Tris' Thoughts

The prologue excerpt from my upcoming fantasy thriller.

A moonless night blanked cool shadows over a flat desert for miles.  At its center was a lush, imposing biome of a rainforest.  Lining its outskirts were small fruit trees–only twice a man’s height at most–with wide-stretched branches.  Their bark was veined in reds and vibrant purples, like cracks in damaged pottery.

And while most of these trees had buds, not a single one bore any fruit.

Past the coarse dirt the fruit trees struggled over, the land faded into moist, hilly soil covered in moss.  Massive roots and trunks of the kapocks webbed the hills and trenches with their lichen-draped appendages.  These strong, aged trees populated the mountainous landscape with dominance.

The rainforest was dense.  Only its inhabitants knew how to maintain an internal compass off the main, tilled roads, and even they were careful to travel no lower than the base level.  A stubborn lantern could not pierce the dense brush-lined ditches.  No desperate screams could echo far.

Despite the insistence of the darkness, this night, every building with oil to spare was adorned with a steady torch.  From the road-lined “Steps Houses” to the main “Kasapisal Villages” on their flattened mountain peaks, a trail of figures trudged in a dense line.  The crowded line filled the entire road the higher up the road levels people traveled.  Each man, woman, and child had a torch in one hand and a small, stone piece in the other.  These stone pieces had a square base and pointed end, like that of a pick.  But atop the flat, square base was a perfect stone circle large enough to wrap one’s palm around.  And at the palm’s grip was a tiny, sharp point.

The trail of attendees narrowed into a single file line as the road shrank until stopping at the end of the “First Level”.  This was the tallest segment of the rainforest, and the original.  It was hard to believe that such a towering mountain could have been nothing more than a mound some 350 years ago.

Its safety rails weaved in and out of rock and soil of the mountain, allowing moss to partially coat many of the petrified wooden steps.  And every single step had that same sphere-headed stone piece embedded to the right and left, just below the hand rails.

Anyone could tell that they were almost at the stairs when the folksongs and chatter softened.  Everyone knew they were just a few bodies behind the steps when the remaining jolly faces faded.  And no one could mistake the First Kasapisal village in the far distance, nor its solemn connection to this night’s tradition.  An offering was about to be made.

While hundreds attended the event, barely a hundred walked the stairs who were not required to do so.  The stairs were intentionally wide enough so that one person could be kneeling on either end–hand on stone sphere–and a further-up traveler would not trip themselves.  And only three types of people were permitted at the top.  Twelve men and women reached the end, though the mountain’s peaks still arched above them, alongside the oldest trees.  These were the Lamakek, the leaders of each Kasapisal village.  They positioned themselves at either end of the railing to make room.

This was a tall people, with dark, olive skin and long, pointed ears.  Their most diverse attribute was their hair: varying in blacks, ash, reds, oranges, and browns.  But their most uniform trait was the eyes…

The deep, crimson, sockets.

At the end of the stairs, and across the flat path the Lamakek stood at, was a tomb.  Two half-circle doors stood dormant in the night.  They embedded into the mountain’s face, leading to a place no citizen dared risk entering.

In the eleventh position was a thin tree of a man, long of face, with lengthy brown hair, and tired eyes.  Like the other eleven, his traditional clothes were covered from the shoulders to the stomach in a gray cloth.  Hanging across the chest was a metal crest: combining the numerical symbol for his Kasapisal and that of their community.  It resembled a mouth.

This long-faced man was called Avilastor Lestrolt and he was unsettled.  He wouldn’t be the only one.  It was time for the offering.

Four men in identical, white garbs stepped with authority up the stairs.  Everything from their shoulders to their heads were concealed by large, triangular helmets made of heavy rock.  Between them, they carried a large, stone platter.  Atop this platter was a man’s body, concealed tastefully by a clean sheet.  The still body was once a man named “Hisen Ra”, and until recently, he was the leader of the First Kasapisal.  With his passing came the ritual, like all other leaders of the First Kasapisal.

Each Kasapisal leader instinctively moved further to the edge of the pathway: allowing the platter-carriers closer to the the tomb’s mouth.  When the carriers were close enough, it happened.  The mouth flung open sharply.  The earthy thud and gusts of air assisted the leaders to their knees, some trembling more than others as they bowed their heads and cupped the spherical stones.

Avilastor hated the breathy sound of the doors opening most of all.  He had only attended as a Lamakek once before and this time, he had barely enough bravery to glance at the tomb’s opening for himself.  The helmeted men–known as “Smoths”–had their backs to the tomb as they backed the platter into it.  Only these, the sacred representatives of Her, could do so.  Some would say that they did this to make a swift escape easier should the doors decide to prematurely close… which they never did.

No torches reached the tomb but Avilastor stared deep into the mouth all the same.  Maybe he couldn’t look away out of fear or simply because he was curious.  Regardless of the reason, something forced his attention away.  It was quick but he could have sworn he saw something move in a space between the Smoths and the tomb itself.

Avilastor’s mind flared at his options.  He didn’t know if he–or anyone–was in a position to disrupt the ceremony, and just as fast as the movement arrived, it was gone.  Nothing echoed in the tomb.  No one else looked alarmed.

So Avilastor said nothing.  He did nothing.  The platter was lowered.  The Smoths stepped out.  The doors closed.  With his palm bleeding over the prayer sphere in front of him, Avilastor shivered.  His mind created phantom noises of some being inside the mouth chewing and digesting its treat.  He knew this was for the good of everyone.  It was the same as always.  The leader of the First House dies, the body is prepared, and the ritual commences.  She would accept this offering and reward them.  But the Avilastor could not shake his discomfort.  His eyes cringed tightly until he forced them open again to have something less disturbing in his peripheral.  What he caught sight of wasn’t particularly reassuring but at least it was familiar and harmless.

On the other side of the path was Mary Revlost: a shorter man with the lightest brown hair Avilastor had known.  He looked absolutely terrified and was staring directly at Avilastor.  Avilastor took solace in knowing he wasn’t the most distraught leader but he almost immediately realized that could be because Mary saw what he saw.

Everyone took their hands off the spheres and rose to their feet.  The stones drank up any blood that didn’t trail down the steps.  With just a few seconds of respite, Mary leaned across the pathway and whispered, “What was it?”  Avilastor could only shake his head, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly.  The answer clearly did not calm Mary.

An hour passed.  Blood from the hundreds of attendees speckled the stones and flicked onto the stairs.  Only a palm prick’s worth touched most and yet–be it from scrapes or dripping wounds–there was enough to leave bloodied shoe and foot prints down the stairs.  Many of the citizens took their leave during this hour until it was just the Smoths, the Lamakeks, and the tomb.  Avilastor heard one of the others reciting the very first of their sacred Chronicles: “Into the tomb went the First of the First.  Out of the tomb came Spancil.”

Finally, the tomb reopened.  It was slower this time, causing one of the other Lamakek to jump.  Avilastor caught Mary smirking just a bit.  It was a smirk that said, “At least I won’t be mocked for that.”  

The Smoths reclaimed the now-steaming platter.  It was clean, clothless, and bodiless.  They deposited it on the ground between the twelve Lamakek.  Then, they retreated to the closed mouth of the tomb: standing against it as if it couldn’t possibly fly open at any moment.

The Lamakek leaders sat cross-legged around the platter as a grinding, tearing, brushing sound stretched from above.  A branch had grown overhead: rapidly producing twelve, pulsing blue fruit buds.  These filled until they were heavy enough to snap off their ends and land harmlessly on the platter.  Not a single one bruised or splattered.

From one to twelve, the Lamakek say a single word before biting their fruit.

“Strong.”

“Vast.”

“Powerful.”

“Fertile.”

“Lucious.”

“Knowing.”

“Intruiging.”

“Providing.”

“…Mysterious.”

“Loving.”

It was Avilastor’s turn, and then Mary’s.  Before Avilastor knew it, he and Mary had already given their descriptor and the long-faced man couldn’t even remember what word he chose.  He had apparently also forgotten to bite the fruit.  He quickly rectified this and nearly dribbled onto his ceremonial robes.

The fruit was rich, sweet, and creamy.  Avilastor always hated the latter description.  The people compared it to breast milk, a concept a man in his forties found both humiliating and repulsive.  But it was not a description made in the Chronicles, at least to his knowledge.  So he took comfort in that.

The fruit was finished, leaving only a single seed from each.  Each Lamakek pocketed their organic cores, stood, and linked arms.  They lifted their heads and recited…

… “Spancil is…”