Story as Apology

Callix Millender resurrected his parents first. It was easiest to start there. He knew where they were buried, and neither had been cremated, or been dead for so long as to have decayed. Too many other dead were now scattered as ashes, or mulched into the dark soil, or slowly dissolved in the ocean deeps. Not to mention those blown to smithereens in explosions, burnt to cinders in fires; eaten and digested as wild beasts. 

Bodily resurrection, he knew, was simple in principle: all the information contained in the living person was conserved, only now diffused into the wider world. But the degree of diffusion mattered, too, he knew. To resurrect those long since eaten by worms would require tracking down the worms, and thus in turn the robins that ate the worms, and the cats that ate the robins...and so on and so forth. 

Callix's parents bodies, on the other hand, were readily at hand, and still reasonably well preserved. What decay there was could be offset by any number of methods: his own genetic material, of course, preserved some memory of them, which he could use to reconstruct them. Then there was memorabilia--their diaries, their old possessions, their letters to friends. And finally, his own memories. 

Callix almost surprised himself with his initial success: perhaps he had doubted the principle, even though of course it was perfectly logical and sound. 

With one success in hand, he felt emboldened to go further. Having resurrected his parents, he now had new source of genetic material and memories with which to resurrect those close to his parents. They were the next link in a chain radiating out from himself:

His parents, reconstructed from the traces they had left on him, could in turn be used to reconstruct those who had left their traces on them, and so on and so forth. Ad infinitum.

As he practiced, he perfected his technique: resurrections came faster and easier. Missing information could be filled in from multiple sources. Someone whose only physical remains were a slightly richer iron contain the dark earth where they had been buried could now be reconstructed from the memories they had left in others; from the physical information in their descendents, and antescedents; from the physical traces they had left on the world. 

Within five years, Callix had resurrected almost ten million people. Truly, he felt, he had mastered the forces of decay and fragmentation. He could restore a human being who had lived decades before, and give him back his personality.

Although on this last point, there was some lingering doubt. Each chain in the link represented some possibility of missing information. And as time went on, he began to doubt even the earlier links in the chain. Were his parents acting as they always had? Was he sure their personalities were unchanged from before their deaths?

Of course, it was hard to be sure this was even a meaningful question: obviously, the fact of having died, of having ceased to be for some years, would change a person. And even had they lived, they would have grown and changed. The question was: would they have changed into people identical to those he had recreated? And if not, did that mean their memories, which he had used to recreate others, compromise his whole project? 

As time went on, and he slowly repopulated the world, he became more and more haunted that he was not flaunting death at all. That, rather than bestowing immortality on the world, he had simply replaced the dead with cheap imitations. That their souls had fled into the soil, or the ocean deeps, or the cremation furnace, or maybe just been annihilated. Death had claimed them, after all, and he had simply substituted forgeries. Perhaps, after all his efforts, he had achieved only a simulation of immortality; no better than if he had made puppets or voodoo dolls of all the dead.

Eventually he understood the only way he could come be sure: he would have to die, and be resurrected himself, and see if he was the same before and after. 

But even having done that, his doubts were never settled.

IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG

And yea, he whom the writhing Five-Tongued Disciples mention occasionally-in-passing as the great Rascal/Exultant/Calder/Whelp/Skunk did say unto his demiurgic cohort: "Thou art lollygaggers. Thy tongues are still. Thy throats, barren. Thy fingers, brittle. Speak, sing, paint to life that which ye envision, or surrender this world unto my keeping." And so saying, he posted in challenge:

 HOW ONE RETURNED FROM THE CITY OF XITH

 It is common knowledge that two cities reside within the desert of Kallax, though there is little traffic between them. Throughout the history of the two, citizens of Que-Lan have sometimes made the journey across the sand to the city of Xith - and occasionally even returned home again - but these emissaries were without exception of that particular brand of merchant who deal only in stealth and cunning, and whose transactions are notoriously one-sided. Citizens of Xith have never made the journey to Que-Lan, for which denizens of the latter are grateful.

It was while searching through a collection of tales told about Xith, that city whose towers jut from the desert like dead hands and whose inhabitants live beneath the sand instead of above, that Thragg first began to consider journeying there. Upon coming across an account of one who returned from Xith, laden with jewels and describing the technique employed in liberating them, Thragg would always speak to himself, “I am cleverer still.” And as each tale of amateurish thievery came before his eyes his resolve grew and grew, until at last he decided that he himself would make the voyage across the desert, and come away with more jewels than those who had gone before him.

Such a journey required careful consideration, however, for though many novice footpads had returned successfully from Xith, many more, some of even greater skill, had never returned. And so Thragg spent three months in preparation, employing his art upon the wealthier houses of Que-Lan to ensure his hands were as deft and his footsteps as light as ever they were. And when he decided he was ready, he very wisely chose for his accomplice the famed Lydia, who had once stolen the Wyvern's Emerald and who alone amongst the thieves of the world could match Thragg for nimbleness. Although generally two thieves are less effective than one, as the misstep of one ensures the downfall of the other, Thragg knew that such an error would never be committed by Lydia, and she knew the same for him. And so it was that one clouded night, a night without stars nor moon, Lydia and Thragg met as if by accident on the road leading out of the city, and without a word or sound, but merely a glance and a nod, turned their silent footsteps towards Xith.

They arrived in the golden light of early morning, for though darkness is in most cases the best armour a thief can acquire, Thragg and Lydia reasoned that as no citizen of Xith would raise itself above the sand unless a footstep landed upon its grainy roof, and as it would be fatal to draw the attention of a Xithian no matter how much shadow was present, it would not matter how bright the sun was shining. Furthermore, they knew that extra illumination would allow them to pick their way more carefully among the rocks and boulders littering the streets of the city, lessening the chance of a misstep. And so the two made their way stealthily through the streets, avoiding the single footfall that would mean their doom.

And finally they came to the temple which was said to house such a ludicrous amount of treasure that an army of thieves could never carry it all away. They entered with all the caution one would expect, and I need not relate the traps and dangers they encountered while traversing the nitrous hallways, since so effortlessly did they avoid them that such an account could only serve to bore the reader. Finally, however, they came upon the treasure room, and though years of gazing upon gold and silver had caused their eyes to adopt some of the hardness and dispassion of these metals, still Thragg and Lydia found themselves affected by the sight of so much wealth, and they paused a moment in wonderment. And they began to sift through the ridiculous pile, judging each piece with professional discrimination, until Thragg uncovered, buried behind several tapestries and a gilded suit of armour, a small and secret passageway leading into yet another quiet corridor. And there was discourse then, as to whether it would be wiser to simply collect as much wealth as possible and escape, or to see what lay beyond the tiny portal in the corner. And though they realized at that moment why it was that novice thieves always came away with treasure, whereas more skilled practitioners often did not return, they decided that the treasure beyond the door must surely be of an extraordinary nature, and felt also that they had an obligation to their trade to always try their fortunes behind whatever hidden doors might present themselves.

And so they entered, and found increasingly subtle traps awaiting them as they made their way forward, along with occasional remains of previous explorers, but again they avoided these with such ease as to make accounts tedious. At last they came to a large chamber, spacious and dimly lit, with statues in strange forms and reliefs carved upon the walls. They saw that there was a Guardian, but Lydia had brought a sword she had removed from a certain barrow, and employed it surreptitiously before the bloated creature could utter its terrible word or point its terrible finger.

And the two came to a large door, on which was written a final warning, that what lay beyond was not treasure at all, but rather something sentient and awful, and it reminded them of the vast wealth lying untouched upstairs, which indeed had been placed there for the purpose of dissuading adventurers from opening this last and fateful aperture. And Lydia, having decided already that the absurd wealth kept above was fair payment for her efforts, and noting that the massive door before them was hardly secret, argued that they should return immediately, and cease their exploration. But Thragg pointed out that doors kept behind hidden doors are themselves hidden, and reminded her of the superior treasure which probably lay beyond, protected now only by a fictional history carved upon the gateway. This time, however, Lydia was immovable, and the two decided to go separate ways.

 As a courtesy, Thragg offered to wait a full hour before opening the door, to give Lydia time to remove herself from Xith with whatever loot she could carry. And remove herself she did, taking only three rings and a brooch which were nevertheless worth more than the rest of the hoard combined. And as she made her way across the sands, she felt a distant rumble, and glanced back at Xith to find its crumbling towers snapping back to perfection, its ruined walls reassembling themselves, and the city adopting an aspect of perfection which it had not held in human memory. And though it had never looked so beautiful, Lydia found something ominous about the angles at which the pristine towers were placed, and the way the wind turned suddenly towards the city, shrouding it from sight with swirling sands. And large shadows without origin began moving across the dunes towards Xith, sliding aside to avoid Lydia on their way, and singing strange songs. Lydia shuddered at the thought of Thragg trapped inside the walls with these, and wondered what he had found in the last and terrible chamber, but she was a businesswoman first, and turned once more toward Que-Lan.

And although sometimes in her later years she caught herself singing as the shadows had done on their way to Xith, the three rings alone were enough to keep her comfortable for the rest of her days. Indeed, such was her wealth that some citizens of Que-Lan grew envious and sought to make the journey across Kallax in search of similar fortune, but although some of these were as skilled as Lydia herself had been in her youth, the days in which citizens of Que-Lan could return from Xith were ended, and none were seen thereafter.