by J B Murray
It happens in a flash. Neither of the kids saw it coming. The greaser unleashes with one arm, his knuckles tucked into a fist as it slams across the young woman’s face. Her head snaps back as her body flails. She tumbles to the ground in an eruption of applause from the spectators throughout the Arena. Annalise’s breath catches in her throat, while Garrison looks on, eyes wide with wonder, unsure if he really just saw that man strike the woman. There’s a slight tap of cane from behind them as Jakob, seated now, concedes with events. Now speechless, Annalise and Garrison watch.
The young woman in turn of the century garments pulls herself to one knee. While a matter of feet away, the greaser stands with arms raised as if the battle’s already won. She stands then, spits some blood from her mouth and smiles at the greaser. He wastes little time, charges the young woman. A right connects with the side of her head, and a quick left undercuts into her stomach. Annalise winces as the second blow pushes more blood from the woman’s mouth. She folds in on herself and crumbles to her knees.
“Stop this!” Annalise yells. She looks back at Jakob who appears indifferent. “You,” she points at him. “You can stop this.”
“Actually, yes. I can.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“My dear, I’ve no reason to conclude the event on my behalf. And more poignantly, things aren’t always as they seem.”
A grunt calls Annalise’s attention back to the Arena floor. The greaser winds up and plants his foot in the woman’s stomach for the second time. She goes rolling away in a flurry of blue dress. The ribbon pulls from her hair and flutters to the ground, releasing her brown locks in disarray. Her back heaves with each ragged breath. The greaser turns away from the young woman for a time; scours the ground for what, Annalise can only guess. He finds it though. He hefts the piece of metal rod in his hand. Holds it in front of his face to inspect it, all the while a grin spreads across his countenance. The rod is about the length of a crowbar. Its end looks as if it had been torn from its housing, the metal jagged and bent. He flails it over his head in a few arcs. The crowd cheers him on.
Ten feet away, the woman pulls herself to her feet again. She’s staggering. Looks about the ground. When her eyes find the piece of blue ribbon, she heads for it. Just as she bends to pick it up, the metal rod cruises over her head, narrowly missing her. A gasp from the audience echoes the Arena. She grasps the long, thin piece of fabric and clutches it in one hand. When the rod comes down again, she sidesteps the blow and using the greaser’s momentum, grabs a handful of his leather jacket; pulls him toward her and sends him flailing on by. His arms cartwheel as he stumbles and falls to the Arena floor in a haphazard jumble. The metal rod skids a few feet away from his hand. But he’s quick. And the toes of his feet scrape against the floor as he crawls in haste to grab his weapon.
Annalise’s eyes bolt open at the sudden turn of events. She was certain he’d crush the woman’s skull with the pipe. But she stands a few yards from the greaser, looking indifferent; untroubled. One hand holds her long hair back as the other puts the ribbon beneath the locks. She ties her hair off, pushing a few stubborn strands away from her face. The greaser, now on his feet, turns in her direction. His feet dig the ground as he starts at a run, his fingers curling tightly around the rod. With one hand, the young woman reaches down to the back of her dress. There’s a slight sound of tearing, as she rips the petticoat and top-skirt from her body. He charges, and she flails the fabric like a bullfighter. The metal rod swings in a wide arc at her head and she sidesteps again, this time catching the rod in her skirts. She pulls on the object, setting the man off-kilter before tugging the garments back toward her. His head snaps back and body jolts at the sudden change of direction. In a flurry of fabric, ruffles and lace, Annalise can hardly make out much. But soon the man is on his back, the petticoat floating to the ground ever so elegantly, while the young woman, with both hands secure on the rod, slams the object down and into the greaser’s chest.
THE FARMHOUSE 2
THE FARMHOUSE…
Reynolds eyes pop open with a start. Shivers in these waking moments. There’s a brief crackle and before him, the last embers in the fireplace sputter out. He rolls onto his back, the cold and the chill of the floor in his bones; every muscle. Everything aches. How long had he slept? He checks his watch, pulling the end of his glove down to reveal the timepiece. Sits up in astonishment. Though too fast. A flash of pain sears through his broken body, and the stiffness from the accident wages war on ever leaving. Sleep stole away almost an entire day, and then some. He’s astonished to see the date has changed, not by one, but rather, two days. And the hands on the watch read early afternoon. How could he have been out that long?
With trepidation he inches to his feet. Stretches his limbs listening to joints and stiff muscles groan and pop. A yawn escapes his lips and he realizes how cold it is. The fire must have died out some time ago as the temperature in the room seems currently close to freezing. His breath materializes in the chilled air. Gone is the warmth he’d felt when he first entered the old farmhouse. The reality of his current situation replaces it, making it seem that much colder.
Stomping his feet, trying to bang some warmth into them, he starts for the front door. With any luck, daylight will shine, the storm will be over and he can make some headway. His younger brother must be worried about him by now. Ben expected Reynolds to check in yesterday morning at some point. He has to wonder if Ben hasn’t already set out to look for him. Hopes he’s not so far off the beaten track that his brother’s search will prove pointless. Reynolds crosses the living room and pulls open the door to the front porch. At once he’s assaulted by the biting wind. At first, he squints against the oncoming breeze, before widening his eyes at what lay before him.
The day has come and gone again. The storm he hoped subsided, rages on. Snow billows as the wind pushes it into massive drifts across the property. In places the bankings are taller than Reynolds himself. The moon shines bright, illuminating the landscape. Inches upon inches of white cover everything. No, feet. Had it never stopped snowing? A sense of panic creeps in on him. It’s been over twenty-four hours since he’s eaten anything. The weakness from lack of food and the intruding cold take hold. He’s worn, even after sleep. And now this.
Reynolds takes a few steps out onto the front porch and scans the horizon. The snow collected so much so it runs parallel with the top riser on the porch. How would he even traverse it if he set out again? He takes a few more steps forward, wanting to see around the side of the house if possible. His foot stretches too far, the heel of his boot slipping on the top stair and he tumbles forward. Tries to catch himself, but the railing comes off in his hand. His feet try time and again to find purchase as he stumbles down the stairs, tumbling headlong and face first into the snow. Reynolds scurries to get out, the chilly flakes now invading his jacket; slipping under the collar and up his sleeves. The cold seizes him. He pulls himself back up the stairs, hardly able to stand in the depths of white before barreling through the front door and back into the living room. He collapses to the floor while the door bangs shut.
Before he can think of anything, he’s stripping out of his jacket, pulling the gloves off with his teeth. The jacket falls in a heap at his feet, and he brushes his shirt frantically. The cold of the snow falling from his garments soaks into his skin. Fingers going numb, he rubs both hands together begging for some warmth. The fire!
Quickly, he picks up some of the leftover railing and banister, dropping it into the fireplace. Reynolds blows on the few embers remaining. But the fire’s not catching. He fishes through his pockets, searching for anything he can light. Pulls his wallet from his back pocket. Finds a few credit cards, his LTS and gym membership card. But nothing else. Save a couple of bills. He looks longingly at the three or four tens and a couple of twenties. Pulls one from the billfold and examines it. Thankfully, the bill is dry despite his recent mishap. With a little prayer, he pushes the bill into the embers
, just under a few of the narrow spindles. Blows again. It takes a moment, but soon the bill catches. And soon after, so do the spindles. It only takes a matter of minutes before he has a fire burning again. Small miracles.
ARENA OF SOULS 2
THE ARENA OF Souls…
The rod plunges through the greaser’s chest. The man’s back comes off the ground an inch or so as she slams the rod through and into the earth beneath. He struggles a moment, grasping the metal with both hands in an attempt to pull it out of his body. But she holds firm, hands atop the rod, leaning on it as she smiles down at him. His back arches as he takes his last breaths. Everyone watches in both awe and celebration as the arch in his back gradually flattens against the ground. Standing erect, she runs the back of her hand over her brow as if she were sweating. Then give a courteous bow to the crowd. When they cheer, the young woman pulls the rod from the greaser, his body lifting from the ground a few inches before it falls back to the Arena floor. Puffs of dust billow from beneath his body. She places one foot atop his chest and raises the metal implement in victory. The crowd goes crazy. Garrison looks over at Annalise, but an eerie silence envelopes her. She looks down into the Arena, her mouth half open, eyes unblinking.
Garrison’s eyes follow hers, fixed on the dead man lying below. The first thing he notices is the lack of blood. Instead, a stream of light trickles from the hole made in his chest by the rod. It escapes the greaser in little wisps at first, trailing into the air like smoke from a smoldering fire; like ashes carried on a gentle breeze. The woman steps back, tossing the rod to the ground, a smirk developing at the corner of her mouth. She watches along with everyone else.
The wisps rise into the air, several long streams, an essence of light and life. They snake around each other for some time before changing their structure. From dust they crackle and hiss, changing into bolts of electricity. Higher and higher they rise. Garrison sneaks a peek at the surrounding crowd. Their heads turn upward. Watching. Witnessing. The moment seems both surreal and religious. The hissing grows louder, a sizzle of electric hum. He wonders how high the currents will ascend. They float just below the roofline of the Arena, the heat from them growing. They release a concave of warmth; an oppressive umbrella which grows heavier with each passing second. And in one, single pop, they explode in a burst of deafening sound and blinding light, before they fade away before his very eyes. The woman below, the battle’s victor, feigns a smile and touches her fingers to her heart, then head before turning away. In silence she leaves the Arena through one of the archways.
Garrison shakes his head, unsure what he’s just witnessed. Annalise looks at him, tears in her eyes. He doesn’t know why she’d be crying. Behind him, Brent is still looking up at where the strands of light entwined and exploded, a smile spread across his face. The hush remains for a few moments. Not a sound is heard until another pair of contestants walk from the arches and enter the Arena. It’s almost deafening following the silence, when the crowd erupts into applause and cheers.
“Wow.” Garrison turns when his brother emits the words. “I betcha didn’t see it again, did ya Gary?”
“The light?”
“Yeah. Um. Wow.”
Garrison’s gaze shifts from his little brother to Jakob. Jakob smiles, ever examining Brent, a flurry of questions in his eyes. On his face. The man with the monocle is working something out when it comes to Brent. That, Garrison is sure. But what exactly, remains unveiled. Brent asks Jakob if they’ll be more. Jakob nods, tilting his chin toward the Arena. The two below start their battle.
“What is this?” Annalise’s voice booms. She turns and strolls over next to Garrison.
“Yes,” Garrison adds. “What is this?”
“Once again, as I’ve said,” Jakob looks a little weary, put out by having to reiterate himself. “This is the Arena of Souls.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“Hmmm.” Jakob breathes in deep through his nose, chewing the inside of his cheek. “What would you say if I told you, that neither of the people you saw down there, were real? Not the woman. Nor the man who exploded in a flurry of light.”
“They weren’t real?”
“Sure looked real to me,” Garrison adds.
“Though your reality might change depending on your perception,” Jakob trails off, his eyes looking elsewhere.
“I don’t follow.”
“For example, I know I must help you return to your time and place sooner, rather than later, as those here don’t eat or drink. There is no food anywhere beyond the Veil. If you were to see, say, someone eating, you’d merely be watching their perspective of the experience.”
“What?”
“Yes, yes. Let me start from the beginning. Shall I?” Garrison steps closer, before taking a seat in one of the chairs. Annalise follows, but remains standing, leaning on the chair’s back. “You mentioned purgatory earlier. And though the Arena is not that, it doesn’t actually exist, it is as good a definition as any. See, we are all made up of an extraordinary unique series of electrical impulses. They course through you from the second of conception. At that moment, an electrical charge happens. An explosion of sorts. That explosion lights the first fragment of what will become your electrical pulse. Your soul, for a better word.”
“The soul?”
“Yes young lady. The soul. But you mustn’t think of it in the way we have for centuries. The way it’s been taught to us. The way man has conceived it since he put pen to paper. The soul is merely a collection of ever-growing impulses coursing through your body. It generates thought, movement, even identity. Without it, you’d be nothing more than an unanimated sack of flesh.”
“Electricity?”
“Indeed. The body is the perfect conductor. When you age, those strands of electricity grow thicker, become entwined. As they grow and entwine they become… you. Until of course, you’re much older, when they start to unravel. They dwindle, their light growing dim until all is dark.”
“But what does any of this have to do with what’s going on down there?”
“Not all souls are created equal. Some excel, become great, fantastic things. Others rot and wither. Pollute that which they touch. Some burn for a very long time. Others flicker and fade within only moments of their life. Regardless, they all come here.”
“But why?” Annalise shrugs.
“To fight,” Garrison states, not knowing where the answer came from.
“In a word… yes,” Jakob concurs with a smile. “I should refrain from divulging this, however, all souls are granted opportunity. The good ones. The ones that prosper and create. The ones that linger and do nothing of significance with the life they’ve been given. Even the rotten ones. All souls.” Jakob leans forward on his cane a little. “There’s this idea of having lived past lives. Déjà vu and such. These theories all hold water, though our mortal belief of such experiences is far from accurate. It’s simple in fact. When your body fails, the essence that is you, that electrical current, your soul… is released. It floats out there somewhere. I can tell you not. For I don’t truly know where it goes or for how long. All I do know, is eventually, it finds its way here.”
“But if it’s electricity as you say, why can we see all these people?” Garrison is glad she asked it. For the question lingered in his mind from the start of this telling.
“Excellent question. They’re mirages,” Jakob answers matter-of-fact.
“Mirages?”
“More or less. What you see is an imprint of who they were in their most recent past life.”
“Like a memory?”
“Wait! What do you mean recent past life?” Garrison questions before Jakob can answer Annalise.
“Yes, much like a memory. And yes, as I said, most recent past life. Just because your body fails, does not mean you fade away forever. At least, not straight away. Your image, the idea of you is recorded in those electrical currents which have spent years sculpting the person you are. When they releas
e into… well… wherever,” Jakob flails one hand above his head, his mouth furrowing with the strain of trying to explain where one’s soul goes when we die. “They take with them all those things which made you, you. And typically, only the most recent you. Though sometimes bits from previous versions leak through.”
“I still-”
“Allow me,” Jakob interrupts the young man. “This is the sole purpose of the Arena. When one finds themselves here, they have but one choice to make. You may linger here for eternity, until your light truly fades from existence, or you can fight. Those who fight and are victorious in a round of battles, are granted new life. A rebirth. A chance for their spark to find a new home and grow into a new version of you.”
“How many?”
“How many what, exactly?”
“Do they have to win?”
“Three.”
“Seems like a lot.”
“Maybe so. I don’t make the rules. The number existed long before I took up this mantle. Its reason having something to do with the time it takes for a new host to become available, given all the souls which compete. I dare say… mathematics. What great creator concluded such equations I cannot say. Occasionally the number is lowered or raised by one or two, but almost always stays at three.”