“What do you know of the dark events of recent days, Shaman? Why have you left the village and come to the sea?” the chieftain asked.
“I know of those events, but they are not of darkness. They are the signs of a new light that will shine on the world!” the shaman cried out. “I will no longer be tied to the menial tasks I have done for you and your weak people. Your sick children and pregnant women and your insistence on worshipping false gods are of no interest to me now!”
“False gods! Shaman, what has happened to you? How dare you speak of the gods with such hatred?”
“I have seen beyond mortal superstition, old friend, and found the glory of gods greater than the weak things you worship. You have gods for the rain and gods for the wind and gods for the things that grow in the fields and gods of love and war and peace and wisdom and every other pitiful concern of man! Why should gods be tied to the worries of men and women and children? Think about that! A true god is beyond all that, not to be understood by the simple minds of fools like you and those clumsy, ax-wielding primitives that follow you to the ends of the land! Yes, I know of the events of which you speak. I caused such things to occur. The mystery would bring you to me; this I knew and it has come to pass. Now you stand before me as I wished!”
Even from a distance, Ralim and the others could see the chieftain’s body tense, one hand tightening around the handle of his ax and the other forming a white-knuckled fist.
“Why have you brought us here?” Urlock asked. His voice was loud with anger. “What is this trickery for? If you have become a sorcerer who would make the dead walk, why should I not climb to where you stand and cut you down?”
“You may try,” said the shaman, and his voice rose in a wicked, high-pitched laughter, mocking and crazed.
The chieftain roared in anger, held his ax high, and began to run up the gradual incline of the side of the mound. Behind him, his followers gripped their weapons and readied themselves for action.
The chieftain moved quickly, reached the top, approached the shaman and swung his ax. The shaman, faster than an old man should be able to move, stepped aside, the heavy blade gliding past him, missing both flesh and the cloth that covered it. He cried out, a strange sound bursting from his throat as he lunged at the chieftain, shoving him.
Urlock fell backwards, the ax let loose from his grip to tumble down the side of the mound with its possessor following. It was a clumsy tumble down onto the sand, not the sort of fall that breaks bones or shatters skulls. But when the descent was over, the chieftain did not rise.
Ralim was the first to break the line and run to Urlock. He reached the older man and looked down at him, then turned to face his fellow villagers.
“His eyes are empty! He is dead!” Ralim called out. He turned back toward the mound, looked up at the shaman. “Grandfather of mine you may be, but this cannot go unavenged!”
The shaman laughed.
Ralim lifted Urlock’s body, carried it back to the men. “We will all strike at once. No dark sorcery can slay us all.”
“I can hear your words, young warrior,” the shaman taunted from his perch. “Do not be so sure of yourself.” And he turned his back on the band of men and faced the sea.
“What is he doing?” Simm asked.
“I do not know,” Ralim said, “but we must be ready, for he has clearly gone insane and will try more trickery against us.”
On the mound, the shaman had begun to chant. Strange syllables flowed from his lips, loud and alien and powerful in their weirdness. His arms were raised now, hands moving forward and back in arcane gestures, as if signaling to the very ocean itself, as if communicating with the mighty waves that stretched on to the horizon. As the shaman sang to the sea, the tide began to churn, the movement of the water turned violent.
The sea spit forth life. Great creatures crawled up onto the beach. Huge monstrous pale forms, like immense worms, each the length of five or even six men, appeared out of the waves. There were a dozen of them, moving fast, sea beasts adapting quickly to the land.
The warriors stood stunned for a moment, trembling at the horrible sight. Ralim was the first to regain his senses. He held his sword high for his companions to see and cried out, “Destroy the abominations!”
Remembering their bravery, the men rushed into the chaos of battle against the foul demons of the waves.
Swords and axes met thick white hides. Slime flew from the flesh of the worms, covering men in wet muck, making the sand slick and slippery. One warrior was sucked into the gaping mouth and shredded by rows of razor-teeth. The tails of the worms thrashed to sweep men aside with crushing blows.
“Feast, children of the sea!” screamed the shaman as he looked down on the battle, his eyes wild with wonder.
*****
Garo had witnessed the coming of the worms from where he stood far behind the crowd. He saw the splattering blood and flying slime, heard the cries of pain from warriors struck down and consumed by the mouths of invading monstrosities. He could see his grandfather up on the mound. Garo’s mind was conflicted. The horrors on the beach frightened him, but he could not tear his devotion to the shaman from his heart. He began to run, making a wide arc around the edges of the fight, staying clear of the battle as he hurried to the edge of the water and cut across a safe path to the back of the mound. He began to climb, short legs and small hands working up the side of the hill. Reaching the top, he stood before the white-haired old man, the one who had taught him bits of lore and wisdom over his seven summers and winters of life.
“Grandfather … what has happened to you?”
The shaman looked down at his visitor. Anger flashed across his face, then doubt, and, finally, some sort of affection, love tainted by madness.
“Grandson, for you to come to me shows that you are braver by far than all the confused fools below. Come and sit with me and see what great Dagon has wrought.”
Garo did not know the word. “What is Dagon?”
“Something quite wondrous, boy! For all the years of my long life, I wanted only to know the secrets of the world and of time and of life. I thought I knew of those things through the legends of our people, but there is more in the sea and the stars and the shadows than most men will ever dare imagine. My dreams have changed in recent months, Garo, and the true gods have called out to me, shown me things, granted me the power to be one with them. Great Dagon has become my teacher, my guide, the missing piece of my life. Dagon has shown me the way … and now I have opened the path for Him to take what he deserves. This world will be His again, as it was in days long forgotten by the men who now walk this earth. What you see before you now, child of my child, is a miracle!”
Garo looked down at his grandfather’s miracle. The men of the village fell before the writhing horrors that had crawled out of the sea. Simm ran and screamed, his left arm torn from his shoulder. Another young man, a farmer, died, crushed beneath the weight of one of the immense worms.
“Grandfather, make it stop!” Garo pleaded.
“But my dear boy,” the shaman howled, “it is only beginning! What you see there, grabbing hold of the land, are only the fingers of mighty Dagon! Those are the least of the powerful things that will come from the sea. Soon, all will be ruled by Dagon and the priests of the elder god will oversee the people of the world. You will be as I am, Garo, a king among men, intermediary of the great mind beneath the waters!”
As he listened to his grandfather’s words, Garo’s mind filled with images. He saw the awful things that had risen out of the water writing snakelike across the land, nearer and nearer to the village. He saw his mother torn to pieces by those horrible mouths. He saw his own future and wondered if he could possibly grow to be what his grandfather now was: a wild-eyed, white-haired old man, crazed and arrogant and so terribly changed from the gentle teacher and healer he had been only days before. Garo abhorred the waking nightmare that singed every section of his imagination. He would not become that, would not go
down that dark road.
Garo willed the visions to go away. He focused his eyes on reality, on the bloody sight down on the beach. As he watched, one of the sea beasts turned quickly, the pale, wet head swinging around to grasp Ralim in its jaws.
“No!” Garo screamed as he saw the sword fall from his brother’s hand, saw Ralim slide further into the creature’s mouth, heard the giant jaws snap shut and watched the throat convulse as it swallowed.
Ralim was gone. Garo’s mind flooded with grief and shock and again the visions of the future his grandfather had foretold swam through his brain. He would not become that.
He turned back toward the shaman, his instincts pushing him forward. He lunged, shoved the frail old man with all the might his small body could gather.
The shaman slipped, tumbled, thumped down the side of the mound like a stone down a small hill. On the sand at the bottom, the shaman struggled and stood, tried to scramble back up the mound, but a cry from behind stopped him in his tracks. He turned, hollered out as a young warrior rushed him. A sword between the ribs silenced him. He would call out to Dagon no more.
Garo saw his grandfather fall, but felt no sorrow, for his tears were for Ralim. With a mind attuned by nature to the ways of the unseen forces of the world, Garo felt the breaking of a great chain as the link between the shaman and ancient, hidden Dagon was severed.
The worms of the sea scurried back into the deep. The remaining men of the village, their number diminished by more than half, stood or knelt or crawled in stunned amazement at the battle’s abrupt end. The sand was stained with blood and slick with slime.
*****
It was Garo who led the survivors of the battle back to the village, though he did so without conscious intent. He climbed down from the mound, stood over Ralim’s sword for a while, his face dripping with tears for his lost brother. Behind him, the remaining men sat stunned upon the sand, too horrified and grief-stricken to go on.
But when they saw Garo, who at his age should have been trembling, whining, and calling for his mother, pick up his brother’s sword, struggling to bear its weight, and begin to walk back in the direction from whence they had come, some of their will and courage returned, for none among them would ever feel whole again if a little boy showed more resolve than all the grown men of the village. It was a long, march back home, slowed by the stumbling of the wounded and the tiredness of those who had fought so hard, but eventually the familiar stone wall that protected the grouping of huts was in sight.
None of the surviving villagers would ever forget how the shaman had gone mad. It was a time that would be spoken of in the lore of the people for generations to come. Even many centuries later, when some among the people doubted the truth of the legend, it would still have the power to strike fear into the hearts of those who listened to its retelling.
*****
Garo had not spoken since the terrible day at the beach. He gripped his mother’s hand tightly as the procession of survivors began the journey west. The elders had elected to abandon the village and move the settlement far from the sea.
When night fell and the travelers camped, Garo sat staring at the fire.
“You cannot remain silent forever, little one,” his mother said. “Your people need you to grow up and guide them as your grandfather did for most of his years.”
Garo turned to face her. He uttered words for the first time in days.
“No. I will never sit and speak with spirits as shamans do. I will be a warrior like Ralim, and I will kill men like Grandfather and the evil gods they serve!”
END
You have just finished reading
SHADOWS OVER AMERICA, BOOK 1:
AN EXODUS OF WORMS
by Aaron Smith
This story is part of the Single Shots Signature Series.
Edited by Brad Mengel
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
Director of Corporate Operations-Morgan McKay
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers
Cover Art by Jeff Hayes
E-book Design by Russ Anderson
Pro Se Productions, LLC
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