The Darkness of Matter

The Darkness of Matter: Prologue

Prologue

A curl of smoke formed above the demolition site, wafting from the small fire that the Summoner had kindled in the lee of a broken tombstone, using scraps of newspaper and wood shavings. The place, formerly a graveyard, was being rapidly demolished to make way for a high rise condominium. Heavy machinery, drained of color by the pre-dawn light, stood about like carcasses. 

The Summoner did not mind. He ignored the chill breeze and the distracting whisper of spirits. It was good to be awake again, even if this new world was passing strange. Understanding would come with time; a hundred years and more had passed under the hill since his people had gone to their deaths in the final slaughter. He had charged and died with the rest, but the old gods had honored his oaths and set him into the dead sleep under the soil, to sleep with them and wake when they roused once more.  

A cold smile touched the remains of his desiccated face. They were out there in force, the children of the children of the ones who had slaughtered his people. Dreaming, grown numerous and complacent, in their strange hard houses with their metal beasts. It did not matter. When the buffalo gods came this time, neither roof nor gun would protect them. This the Ancient Ones had promised when they came for him in his dreams, a fortnight past, drawing him from the dead sleep. 

He had done as they bid, gathering the necessary sacrifices. It had taken time, for he had neither the speed nor the power of the living; but with each life he took the old magic had grown stronger in him. Three deaths, to raise the hunters and give the incantation the necessary power. The hearts of his victims lay safe at his feet in a twist of canvas. 

Working consummate care, the Summoner placed the sacrifices on the fire, adding sawdust to keep the fire going and chanting all the while. The smoke grew thick and oily. More mist gathered shape, following the shape of the summoning, till it formed the smoky shapes of three skeletal figures in black rags, creatures of nightmare. The hag-like visages faded as they rose from the dream-depths, turning pale and deceptively young, translucent and lovely in the dawn light. They started towards the Summoner, a dreadful hunger in their shadowy forms. 

The Summoner raised the stumps of his hand and spoke the final binding before they could reach him. The buffalo gods had given him the names. Keres, the Furies, Echthros, the Avenging Ones. The air shivered as the strange words rolled off his tongue, heavy with meaning. He felt the magic surged out of him, draping them in fine threads of binding. He felt their sharp, futile struggle against the compulsion; then they were still.  

The binding done at last, the Summoner dropped his hands. The power he had expended was sufficient to bring him to his knees, but he did not wish to show his weakness in front of these three. They gazed at him quiescently, awaiting his orders, clothed now in the forms of three incongruously fresh-faced young chldren, a fortnight dead. Then they smiled, and the illusion shattered. There was nothing remotely kind or sweet in their eyes.

The shaman shuddered. He almost pitied their quarry.  Almost.

"You have your task. The Mystery has emerged; find the Word of Power and bring it to me." The Summoner spoke in his native language, which had been old when the Pilgrims reached the land; they nodded in unison.

"Bye-bye," the blonde giggled, wiggling spiked fingers at him in an incongruously adult gesture. 

"See you soon," lisped the red-head with a dimpled smile.

The black-haired one merely blew him kiss. Then they faded into the morning breeze as the first sounds of traffic roared up in the distance. 

The Summoner stared after them for a moment with a stir of excitement. Truly the old things were stirring again. Then the land would be cleansed and the balance restored as even the holy books of the white people mentioned. He spread out his hands and gave silent thanks to the gods, who had allowed him to see this. 

The Summoner stamped out the fire carefully and scattered the ashes. It would not reveal his whereabouts, either to the authorities or to other magicians. His gods might be strong but they were still far from their full strength. It would be his part and pleasure to provide the necessary sacrifices to restore them. Glancing up and down the street, he pulled his ragged old coat about him and loped across the asphalt to the other side, to all appearances just another hobo looking for a handout to survive the day.