The story prompt I chose was ‘siren’ (I went with the Greek mythological meaning). ‘Facade’ and ‘circle’ could also apply, but I specifically chose ‘siren.’ 

Word count: 2618 (a lil over, sorry). 

A Choir for Good Health by Boof Hound

Tavil repeated the limerick over and over again in his head.

So cometh a storm,

for the court who snores.

Let this lightning burn,

their ashes into urns.

Hear the people’s scorn!

The words acted as an oral trigger for the enchantment that had been cast upon Tavil’s throat. Once the rhyme was spoken aloud, an explosion of energy would burst from his mouth and fry everything within a wide radius. 

This spell was destined for the Hall of Monarchs. Tavil had a prearranged meeting with the kings and aristocrats of the realm, to whom he would deliver the Commoners Uprising’s official letter of surrender. Little did they know, the lone messenger intended to incinerate them all. 

To avoid the plot from being discovered by spies, the Uprising mages had ordered Tavil to never write down the activation poem. He had to memorise it, and never say it audibly until he was within the royal chamber, surrounded by the oppressive rulers. It would only work once. 

So, Tavil repeated the limerick over and over again in his head. It was a long journey to Hominiah, so there was little else to do other than just that. 

After a week of travelling, the messenger could see a speck on the rising, morning sun. Hominiah, The Monarch Capital, a black tumorous spot upon the bright beachside horizon. Unfortunately, the road onwards was not at all direct. High cliffs fell down from Tavil’s feet, and extended to his left and right for as far as he could see. The bluffs only started to lose altitude as they curved around to the coast. It would take three days to follow the flanking cliffside path down to sea level, and then another day after that to reach Hominiah.

Tavil interlocked his fingers and slapped the joint palms atop his bald head. He winced and produced a heavy, frustrated sigh as he peered to each side. He recalled one of the most common mottos of the Monarchs. 

“Before the Hall… comes the Wall.” 

The messenger looked down at the steep rock face, hoping to spot some sort of shortcut into the dark, swampy lowlands below. He stroked his short black beard as his eyes slowly moved along the wall. About a mile to his left he saw an area that was much less sheer. It was a slope of rocky rubble, probably the remnant of a landslide. It was still quite a sharp decline, but at least traversal seemed possible. 

After tightening his bootlaces and the strap on his leather satchel, he commenced his descent. Tavil kept his body pressed against the gravelly surface as he carefully slid down. He could hear the fabric of his brown coat and grey pants tearing, but he didn’t care. The sound of hundreds of thousands of rocks, all shapes and sizes, shifting and scraping amongst each other was far more worrisome to him. 

By the time Tavil was halfway down the two-hundred foot pile of stones, a great cloud of dust had formed. He could no longer tell how far he was from the top or bottom. He came to a complete stop, to wait for the dust to settle. However, the rocks did not cease moving, their speed only increased. A deep, crunching rumble vibrated from above, and it was now that Tavil realised a large boulder was rolling towards him. Throwing himself out of the way, he lost his footing and tumbled down after it. Flailing arms and screaming and failed grabs and screaming, as the world spun around and around and around, and then black. 

As light made its way back into his weary eyes, Tavil’s mind was thinking of one thing. His lips unconsciously moved to the tune of his thoughts.

“So cometh a storm, for the court who–”

He slammed his hand upon his mouth. The fizzle that was swelling in his throat dissipated. 

“Idiot! Idiot! Idi… argh. Ow. Ow, ow, ow!”

His left knee surged with pain. Several times he tried to get up, but the pressure was too immense and his leg gave way. He swore and yelled in frustration, until on one attempt, he slipped off the rocky mound into the shallow, murky water that engulfed the swamp. Then his anger was overwhelmed by sorrow. 

Tavil sat in the soggy filth and gazed up at the cliffs. They quickly disappeared into a thick foggy ceiling, held up by twisting mangrove trees. No passersby would see him down here. It was hopeless to rely on any sort of aid. He was going to have to figure this out himself. Every wasted day meant more soldiers of the Uprising would die. Now was not the time to sulk and pout. 

The soaked messenger crawled to the base of the wall, where the ground was raised above the water. He lifted himself up onto his one good leg and leant on the wall with his left hand. He began hopping along the bank, dripping and destitute, but determined nonetheless. 

A few hours went by, and Tavil felt like he had only gone a mile or two. He was in no condition to be climbing a cliff or swimming through a swamp, so he just had to keep hopping. Worse yet, his supplies were running scarce. Within his satchel was a lemon-sized piece of damp bread, a water flask that was three-quarters empty, and a mushy surrender letter. Soon, he may have to resort to eating leeches and drinking algae goo. Tavil shuddered at the thought. 

Further ahead, the bank expanded and the mud beneath Tavil’s feet turned to grass. The musty air was refreshing to breathe. The green water became clear, with dragonflies humming along its surface. The trees were more numerous and close together, allowing Tavil to leave the wall and weave through the soft bark. Echoing through the wood was a faint song. The deeper into the forest he went, the louder it became. It was like hundreds of voices partaking in a harmonious choir. So soothing and gentle it was, that Tavil’s knee pain seemed to subside. 

The trees suddenly thinned out, leading to a clearing with a substantial village in the middle. Dozens and dozens of wooden huts surrounded a large semi-circular pond at the base of the cliff. Directly above the pond, protruding from the cliff, was a giant human ear carved out of stone, with a waterfall running out from its hole. Also reverberating from the dark, ear-canal cave was the choir, now reaching its crescendo. Tavil subtly shook his head in awe. He picked up a sturdy stick and hobbled forwards.

The inhabitants of the village wore rudimentary clothes, made of various rags, hides and hand-made fabrics. Most notably, every person had a cloth mask that covered their face and neck, starting below the eyes, ending at the shoulders. It looked as if they had all pulled an infant’s dress down upon their heads. It certainly caused Tavil to frown in confusion.

“Excuse me,” he asked a woman, “is there an inn around here, or some sort of place I could stay?”  

The woman put a finger to where her mouth would be, closed her eyes, and shook her head. Then she pointed at her ear and nodded. Without any elaboration, she wandered away. Tavil, annoyed and exhausted, glanced around at the other villagers searching for some answers. The choir above eased to its end, and total silence ensued. It was now he finally realised that none of these people were talking. 

“Hello? Anyone? I need some help here please!”

Any villagers near to him simply repeated the woman’s actions and went about their errands. 

“Fucking hell!” Tavil screamed, as he violently threw his stick into the dirt, snapping it in half.

A moment later, he too crashed to the ground and laid broken, clasping his knee in agony. 

“Are you alright there, young man?” asked an old croaky voice.

Tavil shuffled around frantically until he was sat upright. Before him stood an elderly gentleman with a long white beard, dressed in luxurious purple robes. He held in his left hand a tall ivory staff inlaid with tiny, golden decorate twirls and flowers. Atop his head was a hat with a flat top and a tassel. 

“You’re… a scholar,” Tavil said.

“Indeed. And you are a very unhappy courier.”

“Nothing truer has ever been said.” 

The old man chuckled, and then broke into an awful coughing fit. Red speckles painted his beard. 

“You alright?” 

“Ugh… Not quite.” The scholar lifted his hat to reveal a nasty tumour bulging from his scalp.

“Dear god. A sore knee doesn’t seem so bad now.” 

“Haha. Don’t worry, you’ll soon find all ailments to be quite benign.”

Before Tavil could ask what he meant, the scholar gave him his staff.

“Here, take this. You are in much more need of it than I am.”

“Thank you, uh…”

“Olof Melmafo, at your service.” 

“Tavil Carginis.” 

The two shook hands. 

“Now please, Tavil, come and rest in my tent.”

On the edge of town, next to a dock with canoes and a rowboat, Tavil and Olof reclined on pillows within a purple tent. They ate fruitcake and drank wine. 

“I would have never expected to find such comfort in this godforsaken wilderness. Truly impressive, Olof.”

“I never sleep rough, not even when on expeditions. A good night’s sleep is important for a man my age.” 

“So what is this expedition? Why are you here? What is this place? The people, the big ear, the music? What is going on?”

“This place… is my greatest discovery. And yours too, I suppose. For years I’ve collected scraps of old legends and archaic folktales, referring to a pagan demigod residing in the heart of Monarch lands. A being with the capacity to heal any wound or illness with the most beautiful song.”

Tavil stared at his knee, remembering how the choir had alleviated some of his aching. 

“Ah, you have already experienced a mere whisper of its power. I have also noticed my sickness is less severe when the giant ear sings.”

The messenger pondered if he should seek treatment from this god. If it could fix his knee, he could resume his shortcut to Hominiah, and be even quicker with one of the boats. He also needed his two legs to run away and escape the guards once he set off the spell. First, he wanted to ask more questions.

“And what about the masked people?”

“They seem to be religious followers of the deity. As you are well aware, they do not speak, and point to the significance of the ear. This and the music may suggest the importance of listening. So, as a display of their devoutness, they remain silent. They only listen. That is my theory.”

“Does the god have a name?”

“From my research, there has been no definitive title. This is something I would like to ask.”

“Ask the god, you mean?”

“Indeed. I plan to venture into the ear later today and finally come face to face with it. Assuming it has a face.”

Tavil opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.

“You wish to come too, Tavil?”

“I… I think so.”

“Splendid, I would love a witness. We are about to make history, my friend!”

The afternoon dimness enveloped the clearing as the sun drifted behind the wall. The scholar and the messenger ascended a spiral staircase carved into the cliff. The choir had begun again, so Tavil moved at a steady pace and did not have to rely heavily upon Olof’s staff. At the top, they had to carefully inch their way along a narrow path that led around to the ear canal. Tavil gritted his teeth. He was in no mood for more falling. The pond below would offer some cushioning, but the shallowness would probably break both his legs. 

The two men reached the entrance, and delved into the dark cylindrical tunnel. The strength of the choir vibrated the air around them. Little, shining yellow orbs grew from nothing and floated about in a rhythm that was synchronised to the music. The water stream on the ground rippled in impossible patterns, so beautiful that Tavil and Olof dared not to step in it. They stuck to walkways on either side of the water.

Half a mile later, they walked into a massive chamber. The singing voices sounded like they were in the thousands, the hundreds of thousands, the millions. It should have burst their eardrums, but instead, it was a heavenly massage. In the centre of the chamber, floating above a water fountain, was a humanoid form, eighteen feet tall, covered in mouths, wide open. They all shut in an instant, forming a bumpy skin of countless closed lips. 

Olof raised his hat. There was no lump. Tavil let all of his weight fall upon his knee. He stood tall.

“My god…” Olof muttered in disbelief and shock. 

“Indeed,” boomed a thousand voices.  

The god raced towards Olof, and ripped out his jaw with it’s biting hand. The scholar slumped to the ground. 

Tavil took several steps backwards, trying his hardest not to cry out in fear. The god shoved the chunk of flesh into it’s chest, absorbing it, making more room for another mouth. 

“Where are you going, Tavil?” said Olof’s voice from the god’s body. “All voices shall be one in harmony.”

Olof’s corpse rose from the wet floor. His face was healed over, but mutilated. A scar ran down from his nose to the base of his neck. His mouth and throat had been torn out and grown over with skin. 

Tavil dropped the staff and ran. The yellow orbs disappeared, the tunnel was pitch black. A choir of screams followed him. Blood spilled from his ears. 

He leapt out of the entrance and plummeted into the pond. Water rushed by him and then he felt both his legs crack. He resurfaced, howling in pain. The edge of the pond was lined with a swarm of villagers, masks removed, displaying the same scar that Olof now bore. 

“Damn you all! Damn you all!” he bellowed, tears mixed with pond drops. 

The crowd directed their eyes upward. Tavil floated on his back, and peered up as well. The god creeped out from the void of the ear. The chittering, many-mouthed laugh was near deafening. Even with his ears submerged in water, Tavil could still feel the sound piercing through to his brain, draining his life and soul. 

In this moment he thought of only one thing. He sang the words.

“So cometh a storm,

for the court who snores.

Let this lightning burn,

their ashes into urns.

Hear the people’s scorn!”

Bolts of lightning shot out of Tavil’s mouth and attacked the villagers. For every person disintegrated into ash, another of the god’s mouths would melt away. Tavil lost his hearing as the dying being shrieked. It fell down into the pond, sending waves to push Tavil onto shore. 

The god swung itself around in a mindless fury, propelling chunks of toothy meat everywhere. The screeches were out of sync and gargling with blood. It made one last vengeful effort to storm towards it’s enemy. It towered over it’s barely conscious prey, and lifted a foot.

The god fell apart into pieces before it could stomp. 

A yellow orb with a flickering glow rolled out from the fleshy pile and touched Tavil’s foot, and then faded to dust. The blood flowing from his ears evaporated, the bones in his legs rearranged, and his throat lost its scorch marks. 

The fog gave way to a starry night sky. 

“Fucking hell…” Tavil sighed.