BURN IN HADES
BY
MICHAEL L. MARTIN JR.
Text copyright © 2011 by Michael L. Martin Jr.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to actual persons living or dead, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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REST IN PEACE, MY ASS.
Cross squinted up at the bright flame-filled sky and aimed his arrow straight up at the giant bird. At that height it appeared only slightly bigger than the head of his arrow, but most adult barbots were at least the size of a stallion. He could taste the juicy meat already.
He cocked the bowstring back and kept an eye fixed on the featherless bird as it soared peacefully through the red flames that swirled about in every inch of the sky, licking downward like a serpents tongue. The exploding bursts of heat that boomed out of the sky would have scorched any other spirit, but not barbots.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his forearm and neck.
“Dammit!” He slammed the bow to the balcony floor and crushed it under his boot. “Worthless piece of—”
The giant bird spiraled down out of the fiery sky like a comet. It slammed into the black garden with a ruckus, colliding with tree branches in a crackling thud and vanished inside the thick brush.
Cross hadn’t shot it down though. His arrow lay impotently on the grimy balcony floor of the ruined temple. Either he was lucky that the bird had fallen or there was something more sinister afoot. Given all his knowledge of the underworld, it was most likely the latter.
He refused to enter the haunted garden to retrieve his quarry and headed back into the dark temple of skulls to wait for another barbot to fly over. But how the hell would he bring the next one down with a broken bow?
A terrible cramp stabbed through his belly like a butcher was gutting him with an icy hook. The pain brought him to knees. His hands slapped the soiled stone.
He clasped his hands together and drove his fists into his stomach. The blow snatched the air from his lungs, and the mysterious vermin swimming around in his stomach finally quit squirming, but they were still hungry.
“Hobble your lip you stinkin’ varmints,” he said. “I’ll go get the damn bird.”
His condition wasn’t nearly the same thing as being pregnant, but still, to have something living inside his stomach gave him a new respect for the wife he once had. Before the memories could penetrate his train of thought, he hummed one his favorite old spiritual songs: “Ride up in the Chariot”. The lyrics alone gave him a little boost in his soul, and concentrating on the melody kept his mind away from the disturbing memories of his child, whom he never had a chance to meet.
He pulled himself from the floor, grabbed his obsidian blade, and exited the temple down the stony staircase. The temple acted as a divider between the ball court and the wretched garden he’d planned on never entering again, mostly to avoid the little girl that lived in there. He faced the webs of fragile weeds, each primed to topple. He hesitated, clutched the grip of his blade and proceeded up the stone ramp into the garden to fetch his meal.
The only good thing about the garden of One Death and Seven Death was its temperature. The cool shadows provided a rare and refreshing chill, a much welcome respite from the barrage of heat from the flaming sky. Dead weeds in the garden grew three times as tall as Cross stood. None of them were green. They were all pale or dark, and they grouped together like an angry mob surrounding a runaway slave. Scraggly vines ensnared headless statues of the deities who had once owned the garden, and they blocked most of the torturing heat from the sky, encasing everything in a nice canvass of shade.
With his obsidian blade, Cross hacked away at every brittle weed that barricaded the garden. As his shoulder brushed the lifeless foliage, they flaked to the ground like snow, and leaves of mush and slime squished under his boots.
Spirits wept in the shadows, but he couldn’t see them. The deeper he trudged into the garden, the louder their cries grew, as if the Great Goddess would hear them, feel sorry for them, and rescue them from their lament.
Cross knew better. Magna Mater only helped those who helped themselves. Moping around and crying never solved any problems. He stopped near a putrid pond of poisonous water that some God must’ve spent time soaking in at one time. A stone head of one of their decapitated statues lay next to the pond staring up with an asshole grin.
Cross picked up the head. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” He tossed the head into the darkness at the spirits.
Instantly, the stone head shot back out of the blackness.
Cross was lying on the ground with a throbbing head before he could even think about ducking. The stone had hit him right in the soft spot of his head. As he rubbed his forehead he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the murky pond water beside him. He cringed at the unsightly dark hole through his forehead and splashed his fist into the pond to disturb his reflection.
The little girl whom he had hoped to abandon now stood over him as if she had been there the whole time. She was a brand new soul, no more than a few weeks dead, so she didn’t look as sallow as he did. Neither of them knew exactly how long ago she had become a member of the damned, but she was about nine years old at the time of her death. She didn’t remember her exact age, but that’s how old she appeared to Cross.
He moved to pick himself up and wobbled backwards, still shaken from the blow to his head. She dropped to her knees. He turned his head away as she caressed his cheeks in her tiny hands.
“Let me take a look,” she said, tending to his injury as if she were a nurse or something in her past life. She cared too much.
He swatted her touch. “Ain’t the first time I butted heads with anyone.”
“That’s because you haven’t figured out what ‘heaping coals of fire’ really means.”
“What do you know? You’re just a snot-nosed little kid.”
She grabbed his arm and helped pull him from the ground. He did most of the heavy lifting. She was just a puny little girl with dark, bushy hair. That’s why he nicknamed her Cottontail.
“I know that the weepers don’t want you here,” said Cottontail. “They cry louder every time you’re around.”
Cross chuckled. “A realm where I’m not wanted? That’s a first.”
“I don’t want to be here either. I hate it here. The only one I can talk to is you and the skull with the funny name. It said you were leaving.”
The only reason the skull knew of Cross’s plan was because Cross couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.
“I told you to wait here until I got back and not to talk to anybody,” he said, wagging his finger at her nose. “That’s your problem. You don’t listen.”
She hammered a fist into his stomach. The blow came as a shock but didn’t hurt. He almost laughed out of gladness that he had finally gotten her to express some toughness that she would desperately need in the future.
“You were never gonna come back,” she said.
“I’m here now.” He smiled.
“To get your stupid barbot. You didn’t come back
for me.” She turned away from him and stared down at the pond. “But I forgive you. If I were you, I’d leave me too.”
“I was gonna share the barbot with you before I left,” he said, which was partially a lie. He was really going to leave her portion of the food behind before he ditched her. “It should be around this dump somewhere.” He peered deep into the shadows. “You seen it?”
Cottontail folded her arms.
“I thought you said you forgave me,” he said.
“That doesn’t mean I want you to leave.”
“Well, I guess the ants are gonna get it now. And I was gonna let you have your favorite piece this time. Too bad. I know you’re hungry. You haven’t eaten since the last time we ate together yesterday.”
Her child-sized stomach gave a wimpy gurgle. She pointed the way to the bird without relaxing her cute little scowl that always chipped away at his solid heart. He followed her direction deeper into the garden and into louder cries from the weepers. Cottontail’s footsteps squashed through the mush beside him.
He found the barbot wrapped up in vines, but it wasn’t dead like he’d hoped; its wing appeared to be its only injury. It lay curled up in that fetal position that everyone resorts to when suffering immense pain. Its beady, dark red eyes were scanning its surroundings. It might’ve seen them coming before they saw it.
“She’s one of the more beautiful ones.” Cross admired the bird’s smooth brown skin. Barbot’s were usually harder looking, but this one was a lot less wrinkly.
“Looks like a big ol’ saddle bag to me,” said Cottontail. “Like all the others.”
He’d seen uglier barbots and she would too if she survived long enough. There were plenty of them in the underworld. The scaly birds fit his mind’s image of dragons, only smaller, and lacking the scary horns and the useful ability to breathe fire. They were gentle creatures.
Cross crept up to the featherless bird whispering in his friendliest voice all kinds of pleasantries to make it feel comfortable. A bushel of fresh calabash lay next to the bird. Their smooth green skins were burst and split open, emptied of all their poisonous, green juices.
He’d been drawn to the garden intentionally, and he knew exactly the sneaky bastard who had led him there. But it was too late for him to do anything about it now.
He leapt on the barbot’s leathery back. It gave a great squawk and flailed around. If its wing hadn’t been broken the tight area of the dense garden would have prevented it from taking flight anyway, but that didn’t stop the bird from trying.
It gave Cross a rough ride; it thrashed around, trying to leap into the air only to bash Cross into the limbs of frail trees. He held on firmly, arms wrapped around its thick featherless neck.
“It’s alright,” Cross said to the barbot. “You’re safe. Best be glad I got to you before those ants. They ain’t got no respect.” He placed a comforting hand on its head and gave it a pat. The barbot calmed.
“Good. Thata girl,” he said. “Now, this is going to be scary at first. But when you start to feel tired, you just go on to sleep. Everything will be all right.” He reached down and clutched the underside of its beak, and pulled its head up. The bird resisted and struggled against him. He tightened his grip and held firmly onto the bird.
“I hate it when you do this part,” said Cottontail.
“I want you to look this time,” he said, pointing the tip of his obsidian blade at her. “Don’t you turn away. You hear me?”
She shook her head. “I can’t.” She stared down at her feet.
“If you’re going to make the journey to paradise you’re going to see a lot worse than this.”
Slowly, she lifted her head and squinted her eyes as Cross placed his blade at the bird’s neck.
“May the Great Goddess have mercy on your soul,” he said to the bird and sliced its jugular.
Cottontail winced, but she didn’t look away. He understood her reluctance to see such brutality. That was the only reason he didn’t force her to kill the bird herself this time, even though he should have.
The very first time he ever killed a chicken, he was a kid, and the sunny-side-up eggs he had eaten that morning for breakfast left his stomach and soiled his only shirt. He had raised that chick from the cutest little fur ball to full grown. It was his first friend. There weren’t any other Negroes his age to play with, and that chicken was his only companion on the entire plantation. When Mama made him kill it, he cried for a day and couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He had come a long way since then.
Life goes on. And so does death.
He propped the dead barbot against a tree upside down. “Always let the blood drain out completely,” he told Cottontail. “You can’t get too much of that stuff in your stomach. It’ll make you sick like you never thought possible.”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “This is why I need to be with you. You know everything.”
“Yeah, sometimes it’s not good to know things. Sometimes you can know too much.”
“But if you keep teaching me stuff like that, I won’t be so useless.” She kicked at a stem with no head.
“I wish I could be a dumb little kid again,” he said. “You ain’t gotta do nothing but eat and sleep while somebody else takes care of you. Why don’t you make yourself useful and you won’t be so useless.”
She never lifted her gaze from the ground and heard a little sniffle escape her. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so mean to her, but she needed to toughen up. Out in the underworld, she’d experience much worse things than his cold attitude. If she couldn’t handle him, she wouldn’t last a second with any other spirits.
“Useless souls don’t make it to paradise,” he said, gently. “And I’m gonna see to it that you make it.”
She lifted her head back up, and flung herself into him, wrapping her scrawny arms around his waist. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll be quiet. I won’t ask a whole lot of questions.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not bringing you with me.”
She released her grip on his torso and stared up at him. “What then?”
“We’re gonna meet in paradise. You’re going by yourself.”
Her eyes widened and glazed over. “I can’t go alone. I don’t even know the way.”
“Paradise is east. That way.” He pointed eastward, but the light of paradise couldn’t be seen from inside the shady garden. “Go east and you won’t miss it.”
“I’ll toughen up. I promise. You can call me whatever names you want. Just take me with you. I could even help you fight off those squal things. We’ll be a team.”
She would make a great companion in another life. She reminded him a little too much of his childhood friend, Kate. Knowing he had to part ways with the runt hurt him, but the spirits hunting his head would have no problem burning Cottontail to get to him.
He refused to allow that to happen to another soul, especially her. As happy it made him to have her around—or anyone around for that matter—she was safer staying as far away from him as possible. She was too pure to allow the underworld to taint her like it did every other soul. Her innocence was rare and precious. Her compassion was a gem worth coveting and keeping secret from the rest of the underworld. He wished he could hold on to her sincerity forever.
He’d rather she not make the journey to paradise at all, but she was as stubborn as he was; she’d follow him throughout the underworld no matter how much he protested. She already followed him around like a little lamb. Mapping out her quest to paradise was at least a way of giving her a better shot at survival.
He sat down on the cool dirt and patted his lap for her sit. She snuggled up with him like he used to do with his mother when he was little. Mama’s arms were the safest place in the whole wide world.
“Between here and paradise is hell,” he said to Cottontail. “Not the Hell. Well that’s somewhere along the way too. But I mean hell as in really bad stuff. What’s
out there ain’t got nothing on the ants, or the bats, or the jaguars, or even the squals. That’s why I still think you should stay here where it’s safer.”
“You said there is no such thing as safe in the underworld.”
Her memory was nearly as good as his. She just didn’t remember anything about her life, unlike him. She didn’t know how she died, while he could never forget the perplexing events that surrounded his final moments. Of course, no other soul knew what he knew. None of them remembered like him. That’s why his headful of memories was so prized. But soon he would forget; once he made it to paradise.
“This is what you’re going to do,” he told her. “You’re going to call for Charon. It comes to spirits no matter where they are. It usually takes you where you’re supposed to be, but sometimes it takes you where you want to go. It already did that for me before. It’s not going to do it again. But you’re new. You have a clean slate. And you’re a kid. You’ll get slightly good treatment.”
Her frail spirit trembled in his arms. “I don’t know if I can,” she said.
He was hoping that he’d at least instill enough fear in her to make her want to stay in Xibalbá with the weepers, but his scare tactics only caused her to cling to him even more.
“A little bit of fear is good,” he said. “That means you’re paying attention. And when you’re paying attention, it’s difficult for something to surprise you.” He poked his finger in her stomach and tickled her. She giggled and squirmed.
“How long have you been in this place anyway?” asked Cottontail.
Cross caressed her bushy head and brought her close to his chest. “Long enough,” he said.
Sometime during his 300th year, he had given up on counting his sleep cycles—the only way souls could keep track of their personal time spent in the underworld. Since that year, it seemed as if he had languished through the underworld’s endless day for double that amount of time. Eternity was a restless bitch.
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