THE LORD OF SONGS

At the edge of my peripheral vision, I spy a flock of ravens streaking the cloudy sky. Their intermittent croaking echoes throughout the empty valley. The sable speckled formation begins to burgeon and, as a brushstroke drenched in sooty paint smearing against an otherwise fleckless canvas, the darkly congregation begins to occasionally blot out the stray rays of light shining through the clouds.

The sun is receding it seems and nightfall is near. Sigh.
Breaks over I suppose. I take a parting bountiful drought of my cigar and flick it through the billowing smoke, down into the near bottomless ravine. Dusting off the stray ashes and embers off my jacket, I gently push myself out of the snug crevice I had huddled myself in. I delicately remove my climbing pick, furl in the rope and stuff my climbing equipment into my backpack. Dipping my hands into the outer pocket of my satchel, I apply a generous amount of chalk on my hands and continue with my ascent.
“One” I utter under bated breath as a I latch my hand onto a jagged rock. Smoothly Textured. Not good.

“Two” Roughly Textured. Very good. Far better purchase.
“And one. And two. And one and a two. And one, two, three.” There we go; developing a good rhythm.

“…See climbin is jus like playin a song on a piano. You miss a few keystrokes but then you getya rhythm.” Crazy kid. But he did have a few good ideas. I wonder where Nifri is? Must be an old man by now. Hmph, never mind that. Almost to the top.

The jutting rocks peppering my climb obscure my view so I do not know if I have reached the summit or not. As I inch closer to the top, I trace my hand across the surface of any new plateau my hand acquires; a single stroke of my hand covers it with a splotch of moss. Good. Moss means rain. And rain means I have reached the summit.
I amble my way onto the top and stretch my arms out to their full extent. Reveling in my momentary victory, I cast a glance over to the resplendent image laid before me. The summit offers me a bird’s eye view of not just the valley but the prairie meadows that extend from it as well. Ranging from the river stream that tapers off into a litany of rivulets enmeshed with a grassy plain dotted with the occasional tree, the landscape offers no hint of life but for the scattered hum of cicadas and the fleeting squawking of a few migratory flock of birds. If one were to close their eyes and prickle their ears, they might even hear the faint ‘plop’ of a droplet falling in the distance. This was a majestic land that betrayed no hint of its forlorn state.

A cold breeze tickles my face and shakes me out of reverie. As a celebratory gesture, I take a swig from a bottle of spirit I had been carrying. It was half full. Perhaps I had been a tad bit too indulgent in my drinking during my climb. As I take a gulp from the bottle, slosh the spirit in my mouth and with my inebriation reaching a crescendo; I hear an ungodly row coruscate through my being.

AAAARRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
A sound as austere as it was deafening. Its mournful cadence reverberates throughout my skeleton and rattles my clenched teeth, to the point I have to put down the bottle and press my hands against my ears. As the sound begins to recede, I see its source…a winged span that stretches from one antipode to the other, blackening the escape of any flash of sunlight amongst the horizon with a single flap; massive talons that latch onto colossal mountains; with wine red, scaly reptilian skin covering these wicked wonders. And finally, beyond one of the talons laced mountains, emerges the long-necked head of the mighty dragon, Bahamut. It would take me over a hundred days, probably more, to reach where my winged friend was perched. And yet, even from this distance, I seemed like a tiny speck against this being.

AAAARRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Bahamut roared again and I braced myself as needed. Feeling a swell of camaraderie for my lonely friend, I whimsically pour the last dregs of spirit upon the mossy floor of the summit. The cascading liquid intermingles with green clumps, as if each drop is mimicking the pattering rain that follows in one of Bahamut’s increasingly rare flights.

I take in a deep breath and let my lungs roar.
“YOU SEE THIS BAHAMUT!!! YOU DO NOT MOURN ALONE!!” Just as soon as I finish my tribute to Bahamut, the combination of the alcohol and the strain from the climb blur my vision, dizzyingly throwing me off balance. Therefore, I decide that its best to let my passion subside and tie off my tributary gesture to Bahamut with a gentle tune. I pull out my ukulele and strum a tributary melody. Maybe I’ll call it “The Flightless Giant”; a being that cannot escape its own misery.

Later, I unfurl my sleeping bag and turn in for the night. Meekly fighting off the darkly languorous tendrils of my slumber, I cast one last glance at Bahamut. See you around, friend.

I put out the fire, soak in the morning sunshine and just as I am about to bite into the last piece of my smoky jerky, I see an orange blotch dart in front of me. It’s a fox. With my mouth agape, I say to it, “What?” The fox smacks its lips hungrily. I stare at my jerky and crack a mischievous smile, “Ohhh I see.” I teasingly gesture my mouth towards the jerky and the fox lets out a whimper. Laughing, I throw the jerky to it and the agile animal leaps to catch in in mid-air, devouring the meaty treat with a single crunch.
The fox races towards me and proffers its head to me. I feel a certain warmth, something that is exceedingly rare doing what I do and as long as I have been doing it for. I rub the fox’s scruff. “Great, I seem to have made a new friend. At least for a little while at least. I’ll call you…FOXY!!” Damned fox is going to follow me around now.
“Alrighty then. See this Foxy?”, I tap my proxyTool and bring up a holographic display. Pointing at a waypoint, I say to my new friend, “We’re almost there, Foxy: Oofran’s rest.”
Descending from the summit was easy enough. It was facilitated by a passage carved by the one of the last bastions of the Malderen civilization. The locals recount fables of the Malderens holding the highest chair in the world during the Golden era and now nothing remains in their wake except some stone structures with faintly illuminative binary engravings that were more akin to memorial obelisks than the highly advanced terraforming proxyEngines that they once were. I whimsically rub my proxyTool. Some things however, the Malderan’s built to last. The passage facilitating my descent was dotted by cracked and vine covered steles that also highlighted a straight path to Oofran’s rest. And then there it was: a massive humanoid hand jutting from the ground. This was a giant that appeared during the Fifth age of the Mazifor era. I heard tell from the old crone, Jeeta, that the long extinct locals had a myth that explained the state of Oofran’s hand: thousands of years ago, the roaming giant, sick of his perpetual ennui, uncharacteristically engaged in a titanic battle with another giant. Their calamitous battle rent the mountain scape, shifting the land mass to from fjords that stretched out over the sea. The musky scent from the ocean washed over me and I tried to imagine how Oofran must have felt, wandering amongst the quietude of this forlorn landscape, his legs besmirched with an mosh pit of ferns, trees and mud, reminders of his aimless wandering and ceaseless suffering; no matter now, it’s over now Oofran. No, it’s better now. Thousands of years’ worth of sedimentary deposits had buried him almost completely, leaving only his hand exposed, which was almost as tall as the summit I descended from. Look at what you wrought, he said, you said you wanted to hear the stars sing, to symphonize this silent world. Prick your ears. Do you hear anything? I pull a cluster of gardenias stuffed in my satchel and lay them on the ground, “For you, old friend. I’m sorry for everything. You can rest now.” I eulogize my tribute with a strum of my ukulele.

I pull out my holographic display and look for the ping that Jeeta told me about. Now, where is that damn proxyBot. My rumination is interrupted when I spot Foxy chasing after a tiny meercat. Their scuffle takes them into a deceptively obscure crevice sitting at the base of where Oofran’s thumb is jutting from the ground. I walk over to it…and there we go. It is the Malderan settlement I was looking for.

I slam my climbing anchor onto the ground and start repelling down into the crevice. I surveil my surroundings and see Foxy trailing after the meercat. Their chase ends at a metallic door covered with a thicket. And there it is. I pull out my collapsible crowbar with an audible ‘clank’, enough to send Foxy and the meercat scurrying away, and begin to pry open the door. Using every ounce of strength, I can muster; I wrench open the door. The door opening is commemorated with a burst of dust that blasts me. I recoil initially but regain my composure, and then enter the room. My entry is accompanied by motes of dusty particles being illuminated by the rays of light that are shining through the random apertures scattered across the cloistered room. It seems to be living area. Everything is caked with a hard grey-green mixture of mud resulting from years of sedimentary deposits and random flooding.

Foxy chases the meercat, cornering it against a rotten wooded chair draped with algae. They conduct their dance beneath the chair’s legs until scurrying away to a different stage.

I pull up my holographic display and spot the ping from the proxyBot. It was sitting right next to my left foot, or at least, beneath a distinctly humanoid shape resting against the wall. It seemed to be caked with the same mixture the entire room was draped in. I take out my hammer and chisel and break open where the proxyBot’s head is supposed to be. Just as the rocky surface crumbles away, the proxyBot begins to whir to life.

“RE625boy4hfdoting….R239yE8u8vjnb88t!ng…Reb99ti5ng…..Reb00ting, Rebooting…..Rebooting….Rebooting…..Rebooting.” the proxyBot’s springing to life it seems.

“Conducting diagnostic exam. Damage sustained: 98%. Torso: null. Legs: null. Arms: null. Head: Operational. Voice Box: Operational. Auditory Receptors: Operational. Logic Synthesis module: Operational. Solar Battery: Operational and Charging. Diagnosing Timeline…8347 solar cycles since last reboot. Greetings! I am proxyBot series 9, model 3-“

“Yes, yes. That’s enough” I cut off the proxyBot and begin my queries. “You must have a nickname that your owners gave you.”
“Indeed. Not my registered owners but their children did. Tiny little miscreants. They called me ‘Raava’.” The proxyBot replied. Its personality matrix was coming online. This is an advanced model; it was used primarily for child rearing but was also developed with an extremely advanced AI matrix.

The proxyBot’s faceplate began blipping and revealed a distinctly humanoid set of lights that mimicked a static human expression. Moreover, every instance of speech by the proxyBot was precipitated by an audible electrical hum, like a pair of spinning disks grazing against each other.

Foxy chases the meercat into a corner crunches into the meercat’s torso before tossing it up and devouring it in a single gulp. It then nestles beside my thigh as I sit down and resume my conversation with the machine.

An inquiring expression appeared on its facial display, “What are you doing here?”

I wonder. What am I doing here indeed? “How long have you been around for, Raava?”

“1,932,987 solar cycles, excluding the ones I didn’t log due to my dormancy.” Raava replied.

“Humph. You’re a series 9…It has been faaaar more than a million years Raava.”

“I…suspected as much. The children…they…well I suppose they…”
Raava’s facial display grew dim.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Feeling a pang of sympathy for her, I almost extended a hand towards her but then shook myself. NO. Need to remain focused.

“I want coordinates Raava. I’m looking for…something. Do you remember the 10th age of the Golden era…or wait…you must log it as the year 10,732 C.E. It was also… known as the era of the… the Harken of Madness.”

“Yes, of course I do. The firmament was torn asunder and the sky streaked with redolent comets that befell the world; a song that trumpeted the fallen stars-79e0yv78evhuesvi-a band of soldiers ensconced in a barricade keeping at bay the force of Iniwan, as the townspeople escaped the cordon -1as7gv08afv8u8u – the tortured slave that sprinkled a tincture of rice to the starved mice as an act of rebellion – f98ueav9hav9 – the mother that huddled with her children as their room was flooded…NO – 1809hg9qh9uqwghv9 – THE CHILDREN!!!”

“Raava! Focus!” it seems her memory banks are corrupted. Iniwan’s rebellion occurred in the 3rd age of the Xiltri era, long after the Harken’s betrayal. And the mention of the children. Best let her forget…

“I’m sorry. I…I…It’s becoming…problematic to sort this data.”
“I know. It’s okay. I just needed…never mind. You’re a series 9. You won’t know anyway.”

“Know what? What are you looking for? Please. I can help. Don’t leave me alone. At least tell me who you are?”

“Never mind that Raava” I pull out the merchant guilds locket out of my satchel. “This is a pass that marks me as a merchant from the Vuma trade organization. I…collect special things and sell them. Well, at least…that’s what I’m wont to do these days. But…it doesn’t matter. Tell me, do you remember anything from Cain’s era-” I recompose myself. “The Harken of Madness’ era?”

Raava’s facial display showed a random flurry of numbers, texts, dates and allocative letters being sifted through. “Approximately, 2000 solar cycles prior to my date of manufacture, the being known only as ‘The Harken of Madness’ conspired with his entourage to unlock the secrets of the world but instead he-“
“Ok that’s enough. Well, that’s the wives’ tale anyway.” I rub Foxy on the head look whimsically at Raava and then spring up, getting ready to leave.

“WAIT!! PLEASE!! Take me with you. My head can be detached and I am solar powered. Please, I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to see what the world looks like now. Please…the children…I need something else.” Raava’s facial display showcases an imploring expression. I cast a glance at Foxy’s glistening eyes. Great. A fox and a robot. Humph. Whatever. I pull out a screwdriver from my satchel and slide it in a visible receptacle at the base of Raava’s neck. I begin twisting until I hear an audible click. There we go. I slip Raava’s head out of her torso module and gently place her in my satchel, pushing aside some of my accoutrements and making sure she snuggly fits inside.

“Alright then. Raava, Foxy, let’s go home.” We begin our ascent.

Me, Raava and Foxy were taking a constitutional amongst a fjord that was presumably formed after Oofran’s skirmish. The musky scent from the ocean put in the mood for a song. I pull out my ukulele. “How about a song, fellas. I call this ‘The Flightless Giant’.” Just as I am about to strum, I hear a whirring from my satchel. “Raava?”

“Diagnosis Complete. Your cellular structure. Its…what are you?”
“WAIT?! You scanned me??” I shout, causing Foxy to prickle its ears.

“Your cells. Its…odd. My diagnosis shows-“
CLANG!!!

I bop Raava on her head, “Never mind that. That’s a story for another time. Listen to this song for now.”
“What story? What are you talking about? Why did you seek me out? What are you looking for? WHO ARE YOU!!??” Raava pleadingly utters.

Feeling wistful, I remember what Jeeta had said, “…talkin it out. Confession. It helps…” she said to me once as she held my hand; when she was young, straw haired with pearly blue eyes; eyes that make you feel as if you are forgiven for all your sins. Huuuhhhhhh. I let out a long sigh.

Pulling out Raava’s head out of my satchel, I whisper into the oblong socket that housed her auditory receptor, “There is another story I can tell.” I pause slightly and take in a deep breath.

“The Harken of Madness, way back when, didn’t just die off but was left to tribulate in his would-be victory. He achieved his goal yet devastated the world in doing so. It changed him completely. You could say he attained godhood…in a vacant world. But then again, what’s a god without supplicants. So, he became a wanderer. He travelled far and wide and tried to revel in the spoils of his trials yet received no repose in his monolithic achievement. Watched these lands rent asunder and reformed anew in a litany of instances. His torment become increasingly punctuated and realizing his folly, he sought to heal this wounded world. Not because he sought to make amends. No. He was too selfish for that. But so, he wouldn’t have to be alone anymore. He made many friends along the way. And many that died. Had many adventures. Reformed himself many times over. Lived many lifetimes. Yet he kept going, knowing that somewhere out there, is the key to this maddening puzzle. To sprinkle mirth in this waylaid land. He became an itinerant vagabond that collects and sells trinkets and other such sundries. A pathetic minstrel that strums a few strings to symphonize this silent world and its friendless inhabitants.”

For a few seconds that stretched for an eternity, only the faint electrical vibrato of Raava’s circuitry could be heard. As I hold her head in my hands, I hear the precursory electrical warbling emanating from her mouthpiece. “What is his name?”
I sit down on the rocky plain and look out into the distance, at the mountains where Bahamut was perched the day before. I scratch Foxy’s scruff and crack a lopsided smile at Raava, with her facial display making an inquisitive expression towards me, expectant for an answer. Cradling her head in my lap, I let my feelings surrender to this beguiling land, to the sequoia tree on whose branch a mother songbird fed her cozily nestled offspring, to the hedgehogs that burrowed in the warm, grassy ground protecting themselves from the icy prickle of winter’s march, and to the wandering giants that bemoan their existence, seeking to be put out of their misery, “Amongst the smattering of locals sprinkled throughout this land, an old dispatcher for the Vuma trade organization, Jeeta, once bemusedly referred to this rakish troubadour as ‘The Lord of Songs’.”
I feel a swell of gaiety forming within the core of my being. One of the many seeds that have germinated into something new.
“But you Raava…”

A new beginning. A new redemption. I just hope…I have to hope…that tomorrow will be different than yesterday.
“…you can call me Cain.”