The question was, was Thomed?
I stepped gingerly through the remains, the ground an uneven hodgepodge of roots, fallen trees, and long-eroded manmade blocks. My eyes peeled and wary, my ears straining to pick out any sign of life, or failing that, of prior occupation. But aside of the teeming wildlife of the jungle — a living vine that proved to be a tree-bound python, the rustle in the bushes of a chocolate-brown wild boar, a monitor lizard basking on the crumbling stone face of a long-toppled god — I caught no sign of him. And so, against my better instincts, I squeezed past the cascade of thick, fibrous roots that hung like organic draperies in front of the ancient temple’s sole remaining entrance as if the very land itself wished to bar my entry, and stepped into the stifling dark.
Once my eyes adjusted, I realized the darkness of the temple’s interior was far from absolute. Shafts of golden light pierced the roof at regular intervals, the cracks through which it passed framed by encroaching plant life. And inside, too, the plants had taken hold, draping nearly every surface with roots and vines and, nearest the stagnant, black-watered puddles that graced the stone floor here and there beneath the roof-gaps overhead, fresh shoots sprouted up from the crumbling rock, leaves stretched skyward toward their Maker’s light.
The room was pillared, but unfurnished, and otherwise unadorned. Many of the pillars had toppled long ago, and in some places the ceiling had followed suit. I crept slowly deeper into the temple’s murk, mindful at every turn of any sense of motion that might signal Thomed’s attack.
At the head of the narrow, ruined room, I discovered a lone statue, moss-dusted and vine-bound. Not of a god, it seemed, but of a worshipper, cross-legged and eyes closed, its stone hands clasped in prayer or meditation. I had the strange sensation of embarrassment at interrupting its long penitence, for clearly it had sat in that same place so long that the temple had crumbled around it. The statue sat on a patch of jungle earth just large enough to accommodate it, from which sprouted countless vine-like growths that stretched upward toward the scant light leaking through the ceiling cracks above, winding like braided rope around the stone figure as they climbed. The effect was such that it appeared this praying figure had sprouted from the ground itself. I couldn’t tell if the growth had pushed up through the temple’s stone floor, or if the temple’s architects simply left this square of jungle bare. Though I had no idea why they might’ve elected to, the latter seemed the likelier option, since everywhere else plant life pushed through, it left cracks and stone debris in its wake, whereas here the borders were crisp and clear, a perfect square unmarred by broken rock.
I didn’t realize until its eyes opened that this statue was not a statue at all.
A sudden glimpse of yellowed whites amidst the cracked gray flesh I took for stone, surrounding irises and pupils rheumy with age. Yellow again as lips split to reveal the not-statue’s teeth. The simple acts of eyes and lips opening shook free a thick layer of dust from the being’s face, which drifted like ash onto its vine-strewn lap.
It took me a moment to realize this statue, this man, this whatever, was smiling.
“Oh good,” he said, with a voice like snakeskin dragging across dead leaves, “you’re here.”
“Thomed?” I ventured. He nodded, loosing yet more dust from his face, his hair, his head. As it fell away, I realized beneath the inch of collected filth he was wizened and emaciated, a living skeleton wrapped tight with age-cracked flesh. It, and his hair, was near as gray as the dirt that coated it. It was clear he’d been sitting there for a long while; centuries, perhaps. “You’ve been expecting me?”
“I’ve been expecting someone for quite some time,” he said. “Though not you specifically…” He tilted his head by way of polite inquisition. It took a second for me to realize he was asking my name.
“Sam,” I told him. “My name is Sam.”
“Sam,” he repeated. “Well met.”
“That remains to be seen,” I told him.
“True enough,” he replied.
His voice was accented, but only slightly. How that could be, I didn’t know. If he’d been sitting here half as long as it appeared he had, he couldn’t possibly have the grasp on modern language to understand me.
I said as much. He smiled wider and replied, “It is surprising what one might learn if one simply takes the time to listen.”
“To what?” I asked.
“To everything. To nothing at all. To the soul-song of the universe.”
I took a careful step toward him, my right hand inside my pants pocket, gripping tight the timeworn bowie knife I’d traded a fisherman McCluskey’s watch for two days back. Thomed didn’t move a whit. Bound tight with vines as he was, I wondered if he could. But I remembered the deceptive strength of his fellow Brethren, and decided I’d err on the side of caution.
“Do you know why I’m here?” I asked.
“I do,” he replied. “Just as I know about the knife you carry, and as yet wish to conceal. You’ve come to end my life.”
I thought about protesting the fact. I didn’t see the point. “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t seem too broken up about that.”
“If it is my Maker’s will that I should cease to be, then I shall cease to be. If it is not, then She will spare me. I am prepared for either eventuality.”
“That’s awful accepting of you.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had some time to think upon the matter, and to come to terms with either outcome.”
I cast my gaze around the ruins, warm and silent in the waning afternoon. “Exactly how long have you been here?”
Thomed fell silent for a full five minutes then, his face screwed up in thought. I began to wonder if he’d ever answer. But eventually, his eyes opened once more, and he said, “One thousand seven hundred sixty-seven years, three months, two weeks, and four days.”
I snorted in surprise and disbelief. “What, no hours?”
He flashed age-dulled teeth once more, a brief, kindly smile. “I fear the time is hard to tell when one cannot see the sun.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think your math’s off. It puts you here a good eight hundred years before the culture that built this place.”
“Your assumption is fallacious,” he replied.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“You assume I came to this temple to worship, when in fact this temple came to me.”
“So you built this place?”
“No. I seek neither the comfort of shelter nor the vanity of monument. Simply peace.”
“You mean to say whoever built this place built it around you?”
“I do.”
“Why? You, like, some kinda god to them?”
Thomed laughed. “Actually, and to my great surprise, the temple builders hardly seemed to notice my presence here, save for the fact they seemed compelled to not disturb me. My suspicion is that they were drawn to this place for much the same reason I was.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“I assume you noted the strange silence that fell over the jungle as you approached this place?”
I did, and said as much.
“That’s because this is a special place, one of beauty, of reverence, of reflection. It has been since long before I happened by. Since long before humankind discovered it and sought to honor it with their temples. The trees know it. The animals know it. I know it. In the centuries that followed my kind’s abhorrent ritual, I found myself lost, despondent, rudderless. I had not foreseen our ritual resulting in such senseless devastation; I blamed myself and my fellow Brethren for the resultant loss of life, and felt truly crushed beneath the weight of it. And so, ashamed of what we’d done — what we’d become — I struck out on my own into the wilderness. Perhaps it was an act of self-flagellation on account of the terrible, consuming hunger I experienced, or the destruction we Nine caused. Perhaps a cowardly flight from all that reminded me of what we’d done. Whatever it was, it somehow — across my decades of ceaseless wandering — led me here. I was so taken with this spot, so certain it was where I was supposed to be, I never left. And now I expend no small amount of effort to protect it, to dissuade those who might wish to desecrate it, to ensure it remains unspoiled.”