Big Cranky Fall into Darkness by James Pyne

Big Cranky: Fall Into Darkness

by James Pyne

Genre: Dark Mythological Fantasy, Action 

Forget everything you think you know about myths and legends, James Pyne’s Big Cranky connects them all in an epic web of deceitful betrayal, love, and loyalty. A capricious tale of gods, showing human quirks are not only wasted on the mortals. A tale of many deities treading lightly around a superior as the world begins.

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Big Cranky Excerpts

Excerpt 1

EL

El whipped another rock at the frightened pig. He stood on the middle rung of the pigpen mocking its screeching and oinking.

“Oink. Oink.” With hand on the rail, El pushed his nose up, making the nostrils real big, the gums of his top teeth showed in all their crimson pinkness. “Oink. Oink.”

“Real tough, kid.”

El stepped down from the fence. Turned to see his mother in a magenta sari, the secrets of the Universe embroidered on its material in an ideographic language El had yet to decipher, but would, and when he did, look out Universe. A dark ponytail cascaded down one side of her neck, bottle-green eyes refracted into amber when she glanced down at the penned pig, then back to sparkling green when looking back down at him.

The expression of her lips was impossible to read. She could be mad or indifferent. Or was it resting bitch face, he snickered at that thought. Regardless, El didn’t want to remain in her presence because it meant more lessons when he just wanted to play. He was still a boy in terms of maturity, though mortals thought he was no more than ten years old. To an immortal, he was ten thousand years old with another six thousand of fun he should be looking forward to, not being forced to grow up before his years. What bullshit.

“Where are you going?”

His mother grabbed him by the shoulder of his tunic. Her face set against a sapphire-blue sky.

“You have that pig to make things right with.”

“It doesn’t feel.” He tried shaking loose. It felt like she was going to lift him to her face. Instead, she released him with a slight shake. “I was just having a little fun.”

“The pig has feelings. It feels the pain you inflict.”

The pig wallowed in the mud of its sty, always at its happiest when El’s mother was present. They were in the middle of nowhere. No farmhouse nearby, just hills of rolling green pastures in every direction. An empty blue sky with a slow approaching sunrise lit up a wooden chair and table that wasn’t there a minute ago. A crow’s feather stuck in a bottle of ink and a sketchpad next to it on the table. A shifty breeze messed El’s shoulder-length hair every which way.

“Instead of understanding your creation, make improvements, give it purpose, you torment the holy hell out of it. I shudder at the kind of king you will become, apparently a childishly cruel one. Now go sit down and make things right. We have little time.”

“Drawing’s not my thing, you know that. Can’t you just snap things into creation after I describe them to you like you did with pig?”

“Time for you to be hands on and take full responsibility.”

“I said I don’t draw well.”

“Problem solved, kiddo.” His mother smelled of rose oil one minute, the next like cinnamon, the next scent was something else pleasant to El, but he didn’t know what it was, so he called it mommy smell, but when she smelled like turnips, shit was about to fly, and if one was smart, they’d flee for safety for her words stung like a thousand hornets. “The quill and ink are extensions of your imagination, what you imagine something to look like in that stubborn head of yours, will appear on paper no matter how talentless your hands. Imagine a certain scent to go with your creations and it will come into existence. Paint this planet in with life, son, with your best thoughts.

Show me this dimension will be left in good hands.”

“This planet’s too small for my big ideas.” It really was, taking no more than ten minutes to fly its circumference, something he couldn’t do right now for his wings were made lame, translation, he was grounded until he got things right. “I want a bigger canvas to work with.”

“Baby steps.”

“I’m not a baby.” He stomped.

“Prove it.”

She turned from him and faded from view.

“This is your fault. You tempted me.”

The pig snorted at him.

“Are you mocking me?”

His fists clenched.

The pig shied away, trembled. It was the first time El had seen such an expression coming from it and it bugged him. He really was just having fun.

“I guess I can let you out.”

He opened the fence gate into a long creak.

The pig eyed El’s every move.

“I give you freedom.”

It fell back on its side, splashing mud up on El.

“I should---”

Mother would be watching and grading his every move. Best do what she asked so his wings would come back to life and fly him off this dump. He plunked himself in the chair. He’d get the pig back another way. But first a little harmless test run. El dipped the feather into the ink, slid away excess glob on the rim of the bottle and drew Stick People on the sketchpad, grinning big.

Stick People sprouted from the rolling hillsides, unraveling and rising to full height. They were all around him, in bold-typeset black, standing there like a silent army waiting for orders.

“Just keeping it real, Mom. I’m no artist.”

The ground shook. The Stick People collapsed into twigs that took root, flourishing into patches of lush green forests. He didn’t do that. That was Mother passively reminding him to smarten up. She had never laid a hand on him, not once, and truth be told he deserved quite a few spankings over her knee.

He looked over at the pig. It was at the open gate, sniffing its freedom, looked back at the mud, stared back out at the rolling hills, then back at the pool of mud.

He waved away the pig. “Stay in there for all I care.”

The sky needed clouds. The very tiny planet looked like it was getting dry, with the tallgrass beginning to turn sunburnt-brown in places, and now with trees, more water was needed. He dipped the feather-point into the ink jar and thought about how many rainclouds were needed? Too many would flood the planet. He hated this game. Becoming king in the image of his mother was boring. Too much order with no chaos. How would anything evolve into anything worthwhile without some here and there anarchy? The Universe needed things that didn’t make sense, to confound all living things, spur them into seeking answers for things that had no answers, leading to them discovering profound things along the way.

The pig wobbled by, stopping at the left of El.

“Mother says I need to make things right with you. Setting you free is one thing, but giving you choices, instead of rules is the greatest gift of all, yes?”

The pig just stared at the rolling hills and scattered forests, no doubt it was unsure what to do. El imagined a bridge, then drew one. It slowly materialized in front of the pig, stone-grey, it arched all the way up the sun, looking like nothing he would draw, but true to his mind's eye.

“Come on, go up it. Or what about this?” He imagined a giant lake of mud and drew it. It materialized at their right. The pig oinked with excitement, tail wagging. It started toward the lake of mud, stopping, it glared up at El with distrust.

“Exactly, maybe there’s a pig-eating monster in that lake, not even I know. But up there on that bridge, you will see the whole planet from way up there. It will be a beautiful sight. And the muddy lake will be transparent at that height, allowing you to see if there’s a terrible monster in it.”

The pig looked up at the bridge. Then back at the Lake of Mud.

“Fine, then.”

He dipped the quill into the ink jar, imagined what the pig’s favorite food would be and drew it. In front of the pig appeared three tubers for it to taste. The rest popped into existence all the way up the bridge. The pig munched on one, its eyes lit up, no doubt the best tubers ever. Tried another, then another, starting its way up the stone bridge, curly tail wagging. The closer it got up that bridge, the bigger the grin on El’s face.

“That’s it. Fill your gluttony to heart’s content.”

It had the lack of knowing when it was full, El created it like that. Not knowing when to stop eating might have it blow up any second. Curly tail wagging while it ate every tuber it came to. El laughed out loud at the thought of it blowing up.

“I hope you don’t,” he shouted up at it, looking at the sun. “A much better fate awaits you.”

Something he had whispered into it was feeling pain, it was very sensitive to that and it was about to feel a lot of that. The anticipation of the pig becoming smoked pork had him almost in a fit of giggles. He would claim it was an accident of course.

Everything went dark. Like a switch was turned off.

“What the hell, mom?”

A moon flashed above, then starlight, like time had been sped up. The future was like that, he thought, just when you’re about to grab it, it pulled light years away. At least when Mother was around.

He flicked the feather into the darkness, threw his hands up, and just as the feather touched the wooden table it split into a million splinters, the chair, too, sending El hard on his bum.

“Mom, you ruin everything.”

He folded his arms, refusing to stand. The ink jar exploded into pieces.

“Pig-headed like your dad was,” his mother said, not yet appearing in sight. “Look, kiddo, like your father I’ll be moving on to the next phase of our existence. I feel the Eternal Energy pulling at me into the next Reality.” She materialized into view. “And you’re not ready to be Keeper in this one. But you’re all that’s left of our bloodline.”

“Things are going to be different.” It did sadden him she would be leaving; truth be told that was the main reason for his rebellious nature, hoping she would remain here until he grew up into adulthood. It didn’t seem right he would be abandoned at such a young age. “You better not leave because things will be different.”

“Why do you want to inflict so much misfortune?”

“Pain will be another form of scars, to remind them of what can hurt them. They’ll grow stronger because of it.”

“They already feel horrible pain when losing a part of their body, they die, they suffer from the loss of loved ones, many find that the worst kind of pain they know, why do you want to give them ‘cruelty.’ What point is there in that?”

El sprung to his feet, walking proud. He marched around his mother, as if sizing her up, which of course he wasn’t, but if anyone saw them from a distance, they would think that’s exactly what he was doing.

“For them to be truly enlightened beings, to maybe even surpass us someday, they need to know fear, unimaginable pain, know true evil, throw those things with the pleasures of life, they’ll be better for it. Your ways of pampering them, guiding them along with commandments, stops once I take over, Momzy. They are going to be figuring out things on their own. If they blow up the Universe while doing that is of no concern of mine. Do you really want to leave me behind, knowing this?”

“What will I do with you, El? You truly are terrible. Threatening the wellbeing of the universe if I leave? We will meet again in the next reality when you’re ready. Don’t be afraid. I’ll always be with you, your father, too. Cling to our traditions and we will always be with you.”

“If it’s for the greater good that you leave, leaving me to suffer from such a loss, then it’s for the greater good they suffer. They’ll be better for it, according to your way of looking at things. You’ll see. My vision of how things should be will be----”

El tripped over the pig, sending him face-first in pig excrement.

“You have such big plans for the universe, yet one of your creations,” she leaned back from laughter, pointing, “a simple pig has tripped you.”

Excerpt 2

Lucifer and Lilith

Lucifer and Lilith sat against a tree; its huge gnarled roots stretched into the Lake of Souls. The souls didn’t make noises, silently moving among each other, sometimes in the shape of their previous incarnations, swirling around the trees growing out of the water and along the bank. Sometimes they would pass through them, sending chills through Lucifer, humbling him into deeper thought about his immortality.

Questions like if an angel died, would they end up here? The belief was once an immortal was dead, it was a done deal, no coming back. Adding to the doom and gloom was the fact his father wouldn’t give a straight answer. He didn’t smile when asked if angels were recycled after death, instead, a sullen look clouded his face, like he was remembering something devastating from his past, something he wanted buried forever there. It was the same look his father gave him hours ago.

“We call them mortals,” Lucifer said of the spirits swirling around each other in playful abandonment. “Yet if we’re slain, apparently we don’t come back while they’re recycled into another lifeform somewhere in the universe. I don’t feel very immortal knowing that.”

“No angel has killed another angel in our time,” Lilith said. “It will never happen. The consequences are too risky, you know this. One kills, then the killer will be killed for breaking the commandment, two in a snap of finger gone from existence. The death seed then planted, sprouts two more leaves, their names Hate and Revenge. More angels are killed. Revenge and Hate multiply in a tangled mess of vines choking off each other into extinction. No one will risk that chain of events. There’d be no coming back from it. Besides, you have nothing to worry about. You’re of his blood and can’t be killed unless by him.”

“But you can be.”

“Stating the obvious.”

“Which means a part of me can be killed, too.”

Her eyes watered to that; her head rested on his shoulder now. She was the one for him, he always knew, for she took no guff from anyone, especially the male kind, always making it clear she was equal or better and would prove it through sharp words or in combat. And if anybody crossed him behind his back, she made quick work of them for all to see. Never letting him get lazy in the mind. Always at his side and always wanting good for the Order, like a true Queen.

“I sense the day is coming soon when one of our kind is slain. It feels like it will be somebody close. It feels like I’m screaming from the future to me now over something so unspeakable.”

“What has brought this mood, Lucifer? The planet’s suddenly devoid of life? Come now, your father did it. You know this in your heart. No one else could.”

“If you’re right, then that is cause for concern.”

“They’re just mortals. They go back here. Then back out there somewhere. Many times, you have been sent out to wipe out armies all over the universe. Now suddenly you care about them? What’s of more concern is our missing brethren.”

“Yes, they come here to be recycled, but first they all experience Purification,” something Lucifer never shared with anyone, a sight he was shown when still a youngling. He was never sure if it was just an invented vison by his father, but it looked and felt real. “Their flesh and bone burned from them . . . I have been there, a nightmarish place. It is between this reality and another, a portal opened by my father is the only way there. The virtuous get a quick exit to the Lake, with their flesh burned away by intense fire, painful, but mercifully quicker compared to the others. Some fuel a hellish train like coal, a skull face as its locomotive, flames exhale its nostrils with every soul forced into it, over and over, until their sins burned away.

The most wretched are chained to walls, slowly dismembered, aware to the very end, their head always last to be thrown into the furnace. It’s not something anyone would be in hurry to experience . . . and so many just have.”

“Something I didn’t know.”

“It makes you pause with deep thought, yes?”

She stared at the souls, one passed through her. The expression on her face, like she just experienced mortality for the first time.

“It makes me think how sick your father can be.”

“He says it’s for their own good, allowing them a clean slate.”

“What point is there in burning their past lives away, how will they

evolve, learn from past mistakes? Why not just make them immortal like us?”

“Maybe they were us . . . or we were them at some point.”

“Quite the statement.”

“There are many things I’ve not shared with anyone, but that stops tonight. No more secrets between us. We’ll need to be our strongest and most connected for what I sense is coming. If my father has truly gone mad, then what stops him from killing angels next?”

“I feel he has already started.”

She cuddled into him as the morning star rose over the Rainbow Ridge, brightening the colorful glow of the blinking mountains, a signal of the illumination that was coming. She held him tight, the morning star grew its brightest, next to come were the two rising suns, the whole effect created by his mother to mark Lucifer and Calliope’s births. One of the few things he knew of her.

Excerpt 3

Hercules

Hercules wasn't dumb. He just saw no point in a lot of things. He agreed with his father's philosophy, regardless of ability or creed, all were cut from the same energy, some more blessed than others, that is all. But then his dad had to go all hypocritical with his desire to become the Supreme Being of all Things. The other thing Hercules inherited from his father was his super ego, and if challenged, he damn well would prove the doubters wrong.

"Thank you for the gift, mother," Hercules said to Hera who hated when he called her mother. He stood within the Coliseum with the rest of the Nephilim standing at attention behind him. He was dressed in the golden hide of the Nemean Lion, its skin impregnable to most weapons wielded by a mortal and immortal. Hercules had knocked it out with his spiked club and proceeded to cut the lion's skin off with its own claws. The upper part of its head was still attached to the hide and served as Hercules new helmet, the lions two front fangs rested on his forehead, keeping the helmet and hide in place.

"These tasks are tiresome." Hercules stood in the arena waiting for the next challenge. Hera and Zeus sat within their exaggerated thrones. He had already completed ten of the labors, some were pointless, like cleaning out the filth of a cattle stable, which was supposed to humble him, but instead, he out-thought Hera and with a few pounds of a fist on solid ground, created a brief detour for a river that washed out the stable for him. Without a doubt, resisting the sexual whims of nymphs was his most challenging task so far.

"You're still arrogant as ever," Hera said, in black armor. Which she only wore during battle. This was the first time she had dressed like this in his presence. A clear message to him. One he welcomed.

"You're inflating my ego, mother, with these lame tasks." Hercules crossed his arms over his chest. "Not grounding it. Maybe we should do battle and forget the remaining two tasks."

"Insolent —" Hera jumped from her throne and before Zeus could pull her back, she dove at Hercules with her wings shooting out from her back. She snatched Hercules and before he could swat her with his club or free fist, her touch weakened him. She carried him to the clouds, then dropped him from the top of Mount Olympus but not before pulling his lion armor from him. He cursed her all the way down, following him just out of reach of his club-swings. He landed hard on a field of tall grass, sending dirt flying up.

Hera landed next to him; her wings wrapped around parts of her body like a second armor. She tossed his lion armor to him, crossing her arms over her chest, grinning . . .

What is About Mythology that Speaks to Me?

I’ve always enjoyed a good story. As a kid I reread Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift countless times. Fairy Tales of any sort are a given influence. The Bible, too. A local god by the name of Glooscap, he was the super god of the Mi'kmaq pantheon of gods and the stories I heard of him fueled by imagination. He also appears throughout the Big Cranky trilogy. Later years, the books of the man himself, Joseph Campbell, painted in the mysteries of mythology for me. But if I really think about who was the biggest influence during my childhood, who got the ball rolling for my love of tales, that would be my old man (that’s what we affectionately call our dad’s in my area). He would tell me tales of him and his best friend Richie hunting down Bigfoots in the backwoods to keep us kids safe in the neighborhood. He spun different tales revolving the hairy Sasquatch, all with lessons, doing his part, passing on wisdom passed down to him in his own way. I believed his stories for a while and didn’t dare go into the woods. I believed my dad and his best friend were worthy in starring in an updated version of Grimms' Fairy Tales. It’s just occurred to me it’s time I write those stories down before they forever fade from memory.  

James Pyne hails from Nova Scotia, Canada, and has been a scribe for the Universe much of his life. He's a firm believer in being able to write in every genre, to make his world building and characters hopefuly come out genuine. No matter what he writes it will have some form of darkness, nothing is pure light in any worlds James creates and rumor has it, his surviving characters are plotting his demise. When it comes to his past time, much of it is spent learning the craft, but he does enjoy gardening and playfully tormenting those he loves. When he's not writing, or working his day job, he's traveling. The Andalusia region of Spain the last place that tolerated him. 

Favorite authors: John Gardner (Grendel, Sunlight Dialogues). Fyodor Dostoevsky (The Brothers Karamazov). Clive Barker (Imajica, Weaveworld, Books of Blood). Terry Pratchett (Good Omens, Bad Omens). J.R.R. Tolkien (Lord of the Rings). And all the scribes who carried on the tradition of myths throughout the ages.

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