The desert’s pure white sands glinted harshly in the sun, the light broken only by the shadows of the occasional large rock or high dune. As the sun continued its assent into the sky, however, these shadows were providing less and less relief. The place reminded the traveler rather strongly of his old home, when one strayed too far from the shore; merely trade the sand and rocks for snow and ice, and the effect would be the same: endless white stretching to the horizon, where it met the endless blue.
The small figure, dressed in a ragged white traveler’s cloak, was beginning to consider stopping for the day. He had already trudged a fair distance across the desert’s length and despite his uncanny resilience, the heat was beginning to take its toll. It was a day’s travel since the last oasis, and he was beginning to get thirsty; already, his canteen was dangerously low. Sheathing his short, wooden katana in the rope that served as a makeshift belt, the traveler unscrewed the cap off his canteen with the dexterous tip of his fin, and slipped his beak into the container. He managed to sip a mouthful of water, and when he was done, only a few drops remained. The figure contemplated that it might have been smarter to bring a larger vessel for water, but then, there was only so much he could carry. It was difficult enough waddling across sand with just his sword, the cloak, and the canteen; overburdening himself with a pack would have made travel more difficult for himself. Besides, hauling packs was mule’s work. Emperor penguins were not built for such tasks. And if worse came to worse, he could always attempt to divine a water source and summon a spring. Assuming there any to be found in this Godforsaken place.
The penguin marched on, unsheathing his sword, and using it as a walking stick. As he stepped forward, he suddenly sensed a shifting beneath his feet. The penguin flipped back in a leap which carried him a dozen yards away, flipping his sword into a defensive stance, his cloak tossed to the side. Before him, an enormous red form exploded from the sand, hissing and clattering as it rose from its hiding place. The form of a dire scorpion, large as an elephant and red as blood, loomed over the small swordsman.
“Well, well,” rasped the scorpion. “And what have we here? A bird, I dare say. Indeed, you smell like one. But I’ve never seen a bird of your form. How curious.”
The penguin did not alter his stance, but spoke in a solemn voice. “I am a penguin, a bird of the icy seas. I admit I am rather out of my element.”
The scorpion clacked its mandibles in amusement. “Oh, ho! Out of your element, indeed. We are quite far from the sea, icy or otherwise. Don’t tell me you’ve managed to walk all this distance?”
“I have.”
“Rot! A sea beast would not last an hour in this country.”
“I am no ordinary beast.”
“So you say. And what is your purpose here, sea-bird?”
The penguin paused for a moment, sizing up the scorpion. Like all bugforms, its face was set and unreadable, but the he did not sense any real malice from it, just cautious tension. He held out his left fin, and a green, eldritch sigil appeared above it, flickering like small mirage. With a solemn voice, the penguin answered, “I seek the likeness of God.”
At once, the scorpion’s bearing relaxed. It’s tail uncurled, lying flat behind it, and its claws dropped lower to the Earth. “I see,” the crimson beast said. “A Seeker. There haven’t been many that still attempt this road. The last was nearly twenty years ago.”
The penguin relaxed his stance, though he still held his weapon ready. The scorpion turned and lowered its body to the ground. “Come,” he said. “I’ll guide you to the place you seek.” The penguin eyed the scorpion cautiously, noting the wicked, barbed stinger at the end of its tail. “Come, I’ll not sting you.”
“See that you do not,” said the penguin.
“On my honor as one of the Desert Guard,” said the scorpion. “I swear by my name, which is Santauros of Glass.”
The penguin pondered the oath, and decided that it was satisfactory. More to the point, he trusted that he could handle the scorpion if need be. He hopped onto the great creature’s back, sitting just behind the head. He placed his sword tip downward on the scorpion’s head. Santauros clicked his claws warily. “Just a little insurance,” said the penguin. “I am in perfect position to be struck, after all.”
“Fair enough, Seeker. But before I guide you, would you tell me your name?”
The penguin paused as if the question struck him as odd. It was a moment before he answered, and even as he did, he could not entirely mask the hint of uncertainty.
“My name is Runan.”
***
The sun was an hour from setting as the two finally reached their destination. Runan staved off his thirst with mediation; now that Santauros was carrying him, it was easier to conserve water. He opened his eyes when Santauros stopped, hopping off the scorpion’s back. Before him stood what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient city. Tall, rectangular structures, many collapsed, were half buried in white sands. In some places, the sand was thin, and brushing it aside, one could discover smooth, artificially formed stonework. This was easier to walk through, and Runan stuck to the lower paths. As he explored the shattered ruins, he noted the lack of life in the area.
“I realize this location is difficult for most outsiders to access,” said Runan. “But don’t the holy men of your own tribe wish to excavate this area? Why is this place abandoned? Surely the wealth of knowledge has not been exhausted. There is clearly much more than what we see.”
“It’s not safe to dwell here long, Seeker,” said the scorpion. “This ruin is said to be haunted. Those who dwell here too long are known to develop sickness. Some claim that the forms of the Fallen sometimes manifest late in the night. Even we of the Guard avoid this place, save for brief trips. I am afraid I can’t allow you to stay for more than a day, Seeker. The evil magic here is potent, and we don’t know how to get rid of it.”
Runan nodded. He did indeed feel a foul energy in the area. But below him, he could sense water. It was old, stagnant, and tainted with the energy, but nonetheless, he needed to fill his canteen. He knew certain methods to purify it. Seeking an easy access, Runan sought along the thinner sand, and paused at a spot. He brushed the area clean, discovering a metal disk imbedded in the earth, rusted completely over. He branded his wooden sword and paused for a moment, gathering his energy. A faint nimbus of silver light flickered around him, and with a swift strike, he completely shattered the rusted disk. The pieces fell into a stinking darkness. Shaking his head at the stench, he concentrated again, and a blue, translucent flame appeared before him. It flickered and stretched into a serpentine form, then descended into the hole. After a moment, it arose, its phantasmal form now appearing solid as it carried in itself a brackish liquid. The water spirit gave off a sense of displeasure at being used to siphon such foul water, but Runan went through the short purification ritual, filtering the water spirit out of the liquid, and in so doing, separating the water from its impurities. With that done, the water spirit carried the fresh water into the canteen, and Runan enjoyed a small sip.
“Impressive,” said Santauros. “It takes a considerably skilled shaman to manipulate the spirits with such finesse.”
Runan paused, his head cocked thoughtfully to the side. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He moved deeper into the city. The sun was beginning to set, and he wished they had arrived earlier, or camped, then waited till morning to come here. But the moon, already bright in the sky, would cast enough light to make out the general surroundings, and Runan summoned a few small light spirits to help illuminate the way.
***
It was close to midnight when they discovered the clearing. The sand in the area gave way to hard soil and clay, and the dark forms of petrified trees lined a large rectangular clearing, as if forming a fence. It was a space almost devoid of construction, yet the layout of the area was no less artificial; it had once been a large garden or field of some kind. Aside from the trees, however, no vegetation remained, and those trees were as solid and stiff as the metal statue that stood in the clearings center. Runan had seen many statues in the likeness of God, but each one still held for him a sense of wonder. It was a bizarre creature, bipedal, and muscular, with two legs, two arms, and a body devoid of hair, save for the short curls atop its head and two lines just above the eyes. The form would have been fully straight and erect if were standing, but this particular statue was sitting on a rock, with its chin resting on its hand, the elbow resting on the knee. Its face looked downward, and its expression was on of deep concentration.
Runan brushed aside some dirt to make out the symbols etched into the metal below. Despite the heavy rusting, he was able to discern the engraving:
THE THINKER
He had no idea what the symbols meant. Santauros stepped up behind him, touching the tips of his claws together in reverence. “We call this one the Contemplation of Self. This form seeks its answers by looking within.”
Runan looking up into the eyes of the statue. “Hmmm. Unsurprising. The likeness of God was notoriously self-absorbed.”
“Ha! And I suppose a Seeker wouldn’t know about self-contemplation?”
Runan frowned. “We seek the outward answers, the mysteries of the greater being. We seek the likeness of God so that through their discoveries, we may be able to discern greater purpose than our lower kind can discover for themselves. They left behind a great legacy. It would be a waste to ignore it, in favor of stubbornly looking in the mirror for answers.”
“And yet, by attempting to discern the bigger picture, aren’t you also trying to see your own place inside it? To see the dreams of the world is to see the reflection of the Great Soul. The likeness of God was the closest to the Great Soul, and thus to see their dreams, one might better see the Great Soul. And when one sees the Great Soul, they may recognize themselves within it, and know their true purpose. Isn’t that right?”
Runan said nothing, his head lowered so that his beak lay across his chest as he processed Santauros’s words. Then he merely turned and started to exit the clearing. “I have seen all I need to see. This place holds fewer answers than I sought.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” said Santauros. “Come with a few and leave with a lot. The Question is as much a curse as it is a purpose, eh?”
Runan opened his beak to respond, when there was a sudden moan in the air. A gust of wind blew by, throwing sand and dust at the two for a moment. Santauros’s tail arched forward and his claws raised, half open. Runan shifted into a defensive stance, his sword held before him, as he turned to face the noise. There was a swift rise in the disturbing energy that blanketed the city. Then, suddenly, the moan came again, and dull greenish glow appeared behind a fallen chunk of a building a few yards away. The moan picked up again, and a shuffling sound could be heard as the glow traveled to the edge of the debris. The scorpion and penguin waited for the thing to reveal itself. When it did, Santauros cursed.
It was a creature in the likeness of God, but unlike the statue, its form was in tatters. It appeared to possess no skin, and large chunks of muscle were torn away, revealing white, cracked bones. Black, boiling blood dripped from its wounds, and its lipless mouth was open in a gasp of horror. It was surrounded by an aura of green fire, which made the two beasts nauseous as it lurched closer.
“A Fallen One!” shouted Santauros. He touched his claws together and prayed, a point of orange light forming between the claw tips. A bolt of mystic fire formed within his claws, shot back along the length of his body and up through his tail. With a whip-like snap of his tail tip, he launched the fireball at the skinless horror before them.
It shrieked in agony, but this only seemed to encourage its advance. Green sparks of energy began to crackle along its knuckles, and it thrust its hand out, launching a bright ball of green energy at Santauros. The scorpion leaped to the side, barely avoiding the projectile, which struck the debris behind him. The energy flashed momentarily with white heat against the side of the building, leaving a coal-black scorch mark and fusing the sand around it into glass.
Runan’s body again glowed with a nimbus of silver light, and he charged forward. The spiritual energy surrounding his body managed to protect him from the worst of the Fallen’s aura, but he still felt the nausea assault him. The silver light gathered along Runan’s wooden sword to create a shining blade of spiritual power, which cut through the Fallen easily. The ghastly creature shrieked, its tainted energy disrupted by the purity of Runan’s spirit blade. It staggered and choked on its own black blood.
Runan felt a surge of power behind him, and he leaped away as Santauros cast a bolt of lightning at the creature. This time, with its aura disrupted, the Fallen could not block the elemental magic, and was torn asunder. With a deafening scream, the Fallen appeared to vaporize before them, turning into intangible ash and fading away on the wind. The aura of negative energy dispersed. The two beasts were safe for now.
“We should leave immediately,” said Santauros. “If one has attacked us this soon, they may be concentrated here.” Runan hopped onto Santauros’s back, and the dire scorpion exited the city with haste. When they reached the edge, the two turned back, looking at the city’s silhouette in the moonlight.
“I wonder,” said Runan. “Has your kind managed to discern the source of the Fallen? Why do they always infest the dwellings of the likeness of God?”
“Perhaps they are just lost and seeking redemption,” said Santauros. “Perhaps they don’t want the rest of life on Earth to know the secrets their more worthy brethren obtained.”
“Perhaps,” said Runan. “But has anyone ever seen a Risen?”
“Some claim to have,” said Santauros. “But there’s never been proof.”
Runan nodded, and looked across the desert. “That is what I seek.”
“Oh?”
“Statues and barely decipherable texts are not enough,” said Runan. “And the Fallen will never tell us what they know, if indeed they know anything at all. The Seekers have gotten by on theories and speculation. That isn’t enough. I seek on the Risen, that I may be able to prove our theories at last.”
“What about faith, Seeker?”
Runan looked up to Santauros quizzically. The scorpion turned his claw in a shrug. “Consider what you saw in the city, Seeker. Did the likeness of God have such clear guides left to them in their time? Obviously, they were not simply handed the answers, or there would be no Fallen. And if they were, would the Risen really have deserved their ascension?”
“Perhaps the Fallen were to blinded by self-absorption,” said Runan. “Perhaps they could not see past themselves, as the Risen were able to.”
“Or perhaps the Risen were able to stop mindless searching for grand answers, and were able to sit down and contemplate what it was they were truly looking for. And perhaps they found it, and knew that only by self-discovery could one truly rise. Perhaps the Fallen were too busy trying to rip their answers from others, too desperate or lazy to do the work for themselves.”
Runan’s aura flickered brightly for a moment, and his fin curled tightly around his sword. Santauros merely looked at him calmly, claws and tail relaxed. Runan considered the scorpion’s words, and sighed, letting his aura die down.
“You may have a point,” said Runan. He turned to the south.
“Where are you going now, Seeker?” said Santauros.
“Within or without, the journey isn’t over. I go now to the Sunken City, in the Great Southern Bay. I thank you for the help, Santauros of Glass. May your days be prosperous and peaceful.”
“Good journey to you, Seeker Runan. May you find the answers you seek.”
The two parted, Santauros following the setting moon, and Runan following the call of the sea.
ONWARD.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE: This could be considered another “pilot episode” to a series, written for a creative writing class about eight years ago. The reason this series never too off is that I ultimately felt this one story more or less captured the “feel” of what ever subsequent story was going to be like: wanderer travels to an exotic location, encounters something dangerous and something interesting, then leaves with more questions than answers.
Likewise, I opted for a minimalist approach to the story, explaining very little, as I was curious to see what each reader’s interpretation of the stories themes and “symbolisms” were, probably because I was feeling pretentious. Any thoughts? Comment below!
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