Annihilo

Many light years far from ‘Not a World,’ in the first void there exists a nebula cloud. Inside it floats a partial planet. It is sizable. Along with gigantic asteroids for moons. A large dormant volcano dominates the sky. It is a spectacular stand-alone mountain, which slopes down into a plateau of dense forests and then thins into grasslands below and extends outward, stopping short of the planet's edge. 

Somewhere in this dense forest resides a mud-built house-compound. In the centre of the square complex stands a huge two-storey Gondwana wood frame lodge. Plasma lanterns light its interior. Incense burns, releasing the carried memories of Alkebulan: First sunlight. Perfume dark skin. Acacias. Sweet-sighing grass. River mist. Dung fires. High veldt and the acrid farewells.

Soothing smells have a lot of space to fill. The ceilings are high and spread out. Everywhere within its spacious open-air bedroom are collected pieces of time: display stands of meteorites, stone tablets, fragments of cave murals, porcelain, and clay pottery. Indigenous carvings sit on Sequoia-made furnishings. Masks, warrior headgear, shields, quilted armour, and spears hang from the walls. Sabertooth cat and mastodon fur skins serve as floor rugs. Reminders of lost lifeforms. This place is unreachable for most – it is called Third World. 

Inside, two ink-black figures lay naked and intertwined on soft ram fur in a four-poster bed forged from Pangaean redwood. Inkhyra, a lanky but fit 7-foot tall woman, with cornrows in a bun, embraces her strong husband. Her long legs hug his waistline and her arms lovingly cling to him. He is comfortable. His face rests softly on her chest. So it is clear, the two do not plan on rising anytime soon.

But it does not last. Serenity is disturbed. A bright yellow light shines inside. A deep, low-pitched voice comes from beyond the balcony. They know the voice. It is Inkhemit. His arrival from ‘Not A World’ is nothing new, just inconvenient. And lately quite often. Now when he comes, so comes bad news. And with it, a scroll often accompanies him. A sure sign that the bad news is so bad that an interitus is required. 

Inkhemit calls again, saying he has an urgent message and then again his full name. Never the widely known epithet. Always his given name. His regal tone never oscillates. So she slackens her embrace, then releases her husband altogether so he can get up to meet Inkhemit. He soon walks out onto the balcony. Inkhemit says his name again and shows respect – he bows.

“Lost?” 

“Funny? You know I was sent.”

“Saying my formal name isn't necessary. You do know that, right?”

“Always. So don't play.”

The two catch up at first. Then, Inkhemit breaks open a scroll which describes the current danger. There is another giant causing unrest. Her name is Inklessi, a child of light and soul. And like most of her kind, but not all, she has used her knowledge in a horrible manner. In that, she has given a gift explicitly reserved for the most devoted and worthy to the most profane. If left unabated, it can pose a significant threat.

“Second World inhabitants must stay organic until it's time for them to be taken off the planet,” says Inkhemit. “Shortcuts are not allowed.”

Moreover, she has built a mystical village, Pascha, which is perched high on the Ngwali Plateau in the Eastern Hemisphere of the Second World. The town has this retractable footbridge. But to have access to it, to walk across it, it requires a hefty price. And only the wealthiest can pay. This enables them to buy and acquire this gift which is another no-no. Just make sure all and all things made are made examples of. Put them where they belong. The two then agree and the scroll is closed.

“The word has been written...”

“...and the sword enforces the word.”

Inkhemit is about to leave, but turns and asks: “How hard is it to remove unfit things?”

“It isn't. It's the fit things,” he says, looking up at him. “But as the nearest thing to the habits of creation, I remove what doesn't work very well.”

“And what's that like?”

“Stay a messenger, Inkhemit.”

He takes the hint, nods farewell, then soars upward on his way back to ‘Not A World’. Inkhyra is soon hugged close and tightly by her husband, if only briefly. They talk. Him mostly. About another one of the few remaining female giants. A distant relative, maybe. He promises he will do the giant justice and make it back in time so they can sit atop Hoba Mountain and watch the upheavals that build universes.

His thick lips are cold, ticklish, and loving. He kisses a row of unique symbols – sacred geometric marks – which start at her chest scar but end at her belly button. It is an inscription that signifies all the stages of a completed life, a change in character, her status within the realm, and unconditional devotion. But now she knows he must be and go do what he is, and that is to put the fear into the hearts and minds of a Second World population.

“Just don't underdo it, okay?” she says.

Inkhyra rises when he does. She again selects his wardrobe: hemp jeans, combat boots, a plaid shirt and tie, a sweater vest, and a blazer. Strings of meteorite beads are put around his neck. Each one dates back millions of years. His face is painted skeletal white. The turban is then undone so his wicks can fall, so another kind of headwear can be worn: a sea silk black top hat. It is adorned with whittled dinosaur and demon bones, and two fallen angel feathers. A dagger and sheath are procured and attached to his flax fibre belt. 

Inkhyra tells him he looks sharp. She then steps forward, standing above him. The two kiss and hug. He again promises before he pivots and walks off; she nearly forgets to unlatch her ankle bracelet but does so quickly so she can hand it to him. He understands and pockets it. She then follows him onto the balcony. He finds the Second World, looks at its Eastern Hemisphere, and identifies Pascha. A landing spot is chosen and there he propels himself towards it like a fallen star. 

She watches, waving goodbye.

*****

Once he enters the Eastern Hemisphere of the Second World, a lunar eclipse occurs. A sonic boom punctures the pitch-black night. People look up to find a purple glow streaking across the sky. It lands hundreds of miles away, but its impact is still felt. There is massive devastation. Anything near it, caravans, campsites, plants, and wildlife are incinerated. As for all the debris thrown upward, it is bound into a cloud. A tall dark witch doctor emerges from the crater. His clothes are unsullied, still impeccable. He heads for Pascha, rock and dust cloud in tow.

He soon arrives at the gateway. Two lion statues sit there, side by side. Each one holds a scale in its jaws. Behind them is a precipice. In the distance, atop a hill, a dimly lit village. To get there, usually, an admission fee must be put on the scales. And if the price is not met, the footbridge will never appear. Access is denied. Some have tried to circumvent this, for there are piles of skulls and skeletons in the ravine.

Indeed, Pascha poses a real threat to the order of things. In addition, it has a red-light district for those who live there so they can have as much pleasure as possible without the hint of a penalty. Moreover, and this is the most offensive part, it has given the wealthy and the ratchet a sanctuary. A home they will gladly buy into so they can escape death and simultaneously become in their minds ‘gods’.

*****

Such a wicked thing: the rich and profane with immortality. These giants have no respect for what they have and what it means. Too many times they have provided inspiration but somehow it ends with heinous outcomes. Like this bright idea. That eternity is purchasable. Of course, this cannot stand. He has been sent for that reason.

He instructs the dust cloud to turn into a footbridge so he can run across the expanse quietly to reach the other side. Once there, he finds two large green double doors. A large ram skull with long twisted horns hangs high above. Beneath it, there is ancient writing around the door frame. It reads: Welcome to Pascha, City of Immortality.

Before him stands six grizzle gatekeepers. Each behemoth looks the part. No doubt they have built up the bone pile below. So when they see two glowing purple eyes in the darkness and charge, it is already over. All six soldiers now lay dead. The witch doctor looks at their limp bodies. He notices the jewellery around their necks. He has seen these amulets before, and promptly destroys them.

Inside the chamber, four more fall. More amulets are seen and destroyed. He steps through the breach into Pascha and is met by red lights along with a labyrinth of strip clubs, brothels, peep shows, whorehouses, and adult theaters. Just like the guards, all Paschaians wear amulets. Nobody pays him any mind. Apparently, his skull face paint, bioluminescent eyes, and outfit are not seen as scary but as a nuisance. 

“Hey, look! It’s a Hoodoo man?”

“Where?”

“Over there!”

“Damn! Sure is. How did he get in?”

“Does it matter?” 

“Not really. What harm can he do?”

“None. This is Pascha!”

“Our souls are ours.”

“That’s right! Here, he's nothing. Has nothing!”

Both tell him he should convert like the others had and enjoy life. They bid him adieu and walk into one of the brothels. Right then, a scantily-clad, raven-haired woman approaches him. “A Hoodoo man, huh?” She has a broad nose and thick flat lips. Her curvy figure and hazelnut face defy ageing. In her hands, a lit blunt and alcohol bottle. She enjoys both regularly. “So what are you doing here? Ready to give up that world?”

Clearly not buzzed nor drunk, she has not misread him and his intentions. Nor is she fooled by his overall look. He does not wear an amulet. It signals that his stay is likely brief so she turns on the charm, touting Pascha; in that, every day and night is one of lust and desire. Just imagine: plump asses and mouths so sweet and luscious they satisfy gods. Put bad luck aside. Enjoy this one life before his body finds the bone pile.

“So how about it?”

In her attempt to guide him, she takes hold of his arm and releases it fast. Her hand and forearm are burnt. Blisters sizzle. The pain is so ethereal, so excruciating, it touches her soul. In her anguish, she lets go of both the liquor bottle and cigarette. He catches them both before they hit the ground. “Shit! Why are you so hot? The pain! It won't stop!” While she holds her arm steady, she looks right into his bright swirling purple eyes for a second. The agony pauses, but her demeanor changes instantly. She sees an infinitum of dead eyes and looks away.

She says: “You're not a Hoodoo man?” and falls prone, terrified, and now blind.

“No. I am not.”

“Have mercy,” she says, clutching the amulet.

“Not my job. Inklessi? Where is she?”

“Will I be spared?”

“Not here…elsewhere maybe. Inklessi?”

With a calm voice, she tells him her whereabouts. “Just cross the street, go up four blocks, take a left, go two more blocks, then take a cobblestone alley. It has multiple strings of orange lights on the walls so it can stand out. Follow them. They end at The Goat’s Head.” 

He smiles. His teeth are unusually white and perfect, unrealistic-looking, then, takes one long draw which burns the blunt into nothing; he blows inky purple smoke into her face, then departs. Her agony returns. She faceplants there on the pavement. Blood and excrement drains from every orifice. The amulet dissolves. As does her body, exposing sinew, organs, and bone. The decay is rapid. What is left is vomit-like matter. A passing Paschaian screams out in horror at its sighting, a violation has occurred. 

*****

Death draws a crowd. Some Paschaians ask how.  The amulet protects them from all manner of evil, bad omens, black magic, and, of course, death. Eternal life has been paid for and in full. They live in paradise. Inklessi has promised and delivered it. And thus far, it has been forthwith. So this is obviously an unsettling event. It raises doubts. Fears grow. Someone is sent for a gatekeeper where another surprise awaits. 

Meanwhile, the witch doctor has found the cobblestone alley. Just as she said: ‘multiple strings of orange lights.’ He turns there but does not get very far when strange noises are heard. Intimate sounds come from behind a dumpster. There they are, the two of them, against the wall, in the throes of intercourse. An obese brute with his boxers and slacks down around his ankles while he ravages this petite redhead. Neither one acknowledges him. Not until both feel the downpour of a spit-alcohol shower.

The fat man pauses, then looks up, and notices that the sky is pitch black and starless, with no  sign of rain, anywhere. Both confuse him. The lady he holds tenses up. She clutches her amulet after looking into the scariest pair of purple eyes. “Please, have mercy,” she says, now blind and full of fear. The fat man peeks behind him. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Be gone hoodoo man! I am a Paschaian. Your black magic does not work here. Death neither.” 

The witch doctor is not rude. He politely leaves them. Let them enjoy their quality time. The fat man goes blind. He does not care and starts again. His inflated notion seems widespread. His lady friend cries, now accepting her fate. The fat man, in contrast, is too caught up in his lusts. And continues in part because he knows as long as he is god-like, nothing else really matters. All is well.

The alley turns right. Not long thereafter, a cigar smoker passes the cobblestone alley’s entrance and flicks high into the air his butt. It bounces twice, first going off the brick wall and then it skips across the dumpster, landing on the couple. Screams follow. Two blind and flaming bodies come out. Lowered pants shackle the large man’s efforts. Whereas, the woman scrambles out wildly, crashing into things, arms flailing. Both fall flat and start rolling. Nobody can extinguish them. Efforts are futile. The two burn so hot, so fast, until the amulets and them are both reduced into ash piles. Neither one can project its former shadow.

Two more have died. 

Another crowd has gathered. This time they are panicky. Paranoia has grown. Especially now that the news of all the prior deaths have reached this one. Arguments ensue. Some throw up their hands in disgust. Others want answers. But they all agree that the old ways of living are repulsive. They have given up fortunes for this everlasting life. What else is there? Nothing really. Not after this. So what use do they have with mortality? 

“I thought death was dead here.”

“Same here,” says another.

Someone else says: “Where's that witch doctor, fellow? Things were fine until his arrival.” 

Faces stare back at each other. That is it. An immediate search for him begins. Their thinking is simple: once they find him, they will expel him and his bad luck. Kill him if necessary. Either way, with him gone, normalcy will return. Clearly, he is something different. He defeated the guards. It is time to send him packing. “Over the cliff,” someone shouts. He is not special, just another Hoodoo man. An imaginary folk doctor.

Back in the alley, there is a man slumped against the building. His legs were outstretched. He is not dead, just out cold, and reeks of alcohol, faecal matter, and urine. His left sleeve is rolled up. It is riddled with track marks. The witch doctor gives him a thorough once-over and takes notice of his amulet. So he kneels so he can remove his shoes and socks. The footwear is set aside. He holds the neck of the liquor bottle and strikes it against the cobbled pavement, and with the sharp edge notches a foot with a ladder symbol. He then stands up and departs.

Soon, the drug addict becomes food. The shoes and socks mutate into roaches and fire ants, respectively. Soon rodents arrive. Hungry flies, yellow jackets, and beetles. Eggs are laid and larvae are born. Each species feast on him. They find the ingestion of blood and drug-infused flesh delicious. So much so, it starts a feeding frenzy. They dine until their hunger is satiated. The junkie receives a carrion death.

Residents look up. Flapping is heard. Someone points out that birds are circling which is an oddity, especially at night. But one thing is true, they are efficient at identifying the presence of death. “Go there,” someone says to another. They also know the witch doctor’s whereabouts and chase after him, gathering weapons along the way, still with the foolish idea they can get rid of him and death. 

Meanwhile, he has reached the end of the orange lights and cobblestone path. The Goat’s Head is ahead. He enters a rave-lit basement, in its colour and vibrancy. Lap and pole dancers gyrate. Floor flirts are scantily clad waitresses. People, chilling. None have focused on him. He is just another fresh and bizarre face. Thus far, everybody is unaware of the chaos above ground. They sit in their respective dead zones: booths, tables, or bar stools drunk or high with joy, blissfully ignorant. 

Some think he is part of the floor show. Maybe, he will go on stage to lay down that root, dance and jump around, empty out his mojo bag, or, better yet, perform his usual animal sacrifice—do the voodoo that he does. Since they do not have any need for his sorcery and medicine, it is still fun to look at those primitive customs. Superstition has never kept up anyway. And besides, there is nothing to cure or fear.

People step aside when this dark chocolate woman appears from afar—a dominatrix in appearance. She stands at least seven feet tall in a black latex bodysuit. Her huge natural and platform stilettos make her appear much taller, but her head never touches the ceiling. She does not recognise him, not at first, even though he is not short. The top hat and lowered head hide his face. 

The Hoodoo man stands in her direct path, so she gives him a piece of her mind. And then he looks up. His purple eyes flash brightly. She instantly becomes terrified, “Annihilo!” He lifts the broken bottle with the bloody tip and jabs at the smoke, causing a chain reaction throughout the nightclub. The smoke has become pestilence and it moves at his behest – and is taken in instantly by everyone there.

Silence befalls The Goat’s Head. The air becomes fresh, cold, and crystal clear. Even the darkness is darker, making the skylights shine brighter. The music is coherent. The place compares nicely with deep space. Inklessi realises that, except for her and Annihilo, there are dead bodies everywhere. Stone replicas of flesh. But it doesn’t end there. These carved figures begin flaking. Thin yellow scales fall away, changing into moths. They proliferate so fast that the massive swarms collide, seeking freedom from the basement. 

The insects, at last, fly up the stairwell and out the front door, pushing back an approaching mob, which prevents their entrance, going outward and upward into pitch-black night. Seeing so many is an unusual sighting, but it is another coincidence, and confirmation that they have found the witch doctor. Yet, the event is so beautiful that people stand still and come outside to watch yellow moths flood the skyline.

The last one to fly up does not. It chooses a Paschaian wrist for a landing spot. A skull symbol is seen on its thorax. The person slaps at it, afraid. “Protect Pascha,” someone shouts. “Capture him,” says another. “Get rid of him, so goes death.” And with weapons ready, they charge inside. The mob has mistaken him for death when he is not, not at all, but something far deadlier.

Present before things were first made and by whom, he has earned his given reputation and anointed name. Given after he voluntarily went to the realm of the abyss to single-handedly fight and cut down millions of demons to reclaim the stolen dust his creator needed to mould clay to make people. Those who felt his blade and lived to tell it, call him Annihilo, the divine instrument of annihilation. Otherwise, he is known formally as Inkakoma Ouwuo, The Destroyer. 

“Annihilo!” Inklessi says, “Wait!” 

Ouwuo flicks the broken bottle back at the entrance. For those bum-rushing Paschaians, the bottle splinters into tiny needles which bombard the stairwell. Injury and death are swift. A finger snap follows. And like that, the dark cloud he has brought with him and all those yellow moths fall like hot rocks. Brimstone suddenly incinerates whatever it touches—living and nonliving. Finding shelter is meaningless. 

Some jump off the cliff, thinking they will be revived after the fall, but in mid-flight they become salt. For others, they are attacked by drugged animals and insects. Thunderstorms deliver lightning strikes. Pascha is being reduced. Amidst the torrent of fire and falling debris, Inklessi struggles mightily, kicking and punching, but is too weak to remove Ouwuo's heavy boots off her face and left leg. He unbuttons his blazer and withdraws his dagger. His arm rears back.

“Have mercy! I’m a child of soul and light!” 

“I know.”

The dagger comes down with force. A massive explosion is unleashed, causing a fireball. Nearby mountains shake and crumble. The night sky takes on a terrifying spectrum of colours. Soon a purple line of light rockets into the heavens until it fades. And in his absence, the lunar eclipse ends as does his reign of destruction. Moonlight consumes the night sky and shines on the wasteland. Pascha is gone. Gone as well as the footbridge and bone graveyard. What once was isn't. Paradise is dust.

There lives one survivor. Inklessi lies partially buried, her grey eyes are shut, motionless in the steaming rubble and sand. Her hair is straight and colourless. A bracelet is on her left ankle along  with a scar across her chest. An amulet is tucked between her fresh pale-skin breasts. All other pendants are gone, obliterated with the burst. And with that, Inklessi’s days are numbered. Ouwuo, the Destroyer has parted the elemental: the divine from the mortal, leaving only her soul. All the dead Paschaians have been dispatched into Yet Another World, an alternative abyss. 

As for the light, the divinity part, and the sacred knowledge it holds, it is now back where it belongs. In the hands of the creator on Not a World. Delivered upon request. Ouwuo leaves there fast for home, back to the Third World, where Inkhyra awaits his arrival. And as promised, once he undresses, the two walk up the path of the mountainous forest. The naked couple sit together on the summit's edge, in plenty of time to look beyond the cosmic dust cloud to watch the death of a beautiful giant blue sun.