by Rich Hayden
As he sat behind the monstrous example of musical craft, the player rapped his knuckles off the keys and stomped the pedals at his feet. All of the veinous threads that spread across the sky had, at last, found their heart. In the web of their concentration, they nearly obscured the man who tugged at their strings. Bells of all sizes hung in the sky like metallic clouds. They were suspended high above the stadium field, and rang in concert with one another. The metal framework of the massive instrument dominated the center of the arena, and it towered into the air. The master of the bells was held in the center like a slave, forever tethered to an unconquerable task of composition.
Amil slowly approached the auditorium with apprehension in his mind. He was certain that he would soon come to face another victim of Aphelianna’s curses. But before he would have the opportunity, an unexpected situation was set before him. With a few hundred feet separating him from the stone gallery, he could see that a pair of spectators did indeed gaze upon the tortured musician. They sat in the last row of seats and made small motions as they interacted with one another. The image filled him with uncertainty, but before he could continue his march or flee back whence he came, his trespass was spotted.
A man turned around in his seat and fixed his gaze upon Amil. Soon, his female companion shared his posture. Scared by nothing in particular, but frightened all the same, Amil looked away. Finally, he raised one hand and gave an unsure wave to his audience. The man offered a mild nod of his head and then turned back around. He seemed content in the knowledge that Amil was not a foe, and yet utterly unconcerned for who he actually was.
With shoes of lead, Amil walked toward the couple, and quietly closed the gap between them. He stopped a step or two behind their position and hung in the air like a sheet forsaken on a drying line. He stared straight ahead, bereft, and without comprehension of what next to do.
“If you’re not gonna say anything, save us some time then and bugger off,” the man said in an accent that hinted to British origin.
Amil looked over. In a testament to how wary he had been to set his gaze on the strangers, lest they turn to monsters before his eyes, he only then noticed that the couple was black. Death revealed itself as the final and absolute equalizer. Only three races were left to exist: the Wastes, cursed deities, and all the rest of the poor, unfortunate flesh bags who were damned to toil and twist among all the ruin.
The man was slender, bald, and, most likely, dressed in the suit that had accompanied him to the grave. His form exhibited the telltale signs of a battle lost to cancer, while the alligator shoes that he wore hinted at his earthly sense of sleek fashion. Surely he had picked his own funeral attire, as no expense had been spared for the last hurrah. The suit was pinstriped, with the pocket square perfectly complementing his tie. As he loosely draped an arm over the stout frame of his companion, Amil was almost humorously struck by their differences.
Although the man was no more than a year or two older than Amil, the girl was clearly a good decade and a half his junior. Even their color varied considerably. While his skin was as dark as nighttime itself, she held that beautiful caramel complexion that Amil had so often dreamt about as a boy. He was probably fifteen before he had actually met someone who wasn’t white. Prior to that, his only experiences with black women were from the bitches of hip-hop videos that graced his erotic teenage fantasies.
Their skin tones aside, their outward appearance and choice of dress was comically mismatched. She was squeezed into a pair of jeans, and gold hoop earrings that rivaled the circumference of dinner plates, hung from her ears. Her dark hair was straightened and highlighted with blonde streaks. Her nails were chipped, but polished, and as she held hands with her rakish beau, Amil felt his heart ache out of jealousy.
It was then that his attention was drawn to the tight, midriff-revealing top that the girl wore, and all the bullet holes that dotted the upper curves of her breasts. He must have set his eyes upon her chest for some time, and although thoughts of her bronze cleavage were absent from his mind, he was harshly called out for his lingering gaze.
“Muthafucka, what are you lookin’ at?” she barked at him.
“Sorry, I guess I’m still not used to this,” muttered Amil.
“Well, getcha eyes up off my titties.”
“I was looking at the holes. It was just sort of shocking, that’s all.”
“Aight, just hadda put you in ya place,” she said as she slid a cigarette between her lips.
“That’s a Newport,” Amil said, puzzled.
“It’s not just us that comes over, you know?” the man said. “All kinds of shit makes its way here. Kinda like the earth was a cup that got kicked over. That’s how I look at it, anyway.”
“How long have you guys been here?” Amil asked, over the constant ringing of bells.
“I tried to measure time for a while, but it doesn’t work. Let’s just say that I’ve probably spent a night or two in nearly every room in this place. I met her in the 86th room I visited, after that, I stopped counting,” he admitted.
“We’re gonna find that Eternal City,” the girl added.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” said Amil.
“It exists.”
“Man, how do you know?” asked Amil, in irritation.
“Because if it doesn’t, what do we have? Nothing. It gives us hope. It’s a place where the dead can live. We can be safe and have a real life. Or something close to it, anyway,” the man calmly said.
“I guess so.”
“So, what’s your story, white boy? You’re lookin’ a little rough, you know?”
“I ran into some stuff. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Okay, so how’d ya die?” she asked, as this change of topic oddly merged into the realm of matters less complicated.
“Killed myself,” he plainly stated.
“Damn, crackers do the strangest shit. Black folks die young all the time. Should’ve just been black, you might have made it here sooner.”
Amil actually cracked a smile. There was something in her urban American accent that delighted him. She was jagged and her tone was sharp, but she wasn’t judgmental. In some bizarre way, her words comforted Amil. If for nothing else, she had managed to make him laugh. It was surreal and disquieting, being made to chuckle at the memory of one’s own suicide.
“I don’t remember the last time I laughed,” he admitted.
“See? Now that’s what I’m talking about,” the man said. “It’s hope. When I got here, I didn’t have any hope, then, I met her. I had a little hope, and then we heard about The Eternal City. Now I have more hope.”
“I got this,” Amil said, as he produced his key.
“You betta have a whole ass load of hope,” the girl said, quiet sympathy in her voice.
He laughed again, only this time it was to stop from crying.
“I’ve heard about people like you,” said the man.
“Yeah? So what did you hear?” asked Amil.
“That you all end up the same way.”
“I might forever become one of those things, I can’t change that now.”
“If it’s all the same, that’s where we’re all headed. I’m just trying to put it off for as long as I can.” said the man quietly and, oddly enough, without any hope in his voice.
“But I still have to try. I fucked up in life so many times that I’m due to get something right. I will save Ali,” he defiantly stated. “Hope, right?”
“Hope.”
“Good luck finding your city, I gotta keep moving,” Amil said, stepping away.
“Hey, where are you off to?” shouted the man.
“He might know something,” Amil said, as he pointed to the carillon player.
“Just leave that shit alone.”
“She’s right. Enjoy the music, and be about your way, but leave him alone.”
“Why? I know the worst that can happen. Tell ya what, I’ll save Ali, and one day we’ll meet again in The Et
ernal City. I gotta go.”
He walked away and the couple at his back embraced. They found in death all that Amil had wasted in life, and, as he faded from their vision, the man prayed silently.
“False hope,” he whispered.
Amil cautiously navigated the broken stone steps of the gallery as he descended closer to the musician. His shoes tore up hunks of moss, and loose bits of concrete softly tumbled from the brittle steps, adding percussion to the chime of the bells. As he reached the start of the stadium field, he stopped and looked back toward the couple. They were already gone, uninterested in what might happen next.
He stood upon the same surface as the carillon player, although the bell master still remained a considerable distance away. Amil found himself staring directly into the center of the field, and, with a chest full of nervous palpitations, he advanced. Whatever the field surface once was, it had grown barren. The ground was soft below his feet, like clay, but a heavy coat of dirt had accumulated over time, and offered dust to the air with every mild disturbance of a step. With his eyes to the sky in an effort to elevate them above the whirl of dirt, a new respect for the bells was gained as they swung overhead. He thought of the inescapable rain of metal that would wash down upon him if just one of the ropes were to fail. It made him quiver, as he was held in constant shadows by the massive concentration of bronze that dangled above his head.
As his eyes followed the threads, Amil was unaware of how close he had advanced to the mysterious player, when at once he was made a witness to the musician’s curse. As the thin pink lines flowed downward and attached themselves to the source of their action, Amil was sickened by what was seen. Like any proper carillon, the wires affixed themselves to clappers and pedals that were used to sound the bells, but much like everything else which had been perverted by Aphelianna’s touch, this instrument was a machine of torment.
Countless ropes were fastened directly into the body of the musician. Some were sewn right into his skin, while most of the others were attached by means of curled metal hooks. The barbs sunk themselves deep into the flesh, and, all around the site of their impalement, the skin was reddened with irritation. The wires left no part of his harrowed anatomy unused. They sprang from his arms and legs, and tugged mercilessly at the tender meat between his fingers and toes. His chest and upper back were polluted by the strings, and even his face wasn’t spared the pierce of polished steel.
The malnourished and pale frame of the musician was partially obscured by a brown robe, a fact the Amil was thankful for, as every rib of the ensnared man certainly poked at the skin. His face was long, and carved by deep wrinkles and frown lines. A geyser of gray hair sprouted from the top of his head, and, as it cascaded down his face, the thin locks obscured his tired eyes. As Amil moved closer to the bench that this entertainer was forever strapped to, he noticed that the musician was asleep. He wasn’t playing at all. It was with every breath and tiny movement of his body that the bells were struck.
“Hello,” he stammered, as he looked up at this strung victim of Aphelianna.
In a discordant calamity that could have shattered the earth into brittle fragments of microscopic shards, the musician awoke. Once he steadied his body upon the bench, the bells cooled their rage, and the shadows that were made to sprint all around came to be still again. The sky darkened and the white clouds vanished, almost as though they had been chased away by the discordant scream of the bells. A gentle rain began to fall, and, as it muddied the ground, the carillon player slowly opened his eyes and set his down-turned gaze toward his visitor.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Amil blurted out, upon a wave of heavy sighs.
“Look at me,” he quietly responded. “How could the words of a man disturb me?”
“I’m looking for Isadora.”
“Hmm, I suppose you have a good reason to find her?”
“Yes, I’m trying to save someone very special to me.”
“And yourself?” the musician asked through a cough.
“I’m starting to care less and less about what happens to me. I don’t even know if I can be saved. I just want to help Ali.”
“That sounds rather selfless.”
“I was never very selfless before. I took a lot of things for granted,” admitted Amil.
“Guilt, perhaps the greatest curse of all, and a self-inflicted one at that,” he grumbled.
“Did Aphelianna do this to you?”
“You know her name? That is truly unfortunate,” the musician whispered with thin and labored breath.
Amil felt what he used to call a heart as it sunk ever deeper into his chest. The further he progressed into his journey, the more he was made to regret his deal with Aphelianna. It felt like a damned quest. Even if he succeeded, doubt enveloped all her promises.
“I took a key from her. We made an arrangement,” Amil said.
“You would be very wise to find yourself a safe place to hide, and remain there until the end of all existence.”
“And then what? I’m just supposed to forget about Ali?”
“Yes. Whoever she is, forget her.”
“I can’t!”
“You have been given a gift, a rare opportunity that you need to seize,” said the musician.
“Which is what exactly?”
“You do not bear the marks of your death, nor will you ever carry a wound again. You will feel healthy and strong for all time. Some would say that you have become eternal. You have Aphelianna to thank for that. As long as she endures, she will shelter you from the fate of a Waste, and all because her salvation hangs from the thin promise of your success. So run from her, and cast that key away from your mind. Forsake this fool’s deal, and keep yourself from the murderous clutches of the Wastes. Remember, you may be eternal, you may not fear death, but you must fear pain. Suffering, it seems, it also without end,” stated the enfeebled god, with a glance to his strings.
“I still feel sick. I fucking puked when I arrived here!” Amil shouted.
“That is the human side of you, dying off. It will fade with time.”
“I don’t want an eternity without Ali. Can you help me or not?” asked Amil, impatiently.
“I suppose, but hear this first. When Aphelianna waged war upon the rest of us, she eliminated any opposition by shackling us all to curses. This is mine. You see, I was the God of Music, and I was very well liked because of it. Aphelianna resented me for that fact, because, as you might imagine, not many people offer prayers to the Goddess of Death.”
“I don’t understand. She waged war on the other gods because she was lonely?”
“It’s not that simple,” the spent musician said.
“So an entire legion of gods couldn’t stop her?” asked Amil, befuddled and pissed off.
“Death always wins. Didn’t you know that?”
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Amil.
“Jesus Christ. Who is that? You humans speak of him often. Who was he?”
“Never mind, they’re just stories. Can you ever escape?”
“Only Isadora can free me. However, that would be the end of me,” the musician said.
“So, I guess you don’t want me to find her either?”
“I tried to discourage you for your own wellbeing, but I hope that you indeed find her.”
“I thought dying here was what everyone feared?” asked Amil.
“It’s what humans fear, and rightly so. Gods disappear. We cease to be. I am ready for that. You see, the strings of my bells were fashioned from the skins of my family. And so every chime sounds like a scream to me. Every day, I listen to the cries of my parents, my brothers and sisters, and my children. Nothingness would be paradise compared to this curse,” explained the bell master with sadness in his voice.
Amil closed his eyes and placed his hands over his face. In every room, he was assaulted by another example of Aphelianna’s brutality, but this was monstrous even by her standards. As he felt the rain soak t
hrough his tattered clothing, Amil began to weep. He was nearing the edge of sanity, and felt much the same as he did on the day that he took his own life. Only now, he wasn’t given the option to give up.
“Will all the curses be lifted if I find Isadora?”
“Yes, and a lot of gods will disappear.”
“What about Aphelianna? She told me that she longed to be free of her curse.”
“She is cursed too, that’s true. It was the unforeseen event of her treachery, but I believe that she will remain,” the musician said.
“Who cursed Aphelianna?”
“Please, I am very weak. I can direct you to a friend of mine who may be able to answer your questions, but please, leave me be.”
“Okay,” Amil said, as he nodded slightly, still straining to understand the unimaginable pain that the carillon player was forced to endure.
“Alright, pay very close attention now. I want you to walk. Walk this yard until you see a door. It will be the only door you can see. Once you have found it, go in. I know not if it is locked, but I can assure you, most every door you find hereafter will likely be locked,” he strained out with a wheeze.
“I don’t care, just go on.”
“From there, you will find yourself in a long hall. It will be very narrow, and lined with doors. Walk to your right, and keep a sharp count as you go. Take the 3947th door, but don’t lose count. You’ll never be able to start over, as all the doors look identical.”
Amil turned around and walked in a rigid circle. He ground his teeth and kicked the mud as he went. His fists balled into anvils of flesh, and all the blood that remained in his veins ignited, and boiled itself into a stream of distilled fury.
“Fuck!” Amil shouted, as he beat his fists into the side of his head.
“Please, try not to despair.”
Amil stood with his back to that elaborate device of harmonious punishment for a moment, and stared into the distance. He sucked in a deep breath, and, with a mind full of pestiferous thoughts, he contemplated his own sacrifice at the mercy of the Wastes. At least torture would be easier than this.
