Apotheosis: Stories of Human Survival After the Rise of the Elder Gods

by Jonathan Woodrow

  The couple cleaned up the dishes, the playful splashes of water becoming passionate kisses. They made love on the kitchen counter. After, Lindsay lay her head on Mary’s shoulder, out-of-breath, her cheeks and breasts flushed pink from their efforts.

  “Thank you so much, for everything you do to take care of everyone.”

  Mary buried her head in her wife’s sun-bleached hair, using it to hide her tears.

  * * * *

  “I don’t think anybody understands me.” The patient huddled inside her jacket, trying to disappear in the extra folds of fabric. Mary looked up from her notes, from her drawings of terrified eyes and hungry maws.

  “Why do you feel that way?” she asked, clinically.

  The patient shrugged and looked out the window. The pupils of her eyes dilated, only for a millisecond, but Mary took note of it. Something slipped outside of the window and the patient had seen it. The woman spoke distantly, saying the words without any conviction, “I… sometimes… things don’t make sense. It all seems like I should be happy, there’s no reason to be unhappy, but I am. I don’t feel real. I feel like none of this real.”

  The woman flicked her eyes to the burnt corner of Mary’s desk. The doctor’s composure held as she ran through the canned responses she learned in training. “That happens frequently with your syndrome. It’s disordered thinking on your part. I can up the dosage on your medication, and it should help center you. I think 300 MG twice a…”

  “You’re full of shit. You know that? I can see you drifting off, watching when some part of them breaks through. The reflection of them. I can see it in your eyes, doctor. What’s really happening?”

  Mary shook her head, and a desperate bark of laughter escaped. The patient saw only bits and pieces of it. She couldn’t have wrapped her mind around the reality that constantly shimmered, like heat coming off asphalt. She couldn’t hear the screaming that broke through when Mary took a sip of her coffee, couldn’t feel the hands that slithered up her legs while she showered, and couldn’t smell the dead fish smell when Mary only meant to take whiff of flowers. If she knew anything worth knowing, she wouldn’t have come to her appointment, would have swallowed her madness down like a diabetic sneaking sweets, and she would have smiled beautifully and responded glitter-bright when anyone commented on the weather. The woman took a glimpse, and made from it a fairy tale. Even her worst assumptions were sweeter than the truth.

  “Please. Stop. You’re ill. Let me help you. We’ll adjust your medication, and everything will be right as rain.”

  “I’M NOT SICK!” The patient leapt forward, slamming both hands on top of Mary’s desk with such force that it rattled her coffee cup. Mary pushed herself back in surprise, out of the reach of the angry woman.

  “Please. You must understand these thoughts. They’re delusions. You’re imagining things. That’s what’s happening to you. You’re having a break, but we can handle this.” Mary pleaded, putting all of the right suggestions in the right places. The woman’s upper lip twisted up, as she fought with the words that separated mental illness from clear perception. She closed her fist, again hitting the desk. Mary’s pen rolled on the floor. The picture frames fell and the glass cracked within the frames.

  “I’m not. You know I’m not.” She sunk down until Mary could only see the top of her head, bobbing with sobs as the woman kept asking herself why.

  Mary received her medical training in the military, and sharpened her resolve with quick decisions on the field as to whether someone was worth saving. She was on the team that discovered the first artifact. She was the one who cut down the rest of her colleagues when they started screeching into the night, gouging out their eyes, and pulling off their ears in gobs of cartilage and flesh.

  They appreciated her ruthlessness and clear thinking under duress, spinning it into what could be imagined was a job offer, rather than the forced term of service revealed to be reality. She believed them, believed her experiences trying to piece together someone blown into five different chunks by a land mine was preparation enough for anything they could throw at her. It meant survival, and she wore that survival like an armor when reality split off a dozen times and They started slaughtering anyone who would not be controlled, who would not be deceived, and who would not serve. She would maintain peace and keep the calm. She would live. Her family would live.

  Even when the fragmented parts of time and space were brought close together again, when all five of her senses told her the truth, her belief that survival would serve her better, autonomy drove her. She understood she was a slave, that everyone who had sold themselves to Them was chained to their threats of how much more could happen, to their spouses, to their children, to their mothers, and to their friends. The first time the crafted reality slipped, she almost tripped into a pit full of teeth as it opened before her, endlessly chewing at the limbs and faces of people who were still living. The second time, she drowned repeatedly, each time slimy hands pulling her out of the water, and pressing their rotting, spongy lips to hers, forcing dank air into her lungs to revive her. Thousands of cracks where They broke through—some great, and others small—were the price she paid, believing it a small cost to shoulder on the behalf of making sure she wasn’t crushed between the teeth of their vast hunger.

  Mary edged around the desk, kneeling before the woman who was curled up tightly around her knees. She always understood there was no escaping, no righteous tearing up of contracts or paperwork, and then storming out of the office. She still wanted to curl up beside the woman, taking what little understanding she could give her, whispering their horrors so they instead became girlish secrets. The remnants of her bravery and hope pulled at her soul, this woman’s brief view a reminder that They could not quiet all voices or smother every breath of defiance.

  Mary leaned closer, and the woman kicked at her. She fell back onto her heels, hitting the bookshelf with her right elbow. One of Lindsay’s paintings—another cottage, another garden— cracked her across the temple as it fell from the top shelf. She let out a loud curse, clutching the side of her head.

  “Why are you doing this?” The woman asked, never looking up. Mary picked up the painting—unobtrusive and pretty—created by someone who understood nothing of difficulty, of suffering. The blue skies and white, fluffy clouds were brought into existence by hands that had never turned a gun on another human being and had never scrubbed off slimy decomposition after brushing by a coworker. Her wife only knew Their world through the safety of her dreams, as close as she could come without being consumed. Those secrets belonged to Mary. The weight of the knowledge could not be lessened or shared, only protected.

  “Because I have to.” She reached out, and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  They gave her no real power, but they had little concern for what others ripped from the power-charged veils around them. She could share her memories and what she lived through. She conveyed it in the touch. All the madness and agonies of war, both hers and theirs, pressed into the flesh of someone who would not be controlled in any other way.

  The woman writhed under Mary’s hand, screeching out like a dying bird within the clutches of a hawk. Her words contorted, stretched over the scream so they were non-recognizable, but Mary knew that she asked her why. Always why, as though it could soothe the agony. The woman’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she lost control as her limbs and torso began jerking wildly in a seizure. Mary pulled the patient closer, cradling her as though calming a child.

  “Shhhhh…” She whispered, the woman’s tics shaking Mary as though to remove her arms from their socket. Mary hummed “Ring Around the Rosy” and gently kissed the woman’s forehead.

  The door burst open. Orderlies rushed in, breaking Mary’s embrace, and shoving her aside. They lifted the convulsing patient, carrying her out by her elbows while the woman continued to thrash ferociously in the air between the two men.

  Mary came to her knees, brushed herself off, and l
owered her head. She took several deep breaths, willing the beats of her heart to slow into normal rhythm instead of pounding in her chest.

  Dr. Fisher’s shadow crawled over her, singing the hairs on her arm. She didn’t wince. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Fantastic job, Dr. Ambrose. Glad to see you’re back to fighting form. Lunch is on me.”

  What Songs We Sing

  by L. K. Whyte

  I like to visit the dead.

  Here, it is always quiet. The dead are old and peaceful, and they sing no songs. Some nights I slip out of the shanty and wander among the stones and the trees and the grass as crows watch me from too-wise eyes, and I wonder if they know what the dead remember. I trace the strange runes of their stones with trembling fingers and imagine what they might say, what secrets they keep through their long nights.

  This night, the moon was high and red and I was alone, listening to the rustling of the trees. Alone in the quiet, I thought of Isana, eyes as green as tree-needles, lips as soft as moth-wings. Beautiful in every curve and sway.

  I remembered the sight of Isana’s blood, mere hours ago, bright in the waning light. Death begets life; her child, safely delivered, was even now in the creche, listening to the nurselings croon the Great Songs he would one day sing as he danced the Ecstatica for the glory and feeding of Those Above and Below. So things have been since the Return, twenty generations ago. Yet I was here, surrounding myself with death and silence and sanity while the shanty slept, secure in the soft grasp of madness. I was weeping and did not know why.

  Motion in the silence drew me from my musings. No one else came here, not the denizens of the shanty, not the beasts of field and fold. Only me, and the crows, and, that sweet once, Isana.

  Movement, again; a flashing glint, hard in the soft red light. I rose to a crouch, careful to be silent. This place was not forbidden, exactly, but some things simply are not done. I have spent enough time in isolation this year already.

  The safe course would be to flee, quick and silent, back to the shanty. But safety is not the only thing in this world or I would not have been here, alone, at night. Instead, I crept closer to the metallic glimmer. I wanted to know who, or what, had dared come here. In any other place, I would wonder if I was creeping up on a servant – one of the Mi-Goh, perhaps, or a nesting byahkee. But they do not venture among the ancient dead.

  I moved as silently as I could, using the overgrowth for concealment as I drew up behind what turned out to be a woman, not much older than I, but pale, with skin like milk and hair that gleamed rosy under the moon’s red light. She was bent over one of the gravestones and writing in some sort of small book. She tilted her head and I caught sight of her frowning in concentration, brow furrowed. There was something strange and lovely about her.

  “Life in death.” I saw no reason not to be polite, but she jumped, eyes wide, clutching the little book to herself as though to protect it. Surprised, I glanced around to see what might have startled her, but we were alone with the dead. “Are you well this night?”

  “Who’re you?” Her words came like the rapid pounding of a high-tuned drum, so that it took me a few seconds to make out their meaning.

  “Ikere.” I took a seat on a nearby stone. I do not think the dead mind anything that might bring them into contact with life; they have had ages in which to grow wise enough to know that I meant no disrespect. The stranger seemed not to agree, because she gasped slightly as I eased myself down. “And you? By what name are you called?”

  She made no reply at first, and when she did, it came as another question. “Where’d you come from?” Though high-strung, she made no threatening moves, and I paused to admire the lovely picture she made, surrounded by shadows but bathed in roseate glow.

  “From over there, if you mean that in an immediate sense.” I gestured to where I had been standing when I first saw the gleam of her hair. “From the shanty past that hill, if you mean that in a more permanent sense.”

  “From the shanty,” she repeated.

  “Yes.” I wondered if she might be a bit slow. Perhaps she was a madling, though they do not venture near the dead. They are more interested in the living and in Those Above and Below. “Where are you from? Seawrack shanty?”

  “Seawrack – no. No, I’m not. What d’you call this place?”

  “Mooncrest. Where are you from that you don’t know the name of the shanty where you are bound? You are planning to pass the night there, yes? The open lands are dangerous after dark.” Everyone knows that. Only madlings leave the shanty after dark. But here I was, and I was no madling; there was nothing sacred about me.

  What, then, was I?

  “I wasn’t gonna hit the shanty.”

  I blinked. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “What’re you doin’ here? No shantyfolk come to these places.”

  “No, not usually. It simply isn’t done. But then, I’m not terribly good at doing only what is done.” I smiled at her, small and wry.

  She said nothing for a moment, only crouched there, thinking. Then she seemed to come to some manner of decision, for she sat, crosslegged, carefully to one side of the gravestone. “I’m Jonna,” she said. Her manner was grave, as though she bestowed upon me a great trust. With her gaze firmly upon me, I noticed that her eyes were grey, grey as stones. I began to understand.

  “You’re not from any shanty, are you?” I spoke softly, almost whispering. There are humans who do not live in shanties, who do not revel, who do not sing. We tell stories of them, sometimes, in hushed tones. She shook her head, but said nothing, only watched my reaction. “What is it like?”

  She smiled, only a little. “We’ve different songs,” she told me, as though she knew the course of my thoughts. “Beautiful ones.”

  “There is no music more beautiful than the Ecstatica.” I believed that. I knew what it was to feel the drums and the flute wash over me, to feel the voices of my fellows lifting me, to be carried toward that brief glimpse of Those Above and Below that is all we who are cursed with sanity are permitted.

  “You ever listen to the music without the communion brew?” she asked me. I shook my head, perplexed. “Try it. You’ll see it all different.”

  “If I do, will you come here tomorrow night so I can see you again?” I felt my face grow flush at my own daring.

  That startled her, for she laughed, very softly. But it was not a bad laugh, and I could see a change in the way she looked at me. She knew what I meant, knew it in a way Isana had not. Maybe it was done among the folk outside the shanties. Certainly there was something in her eyes, a heat, that I had previously only seen among men, and few enough of them.

  “Go a day without.”

  “The whole day?” She nodded. “And if I do that... if I do that, you will be here?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

  I looked at her again, at her paleness, at her steadiness, at the way she met my gaze without flinching. At the loveliness of her and at the soft look around her eyes and the firm set of her chin. I had never gone even a single meal without the communion brew that was part and parcel of shanty life. But I wanted to see her again.

  “I will do it,” I told her. Her lips curved into something almost a smile, strangely sad.

  “I’ll be here,” she repeated. And then, glancing up at the moon, “But I gotta go now. Be seeing you.”

  I watched her leave, quick and careful in the dim light of the moon, and I wondered what tomorrow’s moon would show me.

  * * * *

  I did not sleep that night.

  I crept back into my bunk and stared at the wood slats and thin mattress above me, imagining that I could see into my bunkmate's flesh and bone, into her heart, into the dreams that might grant me mercy. None was forthcoming. I was alone with the fleeting memory of Jonna's eyes, Jonna's words. They echoed in the vaults of my mind and I stared until light pierced the windows and the others began rising and I took my first step away from them.


  You'll see it all different.

  Breakfast was the usual porridge and brew. I ate the porridge hungrily, less weary than I expected, nerves still singing. But I only pretended to drink the brew. My heart pounded as I kept watch on my neighbors through the corners of my eyes, but nobody saw as I dribbled it bit by bit onto the ground behind my bench.

  All through the morning's work in the field, I stole glances at those nearby, wondering if they noticed the difference in me. But they went about their tasks as cheerfully as ever, whistling, humming, singing. Only I was silent.

  At midday I repeated the morning's subterfuge, even more apprehensive now that my fellows were no longer dream-fuddled. But again my actions went unnoticed. There was no suspicion in the shanty. Those within are dedicated, heart and soul, to the glory of Those Above and Below. It was unthinkable to betray that trust.

  My joints began to ache as I mucked out the byre. Only a little at first, but it was a strange sensation, soon joined by a thickness in my head that I could not shake off. Every movement I took seemed too quick, leaving me slightly dizzy, so I slowed and hoped that nobody would comment. But even as the motion of my rake lagged, I realized that even at my most lethargic I was moving no slower than anybody else. It was I who had been too fast. Was this a side effect of nerves, or of refraining from the brew?

  It happened again when I was spreading fresh straw. Arash hailed me as I raked it even and I stopped, breaking out in a cold sweat. “Ikere, hold! What drives you today?”