Delusions

O.K. Mantz

Scintillating crystal gems hang from alabaster spider’s silk draped from wiry thin, mahogany branches only partially covered by a myriad of gold, silver, and ruby leaves. The east wind, lighter than the human soul, gently brushes past the jewels, creating a soft, languid chime that echoes across the glistening atmosphere. Kissed by the reverberation, each proud blade of grass, glazed with thickly translucent morning dew, bows low to wake the dust before erecting itself and waving at the cast metal mirror reflecting a shimmering onyx hue. Farther in the distance lies an unmistakable sublimity sweeping northward across a dim and mountainous panorama: the valleys run with sapphire wine over honey drenched stones. A full and clotted yolk bleeds over the horizon—a dripping orange cream.

Suddenly the landscape bristles; the crystal chimes morph into an eerie ring; the dew-covered straw shivers until the water crawls into the earth; trembling, the mountains fill their mighty lungs and trap the air within while the valleys gingerly turn silent. A whisper brushes through the trees, tightly clinging to the frail threads. The earth depresses, carving a footprint into the dirt beneath the grass. In the centre of the field, a silhouette mars the panorama— streams of light bend around the figure, keeping him, although the area remains bright, shrouded in darkness. With his right hand raised, he stills the trembling. Shyly, the wind approaches his garments and the edges of his cloak relent, bending in the breeze. Covering his visage, a wide brimmed hat hung low, finishing the all-black canvas.

When his legs move forward, his step proves mighty, yet filled with grace and cunning. He moves with certainty and a confidence far surpassing comprehension until halting before a colossal oak of perfect symmetry. Its branches appear immaculately proportionate to the rest of its frame and a thousand glittering crystals dangle at varying heights. The dark figure lifts his chin and stares so penetratingly at the trunk as to strip the tree of every mystery and send it quaking at its roots. The two stand at the centre, the focal point of the entire cosmos, on opposing sides and face to face. All about them, the space moves not a muscle nor breathes in a single particle of air. Between the eyes of the man and the stoic physiognomy of the shimmering tree, the light crawls away, leaving the distance empty and void. And then spake the man— his voice a whisper, but resounding quite far through the air.

“Speak.”

A murmur climbs from the earth as though a hundred men in council came to thought. Unintelligible rustling rings the jewels and momentarily the chime amplifies, but soon becomes still as a single voice, issuing forth from the tree, rises to answer. The voice sounds deep, the tone firm and serioux.

“You are not the first to come through here.”

The earth halts its rotation and all creation awaits a response. Without producing any sound and moving so unnoticeably his action could be blamed upon the wind, the man raises his head and the wide brimmed hat falls ever so slightly backward. From the right, a whistling pierces the air and suddenly a crystal shatters, the stone glittering like stardust as it tumbles down beside the roots. The tree only gasps and then falls silent once the arrow bears deep into its hide. With an expulsion of smoke, the arrow vanishes, leaving behind a crimson wound the width of a thumb.

Swiftly, the figure no longer allows the light to bend around him, but rather directly through as to render him perfectly translucent. And thus, he disappears from view.

Hidden even from God, the Absolute, the man glides through the crystal forest and gradually approaches the feet of the great mountains. Within the valley, the win and honey streams gently begin to seep into their familiar and archaic cadence, breastfeeding the banks on either side as a mother doth her weeping children. Upon approaching the river, the man once more bends the light to render him now visible and kneels down by the edge, creating a ripple through his mere presence.

“Who are you?” a distant voice suddenly cries. “And where doth thou come from?”

The man holds still, delving deep within himself, searching, collecting his thoughts, pausing to confirm the noise and its reality. Cocking his head slightly to the left, he scans his periphery, marking the landscape and noticing more than the roaming sons of God. A scent wafts into his nose and swiftly he swivels his head forward, glancing down into the waters at his feet.

“How long have you lived hidden here?” the man beckons to the visage in the stream. Boyish proves the countenance, yet blurred and hopeless beneath the surface. Faded grey eyes poke toward the spotless sky and the boy remains on the cliff before an endless depth of tears.

“My questions first deserve attention, for thou maintain the ability to wander and sojourn anywhere beneath the stars; I, however, must remain drowned in this one spot until the cosmos is stripped and its innards laid bare: thus speak— or travel on.”

“I am a wanderer,” the man replies— “yet drowned beneath the stars. Creation calls me Grim by name— whether for my complexion or the omens I carry. I watched the heavens give birth to the North Star, for I stood on the foundations beneath; time has evaded me— I come from no place, but westward I am bound.” Grim’s head twists upward and gazes across the landscape before searching the boy’s pewter eyes. Gently, the surface ripples, calmly driving past the one and o’er the other, twinkling like a malleable and ever-changing diamond beach. A gargled sigh issues from the stream and the boy exhales, creating bubbles that explode upon the kiss of light.

“A century,” says the boy— “as of today.”

“And what may I call you?”

“Whatever you wish. But for some time now I have heard the name Niamtharsa applied to me.”

A peculiar notion stirs Grim’s weighted soul, yet he suppresses the feeling, calming, however momentarily, the wild tempest of his heart with outstretched arms. He presses closed his eyes, returning his body to equilibrium— then holds still.

“How did you fall into this strange predicament?” asks Grim. Quickly scanning his surroundings, Grim slides down his legs to sit, rather than crouch upon the bank.

“Flesh no longer compliments my essence— the gods have stripped me of it long ago. The ignorance of youth has separated soul from body and only the redemption of the wise may fuse the two once more. But now you explain to me— what lies in the West?”

“I am driven west by the beckoning of my heart, for a spirit pursues me that I wish to escape. Yet I fear that the axe is already laid upon the root of the tree.”

Spreading his fingers, Grim twists them in a circular motion, producing a faint and wispy smoke that hovers within the palm of his hand. From the swirling mist, a glossy and perfectly round fruit materializes in a wine red shade, dropping into his grasp as the fog recedes and dissipates into the atmosphere. Bringing the fruit close to his lips, Grim indulges, revealing a light and juicy flesh beneath the wine coloured skin. The pewter of Niamtharsa’s eyes becomes lighter with a faint dazzle of wonder.

“You are not bound by the physical realm,” says he. “Material is bound by your will … but how can this be so?”

Finishing the fruit, Grim flings the scraps sideways, watching not as the fruit transforms to smoke once more and vanishes.

“Who made the countless stars? Who impregnated the cosmos and created space within its womb? Who filled the lungs of the earth with air and from whence does its heart pour forth? There is a reality within me, from conscious thought does life begin to bleed and through passion come into fruition. Existence begins and ends within my mind; I have no birth and even Death flees from me.”

Marveling at the figure above, the water bubbles as Niamtharsa breathes in exhilaration. Without disfiguring his physiognomy, Grim rises and dusts off the soles of his shoes.

“I must move on,” he utters, nodding toward the stream. “But a pleasure indeed it was to meet you.”

“D’accord. And I hope you find that which you seek; there may still be time to lift the axe.”

Grim exhales and begins to turn away, but halting, he whispers—

“The flesh is weak where the spirit is willing.” Then his feet tread o’er the stones and increase the distance between himself and the bank. Almost as soon as the water lies some ways behind Grim, another arrow whisks past his ear and shatters the earth two paces before him. The arrow dissolves into smoke and Grim whips around, alert and attentive. From the top of a hill on the opposite side of the stream, four wolves the size of bears with white and grey hides suddenly appear. Their lips are pulled back, flashing amber teeth soaked in a concoction of saliva and blood, and their growls rumble across the plains. Upon their backs perch four riders, each clad in silver cloth with bits of graven armour strewn on their arms and chest. No features or definitions adorned their faces— their skin proves gnarled and scarred. In their right hands they carry a bow, a guild nestles on their backs, and on their hips within a sheath sleeps a rusted karambit blade.

Piercing the wind and tearing the silky cover of the atmosphere, a unified howl precedes a scream— then the wolves lunge forward, bounding down the slope with a ferocity as like that of a famished Cerberus. Grim’s coat whips upward as he spins to face his foe, stretching out his arms at his sides to make two long blades materialize. His grip on the handles tighten and his knuckles turn an alabaster shade, but a resolve settles over him, calmly and menacingly.

The four suddenly split, dividing into two on either side to flank from left and right. Deep and raspy growls encircle Grim, spreading thin the air while he twists and turns, the white sunlight glittering on his blades. In perfect unison, the wolves pounce forward when the riders stretch the horse hair of their bows back— for clasped between each finger and leaning on the frame are two arrows per figure. The blades of grass beneath them quiver as the tip of Grim’s swords nip the stems; but from the earth explodes upward seven more shards of metal in seven different sizes, slicing through the thick hides of two wolves with the same ferocity and precision as light cuts through a frail infant leaf. His arms he swings without delay, piercing with the one through the graven armour, yielding up the rider’s soul, and forcing the wolf beneath to turn into the line of six winged arrows, crumbling to earth as its inside overcomes its fur and a crimson puddle of dusty flesh blooms betwixt the grass. With the other blade, Grim impales the last rider and side steps to clasp the fur at the nape of the neck to propel himself onto the beast. A rich and death stained howl evaporates into the air to turn into  a stratus fog beneath the sun; but Grim grips the greyhound tighter until its blood begins to issue out, and rides on.

Grim arches his back, pressing his chest closer to the back of the wolf, and reaches his left hand to keep his wide brimmed hat from whisking away. As they ride along the banks, he glances down into the waters. But his head twists quickly as an image becomes clear— for the water remembers. Dark and powerful, the shade in the liquid stirs, dressed in Grim’s likeness, yet swiftly fades and blurs once again. Out of his periphery, a beam of light shoots toward him and flings Grim from the beast, knocking the air out of his lungs. Fearful, the wolf whines and flees, vanishing in the distance over the hills, leaving Grim behind. Leaping to his feet, his arms become outstretched and manifest a smoke that utterly consumes him. Blinded still, he perceives a voice— a booming whisper, with deep and shallow resonance:

“Material is bound by your will … tell me: how can this be so?”

And producing more smoke that bellows fiercely from the earth (for he could not open his eyes without searing pain), Grim screams until his breath diminishes the brilliance and his voice box flails on the earth.

“Who made the countless stars? Who impregnated the cosmos and created space within its womb? Who filled the lungs of the earth with air and from whence does its heart pour forth?”

Gradually, the fluorescence fades and Grim draws a silhouette from whence the light had come. Thus Grim also collects and relinquishes the smoke till he delineates a figure clothed in white robes— but their countenance still remains a mystery.

“Existence begins and ends within my mind,” he finishes. Immediately the man before him booms.

“I did those things. Existence lies tied to a silver thread perpetually on the verge of rust far apart from you. You are dust that stirs nothing upon this weighted rope.”

Stupefied, Grim stands vanquished, unable to speak— alas even to move— blankly staring at the gleaming figure that now dissolves into the day. Before the man entirely disappears, Grim regains his composure and stares forward with a startled complexion.

“Who are you?” he shouts, leaning on his toes in anticipation.

“I am,” the figure gently whispers. “You need not know more.” And then the panorama is laid bare, only a trickle of glittering silver remains behind. Thinking to himself: it must prove a waking dream, therefore I shall wash my eyes and cleanse my sight. Thus he slides down to the river, his mood lightening as the glistening surface reflects on his skin. Kneeling to the ground and dipping his hands into the river, Grim lifts the translucent honey to wash his face. An icy sensation prickles on his cheeks as his countenance assumes a cherry shade.

Then, blinking the droplets from his pupils, Grim makes out the figure in the water with his likeness (his reflection, however, remains invisible)— the wide brimmed hat and long, black coat. A bow is situated in his left hand and three arrows, enveloped in dazzling smoke, pinched in his right. Grim only makes out the figure’s back, but the resemblance is so striking, that his mind becomes entirely enamoured by the image. The water stirs and suddenly the figure begins to twist around. He witnesses the boy, Niamtharsa, wearing Grim’s physiognomy, solemnly, even gloomily glancing back at him. Startled again, Grim speaks— the water rushing down his cheeks like tears.

“Who are you?”

“I am you,” Niamtharsa replies. “And you are I. You are the body and I am your soul.” And then in a whisper he adds: “You need not know more.”

“I am not the first to come through here,” Grim mutters and pinches the inside of his lip between his teeth. The thin veil breaks and begins to bleed, but he swiftly shuts his mouth and swirls the coppery fluid around with his tongue.

“Grim,” calls the boy, now fiercely staring up. “Now fuse the body and the soul.”

The figure kneeling near the banks then bursts into tears, cradling his head in his palms, and quivering in the dirt. He trembles, his frame mightily convulsing as the crystal chimes are amplified and thrust the atmosphere once more into an eerie panorama. Choking on his own saliva and blood, he gnashes his teeth, grinding them together until a thin film of dust rests on his tongue. From his pores then secretes a smoke in shade as like the colour of his shadow— the dark umbra of his soul. Grim’s eyes depress into his skull, creating a hollow stare, each black crevice filled with feldspar tears of despair. Darkness, death, depression; hopelessly hallowed Hell; ghostlike, ghastly, Grim. He speaks, and every chasm in his chest widens to a moaning abyss. His voice carries a corpse; his tongue— the driver of the hearse. He speaks—

“I cannot … I cannot … Not on my own.”

—and dies a thousand deaths.