The Dead Rest In Tepid Waters
This was for another informal contest, where the prompt was to write about someone summoning something from a ritual. Most of the other entries involved gruesome horror, evils, and darkness, so I wanted to write something more unusual.
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Jotharu scurried across the marble tile with his head bowed and a forbidden book clutched under one arm. The vast, silent hall seemed as dormant as ever, but the ethereal alarms would already be alerting the other Protectors.
He stopped at the central fountain. Gray marble columns supported a glass-domed roof overhead, and the gurgle and tumble of water bounced through the open space. Water was key. Jotharu glanced over his shoulder before shifting the book forward and lifting the cover. It creaked with age and dust.
He imagined his sister’s voice admonishing him: the other Protectors would know. They’d sense his defiance the instant he tugged on the ether. Contacting the Other Side was a crime that could cost him his life. “Life,” what life? Endless stagnation and sameness, Protecting the lifeless from living. “Turbulence,” they called it—sounds that could distract, colors that might offend. Let the dead rest in peace. He scoffed. He was tired of peace.
The ritual was ancient in its simplicity. Two half-circles drawn with water. A flower—the bloom of life—placed in the middle. He’d had to make do with a weed, a straw-colored stem supporting a single, dull petal—the only hardy survivor from the Other Side. Then came the incantation, and the request. He checked over his shoulder again before he spoke.
Halfway through the first stanza, a stone door boomed across the hall. His heart jumped into his throat. Nearly there.
“Protector Jotharu!” The Clay Guards. “Stand down!”
He was supposed to draw his request with the water. Gods, he hadn’t drawn something in a hundred years. Such things were forbidden. Like the book.
Clay feet thumped in unison across the marble. He dragged wet fingers in crude shapes—the muzzle, the feet, the tail. If he could just finish before another Protector arrived…
Cool, heavy hands landed on his shoulder. Jotharu connected one end of his drawing to the other as he was pulled away. Light flashed, almost too quick and faint to see.
“In the name of the Protectorate,” the genderless Guard said, “you are under arrest.”
The lines of water turned black. The Guards stilled, staring. They were too late, and he wondered if that failure would be enough to make them crumble. Wishful thinking. The black lines shuddered, then melted into the floor, blazing a path to the Other Side. Jotharu held his breath.
The thing that came through lifted itself from the portal on white-tipped feet. A black nose peeked over, and then… color. A brilliant golden-red, scattered in patches with the white and black—but even those were more vibrant, more alive than the washed-out tones around them. The creature bounded across the threshold, knocking the weed-flower astray, and the closest Clay Guard recoiled.
Jotharu slipped free of the grip that had gone slack. He bent to pick the creature up. It wagged its short tail and let out a sharp sound louder than anything that had echoed through the hall in a thousand years. But it was a pleasant sound, a playful one. A vibrantly pink tongue flopped from its muzzle.
“What is that?” one of the guards demanded.
Jotharu grinned. “Turbulence.”
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Jotharu scurried across the marble tile with his head bowed and a forbidden book clutched under one arm. The vast, silent hall seemed as dormant as ever, but the ethereal alarms would already be alerting the other Protectors.
He stopped at the central fountain. Gray marble columns supported a glass-domed roof overhead, and the gurgle and tumble of water bounced through the open space. Water was key. Jotharu glanced over his shoulder before shifting the book forward and lifting the cover. It creaked with age and dust.
He imagined his sister’s voice admonishing him: the other Protectors would know. They’d sense his defiance the instant he tugged on the ether. Contacting the Other Side was a crime that could cost him his life. “Life,” what life? Endless stagnation and sameness, Protecting the lifeless from living. “Turbulence,” they called it—sounds that could distract, colors that might offend. Let the dead rest in peace. He scoffed. He was tired of peace.
The ritual was ancient in its simplicity. Two half-circles drawn with water. A flower—the bloom of life—placed in the middle. He’d had to make do with a weed, a straw-colored stem supporting a single, dull petal—the only hardy survivor from the Other Side. Then came the incantation, and the request. He checked over his shoulder again before he spoke.
Halfway through the first stanza, a stone door boomed across the hall. His heart jumped into his throat. Nearly there.
“Protector Jotharu!” The Clay Guards. “Stand down!”
He was supposed to draw his request with the water. Gods, he hadn’t drawn something in a hundred years. Such things were forbidden. Like the book.
Clay feet thumped in unison across the marble. He dragged wet fingers in crude shapes—the muzzle, the feet, the tail. If he could just finish before another Protector arrived…
Cool, heavy hands landed on his shoulder. Jotharu connected one end of his drawing to the other as he was pulled away. Light flashed, almost too quick and faint to see.
“In the name of the Protectorate,” the genderless Guard said, “you are under arrest.”
The lines of water turned black. The Guards stilled, staring. They were too late, and he wondered if that failure would be enough to make them crumble. Wishful thinking. The black lines shuddered, then melted into the floor, blazing a path to the Other Side. Jotharu held his breath.
The thing that came through lifted itself from the portal on white-tipped feet. A black nose peeked over, and then… color. A brilliant golden-red, scattered in patches with the white and black—but even those were more vibrant, more alive than the washed-out tones around them. The creature bounded across the threshold, knocking the weed-flower astray, and the closest Clay Guard recoiled.
Jotharu slipped free of the grip that had gone slack. He bent to pick the creature up. It wagged its short tail and let out a sharp sound louder than anything that had echoed through the hall in a thousand years. But it was a pleasant sound, a playful one. A vibrantly pink tongue flopped from its muzzle.
“What is that?” one of the guards demanded.
Jotharu grinned. “Turbulence.”
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