Curse: The end has only just begun

by Rich Hayden

  “Why? They’re still gods.”

  “Would you invite death into your home? No deity of death before her had ever reigned for more than 5000 aeons, and on the day of Aphelianna’s ruling, she was closing in on her 7000th aeon. She just wanted to go home, Amil,” said Arcanus, woefully. “So, with the other gods snugly imprisoned within her curses and Isadora silenced, all Aphelianna had to do was wait. And once the day arrived that the last Mortal fell from life and was plucked from existence, she would be unfettered of her duties. Then, she could return to her home and claim that seat of unspeakable power.”

  “But she’s still outside,” Amil said.

  “Yes, a quite curious thing happened on the last day of Mortal life, you appeared.”

  “Me?”

  “No! Please don’t make yourself out to be that foolish. Human beings appeared! There was a fresh flock that needed Aphelianna’s tending, and to this day, your kind remains the barrier between her and ultimate reign. It seems that Isadora had a curse of her own in store for Aphelianna. That, I’m sure, she did not expect. It is why she hates humans so much. You represent her inability to rule, to rest, to sleep.”

  “How did we get here, Arcanus? Humans, I mean,” asked Amil with a quiver in his voice.

  “I don’t know for sure, although I have heard rumors to the origin of your being, none of which I will repeat,” he stated, in a defiant tone.

  Amil was about to demand to hear of the birth of mankind, but then he thought better of it. Arcanus wasn’t going to crack, and he had already been of so much help that Amil simply respected his wish to allow this tale to end prematurely.

  “I want to help Aphelianna. I can’t imagine anyone deserves what she’s been through.”

  “You’re probably right, but you mustn’t think in terms of individuals and of years. You must think in terms of aeons, and of the overall health of life itself. Aphelianna is beyond salvation. Leave her there, Amil, leave her there,” begged Arcanus as he poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “Arcanus, do gods die?” asked Amil, unsure as to why.

  “We age, and so I suppose the answer is yes, but none of us have yet,” he explained, and then exited the little corridor.

  Under the dirtied glow of fluorescent light, Amil was left alone to comprehend all that he had heard. He thought of eternal life, or an approximation of such, for those who wandered The House of the Divine, and he thought of how he couldn’t truly die by the means of disease or time. Many of those that he had seen had entered the afterlife in bodies racked with distress, and of a condition that didn’t distinguish itself far from that of a Waste. But he was different, somehow. Amil would never know sickness or prolonged pain. If he took the advice of gods, it appeared that he could live life as it was meant to be lived, and he could do so evermore. Or, he could risk the punishment of the ultimate damnation.

  It was a decision, obvious and easy, that tugged upon his mind, but it was too much to absorb. In that moment, he couldn’t picture Ali’s face without feeling shame, and so to relieve himself of this ghost, he turned his attention to grander matters that seemed so much simpler to understand.

  He was struck by Aphelianna’s descent into furious treason, but as Arcanus had suggested, spending that much time with death and loss would ultimately corrupt even the noblest of souls. He wondered if inside her there was still a canal carved out where sympathy could reside, or if all compassion had deserted her form. He thought of all the gods she had betrayed, and contemplated what she would do if he were to succeed. Would Aphelianna focus all her rage upon the surviving gods again? Would she desire to exterminate all traces of human life, Waste or otherwise, or would her loneliness send her down a path that even Aphelianna could not see?

  Amil had once yearned to know all he could about the world he now knew, but as he gathered more knowledge, the more pleasurable ignorance had become. He had learned of a mysterious Spirit, a race of forgotten Mortals, a pantheon of gods undone by one of their own, and a scourge that loomed over the expiration of every human life. He was pained to accept that his own flesh, and all the people that he had once loved, were apparently conceived by accident, or, at the very least, as an act of revenge. His mind was full of questions, all of which were shackled to a brutal gravity. Amil stepped out of the room, and travelled back into Arcanus’s workspace in search of the kind old man.

  With absolute predictability, Amil found Arcanus tending to his time machine. He stood deep inside its silver belly, and was in the processing of resetting a gear. His ancient fingers carefully spun a naked bearing, and as he tightened a stud that protruded through the wheel, he dispensed even drops of oil onto its surface. Once he was satisfied with the faithfulness of its travel, Arcanus slid the little cog back into place and wiped it clean of his greasy fingerprints.

  “I’m not even gonna ask how you got in there,” Amil said, as he stared at Arcanus through an abstract arrangement of metal.

  “You’d be surprised at the dexterity that still resides in these old bones,” exclaimed Arcanus joyfully, as his work, impossible as it might be, still brought him a sense of peace.

  “What happened to the Mortals? You know, the people before human beings came along?” foolishly curious, Amil couldn’t believe his need to pry further into a troubled past.

  “They are just gone,” said Arcanus, with a small screwdriver held between his teeth.

  “I think I’m gonna move on.”

  “As you should, but Amil, remember what I said about your gift.”

  “I kinda wish I didn’t know. Hey, how do I get out of here?”

  “Continue east for a while, you’ll find a wall of doors. I don’t know where any of them go and I don’t know which ones are locked.”

  “Which way’s east?” asked Amil, as a proper sense of direction eluded him in this place.

  “That way,” pointed Arcanus, with a smile. “Farewell, Amil Young.”

  Already with his back turned, Amil waved and plodded along, and as he did, it became clear that this wing of Arcanus’s domain was largely forgotten. It was poorly lit, as most of the bulbs overhead had died out or were in the last throes of a flickered life soon to cease. The floor was utterly polluted with spare parts and forsaken manuals, and was booby-trapped by spills of oil and other slick liquids. Broken chunks of metal were kicked aside by his shoes, as were worn-out tools and other indefinable scraps of failed mechanisms.

  As he wandered on and the darkness that stalked him continued to swell, Amil was forced to slow his pace and strain his eyes. With little attention being paid to the floor below, he tripped over the chewed-up leftovers of what most likely was once a 2 x 4. Down upon the cold concrete, he found himself slicked by grime that clung to him like an adhesive. Once righted, he wiped the heaviest filth from his skin and clothes. But as he did, a certain object caught his eye, one that had been discarded long ago.

  It was a picture, or at least what remained of one. Amil plucked it from the floor, and as he wiped the dusty years of neglect from its surface, he was sure that one of Arcanus’s machines was responsible for its existence. Under the layers of caked grit, the image of a woman was uncovered. Undeniably, this was Aphelianna, but in a time far less violent and woeful. She looked happy, enchanting even, and as Amil studied the torn edge of the photo, he couldn’t help but wonder whose arm it was that wrapped itself around the Goddess of Death.

  As he allowed the paper to drift downward back to the realm of the abandoned, Amil set his vision on the wall and all the doors it possessed. Standing upon the floor like any proper passageway, a door stared directly back at him. It was one of many, as the entire breadth of the wall was one giant stretch of doors. Placed above them was another row of the weathered barriers. This pattern of sorrowed columns repeated until the ceiling put an end to their bloated bloodline.

  Amil tried a few, and, with no discernable logic, some were locked, while others lacked even the presence of a keyhole. Making use of a ladder that slept in
a corner under a blanket of cobwebs and dirt, Amil climbed up to inspect some of the higher doors. Under his paltry weight, the aged wood groaned and loudly threatened to drop him. Ignoring its complaints, Amil took his time and gave a jostle to most every knob that he could reach. It was an exercise that he soon came to accept as nothing more than pointless, and so, with little thought and less reason, he chose one of the secured barriers and broke its locks.

  Part 7. The Eternal City

  Like he had done so many times before, Amil eased shut the door at his back and watched as a new arena colored itself around him. But before he had a thought to run, or to raise violent defiance against his assailants, he was tackled by three men. With frantic haste, he was bound. His mobility was stolen away as restraints were slapped over his limbs. They were crude devices, deformed throwbacks to the sadistic and dark years of Europe’s Middle Ages.

  Trapped within the cavity of a small tunnel that stank of wet earth, Amil was dragged away amid a fit of profane verbal opposition. He was tossed into a cell, a makeshift cage, and watched as the door was slammed shut and sealed with a padlock. Ensnared on all sides by fortifications of decayed rebar, the trap was short, mere inches taller than he, and bereft of a bottom. His body lay upon the cold stone of the dank tunnel, and Amil felt as his freedom and will were left to bleed out, crushed under the weight of steel.

  With no time to sort out the rash of dizzying stimuli that flooded his mind, Amil’s attention was quickly snapped onto a singular focus. Through bleary eyes, he stared directly at the murderous end of a revolver. Slid between the bars, and resting upon the center hinge of the crooked door, was a gun. It was a fearsome instrument. A cannon scaled to fit comfortably in the human hand. The bullet inside was brutal, crafted by destiny to splatter his head all about the cell. Amil knew this as cold truth, but what was worse: his enemies knew it as well. This weapon had a specific purpose, to fling the enigmatic Spirit from its host. Its master, a man probably ten years older than Amil and whiter than bleached chalk, held it firmly, and locked its fatal stare onto the shaken Ghost.

  “Judging from your little tirade, I’m guessing you speak English?” the gunman questioned.

  “Yeah,” whispered Amil, with his face in the dirt.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Did you see anyone else come through after me?” he snapped.

  “We have to be sure. We have to take precautions.”

  “Yes, I’m alone. Now would you tell me what the fuck you’re doing?”

  “I’m gonna take you to see Mr. J. He’s one of the mayors of The Eternal City.”

  “This isn’t quite what I expected,” Amil said quietly, as he gazed out of the dark artery that played host to this harsh encounter.

  “There’s two ways we can do this,” the pasty man offered, as he tapped the gun against the bars. “You can put this sack over your head and we’ll take ya to Mr. J. I promise, you’ll be fine. Or, you can refuse, and we throw you back through the first unlocked door we find.”

  Amil weighed his options, and to choose either felt equally foolish. He certainly had no mind to allow these men, whoever they were, to select his path for him, but on the other side of this damned coin lay the request of his complete surrender. It took him a while to decide, and, strangely, no one seemed to grow impatient, almost as though they completely appreciated the gravity of the situation. With his faith loosely placed in the man who pointed a gun at his face,

  Amil agreed to the appointment with Mr. J.

  “Okay,” the man replied, as though either answer would have elicited the same reaction.

  The door to his cage was opened, and, once Amil had been set up upon his knees, he had a bag of dry-rotted fabric slipped over his head. His leg irons were unbound, and, carefully guided by the hands of strangers, he was led out of the tunnel.

  During this tense little stroll, no one said much, and other than the plop of water as it dripped from the curve of the stone overhead, sound was a scarce sensation. Within the expiration of short minutes, Amil was suddenly made aware of the open air, and of his escape from that rocky wound, as a flood of light beat against his covering and warmed his face. Was it the pleasure of sunlight, or the fierce glare of a deity that he felt? There was no way of truly knowing, but before he could deduce the finer points of the land around him, a touch of things common and curiously familiar was his to absorb.

  Gently placed into the backseat of a car, Amil was scooted into the middle and made to ride bitch between two men. He could only assume they were plucked from the earth. This explanation seemed quite implausible to him, as his captors seemed to share their genetics with small titans. He heard the engine start, and felt as the automatic transmission was forced into gear. He listened to the gravel as it spit at the wheel wells of the sizeable automobile, and felt every rough jostle extended his way by a rather hearty sample of potholes. To his amazement, he heard the telltale clicking of a cassette player’s buttons, and his ears were soon at the mercy of fuzzy Euro-pop. The driver quickly earned complaints from the backseat, and from the protests of his massive companions, Amil was made to laugh.

  “Yuck it up, bag boy,” the driver taunted, as he increased the volume and sang along with the absurd tunes.

  Set to a soundtrack torn from the gay bars of 1980s New York City, interspersed with huffs and grumbles, the journey was closing in on the one hour mark. Even though the air conditioner was on, a glaze of sweat formed on Amil’s face. He was growing restless, agitated, as the heft of the unknown bore down upon him. He felt the weight of his key as it shifted with the palpitations of his chest, and shuddered so loudly that his action caught the attention of the driver.

  “Hey, you alright?” he asked as he lowered the volume.

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m just nervous.”

  “I told you, you’ll be alright. This is just procedure. We’re not about harming people here.”

  “What are you about?” asked Amil through the scratchy fabric.

  “Mr. J’s gonna offer you a life here in the city,” he explained, while twisting the volume knob back up.

  The roll of the wheels slowed, and the light that bled through Amil’s mask disappeared. Once the cumbersome vehicle came to a stop, the shroud was removed and his eyes gazed upon one of annoyance’s proudest achievements; a parking garage. He was helped out of the rusty Lincoln, and as the group stepped toward an elevator decorated with chromatic graffiti, Amil allowed himself to exhale.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the slender fellow with the lunar complexion.

  “Well, those two are both named David, oddly enough. As for me, I don’t know. I’m a Nothing. So call me what you like,” he replied, with somberness.

  “A Nothing?” asked Amil.

  “Look, man, we’re just couriers, so to speak. Mr. J will fill ya in. What about you, you got a name?”

  “Amil.”

  “Amil? That’s a weird one. What else you got?” one of the Davids questioned.

  “I was born in Virginia, almost played pro baseball, and died at 37. That should about cover it,” he sarcastically answered.

  “You remember it all, don’t you?” asked the Nothing.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a Ghost. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “I’ve been led to believe otherwise,” Amil whispered as he thought of Ali.

  “Guess that depends on your memories,” the Nothing said, as the elevator doors sealed shut.

  Whoever this Mr. J was, he must have been a busy guy, because Amil’s meeting with him was a long time coming. It was a wait that bothered him little, though, for the newest resident of The Eternal City had been put up in a room that resembled that of an extended stay hotel. He was provided with new clothes, took a shower, and relished the touch of warm water like never before. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and curled up atop the crisp sheets of a twin bed. There was a TV in front of him, and, as he gave a thought as to what programming might be like in the af
terlife, he dozed off.

  A knock came at the door and it roused Amil from the clutches of the sleep imposter that held him. Before he could rise, a stout Latino man with a receding hairline and no left arm stood in the threshold and smiled at his newest guest.

  “Hello,” he said warmly. “I’m Rick Jimenez, but everybody calls me Mr. J,” he explained, through a heavy Spanish accent.

  “I was told that you’re the mayor?”

  “I’m one of ten mayors of The Eternal City. You’re in my jurisdiction, so you get me. I’ll get right to the matter of things. I don’t know what you’ve heard of our city, but it is a haven for the dead. A long time ago, we laid claim to what is surely one of the largest rooms in the mansion. We cleared it of Wastes and built a city. As you might imagine, we have souls from all backgrounds and from all periods of time. Our architecture reflects that, but most of all, this collection of minds has greatly aided the development of our home.”

  “One of the men who led me here, he called himself a Nothing. What did he mean by that?”

  “Ah! Our caste system. At the top are the Ghosts, people like you and me. You see, since we have carried with us all our earthly knowledge, we have the greatest opportunities here. Then there’s the Halfways. Their memories are in pieces. They need some assistance with things, but for the most part, there are tasks that they remember wholly, and so they can be productive very quickly. After them come the Nothings. They arrived in the afterlife like blank slates. They’re overgrown babies who need to relearn even the simplest of tasks. They require a lot of attention and resources, and tend to make up most of our labor force. Sadly, because of their ignorance, most never even make it here. They usually become victims of the lowest class, the Wastes, who are the only class completely devoid of rights,” explained Mr. J with an odd enthusiasm.