Around him, a large crowd of apparitions were looking at him, or otherwise clearly discussing him. The ghostly figures wavered in and out of focus, but it was what he saw that petrified the man wallowing in abject misery and fright.
The crowd appeared to be a mix of human and demonic figures, each shape a distinct individual. They were of all shapes and sizes, of lordly and diabolical bent. Though humanoid and barely humanoid forms dominated, others were of the abstract or tentacled persuasion. And Salemon was the star of the moment, all attention was obviously on him. His balls shriveled in horror.
“My gods! Why have you forsaken me?” he wailed out loud, tearing at his hair.
“We have?” came the chorused response from some of the beings in front of the crowd.
“Well, I didn’t! He’s not even one of mine!” A loud declaration came from the back of the throng.
An increasing cacophony of agitated voices began to arise as Salemon’s hosts started to ask each other. Despite his extreme distress, the woodcutter could clearly hear some of the discussion among the confused mob –
“Not mine, either. Yours?”
“Never seen him nor heard his prayers.”
“If he was one of mine, he’s the sorriest of the lot.”
“I only have female worshippers.”
“Not a eunuch so I’m out.”
“He’s not pregnant so count me out too.”
“A mortal. Sorry, I only deal with demons.”
Slowly, the horror began to succumb to acute curiosity. Though Salemon immediately averted his gaze in panic after discovering what was watching him, he found that the uncontrolled shaking of his body had subsided though he was still terrified. Suddenly, a deep but calm voice cut through the hubbub.
“My brethren. Calm yourselves. This is not getting anywhere.”
A chorus of Hear! Hear! arose from the dizzying racket. Salemon found a sliver of courage to take a peek at what was happening. A tall, muscled and bearded individual, of later years and clad in a white robe with gold trimmings, had walked to the front of the circle, facing him. The woodcutter noticed the apparition wore a magnificent crown and had a scepter in his right hand. The ghostly figure raised his rod, and a wave of calming energy washed over Salemon. He found his fear had vanished, and his two-pack returned to their usual slung position.
“Rise, mortal,” said the spectral form.
Salemon found himself obeying the command. It was spoken softly and in a reassuring tone.
“Who are you?”
“Salemon the woodcutter, Your Highness, milord, sire, Your Excellency,” he answered. Unfortunately, those were the only honorifics he could come up with. Ghostly figures of power were beyond his element and level of preparation.
“My lord will do, Salemon. Tell me, where are we?”
“Here? In a dark, scary place?”
“No, no. What I meant was in what kingdom are we?”
“The Kingdom of Alfarin, my lord. Near the town of Pusku,” replied the woodcutter.
“Good, good. Though we’ve never heard of it. Mind telling us the year and era?”
“It’s the tenth year of the Third Ruler of the Fifth Dynasty of the Thyma Era. We refer to it as Thyma 1035,” answered Salemon promptly. The idle discussions with the merchants now proved helpful. Otherwise, he couldn’t care less about such formal dates. What was important to him was the count of days and weeks.
“Still doesn’t ring a bell. Tell me, woodcutter. Have you heard of the Empire of Zin, the Dreaded Overlands of the Nagari, the Triple Monarchy of the Hawat? There’s a lot more, but those three were the leading feared domains.”
“Except for the Nagari, I haven’t heard of the others, my lord. The Nagari was what people used to scare me with when I was a child to prevent me from wandering too far. A myth.”
“You don’t say!” came the startled reaction. “How about the deity Amilthus? Have you heard of him?”
“No, my lord,” Salemon said. He was going to enumerate the popular deities of the day, but something told him not to go with that idea.
“How about the deities Riva? Zamites? Naga-Tharn? Ghul-Naboth?”
“All unknown to me, my lord.”
The entire assembly fell silent at Salemon’s answer. Even the speaker was struck speechless. After a few minutes of silence, an incredulous voice from the crowd whispered, disbelief clearly marking the tone.
“We’ve been forgotten.”
***
“It would seem that’s the situation,” said the imperious speaker after a minute of disbelieving silence.
Immediately after he spoke, a rising din of discordant voices arose, though Salemon could sense threads of worry and fear running through the gathered throng.
What a bunch of magpies.
All the anxious questions and statements from such obviously powerful beings somewhat calmed the woodcutter.
Heh. They can be worried too, he reflected. The unbecoming reaction was starting to be amusing, especially when loud arguments erupted. Salemon took a peek and saw a few of the more combative among them had started chest-pushing games. The tense air crackled with dangerous magical energy.
“No magic! No throwing of spells! No powers!” shouted the speaker frantically. The ones in front of the assembly calmed down, though furious stares continued. But those at the back continued their arguments and flashes of magic energy being readied could be seen.
“Oh, by Us! Calm down, I said!” repeated the being who immediately clapped his hand with a visible display of force. A thunderous blast exploded through the dim space.
The deafening sound didn’t throw anybody into the floor, nor did it knock somebody senseless, but it had painful consequences on Salemon’s mortal ears. He felt something trickle from his fleshy lugs. Touching it, he saw it was blood. At the sight, an inexplicable fury came over him, dissipating for the moment any remaining shred of fear in his mind.
These sorry examples of wet branches! Who do they think they are? he thought angrily. Bursting my eardrums!
To his own baffled amazement, though colored by a touch of terror, the outraged Salemon suddenly found the strength to stand up and face the haughty clapper.
“Hey! That’s respectfully your Greatness. I know I am but a simple woodcutter, and a mortal at that, and I see that you’re all high and mighty beings, my
