Of Matters Material
The harsh clang of a hammer rang out again and again.
An ancient blend of human intention and handheld skill.
A scent of hot steel mingled with the sweat of labour.
Mavrik hovered over his task, eyes unflinching as he brought the hammer down. He bent the rod around the anvil horn, shaping glowing steel into a form meant for an animal that had never set foot on this world. Next, he set the horseshoe atop the flat surface of solid black iron, the object quickly losing colour as the air swallowed its energy.
Such is the way of physical creation.
Mavrik replaced the hammer for tongs, gripping the horseshoe and plunging it into fresh water he had personally sanctified. Steam hissed, sealing in the essence of the steel. He placed the dark crescent on the table and set to preparing himself to transform the object into a numanen. This would be his sixth idol, an impressive display of Anima, unseen for generations. Mavrik washed his face and tucked away the braids that had come loose, satisfied at the thought of success. He might be a serviteur, but no other witch had the stones to attempt what he was about to.
“Prepare your Self,” he said, pointing to the horseshoe.
Mavrik retrieved his handpan drum and sat facing the table; the flat underside of the instrument resting on his lap. He played the handpan, slowly at first, with thumb, palm, and finger-pad. His hands teased a sweet percussive rhythm out of the steel drum contoured in the shape of a tortoise shell. The tempo increased, filling the room with sound. Mavrik added his voice, chanting in kallikrates, a language known only to witches. His words of the beautiful power merged with the music, strengthening the vibration, creating presence.
He focused this vibration on the horseshoe, directing the energy to flow into the newly fashioned object. He centered his attention on a specific incorporeal being. A force he had sensed growing in strength for some time, lurking on the periphery of his dreams, whispering at the edges of his waking mind. The being awakened.
A shadow fell across the space between instrument and implement. The shadow coalesced into smoke, ashy and shifting, menacing and powerful. Hostility, sharp and dynamic, pushed out of this being summoned against its will. The smoke took on a humanoid form, its hands clenching and unclenching as it fought against Mavrik’s influence. For the first time, Mavrik observed this spy from another plane. The aura was unfamiliar, a flavour he did not trust.
He sang, voice wavering high and low, as his hands pounded against the handpan. He uttered words of binding, striving to secure the shadowy form to the horseshoe and keep it in this plane. The being tore at the strands of energy, its fingers slicing like blades. It growled vehemently, disrupting Mavrik’s vibration. Mavrik winced against the onslaught, shocked at the sudden reversal of energy.
His strands of binding were gone; the dark hands reaching for his chest. Mavrik placed every ounce of attention into resistance. This other sought to possess him, to claim his body as its own.
Wisps of smoke infiltrated the kallikrates, seeping into Mavrik and imparting a foreign will. Foul and strangely familiar, Mavrik was simultaneously repulsed and intrigued. A pair of smoky, pitiless eyes glared in his mind’s eye; the entity slipping past another line of defense. Mavrik, beaded with sweat, strained to resist, desperately trying to end the invocation. He shouted a word of closure, erecting an invisible barrier. His hands lifted from the drum as though it were scorching.
Otherworldly silence pervaded the room. The smoky form vanished. The horseshoe had cracked in half. Mavrik’s head drooped in exhaustion.
Kalubon, the Black Lotus, was the ninth planet to be inhabited by humankind, following the exodus of Old World. It was a terrain dominated by vast jungle, wild rivers, and creatures similar to those in the stories stretching from humanity’s distant past. A pristine jewel in the eyes of the settlers.
Initially.
The planet seemed to have an aversion to technology; a quirk in the magnetosphere. Ships dropped from the sky like so many tons of dead weight when they attempted to land, their systems malfunctioning. Standard practices of colonization proved ineffectual as the machinery refused to cooperate. The ease with which humans had grown accustomed to when conquering a new world was shown to be a flimsy veneer.
Most of the travellers beyond the atmosphere noted Kalubon as a trivial anecdote, then forgot about it altogether. Many people moved on, content to find easier routes. But some stayed.
A few intuited the independence afforded by this world. They dreamed of a society outside of the Alliance’s grasp. And these colonists soon discovered they were not alone. Something arcane remained. Magic, like a rat on a transatlantic cruiser of Old World, had stowed away and survived the cold, dark space voyage. Gods hadn’t fared so well. Deities, like higher technology, were shut out by Kalubon.
People survived, and thrived, adapting to the environment, fundamentally altered after two generations. They came to realize Anima, the spiritual essence in all things. Thoughts changed, language mutated, and kallikrates was born. Those with the greatest aptitude became known as witches, at once beloved and feared for their ability to cultivate and express the mysterious. Witches were the first group to occupy the centralized administration, but as eras transitioned their guidance had been almost completely subsumed by the bureaucratic Leadership Council.
The Omolaras persisted, this greatest of witch lineages retaining public influence, yet this famed family had fallen into disrepute. A single member remained, keeping the bloodline alive. A serviteur, a witch for hire. A man slandered behind his back, when others were certain he was out of earshot, even as they surreptitiously requested his services. Mavrik Omolara, known in certain circles as Sixfold, in others as Jackal; despised as a Two Handed Hoarder; respected as the Blood of Oberon.
Mavrik bathed in the river, cleansing himself of the lingering effects from the failed invocation. Bits of malice stuck to his aura like hooked burrs to one’s clothing when barging through the jungle undergrowth. He washed methodically, careful to carry handfuls of flowing water over every area of his body, culminating by submerging his head and the five numanen hanging around his neck. A witch was obligated to display their totems of power, make visible their occupation.
Back on the riverbank, warmed by the heat of the rising sun, he walked uphill toward a craggy cliff-face, seeking a particular cave. Barefoot as always, he followed a narrow path of stones set into the earth, matching the sun in stride as he moved above the canopy. A trio of ravens observed his approach, their black plumage shimmering. He passed through an invisible boundary, triggering the smart motion detection alarm. The birds scattered, squawking at being disturbed, and winged further up the hill.
Glittering eyes and ruffled feathers awaited him at the mouth of a cave lit by soft electric light from within. The birds clacked their beaks then disappeared; the familiars departing from this plane. Mavrik strode into the cave, desiring advice from his mentor.
Imamu, elderly, dark, merciless and as giving as Nature was seated on a circular rug. She gave him a momentary glance and snorted. “Still a measly Sixfold.”
Only Threefold herself, although the connections were exceptionally strong.
“The entity hid its form. All I could see was smoke and shadow. I thought it to be a psychopomp like the others, but its behaviour was strange.”
“What did you feel?”
Mavrik turned to the cave-mouth, peering into a world of warmth, of light. “Pain and hate.”
She waved a hand in casual disgust. “Think no more of this damaged soul-guide. Not one to become a familiar.”
He chewed on the truth of her assertion, finding it indigestible. “The pomp knew me. It has sought me out specifically.”
Imamu’s fierce eyes locked onto him, seeming to glow in the cave dimness. “Sinister intent, I suspect.” She patted the rug. “Come, we shall learn.”
Mavrik brought her ten candles, which she set around herself in a circle, speaking kallikrates as they were lit. She cracked open a ripe pomegranate in offering, its flesh and red seeds made visible. Her tattooed hands reached for the jade idol hanging from a cord around her neck; a numanen housing a familiar known as the Diviner. Imamu sang liltingly, the beautiful power opening doors between dimensions of existence.
The candles flared, flame stretching high and thin. Pomegranate redness blackened into char as the vitality was absorbed. Imamu’s singing ceased; she opened green eyes with yellow pupils. Her hands left the numanen, raised palms up, displaying swirling spirals.
“Diviner,” said Mavrik. “Please use your vision to discover the cause of my recent affliction.”
Diviner smiled, lips painted a frostbitten blue. “Clarity aids vision.”
“What is the meaning of this psychopomp who watches from behind shadow, who grasps at me with smoke?”
The familiar brought her hands together in a sign of prayer. Her eyes were open, unblinking, able to see into time as a human views space.
“Your visitor grows impatient,” said Diviner. “A great journey approaches.” Her lips pursed in concentration. “A hunter.” Her brows furrowed, heavy lines creasing her forehead. “Bound to you throughout the planes. Not a psychopomp. No, something else.”
Diviner grimaced, struggling to maintain her vision. “It knows I look. It comes for me.”
The familiar gasped, eyelids fluttering as Imamu’s body fell backwards. Flames plunged into candle-wax, sending up wisps of smoke. Imamu twitched, coming back into her Self.
“Well?” she asked, groggily; rubbing knuckles into her eyes.
Mavrik meditated on the bizarre reading. Imamu sat upright, cracking her neck from side to side.
“Rude for a student to withhold from their teacher,” she said. “If you were a patron I wouldn’t ask.”
Mavrik felt a low rumble in his bones, like a premonition of an earthquake. “Change has come. An unknown transformation.”
The rumble intensified: why did it feel like the transformation had already occurred?
“Change is the only constant,” she said.
“This is different. It feels unnatural.”
“Lately, I have noticed fluctuations of Anima,” Imamu said hesitantly.
Mavrik’s world was violently shaking now, though he did well to conceal his terror.
“I will meditate on this,” said his teacher.
“Thank you.” He moved for the exit, shading his gaze from hers, lest the perceptive witch recognized his imbalance.
Mavrik returned to the spot downriver where he’d parked his strider, deactivating the user lock and climbing into the seat. The electrochemical battery initiated and a mass of carbon fibre tentacles pressed out from the bottom, raising the spherical body off the ground. Acceleration and braking were controlled by foot pedals in the stirrups. One hand commanded direction by scrolling on a round trackpad, which was linked to the seat, swivelling the driver in three hundred and sixty degrees. He flicked forward and the tentacles crawl-walked across the uneven jungle floor.
