Darren Shan: Procession of the dead

After what must have been many years-I could tell by the growth of the village-a young boy was brought to the largest tent. The flap lifted, he walked in and I moved with him. There were about twenty people inside. They were light-skinned and blind. They sat in curious order, their bodies aligned in shapes that resembled the scrawled symbols I'd seen on the walls in the basement of Party Central.

"We are villacs, priests, servants of the gods," one of them said, and though he spoke in an ancient tongue, I understood perfectly. "We are here to protect and guide. You will serve as our Watana, the hitching post of our community. Step forward."

The scene shifted again. The next I knew, the boy was a man and leader of the village. He had his own entourage of helpers, men and women who were the same as me-created by magic, designed to perform specific tasks, Ayuamarcans. They were architects, builders, farmers, medics. They taught the villagers, devised new ways to till the land, developed medicines. They governed and helped the people grow, learn and develop. As they prospered, so did the village, and that made the villacs happy. I don't know how I knew these things-I just did.

As the Watana moved around the village issuing orders, I noticed that one of his small fingers was bent like The Cardinal's. Then the picture changed again and I was looking at a different man with the same bent finger. The village was larger now, a town, and many tribes came from miles around to trade. None ever attacked because it was known that these people were protected by powerful forces, and everyone was afraid of the unseen, blind priests, around whom legends had grown.

Then came a race who knew no fear, with weapons beyond the power of any in this country. They swept through the town, raping and pillaging, and there was nothing the villacs could do to stop them. There was no gold, no silver, no coal, nothing to interest the invading savages, but they destroyed regardless. Their kings and queens across the great ocean demanded it.

The new rulers had heard the legends of the blind men and were quick to dispel them. They wanted no opposition. They tore the villacs apart, capturing, torturing and killing many, proving once and for all-as they had so many times already-that they were the strongest force in existence.

But some villacs survived. A few found hiding places beneath the ground. Those who escaped the slaughter were slow to emerge. They waited for many years, letting the marauders settle. As the homesteaders gradually moved in after the warriors and built their own town over the skeleton of the old, they returned to the surface, though from that time on they clung to the shadows and kept their existence secret.

They found a new boy to be Watana, host to their magical powers. This one was white, the progeny of the usurpers. That didn't matter to the villacs. They didn't care for the murdered members of the old town. Their only loyalty was to the land and the spirits of the future. They built, not for people, but upon them. Color, race and religion meant nothing to the once-Incan priests.

But they'd been changed by the new regime. They were bitter, less certain of their place in the town, wary. They'd enjoyed being gods but now they stayed secreted away so that they might never again face extinction. Whereas before they'd chosen the wisest of people to invest with their power, the gentlest and purest, now they picked the strongest, the fiercest, the most determined.

As the decades passed and their control returned, the town changed. It had once been a peaceful place, a center of learning and hope. Now it became a fortress, a stronghold, built to repel any attack. Time rolled on. The blind priests tried but failed to exert their old level of control. There were too many people, new ideas from abroad, new languages and gods, machines and factories. They could direct the growth of the town but not as cleanly as they wished. There were too many factors beyond their control. They adapted as best they could, but it seemed they'd never again be the commanding force they once were.

More years passed and the town became a city. I saw the modern version start to emerge. Electricity arrived, automobiles, movies, shorter skirts. A war came and went. Another trundled around. And as the world came to grips with a new form of horror, the villacs pondered their place in the greater scheme of things.

I watched them gather and discuss the situation. They could sense the change in the universe. Mankind had always been destructive, but a new breed had arrived and it was going to get worse. They looked ahead and contemplated a future of gas chambers and inhuman violence, a future they couldn't control if they continued as they were. They needed to alter their approach. If chaos was the face of the future, then they must use chaos to shape it.

So they cast their net again and hauled in a child of the streets, a brutal, vicious creature, so backward and bestial he couldn't even speak. They dragged him in, though he fought every step of the way, and initiated him, filling him with the power of the Watana. But when he was primed, instead of tutoring him as they had the others, instead of teaching him how to control the power, they set him loose, as ignorant as he had been before, and left him to his own devices.

The villacs then withdrew and waited. They knew he would eventually dream, unleash his ghostly power and come looking for them. When that day arrived, they would complete the birthing rites but that was all. They wouldn't interfere with his creations or guide his decisions. They'd never tell him who he was or where his power came from. In this manner they hoped to produce a servant fit to face the challenge of the corrupt new world, one who could take the city in hand and ensure its prosperity in the harsh, unpredictable environment of the late twentieth century and beyond.

At that point the vision ended. My final sight was of the boy, skulking through the menacing alleys of the city he would one day conquer. He was filthy, badly dressed, hair long and unkempt, lips bared in a perpetual snarl. The ceremony had terrified him, but he was resilient and hungry, and now that he was free again, his hunger took precedence. Already forgetting the blind men and their arcane rites, he made his way through the city, the only world he had ever known, and looked for a place to feast.

My arm was being tugged. Blinking dumbly, I realized The Cardinal was hauling me away from the blind men. He was saying something but I couldn't hear. I glanced one last time at the makers of the puppets, then shook my head and made myself focus on the real world.

"… Hell happened to you?" The Cardinal barked.

"They… it… how long was I out?" I gasped.

"A few seconds. They clasped your shoulders and began murmuring. You went stiff. I grabbed you but you didn't respond. What happened? They've never done anything like that before." He was shaken. He hadn't expected to lose control like this, not on his own turf.

"I want to get out of here," I muttered.

Silently he led the way to the short flight of stairs and soon we were back in the deserted basement of Party Central. "Well?" he snapped impatiently.

I thought about how he'd react if he learned he was a tool, a manipulated pawn of the blind priests-the villacs -a servant whose only function was to help them preserve their hold on the city. Figuring he wouldn't take the news kindly, I opted not to enlighten him-I didn't want him exploding into a rage.

"I saw nothing," I said. "Just lights. A small electric shock coursed through me. I think they were checking me over, examining me."

He squinted and scratched his chin. I don't think he believed me but he didn't push for more information. I think he was frightened of what he might discover. "Well," he grunted, "do you believe me now? Were they proof that I'm telling the truth?"