Somewhere I Belong

The ritual was solitary. He'd been here for nearly two whole days, enjoying the silence.

The stars outside remained ominously silent. He'd stopped talking to them mentally hours ago. Not that he expected a reply, he may have been a glorified monk in the past, but he still maintained that distance from all things spiritual. The otherworldly had been Dante's forte, not his. He was a hunter, an assassin and a relic hunter. Knowledge was something he had, and if he went back to the Chicago library beneath the church, he could have limitless books on the subject. Jackson was still skeptical of this entire procedure. He chuckled humorlessly.

A rite of passage, perhaps, but to him it was growing to feel more like a fool's errand.

"What would you have of me? Do the spirits of this place have advice for an unworthy interloper?"

The words fell from his lips, somehow not his own. They fell like a slap in the silence, shattering it in two. The spell of silence was broken. The eerie cry of coyotes lifted in the distance, echoing, sounding like the painful, death-throe screams of a torture victim. Anguished and mournful, perhaps the perfect complement to his current mood.

Their voices echoed, magnified a thousand times, eerie, raising the hackles on the lone hunter crossing the soft sand. Jackson's breathing was even, his gaze the keen glare of a predator, even as the sound made the hairs on his neck stand at attention.

Jackson was inside a small cave, kneeling beside a circle of uneven stones that formed a rough fire pit. The air smelled of old smoke and something more, some pungent herb. His eyes narrowed, scanning the vicinity before locating the small stone pot he'd set aside the prior evening. Inside was a tangle of what looked like dried moss.

Silently, reverently, he knelt before the circle, his movements dreamy, impossibly slow. He placed the sword in front of him, laying it down with respect. Sticks placed just so within the stained circle and then, a snap, and the bluish flame flares, igniting a scrap of wood, dropped atop the pile. The flames blazed up yellow, crackling, throwing Jackson's face into sharp relief as he dropped a pinch of the moss on the blaze. All this he did without thinking, almost as though this was some sort of instinct. Perhaps it was, some embedded knowledge passed on down the lines, encoded right in the DNA strand.

His tanned skin gleamed in the amber glow; taking on the dusky tone associated with Native Americans as he peered into the flames, his features inscrutable. Perhaps this was how it had been back before the white man had come, with his firewater, taking land, destroying Mother Earth. The coyotes continue their night serenade, calling back and forth over the miles, strangely beautiful background music accompanied by the dry crackle and hiss of the fire.

Jackson's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing regular. He regarded the stark beauty of the shifting flames through slitted eyes, basking in the warmth that radiated from the circle of dark stones. The flames guttered and sputtered, sinking into the dry wood with fatal fangs, snapping the dry wood. So powerful, the destructive force of fire… the bringer of painful death. He felt on the brink of some realization, or perhaps he was just growing dizzy from the smoke.

"Show me," he murmured, again feeling that niggling in the back of his mind. A connection was there, he just couldn't see it. "Please…" He didn't like to beg, but he couldn't stand the thought of failure.

He sat, thinking about fire, about beauty and about desire, watching the orange and yellow dance. The flames flickered, whirling with that danse macabre, going from two to one and back again. It was dizzying, mesmerizing, and oddly hypnotic. He could feel himself drifting, and for once, he didn't care.

The cave was filling with smoke now, ebbing and shifting, some drifting upwards to escape out a small smoke hole, an irregular shaft carved in the rock. The air outside was motionless, and as such, there was no draft to dispel the smoke. His eyes begin to burn and sting, watering slightly. His throat was throbbing as he breathed shallowly, but at least he wasn't craving a cigarette any longer. That thought brought a small chuckle to his lips that almost became a cough.

His mind was clear, filled with nothingness and silence. He felt lifeless, as dry and ready as the sticks in the fire, awaiting that spark of enlightenment that would consume him. Nothing mattered anymore, it was all meaningless. The thought of stepping back into The Circle with Osbourne Kilminster became nothing more than a petty concern that somehow just didn't matter anymore. He would have thought about it more, but somehow it didn't register as consequential any longer. Perhaps not now, there was plenty of time for that later, he thought. Life was nothing now as he drifted towards nirvana, the state of purity. There were no spiritual awakenings or stirrings in the dead, for the dead there was only tomorrow and tomorrow, endless tomorrows, all bleeding into one torturous moment. He waited, ready, poised like a model student, waiting for the learning to begin. For once, his mind was calm and still.

Jackson reached up with one hand, stroking the line of his jaw as though wiping away an itch as sweat dripped down from his dark hair. His eyes were dark and unreadable, fastened on the fire as though existence as he knew it depended on the shifting dance of those flames.

He breathed in slowly through his mouth. Inhale. Exhale. Something soothing in those simple motions as the herb-scented smoke filled his lungs. With each breath, life swelled within him, and he felt invigorated.

His hands closed into fists, clenching so tightly that the knuckles turned white, despite the discoloration of scar tissue there. Jackson peered into the flames himself, nodding slowly as he repeated the words Ryann's grandfather had said to him before setting him on this journey. "Some men fade when faced with their own selves…"

He drew in a deep breath, and coughed hard. It hurt, deep in his lungs and for a moment, he thought he may just keel over right now in the fire and die. The coughing passed though, leaving him dizzy. He gazed up at the rough stone ceiling, lightheaded and woozy, watching the smoke drift towards that tiny hole, and feeling his mind float free again. The cave seemed to be growing larger, almost expanding exponentially.

His chest was burning now, his body desperately craving fresh, oxygen-rich air. The smoke seared his lungs, he felt the need to cough again, but he forced it away with sheer force of will. He was getting a handle on this now, he thought, as he absently rubbed his hands together.

He began to breathe shallowly once again, feeling lighter. He felt like he'd shed at least twenty pounds. And the cave grew larger still… and darker. The fire, so bright only moments ago, seemed to dim before his eyes. His heart, beating so slowly, was racing now, his eyes widening in fear, his palms clammy. As he willed his heart rate to slow, he heard the sound of water lapping against an unseen shore, accompanied by the rustle of palms.

He tensed, his hackles rising instinctively as he glared into the darkness, seeing the glow of eyes beyond the glow of the fire, deep in the shadows.

"Show yourself, I can feel you there."

There was no reply from the shifting, writhing darkness, just the flash of animal eyeshine. His eyes narrowed as he snarled, slamming his fist down on his knee. "I grow weary of these games… tell me who the fuck you are or I'll-"

"Or you'll what? Oh please do finish that thought… you amuse me so!"

The voice was familiar on some level. It made him shudder, gooseflesh crawling up his spine, turning the sweat to ice. Uncannily familiar, yet he still couldn't place it. He snarled at the darkness, his eyes flashing with demonic ire. "I'll fucking kill you. You wanted to hear it. Now tell me what I want to hear. Who are you? What the fuck do you want from me?"

The cavern vibrated with the laughter of the spirit in the darkness. "How can you kill what you cannot see, Durjaya?"

"Try me," Jackson snapped, springing up and lunging through the flames into the shadows. There was nothing there, but the laughter filled his ears just the same as he rolled to his knees. "Bastard," he growled, and the laughter grew more shrill.

"Wake up and face me." The voice spoke from behind his shoulder, and Jackson turned around quickly, only to find that they were standing on top of the cave. The smoke hole was between his feet. Laughter echoed in his ears, mingling with the song of the coyotes as he fell from the edge, only to snap awake.

Then, it was almost as if an invisible hand closed over his heart, squeezing, hard. He gasped, clutching at his chest, his eyes growing wide. The voice spoke again, in a reasonable tone, quite close to his ears; he could almost feel the cool kiss of the being's breath there, if he concentrated on it. However, he was trying to remember how to breathe, even though he no longer needed to so the sensation was lost on him.

"I can do as I please. Your fate, such as it is, now lies in my hands… whether you live or die is now up to my discretion. You have been given ample time to find your purpose, yet you persist in these foolish games."

The pressure waned, and he was left bent over, gasping and choking. After a moment, he looked back into the darkness, his eyes blazing with fire. His tone however, was carefully neutral. "Can you at least tell me why I'm here?"

"That's not the question you truly want to know, is it? Say what you mean, nameless one, and perhaps you will know."

Jackson looked away, his words coming from his mouth in a hurried gush, almost as though vomited up. "What am I? What have I become?"

The darkness shifted and roiled, but remained silent. He grew irritated, almost immediately, as he slammed his fist down on his thigh, growling in vexation. "Yeah, let me guess, you'll answer me when you fucking feel like it, and not before, right? Listen up, I'm not the type who enjoys games… I want some answers. I think you, and whoever else is in on this owes me that much. Tell me what the fuck is going on! Right fucking now! I'm sick of playing these games… I don't want to play anymore!"

The darkness rippled, a sound like laughter filling the silence. "On the contrary, nameless one. You know what you are. You do not need me to tell you… Gv-n a-ge-i A-da-nv-to… black soul. You are my child. You hear my song."

"Who are you?" The silence was suddenly deafening, punctuated only by the hollow sound of the howling coyotes in the distance.

You hear my song…

His eyes opened, and he found that the fire had gone out some time ago. His joints were stiff, and he was sprawled on the cold floor of the cave, drenched in sweat. "Just a dream…" he murmured, but was it, really? As he lay there sorting through the images, he realized that it might have been his vision.

He sat up quickly, and gathered the few things he had, stuffing them into the canvas bag he had been given by Ryann's grandfather. With effort he made it to his feet, and moved towards the entrance to the cave.

He felt vital now. More alive than he had in years, and filled with a strange sense of wonder as he looked up at the night sky. Shouldering the pack, he moved towards the lights in the distance. He had a long walk ahead of him. With luck he'd make it back to the house before dawn.

"Ryann…" he murmured her name, feeling a pain in his chest. He missed her fiercely.

The coyotes continued their serenade, and he heard every perfect note right into the core of his being.

You hear my song…