The Burdens

by William Meikle

  The Burdens

  By

  William Meikle

  —Day 1—

  I never expected to wake up with my burdens bearing down on me—but it all happened so fast that I didn't have time to think.

  I came up out of darkness and felt a tug at my clothes, like an insistent cat trying to get my attention. That insistence turned quickly to something more forceful, as if not one, but a score of beasts were pulling at me, intent on ripping me limb from limb. And finally, I got the message. I woke up fully. I had a sword in my hand and something to strike at—black wings, red eyes and claws like iron nails were all that I saw as I hacked and slashed and screamed until the things went away and left me alone.

  As I said, I never expected them. Then again, I never expected to wake up in the first place. I was dead. Flat-lined and gone. The last I'd heard was Annie telling the docs to turn the machines off, and the last I felt was a breath leaving me, like a cool breeze on a shore. I was ready. I closed my eyes.

  I wasn't expecting harps, angels and all that happy shit—I've never been much for the Holy Roller nonsense—be nice or the bad fairy in the sky will punish you wasn't my idea of a moral philosophy. I wasn't expecting to see much of anything. And then I was here—wherever the fuck here is. I woke in a high place, at the topmost point of an ancient tower, a tall spire of black weathered stone that fell away below me in a long dizzy stretch of wall into depths filled with swirling fog. Sometimes the fog shifted enough for me to see the main body of the castle itself, impossibly far below—a sprawling, decayed edifice, seemingly empty of anyone but me; there were no lights, no movement, no sound save the screeching of the Burdens above. Far to my left a mountain range marched across the skyline, tall and snow covered, jagged peaks like spearheads. To my right a sea shimmered like black oil under a pitted yellow moon far too big for the sky.

  And then there are the Burdens; that’s what I've called them, for want of a better name. They're man sized, with wide bat wings ten feet or more across, heads like rodents, and all the charm of an angry polecat. They have no arms, but their feet have an opposable toe that lets them grip at you—one foot holding while the other rakes talons across your flesh—I have three deep welts in my left bicep to show their efficacy. It's just as well I have the sword, for without it I might not have been given time to come fully awake and would have been torn to shreds or tossed, a discarded toy, down into the swirling depths below.

  There's were a dozen or more of them up above me, screeching at me while I stood in an alcove I managed to squeeze into—a modicum of protection, though I suspected it was only the weapon keeping them at bay.

  But that's not the worst thing.

  I recognized these beasts—I used to doodle them on notebooks during dull lessons, as if the act of putting them on paper might free them from the nightmares they gave me several times a week. That had even worked, for a while, and I hadn't thought about them for years. But now, here they were.

  I thought they might have come here with me.

  The Burdens spent hours swooping and screeching, sometimes coming almost within reach of the sword, trying to get at me, but as long as I paid attention and was careful to stay in the alcove I was safe.

  But I could not stay in that spot forever. I started to sidle out, keeping my back to the wall. The first of them came at me almost immediately, but it was as if the sword anticipated the attack—it came up and thrust forward, spearing the beast in the breast and sending it, wailing all the way, down into the foggy deep.

  That made the others wary, and I was able to circumnavigate the parapet around the top of the spire. It was only by pure luck that I found the doorway. I threw myself inside just as the other Burdens launched an attack—luck and the muscles in my arm saved me. My strength does not seem to be fading despite the fact I haven't eaten—or slept—since I got here. I went down several flights of steps and cowered on a small landing, waiting to see what this place would throw at me next.

  The Burdens are still out there, talons like nails on blackboard as they screech on the outer walls, trying to get a foothold.

  It is cold here—almost frigidly so—and the sword is colder still in my hand, although it feels like it had always been there. Its weight and heft are comforting, despite the fact that I rarely hefted anything heavier than a pen for many years, and the only other sword I can remember was wooden, and broke when I smacked Danny Trinder with it—I was ten at the time.

  That sword didn't sing. This one does, a deep drone, like a bass choir that swells occasionally until it fills my head, but is mostly a soothing whisper, something to remind me that I might not be quite alone.

  I've now come down three levels from the parapet—levels in which I've found nothing but dust and cold stone. If there were ever any furnishings or comforts here, they have long since gone—I have a feeling that the turret has sat empty for a long, long time.

  The only light comes from the huge gibbous moon, which has not moved a jot from its position above the black seas—I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore. Things scud intermittently across the yellow surface, things that must be impossibly huge to be seen at this distance. I am just glad they are up there and not here in the turret with me, for the winged rat-things are bad enough.

  One of the Burdens tried to come through a window earlier—it might have managed it too, if the sword hadn't warned me with a pulse of heat in my palm and a swelling chorus of song in my head. I'd been sitting in a corner—feeling sorry for myself mostly—but even above the song I heard it—a rustle of leathery wings brushing against stone coming from the shadows in the chamber to my right. The noises got louder still as I stood, and the sword leapt in my hand, ready for action. The thing was mostly through as I entered the room. It screamed at me, and I smelled its fetid breath—rotten meat and vomit. The sword screamed back, the choir raised in a shout that felt like joy as I stepped forward and brought the weapon round, an overhead swing that felt as natural as breathing. The blade hit where the thing's neck met the bone and sinew that attached its right wing, and kept going down, through rib cage and internals, exiting in a wash of blood and gore at the beast's left hip. It was dead and still even before I finished the swing.

  I wasn't even breathing heavily.

  I kicked at the remains, but it was all just dead meat, and I had no need of it, although it did give off the most awful stench, and it started to bubble and seethe, putrefying at an impossible rate. I left it where it lay, and headed back to the stairs and cleaner air. More of the dead thing's brethren screamed and chattered high above me. I hear them move in the corridor, their winds rustling against the walls, talons scraping on the steps. They are coming after me.

  The only way to go is down.

  —Day 2—

  I have had an audience with the Rat King. I doubt if that's what he calls himself, but he didn't give me his name, so I have made one up—and I think it is apt.

  We met on the stairs—he stood on the landing of the seventh level down, as if he was waiting for me. His wings rustled where the leathery skin brushed the walls, and his thin rat-face widened in a grin full of yellow teeth when he saw me. This one was bigger and older than the other Burdens I have seen—broader across the chest, and gray around the whiskers and eyes. His feet were thicker and broader too, allowing him to stand upright, the outstretched wings helping him to balance. I was not fooled though—there were still talons on those broad toes—inches long, black as jet and razor sharp. He saw me looking and tapped the toes on the ground in a martial drumbeat that rang and echoed in the confines of the landing as he danced a slightly off-balance accompanying jig.

  I only guessed he was a king—a crown of silver, a thin band, intricately carved, sat on top of his head, perched somewh
at precariously between a pair of pink fleshy ears that twitched as he spoke.

  "Well met, my friend," he said. His voice was high pitched and whiny, sounding incongruous, almost comical, coming from such a great barrel of a chest. I nearly laughed, but the sword sent a blast of heat to my palm and the choir sang louder—I got the message—I needed to pay attention.

  "You're no friend of mine," I replied, trying to keep my voice even.

  He laughed—an even higher pitched thing that sounded almost like a scream.

  "Are you sure of that, John?"

  The fact that this thing knew my name made by blood run cold, bringing a harsh cold shower of reality into what I'd been hoping was no more than a fever dream. I had no answer to his question, for in truth, I wasn't sure of anything in this place. The rat king laughed again, and moved to stand directly in my path at the top of the stairs, blocking any passage down.

  "Why are you going that way?" he said. "There is nothing down there for you but sorrow and loss—nothing to find but what you already know, nothing to see but what you've already seen."

  "What choices do I have? Up here there is only stone and dust—that and your kind, trying to kill me."

  He laughed again at that.

  "I will admit, they can be a bit rowdy at times—this place will do that to a man after a while. But I can assure you that it is far better here than the alternative that faces you below."

  "What alternative? Surely anything is better than this bleak emptiness."

  "Where you see bleakness, I see beauty. It depends on your viewpoint," he said, as if we were having a chat over a cup of coffee in a café.

  "I want no part in your kind of beauty," I replied.

  "Be careful what you wish for, John. It is a bad habit to develop." The incongruity of standing here having a conversation with a huge winged rat was not lost on me as he spoke again. "Stay here and you shall have freedom. Go down, and you will have none."

  I showed him the sword. It sent a burst of heat into my hand and the choir sang loud.

  "I don't believe you. I believe this." I shook the sword in his face. "And if you do not stand aside, then I'll show you the depth of that belief."

  My bluster did not seem to intimidate him in the slightest. Once again he laughed, louder this time, setting the stone walls around us ringing. The Burdens in the corridors above us squealed and chittered in seeming agreement.

  "Just remember that I offered," he said. "And that the offer will still stand if you decide to return. Go ask your questions, go find your grail—just don't expect the answer you might expect. I'll be here waiting for you—if you make it. I won't say good luck, for luck has little to do with it here. But go well, John. May all your dreams be pleasant ones."

  And with that enigmatic remark he broke into a waddling run, heading for the nearest window. I didn't have time to raise the sword before he took a headlong dive through the opening and out into open sky. The last I saw of him was as a soaring shadow across the yellow moon, wings wide as he whooped and hollered in the joy of his flight.

  —Day 3—

  The Burdens are at my back now, filling the stairwell with the press of their bodies and the stench of their breath. If the thought of fighting a score and more of them didn't give me pause, the smell certainly did. I can hear them, a floor above, chittering and chattering and laughing, too loud and too long. There has been no further sign of the Rat King, but if these are his subjects then his promises of freedom were strange in the extreme.

  But I cannot give afford them any more consideration. They seem content to block my passage back to the heights, but as I have no intention of going that way, I can safely ignore them. Besides, I have other things to worry about.

  I may not be as alone as I first thought, although whatever is here with me is not anything I can tell as human.

  I first saw it on the twelfth floor of my descent; it seemed to be a tear in the fabric of space, no bigger than a sliver of fingernail. It appeared in the center of the chamber I had just entered. It floated at my eye level and span slowly in a clockwise direction. As I watched it changed shape, settling into a new configuration, a black, somewhat oily in appearance droplet little more than an inch across at the thickest point. It seemed to be held in mid-air by some strange force.

  It looked most like an egg. As I stepped forward a rainbow aura thickened around it, casting the whole chamber in dancing washes of soft colors as it continued to spin.

  The sword hummed, hot in my hand as I moved closer. The egg quivered and pulsed. And now it seemed larger than before. The chamber started to throb, like a heartbeat. The egg pulsed in time. And now it was more than obvious—it was most definitely growing. The sword sent a new flash of heat, like a searing burn in my palm as I lifted the weapon, but before I could strike the egg the throb became a rapid thumping; the chamber shook and trembled. The vibration rattled my teeth and set my guts roiling. A blinding flare of blue blasted all coherent thought from my head. When I recovered enough to look back there was nothing to be seen hanging there but empty space. The black egg was gone as quickly as it had come.

  The Burdens up above shrieked in chorus, but whether it was a laugh or a scream I wasn't able to tell. I also could not tell what had just happened—it ran so contrary to anything in my experience that I had no frame of reference, no way of even starting to make sense of it. I could only head for the stairs, continue my descent, and hope that matters would eventually become clearer.

  Seventeen floors down, with nothing untoward in the last five, and then it happened again. And this time there was a sense of something in development.

  I saw it as I stepped down into a new chamber and walked away from the stairwell.

  Two eggs now hung in the air side by side, just touching, each as black as the other, twin bubbles held in check by the dancing rainbow colors. The whole chamber throbbed like a heartbeat. The eggs pulsed in synchronized agreement and calved.

  Four eggs hung in a tight group, all now pulsing in time with the throb. Colors danced and flowed across the sheer black surface; blues and greens and shimmering silvers that filled the chamber with washes of color. The heartbeat got louder. Soon there were eight, then sixteen.

  I started to back away, back toward the stairs I had come down. The Burdens up above me squealed in delight, anticipating easy prey.

  Thirty-two now, and chamber shimmered with dancing aurora of shimmering lights that pulsed in time with the heartbeat as the eggs calved again, and again, everything careening along in a big happy dance. I stepped forward. The sword screamed as I aimed a blow at the growing mass of eggs. I felt the strike all the way through my upper body, as if I'd just hit a wall. The rainbow aura seemed to breathe in, breathe out, twice. There was a sudden burst of color; red, blue and shimmering silver filled my head with a glare brighter than the brightest sun. I blinked, looked back, and the eggs were gone as quickly as they had come—there was only the empty chamber. But the damage had been done.

  The floor buckled, threatening to throw me to the ground. A crack ran down the far wall from me. A portion of the roof collapsed, a block of stone the size of my head fell to the floor and immediately disintegrated into dust.

  I headed for the stairwell down to the next level. The roof was threatening to come down around me as I threw myself down the stairs. A pall of dust fell behind me from the ruined chamber, but I quickly outran it, heading down at full pelt.

  Even in my haste I smelled it—not the Burdens this time, but something I could recognize, something that gave me a foothold in this place—freshly cut grass, and flowers. The sword sent some soft heat into my palm and the bass choir sang—I almost recognized the tune.

  High above, the Burdens squeal as I go down.

  —Day 4—

  It seems I have descended forever. The last time I looked out from a window I saw nothing but dense swirling fog. My feet pad along, kicking up swirls of previously undisturbed dust. Most of the time the footsteps are the o
nly sounds, although every so often I hear the scratch of talon on stone, reminding me that the Burdens are still there above me, still following.

  I am a dozen levels or more below the room that nearly fell in on me now—I stopped counting a while back—but I can't get the vision of those dancing black eggs from my mind. I am formulating an idea as to what they might be—where I might be. Back when I still worried about things like classes and teaching, I might have asked my students to think of them as soap bubbles. Scientists have conjectured that what we perceived as reality consists of many of them—multiple, maybe even infinite, universes, each in its own bubble, each connected by the thinnest of membranes to many of its neighbors. Quantum foam, if you like. Here, in this place, I preferred to think of them as possibilities—opportunities even. For if I had crossed over to here, where else might I be able to go? Might I even be able to go home if I could but crack open the right egg?

  I am actually looking forward to my next encounter with the phenomenon—I need to study them. More than that, I have found a purpose, and my footsteps in the dust are just that bit quicker and more sure than they were earlier.

  I still have not eaten, not slept. There is some compensation here—as I don't feel in the least bit tired, nor has there been any need to pish or shit, and I can't say as that's not a blessing. I am counting time only in what feels to me like days—there is no demarcation of night and day here, and now that I am in the levels that sit in the fog there is not even the gibbous moon to tell me it might be nighttime.

  There's just the descent, and my footsteps in the dust.

  I go down.

  —Day 6—

  Just when I thought that my sword strike had done for the eggs forever, I had another encounter—and one that has changed the nature of my presence here.