Excerpt from Apotheosis by Eric Schoch

Osiris Awakening by Jean-Pierre Dabléra

Chapter 4
The Baron’s Wish

Hail to thee, Osiris, lord of eternity, king of the gods, thou who hast many names, thou disposer of created things, thou who hast hidden forms in the temples, thou sacred one.
– Egyptian Book of the Dead

Stirring from his slumber, Henry found himself gazing into an otherworldly expanse. The gloaming spread across a vast desert, its boundaries eluding sight, as if merging into eternity. Overhead, unfamiliar constellations adorned the heavens, their patterns foreign and elusive. Their radiance was so pronounced, so surreal, that Henry was certain such a spectacle couldn’t belong to the realm he knew. He felt as though he had transcended reality, captivated by the celestial dance of stars that seemed like sprinkled grains of gold over a deep azure tapestry.
There was an odd calm within him, even as he struggled to remember his name.
Henry. Henry James Oldecroft. There it was, on the tip of his tongue.
Other memories had receded, pushed deep into the hidden corners of his consciousness.
He had no recollection of anything beyond the distant cawing of scavenger birds and the gritty touch of the sand that felt almost like shards of glass beneath him. Its coarse texture grazed the fine hairs on his palms as he pushed himself up.
As he sat, lost in contemplation, he didn’t grieve over the past slipping away from him, or the prospect that cherished memories might one day dissipate entirely. What did it say about him? A man so readily surrendering his essence and history?

A bone-deep chill, both piercing and numbing, crept through him, sapping his strength. Fatigue weighed heavily on him, almost tangible in its presence.

The horizon unveiled two magnificent celestial bodies. Twin moons, their features blurred and indistinguishable, began their ascent. In their looming presence, Henry felt infinitesimal, not just due to their physical enormity, but also by the mounting dread bubbling up within him.
Time trudged on, and with every fleeting second, a sharp, unrelenting agony gnawed at his hands. The sand, seemingly innocuous, acted like countless shards of glass, causing minute lacerations with the slightest touch. Motionless, Henry knew the peril of movement amidst this crystalline wasteland.
Nature had seemingly conceded defeat here. No creature had managed to adapt swiftly enough to bear the brutality of this terrain, where even the gentlest of breezes could become a tempest of razors.
Henry examined his hands, trying to recall his own visage. His skin, tanned to a deep reddish hue by the relentless desert sun, bore the markings of his trials. His fingers instinctively moved to his face, tracing the rough texture of stubble that had sprouted around his lips and chin. The crown of his head was another testament to his endurance; closely cropped hair revealed deep, angry scars — silent witnesses to tortures past.
Oddly, in the midst of such adversity, there was a gentle ebb and flow to his consciousness. Like waves caressing a distant beach, memories and thoughts — previously lost — now surged back into his mind, intertwining and grounding him once again.
It had all come flooding back.
Henry James Oldecroft was dead.

Life. It is a strange thing. It exists upon a fleeting moment that, compared to the enduring cosmos, is but a cough in the lifetime of the eternal. We are brought into existence in an effort. We scream into this world, bloodied and traumatised beyond words and if we are so lucky, our deaths are just the same.
Henry’s fingertips traced the wound, but instead of fresh pain, he felt a phantom ache, a sombre reminder of the life that once pulsed through his veins. The fabric, stained and sticky from dried blood, spoke tales of valour and sacrifice. And as memories rushed back, the tumult of battle enveloped him. Kurûn Hattîn. He recalled the clangour of steel, the shouts of men egging each other on, the weight of the heavy shield on his left arm, and the rhythmic motion of thrust and parry with his blade. The blazing sun above had shown no mercy, its searing heat amplified by the reflections from the shields and helmets. The stench of sweat, blood, and the dying mingled with the dust kicked up from the relentless battle.
But above all, the face of that Mamluk warrior stood out — fierce, unyielding, a nemesis borne out of the chaos. And in those few moments of mutual acknowledgment, they’d clashed. The sharp pain of the Mamluk’s blade still felt fresh as it drove into him, like a voracious beast claiming its prey. He could still hear the grunts, the laboured breathing, and the overwhelming cacophony of the battle around him. His comrades, his brothers-in-arms, were no more than shadows now, their fates perhaps similar to his own. The grand cause for which they had fought seemed almost a distant dream. The immeasurable might of Saladin and the formidable Ayyubid dynasty had overshadowed their Crusader fervour.
Henry closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. A mixture of pride and sorrow consumed him. They had fought valiantly, but at what cost? The sands of time had long since moved on, yet the memories remained, etched in his soul.

‘Hail, Henry.’
The voice startled him enough to rise up, reach his hand to his belt and feel that no blade was there.
Lost for words, Henry now stared into the face of a corpse. Another corpse. Though, this one likely looked worse for wear than he.
The face, while distinctly alien, had features reminiscent of the ancient statues Henry had seen in his travels. High cheekbones, a wide flat nose, and lips that were thin but stretched across the face in an enigmatic half-smile. Its ears were elongated, extending past the jawline, with multiple ornate golden hoops clinging to the lobes. The jet-black eyes held an otherworldly depth, with no white to be seen, only an inky abyss that seemed to pull Henry’s gaze into a vortex of timeless contemplation. As Henry tried to assess the situation, the creature calmly extended a hand palm-upward. On its open calluses lay an amulet, an intricate design of intertwined serpents encircling a gem that pulsed with a faint ethereal light. The sight was both alluring and alarming.
Despite its stillness, there was an air of power about the creature. Every part of it radiated a sense of ancient knowledge and unspoken mysteries. The way it sat in poised tranquillity atop the dune was reminiscent of the old yogis of the East, in deep meditation, connected to the very essence of the world. Henry swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. The creature’s presence was both intimidating and curiously inviting. He didn’t know whether to approach or retreat, to converse or remain silent. The creature tilted its head slightly, a gesture that, despite the difference in species, seemed universally curious. It motioned with its other hand for Henry to come closer. The desert wind carried a soft, chittering sound, not quite a language, but it felt like an invitation.
With trepidation, Henry took a deep breath and inched forward. The dance of the unknown had begun.
‘I am Osiris, Lord of the Duat,’ he said, folding out his arms into a supplicating manner. Wriggling, some bulbous insect clambered out of the linen on his wrists, flexed its mandibles and retreated back into the wrappings.
Sounds caught in Henry’s throat. What came out was more akin to a bark than anything comprehensible.
‘Welcome to afterlife, Henry James Oldecroft,’ Osiris spoke, but did so without moving his lips. The black eyes focussed in, unblinking all the while the voice seemed to fall from his mouth. Not a single muscle in the face twitched, sunk or raised that Henry truly believed he was not only speaking to a corpse, but that he had become wholly and completely mad.
‘Did you ever witness such a breath-taking sight?’ Osiris creaked back his head to the sky. Another slithering insect bulged beneath his linen wraps and circled around his throat. ‘The A’raf. Borderland of Jannah and Jahannam. Lucky are those who bask in its glory. Unlucky are those who remain perpetually.’
Everything began to fade. Stars moved at such velocity that the heavens swirled into a milky broth above, and Henry felt himself pulled sharply away from the desert.