BURN IN HADES (27 page)

He slowed the ghost horses and Gimlet down and guided the boat across the rickety bridge carefully. Swimming through Ginnungagap wouldn’t have been the same as crossing the other crazy rivers the underworld offered.

The dark blue liquid that filled the gap was frozen, yet at the same time it boiled like a stew. It was stuck in a continual loop of freezing and thawing into bubbles of gas, and the steamy mush smelled worse than the river of puss in Xibalbá. Sometimes it spewed so high into the air it touched the black clouds, and what the sky didn’t boil to vapor would instantly freeze in place, only to thaw seconds later and crash down on the boat in slushy chunks and then evaporate.

By the time he reached the foot of the frosty mountains of Niflheim, whatever fight the Raven was putting up was gone. She was losing her battle. Her once milky skin had turned almost completely blistered and black. Only splotches of her normal skin remained on her legs, arms and face.

Finally, he spotted Vingólf through the mist of burning ice and falling snow. It looked almost same as when he last saw it. Only at first glance was it an honest priory. Closer inspection gave way to its macabre construction. There were so many obvious repairs in process that the snowcapped cathedral appeared abandoned. It was like a child had decided on a whim to patch up holes with pieces of junk he had stolen from a hodder. Some areas were built entirely of objects of the dead, and at some point during Cross’s absence, the steeple had broken off at the tip and the dome had fallen in. He grew worried that he had made such a long trip in vain. He hoped the place was still occupied by his old friends.

He breathed in relief when a disfigured monk met him outside. He scooped the Raven in his arms and hopped out of the boat. “I have a very ill woman here.”

“What happened to her?” asked the Monk, who was both a man and a chair at the same time. His legs were the chairs legs, his head propped up on the back of the chair at the head rest, and the arm rests were his arms and hands.

“War happened, Father.”

“Poor child,” said the monk shaking his headrest. “Set her down.”

Carefully, Cross sat the Raven on the monk’s seating area. The chair-man reclined, allowing the Raven to lie back comfortably.

“Is she still breathing?” asked Cross.

“Barely,” said the monk. “Let’s get her to a room.”

Cross crossed himself. “Where’s Prior Sinuhe?”

“He’s away. He should be back any day now.”

Unless he had burned. That was the easiest explanation for receiving the splinter. Sinuhe was the only soul he cared enough about to have received a burning sign.

Inside the hall of Vingólf rested wounded Anarchist and Tribulation troops together in one massive open hall. Many were on the brink of second death like the Raven. Monks and nuns tended to their hopeless injuries, giving the soldiers a proper send off more so than healing them. Only a miracle from the Great Goddess could save the soldiers. Maybe only a miracle could save the Raven.

The black soot of the Nothing spread all along the floor, webbed along the walls, crowded the columns, and made the cavernous hall seem smaller and suffocating. Some of the half-Nothings crawled as if they had some place to go, moving at a snail’s pace.

Cross and the monk swept across the great hall stepping over a few of the pitiful souls and carried the Raven down a corridor to a guest room. As Cross began to enter, the monk shoved him away.

“Wait out here. She needs rest, soldier.”

The soot covering his and the Raven’s clothes made them look like Anarchist soldiers.

“Take care of her please,” said Cross. “She’s like a sister to me. If anything were to happen to her—”

The door slammed in his face. He crossed himself, and fearing the worse, began fiddling with the brim of her top hat. He stuffed his hands inside it trying to return its shape.

A deep sadness developed for the Raven. She was a lot closer to his heart than he ever realized or would ever admit to. But more pressingly, he’d never get out of the underworld if she burned. He sneaked a sip of devil’s water from the Raven’s flask and belched a puff of smoke. Then her kneeled down and prayed to the Great Goddess.

“You’ve never let me down, Magna Mater. I need another one of you miracles.” He took out his Latin cross and kissed it. Its light dimmed.

Chapter 13 - Through a Glass, Darkly

The Raven lay in her bed, knocking on second death’s door
. Cross was right when he said that the Nothing really sinks its fangs into a soul. To her terror, it had taken a bite out of her and injected its deathly venom deep into her being. Every spot on her body where the Nothing had taken hold was numb and hollow. If she moved too vigorously, she would crack and shed flakes. She dreaded if one of her limbs were to fall off.

Luckily, the Nothing hadn’t reached her head yet. At least her hearing still worked. Cross’s distinct shuffling footsteps came down the hall before he entered the room. He sat down on the edge of her bed.

His shirt was still completely soiled in the soot of the Nothing. His collar was completely striped off. He must’ve lost his magic button in Yomi when the Nothing attacked them.

“There’s no hope for you,” he said. “Only a miracle from Magna Mater herself can save you now. It’s all my fault.” He slapped his hands against his face.

The gesture came across to her as forced. She’d seen his act enough to recognize it, but the inflection of his delivery told of dual concern for her health and for his salvation. A part of him genuinely cared for her. His compassion murmured in his heartbeat. The rhythm was faint, but she heard its whisper, and it took her by surprise. But his self-interest boomed, overpowering any affection towards her.

“If I knew I was about to make the big jump,” he said, “I would tell about the Toran.” He wiped what could have been an honest tear from his eye.

The filthy rat would never get her to talk though. The name of the skull would burn with her, because he deserved the underworld’s unholy matrimony, like every other spirit in it. He wasn’t special. She didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for him.

“Please, Raven,” he said. “Please tell me the name of the skull. It’s no good to you if you’re a Nothing. If I get out of here, I’ll always remember you.” He crossed himself and poured her a cup of steamy black water that was supposed to taste like coffee, but had the flavor of ground up metal. “Drink this.” He held the cup to her lips.

She waved Cross to her face, pretending she had something important to tell him. He leaned in closer and held the cup up to her mouth. She knocked the cup in his face, dousing him with the steaming black drink.

“You dirty bitch!” He threatened to hit her with the parasol handle.

His ugly words never hurt her. They were just words after all, and only true words could really cut a soul. And only those souls who were in denial of the spoken truth hurt the worse. Falsehoods only impacted the delicate, and she was far from the sensitive type. She wouldn’t have lasted so long in the underworld had she been the type to fly off the handle at the least little thing an ignorant soul had said to her.

The impetuous manner in which Cross always spoke was so outrageous and ridiculous, it bordered on parody. All of it deserved a laugh. He was just a weak man trying to hurt a woman who was much stronger than he was. She was a dirty bitch and didn’t care who knew it.

“I asked the Great Goddess to send me an angel,” she said. “I’m glad you came when you did.” She cracked a smile, turned her head to the side on the pillow, and closed her eyes.

Three weeks of consistent snowfall dropped by the Raven’s window, threatening to bury the priory alive, but never achieving such a worthwhile goal. Amazingly though, she was able to sit upright on the edge of the bed, feeling almost back to her old self, but not quite. Most of the ugly splotches of Nothing had faded away. She was lucky to have recovered at all.

Cross had prayed at her bedside every day, but she refused to believe the Great Goddess had performed any miracles on her like he kept saying she would.

But, there was an unusual side effect to her recovery. Her spirit had changed inexplicably. She felt as if she regained a past essence. She felt whole again, as if she had reunited with the soul she never knew she had.

Cross entered the room and slammed a bowl of devil’s water on the table. “Alright you dirty snatch,” he said. “Get your fat ass off the bed. The party’s over.”

She flattened her feet on the floor and rose slowly. She wobbled on her tender limbs, and stuttered past Cross without any of his help. A slap stung her ass.

“Get a wiggle on,” said Cross. “The boat is all ready to go, and with the way Nothing’s are filling up in this place, we better leave before we join them.”

The chair-monk clunked into the room. “My son, Prior Sinuhe has returned.”

Cross nodded. “This is something I have to take care of,” he said to the Raven. “It’ll only take a minute.” He left the room with the monk.

The Raven fastened her belt around her waist and reconnected with her rope dart. During her recovery, she and Cross had made a temporary and unspoken agreement to share the objects in the blanket. As long as they both kept their half of the secret in regards to the location of the Toran, neither one owned an object exclusively. When the secret was out, everything would be up for grabs.

She unrolled the blanket and asked for the mirror. The glass popped out of the comforter. She gazed into the mirror. She had a brief déjà vu feeling as her reflection astral projected out of the glass, and an exact copy of herself stood across from her. She was in two places at once and fully aware of both of her selves. Fatigue sat in the bones of her original self while a painless numbing sensation resided within her duplicate. She sensed that her twin wouldn’t get hurt if it sustained any injuries. After all, it wasn’t real. It was just an illusion. Other than that, she was in both bodies at once. There was only one difference between her two selves. Her mirror self was right-handed instead of left-handed.

As her duplicate, she followed Cross and the chair-monk down a maze of several corridors. Not a single soul acknowledged her presence as she sneaked through the various halls. A monk who was both a man and a wardrobe passed right through her or either she passed through him.

Her existence was similar to a ghost prowling amongst the living. She halted, surprised at this new fact that was somehow old knowledge. An awareness of the living had escaped the confines of her subconscious mind and resurfaced. The information was new to her in that moment, yet she had an odd understanding that it was known to her once before. She must’ve forgotten it along the way.

Cross and the monk dipped around a corner. She caught up to them before she lost them in the labyrinth of hallways. Cross entered a storage area where a robed monk was filling boxes with ceramic angel statues. Cross held at the entrance as if unsure how to proceed. The Raven stepped right into the center of room, neither of the two the wiser of her presence.

The monk removed his hood and revealed the face of a normal man, an everyman. He had the face of someone who could blend in anywhere and would never stand out in a crowd. He had no distinct facial features, wasn’t ugly, but wasn’t particularly attractive either. He was simply average, yet he carried a worldly air about him, as if he had not only been around as long as she had, but had been everywhere and seen it all. The Raven couldn’t quite peg him.

He kept his arms folded, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes, appearing trustworthy but also capable of being the sliest devil in the underworld. She had the sense that one could safely place their confidence in him, but he could also con you, and possibly wouldn’t hesitate to if it suited his best interest.

For an instant, it seemed as if the monk had looked directly at her, but then he glanced away and his stony face glared at Cross without any emotion, as if meeting a stranger.

“You’ve finally ended your foolish quest?” he said and surveyed Cross’s wardrobe up and down, probably thinking Cross had joined up with the Anarchists who wore all black.

“It’s not what you think,” said Cross. “My clothes are covered in soot. I had an object.” He reached for his missing color. “But I lost it. It’s a long story. You look very well. It’s been what? Three hundred years since we last saw each other?”

“Three hundred eleven years, nine months, eighteen sleep cycles, six hours and twenty seven minutes.”

“That long?” Cross mumbled some numbers to himself while counting his fingers. “That means I’ve been….” He paused. “If you say so. You were always good with time, Sinuhe. If not for you, I’d never know when to sleep. You’ve always looked out for me. That’s why I came. You’re like a brother.”

“I’m not your brother,” said Sinuhe.

“You’re right,” said Cross. “A true brother wouldn’t have abandoned me.”

“Abandoned you? I’ve done everything but abandon you. The reason you’re standing here right now is because of me. I’ve helped you in more ways than you even realize. Do you know there are spirits out there who will not hesitate to burn you for what you know?”