The Saga of Søren

 “Twas the night of the Lome, when all that was good, was smuggled away, away from the

Wood, and the children, they scream, and the parents’ brows furrow, at every mink skin and

every hare burrow. Every Mass sermon and every Church bell, tolls uneasy, with the thought

of hell; the reminders of Bosch*, and his outlandish dreams, disrupts every sleeper, cuts holes

in the seams, of every wall keeping the dark and surreal, away from our minds, away from our

meals, and the Owl, she cry, and and the boar, outgrabe*; such was the night, when the Whale

of the labe, would wake all the shroom, whose cry would alarm, and sound the doom, of the

Beast of the Hills, the Valleys, and Mounts, whose very death cry was enough to flaunt, the

rapier of Saint Volga, Anderson surname, whose name lasts the years and souls which had

came, who tested the will of the Beast of the Hills, and struck him in chest; twas enough to

kill. The eye will be found and the crowd will be quiet; the fact will be made so that none can

deny it. So he silenced the terror, yet all cower at home? Yet such is the story, twas the night of

the Lome”

As it was the night of the Lome, every man, woman, and child with any sense stayed

indoors, crouching, eyes peering out every window and every crack for any sign of it; the fire

proved little comfort, yet it did provide some, and so Sören tended it. He had just come quickly

home, along with the rest of the congregation, from Mass, disrupted by the cry which

resonated down the mountain and into the valleys and into their village and up their spines.

Father, in hushed, uneasy tones, informed the servers to leave at once. He distributed

communion in a manner almost disrespectful, but all understood. Every soul left Saint

Anderson’s Church quickly, and he was torn apart from his comrade, Agnes, without ever

saying goodbye. Soren and his family walked past familiar faces filled with anguish, and not a

word was uttered. Still the howl persisted. They reached the doorpost, fell in, and father locked

the door and told all to hide.

Soren remembered the Night from three years ago, and vaguely the one eight years

before that. The air was tense, with no room to breath. So he stayed by the fire, where his

fears might go up with smoke. He was tired, and was fearing the hurt face of Agnes. The Lome

was forever a day that lived over the people’s heads. The village of Dorge was placed gingerly

between the valley of the river Volga, and the mountain of Krokig, spaced only by the Wood.

Only about the first eighty feet had been traversed for means of hunting and logs, the rest was

forbidden by tradition because of the Beast. The village itself had preserved its history and

culture for centuries, and expressed its beauty when possible. Vikings, princes, even druids had

made advent before Christendom had set its feet upon it’s borders. But dark days came; the

people had no wool over they eyes concerning the evil. Pagan worship and sacrifice may have

left the Dorgian’s rituals, but it had taken its toll on the surrounding nature; beyond their

sacred borders, blasphemous things sat in waiting, while the people sat in fear. But there was a

deliverer, even if only a temporary one; Volga Anderson, or saint Volga Anderson, as the people

called him, stepped up, glowing with piety, and pierced the Beast with the Sword of the Holy

Mystery, in which, as the chroniclers say, one could distinguish good from evil. Anderson

delved into the forest, and after a terrible cry - no - a scream was heard from the Beast, he

returned, his sword defiled with black blood. When rosy fingered dawn came the next morrow,

rejoicing returned; culture was upheld, and a feast was had. But when the Saint finally passed,

slowly, very slowly, did the screams return. Every Odjur Död, or Beast’s Death celebration,

some attempt was made on the village. One year, a sheep was dissected, organ by organ, on the

green in front of the Church; another time, an old venerable woman had been murdered and

hung on a post, with words of warning below her feet. More recently, a girl who complained of

visions of a terrible creature went mad, and ran into the Wood. Other, more terrible crimes

had been committed, one’s that could not be mentioned here. And so, by some hellish,

unknown means, the Beast had its grip firmly on the village of Dorge.

And so Soren sat by the fireplace, contemplating all this, when he suddenly felt chilled.

All that was left in the fire pit was ashes. The fire had run out. “Oh, forbid, forbid! I must

go!” Soren exclaimed, rushing to put on his oversized Russian coat. His father entreated him

not to go, his mother pleaded, his siblings begged, but he looked to them and said, “Where

darkness dwells, so may the Beast. I will find kindling. I will alight our hearth. Allow me your

blessing”. And so they relented. A blessing was given, and after one Pater Noster, he was off

into the bleak night, closing the door behind him.

Soren quietly fled into the main street, then into a smaller thoroughfare, and then a

smaller one, and then a smaller one, until he reached the Church of Saint Anderson. A quiet

huddled mass of prayer candles and himself composed the audience of the Sacrament, and in

silence, he gazed.

And then he heard the scream

Louder than a conch horn, more robust than a trumpet, more vicious than a snake, it

polluted the air, and profaned the holy, solemn moment. He dashed outside, and ran to the

forest border, hesitantly staring at that maze of crooked and upright trees, imagining the

hideous faces which were embedded in their bark. He entered slowly; careful not to step on

any twig such as to make a noise. He feared the dark. He feared something greater than

himself. He feared the Beast. Carefully he picked up bundles, accumulating first ten, than

twenty, than thirty. The most abundant pile was just ten feet beyond. He inched forward,

happy to supply his family which such an amount, and then he stopped. He approached the

border to the Wood proper. A beautiful pile, dry and thin, sat before him. Was it just his eyes

adjusting, or was it a brighter shade over by it? Would he not be back in minutes? He made

the decision to press forward, and tripping, fell on his face.

He looked up, troubled worried. Where were his sticks? Where was the pile? But the

darkness began to shroud and manipulate things. Staring only confused him. He stumbled

forward, careful not to run into an impaling branch. He cringed and recoiled, scared of what

may lay ahead. He ran faster and faster to where the light might be, quicker and quicker, he

hastened up the hill. Through the wood, towards the blue light just a little off, he hastened.

He burst through the threshold and found himself in the middle of a Nordic winter blizzard,

and the howling was only a few measures off.

He saw, on the edge of the ridge, a figure pulling a rickshaw of indeterminable size

behind him, trudging from the mountain to the valley, closer and closer to Dorge. He only

could make it out faintly, but the darkness of the figure shown more brightly than any light he

had ever seen. To some it may have been beautiful, but he knew what it was. And so he made

his painful trudge across the perpendicular ridge towards what is known to the townsfolk as

the Beast.

Soren’s uneasiness increased tenfold with every step towards it. He expected disaster, he

expected torture. And it is all the worse when one can see what lies ahead opposed to when

one is in ignorance. He could see the dark figure come closer and closer as the impending

doom came upon him. Only a few minutes remained between him and his end, and so he

pulled on his snow cap a bit and felt his knife, Delta, in his pocket. How did it come to be

there? It hardly mattered. And then he stopped. He was in the presence of evil, as he could

smell it.

He managed to emit a small voice, “What might you be doing with your cart, sir?”. The

reply was a stare, but he closed his eyes. Through the spaces in his fingers he saw things he

wished he never saw. “If I could only know what you are after, I might be of assistance to you”

Soren managed. The Beast rudely moved past him, hauling his Promethean weight behind

him. A large, blindingly white scar was visible on the Monstrosity, from its shoulder to its

kidney, but not through completely. “My forefather’s have vanquished you! We may do so

again, so you might be stopped!” Soren boldly asserted. A reply was lacking, but a tension was

building which pressed the emotion of Soren. Running up to the Beast, he whispered, “You

are Krökt”. The beast violently whipped his head, looking straight at Soren, and seethed into

the mind of Soren, “I am that which had never been, which is not, and never shall be, and

none shall utter my name!”. Soren was stunned. He couldn’t move under the evil gaze of the

beast, even though not in true form. Soren would have been left there in the cold until he

froze and died, if not for the thought of the Holy Presence in the Church miles away.

He yelled into the blurry distance, snow clouding his view, and said, “Let us make a

deal”. The fading figure of the Beast paused in its tracks. For ten solid minutes, their was no

sound or movement, save that of the the snow. The dark night complemented the white flaked

perfectly, and the moment was destroyed by the words “So be it”. Soren found himself in the

presence of the Beast, and he heard the sly words by his ear as he shut his eyes, “Lay out what

we shall abide by in this compromise”. Soren managed “All I ask is for the tortures you inflict

upon our town, from here to eternity, be done to myself instead, so as to end our trials”. Here

a booming laugh echoed across the Hills and Valleys and Mountains. “You? You!? A mere

infant? If I were to put all I contain upon you...” he paused, and in a much darker tone,

whispered, “There would be nothing left to torment”. Soren closed his eyes still, and in a small

voice, said, “Then let it be done unto me”.

The Beast, if he ever has, looked somewhat amused. He then, in the voice of a child,

said, “Climb up on the ladder Soren, and you shall find an oaken keg. I have given you every

warning, though your body soon shall be dead. Now hurry, for I find this boring, and I’m sure

to spoil my legs”. Soren understood. He faced the rickshaw, now on the ground, and climbed

on the first rung. The second rung. The third rung. “Come now, Soren, mustn’t waste time”

said the now sitting Beast. The fourth rung. The fifth rung. The sixth rung. “If you are still as

courageous as Anderson, you would hurry” said the Beast. The seventh rung. The eight rung.

The ninth rung. “You’ll find a cork on the top. Simply remove, and my gift lies inside”

entreated the suppliant. Soren looked around, but the blood was in his head. The night was

too black, the Church too far away. He would sacrifice himself for whatever still cared for him,

which as he looked in vain, was nothing. He unplugged the cork, and descended into hell.

“When from the surface man falls, the fall is a bet

his life but a memory

he chose to forget

Whence does man know that sin lies below

simple pleasures, and beauty

akin to the snow

And so the lamb fell

Soren by name

into the pit

whence monster had came.

He wakes up, is tortured, by fears of times gone

guilty fears of childhood

of bogey, the Von

of stolen purse-money and hurt feelings

the child runs

but playtime returns; the morning comes with good fun.

Coming to a third gate, the faller espies

the terrors of nighttime

in bed where one lies

The boar headed swans

and the tree headed goats

Of living skin castles and fish headed moats.

A quart, the sinner sees, are sins of the flesh

pleasures which make one lose meaning in life

passions which make of the knew day less fresh

and begin to spawn thought

of the end

by a knife.

A quintessential section of the dimming

descent

Is that which is cunning

Which like moon crescent

begins with a sliver, then ends in the waxing

and on one’s standing

thievery is taxing.

The sextant which peers

to see the direction

Blinds many wise men

with smaller correction

“To East or to West” they haggle and spurt

and lose sight of the goal, and

continue to hurt

those underneath

their stunning far gaze

for by seers and leaders, are world might be razed.

From seven complete, the spiral may invert

for so far to one side,

one’s vision may pervert

so that it may seem

that one is doing good

when one only has gotten more lost in the wood.

In the words of Octavius “In Heaven I pray

For I once saw a rich man die good in his grave”

For men whom art in power

compose true anarchy

one might oppose harams, these, to marry.

Nine, thrice thrice, the lamb now became

other than what it was when it came

a lamb to a goat

a knight to a fraud

Soren lost his friends

but nay, not his God.

Then at the bottom, when the Lamb has been slain

and he knows in his heart he will not rise again

and all of the worms of the soil enter and theft him

and his eyes are gouged our when his one Agnes left him.

Such are the horrors into which hell descends

and lightly, poor Soren, to Heaven ascends”

Soren woke up to see that he was standing on the top of the rickshaw staring down at

the crouching figure of the beast. Soren had lost everything, and his duty was clear. The Beast

muttered “I have nothing left. You have, survived the curse, how, I do not know. Do what you

must to me”. Soren lifted Delta, which now was shining of a splendor which was only known

to the rapier of legend, for Delta had become the sword of Saint Anderson. The Beast was thin

and crippled, as it had imparted its power on Soren, and evil may not reproduce as grace

might. Soren might have ended it there, but he lowered the dagger. “Move on. Turn your

wagon about and move on” Soren said. Slowly, the Beast, face covered, painstakingly moved

the rickshaw all the way around, with a loud squeaking noise. He then looked back, his white

eyes filled with a look of disbelief. He then set his eyes on the rode up the ridge, into the

range, into the mountain, and into the cave, where no man would set foot. His figure

disappeared in a few minutes into the softly falling snow.

Soren walked home that day in confidence, ringing the bell to the church loudly.

When disbelief was shown to his story, he held up the eye of the Beast, in which one could see

as an angel might see. None could deny that this was truly a sign of verification. He returned

to his home and made reunion with his parents, filled with much laud and joy. And he ran

towards Agnes and fell into her arms.

f i n i s h