Spirit Wars (2 page)

 With a
jolt that’s more mental than
physical, I slip right through the solid bottom of the boat and back into the
water. I sink like a statue propelled by those pointy, erratic things that are
mostly crow.

Alt
hough the medium’s perfectly wrong, I’m
falling backwards at a skydiver’s terminal velocity: sixty meters per second. I
can tell because I used to be really into motorcycles. But that was nothing
compared to this. I’m being sucked down a maelstrom of hissing, exploding
water; a human bowling ball in a slide that plunges all the way down to the
bottom of the sea.

I feel
an intolerable amount of pressure and pain
building against the tissues of my middle ear. Then there’s a light pop, either
real or imagined, followed by a gushing feeling of relief as cool water flows
past the bleeding eardrum on either side of my skull.

I slide
out of the sunlight zone into the twilight
zone, 200 meters below surface, and on till I finally pass the deepest, bluest
zone of the sea that divers only dream of. I come to a world where every last
thing that’s good and hope-infected has been snuffed out.

Because I chose to ignore my deco stop earlier, my dive computer
has shut down and is no longer of any use to me.  I streak on farther down
to a place where creatures don’t need eyes to live in the absolute darkness.

Deeper still… about a full minute of free fall…

… a minute and fifteen….

… a minute and thirty…

I should be about half as far as James Cameron has reached; that
is, inside a steel submarine with 2.5 inch-thick walls. Certainly deeper than
is humanly possible. 

I’m in
the hadal zone, named after the Greek god
Hades and where the pressure should equal a ton on every centimeter of flesh.
The ocean’s deepest level, 6000 meters below.

My
back slams down against a firm yet
surprisingly bouncy surface. I open my eyes to snap out of whatever
hallucination I’m having.

Above me, a solitary, unnatural glow is held out like a lifeline,
but a nagging suspicion in my brain tells me this is exactly how a false hope
would look if it took on a form. I’m in a dream inside another dream, a hole of
melancholy that’s much too deep for me to surface out of.

There’s no other explanation than that an underground river flows
in the center of the earth, because now I’m lying flat on another boat. A gas
lamp is being dangled by the boatman but it’s kind of sickening to watch
because I can’t tell where the lamp ends and where his hand begins. The walls
of the lamp look like they were made right out of human skin, making the light
muted and mutated. I think:
Anglerfish
.

This last thought, combined with the mounting feeling of vertigo
ever since my eardrums broke, proves too much for me. I spring up and vomit
into the river.

“Now, now, you wouldn’t want to rock the boat too hard,” the
ferryman, an old man in a brown hooded robe, says in the voice of a man half
his age and thrice his size. “Those aren’t fish you’re feeding, boy.”

My ears still seem to be functioning properly. With my head
hanging over one side, I can all at once make out that the bloodless whiteness
under the water is in fact a field of corpses packed shoulder to shoulder.
Despite the warning, I disgorge more of yesterday’s dinner. My eyes are tearing
and my last meal drips down from my mouth in stringy bits.

The boatman laughs heartily as he rows with powerful, fluid
strokes. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “Who are you and what is this
place?”

“Fear not. You are in the good, steady hands of your humble
servant Kharon. I guarantee you safe passage,” the old man speaks unctuously.
“The peace you seek lies on the other side, just across the River of Woe.”

Peace?
Is that what I’m here for? I think to myself. My head feels like a jar full of
flies, noisy and furious. This stranger’s particular manner of speaking also
hits a switch deep inside me and I’m seized by an intense feeling of déjà vu. I
feel with absolute certainty that I’ve seen or even met this old man before, a
virtual impossibility so my brain defaults to the explanation that it has all
transpired inside yet another dream, which incredibly complicates things.

My
head’s
reeling as I take in my twilit surroundings, but then something else brings my
eyes back to the water. The bodies are not alone. I manage to isolate a few
ribbony, luminous-white creatures twisting just beneath the surface, similar to
jellyfish tentacles in constitution but every one of them shaped like giant
polliwogs with shriveled heads.

The
reason I didn’t notice them sooner is because they sort of overlap in their
sheer number and they employ a form of camouflage. What’s white is actually
their underbellies while the skin on their backs and the stuffing of their
bodies are diaphanous enough to show me the bottom of the river, affording and
shutting off glimpses as they writhe and roll.

The
water’s teeming with them: a phalanx of living strips that switch luminescent
then invisible, luminescent, invisible. One could even mistake them for the
stuff the unreal river is made of, the water itself that buoys and carries the
boat.

“What
are they?” I ask, mesmerized.

“Discarded
umballicus. Discordant chords. Possibilities and connections you’ve once had
with others of your kind; now unrealized, now severed. They’re coming home to
be crushed, by the one great force that created them. They all wash up in the
Drain of the World, to the mouth of Spinstra’s Cave at river’s end.”

Spin-what?
The actual water moves so idly it almost looks stagnant. In places it
eddies and pulls some of the white stuff underneath, only to burp it out again
with a horrid noise.

It’s
just as well because to me the water’s a vat of toxic waste, especially with
the shades of humans waiting at the bottom like faint aliens of the deep. I
turn my attention to the far banks where a jungle lies, looking inhospitable in
its primordial state.

“… a small price to pay for such express
service.”

I understan
d the general idea of what
Kharon’s
saying
but it makes as much sense as the plucked tubes of
logic in a dream, which is what this is, or so I keep trying to convince
myself. I
forgo
asking
any other questions but as it is indeed with dreams or nightmares, the most
fearsome enemy’s a character who can read your thoughts. One eye glows like a
cat’s from deep within the old man’s hood.

“Certainly you know what an obolus is,” Kharon thunders as he
looms like a storm cloud at the opposite end of the boat. “You have family and
friends. Or are you an orphan?”

With the agility of a younger man, Kharon pounces on me to part my
jaws and actually grope inside my mouth. His uncanny strength strikes terror
into me and all the muscles in my body turn flaccid in his grip.

“NOTHING! Then you shall wait a hundred years ashore like the
rest!” The old man’s nails are long and yellow and they cut deep, nasty gashes
down both my cheeks. His hood thrown back, Kharon reveals wispy hair on a
mostly bald pate and the drooping jowls of a tramp. But though one eye turns to
focus on me, the other remains still, replaced with a rather modern-looking
device that’s a cross between a monocle and a sniping rifle’s scope crudely
wedged in the knothole that is his eye socket. Kharon’s grinning with wonky
shark teeth and the stench of a vulture’s beak.

He capsizes his own boat.

Thousands of bubbles rise to meet me as I crash and struggle
underwater.
Now
I’m treading, fighting back the onset of panic. Some of the oversized polliwogs
have gotten stuck to my hair and arms and they’re all squirming to be free and
far from the commotion I’ve stirred up on the surface.

I
can hear tiny, dying squeaks as the delicate creatures burst at my touch,
effectively clearing the water within a one-meter radius. I know I should
propel myself to the riverbanks but before I can put thought to action, the
dead reach out of the water with their tender, wrinkly hands. I’m instantly
surrounded as the lonesome keening of a banshee fills the cold, quiet air.

Out
of the corner of my eye, I catch a glint that’s foreign to the backdrop of the
distant thicket. This detail pierces my consciousness because I thought Kharon
had materialized on the river bank, but boatman and boat look undisturbed and
have carried on across the river. I can hear the old man laughing at my plight
and make out the huddled shapes of other passengers on the ferry. How I
could’ve missed all those people in one small boat no amount of logic could
ever explain.

The
discovery races through my brain even as the adrenalin surges through my
bloodstream: there’s another entity present in the scene. I know this for a
fact because there are four of the metallic objects superimposed on the
figure’s face – like two pairs of goggles worn simultaneously, suggesting an
insectile mask. With inspiration, I imagine a long-haired, willowy river naiad,
half her face swallowed by two pairs of eyes that warp her softness into
something harsh and unsettling. But I’m all out of time to indulge this
fantasy.

A
dozen icy arms smother and pull me under. I can hear Kharon’s laughter fading
as I cough and gasp for air. I vaguely realize this is the second time I’m
drowning on the same day. And the last thing I see is the bold flash in the
jungle as though the voyeur is getting a kick out of watching me die.

Wet and warm sensations all over my face, in a slobbery,
affectionate way that for a moment I think I’m back at Blessed Children’s and
being woken up by Gamby. Then I remember the stray puppy has been dead over
fifteen years and my eyes snap open. A bear of a dog is licking my face – or
rather, the blood dripping out of the open wounds in my face – while something
close is making a hissing sound like a snake pit.

I drag my ass through the muddy bank and scream. Another dog turns
to snarl at me and then a third, till my brain registers that all three heads
are attached to the same giant,
thickly-muscled neck
.

Kerberos.
Greek mythology from high school
floods over me and I break into cold sweat.
The Hellhound. Sibling to the
monsters Chimaera and Hydra.

A
ll three heads are barking a volley of thunder so I press my hands
over my ears to protect them from further damage, and my eyes fall on the
curious mane flowing down the dog’s broad back. In minute detail, I note how
the hair is sort of glistening, slimy, and
moving
. I watch horrified as
the sight resolves into a hundred small snakes with their tails all knotted
together, their bodies writhing and heads spitting in agitation.

I take little comfort from the idea that the legendary guard dog
of Hell won’t harm me. My memory of high school readings had better be correct
when it says Kerberos is here so the spirits of the dead can enter but none can
ever leave.

Besides, I realize I’ve got bigger things to worry about as I
stare beyond the hellhound at a sea of people pouring out of a familiar boat
that has ploughed ashore; its demonic ferryman nowhere in sight, thank God.
Every man, woman, and child appears sluggish and hypnotized. They shamble
together just outside a dense fog that covers the land. Then, out of the
dimmest instinct, they fall in wavy lines disappearing into the white curtain.

Overhead, a LED message sign that’s oddly manmade greets: “WELCOME
TO NECRO CITY!!!!” its red letters scrolling over and over. A growl from
Kerberos tells me I have no choice but to move on through the fog and face the
music.  

****

The first thing you’ll notice about hell is the presence, even the
abundance, of water in the form of rivers and lakes, contrary to popular
belief. First, I’ve come by the
Akheron
River, where Kharon transports
the souls of the dead from the other side. Then there’s
Lethe
, Pool of
Forgetfulness, from which the departed drink to shed every vestige of their
past lives; and
Kokytos
, Greek for lamentation, the frozen lake where
spirits lie entombed in ice except for half their faces. They sob their hearts
out but the tears freeze as soon as they touch skin, pressing the eyes shut and
taking away that last bit of comfort humans normally find in crying.

M
y fears grow with every step I take. It’s chilling to contemplate
how stories of eternal damnation are coming true before my eyes, what in life
I’ve always treated with skepticism and mockery. Soon I and my languid
companions find ourselves at a derelict airport terminal bustling with people.

Most of the seats in the waiting area are dusty and gutted and the
glass booths where passengers are supposed to get their passports stamped have
all been emptied. But in front of the booths three different entitie
s
stand
guard like this world’s version of immigration officers. My psychic ability
must be a hundred times stronger in this place because I instantly become aware
of these three creatures; these
reapers
.

The first is Kera, the Spirit of Vengeance who’s responsible for
conducting everyone who experienced a violent death. She’s a battle maiden in
plate armor, with an ebony face and short, curly blonde hair. She’s exactly the
type to bring home to mama except for the fangs, talons and huge pair of raven
wings on her back.

The second is Ankou, a really creepy clown with a constantly
nodding Jack-in-the-box head. The face has owl eyes and a mouth filled with
shark teeth stretching from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat’s grin. In one
hand he holds a whip that used to be somebody’s spine and in the other a drippy
clot of blood the size of a ball.

The last is Yama Ranger, a Westernized Hindu deity with indigo
skin and four arms, two of which are presently crossed. He wears a ten-gallon
hat whose shadow isn’t enough to hide the devilish burning of his eyes or the
glow of his cigar, and then the rest of the authentic cowboy outfit: bandanna,
vest, chaps, woolen trousers, boots and spurs. He has two six-shooters tucked
in his chest cross-draw holsters, and hooked to his gun belt is a lasso that
has the ability to banish overstaying ghosts to the depths of the underworld.

A line of invisible bodyguards keep the hysterical mob away and
the three reaper
s
stand impassively in front. Ankou, the clown reaper,
assigns a destination to every weary traveler by flicking and wrapping his whip
around his own body. The crack the whip produces each time is as loud as
thunder, and the number of coils it makes around his body represents a
location.

All at once
I witness yet another desecration
of the basic principles of physics.  One second I’m waiting among tens of
thousands of people of varying ages, races and trades: office workers,
laborers, students, plutocrats, hipsters; all terrified out of their wits
because who knows how to face death properly, even the few who try to put brave
fronts look plain pathetic in the looming shadow of what lies ahead. The next
moment I’m standing before the three reapers and quaking in naked fear,
shamefully wetting myself and crying in repentance and supplication, all to
numb ears because it’s too late, all too late; this even as hundreds of other
spirits stand in the exact same spot.

Through my tear-blinded eyes, I see Ankou’s frozen leer as he
passes judgment on me. The clown’s ossified whip makes seven coils, indicating
the Seventh Circle which is the place for suicides (again I learn psychically),
then a gust of wind blasts up from under my feet like too much gas-pressure
belching out of a manhole – only there was no manhole, covered or otherwise,
just solid tarmac; or so I thought. This release is so strong that it launches
me hundreds of feet up in the air.

When I finally
descend with arms flailing in a
parabola bound by the rules of gravity, I’m taking in the view of a citywide
mine burrowing straight down to the molten bowels of the earth. There are
canyons so vast and grotesque they could be the work of giants, and yet in all
their superhuman scale every glowing crag and jagged edge fills with the animal
howls of the damned. I shut my eyes to the sight.

I land violently – breaking both legs with a terrible cracking
sound and white explosions of pain – but consoling myself with the thought that
anything that happens to me on this wild journey can’t bring any real harm
since my physical body’s already gone. My mind, still teetering on the brink,
is another matter though.

I
manage to stand on two legs that appear to be bent in all the
wrong places, behaving like some android from the future with only a vague
understanding of pain. I dust myself and wince at my skinned face, palms, and
feet before realizing with some fascination that I’m still wearing my wetsuit.

I consider the ground I’m standing on: a razor-thin ledge of dry,
cracked soil. At a distance stands a lone structure that resembles an elevator,
notwithstanding the mounds of rock that have thrust out of the earth and
wrapped around the frame of its doors.

D
enying any moment of reprieve, the precarious stage begins to
shake and the elevator doors hiss apart. Out of the yawning blackness, long
chains fly forth as though flung with invisible harpoons. They pierce the edges
of my neck, wrists, and thighs like machine-gun fire and, at the exit wounds,
bloom into mini-grappling hooks that secure their catch and drag me writhing
into the dark maw.

I’m only half-conscious of other people
undergoing
the same
sadistic treatment. Apart from my own,
I can hear wails screeching into mad laughter as we are
all, slowly but confidently, dragged towards our darkest nightmare.

Our backs
slam against the walls and stay
there, as though the elevator was actually a rotor ride in an amusement park.
As much as I want to glimpse my fellow passengers, I ca
n’t even turn
my head as I hang restrained by all the weird g-forces and
the tightening chains that smell of either rust or blood.

There’s an elevator boy standing by the doors and shouting out
each floor, all of them going downwards and deeper to the true essence of
terror. Only it doesn’t look like there are buttons to operate the box;
instead, the boy’s fingers tighten and loosen around ropes that stretch up to
the ceiling.

In the end
, no matter how hard my sanity
refuses to accept it, the thing that’s carrying us proves to be less of a
modern machine and more of a giant bucket in a well. And what I’ve taken for
ropes leading to a pulley above are looking more and more like intestines
exiting the kid’s punctured stomach!

“Sub-level 2,” the poor tortured soul, who has his back turned and
his head covered with a visor cap, calls out. “Souls driven over the edge by
passion. Pervs, pedos, rapists, sex slavers and cyber-stalkers.”

The voice is drugged lethargy mixed with the most potent dose of
despair. The doors open and a howling squall, as though from a storm battering
a ship, whips inside and spirits several individuals away. I see countless
people outside being tossed back and forth like rag dolls in the air, their
feet never to touch the ground. Then the doors close.

Without batting an eye, the elevator boy continues: “Sub-level 3:
The gluttons and those who gorged themselves while others starved. Junkies and
escapists…”

The elevator bell dings. This time the doors let in an icy gust
packed with fly-infested black snow and rock-size hail. It plucks the bulkier
of my companions off the walls like they were weightless then dumps them in
what I believe to be fields of rotting corpses sweeping endlessly. The stench
is enough to make a grown man’s stomach churn but, incredibly, the automatic
doors shut it all out.

I’m
painfully learning that hell is patterned
after Greek mythology and Dante.  It’s divided into nine concentric
circles, nine underground layers, the next more vicious than the one above it
until the burning core of the planet where the sentence is carried out on the
great serpent Abaddon himself. Every sinner for all eternity receives punishment
equal to the chief sin he committed, ever in a grislier dose of poetic justice.

I
know I’m going to faint any second so, as soon as this thought
occurs to me, tiny pieces of wire creep delicately under my eyelids to keep
them from closing. Compelling electric charges also zap my vision right back
into focus as though to remind me not to look away or I’d miss the show.

“Sub-level 4. Money-hoarders, squanderers, and corrupt
politicians. ‘
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and
rust doth corrupt, and where gentlemanly Death shall come like a thief in the
night
’ and all that.”  

In addition to the chains, black collars with long spikes
materialize out of thin air and snap like cobras around a great many necks.
Then all the chosen ones are tugged out of the elevator with their leashes.
They are flung against gigantic, cartoony bags filled to bursting and alight
with gold shine.

Brief, steam-like hisses accompany the repeated sound of nail guns
punching, as the inverted collar spikes sink into human necks, drawing blood
and pressuring the new slaves to start pushing the huge money bags along.

“Sub-level 5: Child-killers, mass murderers, and random shooters.
Those who bullied the weak. Plus the lazy and the worthless, the depressed and
the anti-social. Here you will also find the abominable River Styx.”

I
smell something like sewer gas and before anyone can scream “God
have mercy,” a tidal wave of thoroughly nasty water has
engulfed
the elevator. But I savor a few precious seconds of peace
thinking how like a blessing it would be to finally die in the intangible hands
of the element I’ve first chosen to smother my life. Now already on our third
encounter…