The Attention Farm — Part 4
The Attention Farm — Part 4
Series — Winston locates the missing Signum Confinium, along with the cult responsible for the desecration of Gorham
We traveled through the desert under cover of darkness in Cal's Buick. Swiping his keys while he slept proved easily enough. I felt a bit bad, leaving him at the hotel, but Willow assured me it was necessary.
"His mind just isn't ready," she explained.
Willow whispered step-by-step instructions in my ear like some secretive GPS, refusing to divulge the final destination. The road became a washboard path, weaving between cacti and rock formations. This too, we left behind in favor of loosely packed sand that swirled in the flickering headlight beams.
As the thin line of first light spread across the horizon, I first laid eyes on our destination.
“There!”
At Willow’s direction, I pulled the car alongside a mesa, stopping beside a wide crack in its face.
“Here. No—leave the keys, it’s ok.”
Ignoring the warning chimes, I opened the door and stepped out into the chilly pre-dawn air. Movement caught my eye, rustling in the shadows: two figures seemed to materialized from the landscape, cloaked in rust red robes that perfectly blended with the rock.
“Winston, how we’ve waited for you!” A voice murmured from beneath one of the hoods. I stepped back toward the car without taking my eyes off the figure.
“That’s close enough.”
He held up his hands. “There’s no need to be alarmed, old friend.” Old friend? I racked my memory, comparing the tone and word choice to every person I could think of, but came up empty.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Hmm. You’ve forgotten yourself, it seems. That’s alright. I can help you remember.” He was still trying to inch closer.
I pulled the car door further open, and positioned it between myself and the stranger. “Last warning. Come any closer and we’re leaving.”
“We?”
I stole a glance to my right, only to find an empty passenger seat, and more robbed figures approaching from behind the sandblasted spires and cacti. Surrounded.
A hand touched my shoulder, and the voice whispered in a soothing, honey tone.
“Winston, you’ve come alone. But you’ve come home.”
“But… Willow…”
“Yes Winston—” the hooded man placed his gloved hands on either side of my face, almost lovingly, “—you’ve brought Willow home, too.”
With an authoritative arm around my shoulder, the man led me away from the vehicle and toward the cave entrance.
“One of our brothers will see to it that your car is hidden from prying eyes." As he spoke, another one of the robed men slid into the Buick, flipped off the headlights, and pulled away. I was well and truly stranded.
"This way; come now." The leader placed his hand on the small of my back, and guided me through the opening. While the entryway may have been naturally occurring, the chamber beyond looked as if it had been hewn from the rock itself: ghostly green flames danced in carved sconces, illuminating intricate relief carvings whose meanings I did not have time to ponder. As we descended, I considered just how long the builders had spent excavating this hideaway in the rock. Years? Decades, more than likely.
The uneven stairs ended in a sprawling chamber. Beneath its dimpled, soot-stained ceilings was a bustling bazaar, lit by the lanterns that hung from each of the numerous pillars that supported the place. We walked past stalls selling incense that tickled my nose, ornate pendants, and scrolls wrapped tight in umber ribbon. Beyond the market area stood a sprawling sort of subterranean tent city, built around permanent rut paths left behind by eons of foot traffic. Droves of hooded figures were breaking down semi-permanent structures, stuffing canvas coverings into bags and bundling tent poles with lengths of sturdy twine. Throughout it all, there seemed to be a kind of excited murmur rippling through the crowd. Those who noticed us paused their work to bend at the waist in reverent bows.
“The flock is preparing for travel,” my captor explained. “We have been waiting in Gorham for almost a generation. Now, the hour of our triumph is almost at hand.”
He pulled back the fabric doorway, and ushered me inside an eerie sort of tabernacle. A rust-red rug led from the doorway to an ornate reliquary at the forefront. On either side of this aisle sat a small congregation of cross-legged cultists, swaying as they chanted a string of words I could not comprehend.
“We suspected your memory may have been damaged by the ritual, though I admit your state is worse than I expected. The alteration you made was disastrous. Gorham, gone in the blink of an eye. And our flock…”
The man lowered his hood, exposing a tidy haircut, brown eyes, and a marbling of scar tissue that stretched from crown to collar; the ghost of a gruesome injury that never fully healed.
He went on: "I remember being furious—I couldn't comprehend how you could betray us, betray everything you worked so hard to bring to fruition. Now I understand.” The cultist smiled and shook his head. “The world simply was not ready for Willow at the time. But now, the prideful fools at ARC have thrown wide the doors, paved the way for Willow’s return.”
A pair of stewards lifted the lid of the reliquary, revealing a familiar hide-bound tome: The Signum Confinium. I found myself drifting toward it with an outstretched hand, borne on a sudden swell in the chanting. My fingers touched the cover, and my mind caught fire. Lost memories bubbled to the surface, forcing themselves to the forefront of my mind.
There I was in some rotting cathedral among crowds of robbed figures, listening to their leader’s ramblings about the Woman Beyond.
Next I stood in Josiah’s vault, tucking our grimoire beneath my jacket and slipping out of the store.
Then came a torchlight sermon in a dreary desert cave; only this time I was speaking, holding the odious book above my head.
At last came the ritual site, somewhere beside a delicate arch. Frenzied carvings defiled the windswept structure. I recognized many of them from my forays into the abstract world beyond the Confinium’s pages. The tome was the door to Willow’s prison, and this formation was the doorway upon which it hinged. I wanted to open the door. I did open the door. But when I saw the figure at the threshold — beautiful, terrible, and wreathed in smoke — doubt consumed me, and I stepped in front of its path.
I blinked and found myself standing back at the reliquary, clutching the book. Willow stood opposite me.
“It was you. You’re the Sigil,” I stammered. “Freeing you was my idea.”
“Yes,” she smiled. “And I’ve been with you ever since.”
The leader placed his hand on my shoulder. “She is among us now, isn’t she Winston?”
I nodded.
“Soon she will be among us all. And we shall look upon her too.”
This return of memory has left me even more troubled. I see now what’s transpired: it’s likely I’m in the group most easily influenced by the Sigils. That’s probably why it was so easy for me to see into the Signum Confinium; I’m not special, I’m malleable. I stole the book, and used its knowledge to release Willow from her prison. But in the last moment, some sleeping part of my conscience resisted and thwarted the ritual — and destroyed Gorham in the process. A piece of that damned spirit has been dwelling in me ever since.
From what I can discern, she’s not-quite-free, not-quite-trapped; like an inmate who snagged their prison jumpsuit on the barbed wire while hopping the fence to freedom.
These people think I’m their prodigal leader, that I’ve returned to finish what I started and loose Willow on the world.
Cal, I’ve left these notes for you in the hopes you can make some sense of my madness and stop this thing I’ve set in motion; I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough myself when the time comes. For now, my rational thoughts are prevailing, but the pull of the Confinium is strong. If this is the last anyone hears of me, then let this be my apology. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to resist the call.
Your friend,
Winston
Thank You for Reading!
So sorry to keep you waiting on this story! I got distracted by some other projects after publishing part 3, and re-immersing myself in this world was tough.
Every story in this series has had a very different tone, and I knew I would need to craft an ending that actually ties it all together.
This took longer than I would’ve liked, but I appreciate your patience with me, dear reader.
If you don’t have the money for a paid subscription, telling a friend about me is pretty cool too. Getting your words in front of eyeballs is honestly harder than doing the actual writing and editing…