The Empty Mirror

Mummy Bridge

I ventured into the thicket of the forest, inwardly questioning the very nature: "Is this all you can offer?" defiant in the face of what loomed over me, aware of having already survived the cursed Ace of Wands forest and the wicked Hanging Gardens. This place was nowhere near as intimidating, yet as I advanced, the crunch of branches and dry leaves under my feet, I sensed the furtive gaze of beasts hidden among the foliage: the wolves, whose eyes, like glowing embers, watched me with disturbing intensity. I felt the weight of their scrutiny on my back, every step of mine resonating with the echo of their veiled presence in the undergrowth. It was an electrifying sensation, the certainty of not being alone in this vast and wild domain. Their eyes reminded me that in nature, I am but a visitor, subject to the inexorable laws of survival.

In a surge of desperation, I pulled out the garlic bulb from my backpack and broke off a clove, keeping the rest. I peeled it and put it into my mouth, starting to chew. At first, a spicy and sharp taste assaulted my tongue, followed by an intense aroma that engulfed my palate. Its flavour, robust and distinctive, with a slight bitterness and an underlying sweetness, unfolded in my mouth. With each bite, the garlic unleashed a burst of flavour that ranged from mild to fiery, though it remained a raw and unpleasant garlic. To my amazement, the wolves' gazes dissipated, leaving me relieved but also tormented by my unusual behaviour. And so, in the middle of the night, I reached Mummy Bridge.

The ancient wooden bridge, which stands majestically over the placid waters of the lake, displays its worn planks weathered by the relentless passage of time and the rigors of the weather. Yet, it maintains its dignified splendour, supported by pillars of mossy rock sinking into the lake depths. Along its journey, a throng of souls of diverse condition and lineage congregates, advancing with silent steps, like wandering spectres in the dusk of the forest. Their countenances, bound by a lugubrious gravity, and their eyes, lost on the horizon, traverse the bridge with taciturn resolution. No laughter or dialogue is heard, only the dull murmur of their breaths and the melancholic lament of the wood beneath their feet. Despite their union, they bear the burden on their shoulders, as if silently carrying the secrets of the world. Their gestures, measured and calculated, seem those of ones trapped in a dream from which they cannot awaken. The atmosphere is imbued with an oppressive mood, as if the darkness of the forest had permeated their spirits.

They were a motley group of people, whose origins were unknown to me, perhaps summoned in a similar manner to mine, through that flickering candle, for if you persist in treading the same path, you find yourself faced with the lamentable reality that seldom will you be accompanied, for such paths are always barren, lacking viable junctions for accompanied wandering. Among those individuals, ladies and gentlemen, some young like me, others older, all enveloped in an expectant silence. Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves echoed in the distance, capturing everyone's attention towards the mist from which the gallop emanated. I, positioned near the bridge structure and separated from the rest, like them, distant but restless and fearful, awaited what was to come.

A procession of carriages parades majestically along the dusty path, evoking the grandeur of bygone times. Each carriage, carved from dark wood and embellished with unmatched craftsmanship, is drawn by sturdy steeds whose impatient neighs raise a cloud of dust behind them. The carriages, adorned with canopies of opulent fabrics, flutter in the wind like banners of nobility and distinction. Through the slightly ajar windows, figures dressed in black silk robes and shining armour can be glimpsed in the sunlight. The coachmen, adorned in decorated liveries and feathered hats, skillfully guide their beasts, to the rhythm of hoofbeats echoing in the ether. The tinkling of bells on the horses' harnesses adds a melody to the scene, infusing an air of nobility and magnificence that transports spectators to eras of knights and maidens.

Through the mist, the carriages advance while the onlookers watch, astonished. As they come to a stop in formation before the bridge, figures in black robes emerge from the carriages, their hems trailing on the ground and their faces obscured. One of them addresses the gathering: "As you well know, you have been chosen by the Holy Church of Involvement to serve the faith of God and become knights who protect the faith and ensure that the divine word is proclaimed. You are fortunate, for many of you come from near or far places to Mummy Bridge, a place of congregation. Some of you have sought this opportunity, others have faced creatures or curses beyond understanding and thus have been chosen, while others have been recommended by your leaders or priests. It is the sacred blessing of faith. But here it will be decided who is worthy of the divine grace that the church offers. So, survive or perish in this very place. Do not worry, we will bury your remains if you succumb and we will also kill every member of your families to accompany you in their insufficient beliefs of faith to survive. It is the test of faith, the test of bravery or cowardice." After these words, the hooded figures retreated and directed unintelligible words towards the ground, perhaps towards a cemetery, from where terror itself arose.

From the very bowels of the forest earth, emerged the mummies, sombre witnesses to human transience, with their stiff and desiccated bodies, in a macabre choreography that oscillates between the breath of life and the embrace of death. Their countenances, petrified in a grimace of fear and suffering, seem to emit a silent cry from beyond the grave. The skin, dried and hardened by the passage of time, has taken on a dark, almost stony hue. The eyes, hollow and glassy, scan the chaos, as if seeking an escape from their carnal confinement. The garments of yore, now faded rags, hang from their mummified forms. Their limbs, deformed and contorted, have halted in a final spasm of torment, as if still struggling to escape their dismal fate. Each of these spectral figures narrates a tale of suffering and despair, a silent reminder of ephemeral existence and the inexorable approach of death. In their company, one perceives the gloom and enigma that envelop these entities suspended between two worlds. The mummies, with their clumsy and slow gait, advance towards their victims, us, with a fierce resolve, their faces distorted by pain and anguish. Their onslaught is more a psychic siege than corporeal, exploiting the terror they sow in those who dare confront them.

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The solitary apparitions, with visages that would chill the blood of the bravest, stand as living weapons, sowing fear and desolation in the souls that dare cross their path. Some of the gathered, prey to panic, attempted to flee, but from the shadowy heart of the forest emerged armed knights, whose imposing figures are silhouetted against the light, clad in armour that gleams with blinding radiance. Forged by skilled artisans, their armour is a compendium of metal plates and interwoven meshes, conceived to safeguard every recess of the being without sacrificing agility. The helmets, adorned with plumes and ornate visors, veil their faces beneath a mantle of mystery and authority. From the shadow of their visors, their eyes gleam with the firmness and courage of those ready to face any ordeal. They bear swords and shields, insignias of their mastery in battle, whose blades gleam with a lethal edge, eager to cleave the air and confront the adversary with martial skill. The shields, embellished with insignias and emblems proclaiming their lineage and loyalty to the church, are the mirror of their lineage and devotion. Those who, in their attempt to flee, were captured, now lie prostrate, with hands upon their necks like submissive hounds, feeling upon their napes the cold steel of the sword.

Among those who chose to stay, some were gripped by fear, others showed stoic indifference, and a few rejoiced at the macabre spectacle. They wielded stones and set about smashing the skulls of the mummies, which, though not beings of great strength, being little more than skeletons, their long hands and claws sharpened like talons made them creatures of latent danger. Although some attempted to flee and were subdued by the knights, the majority decided to confront the creatures, which seemed to be the most sensible decision. One of the brave souls was scratched by a mummy but was rescued by his companions.

I, on the other hand, found myself isolated, although groups had formed to combat the threat. One of the mummies approached, and with a simple gesture of my hands, its arms fell before the exerted force. "What a disappointment," I thought, "they are nothing compared to the monster that was born from the egg, they stand no chance against the aberrations of Hanging Gardens." I reflected on my humanity and morals when, after a time of evasion, the trial came to its end, which was more of a mental challenge. The hooded figures in black forced the mummies to return to the earth, taking the victims with them, perhaps to the underground catacombs. Those fallen would be transformed into mummies for future tests of a similar nature. A hooded figure approached the man wounded by the mummy's claws and, drawing a longsword from his cloak, severed his head, proclaiming: "We have no cure for that.”

With a countenance bathed in shadows and a soul burdened by unspeakable sorrow, my eyes fell upon those who, lacking in courage and conviction, were ensnared with frayed ropes, joined in destiny with the vilest cowards. I stood witness, horrified, to the atrocities committed by these men against their own kind; and though my salvation lay in facing the abominable creature, the horrors did not cease in their macabre ballet. The cowards, males and females of various ages, none surpassing their thirties, were stripped of their garments, delivered to the voracity of man's flames as an offering for their cowardice. In a row, they were lined up, reduced to mere figures for their supposed betrayal of the Most High. The hooded figures, whose garments of darkness robbed them of all humanity, decreed the order of their impalement in an infernal circle, while cries and pleas for mercy rose, futile, to the sky.

Not even we, who had bravely defended the sacred faith, could come to their aid. Some of my supposed comrades trembled, others barely contained their tears, while I, motionless as a statue, remained, seized by a terror not of the supernatural, but of the monstrosity of human acts. The most atrocious of punishments was imposed upon the pusillanimous: a sharp object, resembling a stake or post, taken from the carriage as a prelude to their fatal fate, pierced their entrails from the anus or vagina to emerge, whether through the torso or chest. They expired in lacerating agony, bleeding slowly as the invading iron wrought destruction upon their being.

It was a grotesque sight, the knights clad in armour perpetrating the crime, while the riders and the hooded figures of sombre blackness were merely spectators of the macabre process, just like us, mute witnesses to the assault on corporeality itself. Then, one of the hooded figures proclaimed in a sepulchral voice: "Remember that the most heinous of faults is cowardice in not embracing the faith; you, on the other hand, shall now be the valiant knights of the Most High." Immediately after, they handed us bandages the colour of night, rough and tenacious fabric, and ordered us to bind them over our eyes, not to ignore the execution, but to ignore the direction of our uncertain fate. We, the daring ones, would be trained at Underworld Academy. I felt my arms cold and stiff, like mummies, as they led us towards the carriage doors, aware that the families of the impaled would be likewise sacrificed, as well as those who did not show enough courage. The pusillanimous and the mediocre had perished, and only the audacity of faith had prevailed. I had survived, albeit ignorant of the god I now served. The stench of death permeated the air as we were lifted into the ecclesiastical carriages.

It was well known to us that the pusillanimous were delivered to the Grim Reaper by those extremists, and with them, their lineages. My ears caught the metallic sound of the knights' footsteps, perhaps on their way to reap the lives of the coward's offspring, or perhaps to offer the remains to the hungry wolves. Mummy Bridge, feared not for harboring the mummies of the village's ancestors, but for being the veil behind which the Church of Involvement concealed its morbid interests and its most nefarious crimes. Those mummies were nothing but the cowards of yore, and we, the brave ones of now, permeated with the scent of blood emanating from the carriages, set off for Underworld Academy, venturing into the thicket of the forest towards the ecclesiastical abode of the church's monsters. It was necessary to confront the monsters to transmute into one of them, it was the supreme act of faith, it was loyalty to the church personified.