The Living Head

June 23rd, 2020

Many years ago, when such things were still done, a pilgrim who set out to consult the Assembly of the Living Head would find the last miles of their long journey lonely ones, picking their way along a meager footpath through the husk of a town long abandoned. On either side they would see the shells of buildings, now home to all manner of bird and beast, and here and there a stand of young trees reclaiming what had once been fertile fields. After the town, the pilgrim would find themselves in the ancient houses of healing. Once the region had been known for its healers. But in those days they were remembered only for their greatest failure, when they attempted to save a man’s soul in spite of his body’s death.

There are no mortals to guide a pilgrim through that lonely valley but none are needed. One need only raise their eyes to see the Holy Hill towering over everything else. Even the blind or downcast of spirit will find guidance if they only listen. A Voice cries out unceasing from that hill, the Holy Voice of the Living Head, and there is hardly a place in the whole valley where it can't be heard from dusk to dusk, from winter to winter, from year to year.

After stopping by the old well (whose water, it's said, still contains the power of rejuvenation) a pilgrim would find the narrow stone trail which leads up the steep mound against which the healing houses had been built. Up the great hill they would climb on a wide and dusty trail which slithered, snake-like, up the Holy Hill. At odd bends in their way the pilgrim would find the steep sides of the rock-face honeycombed with pipes of lead, bronze, and even silver, some only as wide as a finger and some roomy enough to sit in. Only the most foolhardy would draw near the pipes, however, lest the great shouting of the Voice should deafen them.

At long last the pilgrim's journey would end at the hall in which dwelt the Assembly of the Living Head. The building itself would perhaps seem unimpressive: a simple stone box with great doors facing north, south, east, and west. The pilgrim would enter the hall from a particular set of doors based on the reason of their pilgrimage. Any who sought wisdom from the Living Head entered through the western doors, and those who sought knowledge entered through the east. Those who wished to join the Assembly entered through the north. The southern doors were closed, for it was said when at last they opened the Assembly would end and the Living Head would embrace the death it had long held at bay.

Whether the pilgrim came from the north, east, or west, they would there be met by an acolyte of the Assembly. Their wishes or questions would be dutifully written on a tablet of wax and taken to the Head. The answers given by the head were often illuminating, but never hopeful.

But the Assembly of the Living Head had received no pilgrims in many years, and the sounding pipes were infested with spiders. All those who lived in the area surrounding that place—most of them the descendants of those who had originally fled the valley itself in earlier days—warned travelers away from the Wailing Hill.

It was peopled only by ghosts now, they claimed, though that was not true.

It was no fit place for man nor beast, they claimed.

All that made it even more curious when one day young Vindas, the last of the Assembly's acolytes, descended down into the holy chambers with a tablet of wax and word of a visitor with a question.

***

The way to the Chambers of Divinity was hidden in the cellar. To the uninitiated it would look like only a weakness in the hall's foundation, a giant crack that ran from floor to ceiling. Only upon close examination might an inquisitive sort realize that a constant stream of cool air flowed from the opening, and the Voice with it. Vindas slipped into the opening with practiced ease, leaving the empty hall above him and trying not to think too hard on what it was he had decided to do.

As he descended the rough stone steps the light faded to nothing. He kept his right hand on the wall before him and felt his way forward. He'd had enough practice in his years as an acolyte to be able to stride confidently despite the black. In the dark the shrill cries of the Head seemed to grow even louder. By now he was close enough to almost be able to make out the words, despite the echoes of the chamber and the pine resin all members of the Assembly used to plug their ears.

When Vindas saw light again he knew he was close to the holy chambers. He paused for only a moment to gather his resolve before stepping into the light of the hundreds of flickering candles which burned eternally in the depths of the Holy Hill.

The first Guardian of the Living Head was named Mim the Blind. When Vindas entered the chamber he found Mim in his usual place, hanging from an iron pole in the very center of the chamber. Below him was a circular pit, sheer-sided and as wide as a man was tall. Mim hung suspended over the fathomless drop and showed no sign of worry nor anxiety. Truly there were few of the Assembly who could mark any emotion on Mim's face, for he was nothing more than a skeleton. The bones were wrapped in copper and gold wire to keep them from falling away from one another, and rings and amulets and other precious things had been draped across its shoulders. Inside the ribcage had been hung all manner of silver bells, all silent and still for the moment. The hollow sockets of the skull stared at the entrance through which Vindas had come.

"Hello, Mim," the acolyte said.

Mim gave no answer.

"I've come to see the Living Head on behalf of a visitor." He clenched his teeth as he waited for a reply; it was said Mim would know if you lied.

The skeleton made no move. Vindas counted a hundred heartbeats before hurrying past and into the next tunnel.

His path now led into a part of the natural cave system which ran beneath the Assembly, which the earliest acolytes had widened for their holy purposes. The walls were covered all over with graven prophecies, the first recordings ever made of the Living Head's dire warnings. Generations of fingers idly tracing the characters as they passed had worn many of them down to nothing. Those which had been carved the deepest, however, stood out all the more sharply for the little traces of resin (always on the fingers of those who passed into the cave) which had over the years accumulated in their hollows. Vindas found himself running his own fingers across the runes as he passed.

As the light of the chamber behind him fell away, light from the next chamber appeared before him. The Voice was even louder here. Vindas took more of the resin from a pouch at his belt and stuffed another pinch in each of his ears before proceeding.

The second Guardian of the Living Head was named Lughraibh. He was a tall man, head and shoulders above Vindas, clothed in white robes with blue bands. Over his face he wore a flat wicker bowl on a strap and his shoulders were coated in the pine resin dripping from his ears.

Speech was nearly impossible this close to the wailing of the Living Head, but the Assembly had long ago devised a manner of speech involving signs and gestures. How Lughraibh saw it—or anything—through the wicker bowl he always wore had often been a matter of debate among the members of the Assembly. It was said no one yet living had ever seen his face.

How goes, Vindas? Lughraibh signed.

Vindas smiled and nodded in answer.

Why are you off to the Living Head?

The acolyte tapped the wax tablet secured to his belt.

A visitor? Good, good! And this will be your first visit to the Head. Congratulations. Soon you will be more than just our favorite acolyte. Lughraibh bowed a little and stood back, revealing another tunnel behind him. You may pass.

Vindas stepped through and soon found himself enveloped in darkness once again. Between the second and third chambers there was a small alcove, little more than a hollow in the natural cave where a small pool had formed. It was shielded from the path by a sheet of rock which jutted out of the ceiling but it could be reached through a fissure in the stone just wide enough to squeeze through. As Vindas approached he quickened his pace, hoping not to meet the visitor within, but almost at once he spied a human hand poke out from the fissure and beckon him inside.

"Foes!" The Voice shouted from down the tunnel. "Fear! Fire! Foes! Awake!"

Vindas stuffed resin in his ears until he could no longer understand the words of the Voice. As he did he thought of what to do. He could go on, continue with his business. He could even turn back—he had a happy enough life in the Assembly, he thought—but he hadn't the heart for either course. No, better to dally. Better to give no reason for the others to suspect him.

Inside the little hollow Vindas found the Hound. It was only a mangy dog, a stray which had long ago wandered in from the abandoned village and sought for scraps among the Assembly. It was told that the dog had entered from the north and so, as is doctrine, the Assembly had welcomed the mutt into their ranks. When exactly its two front paws had become the hands of a perfectly ordinary human, none could say, and the Hound seemed to take a particular glee in refusing to explain it.

Hello, Vindas, signed the creature. It rubbed its hands together as though with great anticipation.

You already know my errand. It wasn't a question, but the acolyte hoped to learn something by the Hound's response.

The Hound grinned wide. I do, I do.

Vindas frowned. The answer told him nothing. Then may I pass?

I am no Guardian. But I hoped to make you an offer, before you complete your... errand. Would you allow me to give you an augury?

The acolyte delayed, putting even more resin in his ears. He wanted nothing more than to leave, but the offer was a tempting one.

No, he signed at last. The business of the Assembly was augury, and Vindas had had enough of it. My errand is urgent. Perhaps next time?

The Hound stared into his eyes for a long time. Then it clapped its hands and sat back on its haunches. You are the first to ever refuse the augury before making the attempt. Maybe the outcome will be different for you, as well.

The acolyte's heart ran cold. There have been others? Others who came to—

Many, the creature flashed with one hand. With the other it clasped Vindas' fingers, tight enough to hurt, before he could sign more. There are eyes in these walls. Be circumspect. The others may not know yet. Go swiftly, and I will help as I may.

What happened to the others who tried?

The Hound tapped one finger against the side of its snout. You will see them soon.

When Vindas returned to the path his steps were heavier and his shoulders hunched. Once or twice the angles of the stone forced him to crawl or climb. When he could, he tapped nervously at his little wax tablet. He wondered why he had left it blank, why he hadn't thought to carve some question onto its face. The last two Guardians hadn't seemed to notice, but what a risk he had taken!

A new thought came to him: what if they had noticed, and even now were preparing to block his escape? It all seemed too easy. Had his plot already been discovered?

He had no more time to think of what was to come, however, because at that moment he rounded a corner and found himself in the next chamber.

The third Guardian of the Living Head was named Utgard-Mim. Rumor had it he was the brother of Mim the Blind, but neither had ever confirmed it. Vindas doubted it, for while Mim was of a normal height Utgard-Mim was a giant of a man. The chamber in which he dwelt was more than twice Vindas' height and yet the Guardian was forced to crouch painfully, his knees pressed to his chest and his shoulders hunched against the stone. The ceiling was dotted here and there by streaks of blood from where Utgard-Mim scraped against it as he shifted in place.

"Hello, Vindas," Utgard-Mim thundered. His voice rang not only from his mouth but through the nest of pipes which wound in and out of his flesh. The giant wore a long skirt but was bare from the waist up, the better that his pipes might be seen. His hands were clasped to his ears, and had been for so long that the pipes growing out from his chest had wound about his arms and locked them in place. The skin of his fingers seemed almost to have fused with his scalp.

Hello, Vindas signed. While his hands were unoccupied he mimicked the giant in cupping them around his ears, for in this final chamber the Living Head's cries were so deafening that no one but Utgard-Mim would have a hope of being heard, no matter how loud they shouted.

"Why do you seek the Living Head?"

The acolyte tapped the wax tablet.

"I was much smaller—and this room was more comfortable—when last we had visitors. Who is it? What do they ask?"

I— Vindas’ mouth went dry and he fumbled for an explanation.

"Slow, now," said the Guardian. "I can't understand you. Why are your hands shaking?"

Vindas clenched his fists and, after a moment, mastered himself. He stared at his fingers as he signed, willing them not to betray him any further. I am only to show the question to the Living Head. Not entirely a lie, but far from the truth.

The giant nodded. "Very well, little one. I am sorry if I upset you. But take comfort in this: after you gaze upon the Living Head for the first time, you will return from the sacred chamber an acolyte no longer. Now, go on."

Beyond the third chamber Vindas found a long hallway. Unlike the other tunnels, which had been worked only a little from their natural state, this was entirely manmade. The walls were artfully carved to depict trees and flowers and creeping vines. On the ceiling were carved birds in flight, and beneath his feet he saw krakens and leviathans out of the deepest seas. But more curious to him were the alcoves dug deep into the walls, two rows of them on either side. They were all empty save for a few, where candles burned.

With a halting breath, Vindas opened the door and strode in.

***

The holy sanctum of the Assembly of the Living Head is no place for outsiders or initiates. It is a gory place woven over with enchantments of all sorts. Sorrow hangs in the air so heavily it has seeped into the very stone and turned it black as obsidian. Braziers lit with undying flames burn hatefully in the four corners. The red tongues of those fires flash all across the room, reflected by the dead eyes of a hundred or more former acolytes. Their heads now line the alcoves set into the walls of the chamber, all looking on with blank-faced stares at the thing they had once worshiped. Their ears are clotted with a mixture of pine resin and blood.

Vindas fell back at the sight and would have fled entirely but for something the Guardians had told to him. Utgard-Mim and Lughraibh both had told him he would no longer be an acolyte after he reached this place.

The Hound wasn’t the only one who knew. They had expected this.

His plan had been doomed from the start.

Fighting back the bitterness, Vindas stood up and strode toward the Head. Somehow, the Voice wasn't nearly as loud within the sanctum as it had been outside.

"Fear! Fire! Foes!" The Head rested atop a round wooden shield, said to be the very one the warrior had carried into battle before his untimely demise. The shield, in turn, had been placed on a squat stone column against which also rested an unsheathed sword of ancient design.

Vindas peered into the milky-white eyes of the thing he had once thought to worship. It did not see him. Its long hair had been pulled back and plaited. Mounds of golden jewelry and precious necklaces lay scattered around it, but it heeded nothing.

"Run! Run, please!" The Head seemed near to weeping. "They're behind you! Oh—And there, a witch! Burn her, before she kills again!" On and on went the Voice, unceasing. From the lips of a living thing—a truly living thing—it would have sounded concerned, sorrowful, frightened, human. But as Vindas listened, entranced, he found he could only conjure disgust and fear for the thing before him.

The Living Head fed on this. Whether it understood or not, it swelled with despair as a tick swells with stolen blood.

How long Vindas stayed in the chamber he couldn't say. He knew only that he lost himself for a time in the torrent of news from the outside. He learned much of the world, and none of it good. But at some later date the once-acolyte found the strength to pull himself away, to push the words aside, and to strike the head through the mouth with its own sword. The Voice quieted to a gurgle as the Living Head's mouth filled with blood.

But the wretched thing did not die.

Vindas wrenched the blade free and prepared to strike again, but it crumbled to dust and shards of iron in his hand. The Head, wrenched by the motion, rolled forward and toppled to the ground. Its despairing cries never ceased. Blood spilled from its mouth and neck, staining the black stones.

Vindas took the thing up and tied its hair to his belt. Then, sliding the gold and jewels off the surface, he hoisted the shield and set out. There would be only one way to accomplish his errand, and for that he would need to escape.

***

Utgard-Mim wasn't so gracious as he had been upon seeing Vindas again. "Traitor!" He screamed. "Apostate!" The pipes rattled wildly and tore at his flesh, the whole chamber seemed to shake, even the Living Head's gurgling proclamations were lost for a moment.

The former acolyte tried to clap his hands to his ears in pain, but the shield strapped to his arm prevented it. The motion, however, saved him: in bringing the shield up over his head the stalactite which would have killed him fell against its surface instead and went veering wildly off. Vindas crumbled under the unexpected blow and fell to his knees.

The giant's furious yells turned to anguished screams. "Brothers, Guardians, help me," he wailed.

Vindas lowered his shield enough to see Utgard-Mim's struggles. The giant strained against the ceiling of the chamber but could do little more than scrape and tear the skin from his shoulders. He tried to rock forward and back, but the pipes had wedged themselves into the curve of the stone behind him as surely as they locked his arms in place. Here and there his thrashings caused a chunk of stone to fall from the roof, but save the first deadly missile, none were large enough to do any harm.

Slowly the former acolyte regained his feet and made his way across the chamber. The giant's wild eyes followed him the entire time, and his frenzied attempts to gain release never ceased, but in the end he could do nothing.

In the tunnel Vindas stumbled and nearly fell to the ground again. He paused a moment to catch his breath. He could feel the Living Head still moving at his hip, but he couldn't hear what it was saying. Gingerly he touched a finger to his ear, and it came away covered in a mix of resin and blood. After that he tried knocking on the tunnel wall, shouting, even kneeling down to listen to the Head's dolefule prophecies. There was nothing for it. His hearing was gone.

The apostate resumed his journey in silence.

Lughraibh, it seemed, had heard the giant's cries. No sooner had Vindas stepped through the chamber than the Guardian fell on him. He stabbed again and again with a serrated knife Vindas had never seen before.

It was all the younger man could do to keep the shield between himself and the blade; he had to use both hands to brace his only means of defense, so great was Lughraibh's frenzied strength.

The old man leaped forward, this time throwing his whole weight onto the shield. They both toppled. Vindas screamed as the Guardian came down on top of him. Lughraibh recovered first, raising the knife above his head with both hands.

Vindas felt, rather than heard, a pop in his wrist as he fought to untangle his arm from the straps holding it pinned to his chest.

The knife came down.

The former acolyte felt himself screaming. A line of pain shot across his cheek, but he managed to strike out with his arm and deflect the rest of the blow. The knife shattered on the stone floor next to his head. Vindas rolled, pitching the Guardian off of him. The shield skidded out of reach.

The next several minutes were nothing but a tangle of desperate breathing, tightening limbs, and grasping fingers. They gouged, they scratched, they choked, they toppled, they stood, they fell.

In the end Lughraibh held Vindas' neck in the crook of his arm, squeezing the breath from the apostate. That would have been the end, had Vindas' last desperate act not been to reach up and back and put his thumb through the wicker basket covering Lughraibh's face. The Guardian fell back, but Vindas followed. He pressed his thumb deeper, deeper.

Afterwards he lay on the ground for a long time, letting his heart slow and his breathing return to normal. When the blood had dried on his face and arms and his lungs no longer burned, he used the wall of the chamber to push himself to his feet.

Vindas tried to sign goodbye, for the Guardian had often shown him kindness, but several of his fingers were bent at odd angles. He couldn't move them enough to make the gesture.

After retrieving the shield and reassuring himself that he still had the Living Head, he limped his way toward the final Guardian.

The acolyte stepped into the first chamber almost without realizing it, for it was no brighter than the pitch black of the tunnel behind him. Only the sudden feeling of the open space told him where he was; the candles which had lit the space when he passed through last had all been snuffed out. Vindas' breaths came quickly and tremors ran up and down his body. Now he was both deaf and blind, and somewhere in this room, something was waiting for him.

I can hear you. The voice came to him almost as though it was his own thought, but he didn't recognize it. Best run, little blasphemer. Mim the Blind is coming.

Vindas needed no coaxing. He sped forward with all the swiftness his terror could lend him, and none too soon. As he ran he thought he felt something touch his leg, something like bone.

He would have run full-on into his death, except at that moment a new light was kindled on the opposite end of the chamber. The Hound held the candle up high above its head in one hand while it extended the other out in a halting gesture. The dim light revealed the trap: Mim the Blind still hung above the pit in the center of the room, and in his panic Vindas had set his course straight toward it. His knees crumpled to see that the skeleton's arms were now wide open, as though waiting for him, and he slid the last several feet across the rough stone floor to the edge of the drop. Cold air blasted his face from below.

Vindas threw himself back. Remembering the thing which had touched his leg he looked back, but there was nothing there. Before him, Mim the Blind was still.

The Hound crooked a finger at him. Slowly, it signed. Careful. Do not let him hear you again.

It took a great while for Vindas to cross the little space between the pit and his way out. He forced himself to count a dozen heartbeats between his every footfall, and once or twice the Hound motioned him to stop again for interminable periods. Vindas kept his eyes focused entirely on the lone candle flame, for he knew if he saw Mim searching for him he would not have the courage to stay still.

By the time he reached the grinning creature waiting for him in the tunnel his legs were shaking and he was almost too weak to stand.

Easy, the Hound signed. I'll help you the rest of the way up. Yes, lean on my shoulder. Together they scrabbled out of the tunnel, the Hound sometimes walking on two legs and sometimes on four. Vindas crawled along beside it. Once or twice he tried to ask questions, but the Hound ignored them. We will have words later, it told him finally. We will have many words together, you and I.

The sun was still shining when the creature and the apostate climbed out of the Chambers of Divinity. They made their slow way back through the building toward the grand entrance hall. No one stopped them, for there was no one else. The Assembly of the Living Head had faded away to only a handful of supplicants: three ancient devotees, a mangy dog, and a single naive acolyte.

Now, at last, even that would come to an end.

Vindas insisted he stand once they reached the entrance hall, though he still wobbled. He limped the last few yards to the southern doors and, with shaking hands, began to unwind the centuries-old rope which ceremonially held them shut. It crumbled to dust at his touch. He held the Living Head up and used the shield to push against the doors. They slid open easily.

Sunlight struck the face of the Living Head for the first time in a great while. Its mouth sagged open, its eyes drooped, and it died.

Vindas felt a tap on his shoulder. As he turned he had just enough time to see the Hound's grinning snout before the creature pushed him with both hands. He toppled, cried out, fell.

The stairs rose up to meet him. The first bounce knocked him senseless and he let go of both the head and the shield. On the second bounce he nearly caught himself. On the third bounce he spun to look at the oncoming ground and saw the shield, which had fallen ahead of him, stuck at an angle against the steps.

The rim of the shield caught his jaw and slid back to his neck.

The Hound padded down the stairs to where the new Living Head lay. He dared not disturb it, but stared at Vindas' clouding eyes to watch and wait. It took only a moment for the eyelids to flutter, and then the Head began to scream.

"Traitors! Do not trust them! Blasphemy! Oh!"

Satisfied, the Hound gathered the heads onto the shield. Both would go back to the sanctum, the old god in one of the alcoves in honor of its memory, and the new god on the holy spot.

New woes would rekindle the old fears and fascinations. The Assembly of the Living Head would thrive once again.