“The Inquisitor sees everything; he sees them set the coffin down at Jesus's feet, sees the child rise up, and his face darkens. He knits his thick grey brows, and his eyes gleam with a sinister light. He holds out his finger and bids the guards arrest Jesus. And such is his power, so completely are the people cowed into submission and trembling obedience to him, that the crowd immediately makes way for the guards, and in the midst of a deathlike silence they lay hands on Jesus and take him to the Inquisitor who says: ‘Tomorrow I shall condemn thee and burn thee at the stake as the worst of heretics.’”
~Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
He is promptly shoved from behind a third time, and stumbles uncertainly over rocky,
barren soil. Turning on his heel as he regains balance is once again fruitless— his assailant, the unknown tormentor, is not to be seen. There is little to behold to begin with. Dark, swirling clouds hold the moon and stars at bay, but he can still see somewhat with the night-vision his largely feline eyes afford him. In every direction stretches the same dirt- and pebble-ridden plain, vast and lonely, perhaps the former site of a lake that existed centuries ago but has since been evaporated by the unforgiving and presently
very distant sun. Off to his far left he discerns an expanse of withered trees, skeletons of their springtime selves. They wave and sway tauntingly in the stiff breeze.
He hugs himself and shivers, as though he were not trembling enough, creating small
clouds of vapor as he takes rapid shallow breaths, one after the other. This time the unknown malevolence strikes his ankles and follows through, knocking his feet from under him. He sprawls forward with a pained grunt, the burn of fresh scrapes suddenly flaring upon his knees, palms, and chin. Something jabs against his spine, preventing him from standing. He struggles in vain to fight off a paralyzing fear, to quell a sob rising in his throat.
Are you prepared to confess?
The androgynous voice seems to have spawned from the wind itself. He grits his chattering teeth, so vexed by the question as to momentarily abandon his panic. “Confess to what? Where’s my sister?”
Confess and be absolved; confess and know peace. Are you prepared to confess?
Whatever was placed against his back is pushed in more firmly, its sharpness suddenly becoming apparent.
He bites back a wince, digging the claws of his left hand into the bedrock underneath him while his right reaches forward, groping desperately for a discarded weapon, a good-sized rock, anything that might now aid him; but his fingers discover nothing more than useless grit.
A light rain begins to fall, intensifying until he no longer knows which drenches his clothing more, the water or his blood.
Tiny stinging droplets run into his eyes. They seep into the ground, creating a thin layer of mud. The
spear-point in his back— for surely that is what it must be— remains stubbornly inert, each of his slightest movements serving to drive it further into his skin. Is there no escape from this? he wonders. What in Jaga’s name do Itell this thing to make it go away?
Away. Like all the others. Far, far away, and gods help him, he cannot find them... save them...
He hallucinates. A tiny speck of soft white light appears in the darkness just a few feet away, slowly intensifying until it resembles candlelight, then a light bulb. No, perhaps it is real, for it casts a gentle glow that illuminates the dampened plain, the strands of rainfall, and partially bathes his outstretched hand, making it look as pale
and white as his sister’s. He is at once drawn to this ghostly resemblance.
Experimentally he flexes the hand, now wet and glistening, then weakly cranes his neck upward, squinting as the suspiciously pure light invades and conquers the darkness, his vision, his consciousness...
