《Prayers to Hear in the Dark》
Prologue - The House
It was a cold place.
A lorn space surrounded by a vast nothingness, forsaken by Time like an unwanted child.
In such a place, little by little, something was born. Lost things with no desire or destination, they met one another and, piece by piece, found comfort in each other. Solace.
The wood.
The glass.
The rock.
As moments passed¡ªas Time allowed¡ªthey became a house.
Yet the place was still cold.Stolen novel; please report.
The house; forlorn.
However, from their bleakness and isolation came an idea. One that was not warm or content, yet one that brought purpose.
The house found comfort in the idea, aching with desperate needs it could not name or fully comprehend. Needs begging to be tended. And as the idea embraced the house, it made so that such place was not as lorn anymore. It gave Time reasons to pay attention and listen, to allow Its flow within that space.
And as Time passed, as the idea grew and matured, so did the house.
So did its new owner.
And its owner knew how to tend to its needs¡ªunderstood the house and the idea behind it all too well. So whenever the front door opened, everything was in its place.
It was a cold place.
A forgotten space.
Yet time and time again, the door would open and its bell would ring.
The sound would echo within the house, making its wood, windows, and stones shiver. And as soon as the door closed, steps would be heard. A chair would be pulled.
And the owner would smile.
¡°Hello. How can I serve you today?¡±
There Were Nine
They were nine.
Nine faceless shadows; nine empty beings.
When the ninth crossed the door¡¯s threshold, it thought the house had an uncanny warmth. More like a welcome, yet barely a solace. Its light was bright, yet the colors were bleak.
Dead.
The door closed on its own, yet the new shadow found itself staring at a pair of crystal-white eyes. They shone as if they had their own glow¡ªtheir own warmth¡ªyet their gaze was still cold.
¡°Hello. How may I be of service today?¡±
The voice was serene, cultured. Soft. It echoed through the wide room, reaching the shadow from all directions.
The shadow did not move.
The person smiled, ever so subtly, finishing wiping an empty glass.
¡°It must have been difficult¡ªto find your way here. Not many do. Today has been unexpectedly busy.¡±
As Ninth turned, it soon found others. Eight faceless figures sat on their chairs, staring at nowhere. Some shifted their gazes, meeting the newcomer¡¯s. In those brief seconds they spared to recognize Ninth¡¯s presence, that person¡¯s voice echoed again.
The sound was luring, almost melodic.
¡°Since you arrived, why won¡¯t you sit with the others? I will bring something for you soon.¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The person wore a simple bistro, black apron alongside a white shirt with an elegant bow tie, with three bows on top of each other, held together by a white flower clip. Behind the person, there were numerous bottles filled with the most varied liquids and colors.
Spread around the space, the candlelights provided just enough light to make the space inviting, the long poseur table promising many things the shadow had long since forgotten their meaning.
Ninth made its way to an empty chair, soundless, sitting with reluctance.
The nine shadows faced each other, all sat in a circle. They stood there, motionless. Silent.
But then they all turned in the same direction, all at once, when the sounds began to echo.
Ice.
Glass.
Small metal tools.
Pouring liquids.
Each shadow watched that person grab things and mix them. Assemble them. At times there were bursts of fire, at others smoke and sparks. Yet before long, the person came to them at a slow pace.
Carrying one single drink in a small tray.
As the person stopped right beside Ninth, it extended the tray to the shadow on its left. Smiling.
¡°This one was prepared just for you¡ªI am certain you will find it to your taste.¡±
The shadow continued to stare at the person for long seconds before its gaze lowered, falling to the drink. Ninth also changed its focus, eying the new creation with a new found curiosity.
The glass was tall and curvy, and it was as if whenever the ice cubes touched and tilted against each other, they played musical notes. Like a song. The drink started with a dark liquid, getting lighter and lighter until it became a vivid and deep red, with hints of gold sparkling from within.
The shadow finally reached out for the drink, leaning closer so it could smell it. The shadow¡¯s body shook and oscillated, the sudden movements making all the others freeze in within their stilled nature.
When the shadow took the first sips, a red glow spread in its body. Changing its form, if ever so slightly. The shadows took in a sharp breath, its eyes became more alert, wide, and shocked.
They all heard a voice then, one accompanied by a long, tired sigh.
¡°I¡ Remember¡¡±
Ninth stared at the speaking shadow with an aching desire. One it could not name or understand. Yet Ninth knew, somehow, it would understand things more if it listened to those words.
To the notes being sung by the small ice cubes.
The Last Symphony [1st Drink]
He had once been the greatest musician of all time.
There was something in the notes he played, other would say, something in the way his fingers moved across a violin¡¯s strings, the way they touched a piano¡¯s key, how he held a cello¡¯s bow¡ªonce witnessed, it would never again be forgotten.
It¡¯s as if the music enters one¡¯s soul and listens to its deepest desires. To its fears, hopes, and dreams, bringing them to light. Making them come alive.
People would often say.
He always listened to what others said, and he was proud. Satisfied. Not by his accomplishments or notoriety, but by his audience¡¯s obliviousness. For they were too unaware of the veracity of their words, while still being far away from the truth. A truth that was coarse and bare, staying concealed by nothing but his greatness.
How is a person able to create such music? To play with such proficiency, produce notes so raw and profound?
The answer was the audience themselves.
¡¸Thou shalt seek and reach out to scarred hearts ¡¹
¡¸Rip out every bone and flesh who stand on thy path¡¹
For at one point, the greatest musician of all time had been the most miserable man of all. Yet he had always known his fate was not one bound by scarcity and pettiness, but one born from grandeur and riches.
So the man did what he must.
¡¸Whenever thou desires to rely on thy unspoken arts¡¹
¡¸Thou shalt feast on every sorrow, despair, and wrath¡¹
He formed a bond with something that would give him the fate he had always deserved, a pact formed through his own blood and tears.
And he feasted.
Every scar and every wound a person¡¯s heart had ever endured, had it been from their own pathetic insecurities and weaknesses to their most horrendous fears and sorrows. His music reached out to their hearts¡ª
And fed.
A thirst that could never be quenched, a hunger that could never be satiated¡ªevery note his fingers made crawled out from his instruments with the sole desire to consume. To enter the audiences¡¯ cores and tear them wide open, feasting and playing with those emotions. Becoming stronger. Vaster.
Grander.
Concert after concert, the musician would fill entire theaters and houses. Watching others beg on their knees for a chance to hear him play¡ªfor the chance to see him. And whenever he played entire symphonies, watching his music make people break apart¡
The musician would smile.
For how could he not enjoy, how could he not feel pleased, to watch his own magnanimity grow so much? To witness all those who had belittled him and insulted him, cry until their eyes dried out of tears, scratch their own skin, or collapse on their knees whenever he played two notes?
Soon enough, the musician could no longer call himself a human. He was a superior being¡ªmystical, marvelous, almighty. Yes, why should he stop with music? Why not aim for total control and subjugation?This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
There is no soul alive who will ever be able to stop me, was what the musician thought.
And truer words had never been spoken.
It was a night when the wind blew colder and the stars shone darker, a being who did not belong in anyplace while being present everywhere. The windows cracked and the night howled, yet no sound came from the being who entered the musician¡¯s house.
He knew what the being was with but a single glance.
That being raised its finger at him, a vicious grin ripping its face wide, as the shadows that covered it brought forth the stench of rot.
The stench of Death.
¡°Thou were warned, human, of the taint and corruption of the unspoken arts. Of the lure sung from within the shadows, the price your own blood paid.¡± The being¡¯s grin got wider as it stepped closer, a crackle leaving its lips mimicking the sound of a laugh. ¡°Thou leeched and fed until thy vessel could contain no more. And now¡ Thy soul belongs to the living no more.¡±
The musician fell on his knees, trembling. Shaking. Desperate. He could feel Death¡¯s grip on his soul already, a frigid touch clawing and sinking its sharp nails around him as if to take ownership of everything he was.
He clasped his hands together, the sentences leaving his mouth broken and uneven as his teeth chattered and the sweat dripped from his chin.
¡°O grand being, Herald of All Beings, Master of Darkness, I beg you to hear my plea. Gi-give me one last chance to prove my worth to thee. I swear with my own heart and soul, thy wish shall be my command, no matter its cost, no matter its nature.¡±
The musician could not yet leave his creations and possessions behind. All the power he had achieved, all his music, throbbed inside him. Yarning to be used.
The being¡¯s voice made cold shivers crawl in the man¡¯s spine, entering his flesh, his bones, his very being.
¡°Thy end is nigh, yet I extend to thee the prospect of mercy. Play for me with thy own tune. Please me so and thy soul shalt never be coveted again.¡±
The man stood up with a shaken breath, tripping on his way to fetch his violin. It was his finest; del Patimento.
His fingers trembled and his vision blurred, yet still, he played. With no audience or soul to be seen, the man performed the same way he always would. For he had never once stopped loving music.
So his fingers ran across the strings, the bow moving furiously as the notes slithered their way out from the instrument. Music filled the house and cursed through the night, making the wind howl louder and the windows shudder.
And the notes still hungered.
With no audience, the man¡¯s music was not strong enough. It lacked its usual power¡ªits usual lure and intensity. He knew no mighty being would ever be pleased by a performance so lacking. So empty, so petty.
He knew.
If he played like a mortal man, he would perish. He would be forced to witness his own demise.
The man continued to play, yet the notes came for his own heart¡ªhis very own core. They tore it open and laid bare his own desperation, his shaken mortality.
And he played.
As the notes pulled his terror and anguish, his pain and woes, the man played. Faster and faster, the music pulled whatever came from his heart to feed and grow its power. Every touch on the violin was like a tear in his core. Every escaped melody from its chords, a scream from his soul. Yet just like he had done a million times before, he played.
Again and again.
Faster, frantic, maddening¡ªthe sensation of Death¡¯s cruel grasp sinking deeper, getting tighter with each passing second.
And Death never stopped grinning.
Soon, the music was consuming him. Amidst so much pain, while drowning in so much terror and anguish, the man¡¯s mind started to lose itself. He was blind, surrounded but nothing but darkness, yet he could still hear the music. He could still feel the notes¡¯ hunger, gorging themselves as the dreadful melody pierced its way into his heart and insanity.
The man continued to play. His fingers continued to move.
And he realized he could no longer stop.
For what he had once been was already lost.
The crackled noise echoed within the music, Death¡¯s laughter making the notes bleed as it blended with the notes. The man¡¯s eyes and fingers bled, his symphony bringing nothing more but darkness. Madness.
At some point, the man thought he was laughing as well. He was unaware of what was his own music, what had been stolen, what belonged to Death.
And on that cold night, a night where the world was quieter and the darkness more relentless, the man played until there was no more music to be listened to, no more notes to be played, no more strings to be touched.
Or man.
There Were Eight
They were eight.
Eight shadows stilled, frozen.
For the First was no longer faceless or hollow; no longer empty and lost. The shadows that made its body shaped, changing more and more into something that belonged to a person.
A man.
¡°¡yes¡I¡remember¡I¡recall¡¡±
As First spoke, his voice was strained and distant, one who struggled to put the pieces together. Yet the person holding the tray did not wait for First to finish his drink.
¡°I¡¯m glad you liked it, sir.¡±
Instead, that person glanced at another shadow. Stared at it, for long seconds, before walking back with the empty tray.
The sounds started again. One by one, they started echoing in the room.
The glass.
The ice.
The mixing and pouring.
¡°You will have to forgive me for taking so much of your time. I rarely receive so many visits at once. Yet rest assured, I shall tend to each one of you.¡±
The voice was so sweet, so caring. It pulled the shadows¡¯ attention, even First.
¡°ah¡music¡I can hear¡the notes. My dear notes¡¡±
The formless man still held his drink with both hands¡ªhis grip firm, almost desperate¡ªas he stared at the ceiling. The red glow pulsed from within his shadows in a lethargic rhythm, accompanied by his own moans and baseless sounds. Sounds that kept trying to mimic something.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Something lyrical. Melodic. Something Ninth could not recall.
His head fell to the side, his eyes shooting up to look at Ninth, his mouth opening and closing every few seconds as the voice came out of his form.
¡°Would you¡like¡to hear me play? I can¡play for you. Let me play. Let me¡let you hear¡my music.¡±
Ninth stared at the formless man, with one eye staring at its face and the other staring at Ninth¡¯s form.
The other shadows seemed to be little interested in First¡¯s new form¡ªas lacking and shapeless as it was. They kept gazing at that person, and the sounds coming out of the glasses and tools. Soon enough Ninth also stopped paying attention to the man and his sounds, watching that person prepare something new.
Something that glowed its own glow, and shone its own shine.
Moments passed until that person put a new drink on the tray, walking with no rush toward the shadow right across from First.
The novel creation was nothing like the first. Its glass was shorter and rough, uneven at all sides and corners as if made of stone. The ice was not small, much less many, as a single sphere kept spinning again and again¡ªslowly¡ªas if it was dancing to its own song. And its liquid, it was bright and fierce, a gold so beautiful it sparkled the curiosity of the shadows as it shone.
However, Ninth¡¯s gaze fell not on the pretty liquid but on the crystal sphere. One that had no color, yet the one which seemed to be the drink¡¯s genuine source of light. The gold glow that made the creation so mesmerizing and unique.
And the more Ninth stared, the more it absorbed. The more it saw.
Grayish powder sprinkled at the top, falling into the bottom as the sphere spun. The faint vibrations in the air, echoing weakly as the ice moved in a constant rhythm. Vibrations that carried metallic sounds, unafraid to be heard and recognized.
When the shadow reached for the golden drink and took the first sip, the air vibrated again. Stronger. Fiercer. A sound that combined with the shadow¡¯s spasm as it took in what looked like its first breath¡ªthe glow spreading within its form.
One more time, what was once a faceless shadow began to change and take the shape of another thing. Another being.
Something that had a voice.
A past.
¡°Yes¡I recall..it was¡mine.¡±
And when the person who held the tray turned to face First again, Ninth realized how that person, as well, had a form it recognized. The form First had started to take, the one Second was starting to take¡ªa man¡¯s.
¡°Don¡¯t forget to drink it all, sir. Waste is the one thing we do not tolerate here.¡±
As the person with the empty tray smiled, Ninth thought how they looked like a man with flesh and bones.
And how they resembled everything but one.
The Shimmer of Darkness [2nd Drink]
The shimmer of gold.
It had always been far too beautiful for mortal eyes. For the fragile, sinful, and erroneous human gaze. It was too alluring.
Too deceitful.
For its shine and glow promised too many things. Things of beauty, of worth, of riches. It promised a life almost as beautiful and mesmerizing as its shimmering color, and more often than not¡it would bring nothing but void dreams and corroded lies.
Like many before him, he had been a man who fell in love with the promises sung by the charming, pretty shimmer. He heard the tales, he was shown the ores, and the whispers he heard vowing to change his life¡ªto transform it, evolve it, shape it¡ªwere too sweet. Especially when all he had tasted from life was a sour, bitter frustration.
Yet the man, he was not foolish nor was he incompetent. He knew how to gamble and how to place his bets, and so he sold whatever he had to, borrowed how much he could, cheated whoever fell for his honey-covered words, and got the money he needed. All so he could have his own workers to find the gold for him.
The company was his. The men were his. The equipment and tools were his. The rights to the mine were his.
The gold was his.
Once, he had been a miner himself. A miner who always smelt like coal and wore dark smudges on his face and clothes as if they were his second skin. A miner who had been hopeless once, yet who crawled his way out of the bottom.
Because everything shined brighter from the top.
Yet he was not arrogant. The former miner knew how to honor and recall his humble beginnings¡ªhe, too, knew how to recognize the role others had in his success. So the man thanked not only his own competence but also Luck.
A real fool is one who cannot see the true value of Luck.
And I am no fool.
Luck could very well be its own entity¡ªa sacred being humans should worship and celebrate. Their ancestors had it right. They knew how important luck was, they knew its implications, and how it should be taken seriously. That¡¯s why they had a name for it.
The Fortuna. A divine being who oversaw mortals¡¯ fate. For this is what luck was about; a person¡¯s fate. And he was a man who knew how to recognize the importance of Luck, and how to worship with its true worth.
It¡¯s how, after so many years, he finally found the golden ticket for a new life¡ªone that shimmered and sang within the entrails of that cold mine. He was only a miner, yet that gold was his. He had been the one to find it when no soul was even searching for it. So shouldn¡¯t the rightful ownership fall to him?
Without a shadow of a doubt.
It took him a few years, of course. He had to plan it right, bid his time. For only fools acted with haste.
And I am no fool.
Furthermore¡ª
He had Luck on his side.
Many told him he was insane; ludicrous, even. To bet everything on a single mine because of some silly dreams. To hire men who were bound to betray him the first chance they got. To forget his origins as a miner and attempt to climb higher than he could.
Everyone has their place in this world. If you spend too much time looking down, you will be too afraid to fall. And if you waste too much of your time gazing above, eventually you will try to climb. And you will fall.
Yes, it was what people would say to him. Because he had been a miner once. Because they would never see him without the dark smudges; without the pungent¡ªsometimes bitter, sometimes rotten¡ªscent of coal.
Yet they couldn¡¯t understand. They couldn¡¯t see what he saw. When he first laid eyes on that gold shimmer, he was not looking up¡ªhe was looking straight ahead. At his future.
At his Luck.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
However, unlucky days became weeks. And unfortunate weeks turned into desperate months. Months where no profit was made, where bills piled up, when rumors brewed and grew. Whispers that told the tales of a foolish man who was wasting away the little fortune he had trying to chase a ridiculous dream.
The former miner knew all he could lose, yet he was certain of all the things he would accomplish. The beauty of each promise shimmering within the golden ore. It was all about time; he was sure of it. Sooner than later, Luck would be with him again.
Because he was no fool. Because he knew its worth and value.
Yet as time passed, what came sooner were the warnings. The distress. The frustration. And the promise about to be fulfilled was the one carrying failure, bankruptcy, bleakness.
It was then the man realized¡ªthe miners.
They were the ones stealing his gold. Just like he had done once, the workers were taking everything for themselves. Of course they would. Who would not be allured by the shimmer of gold? By its vows of riches and glory?
So he did what had to be done. Every single day, without fail, he would enter the mines with them. He would watch them work, inspect their pockets, their socks, smell their breaths¡ªevery nook and cranny of their bodies. Because no man would step a foot outside that mine with what was his.
Day after day, the miners grew even more distressed. They would call him delirious, unreasonable. Time and time again they would raise their voices at him, trying to convince him the reason why there was no gold was because no gold had been found. That the fault lied with the mine itself.
The man knew them all to be liars. Deceivers¡ªaiming to get all the gold for themselves. Or perhaps they were spies from other companies, from the people who were praying to see him fall. Making sure he would.
He wouldn¡¯t let them, it was what he thought. He was going to prove them all wrong. Every single one of them.
The former miner grabbed a pickaxe, its weight rightfully falling into his hands. Then, he began to walk. Deeper and deeper into the mine, he ventured in pursuit of the gold shimmer.
Turn after turn, the darkness got thicker.
Step by step, the air got heavier.
Yet the man could hear them all. The whispers. The tales. Again and again, the words repeated within his ears, echoing through the dark tunnels, being carried by the lifeless air:
you shouldn''t have looked up
He would point his pickaxe at them¡ªcursing, shouting.
you shouldn''t have looked up
They were all wrong.
you should have stayed put
They knew nothing.
you shouldn''t have looked up
For Luck had chosen him.
Because he was no fool.
As the former miner coughed, at times his vision would blur. His head would get dizzy. Yet nothing would stop him from witnessing that darkness¡ªthe whispers¡ªgrowing louder, bigger, stronger. A force of Nature to be reckoned with.
A darkness who ruled over the shadows, a being who pitied the night and its fading light. A darkness so cold and void, it consumed all it touched. A darkness that could never be tamed, much less controlled, something the whispers used to venture through those tunnels.
Yes¡of course¡the Darkness¡
¡it was hiding his gold.
The former miner raised his tool again and again. The impact sent tremors down his arms¡ªhis very bones¡ªagain and again. And as he shouted and laughed at the mocking whispers, who cowardly hid within the mighty darkness, the man suddenly heard the darkness¡¯ own reply.
¡°Pitiful man, life is abandoning thee. A light thou failed to control has blinded you, making this place thy tomb. Yet not all hope is lost.¡± The darkness moved and took a new form, one that smiled and gazed upon him. A gaze so chilling and perverse, it made the old miner drop his tool. ¡°Pay the proper fee for thy salvation and I shall guide you back to the world of the living.¡±
For some reason, the man began to shake. He was afraid¡ªterrified¡ªyet he could not know of what.
¡°Forgive me for my ignorance, o Great Darkness, yet I carry nothing of value with me. My only possession is this tool I now hold and the clothes on my body.¡±
The Darkness smiled, its mouth ripping wide as if it was ready to swallow him. A crackling sound echoed within the tunnels, blending with the whispers as it reached the man¡¯s ears. A sound so eerie and uncanny, it forced the tears out of his eyes.
¡°Thou is so blinded by the light, thou even fail to recognize its shine, mortal?¡±
Before the old miner could ask, from the corner of his eye, he saw.
That beautiful shimmer.
He turned toward the wall, the gold ore calling to him. Its light sent the Darkness away, so happy it had been finally found. The man dropped to his knees and caressed the ore with his roughed hands, feeling as it stole his warmth to make its gold shimmer brighter. Even more beautiful.
¡°What thou await for, mortal? Pay the fee, and I shall clean thou from the stench of rot.¡±
The old miner used the pickaxe to remove the ore from the one, the shimmer being reflected by his frenzied eyes. And when he shifted his gaze to stare at the smiling Darkness, he began to laugh.
More and more, harder and rougher, until his lungs hurt and bled.
¡°You shall not mislead me, Darkness! For I am no fool, and I see through your foul tricks¡ªthis gold is mine.¡± He then raised the shimmering gold with both his hands, sensing as Darkness stretched its arms to reach him. ¡°You go back to where you came from and tell them how mistaken they all were. For I shall claim all that was promised to me, and you will be left with nothing!¡±
The miner never ceased his laughter, not even when Darkness kept laughing with him.
He did not stop laughing when there was no more air in his lungs, much less when his body succumbed to the rocky ground. And as the Darkness crept into his legs and arms, crawling its way to his face into his eyes and nose and ears and mouth, the man continued to laugh and smile as he stared at the pretty shimmer.
A shimmer so gold and beautiful, it vowed to be his forever and ever.
Even after there was nothing more for the darkness to consume.
There Were Seven
They became seven.
Seven faceless shadows and two formless men.
Men who struggled to speak, shadows who lacked too much to be.
¡°¡where¡is¡my¡gold¡?¡± Second spoke, his eyes turning inside out, then turning to the sides, then inside again. ¡°Did you¡stole¡my gold?¡±
The person who resembled a man gave Second a gentle smile, pressing the empty tray against their chest.
¡°I am pleased to see you¡¯ve enjoyed it, sir.¡±
As First drank a few more sips of his drink, he gasped, wheezed, groaned. The vibrant red glow pulsed from within his form, pulling the shadows closer together, giving them more purpose. More meaning.
¡°My name¡I had a name once¡I was famous once.¡±
Ninth could now see better the man¡¯s face. And as the sweet fragrance of the drink reached it, the shadow caught memories that although it did not belong to it, made Ninth recall.
Words.
Meanings.
Things lost to the Ninth and all the other shadows, yet things that still meant something. Things that had meant something.
Ninth could see and observe now. Understand, somewhat. That First was a man who once had a wavy hair. How he had once been a man who had thin wrists and a long neck. Yet Ninth could not see much more¡ªnot when all it had was the drink¡¯s sweet fragrance and First¡¯s formless body. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
¡°This is truly a novel experience for me. I had never had the pleasure of preparing so many drinks at once. I must say, this is exciting!¡±
The person who resembled a man spoke from the other side, their voice a melodic song.
The other shadows watched that person¡ªthe way they threw bottles up in the air, catching them from behind while pouring liquids into glasses.
Ninth kept gazing at Second. At the way the still formless man kept grasping at empty air almost with longing.
¡°¡mine¡it is¡mine¡¡±
And almost as if the man could sense the shadow¡¯s gaze, his eyes rolled down toward Ninth. Taking some seconds for them to find their right place, focusing. Straining.
¡°Were you¡the one¡who took it?¡±
Like First before, the man¡¯s mouth would open and close with long pauses in between, a discrepancy between the movements and the sounds that came out of it.
A flash of light pulled Ninth attention away from Second, forcing its gaze to lock on the person preparing the new drink.
And even from afar, the scents that reached Ninth were strong and fierce. Carrying their own punch¡ªtheir own will.
That person didn¡¯t walk far, this time. It stopped almost at the start, handing the glass to one of the first shadows seated only a few steps from the poseur table.
Yet even from afar, Ninth could see.
The ice shaped like a knife.
A thick and red liquid, its color dark yet vivid.
Things sprouting from the glass, things Ninth could vaguely recall the words. The meanings.
Those things, they were food. Things a person could cook and eat, or bite raw.
The shadow reached out for the round glass, its form simple yet elegant. It looked at the person for a few seconds, as if it wanted some confirmation.
That person spoke with a gleeful smile, motioning toward the drink with their hands.
¡°Go ahead. I am certain you will enjoy it.¡±
Only after hearing those words did the shadow bring the glass close to it, taking a longer sip than First and Second did on their first try.
The thing that was slowly becoming Third shook and gasped, the earthy glow spreading within its form¡ªpulsing, glowing brighter.
Yet that time, it was a different form from the others so far. Something Ninth struggled to recognize. To recall the word and meaning.
When Third spoke, a voice as delicate as the thin ice on the drink, Ninth realized what was so different about its new form.
¡°¡can you¡tell me¡my calling¡?¡±
Not one of a man.
But one of a woman.
Alms for the Desperate [3rd Drink]
It was a small town.
A town where neighbors knew how and when each other¡¯s grandmothers died. A town where it took too little for whispers to turn into rumors. For rumors to bring infamy.
Her family had always been a source of rumors. Were it due her mother¡¯s sickness or her father¡¯s infidelity, the whispers were always circulating the streets. She once thought the rumors would decrease once she had a family of her own.
Yet it was a small town.
And people always talked.
A few years after tying the knot, her husband finally got the money to open their own restaurant. The very thing she had dreamed of since she was a small girl. The one thing she needed to answer to her calling.
Your food is a true blessing from God. It brings solace to the soul, warmth to the body.
It was what people used to say. Those whispers, she never minded them. Her cooking was her pride and joy, the reason she had been born into that world. Everyone else thought so. And her husband knew it to be true, as well.
There is no jewel in this world more precious than your hands. So care for them like I can for you.
He would kiss her fingers more than he touched her lips, for he too knew the worth of her calling. Of the one thing she knew how to do.
Cooking.
Though the restaurant was under her husband¡¯s name, some people would talk about how she also referenced herself as an owner. Before it had even opened, rumors kept twirling and dancing around small shops and neighborhoods. However, she paid those whispers no mind. For she knew those same people would come once the doors opened, eager to smell her food.
Anxious to take their first bites.
Like her husband had predicted¡ªlike she, herself, knew to be true¡ªonce the restaurant opened, people came. And every time she glanced at the filled tables, watching their fulfilled expressions as they hungrily ate every single crumb from their plates, the woman felt euphoric.
A rush that was hot enough to make her cheeks blush and her heart race¡ªan unmatched joy she knew would never be surpassed by anything.
For a long time, things prospered.
It was challenging to not feel superior. To not feel special when she was one of the few people who had not only discovered her true calling, but was also prospering on her path. Before her mother died, the older woman told her she was destined for greatness. That her blessing was bound to bring prosperity to the family.
Yet it was a small town.
Too small, at times.
And like so, the whispers never really stopped.
Whispers telling how her husband kept walking with questionable men. How those groups seemed unscrupulous and dangerous. How her husband had been seen gambling in the big cities, more than once.
However, she paid those rumors no mind. After all, people were still coming.
They still asked for her meals.
Yet the more time passed, the louder those whispers became. Their words more callous, colder, rougher. Whispers that soon became monstrous rumors, carrying words so unsightly and preposterous, it carried their own venom.
I heard he borrowed money from the mafia, some said.
They told me this place is a front for those criminal groups, others retorted.
I was told someone got murdered here just the other night, others replied.
I heard they own so much money, they will sell their house, some complemented.
And like so, the rumors never stopped. But people¡ª
People stopped coming.
Little by little, their numbers began to dwindle. No matter how many times she told them those were all lies, the whispers never stopped. The woman was certain their situation would improve. She knew that to be true, for it was her calling. The one thing she was capable of doing, and doing well.
But then came a night when her husband got home late. He was staggering, trembling, crying. The woman thought him to be in a drunken state. Yet the more he spoke to her, the less she saw the alcohol in his speech. The more she saw the fear in his eyes.
The man began to break their things. Throwing plates and cups onto the walls, shouting, sweating.
The woman shrunk and shivered in her spot, trying to understand the things her husband was saying, yet not being able to do so. After all, he was a decent man. He would never get involved with those kinds of people. He would never borrow so much money when they had so little.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
But if they had so little, how come he opened the restaurant?
How come he got the money?
Her husband hurt her for the first time that night. He slapped her across the cheek and cursed both her hands¡ªyet it was his words that hurt her the most. The thing that truly destroyed her.
Words saying her cursed hands were the reason everything was falling apart. That he was foolish enough to believe in her family¡¯s lies, and bet everything on the restaurant. But that sales never got where they needed. People never ate as much as they had to.
After that night, she never saw her husband again. Whispers said she had become a widow who never saw her husband¡¯s corpse, and never would. And after that night, even with the doors wide open, the restaurant would remain empty.
With not a single soul inside.
Still, every day, she got up and got dressed.
Before the sun had risen, the woman was cleaning the tables and sweeping the floor.
Every day, with no fail, the woman would open the doors and wait.
Waiting for her life¡¯s purpose to call her again. Waiting to see people¡¯s satisfaction as they tasted her food, once again.
As time passed, bills piled. The first thing she sold was the house.
And as the restaurant remained empty, she eventually sold her wedding ring. It didn¡¯t pain her to do so. After all, she was doing it for her true calling. Even if her husband had stopped believing it, it didn¡¯t stop being true.
Her hands, they were a blessing from God. And they would make her prosper. Would make others happy.
Things changed on that evening.
The woman was about to close for the day when someone walked in¡ªa stranger. He never asked for the menu, never asked for a price. He only asked her to make him something warm to eat.
She went to the kitchen with tears in her eyes, her hands shaking with every movement she made. When she finally put the plate in front of him, the stranger ate in complete silence. She offered him a second portion, a drink, something sweet¡ªhe rejected every single one.
When he stood up, he thanked her for one of the best meals he had in recent years and paid threefold the meal¡¯s value, stating he would come back again soon.
The woman did not sleep that night. She could only smile, keep on dreaming.
The stranger returned three days later, doing the exact same thing. Yet on that day, he paid sevenfold the true value of the meal. Before she could ask why, or even thank him, he stated he would be back soon.
And walked away.
On his fifth visit, the woman could barely control her joy as she saw him walking into the place. He would always come late at night, wearing nothing but elegant clothes and polished shoes, and pay the most absurd prices for her meals. Still, the woman would smile, that old rush coming back to her.
Of course, things will be all right. I told them.
After all, this is my calling.
Yet something happened on the man¡¯s ninth visit. Right before he ordered, he leaned closer to her and whispered in a low, velvet voice.
¡°If you do me one small favor, I will come every single day.¡±
When she asked what kind of favor, the stranger said he wanted her to pick him the prettiest wildflower she could spot and gift it to him on their next encounter.
The woman said yes in a heartbeat.
On his next visit, he smiled for the first time when he saw the poppy flower she had stolen from one of her old neighbors. And just like he promised, the stranger began to visit every day.
And every day, he would make her a new proposal.
¡¸Bring me a four-leaf clove, and I will order two meals every time¡¹
¡¸Bring me a red jewel, and I will order a dessert¡¹
¡¸Bring me a small dog, and I will come every morning for a hot beverage¡¹
With each request, the favors got more daring.
More dangerous.
Break into a store.
Kill a bird.
Harvest an organ from a fresh corpse.
Yet no matter what the man asked her to do, the woman found the words of agreement falling from her lips as her heart raced more and more. For the rewards¡the things the man gave her once she had done her part¡oh¡
They only ever got sweeter.
And the town, it still whispered. Called her insane. A maniac trapped in delusions, a pitiful widow who never recovered from her husband¡¯s sudden departure. A foolish woman who dreamed higher than she could.
Yet those were not the only whispers she heard.
For there was one person who valued her for who she was¡ªfor what she could do.
¡¸Kill the person who has wronged you the most, and bring me their eyes. If you do so, I will buy a restaurant for you, in another town.¡¹
And her cheeks flushed, and her eyes glistened. For that town had always been too small. Too convoluted with its whispers. None of the people there truly appreciate her gift¡ªher calling. Not like that stranger did.
So a few weeks later, she handed the man a jar filled with alcohol.
With her husband¡¯s eyes floating inside.
When he gave her the keys to the new store, all she could feel was ecstasy. An overwhelming sense of accomplishment and pride. The man said she just had to wait for a few days before he settled everything right for her.
¡¸Do not move from this spot. Wait for me until I come for you.¡¹
And she waited.
Without sleeping. Without eating. Without moving.
She kept waiting for him inside her restaurant, with the doors opened wide.
Yet after a few days, when neither moonlight nor bright stars shone through the clouds, with the air getting colder and heavier as the darkness stretched, instead of meeting with the strange man, the cook saw someone else.
A person who very much resembled her mother.
Yet their eyes were void. Their voice haunting. Their form, too grand.
¡°Thy contact beings of taint and wickedness. Of the immoral and the godless. Thy time belongs to the living no more, child, unless thou beseech me with a small grace.¡±
The being¡¯s voice boomed into the space, stealing all remaining light that somehow had found its way into that place. The woman feared the darkness more than she feared that presence, wondering how much more she would have to wait for the stranger to come for her, at last.
¡°And h-how may I be of service to you?¡±
The figure who resembled her mother smiled, extending her a knife. Its blade was sharp and clean, reflecting a light she could neither see nor touch.
¡°Cut thy hands clean, with no regrets. Do so, and I shall show thou the path back to the world of the living.¡±
At that moment, the woman knew.
She knew that being would never let her meet the man again.
She knew her heart was not beating right anymore.
So she stared at the knife for a very long time, and felt that rush once again.
I was right. I had always been right.
That had been the cleanest cut she had ever made, from one side to the other, the skin and flesh of her neck separating in one smooth motion.
This is my one true calling.
As she gazed at the blood on the floor, she realized it too shared that being¡¯s coldness.
The reason I was born into this world.
And if she could answer to her call no longer¡ª
Then, there was simply no reason to be.
There Were Six
There were six more.
Six shadows gazed at the one they had lost. To the being who had joined the two men, their forms still lacking.
The new woman tilted her head, her gaze unfocused and blurry as the shadows moved and tried to become something else. Something human.
¡°¡would you¡like a dessert¡? I can also¡offer you¡chef¡¯s¡recommendation.¡±
The person with the tray chuckled, the sound tickling the air around them like sweet bells.
¡°It is great to be of service, is it not, madame?¡±
The woman lifted her gaze, staring straight into that person¡¯s eyes. The sounds that came from her mouth were distant. Lost.
¡°Do you¡know¡my name¡?¡±
¡°For me to pry an information that was not offered to me in good grace would be amazingly crude, would it not?¡±
They gave her a soft, gentle smile. A voice that beamed with an incongruous warmth, one that the more Ninth heard and analyzed the less it seemed to belong in that place.
In that house.
As Second began to drink more of his drink, taking two long sips, the person who resembled a man turned in his direction with almost a hint of concern brightening their eyes.
¡°I would advise you not to drink too much, too fast, sir¡ªit can be painful to you.¡±
The man moaned, clutching his chest as the golden glow pulsed faster and brighter for long seconds.
¡°Aah¡argh¡..it¡.hurts¡.where¡.does it¡.hurts¡?¡±
Second¡¯s moans and groans became louder, the shadows becoming more and more kept as his form solidified. As the lines and details became clearer.Stolen novel; please report.
First tilted his head toward Second, staring at the fellow man for a few moments before taking a couple more sips of his own drink. His body shook as he let out a sharp breath, the shadows losing their darkness as little by little they began to resemble a veil.
A veil covering one¡¯s skin.
Soon enough, both First and Second looked almost the same. And as Ninth stared at them, it realized things. Differences.
All six shadows were the same.
But Second was different than First.
¡°Ah¡yes. I can see now.¡±
Second¡¯s hair was shorter. Prickly. Ninth didn¡¯t understand the word¡¯s meaning, but it recalled its use. Second¡¯s hair was short and prickly. Yet First¡¯s was longer and wavy.
First¡¯s body was longer. The man¡¯s fingers, legs, arms. It resembled something Ninth could not name it, not yet. But Second¡¯s body was stronger, his arms and shoulders wider. They were different. They were both men, yet they were not equal.
Not the same.
Ninth realized that person was preparing something else later than the other five. Its attention was pulled by the sudden sound of something cracking and shattering. At that moment, a raw feeling took over the shadow¡ªsomething strong enough to make its form tremble and oscillate.
Curiosity.
It wanted to know how those drinks were being made. Why sometimes there would be loud noises, while others there would be bright flashes. It wanted to know if the drinks were like the men or the shadows. If they were all drinks, but the same. Or if they were all drinks, yet still different.
However, Ninth did not move from its seat. For somehow, Ninth knew.
None of them should leave their spot.
The person who resembled a man finished their new creation with a satisfied smile, placing it on the tray with care. They began walking toward another shadow, one sitting in the middle of the circle. And when they passed, Ninth caught not only a glance but the fragrance of the new drink.
There was only one piece of ice, and it was darker. The ice was both thinner and rougher, as if it was made to cut instead of melt. The glass was odd, as if it was not glass at all. But another material. Something that could be found on the earth, something only molded by human¡¯s hands.
The liquid was almost colorless. Were it not for hints of bright red and void black, there would be nothing to tell where that fragrance was coming from. A scent that was both sweet and bitter. Alluring and repugnant.
That person gave the shadow a short bow, extending the tray to it.
¡°I do hope this will strike your fancy.¡±
The person did not raise themselves and the shadow did not wait. It reached out for the drink and brought it closer for a taste.
One more time Ninth observed. As the shadow stopped being equal, and became something else. Not faceless, but formless.
Another woman.
Yet different.
Shameful Disruptions [4th Drink]
Her people had five commandments.
Never bring shame to your people¡¯s legacy
Never show weakness of character and body
Never dishonor the ancestors and creators through weak or shameful acts
Treat one another as one of the same
Honor and love your creators more than you would yourself
The five commandments had been sculptured in the White Stone¡ªthe pale rock displayed right at the heart of their village. A rock that cast shadows even upon the tallest warriors, a monument whose divine integrity was to never be doubted or questioned.
At the dawn of their creation, the first village¡¯s sangoma carved the commandments after being contacted by one of the creators. And even when many summers had passed, they were still known as the most powerful spiritual leader their village ever had.
All those who defiled the commandments were to be punished. They would face a trial, in front of the whole village, and have their sins judged with their creators as witnesses.
The one to decide the punishment to be carried was the village¡¯s spiritual leader.
The one to carry the sinful¡¯s fate was the village¡¯s strongest warrior.
The one to judge the sinful ones was the village¡¯s chief.
She was the village¡¯s Matriarch.
Like her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother¡ªthe woman in her family made sure their village would prosper. That their history would always tell tales of honorable warriors and of a powerful people. Fearless. Mighty. Unmatched.
A tribe whose presence would make their enemies cower and beg.
As the Matriarch, she loathed change. Their creators had set the ways of her people¡ªtheir traditions had meaning, their customs had purpose. None were to be trifled with.
Changes give space for weaknesses. If you are always replacing the foundations of your home, you will never have something to stand on.
Her mother had been a wise woman. And with all her wisdom, she made her understand the importance of their ways, and how a true Matriarch should rule. For there was nothing more unforgiving to her people than to soil their very own history and legacy.
And a flawed chief made for a flawed village.
From the moment she stepped into the high chair, the woman ruled her people the way they should be ruled. They prospered, they grew, they conquered. She knew herself to be a good ruler, for she knew how to follow the commandments.
She knew how to honor their creators.
Yet then, one day, something happened.
Something changed.
Their Ward, the one who carried the title of strongest warrior, committed a sin. An unforgivable one.
He brought shame to their people.
He hurt his life mate with his own hands, stealing their life and soiling their body. Their own Ward. The one who represented their village¡¯s power and might, the one their people should aspire to be.
That man broke all their commandments.
The Matriarch did not name a new Ward to carry on the trial. Nor did she let their spiritual leader decide on the man¡¯s fate. She called her people and executed the sinful one with her own blade.
She made sure to not let his blood soil their ground, and to take his foul corpse far away from their home, to let the wild devour his tainted flesh. Then she purified her blade and begged the creators for mercy, for the tribe had brought shame upon their name.
She was a woman who loathed change, yet a Matriarch had the commandments to follow.
Never bring shame to your people¡¯s legacy
Never show weakness of character and body
No longer could she trust a Ward to be their people¡¯s strength. And for their strongest warrior to commit such unspeakable sins¡it was a sign of their creators. A warning. Something telling they had become too lax. That their people lacked discipline and focus.
No, as the Matriarch, she would allow such shameful behaviors no more.
I shall embrace change. I shall make sure there will be no space for weaknesses.
From that point onwards, the way the village¡¯s trial operated shifted. Transformed.
The one to decide the punishment to be carried was the village¡¯s chief.
The one to carry the sinful¡¯s fate was the village¡¯s chief.
The one to judge the sinful ones was the village¡¯s chief.
And she was the village¡¯s Matriarch.
At first, changes were subtle. As the Matriarch, she would still listen to the advice of their sangoma when it came to punishments¡ªas they were the ones who had the best connection with their creators and the spiritual realm.
Yet she soon realized how much respect and will their tribe had lost by the betrayal of their Ward.
Warriors would sometimes return from their hunts with no prey or treasures. Women would come to the spiritual leader less and less to consecrate their union. Kins were waiting more and more to have the Matriarch bless their children¡¯s chosen path.
Their tribe was growing weak.
And that¡This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Was shameful.
So the number of trials began to increase.
Warriors who returned with empty hands would receive ten lashes. Women who failed to consecrate the union would be separated from their mates, with the Matriarch choosing their life mate and having the spiritual leader consecrate their bond. If by their sixth year a child had no chosen path, their kin would receive six lashes each, the child¡¯s path chosen by the Matriarch herself.
For there was no mercy for those who failed to uphold their creators¡¯ five commandments.
Yet the Matriarch failed to realize something. She failed to share the same wisdom as her mother. For the previous Matriarch had warned her thoroughly about the many perils of change.
Change is a disease. If you let it roam too much, give space for it to take root, more is bound to follow. Like a merciless plague.
And more changes did come.
Her people would call her unreasonable. They would say the current Matriarch had lost her path. That the creators walked with her no longer. That it was time for a new chief to sit on the high chair.
And those.
Were shameful words.
When the lashes stopped being effective, she began to use her blade. Fingers, eyes, tongues¡ªwhatever the source of their shameful actions was, it would be purged.
Never bring shame to your people¡¯s legacy
Yet when not even purging the source of their sins brought peace and balance to their village, the Matriarch had to take rethink their punishments.
Never dishonor the ancestors and creators through weak or shameful acts
For there was no space for sinful ones in their tribe.
Their numbers began to dwindle, yet that was not something to waste sleep with. She had no interest in ruling and caring for the weak. For those who only knew how to desecrate and soil the image of their creators. Besides, more children could always be born.
Especially if she dictated it so.
Soon, her people came to realize how the first change she made had been necessary. How the changes that followed had been consequences of their own sins and infringements. How the woman, as their Matriarch, had done only what was best for their village according to their creators¡¯ commandments.
How they should live their lives away from shame and weaknesses.
Yet it came a night when the Matriarch received a visit from the spiritual chief. And the words spoken by the old shaman were words of damnation and ill omens.
I sense a grave disturbance in the land. Our creators are enraged.
The spiritual leader could not see much further as it seemed like the creators were limiting their communication, they explained. The Matriarch told the leader those words should be shared with no other soul. To let her know the moment the creators sent them a message.
And a message was sent, shortly after.
It was the longest rain they had ever seen. One that did not cease for days, one that made the river flood, that chased prey away, that compromised their crops.
Warriors did their best to prevent the flood of reaching their village, yet even with the ditches they dug and walls they raised, water still found its way to their homes.
After the great flood¡ªafter the creators took pity on them and ceased the cursed rain¡ªthe Matriarch began to reconstruct their village. For she was their ruler, and that was their home. The place where the White Stone had been placed, where their ancestor had breathed and walked.
Yet, just as the previous Matriarch had warned, change was like a plague.
Devious.
Sacrilegious.
Unrestrained.
It was a morning like any other. One when the sun was yet to rise, and her people were yet to awake. The Matriarch left her tent knelt in front of the White Stone to pray. To ask the creators for guidance and mercy. To bring their village closer to their rightful path, once again.
She was the Matriarch. Like her mother before her. And like her mother¡¯s mother before them.
She was no spiritual leader.
And at that moment, the creators gave her an answer.
One she wished they never knew.
After so many days of rain¡ªafter the flood¡ªwhat had once been a steady and firm ground for them to walk on had become a land of mud. The earth so soft, so weak, it was difficult to walk. And as she tried to stand up, the Matriarch slipped and fell.
And when the earth moved, it revealed words beneath the ground.
Words carved in the White Stone.
The Matriarch started to dig.
Even with her hands trembling, with her heart racing, and her mind faltering, she dug more and more through the mud. She cleared the path until all words that had once been concealed were laid bare. Until all the truth the creators wanted her to see was revealed.
And it was hideous.
For the very ground they stood on had hidden two other commandments from their creators.
Never inflict violence upon your people
To defile any of these words is to forfeit life
There were things every person from their village knew.
To go against the commandments is to defy the creators.
To defy the creators is to bring shame to oneself, your tribe, and its legacy.
And for years, for such a long, long time¡
They had been spitting and desecrating their creators. In every possible way.
The Matriarch fell on her knees, bracing the White Stone with cold hands. As she dug her fingers into the rock, some nails broke, while others simply bled as her finger scratched those words again.
And again.
And again.
Until the pale stone glistened with crimson, with her own pain.
Suddenly, she felt a presence. She knew one of the creators had descended upon their home. The Matriarch felt it, deep into her bones, crawling into her flesh¡ªan eerie coldness.
A darkness which was never the herald of good omens.
And the creator, who stared at her with amusement and magnanimity, pointed at the Matriarch and grinned.
¡°An ill fate is soon to be born. A fate that shall be forged and sealed by thy tainted hands.¡± The creator¡¯s voice called forth her very soul. It brought the tears to her eyes, stole the warmth from her body.
The Matriarch bowed and placed her head on the muddied ground¡ªnot daring to gaze upon her creator with such shameful eyes.
¡°O Ruler of the Abyss, Creator of the Uncalled Shadows. Allow me to correct the mistake of our village. Allow us to join the realm beyond the veil with our spirits unsoiled and our minds unclouded.¡±
Though the cursed rains had ceased, and the sky was cloudless, the woman heard it tear and growl.
The creator¡¯s voice reached her corrupt ears again, the words far too sacred yet far too tempting.
¡°If thou wish to avoid thy grim damnation, break the standing stone and forsake its words forevermore. Do so, and I shall obviate all thy past actions. Thou fate shall reek of rot no more.¡±
The Matriarch stopped breathing.
A creator was willing to forgive them. To let them all start anew.
She glanced behind her shoulder, at the overbearing presence of the White Stone.
The thing her tribe had honored since its creation.
The greatest connection they had with their creators.
The words that had defined for years their values. Their very being.
Right then, the Matriarch knew.
Never dishonor the ancestors and creators through weak or shameful acts
The truth had been revealed to her.
To defile any of these words is to forfeit life
And as the Matriarch, it was her sacred duty to make sure her people lived by their creators¡¯ commandments.
¡°Creator of the Uncalled Darkness, spread the word to your fellow kin. Let it be known we did not fail the final test. That our people honored your truth. Purged our sins to meet with you untainted.¡±
The creator laughed, the skies tearing and crackling alongside the almighty being. The Matriarch, however, did not pray or beg for more forgiveness.
She took her blades.
And, as the Matriarch, proceeded to carry their creators¡¯ will.
Tent by tent, she visited her people.
One by one, she made sure none of them would continue to shame their legacy.
And whenever someone tried to stop her, she would show them the truth. Making them realize what had to be done.
In that morning, no rain fell. Yet the skies cried. As the blades cut throats, pierced through hearts and heads, the skies cried and trembled.
As the Matriarch drenched the weak soil with her people¡¯s blood, she felt their creators¡¯ vindication.
As the Matriarch set their own village aflame, she sensed their ancestors¡¯ acclamation.
And when all was done, the Matriarch went back to the White Stone and made sure her blood would be spilled in those words. That all creators would know she, as Matriarch, had set things right again.
Making sure her people¡¯s shameful history would¡ªforevermore¡ªremain forgotten.