In the morning, Vargus thought hunger would be gnawing away at his insides, but as he shook sleep from his limbs one thought was consuming him. The Maker woke some time later, sluggish and weary despite the rest, probably a by-product of his exertions with the clay.
The fire had finally died while they slept and all that remained was a large circle of grey ash, which was already being dispersed on the breeze. Digging a crude pit, they buried what remained, gathered their belongings and prepared to descend back to Morgan’s Creek with their grisly trophy. With luck, once the locals saw the misshapen head, they would accept that it had been nothing more than a deformed bear and stories about the beast in the hills would dry up. It was the least they could do for the Gralldire.
Ever since they had come up the mountain, his old friend had been present and the boy, Lanny, pushed into the background. There seemed no better time to take a risk.
“Before we go, there’s something I want to show you,” said Vargus.
Normally Vargus closed his eyes during the transition between places, but this time he kept them open and experienced a moment of dizziness.
One second they were on the mountain and the next he and the Maker were standing together inside a long banqueting hall. The walls were covered with massive slabs of white and grey marble shot through with veins of gold. At regular intervals, huge fireplaces, large enough to walk into without bending over, were all silent and cold. Far above his head, black crossbeams like the bones of a monstrous beast criss-crossed the ceiling. There were no lanterns or candles and yet the room was filled with warm yellow light.
The cavernous space was empty of people but the centre of the room was taken up by a massive wooden table which had been carved from a single tree that had existed in a different age.
On either side of the table was a row of identical-looking chairs, but each held a special and unique quality that made it vastly different from those beside it. Sat at the head of the table was a massive chair which dwarfed all of the others.
At first, his old friend seemed disorientated, but once he caught sight of the table and chairs his posture changed.
“Why have you brought me here?” he asked Vargus without turning around. His eyes remained locked on the largest chair.
“To remember.”
The Maker turned towards him, face stricken with grief. “Remember? I remember it all. I only wish that I could forget, just for a moment. The carnage. The destruction. The wars and terror. The barbaric torments they inflict upon one another, driving races to extinction like the wily Necheye. Always they have a reason. A cause they believe is noble and true. Murder in the name of faith, of love, or in my name. How many times have they done it in my name?” He slammed his open palms on the table and Vargus felt the vibration through his feet. He reeled back in shock until he collided with a wall.
For centuries, the two of them had been performing this dance at the Maker’s behest. It had been this way since he’d put an end to the Maker’s first body, giving him relief from the accumulated rot. Vargus scattered his essence on the wind and the Maker was soon reborn into the world. But his time in the Void, in a womb of silence that was free of memory, was not enough and he returned fractured and in pain. He’d cried out in despair and Vargus answered, smothering him in his crib, sending him back to the Void. So it went for years until he was born without any memory of who he used to be. It had taken a long time but eventually Vargus had found him, working on a farm, doing the work of three men.
Since then they had played the same roles, with the Maker as the idiot man-child, Lanny, and him as the doting uncle. Vargus always did his best to find Lanny a good home where he could live in peace, but inevitably his real personality seeped in through the cracks. Memories of who he was resurfaced, causing problems for him and the adopted family. Lanny would have to move on and then the cycle would start again in a new community.
Vargus had believed the Maker needed more time to heal and that his memory was incomplete. That he couldn’t remember much of what had gone before but he’d believed that eventually his mind would return.
The truth was he had already regained his memory and didn’t want to return.
“How long?” asked Vargus. “How long have you remembered?”
“Not long after I became the boy.”
“Why do you not permanently break free of him?”
The Maker’s bitter laugh echoed around the hall. “And return to what? When the boy is in control, I can forget the accumulated misery of centuries for a while. The world is still there if I want it, if I stretch myself and rise to the surface, but after all this time, little seems to have changed.” He hefted the bag containing the bear’s head.
“I have lived among the races for a long time. They are growing.”
The Maker was not convinced. “They still fight and kill each other every day.”
“You’ve not been seen for a long time and yet they still believe. Your faithful exist in every nation.”
“Sometimes I wish it were not so,” whispered the Maker, voicing what Vargus had begun to suspect. “Sometimes I want them to forget so that I might rest eternally.”
All of their kind, with a few exceptions, had to fight for survival in a world that was ever changing. Vargus had given up the mantle of Weaver to become the Gath, but now that too was beginning to wane. To survive, he would have to adapt again. But like Summer and Winter, the Maker did nothing and yet his power continued to thrive. Despite the long silence, despite the lack of proof, their faith in him remained.
“Look at all of those who have cared for you as the boy,” said Vargus, approaching it from a different angle. “They selflessly accept and love him. Not all of them are rotten at the core.”
“A few acts of kindness are not enough to balance the scales. They are still tipped against them,” said the Maker. He turned away and stared into one of the empty fireplaces. Perhaps in his version of the banquet hall there was a glorious blaze that warmed him, but all Vargus could see was cold iron and grey ash.
“What will you do?” he asked.
The Maker shrugged his shoulders. “Watch and wait.” He laughed then, at himself perhaps, and as he turned around Vargus saw his wry smile.
“What is it?”
“Do you not see the joke? After so long without me, their belief remains absolute. Now, my faith in them wavers and I wait for a miracle.”
“One day they will tip the scales.”
The Maker approached his chair, raised one towards it but then dropped it to his side. “Perhaps, but until then I will remain hidden.” He turned away from his chair and rightful place at the table and closed his eyes. “Take us back.”
They returned to their temporary camp on the mountain only a second after they left. Vargus looked across at his old friend and for a few heartbeats there was nothing familiar, no recognition, not even the boy, just an absence. He blinked and the boy returned, puzzled about their location and why he was holding a blanket with something heavy inside.
“What happened?” he asked, staring around in wonder.
“I’ll tell you on the way down,” said Vargus, forcing a smile. “We’re heroes, Lanny. Heroes.”