Copyright© 2004 by Kien Reti

The book lay buried under volume 24 [W-X] of a thirty-year-old encyclopedia. The two-for-a-dollar sidewalk bin in front of the Trendy Reading Emporium was sometimes a treasure trove, though more often a waste of time. But what in the hell was this old handwritten diary doing there? The Scholar immediately sensed that it was grossly out of place -- an exotic flower growing atop a dungheap was the image that came to mind.

It was bound in fine-grained red leather, cracked and darkened by the years.

... hidden cleft 500 feet below the summit...

The Kalipurna expedition was down to its last three oxygen bottles. In the rarified atmosphere at 27,000 feet, this compressed gas was literally the breath of life. Only our stolid native porters with their inscrutable dark eyes could survive for long without it.

I set out alone that night, knowing our venture was doomed. Taking one of the precious oxygen cylinders, I left our pitiful little shelter under the rock overhang with a coil of rope over my shoulder, dying hope, and the tattered remnants of a vision.

By the scant light of a three-quarter moon I laboriously made my way over the treacherous ridge leading toward an unseen summit. The thought of a cold, cleansing death was unbearably sweet to me in those moments, knowing that I was an outcast from home, family, and society.

The temperature read -35 C, and the wind was at force 3.

...

All of it -- the pain and anguish, the shame, the notoriety, the loss of honor, the self-loathing -- had been precipitated by my overpowering passion for the little ones, for those delightful, but dangerously enticing creatures, for the unripe nymphs...

Naught awaited me back there, back in so-called civilized society, aside from captivity, and what was euphemistically referred to as "rehabilitation." Escape into the purity of obliteration would be infinitely preferable.

...

It might have been a trick of the light. The moon had nearly set, and moving phantom-shadows obscured the rock face. A cave? No! Yes! There it was, just as it had come to me in dreams.

Barely could I squeeze my body into the narrow crevice, encumbered as I was. The flickering illumination of the headlamp showed broken planes of rock, and... yes! There! Were those faint scratches on the far wall? Indeed. Scribings! Runes! I collapsed in exhausted gratitude onto my knees and wept.

These were the signs! This was indeed the doorway I had sought for so long. Now it was just a matter of opening it, and the dreams had shown me the way. The ritual. The ritual of unbinding the Closure Between the Many Worlds.

Blood. Such was the key. A knife swiftly drawn across the veins of my wrist, then the life elixir smeared in foreordained patterns over the markings. Now the chant! I struggled to recall the voice in my dreams, that keening child's falsetto. (There will come ILLUMINATION, and it will show the WAY.)

No! Not enough! Help me! Must remember! Childhood recollections come vomiting up -- hopes and fears and shattered expectations. Whimpering in the night. Cold sweats. Throbbing rages. The time when... when HE had me in HIS absolute power, when HE overpowered me and SPREAD ME ASUNDER, unheeding of my terror, when HE FORCED HIMSELF INTO ME and ripped from me the flower of my youth, wounded my soul... DESTROYED me. There is immense power in the screams of a child (my OWN screams), and I REMEMBERED and SCREAMED my bloody outrage across the years. And LIGHT streamed into the cave. The barrier had fallen.

Light. A gentle wind -- warm and softly caressing my cheek. Puddles of melted hoarfrost mirrored radiant glory and a brightly shining path led downward. There was abundant greenery in the distance and the sun lay molten gold in a blue azure sky. Dimly luminous figures were drawing near and there was a faint melody in the air. It was a song of mystery, and of welcome and exalting.

Maidens! There were three young girls, tender nymphets in the early bloom of youth. Draped in garlands of purple flowers that showed hints of tantalizing pink beneath. Enticing, beckoning. (Something dark within me lusted in barely-controlled fury.)

One of them -- the leader? -- extended a hand. "Come," she sang. "I am Moira. I am Fate."

Here pages had been torn out. The narrative continued.

They are not human. Of this I am now certain. While they bear the outward aspect of prepubescent females, they must be ancient in days, and there is within them eldritch magic.

The nightly ritual had, as usual, left me utterly depleted and insensible. Awakening, I could scarcely stand under my own power. Then did Moira enter the sleeping chamber. She, who had TAKEN me and drained my very life essence into her relentless unhaired slit. Now she gave me to drink an elixir, a restorative. "I am the Soul of the World," she sang. "I am the Path. I am the Giver of Life, and the Taker. This night I have Given."

More pages were missing.