Sunday, February 10, 2013

Werewolves_ The Graveyard

A stray breeze was passing by whispering lullabies to the faint souls quivering underneath. She twirled and she twisted posing like a ballet dancer, clapping at the peak of her rendezvous smiling away joyously. Her rhythm varied to the music she astounded from the trees. But it was there. She looked towards the stars and on capturing their roving eye huddled into a swoon of motion. She glazed the leaves of the trees which rustled to her touch and racketed the birds neatly perched in their nests. She watched as they huddled closer for warmth and then out of sheer delight swooshed over the graves mourning their crutch. And then it was gone. It too had deserted the graveyard yet again like everything else. It too was mortal and the kiss of breath that the graveyard gave meant they never lasted long. Some of the leaves that had taken part in the pomp and show fell to their own grave where they whimpered and sobbed pleading mercy. And then it was time. For the undead to betray the shadows, for the graves to be portals yet again to and fro from the lowest dimension, for the end of their tirade in the musk sobriety of the real world.
They mourned leaving it behind but they had been galvanized with a choice. Exist so as to risk the chance of never living in physical being again, to never feel the peril of death or the mercy of love or leave and come back every now and then in one form or the other hoping, praying that some would have attained the astute fate of mercy and that they could be reborn. Born to the world of the living. Born to the world of growing, in intelligence and in presence to only perish once again and return to spiky cellar below the surface. Such is the cycle of life. Some never advanced beyond their first life out of choice and some never advanced because they never quiet died. Death wasn’t enough to demolish them from the face of the meager planet. And hence they lived. For long awaiting the rise of their master. One beyond the crutches of death itself. One who had been destined to rise. The anti Christ, who had been gnawing among the living yet never quite been alive.
The door of the windmill chuckled to their dilemma as footsteps were heard leaving it and heading into the graveyard. Down below they sensed him inviting them over. His thumps, strong yet incorrigible to the living winding around the newer graves in the general direction of the older ones. Or rather towards the one he was bound to frequent now. And he passed each, below, the spirits, they could feel a slithering behind him as if it were life being delicately thrust into them. His robe dragged behind him inflaming them with a flailing desire for blood, delivering a sense of being into the foetus as they gracefully accepted his offer. One must realize that the most powerful womb is the earth itself as it houses the most powerful foetus. Villains and heroes, they all born from the cells of the planet. Evolution was merely an alibi.
And then he rested on the grave where he himself had sought refuge a long long time ago. Where there had been no gravestone. Where there had been nothing but dense forest for the longest era. Where tribes had fought and died. Where famine had been prominent. Where life itself had a dearth of space. Eventually he had watched as they had dug graves around him and he had laughed as they had formed his army. Some had watched him scared senseless and then they too had been faced with a question. Gods question. And that’s when he had gained a following. As their numbers had risen he himself had risen from the depths to the surface. And he had roamed the planet laughing at their plight. And as if to mark the advent of his prophesy he had found a werewolf. He had known right then that this was the being that would oust the weak. This was his link to the living. This was the general to his army. And he had inhabited him learning of his powers. He knew he had been detected but having felt no resistance to his presence he had decided to  inhabit his undeveloped mind till he knew enough of all the developed ones. As the wolf had slept he had talked to him and found him to be a viable companion. He had found out about his petty life. About having been abolished before being born of having been banned before being understood and he had tempered with his mind quenching it with a thirst for blood. In his sorrow he had given him strength, in his loneliness he had given him solace. And as the wolf found more alike him, he left him and travelled forward. He had found the dragons and the soul keepers but they had a flair for peace he couldn’t yet disrupt. The dragons were a well advanced race and believed that co existence was but natural. The soul keepers had made a clan out of themselves and were too proud to instinct hurt to lesser beings unless their authority was questioned. The werewolves, they were primitive. They were hated. And they were feared. And they were his allies. He had watched amazed what they were capable of. And he had watched as they had developed an underground society. There had always been a mention of the wizards, the council of the king but none of the wolves knew about it. The ones who did he could penetrate without inviting attention to himself. Till one night he had followed a low life into the cellar. And that’s when he saw the four of them. And they didn’t need to be told that their leader was here. They could sense his being as they his and they could sense the level of his power. They bowed to him and he bowed right back knowing this was his clan. This was his ministry to the end of life itself. Starting with the humans to the wolves and so on till all that remained was the undead.
 He recounted older instances and laughed. How na├»ve he had been to think that anything alive could be strong enough. It wasn’t life that gave one strength. It was denial of it. The absence of fear, of hurt or of pain. The absence of God himself. Because it was he who ruled the live but what about the dead? What about the undead? Who did they have? It was him. And so he sat down on his own grave and prayed. Not to God, there was no God. But to his followers. To the believers of his prophesy. To the believers of the undead. Before the sun rose today, his army would emerge. His physical from reeked of this thought and that’s what pulled them to him. He closed his eyes to peek into his soul demanding the strength to raise the awakened.
A single red rose in his pocket was neatly placed on the grave he graced. It felt itself plying on the cold concrete surrounded by a random assortment of leaves that anyone and everyone would not look for reason in. But it was right there. And that’s why it always worked. It was so obvious, it was exemplary. And then he started reciting his chants. He was surprised at what he heard his own mouth chant. But it was as if destiny had taken his hand and was seductively pulling him to it. His faith grew as the chants became more progressive more powerful. And as his faith grew, so did theirs. They could see him becoming the Anti Christ. And then he stopped. He stood up and whispered “Rise.”
Down below even death was shivering in its stance. The portals were open. All they needed for a smooth transition was something alive yet not completely dead. He smiled at the leaves. Freshly plucked by the wind. Not yet entirely dead. Yet not alive. It was there for everyone to see. The transition from alive to dead. And in this case the surrogate opposite. Again he muttered, rise. And they started listening. After years of entrapment you couldn’t blame them for not jumping. He took a set of shallow breaths then one last long one and roared again. And this time, no one could mistake the war cry. They rose. The undead finally shadowed him rising from the graves. There was no light. The moon had scampered into the shadows of the clouds. They rose to his side so powerfully that the earth itself was caught in a spasm which grew even more as many more increasing exponentially left its lair ripping apart its delicate fabric. Every life form for kilometers around him could feel that something had gone drastically wrong. This basic act of freedom had instilled a fear in them they couldn’t explain. But they were all awake. The birds cried. The snakes hissed. The rats scampered. The old sleepy watchman was left with his eyes wide open as life left him for safer sanction. And so they ran. Where they didn’t not know. Anywhere but here. The spirits could see this and this empowered them even more as the raze surrounding him rose above him stalking him in circles like a lion circling his prey.
Our time has come. There shall be no more life. Only the undead.
They rose higher and higher with his every word, the circles becoming smaller and smaller. Sensing their impatience he rose to the top of the whirlwind. They kept slowing till they were stagnant and then he ordered, Now.
And then they started entering him. There was nothing else to do. In a fraction of a second spirits from the underworld had jumped the barrier and into him. They say energy can neither be created nor destroyed. What they don’t mention is that when a system in destroyed the energy does not die. It does not decompose. It waits its due. And eventually when the energy that has been collected in one place for a long time, that has been sedimented one on top the other explodes, nothing is left to chance. It surpasses everything else. And as the spirits entered him, he knew that God himself couldn’t stop him now. With every spirit that surrendered into him he felt a fresh breath of power. And with every spirit that sponged into him, he would crave more. Eventually all but some had made it. He had become so strong that nothing could deny him. Not even the undead.
He picked up the black rose and smelled it. With all of us here now, I wonder how long their race can reproduce. With the earth’s lair nearing emptiness, I wonder for how long they will survive even if we don’t destroy them. But erase them we must.