Umbilicalis from Pibloktoq by Luminous Veil

8. Umbilicalis

Letter from Ruth Wingrove to fiancé Prof. Graham Dated the 2nd of December, 1874.

Dear Graham, My Love

My heart sang today when your letters arrived! For many days had passed and I had feared the worst of fates. There has been an acute problem with the postal service in which a continued failure of delivery has prevented my response. My love, though I felt great relief and reward by having your words, I fret and fret more than ever by them. I am stricken with sorrow by the ills that have befallen your team and wish for your return. Please heed my heart’s yearning and make way to England at once.

I wish to tell you that my father has purchased property in East Sussex. He intends to establish a second apothecary there and I may be relocated. Upon your return, please obtain the number from my mother in the West.

As well, our love has blossomed. For it is true my darling, I am with child.

We shall be a family in July.

In love and longing, yours truly,
Ruth

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

There, in the darkness of his eyelids, his brain itself blinked. It was a near instant that this darkness was erased into a new sight.
The air was cold. His body was cold. Graham peered around. It was dark save for thin strands of light that seemed to cross from miles. He was no longer in the hellish desert. But what hell is this?

Graham could not move. His body was suspended by fleshy tubes. One of which entered his mouth. He realized his jaw was held firm and pressure on his teeth was immense. The thought of pain crossed his mind but his nerves were numb from Greenlandic air. Or perhaps the entity binding him somehow suspended certain sensation.

Graham tightened the muscles in his arms and legs, struggling to break the hold or even just move them in any perceivable way. The futility set in and he fought to scream but all that came was a muffled grunt. The sound was feeble. He felt feeble. Graham realized he could not hear much of anything. It was almost a perfect vacuum. But there was a frequency, a rumble of some kind.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Kiattut. November 8, 1874.

A well-tended fire protests the night, as the sun dims. Chilled wind cuts at old hands, busy with archaic tools while a soft melodious vocal line dances among the crackle of fire and the whirl of air. Here, the crushing of rock and the formation of gold powders. Several natives have gathered in the creation of ritual crafts. The worn hands blend a substance with the powders to form something like a paint. Others are already lathering the gold sheen over lacing on intricate wooden posts. More hands chisel away at sticks and logs to create the necessary edges in the construction of boxes, varied in size. More still, channeling the flame into furnace like powers in the blowing of glass.

One of the indigenous figures retrieves a cloth bag from a hut just beyond the fire. He withdraws several articles: a broken pocket watch, a knife, some loose papers, and a certificate of birth. The identification was for Eric Alcott.

The voices rest after a final cadence. The glow of flame highlights a humble smile upon an old woman’s face. She uses a rock hammer to pound an imperfect dowel into a larger piece. The slots have been carved for the insertion of glass.

The ritual song begins again. The song and the craftwork bespoke a depth of belief - reliquaries, the shrines of a profound edifice, clandestine to the Europeans and their arrogant civility.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Graham felt the rumble deep in his body’s cavity. It grew stronger with every passing second. Mute of all sense, he became keenly aware of a parasitic consciousness. The fleshy tubes attached to his person, like external organs sheathed in mucosal derma both promoting his life while also absorbing him in some malignant way. Graham’s body, still void of pain, became taut. His skin began to shrivel and crack. A mix of sweat and blood started seeping from everywhere. His abdomen began to swell with bloated viscera and though Graham still could not hear, he was conscious of a heavy snap. Then, his left arm tore clean off, disappearing into the dark vacuum. The other soon slumped off then his legs began to fold in at every joint.

Pain? Professor Evans thought. Still nothing perceivable beyond the moisture and pressure. He must be experiencing phantom limbs. He lingered on this thought while trying to feel.

There was an abrupt change internally. Evans’ eyes grew wide as the bulbus from his gut suddenly thrust upward. The mushy organs forced their way through his broken jaw along the interiors of his mouth-cord. Deflated, his skin continued to shrivel further still. While the tissue began to grow firm and leathery, his eyes popped, leaving drooping hollows and dangling optical cords. Everything internal began to fail in ways of fathomless complexity.

Wisps of bone-smoke and gas populate empty space; a performance only yielding to the following fountains of putrid fluids. Graham, save for a sad roundish lump, is no more.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


[Abridged – Lyric Version]


I am stricken with sorrow by the ills that have befallen you.
But heed my heart’s yearning… For our love has blossomed: I am with child.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

There, in the darkness of his eyelids, his brain itself blinked. It was a near instant that this darkness was erased into a new sight.
The air was cold. His body was cold. It was dark save for thin strands of light that seemed to cross from miles. He was no longer in the hellish desert. But what hell is this?

Graham could not move. His body was suspended by fleshy tubes - promoting his life while also absorbing him in some malignant way. One of which entered his mouth; his jaw was held firm and pressure on his teeth was immense.

The thought of pain crossed his mind but his nerves were numb…
Struggling to break the hold or even just move. The futility set in. He felt feeble.

There was a frequency, a rumble felt deep in his body’s cavity. It grew stronger with every passing second. Mute of all sense, he became keenly aware of a parasitic consciousness.

His skin began to shrivel and crack. A mix of sweat and blood started seeping from everywhere. His abdomen began to swell with bloated viscera.

A heavy snap - his left arm tore clean off, disappearing into the dark vacuum. The other soon slumped off then his legs began to fold in at every joint.

Pain? He lingered on this thought while trying to feel.
There was an abrupt change internally as the bulbus from his gut suddenly thrust upward. The mushy organs forced their way through his broken jaw along the interiors of his mouth-cord.

Deflated, his skin continued to shrivel further still. While the tissue began to grow firm and leathery, his eyes popped, leaving drooping hollows and dangling optical cords.

Everything internal began to fail in ways of fathomless complexity.
Wisps of bone-smoke and gas populate empty space; a performance only yielding to the following fountains of putrid fluids.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Chilled wind cuts at old hands, busy with archaic tools. Here, the crushing of rock and the formation of gold powders - natives gathered in the creation of ritual crafts and the channeling of flame into furnace like powers in the blowing of glass. The craftwork bespoke a depth of belief - reliquaries, the shrines of a profound edifice, clandestine to the Europeans and their arrogant civility.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

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