Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  The final advance on the city’s fortifications was done quietly and in pairs. Every individual was assigned a partner and each grouping took different routes to the destination. The area Hannibal had chosen was littered with debris from the final battle of Eden. Dead trees and burnt brush, coupled with massive rock formations, reached out of the surrounding hillside and piled against the wall, forming a well-concealed gathering point hidden from wayward eyes. The once spacious niche became increasingly cramped as the individual members of the company filed in. Hannibal was the last to enter and stood in the confined space eyeing an uncovered portion of the city wall.

  “Make quiet,” Hannibal whispered to the chatty group. “Thomas, your skill is required.”

  Thomas knelt and studied the stone bulwark. The wall disappeared into the ground as it did all along the city’s outer perimeter. There were no lintels, pillars, or any obvious indication that an entry point may exist along the local stretch of fortifications. “Are you sure there’s a way in here?” Thomas asked. “The whole wall could come down on us if there isn’t.”

  “It is here,” Hannibal assured. “The perimeter has since encroached on the original structures.”

  Not entirely sure of the general’s claim, Thomas proceeded with the utmost of care. He touched the hewn stones gingerly, as if he were caressing a woman. He worked the blocks back from the encasement and off to one side.

  Peter watched the demonstration with great interest. Each block fit the wall snugly, but when Thomas placed his hands on them, they contracted. Once free of the load they carried, each stone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and Thomas simply guided the blocks to a new location to one side of the passage he was creating.

  Peter placed his hand on the hard rock. “How is he able to do that?”

  “Each one of us brings something to this place,” Hannibal answered. “In all my years here, his gift of the stones is unmatched save that of the demons themselves.”

  “They’re suffering,” Thomas interjected.

  “You can speak to them?” Peter asked.

  “No,” Thomas said, shaking his head, “but they were human once—men, women. They still feel things—they want to help me. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Thomas finished moving the stones and stood up, showing the company a large, arched doorway just inside the outer casing of blocks. The rock of the hidden entry was rougher and smaller than that elsewhere in the city, signaling its more ancient construction.

  “Torches,” Hannibal whispered.

  From rucksacks and pouches, several members of the group produced short wooden staves with a sticky resin at one end. They cupped their hands around the end of the torch and whispered something. Peter was not sure what was said, but it appeared to be some kind of prayer. The torches flamed to life and gave off a warm glow, each hissing like a burning log with too much moisture trapped in the wood.

  Peter drew closer to one of the flames and noticed the same screaming he had heard earlier from Isla Dora’s candle. The sound disturbed him and he backed away.

  “We must stay together,” Hannibal ordered. He took one of the torches from Gunnar and led the group of mercenaries under the archway and into the bowels of the city.

  Peter’s eyes were accustomed to the perpetual twilight of the Garden, but the city’s underbelly was as black as tar. He stepped cautiously and allowed his sight to adjust to the low light levels. Through the scant, flickering light of the torches, Peter discerned a maze of cells and holding areas separated by iron bars.

  The prison complex was large and extended into the darkness on all sides of the company. The jail was in disarray and seemed to have not been in use for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. More than a few cell walls had collapsed in on themselves. Strewn about as if a riot had taken place were heavy iron doors that once attached to hinges now left vacant on most of the holding pens. Detritus from the ceiling occupied every space and in some cases made the way impassable. It seemed the prison was unplanned and its space reused when the city grew in mass above it. Multiple corridors ended at walls, and large columns took over old cell space to support the weight of the streets above.

  The group’s footsteps echoed dully off the rock of the old prison. The trip through the derelict lockup gave Peter the chills, and he tried to calm his nerves by studying the architecture. It was reminiscent of the Roman era but was less refined and far earlier than anything documented within historical texts. Some portions of the jail were recognizable, while others were without context—haphazard and poorly made. Peter could see distinct changes in the construction methods as they continued. The older styles gave way to more contemporary building techniques the farther the company ventured into the labyrinth. The floor makeup caught Peter off guard as it was made of dirt—plain brown dirt. It was somewhat refreshing for him to see that the ash was not as pervasive as it was outside the wall.

  Hannibal guided the company resolutely through the convoluted warren of abandoned cells. Along the way, the path forked frequently, but his confidence was unshakable. He navigated the corridors and stairways expertly, choosing the best possible route as if he had done so countless times in the past.

  Peter attempted to memorize the way through the dungeon, but gave up soon after the first few switchbacks left him believing the company had turned in the direction of the perimeter wall. It gradually became clear to Peter they were heading deeper into the city, rather than back outside. The ceiling changed from stone blocks supporting the foundations of buildings to earth and rock similar to an underground cavern. He sensed the burgeoning mass of the metropolis and that of the physical Eden growing above him. Not only were they moving closer to the city’s center, they were descending far underneath it.

  ❖❖❖

  Peter attempted to keep track of the number of days that had come and gone since his arrival. Initially, he relied on his circadian rhythms to help him count by adding a day when he got tired enough to sleep. At first, Hannibal would allow a respite for the company on the newcomer’s behalf, something for which Peter was eternally grateful, but which brought much chagrin from the mercenaries. As his acclimation to the Garden progressed, the need for sleep dwindled until only a short nap sufficed. As a result, Peter had no idea how long the company had been roaming the depths of the city. Despite his every effort to keep a mental note, he came to the realization that time did not matter in Eden. It was a static place and the pure essence of things that had transpired meant nothing.

  The jumble and arbitrary confusion of the original detention area gave way to a more orderly and thoughtful organization of holding cells. The numerous paths coalesced into a single avenue with bars lining both sides of the corridor. The debris-strewn footpath was narrower than before so the company found themselves marching single file.

  The passage wound its way around several corners and through various straight stretches until the group confronted a blockage preventing them from moving forward. The ceiling had given way, clogging the corridor with dirt and rocks.

  At the head of the pack, Hannibal immediately went to work clearing the debris. The two strongest, Guan and Gunnar, came forward to help. The rest of the members gave the men room by standing out of the way, against the iron bars.

  Peter leaned back and watched the three men work. Flickering torchlight cast ghostly shadows on the façades of the cells. The light was weak and did not illuminate the interior spaces fully, but with the ebb and flow of the flames, Peter got a chance to see what life must have been like within.

  Each holding chamber was slightly different from its neighbors. Dirt floors seemed to be the norm throughout, but the appurtenances were unique for each. Some cells contained raised beds made of the natural rock and earth of the Garden; others contained crudely made benches or chairs, with a few being devoid of furnishings entirely.

  Fascinated with the living conditions, Peter turned to look into the cell directly behind him.

  A man’s face ap
peared from the darkness and his hands shot out to grab Peter by the straps of his shoulder bag. The man drew Peter closer and held him against the cell door.

  Peter tried to pull away, but was unable to break free and screamed out in terror.

  A chorus of clattering iron and warriors adjusting their footing greeted the newcomer’s cry, but the first to respond was Musashi. In one swift motion, the samurai unsheathed one of his swords and struck down through the narrow gap between the iron bars and Peter. Musashi sliced through the man’s forearms with great force, causing the prisoner to recoil violently. The man released Peter and withdrew back into his cell.

  Shocked, Peter stepped back and scanned the floor for the man’s severed limbs. He knew the evidence of the carnage should be right there in front of him, but he saw nothing. Anxious, Peter patted the front of his shirt for blood, but found that his clothes were dry. It was as if the prisoner suffered no wounds at all.

  The man came forward into the wavering light and grabbed the bars with both hands.

  Peter was aghast; the prisoner’s hands were still attached to his forearms. No blood or other signs of injury were evident. Peter could not fathom how the man could have escaped significant trauma—he witnessed Musashi’s blade slice cleanly through the prisoner’s flesh. Slowly, a realization dawned on Peter. Why would a soul bleed if they were never alive to begin with? The man obviously felt intense pain, but his injuries were not permanent. It made some sense; you could not kill something that was already dead. No doubt, the ability to inflict pain to any degree without the subject dying came in pretty handy in this place. The demons could do anything they wanted and the souls would endure the pain repeatedly if they did not relent. By default, Eden had become the perfect venue to conduct torture.

  The prisoner pressed his face against the iron door, his thick beard and filthy black hair protruding from the gaps between the bars. His large brown eyes stared out from their sunken sockets and gauged each member of the group. “Hannibal?” he asked meekly of the old general.

  Hannibal stepped forward bearing a torch. He approached cautiously with his weapon drawn and bathed the man in light. “Darius?”

  A smile brightened the prisoner’s cracked and withered face. “I knew you would come back for me.”

  Hannibal sheathed his sword and the others in the company followed suit. “The queen released you,” he said. “She told me herself.”

  “Naught but a ruse to quell my followers,” Darius replied, wiping his hands across the few scraps of material left covering his slight and meager frame. “I have been imprisoned ever since.”

  “It has been centuries,” Hannibal muttered.

  “Yes, a long time,” Darius said, unable to suppress his lifted spirits, “but now you can rescue me.”

  In the faint light, Peter peered through the bars and scrutinized the floor. The few inches of dirt had been removed exposing a foundation of natural bedrock underneath Darius’s cell. A multitude of claw and scratch marks were clearly visible on the surface of the stone. Peter surmised the man had tried to escape his fate only to find the geography of the Garden against him. He could not imagine the solitude and hopelessness Darius had experienced alone and in the dark for so long.

  The Nubian stepped out of the group and placed her hand on Darius’s arm. “It is I, Amanitore.”

  A tear flowed down Darius’s face. “Yes, I remember.” He pointed to the gladiator. “And you, Verus.”

  Verus nodded.

  Hannibal reached out to the Viking. “Gunnar, your halberd.”

  Gunnar relinquished his weapon into Hannibal’s waiting grasp.

  Hannibal jammed the business end of the steel halberd between the door and the iron hinges of the frame. He put his full weight into prying the cell open and then, abruptly, stopped. “We cannot free him.”

  Thinking that the issue lay with a lack of physical resources, a few members wedged their swords into the gap and proceeded to apply force, but Hannibal waved them off. “No,” he ordered. “We dare not free him.”

  “Hannibal?” Amanitore asked “What is this?”

  “If the she-devil were to find him missing, we would be at a tremendous disadvantage.”

  Various members of the company shook their heads in disgust, but they knew Hannibal’s wisdom was sound. Saddened, the group stowed their weapons and in turn, placed a hand on Darius’s as if to bid farewell.

  “Would you leave me here for another eternity then?” Darius asked of the mercenaries.

  “It will not be that long,” Hannibal replied. “Whether we succeed or fail, this existence will end and you will be free.”

  “We have an opening,” Guan called from the front of the procession by the blockage.

  “Move out,” Hannibal commanded.

  One by one, the individuals of the company moved through the opening in the debris.

  Darius grabbed the old general’s arm and pleaded, “You cannot leave me—our friendship was one for the ages, or do you not remember?”

  “We cannot jeopardize our campaign,” Hannibal replied, breaking free from Darius’s grip. “You will not be forgotten, I promise.”

  “Hannibal!” Darius shrilled into the darkness.

  Hannibal nodded solemnly to his imprisoned friend and made his way through the breach. He sighed heavily and ordered the company to seal the route behind them.

  ❖❖❖

  The company followed a simple path through the underground caverns of the Garden. It had been several hours since the company had witnessed any signs of the metropolis above. Once they left the prison area, the symmetrical blocks symbolic of the city grew in scarcity until all that remained was the natural soil and rocks of the Garden itself.

  The mood among the mercenaries was a somber one. Hannibal seemed more determined than ever to fulfill his quest, but leaving Darius behind had cut him deeply. The leader of the company kept to himself and only spoke to hush any banter as the noise could lead to discovery by enemy forces.

  Peter followed along. He found the trek through the caverns excruciatingly boring. The flickering torchlight revealed no signs of active geologic formations, or anything else of interest normally found in caves—just miles upon miles of barren earth. He was not surprised. Eden was a barren and lifeless place. Regardless of the stories of old, the contemporary Garden offered no vestiges of its once glorious past.

  Ahead, the mindless stupor of the mercenaries changed. They began speaking in low voices and waving their hands excitedly through the air.

  Peter strained to see what the fuss was about but saw nothing. He pulled on Thomas’s shirt and asked, “What is it?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”

  After a few steps, Peter felt the source of the jubilation waft across his skin. It transformed the members of the company, energizing their spirits and charging the atmosphere with hope. It was the simplest of things. Peter might not have noticed had it not been for Thomas’s look of amazement. It was a breeze. Warm, moist air blew through the confines of the cavern, reminding Peter of a summer’s day at the beach.

  The group moved forward carefully, navigating several turns around fallen boulders and squeezing through the tight spaces left between the rocks and the walls of the cavern. Ahead of them, light streamed in from the backside of the last boulder, bathing the passage in a soft, opaque glow. The company’s anticipation grew as they snuffed out their torches and pressed forward.

  Peter pushed his way past the last obstacle and stood in awe of the sight that greeted him. The floor of the cave behind the large rocks had collapsed long ago, revealing the open-air underside of the Garden of Eden.

  The path around the gaping maw was narrow and treacherous. The opening was long enough to accommodate all the members of the company side by side with room to spare, but jagged rock and overhanging earth made navigation tricky. Bright daylight streamed in from the outside making it difficult for the group to view the exterior directly. A humid bree
ze rustled clothing and elicited words of pleasure from the mercenaries.

  To Peter, the hole was nothing more than a minor nuisance—something to hinder their progress, but the rest of the company perceived the sight as nothing short of miraculous. It was interesting for Peter to find that the twilight sky that pervaded the city above was gone, but anything more significant was lost on him. To get a better view, he kneeled and held on tightly to the rock floor of the cavern. He hung his head below the rim of the opening and took a long look. His breath left him. A mile below was a sea of crystal-blue water spanning nearly the entire horizon. At its furthest reaches, the inland sea offered a tantalizing glimpse of a rocky, desert coastline. It was remote, but Peter could discern the coast following the water for a short distance before trailing off, out of sight. He could not make out the source of the sunlight, as it appeared to be coming from directly over the Garden.

  As Peter searched the rocky underside, he noticed the most astonishing thing of all: the Garden of Eden was floating in midair. There were no signs of supporting structures, either from the water below or the sides of the Garden. The mass seemed like a fixed point within the cloudless sky. He gazed to the sea’s surface and saw no shadow cast against the serene waters. The Garden sat suspended, high above the inland ocean. It did not intervene or obscure the light from above in any fashion. He shook his head in disbelief at the concerning sight.

  Not far off from the group’s location was another oddity that only added to Peter’s amazement. A river of water poured from a small hole in the misshapen underside of the Garden. The water fell in a great torrent, slowly turning into a heavy rain on its journey to the sea far below. Peter attempted to focus on the river’s entry into the vast body of water. He wanted to see if the disturbance influenced or created waves of any kind on the clear, flat surface of the inland ocean, but the distance was so great he could not tell if the two ever touched.