I must go to the Temple of Passage today,” Pretsal told T. G. as they ate their morning meal of sweet fruits, meat, and bread.
“Why?” he asked, his mouth full. Noron shared many of the same fruits as Earth, only somewhat larger, and many Earth had never known. Grapes were the size of plums, and oranges were as big as cantaloupes. T. G., a fruit connoisseur from childhood, had found that particular aspect of life on Noron to be one of the most enjoyable and one he would miss greatly once the purpose for which he had been chosen ended.
“It is required by law. The eldest son of Kir Tosa-Crethan has died. He is my supervisor in the fields, and all those beneath him are forced by law to partake in his grief. It is the word of Drosha.”
“Oh, that religion of yours,” T. G. commented.
“It is not mine. You know that.”
He swallowed the last of his mouthful. “I know. Sorry. I meant Noron.” He looked up at his friend and saw that he was truly reluctant to go. “Let me go with you.”
“That may not be wise. I have only been required to attend one other, and that is fortunate. It isn’t pleasant.”
“I need to learn, Pretsal. I need to see as much firsthand as I can. I’ve been to funerals before, trust me.”
“Not like this, I would wager.”
Working hand in hand with the government, Noron’s theological leaders had long before crafted a false faith that guaranteed maximum financial gain for both the High Ones and the Priesthood, while at the same time keeping the population so morally empty and self-centered that no organized overthrow could ever be possible. The teachings of a mother goddess named Drosha and her child-husband-god filled schoolbooks and popular literature with urgings toward drug use, spiritism, and self-deification, guaranteeing that all would go to their deaths believing that spiritual paradise awaited them, provided they had kept up on the payments.
All would eventually attain that paradise, they were told, following a second, less tangible, more ghastly stint on the planet.
Most of those who walked Noron were not alive. They were apparitions of lost loved ones, “renewed from beyond,” conjured to resume their places within their families. The whole Renewal idea was something that had always made Pretsal most uncomfortable, but the law was the law—and he could ill afford to bring the Watchers down upon himself and, as a result, upon T. G. as well.
Wearing their finest robes, Pretsal and T. G. entered the towering doorway of a large, domed building of black stone and dark wood, the Temple of Passage. Immediately, the young prophet was struck by the fact that the gathering was, in appearance, much like any Western funeral on Earth. Somber music played, filling the cavernous hall with strains of sorrow.
One remarkable difference, however, was that the deceased was laid out not in a coffin but upon a padded crystalline altar, clad in his best clothes and wearing every piece of jewelry he had owned. Around the altar were piled all his worldly possessions of value, sorted by worth. Those filing by could take for themselves anything they wished as the “mortician” stood by and smiled. As T. G. watched in disbelief, the attendees attacked the body like vultures, fighting each other, greedily stripping every last vestige of jewelry, clothing, and property from one for whom they supposedly had cared. The ceremony stunned T. G. in its sheer materialism. Had the sight not been so repugnant, he might have laughed.
Afterward, the body, no longer considered of any value, was taken away—not for burial or cremation, but for “processing.” T. G. did not know exactly what that implied, and he did not want to know.
After the funeral, the family and attendees drove in procession to a second location, an immense edifice that resembled a cathedral as it towered against the pale sky. Hideous gargoyles peered down from far above as the mourners made their way inside. Huge lancet windows, crafted of a red stained glass that glowed as if ablaze, towered a hundred feet high. As T. G. and Pretsal followed the crowd, they were led into a large, circular inner chamber with a high-vaulted ceiling. Huge spirelike objects of crystal and wood jutted downward like stalactites, hanging menacingly above the attendees as they took their seats in the circular pews. An odd scent hung heavy in the air, at once perfumed and smoky, oppressive in its presence. At the center of the room, atop a high wooden platform, a massive, ten-foot wide, black marble basin stood next to an altar of rough-hewn stone. Upon the altar had been placed a large, jeweled goblet of pure gold.
It was a dark, hideous theater-in-the-round, and the show was about to begin.
Once everyone was seated, a man in a black robe with a large, stylized animal-skull mask on his head walked down the aisle to the applause of all but T. G. and Pretsal.
“Prosperity, one and all,” the man said in a deep, resonant voice that echoed unsettlingly in the cavernous room. “Today we celebrate the Renewal of Rothalar Tosa-Crethan, who has left the realm of pain!”
There was a reinvigorated cheer. T. G.’s blood ran cold.
The black stone basin at the center of the room suddenly roared to life as flames burst from it, climbing high into the air, throwing a dancing, golden light upon the attendees. The austere figure placed the goblet out of sight behind the altar, then stood to one side, arms raised, looking upward.
He was a necrolink. This was the most important and cherished part of the funerary process, for it was here that the departed was returned to his loved ones, albeit in nonphysical form. Necrolinks were the most powerful nonpolitical figures on the planet, and they were also the wealthiest. Few in number, they were paid almost anything to bring back those who had died.
They alone, of all on Noron, had a labor union.
“He is Khorr Hallesa,” Pretsal whispered to T. G., whose eyes were locked upon the man. “The world’s leading necrolink. The deceased man’s father is most influential. Most people can only afford to use one of the common, local practitioners. Bringing in Kir Hallesa must have cost him half a year’s wages. Watch,” Pretsal gestured.
“O, Mighty Keeper of the Gate,” the necrolink began, “we seek one who has come unto you. His weary form no longer burdens him, yet he has much still to contribute among his people.” Hallesa reached into a pocket, then threw a palmful of a glittery, powderlike substance up into the fire. At once, with a roar, it flared more brightly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Harry Blackstone Jr.,” T. G. whispered to himself.
The man went on quite theatrically. “We summon Rothalar Tosa-Crethan back to his home. Do not stay him, Mighty Keeper; return him to those he loves.”
The words rang with uneasy and terrifying familiarity in T. G.’s ears. I can’t believe I actually did that, he shuddered, recalling the incantation he had performed at the funeral home on Earth. How could I have been so foolish?
A beautiful woman who could only have been Hallesa’s assistant appeared behind the gathered crowd, carrying a tiny days-old infant in her arms. A new round of applause sounded as she began walking down the aisle toward the center stage. Her slow walk was obviously one of ritual significance. Her flowing red hair shone in the firelight, and her gauzy white gown fluttered over the tops of her bare feet as she drew near the ritual flames. Her eyes were fixed and cold. After finally ascending the few steps leading to the stage, she handed the baby to the necrolink, turned, and immediately disappeared down a hidden staircase in the floor of the platform.
Placing the silent, well-behaved child upon the altar, the robed man looked upward, arms wide. “The balance must be maintained! O Kudis, auditor of souls, accept this creature as a substitute for our friend, with whom we wish to walk again. Let this blood fill your goblet, let this flesh feed your hunger!”
You don’t mean … dear God! No!
It was horrible and sudden. T. G. wanted to look away from the sickening atrocity that assaulted his eyes but did not. Knives flashed, sectioning the infant alive as a butcher might dress a chicken for flying. Blood coursed down a channel built into the top of the altar and drained into a small hole at one end. T. G. fought back a wave of nausea. His eyes filled with anger, and he looked up at Pretsal, who hung his head as if ashamed for his people.
“It is done!” Hallesa cried, raising the sacrifice’s tiny, walnut-sized heart high into the air for all to see. An explosion of applause filled the chamber. The necrolink then lifted the bloodied knives high over his head, and a new wave of acclaim broke out as if the audience were enjoying a magic show or a one-act play.
“O Kudis, this child I present to you! As has been for all time and ever shall be, we triumph over death through sacrifice. Return our beloved friend as was destined to be!”
Many of the spectators turned to each other, commenting in highbrow fashion on the fine job the necrolink was doing. T. G. noticed that those in the deceased man’s family, sitting in the front row, were laughing and shouting for more.
Hallesa reached behind the altar and withdrew the goblet. He carried it ceremoniously down to the first row, to where the Tosa-Crethan family sat: father, mother, brothers, sisters. One by one, he paused before them, holding the goblet of human blood out for each to sip from. T. G. looked away, seething with anger and disgust. The ghastly ritual took several minutes. Hallesa finally resumed his place atop the platform and spoke again, tossing what remained of the infant into the fire.
“The contract is fulfilled. The sacrifice is made. We await!”
A cold wind filled the room, swirling for a moment before mounting toward the ceiling. The icy gust whistled and howled amid the huge spires above, which creaked and swung slightly as an odd, pulsating glow intensified around them, whirling like a glowing mist. It began to coagulate into fixed patterns, becoming a gathering of luminescent, indefinite forms that slowly descended to the altar below as the winds died down. Nearing the floor, the forms became increasingly identifiable human shapes, a cluster of beings. Arms, legs, torsos, and faces became obvious, particularly those belonging to the central figure, who was apparently carried along by the others.
Red eyes flared to life. All around T. G., applause broke out again, louder this time.
The central being was gently taken to the floor and released. The other angel-like escorts immediately left the stage, soaring upward and vanishing in a new swirling light that flared brightly against the ceiling then was gone. All eyes were upon the pale, translucent figure left standing on the platform, which gazed around him at the standing ovation he was receiving. His red eyes glowed dully.
“Welcome back, Rothalar!” Hallesa triumphantly said, his deep voice only slightly muffled by his mask. “Your family awaits you!”
The thunder of applause swelled even louder. T. G. desperately wanted to leave. “Let’s get out of here … now,” he said to Pretsal, who could barely hear him over the crowd. The two of them wove their way through the jubilant throng, along their pew and up the aisle, never looking back.
Just outside, next to the wide, closing door, T. G. fell back against the building as if exhausted. He could still hear the cheers and wild applause continuing inside, and he shook his head. After a moment, he slammed a fist against the wooden doorframe in anger.
“How can a place be so beautiful yet so utterly rancid?” he demanded rhetorically, still shocked by the murder he had just witnessed. “This place is like a mausoleum … the whole planet … all nice and neat and pretty on the outside, with nothing but death and decay just beneath the surface.”
“It has always been so,” Pretsal said.
“That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” he growled. “If it was up to me, this cursed planet would go straight to Hell right now.”
“I am sorry,” Pretsal said sadly. “I hate it too. None of us who await the Awakening ever attend this ritual unless forced to. We believe the dead should be left in peace and the living should live, as in the old days.”
“At least that poor child is free of this place now,” T. G. said, looking out over the city, at the multitude of renewals walking its streets. “Millions of them out there, Pretsal … billions … and a child died for each one.” He wiped a tear away then continued, looking up into the pink sky. “When did they start doing this Renewal thing, anyway?”
“The first necrolink was Dondol Gorth. He died about twelve hundred years ago. He instituted the idea, and the State embraced it fully. It became official law, and the dead have remained with us ever since.”
“It figures the State would love this,” T. G. nodded in disgust. “The whole thing is just unreal. If those people had any idea what they were really greeting in there, they’d run for the hills and never stop screaming.”
Pretsal looked puzzled. “What do you mean, T. G.? That wasn’t Kir Tosa-Crethan we saw returned to us?”
“Pretsal, when you die, you don’t come back. You don’t come when called. You don’t hang around, haunting the place where you died. You leave. You go to what awaits you. We have no choice in the matter. And the necrolinks, for all their power, have no choice in the matter either.
“Look … out there,” he said, pointing down to the city street in the distance. Hundreds of the phantom citizens moved about, accompanied by the living. “Every one of those renewals you see is an impostor. They’re agents of the Dark, posing as dead loved ones. Invisibly, each of them stayed close to the person they’d one day pretend to be, learning their mannerisms and everything the person knew. Your whole planet has been duped. Your people never once asked questions—they didn’t want to—and instead bought the whole deal and believed each of those beings was ‘the former so-and-so’ just because the cursed thing claimed to be.”
“For what purpose?” Pretsal asked, alarmed by the revelation. “What is their gain?”
“Everything. This is war, Pretsal, and they’re the enemy. They’re infiltrating you, watching you, and studying you. They reinforce the public’s belief in the false State religion, that ‘mother-child-oneness of the universe’ concoction your government created. They keep you distracted from true spiritual issues by clouding things with a counterfeit afterlife.”
He shook his head. “How could we have been so foolish?”
“Don’t feel bad. You aren’t the only ones.”
T. G. had learned from Ish that these same agents of the Dark had long since infiltrated Earth as well, from ancient times, though to a much lesser extent. The stories of haunted houses and supernatural encounters that T. G. had grown up with were accounts of their work, actions designed to create “evidence” contrary to biblical truth. The demented things had fooled proud men into believing lies, keeping the deluded souls wrapped around their putrid, deathly fingers. Only the direct intervention of the Comforter had held the things in check, keeping their deceptive activities within limits.
He went on. “The Dark has a grip on your world that will be almost impossible to break.”
“But you must! The Awakening …”
“I said ‘almost,’ ” T. G. half smiled. “What’s really scary is that there must be dozens of those renewals walking around for every living person on the planet. Probably more … and that’s just the ones you can see. You’re up to your chin in vipers here, and nobody even knows it.”
Pretsal looked upon the spectral men, women, and children with new eyes. “Ish told you this?” he asked, horrified.
“Yes. That’s why those things flipped out the first time I was here. They realized that the Gift had been given, that the time of the Awakening was upon them. Their time is up.”
“What can we do?” Pretsal asked, his voice filled with concern. “No one knows of this, not even the Twelve.”
“I know, but the time has come for them to be told. I haven’t said anything before now because your thoughts are not kept secret from those things.”
“It cannot be!”
“Anything you or the others think can be overheard by any one of those renewals out there if it gets close enough to you. Just be careful. Don’t say anything concerning me or think too overtly of my mission here when you’re in their presence. They can’t read me, not anymore. Ish has given me the ability to close off my mind from them. He’s also now shielding the Twelve, and those places where they and the underground meet. That’s how Darafine’s been able to carry out the translation without being attacked.”
“What would happen if they knew your thoughts?”
“They’d find the chinks in my armor. We all have them, even me. Especially me. The Awakening is on a definite timetable, but until the Truth is released to the people, they’re all practically defenseless. Darafine will soon be finished with the translation, and a lot is going to happen in a very short period of time.”
“What? What will happen?”
“I don’t know exactly. But Ish knows, and he’ll tell me when the time comes. He’s told me that everything is on schedule.”
“I knew the Dark had been working through our leaders, but to see now that it’s been living in every house, in every family … it’s terrifying.”
“For all practical purposes, we’re behind enemy lines. We must never forget that. Always remember that this is war, Pretsal, and we must win. And as in all wars there will be casualties.”
Pretsal nodded. Suddenly his world was not the same. It never would be again. “We’re ready,” he said firmly. “I think we have been for a long time.”
It was growing late, and night was falling. The sky had begun its daily transition from light pink to dark magenta, and the sounds of the nearby forests were changing as nocturnal creatures awoke. T. G. and Pretsal walked back into the city proper, headed for a rendezvous with Josan and others of the underground. As they made their way through the crowded streets, a brilliant light flared from an empty alleyway. T. G., shielding his eyes at first, turned to see Ish standing there. Joy filled him as he approached the luminous being.
“What, T. G.?” Pretsal asked, realizing that his friend saw something he did not. “What is it?”
“He can’t see or hear me, T. G.,” Ish said, the light around him fading away. “It’s not yet time that I appear to him or his people.”
T. G. nodded, motioning for Pretsal to follow. “It’s okay, Pretsal. It’s Ish.”
The giant’s eyes went wide, and his expression became childlike and filled with wonder. “Here? Now? He’s really here?”
“Yes,” T. G. smiled. “He really is.”
They walked deeper into the dark alley, where the figure stood waiting.
“I saw the Renewal ceremony,” T. G. told him. “I wish I hadn’t.”
“I know,” Ish said. “It grieves me deeply that the Dark has resorted to such methods.”
“Hello, Ish,” Pretsal said meekly, aiming the greeting in the general direction of the place Ish stood. He felt an electricity in the air, an intangible wonder that set his senses ablaze. “I hope I’ve served well.”
Ish smiled. “Yes, dear Pretsal. You have indeed.”
“He says you have, Pretsal,” T. G. repeated.
Pretsal grinned widely. “I wish I could see him.”
“You will, Pretsal,” Ish nodded. “One day.”
“I’ll wait over there,” the giant said, pointing to the alley’s entrance. Walking on air, he moved away, looking back over his shoulder once or twice.
“T. G.,” Ish began, his tone more serious, “the time has come. It begins tonight.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You will encounter Paull Shass and his family. He’s a crucial part of what is to come, and you and he must now cross paths. It is the first phase of what must be. Your part in the chain of events will quickly become apparent to you.”
“The president? But I’m not ready …”
“You have reached the level of readiness you need to begin, and through continued contact with me, you will endure, mature, and grow stronger. You must now become involved in the political realm of Noron, for only through this conjunction can the battle lines be clearly drawn and allies established. Use the gifts we have given you carefully … and be keenly aware of the movements of the Dark. It encompasses Kir Shass at all times, oppressively so. Keep your eyes open and don’t become sidetracked. Don’t allow yourself to be distracted by any of the opulence or emotional clutter that will surround you; doing so could prove fatal.”
T. G. looked into the radiant face before him. “What’s going to happen, Ish? I mean, I know that you know what’s to come …” He paused. “Please, will I be around to see this whole thing through to the end?”
Ish smiled. “You will walk the green and flowering fields of a new world.”
T. G. nodded with a slight smile. “Where do I go to meet Kir Shass?”
“I’ll send you there. We have at this very moment given you the ability to travel by will to any location you can envision, but since you do not know of the place where it begins, I must send you there myself.”
“Travel on my own? How?”
“Focus. Concentrate. Think of a place, will yourself across the distance, and you’ll be there. We will empower you. But be careful; each time you travel, you will tire somewhat. Doing it too often will exhaust you quickly. All of your new talents will manifest themselves as needed, and they will, at first, be a strain upon you. But as you repeatedly use these abilities, they will grow easier. Like working a muscle; at first, there will be pain, but you will gather strength.”
“So just by thinking, I can shift from place to place?”
“ ‘Shift’ … an excellent description, T. G. Yes. Through our empowerment, you can shift at will. But keep in mind that every time you travel by such means, the Dark will know … and will most likely follow. It takes a great deal of energy to move from place to place in this fashion—energy that we will provide—and as I told you, such expenditures of power leave a distinct trail behind them.”
T. G. nodded. “Okay, I’ll be careful. But first, before I go …” He ran over to his waiting friend. “Go on without me, Pretsal. I have things I need to do now. Keep the appointment with Josan. Tell him it’s begun.”
“You’ll be safe?”
“Hey, I’m in the best hands I can be in. Don’t worry.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I guarantee it.”
Pretsal reached out and bearhugged T. G., then nodded, trying with limited success to conceal his emotions.
“Take care of yourself, buddy,” he said with a grin, using a phrase he had learned from his friend. “We’ll be waiting.” Then the kind-hearted giant turned and hurried away into the crowd.
T. G. watched him until he vanished into the throng, then he walked back to Ish. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“Watch. Listen. Use the discernment we gave you. Do not lose focus. The situations and people you are about to deal with will prove intensely dangerous if you do not handle them properly. I will help you if you call upon me. Now, it is time.”
In a blink T. G. found himself in a dark place. No falling, no cold, no sudden stop. Just a change in lighting, a variation in acoustics, and the realization that he was not where he had been. What little light there was came from beneath a door that stood some eight feet above, set into a rough brick wall. A damp, almost suffocating scent of mildew, mingled with the pungent odor of an unknown chemical, filled his nostrils.
Arms out, he cautiously groped for something that would tell him where he was. Almost at once, he encountered a stair rail that led upward, from the stone floor where he stood to the door above. For a moment, he considered climbing the steps. As his eyes began to adjust to the meager light of the room, he could make out multiple sets of footprints in a deep layer of dust upon the stairs. The prints led downward into the room. None led out.
Those who made them were still down there. Somewhere.
Then there was a sound. Up the stairs, beneath the door, he could see a shadow of movement, of someone just beyond. His first instinct was to hide, but there was no time. He froze.
The door began to open.