Catchism III: May Souls Still by the Coming of Marching Feet
Posted: Mon Feb 27, 2012 3:46 am
At the door, the Door of immeasurable thickness and vastness, there came a deep, inhaling of air, as if some great beast had come to taste the iced blood that leaked from without. A singular moment of intensity, that breath held, everyone within held in the belly of that dying, that single-uttered Word and singular Number. It has nibbled at the Taste of it. And so then is that breath released, slow, silent, the doors mere doors once more, and not immovable gateways to some promise of madness. It is still. But it is not still, inside a madman's mind.
His was a common enough sight, slipping through the shadow of buildings that quivered slightly, as if responding to the movement of his very passing, or gripped in the shimmer of fevered sight. In times past, he would be rootling through dustbins and rubbish-piles, finding the treasures of people who were too sane to realize the values they had discarded. He did so now, because old habits die hard, and it allowed him to think on the effort of it as shaking hands found broken toys and food that still was good, held sound in winter's grip.
His was a common sight to any peering out their windows, but where once his movements had been assured, confident, the hulking man was awkward, moving laboriously through the abandoned, frozen streets, as if struggling against a thickness that pressed from the opposite side. Catch pushed through the mire of his mind, of an emotion called Regret that came so easily to other, familiar minds, and yet to Catch was alien and frightening. He struggled, as he dusted and sifted through garbage, eating what he could, secreting away those things which could not be eaten, against two very basic tenants, ones that had come to rule his life since the blessing of seeming-Sanity.
He needed to find his Soul. And he could not have it.
And why could he not deny the former? He can remember (memory, the whore to which all but the simplest of things must be enslaved, and that which he had tried to rid himself of in the form of broken dolls hanging from the trees), in the early days, the burning ecstasy, shining and full of bold certainty. He could grasp what he was, what he had been, before his head had been split. His passions raged within him, and he had run with the Dreamlady, their chases a thing of pure beauty, to where Catch could lock that moment in time for an eternity. The World sleeping, and he and his Wonder-Wolf, to chase and be chased, until the moon fell from orbit and the last flower turned grey. A mere two weeks ago, it was all so marvelously easy.
Then They had come to him again, slowly, dimming the Stars in the sky as gibbous orbs, too dark to be seen, but there. The ones who had been in his dreams. The ones from which he had been birthed, their own legacy born far beyond that which was easy for even him to grasp. For all his strangeness, Catch was born to this world, was bound to it, and his broken mind was all but safe to Knowledge that They possessed. They brought that Knowledge upon him, gentle, at first, but with increasing wickedness. They drove him, as the Hunter drives his prey, as if Catch himself were mere, base prey to be driven upon a whim.
They drove him to the Dagger to find It. He had hurt Renea dearly in that exchange. And then the Wolf has suggested, insisted, that there is one who would know. Zilliah had hurt Catch terribly in the past, and the Wolf's memory was fresh. The pains, the torture, Catch had inflicted on Cloud-hair had done only a little to satiate that raging, thirsting revenge that he himself had not felt, but Zilliah knew nothing of where it could be found. Zilliah had wept. Catch had wept with him. He was what he feared to always become, a monster, enslaved to the creatures born of his fevered mind.
Tonight was not his own doing. Catch glances back, fearfully, at those who drove him. Sometimes his spirit would rouse enough to curse them, to unleash all the Words he had learned around the Farmers and Tabitha and Agnieszka, or to turn and plunge away in a way they did not desire, did not anticipate. The Red Man drove him on, merciless and silent, and the Wolf and the Dark Lady followed behind, themselves no less potent. Catch knew what they wanted; Glenn Burnie, who was a brave man, a cunning man. He would know where it was, if only persuaded.
Catch balked at this, as he had before. Ser Glenn was a Friend among Friends. Catch could love and pity the man with only a morsel of soul left to him, could pick him alone to take with him on his and the Dreamlady's wild chase into eternity. Yet he was here, was he not? He was in Myrkentown proper, dallying, delaying, fighting the only way he could even as the Three silently moved him onward.
Until the Eight came. He felt it, bones and marrow and all, and he froze, and for once - for once! - the Three did not follow him. They were gone. Catch crouched in the darkened street, his feet frozen to the icy cobbles, his heart fluttering like a mad hare's in that brief second of Release. He Reached for it, thinking to find blood, frozen human-dolls that must be freed from bonds and cold, hardening viscera. He sniffed along the buildings until he came to it, tasted it. He took it, briefly, into his mind to savor that taste. What must he do with it? It felt Clean, wonderful in it's hatred, the thirst of an animal at it's most wild. Catch let his breath go, let it release away from his mind, and he straightened, looking over his shoulder for the familiar forms, but they had not come back.
He should tell Ser Glenn. Almost immediately, he rejected this idea. Being close to Ser Glenn wouldn't be wise; what would happen if his mind got away from him? It would devour the new-Governor more surely than the Eight would, and despite what he had told Glenn before, when he had first come to Myrken and was in the true grips of his madness, Catch now knew that putting himself down was. Was. Was it an impossibility? Zilliah could find that out. Glenn himself, perhaps, could find it out. But Catch couldn't trust to that. In small circles the madman moved, pacing fruitlessly, his cheek held against his shoulder as he turned his tight patterns of indecision in the street.
It was the Bells that brought him back into his mind, the ringing of Bells much louder than Zerdali's or Solena's. Catch covered his long ears, the feathered things flattening against his skull, but the Bells rang down to the very core of him, as if seeking to shake something loose that had rotted and festered there. Maybe it did. His head felt cleaner, when finally the stopped, and the madman shrunk back into the shadows, even as booted feet clattered against the stones. Catch was a creature ethereal, and he slipped away from them, half-man, half-Creature, deer and horse and and writhing, deep-sea creature than has never seen Man's light.
Catch would find the Eight, while his mind was still his.
His was a common enough sight, slipping through the shadow of buildings that quivered slightly, as if responding to the movement of his very passing, or gripped in the shimmer of fevered sight. In times past, he would be rootling through dustbins and rubbish-piles, finding the treasures of people who were too sane to realize the values they had discarded. He did so now, because old habits die hard, and it allowed him to think on the effort of it as shaking hands found broken toys and food that still was good, held sound in winter's grip.
His was a common sight to any peering out their windows, but where once his movements had been assured, confident, the hulking man was awkward, moving laboriously through the abandoned, frozen streets, as if struggling against a thickness that pressed from the opposite side. Catch pushed through the mire of his mind, of an emotion called Regret that came so easily to other, familiar minds, and yet to Catch was alien and frightening. He struggled, as he dusted and sifted through garbage, eating what he could, secreting away those things which could not be eaten, against two very basic tenants, ones that had come to rule his life since the blessing of seeming-Sanity.
He needed to find his Soul. And he could not have it.
And why could he not deny the former? He can remember (memory, the whore to which all but the simplest of things must be enslaved, and that which he had tried to rid himself of in the form of broken dolls hanging from the trees), in the early days, the burning ecstasy, shining and full of bold certainty. He could grasp what he was, what he had been, before his head had been split. His passions raged within him, and he had run with the Dreamlady, their chases a thing of pure beauty, to where Catch could lock that moment in time for an eternity. The World sleeping, and he and his Wonder-Wolf, to chase and be chased, until the moon fell from orbit and the last flower turned grey. A mere two weeks ago, it was all so marvelously easy.
Then They had come to him again, slowly, dimming the Stars in the sky as gibbous orbs, too dark to be seen, but there. The ones who had been in his dreams. The ones from which he had been birthed, their own legacy born far beyond that which was easy for even him to grasp. For all his strangeness, Catch was born to this world, was bound to it, and his broken mind was all but safe to Knowledge that They possessed. They brought that Knowledge upon him, gentle, at first, but with increasing wickedness. They drove him, as the Hunter drives his prey, as if Catch himself were mere, base prey to be driven upon a whim.
They drove him to the Dagger to find It. He had hurt Renea dearly in that exchange. And then the Wolf has suggested, insisted, that there is one who would know. Zilliah had hurt Catch terribly in the past, and the Wolf's memory was fresh. The pains, the torture, Catch had inflicted on Cloud-hair had done only a little to satiate that raging, thirsting revenge that he himself had not felt, but Zilliah knew nothing of where it could be found. Zilliah had wept. Catch had wept with him. He was what he feared to always become, a monster, enslaved to the creatures born of his fevered mind.
Tonight was not his own doing. Catch glances back, fearfully, at those who drove him. Sometimes his spirit would rouse enough to curse them, to unleash all the Words he had learned around the Farmers and Tabitha and Agnieszka, or to turn and plunge away in a way they did not desire, did not anticipate. The Red Man drove him on, merciless and silent, and the Wolf and the Dark Lady followed behind, themselves no less potent. Catch knew what they wanted; Glenn Burnie, who was a brave man, a cunning man. He would know where it was, if only persuaded.
Catch balked at this, as he had before. Ser Glenn was a Friend among Friends. Catch could love and pity the man with only a morsel of soul left to him, could pick him alone to take with him on his and the Dreamlady's wild chase into eternity. Yet he was here, was he not? He was in Myrkentown proper, dallying, delaying, fighting the only way he could even as the Three silently moved him onward.
Until the Eight came. He felt it, bones and marrow and all, and he froze, and for once - for once! - the Three did not follow him. They were gone. Catch crouched in the darkened street, his feet frozen to the icy cobbles, his heart fluttering like a mad hare's in that brief second of Release. He Reached for it, thinking to find blood, frozen human-dolls that must be freed from bonds and cold, hardening viscera. He sniffed along the buildings until he came to it, tasted it. He took it, briefly, into his mind to savor that taste. What must he do with it? It felt Clean, wonderful in it's hatred, the thirst of an animal at it's most wild. Catch let his breath go, let it release away from his mind, and he straightened, looking over his shoulder for the familiar forms, but they had not come back.
He should tell Ser Glenn. Almost immediately, he rejected this idea. Being close to Ser Glenn wouldn't be wise; what would happen if his mind got away from him? It would devour the new-Governor more surely than the Eight would, and despite what he had told Glenn before, when he had first come to Myrken and was in the true grips of his madness, Catch now knew that putting himself down was. Was. Was it an impossibility? Zilliah could find that out. Glenn himself, perhaps, could find it out. But Catch couldn't trust to that. In small circles the madman moved, pacing fruitlessly, his cheek held against his shoulder as he turned his tight patterns of indecision in the street.
It was the Bells that brought him back into his mind, the ringing of Bells much louder than Zerdali's or Solena's. Catch covered his long ears, the feathered things flattening against his skull, but the Bells rang down to the very core of him, as if seeking to shake something loose that had rotted and festered there. Maybe it did. His head felt cleaner, when finally the stopped, and the madman shrunk back into the shadows, even as booted feet clattered against the stones. Catch was a creature ethereal, and he slipped away from them, half-man, half-Creature, deer and horse and and writhing, deep-sea creature than has never seen Man's light.
Catch would find the Eight, while his mind was still his.