Master, do you see that murky vapour floating and soaring in the horizon?

Well, the myth says there lies a chasm, and if one dares enough to approach it, they shall see what no eye has ever seen. But the old tales approve that a man once defeated his cowardice and set foot down in the chasm.

Fancy that, Master! He must have been wearied down by dread. What unrelenting vigour is that? Or is he a foolish stubborn to dare wake the bloody fiends? O’ wicked!

He descended and the murky vapour beclouded his sight. The creature, coated with courage, burst his way through and swore that he would not stop until he peers into what no eye has ever seen. For as far as he could stretch his sight, the same image recurred to his eyes; that of blackness. He felt as though the mist is besetting him for there need not be a human down there. He bore straightforward, and the gale of the steam buffeted, puckered, and tattered his flesh.

He finally reached the bottom of the chasm. His feet moistened, and he reckoned that it was a marsh he stood on. He groped for his way and suddenly fell to the toughest of grounds. But his courage was meant not to break. He resumed walking in the dark until his eyes spotted a meadow spreading over the other side. He leant on a boulder, gasped for breath, and resumed his march.

And the unexpected had happened! The meadow burnt to ashes; the sooty fume filled the air; what was once green had become black.

Abruptly, a bellow shook the walls of the chasm then spoke words that planted terror in the creature’s heart, “Human, what made you come here?” said the voice. “Do you want to defeat the old tales and become the first to descend to behold what no eye has ever met? Only a fool would dare walk to my place, but I see no foolishness in your eyes; I scarcely know what goes around your head. But if you want to see for yourself, I shall cut a long story short and tell you who I am.

They call me lord of the abyss, destroyer of hopes, king of the loathsome, ruler of the depressed. I am known to your kinship as the ‘Lord of the S, seventh of his days’. I am the mighty hideous Sunday, and my boring hours shall gnaw your lives. Your kind loathes me for I bore them — and for that, I am buried down in this chasm, accurst by His highness. And you, mortal, dare to descend to me and interrupt my hibernation. I smelled your fear when you landed on my walls, but you persisted in walking towards me. Is it fame or glory you are after?”

The creature recoiled, Master! He had no clue what to make of the dreadful beast that stood before him.

“Is your mouth sealed, human?” shouted the beast, angrily, “Aye, I see terror has twisted your tongue — fear is what shall make you appreciate life.”

Only when he thought it was his end, the beast spared his life.

“I have only feasted upon a king of your lands, whose life was brought down by his foolish of deeds; and yet he blamed me for that,” said the beast, “If there be any breath in your lungs, I spare thee. Run before I regret this act; climb to light for the darkness is not meant for you. Begone, now!”

He ran and fell, ran and fell, and ran again. He climbed his way back in terror.

But the old records did not document why he was spared. However, his journal, the ones I was asked to bring to your hands, Master, mentioned that the beast spared him on a condition: that he shall spread a false word among his kinship, that what he saw was a pure land, and it was forbidden thenceforth to be approached by Man.

He was also conditioned to tell his kind that a prayer every Sunday is a must for the wickedness his eyes had witnessed conquered his weary figure.

That’s the story of the murky vapour soaring from the horizon every Sunday, Master. Perhaps it’s celebrating a triumph over Man.

I suppose, Master, we should not bother ourselves anymore with these Sundays; they’re depressing and we should embrace this fact. In the meantime, we should draw  to the office and review the state of affairs.

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