Behind the Curtain
PostPosted: Sat Jul 14, 2007 12:58 pm
And now for a pretentious, over-written post-apocalyptic pseudo sci-fi story. Hope you enjoy it. It was originally conceived as a writing exercise that went pretty well, I think. Be wary of bad grammar.
****
You must understand that I hadn’t slept for days. I’ve been on my feet for a very long time, uncertain mostly because being in these tunnels made telling which time of day it was impossible. I pawned my watch, a family heirloom, for ammo at a merchant two weeks before, and I regretted it with each passing moment. Time is only irrelevant if your on holiday. And sentiment haunts you.
My lantern had run out of paraffin some time ago. I haven’t found anything remotely valuable on this excursion into the caverns. Many times I’ve found skeletons and searched in vain in the dark for valuables, but so many have fared before me that finding anything here was slim. You people who till the atomic land above us don’t call us hyenas, moles or rats for nothing. Another drink, please, Thabo.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the Buried City, which is a long way towards the South, the only part of the caverns that are actually man-made, a buried past literally mined out by the Moles who made their homes in the ruins of forgotten worlds. Dig enough and you’ll find mostly useless junk. Strange coasters labeled DVDs or useless lumps of metal or plastic called iPods. Scatter these things when you find them. They hold little real value. The real treasures are gold, silver, books and magazines. The merchants love the gold or silver watches and convert them into working models again. The Archivists and the rich treasure books and pay handsomely for them. Find a small library and you’ve got it made for life.
I was hoping to find a library down here; it was isolated because of it’s distance and because of the aura of dread that hangs over the place. The Moles who lived there was massacred by an unknown party, and failed to exploit all the treasure. Few come here but some still some dare to venture in. A band of bandits were found massacred just the month before by some army patrol, who turned around right then and there came back to civilization.
I groped around in the darkness for anything, making a lot of noise that would give me away to some lone Hyena. The noise came mainly from my boots scattering empty bullet casings around. There was nothing else there, not even the smell of earth. I could sense large spaces above me at times, and at other tight corridors. I don't know if this was just my mind playing tricks on me.
I thought I was truly lost and would die there. Then for a moment in the darkness I saw a small stain of light appear not far in front of me, somewhere close to the ground. It disappeared as quickly as my eye caught it, as if a lamp was suddenly covered by something. At first I thought it was my imagination, but after a few moments of thinking I remembered that the light caused pale, dull shadows, if only for a second. For me that was a sign of it's authenticity.
Risking a match revealed for a split second that I was near the gates of some kind of old church, its wooden door well rotted away. It was through these doors, where the match could cast no light, that I supposed saw the light. When the match went out the darkness felt worse and more oppressive, but still I groped my way into the church until I walked into a wall. I was certain I had walked straight ahead without turning away. Another match revealed, almost tucked away behind a piece of rubble, a small gaping hole with a heavy curtain the colour of the dust. Curtains such as these were not uncommon down here and kept safe-houses away from the roving eyes of roving murderers.
It was dangerous always to enter a safe-house, whether it’s marked as your own or whether you discovered it by change like I did. They can always be used for a trap by one of the more dangerous factions. But I was tired and I took my chance. I crawled through the hole and stuck my head through the curtain. The sudden light hurt my eyes, even if it wasn’t bright. Bullets didn’t whiz past my ears, no one hurled obscenities my way. I assumed there was no danger and crawled further into the light.
It was a small room, no bigger than a tool shed, with a small lamp in the centre, illuminating all the walls fixed with religious imagery, including the crucifixion and what was possibly the resurrection, though I couldn’t be sure. I sat up and crossed myself, before looking further, and noticed the owner of the light looking at me from behind the lantern.
Like so many of us he had battle armour on bearing the scars of bullets and knives, though the steel helmet that covered his face was in a far better condition. He was sitting against a collection of steel drums and trunks. On the tile floor next to his legs were a pistol though he hardly seemed concerned with it. Then again, it’s hard to tell with such a mask. By his build I could see he was definitely male. Stenciled in a dark red on his battle armor was the figure of a lion, meaning he’s from a faction to the the far north, and the dark blue cross stencil indicated that he held within his group the rank of cleric. It seemed a almost fitting that he would reside here, though he certainly was far away from his home.
Clerics are also scavengers, though by rule they don’t take off the dead and don’t partake in ambushes or wars. They tend to look for religious objects and holy scriptures, though not all are trustworthy. Some are charlatans who take their armor off dead clerics while some are corrupted by the stifling, thorny atmosphere of the caves. I could only hope he the real thing.
He lifted his hand as if in lazy salute and nodded his head; with this he gave me leave to enter (though he kept his hand close to his gun). I crawled into a sitting position and removed my cap and sash, which is one of many ways to say that I tend to honour his rules and presence. It is loosely forbidden for anyone to talk in a safe-house, lest their talk give them away to the Hyenas.
I removed my pack from my back, then checked to see if the curtain covered every gap. I kept to the side of the room near the entrance and he kept to his side. The stencil on my tattered armour showed a dragon, though nothing else. I held no position back then except simple scavenger. And I was a loner, much like he was. Clerics tend to be loners.
After about ten minutes of staring at each other I removed some food from my back-pack and began to eat. Cave rations has no taste or smell. In the dark they could give you away. They’re filling, but other than that they provide joy in eating. My host did not eat, but just kept quietly to himself, staring at me from behind glass holes. I fancy that he could sleep in that position, or maybe meditate. After the meal I was too tired to stay awake; the days of being on my feet were too much and I sank into sleep, mostly against my will.
Upon my awakening my joints were stiff and my legs still a bit numb, but it felt like I had been asleep for days. I glanced over towards the cleric and saw that he was more or less in the same position he had been, still with his mask on. When I stood up he moved his head, but didn’t get up.
Now fully awake and well rested I examined the room. During my sleep he must have turned the flame down a bit because everything was a bit darker, but still visible. I gazed at the mural of Christ standing in front of a tree. In the tree was a man. Next to it were written words. I did not know what it said (I could not read back then) and I was angry that I could not understand it. I could vaguely remember that story, but I forgot what it was all about.
There isn’t enough scriptures for everyone, so the clerics invented what they call the Oral Discipline. The Discipline is simply that we must not change the stories of the Holy Scriptures around or give them different meanings when we repeat them to others or ourselves. With so much knowledge lost we can’t afford corruption. I never learned this particularly well, but they don’t force me to either.
I began to think that maybe my room-mate was blind or lame, but something suggested that he was very much awake. His breathing was not like one sleeping. I wanted to talk to him, actually. I wanted to ask who he was and what he was doing here. But I did not want to break the rule. It was his house, after all. Yet I did not expect him to break the silence. His voice was decrepit and old, and had a Northern accent..
“I’m so glad someone is here. I did not want to die alone.â€
****
You must understand that I hadn’t slept for days. I’ve been on my feet for a very long time, uncertain mostly because being in these tunnels made telling which time of day it was impossible. I pawned my watch, a family heirloom, for ammo at a merchant two weeks before, and I regretted it with each passing moment. Time is only irrelevant if your on holiday. And sentiment haunts you.
My lantern had run out of paraffin some time ago. I haven’t found anything remotely valuable on this excursion into the caverns. Many times I’ve found skeletons and searched in vain in the dark for valuables, but so many have fared before me that finding anything here was slim. You people who till the atomic land above us don’t call us hyenas, moles or rats for nothing. Another drink, please, Thabo.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the Buried City, which is a long way towards the South, the only part of the caverns that are actually man-made, a buried past literally mined out by the Moles who made their homes in the ruins of forgotten worlds. Dig enough and you’ll find mostly useless junk. Strange coasters labeled DVDs or useless lumps of metal or plastic called iPods. Scatter these things when you find them. They hold little real value. The real treasures are gold, silver, books and magazines. The merchants love the gold or silver watches and convert them into working models again. The Archivists and the rich treasure books and pay handsomely for them. Find a small library and you’ve got it made for life.
I was hoping to find a library down here; it was isolated because of it’s distance and because of the aura of dread that hangs over the place. The Moles who lived there was massacred by an unknown party, and failed to exploit all the treasure. Few come here but some still some dare to venture in. A band of bandits were found massacred just the month before by some army patrol, who turned around right then and there came back to civilization.
I groped around in the darkness for anything, making a lot of noise that would give me away to some lone Hyena. The noise came mainly from my boots scattering empty bullet casings around. There was nothing else there, not even the smell of earth. I could sense large spaces above me at times, and at other tight corridors. I don't know if this was just my mind playing tricks on me.
I thought I was truly lost and would die there. Then for a moment in the darkness I saw a small stain of light appear not far in front of me, somewhere close to the ground. It disappeared as quickly as my eye caught it, as if a lamp was suddenly covered by something. At first I thought it was my imagination, but after a few moments of thinking I remembered that the light caused pale, dull shadows, if only for a second. For me that was a sign of it's authenticity.
Risking a match revealed for a split second that I was near the gates of some kind of old church, its wooden door well rotted away. It was through these doors, where the match could cast no light, that I supposed saw the light. When the match went out the darkness felt worse and more oppressive, but still I groped my way into the church until I walked into a wall. I was certain I had walked straight ahead without turning away. Another match revealed, almost tucked away behind a piece of rubble, a small gaping hole with a heavy curtain the colour of the dust. Curtains such as these were not uncommon down here and kept safe-houses away from the roving eyes of roving murderers.
It was dangerous always to enter a safe-house, whether it’s marked as your own or whether you discovered it by change like I did. They can always be used for a trap by one of the more dangerous factions. But I was tired and I took my chance. I crawled through the hole and stuck my head through the curtain. The sudden light hurt my eyes, even if it wasn’t bright. Bullets didn’t whiz past my ears, no one hurled obscenities my way. I assumed there was no danger and crawled further into the light.
It was a small room, no bigger than a tool shed, with a small lamp in the centre, illuminating all the walls fixed with religious imagery, including the crucifixion and what was possibly the resurrection, though I couldn’t be sure. I sat up and crossed myself, before looking further, and noticed the owner of the light looking at me from behind the lantern.
Like so many of us he had battle armour on bearing the scars of bullets and knives, though the steel helmet that covered his face was in a far better condition. He was sitting against a collection of steel drums and trunks. On the tile floor next to his legs were a pistol though he hardly seemed concerned with it. Then again, it’s hard to tell with such a mask. By his build I could see he was definitely male. Stenciled in a dark red on his battle armor was the figure of a lion, meaning he’s from a faction to the the far north, and the dark blue cross stencil indicated that he held within his group the rank of cleric. It seemed a almost fitting that he would reside here, though he certainly was far away from his home.
Clerics are also scavengers, though by rule they don’t take off the dead and don’t partake in ambushes or wars. They tend to look for religious objects and holy scriptures, though not all are trustworthy. Some are charlatans who take their armor off dead clerics while some are corrupted by the stifling, thorny atmosphere of the caves. I could only hope he the real thing.
He lifted his hand as if in lazy salute and nodded his head; with this he gave me leave to enter (though he kept his hand close to his gun). I crawled into a sitting position and removed my cap and sash, which is one of many ways to say that I tend to honour his rules and presence. It is loosely forbidden for anyone to talk in a safe-house, lest their talk give them away to the Hyenas.
I removed my pack from my back, then checked to see if the curtain covered every gap. I kept to the side of the room near the entrance and he kept to his side. The stencil on my tattered armour showed a dragon, though nothing else. I held no position back then except simple scavenger. And I was a loner, much like he was. Clerics tend to be loners.
After about ten minutes of staring at each other I removed some food from my back-pack and began to eat. Cave rations has no taste or smell. In the dark they could give you away. They’re filling, but other than that they provide joy in eating. My host did not eat, but just kept quietly to himself, staring at me from behind glass holes. I fancy that he could sleep in that position, or maybe meditate. After the meal I was too tired to stay awake; the days of being on my feet were too much and I sank into sleep, mostly against my will.
Upon my awakening my joints were stiff and my legs still a bit numb, but it felt like I had been asleep for days. I glanced over towards the cleric and saw that he was more or less in the same position he had been, still with his mask on. When I stood up he moved his head, but didn’t get up.
Now fully awake and well rested I examined the room. During my sleep he must have turned the flame down a bit because everything was a bit darker, but still visible. I gazed at the mural of Christ standing in front of a tree. In the tree was a man. Next to it were written words. I did not know what it said (I could not read back then) and I was angry that I could not understand it. I could vaguely remember that story, but I forgot what it was all about.
There isn’t enough scriptures for everyone, so the clerics invented what they call the Oral Discipline. The Discipline is simply that we must not change the stories of the Holy Scriptures around or give them different meanings when we repeat them to others or ourselves. With so much knowledge lost we can’t afford corruption. I never learned this particularly well, but they don’t force me to either.
I began to think that maybe my room-mate was blind or lame, but something suggested that he was very much awake. His breathing was not like one sleeping. I wanted to talk to him, actually. I wanted to ask who he was and what he was doing here. But I did not want to break the rule. It was his house, after all. Yet I did not expect him to break the silence. His voice was decrepit and old, and had a Northern accent..
“I’m so glad someone is here. I did not want to die alone.â€
But I'll try and get around to doing it.
