She reached out her hand to caress the undamaged feathers. “Are you my Guide?” she asked with soulful reverence.
The gull doubled then tripled in size. Its neck stretched, manifesting into flesh, the widened wings dissolving into slender limbs, legs lengthening. It lifted higher, the beak dissolving into a nose, human features becoming more and more distinct. Olivia covered her face as she knelt on the beach, tears whelming up in the sadness relived from the day the beautiful creature was found dead. She kept the stance of subservience, understanding her naivety within this Spirit world. It lived.
“Open your eyes,” the song above her said. “Your respect touches me deeply.”
Olivia slowly lifted her gaze. A tall shimmering woman stood before her, her skin as white as the feathers that had once adorned the body of a bird. Clothed in a transparent gown she swayed with graceful modishness, her smile illuminating unimaginable wisdom. “Accept my honor,” Olivia whispered.
“It is I who honor you. Rise. Take my hands.”
A warm current flowed through Olivia’s arms, and as she stood in front of her Guide she heard the ocean’s voice, a song of perfection in its peaceful tranquility. Every creature therein seemed to speak to her, a massive culmination, welcoming her company. If not for the hands that held her steady she would surely have sunk to the sand again in veneration.
Olivia memorized every delicate feature. This Spirit was too beautiful for words but if she could remember the face with clarity, she might be able to recreate the image with pencil or paint. The Guide emanated enlightenment, what lay beneath was inner illumination, a mere hint of many virtuous qualities Olivia yearned to obtain. The Spirit smiled, her rose red lips pressed together, cautioning to speak not of secrets that should always remain private.
“Welcome, Olivia. I am pleased you have arrived. Are you willing to commence?”
“Yes.”
Without delay the lesson began. “Water. Earth. Air.” The Guide tipped her chin to the cliff above them. “And fire.”
William stood there, watching them, his robe stirred to the flames that circled his body without consumption, the staff gripped tightly in his hand. Storm clouds billowed behind where he stood, the grayness a vivid contrast to the red flames that had no source. He bowed to both women and then was gone, taking the cloud and the fire with him.
“You are his heart, Olivia. Without your love he would perish. The fires would devour him.”
“Teach me,” Olivia said. “Show me what I must do so that he can be free.”
“Then let us begin.”
The beach vanished. Before them stretched an elongated stone table--on it four items--a crooked staff, gleaming sword, a coin-like pentacle, and a gold cup. Each of these, Olivia knew, represented the four elements, four seasons, four directions. The world and everything in it composed of earth, water, air and fire.
“I see your wisdom,” the Guide said. “He once chose the wand because of the fire. Yet it will consume him if he fails. The enemy that stirs beyond the shadows chose the sword, and waits in the air for the time of battle.” She waved her hand gracefully over the objects. “Now it is your turn to choose, Olivia. Use your wisdom. Let it speak.”
Olivia peered at each with care. The wand was green, small twigs grew from several knots. Growth. Energy. Glory. Her hand passed over it. The sword was aggression, both constructive and destructive. Ambition. Courage. Strife and misfortune, the energy caused her hand to recoil. Pentacles. The five-pointed stars symbols of man, the jewelry worn as protection from the evils of life. Money. Her palm lingered. Material gain held no attraction.
The cup, however, radiated warmth. It allied to water, the symbol of the unconscious mind, instinct, opposing consciousness and reason, both she had struggled with accepting. How she had relied on instinct of late, and her gifts, no reason could explain. Then there was Love. Neither measurable nor defined, yet her breast was filled with the happiness the emotion related. Love. Happiness. Beauty. Fertility. She had never truly understood any of this until William, in all his brilliance, strode into her life.
“The cup,” she said with certainty. “I choose the cup.”
Instantly the other items vanished. “It is done.”
“What must I do, Spirit?” she pleaded. “Please, you must tell me.”
“You already know.”
The table crumbled yet the cup remained stationary. Olivia reached and took hold of the base, believing it might fall and shatter on the earth. A blinding flash of white light, the Guide disappeared. Olivia was left in a vast empty vacuum, the cup glowing as a beacon. She held it with all her might, waiting for whatever revelation was to present itself next.
If time could be measured she had only to rely on the blink of an eye.
The swelling thickness parted. Before her were flat paved stones, each a dark red, each liquid, flowing without gravity to guide its course. The stench of it was repulsive, like rotten flesh, congealed stagnant blood. Her stomach lifted, bile whelmed in her throat, but she stood firmly, clutching the precious cup tight to her breast. Colossal metal gates yawned ever high into a blackened ceiling of nothing. Sneering gargoyles, distorted demons, dotted along each pillar, flames from fanged mouths illuminating the dead ivy, rusted iron, a mammoth chain that looped through every grille. Behind her, the icy black fluttered deathly fingers over her waist, exploring her curves with sadistic pleasure. in front the fire from each puffing creature’s breath was so extreme that beads of sweat exploded over her skin. Still she stood firmly, containing terror by clasping the cup in fingers gone rigid. She called upon every ounce of resilience to dispel what evil resided here.
Olivia didn’t need the great gate to be signposted to know she faced the entrance to the Underworld. And if William was to be freed she had to enter, find the Goddess who robbed him of Love, and....
The cold behind her ran its talon up her leg, pausing briefly on her thigh.
“Your flesh is warm. Your womb carries life. What are you that brings this soul to where the dead reside?”
The breath that wafted over her was putrid, as though feeding on the decaying cadavers of those who had no choice but to come to this dreaded place and wait to be allowed entrance.
Olivia fixed her stare on the lock. Terror washed through her but she knew that to turn and gaze upon the source of this croaking voice would leave her mind numb. Madness would consume her soul if she learned of its features. It taunted her to turn, however. It squeaked, pressing its deformity against her back, yearning to engross living flesh. Or bond with it. The tips of three sharp nails on each hand clutched her hips; it swayed, tugging at her to part her thighs as she stood.
“Give me the life you carry. Open your legs for me and I shall open the gates for you.”
Olivia’s skin crawled in repugnance. The leathery substance behind her coiled to hundreds of writhing worms. “I will give you nothing,” she stated. “Leave me.”
In surprise the creature gaped and withdrew, but not far. She heard it rattle. The slithering organisms that fed on its skin sucked in air, disturbed by the host’s sudden movement.
“I know you!”
The very thought made Olivia’s stomach rise again in revulsion. “Open the gate, Keeper. My business is not with you.”
It hissed. “I know you. I know you. I know you.”
Olivia folded her arms around the cup. Love. She held Love in her hands. It was greater than any sword. She shielded her mind with thoughts of William.
The malevolent nail patted the mark on her shoulder. A screech of alarm, fury, ecstasy all rolled into one shredded the darkness. “I know this mark! I know your voice! Give me not the life within your womb. Give me your name!”
“I will give you nothing, demon. Hear me. Nothing.”
Long piercing howls stabbed the darkness. Yellow eyes blinked from tiny slits within the walls, curious to see what happening was the cause of such disorder. A murmuring of hundreds of excited words melted into one long
drone, vibrations of bewilderment.
Behind her the foul creature wept, screaming an anguish of innumerable lost souls. “I know this mark. You must give me your name. You must!”
Olivia didn’t feel quite so small and insignificant as she had when she first appeared here. The Keeper was begging for what she could easily relinquish. If she merely uttered the syllables of her name she knew the lock would break, she could enter and find the one who had robbed William of his emotion. The task could begin here and now, in earnest, and all she had to do was say....
“Olivia. My jewel. Come home.”
The creature behind her howled, its pain rocking Olivia so sharply she nearly fell. The blinking eyes in the wall suddenly snapped off, their curiosity filled voices joined in the scream of agony. And Olivia was leaving this place without command--rising higher into the nothingness overhead--while beneath a cry went up, scissor-like nails clawing at her feet and ankles, one last desperate attempt to drag her back down. “Mother. Do not forsake me here.”
Olivia kicked. So obsessed with freeing herself from the malignant being that had been so close, she neither saw nor felt William as he consoled her torment.
The cup clattered to the floor. Certain that her flesh was covered in a mass of wiggling maggots she slapped her body, frantically trying to free herself from the sensation of their existence. “Get them off!” she cried. “They’re everywhere.”
William reached to hold her but she screamed and recoiled, certain of instant demise, that the demon had finally claimed his prisoner. Her hands flayed in preservation. Exhausted, she slumped to the floor, a convulsion finally discharging the bile that had so long pooled in her throat. Shaking with the flushed heat of nausea she curled into a tight ball and whimpered.
“Olivia. It is I.” A gentle caress brought her senses into focus. The floor beneath her was wooden, the air clear of stench. Sweat trickled from her brow and dripped from the tip of her nose. “Olivia.”
The silken arms circled around her, soothing the dying tremors that had drained her of strength. She clung to the arms and sank with them into the warm water of the bath. They sat, together, her mind slowly clearing while he rocked her body and sang lulling incantations in her ear.
“It is finished,” he whispered, manifesting safety with a firm embrace.
He hadn’t asked the reason for her terror. Instead he continued to rock her, a gentle pacification. Nerves steadied yet her mind buzzed with the contrasts of such beauty against the foul blackness of such wicked depths. In ignorance she believed she was capable of passing through the gates. If misery of that magnitude waited outside, how could she find strength to venture within, where certain Hell must surely be worse?
The reality of the nightmare dimmed. She relaxed against William’s chest, holding the arms that folded across her breast. The warm water they shared calmed the last of her trepidations and she allowed the luxury of sigh, the steam filling her lungs.
“Oh, William,” she said, twisting slightly to press her forehead into his neck. He kissed her hair and continued a tranquillizing chant even though her repose was finally complete.
Twilight lessened the shadows within the turret. Measured time. Olivia grasped the significance of reality. This was her world and despite its afflictions she welcomed the comfort of understanding. At least here she had some semblance of control.
She would have to return to that ghastly place. This she knew; her love demanded it. But when she did, she would be more fully prepared. Then she would be equipped with proper armor. The cup, she was certain, was the wisest choice, for love’s intuition held secrets yet to be discovered.
Chapter Seven
Wyldelock showered her with patient attentiveness. She had been morosely quiet since her return, rarely meeting his eye, so he remained silent as well. It had been her first experience with the borderless place of spirits, and meditation was needed if she was to work her way through the illogicality of what she had seen. After the bath, he dried her with his sighs, and wrapped them both within a velvet robe. He lay with her as she dozed, combing her hair with long sweeping caresses, assurance of gratitude she had successfully begun the long road toward his redemption.
She had met with accomplishment for the gold cup returned with her. He knew of the choices the Guide would present. His Guide, the Owl, had manifested into a noble warrior, adorned in a suit of armor made from sheer silver. He had chosen the wand for its representation of energy and glory and he carried it with him always. Only once had he regretted not picking the sword from the stone table--the night he had been banished into sleep beneath his home--for if he had the sword, he would have been able to fight the one who called for retribution. Yet now they were two--a gentle sorceress who claimed the cup of love and he--her companion who still carried the staff.
But she had also met great distress, which stubbornly remained a mystery to Wyldelock. He was gravely troubled by the frightened eyes, her violent shivering, her anguished cries for help. What had caused such terror, he did not know. Had Dietrick invaded her path to enlightenment? He was, after all, still of the air, and the place wherein the spirits dwelled was of air. Wyldelock would exercise patience until she rested. Then he would query what had happened. It would be of more significance if she used free will to explain all. He resisted the temptation to touch her mind, unlock the memory that continued to haunt her.
She stirred. “William, what was the world like when you were young?”
“Why do you ask me this?” He was alarmed, never anxious to discuss what was passed away. What was to be claimed was of more consequence.
She fell silent again. He pinched her chin, twisting it to peer into her eyes, seek elucidation behind the question. “There was beauty,” he answered with vagueness. “And violence in ugliness. Much as this world you know.”
“Always opposites,” she said, resting her cheek again on his shoulder. “Like you and Dietrick? Were you his opposite then?”
“No,” Wyldelock whispered to the sweetness of memory. “No, we were not always opposed to each other.”
“Tell me about him, William. Tell me about the friend you once loved.”
Love. Wyldelock lifted his gaze to the ceiling, tears distorting the etchings carved there. His chest constricted at the infliction of remembrance. Blurred within were images of Dietrick’s smile, shared conquest, shared laughter, shared enjoyment. “He was a swordsman, like me. We fought together. He was brave in battle and very strong. I admired his talents.”
“And he admired yours?” Olivia said quickly.
“Yes. We extolled each other often.”
“And he loved you, too?”
The question stung into Wyldelock with a curiously warming hurt. One tear dangled precariously on his lash. “We were brothers,” he said with care, insuring his voice did not hint at emotion.
“More than brothers,” Olivia blurted. “I think he loved you as I do.”
Wyldelock shivered. “Why would you say this?” The tear escaped, a ribbon of heat staining his cheek.
Olivia propped her weight on one elbow and stared into his face. She brushed the tear away with compassion. “Such intense hatred is born of jealousy. You didn’t return his want for you. Instead you loved his sister and he was blinded with rage from the rejection. You snubbed him and he couldn’t bear it.”
“No. He was angered because I abandoned her. I dishonored his family.”
“Part truth,” she said, searching him. He broke away from her penetrating look and flushed. Another tear threatened release.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I am not your judge. But don’t insult me with fiction.”
“Olivia. I....” Words died on his lips. Her wisdom seemed infinite.
“I’m just trying to understand the one we must fight,” she consoled. “I’m not trying to embarrass you.”
“Yes, Olivia. It is so. Eros deceived his passion.”
“He seeks to murder you--to satisfy that passion,” sh
e said. “Murder can be the only form of release available to him.”
Wyldelock nodded. “I suffer remorse. I was aware of his desire and yet I wounded him by uniting with his sister. He was never the same man after this. I saw his hatred even then. I encouraged it.”
“So he passed through the gates,” she murmured, with thought. “Sold his soul to the Keeper for immortality and seeks you still.”
“Keeper? Olivia, what is it you speak of?”
“The gates to the Underworld, William. I was there, and a foul creature that stood guard demanded a gift before I could enter. I refused and the lock remained bolted.”
William’s chest rose in alarm. He sat upright, taking her with him. “You cannot go there. What possessed you to do so?”
“I didn’t ask. My Guide showed me.”
Wyldelock shrieked a cry of disdain. “Then I curse your Guide for such an act. She led you into ruin.”
This was inconceivable--a Guide was meant only to illuminate choice--not reveal the vile destruction of the lost. Her innocence they would tear asunder as soon as they realized she was undead. And if she sought not a trade they would assault her for countless centuries, subjecting her body to incalculable torture, before she finally succumbed. The Guide knew of this dreadfulness.
He scanned her precious body for signs of molestation. His rampant pulse missed a beat--her ankles were slashed, red scratches--abominations of an evil grasp.
“Why did you not tell me sooner?” he flared, shaking her. “There is no Keeper. What inflicted these marks?”
She shuddered, blinking several times in confusion. “I don’t know,” she answered feebly. “I didn’t look at it. Stop this, William. You’re frightening me.”
“Your fear is justified,” he bellowed, clasping her ankles, sniffing the wounds. He darted frantic glances from one ankle to the other. Poison had seeped into her blood. Already the veins in her legs were discolored. If the poison was allowed to flow, the child within her womb would mummify.
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