by S E Holmes
After the lads had gone, Bacchus fashioned a loin-cloth with his one remaining sash. Surprisingly, Jam did not seem too dodgy and Bacchus was comforted his young charge, Nimbus, was not on his own for the trials ahead. His latest attire resembled a lurid pin-striped nappy with inconvenient holes burnt here and there. Modesty was not really necessary where he was headed, especially as he would be invisible for the most part, but one had to maintain one’s standards (admittedly they were usually quite low).
He hoisted the satchel ‘borrowed’ from Mercury over his shoulder, which contained assorted supplies plus the wand, his liqueur, the herbs, an offering for the beast and his current most valued possession: a pear from the Ethereal Realm. He would need it to cross Perdition Road, which could cremate an unarmed intruder in the flash of a Humming Bird’s wing. He sorely wished Celestial had not stripped him of his packages before they set out. As a result, he had no back up defences and no means of escape if cornered, which given his destination, was highly likely.
Bacchus took a deep, calming breath, loosened up with a few shoulder stretches and cracked his knuckles. He had been below before to rescue his mother and knew what was in store: an unbroken sprint through a marathon obstacle course, except in Hades the obstacles were usually lethal and would ruthlessly hunt down trespassers to be dealt with most cruelly. Bacchus also had scant time in which to achieve his goal, as the camouflage herbs of Circe worked over a limited period.
“Right old man. No more procrastinating! Friends in need, goodness endangered, world in peril and so on.” He waved a hand as though orating at the Pantheon. “One foot in front of the other, and bit by bit the job gets done.”
Bacchus took a tentative, sandal-less step onto the coarse boiling road. Sulphurous gases hissed from the sea of bubbling molten stone that stretched for fathoms either side of the precarious walkway. Smouldering boulders fell from the sky at intervals, trailing embers as they hit the lake to shoot geysers of magma across the path, which would dissolve skin on contact.
Entering the furnaces of Hell, was indeed, literal, as a furious heat accosted him, burning the remnant hair from his body and immediately searing his flesh a scalded lobster red. His feet blistered to the point where layers from his soles peeled away, sizzling and clinging to the road like Achilles to his shield.
“See? Not so bad, if a tad tropical,” he murmured encouragingly to himself, and hurried onwards against the scorching blitz.
He must wait to the very last before consuming the pear, which offered cooling protection. This damned Road was a long one, winding off to an insignificant point in the distance. It was quite a stretch, since Bacchus hefted his heavy frame in any activity more straining than moving from one house of ale or feast to another, and it took him a while to coordinate his unwilling legs in a vague approximation of running. He cut a graceless, wobbling figure, flab trembling in protest as he lumbered along.
Sweat steamed from his brow as soon as it appeared. His mouth was an arid wasteland, tongue swollen and lacking moisture even to wet dry, cracked lips. It was an ordeal to draw breath; he felt as though his lungs were microwaved.
Bulging eyeballs fried in their sockets and might explode at any moment. Bacchus had to eat the pear soon, or it would all be over. His corpse would be found a dried-out husk like an abandoned cicada case, limbs shrivelled and face seized in the pain of his final moments. Every thump of his foot on the gravel brought stabbing agony, similar to the time he’d rashly boasted he could dance all night on Ali Barber’s bed of nails. It was a good story and Bacchus fervently hoped he’d get to tell it once more.
When he’d eventually dashed to a spot he estimated to be half way, he could delay no longer, fumbling the bag and stumbling ever onwards. Hallelujah! His bloated probing fingers touched the Fruit of the Gods and instant relieving cool travelled up his hand and arm, and across his chest. He pulled out the pear and raised it weakly to his mouth taking a large, succulent bite. Juice trickled down his chin, spreading to cover the rest of his body in a healing salve.
He chewed slowly, savouring the chilly calm that settled upon him to reverse the physical damage his foray onto Perdition Road had wrought. Bacchus jogged confidently now, munching happily on his pear, oblivious of the effects of this noxious kiln. He whistled a popular tune sung by the Heavenly Gospel Choir, currently at the top of the Papyrus Charts. Bacchus would soon be away from the lava moat and safely minus the first of an extensive list of tortures yet to come.
In the closing distance a jagged mountain range loomed into view. Home to the hideous beast Cerberus, otherwise know as Buttercup, sentinel at the forsaken gates to Hades’ wretched Underworld. Bacchus finally reached the end of the miserable track, just as he’d finished the pear. It took him all his diminishing strength to levitate the pear core back to the beginning, planting the seeds on a sparse patch of ground, where it would grow despite the barren environment to supply other hapless journeyers with brief comfort on their trips of no return.
Thankfully the air temperature plunged as he stepped off the spiky crushed-pumice surface onto the trail that lead up into the mountains. Carved into the rock face of the jagged cliffs that sandwiched the passage, funnelling travellers into an inescapable canyon, were gruesome demons engaged in barbaric acts of warfare and persecution. This was the dismal and gloomy Cavern of Erebus, said to be the nexus of Night and Chaos, the corridor to the Underworld proper.
When Bacchus stopped to examine the fearsome images closely, they came alive as he stared, twisting their horrible forms, leering down at him and rattling their maces. He shuddered and averted his gaze, hurrying passed. It was impossible to shake the overwhelming feeling he was observed by hidden hostile beings. Indeed, he knew from experience his progress was monitored by the back-skinned, red-eyed imps, whose intelligence was at best that of a forest troll. They recognised only that Bacchus was untouchable as he did not belong, and would take no action against him unless permitted to do so from a higher authority.
This kindness was not afforded the Sinners and other unfortunates meant for below; they were mercilessly tormented by both the Imps and the Rock Monsters as they advanced. Neither of these sneering enemies would alert Hades of Bacchus’s progress. They trusted his expedition would end with the Hell Hound, for no intruder ever escaped her slavering, ravenous jaws. Bacchus allowed himself a sly smile. No-one except for him!
He hastened up the steep path that projected from the valley he’d just left. Ugly barbed vines snaked over the mountain side, the thick brambles twisting and thrashing as Bacchus trotted by. Venom-tipped thorns missiled about him and he attempted to shrink his robust physique to a lesser target. He covered his front with his puny bag and ran the slope at full tilt. It finally flattened out and became a wide parade leading directly to Buttercup.
Jaundiced light flickered pathetically from torches that lined the way. Seething marshland projected either side as far as the eye could see, no doubt riddled with hazardous bogs and other unimaginable evils. Bacchus heaved and panted, seating himself on a levee at the side of the road to gather strength for his exchange with the Beast. He pulled barbs from the satchel flap, disturbed to note widening acid holes surrounding the punctures. He had forgotten what a charming place this was! He allowed himself two small gulps of Skylar’s liqueur, a glorious calm settling, reluctantly replacing the drink and extracting Mercury’s wand. Now came the hard part.
Reinvigorated and magically no longer breathless, he raised himself and slogged towards Buttercup’s hidden home, tightly clasping the delicate tube -- the only defence between him and her crushing, merciless jowls. As he drew nearer to the entrance, the imposing gates gained detail, with engraved runes etched over every observable surface. Bacchus was familiar with the ancient symbols. The script translated to a long rant on the consequences of shameless actions and gave specifics on the different sectors in which particular crimes were punished.
A massive wall extended from each, topped with vicious-looking spines an
d periodic turrets for watchers. Long streams of black tar, set hard over time, accumulated down the walls at these breaches. Bacchus quaked; tossing boiling pitch over the Damned at the bottom was a favourite hobby of the guards, who gambled on the outcome, earning points for accuracy and the level of injury inflicted. The place was strangely deserted, which suited Bacchus fine.
In front of the gates on the right, recessed from the road, a murky cave-hole could be detected if one knew where to look. A vile stench boiled from the void, decorated by mounds of bones and rotting meat. Those less vigilant were rewarded with the sudden dreadful company of Buttercup, whose mere presence had dire effect. But Bacchus was prepared. Gripping the wand between his lips, he rifled the bag and removed a sizeable jar of doggy treats -- pickled pygmies coated in aspic jelly, with powdered intestines ‘for a healthy coat’.
The goal was to entice Buttercup from her home, so he could get in and steal the Helmet. Bacchus snuck as close to the cavity as he dared, eyes watering from the reek, and proceeded to screw the lid off the jar. This was a rooky mistake and Bacchus scolded himself. He should have completed the task away from the kennel! Before he could blink, she was there.
Bacchus was impressed; Buttercup’s movements were remarkably quiet for such a large fiend! He could feel hot, fetid breath from her three mouths brushing the top of his head. He slowly looked up, directly into numerous rows of razor-sharp fangs, dripping drool. Without panicking, Bacchus continued to undo the lid. A malevolent growl accompanied the deed.
After what seemed an eternity, the lid was finally free. Keeping his movements to a minimum, Bacchus lowered the food to the ground at Buttercup’s massive, sharply-clawed paws. Her heads followed him down and they were temporarily face-to-face, her wicked greedy eyes boring into him like the orange furnace of the magma lake. She snarled and Bacchus gulped.
“Nice doggy,” he murmured hopefully. “Look. Yum-yums!”
She glared at Bacchus and he thought for a moment she would not take the bait and he was dinner, but then she put her noses in turn to the pygmies, sniffing hungrily. Her viper tail wagged enthusiastically, the volume of slobber increasing to leak widening puddles. She noisily gobbled the treats, flinging saliva about. Bacchus backtracked, avoiding the toxic spittle.
He waited until Buttercup was almost finished eating and blew gently through the hypnotic wand at each of her faces. She blearily shook her heads, as though bothered by a gnat and Bacchus hastily repeated the act. Three sets of lids drooped and Bacchus congratulated himself on a job well done. Unfortunately, Buttercup never slept out in the open and with her appetite satisfied she sleepily shuffled backwards into her cave.
Disaster! Bacchus would now be forced to search for the Helmet while she was inside. Served him right for prematurely praising himself! He paused at the gaping black hole until fairly certain the rhythmic rumbled breathing from within indicated slumber. He’d retrieved a flaming torch from the roadside and tentatively thrust it into the gloom where it glowed weakly, barely illuminating more than a couple of steps. Bacchus cursed softly, this was not ideal as the need for heightened caution would slow him down, wasting what little time remained. He carefully trailed the flame into the pitch-dark tunnel. The pong was suffocating and he fought rising bile.
He was surprised at how far the drowsy Buttercup had made it, when the passage ended abruptly and he came upon her giant sleeping silhouette. She almost completely blocked further ingress. Behind her, in glowing niches hewn from rock walls, Bacchus could just make out an assortment of the residents’ valued possessions.
This was the perfect secure vault as it was presumed no one would be mad enough to enter Buttercup’s domain. It was a fair point! There were literally hundreds of inset boxes each containing one object. Bacchus groaned internally; loaning Hades Helmet was going to take much longer than expected.
Bacchus steeled himself for the first hurdle. He edged to the side of the outermost head, which was scary even when on the floor napping, and flattened against the wall to squeeze by. He willed himself lighter and scrambled up onto one of Buttercup’s front haunches, his heart beating too fast for his own liking. The beast didn’t budge. Emboldened, Bacchus climbed onto her back and along her spine, his feet sinking into her thick, amazingly silky fur. There was an angst-provoking moment when Bacchus confronted her tail’s serpent-head, the reptilian eyes open slits, until he realised it too, was no longer conscious. He leaped onto the stone floor and raised the torch to better inspect the goods, which peppered the ascending alcove going far higher than Bacchus would have believed.
Bacchus need not have worried about conducting an extensive search. The filing system was dictated by Hades’ enormous ego, his spectacular collection symbolically elevated above the rest of the rabble to line the upper rim. More climbing. It had never been his forte! He left his torch on the floor, reaching up as far as possible to grip the lip of one receptacle and haul vertically, the tips of his toes balanced in lower spaces. It was hard going, the boxes spread a body length apart and Bacchus was soon exhausted. Some articles were large and occupied a majority of their plots, leaving scant hand and foot holds. Bacchus held his breath on a number of occasions, when a knocked item threatened to plummet to a shattering crash beneath.
Eventually, as his limp, jellied arms were in danger of giving out, he reached the top row. Vertigo took hold and Bacchus gritted his teeth to quell the dizziness, praying it would soon pass. This took so long! He had to climb sideways now, stopping to check each box for the Helmet. The sheer scope of the priceless and powerful objects was breathtaking and Bacchus thought himself fortunate to have no free hands. Burglarising Hade’s valuables for self-indulgent purposes would invoke the King of the Underworld’s wrath, and even the Gods from on High would not be able to intervene on his behalf. Such a shame, thought Bacchus moodily, just a couple of small items from this treasure trove expanded his business in authentic relics.
He made it half way around the wall, when tenacity was recognised with success. The Helmet sat on a stand and was far plainer than many of the other intricately wrought, bejewelled specimens. It was a smooth bronze without embellishment that adjusted magically to fit any head size (luckily, as it was often joked that if only Bacchus’s brains were the size of his boulder-sized head, he would rule the universe instead of the banquet table).
Bacchus claimed it and put it on, carrying it down risky. He immediately disappeared and tried to descend, which he discovered was impossible because there was nothing to anchor him, as he stretched for the box below the one he currently occupied. He would have to jump, hoping for some residual hover power in this vitality-sapping pit! If only he had wings like the Cherubs!
Thoughts of his Charges spurred him on, perhaps a tad hastily. Bacchus launched airborne forgetting to restrain both his bag and the Horn of the Host, which were flung outwards to connect with the contents of two boxes on the way down. Regrettably, one held a ceramic continuously filling urn, the other a platter made from a rare Atlantean metal called Orichalcum, that was nevertheless capable of making a loud, echoing clang as it landed.
Bacchus watched in slow-motion horror from his floating vantage as they made the floor before him, the urn exploding resoundingly as it hit, showering the beast with ricocheting shards. In the deathly silence of Buttercup’s kennel, the resulting racket burst forth, seemingly magnified ten-fold. The looping platter made Celestial’s cymbals seem like a tinkling lullaby. The dog leapt up, its heads whipping to and fro for the prowler, three jaws snapping and barking in savage unison. Bacchus inhaled tiredly and massaged his temples – a most unwelcome development! He had mere seconds to come up with a counter-plan or he would be joining the pickled pygmies!
***
Chapter Twelve
The Keeper of the Keys
