Quisoves Potoo

“Oh thou that durst impede my hunt, know that Kartawny’s mind is no palimpsest! Never will your misdeeds fade from my memory!” the brute had cried, great globs of saliva flying as he struggled to speak clearly. Had he not been so vainglorious, he might have caught her there and then. But vainglorious he had been, and she had wasted no time in fleeing to the sea, his horrid call still ringing in her ears.

As she journeyed, she came across an infernal vent, protruding from the silvery waters. From its opening, radius twice as long as she was tall, a great plume of snow-white smoke slithered upwards. Trusting that her adversary was many kios away, she allowed herself to pause.

As she admired the beauty of the fiery mount, a smile heralded a sudden thought. Wasting no time, she called on her innate energies, focusing them till she bristled with auroreal blue light, sparks leaping to and fro about her armor. With a tremulous groan she unleashed them, sent them rippling down the length of the volcano, till they reached the ocean’s floor. Her target blurred, vibrating, until it could shake no more.

At once it burst, mother to a blinding pillar of liquid fire; father to a deafening, guttural tsunami of sound; infant form of an abyssal cloud of dust and ash. As the water folded outward, she reveled in the lava’s searing embrace. High into the air the unnatural eruption shot, scraping the stratosphere. For several minutes, it could be seen as far off as the Carnival Islands (some five mios away,) a beacon shining in the heavens. At length, gravity overcame it, and a fountain of magma cascaded onto the steaming ocean.

The steam only thickened, bursting forth anew as lava turned to smooth obsidian. Water sloshed over the nascent island, hastening its cooling. Rock was layered upon rock, until at last the birth-throes were at an end.

Twilight, whose coming had been masked by the mad upheaval of nature, was finally reveled, a canvas for the newborn isle. The rock, its darkness accentuated by the waning light, glimmered like polished metal. Fumaroles, hints of its origin, dotted the surface, twinkling like vesper-candles.

Deep beneath the surface of the island, its creator bade the obsidian spit her out. Like the wet sand it resembled, it gave way, rippling as she emerged onto her handiwork. She grinned, brimming with unfettered ebullience. She gazed, silence her sole companion.

She would have stood another half an hour, at least, had not her rest been rudely interrupted.

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM” came the anguished cry of desperation, echoing across the waves. She knew the frenzied chase was still far off, but far too close for comfort.

And so, necessity beckoning, she slowly strode across the bald ebon ground.

A little over an hour later, she reached the young beach. She turned, gave her creation a final, fond glance, then walked into the water, the waves her carrier to realms unknown.

* * *

The chase did end, but not as either hunter or hunted thought it would: A great sea-beast, spawn of the Great Beings, had been awakened by the recent turmoil. Its nostrils rippled with the scents of the two titans. One was pure flesh, too strange for its palate. The other, however, was very well to its liking. Having shaken the sleep from its incarnadine eyes, it set off, traversing leagues in seconds.

Kartawny was no stranger to monstrosities. He made no pretense of beauty, in either body or in deeds. But even his black heart stuttered when the thing reared up before him. He felt as if a whirlpool had opened up beneath him, as he beheld the writhing mass of limbs and misplaced teeth, its multitude of eyes arranged with symmetry as horrific as it was inscrutable.

His prey was nearly as stunned, would have been more so, had not his psyche screamed for his survival. And so, wings flapping with unfathomable effort, the Great Spirit’s predecessor made flight across the ocean, until at last he came upon a rock…

* * *

The Great Spirit looked upon the newborn isle, the last time he would pay it any heed. He breathed upon it, bringing forth myriads of living things. First was the lush greenery, some topped with brightly-hued flowers, some with heartstone-like lights blinking binary patterns. Then came the creatures, things that swam or slithered or crawled or walked or flew; organic tissue housed in metal frames, with eyes of glowing crystal. And then, almost as an afterthought, he brought forth Matoran: Diminutive, tailless bipeds, dependent on magic masks for consciousness. Sapience theirs, they beheld their home with dazed wonder, felt the sand, warm and strange and wonderful, beneath their cold, hard feet. Beyond, the blue and silver beckoned them, so very terrifying yet so very natural. In their hearts they held their island’s name: Barataria Nui.

Some time hence, yet well beyond the scope of Baratarian memory, the Matorans’ lot was, to put it mildly, unfortunate. Rationality and opposable thumbs are all very well, but when you share your habitat with a plethora of larger creatures possessed of the ability to rip you to shreds with consummate ease, you begin to think less along the lines of “What a piece of work is a Matoran” and more along the lines of “Why can’t I run that fast? Where are my protosteel fangs? I could really use a venomous stinger.”

Had the Great Spirit noticed the situation, he might have thought “Bother, didn’t I fail in balancing that eco-system? I’d best send them some Toa.” But of course, he had little enough time for the vital parts of his universe, let alone the decorative bits. Who else was going to observe all those alien planets?

In addition to the stature-problem, there was another weakness that very few on Barataria Nui noticed. Matoran, while considerably smarter than your average Brakas, are communal to a fault.

This was, of course, intentional. When one requires a nanotech array for the maintenance of a titanic, space-faring robot, one does not want its components scattering willy-nilly in an inspiring display of individuality.

Alas, it was one out of two, for the Great Beings, for sapience and free will somehow conspired to gum up the works, unwelcome as they were.

In short, the Matoran of Barataria Nui were, through no fault of their own, largely incapable of efficient organization.

Fortunately for them, they weren’t all on the same spectrum, as it were. A small number of villagers, about one-fifth of the population, tended to keep to themselves. The others saw them as rude, and, truth be told, they weren’t terribly keen on social niceties. By some fluke of creation, they weren’t as prone to following the behavioral parameters inherent in their kind.
The revelation came at lunchtime, one day. The population of the village, the only one on the island, was down to about thirty, and the general consensus was that they should have more lunch and less work, as none of them were so very far from being lunch themselves. During this fortuitously extended break, five Matoran were sitting by themselves, trying their best to ignore the lunchtime village song. One of them (the only one whose voice had the necessary timbre to break through the din) said “You know, this working together business isn’t all that bad, in theory.”

The others, after taking a moment to register and consider what had been said, nodded their assent.

“It’s just that our village insists on doing it so confoundedly impractically! Everyone at the same time is no way to do anything! Here we are, on the brink of extinction, and we can’t see what’s staring us in the masks!

“How do we convince them of this, I hear you ask? Look at them over there, singing away in complacent acceptance of their deaths. We don’t. No. What we do is-”

“WHEN THE RUKI IN THEIR SCHOOLS BEGIN TO DANCE”

By this point, the song (an old favorite of the village, entitled “When the Gukko’s in the Heather,” still sung to this day) had reached its final verse, leading the singers to raise their voices a fair few decibels. Though the visionary was drowned out, they all got the general idea, and that night convened for the first of many meetings…

* * *

The reptile stood above the tree-line, its glowing lavender eyes surveying a botanical ocean. Its hide was deceptively smooth, reflecting the midday light as easily as it could a blade of sharpest protosteel. The Matoran called its kind (of which there were necessarily few on the island) “Alizal.”  

As one of the chief predators on the island, the Alizal was quite used to gobbling up passing creatures. It was also, by virtue of its size, very easy to mistake for a particularly misshapen tree. So it seemed business as usual when a Matoran ran under it, prompting it to give chase. The Matoran, feeling the ground shake, hastened her movement.  

The Alizal, eyeing the colorful morsel, salivated (a process that the Great Beings, for some ineffable reason, saw fit to retain.) For a brief moment, it was the happiest predator on the island. Sadly for it, its foot met the tree…

Which was one of two to have been felled. The other, however, still stood erect. That is, until the Alizal, falling, hit the vines. This brought it swooping down on the reptile’s skull with a horrifying bmmph.

The beast’s eyes flickered, then went out.

A minute passed.

When the Matoran were sure that it was dead, they emerged, exuberant. They were the first of their village (and as far as they knew, their race) to have felled a great beast. And not just any beast, but a veritable titan. The natural order had been upset, inebriated, and they felt every bit as giddy.

* * *

And so the village came, and saw what they had done. They pronounced it a swell thing, and sang songs of it. Of course, the group needed a name. You can’t easily write lyrics about “The six Matoran that kill beasts.” So a title was chosen, a Matoran word meaning “Our Thing” (the Village had no desire to alienate them): “Mafia.”   

* * *

Many generations passed, and the Mafia persisted, till the Village could not remember a time without the Mafia.

The Great Spirit fell into perpetual slumber, but Barataria Nui could not tell the difference…

Epoch usurped epoch, so on and so forth, over and over, until change at last visited the isle…

Night One

Or

The Cult That Couldn't Catch

Night, draped with dread stillness, hung over the timorous village.

Normally, no one would have stirred, the villagers consigned to the realm of subconsciousness. But sleep came fleetingly now, the Matorans' slumber choked with fear.

So it was that two figures strode through the marshes of the Mind-Dim Woods. One was unremarkable, a fisherman. The other, however, was something rather more important...

* * *

"You understand, comrades, that I abhor my plan. Would that you would denounce it, call me mad! But I see, and I think you see, that we have not the luxury of heroism.

"If we die, it matters not how we are remembered, nor do I think the Great Spirit will judge us too harshly. If we live, then, at worst, we die. If our siblings denounce us as monsters, they will do so in safety from the true monster.

"We must cast aside all ephemeralities. The compassion that would keep us from fratricide must subsumed by that which would see our brethren saved. We must treat them as beasts, yet love them as we have never loved before. We must become villains, that we might be the greatest Mafia of all!"

So saying, the speaker had sunk to ground, smothered with weariness. The others had said nothing, but their sad silence had been as potent as any word. Faced with two madnesses, they had chosen that which would might usher sanity back in.

* * *

So it was that the fisherman was stalked amongst the dingy trees.

His pursuer, trembling, tripped. The sound made was soft, but distinct against the chorus of nocturnal Rahi. The fisherman halted, spooked.

He turned, and with a cry, sighted the hunter.
"Oh, it's you," he said, relieved.

His relief died as quickly as it came, as an obsidian club shattered his mask.

His breath fugitive, his mind fogged, Unit made to run with wild frenzy. But he never had a chance. With a sound as of pottery, his skull shattered, its shards littering the weed-choked pathway.

His killer, seeing his handiwork, fled, resisting the urge to drown himself in the noisome murk.

* * *

Upon a thin hilltop, beneath a canvas of dying stars, sat a twisted Matoran. He was clearing his mind, preparing to venture into the world of dreams. At last, with consummate quiet, the Voodoo Master began to mutter eldritch words.

With each verse, his consciousness shifted, until he beheld not an island, but the phantom of one, woven from memories and fancies and fears.

His chanting did not cease, but changed. But one word escaped his mouth: A name.

It sped through the mental labyrinth, undeterred, until at last it reached the mind of its bearer. But entrance was denied it.

With a jolt, the Voodoo Master awoke. He hurried down the hill, as fast as his wretched form would allow, cursing his fortune. It had not been a compete waste, though. He might yet make something of it...

* * *

Meanwhile, strange bird-songs echoed through the night. One was primal, alien, and yet frightened. The other was ghastly, dissonant, and brimming with hate.

Each weaved its way into the mind of a hapless villager...

* * *

"Oh dear," muttered the castaway, "I am losing my touch. What am I, a frightened Rahi? Still, they'll not realize they've been nerve-pinched. That's something."

* * *

Morn came, and Unit's absence was discovered, then his corpse, in short succession.

Aghast, the Villagers called for their protectors, only to realize they had forgotten which those were..

Its horror accentuated, the Village proved itself to be every bit as ruthless as the Mafia had dreaded being. A pit was dug, awaiting the victim of the tyrant majority.

The following Matoran were proved not to have ventured into the Mind-Dim woods:

• Tiragath
• Amazetastical Lynn
• Petewa
• FF the Forgotten
• Jed1ndy
• Underscore

Unit, Villager, killed by the Mafia, Night 1.

Day One

Or

The Hanged Man's Raider's Tale

"What are the conch-horns blowing for," said Kyle on parade.

"To turn you out, to turn you out," the Quirky Turtle said.

"For we're hanging poor Ghidora, you can hear death-march play, the village's in Hoto Square, we're hanging him to-day!"

* * *

By the time the songs of mourning had finished, the whole village had convened around the pit. The atmosphere was oppressive, like sap clogging the works of every soul.

Of the thirty assembled, twenty-one had never dirtied themselves with another's blood.  These ones stood frozen, breath forgotten, in dread anticipation of the coming taint.

Ghidora eyed the assembled throng, his mask a pattern of inconsolable terror. He made to shout at them, to curse them for their "justice," but no sound came. How could he rail at those he counted as conspirators?  Had he not been every bit as keen to see some other blighter take his leave of life?

Strong hands seized him from behind, and Shadowhawk marched him to the edge of the pit. Ghidora fell, trembling, whimpering, choking on dust and dread.

He looked once more upon his brethren, seeking mercy vainly.

Something stirred within him. Am I a coward, he thought. Will I let them remember me as one who left them like a mewling beast? Terror begets terror, does it not? I cannot save myself, but perhaps I can help to end this madness.

So thinking, he changed his bearing. He rose, doing his best to cover himself in calm. Still it was not enough.

Knees threatening to buckle, he redoubled his efforts. He opened his mouth and began to sing:

Twere' on the Planet U that we our dreaded sojourn made,

The ships were fit to crumble and we right despaired of all,

Yet to get us back to Terra, we'd a most unlikely aid,

In the ever-glowing baubles of the cavern's living wall.

Oh, the travails that confronted us, rock monster to cave-in,

Were enough to do a wretched, stranded Rock-Raider straight in!

We got by on stale sandwiches; oh the landslides that occurred!

We never 'ad a moment's rest and we didn't know relief,

And to see your brother snuffed-out by a slimey slug's absurd!

But we had a keen protector in our blessed cyborg Chief!

Oh, the travails that confronted us, rock monster to cave-in,

Were enough to do a wretched, stranded Rock-Raider straight in!

He were a funny blighter, how he mumbled every word!

And a sudden, horrid landslide were enough to make him stutter,

Yet he loved us as 'is children, our complaints he always heard,

No dissent nor angry grumblings did a Raider ever utter!

Oh, the travails that confronted us, rock monster to cave-in,

Could never do the spirit of the Rock Raiders straight in!

"Where the dickens did that come from," Ghidora muttered bemusedly, as Shadowhawk pushed him to his death.

* * *

Ghidora dead, a vale was lifted from the minds of the assembled, and they knew their ghastly error.

Ghidora, Villager, lynched Day One

WARNING: Poorly Recorded Narration Ahead

We now return you to your scheduled  program

Here, with all apologies to Sergei Prokofiev, is

Night Two

Manducus and the Mafia

time to hide under a rock, methinks

Day Two

A myriad of squirming silhouettes darted helter-skelter about the shoddy panorama.  Faint, persistent noises drifted through the air, like the pounding of some distant surf.

An island would have surf, wouldn’t it? This was an island. But where was the water? Weren’t islands supposed to be drowning in it? Oh, right.

So, this was inland. That was good to know. But why was it so confoundedly dark?

With a jolt, Petewa remembered.

There had been a drink. It had smelt of leaves and cadavers. Someone had given it to him. Who?

Emptiness.

No luck there. What was it for? Oh, yes.
Hmmmm…

He was going to die, wasn’t he?

A pity, that.

Anyhow, he was in the village. Someone (many people?) was going to kill him. So far, so good. So what had happened in the interim?

Darkness.

That’s right. He’d blacked out. So had the Great Spirit, by the looks of it. Perhaps the monsters at the end of the universe had grown peckish, had eaten all the color in the world.

That would be it.

Tingling.

In…

His shoulders? Yes.

The background noises grew, enveloped in a chrysalis of tension. The umbral blots blurred, becoming puddles. The cocoon burst, releasing a mighty buzzing as the puddles coalesced into a writhing river.

Emotion was emanating from the blackness.

Happiness?

Too vicious.

Anger?
 

Hmmm…

Yes, but something more.

Desire… for… what?

Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat

Oh.

Vengeance?
Very likely.

A blob, still independent, drifted in front of him. The buzzing lulled, as new buzzing, laced with pomp and indignation, rushed forth from the shape, like a hive evicted from its home. The babble was directed at him.

Boredom.

At last, the small cacophony died, allowing the older clatter back in.

The tingling quickened, became a horrid pulse devouring his shoulders, nibbling on his arms.

The ground rushed by beneath him, a stream of shadow.

Dizziness.

The abyss bloomed, swallowing him up. Time, already drunk, reeled.

It felt a minute. It felt innumerably long. So many questions, so few answers.

A crack.

A movement in his body.

Something opening.

Pain trickling through.

Waiting.

Agony.

Numbness.

The void grew cold, carrying him away.

The monsters were coming. The Great Spirit was gone. Reality was rotting, fading, vanishing. Sense was consumed, logic a memory, causation meaningless.

Irrelevancy reigned.

No more.

Petewa, Villager, lynched, Day Two.