|
’ Tis the wizard’s curse.
Leaving the
island’s lone tower where he lived, the battlement-topped
structure an angry phallic finger stark against the
morning’s dismal sky, Molkar worked his way to the
oceanfront. His legs, like bags of blood supported by
brittle bones, protested as he walked along the massive slab
that was Bleagor Rock, his place of exile for so many, many
years. Hard as it was for even him to believe, years were
an unsuitable measurement for the anguish brought to bear on
him. “Sempiternal” would have been the word to spring
readily to mind, if he were still among humankind fulfilling
his scholarly pursuits. Now, it was just a mental stumble
on the fog of memory.
Carrying
his fishing pole as he did every morning, he arrived at the
red coral reef where he sought his quarry. As his bare feet
negotiated the sharp coral surface, yesterday’s wounds
reopened and he once again painted the reef a slippery red.
The entire skeletal protuberance that hung over the water
was a dark blood-red, and though there were places on its
surface where Molkar was sure he’d never stepped, the red
stain was homogeneous as the coral was a porous, conductive
thing.
After all
this time, he’d become adept at ignoring the pain of the
jagged surface shredding his feet. When it hurt the most
was when a larger-than-normal breaker would crash against
the reef, and salt water would splash up to sting his open
lacerations. Pieces of his flesh from the past few days,
pieces that hadn’t been washed away yet, still clung to the
red surface, a reminder of the price he paid for survival.
Why fish could only be caught at this one spot was one of
eternity’s great mysteries, but if he wanted to eat he had
to fish, and fish would only favor his hook at this
particular spot. Naturally, his persecutors had ostracized
him sans shoes.
In many
ways, he and the reef were much alike. This lone sea garden
was no longer a part of the ocean--he no longer a part of
humanity. These coral skeletons built on coral skeletons
were the remnants of the last of their kind, just as he . .
. He forced a chuckle at that, though found no mirth in
it. Even his tormentors couldn’t enjoy his suffering
anymore. Yet still his agony continued. Nothing but the
sound of the ocean to keep him company. Not even the sounds
of a gull, as birds no longer owned the skies above Bleagor
Rock. Nor anywhere, he supposed. Even the presence of an
ornery gnat to swat away was an acquaintance he could no
longer expect. And besides his great nemesis, the ocean was
seemingly empty as well, save the wretched creature of his
quarry, his sole manner of sustenance, the karq.
With that
in mind, and having reached the point of the coral
prominence, he cast his line. But not before reaching down
and tearing a bit of his own flesh from his foot to use as
bait. A good-sized bloody sliver to hook the big one. Karq
had to be the ugliest fish that ever lived. Take the
homeliest creature in the universe and melt its features
till they dripped hideousness, attach that to a fat,
hard-armored body with barbed fins, give it a stubby
near-useless tail, and you’d have a karq. They tasted
horrible too. Like rancid flesh boiled in its own unsavory
juices so as to heighten its own fetid taste, it didn’t even
taste fishy. Just putrid. Still, he had to eat. He had
tried starving himself once as opposed to surviving on this
wretched fare. The wretched fare won out.
Though not
totally unexpected, today the infrequent occurred. The
churning water beneath him parted and his nemesis appeared.
Molkar had never been sure if it was a creature of sea or
one of his own wicked imagination. No, on some level Raklom
was indeed real. The suffering he inflicted certainly was.
Part of the overall design of his jailers to make Molkar
atone for his sins.
As it
slithered its long serpentine head from the water to tower
over him, its thoughts appeared in Molkar’s mind.
Greetings, Wizard. It’s been a while. Despite its mobile
fish-belly white lips, its mouth seemed meant only to leer.
“Not that
long,” Molkar muttered, pulling in his line. As
disagreeable as the thought was of hooking his catch, going
back to the tower’s dark interior and eating it cold and
raw, this perpetual encounter was far worse. Sempiternal!
Now the proper word flashed in his mind like the face of an
old friend, though the nostalgia quickly faded. It had been
so long since he been in the company of his precious tomes,
he doubted if he could still spell the word. Oh, how he
missed the thaumaturgist library near the western wall of
the wizard’s compound in Lador Jate, the imperial capital
city on the other side of the world. He’d loved his life
there before they discovered his dark research probing into
the proscribed unknown. Before--
You should
have followed the Grandwizard’s advice and chosen the more
popular path, Molkar. It wasn’t that you were conducting
experiments into areas they didn’t want answers to, they
merely protested your secrecy, your insistence on always
working alone. Frankly, you scared people.
“Shut up!”
Molkar cried. “Get out of my mind!”
At that,
the sea serpent offered a vocal response. A ghastly
seething sound that served as laughter. Much as Molkar
hated the creature, it did serve a purpose. Or it had
once. With its abilities to swim the seas, it had brought
him back news from civilization over the years. But that
was so long ago. Eons perhaps . . . ?
When it had
reported to him of the global plague that decimated all life
in every corner of the world, reducing it to an existence
more horrible than his own before snuffing out humanity
entirely, Molkar’s loathing, even for those he’d been
excommunicated from, found no enthusiasm. Now there was
just Raklom, himself, and yes, the karq. A fitting end to a
world gone awry.
Slim chance
of that, the serpent replied. Again the seething chuckle.
Then, with mock ebullience: Molkar, I bring you news from
the other side of the world. From civilization!
But Molkar
no longer fell for that. There had been a time when his
eyebrows would’ve arched, his breath laden with expectation
as he repeated the word, “Civilization...?” but he was too
familiar with the cruel routine by now. The news is there
is no news, the serpent would then say. And as to
civilization...you are it. And then the seething would
attempt a cackle and succeed. Nowadays, he ignored the
serpent’s prank.
But this
time Molkar’s had an idea.
“Well, I
have news for you, my fiendish friend.”
If the
serpent had eyebrows, that would’ve arched them. Instead,
it moved its massive head closer, its leer a giant slice of
deviltry. Oh? And what news could you possibly have for
me?
A wave
crashed the reef and salt water stung the opened cuts on
Molkar’s butchered feet. He looked down to see traces of
blood swirling away. But the reef was forever red and
plenty of his flesh still clung to it. Perhaps he should
pick it off and discard it into the sea before he proceeded,
but ultimately decided against it. Stronger forces that he
were operating here, and such a simple solution couldn’t
possibly alter his fate. Besides, stubborn wizard that he
was, he was still of a mind to endure.
“My news is
that this time I shan’t argue with you. No parley, no
contention, no appeal on my part.” He tossed his fishing
pole away to clatter on the reef and roll to the rock behind
him. He raised both arms in the air. “Take me, I’m
yours.” Molkar closed his eyes.
Now that
wouldn’t be any fun, now would it? the serpent said.
But Molkar
refused to respond. He just stood there, feet stinging,
ocean wind raw in his face, awaiting . . .
Fine, if
that’s the way you want it. But only this time.
With one
fatal snip, Raklom swooped Molkar into its widening leer and
forced him down its gullet. This time the pain, though
still horrible, wasn’t unbearable. And it was over more
quickly than usual.
Shortly
after the wizard’s life-force sublimated to incorporeal
form, important things began happening to the reef. The
blood it had collected from Molkar over the years began
churning inside it, and the slivers of his flesh caught on
its razor-sharp surface began to congeal, to come together,
to re-form. During this process the usual fugue would ensue
before memory fully returned, but soon Molkar would find
himself leaving the tower on a dismal morning, fishing pole
in hand. His quarry either karq or to cast himself in that
eternal role.
’Tis the
wizard’s curse.
|
