T'Schai

By Brent Dorian Carpenter

The T'Schai, an ancient African race of hyper-powerful masters of Osmosis and the Georhythm, a deity-like society that seeks to play God and topples as a result of its own stunning hubris.

The Foundation, lead by the Supreme Shepherdess Alaiyo, six surviving scientists culpable for the self-inflicted genocide, released after 70,000 years of hibernation, and determined to reclaim Mother Earth and wipe out modern-day Mankind.

Paul Morgan, a 17 year-old African American boy plagued with bipolar disorder, and direct-line hybrid descendant of one of the Six, who possesses the might to destroy mountain ranges and holds the entire fate of two great civilizations in his unsteady hands.

What is the staggering confluence of events that intertwines these two colossal forces, and what will happen when after 70 millennia they at long last collide?

Part-Superman, Dune, Roots and even Battlestar Galactica, T'Schai is the most mind-bogglingly unusual and original black comic hero the world will ever encounter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781304832689

Book preview

T'Schai

T'Schai

Book One : The Fall and Resurrection

Brent Dorian Carpenter

Prologue One  Creator's Plan

Seventy thousand years ago, the first cherry plum blossom of dawn chases away the starry vacuum of night over the ancient sweltering plains of Africa. The towering light spires and monolithic central ziggurat of the city of Olduvai stand poised against her harsh jungle backdrop to capture the sun's illuminating rays, empowering and preserving them for all of eternity. So, too, array her majestic peoples, the T'Schai, the First of Men, tall and lithe, dark and unfathomable, to partake in the solar ecstasy, thronging the eastern-facing building facades and staircases and village pathways. The summer solstice, the harvesting time has arrived, and every T'Schaian citizen's regal heart is aflame with communal joy and gratitude for the prolific bounty provided by the Great Creator.

Just beyond Olduvai's unscalable walls and pearly gates, a second dawn is breaking. The advent of another curious kind of creature, upright-walking and thinking, rudimentarily articulate--but not-yet-human. These savage proto-men struggle against the earth, clawing, clubbing, scratching their way into an uncertain evolutionary future, watching from afar with envious but fearful eyes the wondrous machinations of their god-like cousin neighbors. Though none there were within either cultures who could have foreseen the stunning collision course upon which they two were furiously and inexorably embarked.

Inside the Barrier Walls, the moment of anticipation arrives, an instinctive hush falling upon the city entire. Atop the Tor, the ziggurat temple, spiritual center of this grandiose civilization, a woman emerges from its upper-most sanctum, effortlessly gliding to her station above most all others. She is Alaiyo, her face brooding and marked with ritualistic scars, light-woven fabrics of exquisite detail caressing her braided head and near seven-foot frame, burgundy tunic belying her royal stature. Immediately following in her sacred wake, a man seven inches taller, similarly scarred and clad--Taivos, her lifemate. Together, they lead these masses as Supreme Shepherd and Shepherdess.

The other august members of the Council of Wisest conclave on the ledge directly below. In unison, they gaze out upon their teeming denizens, their stewardship of these peoples just and sure. At the grand structure's base, a monstrous plaza sprawls abuzz with semi-nude eon bodies circumambulating the Ormurai Crystal, the hallmark of raw T'Schaian power. The crystalline megalith, spanning forty meters above those glorious African heads, stands rooted in Mother Earth, its mineral core a direct umbilicus to the forces of Nature coiled, unbounded, in her bosom. The Ormurai, its omnipresent glow landmarking the Georhythm, a coalescence of energies fed by both terra firma and Man.

A regal procession of men and women ablaze with the holy hues of burgundy and gold appears from within the Tor's base, devout vicars for the priesthood of the Great Creator. Amongst them, Taivos and Alaiyo's blessed twins, Aiwann and Aiwakka, female and male, recently inducted into the Holy Order, and proudly bearing the earthly manifestation of His eternal grace. They arrange their angular physicalities around the Ormurai, placing their palms flat against its smooth, glass-like surface, its innate glow rising in accordance to their spiritual will.

Gesticulating her arms grandly from on high, Alaiyo's deep steadfast voice booms over the rapt crowd. Behold the blazing eye of the Great Creator!

The sun splits the horizon, bathing twenty thousand black bodies, every man, woman and child of Olduvai, with life-sustaining waves. Most have grasped the hands of kith and kin preparing for the spiritual enigma to follow. Like the surrounding flora they open their cells, harvesting and photosynthesizing the light energy for consumption and future exploitation. Even those poised at precarious heights are swept by a divine serenity. What fear of falling for a race that can fly?

Shall we, beloved? Taivos spake in the rich T'Schaian dialect and accent as he gestures for his wife's hand. She gazes up into his eyes, light brown like hers, this man she loves like no other, and does as he bade, falling into his lean, muscular embrace. In an osmotic moment more intimate than mere sex, they merge their ta'a astral forms, their consciousness-bearing spirits. Man and woman become One.

This ritual is replicated a thousand times amongst family and friends, relatives and fellow villagers, a terrestrial affair at first. Then everywhere all at once, those T'Schaians' bodies descend into a dreamlike trance, their ta'a slip free of their fleshly entrapments, swirling into the morning sky in a nigh-orgiastic communal bonding. Men, women and children become All. A spontaneous rapture to celebrate the Grand Lord of Creation. Wails of joy erupt from otherwise still bodies, channeling each ta'a's exquisite bliss and harmony.

Around and around those spirit wraiths dance through the canyons of their light-constructed domiciles, the lush parks, farms and spectacular Olduvai works and monuments hemmed neatly within her boundaries. They flit respectfully to a fault through the glorious halls of the Tor, past its golden statuary and tapestries, pausing reverently within the sacred Shrine Rotunda to pay homage to a higher power. Into the raw, coruscating energies of the Ormurai Crystal, bathing naked in its glorious power, all expected to leave a tiny fraction of their astral selves to feed and sustain its unearthly metaphysical properties. Up amongst the clouds high above the sparkling city, writhing, nay exulting, in the sun-dappled rays. In and about their own physical forms and those of others, each passage a revelation of self and being and id.

Every T'Schaian, of course, fervently wishes to commune thusly with his royal shepherds, perhaps to bask within their being and extract a nugget of such high degree of judgment. Exhausting as this osmosis may prove, Taivos and Alaiyo welcome this solemn rite, selflessly yielding body, consciousness, and living soul for the sake of community fusion. Indeed the other Council members alike are sought and coveted.

The sun cuts a deep arc into the noontime heavens before this utterly inorganic spectacle reaches its stirring conclusion. Ta'as return to lumbering T'Schaian forms, releasing the trance to reunite into the Whole  They graciously bow and chatter to an unseen force above, then to each other. An entire people are enlivened, rejuvenated, ever ready to move forward with great purpose. This race, full measure not-yet-taken, clearly are the undisputed masters of this corner of the planet.

As the ta'a is invisible to all but the T'Schaian eye, one can understand how bewildering all this must seem to the outside gaze, all this hand-holding and swaying and wailing . Those few savage ignorant souls who dare venture too close to those leviathan walls, that is--and those were few indeed. For them, these homo erectus precursors of Man, this moment, this happening, instills a kind of blind animal fear and trepidation, proof how utterly out-of-sync these two worlds be.

Still, pairs of these blazing, almost human eyeballs inquisitively scrutinize Olduvai from the safety of the dense tropical thicket. The stunted bodies of these men are unbathed, stinking, and had never been draped in fine T'Schai light-weave cloth, instead bearing ruminants of animal skin and decorative plumage. The scars they bear are festering, disfiguring wounds obtained over the course of the most brutal hard-scrabble existences imaginable, nothing at all like the dutiful markings of those magnificent others. Equally harsh, the guttural utterings of these things, barely fit for the term 'language.' Nevertheless, when Nature and her wild beasts were not making their perpetual bid to slaughter them, and they were not massacring each other, the brutes had managed to learn to communicate with one another utilizing body mannerisms and series of sounds agreed to have common meaning.

Over time, they certainly have come to realize that on this annual longest of all days, without fail, all usual activity within the glimmering city halted. What is remarkable is the savages had come to regard the otherwise awe-inspiring sight of a T'Schaian in physical flight in defiance of the unknown force of gravity as 'usual,' and the sudden albeit brief interlude of cessation of such feats more perplexing--and more so that they possessed the faculty to distinguish between the two. Little blame should they bear not knowing the wall dwellers' aerial doings had merely taken on an metaphysical form. Yes, these were definitely creatures worth a closer look.

Afforded such a look high atop the ziggurat, those hidden eyes might spy Alaiyo and Taivos engaged with a small cluster of their citizenry. The rulers' attention is captivated in particular by another much younger couple. The jubilant female holds their newborn, still bearing the round belly bump of recent motherhood. The father, clearly of the warrior trade, brandishes a jaw-stretching grin that seems never to fade. Proud bearers of Olduvai's newest resident, a girl, and eager to display her to the treasured upper hierarchy.

Aisyllon insisted on flying up for your blessing, in spite of her recovering state, Shepherds, the husband Endugai says, referring to his wife.

I was certainly not going to climb 750 stairs with one so tiny in my arms, she responds to her mate's concerns. And my control to tap the Georhythm has fully returned.

Alaiyo fondles the baby's fat cheek. Men can always be counted on to fret over women to display their strength and nobility. Is that not true, Taivos?

The ever-wise Shepherd replies to her, It is only natural, beloved--as the woman displays her supreme divinity and devotion by tolerating our unreasoned doubts.

Thus is the household peace kept, Alaiyo rejoins. My advice, let your man carry you on the flight down. You will both have made your point.

Sage wisdom, surely, Aisyllon says. I will have Endugai bear us. And we will take the stairs. My strong warrior should not balk at such a request--after having his own doubts about me assuaged.

The quartet roars with laughter as the new family turns to depart. We look forward to the little one's naming ceremony. Peace and blessing upon you, Taivos bellows, leaving young Endugai to his back-breaking task. Mostly the people were dispersing back to their daily concerns, leaving Shepherd and Shepherdess to briefly tend one another. All was in balance with the Creator's Plan.

They repose in solitude, this supreme couple, watching from on high atop their royal perch with luminous pride the vigorous interaction of their ordained twins with the devoted populace seeking their holy council. They would continue their Ormurai-centered rituals well into the long African night. Are they priests or politicians? their mother jests in pride.

They are our blessed creation, eternal love, her life-mate wearily sighs. The solid granite footing beneath Old Taivos' aching bare feet feels good. This marvelous structure upon which they stride, like all of Olduvai's oldest, was fabricated of earthen wares, stone and gold, reflecting the foregone era of its construction prior to this peoples' ubiquitous command of the Georhythm, before architects learnt how to manufacture buildings from aught more than captured, solidified light. Together they re-enter the rich affordings of the Tor's uppermost chamber.

And so the farmers return to the fields to harvest the grains from Mother Earth, the teachers and students to the Ministry of Holy and Higher Order, the artists, their light studios, Alaiyo sighs, satisfied with the wonderment of the solstice festival.

As the science theoreticians must trudge to their laboratories to carry on the always illuminating work of discovery, Taivos reflects. That is your charge, wife. Mine is to rest. Today's duties have drained me for a short while.

Are your 81 years betraying you, beloved? Alaiyo jokes. He was only just approaching the middle age and she a mere three years his junior.

My father's locks may have begun to show the wise gray, but I assure my vigor will return with a hearty meal and a short meditation.

As you wish, Great Taivos. Perhaps a visit to your youthful mistress Dairain will help soothe your tensions. I return to my brethren at the Foundation. The debate rages over how to proceed with a definitive empirical study of the proto-sapiens.

I trust the six of you intend to heed the Council's admonition against bringing any of those animals into the city proper. We must never allow our power to lead us blithely to forget the dangers they pose.

I have not forgotten a single fact I have been exposed to since the fifth month in Mother's loving womb.

A wild boast, but one your intellect attests to, Taivos chuckles.

I assure you appropriate caution will be applied. Besides, I intend to determine if they are more than mere animals. Of a higher genus than the other primate sub-species, well below the T'Schai in spiritual, intellectual and societal development, yet genetically remarkably identical to us. And possibly still evolving.

I am familiar with the conundrum, Taivos states. Are they human? And will they evolve to possess our ability to manipulate the forces of the Georhythm--while clinging to their savage way? A monumentally troubling concept. Keep the Council apprised of your progress.

It will be done, husband. Now rest. Alaiyo places her hand against Taivos' heart as she renders him a kiss.

Peace and blessings, precious one, he imparts as she fairly vaults from the colonnaded parapet high above the streets.  He cannot imagine a day he would not so thoroughly enjoy watching her stunningly athletic form gliding effortlessly through the bright humid air. Alas, her departure now allows the ruler the leisure of more mundane pursuits, such as food and the solitude of his meditation solarium. Another epoch in Olduvai has passed uneventfully.

Prologue Two  Paul's Crash

Paul Morgan is in a teenage version of Hell. As the rented SUV Suburban carrying his family, father Derrick, mother Sharita, kid sister India, hurtles down the Interstate, he burns with a sole immediate desire, to be the one behind the steering wheel. At least there, the blasting music, roaring wind from an open window and even the mundane challenges of traffic would serve to fill the void created by the intolerable silence of this ruined trip. With his hands gripping the controls, foot jamming down on the gas pedal, he could control how fast all this misery would be over. Instead, he is strapped in the back, suffocating in Mister and Missus Morgan's marital dysfunction, his fragile bipolar mind churning, a cesspool of depression and dismal prospect.

Although Paul is old enough to drive on a learner's permit, highway navigation was still a no-no. So he rots and suffers, with no words to say, he feels, of any import or impact upon these very adult concerns. For her part, young India either is or pretends to be blissfully ignorant of the roiling tumult quietly simmering around her, lost in several functions of her hand-held gadget. No such luck for Paul, counter-bliss being the thing gripping his introverted world.

What was supposed to have been a family catharsis in Las Vegas after years of internecine strife had imploded with an imperative of the inevitable. It all started out so well, the tall, lanky young man now barely remembers, the heartfelt but often clumsy bonding on that long drive from Atlanta, with all those wonderful Americana moments stuffed in-between. The chance to visit Mother's relatives in the Henderson 'burbs and marvel at the exotic desert engulfing their outlying environs. A fleeting moment to bask in a real family dynamic for a change. For a chemically-imbalanced mind like Paul's, a respite from chaos.

Derrick Morgan's true nature soon put an end to all that. Why in the name of God would you think I would come all the way to Vegas and not crash the casinos, woman? he decried his wife. His gambling was the least of her concerns, of course. Sharita Morgan knew from bitter suspicion if there were any objects that could distract her husband from the shiny type, it would be the two hanging from every scantily clad female's chest within his lustful sight. He dashed away first chance he got, leaving she and the kids stranded to their endless shows and shopping.

Paul could make out the arguing through the adjoining walls back at the hotel room, the muffled cursing, his mother's plaintive wails. The word that struck deep into his heart like a bolt of lightning---divorce. A despairing finality punctuated by this hearst-like ride back home. For the first time in his short life, the thought of death as a mercy crosses Paul's vulnerable mind.

Anybody else ready for a break? Derrick says, suddenly shattering the silence. We've been going for a few hours and I'm starving.

God, yes! Paul blurts out, I need to get out of this car!

The off-duty airline pilot looks back at his son's anguished black face in the rear-view mirror, the urgency in the younger's voice sending a reflexive wave of guilt through his frame. It is as if he is only just now recalling the boy's nervous breakdown during the holidays a half-year prior. The teen's week of sleeplessness, an anxiety-triggered insomnia resulting in uncontrollable crying fits. The Thanksgiving holiday weekend Paul spent in a psychologist's office spilling his guts to the perfect stranger, and where he received the dreaded diagnosis of mental defection. The long bouts of despair that sent the honor student's grades plummeting, jeopardizing his graduation and prospects of bright future. Clearly little or nothing has changed.

Relax, son. Everything's going to be okay. Derrick continues to attempt to convey a sense of normalcy. What about you, little miss? Ready to stretch your legs? he asks India.

Whatever. I don't care. I'm fine, Dad. Her tepid response offers him no encouragement. This fractured family has clearly turned against him.

Where shall we stop, Sharita? he presses on, pushing his luck. Or are you still not speaking to me?

The soon-to-be-ex Mrs. Morgan is riding next to him in the front, but her body language betrays her desire to be as far away from this man as the seat configuration would allow. The very deep breath she takes before replying indicates a woman on the verge of some manner of internal explosion. She refuses to give him her smoldering gaze, holding back a tide of revulsion growing in the pit of her stomach, this, she convinces herself, for the sake of the son she sees slipping away, and her daughter who may soon follow.

What do you want me to say, Derrick? What difference does anything I say make at this point? comes her dry response.

I was just trying to give you some input on where we decide to eat.

I know now I never really had any input in our marriage, so why start now?

In the rear, Paul squirms with supreme discomfort. The fuse is lit, he understands, and the latest round of Morgan v. Morgan has just begun. His brain is burning to escape, to be done with this horrendous reality. He wishes for anything, anything, to happen to put an end to it all. He bows his low-Afroed dome in sadness and disgrace, and pulls his knobby knees close to his torso. It is a classic fetal position his well-trained clinical psychologist might diagnose without reservation. 

I thought we agreed we wouldn't do this in front of the kids? Derrick asks pleadingly, hoping to dial the rhetoric back. He has to keep his attention on the road.

That didn't seem to be your concern when you snuck that--woman back into our hotel room, Sharita spat. What if they had been with me when I walked in?

And there it is, that unforgivable issue, ricocheting around that tiny enclosed vehicle, regurgitated from a scorned woman at the end of her wits. India jams her headphones deeper into her ears and cranks up the volume on her device to full-blast. The child is erecting a wall of denial out of little more than a hip-hop beat. Next to her, Paul struggles to hold back tears. He will be a man soon and he refuses have his little sister be witness to yet another emasculating breakdown. Smarts and good looks he has in abundance. Fortitude and will, not so much.

How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?

Let's see, how many were there, Derrick? Including the ones I don't know about?

You still refuse to believe me about that thing last summer?

That 'thing'? Is that how you refer to what happened?

Paul's head is spinning out-of-control by now. His manic-depressive mind is screaming 'stop', broken psyche slowly shutting down to protect itself. A dark epiphany bursts into his consciousness at that moment, for that is how many epic thoughts formed in his unusual brain. He realizes how much he detests the sounds of his parents' voices when they were raised in anger. They amounted to white-hot needles stabbing through his cranium. No one should have to live like this, he torments.

Paul Morgan will have to no longer. His parents' voices are, in fact, at long last drowned out. Even their screams are barely distinguishable from the foghorn wail of a semi-truck horn, the high-pitched screeching of tires in conflict with pavement, and the horrific grinding of shredding fiberglass and metal as the Morgan family SUV finds itself suddenly airborne, twisting end over end before slamming to a rest in a crumpled mass against an Interstate guardrail. The State Police accident report would later fault Derrick Morgan as a distracted driver.

Paul awakens fitfully, straining to force his eyes fully open. They sting from the light and seem crusted from sleep. He reaches up with his right hand to clear them, and finds some manner of restraint impeding his movement. His left proves mobile so he uses it instead. It takes a few blinks for the blurry hospital room he is in to resolve into focus. Suffice, he is completely disoriented and wonders after the intravenous line embedded in his writing arm. The familiar queasiness of a panic attack begins welling inside him.

A jumbled assortment of monitoring equipment clicks and whirrs at his bedside. In near-panic, the high schooler calls out for a friendly face, wincing at the sharp tightness in his ribcage. Hello? Mom? Dad? What's going on?

A soothing female voice comes over the room's intercom system. Mr. Morgan, is that you? Are you awake?

Paul locates the bedside button to reply. Yes! I don't know where I am!

You're in St Joseph's Hospital, sir. I'm sending the doctor right in.

His nervousness is growing rapidly, a thousand thoughts competing for his inquiry. What happened? Why am I here? Why does my chest hurt when I breathe? Where's my family?

That's when his subconscious mind rewards him with a fragment of memory. The front grill of a massive truck looming in the windshield. Father violently wrenching the steering wheel. Screaming. Tumbling. Darkness. And then...this. Paul feels his blood go ice cold. He is trembling when the doctor walks in.

Mr. Morgan, I'm Dr. Kleinsted. Glad to have you back with us. The physician seems affable enough, though the dark circles under his brow tells the tale of the grimmer aspects of his duties. May I? He pulls out a pointer light to begin his examination. Paul submits.

Doctor, where's the rest of my family? My kid sister? My mom and dad?

Yes, about that... Kleinsted says hesitantly, someone is coming in to talk to you about that. Your Aunt Anita and cousin Raphael have been called. I understand she is a nurse over at Grady Hospital, so that's good. They'll be here shortly. In the meantime, I want you to try to relax. Your ribs haven't fully healed.

My ribs? Paul cries with alarm. How bad am I?

You have three cracked ribs, not broken. It was your head injury that gave us the most concern. No fractures, nothing permanent. Still you were in a coma for twelve days. Quite frankly, son, it's a miracle anyone walked out of that crash alive.

Anyone. But not everyone. Not anyone else. Now, in the interminable wait for the arrival of his next-of-kin, the shroud of the crushing new reality engulfs Paul. A prickly neuropathy permeates his body. A mind-numbing, hard-knock truth awaiting only confirmation. This African American kid, barely weeks into his seventeenth year, is now an orphan, as alone in the world as he is with his grim, unreadable thoughts.       

By the time Anita Morgan and her only child Raphael enter Paul's hospital room shortly thereafter, a kind of serene calm has overcome him. Be careful what you wish for, it is often said, and he had longed for this, hadn't he? Practically begged for it. Is it denial of guilt? A burden-lifting sense of relief? It is far too early to say. The bipolar nature makes him susceptible to wild mood swings. Perhaps this is the misleading precursor to some graver breakdown awaiting him.

How are you, Paul? Anita asks as she slides beside him on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb his injuries. She is still in nurse's uniform from her own hospital, her hair pulled neatly back into an unglamorous bun. There are tears of joy yet sadness welling in her eyes. She gently brushes her hand across Paul's brow.

The doctor told me I'm going to be okay. He had the nurse come give me some kind of pain-killers, so I pretty much don't feel anything right now.

Raphael moves in to greet his stricken cousin. He is just two years younger than Paul and not quite as tall, but clearly growing rapidly in that direction. He, too, fights back tears, convinced an entire branch of his late father's family was going to be wiped out of existence. He peers down into the face of this sole survivor, this cousin he always looked up to and so admired. Paul urges his bushy-headed kin closer.

Hey, kid, it's good to see you. Both of you.

You, too, cuz. I'm glad you're alright, Raphael replies. I still can't believe what happened.

Anita's head reflexively lowers at her son's words. Paul knows the moment of reckoning has