by David Risen
Rider gives him a look of disbelief. “Did you happen to notice that Aphrodite just ate me?”
Yeshua smiles and his eyes glaze over as if he’s looking inside himself. “Aphrodite is no Goddess. She’s a fallen archangel. She doesn’t have the power to hold you unless you allow her.”
Complete darkness and a head-first fall continues forever. The meaty tube of Hades’ throat surrounds her. She glimpses the wet shimmering of the mucus lining the walls all around her. Below, nothing but the deepest of black holes.
Merissa stopped screaming long ago, and now she merely resigns herself to the fact that an ancient Greek God ate her whole, and that she is surely dead with no hope of escape.
That’s when something changes below.
The flat endless shadow before her gives way to something glimmering far below. From this distance, it looks like a frozen glossy surface.
She clinches her eyes tightly and grinds her teeth – attempting to emotionally prepare herself for the sudden crunchy stop at the end of the fall.
When nothing happens after a few seconds, she opens her eyes again to find that the simmering gloss below is a vast wide lake encompassed in darkness. From the distance, she can just make out the flat blackness of the distant banks at the edges of the lake.
A tuft of fowl air whispers up from below carrying with it the stench of rot and death.
She flails her arms and kicks her feet in a futile attempt to control her own fall – even throw herself closer to the ever-widening walls of the meaty vertical cave – perhaps even grasp onto it.
But the motion only serves to flip her over on her back – deepening her panic.
She cranes her head around as far as her neck will allow it to turn, and finds to her horror that the ocean of liquid below is not water at all, but red fluid.
She claws and kicks in vain after the meaty walls surrounding her.
She feels the wetness from below on her bare skin.
She casts fearful eyes behind her again in time to see the fluids below reaching up with avarice to claim her small form.
She draws a deep, shocked breath.
A thunderous splash as she plunges that she only partially hears.
She kicks and claws at the scorching waters.
Her skin burns as if set on fire, and then her head breaks the surface of the fluid.
Her eyes pop open and she bats the stinging liquid away, to find that her surroundings are completely changed.
Across the bank, a large crowd of men and women huddle around a bonfire. Some of them wear various styles of ancient robes – Roman Togas, Greek Chitons, Egyptian Kalaseries and shendyts, and some wear nothing at all – their bodies glowing orange in the light of the flickering flames.
Faint errant sounds drift across the lake toward her – musical sounds. It reminds her of a small string instrument, and the quiet, pensive sound of it resembled a koto. Partially drowned out by the sounds of water all around her, she also makes out the ghostly sounds of a gentle, male voice following the same note progression and rhythm of the string instrument.
Something about the sad and thoughtful melody pulls her forward.
She forgets the burning of her skin and wades toward the pleasant melodies wafting across the lake.
As she nears the crowds on the banks the sounds swell, and vocals more magical than the most gifted musician she’s ever heard – even Rhett Mueller – fill the air lulling her into a mesmerized state like a longing and pensive composition by a master.
She draws ever nearer to the bank.
The music swells and fills her ears with delicious, pensive riffs and her spirit with rapture.
Then, the crowd begins to move slowly to the center of the fire with each individual disappearing.
Merissa snaps out of her trance and watches the spectacle with horror as the crowd of hundreds dwindle to a handful as they discard their robes and file to the center. At last, when only a few spectators remain she sees the source of the music.
A bony, old man with curly white hair sits on top of a stone. His sightless eyes are wrapped in a dirty, white blindfold and his head is ever pointed upwards as if praying. A woman wearing a Chiton of shimmering gold cloth banded by sterling silver brooches at the shoulders and fastened with a gaudy, platinum girdle at her waist, plays the liar. Her beauty rivals that of Aphrodite herself.
And the crowd of nude spectators disappear into the open mouths of two other women who have grown to a size that rivaled Hades as they swallow the poor souls whole.
Merissa draws a swift, deep breath and ducks under water – braving the stinging sensation of the poison in her eyes enough to look up through the waters at the flickering light from the back.
After a moment, the lights dwindle and die.
She pushes herself up gently from the water, releases her breath, and draws in another.
She can’t see a soul on the bank now.
The old man and the three women appear to have vanished in the darkness, as if the shadows have swallowed them whole.
She stares at the flat blackness of the bank with trepidation – wondering if she’s safer on the bank, and finally she pushes her way forward and climbs up on the soft dirt.
She’s as blind as a bat in the darkness.
With her hands thrust out before her like antennae, she paws her way through the shadows gingerly. The sharp stones a few feet from the shore dig into the soft pads of her feet causing her to wince in pain.
At last, her hand touches a rocky embankment.
She releases a sigh of relief.
“Who goes?” A man’s voice says in a language she’s never heard but somehow understands.
She turns her head in the direction of the noise, but she sees no one.
The man laughs. “I’ve lived in darkness for most of my life. When I was young, I made a pact with the muses that bestowed me with talent beyond my natural capability. The price was my eyes, and my eternal servitude.”
In her mind, Merissa pictures the blind, old man sitting on top of a rock wearing a simple toga-like garment.
Merissa draws closer to the rocks.
“It’s pointless to hide from me. I see with my ears, my nose, and my skin. Did the spectacle spook you?”
Merissa releases a shuddering breath, and begins to feel her way along the wall – looking for somewhere to hide.
She hears the rustling of the man’s garments as he shifts in his seated position.
“Part of my servitude. I must play my lyrics with Aoide as her sisters Melitele and Mneme feed. Don’t fret; it’s not permanent. Just more of the torments of Hades. In a time, they’ll reappear to become meat for the daughters of Zeus once more.”
Merissa kicks a rock and the sound of it clacking against the stones on the ground echoed through the cavernous expanse. All her muscles tense.
“What they failed to tell us when we were all in the temporal world of men was that our eternal reward in either Elysium or Hades was to be periodically devoured by the Gods with the only exception being those of us who were either fortunate or foolish enough to make a pact with them.”
Merissa searches the black shadows before her carefully near the voice, but she sees absolutely no line belonging to a man.
“Tell me, fair, young maid.... That is what you are – a short and slightly-composed, young maid.... From where do you hail? I never forget the footfalls of a man or woman, and yours, I have not heard.”
Merissa stares into the blackness weighing whether to speak or to flee, but the knowledge she’s gained since her imprisonment in Skitts Mountain has taught her to trust no one – especially one who is complicit in the devouring of souls.
The old man laughs. “Did you arrive via the river Styx?”
He laughs again. “Many ages past, the great river beyond this bank teamed with souls plunging to their final destinations and recurring torments. It has been mostly empty for many an age. I fear that our great tormentor, Hades himself, does not carry t
he power he once wielded. Which makes a man wonder, exactly where do the dead go now? Or has unmerciful disaster mostly wiped man from the face of the earth?”
“Who are you?” Merissa hisses.
The man chuckles. “Of course! That was rude of me. My name in the temporal realm was Homeros of Ionia, but I do not fancy that you’ve heard of me. The language and culture that emanates from you is unfamiliar to me. And who do I have the pleasure of entertaining?”
She feels her way further along the wall, and then she freezes when she hears the sound of Homeros’ garments rustle as he shifts again.
“Perhaps with a bit of light you may feel a bit more secure?”
At once the fire before him flares and she spies him no more than a few feet away from her. His aged and wrinkled face is covered by a ratty salt and pepper beard and he wears a crudely-cut blindfold around his sightless eyes. His curly, silver hair falls to his back and at present sticks to his forehead wetted by a film of sweat.
“Merissa,” she replies.
He nods. His head still points upward as if he seeks the counsel of heaven.
“And from where do you hail, lass?”
She frowns. “You’ve never heard of it. It didn’t exist in your time.”
He laughs. His lips curve in a cruel smile that reveals a grille of rotting and missing teeth.
“Your way, culture and rhythm reminds me of the souls that reside here who belong to the lost civilization of Atlantis.”
“That was real?”
His face contorts in a strange look of incredulity. “Common knowledge. In what age do men not know of the fall of the great island of Atlantis?”
“We know about it, we just thought it was a legend.”
He sighs. “No, my dear. Once you’ve survived long enough you learn that every legend has more than just an ounce of truth – just as every great and legendary figure was once a real man who bled bitterly, found great fortune and misfortune, and eventually passed.”
“Darling,” someone says to Merissa’s left.
She cranes her head in the direction of the sound.
The woman wearing the golden chiton who had been playing the lyre for Homeros stands beside her. She gives Merissa a look that makes her skin crawl as her dark, Mediterranean eyes trace the lines of her body, landing momentarily on her breasts and then her pelvic region.
“I’m all for evening meal conversation,” the woman says, “but it irritates me to no end when you engage in interesting conversation with my meal.”
Merissa’s eyes bulge. She turns and bolts down the side of the stone embankment.
But before she can take five steps, another giant hand raps around her and lifts her level to her Giant head.
The Giant muse offers her a smug grin. “Don’t fret, my dear. It will be all over soon, and eventually you’ll reappear somewhere else in Hades only to become someone else’s meal.”
The dark and dangerous one deep inside Merissa begins to unfold despite her exhaustion and weakness.
Hades closes his eyes and lifts his head toward the gray sky. He feels the warmth of the mother of chaos snake through his body, and he smiles.
Slowly he shrinks back to his normal size, and his black beard turns red once again.
He opens his eyes – eyes that glow red from the infinite power he’s consumed.
A distant explosion erases his euphoria, and his head follows the sound.
The woods all around him are still frozen, and the foliage beneath the ice is charred to ash. A bitter cold has settled on the ruins of the woods.
Far off, in the direction of downtown Skitts Mountain he hears a sonic boom, and then a gray plume of mist explodes into the sky.
A pang of terror shoots through his chest.
Hades has seen a spectacle like this before – long ago – the era of the end of the Gods.
And that kind of explosion of ingested spirits could have only come from one source – Aphrodite. The only reason that could have happened is Aphrodite’s death.
Hades furls his brow and shivers as he recalls the prophecy of old. That a warrior bearing God’s wrath would end him. Therefore, he chose instead to go after The Mother of Chaos rather than Aphrodite.
But perhaps with the spirit of The Mother of Chaos within him, Hades could upend the prophecy and begin a new fate.
Hades eyes the Warhammer in his hand.
“This will not do,” he says.
With a flash of flames, the Warhammer in his hand disappears and in its place shimmers a platinum and gold trident.
He touches the helmet on his head and disappears.
“You can’t kill what you can’t see,” he grunts.
And then he starts in the direction of the blast.
Blake Rider felt energy coursing through him.
As he stood before the forbidding brick building that was once the bread and butter of the town of Skitts Mountain, he saw things that he couldn’t see before.
The blue, carpet mat on the broken concrete before the metal two-door entryway – its oil based white paint flaking off the rusted aluminum – wasn’t right. A violet light emanated from beneath it.
He kicked it aside with his boot, and below, he found a pentacle painted onto the concrete like the one that nearly crushed him to death back in the Catholic church in Darien, Georgia.
Rider unsheathed his sword and scraped a line through the outer and inner circles. The purple light flickered and dissipated.
He squinted at the door.
On both sides of the entryway, a brick just above the center of each door glowed also, and he saw the faint outlines of invisible paint.
Rider slashed a line through each of the bricks, and the purple barrier of light disappeared.
He pushed on the white door to the right.
It gave a little and then stuck against the rusted frame.
Rider sheathed his sword back in its scabbard and kicked the door.
It flew open, and a fusty breath of moldy air rushed out to meet him.
The interior smelled of aged timbers, and flakes from the pale blue paint that once covered the ruler-thick paneling along with a coat of dust undisturbed in seventy years covered the white tiled floors.
Rider stepped inside and looked about. The only light within came from the two windows beside the entrance and the open door that he just entered through.
A rotting wooden desk sat to his right with no chair, and behind it, a paneled wall and another door with a plaque over the doorframe that read “Foreman.” A few feet to the right another door said “Personnel.”
Rider looked right to find a recessed area with an old couch with rotting, gold fabric. Before it sat a wooden coffee table with a yellow, glass ashtray in the center that still held several filter-less cigarette butts.
Straight ahead, stood two windowless doors with a metal sign screwed to the outside.
No Admittance
Employees only
The door to the left creaked open and a woman stepped through.
She looked like a 1930s era supermodel.
Tall.
Short, blondish hair with loose curls covered by a crazy, bell-shaped hat. She wore a black blazer with a shin-length skirt and thick high heels.
She covered her mouth at the sight of him.
Rider frowned, and drew his sword.
“The Abysmal Patron!”
Rider cocked his head like an Irish Setter.
“Who the hell are you?”
She held her white gloved hands out before her. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Rider frowned. “I don’t like repeating myself.”
“I’m Sister Joan Margaret.”
Rider snarled. “A witch.”
She took a step backwards. “I won’t fight you.”
“Why are you here?” he growls.
“I’m a caretaker. I’ve been here since my order turned this city into a spirit prison.”
Rider nodded. “Sure you have.”
She winces at his cynicism. “My liaison is a woman called Sister Teresa Joan or Claire Jacobs. She comes by from time to time to bring new – prisoners, or to imbue new stones with the power of....”
“The Abysmal Matron?”
She blanches at the intensity of his glare.
Rider shakes his head. “You people make me sick. How could anyone stand by and allow this?”
Dorothy rises to a noble posture.
“My order protects humanity from malevolent spiritual threats that cross the threshold between the spirit world and mortality.”
“Where is she?” Rider snapped.
Dorothy bows her head.
“Where?”
Dorothy cringed. She turned around and opened the door behind her.
“Right this way.”
Rider studies the lines of her pale face carefully for any signs of deception, but he sees nothing.
“Ladies first.”
She turned toward the shadows beyond the door, casting a fearful glance behind her at Rider, and then she disappeared into the shadows.
Rider frowned and followed.
He saw nothing when he first entered the vast expanse that was once a coal refinery and then later a lumber mill.
He heard a loud click, and at once, florescent lights buzzed on.
Rider stared with wide eyes at the scores of vaults like the one he saw in the road on his way to Skitts Mountain. All of them stacked in shelves.
“This is sick,” he said.
She bristled at his commentary. “These vaults all contain the bound physical bodies of maleficent spirits. Among them, the soulmate of Lucifer whose children are always monsters. Various spirits that your religion calls demons. Members of our order who collude with maleficent spirits. Do you relish the thought of such individuals roaming free?”
“Why not just kill them?”
She nodded. “If you kill them, they’ll simply return. This city is a kind of vortex. Shielded as it is, it provides a safe prison for them.”