Perhaps it was the rumor that we ate soil for food that drove husband and wife, Orton and Munay, to venture out to the mountains. We were a tribe of elderly women, whose traditions and culture had been sealed in books hidden beneath wooden floors. There were a string of rituals that we had to abandon. Although we hid ourselves away from civilization, we were most aware that others would not understand. We, women, thrive from magic and the uncanny beliefs of gods and monsters that rule everything underneath the stars. For that reason then, we shun away from people of the modern world. However, we had grown old and weary, sickness and disease had gotten the most of us. We were nearing our end. It was so that we opened our doors to accept all the help we needed.
Between them, Munay was most eager to resolve our plight. The first time we laid eyes upon her, we were certain that she was brought to us by the gods, a savior—we, however, had at first forgotten the prophecy told by the once shrewdest of us, Radekka the Wise. It was through her that the gods voiced their intentions. It was said that a child will be born within the borders of our tiny village. But it will not be an ordinary child birth. It involved a complex process of magic, of the occult. All we had to do was observe for signs.
The first sign occurred on Munay’s untimely demise. On the eve of her birthday, Orton found her lying on the floor, breathless. Her eyes bulging from their sockets, mouth gaping as if moments ago she was screaming for her life. Her eyes glared at something before she died. When Orton looked at where she was looking, he found someone amidst the dark corner of the room, crouching, showing its yellow, sharp teeth. The Necromancer, a monster in the form of a naked man with unusually long limbs, leathery pale skin, long white hair thinning on the scalp, every bone in its body protruding as if he had no muscle: only bones covered in tight skin. It stank like the odor of scythed stalks of weed after rain. Before Orton moved, it got up and ran out of the window, up the roof, and was never again seen.
Orton was devastated. Poor dear. So were we. Never had we felt such compassion. For we treated Munay as our own, our daughter. But she had been taken away. And we knew, there was more to her death than grief. And so we prepared ourselves for the second sign—her resurrection.
In case anyone of us died, Orton had already prepared a makeshift butterbox. He never imagined his wife would one day be put in it. He laid her coffin in a place where we could all gather and pay our respects. The women danced in a song that bid farewell to the “other” that lived in each of us. The separation of body and soul. The soul’s ascendance to the stars.
It was a solemn ceremony until Orton burst in anger, blaming us for his wife’s death. “You knew it would happen yet you didn’t say a fucking word!”
We kept our piece until I was pushed to answer him. “We have a way to bring your wife back to life.”
His eyes grew large in disbelief. “Witches! You’re all freaking witches!” He sobbed, he cried, he wailed. Shortness of breath had lead him to faint and fall to the ground.
When he awoke the next day, I told him the truth, about the past that we continued to deny. When I was finished, he looked at me, his face told me he was a bit confused and hurt at the same time. It was then that he began to ask me questions that had never been answered for a long time. He was particularly curious about what I had told him the night before.
“Radekka the Wise, she is not completely gone; she guides us by entering our dreams from her dwelling at the top of the mountain.”
“A hermit. What has she for me and my wife?”
“Answers.”
I left him that morning to uncover the books. The others were hesitant, even felt betrayed by my decisions. But I told them that this was what the stars had instructed. The gods had foretold of this event. We were merely instruments, shepherds in a grand scheme. It was so that they gave support.
The books were hidden beneath the floors of a dilapidated shack away from the village. But I only had interest in one book: the one that dealt with Gods and Monsters. The floors had turned grey with the thick layer of dust. Rats, spiders and other wretched fiends occupied the place; but I knew, once I stepped inside, that the souls of the past lingered about. My body broke out in gooseflesh. Ghosts ran about, a presence felt, not seen. One step forward and a cold, invisible hand stretched and held me by the neck.
“What odds brought you to desecrate my home?” it whispered in a throaty voice, its hand an invisible force, neither hot nor cold on the skin of my neck.
“It is time.” Then it shrieked in an unearthly tone, a sound of both anger and amusement.
“Be gone!” It let got of my neck and threw my frail body out of the shack, breaking my leg amidst the fall. The shack went alive, a thundering sound emanating from the inside. The souls were feasting. Then a book darted out of its doors, dust tailing behind it. It landed by my feet. I tried to stand up, but the bone in my left leg had pierced open the skin. I had no choice but to crawl my way up to the village, hoping I would survive the night from the loss of blood and the creatures that crept on the forest floor. I was an old woman, nearing her death. We pay with our lives so that we may continue to live somehow.
Once I reached my house, I had to cast a glamour upon my leg, the simplest of magic but it required souls—to cast such spell, I stole the souls of weeds. It was not a healing spell; I only meant to hide my wound from Orton; it may appear normal but it bled all through.
He was at the edge of his bed when I came to see him, bearing an expectant look on his face. “At last you came. What have you to say, woman?”
I showed him the book, an old memory of paper bound by a spiral of hard twine. It was in our ancient text. I had to read it for him. As I did, guilt slowly crept into me, like an eel swimming under my skin. It was in that moment that I began to realize what I had been doing. I was bringing him and his wife to a web of deceit. I, the people owed them yet here I was devious, playing them like mice in the palm of my hands. Tears were welling in my eyes as I read the book. But he never saw me.
The book detailed our scriptures. It was written by Radekka the Wise, guided by the wisdom of the gods. It was written in red ink, blood—Radekka’s blood. Part of its contents discussed the titles of gods; that everything we see, hear, smell, feel were pantheons of the gods. The trees, the rivers, the soil, the very air we breathe in. No god was higher than the other, for there is only one god with different names. A god that extended itself to all things living or dead, with or without souls.
A part of the book also talked much about the creatures either seen or only felt. The Necromancer was one to have great significance among the pages. It was involved in the death and the rise of our savior. In its pages, Radekka had written:
“… that in the order of greater things to come, the Necromancer shall make itself seen to those who are part of the grand scheme. It shall steal the life from the vessel by giving it its deathly kiss, that which purges the body of the soul: a white light flowing out of the vessel’s mouth, the door from all wisdom comes through.
“In light of the vessel’s resurrection, the monster shall bestow on the vessel its second death. It shall eat the vessel, after it is chopped, boiled, and deboned. And in its bowels shall the vessel’s body and soul once more meet; thereafter, be vomited in the form of water—”
“What does that mean!” Orton cried out, struck in horror by the thought of his wife’s body defiled, eaten. I stopped reading and explained to him what I have learned from before. He had to find the Necromancer at the top of the mountains and leave the body there. He must also offer a rib, the one closest to his heart. The rib shall give Munay the memories she lost upon her death, the memories of her humanity.
Orton was at first uncertain of what I had just said, what he must do. But desperation grew stronger on his face, creasing in deep thought. “For the sake of my wife, I shall do what must be done.”
He left the next morning, before the sun laid its hands on the land. He carried her rotting corpse on his back; she was wrapped in an old rug. I was the only one to bid him farewell. I prayed for his safe return.
I imagined him trekking up the mountain, a perilous journey for someone who carried so much weight on his back, much more in his heart. But I was pacified by the determination I saw in his face. It glowed from within.
The mountain top was hidden behind the clouds. Misty and not a shaft of sunlight seeped through to touch the shrubs that merely peopled the place. Across him should be a cave with a narrow opening. By then, however, he had fainted. The mountain grew so tall the air at its top was thin; the opening of his throat feeling like it shrank into the size of a pebble.
But in time I had become anxious. I had to perform another spell. I took a basin of water and threw the stone I hid beneath Orton’s bed—the stone gathered his essence while he sleeps. The water rippled and once it became still I saw the image of Orton kneeling in front of a woman in a flowing black robe. They seemed to be talking but I did not hear anything, did not see a lip move. Then it struck me: she had entered his mind. And it was then that I realized that she was Radekka the Wise. Only she was powerful enough. At the mouth of the cave crouched the Necromancer. It was done with Munay.
Orton was still on his knees for several more minutes till the clouds parted and a sliver of light exposed Radekka. She was not wearing a robe; rather, she was not wearing anything at all—her entire body was covered in thick black hair that flowed and touched the ground. I was about to plunge my hand in the basin when, suddenly, I froze. Radekka had reached inside my mind.
“You of all your kind shall do the task. However shall things begin and end shall now be in your power. I will diminish. I have already fulfilled mine.”
And before I could make a reprise, I regained my consciousness. I was covered in mud, as if my pores had opened and released the filth inside my body. Before me the water inside the basin rose in a pillar of vapor, the stone red hot as a molten rock. I wiped off the mud covering my face and I peered inside the basin. I no longer saw the reflection of a gangly, old witch but of a woman with skin so tight, hair so black and voluminous, breasts so supple, the broken bone in my leg healed—I was restored, once again, young.
It did not take long for me to convince the others what had become of me. They had seen it in my eyes. Some marveled, others knelt in great fidelity to magic. Most, if not all, felt as if they became young as well. I became their source of power, of hope. I became as much a savior as Munay will ever become. I only fear it will bring about my own demise.
Soon Orton arrived with a huge jar on his back; she was in it. I explained to him the magic that was cast upon me; that he must never be bothered with my new form. He then recounted what Radekka had instructed him. He was to bury the jar containing Munay’s remains beneath the staircase of his home and wait for the fullness of the moon. For in time shall Munay dig her way upwards—breaking the very soil with which she was buried in—crawl her way inside the house, and sleep beside the man she loved. During which time, no eyes must witness her rise from death. But before the full moon, all we could do was wait.
Time moved so slow, but with Orton beside me it never seemed to pass. I had to admit to myself that the new body I have reacted to Orton’s presence. I felt the tempest of emotions rise inside me, like a storm brewing inside my chest, every time Orton was near. My body felt hot like never before and in my sleep I would dream about him. My mornings would never be complete if I wake up dry between my legs.
I was wiser than any of them. But the feelings I had made me foolish. I had forgotten my task, my role in the grand scheme that was to come. I grew jealous of Munay. Envy was about to bring my end.
It was so that I took matters upon myself. I had never loved a man nor felt love from someone so sturdy. I was to take away the things that was meant for Munay—the worship of the people, the love of her husband. I worked hard to please the others. I worked like a horse, day in and day out so that when the time Munay comes to life they would choose me to inspire them and not that wretched dead woman. But the biggest challenge was Orton. His love for Munay was too strong even for the most desperate of my attempts to woo him. On one night, however, I did what I should have done before: I drugged him and brought him to bed with me. I had cast a glamour on myself while I was on top of him. “Munay,” he called out for me. But then I knew I was not fair. And so I ran out, left him frustrated by his loins. I ran out and saw the moon nearly in its fullness. And then the thought gripped me: If I destroy Munay before she comes out, there will be no Munay to concern myself with.
I went beneath the stairs where her jar was buried, dug it up, and pulled it out of the dirt. In the looming darkness of the night, the jar stood on the ground in a strange, eerie manner. I did not save time to wait for the others to notice. I grabbed the shovel and struck the jar. The jar burst open from the crack revealing a mound of dirt the shape of the jar. Slowly I moved closer and pushed the shovel inside the mound. The mound broke and uncovered a monstrous thing beneath it. It sat before me with its arms over its head propped on its knees. But what made me fear it was not its position, rather its inhuman appearance. Some parts of its body was covered in flesh, some parts was bare with the bones exposed. Its mane covered in a thick fluid that flowed all over its body. It was a monster. And I had to kill it.
But before I raised the shovel to strike it, it opened its eyes. The right eye, lidless and hideous, staring at me. It opened its lipless mouth to scream in what I could only understand as a scream of agony. It writhed across the ground like a beheaded snake. And between its legs, I saw a gush of blood, of red filth. It lay on its back and I saw how it gave birth to a malignant, frightful thing. It was bathed it globules of thick blood. The thing shrieked. It shrieked maybe because it could not set itself free from the cord that connects it to its foul mother. Or maybe because it was yet so small and powerless to lunge at me and kill me. However, before things took its turn, someone struck me at the back. I fell unconscious on the ground.
I was waken when one of the women threw cold water at me. I was tied at a pillar surrounded by wood and hay. They were about to burn me alive. Amidst the audience stood Orton holding a piece of cloth within his embrace. I tried to say my piece but no one seemed to listen. I was deemed a heretic, a traitor for someone so wise. Orton did not say a word. The women stood behind him, with faces so cold I could only predict they wanted me dead.
And then he finally spoke, “You killed my wife. I shall then have yours for the taking.”
He was handed out a torch and moved towards the pile of wood and hay. It was in that distance that I saw it squirming in its wrappings. The thing the monster gave birth to was still alive. But I was alone to see such things. I became witness to the birth of evil. It poked out its face among the wrappings. It appeared like a hairless rat with an unusually large pair of temples. Horns! And then it moved its fingers as if it were bidding me farewell. It knew! I, however, did not show fear nor grief for its satisfaction. I stood there tied against the pillar as adamant as I could become. I laughed. I laughed for only I understood the true meaning of things. The grand scheme was to bring about death, not salvation.
But before I was finished reveling in my own triumph, Orton threw the torch away from the pile, went up to me, parted my legs, and pushed the evil rat up inside my crevasse.
It was, so I had thought, the end of all.
