Crow Of Thorns

by Richard Mosses

  “Well done.”

  “Gee, thanks. How do I get there without, you know, actually dying?”

  “It's also called the Underworld for a reason.”

  Feeling like a bit of an eejit, but not humiliated, I start looking around for somewhere to go down. Orpheus went in through a cave I think, but there was a dog and a ferry-man. In my pockets I have 30 pence, not bad for dream change. That wouldn't even get me through the turnstile for the toilets at Central Station. “I don't think I have enough coins for Chiron.”

  “That's okay. The route we'll take you won't be needin it. Just have to cross the hair bridge,” Corbie says. “If you can't find a path on land, maybe there's one beneath the waves?”

  At the edge of the loch, the salt water laps against my boots. Despite the sun, the water is slate-coloured and opaque. It looks cold. But I remember that childhood summer, disturbing crabs that lurked under the seaweed, and in and out of the water all day. I wade in. The water rises up over my boots, running inside, wicking up my trousers. It's cool and clingy and I shiver. I force myself to keep going. I may live in a tent, but I've grown up a soft city-dweller. The water rises up to my knees, my thighs, my hips and I go under. Full immersion. The salt stings my eyes, the water is cloudy with silt, but I can see well enough to find my way. Hopefully there are no conger eels or other large beasties lurking out here. A few meters out there's a hole where the raised beach falls off into the fjord. Clumsy in my clothes, I swim over to it and it looks like I can squeeze in. I look around for Corbie, but can't see him. I know what I have to do. I break the surface and take a deep breath then plunge down into the tunnel. Going in deep, my shoulders occasionally scrape the rock and then I realise I have no idea how far I need to go. The rock seems to push in on me and I have to hold in the air I have left. I push on, close to panic and then there is light up above. I kick upward, desperate. Bursting through the surface, I gasp for air. It is a few moments before I take in my surroundings. I am in a cave, a hole in the roof opens it up to the sky. A full moon hangs there perfectly illuminating the cave.

  I pull myself out of the pool, water streaming down me, clothes a second wetter skin. The air is cool in here. I wring some of the water out of my shirt and trousers before peeling them back on again.

  On the wall there are images, drawn in silver by the moonlight. Most of them are diamond shapes or the outlines of hands where paint has been blown over them. There are herds of bison. One or two are more complicated; a man appears to have been lanced by several spears, another has bird wings, a third has human rear legs, the body and tail of a deer, the arms and head of a human, but the face looks like an owl and antlers emerge from the head. All of them are done with perspective, like the Lascaux cave paintings. They look very real, rather than representative. Reflections from the pool almost seem to bring them to life.

  Absorbed in these pictures, my clothes have dried, when I hear a scuffling noise. Could it be an animal coming home, or looking for a drink? I've not seen any bedding or bones. Maybe there are other people here, people trying to find their lost souls. I don't know what to expect, friend or foe.

  Edging towards the slope leading up to the cave entrance, I feel nervous and afraid. I follow it up to the hole in the roof and poke my head out. The landscape is flat, empty except for a few weathered rocks and spiny bushes. Desolate is the word that comes to mind. Far in the distance mountains rise up, capped with snow. I'm almost glad that I can't see any dead people. Nothing is moving, except curls of dust, so I emerge feeling a little more confident. How could anything live here anyway? I must have heard the wind eroding rock or some loose stones finally losing to gravity.

  There are no clues to which way I need to go, no river to follow, no handy signs. I start to miss Corbie. Where has the little bastard gone to? At least he knew what was going on. I must have been desperate or deluded to agree to this.

  My body must have been found by now, given some antibiotics. I'll be better soon, come round. So who found me? Albert, who looked out for us in a way we clearly didn't look out for him, is in the mortuary or more likely a funeral home. Depends what day it is. He'll not notice anyone missing their routine now. What about Kathryn? She'll call me back, get worried when I don't pick up, come looking for me. Kathryn who's divorcing me. Moving on. Loyalty all used up, squandered while I slept in a park. There is no one at work. They'll only notice me gone if a server goes down and stays down. Maybe Sindi in the café? Sure, like she's going to miss a light tipper. This is my own mess, and I'll have to do it myself.

  I follow my nose. It picks a mountain and I start heading towards it. I have no idea how much time is passing. The stars don't move and the constellations are unknown to me. If it wasn't for the moon I'd wonder if I was on an imaginary Earth at all. Come to think of it, the moon hasn't moved either. Its full face beams down at me, dumb, smug and benign. I look back and can't make out the cave I crawled from. The mountain is just as far away. It's like walking through a painting. I don't feel tired. I don't feel thirsty. More than anything I'm plain bored of stubbing my toes on rocks and my legs being stabbed by the thorny bushes. I sit down just to have a break from the act of walking. Closing my eyes, I try to wake up in the real world, in my tent. When I open them again I'm still in the desert, and nothing has changed. I feel angry. This is so stupid. I'm trapped in my head – hidden in a dream.

  A dream. My dream. Who's in charge here? I've dreamed I'm naked at school. I've flown. Sometimes I'm naked then too. Dreams are never this…concrete, but it's all in my head.

  I rise up into the air. Just an inch, then two. I move forward in the air, a millimetre, an inch, a foot, a metre. And then back again. I levitate higher. If I fall I'll either die or wake.

  I conjure a ball of fire in my left hand, a sword in my right. I keep my clothes on. You never know who you'll meet.

  Corbie said something about a hairy bridge. It sounds unpleasant – a matted nest of grease and lice, rather than shampoo ad silky.

  Rising up into the air, higher and higher, my horizon recedes away. There is a cleft far off, almost beyond my sight. So far off that I can't be certain it isn't just a fault in the landscape.

  Flying towards it, slower than walking, I feel slightly sick, like I used to in the backseat of the car when dad was driving. It passes and I try moving faster and faster. I'm at running speed, sprinting, and then flat out cycling. No bugs here to fly into my eyes and mouth.

  The cleft broadens as I get closer. And deeper. It isn't a cleft. It's the wall on the far side of a canyon. A Grand Canyon. The far side is several miles away.

  I fly over the edge. Then my support is kicked out from under me. I fall.

  The edge slips past.

  A long, thick root rushes toward me.

  I hit it, hard. I slide off, and fall again.

  My hands grasp it and hold.

  My shoulders creak and my back muscles strain. But I hold on.

  My heart is racing, my breathing heavy.

  Looking down would be a bad idea. I know there is a clear mile or more to the bottom. My arms send me messages in pain. I ask more of them as I pull myself up onto the root. I straddle it and lie flat, resting for a moment.

  The root tears grey soil from the canyon wall.

  Slithering along it, I get up onto my feet as it comes away. Smaller roots stick out and I grab hold of them, pulling myself up towards the edge of the cliff bit by bit. My hands slip. My feet scramble for purchase. My grip is strained. I haul myself over the lip and stay there face down in the dust.

  Eventually the pains in my arms, my chest, my back, all fade into the background. My breathing returns to normal. I sit up and try to wipe the dirt from my face using a hand caked in earth.

  “What took you so long?” Corbie is perched on a large stake beaten into the ground.

  I throw a clod of earth at him. It misses by miles and falls into the abyss.

  “You need some anger management lessons,” Corbie says.

/>   “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Right here, at the hair bridge.”

  “I can't see any bridge.”

  “Look closer.”

  I look around, but the only object here is the stake. A thread is wound around the top, and then a single fine fibre stretches out from the stake and across the chasm. “What the hell kind of creature has a hair long enough to cross over a canyon?”

  Corbie just gives his Gallic shrug.

  “Since I can't fly over, I'm guessing I have to do some kind of high wire act on the hair.” It can't be done. A hair that fine will snap as soon as I put my weight on it.

  The bird just looks at me.

  I get up, feeling stiff and raw. There's about two metres of hair before it passes over the edge and out across the wide canyon. Lifting my left foot onto the hair, I push down with some of my weight. Any moment I expect it to break and Corbie to rawk with laughter at his practical joke. The hair shifts a little but takes the weight I put on it. I increase my weight and to my surprise it appears to support me. Lifting my right foot I try to balance on the slender thread. I put my right foot down onto the hair and shift my weight forward. So far, so good. But I can still fall off onto dry earth. Moving my left in front of my right, my leg quivers as it tries to keep me upright. I put my arms out into a T-shape. I cross another foot over and come near to the cliff edge. The hair starts to give a little as it stretches under my weight.

  While I want to jump off right now, I want to reach the other side and I know that it will be easier if I keep moving. Corbie jumps up onto my shoulder. I rock from side to side as I compensate for his weight and the surprise of him jumping on me. “Don't look down,” he says. His thorns pass close to my ear, scratching the air beside it.

  “I'll do my best not to.” I would have batted him off, but I know it would only lead to me falling. Moving forward again, one foot is over the air. My breathing quickens. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. My back and armpits are wet and my shirt sticks to my body. I struggle to regain control.

  Slowly my breathing returns to normal. My legs feel weak already. There's still a long way to go. I've haven't done anything like this since PE in primary school. It's fair to say I was more interested in PCs.

  I put another foot in front of the other, leaving the safety of the earth behind. I put another in front, and another. I start to gain confidence as I get some rhythm to my movement. Another foot and another. Another foot and another.

  “Eyes front soldier.” Corbie seems to sense my desire to turn my head to see how far I've gone. “Don't look down. Don't look left. Just look ahead.”

  “Yes, sir!” I keep on shuffling forward, feeling the empty space around me. It's like when I was flying, except I don't feel in control. I laugh. Is this a lesson or am I just seeing parallels?

  “What's so funny?” says Corbie.

  “I realised just how much we depend on things we can't see, we forget they're there. Like this bridge.” I keep putting one foot in front of another. The soles of my feet are starting to hurt. The trembling in my legs is almost uncontrollable. I feel like I've been walking for an hour. “How much further?”

  “I think you're about halfway.”

  “Great.” A drop of sweat drips down off my nose. I can't help it. My eyes follow it. I look down. Just for a moment. There's no bottom to the canyon. It really is an abyss. It stretches down forever. No end, just darkness. Are there stars? It pulls me down.

  A savage pain rips across my ear. I snap back. And lose my balance.

  I stagger forward and back trying to right myself. I sway to the left and the right.

  Corbie swings out like bullion in the back of a bus, before hopping across me to help me correct myself. I finally regain control but my legs are stiff rubber. Blood trickles down my ear onto my shoulder where Corbie slashed me.

  Slowly I put one foot in front of another. My arms are heavy. My shoulders ache. Moving forward is the only way. One more step brings me one more step closer to the far side. The long line across my sight nears.

  I try to lift my foot, but it won't come up. My legs are tired but not that worn down. I pull as hard as I can risk without overcompensating. It's like my shoes are stuck to the hair. The other one is the same. I risk a quick glance down. The hair is like a fine cheese wire. It has cut into the soles of my shoes. Turning my feet slightly helps me move forward, but makes balancing harder. Only a few more steps and the hair cuts through the soles again.

  I reckon I'm about three quarters of the way there. The fine wire starts to slice into the soles of my feet. Each step is slippery, each footstep tricky, as I negotiate the lattice of existing incisions on the soles of my shoes, bearing the pain as I shift my weight, and then must try and get the ruins of my shoe loose again.

  The far side is clear to me now. I can make out the stake the hair is suspended from on this side. It looks hauntingly familiar. For a moment it feels like I have gotten turned around and returned to where I came from. I almost let myself fall out of despair. But a small red ribbon whips out from around the stake.

  I wish I could run the last few steps, but reaching the far side soon resembles Xeno's Paradox as I weakly make smaller and smaller forward movements. As it causes the hair to slip deeper into my calloused soles, I try not to slide my feet.

  My final step is onto land which takes my whole weight. The dry dust sucks up the blood drips. I pitch forward as my leg collapses under me. Corbie flaps off. I don't even have the strength to turn over. Once more I just lie there breathing dirt.

  Something jabs at my face and I bat it away lazily with my hand. Scorpion! I turn over and shuffle back. Only it's Corbie standing next to where I was lying. “I'd strangle you if I could hold onto your neck.”

  “We need to go,” Corbie says. “You're dyin, remember? No time for lyin around nappin.”

  “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute.” My shoes are cut to pieces. I try to take them off, but what's left of the inner soles is stuck to my feet. I strip away what I can and leave the rest. It's like opening a lobster. Habit makes me want to eat, but I have no hunger or thirst. My muscles feel okay again. However, every step lights up my feet with new agonies. “What is the point of that bridge? Couldn't they at least put a wider rope in?”

  “Too much pressure would cut right through someone heavy. Your spirit is light enough that you could cross.”

  “Because I'm dying?”

  “Because you aren't weighed down by your life.”

  “Isn't that the same thing?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “We still need to find a lost part of your soul.”

  “Shame we don't have a GPS tag on it.” It feels like I'm in a shower of light. I'm beginning to recognise this as a Eureka moment. I don't think I'm in my imagination anymore – the bridge was the crossing point I expect. Surely I'm still connected to this lost part of myself? Would it have made much difference if I'd thought of this earlier? “Computer, locate my lost soul and provide directions.” There is no reply.

  “That was a good idea.” Corbie lands on my shoulder again. “This is the Underworld, you're a shaman. Things don't work like that.”

  “If only there was a bird whose entrails I could consult instead.”

  A window opens up. In the top right is a bird's eye view of the local rocky terrain with a blue line across it showing a route. The main part of the window is see-through, but shows an arrow that appears to be a few metres ahead of us. An arrow pointing the way.

  I blow a raspberry at Corbie. “Looks like augmented reality just saved your gizzard.”

  “If I had a hat I would take it off to you.” Corbie bobs down in a way that seems like a bow. “I tell you, that's the first time I've been surprised in quite some time.”

  I start following the route, each step hot and sharp, leaving a trail of blooded footsteps behind us. The ground begins to change, turning from dry earth to slabs of warm s
tone, as though it retained the heat of the day from a scorching sun. Then the dark stone looks organic, rippled and folded – thick cream that petrified.

  After a while we come to a round hole. Perhaps this was an old volcano cone. The GPS indicates we should go down. I can't see how to do that. This does remind me a little of the cave where I came into this place. Walking round the rim I think I see a pool of rich cobalt blue water at the bottom. A wisp of steam moves across its flat surface, I'm sure of it. If I'm wrong, if I'm actually looking at volcanic glass, the drop will shatter my legs, and the shards will slice up what's left of me.

  I find a loose rock and drop it down. There's a small splash. Risky.

  Hesitating won't get me anywhere. I slide over the lip where I think there is most water, lowering myself down until I'm hanging by my arms. I close my eyes, and let go.

  After a brief moment of weightlessness I'm wrapped in a warm wet cocoon. Then I burst out of the water. Corbie glides down towards me. My eyes adjust to the gloom. Stalactites and stalagmites look ready to chew on anything between them. The water has a light whiff of bad eggs. A very polite entrance to Hell.

  The GPS points me to the back of the cave where there's a wide tunnel of ribbed stone like a giant's calcified intestine. I follow the tunnel until I hear a shuffling, snuffling sound. Something breathes heavily and moves restlessly. Has it caught our scent? Surely we're masked by the sulphur from the pool? Around a curve the tunnel widens out and I guess it becomes a room. I peer into the darkness trying to see what is further round the bend.

  Lying on the ground is a giant dog, a bit like a German Shepherd. Perhaps sensing my approach it lifts its head, then lifts it again, then lifts it a third time. It's hard to understand what I'm seeing. It stands up the same way. It's at least my height. Watching it gives me motion sickness. It's like there is future movement, the actual movement and then a trailing movement. I remember early pop videos from the 1970s with dancers surrounded by pre and post motion ghosting.

  I sneak back up the tunnel. “There's a guardian,” I say.