Diunthum: Illumnesia

By Spector Grove

Pagan always believed he would be the insignificant stargazer who only dreamed of leaving Aumncydet. He would never have the courage to sneak into the forbidden adytum, the strength to topple a myriad, or the opportunity to befriend an enchanted guardian. His life consists of only the mask upon his face, the water dredged from the pits of decay, and the fact that the essence of life has all but abandoned the world. Pagan’s only friend is a middle-aged but exceptionally bright woman who bravely endures the daily wrath of the sun to deliver more than hope to her neighbors. In an empty and avaricious time, it is clear why Pagan’s most valuable possession is his name.
As destiny would have it, however, he happens to be the only one outside when an uninvited guest arrives in the night, allowing him to discover that the world is not at all what it seems. Together, they begin untangling the events of the past that will not only require great sacrifice but also reveal a long-forgotten promise. Swept away into the night, Pagan quickly realizes his insignificance in the world is actually, one of fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664143692

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Copyright © 2020 by Spector Grove.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/04/2021

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1     A Ghost in the Assassin

Chapter 2     Izak the Lost

Chapter 3     The Lorean Myd

Chapter 4     An Engineer of Life

Chapter 5     The Sky Below

Chapter 6     Through the Curtain

Chapter 7     House of Doors

Chapter 8     The Fractured King

Chapter 9     A Dominion of Fear

Chapter 10   On the Waterloom

Chapter 11   Into the Depths

Chapter 12   Expiration of Atrophy

Chapter 13   Illumnesia

Chapter 14   The Boy Made of Light

Chapter 15   In the Palace

Chapter 16   The Voyage Aloft

Chapter 17   A Tale of Two Echoes

Chapter 18   At the Edge of All Things

This one is for Mom and Dad

and

for the teacher who suggested I "WRITE

… UNCONTROLLABLY."

Also,

I would like to thank

Olga Beliaeva for wading through the darkness

with only my words to guide her

and

Brian Westerlind for helping to guide us all.

C.A.    N.N.    J.L.    L.Z.

"Those who yearn for the world to be filled with

only light, know not that their favored is but a beast,

endlessly feeding on the dark and dread …"

-Calix

1

A Ghost in the Assassin

D arkness was sprinting down the beaten paths in a sea of rubble, thankless to everything it consumed on its way to glory. Such blackness melted the remaining droplets of light. A spectrum of negatives simpler than its predecessor. In this state, time was lost, and it would not be acknowledged again until the world prepared for gold. The branches of black ran deep and surrendered to nothing. Maybe the wind could lift dust, but it was certain the lightless void could bury anything. It was not accompanied by death, however, as life, so wrongfully conceived as infinite, was already forgotten in this place. With the flames extinguished, the shower of hopelessness only reassured that tomorrow, too, would be a multitude of cease. A barren landscape graced with only the virtue of silence.

In the nothingness that possessed all directions, the horizon rested below the sky fractured by what could only be stones. They blocked out what little starlight could enamor and otherwise prance through the forgotten endlessness. The exhaustion went on forever, but there was a sense of peace. Once teeming with life, the world now was left in a term of eternal respite. No plants littered the earth’s floor, and no creatures took to her wings for shelter. The sound of water only echoed in the pools of decay. Moonlight lurched behind the cirrus of haze and seldom glanced at the planet to verify that she still existed. Like a tomb, the stale shadow of what once was immortalized itself in all that remained. Time had devoured everything that could not evade the dreams of men.

Oblivion thrived in the abyss of rot, for the mother of vitality was gone. Only the scent of desolation confessed that something had flourished here. A footprint of time was nowhere to be found. The world was carrion to the universe. Like a corpse that had withered through the elements, it seemed only moments away from collapsing into dust. Waiting to flake away into the essence of all that had been forgotten, the lifeless rock floating through space was ready to be cataloged on the list of extinction. However, on this piece of particularly gruesome evidence, it appeared there was one scab left.

A pile of anything and everything that could be found weighted the earth to one side, even though it was only a speck. An imperfection to an almost perfect skeleton. Stones and dirt collaborated with the odds and ends of structures unknown to create a heap of diligence. As if the earth had swept itself of the remaining debris and deliberately left them all in one place, the refuse stood alone.

To contradict the latter, there was indeed a bit of organization to this site. The whole of it was broken into smaller segments that surrounded a larger portion as if to emulate the fossil of a flower. Like petals, the structures reached outward and up to perhaps catch the dust that covered their articulations. Veins of filth separated the appendages so that the stench could stroll amid them. The last sore of the most aggressive illness that had ever existed had outlived its host. It was simply waiting to die. A fitting post for hope to dim into the night for it was indeed a place, and though the world was certainly deceased, one thing remained, the Dead City.

An anomaly in an otherwise deserted catastrophe, a confused assortment of architecture engraved itself into this plot of ground. Great haste pronounced itself in the enclosures and the ethics of the craftsmanship as if the inhabitants had come across one another in a single moment. To survive was all that the tightly knitted dwellings declared. There was no order among the shelters other than the principle of disconnection.

Every single one spoke of its creator. Many of them seemed childlike, made with dirt and rocks with small garnishes of metal cemented into the walls. The shelters had tunnels instead of doorways and were windowless to keep them blind from the elements. The more elaborate arrangements consisted of larger stones and sheets of metallic material to pose as doors and shutters. Tattered cloth hung from many of the openings but implied itself useless from the dust and wind. Nearly all had access to their rooftops, where indicators of gust fluctuated in the darkness. Each hovel was distinguished by smears of tar, like a signature. They were conscious and animate, but a quietness bellowed through the tombs of the living. Sewn safely alone in the night, almost as if they were trying to be forgotten.

Anyone who lived here would have to be known to anyone else as the footprints on the walkways revealed. The tracks were all coming and going as the breeze scattered them about. They dimpled the paths with various intentions. Some small and some larger like a pattern of raindrops. Between the steps, a healthy distance assured that most of them fashioned a purposeful day. Each of them was still alive, thanks to their neighbors, working tirelessly together much like the senses do to heighten a sensation. It was evident that the locale agreed on one thing, survive together even if there was only death to attain. Perhaps they also agreed on another ethic, to go to sleep when the darkness came sprinting across the world to get them. However, this was not suggested by the company as one of them sat still against a wall, probably staring down the shadow beasts in front of them.

The boots on this individual looked too big for the scrawny legs that extended outward, worn down flat and bursting at the sides. Surely the hardened feet that populated them were not the first to do so. Laced up tightly and buckled to deflect any thief’s desire to have them. They were dirty too, dried in muck that almost seamlessly ran into the torn and tattered trousers. Many leg holes had gone into this pattern. They were sewn with thick twine to ensure new patches would be scarce. Straps and buckles, like the boots, complemented the frays that layered in all directions. Stories were hemmed in like a book that had been compiled by illiterates. Obviously, the owner could recount a few as the pants were as nearly overgrown as the jacket that accompanied them. Mended leather quilted a collage of former sophistication. A garment treasured by the ages. Unlike the wondrous coat, the gloves protecting the collected hands proposed, with tar and twine, that they had been refurbished daily. The outfit froze the silhouette against the barrier and almost looked a part of the oddments used to construct the cottage. However, there was something oddly peculiar about the statue-like being. Their face was buried behind a mask. One that mysteriously sounded like water.

First, exhaling a silent breath and then inhaling loud like a wave breaking back into the sea. Steam rose from the black cylinders, leaving condensation on the vented honeycombs that entered them. Asymmetrically, they sat on either side of where the mouth would be. Canisters of life. They provided the necessary sustenance that the lungs, growing through the coat, desperately needed. Threaded metal fastened the filters tightly to the rubber, and straps secured the mask to the quiet human’s face. PAGAN stamped the mask like it was the only meaningful arrangement of symbols left in the entire world.

Though the filtration device covered most of the head, the carrier’s hood was drawn, exposing the messy, unkempt hair that separated the fixtures. Below the unwashed locks of grime, a pair of goggles shielded the dry wind. They were clean and thick to deflect anything that tried to reach through them. Shiny and perfectly placed for tonight, the mirrors had an out-of-the-ordinary reflection.

Streaking through the glass viewers was a dark mass of fabric across the other end of the alley. The boy, probably named Pagan, tilted his head slightly, surely trying to figure out if what he had just seen was real.

Stimulation was an unfamiliar feeling to Pagan, but he already knew he enjoyed it, for that was the reason he was out in the first place. Without hesitation, he threw himself above his legs. His heart pounded in his chest as his feet began to beat upon the surface of the ground, mimicking the acceleration in his veins. If there was something left to be discovered in this world, Pagan surely wanted to be the one to seize it. There had to be something in this world to call his own. Like pistons, his arms forced the air behind his body as his mask cut through the smog. The boy in the dark was no longer still against the wall but chasing the only thing he had ever really seen. Pagan, a dormant seed of morose, had been picked up by a draft and was now approaching the end of the alley.

Without ripping from the leather, the soles on the boy’s boots slid across the dirt as he took a sharp turn in pursuit of the shadowed person that had gone before him. He could still see the dust settling to the hard path. Beginning to take on lift, his coat floated behind him like a set of wings. Up ahead in the distance, he could see the hooded figure swiftly gliding against the ground. Pagan was so loud now that he could hear himself reverberating off the sleeping dormitories. He did not know if he wanted to shout out at the leader or pick up a stone and heave it in the direction ensuing. An overabundant amount of joy and curiosity stretched throughout his limbs. Tremendously pushing air out of the mask, his lungs became an engine, billowing steam behind him.

Pagan wanted the chase to last through the night, but the swells of cloth turned quickly down another path. The lenses on his breather were beginning to collect fog and eventually dirt, which impaired his whimsical feet. Brushing the edge of a larger den, he managed the corner at a great pace. He could see his hunt paying off as he was making a gain on the evasive subject. With a wipe of his sleeve, he cleared his goggles and peered down the lane in front of him, but the person, no bigger than Pagan, was gone.

Though his mind took a brief minute of rest, his feet continued to carry his limber body through the city. He looked right, and he looked left, bounding through the night, careful not to surrender to his doubts. Turning his head around, he hoped for any sign of the person who had invigorated his mind. Eventually, looking back at his trajectory, he gazed up at the stars, and as quickly as he had lost the sprinter, he found them sailing through the rooftops. His gaze was pinned on the mesmerizing fluidity of the being. The strides between them were in rhythm now, and Pagan felt a sense of triumph. He had not caught the beautiful creature, but he was flying with them, and for an instant, that was good enough. In fact, a feeling washed over Pagan that he had not felt before. A feeling of purpose.

Pagan wondered if the person of interest knew they were being tailed. It did not matter because Pagan’s mouth had decided on its own that it would let out a message of declaration. To his bewilderment, before any manifestation of words could reach his lips, the jacketed ghost stopped and looked down at Pagan as he continued to follow his feet in front of him. His mask faced the roof runner while his legs entangled themselves into a knot. The ground was unforgiving as he rolled several times to a sitting position. He wiped his goggles once more and returned them to the skyline, but again, there was no sign of the raven.

Slightly disoriented, the boy looked around, trying to discern his whereabouts. He knew he was somewhere close to the center of the village but did not know how far he had run. Like a downed owl, he turned his head around in any direction his neck would allow. Breath came back through his mask and out again with an exhausting compression of his shoulders. There was no sound except his frustration treading into the heavy night.

Defeated, his head sunk with failure, but out of nowhere, steps came rushing to Pagan’s side. Quickly, he turned to try to intercept them, but he was too late as a hard object knocked the side of his mask with a deafening intention. The footsteps circled behind the helpless boy as his torn fingertips grasped the soft dirt. Like a vice, the legs of the assailant engulfed the boy’s abdomen, effectively holding him still. There was no time for retaliation as his head throbbed with regret. Knowing that he was compromised, he took one last breath before a narrow weapon, surely the one that had struck him, introduced itself firmly against his throat and pulled him backward.

Follow, the being spoke into his ear. Die. Like a snare, the pressure doubled on Pagan’s throat, completely silencing the escaping wheezes. To follow … is to die!

With a powerful wrench, Pagan was on his stomach, gasping through the mask. Puffs of dirt littered the ground around him. The joy he had once felt had left his body, leaving him with a strong desire to be back at his dwelling. His tired legs curled as he rolled to his side. Pagan had never been so close to death, and he knew it. He had also never been so close to the adytum walls, which was exactly what was permeating through the intervals of steam. With the little strength he could muster up, he pushed his arms into the ground and tenderly rose to his feet.

The adytum was a forbidden temple that centered the slum, and no one had ever entered it except for the Akwateks. There was great lore that whispered throughout the city as to what went on inside beyond the walls and who called it home. Many believed that the first person who had settled here had built it to attract anyone else that might still be alive in the forgotten wasteland. The only certain thing was that the sludge and muck went in and water came out.

Akwateks carried the spoils from deep within the desert, from the bubbling pits of decay. Regarded as the most prestigious task in the community, Pagan had often thought about sneaking into the adytum and discovering how the fresh water was extracted. Tonight the exhausted boy had no desire for water or the knowledge of it. His adversary had led him here perhaps unintentionally but, nonetheless, for a reason, and Pagan aimed to find out why.

Rock and mortar reached for the clouds of smog as Pagan investigated the barricade for any vulnerabilities. His boots inched closer to the wall as he reached out his arm to lay a dusty glove on the cold stone. It was jagged and unwelcoming, signifying that whatever was behind it was of more importance than the fortress that protected it. Pagan could hear nothing except for his deep, heavy breaths.

Maybe Akwateks were waiting for him behind the wall. He could not see them, so he pressed the side of his head to the surface, hoping to gain insight about what was surely not expecting him. Nothing. Silence embraced Pagan tightly as he pulled his head away from the hindrance. As he stared up at the obstacle, his hand, almost by itself, reached for a handhold. The edges protruding from the wall face looked down at the boy, and as he scanned the surface of the monument, he could see a climbing line beckoning to him.

Hand over hand, he started his ascent. The cornices of granite were so large that his boots hardly struggled as they pushed his body toward the pinnacle. It was easy, and even though it was forbidden, he felt comfortable ascending into the unknown. Pagan reached for the top of the wall and pulled his chin up to rest on the summit. He took a moment to adjust his hands before he released his focus and looked over the wall at the adytum.

An agent of darkness, the adytum was but a massive stalagmite rising high into the air. Metal dominated the composition of the temple, but it still showed blemishes of stone and mortar. What accentuated the forbidden structure were enormous cylinders that protruded in every direction, releasing steam into the night. Pagan’s admiration lasted briefly as his attention was directed toward a bridge that stemmed from the adytum to the barricade. It was certain that the bridge accommodated men because there were two guards standing watch. They had not yet noticed Pagan making his way over the wall, so he decided to hurry his way down the other side, but as he swung his leg over the top, he heard one guard speak up to the other.

What was that? the man, wielding a staff, uttered through his breather.

It was the wind, the only thing that’s left.

Fearing that the guards had discovered him, Pagan froze, trying to blend into the spiny texture of the wall. Eventually, he looked over his shoulder to verify that the guards were not advancing toward him, but like two chess pieces, they obeyed their positions and kept to their post. Pagan had also heard something other than himself and observed the bridge for a moment before realizing the guard’s inquisition was indeed warranted. Underneath the bridge, like a tick that had embedded itself in the skin of a host, Pagan’s foe was removing a protecting grate from a hole that seemed to lead into the adytum. Ease and adrenaline washed over Pagan as he held his breath and shimmied down the wall, hesitant to take his glistening viewers from the infiltrator.

Safely nestled against the wall now, Pagan watched the intruder set the linkage of bars against the stone and, without wasting a breath, vanish through the hole. Pagan inspected the grounds to see if there were any more armed men protecting the hallowed venue. To his amazement, the men were unaccompanied. His predecessor had managed their way underneath the bridge, and Pagan, a novice invader, desired to follow suit.

With elegance and determination, he crept along the ground, careful not to trip over his feet. He weaved in and out of the large, discarded pieces of stone, occasionally peering toward the guards as he made his way to the side of the adytum. After the first leg of his contempt was complete, he rested his back against the forbidden structure, which precariously seemed to be putting off more steam than his restricting breather.

Blindly, Pagan kept his hand pressed against the adytum as he cautiously sneaked toward the bridge. He could not hear the guards, which insinuated that they were still staring off into the distance, investigating the colossal gate that led to the rows of dwellings. As the boy’s soft boots inched him closer to the viaduct, he felt a sense of accomplishment. His heart was pounding like when he was running down the alleyways, but even the draft surrounding the adytum was outpacing his precise arrival.

When the arching catwalk finally came back through the haze, it delivered a concern that the doormen might routinely look over the edge of the overpass, so Pagan hurriedly slipped out of their line of sight to safety. The guards were obviously green in the art of defense as they had never had to fend off an attack, or at least to Pagan’s knowledge, and that made him feel distinguished. In an entirely new world, he turned his head to look down the unguarded entrance his absconder had disappeared into only moments ago.

A disparate density of air penetrated the tightly fitted mask as Pagan ducked his head into the tunnel. It adhered to the oiliness of his hair while it made his nose relax, and for the first time, he could taste something other than sediment. Enjoyable was not the notion that rushed through his mind, but something different for his senses to investigate made the experience palatable.

Unlike the exterior of the adytum, there was a cascade of dim light that pierced through his goggles. Pagan could see the grainy texture of the tunnel that scratched like sandstone into his gloves. He had never laid eyes on anything so perfectly constructed. Moisture licked the soles of his boots as he made his way forward. Something in the distance was whispering to him to come closer, and knowing that he could not turn back now, he broadened his steps. The further he went, the brighter the light became, and eventually, it was effortless for his canisters to pull in the clean air.

Approaching what appeared to be the end of the tunnel, Pagan came to an intersection. Unsure of which way to go, he thought it best to adhere to the path that offered the most visibility, which he felt his accoster had also decided. It seemed the light was accompanied by something else, a faint muttering that tugged at the laces of his curious boots. With little hesitation, he made his way down the serpentine that was becoming more luminous with every step. He could now see the moisture on the ground and that the shimmering path held no obstructions. As disdain pumped through his legs, he began to move excitedly down the passage toward the source of the light.

A golden box, the illumination poured through an opening in the top of the tunnel as Pagan came to a stop beneath it. He could hear the voices easily now, but he could not get a grasp on the order of words to make them into sentences. Through the rectangle, he could see a magnificent ceiling that was unlike anything he could have ever imagined. The mortar had an objective to it that patterned into various shapes and faces. As he stared in fascination, he realized that he could probably climb up through the hole if even just to get a better look around. Again, holding his breath, he grabbed both sides of the skylight and pulled himself up into the lighted adytum, careful not to snag his coat against the edges of the opening.

In awe, Pagan realized that he was on some sort of balcony above a grand room that must have recessed into the earth. His eyes wanted to look around but were drawn to the voices he heard coming from the center of the hall. Two individuals stood close together, surrounded by many men whom Pagan had never seen before. One of the men wore a black coat made from a single piece of material that Pagan envied. The other was a boy who could not have been five cycles older than Pagan, dressed in comfortable clothing that appeared soft and clean. He knew this because of his astonishment, none of the participants in the assembly were wearing breathers.

You will do as you are asked, Qeidral, the boy said.

I apologize, my king, the man easily let out. We’re trying, but the extractors are wearing down more and more by the day. There’s too much gravel, more than we have dealt with in the past.

What of the engineers?

The woman is devising a solution as we speak, but Rutah is nowhere to be found.

Find him and instruct the shoremen to dig underneath the pits. Remove the aggregate to allow what solids remain at the surface to settle. Then, skim the surface as we did in the beginning.

I will get the orders to them by morning, but I fear we do not have the time nor the men. One of the extractors is already failing.

How many more have left the pits to join the Myd?

We have stopped the remaining, Jovi. But if we could train some of the young to— Qeidral said as he turned to look at the other members in