1 – The Handmaid
Nine-year-old Charles had listened intently for weeks as hushed stories of a “Moses” helping slaves escape circulated quietly among the plantation. Still, the anticipation frazzled his nerves.
He had expected the evening they revolted and planned for the rifle shots, screams of anguish, chaos, and commotion—yet nothing could have prepared him for the heartbreaking cries of death, surrender, and recapture. He had lain awake at night preparing himself for such tragedies, yet he still could not hold back his tears when faced with reality. Until this moment, he’d never known genuine sorrow until he watched it unfold before his eyes and felt it swell deep within his chest.
Charles and his mother evacuated northward after the insurrection, taking refuge from the hellish hounds in the frigid forests.
They waded through murky marshlands, croaking with frogs and serenaded by crickets’ lullaby of peril as the stench of sulfur burned their nostrils. The sinister night clung to the cold air like a damp blanket as they ventured into the soggy wilderness, drenched in fear-laced sweat.
Mama clutched Charles in her spindly arms, shielding him from the elements and buffering his teeming emotions.
Although he was too small to reciprocate in kind, Charles wrapped his tiny arms around her, hoping to bring her some solace from the cold. Though his narrow frame could not shelter her shivering body.
“Don’t have to worry about m-me,” she whispered sweetly into his ear, her cracked lips quivering against his head. “I’m doing just f-fine. I think of Paradise, and it warms my heart—a land where the sun never ceases to shine, where all your needs are met, and where work is not too much. It’s a place where everything good in this world abounds. Peace, freedom, and only one master who rules with love.”
Mama’s soothing words flowed like honey from her tongue. A serenity descended upon Charles, and his worries vanished. The dream-like vision enraptured him as she spun the tale through her chattering teeth.
He longed to know more about this wondrous place that held her heart. The mere idea of Paradise was like a threadbare quilt stretching across his mother’s form, shielding her against the frigid world. If all he could provide in a world so desolate and unyielding were these moments of respite, then he would offer them for as long as they offered solace to his beloved mother.
“Where is Paradise?” he asked.
“It lies far away, far beyond our reach.” She cast her eyes to the sparkling night sky, and her withered finger pointed towards a single star, burning brighter than all the rest. “Observe that one shining star, the brightest of them all; it’s known as the North Star. Follow its guidance, and you shall eventually find yourself at the gates of Paradise. Keep your eyes trained upon it and never let it out of sight.”
The silence that followed was heavy with a palpable absence of hope. Paradise was nothing more than a fantasy—an idyllic dream that could never be realized in their cruel reality. But he knew better than to speak it aloud.
Charles heeded his mother’s words, gazing up at the star every night as they traversed hills and over meadows.
Moonlight illuminated their path, and soon the whiteness of the waxing orb cast its celestial haze over storefronts and horse-drawn wagons that lined the main road of a small town fraught with dangers at every corner.
The arid air was like parched earth, unyielding to the rains for months. Peppering this stillness was a concoction of aromas: burning wood and pitchy torches, hay from horse stalls, the distinct muskiness of a thousand animals all mushed together—like wool and grease—and beneath this heady aroma was a sour note of distress from its inhabitants.
Weary figures watched horses tethered about on rails outside buildings made of weathered wood and timber, each glowing with lanterns.
Ominous gatherers carried oil-burning torches that sputtered a smoky orange light across the street and deepened the shadows of the building’s eaves.
Armed men bore shotguns and rifles, standing vigilant watch over this desolate habitat—an assemblage of daunting individuals whose garb matched their imposing stature. Their patchwork of leather straps, buckles, and fraying rags draped over their bodies like grizzly pelts, the scars visible on exposed skin reminding one of their sordid past.
Mama fearlessly slunk through the shadows, armed with nothing but her courage, leaving Charles to hide in suspense at the edge of town.
The hard dirt ground thudded underneath the boots of roughnecks, leather-clad men who could be trusted to incite heinous violence.
Time inched by interminably until, at last, Mama returned with what little food she could gain, yet not enough sustenance to satiate Charles’s hungry stomach.
Before he took his first bite, he offered Mama a bite of the half-eaten scraps of unknown feed.
Mama shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
Mama was undoubtedly famished, and she had taken an unimaginable risk to get a meager morsel that could not feed them both. Now Charles felt he bore responsibility for her inability to silence the roaring emptiness in her stomach.
Mama’s gentle, calloused hand was like a balm on his skin, wiping away his tears in a comforting embrace that only a mother could provide. Her healing caress against his cheek sent ripples of warmth through his body, soothing his sorrow and giving him the strength to carry on. Despite the exhaustion and hunger she must have felt in her bones, Mama’s touch was nothing but a source of unconditional love and security, a stark contrast to the chill of the night air, which reminded Charles that even in this grim moment, they were still there for each other.
“Rejoice!” Mama said. “Turn your sorrows into joy and soften the hearts of evil men! Anu will answer before long. Do whatever he tells you. I do not promise happiness in this world but in the next.”
Charles inclined his head, and Mama drank in the sight of him with a lingering gaze as if etching every line of his face into her memory.
Then, Mama stepped out onto the dusty road, passing right before the men with guns, each footstep an anthem of strength and courage.
“Hey you!” a man yelled, his voice thundering through the cold air like a crack of lightning. “Hold it right there!”
Mama ignored him and charged forward down the road.
A horde of armed men descended upon her from all directions, their weapons trained on her as they moved in.
A wall of onlookers sprang up around Mama, forming an impenetrable barrier that blocked Charles’s view of her.
Suddenly there was a sickening thump as if a body had been thrown to the ground. Mama’s scream pierced the air.
Thumps and scrapes rang out—the sounds of his mother thrashing against her captors amidst their frenzied cheering.
A whip cracked in vicious repetition, echoing Mama’s cries of agony.
Charles’s trembling hands clamped down on his ears, futilely trying to silence the bloodcurdling shrieks of Mama.
The merciless lashings rang out like thunder, each one tearing into Charles’ already-tarnished innocence.
The crowd roared with a bloodlust that could only be quenched by the misery of others as if they were mere savages at a feast. For them, this was entertainment; for Charles, it was hell.
The scene’s horror was too much to bear, and Charles felt himself slipping into madness.
Visions of bone arenas and fields of severed heads impaled upon stakes beneath blazing inverted pyres flashed through his mind as Mama’s pain and agony continued unabated.
For a moment, he wondered how such cruelty could exist in the world, but then he knew this was just another facet of humanity’s dark side.
Silence descended upon the town like a heavy blanket, and Charles mustered the courage to peer into the crowd of people.
His heart swelled with an inexplicable joy; his mother still lived. But the happiness was fleeting—it soon became a gaping chasm of shock and horror.
Beneath a tree, she stood motionless next to a horse. A thick rope snaked around her neck like a serpent.
There was no struggle left in her—no fight or defiance—just an eerie calm that radiated off her like a ghostly aura. Her open palms rested at her sides as if she had accepted her fate and was ready for whatever came next.
Charles’s heart pounded in his chest at the sight. His breath became stuck in his throat, paralyzed by what he saw in front of him.
Her solemn eyes locked onto Charles’s—not with fear or relief, but with eyes that seemed to hold some dark knowledge he could not comprehend.
Suddenly, the heavens opened, and rays of holy light poured out, brightening the area around her as if to reveal the mob’s true wicked essence.
A collective gasp resounded throughout the crowd, and they shielded their eyes from the light.
Thunder boomed, and lightning flashed through the sky, arching with power. An earthquake trembled beneath the ground, rippling across the land like an oppressive wave. Hail pounded the town from above like drums of doom, raining judgment from on high.
Yet Charles and his mother appeared to have been the only souls spared from the storm’s fury.
“Behold!” Mama said to the onlookers. “I am the handmaid of the guardian of the heavens; let it be done to me according to your word! For he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. A messenger and a word of his power He conveyed to me, and a spirit from him. And I leave My Heart surrounded with thorns, with which ungrateful men pierce it at every moment by their blasphemies and ingratitude. Seven swords pierce my heart, and I come at last to the fullness of his grace. Nulla si crea! Nulla si distrugge! Tutto si trasforma!”
The horse lurched forward, tugging at the rope, pulling Mama up and suspending her mid-air, the noose tightening around her neck.
No hint of turmoil stirred within her as she hung, her frame rigid and immovable. A mask of calm settled across her features, her gaze unyielding and vigilant despite the cruelty of her captors. Her expression was eerily composed, almost tranquil—defiance of death’s embrace that a single emotion crossing her face dared not break.
Mama’s lack of struggle stilled the gathering and silenced their chatter. Until the end, she remained steadfast in her stony silence, her unwavering hazel eyes conveying a bitter resolve to preserve her dignity.
And when the flames responsible for awakening Mama’s spirit flickered out, an unseen force extinguished every torch around town at once.
The heavens then sealed shut their gates, and the holy light withdrew, plunging the town into impenetrable darkness like a black blanket of sorrow.
A lone rumble of thunder and a diminishing spark of lightning died away into nothingness until all that remained was a still calm.
As if made of glass, the hail on the ground shattered into an infinite number of minuscule drops that melted into pools in the mud.
Even in such a dire situation, Mama’s spirit remained unconquered. Her inert body hung lifelessly from its rope in slow perpetuity, suspended in time and space, before a hushed assembly. Her tranquil countenance was empty of life; her face was a ghostly mask of eerie stillness, etched with an unearthly calm. The eyes that should have glimmered with emotion were absent, staring off into the unknown abyss without a flicker. That body no longer contained his mother. She was gone.
Charles shuddered as a chill seeped through him. The world around him spun and disintegrated into a dense abyss, leaving only a sea of glimmering sparks in its wake. Nothing appeared tangible, and yet he sensed a presence near him. He tried to turn his head away from Mama, but something inside prevented him from doing so. His body seemed tethered to hers, as if by an invisible string.
Tiny hands clasped him, urging him to drop low behind a wagon. He obeyed and beheld a girl his age enveloped in a magnificent gossamer fabric. Her eyes burned with angelic grace and benevolence, their luster penetrating his innermost being with tenderness and mercy. The radiance in her gaze was like an illuminated path of hope through the depths of despair—a guiding North Star that beckoned him from the darkness.
“My name’s Kate,” she said, her voice gentle, a whisper in the darkness. “What’s your name?”
“Charles.” His name slipped like grains of sand from his lips, so faint it was almost invisible against the darkness of night as he slowly recovered his long-forgotten voice.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked.
Charles swiped at his tear-streaked face and gestured towards his mother’s lifeless body, cruelly suspended from the rope.
“Oh.” Kate’s mouth fell agape as she regarded the ground silently as if unable to find her words. Eternity stretched on until she broke the silence. “I’ll go get my father. He’ll know what to do. You stay here. Keep low.”
Kate darted around the wagon, and she returned with her father in what felt like a moment.
Unlike the brutes who had so heinously hung Mama, Kate’s father cut an eerie figure of distinguished poise. He was impeccably groomed, his jawline sharp, and he seemed well-traveled as if he’d glimpsed a thousand sights not yet imagined by the folk of these parts.
He swept his derby hat from his head, revealing a mop of unruly hair that cascaded to his forehead. He reverently held the accessory close to his heart, its brim cradled in his fingers. A star-like glint shimmering from his ring pierced the stygian darkness as if it contained a power beyond Charles’s imagining within its depths.
“My deep and heartfelt sympathy with you,” the gentleman said, “under the shocking circumstances of your present dreadful misfortune.”
The gentleman’s kind words were cut short by the stomp heavy boots against the ground, closing in on them.
Kate’s father whirled around to confront the looming steel muzzle of a rifle, pointing straight at him.
“What you doin’ with that nigger?” the rifleman said.
Kate yanked Charles close protectively with a fervent grip, twining their fingers into a single being. Her tender embrace brought him solace in the face of peril, providing strength for him and assuring him that he would not be alone against the threat of the rifleman.
“He’s with us,” Kate said.
The rifleman scrutinized Charles for a beat before angling his gaze to regard Kate’s father with a hardened expression. “Is that so, Mister?” he said. His glower could have cut through iron, and the air seemed almost solid with stillness.
Kate’s father made no move as the rifle barrel quivered before him. He straightened his derby hat atop his head in a studied motion, then fixed the gunman with a gaze that suggested the rifleman bore little consequence. Aged eyes, narrowed in reproachful scorn, had likely seen much worse than what this mere miscreant had brought about.
A portly, bearded man trundled towards them, his mass quaking in distress with each stride. His hefty boots pounded the ground as he bellowed at the rifleman, his resounding voice reverberating off the wooden buildings and commanding the attention of all those nearby. “Lower your weapon, you buffoon!”
The heavy man drew near, his heaving breath echoing in the night as he lumbered across the dusty path. His worn coat and broad-brimmed hat billowed in an unseen wind. A wild beard spilled from his chin and crawled onto his cheeks while thick, bristling eyebrows twitched with each word spoken. “Do you have any idea who you’re addressing?”
“I’m addressing a runaway and his possible aide,” the rifleman said.
“You, sir, are a stranger to these parts,” the portly fellow said with an air of distinction. “Yet, you seem to have little interest in making a peaceful resolve, and I fear your presence has already exacted too much of a toll upon my good neighbors. I daresay it was unwise of me to grant you such clemency as to enable you to apprehend your criminal culprits. I must insist that any further disruption to my town’s people, and more notably, any defamations made against my good fellow and his daughter, shall not be accepted. Moreover, if they attest to this lad’s innocence, then I shall accept their word as gospel. If you are dissatisfied with my ruling, take it directly with me. Are we clear on this matter?”
The rifleman’s grip on the gun tightened as he glanced down at Charles with hatred and fear. He heaved a deep breath and raised his weapon to his shoulder. “Apologies, Mr. Rowings.”
“No need to apologize to me,” Mr. Rowings drawled. “Direct your regrets toward Miss Katie, who was distastefully alarmed by your ungentlemanly behavior.”
The rifleman’s face was a stony mask, his gaze as solid and inflexible as forged steel. His lips were taut but relaxed as he beheld Kate’s trembling, petite frame. A barely perceptible nod of his head, a sign of understanding and regret, silently passed between them. “My apologies, Little Miss.”
“And apologize to Charles, too,” Kate said.
The man’s face contorted in knotted fury and indignation, his body stiffening into a rigid silhouette as if an electric storm cloud of rage gathered at its core, bubbling and seething with anger until it could contain no more. A grumbling snarl of bitter dissatisfaction rumbled from deep within his throat as he stomped away without apologizing, his movements jerky and erratic—like the sudden release of a caged lion. Pebbles flew up beneath his boots as he stormed off into the night, each heavy stomp sending out waves of discontentment that echoed throughout town. His back was unbending and straight as he strode onward, a thick air of unrestrained animosity growing heavier with every step taken and intensifying further as he faded away.
Mr. Rowings ushered the four of them to the side of the road, stroking his beard as he imparted his grave concerns to Kate’s father. “Fortune was on our side this time, Samuel. Pray this endeavor proves its worth.”
Kate’s father descended to Charles’s level, their eyes meeting. “Katie here tells me your name is Charles,” the gentleman drawled. “However, might I ask… Charles what? Pray tell me your surname, if you may.”
Trembling, Charles clammed up, the words welling within him yet locked away by a mysterious force he was unable to break free from. Even if he desired to, the fear that had taken hold of him was so powerful that all he could muster was his heavy breathing, as if the surrounding air suffocated his voice.
The gentleman’s face softened as he spoke. “I cannot fathom the hardship you’ve just endured.” He paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “Verbalizing the anguish of my soul for yours is a task beyond me. Were these men of reason, they would have delivered you and your mother back to your master or perhaps auctioned you off to the highest bidder. However, these self-righteous rabble-rousers care not for the cost of recompense—only punishment. And they’d just as soon hang Mr. Rowings and me for assisting runaways such as you.” He sighed heavily, his voice filled with conviction. “But if you can confirm your last name, we’ll discern who we’re up against, and I can transport you to safety. Somewhere far away from here. Do you understand?”
“Charles.” He inhaled deeply. “Charles Hill.”
Kate’s father peered up at his friend, Mr. Rowings, and they exchanged a meaningful stare that spoke of generations of history between them. Then the man redirected his gaze to Charles, smiling warmly as if to bathe him in a never-ending beam of cordiality. “I’m Carson. Samuel Carson, at your service. Now, shall we be on our way?”
2 – The Pits of Hell
As Charles clasped Mr. Carson’s hand, Cross’s footstep sank into a wasteland of flame.
A billowing river of fire sliced through the craggy terrain, scarred with ragged, bowl-shaped cavities, their depths as immeasurable as the night sky on the prairie. Some craters could swallow a whole town of vigilantes, and some were no bigger than a modest cabin. All these fuming pits belched and spewed out menacing chains of lava that blazed against the backdrop of an ebony sky.
It appeared the memory of Mr. Carson had ferried Cross out of the desolate desert of Sheol and into the deathly embraces of the pits of Hell, the rightful resting place for his doomed soul.
The acrid odor of burning flesh stung his nostrils as his boot hissed an unholy melody.
Molten earth boiled from a hole and kissed his leather soles.
Several tiny depressions beneath him spewed blistering blobs of molten rock, cascading down like tears from a celestial being.
Cross sprung over the blazing fissure, landing a mere step away from a second lava hole. He leaped to his other foot, evading it.
The soil shuddered, and the terrain beneath him erupted with tremendous power, teetering, pendulum-like, on the brink of destruction before giving way and detaching itself from the solidity of the land’s surface with him on top.
Before the fiery current could carry him aloft on his rocky raft, he vaulted back across to the safety of the sturdy ground.
The chunk of earth dipped into the river of embers as it rounded a bend, where a wicked abyss engulfed it.
The scorching breath of the pit surrounded him as it carried turbulent screams from the chasm below—cries profane and intense, with no sense of remorse.
Cross had expected those wretched souls within to cry out for deliverance from their misery, acknowledging their sins with repentance. Instead, they exuded a vehement loathing that stoked his ire.
Bitterness surged through him, and he cursed the Raven who had caused him to be tossed into this nightmare. Cross vowed to clip her wings and cast her into The Inferno, the tallest mountain in all the Underworld, if she ever crossed his path again.
He now stood closer to the colossal flame-bellowing behemoth than ever before. The menacing volcano loomed before miniatures of itself, surrounding it like pawns. These smaller peaks acted as sentinels protecting the Master’s domain, but no amount of subordinate cones could subdue its might; they were merely meant to serve as sacrifices for the Inferno.
A savage roar jolted Cross. He spun to behold a monstrous hellhound yards away, poised on sinewy legs.
Scarlet fur, matted and encrusted with filth, smeared with dried red blood, and ablaze with flames, burst from beneath the saddle that held tight to its back.
Burning coals glowed from the depths of its vicious eyes, and it emitted a loud bark as it glared down at four cowering creatures trapped against the river of fire.
Even though the four creatures outnumbered the hellhound, their diminutive stature and fragile frames did not match the diabolical dog. The tallest of them scarcely reached the height of a small child and stood much shorter than even Cottontail.
The hellhound loomed over them like an enraged grizzly coveting cowering sheep. Its barks raged, quaking the earth like thunder, while its sinister growls rumbled low and feral, emanating a powerful hatred that was said to drive any mortal to insanity.
The hellhound’s muscular ruach tensed and coiled as it displayed its razor-sharp fangs, readying itself to lunge at any moment and tear its prey apart with its mighty claws.
The four pitiful innocents quivered beneath its overwhelming shadow.
Cross had expected demonic beasts to lurk around the pits of Hell, yet these submissive creatures were not fearsome. They didn’t belong here.
The faint clicking noises they emitted sounded reminiscent of the draggles, and he could not help but wonder if they were indeed his draggles still mysteriously following him throughout the treacherous Underworld. They might’ve just spared Cross from his almost inevitable demise at the jaws of the hungry hellhound.
Cross turned away from the defenseless creatures, yet he could not shake the image of Kate—how she had acted with unrivaled courage and heroically rescued him from the rifleman’s wrath. The encounter with her that night introduced a dramatic shift in his Earthly existence. Kate ferried him into a new way of life and she had been an unparalleled force for good until his end.
Cross reluctantly turned toward the draggles again.
They scampered away from the hellhound, retreating perilously closer to the river of flames.
He had already overcome insurmountable odds: defeating squals, dodging Rudimen, surviving the Raven, and escaping Sheol. And now his destination, Paradise, was just beyond the realm of Sheol. If only he could circumvent its boundaries without succumbing to its many dangers, it would lead him directly to the great wall. Nothing could stop him now except for himself. And he refused to falter after all that tireless effort. Not when success was so near.
A draggle extended its trembling hand to Cross, its glassy eyes imploring for aid.
The hellhound lunged forward like a streak of lightning and mercilessly clamped its jaws around the draggle’s arm. In one swift motion, the beast gulped down the poor creature whole, leaving no trace of it behind but a fading scream and crunching bones against the hellhound’s jaws.
Though death was nothing new in the Underworld, Cross had never witnessed such a cold-hearted injustice.
His stomach twisted and churned at the sight of it, and a wave of simmering anger grew inside him—an unwavering loathing for bullies—mobs like the ones who hanged his mother, tyrants like the Master who collected souls to torture without mercy, monsters like Diamond Tooth whose pleasure came from the suffering of others, beasts like the Raven whose only concern was personal gain, even cursed souls like himself, lost in despair and petty selfishness until they found purpose powerful enough to spur them to action. Here was an opportunity to make amends for all the wrongs done to him by offering a helping hand to those who needed it most. He would no longer be a bystander.
Cross stooped, and with a swift movement, he detached a sturdy clump of solidified soil. He chucked it at the hellish canine, and it clattered against the worn saddle with a faint thud.
The hellhound jerked its head towards Cross, and the reins at its head snapped.
A crazy idea struck Cross: he could use his magical touch to tame the hellhound. Judging from its saddle, someone else had already accomplished it. But he had only ever seen hellhounds obeying demons, devils, or more powerful deities—not a mere mortal like him. And they only responded to torture and abuse, yet Cross had no interest in such tactics. He had domesticated a cornurus, considered equally as formidable as hellhounds, without using violence. But back then, he had the advantage of surprise when he crept up on Gimlet.
And the hound before him now galloped straight for him, baring jaws full of soul-crushing teeth.
Cross’s heart pounded in his chest as he positioned himself to flip onto its back like the once-renowned Bronc Busters of his youth.
The hellhound lunged at him.
He ducked and seized the saddle, hoisting himself in one graceful move. His feet fit snugly into the stirrups, and then, with a tug of the reins, the hellhound’s wild mane snapped up in defiance.
Cross would have been too old for such a game if he were still alive; however, death had gifted him with a new life. He reached for the beast’s head to give it his magic touch.
But it was not to be—the hellhound reared and threw him from its back in a single mighty strike.
Cross disengaged his feet from the stirrups and allowed his body to go limp, hitting the ground in a controlled roll.
A burst of fire surged from the ground just inches from his shoulder, singeing the surrounding air.
The hound lunged, shreds of fur standing straight up over its hulking spirit. It pinned Cross beneath its unforgiving paws, pressing into his chest.
They locked together in a collision of strength, their limbs a chaotic intertwining of muscle and scales as they fought to burn or be burned.
The hound’s jaws clacked together, its fangs sharp enough to rend the astral layers of any spirit foolish enough to come within range. Its baleful breath singed his very being as he grappled with the beast, its fiery hide searing his astral surface on contact. Acidic saliva dripped from its gaping maw, scorching Cross’s chest like charred coal.
The valiant draggles leaped onto the beast’s back and sank their tiny teeth and claws through its vermin-ridden fur, ripping into its corpulent flesh.
The foul hellhound writhed and twirled to dislodge them from its back, but they clung to the hound as if glued, even as it flailed and thrashed.
But despite their effort, the hellhound flung them away and ruthlessly mauled one of the hapless draggles, shaking it mercilessly like a rag doll.
Trying to tame the hellhound with the draggles in tow was too dangerous. The poor creatures would meet their demise if Cross kept failing his attempts. He needed to slay the monstrous beast instead.
Cross stood tall and firm with newfound determination, gripping his macuahuitl. He heaved it skyward and slashed the beast’s neck with all his might.
A stream of sulfurous flames erupted from the wound. The repugnant hound bellowed, spewing out scalding fire as it lunged at Cross.
He retaliated with another swing of his blade, but the fiend caught it between its fiery jaws and stripped it away from him.
Cross retreated from the wounded hellhound as it hissed and howled in pain.
The searing river of molten lava licked at his heels as chunks of earth crumbled off behind him, disappearing into the meandering stream of smoldering magma.
A fracture extended like a jagged lightning bolt between his legs then forked and branched in all directions.
Scalding froth rose through the chasm and engulfed the hellhound’s broad paw. It uttered a wretched whimper before lurching back to safety.
The three draggles sprinted over to Cross, one of whom presented him with his macuahuitl.
In a fit of daring courage, Cross swung his obsidian blade, hacking at the fissure in the ground, and a surge of flames erupted from it, singeing off his hair.
A shelf departed from the land, taking Cross and the draggles with it. A searing gash now separated the four of them from the hellhound. All that remained was to steer their earthy island raft across the riverbank to safety.
Cross bent to use the macuahuitl as an oar, yet before the obsidian could even touch the lava, the hellhound launched onto the raft.
The force of its landing propelled the island across the lava’s current. The drifting terrain smashed into the banks on the opposite side and careened away from the refuge, spinning wildly.
Cross snatched up the scrawniest of the draggles, its frail spirit weightless in his grasp. With a slight flick, he propelled it through the air, across the torrential liquid flames, and onto solid ground.
Seizing the final two draggles, he repeated the motion, launching each for a successful landing. But now, the island had drifted too far for Cross to make the leap himself.
The island’s edges crumbled as the gargantuan hellhound stomped across the platform. Its colossal muscles flexed as it prowled, pulverizing the fragile terrain beneath its claws.
The raft shuddered as the beast maneuvered its mountain of beaten flesh and bone. It teetered, dipping in and out of the waves of steaming magma that threatened to swallow them from beneath.
Cross clung to his side of the disintegrating rubble of land as it swept downstream, his only haven from the roiling river of molten lava that surrounded them like an ever-encroaching wall. A single misstep would have sent them plummeting into the river of volcanic heat below.
Wisps of fire seeped up, writhing their way along the outside perimeter of the raft.
The lumbering beast shrank from it in abject horror and scrambled backward from the edge of the ephemeral island.
Cross lost his footing and slid towards the hound in its precipitous retreat. He slammed into the hound’s massive frame, fire and smoke billowing around them as they collided.
“Don’t be afraid of a little heat,” Cross said to the hound.
The hellhound clapped its jaws in the air. But the terrifying sound was not a threat to tear him apart but was meant only to chastise him. Clearly, the beast had intentions far worse than devouring him.
A burning heat licked at Cross’s feet. He pushed away from the ravenous flames.
They sauntered back to the island’s center, their yin-yang balance wrought with tension until they balanced the platform, making it stable against the roaring waves of lava.
Ahead, the river of molten rock cascaded into an enormous crater in plangent splashes and plumes of steam. As they drew near it, the screams of hellish creatures that inhabited the bottomless pit echoed louder, their malice growing stronger by the second.
“Brilliant plan,” Cross said to himself. “Now what?”
The hellhound bared its teeth in a primal snarl that seemed almost amused by Cross’s words.
He had conversed with hellhounds during his vassalage with the President, and they, like many creatures he encountered, discerned his meaning. But what shook him about its understanding was the contempt in its growl, for it made Cross realize the hellhound was shepherding him toward the Hells.
“The Raven was right,” he said, addressing the hellhound. “You used the draggles as bait. You could have burned all of us easily, but you didn’t because the president ordered you to bring me back.”
The hellhound chirped bird-like toward the pit, quivering in agony, as if realizing its powerlessness to resist the president. Its vicious howls echoed with grief above the rumble of the roiling lava as if the hound understood the oppressive despair of its plight.
Cross understood its predicament better than most. He would never surrender himself and willingly return to vassalage under the president.
Gusts of sweltering air beat against Cross’s face as he inched toward the spitting and bubbling maw of the abyss.
The faithful draggles followed at his side, scurrying along the banks of the river. They pointed a stone ledge, extending itself horizontally from the opposite wall within the pit.
The precipice was too far to manage with a single bound, and Cross’s chances of successfully reaching it were slim, yet a daring plan crystallized in his thoughts. Such an outrageous feat would be his only shot at it. He had nothing to lose.
He fastened the macuahuitl to his thigh and mounted the hellhound’s saddle, ready to face whatever consequences awaited him.
The hound trembled in anticipation as Cross caressed its mane. The overwhelming stench of rot and carnage caught in his throat, but his magic touch pacified the creature just before their disintegrating island emerged at the lip of the lavafall.
With a sharp kick to its side and an audible snap of the reins, the hellhound galloped down the island’s short runway and leaped into the hollow.
Cross threw himself from the saddle at the apex of their trajectory and glided across a raging chasm toward the minuscule ledge.
Yet his momentum was far too slow, and he plummeted faster than expected, only snagging the edge of the cliff with nothing more than his fingertips.
Cross clung to the cliff face, his gaze transfixed on the hellhound hurtling towards its fiery demise, howling in anguish as it plummeted down into the depths of Hell.
Demonic spirits emerged from the lava and latched their tendrils onto the hound’s struggling form, dragging it into their burning domain.
The pit churned and belched flames that did not burn souls but consumed them forever. And yet, those same souls fed upon the heat, damning them to a cruel cycle of suffering and torture for all eternity—a fate that enshrouded Cross’s already heavy heart with darkness.
They swam in the lava pool, bursting with flames, the stench of their charred flesh strangling Cross as the pit spewed forth an inferno of tormenting heat, threatening to suffocate him but never ultimately ending his afterlife.
The evil entities wailed at Cross, spewing vitriolic insults and loathing, their seething hatred of him a palpable force in the sweltering air. Hundreds of voices bemoaned their dismay that he had yet to join them in the abyss of suffering, for his treacherous actions were worthy of such damnation—just like theirs. The ghastly phantasms unleashed threats of retribution that promised his inevitable enslavement to their doom.
In a macabre display, they rebuked and assailed one another, using each other as anchors to weigh down anyone trying to escape from the chasm’s depths, pulling each other back down into its gaping maw.
They would have reached Cross faster had they not held each other back. But a handful of demonic spirits broke loose and clambered towards Cross with haste, but even their frantic movements could not outpace the despairing futility of their kind.
Cross scrambled up the cliff face, his palms splitting with each desperate grasp for purchase. A searing agony burned through him like molten lava as tears streamed down his cheeks.
The summit appeared within reach but seemed ever more distant, with every merciless slice piercing deeper into his hands.
He summoned every ounce of strength to overcome the sheer force of the rock, tearing him apart, inch by agonizing inch.
The baleful specters clung to his legs with their caustic claws, and brimstone ignited along the cuffs of his trousers.
Cross retaliated with all his might, stamping on their hideous faces and grinding their skulls to piles of ash. Yet an army of them clamored to take their place.
Exhausted and on the brink of surrender, six hands reached down from above, plucking Cross away from the fiery depths and saving him from inevitable devastation.
Cross lay supine on the scorched ground, retching as he expelled the noxious fumes from his lungs.
The draggles scrambled about him, stamping out the remnants of flame that still clung to his clothing.
“Thanks.” Cross heaved himself up and tenderly patted each draggle on its brainy head, careful not to squish the delicate areas or get jabbed by their crowns of horns.
His fingers were plump logs of numbness and heat preventing him from feeling them. His palms were covered in lacerations, oozing his ebony ichor.
The draggles’ cherubic faces peered up at Cross, blinking their large coal eyes as he shredded parts of his shirtsleeve and used them to bind his wounded hands.
The cloth rapidly became sodden with his icy inky ichor. Both his hands ached horribly. A throbbing ran through each swollen digit. Yet, all pain had become a familiar load Cross had learned to leverage long ago.
“So, you’re the infamous draggles, huh?” he asked his saviors.
The draggles purred and tilted their heads upon their willowy necks, resembling a pup attempting to comprehend its master’s utterances, only to be left wanting.
“Draggles is just what I call you because I don’t know what you… Can you even understand me?”
The draggles pranced exuberantly, their sinuous figures weaving harmoniously like a spellbinding waltz.
“But you don’t talk.”
The draggle trio revolved in a vigorous pirouette, their zest reminiscent of newly born rabbits frolicking in a meadow. Their childlike delight was palpable as they danced with uninhibited enthusiasm.
Their silken purrs melodized through the air, creating a web of tranquility that hugged Cross. It was like a sweet lament, filling the atmosphere with an umbral aura of solace and comfort. Their vibrant energy could not help but make Cross smile.
The three draggles sniffed Cross, their silent inquisitiveness matching his own.
He wanted to ask the draggles why they had been stalking him and why they had chosen this specific moment to reveal themselves. But, of course, they couldn’t articulate an answer. He was still in awe of how the skeletal draggles had rescued him from the calamitous pit with such ease—even though three of them joined forces, each one was too slender and bony as if fashioned entirely of bone and air—no flesh, almost resembling malnourished children in that regard. Their combined weight was insignificant, barely able to support their own weight, let alone carry his. Yet they did it with little effort.
One of them scrutinized the macuahuitl with the curiosity of a young child, prodding its scaly claw through the hole in the wooden paddle where the Raven’s rope dart had pierced through it.
“The Raven said there were five of you, but there were only four of you before the hellhound ate—” Cross held his tongue before speaking of the fate that had befallen the poor draggles.
Now, only three remained. Their mournful countenances drooped in grief over their companion, who had just succumbed to the callous gullet of a hellhound and whatever despicable brutality had befallen their fifth member.
Cross’s heart weighed like a leaden burden in his chest as he acknowledged they would not survive the Underworld if they remained with him. He could not bear the thought of them suffering the same fate as all his other loyal companions on his harrowing voyage.
“That’s too bad about your friends,” he said. “You take care of yourselves, okay.”
Cross limped away from the draggles, taking measured steps along the river of molten rock as he left his sorrowful entourage trailing in his wake.
But the stringy creatures loyally trailed behind like lost puppies needing rescue.
He halted and whirled around, facing them with an air of misgiving. “Look, you saved my hide. I saved yours. We’re even.”
Cross stomped away from the draggles, his heavy boots thudding in a determined march like a drumbeat leading a revolution.
The draggles followed suit with lighter steps, pattering almost like a marching band but out of synch with Cross’s rhythm. Still, their loyalty to him was steadfast.
“Look!” he said. “Nice creatures like you should never be friends with a hard case like me. It was better for you when you were far away. There were more of you. Don’t you get it? The sort of thing with the hellhound happens to me every day. You don’t want any part of that. Trust me. The three of you should git!”
Cross whipped his hand through the air, lashing out with a wild flurry of motion. He restrained himself from striking the innocent creatures yet was prepared to assail them if they failed to heed his warnings. His ruach tensed like a coiled spring, ready to lash out and deliver an offensive punch that could drive them far away from him and the danger that pursued him.
The draggles huddled together in a trembling embrace. A labored bellowing rose from the trio, a mournful call that welled up from within them as one unified voice. Their long and spindly limbs quivered as they crouched together, their black eyes brimming with confusion and terror.
“Go on now,” Cross said. “I ain’t your pappy. Scat!”
The draggles scattered like a thousand raindrops against an iron roof, their piercing squeals of panic trailing off into the wind.
Cross felt their absence the instant the beloved draggles disappeared behind one of the many menacing crags that formed the pits of Hell.
Mama had just warned him he would need others to join his cause, but in a foolish attempt to protect them, he stupidly drove them away.
Now an unbearable pang of guilt washed over him. No matter what he did to shelter them from harm, they would find no safety in the Underworld—danger and despair lurked in every crevice.
Had Mr. Carson chosen to act in the same manner, then Cross would have hung beside his mother that fateful night.
It was not too late for him to recover the remnants of his dignity and honor in his loyal subjects’ eyes.
Burdened with regret, Cross chased after the draggles, as they had remained staunchly committed to following in his wake all these years.
🛑 THE END OF THE LINE
(What happens next?)
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