In the Caverns of the afterlife
Jun 7, 2006 17:32:14 GMT
Post by barnibusquentin on Jun 7, 2006 17:32:14 GMT
Blackness rammed against the Old Man with the force of a storm, and a pitiful semblance of feeling told him he was moving downwards through something. Through semi-conscious ears he could hear rumbling as it rushed by. Whatever it was, it was probably related to the coronal spikes of pain that flared through his dulled senses.
This faded in and out.
Memories, not yet minutes old, played as old films across the back of his eyelids. They throbbed; some parts were jagged sharp, others impossibly hazy: here an expression, there a smear of motion. It was like watching another’s life through bottles. It all felt so detached, so borrowed, and snaking in the back of his brain was the understanding that they were: the memories weren’t his. Realization—a panther stalking its prey—stole up on him, the Old Man was dead and this rushing was The Journey: heaven, hell…or oblivion. And like the springing of a panther, Barnibus realized for the first time in his life how much he wanted still to do. He wanted to grow old; not just to be old, but to grow into it, to have—even for a few days—peace. Now there was nothing at all.
An impact shattered through Barnibus’ final thoughts, and he knew his journey was done. Simply, he had to open his eyes and see the afterlife. He did, slowly—waveringly—and saw nothing but more blackness. As his eyes adjusted, ghost faint and shadow solid details emerged around him; natural stone rose up in a spacious inverted bulb. The soft monochrome forms of impossibly long stalactites drooped down from the ceiling. The afterlife is a cave? He thought. Am I in Hell? Could my life have been that bad?
It seemed to end that way. Feeling returned to his death-numbed limbs and Barnibus immediately wished it hadn’t. The pain became solar flares of searing hurt. Moving only his eyes—his head didn’t have the strength to respond—Barnibus looked down at the rest of his body. He could see the woody spikes of Sisyphus’s strange attack pinning him to the floor, and twisting maze-like up in a pillar that stretched to where he had been minutes—or days—earlier. A place of events that weren’t his, and causes he couldn’t remember. The wooden vines twisted and pushed down with a shuddering finality that sent more flares of pain through Barnibus’ body. A weak grunt escaped his throat, though that seemed to sap what little strength he had left. Blackness again surged over him and for many days—or years—he lay there in a blissful emptiness as perfect as a God.
Later the Old Man awoke, and in a daze tried to stand. He succeeded only in sending waves of screaming pain up from his stomach. Barnibus remembered where he was and wondered if he could stay there forever, pinned like a fly to the floor of the afterlife, living on in undying shock. The cavern had lightened enough for him to see more; but, looking down, his attention immediately turned to his body. He looked like a garbage-dump doll, all bruised and torn open, and pinned on display. His mechanical heart and lung poked through his shredded wrapping paper skin. They smoked and stuttered, refusing to work. Still he didn’t die. Dirt painted his tattooed skin in arcs and spatter. Weakly Barnibus fell into a trance and searched the emptiness for strands of magic. He picked up the few threads that were there hiding from the light of death. He dusted them off and wove them into a simple spell. In front of his hands dusted danced; it congealed and then sharpened into a wedged blade, which then coup-de-graced the vine. Semi free the Old Man rolled over, screaming in pain as his dead body protested the movement. Blackness slapped his face in waves, and he fell into unconsciousness again.
He awoke on his side. A tiny puddle of marbled black and red blood pooled under his ribs and dead snakes of wooden vine still stuck their severed throats out from his stomach. Cursing and screaming against the atrophy of his muscles, Barnibus reached down and wrapped his hands around one and pulled; he was weak and the thing barely moved, so he pulled harder. A loud low groan escaped his lips as the vine emerged from his insides. Barnibus tossed it to the side—it landed with a bloody thump—and he screamed, full and unabashed.
The next one came just as tough, but after the third he didn’t have any pain left to feel. Blood spilled from the new wounds and Barnibus wondered if any was left in his veins. For a long time he lay still, trying his best to gather strength, and after a great deal more time he put both hands against the dusty floor and pushed. With a great convulsing in his arms he managed to force himself up to his knees. Next, he slid backwards on his rear, slowly and painfully, until he hit the wall. Grabbing hold of the stone the Old Man managed to stand. Nausea sliced through his insides. Doubling over, he gagged and choked, but there was nothing to vomit.
One step after another he stumbled back to the middle of the cavern, before a cold torrent from above washed him away.
Blinded and sputtering in the dark water Barnibus was carried from the cavern through a hole so tiny his arms scraped against the stone sides. The river took him down deeper into the earth—or hell.
Finally, the current released him into a massive inky expanse that was too deep to see the bottom, and too dark to tell which way was up. Barnibus let his body go limp and hoped the laws of physics still worked. It turned out they did, because seconds later his head bobbed above the surface. The edge of the underground pool wasn’t far away, and he torpidly swam over to it, though he had to rest before he could pull himself over the edge. Rolling on to his back, Barnibus stared up at the roof, hypnotized as caustic shadows from some unknown light source, danced ballet across the cavernous ceiling. It was beautiful. And at that moment he decided this couldn’t be Lucifer’s realm. This was something different, certainly not heaven; but, not hell either. The shadows began to dance more wildly, less ballet, more primordial: maenadic. They became bolder and moved in oscillating arcs across the Old Man’s vision. For the third time sleep took him.
When he awoke he felt rested—almost. His numerous wounds had stopped bleeding, though now his body seemed one massive scab, and he could still reach though his stomach and grab his spine. Barnibus stood with some trouble. Now what? He was a dead soul trapped in a cave lost and alone. He had no idea where to go from here. Barnibus reached out with his mind and was ecstatic to find some threads of magic. A globe of flame appeared above his hand. He was going to explore…
This faded in and out.
Memories, not yet minutes old, played as old films across the back of his eyelids. They throbbed; some parts were jagged sharp, others impossibly hazy: here an expression, there a smear of motion. It was like watching another’s life through bottles. It all felt so detached, so borrowed, and snaking in the back of his brain was the understanding that they were: the memories weren’t his. Realization—a panther stalking its prey—stole up on him, the Old Man was dead and this rushing was The Journey: heaven, hell…or oblivion. And like the springing of a panther, Barnibus realized for the first time in his life how much he wanted still to do. He wanted to grow old; not just to be old, but to grow into it, to have—even for a few days—peace. Now there was nothing at all.
An impact shattered through Barnibus’ final thoughts, and he knew his journey was done. Simply, he had to open his eyes and see the afterlife. He did, slowly—waveringly—and saw nothing but more blackness. As his eyes adjusted, ghost faint and shadow solid details emerged around him; natural stone rose up in a spacious inverted bulb. The soft monochrome forms of impossibly long stalactites drooped down from the ceiling. The afterlife is a cave? He thought. Am I in Hell? Could my life have been that bad?
It seemed to end that way. Feeling returned to his death-numbed limbs and Barnibus immediately wished it hadn’t. The pain became solar flares of searing hurt. Moving only his eyes—his head didn’t have the strength to respond—Barnibus looked down at the rest of his body. He could see the woody spikes of Sisyphus’s strange attack pinning him to the floor, and twisting maze-like up in a pillar that stretched to where he had been minutes—or days—earlier. A place of events that weren’t his, and causes he couldn’t remember. The wooden vines twisted and pushed down with a shuddering finality that sent more flares of pain through Barnibus’ body. A weak grunt escaped his throat, though that seemed to sap what little strength he had left. Blackness again surged over him and for many days—or years—he lay there in a blissful emptiness as perfect as a God.
§ § §
Later the Old Man awoke, and in a daze tried to stand. He succeeded only in sending waves of screaming pain up from his stomach. Barnibus remembered where he was and wondered if he could stay there forever, pinned like a fly to the floor of the afterlife, living on in undying shock. The cavern had lightened enough for him to see more; but, looking down, his attention immediately turned to his body. He looked like a garbage-dump doll, all bruised and torn open, and pinned on display. His mechanical heart and lung poked through his shredded wrapping paper skin. They smoked and stuttered, refusing to work. Still he didn’t die. Dirt painted his tattooed skin in arcs and spatter. Weakly Barnibus fell into a trance and searched the emptiness for strands of magic. He picked up the few threads that were there hiding from the light of death. He dusted them off and wove them into a simple spell. In front of his hands dusted danced; it congealed and then sharpened into a wedged blade, which then coup-de-graced the vine. Semi free the Old Man rolled over, screaming in pain as his dead body protested the movement. Blackness slapped his face in waves, and he fell into unconsciousness again.
§ § §
He awoke on his side. A tiny puddle of marbled black and red blood pooled under his ribs and dead snakes of wooden vine still stuck their severed throats out from his stomach. Cursing and screaming against the atrophy of his muscles, Barnibus reached down and wrapped his hands around one and pulled; he was weak and the thing barely moved, so he pulled harder. A loud low groan escaped his lips as the vine emerged from his insides. Barnibus tossed it to the side—it landed with a bloody thump—and he screamed, full and unabashed.
The next one came just as tough, but after the third he didn’t have any pain left to feel. Blood spilled from the new wounds and Barnibus wondered if any was left in his veins. For a long time he lay still, trying his best to gather strength, and after a great deal more time he put both hands against the dusty floor and pushed. With a great convulsing in his arms he managed to force himself up to his knees. Next, he slid backwards on his rear, slowly and painfully, until he hit the wall. Grabbing hold of the stone the Old Man managed to stand. Nausea sliced through his insides. Doubling over, he gagged and choked, but there was nothing to vomit.
One step after another he stumbled back to the middle of the cavern, before a cold torrent from above washed him away.
Blinded and sputtering in the dark water Barnibus was carried from the cavern through a hole so tiny his arms scraped against the stone sides. The river took him down deeper into the earth—or hell.
Finally, the current released him into a massive inky expanse that was too deep to see the bottom, and too dark to tell which way was up. Barnibus let his body go limp and hoped the laws of physics still worked. It turned out they did, because seconds later his head bobbed above the surface. The edge of the underground pool wasn’t far away, and he torpidly swam over to it, though he had to rest before he could pull himself over the edge. Rolling on to his back, Barnibus stared up at the roof, hypnotized as caustic shadows from some unknown light source, danced ballet across the cavernous ceiling. It was beautiful. And at that moment he decided this couldn’t be Lucifer’s realm. This was something different, certainly not heaven; but, not hell either. The shadows began to dance more wildly, less ballet, more primordial: maenadic. They became bolder and moved in oscillating arcs across the Old Man’s vision. For the third time sleep took him.
§ § §
When he awoke he felt rested—almost. His numerous wounds had stopped bleeding, though now his body seemed one massive scab, and he could still reach though his stomach and grab his spine. Barnibus stood with some trouble. Now what? He was a dead soul trapped in a cave lost and alone. He had no idea where to go from here. Barnibus reached out with his mind and was ecstatic to find some threads of magic. A globe of flame appeared above his hand. He was going to explore…