by Derek Smith
Toby needed no second bidding. He was off. Fear speeding his run: an image of the charging dog pounding him to the ground, and teeth meeting teeth through his bleeding flesh. His terror was boundless, and didn’t need the spear of barking and growling to press him on. He was panic on legs.
He had run perhaps fifty yards at full sprint, when he noticed the barking had stopped. He turned briefly. And there was the three-headed dog, once again docile by his master.
But that didn’t stop his run.
Chapter 37
He entered a cave in the rocky cliffs, high enough to stand upright, which proved to be a passageway into a large chamber that he could see, about twenty paces ahead of him. From the chamber came an ear-splitting racket which he at first thought was made by seagulls. And having rejected that as too unlikely, realised the sound came from a vast number of crying babies, echoed and re-echoed on the walls and ceiling of the chamber.
At the end of the passageway he found himself on a balcony, one storey in height above an immense floor in a hall of rock. The floor was packed with babies. Each was wrapped in a white blanket with just head and arms showing, a foot or two from its neighbour. The arms were frantic, the fingers wriggling like desperate tentacles. And the infants were bawling, as only they can, with every ounce of their being.
Toby pressed his hands to his ears, the sound was agonising. Not simply the volume, but the pain expressed by the tiny bodies. Some were very small, some a fair bit bigger, a number of these with hats. It was like a great baby farm. As if they had been planted, and these were the crops, like marrows, growing out of the rocky floor.
In this field of babies, he saw a number of girls, all with long dark hair, aged perhaps twelve or so. A number of them had babies in their arms. At first he thought it was they who brought the babies, but then he saw it was the reverse. They were picking them up, then stepping carefully over the floor so as not to tread on any tots, and carrying their charges down the hallway to an entrance at the far end of the hall.
There was a girl just below him. She was going for a particular baby, ignoring all the crying and pleading hands she was stepping over. And then she stopped. The one she stood over was the only one in that group who was not crying. She stooped and lifted the baby onto her shoulder. She patted it on the back to comfort it. It was then Toby saw the girl’s face. It was old and gaunt, with none of the freshness of youth – as if age had pounced on her like a wild cat clawing at her cheeks.
And then for some reason, the baby she was holding began to cry. And to Toby’s surprise, the girl put the baby down again. And with the baby now as frantic as its neighbours, she walked away from it. A little later, he noted she picked up another. This one was not crying. She held it over her shoulder and patted it on the back in the same way as the first. The second baby did not cry and she carried it down the hallway. Toby watched her a while and hoped the mite she held would stay silent. Or it would be abandoned like the first.
There was only one way out of the hall, and that was the far end where the girls were going. Toby too must head that way. And hoped from there he could somehow find his father. There were no stairs or path down from his balcony. He looked directly below the low balustrade. It would be easy enough to drop to the ground, except there were babies against the wall. Dead to be sure, but he still didn’t want to drop on to a baby, dead or not.
He would have to climb down.
Toby kneeled on the balustrade and, gripping the top with his hands, lowered himself down the wall. It was only about three feet to drop then – but there were the babies underneath. The climb down, he had no trouble with. He stepped into the space between two babies. And each of them latched onto his right foot with their hands, like crabs onto a stick. He lifted them off, their grip was slight enough. And found his left foot had three babies holding on. He removed them, immediately found a stepping place for this foot, and felt his right foot encumbered again.
He thought he would just walk, and carry the load as far as he could. He had gone no more than ten feet when he had about six babies on each leg, bundled over each other like small sacks. As he went to remove them, they grabbed his arms, and other babies took their place on the leg.
With great effort he was able to free himself. But not for long. Perhaps it was his warmth they detected, some property of a living body. But for Toby, it was like walking across the heaviest of ploughed fields; the babies were the clay mounted on clay adhering to his boots. He was exasperated, and quickly exhausted, by the sheer effort of walking with the weight and the constant plucking them off. The crying threatened to burst his head, and in spite of their screwed-up, contorted faces, he lost all sympathy for them.
He was getting nowhere across the hall. Babies held him back as if in a swamp. They grasped him, clutched at him like cleavers. But it wasn’t even as if they stopped crying once they had a grip; if anything it was worse, afraid they’d be taken off, which of course they were. He had no comfort for them.
And was any possible?
With three babies on each leg, a couple on each arm, he contemplated of going back to the balcony. At least there he had his own space. In desperation, he even considered risking the three-headed dog. This quagmire was useless. He was working like mad and getting nowhere. Weary, Toby stopped and watched. At first almost in fascination, as if they were alien creatures, watching them grip him like hydra, and then others grip the first on board. The bigger ones climbing over the little ones, like maggots in a box. In horror he realised that if he did nothing, observed them like a naturalist, then he would simply become a hill of babies.
They would smother him.
As rapidly as he could, he removed them. In panic throwing them off, not caring where they landed. He thought he was losing; there were more coming than he could remove. He tossed them away; they are dead, he thought – what does it matter? Trying desperately to create a space around him. A little island of safety.
And when at last he had done it, he collapsed with exhaustion. He was in the centre of a space about six feet in diameter, the circumference – a tangle of pleading hands. He couldn’t be more than twenty feet from the balcony. It would take him an age to even get back there but infinity to cross the hall. No wonder the entrance to the Hall of Dead Babies had no need for a three-headed guard dog. Who on earth could ever cross this space?
The girls.
In wonder, he watched one a little way off, homing in on a silent baby. The infants ignored her. It was as if she were invisible to them. What did she have, that they did not feel her presence? That hardly needed answering. The babies still wanted to live; that was their misery. They hoped by hanging onto the one living thing here, they might be given life themselves.
She was picking up the baby as Toby leapt in. He felt softness under his foot, he did not care to look at what he had crushed. It is dead, he told himself. I cannot kill what is already dead. He stood behind the girl, as tight as a shadow. And in her wake, no babies clutched at him. She put the baby over her shoulder and patted its back. Toby put his hands on her shoulder; she didn’t seem to mind, perhaps didn’t feel him at all. She began her journey. To stay so close he had to take small steps in tune with hers, and watch the ground carefully to stay off the infants.
They ignored him.
With her he could cross. Toby made sure his hands stayed firmly on her shoulders and his feet stayed off the babies. He had no idea how far there was to go; he dared not look up from the ground.
The girl walked on steadily.
And suddenly, he was through the entrance on the far side. Out of the Hall of Dead Babies. For a little while he held onto her shoulders, then realised there was no need. And released her, and watched her continue at the same pace down the corridor, where on one side a line of girls were walking into the far distance, each with a baby over her shoulder. And on the other side was a row approaching him, all with aged faces, walking, about twenty paces apart, to the hall. There to separate the silent ones f
rom their noisy companions.
Chapter 38
‘Can I help you, sir?’
An extremely thin man approached him. He was tall and lanky, dressed in a green shirt and leggings. His bony feet were bare. He had a concerned look on his face, as if he really cared. Toby, though, was wary.
‘I am lost,’ he said.
The man nodded as if this were a regular occurrence.
‘If you’d just show me your ticket…’ he said.
Toby didn’t reply. He didn’t want to give himself away.
‘Lost it?’ said the man.
‘Yes,’ said Toby quickly.
The man touched him in the shoulder, with perhaps a suggestion of a smile.
‘I’ll take you back to get another,’ he said and turned about.
Toby took a step after him and tapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I never had a ticket.’
The man turned and looked at him quizzically. He was completely bald, his eyes large and unblinking. But there was a sorrow in him, a remnant of feeling.
‘Are you alive?’ he said.
There was little point denying it. No ticket, lost. And he badly needed help.
‘I am,’ said Toby.
‘That is most unusual,’ said the man sucking his thin lips. ‘I haven’t come across one of you… for ooh…’ said the man grasping at a figure, then giving up. ‘In I don’t know how long. Once. It was such a long time ago. A young man he was, looking for his lover. What was his name? Played such beautiful music.’ He stopped and shook his head sadly. ‘There’s not much gets through to anyone down here, but that music. It’s the only time I have seen the dead weep.’
‘Don’t the babies weep?’
The man shook his head. ‘That’s not weeping. That’s rage. The poor mites have been denied life. But I’m forgetting myself. Where were we? Ah yes.’ The man patted him on the shoulder. ‘Yes, that’s warmth alright. You are alive. Why have you come?’
‘My father wishes to speak to me.’
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘And how did he make contact?’
‘Through Erdy. He’s a healer, a fortune teller, a magician I think.’
‘All of those. I’ve heard of him.’ Then the man added quietly, ‘His sort, they’re not very popular down here. They interfere. Mind you, we could do with some interfering…’
‘You seem…’ said Toby, searching for the right words, ‘well, more alive than the others I’ve met.’
The man sighed. ‘That’s my trouble. I should have moved on hundreds of years ago. But I keep asking questions. And you mustn’t do that. I shall have to give it up, then I can go on. But you see – it’s a bad habit with me. I can’t help asking questions. It’s quite stupid. I rarely get any answers. But forgive me, I am talking on, but I so rarely get the chance for a conversation. I shall be your guide. My name is Nom. Sometimes called Nom the Talker, or Nom the Questioner. But I’m also Nom the Guide. And pleased to be at your service. I hope you don’t mind me going on so.’
‘I love it,’ said Toby with relief. ‘Talk all you please. You’re the first one I’ve met who wants to say anything. Speak all you like. And I’m Toby.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Toby.’
‘I’m searching for my father as I’ve said. He was a King. Murdered.’
Nom wrinkled his face. ‘That’s easy. We need the Hall of Deposed Kings.’
‘Is there a whole hall of them?’
‘Oh yes. Kings. Always getting murdered. Dying in battle. Kingship seems to guarantee you a short life. I wonder anyone takes it on. The seduction of power I suppose. Each one thinks they are going to beat the odds. Are you going to be King?’
‘I was. But I am a deposed Prince.’
‘Still alive though. Not to be sniffed at. Let’s go find your father. I hope you are not in a rush.’
Toby thought he should be, but didn’t feel that way, experiencing for the first time in the Underworld safety in someone’s company.
‘Take your time,’ he said.
‘Just as well. No one rushes down here. Time is something we have plenty of. Not much else – but we are plagued with time.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Now let me think. Yes, let’s go this way.’
And he led the way down the cavern.
Chapter 39
They had climbed onto the ridge of a mountain. It was misty. Not cold at all, but still the mist hung. Nothing grew on the bare rock. No moss, lichen, or a single blade of grass. No birds flew. But there were people about. Men and women who suddenly appeared out of the mist and then disappeared back into it.
‘What is this place?’ said Toby. ‘Who are these people?’
‘This,’ said Nom, ‘is the Mountain of Sighs.’
A young man came out of the mist before them, reading a poetry book out loud. He passed Nom and Toby without seeing them and disappeared into the haze.
‘Those who died for love are here,’ said Nom.
They passed a young woman sitting on a rock, her face hidden in her hands, her elbows on her knees. Her blonde hair reached to the ground. Toby looked back at her as he and Nom wandered on, until she disappeared in the mist.
‘How long do they stay?’ said Toby.
‘Until they forget their beloved. I was here once, when I first came.’
‘Have you forgotten your beloved?’
‘Totally. I can’t recall her name or face or even whether she was female at all.’
‘That’s so sad.’
Nom shrugged. ‘It might be. It might not be.’
A woman came by gazing into a locket. Her face was white with suffering. She suddenly stopped and threw the locket over the mountainside.
‘She can’t go on like that,’ said Nom.
‘Sh! She’ll hear.’
Nom shook his head. ‘She can hear nothing but her own sighs.’
The woman was crying.
‘I thought you said no one weeps here,’ Toby whispered.
‘She has no tears,’ said Nom. ‘That’s simulation. She is doing what she thinks she should do. After all, she died for love. She feels the need to justify herself. But all she is doing is playing a part.’
Toby watched the woman. He could not see tears, but her chest heaved and the piteous sound she made convinced him.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Look out!’ yelled Toby. He pushed Nom. From above where the mist was thin, a man was falling, his cloak splayed out like a bat.
‘Mary!’ he was screaming, his arms and legs flailing.
The man hit the ground a little way from them.
Toby rushed over, but before he got there the man had risen. He brushed himself down, sad it seemed that he was still in one piece, and then ran back up the mountainside declaiming, ‘Mary! My love!’
‘The dead can’t kill themselves,’ said Nom. ‘But he’ll keep trying. Until he forgets who Mary is.’
Perhaps not a bad thing, thought Toby.
They had come to a fast stream, the water gurgling out of the rocks and rushing down and disappearing below.
‘You must soak yourself here,’ said Nom.
‘Why?’
‘Because you are alive. And it will become very hot.’
Toby stepped into the cold water and shivered.
‘Freezing.’
‘Soak yourself to the bone,’ ordered Nom.
‘I’ll die of cold.’
He was sitting on the stony bottom, teeth chattering. Nom splashed him over the top of his tunic and head.
Cold as he was, Toby was suddenly aware he had not eaten or drunk since coming down to the Underworld. Somehow the need for these basic necessities was suspended. Even in the stream he had no wish to drink.
Nom grabbed him by the hair and dragged his head under.
Toby yelled and gurgled and spluttered.
‘You’re drowning me!’
Nom released him.
‘Let’s go,’ said Nom. ‘Whil
e you are cold and wet.’
They crossed a hillock, and the mist was suddenly gone. As if it and the sighing lovers knew they shouldn’t go here. And, as Nom had warned, the ground was hot. For a while Toby was able to walk over it, his feet steaming, but then it began to burn through his shoes.
‘Get on my shoulders,’ said Nom.
He knelt down and Toby climbed onto his shoulders. Nom stood up straight. He might have been thin but he was strong, and had no problem lifting and walking with Toby on his shoulders. Down into the valley he went. And as he walked the rocks became still hotter. Toby felt the fierce heat even on Nom’s shoulders. His tunic and hair steamed.
The rocks were beetroot red with the heat, then bright red, then glowing, molten and white. Nom walked right through. He did not burn, even as his feet sank into a stream of lava to his ankles.
‘You cannot die twice,’ he said.
He slipped to his waist in molten rock. Toby had to lift his feet to keep them away from the white heat. He was roasting and choking in the sulphurous fumes. Any wetness from the stream had boiled away. He was cooking in the heat. He closed his eyes. He was in an oven with the door shut, baking with the bread.
‘I will die,’ he moaned.
It was as hot as a furnace. As hot as the centre of the sun. He was the only living being in the land of the dead – and soon, very soon, there would be no living beings. He would toast, he would scorch. He would burn to a cinder.
And then he was cold. And hot and cold. And water sizzled all about him.
He opened his eyes and he was lying in the snow. Or rather sinking into it as his hot body melted him further into the snowdrift. Snow was all around. The lava had gone. He was in a valley of snow.
‘There,’ said Nom indicating an opening in the rock face, almost obscured by snow. ‘That is the entrance to the Hall of Deposed Kings.’
Chapter 40
The hall was vast, a cavern gouged out of the rock with, it seemed, just a thin ceiling of mountainside above. Within it were men only.
