“So, it begins,” chuckled the man in the carriage. Then laughter rang out as his self-control disappeared when Salemon’s disbelieving face showed up on the magical display. Crisp and clear, it revealed the woodcutter staring at the broken pieces of glass on the ground, oblivious to the faint streams of luminous and dark tendrils now surrounding him. The airy, thin strands swirled around his form, as if examining the heedless mortal.
“Is everything alright, my lord?” came the solicitous query from the coachman.
“Yes, Aril. Something funny came to mind. Let’s go home. A show is better watched and enjoyed in comfortable surroundings.”
“At once, my lord,” answered Aril as the carriage swiftly vanished, leaving behind an empty and dusty stretch of the King’s Highway.
Back on the road, Salemon still stared at the disaster. His head was spinning, and the man fought a valiant yet losing battle against fainting due to the shock. In his mind, he could now clearly see the figure of the cloaked headsman and the huge, sharp ax the executioner twirled around his body as he approached Salemon. Unfortunately, the woodcutter had a very vivid imagination.
As the ax-wielding giant in his mind raised the large blade, Salemon finally fainted. And immediately woke up in a dark space, where dim illumination came from ghostly forms surrounding him. He abruptly realized that he was in the middle of a circle formed by the phantoms. Absolute, miserable terror gripped his bowels as Salemon believed his worst fear had come true – he was dead and in the infernal abyss.
My gods! Why have you abandoned me? I have not sinned against your commandments, wailed Salemon in his thoughts. Then he stopped, shaken to his core as something important came to mind.
Yes, there was that dryad, but I didn’t know sexual contact with such beings was prohibited! And I did not have sexual intercourse with her! She did use her mouth, but that was even painful at times, especially during the summer when her sap was low. And her mouth and tongue were hard as wood! Sometimes I even got splinters down there!
Finally, Salemon couldn’t stop himself and started crying. It began as little sobs, but as the dike was opened, his expression of sorrow leveled up to deafening wails. Then he realized the spectral figures had started talking among themselves, though in whispers which echoed through the dim space.
“What’s the matter with this fellow?” a voice murmured.
“Did we get a crazy one?” That question had a woe-is-us tone to it.
“Kick him in the ass, that’ll put some sense into him! Worked with my worshippers before!” a gruff voice suggested.
A mumble of protests rose at the suggestion of physical violence.
“I think we got a wimp!” This time, a scornful one.
“I believe he just needs care and attention,” said a kindly voice.
“Therapy?” Somebody answered.
“Get my whip! Mortals these days! They’ve gone soft!” cried out a booming voice.
That terrified Salemon even more, and he instinctively glanced at the speaker. A reaction which unfortunately revealed to him the faces and shapes of those surrounding him. With a shock, Salemon also found he couldn’t faint again.
Around him, a large crowd of apparitions were looking at him, or otherwise clearly discussing him. The ghostly figures wavered in and out of focus, but it was what he saw that petrified the man wallowing in abject misery and fright.
The crowd appeared to be a mix of human and demonic figures, each shape a distinct individual. They were of all shapes and sizes, of lordly and diabolical bent. Though humanoid and barely humanoid forms dominated, others were of the abstract or tentacled persuasion. And Salemon was the star of the moment, all attention was obviously on him. His balls shriveled in horror.
“My gods! Why have you forsaken me?” he wailed out loud, tearing at his hair.
“We have?” came the chorused response from some of the beings in front of the crowd.
“Well, I didn’t! He’s not even one of mine!” A loud declaration came from the back of the throng.
An increasing cacophony of agitated voices began to arise as Salemon’s hosts started to ask each other. Despite his extreme distress, the woodcutter could clearly hear some of the discussion among the confused mob –
“Not mine, either. Yours?”
“Never seen him nor heard his prayers.”
“If he was one of mine, he’s the sorriest of the lot.”
“I only have female worshippers.”
“Not a eunuch so I’m out.”
“He’s not pregnant so count me out too.”
“A mortal. Sorry, I only deal with demons.”
Slowly, the horror began to succumb to acute curiosity. Though Salemon immediately averted his gaze in panic after discovering what was watching him, he found that the uncontrolled shaking of his body had subsided though he was still terrified. Suddenly, a deep but calm voice cut through the hubbub.
“My brethren. Calm yourselves. This is not getting anywhere.”
A chorus of Hear! Hear! arose from the dizzying racket. Salemon found a sliver of courage to take a peek at what was happening. A tall, muscled and bearded individual, clad in a white robe with gold trimmings, had walked to the front of the circle, facing him. The woodcutter noticed the apparition wore a magnificent crown and had a scepter in his right hand. The ghostly figure raised his rod, and a wave of calming energy washed over Salemon. He found his fear had vanished, and his two-pack returned to their usual slung position.
“Rise, mortal,” said the spectral form.
Salemon found himself obeying the command. It was spoken softly and in a reassuring tone.
“Who are you?”
“Salemon the woodcutter, Your Highness, milord, sire, Your Excellency,” he answered. Unfortunately, those were the only honorifics he could come up with. Ghostly figures of power were beyond his element and level of preparation.
“My lord will do, Salemon. Tell me, where are we?”
“Here? In a dark, scary place?”
“No, no. What I meant was in what kingdom are we?”
“The Kingdom of Alfarin, my lord. Near the town of Pusku,” replied the woodcutter.
“Good, good. Though we’ve never heard of it. Mind telling us the year and era?”
“It’s the tenth year of the Third Ruler of the Fifth Dynasty of the Thyma Era. We refer to it as Thyma 1035,” answered Salemon promptly. The idle discussions with the merchants now proved helpful. Otherwise, he couldn’t care less about such formal dates. What was important to him was the count of days and weeks.
“Still doesn’t ring a bell. Tell me, woodcutter. Have you heard of the Empire of Zin, the Dreaded Overlands of the Nagari, the Triple Monarchy of the Hawat? There’s a lot more, but those three were the leading feared domains.”
“Except for the Nagari, I haven’t heard of the others, my lord. The Nagari was what people used to scare me with when I was a child to prevent me from wandering too far. A myth.”
“You don’t say!” came the startled reaction. “How about the deity Amilthus? Have you heard of him?”
“No, my lord,” Salemon said. He was going to enumerate the popular deities of the day, but something told him not to go with that idea.
“How about the deities Riva? Zamites? Naga-Tharn? Ghul-Naboth?”
“All unknown to me, my lord.”
The entire assembly fell silent at Salemon’s answer. Even the speaker was struck speechless. After a few minutes of silence, an incredulous voice from the crowd whispered, disbelief clearly marking the tone.
“We’ve been forgotten.”
