Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

The Chosen roared out the same response. Carnelian gazed into the airy heights and it seemed their thunder was louder than the sky’s. He became aware of light moving sinuously among those jewelled beings as their masks turned to gaze at a point somewhere behind the empty court robe.

‘Is this the vessel you have chosen?’ said a single homunculus.

‘It is,’ came the answer from the heavens.

Carnelian saw alabaster forearms and hands outstretched beyond the court robe. Osidian was displaying himself naked to them. The hands seemed to flash as they were retracted. The court robe quivered. From this side it was a spire of densely woven dull silver thread that Carnelian judged must be tempered iron. Running down its centre was an exquisite mosaic of cut gems, at once a rainbow, but also a glowing battle scene, a hunt, a view into a fabled garden. On its chest hung a great circular breastplate, something like a wheel, though eccentrically spoked. It had a thick rim of black stones above, of red below; there were hollows in the rim and more located on the spokes and in the hub. It seemed to Carnelian sinister, like some instrument of torture. His mind veered away from guessing at its purpose.

Osidian’s perfect gold face appearing at the summit of the robe was a sunrise that woke him from nightmares. Osidian inhabited the robe, bringing it to life. His arms raised the ponderous sleeves and his pale hands, appearing at their extremities like doves, reached out to clasp the trees of two court staves. One smouldered with emeralds, peridots and jades, all feverish tendrils and growth, curling up into a monstrous crozier topped by a perfect youth that seemed water in the act of turning to stone. The other was of jet, adamants and mirror obsidian, gnarled with figures whose curves spoke of blades, whose contorted postures, of punishment and triumph, evolving up into a four-horned demon who gazed down malevolently upon the victim lying in the iron hollow.

A hush fell. The Pyramid Hollow became the cavity of an open mouth. That mouth spoke. ‘In the beginning an ocean seething, primordial, without boundary, without light, without thought, filling the void with its voiceless currents, its colourless eddies.’

The voices of the homunculi were one voice.

‘Darkness concentrated birthed a seed, a mote, a single tear of jade. The Lord Turtle. The vast rivers in the sea he swam, arrowing the fathomless depths, cleaving the flood, scouring the abyss with his beacon eyes, searching the emptiness for another. Great heart pounding his straining flesh. Oar paddles threshing the black waters. Long he searched, but found he was alone. Until, at last, he began pouring forth, in song, his desolation.’

An eerie cry rose up that made the hackles rise on Carnelian’s neck. Modulating, swelling, stretching its pitch, curling slowly, a sound equivalent to a rising blade of smoke. No human throat could shape such a song.

‘One vast bell, the night-black ocean.’

The spiralling song seemed to have loosened some vast thing up in the dark apex of the Pyramid Hollow. He gazed up, but could see nothing. Then he felt a waft on his face from the air displaced as something massive moved. The next moment he would have snatched his hands up to cover his ears if they had not been held by the Sapients. Air avalanched with a thick reverberation that made everything shake, down to the marrow in his bones. A pealing so loud, he feared the crater of the Plain of Thrones must shatter and fall.

‘Shimmering, shivering, shearing at the touch of the Turtle’s song.’

Another ear-numbing peal.

‘A shudder speeding towards the limit of the limitless.’

Clang.

‘The ocean convulsed in agony and joyful exultation.’

Clang.

‘Convulsed to this new-formed centre.’

Clang.

‘Pressure beyond squeezing.’

Clang.

‘Rage beyond violence.’

Clang.

‘Passion beyond annihilation.’

Clang.

‘And Lord Turtle was rent asunder,’ shrilled the homunculi.

Carnelian cried out as pain leapt up his arms. He would have snatched them free, but the Sapients held them fiercely with their four-fingered hands. He looked down in shock. Watched the blood dewing from the cuts they had made. Running down his fingers to dribble into the jade bowls.

A sharp crack made him jerk his head up. A Sapient who was hovering over the victim in the iron hollow raised his hand gripping a cobble of black stone and smashed it down again upon the sternum of the prostate man. Ribs gave way like rotten wood.

‘The upper shell becomes the dome of heaven,’ cried the homunculi.

Other Sapients fell upon the victim; their fingers sheathed with blades tore at his chest like beaks. Prising the ribs loose. Snapping them back, one after another after another, hands gloved with blood. Carnelian flinched as some spat over his face. Reek of iron, the odour of his dreams.

‘The lower shell becomes the foundations of the earth.’

The victim’s chest was now a basket of bones like two splayed hands between which, in the seething cavity, his heart still beat. One of the Sapients reached in and plucked out the pulsing organ, pulled it up while others severed the vessels that the next moment were spraying blood everywhere. Carnelian’s eyes followed the heart as it was carried to Osidian’s court robe.

‘Lord Turtle’s heart becomes the mountain at the centre of the world.’

The heart was pushed into the centre of the wheel breastplate. Carnelian watched it convulsing there, dribbling a trickle of blood to wind down through the jewel mosaic. Then it stopped. Soon the victim’s liver was filling a cavity beneath the heart on the wheel frame, as it became the earth. The tongue went above the heart to be the voice of the winds of heaven. The eyes sat to either side as sun and moon. With brushes blood was spattered over the wheel as stars. The severed hands and feet were hung beneath it from hooks to be the lobed caverns of the underworld. More organs were harvested to adorn the wheel. The carcass of the victim no longer resembled a man.

When the great bell fell silent a grumbling chanting was heard. A burr in Carnelian’s ears that he tried to dislodge by shaking his head. He felt his arms being raised. Blood trickled warm down his forearms. A grating sound near his feet made him glance down. Ammonites were carefully lifting the bowls that had been collecting his blood. He thought they had not been careful enough. So much seemed spilled upon the floor. The more he looked the more he saw. Blood everywhere as if a tide of it had washed in. He felt it licking at his toes.

A flash seemed to give his head a glancing blow. He looked up and saw four-fingered hands removing a mask. Osidian’s face came into view. He was staring past the Grand Sapients, whose stellated crowns made them appear astonished. Carnelian focused on Osidian’s face, which seemed translucent alabaster. His eyes were so intense. He knew what Osidian was gazing at, but refused to look too.

The rhythm of the chanting was speeding up, deepening. He watched a Grand Sapient dip a finger into a bowl held up to him and with it he dabbed a spot upon Osidian’s forehead, covering his black birthmark. The smudge leaked a drop that found its way to the bridge of Osidian’s nose. The Grand Sapient dabbed another spot to the left of Osidian’s mouth, then one to the right. Dipping his finger again, the Grand Sapient raised it to Osidian’s forehead, touched the smudge of blood there and then drew his finger down towards his left eye, lightly over its lid, closing it, and on down to meet the smudge to the left of his mouth. Dipping his finger yet again, he linked that smudge with a trail across Osidian’s lips to the smudge on the other side. With more blood he traced a track up Osidian’s cheek to his right eye, closed it and reddened the lid, then up over the brow to close the triangle.