by T C Donivan
“Not cynical, just realistic. And besides, isn’t this the vision of Hell they describe in the Bible?”
“I’ve always wondered about that. If God is the maker of everything, then He created the Devil and Hell. Why would the benevolent God of Jesus do such a thing?”
“We have to have a place to send the condemned,” Annie said.
The notion sent a chill through me. “Why create souls that need condemning?”
“So that we have something to measure ourselves against.”
“Your reasoning is brilliant, but I think we are an accident of the universe and we invented God to create order where none exists. Our journey across the Great Plains began to make me realize this. When a man begins to feel the space, he needs the wall.”
“Definition, limitations,” Annie said.
“Have you found God yet?” Spencer asked. He had crawled up from his place at the back of the boat.
“We weren’t talking to you,” I said.
He leaned his face into the wind. “Are you angry with me, or just scared?”
“A little bit of both,” I admitted.
“You start to divine the truth,” he said.
“You’re no longer fully Spencer are you?” I asked.
“Though I carry his memories, Spencer died on that mountain grieving for Rachel. He could not be reborn. When Mozart cast us into his place, he knew he would awaken the life buried in me, the one he sought revenge against.”
“And who is that?”
“A Machiavellian prince of bitter purpose, better left dead. I mourn for Spencer. He was my innocence and my salvation and I shall never have him back,” he said bitterly.
The sorrow in his voice struck my soul. “You are still Spencer, I know it. This is what Mozart wanted, to drive you mad, to make you lose yourself in something that happened hundreds of years ago, if it did at all.”
Spencer peered at me with eyes older than any I could conceive. “It happened Clayton. I stood upon the walls of Constantinople and Mozart the other side. They offered us terms of surrender, the safety of our women and children, but we were proud, arrogant men, Good Christians who would not live under the profane hand of the Mohammedans.”
“Why should he begrudge you that? He would have done no less,” I said.
“That was but one lifetime. There have been others. We have pursued each other through the ages, committing rape and murder, slavery and infamy upon entire populations.”
I was stupefied at this story as was Annie. I could not think what to say. “It was not you Spencer. It was another life,” I said finally.
He looked at me, something of the old Spencer in his face. “Perhaps, but I have sacrificed untold treasures, all for the sake of pride and revenge.” Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. “I have always been an arrogant man Clayton, you know that better than most. How do you think one acquires such hubris? Over the course of twenty-five years? Ha! More like twenty-five centuries. A man grows jaded and life, other than his own and those he loves, can become meaningless as the pawns on a chessboard. Don’t look at me like that. You cannot know what you were. You may have been among Suleiman’s horde, raping nuns and skewering babies with your scimitar in the streets of Constantinople, or marched with Alexander’s legions. Ninety-nine percent of the human race conveniently forgets all the horrible things they’ve done as soon as they die and are then free to do it all over again with impunity. I would never have fully awakened to it if Mozart had not tortured me so.”
“You insult me. I could never have done anything like that,” I said with great indignity.
“Haven’t you?”
The simplicity of his accusation cut me. I felt the return of the old Spencer in all his self-righteous glory. In that, I felt some small ray of hope.
“For Annie’s sake, you must get us out of here once we get to the city. She’s done nothing.”
“Who can say? Let he who is without sin find the exit from Hell.” He grinned wickedly at me. “Of course I’ll help you. I don’t want to spend eternity in this rat hole either. We must find Rachel and escape. Afterward, we can sit around and assign guilt as if it were a parlour game.”
“What of Sosanna – what was her part in this?” Annie asked.
“I cannot remember.”
“You lie,” I told him.
“You grow bold with one who could toss you from this boat like a child and take your woman.” The ease with which he made the threat sent chills down my spine. He smiled benevolently. “She was our slave, a bastard Macedonian wench. They went cheap in those days. A good mule could buy you two of them.” I could not conceal my repugnance, but before I could voice my objection, he went on, “How different is it in our America? Women and children are still auctioned off like cattle.”
“Not where I come from,” I said.
“Luck of the draw. If you’d been born south of the Mason-Dixon Line, you’d be extolling the virtues of the Peculiar Institution.” As always, his arguments were too persuasive. I could not refute them.
“And is that what she was to you always – a slave? Why would anyone choose to be born into that cycle again and again?” I asked.
He became thoughtful. “No, she was not that always.”
The both of us turned as one, feeling the eyes of Arsinoe boring into us. Her lips parted as if to say something, but did not. We sailed on. The storm clouds continued to gather on the horizon, grumbling thunder and churning the waves above flashes of bony fingered skeletal lightning. Nothing is so lonely as being cast upon the sea in a tiny boat, no land in sight. After many hours, a golden orb appeared on what I took to be the northern horizon, if such directions applied, dimly at first, then blazing like a miniature sun.
I called back to Arsinoe, “What is that?”
“Elysium,” she shouted.
“The Greek heaven,” Annie whispered.
The light of the city was becoming brighter and my heart leapt for joy that we must be near land. Surely I thought, the gateway to our reality must lie within its hallowed walls. It seemed a bowl of fire, a sepulcher of flame that licked the sky. It was mesmerizing.
“Can we go there?” I asked.
Arsinoe shook her head. “If you walk into it, you disappear, like feeding a piece of kindling into the fire, never to return.”
“If that’s Elysium, we can’t be far from Ezekiel’s City can we?” I asked hopefully.
“There!” Annie shouted.
Straight ahead of us, the silhouette of a coastline had appeared. Further inland, you could make out the rectangular shapes of buildings. A massive rainbow of lights flickered on the road to the city like a golden path guiding us. Annie, Spencer and I shouted huzzahs in celebration. I turned to Annie and kissed her. She melted into me and we enjoyed our last moments before we set out on what we knew would be our final journey.
Just then, a giant fish rose up out of the water, measuring, by my estimate, no less than three hundred feet from its head to its tale. White teeth flashed in its mouth and a dull, black eye glared at us with a preternatural malevolence. Mordecai woke from his slumber and barked at the thing, then hid between Spencer’s legs shaking.
“A whale!” I cried out.
“My God, it’s beautiful,” Annie said.
“It comes for you child!” Arsinoe shouted.
She stood up in the back of the boat and began to sing to it, the same song that Albert had entertained us with at supper in the theatre.
While you live, shine have no grief at all
Life exists only for a short while and time demands its toll
The behemoth swam alongside us, the eye staring at each of us in turn as if reading our souls. The beast smelt of wet earth and grass. Tattoos of primitive rituals covered its sides. I wondered if it would swallow us as had the giant fish in the tale of Jonah, but it made no violent movement toward us.
“It demands the sacrifice!” Arsinoe shouted to us.
“What are you blathering a
bout?” Spencer demanded.
“It wants you sweet prince. Every hand is turned against you. The end is near.”
Spencer glared at the monstrosity with self-righteous fury. “I shall not surrender to any man or beast.”
“Then I must go for you,” Arsinoe said.
“Sit down you stupid cow,” Spencer bellowed.
“I do this for you, who was like a son to me, but never called my name,” she cried mournfully.
“I’m not asking you to do anything for me!” He retorted.
The sea beast’s mighty tail rose up out of the waves and towered above us, threatening to smash the boat to pieces. Arsinoe sang her death song again and balanced upon the side of the boat. She glanced at Spencer once more, a look of infinite sorrow on her face, then dove into the open jaws of the creature. Its mouth closed around her and she disappeared into its maw. The deadly eye winked at us before it dove beneath the waves.
Chapter 33 – Ezekiel’s City
The horror of Arsinoe’s death was stunning beyond words. We drifted, the lights of Elysium and Ezekiel glimmering on the shore, enticing and frightening. Finally, I took the rudder, having some experience from my youth, and finished the final leg of our journey. Night was falling and the storm that had threatened us throughout the day had faded into mist. The air was heavy and still. The carcass of a dead whale lay on the beach rotting, white bones poking out through the gray, peeling skin. The smell was overwhelming.
“Why did Arsinoe do it?” I wondered.
“It was her choice,” Spencer said.
“She spoke of you as if you were her child or someone special to her.”
“I’m no son of hers,” he answered.
“We should pray for her,” Annie said.
Spencer stared off at the city, a messianic glow illuminating his face. “She’s here,” he said.
“Rachel?”
“Yes, I can feel her.”
“How will we find her?”
“Follow me,” he said. He grinned at Annie. “You’d better tuck your hair up under your hat. From what Sam told me, there are only two kinds of women here. Those that choose to be whores and those that are conscripted.”
Annie acceded to his suggestion, winding her long ponytail into a coil and stuffing it beneath the wide, floppy brimmed hat she wore. We checked our weapons and what little provisions we had left, then tipped the boat upside down beside the water and covered its hull with rocks.
“I doubt we’ll be coming back, but just in case,” Spencer said.
We began our march across the dry lakebed. The surface was seamed with cracks large enough to drop a horse and rider into. A black mountain stood against the horizon, perhaps a mile to the east of the city,. Even in the semi-darkness, it was obvious that the side of the range had been stripped away, leaving a deep, wound-like chasm. I could not fathom its purpose.
As we neared the city, we saw an old man sitting on an overturned pail. He seemed ancient as time, his face buried beneath folds of wrinkles. He wore the buckskin clothes of a Plains Indian, a stone tomahawk in his belt. A long white braid hung down his back. He smiled at us. I searched his face without recognition.
As we approached him, he called out to us, “Welcome Clayton, Annie, Spencer, it’s been a long time.” When we did not answer him, he laughed. “Don’t you remember me? I am Tree Owl!” I gaped in astonishment. We ran to him in joyous reunion. Though aged, Tree Owl’s grip was still firm and manly. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“But we only left you a few days ago. How long have you been here?” I asked.
He stroked his wrinkled face. “Many summers. I have grown old waiting, but am glad you finally came. Now we can complete our adventure.” My face could not hide my confusion at the difference in our ages. Tree Owl patted my arm in gentle reassurance. “Don’t let it trouble you Clayton. The seasons run backwards in this place, when they run at all. I could have stayed young, but I chose to grow old with my family. To remain young while the children grew old and died, would have been cruel. But now that you have come, we will go and free them.” He gestured toward the city. “I found the people I told you about, who lived in the stone city where I died fighting the Navajo Medicine Warriors so long ago. They are the Anasazi. They have been carried away as slaves to the city of the demons.”
Spencer stood aside, as if unsure of his place. Tree Owl nodded to him. “It is good to see you too Spencer. We are the three great birds who will fly together one last time. I still have my stone tomahawk, it holds power” he said patting the primitive weapon at his side.
“There is no rhyme nor reason to this place,” I said.
Tree Owl looked at me with the intrepid gaze he always had, eyes twinkling though they were now buried beneath decades of antique flesh. “What is sanity to a dead man? Like money to a dog,” he said.
Mordecai leapt and danced at his feet, chasing his stubby tale as if he understood the simile.
Tree Owl pointed toward the fire of distant Elysium. “The Great Spirit resides there,” he said.
“Are we in the Eternity’s Compass that Mozart spoke of?” I asked.
“There are many worlds in this place. You may climb them like a ladder and talk to the gods, or descend into hell and dine with the devil. They call this one Tartarus,” Tree Owl said.
“The Greek word for Hades,” I remembered.
“Tartarus is also the place from which all the cosmos was born,” Spencer said.
“And where Cronus and the Cyclops and Atlas were all imprisoned,” Annie told us.
“Who is the king here?” Spencer asked.
“Tantalus,” Tree Owl answered.
“The son of Zeus who offered up his son as a meal for the Gods,” Spencer said.
“Why is it a Greek hell and not a Roman, or Christian one?” I wondered.
“Come back in a thousand years and it may be under new management,” Tree Owl said.
For some reason I found his remark terribly amusing and began to laugh until tears came to my eyes. Annie and Spencer followed suit. The three of us were contorted with laughter. Tree Owl grinned at us, quite proud of himself at having produced such a witticism. Sobriety returned to us slowly. Spencer became solemn.
“Have you seen Rachel?” He asked.
“No,” Tree Owl answered.
“Do you know how to get out of here?” I asked. Tree Owl seemed not to understand the question, so I explained to him our unique dilemma.
“I do not know how Clayton, but they say that a man can find anything he is looking for in this place. Come now, let us go into the city,” he said.
We followed a channel they had dug in the now dry harbor and followed it up a last, steep, rocky cliff through which a path had been carved. Emerging at the top, the outskirts of the city spread before us. A paved highway led to the edge of the abandoned docks. We placed our feet upon it and stared at the sights.
The rainbow lights we had seen from the shore were revealed as magical signposts of incredible colors. Their words flashed amid dancing stick figures of nude men and women in pornographic hieroglyphs. The services offered were for games of chance, the company of prostitutes and exotic foods. I was ashamed to look upon such things in the company of Annie. The sound of music and raucous laughter echoed down the highway from the city.
“Bizarre,” I said.
“Enticing,” Spencer opined.
“Who runs this place?” I asked.
“The leaders of the Great Lost Cause,” Tree Owl said.
“What did they lose?”
“Their slaves,” he said.
“This truly is hell isn’t it?”
“There is much more,” Tree Owl told us.
This was no ruined city like the wreckage that surrounded Sam’s theatre, but a thriving hub of inhuman activity. The architecture was varied as the days of the week, Medieval, Gothic, Greek and Roman mixed with tumbledown shacks and golden palaces. As we walked deeper into the city, the str
eets became crowded with revelers. Some were gorgeous examples of the human physique, tall, muscular men and voluptuous women, while others were little more than walking corpses, which they may in fact have been. Gambling houses and brothels lined the streets. Carnival barkers dressed in colorful clothes and ridiculously tall top hats stood at the doors of the theatres, hawking in graphic detail the debauched entertainments that waited within their doors. Suddenly Tree Owl cried out.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
The old warrior stood trembling, his frail shaking hands pointing at a sign that showed an Indian hanging by black leather thongs from his chest. The picture danced with hellish animation, accentuating the torture of the Indian much as the living painting Sam had entertained us with at his theater. I read the words beneath it, Authentic Cheyenne Rituals Performed Twice Nightly.
“They desecrate the Sun Dance,” Tree Owl said touching the sacred scars upon his chest.
A block further on we heard the sound of savage oaths and made ready our weapons, but the noise was part of another show being staged. We stood in the street with the crowd that had gathered and watched. A set such as stage plays are performed in had been built in an open lot. Inside the set, a giant one eyed beast was chained to a stone post. A sadist stood whipping him with great delight.
The report of the leather torture device ripping the flesh from the sad creature’s bones echoed dully among the spectators who cheered, some shouting, “Hoo-rah, hoo-rah!”
“Clayton, this is monstrous,” Annie whispered.
A young, blonde woman who stood beside us turned to the man she was with. Sharp teeth flashed in her head as she spoke, “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It is,” her companion said. He had the look of a fiend with sunken eyes and a weak mouth.
Spencer introduced himself to the couple. “Tell me, where might one find a lost soul, if they were looking for one?”
The man made an expansive gesture. “Why, just look around you friend, they’re everywhere.”
“Yes, but I’m looking for one in particular.”
A sly look crossed his depraved face. “Is it a woman?”