Darker Mojo

© 1998 Simon Logan
All rights reserved.

Rain had begun to falls in thick, heavy lines by the time October found the temple. A thousand silvery blades cut through the darkness, illuminating the rot that was a silently creeping creature all around him. The downpour filled the air with a strong scent of old wood, blackened stone and the tang of scattered garbage.

He stood before the crumbling doorway of a dilapidated apartment block at the end of a long and arduous journey, his heart full of a deep emptiness that brought to mind images of a cathedral abandoned by its congregation. He glanced either way down the alley, found he was still alone, and forced open the door.

The building was one of many that lined lower Toronto, a testament to decay and apathy. To most it would remain a place to avoid, even for the vandals who had reduced it to its current state. There were just too many dangers lurking like strange beasts ready to pounce.

But to October, the wrecked building was both an ending and a beginning.

He carefully stepped around a pile of timber crawling with wet insects and walked deeper into the darkness. His keen eyes adjusted with ease to the murk. Above him, the ceiling had caved in, or been demolished, long ago. It was the same for the next three floors, right up until the skylight, spider-webbed with cracks and clouded with time.

He could feel the tribal memories of his ancestors edging around him, always just out of reach.

Now deep in the heart of the building, he found a set of stone steps partly hidden by a pile of moss-covered rubble. He removed the blockage without any help from the Source, then descended the steps.

His coat, the leather even heavier than usual with the weight of heaven's tears upon it, slapped noisily against the stone. Disturbed rodents scurried away.

At the bottom of the steps was another doorway much like the entrance to the building. But there was one subtle, almost non-existent, difference. October spotted it amongst the wallpaper scrawls of graffiti that covered every available square inch of the neighbourhood.

It was a design once etched deeply into the stone above the doorway but now with most of its edges dulled. October ran his finger across it, following the strange, twisting pattern, then rolled up the sleeve on his left arm and revealed an identical pattern tattooed onto his skin. The Celtic sprawl seemed to come to life at his touch. A spark of energy leapt from the etching; a heavy click sounded upon the ageing wood of the door.

Although he had not tried it, October knew that this semi-hidden entrance would have remained stubbornly resistant to his (and anyone else's) attempts to get through. Now, however, the door slid open on hinges that should long ago have turned to rusted, crumbling mush, yet barely even squeaked as they moved.

Like a tangible draft of cool air, he felt familiar, homely energies spill through the gap.

October paused momentarily here, suddenly enveloped by sensations of paranoia and apprehension. He couldn't tell if the vague, whispered sounds that softly echoed around the gutted building were the innocent motions of whatever beasts inhabited the place now or non-existent conjurations.

But he couldn't, wouldn't, let fear or uncertainty halt the final part of the journey that had gripped him for such a time.

He stepped through the entrance and into an unnaturally thick blackness.

The magic of his family's temple was as great as he had imagined, and sensed, it to be. The walls stretched upward well beyond what reality would have allowed, beyond even the considerable height of the building itself, to a grand, arching ceiling. Just visible were the wooden ribs of the ceiling's skeletal structure, strong and proud despite superficial damage.

In fact, that seemed to be the state of most of the temple, as far as October could see.

Grandiosity, sheathed in a light mantle of decay and vandalism.

Of course, the vandalism was not the same as that which was perpetuated throughout the neighbouring buildings. The bored and the angry would not have been able to get anywhere near the temple of Tribe Noir, even if they had been able to get through the magical barriers that had been in place for centuries.

Prayer beds had been overturned, some snapped in two. Pieces of rubble littered the floor.

The huge windows, however, with their myriad panes, remained untouched, and this made October's chest swell with pride. Even with the acidic hatred the other tribes possessed for the Noir, they had been unable to do any serious damage.

October removed his jacket and shirt, exposing the markings that littered his flesh to his ancestral home for the first time.

He began down what had once been the central aisle, though it was now distorted by wreckage to an odd, jerking pathway. At the opposite end was one of many hollows in the ground in which Noir meditation would have taken place.

To see these hollows with only shadows of the beauty and serenity they once held made October's heart grow sick. He stood before one such concave, then climbed into it when he noticed something glittering amongst the debris at it's bottom. He reached in, felt around, then brought out a chak'say—the Noir tribe's ceremonial blade.

Chak'say often differed in size, and this was no doubt one of the smaller ones, though up until this moment October had only heard of such objects. The tribe had been far removed from this, their familial home, for such a time that those of October's generation knew of most of their heritage only through firelit tales and the dream-like musings of the elders. But now he held in his hand a piece of tribal history, and the magical energies seemed to spill forth from it with an ever-increasing fervour, like a timid creature being coaxed by a friendly voice.

He held the blade, constructed solely of the finest silver (for this particular element was the most conducive to Noir obeah) up, and it flashed a soft light of magical origin along its five-inch razor edge. Even the handle was of silver, though it was wrapped in a thin coil of cloth that had begun to disintegrate.

As he pulled himself from the hollow, October felt infinitely proud that such a reminder of his ancestors had managed to survive the temple's brutalisation.

He was doubly proud, then, when he discovered a small growth of that most treasured of flora—the Bodii fungus. It had sprouted from the ruins of a shattered vase, its wiry roots having taken place in a crack in the stone floor. The symbolism of the fungus' refusal to die made October smile, and he pulled it from its temporary home and placed it on his discarded jacket. He would retrieve its spawn from within the dark purple buds that crawled up its stalk and replenish the plant that had assisted the clan on many occasions and answered many of their questions.

October was uplifted by these two discoveries and was returning to the rear of the temple when his boot found something soft in front of him. He froze.

The darkness was so intense that even with his powerful sight he had to crouch down to examine what it was that lay at his feet. He touched it blindly and felt something give way beneath his fingers before realising what it was.

Anger flared momentarily, bringing with it the physical repercussions that could so often become an annoyance, but it was quickly replaced by sadness. His claws retracted; the smooth, fine coat that lay just beneath his dark skin vanished once more.

It was the body of a child that lay before him—one of his own.

She was long dead, mostly just bones with rags for clothing, but some spiteful mojo had slowed the putrefaction of her beautiful face to a crawl. Her lips remained upon a fleshy skull and they almost appeared to be smiling.

He flinched as the memory of her death flickered empathetically through his mind, Noir blood mixing with Noir blood; Noir mind with Noir mind.

She had been trapped within the temple; surrounded by other tribes ready to pounce on her should she panic and try to escape. October glimpsed Tierry, Kodiak, some Kappa. He even heard the hideous sound of Valkyrie wings beating rapidly amongst the lashings of a heavy rainfall. October could only see brief flashes of their faces, their movements, as they skirted the giant windows. Their slick bodies whispered wet noises. There were grunts and the sound of laughter. The girl had nowhere to go, no sustenance. She had been forced to let herself die upon the hard floor of the temple as a certain death awaited her outside.

A wave of emotion ran over October. It was strong enough to break the bond that had formed, tossing him away from the girl's body.

An instant later he lay on the unforgiving ground, breathing heavily through gritted teeth.

Did they really hate the Noir so much?

He was beginning to get to his feet when the dead girl moved.

She had been lying prone for a hundred years, and now she had climbed up onto one knee. She (this thing, this skeletal thing with a crumbled left shin bone) was beginning to crawl away from the sumu warrior as if she were merely awakening from a deep sleep.

Dulled by the shock that the genetic memory of her suffering had relayed to him, October was unable to gather his wits enough before one bony finger lashed out at his face and opened his cheek.

His face grew hot as he stared at the creature that swayed before him. It collapsed back into lifelessness as he caught sight of a movement at the very edge of his vision; something that flashed bright, then was gone.

Then another, on the other side of the temple. Among the overturned prayer beds?

No, that couldn't be. Noir sumu swamped the whole temple - nothing could get in.

But something was happening. Something terrible.

Before October could do a thing about his suspicions, something oily and serpentine wrapped around his naked waist and up over his shoulder. He cried out in shock and pain as a hundred barbed needles drove into his skin, expertly avoiding the protective tattoos and war paints he had hastily administered upon discovering the building.

The attacker was not a creature in itself but the rain-slickened, tentacle-like tail of a beast that lay beyond the entrance to the temple, protected by the darkness there. But October did not need to see it to know what it was.

The stench of a Hellmonkey could often be noticed from great distances, yet this one in particular had remained completely hidden from October, even in his current, heightened state of awareness, until only a split second before it had attacked. And, as the creatures themselves had only very minor magical abilities, this could only mean one thing;

The Kappa were there, too.

The conclusion was swift and automatic—October's ability to think was being slowly squeezed out of his head as the Hellmonkey's jagged tail tightened its grip around him, simultaneously dragging him toward the doorway.

As he drew closer, he glimpsed flashes of light and recalled the brief sounds that he had attributed to vermin earlier. Had that been his own stupidity or had the Kappa somehow managed to secretly start a mojo working upon him? The Kappa were nowhere near as powerful as Noir in a purely magical sense—no tribe was—but in large enough numbers they could certainly be a danger.

October fought desperately against the Hellmonkey as it reeled him in, its teeth chattering in excitement, but each movement was accompanied by deeper intrusions into his flesh. He lashed out for the chak'say as he was dragged past it but succeeding only in kicking the Bodii fungus through the door ahead of him.

And then he was at the entrance to the Temple Noir, damaged but not dead, crumbling but not gone. One last attempt to break free of the Hellmonkey's grip resulted in a high-pitched screech from the creature as it pulled him even tighter, into the doorway and through, then up the stone steps.

The tail unravelled slowly and the hyperactive monster began to retreat. Silence fell.

October looked up as copious amounts of blood poured from his wounds and saw glowing images form from out of the darkness like the moon escaping from behind a thick cloud. The images were symbols, words, simple workings; all spray-painted upon the Kappa's wiry, long-limbed bodies.

The Hellmonkey snapped at October's head before its leash was yanked backward by one of the Kappa. For a moment, the air beside the dark magician's head stank of rotted flesh and sulphur.

And then the Kappa revealed themselves, liquid shapes emerging from the murky soup, all around him, everywhere. Their luminous markings appeared to merge at times, warping and stretching neatly. They resembled giant humanised spiders forced by some unseen puppeteer to walk upright, their extra limbs snapped off and discarded, their heads re-shaped to that of a man's. The lower joints of both their arms and legs overshot the upper ones by a good half foot, making it look as if their bones were bursting out of their bodies. A dozen or so mouthfuls of teeth chattered noisily.

One of the creatures stepped forward, its body clicking as it moved, and bent effortlessly down to where October lay. It spoke in its breed's stunted manner;

"We are waiting longer; soon you will have been here now." Its lengthy tongue snapped outward to punctuate every other word, and although he did not look up, October could easily visualise the tiny set of canines that had married with the flesh.

The rest of pack moved slowly around their folly, up and over rubble, crawling the walls in excitement.

October could taste the ugly death that awaited him and tried to pull himself upright. The wounds around his stomach were, for a moment, full of flames of agony, and he was unceremoniously pulled back down to the growing puddle that warmed the cold stone beneath him. The thin layer of jet black fur that usually hid beneath his skin had begun to rise, though it was an almost unnoticeable change against the already dark flesh.

He had to get back into the temple. They wouldn't be able to breech the workings that surrounded his ancestral home—and all he needed was some time to recuperate, to heal.

He began to crawl. The Kappa screeched laughter as he slipped backward onto the first step that led down to the temple entrance. His whole body shook in pain and his mind began to blur.

A thin trail of his blood was descending ahead of him, step by step.

One of the skeletal creatures leapt over him, landing next to the entrance. It produced a spray-can and sprayed the ground before its feet with a viscous design that made October's eyes hurt. Something moved swiftly to his left and he snapped a look in that direction. Two more Kappa were spraying the same design upon the stairwell's seven-foot-high sides. He turned in time to see a final burst of luminous yellow appear on the first step.

An odd buzzing now surrounded him. He could sense the mojo working spreading, creating a transparent magical cage to trap him in.

He was paralysed.

For a short time his captors were still, as if reluctant to believe that their magic had worked, but they soon began circling again. October's line of sight remained fixed upon a pile of shattered crates straight ahead. Even breathing brought great pain, as the mystical hook and chains that held him tore into his flesh with each tiny movement.

As one Kappa stepped through the barrier, a bright blue streak flashed around it, then was gone. The creature knelt beside October's head and behind him so that its prey could only smell its scent and hear its whisper;

"Bwana Mukuba will be much happy, Dead One. He has wanted you much for a long time now."

October did not try to speak. In his mind, words formed;

I am free now, though you do not know it.

The Kappa made a sound that could have been a laugh or a hiss of disgust.

More of the creatures stepped through the barrier, flickering blue, their clawed feet clicking on the stone floor like restless crickets or the mournful scrapings of a convict counting his final days until death upon the cold brick wall of his cell.

October knew what was coming and hated himself for it. He had evaded the Bwana Mukuba and the other tribes for so long, desperately clinging to the remnants of the Noir tribe, for they all lay in him now. It had been made clear to him in past conflicts that he was the last, that he was the sole vessel for Noir blood, Noir soul, and lately he had come to believe it. Yet now he had allowed himself to be captured because of his love for his tribe and his need to illuminate his roots. It would mean his death, but more than that, it would mean the Noir's death, and that was so much a greater loss.

The Kappa had begun to touch their scrawny fingers (three on the left hand, four on the right) to the slowly widening pool of dark liquid that leaked from October's wounds. The sumu which protected the Noir temple was strong, but as with all magic (dark, light, mystical, natural) it had its weak points, and the Bwana Mukuba knew them all.

The markings above the temple entrance had revealed to October that it should be Noir and Noir only that enter. But the working had obviously been hastily applied and the fluid streak that topped the design would be easily interpreted by even the most minor of magi as a clear indication that the spell was blind and therefore easily misled by those who knew how.

The Kappa knew how, or at least had been told how, and that was why they now spread October's Noir blood upon their emaciated forms and drank heartily. The hyperactive creatures stepped through into the temple, a feat they had for so long been denied, and the working let them, for it smelled Noir blood upon them and smiled at them in the belief that they were one of its own.

October scorned the sorcerer who had administered the conjuration as the sounds of smashing and breaking reached his ears, but not before he had scorned himself. He should have sensed the Kappa, or at least the Hellmonkey that now snarled at him from beyond the cage.

October had come to rebuild his clan, but now through his own stupidity he had become the key that had unlocked the door to the finishing touches of the demolition of his spiritual home.

Something exploded next to his ears; then there was laughter, like hot needles being slowly hammered into his eardrums. A piece of china, large and curved, lay beside him as the noises of destruction continued. Upon the fragment was a piece of a picture of a plant, twisted and stripped of leaves.

He thought of the Bodii fungus that he had placed amongst his discarded jacket and shirt. It lay next to the chak'say, which would have been infinitely more useful if he were able to move. He thought of the stories he had heard of the strange weed.

It was described as hallucinatory by some; more than that by others. Out there somewhere was a place safe from death and suffering, for it was filled with those who been freed of it. October had always believed that this Province Of The Dead had existed, but he had never really questioned it before, nor had those few Noir he had known personally. His grandfather, he had been told, had been greatly skilled in the ways of the Bodii, but the Province was a dangerous place, for it was hungry and asked that you stay there upon your arrival. It took a strong will to resist.

October's natural healing abilities had begun to heal his stomach wounds, but it was a difficult task. Each time he moved the lacerations were opened afresh, and this meant that the sight of the fungus must come from his mind as he could not turn one bit.

As he heard the sound of one of the great windows of the temple being shattered by a giggling Kappa, he formed the image of the Bodii amongst the darkness that had begun to cloud his head. He saw its pale, jagged-smooth stalk; the deep purple nodules that lined its length; the velvety leaves that curled in towards themselves at their very tip.

And the plant began to move.

The Kappa were working themselves into a frenzy, skipping from place to place, smashing and destroying and demolishing. Group of two or three hung from the ceiling struts, pulling down hard to collapse the whole place. Another struck its hands together so that bright green sparks leapt from its scimitar nails and small flames lit the air threateningly. The roof pack screamed encouragement to their brother as it lit one of the piles of broken, rotting wood, and it too cackled upon seeing another kick aside the bones of the child-Noir.

Meanwhile, the Bodii fungus flashed blue as it moved through the magical field, its own energies providing enough of a cover to protect it from the Kappa's cage. In his mind, October saw it slither snake-like past his knee, then his thigh, then through the sticky patch next to his stomach. And he saw his dark skin glitter with sweat and the sweat tore at him as it moved across his body, but he somehow resisted screaming.

The Hellmonkey began to shriek as it watched the fungus move.

Shut up, October urged, and for a moment it was not the fungus that was in his mind but the Kappa, suddenly looking up from their destructive activities and knowing that something was wrong, deeply wrong.

Dull light flashed across his midnight-tainted coat.

The Hellmonkey also knew that something was wrong, though it couldn't comprehend what. It leapt at piece of weed and was thrown backward against the apartment building's wall in a flash of magical blue. It tried again, but the same thing happened.

It whimpered and paced as it watched the fungus crawl toward October's mouth.

And then a Kappa was at the doorway, finally answering its pet's cries, and it saw what October was doing.

"He's finding the Bodii!" the bony creature screamed, but October didn't hear because he had already managed to bite off a small chunk of the fungus and was no longer in the building.

In not just another place but another form of existence, October walked across a hot gravel path that wound through fields of knee-high reeds. There was a blue sky overhead that seemed to shine as if he were trapped within the innards of a gigantic jewel, and the sweet scent of summer was in the air.

Young trees lined the path as it spread out into a main road worn with deep grooves from cartwheels. As October passed them he could feel the life they emanated in the same way he felt the breeze, pregnant with seeds.

He now knew why the stories he had heard of the Province, though filled with wonder and beauty, had always been punctuated by warnings and admonitions to be careful, for if you found Heaven, why would you want to leave, even if you did not belong?

There was a rumbling that first sounded like thunder, then October realised it was a horse-drawn cart approaching from behind him. He turned to watch it go by. The enslaved creature hung its long, thin head wearily; its shoulder muscles worked mightily with each step. The driver was cloaked in the shadows that draped the carriage but became gradually more visible as the cart turned with the road and sunlight peered in his direction.

It was, in fact, a woman.

She was old and as weary as her equine companion. She seemed either to not see October or to ignore him. The baskets of fruit she carried swayed in time with the horse's slow steps, threatening to spill but never quite managing it. October had a feeling that she was an expert at this journey as he watched her guide the horse past him and along the road, adjusting for every little bump and ditch so that although her load may shake, it would never be lost.

He watched as first the horse, then the cart, disappeared as the road dropped down into a shallow valley below. He quickened his pace and stood by the edge of the dip. Below was a small village, its hand-built houses of stone and dried grass and mud scattered around the valley floor, spilling out small puffs of smoke into the air. Clutches of people interlaced the streets ... though they were less streets than irregular pathways formed by the positioning of the huts and a few stone wells.

October made his way down towards the village. As he was halfway there, another world flashed before his eyes—one of darkness, and rubble, and tittering creatures that glowed luminously, and piles of shattered glass that resembled little fires as they glittered light.

It was a momentary lapse, but it reminded him that he was only a visitor to the Province and that soon he would be returned. If he were to have any chance at all of defeating the Kappa, he would have to re-emerge into the blackness within the temple, or at least with enough strength of purpose to break through the magical barriers that had been erected around him.

He caught up with the old woman and her cart, and when he looked at her she ignored him once more. An apple fell from one barrel and tumbled the rest of the way down to the valley floor, undamaged, but she did not seem to notice.

October hurried on, filled with a sense of urgency.

Dust and pebbles kicked up as he skidded down the considerably steeper last few feet of the path to the entrance to the village.

Noir had been travelling to this place for thousands of years, both through the use of the Bodii and the everlasting journey that must be embarked upon after natural death (those cursed with a murderous end would suffer another route). It was legendary among the tribe, though most of the stories had been lost as those who would tell them were taken, usually murdered by other clans. October had only heard fragments of the Province's reality.

He took to the dusty streets and soon realised that none of those he passed would meet his eyes, turning their attentions footwards as he approached. Although he could feel time running out—

the Kappa were going wild, leaping from place to place, screaming that he had gone, gone, gone but to where though they knew where and there was nothing they could do, so they smashed, and smashed and laughed as they did so

—he had to go slowly for he was, after all, an intruder. And he knew now that his own magic, though powerful in comparison to the Kappa and other tribes, was in its infancy and nowhere near powerful enough to move him so easily into the Province for the first time. He had been helped, that much was clear, by his ancestors. Long gone and many miles into the journey, they could still sense when their tribe was in trouble, and it was certainly so now.

October was one of the last, if not the last, Noir, and if the Kappa, the Tierry, the Kodiak and the Bwana Mukuba himself all wanted to see the demise of the Noir, then surely it would not be long before it became a reality. But October so badly wanted to return to the Province once death took him—he had spent his whole life without another Noir beside him; he did not want to spend his death like that too.

More eyes turned away from him until he found a bamboo cage behind a large, deserted hut. In the cage was a panther, its shiny fur flashing deep blue streaks as the sun crossed it, thick strong muscles rippling just beneath the surface. October held up his own arm, turned it, and watched his own dark hide rise, and fall again. The panther ceased its pacing and sat majestically before him. Their eyes met, and a connection was made.

Why are you here?

I had to come.

Why?

I was dying.

Are you still dying?

October checked his stomach.

No.

Are you dead?

A pause.

How would I know if I were?

Somehow, the panther smiles. Its teeth have been dulled to flat points and, as if embarrassed, it quickly tucks them away again.

If you are not dead, then you do not belong here, Brother.

I do not know where I belong. The Noir are almost an extinct species. When I dream, I dream I am the last. Am I?

The big cat seemed to ponder this question.

No, you are not the last. There is another.

From behind the panther's cage stepped a young woman, dressed in rags and dirt. Blood was smeared around her wrist and ankles. Her left cheek was yellow from an ageing bruise. She looked straight at October, and her eyes were dark, dark as if the blackness of space had been poured into them; and there were stars in there, too.

Why have I never dreamt of this one?

She has dreamt of you. And I have dreamt of you both, Children.

And now October knew that the panther, this creature that was both brother and father, was called Seramyne, but he did not know the woman's name and he did not know why not.

You must go now. Soon, the sun will be setting and it would not be good for you to be here when it does.

October could already feel the pull of that other place, where creatures wailed and shadows pasted the crumbling walls, as the sky became tinged with red. A crowd had, at some point, gathered, and now the whole village was there, a village of those Noir dead and gone and content forever more, and they looked at October, at his eyes. In one hand October found he held the chak'say; the dark fur of his tribe had risen in places upon his skin. His cheeks were shadowed with it, his arms too, though only within the confines of his limb-long tattoos. His hands had become thickly muscled and furred, too, with yellowing, razor-sharp claws.

October looked at the cage. Seramyne was lying down now, and the woman was by his side, stroking his head softly as it fell into sleep. The Dead had begun to disperse as the sun fell beyond the horizon, doors closing, beaded curtains and draperies too.

October would return to this place, of that he was certain. There was another Noir alive, and that meant there was a chance that the tribe would not be extinguished by the wrathful jealousy and hatred of the other races. That meant there was hope.

October tightened his grip on the ceremonial knife, and let himself fall into the darkness.

The first Kappa to be slaughtered didn't even have time to scream when October stepped out of the air before it and brought a thin, silvery blade across its throat and lopped off its head. It fell to the ground in two shuddering pieces and joined the result of its own destruction.

October leapt backward into the shadows created by one of the window's overhang, and he crouched, ready for the next attack.

One Kappa had already seen him and was grinning widely. Flames lashed all around it from the fires that had been started and it dripped a thick, cloying sweat from the heat. An instant later the entire pack was advancing on October, having discarded their past enthusiasm for destruction of the temple. To destroy a Noir would be infinitely sweeter, and although they had planned on saving him until last, they had no objections to dealing with him now.

From beyond the entrance, the Hellmonkey howled, smashing against the magical barrier over and over and growing more weary with each subsequent attack.

The first Kappa had begun to climb a pile of rubble to where October crouched, then suddenly leaped upwards. October caught it with one hand, swung it around, and stabbed the chak'say inward and up, opening up the attacker's stomach and letting the contents empty onto the second assailant, only a mere instant behind the first.

The two stumbled backward, taking a third with them, and crashed in a muddled heap to the floor.

October was quick, on top of them before they had time to regain their bearings. He plunged a clawed hand through one of their heads and grabbed the other through its companion's skull, twisting sharply; a brief snap.

The rest had converged on October and he was thrown into one of the floor pits, past a raging fire that spat hot ash. There was a stink of sulphur that at first the dark magician attributed to the flames all around him; but then he saw the Hellmonkey at the edge of the pit, its lips drawn back across its needly teeth, spittle hanging down in a sparkling thread.

October lashed out, again and again, the chak'say slicing air and flesh and bone and flame all at once as screams filled the air and the temple continued to crumble. He pushed up at the weight of bodies lying on top of him and got out of the way just in time as the Hellmonkey dived down at him. Its tail whipped around when it realised it had missed him, lashing him across the fur of his back and drawing a thin line of bare skin.

Its teeth were in October's leg as he climbed out of the pit; he kicked out, and the Hellmonkey was whining. Once more, and it was as silent as the death that had embraced it.

October rolled away from the pit across painful shards of glass and rubble and looked up to see a supporting beam come crashing toward him. He flipped backward and felt the cold wisp of air breathe upon his neck as the beam sailed by. He lost his balance and tumbled into one of the temple walls.

He flinched in pain and when his eyes opened again, he saw the final Kappa standing by the edge of the pit. It glanced down at its murdered brethren, at its pet, and snarled. Its bones clicked against each other as it moved toward October, as if it tasted defeat in the air.

"Bwana Mukuba will have your death, Dead One," it said, click click.

October backed up against the wall. The chak'say was in his hand, but he had already used up most of its energy and now it was weak and tired. He let the knife clatter to the ground; and that, the occasional shattering beam or strut or window pane, and the whisper of flames, were the only sounds.

"Bwana Mukuba will have your death, Dead One," the Kappa repeated. It stumbled over some debris, almost fell. October now saw that it was hurt, for it held its side whenever it could.

It was only ten feet away and there was death in the air.

October thought of the Province, that place of his family and a caged panther and a woman just like him. He would meet her someday. He would not stop looking until he had met her. He could not die now.

A memory flashed through his mind; that of the Kappa, this particular Kappa, supping his stomach's blood as he had bled onto the ground by the entrance to the temple. And October reached out to the Source, where all power came from, where it all began, the start. His clawed hand twitched in time with the Kappa's movements .

He was Noir. He was powerful.

And he would not allow himself to be defeated by a Kappa, not after such a long journey.

The Kappa's steps faltered. It frowned atop some shattered glass, and a piece of one of its brothers. It began to move again, then faltered once more. It touched its throat and felt something bulging there and it looked straight at October, who looked back.

It knew that a mojo working had begun, and it knew that if it was Noir sumu, there was nothing it could do to stop it. Maybe the Bwana Mukuba, the Big Man, could have done something, but he was not here and he probably wouldn't have helped the Kappa anyway.

A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of the Kappa's mouth.

Taste my blood, Kappa.

More blood came, and then it poured from the creature's thin mouth and the weight of the spillage forced it to its knees, like a drunk collapsing before a toilet. October watched silently as the Kappa's scrawny body began to bulge as if air were being pumped into it, and soon redness began to leak from its pores, from every single pore in its body.

October watched silently, not even flinching when the exertion of the working began to make his head pound from the outside in. And when the Kappa exploded in a shower of crimson, still he did not flinch, still he only watched.

And then it was over, in more sense than one.

Everything was coming to pieces. There would be no hope of saving the temple now. Timber and stone fell all around October (though none touched him out of reverence). He straightened up, slid the chak'say into his belt, and walked over to the entrance.

He turned before leaving, taking one last look at Temple Noir, for his eyes would be the last to ever be placed upon its once wonderful sight. He picked up the tiny skull of the girl who had died there, surrounded and terrified; his sister, long-removed. He put on his jacket and put the rest of the fungus and the skull in his pockets.

At least he had managed to recover something, something, that would serve as a reminder not only to him but to everyone that the Noir still existed.

When October stepped through the entrance, everything grew quiet. He looked back and the door was gone; just another piece of wall. The Kappa's spray paint remained, but it would fade with time. He ascended the steps and was then in the even deeper darkness of the apartment building.

There was the sound of rats scurrying around him, and this time they were rats.

October felt he should stay and pay his respects, yet soon all sense of the temple would be gone; perhaps it would only exist within his own memories, a burning testament to the Noir and the other tribes' hatred. But more so to the Noir's desire for survival.

October thought of Seramyne and the girl.

If she truly was the only other living Noir, then he must find her. For too long had he been searching for his spiritual home; and no sooner had he found it than it was taken from him by the forces who had taken his family, his clan—his heritage. But the Noir still had a chance to survive, and it was up to him to make sure that that chance wasn't wasted.

He emerged into the night. It was raining heavily. He wrapped his coat around his body, feeling for a moment the scar across his stomach finally vanishing and the remaining clumps of tribal fur retreating back into his skin.

And as he walked the first few steps on this, his new journey, large, dense raindrops soaking him through, his footsteps muffled by the puddled ground, he found himself wondering one, single thought;

What is her name?

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