Agents of the Demiurge

AGENTS OF THE DEMIURGE

Book II of The Participants

Brian Blose

Published by Brian Blose at Smashwords.

Copyright 2014 Brian Blose. All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to
real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All
characters, places, and events are used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading
this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your
sole use, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1 – Erik / Iteration
2

Chapter 2 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 3 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 4 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 5 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 6 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 7 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 8 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 9 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 10 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 11 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 12 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 13 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 14 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 15 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 16 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 17 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 18 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 19 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 20 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 21 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 22 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 23 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 24 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 25 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 26 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 27 – Erik / Iteration 145

Chapter 28 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 29 – Erik / Iteration 2

Chapter 30 – Hess / Iteration 145

Chapter 31 – Elza / Iteration 145

Chapter 32 – Erik / Iteration 2

About The Author

He took the name
Mezzin as he entered the village. Mezzin. The name of a man from
the previous world. A man who never properly existed, given the
fact that the only remnant of his existence was an unflattering
memory of the Creator’s Observer. But then, none of these creatures
could be said to properly exist. They would all vanish when the
Creator ended this world.

Mezzin smiled when he greeted an old man at
the village’s guest pavilion. The elderly should be more perceptive
with the benefit of experience, but they rarely achieved that
potential. This one chose to ramble about the weather instead of
inquiring about the business of a stranger. Foolish. But then, this
world didn’t inspire the same paranoia as the previous one.

Was this a better world for the people to
inhabit? Probably. These pathetic creatures didn’t have the
requisite resilience to survive a brush with true brutality. The
previous world saw them cowering in constant fear, striking out
before they could become victims. This one saw them utterly
dependent upon their community, terrified of what they saw as
untamed wilderness beyond their settlements.

The village elder granted Mezzin guest status
after a while, promising that if he worked hard the village would
vote to adopt him as a new member. Mezzin made the appropriate
gratitude-heavy response to the offer. The old man then introduced
him to the work leader, a man named Rek.

“Why do you come to our village?” Rek spoke
bluntly.

“I spent all my life with the same woman. She
always wanted to be a mother, but for many years nothing happened.
When she was almost too old for children, it finally happened. We
were so happy.” Mezzin turned his face to the ground as if fighting
emotion. “But she was not meant to be a mother. I could not stay
after losing her and the baby, so I had to find a new home.”

Rek’s voice grew gentler. “I am sorry,
friend. You can pick what work you wish to do today, whether you
wish it to be easy or hard. The people will not think any less of
you whatever your choice.”

Dead woman was a great back story. People
gave him space to grieve, he could ask sensitive questions without
raising suspicions, and none of the other men assumed he had come
to tempt away their women. Embellishing the tale with the death of
a long anticipated baby only sweetened the deal. The problem was,
people assumed grief had rendered him fragile.

“I don’t ask for pity,” Mezzin said. “Give me
the hardest work you have.”

The hardest work the village had that day was
digging irrigation ditches. Mezzin used the shoulder blade of an
antelope to dig the soil. The other men on ditch duty wore
disgruntlement openly. Even in a society where men competed for
reputations as hard workers, nobody truly wanted the hardest work.
They were weak, all of them. They didn’t even eat the meat of land
animals. The bones they used for tools came from corpses they found
on the land around their villages.

Mezzin deepened the irrigation ditch with
steady movements of his arms and back. Sweat poured from him in the
ever-present heat. Blisters formed on the brown skin of his hands,
then burst and bled before vanishing as if they had never existed.
Mezzin continued to work at a maniacal rate until daylight began to
fade. Then he stood to survey their progress.

The ditch licked a shallow river at one end,
then snaked back and forth among the raised beds where Taro would
grow. Irrigation was one hell of an idea. Thought up by the
Creator, of course. These creatures only thought those ideas they
were told to think and did actions they were shown to do. If this
world hadn’t been born with a fake history of agriculture, then it
would be hunt and gather all over again.

Roughly half the ditch had been completed.
Mezzin could see the faint outline drawn in the dirt, marking where
the water should flow. Even without the benefit of the markings,
the proper location was obvious. The people of this village rotated
their fields, like all the others. There had once been another
irrigation ditch in the same spot they now dug. River silt, human
refuse, foot traffic, and time had nearly erased the traces before
the village rotated back to the same piece of land.

The other men brought Mezzin back to the
center of the village, where everyone sat together to drink water
before the women served dinner. He had to hear Rek tell everyone
the sad history he had invented for himself. Had to hear the
sympathies of the pathetic creatures directed at him. Had to react
all depressed. Perhaps it was time for him to switch cover stories.
Next village he would pose as a man being pursued by a pack of
vicious man-eating tigers. That tale always stirred things up in a
satisfying manner.

Women distributed banana leaves, then passed
bowls of food around. Mezzin scooped some sticky Taro dough from
one bowl and placed it on his leaf, pulled several plantains free
from a bundle, took a few berries, added liberal amounts of green
vegetables, and accepted a few nuts. He watched the people go about
their nightly meal. They seemed to revel in their existence.

The old man who had welcomed Mezzin into the
village stood up before everyone, placed a finger from each hand
into his mouth, and whistled for attention. “Who wants to hear the
story of the White Traveler?”

Mezzin sat slightly straighter. Stories were
excellent material for the Creator. They cut through all the daily
minutiae of life to get to the important things. Stories told you
what people wanted, what they valued, and how they wished they
could be. And, of course, stories were so much more interesting
than watching a village of idiots put food into their mouths while
swapping inane gossip.

The women of the village began to clap. The
old man appeared disappointed. “None of the men want to hear this
story? I cannot believe such a thing! Women, you must get the men
excited for my story!”

The men groaned so nearly in unison that it
appeared staged. Mezzin wiped the sneer from his mouth before
anyone noticed. This was going to be one of
those
stories.
Something about a fantastical figure teaching the men a lesson, no
doubt. Mezzin didn’t care for such stories, not even when he
suspected he might have inspired a few such stories himself.

Women and men alike were soon calling for the
story of the White Traveler to be told. When the village had
demonstrated its enthusiasm with a particularly annoying cacophony,
the old man placed both hands over his heart and the crowd grew
quiet.

“Near ten seasons ago, the White Traveler
came through our village. He came from the North Road at sunset,
and even in the dark we knew this stranger to be unusual in his
looks. His skin was pale. Paler even than the skin of the Rhino. It
wasn't until the next day that we saw him in proper light and knew
his skin to be so white and clear that the veins of his arms and
hands showed
blue
.

“This was a most unusual man in appearance.
That first night, we asked who he was and what he wanted with us. I
admit I was frightened of him. His oddness came from more than his
looks. This man walked with big steps and talked in a strange
manner and watched from pale eyes that held no fear of anything. He
stood at the entrance of our guest pavilion and asked to be
received as a friend.

“He said 'You may call me Wren, but my true
name is a secret.' Now, friends, this seemed most unusual to me. So
I asked what he wanted with us. 'I am walking the entire world,'
the White Traveler told me. He had come from a place so far away
that the people had pale skin. So I asked 'why do you travel the
world?'

“The White Traveler looked at me and said 'I
seek a woman.' I told him that he was welcome to stay in the guest
pavilion, but that I didn't think any of our women would ask him to
be their man. He told me 'I do not want to steal anyone from your
village. I walk the world for a particular woman.'”

The old man shook his head in wonder. “He
said these words, and every woman in the entire village instantly
wanted him. I have never seen so much fuss over one man in my long
life. But the White Traveler, he would not say yes to any woman who
asked him to be her man. He said he wanted only the woman Elza.

“So we asked 'Who is this woman Elza? What
does she look like?' But the man did not know! He said that he had
known her in another life, another world. A frightening world, he
told us, where no one was ever safe. He did not know if she was
young or old, beautiful or homely. All the White Traveler knew was
he wanted back his woman.

“Now, we all thought this man was crazy.
Surely his tall tale could not be true, we said to one another. The
man stayed with us three days, telling everyone his story and
begging us to spread word to everyone we knew. I wanted to fix the
man's crooked thoughts, so I began to ask him questions. I said
'How will you know Elza when you find her? You don't even know what
she looks like!'

“But the White Traveler only smiled. He said
'She will know my true name.' So all the women began trying to
guess the White Traveler's name. And of course no one guessed
right. So on the day he left, I asked him 'Do you really think
you'll find your woman?'

“The man looked at the horizon and said 'This
world is larger than it has any right to be. But even if the maker
of the world placed oceans and desserts between us, I will find
her.”

Mezzin's breath caught.
Maker of the
world?
Impossible. These creatures knew nothing of the Creator.
They talked nonsense about mythical ancestors and people descending
from animals, never suspecting the truth.

All around, the women sat straighter in
anticipation. The story was not over. The old man pointed to a
corner of the village square. “In my young days, I loved being
around the beautiful women of this tribe so much that I used to
pound the Taro into dough with them. One day, the most beautiful
woman I had ever seen passed through our village. She was so
stunning that my heart hurt and I could not stand to look upon her
for more than a single glance at a time. This woman stayed only a
single night, but I never forgot the look of her. Nor did the other
men my age, though much time passed.