Next morning I woke up late – had forgotten to activate the alarm clock on my phone. Vivid dreams disappeared gradually; all I remember about them is that annoying sense of barely grasping at the memories, most already vanished. Maybe it was for the better – I hadn't memorized a single dream since I lost her, and I doubt any of them had been worth memorizing. I took the day off (blaming it on illness) just to focus on that book. The whole thing felt bizarre in general: making coffee in the kitchen with the book, pencil and a notebook placed on the living room table. My plan was to learn as much as possible about the religious texts, even if my hidden motives were nonsensical. At that point I certainly didn't believe in any kind of magic, so perhaps I just needed something to do – something else than daily work.
The book contained 101 pages with text and only three pictures in total. In addition to the ones I had already seen, the third picture presented a simplified yet confusingly realistic eye. However, I couldn't see any connection between the images and the prayers – perhaps I should have expected this, but it was still frustrating. I spent a few hours by going through each passage and writing down some important parts. Two prayers were interesting enough to get cited as they were:
An end and beginning
stand hand in hand
where water and ground meet
where poison and healing
join the reeds and the wind
on this holy land
in place that is silent
On tenth hour, eleventh never came
I lay down, from trembling hands
brimful of white wine
in the night without morning
in velvet white, black, yellow
through mist come forth
on my lips
these last hopeful words
These passages were located around the book's beginning and ending, respectively. The expression white wine was used quite often. So were several colours and the words night, mist, Beast, velvet, hand and water. I still didn't have any proper context for the poems, but my general idea of this book became more and more clear: the writer seemed to worship this entity called Crimson One and declare themselves as its faithful servant. Said being would then help the writer to carry out a ceremony – that is, to bring dead back to life. This was certainly nothing unique; I could imagine – even without specific knowledge – that such practices had been around as long as religions.
I fetched my laptop and spent the morning at the living room table, trying to find more information online. Search engines knew very little about Crimson One, yet one occult website (suffering from slight credibility issues) did use the name. Allegedly, this deity had a connection to Xuchilbara, who in turn was a god created by The Order – a small pagan cult from New England. Nature of the deities' connection remained unclear, but the site considered it possible that both names referred to the same god. Following this lead, I looked into the cult; apparently it had been disbanded a long time ago. Its history seemed rather unnerving: manipulation, kidnappings and connections to organized crime. According to several different sites, the cult's religion had been a mixture of Christianity and the natives' beliefs – yet I couldn't find any proper details. In general, it seemed this cult had been rather secretive.
Sam's book had mentioned the tribe of Penobscots, which led me to a surplus of information: the history of these people was well documented. Massive walls of text made my eyes sore, but image search provided more gentle results: I found turtle-esque symbols and a few other patterns of circles, as well as some ancient pictures of the tribe's important members. So what was I actually looking for? Any connection to the red book, supposedly, but it seemed hopeless. By noon I was already exhausted, so it was time to make more coffee. While doing so, I decided to call Sam – for more than one reason.
''Yeah'' she answered in a tired manner.
''Emily here...is it a bad time – ''
''Oh no, I'm just...no, time is something I have too much right now. That, and I also suppose your business is urgent.''
I smiled faintly.
''Maybe not urgent but very important. When we met at your apartment some weeks ago...I found that green book from your bookshelf.''
''...yeah, I remember. Would you like to see it again?''
''I would, since I found another book with one of the symbols.''
''Oh, the...one you asked me about?''
''The very same. I want to know more about it.''
Sam was quiet for a while – I wasn't sure how she had reacted to my sudden call. She continued with slight hesitation in her voice:
''You could...well, since Werner's book doesn't go further with the topic, you could always ask him directly. He teaches at Indiana University.''
''Right...I'll do that. Thank you. I'll talk to you later.''
I hung up rather abruptly and searched for this teacher – Werner Marsden indeed held a position at IU Bloomington. I tried calling him right away, reaching only a voicemail greeting. Direct call was probably the quickest way to form contact, so I left a message:
''Good day Mr. Marsden...this is Emily Conway calling. I have some important questions related to a religious symbol, and I heard that you could help me with them. And just to clarify, this is not any kind of official matter; just a hobby of mine. I would appreciate it if you were to call back and have a talk with me. Thank you in advance.''
I sighed and stood up after sitting for way too long – faint dizziness took over. I stepped on the balcony to catch some cold air, wondering when the first snowflakes would fall down.
Time passed slowly that day. I went out for a long walk – once I got back, my phone started ringing.
''Conway.''
''Good evening, Werner Marsden here. It seems you attempted to call me a while ago.''
''Yes, that's right...I wanted to ask you about a religious symbol. I saw it in your book about these magical symbols in America...''
''Ah, I see – there wasn't much information there, right? It was meant as a collection of curiosities; just something to catch people's interest. Looks like it worked just fine.''
Marsden remained calm, yet the excitement in his soft voice was easy to notice.
''So...in your book, there was this black drawing; a circle with four smaller circles inside it...in a rectangular order. And a cross was drawn in the middle; like the letter X. In the caption, you mention the native tribe called Penobscot.''
For a while it was quiet in the other end. Eventually Marsden continued with slow pace:
''I am...ruffling my very own copy...as I speak...and yes, you are right. Most of the natives' symbols contain detailed animals, so this one makes a notable exception to that rule: nothing but circles and two lines. On 18th century the drawing started appearing in several magical presentations. Apparently the settlers and their descendants found such simple geometry pleasing.''
I kept jumping between my own chaotic notes, looking for a way to express myself clearly.
''Actually...another reason for calling you is this other book...it's called Singularity: Transcript of a Resurrection. It contains that very same symbol with five circles.''
''I'm sorry, could you repeat the name?'' he asked without hiding his piqued interest. I repeated the words and described the book's small size, violently red covering and the bizarre contents:
''There are 101 pages with these poems...or prayers. They are mostly about worshiping some kind of deity; the writer bows to it and apparently...''
I paused without even noticing.
''Yes? Go on, please.''
''Ah, sorry...so, it seems that the writer is conducting a ritual – or a ceremony. And their goal seems to be bringing dead back to life...hence the book's name, I suppose. Yet the poems never reveal this directly. They are rather vague in some aspects, but this is what I got out of them.''
Marsden was quiet for a while.
''Is the book written by hand?'' he asked eventually with strong emphasis.
''It is...with some kind of black ink. The handwriting never changes, so there seems to be just one writer.''
''...is this deity mentioned by name?''
''I believe it's called Crimson One. Though in a few passages, word Beast seems to have the same role.''
Marsden went quiet again. I waited patiently until the distant rustling of paper stopped.
''Interesting, to say the very least...'' he uttered slowly, lost deep in his thoughts.
''Have you ever heard of something like this?''
''...no, I wouldn't say so. I take that nothing is revealed about the writer? This book contains no information about its own origins?''
''Nothing, there are just a few blank pages before the first poem. In addition to the symbol of five circles, there are two other pictures: a simple drawing of an eye and another circle with a rectangle inside it. Yet I couldn't find any connection between the pictures and the writings.''
Marsden went quiet again, so I continued:
''There's something else that came up...I did some searching online and a few websites mentioned this Crimson One. They claimed that it has a connection to Xuchilbara.''
''Right, right...'' Marsden said suddenly and kept going:
''Your description of the book felt distantly familiar; perhaps this is why. I suppose you have already looked into the cult?''
''I have, yes. But there wasn't much to find.''
''Indeed…we are talking about a relatively small and concentrated organization. Its first form was established in the 17th century Maine; later the cult members would start calling it The Order. Despite its size it was quite resilient.''
I stared at the clock, hanging on the ceiling in front of me – at the lazy, rigid movements of its second hand. After grabbing a pencil, I was ready to ask more:
''How much do you know about their religion?''
''One could say that it was a form of Christianity, heavily influenced by the Natives' beliefs. When the settlers arrived in Maine, they built a small community on a remote lakeside. This area happened to be a holy place for one of the regional tribes – the Penobscot Tribe. Penobscot shamans were especially devoted to communicating with nature and their deceased ancestors. As these belief systems got mixed together, the cult started forming towards the end of 17th century, maybe even sooner. Of course, as one can imagine, the Puritan movement found such overlapping utterly blasphemous. If I'm not mistaken, some cultists were killed during the Salem witch trials.''
I didn't know what to say – Marsden certainly knew more than I had expected.
''Miss Conway?''
''Yes, I'm here. So...could this red book be written by the cult?''
''It is quite possible, since Xuchilbara was one of The Order's deities. Another name for it was Red God, which fits quite well together with Crimson One. So if your online source is right, these three names could have a mutual meaning.''
We both were quiet for a moment. I spun my pencil; followed its arcing path across my fingers. Eventually I continued:
''Did this cult ever perform such...rituals? Something like resurrecting the dead?''
''I don't have much knowledge about the rituals themselves – maybe no one does anymore – but many fascinating hints can be found from the Penobscot practices. As I mentioned, this tribe had especially close bonds with nature and mysticism related to it; Penobscot shamans were devoted to deep spirituality. They saw death as a simple return to nature, and this process could be reversed. Several tales describe how the soul of deceased would keep living in a distant land, where summer and winter lasted for seven years. So how could one bring the soul back? Well, as far as I know, none of the Penobscot stories reveal this. The shamans did consider such ritual possible, but perhaps they never found it necessary in practice. Logical for many reasons, don't you think?''
''Yeah'' I said quickly, getting somewhat confused – I just stared at my notebook; at my list of important keywords. Marsden continued:
''So it is possible that this idea of resurrection got passed on to the cult – in one form or another. It wouldn't surprise me, since many of the cult's deities took elements from the native's ideas – not only from those of the Penobscots.''
''Was this Xuchilbara one of them?'' I asked, struggling with the pronunciation.
''I believe so. You see, some of the native shamans – those who were true masters at their craft – were able to summon the Gluskabe, to whom many translated texts refer as the man from nothing, or as deceiver. This magical creature was the source of all living things, yet its story was quite flexible: some stories presented it as an unimaginable being capable of metamorphosis, while others saw it as a legendary hero – almost as a member of the tribe itself.''
''That's…fascinating'' I said bluntly.
''Now, since the cult's religion was a warped form of Christianity, their main deity was called God as well. But unlike in Christianity, there were many other important deities and angels too – like Xuchilbara. If my memory serves right, this God was born from prayers of two people, who made offerings to the sun. God saved humankind from eternal hatred and agony; she divided time in days and nights, created all other gods and decided to build a paradise for our race. But in the end she ran out of strength and died before this paradise was ready...wonderfully bizarre, isn't it? How the details were changed and tweaked...''
''Sorry, you mentioned offerings...so was their god born from some kind of ritual too?''
''You could say that – at least in practical sense. Man and woman offered a serpent and reeds to the sun, so the snake takes an entirely different role in this story.''
''And they...saw god as female?''
''Indeed. This could have been influenced by the roles of mother, daughter and sister, which were important in Natives' stories – even if Gluskabe himself was usually a male.''
''Right, so...you think that Xuchilbara could be a form of Gluskabe?''
''Oh no, that would be too direct. You see, in addition to Gluskabe, Penobscots believed in power of wish; the ability to create reality by sheer will. I'm not sure if even the shamans were able to control this phenomenon, but many stories mention it. According to said stories, most of this power resided on a remote lakeside – the one I mentioned before. That area was sacred for Penobscots, used only for their most important rituals – aided by hallucinogenics, of course. But one thing is certain: Gluskabe had this power. I believe that the cult's god inherited it; thus it was able to create all the other deities and start crafting a paradise...''
I dropped the pen and rubbed my aching forehead.
''Wait, hold on...'' I started, searching for words:
''...so where was this sacred lake? What was it called?''
''We are talking about Toluca Lake in northern Maine, though the Penobscots called it The place of the Silenced Spirits – according to their shamans, the ground and water in this region were almost like a living creature; something exceptional. So it isn't surprising how the cult was born there, after the settlers had built a small town next to the lake.''
''...and what's the town called?''
''Its original name is unfamiliar to me – however, as the community kept growing, it came to known as Silent Hill.''
I wrote the name down and remained quiet. Marsden asked something which went right through my head. Finally, once his calm voice brought me back, I found myself staring at the ceiling fan – it wasn't even rotating. All this was just too much to take in at once.
''Miss Conway?''
''Oh, sorry, I'm here...''
''I was just wondering if it was possible to borrow that book of yours – the transcription. As you have probably noticed, my interest has been caught.''
I set the pen once more on the table and returned to the clock on the wall; the second hand kept twitching forward like always before. It took me a while to answer:
''I'm afraid I can't lend you the book...but I could just send you copies in email. Would that be enough?''
Marsden laughed.
''That would be great! I got excited enough to forget the distance between us – well over four hundred miles I think. So yes, copies will suffice just fine.''
I gave Marsden my own email address as well so that he could send further comments; apparently the red book would occupy me for a long time.
''Right, so...Mr. Marsden, you have no idea how much you have helped me. I need to think about all this for a while, but I'll probably be in contact later...and I will send you those copies tomorrow.''
''At your service, Miss Conway. Until next time.''
I hung up and looked tiredly around – the living room felt smaller than before.
