The Summoning

(September 2004)

The Summoning

          I would say that it is only natural for one to become submissive to the age-old customs of nature and of its due course. In this perspective, I am leaving this record for the account of those who may succeed me, for I do not wish for others to continue in the path that I had chosen to follow. Despite my expectations, my life has become corrupted by the perverse. It is through the events I have witnessed that I have felt the walls of the known universe become torn asunder. I have hitherto been engaged in matters regarding the nature of power, and I have been rewarded not with a blessing, but rather, with a grim truth given to me by a tainted scope of existence.

          It is often thought and believed that stars are sources of power, where lost—if one could term it so—and distant souls that have reached beyond our knowledge and understanding exist. In ancient tomes of great and unmistakably learned wisdoms, there are written texts that describe their perfect, yet vague essences. For each star, it is said that a power has manifested from a shadow of collective spirits, eclipsing the nature of the masterful maze of death’s waxing moon. Renowned and unsurpassed scholars and the greatest of sages have pieced together their meanings and how to tap into the conduits of power that they support and embrace tenaciously with guarded jealousy, as if imprisoned in their seemingly indecorous attempts to prevent mortal hands from harnessing their power into what now are tattered manuscripts of thoughtful pursuit.

          In my own endeavors to utilize the stars to forward myself toward the pools of power they lock protectively in their custody, I have stumbled upon the truth of matters, if only by the most inadvertent chance. The sages genuinely thought they were correct in their ways, when in unknown reality, their moon of philosophy and understanding had been waning for as long as I can imagine, down the ancient routes of history. They were all hideously mistaken, every inch of their research turned to ash by an awoken, revealing flame I had ignorantly summoned forth. The stars are not methods of acquiring power; they are not the souls of the long deceased. They are the quintessence of it—the lone and absolute embodiment of power itself.

          I once viewed the never-ending chains of red and blistered mountain as ageless sentries that roamed and reached farther than the eternal horizon, gripping and consuming the brittle landscape with jagged forms of rock. The gaping holes of blackness that nested in their undying bottoms once told and reminded me of havens for the ambitious. I once observed that any wind which flew in these desolate lands scrapped clippings of shredded rock with its comings. And I once saw the crags tint the sky with their dull tones, while the aerial ocean blazed as brightly as the still sun that perched in its throne, high in the zenith of the vast and overpowering skies.

          Back then, I noticed not a single buzzard or crow traverse these barren expanses, which left a hollow impression upon the land, nor had I noticed any other animal. Only shrubs cast from far and distant lands made their way here, most stripped of color and leaves, stiff and crisp in the overseeing eye of the orb that hailed omnipotently in these aridly sterile recesses. Only things that dwelled in the monstrous maws of darkness, which were scattered endlessly at the bottoms of the expansive ridges, were able to defeat the raging and immortal globe of flaring light. And even then, it was a matter of time before death brought its suffocating lifeblood.

          I recall the shuffling torrents of earth that were occasionally called to graze lazily upon the land, sundering rock into sliced shards and grains of thick dust. And I also recall the craters and crevasses created by them, some as large as the dominant and authoritative ridgelines which patrolled the horizons. I remember the thin wisps of tender cloud that hovered abandoned and confused, how they were so thin and ethereal that they offered no shadows, no moments of refreshment from the burrowing heat; how they had nowhere to vest themselves, except in the perpetual tyranny of the sun.

          And in my memory remains the remnants of black scorches that waved on the blunted and addled stone, removing all which was nurturing. I recollect that any signs of water immediately steamed briskly from the blackened and baked arena, turning into nothingness, as if a stray toy to be expended, played with by the might of the elemental forces. It is nature’s embodiment of a tomb, an everlasting caged asylum so removed from the world that it seemed to have been torn from parts of the roughest mountains and the most lifeless deserts alike, all assembled into one by an all-powerful, creating hand.

          This is where I resided for the better half of my exhaustive life of unthreading the mysteries and the measureless meanings of the great stars. Standing perched in the middle of the bare wastes is my abode, a structural stone tower, humbled in the age-old ways that govern this archaically uncouth and joyless realm. Having been constructed some score years ago, it is already taking decline to the climate’s coercive will. The monolithic spire that serves as my home had been eminently raised from the parched rock, biding in its usual way until I molded it into my refuge, whereupon I stayed for my sought knowledge to become clearer to me and to practice my works. Only then did I stumble across the puzzling knowledge that the works and tributes of those who labored for the way to pry power from the stars were all wrong, misinterpreted from the beginning, that the power was the stars themselves. Now that I knew, and knew without a doubt, for it became so clear when I came to realize it, I pieced more if it together in an almost desperate manner, for I was so close to the key of it all, the key to power, all the while filling in the gaps with original explorations of the topic.

          Alas, I deciphered fathomless theories to it, for a series of suggested postulates and a group of theorems proved to be true in insurmountable ways. Leering excitement flooded toward me, forcing me to temporarily parry my enthusiasm so I could scribe legible notes for future reference. After my researching experiments on the knowledge that suddenly decided to enlighten me, I elected to do more study, to be as sure and precise as I could ever hope to be. My notes began to draw upon and thin my abundant stores of parchment, which had become prolific and detailed diagrams of complex designs and archived explanations. Over the years, my catalogued data began to fill my shelves from end to end, routed in a disorganized array, papers crumpled upon each other, for there was truly no way to organize something so technically multifarious.

          The following days, I initiated on proceedings for calling forth the primeval stars in order to employ their power. I also had retained the knowledge that the stars were beings, beings composed solely upon the sterling nature of power. To what that meant, I did not know, for how could I have known without first calling one to me? Now after an odd twenty years, I had assembled all the knowledge I needed, studied to the very core of my soul. I made it my goal to put my well earned knowledge to use, for it was my reward for my long, studious years. Soon, I was going to be able to steal power from the elded stars.

          Deep within the dark depths of my aging tower, I remember painting mythical symbols that I had collaborated inside my running tomes. The masterful inscriptions bore incessantly intricate traits, and I remember that it took days to labor the enigmatic outlines in order to render them perfectly unblemished. When I had finished my work, there were dozens of the written incantations and scientific formulae scribed throughout the room.

          I remember the night that I had chosen to proceed my calling of the stars. I had lit hefty candles in a geometric ring, which had circled around the center of the room. Incense ensued from the candles, enriching the chamber in a mellow aroma, and I recall waiting in the darkness for the correct time to issue my summoning—when the star axis would become aligned faultlessly. As the hours passed, the flames began to find the way to the bottoms of their waxes, and the appendages of smoke which had fumed from the candles soon brought the air to thick state, yet I had forced myself not to seek fresh air. Then, very suddenly, all the candles flickered out, leaving the room in opaque darkness, and I knew the time was right to begin the ritual.

          I began to utter old and cryptic words, which seemed to flow from my mouth spectacularly, for every word blended easily with the one beforehand, as if chaining into one beautifully carved word. The droning hymn slowly shifted to an ashen chant of infernal dialect, and the recitation drifted grimly with evil echoes. And finally, when the chant climaxed, I felt through the thick haze a burst of air and detected a few candle flames relight, leaving the room in a strange and quaint semidarkness.

          My pulse had begun to ripen in oppressive anticipation, and I strained my eyes to see through the haze. I scarcely dared to breathe, and I waited many countless moments for something to happen. And I remember suddenly seeing something dark move in the twilit and misty fog. It was then that I knew I had called it. I had brought the power to me!

          Forthwith, the damp darkness gathered together, convening into a dense sphere, leaving its surroundings in a shaded night. I recollect drops of sweat hanging about my trepid body, which was at the time transfixed in awe. Then, inside the globe of cloud, a being emerged. But what egressed from that nebula was not for anything to ever bear witness. It loomed with poignant and overwhelming being, and I began to murmur slightly in inaudible tones. I recall timidly stepping back, subdued by an untold terror of reality. At that point, nothing, nothing at all could have changed.

          I now knew I was a fool, a jester in a court of kings watching a spectacle I was performing without my being aware. Any man, sane or not would recoil in utmost fear and horror if he knew what were lying in that path of damning knowledge—if he could only begin to comprehend what were to take place, which is something no mortal, possibly even the immortal, could ever dream or wonder. But I, I was unable to perceive the coming of such torment that now plagues my spiritual and mental well-being. Power blinds all men, as it did me; the patient, the stubborn, the demanding, all of them alike fall in it impenetrable guile, for it tames them in ways they do not foresee. Oh, how I wished I saw a glimpse of what had come for me, how I wished I had never existed, for knowing was worse than not knowing, an unbearable burden on my forever tainted soul! Even death had lost its meaning, shapeless with the coming of the revelations of the universe.

          The being gave an ominous laugh far beyond what is ever describable and perceptual. But it was not a laugh, for glee had suddenly lost its meaning with the eldritch purity in the way it was executed. So indubitable, so real, was the absoluteness it held that it would shatter a genuine laugh from a hearty man into a meaningless lie. I knew that if the thing showed any form of horror, my fear would become as latent as amusement had become, but I innately knew that something of its cosmic power could not express such pitiable emotions. Already, my reasons—if reason is still extant—for existence had crumbled asunder into the flakes of oblivion.

          I scarcely remember the being abandoning me. As it is, I have trouble discerning what exactly had unfolded that night, but I recall sitting in a corner, crying, wishing I never was, but knowing I would ever be. I knew I would ever be alone, deserted in the sequestered and forsaken crypts of a hollow universe.