Hell, p.1
Hell, page 1
© A. A. Ron 2020
ISBN: 978-1-09834-135-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-09834-136-7
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter One:
Tied to the Dream
Chapter Two:
Awakening
Chapter Three:
Leech-Craft
Chapter Four:
Days of Darkness
Chapter Five:
An Old Friend
Chapter Six:
Death at Sea
Chapter Seven:
Dear Daughter
Chapter Eight:
Falconhead Lane
Chapter Nine:
The Black Rose
Chapter Ten:
The Tree of Life
Chapter Eleven:
A World Without Pity
Chapter Twelve:
Solstice
Chapter Thirteen:
Netzach
Chapter Fourteen:
Necropolis
Chapter Fifteen:
Symposium
Chapter One:
Tied to the Dream
Funny, she thought to herself, how one can never remember being born. Arguably the most important event in one’s life, lost to us. The blinding flash of light, first breath of new life, and the shattering of placental peace, cast off… forgotten.
She adjusted her pose to give the people another view of her nearly nude body, eliciting mutterings of amazement from the assembled throng. Feigning detachment, she surreptitiously eyed the crowd; mostly filthy peasants still stained from their labors afield, but near the back looked to be several wealthy landowners quietly conversing amongst themselves. The same crowd every night. Though the faces may be different, after awhile they all blurred into one another.
There are those who believe that we choose our lives before we are born. Select our bodies and dull trappings of personality and put them on like a mask to hide a divine spark within. If she had chosen this body, this mask, the reason was now well beyond her grasp, for up until now it had brought her naught but sorrow. During these times of public humiliation and shame her mind would wander, a half remembered snatch of a song, as if from a dream, becoming her mantra...
In the womb we are knit into the tapestry.
Memories wiped clean. Tied to the dream.
So the Lord can know what it’s like to be.
One particularly brave man reached out a tentative hand to touch her, only to be met with a fierce blow from her father’s stave.
“No touch! Look!”
The man retreated to the rear of the crowd like a whipped dog. Not many men would willingly confront her father. Standing over two meters, he towered over the lion’s share of humanity. Carrying himself at twenty five stone, with a bushy, black beard and cold, dark eyes, Yurgis Stannek was a monster… a nightmarish ogre from the grimmest of faery tales. It was clear he was becoming more agitated by the minute.
“Show over now. GO!”
The rabble slowly filed out of the patchwork tent, content to return to their daily toils in the fields; the endless drudgery of their pointless existence. They all thought her a freak, an unfortunate denizen of the shadowy realm on the far side of the dividing line that separates men from animals. In a bid to reassure themselves of their own tentative humanity, they surrendered good coin, or bartered what little they possessed of any value, for the chance to gawk at her, slack-jawed and ignorant. There had to be more to herself than that, or at least she hoped there must be.
The painted girl pulled on her old, threadbare robe while her father herded the stragglers out, wincing at a yelp of pain as one of the local children earned a sharp crack on the leg for his sluggishness. In an effort to avoid him, she made a half-hearted attempt to sneak away, but his booming voice pierced her back like an arrow, causing her to flinch involuntarily.
“Tatiana!”
Reluctantly, she turned to face him, “Yes Papa?”
“You make good money today, I am proud.”
“Thank you Papa.” Her voice, barely more than a whisper.
“One man pay with this. Here, for you,” into her outstretched hand he spilled a fine chain of silver, decorated with a cross. “You wear tonight, yes?”
“Yes Papa.” Dread filling her heart.
“Then go to wagon and await my return. I have business to attend before evening meal.”
Remaining silent, she bowed her head subserviently, thankful for this momentary reprieve. Stepping out of the tent into the waning light of late afternoon, the vast Russian steppe spread out before her in a panoramic view. As mud squished between her toes she silently cursed this place, despite its overwhelming beauty. The mud was an everywhere, ever-present nuisance on this trip. What had begun as the promise of a four month tour excruciatingly stretched out to the better part of a year as the roads became a churning miasma of muck. If not for her father’s prodigious strength they would probably still be stuck outside of Minsk.
Several performers from the troupe curtly nodded to her as she squelched along the path between the tents, but she paid them no heed. Yurgis strictly forbade her from associating with anyone they traveled with. Her one chance at socializing denied her. The beauty of real human contact, lost.
At the head of the column their ramshackle wagon stood against the sky, at once imposing, yet pitiful. It had been built with two storeys, and though that left it all the more treacherous in this swampy terrain, she was forever grateful because it afforded her a private room. A haven away from her brutish patriarch and the prying eyes of the masses. The aging pack horses that labored day after day drawing it were her only friends. Her favorite, Poto, nickered as she approached.
The old stallion, in the autumn of his life, remained unbroken, retaining a last measure of the strength and vitality that once marked him a king among horses. Though his once magnificent coat had faded to dirty off-white, and his mane had turned a stringy, mangy gray, his hooves were un-split, his eyes clear. She’d known him her whole life, ever since she could remember. It was on him she first learned to ride. In their younger days they’d even performed an acrobatic equestrian act together. Now those recollections of better times only served to depress her as she tightly hugged his sinewy neck.
“Oh Poto, would that I were an animal like you. There is no malice in you, and though your life is constant labor you bear it all with good natured simplicity. While I am filled with hatred, sadness, and fear which I cannot escape, even in my labors.”
As she gently stroked his muzzle, losing herself in those watery, black eyes, her own began welling with tears. This had become a regular occurrence in her life of late, tearfully confiding in a dumb animal who couldn’t possibly understand her. But, she had to confide in someone; had to relieve the crushing burden of her sadness, if only for a moment. He was the sole companion to which she could turn, silently listening without judgment.
Saying her goodbyes to Poto and his daughters, Rosa and Sera, she climbed the three wooden steps, worked the latch and entered. A wave of stale tobacco and sour sweat enveloped her, smells strongly associated with her father. He occupied the lower level of the wagon, the chamber of her torture. Holding her breath in a well practiced ritual, she hurriedly ascended the ladder on the wall, retreating to the paltry portion of the planet allotted solely to her…
The meanest part of her misery always seemed to melt away whenever she entered her room. In all the world it was only here that she felt even the slightest modicum of contentment. Walls lined with shelves, crowded with tiny treasures and keepsakes, reminders of her journeys and all that she’d seen. Capstones for the fragile structure that held her few happy memories.
Her hand absent-mindedly caressed the leather bindings of her books, recounting innumerable hours lost in their pages. The promise of even the briefest escape from this grievous life kept her returning to these same beloved stories, year after year, until they occupied the largest portion of her mind. Tales of trolls and giants, wizards and sorceresses, captive princesses and evil kings; knights in shining armor…
An illustrated picture postcard of the Crystal Palace, hawked for pennies at a country fair, framed by a peacock feather and an especially perfect pinecone. Empty bottles of various snake-oil remedies meticulously arranged among colorful agates gathered on the shores of the mediteranean. Tin soldiers and animal figurines standing watch over a belt buckle shaped like a falcon, perched upon a bear’s tooth nesting within a small pouch of rice thrown at the wedding of their pyromancer. Charms, totems, reminders that she’d ever lived at all; that there had been something before all this. Her intricate mechanical nightingale evoked bittersweet memories, while a minute silver box quietly contained the few pieces of jewelry she owned. Her father was forever giving her gifts to placate his conscience over the monstrous acts he performed on her…
Even here, her sanctuary, his scent intruded. Striking a match, she lit some incense to drive his stench from the room, then wound the key on the ornate Egyptian music box she loved so much. Its tinkling melody filled the room as she disrobed, going to stand before her greatest possession.
The full length mirror dominated the small space, it’s silver frame painstakingly wrought with roses and leaves. Her father had purchased it for her in Romania, and it was into its depths that she fell every chance she got. Gazing upon her body as she had so many times before, g
The cryptic runes which adorned nearly every inch of her…
Papa claimed she’d been born this way. With alien writing covering the entirety of her body. Eyelids, palms, even the soles of her feet, practically no part of her was free of this strange malady. She was not completely covered however, amidst the thousands of complex marks upon her skin, each a half centimeter square, there were thirty five blank spaces where her corpse-white flesh showed through. It was these gaps that puzzled her the most, were they the full stops between sentences? Or was she incomplete? The spaces intended for symbols that were missing?
With no answers apparent, the only thing left to fall back on was childish fantasy. Often imagining it to be an ancient, forgotten language which, if deciphered, would reveal the secrets of the Universe. Such were the foolish dreams of a naïve young girl. So far, no one had even been able to identify it, let alone translate it; furthermore, if it was indeed a form of writing it stood to reason that there would be repetition of characters, but each mark upon her was unique.
Stranger still were the vivid bursts of color that proceeded up the front of her at fixed intervals. These symbols were wholly unlike the small, tight script that decorated the rest of her body. They were much larger, possessing an altogether rounder shape. Each one bold black upon a field of a different color, contained within a perfectly circular border resembling a blooming flower.
There were seven in total, beginning in red at the crook where her skinny legs came together, just above her womanly parts. If she stretched out her thumb and forefinger she could walk her fingers up her body, touching each one in turn; her womb, stomach, heart, throat, forehead, and terminating on her crown in an intensely violet latticework of staring eyes. Thankfully, her long brown hair covered them, they always gave her a chill. Leaning closer to the mirror, she examined the one she couldn’t readily hide. A stylized number three resting within a deep blue burst on her forehead, between and slightly above her brow, which made her appear as if she had three eyes…
She turned to the side, sucking in her stomach then letting it relax, she was so thin, almost unhealthily so. Then she pushed up on her budding breasts and let them fall. Maybe two summers separated her from being a woman-grown, and she dreaded it, for the older she got, the worse his... attentions became. Yellow bruises bloomed beneath her markings, memories of recent beatings. Mostly he knew how to hit without leaving evidence, yet, even when he did, her body tended to hide it.
Many of the folk who witnessed her mistook her markings for tattoos, which was how she came by not only her nickname, Tat, but also her stage title, The Painted Girl. But she’d had them ever since she was a small child, barely old enough to notice them and realize that she was different. Never did they fade or distort, as normal tattoos would, instead growing in proportion with her body. Besides, not even Yurgis would stoop so low as to tattoo a baby. After years of doubt and wonder, she’d come to accept that she had indeed been born like this, and continually fantasized that her condition presaged an innate power that could one day free her from this wretched existence…
The smell of sandalwood and the last jangling notes of her music box brought her out of her reverie. Papa would be returning soon and she had to dress and prepare for dinner at once.
At one end of her room, just below the window facing out the rear of the wagon, was her clothing chest. Hand carved and quite beautiful, it once belonged to her mother, or so she’d been told. Looking upon it provoked the usual wave of melancholy; according to Yurgis, Mother died giving birth to her. No memory, not even a fragment, remained.
“Why did you have to die and leave me with him?” Tears came to her eyes then, as small sobs racked her slender frame. The well-oiled lock snapped open under her graceful fingers and she chose a simple, woolen dress which she pulled over her head. Then she selected a pair of shoes with little silver buckles and put them on. Again she stood before the mirror. Gathering her long hair back in a tail, she fastened the silver chain around her neck...
From below there came a commotion, signaling her father’s return.
“TAT!!!” He bellowed. He’d obviously been drinking.
“Coming Papa.” She called, mounting the ladder. The sickly caress of his greedy eyes upon her, a palpable sensation as she descended. As she reached the floor, one huge hand clasped around her neck, the other traveling up her leg, under the dress. Her air supply choked off, barely able to issue a pathetic plea. “Please papa, not now... not when I have to face the others.”
His face pressed close to her ear, breath reeking of vodka. “After all I do for you, gifts I give, you think to deny me? Man who raised and protected? Spoiled child, I should leave you to wolves.”
Though her heart soared at this empty threat, there was no hope of that. No escape, ever.
“I’m sorry Papa, I am a spoiled child. I don’t deserve all this. Only, I beg you… please not now.”
“Yurgis loves his little Tat.”
She shivered in disgust, “I love you too Papa.” In this state it was always best to debase herself and agree with him, for which she was rewarded. The pressure around her neck slackened and he removed his hand from under her skirt.
“Very well, later you will pay, yes?”
“Alright, Papa.”
With a lightning-fast motion he lashed out, striking her across the face with an open palm that felt hard as stone. Blood began to drip from her nose.
“Then clean up and come to fire.” With that he turned his back and stormed out the door, calling out terse orders to anyone foolish enough to get in his way.
She collapsed in a huddle. If there was a God, how could He allow this? Was there no mercy for a tortured, innocent soul in this world? Once again she contemplated taking her own life. Her poor wrists, shamefully bearing the jagged scars that betrayed her last unsuccessful attempt. The memory of the beating she received that day would stay with her forever, nothing could change that. Still, she would’ve committed the deed gladly tenfold if not for the one thought which gave her pause...
What if I end up in hell?
Lacking any first-hand information, only cryptic words heard spoken in hushed tones describing a place where sinners endure eternal torment in a lake of molten fire. Even if her sins were involuntary, forced upon her, it was said that all sin is equal in the eyes of the Lord. Further evidence of the boundless cruelty of the creator and the complete lack of justice extant in His accursed creation. She desired an end to suffering, not to trade it for the possible promise of burning for all eternity. Having no other choice, she grudgingly gathered herself up, wiped her nose, and stepped out the door to meet the troupe.
All eyes averted as she stepped into the firelight, though not before casting fleeting glimpses of sympathy. Despite traveling with these people for years, her shame and their fear of Yurgis kept an impenetrable barrier between her and the others. Though she suspected they all knew what was happening, none dared help her and risk jeopardizing not only their position within the group, but their very lives as well. She couldn’t blame them, but deep in her hardened heart, she did.
A goat, a gift from a local landowner, roasted on a spit over the great bonfire. Through the flames Yurgis appeared, loudly laughing and talking with those around him. To the side she could see Mikel tuning up his kobza. Nearby, as always, was Betha with her violin, and Ob with his drum and foot bells.
Mikel looked up from his instrument and their eyes locked for a brief moment before she turned away. He’d joined the troupe not two seasons past, and despite the two of them being nearly of an age, he was already an accomplished musician; however, being the youngest and newest member of their band, he was not always mindful of the insurmountable wall between them. Sometimes he would risk her father’s wrath and speak to her. She never replied, despite desperately wishing to. This made it awkward when they performed together, for he surely thought her icy and aloof, unattainable in her attitudes. While, in actuality, she thought him quite handsome, and his playing had helped her through many hard times. Lately she caught him glancing her way more and more. It could never be; Yurgis would kill him if he so much as touched her. Stealing another glance at him, both pleased and dismayed to find his eyes had never left her…
