Post by erasmus on Jan 26, 2021 18:27:12 GMT
A small leather-back journal abandoned on the step leading to the ancient tabernacle is left open, pages fluttering in the desert breeze. The pages, darkened and crisped by the daylong sun, are mostly legible enough to read. On the first page, centered, small-writ and elegant:
To Cassilda, with whom I share all my journeys.
In it are the accounts of a handful of expeditions. It speaks of abandoned shrines and moss-overgrown ruins, of astrological oddities and the diplomatic footnote as an ode to a once-Queen. Most notable is its final few pages, their lower corner blotted and stained with dark, red ink.
Day five in the desert temple. Morning.
How silent and grave it has been, and what a turn! Not intending humor in that statement, considering the tomb of which we are studying. Oh, Cassilda, I hope that you had seen at least a fraction of such sights as we had last night! But it is impossible for me to describe to you the true caliber of what celestially powerful and awe-inspiring events have occurred. I will do my best for you, as I know you enjoy reading as if in our very company, while you wait for sleep to take you.
As I have mentioned in previous entries, the heat of the desert has begun to wane the spirits of good old Gideon and I, but we felt our instincts about the empty, peculiar hall in the tomb below were coming to a head and leaving at such a time offered the feeling of doing so just at the foot of knowing. How right we were! But I digress, of the scalding dryness of the desert we pleaded (humorously, as Gideon is a rooted atheist and I have my own doubts) to the sky for some relief! Ah, as an ant prays for just a single drop of rain! Perhaps, and maybe it sounds silly, there were gods with listening ears after all, for what rain did come! Meteor showers that poured from the eastern quadrant of Nyar's Throne in the midnight sky! A brightness so full one would think they could touch it! It was beautiful, Cassilda, but no fear, it was no more beautiful or relieving than the sight of you.
It was then, just before dawn at that twilight hour in which one so superstitious fears as the deathly time, that the sound footsteps came from a place formerly of such unearthly quiet that the sound had the illusion of thunder -- what a fright it gave us, I swear to it that even stony Gideon quivered, but he denies it with a fury. If the dead would walk! No, my love, it was not a corpse that rose from that great sepulcher. Indeed, were I a less creative lunatic, I might have thought it was one of those gods answering our prayers: as he rose from that deathly hall, there was about him a strange and tentative darkness that looked as though bound, unfittingly, to his flesh. Something like shadows formed from him cobwebs or tendrils or tentacles, but I shudder to think about it. His eyes are not like our eyes; they are cruel and cold and unnerving to bear, but they held more wonder in them than could allow for hostility. When his head rose, the larger of the moons lounged in the curve of his horns like a lazy yellow feline in a bough. There is gold writ on him as though his skin has been fixed with a richness, like a pharaoh's scars.
He gurgled or growled something but it was not our language, if it was a language at all, and he turned curiously to the broken obelisk centered on the temple path. By the world, Cassilda, the obelisk glowed! We stole back away from the scene, but we could not leave – how could one run from such a marvel? I meant to study the radiant inscriptions that erupted from the granite face of that stone, but they are of old hieroglyphs that would take me days more to translate, and no sooner did I realize this than they had dulled once more, and I saw that the man was looking at us again. “I am hungry,” he said, but I am not certain if these were words or a gesture, as I cannot remember now, I was too caught up in the moment. What I do remember as a sound was more like a hum or a drone, and there may have been syllables in between as heavy and resonant as rocks dropped in a deep valley.
We swiftly picked through our packs and shared with him some of what we had to offer: fine oats, lettuce, echinacea and peppermint. He ate them without much comment, and he seemed to be fairly displeased as he did not finish the small amount we gave, but he did not complain at all. Instead, he stared at the fading stars for a silence that seemed to last an eternity, before Gideon's voice broke the ungodly ambiance that was beginning to settle. He engaged the dark stranger in a discussion of his origins, and though we feel as little understanding now than we did to begin with, there is one thing we gathered: I think we were right, Cassilda! I think the dead-ended hall in the tomb beneath the temple is a doorway! Not the type of doorway you are thinking of, but one like in that madman's books where we read about holes between worlds! The stranger relented very little, as his answers were often one-worded and cryptic, sometimes not sounding like words at all but a desert wind or the growling of some beast, and through much of our questions he stared at the sky until all the stars had gone out.
Day five in the desert temple. Evening.
I am feeling doubts about our new audience, Cassilda. Is that awful? We invite this poor, half starved man into our midst from some incomprehensible dimension and here I am having the most unwelcome thoughts about him in less than a day. I cannot explain where these feelings come from. He says that he is still hungry, but he would not finish any helpings of the greens we have provided to him. Gideon thinks that the man may be thirsty, so he is preparing to make a trip to the oasis in the morning to refill the water satchel, as we plan on staying a little longer to study the tomb. But now, I do not know if I want to stay, even if it means we must return at a time in which this stranger is not here. Is it in poor manners for us not to bring him back home so he may have a bed and a fulfilling meal? Maybe I am just bewildered from all of the events. Perhaps in the morning I will feel better.
To be honest, I am worried about being left here with the strange man while Gideon fetches us more supplies. He hasn't shown me any ill will, I know. But my mind is racing. Why is he hungry, but he does not eat? How has he come here through that tomb, even if by some passageway between worlds? Why did the obelisk answer him, when he did not speak in any worldly tongue? Certainly, not a language of our world, I can fully ascertain. I will sleep on it, maybe my dreams will bring me answers.
Day six in the desert temple. Morning.
I wrote down the runes of the hall in the back of this journal. I think, after looking at them once more, that they are similar to the runes displayed on the obelisk. They are peculiar and unnatural-seeming, their geometry is dissimilar to any other writing that I have seen in my studies or travels. I believe that I will have to compile them and compare them with my other studies and try to find something that is as close as possible. There are a few more cursory things that I wish to examine about the temple, but the runes are most important to me now. I am comforted that I might be able to end our venture soon and return to the security of our home. When Gideon returns, he will take the last of his own notes, and I believe we have resolved to move on from there.
Last night Gideon and I spoke, and our feelings on the matter are mutual and final. We will not ask the stranger to accompany us, as mutinous and cruel as that may sound. We have told him where the oasis is, and there is enough sustenance there for one to gather before making the long trek to the northern wilds, which is the direction we told him to go from there. May those in the jungle fare well with him, I think they are better prepared for oddities of this nature.
I am biding my time now, dusting these stones and finalizing my studies. I cannot explain how unnerving my discussion with the man was earlier, as the feeling was purely visceral, but let me put it this way: would you stand and converse with a forest cat whilst he licks his fangs? The man interrupted our friendly conversation this morning to note the nature of our teeth when he saw his reflection on the smooth face of the dark obelisk. His teeth, Cassilda! How have I not noticed until then? His teeth are sharp and curved, like that fearsome cat! And two pairs of them, as if for cleaving and tearing! I had to stifle a shiver when I did notice, because I would not have a devil see my fear, were it a devil, a forest cat, or something worse. I did not remark on how only predators have such teeth, though the thought leapt wildly in my mind.
Here I am, praying to those desert sky gods that may or may not be there that Gideon will return soon. I cannot bear to look at this man any longer, I cannot help but stare at those teeth now and notice how the darkness in his eyes swarm the emptiness like clouds escorting a storm. I am almost done taking notes. I will be home to you soon, love, though not ever soon enough. I don't think I will ever venture to a place like this again.
Night
–– (illegible writing) hiding behind a rock (illegible stretch of words) hurts! The bastard is a devil indeed! (blotted string of incomprehensible inscription) shadow in the desert. Gideon is dead – Damn the dark of night! If this (illegible) I love you, Cassilda, from the bottom of my
