Prologue – Tír na nÓg
Maralat had visited the Threshold many times before: the largest and, above all, the most populous of the districts of Tír na nÓg. It was a good place for the practice of an Apocalypse like him. He had never appeared there on the day of the Occurrence, however. Even he was not that mad. On that day, it was better not to provoke conflict.
Naturally, that was not why he had come here. Quite the contrary – he was doing his best to remain discreet. At least as much as his two-metre frame would allow, covered in silver fur that shimmered in the darkness deepened by the approaching Occurrence. Presumably the two golden chains draped across his torso did not help either – the only Conduits capable of containing his Aura.
It had to be said that the Wolkens were not known for their discretion. Among the seventy-six Races of Tír na nÓg, they ranked rather towards the bottom of the list in that regard. They were no better than, say, the Asuras: equally tall, and distinguished in the dark by their blue skin.
Maralat truly wished to avoid trouble, but the trio of four-armed – and therefore very young – loudmouths who had just stepped into his path apparently had other plans.
“You’ve wandered into the wrong place, little wolf!” shouted one of them, laughing coarsely. The Wolken immediately caught the heavy scent of Brown Leaf drifting off him.
One might have thought that the Asuras, known for their strength and endurance, would shy away from poisons that offered brief euphoria at the cost of destroying one’s body. And yet. They could also be so fat that it was difficult to tell where the belly ended and the lower arms began.
In any case, Maralat was not a man for deep thought. A quick flick of his golden eyes was enough to spot the Asuras’ weakness. He did not even really need to do that – the smell made clear he was not dealing with the finest of their race – but time was pressing. Only a few hours remained until the Occurrence.
He pushed his Aura to manifest Ego in his legs, reshaping them to be more flexible and capable of withstanding enormous strain. The leap gained a hundredfold in strength and speed. He channelled part of the energy into his hands, though not enough to manifest claw Ego. He had no intention of taking any lives today. No one should die on a day of birth.
He would have been a fool, however, to attack a race famed for its absurd endurance with his bare hands, even if these three had not yet reached the Crack. The first blow fell not on the joker, but on his companion to the right – so that the bend of the elbow, crucial to maintaining Aura flow, would travel towards the still-grinning face.
Only when the fat one crashed to the ground did the third of his associates grasp what was happening. Credit to him: he was not afraid. Or perhaps he simply had not had time to process the situation. His blood ran hot enough to answer with Resonance: one of the techniques all young Asuras learned.
He pushed his Aura into his two right arms, shifting the left into the Trikonasana position, so that even a missed blow would disrupt his opponent’s Aura flow. This was certainly not an Ego manifestation – even in perfect condition, which the Brown Leaf placed far beyond his reach, he would not have had such control. That was why Resonance was so popular a technique: it let one harness the innate power of the race without manifesting its Ego.
The shockwave produced by the blow was powerful enough to bend the iron bars of the shutters on a distant building.
“Over here, whelp,” said Maralat. “Did your elders not teach you not to destroy other people’s property?”
The Asura guessed that the Wolken had ended up behind his back – though he had been a metre in front of him just a moment before – a fraction of a second before he lost consciousness. A careful observer – and Maralat’s sense of smell suggested there were none nearby – would have noticed that the golden chains had not moved by so much as a millimetre throughout the brief skirmish.
I should hurry, he thought. There is already moisture in the air. I hope he will like the gift.
Paying no heed to the three unconscious Asuras in the alley, he took a deep breath and walked on. He did not know that only three hours remained until the Occurrence.
***
“Oh dear! Oh dear! Hurry up! You’ll miss the Occurrence!” croaked the bird perched on the branch of an oak.
“Calmly… My roots tell me… That we still have plenty of ti–” the tree began to reply, or at least the rustle of its leaves produced a sound resembling a reply.
“Your roots have been dead for over a hundred Quartets! Oh dear! They won’t tell you anything! Get that rotting hulk moving!”
“Calmly…”
“Say ‘calmly’ one more time! And I’ll peck out your last reserves of resin! Oh dear!”
“Ca… Ahem, I am rising… According to my by no means dead roots… The moisture has not yet begun to gather… We have at least three hours… Before it starts to rain…”
“Oh dear! Oh dear! At your pace that’ll be plenty! By the time we arrive, the next Advent will be upon us!”
“Shh… Do not say that aloud… Someone might hear you…”
One might have thought that a conversation between a croaking bird and a rustling tree would be rather loud, yet the area was bathed in an almost idyllic quiet.
“Absolutely! Dozens of Apocalypses are sitting nearby at this very moment! Just waiting! To eavesdrop on us! Oh dear!”
“No… That is impossible… I would have detected it immediately… Ah… Of course… That was sarcasm… Wasn’t it…?”
“Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Another thousand Quartets! And you might learn to recognise it! Have you prepared the gift?!”
“Of course… It has been ready since the last Advent… I never wish to be unprepared again… I have already thought of what I will prepare for the next one… Have you heard of the Dreaming Blight…”
“Oh dear! Don’t start with your stories! We have no time! Do you hear?! Oh dear! The other way! No! Wrong! Yes! Straight ahead now! When did you last visit the Threshold?!”
“Oh… Of course I remember exactly… Seven hundred and twenty-three Quartets ago… Ah… It was a beautiful… Crisp day… A deca-days storm had just ended in the night… I was already terribly weary of it… And the Seventy-Fifth at the time was even concerned… That the storm would last two deca-days… Oh… You know… What that would have done to my roots…?”
“Oh dear! I regret asking! Right then! Turn right now! Aah! Wait! Before you step out! Shrink yourself! No one has seen a Treant in ages! Someone will think you’re up to something!”
“Calmly… Ouch… Stop pecking… I am shrinking…!”
One bird and one twig-like figure travelled on towards the Threshold, bothered by no one.
Two hours remained until the Occurrence.
***
I must hurry – the Archivist grows irritable easily today. Despite this thought, Fronkcz walked at a leisurely pace towards the main archive of the Vestibule. Despite the early hour, it was unusually dark. Fortunately his path was lit by rows of lanterns.
His clan had decided to attend today’s Occurrence, but unfortunately he was obliged to work. Apparently the Archivist’s chief assistant was not entitled to leave. He could only entrust to the diamonds his hopes regarding the new sibling.
“Oh! Be enlightened, Miss Lurkcz.” He paused and, as any well-bred Teral would, removed the crystal cylinder from his head, greeting the woman passing by, whose quartz features and slow, heavy gait revealed that she too belonged to his race.
Unlike the conservative Fronkcz, dressed in nothing but his crystals, she wore modern attire: a polyester brown dress and black leather heels. On her head she also wore the latest trend among Teral women: a blonde wig.
“May you also be enlightened, Mr Fronkcz. You should hurry – apparently someone has misdated the Crack diplomas again.” She smiled in his direction and replied in a slow tone.
What a magnificent smile, he thought. And at the same time he concentrated hard to prevent his forehead from lighting up in the pink of shyness.
“That was certainly not me,” he replied. “I have been dating the new decree of the Seventy-Sixth for a week. May the Diamond enlighten them.”
“May it enlighten them. In any case, you know what the Archivist is like, particularly during the darkness of the Occurrence. Rational arguments have no effect on him.”
“Perhaps he should finally retire. One need not wait for another Advent to choose a new Archivist.”
These words frightened her so greatly that she flung out her arm, and a piece of quartz broke away from her forearm and fell to the pavement. The sound echoed, yet none of the passers-by paid it any mind. It happened to some Terals from time to time.
“Do not say such things! Not even in jest! I, unlike you, do not have the connections that allow finding a new job every Quartet! How long have you been assisting the Archivist – a year?”
These words in turn frightened Fronkcz. The last thing he wished was to offend Miss Lurkcz. Fortunately he was composed enough not to shed any crystals. With dismay he noticed that her forehead was glowing in the orange of irritation.
“I apologise – it must be this darkness… I cannot think properly. Tomorrow it will be exactly one year.”
“I… I apologise too. I suppose everyone is more irritable than usual today. After all, even during deca-day storms, some sunlight still reaches us. Apparently beyond Tír na nÓg, darkness is something entirely normal. The very thought makes my crystals crack.”
Both of their foreheads shifted to the green of understanding, then took on the silver of composure, before returning to their natural hue. A sign that they had concentrated on concealing their emotions. After all, it was frowned upon to display them in public.
“I have heard the same. Beyond the city they do not even have those modern lanterns that create the semblance of light.”
“I do not know which is worse: the complete darkness, or the knowledge that we use our kin as fuel.”
“Miss Lurkcz, surely you do not belong to the Church of Natural Creation?”
“Certainly not. But you must admit that their claims – ‘On the Interdependence of Nature and the Advent of the Races’ – do make sense. After all, we have examples in most races showing they are another expression of what is natural: wolves and Wolkens, for instance.”
“You had better not repeat that in the presence of any Wolken. They despise being compared to wolves. Besides, they only choose examples that fit their thesis. They have yet to show, for instance, a natural counterpart of the Asuras.”
“The fact that they have not found one does not mean it does not exist. It is simply a matter of…” Lurkcz suddenly fell silent.
Perhaps, had Fronkcz not been so fascinated by the mere fact of the longest conversation he had ever held with her, he would have noticed that her obsessive defence of the Church’s claims somewhat contradicted her assurances of non-membership.
“I’m sorry, but I must go,” she said. “I still have duties to attend to before the Occurrence, and it would be well if the Archivist did not wait too long for his chief assistant. Until we meet again, Mr Fronkcz.” She began to walk away briskly.
“Ah, er… Until we meet again, Miss Lurkcz.” Fronkcz was thrown off by this abrupt ending. “Er, Miss Lurkcz?”
It was the moment in which he gathered all his courage, very nearly manifesting Ego – This would have been truly astonishing for someone who was a Shadow
“Yes?” The woman stopped.
May the stones crack, how beautiful she is, he thought.
“May the Diamond enlighten you.”
Courage, unfortunately, evaporated swiftly.
“May it enlighten us all.”
One hour remained until the Occurrence.
***
It had been another wild night. Damien had long since lost count of which one. Things had been unpredictable since he ran away from home, but this time he had clearly stumbled into a smuggling operation. He had been working the night shift at a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It was supposed to be a simple job – all he had to do was keep watch over the deliveries.
Such was his luck. First he tripped over a nail sticking out of a pallet and accidentally damaged a parcel. A moment later, in the dead of night, two men in leather jackets appeared to collect it. The white powder spilling out of the package was merely the cherry on top of the misfortune that dogged him.
The sequence of events that followed was all too predictable. Questions: who was he, why had he opened the package. Threats. And not a shred of understanding that he had no idea what was going on. In the end, when they began arguing amongst themselves about what to do with him, he seized the opportunity and ran.
He had to leave his belongings in the company locker. But apart from his keys there was not much to lose. His wallet held only his driving licence. His savings were kept at the flat anyway – precisely for a rainy day. The only address in his documents belonged to his stepmother. He wished them the best of luck if they decided to pay her a visit.
Fortunately he had left his window open. He climbed the fire escape and moments later was inside. The only downside was that he had probably just lost another job. He had better not show his face near the warehouse again.
“And here we go again,” he sighed, sitting down on the bed to gather his thoughts. “Now I’ll have to go looking for work again. James will be furious. He vouched for me, after all…”
As always in moments of doubt, Damien reached up to his neck to touch the one thing that gave him comfort.
Then he froze. He could not feel his talisman.
“No, no, no…” he muttered, looking around frantically. “Anything but that. I had it on my neck the whole time.”
He rushed to the window and looked around in a panic. With relief he spotted it, caught on the window latch.
“Thank goodness I didn’t lose you,” he breathed.
It was a keepsake given to him by his younger sister. He had not seen her since she was taken away by the social court.
“I’ll find you soon, Soph,” he said quietly. He bent down, picked up the lost piece and hung it back around his neck: a silver triskelion enclosed in a golden circle.
The moment the cold metal touched his skin, he heard a knock at the door.
Perhaps it was the hardships of that night, perhaps thoughts of the one family member he truly cared about, or perhaps something entirely unnatural… Either way, Damien did not stop to consider what a foolish idea it was to fling open the door in the middle of the night. Especially that night.
Only the sight of the familiar faces of the thugs he had – or so he thought – shaken off brought him back to his senses. But it was already too late.
“Damien O’Sullivan, I presume?” asked the one with the horselike face, slightly opening his coat to reveal a gun tucked in his waistband. “You’ll come with us.”
“It seems I can’t refuse,” he replied calmly, attempting to conceal his fear while scanning for any possible escape route.
“No, you can’t.”
They set off. The shorter one walked ahead, limping slightly – Damien noted this in passing. Horse-face walked behind, keeping careful watch to ensure he did not duck into the first alley he came across.
In his head, he had decided to refer to them as Horse and Penguin.
“Look, gentlemen, we can talk about this. I have absolutely no interest in your nocturnal business – it was pure chance…” he tried to save himself with words, but all he got in return was a contemptuous snort from Penguin.
He made several more attempts at conversation. His instinct told him that the more he talked, the smaller the chance of a beating… or a bullet. To no avail.
“Step in,” said Horse, when they reached a black car. Damien did not recognise the make, but he was certain that not even a hundred years of warehouse work would have afforded him such a vehicle.
“Is this really necessary?”
Silence and a suggestive hand placed on the waistband were answer enough. He shrugged and climbed inside.
To his surprise, a woman was waiting for him. She looked like a typical corporate secretary: black hair tied in a bun, a women’s suit with black trousers and heels. It is worth noting that she wore no jewellery – or rather, that Damien made such an observation at all in the circumstances.
“Good morning, Mr Sullivan. I apologise for these… inconveniences. My name is Jannet… Jannet Brown.”
That split-second stumble in her introduction was caused by the surprise she felt upon seeing such a composed Damien. He no longer looked like a frightened twenty-four-year-old who had been practically snatched off the street by a pair of thugs – which was undeniably what he was.
This change was produced by the speed of his thinking. Since I’ve left behind the people responsible for threatening, beating and shooting, and sitting before me is an attractive woman who looks accustomed to conversation, it probably means she wants something from me. Which means: negotiations.
“Good morning, Miss Brown.” He smiled broadly. “Not to worry – I was planning a morning jog anyway.” And in negotiations, the most important thing was to maintain the impression of control while wrong-footing one’s opponent. I just need to work out what on earth she wants.
“Indeed? In that case I won’t waste your time. According to the information provided to me, you are currently employed by J. W. Adams Logistics, a subcontractor of the Amazon corporation. This is your fourth job this year. Incidentally, we will ensure today’s incident is overlooked. You are twenty-four years old, you live in a rented flat at 287 French Street, though your correspondence address points to the home of your father, Mr Christopher O’Sullivan, whom your stepmother has placed in an AHRC adult care home. This appears to have been caused by a sudden deterioration in his health…”
Throughout this lengthy digression – which was presumably meant to function as a threat – Damien forced himself to analyse the situation. Something doesn’t add up here. They came in the night to collect a package that had been incorrectly addressed, which is why I had to pull it from the pallet and set it aside for documentation. My bad luck had it that I accidentally damaged it at the precise moment they arrived. Ugh! What was it that angered them so? The white powder started spilling from the package. My train of thought at the time was obvious, but the complexity of the situation suggests I was wrong. If we rule out drugs, then what did they see that made them turn aggressive? Come to think of it, it made no sense for them to ask who I was. Why would small-time dealers care? The contents of the package must be the key.
For most people, conducting such rapid reasoning in one’s head while simultaneously listening to a lengthy monologue might have been quite a challenge. As luck would have it, Damien was by no means most people. Not only was he fully aware of everything Miss Brown was saying, but at the same time his eyes were scanning the interior of the car.
As he had suspected, it was lavish. Leather upholstery with ornamental stitching, a large LCD screen, a black opaque partition separating the cabin from the driver. Even a cabinet that was certainly filled with expensive spirits.
In any case, none of this helps me. To make use of their wealth I need to have something of value myself. What else is hiding here?
Then he saw it. A black case resting on the seat behind the woman, positioned so that her body nominally obscured it.
Her little smile suggests a high degree of confidence. Whatever the outcome of this conversation, she has an ace. She wants to show me something. Something I will undoubtedly recognise, something that will throw me off balance. Something the thugs recognised. Something that was in the package. Oh hell.
“Allow me to stop you there, Jannet. May I call you Jannet?” Before the woman could respond he continued, holding the smile that no professional used-car salesman would have been ashamed of. “You know a great deal about me, Jannet. Nevertheless, we both know you are entirely indifferent to my circumstances, and to those of my father. I understood what you wished to convey. However, I think we should… as you put it… not waste any more of my time and get to the point. Allow me to ask, then – what are you offering, Jannet?”
“Offering? Surely you meant to ask what–”
“I asked precisely what I intended to ask, Jannet.”
For the woman, this was a shock. An untested boy was attempting to seize control of the conversation. It had not happened to her in a long time, and certainly not at the hands of such a stripling – and so it was to remain.
She reached for the case. The little wretch had no idea what they were talking about, she thought. The contents would undoubtedly throw him off balance.
Time to throw her off balance, thought Damien.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Jannet. As it happens I have the very same pendant right here.” He pulled the talisman his sister had given him out from under his shirt. It seemed to gleam strangely – which he noted at once.
He waited a moment longer for the woman to collect herself. He had a tingle of satisfaction at having scored a point, but the match was not over yet. What now? Now the opponent had to be finished off. She must think I know what we’re talking about. That will give me the basis for being an equal party in these negotiations. I’ll work out the rest as I go.
“It evidently reacts to yours, does it not?”
That was a completely blind shot, but everything added up. Although he had not noticed it at the time – he had been more focused on the intruders – they had undoubtedly spotted his necklace sticking out. Though that might have been mere coincidence; the shape alone was not uncommon. But what if they had seen something more. Such as the amulet on his chest glowing, in exactly the same way as the one they had come to collect.
Ha. She reacted, he noticed. Second point. Now we finish this. I understand now why this conversation is happening at all.
“Since we have established authenticity, and since you are well aware that you cannot take it from me by force” – otherwise she would not have bothered with this conversation – “I will ask once more, Jannet, the one thing of which I am not certain. What are you offering?”
Jannet Brown, for the first time in her life, went utterly still with speechlessness.
Game, set, match.
“Hahaha, oh, hahaha, I can’t take it, Jannet, if only you could see your face! HAHAHA!”
The black partition slid open, revealing the front of the vehicle and a cackling older man seated at the wheel.
“I’m going to choke! HAHAHA! Oh… I’m sorry, I wanted to make a grand entrance, but that… That was bloody brilliant, boy! Hahaha…”
The man turned around as far as his seat would allow. He was not that old. Fifty at most, perhaps less. Damien had been misled by his white hair. His skin was a peculiar pale pink. Even his irises were white, with red pupils. He looked unusual.
“It’s not polite to stare, boy – never seen an albino before? Haha. Oh, that won’t be the only skin tone you’ll be seeing for the first time. You can call me Roland.” Damien shook the hand extended through the window.
“Oh, boy… Though no. You impressed me. You’ve earned being addressed by your first name. So then, Damien. You have no idea what you’re talking about… Don’t try to deny it. I’ll admit your bluff was magnificent. Jannet believed every word of it. I’m a little sorry I couldn’t watch that performance longer. Unfortunately time is pressing – it seems I’ve just changed several of my plans. We need to have a serious talk. You have many questions. I’ll try to answer most of them, though some I cannot answer myself. This is going to be a long conversation. A very long one…”
The conversation was long. It lasted several days. And its consequences stretched on for years. Until today.
The Occurrence was about to begin.
***
[Tír na nÓg – record of the Advent of races #77. Human.]
As always, the Archivist was busy preparing a new document.
[Date: 9/2, EH, 3/424 UD]
For a child not yet versed in dating, this simple notation – simple in the Archivist’s eyes – signified: the ninth day, second deca-day, month of the Elohim, year three of the four hundred and twenty-fourth Quartet, of the Advent of the Undead.
A more attentive observer might have wondered why he was entering a date precisely one year in the future. After all, he was supposed to be archiving events that had already occurred. No such observer, however, was present.
The Archivist, as always on such occasions, was instead recalling what a puzzle he had faced, so many cycles ago, as to how to date each Advent. Initially he had feared someone would notice an inconsistency in the cycle if dating were not finalised immediately. Yet he was terribly irritated by the idea of closing the dating at the very end of the cycle. He was a perfectionist, and that was dreadfully untidy. He was more inclined to let the dating be closed at the end of the last Quartet of the completed cycle. That seemed more natural. He had his way. There had been no one capable of stopping him then. Nor is there now.
And so, although the cycle would end in exactly one year, the dating of the Advent of the Undead would continue from that moment for another year, fourteen months, two deca-days and one day. The next one, meanwhile, would begin from the first day, first deca-day, month of Óg, year one, first Quartet of the Advent of Humans.
At last the Archivist shook himself free of reminiscence and continued filling in the sheet.
[Name: Human]
Probably no one would know, either, how he already knew the name of the race that was yet to manifest.
[Name of the firstborn: Damien]
Will you be remembered, or will you vanish from history after a single cycle? he thought.
[Guardian race: Terals]
Oh. It has fallen to them this time, he mused over the newly noted fact, as though it were not he who had just written it. And he wrote on, deep in thought.
[Supporting races: Wolkens…
Wolves love to care for the young.
…Treants…
Undoubtedly, as always since their Advent.
…Symbionts…
Mutual coexistence is in their interest.
…Elohim]
They are not known for their nurturing, but their kindness will surely be felt.
[Gifts: Two golden Conduits…
Ha – the Wolkens are not known for subtlety. The child will have no use for them until reaching at least the rank of Apocalypse.
…Ethereal Bloom…
The Treants, as ever, scattering their treasures at random.
…Parasite…
Let us hope they get along.
…Blessing of fortune]
I expected nothing less.
[Hostile races: Undead…
The tradition of enmity between the two youngest preserved. And I shall preserve for myself the pleasure of discovering the others.
…???…
The Archivist simply decided not to read what his hand was writing next.
…???…
Yet his hand did not stop working.
…???]
He would undoubtedly have been frightened reading the name of the last race.
Afterwards the Archivist ceased paying any attention to his work entirely.
The Occurrence began, at the precisely predicted – or perhaps decreed – moment.
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