Chapter 20 The Memory of Ash and Water
I was ruined. My consciousness drifted, diluted, throughout a massive, boundless space. It wasn't a bad feeling; it was similar to the calm pause after you breathe out fully, that moment of serenity before you need to breathe in again. My mind drifted apart, then came back together, carrying pieces of my past identity. Law enforcement officer. The hunter. Boy. Each persona felt detached, akin to inspecting remnants of someone else's experiences. The only thing that never changed was a gentle, continuous sound that filled the air, like the breathing of a giant we couldn't understand.
I whispered, "Clive Morrow," as I tried the name out in this empty space. The sound reverberated oddly, distorted and foreign when it came back to me. Had that ever truly been me?
I attempted to look at my hands, but I saw nothing; there was no body, no physical form to give my perception something to hold on to. Despite everything, I could still see. The surrounding environment displayed unnamed colors, which were shades beyond what humans could see. The elements moved together, producing formations that were reminiscent of thoughts, not just visuals.
For what duration had I been present? Time had lost all significance, a notion of the mortal world I was no longer part of. I recalled the room beneath New Orleans; the symbols on the wall moved as if alive, and my blood was filled with a red light. Iris's face came to mind, a mix of terror and resolve evident in her expression. Darkness, absorption, and dissolution follow.
Underneath me, there was a gentle pulse coming from what I perceived as the ground, although "ground" wasn't the best word; it was more like a feeling of stability in a sea of nothingness. It took me a second to realize that was a heartbeat. My heartbeat, barely there, is the only thing tethering me to life.
Thump... long silence... thump... longer silence.
The pulsations created waves of odd colors, temporarily arranging their disorder into circular patterns that then faded back into a flowing, undefined form. I used that rhythm to stay centered, finding my place in the endless space.
I posed the question "Where am I?" internally, but silence met my query.
The humming grew stronger, not louder, but more noticeable, as if it understood my question but remained silent. As the hues morphed, it briefly seemed as though countless eyes were opening and closing, gazing at me from everywhere.
I felt vulnerable, more than physically. It wasn't merely my physical form that was revealed; instead, all my experiences, every thought, and every secret were laid bare. No secrets were kept here. My career as a detective, my search for Iris, and my doubts about who I was were all in view, not as things I remembered but as actual parts of my life, turning slowly in the formless expanse that surrounded me.
Like constellations, the murders I'd solved, the criminals I'd apprehended, and the victims I couldn't rescue swirled around me, each a distinct memory. I remembered the faces of everyone I'd ever apprehended, alongside all my coworkers, and every informant who'd shared secrets with me.
Moreover, I saw the lonely nights I spent in my apartment, studying old books and uncovering connections to the paranormal world beneath New Orleans. Doubts regarding my family, which I'd always kept buried. The peculiar talents that defined my excellence as a detective—the instincts that were far more than lucky and the connections that were beyond coincidence.
Since I couldn't blink, I was unable to escape this unforgiving introspection. All of me was laid bare to the humming void, and I felt it was being considered, analyzed, and grasped.
"Enough," I wanted to say, but the notion of speech was laughable in this situation. But something did respond to my misery. The spinning colors moved away a little, which afforded me some privacy.
It was then that I noticed the smell, which shouldn't have been possible in this empty space, but it was still noticeable. Woodsmoke whispers beneath the scent of rain on scorched sugar. It felt painfully familiar, but the source escaped me. Whatever was left of me felt a tug, a sensation that existed before Detective Clive Morrow.
The smell grew more potent, and my surroundings transformed. From nothingness, shapes formed as colors solidified, hinting at walls, floors, and a ceiling. The humming faded, giving way to the unmistakable sound of water leaking from the roof, along with the creaking of old wood.
I felt myself condensing, gathering back into something resembling a form, though still not physical. More like the idea of a body, a remembered shape. And as I reformed, so did the world around me.
Yellowed with age, the wallpaper was peeling, its edges twisting like withered leaves. Beneath me, floorboards had formed, distorted by dampness and marred by the remnants of past messes. Moonlight streamed through the spiderweb-patterned cracks of a window to my right, causing distorted shadows to dance on the floor.
I recognized this place. Though it had been torn down and erased from existence ages ago, I knew it intimately. The tiny shotgun house on the edge of New Orleans was where I lived for my first eight years.
A soft, melodic lullaby, sung by my mother, reached me from somewhere else in the house, the words indistinct to my ears. Despite her gentle voice, there was another sound, a man's voice, devoid of emotion, giving orders that ruined her music.
I advanced, compelled by the sounds. I glided through the space rather than walk, moving past the cramped hallway with crooked, old photographs on display. The family photos were blurry, even though I tried to sharpen the focus. Everyone else's eyes blurred, but my mother's stayed focused, watching me as I went by.
The small living room was at the end of the hall, and what I saw there shocked me.
White crystals twinkled in the dimness as a perfect circle of salt rested on the floor. The flame of a lone black candle at its edge swayed wildly, appearing to be affected by invisible drafts. My mother stood in the circle; she looked younger than I remembered, her dark hair loose around her shoulders instead of being in the tight bun she usually wore in my waking memories.
There I was, cross-legged, in the very heart of the circle. I wasn't the detective or the man, but the boy I used to be: seven years old, skinny, with a solemn face, and watching my mother with eyes that were too serious for a child.
"Clive, don't move," my mother whispered, her voice tinged with that odd accent I could never identify. "You won't feel a thing."
"It's bound to be painful," the man spoke, and I saw his shadowy figure just outside the circle. The only visible features were his eyes, which shone out of the darkness, his face otherwise hidden. "Pain seals the binding. You know this."
"He's only a child," my mother insisted, while her hands continued to move, making shapes in the space over young Clive's head.
"That boy was never meant to be a child," the man said.
Eliza disagreed, shaking her head as a signal.
"He was meant to be a vessel. You've grown too attached, Eliza."
My mother, Eliza, whose name had slipped my mind, didn't respond. Instead, she began outlining symbols on the floor around young Clive, using a material that appeared to be red chalk but carried the scent of blood. The patterns became apparent to me, a realization that shook my very core. Those markings, which had twisted on the walls of the room under New Orleans, also pulsed within me when the change started.
Sigils of binding. Of bridging. Of containment.
My mother was working, and young Clive didn't move a muscle, his face giving nothing away. Despite that, I felt his terror, and mine too, like a frozen lump in the place where my stomach used to be. He didn't understand the events unfolding, but he knew they were wrong, and that they would have an unimaginable impact on him.
"Our lineage is dwindling," the man said as he moved toward the circle's border. "Are you sure he's capable of keeping it in check?"
"Despite appearances, he's strong," my mother responded, her voice gentle yet resolute. "The veil is already communicating with him."
The smell of blood and iron filled the room, so overpowering that it felt as if it was coating my throat, even though I didn't have one. My mother finished the final sigil, then turned back to look at it closely, assessing it.
"Clive, now," she said, as she faced the boy. "Take off your shirt."
Clive, still a boy, did as he was told without a word, displaying a frail chest where the outline of his ribs was apparent beneath his fair skin. My mother reached into a small bowl I hadn't seen, and she covered her fingers with something that shone black in the candlelight.
"This will keep you safe," she murmured, her voice kind even as her body showed she was on edge.
"What's going to happen, Mama?" asked young Clive, speaking for the very first time, as far as I knew.
My mother paused, looking over at the shadowy figure. He gave a brief nod, signaling agreement.
"Ready to be the bridge," she said, pressing her coated fingers against young Clive's chest, directly over his heart.
As her fingers brushed against him, young Clive gasped, his body reflexively arching. The dark matter seemed to be absorbed by his skin, vanishing in the same manner as something absorbed by dry soil. Nothing occurred for a brief period. Gradually, a symbol appeared where she had touched him; it was a complicated sigil, emanating a crimson glow that matched his fast heart rate.
A phantom pain arose in my chest, a reflection of the boy's agony. It was a sensation like fire and ice merging, a pain that went far beyond mere suffering and seemed to touch my soul. The mark of the bridge, the sigil, was more than skin deep; it affected something intrinsic to who a person was.
His eyes were filled with shock and pain, and young Clive's mouth opened in a silent scream. The candle's light leaped up, resembling a scream composed of brightness. The room's shadows twisted and turned, pulled towards the glowing symbol on the boy's chest, then merged with him, much like ink dissolving in water. He was bent over, shaking, and for a fleeting moment, I glimpsed the form his soul would take: neither human nor beast, but a colossal, incomplete being.
My mother's cracking voice broke the light. “Clive, listen to me—whatever they make of you, remember: it’s not what you are that defines you, but what you choose.”
The words shattered, resonating within me as though glass was plummeting into a well. The child and I screamed in unison, and the room vanished. Like burning paper, the walls disintegrated and fell away.
I tumbled backward through a kaleidoscope of sensations, traversing all the existences I'd been led to believe were mine, past the identity I never fully embraced. My connection to life flickered, then resumed, though its rhythm was now more deliberate and profound.
And just before the last of the memory collapsed, I heard a whisper threading through the static:
"Clive, they'll say that you are the end... however, you were destined to end it."
Then came the silence—total, absolute.