Nightwalker

by Ime Atakpa

  NIGHTWALKER

  IME ATAKPA

  Text Copyright © 2017 by Ime Atakpa

  Cover Illustration by Erick Efata

  Originally published by Amazon

  ???

  He screams and, far below, the world trembles. I feel a pang of guilt for the pain I have inflicted upon them, my very own family and, by extension, the very nature of the world. An irreparable schism tears open in the balance of things, but I cannot allow grief to hold me from the quest I have set myself upon. Those remaining will do their duty and hold together the fabric of things in my dishonorable absence. That responsibility is no longer mine to bear. And so I leap away while the others turn to face the ruin left in my wake.

  “Ausar!” bellows the distorted voice of The Highest. It shakes the universe. My ears ring, and my body burns. A steady stream of dark fire whips at my back, crackling as it sets the sky alight. Never before have I seen it manifested, not this close, and certainly not against another of the Akasha. I suppose it no longer matters that I am one of them. My transgression cannot be forgiven. The Highest intends to punish me as they punish all those who rebel against order. Today, I am an enemy and must be hunted as such.

  But their victory will not be so easily won. I pivot and dash just in time to escape the flames. Though I manage to avoid the brunt of its heat, offshoots of flame catch at my arms and back. I wince. I endure. With nothing but faith to secure my success, I cast the mantle of time forward. Space ripples outward from it, slices open a divide in the passage of time, and falls deep into those recesses. Another flame soars just above my head as I jerk downward into the chute of time.

  Long before man drew his first breath, we existed. We carved the world and imbued it with the rules borne of our power. We tugged at mankind’s strings like puppeteers and twisted their history to our liking. Before now, I thought that to be the righteous cause, for man could not hope to lead himself to happiness. He could not be trusted with the reins of his own existence. But now, as I spiral through the fibers of time, my heart aches for them. For their suffering. For their trauma. For their loneliness. They are lost and in need of guidance that we, so high on our throne, cannot provide. Revelation tore me away from the order I’d spent all of existence upholding.

  Such it is that I must descend, a god among men. Such it is that I must rewrite the world.

  ***

  AND SO THE SECOND GOD FELL.

  Part I

  The Invisible Man

  -N-

  Lines and Wrinkles

  “Do you know why we’re coming out here?” Mother asks. I take a cursory glance at our surroundings. Heavy, green leaves spread from the branches of the canopy, holding back the sun. Moisture hangs thick on the air, both refreshing and intoxicating. I feel encumbered by the weight of it. And there’s another weight, too, more innate and personal.

  “No,” I answer, raspy-voiced. “Breathing proves to be difficult,” I tell her, and she looks at me with disappointment. “Difficult to breath,” I repeat. Her brow furrows. I watch her peaceful blue eyes scan my own for answers. Perhaps she thinks I’m lying or that I’m hiding something.

  “It rained last night. It’s humid.”

  “I’m aware.”

  She’s silent. I watch her bend over to lift a fallen branch from the ground. She proceeds to clear away a circle of leaves and branches, exposing the moist soil beneath. Taking a finger, Mother cuts thick lines into the soil, forming a rudimentary “M” with curved limbs. Utilizing one of the branches, she decorates the letter with random, finer lines, the collection of which crisscrosses on, around, and within the central letter. I watch attentively, searching for any semblance of meaning in the drawing. All the way through the completion of her task, I’m clueless.

  “Do you know what this is?” Mother asks, looking up. I shake my head. She turns back to her creation and smiles weakly, her eyes trembling with a thought—some mysterious, tragic thought—which I hope she might reveal to me. To my displeasure, she allows my curiosity to grow, returning to the symbol in the soil. She finds an even finer branch and works to further distinguish the shape. By now, my patience has thinned to its breaking point.

  “What have you drawn?”

  Her progress slows and her head bobs as she analyzes each detail of her drawing. A few strokes later, she gestures for me to bend down next to her. “Look at it.” Heavy stuttering distorts her soft voice such that I take it for a whimper. What thoughts turn in her mind that might affect her as such? I observe once more, paying particular attention to the most recent lines. It all continues to elude my comprehension.

  “What is it?” I ask again. And again, she provides me no answer. For this, I groan loudly, but Mother smiles. Has she only brought me here to drive me to frustration? Last night, I felt enough unwanted emotions to last me a lifetime. She should understand, if no one else, for it was she who carried my naked body through these same woods to our home, from the front door to my upstairs room. And she laid my unmoving body there, her eyes pouring deeply into mine, looking for any sign that life existed beyond my glassy eyes. I, in turn, looked upward at her, incapacitated but perfectly capable of perceiving all the world around me. I saw the tears well up in the corners of her eyes, smelled her water lily perfume, and heard the long drawn out sniffles. I felt the first tear splash on the tip of my nose and tasted the runoff that seeped into my mouth.

  My mind, however, drifted elsewhere in some unknown ocean where vicious waves tore it apart. I felt such marvelous things, and such atrocities. I felt suffering beyond anything I’d ever felt before, beyond anything I imagine I’ll ever feel after. I suffered the torments of love and loss, hatred and resent; each emotion bore itself into me. How natural they felt, though they were wholly new, so authentic and personal. I knew, having taken all of those sensations into myself, that I’d awoken from a peculiar dream. Mother rested in tears at my bedside until movement returned to me and I, too, could cry for our mutual suffering.

  Sleep paralysis, she had called it in a hushed, uncertain tone of voice. A mere four hours later, we’ve returned to the forest neighboring our home, and she insists on dredging up unpleasantness and dousing us both with them.

  “Give me your hand,” Mother finally says. Hopeful that an explanation for our voyage here shall soon follow, I immediately comply. She clasps it in both of her own and brings her lips down against them all.

  “Mother?”

  Her face turns away to muffle a sniffle. Accumulating tears add a shininess to her eyes which are now reminiscent of an ocean touched upon by the light of a full moon.

  “Mother?”

  She hastily turns my palm face up. “Look, all these lines. They form a pattern.” She references her scribbles in the ground. “I can’t draw it the same as your hands are. Even if I traced it, it would be different. Even a little bit of difference is important.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  She casts me a melancholy expression before continuing. “Every line is a story, Hubert. It’s a part of your life that’s meant to unfold exactly the way it’s drawn. Look at mine.” Presently, she turns one of her own palms upward and places it next to mine. “Look here—alright, and here.” I’m directed toward two distinct crosses stacked atop one another, both situated just below the peak of the right half of the M. First, she traces her nail over the crosses as they appear on my hand; then, she demonstrates the same on her own. “Identical,” she whispers. “Completely identical, but nothing else is the same. I thought—well, don’t mind what I thought. Here it is. This is how you’ll be.”

  I don’t understand, not totally, the intricacies of what she’s told me. I am her son. Of course it makes sense that we should share some features. I inherited my blue eyes from her, aft
er all. Unfortunately, I inherited my hair from Father. It’s dark brown, black almost, a shame since I’m quite fond of Mother’s light brown.

  I look upon my own hands now, taking in each detailed wrinkle and line and wondering what meaning might be hidden within their intersections. This course of thought, unfortunately, lasts only as long as my rationality willfully suspends itself. That duration is not long.

  I shake my head. “I can alter this. I can differentiate myself from this. Everything cannot be set in stone.”

  Again, pain fills Mother’s eyes and turns her away from me. Mother flinches at every word I speak, since the moment of my recovery last night. Something about me now, something she sees in me, drives her away. Maternal instincts that should urge her closer to me recommend the opposite course. Unable to divine their reasoning, I recede into myself. She shakes her head and rises to her feet.

  “Let’s go,” she says, commanding more than recommending. The two of us shuffle along through the forest, speaking only when an object of interest—a bird perched high above or an intricate pattern of branches and leaves—fills us with such a great sense of splendor that the barrier between us falls away.

  -I-

  Awakening

  I wake to a grave sense, tucked away in a dark place, unpleasant and familiar. My body feels light and not altogether there. My first order of business involves shaking that grogginess away and getting my bearings. These adventures of mine always leave me eager for the warmth of my bed. Rarely ever does my inheritance afford me a peaceful night. Even having adapted to the strangeness of this experience, I yearn for normalcy. I cannot understate the terrors of waking atop the roof or sitting idly on the city sidewalk as men in trench coats and bowed heads pass me by.

  My memories are vivid of the first night I drifted off in bed only to awaken at some unknown harbor, both feet submerged in the water as I stared blankly out at the shimmering moon. The night had been beautiful, save for my fear, and before I’d cause to believe my being there was anything but a dream, my parents both stomped along the wooden planks calling out my name. I persisted there, taking their voices as nothing more than the echoes of reality attempting to steal me from that paradise. But as their hands fell upon my naked shoulders and wrenched me from the edge, when the dream failed to end and my senses remained quite vivid, the daunting truth fell upon me. I cried for hours that night. I cried and listened to my mother’s consolation as she shared an excess of stories similar to my own, passed down from members of her line. “The first one is always when you’re seven,” she’d explained and laughed at the irony of that age. Night walks, she called them, and shared stories of her own.

  I have since come to learn that this condition travels through my mother’s genes alone. Despite numerous consultations with doctors, the general consensus holds that we experience a severe variant of sleepwalking which, as has been explained on multiple occasions, does not manifest itself genetically. These professionals lambasted us with their medical jargon, reassuring us that no scientific evidence suggests a genetic link to sleepwalking.

  Their science is flawed. A sophisticated curse runs through my bloodline, and I’d no choice but to accept and live with it. Through each ordeal, I never fell into hopelessness. In spite of each terrible night this curse brings me, one detail instills hope in me.

  “By the time you reach twenty-five or so, it starts to fade away.” Hearing Mother explain this on the night of my second night walk gave me all courage I needed. So long as I survived to that prime age, the rest of my life would unfold without event.

  Survival proved more a matter of luck than skill, and was nearly impossible to influence one way or the other. An exceeding number of nights saw me removed from my bedroom and flung into far-off reaches where none but my mother could surmise I might appear. Of the many adventures, few yielded to pleasure. An unshakable darkness coddled throughout generations had attached itself readily to my genes, and from that great pitch, many months of unforgettable nights were etched into my history.

  Tonight I feel claustrophobia. My eyes, not yet accustomed to the darkness I’ve awoken in, struggle to differentiate one object from the next. All that surrounds me clusters together such that one structure is indistinguishable from the next. Nonetheless, I rise and begin my weary progress home. It is not long before I adjust to the darkness and the world becomes clearer. Those indistinguishable shapes separate, and I make my first determination. Leaves and branches and hefty trunks circle around me. Certainly, I’ve come to in a forest.

  At the moment of this discovery, my mind occupies itself with the task of revisiting every memory of similarly-vegetated landscapes I might have previously visited. As with all my other spells, I’ve come to in a place not alien to me. That much is certain. My mental search occurs in the vein of reflex more so than my will to return home, and thankful as I am for my mind’s consideration, the effort exhausts me. Memories bridge together in incoherent chunks. Fishing trips to the harbor, stargazing on the roof, my grandfather’s wake at the abandoned schoolhouse, and many more scenes coalesce. Insofar as forests are concerned, the only plausible memory that joins that procession involves Father playing with me in the medium-sized plot behind our house. He often carried me blindfolded into those woods and imagined us as two men lost in a brutal wilderness. He’d hoped to instill in me a sense of adventure and survival, but in my ingenuous youth, committing critical details to memory fell outside the scope of my concern. Even after my night walks became more prominent, I never had sense enough to revisit those lessons. Whatever tools and techniques Father granted me are lost to memory, useful as they might be tonight.

  I continue along my way, ignoring the misty lightness of my legs so starved of energy. They struggle at lifting from the ground, and yet I somehow avoid the thick tangle of branches moistened by buds of condensation.

  While my vision now allows that I can separate one tree or bush from another, each places only the tiniest imprint upon me. None bears any landmark features by which I might pinpoint my location. I gaze upon every trunk and fallen branch, scouring the bend of their growth for any sign at all. Despite all my efforts, the combination of darkness and my weariness prevent any substantial progress. Despair begins to set in, for this place, by all estimations, shall ruin me.

  The night is a deep black, little past midnight by my estimation and far from sunrise. I pause on this passing thought and decide that I’d be best off sleeping here. I’ll accept whatever rest my anxiety allows. Morning’s light shall reveal to me the right path where darkness now shrouds it. Yes, whatever mysteries trap me here should be erased by that light. Moreover, common sense informs me that I may very well be bumbling about away from my destination in this darkness. The benefits of continuing now are outweighed.

  Several meters forward, I come upon a comfortable spot of wood. It is here that I shall take reprieve. This break gives me time to consider myself and the depth of my circumstances. If I cannot escape this place myself, my only hope is that Mother knows to look for me here. But I’d rather not subject her to further worry; this blood curse alone provides her enough distress. My troubles tonight are mine alone to bear.

  On the topic of troubles, the rest of my body feels as limp as my legs—that is to say, there’s hardly feeling in them at all. Wild thoughts run through me, questioning the reason for this. No reasonable answer comes to mind in the first few moments of my thought. Thus does my curiosity peak and I find myself much too mentally awake to avail a good night’s rest. All my efforts cannot bring me to rest. When sleep fails me, I exercise the futility of identifying familiar surroundings. And when that deed ends, I’m left with nothing. I have no course of action except to wait for sunrise. The impending sleepless night weighs on my soul.

  Twilight cuts through the trees in an unusual and captivating pattern. I can’t recall the last time I sat outside and witnessed the sun bring life to the sleeping. Though my predicament leaves me afraid and uncertain, that natural bea
uty remains uncontested. I assert this despite feeling marked coldness from it, as though the rays of light are phantom beams. To be home again in the company of family is the only light that might penetrate this pall of cold. That much is certain.

  This initial vexation is met by another: my legs, which I hoped might recover over the course of the night, remain flaccid appendages, and while I can still walk, the strangeness of this floating sensation sends chills through me, the few parts of me that remain unburdened by the negligence of my senses.

  Amidst these peculiarities, one redeeming fact pleases me, namely that a familiar landmark hangs in the distance, barely visible through the thick of trees. It would seem that my travels last night brought me closer to the edge of the forest than I had reason to believe; I curse myself for not venturing farther and having comfortable lodging for at least the night, and I curse myself twofold for finding myself so far from home. I pull myself from the minimal comfort of my forest dwelling and out onto the open road little more than a few dozen meters away. The brilliance of the sun taunts me evermore, now unencumbered by the mass of trees. But I don’t want for a sun if I’ll have a friendly face to greet me across the road where Rinaldo’s lodge smiles compassionately at me, the warm redwood exterior even redder beneath the morning light.

  There are no cars in the adjacent lot. There never are, though there seems to always be a visitor at the lodge. As for Rinaldo and his wife, the two prefer to cultivate their own crop and therefore circumvent the necessity of travel. And what a cultivation of succulent fruits and vegetables they have. I’ve experienced the impeccable flavor of their vegetable soup on a night like this. They’ve always been more than willing to take me up at strange hours. What better remedies the ailing body than the comfort of warm sheets and genuine affection? With that thought pressed to the forefront of my mind, I drag myself across the street and up the brief flight of stairs.