1 – A Catch
Cross lay helplessly upon the altar, the cold of the crystal beneath him seeping into his ruach. His mind raced with thoughts of a last-second rescue and escape, but they faded until…
A resounding boom clattered through the atmosphere, reverberating against the ancient walls of the majestic temple as if it were a conscious entity, a warning from some incoming deity.
The macuahuitl dropped to the altar next to Cross. A jagged hole pierced through its center, dripping the black ichor of some poor soul.
Cross ran a finger across his neck, feeling for a torn astral surface. The sinew of his neck had been spared. However, the shackles still bound his wrists with their gleaming metal links.
The ash remains of a blighted spirit lay crumbling around the rooftop, seeping away like a foggy memory of an almost-forgotten nightmare.
Ferocious cries rose from the courtyard below like an inferno of insanity. Some voices simmered with animosity, and others writhed with malice. Each blazed with agitation or twisted with hatred toward Cross.
Cross dared not flinch in the face of such fury. He casually shrugged, mocking their anger with his indifference while concealing any outward emotion of awe at his escape. An inner strength surged through him, giving him the confidence and assurance that nothing could divert him from his destiny.
Four deranged jackal men swarmed around Cross, brandishing sickle swords and spears, their muzzles contorted with a maddening rage.
Cross seized the macuahuitl’s hilt and launched from the crystalline altar onto the scorching stones of the temple’s rooftop. He armed his macuahuitl with an ironclad stance as he sized up each attacker.
The mongrels stepped back and paused briefly before bringing forth their onslaught.
Cross dodged out of range of their thrusting spears and weaved away from every merciless slice of their sickle swords. But no matter how much he evaded them, they kept coming—unyielding and resolute about burning him.
The Raven’s rope dart bolted from the heavens like lightning, striking two canine hybrids simultaneously. As they writhed in agony, the blight consumed their fur in a macabre dance.
The last two mutts roared and moved towards the Raven with feral ferocity, primed for battle. She flapped her wings furiously as they advanced.
Cross shouldered through the mongrels. They toppled off the rooftop and tumpled into the gathered crowd below.
Cross hastened toward the ramp leading off the rooftop, only to find himself face-to-face with several jackal men climbing up to meet him.
The Raven, her wings beating fiercely against the suppressing heat of the blazing sky, extended her arms toward Cross. Her eyes ignited with a fiery passion, looking like some angel of death beckoning him toward an unknown destination.
“Jump!” she said. “I’ll catch you.”
Cross raced toward the precipice of the rooftop. His boots struck the aged stones as he surged forward. He did not bother to spare a glance, compelled only by his desire for freedom, as he launched himself from the edge of the building, leaving his pursuers behind.
A spear sang through the air, missed Cross’s skull, and sailed toward the Raven, his savior.
With one quick shift, the Raven flew out of its trajectory and vanquished Cross’s only avenue of escape from the temple grounds.
Cross hurled toward the courtyard below with no means to break his fall. But then a force tugged on the back of his shirt and jerked him upward just before he hit the ground.
He glanced up at his guardian angel’s ebony wings battering the balmy air currents, knowing that she—the Raven—had saved him yet again.
They swept above the temple walls until they reached Gimlet, Cross’s loyal cornurus companion, beyond the gates.
As the Raven lowered him onto the sand dunes, the shackles at his wrists clanked.
Cross sliced his macuahuitl at the Raven, enraged by her delay in rescuing him.
But she evaded his strike without getting so much as a single nick from its sharp blade—after all, he never intended to draw ichor or inflict any actual harm on her.
“Such gratitude.” The Raven unfurled her midnight feathers and descended onto Gimlet’s saddle, each calculated motion declaring her dominance. “Are you coming?”
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Cross swung onto Gimlet’s saddle.
The cornurus roared and leaped into action as the jackal men pursued them on all fours like bloodhounds but built like men.
The Raven retaliated, her rope dart crackling with electricity as it spun and whistled through the air. It crafted a ballet of destruction, each movement smiting every jackal who thought to hinder their progress in a blinding burst of light.
2 – The River Nun
During most waking periods, the smoldering skies crackled gently like the warm embers of a full-bellied hearth on a blessed Christmas morning. But that day, it roiled and screeched with an orchestral vengeance that shook the earth beneath Cross’s feet. Brilliant light flashes cascaded through the canopy, sending shockwaves that echoed to infinity in all directions.
A black sun descended from the ashen clouds, reigning unchanged against the inferno-orange horizon, unfaltering in its gaze, never dozing, heeding not the forces of time.
The trio trudged southward, away from the looming eclipse, and not far beyond the borders of Amenthes, they came across a river.
In place of water, the current pulsed with an ethereal glow of blue liquid as if lit from within its depths. Its quality was ordinary and unexceptional by the Underworld’s standards, making it stand out oddly among the unnatural and surrealistic rivers he had faced.
Undeterred by its luminescence rising to Gimlet’s neckline and the ebb and flow of strange energy, the trio forded the current and trekked through its vastness with relative ease.
Not long after crossing the river, they weaved through a stretch of shadowy, spectral figures. Even in the firelight, their indistinct forms were perceptible—eerie, yet strangely tranquil. The hallowed mist haunting the land wandered around the trio, but none stirred any bothersome desire.
Soon, yet another river snaked before them, a glistening ribbon of silver and an impassable monstrosity.
As Gimlet came to a halt, a peculiar chorus arose from the depths of the river bed. It sounded like tortured souls sang in unison, murmuring and wailing forlornly. Their pitiful cries seemed trapped beneath the shimmering surface, never to be set free. And as if alarmed by the trios’ presence at its bank, the river’s silver surface rippled with unrest.
Gimlet reared as eerie shapes churned beneath the murky depths.
“I think I’m with Gimlet on this one,” Cross said. “I don’t think we should go in there. Let’s find a way around it.”
“We can’t,” the Raven said. “This is the River Nun. The only way around it is to go back the way we came.”
“Well, before we go in, cut these chains off.” Cross clenched his bonds in his fists and laid his chafed wrists across each of the Raven’s shoulders.
He noticed the weight of his shackles as the metal links of his constraints clinked at her delicate collarbone, a reminder of the darkness that had encircled him for so long. He considered tightening the bonds around the Raven’s throat and strangling the afterlife out of her.
“Just sit back.” The Raven slowly raised Cross’s arms from her shoulders and leaned forward.
She delicately stroked Gimlet’s horn like Cross had done to calm the beast. But the Raven could never have the same effect as him when managing this wild creature.
Sure enough, Gimlet rejected the Raven’s bid for affection and grew more restless with each grunt and backward step she took away from the river’s edge.
Cross chuckled, amused by the Raven’s feeble attempts to take control. He shoved the Raven aside, her ebony feathers billowing in protest, and he stroked his calloused hands tenderly along Gimlet’s horn, calming its wild spirit until she bowed in tranquil surrender.
“It’s alright, Gimlet,” he said. “The Raven is the boss. If she says we go through, we go through.”
Gimlet propelled them into the tumultuous river of chaos, and they trudged through its churning eddies of spiritual refuse.
Phantasmal arms dragged them beneath the sheen of the mercurial fluid. They sank.
Above them, a discordant symphony of spectral cries echoed from all directions—wispy apparitions careened around them but never ventured beyond the gossamer confines of their riverbed.
Cross closed his mouth and held his breath, fearing these spectral apparitions would climb into his being and contaminate his nephesh.
A chill rushed through him as he considered what they could mean for his fate, and a fear of the unknown seeped deeper into his ruach with every moment he lingered.
Whispers tangled in Cross’s ears, murmuring incoherent babblings—a riot of voices too chaotic for him to discern one from another. It was impossible to hear anything at all.
The Raven faded away from Cross’s view.
Gimlet vanished from beneath him.
In an instant, Cross was alone, adrift in a vast abyss of sinister shadows.
His wrist shackles weighed him down like an anchor, hastening his travels deeper into the depths. He descended further and further until he touched the unknown horrors that dwelled below.
An oppressive weight descended upon Cross’s neck. The Raven’s boots hung at his chest.
He followed the legs up and discovered the Raven perched atop his shoulders. His head was between her legs as she gazed down, her expression mirroring his confusion.
Cross’s gaze ascended further to find Gimlet, now riding on the Raven’s neck as he carried them both.
He parted his lips to speak, but all that emerged were muted grunts, like those of a cornurus. His words had been robbed from him; instead, his deep baritone came out of the Raven’s mouth.
“What the hell is going on?” Cross said through the Raven’s lips.
“I don’t know,” the Raven said through Gimlet’s wide mouth. “Just hold on.”
Cross’s digits itched with a desperate yearning. With trepidation, he extended his hands and encountered succulent sausages sprouting from his palms in place of his fingers.
Despite his awareness of the river’s insidious sorcery at work, satiating his rumbling belly overruled logical reasoning. Sausages had been an elusive delicacy since his death. He could not deny the urge to sink his teeth into the tantalizing morsels. He bit down with hunger.
“Ow!” The Raven’s voice shot out of Gimlet’s mouth.
The Raven recoiled in anguish, her hand shaking as if Cross had inflicted his teeth upon her digits instead of his own.
“Idiot!” Cross said through the Raven.
Cross recoiled, stunned by the strangeness of the Raven having dubbed him an idiot with his voice instead of hers.
Somehow, the cryptic river had caused them to swap voices.
Dissonance resounded within Cross’s being as foul and maniacal thoughts invaded his bewildered mind.
His urge to take a knife to his tongue and place it in his ear to hear its sound in another’s voice seemed like an ill-conceived endeavor, yet he felt compelled to take action, so with the Raven’s hand, he struck himself across the face to wake himself from this bizarre reverie.
Then, just as swiftly, Gimlet pulled them back into reality, and the spiritual sludge receded into the depths of the River Nun, its howling dirge reverberating in Cross’s mind as they rode away.
Neither he nor the Raven dared speak of what occurred in the river’s depths, silently consenting never to discuss the events that happened to them; they accepted it as something too mysterious ever to understand fully. With one last fleeting glance at the turbulent waters, they galloped away on Gimlet’s back to their unknown fate.
3 – Draggles
Gimlet raced through the uncharted for hours until the Raven reined her in on the far edges of Duat, just outside Neter-Khertet.
Stretching out for miles before them stood the colossal remnants of crumbled gates that had once barricaded the realms from one another.
Ahead, a mysterious barrier stood erect between the realms, dividing Duat and Sheol. An ever-shifting veil of haze formed an intangible yet insurmountable wall, a definitive line that promised no escape for those who crossed it. Its infinite presence extended into the searing sky and pierced through the burning flames, solidifying its invincible might. And the blurry atmosphere blanketed the landscape of Sheol like a mirage, creating an illusion that no one could look beyond or around.
The Raven’s disheveled, ratty feathers swept across Cross’s face as she inclined her head back towards Amenthes. She appeared deep in a trance, her eyes firmly shut, and her head tilted towards the ground as if she was attuned to some far-off sound beyond what Cross could perceive.
“We’re being followed,” the Raven said.
An eerie calm and silence hung in the air as Cross looked out. The only sounds were the gusts of wind blowing grains of sand into his face, the crackling roar of the flaming sky, and the faint cries of barbots hidden in the black clouds. Their calls echoed off the desolation, its emptiness broken only by the presence of Cross, Gimlet, and the Raven.
Cross squinted across the scorching, barren landscape, searching for any sign of life. Yet, only dried, cracked earth stretched before them, jagged rocks scattered across the landscape and a dusty haze hung over the parched red dunes in the distance. Heat waves shimmered on the horizon, and the infernos lashed down relentlessly in a cascade of red and orange hues.
“I don’t see anyone,” Cross said.
“Obviously, they don’t aspire to be seen,” the Raven said.
“Which direction?” Cross plucked his macuahuitl from its holster on his thigh with grim determination. He hefted the blade in both hands despite his chain-linked wrists, exuding pure confidence even as a great unknown sought to unearth itself before him. “Is it those mongrels again? Squals?”
“No,” the Raven said. “Something else.”
“What?” he said.
“Not sure,” she said. “They’ve been on our tail since Xibalbá. At least five of them. I tried to catch them when we were in the Viņsaule canyons, but they kept escaping.”
“What do they look like?” he asked.
“I can never get a good look,” she said. “They’re too fast. Every time I follow their tracks, they seem to disappear all wispy-like.”
“The Rudimen?”
“It’s not them either.”
“Then it must be the draggles.”
“Draggles?” she said. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“That’s because I made up that name,” he said. “I don’t know what they are. I’ve never seen them. But if it’s the draggles, don’t worry about them.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“Because they’re not following us,” Cross said. “They’re following me.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since before I met you.”
“You should have told me.”
“You’re not particularly chatty.”
“Well, now you have my ears,” she said. “Why are they following you?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” he said. “But I can never get close enough to ask. It’s almost like they’re more afraid of me than I ever was of them. So, I don’t think they’ll bother us.”
“You don’t know for sure.”
“All I know is,” he said, “they’ve been following me for a very long time. Probably longer than I’ve been aware of them. So, if they wanted to burn me, they could have done so dozens of times, and there would have been nothing I could have done about it. The fact that I’m still among the damned tells me they’re harmless.”
“Even if they’re not aggressors,” she said, “they could be scouts for someone else or even agents of the Master himself. At the very least, they’re a liability.”
“You’re the liability.” Cross thrust his arm against the Raven’s back, rumpling her wings with unrestrained ferocity. “You and Ropey.”
“Ropey?” she said. “You gave my rope dart one of your stupid nicknames?”
“I have a bone to pick with you two,” he said. “I wanna know what happened back there in Amenthes. I was this close to losing my head to my own blade.” His hands tightened around the smooth wooden hilt of the macuahuitl.
The sharp obsidian blades glinted in the flickering light of the torched sky.
“When we swindled the squals,” the Raven said, “I had to wait for you to get close enough to me to toss you the blade so you could protect yourself. This time, I figured I’d put the macuahuitl a bit closer to you early on. And it worked.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he said. “I already guessed that was your plan. I wanna know what took you so long.”
“Oh, that,” she said. “I ran into an old friend and lost track of time. But you’re still all in one piece.”
Cross’s fingertips dug deep into her ragged and tattered plumage, clenching her to him with a violent tug that sent a rending tear echoing around them.
He could sense her slight frame rise and fall rhythmically beneath his touch, his grip intensifying with each inhale she took.
“I told you,” he whispered in her ear. “Nobody’s late when my neck’s on the line! I felt the blight crawling up my back. You know what that’s like?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” she said.
“You better hope you never do. When the blight bites your ass, it really sinks its fangs.”
Cross slowly unraveled his clasp, relinquishing his grasp with a ghostly aura of warmth that lingered on his fingertips as he withdrew them from the Raven’s feathers.
A gentle whisper circulated as loose plumes floated away like a flurry of snowflakes drifting from a barren tree.
“You’re right,” the Raven said. “Thirteen is a sacred number.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cross said.
“I don’t think you’ll ever be worth more than thirteen objects,” she said. “And too many spirits know about you now. More and more of them will come for your head, and one of these days, they’re gonna get it, even if they have to go through me.”
“What are you saying?” Cross asked.
“I’m saying, let’s not both lose our heads.” The Raven’s wings thundered through the air like a turbulent hurricane.
With one savage flap, they struck Cross off the saddle and cast him into the coarse grains of sand.
His macuahuitl flung from his hands with such force that it sailed several feet away, spinning and slicing the air with its deadly edges.
“I’ll hold on to my objects,” the Raven said atop Gimlet’s saddle, “and you can keep whatever it is you already have, especially that macuahuitl, in case you decide to fall on it.”
“You filthy, double-crossing bitch!” Cross crawled through the course, granular sand, to reclaim his macuahuitl. He lunged forward, finally grasping it. “I should have strangled you when I—”
The Raven’s bewitched rope dart slithered its head towards Cross, daring him to complete his threat before it impaled itself through his very essence. The dart’s glimmering sheen sparkled with an arcane vitality, its frigid metal exuding an uncanny chill as it swayed from side to side, scrutinizing Cross with the focus of a thousand watchful eyes.
“Paradise lies in that direction,” the Raven said, her weathered top hat tilted eastward beyond the wan veil. “But you’ll have to brave Sheol. If luck is on your side, it may take nine periods of sleep to reach.”
“Or eternity,” he said. “They say people go in that desert and never return.”
“Then you can be sure no one will ever have access to your memories. That’s what you wanted, right?”
The rope dart weaved itself around Cross, its thick and weighty coils forming a frigid and unyielding prison around him. Its coarse fibers dug into his astral surface as it coiled and fastened itself to his ruach. The braid of knots tightened with each labored breath he took, suffocating his ruach until he could no longer shift.
“You best watch your back,” Cross said. “I don’t care how far away you are; I’ll find you. I’ll hunt you to every plane of existence.”
“Promise?” The Raven’s dark eyes gleamed with sinister amusement as she glared down upon Cross. She appeared to be gloating almost, reveling in her control over him. “I like being found,“ she said. “But you gotta lose me to find me.”
The rope hoisted Cross off the ground with overwhelming might, propelling him into the fiery heavens like a leaf in a gusty gale.
“You can’t do this, Raven!” Cross thrashed and kicked, his limbs contorting to free himself from the rope dart’s unforgiving grasp.
His muscles strained. Every sinew of his being protested against the binds that held him in check. Every strand of the rope cleaved through his astral surface like a serrated blade, shattering his resolve with every lurching jerk.
“You soiled dove!” he said. “If I ever catch you, I’ll pluck all your filthy feathers off and skin you alive, you rotten snatch! I’ll rip your wings off, fry them in the pits of Hell, and feed them to the hellhounds!”
“I sure am going to miss your vivid imagination,” the Raven said.
“I’ll be seeing you and Ropey soon,” he said. “Very soon, you filthy split!”
“So long, Cross.”
The rope unraveled like a whip, propelling Cross away from it with a dizzying spin.
A flurry of wind brushed past his cheeks, and he plummeted into the sandy ground below with an earth-shattering splash.
He rose, and in an instant, Gimlet and the Raven had dissipated into nothingness.
In truth, it was he who had faded from their sight. As if a curtain had been drawn between him and them, the arcane sorcery of Sheol rendered him invisible to anything beyond its veil. The Raven could be standing on the brink of the realm directly in front of him, yet he’d never have a clue, for it was a wretched sorcery that only allowed those inside to see out, not vice versa.
An endless vista of golden sand sprawled beyond him—a never-ending sea of featureless terrain stretched far beyond eternity. The air lay still and silent, an eeriness undisturbed for ages. Grains creaked as they shifted beneath him, scratching his boots like whispers hidden beneath the dust. The horizon shimmered in the scorching heat while dark clouds rolled in from miles away. Fiery tongues lapped at the sand, illuminating its infinite expanse but providing little in the way of landmarks besides its own twinkling reflection. No matter where his gaze roamed, he could only make out an uninterrupted stretch of sand and the flaming sky.
4 – Sheol
Cross wedged the macuahuitl between his knotted knees and rasped the cuffs across its razor-sharp obsidian blades. After what felt like an age, he finally severed his bonds. However, the effort left him depleted, exacerbated by the infernal heat.
The torridity was typical for the Underworld, except Sheol reigned as the most scorching realm he had ever encountered. The land blazed hotter than a brothel on nickel night. There was no reprieve from suffering as each inspired gasp of air merely disappeared into the furnace’s atmosphere.
Cross prayed that the Great Goddess would help him break free before he remembered Cottontail was more likely to overhear his supplication than Magna Mater.
He could not fail her; he refused to surrender his promise. He intended to keep it, no matter what. Though he understood the Great Goddess might not help him, Cross was sure she hadn’t trapped him within this realm without believing he could conquer it and protect Cottontail.
His old friend Sinuhe often reminded him that the Underworld had a curious way of tormenting a soul emotionally as much as physically, and its Master only relinquished the hold it had on a soul when he finished with them. If the Master declined to burn a soul, they wouldn’t burn; if he wanted them out, they were let out. But he never divulged the hour, location, or true motivations. His interests were as elusive as a wisp of smoke, just out of reach.
But Cross declared his own terms. If the Underworld and its Master never rested, neither would he. If the Underworld and its Master never cooled down, neither would he. He vowed to beat them at their own game.
Cross struggled to his feet, summoning every ounce of grit he could muster. Despite his exhaustion and weariness, he staggered through the desert beneath the sweltering, fiery sky.
One foot at a time. Hour after hour. Left, right, march like a soldier. He’d find a way out, even if it took him a thousand years. He had always persevered when others despaired. He had endured while all around him perished. That would never change.
An old spiritual his mother had taught him centuries ago back at the plantation came to mind: “Motherless Child.” That song had been his anchor throughout so much hardship and pain in life … and afterlife. More than anything else, it gave him the strength to carry on.
He hummed it to himself, and the song held his essence aloft and kept him proactive as he stumbled over dune after dune, only to confront yet more of the ceaseless sea of dust.
5 – Mama
Heat seared Cross’s neck like the claws of a vengeful devil digging in, and his knees buckled beneath him.
Curses escaped his lips as he unleashed an agonizing roar of anger toward the fiery heavens as if to challenge them.
In retaliation, dark clouds rained down hot, red liquid that stained his astral sruface and clothes with the blood of life, seemingly mocking him for what he had lost and emphasizing his perdition.
In acceptance and defiance, Cross spread his arms wide, extending out his tongue to welcome the drops of crimson liquid pouring onto him, savoring its disgusting copper-like taste and laughing maniacally into the abyss.
“Keep it coming!” Cross hollered against the clouds as laughter rumbled through him. “You ain’t so tough!”
The shimmering outline of his mother coalesced from the ether into a tangible figure—a woman clothed in the sun, full of grace, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve celestial bodies on her head. Her spirit was as perfect as a sculpted statue, glimmering with an eerie luminescence that was equal parts captivating and unnerving. She radiated an inherent brilliance more resplendent than any spirit he had ever encountered in the Underworld as if she were an emissary sent from Heaven.
The crimson rain intensified, the large drops hammering down on him, coating his garments in a thick veneer of sticky, rust-hued liquid.
But miraculously, the downpour parted around his mother’s holy halo like the Red Sea, as if she existed only in a dream of an aspirational reunion. Her transcendent grace was something too timeless for the Underworld to stain.
Her sacred light set the depths of Cross’s nephesh ablaze, and without ever having to touch her physically, her love held him close—swaddling him in its warm embrace—as she used to when he was a child, a love that transcended all dimensions of reality. It cascaded around him like rays of sunlight and embraced every aspect of his being. Her tranquility settled into his core and tamed his beastly spirit, calming it with the same serenity he had felt in Paradise before its gates were shuttered behind his back.
But the Master lies. The Underworld was false. And Cross was now baptized in its blood.
He’d not encountered a single soul from his former life since his death, and he had stopped praying to reunite with loved ones after spirits used those appeals against him. In the Underworld, such deceptions were all too familiar—evil entities masquerading as beloved figures or enemies cloaked as cherished friends. Seeing his mother in this place of all places had to be some sadistic trick employed by the Underworld. It was a wretched ruse, an insidious jest meant to buoy him only to trample his hopes beneath their heels.
Yet no matter how much of an illusion this must indeed have been, seeing her again after all these years felt like a balm on his broken heart. But as much as it tugged at his heartstrings and instilled a desperate wish that the apparition before him was his mother, he could not surrender to her presence; he loathed the Underworld for its vile deception.
“My apologies for the rain.” Her words echoed with celestial eloquence, like it emenated from beyond the stars.
The sky’s embers crackled like glimmering cymbals in a heavenly composition. Ebony plumes of smoke filled the air with holy incense. The desert sands rang with an ethereal chime, and the consecrated blood rained down in glorious harmony like a choir of respect for the words she shared.
“I’m soaked in blood right now because of you?” Cross asked.
“Inadvertently,” she said. “The Master is impotent to assail me, so he’s venting his vexation upon you. I simply express my regrets on his behalf.”
Cross’s suspicions of her presence blazed to life as soon as she spoke of the Master.
He ran the obsidian blades of his macuahuitl along the tender astral surface of his own throat, daring her to challenge him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Let’s see if you can get my memories before I spill them onto the bloody sand.”
“You can’t, Charles.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said. “And I’ll do whatever the hell I please.”
“I’m not implying you won’t succeed,” she said. “You can very well blight your soul if you choose to do so. But that would surely bring down the wrath of your father, who has boasted of high expectations for you. It would be enough to scuttle any hope of achieving what he has planned for you.”
The disclosure of his alleged father’s ambitions sparked intrigue.
Cross eased the macuahuitl away from his neck with aching deliberation, but did not sheathe it back into its makeshift holster wound around his leg.
“What business does the Master have with my father?” he asked.
“The two of them never truly got along,” she said. “Their relationship is an enduring and arduous tapestry of pain and heartache.”
“But you told me I ain’t got no daddy,” he said, the words coming out as if they were being dragged by an anchor from his soul.
“I said you were immaculately conceived. That means—”
“I know what it means,” he said. “I just always assumed you told me that because you either didn’t know who he was or maybe you knew him and were ashamed of him.”
His mother’s eyes twinkled with elation, and her face reflected her inner joy. A brilliant light emanated from her face, and her lips curled into an ethereal smile, like she had been born anew, young and vibrant as the start of a new year. A halo of scintillating white light burst from the top of her head, outshining the flames in the sky and growing brighter and brighter until it enveloped her entire figure and was the most brilliant thing in all creation.
“I am madly and crazily in love with Him and take tremendous pride in being his maiden.” Her voice reverberated throughout the Underworld like a chorus of angelic arias. Each syllable carried a gentle breeze of ethereal melody that filled every corner and crevice of Sheol with its celestial song of echoing beauty. “Thou who art united to Him, become one ruach with him. He who upholds the universe, within whom and through whom are all things. To Him belongs whatever is in the heavens and whatever is on the earth.”
“That must be why you get to dress up like the Virgin Mary and visit your dear old son at your convenience.”
She gave Cross a curious look and asked, “There is much yet to learn about your father. Would you like to know more about Him?”
Cross paused, his mind grappling with the prospect of learning more about the enigmatic father he’d never known. He had spent an eternity imagining this moment, yet he could not bring himself to utter a word. He held his breath and stared into the luminous eyes of his mother, an invisible force drawing him in.
“No,” he said. “That ship sailed ages ago. I stopped caring about him when I was alive. And you’ve just said everything I needed to know about him.”
He shuffled past his mother’s fading silhouette, struggling against the mushy, crimson-tainted sands, the smell of iron clinging to every grain and clumping to his boots. He swallowed hard, not daring to look back as he trekked through the charnel landscape rife with death and despair.
And though he had passed by his mother moments earlier, she remained a few paces ahead as if the space between them was suspended in time. His feet were rooted to the spot, heavy with damp sand and dread as her presence persisted before him.
“Now, I’m even more determined to get to Paradise,” he said. “When I drink from the river Lethe, you’ll be the first memory I purge.”
“How can you say such a thing?” she asked.
“Because you abandoned me.”
His mother tightened her lips, her expression dropping in resignation as if the words he had uttered had already been spoken long before they had ever reunited.
His frustrations hung in the air between them. He could feel his mother’s eyes like a weight on his shoulders, expecting the outburst waiting to be unleashed.
She sighed and spoke softly, her voice full of emotion. “I know it appears that way, but I never left you.”
Her voice’s melodic and harmonic beauty tugged at his nephesh with its inviting and hopeful crescendo. The consonants and vowels around it bled into one another until they were indiscernible. Even the weather patterns gathered into a jewel-like ooze that reflected the richness of the tone, weaving a tangible form around the words and forming a gradient that caught and held the sound in a crystalline sheath for an eternity.
Cross had never heard such a sound before, yet he knew it had always been in him—like a forgotten limb newly awoken. And despite the strangeness of the effect, it was neither unpleasant nor beautiful; it naturally occupied space with a sense of purpose and belonging.
“Through birth and through death,” she said. “In trial and difficulty, especially in places where the senseless logic of violence is most ferocious, I have always been with you, smiling on your nephesh, offering you refuge in my arms and the tenderness of my embrace. But I am unseen. Not by choice. But for the belief of worthiness you hold about yourself. Even now, you deny the mercy of my presence.”
Cross brushed away the wetness of his tears, leaving vivid blood smears on either side of his hands. “It must be real nice up there or wherever the hell you came from, Mama. But if you’re supposed to be some beacon of hope to get me through this, you’re about three hundred years and thousands of prayers too late.”
“You need not bear your burdens alone,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean I need your help.”
She shook her head, the sadness in it radiating. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Though you may not feel it now, you have an undeniable need for companionship. And you understand on a deeper level that one day you will require the aid of others. I can only pray that at that moment, you will have given them a reason to support you.”
“I’ve been on my own since I was nine,” he said. “I can take care of myself. I always have. I always will.” He marched through her, undeterred by her presence.
But she reappeared in his path yet again. Each stride he took never drew him away from her, as if the Underworld had seamlessly returned him to his starting position.
“You were always so strong,” she said. “Stronger than your father and much stronger in ways you don’t realize. But you need not wear that brave façade all your days. For such is the divine Will that it’s a loud, powerful call emanating from deep within the silent soul failing strength.”
“I remember the last thing you said to me,” Cross said. “Before you left me, you promised me happiness in the afterlife.”
“Be not discouraged,” she said. “You are highly favored. Your hour has not yet come. Have recourse that promise has yet to be fulfilled and shall be. Your father will answer before long. Do whatever he tells you.”
“Am I here in the Underworld because of my father?”
“I’m afraid that’s a complicated quandary with a convoluted explanation you will find unsatisfactory.”
“Try me. I’ve got time.”
“Not as much as you reckon.” She sighed and looked away, as if trying to steel herself against what she was about to say. “Events have been set afoot, leading powerful communities into reckless and unpredictable acts. The hunt for your memories is the least of it. Long-standing rivals have formed unexpected alliances in a desperate bid for survival. The climate is brimming with uncertainty and confusion. No one can foresee what is coming.”
“Not even the big man in the sky,” Cross said, his voice a mere whisper in the oppressive air.
“That is an entirely different tale,” she said with a tone both grim and resigned. “And If I’m being sincere, my fear has never been so strong. You must flee this place before it’s too late.”
“You know the way out?” he asked.
“What limited wisdom I can offer would do little to aid you,” she said sorrowfully. “For the only route to exodus is inward.” She reached out to him, her eyes glimmering with compassion and understanding.
He raised his hand to hers, poised for a moment that could make all sins vanish, allowing him the solace he desperately sought.
Darkness pummeled his burdened mind, a swirling vortex of cursed and blessed memories. The unwelcome reminiscence surged to the forefront of his consciousness, and he struggled against it.
He loathed succumbing to the re-experience of affairs before his death because his memories were relentless, compelling his mind against his will to travel back through time to his former life for as long as the length of the memory demanded. Often, they persisted for hours, sometimes days, and even weeks at a time.
But in the Underworld, only a moment would elapse, and spirits around him appeared none the wiser as he slipped deeper into the recesses of his mind.
While ensnared in the tight embrace of these memories, every texture his former ruach had connected with leaped from the past into the present. Every emotion that once coursed through him was still as alive as ever, and every smell that his nostrils had inhaled was still tangible in his recollection.
But his present will was powerless to intervene; he could not utter a single word as his past self, had no influence over his previous decisions, and had no control over his erstwhile thoughts. He relived it all with acute vividness and, in real-time, entirely at the mercy of his own mind. His former life was beyond his command, dominating him like water crashing against rocks.
These memories used to bring solace during the tumult of his afterlife in the Underworld; now, they were just painful reminders of all he had lost. Nothing but the bittersweetness of them remained, propelling him toward an underworld-weary acceptance that tomorrow didn’t exist because eternity was an endless day.
If only he could have made it to the River Lethe, he would have had the power to erase all memory and keep existing in ignorant bliss. It was ironic to think that those without memories were the ones who were truly lucky in this realm. But then again, his memories prevented him from being burned—a gift and a curse, as they were also why every soul wanted nothing more than to end his afterlife.
But as his mother’s touch had somehow orchestrated this particular recollection, it was evidently of considerable gravity. Thus, he permitted himself to endure the flashback and bear the burden of the trace it would undoubtedly leave, desperate for the answers this memory might offer.
