By Ryan Rahman
There is an entity known as The Tormentor.
On the island empire of Maruta, no one knows what it is, nor whence it came. Some Marutans whisper it is punishment delivered from the stars. Others remain quiet. The empire is proud. Too proud to call for aid, so it suffers in silence year after year. Every summer, at the turning of the season, The Tormentor rises from the long slumber.
And it does not rest until the last day of summer has passed.
But I know a truth the rest of Maruta does not.
Five summers ago—my dear friend—a philosopher whose name the empire chooses not to remember, fell ill the same day summer arrived. I tended to him in that dark, airless room where his papers and books formed towers around the bed. He spoke little. When he did, it was about the book he had yet to finish.
A myth, he said, about a monster that could change form.
A warning against the hubris of empires that forget even with all their might, they are mortal.
He believed the story would teach humility, serving as a cautionary tale. He lamented being unable to see it to its completion. I told him he had written and taught enough, that he should rest. And that he should be proud, for he lived a full life.
Before he could answer, the fever took him.
The Marutan Empire burned his writings that same week. They claimed his works were too dangerous and too critical of the empire. I managed to save the myth from the fire, hiding it beneath my cloak. I told myself it was only to keep his memory.
I must confess: I was surprised no one questioned my wearing a cloak in the summertime.
The first summer after his death, it appeared as a great storm. Endless clouds blackened the skies over Maruta. The rain fell day after day. Lightning lashed the island, flagellating cities and villages alike. Rivers swelled. Lakes overflowed. Tides rose higher. Floods consumed all they touched. The seawalls gave way, and waves swept entire coastal towns into the sea. On the final day of summer, the rain stopped and The Tormentor withdrew.
Driftwood and the unburied dead floated in the streets.
I remembered his myth then, and reopened it. In his writings, he indicated the first shape of the monster would be born of air and sea, serving as a warning of what was yet to come.
I was loath to read the rest, fearing what would follow.
The second summer, it emerged as a behemoth of the deep. Endless tentacles thrashed the ocean. It attacked the harbors, destroying boats and buildings alike. The Marutan navy was dispatched. They were forced to retreat by midsummer after suffering heavy losses. What remained of the fleet was broken and bloodied, never to return to sea. On the final day of summer, the beast slowly slipped beneath the depths.
Yet its presence lingered throughout, just as dreadful and heavy as the storm before it.
“…its second form shall strike the ports and cripple the navy, thus cutting the empire off even further. Now, it shall truly be isolated…”
It happened as he had written it.
Even now, the coasts still lie in ruin.
The third summer, it returned as a colossal dragon, whose breath burned the inner empire. Entire provinces were set ablaze. Entire towns were reduced to ashes. And Maruta knew, or thought it knew—this was no series of misfortunes, nor a string of calamities. This was the same sinister hunger taking on a new guise, reappearing with the birth of summer. The Marutan Empire turned to sacrifice, condemning prisoners and criminals to its flames.
On the final day of summer, the fires continued to rage long after it flew away.
“…its third form will focus on the inner workings of the empire. The ports and navy are still likely in ruins; damage to the interior would be catastrophic. But in the third summer, fire shall devour…”
The dragon burned my own home down. I regret not reading this sooner.
The fourth summer, it arrived as a towering knight in blackened armor. Wielding an equally blackened longsword, it took on its smallest form yet. But it was the most dreadful of them all. Its presence cut more sharply than ever. Wherever it roamed, madness spread; the people wailed and shrieked, fleeing in horror. It slaughtered soldiers and citizens alike. As with the navy, the army was forced to retreat. On the final day of summer, The Tormentor departed the imperial core, walking into darkness.
Its sword was still drenched and dripping with the blood of countless Marutans.
“…in the fourth summer, a figure of shadow and despair shall walk the streets of the empire, killing all in its way, driving the citizens to madness, reminding them of their complacency, hubris, decadence…”
I read until my hands shook.
Each ruin already existed in the myth, written before they happened.
Four forms.
Four summers.
Each summer I swore I would not look again, and each summer I failed.
Why did I not read everything at once when I had the chance?
I no longer sleep with ease. My nights are restless. Sometimes I dream of him.
And I wonder how he would have chosen to finish his myth.
Is he meant to finish it in death?
Or am I meant to finish it for him in waking life?
If I burn it, perhaps the story will finally die and these summers of torment will cease. If I tell the empire about it, the situation will no longer be in my hands. And I can only imagine what they would do to me if they found out I held onto his writing.
Torture?
Imprisonment?
Death?
If I finish the myth, perhaps I can give the empire (and myself) closure. Each night, I lay the unfinished manuscript on my table and stare at the emptiness of the pages, the void where closure and resolution should be.
In the meantime, Maruta will rebuild as it awaits its return.
Some Marutans call for the empire to continue fighting. Others cry for renewed appeasements. And others simply weep in isolation over the death and destruction it leaves in its wake.
But everyone within the empire knows: The Tormentor will come forth without fail.
And the Marutan Empire will endure. Never to seek help from the outside. Too ashamed in its secrecy. Too alone in its grief.
If only they knew.
He wrote little of a fifth form except for some notes, but I can already feel it in the air. It stifles and strangles. All heat, no wind. It is quiet throughout the empire. The birds, the people, even the water. All remains still. Not knowing what lies ahead makes it worse.
“…in the fifth summer, the question remains: is this the final one? Does the empire finally fall? I wonder if The Tormentor shall endure. I do not know yet…”
Perhaps that is its fifth form: something without any form at all.
The pages await me.
I have neither burned the myth nor finished it yet, for I am rigid with inaction.
Summer is quickly approaching.
And I still do not know what to do.
