Shining-Tip

A story about the Vule - the vulture people of the Static-Lands.  Violence/gore warning. 

I'm also not entirely happy with the ending.  It feels abrupt to me, but I wasn't sure how to go about ending the story.  I'll gladly take feedback and suggestions.

Also, yes, this species was roundabout-inspired by the Rito of "The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker" but they a far, FAR darker people.  I wanted to do a bird-people with a vulture-culture. Vulture-culture is brutal.

Shining-Tip

He had been hatched into the Southern Tribe of the Great Eastern Desert under a perpetual noonday sky.  The chick was named only after he was out of his down.  His fledge-feathers were mildly iridescent at their ends, so he was named “Shining-Tip.”  The boy was called Shin as a nickname. His father was Longmane. 

The Vule race, particularly the people of the Southern Tribe, tended to give their surviving members names based upon their attributes.  Sometimes an individual’s name changed throughout their life.  Shin knew his father better than he did his mother.  Bloodeyes fought in the wars while Longmane stayed behind at the aerie to rear their son, for the man had an injury to his shoulder that made flying difficult for long periods.  Longmane could fly, just not well enough to survive battle. He hoped his fighting-fitness would return in time. 

Shin played along the cliffs with the tribe’s other hatchlings and he watched several of his friends die when they fell from the cliffs in their first attempts at flight. This was the way of the vulture-people.  They did not shelter their young ones from harsh things, for they felt that witnessing death while small made the hatchlings that survived tough in mind and not prone to make overly-emotional attachments.  Most Vule children died before they fledged. The parents of eggs accepted this. Vule children that lived would spend their adulthood losing their comrades in battle or to the rigors of the desert. This was accepted. The Vule not only lived with Death, they made friends with it.

“Today, I am taking you to the Pyres,” Shin’s father said to him as he climbed out of his nest after his long-sleep in their small cliff-pueblo dwelling.  In a land without night the division of days could be arbitrary.  Just like in other areas of the Static-Lands, the fierce people of the desert had found ways to mark the time independent of the state of the sky.  Some said that it wasn’t too hard an adjustment for them when the state of night and day became static because the desert was a bright place even in the ancient days.  The Vule of the Southern Aerie had members asleep and awake at all hours, for it was necessary to maintain eternal vigilance against raids by their enemies. 

“The Pyres?  Really?” Young Shin exclaimed.  The broad cliffside where the Pyres stood were an important place, a sacred place.

“Yes, son,” Longmane replied.  “It is time.  It is there that you will learn the nature of our kind… and of all kinds, really.”

All children saw the Pyres before becoming adults.  Viewing the place was considered a requisite before one became a warrior.  The pyre cliffs were away from the living areas and, strangely enough, away from the tombs.  The pyres were erected of wood and covered in sheets.  The area was heavily guarded. 

When Shin landed upon the flat cliffs with his father, the smell in the air was overpowering.  To young Shin, it was a favorable smell, one that caused his stomach to growl.  A human being may have passed out cold or even been sent into cardiac arrest from the odor.  Only one with the strongest of constitutions would have left those cliffs with the contents of his stomach still inside him. 

The wind whipped one of the sheets on a loaded pyre.  A feathered arm dropped over its side.

“Why do some go to the pyres and some go to the tombs?”  Shin asked his father.  “We were there for Irontalon’s funeral and for all the Unnamed Ones I knew before I fledged, but never here.”

Longmane spoke calmly.  “The pyres are not for our own.”

“But they are Vule,” Shin pointed out.

“These are – or were, rather – people of the Northern Tribe.”

“Then why doesn’t the Northern Tribe bury them?”

“They were captured by us.  Just as we allow dead beasts to ripen in the sun to our taste, we do not waste the battlefield dead.”

“We do not do this to our own… Why do the bodies of our tribe go to waste in the tombs?”

It may surprise, nay, even appall some that little Shin displayed no horror regarding cannibalism, but only a sense of loss at a perceived waste.  Vule, even when young, are an extremely pragmatic and hard people.  Since the beginning of Time, even before the stasis of days, they lived in the desert-lands.     They wished for no other home.  The Vule were of the desert and the desert was of the Vule.  The drylands were harsh and bred hardness into whatever was native to it. The strong and the lucky survived there.  It was a world that rewarded the practical and starved the picky. 

The Vule, like their vulture brethren, ate the fallen.  While they could eat fresh meat, the Vule had a taste for decay.  They aged their meat like humans aged cheese and wine.  That was something from the human culture that the Vule liked: Cheese.  Shin was accustomed to eating flesh from deer, skunks, wild boars and the occasional human that wandered too far into the desert.  He did not know that his people ate their own species – yet it made perfect sense to him.  Carcasses were carcasses. 

“We used to eat our own,” Longmane explained, “When my father was your age.  That changed when we observed the humans.  Our people – and the Northerners – used to visit their cemeteries seeking meat that was buried shallowly enough for us to get at it.  When we saw their rituals and how much they respected their own, we decided to treat our comrades with similar respect.  Our enemies, the Northerners, do not get such respect.  They take our people off the battlefield, too.  Sometimes, they raid our pyres, seeking to retrieve their dead for burial.”

“So, this is why we prosper,” Shin observed.  “We have much meat because we take it as spoils of battle.”

“Precisely.  It is time for you to get your first taste of it – food for adults.”

“If mother falls in battle, will this happen to her?”

“Not if I can anything to do about it.  She’ll not become food to make our adversaries strong if I am allowed to fight!”

Longmane laid strips of rotten meat in a greased cast-iron skillet above the fire of the family cooking-hearth.  The odor of decay was nearly drowned-out by the scent of garlic and hot chilies.  This was typical Vule cooking – with garlic and peppers taken from the wild.   

“Are you sure you are ready?”  Longmane asked his son.  Shin was playing with his toys on the floor – little dolls and soldiers carved of ironwood.  His game was typical of Vule chicks constructing dramas; a narrative full of broken necks and eviscerations. 

“Yes,” Shin replied, rising to sit at the table as his father plated food before him. 

“Hmm,” Longmane said, “This flesh as aged a while.  There is quite a bit of insect larvae.  The tarps keep off the larger scavengers, but not the insects.”

“It’ll be extra sweet!” 

“It may still be tough, being cut from the arms.  I find it interesting that there are some among the humans and the venison-people who eat each other’s foods for sport – to experience what is unusual for them.  They never try our food.  What we eat would kill them.” 

“They don’t come to the desert much,” Shin said between mouthfuls of his dinner.

“They are not of the desert,” Longmane replied.  “I can show you the edge of the human country.  It would do you good to know more about them as we may need to go to war with them someday.” 

Shin and his father perched atop the great Gate Cliffs.  They looked over a country filled with trees and of little clusters of houses on the hillsides.  There was a large stone structure in the distance – a walled and fortified city. 

“That is Fortissimo,” Longmane explained.  “It is the central-place of the nation of Vale, like the Southern Aerie is our center.  Beyond that, where the land starts getting dark, is the place of the deer-people.  The humans think they are better than the deer-people and have them in an uneasy truce.  It is little-better than enslavement, but the venison-folk are too divided to rise up and conquer those that take from them.  Our leader, Gris, has vowed to never let that happen to us. The humans fear us, anyway, and they have ample reason for their fear.”

“Why do they all conquer each other?” Shin asked, “Is it for the same reasons why we fight the Northern Tribe?” 

“No, but yes.”

“What do you mean, father?”

“The Vule have a purer war,” Longmane began.  “Our motives are honest.”

“Humans and deer-people fight dishonestly?”

“The Vule fight for survival and because it is in our nature.  The Others fight for the same reasons, but often do not know it because they pile complex things atop the true motives.”

“What kinds of complex things?”

“Differences in beliefs, appearances, political systems, the illusion each tribe has of being superior to others.” 

“Aren’t the Northern Tribe people different from us?”

“By very little increments, little one.  The Southern Tribe and the Northern Tribe are essentially the same. They live in cliffs like we do.  They eat as we do.  We believe in the same Deity and the same Afterworld, to which we all go – even beasts and humans.  The people of the Northern Tribe fight with as much strength and ferocity as we do. We aren’t much different at all.”

“Then why do we fight as the humans and deer-people do?”

Longmane sighed deeply.  “We do not fight as the humans do. We fight as beasts do.  The Vule used to be one people.  When the population swelled the desert could no longer support all of us.  A divide happened and now we fight each other over resources – waterholes, hunting-grounds, space for our cliff-dwellings… those kinds of things.  The desert cannot support us together, but it supports us apart and it supports us as long as our battles have losses.  It may seem like it is to no purpose, an endless war that leads us and leaves us nowhere, but it fits with the brutal balance of nature.  We care for our own families, our clan…that is all.  Our wars need not be more complex than that.”

“Humans sound strange… if they don’t fight for survival like we do.” 

“They do,” the father told his son, “But they are strange creatures, indeed.  They have to have complex reasons to fight and to conquer so that they feel righteous.  One tribe might try to wipe out or conquer another because of differing beliefs or politics, but when it comes down to it, they may be merely fighting for the fat of the land and space for their own.  I find them pretentious.” 

“It sort of makes sense,” Shin said.  “It must be easy to fight those that are different.  Gris has plans to keep the humans from hurting us, right?” 

“Yes, little one.  They think they are superior to all and to each other.  That is laughable because we are the ones who are superior.”

Shin’s mother came home for a while and oversaw his training in the arts of combat.  His principal trainers were a pair of brothers who were adept at hunting named Bunnykiller and Swinekiller. 

They trained one day on a shaded cliff.  Bunnykiller came after Shin with a short, curved sword.  Shin sidestepped its swipe only to have Swinekiller come after him from behind with his prized Big Sword.  Its blade was as tall as a grown man and almost as wide.  Swinekiller grasped the massive hilt by both hands.  Being such a heavy weapon, it was used only by men who kept to the ground as it was impossible to carry in flight.  Shin did a back flip and landed feet-first atop the blade.  He stayed there for a moment before jumping off with a mighty screech, flapping into the air and coming down on Swinekiller with his talons. 

“Sonofa-!” Swinekiller cursed, dropping his weapon and wiping blood from his scratched face. 

“Well done!” Bloodeyes said clapping.  “You have gotten very good at your dodging, my son.  Perhaps you are ready to join me for the next campaign.”

Shin bowed.  He looked to Swinekiller.  “I did not damage your eyes, did I?”

“No,” the large man assured. “Just got me in the skin. It’ll heal up.”

“Good,” Shin’s mother said.  “We’d hate to lose you a soldier. Come with me. I’ll clean you up.”

Shin stayed behind on the cliff with Bunnykiller.  “You’ll use a small sword, like I do… maybe even a dagger or just your own talons.  You’ll be in the speed-troops, like me.”

“Do you enjoy battle?” Shin asked the older adolescent. 

“There is some thrill in it,” Bunnykiller confessed, “but I cannot say that I take much enjoyment from it.  Most of my comrades do.   I have lost many friends, seen them die around me.  The glory of battle is not so glorious after that, even as I avenge them.”

“My father says attachments are not wise.”

“Indeed, they are not, but one needs comrades to fight with and for.  I’ll tell you a secret.  I sometimes have thoughts of going off on my own and living alone, always from this life of fighting.” 

“But we are the flock!” Shin protested, “All of the Southern Tribe are for the Southern Tribe!”

“I hope that you survive your first battle,” Bunnykiller said.  “I must see to my brother.”  His talons clicked on the stone cliff’s surface and left little clouds of dust as he walked off toward the medical-pueblo. 

Shin survived his first battle.  Members of the Northern Tribe were making nests and dwellings far too close to the eastern banks of the Muddy River for the Southern Tribe’s liking.  Muddy River was one of the few places in the desert that was not contested over very much for most of its course, but the squatters were something that Shin’s tribe would not stand for. 

The fight was quick and brutal, lasting only two hours by the survivors’ estimate.  Shin fought with a curved knife and with his own feet.  The first Northerner he killed he did so by tearing his throat with his talons in aerial combat.  Emotionally, it was not particularly difficult for him given his familiarity with death and the fact that he’d already eaten Northerner-meat.  He pushed the similarities between him and his enemies to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the fact that they wanted him and his own dead and on their pyres. 

Shin’s first battle was also his last.  Two things happened in it to shatter his life.  His mother had fallen.  As the Northern Tribe warriors retreated, they took her and Shin pursued them.  He met a warrior in the air and fought wing-over-tail with him until a short dagger found his gut.  Shin fell among a copse of thorn-covered trees. 

When he realized that he was in the dirt, he also recognized that he was still breathing.  He tried to sit up, but every movement he made sent lightning-waves of pain through his body.  He examined his wound.  Everything that was supposed to be inside him remained there.  Still, the wound was serious.  He was sure that it would kill him in not too much time.  The Vule had a very strong resistance to disease and infections.  That immunity, coupled with strong gastric acids, allowed them to eat the things that they lived off of.  Shin knew that he was unlikely to suffer from an infection, but the fact remained that his enemy’s blade had very likely hit something major and that he was bleeding out inside. 

Even so, he hauled himself up.  The cries of his comrades were distant.  He attempted flight, but found the stretching of his muscles too painful to get himself off the ground. Also, he was quite dizzy.  He started limping in the direction his adversaries had taken.  Shin knew that he would likely die out in the desert. 

If he were human, he might have thought his predicament unfair.  A human might have even cursed or called out to a chosen deity if he had one or more.  Shin was not a human. He accepted certain things as a part of Nature, including the prospect of his death.  That which the Vule worshipped was a neutral god, indifferent to individual suffering if it did not affect the whole of the environment.   

Shin, however indifferent to his own misfortune, was not indifferent toward his mother or to his fallen compatriots. 

He reached the Northern Aerie after what would be measured as several days of travel by foot, the entirety spent under a hard noonday desert sun.  Shin survived by doing what Bunnykiller did – taking young rabbits and hares as well as desert rodents and eating them fresh.  He rationed his canteen and found water where he could.  Vule could survive quite a long time without water compared to the humans that sometimes wandered out to these lands. 

Shin spent time skulking around near the Northerner’s pyre-cliffs, but gave it up when his wound pained him too much.  He found no way to get to them without being seen.  He camped in the desert in a surface-cave that was out of the way.  He watched his enemies day by day and he survived day by day.  His living surprised him. 

The young Vule found himself able to fly again after a while, but he refused to go home to his people.  He knew that they’d given him up for dead and he found life alone tranquil.  He snuck out to the place where the Northern Tribe took the bones from their pyres once they’d made use of all of the meat.  Not knowing which bones had belonged to his mother, he embarked on a project to secret away them all, as many as he could carry without being caught.  He buried them near his little cave, creating a secret cemetery which he watches over in vigilance and peace. 

END.

The Four-Points of Death

The Grim-Reaper type characters from The Static-Lands Saga.  From Ilkhan mythology, but not mythology believed by all.  These characters were breifly outlined in the story "The Last Dream" and the dog-character was featured in "Overridden."  This is thus-far. I am thinking of more stories featuring this particular mythology-of-death.  

The Hart of Gold - He takes souls to a favorable afterlife, to the cliff leading to a mysterious place called the Celestial Forest.  Acrylic and ink (with some glitter) over watecolor paper painted with a "tea" I made from dead maple leaves.

The Wandering Cat - She deals with ghosts / spirits caught in a wandering state.  Clients who didn't believe in the afterlife and are surprised to find themselves there are common charges of hers.  Very snarky. Based on the family cat.  Acrylic and ink over marble-print paper (that I had leftover from some papercraft project).

The Diamond-Eyed Dog - He deals with people who are destined to be reincarnated.  Suicides are common charges of his.  Acrylic and ink over watercolor paper stained with roobios/red-bush tea.

The Lady of Chains - She takes people to the bad place... not "hell" as we know it (and as another, extinct religion of the Static-Lands knew it), but the Barrens - an empty desert were cruel, petty souls are destined to wander, alone with their shame and their thoughts for eternity or until they change enough to find the direction out of that place - whatever comes first.  It may not be burning sulfur, but you still don't want to see the Lady when you die.  Also known as the Scavenger (and the horse is "Andreas" which is a very weird little reference I'll explain if you ask nicely), this character has actually been recycled from an earlier work - a fantasy novel I wrote some time ago but am no longer happy with.  I still liked the character, so I repurposed her.   Acrylic and ink over watercolor paper stained with soy sauce. 

I may make a print available at my Deviant Art space as soon as I reconfoobulate my print-sale information there.  Sorry about the small size here - my print-setup size is a nice, big 16 x20.

Overridden

A Static-Lands Saga story.  As always for the new reader:  http://sparrowmilk.blogspot.com/2011/03/static-lands-saga-1-worldsetting.html   This also relates to a few of the previous stories, most especially "The Last Dream." 

Warnings and Notes:  This story revolves around a suicide and contains many of my thoughts about the subject.  In fact, I wrote it when I was experiencing a depressive-low.  I'm sure I've noted it previously on this blog, but in case I haven't, I am (functionally) mentally ill.  This is the kind of story that cannot be written by someone with a perfectly healthy mind.  It also contains some graphically violent imagery.  Potentially triggering, so I am giving fair caution.

I also play with the concept of reincarnation with this, which unlike the Heaven/Hell concepts also explored here, isn't one I'm intimately famliar with in regards to its use in actual religions (in other words, I know a little about Buddhism, Hinduism and other spiritualities, but not enough to "get it right" with thier concepts) - and I don't try.  I play loose with the rebirth idea in the same manner as I do when I write my "Legend of Zelda" fan fictions in which I employ it, as in, it doesn't reflect anything but my own world. In this story, it's my world- my rules, so if I actually do, somehow, "get it right" - it's incidental.  This is fiction - very fiction.     

The Static-Lands Saga

Overridden

Sen signed his name with a flourish on the last page of paperwork.  Applying for a job had been lengthier.  The lady he’d met earlier stepped into the room and asked him if he was ready. 

“I got no next of kin,” Sen said. 

“Surely you didn’t come to this city alone,” Dr. Dodge commented, “You look too young for that.” 

“Ma died of the Shines and my dad came to one of these clinics.  I listed friends who might claim me.  Iffin’ they don’t, do what you want with me.” 

“Good, we intend to,” Dodge said, “You may prove useful to our studies.  You may even save lives.” 

“Yeah, of the kinda folk you wanna live – not the kinda folk you don’t wanna die.”

“Precisely.  I am surprised at how rational you are.  Very few people come to us for the specific service in a rational state.  You aren’t even shedding any tears, yet you seem to fully understand what we’re about to do.  The physiology of your kind is identical to that of full human beings, aside from the obvious features.” 

Sen followed the woman down a hall brightly lit from windows, another reminder that this country was not his own, even though he’d lived in it most of his life.  Fortissimo, the principal city in the Land-of-Always-Day, had driven the young Ilkhan to his decision.  It was a hard place to live for one of his kind – his many “kinds,” really.  Had he grown up and lived day-to-day somewhere in the Land-of-Always-Night, perhaps he would have not decided to take the path he was following.

His hooves clacked upon the cold tile floor.  Everything was excruciatingly white, like a typical medical building.  This was not a typical medical building. 

“We are going to be running an experiment during the procedure,” Dr. Dodge said, tucking a stray lock of red-blond hair back into her bun. 

“What kind of experiment?” Sen asked, blowing a stray black hair out of his face, “Just came here for you to kill me, no frills.”

“We will be placing a device upon your head,” Dodge said coolly, “We will also inject a few medications into your system other than the standard ones.  We are studying the various things that happen to the brain at the moment of death.”

“What kinda stuff will that do?” Sen asked curiously, slightly worried.  The reason why he’d chosen to come to this clinic was because doing the deed himself would potentially leave him in a lot of pain.  Fortissimo’s “passing clinics” promised a quick and painless passage.   

“This will sound kooky, but… perceptions of afterlife,” Dodge explained. 

“You’re a Valien.  You ain’t supposed to believe in none of that stuff.”

“I don’t… and we don’t, but we’ve come to understand, in our profession, that many people seem to dream before they finally, fully die.  It’s very interesting, actually, to hear the babbling of our clients.  What is it that you believe, Mr. Sen?”

“The same stuff most of my people near the boarders believe – spirit-lands all the way from the Barrens to the Celestial Forest and all these ghostly points in between.  I hear that suicides don’t get to the Celestial Forest.  That’s okay. Even if I wind up in the Barrens, it’ll be okay with me, ‘cause I’ll no longer be a burden.  I had a dream, not long ago – a vivid dream. In it, I’d died an’ was all laid out on the forest floor. I was watchin’ myself, like I was a ghost or somethin’.  The scavengers came along – dogs and vultures and the like, eatin’ on me and bein’ full an’ happy.  It was then that I realized my body was worth more to this world than my soul, mind, whatever you wanna call it ever was.  Even if I go to that gray place, or even the cold black nothing your folk have in mind, it’ll be okay.” 

“We find that people have visions of either pleasure or horror, depending upon a number of factors,” Dodge said, “The nice visions that we catch rantings of would seem to resemble the after-land of one of our obsolete religions, a land called ‘Ciel.’  The unpleasant rantings would seem to resemble the opposite of that place in the old thought, ‘The Grand Prison.’  It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference were someone’s from or what they believed, although some of you Ilkhan rant about your superstitions, creatures coming to get you and so forth.  In any case, it is all rather fascinating.”

“Does anyone say they just see nothing?” 

“Sometimes.  Sometimes, it’s just blackness coming to get them, like blacking out.  We’ve studied that, too, and it’s what I expect to see when it comes my time.” 

“I don’t suppose you’ll take a clinic.”

“I might if I get sick or become crippled – am no longer in the favor of Materia-Machina, as we say.  I doubt I’ll ever come to one over poverty, but if it happens, that, too.” 

“I never was able to make much money, hold a decent job.  It’s ‘cause I’m an Ilkhan, but more than that, I guess.  Some folks say that even some of my kind are in Machina’s favor, but I was never strong enough.”

Dodge nodded.  “You are a rare one, you know, and quite brave for this.  You understand your own lack of value and have chosen to sacrifice for the good of your society.” 

“Bravey’s got nothin’ to do with it, lady,” Sen answered.  “I’m pretty darn sure this may be the most cowardly thing I’ve ever done.  A friend of mine said I should be brave an’ live just to spite the world, but I can’t. I just can’t bear up.  He told me once about how his people see a pot that’s been broken and mended as being better than a new pot.  Then I thought – pretty sure I said to him outright – ‘What happens when a pot’s been broken into so many shards an’ dust ya can’t fix it an’ it leaks no matter what ya do?’  He told me I missed the point, but I’m sure I’m just too broken.  People here sweep up the broken pieces of a smashed pot and put them in the trash.” 

“Uh huh.”

“I know I don’t think like normal folk. It’s why I’m too broken, not worth fixin’.  Best to be quick, stop wastin’ stuff that can go to others.” 

Dodge opened a door and gestured to a lounge-type chair with leather belts on the arms and over the middle.  It was covered in sheets that were severely stained, but looked like they had been washed and that attempts at bleaching had been made on them that ultimately failed. A steel tray on a stand with instruments stood beside the chair as well as a strange device that resembled a headband with small, thin nails lining it – if headbands were made of steel.  Another doctor was there, a man.  His hair and his coat were like the rest of the room – very white.  Even his skin was quite pale. 

“This is Dr. Fredricks,” Dodge introduced. 

“What’s with the belts and all the sheets?” Sen asked. 

“The belts will keep you still and keep you sliding to the floor as you go limp,” Dr. Fredricks answered.  “The sheeting is because, well, when many people die, they leave quite a mess in terms of things relaxing.  It is for our benefit, to make cleanup easier.”

“What happens after all that?” Sen wondered.

Dodge gave him a gentle nod, “We have a cold storage in the back.” 

Sen shivered a little bit as he stared at the chair.  Once he sat down in it, there was no going back.  Did he really want to do this?  Up came a feeling that he often had; this horrible feeling of needing escape – one of those impulses that lead him to imagining scratching his own skin off with his fingernails or any convenient sharp object.  The last time he’d had that feeling, he’d torn up one of his arms with a sewing needle.  He always felt so stupid for having these impulses and images.  From what he’d learned from other people and society, normal people didn’t think thoughts like that.  Instead of alleviating pain, actions like that only reminded him of how abnormal – and therefore inferior – he was.

The deer legs and antlers that differentiated him from “real-humans” had nothing on those feelings of having a sub-par mind.  He walked over to the chair, sat down, laid his legs out and tried to get as comfortable as possible among the wadded sheets.  “Just hurry up,” he said, closing his eyes.  

The doctors strapped him in and he felt the strange sensation of metal placed over his forehead and temples, a careful fit over his antlers and behind his ears.  He relaxed as something was injected into a vein and a warm sensation overcame him.  He felt needles prick the skin of his scalp and the strange sharp sensation of electricity sparking against his sweat.  He smelled both – not a burning aroma, but that indescribable odor peculiar to electrical activity. 

“Measurin’ my brain?” he asked in a slur.  He felt like his mouth was full of smooth stones. 

“The study has begun,” Dr. Dodge said. 

A burning, sharp pain shot through Sen’s entire body.  His skin was stretching and pulling away from him.  He looked down at his arms and his legs. The skin was coming off him of its own accord, as if he were being skinned by an invisible knife. 

“What’s going on?” he yelped, panicking against the straps that held him firm.  He watched helplessly as his legs became tight pinkish muscles and white cartilage stretched over the long bones, washed in deep red from the opened veins snaking throughout.

“You are experiencing the first stages of the Grand Prison,” Dr. Fredricks said calmly.  Sen detected a hint of…glee?..in his voice. 

“Why am I going somewhere I don’t even believe in?  I ain’t heard of it ‘till today!” 

“Because we’re manipulating your visions, dear,” Dr. Dodge explained.  “The device we placed upon you is not for measuring, as we told you. We’ve gathered enough information from our studies.  We have learned how to manipulate dying dreams.  We can give you the ‘eternity’ we see fit – whatever we want, whatever we think you deserve.”

“Why?”  Sen’s cry was cracked, weak and desperate, issuing forth from a throat too sore and a heart too frightened to be anything but a pathetic plea.   

“Because we can,” she answered, “and because you believed in nonsense, because you were not strong enough to gain the favor of our Materia-Machina, and because you are of an inferior kind.  You lived your life as a beast who did not know its place.  You existed.  You existed at all, that is why – but mostly, because we can.” 

Dr. Dodge had metamorphosed into a horrific creature with gray, rotting flesh and yellow fingernails that resembled thick talons.  Dr. Fredrick appeared to have turned into some kind of a reptile covered in bulging sores and puss that glistened over his scales.  They both forced a pot to his mouth.  It looked like it had been cracked and mended with grout. Sen felt an incredible lurching urge in his stomach and emptied its contents into the pot – only for it to be forced back into his mouth until he drank it down. 

He closed his eyes tight and then opened them to find himself standing up in a misty gray void that darkened into a surrounding abyss of black. His skin was back on his body and the pain of having had it removed subsided.  The taste of vomit, however, remained on his tongue as well as grit and squishy bits behind his back teeth. He gulped hard.      

Invisible claws tore over his chest, his arms, his back.  The young Ilkhan watched chunks of juicy flesh torn from him.  He felt something bow his head and cut off his antlers.  They clattered to the floor before him, cut clean as if by a spectral axe.  This was the greatest shame for his people, or at least the tribe his family had come from.  The antlers were the pride of an Ilkhan, especially for a young stag like him. 

He felt an ache in his middle and looked down to find parts of him falling out.  The organs still pulsed and worked.  His nose was assaulted by a particular gutty smell – something that went beyond the smell of bodily wastes or the smell of blood, but was something of a slimy, gooey nature, as much as such things could have a scent.  He had experienced the odor of an eviscerated animal before, and so he recognized it.  Sen was surprised that he could remain standing and that he could concentrate on things such as scents, but such was the strangeness of whatever place he was in.   

This wasn’t like the Barrens his parents had told him about.  According to the myths of many of the tribes of Ilkhan on the borderlands of the Land-of-Always-Night and those that lived, as his family had, in the Land-of-Always-Day, some people went to an unpleasant place after death, a lonely, gray land.  There were some tribes of Ilkhan that believed all went to a similar place, regardless of the deeds and the honor of a life lived.  According to what his parents had told him when he was a child, those with good hearts received better – either ascension into the Celestial Forest, a place of peace and beauty beyond description, or a chance to get there, either though ghostly wanderings or rebirth into a chance to live a nobler life.   People who went to the Barrens inflicted it upon themselves with their petty hearts, but it was not generally thought of as an inescapable place or as a place of profound and acute torture – only as a lonely land where a person might torture themselves if they did not find the way out.

If he was in the “Grand Prison,” it was decidedly a different thing.  The pain was such that he didn’t even bother pondering whether or not he deserved it. 

“Here!” A voice said out of the darkness.  “Pull yourself together, boy, and walk this way.” 

Sen’s ears perked in confusion.  The voice did not sound like either of the doctors.  It was a kind voice, almost playful.  Not knowing what else to do, he began gathering what he could of his broken body into his hands and clutching it to his middle.  He was surprised at the ebbing pain and at the fact that his torn flesh seemed to be mending itself.  He stepped forward, through the mists and noticed that the weight of his antlers had returned to his head.  He saw a pair of diamonds in the dark. 

“That’s it,” the voice said, “Easy now.  Calm yourself.  You’re safe now.” 

Sen, fully mended, dressed and out of pain squinted in the darkness. The darkness turned progressively grayer but never turned to light.  It was a pleasant gloaming, like the twilight he’d seen once on a trip to the Gloaming Lands, or like the light of an overcast day. 

The diamonds glittered, like twin white lights, sometimes shifting subtly into other colors, but always coming back to that clear white light, silvered at the edges.  Out of the foggy air stepped a dog – medium-sized, black and shaggy.  Its ears were floppy and its nose was long.  It looked half-wet.  Its eyes were never visible as eyes – they remained shining. 

Sen smiled and knelt, offering his hand out to the animal.  The dog did not approach him, but spoke; “I am not a pet,” it said. 

“You spoke!” Sen exclaimed. 

“Of course I did.  Is it really unexpected?  You know the legends of your folk.” 

Sen stood up.  “You are one of the Guides, then.” 

“Do you remember which one was the dog?” the dog said, wagging his tail slightly. 

“Reincarnation, I think.” 

“Correct.”

“But I was just in…. an’ figurin’ the way I died…Iffin’ I’m really, fully dead now?” 

“Silly boy!” the dog barked, running to him and putting his paws on his thighs playfully.  His tail wagged back and forth as if he were expecting Sen to throw a ball for him, then he sat back down and cocked his head.  “You’ve got too soft a heart for the Barrens and not enough lingering resentment to become a ghost.”

“I was in a horrible place,” Sen said. 

“I know,” the dog said compassionately.  “It’s been overridden.”

“Overridden?” 

“Your good heart is being protected.  The cruel hearts cannot touch it any longer.” 

“Where am I?”

“Between, but keep in mind, boy, this may be as much a function of your own mind as the other state was.”

“But I’m dead, right?” 

“Maybe yes and maybe no.  I would say that you are, but I may be a figment of your imagination, a function of your poor brain protecting itself after being put under terrible stress.  Either way, what your ‘good’ doctors wished to do to you has been overridden.” 

“So, I am seein’ the dog that guides folk to reincarnatin’, and you’re sayin’ you might be real and maybe not.”

“Correct.” 

“Hmm.”

“What do you know in your heart to be true of your life?” 

“That I screwed up?” 

“Everyone screws up.  What is true about the end of your life, as you know it?” 

“I went to the clinic an’ told ‘em to take my life. I didn’t want it anymore.” 

“You did not expect to reach the Celestial Forest with that.”

“I didn’t.  Didn’t expect you, either.”

“I am here because you failed to learn a crucial lesson.  I am here because you let the people who would destroy you win in the worst way possible.  You conceded defeat and destroyed yourself.  You may not have done it by your own hand, but you know you let the bastards win.” 

Sen gaped, surprised at the language employed by what was supposed to be a spiritual guardian. 

“Each of us are honest.  The Lady of Chains and the Golden Stag are not much for conversation, but the Cat and I enjoy brutal honesty.” 

“So, seein’ as I chose an exit, I gotta go back through this whole life thing all over again.”

“Yep,” the dog said as he stood, stretched and yawned.  “I’ve no control over it except as a guide, but I suspect the next time will be easier on you.  I do know that you will go to the past – that is, what you know to be the ‘past’ right now.” 

“I’m bein’ sent through history? How, wha? Ain’t I supposed to live anew in the future? Thought it was the way it goes…” 

“Time is not how you think of it,” the dog answered.  “It has its own substance and patterns.  You may have read the gravestone of yourself at some point in your life, or read a book written by yourself.  Is that not an interesting possibility?”

“Definitely, but weird, weird, weird, weird.  Lead on, I guess.  I’m just glad to be away from the horror. The docs were runnin’ some kinda experiment on my brain… why would they put me through pain when they just want folk like me gone quick an’ clean?”

“Because you disagreed with them,” the dog said bluntly.  “You were of a people who disagreed with theirs, or so they perceived.  Some cannot stand not being right in everyone’s eyes.  Others cannot stand the existence of people different than they are or that they otherwise do not approve of.  Even when someone they have a distaste for is utterly powerless, human cruelty knows no bounds.  For some, merely inflicting pain upon others brings joy – a sense of superiority, perhaps.  I wish that you had kinder ‘passage-assisting’ doctors. Those two were just especially horrible.” 

“They said something about the Grand Prison bein’ somethin’ people once believed in an’ don’t anymore.” 

“Yes.  The current people that dominate daylands wiped out all who held to that, and to the Ciel - that concept of that is not unlike the Celestial Forest.  The people who believed in the Prison were of mixed opinions on it.  Some thought people could escape it, like the way some think of the Barrens. Most thought it was forever, but most didn’t wish it on folks.  Some did, don’t get me wrong – human cruelty knows no bounds.  Most that believed in it sought to warn people away from it.  Even some that believed it existed most ardently hated it, and saw it merely as a cruel fact they could not change.”

“Seems like it woulda hurt a lotta people – even iffin’ it didn’t turn out the truth for them.”

“It is a painful concept.” 

“What I don’t understand is – them doctors, they didn’t even believe in it! Thought it was nonsense, but the lady – she was in control….they… they wanted to try to send me to the Grand Prison though they didn’t believe it at all! Why’d someone wish a torture-chamber they think is bunk on someone they never met? Why’d they wish it on anyone?” 

“Bitter hearts.”

“That’s gotta be different than the folk who just believed in it and didn’t want folk to go! I mean, one kinda people’s gotta be outta their minds with fear an’ grief, but people like my doctors are… sick!” 

“Well, when the wish is not a throwaway phrase or an idle threat, but capable of being implemented, yes.” 

“They wanted me to die in pain…. All that blood and guts I thought I saw to be the last thing I felt and all I’d know.”

“Yes.  A Grand Prison, implemented, made as ‘real’ as they can.  I think your doctors Dodge and Fredricks would have been considered valuable to the Valien army during the purges and the wars, though Dodge is too young to have been a part of that time.  Quite a lot of torture went on, though it was physical.” 

“And I’m to be reborn into such a world.” 

“Yes.  All the living in the world must know cruelty, whether they are on the supply end or the receiving end of it.  One must do what one can to live nobly.” 

Sen walked with the dog through the mists.  “Well, iffin’ this is real at all. Maybe I’ll walk here forever or only think I’m bein’ born somewhere’s somewhen’s when it’s all just me dyin,’ an’ nothin’ else.”

“You wouldn’t be able to process anything else if there was nothing to process, anyway.”

“I’m glad for the override, then. Thanks.” 

“Know the good in your heart and try not to let the bastards win this time.”

END.

Cut Throat

As always:  http://sparrowmilk.blogspot.com/2011/03/static-lands-saga-1-worldsetting.html  - so if you're a new reader, you know why there's a Land-of-Always-Night and why some people have antlers.

A ghost story.  A retired warrior is visited by the spirit of someone he killed who never figured out why petty differences were a cause for dealing death.

The fictional language in this is based upon a language my sister made up when we were kids.  She and her friends used to use it around me to keep things from me.  I was later taught it so I could join in talk about adult matters around her children, whom she wanted to keep things from.  I modified aspects of it for this story, but it remains a pretty easy-to-figure out English cipher.  For those wondering what the first thing the character who uses it said - his first line is "You do not know the faces of your own staff."  The rest of what he says in his native tongue is explained in the story.

The Static-Lands Saga

Cut Throat

Thick oil smell filled Brandt’s nostrils as he snuffed the torches.  Smoke curled in pale gray whispers and tickled the tip of his nose.  Electricity was uncommon in the area he’d chosen as his residence, but he could have afforded lines to be brought in if he desired it enough.  He also could have afforded lighting and heating magic, but he was not inclined to trust such things.

He’d heard a story once of a minor wizard that had been late on a payment to his local major mages.  His magic-flow had been cut off in the middle of a spell, resulting in his being stuck in a transformation.  The man had turned himself into a rabbit and could not become a man again until the bill was paid.  Strangely enough, he’d retained his antlers in rabbit-form, but tragically, he was killed and eaten by his neighbor’s cat all the same.

Brandt did not trust in magic or even, entirely, in science.  He trusted his muscles, his wits and the strong steel of his swords.  The waves crashed outside.  His castle by the Southern Sea was small and lonely, but Brandt was not a man that trusted much in love, either.    

He climbed into his bed, his silken sheets as smooth as water against his skin.  The season was summer.  In the winter, he reclined on blankets made from the pelts of rare beasts.  The light of the perpetual moon shone upon a sword and shield that hung on the wall opposite the bed, edges of white flame on a backdrop of gray.  The moon was full in the Land-of-Always-Night tonight. 

Brandt had not earned this castle by being nice.  This area was the land of his people now.  The remnants of the natives conformed to the ways of Kanika, although the colonial lands were still called Danika.  Brandt thought about the sword that had won him his manor as he drifted off to sleep.

He was awakened rather rudely.  A frigid draft blew over his body. 

“Cold sea breeze,” he muttered as he drew up the sheets around himself, shifting to his side. His Ilkhan antlers, though unusual in that they were flat like those of a moose rather than thin like those of common deer, were situated upon his head in a manner that allowed him to lay upon his side.  Still, he had to be careful with that. He scraped one against the wall uncomfortably and opened his eyes in pain.   

“Wha!” he exclaimed before he could even utter a grunt of irritation.  A man stood before his bed, dressed in blue and white. 

“Need no service now,” Brandt groused.  “Come back when I’m hungry or somethin’.  Back to your quarters.” 

The stranger spoke.  His voice was clear and even.  “Yung-oyo dungoh nungohtung kungnungohwung tunghung-ee fung-ah-kung-ee-sung ohfung  yung-oyurung ohwungnung sungtung-ah-fungfung.” 

“What kind of talk is that?” Brandt grumbled, turning in bed again.  Suddenly, he remembered where he had heard such a language.  It was the native speech of the Danika – the tongue of the people he helped his own to conquer.

Brandt sat up.  There was a Danikan in his bedchamber!  Before he could launch himself up to grab the sword off the wall, his eye caught a disturbing feature on the person of the intruder.  The man was young despite his gray hair.  His antlers were common-brown and unusual.  His right horn was small and branched while the left was long, arched inward and smooth, bearing no offshoot.  It was none of these features that gave Brandt pause.  His gaze fixed upon the long, deep cut across the man’s throat. 

“Is this some kind of trick or twisted joke?” Brandt demanded.  The wound looked real in that way a trained eye could tell and it was a particularly vicious cut.  He could see the rent skin, cleanly-sliced flesh, edges of fat, opened veins and was sure he could even make out the punctured windpipe. The wound looked bled-out, like meat at the butchers’ market or like a wound on a stale corpse.  If the intruder was wearing paint or make-up, it did a convincing job.  In his former life, Brandt had seen many people with their throats cut.  He’d done the job himself on more than a few.   

“A clean and fatal wound by a man well-trained and practiced in the art of killing,” the man said in the language Kanika shared with much of the rest of the world.  “You would know.  A sharp knife drawn through particular veins and arteries leaves a distinctive mark.  It was not an instant death, but it was quicker than many other kinds of death.” 

“Who are you?  Why are you here?  It is not the right time of year for you to be dressed for the Feast of the Dead.”   

“Am I frightening?” The Danikan said sarcastically.  “It is much more frightening to have a wound like this than to see it.” 

“Get out of here! Go back to your seven slut-wives or whatever!  Out before I take the rest of your head off!” 

“I am afraid your sword would be most ineffective on me, old soldier.  I am also afraid that I never had even one wife in my short corporeal existence.  You took away my chance to find one.” 

“Huh?” 

“You took many things from me.” 

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

“Really, now?  Are you so sure?”  The stranger knelt and put his hands behind his back, joining them at the wrists as if they were bound.  “Kung-I-lunlung mungay ifung itung wung-I-lunglung mungaykung-ee yung-oyu hungaypungpungyung.” 

Brandt’s eyes widened as he flew out of bed, tossing his sheets aside.  “You!” he growled.  “That upstart that dared to speak to me in the execution-line!  I’ll cut your throat again!”

“You lack the knife and I lack the body,” the intruder replied.  “Both the cultures of Danika and Kanika have the same beliefs.” 

“Then why aren’t you in the Gray World?” 

“We both also believe in spirits.”

“I’ve never been bothered by ghosts before.  I’ve no doubt made many… so why are you here?  If you’re just a ghost, you cannot hurt me, you can only moan and show me your wounds! You do not frighten me!”

“I doubt that I would frighten you - an old soldier who does not fear living beings capable of wielding muscles and weapons, ” the spirit said, returning to what passed for its feet. “I truly am as nothing… just an afterimage of a life that once was and quite harmless.  I do, however, have a reason for being here.  Don’t you wish to know my name?”

“Excuse me?”

“My name was Songhungay-Dungee.”

“I’m not calling you that.”

“It trips on your tongue.  Call me Shade in your language. The closest approximation is Shade.” 

“Okay – I know your name.  So you’ve finished your business, now go to the Gray World where you belong.” 

“Who is to say that I am not already in the Gray World? I am neither happy nor sad, here nor there.  Our neighbors believe in the Shade-Realm as well as the Barrens and the Celestial Forest.  If I knew I had one of them to go to, perhaps I would go.  As it is, our people only have the Gray World – a destination for all regardless of how a soul lived its life.  As I am now, I am a shade and I feel gray.” 

“So, it’s boring being a ghost.  Gotcha.  Do you expect me to apologize for killing you?  Not gonna happen, Shade.  I was serving my people and bringing enlightenment to yours.” 

Shade floated to the end of Brandt’s bed and sat upon it.  “Enlightenment?” he asked.

“Danika is better off now, under Kanika’s government and culture.  Your people were disgusting.”

“How so?” Shade asked.  “I lived peacefully.  I only fought to defend my village when your unit came marching in.  I didn’t even kill that one guy I attacked – not that I hadn’t tried.  What offended you so much that you wanted to put a knife to the neck of a simple farmer and horribly incompetent warrior?”

“Your people’s fealty to a king, for one thing,” Brandt answered. 

“You are loyal to a president and a governing council.”

“My people vote for them!  And they change every fifth year!  Your king was the king for life and his son after him would take his place, no matter how incompetent and idiotic!  What stupid, cowardly people would subject themselves to that?”

“It made sense to us,” Shade answered.  “Your ‘Great Council’ always squabbles, sometimes over something as trivial as the kind of lighting they wish to be used in their chambers.  Our king got things done.  If we felt oppressed, we would have risen up.  After all, my people have large families.  The many could easily overtake the few – and certainly the one.”

“That’s the other thing,” Brandt grumbled, “your families.  The Kanika way is one of greater trust – a man and the wife.  The Danika way-”

“I had five mothers,” Shade interrupted.  “One of them by birth.  The rest were my father’s other wives.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“It was quite normal.  My mothers all loved me, as well as my many siblings.  I was neither the eldest nor the youngest.  My family was smaller than most.  Most men take seven women by the time they reached the age my father was at upon my birth.”

“And you were to follow.  Danikans cannot keep their lusts in check.” 

“On the contrary,” Shade answered, “This way was necessary for much of our history to produce enough children to keep the population stable.” 

“It became outdated,” Brandt sneered.

“Perhaps…”

“Perhaps?”  Brandt could not believe what he had just heard.  “You’re a Danikan.  Danikan males are supposed to desire a collection of loose women.” 

“I didn’t,” the ghost replied. 

“Did you desire men?”

“In Danikan society that is as rare as monogamy. It happens, just not often because of our culture’s emphasis on producing children.  What I mean is no – I was a strange one.  I fancied the idea of only one wife, as your people take, and a small family.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Upon studying it, I also thought that, perhaps, our kingly system was outdated.  I really thought that Kanika had some bright ideas.” 

“You were really going to defect?”

“Never, old soldier,” Shade sighed, “You see, I fought for my village.  I could not defect while I had brothers, sisters, mothers and an elderly father to care for and protect.  In addition, there are many things that are cultural pride to the Danikans – things the war was not about that Kanika crushed, anyway – our music, our art, and your people are trying to exterminate our language.  Are you happy?” 

“I am, actually,” Brandt confessed.  “You are in my manor-castle.”

“I did not ask if you were rich,” Shade said, staring at him with all the intensity his translucent eyes could convey, “I asked you if you were happy.” 

“Same thing!” 

“You wish you could be richer and you wish more agreed with your ways – not just those of your people, but your own personal ideas.  I bet you feel offended that I did not bow to you willingly the day you killed me. I had to be forced to my knees.” 

“It doesn’t matter.  You’re dead and I’m alive.” 

“Do you want to know what I said to you?”

“I already know what you said to me.  You used that tongue-twisting nonsense language of your kind.” 

“I can speak openly with you now.  I said “Kill me if it will make you happy.”

“So, you did go to your death willingly.”

“Not exactly.  I muttered something under my breath before your knife cut it off.”

“I’ll bite, what worthless thing did you mumble?”

“I said: ‘I don’t think it will.’  I stand by it. I don’t think you are content.  Conquerors always seek a new conquest.  That is their nature.” 

“My people have conquered Danika. Those that remain alive are subject to us.  So long as the other nations leave us be, we have no need for further conquest.”

“Really now?” Shade asked, cocking his head. “Maybe that’s only because you do not truly think you have completely conquered this land.” 

Brandt scratched his short, rough beard.  “Your people are such rebellious upstarts.  They do not know what’s good for them.  Some have conformed beautifully, but I am still suspicious of them… they looks they give their betters.  The rest? I wonder if the only solution is to make them like you.” 

“You do know that some of the Kanikans have begun adopting bits of Danikan culture.”

“Too much of it, and they may have to face the same fate.”

“Or perhaps, you’ll have to face my fate when enough people decide that my people’s culture is worth revival.  Personally, however, I do not want anyone to share my fate.”

“Go to the Gray World.” 

“Farewell, old soldier. One day, I hope that you will truly be without a fight.” 

Shade vanished.  Brandt grumbled, drew the bed sheets up over his body and shoulders and drifted back to sleep.  He dreamed a memory – of a day when the moon was shining bright and his unusual, flat-style moose-like antlers, newly polished, and been marred with spats of mud and blood from fighting.  The men under his command had subdued the native villagers.  Many corpses lay upon the mud, in the fields, and in the doorways of the squat little whitewashed, thatch-roofed houses.  A few of his men lay in the mud, as well.  They had been good soldiers, though a bit green. 

One of his experienced fighters, however, was lost as well and Brandt couldn’t believe the method – one of the fools in this village had gotten in a lucky stab to his chest with a sharpened pitchfork, a thrust that had wedged between the soldier’s armor.  Whether he’d been speared through the heart or through a lung had not been ascertained by the medic yet. The only sure thing was that one of Brandt’s best warriors was dead by the hand of a farmer. Another of the better soldiers had been wounded in the shoulder by a young gray-haired man wielding a common cooking-knife.  The man who’d wielded the pitchfork had been beheaded by another of Kanika’s finest while the young upstart was among the prisoners.  

Brandt barked orders to his troops to round up the children and to subdue and disarm the remaining village women.  His superiors would deal with them.  He walked to a place outside the Village Elder’s house where several wounded and contained young men and women were being bound and forced to their knees.  He was asked by one of his fighters what was to be done with them. 

Brandt pulled a large knife from his belt, the one he kept beside his sword.  He walked down the line, looking into the eyes of the captured villagers.  He walked to the end of the line where a young man with gray hair and unusual antlers looked up at him and dared to speak. 

“Kill me if it will make you happy. I don’t think it will.” 

Brandt awoke with a start, throwing the sheets off himself in the process.  The moon shone through his window.  The sea breeze was unusually cold.

“Strange dreams I’m having tonight,” he muttered.  He shuddered in the chilly air and did not go back to sleep. He felt strange, rather gray.   

END.