7-9

The whole of chapter one is now complete, and this makes me happy. Some things have changed, some things have not, at least in it's original scope, that is. More that, the bigger picture has become clearer as I continue on, and this makes me happy as a la

 

7 GHOSTS I

 

S

torms roll as the world ends.

Glass rattles and shakes, the foundation begins to crumble. Atticus looks across the table to Claudia, lights another cigarette and shakes his head. There’s something not quite right in the air tonight, and he cannot place his finger on it – it’s something surreal and not gripped firmly in reality as he knows it. Her book closes and her eyes move to the people sitting at the bar, a vague recognition there.

“What’s going on?”

Atticus asks, even his voice doesn’t sound quite right. Slightly off key.

“What’re you talking about, Atticus?

How long have you been up? Have you slept at all today?”

She answers his question with a pair of questions, and he doesn’t like it. His head feels like its swimming and the frame goes out of focus, blurring and burnt around the edges.

“I don’t know.

No,

I haven’t.

Slept.”

The world rolls in slow motion and he moves to the edge of the booth, looking over his shoulder.

“You should go home, Atticus.

Sleep deprivation,

It does funny things.”

She follows him to the edge of the booth.

“Are you coming with me?”

He asks, and the film ripples from the heat.

“No.”

Claudia answers and rises up, moving to the bar, approaching a petite brunette sitting by her lonesome. They’re engaged in conversation and Atticus finishes his coffee, dropping his cigarette butt in the dregs.

The storm rages outside and lightning flashes against the stained glass of the coffee shop.

Atticus stands and sways on the spot.

“What?”

He asks himself and moves toward the door, toward the outside. It screams in protest as it is opened into the rain, its deep stained wood growing darker as it is splattered. The water beads and rolls down, and for a long moment, Atticus watches it intently, like it is the most beautiful thing on the planet. His hand rises and a finger brushes a droplet of rain, it clings for a slight moment and stretches as his hand bends back before popping like a bubble without the density to continue down to the floor. It waits for more water to join it, and the candlelight from the shop makes it glisten in an odd, winking fashion to Atticus’s mind.

Atticus steps into the maelstrom and looks up to the sky. The clouds were heavy, black and pendulous, rolling like a nightmare. Lightning forked betwixt them, and Atticus felt the charge in his veins before stepping out into the storm. Within seconds, he was drenched to the bone, his suit clung to his skin and his heavy coat was saturated, dripping water down into his socks. He hadn’t even made it to the light, and no one seemed to be around, not a taxi in sight.

“Damn.”

He spoke to himself and ran his fingers through his sopping hair, trying to push it out of his face, to help with the flow of rain into his eyes. They stung now, and he stood at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Oh, he knew he could run across – there was no one on the street, but he knew that, as soon as he did so, a cop would come into view.

It would be just his luck. The light flickered to green and he took the first step and his sleek, slick shoe landed square in a puddle. The rain washed into it, under his feet and he cursed again as he pulled his foot from the slop. The next step was beyond the edge of the puddle, and he crossed the street without another incident, but his foot began to slip inside the shoe. He cursed again as he stepped up onto the sidewalk.

The frame flickered and grew dark, the lightning stopped and the moon was gone, the street lights died, but the rain still poured down mercilessly. He shook his head and the frame corrected itself; the light returned and he walked down the avenue, his eyes peering into the darkened shops.

Atticus made his way to the High Street and looked around to see that no one was out, and in the middle of the street, he knelt down to his haunches, knees resting on the flooded asphalt. His fingers slipped into the grating of a manhole and he lifted with all his might. He left the edge to hang over the hole, and once he was down to the ladder, he pulled it to. It did not stop the rain from pelting down at him, stinging his mottled face. The soles of his shoes slipped and his hands could not hold onto the steel, the back of his skull snapped against the stone and he tumbled down to the decay of the sewer.

Pushing himself up, Atticus looked about until his eyes adjusted to the low light of the sewer line, and his feet carried him to his destination, a small hollow carved into the earth.

 

The sewer was less defined here; less stone and more pure earth. Atticus wedged himself into the hole and began to crawl, his eyes focused on the subtle curve downward of the tunnel. It was pure darkness, and there was no light at the end, but he knew to continue on, that before long he’d be able to stretch out and go to sleep. He was so very tired – he yawned and breathed in the dirt and foul odour that crept along from the sewer. His body almost filled the hole, but not quite, there was enough of a gap to allow the decaying scent to penetrate the tunnel before him and cling to the earth. It was noxious, but he’d made this trip enough to keep it at bay.

He moved as though on a quest, his fingers dug into the soil, and nails chipped into the chunks of stone that remained, his mind was set on the end of this tunnel and the warm flickering light of Fulguralis. Atticus travelled on and began to notice the odour of the sewers began to wane, he took a deep breath and paused for a moment, squinting into the darkness. He thought he may have seen a pinprick of light, but could not determine whether or not it was just an explosion of stars in his vision.

It was there, less than a pin prick, but it was there, and as he exhaled, he pushed on with a little more urgency. That was all he really needed, a little ray of hope, or in this case, a pinprick.

Time moved with his body, and before he knew it, the tunnel opened up into Fulguralis, and he was stepping onto a clay street that snaked itself through the houses and epic buildings. He leaned himself against the walls of dirt, packed tight and solid, and smiled at the brilliance of this underground metropolis.

Just on the outskirts, he saw a man, pale faced and hunched over, folded in on himself, scurrying between the buildings, his bowler hat askew and hand darting from the pocket of his suit jacket to the glinting silver pocket watch. He felt familiar to Atticus, his wispy white hair poking out from under his white hat, the man looked like a lit orb running through the city, and as he moved into the darker shadows, he appeared to be illuminated, even then.  Atticus looked down at his own suit, black as charcoal and now smudged with mud, still soaked from the rain on The Surface.

 

The frame slipped out of focus and melted before his eyes, and the world came undone.

 

Storms roll as the world ends.

 

 

8 GHOSTS I

 

L

ightning flickered silently outside, punctuated by a loud rumble of thunder that shook the glass in his apartment. Atticus shifted in his sleep and groaned; he pushed the heavy duvet from his body and wiped the sweat from his body. In the darkness of night, he sat up and felt the t-shirt as it clung to his body, damp with sweat, and his head was left to swim in the sea of disorientation. He had had a vicious, vivid dream that left him with a hollowness inside he could not define, and throwing his feet over the side, Atticus approached the window and watched the city under the barrage from the storm. The streets were slick with rain and he found his eyes drawn to the manhole covers.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, Atticus felt a calm wash over him, and he turned to the bedroom, leaning against the wall, his head against the cold and fogged glass. He remembered the sewer and the behemoth that had chased them from, and began to wonder just what the hell it was all about. There were answers to be found, he was sure, but he hadn’t a clue where to begin to look.

He grumbled too himself and his lungs hurt like hell. He knew he’d feel it upon waking, but nothing like this. It felt like his lungs were bleeding out, like he’d swallowed a wad of fibreglass. It was hell, and his entire body ached. Some things were best left alone, he thought as he tried to remember the behemoth and his small friend.

Some things were best left alone.

“Sometimes, dead is better.”

Atticus told himself as he pushed away from the wall and pulled the sodden shirt from his body. In the half-light of the city lamps, he looked at the wounds, the black marks upon his flesh. One had begun to spider web along the edges, as though it were following the softness of his veins, and the other was close enough to the same as it had been, but he didn’t know. They were beginning to hurt, but his entire body ached, and he put it down to that.

Dropping the shirt to the floor, Atticus climbed back into bed and lay on his side, eyes focused between the curtains to watch the storm. The clouds were heavy and the lightning flickered between them.

On the whole, Atticus had no problem with storms, they could be pretty, but in his gut, they brought a decayed sense of foreboding. He supposed he’d watched too many movies as a child.

“It should have been a dark and stormy night…”

The sentence trailed off as he closed his eyes and fell backward into the ether of sleep.

 

The room smelled of wormwood, and Claudia turned to her companion, frail and petite, lying in a sliver of golden candlelight upon the bed. Chestnut hair fell across her pale flesh, and her dark eyes penetrated Claudia’s body, slipping through her viscera, along her greasy spine, and to the very pit of her soul. Claudia flinched and returned to the bar, the white counter top and the pair of small glasses, seeming to glow in the darkness. She shook her hair back and returned to the bed, handing the mistress her glass.

“1901.”

Claudia spoke with a reverent tone.

“Pontarlier.”

She continued and tasted the liquorice liqueur. Her companion did the same and made a sourface, her face scrunched up.

“You don’t like it, Haley?”

“It’s alright. I’m sure my palette will acclimate.”

“What? What did you just say?”

Claudia balked and almost giggled before she found herself and sat on the bed, taking a harder sip of her cocktail. Haley was right, it was slightly bitter, but it came with the territory. She laid back next to Haley and looked into the girls penetrating gaze. Their bodies glistened in the sweat of their endeavours in the moonlight; and reaching up, Claudia stroked the dark hair from the girls face, behind her ear. She took another sip and turned to the bedside table, setting it down and pulling an unopened pack of cigarettes from the drawer.

“God, you still smoke?”

Haley asked, a slight repugnance in her voice.

“Doll, if it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life, I’m doing pretty effing well, if you ask me.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think I want to know what all you’ve done.”

A giggle followed from Haley’s lips, and she tossed her hair back, watching Claudia as her frail hands opened the Zippo and brought the flame to the end. It was artful, the way she moved, and Haley was in awe. In the darkness, the flame illuminated her face reminiscent of a bad horror film, but it was all beautiful. She listened as the dry tobacco was lit, crackling in the silence. She shook her head and took another bitter sip of the drink in her hand, sweat beginning to roll down the side of the articulate glass.

Claudia lay back on the bed and stared into the ceiling, taking a long drag off her cigarette and watched the muscles move under the flesh of her companion, catching light and holding shadows in the shallow ripples. Her drink was forgotten with the cigarette now burning down in the ashtray as she sat up and embraced Haley from behind, her lips brushing the girl’s soft neck.

 

“Boidae.”

“Magus.”

The two men spoke and grasped hands, it was brief and formal, and stepping apart, they eyed one another; Boidae with curiosity and The Magus with a cold gaze. The black shape of Jackdaw lay on a table by the door, and beyond it, Teiidae sat waiting for the meeting to finalise.

“You have brought Jackdaw here for what purpose?”

“A proper burial, Sir. He deserves it. For all he has done for The Grotto.”

“Quite right, sir.”

The Magus agreed, tipping his ash black top hat further over his brow, the satin band shown in the brightness, and he returned his gaze to Boidae’s.

“Quid pro quo, Boidae.”

“Pardon, Sir?”

Boidae’s confusion was evident, his dullard eyes dimmed in the half-light.

“You do for me, I’ll do for you. Simple rules, Boidae.”

“Yes, Sir. What, Sir?”

“I want you to go to Fulguralis and fetch me the one called, Lapin.”

“Pardon, Sir?”

“You will go to Fulguralis, and seek out the man known as Mr Albatus Lapin.”

“Yes, Sir. Is that all?”

Boidae shifted on his feet and his eyes focused on the lower extremities of The Magus, his heavy black cloak hanging to the floor, and the corner of an obsidian desk.

“Yes, Boidae. Find him and bring him to me, by any means necessary.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. He should come peaceably enough. Just inform him that I would like a meeting, and yes, that will be all.”

The Magus had returned to his desk and began to hand roll a cigarette on the deep black top, his eyes never leaving Boidae.

“And you may leave Jackdaw with me; I’ll see to it that he is well maintained.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

And at that, Boidae turned and left the office of The Magus, deep in thought.

 

§

 

Red curtains burn bright from the inside, a red hole of hell in the middle of the massive building, and inside the curtains, the window, Atticus lay in the tub, listening as the storm raged outside. The rain was falling with such ferocity, it sounded like a constant shower of falling, shattered glass. It made his skin crawl, and as he shook, water splashed onto the tile floor. He looked at it and wondered briefly if when he stepped out if he’d slip on it and fall back with a deathbringing smash of his skull against the cast iron tub.

It would be ironic, he thought, as he had survived through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, if he snuffed it getting out of the bath.

“Oh, sweet irony.”

He said to himself as he rose from the tub and pulled the plug with his toes. The water drained and carried his scent down to the sewers below, leaving a subtle ring of dirt and small soap suds. In the mirror, he looked and noticed the black spots fading to an oily brown, and he began to wonder if they were nothing more than debris from the sewer. It did not matter; really, the ache in his body was at a constant low throb, nothing to worry with, there were no sharp, shooting pains of something truly wrong, just the strain of overwork and stress.

The mirror seemed to mock him. It showed a face and body that was relatively okay, not at all too unwell, almost calm and sedate, but beneath the surface, he felt his muscles being drug across razor wire. He compared it to hell, in that melodramatic kind of way.

Atticus wrapped a deep black towel around his waist and stepped out into the living room. He collapsed onto the couch and reached for the remote. He couldn’t care less what he found on the idiot box, he just wanted something that he could ignore, something that could lull him into some semblance of sleep. It was too late, or rather, too early to be awake, and as he surfed through the vapid channels, he found a nice infomercial.

They were selling a ladder that did a thousand and one things, in a hundred different positions, and the pitchman was the guy from that one show. Atticus couldn’t remember it, but that was the way life dealt the cards at times. He had a beard and a receding hairline, a bit tubby around the middle, and all Atticus could remember was the character’s name. Literally scratching his chin, Atticus settled back and tried to remember the actor and empty his mind at the same time. It was not the easiest feat, but as he closed his eyes, listening to the voice permeating the ether of sleep deprivation, he let the aged actor lull him in the general direction of sleep.

Words bled into indistinguishable voices into dissonance into nothing at all as the dark room with the flickering blue light of the television faded to black.

 

“We have to go to Fulguralis.”

Boidae said to the brittle woman sitting in the waiting room of The Magus’s office.

“I see. Then let us go. I was afraid of that, or something of the sort. Nothing’s free.”

“Quite right. We have to procure Mr Albatus Lapin. He’s supposed to be there.”

“That he usually is.”

She sighed and followed him from the waiting room to the elevator.

“Let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”

 

9 GHOSTS I

 

E

verywhere looks a bit like the South of London in the right light. The day outside the window was lazy and grey, a black and white photograph of what a city should be. Atticus looked out over the city and smiled, it was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen – it was the calm after the storm that raged through the night, and he thought he almost found the sun spotting through the ceiling of heavy clouds. The sound still crept from the television, but the infomercial was gone, replaced by children’s cartoons. The sly rabbit was being chased by the inept hunter, and as he listened to the rambunctious music, the animated pratfalls, he could not help but smile.

They returned him to his childhood, to those hours he would sit in front of the television and watch them with unparalleled curiosity. The fine lines and the dialogue, the clouds of smoke that rose from the bottom of the desert when the coyote realised he’d run out of land and would fall just before he caught the annoying bird who ran too fast for sound. Beep Beep! He always felt bad for the coyote, and for the skunk that was always snubbed by the pretty black cat he was so smitten with. Atticus turned away from the window and returned to the couch, rejoicing in his childhood.

On the whole, it was a simpler time. His mother may have been a drunkard who was rarely around, and when she was, she was generally in some state of inebriation, and his father could have worked nights the majority of his youth, but it was still simple. He would wake up and shower, head off to school and screw around there, doodle and phase out during the lectures, then he would return home and plop down in front of the television, the computer, or behind a book. It wasn’t that he was an intellectually deficient child, no; he just had no use for the triviality of schoolwork. He found it all pointless, because, he felt that in the really real world, he would not need to know half the nonsense they were preaching.

There was also the thought that those people were not teachers, but learners. They did not teach their students, they learned their students and were not open for questions or interpretation. They all had put too much faith in their history books, but Atticus also realised that most of these teachers had never been out of school, and had believed everything they were told.

He shook his head and stretched out on the couch, eyes fixed on the bunny sneaking up behind the very, very quiet hunter.

But, when he was growing up, there were no bills, no responsibilities, nothing to hinder his freedom of life, love and the pursuit of happiness. It was so much simpler then, and as he lay there on the couch, he reflected and he smiled, and he watched his cartoons without a care in the world. Everything over the past forty-eight hours was a blur, from the parcel to the underground, to everything – all he needed was right there in the television, in the idiot box, and closing his eyes, Atticus remembered.

 

Claudia awoke next to Haley, whose eyes were open and gazing upon her with a soft, penetrating glare. They smiled at one another and shared a brief morning breath kiss before Claudia pushed the sheets and comforter from their bodies with her feet. She stretched and looped her arm around Haley’s neck for a brief, awkward shaped hug before slipping from the bed and retreating silently to the bathroom.

She stood in front of the mirror and gazed at her reflection, it was a simple gaze, but her mind was reeling, trying to remember if her sleep or the cocktail had brought her a dream. She could not remember, and it troubled her. She lit a cigarette as she stood there, the shower running next to her and the fog beginning to creep up from the cold basin. Her thoughts swirled like the fog, and folded in on themselves, they moved from her dream, or lack thereof, to the girl propped up in her bed awaiting her return. Claudia yawned and returned to the bedroom, to the girl.

§

 

Through revolving doors, the world opens wide and infinite. Boidae and Teiidae stepped amongst the pedestrians on the sidewalk outside of the Hierarchy’s offices and they gazed at one another for a long moment before Boidae found his voice.

“Where is Fulguralis?”

“North, boy. North.           

And it’s not a short trip, mind.

No, it’s on the outskirts, boy.”

Her hunched form straightened a tad and her eyes became glassy with thought, with decision making. The lines that stretched across that face seemed to deepen, and she returned to her permanent arch, tapping her cane upon the clay earth.

“We must be going, boy.

Before our friend Jackdaw has decomposed entirely, and there is no dignity left in his skin.

We must head forth and obtain this Mr Lapin, for Jackdaw.”

Boidae agreed and turned north, looking to the vast tunnel that ventured further than he’d ever been. What it held was beyond a mystery to him, and he wondered what he would find in its depths. One foot lead the other, and their journey began, amidst the river of their own town folk, like salmon slipping upstream. The Grotto seemed to grow darker with each step they took, as though they were venturing toward the depths of Hell itself.

On the brim of The Grotto, they paused to read to inscription that was chiselled into the fine stone:

Flectere si nequeo superos, Achaeronta movebo

Boidae made the first move up the deep onyx steps, toward the tunnel and inside the mouth, he looked over his shoulder at the gnarled woman and her crooked little cane. He could sense her reservations; there was a great, imbedded fear of anything beyond the walls of The Grotto, and the older inhabitants knew it better than those of his age. Boidae felt it was the Antediluvians of the Hierarchy that helped spread the fear along, like fertiliser, to aid in the growth of the terror.

He outstretched his hand, and helped Teiidae up the steps, into the tunnel.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Boidae.”

“I see.”

The monstrous form stood in the shadows and looked down upon the frail woman. He began to wonder if she would be up for such a journey, without becoming a hindrance. His mouth frowned, but his eyes remained impassive.

“Then don’t, Teiidae. I’ll find Mr Lapin and bring him here. Stay here.”

“But Boida…”

“No buts, stay here.”

“No, Boidae. I know someone who can go with you.”

“What? Who?”

“Liasis.”

“Once again – who?”

“Your brother.”

Boidae clambered off the steps at this and into the flickering light of The Grotto.

“Pardon?”

“Your brother, Liasis,

How thick are you, boy?”

“What the fu–“

“Shut up, boy. Let us find him. He’s usually to be found in the public house, shouldn’t take too long.”

“You’ve done lost your mind, woman. I’ve no brother.”

“But you do. Couple years after you left, Boidae. Your mum was lonely, met a man, and had Liasis. Nothing too complex, I’m sure you understand the basic principles of breeding?”

“Yes, Teiidae.”

His head hung between his shoulders, his eyes dull and mouth frowning. In the span of a day, he had lost his mentor and discovered a brother. The large man shook his head and stepped fully back onto the clay of The Grotto. He looked about the great city, half-expecting to see a tall form gambolling up to him with a hearty handshake and a laurel, with a beaming smile and words to communicate ‘hullo, brother.’ But it wasn’t like that, despite the screech of metal in his head and the ice in his veins, the city that stretched before him was no different. They had not reacted at all to the news of his unknown sibling.

“And anyways, boy, you do not want to go venturing so far from home without someone else, but also, munitions of some sort. You’ll need to prepare yourself, boy. You cannot go out there half-cocked. T’would be unwise to the infinite.”

“Yes, Teiidae.”

And he was reminded of his childhood and his submission to this woman – she asked, and she received, and he was always at her beckon call. She had been his teacher before he and Jackdaw had been sent to the Outer Rim, and even now, in the presence of her and her crooked little cane, he felt far inferior and so small.

Together they walked to the small pub in the heart of the city, pumping its wares through the veins and arteries. All around the building were more pagodas, but of a different nature than fruit and veg and meats, nuts and herbs and jams. What they sold were under dark sheets and well-hidden from prying eyes. The old woman lead Boidae between them, and all remained silent as she passed. Even here, Boidae noted, the woman commanded respect and fear.

It was odd, he thought, she could not cross the edge of The Grotto, but she was still feared by all former children, even as a relative crippled. He walked behind her and eyed those that stared at her with a mingled reverence and fear, and having entered the bar, they strolled pretty as they please up to the bar. Boidae stood awkward and timid; a small child in a giant’s skin, his eyes darted amongst the faces turning toward him, and he attempted a wan smile that failed miserably. He was shocked back to Teiidae by her pounding on the bar with a heavy glass mug. Boidae expected it to shatter and as his eyes found the barmaid, she felt the same, but the look of fear to Teiidae explained why she would not move from her place.

“Where is Liasis?”

Her voice rang out over the quiet muttering din of the bar, and now all faces were turned toward her.

“Dunno, do we? Haven’t seen him since last night. Check his hole.”

A grubby face called, snickering into his amber drink.

Teiidae strode to the man and smiled, a frog faced smile and rapped him smartly on the knuckles.

“I know your mum, boy. Shut your mouth.”

They left the public house and continued north on the street a ways, before the woman turned down an alley and began smacking boxes with her cane.

“Oy, what’s your problem, woman?!”

A man that resembled Boidae in simple ways emerged from the last box she had smote, and as he stood, he was as tall as Boidae and upon recognising the woman, he cowered.

“Meet your brother, Laisis.”

 

Reviews

[S. J. Fisk]

Up to this point I am greatly enjoying the non-linear aspect of your writing style. I'll admit that a lot of my questions about this have been fielded with you, so therefore I may have a heads up in regards to some of the things I may have had issue with.

I'm assuming you're going to flesh out Claudia more. As it stands I don't think you've touched upon her enough other than to give us a vague impression of her as a warrior, her sexual preferences, and that she has deep issues with mirrors. She's also mildly OCD. Whatever is inside the parcel makes her all giddy like a school child, but at this exact moment I feel like I have a much better idea who Atticus is as a person. The sections where you delve further into his childhood and thoughts about schools are actually quite revealing about him as a whole. You've done an excellent job fleshing out Boidae as well, with short but efficient glimpses into his underworld, his "job" and some of his own schooling.

As you already know, the fact these creatures have elevators and an obvious social structure came as a surprise to me, but taking the fact that we meet them in the sewers and that our first encounter with them are as the "aggressors" (or seemingly so), I think most people would have assumed things about their society. The fact that you did indeed delve further into these underground creatures, instead of leaving them as some sewer dwelling Bogey Men serves this story very well (and is a relief as that concept has been done, literally, to death).

The Magus is an interesting character and made me muse on the power structure of the underground society. Obviously there's some sort of belief structure that makes them afraid of certain areas of their own domains, and it makes one wonder what the tie in will be later for our above ground friends.

Chapter 7 was a trip in and of itself, but what I found interesting was how Atticus and Claudia both referred to the patrons of the coffee shop as "with power". I wondered if this would be in the traditional "fantasy" aspect and that they have some sort of magical powers, or if it was more of a way to state that there are hierarchies in society and that those with the money and the connections are undeniably more "with power" than those that are the downtrodden and poor. I do think the entire Coffee Shop scene needs some closer review, as I suspect there are definitely things I have missed.

All and all this is a well written piece of work that I have enjoyed reading tremendously. I look forward, as ever, for the next installment. Keep writing, and don't forget to keep slipping in those obtuse references. They're fun!