First chapter to a story I may leave on the back burner. I
know how I want it to end but not sure of length or the
middle exactly. Not edited but I like the concept. I'm
finding that when I'm writing it's more like reading than
work, reading pretty slowly but I enjoy turning the pages.
I did a bit of research on getting published the other day,
though it is premature. Seems a lot more difficult than I
was thinking. I might try it sometime when I get more
material together so I have something to fall back on.
Would rather write for fun for the time being. I don't know
why the font changes halfway through some of the text when I
post it.
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Inner
Eye (Dec 13,2005-)
David Roberts sat alone in a
dim and dusty room. Carved out my human hands long dead, it
stood as a testament to ingenuity of time long past. Only
about five feet high it beckoned those who entered its maw,
to sit upon the earthen floor and peer at messages whose
meanings were forgotten. Across the rocky enclosure sang
carved stories in bright inks of heroes and demons, hunts
and celebrations. One in particular caught David’s eye. A
fantastic hunt told in dark coal, the prey upon the ground
resembled a human being-it would have seemed cannibalistic
if the hunter did not appear so alien. His horned head
stretched to the sky like smoke caught on a wind, peering
down at his prey he appeared to be toying with the man.
David blinked and he could have sworn he saw the man moving,
scrambling away from this dark overlord of nightmares left
best to a dying people told in archeological digs. Of
course the people who made this cave were not dead yet,
though each generation brought them closer to the brink. At
one time the village lying above ground was a center of
commerce- but today it was an idle curiosity as the children
left the old ways behind for the city. David’s eyes
continued to watch the stories unfold from the walls as he
sat in the waiting room.
David
Roberts wasn’t a tall man, so found the room more
comfortable than most would perhaps. With longish unkempt
hair and a gangly figure he felt oddly at peace sitting in
the midst of so much ancient history with crossed legs. A
cowboy hat capped his brow and his fingers dug into the dirt
beneath him as he concentrated on what he would ask the
seer.
Perhaps seer was not the correct word, the people he had
spoken with when researching the story called him by several
names. The blind one, mystic, holy man, and preacher were
but a few terms lost in translation. David was happy to
call him by any, so long as it earned him a cover story at
the weekly magazine he worked for. It has been so long now
since one of David’s stories had graced the cover, well over
a year. He had been in a slump, and his editor let him know
it constantly. Last month he had thought he had been onto
something, Werewolf Children in Russia. Unfortunately the
publication relegated it to some back page, between
horoscopes and the celebrity cross word puzzle. This story
though, David felt, could be the one to push him back on
top. An ancient site almost lost to history with some
wonderful secret.
David
had heard the story before, many times in his travels told
by local drunks aiming to impress the foreigner. Some
civilization holding onto the past while cities were planted
and grew around them. Rumored to be haunted or contain
artifacts of extraordinary power. It was common in his line
of work and usually were dismissed as readily as one would
swat at a fly. This time however was different. The story
involved a man who had burned out his own eyes to safe guard
some gift of the Gods. The locals hadn’t been very clear
about what the gift was; only that it was a terrible and
powerful thing. When pressed to give more information the
town’s people grew sullen and regretful that they had even
brought it up. David didn’t worry about that though, he had
been around people who felt they had said too much before.
He simply dropped the subject, bought them all a round of
drinks and began discussing local politics. His mind didn’t
drop the subject though. A few days later he approached a
few of the more talkative drunks, found the location of the
mysterious man and here he was now, waiting for a meeting.
The
reporter absentmindedly caressed his camera as he thought of
the story to come. It didn’t matter if the old man was a
fraud or the artifact in question was really some dulled
knife whose ceremonial purpose was forgotten. A man who was
blinded himself for some divine purpose was certainly enough
to earn him some recognition. As David tossed the idea over
in his mind on what type of spin to give this article he
didn’t notice the wooden doors to his side open or the old
man making his way deeply hunched over with a walking stick.
“So,
after all these years someone has come asking me a story?”
The old man croaked the words to the startled man sitting
cross-legged on the floor. David struggled to get his
camera off his neck and in so doing banged his head upon the
low ceiling.
The
man chuckled softly and spoke again. “Perhaps we had better
retire to a larger room.” He gestured to the passage from
which he had just come, descending into a dark slanted
tunnel with intermittent torches burning brightly, as if
they were being breathed upon.
David
had regained his wits and given up on getting his camera
ready, preferring to wait until he could stand full
upright. As he stumbled along after the man he asked him
questions.
“Why
is that room called the waiting room?” David inquired while
ducking under the crude doors overhang and noticing that the
way down had once been carved steps- long sense eroded.
“We
are waiting for our curse to be lifted. The room is between
the sky and the ground where our agony lies. It is a room
of meditation, where each young man must pass into
adulthood- and under its roof is where the keeper is
chosen.” The man walked with his stick before him as if he
was having no problems upon the broken steps. David thought
to himself, ‘if this man is blind I’m a prize journalist’.
“So,
you’re called the keeper then?” David struggled to keep up
with the man as they descended deeper into the tunnel. The
embrace of claustrophobia settled upon his shoulders, but
David managed to shrug it off.
“Yes. No doubt you have heard me called by many names, but
Keeper is the one known by my people. It was a great honor,
bestowed upon me. At the time I was happy and my family was
proud, but I’ve come to wish such a hard thing had not been
asked of me.”
David
noticed the tunnel was leveling out and saw a few hundred
feet away a much larger stone archway and a bright room
beyond. “So you were asked to be keeper?”
“I
was chosen by the last keeper. In our youth before we are
destined to a path in life we are asked to spend three days
without food in the waiting room to study the messages on
the wall. It is the only time we see the keeper in person,
though we had heard stories in our youth from those who are
older. After the third day the previous Keeper took us one
at a time to just under that archway ahead of us. He asked
us a simple question, ‘What did the walls say to you.’ Each
boy before me returned with his head low and said he had
gone no further. For only the next Keeper was allowed
before the next doorway.” At the archway the old man paused
to let David catch his breath.
“What
did you see on the walls?”
The
old man took a moment to answer. “I told the old keeper,
that I saw our people dying. He just nodded and beckoned me
into the room. It was there he told me to close the chapter
of my life above, and to come down here to live with him.”
The
old man stepped under the archway and into a glorious room
several stories high and perfectly square. The first part
of the room was clearly a living space. A matted bed lay on
the ground, a wooden table with two chairs next to that, and
a kettle hanging over an open fire a short distance off. At
the far side of the room stood two large statues of darkened
evil figures overlooking a small pedestal.
“Is
it true then, that you were blinded?”
The
Keeper grinned to himself and turned to see David dead on
while pulling the silvered hair back from his face. In this
lit room he clearly saw the keepers eyes, or what would have
been eyes- and it caused him to take a step back. His
eyeballs were both black as night with a deep scar running
outward like cracks from where the pupil should have been.
“The
worst part was the smell.” The old man chuckled and walked
over to the kettle. David remembered himself and pulled his
camera before him.
“Do
you mind if I get a picture of you?”
“We’ve come this far, haven’t we? Go ahead and after that
I’ll serve tea.”
David
tried not to wince at the old man’s eyes as he brought the
camera into focus. A quick press of the finger and David
said, “Got it.”
The
Keeper gestured at the small table before him, “I hope you
enjoy green tea. It’s one of the few luxuries of a keeper
to be well cared for by the villagers above. At least those
of them who are left.”
David
pulled up one of the only two stools and sat down trusting
the Keeper to pour it himself. ‘This is definitely going to
make a good story’, he thought to himself as he pondered
what to ask the man next.
The
old man poured them both a cup of tea without spilling a
drop, and he sat down opposite David waiting expectantly for
the reporter’s next question.
David
took a long sip of the tea and was pleasantly surprised as
the taste. The Keeper somehow noticing the man’s thoughts
remarked, “One of my few rewards,” while he took a long
drink himself.
“So
what exactly is it you’re keeping?” David had relaxed a
good deal by now and was finding it easier to look at the
old man’s burned out eyes.
“That
involves the story of the rise, and fall of my people. It
will take some time.”
“I
don’t mind, I’ve got all the time in the world.” David
reached into his pocket to remove a pen and a small pad of
paper. “Mind if I take notes?”
“Not
at all, in fact I insist.” The old man sipped his tea,
cleared his throat, and began.
“This
all happened long ago before my people kept much in the way
of records, so I can’t tell you if it was a thousand years
or ten thousand years- but it was long before the wonders of
modern times had even been dreamt up. We were a fierce
proud people who learned to fight barely off our mother’s
backs. It wasn’t too long before we had absorbed all the
tribes around us, or conquered them. We were an early
empire, ruling as far as the eyes could see on the tallest
hilltop. But, it wasn’t power we wanted. We were warriors
and though the people under us grew fat under our rule we
grew increasingly restless. The hunts had lost all their
flavor and our children were becoming decadent and unlearned
of the warrior ways.” The old man stared out in some
direction as if he was seeing something for a moment before
he continued. “When we noticed that we were dying, not from
some great battle but from our youth leaving our way of
life- the high council decided it was time for another war.
But try as they might they could find no enemies within
reach. The few groups sprawled along the edge of our empire
were too ready to join with us, not take up arms against
us.”
David
jotted down as much of this as he could while listening to
the Keeper speak, though he only paid it half mind as he
waited to hear the secret of this old man. It will had some
credibility to his story, but his readers wouldn’t want a
history lesson- they want something to make their hair stand
on end.
“It
was then that our high council turned to the preachers, at
the time we worshipped the god of fire. He set our spirits
to flame, our warrior hearts to burn, and the fires that
steadied our spears. The council, being made up of warriors
grown old, didn’t put much faith in the preachers- but
seeing their own children becoming mercantile left them
little choice. So they asked the holy men, what is there
that will save our people? And the preachers said they
needed time to think about it. So the high council was left
alone for several hours while the holy men burned several
plants and spoke in words and returned, to the councils
chagrin with this simple answer. ‘You need a stronger
enemy.’ The council was near in arms, since this was the
very thing they already knew themselves. But they knew that
striking down a holy man would condemn their souls to
servitude so held their tongues and asked, ‘where is this
stronger enemy’.
The
Keeper took a sip from his tea while listening to David’s
pen scratch the paper underneath it.
“So
after some discussion they made one of the largest offerings
of all time to the God of Fire. Half the food seized in
taxes by the tribes they had taken in by war or by
surrender. The people for the most part were against this,
as it meant they would have to get by with much less over
the winter months. But enough support for the aged warriors
on the council silenced them and so the offering was made
one night under a clear sky. ‘Oh Fire god, hear us,’ was
chanted in unison by the priests. ‘Give us an enemy worthy
of your loyal followers to make battle with.’ As one they
set torches to a great circle of dried branches and wood
that stood under their sacrifice. Still breathing, but
tied, animals stirred amongst piles of grain and fruit.
Once more the preachers chanted, ‘Give us an enemy worthy of
your loyal followers to make battle with.’ The flames grew
higher and flew inward towards the center of the sacrificial
circle. Finally, a third time the preachers cried out
louder than ever before, even joined by a few of the council
men, ‘Give us an enemy worth of your loyal followers to make
battle with.’ At the end of the words the fire suddenly
flared to life in all directions taking up all the animals
and offerings as if it was the fire god himself as a giant
swallowing them with one gulp.”
The
keeper turned to David and asked, “Are you getting all of
this?”
“Yes,
thank you. Please continue.” He was irritated at this
story going on for so long, but didn’t want to upset the old
man before he got everything he needed.
“After the flash died down and the fire was out it took a
few moments for their eyes to adjust once again to the
dark. It was then that they spied on the ground a bit of
cloth with some writing upon it. Though no one knew what it
meant at the time the people rejoiced, for it meant that the
God had answered them. A scuffle broke out on whether the
council or the priests would be the ones to hold onto the
book but it was decided they would erect a great tent over
the sacrificial site and keep it there for all to see. One
by one everyone of warrior age was lead to the site to see
the canvas in hopes it would inspire conquest within them-
but they saw nothing in it. Dejected fathers and
grandfathers lead their children back home. Only about half
the people had seen the cloth by then and the rest were
claiming it was some fool trick by the priests planting it
there for their own agenda. This went on until sunrise the
next morning when something strange began to happen. It was
as if some madness had gripped the young men of the village
who had seen the cloth. They spoke of seeing great shadowy
beasts all about them. They would say to their father or
mother that an awesome talon was tearing lengths of flesh
from their backs, the parents who were sure no such thing
was happening called the medicine man with claims their
child was with fever. It wasn’t until even later that the
older men who had seen the canvas began to see the same
things. This was the enemy promised by the God of Fire and
my people rose up to vanquish it. The half of the village
who hadn’t seen the gift of the fire god felt the other half
mad as they readied their weapons and progressed in small
groups to whatever shadow they could find. It appeared as
if they were striking at nothing at all. That was until the
warriors started dying, ripped in two by some unseen hand
they would hover in midair before falling to the ground. The
people screamed in terror, as every person who had seen the
cloth was killed; by the enemy found for us. Every man
except for one- an old warrior who had lost his sight some
seasons past who walked up to the gift with his grandson.”
“The
first keeper?” Asked David before realizing he hadn’t
interrupted the old man’s story yet.
“Yes,
he would be known as the first keeper. But for now the
people were distraught and looking to place blame. All
their greatest warriors had been killed in one day. There
was no more sign of the great monsters that had come, but
the memory was burned forever in my peoples mind. Several
priests were killed before the mobs were brought under
control. And even as some semblance of normalcy was
returning, the question remained. ‘What to do with the
gift?’ We had gotten a gift from God, and no matter how
much pain it had wrought, we could not bring ourselves to
destroy it. Not merely out of fear but also out of
reverence. So instead we gave it to the one man who had
looked upon it and lived, the blind old warrior who came to
be known as Keeper of the Gift, and in later generations
just keeper. The story is all but forgotten now, told
generation to generation from one keeper to the next. But
the people now, live above as if nothing had ever happened.
This space was carved out of the rock as a place to keep the
gift far enough away so as not to threaten anyone, but close
enough to remember. Children still come to the waiting
room, but few even know why they are there anymore. Even in
my generation most of the story had been forgotten. But we
keepers are not only keepers of the gift, but the story tied
to it. Our empire quickly collapsed with so many missing
warriors and the hardship brought by the giant sacrifice-
and the once proud people became isolated and hard-pressed
to survive.”
It
took David several moments to realize that the old man was
finished. “So no one has even seen this thing since that
first time so long ago?” The reporter stuck his pencil in
his mouth and was chewing on the eraser, hoping to catch a
fresh angle.
“Not
that I’ve been told of. As far as I know only the keeper
and the keepers apprentice have been in this room since it
has been built. Except, of course for you.”
“So
why am I here, why did you agree to see me of all people?”
The
keeper thought long and hard for a moment and answered, “I’m
not sure if was the right thing to do or not. Less so now
than before I met you. I didn’t want the story to die, even
if my people do. There are only a handful of us left above
and mostly old. Our children go off to school and never
return, or if they do it’s only a brief visit trying to
convince their parents life in the city is so much better.”
David
decided to accept this answer for the moment. “So can I see
it?”
“See
what,” the keeper asked before realizing what the reporter
was asking. “Oh yes- I mean no. You can see the case but I
can’t allow you to see the canvas inside.”
“Guess it will be enough. And I can take pictures of the
case and the statues?”
“Feel
free. Only I must strongly suggest you keep your distance
from the case itself. I myself find it hard to be within
more than a few feet of it.”
The
Keeper pushed his chair back and beckoned for David to do
the same. With stretched legs they crossed the few dozen
feet to the large statues and the pedestal while David’s
reporting instincts had him shooting off dozens of pictures.
“Are
those the enemy the God of Fire sent for you to fight?”
Asked David, while raising his camera to get a full shot of
them. Terrible creatures they were, that up close seemed
more insect like than animal. Closer still they seemed to
lose even a semblance to animals- truly becoming something
alien.
“Yes. At least as best as we can tell since no one left
alive actually saw them.”
They
stood a full fifteen feet in the air crowned with some
blackened carapace that stood out from their naked bodies.
Each hand was stretched outward as if attached to large
wings and was studded with six equally space indexes, capped
with several inch long talons. “I hope these aren’t built
to scale,” joked David moving across the room to get
pictures at different angles.
“Most
likely not, as I said no one left alive had actually seen
them. They only had the terrified yells of the warriors to
go on.” The keeper tried to stay next to David through all
this but he was moving around so quickly he found it
difficult to keep up.
“Ooh,” David crooned looking upon the pedestal and spying
for the first time the ornament golden case for the cloth.
Precious stones of all sorts lay entrenched in the cover and
binding of the box. He took a quick picture and then bent
over for closer examination. Sliding his hands across the
box he noticed it was warm to the touch, and tingly- almost
like static electricity. His heart raced as he smooth his
palm against the jewels.
“Really, I asked you not to touch the box,” exclaimed the
keeper as he finally caught up to David and put one hand
upon his shoulder.
David
barely noticed as he felt an overwhelming urge to open the
box. It was glittering before his eyes in dazzling
patterns. He felt extremely alive and euphoric, openly
laughing as his eyes and fingers danced upon the coverings.
The
keeper tugged at David’s shoulder harder which momentarily
broke David’s entrancement. “Get off me old fool!” he cried
as he shoved the old man backwards several feet hard. With
no more thought to the keeper he wrenched the box open and
his eyes fell to the cloth tied down inside.
The
cloth itself was nothing spectacular outside of lasting for
so long, the writing however was. It wasn’t a picture, or
even a word. It wasn’t a diagram or art of some form. It
was only a symbol. A bright red symbol that seemed to burn
as David gazed at it closer. An impossible symbol that made
David thing of M.C. Escher. It was a spiral that was also a
box; as you turned your head, it seemed to shift. Oddly
enough it seemed to reach beyond the thin layer of the
fabric and existed as if it was sculptured. David ran his
hands over the symbol standing out and felt them pass
through it as something cold and unworldly. He shivered and
realized what he had done. Quickly shutting the box David
turned to see the old man still lying on the ground several
feet behind him.
“I’m
sorry, I’m so sorry.” David lamented as he struggled to
help the old man back to his feet. He was still confused at
what he had done; he had never been a violent sort and
couldn’t understand it.
“It’s
not your fault, it’s the boxes fault. I should have known
better than to bring you here.” The old man looked as if
was near to tears as he glanced around the room with his
sightless eyes.
“It’s
okay, if you’re okay. See nothing terrible happened to
me.” David managed a laugh as he helped the Keeper back to
the table on the other side of the room. Still distraught
over his actions David sought an excuse to leave. “I really
have stayed longer than I should have, deadlines to meet and
that sort of thing. I appreciate you telling me your
story.” Still feeling bad about pushing the man down he
added, “Are you sure you’re okay? I could get a doctor if
you need one.”
“No,
I’m fine. What you should be worried about is yourself.”
David made a puzzled look. “Don’t just shrug this off as
some fools story. You saw the symbol, you must have noticed
something unusual about it.”
The
reporter couldn’t argue with that but felt the need to leave
even more clear now. “Well look I’m sorry again, I’ll just
take some snap shots of the waiting room and be out of your
hair.”
“Do
what you will, young man, but I’m warning you- don’t let
them see you watching them” The Keepers voice sounded out
firmly.
“Who?” David called back from the tunnel leading to the
waiting room and finally, outside again.
“You’ll find out.” Was the last David heard of the Keeper
as he reached the waiting room, stopping for a minute to
take pictures of the art he had looked at while waiting for
the Keeper. Still that rush to leave was in him, either
from what he had seen or from harming the old man- it
compelled him to hurry on up to his car and drive back to
the hotel.
