Richard Tuttle - Island of Darkness

“Do not question things that you have no chance of comprehending,” admonished the shaman.

“Alright,” sighed Marak. “What do I do now?”

Ukaro pointed to a small set of steps leading to another doorway. “Enter the sanctuary and pray,” instructed the shaman. “I will wait for you here.”

Marak shrugged and marched up the short flight of steps. He entered a circular room that was devoid of anything except a lone torch holder. Marak walked to the center of the room and placed his torch in the holder. The light from the torch barely reached the walls of the room.

Marak stood in the center of the room for several minutes wondering what he was supposed to do. He had never been taught to pray. He did not even know how to pray. He felt very foolish. At first his eyes scanned the room looking for imperfections in the construction. Then he started whistling to himself and studying the mosaic design of the floor tiles. When enough time had elapsed that he thought Ukaro would be satisfied, Marak reached for the torch to leave the room. As he reached for it, a cold wind swept into the room and blew the torch out.

Marak froze with his hand extended towards the torch. His eyes tried to scan the room, but he could see nothing. He stood erect and turned, trying to find the entrance doorway, but he could not see as far as the wall of the round room.

“Do you believe only in yourself?” boomed a voice from the darkness.

A knife immediately slid into Marak’s hand as he tried to gauge the direction of the voice.

“Drop your weapon and kneel,” commanded the voice.

Marak started turning slowly as the voice spoke. Try as he might, he was unable to determine which direction the voice had come from. Suddenly, Marak’s knees buckled. He tried frustratingly to keep his legs straight, but he could not. He fell to his knees painfully. As if someone had grabbed his hand and forced his fingers open, his hand straightened and he heard the knife fall to the tiled floor.

“You are stubborn, Marak,” scowled the voice. “That can be a virtue, but not here, and not now. Why do you try to deny me?”

“Because I don’t know you,” Marak heard himself respond.

“Yet you have expressed a desire to know me,” replied the voice. “You came close in the prison of the Khadorans. Again the night before the battle at Balomar, you reached out to me. Now you find yourself in my presence, and you do not believe.”

Marak’s mouth opened in awe. No mortal could possibly know his private thoughts at those two times.

“Kaltara?” Marak said meekly. “You are real?”

“If you were looking for a false god,” replied the voice, “you should have gone to Motanga. What must I do to convince you that I am real?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Marak. “I want to believe in you very much. I need to believe in you for the sake of my people.”

“No, Marak,” responded the voice. “The people are not yours. They are mine. You are my Torak, but the people belong to me.”

Silence reigned over Marak for several minutes. For some unexplainable reason, he feared that Kaltara had left him.

“I will never leave you,” promised Kaltara. “The question is, will you ever leave me?”

“I will not,” promised Marak.

“We shall see,” countered the voice. “What do you want to know?”

“I must know of this great evil that is to come against my people,” declared Marak. “I mean your people.”

“You may call them your people if you wish,” replied the voice, “as long as you understand that they are truly mine. I would like you to deal with them as if they were your own. You have shown that you have the compassion to do that.”

“And the evil?” reminded Marak.

“As it was written, so shall it be,” replied the voice. “In the Time of Calling, memories will be recalled. You will learn of the followers of Vand. What else do you want to know?”

“Will we succeed in defeating this evil?” inquired Marak.

“That is the question that you must answer, Marak,” replied the voice. “Were I to destroy Vand myself, I would give credence to his claim to be a god. Destroying him is the task of the Torak. As Vand is merely a person, it shall fall upon the people to defeat him. I have endowed you with the skills necessary to complete the task. I have given you that which was promised thousands of years ago. The rest is up to you.”

“Then I vow to accomplish this task,” declared Marak. “I will not let the people down.”

“Or me,” the voice responded with a touch of humor. “Those are the words I have been waiting to hear from your lips, Torak. You show great promise. I am most pleased with what you have done so far. You will go forth from this sacred temple a new man. You will leave here as the Torak. Sleep now.”

Marak frowned at the invitation to sleep. He still had not had his questions about Vand answered. He needed to know the nature of the evil that would come. Even as he tried to rise to his feet, his body began to grow limp. His eyelids felt exceedingly heavy and his knees began to feel like they were sinking into deep mud. Despite his efforts to rise, Marak found himself lying on the floor.

Suddenly, the whole room burst into brilliance. He found himself staring upward at the domed ceiling. With the walls of the room being round, he had the feeling of gazing into an illuminated bowl. Pictures began to flash across the ceiling and the walls. They flashed by so quickly that his mind seemed to interpret them only after they were gone. He recognized Angragar, even though it appeared as a thriving modern city. He saw a fiery speaker standing upon the steps of the temple. The people were throwing stones at him. Somehow he recognized the man as a priest. The priest’s name was Vand.

He saw hundreds of people being chased out of the city of Angragar by angry mobs. As the scenes speeded by, he saw the building of the temple of Vandegar. He saw the great battle where the sea rose up and carried off millions of people. He saw the survivors flee to the coast and board ships.

The images moved with increasing fury. He saw a tropical island, lush with jungle vegetation. He saw a great pyramid erected in a flash. He saw the people multiply exponentially. He saw great apes talking and walking like people. He saw great shipyards and cavernous mines. He saw death and destruction. The images turned dark as he watched rituals of human sacrifice, the drinking of human blood, and punishment by amputation.

The people rebelled. They fought against the dark forces, but they were no match for the evil. The large apes charged by the thousands and tore the rebels apart. Great magicians cast destruction down on the cities. The people raced to the harbor. They boarded great ships and fled.

The images now placed him onboard one of the great ships. He watched with wonder as land appeared on the horizon. He had the fearful urge to look back at where they had fled from, but he could not turn his head. Suddenly, the land raced up to meet the ship. Everyone jumped off the ship and waded through the pristine harbor. He heard the order to burn the ships and prepare for battle. He recognized the place. It was Raven’s Point.

* * *

Aakuta woke groggily. He sat up and rubbed his eyes as he gazed around the room. It took a few seconds for him to recognize the home of Lady Mystic. He rose and dressed. He stumbled into the kitchen and poured a cup of tea. As his senses began to register, he realized that he was alone. He moved swiftly through the home in search of the homeowner. Fear began to gnaw at him as he wondered if Lady Mystic was out summoning the authorities.

Suddenly, he heard the door open. He pulled his hood on and flattened his back to the wall of the laboratory. He waited to see who would enter the room.