The Climb: First Steps

By Mark M Perry

A boy with a certain soul traverses high school life while mourning the loss of a parent and slowly reconnecting with another. Still reeling from the death of his late mother, Marc August tries to fit into a new town and home with his over-worked father. Nestled deep in the pacific northwest, the town of Sunset Heights is a place of mystery

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685153014

Mark M Perry

Mark M Perry, is a writer and longtime lover of stories, myths, legends, and lore from various cultures around the globe. Originally from Hawaii, Mark was born and raised on the island of Oahu from childhood to early adulthood. Struggling with mental health insecurities for the majority of his life, he often found himself escaping into a myriad of video games, books, and other media. Early on, his goal of creating a story worthy of being called entertaining had been a long hope and dream. At this point, Mark traveled to the west coast mainland of the continental United States, to Washington in pursuit of a career in video games. Having worked for several gaming entities, he came to the realization that after being lucky enough to play video games for a living, the real joy was experiencing all the fantastic stories that came with it. Since then, Mark strives to encourage learning by reading. Also, to create narratives that intertwine real-world myth, lore, and legend, and inject them into the modern setting.

Book preview

Prologue

T

he rhythm of a beating heart. A pulsing of magnificent energy. Convergence. A hexagonal chamber vibrates as forces pour across converging ley lines. Fueled by the intersection of energies: glow-filled hieroglyphs, runes, pentagrams, and assortments of other symbolic characters (and idolizations of the times) carved as reliefs into the surrounding limestone and granite. Half- and whole-burned rushlights litter, circling the singular grand slab of limestone making up the flooring of the chamber. Dimly lit, a mural stretches, stitched in stone of each wall. Depicted is a story of connection, separation, and repeating histories. (That is a story that needs to be scrutinized at a later time.)

Whispers took flight from a group of hooded figures who stood hunched and chanting as they circled a table, an altar-like font in the chamber's epicenter. Above the font, a faint wind whistles in passing a suffocated aperture serving its purpose, limiting the light given from the moon and stars. There was one who towered in height, alike tales only whispered on ancient winds: tales of the Djinn and Nephalem—the giants of a time forever intended to be buried, drowned—and the thudding of a weighted limp carries the imposing cloaked figure around the others. They stand adorned in red soot-stained, charred, blackened skins for garments. Skins of beasts and men. Pupils glowing red, the towering figure's vision darts between the others like streaks of falling stars as cloaked crowns turn and adjust. All harmonize to a shrill, haunting cadence. The remaining rushlights spark and flare as inscriptions along the mural begin filling with baleful hues—the deepest of reds, a mortar of purple, and a slithering, indelible pitch. Pulsing inscriptions flicker outward, as ethereal copies manifest, hovering throughout the chamber; a whirlwind of darkness seeps between all points of light.

A flash. The sound of breaking, crumbling stone sends a boom reverberating throughout the chamber. A silver light breaks through, widening a gap where the aperture once intended. In that instant, the wraithlike inscriptions fade, and the darkness squelched, reeling from columns of moonlight pouring from the exposed heavens.

All earthly conceptualization of locomotion ceased, frozen. A second in a place without time is an eternity of limitless possibilities. The beings in attendance stand startled, yet remained, keeping in a circle formation for their ritual. Several of their eyes streak, fixed upon the imminent crush of fractured limestone. Preternatural voices orbit the arriving silver streak, replacing the echoing boom with solemn and august harmony. Scaling of steady tones trumpet over the distant skies. One after another, like a symphony of the shofar. The silver light washes over, saturating one of the hooded figures. Uninvited! A brilliant aura, like quicksilver, erupts from within, its cloak flared, splinters, curls, and ribbons into a magnificent light—sentient.

Aurora, the brilliant entity, speaks in the language of the Tall One, both unaffected by the ceasing of time itself. Sacrilege! Realize that which you are about to do! What has already been sent flowing down the sands of known history! The Dunes of Time are meant to flow in freedom, unobstructed until all said in the ‘Word’ has come to pass!

Weaving throughout the others who now remain petrified, the entities flow, circling in opposition. One half of the chamber is illuminated from Aurora. The opposite flowed dimming as the shadows cling to, surrounding the Tall One. The voice of something, which only can be described as a beast, bellows forth, heaving in hatred. A darkened pulse marked every roaring syllable: To climb the Heavens is not sin enough? Pupils flare as the figure continues, "Hypocrite! Infinity will not be my keeper!"

Aurora retorts authoritatively, Immemorial! Before ‘Time’ was given a name, the laws have been etched in eternal consistency. Silver radiates ever brighter. Each soul seeking to climb the Heavens, for each step they scale is a seal loosed upon all that we call: Creation!

Wincing but a moment, the Tall One growls his tale: "Since the beginning we listened, watched, have heard it all and witnessed actions of your precious people's hypocrisy! The grand betrayal of Lilith in that accursed prison!

Eden was a paradise for the righteous, and prison for everything else! No longer will souls be ordained punishment for the sins of the father! The Tall One quakes with a burst of thunderous laughter. "It's over!"

In provocation, Aurora places a hand in grasp to their side. A flash in holding, lifting up and out. A light, a fire, singing as it slides etherealizing into existence. Enough! Each ribbon of the brilliant Aurora whips backward, by the pulse of the extrication. A sword, flaming and glorious, held pointed toward the Tall One. The time of tales has passed. Misused wisdom is why I arrive. The sword coils back, intent to smite. And judgment will be conferred!

Silent, then no more, a name whimpers, whispered in hesitation—Jophiel. And no sooner was the brilliance halted, impossible now frozen itself.

One of the hooded figures, unbound from petrification, slinks, swiftly approaching Aurora's hindside. Gripped with both hands, the tip and upper half of a spear plunge through, severing, piercing the brilliance of what was once Aurora. A voice mutters in furthering whisper: Forgive me, Musa. Time is and always will be a ripple of repeating acts. If there is a stone to be cast, shall this stone I cast be the first and last.

The room dims as the brilliance tears away: refracting, dissipating. Tones hummed like a hallowed bell tolling as Aurora's weapon folds back to a golden hilt, falling like a star to the chamber floor. Beside it, the lance lays sizzling, faint steam risen.

The silver of Aurora was no more, fracturing into separating lights: One, a white light soars in escape onto the western howling winds whirling above the chamber. The other, a blackened light rises, soaring, escaping onto the eastern winds. The third light, a remnant of blue hues, dissipates. The sound is twisted and terrible. The screams of countable souls of men and women harmonize throughout. Darkness exchanges into the void left by Aurora, the runes and inscriptions again acquiesce. A cascade of ethereal characters crawls up beneath the Tall One's burnt skins, making up his attire, and also pours over the Tall One. Orbiting the others who remain, the characters sink, carve, and scrape into the Tall One's flesh. He winces with a pained grin. His aura now most certainly blackened. Eyes once filled deep red were now filled pure and whole with darkness. Standing upright and fully extended, the entity towers near the chamber's epicenter. His voice deepens again to a growl, bellowing a howl: "Infinity…forever and ever, you present yourself loyal to me, my wife. All present will be reborn and find themself under my eternal ministry. Together, we climb!"

From one end, the beginning of the mural, darkness seeps outward in a span, enveloping the chamber. One by one, the figures circling the font begin to fade, to dissipate. Each transmuting to mud, then black sand, scattered, joined by an unholy gust from the eternal Dunes of Time. Darkness only remained. Darkness and bestial laughter. At the final piece of the mural stood only two: the Tall One and his wife. Darkness closes in as hovering inscriptions fade on the winds of change.

Glancing at the closing scene of the mural, the woman folds her hood back. Weeping, kneeling, she grasps the golden hilt in one hand and the tattered cloth remains of what was once brilliant draped over her other arm.

In her periphery, she examines the story engraved into the final slab: a circle of robed figures and, in the center, a floating child? A symbol appears over the child's engraving. Glowing in contrast to the darkness filling the void: piece by piece, three triangles within each other reminisce of mountainous cascades. Over its central peak, a half circle like a rising sun, four lines like rays of light ascend, and an eye within its epicenter.

Soon after, a final growling, howling, and guttural laughter—resounding madness, within deep darkness. The Tall One fades as blackened sand blown by a stormfront. Alone, the woman wraps the hilt in the remaining cloth and places it on the limestone flooring. This beginning is at an end. The sound of a thunderous storm joined by the crescendo of once again falling limestone and granite. She fades in the wind, the sound of weeping. What have we done?

Finally, silence.

CHAPTER ONE

Steps of the Lonesome

S

unbeams invade, cutting across the room, breaking through the cracks of a closed window. The shine travels confidently through the dainty crocheted patterns constructing the curtains. The shining warmth upon the fourteen-year-old boy's face produces a moaning: the fourteen-year-old flings his covers over his entirety. Just…a bit…longer.

The doorknob rattles as loud knocking raps across the door: he hears a gruff, muffled voice. Marc Anton August! Get up! It's your first day! The voice decreasingly wanes in volume. If you don’t get up, you’re gonna have to walk! I have to be at work twenty minutes ago!

Whyyyy? Marc pulls the covers below his face slowly, squints, rubbing the lingering sleep from his eyes. Glaring around his bedroom, he glimpses something commonplace: a teenager's domain. A widescreen laptop, swivel chair covered in a collection of hoodies, and an armoire beside the desk, dotted with trinkets in the corner. The laptop has multiple open applications, but the most outstanding is the website for his new venture in a new town: high school.

Welcome to Sunset Heights High School, a tagline beneath. Marc squints. Kicking up, he rises in jest, chest puffed, standing upright from the bed. He repeats the very phrase: Welcome all in life with equality and respect. The banner depicts a clock tower and surrounding campus. A sliver of the sun can be seen stretching in gradient with the horizon. If I wasn’t color-deficient, I might’ve been impressed by their palette. Underneath the banner hanged a ticker of several Romanized platitudes, scrolling in animation:

A pair of prescription eyeglasses sits on an opened comic book. Next to it an unplugged alarm clock. He quickly affixed the glasses over his face before pushing the lifeless alarm clock off it. Take that, foul beast! Time, bane of the August familia. If there was a secondary attribute the August family had passed hereditarily, it would be the averse response to time, specifically punctuality. Procrastination would seem an extreme title to bestow upon the family. Their delay is unintended. No matter the series of precautions taken, prayers hummed, and promises made in contrast to their natural disposition.

Some things never change, Mom would say every morning as Dad and I left for school. At the least, you remain honest.

Rolling open the folding door into the armoire, he yanks out whichever shirt still remained among one of several haphazardly positioned hangers. The path of least resistance. In addition to witty phrases on graphic T's, consisted mostly of apparel donning multiple genres: pop, classical art, and branding of several breakfast cereals. If anyone would compose a list consisting of any modern cereal, soft drink, snack, or sports team, in accordance, a piece of clothing would assuredly be represented in his stock. Marc slips the shirt over his thin frame and pushes his glasses up firmly, realigning onto the bridge of his nose. Guiding the door back along its track, he closes the door. The mirror wobbles atop the armoire, reacting to the closing door. Marc places his hands firmly onto its top surface, stabilizing the axis of the mirror. Staring at the object of its reflection. Pausing a moment, he glazes over his appearance, letting out a long-winded sigh. Looking deep and clear into his own image, he mutters in remark of his skinny, lanky upper torso. Finally, high school…but, he turns to the side, still just a kid. Snapping to, he shrugs with stoic indifference. Grass is always greener, somewhere else.

Marc leapt forward to check the time on the opened laptop—7:53 a.m. blinks, flashing to 7:54 a.m.

No time. Marc takes Wednesday's jeans crumpled before the armoire—convenient. Never time…looks clean to me. Pulling up, he fastens a leather belt, securing the torn and faded blue jeans. Motivated by time already spent, the boy snatches at an ambiguous, black-and-silver embroidered skate backpack. He glides heels first into a pair of trusted, well-traveled Vans. He hears the unsubtle scrape, creaking, and slamming thud of the home's front entrance. Oh, that's not good…no, no, no! Marc rushes down the stairs, launching through and slamming the front door.

Dashing out, shoes clatter on the front stoop, just ahead of the crashing jitter of the closing doors. The boy coughs, huffing. He waves the fumes lingering before his face. Time enough to watch again, the clouded and departing image of Dad leaving.

Sorry, kid, I can’t risk any more time. The man leans out the window and waves, shrinking over the street's horizon. And check your phone!

Dad, always running about twenty minutes late, which also means I am.

Marc races down the driveway. A trilling buzz fills his pocket. Checking his smartphone, he makes his way crossing the street of Hopes End.

An email notification reads:

To: MarcoAugustus13

From: BigPapaAugustus, Date and Time: 4:32 a.m. Thursday, August 13 (2020)

Subject: You’re not alone.

I know what time it is—couldn’t sleep. I know our new schedules clash, with my new job, and yours for school, so I figured I’d write something.

My son, I know things haven’t been the best in the past two years, but this is a new start for both of us. A contrast to the manor next door, the house on Hopes End is smaller than we’re used to, but it's ours. Mom always planned on us moving into the quiet, beating heart of her Northwest Sunset Heights,