Short Stories

Thomas Cembura: Orpheus

     Orpheus frolicked and pranced, displaying his song to the side of a golden hill where a crisp breeze blew, folding the hillside into waves. An old ruin lay at the top, with a velvet vert forest that stood far back - writhing its roots closer each season. Orpheus made rest upon a crumbled pediment to play his lyre. From out the egress he spied a nymph with long red hair, perched high up into the reaching branches, charmed by his song. They seemed to be meant for each other and were wed in spring.

     No sooner than a handful of moons, Orpheus found his wife, perished in the woods from a simple snake bite.

      Overwhelmed with grief, Orpheus decides to travel to the underworld to retrieve his wife from Hades. He descended down past Elysium, soothing Cerberus in Tartarus, crossing the murky river Styx that reflected a phosphorescent blue with its amnesic curse. Orpheus found himself at the foot of a mighty stair, of which upon the top he heard a gentle hymn pouring from inside garden walls.

     Orpheus advanced through a staggering archway fit for the Olympians themselves. As he draws closer, he bends his tune to twin the foreign song and begins to weep. He passes under bare, blackened varicose branches and jade ivy. The twisting vine writhes around the trunks of trees and in between the border of bricks. Cherry trees hang their branches low, leaning into an ancient courtyard. At the center is a stone well where a woman stands, robed, head-down with a sheaf of grain next to her feet. 

     As he walks beyond the trees, she stops her hymn and turns to Orpheus and asks in a gentle colorless voice, “Why do you weep?”

    “Your song reminded me of my wife,” Orpheus responds solemnly.

     “What happened to your wife?” she asks.

     “She died from a serpent’s bite, just a few days past our wedding. I have come to reclaim her from Hades.”

     “What makes you think he will relinquish her from his rule?”

     “I will beg until empathy overrules his grasp. He too has a wife and must understand the grief of what losing her would be.”

     “I would have confidence in his loyalty for I am Persephone.”

      “If you are the queen of the underworld can you restore my wife to the land of the living?”

Persephone once again stops, her small idle movements disappear as she sinks into thought, and the small amount of life this garden exposed dwindles along with her. 

      The bearing sound of pressure returns with the endless silence. The color delaminates into impossibly deep hues and the smell of deep rich earth and stone creeps around him. 

     “Please!” he cries, fracturing the silence just before the silence fractures him.

     But Persephone does not respond, and once again the silence bears over him; his joints become noticeably loud in comparison to their surroundings 

      “Please,” he says again, and again he begins to lose something to the silence, something he does not remember. A ringing makes itself known to his ears. He remembers his lyre in his hands, he plucks a string and it bellows back. 

     His hand plays a chord, and it pushes back the silence, and he feels the reverberating strings in the instrument. Orpheus takes a knee to Persephone and begins to sing– he sings to deafen the silence and to confess his plea to the queen of the underworld. He sings in chorus with all his feelings: his sorrow, his grief, his pain and his hope, the hope that carried him through the underworld and the hope that carries these words to her ears.

     “You may not truly know that I loved her, but yet I am here to rescue her.“ 

     Persephone looks down to Orpheus and smiles upon him. “I can restore your wife, but there are conditions. You are not permitted to speak to her or, on the journey back, to turn your head, even once, to assure yourself that she is behind you.” She claps her hands and a second later Hermes appears. 

     Persephone turns, “Who is your wife?” 

     “A-a forest nymph, Euridice.“

     She turns back to Hermes and with a slight nod he disappears in a blur, leaving only a stirred veil of dust, illuminated by a few rays of light. Hermes returns, shifting the cloud into currents as he does. Behind him stands Eurydice, her face gray and void of joy or remembrance of Orpheus.

     “Not even one glance?” Orpheus questions. 

     “You may love her, but if you trust her then you will not need to.” And with that Persephone sends them on their route. They walk down the massive garden steps only to begin their voyage up.

     They follow a path of wooden bridges into a canyon. Along the way, there are masses of eroded granite boulders sunken into the hillside, buried except for where the path was cut. Tree roots filled the cracks in the stone and made masses of their own where there was nothing to seize. There seems to be an almost sudden gradient into ancient grown trees– their leaves so pale green it almost seems to illuminate a teal hue to the land. Orpheus leads to a fork in the path, separated by a tall stone cliff, crumbled and broken by many faults. The sheer stone has an arrow scratched into it, pointing left. 

     When Orpheus turned to look down the path, he got a sinking feeling, remembering the condition for his wife. He continues, being very careful where he looks and peers down the left hand trail. It is a smooth dirt path with warm-colored trees. He thinks that would be a good direction to head. For some reason the sinking feeling continues to harass his psyche. He should be thorough and look in the other direction. 

     He saw a dark trail, shrouded by an embankment, and a deep wash meandering back and forth through it. He felt the urge to pursue this twisting path. He went down the shrouded path that the arrow pointed against, feeling he had better insight than it. The path winded back and forth and shifted to and fro with each wash and valley. When they neared a plateau, he could hear the sound of water.

     He realized the parchedness of his lips, feeling the fact that he had been dehydrated since he began this journey. His feet began to march toward the sound, falling on the path that many had made before him. As he neared the river, he spied a cavern shrouded in shadowy foliage, which the river flowed from. Hastily he knelt and plunged his hands into the frigid current to drink, as he lifted them, they compulsively flutter, missing his mouth entirely, pouring the stinging water onto him. 

     Startled, he jumps trying to escape the penetrating cold. He looks around and scans past the mindless gaze of a familiar face. His eyes snap to their eyes, and he realizes that it is one of his long dead peers, staring blankly at the water. Orpheus in confusion calls out to him, yet the blank face only twitches for a moment, as if the name used to mean something. Orpheus looks at him, puzzled, and sees that his hands are still wet as if he had drunk from the water. Quickly he turns and flees from the river, hoping his wife may follow, realizing that this must be one of the branches of the river Styx.

     Soon Orpheus ends up in yet another unfamiliar land. This one appears to be born of flame, and shadows that dance from it. As he climbs the land, Orpheus sights Sisyphus, the Titan, among red cinder and bone-ash, white bark from burning poplar trees. Sisyphus looks to be forced into pushing a boulder up a mountain– the large pristine stone shifting in its track carved upon the mountain from millennia of wear. The gods sent him here as punishment. 

     Orpheus quickens his step. His determination drives him forward, even when the landscape becomes repetitive and time begins to stretch. He stomps across dry fields and around mountains, until he finds himself in an endless, barren land. Together their feet scuff against the sandpaper ground, seeing nothing but salt and sand. The hellish basalt giants were mere silhouettes behind them now, illuminated by the eternally burning valleys they held. They pressed into the darkness as the distant firelight dwindles and the dim light that spills across the sky grows ever fainter. They walk until the only thing that is still noticeable is the faint breeze across the salt flat and the sound of shuffling feet.

     Across the horizon, a faint line of mountains appears. As they draw close, they see cliffs spring up from the endless sea of deserted land. The cliffs turn into mountains and they grow larger and larger to crane over the sky itself. A small channel carved into the towering basalt walls, in-line with them, makes itself known that this was made for them: a staircase fit for him and the secondary feet of his wife. Long black stairs lead upward, smoothed by rain and wind. Years of rain leave an almost purpose- built step, lockstep with Orpheus’s stride. 

     Soon grains of sand and dirt start to scratch and grind beneath their feet before the steps turn to compacted dirt. Rays of faux sunlight curl at the steps, as they are greeted by green grassy fields and a few spots of small forest. In the distance is a town of stone buildings with red terracotta roofs in the middle of the lush valley. The two march into the warm light of braziers mounted at the ridges of the surrounding hillside. 

     Near the edge of the town stands a bronze statue of Athena, Goddess of War and Craft, overlooking a sand field. A few men are throwing shot put, while a handful of women lean on a railing above, watching them. Soldiers? Orpheus wonders. Though some are not soldiers, and children are in this town too. They pass some markets and everyone there seems so happy, people chatting and children running down the street. At a junction is a well, the rim of the well is inscribed with the words: “City Of Heroes.” 

     Orpheus looks around and sees that everyone is behaving normally and decides to drink from the well. Once his thirst is quenched, he rises and turns his back to the well, so If she is able, his wife can also drink. Waiting a moment allows Orpheus to spot a pomegranate tree. He walks over and picks one for later, so he can share it with his wife once they get out of the underworld. Heading out of the town, they see a great hillside, with rocky snow capped mountains, a crisp breeze complimenting the hike. The two will need to conquer this hill to progress any further. After climbing up the steep grassy hill where the giant brass braziers are mounted, they are able to see the other side of the hill. A frostbitten valley extends straight out from the mountain, only a short ways down. Snow blankets this side of the summit. Once they slide down, their feet scamper onto cold wood. Orpheus hears his wife shudder behind him, and he feels hope that she is gaining feeling and that freedom is nearing their souls, though he still is unable to look at her. 

     There is a small dock beside a river with a bench and a lantern post, a tarnished bell hanging from it. He brushes some frost from it and rings the weathered rope hanging below it. Despite its condition, it produces a sound that rings down the valley and along the river that flows in it. The bell almost sounded like it spoke the name Charon from within it. Engravings shimmer from the newfound brass, which depicts the Ferryman of the Styx. Soon a fog rolls over the land and  it produces the summoned Ferryman. He is a slow, wiry old man that appears not to be immune from the river's amnesic effects. 

     After enduring Charon’s ramblings, Orpheus realizes that the old man doesn't intend to bring them all the way. Orpheus offers to trade a pomegranate for passage on the river, which the old man gingerly accepts.

Eventually, they reach the entrance to the underworld. Orpheus thanks the ferryman and walks the steps to the threshold. Orpheus hears the old man's laugh at a distance as he ascends. The quiet patter of his wife's feet seems to fade as wind and birdsong overtake his ears. As he takes each step up, he feels a creeping worry climb his back and stab at his sides. He tries to reassure himself.

He stands at the summit of the underworld. Orpheus turns around to gaze upon Euridice, and as he moves his eyes up to meet hers, she moves her arms to grab his hand. She moves so fast, it is as if she hasn’t seen him for a lifetime. She holds on tight. Orpheus looks to meet her eyes, full of color from the sunrise on the hills. Her face is layered with soft rays of light and her eyes shine upon her face. The two, reunited at last, begin walking down the mountain.

Emily Heinrich: All Hallows' Eve

     To look forward into the future as if through a shining tunnel of trees turned colors in the crisp morning, felt a great deal like hope, as she descended the front steps.

     The world held an unusual glory that morning, though it was hard to say why. Perhaps it was the simple knowledge that numerous hours lay ahead, yet untouched, that was cause enough for happiness; after all, the magnificence of a morning is to wake and have a whole day, fresh and gleaming, spread before one. Carved pumpkins wore grins (crooked, evil, laughing) in their front porch corners. The streets were quiet, lulled in preparation for the moments after the day had sunk, when they would come alive.

     But many of the trees themselves appeared already to be set aflame in the morning light, calling into focus with utmost precision those who walked beneath them. She walked with her sister (her sister, her only sister)-- soon to be a black-clod, felt-feathered crow—and their mother beside them, into the store.

     The grocery store bustled with people, and it was clear who were the more courageous ones (those elaborately decked in full costume) versus those who chose to remain in ordinary attire. Peering down the crowded isles, the (soon-to-be) Witch spotted a superhero family (one of whom sported green hair), along with a wolf-eared woman and an imposing jester. Trying to remain as unnoticeable as possible, she wished (not for the first time) that it were possible to watch without being watched.

     A richly decorated lady stood behind the counter. Her usual sparkly makeup, which normally resided just below her eyes, seemed to have spilled out over the rest of her for the day. Her black-framed glasses rested in a pool of glitter. Hello, she says, with a smile. Hello is the (rather soft) reply. Her hands move quickly as she fingers each item: apples, streaked with dusty golden-brown, beside oregano, with deep, earthy green leaves— small and round, on coarse, dark stems—and olive oil in the tall dark bottle (for the dressing).

     How splendid to be attending a party! she thought, as she put on her hat. And yet, how one’s insides tended to resemble that salad dressing (sliding, sliding and mixing). But the best is yet to come. Of course. And yet there is little point in shoving it aside; for it only returns, like a cat on little cat feet, creeping, creeping ever so softly in on its little paws, retractable claws poised for use. The Witch held the salad dressing, in the little jar with the silver lid, carefully on her lap, dimly noting the resemblance between thsliding, gleaming concoction and some uncanny potion. Boisterous voices could be heard, weaving in and out, occasionally fragmented by a sharp shout.

     The gravel drive was dimly illuminated by the gradually receding sun. The air seemed almost to glitter with an unseen current, carrying the sounds and people up, up, floating across the yard and weaving through the house.

     The house, despite its imposing form and size, grew warm and inviting as we drew near. The front steps lead up to a deck that appeared to wrap around the stately building, over which loomed picturesque oaks adorned in fall glory. The salad dressing sloshes in its jar. The voices swirled, spiraled, rose, threatening to overwhelm. They wandered through the dim, high-ceilinged rooms, the soles of their shoes pressing into the carpet. With shining eyes, she slowly came awake; she studied the face of the girl next to her out of the corner of her eye.

     The lady. Her heart was pounding. She wanted to know her. She couldn’t say why, as one so

often can’t; and yet she desperately wanted to know her. She wanted to walk up and talk to her, even in front of all the people, the strangers, so she could stand- rather like someone other than herself- in front of the lady, and ask her something, something of great importance.

She could walk right up and talk to her. (The moment was slipping). She could… But the moment was over, and she looked sadly over her shoulder as it faded into the distance. But the lady…

     And in that moment she realized what was missing; it was her shyness, her studious solitude, the need to think before she spoke. She groped about for a moment, but grasped only a flying excitement. It was gone; in its place stood an entirely new sense of wildness. She was so used to being grounded by quiet, held down to the safety of solid ground. But for now it was gone. She would fly. For a single evening, she would fly.

     Tonight was, after all, the best night of all for being rather unlike yourself, as the night draws on and all that is usual dissolves and fades away with the sun.

     The busy, blossoming atmosphere drew out the happiness taking hold within her, pulling it out, forming something almost tangible, making her feel as if she could reach out and touch it. She felt as though she could hold the tone of the night in the palm of her hand, fingering its smooth edges, its sharper ones.

     (The salad dressing sat on the countertop, settled at last.)

     One little girl had hair swept up to one side and slicked with spray; her dress was hot pink. Her smaller, younger companion wore bangs and green pixie wings. Five, Four, Three, Two, One! And they ran off into the night (shouting war cries all the while).

     In a single, self-assured motion, the little girl in pink stepped up onto the board that ran across the bottom of the paint-chipped railing. Leaning out over the rail, she yelled- No hiding in the cars! - sharp and loud, with that happy confidence that can only truly be found in a child’s unhindered, innocent voice. Satisfied, she hopped back down with a contented grin to rejoin her friend. Seemingly oblivious to the surprised attention she had drawn regarding her uncharacteristic stunt.

     The flat, expansive backyard became another world in the fading light. Those who stepped into it were immediately immersed in its magic. The children ran, screamed, poured every ounce of their spirits into playing some unknown game, gone wild in the dark.

     The special thing about a party, she thought to herself, is that it gives everyone’s thoughts a chance to become something much easier to see than they otherwise would, something clearly real; which is reassuring, quite reassuring, when you are a person who is prone to doubt. The closeness of the girl beside her confirmed this.

     She trailed her fingers-- softly, carefully --over the splintered wood railing, graceful happiness swirling within her.

Alexa Ines: Consecration

Howls echoed across the swaying tawny grasses, flattening in a large swoop when an especially strong gust of wind blew through the decaying log I had squeezed myself into at dawn before the sun rose. In the early morning, Area X was not yet awake, besides the occasional warbling of ground-dwelling birds hidden in the grass sent into the sky by the hooves of a large buck. The buck's antlers were covered with lichen, hanging down in long tendrils as if crowning him. He was around the size of a small juvenile bull moose, far larger than any white-tailed deer I had ever seen. But everything in Area X arched to the skies, looking down upon the now simple humans that walked below. While humans were so fixated on advancing, we forgot to look behind us and somehow didn’t hear nature creeping, waiting to fill in the footprints we had left behind.

A piercing screech shattered the fragile silence, a flurry of tiny wings fleeing from the staggering buck. White spots flashed as a massive bobcat clawed its way onto the buck’s back, a sharp whine briefly joining the buck’s anguished cries as the antlers caught its shoulder. They swayed along with the wind for a while, locked in a battle of swiveling heads and deep wheezing. Eventually, the buck fell to his knees and was swallowed by the grass, still dancing in the wind as Area X was thrown back into silence. Not even the birds sang.

The bobcat’s behavior was peculiar. It was out of character for them to attack large, healthy prey such as a buck. At first glance, the animals of Area X seemed like a wild mirror of their counterparts outside of the land completely ruled by nature. There were small fractures in that mirror. Little behaviors out of place, distorting the balance they’d been classified into.

I felt a tug on my boot, looking back over my shoulder in the tight confines of the log to see a coyote with startling blue eyes that flashed like lightning. I kicked, doing little to stave off the coyote. I managed to land a boot between its eyes, prompting the animal to let go. I squirmed on my forearms out of the log and into the sodden grass, met with the short quips of four other coyotes. I quickly pushed myself to my feet, my boots squelching as I turned on my heel and ran in the direction of base camp. 

Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I collided with a heavy thud into the solid back of the military expert tasked with keeping the expedition safe. He was a grizzly man with sharp eyes like a hawk that narrowed on the excited coyotes rapidly approaching through the grass. The military expert raised his rifle, almost permanently glued to his hands, and fired a shot with concentrated ease, sending one coyote tumbling. Another shortly followed. The other three halted, letting out frightened cries as they disappeared back into the grass towards the forest. 

I placed my hand on my chest, catching my breath as I braced myself on my knees. I looked up to thank the military expert but immediately halted at his stern glare.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, being out this early by yourself?” He huffed. “Did you even bother to tell anyone where you were going?”

I opened my mouth but was quickly cut off by a silencing gesture. 

“This isn’t some mindless expedition where you can go prancing into the field by yourself. I don’t care if the ‘morning hours are special.’ You know what else is? Not being chased down by rabid coyotes. Though I suppose you’d like that, perhaps you even might like to explain to everyone how being chased by the current coyote differs from the ancient coyotes. Damn Ethologist.” The military expert grumbled the last part, caring little whether I heard it. He turned, leading the way back to base camp with his rifle snug in his hands.

“I told the linguist,” I offered, shifting the cloth previously covering part of my face back into place as the cold breeze picked back up again. However, the military expert was right. The coyotes’ behavior had been out of place, too, just like the bobcat. The way they grouped was uncommon, forming a pack like you would expect in wolves. Coyotes had family groups, but they generally hunted solitarily or in pairs. But I suppose coyotes are opportunistic. What opportunities in Area X convinced them to branch away from their family group lifestyle and shift into an organized pack?

The military expert scoffed. “That’s just perfect.”

I trudged after the military expert through the familiar fence of base camp and into the center of the cluster of tents that clung to the earth like barnacles. The medic was busy cooking breakfast while the psychologist drank his tea with a practiced neutrality. The archaeologist and surveyor were packing their bags, readying for their trek to the lighthouse and back under the watchful eyes of the military expert. The linguist huddled near the fire, his hands folded around a flashlight that he clicked on and off in his hands. A habit I had learned to associate with him when his mind was elsewhere. He would cast his eyes to the sky occasionally, then in the direction of the tower, before returning them to his hands once more. Soft breaths were visible in the cold autumn air as the linguist muttered quietly, biting his chapped lips. 

The military expert broke off, heading to his crate to stand sentry, overlooking the gathered expedition like a meerkat waiting to sound the alarm at the passing shadow of a hawk. I knelt beside the linguist, who startled out of his mumbling as soon as my hand landed on his shoulder. He turned his eyes to mine, unnaturally wide and bright since our descent into the tower upon arrival, as if suddenly the clouds had given way to a shining sun on an overcast day.

“You’re back.” The linguist stated, nodding his head. “I slept for a while after you left.”

“I’m glad you could fall back asleep,” I smiled. After a few visits into the tower, the linguist developed difficulty sleeping, chalked up to his constant hunger for the words on the tower walls by the medic. The psychologist agreed with his conclusion. It was common to find the linguist mumbling in the night, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. One time, the military expert had even dragged him back to his tent after finding him at the mouth of the tower, rocking back and forth. Though he wouldn’t admit it, I knew the tower’s presence raised suspicion in the military expert. Why weren’t we told of its existence? Why has it ensnared the linguist so? What does the linguist understand that we don’t? These questions that seemed to linger on the tips of the expedition’s tongues were never spoken, but I could see it in the eyes with which they beheld the linguist and their fidgeting whenever he approached. Their discomfort with the linguist fractured the expedition and our intent to stay as a unit. The psychologist had agreed to allow our expedition to split up, as long as we returned to base camp before sunset. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The linguist tilted his face into his scarf, though his eyes remained on me. He previously shied away from eye contact when we first arrived, another shift after his descent. I decided I wouldn’t tell him of the strange behaviors the bobcat and coyotes exhibited, settling with a simple nod.

“I saw some early risers, yes.”

“That’s very good then.” The linguist mumbled, shifting closer like he was sharing a secret. “Will you come with me today? I want to go down today. I want you to come with me.” He knit his gloved fingers tighter around his flashlight, never taking his eyes off me. Tracking me like a predator would his prey. His eyes, once a soft brown, were now ringed with a dim gold. Not that anyone else in the expedition had noticed, besides the medic. I’m not sure why they changed, but I know they did so in the darkness of the tower. I didn’t know if that meant contamination. Instead, I just watched the linguist, searching for those behavioral shifts only I could find in him. He was my specimen to study. Mine to watch for his metamorphosis.

“Of course.”

After breakfast, the military expert, the archaeologist, and the surveyor set out for the lighthouse. They were tight-knit as they left, relieved to be away from the tower and the linguist. The psychologist would stay with those who wished to explore the tower, which included myself, the linguist, and the medic. The medic and I were both fascinated by the linguist, though he never admitted it out loud. I wish I could’ve known his thoughts. We could have created extensive notes together, from his medical knowledge and my observations as an ethologist, but for now, our thoughts had to remain disjointed. 

The psychologist bid us farewell at the tower’s mouth, leaning back as he wrote in his journal. I held onto the linguist’s backpack as we descended into the tower, keeping hold of him as if to keep him from disappearing into the darkness. The tower walls were adorned with bioluminescent scripture formed by an unfamiliar species of fungi, which seemed to glow affectionately under the linguist’s enchanted awe. As we descended, he would recite the phrases that we passed that he had memorized by now. He knew each fragmented line like the back of his hand, delighting in his prayer to the tower. He wrote down any new phrases or stopped to admire the designs that twined along the wall, smiling whenever I pointed out a detail he hadn’t noticed. For the most part, the medic remained in the back, in a world separate from the linguist’s. However, I don’t think any of us could ever reach the linguist’s world. No matter how much I wanted to.

We finally reached our checkpoint from yesterday, the linguist’s voice abruptly cutting off as he no longer knew the scripture. He took out his journal, tucking his flashlight into a makeshift hold on his backpack to illuminate the pages as he copied the lines. This was how most of our expeditions into the tower went. The medic and I hung back, occasionally collecting a sample or taking our own notes, while the linguist immersed himself in the tower’s mysterious language. The linguist never seemed disturbed by the tower’s existence, despite the looming cloud that the Southern Reach lied to us, shrouding any wonder found there. 

The linguist mumbled under his breath, pressing his ear to the tower walls and smiling, as if they were old friends sharing a secret. This was a more recent behavioral change over the last several days, which pushed away the rest of the expedition. However, as of late, the linguist seemed even more attached to the tower. In another world, someone would have deemed his behavior unhealthy. But maybe I understood the linguist, in becoming so fascinated with something that you could not help but obsess over it. The tower itself had little hold over me. But he was a different story. Even though my fascination with the linguist was outside of my usual area of study, the field of animal behaviors taught me to look at the broad range, rather than the specific. Perhaps the linguist’s shifts could reveal the general transformation of any expeditions in a seemingly uncharted wildland. Oddly enough, before coming to Area X, I don’t think any animal ever captivated me as intimately as the linguist. 

The lighthouse expedition did not return that night, nor did they ever. The psychologist was gone too. He had said something about bringing them back from the lighthouse, but that might’ve been his way of ditching us so he could return to the border. I wouldn’t return. I would stay with the linguist. It was just me, the linguist, and the medic, left. A fine company, according to the linguist. 

He told me the tower thought so too. 

I jerked awake, the camp cast into unnatural darkness as all the usual lights were diminished. The camp was always illuminated by at least one light to root and reassure ourselves that we’re still separate from nature’s new, intricate design. The linguist loomed above me, holding onto my shoulders. The gold rings of his eyes were bright, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I pushed back a little from his hands, sitting up. 

“Do not be afraid. I am called upon by something greater than myself. I must descend.” The linguist rattled to me, clutching his hands to his chest as he smiled. “I have been chosen.” 

“What’s going on?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, a challenge when everything was dark. I fumbled for my flashlight, settling it in my lap as I flicked it on. The front of my sleeping bag was smeared with dark rust as if something had clawed onto me in the night. I scratched at my shoulder, my own nervous habit similar to the linguist’s flashlight clicking. But when I peeled my fingers away, a similar rust tinged my nails. I raised my gaze to the linguist, now revealed in the darkness. His eyes were blown wide, his body trembling with a buzzing like a bumblebee, but as fast as the beating of a hummingbird’s wings. His clothes disarrayed with a jagged cut across his forehead. His hands were stained red. Yet, he still smiled.

“I must descend into the tower, for I have been called upon. He has called upon me, and I am compelled to act.”

“Who?” I sat up straighter, pulling my knees up in my sleeping bag to put distance between myself and the linguist. Any lingering sleep had completely vanished, replaced by the blossom of disturbance and a twisted sense of fascination, still deep-rooted in my stomach.

“No one but I can complete this great task, for He has chosen me.”

“Where’s the medic?”

“The tower, the tower!” The linguist wrung his hands together, the blood underneath his fingernails thick. He shook his hands together, eerily similar to a strangling motion. “Reborn. We will all be reborn in a cleansed world. And I shall be blessed as the hands of God.”

I shook my head, recoiling slightly from the linguist. The thrum of the downpour through the open flaps of my tent fogged my head, briefly blurring my vision. 

“I wished to wake you, to send me off. All messengers should be sent off, hm?” The linguist extended his hand, seeking mine. My hand trembled as he took it and I distantly allowed him to pull me up and guide me to the mouth of the tower. His hand was like a bear trap, with the only chance of escape being to chew through my limb. The foreboding jaws of the tower opened up from the earth, the wind whistling down its throat. The linguist closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he turned his face to the tower with a smile, as if tasting heaven. 

I looked down as my feet collided with the body of the medic, his eyelids closed by two red thumbprints. The linguist finally let go of my hand as I knelt by the medic, touching his chest as I inspected the damage that had torn through his clothes. I did not doubt his death was at the hands of the linguist. Had he been lured out of his tent like me? Would I meet the same fate as the medic, at the claimed righteous hand of the linguist?

“He will be reborn,” the linguist placed his hand on my head, guiding my gaze upwards. “I will tell Him of you, my dear ethologist. You too shall know salvation.” The linguist pushed back, my soaked hair, and kissed my forehead with chapped lips. “Trust in the tower.” The linguist turned on his heel, not looking back over his shoulder as the tower’s jaws swallowed him into the abyss of glowing scripture that he adored. Adoration that crossed the line into worship. At that moment, I could only compare the linguist’s behavioral diversion to that of the mind-altering fungi found among certain arachnids and ants, causing them to branch from their classified behavioral patterns. Were the fungi in that tower like that of Gibellula attenboroughii and Ophiocordyceps, infecting the mind of the linguist? Did they force him to shed the instinctual fears that kept him alive? Or did they evolve him so far from me that I find his behavior strange?

I have never missed the psychologist’s presence till now. Perhaps if he were here, he could tell me. He could have put my mind to rest. I looked down at the medic, who lay almost peacefully in the mud as the rain fell on his cheeks. The blood slowly washed away from the medic’s closed eyes, as if he were trying to convince me that he was only sleeping. If he laid in his makeshift hammock by his tent, maybe then I would have believed him. I laid down beside him, turning onto my back to look up at the sky. The rain fell in piercing rays, arching high into the thick clouds blanketing the heavens. I could not see the stars, only the distant beam of the lighthouse that turned through the storm before throwing the world back into an eternal night. 

In nature, the orb-weaving spider puppeteers ensnared male fireflies to flash in the pattern of a female to lure his companions. Perhaps we were like those fireflies, chasing an answer that always glowed just out of reach. Maybe those who entered Area X were never supposed to leave.

Alexa Ines: Untranslatable Word #1