Friday, October 17, 2008

The Prologue

The cat walked down the moonlit path, stepping carefully over the uneven stones that led to the sanctuary. It was following the cloaked figure of course, as it had for the past several nights over several miles. Although one would never have suspected it to be capable of such a feat, its snow white coat and the rather large belly which sagged down its middle suggested that it was a favoured pet of a rich old lady living in the Forum.

The man knew of its existence of course, he could smell its odd smell and see his white shadow trailing behind him clearly. Was it merely an escort, sent by his too-polite hosts to ensure that he crossed the boundary safely, or something more? It was the smell that bade him to treat the cat with caution, it had the distinctive acrid smell of an enchanted creature. Still, he was certain that it would not harm him or get in his way. His hosts were too set in the old ways to harm a guest within their territory, much as they would have liked to, so he knew that he and his bundle were safe for the time being.

His bundle made a small noise, but he ignored it in favour of quickening his steps to the giant wooden doors. Dawn was almost here, there wasn’t too much time left now. A touch of his fingertips on the cold brass knob, and there was a loud clicking and whirring noise from within, and the door swung open. He left it open as he strode in, knowing that the cat would follow. It was better to have a witness for what was going to happen tonight.

The sanctuary was built the old way, entirely of gigantic stone blocks with intricate rune carvings to bind them together. The hall was long and comparatively narrow, and the ceiling was far above, supported by tenuously thin tendrils of stone. Windows were long thin slits in the side walls, stone pillars were cunningly erected in front of them to prevent their letting in the sun at dawn. A huge circular podium lay at the far end of the hall, and the entire building was designed such that the first ray of sun would strike the exact centre of the circle, while the rest of the sanctuary lay shrouded in darkness. It was speculated that a system of highly polished mirrors placed in the ceiling was used to achieve this, but no one really knew. Even at this time, when he knew his death was but a few minutes away, he couldn’t help but admire the architectural skills of those who had lived so long ago.

He wondered idly if any of the daily patrons knew why the temple was built the way it was. Probably not, he decided, as he himself had grasped the reason only a few weeks ago. He remembered his previous visit, when he had made that terrible oath, that he would never rest until he had righted the ancient wrongs, until he had unified the world.

He had failed. People had called him foolhardy and arrogant, when he set out full of purpose. He had proved them right. Far from being the savior of the world, he had succeeded in making things far worse and a terrible war seemed inevitable. Years of hate and misunderstanding would finally find an outlet, and a secret cowardly part of him was glad he would not live to see it. This brought him back to the present, he had come back to the sanctuary, back full circle, to make his last sacrifice for the cause.

The cat slipped in, almost unnoticed, and crept under one of the stone pews.

He looked down at the tiny bundle under his arm, which wriggled slightly under the scrutiny. He slowly unwrapped many layers of fine quilt to reveal a baby, a pale scrawny thing not too many days old. Large eyes blacker than night stared out from a thin, bony face. It seemed malnourished, an unhealthy, sickly looking thing. Good, he thought to himself, perhaps it would make it less of a sin to kill this creature, the creature which took its mother’s life when it was born.

The cat’s eyes narrowed as it watched the man place the baby gently on the scorched spot which marked the centre of the podium, where the sun’s burning rays would strike unforgivingly, focused by the mirrors in the ceiling. A piece of parchment placed there would ignite instantly. And the man placed the baby lovingly on the spot.

The baby seemed to know something momentous was happening, it stayed completely still, and stared at the man through its wonderfully expressive dark eyes. A sudden lump found its way into the man’s throat for some reason, and he murmured as he rose, ‘Forgive me.’

Dawn was scant moments away. He looked up at the ceiling he could not see, and spoke, his voice husky. ‘This is my last offering. I have nothing else to offer you.’ His voice echoed around the temple. ‘Please,’ he bowed his head, ‘Accept my sacrifice. Save my people.’

The tiniest prick of light appeared above. The sun shone down on the new-born. The man waited. For the cries of the infant as it was burnt to death. For the smell of burning flesh. For his heart to break.

And waited.

And under his astonished gaze, the baby began to giggle. He could feel the hair on his fore-arm rise, the strange musical hum which accompanied a strong burst of the Power filled his ears. His eyes met his son’s and a flash of understanding brought him to his knees. The baby’s eyes were now a light grey, its face seemed fuller, more human.

His sacrifice had been accepted, not the way he thought it would have been, but accepted nonetheless.

They came soon after dawn, as he knew they would. Grim faced mercenaries, seven of them marched slowly down the entrance towards the podium. He was still on his knees, to all appearances, he appeared to be praying. But they took no chances, although it was day now, and the sun’s gentle diffused light lit up the sanctuary. Their swords were unsheathed, and they arrayed themselves in close ranks behind him. Was it the first time blood would be shed in this sanctuary?

And the bravest of them crept closer, and with a sudden thrust of his sword, stabbed him in the back. The man toppled forward, onto the strongly sunlit dais. His flesh began to burn almost instantaneously, far too quickly for a normal human. The baby watched him gravely as he died, light grey eyes meeting black, and the man smiled, a thin smile on a too pale face.

‘My son, the savior of the world…’

The priestesses came soon after, when nothing remained of the man but ashes, with cries of disbelief as they noticed the baby, unscarred, unburnt, wrapped in fine silks. They assumed, of course, that a woman who could not care for her baby left it here, as was the custom amongst the poor. But rarely did a baby come with fine silk quilts. And never was it placed in the centre of the dais, where the sun shone strongest, the mother must have been very careless indeed.

The cat crept out unnoticed. The act of power it had witnessed had shaken it deeply. It would have to report back that day of course, but it would not mention the baby. The vampire was cornered in the old sanctuary, and met his end in the hands of the mercenaries, those were the events that happened that night. The sacrifice would remain a secret.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Death of a Man

Let's call him Paris. Paris is a thin, insignificant looking fellow whose speech is without inflection or any particular emotion. Any emotion displayed seems but forced. With a little stretch of imagination, one can imagine him being dissatisfied with his lot in life, one can imagine his disappointing childhood and his unfulfilled dreams. Paris smiles a thin tentative smile when he sees you, and mumbles a hello in a low enough tone, so that your possible lack of response could be attributed to your not hearing him. Paris is the person everyone describes as 'steady' and 'dependable', and cannot think of anything else nice to say. Everyone knows a Paris, or can at least identify with him, for Paris is very human, the accumulation of one's worst fears and insecurities.

The objective is merely to present some sort of background for Paris, so what comes next would actually seem as a logical continuation of thought, rather than simply the output of a morbid sense of humour. How would you expect Paris to meet his (untimely) end?

Before outlining the possibilities, one may safely cross out certain possibilities. For instance, one would not expect Paris to go down fighting defending all that is precious to him. Neither would one expect him to get into a drunken brawl and get stabbed. For this is simply not his style.

For retaining the entertainment value of the blog, we will also eliminate mundane ways of kicking the bucket. So, Paris will not be killed in an air-crash or of heart failure (unless it is caused by shock). However, there could be a way he would die in a car accident...

One would imagine Paris to be a law abiding fellow, who lives by the rules. He would carefully drive his car, staying well below the speed limit, earning the curses of his fellow drivers who want him to get out of their way. He would pay his insurance on time, and never dream of running a red light. So, imagine Paris's consternation when he waits patiently for the light to turn green before he starts his engine (Paris is environmentally conscious and switches off his engine at traffic signals) and crosses the road, only to see a truck speeding towards him from the cross-road.

Paris has just a split-second to act. Only if he brakes immediately, or floors the accelerator can he hope to live! What does Paris do? He uses the split second to glance up at the traffic light ahead to ensure that it is green, and that he is not the driver at fault. The truck crashes into Paris' car (a second hand Maruti 800, lovingly cared for) and sends Paris to a better place, and the car to a junk-yard. Still, Paris dies happy, knowing that he lived by the rules, and died by them.

Paris is also the kind of person who would kill himself if he were to get into debt, not because he's afraid of going to jail, but because he's terrified of his wife and what she would say. While Paris' wife (a shrewd and cunning woman, who's older than him, wears a lot of make-up and is slightly chubby) would probably take out a life insurance policy on him, making herself the sole beneficiary, she would not get the spoils as Paris would be conscientious enough to wait for the policy to lapse before killing himself. His creditors wouldn't get any of their money either, and his death would be a disappointment to everyone concerned.

I believe that the scenarios outlined above are the expectations people have of Paris. It is quite possible that in his death, Paris would do what he would have dearly liked to do when he lived, surprise everyone by his actions. When people learn of how Paris throttled his nagging wife and was shot when attempting to escape to Nepal, they would ask themselves, 'Did we really know Paris?'

No one would have known. No one could have known. It's also quite possible that Paris' death would make people wonder and ponder if they really know anyone at all, and send them down a downward spiral, and at rock bottom, with not an ounce of self-confidence left in them, they would become the Paris they once knew.

Therefore, in his death, Paris spawns new Parises, and the vicious cycle continues until all of humanity is destroyed when a disgruntled Paris nukes everyone and everything.