Prologue

 

“Kulen”

There is nothing in this room, made of stone and faint light.  He looks for the source of the light but finds only the soft embrace of sleepy forgetfulness.  

“Kulen”

Is that a sound?  A thought half remembered?  The air is thin and thick and everything is so dark.   His hands are illuminated like the air itself is made of light.

“Kulen”

There is a pull in his chest.  A tingle in his scalp and the back of his neck like a word called out in panicked scream or a passionate whisper.  He looks but sees nothing around him.  This room goes on forever.  The air is still here, and old.

“Kulen”

It is definitely a call.  He hears nothing but he hears his name in his guts and his bones.  His chest has a tightness and tugging.  He moves to follow the calling silence.  

There is something in front of him, a tomb like structure that stands like an altar to the silence.  There is dust on the ground everywhere, he realizes.   When he steps it stirs up small clouds that settle quickly in this still air.  

The tomb is covered in the same dust.  It is raised up in the center of an altar, a few shallow steps leading up to it from all directions.  There are pillars in the distance on all sides of this room.   The tomb is covered in symbols which flee recognition.  Shapes or letters, as soon as they are recognized they escape memory.  

He ascends the stairs and approaches the tomb.   The symbols cover the lid, with letters as wide as an outspread hand spiraling inward towards the center, shrinking as they go until they are nearly invisible.  

He touches a symbol, then lays his hand flat, following the spiral as it travels inwards.  The ridges of the carving under his palm feel soothing like the purr of a cat, and cut like icy knives shredding his hand apart.  The room is warm.  Or he is warm.  He feels fire around him.  Inside him.  

The symbols sound of the comfort of slumber, and smell of blood spilled across soil.  They look like the softest sunset and taste like rot.  Everything is comfort.  Everything is pain.

“Kulen”

The symbols are eyes.  Red eyes.  They see everything about him.  His body, naked as he came.  His mind, his thoughts laid bare and filling every bit of the air about him.  His life, spread out like a welcome on the ground beneath his feet.  He is this empty place.

“Kulen”

There are only two symbols.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s