Inner Eye
First chapter to a story I may leave on the back burner. I know how I want it to end but not sure of length or the middle exactly. Not edited but I like the concept. I’m finding that when I’m writing it’s more like reading than work, reading pretty slowly but I enjoy turning the pages. I did a bit of research on getting published the other day, though it is premature. Seems a lot more difficult than I was thinking. I might try it sometime when I get more material together so I have something to fall back on. Would rather write for fun for the time being. I don’t know why the font changes halfway through some of the text when I post it.
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Inner Eye (Dec 13,2005-)
David Roberts sat alone in a dim and dusty room. Carved out my human hands long dead, it stood as a testament to ingenuity of time long past. Only about five feet high it beckoned those who entered its maw, to sit upon the earthen floor and peer at messages whose meanings were forgotten. Across the rocky enclosure sang carved stories in bright inks of heroes and demons, hunts and celebrations. One in particular caught David’s eye. A fantastic hunt told in dark coal, the prey upon the ground resembled a human being-it would have seemed cannibalistic if the hunter did not appear so alien. His horned head stretched to the sky like smoke caught on a wind, peering down at his prey he appeared to be toying with the man. David blinked and he could have sworn he saw the man moving, scrambling away from this dark overlord of nightmares left best to a dying people told in archeological digs. Of course the people who made this cave were not dead yet, though each generation brought them closer to the brink. At one time the village lying above ground was a center of commerce- but today it was an idle curiosity as the children left the old ways behind for the city. David’s eyes continued to watch the stories unfold from the walls as he sat in the waiting room.
David Roberts wasn’t a tall man, so found the room more comfortable than most would perhaps. With longish unkempt hair and a gangly figure he felt oddly at peace sitting in the midst of so much ancient history with crossed legs. A cowboy hat capped his brow and his fingers dug into the dirt beneath him as he concentrated on what he would ask the seer.
Perhaps seer was not the correct word, the people he had spoken with when researching the story called him by several names. The blind one, mystic, holy man, and preacher were but a few terms lost in translation. David was happy to call him by any, so long as it earned him a cover story at the weekly magazine he worked for. It has been so long now since one of David’s stories had graced the cover, well over a year. He had been in a slump, and his editor let him know it constantly. Last month he had thought he had been onto something, Werewolf Children in Russia. Unfortunately the publication relegated it to some back page, between horoscopes and the celebrity cross word puzzle. This story though, David felt, could be the one to push him back on top. An ancient site almost lost to history with some wonderful secret.
David had heard the story before, many times in his travels told by local drunks aiming to impress the foreigner. Some civilization holding onto the past while cities were planted and grew around them. Rumored to be haunted or contain artifacts of extraordinary power. It was common in his line of work and usually were dismissed as readily as one would swat at a fly. This time however was different. The story involved a man who had burned out his own eyes to safe guard some gift of the Gods. The locals hadn’t been very clear about what the gift was; only that it was a terrible and powerful thing. When pressed to give more information the town’s people grew sullen and regretful that they had even brought it up. David didn’t worry about that though, he had been around people who felt they had said too much before. He simply dropped the subject, bought them all a round of drinks and began discussing local politics. His mind didn’t drop the subject though. A few days later he approached a few of the more talkative drunks, found the location of the mysterious man and here he was now, waiting for a meeting.
The reporter absentmindedly caressed his camera as he thought of the story to come. It didn’t matter if the old man was a fraud or the artifact in question was really some dulled knife whose ceremonial purpose was forgotten. A man who was blinded himself for some divine purpose was certainly enough to earn him some recognition. As David tossed the idea over in his mind on what type of spin to give this article he didn’t notice the wooden doors to his side open or the old man making his way deeply hunched over with a walking stick.
“So, after all these years someone has come asking me a story?” The old man croaked the words to the startled man sitting cross-legged on the floor. David struggled to get his camera off his neck and in so doing banged his head upon the low ceiling.
The man chuckled softly and spoke again. “Perhaps we had better retire to a larger room.” He gestured to the passage from which he had just come, descending into a dark slanted tunnel with intermittent torches burning brightly, as if they were being breathed upon.
David had regained his wits and given up on getting his camera ready, preferring to wait until he could stand full upright. As he stumbled along after the man he asked him questions.
“Why is that room called the waiting room?” David inquired while ducking under the crude doors overhang and noticing that the way down had once been carved steps- long sense eroded.
“We are waiting for our curse to be lifted. The room is between the sky and the ground where our agony lies. It is a room of meditation, where each young man must pass into adulthood- and under its roof is where the keeper is chosen.” The man walked with his stick before him as if he was having no problems upon the broken steps. David thought to himself, ‘if this man is blind I’m a prize journalist’.
“So, you’re called the keeper then?” David struggled to keep up with the man as they descended deeper into the tunnel. The embrace of claustrophobia settled upon his shoulders, but David managed to shrug it off.
“Yes. No doubt you have heard me called by many names, but Keeper is the one known by my people. It was a great honor, bestowed upon me. At the time I was happy and my family was proud, but I’ve come to wish such a hard thing had not been asked of me.”
David noticed the tunnel was leveling out and saw a few hundred feet away a much larger stone archway and a bright room beyond. “So you were asked to be keeper?”
“I was chosen by the last keeper. In our youth before we are destined to a path in life we are asked to spend three days without food in the waiting room to study the messages on the wall. It is the only time we see the keeper in person, though we had heard stories in our youth from those who are older. After the third day the previous Keeper took us one at a time to just under that archway ahead of us. He asked us a simple question, ‘What did the walls say to you.’ Each boy before me returned with his head low and said he had gone no further. For only the next Keeper was allowed before the next doorway.” At the archway the old man paused to let David catch his breath.
“What did you see on the walls?”
The old man took a moment to answer. “I told the old keeper, that I saw our people dying. He just nodded and beckoned me into the room. It was there he told me to close the chapter of my life above, and to come down here to live with him.”
The old man stepped under the archway and into a glorious room several stories high and perfectly square. The first part of the room was clearly a living space. A matted bed lay on the ground, a wooden table with two chairs next to that, and a kettle hanging over an open fire a short distance off. At the far side of the room stood two large statues of darkened evil figures overlooking a small pedestal.
“Is it true then, that you were blinded?”
The Keeper grinned to himself and turned to see David dead on while pulling the silvered hair back from his face. In this lit room he clearly saw the keepers eyes, or what would have been eyes- and it caused him to take a step back. His eyeballs were both black as night with a deep scar running outward like cracks from where the pupil should have been.
“The worst part was the smell.” The old man chuckled and walked over to the kettle. David remembered himself and pulled his camera before him.
“Do you mind if I get a picture of you?”
“We’ve come this far, haven’t we? Go ahead and after that I’ll serve tea.”
David tried not to wince at the old man’s eyes as he brought the camera into focus. A quick press of the finger and David said, “Got it.”
The Keeper gestured at the small table before him, “I hope you enjoy green tea. It’s one of the few luxuries of a keeper to be well cared for by the villagers above. At least those of them who are left.”
David pulled up one of the only two stools and sat down trusting the Keeper to pour it himself. ‘This is definitely going to make a good story’, he thought to himself as he pondered what to ask the man next.
The old man poured them both a cup of tea without spilling a drop, and he sat down opposite David waiting expectantly for the reporter’s next question.
David took a long sip of the tea and was pleasantly surprised as the taste. The Keeper somehow noticing the man’s thoughts remarked, “One of my few rewards,” while he took a long drink himself.
“So what exactly is it you’re keeping?” David had relaxed a good deal by now and was finding it easier to look at the old man’s burned out eyes.
“That involves the story of the rise, and fall of my people. It will take some time.”
“I don’t mind, I’ve got all the time in the world.” David reached into his pocket to remove a pen and a small pad of paper. “Mind if I take notes?”
“Not at all, in fact I insist.” The old man sipped his tea, cleared his throat, and began.
“This all happened long ago before my people kept much in the way of records, so I can’t tell you if it was a thousand years or ten thousand years- but it was long before the wonders of modern times had even been dreamt up. We were a fierce proud people who learned to fight barely off our mother’s backs. It wasn’t too long before we had absorbed all the tribes around us, or conquered them. We were an early empire, ruling as far as the eyes could see on the tallest hilltop. But, it wasn’t power we wanted. We were warriors and though the people under us grew fat under our rule we grew increasingly restless. The hunts had lost all their flavor and our children were becoming decadent and unlearned of the warrior ways.” The old man stared out in some direction as if he was seeing something for a moment before he continued. “When we noticed that we were dying, not from some great battle but from our youth leaving our way of life- the high council decided it was time for another war. But try as they might they could find no enemies within reach. The few groups sprawled along the edge of our empire were too ready to join with us, not take up arms against us.”
David jotted down as much of this as he could while listening to the Keeper speak, though he only paid it half mind as he waited to hear the secret of this old man. It will had some credibility to his story, but his readers wouldn’t want a history lesson- they want something to make their hair stand on end.
“It was then that our high council turned to the preachers, at the time we worshipped the god of fire. He set our spirits to flame, our warrior hearts to burn, and the fires that steadied our spears. The council, being made up of warriors grown old, didn’t put much faith in the preachers- but seeing their own children becoming mercantile left them little choice. So they asked the holy men, what is there that will save our people? And the preachers said they needed time to think about it. So the high council was left alone for several hours while the holy men burned several plants and spoke in words and returned, to the councils chagrin with this simple answer. ‘You need a stronger enemy.’ The council was near in arms, since this was the very thing they already knew themselves. But they knew that striking down a holy man would condemn their souls to servitude so held their tongues and asked, ‘where is this stronger enemy’.
The Keeper took a sip from his tea while listening to David’s pen scratch the paper underneath it.
“So after some discussion they made one of the largest offerings of all time to the God of Fire. Half the food seized in taxes by the tribes they had taken in by war or by surrender. The people for the most part were against this, as it meant they would have to get by with much less over the winter months. But enough support for the aged warriors on the council silenced them and so the offering was made one night under a clear sky. ‘Oh Fire god, hear us,’ was chanted in unison by the priests. ‘Give us an enemy worthy of your loyal followers to make battle with.’ As one they set torches to a great circle of dried branches and wood that stood under their sacrifice. Still breathing, but tied, animals stirred amongst piles of grain and fruit. Once more the preachers chanted, ‘Give us an enemy worthy of your loyal followers to make battle with.’ The flames grew higher and flew inward towards the center of the sacrificial circle. Finally, a third time the preachers cried out louder than ever before, even joined by a few of the council men, ‘Give us an enemy worth of your loyal followers to make battle with.’ At the end of the words the fire suddenly flared to life in all directions taking up all the animals and offerings as if it was the fire god himself as a giant swallowing them with one gulp.”
The keeper turned to David and asked, “Are you getting all of this?”
“Yes, thank you. Please continue.” He was irritated at this story going on for so long, but didn’t want to upset the old man before he got everything he needed.
“After the flash died down and the fire was out it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust once again to the dark. It was then that they spied on the ground a bit of cloth with some writing upon it. Though no one knew what it meant at the time the people rejoiced, for it meant that the God had answered them. A scuffle broke out on whether the council or the priests would be the ones to hold onto the book but it was decided they would erect a great tent over the sacrificial site and keep it there for all to see. One by one everyone of warrior age was lead to the site to see the canvas in hopes it would inspire conquest within them- but they saw nothing in it. Dejected fathers and grandfathers lead their children back home. Only about half the people had seen the cloth by then and the rest were claiming it was some fool trick by the priests planting it there for their own agenda. This went on until sunrise the next morning when something strange began to happen. It was as if some madness had gripped the young men of the village who had seen the cloth. They spoke of seeing great shadowy beasts all about them. They would say to their father or mother that an awesome talon was tearing lengths of flesh from their backs, the parents who were sure no such thing was happening called the medicine man with claims their child was with fever. It wasn’t until even later that the older men who had seen the canvas began to see the same things. This was the enemy promised by the God of Fire and my people rose up to vanquish it. The half of the village who hadn’t seen the gift of the fire god felt the other half mad as they readied their weapons and progressed in small groups to whatever shadow they could find. It appeared as if they were striking at nothing at all. That was until the warriors started dying, ripped in two by some unseen hand they would hover in midair before falling to the ground. The people screamed in terror, as every person who had seen the cloth was killed; by the enemy found for us. Every man except for one- an old warrior who had lost his sight some seasons past who walked up to the gift with his grandson.”
“The first keeper?” Asked David before realizing he hadn’t interrupted the old man’s story yet.
“Yes, he would be known as the first keeper. But for now the people were distraught and looking to place blame. All their greatest warriors had been killed in one day. There was no more sign of the great monsters that had come, but the memory was burned forever in my peoples mind. Several priests were killed before the mobs were brought under control. And even as some semblance of normalcy was returning, the question remained. ‘What to do with the gift?’ We had gotten a gift from God, and no matter how much pain it had wrought, we could not bring ourselves to destroy it. Not merely out of fear but also out of reverence. So instead we gave it to the one man who had looked upon it and lived, the blind old warrior who came to be known as Keeper of the Gift, and in later generations just keeper. The story is all but forgotten now, told generation to generation from one keeper to the next. But the people now, live above as if nothing had ever happened. This space was carved out of the rock as a place to keep the gift far enough away so as not to threaten anyone, but close enough to remember. Children still come to the waiting room, but few even know why they are there anymore. Even in my generation most of the story had been forgotten. But we keepers are not only keepers of the gift, but the story tied to it. Our empire quickly collapsed with so many missing warriors and the hardship brought by the giant sacrifice- and the once proud people became isolated and hard-pressed to survive.”
It took David several moments to realize that the old man was finished. “So no one has even seen this thing since that first time so long ago?” The reporter stuck his pencil in his mouth and was chewing on the eraser, hoping to catch a fresh angle.
“Not that I’ve been told of. As far as I know only the keeper and the keepers apprentice have been in this room since it has been built. Except, of course for you.”
“So why am I here, why did you agree to see me of all people?”
The keeper thought long and hard for a moment and answered, “I’m not sure if was the right thing to do or not. Less so now than before I met you. I didn’t want the story to die, even if my people do. There are only a handful of us left above and mostly old. Our children go off to school and never return, or if they do it’s only a brief visit trying to convince their parents life in the city is so much better.”
David decided to accept this answer for the moment. “So can I see it?”
“See what,” the keeper asked before realizing what the reporter was asking. “Oh yes- I mean no. You can see the case but I can’t allow you to see the canvas inside.”
“Guess it will be enough. And I can take pictures of the case and the statues?”
“Feel free. Only I must strongly suggest you keep your distance from the case itself. I myself find it hard to be within more than a few feet of it.”
The Keeper pushed his chair back and beckoned for David to do the same. With stretched legs they crossed the few dozen feet to the large statues and the pedestal while David’s reporting instincts had him shooting off dozens of pictures.
“Are those the enemy the God of Fire sent for you to fight?” Asked David, while raising his camera to get a full shot of them. Terrible creatures they were, that up close seemed more insect like than animal. Closer still they seemed to lose even a semblance to animals- truly becoming something alien.
“Yes. At least as best as we can tell since no one left alive actually saw them.”
They stood a full fifteen feet in the air crowned with some blackened carapace that stood out from their naked bodies. Each hand was stretched outward as if attached to large wings and was studded with six equally space indexes, capped with several inch long talons. “I hope these aren’t built to scale,” joked David moving across the room to get pictures at different angles.
“Most likely not, as I said no one left alive had actually seen them. They only had the terrified yells of the warriors to go on.” The keeper tried to stay next to David through all this but he was moving around so quickly he found it difficult to keep up.
“Ooh,” David crooned looking upon the pedestal and spying for the first time the ornament golden case for the cloth. Precious stones of all sorts lay entrenched in the cover and binding of the box. He took a quick picture and then bent over for closer examination. Sliding his hands across the box he noticed it was warm to the touch, and tingly- almost like static electricity. His heart raced as he smooth his palm against the jewels.
“Really, I asked you not to touch the box,” exclaimed the keeper as he finally caught up to David and put one hand upon his shoulder.
David barely noticed as he felt an overwhelming urge to open the box. It was glittering before his eyes in dazzling patterns. He felt extremely alive and euphoric, openly laughing as his eyes and fingers danced upon the coverings.
The keeper tugged at David’s shoulder harder which momentarily broke David’s entrancement. “Get off me old fool!” he cried as he shoved the old man backwards several feet hard. With no more thought to the keeper he wrenched the box open and his eyes fell to the cloth tied down inside.
The cloth itself was nothing spectacular outside of lasting for so long, the writing however was. It wasn’t a picture, or even a word. It wasn’t a diagram or art of some form. It was only a symbol. A bright red symbol that seemed to burn as David gazed at it closer. An impossible symbol that made David thing of M.C. Escher. It was a spiral that was also a box; as you turned your head, it seemed to shift. Oddly enough it seemed to reach beyond the thin layer of the fabric and existed as if it was sculptured. David ran his hands over the symbol standing out and felt them pass through it as something cold and unworldly. He shivered and realized what he had done. Quickly shutting the box David turned to see the old man still lying on the ground several feet behind him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” David lamented as he struggled to help the old man back to his feet. He was still confused at what he had done; he had never been a violent sort and couldn’t understand it.
“It’s not your fault, it’s the boxes fault. I should have known better than to bring you here.” The old man looked as if was near to tears as he glanced around the room with his sightless eyes.
“It’s okay, if you’re okay. See nothing terrible happened to me.” David managed a laugh as he helped the Keeper back to the table on the other side of the room. Still distraught over his actions David sought an excuse to leave. “I really have stayed longer than I should have, deadlines to meet and that sort of thing. I appreciate you telling me your story.” Still feeling bad about pushing the man down he added, “Are you sure you’re okay? I could get a doctor if you need one.”
“No, I’m fine. What you should be worried about is yourself.” David made a puzzled look. “Don’t just shrug this off as some fools story. You saw the symbol, you must have noticed something unusual about it.”
The reporter couldn’t argue with that but felt the need to leave even more clear now. “Well look I’m sorry again, I’ll just take some snap shots of the waiting room and be out of your hair.”
“Do what you will, young man, but I’m warning you- don’t let them see you watching them” The Keepers voice sounded out firmly.
“Who?” David called back from the tunnel leading to the waiting room and finally, outside again.
“You’ll find out.” Was the last David heard of the Keeper as he reached the waiting room, stopping for a minute to take pictures of the art he had looked at while waiting for the Keeper. Still that rush to leave was in him, either from what he had seen or from harming the old man- it compelled him to hurry on up to his car and drive back to the hotel.
