Madman

Madman

                “I will show you the destiny of all! To be devoured by the darkness beyond!” cried the mad prophet. Truth be told, none knew if he was truly mad or not, merely that the dishevelled man spoke nought but words with the sound of madness about them. Oft he would yell himself hoarse and be reduced to rasping out his ‘truth’.

                Occasionally a passing traveller would stop him, and ask of what he spoke. The prophet would bring the traveller close, and speak in fervent whispers to prevent the villagers from hearing him. When he had first arrived several villagers had asked, and he had loudly proclaimed the impending end of the world, probably within the next two or three years. That had been around twenty years ago.

                Still, the details of ‘the end’ had been spread throughout the village. All, even the young, knew the details of the ‘devouring darkness’. “Someday,” he would say, “the sun will cease shining, and then the world will be no more. We must prepare for this day! We must pray to the darkness so that it will preserve us within itself for eternity, unconsumed.”

                Now, even if the madman spoke the truth the idea of worshipping – even celebrating – the end of the world held no appeal to the villagers. Being preserved eternally in darkness also held no appeal, and though perhaps one or two occasionally said a prayer when alone and worried about matters of life and death, none took it seriously. After the first few months of firebrand preaching, the madman gave up the villagers as a lost cause.

                But he never moved on from the village. That piqued the curiosity of several villagers over the years, and though they asked the madman gave no clear answer. He remained, and he hassled travellers. Perhaps some of them were more fertile ground for worshipping the destroying darkness? Those asked – after some apologies, usually – often said that they were, if anything, upset at the waste of time.

                A couple of times the villagers attempted to drive the madman away, but he had found himself a secret hideaway to disappear to in which he slept and (if need be) hid. And when there were no travellers coming through town he would keep quiet, so his wandering presence was not too disruptive. How he fed himself was a mystery (it was certainly not on the charity of the villagers), as was how he occasionally replaced his always tattered clothing. Likely he scavenged through the villagers’ trash.

                On this particular day, he yelled at a woman. She was incredibly tall – standing perhaps two hundred and forty centimetres tall, she was as a giant in the village. She wore strange armour, and her entire bearing screamed ‘wandering hero’.  Upon hearing his words, she strode up to him boldly.

                “I’ve been looking for you, actually,” she said. “Do you understand the being you’re worshipping?”

                “It is darkness itself! The devouring force that will end the world! It has touched me, shown me the way!” screamed the madman, excited to be sought out. The ‘touching’ business was another of his common lines – that he had been chosen, touched by the darkness, to be its messenger to the world.

                “It would certainly look like that, but you are mistaken. This creature is a living thing, and though it could perhaps destroy the world I doubt it would get too far before its very existence untangled. Still, do you understand its nature? Do you know what you mean when you say ‘preserved’? Do you know why it has not come yet, despite your prophecy and its claims?” she asked.

                “None can know its will so truly!” declared the madman.

                “I know its nature, not its will. The ‘preservation’ in promises is in body, not mind. It will consume your soul and leave an empty husk. It will, possibly, use this husk to communicate at times, but you will be gone and devoured. Everyone who does not worship it will be devoured but this ‘devouring’ will be different – it will shred them apart to consume them, instead of sneaking into their souls and devouring those alone,” explained the hero.

                “You lie! I will be preserved eternal!” exclaimed the madman.

                “That’s what I just said. You’re a lost cause, I think,” she said, drawing her blade.

                “What?” said the madman, startled. “You would – you would kill a harmless messenger?”

                “You wouldn’t believe me if I said that receiving worship is the only way for this creature to escape its prison, would you?” she asked, advancing on him. He cowered before her, seeming tiny in her great shadow. Several passing villagers had stopped to watch, but none had yet made a move.

                “Then worship it should receive!” screamed the madman defiantly.

                “That’s what I figured,” replied the hero. She pulled her sword back, and before any of the shocked villagers could let out a startled cry she ran the madman through.

                He gurgled slightly, and went limp, impaled by the might blade of the ‘hero’. “What – what have you done?” asked one villager fearfully.

                “Saved a large section of the world, again,” said the hero. She pulled her blade from the prophet’s body.

                “I heard rumours of this guy from another traveller and, well, I’ve known of this ‘being’ for a while now,” she said as she pulled a cloth from a pouch and wiped her blade. “In fact, its prison lies beneath your village.”

                The villagers looked around, startled. As the hero sheathed her sword, the town’s mayor and oft sheriff arrived, having sprinted over as soon as he heard the news. “Damn it! What has been happening here?” he hollered, jogging up to the scene.

                “Dealing with something dangerous,” said the hero, looking around. “I should probably take my leave.”

                “Oh no you don’t,” said the mayor between heavy breaths – the run had taken a lot out of him. “We have law in this town, and it’s pretty damn obvious you’ve just killed someone, and his status in town has no bearing on his rights.”

                “I killed him to prevent the eventual escape of the creature he worshipped, since I have no means of killing the creature itself. Or, none that I trust enough to take the risk,” the hero said.

                “Whatever your reasons, you shall face justice for your actions,” said the mayor.

                “Do you think you can prevent me from leaving? Or do more than send men to their deaths hunting me down?” asked the hero, walking up to the mayor. She towered over him – and he stood taller than most himself.

                “I-“ began the mayor.

                “Here,” said the hero, pulling something from one of her pouches. It was a green jewel that shone, and all present could tell that it held some great magic. “This is a gem that will make the land around here more fertile than ever before. It has a value beyond counting. Will you take it as recompense?” she asked.

                The mayor stood silent for a while, considering the stone. “It is suitable recompense by our law, so long as what you say is true. If it is not, men shall be sent after you so that justice may be dealt,” he said.

                “Very well,” said the hero, passing the stone to the mayor. “I suggest that you bury it, and never speak of its presence. It may fade, with time, but it will last for hundreds of years at least.”

                The mayor nodded. “Recompense has been paid and justice is done. Do any object?” he said, speaking to the crowd.

                Though still quite shocked, the villagers shook their heads. None were close to the madman; and none grieved his passing. To receive such a boon in return for being rid of him was very pleasing – though perhaps not entirely right.

                “You may take your leave,” said the mayor to the hero.

                “Thanks,” she said. With a wry smile she walked past the mayor, and out of the town. The villagers would long remember that day, and even learned the name of the hero – Dytja.