Slave Stories

by Bahr, Laura Lee

  Whoever the Curator was, He was remarkable in that he didn’t appear to need missionaries or proselytes—hints whispered abroad seemed enough to draw people in. The trickle of hopefuls was now beginning to turn into a stream, as I’d seen, and no doubt would soon become a river by the sounds of things. I wanted to get there before he was drowned by a torrent.

  <~~O~~>

  I was up just before daybreak, and watched as the dawn spilt its colours all over the upturned bowl of Heaven. My companions were still asleep, and the warmth of last night’s fire had been replaced by a joint-freezing chill. Slowly, though, as the sun crept its way up above the nocturnal parapet of the horizon, a semblance of heat gradually chased the cold away.

  Within two hours, the group of us had packed our meagre belongings, eaten a breakfast which probably wouldn’t have satisfied a desert mouse, and prepared to set off. The rest of the pilgrims had risen silently, only greeting me with a curt nod. It didn’t bother me particularly—I was mulling over my own maelstrom of thoughts. The evening before had given me much to think about. And, just like my good ol’ Daddy had told me on many occasions, thinking could lead to all kinds of trouble.

  I was still convinced that the Curator was a charlatan of some kind, although quite what he stood to gain from these poor people I couldn’t even begin to guess. They had nothing to give in return, except their allegiance. Even that was dependent on whether he could deliver—as soon as there was even a sniff of him breaking his promises then that spell would be broken. For his part, he was exploiting their one weakness: hope for a better life, a release from poverty and drudgery. Just another egotistical conman looking to receive the love his parents had denied him.

  What troubled me was the notion that he could possibly be real—in a way that frightened me more than the idea of him being a fake. The latter was comforting, perhaps because it conformed to delusions of my own. And why was he called the Curator? What exactly did he curate? Souls? False promises? Gullible people?

  I would have to leave those questions unanswered until I came face to face with Him. But, I asked myself, was I prepared for it?

  <~~O~~>

  On day three, the unending scrubland gave way to the foothills of a range of small mountains. We’d been following a rough path which wended its tortuous way through stunted vegetation struggling to eke an existence on this windblown plain but, as the greenery thinned out even more, the path had become more and more difficult to discern. Once the low-lying brush had petered out altogether, any pretension of a trail went with it.

  “Which way now?” I asked.

  Only the wind answered me.

  “We could die out here before reaching our salvation,” I pointed out, “We don’t have provisions enough to last forever.”

  “We shall rest here awhile,” our glorious leader said, “Then, we wait—if we were meant to come into the presence of our Saviour, then he will send us help.”

  That evening was a soulless and dour affair. If the days were stiflingly hot, then nights were the direct antithesis: freezing cold with a bitter wind plunging the temperature even lower. The mood of uncertainty infected everything: each of us was disinclined to talk, instead keeping our own counsels, while the fire glowed a pale yellow, as if it too felt muted. Even the normally excellent stew which Andrew’s wife, Eleanor, had prepared, although welcome, was tasteless and uninspiring.

  As I wrapped my blanket around my frame, fully aware of its inadequacy, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I ascribed it initially to the cold, but within minutes of settling down I had the uncomfortable sensation that eyes were upon me. I felt sure something was observing us; whether there were benign or malign intentions behind them remained unknown. I stayed awake for as long as my body allowed me to. Even as exhaustion claimed me and I drifted into sleep, I could still feel those eyes watching, waiting, and evaluating. My dreams that night were troubled.

  <~~O~~>

  When I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was a sky full of heavy black clouds which matched my mood at that moment precisely. I am not one much for portents and omens, nevertheless I was struck by some unsettling feeling that didn’t bode well. Looking around me, I could see that everyone had already woken up, and that everyone in our little party was feeling the same thing as I was. It wasn’t long before the reason became clear.

  “Come wife, he was judged unworthy,” Andrew was saying, “The rest of us, on the other hand, have been.”

  “But why?” Eleanor wailed, “Why him?”

  “We cannot answer that, nor should we question,” Andrew replied, “The Curator has judged him, and has seen fit to relieve him of this earthly life. Let us pray that he’s gone to an eternal peace.”

  I chose to get up then, and approached the group standing around what I guessed was a corpse.

  “What’s happened,” I asked, pretending innocence.

  “The soul of our son, for whatever reason, has left this mortal plane,” Andrew said, turning to me.

  “We should bury him…” Eleanor said.

  “What will we use for digging with?” asked Andrew. “We have no spades, nor anything which might suffice.”

  “We can’t just leave him here!” she protested.

  “Neither can we take him with us,” Andrew said gently, “I sorrow too at our loss, but I cannot see any other solution than to leave him where he lies and let nature take its course. His soul is free—he no longer requires flesh to clothe it with.”

  “Wrap him tightly in his blanket,” I said, “and lay him out reverently. Then let’s say a few words before moving on—we can’t stay here either.”

  Andrew nodded, then shepherded Eleanor away while the other two sons got to work.

  <~~O~~>

  The solemn duty done, we broke camp and prepared to move off. Andrew had conferred with me on which direction I thought it best to head in: I was at as much of a loss as he was, but I knew he needed to maintain the illusion of being the head of this expedition. As for me, I was debating whether to tell him about what I’d felt just before going to sleep the evening before. My decision was pre-empted by a shout from one of the sons.

  “Look! Up there!”

  He was pointing towards one of the small ridges that abounded here. Although it was some distance away we could see a figure standing along its top. Detail was difficult to discern this far away, but I could make out that it was holding a staff, a necessity in this mountainous area I supposed. The figure raised it, indicative perhaps of acknowledgement that it had seen us.

  “The Curator has given us a signal,” Andrew said, his voice at once tinged with awe and gratitude. “We are to be guided to our destination—he has accepted us!”

  “Wait!” I protested, “How do you know he’s from the Curator? He could just as easily be a bandit or something!”

  “We trusted in our Saviour to provide guidance to bring us into his presence,” Andrew answered, “and he has done so. We must place our trust in Him.”

  “In the wilderness, trust can kill,” I said bitterly.

  “You can stay here if you wish,” Andrew looked at me icily, “but I am taking my family to the promised haven.”

  It was no use to argue any further—I knew that whatever I said would fall on stony ground, but I have to admit that I was curious about who it was who was standing up there. In all likelihood it had been its eyes I had felt on me last night.

  “No, I’ll come with you,” I said, hiding my suspicions as best I could behind a smile. “I was just being cautious—we do want to see the Curator, don’t we, and I just want us to get there in one piece.”

  “Duly noted, brother,” Andrew said, “and appreciated. You’re right, we do want to see Him with our own eyes, and perhaps we should be on our guard. Thank you for your words.”

  I felt a little relief that he’d acknowledged my concerns, but I still felt uncertain about what the appearance of the figure signified, but standing here debating wasn’t going to settle it
one way or the other.

  <~~O~~>

  We made good progress, reaching the base of the ridge about twenty minutes after setting off. It only occurred to me as we stood looking up at the hill that none of us were equipped for mountaineering. As if the figure had read my thoughts, it pointed its staff to our left, indicating that we should walk that way. Indeed, within a further five minutes, we found a trail snaking its way up the side of the ridge. Presumably, this was the path which all pilgrims took, if indeed that was where we were heading.

  We met our erstwhile guide at the top, and I noted that it was swathed completely from head to toe, with only a narrow slit for its eyes. The hands were gloved, too. I guessed that it could get even colder up here than on the plain.

  “Are you here to show us the way to the Curator?” Andrew asked.

  The figure didn’t move or say anything, didn’t even blink. After some long moments of inspection, it turned from us, and began walking along the top of the ridge.

  “I suppose we should follow,” Andrew opined.

  We were led for some miles, firstly keeping to the narrow and sometimes dangerously precipitous ridgeway, then climbing down on the side opposite the direction we’d come in. At its bottom was a sheltered valley, through which, surprisingly, ran a slow river, hedged in on each side by lush vegetation. We followed it upstream, until the valley began to narrow. As we got closer to its end, we could all see the river emerging out of a cave in the valley head, and it appeared it was this we were heading for. I wondered if our goal was somewhere behind it.

  I was right. Without breaking its stride, the guide walked straight into the aperture, keeping to a ledge running along its right-hand side. It was barely wide enough to walk on, so we had to carefully inch our way along it, keeping our faces to the wall and hoping that we didn’t slip. Progress appeared interminable, but at last an opening in the side of the riverine passage opened up, and I fell into it, grateful that I’d made it safely.

  Catching my breath, I looked up and counted seven heads—we’d all made it. Our guide still hadn’t uttered a word in all the time it had taken us to get here.

  “How far to go?” I asked, but it chose to remain silent.

  “Can we at least rest for a bit?” Andrew asked, “We need a little breather after our exertions.”

  The figure nodded, and pointed farther into the space we were in.

  Following its lead, we found the passage widening into a chamber, with what appeared to be stone benches at its perimeter. Obviously, other pilgrims had asked the same question before us. I was happy to take the weight off my feet for a short while—whilst I certainly wasn’t unfit by any means, I hadn’t walked this far in years.

  The rest, albeit short, revived me, as did a nibble of some of the dried food I’d brought with me. I could have done with resting a while longer, but the figure indicated that it was time to move on.

  In the far wall of the chamber there was a short passage, at the end of which was a flight of steps leading upwards. More climbing, I grimaced. At least I hoped that it would be the final leg before entering the realm of the Curator. Following behind everyone, I chose to lose myself in my thoughts, feeling a mixture of dread and excited curiosity at what possibly lay ahead. I couldn’t shake off a feeling that events wouldn’t end well.

  <~~O~~>

  Ascending those steps took us another half hour at least, by which time my legs felt like they were made of jelly. We came out in a gallery, lined on one side by a series of windows outlined on the farther side by a flickering orange glare of flame. I went to the nearest aperture, and saw a vast cavern, lit by a series of small fires on the floor and torches on the walls, and thronged by milling groups of people. Adherents, I supposed. At the far side of it was a dais, in which I could make out a kind of throne. For the Curator, I surmised. It only confirmed that this was a scam, set up purely for the vanity of one man.

  Eventually we descended into the cavern by a series of steps leading from the far end of the gallery. Curious eyes followed us as we made our way through the crowd. I noticed Andrew nodding at one or two people, presumably friends who’d made the trek earlier, but curiously they didn’t acknowledge him or smile back. I couldn’t have said whether it was a result of the firelight or not, but their faces were of an almost lifeless cast. Eyes were deep, bottomless blanks, and features permanently fixed in one uniform expression. None spoke: they merely observed us, their heads turning to follow us as one. My companions hadn’t seemed to notice, which I found somewhat odd and disturbing. My guts were churning, and my mind was in turmoil.

  “Welcome Believers,” a resonant voice interrupted, making all in attendance turn their heads to face the speaker. He was a tall thin man, unremarkable-looking, wearing a long white habit like a monk, and with a bald head. As I’d surmised: the Curator was nothing special, most likely a fraud. “You have overcome much to make your way here, and for that the Curator commends you. You will be welcomed into the community after you have rested sufficiently.”

  So, I was wrong: this wasn’t the Curator, just his messenger. I should have realised that he wouldn’t show himself directly: a classic move to maintain an aura of mystery.

  “You will be shown to the dormitory, where you may rest,” the man said, “You will be taken care of and fed, and you may bathe to wash off the dust of your journey. We will fetch you at the appointed hour for your baptism.”

  Our mute guide led us farther into the subterranean complex, where we eventually arrived in a long passage punctuated at intervals with doors. Here our group was separated into men and women, and we were shown to different dormitories. Each room was lined with beds, and as soon as I flung myself on one, I fell asleep.

  <~~O~~>

  I wasn’t sure what had woken me up so abruptly from my slumbers, but just before I did I’d felt a ripple of darkness laced with whispers wash through me. The room was dark, with only a single candle providing a weak light to see by. It was enough to let me know that I was the only one in the room, the other male members of the party no longer in their beds. A baptism had been mentioned, so perhaps they were being baptised even now, but why hadn’t I been woken up to participate in the ritual? My mind raced with all kinds of possibilities, none of which soothed me enough to go back to sleep.

  I got out of bed, unnerved. I couldn’t hear anyone or anything. I’d always been a loner, but company appeared to be a more attractive option just then than staying here: being alone in this vastly empty and supernaturally silent place, who knows how far underground or inside a mountain it was. It filled me with a deep, unformed fear. I hated being afraid.

  This was a different species of fear than anything I had ever encountered. This was physical: an emotional broadcast, my mind and body the receiver. It emanated in waves, each one hitting me right in my primitive lizard brain, sparking off tremors of dread and fright. My bladder and bowels felt the pressure most of all, and I was ready to just let them do their thing right there and then.

  However, I was never one to shy away from a challenge—call it bravery, stupidity, or an innate death wish, nothing, no matter how dire, would cow me into submission. I think most people would have called it the latter. I am inclined to agree.

  I knew that, even in the fog of fear making a mess of my thinking, I was making assumptions about what was happening and who was causing it. Nevertheless, I wondered if this had any connection with the Curator. After all, I was the sole doubter around here. If he could transmit fear, then perhaps he (or it) could pick up the thoughts and emotions of others.

  I needed to resolve this, one way or another. I stepped out into the passage, checking for signs of anyone else being around. I was met with the solidity of silence. Either everyone was asleep, or I was the only one who had been left behind.

  Taking a lit torch from a wall-sconce, I padded along the corridor, the cold stone beneath my feet keeping me alert. I still had no clear idea where I should go, but in my wanderings down corridors, t
hrough halls and chambers, I became aware of a tugging at my consciousness. It was an invitation—whatever intelligence inhabited this subterranean kingdom, it was granting me an audience. My first instinct was to rebel against its alien touch as it skated across the surface of my mind: I was sure that it meant nothing good was about to happen. I recoiled, but steeled myself against its slipperiness and malice.

  I let my feet guide me, and very soon the nature of the corridors and passages changed dramatically, the smooth walls metamorphosing into rough scale-like textures and extrusions. The air became unhealthy: a smell of fungal decay hung heavily, coating my nostrils and lungs thickly, making breathing difficult. The farther along I stepped the moister the passage walls became: even in the wavering torchlight the liquid looked diseased, tinged a fetid green. I ventured to touch it, but my hand jerked back as soon as I felt it—it reminded of thick stringy snot.

  All this time, I had been walking through pitch black, illuminated only by the flickering uncertain flame I was carrying. Steadily, some way ahead of me, a source of light became apparent, which grew brighter the farther along the tunnel I went. The gravity of its pull quickened my pace, and I emerged into a grotto, voluminous and humid, lit up with tens of braziers and pyres, and filled with the constant sound of water dripping. The fungal aroma was even worse in here.

  “Welcome.”

  I turned to the source of the voice, and found the tall monk in the white habit standing a few feet away.

  “You’ve been expecting me?” I asked, unsurprised at his presence in the light of my “invitation.”

  “Yes, we have,” he answered, inclining his head the smallest fraction. “In which case, let’s not waste time, shall we? Follow me.”

  He turned his back on me, proceeding to walk away into the furthest recesses of the grotto. It went back deeper than was at first apparent, the far end hidden in shadow. A susurration came from within the blackness, until it resolved itself into a waterfall at the rock face defining the end of the grotto, spilling over a lip of rock some twenty feet above us. I wondered if we were heading behind the curtain of falling liquid, and moments later my guess was confirmed.