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Haha. Ok. When I read it, I was immediately reminded of the common religious phrase "God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good." I just thought it fitting because of the religious undertone of the story - a bit of a satirical spin on it. It fits, though! Lol.
And yeah, the Sig kind of does, too! :chuckle:
Not to mention I'm a drag queen.Quote:
Originally Posted by Oneironaut
Oh that's not the worst you've gone through silly Omnis! I just read through the last 2 chapters linking up all the subliminal metaphors - how can I put this?Quote:
Originally Posted by Omnis Dei
First (and this one is from before the last 2 chapters of course) your wife (who let's not forget cheated on you with O) symbolically castrated you and turned you into a female (symbolically).
Then, you happily ate the sausage that originally represented O's phallus, which was transferred to me via Zha_Zha. I symbolically ass-raped DeMonica - on a horse (during a symbolic threesome) - but she castrated me, took the phallus for herself, and used it on Xey. And it wasn't only symbolic that she wore it inside her thong and battered him between the cheeks with it all night. (though symbolically it went much - deeper than that :ohyahbaby:)
Then you ate it. And I believe your reaction was "O tastes simply fabulous!" or something to that effect. :cheeky:
Man, that sausage link really got around! :lol:
** edit **'
Wait! After that you threw it in the dirt and ScurvySeaMutt finished it! That thing has seen more action than any of the characters!!
But if it helps - you do seem to be a mind reader, and to understand that we're all just in a story.
.... And don't even get me STARTED on a symbolic reading of O's disemboweling scene! You think getting sliced open and having your intestines hauled out is bad... oh the things Neener did to you subliminally! :lol:
Oh man, I didn't realize this had moved ahead another page - I edited the post just before yours with this:Quote:
Originally Posted by Oneironaut
Quote:
Ok, ya know what? Just because I fail to notice a connection in this doesn't mean it isn't there. I sometimes freak out when I go back and re-read something and find connections and metaphors and symbols that I wasn't aware of putting there. So yeah. Gott ist Gut!
(Whoah! Gut... God is Gut? :cheeky:)
LMAO. Brilliant. :thumbup:Quote:
Originally Posted by Darkmatters
Still loving the story, man! You absolutely have a talent for imagery, and your writing style has a very classic, authentic, light-hearted-folklore type of flair to it (if that makes any sense). I'm actually starting to miss a little more of the dream-like nuances in the tale (although the spider-vision was awesome, and I liked the 'dream within a dream' concept about it). Not to say that the story is getting dull at all (so don't take it that way!), but I'd say the best way I could put it is to compare it to the Matrix and the Matrix Reloaded. I loved Matrix Reloaded, but one main drawback for me was that it lost a lot of that 'tumbling down the rabbit hole' feel to it, that the first one had. I think it's possible to keep that kind of intrigue going - and if anyone can do it, you can - so I just thought I'd throw it out there, as something to think about. :wink:
Keep it up! :cheers:
Quote:
Originally Posted by Oneironaut
You know you're right. I also miss that more surreal dreamlike feel of the early chapters. And it's coming back, I swear it!
Heh, I really did get caught up in plot and character and story details for quite a few chapters didn't I? And... other stuff that was a lot of fun too. :shadewink: :lol: But yeah, I notice I've even gone to the extent now of showing the passage of time by the position of the sun and stuff like that - which is relevant normally but not so much in a story that's a series of dreams!
My excuse is this - you know how some dreams are bizarre and strange, and some are more vivid and realistic? Yeah... that's my excuse! Lol when I think about it, in the beginning I was never going to have an open sky - it was always going to be as if every scene took place in a cavern underground or something (I think I came up with that because of the way the story opened, with going underground through tunnels within tunnels and all).
OK well, basically the long traveling scene is almost over now - just one final short leg left. It's been a nice break, filled with weird sexual romps and comic relief and all, but it's time to get back into it for reals now. And as soon as I finish up my Fruitista Freeze (damn Taco Bell is good!) it's right back to the writing board.
Write on!
Twelve
Nunya
Here turns out to be a bleak rocky coastline or riverbank. The sky has grown so overcast it's like a cloud cover lid has been pulled over everything. Strangely there's no sound or smell of water - only a quiet hissing that's almost a non-sound. Like the background noise of the deep universe from a radio telescope array. Or the ringing quiet inside a grave under 6 feet of cold dirt.
Our words - every sound we make here in fact, seems small and faint, and immediately gets sucked into the hissing background static to disperse as if it never was. This is a place where things come to die, and disappear leaving no trace that they ever existed. And it's damp and cold.
It doesn't seem to be water flowing gently past before us - but rather more of the cloudstuff that chokes the sky overhead. Like a thick gaseous river of it, with here and there a wisp drifting up into the air in slow motion. The clouds - both above and lapping at the rounded stones of the bank, are grey - a dark dirty grey that promises a bad storm about to break.
I can't see across the surface of the river - a massive fogbank drifts several hundred feet offshore - a slowly shifting wall of the same mist that roils in perpetual slow motion above and below.
We unload the animals and set about using the ropes to hang the remaining gear from ourselves - now forced to be our own pack animals. Me and King Diddy get rolled blankets hanging against our lower backs while Xey and DeMonica get a pair of water jugs each hung against their chests from a rope draped around the neck. I almost make a comment about DeMonica having great jugs, but decide against it - the time for such silliness seems to be past now. We're entering a serious place.
We tie the horse's lead to the tail of Zha_Zha's ass, I give it one good farewell smack on the rump and they bolt back along the trail toward home. I'm glad to see them go - this is no place for them. I would hate to think of them lost and forlorn in this eerie netherland of smokes and silences.
We've stopped talking - somehow it's too depressing to hear our voices dissipate hopelessly into the implacable void. Like shouting into a hurricane. Or screaming into a pillow. There's just no point really.
I don't know what we came here for - no-one does except maybe King Diddy, but still no-one ventures a word. Meanings seem unimportant here, questions foolish. Moisture is slowly condensing in our hair, on our skin and clothing, beading up gradually on DeMonica's armor. If we wait here long enough, I feel that we would be dissolved by the mists, become a part of them.
Then a sound begins to emerge. Perhaps the only kind of sound suited to this place, the only kind that could hope to exist here. It's a slow, dreary creaking and groaning as of old wood and worn-out ropes straining.
And the head of a monster slowly emerges from the grey wall of mist before us.
As it drifts toward us I see the long dark neck behind it, gliding irrevocably forward. Some sort of dragon or sea serpent. My emotional responses themselves have become sullenly dampened like everything else here, and so I don't react - simply watch as it crawls slowly toward us. Behind the monstrous head, large as a horse's head or perhaps larger, drifts a smaller one, equally strange and monstrous. A rider perhaps on the back of the beast.
And beside that smaller head, an arm lifts and lowers slowly, repeatedly, endlessly, as implacable as the tide of time itself. As tireless as death.
This wraith-creature slowly emerges from the fog into visibility and I see that it's a robed and cowled figure but with the cowl thrown back to reveal the large and misshapen head - it's human in outline, and holding a long pole or shaft of some kind. In fact I can now discern that the dark figure is standing on the back of a long low boat - a sort of viking longboat with carven dragonhead on the prow. This drifts onward until the boat grounds with a soft hiss on the shore, the dragon head having passed by us at the level of our heads and traveled several meters beyond.
The eerie ferryman unhurriedly lowers a gate of some sort that becomes a ramp up which we walk, and which he then retracts and begins to pole back out toward the heavy fogbank from which the ghostly ship emerged.
The deck is broad and low - level with or even slightly below the slowly roiling gaseous surface and with a very low rail hung with round viking shields along the outside of the boat. The wood is dark - almost black. There's a central mast supporting a large square sail that was once probably red and white striped, but now tattered and half rotted away and mostly a greyish color. It hangs lax - unstirred by slightest breeze, the rigging slack and useless. There are oar holes all along the rails as well, but apparently only poling is needed here. And the grim spectre poles on - standing at the narrowest point of the deck where it merges to form the prow - driving his spectral ship into the solid mass of fog just ahead.
Now that he's poling in the opposite direction the front of the ship has become the back - so he's now standing at the rear driving us forward. Handy how that works. I wonder if there's a dragon-head facing the opposite way on the other end of the ship.
There are benches once used by rowers doubtless long dead. They're recessed slightly below the higher parts of the deck fore and aft. We step down into the rowing pit and seat ourselves a little ways away from the grim figure driving us onward. None of us want to be too near him.
"About this vision you told us about, the spiders merging with humans." King Diddy begins, for once subdued. "I've been thinking about SaffronAxe and her instrument. You say it's called a Discordion?"
"Yeah."
Aboard the boat our voices are somewhat stronger - it seems to provide some measure of protection against the dismal soul-destroying forlornness that saturates the bleak coastline behind us. But our conversation is conducted in a hushed whisper. I'm not sure why - not trying to hide anything from anybody, it just seems appropriate here.
"I'll wager that somehow it disrupts the probability matrix... suspends the normal laws and makes certain improbable things more probable. Perhaps she's able to supply some control by simply the way she plays it, or maybe when she wants a certain outcome she has to imagine it strongly. Or sing it. I have some experience myself with affecting probability matrices through musicianship."
Suddenly he clutches at his midsection - just below the notch in the front of the ribcage, the solar plexus area. I suspect he might be having an attack of some kind. I reach out, take his shoulders in my hands, and I can feel the trembling of his slender frame. I can also feel the suppressed sobs that he's trying to hide. But he keeps his eyes tightly closed and tilts his head down.
"Oh Lucy" he breathes - a tearful lament that he seems unwont to share, but unable to withhold.
Serafiend: WTF did you guys see the posts Darkwampus just made on Do Date Marry? He's really pushing it now - he's messin with our Blueberry!
OldRaspa: Yeh he's a dickhead anyway - always tryin ta hit on Zha_Zha and Doreenema
Raspantlers: Old too! He's so fuckin old!
Neato89: Prolly a chronic wanker -
A^Raspxxor: now he's discovered the internets and he uses it to hit on girls half his age or less
Wirken: Oh HELLS no!!
Blirken: No he did NOT!!!
NoD: There's gonna be hell to pay... tar and feather him
Summerpoison: I miss my Nunyabot - Is she ever coming back?
What the hell!!?? How am I seeing this? It's like the other times - lines of text, but this time there's no context - it's not appearing on the pages of a notebook or a computer monitor or a polished granite wall - just somehow hanging in the air sort of translucently before me.
And I still have my body. Yes, I can move at will. Everything around me is still just as it was - the slow ponderous creaking of the boat, the grey mist sliding slowly past, DeMonica and Xey sitting some distance away talking quietly just as Diddy and I are, with DeMonica short-leashing Zombie_Muffin to keep her from chewing on the rotting black wood of the rail. We haven't seen ScurvySeaMutt since back at the clearing by the way.
King Diddy has been bent double, sobbing in pain as I watched the brief exchange of text. Now he slowly lifts his head, eyes still squeezed shut in pain and hand still clutching his midsection. He opens his eyes with a series of rapid blinks, each slightly more open than the last. And I see a small tear struggling to cling at the bottom of one eye - trembling but refusing to roll down his over-rouged cheek.
"Art - Effects?" He gasps.
"What?"
"Art Effects. I have no idea what it means, but I just saw a beautiful woman - long blonde hair and huge pillowy knockers - and she told me Art Effects. That was all she said."
"Sounds like Reality Babe. She seems to be some sort of guardian angel or fairy godmother figure or something. They really are huge too, aren't they? Personally I prefer them a lot smaller - more than a handful is a waste... "
Diddy stops me short with a raised hand.
"Wait - you've seen her too?"
"Yes... " I tell him about my vision of the lovely angelic woman in Grammy Greta's Coal Cellar. The whole time his eyes are fiercely intense, but faraway. Like he's mulling over some very unexpected and surprising facts that change everything.
"She told you to remember what happened with you and your little sister when you were children - there in the coal cellar? And have you? Remembered?"
"Not really." I say somewhat embarrassedly. "I haven't had much time to think about it - things started getting pretty crazy as soon as I showed up here and it hasn't really let up for an instant. Well, except during that long night ride... " But I had other things on my mind then. Things I don't need to talk about now.
"Well you'd better think about it!" He looks angry - bitchy. Makes me feel like a scolded schoolboy. I start trying to remember.
"What else?" Diddy asks, looking at me sternly, as if I've been hiding important things from him. "Had any other visions you'd like to share with the class?"
So I tell him about the strange apartment with the small dejected man in lederhosen who might have been crying and the gorgeous busty beerhall girl in the Valkyrie helmet sitting before the computer. And the knockworst.
A sudden flurry of movement next to us announces the presence of the spectral figure who was formerly poling our boat - he drops easily onto a bench in front of the one where Diddy and I are seated, facing toward us. His movements are rapid and athletic - belying the slow ponderous nature he demonstrated previously.
He reaches up and grasps his oddly deformed face, pulls it off overhead to reveal it was some kind of helmet or full-head mask. Beneath it is the face of a young man with close-cropped light sandy hair, not at all what I was expecting!
"Yeah this?" He says, holding up the mask that we're both staring at. "Just a mask Xaquathustra made for me. The Mad Philosopher. Helps keep the damn mist off - that's why I wear the robe too - this moisture is murder on the joints!!"
Incredulous glance time for me and Diddy.
"I couldn't help but overhear what you were just talking about - and you said there was an aurora visible outside the window too, right?"
"Erm yeh... "
"Yep!" He smacks a bunched fist into his palm angrily. "It's him. Alex. That's his apartment in Canada. And now I know where the fickle bitch went!"
He stands up and reaches inside his ratty old robe, pulls out a small black iron key with a short thong knotted to it.
"I heard about what happened at the castle yesterday - it's been all over chat all day. Glad you managed to get out and get the King away." He eyes us, weighing the supplies we're carrying and DeMonica's heavily armed and armored state. He seems to come to some conclusion.
"Here. I don't know what you came here for - hell, I don't know why anybody would come here by choice. The reason I took this job is to work off my deep depression over the bitch leaving me. And I never even set foot ashore... no way in hell! I just felt the need to separate myself from the world, and this seemed like the way to do it."
I shudder slightly, thinking about the bleak shore behind and the eerie nature of this whole place.
"But whatever you came here for, you're gonna need a guide. There's no surviving that place without a good guide." He presses the key into my hand.
"Get yourself a chart when you land - then go to where it says Here Be Monsters - directly under where the first S is. You can't miss it. Sweet little girl named Sarah." He's smiling sardonically as he says this. "Careful though, don't cross her. And keep her at arm's length. She bites."
I can't help glancing at Muffin. Could he be talking about another Zombie Girl like her?
"Sorry guys - you're gonna need to find another way off the island too - I just quit!" He throws off the age-blackened robe and mask into the swirling mist beside the boat.
He spins and retrieves the long pole from where he had leaned it against the mast, strides back to his poling post at the prow and angrily jams it back into the mist beyond the rail.
"Where are you going?" I ask stupidly.
"Got places to go and people to beat."
Ha! redisraddish!
I'm putting this here for when you reach this point - you'll get to it in a few minutes at the rate you're going!! I've seen your Likes piling up all night chapter after chapter - looks like you just finished chapter 10...
Glad you're digging the story! :cheeky:
Thirteen
Sarah
"Who was that masked man?" I ask the naked young man with the huge spreading moose antlers sprouting from his head.
His body is covered with short blue fur - white on the underbelly area.
"Nunya" He answers good-naturedly. He seems to be a generally good-natured person. Like a pleasant salesman or greeter.
"No, not Nunya as in Nunya Business, his actual name is Nunya." He chuckles.
Nunya. So that was the programmer who had gone missing - the one who helped set up DV (whatever that is) and without whom they don't think they can restore it. And now he's rapidly poling off for somewhere called Canada (whatever that is).
He had put us ashore before setting off on his revenge quest. Ashore on a savage-looking island, on a small strip of beach surrounded by jagged rocks and steep craggy cliffs. Here as on the far shore, there was a clear stretch before the wall of mist cut off visibility - and here also the river of flowing mist laps the shore, though here it seems more turbulent, less placid.
Where the other shore was bleak and dismal, this one is fierce and - frightening. Hard and rocky. Jagged. I think I already mentioned that. But it bears repeating. The rock is sharp-edged and glassy - it looks volcanic. Here and there are fumaroles spouting black stringy smoke into the sky, where it seems to swirl and mix unevenly with the grey cloud cover.
Scanning across the horizon, I spot dozens of such slender inky columns of black smoke spouting skyward. There's a distinct stench of brimstone and sulphur hanging heavily in the air.
:D Yeah, I started reading and couldn't stop. This is a great story! I'll get almost no sleep before school tomorrow, but you know what? It's well worth it. :thumbup:Quote:
Originally Posted by Darkmatters
Hahaha! Glad I could contribute to your delinquency. I guess... :paranoid:
And thank you! :happyme:
"Welcome to ewg9 jifpbndbibn omqpmmafovuh!" says the naked young man with the broadly spreading moose antlers.
"Erhmmm.... Wha?"
"Welcome to Isla Recidivisme Cacodaemonologia" This time he pronounces it slowly, as if he's talking to slow children.
"... wha... "
"Lol iknowrite? It's a mouthful and that's fer sure! It means the island of recidivistic cacodaemons... or recurrent bad-people. And bad-things!"
We're all still staring at him like idiots.
"You can just call it IRC for short. Everybody does."
I notice DeMonica and Xey are still standing apart talking. DeMonica has Zombie-Muffin by the leash, but now her arm strains, slender muscles flexing, and she's taken up just about all the available slack on the leash - her black-gloved hand clenched mere inches from the collar.
Muffin's mouth is foaming a lot more than before, and she's snapping powerfully at the air all around, tossing her long brown pigtails about and jiggling the big yellow satin bow atop her head. A reminder that, despite the pleasant demeanor of the young furry blue man with the moose antlers and the touristy feel of the stone-and-glass combination souvenir-stand / information station visible just behind him we're on a desperate and dangerous mission and we must not fail or this entire world is surely lost.
"Well come on in for a minute folks - get in out of this heat!" he invites, indicating the tourist station which sits shaded under palm trees that look suspiciously fake and plastic, especially considering the only other trees I spot are scraggy dead black things clinging desperately to the thin sulphurous volcanic soil and are decidedly not palms.
The wide smoked-glass double doors slide open automatically as we step onto the black rubber mat in front of them. It's a good thing they're quite wide and high I think, because otherwise I don't know how our greeter could possibly get in or out - his antlers stand a good 3 feet over his head and extend an impressive 8 feet wide or so. Even when he turns sideways, for instance if he were to try to walk in through a regular door of a regular house, the front-to-back extension of those things is a good 4 feet! I wonder for a moment what kind of house he lives in, and what the entryway looks like. Or the interior doors for that matter!!
Inside it's cooly air-conditioned and modern, with a continuation of the exterior design theme; rough volcanic rock comprising the lower 2 feet of each wall, the rest being polished glass with shiny steel accents and nice stacking plastic chairs and a couple more of the obviously fake plastic palm trees standing in large pots in the corners.
Stacked on the counter are piles of glossy brochures and pamphlets and magazines. And pushed to one side three canisters holding rolled tubes of parchment each secured with a red ribbon and a small wax seal - the canisters are marked S, M and L. He immediately pulls out a parchment scroll from the L canister and uses a letter opener to break the red wax seal and adroitly slides off the ribbon with three or four quick jerks - it's clear he does this all the time.
"Charts are complimentary - that's if you want standard def of course" a quick dismissive wave indicates the S canister. But he's unrolling the parchment, which looks very authentically ancient and tattered and yellowed on the grey-speckled formica counter before us. "These 1080p numbers are really sweet though, most folks shell out for the HD."
He waves a hand like a magician over the surface of the blank parchment and with a quiet ringtone sound it comes alive showing a detailed map that I assume must be the island.
"They're also touch-sensitive! Newest technology." he beams - this is obviously the big selling point. Despite myself I'm oohhing and aahhing and goggling with the rest of them as he demos the functionality.
"Zoom-in, zoom-out, switch between chart, satellite photomap, or actual ground-level side view of any mapped area - with just a touch! Some areas of course are too dangerous to send crews into. Big red dots represent public restroom facilities green dots are pavilions with picnic tables where you can rest in the shade and there are vending machines available. The small blue X represents where you are, and it updates in realtime - 5G GPS. You want to stay on the clearly marked dotted line and whatever you do - and I can't stress this enough folks - don't venture into any area with pulsing orange lettering, like here." He indicates an area marked Here Be Monsters.
"But I'm sure I don't need to tell you folks that right? You look like a smart group." Damn - this asshole is giving us his standard tourist spiel - does he not understand we're here for something a little outside the usual sightseeing tour?
And to make things even worse, just then he reaches down behind the counter and brings out a cheap purple lolipop that he hands to Zombie-Muffin - as if he's unaware that she's snapping and foaming like a rabid dog! But I suppose in his line of work he has to deal with horrible kids all the time, and has learned to act like they're wonderful little angels. Seems to me he's well on his way to a career as a baby-kissing politician. Or a used car salesman.
He beams proudly at Xey and DeMonica, and suddenly I realize - he thinks they're a couple and that the raging growling zombie between them is their child!!!
"How old is the little darling?" He inquires - astoundingly without the slightest hint of insincerity. He reaches forth a manicured hand - my god, he's going to try to pet her on the head!!
"About 12 I'd say, right?"
Muffin's slavering jaws snap shut with a frightening chunk a few centimeters from his finger, flinging foam across the counter and onto his chest.
DeMonica snatches Muffin away with a shocked glare at the poor fool behind the counter just as Xey puts out a hand to restrain the blue-furred one that came so close to losing a finger or two.
"Corblimey mate! She's a motherfuckin Zombie!! An' don't give 'er this garbage, it'll rot 'er teeth!" and he hurls the tiny plastic-wrapped lolipop against the white-furred chest so it bounces off and drops behind the counter with a loud clack onto the linoleum floor.
The young greeter is exceptionally well-trained and well-mannered though, and hardly trembles at all as he wipes off his chest and smiles warmly at them.
Just then a compact young man stands up who had been seated in the small lobby behind us and steps forward to see if his help is needed. Must be a junior employee.
He's short and has thick black hair cut like Moe from the Three Stooges, and his face is very strange - it's not finished. It literally looks like a sculptor was working on it but hadn't got beyond the basic facial structures - shallow depressions for eye sockets, a sort of blobby nose shape, and a slight lemon-wedge swelling for the mouth - but no features. Just all pale pasty flesh.
"This is our junior greeter" the senior greeter introduces him. "He's a bit shy for this job though. Come on out Fore_Skinzie."
And he reaches up under the edge of the thick black bangs and peels down a layer of skin like a tight flesh-colored turtleneck collar that had been pulled all the way up to the hairline covering the youngster's entire face. He's a bright smiling Asian youth, friendly enough once he's been brought out of his soft shell.
"Oh fuck this!" Diddy finally explodes. He had been looking pained and still clutching weakly at his belly the entire time. Now he grabs a scroll from the S canister.
"These are free, right?"
Without waiting for an answer he turns and storms out the double doors, which barely open fast enough to keep him from slamming into them face first.
"I swear last week Rocky and Bullwinkle back there rang me out at the Quickie-Mart and bagged my groceries. We've wasted enough time here."
He slides off the ribbon and breaks the silly wax seal with a fingernail and unrolls the parchment.
"Hah! Well no wonder these are complimentary!"
It's nothing more than printed paper - done on a cheap bubblejet. Tracing the same finger along the tattered and artificially-aged paper, he connects the beach landing and the spot that says Here Be Monsters - our goal.
"Simple enough. Let's go."
He begins to march rapidly toward a narrow pass in the jagged sulphur-yellow cliff face ahead when from it shoots a small dirt bike with shrieking engine spitting a rooster tail of yellow sand. The rider is a skinny young man with a light brown fro and aviator shades who seems to be seated on the handlebars... no, as he draws nearer it becomes clear he's actually attached to the bike - in fact joined at the waist as it were. It's actually an amalgamation - half dirt bike half human, conjoined at the waist like a centaur.
This odd creature loops and spirals crazily in front of the souvenir shop until the young Asian kid addressed as Fore_Skinzie comes running out waving his arms to try to stop him. They're both grinning like fools.
The dirt-bike centaur swerves and showers the Asian kid with a huge rooster tail, pauses right in front of him, and pulls a flopping glistening wet trout from under his blue t shirt that he slaps the kid in the face with. Then he kicks up another tall shower of yellow sand and loops away back toward the narrow trail that he had emerged from, laughing like a maniac. On the sand the trout flops and works its mouth desperately.
The Asian kid thrusts a hand into a crumpled brown paper bag he's carrying and pulls out a handful of fireworks. He drops to one knee and sparks a lighter, fires off a rapid volley of bottlerockets after the speeding creature which begin popping and making little sand-spatters all around the dirt bike.
"You can't escape me Dark_Rasplin!" he shouts, reaching back into the bag for another handful.
But by the time he's ready to light them the odd creature is gone, only muffled sputtering engine noise left in his wake which is rapidly fading beyond the rocky wall ahead.
"Say!" Xey waves at the young man as he's stuffing fireworks back into the bag.
"What's that out there? Looks like a very small island?"
He points toward a little hump of dirt and rock that can be faintly glimpsed a few hundred yards off, half shrouded in the swirling wall of mist that surrounds this place. Just visible on the beach stands a ridiculously skinny pale man with close-cropped orange hair in a short dirty white toga, waving his arms in what I take to be obscene gestures and apparently shouting at the top of his lungs at us, though not a sound reaches. And piled at his feet, tumbling endlessly over each other, several dozen small animals that must be cats.
The little Asian's broad grin fades rapidly and he looks down at the yellow sand underfoot. After a moment he glances up at us guardedly, as if he's about to confide some terribly sad news that must not be repeated.
His slender chest rises and falls once in a dejected sigh before he speaks.
"That's Spayer. Poor man. Delusional they say. He believes he was part of some crazy adventure years ago that changed everything around here, and he lives alone there on his private island with nothing but hundreds of cats - dirty stinking feral beasts they are. Doesn't take care of them properly. A regular hoarder.
"And he dresses them up - sews little costumes for them and puts little wigs on them - pretends they're catgirls... "
For a moment it seems he's going to say more, but his head again falls sadly and he turns and walks back into the shop.
We have to trot a bit to catch King Diddy, still marching doubletime up the narrow trail that winds into the face of the sheer cliff. He seems sullen and angry, and I can tell he's still hurting pretty bad. He seems grimly determined but also desperate.
It takes about 5 minutes of steady upward hiking (very fast hiking) to reach the top of the cliff. Zombie-Muffin, who formerly had to be literally dragged at times or carried is now straining at the leash, ready to keep any forward pace we make and always snapping at the air in front of her and at anything passing by beside us. I don't want to admit it, but it's clear her condition is worsening.
Her stance has become more stiff and unnatural, more zombielike, though at this point she's moving faster than I would expect of a zombie. But her feet rise and fall irregularly, senselessly, as if she no longer feels the ground beneath them and doesn't care if she injures herself. Her slender arms still hang like dead things by her side, swinging and banging like ropes against the flank of a ship. Perhaps worst of all is her face - the eyes are still blank grey-yellow orbs but now the racoon-rings around them are much darker, giving them a hollow dead look they didn't have before. And they're taking on an aggressive look - angry - where as before they were just lifeless and blank. And there's some kind of white puss or something leaking from them occasionally now.
It really breaks my heart to see her becoming like this.
Thankfully she's in front of DeMonica, so I only get occasional glimpses of her, around DeMonica's strong hip or flexing thigh.
That wonderful strong back, against which I slept so recently. It was really only hours ago, and yet it seems everything has changed since then. Muffin is worsening, King Diddy seems to be getting sick, and DeMonica now sticks close by Xey and neither of them have really spoken to me since back at the clearing in the woods.
We emerge from the narrow pass at the top, into a tumbled field of boulders and jagged spars of volcanic rock that resembles some kind of crazy lunar landscape.
Ahead of us lies a jumbled wilderness of tilted broken rock - all of it made of the same sulphurous yellow volcanic material and stinking of smoking brimstone. The narrow channel we're in lets out onto a broad path, flanked by low rope railings strung between wooden posts and paved with blacktop - a smoothly curving path like those at a zoo or park, and under a little pavilion roof a big "you are here" sign showing an enlargement of a section of the chart Diddy now has crumpled in his sweaty fist.
"This way" Diddy asserts, stepping over the rope and striking out into the tumbled smoking wilderness of broken stone. And so we break from the safe trail and set out across uncharted lands and into the stark unknown.
We walk for what seems like hours, picking a way over rough stony ground between monstrous boulders. From countless fumaroles all around rise black inky smokes and horrible stenches that I can't begin to describe. The terrain is steeply hilly and rough, and all around stand monstrous forms suggesting huge crouching beasts or colossal unconscious creatures. When examined more closely though they prove to be of volcanic stone. It would not surprise me one bit however to see one of them break itself loose and go striding gigantically across the landscape.
And there are sounds - eerie unearthly frightening sounds all around. Gobbling screeches and shrieking wails that seem to be welling up from the myriad small caves and tunnels peppering the surface of this hellish netherworld. Some of them seem the predatory cries of monstrous beasts, but most are a chorus of teeming desperate sobs and moans - the desolate wailing of lost souls condemned to eternal suffering. Mostly they're quiet - muffled by distance or because they emerge from the throats of caverns and pits. There is no wind and nothing moves here aside from the slowly winding columns of inky black smokes, but occasionally small black winged creatures of some sort break from cover and go flapping off across the wasteland. We spot circling covens of them wheeling far overhead, patrolling like clutches of vultures watching tirelessly, waiting to feed on the flesh of the dead.
Ever since finding ourselves on that desolate bleak shore where we boarded the ferryboat we've all been stunned into some sort of numbed emotional shock - bled of all feelings and sensations. But that's beginning to abate - partially at least. Unfortunately the only sensations I feel rising up in my breast once again are a dire anxiety and a sort of formless nameless terror. And I find myself longing for the emotionless pall that overtook us there on that misty bank, wishing I could plunge into it once again and strangle this creeping existential dread that's overtaking me.
Diddy has been slowing, has dropped back from the lead to beside me. I fear whatever is eating him up inside has drained his strength significantly. But he leans in to confide in me and I realize he's fallen back deliberately in order to talk.
"Have you noticed the change in our Amazon warrior these last few hours?" He inquires.
I'm watching the way she walks - her tall proud stature and assertive stride have ebbed considerably - her sturdy shoulders slump a little and her eyes swing from side to side, scanning the horizon as if nervous.
Suddenly Diddy stops short, glaring at me as if angry. I stop and look at him, curious as to why. It stuns me completely when he slaps me hard across the face.
"God dammit, this is important! We haven't got time for your petty jealousy! I've seen the way you've been watching her."
No - its not that
"Why did you automatically drop to the back then? To protect our rear? Don't you think she could do a much better job of that? No, it was to watch her. And Xey."
Once more his flat hand smacks against my ringing head.
"Now stop it."
Author's Commentary
This hellish terrain is based mostly on 2 things - and it being 3 days till Halloween, I could not think of a better time to be writing this section of the story!!
First it's based on a walk I took with my dog a couple nights ago. For some reason everything seemed a bit eerie and strange - maybe it's the spirit of Halloween in the air? I think mainly though it was because of the sounds I kept hearing all around - subdued quiet shrieking and screaming and howling. I hope it was people testing out their Haunted House CD's they're planning to use on Halloween! It was also owls - we have Great Horned owls and probably other kinds in the woods around here (and this whole area IS in the woods) and for whatever reason they were going apeshit that night, screeching and shrieking out in the darkness. Very unsettling! And thanks I guess to all that frightening noise, I was seeing strange monstrous forms all around me - which turned out to be trees and bushes and such. But it literally looked like at any moment one of them was going to get up and stride gigantically across the landscape.
One of them looked I shit you not like a gigantic Mr. Snuffluffagus!
And the second influence?
Dante's Inferno.
Some of you may have caught the part I posted briefly last night and then deleted, where we reached the top of the island to peer own into a vast volcanic crater terraced with flat concentric rings separated by sheer cliffs - a design straight from the Inferno with its nine levels of hell descending into the central pit. But it seemed a bit too cliched and too literal, and besides whenever I picture that layout there's something I don't like about it. The idea that every part of the story that follows takes place on one of those concentric rings... no matter how vast he made it sound, somehow I could never help but imagine them standing on a narrow ledge and it drained any sense of scale from the whole thing.
Oh despite what I just wrote I've never actually read any Dante - only vaguely familiar with it from things I've seen here and there. But I hope a little of its flavor still comes through these next parts...
** edit **
After writing this I liked some parts of it enough to go back and add them into the story section above - in particular this line: "It would not surprise me one bit however to see one of them break itself loose and go striding gigantically across the landscape."
Yeah! Kickass stuff! I also added the line about sobbing moaning lost souls - without that it somehow fell short of really feeling like they're in hell. Now I feel like I nailed it!
Also, it's so cool to at last be writing in the Internet Age, when I can use the Google bar to find synonyms and antonyms and research the actual meanings of words without having to bust open dictionaries and thesauri (if that's the plural... too lazy to google it now).
DeMonica is looking back over her shoulder at me - eyes all but unreadable - though I can clearly read contempt in them. And triumph. Just a hint of slightly wicked triumph - she's enjoying seeing this!
Damn... she knew too! Am I the only one who didn't?
"We all know." Diddy sighs exasperated. "Including you. You just refuse to admit to it, even to yourself."
"Do you remember how she was at the clearing in the woods?" he asks.
"Mrrrmmmmm yeh - all lit up. Alive." I still clearly recall the tinkling fairybell sound of her laughter ringing through the glade as she ran nearly naked off to bathe in the waterfall.
"Indeed. She was in her element there. She's a nature spirit - related to the wood nymphs or water sprites. Descended after all from Diana."
"And earlier - back at the Castle... "
"Exactly! She was sullen and morose - depressive. Society dulls her. But this" He glances around at the hellish surroundings "This is far worse. For one of her temperament - this is draining her. Killing her in fact. If she remains here in this terrible place soon all her strength will be gone - all her sanity. She'll never be able to leave again, and she'll remain - like the rest of the poor tortured souls."
The thought is too much to bear.
"It'll drain all of us of course, but her much faster. We must hurry."
And with that he tries to stride forward again with that high-stepping march that forced us all to scramble after him coming up the pass.
But he can't.
Instead he again clutches his belly and lets out a pained groan, and begins to hobble along beside me - clearly hardly able to walk at all now. I wrap one arm around his slender bony chest and help him. Soon he's leaning on me so hard I'm practically carrying him.
"And you - what's wrong with you?" I ask.
"Don't worry about me." He says, trying to manage a sarcastic bark of laughter, but failing miserably. Somehow I knew he wasn't going to tell me.
We break out onto level ground again. For miles we had been slowly descending down a barren rock-strewn slope. But at last before us stretches a level plain. And there are trees here - bare skeletal black things clawing forlornly at the churning smoke-filled sky. As we walk we pass into a thin wood. Like a morbid, mocking reminder of that other wood we had passed through this morning.
Thankfully the sounds of screaming and howling have dropped away behind us - we're entering a dead zone of eerie unnatural silence.
"Almost there now" Diddy remarks weakly, looking at the sweat-stained and crumpled chart. "Just up ahead."
Now a new sound rises up quietly - a soft muffled sobbing.
The voice of a little girl.
Infinitely sad.
We break through into a small clearing - almost perfectly round. At it's very center stands a low rectangular stone dais or altar of some sort.
And chained to it - laying pale and naked atop it - is a 10 year old girl.
roflmao!!!
So. Damn. Perfect! :cackle:
Fourteen
Fiend
Not entirely naked.
Her head is enclosed in a black wire cage - made of thick strands of blacked iron and clamped shut with a hasped collar around her slender neck. This is turn is secured with a heavy padlock and attached to a large ring set in the stone by about a foot of rusty chain.
Draped about her slender loins is a scrap of gauzy sheer white material.
Her little white fingers are locked into the mesh of the head cage, struggling hopelessly against it.
And she sniffles and moans, gripped in abject terror.
Because descending just above the clearing, wheeling against the fog-choked sky, circle 7 or 8 of the small black fliers we've spotted several times already.
They're about the size of hawks or small eagles. The wings are leathery and batlike, and they have long lizardlike tails - thick at the base and tapering to a forked point. They're shrieking and screeching - and I can almost swear I can hear words - shrill harsh croakings malevolently parroting human speech.
The bodies are featherless and actually look human - horrid little homunculi with tiny arms under the wings but legs like those of birds of prey - ending in ragged talons. Their skin is wrinkled and wattled like that of the elderly or diseased, and from their bony chests hang long pendulous breasts like those of wretched old hags. But the heads are those of vultures - naked and featherless.
"Harpies!' gasps King Diddy, leaning hard against me. The others are still moving through the skeletal wood behind us, having dropped back a while ago for Xey to adjust the water bottles hanging and banging against DeMonica's sleek breastplate.
The filthy black things circle and dart, dropping down to rake at the poor pale girl with vicious talons and continually barraging her with an unending stream of invective littered with curses and foul language.
One drops with a fleshy thump onto the stone of the dais. The tiny girl's pale body takes up less than a third of its length. Then another and another drop... they're slowly approaching her, sharp-beaked heads bobbing and darting at her little defenseless body. She flails and kicks her tiny little white legs at them, knocks one off the sacrificial altar but one darts in with a flick of its surprisingly supple neck and slices a long tear into her side just beneath the ribs.
The beak must be razor-sharp - it makes a very clean cut and no blood is visible yet. With another flick too rapid for the eye to follow the hooked beak buries itself inside her shuddering flesh and emerges, dragging out a scrap of purplish meat that I realize with horror must be her liver!!
All in a rush the rest of the creatures pile onto the stone platform squawking and cussing and fight for the bit of meat - ripping it into tatters and scraps that they devour greedily in an instant.
I drop Diddy and run heedless toward the nightmarish spectacle - waving my arms and shouting in a feeble attempt to scatter the horrible little creatures.
They laugh, with a cackling mocking sound that chills the blood, curse me roundly, and merely loop up momentarily into the air over my head to drop back behind me and continue their gory feast.
Just then I hear a faint sound from behind Diddy and in seconds all the horrid birds flop to the ground, tails lashing, dying, shrieking and cursing horribly, each pierced with stunning precision directly through the chest by one of DeMonica's thick arrows.
Some part of my stunned mind realizes how fortunate I am that none of the arrows found me, standing right in the middle of the leaping tumbling flock.
I drop to my knee beside the poor struggling girl, gripping her side in agony and hissing through clenched teeth. I pull out the little black iron key from my pocket, fumble it into the lock and release her from the horrible bondage that was obviously meant to sacrifice her to those nasty filthy things, some of which still struggle and cough out black blood in the dirt.
The helmet of black iron wire hinges open and I set it on the stone beside me, lay a hand gently on the poor little girl's pale forehead, not knowing what else I could possibly do. The others draw in close around the dais and stand watching.
Suddenly with a quick contemptuous move her little arm flashes up and knocks mine aside. She sits up rapidly, as if there's no pain, jumps lightly to the ground, and steps to one of the struggling trembling little beasts. She bends and scoops it up, lifts it up before her face, and smiles wickedly before biting a big ragged chunk out of it's scrawny side.
I shrink back in horror!
What have we done? What have we saved? Did we kill the wrong ones?
This is no ordinary little girl.