The Rampant Lands - The Procession of Violet Bastide

Chapter 5

The Procession of Violet Bastide

A silent wind rolled over the cracked, quicksilver colored earth, where a sea once raged.  Bits of crushed carapace, along with specks of dust and bone, light enough to be carried once by insect and air, skipped and danced from one crack to another.  Some of the fragments descended down into them to forever remain, while others remained untethered.  Water had not flowed across the plain since before the final microscopic organism that had been native, had given up its search for moisture and accepted calcification. But that did not stop the remains from being tossed and turned by the always present breeze, in visible currents. That was until, one and all, they all were halted by the doors of Violet Bastide. 

Two slabs of wood, taller and wider than any tree had ever dreamed of growing, had been set inside a fortress built of gray stone, whose monochromatism was marred by veins of rust colored granite.  In the twilight when the sun hid behind clouds that would never release a drop of rain and the temperature made the already fragile fossils even more brittle,  a purple hue would be cast across the structure.  In this light, those veins become varicose and diseased.  It was debated by all who had ever encountered Violet Bastide, whether or not this quick removal of heat is what caused the sound of wailing and moaning to emanate from it, or if it was something happening deeper inside.

Rumors, stories, and myths emerged from Violet Bastide as if its purpose was to be a factory for them.  It was rare to find someone who hadn’t heard something about the place, or a story about it that had been falsely attributed to somewhere else over time.  According to some there were thousands of rooms inside, there had to be, what else would justify the space it consumed.  A room for every possible iteration on the purpose of the fortress.  A hive of cells and pods designed to harbor vast swaths of selections from some invisible spectrum of emotions.  

Still, others would tell you that the impressive façade was all there was and inside was, in fact, hollow.  An empty shell, just as desolate as the desert that sat outside its doors.  A ribcage of support beams and an array of lights set into the upper regions of the walls, that only their glow could be seen and not an individual source. Where those who enter are forced to cross a great expanse without the benefit of stars or moons to guide the way.  Only then would they be ready to enact the next step. 

While there were numerous variations on the interior design of Violet Bastide, those tales truly only wavered between two outcomes: Some or nothing. The items most susceptible to alteration and exaggeration were in the realms of process, method, and ability.  All sorts of practices were said to be employed inside:  Torture, witchcraft, sorcery, brainwashing, indoctrination, therapy, rehabilitation, actualization, transformation, alteration, conversion.  Regardless of the practices used, the result was not up for debate, a person enters Violet Bastide to bring about an end.

The sound of a massive spine, first bending against its natural position then shattering, shook the desert floor as the doors of Violet Bastide opened.  The piles of debris that had collected in soft mounds were thrashed to the sides as the heavy wood mindlessly followed the path they were allowed by their hinges.  Clouds of dust rose up in the doors’ wakes making sure that any ghost of sight that could be looking in would fail to see any further inside than the small percentage illuminated by the meager beachhead created by invading light.  As the movement of the doors came to a stop, the silence was given only a short life before the sound of singing put it to death.

The song lacked what any might consider sentimentality.  It was not mournful nor was it cheerful.  It was primal.  A long expression of sensations emerging from just beneath the skin, without context needed to give them shape or definition.  The singer felt, and the song was the proof they presented to any skeptical god or being who would dare suggest that what they did was without emotion. The song continued on as the first figures emerged from the darkness of Violet Bastide.

The first person to be completely bathed in the scarlet light was adorned in chains.  A pair of shackles restrained his wrists with a loose chain, allowing his arms to move as they willed, as long as they both moved together.  His feet were bound by a similar restraint, ensuring that even if he were to try and travel beyond where he was being guided to, he would surely die before he ever reached somewhere else.  His eyes were covered in a white blindfold with a small twist at the back of his head.  His head moved from side to side, trying to see the sources of small sounds he heard beneath the song, only to remember the blindfold again.

Behind him, two single file rows of three people each stepped slowly upon leather sandals.  They wore long cloaks of chardonnay colored cloth.  The front two carried long poles of ash wood.  Along the length of the staves were baubles of gold, thin strings of silver, idols carved into stone, and poems stained onto small sheets of muslin fabric. Red paint outlined their lips, which had grown to be chapped by the many sojourns from Violet Bastide.  Their eyes were fixed on a point beyond the head of the procession, somewhere unreachable.

The next pair walked with their hands hidden in their robes.  Behind the covering, their fingers tapped against each other. In a language that had never been translated by anyone not belonging to Violet Bastide, their fingers spoke the words of a ritual, an evocation and commencement with each step they took. Thick slashes of black dye ran from their lower eyelids, down their cheeks, marring the hue of their cloaks around their necks.  The written form of the finger speech had been etched out of the remnants of color not washed away. 

The third duo traveled over the sand, dust, and skeleton, with their hands held upwards, palms facing the same light that gave their home its name.  Their fingers had been dipped in pure white paint.  At their ankles, stones, smoothed by use, were strapped tight to their legs. 

The final member of the procession, the source of the singing, was a woman, young enough to possibly be a Castaway and tired enough to make that a certainty.   Her feet contoured to the terrain with each step, locking her stance in a sturdy triangle.  Her chest rose as she inhaled, readying herself to unleash another measure of her song.  Her eyes were unaffected by the music, they were fixated on the man at the front of the group.  She had become captivated by the rhythm that the links in the chain around his feet had as they slid across the ground.  A metal heartbeat that began in one shackle and travelled through the vein to the other shackle. 

The woman felt a small strain in her voice and let the song die mid note.  The silence also brought about the end of the walk as well.  There in the desert, all eight remained still, until the first two cloaked figures called out in unison:

“This is a desolate place.  There is no nourishment, no harbor, no water to quench thirsts both current and not yet obtained.  The decision to come to this monument to annihilation is to claim a desire that goes beyond those comforts.  Iris Atkinson, do you possess this need.”

“I do.  My flesh no longer wishes for the touch of this man’s.  My mind is no longer entertained by his presence, my eyes no longer see him even as he stands before me.”

“The Hands permit this ending.”

The next two of the procession spoke:

“Stillness is the destination for all things that exist. It is the motivation that guides, the prize that tempts, the absence that torments.  Iris Atkinson, do you believe your actions on this day will hasten the achievement of this stillness?”

“I do.  Even in days defined by pleasure, I have known no stillness.  I have known no peace. I have known no end to the disdain I have towards the act of accepting.”

“The Cruelty permits this ending.”

The third pair began to speak:

“Endings do not allow returns.  To ever walk through these lands again, requires  the payment of flesh.  You will tear every tainted patch of skin from your body and scream until the sound forces the growth of a new covering.  Iris Atkinson, do you acknowledge this price and accept its implications?”

“I do.  If I ever wish to return to this place, I both understand the pain is what I deserve and that what lies beyond the price is worthy.”

“The Fools permit this ending.”

The robed members of the procession then spoke in unison.

“Iris Atkinson, speak the name of the condemned.”

“Oliver.”

As the final letter of that name escaped Iris’ lips, the sea returned to the barren land.  Although not one of water or salt, but of fire.  Flames flowed up over the edge of the horizon and rolled down, splashing and churning as they filled every vacant space.  Within seconds the flames had crashed against the procession and then onwards to the outer walls of Violet Bastide. 

Iris breathed deep and felt the embers pour into her lungs.  Her heart was quickly consumed by the heat, then her stomach, and everything else that resided beneath her skin.  She wrenched over to let out a scream, but her throat had already been immolated and all that emerged was molten blood. 

This fiery ocean raged for a month, before finally going dry again.  Once again, the land was barren and without movement.  The violet light once again draped itself over the expanse, creating small pools of black shadow behind the pebbles, shells, and bone.  The most prominent shadow though, belonged to Iris Atkinson.  Who remained standing amongst the emptiness, unsure of which direction, of the three available to her, she would take.