Naming Evil

Preface: In the summer of 2002 I had the pleasure of experiencing one of the great forces of nature in all its devastating splendor. I was living on Guam in the South Pacific when it was struck by Typhoon Chata'an, a category 4 typhoon that did its best to lay waste to the small island. This is a little piece of fiction that leaked out of the aftermath. Enjoy.



      Lo the Rain God, with sweeping hand, had let loose upon the land a torrential flow of water and the terrible God did not reckon the people whatsoever. Some believed that the deluge, while troublesome, was also a boon for it had washed away most of the death and debris left behind by the hateful breath of the Wind God. But some knew and all would soon find that, as the waters receded, there would come a new menace from out of the pools that remained quite unmoved.

      It was in the land of Island in the year of our Lord two thousand and two, late in the mid-month of July, that there emerged from wrecked jungles and turbid puddles a King of pestilence and of pain. A monstrous, menacing King of macabre delights that did hover over the commoners of man upon transparent wings of gossamer membrane. With him, as with most kings, appeared a swarming multitude of followers. They came as dark, evil throngs of vile liegemen wishing and wanting and hungering to swoop down and commit acts horrible, fiendish. Known to be friend to Cthulhu and to Beelzebub, brethren of Ahriman, this King was sinister and foul and loathsome by his very being. Hating and hated, this King of the Boil and his waves of minions lashed out as a blight over the land. And even more gruesome than their appearance, with spindly bodies and elongated snouts, huge all seeing eyes and low ominous buzzing voices, even more terrible than that was their insatiable, repulsive hunger. For this King and his black hoard were vampyre, the drinkers of blood, and they were ever thirsting.

         Man, having not known such horrors, had no name for the vile plague enveloping them and as such could not fight against the monsters. For it is well known amongst all the cultures of Man that you can not defeat that which has no name. Thus the people turned to me, the Speaker of Stories, to name the scourge that darkened the land of Island. For only I, creator of words and tailor of legends was most adept at naming such evils, only I could glean the chaff of reaped fables and make solid the portent of Oracles. Armed with my mind's eye, my limitless imagination and the history of Speakers before me, I set about the journey. I would wander the ethereal planes and I would find a Name for the evil and the people of Island would be able to repulse that evil.          

         I struggled within foggy lands of my waking dreams so that I could cull the Name from all the pains and injustices and agonies spread over the world. Upon bleak plateaus of fevered visions and deep in forgotten valleys of hunger born dementia, in dank swamps of the memories of Those Who Came Before I waded through pitch and refuse until finally my gaze fell upon the Name, dark and filthy. I was loath to speak it aloud but my resolve was steadfast, I knew I was the hope of Man and that I must deliver the Name unto Island, no matter the cost.

         Clawing my way back to the bright surface of my consciousness, my putrid prize in tow, I felt renewed vigor as there was hope for Man. I went to the people and with victorious roar said “I have a Name for which to call thy enemy so that now you may rally and strike back against the vile Hoard”. The people stared, awestruck. My mouth watered as I formed the Name, bile rising in the back of my throat. It fought me, fought my voice. It scraped and burned as I pushed it out. Through sheer force of will I shouted the Black Name, and the name that I gave the terrible evil;

         "Musca, King of the Mosquitoes"

         The people of Island turned to one another and I waited for their praise for surly we could go forth and beat back the dark, blood sucking hoards. I raised my hands to the air and again, more triumphantly, croaked the Name;

         "Musca, King of the Mosquitoes”

I heard nothing from the masses and I looked over the crowed. They stared blankly and then shook their heads and one lone commoner looked to me and said;

         "Dude, do you really have to be so melodramatic? They are only mosquitoes for crying out loud. Here, use some repellent."