This story is a derivative fanwork written by GodandMen for the Toaru Majutsu no Index/とある魔術の禁書目録 franchise.
RITUALS
I
-x-
Well, here we are…
Her left hand is raised, gently touching the wicker kasa hat on her head, while in her right holds a bamboo walking stick. She looks into the distance, but in her gaze is not greeted by the Heian-kyō hills or the snaking Kamo river.
Instead, she sees the snowy Ezo mountains and the pearly seas meeting the Kyushu beaches.
…trapped in the amber of this moment.
As many times before, behind her she leaves the embers of her home – the façade of a life not lived, the script of a play not acted. Before her, a familiar path. Familiar paths on foreign soil. It is a path many times trotted.
Again and again.
And there is…
And each step is destined to be retrodden, only in different shoes.
There is a why.
She sighed quietly and shook her head. The ashen hair fluttering against her shoulder seemed to agree. The girl could only give a slight bow to the statue, biding her luck. Even though she already knew how the journey ended.
The statue did not reply: she continued to look on at the distance, her hand holding onto her kasa hat.
There has to be.
Now, just like the statue in front of her, the little girl readjusted her walking stick – in this case it was bamboo – just the wooden handle of a dirty mop. Certainly, an injured ankle was not conducive to a long journey. Thus the old master could only wearily hobble away.
There has to be a why.
As she made her way past all the dusty displays, the girl couldn't help but smile whimsically. How ironic that it should be here, of all places! Truly, all these little trinkets and memorabilia was too much excitement for her senile mind.
A tsunami of nostalgia crashed against her. Just like the tide, indeed: it comes and goes. Long forgotten remembrances came back to life.
She closed her eyes and slowly brushed her hand over each item. The dust felt young against her skin. Her fingers tips revealed the identity of each of them with no need for interrogation. Such was the benefit of age.
Their history, providence, every hidden little secrets were all just trivia to her. Some of the items were authentic. Pieces of authenticity, at least. Others were modern facsimiles. Other were more devious: they masqueraded a past that is not theirs. Still, some were simply misplaced.
Benefits of age?
Or a curse…
Oh, what some scholars would give to hear it!
The girl smiled again, but only in melancholy.
So much knowledge…and yet all of it destined remain hidden. Forever. Such was the fate of a writer who could never share his work, the fate of a collector never to display his collection.
Such was the fate of a master who could never teach her Art.
Presently, the long line of artifacts ended and the girl found herself at the end of a hallway. She opened her eyes and slowly looked over every surface.
The silent hall of the museum greeted her.
The girl with ashen hair tilted her head slightly. At her age, it took a moment for her mind to catch up with her thoughts. Even more to catchup with the present. Her fingers danced on the handle of mop. The strap of her satchel dug deeper into her shoulder.
She only needed to answer a simple question.
Indeed, there is a why.
But…what was it supposed to be again?
The aura in the air reminded her.
Ah, right.
She remembered.
The invocation.
It's time for a reunion with an old acquaintance…
He was fast asleep.
Ah-ha!
Finally, I've come face to face with my mortal nemesis!
So this is the crafty, dangerous and intelligent magician who has the honor of being my opponent!
Here was her much fated, much fearsome and much dangerous adversary snoring loudly with his head buried within a pile of books. His defenseless back seemed to taunt the girl from across the open doorway. It was less of a dead spot and more just…blind, hapless ineptitude.
A part of the old master mused at the possibility of a trap, that the walls or doorway would be waylaid with sophisticated spells and magical traps. But really, she couldn't even to muster up the enthusiasm to pretend.
He really was just sleeping on his desk.
The girl with ashen hair standing his slouched back could only accept his honesty – indeed, he is no…
She would shake her head, but instead only produced a bitter-sweet smile.
What hard times the Art has fallen onto!
An unfair accusation, perhaps. After all, one could not – and should not – describe him as someone trained the Art. Her calm eyes glanced over the pile of books and papers scatter across his desk. The sight drew a fleeting ache from her heart, and the old master couldn't help but pity him.
There are many who cross paths with the Art. Some knowingly, others by accident. Some taught, others discovered. And indeed, some others are more peculiar still…
Ah, he was one of the most peculiar ones to grace the Art's veiled abyss.
The naïve ones.
The blind believers.
For her, the Art had long since lost the mystery it so jealously guarded. True, there were still corners unexplored, but the allure had faded long ago. She required no proof or gaudy demonstration. She have no need of faith. Nor did she need to overcome the suspicion of belief in the words written within long dusty scrolls of parchment by authors past – whom may or maybe not lying, intentionally or otherwise.
After all, she knew.
By experience, more often than not.
But to him…
The long stacks of books on his desk ranged everything from modern academic historiography to the popular pseudo-religious garbage written by entertainers. Fine. She conceded that the relevant topics were at least correctly identified, if only by name. The form of the sigil is one such example.
But when it came to the rest, there was no doubt about the utility – none – of the contents.
Indeed, within the sea of parchment she could not find even a single genuine source of information.
And yet..
And yet he believed.
Blind…or faithful?
Her hand gently reached over his shoulders.
But even the blind faithful needs guidance…
It did not take her long to find the letters.
Penned on milky white silk parchment in black ink were a series of short, pointed correspondences: "Dear friend…" "…a series of complicated tasks, designed to…" "…will assist you greatly in your endeavors…". Short, simple and to the point.
The girl raised her eyebrows.
And accurate.
The steps and order, the necessary actions, the words of the invocation, the nature of the ritual were all detailed in the letters. No frails or elaboration. Just like a Master would when instructing an apprentice with the least amount of words necessary.
So this is how our fellow amateur learned how to…
The letter was folded and silently slipped back into the box with all of its siblings – a veritable trove of delicate, elaborate messages encapsulated in envelopes made from browning, folded newspaper.
As her eyes read the lines of fading ink that snaked around each fold and crease, a shadowy smile couldn't help but form on the old master's face.
THE NEW YORK TIMES
Einstein Explains His New Discovery!
On the other envelopes, one could see headlines such as:
LONDON HERALD
Flying Machine Takes To The Air!
TASS
Comrade Gagarin, The First Man In Space!
LE PETIT PARISIEN
A New Discovery – Radium
Mister And Madame Curie At Their Laboratory
The grin on her face had spread so mischievously wide that she could feel her fingers itching with a terrible curiosity, the same one that had taken the proverbial cat. For the first time in years, decades, or even centuries, the girl could feel a jittery tinge of interest prickling at her senile mind.
But coup-de-grace was yet to come:
Each of the letters was completed with a perfectly round – mechanical, almost – seal coated in blue wax. The seal consisted of a symbol of the atom back laid against the backdrop of a pentagram.
And engraved below the seal, in tiny faint letters, were the words:
SCIENTIA POTENTIA EST.
By now, the old master was giggling, and her eyes twinkling with a lively glint.
My! My!
What interesting times we live in!
Perhaps the boundaries between the two worlds are so not clear after all…
Her pitying gaze fell onto his sleeping figure. The scene told her enough: ragged hair, unshaved stubbles, dark bags under his eyes, and the deep, deep greased carved into his forehead from years of stress.
The old master shook her head regretfully.
Such are the times, indeed!
That the flame of Art should burn in such hands…
A cold, hardness crept into her eyes as her grip on the her mop handle tightened.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
For millennia she had seen the same words repeated, in every tongue and in every manner possible:
"The Art is sacred!"
It is the great wave that cleanses all, stripping each of their social station, rank, wealth, power. It is the great equalizer, the great antidote to the arbitrary metrics set by mortals. No matter one's race, station or wealth, there were only those who knew the Art, and those who didn't.
To those who wield the Art, the very limits of reality are nothing mere illusion.
If only one had the dedication, the intelligence, the devotion…
If only you had faith…
But they were lies: nothing but half-truth wrapped into beaufitful deception. Those who knew the Art guarded their secrets with great jealousy. And so it should be that the Art became another of mortal men's arbitrary metrics, another great divider to differentiate the haves and have-nots.
Thus the great equalizer came to become to be the great discriminator.
…and what for?
Her wide smile soured into bitter contempt.
Power, power, power. Fire and brimstone, thunder and shaking earth, illusions of the grandest splendors, complete subservience of entire empires, control of fate and history…and what for?
What for?
They are nothing fleeting distractions of a meaningless existence. She should know, she's lived it too many times. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. Nothing but way to dusty death, a tale told by a fool…
Is the Art nothing more than a means to an end?
Her eyes grew cold and hard.
If it shall be so, then it is shall be no 'art' of mine.
Tired by her clouding thoughts, the old master turned to face him. She stared on the man slouched over his desk, his mind lost in a momentary respite of darkness – if only she had this luxury as well! But the more she observed him, the more her confusion grew.
The girl tilted her head.
"Tell me," she whispered, "for what do you call upon the Art?"
The professor stirred in his slumber, but did not answer. In front of was a killer, a common murderer who stained his hands with the blood of the…innocent? He who is Judge and Executioner…or is he?
Yet, no words or self-justifying speech came to greet her. Indeed, there was no need. It occurred to old master that he never thought to give rationalization for his actions. No, he knew what acts he had committed.
All that answered her query was a single, solitary photo frame on his desk.
It offered neither excuse nor justification. Instead, it was simply a brief glimpse into a moment in time captured on camera. And capture the photo did: the professor's smiling face with his arm around the girl's back, and the bright cheer on the girl's face as she hugged her father's neck.
That was all.
A family photo.
She stared at the girl in the photo, noting her bright blonde hair and the blue sash of ribbon tied around her pony tail. Behold! On the desk laid a small transparent box made of glass, and inside it was the very same ribbon – a streak of the blue sky, neatly folded and shimmering under his desk lamp.
The old master bowed her head.
She made no judgment: it was not in her place to condemn nor to absolve him, certainly not with her own hands long stained and bloodied. By all means, she was no better than an accomplice.
It was no reason for absolution – though she doubted that he sought any = but enough for her to understand. Paradoxically, she did not understand, because she could never share such a thing, but that made her understand all the more.
A forgotten, aching sentimentality came seeping from the cracks.
A part of her wanted to remember – or to believe, perhaps, = that she did understand. Sometime long ago, perhaps, but once. Once, she understood, in a time long forgotten, even by herself. Once…
I wish you best of luck in your endeavors, young master of the Art.
The old master let out a slow, heavy sigh. Now her mind's focus was directed towards a different target, a more uncomfortable and unpleasant one: herself.
So, there is a why…
She turned back to the doorway with a heavy heart. The girl's delicate shoulders was laden with an unimaginable weight. Her young face was overcame with fatigue. The corridor in front of her seemed to stretch immeasurably into the distance.
There is always a why.
The old master grimaced.
The age-old query that plagued all who had to misfortune to walk upon this good earth – and she was not exception:
In that case…what is to be mine?
In retrospect, I am often surprised by how much I remember. The amount of tiny, minuscule and, for all intentions and purposes, useless details that existed within the dark recesses of my mind was…surprising.
Even for me.
How strange it is that only now that my mind should be occupied with such thoughts. All happy families are alike, but each unhappy family is…
I admit now.
I knew.
But why didn't I do anything? Did I simply not care? Or tell myself that there was nothing I could've done? After all, like she used to say "you always pick your battles carefully." And then that wretched smile would appear and the message was all too clear. Indeed, what kindness she had for a coward.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
But she was so insistent. So terribly insistent.
What was I to say? And really, what could I've said? Ah, there it is, the time only self-victimization. "It wasn't my fault!" No matter now, because in the end I conceded always, like always. After all, what difference did it make at this point? Beggars and choice do not share a positive correlation.
Was it Böhme? Agrippa? Steiner?
How strange that I should struggle so much to remember now. After all, it was my magnum opus – the work that earned me the coveted faculty chairmanship at ACU. And yet, now I cannot even remembered the damned tittle.
In any case, she was at the hospital alone.
I didn't drop by to visit until a couple days later, after it had been peer-reviewed and published. And when I walked into that room she didn't even turn to look at me, and once more was my absence only reinforced? Why ever not?
She didn't need me. I've done my part already.
After all, she was the one who wanted it.
I wager now that I saw the child less often some of my own mentees. After all, the girl had her. My students had me. And I had only my papers and books.
And it so turned out that my books also had a life of their own. But we're not there yet. It'll come. Dreams need not be unchronological.
That day, when I saw the girl curled on the couch at the sun room with LaVey's book, something came over me. I don't remember hitting her, or the feel of blood on the back of my hands. But I do remember her eyes. The way she stared at me.
My hands were shaking for a long time afterwards. Perhaps to this day even, just in different ways. And somehow I knew that it came from the same place as the girl's glare.
Anger? Disgust? Hatred?
Jealousy?
The girl ran to back the other side of the house – her side – as children do. Apparently she was just looking at the etchings, not reading the words. After all, she was too young. So they say.
Strangely enough, she did not berate him for it. Not a word. Sleeping dogs?
But what beautiful etchings they were, delicate black ink on creamy pages, giving shape to the Leviathan's snaking form. Or Jacob wrestling with the nameless man against the rising sun in the distance. Or Lucificer being cast down from the heavens.
Really, they're just drawings. Fanciful illustrations drawn by zealous artists with an agenda.
What does it matter that the girl saw them? Children are curious. Nothing noteworthy. And what does if matter that she should sneak into his study whenever he was away to look at them? That she should steal books to hide in her bedroom, to devour pictures she did not understand below her blanket?
Just drawings in books.
Now we're here.
Here with my foul, wretched, tumorous books that have been my loyal, safe, unassuming companions my entire life. My only friends. The true constant of a universe ever-changing. How terribly in my youth did I used to yearn for them to breathe life into them, so that they can rise and listen to my confessions.
In the end, they did rise.
Just not to me they listened.
And a life of their own they did indeed have.
The sea greets her.
A seagulls comes in, riding the on the whispers of the southerly wind sweeping in from across the horizon – a good for sailing. The long lines of caravels gliding into port agree with her. With basket of laundry in hand, she sidesteps the roving gangs of sailors and strutting fidalgos.
But even then, her bemused ears can't help but pick up scraps of their tall tales of lands from across the great ocean.
The cape of terrible storms, the land where mountains of sand stretch into the distance, the barbarians who consume human flesh!
Thus the tales grew taller and taller.
She listens, but only for so long. Even her nerves had its limits – and it had been somewhat frayed of late. When she finally reaches the cool shadow of the Tower of Saint Vincent, the girl is glad to be alone.
The girl sets down her basket and watches on at the busy port.
All manner of ships comes and goes: caravels, carracks, galleons, sloops of all flags and manners docked here. But her emerald eyes focuses on the ones sailing out – especially those with the flag of the argent with five azure escutcheons encased in a red bordure.
And on the ship bows stands a score of fidalgos, staring out across the bow, their eyes glimmering with riches and gold.
The cold water flowing out from the Tagus river felt warm against her hands scrubbing the laundry. Her eyes were colder still.
Unlike their cousins from Castile, these men have yet to be dealt a real blow. But even then, the girl had no illusions – if the conquistadores managed to put Huēyi Teōcalli to the sword, then these fidalgos, with their matchlocks and plate cuirasses, should not fare any worse.
For some time, that is.
They were still due some time away from their destination. Last she heard, the Crown's long fingers have yet to reach the edges of Abyssinia. So Bombay still lies out of their grip.
Who shall it be first?
The Sāmūtiri? The Gujarat Sultanate? The Mamālīk?
Or even the Gurkani?
A frosty smile spreads across her face.
Matchlock or not, the Timurid horsemen will ride circles around these fidalgos and sing with their composite bows. And arrows still fly true…
But it fades as quickly as it came.
Unless of course, they land a regiment of arquebusiers supported by pikemen, siege engines and men-at-arms clad from head to toe in plate. From there they can symmetrically lay siege to every city.
The walls of Samarkand and Herat can withstand arrow and rocks indeed…
…but bombards?
If so, then they shall be harassed at every turn by light cavalry, their supplies burnt and every last reinforcement intercepted.
Just like Scythians did to Darius.
Alas, in the end she just sighs and shakes her head. The girl simply continues washing her laundry by the shore, whistling a tune at the passing wind. And when she finishes, the basket is filled again and the girl leaves the shadow of the tower, walking back to the city.
Her gaze catches a few more glimpses of the ships in port, but looks away.
It is no use to waste her mind on things that have yet to pass. Come what may the rise or fall of empires, it is not her place to take part. She is no actor in this play – it has neither line nor part for her dance and strut upon this stage.
For the girl, the only script from which she lives is the Art.
And yet, when she spots another carrack laden with men lowering its sails to make way, a thought comes to her.
Quetzalcoatl or not, Cuauhtémoc, Jaguar Warrior of Tenōchtitlan, did not die in his bed. The conquistadors resting at the bottom of Lake Texcoco can attest to this. As do the burning terraces and littered arrowheads.
You fidalgos shall meet your match yet.
And meet your match, you indeed did.
But perhaps it is unfair of her – after all, by his time the notion of a fidalgo had evolved in meaning. By then, it was just good business. There was no need for intrepid explorers armed with wheel lock firearms and rapiers to scour the ends of the earth. Everything was been conquered.
Just good business.
To be fair, they went about the entire affair with more tact than the Spaniards. No need to for grand stretches of empire – select, carefully placed feitorias doting the Africa coast accomplished just as much.
Less is more. Less is enough.
At first, anyways.
Escapades in Goa, clashes with the Ottomans, conquests for Macau from the Ming. Ironically, the Mughals ended up warring with the Gujarat, and the sultan had to ask them for help. And then of course there was the colonization of Brazil – and who thought that was a good idea? Of course, they had to, if only to make full use of the Tordesillas and to deny the Spaniards the pleasure.
But they never did manage to conquer Japan.
Indeed, they never did manage to. Was it the distance? Or the stability of Tokugawa shogunate? Certainly not, they landed during the height of the Sengoku period. It would be another forty years before Nobunaga managed to unify Japan.
One imagines that they could have taken Kyushu if they really wanted to.
Perhaps they had their fill by then…
But the old master just smirked at that thought. They never have enough. Half the world is witness to this. They never tried to only because the risk outweighed the benefit – and it was easier to just trade.
She suspects that they never did figure out what the Japanese meant by calling them nanban.
Or perhaps they just didn't care: they didn't think very highly – or much – of the Japanese either. In the end, silver was a universal language. Chinese silk for Japanese silver, then back to China for more silk. Eventually it come to include porcelain, lacquerware, and of course spices.
Her fingers brushed across the boxes of saffaron, sandalwood, incense, lavender and many others sheltered under the display case. She doubted that the nan-ban appreciated this the same way the Japanese did.
And yet, you died for them all the same.
But finally, she turned to look at the fidalgo standing before her.
He wore a three-quarters plate coming down to knees – inappropriate, because he was a captain-major of a ship, not some mercenary Reiter from Flanders. But she supposed that it was not out of the realm of possibility.
And in his gauntlets he held a polished crab sword from yonder old, its hilt, blade and scabbard still bearding the proud black finish. The girl almost broke out into a laugh at this sight.
Why on earth would a gentleman carry such a thing?
This was the age of rapiers and side swords. Even the most uncouth sailor would not be employing such a weapon. Tsk, tsk! She'll have to subtract some marks for that.
As a fussy traditionalist herself, the girl quickly procured a suitable blade for the gentleman: a wonderful early 17th century swept-hilted Spanish specimen – similar, but not the same, more marks! – with a tapering blade of 41 inches.
In fact, she even took the effort to sharpen it properly for him! Well, as much as one can expect from a museum piece, anyways.
The old master took a step back to admire her work.
However, fidaglo captain was oblivious to her presence. Instead, he was engaged in a final, desperate struggle. His rapier was raised en garde, with in his left hand he held a wheel lock pistol at ready, finger edging on the trigger.
It seems like this particular Portuguese figdaglo major-captain did meet his match in the end.
And it came through the form of hundreds of Japanese samurais clamoring over the side of his carrack, with katanas and spears in hand, ready to skewer this thieving nanban infidel.
Although she heard that a lot of the boarding party was Christians as well.
Ah, the cross against the cross…I see the missionaries did not forget to spread the time honored traditions!
And yet as the girl with ashen hair stared at him suspended in his pose of battle, the sarcasm faded from her face. Instead a deep, thoughtful pessimism settled in her emerald eyes.
Here he is, frozen in this moment in time forever, destined to relive his last battle over and over again. He would fend off the boarders as best he could, discharge what pistols he had, and then make a fighting retreat down to the powder magazine.
From there he would set fire to the fuse will obliterate the ship into a thousand pieces.
All this is fated happen to him standing in front of her; a destiny he cannot change. And this moment is captured forever in here in this statue.
Trapped in the amber of this moment…
Which is better?
A death that never comes or a death that is destined to repeat forever?
She wondered if there was any spice. She could use some incense, but she didn't know if they had
And all this…what for?
Was he a fanatic Catholic? Was he a true patriot of the Portuguese crown? Was he a slave to the evils of mammon? Or was he just a simple self-made man trying to make a living?
For what reason or design of providence that he should be here, on a ship in foreign seas, fighting so desperately?
So much so that he chose to sink to the bottom with his ship?
Pride, most likely.
After all, he most likely did not think much of people from across the world. The 'infidel' lens went both ways. The Portuguese figdaglo would rather die than to surrender to such a…lesser people.
Brave? – Perhaps.
Hubris? – Maybe.
Prejudiced? – Certainly.
Oh well.
Thus it came to be barbarian against barbarian, after all. Just as it always have been, one could argue. The more things change…
So it goes.
But just as she began to turn away, to leave him to his fate, her eyes caught notice of something.
Hidden below his coat, straddled between his cuirass and the fabric, was a thin piece of string hanging around his neck. And when her hand reached over to pull it out, she was right:
It was a simple, silver pendant in the shape of a cross.
Her fingers carefully brushed over its aged surface. The surface was had been superficially cleaned, but she could tell its age from the discoloration. There was even a hint of a moisture in between the seams of the welding – moss from the seabed.
The girl could have looked at the sign beside the mannequin and read about the salvage attempt of the ship. From there she could pick out a particular sentence about a silver pendant being found, dating to the 17th century. And this could be used to make an inferred deduction.
But she had no need for this.
The old master need not listen to secular historians and – commendable as they are – their guesswork.
Instead, when she closed her eyes, pressed her fingers against the silver surface, and listened…the truth was simple and clear. The whispers of a lifetime's worth of prayers echoed back to her, and she knew all.
Indeed, she could even make out the quivering words of his last prayer. She could even catch a whiff of burning gunpowder.
The old master needed only to listen to the Art.
When she opened her eyes again, there was only an accustomed fatigue in her gaze. It was a feeling all too familiar to the old master.
He's still in there.
Frozen in the last moment of his battle.
Her delicate fingers tightened around the pendant.
Trapped in the amber of this moment…
She went to work immediately.
First, the girl took off the silver pendant from his neck, carefully wrapping it around her hands. It took her a moment, but she quickly procured the necessary incense and aromatics from various displays in the room. They weren't exactly the types used in Catholic liturgies, but they'll do – after all, the exact composition has been subject to many changes over the centuries.
The aromatics were carefully arranged into dome within a incense bowl.
The old master also obtained some water from a tap nearby. Of course, as wise in the Art as she maybe, she did not deign to bless it. It's not that she couldn't by her own hand, but that it was quite inappropriate and audacious faux pas for any self-respecting master.
In any case, she didn't need to – there was already a believer right here in the pendant.
She dipped the pendant into the water and set fire to the incense with a snap of her fingers. Then she pulled up the incense bowl up from the ground via a piece of rope knotted around the bottom.
The old master made the sign of the cross and the thurible began to sway. The soft scent of embers seeping into incense began wafting up to the air.
The girl began pacing around him in small, measured steps.
"By the thrones and dominations and prayers and principalities of Him whose name you worship at last hour, receive here the return of what you have lost. Rise and receive, so wherefore and henceforth, forevermore and evermore in His Kingdom…"
The smoke grew thicker and thicker as her word faded into distinct whispers. The aroma became overpowering in her nostrils, but her mind did not falter.
Instead, she concentrated her mind on the suffocating heat of the powder magazine. She listened to his ragged breaths pushing its way through the bleeding wounds in between the gaps of his armor. She listened to the last words muttered from his mouth as his hand reached down for the candle.
"Suscipe, Domine, universam meam libertatem. Accipe memoriam, intellectum, atque voluntatem omnem. Quidquid habeo vel possideo mihi largitus es; id Tibi totum restituo, ac Tuae prorsus voluntati trado gubernandum. Amorem Tui solum cum gratia Tua mihi dones, et dives sum satis, nec aliud quidquam ultra posco…"
She opened her eyes.
"Amen."
Lo and behold!
The pendant submerged within the water has shown its true form. Gone are the marks of age, the ravages of time and neglect. By all that is righteous and deserving in His Name, a loyal believer's faith has been rewarded.
Now, the silver cross shone true and bright, with such brilliance that she humbly bowed before its truth. Truly, faith is not bound by time.
And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith.
The girl bowed humbly before His might, for she too understands the power of God's faith and what can be achieved by those who heed His words and follow in His steps.
With great modesty and humbleness, she raised the pendant out of the Blessed Water and returned it to its rightful owner.
When this rejuvenation was complete, the old master took a step back and bowed again. But this time when she raised her head, her eyes were calm and steady as she looked into his eyes.
"Fear not, Captain. You shall not be trapped to this shell for much longer. Soon, the amber that confines you will be broken forever, and the last battle shall come to you with all the grace and glory of God's favor. "
The girl smiled gently.
"And afterwards, the final battle shall descend upon and make itself known, and you may finally rest in eternal peace, bathed in God's glory to receive entrance to His Dominion. So now, by His Name and Power that is your faith…"
The old master made the sign of the cross on her chest once more, and then she raised her arm to him. She took a steady breath into her lungs, filling her being with the Art to speak the weighted words. Her eyelids fluttered closed again.
"Talitha –"
Wait.
That can't be right.
Not only would that be inappropriate (even more than it already was), it would also be wrong.
The girl squeezed one eyelid open and glanced frantically at the sign beside him. She hurriedly read through the lines of text written by the secular historians – such commendable, indispensable work – to find what she needed.
What was his –
She found it.
The girl with ashen closed her eyes again, clearly her throat slightly.
Then she repeated the steps again, with exactly the same degree of solemnity and grace. This time, she knew what to say:
"Andrinho koum!"
Eventually, I did catch her.
It was the conclusion of another late, fruitless night of digging through references and squinting at images of scanned parchments until spots danced in my eyes. I believe that was an unusally early time for me to come home.
Usually I stayed overnight at the office – privileges accorded to the faculty head. In fact I probably spent similar amounts of time at the office as I did at home.
I opened the door to my study and there the girl was, slumped over my desk with her face over an open book and her mouth drooling onto the pages. Some illustrated edition of nonsense written by one of them early modern occultists.
Ars Goetia, was it?
Of course it was.
After all, I still have that copy before me on my desk.
I don't remember how long I stood there, half-awake and half-asleep, just starting at her. I was so tired that I even had trouble remembering how she was.
Eventually the girl did wake up.
Embarrassingly enough, she was more cognizant of the situation than I was. In my stupor it took me some time to recognize the wide-eyed girl sitting in front of me, trembling in fear. Why did he did not look away?
Staring at me like that…
I raised my hand, and she braced herself.
But I did not have the energy to expend to such a fruitless discipline. She was her daughter, after all. Of course it should surprise no one that the girl should take after her mother's impudence. As a weary sigh escaped my breath, the first real pangs of a hidden regret revealed themselves to me.
She was my daughter, too.
Even if only nominally.
I don't remember sitting down next to her, but I do remember wiping her drool off the pages with some tissue paper. To my surprise, she didn't make any attempt to flee. Instead her eyes were fixated on the etchings' smudged ink seeping into the paper.
"What do the pictures mean, otou-sama?"
The way she muttered her words prickled my ear strange.
"Demons," I answered simply. "it's a…list."
Her eyes widened stupidly at my words. Impressionable little fool. Well, she is a child after all. Children are by nature impressionable and stupid.
But that won't do – not for my…
"Are you scared of them?"
The girl hesitated for a moment before nodding uncertainly. Why did she nod her head so? Because she thought it would please me? Foolish, foolish little…
"They are just pictures, no more. Illusions constructed by paranoid fools so that they may control the masses. It's orchestrated theatre you see, where they pretend to preach and the masses pretend to believe. Opiate for the weak minds in need of answers."
She did understand of it of course, but the girl nodded her head readily to placate me.
Pathetic.
"Don't do that. Never pretend to understand something that you do not, just for the sake of social acceptance. Accept your ignorance. Whatever embarrassment you incur onto yourself pales in comparison to shame of enlightened pretense."
Why was I talking like this?
But she hang onto my every word, listening intently like a obedient pupil to her master. If only the snotty, idle half-witted imps at ACU paid half as much attention as her during lectures.
A degree for degree's sake, huh?
Curse you all…
I realized that the girl was still waiting for me to continue.
I turned back to the open book. Ars Goetia it was indeed. Clearly, she has some morbid fascination with these esoteric etchings. Don't children at her age focus on other things – dolls, perhaps? Or some such frivolities.
As my hands absentmindedly flipped through the pages, noting the half-faded folds at the corners, I experienced something: something that must have been the closest sensation I ever came to know as pride.
My daughter after all…
"Tell me, why do you like to stare at these pictures?"
She paused for some time, trying to find the right words.
Good, good. Speak only the truth.
"Otou-sama, they're…creepy. And yet, I feel like they're…so mysterious. I only look at the pictures and wonder what they mean…"
I threw my head back and my mouth fell open = a roaring laugh. Another first. What a strange night it is.
"Mysterious?! There is nothing mysterious about these 'demons'. They are nothing but caricatures, conglomerated from different pieces of half-truths and inspiration drawn by different cultures. In essence, they are nothing but pure fiction."
She stared at me in awe.
I liked that.
"Come. Point to any of these gentlemen listed here and I will explain to you their origins. I will lift their veil of mystery and expose their petty, barren truths. Point and I shall relevel on."
The girl's eyes sparkled and dazzled. Such is the innocent wonder of youth.
Oh, how terribly I ache for the days when the world held wondrous secrets for me to explore. Now it is just a barren plain of incompetence and disappointment.
"Um-m…then you tell me about this one, otou-sama? What's his story? Why is his head like that…?"
She pointed her small finger at the etching on the page.
My eyes lazily glanced over his wide, black oval eyes, deep and bottomless. For some reason the artists' renditions of his ears seemed to be based more on that of a dog rather than a bird's. And then there were his wings, depicted appropriately in white: like those of an angle. The sword is mostly hidden behind his neck, but it shows a curious hint of a round grip and a disc guard – like some overlength Roman spatha.
At least the wolf is presentable.
Oh well, midlevel scribes and their manuscripts illustrations. Though in all fairness this etching most likely dates from the Enlightenment, back when Western Esotericism was at its heydays, when the first rings of the science had not yet managed to dispel all corners of darkness.
She waited for my words with bated breath – I had forgotten about her, lost in my thoughts.
"Ah yes, an interesting choice. The Gray Knight. The angel fallen from heaven – a recurring theme. A Marquis of Hell who commands…ah, some supposedly fearsome number of legions, the exact number of which is of no consequence. Let's see..."
My daughter nodded eagerly.
"But this demon is supposedly very dangerous – any fool who summons him without preparation is sure to meet a quick death. It is said that he murders anyone who lets down the guard. So great care must be taken. Oh well, they say the same about every one of these things."
"Otous-sama, what's his name?"
"His name? Let's see…"
Now as I stare at the pages in front of me, but there is no picture. Instead there is only a swirling darkness spreading across the pages, seeping into the white apges and into my fingers.
She is gone now.
Both of them. Curse that woman, why did she send the girl into my study. Curse her. Why did this girl have to act this way? Oh, how I loathe myself and my weakness.
Why did I allow myself to care?
Curses, curse, curses.
And now I am left alone on my desk, staring the void with my back turned to him. His wings silently spread themselves across the small ceiling of my office, covering every inch with feathers of silvery lead dripping with black blood.
"And my name, professor?"
I knew, but the bleeding sores on my tongue did not allow me to answer. Instead, I only stare at the blot of fading ink faintly smudged across a paragraph on the page.
My daughter is gone.
I must –
"Hooyee-ya, hooyee-ya! Let us feast and make merry, hooyee-ya!"
She claps her hands in the rhythmic beat of the chorus, along with the other women forming the circle. With each clap her feet shifts in synchronization against the snow with her neighbors'. The circle danced and danced around the center.
It is tugging now, pulling against the men's strength as they smiled and obliged in the tug-of-war. Together they pulled back and forth, testing its strength and swinging back and forth with each motion.
And the women keeps singing.
She continues to clap her hands, her throat rising and expanding with each "Hooya-ho!" as the circle slowly narrowed around It. A nominal smile hangs on her face. But her emerald eyes refuses to comply, and so her gaze betrays her.
She is here, but not with them.
She quietly observes 'it' struggling against its rope bondage.
And in its deep, mournful hazel eyes she sees only pain and frustration.
It understands not what the noises signify, nor why the ropes are bound tightly against its limbs, nor the circle of humans slowly closing in, their feet tapping against the fresh snow with each step.
She claps her hands again, but with the next turn of her torso the girl masks an apologetic bow of her head. After all, it was not hers to reason why: only to learn, not deny.
To first understand, not impose demand.
Please, just a little bit more…
And so they continue dancing and singing.
"Hooyee-ya, hooyee-ya! Come and frolic with us, O' Kim-un Kamuy! Hooyee-ya!"
Ah, so the White Wolf is still seeking a bride…
The girl with ashen hair glanced wistfully at long line of plastic mannequins, examining each with Hamanasu rose-tinted lenses of a bygone era. Indeed, she applauded their efforts. The attush robes were quite well made, with the geometric patterns and whirling symbols brought back to life in a painfully familiar manner.
She had half a mind to wear one herself. But no, that would be inappropriate: her time with them had come and gone. The girl could not – in good conscience – pretend to be what she no longer was. Not in this life, anyways.
At that thought, she couldn't help but smirk sarcastically.
So much respect!
And yet, when it comes to their Art…
Presently, she finally came to face with her groom-to-be: a majestic white Ezo wolf, standing proud with his chest bared and his head raised to the sky.
The girl bends her knees and made a curtsy with her tattered summer dress.
"Ah, O' formidable Horkew Kamuy, the Howling God of the Ezo lands! I have heard your call. And here I am, having traveled far and wide, across many lands and many times, to become your mate. Shall you take this poor girl to be your bride?"
He answered with silence.
The white wolf's eyes were set not on the girl's bowing in front of him. Instead, it only saw the mirage of luscious Ezo mountains in the distance. His nose was pointed upwards, as if sniffing the air for the tracks of a herd of Yezo sika deer in the bamboo undergrowth.
The girl frowned unhappily.
"Tsk, tsk!" she waved her fingers, "such picky gods they are!"
But, of course. The Hokrew Kamuy had found his bride a long time ago, and it was a proper goddess too! And who is she but a miserable, wretched and destitute – in every sense – of a wandering magician? Surely not suitable to be the bride of a kamuy…
The girl beamed her chest defiantly.
"So? What of it? I'll have you know that I, myself have been considered as kamuy-of-sorts in my time as well! Times, that is. Just…in different places…somewhat…"
Alright, alright.
Jests aside, she couldn't find it in herself to be mad. Not even pretend. The sight of his taxidermy statue only made her melancholic for a bygone era – a time when she would trod the deep snow in oversized wooden snowshoes, bow in hand and a fur cape over her back.
The old master sighed.
She glanced mournfully over him again, noting that they had to resort to estimating his proportions. Which was to be expected. After all, to her knowledge Hokkaido wolves have been exterminated and extinct since the Meji Restoration.
So the taxidermists had to simply imagine his form, based on his Sakhalin cousins across the strait. In all fairness, she was just nit-picking. They were not so different from the North American grey wolves. So by all standards, this was an acceptable reconstruction.
But nothing will ever recapture the feel of his fur brushing against her cheeks.
The girl bit her lips.
If only you had laid down your pride…
If only you had submitted to the Wa-jin…
But he did not.
And now, all that's left of him is a hollow statue gathering dusty in a forgotten corner of history, sharing the fate with many others who could not – or simply chose not to – adapt to the winds of change.
Too dangerous for civilized society.
Her hand gently brushed over his snout. Indeed, the stiff, stubby patches of fur were nothing but a cheap imitation of him. The girl gently nursed the ache in her chest.
The question was obvious:
How long before I join you?
As an extinct footnote in history?
This question she pondered for some time. But in the end her fingers just began to twirl and dance on the wooden handle of the mop. Deftly, and with precise fingers, she casted a sigillia on him, bounding him to where to he stood.
Now, be a good fellow and stay here for the night, will you?
After which the old master bade her farewell, turned around with wistful smile on her face and meandered on.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately …unlike you, my dear friend, I'm very good at blending in among these humans.
Her feet gained a slight tapping rhythm to her stride.
In fact…sometimes I can even convince myself that I'm one of them!
And indeed, she could. As a matter of fact, she dare say that as long as she didn't think too hard about the matter, then she was almost just a normal twelve year old girl with flowing, light-blonde hair!
So here she was, just a normal girl strolling through the idyllic forest, admiring nature and the local traditions. And there was much to admire: long rows of silent, stoic animals, various objects and ritual items displayed by the locals…
But the maiden's carefree stroll came to an abrupt end when she met…it.
She bowed her head, paying her dues respectfully.
Just like when she danced in the circle with other women from the village.
"Greetings, O' Kim-un Kamuy."
The bear was raised on its legs, posing in a fearsome stance with its paws outstretched in the air. Its mouth was open, exposing its terrify fangs. The iron chain on its neck seemed too puny to be able to hold back this force of nature, as were the ropes tied around its paws.
She couldn't help but clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
A rather tasteless dramatization. In reality it would be quite different – with much song and dancing. After all, it was a celebration. And it would not be standing on its hind legs so. It would be bound on the ground, with its limbs being pulled in every direction, helpless to the gleaming arrowheads under the winter sun…
Her eyes glanced over the bear, standing tall with its claws and fangs bared, ready to do harm to any who wished to subdue him. The hint of a smile crept in.
Well, maybe not so tasteless after all…
Judging by the coloration of the fur, she could tell that this taxidermy was genuine. Not some plastic imitation – real fur from a real bear. She would try to examine its teeth, but that was no use given the taxidermy process. But judging by the length and thin waist of the bear, she would estimate its age to be two, at most three years old.
Strangely accurate.
Interesting...
She walked up and affected another bow, asking for permission first before she touched it. As she thought: the fur was lacquered in the old traditional taxidermy fashion. And she couldn't help but notice the smell. It had been covered up with the modern layer of refurbishment, but it could escape detection by her nose:
The smell of arsenical soap.
This one predates the 20th century, it seems…
Intriguing.
Everything was becoming more interesting by the minute.
She commandeered a chair and got up on it, standing head to head at the bear's height.
Now, time to tell truth from fiction: a search for marks on the skin. She started at the head – the most obvious place – but found nothing. Of course, if there was a mark on the head this bear would already have its skull mounted on an inau.
So now her hands caressed and swept the other areas – chest. She checked specifically for the corners of the shoulder, the skull and the paws.
And indeed…
The taxidermist was good, certainly. The fur could be patched. The dried blood could be the painted over. Even a layer of tanned hides could be substituted.
But the marks – the scars on the skin cannot be hidden.
A ritual interrupted.
Some of the scars were too big and patchy to be inflicted by arrowheads, certainly not the ceremonial ones that would be used. Instead, the wound came from a rifle bullet.
They must've been interrupted before they could send the kamuy home.
She could imagine the scene: the dancing circle, the men readying their bows in preparation, only for a solitary shot to ring out across the taiga. Several perhaps, delivered between the quick cycling of the bolt handle. And before anyone came to their senses, the saboteur would have made their escape through the snow.
And afterwards, nothing could be done. The ritual had been defiled.
Out of spite?
Or self-informed righteousness?
It mattered not.
The kamuy is still…
The girl quickly lowered herself from the chair, landing silently on the dusty floor. Now, any previous reservations melted away. Her eyes immediately started hunting for the appropriate inau. She found a willow stick of several feet in length, adorned at the top with a bushel of long strands of wood shavings. A plain black attush robe embroidered in a simple wave patter was also procured and quickly worn on.
Lip tattoos…
For a brief moment, the girl sought to find some black ink. But stopped in her tracks when she saw a glimpse of herself in the faded mirror propped atop a Yamato lacquer box. The reflection did not lie:
In it, she saw a young girl of Caucasian descent, with emerald eyes and flowing ashen hair. And she was dressed in an Ezo attush with an inau stick dancing on her fingers. Strange as it may sound, the sight prickled and drew blood from a forgotten part of her heart.
She was the embodiment of a strange, contorted – inappropriate even – mismatch.
The girl smiled, sadly and wistfully.
That life has passed.
I am Ainu…no more.
The old master accepted it with grace. She would defile their Art no more than necessary – if only to serve her own selfish purposes. Thus she redirected her attention to the task at hand, quickly arriving before the bear with everything she needed.
She propped down a low table in front of it, placing several carved wooden plates and laying out a series of foodstuffs from her satchel. Then she poured out some white wine – stored in a plastic energy drink bottle – into a sake cup.
The girl swept her hair behind her back, kneeling down on both knees in front of the table. Her hands were placed virtuously on her lap as she bowed her torso.
The words came naturally:
"O thou great Kim-un Kamuy, thou were sent into the world for us to hunt. O thou precious little divinity, we worship thee; pray, hear our prayer. We have nourished thee and brought thee up with great care, all because we love thee so. Now, as thou have grown big, we shall send thee back to thy honorable kin in the blue sky. And, when thou meet them please speak well of us, and tell them how kind we have been; please come to us again and we shall make merry with thou again."
Her hand raised the inau and gave it a measured shake. Then the cup of wine was brought to her mouth, and with her lips modestly covered by her hand, the wine flowed down her throat in one sip. She brought the cup down onto the table, tapping the stick against it in joy.
"Ah, such good rice wine! Tis' truly worthy of thy honor, O' honorable Kim-un Kamuy! In your honor, let us drink and feast!"
She poured again and drank several more times, downing the ceramic cup each sip with graceful hands. The girl also brought out a pair of wooden chopsticks to symbolically taste each of the dishes on the table: crumbled pieces of cheese, several cuts of cold chicken, and some pieces of boiled sweet fish – whatever she managed to smuggle out of the garden party.
Finally, once she was concluded with her 'feast', the old master raised her cup again.
But now, the words were lodged in her throat.
After this comes the dancing…
Her eyes fell upon the silent kamuy, with his paws outstretched and fangs bared. There was a moment of time encapsulated in the statue, and even if fictional or exaggerated, it was still true. She knew that truth would not be far off.
They would dance and dance around the bear, clapping and singing, while it struggled in vain against the rope bindings on its legs. And then the men would tie it to a post, wrapping the layers of rope around its chest. The winter air would be filled with hot, warm breaths steaming out his snout as he watched the man walk up to him, bow and arrow in hand.
And the bear could only stare on helplessly as he – with weeping eyes – nocked the arrow and drew the string back…
Her cold, hard eyes glanced down at her own hands, dirtied and smeared with all manner of dust and filth. Her own hands were not clean of hypocrisy.
Trapped in the amber of this moment…
That's what the moment in time that it is trapped within: the moment of its death, by the hands of people who cared not to explain why or what for. And this was its fate for the eternity to come – destined to repeat this death, over and over again, without reason or rhyme or release.
Destined to live and die, time and time again, until the end of eternity when the stars have burnt out and only the void remains.
Just like me.
The girl slowly lowered her cup.
…and what for?
I am Ainu, no more.
I am in Ezo, no more
And thus, I am bound to tradition…no more.
An eerie smile spread across her face. And when the old master raised her head, she could almost see a hint of light glinting in the bears eyes. Indeed, it would not do the kamuy justice to endure such a long solitude and to be released so nominally, so mundanely, so traditionally.
It's time for the kamuy to make merry and frolic with us…
Now, she found the words.
"My sincerest apologies, O great Kim-un Kamuy, for keeping thou with us for so long. Forgive our inattentiveness to have failed send thou home for so long! But in return, please accept my humble offer to dance with thee, let us frolic and make merry. Indeed, let us make merry as true folk of the land, let us honor our forefathers together with the the gift that sky has so graciously given to us! And in due course, thou shall find thy wind home with us."
The white wine came splattering onto the dusty floor of the museum.
"So, let us make merry and hunt together!"
I'll tell him.
Malyana stared at the bonsai with bright eyes.
It was a delicate little thing, with baby green leaves and a dark twisting trunk. Malyana had carefully placed it at the best spot in the abandoned garage – below an air vent – where the air was presumably freshest. She didn't want it to get contaminated by the stale air of the safe house, where the scent of gunpowder and engine oil hung heavy.
She stared at it for a long, long time.
He had told her once that such plants from Japan were very beautiful and delicate. He always did have an eye for such things.
But now, as she crouched over her chair with her face propped up by both hands, Malyana felt like she understood what he meant.
How strange that she should be at a loss for words now – he had taught her so much. Well, it went in one ear and out the other.
No matter, she'll ask him to teach her again.
She was still staring at it while she was changing her clothes and putting on her tactical belt. For the first time since forever, the weight of her equipment felt lighter as a feather. And she hadn't realized the weight they used to bear on her until now.
She was still staring at it when she holstered her Beretta pistol.
With her preparation complete, she proceeded to the most important task of all: gently placing the dome over the bonsai plant again. Sadly it will have to remain closed for some time, in case of rats or some such awry befall it.
Or her fire.
It unnerved Malyana how desperately she cared for it.
She tried to imagine his expression when he saw it. Oh, how happy he will be! She made a mental note to herself to read up on bonsai plants so that she will have something to talk about.
But in the back of her mind she knew that when she sees him again they won't have much time. Certainly he'll probably not be able to live into cabin anymore. It won't take long for them to notice.
But still…
As long as they're together.
Another cabin. Another garden. More flowerbeds. This time, she'll listen and learn. Properly this. And together they can grow the bonsai.
She got into the van, her eyes already set on the distance.
"I tell him," she promised out loud to herself, I'll tell him the next time I meet him."
He woke up.
In front of him, the same book. Open. And on the same page as well. His eyes gazed down at his etching, at the form that he took within the pages of the Ars Goetia.
A life of their own, indeed.
Such wretched dreams.
And why is it that everything was so clear and concise in his dreams? It seems like his every waking of moment is plagued with heavy fog that hung over his mind, addling his senses. The scales between dream and reality have been switched,
He groaned and clutched his head on his hands.
No time to waste.
The professor looked up at the picture frame on the desk. Strange people in a strange photo. Ah, the sinking weight on his head only grew the longer he stared at it. It's no good, everything is a mess.
He took a deep gulp of stale coffee and stood up. As he did so his hand reached out and grabbed the blue sash from the photo frame.
This he did remember.
It's coming back now.
The professor's entire body was still aching with wounds from the night in the garden maze. Frankly, he's never had so much injuries before in his life. But despite the pain, there was now a strange focus gathering in his head, like a microscope's lens slowly being tuned.
He knew what he had to do tonight.
"There is no fire like greed,
No crime like hatred,
No sorrow like separation,
No sickness like hunger of heart,
And no joy like the joy of freedom."
Her eyes strained to remain open as she bends over her stomach, her hands clutching the broom until her knuckles turned white. Of course, it was not the proper form for one to meditate in. Learn not from this!
The girl with ashen hair gritted her teeth.
And there is no hunger…like hunger of the Art.
One might be led to believe that she did not adopt the proper stance for meditation – sitting cross-legged with her palms on her knees – simply out of sloth. But that was not the case at all.
Well, yes…it is true that the only master couldn't be bothered to do so.
But that was not the only reason!
It won't help anyways.
And indeed, it did not help.
She was no stranger to meditation. Well versed in the many traditions hailing from the days of Sanskrit carved into palm leaf manuscripts, to the sutras written in blood mixed with ink, the old master had acquired certain…tastes. Which, given the background of the faith, may be rightfully seen as an oxymoron.
But she was too old to be bothered with such formalities.
Especially when it came to these traditions.
After all, is mediation simply a means for one to come to term with oneself – whatever that self maybe?
And she had done so a long time ago, sitting under a mangrove tree by the banks of the Irrawaddy, with her legs crossed – but straight, one foot under another, and her palm on her knees, with her spine erect. The classic Siddhāsana form.
And in that form the master did indeed come to glimpse between the fabric of illusion that is reality. The sacred truth, at least, was known to her. And so did it dispel and ascended her beyond the confines of mortality…
…or not?
The hunger of the Art remained.
Since then, she had repeated it many times. But each time she came to the same disappointing conclusion.
As the little girl with ashen clutched her stomach, bend over the dusty floor of museum, she knew that there was no escape from it. Be it in meditation or in drink, or psychedelics, any manner of stimulants or depressants – they made no difference.
Every time she employed the Art, the insatiable hunger was bound to follow.
It did not matter from what school, tradition, religion of the Art she made use. It was all the same. Such was the Achilles' Heel of the old master – she who is wise in all forms of the Art, she who is able to cast the most complicated and volatile of spells, she who is discerning in her wisdom and discretion…
She who is a magician without mana.
But presently, the girl took several deep breaths to calm the pain, the tremors of hunger started to fade away. If only momentarily. This gave the girl a moment to catch her breath.
She let out a heavy sighed and finally looked up to him.
The monk smiled back jollily at her, leaning on his arm as his large stomach came hanging out onto his legs. Well, if the girl harbored any embarrassment for the unseemly sight of her curled up on the floor, it was no dispelled by his demeanor.
She narrowed her eyes bitterly.
What an upright, merry monk you are!
At her jab he responded with only silent laughter. His infectious optimism spread to her and the master could only shake her head. Her bitterness was replaced with a shadow of a smile lurking on her lips.
And yet, there were things that even good, old Budai could offer no cheer.
She sighed again as the creeping hunger returned; only in a subdued form. Her hand tightened around the mop's handles.
"Health, contentment and trust are your greatest possessions,
And freedom your greatest joy.
Look within.
Be still.
Free from fear and attachment,
Know the sweet joy of living in the way."
Well, here she is, with neither health, contentment nor trust. Freedom, now that she did have, in great spadesful as well. But at her age it there little joy to derive from it – only aimless, tired resignation.
Her eyes grew deep, mournful even, as she stared at Budai's silent smile.
Gautama wasn't wrong.
Everything, all manners of existence is nothing but a fleeting distraction. One must rise above the incessant squabbles of mundanity. Attachment is indeed the root of – most – suffering.
And beyond it, there lies…
Nothing.
The transcended consciousness, the light that dispels time and space to eternity, to free one from the bondage of this plane, to rise above the cycle of deaths and rebirths…
There is nothing there.
The girl sat down wearily.
Only a silent void.
One does not need much to take note of the general senselessness and chaos that permeates everyone's miserable existence. Anyone with a pair of eyes and a brain can understand this, with some effort. And what of it?
Of course, meditation can indeed propel one's consciousness to higher planes…and then what?
She had been there before. Many times.
The great void of nothingness, where the attachments of mortality faded away and her mind reflected with the crystalline purity of a moon's reflection on the calm sea. Where silence reigned supreme.
And yet, even here, the hunger of the Art dogged her still.
For a long time, she made this out to be a sign of her lingering attachment to her own mortality. Her own ego refused to accept its insignificance – or so the tirthankaras always taught.
And so the old master went further and further still to shed her worldly vassal. Death. Rebirth. Death again. Rebirth of death, death of rebirth. Again and again. The calm silence of nothingness became her second home.
A futile effort.
Perhaps an attachment to the mortal plane it was – but the biggest obstacle lay in its very nature. The old master simply could not identify its origin.
Eventually, after much effort and many deaths, she came to discern the hunger in its most primitive form.
The hunger of her earthly shell was but a mask. Its true form came not in pain, hunger, nor pride.
Instead, It came to her in whispers.
And it whispered to her only one word:
"Remember."
To the ignorant, the obtuse, the indiscriminate – it is sweet.
Numbingly so.
And so they turn their noses away, unable to comprehend a matter of which their little minds have no capacity to examine. Such is the nature of man: to live in ignorance and die, proudly declaring their own foolishness.
He brought to glass up.
To him – it is pure. It is unblemished by savage oak, ripe with a playful aroma. And just like one's dance partner should be, it is aged to maturity but still retained a youthful vigor.
The glass met his lips.
And so terribly, terribly bitter.
But he sipped it regardless. After all, it was a privilege that few was aware of, and fewer still who made use of it. And he was one who upheld his station with grace and magnanimity.
But still excellent Riesling.
"How do you like it?"
Outside the window the city silently floated by, lights glimmering in the distance like a mirage of the desert. He paid no heed to it.
They are all just temporary reference points of civilization – soon to crumble into dust. Just like countless, nameless, and forgotten ones before them: the Roman Colosseum, the Babylonian Ziggurats, and Mayan temples. Nothing more than temporary displays of hubris and embodiment of human arrogance.
They will return to the dust from whence they came.
And himself, as mortal and fleeting as he may be as well, at least held a glimpse of the eternal truth – the timeless secret.
He placed and glass down and looked across the table.
He smiled at her, at the girl sitting opposite the end of the long dining table. What a pretty creature! Her elegant dress, sewn silk and linen of silver, gave form to her delicate skin and classical shoulders. And mirror the purity of her dress, in her eyes there was also a purity of emotions.
In her eyes there laid no trappings of human weakness or fickle desire – only the pure, unpolluted submission of obedience.
Such beauty was the death of remembrance.
Indeed, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
Dazzled by her alluring figure, he turned away momentarily to his eyes some respite. Once again the phantom shapes of the city below came into focus. A certain towering structure came to his attention.
"Say, my pet, can you see that structure in the distance?" he asked her.
Her head gave a mute and mechanical reply
"Yes. It is the Windowless Building," she answered.
Just like a good, delicate human doll.
Brightened by her good behavior, he rose jollily from his seat and walked across the carpet. The girl rose silently as well, presenting herself with a perfect curtsy before taking his hand. The two of them walked along the towering glass panes to the very bow of the cabin.
As befitting a proper gentleman, he opened the door for her and the couple stepped out into the railings. The night wind welcomed them with a hearty breeze, but its strength gave way respectfully around their figures.
With an arm on his waist, he guided her forwards and placed her hand on the railings of the platform. Then his finger rose and pointed at the tall structure rising out in the distance.
"There, in the Windowless Building lies our Master, He who is wise and knowing in the ways of the world. It is by His patronage that we exist and thrive."
She bowed her head in gratitude.
"Indeed, He has our utmost gratitude. And therefore you understand why we so gladly carry out his orders without question or hesitation. And it also gives me great pleasure to say that He has never erred in his judgment or intellect."
"He is wise and knowing in the ways of the world," she repeated.
"Yes. And it is in his wisdom and command that we have set this stage – this carefully prepared little concert of human drama. Of which you have the honor of taking part within. What say you to this?"
"My honor and gratitude," she bowed again.
"Well-said. He has my honor and gratitude as well. And now that all the pieces and actors have finally been laid into position, it is my great pleasure as the Master of Ceremonies to make the much-anticipated announcement."
The blur of city lights floated all around her, but in her eyes, she saw only a blank darkness.
"Without further ado…"
He smiled wonderfully and raised both of his arms to the millions of unknowing audience below them:
"…let the rituals begin!"
…but remember what?
She stuffed another piece of cheese into her mouth. Once that disappeared down her throat – in other words, a few seconds – she fished around her satchel for something else. Unfortunately for her, the stock of foodstuffs she had acquired from the party was running low.
She found a scrap of fishbone and proceeded to pick her teeth with it.
And how exactly does one remember something that which one does not know?
The girl just sat there on the dusty stairs of the museum, staring at the moonlight flowing through the upper windows. But alas, it was wasted – majestic Nikkal's brilliance illuminated nothing but dusty death and ancient, forgotten relics.
Relics like her.
And what does it matter anyways?
She poked the fish bone alttle too hard and drew blood from her gums between her teeth. The metallic flavor tossed about in her mouth for sometime before she absent mindedly swallowed it.
I forget a lot of things.
Or to be precise, there were imperfect gaps in her perfect memory.
Whatever she could remember, she remembered with astounding clarity as if she was living within that very moment again – assuming that the old master wasn't feeling scatter-brained at that moment.
But whatever she could not remember, she could not remember with absolute certainty. It was simply a state of non-existence. Nothing. And worse of all, she cannot remember what she does not remember.
But there was a simple remedy: all she needed to do was to finally clean and sort out the Library. And by doing so, she would inevitably come to remember what she forgot via her own clues – a scrap of parchment with hasty scribbles, a tablet of stone hurriedly stuffed between shelves, or a knot of rope that her fingers knew how to read.
Judgment day will come before I ever manage to sort that mess out.
And it will come a lot sooner.
Indeed, the old master never did got around to cleaning out the Library. And have no illusion – she's had all the time in the world to do so – or at least a good substantial part of recent memory.
But even if I do remember…what of it?
What will come of it?
And just like before, the old master will remember. And she will remember for a long time. But eventually as she collects more books, listen to more stores, collect more relics, whatever it is that she remembered will be relegated to some corner of the Library overgrown with vines – which is to say, all of them.
And she would forget again.
Why bother?
And she remembered the blasted thing again.
She groaned in annoyance and quickly rose to her feet, took her broom and hind and limped down the stairs. But her efforts to distract herself were futile – this time, the old master did not forget the question she remembered.
The same thing she had pondered earlier that night.
There is no why.
No.
There is a why.
There must be.
And yet, as the girl walked along the silent corridors of the museum, she had to admit that the answer was very unconvincing. Hollow and empty.
Why am I here?
To aid the professor. To summon him. And then to finish what she started a long, long time ago. To keep her promise. There, you see? Simple. There is a why.
Frankly, I cannot be bothered…
If she succeeds, then well done! Another prize was added to her collection! A wonderful trophy...alongside the thousands and thousands of others in the Library. Meaningless.
If she fails, then the horror! Death, destruction, and famine! Her soul shall be lost in the depths of Hell! And a terrible darkness shall befall humanity…once more. As if they weren't earnestly trying every day. So?
To her, it was all just so…futile.
Here she was, alone with only a staff to keep company, waiting to partake – directly and indirectly – in an invocation of a familiar acquaintance. And the stakes are pitifully familiar, the participants painfully…normal? Normal in their abnormality, that is.
She just sighed.
Another night, another ritual.
Trapped in the amber of this moment…
Just like thousands of nights before.
Frankly, she reckoned that she had enough – simply just counting nightly rituals – to compile her version of A Thousand and One Nights. But unlike Scheherazade, the old master had no one to which she could narrate the tales.
And why would an author write a book that no one shall ever read?
'Tis futility of the highest order.
And even if she did ever compile such an anthology, its soul would remain forever incomplete without her understanding of time. And in her case, it was a very peculiar, long-winded and sentimental concept of it.
And how exactly would she go about explaining it?
How does one explain sight to the blind? How does one explain sound to the deaf? How does one explain touch to incorporeal?
Time. Time. Time.
The fourth dimension indeed. Therefore, just like the Square struggled to explain the very concept of shapes to an edge in Lineland, she struggled to explain Time to…well, anyone. Not that she was one to boast or grovel for fame. And she had long since outgrown any arrogant notion of disseminating divine knowledge.
And unlike the Square, she had no listeners – nor did she seek any.
The girl threw her head much in a soft laugh.
Ah, yes!
Timeland!
It was perfect really. She could already the title.
Timeland: The Romance of Many Dimensions.
Although in her case, perhaps it would be more appropriate to call it Timeland: The Tragedy of Many Dimensions. Yes, that shall make for a wonderful book. And she'll hide the text somewhere cheeky for the scholars, or at least for the more imaginative ones of the lot.
They'll really shake their heads at this one!
But her thorny sarcasm was short-lived, as the girl fell silent once more. The empty corridors, silent mannequins, and breathing artifacts of the museum solemnlywatched on at her. She stared back at them. Thus the Past came to stare at its reflection in the form of a little girl with long ashen hair.
The old master could only agree with them.
And yet, here we all are, trapped in the amber of this moment.
And there is a why.
But it matters not.
For there is always a why. As long as humanity exists, there will always be a why. There has to be. It drives our very existence, if only for survival – and that is the most primitive why of all. From one why to another we go onto the stage, strutting about and making great noise and fury. Then when the bell rings our act is done, and we depart quietly, signifying nothing.
From every moment to the next our minds trick us into the illusion of continuity. But in truth, our existence is nothing but a series of little moments, each beginning with a why? and ending with an and? – a terribly predictable formula.
All this she understood better than anyone else.
Indeed, our every day is nothing but an ode to the absurdity of it all, and it is indeed a great tragedy that this only becomes conscious at rare moments.
And yet, even though all the senselessness of the entire affair, she never did once stop to surrender herself. In her youth, she did try, but it eventually dawned on her that even blatant futility has its own meaning.
She knew that clever nihilism dressed in all manner of intellectual disguises did not change its truth: to surrender to defeat. She does not have hope, but this is irrelevant – even if her fate destines her to futility forevermore, she shall not meet with scorn, for there is no sense of it.
Instead, she finds dignity in meeting the absurd with grace and good humor.
And it is in one of these rare moments of clarity, this pause between Sisyphus's labor, that she can see the simple truth of her existence.
It is in these moments of epiphany that she remembers her why.
Why?
Because I am the scribe of times lost…
Because I am the speaker of forbidden truths…
Because I am the old master of masters…
She smiled a wonderful, delightful smile as she raised her staff in salute.
"Because I am a Magician."
The girl held her mop in the air for a moment, beaming proudly. Then after a few seconds, she quietly lowered it back down on the floor.
She steals some glances around the empty corridor with a straight face.
Thankfully, no one saw her little spectacle of a performance. Really, at her age, it was not only embarrassing but downright shameful. Good lords, what's gotten into her! She even had to massage her cheeks, trying to drive blush away from her complexion.
"Well, well…" she muttered, "I guess I've still got the dramatic flair in my after all! Can't remember that last time I made myself so motivated…"
Oh well, the girl just took the map in her hands again and continued walking down the hall. She had been hearing the professor shuffling about the building for some time now. But now he was really getting started.
The moon was getting higher and higher.
Midnight was not far off.
And so she continued to walk along the corridor, gently tapping her mop with each step and whistling a silent tune on her lips. It won't be long now.
The ritual will begin soon.
And the guests were already arriving.
-x-
First uploaded: 3/29/2022
Last modified: N/A
Wordcount: 13,393 (!)
Author's Notes:
This nonsense cost me an arm and leg to write.
But whatever, who gives a fuck. This is it. No more updates after this. I have to go now, not going to be able to work on this story anymore in the future. For anyone here, thanks for reading I guess lul.
Bye.