Last in Line

There was a distant line of onlookers, huddling close with their hands tied behind their backs against the brick wall. They were not sorry for how heretical they may have felt, in how they opposed religiosity and the terrible tragedies that they've come to find revolting by association. Not a shred of regret came over their faces beneath the dark plank ceiling. They knew what had to be done. There was no going back now.

Tomas, robed in his hooded black garment, stepped forward to reprimand what should be the first of many culprits. He pulled up the dangling cuffs of his golden sleeves. Accompanying him at center was Ghost, the elected seer of the past year. They both waved over to invite whoever wanted to be recognized as the first to courageously stand against judgment. Or, interpreted in a different light, they wanted to weed out weakness and viciously brand whoever could represent the face of their counter-religious uprising. Either way, they needed to furnish a martyr, someone with clout and strength and who had a deep sense of justice. Someone who was once gripped by the occult teachings but lost his way and doubted his convictions, turning his back against the religious order. In the manner of a painstaking trial, they couldn’t come away empty-handed. Righteousness must be delivered.

“Now, who shall we have to start our night? Hm? Not that it matters to me. You all will be given a fair and equal interrogation. Come forth with the truth, and you’ll be spared a rebuke. I can promise you this.”

Mysterious red glyphs began forming over his head, as Ghost prepared an incantation to record the trial at session. Not that he would be necessarily required to do so. As a seer, he had been equipped to know all along who could have besmirched the divine will of the Overmen, the leaders of this religious off-shoot. The actions of the people in line became unquestionably vivid within his mental grasp. Without telegraphing to anyone of his secrets, a scene could be laid out before his mind’s eye, stripped down to its finer details like a detective in search of answers. Their reasons for acting, for trampling over their leaders’ authority, however, continue to elude him. He mutters to himself as he gesticulates his hands around, convinced that the rebels should be shown the error of their ways. They need to be redeemed, not punished, he thinks. Set to their own devices, they are merely impulsive and fallible.

“Well, is no one going to come forward? Need I have to do this the hard way and call you all out then? Bring you all to your knees, begging for mercy? Is that what you want?”

The onlookers didn’t budge an inch upon such a threat. Their eyes remained defiant, dark, and bold of their dissent. But among the bald men in line, one leaned over and whispered to another, discreetly discussing with his comrade on how to respond. They were well aware that even if they did follow through with protocol, death would eventually await them. They would be silently, cruelly, gutted out in the torture chambers below them. The danger of being slaughtered in the flesh was already anticipated. All violators were condemned to die in principle of a twisted maxim, die to what the leaders believe is insubordination of a penetrating, deep meta-truth. “Live in surrender to the truth; all else must perish.” But words certainly can hold too much sway. Regardless of anyone’s education, the truth is sometimes too delicate for many to handle. It always seems to love hanging in the balance when lives are at stake.

Before Tomas could wrangle more fear out of them, the same bald man had decided to risk it all and speak up. Barefoot, he approached Tomas.

“You want the truth? How badly do you want it?”

Tomas retorted, “You are in no position to negotiate. How badly do you want to live?”

“As much as I want to be free. But that’s a sham, isn’t it? So what’s the point in giving you what you want, when you can’t give me what I want?”

Ghost shook his head, taking pity on the man. Tomas continues, “You know that that’s not up to me to decide. Cooperate. You’ll find that to be in your best interest.”

Another man angrily shouted from behind them, “Best interest. Best interest!? How can you be talking about our ‘best interest’ when all you ever cared about is your own arrogant, selfish, filthy interest! You traitorous lowlife!”

Tomas lifted his hand over his lips, attempting to hide a wry sneer. “Now, now. Let’s not get all feisty. I want this to be as free of difficulty as possible. I don’t want to harm any of you. Take it from me, this interrogation is nothing personal.”

The man, leading the conversation on behalf of his comrades, turned around to face Tomas once more. “Of course, it’s nothing personal. Nothing is ever personal to you.”

Meanwhile, the red glyphs emanating above Ghost had been vibrating at a synchronized pace with the heated exchange. They appeared to mimic the tonality of bodies in how they threaten or taunt or shout, if symbols could stretch and wag their curly thin lines to personify the madness of humans. Rising and falling, even the glyphs had learned to dance merrily in rage of that earlier outburst, recording every irritable movement down with disturbing accuracy. But as Ghost touched the symbol situated slightly right of center—his favorite glyph of all—he felt gentle and at home, as though his heart was warm by the fire. The only one untarnished by the emotion of contempt, he believed. The others must learn of his impartial ways, to detach from human conflicts and all the bickering that come with them.

Tomas found himself steady, in control, as he lifted his hood down. Unlike the menacing, cold looks of his adversaries, the skin of his face remained pristine, richly preserved, as white as snow. They threw offensive glances at his short, youthful, black hair and the unlawful disparity of privilege between ranking members. He had naturally adapted himself to not contend with power, but to give in to its temptations for swift, clean results. Struggling, as they’ve once been taught before, is a sign of inner war, which must be stamped out. The greater man must win at all costs.

“Do keep on thinking that I’m the one to blame, that I’m the real reason why you’re all groveling in such pathetic states of nature… I’m giving you a chance to legitimize your little rebellion. So take it, before I change my mind.”

The man walked up closer to Tomas, keeping himself at arm’s length. “No. You know that you don't deserve to be given the title of Overseer. You don’t even realize what magic has done to you.”

“Done to me? It has done nothing but liberate me!”

A blizzard of tiny blue shards of ice began circling around the Overseer. The room shook in the wake of his powers.

“Don’t you see that this is what you’ve been missing out on!? Of all the things that you can accomplish!?”

Ghost, however, extended his glowing red hand towards Tomas’s shoulder. “Please. Enough. No need to be violent.”

Instantly, upon his touch, the ice shards had melted, dripping water onto the floor.

As his eyes reverted back to their original hazel color, a change of heart suddenly pacified Tomas. He relaxed his shoulders. “Sorry for getting carried away.”

“Remember how it once felt, brother. Magic is a gift, your gift. It’s not to be used as a tool for destruction.”

Ghost turned to face him, gleaming with an austere boldness. “Remember the hearth by the fire. The joy of our leaders. Their joy is right with you.”

“Yes. You’re right.” But Tomas couldn’t shake the sensation that something felt amiss. His hands trembled. He was losing grip of his authority over the rebels, as if he was on the brink of a mental collapse. He lowered his head before Ghost, worried that he had done him an injustice, looking to regain his sympathy.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize for your mistakes. All you need to do is to acquire the truth, peacefully. To condemn them is not your responsibility.”

“Yes. Yes. I understand.”

Overturning a minor lapse of judgment, the instinct to please seemed to become far too strong for him. Straightening his posture, Tomas returned to glower at them as an Overseer. The man, however, found the whole interplay between seer and Overseer quite suspicious, tormented by the fact that the seer had such a strong subliminal influence over Tomas. This, he knew, was a symptom of being indoctrinated, how impressionable young people can feel fractured under the crushing weight of discipline and dogmatism.

“What a shame. You really have lost yourself. Nothing I could tell you would convince you that you’re wrong.”

Sustaining a flat tone of voice, Tomas replied, “Please just tell me what you’ve done.”

“No. I thought you’d be able to handle what I would have to say. But, from what I can tell, it’s better that the entire truth dies with me. That it dies with all of us. The local governments, by now, should know who we all are and our capabilities for magic. There’s no more hiding anymore. We’ll all go down burning.”

“Is that so? You’re bluffing.”

“I wish I were. But I’ve already said my piece.”

Ghost nodded out of sympathy. “Alright, you know what you must do then, Tomas.”

Hesitating, he stepped backwards a few feet away from both the man and Ghost. “I do. Yes. I know what I must do.” The glyph raised above Ghost began uncontrollably bouncing, before breaking away from the rest of the group.

Panicking, Tomas made a run for it out of the room, through the dark corridors and up the stairs, where the echoes of his clambering steps could be loudly heard. But upon reaching the next floor, there was a brisk scuffle. Then, an abrupt silence followed and lingered in the space above them.

Ghost lowered his head sorrowfully. “A shame indeed.”