The Crack In Paradise

 

Evans

The people of the Green Land were a joyful folk. The earth itself seemed to love them; it was rich, green, and endlessly fertile. No matter the season, the harvests poured forth in abundance. Fruit hung heavy on every branch, grain bowed low in the fields, and the rivers ran sweet and clear. For generation after generation they had known nothing but plenty and happiness. They called their home a paradise and believed it would remain so forever.

But even in paradise, darkness can take root.

Evans was not content. He burned with resentment toward the leadership of the Green Land, convinced he could rule far better than the present king. For years he had coveted the crown, yet the people had chosen King Congo the Mighty in a fair contest. Evans had lost, and though he smiled through the ceremonies, he never accepted the result. He claimed Congo had cheated him in the final moments. The people only laughed and told him, “Learn your lesson: a wise man wins by any means necessary.”

Furious, Evans stormed away, vowing they would one day regret their choice. To them his words were empty, carried off like smoke on the wind. They soon forgot him.

Evans never forgot.

Hatred festered inside him, so fierce that those who passed his house felt a chill despite the golden sunshine everywhere else. A shadow seemed to linger over that corner of the land, as though the light itself refused to touch it.

Far beyond mortal sight, an ancient evil took notice.

Long ago, a demon of torment had been driven from the Green Land and bound outside its borders by a sacred artifact placed at the heart of the realm by its first protectors. The people had no idea the artifact even existed; they simply thought themselves blessed by luck. For eons the demon had waited, raging in exile, watching for a crack in the barrier—any crack at all.

It found one in Evans.

One evening, as Evans sat on his veranda glaring at the happy passers-by, a voice whispered out of the empty air.

“Evans… I know what gnaws at your heart. I can give you what you desire.”

He whipped his head around, heart pounding. No one was there. He rose, searched the garden, peered up and down the lane. Nothing. Shaking his head, he returned to his chair and muttered, “Now they torment me inside my own mind.”

His rage flared hotter than ever, and in that moment the barrier trembled. A sliver of darkness slipped through.

A figure shimmered into being before him—tall, horned, wreathed in smoke and ember-red eyes.

“This is no trick,” the demon said, voice smooth as poisoned honey. “I can give you everything you have ever wanted.”

Evans leapt to his feet, swore in a tongue older than the hills, and stared into the abyss that had finally answered his hatred.

“Don’t be afraid,” the demon said to Evans. “I’m your friend.”

“Who are you?” Evans asked as he took a step back. The malice radiating from the being was so powerful that his clothes nearly disintegrated, and the air was so thick that breathing became a hard task.

“I am known as Kodo the Impure,” the demon replied. “I feel your pain and your wishes. Allow me to help you.”

“How?” Evans asked.

“I can dispose of Congo and make you the king.”

“Congo is well loved by the people. How can you do that?”

“The people haven’t known suffering,” Kodo said. “Let me oppress them, and they will be the ones to chase Congo off his throne.”

“And what do you want in return?” Evans asked.

“Just a place to lay low,” the demon said with a glint in his eyes.

“Just that?” Evans asked.

“Yes, and nothing more.”

Unknown to Evans, the First Protector had used happiness as the key to keep the demon away. For generations the people had lived happy lives: there was bountiful harvest of everything, no sickness or disease, every baby was born healthy, no infighting or any form of malice among the people. They lived as one big family. The only thing that could break part of the barrier was hatred, and Evans had that in abundance. Ever since the day he lost the throne, his hatred had grown year after year, cracking the paradise just enough for Kodo’s influence to seep in.

Evans, seeing an opportunity, grabbed it like a drowning man grabbing a straw. “What can I do?”

At that moment a group of young men came around the corner, laughing with happy delight. The demon hissed—happiness was his weakness—and he vanished as the young men drew nearer.

Evans was full of rage at them. When they greeted him, even though they could feel the darkness around him, it couldn’t touch them because their happy souls banished it.

“Good evening, Chief,” they chorused in unison. “May the happiness of the Protector be upon you.”

“Shut up!” Evans roared. “Get out of my sight, you foolish kids!”

They looked at him in confusion at his outburst, but kept walking, not wanting to offend him.

Evans waited the next day for Kodo to reach out.

Nothing.

A day became a week, then weeks, until two full months had bled away. Doubt gnawed at him. Had it all been a fever dream? Was he finally losing his mind in old age?

He was brooding on this when he spotted King Congo laughing in the market square. Rage flared inside Evans like a torch in dry grass—hot, sudden, uncontrollable. The air itself seemed to crack.

And Kodo was there.

The demon materialised in a swirl of smoke and embers: skin like midnight, two thick horns curling from his brow, eyes burning the colour of fresh blood.

“Evans,” he growled, the word scraping like stone on bone.

Evans whipped round. “Kodo!”

The demon’s lip curled, barely enough to hide his contempt. How dare this insect speak my name, he thought.

“Yes, my young friend,” Kodo said aloud, voice syrupy with false warmth. “How may I serve you?”

“You promised me the throne,” Evans snapped. “Two months of silence. Nothing.”

“I was… occupied.” Kodo smiled, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. Evans took an involuntary step back.

“That… that is fine,” he stammered.

“Good.” The demon’s grin widened. “I still intend to keep my promise, but you must keep yours. There is an object buried beneath the great mahogany at the centre of town. It anchors this land, keeps it safe. Remove it, and chaos will bloom. In that chaos I will place the crown on your head.”

“An object?” Evans frowned. “I’m an elder. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“No living soul has. It was forged before your kind learned to speak. Go to the tree at night. Dig. You will know it when your fingers close around it.”

“And then?”

“Carry it to the border. My servants will meet you.”

Evans asked no more questions. That very night, when the village slept, he crept to the ancient mahogany. For hours he clawed at the earth until his nails split and his palms bled. At last his fingers brushed something warm that pulsed like a heartbeat made of sunlight and wind. He pulled it free—an orb no larger than a man’s heart, glowing faintly.

He ran.

At the edge of the Green Land a python waited, thick as a tree trunk, scales black and glossy as oil. Evans froze, certain his life was over, until the serpent spoke.

“Peace, Evans. Lord Kodo sent me.”

Trembling, Evans extended the orb. The python only lowered its head. “Climb.”

The moment Evans touched the cold scales the world folded in on itself. When it unfolded again he stood in a place that smelled of graves and old rain. Ash drifted though there was no fire. The dead walked here—flesh hanging in ribbons, eyes milky, yet moving with purpose.

“Where…?” Evans’ voice cracked.

“The Land of the Dead,” the python answered.

A figure approached, tall, regal, rotting. Skin slid from its skull as it smiled. “I am the Undead King. Come.”

Evans followed on numb legs. The python stayed behind.

They entered a cavern lit by corpse-fat candles. In the centre was a hollow in the stone.

“Place the orb here,” the Undead King rasped, “and leave.”

Evans obeyed. The moment the orb touched the hollow the cavern trembled; somewhere far away he felt the Green Land shudder as its protection was torn away.

He fled back to the python. One blink later he stood again at the border again, alone, the night air suddenly colder than it had ever been.

Behind him, in the village he could no longer see, screams were already beginning to rise.

And somewhere deeper than sound, Kodo laughed.

Evans went home after he had stolen the orb and in no time, Kodo appeared to him, and this time he came in his real form. There was contempt in his gaze as he watched Evans. He smiled inwardly, knowing he had gotten what he wanted so easily.

“I have done my part,” Evans said as soon as he saw Kodo appear in his home. “Now it is up to you to give me what I wanted.”

Kodo snarled and backhanded him with such force that he hit the wall and rebounded. “How dare you demand from me, KODO THE IMPURE!” he roared.

Evans stood up with a shaky breath. “We had a deal,” he said as blood streamed from a broken nose.

“You fool,” Kodo said as he appeared right in front of Evans, and with a lightning-fast movement he used his claw to pluck out Evans’s right eye and with relish he ate it.

Evans screamed as he felt the pain, and then there was a blinding blow to his stomach that doubled him over and a kick to his ribs that broke three of them, and then a cackling laughter. “What a fool, believing what a demon said, eh? You will be my plaything, and everyone in the land will be my toy.”

Right from that moment Evans stole the orb, the Green Land started decaying, with leaves that had once been green turning brown and streams that had been bountiful with fishes starting to dry. In a week’s time there was famine in the land, and the people started feeling that anger that the orb had been protecting them from. They started hating each other, and then there was the demand to remove the king by Evans after he had brainwashed a lot of people and given them food and water from what Kodo had provided him. He started getting followers.

With Kodo’s dark influence spreading, the people began to listen to Evans. Ever since the sacred orb had been stolen, their hearts had filled with violence, hatred, and malice. The more they gave in to envy and rage, the stronger Kodo grew.

Evans stood before the starving crowd and spoke smoothly. “Make me king,” he urged. “I can do far more for you than Congo ever has. Look—I give you food and water freely, while he does nothing.” He smiled warmly, as if he truly cared. “I care for you more than King Congo ever did.”

“Yes!” cried old man Miller, the town tanner. “You are the best, Evans. I don’t know what my family and I would have done without the food you gave us.”

“That’s true,” another voice shouted. “The king doesn’t care. He hasn’t even addressed this crisis!”

Evans’s eyes gleamed. “Then let us go to the king now,” he said with delight, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. Together they marched to the palace, shouting for Congo to step down because he had no answers to their suffering.

King Congo stepped forward, weary but calm. “My people,” he said, “we can try crop rotation. It may work if we start at once. We will find a way together.”

“Nonsense!” Old man Miller roared. “Step down and let Evans lead us! He has been feeding us while you sit here doing nothing!”

The crowd took up the cry: “Step down! Step down now!”

“Calm yourselves,” Congo pleaded. “If nothing improves, we will consult the oracle together. Have you forgotten we are one big family? We look out for each other.”

Evans stepped forward, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “And yet you hide food in the royal stores and feast alone with your family while the people starve.”

“I have done no such thing!” Congo said, staring hard at Evans. He saw the glee in the man’s eyes and knew, without doubt, that Evans was behind everything.

“What do you really want?” Congo asked quietly.

“The throne,” Evans replied without hesitation.

Congo was exhausted—tired of the lies, the anger, the betrayal. Without another word, he removed his crown and placed it on Evans’s head. The new king set it firmly in place, grinning crookedly as the crowd roared with approval.

That same day, Congo left the palace with nine brave young men and women and journeyed to the oracle, hoping to learn how the orb had been stolen and how peace could be restored.

Back at the palace, Evans lounged on his stolen throne and laughed like a child who had been handed the sweetest toy. But his laughter faded when the people began pounding on the gates, demanding even more food now that he was king.

“Calm down, my people!” he called, forcing a smile. “I will bring out the very best for you!” Applause followed him as he hurried inside, heart racing with sudden fear.

Alone in the throne room, he fell to his knees. “Kodo!” he whispered.

The air grew cold. A shadow took shape, and the demon appeared, towering and terrible.

Evans bowed low. “Master.”

“Why have you disturbed my rest?” Kodo hissed, his voice dripping with menace. “You remember what happened last time.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Evans stammered, “but the people—they need more food. Much more.”

Kodo tilted his head. “And why is that my concern?”

“They’ll drive me out if I don’t give them what they want!”

The demon stepped closer, a cruel smile stretching across his face. “Then let them,” he said softly, reaching down to pat Evans’s head as one might pat a whimpering dog. “There are always more willing tools.”

“What should I do?” Evans asked, his whole body trembling under Kodo’s cold touch.

Kodo let out a laugh like a rusted gate scraping open in the dead of night. “Time I started playing with my pets,” he growled, voice low and hungry.

“B-but—” Evans stammered.

“Shut your mouth, fool. Bring me the loudest ones—the ones who never stop complaining.”

Evans stumbled out and dragged in the most outspoken people in the village. Kodo stepped from the shadows, towering and monstrous, his eyes glowing like hot coals. Terror rippled across their faces, and the sight fed him. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Oh, how perfect. My new toys.”

With a lazy flick of his claw, he stole their sight from some and their voices from others. He forced the blind ones to fight each other, cackling as they swung wild punches and crashed into walls like drunks in a bar brawl. He turned to the mute ones and snarled, “Sing for me—or I start eating.”

They tried. God, they tried. Nothing came out but rasping coughs and whimpers. Kodo doubled over laughing so hard his ribs shook.

Then he got creative. A twist of his wrist and legs went numb, arms froze mid-air. People toppled like broken dolls. He starved them for days, weeks, until the village reeked of rot and desperation. In the end they ate anything—rats, bark, each other—just to feel something in their guts besides pain.

Congo couldn’t take any more.

In secret, he gathered nine of the bravest young men left in the land and led them to the oracle’s hut under a moonless sky. The air was thick with incense and fear.

“We need answers,” Congo said. “Tell us how to end this.”

The oracle cast his cowrie shells, read the patterns in the firelight, and went pale. “Something was stolen from this land generations ago. Something that protected us. Until it’s returned, the suffering will never stop.”

“What was stolen?” Congo asked.

“The Heart of the Green Land. Our guardian spirit.”

“Where is it now?”

The oracle threw the shells again and closed his eyes. “In the Land of the Dead.”

Congo’s blood went cold. “The Land of the Dead? How the hell did it get there?”

“It was carried across the veil. It must be carried back.”

“How do we even get there?” Congo demanded. “Where’s the door?”

The oracle gave a tired, sorrowful smile. “The door is everywhere… and nowhere.”

“That doesn’t help us!” Congo snapped.

“You open the door with the proper sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?”

“Blood,” the oracle whispered. “A life willingly given.”

Congo straightened, jaw tight. “Then take mine. Cut me open right here if that’s what the gods want.”

The oracle shook his head. “It must be a life offered at the threshold. One soul to trade for passage.”

“That’s insane!” Congo roared.

“I don’t write the rules, son. I just read them.”

Silence fell heavy in the hut. Congo turned to the nine young men standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind him.

“My brothers,” he said, voice cracking, “if I don’t come back, you have to lead. Protect what’s left of our people. Promise me.”

One of them—Amari, barely twenty, eyes burning—stepped forward and met Congo’s gaze without flinching.

“No,” Amari said. “You’re the leader they need. The one they’ve always believed in. I’ll go. My life for theirs. For all of us.”

He pulled his machete from his belt and laid it at Congo’s feet.

“Let me open the door.”

To be continued..