by D G Rose
Amy’s eyelids fluttered and opened. “Kiss me.” She said and laid her head to one side. It was so ridiculous I almost laughed, but instead, I kissed her, leaving a long bloody stain on her face, from the blood on my cheek.
Then I heard the horn. “Do you hear that!?” I shouted. “They're coming back! What do we do?”
But Christabel said nothing and in a moment we were surrounded by men on horses and baying hounds. Christabel spoke to one of the men and he gave an order. A man dismounted and took Amy from me, cradling her gently against his chest. I almost resisted, I didn’t want her to die in the arms of a stranger, but I also didn’t want her to die at all and I assumed these men were going to take her to a hospital or something.
The man holding Amy passed her to another rider, who settled her as gently as possible in the saddle in front of him. And Christabel shouted, “Ride to the Tower! Tell Neb it was Astley's Dancers and we follow on foot.” And with a sound of horns and hounds they were off, so fast that they faded from view in seconds.
Christabel came up behind me. “She’ll be Ok. Neb will know what to do. But you…” She shook her head. “You’ll never learn. The simplest lessons seem to escape you. How smart do you have to be to figure out not to leave those you care about alone in dangerous places? It’s not fucking rocket surgery.”
And of course, she was right. This was exactly what I’d done thirty years ago, and if I was being honest, for exactly the same reason. So, I said the only thing possible. “I’ll never learn!? We wouldn’t even be in this stupid place if it wasn’t for you! You drag us into this, with your stupid box and your albatrosses and your monsters and your sex gods and now you want to blame me???? I didn’t volunteer for this! This is your fucking fault!”
And so she said the only thing that could make me feel worse. “You’re right. This was a mistake. I should have known better. It was too dangerous. I’m sorry.” And then she was hugging me and we were both crying.
The stink of Amy’s blood rose up from between our bodies and I pulled back from the hug. The blood, that hadn’t bothered me when I was holding Amy, suddenly repulsed me and I tore my shirt off trying to get it as far away as possible. I must have stood, shirtless, for a few moments before I realized I was shirtless and I bent down to retrieve the shirt. I held it, unwilling to put it back on, just looking at it. I guess I could have just gone shirtless. The caverns were a steady comfortable temperature, but I began to feel embarrassed. What the hell was I doing running around without a shirt?
Christabel rummaged around in her pack and came up with… a shirt! It was almost exactly my size. Which was weird, since Christabel was considerably smaller than me.
“You seem oddly well supplied.” I said as I put on the shirt anyway.
“This ain’t my first rodeo.” She answered. “And you ain’t the first package to lose a shirt.”
We followed the riders. The Wild Hunt, as Christabel told me they were called later when I wouldn’t worry about entrusting Amy to a group with Wild in its title.
Christabel took my hand and we walked. “You know, Miranda didn’t know you very well when you were children. You were twelve and she was eight. You strode across her world like a god. When she talks about you now, it’s with that same sense of awe that all little sisters feel for their big brothers, that can only be destroyed by growing up. But she’s not wrong. You jumped into a fight against the Spirit, to save me. You would have jumped into Astley’s Dancers, if I hadn’t held you back, to save Amy. Miranda never had a chance to get to know you, but I think she’ll be pleasantly surprised if you give her the chance now.” And she gave my hand a squeeze.
I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say. Miranda.
We traveled until we had to stop to eat and rest. We slept side by side, comfortable in our intimacy, newly tempered in the flame of Amy’s blood.
The next morning (or the time after we slept at any rate) we walked for a few hours until we came to a large open area. Flatter than most with lines etched into the gravel and a fire burning in what looked exactly like a 40-gallon steel drum. “What is this?” I asked, ever the wit.
“It’s the parking lot of Hell.” Christabel replied with complete seriousness. And pointing to a mountain visible in the distance – the first sizeable feature I’d seen in this otherwise featureless land, she added, “And that is Hell.”
Since we were heading straight for it, I didn’t want to get into the whole ‘What is Hell doing in the Caverns Measureless to Man and why are we going there?’ thing, so I said, “The trash can fire in the parking lot of Hell seems… I don’t know… Out of place. It’s not really what I think of when I think of late 18th Century – early 19th Century English Romantic poetry. Feels kind of modern.”
Christabel considered for a moment. “Well, there are gods, either real or imagined, who are supposed to be complete in and of themselves. Who are supposed to contain all things within them.” She shook her head. “The Mad Dreamer isn’t like that. The Dreamer is an informational omnivore. He wants, needs, craves, input from without. So, from time to time, people from outside, like you and Amy and even Miranda, are brought in, to fertilize, as it were, the dreams. So, yeah, even though the dominant themes are drawn from the Dreamer’s own consciousness, they can be flavored by the thoughts of others. Who knows where this particular image comes from? Probably not from you or Amy, because it’s been here as long as I can remember, but maybe that’s an illusion, maybe the Dreamer heals over the seams of additions so that we all remember things as having always been that way.” And she pulled me on. On to hell.
CHAPTER 12 - Not some pretty sexless boy.
The parking lot of Hell was both gigantic, as if the management had expected millions to come on family vacations, and empty, as if they had badly miscalculated.
As we walked the mountain slowly resolved itself into a structure. A tower really, impossibly wide and double impossibly tall.
“That’s hell?” I asked her.
She nodded.
“It’s beautiful.” I said.
“I know.” She sighed.
Now, I could see that what I had taken as stars were, in fact, windows, lit from within by a wavering light. Every now and then a window would wink out and, every now and then, a winking out window would be followed by a falling streak of light and a muffled explosion of sparks. Almost like fireworks in reverse.
As we got closer, I could hear the screams. Hear them, feel them, taste them. They sounded like atoms resolving themselves into constituent parts and the constituent parts shredding themselves into holes in the universe. They felt like the death of a lover and they tasted like a knife to the kidneys. I didn’t want to go. But Amy awaited and Christabel insisted and we walked on.
We came to the wall of the tower. It was smooth and featureless and extended overhead into eternity. “The entrance moves around.” Christabel told me. “For protection.”
“For protection from what?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She sounded peevish. “Maybe it’s not for protection. Maybe it’s just to be difficult.”
We walked along the wall until we found the body of an angel. Broken and bleeding and dead. It wasn’t like the angels you see in paintings, not some pretty sexless boy or some fat winged baby. It was… glorious.
It had six wings, covered in feathers of silver that sliced my fingers when I touched them. My blood was a poor thing, ashamed to call itself red compared to the angel’s. Its throat was sapphire blue, stained ruby by the seeping blood and pierced by a crystal bone thrust from the inside out. Its chest lay open, revealing the heart, a diamond crossed with a pearl, more magnificent than either of its ancestors, and forever stilled. It had feet like the claws of a chicken, only red and blue. Holy light and broken teeth spill from a mouth frozen in surprise by the possibility, let alone the fact, of its own death. The light goes out as Christabel reaches down to take its heart. “They bring a good price
in Folkestone.” She explained, shoving it into her pack. I didn’t cry, because what grief could I offer? We walked on.
We camped and walked and camped and walked and camped and walked again before we found the entrance.
The entrance was of a size with its building, disappearing into the darkness above and stretching to the horizon. Christabel found a small door set in the massive gate. There was a bell pull beside the doorway, and Christabel gave it a sharp jerk and we heard a silvery tinkle, laughably small, sound within. Then the door swung slowly open, and we passed through and found ourselves in a high arched room, the walls of which glistened with countless feathers shorn from the corpses of angels.
Before us stood a little man his size offset by the grand scale of everything around us. “What do you wish in the Tower?” He asked.
“We have to see Neb, immediately.” Christabel calmly replied.
The man waved her away. “Not just anybody can demand to see the great Nebuchadnezzar II, Lord Protector of the Tower. Take your foolish errand and go!”
But Christabel leaned down and put her face in front of the little man’s face. “Do you know me?” And the little man gave a start of recognition and ran off, returning some minutes later with two horses and two packs of food and two skins of wine. “My apologies for the delay.” He said with a bow.
Christabel put a foot in the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle. “Come on! We haven’t got all day.”
“I don’t know how to ride.” I admitted.
I could see her inwardly sighing with frustration, then she outwardly sighed with frustration and got down from her horse. “Look, you put your right foot here and your right hand here, then you kind of hop up, bring your left leg over the horse’s ass, over the back of the saddle and sit down.”
I did it just like she said, but I guess I didn’t lift my leg high enough and it hit against the back of the saddle, and it hurt. Then I tried again, lifting my leg higher, but I overswung and I ended up hugging the horse’s neck. The horse was amazingly patient. Christabel figured that was good enough and she gave me a list of instructions about how to make the horse go where I wanted. Every instruction started with “It’s simple.” And ended up not being simple at all. Finally, Christabel decided I’d had enough theory and she mounted her horse again and set off. “Keep up!” she demanded.
I promptly fell off.
Not even bothering to sigh inwardly, she hopped off her horse, gave my horse back to the little man and more or less threw me into her saddle, climbing up after me and took off with nothing more than a shouted: “Hold on!”
And I held on to her with everything in me.
We had entered the Tower in a passageway through the wall, and we rode in that passage, lit only by torches that lined the distant walls. We rode and slept and rode some hours more before we left the passageway and were once again under the open sky. Still, it was darker in the courtyard of the Tower, because we rode in the shadows of the endless walls.
We rode past villages and fields planted with crops and farmhouses, all of them seemingly empty. We didn’t pass a single person.
We rode through a set of inner walls and stopped, at last, in a courtyard surrounding a giant stairway. The stairway was broad enough for a hundred horses to ride abreast, and was twined in a complex pattern with three others of equal size, creating a twisting, branching, winding tree that soared into the heavens.
Here, finally, were people. The plaza surrounding the stairs buzzed with activity.
Christabel dismounted and helped me down just as a man came out of a building nestled under the stairway and wrapped her in a bear hug. This man was almost a giant, close to seven feet tall and broader than anyone I’d ever seen. He wore a small golden circlet on his head and he exuded a sense of otherworldly competence. He looked like someone who could parallel park well.
“Daughter!” He shouted, twirling her around. He set her down and his face turned serious. “Your friend got here just in time. It was touch and go for a while, but she’s out of danger now, if not out of pain. Do you want to see her?”
Christabel nodded. “Papa, this is Nick. He’s Miranda’s brother.” There was something strange about the way she stressed Miranda’s name, but her father turned to me and held out his hand.
“Today we are doubly blessed. My daughter returns and the Famous Nicky, himself, graces my humble tower!”
Famous Nicky? But, of course, he seemed to know Miranda. I took his hand. “Thank you, Lord.”
He laughed and slapped me hard on the back. “None of that Lord stuff. You can call me Neb. Everyone does.”
He led us to one of the buildings under the stairs. There was a woman standing outside the door, looking a little like a guard. Neb introduced us to his wife Amytis. So there were two Amy’s. “You can come in, but she’s still weak. So, just say your hellos and let her rest.” She opened the door and we passed in.
Amy was lying on a soft looking bed and eating soup, while a woman read to her from a book.
I rushed to her side, almost upsetting her soup. I was just so happy to find her alive and recovering.
“How are you?” I asked, taking the bowl from her and holding her hand in mine.
“I feel like my stomach is in open rebellion against my body and my body is seriously considering letting it go.” She laughed and then clutched her stomach in pain.
“I’m just glad you’re getting better.” I told her.
“Oh. Me too. I thought I was a goner for sure. They’ve been great here.”
After telling us all about her ride with the Wild Hunt, Amy (our Amy, my Amy) was tired so we left her to rest.
Neb put his arm around my shoulder. “I bet you’re hungry. If I know my daughter she’s been making you eat nothing but jerky and fungus. Come on and we’ll have a proper feast. It’s not every day my daughter, Christabel, comes to visit. It’s cause enough for a party, even if she is heralded by one of Astley's bloody victims. Ho! Let’s get a feast going!” He shouted and people sprang into motion.
Amytis came up behind us. “Neb, Crystal Ball and Nicky will want to rest and wash first.” She took me by the elbow and led us to a set of adjoining rooms, complete with a set of fancy new clothes on the bed and a tub of steaming water. I washed. I’d almost forgotten how good it felt to be clean. How good it was to finally be rid of that faint whiff of old pee that had been with me from the start. Then rather than dress, I lay down on the bed. I’d, also, almost forgotten how nice a bed feels. And this bed was extra nice. It had a pillow filled with orange blossoms and every movement or adjustment released a refreshing fragrance. I must have slept, because I woke. I dressed and went out into the plaza, hoping to find someone I knew.
I found a crowd gathered in front of the stairs. It reminded me of the crowd back at the circus and, with no Christabel to pull me on I was tempted to stay back, but I pushed my way in anyway. I’m not really sure why. Curiosity, I guess.
Beyond the crowd I saw Christabel and her father, Neb, fighting with swords. Well, it was more like dancing, but with swords. They were astonishing. Twirling and clashing and kicking and punching and falling and getting back up, bloodied but smiling. In some ways it was a remarkably touching moment between a father and daughter, in other ways it looked a lot like abuse. Elder abuse, since it was clear that Neb, for all his greater height and strength, was overmatched.
In the end, Christabel put Neb on the ground, hard with a foot behind his foot and a hit to the head with the hilt of her sword. It was clear he wasn’t getting back up on his own power. The crowd broke into wild applause, and I did too.
Christabel helped her father to his feet. He stood for a few moments shaking his head from side to side. I walked over to him. “You’re incredible, Neb!”
“Eh.” He said, looking like it was a struggle to remember who I was. “She does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.”
From a few yards away. Chris
tabel shouted. “Shakespeare!” Then thought for a second and added. “Well, Shakespeare’s OK.”
Neb was still unsteady on his feet, so I let him lean on me as we walked to his home. I’d barely gotten him settled on a comfortable couch when an earth-shaking horn blew.
CHAPTER 13 - Spoken like a man who’s never had the choice!
Neb pushed himself to his feet. “Well, that was relaxing. Come on Nick. It’s time to earn our bread.” And he went right back outside.
I followed. “Where are we going?”
He seemed fully recovered, striding with easy confidence, shouting for horses and men and supplies. “You heard the horn, didn’t you? Well, that means a king has come! And we’re in the welcoming party! You can ride, can’t you?” He asked as a groom brought up two horses, saddled and loaded with supplies.
“Um. Sure.” I lied, unwilling to admit my shortcomings. A groom helped me up on the horse, I managed to land, more or less, in the center of the saddle, and he handed me the reins. I’d ridden with Christabel for more than a day and I, apparently, had learned something. Neb took off and I followed as best I could.
As we rode Ned, seeing that I was barely holding on, dropped back to give me some pointers. But, soon, I was confident enough to ride with him at the head of our small column.
“Have you ever met a king before?” Neb asked me as I pulled alongside. Then not stopping for me to answer, “They’re all assholes. Every last one of them.”
“Aren’t you a king?” I asked, hesitantly.
“No!” He laughed, a big, loud, friendly sound that set the others to laughing too. “No. I’m no king. I’m just Lord Protector of the Tower. It’s an altogether better thing to be. Mind, I can be a bit of an asshole, but I come by it honestly.”
“Well then, no. I’ve never met a king.” I told him. “Met a few assholes though.”
And he laughed again and slapped me on the shoulder – hard. Did I mention that he was more or less a giant?
