The Unseen Realms of Glory and Shadow

Sometimes Answers…

We’re about to head into a corner that’s only been hinted at. Tap here to go to the chapter list or tap here if you only need to go back to part 9.

Please hang onto the rail.

Dangerous curves bring on vertigo.

The Unseen Realms of Glory and Shadow

In faraway lands, tales have been told of men, women, and children who have sang the songs of the ancient stones. The transformative effects of such songs do not have the same effect on every ear they’re received by.

This is because not every song is the same.

Not every ear is pleased, nor desires, every song. In one ear, a song may be blistering and repulsive. In another ear, the blistering is beauty. The beholder perceives through an array of experiences and joys or failures, but does not have the righteous authority to define.

The constant in all of this is whatever ear the song falls upon, it’s accompanied by a reflective light. To some, the light is dark and the dark is light. The light will either give sight to the blind or further blinds those who have sight. Either way, they will see what fills their eyes. The senses affect and determine but not all paths fulfill their promise in definable objective light.

Promises of light, of either kind, would call to him like sirens singing from across the bay. The whispers of the rock, Tannigath, would call to him on the winds. The incandescent violet flares of the nexus would glean as the song came through on dark hallowed nights. “Follow my path.” The call never quieted. Some things you can never take back.

In the eyes of the blind, the ones who hold the darkness in their arms as a lover, to be given the desires of their heart is to be given further blindness. To be at one with the dark, even at the cost of themselves and their sight, is a cursed gift. “Thy will be done,” are the words of melodic finality that caress the edges of itching ears. The iris goes black as it receives the reward of its envy and covetousness. Castles are made into ruins, and the ruins raise banners of glory over their pile of dirt. “You could have it all, and I wished for it.” Such are the scattered and abstract thoughts of a fractured man.

The hat covered his eyes. He stood and fell under the weight. He didn’t want to see anymore. His old eyes had seen enough. When he had sung the song himself, he touched the water but did not get wet. Neither coolness nor dampness registered. A swing of the arm met no resistance. Breath no longer entered his lungs. The single note carried in harmony with his blasphemous brothers filled his mind as streaks of light exploded in the space around him. Solid rainbows of singular values but different hues collapsed in slow motion as he worried about becoming lodged within the rock itself. It was like swimming through the earth, as though he was passing through time and space instead of solids and liquids.

The night sky is harsh on black eyes. Lights on wavelengths he never knew existed made him wince as he raised his hand to the reflecting moon. His fingers had turned to webbed claws, but no fear came with them. Only wonder. He gnashed his teeth and stood to his full height and released the pressure of the song that needed to burst from his chest. His chest held songs that he was captive to sing, though he no longer breathed. Others like him howled in song, in singular notes, as if they were trying to piece back together broken bows of light. This was praise to Apkallu. The gibor of light. The gibor of Gath. He whispered and he sang, and now the Tannites would swim in the ways of their master.

We lived in realms between the solid and the liquid. We offered prayers in the temple of the deep. The ancients, the Anak and the Rapha, would bring their gifts and pray for blessings. Victory on altars of blood. Warlords to conquer the hill country. Children of the high mountain of the north. Apkallu would watch and give them snakes, then pull their jeers into himself to form the song we now sang.

The business of ancients remains as constant the accompaniment of light. Sing the song. Give a snake. Make acolytes. However, acolytes come in one of two ways: transformation and birth. The temptation is different depending on the subject. His own transformation started deep in his heart before it ever reached his skin. The call merely fed on the desires of his heart, made the promise and gave him the snake. He longed for the kiss and was bitten. Those not protected by an authority, who covet the very will of their words to be made manifest, receive objective error fulfilled as their sought after gift. In longing to bite, they received the kiss. They would be the mothers of the song. In either case, they were given snakes. Apkallu is not given to the novel whims his acolytes are weak against. There is always a hook in the bait. The old song still calls fools.

“I was that fool,” he thought as he reminisced about the path he had walked. In the aether, the in between and upside down place he had inhabited with the other Tannites, the dull bite of the snake throbbed in dreary boredom. No gifts. No promises. The only relief came from the songs of praise and making of acolytes. Every day the same. Every swim a chore. Every dance was empty. Yet, he beheld it all as his beautiful gift from Apkallu. Then the dreams began.

He could never quite close his eyes in that place so rest never truly came to him. All he could see was the depths of his own black, bulbous eyes. Then light began to pierce the darkness. Pipings would streak across his waking dreams and colors misted at the edges of his vision. For reasons unknown to him, he began to see. The dark became deep and forbade the intrusion of light.

He leaned back against the wooden porch and, to no one in particular, the words flowed out of his mouth with more pleasure than the old song ever had. “I began to see lights. Pink lights. Green and yellow ones. Going between aether and rock? Ahhh, the green, the green.” He wheezed out the last words and the wheeze threw him into a coughing fit. When he recovered, he let loose again. “I can see the shimmering green, like the reflection off a glass in the light. The others. The light would, would push ‘em back almost. Like a reaction. But they couldn’t see any of ‘em. They were blind. Couldn’t see ‘em! So full of darkness, we were! The nexus kept us in,” he began wailing from beneath his toboggan cap. He tried standing up but fell over once more.

As his head hit the ground, a new vision came to him. He had just heard the song that his own vocals had sung many times in the deep. No longer did it hold the sweet note of any siren. Jeremiah and Cole Marsh were bound in the deep temple. Jeddy Lee, who had given of his own time and strength to prop up Jeremiah after Lily’s death, was bound with them. The Tannites swam between the aether and the water and the rock.

Old Zeke looked down at his hands. What had once been webbed and clawed was now flesh, even if it was twisted and old. Why him? He didn’t know. He didn’t have all the answers even after he had seen the extremes of light and darkness. But for such a time as this he knew the song. As he leaned against the side of The Green Glass, he opened his mouth and began to sing. Unlike long ago, he did not sing the single note song in praise and he did not sing it with the blasphemous choir of the Tannites. He sang it for a man, his son, and his friend. Green light sparked and shot around him. From beneath his toboggan, the violet light of the nexus raced past him. Rock split and water rushed in.

Zeke stood in the terrible halls of the deep temple. The colored lights still pushed back the dark, but the Tannites were hungry for a song. Hungry for the glory of the north mountain.

…Bring More Questions

It’s time for a breather after that deep dive.

What questions were answered for you?

What questions do you still have?

Ready to keep reading? Tap here to read the next chapter, The Coveted Treasure.

Reply to the email, leave a comment, or hit me up on X to talk about the story.

Tap this link to go to the chapter list so you can share it from the beginning.

Talk to y’all in two weeks.

~ J.P. Simons

P.S.: This is coming out on Election Day in the United States. It may be a controversial take but whatever happens, people need hope. I posted this thread on X as a way to process through the Sunday sermon from church (which did not go as far as I did). Even if you disagree with me on the details, maybe we can find common ground at the end. We can rest in the goodness of God, no matter what tomorrow brings.