Words to the Wise: Book One (The Awakening)

By Cornelius Harker

Alone, confused, without any recollection of his past, and roaming the plains of an alternative eighteenth century environment in which the supernatural thrives, The Wanderer begins to unearth the truth about God, the nature of the human soul, the horrors of his own past, and his connection with a dark apocalyptic future.
‘The Awakening’ is book one of the 'Words to the Wise' saga, and ventures into a possible reality that greatly mirrors our own contemporary world, but which is also steeped in the Gothic motifs of myth and the supernatural.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cornelius Harker
• Release date: Apr 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458038234

Cornelius Harker

Writing primarily within the horror genre, Cornelius Harker explores the darker side of storytelling. Harker writes for readers who enjoy grandiose story arcs and who also possess a penchant for feeling unconditionally scared.

Book preview

Words to the Wise

Book One: The Awakening

Cornelius Harker

Copyright 2011 by Cornelius Harker

Smashwords Edition

Alone, confused, without any recollection of his past and roaming the plains of an alternative eighteenth century environment in which the supernatural thrives, The Wanderer begins to unearth the truth about God, the nature of the human soul, the horrors of his own past and his connection with a dark apocalyptic future.

Including cursed villages, castles infested with revenants, spectral monks and Lovecraftian creatures, ‘The Awakening’ is book one of the 'Words to the Wise' saga and ventures into a possible reality that greatly mirrors our own contemporary world, but which is also steeped in the Gothic motifs of myth and the supernatural.

They shall rise beneath blackened skies

With vengeance to deplete,

And all shall die when one despised

Falls silent at their feet

Contents

Prologue

The Bleeding Man

It Begins

The Slieve Mish Mountains

Clannath

The Sorcerer

Orphaned Land

A Dark Discovery

The Sorcerer’s Account

Leaving Clannath

The Wandering Pariah

Melk Abbey

A Stroll in the Shadows

Silenoz

Whispers in the Dark

The Morning After

Approaching the Carpathian Mountains

Smolenice

The Curse

The Coachman

Castle Grislach

A Place out of Time

Dialogue with the Damned

Darkness dressed in Beauty

An old Acquaintance

Prologue

Journey’s End

The Wanderer halted; sweat oozed from every pore on his face; his vision blurred; his heart palpitated. He eyed his hunter anxiously before swiftly scanning his surroundings. The mountain trail petered off into the darkness behind him and was further concealed by immense black rocks and fluctuating moonlight that seemed to choose its illumination at random. He was close to the summit. He clutched his broken arm tightly to his chest and resumed his flight into shadow.

He raced rapidly towards the top of the mountain. The Wanderer was revenge, hatred, compassion and love condensed into a singular and weakening frame that was now barely capable of sustaining strength enough to stand. There was no time to acknowledge pain or loss; his mind was distracted and his wits were all but expunged by the terror of the moment, alongside the anticipation of what he would discover at the top.

The path sought the gloom and disappeared before him. He threw himself heedlessly into the darkness, bashing his already battered body upon jagged rocks that made short work of bare skin. His broken arm obtained fresh fractures from the numerous collisions that arrived promptly from all angles as he fell forward and landed heavily upon the hard terrain. He gripped the dirt in his palms and rose to his feet before he had time to reluctantly inhale the dank clotted air of the mountain. Tepid air was reintroduced to his burning lungs; he looked upwards past the black rock-face and into what should have been a cloudless sky bedecked with stars, but there were no stars here, just darkness, an unfathomable and ominous darkness occasionally confronted by inadequate shafts of shattered moonlight.

Behind him the creature continued to growl and hiss in its own language of impassive execution while The Wanderer urged his tired limbs forwards. A rush of imagery now filled his mind with an assortment of pictures both vivid and ghastly. Again his legs went from beneath him and he found himself once more face to face with the hard terrain while reluctantly contemplating grisly experiences that he had not pondered in years. Imagery of an unsettling nature began to form a coherent structure in his head until it shaped a consistent tale of horror yet to be disclosed.

I feel his presence! he muttered excitedly beneath shuddering breaths.

He lunged forward with renewed vigour as the images continued to arrange themselves systematically into a fantastic narrative. So lucid were the events that his attention was momentarily stolen away from his darkened ascent. Death, resurrection, creatures of such hideous visage, and emptiness … a vacuum of arcane and inexplicable emptiness … all of these now fully restored to him the passion and magnitude of his quest.

The Wanderer slipped uncomfortably through a small fissure forged between two immense black monoliths. The pursing beast closed the distance between them and slammed its colossal shape against the rocks. Its dark brawny arm slithered briskly through the fissure while its claws snatched violently at the air just inches from The Wanderer’s perspiring face. For a moment he explored the rage of the creature, immersing himself in the mystery of its fiery gaze before turning to flee for the last time towards a small wooden cabin some fifty feet in front of him.

There were no discernible windows. An uneven frame left a foot-high gap above and below a makeshift door that rattled in the wind. Surrounding the cabin was the semblance of a narrow waterless moat no more than ten feet across and thousands of feet deep. The Wanderer approached with apprehension while, behind him, the monoliths began to crumble beneath the force of the creature, whose monstrous form now broke through and quickly resumed its incensed pursuit.

He hurled himself forward over the gorge and landed heavily on the other side with enough time to watch his unearthly hunter emerging from the dim and inhospitable environment. The cabin was a mere few feet away and yet The Wanderer knew that the creature would raze it to the ground rather than allow him to succeed. His options were few but not spent. The creature stood on the opposite side of the waterless moat casting an elongated shadow across the breach. It looked intently towards The Wanderer from disparaging eyes that implied an unspoken familiarity with its prey.

Recoiling cautiously, The Wanderer considered the one remaining option open to him, the one unfavourable option that was beyond reason and everything that he still held dear. But there was no alternative, no luxury of being able to choose and no time. The creature was already airborne; its profound frame was plunging towards the ground.

The Wanderer parted his arid lips and grudgingly uttered an arcane and detestable language from ages past. The words assailed the area, filling his entire body with poison and hate. No sooner had the last syllable fallen from his lips than The Wanderer likewise fell to his knees grinding his teeth in self-loathing, while all around him the air adopted a repulsive density. He closed his lids over his eyes and waited as the environment obeyed the hideous commands. He ingested the dry air of the mountain, and listened to the infernal screams of protestation from the creature. It was now just inches from him and yet it was unable to effect its wrath upon the insignificant organism before it. It flayed the air with ineffective ferocious swipes that achieved nothing other than fatigue. An invisible but effectual barrier had been erected; The Wanderer was safe. The creature looked down loathingly at the man who returned his gaze with despairing eyes that sought forgiveness rather than glory.

Why have you pursued me so intently? whispered The Wanderer solemnly. Do you not know my true purpose?

He remained unanswered. Instead the creature raised its head and eyed the murky canopy above him. There was nothing in this place but death and sadness and now, even with primal instinct governing its every action, the creature seemed to be stilled by conflicting emotions imposed upon it by both disjointed but contented memories of what it once was, along with the dismal realisation of what it had become.

The Wanderer turned to the cabin and inhaled a lukewarm breath. He held it in his chest for a prolonged length of time before forcing the door forward. It broke free from its weak frame and creaked open to a single empty room occupied by nothing more than a blazing fire in the centre, before which sat the withered body of an old man keenly observing the random movements of the flames as they danced erratically over the embers. The Wanderer slammed the door shut; the old man did not move. He appeared entirely unaffected by the noise of his visitor, who approached him with squinted eyes formed by revulsion and a guarded hate that strove to break free.

He stood before a most cryptic sort, a wizened robed frame that was hunched up before the fire with wrinkled arms wrapped about his sides for warmth. The old man did not once look upon his visitor, nor did his expression alter to confirm that he had even noticed his abrupt entry. Instead he continued his bleak observation of the flames through vacuous grey pupils. Long white dishevelled hair fell about his emaciated shoulders; a beard of untouched length hung from his skeletal countenance and rested upon his breast as finally he lifted his head to examine The Wanderer with wide chalky eyes, which appeared swathed by a silky coating formed by an abundance of darkness over light. He watched keenly as The Wanderer crouched before the fire to hold a solitary palm before the heat, occasionally forming a fist to encourage the circulation of blood that had only recently begun to flow in his veins once more.

Do you understand my words? he asked as feeling returned to his hand.

I understand, answered the old man timidly.

So here you are, said The Wanderer after some time had passed. His eyes sought those of the old man. And here I am at last.

At last, Rayner replied softly with weary and sorrowful despair, while watching the colour return to The Wanderer’s skin.

I am undecided whether or not to end your life here and now, or to continue with my already exhausted purpose, he said.

His eyes remained fixed upon the unyielding expression of the old man.

You must do whatever you feel you must do, Rayner responded coldly.

You would like that would you not, old man? How I have dreamt of this moment, to be sitting before you as I am now, staring into those empty eyes of yours. I have dreamt such things … such terrible things.

There is truth enough in dreams.

What would you know of truth?! shouted The Wanderer before immediately calming himself. He shook his head slowly in self-condemnation before inspecting the cabin with enquiring eyes. What manner of creature spends his life thus?

What manner of man wishes to know? Rayner replied instantly, as though the question had been asked a thousand times before.

You know me well enough, The Wanderer replied shrewdly, never once releasing Rayner from an uncompromising gaze. You are too well accustomed to death and misdeed, he continued. I can understand how a place such as this can offer you comfort for your sins.

… for my sins … Rayner repeated dolefully.

The creature awaits me outside, said The Wanderer turning his head towards the door. It was eager enough to end my life. Is it aware of what it is?

I believe so, returned Rayner. I sometimes hear them roaming across the mountain. They seem to be searching for something.

Perhaps they search for purpose; I pity them.

The Wanderer rose to his feet and returned to the door. Upon opening it the creature lurched forward but was unable to progress any further than standing position. Still it thrashed the air intently as though its own continuance depended upon frenzied movement. But then it grew still and quiet, momentarily contemplating the solitary figure standing at the entrance to the cabin.

See how it examines me, observed The Wanderer, I wonder if it remembers.

Remembers? asked Rayner.

The Wanderer closed the door and returned to the warmth of the flames.

Was I so different all those years ago? he muttered to himself. I was empty; my life was forfeit. I had no desires, no ambition and no emotion. But the worst of it was that I was without memory of anything or anyone, said The Wanderer in a regretful tone. It was as though I awoke one morning to a fresh existence of which I knew nothing. My surroundings were alien to me, and yet I knew myself to be somewhere in Europe. I was as familiar with the native language of whatever country I inhabited as I was with the ability to walk and breathe, and yet I knew not how I came to be there or anywhere. I felt as though I had been born as I am now, without nurture or the benefits proffered by the love and affection of others.

You had no family? asked Rayner.

Family … The Wanderer reiterated meditatively. I did not believe then that I had ever met them, nor did I believe they that would know me if ever the occasion presented itself. So much has changed in me that I no longer recognise my own body and mind.

The Wanderer rested before the fire and threw his long cloak over his shoulder. His broken arm was still pinned guardedly to his chest.

Perhaps it would be judicious to begin at the moment where everything I had ever known was dismissed in a matter of seconds.

Please continue, urged Rayner. His desire to hear more was as fervent as the climbing flames.

That is why I am here, after all, confirmed The Wanderer, unable to remove his eyes from those of the old man.

The crackle of the fire assisted the discomforting silence that suddenly occurred between them while The Wanderer closed his eyes, arranged his thoughts and inhaled a deep controlled breath that remained in his chest for an unfathomably long time. He reopened his eyes, exhaled and began to voice the words that had been with him for more years than he cared to recall.

1.

The Bleeding Man

I did not know how I came to be in the world, The Wanderer began, "I only knew that I awoke one morning with all my wits about me and that I continued to live as a man without purpose or interest in the life I had been given. My days were spent in mindless reverie and my nights were mysteriously plagued with visions of a thousand rotting faces with horrified expressions. I soon began to exorcise such sleeping revelations with the subduing qualities of alcohol, the effects from which moulded me into the grime of untouchable humanity. I stole from the pockets of gentlemen and existed on nothing but thin air, discarded bread and the cooked meat of dead decomposed cattle from unkempt fields. In short I was a vagabond of the highest order, avoided by many and spoken of in fits of slander and disgust by those whose lives were otherwise prosperous and worthy. It soon became my design to leave the world through the lifestyle with which I had become accustomed, through intoxication and brawling with undesirables whose daggers, I hoped, were commissioned to pierce my weary heart. Suffice it to say that I failed on both counts, as even the drunkards began to avoid me whenever I appeared.

"For reasons beyond my calculation I had found myself in the verdant surrounds of rural Germany. I seemed to be familiar with the language even though I did not consider myself a native. For some time I had been making a nuisance of myself at an Inn, the last Inn for fifty miles in any direction, or so the landlord had taken great pains in repeating ad nauseam to every one of his customers at selected intervals. It was a reckless establishment made up of rotting wood, sawdust, harsh language and spoiled ale. Nevertheless I had become a frequent visitor and had gained the eye of many of its denizens, who initially took me into their ragtag groups with drunken fervour. Beyond the Inn to the west were nothing but a small pond and a forest, in which I spent most of my days recovering from the previous night’s merriment. To the north and the east were fields and to the south was the solitary road that I assumed had led me there. I had taken to gambling with money I never had, but I had more than enough guile to see me through to frequent victory. My forte was cards; in particular, Poker. I thought myself skilled until I met those whose penchant for lies and cunning outweighed even my own; nevertheless my stretched abilities still earned my keep as a drunkard.

"Poker was a pastime for both gentlemen and villains alike, and there I was exchanging deceiving looks with the ugliest and most foul smelling creatures ever to be born into the world. Most were farmers; some, like me, were drifters, blown in by the inhospitable elements and blown out again by the swish of numerous fists. Others were simply too old and frail to be granted a title; they merely nestled in a corner and avoided eye contact. One old man in particular was given to reciting poetry spontaneously whenever his body had consumed enough alcohol to level a man twice his size.

"We would continue our card game for some time while drinking the evening into submission. We wailed, we sang and we occasionally fought into the early hours. Most were away to their farms, their wives, and their livestock to prepare for whatever it was that farmers did. I, however, was fit for nothing but the shelter of the forest.

"On one particularly cold pre-dawn morning I wrapped my shabby clothes around me and ventured towards the path leading to my favoured resting place, namely a large tree with a small alcove that provided insufficient warmth during any season of the year. The path was quiet although my ears still rang with the clamour of the Inn and my head had already begun its descent into unwanted sobriety inspired by the early morning chill. As I neared the forest I came to the pond. Sometimes I was prone to drinking from the water and I now felt the weight of thirst upon me more than ever. Drawing closer I found that someone was already there, and I even damned his presence for arriving there before me. As far as I was concerned it was my pond and its water was produced for nothing more or less than my own needs.

Kneeling at its side was a man I did not immediately recognise. He certainly had not been at the Inn, since I would have recalled seeing such a grave looking sort. His head was without hair and his skin was paler than chalk. His face was concealed temporarily by shadow, but I could see even then that he was in utter despair. He did not drink from the pond, nor did he make ripples with his hands, he merely stared intently at the reflections made by the trees illuminated by the slowly maturing light from the sky. For a time I could not take my eyes from him. Here seemed to be a man whose misery outweighed even my own, and whose knowledge of his own self seemed far more harrowing than my complete lack of it. Then came the sudden ripples in the water; they originated not from his hand, however, but from his eyes. He was weeping.

The man was crying? asked Rayner whose interest had suddenly deepened.

That is what is usually implied by the term ‘weeping’, The Wanderer replied derisively. "Drop after drop struck the water and dispatched ripples to the rim and yet I could hear no sounds to imply that the man was indeed weeping. I approached in as stealthily a manner as I could, mindful of my steps and all the time labouring not to disturb his reverie. I could now see just how pale he was. His skin was almost white. If I were given to ingesting and entertaining the tales of asinine superstition and folklore, then I would have readily believed that he had recently crawled from the grave to drain blood from the living. But my wits remained strong even under intoxication.

"His clothing was as dishevelled as my own and it should have been more than obvious that the man was a mere vagrant, but there was a little of something else about him that I was not yet able to define. He did not move as I came within five feet of him. Instead his attention remained on the water and its wrinkled reflections. His head was hung low and his chin rested upon his chest.

"I believe it grew colder during those first few seconds of meeting him. A cool but quickly diminishing breeze was seemingly dispatched from nowhere. It was not an uncommon occurrence, but I still recall feeling as though the breeze itself had interrogated me, probed me, even possessed me briefly.

"The man’s head lifted suddenly and he seemed to stare over the now calming surface of the pond. His head jolted in my direction and then returned to the water. He stayed silent but attentive. His breathing quickened and his fingers dug into the soft wet mud at his feet. I was soon standing at his side looking down upon his glabrous head; it was scarred with years. Spotted with time’s blemishes, the skin was so tightly wrapped about his skull that his head appeared as little more than naked bone.

"I decided finally to ask him who he was and why he stared so intently at the water. In truth I had a desire to rid myself of this nuisance so that I might drink from the pond, since by this time I was somewhat parched after my long night of drinking.

" ‘Can it be?’ he enquired excitedly upon hearing me. ‘Do I exist again?!’ he added.

"I shook my head impatiently and sent myself into transitory dizziness, which had me steadying myself with outstretched arms. I was far too drunk to suffer any form of foolishness and I possessed neither the will or inclination to converse with a buffoon whose pastime was to sit and stare at ponds.

Who was this man? asked Rayner. The sparks from the fire had illuminated his wide eyes, lending them a fiery and inquisitive glare.

I did not know at first, of course, how could I? replied The Wanderer. I crouched next to him with every intention of cupping the cool water in my palms. I attempted to see his face, but it remained hidden by shadow. It was then that I turned my attention to the reflections in the water and saw that he had none.

He cast no reflection? asked Rayner whose intrigue was still maturing.

No reflection, The Wanderer verified. "I saw only the dawning sky and the trees. It took me a few seconds to arrange my thoughts before I spoke again. I knew there was every possibility that I was mistaken. Perhaps a trick of the light had obscured his image from the calm surface of the pond. Still, as drunk as I was, I cared little for how foolish my impending enquiry might seem to a man whom I believed I would never again see.

You have no reflection, I said, albeit somewhat bluntly.

"My words were slurred, and my balance unsteady. I was in such a poor state that I may well have even questioned my own reflection. My attention was fixed upon his face and I watched the corner of his mouth turn upwards into a half smile.

" ‘A reflection is made only by those worthy enough to cast one,’ he said with a low resounding murmur. His voice had something of the ancient about it, as though it had been nurtured by time and softened by wisdom. ‘Since I am a villain and a traitor, the water does not honour me with a likeness. But you …!’ he remarked excitedly, ‘you can see me!’

" ‘Of course I can see you, I rarely drink enough to render me blind,’ I returned with a smile formed either from pity or from unease, I was not sure which at the time, although now I would lay claim to both.

"For a moment he seemed delighted with the conversation and then he lost his mirth once more to recurring anguish.

" ‘Then you can see me for what I am,’ he declared in such a regretful, weakened and forlorn tone that I thought his death was imminent.

"I must say that I braced myself for what I was about to see. I was expecting to be confronted by the face of some demon sent to punish me for my sins. He turned slowly as though afraid that some part of him would give way. He seemed as brittle as he was old and his movements were gradual and rigid.

His features were mapped by sorrow. So dismayed was I by his face, that I released an unintended sigh marked by the shock of what now looked upon me. I say ‘looked’, but the man was obviously blind and from his white eyes dripped not the saline tears of an unhappy soul, but fresh blood.

Rayner recoiled. For a time his reaction arrested The Wanderer’s narrative, who scrutinised his apparent jolt of astonishment with hungry pupils. He then closed his eyes and leaned forward to enjoy the rising heat from the fire.

Was he injured in some way? asked Rayner at last.

The Wanderer produced a responsive smile and opened his eyes halfway. Injured? My, you really are the performer, are you not? So this is how we must progress? So be it, he returned with a gradual nod. Yes, I suppose that is one way of explaining it. Except he did not injure himself in a bar brawl or while walking home drunk. You yourself must know that some injuries are beyond the frailty of the flesh.

Rayner nodded slowly as The Wanderer withdrew from the heat and continued.

" ‘You are bleeding,’ I said to him. ‘Would you like me to help you?’

"The offer was genuine enough, although I did not know exactly how I would help him if he had accepted my aid. I was barely capable of tending to my own needs, let alone those of a frail old man who bled inexplicably from the sockets.

" ‘Help me?’ he asked with a compassionate smile that he sustained for an uncomfortably long time. ‘Nobody can help me. I must bleed.’

"I sighed with botheration; I did not possess the tolerance for such pointless and foolish pride. I hoped to all things green and swaying that he was merely another drunkard who bled as a result of basic recklessness; I had been in