1 – The Raven
Cross’s hands were bound behind him. He lay on his stomach, bouncing atop Gimlet’s hindquarters as the Raven drove his pet cornurus through the sinister plateaus of black glass.
Gimlet’s spiked tail plowed through the obsidian terrain that stretched endlessly before them.
Each jolt to Cross’s chest stole away his breath, and yet he still mustered the strength to speak.
“Where’re you taking me?” he asked the Raven.
“Metnal,” she said.
Cross wiggled like a slithering serpent and slid off Gimlet’s back, plunging into the ebony abyss of gravel beneath him.
The Raven unfurled her ink-black wings and vaulted off the Gimlet’s saddle. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Cross scurried across the obsidian pebbles, slinking away from her. “You can’t deliver me to the squals. My memories belong to the rudimen. Cut me loose.”
The Raven clutched him by the scalp, squeezing mercilessly. She pried at his eyelid, lifting it as her dark gaze stared out from under her mangled top hat, penetrating deep into his eye. Her maliciousness was palpable in the air, and he could feel her searing hatred burning into him.
“I thought their enchantment had already worn off,” she said.
Cross flinched in repulsion. He lurched his head away from her clammy grasp and crumpled down onto the grit below with a clatter.
“Easy there.” The Raven’s hands stretched out before her, palms upturned. “You’re not yourself.”
“You don’t know me!” Cross said.
“I know enough,” the Raven said. “The rudimen did something to your mind. And that might lessen my payment.”
“They would never hurt me,” he said. “They care about me. They’re my true friends.”
“And they usually get the soul they come for. Let’s hope the damage isn’t permanent and you return to normal by the time I turn you over to the squals. I want all the nine objects they’re paying me. Nothing less.”
The Raven’s rope dart loosed at Cross, and the thick rope twined around his ruach like a serpent. It hoisted him from the obsidian stones and returned him to Gimlet’s pungent rump.
Cross thrashed in an agonizing dance, his limbs contorting in a futile battle against the supernatural rope’s ironclad grip.
“You’ll pay for this,” he said. “I hope you end up in a bone orchard after you get eaten by devils. Cut me loose, you ugly buzzard.”
Sweat poured from Cross’s brow as he strained against the unforgiving bindings, seeking to contain and smother the inner fire burning within his nephesh. He twisted with wild desperation and pulled against its constriction and helplessness. The rope entwined every limb with a firmness that strengthened as he writhed. It bit into his ruach with each frenzied motion, yet still, he fought on, spending every ounce of energy, determined to triumph over this insidious foe.
2 – Taken
The Raven ferried Cross’s unruliness back across the brackish, yellow river. This time, Gimlet galloped across the surface with the urgency of destiny as if to atone for her torpidity on the journey before.
The crossroads tried to beguile the Raven, but she snubbed them, heedless of their deceitful claims, and led Gimlet past the decimated kingdom of Xibalbá and up the Northern road towards the Metnal mountains.
Cross eventually lulled himself into a peaceful state, humming spiritual hymns throughout several sleep cycles like a mantra. The lively melodies stirred something within him, bolstering his spiritual energy and sparking lucidity concerning the rudimen’s true nature.
The incomplete apparitions had offered him a haunting glimpse of what it would’ve been like if he’d gone ahead with erasing his memories and forgetting his past. If he’d combined with those entities, they wouldn’t have taken just his memories—they’d have seized his very soul, bewitching him until nothing but their callous essence remained.
As the Raven had forewarned, the rudimen had tampered with Cross’s mind, but now their malevolent spell appeared to have evaporated.
Unfortunately, the Raven was about to deliver Cross to the squals, who would behead him and plunder his memories.
3 – Metnal Mountains
Gimlet carried Cross and the Raven into the squal-infested Metnal mountains. The flaming skies draped themselves across the jagged cliffs like a mantle of terror, baking every inch of stone beneath their fiery embrace and enshrouding them in their oppressive veil.
Cross had abandoned any resistance by this point, as intransigence became a losing option. Now he bound himself to his own resilience to outlive this disaster. He surrendered himself to his captors, trusting in his wits and intuition to come out of this with his head still attached amidst all this chaos.
An innumerable mass of wretched squals lurked in the shadows as the unlikely trio trudged on, amassing a small following of squals that emerged from the surrounding crevices. A legion of foamy muzzles welcomed them with hisses. Squals glided their gangly talons along Cross’s forehead as he passed them.
Cross reared back, jerking his head away and snapping his teeth at the intrusive digits.
The Raven tugged on Gimlet’s reins, and the cornurus stopped at the entrance of a gargantuan cavern. The Raven swung down from the saddle, and her magical rope dart effortlessly hoisted Cross off the Gimlet’s back.
The enchanted rope thrust Cross up against a colossal monolith of stone outside the grotto, where a slavering horde of pestiferous squals confronted him. They gnashed their fangs and foamed with vitriol at their flaccid, lipless visages. Hundreds hung out from their rocky abodes perched above like menacing sentinels, ready to unleash more of the wretched horde on him.
Cross hawked a wad of mucus into the Raven’s face.
The Raven struck him with a vicious backhand.
He tumbled to the ground, rolling onto his back.
“Untie me,” he said. “Then see how tough you think you are. I ain’t never been a woman beater, so just let me go right now, and I won’t become one. I’ll forgive you. You go your way. I’ll go mine. We’ll forget this ever happened.”
The Raven twisted away from Cross, her disdain for him palpable in the humid air. He lay sprawled out on the ground, defeated and powerless, as she evaporated into the depths of the ominous cave. Her footsteps reverberated through the cavern like a heart-wrenching dirge.
“You dirty pigeon,” Cross said. “I hope they clip your wings and—”
Cross’s throat closed in on itself as the largest squal he had ever beheld stepped forth from the yawning maw of the foggy cave.
The squal stood larger than any of the others, immense and imposing. A sea of lesser squals undulated out of its way, making an aisle for their enormous leader. Each flexing muscle and serrated fang displayed the ferocity of its character.
The colossus stooped to Cross’s level. Its steaming breath stung his eyes as he shuddered and averted his gaze. The chieftain clamped down hard on Cross’s chin with one clawed foot, turning his head this way and that as if measuring him for an injury. It meticulously examined every angle of his face.
“You’ve got the wrong pig in the tail,” Cross said. “I’m no one. I don’t even remember what I ate for lunch. Did I even have lunch? I don’t know; I forget. See, I’m not who you’re looking for.”
“sss-So, you’re not the man who remembers-sss?” The chief squal spoke with a distinguished and serpentine voice, exuding an aura of nobility. His throat rattled and shook with the pronunciation of his words, leaving a nasty hacking emanating from the back of his throat.
“Nope,” Cross said. “I’m not him. I don’t even know who that is. I’m sure if you keep looking, you’ll find—what’s his name again? I’m just so forgetful. I never remember anything.”
The chieftain’s foot remained clamped around Cross’s face as he unfurled an aged sheet of vellum with hands that trembled from the force of his malice.
“Do you recogniz-sss-e this-sss man?” The chieftain thrust the vellum into Cross’s gaze.
The parchment rustled beneath the squal’s talons like dead leaves stirring in a gust. Someone had painted a crude rendition of Cross’s figure on it, with the recognizable black speck on the skull denoting the bullet wound on his brow. Below his visage was the clumsy handwriting of the squals. Cross deciphered them to himself in a muted whisper as if they were some vile enchantment, a dark ritual designed to bring misery onto those who would dare recite it aloud: “Nine divine chattel for the capture of the ‘Man Who Remembers’.”
“Yes-sss, it is-sss you,” the chieftain said.
“How can you even see?” Cross said. “All your eyeholes are covered under a layer of skin. And you don’t even have eyes under that, you ugly piece of—”
The chief plunged a long and bony toe deep inside Cross’s mouth. The abrasive texture of gritty salt crystals and coarse dirt assaulted his taste buds, making him gag.
“Dependenc-sss-e on sss-sight,” the chieftain said, “is-sss for those sss-souls-sss who lack faith.”
The squal’s toe dislodged from Cross’s mouth. He retched, desperate to rid himself of the slimy taste in his throat.
The Raven emerged from the dank cave, her gnarled and weathered hands clasping a burlap sack of divine chattel the squals had given her as payment for turning Cross into them.
“The chief’s giving her your precious, hard-earned objects!” Cross’s voice boomed with righteous wrath, hardened yet grieving, an orchestration of despair and terror. His words reverberated within the cavern walls, but his audience swallowed his fervent plea with unrelenting detachment.
The Raven’s slender figure loomed over Cross as he lay haplessly on the ground. Her justacorps fluttered and climbed like a phantom in the wind, stirring the whisper of fabric that seemed to carry some kind of omen. The squeaks of leather and rustles of fabric gave way to an undulating rhythm from her skirts as she walked over him without hesitation. She strode with poise so resolute it almost conveyed invincibility, her stare fixed forward, unyielding and stern.
“Those objects will destroy you.” Cross’s words rolled off his tongue with force, a maelstrom of irate indignation and passionate fury as if it were conjured forth from some bottomless abyss deep within the depths of his nephesh.
Something special lingered long after he had finished speaking, as if Cross could perceive her very nature behind the veneer, knowing what kind of person she truly was when no one else could.
“The Great Goddess hates your kind,” he continued, hurling accusations at the Raven like a whip. “You know who you are, Raven? I know whose daughter you are. You’re the daughter of Lilith, the very first whore!” His words, filled with inexorable intensity and conviction, sealed her fate as he declared it with finality.
The Raven stamped her boot into his gut, leaving a sickening reverberation through his spirit.
He writhed in agony as the rope dart restrained his wrists against his sides. The percussive pain was all he could feel—unbearable torture that threatened to overwhelm him.
“You bitch!” he said. “I never hurt anybody!”
With a sudden jerk, the rope dart flew free and zoomed into the Raven’s justacorps, winding around her midsection.
Several squals closed their talons around Cross like vices before lifting him from the ground.
The Raven fastened the bag of divine chattel to Gimlet’s saddle before slipping her foot into the stirrups.
“Don’t go with her, Gimlet!” Cross’s voice rose in raw emotion—a desperate howl of anguish and fury that ricocheted off the cavern walls with a savage intensity, exposing his terror, desperation, and powerlessness. The mournful desolation in his voice trembled through the atmosphere like the tolling of a death knell until his words trailed away, quivering and dissipating, pleading for one last opportunity to be heard.
Gimlet groaned at him as if she knew her time with Cross was ending, but could do nothing about it. The creature’s enormous eyes were downcast in sorrow as if she understood the finality of their parting.
“Gimlet wasn’t part of the agreement,” the Raven said. “And if she stays, the squals will gladly have her. But she’ll end up worse than you.” An ethereal silence descended upon the caverns as the Raven spoke. Her words were not uttered harshly or without sympathy, but possessed an unexpected tenderness that spoke of profound empathy and warmth that enveloped Cross’s shattered ruach in a comforting embrace. Though the Raven maintained her own agenda, her gentle tone carried unmistakable compassion and a sincere wish for Cross to find solace in the darkness of his affliction and discover serenity.
Fuck peace!
“Take her, you vulture!” Cross said.
The Raven climbed into the saddle of his cornurus and galloped off into the inky shadows of the mountains. The wind howled in their wake, and mist shrouded their path.
A handful of squals reverently laid Cross upon a rugged ceremonial platform and held his limbs while the chieftain intoned a dirge of plaintive prayers in their sorrowful tongue.
Cross begged Magna Mater to stand with him. The air was alive with devotion, desperation, and dread as the mournful cries of supplication filled the sacred space.
“The Great Goddess hates you miserable souls,” Cross said. “That’s why you’re so ugly. You’re cursed. You can have my memories. Take ‘em. But you’ll always be deformed and hideous.” Cross’s jovial laughter echoed through the oppressive humidity, despite his terror. Rivulets of sweat ran down his brow and cascaded behind his ear as he braced for what was coming.
The chieftain thrust his clammy hands beneath Cross’s chin and curled his sinuous digits around his throat. The repellent spittle of the foul creature pooled on Cross’s face, and he shuddered in loathing, petrified beneath the chieftain’s menacing, eyeless stare.
“Cross-sss,” the chieftain said to the legion of surrounding squals, “known as-sss the Man Who Remembers-sss, wanted in over thirty realms-sss, is-sss finally ours-sss. His-sss neck will be sss-sliced open. His-sss ichor sss-shall flow. His-sss head sss-shall fall into our hands-sss. We sss-shall devour his-sss ruach, and all his-sss memories-sss will be with us-sss. May the Great Goddess-sss have mer-sss-cy on his sss-soul.”
“To Hell with all you squals!” Cross yelled, “And all who gave birth to you!”
“To Hell, we have already been.” The chieftain hoisted a slab of honed stone, its glimmering blade drawing a fateful outline against the fires in the sky.
The entire encampment erupted in a rapturous hiss of jubilation that meandered through the mountainside, weaving into Cross’s soulful screams.
Cross became ensconced in a thick mire of his sweat, tears, and the squal’s spittle. His breathing quickened; he found it difficult to draw breath. He clamped his eyes shut, steeling himself for his sentence and the information he knew but wished he hadn’t.
Throughout his life and death, people placed heavy demands on him as if he were some marionette—a puppet forever tethered to strings and force-fed laborious tasks. And the exhaustion of it all had engulfed him. Finally, the idea of release bled into his consciousness, for perhaps this was what he deserved. It would be best if he were to depart into nothingness.
A deafening peal of thunder reverberated around Cross, electrifying the air and rippling through his chest. He recognized that searing crack. It had thundered just before the Raven swooped in and rescued him from the rudimen.
Cross fluttered his eyelids open as screeches of terror filled every crevice in the caverns.
The chieftain’s spirit was cast into an erratic whir as he flew over Cross before violently crashing into the towering slab of jet-black granite.
Cross rose from his bed on the sacrificial stone and bolted away from the behemoth rock.
Every squal peered up at the murky mountainside where Cross’s savior stood. Her majestic wingspan spread out devilishly, and the skirt of her justacorps flapped and snapped in the stifling wind.
Light rays snaked from her midriff and cracked into the squals nearest Cross like lightning bolts. But it wasn’t lightning; the noise and lights emanated from her magical rope dart that acted on her behalf, yet seemed to possess its own will.
The Raven swooped down from her perch and landed on Gimlet’s saddle. Her gaze fell on Cross, and she stalled, as though waiting for him to join her on Gimlet’s saddle.
Cross finally saw the truth. The Raven had used him as bait to defraud the squals of their precious, divine chattel. It was a tried-and-true con Cross had used in his own life countless times before. And the Raven executed her role flawlessly. But he felt sheepish about not being informed of the grand charade, and if he had, he could have supported her. And with his neck on the line, he would ensure she included him in the reward. But escaping squal territory without burning was their biggest challenge now.
Cross barreled through a throng of three distracted squals.
They careened to the ground.
The Raven’s rope dart twirled and snaked its way through the air with lethal precision as if it were the serpentine tongue of some mythical beast, poisoning each squal it touched with second death. It left a shimmering trail in its wake as it lashed out and withdrew rhythmically, clearing Cross’s path straight toward his guardian angel.
As he neared the Raven, she tossed his macuahuitl in his direction, its obsidian blades gleaming in the gloomy firelight as it arced through the air.
He caught the obsidian blade, curled his hands around its wooden handle, and cleaved through every squal in his path. He reached the Raven, and
The Raven extended her hand and hoisted Cross onto Gimlet’s bare back.
Cross curled his arms around the Raven’s waist, and the trio galloped away from Metnal at breakneck speed, their pursuers trying to keep up, but Gimlet bashed multiple squals with thunderous swings of her spiked tail, sweeping them all away.
4 – Fresh Fruit
As they galloped away together, Cross held the Raven tight from behind her, his arms trembling with anticipation around her waist as she guided Gimlet’s reigns.
The coarse fibers of the rope dart bound their embrace with thick knots at her midsection, designed for an unbreakable union, large and bulky enough for Cross’s grip yet intricate enough to be impossible to unravel without the rope’s own singular will. Years of use had hardened its contact, a reminder of its purpose—to protect and defend. With strength as solid as steel and weight so light it could beat lightning in a race, the rope seemed woven by fate itself.
The Raven’s expansive wings masked the road ahead, casting a veil over what awaited them in the distance. Her wings were thick and soggy, clumping together in patches with a musty odor of molding dirt and matted grime. Underneath that scent lay hints of smoke from the fires in the sky and the ever-present stench of sulfur burning in the air.
Her wings en masse were tattered and bedraggled, more filamentous than plumaged, bare where some feathers had disappeared entirely, exposing her justacorps wrapped around her bony frame. The long cuts in her coat fit around her wings perfectly despite its amateurish design, allowing her wingspan to move easily.
Her feathers were snarled, gritty, and worn, the texture of sand against Cross’s face. The hues were a feeble amalgam of dark blues and pitch blacks streaked with deep purples in the firelight.
In the past, those wings may have glimmered like a quilt of stars across the night sky, endowed with a creamy and luring texture like velvet, wobbling ever so faintly in the gale like a murmur. However, now they were foul, broken remnants in unsightly disarray.
The trio soon reunited with the mendacious crossroads and marched towards Paradise, their destinies tied to the east road. The red stones of the path shifted and crunched beneath their feet as they weaved through the hardened landscape.
Then it presented itself—a river, thick with metallic crimson liquid, sluggishly plodding in defiance of time.
Gimlet recoiled, refusing to wade through it; her intricate horns froze mid-stroke, unmoved by the Raven’s pleas to ferry them across, so Cross stepped in.
His gentle stroke of her horns and honeyed words seemed to captivate the cornurus as if awoken from a trance, and with a profound sigh of submission, she capitulated and reluctantly paddled them through the lukewarm blood until they reached the other side.
Cross glanced back at the swirling fluid and shuddered. The rich hue stained their already tattered garments. They made camp on the outskirts of Xibalbá, stripped off their soiled clothes, and scrubbed away as much sticky residue as possible with whatever clumps of weeds and dead grass were sticking between the rocks.
Cross’s mistrust of the Raven had never been quenched, but he was wise enough to know when to yield and when to engage. He held no offensive arm to match her rope dart with and knew his chances in a brawl were slim; after all, she could have burned him in an instant if she’d chosen, yet so far, her rope dart had not struck him, indicating her need for his participation for another con to collect more divine chattel. So, Cross kept his guard up, vigilantly observing the Raven’s every motion while feigning friendship with her.
As waking time surrendered to a new sleep cycle, the Raven soared close enough to the burning skies so as not to be incinerated, and with her arcane rope dart, she snared a plump barbot in mid-air.
Together, they drained the leathery bird’s ichor and roasted its succulent meat over the flames. The aromatic scent of roasting meat tickled Cross’s nostrils, but he did not revel in its savory delight, for his nephesh was laden with suspicion as they sat by the crackling fire.
“How’d you domesticate a cornurus?” the Raven asked.
“I can tame any beast,” Cross said. “First, you have to let them know who’s boss. You’re in control. Once they respect you, they let their guard down. Then you have to connect with them. Show them you understand them.”
He caressed Gimlet’s velvety snout as she lay in silent repose beside him, a reassuring reminder that her loyalty still lived within the solace of his nephesh and not with the sinister Raven.
“Give them the respect they gave you,” he continued. “And sometimes it’s just as simple as feeding them.” He held a chunk of barbot meat up to Gimlet’s wide mouth, and she fed. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Same for beasts.”
Cross extended another delectable morsel of barbot meat to Gimlet. The cornurus’s tongue slopped from her gaping maw, and she salivated with anticipation as she devoured it greedily. The sound of her gnashing teeth reverberated through the campfire.
Gimlet’s hulking teeth clamped down on his hand, threatening to take a chunk out of him. The near-miss sent tremors of shock throughout his ruach, leaving him stunned by its viciousness.
Cross clouted her on the snout with the head of his fist before he could stop himself, and an uncomfortable shudder ran down his spine. He instantly regretted his brutishness. He knew her nip had been an accident; she would never harm him intentionally—but his primal urge to protect himself had overtaken him at that moment; it had been a reflex born out of too many years living in the sinful shadows of the Underworld, where violence was a necessary survival mechanism. But that might’ve just been his excuse and justification. Apologies rose on his tongue but never found their way to freedom. Instead, he offered only insincere admonishment masked as consolation: “Never bite the hand that feeds you, got it, Gimlet?”
“Gimlet is an inspired name.” The Raven dipped her slender arm into the depths of her burlap sack and withdrew a bushel of freshly picked calabash. She snapped one of the emerald bottle-shaped fruits off the cluster and lobbed it across to Cross.
He caught it with both hands. His eyes were transfixed on the velvety surface of the calabash. The silence enveloped them, interrupted only by the flames crackling in the sky.
“Fresh fruit is a very rare thing,” the Raven said.
No matter what words came out of the Raven’s mouth, her face remained expressionless, as if she maintained complete control over her emotions or was cursed with a permanent indifferent attitude toward everything. She obviously had her own goals but never appeared to smile or frown instinctively, like normal people. He recalled she never even showed anger towards him when he cursed her back in Metnal. And he had said some pretty vile things to get under her skin. But she seemed to choose what behaviors and emotions she expressed deliberately.
Not only did that quality make her the perfect swindler, but it also made it difficult for Cross to determine whether she knew the calabash was poison. If not, he could get her to drink from the fruit, and once the toxin put her down, he could steal all her divine chattel for himself. But if she knew the calabash was tainted, serving it to him could be her tricky way of determining if he knew about its venom, and she might now be studying what he would do with it, testing his allegiance to her. He needed to turn the tables.
“It’s no fun drinking alone.” He raised his fruit in the air as a toast and waited for her to join him.
“What’s the story behind naming her Gimlet?” the Raven said.
Cross couldn’t help but chuckle as the memory of his past life flooded back to him as if it had only happened a moment ago. “I named her after a bawdy house gal I once knew when I was alive. Her stage name was the Roaring Gimlet. That’s a fun story worth drinking to.”
The Raven tucked the calabash back into her sack. “I’m not thirsty right now.” She knotted the drawstrings closed.
“There’s no such thing as not being thirsty,” Cross said. “Your lips are as dry as mine. You think you’re too good to drink with me or something?”
“You tend to get upset over small matters,” she said. “Try to appreciate the small things in life and bask in that joy.”
Cross lifted the smooth-skinned fruit with both hands and held it as if to savor its succulence. “Bolon-Hunahpu is still trying to get me to drink.” He cast the calabash across the parched earth toward the Raven.
The Raven’s ebony feathers rustled as she snatched the calabash from the parched soil. “I didn’t have to keep the promise I made to him, but curiosity got the best of me.” She discarded the produce back into her burlap sack alongside the other exotic objects.
5 – River of Scorpions
The intrepid trio continued their eastward journey for several miles, eventually coming to a repugnant river that bristled with life. Water did not flow through it; millions of scorpions swarmed in the murky depths, clambering over each other as they stung and slashed one another.
Undaunted, Gimlet plunged into the revolting river without hesitation while Cross and the Raven still rode on her back. The scorpions stung them as they went, biting deep and covering every inch of their flesh.
The Raven seized Cross by the arms; her wings worked vigorously to push them from the seething river of scorpions and propelled them out, narrowly evading a gruesome demise in the throes of the scorpions’ poisonous fury.
Once on the other side of the river, they brushed themselves down, removing the clinging creatures squirming from their clothes while Gimlet reveled in the pandemonium of stinging and scurrying. Their pincers were too insignificant to puncture Gimlet’s impervious exterior. She gamboled along the scorpion river, ravenously devouring the fleeing creatures with an abominable crunch as if it were a banquet presented in her honor.
Cross called out to Gimlet, yet she refused to retreat from her feast.
“If you eat too much,” Cross said, “you’ll get a tummy ache. I’ll bring some so you can snack along the way.”
Gimlet let out a throaty groan and dragged herself from the surging mass of writhing scorpions, dripping a dark, unearthly liquid that clung to her hide.
Cross carefully secured a few scorpions in a pouch for a few moments. The searing heat of their barbed stingers left his astral layers burning and swollen.
This served as his paltry attempt at repentance for hitting her. But this mercy offering was nothing compared to the grace Gimlet had given them—bearing two grown spirits with ease on her spiny back. She deserved more than a simple snack for her hard work, yet it remained all he could offer.
6 – Divine Chattel
The weary trio had trudged on for four sleep cycles before they arrived at the Viņsaule canyons. Four pitch-black orbs hung low in the sky, like dead moons, heralding their entry into this land of no escape.
With a violent acid rain battering their tired bodies, Cross and the Raven took shelter in a shallow cave and built a smoldering fire.
As promised, Cross fed Gimlet the few leftover scorpions that remained. The cornurus scavenged through them, gobbling up the living ones before settling on the deceased.
The Raven unfurled her tattered burlap sack, unveiling a spindly spoon that glinted in the campfire. She clucked her tongue and raised it aloft, scrutinizing its every contour with a critical eye. Tapping it against an aged boulder, the Raven surveyed its potential for incantations. Finding no evidence of enchantment, she half-heartedly handed it to Cross.
“One for you,” she said. Next, the Raven produced a handheld mirror. She peered into its depths, her eyes shifting over Cross’s shoulder like someone had walked through the cavern’s entrance.
Cross whirled in place, but all that met his gaze was the torrential acid rain beating against the cave walls outside.
“This one’s for me,” she said, setting the mirror aside.
Despite his trepidation at the potential horrors it could unleash, Cross couldn’t help but wonder what the Raven saw in the mirror’s reflection. Mirrors had long been a source of dread, for they reminded him of his mortality and provided access to frightening entities from beyond. Whenever a mirror caught his gaze, uncanny and terrifying visages from other realms would jeer at him with their menacing words. Cross had endured endless torment at their hands and endeavored to steer clear of all reflective surfaces. Whatever underworldly heka that mirror possessed would be of no benefit to him.
The Raven reached into the burlap sack and withdrew a bone comb. She ran the bristles through her jet-black locks. In an instant, under the spell of the enchanted comb, a section of her raven tresses transmogrified into a brilliant snowy mane.
“Nice look, Blondie,” Cross said.
The Raven grasped a hank of her hair and held it to the firelight, weaving her silvery tresses together. She pulled the ethereal white strands through the bony teeth of her comb, and her locks shifted back to their natural matted ebony hue.
“Two for you,” the Raven said, and with casual disregard, she flung the comb to Cross.
“You ain’t gotta throw it at me,” Cross said.
The Raven’s unreadable expression masked her thoughts.
Cross picked up the comb from his lap. The arcane abilities vested within the Underworld’s relics captivated him, yet he couldn’t foresee a use for a comb that transformed black hair to white. He ran his finger along the edge of his antique spoon, pondering its hidden potential. If it were truly valuable, he wouldn’t let the Raven find out; she might take it from him.
Cross observed the Raven intently as she plucked two more items from her sack: a cigar lighter and a quilt. She unfurled the fabric on the craggy cave floor with a grand flourish, her dark eyes glinting with expectation at its presence. She gestured for Cross to sit beside her and partake in its meager comfort.
Cross nearly smiled at her courtesy, yet he knew that beneath her offer of comfort lay something far more significant—her hope of unlocking the quilts arcane secrets, not his own bodily pleasure. But in his chronic centuries-long fatigue, Cross had forgotten what it was like to feel something so soft and welcoming, and he eagerly complied with her request, almost too enticed.
As he seated himself upon its soft fibers, the Raven struck the lighter’s flint, and from its depths, a host of minuscule, emblazoned salamanders erupted in a fantastic flickering display. One seared her hand, prompting her to drop the lighter onto the quilt.
Cross’s laughter echoed through the cave as the conflagration of salamanders unraveled into the dark in gauzy threads.
The tiny infernos wafted across the breeze, dissipating in a flourish of smoke that floated towards the cave ceiling like wisps of candlelight petering out, meandering off to their own ethereal realm.
The Raven’s hands glided across the quilt, her calloused fingers searching for the lighter she had dropped to its folds. But it had vanished as if devoured by some invisible menace within the quilts’s depths.
“Well, that’s two and three for me,” the Raven said.
Object number six was a beaded necklace with a brass cross hanging from it. The Latin cross lacked any corpus and was unassuming in its appearance until the Raven held it up. An ominous glow bloomed from within, its brilliance soon illuminated their cave area and overshadowed the nearby campfire.
The Raven shuddered as if unnerved by the sight before chucking the adornment over to Cross. Its luminescence faded almost instantly when it landed in his hands.
“Three for you,” the Raven said. “And sorry for throwing it. Old habit.”
No trace of apology remained in the Raven’s cold and unconcerned tone. Her sharp tongue tore into Cross with a mocking gibe, lamenting his request for the common courtesy of civility and promising him she would throw the remaining objects at him with unbridled violence, as she had done with all those that had preceded the Latin cross. There was no remorse, only the sneering defiance of one who has yielded their morality to the whims of their desires.
The Raven upended the burlap sack and poured the remaining articles onto the cave floor. With extreme caution, she ensured those items never landed on the dust-ridden quilt, for the supposed fear that they might get swallowed into its weave and vanish forever in magical oblivion.
Three objects tumbled, glinting in the campfire crackling beside them. A compass, an amphora, and a flask clattered on the cave floor as if to signal an imminent quest.
The Raven closed an eye, peered into the flask’s opening, and inverted it as if trying to coax an elusive genie out. No liquid spilled out.
But even Cross could detect the potent aroma of bourbon rising out of the rim from his side of the quilt.
The Raven touched the rim of the flask to her nose and inhaled deeply. She took a small sip, letting the mystery liquid swirl around in her mouth as if savoring its complexity, before twisting the cap back on with a faint crack.
“What’s in it?” Cross asked.
The Raven snubbed Cross’s inquiry and picked up the compass from the musty cavern floor. The pointer of the instrument spun haphazardly, seeming unable or unwilling to determine the direction of the North.
Cross’s hand jolted as a mysterious force pulled the spoon from his fingers, its arc changing to smack against the Raven’s chest.
A vibrant green light crackled across her spirit for an instant and then vanished almost as soon as it had appeared.
Had Cross blinked, he would have missed the spectacle. His nape bristled as the Raven’s inky tresses also rose upright on her scalp of their own accord.
An icy dread lingered in the air like a storm was about to ensue. Cross shuddered in awe as the surrounding atmosphere changed with unknown energy, demonstrating a force beyond his wildest comprehension. How much power had the Raven unlocked? The object piqued his curiosity. Their discovery of the mysterious compass set the ball rolling on something far more significant than Cross could ever have imagined.
The lifeless spoon still clung stubbornly to her breast, affixed by the unseen magic.
“That’s mine.” Cross reached for his spoon, and although he had not meant to, his palm graced the Raven’s supple breast.
He had not been intimate with a woman since Diamond Tooth, and the warmth and bliss that rushed through him at that moment reminded him of the delights of females’ fragile figures. Even the tough-as-nails Raven was still tender to the touch. For a brief spell, he savored the sensation that had been absent for years.
A sliver of frigid steel glided beneath Cross’s chin, jerking him from his spellbound stupor.
The Raven’s rope dart slithered to his jugular like a snake and coiled around his throat.
Cross relinquished his hold on the Raven’s chest and raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean—I was just—”
The Raven’s rope dart dug deep into the flesh of his throat, making his chin strain towards the heavens before freeing him. Its menace still hung in the air, a chill that lingered even after the rope had slipped away.
The Raven let the compass slip from her grasp, clinking against her sack’s many treasures. As she did so, the spoon, no longer connected to her by the invisible tether, dropped into her lap. She tossed it aside, spinning it into a faraway corner of darkness.
“Fetch,” The Raven said. The word sliced through the atmosphere, as sharp and unforgiving as the obsidian edges of a macuahuitl. Its intended target was the illusion of peace they had so painstakingly constructed over the past several sleep cycles. The ferocity of her gaze and the wintry indifference within her eyes were enough to make any man quake in fear. She stared on, expressionless and uncaring, her face an unbearably still mask. The surrounding air was thick with dread, and he dared not speak or move for fear of unleashing the sheer terror that emanated from the Raven.
Cross rose from the quilt, his nephesh racing as he searched for his stupid spoon, his fingers blindly probing the grotto’s blackness.
A charred wraith splintered in his grasp, shocking him at its sudden, unexpected appearance.
He stumbled backward, trembling as he collided with the unforgiving earth, and his breath caught in his throat.
“What is it?” the Raven asked.
Her bewitched rope dart reared its head back, poised to unleash its lethal strike.
“Nothing,” Cross said. “A blighted spirit. Just a blight.”
Despite the well-known fact that every spirit burned to a crust when it succumbed to a second death, there was no universally accepted nomenclature for this spiritual transmogrification. These beings were labeled in myriad terms: the departed, the listless, the vacant, nothings, endlings—so many colloquial names.
Cross simply referred to them as some variation of blighted spirit, or blights for short, because that’s what his old friend Diamond Tooth used to call them. Her authority made the term sound more accurate than the others. And because of his involvement with her, Cross strived to avoid being around blights and refused to touch them for fear of being inflicted with some ill-fated curse.
They were once vibrant, walking, and talking spirits like Cross. But now, they littered the Underworld as hollow ruachs, existing only in the reflexive Mind, Will, and Emotion of their insentient nephesh.
Cobwebs of charcoal-colored muck coiled around their bony frames, like a spider’s attempt to bestow a new fleshly form upon them. Even the slightest touch of a stick could shatter their mangled exterior shells into fine ash and dust, leaving their insides oozing onto the ground like dark molasses until nothing but dust remained.
Cross spied his spoon, its polished face glittering deep in the heart of the hellish black powdery chippings of the wretched blight. He held a hand to his mouth and nose as he savagely crushed the horrific blight under his boot. He hastily retrieved his spoon from within the ash before him.
Tiny white specks flew out of the scoop and were scattered along the ground. Many of these delicate white grains were sprinkled about the soot of the blight.
He squatted down to inspect them and soon realized with awe that these little white tidbits were not average snowflakes but grains of rice!
His eyes widened as he scouted the terrain for other rice granules, yet he only encountered them within the blight’s malodorous bowels, where his spoon had once lain. Then, a seedling of faith germinated in Cross’s mind—could it be the miraculous power of his spoon?
Cross slowly revolved, checking on the Raven as she upturned the amphora, scrutinizing its underside.
Taking advantage of the opportunity of a distracted Raven, Cross shrewdly stirred the spoon in the blight’s loathsome innards.
As he had suspected, the spoon miraculously summoned uncooked grains from the desiccated remains.
He pinched a grain between his weary fingertips and blew the ashy flakes off its surface. He paused, crossing himself as he raised it to his lips. But then he thought better of it and hesitated.
Such a gift was too good to be true. The rice could be tainted. He should test it on another spirit first—but who? Surely not Gimlet; that thought was beyond unthinkable. And the Raven would be too wary of the rice to dare test it for poison. Cross could never persuade her to taste it, so he resolved to hold on to the secret until a more opportune moment to sprinkle the grains into her meal secretly.
He scattered the suspicious granules into the darkness with a sweep of his hand.
A thunderous, undulating roar filled the cavern, rippling through the atmosphere like a titanic wave crashing against a barren coastline.
Gimlet gave a strangled gasp, and Cross whirled with lethal grace, his hand hovering above his macuahuitl, prepared to deliver a fatal blow.
A mighty geyser erupted from the Raven’s amphora, cascading across the cavernous ceiling. In a mere second, the tumult ceased, and the Raven stood drenched, her thin blouse conforming to her figure with striking clarity. Her blouse clung to her generous curves, her sable nipples starkly visible beneath the soaked fabric.
Cross tore his eyes away from The Raven’s chest and peered up at the cascading droplets of water that clung to the jagged stalactites of the cave.
In a moment of miraculous awe, he beheld as petals of deep sapphire and lustrous violet unfurled from the ceiling, lighting the cave walls like a thousand stars. Then swathes of flourishing vegetation sprung from the puddles of water below, painting the empty cavern with a spectrum of verdant hues and transforming it into an ethereal paradise.
The Raven crouched and plucked a delicate flower from the fresh cave garden. She brought it up to her nose and inhaled, her eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. “Ankhami,” she said reverently before twirling the stem between her nimble fingers.
“That’s four, five, and six for me,” she said, and with swift precision, she tossed the handful of objects into the intricately woven quilt that lay on the ground beside her. Without fail, they vanished as soon as they hit its folds. Finally, she rolled up the quilt and crammed it into the rough burlap sack.
The Raven hoarded all the most coveted objects for herself, leaving Cross with a single item of interest to him: the Latin cross, not simply for its shimmering illumination but for what it signified. It brought solace to his spirit and reminded him of his ultimate reward in the bliss of Paradise. One day, all of his sufferings would be extinguished, so he hung the Latin cross around his neck, though the spoon could be helpful if it produced dregs lethal enough to dispatch the Raven. But what if it produced actual grain? He pondered, with apprehension and morbid curiosity, the depths of immorality he would have to descend to indulge in a meal of rice made from the charred spirits of disgusting blights. For now, however, he could sustain himself on meager barbot rations. Last and least, his bone comb proved utterly pointless.
“That’s it?” Cross said.
“That’s it,” the Raven said.
“What the hell am I gonna do with this spoon and comb?”
“I’ll take them off your hands.” The Raven held out her pallid hand, the pale ivory of her slender wrist broken by an ebony leather cuff. Her digits were elongated and hardened, their tips worn and scarred with years of labor. Her obsidian eyes burned through him with unspoken weight, awaiting a response. She could influence the very fabric of this world with a single gesture. Such was the strength of her will.
Cross reluctantly shoved the spoon and comb deep into his pockets with a tight, disdainful scowl, feeling the weight of the Underworld at that moment.
“Congratulations,” the Raven said. “You’re now worth thirteen objects.” The Raven proffered Cross a draught from the phantom flask.
Cross accepted it and imbibed liquid that materialized at his lips while the vessel remained inscrutably bare.
The ambrosial lick of Peacock whiskey, his beloved brand of bourbon, caressed his tongue and cascaded harmoniously down his gullet. It tasted even purer than he had remembered.
And with that shared swig, Cross knew the Raven had roped him in to be her partner—albeit an asymmetrical one, but a partner nonetheless. It was far better than her burning him to second death.
Cross reverently grasped the Latin cross adorning his chest, symbolizing strength in his quest. A newfound conviction welled up within him. He would somehow succeed in either robbing the Raven of all her divine chattel or at least persuading her to split them equally with him, particularly those items that would be most powerful.
“My neck is on the line,” he said. “Next time, I want more objects. More than half.”
“You may deserve more,” the Raven said, “but when a job isn’t worth my while economically, I spend my downtime seeking other employment opportunities. Sometimes, that hunt interferes with the timing of my current job. And despite your pretty little neck being on the line, I might not be in such a hurry to stop your execution. Who knows if I’ll even show up? Maybe something better will come along.”
“Well, if you’re late,” he said, “you’re better off not even showing up. No one crosses me. Those who do learn why they call me Cross. Eventually, they all get nailed.”
“Very creative,” the Raven said, appearing unfazed by his threat.
The two of them would be a more effective force if they combined their efforts against their enemies than if each of them fought solo, but friendship was out of the question because they could never come to trust each other as they both would always keep their guard up around the other. It was in Cross’s best interests to endure and go along with the arrangement for the foreseeable future so he could seize as many divine chattel as possible.
“Where to next?” he asked.
