I am posting the new-new-newest first chapter of Book One. It's far from perfect, but definitely the best edit thus far.
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1 The Seeker
Regret is the worst part of getting old. No matter how hard or how many times I go through something I never get it right. Countless mistakes, one right after the next, made in moments of zero-margin for error. I am not talking about the pissy kind of regrets, the ones that make you wish you wore different shoes after it starts raining. I mean the kind that really cost. The ones with consequences that go beyond a chest cold. The kinds that make you sacrifice everything to try and mend but the rending has already gone too deep for any hope of repairs. Of all the mistakes I have to say the biggest and most costly was letting Daemon live. I should have killed the little bastard the first time I laid eyes on him. Yes, my legacy is regret for there is more of it than anything else.
The whistling silence I have been waiting for hums. It’s not audible, only felt. I know it because of those regrets I mentioned. It’s numbered among them. It’s the sound of the unseen doorway opening.
I move off to one side of the street near a pluming cluster of potted trees just as his red hands hit with relentless overflow making gravel from pavement. I imagine the pain of one pebble digging under the Keepers’ fingernail. It hurts when that happens. I hope it happens to him. And I hope it swells with infection.
Pressing harder into the street he tries to foist the glut of energy away. I see it in his unbending abdomen. Residual strength contorts and forces his shoulder blades together grating bone against bone in an unnatural way. The plastic guards strapped to his legs slam against the manmade pavement. The sound is like shattering glass. Despite the efforts in deflection, his chin hits next. I smile a bit, knowing his mangled beard is no help against impact. Only road rash and hiding scars.
It is important to keep your face away from the collisions. My teeth sliced straight through my tongue once. After that, I started using a mouth guard. It must be early on in the game. This one’s not even wearing a helmet.
He zooms in from what seems like nowhere, just as sadistic as ever and I know the skies will crack before he does. How I loathe and regret his part in my life. I am not looking forward to our next meeting.
Though draining, the force is still too strong to tolerate. Intemperate energy pitches him into a roll.
I wonder how many collisions he can endure before his body breaks down completely. It seems he has not learned much since discovering to manipulate the overflow. Of course, there are the memory problems to consider. Too many concussions and variant times distort a Keepers view. The mind scrambles, trying to hold onto the most important information. For me it was the last face before the first gate opened. For him, it is his father —the tribal Chief who used the great powers as a shield. A trick neither of us ever learned.
The small section of road is now a shallow crater — the impact marking his entry to this world. My world.
The body tumbles another twenty feet before hitting a concrete step in front of what is supposed to be a flower shop. Blood spatters as he snickers for Death loves violence. Any normal man would be dead by now, but The Keeper isn’t normal. Only a man in the classic sense that he was born and one day he will die.
Observations make good assessments and my guess is he’s using the surrounding noise to find his current position, identify any miscalculations on his part. This odd spot for a landing can confuse even the most seasoned traveler. Trained hooves smacking against paved roads, swarms of people dressed in confusing ways, but there are still plenty of clues.
A groan slips as he adjusts himself.
I know what he is thinking: the noises do not match the scenery or quality of the road. Horse hooves smack in cadence, not chaos, vibrating the heated pavement beneath his bald head. The heat probably stings, but not enough to make him want to move. Though, the blacktop is unbearable this time of year. The sun is low on the horizon as keen eyes behind the dust coated goggles must determine it is morning and already hot.
I work my way into the crowd.
This man has many names — the Serpent, Revenge, Keeper of Threestones and Guardian to the Sacred Powers — I call him Death Incarnate. His regard spells destruction. He seeks honor through punishment, peace through chaos and restoration in ruin. Only after the joy of torment wears will he grant the mercy of death to those he holds accountable. Even then, it comes too late for his victims. It’s too late for me.
Deaths scattered thoughts are collected to focus on the watching crowd. Turn of century clothing paired with the casual use of profanity. I stand behind a fat man in a lousy hat. The gatherers stare, as they always do, in a large circle at a safe distance. Some raise small objects to the sides of their heads and speak. Communication without wires — a dead giveaway. None ask after the travelers’ condition but inquire among themselves, indicating a progression in the dehumanization process. He can put the two and two together. It’s twenty-first century thinking and technology.
A woman presses in. “What happened?” She kneels, offering water in a bright, metal container and a cloth for the blood on his mouth. “Where’s your crew? What stage were you on?” Before he responds, she’s directing excited language at a large radio.
The stranger rises. She tries to follow but the attempt is put off by his black stare and subsequent sneer.
When one man asks, “Did he just hiss at you?” Death laughs, for he knows this is the right place to begin another search. But he will never find what he is looking for in this place.
The crooks clothes were of this era. He will appear older than the first time the boy first beheld him, for the boy is now grown. Deaths prey, a thief, took more than just three stones. He stole a culture, a way of life, and replaced it with the knowledge of enmity. The boy they used to call Nahuiollin was innocent. He believed the stranger was the One the Motecuhzoma spoke of. Nahuiollin had no way of knowing what he was doing was wrong.
Long ago, before the West was settled, the Suma’s were nothing more than ghosts. Unseen guests in a foreign land. A myth. They came in contact with the Sun people, and for whatever reason were not enslaved, but granted safe passage through their lands. The boy and his tribesmen must have been something of a novelty to the Aztecs. Of the same complexion as their expected demigod but did not live in the clouds as was foretold. Each tribe had much to learn from one another but only Elders were permitted to speak, then. The wise Suma chieftain, whose name I never learned, forbade the teachings of other tribes.
I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if the two had traded secrets. Our worlds might be very different.
Exactly when is of no consequence. Precisely where is one of many large parks constructed for distraction — halves of buildings and cages for false animals, strange people carrying large cords in small wagons of equipment, shadows driving gold plated golf carts — an odd place to someone who lives here and more so to someone like him.
Past a tall gate lies a body of water. Not a natural inlet, men made it for looking and filled the rancid cove with giant vessels that won’t sail. The green color tells it is not safe to drink. Death shoves his face into the tepid water to wash away the stinging dirt and blood. Odds of infection are increasing.
Further down the main road are more false rooms filled with bloated playthings. I sneak into a shop filled with costumes and more people who are paid to pretend to be what they are not. In this place, no one understands what they are doing. I do not understand how generations could call the purging of knowledge wise, simultaneously ‘enlightening’themselves with amusement. A gluttonous way of life. They forget that one must remember to learn. But no one cares because discovery is dull unless it comes by way of technology.
An iron gateway blocks the path. As Death raises a leg to climb over, a man in stripes quails a request to exit through the turnstiles.
I left my cane in my room and my hip is popping, still I manage follow. His habits change from place to place. I need to know how he plans to do it here.
Outside the park, a sickly looking man in long boots holds a sign. “The end is near, the end is near!” He shouts, but the wisdom fall on deaf ears.
“Not yet,” Death leers at the man’s feet.
The sickly dooms-dayer hesitates and rightly so. No one should want to do anything for him. Still, it does no good to stand your ground with him, either. Even by my standards, he is evil.
On the paved road leading out of the amusement park Death walks with new boots heading towards the highest buildings in the distance. He knows exactly where to begin his search for the one he seeks. In each ring I am always found in the city called Angels.
