Postscript, Diabolical

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

He barely survived the perilous crossing. Her witchcraft nearly drowned him.

So many brightly colored mysterious objects hanging from tree limbs - talismans, corn dollies, stick effigies of enemies hanging by the neck.  Then he saw the curious coil of wire with the strange instruments attached.

“Shhhh,” her voice was sweetly melodic, like nectar from a flower, like honey from the comb.

“Don’t try to move just yet.  You are not fully awake.  Give consciousness time to return.  There’s no hurry.”

Her voice was heavenly.  Oh, the precious sound of her musical voice, how he loved to hear her say his name.

“Easy, Sean, easy.  Don’t rush, don’t push.  Let it come naturally.  In waves it will come.  On the waves you shall arrive.  Patience, Sean, don’t try to force it.”

He wanted to sit up, but he felt the weakness in his limbs.  His tummy was very woozy.  There was a weird heat in the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet.  He knew the babysitter was right.  He was riding a wave, so he let the soft undulations of her cherub voice sail him toward the shore of consciousness, still distant, but he could make out her alluring form.  She stood on the beach, waving, motioning for him to be patient and not try to swim in too fast.  This was the most dangerous critical juncture of her hypnotic spell.  The witchcraft could be felt stronger here than at any other moment.  His psyche might cramp if he rushed.  If his psyche cramped he could be lost forever, only a half-awake Id drifting aimlessly through the cosmic spheres.  

He was feeble, but he wanted to know, so he uttered soft speech, slurred, impaired, but the enchantress understood.

“Why can’t I look behind me?  I want to see it.”

“Your innocence has been sacrificed on the Altar of Blood.  This is the first step.  It is all you can endure for now.  You must recover from your traumatic loss.  You need time to heal.  If you look behind you now, the horror of what you’ll see would grievously harm you.  You are not ready, but in time, you will be.  So, don’t be afraid.  Wait for it.  Be patient.  I know you are curious and excited, which is as it should be, but the thing is stronger than you at the moment.  You can’t turn to look at it now.  It would have the advantage.  It would win.  You would die.”

“Was it the mummy?”

“Why do you think it was the mummy?”

“Because I saw the writing none have deciphered.  The hieroglyphs, Linear A - it was inscribed in the translucent pages of the alien book.”

“You saw the cover of the book?”

“Yes, I saw the Eye of Horus.”

“Good, Sean!  Excellent!  What else did you see?”

“I saw the Path of the Forgotten.  It was abandoned, weeds were growing, but a small child wept bitterly at the entrance.”

“The child was you, Sean.  You are on the threshold.  What did you hear besides your own lonely despairing sobs?”

“I heard the fearsome name Anubis.  They were chanting it.”

“Who was chanting?”

“The ones who move in shadow.  The ones who can’t be seen.”

The babysitter was thoughtful for a moment, then, “It could have been the mummy, or it could have been someone else.”

“The Druid?”

“Why do you think it was the Druid?”

“Because I saw a long causeway leading up to an immense circle of monolithic stones.”

“You saw the Henge.”

“I think it was the Henge.  I think it was the Circle of Tannhauser - the voyager who was lost in the underworld of Venus.”

“You mean the Star Gate.”

“Yes, from her moons.… the Star Gate.”

“You saw the ones buried in the tombs?  In the old tombs?”

“Yes, I saw them.”

“Good, Sean!  Yes, this is very good!  You will soon be ready for the next step, but you must recover first.  Your body, your mind, your spirit - you need time to heal.”

The stifling suffocation of being buried alive halted his respiration.  He could not breathe at all.  Terror seized his pained lungs, but before he blued in the lips, his wind returned, and like a hurricane, it was a mighty wind - stronger than before.  She helped him up onto the white sand of the infinite transcendental beach.  He was safe, for now.  He had made the perilous crossing.  The psychic riptide had not dragged him under.

Chaldor sat alone in the Citadel of Alabaster watching in the liquid cobalt scrying mirror as the four-year-old slowly woke from the prophetic nightmare.  The old wizard was amazed that the babysitter had actually succeeded.  Surprised, indeed, was Chaldor that the youth survived against such overwhelming odds.  It had not been expected by the Horts.  This made the wizard smile.  He liked it when the Horts were disappointed.  The filthy malodorous beasts would skulk about in their subterranean lair, digging fleas from their coarse bristling whiskers while mumbling to themselves of vengeance.  A poison would no doubt be the vile remedy they would concoct.  Something noxious, the primary ingredient of which would be Death’s Chair toadstool or Avenging Angel mushroom.  They wouldn’t want to assassinate the lad, for he was the Amphibious Prodigy foretold in the Ode of Garg.  No, the scheming putrescent Horts wouldn’t kill Sean, only place him in a coma, a drug-induced Twilight Sleep from which he would never wake so they could exploit his immense psychic gifts.  

Chaldor chuckled to himself.  The Horts were so damnably predictable.  The wizened sorcerer’s mood lightened further as he took up his raven-quill pen to enter into the Chronicle a detailed record of the youth’s miraculous survival of a rite of passage that would have killed sturdy adolescents four times his age and size.

Chronicle entry number six million eight hundred twenty four was written as follows:

The erotic ghastly nature at so young an age is a true question.  Someone so new would not be likely to suffer such grim explicit atmospheres in night terror.  His exceptional mind had been excitable since birth.  Anything he saw at that young age made a very deep and lasting impression upon his alert brain.  The symbolism came from the babysitter who initiated him into witchcraft.  She took him to her altar in the swampy woods behind their lodgings.  She made him say things.  She made him do things.  No need to list what those illicit things were.  The nature of their taboos is their own private affair.  The maiden is symbolic of the babysitter who established her own witch coven when she was 16.  Sean fell in love with her, young as he was.  She is the Secret Sorceress of Ancient Astral Ages.  She is his Celestial Guide.  The other symbolism is a coded set of clues about moral laxness people attempt to hide, yet are unable to.  Among the general population weaknesses are most often exploited instinctively, and sloppily, without conscious thought ever playing a role in the deceits, which is why they so often backfire.  

Rarely, among ordinary folk, are faults attacked by carefully planned and applied strategy.

This is why Sean conducts researches into the unknown.  This is why he seeks counsel with the Alchemist in the Tower.  There are strange machines there; new machines, and new techniques for interacting with them.

Submitted: April 08, 2018

© Copyright 2023 Sean Terrence Best. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:



A curious tale. It'll be interesting to see what direction it goes. Sadly, I don't have any brilliant insights tonight. :)

Thu, April 12th, 2018 5:31am


You're a genius, Theresa! It is a rather quirky sensation about the seemingly constant demand for brilliant insights. Absolutely stress-relieving form in which you cast the humanity of being human - I adore your whimsically practical witticism, which is, in and of itself, quite a brilliant insight!
Thank you for the encouraging interest you've expressed in the Diabolical saga! "A curious tale" I like it Theresa! I am myself curious about the direction the eerie legend is going to go - which shall most certainly be paranormal!

Thu, April 12th, 2018 9:25am

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