There have always been questions. Questions they refuse to answer. All we know is that they are called the elders, and we do as they say.
They tell me life in our village was hard. That the jungle took more than it gave. That we killed each other to survive. I cannot imagine such a life.
It all started when the men found the stone portal deep in the jungle. They cut away at the vines, burned the surrounding trees and waited. For a long time the stone portal did nothing. The steps leading up to it were worn, but abandoned now.
Some believed it to be a gift of the gods, others thought it was a warning. Opinion became belief, belief became dogma. Our people believed different things. They fought, they bled, they killed.
That’s when the portal opened. The stone ring filled with a blackness that consumed the surrounding light, as if drinking the color of our world. Through it came the ones we would call the elders, and our people kneeled.
We could not see their faces behind the masks, but they spoke with our words. They promised a paradise beyond the portal, but only for those who followed their ways.
Much has changed for my people since that moment. Our village settled around the portal. The land there is more fertile, and the elders have taught us how to cultivate it. There is no hunger and our families have grown large.
Every full moon the portal opens. We celebrate the return of the elders, and they call to us by name. They know us but we do not know them. We have never seen behind the masks, nor beyond the portal. When they return to paradise a few chosen join them. They say it is a reward for living as the elders wish it, but I know the truth.
They take those who ask too many questions.
I ask many questions. I want to know what is beyond the portal, but above all I want to know what is behind the masks. I have asked these questions out loud, but I am not alone. There are others like me, and tonight we will all have our answers.
The moon is full. We sing, we dance, we laugh. We eat the fruit the elders have taught us to grow. Our children run and play. There are so many children.
The portal opens and we kneel. It has become our nature. Out steps a robed figure with a mask. Fangs decorate the mouth, eyes dark as night.
Four of the elders step through, but we cannot see them well in the uncolor of the portal. They call to us by name, and we greet them with joy. We celebrate as the elders watch. But I also watch the elders.
When the feast is over they call me. Only me. I express my gratitude the way that our people do. I kneel. I feel a sharp pain and remember not to kneel too deep.
The elders welcome me into their presence. I turn one last time to look at the crowd. At those who asked their questions in silence. They know my plans, and tonight they will also know the truth.
I feel despair as I stand before the blackness of the portal. Up close I notice that it does not only drain the color from this world, but also the sound.
I step through the portal.
The world has come to an end. The blackness is no longer confined to the stone ring, but envelops everything around me. I scream but there is no sound. The elders around me remain calm, standing motionless as if they are waiting for something.
Then it comes.
The world of the elders. A dead world. The uncolor of the portal is everywhere. I hear no breeze or breath. The sand does not crunch underneath my feet as the elders lead me to a stone slab.
The stone is carved. Lines run down into the ground and come together in a trough. They are dark, darker than the uncolor around me. It reminds me of a dried up cut on the skin.
They use no force to get me on the slab. It is our nature to be obedient. An elder draws a dagger from underneath his robe. He raises it high above my heart. This is when I find out the answers to my questions.
There is no sound as the dagger plunges into the flesh. I pull the dagger out and roll off the slab. The elder stumbles back and collapses in silence. The dagger in my hand is covered in darkness, like the lines in the slab. Some of it is my blood, drawn when I kneeled too deep before the elders. A hidden blade is both sharp and blind.
The others panic, unsure of what to do about my disobedience. I use the chaos to finish what I started. I count four bodies on the ground when it is over.
I turn to the first elder, the one who held his dagger over me. I came here looking for answers and I will find them now. I pull at his mask.
My heart stops.
The uncolor of this world seems to pull at my blood and I almost lose my sanity. I remember those I left behind and the promise I made them. I must see this through.
I step through the portal. My people are still celebrating my reward. When they see me they stop singing and dancing. They look at me in terror. They scream, the sound loud to my ears after the silence of the other world.
I look at those who are like me, those who ask questions. Their answer rolls down the stone steps in spatters of blood and tendrils of flesh. The elders do not wear masks.
R.F. Hizkia is a writer of fiction from the Netherlands. Battling with procrastination.
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