Morwaith’s Diary part 19: The Doom!

In The Doom that Came to Amber

6^th Snake 3658 – dawn

Morwaith is alone, at his temporary forge set up next to the Primal Pattern (Machine interludes in italics)

Sweat drips from his forehead and tumbles away towards the ground, sizzling to steam as it strikes the heated stones in front of the small forge he is stoking.

Raising his head for a moment into cooler air, Morwaith casts a quick glance around the bowl of rock in which the Primal Pattern rests. Weyland is still there, cringing from his imagined demons. Shadows cast by the roiling clouds scudding overhead flit around the depression, broken by occasional light from the false dawn that manages to break through. It is as if a war between light and darkness is being fought across the heavens, the sky a mirror of reality.

As Morwaith crouches back into his pool of fire-lit radiance he thinks, ‘Maybe Dad is right to be afraid, because the darkness is winning’.

The pendulum moves the escarpment and the gearwheel counts one…

This one finishes the wheel’s revolution and the minute hand moves…

The hands on the face now stand at one minute to the hour…

Bent over the coals, Morwaith first hears them as a murmur, the bowl being a sheltered spot of silence up until then. He stands back to the edge of the firelight and sees the stars of night seemingly pouring over the edge of the dell.

As the torch-bearing column flows in and around the natural amphitheatre, the shadows that haunt its corners are driven back. Not just by their lights, but by the gleaming blade of the dawn that seemingly follows the procession over the rim, sundering the clouds’ veil of darkness.

The twisted shape of Dworkin Barimen leads the ritual party, down and out of the crowd, towards the ritual stone. In their wake comes assorted important persons of the Blood, or otherwise, who lap the edges of the Pattern until it is surrounded.

Dworkin casts his glance around the gathering; when his eyes meet with Morwaith’s, the farrier gives his unspoken assurance of readiness.

Either side of the stone stand Alaric and Mira, knife-wielder and cupbearer, separated by the incised sacrificial rock. At once removed from each other by the altar, object of ritualised worship, yet connected by the forthcoming rite.

Further round the group, the fey Peter Thrice exhibits his usual casual stance, but glancing occasionally across the ritual space to a man stood beside the forge. Though this blonde, athletic man is unknown to Morwaith, the double lightning strokes that flash at his throat, reflecting the forgelight, are not. ‘One of Mira’s party, undoubtedly’, he thinks.

Dworkin addresses the gathered throng, the pitch of his voice cutting through the background noise and bringing him to the focus of attention. For a moment, lit from the front by dawn and behind by Pattern-light and stood within the ring formed by his audience, he resembles some circus showman announcing that the performance is about to start,

“Let the Summoning begin!”

Gravity shifts the weight and the pendulum continues to move…

But this is a clock under attack and corruption etches the distant movement.

The gears for hours and days are succumbing to rusty decay.

Close by, one of the great cogs of the machine is overcome;

This clock has no future time.

From across the bowl, in reply to the ringmaster’s cry, Adam responds, “Bring forth the sacrifice!” The blonde officer steps aside, allowing the passage of figure draped in covering robes, encompassed in her very personal darkness in this valley of morning light. Arm outstretched, fingers touching hers, Dworkin turns, without moving from the spot, guides her to Alaric and the rock, releasing the crowd’s attention to the artist and his model.

My favourite nephew, corrupted by the picture-bitch and his own peripheral blindness, who, in struggling against his situation, had unravelled reality faster than might have been foreseen. He looks tired.

Morwaith casts his mind back to their last conversation in better times. They had sat on the bed in that shadow cell, discussing relatives and plans to find Benedict. Then there had been a hope that that the broken piece of the machine could be removed, restored and replaced. But it had not come to pass and the erosion of his situation had taken Alaric rapidly beyond repair. The point of no return had come yesterday morning in Amber, with the brief trump call and Alaric’s belief of betrayal writ large on his face even as the contact broke.

Coming back to the now, Morwaith sees that the sacrifice has arranged herself artfully on the sacrificial slab. The artist bends, one hand adjusting his model’s dress, the other holding the blade where there should be a brush. The robe is cast away, clearing the path for the death-stroke.

With a ping a piece of broken gear from distant past flies through the present clock.

The escarpment hesitates and briefly the clock stops, nothing moves.

In that frozen moment…

Alaric, a look of shocked realisation seared to his face.

Dworkin, hand across his own throat, miming the final cut.

Mira regards the other woman, in this microcosm of Alaric’s existence.

The Comtesse d’Anglais, head upturned, gazes ahead and waits for the executioner’s blade to fall.

As time thaws, Alaric, his motion seemingly slowed, grasps the shoulder of the woman and, with a sideways wrench, dumps her on the floor. ‘When we sat on the bed,’ thought Morwaith, ‘Alaric told me something of that Comtesse.’

Without stopping his motion, Alaric throws himself across the etched pentagram. ‘She was his wife, or lover, or granddaughter’, and he knows what will occur even as he starts to step towards the rock…

…Too slow to stop the knife that flashes, spraying blood onto the stone, but possibly in time to make the sacrifice worthwhile. Such a death is quick but not instantaneous; even a strong mind can succumb to a panicked fight to survive. The mistake of a novice priest or butcher (and Morwaith has been both) is not to restrain that which they slaughter, surprised by the thrashing of their victim as their life blood leaks away.

The farrier pins the dying artist to the rock, committing his strength to the rite.

Alaric, white faced, mouthing words for which the air has leaked away before sounds can form.

The Comtesse, crumpled into her own dark place at the foot of the rock.

Dworkin stands poised to continue the show, yet not relieved.

Mira bends to collect the life blood of one who is her victim as much as his own.

There is blood on the rock and blood on the ground. Morwaith has blood in his hair, on his face, in his mouth and on his clothes. As she bends to collect blood for the cup, Mira has blood on her hands. Alaric still feebly moves, but there is no strength in his limbs, the muscles relaxing as his life ebbs.

“Be still, my favourite nephew, soon there will be no pain”, the old construct softly murmurs into the dying man’s ear.

From his position spread on top of Alaric, Morwaith can only see out of the corner of his eye; Mira, her job done, passes the golden chalice to Dworkin. In turning to present the cup to the crowd, the ringmaster disappears from view, but his voice rings across the arena.

“Take this all of you, and drink from it:

This is the cup of warm blood,

The blood of the new and everlasting covenant.

It is shed for you and for all,

So that the World may be renewed.”

Then Dworkin is in front of him with the cup saying, “Let him go, boy, his act is complete”. All the movement has indeed ceased so Morwaith stands and allows the pallid corpse to slip from the rock to lie, broken, next to the weeping woman.

“Take! Drink!” intones the old master, and Morwaith sups from the goblet. Dworkin crouches next to the woman but Morwaith cannot hear what words, if any, are exchanged, due to the roaring in his ears. As the cup is taken amongst the crowd he slowly staggers back to the forge and stokes it again. Possibly it is a tear, and not sweat, that drips from his face and sizzles to steam as he does so.

Somewhere in the workings of the machine a small, but important cog shattered and fell away.

Now unhindered by that broken piece the destruction of the device picked up speed.

The squeak and squeal of metal under strain becomes audible, resonating throughout.

Dworkin moves back into the ritual space with the cup of blood and commences the summoning.

“Oldest mother! Mother of mothers!

I, by all my names, invoke you by all your names:

As An, I call you as Ninlil.”

From across the Pattern Adam leads the assembly in response. On Morwaith’s finger the horn ring of the Archpriest pounds like an electric shock and briefly he sees himself on a ziggurat of mud brick. His voice stumbles after Adam’s, “Come!”

“As Buri, I call you as Auðumla; Come!”

Again a shock to the finger and Morwaith forces himself to look at his hand, trying to focus on the ring. Then he kneels in the snow before the ice-sculpture of a cow, the aroma of pine smoke fills his nostrils. “Come”, he mumbles.

“As Dworkin, I call you as Boand; Come!”

This time the ivory ring is before his eyes and he sees it sparkle with a silver light, within which run spinning black threads. Then pain and the vision of a broad river cutting through green meadow in which is gathered a herd of white cattle. His hand is numb, but he can see it holds a drover’s switch. “Come”, through gritted teeth.

“As Varuna, I call you as Govinda; Come!”

Pain sucking his hand to the ground as his knees buckle. Like an aerial, he thinks. The vision this time is of a temple compound in the Raj. His hands on the ceremonial plough, as pulled by two cream white bulls, it carves the blessed furrow through the dry ground. “Come” he whispers, and in response he faintly hears hooves stamping the ground in protest.

“As Uranus, I call you as Gaea; Come!”

Fire on his finger and across the back of his hand, the stains of Alaric’s blood are migrating across the skin towards the ring or is that just pain-induced hallucination. Inside a marble-lined hall with mosaic floors, staring at the statue of a goddess garlanded with flowers. “Come”, he exhales.

“As Ouranos, I call you as Gaia; Come!”

The pain seems less this time, like his arm has given up the struggle and just become numb. On either side stand grand Corinthian pillars and, in front of him, loaves of bread, shaped like ears of wheat, festoon the marble steps that lead down from the temple. He gulps deeply for air and smells the fresh-baked bread smell. The power of the calling courses through his arm, seeking her, just like he can hear it reverberating through the Pattern.

“And as Hrourenos, I call you by your oldest name, Gwouwinda.

Come to us now, at this place, in that shape which is most pleasing to our eyes. Come!”

No pain, no vision; she is amongst them! “Come!” he grunts, pushing off the forge to rise to his feet. He opens his hand from a clenched fist; there are pins and needles but no damage. There is a disturbed murmur in the crowd, a gasp cut short so as not to draw attention. He raises his eyes from his hand, curling the fingers in again as he does so, and sees her.

She paces the ritual space as he first remembers her, all those years ago in the early days of his youth. A goddess of creative nature, though not the milk white steed with an ivory horn, but incarnation of the wildness of wilderness that humanity should fear.

Memory floods over him, how could he have forgotten? Rituals of appeasement, sacrifices to sate her wrath, those things were done in early times until she was bent to King Oberon’s will.

Morwaith can see the wildfire swirling in the beast’s eyes, a hatred of the assembled throng of civilization. Blood drips from her fangs, fresh from a kill, and as her head turns she is the predator at bay, considering the prey that has corralled her. Her form shivers with black waves and her limbs mutate from hoof and shank to terrible tentacle with each pulse. Momentarily his mind recoils and his stomach lurches in the recollection that he has to shoe this creature.

A last throb of pain recalls his mind back to the ring on his finger. On the air drifts the smell of cattle and fresh-mown hay. Within the brutish creature in front of him the Archpriest can see glimpses of the aspect that has actually been called. He recalls she who had taught man to plough, the goddess of cattle herders, who people thanked for the gift of bread. Bountiful nature! He concentrates on the images that had come to him during the invocation and he can glimpse the timid silver-flanked queen of the woods, standing in the circle. Ropy tentacles curl around the edge of his sight and try to force his focus back to the bestial goddess.

Morwaith resists, he is her priest, but a priest who has shod the plough-horse and forged the scythe. He stands in a still spot of calm lulled by the sound of a gentle breeze through orchards, as around him the tempest of nature’s fury rages impotently.

He can still see the dark Unicorn, hooves dug into the ground, flanks tense and glistening with sweat, or perhaps it is slime? Some invisible rein links her to Dworkin and, like a breaker of horses or lion-tamer, he draws her in and towards the beaker of blood. Unwillingly the animal dips her nose into Alaric’s lifeblood and drinks.

In another place the timid silvery goddess shied away from the man with the chalice, but finally drank from the chalice he bore.

As the beast’s gore-stained snout tosses globs of blood into its mane, Dworkin pulls forth the Serpent’s Eye from somewhere and holds it forwards. His lips move and, though no sound can be heard, the Unicorn freezes, still in mid-flourish. The ensorcelled creature’s muscles bulge, tense under her skin, but she seems held as surely as if she had been cast about with chains. Though immobile her limbs continue to change and flicker, but in his mind’s eye Morwaith can see the slender legs of the other, and it is these he grasps and starts to shoe.

Close by Dworkin’s voice gently speaks,

“I see before me a dual entity.

I command the evil one to go and the pure one to stay.

As An, I command Ninhursaga to be gone.”

From somewhere far away, the farrier thinks he hears the cry of “Go!” as, crouching near the ziggurat’s base, he drives in the first nail.

Again the soothing voice spoke,

“As Buri, I command Elli to be gone.”

The farrier is glad of the warmth of the forge as he works in the cold snow. Faintly the word “Go!” is carried to him on the icy wind. With the first shoe secured he moves on. Meanwhile on the edge of a distant Pattern, a perfect equine limb takes shape.

The quiet voice near the Unicorn’s head says,

“As Dworkin, I command Aife to be gone.”

As the farrier quenches the hot shoe in the broad river’s waters, it bubbles back. “Go!” Two down, two to go. Morwaith begins to relax into the flow of shoeing and he slips from the quiet place.

“As Varuna, I command Kali to be gone.”

Suddenly he is wrestling with a serpent like pseudopod whose apparent intent was to strangle him. Sweat glistens on Dworkin’s brow, focusing more intently on the gemstone. Adam leads the crowd to roar, “Go!” and Morwaith, his ring prickling, slides back into meditation.

Once more, whispered words,

“As Uranus, I command Juno to be gone.”

The beast still struggles, its hooves slipping on the temple’s marble floor. Little sparks of magic come off the already-shod hooves and give purchase, and then the third shoe is on. Some cantor outside the sacred space calls, “Go!”

“As Ouranos, I command Hera to be gone.”

Withdrawing the heated shoe from the bronze temple brazier, the farrier considers whether the speaker is really quiet or really far away. Then under his breath, as if in response to some unheard lead, he mutters, “Go!”

Around him, Morwaith can now see Dworkin’s ritual space edged by crowd and Pattern. His vision is framed on one side by the crumpled body of Alaric and the sacrificial rock, and on the other by his father’s form, cowering against the forge. From behind him as he holds the last hoof, Dworkin’s tones ring out,

“And as Hrourenos I command Ekwona to be gone.”

The last nail goes home and Morwaith strokes the pure white forelock.

With those words the now pure white Unicorn spasms and stumbles. Her mouth opens wide and a painful scream of frustrated rage erupts. The scream is chased from her throat by a roiling black cloud; in fact it seems to be this malevolent shade that is making all the noise. Having left the Unicorn behind, the dark entity heads west.

‘Go west to shores of old Amber town, west to her seas so blue,’ thinks Morwaith, briefly recalling the old shantyman’s song. Even after her dark twin has departed, the Unicorn shakes, Dworkin places a hand on her muzzle and Morwaith one on her flank, slowly she calms and, folding her legs under, gently sinks to the ground.

The clock case cracks and the frame falls away

One of the balanced twin heads of the escarpment sheers away

That which kept the clock in time is no more

The minutes start to spin destructively away, only the count of seconds remains.

Morwaith follows the Unicorn down but Dworkin brakes away and recovers the cup of blood. Turning, he proffers it to Peter Thrice, who takes it and turns towards the Pattern. That very act of turning obscurs the fey nobleman’s face from those in the ritual space, including Morwaith, who wonders what thoughts Thrice is having before realizing that it is purest folly to contemplate a Faerie’s mind.

Blood splashes from the chalice onto the Pattern and, as each drop lands it leaves dark stain, erasing the blazing lines. Peter starts forward, anointing with gore as he goes, each step carrying him along the new-tarnished path towards the centre. In concert with the fading of the Pattern, a mist starts to rise along the ridge at the edge of the valley; a grey wall, it spreads upwards, obscuring the dawn sky.

As Peter closes in to the middle, it is apparent to the onlookers that a figure awaits him there. The bulky shape remains unmoving until the traveller arrives and then speaks words to him that do not carry to the edge of the Pattern. The man appears to be King Oberon and Morwaith can only imagine his words: regal commands, desperate pleas or intimidating threats?

Whatever they are, Thrice dismisses them with a shake of his head and pours out the last of Alaric onto the Pattern’s core. The Pattern’s glowing track seems like the air-traced path of an ember, or a child’s sparkler whose brightness tricks the viewer’s eyes with an afterglow, but then fades to nothing.

As the last of the radiance vanishes, the fog bank, which had built into a dome over the crowd, breaks over the throng as if rushing to occupy the now vacant space.

Now the few remaining moving parts of the clock seem to hang in space.

No longer is there a case or frame holding them in their places

Unrestrained they continue to work with each other, counting out the last seconds.

Beyond these movements, other fragments scream and moan in their destruction.

This fog, Morwaith observes from his position, squatting next to the Unicorn, is not wet or apparently cold. It seems to obscure the valley floor to a depth of a few inches, but Morwaith is confident that the previously solid ground no longer exists. The only light now comes from the Eye of the Serpent, pulsing gently on Dworkin’s chest, and everyone seems to close in towards him as he comes to stand next to the Unicorn.

Morwaith rises as she does, quickly scanning about. Alaric’s corpse still lies by the sacrificial slab and Weyland seems to have crawled up against the same rock as the crowd presses in, using it to shield himself from at least some of them.

Leaving Dworkin caressing the Unicorn, Morwaith pushes back outwards through the people to stand with his father. From behind him he hears the old man start to chant again.

“Mother of the People of the Jewel,

Whose stream of blessings is ever-flowing,

Whose shining body delights the eyes,

Whose holy purity blesses all:

Praise to you, honour to you, love to you.”

Looking back from his position next to the rock, all Morwaith can see is the Eye being lifted above the heads of the assembly, still slowly pulsing. The stone is still sticky with blood in places but by climbing onto it he gains a vantage point to look down on Dworkin’s actions. The old man has already moved a short distance by this time but had not yet reached the third veil in his redrawing of the Pattern from the inside-out.

Morwaith ponders on what this means for walking the Pattern, which was conventionally walked from the outside-in. Dworkin has done this in the time before, was it that which had made him seem alien to other initiates? Was their knowledge to be gained by taking such a walk? The Pattern grows as its creator walks, following his twists and turns, spiralling out from where the Unicorn lies. Where it is, there is no fog, just fire-etched ground, and as that solid form grows it pushes out, displacing the people and the nothingness they stand in.

Dworkin continues on, striding around the Grand Arc, forming the lines that Morwaith knows so well. His very being feels energized in its presence. No longer is he aware of the others; there exists for him just the scribe and his text. Mind reeling, Morwaith starts to try to trace the lines within his mind, mentally following Dworkin down the lines as he forms them onwards, backwards, towards the beginning (or the end?) that lies on the outer edge of that grand design.

As Dworkin reaches the second veil it dawns on Morwaith that the space between them has been growing exponentially and that all he can truly see is the dim pulsing light of the Eye moving in the distance, yet in his mind he is treading every step.

At his feet his father groans. With the intent to give a quick glance, to check the smith is okay, Morwaith slides his vision off the mental path and then the world takes a quick lurch to the left and everything starts to fall away from the centre.

Fractal patterns of light flash around him. ‘Not fractals but vast interference patterns shaping infinite space’, he has time to reflect.

And the clock finally stopped and shattered…