The small, dimly lit corridor carried with it the distinct odor of death. Every brick in the decaying wall seemed to scream of murder, misfortune, and perhaps a bit of mildew. It was the stuff of nightmares, of memories no one would wish to keep, but which kept manifesting themselves in dreams, year after year, too strong, too potent to go away. The rough stone that served as a floor here cracked and gave with each step, seeming to cry out about the injustice of being trod upon in one's old age. It, too, smelled of death, and gave off wafting clouds of dust from inbetween its many cracks, as if to make the point unnecessarily obvious.
This was not a place for the living. Even the rats, the insects and spiders, all the vermin, were long since gone, sent into spasms of disease and depression by their surroundings and forced to either join the dead or scurry off to sunnier pastures. Whether any of them actually made it was impossible to tell, and the shadowy drear of this home for the deceased gave no positive suggestion. The three dirty travelers looked about them with tangible fear, and then continued on their way. One could almost imagine them being asked, in their old age, filthy nameless scum chatting away with filthy, nameless, scummy friends, what was the closest they ever came to Hell. They had their answer now, if they ever recovered enough to repeat it.
The dust surrounded them like an old friend as they stopped and looked down at the object of their search, and this crew of three sparkled dimly with the unfamiliar expression of hope, expressed hollowly on faces turned away from the respectable world too long. They were staring at a body.
The first of them, a scruffy fellow who might have seemed leaderly, had his awkward form not given the impression that he had been locked in a three-foot box at birth, hesitated for a moment and then forced his apathetic limbs to peel back the sheet of what once might have been burlap. It crumbled slightly in his small hands and fell in a dusty spasm onto the stone floor. He stared, and was amazed.
"The preservation process was successful."
"Yes. It is remarkable, is it not?"
It was indeed. The body underneath had been scuffed and marred by the forces of the Earth Mother, but was otherwise intact, right down to the legendary face.
"Three centuries. And yet he lies here before us."
"It is surely a false, we cannot Ö"
"Hold your tongue. Our ancestors were of many talents. This could be no other but our mighty leader, he who so many years ago made our country great."
"It is beyond joyous. He returns, now, to us!"
And their grizzled faces, as the dust settled and all was made visible, were given new life by the sight of this powerful warrior of legend and song. The old women of the mountains talked of him as if he were a god, but they knew, as they had conversed with the Truth-Keepers, that he was but a man, a man that would, as the tellers of tales had foretold, rise up again to make the country undefeatable, as it had been in the fabled days of old.
The singers were, they knew, singing songs of their leader even now, spreading his glory to all who would listen. It was a song of power, of conquest. It told of a man who brought the world to its knees. And it was a song to strike fear into the hearts of the unworthy, for, as all must eventually realize, he was the Chosen One, and the greatest, fiercest ruler the world had ever known. The Truth-Scrolls told of how he had conquered the Armies of the Seven Lakes, slashing the throats of millions who dared stand in his way, collecting their death-money and bringing all their far-reaching lands into his mighty hand. They told of how he had gone on to capture the mountains beyond, home of the Army of the Broken Stump, who were feared throughout the land. Of how they, like fools, tried to halt the great leader's campaign, and how, when he had reduced their once-mighty band to a small and scattered few, they had retreated like frightened rabbits in fear of the leader's blessed sword. When at last their judgement came, the Warriors of the Broken Stump could do nothing but scream. They spoke of a God, but where was their God then?
And in this manner, as the old men of the valleys told to the young, that this great legacy might never be forgotten, he had built his holy empire, bringing the lands of the world to those who truly deserved it, the blessed Earth's Heirs, the ones chosen to carry it and its burdens. He paved over their cities; he flattened their towns; and his great people came to dwell upon the sweet-smelling ruins. The conquered peasants were sold into slavery, of course; those unclean foreigners were not pure enough for death. Their hands would build the shrines, the statues, the monuments to his eternal glory. And when each was built and carted upon majestic wheels to the decreed location, the world learned of his joys, his power, his selfless thirst to bring the gift of Truth to those who would not otherwise understand. Theirs had been the mightiest country in all of creation; less nations knew and feared them above all else. The reign of the Chosen One, he had said, would last a thousand years, and the citizens of his glorious country would know true happiness for as long as they might live.
But one sad day, as was written in the Mourning-Book, the leader had judged that it was time to leave the world of mortal men. His eyes had grown dim, his body limp and pallid. His reign over the land was no more. And with the departure of its mighty ruler, the once-great country had fallen into ruin. His son had been a pitiful joke as a ruler, a weak-kneed flower who ignored the self-evident truth that only one country was destined to rule. Followers of the Truth killed him, of course, while he penned a hideous future for his father's country. His pallid body was cleaved into seven parts and given up to the ends of the earth. His head was preserved and placed upon a pike for public viewing. And the country cheered. But the others that came after were not as strong as hoped either. There were none that could continue the blessed traditions of great days past. The empire withered and fell, leaving its citizens poor and unhappy. But the old women who lived in the shadow of the valley to the East had foretold that one day, the Chosen One would return, and make his country great again. Three centuries had passed, but that day had now come.
Their sorrow was to end that night. Their leader would rise again! They had made all of the necessary connections, followed with exacting care the instructions given to them by a well-dressed man from the West. The red lights streaming down the fallen leader's neck shone pleasantly in the mists of the subterranean darkness. His arm had been slit from shoulder to wrist, a shining wire placed inside. Soon, the blood of the Chosen One would flow once more! Soon, their armies would be the unstoppable warriors of days long gone but fondly remembered! In the shadow of the black mountains, the wise old men were telling their stories. In the sleeping streets, the singers were singing their songs. In the still valleys, the old women were passing down the tales of old to the young. And in a small and dimly lit corridor, a tiny green light was flashing on.
The Chosen One opened his eyes.
Property of Orange Cow Productions. ninc., 1999. This piece may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, altered, forwarded, or otherwise worked with in any way without the express written consent of Orange Cow Productions, ninc. We can be reached at ocpmovie at lycos.com.