I walk towards the gates of Rapna, and the black spikes of the gate are reaching for the stars. They are pointed at the top to stop those who try to sneak their way through. Some say that this city is cursed, an omen, something devoid of God. I need the money; the treatments and blood transfusions needed for my daughter's survival are getting so costly. My wife offered to sell herself to pay for the treatment. An objection from me is more than an understatement. I'll participate in the hunt and make money to provide for my family. There is no other option.
I stand at the grand gate that leads into the city. It's a marvel of architecture, intricate details, and the weaving of metal. Atop the gate woven with black strands of iron, the words 'City of Stars' are spelled out. There is nothing behind them, so at night stars reflect through the words. Gas lanterns ready to be lit for the long night stand proudly on each side of the gate. Their glass exterior is etched with detailed flowers, adding beauty to the light they provide. In the distance, the steeples of the building rise into the sky like pillars dedicated to God. I can barely make out the gargoyles perched on the edges of the building, monsters looking over the city. The building is wrapped with iron coated in black, walls made from marble and brick, accents of gold and bronze litter the buildings like stars scattered through the sky, the light from the sun glistening off them like specks of molten flesh woven into architecture.
A grand place indeed, though I've never been to Rapna, I've heard the stories of the yearly hunt that is put on by the church. It's said the hunt is to drive evil from the city and forest for the year. I've heard stories of people going missing, people dying during the hunt, and stories of things that seem unimaginable. All these stories are nothing more than that. Just stories made up by people to scare them away from the money offered to those who participate and complete the hunt. The prize for surviving the hunt is gold, an unknown amount, but anything will help my family.
I push the gate open to take my first steps into the city. It's midafternoon, and the sun is still falling from the sky like a ball of fire. I walk the cobblestone streets, admiring the buildings, some grey stone, while others are red brick. All have gas lanterns hung outside, flames ready to be lit. Some look like homes blocked in with fences of iron and stone, doors made from oak, windows enclosed by bars. Other buildings look like shops with glass walls that show off items for sale inside. I pass a shop lit with light but dim with people; through the glass, I can see the mannequins dressed in regal clothing, shades of blue, green, and pink, laced with white and gold. Prim and proper clothing, full of pride and lust, was peculiar in such a holy city.
I walk through the city without seeing a soul. I turn corners and walk down alleyways looking for the church, which I've been told lies in the middle of the city. There are no signs in this city to point the way; it's a labyrinth of buildings and corridors. I walk past an alley with stairs that lead down into what looks like a sewer system. I look for someone to ask for help, someone to show me the way. Then I see a home, door made from red wood, no bars on the windows, a gate open leading up to the door. A small plant sits on the step up into the house. It looks to be about three stories with maybe an attic. A small octagonal window with stained glass sits just below the roof. I stare at the window with my mind playing tricks on me. I swear I see someone or something looking back at me. No, looking through me. I walk up to the door, ready to knock.
I rap on the door and hear the thumping echo through the house like a hollow body cavity. There is no grass in the tiny yard, just stones that lie in what looks to be a pattern or circle. I look towards the doorknob and see that it's been freshly cleaned, polished even. Touching the knob, its cold black brass is like a moist rock against my skin.
"You an outsider?" A raspy yet womanly voice says through the door.
"Outsider?" I ask back.
"Yeah, you from outside Rapna?"
"I'm from a small town to the south. I'm here for the hunt. Looking for the church, would you tell me how to get there?"
"You're a fool. Turn around and run back to your town before night falls upon us. Don't seek out the church. Don't participate in the hunt."
Gut-wrenching scratching begins to pierce my ears. She is clawing the door like a wild animal trying to escape a cage. The clawing gets louder and faster as I slowly back away from the door. I can hear the blood starting to drip from her fingertips. The door is becoming slick with blood.
"You'll regret it!" She starts to scream.
"You'll regret it! You'll regret it! You'll regret it!" Over and over, she screams, getting louder even as I am further from the door, now back on the cobblestone street. My heart races as I swiftly glide through the corridors and continue to look for the church.
I try to push her screaming from my mind. I need to think of only one thing: my daughter. I need this money. Nothing can scare me away from this, not some crazy lady locked away in her house. I walk the cobblestone street, feeling the hard stone under my black boots. Each step reverberates off the buildings to each side of me. I could never sneak up on someone in this city. The ground is spotted with mud and small pools of water where it had nowhere to run to the sewer.
I walk for what feels like an eternity, watching the iron gates change, some more intricate than others. Each house is similar yet unique with small details. Some houses have lights outside powered by electricity; some bulbs look like they're red, while others look blue. Past a rundown house with boards over the windows and smashed-in glass on the front door, sits a raven on the iron fence guarding the broken house. Feathers so black, they have a tint of purple slick with oil, they shine like polished glass. Two bleak black eyes like soulless pits that swallow light; they're a gulping whale in a sea of darkness.
The raven opens its beak and begins to bellow a gurgling croak from the back of its throat. Its soulless eyes lock onto me as the bellow rises in pitch, it's deep and almost musical as it plays through my mind. I swim in the sound which echoes from the buildings like an eerie call out for the devil himself to send demons to find me. I look beyond the raven and finally see the church.
A glorious cathedral, with towers that rise to the heavens, topped with an iron cross. Windows litter the building, coated with patterned stained glass that could be interpreted as either the sun or flowers. The glass is woven into the wall like patchwork on a quilt. A shadow looms over the cathedral, casting a dark spell over something that should expel light. As I begin to walk, the raven flaps its wings and flies away like a leaf in the wind. It flies out of my view behind the immense building that stands before me like God himself coming from reckoning. The closer that I get to the church, the more details that I begin to see. The gargoyles that guard each corner of the tower, the crosses that litter the steeples, and the glass-like spider webs with light shining through them. A marvel of a building, yet something still feels so off to me.
All that now separates me from entering and beginning my hunt is a raw iron gate that encompasses the building like a holy circle protecting it from all manner of things that would wish to do others harm. The gate is black and cold as I push it open and walk through the threshold. Something comes over me like a wave; I can't name the feeling, but my ears begin to ring like bells that toll in the dead of night. The double doors that lead the way into the holy temple are monstrous chunks of wood engraved with a cross that runs its length and width in its entirety. Lanterns of electricity sit beside the door, ready to illuminate the way to such a holy place as this. The door is nestled in marble with notches that jut out and lead the way inside. There is no handle to the door, so I begin to push it open. The doors are heavy and let out an evil hiss as they open wide enough for me to pass through.
My steps into the church are heavy as I walk on marble floors ripped from the mountains and laid here before God. All the pews face the front of an enormous room, a cathedral hall unlike anything I have ever witnessed. The pews are long slabs of wood with cushions of red that spring from them. At the front of the hall is a mesmerizing wall of stained glass that depicts the angels descending from heaven to save us. One angel stands atop a demon, driving a spear down into its chest. Below, an organ made from what looks to be pure gold with pipes that rise to bellow sound, like a train whistle riding the wind.
A man, in prayer, kneels before the cross at the front of the hall. A behemoth that could be made from a single tree, carved to perfection. The man wears all white and a hat that points at the top. Gold accents the robes that drape over his feet, a sash of red marks that he is the Pope. Just the man that I was looking for.
"Excuse me?" I call the Pope.
Excitedly, he turns to face me. His face is old and weathered with age, experience, and grace. His eyes are soft swills from an ocean with a hint of tree bark baked into their presence. He rises from his prayer like a man reborn; he looks as though he could fall at any moment, taken away to be with our creator, but he moves like a young man wrestling with vines. He takes a moment to make the sign of the cross, moving his hand from shoulder to shoulder, forehead to sternum. I can barely make out the gesture of his hand, index and middle finger pointed to the sky, while the others make a circle in his wrinkled hand. He's so graceful as he walks toward me, hands outstretched as though he's already embracing my soul.
"My child. My child." He speaks. His voice is like a hummingbird tongue wrapped in silk and drenched in oil. The words rise and fall, slick in form.
"You have come for the hunt. Chosen by the almighty for this joyous occasion. My child, I'm so happy you have come."
He wraps his hands around my shoulders, a firm yet gentle grasp like a mother cat holding a kitten by the nape of its neck. So close I can smell the mint that lingers in the back of this throat, trying to hide the aroma of wine.
"What a glorious day it is. Such glory we must give to HIM who watches over us. Do you understand my child? Bow your head. Bow your head. We must pray!"
I bow my head with the Pope and open my ears to the velvet that rolls from his tongue.
"Almighty! I pray that you protect this man on his hunt. Protect him from those who would wish to corrupt his very soul. Protect him from the demons that tug on his heart. Protect him from wrath, jealousy, and creed. Watch over him during this night of the hunt so that he may be successful in driving evil from this holy city. This holiest of places, devoted to you. May you give him the strength to overcome everything that will look to overshadow him. Give him the strength to defeat the evil that wishes to weaken his soul. Give him the strength to deal with our enemy.
"Almighty! I ask that you do this for me. I ask that you give your blessing to this man as he goes forth to hunt for you. Almighty! We do this for you. In your name. In the name of our Holy Sea. Please, my lord, wash over us with blessings, wash away any of our past sins, show us your light. Lord, please show us your light. Illuminate a path through these dark times and lead us into your holy light. Wash us with your holy sea and bless us in that holiest of waters."
I feel a splash upon my face as the Pope begins to shower me with holy water. Like tiny raindrops from a light spring rain, I feel the holy water soaking into my skin.
"Lord, in your name we pray. Let it be so."
"Let it be so," I repeat.
The old man looks me up and down and releases me from his grasp. Locking eyes with mine, I can feel him peering into my soul, but as I stare back at him. I think I see something behind his pale green eyes; he's hiding something deep within his mind behind eyes that look full of pure love and devotion.
"My child, what is your name?" He asks.
"My name is Ezra, Father."
"Ezra! I do say, what a beautiful name. A name which means to help or helper, as I assume you already know. You've come just in time to be just that. Blessed be. This will be our greatest hunt yet. Yes, I can feel it in my bones.
"Oh no, my child, how rude of me, I am Pope Linus the Second. The sixteenth Pope of The Holy Sea Church. This year marks our one hundred and fiftieth hunt! Glory be to the almighty that he has let us have one hundred and fifty glorious hunts, all in his name."
I look around to see that it is only us here in this church. No one else is here to join the hunt. Perhaps I am early, or maybe I am the only one stupid enough to join in this hunt.
"Come with me, child. I will take you down to the armory."
I follow the Pope through intricate hallways, paved with silver and gold. The walls are marble crafted by God. The walls tell the stories of how he created this world. How he purged this world of sin, driving the monsters into another place. Pushing them far below the earth to their own realm. It shows him creating humans, shaping them out of clay in his image. The story of humanity is plastered on these walls like a living mural. As we walk, my mind goes around and around on the Feris Wheel that is this hunt. The ceiling is coated in white marble that reflects the transition into our next plane of existence. Statues lead the way, like totems along a path of destiny. When we arrive at the armory, we're stopped by a door forged from light. It's bright, as the gold and silver reflect any light shown on it. It looks heavy, like the weight of an entire building is held by its hinges. The door is embroidered with a cross etched in diamonds.
When it opens, the swing is wide, and light comes from behind like a sign from the heavens that what we are doing is sanctioned by God.
I leave the church and emerge onto the street, light shining down upon me as the sun sinks lower in the sky. The illusion of time is lost to me. It felt like I was gone for hours, locked away in that church, preparing for the hunt. Though I know that I was never locked away. I was in that church of my own free will. All of this is my own will.
Pope Linus provided me direction to the local inn, which would provide lodging for travelers coming to participate in the hunt. He advised that I should try to meet with some of the other hunters and secure my room. I walked those hallowed streets, the paths lined in cobblestone, raw iron fences, and gargoyles of pure stone. This city is glory incarnate, while I am nothing more than a mortal man walking holy land. A sinner lost in time and space. The radiance from the sun makes this place holier, yet the faint smell of rotting corpses and sewage lingers in the air like flowers in bloom.
This place, this atmosphere, something is off. I can't place my finger on it, but I can feel it in my bones.
I know the Inn when I see it at the end of the narrow street. The Pope mentioned that I would know it when my eyes lay on it, and I was lost to that comment. I understand as I look at the rundown store that stains this place of beauty. The signpost is crooked, reading.
'The Holy Grail' and pointing more down than at the inn. The door is made of wood but runs ragged with wounds. Shutters line the windows, hanging by threads. No raw iron fence, just an open space leading to sin. The building is not marble or brick, but stone coated with mud. The air is dense with unwritten rules that are dictated by evil and captured by humans.
I push open the door and walk into the place, the smell of booze infiltrating my nasal passageway. A man stands behind the bar polishing a glass, another man sits at the end of the bar slumped over a drink, and a woman guards the stairwell which leads to the second floor. She wears a red dress that's suctioned around her waist, pushing her breasts into the air. Her hair flows around her, intricately controlled chaos wrapped in blonde strands. Her face is inviting. The evil of this place whispers to my heart and swoons into my ears.
I think of my wife and daughter, my reason for existing.
I get a room and a place to sleep during the hunt. I take out my journal and begin to document everything that has happened. I want to ensure that if I go missing or die, at least my thoughts will prevail. My family will have something to remember me by. After finishing my writing, I make my way back downstairs to speak with the other hunters. I leave everything in the room except my journal and a talisman which was given to me by my wife. A necklace that she blessed before I left home. She told me that it would help keep me safe. I didn't know if anything would really be able to do that, but to give her peace of mind, I hadn't taken it off since she placed it around my neck.
I sit at the bar, two seats down from the man who's still slumped over the bar. The bartender is still polishing glasses.
"What'll ya have?" He shouts from down the bar.
His voice is raspy with age and cigarettes. His face is weathered like stone through a storm, eyes grim and dark, mouth cracked. A caterpillar of a mustache sits over his cracked mouth like leaves on a branch. Lines run his face like railway tracks that cover town to town. He's seen things I couldn't imagine. He looks through me, peering deep into a place that I didn't even know was there. His hair is a short black mess that looks to have been cut with sheep shears while looking in a mirror.
"Whiskey, please, sir," I answer.
He says nothing, just puts down the glass and grabs a bottle from under the bar. The dark liquor melts into the glass like syrup as he pours it.
The glass slides in front of me. The man beside me is still slumped into the bar, head resting against the wood like he's been knocked out cold. His hand was still wrapped around his drink, clinging to life.
"Not from round' here, are ya?" He prods, going back to cleaning glasses.
"No, sir. I'm from a small town to the sou..."
"Here for the hunt then?" he says, before I can finish my sentence.
"Yes, sir," I say. Then I begin to open my mouth, ready to say more before being cut off.
"Enough with this, sir, business. If yer here for that hunt. Lose the manners or get ready to lose yer life," his voice gruff with a hint of anger.
"Sorry, si..." I pause. My eyes meet his.
"Of course, I will remember that. Thank you." I continue.
He says nothing, just continues to clean glasses as I sip the whiskey, letting the burn run down my throat. The man to my side lifts his head from the counter. His dirty blonde hair covers his face, running away from him like snakes running from sunlight. The dirt is coated into his hair, matting it down with grease and oil. He is dressed in all black, head to toe. Hand still gripping the glass, which he lifts to his lips.
"Awake now are ya?" the bartender says.
The man groggily shakes his head around, dirt falling from his head to the counter and the ground. He groans, slamming the glass onto the counter and skidding it to the bartender. He catches it and quickly replaces it with a full new glass. Without a blink, the whiskey is back in the man's hands and has been guzzled down. He slams the glass, shattering it, then proceeds to stretch like an overgrown cat.
"Now, Mr. Larkin, you will need to pay for that," the bartender says. No anger or malice is sparked in his voice. He's calmer than when he told me to be ready to lose my life.
"Shut the fuck up, Rubin," the man I now know as Larkin spits.
"Is that any way to talk to the bartender that keeps you drunk?"
The man leans over to me. "Don't believe anything this old barkeep says. He takes all your gold once you're dead."
"Mr. Larkin, don't go trying to scare off my new customer." he brushes his mustache with his fingers.
Both men begin to laugh. Cackling reverberated off the walls. I look back and forth between the men, confused as to what is going on. I look back at the woman standing guard at the stairs. She shrugs.
Larkin rubs the tears from his eyes. "Oh boy," he sighs.
"You're here for the hunt, eh?" he says, his eyes locking mine.
Paralyzed, I reply "Yes."
"Would survive if you stay timid, boy." He sips his whiskey.
He reaches out to me, extending himself. "Name's Larkin, but most people just call me Lark."
"Ezra," I reply to him, shaking his hand.
His grip is like a vice, cuffing our hands together. I can feel his withered skin like old leather and gritted sandpaper. His face is etched with scars, one that runs from forehead to chin, cutting over his eyes, another by his mouth, another down his neck towards his chest. The ocean is engulfed in his eyes, that pale blue moving with the tides. He is grizzled and weathered from sandstorms and battle. A black coat covers a black button-down shirt that sits over black pants that could be made from some type of leather. He is a mass of black in a sea of brown. Pale skin reflecting like light off a mirror, a stark contrast against the black of his clothing.
"Tell me, Ezra, what do you know about this hunt?" Lark prodded.
"I know that this hunt has been happening for years and that there is prize money for survival."
"And what is it that we are hunting?"
"The beasts of the forest."
A long pause comes between us, speaking volumes.
He lets loose a long sigh. "I wish that were the case. I wish we were hunting the beasts of this forest. You see the Pope yet?"
I nod my head to him, confused as to where this conversation is going and what it is that we are hunting them.
"Did the Pope not tell you the truth of this hunt?" he asks.
"I guess not, we prayed for me and took me to the armory before sending me to find this tavern. He told me to speak with other hunters. Was there more?" I ask.
"There is always more boy," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
We talk for what feels like hours, sitting at that bar, sipping on whiskey. Through the windows, I can see that the sun is beginning to set on the city. The amber light shines into the room like angels calling to heaven. This place of sin is still captured by the angelic ways of the city. Lark never told me what it is that we are hunting; he said I would need to find that for myself. The only advice he gave me was to "protect my heart" and "heed all words, for every man is in this for himself." Wisdom tucked beneath dirty nails, that was this man.
When Larkin finally left the bar, he had drunk more than his fill of whiskey, yet he walked with grace and did not slur his speech. I questioned if he was even drinking whiskey or if it was just dirty water. He did not say goodbye, just walked away without a word.
A bell tolled in the distance, a chime against the wind marking the change of the hour.
"About time to shut down. Lilith, go ahead and begin to clean up."
The woman and the stairs left, leaving Rubin and me alone in the bar. He slid a key to me.
"This key will get you into the bar so that you'll be able to get to your room. Lilith and I will be in the basement. This key will not get you in there. You can stop this madness and come to the basement with us now, but you wouldn't be participating in the hunt."
I took the key, the cold gold, heavy in my hands. A pattern of lines weaving in and out runs along the length of the key. Holes riddle the top where a string passes through one, turning the key into a necklace.
"I'm sorry. I must be part of this hunt."
I clutch the talisman that hangs from my neck against my heart.
"My family..."
He cuts me off before I can say more. "Say nothing else then. Just leave this place. Tell no one of your motives. Just hunt."
He is out from behind the bar now and pushing me towards the door.
"Just hunt, boy. Just hunt," he whispers in my ear as I'm pushed outside, and he locks the door behind me.
The sun is dying, falling from the sky. Flames rain from the heavens. Darkness is upon us, but not close enough to grasp. The city is lit with fires that blaze. Cross erected from wood and raised from the ground with pyres wrapped around it. They are all engulfed in flames, standing tall among the intricate architecture that is the city. The spires that rise into the sky, laced with their gargoyle protectors, watch as the crosses burn, and the flames rise.
People now wander the streets; most are dressed in black with masks covering their faces like plague doctors. I watch them walk, their steps echoing through the silence with the cracking of wood and falling of ash. Some stand around the pyres, chanting in a circle. The scene is eerie, like something of horror, a witch's rite.
I shook by how much has changed since my conversation in the tavern. I stand as a statue in the street. A woman walks by; she stares at the ground. Long black hair drapes down her lower back, it covers her face. She does not wear a mask like others. She wears a long black dress that covers her feet. Her walking looks more like shuffling along the cobblestone street. The light from the sun reflects from her hair like slick oil.
She walks to the circle that's gathered around the closest pyre, the blaze rising to the heavens as smoke trails away from the city, following the wind. She says something to the person who is chanting. I can't hear the words. I watch them leave those around them, releasing their hands into freedom. The person chanting goes to turn, a man with short hair, he's dressed in all black. The woman walks away as the man lifts his hand in prayer. Blood leaks from him like a blown gasket. He falls to his knees, beginning to scream. They're blood-curdling yowls that come deep from his gut; they're laced with blood. He gurgles. Then falls to the ground.
The man is dead, and the woman is now gone.
Those who were gathered around the man, those who were in the circle, were chanting. They all begin to scream, echoes of pain and agony. They lock their hands with each other, still screaming into the air, their voices carried on the wind. Abruptly, they stop screaming and begin to walk towards the blaze. One man extends his arms, and the fire jumps towards him, riding his arm over the rest of his body, traveling like a locomotive train. Before I know it, they're all engulfed in the blaze; they are now part of the pyre, part of the burning cross. Together, they light the sky as the sun continues to fall, and dusk is officially upon the city.
The smell of burned flesh penetrates me through my nostrils. I look around at the different pyres that lead down the road. Bodies are sporadically placed on the street; they run down the street, no rhyme or reason to them. Bloody footsteps lead down the steps. Multiple bloody footsteps.
The hunt has begun.
Δ Δ Δ Δ Δ Δ Δ Δ
The screams get louder as I walk down the street, following the trails of blood and ash. Some of the flames are beginning to settle as the street-lamps begin to power on. Little flames light alleyways that are becoming shrouded in darkness. The gas is added to the amalgamation of smells that lingers through me. I control the vomit from being expelled from my stomach.
Bodies riddle the street; all are missing pieces to a bigger puzzle. Hands, arms, feet, legs, and even heads are scattered through the city of stars. I come across a young girl. She's no more than six years old. Her face has been mutilated, she's missing her eyes, claw marks run through her body, and she lies in a pool of blood. A pool of blood on the side of the street, tossed away like nothing more than a stray dog. I gaze into the abyss, and it begins to pull me in, then I proceed to vomit. I no longer see this dead little girl. I see my daughter. She stands in front of me, tugging at my shirt.
"Why did you leave us daddy?" she asks.
Her eyes are pale green trees, unwavering in the wind, fighting against the elements and time. Hair that rolls from her face, blonde strands of silk that wrap around her face. She is so little. Tiny hands grasp and pull me. She looks at me with such admiration, such love, such disdain.
"Why did you leave me?" She cries.
Over and over, she cries.
I close my eyes and still see her small face burned into my mind.