The holly scam

I.

 

Gertrud was the name of his mother and Adelaide the name of his aunt, his mother’s sister; so they called him Gerald, a short of a combination of them two. His father’s name was ‘him’; the one we never mention by name or -according to his grandfather, ‘the bastard’. Conversations about ‘him’ always ended there, rarely to be repeated.

His birth was also rarely mentioned even though once or twice, here and there, intentionally or not, his grandfather had said that it was pure luck which sister was going to be mother and which one the aunt, leaving Gerald in total confusion. Every time both sisters in a united chorus shushed him viciously. Later, years later, with a little help from a television drama, Gerald understood.

And while a television drama answered his grandfather’s puzzling quote -and you can add this to the negative effects of television to a young mind, it also did something else for Gerald. Something positive; it gave him a cause, a calling. A professional orientation some might add.

Approximately fourteen years later and in front of a petrol station’s bathroom mirror he tried for a first time his new white collar and he was happy after really long time. He straightened his black jacket, moved some invisible dust from the shoulders and wore his most compassionate smile. “Father Gerald,” he grinned to his reflection and he washed his hands.

He was his mother’s son except the eyes. Average to short height, average to full weight. Brown short of mousy hair just like his mother, round face just like his aunt and blue eyes like nobody of the above. ‘His’ eyes. The one we never mention by name. Twenty years old Gerald and he still didn’t know his name. His father’s name.

Didn’t really bother him. It fell in the category: “shit happen to good people” and since his mother and his aunt were good people, well …Gerald happened. But it was fine; Gerald never felt the need of a father figure or presence. His grandfather covered that for the first fifteen years and he also covered all the stereotypes and stories of old grumpy men constantly complaining about young people with his forte the constant grumbles about the modern world.

But there was also a part of this modern world his grandfather not just loved, but indubitably and dedicatedly adored, television. While Gertrud spent all her week mornings and afternoons clerking in the public library and Adelaide most of her days helping in the local nursing home, grandpa and grandson were watching one soup-opera after the other. School eventually became the break between soup-operas in his daily program and his view of the world was overwhelmed of family dramas, hints of sex and intrigue; the occasional crime, mainly scams.

Soup-operas also gave Gerald a perspective on how to exhibit a variety of feelings accompanied with the right facial expressions or hand gestures. They also gave him a full knowledge of what spoon or fork to use with what food and how to hold a cup with his pinkie pointing to the air somewhere. That last one took a bit of practise but in the end Gerald totally mastered the movements of his pinkie.

In the end it all turned well, he thought and practising ones more his smile on the mirror he exit the station’s toilets and stood next to the bus stop waiting for father Emil to pick him.

II.

Father Emil was all smiles and motion. While speaking everything about him was moving, his lips, his ears, his arms, his fingers, even his toes he couldn’t see. Gerald smiled back trying not to get into a similar motion fever.

“I’m really really sorry my son, this is an old car and if you forget it you are always late in your appointments,” father Emil said and Gerald was sure that despite the car’s age, the old pastor was always late to his appointments, no matter what.

“Been waiting for long?” He asked while trying to get out of his seat. Father Emil apart from been old seemed to have lost his taste for exercise. “Not long father, the bus arrived a bit late and I had just enough time to clean a bit before returning here.”

“Of course, of course.” Murmured the old pastor. “Please, put your case in here,” he added while opening the back door. Gerald put his case on the back seat with his rucksack next and closed the door walking for the other side of the car while father Emil returned to the driver’s seat.

While entering the main road, on their way to father Emil’s parish, Gerald was trying hard to find the right words. “Father, thank you very much for choosing me to come here, I mean …it was a great honour… and…” He started before Father Emil interrupted him, “it was all God’s will son. He chosen you, the only thing I did was answer to his call and your letter.”

Thankfully father Emil was consecrating on the road in front of them and he didn’t see the blood draining from Gerald’s face. He should have offered to drive, Gerald thought looking at the very old face and the faintly shaking hands on the wheel. So he kept quiet closing his eyes and pretending that he was quietly thanking God for his …choice. Or at least that’s what he hoped father Emil would think. Father Emil didn’t seem to think anything apart from the grey road.

“Six hundred souls, father,” Gerald felt that after a long silence he somehow should say something. “Six hundred forty two since yesterday son,” father Emil corrected him smiling. “Mary Wilkinson gave us a beautiful boy last night. A small miracle God blessed her with, I should add” Gerald looked at him curious.

“Mary was childless and reaching the age women cannot produce anymore. She was married for nearly twelve years and the fact that no babies had fulfilled their marriage had somehow found a way to darken their oaths. But God is always there for his faithful even in the last minute,” and looked beyond the roof of the car, into the sky, with a grateful smile on his old face.

But then a cloud reached the old man’s face. “Sadly old Samuel is not well. He had another stroke last week and the doctor doesn’t feel very confident. It is up to God, he said but then again this is the destiny of the man, one comes one goes.”

Gerald felt a bit surprised with the vicar’s fatalism. He was somehow expected words of hope for the other life, or at least a pray for the man’s soul; what he got was not very …Christian but then again when you reach the age father Emil had reached, fait and superstition with a little fatalism somehow mix, don’t they?

III.

“How long you been here, father?” Gerald felt again obliged to fill the emptiness. “This year, thirty years son; time for these old bones and these old ears to get some rest.” An old priest’s joke. “Thirty years,” Gerald pretended to whistle, “a lot of confessions, father.”

“That’s why my ears have taken elephant size,” father Emil answered with a beginning of a laugh which was caught half way through by a car coming from the other side. Father Emil slowed down a bit to let the other reach them and then recognizing the driver he made with one hand on the wheel, the sign of blessing to the smiling man on the other car.

“That was Jack, a good man and a good Christian, Gerald. He has a chicken farm near here and he always blesses the vicarage with fresh eggs and an occasional chicken for our table.” Father Emil said watching the other car going in his driver’s mirror.

They both remained in silence for a bit more and it was father Emil to break the silence this time. “I’m sorry for the tragedy in your family.”

Gerald didn’t feel any surprise with the comment; after all it was in his letter to father Emil the one he had applied that it was this tragedy precisely, the death of his dear aunt Adelaide that motivated him to send it.

“We were very close,” he answered quietly with a tone of silent mourning in his voice. “We all lived together and she was a big part of my life growing up.”
“Never married?” Asked father Emil looking sidewise at Gerald.
“Never married; dedicated her life to me, her sister and her old father.” That was also mentioned in his letter.
“Your late grandfather,” added father Emil.
“Six years ago but it was expected, he was very old and very ill.”
“Old age?”
“A bit of everything. I don’t think I remember a day he wasn’t ill. Him being ill and complaining is part of my picture of him since I was very young.”
“Odd legacy,” father Emil commended. “But I can empathize, my father left me with a similar memory but that was long time ago and I wasn’t as young as you are.” He said with a bitter smile.

Again silence took over until Gerald broke it this time, “I’m really sorry about your wife.”
“Yes, that was a tragedy,” father Emil said after a few seconds of silence. “Accident, just like your aunt. Nothing to prepare you. In the morning you have breakfast together in the evening you pray for her soul alone.” Gerald just nodded in understanding.

Gerald was going to sat something to break the sad silence in the car when father Emil cried enthusiastically, “Here we are, Gerald, your new home.” And Gerald realized that that had entered the city and they were heading for a small parking lot in front of a little house next to a huge church. The biggest and the tallest church he had seen all his life. Also, the smallest and the shortest vicarage he had ever seen.

“Don’t let first impressions con you son,” father Emil said guessing his thoughts.
Strange choice of words, Gerald thought but he didn’t say anything.

IV.

Gerald hadn’t really understood how two weeks had passed even though he kept a journal and he had a special column for the countdown. Four days left and then he was going to be the vicar of a six hundred and forty two souls’ parish.

Familiarity had replaced ‘father’ eventually and Garland was introduced to his new flock. Ms Olsen, the old window helping with the cleaning to the younger Olga, the parish clerk. Then it was Mrs Taylor, Mrs Davies and Ms Hall, the holy trinity of the church trusties and treasurers with the rare guest appearance of nearly centenarian Mr Allen to avoid accusations of gender discrimination. Their sins won in comparison the combination of their years but Christian god was a merciful divinity and father Emil loved gossip especially after the evening glass.

But gossip was not limited with the holy trinity – father Emil’s words – but it was expanding to many more sinful souls and in the end Gerald started joking that this place looked more like an admission room to hell. Another thing that surprised Gerald was father Emil himself. The man looked holy and old and a bit soft physically with the sign of problems age brings. But after a while and especially the evening after a storm when they needed to clean fallen trees and pathways, Gerald discover that under the softens and the aging there was a much stronger man with an attitude of a mature even athletic man, definitely not an unwell aging vicar.

He didn’t say anything but since then something changed in the way he looked at the old man. But even that eventually moved in the back of his consciousness, too busy with all the new faces surrounding him. In a congestion of six hundred and forty two, surprisingly for Gerald more than half of them were active with the church one way or another. Especially the older ones and this was a place for old people. Emil had explained that ten years ago used to be a big electric wires mill in the outskirts of the place. Then hard recession came and the owner sold the land to some kind of investor who found himself in financial difficulties just after demolishing the buildings supposedly to replace them with luxury apartments. Eventually banks took over the and grass replaced the investment dreams and hopes.

Thankfully most of the workers in the mill were either in age or close to age of retirement so with a little help from the state, the place turned into a town-looking nursing home; another one of Emil’s jokes. It was like the place was aging with its residents and in a very twisted way that looked normal and appropriate.

So Gerald fell into deep after his third day in the parish. Actually very deep because his first confession session was with Ms Hall, the oldest one of the trinity and the meanest, according to Olga, the parish clerk. Gerald found her as a soft spoken very old maid with her worst trait her imagination with a little help from television. All her sins were fabricated in her mind by soup operas she constantly watched but, Gerald admitted later the same evening to Emil, with strong portions of imaginary sin which definitely needed forgiveness from god.

They both laughed with Ms Hall’s imagination and then Gerald went to bed, too tired after his first confession and a couple of glasses with father Emil’s special whisky.

V.

The following morning, and for the first time since he came to vicarage Gerald had breakfast alone. Father Emil was nowhere to be found and Olga obviously hadn’t come yet giving Gerald the chance to have a better look in both, the vicarage and the church for the first time alone.

There was nothing of any interest in the church and he new it, he had been everywhere including the disturbing basement ossuary. No zombies or flying ghosts carrying chains, still there was something in the wet air, the pictures here and there or the dripping stony walls that made you want to run away the minute you stepped in.

There was also a small office on the side of the church and it was supposed to be used for announced visits or private conversations after the service. A bare room with a big cross on one wall and a small formica desk with a plastic chair on either side of the desk, under. An old small coffee table fulfilled the minimal decoration of the room.

The vicarage was a different story all together. It seemed that every vicar who had gone past the place had left his traces in small or bigger items. From a Chinese vase, the size of a small kid, next to the entrance door to tens all size mementos from all around the world decorating every single bit of the three bedroom house. There was a big kitchen that also hosted a huge dining table with 12 heavy wooden chairs, a sitting room with bookcases wall to wall and a very old television and finally the office.

The office had also its own entrance and the visitor was first entered into a small office hall were the vicarage clerk was working and then to the main office where the vicar was. The office looked more like a study and most likely when it was first built that was the idea. Heavy bookcase full of books of all sizes and colours, heavy leather seats and an enormous solid mahogany desk with a cabinet on its side.

A huge picture of the crucifixion was hugging on the wall behind the desk with pictures of different priests and vicars from variety eras of history decorated the places all around. On the right side of the wall behind the desk and half hidden behind a bookcase there was a vey thin and somehow short metal door which had trigger Gerald’s curiosity from his first visit into the office and this is were he aimed after making sure that he was alone in the house.

He knew the door was locked because he had tried before and he also knew that whatever was in there was also known to Olga. One day entering the office he saw her moving from behind the desk and there is no way she wasn’t inside whatever this door was hiding. It was not only the awkwardness of the moment but it was on her face as well. She knew and she didn’t want him to know, period.

VI.

First he tried and tried again. In the back of his mind it was imprinted since childhood that priests don’t hide things and they don’t keep locked rooms. Still, the door was ironed locked. He checked the keyhole to somehow feel how the key would look like and then he started first with the desk draws. There were keys there alright but none seemed to be the right one. Even though they didn’t have the right ‘feeling’ he checked them one by one.

Then he moved to the file cabinets going through shelf after self and checking every single corner, every single side. Nothing. In the end frustrated he sat on the leather chair looking at the door. The secret was eating him and he somehow felt like the door was laughing at him. In a sudden inspiration he started checking books on the bookcase. He was looking for that hollow book that hides a key or a secret mechanism but nothing was there either. Neither was a secret draw under the desk.

All this time he was trying hard not to think what this door might hide behind but now sitting on the leather chair with the warmth of the old books surrounding him his imagination started working. In the beginning he was sure that there were old sacred books locked in there. Then he thought that it might be a golden cross with diamonds all around. The Holy Grail.

He stopped and swallowed hard. Father Emil was not the type to hide sacred books or old icons but he was the type to keep a secret like that. After all this was a very old church. How old? Medieval? Older? Templars old? Pictures and stories stormed inside his mind like a huge tsunami taking everything else with it.

This was not about a treasure, this was THE treasure. Two things, first he needed to get more information, read the history of the place and somehow fish something out of Emil. And then most important he needed the key and he was sure now that father Emil or Olga carried the key on them all time. Nothing else made sense.

When father Emil and Olga returned, they found Gerald browsing the books in the sitting room’s bookcase with some already piling on a table.

“Are you looking for something specific, son?” Father Emil asked always ready to help.
“Well, I thought that I should learn the history of the church and perhaps a bit more about the surrounding area,” Gerald answered without raking his look from the books in front of him.

Father Emil smiled to Olga and leaving on the floor his small leather briefcase said, “That’s the spirit, let me help you, I definitely know a bit more about the subject and I might know where the books you looking for lay.” Olga smiled back with a strangely meaningful look and left the room closing the door that separates the sitting room from the office behind her.

VII.

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the old church like the whisper of restless spirits. The sitting room was cloaked in a sombre glow, with the only light coming from a small brass lamp on the desk, casting long shadows that danced across the room.

Gerald sat stiffly, pretending to read one of the dusty books Father Emil had handed him, but his mind was consumed by the iron-locked door in the office. He had felt it from the moment he stepped into the church: something was off. It wasn’t just Father Emil’s odd behaviour or Olga’s cryptic smiles; it was the palpable sense of secrecy that clung to the walls, creeping into every corner of the ancient building.

"That’s a rare book you’ve got there," Father Emil said, his voice unnervingly soft, almost reverent. He settled into the chair across from Gerald, folding his hands over his cassock.

Gerald gave a tight smile, forcing himself to nod. He didn’t know what the book was about; his eyes had been skimming over the text without really absorbing anything. All he could think of was the iron door, the mysterious room that haunted him ever since he first arrived to assist with parish duties. What was Father Emil hiding in there?

"I’ve been thinking a lot about the history of this place," Gerald said, trying to sound casual, "It must be fascinating to serve in a church so ancient."

"Fascinating, yes," Father Emil said, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, "This church has seen centuries of change, both in its congregation and in the town. But, as with all old places, there are things better left buried. History, my dear Gerald, is not always as kind as the books would have you believe."

Gerald felt a chill run down his spine. There was something in Father Emil’s voice, an undercurrent of warning that made his stomach twist. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the priest knew exactly what Gerald had been doing in his office while he and Olga were gone. Did he know Gerald had rifled through the desk, tried every key, and searched the room for hidden mechanisms?

"Is that why some doors are locked?" Gerald asked, his tone almost too casual.

Father Emil’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, before he smiled—a slow, thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Some doors are locked for a reason," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, Gerald. Sometimes, it leads us down paths we are not prepared to walk."

Gerald swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing down on him like an invisible weight. He could hear the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, each second dragging on with agonizing slowness. His mind raced with questions, with dark, swirling images of what might be hidden behind that iron door.

"I ...I'll keep that in mind," Gerald muttered, feeling his pulse quicken.

Father Emil stood up, smoothing his cassock, and placed a hand on Gerald’s shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, though it felt anything but.

"Good," the priest said softly. "Now, why don’t you retire for the night? It’s been a long day, and the storm outside seems to be getting worse."

Gerald nodded, more than willing to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the sitting room. He gathered the books he had pretended to read and followed Father Emil out, feeling the priest’s eyes on him the entire time. As he climbed the narrow staircase to his room, the old wooden steps creaking beneath his weight, Gerald’s mind churned with questions and suspicions. What was behind that door? What was Father Emil hiding? And why did Olga always watch him with that strange, knowing smile?

His room was small but comfortable, with a simple bed and a small wooden desk beneath a window that overlooked the graveyard. The wind continued to howl outside, and as Gerald undressed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He drew the curtains and tried to push the thoughts from his mind, but sleep didn’t come easily.

He tossed and turned, the sound of the wind almost transforming into eerie whispers, like voices calling out from the past. When he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, his dreams were filled with dark corridors, locked doors, and shadowy figures watching him from the corners of his vision.

VIII.

The next morning, the storm had passed, but the air was thick with mist. Gerald woke feeling groggy and disoriented, the vividness of his dreams lingering like a foul taste in his mouth. He dressed quickly, determined to figure out more about the church's history and its secrets before his imagination got the better of him.

Father Emil was already in the chapel when Gerald came down, his head bowed in prayer. Olga was nowhere to be seen, and for that, Gerald was grateful. Something about her unnerved him even more than Father Emil. There was something... off about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Gerald made his way to the small library at the back of the church. It was a cramped room lined with shelves filled with dusty, leather-bound books, their spines cracked and faded with age. He pulled a few volumes from the shelves, hoping to find something—anything—that could shed light on the church’s past.

Hours passed as he pored over old manuscripts, but there was little to be found beyond the usual records of baptisms, marriages, and funerals. It wasn’t until he stumbled upon an old journal, its pages yellowed with age, that he found something truly intriguing.

The journal belonged to a former priest of the church, a man named Father Ambrose, who had served during the late 1800s. His entries were detailed and meticulous, chronicling everything from the daily routines of the parish to his personal reflections on faith and the state of the church. But as Gerald read on, the tone of the journal changed. Father Ambrose began writing about strange occurrences—whispers in the night, objects moving on their own, and an overwhelming sense of dread that seemed to hang over the church.

One entry, in particular, caught Gerald’s eye:

August 12, 1873
I have prayed for guidance, but I fear the darkness that has taken root in this place is beyond even my understanding. The door... it should never have been opened. What lies within is not of God, but something far older, far more dangerous. I have sealed it once more, but I know it will not hold forever. The others... they do not understand. They think it is merely superstition, but I have seen the truth. I have felt its presence. And it watches.

Gerald’s heart raced as he read the words. The door. Father Ambrose was talking about the iron door. What had he sealed away? What was watching?

His hands trembled as he turned the pages, but the rest of the journal offered no answers, only more cryptic warnings about the darkness that had taken hold of the church. Gerald slammed the journal shut, his mind reeling. He needed to confront Father Emil. He needed to know the truth.

IX.

That evening, Gerald found Father Emil in the office, seated behind his desk with a serene expression on his face. The iron door loomed ominously in the corner, its presence more oppressive than ever.

"Father," Gerald began, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him, "I found something. In the library. A journal from Father Ambrose."

Father Emil’s eyes flickered with recognition, but his face remained calm. "Ah, yes. Father Ambrose. A troubled man, but well-meaning."

"He wrote about the door," Gerald continued, his voice rising. "He said he sealed something away. Something dangerous."

Father Emil’s expression darkened, and for the first time, Gerald saw a glimmer of fear in the old priest’s eyes.

"You shouldn’t have read that, Gerald," Father Emil said quietly. "Some things are best left forgotten."

"But what is it?" Gerald demanded. "What’s behind that door?"

Father Emil rose from his chair, his hands trembling as he crossed the room to stand before the iron door. He placed a hand on its cold surface, his eyes filled with a sorrow Gerald had never seen before.

"It is not for you to know," Father Emil whispered. "The sins of the past should not be revisited."

Gerald’s frustration boiled over. "I have a right to know! You can’t keep this from me. If there’s something dangerous in there—"

Father Emil turned sharply, his voice trembling with emotion. "You don’t understand, Gerald! What’s behind this door... it’s not just dangerous. It’s evil. It’s older than this church, older than anything you can imagine. And it should never be unleashed."

Gerald took a step back, his mind racing. Evil? What could be so terrible that it had to be sealed away behind an iron door?

"Then why keep it here?" Gerald asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why not destroy it?"

Father Emil shook his head, his eyes haunted. "It cannot be destroyed. Only contained. And even that is becoming more difficult with each passing year."

Before Gerald could respond, the door to the office creaked open, and Olga stepped inside, her face pale and drawn. She looked from Father Emil to Gerald, her expression unreadable.

"It’s happening again," she said softly. "The seal... it’s weakening."

Father Emil’s face tightened with fear, and he rushed past Gerald to the bookcase. He pulled out a large, ancient tome and began flipping through its pages with frantic urgency.

"We don’t have much time," he muttered, mostly to himself. "We need to reinforce the seal before it breaks completely."

Gerald watched in stunned silence as Father Emil and Olga moved around the room with practiced precision, gathering items—candles, salt, and strange symbols drawn on scraps of parchment.

"What’s happening?" Gerald finally managed to ask, his voice shaky.

Father Emil paused for a moment, looking at Gerald with a mixture of pity and resignation. "You wanted to know the truth, Gerald. Well, now you’ll see it for yourself."

As the candles were lit and the strange ritual began, Gerald felt the temperature in the room drop. The shadows seemed to deepen, twisting and writhing like living things. The air grew thick with a suffocating presence, and the iron door began to tremble, as if something on the other side was trying to break free.

Gerald’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched Father Emil and Olga chant in a language he didn’t understand. The symbols on the parchment glowed faintly, but it wasn’t enough. He could feel it—the darkness that Father Ambrose had written about. It was growing stronger, more insistent, pushing against the seal with terrifying force.

And then, with a deafening crash, the iron door flew open.

The last thing Gerald saw before the darkness swallowed him was the look of pure terror on Father Emil’s face as the ancient evil was unleashed.

THE END

The colour of the armband - Evolution

01.

Amidst the shifting sands of the deep desert, where the wind whispered ancient melodies and the dunes concealed countless secrets, a new and unprecedented threat emerged radically but also expectedly in a very twisted way. The Elephines were emerging near the tribes. 

 

A race of colossal, elephant-shaped beasts; their tusks were not of bone, but of gleaming metal that reflected the harsh desert sun and their eyes glowed with an otherworldly luminescence that spoke of intelligence and a purpose unknown to the tribes apart from killing them. These giants towered over any living creature the desert tribes had ever known or heard from the other planets and their appearance heralded an era of turmoil and dread.

The first sighting of the Elephines came on a night when the second moon hung full and low, casting an eerie light over the dunes. A small caravan from the tribe of yellow armband Nahr, known for their trade in precious spices, had camped near the dunes of Kala. The night was tranquil, the air thick with the scent of desert heat, until the ground beneath them began to tremble. Initially, they dismissed it as a minor quake, not uncommon in this part of the desert.

However, the quakes grew more intense, and soon, the shattering silence of the night was filled with an unearthly trumpet, a sound that resonated deep within the bones of those who heard it. It was a sound both powerful and mournful, a song of a faraway land echoing through the emptiness of the desert.

The seasoned traders of the Nahr tribe prided themselves on their composure, but the hair on their arms prickled with a primal fear. As the trumpeting grew closer, punctuated by the tremors that shook the very foundation of the dunes, even the most experienced caravan guard felt a tremor of unease run down his spine.

Then, from the darkness at the edge of the oasis, the Elephines emerged. Their bodies, covered in thick, silver-grey hide that seemed almost to shimmer in the moonlight, were immense. Each one towered over the tallest sand dunes, their heads scraping the underside of the star-dusted night sky. The ground shook with each of their steps, a rhythmic thud that vibrated through the very core of the desert.

The caravan's dogs, usually unflappable beasts of burden accustomed to the harsh realities of desert life, were seized by panic. They shrieked in unison, their necks thrashing wildly, tails under their bellies ready to flee into the night, disappear into the labyrinthine dunes like phantoms.

The merchants and guards stood frozen, their faces masks of terror and awe in the pale moonlight. The Elephines moved with a deliberate grace, their enormous legs surprisingly silent despite their size. Their eyes, large and luminous, glowed with an intelligence that belied their bestial forms. The light emanating from their eyes seemed to pierce the very souls of the humans, laying bare their deepest fears and vulnerabilities.

In the ensuing chaos, the Elephines lumbered through the camp, their massive forms dwarfing the flimsy tents. Tents were ripped from their moorings, poles snapping like twigs, and precious cargo was scattered across the sand like discarded toys. The humans, tiny in comparison, could do nothing but run. Those who tripped and fell were trampled underfoot, their screams swallowed by the vast emptiness of the desert. The survivors, adrenaline coursing through their veins, fled blindly into the night, the colossal forms of the Elephines a terrifying silhouette against the moonlit sky.

Those who managed to escape the initial onslaught stumbled back to their home tribe, the settlement of Nahr, the yellow armband tribe, a collection of mudbrick dwellings nestled amidst towering red sandstone cliffs. They arrived breathless, their clothes tattered and faces streaked with dust and tears. Their panicked reports sent a wave of terror through the tribe. The elders, wise men and women with skin etched by the harsh desert sun and eyes that held the accumulated wisdom of generations, had never heard of such creatures. Fear, a chilling serpent, coiled itself around their hearts.

“That was too close,” creamed Norm on top of his voice almost in hysteric condition. He was still wearing the same cloths from the attack with traces of blood on them.

“They knew, and you don’t get it, they knew.” He continued.
“That’s impossible and you know it.” Said in a more calm voice a man behind him.

“Arel, I’m telling you they knew. This is a pathway we follow for moons and nothing has every happened. That’s why we follow it. Because nothing happens.”
“And yet here we are,” another voice said.

“Norm, these are animals. Gigantic yes. Lethal yes but still animals. They don’t think and they don’t know. Perhaps we made a mistake. Perhaps we left a smell behind. Perhaps the ones before us did leave something and put them on our trace.” Arel tried again.

“The tribes are worrying,” said an old man from the consul. “And they are a bit suspicious...”
“We are the victims here and they are suspicious?” Norm screamed.

But the truth was that the sudden arrival of the Elephines into the pathways had shattered the fragile trust that had existed between the tribes.

Mart, the grizzled leader of the yellow armband tribe, paced the cavernous hall, his weathered face etched with worry. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the anxious faces of his warriors.

The Elephines had become the unwelcome focus of their lives. Not a surprise there and an expected blunder but somehow never ....expected. They thought that if they don’t think about them they will never come close to them. Yet they had come and they had destroyed and worst of all they had killed.

These colossal, metallic beasts had ravaged the once-lush dunes with their trade pathways and destroyed everything including two carrier sonic beasts. Mere rays, their traditional weapons, bounced harmlessly off the Elephines' thick hides. Fear hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight threatening to crush their spirit.

Riza, a young hunter with sharp eyes and a fierce spirit, spoke up, her voice carrying a tremor of defiance. "We cannot afford to be beaten by fear," she declared. "Their size may be daunting, but we are resourceful. Perhaps the answer lies not in our rays, but in the Elephines themselves." Her gaze flickered to the massive tusks that curved from the creatures' faces. Nobody said a thing.

"Have we examined the composition of those tusks? Are they made of some strange metal? Maybe a specific element could be their weakness."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Riza's suggestion, bold yet simple, offered a glimmer of hope. Arel seemed to agree with her because he moved closer to Mart.

“Mart. She’s right. She might be young but you know how it is, from the crazy and the youth...” and he left his sentence unfinished but the meaning full said.

“And who you were thinking for the mission, Arel? You?” Mart snapped.

“Why not. I’m not that old and Riza will be there to protect me,” Arel said with a smile. A smile that had disappeared from Riza’s face and strangely had appeared in Mart’s lips.

“Sure,” he said without any second thought. “Why not.”

02.

A mix of emotions played across Riza’s face, fear, apprehension, and a flicker of steely resolve. But she followed Arel in his quest knowing that there was one at least person in the tribe who wished that he would never come back. The thought made her look back at Mart’s smirk. And they left.

The silence after Riza's whisper stretched taut, punctuated only by the distant snuffling of the resting Elephines. Arel traced the outline of the nearest creature with a calloused finger on the map he'd hastily sketched. "They're unlike anything I've ever seen," he finally admitted, his voice low.

Riza lowered the spyglass, her brow furrowed. "Runes? Are you sure? They looked faint, almost like moonlight etching on metal."

Arel knelt beside her, peering through his spyglass. He let out a low whistle. "They are definitely runes, glowing with a faint, ethereal light."

The discovery hung heavy in the air, a chilling twist to their already precarious situation. These weren't simply monstrous, metallic beasts; they were marked, imbued with some unknown power. The question now loomed: by whom, and for what purpose?

Arel broke the contemplative silence. "Runes could mean different things depending on the culture. Protection, control, even destruction. We need to figure out what these symbols mean before we proceed."

"Perhaps they are remnants of a lost civilization, a forgotten language etched onto the Elephines as a mark of ownership or purpose." Riza whispered. "Or maybe they are a curse, binding these creatures to a malevolent will." She added after a long silence. Arel smiled.

“Let’s camp here tonight,” he said while unfolding his sleeping bag on the sand and covering with sand part of it. “To keep the smells inside,” said to Riza making a funny move with his back.

Riza didn’t laugh. Truth sad she was really afraid to make any sound. The size of those tusks and their power. This was worst than her worst nightmares and then some more. But she didn’t say anything. She was also proud to be chosen by Arel to help him in this mission. The legendary Arel, the man who had survived the tribe wars and the commerce-mercenaries from the planets. The man Mart hated and feared and that for Riza was an achievement on its own.

The next day became more tense, cautious movement, meticulous observation and focus on the runes. Arel was watching every single detail while Arel was keeping records to everything Arel thought of worth to record.

The following led them through treacherous dunes and hidden canyons, their movements often cloaked by the relentless sun and their constant fear that the monsters would smell them. Arel meticulously charted their path, marking potential ambush points and blind spots within the Elephines somehow erratic movements.

Riza the same time spent every spare moment studying the runes through the spyglass. She meticulously sketched them onto worn parchment, comparing them to forgotten languages she'd encountered in texts she had seen n her tablet. Frustration gnawed at her. The symbols were unlike anything she'd encountered before, their elegant curves and sharp angles seemingly defying categorization.

The second sweltering afternoon, as the shimmering heat waves distorted the very air; Arel emerged from a scouting mission, a grim look etched on his face. "There's a lone Elephine, separated from the herd. It seems injured. I don’t know how and when it happened but it did and perhaps this is a chance for us to get a closer look."

This could be our chance. Riza thought. This might be the reason we are here.

The surge of adrenaline was a physical thing in Riza's chest, a pounding counterpoint to the frantic whispers of her mind replaying Arel's plan. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, threatening to burst free. With each cautious inch forward, the spyglass felt slicker in her clammy grip. Every primal instinct screamed at her to retreat, to find the safety of distance. But the gnawing need to unravel the secrets etched on the colossal beast's hide, propelled her forward.

Just as the dunes shifted beneath her weight, revealing a sliver of the intricate runes, the injured Elephine twitched its massive head. The movement was almost imperceptible, a tremor in the mountain of sand-encrusted metal, yet for Riza, it was a deafening knell. A guttural growl, a sound that seemed to tear its way from the depths of the earth itself, ripped through the tense silence. Panic, a cold and slithering serpent, coiled around Riza's heart, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She stumbled back, a strangled cry escaping her lips.

The Elephine lumbered a few halting inches, its metallic flanks groaning under its immense weight. Sand avalanched down its wounded side, leaving behind a trail of exposed wires and sparking circuits. Arel, who had been providing silent cover a few feet behind Riza, cursed under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush. Their meticulously crafted plan, honed over countless whispered conversations and tense debates, lay in tatters. Just as the Elephine lurched forward, its head swaying as it tried to lock onto Riza's location, a guttural roar echoed across the vast expanse of dunes.

The sound was unlike anything Riza had ever heard. It wasn't a challenge, a primal declaration of war, that sent shivers down her spine despite the scorching desert heat. The Elephine froze, its head swivelling towards the source of the challenge. A sandstorm brewed on the horizon, a swirling vortex of dust and debris that seemed to writhe with an unseen energy. From within the maelstrom, a colossal shape emerged, its form obscured by the swirling sand.

Arel's hand shot out, grabbing Riza's arm. "Back! Now!" he hissed, his voice tight with urgency. He didn't need to explain. The raw power emanating from the approaching sandstorm was undeniable, a force that could crush them both like mere insects. Adrenaline lending her unnatural speed, Riza scrambled back towards the rocky outcrop they had used as a vantage point. Arel followed close behind, his movements surprisingly agile for a man burdened by his heavy pack.

They reached the relative safety of the rocks just as the sandstorm collided with the Elephine. The impact was like a battering ram slamming into a fortress. The colossal beast shrieked, a sound that scraped against Riza's eardrums, as it was thrown back several feet. Sand rained down on them, stinging their exposed skin and momentarily blinding them. Riza huddled against the rock face, her arms wrapped around her head, praying the rock overhang would hold.

The sandstorm raged for what felt like an eternity, a relentless assault that threatened to scour the very dunes from existence. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the intensity began to wane. The swirling vortex started to dissipate, revealing the aftermath of the clash.

Riza cautiously peeked out from her shelter. The world was an alien landscape, transformed by the storm's fury. The once pristine dunes were now a chaotic jumble of sand ripples, dotted with scattered debris. The Elephine lay on its side, half-buried in sand, its metallic hide dented and scarred. But it was still alive, its single functional eye glowing with a malevolent red light.

A figure emerged from the dissipating sand cloud, its form obscured by the swirling dust. As the dust settled, Riza's breath hitched in her throat. It was another Elephine, but unlike the first, this one was unlike anything she had ever seen. Its metallic hide was a polished black, gleaming even in the fading sunlight. Intricate patterns, glowing with an ethereal blue light, pulsed across its surface. It moved with a predatory grace that belied its immense size, its every step purposeful and silent.

The black Elephine approached the downed beast, the red glow from its eye seeming to lock onto its counterpart. A low growl rumbled through the air, a guttural conversation between titans. Riza exchanged a glance with Arel, a silent question hanging in the air. Were they witnessing a battle for dominance, a preordained clash between rivals?

Suddenly, the air crackled with energy. The blue patterns on the black Elephine flared brightly, and a bolt of pure energy lanced out, striking the downed Elephine square in its chest. The impact sent a shockwave through the dunes, causing Riza to retreat under the rocks and cover her head.

03.

Soon curiosity won and Riza peeked through a narrow gap between the rocks, the red dust still swirling in the aftermath of the energy blast. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the ringing in her ears. The shockwave had ripped through the dunes, sand raining down, momentarily burying the hulking forms of the Elephine creatures.

As the dust settled once more, a desolate landscape greeted her. The once smooth expanse of dunes was now marred by craters and ripples of disturbed sand. The downed Elephine, the one with the dull, rust-collared hide, remained motionless, its red eye extinguished. It lay sprawled, a lifeless monument to the fury of its opponent.

The black Elephine stood dominant, its polished black surface a stark contrast to the ochre of the desert. The intricate patterns on its hide pulsed less intensely now, the remnants of the blue glow clinging to the etched lines. Its red eye, the sole source of colour on its obsidian body, surveyed the fallen with cold indifference.

Arel, his face pale under the darkening sky, scrambled closer to Riza. "What… what was that?" he rasped, his voice barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

Riza shook her head, unable to form words. They had stumbled upon a battle, a clash between titans far beyond their comprehension. These weren't the lumbering, sand-eating creatures they knew from their desert folklore. These Elephine were new; beings moving with a deadly grace, wielded unimaginable power, and somehow communicated in low growls and crackling electricity.

Silence settled over the scene, broken only by the mournful wail of the desert wind. The black Elephine began to move, its massive legs sinking silently into the disturbed sands. Riza watched, mesmerized by its predatory grace. It reached the downed beast and paused, scrutinizing the lifeless form. Then, with surprising agility for its size, the black Elephine lowered its head, its trunk wrapping around the rust-collared creature’s tusk.

A surge of adrenaline shot through Riza. Was it… attempting to revive its opponent? But the hope was quickly dashed. With a powerful jerk, the black Elephine tore the rusted tusk free, the sound like the tearing of metal. It raised the tusk high, the red glow from its single eye seeming to bathe it in an ominous light. Then, with a roar that echoed through the canyons, the black Elephine hurled the tusk into the distance. It disappeared over the dune, swallowed by the gathering darkness.

The black Elephine lingered for a moment longer, then turned and began to walk away. Its form, silhouetted against the blood-red sunset, seemed to carry an aura of power and loneliness. Riza watched as it disappeared over a rise, a solitary king retreating to its solitary kingdom.

Arel finally found his voice. "We should go," he said urgently. "This place… it doesn't feel safe anymore." But his voice died soon, there was more movement in the dunes. Somebody was coming running fast.

"Black armbands," she whispered, the words barely audible over the harsh rasp of the wind whipping sand across the endless dunes.

Arel, his weathered face etched with frustration, cursed under his breath. "This is not my day," he muttered, his voice tight. Glancing around, he confirmed their predicament, the approaching figures were unmistakably clad in the dreaded black armbands, the most ruthless scavengers in the planet.

They watched as the three black armbands stalked towards the enormous carcass that lay sprawled amidst the dunes. They circled the creature, their guttural voices carrying no meaning through the howling wind.

"They are three," Riza hissed, her voice barely a whisper. "Three and the mighty Elephine, and we're only two with two measly ray pistols. Not fair."

Arel squeezed her hand, his touch a brief comfort in the tense silence. "Just keep quiet, Riza. Don't let them know we're here."

The black armbands reached the Elephine's massive head, dwarfed by the creature's sheer size. They knelt, their figures silhouetted against the relentless sun, their voices a low murmur that danced beyond the reach of Riza and Arel's hearing.

Riza broke the strained silence, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Oh my god, Arel, they're...mourning it! The Elephine!"

Arel's eyes narrowed. "So now the mystery with the runes is solved," he said, a slow understanding dawning on him. "I always knew we were underestimating those dune rats."

"Mutants, you mean," Riza corrected, a shiver running down her spine.

"Mutants, yes, but not stupid. It seems they've figured out a way to communicate with the Elephines. The normal Elephines! Gods, what am I saying?" Arel threw his hands up in exasperation.

This revelation sent a jolt through Riza. The black armbands, feared for their brutality and scavenged ways, had seemingly formed a bond with the most fearsome creatures of the planet. The implications were staggering.

"What do we do now?" Riza asked, her voice laced with fear. Their initial mission, a simple salvage operation, had taken a drastic turn.

Arel pressed his lips together, his mind racing. "We need to get out of here. And fast. We can't take them on,  not with these rays against a mourning party with obviously unknown tech." He glanced at the setting sun, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. "Nightfall is coming soon. That's our best chance."

They huddled in silence, their eyes glued to the black armbands. The scavengers continued their solemn ritual around the Elephine, their whispers seemingly filled with a strange reverence. As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, shrouding the dunes in an eerie twilight, the Reavers finally moved. They stood, bowed their heads one last time towards the colossal carcass, and then turned and started walking away, disappearing into the encroaching darkness.

Riza and Arel waited for a long time, their breaths shallow in the stillness. Only when the first stars emerged in the inky sky did Arel dare move. "Alright," he whispered, "Coast is clear. Let's go."

They emerged from their hiding place, their every step crunching on the cold sand. The Elephine loomed over them, a massive, silent sentinel. Riza couldn't help but glance back at it, a sense of unease gnawing at her.

"Do you think they can actually control them?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Arel didn't answer. He didn't want to speculate. The possibility was too horrifying to contemplate. All he knew for sure was that their mission had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. They needed to get back to their outpost, warn them about the black armbands and their newfound connection with the Elephines.

04.

A stunned silence lingered after Arel’s departure. The flickering firelight cast long, accusing shadows on the faces of the gathered tribe leaders. Mart slammed his fist on the rough-hewn table.

“Coward!” he roared, the word echoing off the cavern walls. “He’s scared, afraid the new threat will shatter his dream for united tribes!”

But the anger in his voice lacked its usual conviction. Even Mart saw the logic in Arel’s argument. The Black Elephines, were a threat unlike any they’d faced before. Their arrival, in addition to the new discover of the black armbands controlling the other Elephines, was bad news for all the tribes in this desert planet.

A wizened woman named Era, her face etched with the wisdom of many moons, finally spoke. “Yet, Arel is right. We cannot stand divided against this new threat. We must unite.”

Mutters of agreement rippled through the room. Era was an old woman with a glorious past and very respectful present, the one who remembered the ancient stories of past alliances, of battles fought and won together. But whispers of doubt also arose. Trust, once shattered, was a fragile thing.

One of the younger warriors, a brash youth named Kai, voiced the unspoken fear. “How can we trust them? Last time we tried to unite, they betrayed us, stole our herbs, used out pathways!”

“Those were different times,” Era countered, her voice surprisingly strong. “The red armbands may have been led by a greedy leader, but their new leader is different. I know her from the past, she values peace, just like Arel.”

The very mention of that woman sent a tremor through Mart. He hadn’t forgotten the fiery young woman who had challenged his father, the previous yellow tribe leader, in her youth. She had nearly brought peace between the tribes then, before her father’s untimely death reignited the old hostilities.

Mart’s gaze locked with Era’s. “Are you suggesting we trust some idealistic pup with the fate of our people?”

“Is there another option?” Era countered, her voice laced with a hint of steel.

Mart bit back a retort. He knew she made sense and a lot would hear her. The Black Elephants posed an existential threat. Alone, each tribe would fall. He may not agree with Arel’s methods, but he understood the desperation.

Arel had stormed out of the council tent, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt lamp oil and the lingering echoes of Mart’s callous words. The late afternoon sun beat down on the dusty encampment of the dunes, casting long, accusing shadows. Riza materialized beside him, her brow creased with concern.

"Arel," she began softly, her voice barely a whisper above the desert wind. He stopped, his jaw clenched tight, and turned to face her. The worry in her sapphire eyes mirrored his own turmoil.

He ran a hand through his sand-dusted hair, the worry lines on his weathered face deepening. "There's no time, Riza," he said, his voice rough. "We can't just sit here while those... those things are out there."

The "things" he referred to were the Black Elephines, the new version of the colossal, obsidian. Monsters that had appeared from nowhere. Their arrival was an unprecedented event, a chilling harbinger of a world gone horribly wrong.

"We have to warn the others," Arel continued, his voice gaining urgency. "The red armbands, the blue, the purple, everyone. This isn't just our problem, it's a threat to all of us."

Riza nodded solemnly. The fragmented network of tribes that dotted the harsh desert planet with the two moons and the two suns, held an uneasy truce, their rivalry outweighed by the necessity of cooperation in the face of the unforgiving environment. But Arel's words triggered a flicker of fear within her. The last time they had attempted a large-scale gathering, tensions had flared, nearly erupting in bloodshed.

"The council won't approve," she said, her voice laced with doubt. Mart, the hotheaded leader of the Sand Hawks' rival clan, the Dune Wolves, had voiced the dominant sentiment in the council – isolationism.

“Well they are talking about it, but you know ...Mart...” he said letting her imagine the rest of the sentence.
“But...” She dared say.
Arel's eyes narrowed. "Then we go around them," he declared, his resolve hardening.

And that was the last time Riza saw Arel. The next morning they all woke with Era’s screaming. She had found Arel’s body beaten and hit badly in the outside of the walls.

“The black Elephines,” state Mart confidently and ordered to close the gates permanently and shoot anything moving outside the walls.

THE END?