Free Island of Darkness by Richard S. Tuttle

body’s warmth. The narrow canyon broadened suddenly and Marak stared at the old building in the center of the valley. An ancient temple, much like the one in Angragar, but much smaller, sat in solitude.
    The jaguar that Marak was riding suddenly stiffened. Marak calmly ran his hand over the large cat’s shoulder.
    “Changragar,” Ukaro announced.
    “The cats are fearful of this place,” Marak stated. “Why?”
    “Changragar is a place of power,” replied Ukaro. “You are in the presence of Kaltara. Can you not feel it?”
    Marak frowned before saying, “All I can feel right now is the need for a good blanket. It is freezing here.”
    “It is cold,” shrugged Ukaro as he halted his tiger in front of the temple. “You will get used to it.”
    Marak looked at his father as he slid off the jaguar. The Chula was practically naked with only a breechcloth to cover him. His whiskers had a tinge of frost, and his mane was stiff. Marak shook his head and followed Ukaro up the small flight of stairs to the doorway of the ancient temple. There was no door to open; its wood had decayed a thousand years ago.
    As Marak entered the temple, he stopped and gazed about the foyer. There were several discarded torches on the floor near the doorway. Ukaro stooped and lit two of them. He handed one to Marak, who held it high above his head as he surveyed the interior of the building.
    “It has not weathered the years as well as Angragar,” he said softly.
    “It has not been magically preserved as the old Qubari city has been,” replied Ukaro. “You will find no hellsouls here.”
    “What will I find here?” asked Marak. “Why have you brought me here?”
    “This is Changragar,” shrugged the Chula shaman. “This is where the Torak will be born.”
    “I thought I was the Torak,” frowned Marak. “Is that not what the Chula have been calling me?”
    “It is,” nodded Ukaro, “but we are only human. We recognize you as the Torak because all of the signs point to the truth of it. Still, only Kaltara can anoint you. That is why you are here.”
    “Do you expect me to believe that god lives here?” questioned Marak. “This rundown temple is hardly a fitting mansion for Kaltara.”
    “Were it a slave shack,” frowned Ukaro, “it would be holy to the Chula. You need to have more respect for Kaltara.”
    “I am sorry, Father,” apologized Marak. “I do have a hard time understanding this god of yours. Why am I supposed to be the Torak? Why not a believing Chula?”
    “Do not question things that you have no chance of comprehending,” admonished the shaman.
    “Alright,” sighed Marak. “What do I do now?”
    Ukaro pointed to a small set of steps leading to another doorway. “Enter the sanctuary and pray,” instructed the shaman. “I will wait for you here.”
    Marak shrugged and marched up the short flight of steps. He entered a circular room that was devoid of anything except a lone torch holder. Marak walked to the center of the room and placed his torch in the holder. The light from the torch barely reached the walls of the room.
    Marak stood in the center of the room for several minutes wondering what he was supposed to do. He had never been taught to pray. He did not even know how to pray. He felt very foolish. At first his eyes scanned the room looking for imperfections in the construction. Then he started whistling to himself and studying the mosaic design of the floor tiles. When enough time had elapsed that he thought Ukaro would be satisfied, Marak reached for the torch to leave the room. As he reached for it, a cold wind swept into the room and blew the torch out.
    Marak froze with his hand extended towards the torch. His eyes tried to scan the room, but he could see nothing. He stood erect and turned, trying to find the entrance doorway, but he could not see as far as the wall of the round room.
    “Do you believe only in yourself?” boomed a voice from the darkness.
    A knife immediately slid into