushing her toward an irrational choice. Dag sighed. Is it really lost, all that love? He had offered his uncovered side to her and she had slid her long Tankar claws in it. He had to forget her. He had to think about himself and the ghosts populating his already crowded future.

  As it often happened, small Tankar settlements appeared among the ruins, composed of tents arranged in a circle. Yukas, Mumakil had explained one day; leather tents which could accommodate forty individuals at a time. They could be disassembled and reassembled fast, the perfect homes for a nomad and warrior people.

  Then there were the skeletons of the giant crabs, similar to Hanoi albeit smaller, lying in the heart of the stifling nothingness. The exoskeletons of some had collapsed showing the articulated remains inside them, their sharp prominences in the copper light of the moons. Others appeared to have once been inhabited, a bit like the one where he was, if not for the fact that those were still.

  Hanoi didn’t seem to care about them, as he stubbornly went on his way. Ruins, ruins and more ruins. Soon a suspicion became a certainty—they were moving along the bed of a dry river. Further south, the ancient buildings of Adramelech erected all along its forgotten banks had hidden it, but as they moved northward the ghost suburbs of the city vanished in the uniform dust, and the boundaries excavated by the ancient watercourse emerged. The banks were approaching each passing hour, becoming higher and higher, and soon Dagger experienced again the unpleasant feeling of being in a funnel-shaped corridor, like in his recent vision.

  He stroked the crab again.

  Hey? he called him. He did that often, but it seemed Hanoi communicated with him only when the barriers of reason gave way and they were put in connection by the dream. They were bonded, yet still so far apart.

  He stood up and turned to the high white limestone wall on which he had spent his entire afternoon.

  He stretched out his arm. “AH!” Arabesques of swollen veins arose under his skin, springing from his fingers in a thousand black ramifications. They hit against the wall but barely scratched it, bouncing powerless on its hard surface.

  It was becoming frustrating.

  The shadow of Mumakil appeared at his side. “You’re pulling, this is still your mistake,” he said. “When you feel pain, go all the way through. That could be a barrier in your life, or anything.”

  Dagger turned around. “No little philosophy, please.”

  “Alright,” his teacher answered. “Punch harder. Look beyond. Dream again.”

  Dagger tried and tried again. He raised a cloud of dust but didn’t open any breach in the white, insurmountable wall in front of him.

  He fell to his knees and clutched his right wrist in the other hand.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then shake away the pain and start all over again.”

  Dagger tried again. The ramifications did nothing but brush the unbeatable target. The wall gloated him with useless candid tears when it saw him again on his knees holding his red hand.

  “I don’t know if you’re facing fear, or the feeling that you may not make it,” Mumakil said. “We all face that. When you hit resistance, you want to stop, right? Because it’s hurting and you feel pain. Failure. Failure is unbearable, but that’s just the moment when you must dig deeper, hit harder. AH!” He stretched his arm toward one of the houses, which imploded on itself as if it were made of paper. There was no satisfaction on the black man’s face when he knelt at his side. “You see, Baomani…” He closed his eyes, realizing his misstep.

  Dagger smiled. “I’ve already said that I won’t fill any gap in your life. I’m not your son.”

  “I just want you to be ready,” Mumakil answered. “Those who would like to be in your place will rub in your face that you’re not up to the power of Konkra. Those who despise you will be afraid of what you represent. Even those who loved you held a barrier to their defense, before they convinced themselves that betraying you was the most rational choice.”

  Dagger realized he had clenched his fists, and relaxed his fingers.

  “You’re alone against all. You’re alone with your goal, which is known to you and you alone. But it’s when it hurts that you must hit harder.”

  Dag nodded and was again on his feet. Two blue moons filled his mind when he tried again. It can’t be over like that, he didn’t even feel pain this time. It can’t! The wall exploded in a burst of debris.

  He turned with a smile, but the black man didn’t return his enthusiasm.

  In the following days Mumakil appeared increasingly disheartened, as if his expected results were still far off, despite the efforts of both.

  One night he looked into his eyes. “Dag. Listen.”

  These words have never preceded anything good, Dagger thought as he sat next to his teacher.

  “I think I know where we’re going.” Mumakil turned his stick in the hard carapace, as if to break it. “We’ve almost reached the place where Hanoi has been evoked and then locked in the crab. He means to erase all traces of the presence of your father in this world, and apparently he wants to start with the nearest one. Or maybe the one he hates the most.”

  “And what am I supposed to do, stop him?” Dagger couldn’t interpret the subtle smirk on his master’s face.

  “Your father might know what happened…before,” the black man answered. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it these days. And especially these nights. From your dreams we’ll never deduce your real memory, the divine one, which we’re all looking for. Those are just confusing visions where your human component takes over.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  Mumakil spun his stick so fast that Dagger perceived its motion only when it hit his hands. STAK!

  “Hey!”

  “Hanoi knows that. Truth is not made to get into simple mechanisms, you should have understood that by now.”

  “So where are we going exactly?”

  Mum
akil stopped spinning his stick around.

  “If you know something, you should talk.”

  “Dag. You’ll have to be careful there. Those won’t be just dreams. The same fear that now prevents you from knocking down a wall will drag you to the bottom with it, if you allow it. The three arches are much less metaphorical than you might think. And especially what lies beyond.”

  The three arches…“Here, everything is much less metaphorical than I may think.”

  The stick rolled again, but Dagger moved away in time.

  Only then did he see it rise, far into the riverbed. Against the darkness of the approaching night, the last light of the day danced on the surface of a huge metal arch. Three times wider than its height, it sprang from the sterile desert and was too large to have been erected by mortals.

  It looked like a metal rainbow.

  You old son of a bitch. “Ktisis shit.” Dagger looked at Mumakil again. “Ktisis—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I understand the concept.” Despite his efforts, the black man had to be a lot more nervous than he wanted Dagger to see. His fingers gripped his stick with such strength that it seemed a matter of instants before he could break the back of Hanoi.

  Dag watched the strange structure more carefully. Amorphis, he thought. A single amorphis block, the iridescent metal which composed Olem’s armor.

  “For men, time is a river,” his master said. “They always move from past to present, trapped in its flow, always in the same direction. They live in an eternal moment suspended between the mists of memories and the shadowy sea that is all they know of the days to come. For a god it’s different, and finally now you have a chance to be like them. Before you is the first seal that separates you from the eternal prairies of being. One of the three Gates.”

  Dag was silent. “A simple explanation would have sufficed,” he said. “The eternal prairies of being. How simple you make it.”

  “Hanoi has his own way to help us, I warned you. The nature of such an atrocity is the last thing you want to know, but now you get to do it. There will be time and a way to go up this river.”