In the tombs of Kursi is a man who is raising his head.
He knows better than to turn around and see—he knows he’ll pay for it, but he does anyway, from his curiosity and from Their own. His is an animal visage turned upon the lake, eyes like a wolf with no wolf-shine in them, dead black and feral only. His face contorts in a snarl, and he rises from his crouch. A boat comes. Death is in the boat.
He comes!
We perish, we perish before the time!
Pandemonium breaks loose within.
The madman leaps. He plunges down the slope of the tombs, reaches the bottom, and races across the road. He scrambles over large beach rocks, thumps down to the gravelly wet shoreline. He races to the water’s edge, and in a many-timbred voice he roars at the boat, the scream of a monstrous bellows. In the scream is the knowledge of judgment, the certainty of damnation. He has rushed the waters like driving his belly on the pike of the enemy.
Deep within the cavern that is he, a man trembles beside a plastered-over place.
Sudden coolness above. The madman looks up. A low floating continent moving inexorably toward the boat. Help comes on the wind. Help, for Them.
His own help is in fragile wood, the destination of the tempest.
He is jerked from the sight of the boat. He capers about on the shoreline, reeling drunkenly, flooded with Their glee. For Hell has gone forth, and the boat will never reach the shore.
Despair takes the man within, and he howls beside the sacred place.
***
The tempest fell upon the lake. Tallis watched from above, in the place of the dead.
He grew aware of the presence of others, mustered as he was by the passing of the gale. The hill shepherds stared, struck dumb at the sight of the phenomenon descending on the Galilee. Antenor drew up beside him, panting hard, then gasping insensible cries of alarm. And Polonus. Polonus appeared, and he paced, gazing wildly on the scene, his face ravaged by such conflict of emotion it seemed as though it would burst.
Below them, the madman of Kursi jerked about on the shore in a caricature of a dance.
Then they could see the boats no longer for the obstruction of the gale. It gathered and rose, looming like a gargantuan animal, and then fell upon the boats like the fisted arms of Zeus come down. They strained to glimpse the hapless vessels.
And Tallis knew a grief he could not understand, as if he were witnessing the death of Alexander the Great. It was a great confrontation of ancient malice and unknown good, for surely malice would not go forth unless to challenge good. He looked away in sorrow, for soon he would see not glimpses of the boats and of frantic men, but kindling wood, and no bodies, for the sea would swallow them and take them down to murky depths.
Polonus broke from the onlookers with a desperate wail. He ran down the slope, and the wail swept off, sucked into the tempest’s roar.
Tallis put his back against the tragedy on the sea.
Then suddenly—the earthquake tremble in the land ceased.
Wailing arrows shot past them.
The roar behind him abated, and Tallis turned just in time to see a great curtain of water drop, as if snipped from on high, and melt into the sea.
The tumult diminished, blanketing down to vast, sparkling silence.
Instead of wreckage, they only saw a few displaced boats. Not the fore boat. While the boats behind oared themselves about, the fore boat dug for the eastern shore . . . more relentless than the storm.
***
Deep within the shell, at the bottom of cavernous depths, the man beside the plastered-over place knew more torment than he had ever known. At last, he beheld what They long forbade, for Across the Sea had come, and come for him. He sat in the back of the boat, the man with searching eyes come for him. Hope lanced like lightning. And They knew it.
You are ours!
You think it’s over? We will not leave. You gave us your yes.
He knows you are ours, and there is nothing he can do about it.
Despair rose, and blocked Across the Sea from view. The darkness was greater for the shutting out of golden light.
He huddled in the corner. Did he see me? For just that instant when I saw him in the boat? Does he know I’m here? Past Them, I am here. What if he doesn’t know? Oh, gods—does he know I’m here? Did he see me?
He doesn’t even know you are there, maggot.
He can’t even see you, human slug. We are too many.
If you look His way, we will kill you. Rape and torture you first. All of us, all at once.
Beside him, the plaster on the place began to crumble. He stared at the falling bits.
Pay no attention to that!
It’s hopeless, you know! We will obscure it once more!
But They did not come near it. Before, They helped him smear it over.
Then the man froze—a long way off, outside, he heard a voice. The demons screamed louder than they ever had before, and he thought it was to deafen the voice. But it was pain he heard, and instead of his own, it was theirs.
And he saw across the room for the first time. He saw Them. A multitude of them, and more on top, and more yet, a column of filth all the way up past what he could see. And they were hideous to behold.
Unbodied voices now had form. And before he could fully realize the deception, before he could connect one clear thought to another, again, the voice outside called.
And he raised his head to answer, but one of the forms flew across the room and clamped his mouth. He fought, frenzied out of mind, to tear the thing from his mouth and answer the man, but far away, somewhere on top, another answered for him.
What do we have to do with You, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?
Have You come to torment us before the time?
I am here! Do not leave me, I am here!
He saw them dig in. The base of the column thickened, bearing down. Talons launched low, and seized, and held fast. Malicious looks, triumphant jeering faces were bared at him as they linked, and gripped, and braced.
We’re not going anywhere. You gave us your yes!
We love to outstay our welcome.
Hideous eyes bulged with mirth, until—a few looks jerked to his left, bulging not with mirth but fear. The demon clamping his mouth yelped and fell away from him, and dry-scrabbled back to the safety of the horde. The plaster over the place was falling off in chunks. Wonderingly, the man began to reach for a fallen chunk.
You’ll die if you touch it! You think you’re miserable now?
Suddenly, a great trembling in the cavern—and the entire column of filth began to sway. Shrieking and wailing, a few of the forms lost hold. Instead of dropping down, they dropped up, wailing as they went, as if to a torturous death.
Then a great shaking seized the tower. Forms fought for a hold, and way off, on top of the pile, the man heard one of them shout, “Legion! For we are many!” and there was great vaunting in the words, as if to say, You waste your time, you are only one!—we, a multitude.
Still the column shook.
More demons lost hold and flew off, and more, and larger, pieces of plaster fell. He lunged for the place and began to pull away the pieces, frantic now, as the column shook in a blur and the entire cavern groaned, ready to fall in on itself. He had to get to the place. He had to see what had long been hidden. He tore away chunks and flung them aside, he dug and ripped, and he saw, revealed . . . . . . the Truth.
That he could choose.
That he had chosen.
And terrible had been his choice.
Grief struck him, and he staggered. All his loss, all his pain, all the years of torment . . . the truth was, it never had to be.
And the man outside asked through this sacred place whether he wanted them to go. And the man inside looked across the room at the faces fixed on him. They were screaming, but he heard no sound. For the first time, he heard no voices. For the first time he saw before him choice, no force telling him which way to choose. No good telling him, no bad. It came down to him and the choice, laid excruciatingly, excruciatingly bare.
He knew these faces. They were familiar faces. He’d lived with some since childhood. He did not know the man outside. Did not know his price. Should he fear Across the Sea? Could he make it out there without them? They were all he knew. He did not know Across the Sea.
He turned from the faces to the sacred place. He reached and touched it and met with grief, and something like joy, met with what he had looked for his entire life. Concealed and denied and there all along. And he knew the man outside had something to do with this very place. He splayed his hand against it. Through this place, the man showed him—he could choose.
He gave the man his yes, and knew, then, his own name.
“I am Kardus,” he sighed, and the demons began to go.
Some were so deeply entrenched it felt as though they tore talon streaks all the way up. They came up, and they came out, and they were not happy to leave. They fought all the way to stay. They never once stopped begging Kardus to let them stay. They cajoled, threatened, and screamed. And Kardus was shocked these things had indwelled him, and they kept coming up, kept coming up. It was ugly and horrible and wrong, these rodents within him, wriggling up his being as through a tunnel.
Hundreds, thousands—a horde pouring forth from his mouth, a black-winged stream issuing from the bowels of his being, for their domain had been down deep. And for a bargain struck, they flew coursing up the cliff. What happened next, Kardus was unsure. He was trembling on all fours, coughing mucus. It dripped from his nose and his mouth, and he—belched! He laughed a little, and belched again for the insane joy of hearing himself do it. For his ears had been unstopped. He hadn’t heard anything outside of his body, not the sound of his own belch, or a little bit of his laughter, for . . . years.
And he knew the feel of the shore beneath his palms, wet and cool, coarse with sand and tiny shells. And he made fists in the shore, and took a handful to stare at it.
His mouth was dripping. He went to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but he had no sleeve. And he stared, in growing horror, at what must be his arm—an arm he did not recognize. He gazed at the scars, horrifying scars, thick and ridged, and the sores, livid, stinking sores . . . crusted filth all the way up, all on his chest and—gods, the stench! Was it him? Before he could wonder long at his astonishing appearance, he felt a cloak draped over his shoulders, and one of the men from the boats was helping him up, and another was wiping his face. He stared at them, bewildered . . . such faces. He couldn’t help but reach with trembling fingers to touch one of the faces, the bristly chin, the humanity. He saw tears in the eyes of this human face. He had not seen a human face in . . . years.
So many sensations came to him that he had to go slowly. He felt . . .
Light. Like he’d surely fly off if he didn’t anchor himself to the ground.
Clean. Scoured inside with the most ruthless brush.
Huge inside. He took a deep, unencumbered breath for the first time in years. He took many deep breaths, for the great wedge within was gone.
He felt wet shore soothe the soles of his feet. A soft breeze on his face, with—oh, gods! Fragrance in it! Fragrance! He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the caress of the wind. Salt from his tears stung his face; his face felt ruined. But of all the sensations assailing his senses, one was most pervasive—the voices were gone. All gone. He’d stepped out of pandemonium into a great relief of dewy silence.
He opened his eyes to beautiful human faces around him—so achingly beautiful—some with fear, some with tremulous smiles, and some, tears. He looked at them, searching for one face. At last he found the man outside. He was smiling at Kardus, eyes glistening. He didn’t just smile; the big lively grin lit his whole face. It was he. It was Across the Sea.
Down the shoreline, a half mile south, a little boy whooped and danced on the beach.
Excerpt from Madman by Tracy Groot (chapter 19)
