A Prophecy of Numbers:

For Simon, there was nothing more terrifying than a long response from the system. He would try his best to be patient, endure the silence and at least appear collected. On the other side of his skull, a high-powered imagination started to germinate.

It began with little snap questions, things obviously impossible but they were the first words in his brain. “What if the system is broken?” he would say out loud, as if asking a part of himself that may contain some secret knowledge. The system was never broken, it never failed to respond, and it kept things clean. “Maybe a distant star’s gamma burst wiped out the system?” This begged the question: Why am I not wiped out?

The arms race of Simon’s imagination escalated as the moments stretched out. No response yet. Perhaps a malfunction? Perhaps the voice responder is broken? What if the system is trying to warn him of a coming catastrophe? Perhaps it goes further than a simple malfunction, perhaps everything is breaking down?

Simon looked down at his skin and his genetically augmented imagination spun up a scene of little cellular exchanges. He could see the little parts of his skin moving, inhaling and exhaling nutrients.  Then he saw little malfunctions, tiny cogs ground into knobby circles, their cellular cohesion dissolving into useless subcomponents. Of course, this was all rendered in Simon’s brain, detailed in nauseating focus by his imagination. His skin was perfectly healthy.

The system responded clearly: “There are 46 trillion human beings as of 09:36”

Simon looked at his device, it was 09:42, the system had taken 6 minutes to calculate the entirety of human population. He had asked the same question everyday that he could remember. The system had never failed to respond, but each day Simon’s imagination twisted into a dead-end. He had to know if the population was going up or down, was humanity diminishing or growing?

He had no way to know if the system was correct, but the answer calmed him briefly. By the next day he would be a ball of wires, asking the same question to the system.

Simon wondered for a moment, how did human beings face that unknown before the system was in place? Would they have to face anxiety every day, with no relief? The terror blacked out a brain fuse and the question disappeared.

The rest of the day was clear, no more questions, just serine and tranquil peace.

By the evening, there was a nagging feeling that something was wrong, some itch in the back of his brain that told him some terrible event was about to happen. He had no stimulus to suggest such a thing, just a vague pin prick, as if a dreadful wave of uncertainty was about to rise up and swallow him.

The waves were small and manageable, lapping up on his consciousness like a protected bay or sound. Mountains of certainty protected him from too much tidal action, limiting his concern best they could. However, in the late hours of night, the mountains crumbled, and Simon was swirled in a whirlpool of doubt.

He asked the system the same question, waiting for the soothing relief that humanity was not suddenly coming to an end. “System, what is the total population of human beings?”

The same predictable spiral of terror curved its way around Simon’s brain as the seconds ticked by.

Within 2 minutes the system responded: “There are 0 human beings as of 08:14”

The wave crashed over the last of Simon’s puny defenses and blew every fuse in his head. He collapsed in pile of bones and perfectly healthy skin.

Doctor Duality’s Dialectical Dissertation #9:

I need to get ready for tonight, I need some salmon, some veggies and maybe a nice bottle of wine from the store. Unlike most of my ancestors, I am faced with a myriad of wine types, brand names, and a dizzying array of colorful considerations. The choices have become immensely larger over the years, resulting in a paralyzing nausea of indecision.

Historically, the concept of choice has cohabitated with determinism or fatalism, the idea that the world is, preordained, orderly, predictable, or inevitable. These two seemingly disparate ideas follow each other into conversations, held up as opposites, or used to cut each other down.

While on the surface, choice and fate do seem quite contradictory, dissolving meaningful conversations into a sense of helplessness or terrifying freedom. Perhaps a few definitions are in order before continuing this critique.

Choice: The imagination of more than one outcome. Both action and inaction can be described as making a choice.

Fate: The certainty of one outcome, usually based on the knowledge of pre-existing conditions, however accurate that knowledge might be.

Anxiety: The cumbersome imagination of multiple outcomes.

I included anxiety to illustrate that the evaluation of outcomes is not limited to the assumed opposites of choice and fate.

Within the highest strata of human hierarchy there is a very small and very potent group, the conquerors. They are some of history’s biggest movers and shakers, heavyweights of privilege and authority, rolling like a bowling ball down the proverbial lane of power. Did Genghis Khan have a choice? Determinism would say that his conquest was unavoidable, and the certainty of the statement is vilified by the outcome of his actions and the knowledge of what motivates conquerors. If he had made the explicit choice to become a farmer, then determinism would have asserted the exact same statement of his subsequent actions. This illustrates that determinism had little to do with imagination and more to do with the certainty of an outcome.

As a concept, the plausibility of an outcome is a direct reflection of a degree of knowledge. With absolute knowledge comes absolute certainty, with limited knowledge comes limited certainty, commonly referred to as probability. To be certain of an outcome is to claim knowledge of its pre-existing conditions.

Determinism carries the assumption that no other events have or will unfold that are not caused by pre-existing conditions. This of course is completely unprovable in any practical sense, requiring the knowledge of every pre-existing condition and every effect throughout all time. There is no logical necessity for determinism other than perhaps the psychological aversion to senselessness.

While I stand here in the wine section soliloquizing and trying to pick a bottle, I am reminded of another aspect of choice and determinism that is often overlooked: Distinction.

While 400 bottles of wine parade in front of my eyes, I can see no difference, no reason to choose one over the other. There are three distinctions within determinism; a singular event, its cause and its effect. These are logical divisions, yet when investigated there may be multiple causes and multiple effects. Rarely, if ever, does a single cause produce a single effect.

The distinction within freewill is between at least two possible outcomes and seems directly connected to the ability to imagine more than one outcome. If you can’t see options, you can’t make explicit choices.

Without the distinctions clearly defined, the concepts of freewill and determinism dissolve quickly into a native silence. This metaphysical landscape of blurry senselessness may not be helpful in making a particular wine selection, but it does seem to reduce the cumbersome imagination of the consequences.

Upon reflection, I have made my choice: The bottle of wine is chosen for its geographical birthplace. My wife cares a great deal about the distinction between local and non-local wines, and it even has a picture of a bowling ball with fallen pins on the label.

Painters of Saturn:

Little is known about the Painters that live within the sky of Saturn. For one, their lips are located on their body in places that only produce a muffled snicker. If they had anything important to say, they would use one of their many fingers to jot down a note, or perhaps paint a methane watercolor in the style of the old masters.

Of course, what the dreamers of Saturn consider an old master is quite different than an earthling. Usually, their style resembles a flaming sledgehammer rampaging through an origami museum.  Methane paint produces a rather colorful array of delirious colors, ranging from the ultraviolet to the lowest of reds. Human eyes have a rather limited range of vision so most of the color is wasted on their myopic critique. However, popular fads in the art scene have decomposed into a sensible expression. Now it seems, the Saturnian masters paint nothing but little pictures of earth cats and dogs.

Even the most passionate painters of Saturn, momentarily pause creating their vibrant art during the dark hours of night. This is because every denizen of Saturn watches the night sky with the most dreadful of eyes. The anticipation of a cosmic catastrophe brings all Saturnians together.

Overhead, 63 moons dance with a familiar grace that has lasted many millions of years. All of moons are survivors of an ancient battle with gravity. Whom, after eons of smashing and merging with one another, have decayed into a tranquil and tenuous stability. This crystalline peace is quite fragile. If one of the enormous piles of rock were to gain even the smallest of weight, the whole chandelier of orbits could shatter. Any of the 63 of the moons could descend into Saturn’s atmosphere, ripping their terrestrial bodies to shreds with its angular momentum.

Saturnian history is replete with the falling of the sky, oceans of rock that destroy the mightiest of their cloud cities.

Their overdeveloped imaginations provide them all sorts of scenarios in which the sky comes falling down. This has unfortunately resulted in a nearly impervious aversion to space travel.

These things come out in other ways.

For one, there is an immense preoccupation with political drama. The moons became symbolic characters, each have their own desires and intentions. Their society modeling itself after the dance of the numerous moons. When a moon falls, so does some great ruler, or empire, all within sensible order of reflection.

Sometimes their nighttime anxiety comes out in methane water color.

Dinner Party:

I didn’t know the details of the invitation, the how and why, and in retrospect it was probably nothing specific, I just a warm body. My good friends, whose names are better left unknown, invited me to go with them to a dinner party. I did not know the host, but the invitation included a picture of their home, a beautiful mid-century house with sleek modern upgrades. From the picture I could easily see the style, it was intentional, they wanted to let people know the party was one of luxury and perhaps, exhibition.

We arrived 15 minutes late, cloaked in nervous chatter. The other guests were settling in, getting a tour of exquisite items in the main hall. A variety of original artwork decorated the walls, there was a couple of Dali prints from a little-known collection called Alchemy of the Philosophers. The hosts, a power duo dressed in all red and white, their matching outfits reflected their effortless synchronicity.

After a 45-minute whirlwind of introductions, handshakes, and drinks, everyone was floating. The hosts told stories of all the precious artifacts littered around the house: immaculate crystal sculptures, rusted antiques shrouded in priceless history, and furniture of exquisite craftsmanship.

Then after everyone was comfortable, they raised a glass and offered a toast. They said they had one more item to show us. They took us to the far end of the house, to a patio that shared one side with a very tall metal sheet door. It looked like a barn that was attached to the back side of their house. I could hear the rustle of animals on the other side. The other guests seemed intrigued and giggled at the mystery. We waited as a long chain was pulled slowly, raising a large metal bar which was covering the barn door.

When the bar was fully raised the hosts stood back a good distance and invited the guests to take a peek inside. I decided to wait next to the hosts and watch, I would judge the reactions of the others before slating my curiosity. I didn’t have to wait long, as the first eager guest put their face by the crack of the door, it burst open in an angry creak.

A large tyrannosaurus rex dinosaur emerged with a thunderous shriek. The little arms pushing the first guest down and then swallowing them in a single gulp, raising its mouth to the sky like an oversized pelican eating a fish. The remaining guests froze in bewilderment, myself included. From the corner of my eye I noticed a pair of wicked smiles growing over the faces of the hosts.

The following seconds were frenzy, the tyrannosaurs ate 3 more guests before the panic snapped us back into action. Everyone ran except for me, I stayed next to the hosts, they seemed unconcerned with their own safety. I looked at them and looked back at the carnage unfolding. The remaining guests fled into the house and the dinosaur followed.

I watched with the hosts, who by this time were grinning manically as the rampage flooded their home. The huge creature thrashed its huge maw and tail around, devouring the remaining people as they helplessly tried to escape it. The artwork and artifacts shattering and crashing to the ground. The walls were bludgeoned and crushed as furniture was thrown effortlessly around. An entire section of their house was being demolished in the consumption.

I noticed an antique car by the side of the barn, it looked like an old ford model. I peeled my attention from the hosts and the mayhem and ran to the car. I found that it required a choke and unfortunately had no idea how to operate the ancient pulls and pushes of the fossil.

After a few seconds of helpless panic, I got out and started pushing it. If I could get the thing rolling maybe I could engage the engine. I had to try, the keys for the other cars were inside with the tyrannosaurus rex, in the pockets of the people inside the belly of the beast.

The car was light and easy to push, I rolled it to the street and jumped in. Luck saved me that day, the car started, and began sputtering down the road. The hosts finally reacted to my escape, running after me waving their arms furiously shouting. “Please come again! We have so much to show you!”

Tezcatlipoca:

A dirty faced woman in a grass skirt looked deeply into a fist sized crystal she called The Eye. From the folds of lattice poured out swirling threads of yellow and green, coalescing into a clear vision. A single temple remained, a great sun god ruled the sky, with the familiar face of a jaguar. Above the throne, clouds of green and black rolled overhead.

Whispers from the Eye floated into the woman’s head: “Bring me to the summit, bring me to the throne. Do this last task and you shall be free.” Half a year had passed in service to the Eye, following its visions and hunting its prey, there was little choice. She looked over the bow of the black ship as it crested the waters of a dark sea. She tried to remember her name, after a moment the crystal whispered it back to her. “Tlazolteotl, you are a hunter.”

A black mast fluttered in the wind as the ship docked in a shallow bay. Perhaps it was lake, Tlazolteotl could not see the edge of the water. She climbed down the ebony wood and into the water. She washed her face and body. Looking over her arms and legs, she could almost see the water through them, as if she was becoming transparent. The shapes of rocks could be seen underneath her bare feet. When she reached the shore, there were murmurs of human beings in the foliage. Lapping waves were replaced with small talk which she could almost make out their meaning. Villagers were chatting in repose, enjoying the calm horizon.

Exhausted, and troubled by her transparency she approached the human beings with heavy feet. They seemed to ignore her completely and paid no attention to the imposing black clipper ship in the water floating silently near them. Tlazolteotl tried to wave, shout, greeting them in her tongue. No sound escaped her lips. She tried to touch them, yet her fingers and hands passed through them. She tried to kick them, since her feet were able to walk on solid ground. Her kick offered no force, and her attempt went unnoticed.

Dismayed, her shoulders went slack, and she began her walk into the jungle. Following a path leading to a large circle of temples, a single larger temple rose above them. She could see swirls of green and black growing overhead, as clear as the vision of the crystal Eye. One foot followed another, slowly she dragged her body forward. She carried only the crystal Eye, she was done fighting, she was done hiding in the shadows between worlds, this task seemed simple enough: bring the Eye to the jaguar.

She walked through a crowded plaza as priests loitered near the stairs, chatting between themselves. Upon reaching the base of the tallest temple, the black and green clouds seem to fill the sky and only a pale light glowed from its peak. With each footstep up the temple the world beyond its edge faded away, becoming fuzzy and distant. The voices of the villagers dampened into a low muffle.

As Tlazolteotl climbed the stairs she saw form at its top: A large jaguar cat rested on a throne made of bone and wood. A pale light glowed from its head and it seemed quite aware of her approach. From its mouth spilled words of golden warmth: “Creature of shadow, you can not harm me, I am Tezcatlipoca, I hold the sun in my mouth. “

Tlazolteotl tried to respond but words died on her tongue. She continued her approach, unable to care if she lived or died, feeling herself slip deeper into transparency. A roar escaped the maw of the jaguar as it leapt to its feet, looking on Tlazolteotl with jungle eyes and wicked teeth.  “What offering do you carry creature?”

She laid the crystal by his feet, feeling the hot breath of the cat on her neck, waiting for the pounce. Tezcatlipoca sniffed the crystal then circled around it cautiously. The shadow thing offered no threat, a wisp that was moments from dissolving. With a single bite the jaguar swallowed the crystal. 

Tezcatlipoca hissed as the crystal showed him visions of immaculate delirium. Within a single moment, the lattice unfolded the years of eternity. Each age swirled by as the throne of Tezcatlipoca stood firm, each age of man passed underneath, and then above into the stars. Thousands of years rolled through the vision, the sun burned bright and the earth spun around it, the stars moved through the heavens and mankind traveled to them. Endless cities grew from each point of light, countless temples shined in bright magnificence and each human being offered themselves to the eternal Tezcatlipoca.

The vision continued with relentless focus. Millions of years rolled by and human beings withered into the dirt and rocks, new creatures sprouted from their remains: beings of multiple limbs, metal skin and glassy eyes, light spilled from their mouths and they etched the stars in their hearts. The new creatures bowed to Tezcatlipoca, but they planned to join the god within eternity rather than remain as servants. Time stretched further, reaching to the world where the stars began to dim, the metal creatures remained, following the immortal footsteps of the great sun god.

Then the vision turned a deep black, to a time where no stars burned, yet Tezcatlipoca remained. He had become the god of the night wind, inheriting the sky of a greater darkness. The metal creatures scurried in the vast spaces between, their worship of Tezcatlipoca turning to hate, now imprisoned by eternity. Further and further the vision stretched until nothing remained, no gods or creatures, nothing but a gray and dusty horizon from which nothing is seen, and nothing returns.

Tezcatlipoca screamed out a thunderstorm as the vision disintegrated, returning focus to the temple summit.  The priests below jumped at the thunder, cautiously looking to the temple peak in fear, they could not see the swirls of black and green.

The jaguar retracted its claws and spoke to the Tlazolteotl: “Your offering has shown me a perspective of endless horizons, a vision of eternity. The crystal is now part of me, as it may have always been. I will remain as you see me know, a mortal jaguar, I will not seek the throne of immortal rulership. I will die when the jungle dies, and I will fade when my people fade. As a reward I will spare your life and return your body, your form will be renewed.”

Tlazolteotl looked down at her hands and arms, she could feel the sun on her face and hear the music of her people below. She buried her face in her hands and cried. The jaguar leapt from the temple, rushing down, terrifying the priests before disappearing into the jungle. Words echoed in Tlazolteotl’s head: “If I see you again hunter I will not hesitate to eat your flesh.”

Fatigued beyond her limits, she laid motionless on the steps of the temple. Before closing her eyes, she could see the black ship disappearing over a calm horizon. Then, as the priests of Tezcatlipoca approached the woman in a grass skirt, she fell into an ordinary sleep.

Aeon:

The children of the Nile worked in the hours of the sun with heavy stones. Like all children, not all of them willing to do the tasks of the Pharaoh. Some required a whip and some a priest, but eventually they offered their sweat and blood to ruler of the sky. 

The Pharaoh decreed a new pyramid be built, and for 73 years the stones had been stacked and carried to the site. Grandmothers and grandfathers saw the same Pharaoh rule since they were children, a duty known as Mot, a divine responsibility over the land. The priests and acolytes praised the greater god Ammon-Ra for the endless vitality of their benevolent Pharaoh, Ramesses The Second.

Ramesses appeared to be no more than a man of 24, not having aged a day since the unification of the lower Nile and Libya. Battles were still sung at campfires of his courage and might. His priests counted him amongst the very wisest, his Mot both merciful and strict. The grain flowed, and his subjects thrived.

The sons and daughters of Ramesses were immense, numbering at nearly 100. The daughters of the Nile becoming queens of other lands, Nefertari considered the greatest of among them. His sons were great judges, warriors and servants to mankind, each offering their own tribute to the god king Ammon-Ra-Ramesses. In turn, the Pharaoh offered the grandest of burials to his children, creating chambers within his growing Pyramid of splendid decoration.

With the right pair of eyes, one could look over the Nile river and see a stream of silver cords flowing from the hearts of its denizens. Their silver luster rising to the zenith of the Sun as Ammon-Ra looked down on his subjects with the face of Horus, a hawk wearing a corona of pale light. Some of the most devoted claimed to see his celestial hand resting on the shoulder of Ramesses, empowering him with ageless life.  The highest of priests could see a little more; at the highest crest of the daytime sun, bursting from the head of Ramesses rose a titanic silver cord, a thick cable of luster and power that streamed down from the sun.

The previous age had passed from memory, lost were the gods of darkness. The goddess Nut had vanished from the horizon, her primordial blackness forgotten. Even the lessons of Set were erased from the faces of stone, chiseled off by priests, washed away into oceans of dust. Now only the sun ruled, and there seemed to be none that defied the authority and benevolence of the Pharaoh.

Near the constructed of Ramesses’s pyramid lay and another, the tomb of the Pharaoh Khufu. The stones of the pyramid were neglected, ignored and rarely visited. However, a stranger from a distant land temporarily squatted its dark halls and shadowed chambers. The stranger had traveled the oceans of greater tides for long enough that they were nearly a shadow themselves, dissolving into the darkness as any light approached, hiding in the space between all things. For weeks they searched the deep halls looking for an object. The details of the object were seen in a vision, a swirl of images originating from a fist sized crystal. Elegant depictions were seen in the mind of the stranger, seen without light, sight without sight. The crystal showed the way to a sarcophagus within the ignored pyramid within a secret chamber, and markings indicating its location. The stranger descended each day into the pyramid and emerged each night to watch the people of the Nile, their silver cords flowing like threads of a dream-time tapestry.

On the night before the summer solstice, the secret chamber was discovered, hidden behind a false wall which only the crystal could see. The funeral offerings of Khufu contained golden riches and hundreds of canopic jars. They were stacked around the chamber as offerings of organs to the gods of light and darkness. A mural of Bast, the goddess of cats, rose behind the sarcophagus as a warning to pillagers, a curse to be laid on would be looters. The stranger came prepared with a small vial of cat blood, smearing it on the mural as payment. Then, with a little strain and muscle they opened the front of the sarcophagus. 

They needed no light to gaze upon the mummy of Khufu. They removed the golden mask and the trappings of authority, setting them carefully on the floor. They unwrapped the funeral linens, until only the mummified flesh remained. With a small cut, they removed the skin from the ribs and reached within. Sealed within the body of Khufu was the black knife of Set, a relic forgotten by the priests of the Nile. Long ago, Set and Horus ruled together as night and day, uniting the sky.

Khufu ruled his land with both the rod of Horus and the blade of Set. When he died, the people did not want another night, so they buried the black knife and passed the rod of rulership to the next Pharaoh, hoping to rid the land of darkness forever.

The stranger claimed the black knife and fled the tomb, leaving the gold untouched and the curse empty.

On the morning of the summer solstice Ramesses had prepared a festival of light, a celebration of the Sun, inviting his subjects far and wide to come and exalt his radiance. From the Yellow River to the mountains of Nubia, the pilgrims came, bringing offerings of love to the Pharaoh.

However, the astrologers warned of such pomp, claiming it invited envy and usurpers. It was predicted that on the morning of the solstice the moon would rise with an arc to meet the sun. Ramesses dismissed warnings from his priests and advisors, claiming the hand of Amun-Ra would protect him from such portents. Confident in his power he climbed his Pyramid and prepared to offer a blessing to the people of the land, and to Ammon-Ra. He rehearsed his speech it himself, patiently waiting for the zenith of solar noon.

The moon rose to meet the sun, right before solar noon, they touched. Ramesses began his speech, his voice projected over the Nile to all below. He rose his hands as the eclipse began, reassuring his people that the covering of the sun would pass, that the sun could not be defeated by darkness.

As the shadow fell over his pyramid the stranger crept in the halls of the pyramid, unseen to the eyes of the guards, darting from curtain to corner in silence. They carried the black knife of Set. As the moon covered the sun in an eclipse, a disc of shimmering gold formed over the ground, spreading out for miles. Everyone watched in awe as Ramesses blessed the land with words of glory and promise.

The shadows grew long and separated into crescent shapes as the eclipse came into its full form. They deepened as a twilight grew into heavy grays and blacks. Slinking behind Ramesses, the stranger raised the black knife raised over the Pharaoh’s head, and with a small cut they severed silver cable from his head. His crown fell to the ground, the loudness of his voice fell, and the moon began to move away from the sun.

Without the connection to Ammon-Ra, his youth withered, within moments his body was that of his true age, a feeble man of 90 years who fell to his knees in weakness.

The onlookers watched as their vital Pharaoh aged into a pile of skin resembling that of Papyrus. The sun emerged from the darkness as a mundane orb, looking down from the sky in ambivalence.

Silver cords from the faithful started to dissolve, the dream-time tapestry beginning to unravel. Mutters of doubt fell over the people of the Nile, and whispers of disappointment fell into the sands. A greater blackness rolled over the sky, and small voices echoed: “Perhaps there is no eternal life, even for the Pharaoh.”

The Dawn:

Tlazolteotl climbed over the base of a rotten trunk. The bark was starting to fall away in clumps. Insects and fungus dined on its fine tissues. Tlazolteotl did not know the names of tress and plants in this forest, she was following a vision brought to her by a fist sized crystal she called The Eye. She took a moment on the crest of the trunk, wiped the dirt from out between her toes, removed her mask, and held the Eye up to the sky, and awaited another vision.

The Eye had shown her the tree of heaven the day before, and the location of its rotten trunk. Finding the tree had not been difficult, they were sparse, and a fallen one seemed even more uncommon. The land she traveled was filled with stalks of bamboo, rice fields and smiling villagers. She had a pang of homesickness that haunted her for days. She longed to be released from this hunt and returned home, but her home was gone, burnt to the ground.

Before any tears could fall, a vision flowed from the Eye in swirls of gray and yellow. A sickly green injected itself into the pool of colors and then formed a great mountain. A crowned emperor stood at the highest peak, with robes of gold and silk. His eyes looked down into the valleys of the mountain with worry and fear. Within the valley, a great wind of black crawled across the shadows. A headless whisper rose up, speaking in the vision: “Huangdi must fall, the mountain will crumble…. Huangdi will fall… the mountain will crumble…”

The whisper dissolved, and the Yellow Emperor turned to the east, raising his hands in a wave of radiant white. The silk robes fluttered, and the gold detail became a brilliant luster. The Eye then turned down, looking over the valley, the vision traveled through the trees and bushes, until it found the trunk, showing Tlazolteotl an image of herself holding the eye. Her grass skirt needed repair, her eyes and face were blacked with dirt and ash, her arms and legs worn from travel and her hair a mess of black wire. The vision only looked a moment then rushed from the rotten trunk, through the forest to a clearing made of stone spires.

Like a gathering of huddled figures, the stones crowded as if looking over the corpses of the fallen, mournful sentinels in repose. From their stone bodies, whispers of older stories floated up. The whispers held the same voice as the valley. The Eye whispered to Tlazolteotl with memories. She remembered her encounter with the serpent thing called Medusa, nearly 6 months ago.  The battle had been brief and lethal and now she carried her skull as a mask and crushed the serpent’s bones into a powder. Then the vision faded.

Confused, and a little shaken by the vision she gathered her possessions and headed towards the stone spires, the vision was at least clear about where to go. She would have to trust the Eye and figure the rest out when she got to the stones.

By evening she found the stone spires. Tlazolteotl circled the spires, looking for any creatures, any clues. The Eye let her see in the night, she needed no fire or shadow. Upon finding nothing she ventured deeper within the Stone Forest, climbing over the smaller boulders, squeezing between tall monolithic figures. She could feel the eyes of ancestors here, not hers but of the people of the land, the whispers chilling her skin. She could not understand them, but took a moment, brought out a knife and made a small offering of blood. Tlazolteotl did not want to anger the shadows of this place. She smeared her blood on the rocks as a handprint, then continued deeper into the grove of stone.

In a small clearing she found a fallen stone, a crack had opened in its side and the slab had laid itself down. She waited and watched, seeing no creature she removed her mask and ate a small meal. She wondered why the Eye brought her here. The thought in her head barely formed before a brief whisper flowed from the Eye.

“The headless live here, return the head to Xing Tian and the mountain will fall.”

Then the words dissolved, and cold whispers of the stones returned. Tlazolteotl looked at her mask and then at the stone slab, which in the second sight of the Eye looked like an altar. Could it be that simple? She shrugged and thought it would be at least a try.

She reached for the mask, but her breath was caught short as a brilliant light bathed the area. A stream of sunlight pierced the grove of stones, as if the sun had risen hours before it should.

Standing near a stone was a woman, clad in a gold and bronze armor, meticulously detailed. The light of the sun flowing out of her in its full glory, her hair aflame with a bright yellow and her spear raised above her head. Her voice rose above the stones and melted the shadows.

“Creature of darkness you must stop your hunt! You can not be in this sacred place, let the dead lie in whispers! I command you as the queen of the Sun, I am Minerva the rightful heir of heaven!”

Tlazolteotl ran, she grabbed the mask and ducked behind a boulder, she could not understand the words of Minerva, but understood that the spear was not ornamental.

Minerva reacted just a quick, with each step melted the shadows near her. “I have chased you through the world, I have seen rotten kings fall under your hand. I am not rotten, I am the Dawn, I cannot be denied.”

Tlazolteotl heard the words but not the authority. She slipped from between two stones and let loose a dart from her blow gun, laced in a curare made from giant scorpions. The thin needle struck true, piercing Minerva’s flesh, then in an instant she healed, and the dart fell uselessly on the ground, having no effect. Tlazolteotl panicked and fled, each shadow disappearing as Minerva drew closer.

With a practiced reflex Tlazoleotl gathered an arrow and her bow made of bone. Then perched untop a stone and waited for Minerva.

“Your weapons will not harm me; your shadows will not hide you. I know your mind, I have watched you, I have watched the darkness for centuries, there is nothing you can do against the inevitable dawn!” 

Minerva threw her spear at the stone, shattering it to pieces as Tlazoleotl fell to the ground. She scurried to her feet and let loose an arrow. A heart-strike to lesser gods, but Minerva was in her zenith, she carried the daylight with her, the wrath of fire in her eyes. The arrow hit her neck and fell helplessly against the ground.

Tlazolteotl was in a full run, climbing and clawing at the stone.

Minerva gathered her spear and started to pursue. Her stamina was endless, her vital glow, a bright star. Effortlessly she jumped and climbed the Stone Forest, closing the distance with each turn of the heel.

“Why run mortal? Do you fear the dawn so much?

Tlazolteotl, dropped her bow and ducked behind a stone. She could see the shadows fade on the bodies of the stone spires. She had one more tool, she would have to get close. She waited for the shadows to tell her when Minerva was near. The moment spanned 13 heartbeats, Minerva knew that her prey hid behind the stone, she raised her spear to strike, bending her knee to pounce.

13 heartbeats was enough, Tlazolteotl untied her small hog-leather pouch containing powder from the crushed bones of Medusa. She concentrated, inhaled deeply and then unfolded the pouch. As Minerva rounded the side the stone with her spear raised, a loud exhale broke the moment.

A cloud of dust enveloped Minerva, the ancient hate of Medusa filling the lungs and eyes of the bright sun goddess. 3 heartbeats and Minerva became still, the spear still in her hand. She turned to a marble statue, her momentum causing small cracks in her face and legs. Her light remained undiminished but her body now a smooth stone, the transformation complete.

Tlazolteotl was exhausted, but backed off from the statue and the settling cloud. She gathered her breath again and inspected the statue: The light of day seemed to shine from within, Minerva could not be killed but she could be frozen in stone. Tlazolteotl did not know how long the stone powder would last and perhaps the petrification was only temporary. She tried to smash the stone with a nearby rock, the stone would not relent.

Urgency rose in Tlazolteotl’s throat, she returned to the mask and the slab altar, intent on finishing her attempt. She placed her mask on the slab and watched. The whispering rose in volume, and in an instant turned to howling. She saw a black robed figure rise from the stone slab, pick up the mask made form the head of Medusa and put it on its headless body. The robed figure now resembling a screaming skull-faced wraith.

The howling figured turned towards the source of the light, and the winds started to blow. The winds increased and screamed words Tlazolteotl could not understand, bit by bit the statue of Minerva eroded into dust, the light fading as stone degraded. Tlazolteotl crawled under the slab as the winds turned into a hurricane force, wailing into the night. She could hear the voice traveling towards the mountain from her vision.

The voice cried a torrent tears: “The mountain of Huangdi will fall, the black wind blows again!”

Old King Log:

Nearly all the plants of the world loved the sun, and in the north, there was no sun god brighter than Baldur. This was partly because he was born in the bosom of Vanir magic, a potent configuration of beauty and love. Since his birth, the plants of the world were drawn to him, the light of the sun flowing out of him.

They grew over his house, up the valleys of mountains and sometimes, they grew in places they should not. Baldur would sleep one night and wake to groves of trees around his yurt, and each day he would have to move. The trees and bushes would grow under his feet tripping and constraining him. Baldur was humbled by the love of plants, but practicalities required that he cut them from their embrace now and again.

As a child he was once cocooned within a great knot of oak, an old sentinel had given up its heartwood to hold the brilliant Baldur. For 2 years the plants provided the lushest of fruits, the sweetest of nectars and the softest of their leaves. His mother Freyja was sick with worry and dread, and when she found him, she began to weave the most potent of all Vanir magic.

Baldur was already destined to rule the sky in the next chapter of the great book of gods, groomed to lead the beauty of the Vanir into the next turning of the world. His prophecy known by all, his fate cast. Yet, this was not enough for Freyja, and in her dread forged a protective blessing over Baldur so that no creature of this world could harm him. The flora of the world rejoiced, they immediately began slow pilgrimages to Baldur, to deliver their vow in person, their roots inching towards the great god of the Vanir.

The animals of the world rejoiced as well, for if the god of the sun could not be killed, then the plants of the world would grow forever, their lush fruit providing endless food for all. The predators of the world however spoke different languages, they could not take the vow, but promised not to eat Baldur.

Baldur grew up in the gardens of creatures and flowers, each living thing honoring the light of the young sun god. He grew up without anger or spite, looking on creation as a splendid thing. He vowed with all his grace and ignorance that he would rule benevolently when his zenith of power came.

Freyja was pleased with the vows of creatures, but her dreams were haunted by a future sight. She saw only a black horizon of withering. The dread grew as Baldur grew and Freyja once again tried to seal the future in certainty. She traveled to the ancient tree of Yggrasil, a twisted spire whose roots stretched into the future and deep into the past. Freyja begged the immense ash tree to honor the vow to Baldur further, to impart the details that stretched beyond. She pleaded to know the fate of her beloved son.

For an age of mankind, she sat at the trunk of Yggrasil. Each night she dreamed of a sky without stars, a black tide that covered all of creation. In the waves she could see the anguished faces of all creatures, a great tide of despair.  She awoke each morning to the rising sun of Baldur on the horizon and her hope was renewed daily. At the end of the age, she had dreamed enough sorrow, if the next age was to be filled with a black ocean, then she would build a boat for Baldur, so he may brighten the sky of the future. The great tree Yggrasil warned her, whispering in the black speech of shadows: “All things must end, even the sun will rot.”

The boat was made by the finest smiths, the stories of the Vanir etched on one side and the lives of its people on the other. Such detail was inscribed that Baldur wept at the sight of the gift. He called the huge ship Hringhorni, and both in name and title it was the greatest of all ships. Baldur adored the ship so much he made it his home. Followed by adoring plants and human beings, they moved his ship from land to shore, grateful to bask in the warmth and light.

There was a single plant that did not take the vow, an ambivalent shrub with tiny red fruit. The leaves of the plant were indifferent to the world of men and gods, its berries uncaring and its roots mindless.

Near the roaming ark of Baldur, a hunter riding a giant wolf watched the entourage of the sun god. The hunter grasped a large clear crystal and held it up to their eyes. A waterfall of images flowed out, green swirls pooled into an image of the ambivalent scrub, the red smears tightening into a clear picture of tiny red berries.

Finding the berries was easy, a common parasite that lived in the arms of the Birchwood. The fruit was crushed and smashed into a curare, a poisonous concoction. The dose carefully measured and stored for the morning sunrise.

Under a cloudy night sky, the wolf rider waited. Caravans of human followers loitered around the boat Hringhorni, eager to fulfill the sun god’s commandments. With the sunrise Baldur would emerge and decree the location of the great ship, the followers would begin logistical preparations for moving the enormous boat. Sometimes the location would be in a distant sea or a river, taking generations of dedicated followers to accomplish. Sometimes there would be no decree, the boat would function as a temple. Markets would sprout, and the sacrifices of oxen and boars would be offered to Baldur.

With the first glow of sunrise a horn was heard, Baldur was waking. The wolf rider notched an arrow dipped in the curare. A bow made of bone and sinew, pulled taut and ready. Baldur raised his hands and named the location of his desire. After the words were spoken, the arrow was let loose. The arrow curved into the sky until it crested the sun light, then fell into the eye of Baldur. The sun god shrieked, ripping the arrow from his eye. His wound would heal, a simple shaft of wood could not seriously harm him. The poison at first did nothing.

The wolf rider escaped, and they were not seriously pursued. Considered a pest or a gnat, harmless to seemingly invincible god the sun. Baldur laughed at the attempt and thought nothing more of the encounter. Days passed by and something started to change within the sun god. An odor followed him, a stale musk that lingered a while. It grew in pungency each day, turning more sour and acrid. Some of the most devoted of Baldur’s followers endured the stench but most kept their distance.  Vines no longer sought to embrace him in adoration, instead they recoiled from his touch.

Smells were soon joined by the visual signs of decay, rot could be seen in all the trees and the bushes turned black with mold and sickness. Flowers turned brown and slime dripped down their stalks. Everything near Baldur seemed to spoil at a quicken pace. Fruit fermented within hours of harvest, men and women who stayed in his pressence found their faces aging, their hair turning gray. Baldur himself started to show signs of age, his beard grew long and white, his eyes sunken and dark. All around him life rolled back into the dirt, and the seasons flew by like hours under the radiance of his presence.

The flies and worms praised the sun god, they consumed the plants that followed him; great vines covered with half decayed gourds, grapes and sweet melons. Their empty bodies were now houses for spiders.

The Vanir magic protected him from physical harm but did not protect him from age. By the end of the first week, the remaining followers died from disease, and the plants disappeared. A mold had grown from the decay and now covered the sides of Hringhorni, relentless it ate away at the great ship. It nibbled and chewed the stories from the sides until nothing remained. Baldur cease to care, he could feel the weight of age in his bones, and the boat turned to a pile of pulp and insects.

Freyja fed Baldur every medicine, every potion she could gather. She even offered one of her golden apples to whomever could create a tincture that could stop the rot. Hundreds of would be healers traveled to bring Baldur their medicine. He drank every one of them, no matter how bitter. Yet none of them stopped the decay, and those that approached in person regretted the encounter, leaving with a few more gray hairs and wrinkles then they arrived with. Freyja returned to the great tree Yggrasil, desperate, she offered any sacrifice for Baldur to be cured, after all he was destined to rule in the next chapter of life.

The tree said nothing and offered nothing.

When the last light of Baldur descended into night, Freyja began crying, her tears falling over the roots of Yggrasil. Baldur did not die, but remained only inches above the horizon of life. With each sunrise the poison strangled the light from him. In any age of man after this, Frejya can be found weeping over the roots of the great tree, some say that her sorrow may one day drown the earth in an ocean of tears.

A weight fell over the land of the Vanir, the Norse and the groves of plants. None wished a future where the rotten king ruled and could not be killed, his destiny became muddled, retold and finally forgotten. The silver cords of his followers dissolved, and they turned their eyes away from decay and towards a new dawn.

Stargazer:

Marduk wandered the Garden of Babylon in heavy steps, each footstep spanning an hour of mankind.  He looked up at the sun with 4 calm eyes, raised his hands and letting the radiance fall over him. His skin glowed a bright yellow hue. The warmth of his presence could be felt by the plants of his garden, the vines and flowers wanting nothing more than to be near him. Dense clusters of foliage spilled from carved stone, and from the sides of cliff faces, rising high over the Valley of The Sun was the sacred Hanging Gardens of Eden.

The garden germinated as Marduk walked in the Valley of the Sun. The flowers sprung from his dreams and his words and vines sprouted throughout the valley wherever Marduk rested. The Valley was all that remained of his kingdom, his followers and acolytes washed away by time. His rituals no longer enacted, his holidays forgotten. Yet, Marduk remained and claimed his throne as the everlasting Sun, eternal and divine. His 4 eyes gazed, each to their own direction and there was no place in the world he found more beautiful then the lush and fertile Valley of the Sun, his eternal palace of life.

Mardk was no longer concerned with the tiny lifetimes of human beings, their passions trivial and fleeting. No longer was he concerned with the silver cords of priests, nor the visions of shamans and hags. Marduk looked to the stars and each night he counted them, gathering the starlight in his 4 eyes and with the dawn shot a beam of orange fire across the sky. A brilliant tribute made from the streaks of the night sky.

Many trees lived in the shadow of the eternal Marduk, groves of: rosewood, ebony, olive, date and oak flourished in the Hanging Gardens. The breeze through the Valley would carry the aromas of cinnamon and myrrh. In the past there had been frankincense, but the offerings of worshipers were now beneath Marduk, whose eyes seem to only stare at stars as he prepared for the next sunrise.

 Nearly everything was beneath the eyes of Marduk, if he did not need a thing, he did not see a thing, and there were few things that Marduk needed. The most important was the source of his eternal vitality. A great black tree grew in the Hanging Gardens and produced a very distinct golden acorn.  This acorn held the luster of the sun with perfect reflection, and upon its consumption would grant Marduk another thousand heartbeats.

The tree stood in a grove of murderous vines, sentient plants dedicated to guarding the source of life of their beloved Sun god. The vines never rested, squirming into spirals and circles, twisting around each other in an impenetrable wall. The vines however had no eyes, they could not see the shadow that waited by the edge of the grove, watching them writhe.

The unseen hunter had waited for 3 months near the grove waiting for Marduk to travel within the Valley of the Sun. At each winter solstice, he would journey to the highest edge of the Hanging Gardens. There he would greet the sun, raising his colossal arms, and with the dawn breathe a plume of fire created from the longest night. A great display, at one time revered by the builders of Babylon.

The blowgun was loaded with darts tipped in a wicked venom. One by one the darts flew, from the shadows and into the vines, and within moments the stalks lay motionless. The grove of the black tree now exposed. A knife flashed in the sunlight, cutting into the bark, revealing the very heartwood of the ebony tree. The sparkle of golden acorns nearby promised everlasting life, a temptation for whoever was nearby. The same vile ichor was applied to the heartwood and within a hundred heartbeats the black tree was a snag of ash and dust. The withering was reflected in the acorns as their golden glint faded to a dull bronze and then a flaky brown, finally they disintegrated into the breeze.

The roar was heard the from delta of the Euphrates and to the heights of the Himalayas.

Marduk felt the death of the black tree, the acorns in his belly turning to ash. The blood in his veins turning to a molten rage. All 4 eyes straining in pain, focusing on the black tree. The eyes of Marduk could see behind trees, they could see into the shadows and over horizon. However, the hunter was prepared and the only thing Marduk saw was the mask and the form of the Hunter.

The last breath was a volcanic plume that reached over the winter sun, blackening the sky for a moment, burning the air with anger.

A mask had been set upon a wicker form, with the shape of a person. Nearby a large hole had been dug. The Hunter was hidden inside, they had constructed a small single occupant shelter. When the wrath of Marduk washed over the wicker form, there was only the mask looking back at him. The flames consumed the mask and the form, shattering into fragments of feathers and bones. Within the dirt shelter the heat could still be felt, and the roar heard.  

Marduk’s heart beat 20 more times before withering into the morning sky, the black smoke from the forest dimming the sun light. His life ending with the rising of a new sun.