The Temple of the Green Stone Men, Part 1

Short Story

the oasis - a song for the alraunes - the key to the water road - the statues - the lure - the stairs

There it was at last, after miles of empty desert. The myrrhic scent of the oasis on the wind, if he were to remove his mask to take in the atmosphere of such a strange place the fragrance might knock him over. The sky of green agate above, pocked by carnelian stars, reflected on water mirror-still.

No choice but forward, he hadn’t come all that way, through all that sand, to turn back.

The mask was functional, but false and ill-fitting. He adjusted it over his face to make a tighter seal, and still the scent came to him as if he walked near a pool of resin. But all there was, at the head of the long, thin pool were little creatures, craws and alraunes hidden in the sword-like sedges and mud.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself, after a gust of wind threatened to rip it from his shoulders, and trudged on, more sand finding its way through the seam where his boots met his suit. At that gust, the surface of the water finally shivered. So did he, but he walked on, readying himself to climb the low, crumbling wall that edged the wet ground and kept out much of the desert.

The pilots couldn’t have dropped him any nearer, he knew, but he had cursed them anyway. Just then, despite the curses, he wished he could hear their voices—the desert was so vast, empty, now that he had found the place he was sent to find he wished he had anything to listen to other than the sound of his own breath hissing through the mask, in, out, in, out, thickly. There was something so discomforting at the view, he regretted the lack of company.

Dawn was approaching—what passed for dawn—turning the sky amber at his back and casting the shadows of the dunes out ahead of him, leading to the same point of interest, the water became a road to it. As he neared, it seemed to elongate, though the spots of stars on the surface hadn’t moved.

The final dune pressed against a wall, blending so well it was hard to say if the stones were made from the sand, or the sand from the deterioration of the wall. They crumbled as he clambered over, but otherwise they were easy enough to scale and soon he was up and over, landing in a dish of soggy ground. Even as decayed as the walls were, they kept the area from the desert, except for the strongest gusts of wind to disturb the surface of the water, swirls of white sparkle, and then there was stillness again.

The scent of the oasis was much stronger, almost overpowering. But he didn’t feel ill. He swallowed the thought that his wellness was some sort of illusion, that the effects of the atmosphere played tricks on him, and the mask was an imitation in more ways than one.

But did it matter? He was there, where he had been told to go—and he always fulfilled an order.

He walked through the sodden grasses, angry noises gurgling up at him with every step. The sedge matched the hue of the night sky, their flowers of the sun, which was now rising higher, a beam across the mirror, dull as this sun was.

He stopped walking to search through his sabretache, to find another forgery—a relic, a key the shape of a glass coin—and as the wildlife around his feet quieted at his stillness, a strange music began. With his breath held it was the only sound at all—a dozen voices, flute-like yet electric, all harmonized together as if all from one throat.

The alraunes twisted through the sedge, writhing around his ankles, in pain or in ecstasy he couldn’t guess—could such things have emotions, could they feel at all? Grey-skinned, duller than the sand that trickled over the top of the wall—for the sand reflected the colours of the sky, much like the water, and the skin of the alraunes did not—they looked like herbaceous rats, scurrying to the highs and lows of the music.

Then they began diving into the water, alraunes and the reptilian craws, and a number of other small beasts he had no name for. The water boiled with all the frantic activity—he realized he was witnessing a mass suicide, and all he could do was struggle to keep upright through the wave, pulling his sword from the sheath and instinctively preparing to swing—the creatures were so small he would be dulling the blade on the sedge before hitting anything that bled.

And bleed they did, though it could hardly change the colour of the dark water. If they bled red or blue, all that showed was a darkening of reflections, no longer were there orange flecks over black-green glass, just a dark frothing. Something beneath the surface was getting sated on the tiny things, both plant and animal—no matter what they were made of, it trailed sweat down his back to watch and the hissing of his breath quickened.

As soon as it had begun, the activity ceased. The water was still, the music had gone silent, and only one stray ripple of sand over the surface—the oasis had paused. Sword still held, he let his arm drop and the tip of the blade sunk into the ground with little resistance.

The sun, struggling through the atmosphere, was higher once the song was done. Feeling its warmth on his shoulders, he remembered his purpose for being there, at the end of the long water, and realised he still held the key. Sheathing his sword with one hand, raising the coin high above his head with the other, the sunlight punched through the murky glass and pierced the surface of the water—a beam of amber-gold. Even through his glove, the heat of the key burned, until it was nearly unbearable, and he was clenching his teeth against the pain.

Music began again, with a different tonality, almost curious, as if the singers unseen were asking him a question.

So he answered: “I am the pilgrim Antothos, and I have come seeking guidance. May I traverse your waters, in the name of the highest throne, and the fires beneath?”

All the voices together hummed, until a white shape—a face not quite human, the proportions all wrong and made more strange by the warping of the water’s movement—appeared at the tip of his shadow, as if formed by the beam from his key. She held all the right colours of his light but for the colourless eyes, and spoke less at him than around him.

“There is no throne they look up to or fires they fall to, and yet you brave the desert sand—but it is this water that would cut and burn. You are a killer of your kind.”

He was taken aback, and repressed a laugh. “You are very wise, but—”

“You will play your part, as slave or pilgrim or killer. I shall carry you, and you will come to no harm. We have fed of the land, you have nothing to fear.”

He thought, If I had come too early or too late, would that have made a difference? But if she knows… she knows, and doesn’t seem to mind my lie… Better to hitch a ride than swim, anyway.

He approached the edge of the water. Stepping onto her—whatever she was—felt like stepping onto the palm of a monstrously large hand. It was difficult to balance at first, but as she took him along the river—though there was no way to tell which way it flowed, if it flowed at all—it became easier to stay upright.

As the spray dampened his cloak, he realised the scent of the oasis was from the water itself. It quickly mingled with the smell of smoke—he could see the glow of fire ahead. He looked to the stars to judge distance, and shook his head in disbelief. They hadn’t moved at all. The land itself had simply stretched—and he questioned again the efficacy of his mask, if the sweat that dripped from his brow had affected the seal, and he adjusted it again.

As he twisted the discs over his eyes, he saw them—On either side of the water road stood enormous green statues, stooped figures broad of shoulder and very inhuman heads. Huge owl eyes took in all things and nothing, at the center of the face a long proboscis, or some sort of languid coil, if the stone were made flesh it might reach out to grab him instead of those long, clawed hands clasped at their chests. So large and bent were they, he noticed they were in fact crouched, and their shoulders bore the weight of the platforms that held the great fires somehow beaming skyward, lances to the stars—so bright was the effect at the backs of the statues, it made the darkness at their fronts all the more unsettling, like the green of the stone might be eggshell the way the light played off the edges of their figures, and something might burst out of it.

He knew the planet was an ancient one, but knew too the race of creatures that could have built such things were long gone, and he was glad he wouldn’t be meeting them. The occupants of these ruins had been travellers like himself, once—so long ago perhaps they had forgotten where they came from, and have adapted the strangeness of the place into their very bones. Antothos felt a sort of relief, to know he didn't belong. He still considered himself of the race of men, and swallowed his apprehension that he was soon to meet this new breed of human, and lie all the while.

Passing between the statues had him breathless, how they towered so high, the tallest ships he had ever seen would be dwarfed by them.

The water ceased to stretch, or that was how it seemed as the creature he rode came to a stop.

“You have been a fine companion,” she said through the water. “May I sing one last song for you?”

“After such a sweet journey, of course. It would make the parting pleasant.” He had to try and remember the polite phrases, but that one seemed to please her.

This time the song had words, though the voice was just as electric as before—at the first note, there was an urge in his legs to jump into the water. Remembering the alraunes, he gripped his sword hilt—if he were to be eaten, he’d rather fight instead of dive willingly into her maw.

     If I may hunt
     And you be free
     Not long to starve
     Not long to plea

The words flowed around him, and the creature beneath began twisting. Flailing his arms to keep balance, he wished he had drawn his sword.

     So the forge heats
     So the soul follows
     If the forge cools
     It swallows

The song was ended by a fierce spray. Tossed into the dark murk, he struggled to the surface—all the water was blood, from the end of the oasis to those statues. The white form spewed it from wounds as a whale does from a blowhole—another spout, as violent as the first, accompanied by a shrill tuneless shriek instead of a song.

Someone was firing at her from above, and cries of victory followed her retreat as Antothos began shouting his pain. A raft came, three men upon it wearing cloaks similar to what he wore, though his was costume. Theirs were the same lurid green of the stone statues and their skin appeared painted, but the paint didn’t streak as the droplets from their oars hit them, nor did getting wet seem to give them pain. Antothos was too busy floundering to wonder too much about it.

A man to either side, and Antothos was hauled up onto the raft. Once on his back, heaving loud breaths (his mask had thankfully stayed put, and kept the water out from his mouth—he was ready to vomit it up just to imagine the taste) the oarsmen resumed their task and he was brought to the end of the water.

“You are a pilgrim,” one said. “And yet you come armed.”

“I had a long journey through the desert, and was unsure if any beasts may come upon me.”

“You were foolish enough to ride the siren. You should have made her eat that sword.” The raft ground against the shore and quickly Antothos was on his feet, invited to walk with them to a staircase. He hadn’t noticed it before, perhaps too focused on the statues (or drowning) but the staircase was of the same stone, and although perhaps a third of the height of the statues, this was still enormous—the men leading him didn’t seem daunted, and so he forced himself to keep an undaunted posture, too. The pain of the water remained, and he was chilled through, but walked as they did.

“I fear I’m quite ignorant of your wildlife. But she did bring me here, as I needed her to... Otherwise my walk would have been far longer. Too bad she was hungrier than I was led to believe.”

The second oarsman laughed. “You would be her lure if her songs failed her. We know to stuff our ears when we see her white glow—but we have vowed to take in any wanderers such as yourself, and she knows it. Your cloak—she draped it over herself, too. But we got her. Not dead. But you will need cleansing before your skin rots. Do you carry a key?”

“I do. I was given the relic by the priest who confided in me of this place.” He was already becoming winded, but none of the others seemed to be.

“Few priests wander from here. Do you recall his name?”

A lie, give them anything! “I didn’t get a name, but he wore a white robe and had no hair.”

The first oarsman grunted. “That could be any of them.”

There was silence for a long while, until midway up the staircase when the first oarsman pointed ahead, to where Antothos could see the glow of their sun playing on pyramid stones. “You come from the stars, and so you cover your face. Inside, you’ll not need to. I’m sure our Lady will joy to see a new pilgrim come to us from so far away, and the first in a very long while.”

Antothos was glad for the mask to conceal his smile, for it was the Lady he had journeyed so long to meet.

At the top of the staircase, a dark rectangle appeared. He thought at first it was a doorway, but realised the water had blurred the glass over his eyes as he attempted to focus on the distance. He rubbed the lenses with the corner of his cloak and adjusted the rings.

It was both a doorway to the temple and a gaping mouth, teeth and all. He paused mid-step, only for the three men to urge him forward, avoiding one hungry maw to walk into another.

But she must be killed, and he always fulfilled an order.

End of Part 1

Part 2

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Another short story I decided to break up into multiple parts, mostly because I've been so brain-fogged from stressing over Pallas’ release (see the pinned post on the main page!) but partly because the universe decided I needed to hand-raise some abandoned kittens (and my kids are out of school for the summer,) which takes up a lot of mental energy. Tune in next week (update: I'm a bit late, but it’s coming!) for part 2!

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I’ll know I’ve made it when someone decides to homebrew a ttrpg campaign using something from a story I’ve written… I’m not saying you should, from this one or any others, but, I thought as I was writing this… there might be something to use. There’s always a need for weird temples. I’ve also been reading Fritz Leiber, Lin Carter, and Clark Ashton Smith lately, Appendix N type stuff, so maybe I couldn’t help but write something in a setting I’d play in.