by Namita Singh
The Vaticinator ©
Namita Singh
Copyright 2014 by Namita Singh
Introduction:
Ever faced a situation, where you realize that you’re not the main protagonist in your own life? It may not be as astonishing as the fact that I have the ability to metamorphose into an animal, or the fact that I know very less about the history of my species, thanks to my shady parents. It’s even less appalling than learning that most of the members of my species are hell bent at snatching one of the most important things in my life, which ironically has become important to me in just a matter of days. And it is certainly bound to be less depressing than knowing that my ancestor’s enemy is ready to exceed to great lengths to eliminate my family from the face of the earth.
And, of course, let’s not forget that it is less surprising than the fact that my life partner has been discovered to be a guy, the same gender as I.
But still, nothing compares to the shock that I face, when I learn that anything significant occurring in my life is not centered around me at all.
Hi, I am Josh Lichinsky and this is not my story.
Prologue
The herd of therians stood in a circle, bordering the commotion occurring in the center. They watched with judgmental eyes at the one who betrayed their tribe; and watched with much more the amount of fear, the Occultist that towered over the convict.
The Occultist looked down at the lone therian lying on her feet. She appeared apathetic, unaffected as she monotonously declared the dooming fate of the unfortunate therian. The therian named Jermaine was the one that lay on the ground, bound flat to the frozen ground by the invisible force of the Occultist’s magic. He was probably on his death row and yet couldn’t help but feel amused despite his predicament. Amused, that even after eons of years, the occultist towering over him looked as ugly as she had probably to his grandfather. Their grotesque appearance and unnatural abilities had often made people address them loosely as ‘witches’. But the term was usually regarded as something evil, and hence, no one spoke the term openly. But when someone looks as ugly as the Occultist that stood forth them, people couldn’t help but find ‘witch’ an appropriate term for such an abomination. The witch was crone looking, a beldam; probably a follower of Wicca, but the witnessing people wouldn’t know as the witches never revealed their theological beliefs, neither anyone was brave enough to confront them for it. They simply relied on the knowledge passed on by their ancestors which spoke of the witches to be the follower of the Triple Goddess. Despite the centuries of advancement, the coven of the thirteen old witches withal followed the yearlong traditions of the occults in the world.
That is precisely what amused Jermaine. With the boredom of immortality, one would expect them to at least dress up so to appear presentable. But no, the witch standing at an impressive eminent height in front of Jermaine felt no need to look even remotely idyllic. She was most probably counting on her atrocious, monstrous appearance to leave an impact even on the dying. Or maybe she was just a bit theatrical. In all due aspects, she resembled a wraith. Most people strongly believed that the witches were the source of rumors regarding wraiths amongst the nescient humans, since the real ones were not visible to the naked eyes.
But the witches were coherently visible to pure humans and therians alike. They represented a form which could be easily mistaken for a phantom by the ignorant humans.
The Ninth of those thirteen of the coven stood proudly amidst the trees that had built on the never ending permafrost. Her scarce, thin, ivory hair bellowed in the wreathing air. Her face, as white as her hair, lifeless and adorning several wrinkles, one even forming a jowl on her skinny face, was fixed in a permanent stupor; incapable of expression. Her gangly, bony arms ended into long, chipped, filled with dirt nails. The said nails scraped against her grayish incantation-woven rag that she wore. Most of the people, who stood at least ten feet away in a loose circle from the witch and the unfortunate therian at her feet, settled on keeping their eyes at the one on the ground. On the therian, Jermaine. The one who was one of them. The one who betrayed them. And it wasn’t only the disloyalty of Jermaine that made people fix their stare at him. It was also the ugliness of the occultist, the blistering ulcers which seemed to be boiling and popping on her right cheek, which persuaded most of the attendants to sever their gazes towards Jermaine.
Jermaine was not anxious, or he hid his anxiety perfectly. With his body bound, only his neck could move around and take in the number of therians surrounding him. Those therians were once his friends, his comrades. Now the eyes of those same friends were filled with judgment enough to fill you with shame, irrespective of your innocence.
Jermaine returned his eyes to the witch who was declaring his fate in a cackling, wretched voice.
“-till this date. You shall be sanctioned!” The cackling voice ended.
Jermaine once again looked around him, wishing to come upon the faces he wished to see for last. But his wife, brother and son had been banished by the leader of their cult immediately after learning of Jermaine’s treachery. Exiled towards the land of the flames. His heart ached for what his family was forced to undergo, all because no one was ready to listen to his sorry tale. No one was ready to listen to his innocence; not even the all-wiser leader of their tribe.
Everyone around looked down at him with disappointment and belligerence. Yet, not one of them would hear his tale were he to propose so. Years of brotherhood drained down the sewage because of his one mistake. A mistake, that wasn’t even his own to make. Hitherto, Jermaine continued to scout his ‘friends’, lastly resting his eyes upon the mighty leader of the therians of this realm, Mikhail.
Mikhail Lichinsky was also eyeing the traitor, but stoically. He had caught Jermaine red handed in the act of stealing the holy scimitar, the very same one that Mikhail now hoisted at his back. As a leader and the owner of the sword, it was his responsibility to keep the weapon safe. In wrong hands, the weapon could produce disastrous results. Mikhail had never dreamt of those wrong hands being amongst his friends. His duty called and he had no choice whatsoever than to take the necessary steps, the conclusion of which was summoning the Ninth occultist of Wicca, the one that forged the law of their realm.
“Part of your soul will be mine to wield.” The shrill voice announced further to Jermaine.
A few who were paying enough attention to the words, gasped. Mikhail remained apathetic, even though he fully understood the meaning behind those words of the Occultist. As much powerful the witches were, that much cunning they seemed to be. A deal for a deal being their usual mantra. The sprouts of the occult never favored the witches, but their power made them the ruler; the high mighty to be called upon in direful situations. For the rulers of humans, the one who had driven the witches away once, were not enough accepting of the therians. The witches were usually fair, despite their wicked ingenuity. Therefore, they were accepted by the people. For not taking the whole of Jermaine’s soul to condemn it to damnation invariably meant that the Ninth occultist sought something in return. But what could the therians offer to this occultist so the traitor is damned? Was there anything a powerful, immortal witch would want?
“-For you to live in imprisonment as my sycophant.” The Ninth witch declared.
For a moment, Jermaine felt bewildered, for he would never want any of his ‘friends’ suffering due to his actions. But looking up at the caustic, stoic face of his executioner, he realized that she was indicating at him. She meant to take only Jermaine as her personal lackey. And knowing what horrific future would entail, Jermaine felt appalled, dismayed and horror-stricken, all at once. No. No one would want a future as a half resurrected soul, a real wraith by all means, forever trapped in a haze of hunger, numbness
and anger. He’d prefer death over that. Panicky, Jermaine looked around, hoping to encounter a single sympathetic face. But all were shocked, yet resolutely confident and pleased at the castigation. Jermaine looked up at the Ninth and saw her looking at him with a flicker in her eyes. Incapable of expressing emotion, yet Jermaine could sense the excitement in the eyes of the Ninth. And he knew.
He knew that he had been framed, for stealing the scimitar was never his conscious intention. He knew that he was wielded against his own will. He knew that the Ninth occultist was aware that he was not at complete fault. And that single knowledge filled him with dread when he pondered, for a brief moment, what could the occultist want.
But more than anything, he was filled with rage.
If only his friends had been patient, he wouldn’t have been standing on his death row. A death where he neither belonged to the dead, nor he would be a part of the living. He cursed in distress on learning that his family, if they survived their expatriation, would be devastated. That his young son wouldn’t have his father’s hand on his head on anymore. That his beautiful wife would have a living dead for a husband. That he may never be able