Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

 

4 Years Ago

 

Emptiness swallowed the landscape down to the horizon. The darkness was an endless abyss that stretched out like an outstretched black hand consuming everything in desperation and despair.

Ice.

Cold.

The weather of death surrounded Mark as he walked amongst that empty wasteland; the only life that existed there was the endless sea of trees, but even they seemed like ghastly forms in that wash of darkness.

A curious character in every way possible, Mark dressed from an era long forgotten if ever known. His shirt, a faded ivory from being worn far longer than it should have been hung slightly past his waist and seemed African in origin.

Traditional black yoga pants covered his lower half, loose enough to give optimal mobility but worn enough to show their durability. Sturdy brown leather sandals, which seemed crafted by hand protected his feet from the rigors of his journey.

He wore a few adornments as well, including a leather strap on one wrist and bicep, old weathered silver rings on three of his fingers on each hand and a necklace made of hemp that lay hidden under his shirt save for a bit that peeked out along his neck.

Mark’s hair was an even mix of black and silver, a badge of honor that he wore willingly. He did little to provide any upkeep to that mane, keeping it slightly longer than his shoulders and pulling it back into a single ponytail with a leather thong. Strands had found their way out of his control during recent travels and more yet threatened to mutiny.

His beard was long, nearly covering his neck, and was just as salt and peppered as the hair on his head. No stylist had left a mark here, but still, the bits of stubble did not seem as though they wanted to extend their hold past their current resting point, finding an equilibrium with the hair along the side of Mark’s head.

His eyes were a piercing blue, as bright as the purest waters of the ocean. They almost shone in the darkness he currently walked, and, at their core, held a profound determination that reflected his very soul.

 

The cold attempted to consume and embrace him. It invited him to surrender and join with all those souls whom the forest had already claimed.

Aokigahara, known to most as the Suicide Forest had become the latest stop for Mark on his tireless journey. He had known of this place years prior, but the endless canopy that he walked through now had changed significantly, and some essential element at its very core had shifted.

Tales had been told of yurei, ghosts, specters, the last images or reflections of those who had taken their lives in those woods drawing in visitors to this particular landmark.

Mark would have welcomed the sight of such diversions, anything to break the surreal nature of his current locale. Doubt crept along his spine, crawling to the back of his ear like a tiny spider, threatening to infect his mind. A bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, as alone on his face as he was in this forest.

He stopped walking, took a deep breath and wiped it away. “Get ahold of yourself. What would the old man say if he saw you sweating like a teen on prom night? He’d say, ‘Stop talking to yourself out loud, Mark. Remember your damn training and get a grip, find your center.’ That’s what!” he asserted to himself, taking control of both sides of the argument.

Mark reached into the old leather satchel at his side. The bag had seen its fair share of use over the years. Minute cracks lay etched into the leather in nearly as many spots as the wrinkles that had settled along the edges of his own eyes.

The skin of the bag was similar to his own as well, smooth and dark, the bag from sustained treatments of mink oil for waterproofing, his own skin from exposure to the elements and a definitive need for a long soak in a warm bath.

His earth-stained fingers pulled out a small doll made of straw. Mark muttered a few words under his breath as he rubbed the center of it in a counterclockwise circle, audible enough so only he could hear them.

A faint yellow glow rose up around its chest and, at the same time, a similar bit of energy grew around Mark’s own.

After a few seconds of this ritual, he stopped and returned the doll to the satchel. As he did so, the energy dissipated into the air around him.

A new sense of peace took root in his heart, consumed his uneasiness, and cleansed the encroaching webs of doubt. Only a calm serenity was left.

As he walked, Mark found little solace in the fact that the forest was entirely devoid of sound.

 

Silence.

 

Sometimes silence is a beloved presence. Something sought after, cherished and then reflected upon with a wistful longing. It’s in those moments I can find solitude and be forced to wonder when that isolation will be interrupted with the inevitable distractions of things…other than silence. Damn, I’m deep! he thought to himself.

“Never the good quiet,” he dared to say out loud, taking in the world around him.

This was most definitely not that. This was an oppressive quiet�"the kind that physically assaults you in the interim of getting bad news. It was that moment in which you wait for the hammer to fall or the other shoe to finally drop.

“Thank goodness I wear sandals,” he said with a smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

It is a strange thing to walk through a forest just before dawn, enveloped in a strange silence. Stranger still to have one’s own heart be the sole interrupter. That rhythmic beating, THUMP-TUMP, THUMP-TUMP, THUMP-TUMP, the only comfort in that silence. It’s a reminder of life, of that pure force that’s generated by living, a reminder of my faith on this journey, all locked within that simple pattern of sound drumming in my chest, my essence and my heart.

He started walking again, pushing deeper into the woods, his eyes wandered, and his mind did the same. He began rubbing his thumb against his middle and index fingers. It was a motion that carried a purpose, not just some nervous habit but rather one of practice.

He began to lose himself.

Along the horizon, a sliver of orange and yellow sunlight began to pierce the veil of gloom that cloaked the forest. It reached out through the sea of green, highlighting its deep tones and finally landed upon Mark’s cheek.

 

His eyes flashed open as a bit of eT wove its way out from those moving digits. With each step forward the glow of eT around his hand intensified, growing in size and strength, suffusing the air around him and, all the while, consuming a bit of the darkness the dawn had yet to claim.

For nearly sixty years Mark had searched, had walked, and had hoped for this very moment. Hope was not the right word for him, but it was the closest thing that anyone would be able to relate to.

Perhaps faith.

Faith that had been steadfast and undaunted would better describe what Mark had held onto over the course of this journey. Now that the moment had finally found him, now that he had finally found HIM, Mark could not help but let out a satisfied, “YES!”

He drank in the life of the forest, the sunlight shimmering off the cold dew of the leaves and grass, the smell of lush plant life and loamy earth, the crisp taste of the cold that bit sharply at his mouth.

The grip of the weather chilled the bits of moisture on his flesh as he focused on the silence of the woods.

The small wisp of eT that had first erupted around his fingers had now grown to the point of enveloping his entire hand in a golden glow. It pulsed rhythmically with the beating of his heart and continued to intensify with each step he took forward.

Mark was not entirely sure if the eT was leading him, or he it, but that did not matter. The one thing which he did know was that he was nearing the end of this journey.

 

As he reached the end of a rise, he saw the opening of a cave nestled snugly at the bottom of the ravine’s bluff. It was nearly a perfect circle, grass stretched across the dark rock in a cross-like pattern as if touching the main directions of a compass and four streams of frozen water reached out along the stone at those intersections.

“Shamash!” Mark dared, a hope of some response tinged hidden behind the word, but none came to him.

His hand slapped the rock on the edge of the bluff as he flung his body over the precipice and toward the opening below. Catching the ground with a preternatural feline grace following a near twenty-foot drop, he neither broke stride nor ceased the motion of his fingers and thumb.

At the mouth of the cave, he looked up at the landscape around him. There were blades of sunlight cutting through the netting of leaves amongst the overhanging branches, slicing through the blanket of receding darkness that still lay there.

It was majestic, a sight genuinely befitting the moment that was before Mark and, if his years had taught him anything, even in as pressing a moment as this, he needed to drink this wonder in for as long as he could. He knew a moment such as this was fleeting and, in an instant, gone.

The eT in his hand came to life as if in response to his thought or perhaps as a subtle reminder of the point of his journey, and snaked its way toward the opening. Those golden vines stretched into the dark of the cave, lighting up its interior and called Mark to follow. His eyes shifted in their direction and, soon after, his feet followed suit.

The eT around his hand was now as bright as a small sun, illuminating his path and all that was around him. Ice had formed along the walls as well as the floor and ceiling.

This frozen sea was a natural bit of artistry shaped from the random chance of moisture meeting the right circumstance of weather, yet there was still some unknown hand at play in the way the forms of ice had settled within the cave.

 

It was a scene set in time, ice figures frozen in motion along the ground, halted from progressing further into the depths of the darkness and locked in the columns of ice that dotted its interior. The eT on Mark’s hand cast a light that reflected shades of life that could have existed in that wasteland, a sea of faint hues that created an ocean of lost souls which he now passed through.

The breath that exited his mouth produced a white cloud as small flakes of ice formed along his lips. His eyes darted about the cave, taking in the moment and savoring the significance of each step he took.

The explorer within him, the very core of what defined who he was as a person demanded that moments such as these be etched forever into his mind. He would keep them for his own personal recollection but also to record for later tales. This was a point in time that would impact history.

For Mark it was the journey that drove him, the quest for discovery; that and his total faith in his mentor, in the man that had opened his eyes so many years ago. He had such respect, adoration, and compassion for Shamash. But, more importantly, they held a deep abiding friendship, and from that, he had found the faith to drive his mission. It alone sustained and held him true to this new beginning that had finally come.

“You see where all these damn secrets get you? Locked up in a cave of ice�"literally!” Mark said loud enough to be heard but softly enough not to disturb anything in this sanctuary. His fingers never ceased moving as he spoke, his feet always pressing him onward.

 

The tendrils of golden eT met at the back of that pool of emptiness, revealing a second smaller opening. Mark made his way through it, but just barely. This section was clearly not naturally produced; rock had been scorched and burned through but only just enough that Mark could fit himself within. “Good thing I skipped the last month or so’s breakfast,” he choked out as his body squeezed along the tunnel.

After nearly fifteen feet, he reached the mouth of a smaller cave. Here he would hopefully find his prize. Inside was almost a perfect circle with its edges unnaturally smooth and polished. Ice still clutched the walls.

However, it was what was at the back of the cave that floored Mark. His eyes filled with tears, and one escaped as it ran down his cheek carving a fissure through the dust on his face, only to become a lost victim to his beard.

He tossed the glowing ball of eT from his hand, and it flew across the whole cave up to a gigantic wall of ice. The light pierced through this barrier and revealed a single figure at its center.

Mark took steps forward and fell to his knees, the weight of his quest finally exerting its toll on his body and the realization that it was finally over. It was all sinking in. All he could manage to say was, “Shamash.”

The figure in the ice did not move, nothing, not even a bit, but that fact did not deter him in the least. He scanned the room as he sought out as much information as he could before making his next decision.

Finally, his eyes found the familiarity of his satchel. His hand flipped it open and began rummaging for the components which he would need. Without thought, he started pulling a number of items out.

First, he removed a small leather hide which he laid out in front of him on the ground and dusted off quickly. The next items he took out were two strange roots wrapped in a hemp cloth. They found their way to the side of the hide and were quickly met by a small dirty vial that contained an innocuous unknown fluid. Finally, an aged and curved golden dagger was laid in the center of the hide.

He unwrapped the roots, crushed them with the base of the weapon and mixed them together along the edge of the hide. He chanted under his breath; words that had been lost to humanity for centuries-old ones that carried with them a great deal of power.

Mark knew the ritual, knew its potency, knew from experience that it would work, and, as such, he moved through it without trepidation. Uncorking the vial, he poured its contents over the remains of the now-jointed roots. They melted together into a thick paste that began to glow a dark crimson, the red of fresh blood�"of life.

Mark dipped the fingers of his left hand into the mixture he had created and then did so with the tip of the blade as well. He rose up from his knees, eyes locked onto the wall of ice in front of him. The sheer focus of the process was enchanting. He stopped at the very center of the sheet of ice, and his hand rose up to it.

His fingers worked quickly and with a grace known only to those artists of the Renaissance. Each stroke contained a bit of precision and artistry. He took pride in such little things as this. If it’s worth doing, give it your best or nothing at all, he thought to himself.

The symbol was old, even ancient most would say, but those were the ones that carried the most profound connections. They were ones that millions of eyes had looked upon, believed in over the ages, a compounded interest of millions of lives with connected beliefs that extended themselves from the past to the present and linked them together across time and space. To this very spot. Now.

“Nothing like the power of thousands of years of belief systems and faith to provide the juice for a good trick. Eh, Old Friend?”

The symbol began to glow and, merely seeing it was enough to bring a second tear down Mark’s cheek. Memories of the first time he laid eyes upon it rose up, reminding him of why he was here, of what his life meant, and, even more so, of what HIS life meant. Though the symbol itself would not be enough, there was always a price for things. A price for knowledge, the journey’s price, and a price for victory, he thought to himself.

Now Mark knew it was time for him to pay his price. He took the golden dagger and ran its edge along the inside of his left arm, wincing ever so slightly as it bit into his flesh familiarly, adding another line along the web of scars already there. His blood intermingled with the mixture he had made earlier, and the wound erupted into a burning fountain of energy that doubled Mark over on himself. “DAMN THE GODS. That burns old man!” he cried as he struggled to regain his composure.

The wound on his arm was sealed with only a minuscule livid purple scar of new flesh that was beyond painful to the touch. His right hand took a firm grip on the blade, eyes focused on the center of the symbol on the ice, as he raised it up high above his head and screamed out with as much force as he could muster. “ELU!”

And then, he thrust the blade deep into the symbol on the ice.

Power.

Power, as raw and primal as power could be poured out of the symbol and flowed into the sheet of ice, piercing it like blood flowing through a vast system of arteries, working its way into every vein, every crack, every bit of the great body of ice.

A resounding crack and hiss echoed as it burned away, the power reaching hungrily for the figure who sat in the middle of that womb until it finally made a connection.

As the first small drop of eT-infused blood reached the motionless figure, it intensified the entire web of power within the ice as if it had connected to the very sun itself. The cave became consumed in a pure white light, one so undefiled and brilliant that even Mark had to shield his eyes from it.

As that energy faded away back in upon the figure, the cave dimmed and threatened to be obscured once again by darkness.

Mark pulled two thin pieces of paper from his satchel and tossed them haphazardly into the air. They made a popping noise, strangely muffled as they transformed into floating balls of fire.

These brightly lit orbs zipped about each other for a few moments before pausing mid-air and separating to hover a mere ten feet or so above the stone floor, keeping it lit enough that he could move forward to the once-sealed figure unencumbered by the dark.

A foolish sense of doubt once again threatened to leak into his mind at that very moment. However, he had to know, as the truth rang true in his heart. Reaching the man and looking down at him, he received his answer.

He was devoid of clothing with his flesh exposed to the elements of the cavern. The man was unusually fresh and clean considering his long internment. The steam and mist from the melted ice swirled, roiled and danced about his frame.

The unclad body was chiseled, as cut as the stone that surrounded them, his stasis in the ice had not caused any atrophy to his physique.

His hair was long, dark, full and now wet as it laid against the ground beneath him. It was matched only by the thickness and length of his unkempt beard. He could have passed for thirty, possibly forty if he wanted to, yet there was something about him that was timeless, some bit of him that seemed as though it would never change, defying time itself. Enduring.

Sixty years and you look exactly the same you old b*****d, DAMN YOU! Mark thought, snickering at the last bit as it rolled through his mind. He reached out with his excited and slightly trembling hand and touched the man’s shoulder as he said, “Shamash!”

The man’s eyes shot wide open as far as they could go, sitting up in a rush, as he gasped for air like rising up from the deep sea just prior to his lungs succumbing to the cold grip of the water filling them up.

Awakened, he screamed out.

Author's Note

Sorry for the odd structure translation. New to this site.
The manuscript is more refined as is the posts from the blog.
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