We try to stay behind buildings as we get closer to the light. It is so bright it washes out what little colour is left – everything is turned to chrome or darkness. Finally, we reach the edge of the Necropolis and stand in front of this light with no shade between us. My eyes are closed and still the light blinds me. I turn away and walk backwards.
I see the shade of Albert on the fringe of the city, waving. I don't know what to do. “Should I speak to him before I return?”
“Who?” Corbie says.
“Albert,” I say.
“I can't see him.”
“He's right there.” But he's gone.
Covering my eyes with my arm, I walk into the light until it engulfs me and there is no darkness anymore.
Chapter 6
Opening my eyes, there is no canvas above me. I see the white tiles of a suspended ceiling and hear the regular beep of a heart monitor. There is a needle stuck in the back of my left hand and the heart rate sensor is pegged onto a finger on my right. I tense. I've been in places like this before. My arm is heavy but unrestrained. I breathe, but remain unsure, uncertain.
Is this real or just what I would expect to see? The Underworld was just as vivid as anything in – what do I call it now? The real world? What did Corbie calling it? The Living world? Sounds like where you go to watch TV.
“Hey. How are you?” I recognise the voice, but I can't place it. Her face comes into view above me. Rachael, Albert's granddaughter. What's she doing here? Maybe it's a dream after all. “I'll tell a nurse you're awake,” she says and walks out of the door.
There's no other bed in the room. Grey light comes through a window, but I can't see outside. There are flowers and a card on a table beside the bed, along with a plastic glass and a jug of water. My thirst is raging. I try so sit up, but I have no strength in my arms. The needle slides inside the back of my hand and I collapse back into the soft pillows. The room lurches and I feel like I'm going to be sick. It subsides and I watch fluid from the bag drip inside the tube that connects to my hand. I still don't know where I am, but this isn't an NHS ward.
Rachael returns with a nurse in crisp whites. “Let me have a look at your husband.” Husband? Then I catch up. “How are you feeling Nicholas?” The nurse shines a torch in my eyes and puts a machine in my ear.
I try to speak but my throat is dry and sore. My chest feels like it has a boulder sitting on it. Dry swallowing, I try again. “Like crap.”
The nurse examines the machine. “Your temperature is coming down. You're past the worst of it. I think we'll be keeping you here for a while longer though. We'll see what the doctor says this evening. Drink plenty of water.” She leaves.
“Does the other Mrs Munro know I'm here?”
Rachael shrugs. “I'd be surprised. Your phone is locked and no-one has called while I've been around. I got the rest of your stuff too, for safekeeping.” She smiles.
“Thank you. I'm sorry for just abandoning you.”
“I should be the one apologising. You helped a total stranger and I dumped on you.”
“What day is it?”
“I found you on Sunday evening. It's now Saturday morning. You were pretty far gone.”
A week? I've been out a whole week. I reach out towards the plastic glass but it's too far away.
“You could just ask, you know.” Rachael tops up the glass. She helps me sit up and holds the glass to my dry lips. A little water trickles in. It hurts as I swallow greedy for more. Another little trickle. She repeats this until the glass is empty.
“Thank you. You're a natural.”
“My mother was in a place like this, before the end.”
“I'm sorry.” My playful smile fades fast.
“I better go. It's good to see you're back in the land of the living.” She gathers her coat and bag and turns at the door. “I'll see you soon.”
I lie back and look at the ceiling. Corbie is not about. Could it all have been an hallucination? My body was already fighting the bugs a few days ago when I met him. The bird was just part of that battle. That doesn't explain my nightly torment ending at the same time. It had never paused for any illness before.
Opening the drawer in the bedside cabinet, I see my laptop in there with my mobile on top. I pick it up and see that it is switched to silent. I haven't missed any calls.
I wake in the night and shuffle into the en-suite. The catheter was removed earlier. This is gonna hurt. Fire shoots up my dick and into my bowels as water flows out. Instead of just getting it over with I keep stopping and starting.
Back in bed I lie and stare at the ceiling. Outside a cat yowls. I don't know where I am. I haven't even looked out the window. This could be just as much a phantasm as the Underworld.
Lines and shapes and faces appear in the shadows on the ceiling tile. Reflections of my mind. Cognitive illusions. What is real anyway? Philosophers have wrestled with it, yet here we are, whatever the theory. Assuming the existence of those philosophers is not just part a clever simulation. It all felt real even if some of it wasn't possible in the Living world – I could fly, there were strange creatures and weird objects. Yet they all responded to me in ways that felt…natural, there were rules even if the rules were different, rather than in a dream where it all seems random. I could control myself and what I did – I've never done that in a dream.
A stranger rescued me while there's no word from my wife. I understand she wants out because I've been selfish. I've been foolish, I recognise that, and yet I get no response at all? A day or two I could understand but not this long. We usually talk a couple of times a week. Why would she go silent now? Rachael's attractive, sure, but not a total fantasy. If I'm still deep inside my head, wouldn't I invent a voice mail from Kathryn, a more beautiful rescuer?
I have a talking raven, worlds to explore and a fucked up life.
Emptiness fills my chest and the back of my throat feels hollow. I want to cry but only dry tears will come. My sobs are just noise.
There's a footstep behind me, but nothing more comes of it.
After a while I stop feeling sorry for myself. I have my health after all.
When morning comes I feel raw and delicate. Soon the lights are on and the nurses bring breakfast. Just toast for me. The smell of bacon nearly drives me crazy. I try to remember my last proper meal. Does a fast food burger with the kids count? My stomach growls after my second slice. I feel stuffed and ravenous at the same time. The hospital tea tastes great, but I had to ask for a fresh cup without milk. With no fridge in my tent I gave up on it months ago. Spoons of lovely sugar are welcome too.
Someone asks me if I want a paper. I have to admit I've got no money. They laugh and tell me it's complimentary. No wonder, it's just a big advert. Even the articles are previews for those in magazines. Nothing much has changed, except I don't feel like I live on planet earth anymore. I feel like a visitor. Around me a small army starts cleaning my room and presumably the rest of the ward. This isn't like any hospital that I've ever heard of. Rachael must have some mighty fine insurance and unhealthy guilt issues.
Time passes without any sign except the coming and going of meals and nurses' shifts. I don't want to turn on the TV or even switch on my laptop, to which I'm usually wedded. Picking up my phone, I check it for calls. What am I waiting for? I should tell someone in my family that I'm sick. If my wife isn't interested that leaves my mum.
I'd do almost anything to avoid this call. She'll turn it all into a great drama. She'll nag me to move in with her. I can't do that. Maybe if I don't have to stay here any longer I could go home to my tent. I've found what was missing. My body will do all the rest. And I'll avoid running up a larger bill for Rachael.
Dragging the drip over to the closet I find all my stuff in there, mostly in my Bergan. Even my tent is here, packed up. My pitch has gone, I know it. It was a good spot and I'll not see it again. Maybe I can go where Albert was. I remember the empty yellow pitches. Maybe not. My legs are weak and I have to go
back to the bed.
I should call Kathryn. What if something has happened to her? So busy wrapped up in myself here I'd not considered that. Was I due to see the kids today? She'd have been certain to call if I was late, so I guess not.
Picking up the phone, my fingers find the right contact. Before I realise what I'm doing it's ringing. If I hang up she'll only call me back. “Hi Mum, it's me.”
“Nikolasha? Where have you been? Why do you never call? There must be some crisis.”
“Mum, you know I hate being called that. There's nothing to worry about.”
“Pfft. A mother will call her child what she likes. Are you still in that field?”
“I'm in a hospital.”
“What? And you didn't tell me? I knew something was wrong. A black cat walked across my path yesterday.” I hear her sound like she is spitting. “I will be there pronto. Which one are you in?”
“Sorry. I've been very ill. I didn't think to send a message to the spirits to tell you.” It's easy to fall back into my usual disdain, but could I have?
“You've been in some kind of a coma that you couldn't call?”
“Actually, yes.”
There is silence.
“Which one? I'll be right there.”
“Which coma?”
“Which hospital are you in? Stop playing with me, Kolya.”
“I don't know.”
“How can you not know?”
“Mum, I just woke up for the first time in nearly a week. I didn't think to ask which hospital I was in.”
“Well go find out and call me back.”
Getting up on unsteady legs, I head for the door. I have no idea where the nurses' station is. Given my condition, it can't be far. I walk out the door and see it just to my left. There are a couple of nurses on duty there. On the right the corridor continues in a light yellow shade, doors leading off to other rooms. I feel nervous. Just what kind of hospital is this after all?
“Mr Morrison, what are you doing up? Come on. Let's get you back to bed.”
“Could you tell me where I am?”
“In hospital, dear.”
“Yeah, but which one?”
“The Niniane Institute.” Perhaps I'm a little impatient – she makes it sound like this should be obvious.
“I thought that burnt to the ground.”
“It was rebuilt.”
I'm led back to my bed. After she stops fussing and leaves I text my Mum. I tell her to ask for Morrison. I lie back and wait for the thunder.
Barely an hour later, there's a commotion out in the corridor, and I know it must be my Mum. She storms into the room wearing leather jeans and leopard print top. Her hair and heels add a few inches. I grew up feeling like Gulliver in Lilliput. She hugs me to her tiny frame and kisses me three times, alternating cheeks. I start to rub at the lipstick smears that will be left behind.
She perches on the end of the bed. I wonder where Corbie is. Maybe now I'm better I won't see him again. “Nikolasha,” she says. “What happened?”
“Mum.”
“Kolya. Speak to me. I want to know.”
“I got sick. Pneumonia. A friend found me and brought me here.” I don't know Rachael, but only a friend would put me in a private hospital on their health insurance. A stranger would have left me in the doorway at A&E. Some people have committed murder that way.
“Yes. But there is more, yes? Come on, it's no hassle.” Her Russian accent still lingers, but her hassle is pure Glasgow. “I can see there's something you're not telling me.”
Oh, God. “The nightmare is gone.”
She looks at me like she doesn't believe me. Then it clicks. “Blya! I knew it. Your father was all psychiatrist this and ECT that. I'm so sorry, Kolya. I should have been stronger for you.”
“He thought he was doing the right thing, mum.”
“The road to Hell is paved with good intention.”
“What's done is done. I turned out alright. Mostly.”
She smiles. “Lovely wife, two kids. I made the right offerings on your behalf. It kept the spirits off your back.”
“Hate to think what life would have been like if you hadn't.” I smile to take the edge off. “By the way, Kathryn is divorcing me.”
“ 'By the way'. It's that easy for you? Is it this Morrison 'friend' of yours?”
I laugh. “This is ridiculous. I'm barely keeping things together and you take my wife's side. I'm not seeing anyone. Kathryn told me, asked me, last Saturday afternoon. I met Rachael over her grandfather's corpse that evening. I've pretty much been in the Underworld since then with a spiky parrot. It's pretty fucking far from easy.”
She pales. I don't think I've seen her do that before. I imagine it happened when they told her about Dad, but I was at Uni. She holds my hand. “It'll be alright, Nikolasha.” I let her have that one. “What's for you won't pass you by. Tell me about the Underworld. What is it like?”
I describe for her a moonlit cave, an empty quarter, my fall into the Abyss, the traversal of a hair-thin bridge, outsmarting Hell's hound with Lennon and McCartney, cutting through the eternal bureaucracy of the dead, and dealing with the First to die.
My mother weeps gentle tears. I have seen wonders she has dreamed about seeing and I never wanted to. “What now?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “If I disobey the Great Spirits' wishes I get the feeling that they would make me sick again, give me back the nightmare. It's a real stick and stick approach they use.” At least Abraham got a nation, those televangelists get their riches.
“I told yo–”
“Mum. Don't even start. I didn't want it then. I don't want it now.”
I was dragged to institutions by my Dad and any number of psychics by my Mum. If I wasn't having my blood taken and my stool examined by a medical doctor then it was a voudoun priestess. Since neither could cure me I lost faith in both of them. And the spirits, they kept looking for that damn bone every god damn night.
“It's a gift, Son,” she says. “A gift from the spirits themselves.”
“A curse more like. Whom the gods seek to destroy they first make mad.”
“I thought they first answered their prayers.”
“You may have prayed for this. I certainly didn't.” Old words, worn like comfortable shoes. “As soon as my teacher returns I guess I'll find out.”
“They sent you a spirit guide?”
“Corbie, a bird made of thorns, looks like a rook or crow. It talks like a New York surfer dude.”
“The spiky parrot.”
I nod. My eyes are tired and it is hard to keep them open. Mum must see them flickering. “I'll let you get some sleep, Kolya.” I feel her kiss my forehead as I slip away.
Chapter 7
I sleep for days. Not all the time, but most of it. Occasionally I eat, and I'm visited by Rachael, who tells me about her family and her job. Mum comes and tells me I've been chosen and it's a privilege and as soon as I can I'm going to stay with her.
“Listen, there's something you need to know,” I say. I've got to tell her sooner or later.
Rachael looks concerned. “What is it?”
“I don't know quite how to describe it.” I look at the sky through the window. “When you found me I wasn't just suffering from pneumonia. I was being press-ganged.”
“Press-ganged? They still do that?”
“No. I mean I've had this dream. Since I was fourteen. Every night I was torn into pieces. These creatures were looking for something. They found it. The night before we met, they found it. And this talking bird appeared…”
“A talking bird? Are they still giving you morphine?”
“…and told me I had to train to be a shaman or I'd get sick and die. And that's why I got sick. While I was out of it I had to travel to the Underworld and find a piece of my soul. I know. It sounds crazy. I sound crazy. But trust me I know what crazy is like and this isn't it.”
“You're a shaman? Like some kind of Native American? I
sn't that a bit racist or something?”
“The word comes from Siberia so not really American at all. Shamanism is more like some hokey religion from ancient times. They intercede with spirits on behalf of the tribe. I think I just passed the entrance exam. I've still to get the induction video and the safety talk.”
“So it's more table-tapping and ectoplasm then?”
“You're taking the piss now.”
She smiles. “No, that's the nurse's job. So where's this talking bird?”
“Corbie's not here. I've not seen him since I woke up.”
“That's handy. You're sure you didn't just hallucinate the whole thing?”
“You could be right. I'm sure I saw him the night we met though.”
“Your own harbinger of doom. You should take it easy. Tell someone if you see this bird again.”
It's good advice, except when it comes to tricks of the mind I've got used to keeping it to myself; saved myself another trip to a healer who couldn't help. I wasn't sure about saying anything to Rachael. I don't know why she's doing all this. She barely knows me. She might be able to laugh it off now, but sooner or later she'll realise I'm serious.
The dream may have gone, but I can still feel the hot lances piercing me. I remember being dismembered. It's an up-front no holds barred warning that the life of a shaman is one of pain, humiliation and death. What a privilege that is. If you can't handle it, get out now. Except, you have no choice once you're chosen. The spirits are gonna ride you til they're done. Or you put a bullet in your brain. So am I a horse or a corpse?
Feeling well enough to open my laptop, I check up on work. Horse or corpse? Everything is working fine without me. Horse or corpse? No email that was urgent. Horse or corpse? If I'm lucky no one will notice I was off sick and I'll get full pay. Horse or corpse? I catch up on some tech news. Horse or corpse?
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