Comedenti Dolorum

By M.R. Hauck

The Comedenti Dolorum and their leader, Blackwell Davis, landed on Earth with a message: heal the human mind of its pain and trauma and peace would inevitably follow.

After the disappearance of his husband, Ben Harwick seeks their help in an effort to stitch his broken heart back together.

But is the cure they offer a genuine respite, or is there something infinitely blacker and more terrible below the surface?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing
• Release date: Jul 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781786454287

Book preview

Comedenti Dolorum

Comedenti Dolorum

M.R. Hauck

Beaten Track Logo

Beaten Track

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

Comedenti Dolorum

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published 2020 by Beaten Track Publishing

Copyright © 2020 M.R. Hauck at Smashwords

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

ISBN: 978 1 78645 428 7

Cover Art: M.R. Hauck & Debbie McGowan

Beaten Track Publishing,

Burscough, Lancashire.

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

The Comedenti Dolorum and their leader, Blackwell Davis, landed on Earth with a message: heal the human mind of its pain and trauma and peace would inevitably follow.

After the disappearance of his husband, Ben Harwick seeks their help in an effort to stitch his broken heart back together.

But is the cure they offer a genuine respite, or is there something infinitely blacker and more terrible below the surface?

For the people who love me,

despite the mountain of evidence that points

to that not being a very wise idea at all.

You may be horrible decision makers,

but I’m grateful for your existence

just the same.

Contents

I: Larvae

II: Chrysallidem

III: Papilionem Et Tenebrae

By M.R. Hauck

Beaten Track Publishing

I:

Larvae

1.

On February 9, 2027, when the ships first appeared over various points of the globe, the world held its breath. There weren’t very many ships to start with, but over the course of a few days, more and more began to arrive until the sun was nearly blotted out by the bulk of slowly rotating black discs filling the sky. From every major city there were reports of people panicking, flooding into the streets as one ship after another parted the atmosphere and hung, vaguely sinister in their sharp blackness, the wind kicking up as they pushed the clouds away.

For a short time, it felt as though the Earth ceased to turn, as the world collectively tuned in to see what would happen next. Most countries ordered their citizens to shelter in place, but there was no meaningful way to enforce it. People stood on lawns or sat in driveways, squinting up at the ships with fear and curiosity in equal measure. No amount of police presence could make everyone stay inside and away for an indeterminate amount of time, especially with such a novel terror dangling over their heads.

Besides, there had been no attack as of yet. The ships were just there. Hovering.

Those who had long suspected aliens were watching felt venerated. The tinfoil-hat brigade began in earnest to crow about how they’d known it all along. Most of that particular crowd were not afraid, but many others were.

The very wealthy invested in bunkers, modern pharaohs’ tombs in which they could enshrine themselves and their loved ones, confident their wealth could achieve survival if the aliens contained within mounted an attack. The middle and lower classes were less calm. They saw those ships in the sky and marked it as the end of humanity. This gave rise to a pandemic of violence, the likes of which the world had not seen in all its history, with every city in every country seeming to compete for who could behave the worst. Rashes of rapes, robberies, assaults, murders, and suicides were recorded over the course of just a few days, the totals numbering in triple and quadruple digits.

Religious groups reacted in a plethora of unexpected ways. Once-united fronts of various Christian institutions split into sects of those who believed the ships’ appearance was the second coming of Christ and those who believed it was Armageddon, at last being doled out from on high by the Almighty. The churches, synagogues, and mosques were suddenly fuller than they had been in years. Parishioners of all faiths prayed to their gods to stop whatever was happening and put life back the way it was again. Their prayers would, of course, go unheard, and the ships stayed a constant humming presence no matter how many hymns were sung, sweaty hands clasped together in the incense-laden, gold-plated dimness.

One Televangelist preacher, Malcolm Harrows, sweating under the studio’s lights but still wearing a beaming smile full of false teeth, delivered this news to his viewers, saying, The devil is now among us, friends. Pray to God that he may leave us swiftly.

He then pulled a pistol from the inner pocket of his powder-blue sport coat and blew his brains out on live television as his countrywide congregation looked on in horror. His wife wailed and ran to him, screaming his name, and the camera swung wildly, the cameraman and sound techs running into frame to help. With no one monitoring much of anything on the public access channels due to resources being shifted to coverage of the ships, footage of his lifeless corpse was broadcast for over an hour before it was discovered and the feed shut off.

The governments of the world were in even more of a shambles. They argued over what to do in Houses, Senates, and Parliaments that stood mostly empty, their Elite gone into hiding from the perceived threat spinning high above. Elaine Francis, the President of the United States, issued a statement that she herself would try to communicate with these beings, and while it was argued hotly by the United Nations as a rash decision, it did not stop her from setting up a large bandstand on the front lawn of the White House and fitting it with as many speakers as she could get her hands on. Six days after the arrival of life from another world, President Francis nervously mounted the podium in front of a wall of press cameras aimed at her face, and a wall of speakers all aimed at the sky.

She looked up at the ships, counting them under her breath. Five that I can see. Probably at least two more past the trees. Please, God, let them hear me. Please let them be friendly. Because if not, we are all fucked.

She adjusted the front of her blazer, the sweat trickling down the back of her neck, cleared her throat, and spoke. My name is President Elaine Francis, of the United States of America. I speak to you now on behalf of my country, on behalf of its people, and on behalf of the planet. I don’t know if you can hear me or if you can understand, but please, see what you’re doing to us. The people of this world are terrified. They’re hurting. They’re dying in the streets at alarming rates, all because your ships are hovering over them in the sky. I beseech you, on behalf of the United States and the world, please send an ambassador down to speak with me. We can talk about who you are, why you’re here, and what we can do moving forward. No one will harm you, I assure you. There does not need to be any more death or destruction. I will be here, in the White House, awaiting your response.

The microphone broke with brief feedback as she pulled away. The press immediately started firing questions at her, but the president only squinted up at the sky and at the ships still revolving silently among the clouds. She left the stage at a light jog, surrounded by Secret Service, without answering any questions. The event was broadcast and rebroadcast on every global news outlet, but the silence of the ships remained firm for three more days.

On the eighteenth day of their occupation, a small pod broke away from the ship hovering closest to the White House. Footage was captured by not only the cameras of the news crews that more or less camped there now, but by tourists and interested locals alike. In most of the footage, the pod disappeared behind the bushes to the side of the White House and that was all there was to see.

But in one, a shaky mobile phone recording by a man named Grant Cannard, who subsequently posted it on his Instagram story, the pod could clearly be seen to land softly on the side lawn. Then, a thin door had opened in front, and a blurry figure emerged. The figure was only there for a moment, barely even one second, but the impression one got was of an impossibly tall and spindly black figure stooping to rush in through a door at the side of the building before security men came out to shoo Mr. Cannard away from the fence line. This footage too was widely circulated, and speculation about whom or what the Earth was dealing with began in earnest.

Humanity has a way of tucking its terror to the side in favor of ardent curiosity, so once the world knew that the White House was harboring one of the beings that came from the sky, it held its collective breath in giddy anticipation of what would come next. UN leaders and various others of political import were seen arriving at the White House over the next week, but nothing was televised. Reporters who tried to sneak into the grounds in order to capture some exclusive footage were arrested and left disgruntled with the drunks in lockup until they were convinced not to try those sorts of shenanigans again.

All of them eventually agreed, which seemed a small miracle, until one considered the imminent threat of personal violence. The world had bigger fish to fry than a few reporters with black eyes and chipped teeth. This was not the status quo. The usual rules could not possibly apply, not now, not with those dark ships twirling silently in the sky and one of their own come down to speak with the rulers of nations. This time, there was no plaintive Take Me to Your Leader. It was Bring Your Leaders Unto Me, and it sent the Earth a powerful message: the unknown was here; it was commanding the cooperative attention of the planet’s leaders, and anything could happen now.

Two weeks to the day after pod’s quiet landing on the White House lawn, construction began in earnest of yet another bandstand, this one much bigger and much more ornate than the one constructed for the president to address the sky. The reporters gathered against the gates of the White House, scrambling for a good angle from which to report this phenomenon, hurling questions through the bars at passing security and workmen. While they received no answers, the world still watched every second of activity until, finally, a representative from the White House came to the gates to address the surging throng of gabbling humanity and extremely bright camera lights. He was Agent Marvin Teller, and when he held up his hand for silence, the crowd of reporters immediately quelled.

Ladies and gentlemen of the press. Agent Teller’s smooth voice cut through the ambient sounds of the city like a knife through warm butter. I know you are all very anxious to meet our new guest, and to be the very first to get the scoop on what has been happening this last month. Let me assure you all right now, everything is being taken care of with due diligence. The world is safe, and you’re all going to get the story of a lifetime. Tomorrow at noon, the leaders of the world will congregate on that stage behind me— He pointed one blunt finger toward the bandstand, on which workers were now hanging bright red, white, and blue bunting. —and our esteemed guest, Mr. Blackwell Davis, will come out himself to speak to you all.

Who’s Blackwell Davis? one reporter shouted.

Teller smiled and pointed to the sky and the gently circling ships. I believe you already know the answer to that.

The crowd laughed as a group, but the same reporter pressed on. Is Blackwell Davis—

Stop. Maybe it was the way Teller said the word, or the steely look in his eye that guaranteed trouble if his command was not obliged, but the reporter silenced immediately. "Mr. Davis will speak for himself tomorrow at noon. Any of you wishing to ask him questions will have a brief period to do so after he delivers his speech. There will be no, absolutely no, exclusive interviews given, to nip in the bud any attempt to conflate or twist Mr. Davis’s statement. He is not our enemy. He is our guest. I trust I will see you all tomorrow afternoon. For now, go home to your families and get some sleep."

Reluctantly, after several hours and much scolding by security, the press finally dissipated and was gone for the night from the White House gates.

Inside, the lights of the House stayed on well past three a.m., and the construction team was not finished with the bandstand until the sun began to peek over the horizon. That was, coincidentally, the same time the reporters began to once again congregate in front of the gates.

At eleven o’clock in the morning on March 15, Secret Service agents strode across the White House lawn and opened the gates for the press. At first, they stood there like children at the gates of the Wonka factory, simultaneously thrilled at the wonder of this new adventure and petrified to be the first to cross the threshold. Then, all at once, they began to move forward, flooding the ground like ants, jostling one another for the best place to stand in front of the high platform of the ribbon-festooned bandstand.

Armed military stood in a line that separated the bandstand from the throng, and behind them, the lawn was bare of any human traffic save the Secret Service agents pacing here and there, listening intently to earpieces and muttering back unheard replies as their eyes scanned the crowd for troublemakers. On the White House roof, snipers lay quietly on their bellies, also listening and making no replies. No chances were being taken today, on this monumental occasion.

The crowd buzzed and sang with the sounds of media readying itself for live coverage. Camera operators and makeup artists focused on their charges—the ones that would be the faces delivering this historical event live—adjusting facial powders and suit jackets, making sure there were no gobbets of breakfast stuck in perfect teeth for the public to focus on and later mock. Everyone was jumpy with giddy excitement, like schoolchildren on a field day. They had their instructions from their higher-ups, but what of those? School was out; all lessons had to be put aside in favor of snap judgments and timing if the story were to be made as sensational as possible and ratings were to soar.

One reporter, Simon Needelmyer, made sure that his angle was just so, so that every leader would be visible in the chairs arranged behind the podium, as well as Mr. Blackwell Davis. This would make him the only one to have everyone, including himself, in frame, and he prided himself on this smart thinking even though his bosses had said to try for a center shot. For this, he would later receive a promotion to head anchor, which would then lead him to an even higher position at a major news network. For now, though, he was merely a field reporter like all the rest, sweating and waiting on the White House lawn to capture the procession when the time came.

At noon, as the bells rang from all over Capitol Hill, a solemnity fell over the gathered crowd. Non-media persons were kept outside the gates, which then shut with a clang, keeping them at a distance. The media took one final, collective deep breath and waited for Mr. Blackwell Davis to appear.

As the last bell of noon died away, the doors to the White House were opened by two agents in black suits, who then stepped to the side. The president strode out first with her wife by her side, the two of them dressed in complementary suits and low heels, escorted by agents on either side. Next came the prime minister of the United Kingdom alongside the first minister of Scotland, similarly escorted, then the Taoiseach of Ireland, and so on, until fifty or so elected officials and royalty were treading in a line along the White House green and up onto the stage. This procession was met with a pensive silence, tense and watchful, expectant. Veteran media were ready for some sort of display of violence before the speech could even commence. Even to the most fresh-faced of the reporters, to have so many important people exposed this way seemed ill-advised in a way that made them apprehensive.

Once everyone was comfortably seated on stage, the president stood, buttoned her suit jacket, and strode purposefully toward the podium.

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the press, she said into the bank of microphones, her smooth, brown fingers settling lightly on either side. I know you’re all anxious to begin, but allow me a moment of your attention. We have, all of us on this stage today, had a chance to speak with the person you’re about to meet. We have decided, unanimously, that the best way to quash the fears and apprehension of the people of this world is to allow Mr. Davis to speak for himself. We, all of us, the leaders of the nations, urge you to give his message a chance. And now, without further ado, I introduce to you—the media, the onlookers, and the people watching from home all around the world—Mr. Blackwell Davis.

The media all turned their cameras to the right as Blackwell Davis took the stage, escorted by two men in black suits. In homes around the globe, people sat glued to their televisions as the visitor from another world strode purposefully across the stage in shiny black dress shoes. Indeed, compared to the blurry video of the tall and spindly darkness creeping out of a pod, the person who now stood adjusting his tie behind the podium was anticlimactic. Clad in a dark and tastefully cut wool suit with a white shirt and matte-black tie, Blackwell Davis was tall and fair, with thick, wavy jet-black hair and eyebrows, and overlarge, wide-set brown eyes. When he smiled at the waiting crowd, though, there was no hint of the alien about him. Instead, it was warm and inviting, the smile of a man who means no harm whatsoever to the people around him. His features were chiseled and handsome, like a movie star in proportions, from the high cheekbones to the crinkles around his eyes as he smiled. The only things that gave him away as being other were those enormous eyes and that he rarely blinked, resulting in a somewhat unsettlingly fixed stare as he took in those jostling for a spot in front of the stage.

When he spoke, it was the voice of a normal man, a soft, gentle baritone, the exact voice you’d want to hear issuing from a person with great power. It spoke of control but also ease, a fine voice for a leader of a newly discovered race, and though Blackwell Davis spoke English when he addressed the crowd, later everyone watching at home would swear they heard him speak in their native tongue.

Good afternoon, fellow souls of the galaxy known here as the Milky Way. His smile never wavered as the crowd collectively silenced to listen to him more closely. I am, as you know, Blackwell Davis. I too am a resident of this galaxy, though my planet, the planet of my people, is many light-years away from here. I come to you now, humbly, as a servant of the motherverse, the vast collective of life that the universe breeds. You need not fear me, my people, or our ships. We come to you now, not with a message of war, but with a solution for peace. My only hope is that it will fall on open ears, and that you will all listen to what I have to say.

All around the world, people listened.

***

Ben Harwick and his partner Danny Barnes sat close together on the couch in their living room, hands entwined, watching the international address of Mr. Blackwell Davis, the man from another world who had come to Earth with a plan for peace. Danny’s eyes were glued to the screen, barely blinking, his mouth hanging open slightly. Ben’s eyes were on Danny, his ears only half-listening to what was coming from the television set. When Davis smiled, Danny’s hand squeezed his, and Ben smiled to himself, squeezing back.

He’s been so edgy about all of this, Ben mused, rubbing his other hand against his lips and turning his attention back to the screen. Blackwell Davis was still talking, his face animated and his enormous eyes wet with apparent feeling for the perilous situation of the entire human race. Not without good cause, of course. They’re aliens, after all. Of all the things I was prepared to weather in this relationship, I have to admit alien invasion was not on any of the bullet-pointed lists.

Davis finished speaking, and a reporter came up, his face filling the screen. "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the words from the leader of the group known as the Com…what is it, again? Comedenti Dolorum—the alien visitors from another world."

Why bother saying ‘from another world’? Ben chuckled. They wouldn’t be aliens if they were from Earth.

Shh, Danny responded, shaking his head. His gaze did not waver from the screen, and Ben felt a mild flash of annoyance at the dismissal. He slouched down in the seat and watched as the reporter put up the blurry footage of the black shape exiting the craft and going in through the back door of the White House a couple of weeks before. As always, Danny gasped when he saw it, his free hand covering his mouth.

Ben sighed openly. He’s always so shocked. Did he expect that all life in the universe would look like us?

I’ve got to turn this off, Danny said abruptly, standing and stiffly walking over to the TV and turning it off. I just…I can’t look at it anymore.

Ben stayed where he was and shrugged. Well, they’re here now, and apparently they’ve been accepted by the government as a good thing. Not much to do but wait.

Danny folded his arms, one hip cocked as he stared down his nose at Ben. This was a posture Ben knew well; it meant Danny was feeling petulant about something, very petulant indeed. "It doesn’t worry you, in the slightest, that suddenly all the major world leaders are singing ‘Kumbaya’ with something from outer space? That they know very little