Ascension
By Eric B. Larsen
Copyright 2013 Eric B. Larsen
***
A large, yet strangely quiet procession was moving up a worn dirt path through the forest. The child walking stoically at the front of the group had no choice regarding the deadly ritual he was about to participate in. Nobody ever did. Alix was a child-warrior of the most powerful of the warrior tribes, and, as such, was expected to follow in the footsteps of his violence-prone ancestors. If he completed the ritual that lay before him, he would be one step closer to being declared a Guardian. In fact, his whole life was centered on this journey. If he emerged successfully from all seven of the rituals, he would be a nearly invincible member of the tribe, for at the successful completion of each ritual a gift was received from the clan’s Shaman. These gifts were crucial to a Guardian’s strength, yet no one really knew what the gifts were. Each gift was a secret until bestowed, and the receiver was never allowed to say, under penalty of death and family shame, what the gift was. However, before Alix could think of receiving gifts of any kind, he had to pass the first ritual, a test designed to kill him. In fact, each of the seven rituals was designed to kill the participant, and all seven were required to complete the Ascension process. It was not simply a matter of honor, it was one of responsibility. The Guardians kept the tribe safe by keeping the violent world they lived in at bay. The mantra of the clan was simple: Control the world to protect that which you loved. A Guardian was an essential tool in this constant struggle, and the clan of the child-warrior had controlled the world for as long as anyone could remember…by blood, death, and horrible, young sacrifice.
As if the pressure of death were not enough, Alix’s journey would be watched closely by the clan because he was the son of the Guardian Master, a position that carried as much respect as that of the king himself. Alix’s father was responsible for weapons training and developing Guardian tactics. As the son of such a man, Alix was held to an even higher standard, and Alix knew it. Such was the way of his people. Honor came first, and honor came from battle, conquest, or dying in the pursuit of either. It was not an enlightened existence if you asked Alix, but such thoughts were strictly forbidden.
Alix continued his trek up the dusty mountain trail and, as the sun set behind him, his quiet tribesmen followed grimly behind. The Cave of Woe was his destination. It was a dark, jagged, crack in the face of a large granite cliff. Located far up the mountain that looked down on his village, it was a lonely place where nobody ventured unless an Ascension ritual was taking place. It was a location people avoided because it just felt wrong. Alix would be given a task to complete upon entering the cave. The outcome of that task would be easy to determine. If he failed, he would never emerge from the cave again. Alix knew that failure meant a horrific death. It was this way with each of the seven Ascension rituals. They were designed hundreds of years ago and honed over the centuries to weed out the weak. Diabolical and cruel, the trials tested the mind, the body, and the soul.
Alix, breathing lightly, struggled to push these grim thoughts from his mind as he worked his way up the steep path toward the entrance to the cave. Although the crowd following was bundled against the cold, Alix was dressed in only a leather loincloth, as his father had instructed. His skin was slightly goose-bumped from the chilly mountain air. He was only sixteen seasons old, yet he was powerful for such a young boy. His muscles were strong from years of training, so the steep slope posed no challenge for him. As a potential Guardian his days were spent on physical exertion, weapons training, eating, and sleeping. His mother and father were there as well, keeping a short distance between them and their son. The procession was a quiet, somber one with no chanting, no songs, no music. This was not a time of celebration; it was a time of potential mourning. The chances of success were low. Few of the children who started the journey toward Ascension survived. There was a strong chance that the clan would never see Alix again and their somber mood reflected that.
Soon, the rocky trail leveled off as it reached a small clearing below a cliff gouged into the side of the mountain. The Cave of Woe’s dark entrance was visible, and resembled a black, menacing scar on the cliff face. Most of the tribe members averted their eyes, unwilling to look at it directly. Those who did dare look felt an involuntary shudder pass through them, a deep primal fear letting loose within. The cave was thick with magic from the tribe’s shaman, and at such a short distance, it was palpable. A powerful witch, the shaman and her ancestors were the chief architects of the Ascension tests. Each shaman added to the magic of the previous shaman. Centuries of incantations and spells were heaped on this cave. It took such magic to keep the Ascension tests functioning, a never-ending challenge. It was also the Shaman who would bestow the gift at the end of each Ascension test assuming the initiate survived. But, it had been some time since the Shaman had performed this part of her duties, which had become a worrisome trend of late. While the tribe knew vaguely what was inside the cave, no one knew what the hopeful initiate would have to do once the cave was entered. It was common knowledge that inside the cave were the corpses of the tribe’s fallen enemies. It was also known that the corpses were cursed in some way. In any land where violence is the favored negotiating tool battles are common. In the grim aftermath of these encounters, the Shaman would appear and scour the field for corpses. When she found a body of the tribe’s fallen enemy, she would inspect it for wounds. If there were limbs missing, which was common, she would move on to the next corpse. But if the body was still mostly intact, she would stare intently into the dead warrior’s face, holding the lids of the dead eyes open if necessary. Occasionally, she would look up and order a particular corpse to be brought to the cave. None knew what the difference was, but the shaman knew her craft well. She knew that if the dead warrior’s heart was truly black with hate, anger, and ignorance, a skilled witch could capture the soul of the dead warrior and bind it back to the warrior’s corpse. These hateful, black-hearted fiends were critical components of the first Ascension ritual, and the Shaman put these cursed souls to good use. Once the bodies were brought to the cave entrance, she would drag the corpses into the cave, one by one, and perform ancient spells while hidden from the eyes of the living. When finished, she would leave the newly undead warriors in the cave where they waited for years, kept alive with incantations and fueled by the desire to kill. The shaman’s curse froze these living corpses like statues, and only the rising of the monthly full moon would bring release. In the Cave of Woes, these undead maniacs would wait, day after day, unable to do more than stare while murderous thoughts of revenge drove them ever deeper into red madness. As the full moon climbed in the night sky, movement would slowly return to their stiff, rotting limbs. Their ability to function grew as the night wore on. Woe to the warrior who was still in the cave after midnight, for a fully thawed army of the undead would be howling for his life. These horrific facts were not known by any who now stood before the dark gash in the cliff face. This was the cave Alix was about to enter alone.
Thankfully, Alix did not have this knowledge either, so he simply surveyed what he saw before him and remembered what his father had told him:
“The entrance is a large crack in the rock wall. While anyone can enter, once a person enters the Cave of Woe the shaman’s powerful spell will keep them there. If a warrior succeeds in their quest only the shaman, with her incoherent incantations, can draw back the barrier. All through the night she will wait by the entrance, ready to release you.”
That was the extent of what Alix knew. Although many children had passed the test and survived, none told what had transpired. Children who passed the ritual were forbidden to speak of their experience under penal
ty of banishment, which included the offending child’s family as well. Banishment meant death, for their world was a hostile place, and people living outside the protection of a village had a short life expectancy. Alix would only know what he was supposed to do once he was inside. He looked around and saw that his mother was weeping, his father next to her, scowling at her transgression. A few Guardians watched without emotion. The rest of the crowd looked at the ground, in the clouds, at each other, all avoiding eye contact for fear of alarming Alix. The Shaman approached him. She looked him in the eyes. Deep and hard she focused on him. In her hand, she held the leather scroll that would reveal his task.
“A Guardian has a quick mind,” she barked. “A Guardian does what needs to be done.” She took his wrist in her bony hand and placed the scroll in his upturned palm, staring at him for a moment. “After you enter the cave,” she continued, “you must read the words. These words have been unchanged for over 400 seasons. They have been enough for some, and for many, they were insufficient.”
She looked away and began rummaging in the animal skin bag she always kept close to her side. After a few moments, she pulled out a clear stone the size of a fist. “For the dark,” she explained. “As long as you live, the stone will light your way. Your heart and the stone are one.”
As he took the stone from her, it began to pulse. It was weak at first, but soon it grew stronger. It began to pulse to the beating of his heart as it grew brighter and brighter. Before long, it was glowing steadily.
“Go now. Your time is wasting,” she commanded, then she gazed at the moon. The shaman turned and shuffled to the side of the entrance to the cave. She sat down and began to draw strange symbols in the sand. Alix blinked a few times. He was a hollow shell. He knew his terror would serve no purpose and garner no sympathy, so it was useless to be afraid, but he was anyway. He knew it was better to believe he was already dead. He beheld his family one more time before trudging to the gaping, black entrance and slipping into darkness.
*
Outside, a stranger observed anxiously as the boy disappeared through the crack in the mountain. The anxiety was directed at the crowd gathered in the small clearing that had watched the boy disappear into the unknown.
“Leave already,” muttered the stranger.
*
As Alix stepped through the entrance, all sound from outside was immediately extinguished. The silence was complete. At first, Alix was confused by an overwhelming of his senses, but after a moment, he began to sort things out. The cave was incredibly humid. It was hot and moist inside, not at all what he had expected. This explained his father’s instructions for how to dress. The air also stunk of rotted flesh. Alix knew this smell from burial detail, a job all potential Guardians held at some point, but never had he smelled it this strong. He nearly gagged. He held the light-stone high above him, but the light could not penetrate to the heights or sides of the massive cavern. He quickly squatted and untied the grass string bindings that kept the leather scroll rolled tight. He laid it out on the ground and brought the light-stone close. Words were written in thick, dark letters against a white background, as if designed to be read in the dark. He began to read:
Journey deep for what you seek,
Avoid the grasp of those that reek.
In the center of their prison,
Is where you must yourself have risen.
Use the key with force just right,
To escape this place of eternal night.
Only in the world of dreams,
Can you escape this cave of screams.
Alix stared at the words for a time and then stood up. He rolled the scroll up and shoved it into the belt that held his loin-cloth tight. He then started making his way deeper into the cave.
*
Outside, the crowd began to disperse. The Shaman sat on the ground, rocking back and forth, muttering to herself. Her chin touched her chest as she drifted into a trance. A moment later, a cloaked figure stepped quietly from the shadows where it had been watching the proceedings unnoticed. Moving toward the entrance, it hugged the shadows formed by the cliff face. Fear of discovery was not a major concern. Nobody would turn to look back while leaving. But the cloaked figure slowed as it approached the Shaman, and after pausing for a moment, it quietly slipped into the cave as well.
*
Alix began to move away from the cave entrance. The ground was level and strewn with small, granite stones that made a glass-like clinking sound as he walked. Not sure where he was going, he made his way to what he figured would be the center of the cave. After a few steps, shadowy figures began to emerge from the dark, the deadly residents of the cavern starting to appear. They resembled grotesque statues, frozen in mid-stride, and all had their backs to him. He approached the nearest one carefully. He held the light-stone in front of him to inspect his adversary and was immediately sorry he had. It was an abomination. Time was still taking its toll on the corpse. Large patches of yellow-brown skin were peeling away, exposing yellowed bone beneath. Strips of skin and flesh hung from its outstretched arms in ribbons. The creature appeared to glisten, covered with a moist sheen from the humid air. The reason for the humidity in the cave was now apparent; in a dry environment it was doubtful movement would do anything but break the corpse apart. But here the moist air acted to preserve and lubricate the dead thing. Alix held the light out farther, illuminating the creature’s face. Its lips had long since rotted away to expose rows of brown, crooked teeth all the way to the back of the jaw line. Only two dark pits marked where the nose used to be. The worst were the eyes. While the face was in deep decay, the eyes were remarkably well preserved. Part of the magic that kept the cave in its current condition, Alix thought. The eyes were bright and cruel. The whites of the eyes were stained red from vessels ruptured long ago. The pupils were small and black, floating soullessly in their bloody capsules. They were the eyes of madness. As Alix stood and looked into them, the eyes slowly turned in their sockets and stared straight into his. Alix stumbled back and released a sharp gasp. The moon was rising.
Alix turned away quickly and tried to figure out what to do. His heart was beating rapidly now, and the stone seemed to sense this, increasing the amount of light it poured forth. As it did so, more gruesome figures were revealed. Some were frozen in mid-crawl, legs long broken or missing, others in mid-stride. All had one thing in common, Alix realized. They were facing the same direction, toward some common destination. Alix figured that the last Ascension initiate was the cause of this conspiracy, and he realized it was a clue that would serve him well. He knew the previous warrior had been unsuccessful in his attempt, which dis-heartened Alix, but that meant that the chances were good the undead were all headed in that child-warrior’s direction when they were frozen in their tracks again. Alix had faith in the previous initiate who had attempted the ritual; he had known the boy to be smart and resourceful. He began to trot in the direction the creatures were facing, hoping it would, at least, lead him to the center of the cave.
*
The cloaked figure could see a distant, tiny light in the great gloom of the cavern. It looked like a lonely firefly bobbing up and down. The child-warrior was moving faster than the stranger had anticipated and there was now some distance to be made up. The cloaked one broke into a run.
*
After a few minutes of careful jogging, Alix stumbled upon a gruesome sight. The remains of another child-warrior. He recognized the reddish clothing the child wore as those of his own clan. Such was the way of the tribe. If you failed a ritual, where you fell was your grave. The body was truly shocking. The arms and legs were bent and stretched in a macabre dance of impossible angles. Most of the flesh was gone from the corpse’s arms and legs, leaving only gleaming, white bone. But the face, hands, and feet were still thick with flesh, lending a puppet-like quality to the skeleton. The face was mangled, the eyes
were missing, and the flesh was torn from the sockets. The lips had been ripped off, leaving a row of white teeth in a permanent grimace. Even with the damage, Alix recognized the boy. Not the most recently failed initiate, but one from last season. Alix had played with him many times. As Alix gazed at this hideous vision and wondered about his own fate, a strange noise met his ears. A low creaking and popping sound. Alix held the light-stone up and shivered at what it revealed. All around him were the undead, and one by one, they were slowly turning their necks to face him, fixing their insane eyes on his own. He needed to get moving. Alix hurried on his way as the creaking sounds increased from the pervasive gloom. He thought of the dead boy again. Alix knew he would suffer the same fate unless he reached the center of the cavern soon. Here and there, another failed initiate would be lying on the ground, uncollected, lonely and mangled. His heart pounded harder as fear set in, causing the light-stone to shine brighter. But rather than help, it made things worse. Alix could see farther, and while the light did not pierce far enough into the gloom to give him a sense of which way to go, it did reveal many more of the insane zombies. Even worse, while dozens were visible in all their rotted glory, countless more could be seen by the light-stone reflecting from their mad eyes in the dark distance. All around Alix, twin red stars appeared as the undead turned their necks to face him.
Alix hurried forward, turning his eyes to the ground. He began weaving to avoid the undead creatures as they loomed in front of him. After a few minutes, things became more complicated. The dead were beginning to walk. Stiff and clumsy, many fell to the ground as they tried to step toward him, and this presented a new problem. They were no longer facing what Alix had assumed to be the center of the cave: They were facing him. He had no idea which way to go.
Alix felt the fingers of panic creeping up his spine. He had been taught early that death would occur quickly for a warrior who panicked. He forced himself to stop and close his eyes. The horrible creaking sounds rose all around him. The footsteps approached, yet he remained still. Slowly calming his mind, he soon began to feel his mental strength return. Darkness descended as the light-stone matched his calming heart. Alix thought about his predicament, forcing himself to analyze his situation. He thought of the riddle: In the center of their prison, is where you must yourself have risen. The cave floor reminded Alix of the cliffs where he and his friends had practiced throwing stones with their leather slings. The cliff was made from the same granite as the cave he now found himself trapped in. As children, they would use the granite stones Alix now stumbled over as ammunition in those slings. The children would shout insults at the huge wall of stone before releasing their rocks at the cliff face. They laughed as the insults echoed back, arguing over which one of them the cliff meant the insult for. It was great fun, which was rare in tribal life, and it gave Alix an idea. He opened his eyes again, only to find himself leaning back to avoid the outstretched claw of the nearest corpse. Its gnarled, bony hand passed inches from his face, pieces of knuckle skin hanging in strips. Alix gasped and fell backward, scrambling quickly to his feet. The light-stone flared. It was getting crowded. Looking around, Alix sprinted toward a relatively clear area and placed the light-stone at his feet. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey!” Alix shouted in one direction. He quickly cupped his hands behind his ears, bending his ears forward. He was rewarded by the sound of his own voice echoing back, “Hey!” He turned around and did the same thing again. “Hey!” Alix shouted. Again his voice bounced back to him, but this time he noticed the echo returned a little more quickly than before. He was too far to the right side of the cave. He picked up the light-stone and sprinted forward for a few minutes while moving slightly to the left. He repeated the ritual every few minutes to be sure he stayed true to the center, making slight adjustments from time to time. Outside, the moon continued its slow ascent while inside the cave, the undead began to feel freedom from their bonds. As Alix passed the slow, stumbling corpses, some began to lunge at him. Alix ran as fast as he dared in the low light while keeping a close eye on the shadows passing around him. After a few minutes, he was rewarded by a gentle increase in the slope under his feet. He remembered the words again: In the center of their prison, is where you must yourself have risen. He was moving uphill.