Bottled Abyss

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

  “What a fuckin’ prick,” the young man commented, before picking up an old Sports Illustrated. The doctor turned his head slightly before swiping his card for the automated door again.

  Herman agreed. After a moment, he put his head back and closed his eyes.

  A scene played out, one part imagination, one part memory. He couldn’t tell where one crossed the other, but he didn’t care. This scene was part of an old story. It was the tale of a man who thought he could keep his wife and daughter safe. Foolishly, this man would work-out in the weight room two to three hours every day, getting bigger, stronger, becoming a barrier for his family to defend against all things dangerous.

  His wife Janet didn’t mind his time away from the house; he’d given her the greatest gift of all, he’d put Melody into her life; she was a giving woman, without vices, someone who loved children but hadn’t been able to get pregnant from her first husband.

  Herman, however, had done so in the first month they stopped using protection and what a miracle it was to see Janet evolve into a mother. There had never been mention of going back to school to become a teacher. She’d never seen herself much more than an instructional aide, but with Melody she grew confident, productive, energetic—her best friend Faye actually changed in the same way, at the very same time. Janet’s new compulsions were infectious, and she loved her big strong husband for giving her this new vehicle to drive her life. At least she’d always made that known.

  She let him go to the gym, for one. She didn’t have a clue he was doing cycles of anabolic steroids at the time. And she still didn’t have a clue when he decided to stop because his mood swings around Melody were not worth extra beef on his bones. He stopped for her, for all of them. Without being a husband and father, he might well have given himself heart failure by the time he was thirty-five. But he made it, he got through the tough stuff. He realized he was enough for them and enough for himself.

  On the weekends, he would take Melody on a dirt trail along a dried out ravine. Her little legs couldn’t take her far, but she had endless energy. Herman had wondered often in those times, watching her chug along, her little arms comically pumping and chest heaving in her little children’s running suit, where did all the energy come from? What was it about new life that made it such an explosion of all things chemical and spiritual?

  Herman missed wondering those idle things. He missed walking around the mall with Janet and Melody on a Saturday afternoon, no plans, no direction, just plodding along with other consumers, content—so damned, utterly content—and yet he had no clue about it then. He hadn’t known when he watched Melody ride a cheap little grocery store ride that this inexpensive moment would be one to remember later; he’d been completely happy and one with the world.

  So short, it had all been so short. Time. The time he’d had with her.

  Now it seemed as though someday he would be thinking the same way about Janet. It all arrived to the same exact place: he was in a hospital with doctors telling him to shut up and wait for bad news. Last time, he had a hysterical Janet to contain. This time, he was alone but still just sitting here, being paralyzed.

  He hadn’t done anything when Melody fought for her life. He just sat there, doing zilch. What if he’d been one of those fathers that said fuck-all and crashed through the operating room doors, just to glimpse his daughter as she opened her eyes for the last time? Could he have told her he loved her more than anything?

  Herman glanced at the automated door. No crashing through that to get to Janet. But there was a steady flow of nurses and other staff coming in and out. She was only three rooms down. He saw the room they wheeled her into.

  So go in there, armed with only his blubbering? What help could that do?

  No, he was tired of being useless, tired of letting the people he cared about die. If this was the next part of the sickness he’d come to know as reality, he wanted to at very least utter the words, “I tried.”

  His hands wrapped around the fabric arms of the chair, wanting to push him up to stand. What if Charleston and the bottle had been a hallucination? He might go out to the desert and not find anything but dirt, rock and weeds. Or worse, he might get lost trying to find the same spot. What if Janet didn’t make it? He would be out there instead of here…

  But did he want to be here when it happened?

  That was a better question.

  Herman got to his feet. His head was airy, like his brain had been replaced with helium. One foot fell before the next, slowly, continually, faster, faster, until he was power walking through the Emergency Room lobby. The sliding glass door opened for him and a rush of crisp early morning air and gas fumes doused his face. A bank of taxi cabs waited just past a crowded bus stop. How strange it was that people were out and about this early—what were they doing?

  What am I doing?

  The right thing, he reassured himself. It felt right, anyway. It felt better than sitting and waiting for the next anvil to fall on his head.

  He got in the first cab closest to him. “You take credit card?”

  “Put card through slot,” said an Arabic man, who had been sitting with a Kindle at the level of his eyes.

  “Now?” asked Herman, perplexed. He never trusted himself with electronic transactions but unfortunately he’d used all his cash the other day at lunch.

  “Yes sir.”

  “What about the tip?” Herman slid the card through the bullet proof glass. The man swiped it and casually handed it back. “You will tell me and I add total.”

  “I get a receipt?”

  “You get a receipt,” said the man. “Address?”

  Herman told him and the man input it into his GPS.

  “Please, hurry. As quick as you can… I’ll double the tip. Please.”

  The engine revved in response. Soon, the world was whipping past. The driver flew through an intersection just as a yellow light went red and Herman bit his lip. He’d been in too many car accidents and driving fast always made him anxious. At least their house was not far.

  Herman startled as his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Was it the hospital? Were they already tracking him down? Was Janet gone?

  It was Evan.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s up He-Man?”

  “It’s not a good time right now, Evan.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Janet’s in the hospital.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “She… tried to kill herself last night.”

  “Oh my God. Herman, oh my God. Where are you now? Which part of the hospital?”

  “I came in through the emergency room. She’s still in there, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I stepped out for some fresh air.”

  “We’re coming down there—”

  “Hang back, they won’t let me see her yet.”

  “So what. We’re still coming down.”

  Herman pinched his sinus.

  “We’ll be there in the next half hour,” said Evan. “Christ, will she be okay? Tell me, she’ll be okay, Herman.”

  “I—”

  “What?”

  “I’m not at the hospital right now. I’ve gone for a little walk.”

  “That’s okay, man. That’s okay. But you should head back, you know?”

  “I don’t think they can save her, Ev.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Those damn people can’t save anybody.”

  “Is Janet still alive, Herman?”

  “As far as I know,” he whispered.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “As far as I know!” Herman yelled. The cabbie looked briefly over his shoulder, then returned his eyes to the road.

  “Are you in the parking lot?”

  “No.”

  “What street are you on? We’ll pick you up.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Jesus Christ, Herman.”

  “I’ll b
e back soon, with the bottle.”

  “The what?”

  Herman hadn’t realized he was thinking aloud. His insanity theory was gaining traction. “I’ve got to go,” he told Evan and powered off his cell phone.

  After a few more narrowly missed red lights, the cab arrived at Rolling Hill Boulevard. Herman pointed to his street up ahead and the driver nodded, with a look to his GPS screen for further confirmation.

  When they pulled up, Herman’s house looked surreal to him, watery, like a place for aquatic creatures to dwell. His mind was unhinging. No it wasn’t. Yes it was. He told the cabbie to give himself a twenty-five dollar tip, which was more than the ride itself cost.

  He slammed the cab door and immediately raced up the driveway to the back of his truck. The steel handle of the tool box was freezing as he popped it open. Lester barked fiercely from the back yard, acknowledging his master coming home. The last thing Herman needed was to bring out their neighbor Sam Gerdes, who liked to talk all damn day long. Lester’s incessant barking always initiated a friendly visit.

  “Lester!” he reprimanded. “Hush!”

  Thankfully, his dog went quiet.

  Herman took a deep breath and steeled himself. That bottle, if it really did contain magic, wasn’t an item Charleston would give away. He didn’t have time for negotiations or dealing with Charleston coming after him to get the bottle back.

  From the tool box Herman picked up his hatchet and turned toward the desert.

  5

  For a long time his worst fears seemed to come true. The trip into the desert was nothing more than a wild goose chase that had spirited him to the very reaches of his own well-traumatized brain.

  But those particular fears subsided when he found the row boat in the dirt washout. Suddenly, the hatchet in his hand became heavier and lethal, and his grip sweaty and weak. He descended into the basin of flowing white weeds and there it was, just as before.

  The mouth of the cave quivered with sliding shadows and red-orange light from within. As he neared the entrance he saw a small fire in a ring of sand-crusted rocks. Dark smoke lifted from its heart, struck the slanted ceiling of the cave and puffed outside. Other than the slow flapping of the fire and a gentle hum from the wind through the foothills, no other noise made itself known.

  He made his way around the fire and sidled against the wall of the cave. What he had once mistaken for a mine shaft was clearly nothing of the sort; like an uncanny example of nature imitating human handiwork, the cavern had a wide grand entrance that narrowed to a hallway and just past the firelight the passage ended in a rounded antechamber. Here the walls glistened with smooth, plated strokes, a repetitious pattern that looked decorative.

  The campfire let out a loud snap and a swarm of livid gold sparks rode out on the pluming smoke. Herman’s heart thumped in his ears. Sweat soaked his shirt. The desert wind, however slight, made his skin freezing cold.

  He thought of Melody. He thought of Janet. There was nothing left to do but to go inside and find what he came for.

  The passage leading into the belly of the cave stretched longer than his eye had perceived from outside. A damp funk penetrated the air with a horrible strength: fermented manure submerged in old rainwater. Herman kept on, fighting the urge to come to his better senses and give this foolish quest up. What if the bottle doesn’t even save Janet? What if only Charleston can use it?

  Why don’t you ask him? Asshole.

  The head of the hatchet accidently scraped against the cavern wall.

  Herman stopped.

  He was in the middle of the narrowing passage. Nowhere to run. He waited for a response within the depths. His eyes squinted for more clarity, and then he directed his ear toward the descent, hoping this would help him detect any movement.

  After a few seconds, he continued on. He reached the interior cavern and scanned for signs of life. Some light made it down here, but for the most part the area was blue-dark and ominous. Several hundred clay jars lay scattered in fragments across the floor and against the western wall. More jars had been stacked higher than the light could travel.

  A clay shard pressed into the sole of Herman’s shoe and he lightly brought his foot off it before it broke. He avoided most of the remnants and found a clear path near the wall where he could move more silently.

  A muttering sound came around the bend. He edged closer and pressed against the jagged outcropping. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he discovered another oblong cave just outside the larger rotunda.

  He didn’t hear the sound anymore. His nape hair prickled. The reflection of his face in the hatchet’s head was a red-brown smear, a distortion of fluid that had no meaning. That the sharp edge already looked bloody brought such a panic in him he took a step back, once more feeling the fingers of the earth poke into his skin, forcing him to go on and finish this.

  A light breeze ruffled his hair. Herman gripped the hatchet tighter. Several more clay pots stood at attention but largely the space was bare. On the other side of the connecting wall’s length, another path went back into the larger cavern. He was about to return from the other side—when the muttering whispers began again.

  They came from inside the same room.

  The River has no surface, has no bottom.

  An Abyss is never bound,

  Not by up and down.

  The River is not deep, is not shallow,

  An Abyss is never bound,

  Not by up and down.

  The monotone chant repeated. Without it, Herman might have missed the figure sitting there in a far corner, cross-legged on a straw mat, his dark clothing making his head seem suspended in the air, disembodied.

  Circling the bottle’s neck, his spidery fingers flexed with every word.

  Herman took four measured steps closer to Charleston. He wondered if he should say something before he let the hatchet fall, as though that would make killing the man fairer somehow. In high school Herman once helped a couple kids gang up on a bully with a rubberized baseball bat. Rubber or not, the punk had to wear a leg brace for the rest of the year… It wasn’t something Herman had been one hundred percent proud of, but at the time he’d felt it an honorable act. He was protecting all of the bully’s future victims.

  This was no different, he told himself—he was going to protect Janet from the same cold-eyed thing that took their Melody from them.

  But he still didn’t want to kill this man.

  He’ll just come after you. An item this powerful, he’ll want it back.

  Herman steadied. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten this close without getting the man’s attention. His wrist twitched as he test-swung the hatchet back and forth.

  It came to him in a rush.

  He wasn’t going to commit murder. That wasn’t something Herman could live with. If Charleston wanted to hunt him down for what was about to happen, he’d deal with that later. But not right now; it was too much for his mind to deal with.

  His eyes locked on that spindly hand wrapped on the bottle’s throat. That’s where he was going to aim.

  It was time.

  Hold on Janet.

  Herman held his breath, lifted the hatchet, focused on that pale wrist and imagined it severing at the bone.

  The blade went aloft, and the chant stopped.

  Charleston spun around. “You came—”

  Seeing the hatchet for a split second, fear blanched the man’s eyes in the darkness. He twisted away just as the weapon dropped with a trace of silver through the emptiness. Herman felt the hatchet glance bone and a scream layered through the cave in an awful machine-like echo. The wound shot Charleston to his feet, stumbling sideways. Herman sliced again with no frame of reference. Charleston struck an invisible wall with a grunt and fled through the second passage.

  Herman followed. He could hear himself breathing, a lathered bull. It was a hateful-hideous sound, and one he’d heard himself make before…alone in his bedroom the night Melody died. The only way to silen
ce the sound was to end this once and for all.

  The man slipped out of sight, bottle still held in his hemorrhaging hand. Herman charged wildly after him. Wiggling fluids fell from of a wound in Charleston’s forearm. It wasn’t blood. On the cavern floor, Herman saw them flopping about, dying…

  Fish.

  Bright vermillion scales. Bright vermillion eyes.

  Tiny razor teeth rimmed their desperate mouths sucking for oxygen.

  Charleston wasn’t a man at all.

  A monster.

  Something that needed killing.

  Herman rushed out of the tunnel, hatchet raised again. The flat side of something wooden struck his face and sent glittering quicksilver supernovas across his vision. Splinters flew past and a lick of blood pelted out behind his left ear. Herman swept his foot out instinctively and caught Charleston behind his leg, dropping him. He flung back his hatchet arm and lunged forward blindly. He saw the blurry form of the monster man underneath him, face stricken with surprise and terror, and all at once Herman dropped down on the man, and with the momentum of that fall, something exploded Herman’s right eye and drove so deep inside his head he couldn’t vocalize alarm.

  Fiery pain from his body eclipsed the cave. Forgotten memories surfaced, then drowned.

  Shaking, his mind in turmoil, his spirit in ruins, the Ferryman slid the shattered end of the oar out of the big man’s eye socket. How had the oar broken? It was made of the River. That meant the waters had receded again, weakened—

  His only chance for three days grace had left in a lightning second.

  “No!” He threw the oar into the darkness. It made a lonely clatter as the big man’s body slumped over.

  The Ferryman swept the bottle from the ground, uncorked it and knelt before this victim. In all his nether-life, he’d never been attacked. Everything had happened so fast that the event was dreamlike. He had only paused for a few minutes to calm his mind with the Chant of Nyx, and in that momentary lapse of time, breaking from all his pacing and swearing and teeth gnashing, the big man had come at the least fortunate moment, to actually catch the Ferryman unaware.