“Couldn't let any old riff-raff into the Underworld.” Corbie's whispers, like mine, echo up the tunnel. “Think of it as your final challenge.”
“So this is a test?”
“We've had a perfect pass rate, so far.”
“Death is a strong incentive.” I sit down on the tunnel floor. It feels warm. “I guess that's the Cerberus of legend. Three headed dog. Guards the way to Hades.”
Corbie studies me, like he is waiting for something. I remember my driving test. The last one. The look on my instructor's face not knowing if I'd passed or failed again. I wasn't sure even with the paper in my hand.
Hercules wrestled it into submission, like everything else. Orpheus played his music. I doubt I have the strength or the musical talent, but without some drugged meat those are my options.
I stand and walk back down the tunnel, starting to whistle a tune, but I can't remember the notes. I try to make something up, but it's got no melody. All the songs I've ever known flee my mind. There's a snarl as the dog hears me coming. “In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea,” I sing, my voice thin and trembling with nerves.
Walking into the hound's lair, it's immediately on its feet, growling. There is another tunnel beyond it and as casually as possible I head towards it, still singing. When I get to the chorus it is infected with the changes from childhood. “We all live in a tub of margarine, a tub of margarine, a tub of margarine.”
The dog's lips are peeled back from teeth as big as my fingers, but it doesn't move.
Halfway across, I forget the next verse. It's just gone. My mouth starts another round of the chorus. Cerberus must like it as he hasn't pounced on me yet. Down the tunnel out of this chamber, blocking the whole passage is a heavy wooden gate, separated into two halves. The left half is slightly open.
The dog takes a few steps forward and I freeze, my song falters. It looks like it's going to leap. I remember singing my kids to sleep. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.” Then, in a gravelly bass, Corbie joins me. “Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky.”
Cerberus sits down on its haunches, watching me cross his cave. I back into the tunnel that leads into the Underworld. Passing through the gate, Corbie skips in behind me. I slam the gate shut and swing down the bar. My song ends and Cerberus barks. It hurts my ears, but it sounds like a demand for more.
Neither of us cares for an encore. I realise my heart is racing hard. Turning around, I see that we are now in an impossibly large cave. We stand at the top of a path that winds down to the cave floor like a Swiss Alpine road. The cave itself has an entire city within it – a true Necropolis. There's a Downtown of cave scraping towers straight out of Manhattan or LA. Thousands of cathedrals of all styles mingle with parks in which henges compete with barrow mounds for space. I see all sorts of hanging trees ripe with strange fruit. There are not so much roads as motorways of the Dead. Pyramids, mausoleums, mountains of bones sit beside the architecture of every civilisation.
Silver light diffuses through the city from the far side of the cave, as though a giant moon is reflecting off wet walls. It is bright and hurts my eyes.
“What are those?” I point to tall thin spires with platforms on top of them.
“Excarnation towers.” Corbie waddles along beside me. “Put a body on top and in minutes vultures would have stripped the flesh.”
There is a huge thud and I nearly jump out of my skin as the hinges on the gate squeal. The wood strains, but the gate holds. A number of angry barks drown out any thought. A moment later another impact rocks the gate.
“Don't worry. He can't enter the Underworld. The best he can do is open the gate again,” Corbie says.
“He sounds pretty pissed off.” I walk backwards keeping a close eye on the gate. “You'd think they'd change the situation. Breed a dog that's immune to a showtune.”
“I guess they don't get enough visitors to make it a problem. Besides, we've still got to get back out again. It's like escapin from Alcatraz.”
“Where are you from, Corbie? You seem to know a hell of a lot about the modern world.”
“You thought that I was from some primitive tribe who lived in the dark ages or somethin? I died in the early seventies. The nineteen seventies. I was shamanizin in California and Nevada during the Hippie days. I got turned on at the New York World Fair in 64, before heading West. To be honest, I don't think I fully realised it at the time. I just helped people take their first acid trips in teepees. They saw new worlds and I still can't believe they grew up so square, denying the opportunity to everyone else. I died thinkin I could fly.” Corbie flaps his wings. “Is this ironic or poetic? I reckon I was spiked by the CIA, their MK-ULTRA program. It wasn't just me, you know. So it wasn't that long ago, and I keep an eye on what's going on.”
“The CIA tried to kill you?”
“They didn't try. They succeeded.”
“Right.”
We wind our way down towards the cave floor.
“Have you trained anyone else to become a shaman?”
“You got me there, bud. I'm earning my wings with you.” Corbie laughs his phlegmy laugh. “One thing you need to know – gettin here with drugs ain't the way. You're here now in a kind of exhaustion induced ecstasy, that's the way to go. It's harder but it's all you. No filters. The shamans started using drugs and drink to get to the spirit worlds because the powers that be made the walls thicker. They decided man wasn't worthy anymore. They've changed their minds. Takin away the spirit worlds has only made things worse.”
“The Great Spirits decided that we weren't getting into the club because we didn't have the right trainers on?”
“Smart casual only. We'll get back to the right sneakers later.”
We enter the Necropolis itself. The streets are packed with people. Up high I couldn't see them for the buildings, but down here – I've never seen so many. Not in London on a sunny Saturday afternoon, not in New York on Black Friday, not in Edinburgh at Hogmanay. It seems like Mardi Gras, there's a troubadour with a mandolin, a Duchess from Versailles with elaborately stitched wide skirts scraping the tarmacadam, someone in a bright orange space suit emblazoned with a red hammer and sickle flag under the letters CCCP, any number of people in suits carrying briefcases and umbrellas, Roman legionnaires struggling to keep in formation, large shields locked, spears raised. People from every time and place. All intact. No wounds, no grave worms. In death as they were in life.
“This is the opposite problem to before,” I say. “Now we have too much civilisation when before we had just desolation.”
Corbie flaps up onto my shoulder. “Is your map still workin?”
I've been looking through it rather than at it. The arrow points the way. The overhead view shows a staggered route through the city heading Downtown. A flashing dot indicates our destination. “Not far to go. But this could still take some time.”
Despite the crush, the crowd makes room for us.
I turn to speak to a cowboy, but he looks away. The thank you dies on my lips. Time and again no one will engage with me. “Guess they're not in a chatty mood.” It's deadly silent here. So used to the desert above and the endless emptiness, I'd not noticed before. No murmur of a crowd, no traffic noise. Even our footfalls are quiet. Our words sound harsh and unwelcome like farts in a lift.
“What's that?” says Corbie.
“Nothing.” No wresting any secrets from the dead. “It's like they don't want to see us, or touch us.”
“Would you want to be reminded of heat and life?”
“I would be desperate, hungry for it. I'd expect to be beating them off like some kind of zombie apocalypse. Not parting the Dead sea.”
Even with the crowd accommodating me, it takes a long time to follow the route to its end. In front of us is the highest scraper in the city. The plaza is clear of the dead. Even the steps leading up to it are free from the crowd.
A long queue leads up towards t
he building entrance. The area is roped off, but there's no red carpet, just a concierge with a frown and a lectern, like these people are waiting for their table at a high-class restaurant. While the concierge is dead, the people in the queue are more vibrant. They each have something or someone with them – cats, birds, wolves, a Native American tribesman, someone wearing a stag's head with antlers or a live version of what I saw on the cave wall. Shamans, like me.
“Don't think they were expecting a rush,” I say.
“The Great Spirits must have given their gift to many. But if you think about it, this is still only a handful.”
Over near the door I see something that looks like me. It's see through, like a ghost, a shade of pale, milky green. It is trying to walk through the glass – a bee buzzing against a window. “What do we do with it, now we've found it?”
“Reintegrate it.”
“Don't we need to cure it or something?”
“No. It is the loss that is causing the sickness, not anythin in the shade itself.”
“Why does it look so green? It doesn't look too healthy.”
“This particular piece has that colour, that's all. It could just as easily have been blue or red or somethin else.”
“I guess I just merge with it then?” I walk up to the velvet rope and get a twitchy look from the concierge. I cross a leg over and she is over to us in an instant.
“What do you think you are doing?”
One of the dead talks. She looks straight at me instead of out of the corners of her eyes. “Retrieving my lost soul.” I nod towards the doors. “Let me just get it and I'll be gone.”
“There's a line.”
“Whatever it is they're here for, I'm not,” I say.
“You're here to see the Chairman.”
“No, I'm here for the soul over there.”
“You're a shaman. You need to see the Chairman. You need to sign a contract with him.”
“To get my own soul back?” This is stupid. It's right there.
“To leave.”
“Can I get my lost piece first? I'm dying.”
“You'll get it when you see the Chairman. If you want it back you need to agree to his terms.” She speaks to me like I'm an idiot. I look up and see the damned soul piece has made it into the building lobby.
“Corbie?”
“I don't see we have much choice,” Corbie says. “The Chairman is the boss, this is all his. Looks like we need to show him due respect, you know.”
“Shit.” More delay. I look at the line. It stretches across the plaza and down around the block. “Ok.” I walk to the end of the line and stand next to a woman with a pyjama monkey clinging round her neck. “Hi. How are you?” She looks at me like I'm a bit slow or a foreigner who can't be trusted. The pyjama monkey stares at me with cold button eyes. Makes me glad I've got a raven made of thorns.
Time passes. The queue doesn't move. More people join – a teenager from Malaysia with a disturbing puma-shaped shadow that has yellow eyes and a large American woman with a reddish grey squirrel. The queue doesn't move. Time passes.
“I think the bureaucracy is broken,” I say.
Corbie pauses his preening. “Perhaps it's workin exactly the way it's meant to.”
I think I understand him. Leaving the queue, I walk round the side of the building. It's smooth concrete with windows starting a few feet above my reach. I follow it around to the rear. Corbie skips over the paving stones to catch up. “A-ha.” In the middle of the wall is a fire exit, propped open with a fire extinguisher. Who could be nipping out for a fag-break?
Opening the door, there's a concrete corridor that makes a left turn ahead. No one is about. I creep in, just in case. Corbie catches up and I close the door after him. The corridor makes another left and ends in a wooden door. I open it a crack. The lobby is in the distance and four lifts are nearby, two on either side of the door. No guards patrol inside. There's only the concierge outside. I suppress a laugh.
We enter the lobby and I push the button to summon a lift. We wait. Time passes. “What the hell is it with this place? Does nothing work properly?” And the lift goes ding. I look around. It sounded loud enough to hear from outside. The doors open and I stride in, Corbie following. What floor do we want? I stab at the penthouse and the circle round the button lights up. There's a lurching tug as the lift moves off.
Standing in silence, I watch the digital numbers rise. “Why did we not see anyone before Cerberus? How did they all get here, and how often must that dog get tricked before someone suggests they need better security systems?”
“Maybe they got here through a different route. I only know this way, other shamans, other cultures, may have other challenges. It could all be different next time. Don't be too hard on Cerby; he's there to keep the livin out. You're borderline and you carry a tune better than you think.”
The numbers keep rising and the lift keeps going up with them. After an age the lift stops, the doors open and we emerge into a grey marble lined hall. My footsteps echo as I walk. Corbie skitters across the highly polished floor so I lift him onto my shoulder.
Ahead of us are two doors made from a wood I don't recognise. I'm reminded of the dense knots in walnut but the colour is deep red like mahogany. Split across the two doors, engraved into the surface, is the image of a tree, gnarled and twisted. As I approach there appears to be a fruit suspended from a bough, but in front of the doors it is gone, just a trick of the light. There is no handle, so I push. The doors swing open smoothly.
Inside is a modern boardroom. Dark glass table, chrome and leather chairs. A man stands with his back to the door looking through the panoramic window at the city below. The Chairman surveys his domain.
He turns at our intrusion. “I wasn't expecting anyone today.”
“We got that impression,” I say. “Your staff kept us waiting a long time. But if my friend here is correct, I don't have time to wait.”
His grey hair is short, similar in style to that seen on statues of Roman generals, Julius Caesar or Marcus Crassus. The deep set no-nonsense eyes, hard mouth and slight frown add to this impression. Careful, Kol'ka, careful.
“We better conclude our negotiations promptly then.” The Chairman smiles.
“What is there to determine?” I say. The Chairman looks at me. I can almost hear Corbie slapping his forehead.
“Tribute. Compensation.” The Chairman seems to be having difficulty getting what he wants out. “Rent.” He sneers. The words are beneath him and I have forced him to say them.
“I apologise for the rude intrusion.” I blunder on. “I didn't expect to be here or I would have brought something. I just want my soul and I'll be going.”
“What you want is mine to agree or deny.”
Cold slides down my spine. I have nothing. What does the King of the Dead need anyway? I can't give too much away. “I will abstain from drinking caffeine for a year.”
Corbie jumps on my shoulder. “Buddy, you got to do better than that. This is about more than your soul. You will come back here for other people. Why should he let you in? Why should he let you leave? You die topside where else are you going to go?”
“A hand. You choose which.”
“I will abstain from caffeine, alcohol and tobacco for five years.”
“Really?” Corbie nips my ear. “Man we're never getting out of here.”
“Two fingers. Different hands.”
“I will abstain for a decade.”
“An index finger.”
“An offering of grains, fruits and other crops.”
The Chairman almost laughs. “The fat portion of the firstborn of your flocks.” There's almost a twinkle in his eye.
This sounds familiar. What are the Halal and Kosher rules? “A small animal sacrifice one a year.”
“A large animal, once a week.”
I'm tired of this. I want what is mine back. It's like losing my ball in next door's garden and being charged to get it back. “
No.”
“What are you doing?” Corbie hisses in my ear.
“I owe you nothing but an apology for intruding on you without an appointment. I am not one of your subjects. If I visit again it will be to retrieve something else lost by the living. Nice try, pal, but no.”
The Chairman smiles. A genuine one this time. He claps, a little sarcastically for my liking. “Well done, Mr Munro. You can't blame me for trying.”
I give a slight nod. “I'll let you get back to work.” I walk back to the doors which had closed behind me and push them open.
“Oh, and congratulations on becoming a shaman,” the Chairman says. “I look forward to dealing with you again in the future.”
We head back to the lifts. I didn't ask about getting my lost property back. Lead sinks in my stomach. I've played too clever and now have to go back again.
“Where you going?”
I turn to Corbie. “To get what we came for.”
“You did well. It'll be downstairs.”
The lift arrives and we travel down in silence. Physically I'm fine but mentally I'm knackered. Will I wake up in my tent embalmed in my own waste?
The doors open and the greenish misty version of myself walks into the lift. It walks into me. It feels like I'm showering in fine jelly and it tingles a little.
“Feel better?” says Corbie.
I don't feel any different. “No.”
“I'm sure you will when we get back.”
“Do we have to go back the same way we got here?”
“We can go into the light. Either you'll wake up or at least get to the Middle World.”
“The Middle World. Where we started?”
“That was a memory. The Middle World is the spiritual mirror of the Living World. Next time we go on a journey that's where you'll start.”
Walking across the building lobby, the bright silver light outside is masked by tinted glass. We go through the rotating doors and I hear a murmur as the queue of shamans sees us emerge. I approach the concierge. “The Chairman will see the next one now.” I feel her eyes burning into my back as I head towards the light.
It's still a long way across the city. We pass pyramids of various sizes, great statues of heroes and kings, anonymous in death, strange egg-like capsules made of metal. The houses of the dead are open and empty. The crowd is still there, parting for us, but one or two of the dead risk a glance in my direction now, making eye contact for a moment before breaking. I see a plea, but I don't know how to help. Across the whole city there are too many.
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