Calliope, page 13
part #2 of Divinity Series
Had Malon been released or caged?
It was hard to tell.
Mason stood face to face with the Black God, shaping shadows into fear.
He threw up on his chest, but he was only partly aware. He couldn’t get up, couldn’t take himself to the bathroom. Somehow, whether he realized it or not, the battle was being staged here in the living room, the drink on the coffee table.
He moved back and forth, lapsing in and out of both worlds. His alcohol-ridden body endured the worst of it. Mason fought the Black God in his own home, but he was losing.
Fingers grazed his scalp. The Black God whispered in his ear.
Mason closed his eyes and fell to the floor, into what seemed a swirling black pool. Water came together above his head, and he couldn’t breathe.
~
“There’s no word from the east. The beasts are too destructive, moving too fast. My guess is that Malon is far underground. Perhaps there’s a city there.”
“I don’t think Malon lives in a city. I think Malon prefers a small part of the world to hide in. He enjoys the unsolidity of things. Empty air no one else can breathe. The cold darkness of space.”
Eric looked at his cousin.
Mason brushed his hair out of his eyes, keeping a firm grip on the sword.
~
Demons surrounded the house when he woke up.
“I can’t fight you,” he said. “Don’t you see? I have nothing left.”
Mason reached out and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. He took several swallows, not bothering to pour a glass. It kicked in instantly, like a solid punch to his gut. It made his head ring.
How long ago was Black Canyon? It seemed eons, yet Mason had the impression it had only been a few days, two weeks at the most.
A slip, like soft silence, moved him deeper into Calliope.
The glass shattered somewhere in the house. It was sunset, and the sun dipped below the hills to the west. Or were those shapes coming through the windows?
“Malon, I believe, would like a word,” he said and giggled.
Mason closed his eyes and smiled. “Everyone’s been waiting long enough, I suppose.”
His voice was weak. His heart slowed.
Demons clawed at the front door, ripping it from the hinges. Windows continued to break. Something caught fire, but he was too weak to tell what it was.
Or care.
~
Malon laughed in the darkness. He saw it all: the end, destruction. The Drifter had been given access. That might delay things a nit. If he killed the Drifter now, only the second world would burn.
They owned small amounts of magic, but the warriors chasing him knew nothing of sorcery.
“In death, we’ll do battle, Malon. And you won’t be so lucky.”
He peered through veils of space, seeing no one. Could that have been the Drifter, the forgotten, loveless one?
Malon smiled, returning the thought:
You don’t know what you face. I’m about to waylay the countryside.
“I’ve waited my whole life for you, you sonofabitch.”
You hear that laughter over the land? Remember who reigns here.
He’d spread his mantle over the sun, putting out its light forever . . .
~
“The port is still a long way away. We have to make it through the forest first, though. Lucius and Gallus will be waiting with a vessel to take us to Mandripore.”
“How long will that take?” Mason asked.
“Weeks, maybe,” Eric said. “I don’t know.”
“Why do I feel like we’re running out of time,” Mason said.
Eric steeled himself and breathed deeply. “I’m getting the same impression, trust me.”
“We’re not supposed to go this way,” Mason said. He stopped and looked around. “There was really no choice, was there?” He looked at Eric. “I know this is gonna sound strange, but for some reason, I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for anything in my life. I think something really significant just happened to me.”
Eric nodded, his face stolid. “I envy you and the transition,” he said. “My time will come soon enough. You seemed to have hurried the process.”
“I think I’m dead. Or damn close to it. I think demons are knocking at my door, but . . . I don’t feel the same. Am I here permanently now?”
The thought didn’t register, didn’t make sense to him. It felt right somehow, yet immensely wrong as well. The last thing he felt was the lingering effects of the alcohol, lack of sleep and nourishment. He felt as if he’d been taking care of himself for years, eating healthy, exercising, living right.
You’re eyes don’t see the same. Your gait, too, is more pronounced.
“You’re making me jealous,” Eric said and smiled.
Mason grinned.
Mist hovered at the edges of the forest. The trees looked like gangly black spiders. Mason felt the presence—the lack thereof—of demons.
“Where’s the nearest alehouse when you need one?” Mason asked.
Eric smiled. “Soon, my friend,” he said. “When the battle is over.”
“Lead the way,” Mason said.
CHAPTER VIII
The weather grew harsh and cold. The snow was falling, helping to extinguish the last of the embers from the burning villages. How long had they been walking now? Mason didn’t know. Through the journey, his hair had somehow grown extremely long. Or had it always been that way? A thick strawberry blond beard and mustache covered his face.
The forest surrounded them, and they continued east, crossing small rivers and streams. Life seemed to evaporate. No animals of any kind were seen or heard at all. Mason wondered if they were too late, if they’d missed their chance to destroy Malon. He didn’t know where the survivors were if any. His life—the one with Geneveeve—had come to a strange conclusion. He was dead—or soon would be—but not in death. He was not a part of Heaven or Hell. Looking at the landscape made him wonder. Some of the trees had been trampled down, uprooted by Malon’s hordes. Trails of destruction surround them on every side. The land had been stripped of its allurement and life. Whatever magic and mystery had made Calliope the beautiful place it was, was gone.
The red illumination glowing through the dark forest, making it cryptically eerie and macabre-like, soon dwindled, putting an end to his dark thoughts. A glow was visible through the clouds, making the forest more visible again. They were walking through a densely wooded area, which reminded him—or was an exact replica—of the redwood forests in northern California. It was the first sign in days that proved Malon hadn’t succeeded in wiping out Calliope completely. The light was natural. Malon’s influence had been impeded here, at least so far.
Mason and Eric continued through the forest and saw a man up ahead leaning against the bole of what Mason thought the largest redwood tree he’d ever seen. The man was smoking a long, thin-handled pipe, looking their way. Smoke billowed around his head. Not part of Malon’s tribe, he was dressed similar to Mason and Eric, in solid black; the hilt of a dagger was visible, sticking out of his belt. He had long, silvery hair tied in a ponytail, a dark complexion, and strangely-colored eyes.
“Ah, this is no stranger,” Eric said, smiling.
“Gentlemen,” the man said, nodding. He had a deep, unwavering voice. “It took you long enough to get here, and you have brought no damsels with you. For shame.”
“Taken care of in your place of residence, I was hoping,” Eric said, joking.
The stranger laughed, and Eric introduced them. “Mason Loveless,” Eric said. “Thomas Livingston. Thomas, this is my cousin, Mason.”
“A pleasure,” Thomas said, shaking Mason’s hand. “You boys look like you could use a good rest and some refreshment.”
“That we could, friend,” Eric said.
“I just put on some pork this morning,” Thomas said. “Follow me, gentleman.”
Thomas led them farther into the tall, redwood trees until they came to a small stream and a clearing. A tiny, thatched cottage billowed a lonely trail of smoke from a quaint chimney. For a minute, Mason thought nothing of Malon. The cottage surrounded by trees looked like something out of a fairy-tale.
“Eat your heart out Walt Disney,” he said.
Thomas took this as a compliment and smiled at Mason.
“How did the marauders not make their way here?” Eric asked.
“This is, you might say, the safer road,” Thomas said. “Some of us are in touch with certain means of survival not common in most worlds.”
“That would be . . ?” Mason asked.
Thomas looked at him. “Magic, my dear sir,” he said, holding his hands up as if it were obvious. “What else? Malon’s marauders never knew my house was here. And when they did pass, they didn’t see it.”
“Can you tell us more about Malon?” Eric asked.
Thomas shook his head and sighed. “Of course. That’s why I’m here. Step inside, gentleman, and let’s get you something to eat.”
~
They sat around the hearth, the smell of tantalizing roasted pork filling the cottage from a cast-iron pot in the fireplace. Thomas bent and stirred it with a ladle, taking a small, cautious sip. “Mmm,” he said. “That’s about ready.”
He sat on a small wooden stool and loaded his pipe with a thick, almost fluorescent green herb. He passed it to Mason, along with a match. “Just a scratch of the thumb,” Thomas said.
Mason scratched the match head with his thumbnail and the flame burst to life. He lit the pipe and took a deep inhalation.
“That’ll relax the bones,” Thomas said.
Mason blew the smoke out and tasted something similar to mint and wintry crystals; it was almost like candy. Sparkling fingers caressed his brain.
“Good Lord,” Mason said. “You can’t find stuff like this back home.” He passed the pipe to Eric, who inhaled and blew out smoke, passing it back to Thomas.
“This is from the last harvest,” Thomas said. “Before those carrion beasts destroyed the land. Most of the surviving villagers live on what they’ve kept stored away. If they had a good year, they might be all right for a while. At least until the beasts make another run.” Thomas relit the pipe, and smoked, passing it back to Mason.
“Make another run?” Mason asked.
Thomas looked at him. He wasn’t smiling. “Malon’s beasts will keep making the rounds, as they say, until everything that can be destroyed and burned, is destroyed.”
Mason looked at Eric.
“We have to get to the nearest port,” Eric said.
“Ah,” Thomas said. “You haven’t far to go. Two days, maybe, three.
“Are you meeting Gallus and Lucius?
Eric nodded. “They were scouting ahead into Mandripore,” he said. “I trust their quick return is rather auspicious.”
The idea troubled Mason, but he didn’t reply. He smoked from the pipe and passed it to Eric. The feeling was like nothing he’d felt before. The ache left his bones. His head was suddenly clear.
“How is that herb?” Thomas asked, smiling at him.
Mason could only nod.
“Best to mix it with a little ale,” Thomas said. He stood up and retrieved three, tall wooden cups, and filled them from a barrel he’d fixed into the opposite wall.
“Stone all around,” Thomas said. “I built this myself. Keeps the ale a bit colder. Here you are, gentleman.”
Mason took the cup and a deep drink. Something strangely exotic was in the blend of both herb and ale.
“Rest assured. After a few cups of that,” Thomas said, “and a hot meal, you’ll be ready to battle the hungriest god.”
“I’m already feeling rejuvenated,” Mason said. “That pork smells damn good, too.”
“Ah,” Thomas said. “Yes. You boys must be starving.”
Thomas pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard, unfolding the cloth. He pulled down three bowls and filled each from the pot. He set them on the table along with the bread, and after doling out wooden spoons, the three of them partook of the meal.
The roast pork was just what Mason needed, giving him some added strength. He dipped large chunks of buttered bread into the bowl and slurped it down.
“This kind of hospitality cannot be compared to,” Mason said. “Thank you for the respite.”
“Always a pleasure to provide for weary travelers,” Thomas said.
The light and warmth from the fire, and the sensations moving through his blood, Mason tried to think of a time he’d felt this comfortable, this unconcerned.
Home, he thought.
The cottage was everything he’d imagined his own home would be if he lived here: primitive but pragmatic, simple in its want for needs.
“So, how did the marauders come to pass over the Livingston Keep?” Eric asked.
Thomas looked at him, neutral. His eyes were serious. “I came across something very strange a while back,” he said. “Locked away.”
Mason and Eric exchanged a glance.
“What is it?” Eric asked.
Mason listened intently.
“I’ll go get it,” Thomas said, and stood up, disappearing into a back room, behind a thick, wooden door. He came back shortly afterward with something wrapped in black cloth. He set the item on the table between them and unfolded the cloth. Underneath, was a bright silver box, the size of a small but very thick book. Intricate, alien, markings were carved into the silver. To Mason, it looked like nothing more than a small jewelry box.
“There is a story behind this,” Thomas said. “Sort of a fairy-tale, if you will. You see,” he went on, lowering his voice. “In the heart of Malon, there is a soul that cannot die. And some things are best undisturbed, and unseen, just as some things are better left unsaid.”
“Jesus,” Eric said. “Pandora’s box?”
“What is it?” Mason said, quietly.
Thomas rubbed his hairless chin. “The stars of the world,” he said. “An answer to the greed and lusts of men. Grains of sand, unbreakable stone. Perhaps the heart of Malon himself. Shadows, doubts in our minds. Fear itself. Everything . . . and nothing at all.” Thomas paused. “How’s that for enigmatic?” He paused again and continued to rub his chin. “I think other things, though . . . what it’s taught me.” He looked at Mason and Eric, leaning over in his chair, his eyes fixed on the silver box. Thomas seemed transfixed, hypnotized.
“You opened it?” Eric asked.
“Of course,” Thomas said, his long silver hair catching strange shimmers from the fire. “You would’ve, too.”
“What’s in it?” Mason asked.
Thomas looked at Mason. He was serious again. “Honestly?”
Mason nodded.
Thomas leaned back in his chair, his eyes returning to the silver box. He locked his fingers over his stomach. “Malon, gentleman, is the destroyer of magic, a purveyor of lost souls. The truth in death is under the lid, the eyes of the entity, blackness lying in wait. Once you’ve seen and felt its existence, the truth is impossible to deny.”
“That can’t be,” Eric said.
Thomas didn’t look well suddenly. Something reached out from the box to claim him. His ownership of it had scarred him, perhaps deeper than Mason and Eric realized.
Thomas raised his eyebrows as if listening to a child. He nodded.
“How did you come by it?” Eric asked.
“That’s why I’ve brought you here. You didn’t stumble upon me by chance, you know? I’ve been waiting for you.” Thomas smiled. He stood up and collected their empty bowls. He left the wooden cups of ale on the table. The pipe had been set aside.
“Let’s refill our mugs and get comfortable,” Thomas said, “and I shall tell you a story.”
~
“Let’s talk philosophically for a moment about the truth of things. The way they change. Each world has its own philosophy, of course. And much ridicule has been made of them. The fact of the matter here in Calliope is, for instance: threat, fear, worry, despair, hopelessness, and slaughter. Despair, the end of lives, the death of hope. The laughter echoing for miles is a reminder of the way things are going to be, how they’re going to end and change. It’s already in our hearts and minds. It’s been there since the beginning when we were born. If we die at the hand of Malon, we become Malon ourselves. We help destroy and bring about the end of things. We unravel time.”
Thomas paused and relit his pipe. “Our philosophy, of course,” he continued, “is that of despair, and that is not propaganda. It isn’t rumored, changing each time the tale is told, fanciful vision, or idle curiosity. It’s truth, plain and simple. And, in our case, it’s that truth that kills. Truth tears us apart. It makes us look at people differently. It makes us liars and cheats. Is it possible that Calliope came into existence from evil? Can Malon create and destroy worlds on his own? And if so, for what purpose? That’s how good things turn bad. That’s how we are corrupted, how we end up killing ourselves. It’s in us, gentleman, already; it was there from the start. We cannot deny ourselves the truth of where we came from. It’s impossible for us not to want to do evil. It’s impossible for us not to act upon our wickedness.”
Again, he paused.
“Or so, Malon would have us believe,” Thomas said.
Mason and Eric sat and contemplated Thomas’ words. The fire crackled and danced, warming their faces. Mason took a drink from the wooden cup. Thomas sat staring into space, haunted by some recollection.
“I’ve owned this box for over twenty years now,” Thomas said. “I’ve looked inside it and felt its influence, and it did just that. Coerced me, made me believe how real it was, how true. Deception, gentleman. Malon created this world. He’s been biding his time, a deception gods have perfected. A shadow in the east had been growing for some time. Doubt began to surface. Those days of frolicking in the summer sun, children’s laughter, festivity—all deception, a cloak over our eyes—created to manipulate and destroy. Sometimes, I think Malon is doing it just to see the looks on our faces. That’s where the laughter comes from—the joke he’s playing on us. That’s what the truth is all about.”
