Splatterism: The Tragic Recollections of a Minotaur Assailant: An Upbuilding Edifying Discourse Read online

  SPLATTERISM:

  THE TRAGIC RECOLLECTIONS OF A MINOTAUR ASSAILANT

  (AN UPBUILDING EDIFYING DISCOURSE)

  BY

  CHRISTIAN WINTER

  Translated by C. S. Hand

  In blissful remembrance of Hegesias, that suasor mortis, whose lectures sounded to the ancients like “the song of fairies from the grottoes on a summer night.”

  “To our amazement we suddenly exist, after having for countless millennia not existed; in a short while we will again not exist, also for countless millennia.”

  Schopenhauer

  PROLOGUE

  What is known is that there was a cataclysm. What is not known is what things were like before it. Survivors, there were few, were summoned to sit for an afternoon with a few of the remaining Inquisitors, Professors, and Erudite Scribes to record their memories of what life was like, and what the world and its peoples were like, before the Cataclysm—before the spine of the world was cut. This text represents the last of those conversations, and is the last to be released to the public.

  *

  This is the official, palace recording of Serene Duelist and High Inquisitor Tristan D’Mure’s thought globe, as recovered from the empire’s Heretic Archives; its contents are highly controversial and their authenticity is hotly contested by Palace Scholars.

  Erudite Scribe, S. T. Undernote

  JOURNEYS END

  “One might indeed consider that the appropriate form of address between man and man ought to be, not monsieur, sir, but fellow sufferer, compangnon de misères.”

  Schopenhauer

  Alive. Why…am I…still…alive?

  The sweet darkness of unconsciousness slowly receded as my eyelid trembled and slid back. The answer was staring me in the face: her eyes were black and bottomless, and her mouth was hanging open in a silent scream. Her body was under me, some of it sticking to me, but most of it crushed into the heavy stones. And underneath her body was her lover’s body, paste and hair, scattered molars and tangled thighs.

  I began breathing.

  Regrettably.

  With each breath I took, she seemed to move farther away, until finally she drifted over the horizon of mortality and I fell behind.

  I groaned as I flopped over on my back and stretched out across the cool stone floor. I took another breath, just as sour as all the ones before it, and shut my eyes for a moment before opening them again, casting myself back into the wretched realm of the awake and the living.

  The chamber was sprawling and dim, and I could see I was lying on a checkered floor with immense tiles of purple and ebony marble, laid in a giant circle; it was like being at the bottom of a bottomless well and looking up. I was in the bottom of a bottomless well and looking up. On the walls stretched a series of runes and mosaics placed in a circular fashion that wrapped all the way up the well, historicizing witch lore from discoveries of new spells and chants, to the chronicles of great lovers and fabled sorceresses. I let my eyes glide up the well, circling slowly like a vulture riding the wind. Then I saw him: a small, naked, shivering elf with long platinum blonde hair, and skin the color of winter moonlight chained to the wall across from me.

  I slowly walked over to him, his eyes fixed on mine, and mine fixed on his. I kneeled down and did what creatures have done for millennia before deciding whether or not to kill one another: I looked in his eyes. Around each pupil rotated a slow iridescent storm cloud, tender turquoise mingled with gentle vanillas, the saffron of sunflares stirred next to calm crimsons, and bold sapphire swirled next to pensive purple. Behind all those colors swirled the more secret hues of suffering and oppression. We all have it, we all look the same. I pulled the chains from the walls and threw the metal links across the cold stones; the fetters remained on his wrists though. I stretched out my arm, palm facing him and said, “The end of my finger: this is where my enemies begin.” He touched his elven palm to mine, saying “Your reach is a little bit longer now.” That is the first thing he ever said to me, and from then on we were kin. I wrapped his hand in mine and pulled him to his feet.

  “I thought this thing was bottomless,” I said, stepping back and peering up the shadowy well.

  “I think they use a spell,” he said and shrugged.

  “Was it a spell that brought you down here?”

  “I suppose I’m down here due to…futility…” he said as he gazed off, listlessly. “I remember feeling very bored and forlorn up there, and I leaned on the well and was ruminating, and began gazing into it and thinking; and the more I thought the farther I leaned—so I kept thinking and leaning until I slipped over the side.” His voice was quiet and even, and had glosses of melancholy and boredom, traits that are acquired from the troubles that are reserved for gods and those who think too much. “How did you get down here?”

  “I was trying to kill myself.”

  “The witches might have helped you with that, if you hadn’t killed them.”

  I shrugged. “My life will pass eventually, and then this ridiculous torment will be at an end. I am fit enough to endure the torture of a lifetime, but not a moment longer. And since I know I am tortured in a tepid world dominated by pain and misery, where, as the proverb goes, pleasure is as impossible as pain is certain, I see no reason to remain on the rack, to the delight of my torturer.”

  “And what if you are reborn?” he asked.

  “Then I will finally know what a true gift death is, and will seek it out with more vigor.”

  “And what if you live forever?”

  “What could be worse than living forever,” I muttered.

  *

  Hours later we were still trying to find a way out of the well.

  “Don’t witches have brooms?” I shouted across the vast chamber to him. “What were they doing with you?” He was rummaging around an onyx table with a giant golden chalice on it, with ornate carvings around the rim.

  “Well, you got here just before the fun started, and ruined it all.” I saw him push a book and a couple of vials off the table, then heard the glass shatter, followed by a plume of indigo smoke. He threw some petals into the smoke and stared hesitantly at the cloud as it spread, then quickly shuffled away from it over to the witch corpses. He looked down at them for a moment, then walked over to me. I noticed he still hadn’t removed the cuffs. He placed a long, thin index finger over his lip and looked at me. “I just remembered something,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That witches don’t have brooms.”

  “How about your name? Or who you are?” I asked, looking over his shoulder where the smoke had been.

  “I have no idea, I only remember who I was.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Scammander, the greatest wizard of all time.”

  “And what did you do as Scammander, the greatest wizard of all time?”

  “I probably watched unicorns.”

  “Is that an elvish saying for someone who is an idler?”

  “No, but it sounds like it could be,” his voice faded a little as he gave it consideration. “It’s part of our Heritage, to watch over the unicorns; it’s the most prestigious of the Heritages, followed by the sharpening and safekeeping of the Blades—a pair of golden blades, the sharpest of all swords. They are eternal razors, they never need sharpening, but every thousand years they are sharpened for ceremony—out of prestigious leisure. Then there is the compiling of poems and lore, which is generally reserved for the minor hous
es.” He paused for a moment. “But I guess all that has more to do with my lineage than with my wizarding abilities. I have no idea what I did as a mage.” He put his hands on his hips and looked around, then brushed some hair out of his eyes and spoke.

  “You said you tried to kill yourself—”

  I nodded.

  “What were your last words?”

  I didn’t have any, so I made something up. “Everything is false, everything is permissible.”

  He chuckled a little as he spoke. “Sounds like my first words.”

  He looked at me as silence seeped in around us.

  “What, do you expect me to just guess it?”

  I tilted my head and wrinkled my brow as I stared at him.

  “Your name,” he said.

  “Oh,” I grinned. “You were the greatest wizard of all time, so I figured you could.” I slid my eyes away from his and lowered my head. “Evander, my name is Evander,” I said faintly, peering at the ground.

  “Good, strong name.”

  “Today is my birthday,” I said, taking a deep breath and squinting to hold back the tears. I slowly lifted my head as I spoke: “Do you know many creatures with good names who try to kill themselves on their birthday?”

  “Every single one of them.”

  The world wobbled. My cheeks puffed as a wave of nausea washed over me and pushed me to my knees, as I gripped the side of my head, winced, and began grinding my teeth. A thin blue portal had opened in the middle of the chamber, and small white tendrils of light were creeping off the edges. I saw Scammander scamper through, and began crawling and gasping through the tossing slosh of existence. As I got closer, I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled towards the gate, holding my head with both hands trying to keep my head from falling off, or keep the world straight.

  *

  We were on a slender tower of azure glass in the middle of the sky, with a spiraling stair case that wrapped around the outside. I looked up, and it stretched on forever; I looked down, and it stretched on forever.

  “What is this thing?” I asked.

  “The Tower of Infinity of course,” Scammander said, pointing to a series of carvings over the arch. He was wearing a robe the color of underworld brimstone, and beneath the sleeves I saw a glimmer around his wrists.

  The cuffs were still on.

  “You know what else is infinite?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Misery.”

  He chuckled a bit as he slowly turned the pages in a huge leather covered tome. The letters towards the end of the book seemed darker than the faded ones near the beginning, on the first pages.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “No clue, I can’t read this script.” He tossed the heavy book back inside the darkness behind the arched doorway. I walked in after it, intent on holding it for him since he would probably figure it all out later.

  The chamber was dimly lit, and hung around the walls were outlines of weapons, with some parts wrapped in shadows and other parts illuminated in dull yellow light. I walked further into the center to get a better view of everything, and came upon a wooden table with two small crossbows on it. I picked them up, turning them over carefully. The wood of one was the color of spilled wine and etched across it in golden cursive was the phrase “Yours, Forever.” The other was made of a pallid wood, the color of roaming poltergeists, and etched across it was the phrase “So that I may never miss again.” On its handle was a picture of a stern and forlorn lady with her hand across her heart, looking away, while on the handle of the crimson crossbow was a picture of a cheerful maiden smiling out as if she were looking right into my eyes. Oddly, there were no bolts loaded into the crossbows. So I would have to live a little while longer. I walked outside and opened the scroll, which had a little charm on it. I decided to read it aloud: “These are the repeaters of Constantine Constantius, treated with Kraken’s breath and merfolk loam and washed in elixirs from Magus Haufniensis’s desk; shoot where you please! If your heart’s aim is true, then so is your aim; shoot, friend, for only she is to blame.” I looked up at Scammander once I had finished reading.

  “Haufniensis,” he muttered, looking at the runes above me. “I haven’t heard that name since my childhood.” He let loose a deep, lugubrious sigh, then gathered himself and pointed at the crossbows. “Those are made from enchanted wood that grows on a resurfaced island out in the Swells, which used to be home to a merfolk prince. The drow discovered it first, or very likely brought it out of the waves, killing the merfolk in the process. It immediately became the favorite vacation spot of the nobility from all races.”

  “With the exception of minotaurs,” I said.

  “Very true,” he said, looking at me.

  “But of course you have been there.”

  “Every summer when I was growing up. There are some really beautiful grottoes below the island.” He paused to grin wickedly. “There is also a group of stupid and wingless birds that populate at excessive speeds that the dark elves shoot for sport; they affectionately named them ‘humans.’”

  “Killing humans, now that might be a reason to live,” I said, aiming the repeaters into the sky. Nothing shot out of either one.

  He rolled up the sleeve of his robe, revealing a tattoo that I hadn’t seen earlier. In large, black-green elaborate cursive that flowed all the way down the underside of his arm, was the phrase “The Enemy of Playwrights, Pity, and Mankind.” He grinned and let the sleeve slide back down his arm as he began speaking.

  “Haufniensis was the mage that resurfaced the island, and Constantine was a gregarious archer who fell in love with two drow maidens when he first visited the island. He was thinking about marrying one of them but couldn’t decide, so he shot them both.”

  “And what happened to him?”

  “He shot the two women he loved the most, what do you think happened?” he said. “He lived happily ever after.”

  I just laughed and shook my head. “Odd concept of happiness.”

  “Dark elves see themselves as the happiest of all races, they don’t think other races can ever be as happy as they are.” Scammander again pointed to the crossbows. “Those repeaters were said to return Constantine to his previous condition. What a humorist, to enter the past by going forward!”

  “I’ve never even seen a dark elf.”

  “Dark elves view reproduction as a sign of weakness. You don’t see many because of their arrogance and selectivity.” He started walking back into the room. “They also commit suicide a lot. You would probably get along well with them.”

  When we entered the room again, there was nothing except another strange, glowing portal. I looked at Scammander.

  “Well, you can jump off the tower, or we can go through this gate.”

  “Jumping didn’t work the first time,” I grumbled, but considered it anyways. I sighed and looked at the shimmering silver oval, which reflected my image, something which I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  My eyes don’t shine like they used to, because the world took my dreams out of them. My hair, once the color of a handful of gleaming rubies, is now the color of solitary rain clouds and crumbling tombstones; or like the grey hair a poet gets long after he has fallen in love, long after he has sung his verses and married the maiden. Though I have done none of these things. And I am called young. And I am supposed to hope. And I am supposed to love. And I am—I saw Scammander staring at me, like he was listening to my thoughts.

  I turned away from the gate and looked back at him. “At least this one doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to puke.”

  “What’s on the other side probably will though,” he joked as I followed him through the gate.

  THE TENDER VALE OF UBIQUITIOUS HAPPINESS AND HALYCON CONTENTMENT

  “Most men do not make it to old age.”

  Stendhal

  I have never felt so happy in all my life. I swung the repeaters off my shoulder, and looked around to see why I felt so sang
uine. We were in a fluorescent vale where the green grass was greener, the blue sky was bluer, and everything was bright and vivid. There were peacefully sloping knolls crowned with patches of wildflowers, and centaurs playing lyres to blushing fays. Here and there were small trees with bold brown bark, where birds were singing sweet lays. I carelessly turned to Scammander, who had an enormous grin on his face, his lips literally arched up to his ears. We both laughed and pointed at each other at the same time, and I realized that I too had the great grin. I tried to walk to him, and instead began to skip away towards a small, limpid pool beneath a tree. I looked back over my shoulder and saw him skipping behind me, full of cheer, only to turn away and start skipping in the opposite direction. But I didn’t care, I was happy.

  Once at the shaded pool, I lay the crossbows in the grass and sat down under a tree, and with sweet and gentle thoughts, fell into a sleep full of lovely dreams. After a while, I awoke with a tickle on my nose, and as I opened my eyes I saw giggling sprites dart away. I rolled over in front of the pool and saw that they had tied some yellow lace to the tips of my horns, and a garland of roses, poppies, and mayflowers lay slanted across my brow, which the sprites had also made for me. Leaning on my elbow with my cheek resting in my palm, I wrote sweet sonnets in the cool lake water with my lazy finger, until I heard the most wonderful music. To my surprise, I rose up and frolicked out in the meadow towards a stampede of unicorns with pastel pink, yellow, orange, aqua, and lavender manes who were trailed not by dust, but by a dense cloud of shimmering, blue-white sparkles, some large, some small. Still grinning, I skipped towards them, swinging my arms up and down with each bound until I caught up with the mirthful mares, and then jumped on the back of the closest unicorn; at once I saw Scammander in the middle of the pack, giggling and clapping his hands with fetterless glee. I didn’t know what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all. And I didn’t care! I was happy! I immediately started laughing and clapping my hands, and waving them about over my head with a joy that would make holiday fairies envious.