Dead Awake: Devil Six Feet Under (The Dead Walking Book 2)

by Hades

  “You don’t even remember!” said Noelia. You were just tricking me and pushing me aside, with no true intentions at all!” And before the tears started again, I spoke.

  “No honey, of course I remember. The plans for our wedding are more important to me than anything. We were going to get married. Of course I didn’t forget. But I thought we could just go to this thing first, since it is so important, and maybe plan everything tomorrow, with a little more time on our hands.”

  I wish I hadn’t said the word “maybe,” or been so hesitant when talking about marriage, but for some reason she didn’t catch that hesitation – perhaps because she really wanted to believe. Altogether, things would have worked themselves out, I think, had I not been so terribly set on this mountain thing.

  “But I already told my parents, like you told me to,” she said, “And they were so happy, and everyone was planning on tonight. And you think this ritual, this satanic fever, is something we should go to instead of our planning for the rest of our lives!” Her steadfastness was planting its solid roots in front of me and that was exactly what I didn’t want. I was thinking that I could somehow convince her and that she would see that everything I was saying was right.

  “No honey,” I zealously continued, “But it’s so important that we go. It can clear our minds, and—”

  “My mind’s already clear! And so is yours! I know what I want and you are making it awful for me! Why can’t you just love me?” The crying started again and my heart sank, but my stupid self was full of the frenzy that (I don’t know why) took over me.

  “Baby, come on. It can’t be that bad. We can go and then—”

  “No! I will not go to that thing!”... And it was clear. She stopped crying, at an instant, and was almost angry, at least as angry as I’d ever seen Noelia, besides our breakup. Yet still as a fool, I kept it up.

  “Dear, tomorrow we’ll plan. Today we can go to Sacrala.” I don’t know how I thought I could convince her. It was wrong of me to even try, but so I stirred things until I ended up in that awful place I’d made myself go to before: without her and alone.

  “No! You go by yourself, if you have to, but I will not go.” She turned away hurt, but I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to see something that would touch my feelings and make me reconsider, so I turned hard and gave my reply.

  “I can’t believe you, Noelia! I will go by myself then!” The words were rigid, but I made myself say them, though it felt so bad. But something was dragging me, pulling me, like a snake around my soul, up to the mountain; to the place they called Sacralego. I couldn’t make her go with me, so I went anyway, in spite of the fact that she really needed me and that my place was with her.

  I ran... And when I couldn’t run, I jogged; up the eternal slope, trying to reach those who were miles ahead. Their numbers could be seen as dim blotches of color, moving like great swarms of ants, far up the distant mountain slope. The faint echo of the rhythmic thump and the whaling screams of the madness caught my ear; but at such a distance it was a strain to hear.

  After some time the drum, drum, drum matched the rhythm to my heart and I followed the slow dance up the mountain. It had caught me again. The same psychosis, a need to find the top, entered my blood and once again became the life of my running feet.

  Boom-badda, boom-badda, boom-badda, boom. It was the lovely melody that turned reality into a trance. It was a sleepy dream, held now alive and awake, promising me a glimpse of its body at the top. There I would come face to face with El Sacralego!

  Where was it? What was it? I couldn’t wait! The music got louder. I was getting closer. Even the sound of people’s chattering became distinct, but as I came closer I recognized that it wasn’t the sound of people talking, but of them screaming and chanting, so wild and compulsively strange, as they all went. Inhuman wailing mixed with the sounds of hell-dogs: the screeching of the baboons, the strange sounds of the snakes, winding, winding and breaking the branches they were carried on, mixed with the people’s imp-like sounds. Here and again the birds cawed and squalled, sounding almost human. And then again, they were the only things that sounded mortal. Though my hair stood on end, I felt comfortable.

  Everything got louder and louder, until I finally caught up. When I cleared the last bushes that separated me from them, I landed smack in the middle of their march forward, through another path that crossed their trail. The body of masses pressed by me like a river of lava and it was loud, but it was home to my pulsing blood. I was walking now, aside the great procession. It gave me time to catch my breath again, as now there was no hurry. This time, I didn’t need to talk to anyone. Words were meaningless and inaudible here. There was a greater speech, the sound of the whole, and it was loud.

  Right in front of me was the center of it: the mass of people, harmonious to an almost poetic chaos. They were all holding a horse-sized wooden statue of some saint they’d painted in many colors. All were adoring it and throwing things at it: necklaces, jewelry and other things of less a value. People threw handfuls of corn and other vegetables they smeared on the silent wooden feet.

  The more we climbed, the stranger it got, but all to me was a celebration of light. I was held in the hands of an euphoric sensation and could not be released. There was mirth everywhere, and everything was good. I was so happy to have caught up, and the more I climbed with them, the less and less I remembered any problems with Noelia.

  We were halfway to the peak, which was lit up by the moonlight. It must have been ten or eleven at night by that time, but the hours went by without notice. I felt it was late, but that was only the beginning. As altitude increased, sensations became stronger and the celebration more intense. I could feel the wind blowing on my skin, noticing the hairs on my skin being moved, as if some erratic change in nature was breathing a sort of mist on us all. Every pore in my flesh was enlivened with a sensation of electrical substance, bouncing across my skin, making every hair rise with a static vibration.

  A weight of an abstruse essence rested on my shoulders, like the weight of a person getting up, but I could see no one. It felt like darkness, but was soothing, as the night feels on burnt skin. Something inside me was frightened of the feeling, yet I couldn’t resist being fascinated with whatever it was that was beside me. It was as if there was a stranger’s voice inside my head and it was coaxing me, telling me that things were fine and that I should feel secure with the feelings I was having, as if it were a friend that was guiding me through a difficult time. So I trusted, although the senses in my body were trembling at it.

  Then came the real dance, “the dance of air,” for it was as if the particles became alive. Although I couldn’t see, I was sure that it was happening for I could feel it, every inch of my body could. It felt like a gale, charged with static. I looked for proof to the leaves on the trees, but they were still. The dance was around us, but it made no effect on other things. I could feel the presence of people jumping around us: people we couldn’t see, but that were surely there. It was all so hard to explain, because I’d never had another experience quite like that in all my life. Oftentimes “the dance” (for it felt as if the whole of it were one giant presence) would go through my body, but other times it felt as if people passed on either side of me, but when I looked there was no one.

  The dance was all around, in the air, on the ground, inside everyone there. I felt a bubbling in my belly, as if my stomach were on a burner, but without the pain. Instead, it gave me vigor.

  At times, when the winds came dancing close, I thought I felt myself being pushed out of my own body. It was as if I was being shoved out of the back seat of a car, where the place I sat was my body, and my body being pushed out was my spirit. Then immediately after that, I’d come recoiling back in, as a rubber band back into place. The whole thing made me dizzy and left me feeling out of place and confused. Reality was shifting – or was I the one shifting – viewing different points in reality? One time I was pushed so far that I thought
I saw myself from a tree, but the next moment I was back, watching it all from the same point of origin.

  A sane thought came for a second. What if these people were all on some wild trip? It wouldn’t be hard to conceive that this whole “Sacralego” deal was one big drug party and that everyone was using some kind of narcotic or hallucinogenic. That would certainly explain everything I’d gone through. Certainly things had gotten stranger, and there were many things being burnt that could have produced some kind of mass-delirium. The thought stayed for a while and then I just gave in to observing and admiring again. Perhaps I was right, and if so, the fumes had overcome me again. There were so many things to marvel over, along with the continual dance that pushed me up the mountain’s slope. It was no wonder I sank right back into its spell.

  I saw smaller statues being carried in front and behind us. Some were made from wood, but others more unusual. There was one that was made of wax: a statue of a man; and its hands and face were dripping where it was lit. There was another, also of wax, that was painted red and black. It looked like a jester-clown, with each of its hats (or maybe they were horns) lit and also dripping. Then I thought I saw a live-man, for he turned to look at me. His face was dripping with melting wax, and his fingers were made of wax also, lit at each tip and melting, some of which were halfway gone.

  There were others like him, as I looked about, but stranger and more hideous. They frightened me as they walked by and smeared some of their wax on me. Their tongues struck out like serpents, and paint or wax dripped from their bare chests. I would have run, but the dance came on stronger and soon I was at ease again, as the presence on my shoulder suggested everything was good. This time I was sure I could feel its steamy breath as I thought I heard its words. But was it real? There was too much smoke, or incense, to see everything. Thus my awareness was dulled, and it calmed me, although my heart beat so strong that I thought it would stretch through my chest. Then came a voice at my side.

  It was easy to be startled, because it was a real voice and because it spoke to me. For a moment I thought it was the guide (the one that had suggested all the thoughts) come to life. Instead, it was the man that had met me at the bar. He must have shocked me, for I thought I’d never find him again, in such a crowd. Perhaps he had been there, all along, and was the voice I’d heard as whispers. It could have been. It was still possible that everything was just a hypnotic trance, because of the drugs. Letting go of my will, rather than try and fight, and simply letting myself go up the mountain, was the easiest. So I gave in, as I made sense of the voice.

  “You finally made it back,” said the small man.

  “Yea, I tried to go back and get her, but she wouldn’t come, so I came without her.” I looked at him with a spiraling mind. He sure was a small man, I thought, almost like an imp.

  The man roared into laughter; on and on, and it blended into the rest of the carnival. “She is better there, and you are better here?” and then he gave an urchin-wink.

  “Yes, definitely,” I answered quickly. “She wouldn’t understand all this. She says it’s evil.”

  The little man turned philosophical. “But what is evil, my friend, than what you turn to evil? Isn’t evil, good, if it is for a good cause or for the benefit of the body? And isn’t likewise good, evil, if it makes us sad and lonely and makes us miss the good thing?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. What does she know of evil?”

  “Yes, and what do you or she know of the devil, or angels, or gods, if there is no such a thing, but only Mother Earth that makes us and then brings us back to her? That is why we must go to honor her. Back to the clay, to the bath of mud that is in her mountain, to honor her before we die.” He looked happy to be telling me all that and more because I was accepting it. He smiled, as would a teacher when his pupil gets something right.

  “That is right. My uncle used to talk like that.”

  “And your uncle is here!” he said drawing my consummate attention. “He is here in the mountain! Waiting in the bath and in the clay. His spirit is here. Perhaps you can feel it?”

  “Yes, I think so. I think I have felt his spirit here and also others.” It was so intriguing, to find out more, especially about my uncle. I wanted to know more of what he said and clung to all the words. But why did he know about my uncle? This was a thought I would leave unanswered.

  “Ah, and you will feel it more, in the bath.” He paused for a second, and then continued with such a strong voice that it startled me. “Sacralego! It is a sacred place. You will feel many more things there, for there are many spirits. But you will not feel it in the mind, for the mind cannot feel such things. You will experience feelings and emotions that you never dreamed possible . . .”

  Then my mind drifted as concentration became difficult again. His voice drifted into the smoke-filled air and I was alone again, in the middle of the masses. I was with them, and they with me, and we were all one with the dance that took us up the mountain’s path. I began to feel those new feelings he had talked about; then strange-joy came, as was promised, and melted through me.

  I couldn’t focus. I could just let the stream of drumbeats take me. The dance went on and on, each step growing and expanding, as it matured itself into the splendor of a ritual. Men leaped and women screeched, as the demands of the idols grew. Offerings, to the wooden and wax statues became dancing bodies. Women threw themselves onto the godly-wooden saints that were driven; carried by the shoulders of sweating men. I thought I recognized one of them as Saint Augustine, yet it was strangely altered.

  The form of the dance grew wilder, as the minutes or hours passed. The women now began to lick the feet of the idols and their tongues extended outward in exaggeration. The men also fell at the feet of the idols. It was Gomorrah, and all part of the dance.

  As compulsion flared, I too joined the ungodly thing, already becoming a part of it as it brought me away from God, but closer to my Mother Earth. At that moment I could feel the warmth of her breath beating in my chest. She was in me, Mother Earth. It was a ritual set up for me to get to know the one I’d been estranged from all my life. We were all connected as a whole in the ritual to honor our Earth. I became animal with them – I was earth, made of earth, earth was me.

  Strung beads clung around the necks of the wax statues. People threw them, lighting them with wicks and making fire-loops out of burning necklaces. Some landed, some missed. Those that missed caught the forest trees on fire and made the spectacle even grander.

  It was a parade of burning, to honor us as we passed. The beads that landed on the wooden saints looked like crowns made from the stars, as they burnt on forever. But more spectacular were the necklaces that caught the wax idols. These burnt right through, in a sense of late-night horror. In an instant the necks melted, as the heads rolled off and landed on the ground, burning. All along, the music picked up its pace; faster and faster, as the heads spun in flames and all bodies turned to see. Flipping, twisting... We had arrived at Sacralego!

  There we were, at the pool of mud, the ritual place called Sacralego. It was a large hole, like a swimming pool, circular in shape and deep, but full of mud. The air of the night was thick and wet. Everyone was in a fever because of the place. From my guess, it must have been one or two in the morning, but there was no way of telling for sure. By the rage of the ritual-dance I found myself standing waist deep, on the outer edge of the pool, a little reluctant to step further in. Modesty was covered by mud; but insufficient to meet the needs of decency.

  The music continued, either from the beating of drums or the hurly-burly combination made by the splashing noises of everyone.

  I was soon engulfed by the humus rite and found myself swaying in the mud, while the music of my heart teetered a slow tempo. Mother Earth sung to me. Her sweet smell ran through my nostrils and her earthly touch cooled my entire body and ran color through my cheekbones. The clay was a bath of minerals, tingling all over with effervescent contact.

  Each p
erson, arriving at the site, slid into the pool. Some stayed in it longer and others slithered out, like reptiles climbing out of water, to have their body dried by the sun’s rays; except there was no sun. It was only night, with the damp air that never dried the shell of clay.

  Everyone inside the pool twisted as if playing a game of solitaire-twister, while the healing elements coddled their bodies. The strange statues kept burning on the ground and everyone was animal to me, but I was not human.

  White teeth were all to be seen, contrasting the black bodies of mud. Then everyone was caught in some dizzy-spell again. It was the game of inhibitions lost, as the senses were awakened and “Hunger” announced its presence.

  I stood there and watched a dance that to me was so bizarre, but fascinating and appealing. It was extraordinary. My mind felt brighter, like the man had said it would. The effervescence of the pool was in my mind and it was good. All that was promised was taking place. The lunacy had left me, as far as I could detect. It had gone away with the dance and the mud and now I only felt overindulged. It felt as if I’d gone to a spa for the weekend and found myself lulled, massaged, and comforted for the entire stay. My worries had abandoned me, for the time, and I was home here, with Mother Earth, and mud, and darkness. I was one with the people. Equal to everyone. Fitting in as part of their ceremony.

  A girl appeared in front of me. She was dancing with everyone, yet she kept near to me deliberately, and I noticed it was something more than just a dance.

  Men on the outside of the pool brought large sacks to the banks and emptied what looked like burning white coals into the mud. This made a fizzle while the coals reacted with the mud’s minerals. The consequence of it produced a tingle inside my body and stirred a mood that I’d never felt before.

  My eyes seemed to go yellow and everything was different. My nostrils could smell, as if they’d been clogged all my life and finally flared with breath. I could detect every smell, especially the predominant one. It was a peculiar odor, but old and familiar; producing a vapor with strength like a blanket that clung to everything but went through me.