Iy Correction: Chapter 1 Extracts

Iy Correction
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A disembodied spirit, alone and without a will, soars high above the swirling clouds. The light is dim and cold as if the sun, which has for so long ministered to the needs of an ancient planet, chooses now to forsake its task and flee. Diving like an eagle, unseen eyes behold a restless land faltering into view through trailing wisps of white and grey. It is a land bereft of life and hope – the sad remains of nature’s once proud creation. Upon the rotting ground nothing stirs or moves save the belching of putrid gas, forcing a passage through the coagulating mud. The horror of the devastated scene adheres malevolently to the meandering spectre as if the mere presence of a living entity in this world of death is an abomination to be hunted and destroyed. Far in the distance, the heaving slime begins to yield, and with its passing, the remnants of a mighty forest wither and crumble in the sickly breeze. Gone are the brilliant leaves of green, the crooked boughs and solid bark – they will not return. Hacked and charred, the cremated trunks steam and crackle as the fire that wrought their destruction still smoulders deep within the ground. Amid the seething chaos a sapling, encircled by a ring of stricken stumps, clings desperately to life, trembling like a frightened child. Drawn towards this ray of hope, the spirit regards with awe its untouched shoots striving for the dismal light. Instantly, the young tree petrifies, collapsing into dust as if somehow cursed by the attentions of its observer. Shocked and saddened, the spirit turns away to resume its enforced journey through the endless mutilation and decay.

As the densely packed forest thins then fades into twilight, the land slopes gently to the edge of a broiling lake. The scalding waters bubble and hiss like a seething cauldron while sprays of mud and rock erupt from its troubled surface, blanketing the shore. Confronted by such violence, the spirit rises high into the sky and glides effortlessly far beyond the turmoil to where the terrain clearly bears the mark of mankind’s intervention. Here, the surface is hard: baked by a searing heat. White ash coats the ground like a shroud, its composition so fine that the slightest waft of air induces clouds of suffocating dust to billow and swirl. Bordering the sterile plot, deep waterless canals form a latticework across the landscape and wend their way toward the outline of a distant city rising like row upon row of forgotten tombstones above a rolling fog.

The ghostly presence shudders as it encounters the first silent structures twisted and bent as they are beyond all recognition. Stone and metal are strewn alongside mangled machinery, choking the ruptured carriageways. Nothing has escaped the hand of destruction. Every building, every monument is shattered, their very fabric transformed into a constantly decomposing mass. By the skeleton of a lofty dome, the spirit pauses to reflect on the terrible power responsible for the holocaust. Its perception drifts listlessly through the empty shells and buried chambers of this once majestic city until a sight more tragic than anything it has yet witnessed shrieks for attention. Barely visible beneath a mound of crystal shards, the face of a young girl shines out like a beacon. Her features are miraculously unscathed, her expression serene, as if she welcomed the judgement passed upon her race. Across her body, the decomposed torso of an old man lies – evidence of a vain attempt to shield her from the raging fury. Pity joins the host of painful emotions clawing at the amorphous being, until at last it shrinks away to confront the goal that has demanded its presence.

At the centre of the ruins, a colossal tower rises intact like a gladiator standing over its fallen victims. The pale blue walls of the pyramidal monolith are an obscene vision set in the midst of colourless destruction, yet the spirit accepts their existence without question. At the entrance, impenetrable doors stand, defiantly barring the way to all who seek to enter, but cannot exclude the wandering soul that, like a wisp of vapour, passes unhindered past their solid framework. Inside, the walls exude a faint glow sufficient to light the endless corridors that thread their way through the vast undamaged interior. The spirit now roams with purpose through sealed halls and rooms, occasionally halting to recall the people and events that had, for countless aeons, been influenced by the great works undertaken in this sacred shrine. It continues on, tirelessly inspecting each level until, at last, it surrenders to a mounting desire to enter the largest and most imposing chamber of the edifice. Cylindrical in form and surmounted by a clear crystal dome, the great chamber embodies a tangible presence. Ten ornately fashioned doors, each bearing heavy mechanical locks, encircle the base which, constructed of black marble, forms the foundation of two arched tiers that comprise the walls. The spirit hovers towards a vermilion crystal rostrum occupying the centre of the floor space and settles by the grandiose table encircling it. A flood of abstract images torments the being’s awareness, urging it to delay no longer. It has seen the stark horror of the world outside, and all too vividly experienced the pain and anguish of the annihilated population. There now remains one final task to fulfill before the power that has possessed its essence relents.

Gradually the spirit sweeps above the chamber and into the heart of the tower. A green radiance shines out brightly as it approaches its destination until the intensity is almost blinding, but the spectre does not falter. At last it stands before the source: a sphere of pulsating light so powerful that a sun could not match its potency. As if hypnotised by the overwhelming force, the spirit glides into the body of the globe. Absorbed into the very fabric of the awesome creation, its essence shimmers like countless stars, then crystallises into an age-worn figure – a man barely able to stand. The man turns to find himself confronted by his own holographic reflection. Once-hungry eyes peer out apprehensively through a mass of white hair that hangs limply from a wizened and mottled skull. At first no sign of recognition strikes across the figure’s startled expression, then suddenly his senses flare. His mouth opens in amazement, allowing a name to tumble uneasily from his lips – Forillion Jenor…

Ancient eyelids flickered then, squinting against the brilliant morning light, slowly opened. ‘My God, the dream! Again it seeks to taunt, to consume me.’ Forillion Jenor, Master Guardian of the High Council of Iy groaned.