Scarlet From Gold (Book 3) (17 page)

“He carries the Lady Iasco, the chief priestess of my cult,” Ophiuchus said.  “She must be allowed to leave with him.”

The winged boy guardian stared intently at Marco’s burden, then looked at Ophiuchus.  “Is that your plan?  To doubly cheat death with this one sacrifice?  You make a tough bargain, but I shall accept it this time. 

“Come through, boy,” Thanatos reached into the air and pulled his arm down, as though pulling an invisible cord.  There was a hollow clanking sound from within the cavern, as though a gate were opening.  “Go quickly, before you lose the chance.”

“Go on Marco, you must do this,” Ophiuchus squeezed his hand.  “Don’t let my sacrifice be in vain!”

Marco pulled Ophiuchus against him, awkwardly, letting the bag with Iasco list downward so that it did not separate their hug.  “My lady, I am so sorry for your sacrifice.  I wish I could do something of great service for you.”

“You already have Marco.  You gave me my first dance!  Now I’ll always know what it is to have such an experience,” she nearly squeezed the breath out of him as she tightened and returned the hug.  “You’re such a good boy.  I’m glad you were the one selected to assist Iasco; she could have no one better.  Now, do me one last small favor, let me taste one more mortal delight,” the spirit said, a wistful smile on her face, and then she pressed her lips strongly upon Marco’s and began a passionate kiss, one in which her femininity, her supernatural appeal, and her ardor for life overwhelmed Marco, and made him fervently return the kiss for several long, arousing seconds, until her body suddenly disappeared into vapor.  “Farewell, my lover.  Thank you for that kiss as well.  Safe travels, Marco,” he listened in a daze and blinked as he heard her voice echo away.

“Well, are you going or not?” Thanatos asked Marco, with a gesture of his arm to indicate the empty cavern that descended ahead of him.

Marco looked at the guardian of Persephone’s Gate.  He hefted Iasco’s body up against his torso, then ran forward, past the presence of the immortal, and down into the darkness of the cave that would lead him into the underworld.

Chapter 12 – Conversations with the Dead

Marco ran for several seconds, until he was sure that he was down past whatever barrier lay at the gate, preventing traffic from passing between the two realms.  He stopped and looked over his shoulder – there was only darkness behind him – as there was only darkness before him.  With a sigh, he made his hand glow brightly, and then resumed his journey into the interior of the world, down where he remembered the drama of seeing the spirits of the dead.  Marco was lost in thought as he walked, haunted by the thought that Ophiuchus had made a permanent sacrifice in order to help him pursue his quest.   The spirit would never walk the surface of the earth again, her loss coming in order to let him enter the underworld.

He walked for a long time, mourning for Ophiuchus, until he entered a large chamber, one with a high ceiling dome and stripes of different colored strains swirled across every surface.  He remembered being in the same chamber, he remembered Gawail talking to the volcano overhead, and he remembered his last vision of Pesino, before the collapse of the roof had separated him from his companions, and led him on the long adventure he had pursued for all the months since then.  It had been in that very space.

Marco hurried down through the chamber and into the succeeding cavern passageway that led down to the populated precincts of the underworld.  He had no wish to upset the volcano again, and the journey down the sloping passage was easier than he remembered the journey had been to climb up it before, when his ribs had been sore and injured in the battle against the Echidna.

The trip was a long one, despite being downhill, and after the passage of an unknown amount of time, Marco stopped to rest.  He placed Iasco on the ground, then took his pack off, sat down, and sucked on water from his finger as he pulled out a tough piece of dried meat and chewed on it vigorously.   He silently thanked Diotima for the unusual gift of the water that issued forth from his finger; without it he wasn’t sure he would be able to dream of carrying out the incredible duty that rested upon his shoulders now.

When he had expected to journey with Ophiuchus through the underworld in order to revive Iasco, it had seemed possible.  The great spirit made virtually everything seem possible to accomplish when they had traveled together.  Without her, with only his own skills and resources to rely upon, the events ahead appeared daunting and overwhelming.  Without her, he felt lonelier.

With a sigh, he stood up and prepared to move on.  He would have to find his way to the River Acheron, back at the spot where he had encountered it before, at the ferry crossing.  The journey had been a long one when he had traveled with Mitment as a guide.  Now, without knowing the way, he faced an even longer journey that would involve misdirection and dead ends in all likelihood, unless he could persuade a guide to lead him.

He started moving down the passage, then suddenly laughed, as he realized there was a perfect guide among the dead.  He only needed to make contact, and then they would move quickly on to their destination.

Marco increased his pace and hurried for hours along the cave, seeing none of the figures of the dead along the empty way to Persephone’s Gate.  He stopped occasionally to rest, but resumed his journey quickly, and sucked on his finger for a drink of water from time to time, until the width of the cave he traveled through began to rapidly widen, and within a few hundred yards he came to a stop and looked out over the darkness of the vast open space of the underworld.

He stood at the mouth of the passage to Persephone’s Gate, and he gently placed Iasco on the ground, then raised his right hand high over his head and made the hand blaze forth with the brightest light he could summon.  The bright rays flashed outwards, and suddenly Marco could see the vast acres of space that were unnaturally illuminated, where uncounted numbers of souls wandered about.  And yet beyond the reach of his bright light, there remained an even greater distant darkness that he could not see.

“Lady Iasco!  Lady Iasco, if you hear my voice, come help me, please!” he called out loudly.  He let the light go out, then refocused the energy in his hand, and used it to amplify his voice, so that he could cast his words out to thousands more of the souls below.  “I need your guidance!” he added, then refocused his attention to the hand, and made it become a beacon of light one more.

He stooped and picked up the woven fabric bag that held Iasco’s physical remains, then started walking down the path that rose along the cliffside barrier in the underworld.  When he reached the ground, a crowd of filmy spirits awaited him.

“Tell my husband that the money is buried in the garden!” one woman called.

“My son needs to know that his wife has been unfaithful!” another said.

“My wife was the most wonderful friend I had – please tell her how wonderful she made my life,” the entreaties and pleas were a cacophony in his ears as he tried to listen for the voice of Iasco, or see her striped visage among the walking shadows.

“You’re the stupidest man I’ve ever known.  Did you never remember how unpleasant it is to be living in the underworld?” a voice called behind him, and Marco whirled to see the shade of Mitment standing in the back of the pack that surrounded him.

“Mitment!” he shouted, mostly pleased to see the familiar shade, one who he hoped would be helpful, especially when she found out what his mission was.

“Mitment,” he repeated, “I’m searching for Lady Iasco’s spirit.  Have you seen her?”

Many of the other spirits began to wander away, as Marco’s attention was focused on Mitment.

“Yes, I’ve seen her,” Mitment answered.  “She’s an agitated spirit; she claims she has a mission that she’s destined to finish on earth, among the living.  It’s not easy to be around her.”

“Take me to her,” Marco spoke eagerly.  “She does have a duty among the living; her life doesn’t have to be over.  I can bring her back to life,” Marco said.

Mitment looked at him in astonishment, then her filmy hand swept through the air towards his face.  He saw the slap coming, and he remembered how painful such contact had been when Mitment had slapped him before.  He wanted to move out of the way, and he tried to will his muscles to respond, but the hand sliced through the air with swift ease, and his muscles seemed to take forever to make the mass of his body start to move.

Her hand reached his cheek as he pulled back, and the painful, deadly cold broke over his consciousness like a rough ocean’s wave descending upon a flimsy vessel.  He screamed and collapsed, falling to the ground and feeling Iasco’s body fall upon him as the pain of Mitment’s slap overwhelmed his nervous system, and left him a quivering mass of flesh.

“By the heavens above!  That hurt!  What did you do that for?” He shouted at Mitment.

“What unkind idiocy are you blathering, claiming that you can bring her back to life?!  That’s cruel – it’s unkind!  You’re a colder monster than anyone down here to say that,” the spirit of the island guard seethingly replied.

“It’s true though; I think I know a way to bring her back to life.  The spirit of the island, Ophiuchus, has told me I have to do this.  She made it possible for me to return to the underworld,” Marco spoke with heat and he pushed himself back to his feet.  “I think I know a formula, an alchemical means of reviving her,” he said.

Mitment raised her hand again, prepared to strike, as Marco stepped back.  “I have to do this!” he shouted.  “I promised Ophiuchus I would do this.  Now either help me or leave me alone!” he said defiantly.

The guard’s spirit studied him sharply.  “Do you believe this nonsense you’re spouting?” she asked.

“I believe it is possible.  And the spirit told me that the whole world depends on this,” he said earnestly.

“If it’s possible to bring the dead back to life, why haven’t others done it?” Mitment challenged him.

“Probably because they didn’t want to get slapped to death by the ghost of an evil-tempered guard,” Marco retorted.

The two of them stood staring at one another, each challenging the other to say something else.

“I ought to slap you just to make sure you understand me,” Mitment said at last.  “You will suffer – really suffer, badly – if this is anything less than you sell it to be.  Follow me and we’ll go see the Lady.”  Mitment turned her back on Marco and started walking across the vast plain of the underworld.

Marco shook his head, regretting that he had managed to provoke the guard’s spirit to violence so quickly.  He resolved to say as little as possible as they moved towards their goal.

They stalked onward in silence for over an hour, as Marco grew tired from the weight of Iasco’s burden, though he refused to say anything to Mitment, until she abruptly stopped and turned to face him.

“I don’t see any water jugs.  Are we going to have to go back to Lethe’s spring for you?” she asked.

“No, I’ve got all the water I need,” Marco said calmly.

“Where?  How?  I don’t see any water,” Mitment barked.

Marco calmly placed his left finger in his mouth and sucked hard, filling his cheeks with water.  He removed his finger, then sprayed his mouthful of liquid in a noisy wash that spread across the opening between them, and penetrated through the emptiness of the non-corporeal spirit.

“There’s some of my water,” Marco said with satisfaction.

“How’d you do that?” Mitment shouted, surprised and angered by the unexpected event, balling her hand up into a fist and taking a threatening step towards Marco.

“Another spirit gave me a gift – all the water I want,” Marco answered.

“What are you, being handed around by spirits as a party boy?” Mitment challenged him, but she turned a moment later and resumed walking.

Marco followed without comment, and they trudged along for hours, until Marco finally called for a stop.  He sat and chewed on a crusty bread roll, and sucked water from his finger, as spirits passed by and whispered messages they hoped would return to the living.  He felt weary, and wanted to sleep, but the sight of Mitment pacing impatiently forced him back to his feet, and they resumed the journey.

Hours later Marco finally insisted that he be allowed to sleep, and his eyes closed almost as soon as he laid Iasco on the ground and curled up beside her.

“That’s enough; time to go,” he groggily came awake to the sound of Mitment’s voice as a series of pebbles flicked onto his face, tossed by the spirit that stood ten feet away.

Marco rose and picked up Iasco.  “How much longer will it be?” he asked, then took a sip of water as he made his right hand flare with illumination.

“Half a day,” Mitment ventured a guess, “if you can tell what a day is in a place where the sun never shines.

“I guess you never had a journey as long as the one in the underworld, did you?” the spirit asked in an almost conversational tone as they started walking.

“This feels long because of where it is,” Marco answered.  “But the trip I took the last time I got into the underworld was all the way from the Isle to Arima to find the Echidna, and when I left the underworld last time, I went on the pilgrimage to Compostela, and then I went to the Isle, and then Athens, right before I came down here. 

“It feels like I’ve been traveling without a stop for the last half a year,” he said, as it struck him that he had been on the move constantly.

“You went on the pilgrimage?” Mitment asked with interest.  “I had an uncle who went on the pilgrimage when I was a little girl.  He had his limp healed at the shrine.  What happened to you on the pilgrimage?”

“I met the spirit, Ophiuchus,” Marco answered.  “And I learned a little bit about being patient,” he added after a moment’s though, recollecting Dex and Pivot and their lessons on the pilgrimage.

“This is where she usually stays,” Mitment spoke up a moment later.

Marco strode up beside the spirit, and looked around at the milling traffic of the restless spirits who inhabited that portion of the underworld.  He set his load down then raised his hand, and caused it to glow brightly.