BURN IN HADES

by Michael L. Martin Jr.

  That was the same thing Prior Sinuhe said.

  “Now if you feel that other thing,” Cross continued, “then I can only feel sorry for you, my friend. You’ll want to avoid it but I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “How do I know which feeling is which?”

  “One uplifts your spirit. The other, fortunately I’ve never felt it before. I’ve seen what it does to demons though. It annoys them at first and then it makes them ill. It only gets worse from there.”

  If only she had the courage to allow such grace to touch her spirit. She was afraid she wasn’t worthy. The purity of the Great Goddesses breath might annihilate her.

  Their travels went by uneventfully for a few sleep periods, which was uncharacteristic of the underworld. Gimlet and the pale horses pulled the boat up and down hills with little effort, and they quickly left the snowy mountains of Niflheim in the distance behind them.

  The lack of danger unsettled the Raven more when an accumulation of Nothings increased, scattered across the valley. Thousands of black hands, feet, and heads protruded out of the ground, littering the underworld with the black plague of second death. An endless trail of Nothings lead directly into whatever force had wiped out all those souls.

  While she steered the boat, Cross kept a keen eye on the map he had stolen from Clem Balfour. He planned their route to the Toran, but never announced the final destination. Nor did the selfish lump ever allow her to peek at the map.

  “Here’s the Leipt River,” he said out loud to himself, pointing at the map. “If we go south and head through Kurnugia—cross the River Hubar. Go southwest through the hills of Ekera…that sure is a long way. But after that—”

  “Then what?” asked the Raven stealing a glance at the map.

  Cross rolled the map up. “Then we get there. I’ll let you know.” He reclined back in the boat.

  “I noticed we’ll be crossing Anarchist and Tribulation lines a few times,” she said. “I thought you might tell me where we’re going.”

  Cross leaned back up. “Towards a gate that’s gonna get us outta here. Is that good enough for you?” He lay back down.

  That was good enough for her in a sense that he kept confirming where she stood with him. Obviously, he still didn’t trust her—understandably so. She still didn’t trust him entirely either. But that was probably because she knew how distrustful he was of her. He’d double cross her just because he might think she would do the same to him, and he would want to strike first.

  But given what the two of them knew about the Toran and the fact that neither would reveal their half of the secret to each other and the possible trials that may lie ahead of them, they were going to have to stick together, which meant that eventually they would have to trust each other. They needed to have one another’s backs more than ever now. Unfortunately, Cross was just a little too self-centered and thick headed to understand that quickly enough.

  It was a wavy ride through the twisted metallic city of Kurnugia. They stopped there for a rest. A lone Tribulation soldier fed them barbot soup and gave them beds. From there it was a topsy-turvy jaunt through the rocky mountain ranges of Ekera. The trail of Nothings that the Raven was keeping a note of thinned out over that week through the hills.

  Cross and the Raven had taken turns steering the boat; one slept while the other sailed, and one day the Raven was enjoying a rare pleasant nap when Cross shook her awake. Initially, she thought he had disturbed her slumber just to be spiteful, but the underworld was against any soul having good dreams.

  “Troops are coming,” said Cross.

  She removed her top hat which covered her eyes from the bright blue burning sky. “Black or white?” she asked, her voice still groggy from sleep.

  Cross leaned forward and paused. “I should have taken those stupid glasses from that hodder.” He squinted a little longer before ruffling his shirt. He brushed it with his hands vigorously and coughed as the soot sprinkled off into his nose. “This stupid soot is gonna get us burned. Stupid Nothings stole my button.”

  They hadn’t had the opportunity to find new clothes, and the soot of the Nothing was still covering their outfits, making them look like members of the Anarchist gang.

  She climbed to the front of the boat to get a look at the approaching troops. Dust swallowed the soldiers, kicked up by the animals they were riding. She could vaguely make out the white uniforms of the Tribulation.

  Cross rolled the blanket open. “Gimmie the comb, Blanky. Hurry!” The blanket smacked him in the face with the comb. He fumbled with the comb. “I don’t know if this will work on clothes,” he said, and he scraped the teeth across his pant leg. In an instant, his trousers changed from black to white. He combed his shirt, and the Raven combed her justaucorps, slacks and top hat. They sparkled in immaculate purity.

  “Now we’re white like them,” said Cross.

  They may have been too shiny, too sterile even for the Tribulation. They might’ve identified themselves as holy, but they were still a gang after all.

  The soldiers galloped closer. Cross waved his Latin cross in the air as a friendly gesture. The troop slowed down, and the dust settled around them. They were riding scorpions.

  Only Anarchists rode scorpions, but these soldiers were dressed in the white of the Tribulation. The uniforms were a little more faded than usual though.

  The troop surrounded the boat. Dingy helmets riddled with bullet holes sat above empty eye sockets and sewn mouths on the decaying spirits. Their captain slapped a coat of dust off his sleeve, revealing the black uniform of the Anarchists underneath.

  THE ANARCHISTS WRANGLED THE GHOST HORSES easily, but Gimlet bucked in refusal of being captured. She crushed a soldier under her hooves.

  “Thata girl,” said Cross. “Give ‘em hell.”

  Soldiers held him and the Raven back from the action. The gang of about twenty members outnumbered the two of them anyway, and they all possessed objects of the dead. If he and the Raven had tried to fight them or resist arrest, they would have certainly lost.

  Cross was forced to stand idly by and watch Gimlet scurry about, dodging the soldiers’ attacks. A handful of soldiers dove onto her back. She threw them off, slaughtered one with her spiked tail, and impaled another on her horns. They lassoed her neck, but she dragged them behind her.

  She galloped towards Cross. Fright he had never seen her show bulged in her eyes. The terror spread wide across her smiley face. Normally, she wasn’t afraid of anything, except unusual rivers. She must’ve sensed something that he didn’t.

  The Anarchists had plenty of scorpions to ride. They didn’t need Gimlet for transportation. They could have let her escape. The only possible reason they went through the trouble trying to capture her was because they wanted her meat. Those sons of bitches were hunting her! The ghost horse meat was inedible, and he hadn’t seen any barbot’s in the sky since they had been in Ekera. Gimlet was the only food around for miles, and they would have to eat her spirit flesh raw.

  Cross pointed Gimlet away from the camp out into the underworld. His cornurus obeyed and banked left. Soldiers aimed their various weapons and unleashed a hail storm of many kinds of ammunition: bullets, arrows and spears. Gimlet belted out a horrible scream and flopped to the ground in a crushing thud. Cross flinched.

  The firing ceased and the soldiers poked his innocent cornurus with a stick. There was a faint rise in Gimlets chest. She was still breathing. Under normal circumstances, Cross would have been happy, but he knew that wasn’t a good thing for the cornurus. The soldiers had to eat her alive or the meat would burn to Nothing.

  The Anarchists dragged Gimlet back to camp and slaughtered her alive. Gimlet roared in agony with every tear of her flesh. Cross snatched the Raven’s sack and rolled the blanket open.

  “Gimmie the Peacemaker,” he demanded of it. The blanket revealed the Colt Single Action Army.

  “Not a good idea,” said the Raven.

  He clutched the Peacemaker. A soldier st
epped up to him carrying a tray and offered them raw pieces of Gimlet’s torn flesh. Cross’s insides fought their way up to the back of his throat.

  “Git that outta my face, you bastard!” He smacked the tray to the ground and aimed the Peacemaker at the soldier who flung his hands up and chewed on a piece of straw as though not the least bit frightened.

  Cross raced over to Gimlet, hardly able look at his mangled friend. She, like the Raven, was stronger than he was to withstand such torture. He crossed himself. The mother. The maiden. The crone. “May the Great Goddess, Magna Mater, please have mercy on your soul.” He placed the cold barrel of the Colt on Gimlet’s center horn. “Blessed be to my dearest Roaring Gimlet.”

  His finger squeezed. The hammer boomed. A force tackled him from behind. His face splashed in Gimlets ash. The person sitting on his back snatched the Peacemaker from his hand. He flipped over. The Raven raised the Colt’s handle and struck him.

  The last day of November brought extra chores for fifteen-year-old Charles, and he still hadn’t been able to enter any rodeos yet. He woke earlier than normal that morning and took care of all his usual duties in haste while Mr. Beckwourth limped about in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He was never quite right since his fall two years ago.

  After Charles removed the ash from the fireplaces and prepared the fires, he dashed food in the animal bins outside, brought in fresh eggs, milked the cows, fetched water from the well, and gave the horses rub downs in cool water.

  The peppery aroma swirling from the kitchen beckoned to his stomach. He and Mr. Beckwourth were never allowed to eat with the Carsons, but the two servants always shared supper between themselves in the attic where they slept.

  Sharing meals was the only time Charles really felt close to the majordomo. It was Mr. Beckwourth who had taken him to church on Sundays and taught him how to recite the Lord’s Prayer. They knelt every night at the edge of their beds and gave thanks to God before every meal. In those moments the muscle-bound old man was less like a boss and more like a friend, but with so much work to do each day, even those moments seemed as few and far between as an invitation to join the Carson’s at the table for a meal. On that special November day, Mrs. Carson had done just that.

  Charles carried the breakfast trays into the dining room as usual and sat them down in front of the mistress and Kate.

  “Sit with us,” said Mrs. Carson.

  She must’ve needed the company and was tired of sobbing over Mr. Caron’s desertion of his family. Just a few months after Charles had saved Kate from the runaway carriage, Mr. Carson left the ranch and never returned. And for the last two years of his absence, Mrs. Carson had been keeping herself locked in the boss’s study for days on end, howling. Sometimes, while locked in the boss’s study, it would sound as if Mrs. Carson were speaking to another person even though she would go in and come out alone.

  Her angry scowl rarely lifted from her face, but the frown faded away that morning, if only slightly.

  “Don’t be bashful,” she said. “Today there are no formalities. Sit down. Eat. It’s Thanksgiving day.”

  “Very kind of you.” Mr. Beckwourth sat.

  Charles followed and the four of them gave thanks to the Lord. Every time Charles peeked over at Kate, her eyes danced away, and he averted his eyes when she glanced at him. At one point, their eyes met, and he thought everyone at the table could hear his heart banging. He and Kate both focused their gazes down at the table and then glimpsed each other again.

  Charles could hardly pay attention to his food. His appetite had vanished. He ate what he could though. If he didn’t put something in his stomach now, he’d regret it later. After everyone had finished their meal, he cleaned the table and went on to finish the extra chores in preparation for the big social gathering.

  He pulled each carpet from the halls, hung them on the line, and beat the dust out of them. He dusted the chandelier, replaced dwindled candles, and filled the lamps. He swept the floors and scrubbed down the porch, applying enough elbow grease to leave them gleaming. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to join in with the festivities, he felt proud of his hard work and shuddered at the thought of how it would all go overlooked and end up stained by the time the party ended. His skills would go a lot more respected if he was breaking and training wild horses like he wanted to.

  He laid the puncheon floor outside for the dance and set up slab benches. Mrs. Carson hung evergreen garland, wreaths, and bunting and lit candles all around the ranch, turning it into a fairyland.

  That evening guests flocked to the ranch wearing merry expressions and their best bibs and tuckers. The fairer sex paraded in their fine red, blue, and green calico dresses. Charles parked the guests’ carriages and buggies around the side. Mr. Garrett, the man who helped rescue him from a hanging years ago, remained the only guest who acknowledged Charles’s presence. The bearded man actually said, “Hello” to Charles before helping his wife and his daughter out the carriage. He wore the same glowing ring Mr. Carson owned.

  “You like this ring?” said Mr. Garrett. “How would you like to wear one?”

  “I can’t afford such luxuries, sir.”

  “If you should ever see fit to depart from the Carsons, you have a job on my estate.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. But I ain’t too keen on takin’ no offers.”

  “There’s three thousand acres if you accept. My ranch is bigger than the Carsons’, so you’d have your own living space on your own piece of land. I’ll even pay you double what the Carsons’ pay.”

  “Double, sir?”

  “That’s right. And you can get one of these here rings. Think about it.” He patted Charles on the back and joined the growing party.

  Charles parked the Garretts’ carriage and pondered what could be the end of sharing an attic with Mr. Beckwourth and the beginning of living on his own land. An offer like that never came around. He hopped out of the carriage and gazed up at the mansion he had lived in for the last six years. Could he just leave?

  “Charles!” Mrs. Carson’s voice screeched over the music. “What in the blazes is holding you up, boy?”

  Carriages had lined up. Guests were waiting. He finished parking all the carriages until no more guests were arriving. All the chatting had ceased and the fiddlers’ melody slowed.

  Kate glided down the porch steps in her satin gown. A long curl of her hair hung down and touched the edge of the V shaped bodice. Her skirt hid her feet and she seemed to float across the grounds like an orchid-colored fairy.

  Charles locked his gaze onto her, and hers laid on him. They were the only two people on the ranch. One dance with her would fulfill his waking dream. He refused to leave the Carsons because he refused to leave Kate. She was worth more than money or land. She was everything.

  Men clamored for Kate’s attention and affection, bumping each other out of the way and following her around like puppy dogs. They all tried to make a mash with her, but Charles knew that secretly she was giving them the mitten. She teased them and hardly seemed interested in any of them. He hoped not.

  Clack. Mr. Beckwourth snapped the pocket watch in his face. The object was still bent from when the carriage rolled over it. Charles was lucky to even have found it after such a difficult search.

  “Get a wiggle on,” said the majordomo.

  Charles picked up trays from the kitchen, and on exit, Kate pranced over to him. “May I have this dance?” she whispered, sounding half serious. He laughed the invitation off.

  “It would drive them all into a tizzy,” she said, “to see us dancing together.”

  “Keep your voice down,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s perfectly fine for you to stand there and serve them, but dance beside them? Unthinkable. They’d lose their sensibilities.” She paused. “At least have a chocolate.”

  He turned away from her. “You know the rules.”

  “Break the rules,” said Kate. “Everyone else does.”

 
She faced him and stood so close to him he could feel her breath on his chin. Uncomfortable warmth draped his body like a coat of burning coals. He glanced around at the guests scattered throughout and turned sideways from her before anyone saw them standing so close together.

  “I wanna keep my neck attached to my body,” he said.

  “This is your party as much as it is ours.” Kate sidestepped to face him again. She put her smooth gloved hand on his forearm. “You built all this stuff. You worked awfully hard today as you always do. It’s not right that we get to have all the fun while you just—”

  “I’m having fun.” Charles pulled away from her. “Staying out of trouble is as fun as it gets for me. Don’t mess that up.”

  She folded her arms and sat down on a bench. “I refuse to get up and have any fun tonight if you’re not having fun.”

  “You’re not gonna sit there all night.”

  “I will too.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Good.” She stood up and grabbed a chocolate from his tray. “Then, drink.”

  He glanced around for Mrs. Carson and couldn’t spot her amongst the partygoers.

  “Go on,” said Kate.

  The cup touched his lips. Mrs. Carson came out of nowhere as though she had popped out of the ground. “Kate, don’t you go getting the boy in trouble now.”

  “Oh, mother it’s just one chocolate. Let him have one. President Lincoln’s dead. It’s Thanksgiving. And after all Charlie’s done for us it’s the least he deserves.”

  The smile that Mrs. Carson had forced on her face for her party-guests lapsed into her scowl briefly. “Be discreet. Just one. And then it’s back to work you go.” The hostess returned to her guests, and the hearty smile found its way back on her face.