Eden's Calling

Lies are as common in our world as stars in the sky. The stars themselves are liars. They claim to speak comfort, wisdom and certainty – those stars never change, and they do not comfort me.
We live in a world where monsters exist. That’s what they’re always telling us, what’s ingrained into our very being from the moment we’re delivered, screaming and bloody, into the pit we call a world. We never question those who tell us this, or enquire as to what deific authority they speak on behalf of.

The monsters we should fear so much do not come from below, or even from ourselves. The monsters I’m worried about bathe in the light of divinity and grin with pointed teeth, smiling as they feed us lies. And we simply drift, nodding along and pretending we belong to ourselves.
We do not.

* * *

The first thing Svorkae noticed, as her feet touched the ground, was that somebody had replaced the sign. It was a simple, expected observation, but one she must take note of for later. It was a much awaited display of obedience – obviously the church could not be expected to continue its regular practises. The supplication meant one less head Svorkae would have to delivery to her Father. A small victory, but a victory all the same.

Her bare soles connected with the gravel, tying her to the centre of the earth like an anchor to a ship. The very moment she landed, tiny life forms hidden beneath the ground flocked to her, trying desperately to reach her through thick layers of concrete and stone. Their buzzing and breathing echoed in her ears, loud as clanging bells. It was drowned out, however, by the screeching hum of human existence. She could feel their pulsing auras from miles away. Loud and obnoxious. Irritating.

Once, she had easily tuned the racket out. But during those days she’d had little more to do than hunt sheep and float aimlessly around the Welsh hills. Now, she had purpose. Now, she seethed at the thought of their puny bodies and punier minds. Their sightless eyes and unhearing ears. Blind and deaf and ignorant. It would not have been so bad did she not resemble them. Her aspect was human, although her soul was not. She had features of other animals, too, of course – her horns curled thickly around her ears like those of a ram, and the plains of her body were covered in tiny feathers.

But still, she had two arms, two legs. Ten fingers and ten toes. She stood upright, and her spine was curved like a human’s. She towered above them, though, tall and willowy, with skin like milk and large lizard’s eyes embedded in a perfectly symmetrical face with an austere nose in its centre. Her skin bore the marks of her kind, pale blue stripes of lightning that glimmered against the grime of the earth, and her hair fell in strings of stardust.

The humans, as always, would tremble beneath the weight of her presence. Sing holy praises and clamour for her favour. Anger made her black blood boil. She did not care for them, or their pathetic ways. She could watch them all burn, and would take pleasure in it. The days of peace and isolation were over, now she was a shepherd.

And she would not lie idle. Orders must be followed.

Svorkae stepped through the iron gates, regarding the rust with affronted revulsion, into the bedraggled courtyard. She held her head high and let a tiny surge of her hidden ethereal power shroud her form in ribbons of warm, pale light.

The building was decrepit. A small, squat structure sprinkled in its entirety with grey dust, with tiny little windows and horizontal roofs banded with what she suspected would once have been a rather appealing shade of dark green. There were no spires or steeples, not a single splash of finery. Even for years before, the church had been a sombre one. The rancid smell of rot, sweat and tears emanated from the structure, assaulting her nostrils. She kept her face equable, and showed not the disgust she felt, nor the abhorrence.

She passed the threshold with grace, and was met by a short dark skinned woman, whose face was speckled with yellowish blots. The woman was well dressed, a stark and amiable figure amidst a decaying world. But Svorkae could smell the taint in her blood. It would be a miracle if she lived to see the end of the decade.

“Svorkae of Nim,” the woman greeted, bowing appropriately and proudly displaying the Mark she wore on her left wrist – a delicate design of metallic swirls and feathers that shone dimly compared to Svorkae’s own patterned skin. “It is an honour to be in your divine presence.”

“To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” A courtesy. Svorkae already knew this woman’s name. It was considered polite, she’d learned, to ask. Humans were easily unsettled and it would not do her well to offend any. It would be a nuisance to deal with later, if nothing else.

“Fiona Davy.” The woman spoke smoothly, though her anxiety was obvious in her quivering knees. “I run this establishment.”

“How lovely,” Svorkae said, her voice flat.

“Um,” said Fiona Davy, “if you’ll follow me.”

The smell of the building’s interior was even more pungent to her delicate senses without the fresh outside air to dilate it. Inside, the building was crumbling. Paint peeled from the ancient yellow walls, and windows and doors hung, cracked and lopsided, from their hinges. Svorkae had to crouch slightly, much to her dismay, so her horns didn’t catch on the low ceiling. The entire building reeked of hopelessness.

A lost cause, many had said, but Svorkae, keen for her Father’s praise, had volunteered. With each of her sporadic visits she saw the building fall into further ruin. No matter how much effort she expended, Svorkae could not heal this broken world. Her failure was inevitable. That would have to be remedied.

“This is my office,” said Fiona Davy, holding open a heavy wooden door for Svorkae to step through.

“Is there anything in particular you would like to see?”

Svorkae frowned slightly, the tiniest downward pull of her lips. The room was out of place in such a decaying wreck of a place. The window panes were well cleaned, potted plants sitting happily on their sills, growing tall and beautiful. The wallpaper was a pale mint green, applied evenly without a single bump, and the carpet was a rich shade of navy blue that felt like kitten fur beneath her feet. The room was a portal to someplace distant, a throne of elegance sat atop a pile of debris.

“Your statistics.”

Fiona Davy reached across her desk – suspiciously sturdy and well-polished – and picked up a file which sat proudly on top of a dwindling stack. She handed it over with a dramatic flourish.

“As you can see, our student satisfaction rate has improved tenfold since your last visit. Grades are going up, too, slowly but surely. Our girls are doing well.”

Had she the humour, Svorkae would have laughed. This facility's problems ran deeper than simple grades. As for student satisfaction, well, it was pitiful that Fiona Davy thought that that counted for anything. Her satisfied students would smile as they sunk a knife in her back, and she would return the gesture with that arrogant smirk on her face all the while, it seemed.

“This does not seem a fit environment for learning.”

“Well,” Fiona Davy began, clearly affected by Svorkae’s directness. “We are the only establishment in the entirety of Greater London to offer free further education exclusively to girls.”

“To…” Svorkae glanced down at the page. “Fourteen girls.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Fiona Davy’s face, but whether this was a product of stress or the illness that plagued her, Svorkae could not tell. “Um, we can only afford to take on the best and brightest girls…Some show great promise – future Neophytes, in fact.”

Svorkae couldn’t resist a questioning quirk of her finely arched eyebrow. “Show me,” she commanded.

Fiona Davy nodded, and pulled a fat file from atop her oaken desk. She handed it to Svorkae proudly. When she opened it, Svorkae saw that it was filled to the brim with positive reports.

“I teach the girl in Morality myself. Quite the rising star,” the woman said, trying haplessly to combat a smug smile.

Svorkae flicked through the folder. Predominantly meaningless awards administered by Davy herself in Art, English and Morality. Not worth much. However, there were also a number of county-wide awards. Svorkae would have signed those certificates herself.

She flipped the file shut and checked the name on the front.

Ah, yes. She remembered now. Interesting though, to see that name in a place like this.

Svorkae forced a gentle smile. “We will keep an eye on this one.” She dropped the file back into Fiona Davy’s arms.

“Where would you like to go next, Svorkae of Nim?”

“Home,” said the Nimae. And without another word, Svorkae disappeared in a swath of glittering light into the dusty air.