Max studied O'aka. O'aka, in a far less cautious manner, did the same for
Max. Whereas Max was eyeing the old man as a potential threat, O'aka had
already dismissed Max as a scared curiosity. He closed his heavily lidded
eyes and turned back into the house.
"When you're ready to follow me, lad, feel free. I'll be in the den."
Max watched his receding back carefully, and only managed to snap out of his coiled snake state of alert when the worn wooden plank flapped shut. Immediately, Max gasped, as though his mind had just caught up with the situation, and he fled behind a tree.
Common sense and animal instincts warred. "He's an old man, you wuss." "He killed all those people, he's a monster." "You have no idea if he did or not." "Shut up, your gut is never wrong." "Wanna bet?" Throughout the battle, Max sat a silent witness, watching both sides of the argument while simultaneously crouching warily behind his tall sycamore.
Eventually, plain intelligence emerged the victor, and Max abolished both voices back into the recesses of his brain. What kind of a fool was he? He'd steeled himself to facing whatever was in the barrier, and now that he'd found an old man, he was hiding behind a tree in terror. Wuss, wuss, wuss.
He emerged from behind the tall, leafy branches. And crept, ever so slowly, towards the house, as though a single misstep would set off the apocalypse.
---
The interior of the house was little better than the outside. Most of the furniture looked old, and split in many places. The floorboards stuck up at odd angles in several places. A few rusty nails, ready to bring their dirty edges into contact with living flesh at a moment's mistake, had been cordoned off with sticks. The whole place was covered with the unmistakable look of grime.
"You'd be amazed how quickly a place goes to hell after thirteen years, m'boy." O'aka emerged from the kitchen – perhaps one of the few places he still made a concerted effort to keep clean – and handed Max a small, poorly moulded cup with what looked like murky water in it. "Sorry 'bout the mess. And the water. All I can do is boil the hell out of the seawater and hope for the best." He took a small swig from his own cup, coughed, and frowned. "Still tastes nasty, though."
Max had still yet to utter a word. O'aka picked up on this quickly. "Well, come on, lad, speak up. I'm old, but I still have bloody ears, in case you hadn't noticed. What's your name? Sit down, sit down." He motioned to a very worn, rather stiff couch.
"Uhh, Maximilian. Maximilian Letouchas. Reporter for the Lucan Weekly Gazette." Sitting down carefully on the couch, so as not to break it, he took a cursory taste of his water and decided to forego having any more during the duration of his stay.
"Reporter. . . you look a little young for that game, lad. Way too bloody young. Or is it your first assignment?" O'aka had settled down in a dilapidated rocker that looked about ready for its last rock.
"First, I guess. I've written quite a few pieces. Guess you wouldn't have read any though, eh?" Max coughed weakly at his joke.
O'aka hacked out a few laughs at this. "Ha! Too true, my boy, too true. Wait, I haven't introduced my own humble self, have I? O'aka the XVII, merchant extraordinaire. My reputation is so expansive, in fact," O'aka added with a slight sneer, "that not a single person seemed to notice that I'd fallen out of contact for a good thirteen years. Ahh, the burdens of fame." His eyes fluttered weakly.
Max decided to be forward with the old man, as O'aka seemed fully possessed of all his mental faculties, and had no troubles in speaking. "Why are you stuck in here, anyway? You piss somebody off and they pen you in?"
O'aka's eyes died just a little more at that moment. His whole framed seemed heavier, as though the spirit of his body could scarcely support the flesh any longer. But his voice came out strong nonetheless. "You could say that, lad. But I'd be getting ahead of myself if I told you right now. I have a bloody good sneaking suspicion that I know what you're here for, after all."
Max shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable. "How could you, you've been stuc-"
"Yes, I've been stuck. For thirteen years, I've been in this damned magical box. But I was brought up to speed recently, by. . ." –his eyes flicked back and forth nervously – "a certain individual." He emptied his cup with a mighty heave. "I can tell you everything, lad, because I know exactly what's goin' on now."
Max leaned forward in interest. He broke out a quill and a scroll, ready to jot down notes, but O'aka waved him off.
"No, lad, no writing. You won't have to. This is a story you aren't liable to forget." O'aka's head drooped significantly, a terrible burden clearly weighing him down. "I know I can't."
Max was clearly affected. He shivered at the old man's appearance. That body, those eyes – it was a man without hope, without a passion of living. His writing equipment disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.
O'aka, knowing that Max wasn't likely to finish his drink, motioned wordlessly for the cup. Max handed it over, his hand trembling ever so slightly. With another mighty gulp, O'aka downed it all, furrowed his forehead in concentration, and began, pain clear in his voice.
"It all started, my boy, thirteen years ago, when a pair of twins washed up near my cabin."
---
A boy and a girl, five and eight respectively: perfectly matched in appearance, right down to their birch bark hued locks and gleaming green eyes. Those eyes were swirling, and you know what that means – Al Bhed.
From what I managed to gather, they'd been on some kinda trip with their folks – vacation, I guess – when Sin attacked their boat in the middle of the ocean. Their folks managed to get them on a life raft before the whole ship went down. I'm guessin' nobody else survived it, not that I ever caught wind of anything suggestin' there was.
Well, as you probably know by now, this place was a Yevonite paradise. Absolute fanatics, the whole lot. Those twins were bloody lucky, I guess, that I found them, or they wouldn't have had a chance from the start. Either way, after a lot of debate, I let 'em stay. Couldn't let any of the Yevonites catch wind of 'em, or, y'know. Bloody mess for the lot of us.
The little girl's name was Celina. Brightest little angel I'd ever seen, I swear. A little rambunctious at times, but, her smile could turn you into the happiest man alive in an instant. Such a beaming creature. She was, by the end, m-my granddaughter. I swear.
The boy was Mahri. Really withdrawn, intelligent fellow. He used to sit and watch me cook. Seldom spoke so much as a word, but I didn't mind: I could tell he loved his sister, which was enough for me. He had a. . . bit of a dark side, too. You could see it in his eyes, sometimes, even if he didn't talk much.
Anyway. My home became their home. I showed them how to cook, how to speak a bit of English, how to fish. . . I told them lots of stories, in the evenings, when they couldn't sleep. . . well, Celina, anyway: Mahri always collapsed like a log. . . sorry, I'm getting' off track here. Needless to say, they were around for a good six weeks.
One of my rules had been for the twins to avoid all contact with the islanders no matter what. Well, little Celina, bless her, heart, broke that rule, one day. . . she found a little boy in the jungle, and, well, he figured out she was Al Bhed, and went running. . . and he told his father, the Preacher, what he'd found.
Preacher was a real son of a bitch. Totally, blindly obedient to Yevon. Anything that fell outside of it, twins included, was to be rid of. So he came. He brought the whole town into my cottage. Lucky for me, Celina had brought news ahead of time, and I hid the kids away. . . problem is, Celina decided to protect me, and. . . the both of 'em came running out. . . and P- P-Preacher. . . carted 'em both off, and I never s-s-aw little Celina again. . .
---
"He must've known some magic users, too, 'cause Preacher had that damned barrier put up around me, to 'punish' my heretical self. I guess. Either way, after a month of scheming up ways to escape, I realized there wasn't one. And that the twins were. . . probably dead, anyway."
O'aka had travelled through a wide range of emotions as he'd told his story. Simply factual at first; sadly beaming, at the description of the twins; and utterly anguished as he related the final nabbing of Celina and Mahri by the vengeful Halikan mob. Now, he bowed his head into his lap, and began to cry.
Max, however, had his analytical brain working in high gear. Something wasn't right with the old man's story. Something didn't fit.
"You never saw Celina again, but what about Mahri?"
The shiver that wracked the old man was highly visible, and through his sobbing came a choked, fearful response, very soft and rather forced. "Oh. . . I saw him again. . ."
Max sat back on the couch. "He told you about it all, didn't he. Just recently."
O'aka, after an extended period in which he managed to reign in the tears, nodded slowly. "Yes. He came in the barrier. . . and left, just as easily as he came. My first visitor in thirteen long years."
Max was somewhat puzzled. If the citizens of the island had been as fanatical as claimed, then why had the boy been spared? Looking at O'aka, however, he figured the question would come naturally as the old man finished his tale. "What did he tell you?"
"Everything," O'aka whispered hoarsely. "He told me everything."
---
The Preacher, after thirteen years of relative relaxation and devoted piety, had grown considerably in girth. While once merely enormous, he was now enormous and swathed in fat: his physical schedule had been in steady decline for several years, and though he still moved about freely on his own legs, the years were taking a toll on him.
He was still the same old Preacher, however – he gave weekly sermons, visited those who did not attend with strict admonitions, and delivered his message with a beaming face and an open heart. Same old Preacher.
Things had changed in his family, however. His wife had departed several years prior, during a particularly bad storm in which she was buried under a friends' collapsed hut. The Preacher had not bewailed his wife, however, claiming her to have gone to a much better place than Spira, having been freed of her physical restraints so she could proceed onto the Farplane. A highly recommended Summoner, straight from Bevelle, made her trip a pleasant one.
The son of the family, Pahlist – the very same Pahlist who had revealed Celina's existence years before - had left for the mainland almost two and a half years ago, his heart set on becoming a monk for the temple at D'Jose. The Preacher had been duly proud of his son and his accomplishments, if a little disappointed that he would not quite be following in his father's footsteps.
However, devotion to Yevon was all that one needed to achieve success in life: so long as Pahlist kept to the teachings, his father would be content.
So long as Pahlist kept in contact, of course: that was a staple in good familial relations. Which he had not. The Preacher could hardly be expected to search out his son, either, for his work was in the village, and nothing would persuade him otherwise.
Which was why, on a hot summer day, when a surprise boat arrived with a package for the Preacher, sent from his son Pahlist, the Preacher was absolutely delighted, and decided to call a town gathering. His son had not failed! Especially considering the weight of the package: it was a hefty box, and inside, something large seemed to roll about constantly as Preacher moved it about.
He confided to a close friend, before the whole town had assembled, that it must have been something of great worth. A magical sphere for his father's study, perhaps, or a bust of some famous Summoner. Preacher treated it with the utmost care, inspecting every nook and cranny of the wooden box as villagers slowly sifted in to witness the spectacle.
"People of Haliki!" Preacher announced majestically, standing upon his "podium" – which was actually just a large rock near the middle of town – and spreading his arms to engulf everyone in his joy. "I bring good tidings! My dear son, Pahlist, has finally made contact! Indeed, it seems the dear boy has sent his father a gift!"
This drew a gentle, controlled applause, full of warmth: just about everybody in the town remembered Pahlist, with his timid and repentant nature. A born Yevonite. "Open it up! Let's see what little Pahlist has garnered for his old man!"
The Preacher wagged a finger at the man in mock reprisal. "Citizen Jellick, speak properly! After all, this is a solemn occasion, is it not?" The giant grin on Preacher's face told otherwise, of course. This drew laughter from the assembled as Jellick bowed formally in apology.
Preacher patted his belly and smiled, teeth gleaming as they ever had. "Right, lets not leave us all in suspense. . . I hope he didn't spend too much, Yevon forbid, for we must all practice monetary restraint."
Everybody watched as the Preacher, his eyes glimmering with the slightest intonation of greed, carefully unwrapped the package, sliding open the tiny wooden latch and swinging the top of it open.
The Preacher took one look inside and immediately dropped the box. The powerful smell, combined with the grizzly sight of his 'gift', overpowered his senses. With a loud clatter it bounced off the base of the rock and flew onto the grass: Pahlist's head, quite without a body, lips pulled back in a scream forever silent, flew forth from its confines and landed at the feet of the onlookers. It was partially decayed, partially eaten, and wholly disgusting. Perhaps on cue, too, a slew of horrid insects began to parade out, fleeing from behind mouldy, yellowed teeth and escaping into the grass.
Nobody – for not a single soul, not even the Preacher, would dare to pick it up – noticed the tiny placard, affixed to the inside of the box, which read as follows in large, regal letters:
You're next, holy man.
"When you're ready to follow me, lad, feel free. I'll be in the den."
Max watched his receding back carefully, and only managed to snap out of his coiled snake state of alert when the worn wooden plank flapped shut. Immediately, Max gasped, as though his mind had just caught up with the situation, and he fled behind a tree.
Common sense and animal instincts warred. "He's an old man, you wuss." "He killed all those people, he's a monster." "You have no idea if he did or not." "Shut up, your gut is never wrong." "Wanna bet?" Throughout the battle, Max sat a silent witness, watching both sides of the argument while simultaneously crouching warily behind his tall sycamore.
Eventually, plain intelligence emerged the victor, and Max abolished both voices back into the recesses of his brain. What kind of a fool was he? He'd steeled himself to facing whatever was in the barrier, and now that he'd found an old man, he was hiding behind a tree in terror. Wuss, wuss, wuss.
He emerged from behind the tall, leafy branches. And crept, ever so slowly, towards the house, as though a single misstep would set off the apocalypse.
---
The interior of the house was little better than the outside. Most of the furniture looked old, and split in many places. The floorboards stuck up at odd angles in several places. A few rusty nails, ready to bring their dirty edges into contact with living flesh at a moment's mistake, had been cordoned off with sticks. The whole place was covered with the unmistakable look of grime.
"You'd be amazed how quickly a place goes to hell after thirteen years, m'boy." O'aka emerged from the kitchen – perhaps one of the few places he still made a concerted effort to keep clean – and handed Max a small, poorly moulded cup with what looked like murky water in it. "Sorry 'bout the mess. And the water. All I can do is boil the hell out of the seawater and hope for the best." He took a small swig from his own cup, coughed, and frowned. "Still tastes nasty, though."
Max had still yet to utter a word. O'aka picked up on this quickly. "Well, come on, lad, speak up. I'm old, but I still have bloody ears, in case you hadn't noticed. What's your name? Sit down, sit down." He motioned to a very worn, rather stiff couch.
"Uhh, Maximilian. Maximilian Letouchas. Reporter for the Lucan Weekly Gazette." Sitting down carefully on the couch, so as not to break it, he took a cursory taste of his water and decided to forego having any more during the duration of his stay.
"Reporter. . . you look a little young for that game, lad. Way too bloody young. Or is it your first assignment?" O'aka had settled down in a dilapidated rocker that looked about ready for its last rock.
"First, I guess. I've written quite a few pieces. Guess you wouldn't have read any though, eh?" Max coughed weakly at his joke.
O'aka hacked out a few laughs at this. "Ha! Too true, my boy, too true. Wait, I haven't introduced my own humble self, have I? O'aka the XVII, merchant extraordinaire. My reputation is so expansive, in fact," O'aka added with a slight sneer, "that not a single person seemed to notice that I'd fallen out of contact for a good thirteen years. Ahh, the burdens of fame." His eyes fluttered weakly.
Max decided to be forward with the old man, as O'aka seemed fully possessed of all his mental faculties, and had no troubles in speaking. "Why are you stuck in here, anyway? You piss somebody off and they pen you in?"
O'aka's eyes died just a little more at that moment. His whole framed seemed heavier, as though the spirit of his body could scarcely support the flesh any longer. But his voice came out strong nonetheless. "You could say that, lad. But I'd be getting ahead of myself if I told you right now. I have a bloody good sneaking suspicion that I know what you're here for, after all."
Max shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable. "How could you, you've been stuc-"
"Yes, I've been stuck. For thirteen years, I've been in this damned magical box. But I was brought up to speed recently, by. . ." –his eyes flicked back and forth nervously – "a certain individual." He emptied his cup with a mighty heave. "I can tell you everything, lad, because I know exactly what's goin' on now."
Max leaned forward in interest. He broke out a quill and a scroll, ready to jot down notes, but O'aka waved him off.
"No, lad, no writing. You won't have to. This is a story you aren't liable to forget." O'aka's head drooped significantly, a terrible burden clearly weighing him down. "I know I can't."
Max was clearly affected. He shivered at the old man's appearance. That body, those eyes – it was a man without hope, without a passion of living. His writing equipment disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.
O'aka, knowing that Max wasn't likely to finish his drink, motioned wordlessly for the cup. Max handed it over, his hand trembling ever so slightly. With another mighty gulp, O'aka downed it all, furrowed his forehead in concentration, and began, pain clear in his voice.
"It all started, my boy, thirteen years ago, when a pair of twins washed up near my cabin."
---
A boy and a girl, five and eight respectively: perfectly matched in appearance, right down to their birch bark hued locks and gleaming green eyes. Those eyes were swirling, and you know what that means – Al Bhed.
From what I managed to gather, they'd been on some kinda trip with their folks – vacation, I guess – when Sin attacked their boat in the middle of the ocean. Their folks managed to get them on a life raft before the whole ship went down. I'm guessin' nobody else survived it, not that I ever caught wind of anything suggestin' there was.
Well, as you probably know by now, this place was a Yevonite paradise. Absolute fanatics, the whole lot. Those twins were bloody lucky, I guess, that I found them, or they wouldn't have had a chance from the start. Either way, after a lot of debate, I let 'em stay. Couldn't let any of the Yevonites catch wind of 'em, or, y'know. Bloody mess for the lot of us.
The little girl's name was Celina. Brightest little angel I'd ever seen, I swear. A little rambunctious at times, but, her smile could turn you into the happiest man alive in an instant. Such a beaming creature. She was, by the end, m-my granddaughter. I swear.
The boy was Mahri. Really withdrawn, intelligent fellow. He used to sit and watch me cook. Seldom spoke so much as a word, but I didn't mind: I could tell he loved his sister, which was enough for me. He had a. . . bit of a dark side, too. You could see it in his eyes, sometimes, even if he didn't talk much.
Anyway. My home became their home. I showed them how to cook, how to speak a bit of English, how to fish. . . I told them lots of stories, in the evenings, when they couldn't sleep. . . well, Celina, anyway: Mahri always collapsed like a log. . . sorry, I'm getting' off track here. Needless to say, they were around for a good six weeks.
One of my rules had been for the twins to avoid all contact with the islanders no matter what. Well, little Celina, bless her, heart, broke that rule, one day. . . she found a little boy in the jungle, and, well, he figured out she was Al Bhed, and went running. . . and he told his father, the Preacher, what he'd found.
Preacher was a real son of a bitch. Totally, blindly obedient to Yevon. Anything that fell outside of it, twins included, was to be rid of. So he came. He brought the whole town into my cottage. Lucky for me, Celina had brought news ahead of time, and I hid the kids away. . . problem is, Celina decided to protect me, and. . . the both of 'em came running out. . . and P- P-Preacher. . . carted 'em both off, and I never s-s-aw little Celina again. . .
---
"He must've known some magic users, too, 'cause Preacher had that damned barrier put up around me, to 'punish' my heretical self. I guess. Either way, after a month of scheming up ways to escape, I realized there wasn't one. And that the twins were. . . probably dead, anyway."
O'aka had travelled through a wide range of emotions as he'd told his story. Simply factual at first; sadly beaming, at the description of the twins; and utterly anguished as he related the final nabbing of Celina and Mahri by the vengeful Halikan mob. Now, he bowed his head into his lap, and began to cry.
Max, however, had his analytical brain working in high gear. Something wasn't right with the old man's story. Something didn't fit.
"You never saw Celina again, but what about Mahri?"
The shiver that wracked the old man was highly visible, and through his sobbing came a choked, fearful response, very soft and rather forced. "Oh. . . I saw him again. . ."
Max sat back on the couch. "He told you about it all, didn't he. Just recently."
O'aka, after an extended period in which he managed to reign in the tears, nodded slowly. "Yes. He came in the barrier. . . and left, just as easily as he came. My first visitor in thirteen long years."
Max was somewhat puzzled. If the citizens of the island had been as fanatical as claimed, then why had the boy been spared? Looking at O'aka, however, he figured the question would come naturally as the old man finished his tale. "What did he tell you?"
"Everything," O'aka whispered hoarsely. "He told me everything."
---
The Preacher, after thirteen years of relative relaxation and devoted piety, had grown considerably in girth. While once merely enormous, he was now enormous and swathed in fat: his physical schedule had been in steady decline for several years, and though he still moved about freely on his own legs, the years were taking a toll on him.
He was still the same old Preacher, however – he gave weekly sermons, visited those who did not attend with strict admonitions, and delivered his message with a beaming face and an open heart. Same old Preacher.
Things had changed in his family, however. His wife had departed several years prior, during a particularly bad storm in which she was buried under a friends' collapsed hut. The Preacher had not bewailed his wife, however, claiming her to have gone to a much better place than Spira, having been freed of her physical restraints so she could proceed onto the Farplane. A highly recommended Summoner, straight from Bevelle, made her trip a pleasant one.
The son of the family, Pahlist – the very same Pahlist who had revealed Celina's existence years before - had left for the mainland almost two and a half years ago, his heart set on becoming a monk for the temple at D'Jose. The Preacher had been duly proud of his son and his accomplishments, if a little disappointed that he would not quite be following in his father's footsteps.
However, devotion to Yevon was all that one needed to achieve success in life: so long as Pahlist kept to the teachings, his father would be content.
So long as Pahlist kept in contact, of course: that was a staple in good familial relations. Which he had not. The Preacher could hardly be expected to search out his son, either, for his work was in the village, and nothing would persuade him otherwise.
Which was why, on a hot summer day, when a surprise boat arrived with a package for the Preacher, sent from his son Pahlist, the Preacher was absolutely delighted, and decided to call a town gathering. His son had not failed! Especially considering the weight of the package: it was a hefty box, and inside, something large seemed to roll about constantly as Preacher moved it about.
He confided to a close friend, before the whole town had assembled, that it must have been something of great worth. A magical sphere for his father's study, perhaps, or a bust of some famous Summoner. Preacher treated it with the utmost care, inspecting every nook and cranny of the wooden box as villagers slowly sifted in to witness the spectacle.
"People of Haliki!" Preacher announced majestically, standing upon his "podium" – which was actually just a large rock near the middle of town – and spreading his arms to engulf everyone in his joy. "I bring good tidings! My dear son, Pahlist, has finally made contact! Indeed, it seems the dear boy has sent his father a gift!"
This drew a gentle, controlled applause, full of warmth: just about everybody in the town remembered Pahlist, with his timid and repentant nature. A born Yevonite. "Open it up! Let's see what little Pahlist has garnered for his old man!"
The Preacher wagged a finger at the man in mock reprisal. "Citizen Jellick, speak properly! After all, this is a solemn occasion, is it not?" The giant grin on Preacher's face told otherwise, of course. This drew laughter from the assembled as Jellick bowed formally in apology.
Preacher patted his belly and smiled, teeth gleaming as they ever had. "Right, lets not leave us all in suspense. . . I hope he didn't spend too much, Yevon forbid, for we must all practice monetary restraint."
Everybody watched as the Preacher, his eyes glimmering with the slightest intonation of greed, carefully unwrapped the package, sliding open the tiny wooden latch and swinging the top of it open.
The Preacher took one look inside and immediately dropped the box. The powerful smell, combined with the grizzly sight of his 'gift', overpowered his senses. With a loud clatter it bounced off the base of the rock and flew onto the grass: Pahlist's head, quite without a body, lips pulled back in a scream forever silent, flew forth from its confines and landed at the feet of the onlookers. It was partially decayed, partially eaten, and wholly disgusting. Perhaps on cue, too, a slew of horrid insects began to parade out, fleeing from behind mouldy, yellowed teeth and escaping into the grass.
Nobody – for not a single soul, not even the Preacher, would dare to pick it up – noticed the tiny placard, affixed to the inside of the box, which read as follows in large, regal letters:
You're next, holy man.