Revision as of 21:08, 16 June 2022

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Reference text ( Maintained text, used as reference ) :
Notes: (Lanstiril, 2022-06-16)

“

Lost in the heart of the Fyros Desert, Pü ran at full speed across the night-cooled sawdust, fleeing for his life. While it was easy to defeat the gingos, the long-snouted canines that hunted in packs in the heart of the jungle, they were no match for the gigantic feline that was chasing him now. But then again, he had never faced anything like the gigantic feline that was chasing him. Feeling its foul breath coming closer, he ventured to glance back. It was then that he saw the black varinx pounce on him, its mouth wide open. The Zorai dodged its attack with an expert roll and drew his spear. The carnivore had already repositioned and was about to bounce again with its agile legs. As it leapt, Pü tried to impale it with his spear. But with a deft claw, the beast threw the weapon away and it stuck in the loose ground. The child tried again to dodge the attack, without success. The enormous jaw of the beast closed with violence on his naked head. It shook him like a rag doll, while he struggled and screamed to death, feeling the predator's teeth crushing his skull.

-–—o§O§o—–-

"Pü, wake up, you must fight!"

The young Zorai got out from his nightmare. He had straightened up and his mother was holding him by the shoulders. Although he regularly fought a black varinx in his dreams, he had never lost the duel before. Covered in sweat, he instinctively brought his hand to his forehead. A small, rigid growth was puncturing his skull. His seed of life was about to grow. While all homins had a seed of life buried in their skulls, only the Zorais' one was doomed to grow like this, until it covered their faces with the mask that marked their passage to adulthood. Pü, only eleven years old, turned out to be an extremely precocious child, and to his great regret, even more than his brother. In secret, he had prayed to the Kamis for a long time, hoping to obtain his mask only after his twelfth birthday, age at which Niï's had grown. He did not want to draw attention to himself, and even less to weaken the brotherly relationship. Because Pü measured how much this relation had already degraded since, four years ago, he had torn off his bell to his elder then hardly seven years old. From that day on, Niï began to neglect him and to spend more and more time training with their father. Previously moderate, he had also gradually become more radical, following in the footsteps of the Black Mask. Thus, it was no longer a question of converting the miscreants: only the sacrificial execution could make them expiate their sins.

But what could the child, about to become an adult, do about that? If the Kamis had wanted his mask to grow a year before his brother's, then it must have been so. Besides, it would have been a lie to pretend that he himself was not looking forward to this day: Pü had always been anxious to growing up. Nevertheless, the pain that was currently splitting his skull was much more terrible than he had expected. Enough to make him regret having wanted this moment so much. The child pushed his mother away and got up hastily. Staggering, he helped himself to the wall to reach the drape of his room and reach the central room. His father and brother, already awake, were changing into their ceremonial outfit. Pü saw the confidence they had in him in their eyes. He had to face up, as they had done in their time. Yet, and he felt it again as he looked at his father's black mask, he would never be the equal of his first son in his eyes. He was doomed to grow up in his brother's shadow, which suited him completely. Pü knew the merit there was to occupy the position of second in command, and never had he envied his elder. The future role he would have to play with him was fundamental. Yes, he would become the Shadow of the future Black Mask, and he should be proud of it. For just as silence only exists in the face of noise, light is nothing without shadow. Pü fixed a few seconds the tattooed mask of Niï. Concentrating on this idea to drive out the pain, he tried to regulate his step. Unfortunately, he was crossed by an high sharp tear, collapsed on the family table and slipped on the hard ground.

"Niï, raise your brother!" shouted her mother, before her husband interrupted her.

"Don't do anything, Niï. Pü must pass the test alone, and you know that better than anyone else, Looï. No help, no matter how small, must be given to him."

His wife was about to reply when the young Zorai stood up.

"Father is right, I must do it alone. Have faith in me, everyone, I will know to do our name honor."

Pü said these few words while gritting his teeth, squinting to control himself. He left the hut without looking at his family and picked up the sacred basin on the ground, which was emptied and filled with water every evening in anticipation of the great moment. Undressing completely, he knelt down and poured the contents of the well over his head, as the tradition asked. Under normal circumstances, the bite of the icy water would probably have seemed painful to him. But as the burn of the shoot bruised his face, the sensation of the icy liquid was almost life-saving. Naked as a newborn and washed of his impurities, he was now ready to be reborn during the ritual. But he still had to survive until then. Still kneeling, the young Zorai opened the small chest put next to the now empty basin. It contained two tools that were essential to the sprouting ceremony: a ceremonial dagger and a whistler-stick. Pü put the whistler-stick in his mouth and struggled to his feet. Finally, with the dagger in his hand, he headed for the deeper place in the village: the Ceremonial Square.

With each of the child's exhalations, the whistle emitted a melodious and strangely evanescent chant that everyone within the stump knew. Whistler-sticks were sacred objects, carved from the femurs of tribe's ancestors. Their singing allowed the villagers to know that one of their own was coming of age, but also to communicate with the Kamis, who seemed to be able to hear them everywhere. More practically, the whistle also prevented the nascent mask from covering the Zorai's mouth, or even seeping into it, at the risk of killing him. Helping himself to the walls and barriers to progress, Pü advanced laboriously, his affliction preventing him from controlling his steps perfectly, between the moving slats of the suspended bridges and the tortuous alleys. Fortunately, he knew every corner of the village, and knew instinctively how to avoid the roots that sometimes intertwined under his feet. He could have moved around there with his eyes closed, guided by the slopes, the characteristic smell of each hut, the nightly cries of the izams installed in the vegetal niches of the bark ceiling, and the bewitching echo coming from the abyss wells that sank beneath the bark. If he usually cherished the night walks, the crossing seemed to him today infinitely long, punctuated by impulses of pain that started from his skull and split his whole being. One of them was particularly heartbreaking. His legs gave out on him as he took a hollowed-out staircase that led to a middle landing in the village. He hurtled down a steep slope, tearing up some roots in the process, and crashed to the ground. As he fell, the dagger and whistler-stick slipped from his grasp and fluttered a few feet away from him. Slumped on the cold carpet of lichens, he thought his head would explode, and put a fist in his mouth freed from the whistle to stifle his howls. Luckily, he was still alone, and no one was in situation to discover the pitiful state he was in.

Driven mad by the pain, Pü was feeling his jaw joints distend, some of his teeth loosen, and the skin on his cheeks crack as he was managing to force his entire fist into his mouth. With his free hand, he pulled out a clump of blue hair, bleeding. His eyes rolled backwards as he convulsed on the floor. He could feel the bone material tearing at his flesh and growing against his forehead. How could he bear such pain? It was inconceivable, there was no chance of him surviving that. Letting baleful thoughts darken his reason, he was about to give up. It was then that he appeared in front of him, between two spasms: out of nothingness, a Black Kami was now leaning over his body. The protective spirit of Atys, whom Pü assumed had answered the call of the whistle, was in every way similar to the one that had appeared to him four years earlier, in his mother's workshop. Over the past few years, his mother's religious teaching had paid off. Pü had become a devout practitioner, who was feeling a deep and sincere love for Ma-Duk and the Kamis, and absolute gratitude with regard to them. A few months ago, his mother had revealed to him that she and his father had found it very difficult to conceive him, and that everything had changed after Looï had gone to meet the Kamis. A few days later, she got pregnant. So Pü was, more than anyone else, grateful to the Kamis. The child looked at the creature's arm, pointing in the direction of Ceremonial Square, and then at its eyes. Its big white eyes. His big white eyes that, empty four years before, were now filled with shame. What miserable image was he giving to Ma-Duk? He was besmirching the name of his ancestors. The normally calm young Zorai felt a fierce anger towards himself. He furiously tore his fist from his throat, knocking out a few teeth and expelling nausea in the process. Crawling piteously, he managed to retrieve his dagger and whistle stick, and when he stood up, the Kami was gone. Had he dreamed it, or was it a warning from the Great Originator? Ma-Duk's gaze was on him now, he could feel it. He spat out bile and blood, bit into the whistle, and resumed his descent.

Pü had almost reached his destination when he saw the first glimmers of light between the huts, now well above him. Finally, he climbed down a ladder, with difficulty, reaching the deepest part of the village. Here the light was scarcer, and the cold of the deep caves was rising to the surface. The Ceremonial Square was a large circular pit about twenty-five meters in diameter, five meters deep, and the bottom was covered with bark chips. Apart from the gigantic totem pole that occupied the center, it was completely empty. The structure was an impressive wooden pylon completely covered with Zoraïs masks tattooed with various pictograms. These tattoos represented the merit of the Zorai. The more a mask was tattooed, the more deserving the Zorai was. The ultimate tattoo consited of a total covering of all the others, the origin of the so revered Black Mask. Moreover, only those tribesmen who had respected the precepts of the Black Cult of Ma-Duk all their lives could hope to appear on the totem pole at their death. Surviving alone the growth of the mask was one of these precepts. With trembling legs, Pü knelt halfway between the ladder and the totem pole and stabbed his dagger into the ground. His vision blurred by pain, he lingered on each of the faces, invoking the names of his heroes, and seeking in their deadened gaze a way to lessen his torment. He had already repeated his prayer a great many times when the first member of the tribe joined him in the square, as the sharp growth was beginning to pass his eyebrows. Blinded by the cephalgias and the drops of acidic sweat that beaded in his eyes, the young Zorai did not succeed in making out the newcomer. He had to wait for him to speak.

"Don't be the cause of another dishonor, son. If I train you every day since you could hold a dagger, I have not only taught you to fight."

It was Ke'val, his uncle, whose presence the child blessed. He had managed to get to the square first and had dispensed his hidden advice in a low voice, so as not to risk being overheard. The young Zoraï had to overcome this ordeal alone. For the tribe, accepting whatever help was considered an act of weakness, which would prevent him forever from becoming a Black Warrior of Ma-Duk, and from one day joining the eternal totem with faces. For the other Zoraïs in the country, facing the growth of the mask without resorting to anaesthetic concoctions was pure madness. Understanding what his uncle was getting at, Pü sat down cross-legged and closed his eyes.

"Black Warriors absorb their suffering and open themselves to pain."

"Like bone, the spirit becomes stronger when broken."

"Ma-Duk offers us the ultimate pain so that no pain in the world can ever reach his soldiers."

The young Zorai muttered these mantras over and over as he focused on his life seed, the heart of his torment. As his uncle had taught him in the past, he stopped trying to fight anymore, letting the waves of pain spread from his forehead to the extremities of his body. Was this the secret? Accepting pain as a friend? To become one with it? Yes, this was it. Dying to be reborn. Pü firmed his bearings and plant his fingers into the ground to keep himself upright well. Reopening his eyes, he lingered one last time at the faces of his forefathers, as the emerging mask began to obstruct his vision.

"Don't help me flee my pain, offer me yours. I will cherish it."

At these words, his ancestors came to life. Wooden bodies wriggled out of the totemic prison. One after the other, they fell to the ground like disjointed puppets, and once straightened, they charged at him, screaming. Pü spread his arms. One by one, the apparitions plunged into his forehead. Letting the pain consume him, the child lost all concept of reality. And as his eyes were about to be plunged into darkness, perhaps permanently, he thought he saw the large white eyes of the Black Kami who was atop the totem pole. Pü read pride in them and fell into a trance.

Around him, his entire tribe was beginning to arrive from the heights of the village, descending the stairs and ladders in religious silence. They gradually placed themselves in a semicircle on the half of the square opposite the one where Pü was kneeling. The last to arrive was Grandmother Bä-Bä, helped by Looï. The old woman was the only one allowed to join the semicircle where Pü was. She stood between the little being and the big totem pole and raised a withered hand. This one contained her famous set of orange dice, which she used regularly to catalyze her power and accurately predict the tribe's future. At his gesture, the few lights still present at the level of the heights of the village flew in his palm, which had become the only source of light. A small phosphorescent ball was now floating there. The Zoraïs, although accustomed, never got tired of this bewitching spectacle. A few long seconds passed, silently, then the witch blew on the small star, which lit up with red and flew to the totem. Upon contact with the ball of light, the building instantly burst into flames and the empty orifices of the masks lit up. Grandmother Bä-Bä then began the ritual that each of those present had experienced as a child. She chanted dark incantations for the next few hours, waving her hands in a strange way, while her children hummed liturgical songs in chorus. Deep in the darkness, somewhere in the huge stump, shadows danced in rhythm. Farther into the jungle, emanating from the gigantic dead sky-tree, one could catch sight of a reddish glow illuminating the sky, and guess at sinister whispers in the wind's complaint. The Cursed Stump, definitely, lived up to its name for the ignorant. The hypnotic ritual seemed never to stop, and none of the Zorais would have risked interrupting it. Tirelessly, they stared at the young child, who, still in a trance, occasionally broke the monotony of the ceremony with his muffled cries. They thought they would lose him for good an hour after the ritual began, when, barely conscious, Pü tore the dagger from the ground and split his mask in line with each eye. But the youngest of Sang and Looï Fu-Tao held on. Everyone there in the pit knew what he was going through. They too had experienced it. All of them had been forced to dive into the abyss. And they had all come out of it greater.

A shrieking twilight abyss was sparkling before Pü's eyes. Again, the Black Kami emerged from nothingness. With its great white eyes, it stared at the child, then plunged. Pü had no choice but to follow it, sucked in by a force beyond himself. In full catch of speed in the bubbling vacuum, a development and an acceleration of the vague tonal system announced a paroxysm to come, indescribable and orgasmic. The speed became quickly vertiginous. Unable to breathe, so much the force of push was powerful, Pü felt the air to flay its skin and to infiltrate between its bones. The pain was unspeakable. He was in the process of liquefying, crushed by the endless increase in pressure. Gradually, he lost all consistency. It was then that, reduced to the state of a simple primordial soup, he finally felt it within him. The monstrous explosion of the liturgical chants of his ancestors, which concentrated in their immaculate sonority all the primitive effervescence of the Great Genitor, that which broods behind each fragment of matter. This resonance which springs up in rhythmic reverberations and penetrates attenuated in all the levels of being, and carries everywhere on Atys a terrible significance. Ma-Duk spoke to him, and the Kami took him to meet him in the glittering heart of the world. But all this disappeared in an instant.

-–—o§O§o—–-

Pü woke up, sweating, panting, his senses disordered. He did not know where he was, nor why his body was suffering such affliction. Around him, strange misty shapes were slowly approaching. Instinctively, he looked for the weapon on his belt, but could not find it. He moved into a defensive position as his senses slowly regained their place. A body emerged from the fog, and Pü managed to make out its face. He would never tire of his mother's beauty. Deeply hurted, he was about to throw himself into her arms, hoping to find appeasement. But she stopped him and spoke in a voice that struggled to veil her emotion.

"Pü Fu-Tao, you have completed your passage to adulthood with success. But this ordeal was only the first. Let us know, do you wish to become a Black Warrior of Ma-Duk?"

The young Zorai, who had finally regained his senses, ran his hands over his new face for the first time. It was firm, bony and warm. In spite of the still sharp pain, he was amazed to be able to follow every lesser convolution of it with his fingers. This face was much more sensitive than the old one. Sensing that his answer was overdue and reading the emotional disorder in his mother's eyes, he stated without surprise:

"Yes, I do wish."

"Then accept your new equipment," his mother replied.

Uncle Ke'val came and laid a suit of soft wooden braided straw armor at his feet, which he immediately put on. He also gave him a knapsack, a suit of soft wooden armor, a small, sturdy shield, a finely chiseled short sword and dagger, and a fine pair of magic amplifiers, looking like large, ornate gloves. In essence, like everything coming from Atys, homins were made up of spiritual particles, and irrigated by a primordial energy called Sap. Each homin was also able, instinctively, to imprint his will to the Sap that was irrigating him, in order to manipulate the spiritual particles that made him up, or those of the environment. Thus, he could modify their aspect, their nature, or their behavior. Here was the magic. Unfortunately, this required a high degree of mastery and consumed a lot of life energy. The amplifiers, because of their composition in conductive elements and catalysts of Sap, were invented in order to overcome the homin limitation, and thus to practice magic more widely. Pü stared for an instant at the present he was being given, then transfered his gaze at his uncle's mask. He read pride there. A year earlier, Shengi, his own son, had failed the mask growing ordeal. Seeing him mad in pain, Grandmother Bä-Bä had to intervene and interrupt the ceremony. By this failure, his cousin had denied himself a glorious future. Pü was particularly sad to learn of his mysterious disappearance some time later. Had he fled? Had someone gotten rid of him? The answer to these questions remained taboo. Putting these painful thoughts out of his mind, he quickly and silently equipped, then turned his gaze back to his mother.

"Here is an amber cube, take care of it. The tribe is currently composed of one hundred and forty-eight souls, and three births are to be expected in the next few months. You will thus have to donate us one hundred and fifty-one offerings. You may go."

"Thank you, Mom," he replied, his voice trembling.

Unable to resist, Pü started a hugging motion. He had to embrace his mother. But, appearing from nowhere, his father interposed by catching his wrist.

"This is a bad idea Pü. Your mother's reassurance will not soothe you. You have to overcome these trials alone," he said curtly, before being interrupted sternly by his wife.

"Sang Fu-Tao! The day you succeed in preventing me from embracing one of my sons has not yet arrived! So step aside!"

The Black Mask gave his wife a cold look, but obeyed her without no word as letting go of his son's wrist. Looï threw herself into Pü's arms and he held her as tightly as he could. His mask brushed against his mother's, and the contact, though imperceptible, gave him sensations unknown until then.

"This mask and these horns suit you so well, my son, she murmured. I have faith in you, we all have faith in you, you will return to us victorious, I have seen it. But I beg you Pü, I ask you one sole thing: what you about to do, do it only for Ma-Duk, and never for your own pleasure. Never forget. You can become a great warrior and still be my beloved treasure."

Shaken by these new sensations, her words, and especially the excruciating thought of abandoning her for so long, Pü loosened his grip and ran without a word to one of the ladders of the main square. He met the eyes of several villagers, including his brother. Curiously, he did not succed in deciphering it. It seemed strangely empty. Pü climbed in haste the different levels of the city without ever turning around: if he crossed his mother's face again, he might not be able to leave. Finally, he crossed the large and disturbing breach that served as the entrance to the village and passed the edge of the jungle. Forgetting for the first time his physical pain, he hurried without stopping, illuminated through the tops of the tall trees by the light of Jena's cursed star. He didn't even know where he was going, devastated as he was by this last moment with his mother. Reaching the edge of his limits, he collapsed on the wet leafy ground and started to scream in pain. His father knew. This special moment of tenderness was a bad idea, he has been right. The pain, that wasn't his mask, it was his heart.

  Belenor Nebius, narrator • Cheng Lai'SuKi, illustrator

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