The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (23 page)

The Registry

Herman Shudenbacher,

Chief Museum Curator and Record Keeper.

The 12
th
day of January, 1838, “Year of the Bull.”

Book #27
.  Entry #536.

Tinar,
Capital City of Mindere.

It being the first day of winter is fitting enough, for that which I am about to catalogue chills me to the bone.  The following pages contain word-for-word transcripts of two idolatrous scrolls unearthed beneath the ruins of a monastery deep within the salt mines along Mindere’s Eastern border.  The parchment of the originals are believed to have been made of human flesh and inked in human blood—a repugnant practice, to say the least.  No doubt, in the name of procuring the necessary components, some poor vagabond lost his or her life in a ceremonial sacrifice. It is an abomination which defies comprehension, enough to make one question one’s faith.  It is beyond puzzling how a benevolent God can allow such evil to flourish.  Fortunately, understanding and belief are not mutually exclusive.  That is, after all, the very foundation of faith.  But I digress.

Little is known of
this order’s ancient and secretive sect beyond that the Lectavian Monks were said to have been terribly cruel and to have practiced the darkest of magic.  Scrawled upon one of the two scrolls is a kind of perverse poem.  It is my opinion that its author was not very skilled in the art of rhyme and meter.  Even so, it does possess a certain vile candor which I suppose will appeal to some. 

Written upon the other scroll
is a set of laws which obviously were intended to govern the monks, a mandate of singular corruption, its unholy commandments clear, concise, and absolutely ghastly.  Both are unlike anything I have had the misfortune of reading before.  To be sure, in the twenty-eight years since I was appointed head curator, nothing even remotely like this has crossed my desk.  I would greatly prefer to not soil the sanctity of this register with such filth, but have been ordered by the king’s personal secretary, and thus am duty-bound. 

My sincerest apologies go out to all who
, like myself, have the misfortune of reading these words.  The less offensive of the two scrolls contains the poem, so I will begin with that.  Again, I am deeply saddened that I was not able to prevail upon the powers that be, and am now forced to record something which is so utterly reprehensible.
 

Into The Waste he doth ride,

Fiery haired and fiery eyed,

A lost soul bearing a torch,

A grievous heart born to scorch.

Grief and pestilence will fill his wake,

Clad in doom for The Lost One’s sake,

Before, behind, to the left and right,

The land will cry and wither from sight.

The center cannot hold, it never could,

All that was and will is lost for good,

Foolish children with their heads in the sand,

Gracious master with powers so grand.

“Life is not for the living!
” he says with a grin.

“
It is for the ruination of all without sin!”

A painting on a wall,

A
portal unto a place,

Come hither my children,

Grasp hands and say grace:

I promise to spoil the land,

A
nd take the souls that I must,

I promise to devour the flesh
,

A
nd leave the bones for dust,

I promise to drink the blood,

Be
fore the altar of tears,

I promise to heave m
y bile,

A
cross the span of years!”

Following this loathsome poem, is the list of commandments I expounded upon above, the lines of which made one archeologist so sick that he was unable to continue with the excavation.  In fact, he left that very day, never to return.  And it was quite fortunate for him that he did, for within six months of discovering the ruins, all five of his colleagues were dead, afflicted by a wasting illness that caused high fever and delusions of demonic creatures visiting them in the night.

Indeed, not
even he escaped the ordeal unscathed.  Once a hale and hearty man of thirty-two, he soon grew weak, melancholic, and reclusive to the extreme.  It is said that he now keeps thick drapes on his windows as he, in addition to his other many ailments, has developed a particular sensitivity to light.

Soon after
the aforementioned tragedies, the mine was sealed by the Minderian government, never to be opened again.  Unfortunately, in spite of my VERY vocal protestations, rather than being burned, as they should have been, the scrolls were then locked away in our most secure museum vault for future “study”, no more than twenty feet from where I now sit—not a comforting thought, I assure you. 

Th
e immoral manifesto by which the monks apparently lived is recorded below, but I warn you, read on at your peril.  While theoretically safe, even a transcription of the original text is not for the faint of heart.  Truth be told, I have not felt like myself since their arrival.  My nerves are strung as tight as piano wires, and I am so tired that I can scarcely keep my eyes open.  It is, in all probability, nothing more than stress.  After all, I am an old man, and this has been very taxing.  Herein lies the dilemma: something deep down in my subconscious disagrees, imploring me to flee this place and seek refuge in the nearest chapel.  What is more, even as I write this, I am wearing a twice blessed talisman of warding around my neck that, for good measure, has also been dipped in holy water.  I can not quite make myself leave.  I wish I could.  Whether it be from an overdeveloped sense of duty, denial, or both, I do not know.  Either way, I have made my choice, and now it is time for you to make yours.

Whatever you d
ecide, and I cannot emphasize this enough, do NOT read the text aloud, do not read it at night, and do not read it alone.  Likely nothing untoward will occur, but if there is even the slightest possibility of invoking the dark forces bound to the scrolls, it is simply not worth the risk.  And, of course, if at any point while you are reading, should you start to feel ill, close this registry IMMEDIATELY and seek medical attention.  Or even better, close it now and never open it again.  Please!  I beseech you.  I cannot imagine a need great enough to justify the risk.

Should the wrong person read what I have written here today,
these pages will be stricken from this record and replaced with something less inflammatory, and I will likely be left to rot in a cell until my death.  It is my fervent hope that this will adequately illustrate the seriousness of the situation and impel you to do the right thing.

Sincerely,

Herman Shudenbacher

At this point, if you are still reading, then clearly I can do nothing more to dissuade you. I have gone to considerable trouble, risking my family’s good name and perhaps even my freedom, to keep you from harm.  My conscience is clear.  But if you MUST read on, please at least heed what I have said: do not read it aloud, do not read it at night, and do not read it alone.  May Rodan bless you and keep you from harm.

Th
is pact you make with your new God.

Now bow
and recite the unholy commandments:

I shall do Thy will, and Thy will alone.

I
shall kill or be killed.

I
shall eat the flesh and blood of man.

I
shall think only of Your glory.

I
shall pillage and burn the land.

I shall expel Thy filth.

I shall spread Thy disease.

I
shall corrupt the innocent.

I shall
befuddle the wise.

I
shall kill all who oppose Thee.

Book of Shadows:  Danutritis 5:10

Neverending
Tapestry

Feeling like a character in a book that had once been reputable but had since become too ridiculous for words, Andaris reached up and rang the little brass bell.  It made a tinkling sound that set his teeth on edge, echoing around him for a surprisingly long time, flitting here and there like some crazed hummingbird.

When there was no response, he paused for what he deemed to be the appropriate, or rather
respectful, interval—nothing quite so annoying as someone hanging on the bell when you’re moving as fast as you can—and rang it again.  The note on the door seemed innocuous enough.  But what if, in fact, it was some sort of warning.  What if, for instance, instead of saying, “Popped out for some milk, be back in a jiff,” it said, “All who have the unmitigated gall to ring the little brass bell shall be beheaded in an immediate and altogether unexpected fashion.”

Andaris suppressed another titter and, with his hand halfway to the bell, tried the handle instead.  To his
relief and immense distress, the slender brass handle turned.  He opened the door a crack, just to confirm that he could, and then closed it again, making as little noise as possible 

Now he had no choice.  There was nothing he could do but go in.  If no one had answered and the door had been
barred, he could have gone back down to the platform with dignity intact.  His skin broke out in gooseflesh.  There was something beyond this door that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.  He had the sense that if he entered, he would come out a changed man—if he came out at all—and maybe not changed for the better.

N
evertheless, he’d painted himself into a corner, and now his dignity, pride, and self-respect were on the line.  Thus, once again, he reached for the handle, turned the handle, and cracked open the door, perking his ears to what sounded like, of all things, the faint strains of harpsichord music drifting from the other side.

Where there’s music, there’s people,
he reasoned.  Which would probably be either a very good or a very bad thing.  Stealing himself for whatever lay beyond, he pushed the door wide.

It turned out that what
lay beyond
was as different from the door in personality and style, as he was different from a hippopotamus.  The interior glittered so brightly that, for a moment, he had to shield his eyes.  Even so, he smiled, basking in the warmth of the firelight.  It was so much more wholesome than the diffused glow to which he’d become accustomed.

Every
six feet or so, the walls were decorated with golden sconces—lantern-shaped devices with glass faces and sharply pointed tops, each housing a large white pillar candle.  

When his vision cleared, he could see that he stood before an immense ballroom of most extravagant design.  The wooden floor
reflected almost as well as a mirror, center boasting a highly polished mosaic, depicting, in varying shapes and shades, a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line.

The room was a hundred yards across if it was an inch, its tri-arched ceiling almost too beautiful to behold—exquisitely bejeweled by a mosaic which was much more in
volved than the one below.

The hands of many skilled artisans
had affixed thousands of multicolored glass shards, each piece, no matter how insignificant, set lovingly into place to create images of unparalleled realism.  In this case, the whole was
definitely
greater than the sum of its parts. Andaris could see the workers in his mind’s eye, standing atop towering scaffolding to reach their masterpiece, their life’s ambition, every shard handled and affixed with a reverence that few would ever know.

The candle flames danced amongst the glass with unabashed glee, refracting the colors to the eye with a species of beauty that was, in its own way, as breathtaking as anything he’d ever seen.  In the center of the center arch was a glass dragon, red eyes blazing, talons outstretched, wings frozen in mid-flap.  In the center of the arches to either side, were round shields
bearing the now all-too-familiar emblem of a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line.

When Andaris was able to pull his eyes away from the dragon, he turned his attention to the rest of the room, the walls of which were constructed of large slab
s of sandstone, stagger-stacked atop one another to add strength as well as visual interest.

Twenty-foot tall doors loomed directly ahead, silver rectangles adorned with white horses rearing in defiance, nostrils flaring, eyes wild, each set in
bold relief against a field of brushed gold.

The wall to his right was interrupted every few feet or so by a window—three in all, two of the three
sporting the ever-popular half-moon top, strongly reminiscent of the one in Ashel’s tower, the one through which Andaris had so blithely peered.  These, however, were screened by gossamer thin lattice that had been fashioned into elaborate floral patterns, and they didn’t, at least as far as he could tell, look out upon the product of one’s demented imagination.

Last, but certainly not least, the wall to his left was covered entirely by a plush tapestry of fine and intricate design.  The Lenoy were apparently very fond of
such visual foolery, for like the chessboard entrance above, the tapestry was a perfect copy of the room in which he now stood, every detail painstakingly stitched, including another tapestry within the tapestry—and another, and another, and another, telescoping into infinity.  It was enough to make his head spin.

A p
erfect copy except for one thing: the woven versions had something the real one did not—people.  It was a costume party, a masquerade, and everyone was dancing, figures locked in a rigid waltz, every step precisely coordinated.

The women wore colorful dresses with bell-shaped skirts, figures ringing from side to side, faces covered by feathered masks
painted with loud, garish expressions.

The men wore black suits, pants pinstriped with silk, jackets wagging cotton tails as their owners spun about, shirts blooming
with white lace cravats which grew in width from chest to chin, adding flair to what might have otherwise been mundane—compared to the women, at least, whose rainbow silks glistened in the firelight like springtime at dawn, reminiscent of all that is fresh and clean and pure.  Only their masks hinted at what might lurk beneath.  Something unseemly, no doubt—women, or rather sweetly scented wolves, crouching in the brush of that perfect dawn, waiting to strike.

The longer Andaris stared at the scene, the more realistic it became.  He was now standing before the tapestry’s center, only inches from the fabric, marveling at the
phenomenal depth of detail.  He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there.  Indeed, at present, he was so enthralled he scarcely cared.

When last he’d been aware of himself, he’d been staring at the tapestry from the end of the room, and now he was here…in the middle.  He supposed he must have walked…
.  Or waltzed.

It was an odd sensation, to say the least, to find oneself in an empty ballroom, staring at folks dancing in a copy of the ballroom in which one stood.  He suddenly longed to join in. 
Which also was odd.  He’d always dreaded the annual barn dances back home, but something about this called to him.  He perked his ears, listening once again to what sounded like faint strains of harpsichord music.  His focus sharpened, drawing a bead on the face of the man nearest him.

He had thought
man, but that wasn’t quite right, was it?  These people weren’t exactly people, now were they?  Weren’t exactly
human.
  It was something in the way they held themselves, in their bearing.  They were tall and graceful, possessed of high, noble foreheads, much like his own—though he’d never thought of his like that—widow peaks accentuated by slicked black hair, sapphire eyes twinkling in the firelight.

This
must be the Lenoy,
he realized, rubbing his right temple, annoyed that, at a time like this, another headache was coming on. 
And even if you allow for certain…embellishments by the artists, how regal they must have been in life. How beautiful.

Despite his growing discomfort, his concentration
focused to a white-hot point.  He imagined what it would feel like to be inside the tapestry, walking amongst these majestic creatures of style and grace.  The music grew louder, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.  His headache began to keep the beat, as it were, pounding in time.  One, two, three, back and spin. One, two, three, back and spin.  And so on.

And then a most curious thing began to happen,
had been happening, in fact.  The most curious thing about this curious thing—beyond, of course, it happening at all—was that he was just now becoming aware of it.

Aware of the fact that t
he figures in the tapestry were
actually
dancing, stopping and starting with brief, jerky movements, bodies outlined by bright auras, shifting from one color to the next, changing with the music.

The longer he watched, the smoother the dance became, until eventually they twirled about the floor like gods with unparalleled poise, the fluidity of their steps broken only by the occasional streamer of light.  Apart from this, which he had decided was merely an interruption in his ability to perceive them, the dance was flawless.
  Now his feet, as well as his head and heart, began to keep time with the music.

At which point, enthralled though he was, he bore witness to something that replaced the eager smile on his face with a frown.  On the far side of the room, or rat
her tapestry, beyond the dancers, he saw a man with his back turned toward him, staring at the first tapestry within the tapestry, tapping his foot in time to the music, just as Andaris was.  The man had long brown hair and a pack-of-everholding, just as Andaris did.

It’s me,
he thought with sudden, albeit belated, inspiration, headache intensifying at the sight of his woven doppelganger telescoping into infinity.  At this juncture, Andaris did as any quasi-sane person in his position would have—he turned to see if he was still alone…and breathed an immense sigh of relief. 

He
was
alone.  The room
was
empty.  He was not staring at himself from the far wall of the
actual
room.  Neither was he, as much as a part of him wanted to be,
inside
the tapestry.  Thank Rodan.

The dance going on behind him was mer
ely a bit of ancient magic leftover by the Lenoy, something he had inadvertently triggered upon entering the room.  It was either this, or he had finally gone from quasi-sane to completely and irretrievably insane.  For the present he chose to believe the former—as a man thinketh in his heart so is he, and all that. 

The annoying thing was, just as he was turning back around to the tapestry, he saw, highlighted by bright auras of light, ghostly figures…dancing.  In the
real
room—
his
room.

Instead of crying out in panic and sprinting for the door, Andaris did as any quasi-sane person in his position would
not
have done, which forced him to reevaluate his previous assessment.  Responding to some inner compulsion over which, for the moment, he had no control, he ignored the figures dancing all around, and finished turning back to the tapestry.

As ludicrous as it was, more than ever he wanted to join in, to initiate himself into this strange and beautiful dance that was somehow so familiar. 
One, two, three, back and spin.  One, two, three, back and spin.  One, two, three, back and spin….