A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3

by Josephine Pennicott

  Theresa walked along the shore. Debris and body parts lay everywhere. There had been a ferocious storm. Along the sand were large beautiful shells abandoned by the tide. Glistening, whole and perfect. Theresa began to collect them.

  The morning drifted on; Theresa continued to dream.

  The Stag Man waited in the bushland. He watched the house with eyes that remembered everything. A wallaby hopped out from a bush and started upon seeing him. They acknowledged each other with a small nod before the shy wallaby hurried away. A feral cat came crying to him, and he bent down to stroke its head. Proud little mother, its children had died recently from starvation. He put the cat to his lips and nectar flowed from his mouth. When the cat had drunk her fill, he placed her down tenderly. The smell of eucalyptus leaves, of plants satiated from the rain drifted to him.

  It was early morning, there was still no movement from the Bluites who occupied the house. He watched and marvelled as a small spider busily created his web. So many miracles, so many wonders on this planet. The bushland rang with the symphony of birth, life and death. His breath clung as mist in the air. Trees whispered to him words of love, of soothing. An escaped convict walked wearily towards the Stag Man, long dead, his remnant thought pattern enacting his final moments. He sat with his back to a tree, his body racked by hunger and loss, waiting to die. He vanished into the trunk of the tree, his shrunken eyes the last thing remaining of him. It was raining again softly. The Stag Man put back his head and drank from the sky.

  ‘Before the Dreamers slept I was!’ he called to the bush, and the bush replied in loving acknowledgment. ‘When they wake, you alone will be.’

  PART THREE

  WANING MOON

  There are many wonders I could describe to you in the Underworld. Unimagined beings of beauty, and creatures of such horror it would chill your soul. Alas, it is difficult to translate the sights surrounding me into the tongue of all worlds. Some things are familiar: the sky, grass, trees. There is a constant supply of food and drink if I need it, but the food is very different from what I have tasted in Eronth and becomes impossible to translate. It seems to dissolve in the mouth, like swallowing clouds or chewing on dreams. Nothing, is what it seems in the Underworld. Dreams of night, of greed, of lust. All things can be found here, and yet nothing is.

  For what seems forever I have wondered through many rooms, different worlds. I have crossed great corridors filled with mirrors, and walked on wind-whipped cold grey oceans. I have lain in a desert where white lions circled me snarling as my hands held fire to keep them at bay. I have watched myself struggle with accepting my death through eyes of other bodies. I have been a bat swooping through night skies, I have been a kernel of corn, struggling to shoot, to be born, twisting among convoluted roots of meadows of yew trees. All that I feel in the realm of shadows, in the land of death, is the desire to be born. This is what throbs and burns inside me, the dream of breath. The memory of movement, of life. I am everything, and yet I am separate from all that surrounds me.

  When I blink, I can see old people in a large white hospital, lying in their beds. These are the fortunate ones who have died of ‘straw death’. Death came to them with the night, taking their lives as they slept. Impure spirits, criminals and the like, are not treated so kindly by Hel and the keepers of the Underworld. Many of them are banished to Nastronid, where they are forced to wade through ice-cold streams of venom, then made to sit in caves of serpents whose poisonous fangs are turned towards them. After being bitten numerous times, they are washed screaming down into the cauldron of Hvergelmir, where the much-feared serpent Nidhug turns from chewing the roots of the tree Yggodrasil, to feed upon them. Then the entire procedure begins again for these wretched beings.

  I have seen Hel many times, riding through the Underworld on her white three-legged horse, her face stark and terrible, half black and featureless, half white. Here in the Underworld I see many things that were once a prayer to me, a legend, or an untruth. I walk with Thanatos, Hypnos and Morpheus. I hear the cries of babies being born and the scream as another child dies. Now, at last, I know all vital truths. There is no loss. No end. I am part of all that is, and yet all is not really there.

  I hear the cries of Persephone trapped in the Underground, and Hades’ heartbeat throbbing through earth, the heart that controls time. My former identity seems to slip away from me, further and further with every breath, like a worn-out snakeskin I discard. There is no pain, no loss, no looking back. I have become a god, and in the world of the gods I walk. There are other days when the smell of death in my mouth and my eyes blinds me. I sense my old Eronth body decaying, mould forming on my skin, and horror threatens to split my eyeballs, when I hunger to be mortal again. Too late, the gods mock. Too late!

  Hecate claps, she spins, she ignores, she mocks me with webs of illusions and half dreams. A family crushed with sorrow, waving me goodbye as I sail down the Styx. Light, laughter, warmth. When I hold the memory of this family, that is when I am lost. Libations of blood and wine poured to my memory in the overworld from grieving relatives makes me pause in my journey of discovery. Then I hunger for the unseen, the warmth of my mother’s breast, the caress of my wife. The smile of my children. Too late, the gods scream. Move on!

  I sit for long periods of time watching the spirits drinking from the pools of Lethe and Memory, white poplar trees casting them into light as they refresh themselves. Once, I think I see my own beloved Rosedark, a daughter who belongs to another pocket of time. She drinks from the pool, from the river of forgetfulness to purify herself. Impossible, I think, even as she stands in shock, mouth open with surprise, her beautiful violet eyes filled with tears. She is safe with the Crone in Eronth; this must be another of Hecate’s webs. I clap my hands and watch her dissolve. I am not fooled so easily by the Mother of Monsters.

  Near the pools, newly arrived spirits are regularly judged by Minos, Rhadamanthys, and Aecus where three roads meet. As each verdict is announced the ghosts are directed along one of the three roads. The evil go to the punishment fields of Tartarus, ringed by Phlegethon the flaming river of fire, or to Nastronid and the bowels of hell. The orchards of Elysium are for the virtuous, and if they are neither virtuous nor evil, they are led back to the Asphodel Fields.

  Near Hades’ heartbeat lies Elysium. I have spent some time in this happy domain. Here carefree games are played, music and celebrations never cease. Some of the inhabitants may elect to be reborn whenever they choose. Often I catch glimpses of Hades as he rides past in his golden chariot with its four black horses leading, but I am yet to catch a glimpse of his young queen, Persephone, although her scent hangs heavily in the world of the Underworld, and through the soil I can hear the moans of Demeter, crying for her daughter. At times I also hear mortals above, striking the earth, cursing the Underworld gods for claiming their loved ones, or invoking the ancient gods with their prayers.

  It is unwise to mention them by name, but the Erinnyes, with their stench, and bloodshot eyes, also frequent the world of the shadows. They torture their victims mercilessly, laughing as they die in torment. In the Underworld we whisper their name as ‘The Kindly Ones’. It is only a fool who focuses his attention on the Erinnyes, because when you focus on these ancient Crones, they may well focus upon you.

  I have seen the souls of great kings and queens and heard the yelp of the hounds of hell, Aunwm, Herne and Arthur. I have watched the suicides scream regret for their choice, and I have wept for the spirits who lie in the Mourning Fields. I have covered my ears at the sound of fire, of ghosts, and the terrible noise of dragging chains. I have lain peacefully in glades of poplar trees, crushing mint between my hands, feeling great serenity and happiness creep through my soul. I have laughed in the face of hunger, warmth, madness, discord, and clapped my hands, making their fearful countenances dissolve. I have seen souls arriving in the Underworld, like leaves falling from a tree. Some uttering prayers, some screaming in terror, but more souls than you could possibly
imagine. I have watched the Erinnyes flap through the air, holding live bodies triumphantly and throw them roughly among the dead as playmates for the ghosts. I felt nothing as I observed their bodies descend from the skies. I have witnessed spirits limping wearily into the Underworld, Hel’s shoes strapped securely around their feet so they may not suffer for the long journey their people believed they might walk along rough and dusty roads. I have tasted woe, wailing, hatred and forgetfulness.

  Yes, so many sights and wonders. Far too many to record. I have walked with the companions of death: Curae, Morbi, Senectus, Metus, Fames, Egestas, Letum, Labos, Sopor, Famine, Pestilence, Sleep, Strife, Disease. I am now a god, and my onion eyes are open. I can see clearly, yet even a god feels emptiness and pain and there are times when the wonders of the Underworld are not enough. This is when the memory of the family I loved so long ago returns to haunt me and keeps me trapped, flitting between thought patterns in the Underworld, restless for the memory of my loved ones so dreamlike, cold and distant. Their grief and prayers hold me here. I am bound by their love and need. The memory of them is dust in my hands and I scatter memory to the winds, screaming a challenge to the gods, with no response. Hungry, alone, a god trapped. I now know all marvels, but know all that there is for us is love. Only love. It is all that keeps me alive in death. Love is all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus . . .

  — JOAN OF ARC’S LAST WORDS

  The two taxis kept pace with each other as they sped along the Great Western Highway towards the Blue Mountains. In the first car were Phillip, Odolf, Leonora and Agatha; in the second Lucius, Faline and Dea Dreamer. The realisation they were following the same path Veronica Stewart and her camera crew had taken not so long before them did not cross their minds. The drivers of both cars were united in their uneasy feeling towards their mysterious passengers. ‘They were so silent it was bloody sinister,’ one complained to his wife later that night. ‘Wearing dark glasses, even in pitch dark. Like a pack of bloody dead people. Reminded me of something from a Hammer Horror film, as though one of them would bite my neck out at any moment. They had charms and things hanging around their necks. All of them white as ghosts. I can’t explain it, but it was creepy. It was a good fare, though.’

  In the first car, Phillip looked out at the blackened scenery. Nothing was visible, only oncoming headlights from other cars and miscellaneous dark shapes flashing past. The sound of the tyres on the wet road began to take on a sinister dimension now that they were nearly there. Treacherous fears were threatening to overwhelm him. A hundred frightening scenarios flowered inside him; such as a figure appearing on the road, causing the cars to swerve and overturn. Odolf, Leonora and Agatha had been up half the previous night devising a magical charm to protect their journey, but they could never underestimate the energies opposing them. Phillip knew from bitter experience how far they were prepared to go to keep the portal open. There were hundreds of ways they could disguise deaths in these silent, massive mountains.

  He sat, trying to empty his mind, forcing himself to believe his team was equal to the task ahead, half regretting the decisions he had taken in his life leading to this point. No turning back, the rain beat a rhythm. No turning back, the ear tyres mocked. Odolf, Leonora and Agatha were silent, lost in their separate memories. The energy of Johanna was strong within the car, they could all feel her. Mentally, the trio began to chant the names of the Goddess, attempting to push her away.

  In the car behind, Dea avoided Faline’s searching glare and fingered the large cross around her neck. She didn’t belong with these familiar strangers. This was more painful than she had envisaged, returning to the past, but as much as she had wanted to have nothing to do with this scheme, the stronger the voice inside her demanded she agree to this madness. How can you live with yourself if you don’t? Her inner voice sneered at her. How many more people have to die before you take responsibility for your actions: In the past Dea had always trusted her voice, but of course Phillip could have performed some binding spell to ensure she carried out his instructions. But somehow Dea didn’t think so. She carried an inner conviction that although helping the coven to close the portal was totally against the teachings of her church, it was the only option left to her. It was to be a sacrifice. A paralysing fear they may not return had her by the neck. Her fingers moved over her cross, murmuring Jesus’s name over and over. Faline looked on with sympathetic eyes.

  The rain had begun to pelt down harder, and the cars slowed down on the busy highway. The coven’s senses were strained, reading meaning in everything outside the car windows. Dea’s mouth felt dry, parched with fear. Go back, she wanted to beg the driver. Don’t keep moving us towards them! Then, there it was. The turn-off to Katoomba. The driver slowed down and indicated. Go back! Dea screamed inwardly.

  They were following the car in front, and suddenly in the midst of the night and rain there were lights, movement, restaurants, shops shut for the night. A cat watched them from below a street lamp. Dea felt herself shrinking into her seat at the cool way the cat regarded them, while Faline removed her sunglasses, rubbing the mist away from the window to view the cat better, her lips moving upwards into a snarl. Shadows moved and came to life, the past flooded back to the coven as they surveyed the silent streets they had once known so intimately, looking remarkably unchanged. Memories bombarded them like hailstones; Cael laughing, spinning along the street dressed in a black tuxedo he had bought from the vintage shop, the tails of the jacket flying behind him as he tap-danced, holding out a battered top hat for amused onlookers to drop coins into. Beautiful, doomed Cael, who had suspected more than the others the viper they nurtured within their breast and had the courage to look the monster in the eye. Other images sprang to their minds: the stares and whispers they would attract in the street, Johanna sitting sketching at one of the cafes. Landscapes for the tourists’ dollars, for herself gross caricatures of the locals, bodies with several heads, or wings, scales and claws. Her pencil would move swiftly, her eyes noticing every detail.

  The cat continued to watch the cars. Uncaring of the rain saturating its fur, the eyes burned as the two taxis headed along Katoomba Street towards the Three Sisters where the cat knew some of the grander hotels were situated. The cars vanished into the rain and darkness. The cat followed. The town held its breath.

  Clinging to the top of the town’s council chambers, several fully grown Erinnyes sheltered from the rain. There had been numerous complaints from locals over the last week regarding the foul stench in the streets, but most people put it down to the drains overflowing with the frequent rain, and the recent events were enough to distract the locals.

  Theresa shifted uneasily in bed, muttering in her sleep. In her dream she was holding a spirited conversation with a fly. Her room was filled with greenery, branches and large silver jellylike balls that hung from the rafters.

  ‘After I come through, I will make you Queen of the Flies,’ the fly promised her. It put its head to one side and regarded her with a lascivious look. ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s inside you now,’ it promised. ‘No one from your old school would believe what is inside your flabby belly, little girl.’

  Theresa moaned. Even in her sleep, nausea was flooding her body in waves. She was aware Lazariel was lying on the bed, holding her. He kissed her head.

  ‘It’s all right, Theresa, go back to sleep.’ Theresa tried to obey. In Lazariel’s arms she felt safe, protected. She could smell the harsh maleness of him; the wings that protruded from his back, But as they lay together, her desire for him spiralled to the surface. Still half asleep, she obeyed her body’s demands and pushed herself against him. He became harder. Her eyes shut, she reached for him, hands opening his trousers, releasing him. Oh Theresa, Theresa. Oh my God, that’s so good. Oh Theresa. Oh God, I’ll come if you keep that tip. Was it the fly speaking or Lazariel? The dream was so recent she was unsure of the reality she now occupied. Too late, he was pus
hing against her, forcing his prick into her body. She lay back, spreading her legs wider for him.

  Rachel saw her moment. She had been sitting in a corner of the bedroom watching Theresa as she slept, observing with little interest the flies that had also gathered to watch. There was very little conscious awareness in her actions, just an instinctive need for survival. She was dying. She knew that. Her desires to be mortal had brought her to this moment. Her desire for flesh. For a mother who would love her.

  ‘Poor little Rachel is filled with ice,’ she whispered. ‘My bones long dust, I long for blood, for a hand filled with heat to comb my hair.’ Rachel moved towards the thrusting couple on the bed. As she floated, parts of her body seemed to vanish. It would be easy to enter them now. To relinquish being Looz Drem would not be such a difficult choice. The woman was moaning. Rachel could see clearly what lay inside her; the spawn offspring of Beelzebub. It was in its early stages, but already it was the size of a large fetus. If it continued to fester inside the woman’s womb, it would kill her.

  Would little Rachel be strong and conscious enough to dispose of the spawn once she was inside the woman? Rachel wondered. She knew such things were possible. Souls of unborn children could be taken over. Theresa’s womb was like an open fire, drawing her, filling with heat and strength. Rachel moved towards her, brushing aside cobwebs, dreams, and the ever horrible memories of her previous life on earth. Nearly there. The bodies were beginning to merge into one in her mind. A step closer from the grave, then another.

  ‘Are you sure, Rachel?’

  Damn him. Charmonzhla was standing between her and her freedom. The angoli was wearing dark sunglasses, and his wings gleamed brightly It was incredible to Rachel the moaning couple were not aware of his presence. He removed the glasses and surveyed her with sorrowful eyes. ‘Enter them and you are lost, demon spawn,’ he said. ‘Enter them and I may not be able to find you. The games we have played together, the lies we have woven, the blood we have infected. All lost!’