The Sleeping Mind
River of Souls, Book I
By J. Jeffrey Parker
Copyright 2016 J. Jeffrey Parker
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For Kris, without whom none of this could exist.
For James, the architect for my imagination.
For Lily, who believed in me when no one else did.
And above all, for my mother. I told you my autograph would be worth something someday.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – A Strange Visitor
Chapter 2 – A Question of Consequence
Chapter 3 – The River of Souls
Chapter 4 – Stargazing
Chapter 5 – Crossroads
Chapter 6 – The Sleeping Mind
Epilogue
About J. Jeffrey Parker
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Sneak Peek
A Strange Visitor
Among the most biased—and crucial—of human institutions is that of morality. From the moment that we can make decisions, we are trained to make the right ones. The adult tells the child that it should not steal a toy from another; that it should not hurt another child should it become frustrated or angry. Children are taught that they should do as they are told. They are taught that they should grow older and seek employment, so that they may acquire new “parents” to monitor their behavior. Someday, they might grow old enough to impress this foundation upon their own children. This institution, when extrapolated to the whole, keeps an intelligent civilization from tearing itself apart.
But it is an institution, and that must never be forgotten. There is nothing in human nature, or nature in general, that binds life—human or otherwise—to this regime. If but one generation were to forego this indoctrination, the results would be catastrophic.
But I move too quickly. There must be a beginning.
In recording the happenings of these last seven days, I hope to come to some sense of understanding of my current predicament, or at least to organize my thoughts enough that I can choose my next steps wisely. At the very least, I will have recorded my tale in such a manner as to provide insight to some hapless academic of the future; if one such mind finds him or herself trapped, the same as I.
My name is Ishaara Daldien, but I am often only called Sister Ishaara—though in recent years, even my own name sounds a bit alien; like a badge pinned to a shirt. I find that my name is an unnecessary addition to my nomenclature. I am a Priestess of Chrom, and serve my hermitage at one of the many cloisters beyond the Malkan Hills. I am of humble birth and origin, and live humbler still at present. When I am not fasting, I eat simple breads and grains. I sometimes spoil myself with exotic fruits and salted meats that travelers bring with them when they visit the cloister, often given to me in exchange for my company—which I admit, is not always innocent. However, one might be surprised at just how often I am paid with such extravagancies for simply the pleasure of my spoken company. We of Chrom are valued and praised highly for our studies. There are even world travelers who come to us not just as a place of free rest and revitalization, but to learn.
It was one such man that began my journey into the abyss. It was a foggy morning, with very little sunlight cutting through the thick, wide clouds above. He called himself Gabriel. He did not give a second name. He stood tall, perhaps half a head taller than most of my sisters, but roughly equal height to me—though I still looked up to him. He wore dark, gray-worn leathers and a wool hat. He had equally dark, slightly coarse hair pulled back into a long tail which he tied at points with sinew. His eyes were deep, dark orbs of molten gold that one such as myself could lose herself in; a stark contrast to his gaunt, expressionless face. He had the air of a scholar, but his mottled skin and calloused hands said otherwise.
But I digress. He came to us in search of knowledge, and it just so happened (to the disappointment of my sisters) that I was the expert in the area that was his study— the Ancient Llogodhs. (An expert, it should be said, on a topic of which there are only five written tomes in existence: but I assure you, reader, my study is anything but apathetic) Most of my sisters consider it a waste of time—or at least they did until this strange man came to us.
It should also be said that this man asked questions that revealed more knowledge of the subject than they implied. In short, he asked questions of me that I had never, until that point, thought to ask. I would remind you that there are only five known texts on the Llogodhs, and I have memorized them. Thus the weight of Gabriel’s learned questions nearly crushed me as they left his mouth. I tell you, reader, there is such thing as a right question.
But to describe what he asked of me, I must first explain the context.
I will speak of consciousness, but it must first be known that my definition of consciousness is twofold. When speaking of the waking mind, I will describe it as such: This is the mind that thinks, makes decisions, and acts according to societal norms. This is the mind that was trained from a very young age, and the mind that acts according to that training.
When speaking of the sleeping mind, however, I speak of the mind that dreams, and the mind that hungers. The mind that evokes violent and horrible images by its own ministration, with no say from the waking mind. The sleeping mind has no qualm with violence, and it cares little for the workings of the waking mind, or the minds of others. The sleeping mind is the heart of lust; it is the pit of depravity in all things. It is often a frightful presence, unwelcome in its own head.
The Llogodhs knew the difference very well, and they indulged both. Theirs was a society of ordered madness—one the likes of which would not, and could not exist today. They existed in a horrific harmony, an anarchistic democracy, where the whim of one could outweigh the many, and hundreds could be slaughtered, raped, or tortured before that whim was satiated.
Logic dictates they should have disbanded, dissolved, or killed themselves off with such depravity long before they could rise to any sort of position of power.
Yet, they prospered.
They became a ruling, all-powerful force that, at their peak, controlled nearly two-thirds of the world. Then, suddenly, they vanished. It is a well-documented, if scarcely understood phenomenon. Their disappearance shook the ancient world, as much of the trade and supply lines of the time facilitated by the Llogodhs.
It is one of the most troubling mysteries that I have found in my studies, and the subject of my near-obsessive fascination. It is a difficult area of study, namely because all surviving Llogodh writings have been rendered indecipherable. Atherian scholars have long since translated the language, as the University Archives holds a period trade manifest written in mirrored languages, one of which is still spoken today. The language is not the issue. In Llogodh, their texts mean nothing. They are, all of them, a madman’s ravings, both entirely nonsensical and psychologically nauseating. No scholar to date has been able to decipher the ravings—the closest anyone has gotten to painting a complete picture was a professor of anthropology and archeology at the Atherian University, Dr. Samuel Harper. He pooled resources from surrounding period cultures, forming a sort of descriptive account that was mostly congruent and simple enough to follow. However, even this is vague, and we know very little about the specifics of Llogodh life and culture.
So when this calloused, rough-hewn traveler came to me and asked about Ul’mong, and inquired further about th
e ravenous writings to which I had long ago conceded my efforts, my chest went cold.
I would later find that that fear to be justified.
A Question of Consequence
When first Gabriel approached me, he did so as a gentleman, which I admit came as a bit of a surprise. Having been directed toward me by my sisters within the common hall, he approached from behind as I was enjoying the calm that such gloomy days herald. I was sitting at the shore of the lake which was the hills’ namesake, with my self-carven fishing rod held aloft, the line pierced through the silken sheet of unmoving water. It should be mentioned that there are no fish within Lake Malkia and that my interest in fishing is purely therapeutic—it serves much the same purpose as meditation to some; it helps me to collect my thoughts, both academic and private. This said, I would like to impress upon you, dear reader, the complete and utter silence in which Gabriel approached. There was no wind, and my line sat motionless in the still water. I did not hear a single step—not a crunched leaf; not a kicked pebble.
He hailed me from a safe distance, clearing his throat as politely as he could, announcing his presence as not to startle me—which I admit, would have. Even so I reacted with a start. I pulled my line from the lake, afterwards reeling it in and wrapping it tightly around the rod itself. I placed it in the sand beside me and covered my legs in my