His Legion

[Cain-rag]

The following story is a collaboration with a good friend of mine, Mz. Fatality.  

[Cain-rag]

His Legion

Part 1

GarneacThe small black car trundled up the rutted lane wearily, rocking slowly from side to side, bouncing nastily when it rolled over pits and rocky bumps (bumps that were actually the half-uncovered roots of rotted oak trees that stood, like mute sentinels, for as far as the eye could see along the lane, dead and dying). Noxious grey fumes trailed the car, streaming behind and upwards to blue skies, a banner of lost hope.
GarneacMaxwell rubbed the grimy interior of the car’s window with his even grimier coat sleeve, shivering both from the desolation that eased by and the chilly winter morning. Snot trailed down his nose and curled about his lip; he wiped it away absently. He peered out at the emptiness, at the completeness of it, the disappearance of all sparrows and squirrels, of white rabbits and blue jays and bright green leaves. All was replaced by hard packed, cold snow.
GarneacNothing lived out there, and whereas another nine-year-old would have balked at such a thing, at the wrongness of it all, Maxwell Genlio was no stranger to the presence of Nothing; his full lips briefly turned down bitterly. Nothing had visited him, oh yes, right from the moment his bewildered mother had looked upon him as nothing more than a noisy, squealing mass of baby; Nothing had whispered in his Mum’s ear that nothing could be done about her husband running out on her and taking the total piddles worth of money they’d owned; Nothing had crooned to Maxwell at the age of five that nothing could be done to save his mother from Breast Cancer, the big ol’ Boogyman in the flesh—literally.
GarneacNothing, vast and intangible, stalked the wheezing black car among the field of white as it made the final stretch of its journey.
GarneacThe cheap rubber tires, the peeling paint job and tarnished coat and cracked windshield—this was what the entombed occupants had had to weather for near on three days now; the driver, an elderly man who scowled as he drove with one hand, the other massaging his ulcerous stomach, and the frightened looking boy of nine.
GarneacA child whose weary brown eyes revealed a disturbing abyss in his mind.

***

GarneacThe Abyss was where he’d gone to escape to lately, when the frequency with which he’d been shuttled from house to house (he didn’t call them homes, for the families there were unwilling to accept him) had accelerated and become unbearable; it was a place that he could find comfort. He would daydream about things unimaginable but all the same entirely possible in that place in his mind, where the ground sang harmoniously with the sun as it sat in a bed of eternal blue. Where great birds flapped lazily through the air or coasted on warm thermals, throwing rippling shadows on the sea, the trees. Where towers of ivory had peppered the rolling hillsides, as numerous as the fleas on a street dog’s coat. And it was in the Abyss that he’d dreamed The Tower, the one that loomed over them all, dwarfing the giants that moved and the serpents that swam, casting a shadow that reached forever north…
GarneacMaxwell had also seen the Eye.
GarneacIt stared back at the boy from the depths of his imagination—although he would swear quietly that, while in this place between reality and dreams, everything was real as real could be.
GarneacSometimes It was clear, appearing as a kind, blue iris. Snatches of wondrous things would follow and the young boy would immerse himself, his worldly worries put aside for the moment.
GarneacOther times, the Eye was different.
GarneacIt could be red, was black, was twisted and malevolent. It was sometimes leering at him with a man’s smile, or there would be the drooling fangs of a wolf; sometimes there were two of these dreadful Eyes, sometimes hundreds, millions, all staring at him, searching for him, speaking in tongues of fire and darkness—
GarneacBut two days ago, the Eye had closed, and the Abyss, vanished.
GarneacThis sudden change terrified Maxwell more than his unknown destination, although he could not say why.

***

GarneacMaxwell, asleep now for hours, awoke suddenly, biting back a cry as the car shook violently and slammed to a rest. He rocked forward, saved from being flung into the front by the seatbelt; fire branded his chest and he rubbed it painfully.
Garneac“We’re here, boy.” Mr. Braggot, the reluctant driver, stated obviously.
Garneac“I told you, my name is—”
Garneac“Yes, yes. Your name is very special. It is, isn’t it? Don’t you feel special now, boy?” Mr. Braggot turned in his seat to look at the child. “Now, get you and your spe-cial-ness out of my car.” He stabbed a button on the side door and the locks clicked. “Last stop; get out.”
GarneacBut Maxwell was already halfway out the door, papers in one hand and knapsack slung over thin shoulders. He kept his eyes on the frozen ground, pushing the door shut. There was no need for goodbyes between the two: they’d been forced to travel together by the Head of Social Services, a thin faced woman named Louisa Something. She hadn’t ordered them to be civil.
He turned as the car drove off, staring fixedly at the slowly receding shape: it became a smear, a dot, and was gone. Snow had started to fall again and would quickly mask Mr. Braggot’s passing.
GarneacAnd then, unable to put it off any longer, the nine-year-old turned about—only to gawk wonderingly at the house Child Services and FosterCare had ordered him to live in.
GarneacA house in a land of ice and snow.

***

GarneacIt was old and rundown, looking as tired as Maxwell felt, although this was not the reason why his heart hammered in his chest, why his mouth had gone dry.
GarneacSome few feet before him in the rough embrace of the oak trees was an immense building.
GarneacImmense doesn’t even begin to describe it, he thought, and then: why didn’t Mr. Braggot say anything?
Garneac“Because he didn’t see it.” He said simply into the silence.
GarneacAnd he knew it was true. Perhaps Braggot had seen a shanty or an average home or something else. But Braggot hadn’t seen this house. Not the house that Maxwell, and Maxwell only, was seeing. This, he knew to be true as well.
GarneacHere is where the Abyss begins, he thought, excited. This is where I’ll be able to call it back.
GarneacAnd then, with fear: This is where the Eye will open again.
GarneacHe craned his neck to see the top of the aged house, and when he looked down at the once grand porch, he wasn’t surprised to see an old woman standing there. Her skin sagged and only white wisps remained of hair. She wore a bland dress.
GarneacMaxwell saw none of that. He could only see her eyes; the blue Eye of the Abyss.
GarneacShe beckoned him with crooked finger.
GarneacHe went.

Interlude

GarneacThe man in black slams his mug down on the counter, ignoring the beer that sloshes onto his fist. Turning on his stool, he stares at the wall behind him—and beyond. He sees with his Eye across thousands of miles to where young Maxwell Genlio enters a house that only he can see properly.
GarneacHe sees the old woman who isn’t a woman. Who isn’t even human.
GarneacHe watches as she gives the rutted lane blanketed in snow one last glance before closing the door.
GarneacHis Eye sees this and then it, too, closes.
GarneacSlow to anger, the man in black is unprepared for the hatred that spikes in his stomach, his head.
GarneacThe witch has found the boy.

***

GarneacThe man in black is the Dark Man, is Carnage, and he steps outside the bar and into the cool night.
GarneacHe cries out into the black—and the darkness answers.
GarneacPairs of brilliant red eyes appear, the same shade as those who summons them. They are followed by whipcord lean bodies and glistening fangs; the air hums with their snarls. They advance. And then they are gone, sent to carry out their master’s bidding.
GarneacCommanded to find the boy.
GarneacCarnage stands there for some time with his eyes closed, allowing himself to relish in the knowledge that his wolves, his creatures of shadow and malice, will find the prey.
GarneacHe knows that the witch is cunning, but he is ruthless, and so the child will be his.
GarneacHe steps forward—
Garneac—and is gone, is flitting through the night like some dimly imagined horror; people frown and rub themselves unconsciously in his passing, unaware of the evil that spares them all in its hunt.

***

GarneacAnd the stars continue to look upon the world, seated on ebony thrones; they are omniscient but uncaring. They are cold and silent.

Part 2

GarneacSnow fell in lazy free-fall, fat clumps of soft powder coating the house and everything outside. Winter had arrived in its entirety: breath plumed in frigid air as icicles formed under the snow-laden branches of the oaks. The world had succumbed to the white.
GarneacAnd the white was disappearing under the crows that were landing in groups of twos and threes. They looked like pockets of darkness.
GarneacA steady wind blew around the house; the timbers shook, groaning as the numerous invisible hands prodded and tugged.
GarneacLooking with eyes that were no longer warm brown, but a distant slate grey, Maxwell stood before a ceiling-to-floor high window, thinking hard, thinking fast. His Eye began to open in his mind, but the boy closed it viciously. Now was not the time. At least, not yet.
GarneacHe instead cast his thoughts back two months, back to the moment when Veria had silently called with her finger—and all that had happened since then.
GarneacAnd while he remembered, the crows continued to land.

***

GarneacMaxwell had stood in the hallway stunned by the aged interior of the decrepit looking house.
GarneacThe Eye had closed and the Abyss vanished, but with only his natural senses he could feel the coiling power that lurked beneath the surface of everything, a fat snake that was constantly moving beyond his peripheral vision. It was in the yellowed and drooping wallpaper and in the splintery stairs leading to the floors above (following them, he saw that they led into gloom). The power emanated from the furniture all the way at the end of the long hallway, from the dusty lamps on tables, surged in the cracked tan tiling.
GarneacAs young as he was, he knew that the walls of the place had stood for centuries or more—his young mind couldn’t grasp such a passage of time yet, but he knew.
GarneacThe door closed behind him and Veria turned to him, smiling a tired smile.
Garneac“I expect your trip has been long, no?” Her spindly arms had stretched out. “Let me first say this: welcome home, my child. Welcome home at last.”
GarneacMaxwell’s vision blurred as he cried at her words, running into her raised arms, embracing peace.

***

GarneacFor the next three days he only slept and ate, regaining his strength.
GarneacOn the third day, Veria came to him in his small but wonderfully cozy room (standing before the large window, remembering, Maxell’s grey-red eyes shone; he was still amazed that it was his room, his alone) and woke him.
Garneac“Once you’ve cleaned up, come to the kitchen. We must talk,” she whispered in his ear with breath full of spice and mint and authority. Maxwell did as she asked, and ran down the stairs to take a seat opposite her at the small table. There was a bowl of cereal and cold milk, and he ate while she spoke.
Garneac“You have come a long way, Max, and it has been trying, I know, but I had to make it so.” Her eyes fixed on him. “Had I allowed your travels to be too well known, you would not be here.
Garneac“You are being watched. Hunted. Both you and I are prey to one who serves the Dark. I have searched for you since before you were born—not knowing exactly why or who you were, but knowing it must be done—never leaving this house.”
GarneacBreakfast done, Maxwell wiped his mouth in confusion.
Garneac“Who’s after me? Us? Why didn’t you leave the house?”
Garneac“Because the man in black would have noticed me, just as he had noticed you.” Her blue eyes darkened, “But he has noticed, and he is coming. He will not find us yet because of the wards I’ve put up, but let there be no doubt: he will come.”

***

Garneac“What are you?” Maxwell had asked, leaning forward, nervous and excited. “I’ve seen you before—your eyes.”
GarneacVeria frowned, “Impossible.”
Garneac“It’s true. I have seen your eyes in the Abyss.” He insisted.
Garneac“Explain,” she said softly, and he did. He told her of the place in his mind, of the blue and red Eyes, of the towers and Tower; everything. After, he sat back, stomach churning, but she had laughed delightedly.
Garneac“Oh, you are good! Much more adept than I thought—and so young! But I must agree: I am the Eye. You probably saw me when I was Searching”—the boy’s brow crinkled and she waved absently—“for you, making sure you were safe. The Red Eye is the Eye of the man in black, of Garneac.” She paused, her lined face still. “It was his gaze that you felt.”
GarneacMaxwell shivered, remembering the blood red, the fury in the searching gaze, always looking, always looking…
Garneac“But you have your own Eye. It is how you were able to notice both I and Garneac. And it is powerful.” She mused. “How I did not know you saw me… Did Garneac know? No. Perhaps not.” She shook herself and continued.
Garneac“As for the rest: the giants and animals, the Tower and the towers… That is another world, another time. My world—and yours, if you would want it.
Garneac“I came from there a long time ago. To find you. To save us, to save the Abyss, as you call it.”
GarneacMaxwell felt the truth of her words and said: “It’s dying, isn’t it?”
Garneac“It’s dead,” she responded harshly. “Garneac’s master made sure of that. But you can undo the damage. You must.”
GarneacAnd in his mind, Maxwell had felt the Abyss return; he had opened his mouth to tell Veria, to say he saw—
Garneac—the carcass of a long dead giant, still standing, still frozen against a raging sky. He saw a wasteland, endless and masterful. Birds didn’t fly; they fell, tiny comets of putrid waste. The land sang ballads of misery, black blades of grass writhing in twisted pleasure.
GarneacHe saw not the kind Eye, not Veria’s Eye or what he had come to realize was the Eye of all that was Good in the Otherworld, the Abyss.
GarneacHe saw the Eye of the Dark.
GarneacHe saw himself.

***

GarneacHe did not tell Veria his vision.
GarneacA few days later, she asked Maxwell to join her in a room of soaring ceiling and faded open space. They walked to the middle and faced each other.
GarneacAnd so the lessons had begun.
GarneacShe taught him first to close his mind to the Abyss. It was a distraction, unimportant as of yet. The ability to call upon the Eye was crucial though.
GarneacDays passed unsuccessfully, and they had both lost patience: Maxwell felt worthless, unable to perform something so elementary yet important, and Veria, unable to show him, indeed, unable to always even open her own Eye, had despaired. Maxwell had asked her once why she couldn’t will the Eye open constantly.
Garneac“It would kill me,” she replied simply. “As long as I am in this body and in this world, I am trapped by its laws. It is not of this existence, so it punishes me everytime I use it.” She waved at the room, the house, “That is why everything is rundown; as I lose strength, so does my creation.”
GarneacTwo weeks later, the Eye opened. He had told the old woman, and she cried, overjoyed.
GarneacVeria was shown as she truly was: an aura of blue-white beauty superimposed upon a frail body; immortality sentenced to death. The house also was revealed, transformed into a palace of golden light. To his natural sight, he saw only its squalor, but his Eye showed him the riches and elegance.
GarneacA day later when he looked in the mirror he saw that his eyes had changed to grey. He could also see flecks of red.
GarneacAnd when his Eye had opened at that moment, the nine-year-old screamed when he saw that it was the crimson Eye of the Dark.

***

GarneacThe truth behind the truth:
GarneacVeria was wrong in believing that Maxwell was some great conduit of Good and that his Eye would save the world that she and Garneac had come from. He was instead like Garneac but infinitely worse, and he had somehow caused the Abyss/Otherworld to collapse. He was the Bad, the Dark Eye.
GarneacHe was immensely powerful, but afraid to access that potential, fearful of what would happen to him.

GarneacThe truth behind the truth:
GarneacHe had written Veria’s last name, Tiejusc, on paper one day, and with a sense of surety, rewrote it to this:

J U S T I C E

GarneacHe had paused, written Garneac, and rewrote it as:

C A R N A G E

GarneacAnd finally, he had written his own last name, Genlio, and without hesitation, formed this:

L E G I O N.

GarneacThe truth behind the truth:
GarneacMaxwell was only nine-years-old, and he was scared. He knew that the Light he shared with Veria was weakening in him, and that his own dark strength was growing. He was scared of his eyes, his Eye.
GarneacBut he would not let it overtake him. He would bend it to his will.

***

GarneacA week before Maxwell would be standing in front of the wide window, Veria died. He could have saved her, but that would have involved using his dark powers, and Veria wouldn’t have allowed that. If she had known about his true source, he knew, sadly, that her love for him couldn’t have overcome her duty to destroy him and what he represented.
GarneacThe house was silent; the wards disappeared with the old woman and the golden light dimmed.
GarneacTwo days later the crows started to appear.

***

GarneacAnd in the here and now:
GarneacMaxwell, with his wide opened Eye that stared from the shadowed pit of his mind, staring at the carpet of black beyond the window; the blackness of crows. And their baleful red eyes.
GarneacThey belonged to him; they were his legion.
GarneacI am the Father of Crows, he thought.
GarneacShadows swirled behind him, swallowing the house.
Garneac“Fly.”
GarneacAnd the crows flew; the air trembled with the susurration of ghostly wings. Maxwell watched as they blotted out the sun.
GarneacIt wouldn’t be long now before Carnage came.
GarneacThe birds hovered, waiting, and so did the weary boy.

Interlude

GarneacThick mist curls in air; dark clouds gather to choke the sun; the sky threatens to storm.
GarneacOn the long bridge: cars stall, slam, and swerve into another. In the cars: women grab children, purses, and they shriek, tendons straining against throats. Men, caged by pride, piss themselves and murmur. Children’s eyes snap shut and small mouths move in fear.
GarneacThe road is a jumbled mess of blue, brown, yellow, and red steel.
GarneacAmidst the mess, a sore-riddled giant moves.
GarneacPus oozes, poisonous; blisters burst, lost in the mist. The tall thing howls cruelly, nastily.
GarneacCarnage’s body is wasting away because of the constant use of his Eye over the past two months, but it is all coming to an end. He is heading to the boy.
GarneacHe will devour the child; oh yes, oh yesssss…

***

GarneacHe is in the countryside now, and his left arm falls off. It disintegrates before reaching frozen earth. Tentacles of darkness slither from the gaping wound, merge, and a new, slick ebony arm is born.
GarneacHis eyes are feverish, and they melt. Black orbs replace them.
GarneacHe is changing.

***

GarneacHe sees an ominous cloud, hiding the sun, and then he sees the boy, standing out in the snow, away from the cursed house.
GarneacCarnage snarls, gravelly voice mixed with venom.
GarneacHe stops some feet from the boy whose name he does not know nor cares to know. His skin is night, and he towers over the lifeless trees.
Garneac“And where,” he asks, maw moving messily, “is the—

Part 3

Garneac—lady of the house?”
GarneacHead bowed, the boy said nothing.
Garneac“Ah. Her death was painful to you,” the creature’s eye flared red, flared with delight, “but it is better this way. It would have broken her frail heart to see what is about to happen to you.” His left hand—now a three fingered claw, curved and wicked—reached out towards the boy. A hole appeared in its middle and black ribbons streamed out, tasting the air hesitantly, then hungrily.
Garneac“The Light failed in the Otherworld when my master decided to strike, so why she sheltered you and your Light from me in this world, I do not understand.”
GarneacThe ribbons lashed out, moving with deadly speed to the motionless child.
Garneac“Do you know what the absence of light is?” Carnage asked.
GarneacAnd finally, Maxwell spoke:
Garneac“I am the absence of light.” He said softly.
GarneacAnd Carnage looked up to see the cloud which was not a cloud erupt into chaos.

***

GarneacThe crows separated and began to fall, wings tucked against sides, one by one.
GarneacThey were like black rain upon the face of the earth as they drowned out Carnage’s screams of outrage and fear.

***

GarneacBut the ribbons were still moving when the crows slammed into the Dark Man and tore his inhuman flesh. The ribbons wrapped around Maxwell and lifted him, up, up, and into the wide window, shattering the glass with his body and pained cries.
GarneacHis screams cut off abruptly as the tentacles contracted, holding him in midair. Fire burned in his cuts and he could feel his blood pooling beneath.
GarneacFighting the tightening hold, he managed to raise his head high enough to see Carnage trying to fight off the maelstrom of whirling crows, but with little success. Their beaks darted forward, stabbed, peeling, ripping away chunks.
GarneacAnd still more crows fell from the overcast sky, seemingly endless.
GarneacBut Maxwell knew it was only a short time before Carnage found a way to end the assault—and then end his life.
GarneacAnd in his mind, his Eye pulsed.
GarneacThe tentacles moved to cover his neck, his face, but Maxwell’s Eye was pulsing and he screamed—
Garneac—because he was the Father of Crows, the Dark Lord, Carnage’s Lord, and he could end this now. He could turn his gaze upon the strands and they would melt; he could look at Carnage and laugh as the malformed creature was burned by his power.
GarneacAnd afterwards, the world would burn.
GarneacHe had destroyed the Light once, in another time, another world, and he could do so again. He was Infinite! He was All!
GarneacAnd the Eye beckoned, beckoned like Veria had—
Garneac—and Maxwell screamed, “No!”
GarneacHe grasped for what little remained of his powers of Light, reached deep within himself, fighting the tentacles, fighting the urge to give into his own awesome darkness. He found it, grasped it, and remembered Veria.
GarneacIn his small fist, he held a pitiful sword; a splinter. But it would be enough.
GarneacHis Eye burned in his mind, roaring for him to accept its help, but Maxwell ignored it: he instead remembered Veria. Her warmth. Her love. And her cause.
GarneacThe splinter flew, embedded itself in Carnage’s flailing form—
Garneac—and the world was full of light.