The Occultist I

[Jentos 9422]

THE OCCULTIST

 

I

 

He had done it again. 

And it was utterly astounding. 

It stood there, lifeless, a bloody crown caking the floor. Avidly he slunk his fingers down over the ground, sweeping up what thick liquid he could with trembling hands. His veins shown like purple streaks across his arms, his left hand was swollen. Dawn came, and it’s hands were red. They creeped up, light drifting and plunging through the glass panes of the hall. A bloody fetus, monstrous and unsightly carved itself from the bowels of the hills as it made it’s ascent into that of the sky, bathing the man in it’s light. His hands were red. He brought one up to the light. The very crimson syrup shone pure and unmarred as it snaked down the length of his hands, gliding unto his showing, bulging veins. He looked down at his feet at the slumbering thing.

And it was utterly astounding. 

 

He could feel it, etched into his very self - that voice. A voice that should not have been. Every word it cast - a syllable in the dark, a hymn in the night. A thing that sang the world. He could feel them - those glyphs, etched deep into the very foundings of his throbbing, screaming, burning heart. He knew very well what would happen if he were to return. To cross the eastern sea. To cross the steppes. To cross the light. They would take the strings of his very heart - mount him into a monster of song. A leering recreation of a fallen emissary. A dead thing, that only lived through those that slept, and a town that dreamt. Was that - was that their idea of life? Recreation? Even worse, recitation. The man bent down, his throbbing fingers clasped hard against that of a long wand, signs of burns along its surface. He slid it deep within his coat. Into his pocket, and it clinked, against the rattle of nails.

 

Outside, those riders and townsfolk made merry. There was no lord to the place, only God. And wise men knew how sternly God watched. And wiser, though perhaps I should call them erratic, also knew how much God desired. And the World wanted blood. Sometimes he wondered where the poor Vesian girl was - but no, no. That had been the moon, that had been nightmare. There had been no truth to the shattering of the teapot - the screams in the night - to gatekeepers that would not listen. Itching, itching. There was only truth perhaps, to the coffin of marrow - those bones so pillaged by the hounds, who stared back at the man in great hate. Those animals had never loved the man, and yet they had always wondered about that peculiar figure, who smelled so much like they. That was what the Hounds wondered, and so did their dogs. Itching, itching. 

 

Was that poor girl with God? Had she satisfied the world? Apparently not. No man would know God. And the occultist least of all. And because of this more and more did great oblivion crawl. More and more than the very man desired to be nothing. NOTHING. Ael vagr! Yilth’r Marog! Weeping limbs beyond count - red wretched rays that clinged on utter blackness. This was it! A screaming sun! The dawn; a vile profanity, a reminder of what the world was. And an omen - ominous and ever stirring, that the dawn may never come again. What then? Why, even the stars turned in his favor. If those false deities, celebrated by those elves and lesser men that rutted with animals in those free-cities could die; what of the eternity their realms promised? Eternity is long. And one way or another, even the dead would die. All would be punished. All would be damned. None would be forgotten. And to imagine the prospect and the existence of those imbeciles - those sorcerers that manipulated utter nothingness to achieve their fancies only provided more testimony to the utter strangeness of the place where the occultist now resided. How could one call unto utter nothing? How could one spend so many years thinking - squandering one’s very soul as he dreamt of nothing? Perhaps that is what they desired. After all. Could the world care for things that were not? Could the world care for things that did not exist? 

 

The occultist thought otherwise. He stared down at his feet. 

And he stared at something that should never exist.

And it was utterly astounding.

 

“Why does it sleep.” came the voice of Tyrr. 

 

“Because it would rather nightmare over reality.” said the occultist. 

And he rose two fingers. Carried by the wind, there came a wanton sigh, three mothers; murmuring a black lullaby.