Bottled Abyss (10 page)

Fiery pain from his body eclipsed the cave. Forgotten memories surfaced, then drowned.

Shaking, his mind in turmoil, his spirit in ruins, the Ferryman slid the shattered end of the oar out of the big man’s eye socket. How had the oar broken? It was made of the River. That meant the waters had receded again, weakened—

His only chance for three days grace had left in a lightning second.

“No!” He threw the oar into the darkness. It made a lonely clatter as the big man’s body slumped over.

The Ferryman swept the bottle from the ground, uncorked it and knelt before this victim. In all his nether-life, he’d never been attacked. Everything had happened so fast that the event was dreamlike. He had only paused for a few minutes to calm his mind with the Chant of Nyx, and in that momentary lapse of time, breaking from all his pacing and swearing and teeth gnashing, the big man had come at the least fortunate moment, to actually catch the Ferryman unaware.

In the frantic moment, he didn’t even know the oar’s shattered end had become so lethal; the Ferryman had lifted it reflexively as the big man fell on him.

Please don’t be completely dead,
he thought in a panic.
Please.

He took a fistful of the big man’s thick black hair and pulled his head back. The red crater where the big man’s eye had once been gave the Ferryman another pang of regret.

The gray waters of the Styx poured from the bottle, so little left, yet still so vital…it filled the bloody puncture wound and flowed over the man’s face.

The Ferryman waited for the eyes to open, for the chest to rise and fall, for the coin to come up from the throat.

But a scarred voice broke through his feverish hope.

“You know it’s too late, Charon. He crossed over without pay. That is the way now. He is gone.”

The Fury stood in the darkness, its shark’s head hovering there, a scene from a maritime nightmare.

“You leave me alone, traitor!”

“Traitor?”

“To us, to yourself,” the Ferryman spat. “We could have had worth again.”

“Regardless, the man is dead. He cannot help your schemes any longer.”

“Bah!”

The Ferryman would not admit that, but it was now that he understood his own true intentions. The Fury had been correct. He wouldn’t have settled for another coin. He wanted more than that. The big man was going to be his conduit to the outside world.

Now time was just about out.

He looked at the man’s hulky frame. Not all his blood was dead yet. There was a chance he could take him outside to the same area the dog had bled—there was a hatchet. Some of the blood could be freed to hopefully find that last drop of
Styx
. Not a foolproof plan, but the only one available at this point.

Glancing into the darkness, he found that the Fury had vanished. Good.
Didn’t need him around to distract.

He’d have to get the big man outside somehow.

The Ferryman took the man by his thick wrists and tested his weight. It wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t move the body. Besides a rope and an oar, the Ferryman had never lifted much of anything.

Something stung in his arm as he tried to pull the big man again. The gash from the hatchet had almost completely closed now but there was still the lingering brackish scent of river water and fish. The Ferryman had never been damaged in such a way, so it was somewhat fascinating to study the innards, which also bore a reminder that he was indeed alive in this world, for however long that would be. The outer cavern already appeared to have closed-in on itself, the wide fan of sunlight on the stone floor now pale and rod shaped.

He reevaluated the body again and snapped his rough fingers as it suddenly came to him. Hope renewed, he was happily off into the darkness to find his bedroll.

From a distant corner the Fury’s black orbed shark eyes watched his every move. The thing hadn’t vanished after all.

Don’t get distracted. You have to do this.

The Ferryman hurried. With less light from the entrance, the rear cave had become more devoid of detail. Luckily, he had only to trace along the walls to find his bedroll. He returned, kicking aside and shattering clay coffers underfoot, pausing for nothing. At the corpse, he spread the bedroll just beneath its back. With a hard shove, the body rolled off its side onto it.

He turned to laugh at the Fury, but it had vanished once more.

Good, good, fine.

The Ferryman took a deep breath. Gripping the straw-shot sides of the bedroll, he tugged. With a greater ease than he’d hoped for, the body slid across the smooth rock floor. He quickened his steps and pulled harder. An occasional stubborn pebble lodged underneath the bedroll kept the journey from being perfect, but really the Ferryman could have transported dead bodies all day in this fashion.

Outside the cave proved more difficult. The shifting sands, weeds, and desert debris did not provide a surface conducive for transport. In no time at all, he was unintentionally ripping handfuls of straw out of the bedroll.

The cave unexpectedly tugged at him. He’d left the bottle inside, but he could imagine the waters had thinned to less than an inch now. Once it was all evaporated, everything would cease again…

He took a heartier grip of the bedroll and heaved the body on. Fortunately, the makeshift sleigh bent over some tall weeds and this provided a bridge. He glanced over his shoulder to the spot he’d marked yesterday with a circle of pebbles. The dog had bled there, so the drop of
Styx
had to be close. Somewhere.

The one-eyed face stared up in quiet distress.

“Almost there,” he whispered.

In what was about ten feet, he managed to bring the body to the spot in little under half an hour. The sun ascended the sky, making for a bright and warm winter morning. He pulled out the bedroll and sighed gratefully for his minor victory.

The Ferryman turned back for the cave, stumbled over a rock and guided his disoriented course through the weeds. A few sticks crackled and he shot a look behind him.

Three coyotes surrounded the dead body.

He immediately flew at them, flailing his arms. “You get! You get!”

The coyotes broke apart in a nervous division of grays and browns. Their separation from the relatively fresh meal was tenuous though and they didn’t go much more than a few feet back. The Ferryman ran at them again and they did the same.

“Stay away, bastards,” he hollered.

The hungry need in their eyes reminded the Ferryman of his own need at the moment.

The hand axe.

He sprinted for the cave. There, he squirmed through the now narrow entrance, blinking through the darkness. He could hear a disruption of growls, snaps and gurgles coming from the coyotes.

“Damn it to the Gods!” The sound of desperation vaulted through the cave.

Where did the hand axe drop?

He tried to retrace his encounter. He stood over the place he wagered had been the spot the man had fallen. The axe had dropped to the ground at this point. It should have been right here…

The Ferryman got down on his knees and patted the invisible floor. More growls, squeals and fighting came from outside. He didn’t imagine he’d be lucky enough for the coyotes to bleed the body quick enough to soak the area. No, those blasted things would probably pull it somewhere else completely, if they didn’t just take choice pieces off to their dens.

Light was rapidly failing. He swept his hands across the floor and felt his fingers brush the handle. He took the hand axe, pushed up and staggered for the entrance.

The cavern had come together in a formation of stony fingers, some having merged together and others still inching outward. The space between those formations had narrowed less than a foot wide. He tried to go sideways through one opening but even his thin body couldn’t make it.

There was no getting outside now.

From the crevices he could see the coyotes’ wild feast, but had no say in the matter. The Ferryman struck the axe’s blade against the rock. Again and again.
Sparks
flew. Vibrations went through his arm down to his riverwood bones. This was the end for him.

The end, all over again.

The Fury swam up on its great serpent belly. It considered the last thrusts of sunlight coming into the cave. The creature couldn’t smile, but its voice hinted as much. “Did you enjoy the mortal world?”

The Ferryman screamed.

The bottle had gone empty and his fate was sealed. This cavern was a throat and it was slowly swallowing him now. Rocks would crush his body and send him back to the world of nothing-sleep.

With a sob, he tossed the useless axe into the dark and crossed the cave, arriving to where he’d left his bottle, his first and last treasure in this universe.

Emotionally: he was unhinged. Physically: he was agonizing. Mentally: he was grasping at all and nothing. Spiritually: he was not ready.

For hours the Ferryman had watched his rock prison become less and less. He’d squeezed into the last chamber left for him, just near the entrance. A ragged hole the size of a grapefruit was the only vista afforded to him now. He could see the hazy sky and the side of a nearby range of foothills. It wasn’t much, but it was what he had. That, and his beloved bottle.