The lost village

Photo: Clint McKoy

The busy marketplace was filled with dead creatures but not in the traditional sense.

It was not the festival of bridges when the dead came to revisit and reassure their loved ones. Nor were the bodies of the villagers strewn on the ground the result of some bloody war. Neither were they the decayed, flesh-eating Gashad beasts born from a dishonourable death.

All these would have been acceptable. Would have been better.

To the outside world, the dark-skinned natives of Tullu would have appeared perfectly normal. Humans and animals mingling, doing business in the late afternoon sun as usual.

A brown bear with pure black eyes haggling over the price of a hairbrush with a human vendor. Normal. A witch wrapped in stiff colourful wrappers, preparing potency potions for a white-haired mermaid and her tall warrior lover. Normal. A crocodile on its hind legs buying a whale’s tail. Weird, but still normal.

But the people—for lack of a better word—knew better. They were as one in spirit and manner. There was no anger, no joy, no madness. A lack of drive permeated their very beings, rotting them from the inside out, turning them into living corpses.

They were just mere shells. Shells waiting to be filled by something, anything. There was no reason for living, they just did. And what is life without purpose, if not death?

It had not always been this way. No. It had been far worse. There had been life.

Weak, emotional, selfish lives. Their lives were spent marinating and brewing in all manner of debauchery. Everything from infant cannibalism to orgiastic blood rituals. Chief among their “tourist attractions” was their religious whorehouse which satiated every sexual pleasure one could imagine.

Then came along a man. Caen, they called him. His mission? To “save” the people from themselves. And save them he did, in his own special way. From the day he wrought his special kind of magic, that was the beginning of the rest of their lives. Or to put it more accurately, death. For years they lived this way, subject to the enchantment created by Caen’s sinister blood magic.

But nothing lasts forever.

*

Amid the bustling nothingness, something stood out. Not to the people but to the environment. The ground shuddered with the light tread of his purposeful feet. The wind carried his leathery, sultry scent to flowers that had long gone dormant from boredom. He had a silver hoop through one ear and a shiny, shaved head. His name was Amar.

This man was no different from the rest of Tullu, with his beautiful ebony skin and perfectly symmetrical features. His eyes were what set him apart. But not because one pupil was black and the other blue. It was because, unlike the rest of the population, they held something aside from emptiness.

The people were not trained to notice such things and so paid no heed to him. And if Caen had set aside his pride and cruelty and looked closely, he would have seen the man for what he was—a detrimental addition to his otherwise perfectly controllable society.

  And so Amar’s business went on unnoticed. Had anyone been paying attention, they would have branded him a heathen, on account of his lack of hair. He was far from it. He was just unusual, even by the standards of Tullu, where daemons, talking animals, and diverse preternatural beings mingled freely with humans. He was there for one reason only: the shore of Tullu was home to someone he needed desperately.

“They were just mere shells. Shells waiting to be filled by something, anything. There was no reason for living, they just did. And what is life without purpose, if not death?”

Procuring what he needed wasn’t hard. Day-old hog’s blood and an infant’s spine were available at the same shop. Armed with those and spells taught to him from childhood, he set out for the sea bordering the town.

Soon, he was ready. Naked, his bald head gleaming with the golden light of late sunset, he stretched his hands to the sky and began to chant, sprinkling the blood as he did.

“Hear me, o great Valak. Angel of the dead eyes. Heed the cry of my mortal soul!”

A cold breeze began to blow from the sea and whipped even the sand on the beach into a scattered frenzy. This did little to discourage Amar. In contrast, he was more energized, a smile curving his lips as he proceeded to draw a summoning triangle on the sand using the infant’s spine.

“I do invocate, conjure, and command thee, O thou Duke of Kimaris, to appear and to show thyself visibly unto me without delay from all parts and places of the earth and world wherever thou mayest be, to make rational answers unto my demands.”

The swirling brown sand slowly took shape in the form of the angel. Sand solidified into a flame-haired figure with skin the colour of mahogany atop a midnight black horse. Brown turned to white as the angel’s clothing materialized as gleaming armour that hurt to look at. His eyes were no picnic either, just empty sockets.

Amar completed the triangle and rose to his feet, his head bowed in deference.

“Magician,” Valak’s voice was as nails on glass but Amar remained perfectly still, “will you not speak the words of constraint?”

“Great is my need my lord, that I seek to find favour where I can. And no man takes pleasure in captivity.”

“I am not a man.” His voice dripped with scorn. “And you are a fool.”

Amar refused to rise to the bait. Too much was at stake.

“Look at me.” The command had Amar’s head whipping up so fast he nearly got whiplash. Those nerve-racking eyes left him unable to keep his own eyes blank and some emotion bled through.

“A hopeful fool. What is it you would have?”

Amar took a deep breath. No going back now. “I do not come for myself but for my mother. She is unwell and would die at first light if I do not return successful.”

“Do you take me to be Marbas? I am no healer.”

“I seek the knowledge of the Pillars of Life.”

The Angel’s horse whinnied softly. A gust of wind from the sword in his hand scorched Amar’s skin.

“I am unable to conclude if you are a simple fool or desperate beyond all reason.” And he sounded uncaring too. “No living being has set eyes on the gardens of Mija, not to mention the Pillars themselves.”

“I am well aware, my lord. But you are he who reveals hidden treasures.”

“And what are you prepared to offer in exchange for so great and stupid a request?”

Amar was struck silent. Ever since he was a little magician, and in all his travels, no accounts he had read of the Mijun ritual had mentioned any sacrifices. Angels were obligated to do one’s bidding once successfully conjured. Now he feared he had insulted Valak, and his knees threatened to give out.

“I was not aware a sacrifice was required, my lord. Please forgive my impertinence.”

“You are not the first to make this error,” he replied.

“Then why is there no record of it?”

The Angel stared at him with those unnerving eyes without answering as he waited for Amar to figure it out himself. When he was satisfied with how pale Amar’s face had gone, he spoke.

“In exchange for the secret of the Pillars, you are to water the earth with the blood of a multitude of souls.”

“W–why?” Amar could not believe what he was asking.

“Did you think the price of eternal life would be cheap?” Valak was amused. “If it was so simple, countless immortals would walk the earth like ants.”

Amar didn’t know what to do or say. His grandmother was everything to him, and if he didn’t get to the pillars come morning, he would have no family left. And the sun had already given way to the cool, silvery beauty of night. Where could he possibly find a multitude of people to sacrifice on such short notice? Unless—

“There is a village. One that is infested with mindless creatures under the blood influence of a magician.” The words leaving Amar’s lips felt rigid and cold, the speech of a man.

The Angel’s lips curved into a cruelly triumphant smile. “You have an hour to death.”

He disappeared in a burst of flame, leaving behind sand burned into glass and a man naked and determined. 

Amar would have liked to think that he was incapable of such cold cruelty. Would that there was some excuse that validated taking the lives of innocent thousands. But no. The truth was he could care less about people whom he barely knew in contrast to the woman who had raised him. 

And so, he scrapped the triangle he had used to summon Valak, replacing it with an intricate network of circles and lines. As he did so, he began to recite:

“I call on the spirits of Gediel, Pamersiel, and Barmiel. Kings of the East lend me your horde so that they may serve my purpose and bring glory to you with their wickedness.”

When the shape was complete and dark shadows began to creep from the earth, he coated his hands with the remainder of the hog’s blood and bound the spirits.

“Spirits, I bind you to my will and silence your desires!”

True to form, the malevolent spirits remained shrouded in moving darkness and spoke as one with a slithery voice.

“What shall we do for thee, master magician?”

Sweat ran from Amar’s smooth head onto his barely lined face and into his sparse beard despite the cool sea breeze. One word from him and those spirits would be done in seconds. Some little part of him would always feel guilty for what he was about to do. But the larger part of him knew the spirits wouldn’t act if his heart wasn’t completely in it; the binding spell made sure of this.

“Kill.” No more words were needed. They could see his heart.

It was over in a matter of minutes. Screams rent the air as souls were removed from the face of the earth to the dark belly of the Otherworld. Amar whispered a spell to block his ears from the horrific sounds but could still hear them ringing in his mind. When it was all over and the air was coated with a strong metallic scent, he dispelled the spirits with a simple wave of his hand and sank to his knees in the sand.

His still naked body was trembling, but he had no time to waste on remorse. His hour was almost up. And so once again, he summoned Valak. 

“Well done, human.” This time, he appeared without the horse and the flaming sword. His flaming hair shone in the dark.

“My prize?” Amar asked in clipped tones.

One would think it was insolence that made Amar speak this way. But no. It was a fleeting emotion that made little sense to the Angel before him. Shame.

Shame at what his father would think if he saw him now.

“As I said before, no creature alive has seen the garden.” Something began to take shape at the booted feet of the Angel. “And no one ever will.”

The shape solidified into something that left Amar feeling puzzled and more than a little disappointed.

An apple.

Valak could read the emotions on his face clearly. “Deceiving, yes?”

“The pillars are . . . trees?” Amar’s tone was incredulous.

“Yes. And this fruit will grant whoever eats it the gift of eternal life.”

Amar stared at the apple without picking it up. He couldn’t believe it. He’d travelled so far from home and sacrificed an entire village. And for what? A damn apple. Granted it could make one live forever, but the packaging was just underwhelming. 

“Now that our business is complete, I leave you to your devices.” Something about Valak’s easy attitude niggled at Amar.

“You are not surprised that I succeeded. Why?”

The Angel was getting brighter and brighter as he disappeared. “You are human. And more like us than you realize.”

Amar stood there for a long while after he left, the apple in his hand.

Then he dressed himself, tucked the apple in with his belongings, and set out for his home. To his grandmother, who would live after all. But at a cost she will know nothing of. Nor will the rest of the world.

His footsteps rang out in the silent blood-soaked streets of the village. Even now, the blood seeped into the ground where it would bathe Valak’s throne below the earth. Bodies of winged daemons, ordinary humans, and once talking animals decorated the dust, piercing Amar with their lifeless eyes.

Hearing the slaughter and witnessing the aftermath were two very different things. Amar did not want to give himself the slightest chance for remorse. If he did, his guilt would crush him until he was nothing more than a pile of grave dust.

So, gathering what was left of his strength, he cast a spell over the village.

To this day, no one knows what it was, not even the magician himself.

No bard will sing of the great deeds of its heroes, for there were none. No grandmother will spin their tales by moonlight for eager children. Their stories are not fit for innocent ears. No old soul will reminisce about its good old days. They did not exist. The history books have been wiped clean.

Because where there was once a village called Tullu, there is now nothing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Plangdi Noel Neple is a Nigerian-based writer and graphic designer. He wrote his first short story at the age of fifteen, after spending years with books above his age grade. His preferred genre to read and write is fantasy, although he will pick up a Sophie Kinsella book once in a while. When not writing, he can be found solving some complex engineering problem.

You can read more of his work on Medium at https://noelneple.medium.com/.