The Reverends

The protagonist of this story is one of the main characters of my main novel. This is like 'Journals of Maynard Ray: Origins of Reverend Charles Augustus'. I shall also occasionally submit short origin stories of other characters.
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Screams of grief and terror pervaded the halls. The ululations tore through my soul like a sharp scythe. The grimy walls stained with the blood of innocents, added to the intense melancholy that was already able to fill one's heart with years worth of trauma. If my mind were weak, it is definite that I would have fallen into unconsciousness at that instant.

As I walked down the path, past the cells which were inhabited by either corpses, or living people; people whose only feature which distinguished them from the cadavers was their heartbeats.
Wounds of unimaginable depth and width flashed across their tortured bodies. Some of their faces had been slashed beyond recognition. Eyes veiled by the swollen flesh above and beneath them; lips torn to almost resemble an origami; breasts of women bearing scratches and scars of recent torture. Scars upon scars until the whole body had become one single scar.

I tried hard to avert my attention from the inhumanity that surrounded me. But alas, the emotions of man do not allow one to simply ignore pitiable reality. My brain demanded inattention, but my soul wanted the opposite. I turned my head left, and beheld a little boy who seemed, from his height and facial features, to be of age six or seven. His complete nakedness revealed a body which was covered in protruding signatures left by whips and canes. No part of his body was left without a mark for him to remember the stories which they narrated.
The young lad was asleep - or at least he seemed to be. Perhaps it was merely my hope that incited the illusion of functional lungs causing the slow protrusion and constriction of his small chest.

I walked past.

Another scene struck me as my eyes turned to gaze at another cell. A woman held a baby in her arms. She was breast-feeding the child from the motherly protrusion of her chest. I wondered how her mammary gland was still able to produce the life-giving liquid which the infant sucked without restraint. I pitied the woman. Her bony figure, lacking of flesh, was being further depleted for the sustenance of the infant. There was no replenishment for her. She would continue to dispense her life until there was no more life left to give. Yet, there she was, still giving life, when she was aware of the future outcome. Such is the intensity of a mother's love for her child.

I walked past.

I had finally arrived at my destination. The ritual ground of the priests. A large concrete alter stood in the middle of the place; a representation of the countless lives that have been taken within the confines of the temple. The hieroglyphs engraved upon the walls portrayed the ancientness of the temple. The ceiling above was embellished with frescoes of symbols, astrological representations, and devilish depictions. The entire temple was drenched in Mephistophelian ambiance.

It is a belief that animals are blessed with a sixth sense; the ability to sense dangers of supernatural ilk. I suppose that it was due to this gift that I had observed the complete absenteeism of animal life within the temple's vicinity.

The priest walked out from a door-less entrance which led to the inner sanctum of the temple. Until then I thought the opening was merely a rectangular dark painting. It was as dark as the shadows of the night time.

The priest himself wore a dark garment held at the waist by a crudely made rope. Until he came closer to me, my myopia did not permit me to observe his face clearly.

"Reverend, I see your admiration of the temple is still ongoing." A pang of anger flushed through my bones. Admiration for such a horrible place? A person would be completely insane to consider such a place as that to be an object of positive commentary.

I kept silent.

"High priest Mijah has been preoccupied by more important matters. It is for this reason that he cannot see you at this moment." I expected such a response from the priests of Jdaimin. They had a history of not revealing their high priest to anyone of extraneous origin. I was not leaving that temple without delivering my message to the high priest.

"Yes of course. But before I take my leave, please send my regards to the high priest on behalf of the Lucem."

The priest instantly raised his head. It was then that I saw his face. Scratches and blemishes laid out like the satellite view of China's road network. His eyes were as dark as his garment. I could see that the priest had a lot of demons inside of him.
From my experience with demons, it had become a fact that they do not like threats.

"You dare threaten the high priest?"

"I do not threaten the high priest. I only come bearing a message from the Lucem."

"You Lucem reverends think you possess a superiority over us. But you deceive yourselves." The statement was more from the demons than from the priest.

"That's not what our victories of 423 battles this century alone has to say."

That statement infuriated the priest beyond retention. He sprang with incredible speed at me. I quickly drew my ever-prepared weapon from my coat and sprinkled some holy oil on the priest's face; all the while being airborne from a front flip. One of the lucem's golden rules from the bible was 'tu non pugnabit', meaning 'thou shall not fight'. It was believed that one who attacks another or stops another from slapping his cheek has fought, and thereby sinned. But it was believed that one who avoids attacking another has not fought. Therefore, all lucem reverends were trained in the defensive art of vitatio, which strictly involves the avoidance of attacks. It was because people possessed by powerful demons can often get physically aggressive; thus, a reverend has to be physically evasive to complete an exorcism unhurt.

The priest groaned in pain as he fell to the floor. The eloh element within the holy oil had burned the demons within him; and according to the law of spiritual possession, a possessed person physically feels pain along with the inhabiting demon when an anti-daimin eloh element such as holy water, interacts with the possessed.

While the priest held his face and writhed, I helped myself into the inner sanctum.

"I am sorry for the terrible reception you received from my subordinate reverend. His blood can occassionally heat up beyond his ability to curb it." The voice of the high priest was startlingly soft and warm; although unusuallly loud.

He emanated from his chambers wearing a long red cloak, held tight at the waist with the usual locally made rope. The man's face was hidden with a metal mask, which was the amplifier of his voice. His hair excluded even a single strand of dark hair. The wrinkles on his neck also bore light to his old age.

"High priest Mijah, I have been sent to you by the lucem."

"Nonsense, reverend. One does not simply waive pleasantries for a discussion of disheartening significance." The unusually polite high priest hovered over to a platform on which sat a metal tray. Wooden Jugs, and cups laid atop the tray. "Would you like some wine reverend?"

"No thank you," I replied. I watched him pour a red substance from one of the jugs into a cup. I wondered if it was truly wine he offered, or just a trick to get me to drink blood.

"Ah! You reverends and your abhorrence of wine. I cannot imagine how lack-luster your social events are without the scintillating stimulation of some wine." The high priest sipped from the cup as he hovered to his throne.

"Reverends do not live on luxuries such as wine." I said.

"But you know, reverend, you only live once. And why live in misery."

"Not everyone is meant to enjoy the physical provisions of life. Some people have to forfeit them in order to keep those provisions unadulterated."

"Wise philosophy; but do you think you can handle the weighty costs of undertaking such a task?" The high priest's tone abruptly descended from cordiality to a slightly hostile seriousness.

"I am only one grain compared to the weight of the heap of sand balancing the success of the task. Before me there were many, and after me there shall be many."

"You are right; before you there were many. But don't be so certain that there will be many after you. You have seen it. You have seen the world. You have seen the children. The daimin force has taken over. Your victory is only visible as unnoticeable patches upon the large cloth of war."
I had not planned to stay at the temple that long. Now it was obvious that the atmosphere was getting tense. I had to deliver my message and return.

"High priest, I did not come here for a confrontation. My presence here is merely to tell you, from the lucem, that your temple is the next target in the war. So, be prepared."

"You know, there is only one thing I admire in the lucem's modus operandi. It is that you are honourable enemies. You announce your intentions before you strike. But that does not seem like an efficient tactic now does it?"

"It isn't a battle tactic. It's just a law which we must uphold."

"You reverends and your benign laws."

"I bid you goodbye high priest."

"Farewell to you too. And I hope that someday we shall meet again."

I exited the inner sanctum and found the priest sitting in a circle drawn on the floor, and reciting incantations. I still thought it funny how Jdaimin recite spells to manipulate a certain power while reverends just rebuke in the name of Elohim to neutralize all forms of attacks. It is similar to a scene from a movie I watched as a child, in which a martial arts henchman showed off his martial art skills by back flipping and doing stances. The protagonist waited for him to finish his nonsense and then he pulled out a gun and shot him.

Well, This is Awkward

Her eyes penetrated mine. A cold tingling feeling shot through my veins. I would not let her intimidate me; neither would I let her seem me intimidated.
I dilated my pupils, made my hand into a fist, comstricted my biceps and pulled my smile into a frown. The situation was no longer cordial. Hostility had been summoned. Hostility must be showed.

The girl flinched for a moment, at the sight of my physical change. Her stare of fright was the sort of stare one gives when they watch a lion trudging towards them.

In her mind I was sure she was thinking the same thing I thought - she shan't show her intimidation.

She widened her eyes and scattered her hair. She looked like Medusa, one of the gorgons of Greek mythology.

I stepped backwards in terror of what I beheld.

The sound of the anticipated could be heard from a distance. It was approaching quickly. I turned away from the girl, and I looked in the direction of the sound. Everyone else was waiting for it. Everyone else was ready to fight when it came. For in this cruel world, everyone has to fight for their prize.

At its arrival, I ran forward, but was dragged backwards by the shirt. I turned back and saw that it was she that held me. She jumped up with great agility and performed a front flip over me. As she landed in fron to me, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to me. She spun around like a ballerina performing on stage. Her hair cutting through the air like a tornado.

Her hands fell on my shoulders for support. Her eyes met mine and she stared for two seconds. Suddenly, she used her forehead to hot my nose. I let her go in order to attend to my pain. She attempted to run away, but pain never keeps me handicapped. I threw my foot in front of her legs and she fell to the ground. She had landed on her palms. It was evident that she was a well trained fighter. She pushed her self to a standing position, and turned around with the back of her hand aiming for my cheek.

I hyper extended backwards and returned to my previous position after her hand had missed me.

She was about to kick my groin when I yelled, "Wait!".

She paused.

"The bus has left."

She dropped her leg to the ground and turned to where the bus had been. Iw wasn't there anymore.

We had been fighting for a seat in a bus which others entered and left in.

"Well, this is awkward."

The Journals of Maynard Ray: Dream Casters

A dream, is a fabrication of the mind to decieve the dreamer of its reality. Reality is the state whereby elements of life are actually present.

Most times, the mind adopts too many fictitious elements that make dreams evidently unrealistic. But when dreams portray a substantial amount of reality and indistinct amounts of unreality, how then is an individual able to distinguish between what is real and what is unreal?

A dream caster is one who infuses one's mind with unrealistic elements which will seem very real to the individual. A victim of a dream caster's hoax falls into a deep state of unconsciousness, only to be broken if the dreamer is able to discern the path to their freedom which lies in the dream world.

Dream casters employ the use of magic, which as I have mentioned in my previous journal, is a manipulation of the powers of the dark. The process of casting the dream is called Oneirication (from the greek word 'Oneiro' meaning 'dream'). The process involves a predominance of scientific explicabilities. Firstly, the DMT of the targeted individual is acquired (DMT lies in the blood). Then, the dream caster summons a dream demon which 'scans' the essence of the blood and travels to the individual. The demon creates a link between the target and the dream caster. I also aforementioned in one of my previous journals that the creation of a link between two humans through a demon is termed daimosyndesmosis (from the Greek words 'daimos' meaning demon, and 'syndesmos' meaning link)

The demon fetches memories form the target's mind and sends tham to the dream caster's mind. The dream caster formulates a dream by piecing together memories, places, and elements that comprises the target's life experience and knowledge. 

The dream caster sends the fabricated world to the demon, which then places it in the dreamer's mind. The dream demon also secretly inhabits the dreamer's mind. The spell can only be broken through an exorcism, or by the dreamer defeating the demon in his dream. However, only people with powerful minds are able to defeat a dream demon in a dream world. People with even more powerful minds are impervious to oneirication.

Dream casters can be found in all countries of the world. They are however prevalent in the Caribbean regions, especially in Haiti, Barbados, Jamaica and Dominican Republic. Non-Caribbean countries with high populations of dream casters are India, Thailand, Ethiopia and Ghana. 

***
Edward closed the journal and exclaimed, "Well then, I think we need an exorcist." He brushed his hair with his hands in despair as he stared at the sleeping lady.

"We are in the middle of the desert, where the hell would we find one?!" Allen felt frustrated; she was tired and annoyed at having to carry an unconscious woman - who she disliked - through the desert. She had thought of dumping her there and returning later on for a retrieval if any help was found. But that would be inhuman of her.

When the Lights Go Off

Darkness is what remains when light vanishes. Light is what is, when darkness isn't. What lurks under the light is visible to the eyes. What lurks in the darkness is not visible, but our eyes deceive us by creating fabrications and, with the help of the brain, convincing you of their reality.

We are often afraid of what we cannot see; yet we are afraid of what we see when the lights go off.

When the lights go off, our pupils dilate to allow the entry of the little light available. At that time, your eyes begin to wander through your imaginations. Your eyes begin to construct figures in the darkness. For a moment you freeze. Your muscles constrict, your heart palpitates, your adrenalin rushes, and your hairs stand on end.

Soon, you realise that the figure is merely a trick orchestrated by your eyes in conjunction with your brain. The figure then withers into nothingness, and all you can see again is plain darkness. You relax and heave a sigh of relief.

You look towards a different direction. Your eyes settle on a physical object. Your eyes embellish the object with features of a fearful nature. Again your brain gets involved in the trick and incites you to believe that you are gazing at a physical anomaly. Long arms moving with the direction of the cool night breeze; legs swaying to and fro, towards you and away from you repeatedly. You squeal in horror at the sight you behold.

The breeze dies and the hung clothes stop moving. You come to the realisation that you have been fooled a second time. 

The lights suddenly come on and you look around. Reality is definite when the lights come on. What you see is what was there. What you don't see was never there.

Plight of a Widow

Tears no longer trickled from my eyes. I had finished up my reservoir of tears. I laid there on the ground, with my face in the soil, and my hands tearing up the grass from their roots. The ants crawled over me, and I lifted up my face to watch them scatter at the sight of my mutilated face...the face of a widow in mourning.

I wasn't mourning because my husband had just died. I was mourning because I had been accused of killing him. They had shaved all my hair. My fine, silky dark hair...they shaved it all.

I was a witch, was what they said. My husband's family called me a witch to my face.

Thea whole dilemma started when we got married and I could not bear a child for him. One year later, I became the topic of village gossips. In the soceity I lived in, my inability to get pregnant earned me the title of an 'Ira' which means 'the one who chases away infants'. At the orders of their parents, children of the village ran away from me. I became the equivalent of a monster from the forest.

After much persuasion by his mother to marry another wife, my hisband agreed. He was to get married the week after he developed a sudden illness and passed on to the realm of the spirits.

My life then became a bed of terror. I was insulted, beaten, maltreated and humiliated based on the accusation that I killed my husband out of jealousy of his impending second marriage. The villagers went as far as to bring back the old traditions just to see me suffer.

My husband's corpse was bathed, and the water from the bath was given to me to drink. They said it was to prove my innocence. But even after drinking and staying alive, they did not halt their persecutions. They chased me out of my house and threw me into the bushes to fend for myself in the wild.

Ah! God! So this is how it ends. Years ago I was happy, beautiful, loved and wanted by all. Now I am an outcast. God why?! Why did you not give me a child? Why did you let my husband die? Why did you let me suffer all this?

It wouldall be over soon. Even the ants did not console me. They kept piercing my suffered sking with their mandibles. It was painful, but why should I have thrown them off? My life was already one excruciating pain. I laid there on the ground with the dagger beside me. I turned my body over on my back and stared at the sky. Even the sun hid from me behind the clouds. It could not bear to see my wounds and my pain.

I grabbed the dagger and lifted it up above my chest. That was the only pleasure I had in a long time. Seeing the end to my pain right in front of my eyes caused me to cry.

A short scream was the last thing my mouth produced before I slid away from life.

Now I am a spirit. But I regret taking my life and taking the life of the child that was in my womb. As a spirit I can now see everything. I can see the little hand of my baby boy, lifeless, without support. He hadn't the chance to see the offerings of life.

Now my wailing has passed on to the afterlife.

The Adventures of Maynard Ray

A crude excerpt from the novel I'm writing
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"That is impossible."
"Dear boy, from what this world has revealed to me I no more think of the possibility of impossibility existing."

"Surely you do not affirm that folklore and fairytales have elements of truth in them?"
"Most are true."

"By Jove, you're mad!"
"If knowledge is madness then I refuse therapy."

"Professor Maynard I implore you to reconsider your statement."
"Why reconsider something rigid?"

"Perhaps you could make it more plausible."
"Plausibility is a subject which contexts itself in mere fabrications; my statement is no fabrication."

"You do realize that you would definitely face the gallows if this paper containing your statement is given to the court."
"I would rather die than live on a testimony without veracity."

"Professor Maynard please consider your reputaion in the scientific academia, consider the indelible dent which your name will suffer for many years."
"What is social reputaion compared to my vast knowledge of the unknown?"

"Consider your family."
"They can travel out of the country."

"Consider your professional achievements."
"They are but dust compared to my achievements in the realm of the supernatural."

"Very well Mr Maynard, you have obstinately made your decision, yet I will do well to intercede for you as best as I can."
"Boy, do what you may but I know that my death awaits me."

Inspector Charles took one last gaze at the old man. He never imagined that Professor Maynard Ray - a man who broke grounds in the scientific world, the owner of hundreds of patents - would be in this state.