The Dawn Chorus: The Chronicles of Capherayna, #2

Myiasis

Five years had passed since the massacre in the borderlands. The scars had faded with time, as had the memories. Even the dead were remembered less frequently. The survivors moved forward with grace despite the lingering thought-forms of the tragedy. The thought-forms were annoying but manageable. Most were as dull as ocean debris. They disappeared as quickly as they popped up.

Individual thought-forms are never a concern. When thought-forms band together, however, they become a force to reckon with. They are known to devour minds and topple governments. And thus, when the Xaeltik massacre ended, its thought-forms immediately joined forces. They infiltrated the hosts’ cells, fed on scraps of trauma and multiplied like viruses. They mutated into new forms and colonised grey matter. They bombarded the brain with images of guns, gore and death.

The survivors could no longer bear the mental chatter. Their lives had turned into a nightmare of Massacre on Repeat Mode. They built a catacomb to trap the thought-forms. They lured the twitchy little suckers and placed them in tombs within the mental sphere. When the final one was laid to rest, they heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, they could get on with their lives. Their newfound peace was short-lived.

The thought-forms could not bear the claustrophobia. They yearned for liberation, clueless that it meant certain death outside the hosts’ bodies. The only thing standing in their way was the subconscious mind—the barrier separating man from memory. They swam towards the barrier with gusto, reproducing like aphids on the way. Within minutes, their population grew into millions. The survivors’ heads swelled up with the pressure and ballooned into odd shapes. Their eardrums ruptured, and their vision blurred. The thought-forms bypassed the gate of the subconscious with the force of a revenge mob or a reckless stampede. They careened their way to freedom.

The results were catastrophic. Skin split open, bones broke and organs dilated with the heat. Out came tumbling headless memories of broken toys, bullets and bloodshed. The thought-forms became living things and felt pain as only living things can. Like mayflies, they died within hours, leaving behind their life’s work—an abscess—which gradually healed and filled up with new skin.

On every anniversary of the carnage, this harrowing ritual repeated itself like clockwork. The memory never died. It had never been programmed to die.

Apoptosis

When a traumatic memory is unable to die, it learns how to become alive. It develops a heartbeat, gains a soul and acquires a low level of consciousness. It burrows into the damp contours of the brain and goes into hibernation. A familiar scent, colour or texture awakens it. Then it roars like a lion and paralyses the host’s brain.

Survivors’ memories have a distinct signature, but the coping mechanisms vary. Most survivors push their memories to the deepest recesses of the brain. Others battle their demons daily, never quite remembering yet never quite forgetting. Some move on with the understanding that life was never theirs to begin with.

The illusionists, considered the lightest on their feet, had underestimated the mental toll of the carnage in the borderlands. They had seen greater and bloodier wars, but this one clung on to their minds and refused to loosen its vice-like grip. It rewired their brains and rewrote their destinies.

For years after the tragedy, the illusionists wondered if they could have saved more lives. If anything, they should have been proud of their accomplishments. They had prevented the extermination of the Xaeltik community, risking their lives every step of the way. They had brought back seventy children from the brink of death. But they would never be able to resurrect the two hundred children who had been slaughtered in a massacre. A massacre that took the nation by surprise—when the nation finally heard about it.

A few weeks after the tragedy, the illusionists parted ways at the borderlands, each moving in a direction that complemented their nature.

Umbra trekked up the Fleming mountains to offer his healing services. An epidemic of an ancient disease was threatening to wipe out a large town and its source of livestock.

Neptune moved further south to the cobblestone beaches surrounded by cliffs. He set up a school for hang gliding and offered free counselling sessions to his students. He was done with war for the foreseeable future.

Zephyr received inside information that a Pheregrine was fading into the light. The academy would be looking for a replacement in a few days. He undertook a lengthy journey that ended at the gate of his alma mater.

As for the Lightbender, he ambled along the coastline, pausing every few days at a new village or town. He attended to the sick, made strawberries for the children and occasionally slept with a woman or two. He camped in abandoned caves and dry river beds. He sat alone on rocky outcrops and drank scotch at sunset. No matter what he did, he was unable to forget. The slaughter of two hundred children had left a subterranean lesion that refused to heal.

The illusionists were trained to be unattached to the fruits of their actions. Therefore, the Lightbender was measured in his fight-or-flight response. He was austere of body and rich of mind. Fifteen years of intensive training had nearly crushed the living, breathing human inside his soul. His teachers had told him he was simply reclaiming his heritage—to be as sensitive as the beasts in the wild yet as non-attached as the great Zen masters and Vedic sages. But how was one to be highly sensitised yet detached? After burying two hundred innocents, it seemed like a cruel joke. His insides felt raw, as if his skin had been stripped off. The air, heat and snow chafed his lungs and liver. They taunted him and kept him awake at night. Insomnia led him to ponder over one river of a thought:

Is the one who pulls the trigger more culpable than the one who gives the order to kill?

And the offshoot of that thought:

Is evil intrinsic to the human condition?

These musings culminated in a singular thought:

Why do they fear death when, in reality, they fear living in the light?

It wasn’t the sight of open wounds and exposed guts that haunted him. It was the unique ability of a human to be calculating, cold, sadistic. Evil. To mock the suffering of the downtrodden. To rape the vulnerable. To maim and kill for pleasure.

Until the massacre of the innocents, he had been confident of his mastery over mind. Neither the sound of a bomb exploding in his backyard nor the roar of an incoming tsunami would have caused him to flinch. Those days seemed like a lifetime ago. Because he was sitting in a forest at the witching hour, terrified of the sound of leaves crackling under his feet.

Was he in shock? He concluded that he was.

For days on end, he replayed the massacre in his head to blunt the spiny projections. It was an exercise in vain. The stubs of those memories were rooted to him, tattooed inside his neurons, engraved on the bones of his skull. And he would give up anything to wake up one morning and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

Impregnable yet vulnerable

For months, the Lightbender wandered the earth, his nerves frayed, his senses overwhelmed. He moved around like a ghost, alternating between periods of numbness and mania. Fear became his constant companion, his only companion. In thickets, caves and canyons, he hid from the world and found repose. As the days passed, slivers of light filled up the dark corners of his soul. The montage of the massacre became a faint memory. Fear migrated to the shadows where it belonged. The rain clouds gently lifted. The sense of lightness returned to his soul.

The Lightbender felt stronger yet weaker than ever before, impregnable yet vulnerable. After months of living in the lap of nature, he decided to face his oldest fear—the urban landscape. Moving forward, he would pass through the cities to come to terms with their existence. All his life, he had avoided them like the plague. Their electromagnetic signature made his feet tingle. The bitter smell of petrol gave him a headache. The heat and grime made him nauseous. He concluded that cities were arteries of adrenaline, best avoided by illusionists.

One morning, he decided to suck it up and move to Dorsfield, an ancient city built around a river, where the monarch of Capherayna resided. I must make peace with the cities of the world, he told an acquaintance. For I am not only needed in the forests and hamlets of the world.

He looked up his contacts in Dorsfield Central. They were more than willing to host him. He spent a week at the house of an old lover. After too much wine on a Saturday night, she grew sentimental for the nights they used to spend in the rainforest, when they would bathe outdoors and lie naked below the stars. She begged him to consider a long-term relationship because they got each other. He felt claustrophobic, made up an excuse and left the house.

He roamed the streets at midnight and found himself at the local bar, where he got suckered into playing a game of billiards. Much to his surprise, he dethroned the reigning champion after winning three games in a row. The regulars applauded till their hands were sore. The now ex-reigning champion took a few moments to process her loss. She fastened the buckle of her limited-edition clutch and handed him a wad of notes. How the hell did you beat me?

He shrugged his shoulders. Beginner’s luck?

I don’t think so. She patted her perfectly coiffed white hair and smiled at him. Come with me.

They left the bar together.

She offered him a room in her villa, hoping to get to the bottom of her defeat. He accepted, but the house was too luxurious for his liking. The next morning, he sneaked out and moved to the outskirts. He performed magic tricks at the farmers’ market to earn a few bucks. A runaway kid taught him how to slackline, and the two spent hours on the webbing until their toes were sore.

The ex-reigning champion spotted the duo near the heirloom tomato stall. The Lightbender was pinching the webs of his toes. Her eyes lit up at the sight of his bare feet. Is someone in need of a massage?

How in the world did you find me here?

I assumed you’d be at a farmers’ market. You seem the type.

The runaway kid raised an eyebrow. Who the hell are you, lady?

Mind your own business, kiddo.

The runaway kid sized her up and concluded she was old, rich and kind of pretty. She gave him a lecture on family values and sent him packing. The Lightbender watched the spectacle in awe. Before he realised it, she had dragged him back to her villa.

The Lightbender circled the gargantuan living room, which was larger than the fashion stores in the neighbouring street. She instructed him to sit on a chair, and something in her voice made him comply. She confessed she had a foot fetish. He smiled but said nothing. She blindfolded him. He tilted his head back and surrendered to the moment, praying she wasn’t a serial killer.

The room remained quiet, save for her movements and the increasing pace of his breath. His lower extremities melted into liquid space. His feet were sunk in a hot tub and cleaned meticulously. His ankles were scrubbed with a pumice stone until they grew sore. His metatarsals were anointed with essential oils. His toes were licked and sucked and tickled with faux peacock feathers. He was given a French pedicure and a pair of designer pyjamas for the night.

She removed his blindfold and all her clothes. She dragged his toes across her body and pressed his heels against her pelvis, purring like a cat all the while. His toes caressed the newly waxed flesh between her legs. At some point, she became quiet. She kissed his feet, switched off the lights and left for the master bedroom. He sat in the darkness, trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. He felt somewhat used, shrugged his shoulders and fell asleep.

Old Ben

The Lightbender had no idea who was in control of his life anymore. He drifted in and out of mansions, the ex-reigning champion by his side. For the first time in his life, he hobnobbed with the aristocratic class. Their infinite wealth stunned him, and their first world problems amused him. At close range, the gap between the rich and the poor was striking. The touch of the two classes was different. Their odours were different. Their illnesses were different. Even the cadence of their speech was different. Beyond the ivory towers of the rich lay an invisible class of serfs who catered to their every need.

Two weeks later, the Lightbender bade farewell to his aristocratic lover and a lifestyle of opulence. He returned to the ghettos where the working class lived. The grit of the street suited his nature far better than the sterile estates of the rich. He played football with the kids in the alleys, chatted with their families and stayed for dinner on the weekends. He watched television for the first time in his life and got consumed by the third season of a Sepherish soap opera. When the lead actress died in a fire in the season finale, he spent a day in mourning. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

Life in the ghetto was paradise compared to the villa. In some ways, it felt more real. The Lightbender conversed in Sepherish, the lingua franca of the streets, and mastered the language in a few weeks. Weekends were reserved for online multiplayer games with a bunch of teenagers. He realised that he liked the internet much more than he thought he would. He stopped referring to it as the interwebs because no one understood what that meant. They had never understood him anyway.

The poor were back. They had fled during the oppressive monarchy of some years ago, migrated to strange lands and begged for alms or worked for pennies. They returned to Capherayna poorer than before and squatted in abandoned houses by the river. In the harsh but graphic lingo of Sepherish, they narrated tales of horror. Tales of muffled screams, missing comrades and the yellow stench of fear.

There were rumours, spluttered Old Ben, that the poor were abducted in the dead of night, the strong were made to work in camps, and the disabled were starved to death. It was like the gulags of the Soviet Union and the concentration camps of Bosnia.

The Lightbender yawned, awaiting Conspiracy Theory Number 1024. The more absurd the tale, the more likely the old man would lap it up.

Old Ben put down his pipe. The poor were kidnapped and sent to prison camps. Some of them were banished to the old sewers outside Dorsfield. You’ll find the bodies if you go into the tunnels. Bet you don’t have the guts to go check it out.

Bet you don’t either.

Hey, that’s not fair. Old Ben pouted. I’d go there in a heartbeat. But the missus will divorce me if I go.

Oh, please.

You know how much I love my wife. Old Ben placed a hand over his heart. She’s all I have left in this world.

The Lightbender suppressed his smile. You’ve never met anyone who’s survived the sewers, have you?

"Excuse me?" Old Ben gave the Lightbender a withering look; he cast about a dozen of those every hour.

I’m guessing that’s a no.

How the hell would I know anyone who survived the sewers? They’re all dead, you moron.

Of course.

Who cares about the poor anyway? Even I don’t care, and I’m as poor as a church mouse.

A church mouse? Never mind. What would you say happened to those people who were abducted?

They were dumped into prison camps. They died of starvation and torture. Just because I don’t know a camp survivor doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Old Ben sneered and rubbed his leg.

The Lightbender knew better than to vex Old Ben. He finally understood why the man slept with a machete under his bed. He offered to make him a cup of tea, and all was well again.

The loft

Dorsfield’s slender fingers caressed the Lightbender’s lips. She whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Her gorgeous mouth was a massive distraction, with its prominent overbite and heady scent of mead. If their lips touched for even a moment, it would be the end of him. He brushed her fingers off his face and turned his head away. But Dorsfield was immune to rejection. She pressed her damp body against his own, relishing his instant response. He grazed her neck with his teeth and groped her luscious bottom. Her skin reeked of flowers, sweat and vinegar. The smell made him ill, but he couldn’t get enough of it. He licked off a layer of fermented honey from her lower lip and resigned to his fate. He was a slave to lust, and her name was Dorsfield.

He was desperate to leave the city. And Capherayna, for that matter. The nomadic life suited his temperament, whereas the city made him bilious. His eyes were dry, his guts were achy, and his insides were layered in soot. Cities sucked—they sucked the life out of him. And Dorsfield wouldn’t let go of him. The more he struggled to escape, the tighter the noose grew.

He wondered if age was slowing him down. Had he become that guy who watched soap operas, played video games and slept with unknown women? Was it time to choose a settled life? The thought of stability in his early thirties unnerved him. He looked out the window. Old Ben was smoking a cigarette in the yard, muttering to himself. The Lightbender groaned loudly, terrified he would land up like the old man in a few decades. And yet, the grumpy old geezer was growing on him, eccentricities and all.

Old Ben grunted at the Lightbender. It was his special way of saying hello. The two men liked each other’s company, but they liked their personal space even more. They stayed out of each other’s way except for meals, healing sessions and a drink here and there. The Lightbender was renting Old Ben’s tiny loft for an unbeatable price. Anything else in Dorsfield would have cost him a fortune, most likely a kidney. The loft wasn’t suitable for an adolescent, let alone a grown man. He would involuntarily slouch as he entered the loft, his hair brushing against the low ceiling. Morning yoga was out of the question, so he meditated and stretched in the courtyard or the kitchen.

One evening, while cleaning the loft, he found a yellowed comic book in a rusty cupboard by the sink. He asked Old Ben about it.

Old Ben rubbed his forehead. I had a son.

Is he ...?

He’s gone.

I’m sorry. When did it happen?

A long time ago. This was my son’s room.

I had no idea. May his memory be eternal. The Lightbender said a silent prayer for the boy’s soul.

Old Ben had built the loft as a present for his son’s sixth birthday. The boy loved the space more than life itself. He played trains, wrote essays and read superhero comics in his boy cave. As he grew older, the loft appeared to shrink, but he refused to move out of it.

One summer, while volunteering at a poultry farm in Blersdaines, the boy developed a high fever and breathlessness. He was rushed to the hospital when his symptoms worsened. The doctors took two weeks to identify the viral strain. Meanwhile, the boy’s health took a turn for the worse, and he was shifted to a private hospital. He died of multiple organ failure three weeks later.

Do you know my niece?

Old Ben loved his son more than anyone in the world. He dealt with his grief privately for he knew no other way. To make matters worse, the family’s meagre savings were wiped out by the medical bills. The old man’s angina pains worsened with the internalised stress. He often sat in the yard at night, rubbing his left shoulder and massaging his ribs. A hatred