The Road To Onk

On the far side of hell is a little piece of heaven where the worst deeds of your life push themselves into the dark soil and spring up smelling of roses. The land is watered in tears and the air is moist with the breath of flowers and muffled sighs. Despair has deep roots but it also has a hard sweet fruit that can nourish birds and others of spare appetite. Children are common in this land. Young girls and boys play in green valleys and on the verdant hills, oblivious to the toil of their parents. And they alone can see heaven for what it is: a rich land in a hard place. The best gift in the world is a woman who needs you but the love of a daughter isn't far behind. When Zoe enterred my life I had both feet set firmly on a broad road paved in well intentioned brick. There was never any question of my destination. I was coming to a bad end by leaps and bounds. Her mother was travelling on her own straight path and we soon parted. But the best of our hopes and dreams blossomed as close to heaven as they could. I called her Zoe. Her mother called her something else.

There are all sorts of chains that can bind a man. The strongest are the ones which tie so sweetly, so delicately that a person has no idea they're in shackles until the lock comes off and their hands are free, but idle. Both hell and parenthood are similar that way. I hardly know anything about parenthood. Hell however has taught me a great deal about life. I can tell you that every soul is assigned a labor that will purify it. Yet there are a handful such as myself that are asked to put their labor aside and look deep within themselves to see the punishment that's already there. I may have gotten to hell on a straight road but the way back has too many twists and turns to count. The only thing that keeps me going is that I know at the end of that road I'll find myself in the land of Onk. And my daughter and I will be reunited.

The funny thing about hell is that not a single person here actually believes they're a bad person. It's a bit like intelligence: most people will acknowledge that they're not a genius but few can admit to being idiots. Souls such as myself that wander freely have no such illusions. There are all different kinds of badness on the roads I follow and I'm one of them. The only thing I fear is another traveller such as myself. Each of us is a power in hell and when two powers meet the results are unpredictable.

I was passing through a part of hell where the rain came down furiously and seemed to have no end. As the road turned it became impassible, flooded by a river that had grown past its banks. Far to my right was a cave in the hillside and I could see the embers of a fire just inside. A man half-stood there and he waved, inviting me to enjoy the warmth of his camp fire. So I did. We sat for a spell and listened to the rain fall. The other man turned to look at me and from his pockets he produced a pair of dice unlike any I had seen before. They were yellow with age and onto each side had been carved a heart. There was a single heart alone. A heart pierced with an arrow. Two hearts. Three hearts. A broken heart. And finally a heart colored black. All the other hearts had been colored red. I gestured with my hands to show I had little worth gambling for. The man raised his hand and with a gaunt finger he tapped the center of my chest. I looked at his face carefully. His skin was deeply pocked and was almost olive colored. He wore a broad rimmed hat and he was smiling at me. I declined his dice and returned to the road intent on taking another path.

I travelled the entire day and the rain eventually stopped. The path here sloped up a grassy knoll. I could see that a celebration of sorts was in progress. A canopy had been erected and a fiddler stood on a short stool playing a merry tune. Around him danced several men and women in gay country outfits. The fiddler looked up then and it was the man from the day before. He stopped playing and used his bowstring to gesture around him. I think he was inviting me to join the dance. I declined and returned to the road.

After another day I was terribly hungry. I hadn't eaten in quite some time so I stopped at a small inn at a fork in the road. The coins of hell are pressed from lead and I had atleast enough to pay for a hot meal. I sat at a table and called to the innkeeper to bring me whatever he had for lunch. I smelled something wonderful and the innkeeper carried a steaming bowl of stew and a loaf of bread. He set them down before me and held out his hand for payment. I looked at him again and realized that this was the same man I had met the day before and who had been in the cave. There are some confrontations a man just can't avoid and I realized this was one of them. But I was wary because the powers of hell seemed strong in him. I ate a bit of the bread and a spoonful of the stew. And instead of opening my purse I tapped the center of my chest. Whereupon the innkeeper smiled.

The Catfish King

There's a place where things come to rest, a final destination for the things in this world that flow downhill. And then there's the Delta for everything that doesn't get there. For most of the creatures in this world, it's the opposite of a home. There's no comfort or happiness or belonging in the Delta. But like a home you can put anchors down and they stay put.

Water and earth tangle around themselves here like the arms of two lovers. Together they clutch an unpleasant little piece of sod to their bosom called Snagg Island. To the Catfish King the banks of this island are indeed home because comfort and happiness and belonging mean nothing to catfish. Like a miser loves gold and a hermit loves loneliness, catfish principally love what they eat and the one impressive trait they have is how hungry they are. Their king was no exception. But he had a particular fondness for little girls who leave the surface and the sunlight behind to descend into dark muddy waters.

Our Father Below

There was a time when sleep meant peace and rest, when dreams brought happiness or terror that had no bearing on our continued happiness or terror. But I live in the last days of man - a time of such poverty that even insubstantial fantasies are things of great value. My home is deep beneath the earth and sky. The men that I call brothers are not. The bonds that tie us together spring from our common work. Every day begins the same. First I report to our Master Teller and recount in full detail the dreams I remember from the previous night. Our Master Teller then goes before a Symbolist and the stories of the night are disassembled. The flesh is stripped from the bones and the bones are catalogued so to speak. At the end of each week the Council of Lore sifts through the summarized dreams of each locale and they search for clues that will unlock a path to The Overland - a world that borders ours and where the fields are still green and the water blue.

But this world has inhabitants of its own and although they never appear directly in our dreams, they're our implacable enemies and we are at war. There are no mirrors anywhere in our warrens because the enemy can make their pernicious influence felt through them. I was fifteen years of age when their cold presence first touched my life and I knew they were a reality. I was walking down a poorly lit corridor when the lights began to flicker. I thought nothing of it. The walls were constructed of dolomite and damp spots were common. Often they caused problems for the lighting. But the air was cold and it sent a sudden shiver down my spine. I stopped and noticed that my breath hung in the air white and hoary. I felt slightly dizzy and for a moment I became confused as to exactly where I was and where I had been going. The lights dimmed. They sputtered out completely and I was in darkness. I heard a distant sound then. It was faint but getting louder. It reminded me of metal tapping on stone and I couldn't tell if came from further down the corridor or worse from the other side of the walls. The lights flared back up. The sound stopped.

I rushed to get back to my working team. Most of them were far older than I and had stories of their own to tell. I thought little more about what had happened but later that day I told them about the sound of metal tapping on rock. They fell silent and asked for the whole story. I was rushed directly to a lord from the Council of Lore. I had never seen a man so old. His face was wrinkled and his hair was ashen white. He brought me to the corridor where the events had occurred and I told him everything. He laid his hand against the wall and he seemed to be listening to something far off. He inhaled and sniffed the air. His face made an expression as if his nose had brought something unpleasant to his attention. He explained that when They pass through this world part of themselves is left behind. There was no need to explain who They were.

That night in the youth dormitory I couldn't sleep. I saw a redlight at the end of the hall and it was coming towards me. No one in the other beds so much as stirred. Three men in hoods that covered their faces approached and they bore a red lantern. I sat up in bed and they stood above me. One of them grabbed my wrist in a painfully tight grip and I was dragged from the hall. I wanted to scream and yell but something stopped me. I travelled through strange corridors that night and we came to a large private chamber. As I enterred the chamber a tall man stood at the doorway and he held a hand mirror. He held it up to my face so I could see my reflection. He whispered, "Behold our enemy and our friend." The men with me whispered the same phrase back to him and I was ushered into the chamber. At one end was the oddest statue I had ever seen. It was fashioned from a rough black rock like basalt and it had been carved into the likeness of a man with outstretched wings and the head of a lion and a snake that curved around his body. Candles had been placed at an altar before the statue. Thirty or so men and women filled the chamber. We sang and danced but I can no longer remember the words. Before dawn the men returned me to the dormitory. I told no one.

The Ghost Behind Me

In the corner of my room sits an empty white crib. Each night as I sleep it sprouts sharp fangs and quietly creeps up to my bed where it slowly drinks the blood in my veins. I wake tired and weak despite a full night of sleep. I know the crib is responsible. Although I've never caught it red handed, its angle and position are slightly different each morning. The crib was never used except as a changing table and to store the clothes of the one it had been purchased for. Even now a handful of baby clothes litter the crib. They sit there discarded in the same way a snake sheds its skin. The whole apartment is that way. I am also a discarded cast off.

My wife once tried to grow things in the garden behind the house. But the place is used by a dog as its toilet and it will grow only sandy soil and large dark clumps of things unmentionable. Aside from the crib the house is quite haunted. At night I can hear the ghost walk. There's a plank in my hard wood floor that makes a dull creaking noise every time I step on it. And in the dark of the night there have been times when I've stepped on that plank and the board has creaked twice. Half an eyeblink after passing over it the floor will creak again and I know the ghost follows me about the house. One step behind me. When the air is extremely still and hot I can feel its breath on my neck. Never once have I turned around to behold it. Last night as I lay in bed the ghost made a horrible rasping noise from the bathroom and I knew that it stood in front of the mirror and combed its hair. Contrary to popular opinion ghosts aren't human but nevertheless they engage in a mocking imitation of us. It would leave presents of a sort for me and once when I went to bed I found a book atop my pillow. It was printed in a language I couldn't quite understand. I tried to read it and I came close to realizing something about the words that had been written in it several times but the meaning was always just beyond my reach. When I woke in the morning I looked for the book but it had disappeared.

Later that day I opened the closet. I had placed all the baby things in it so their sight would not pain me. I hadn't opened the door in quite some time. I was shocked to find a new room had grown there. Its furnishings were few but I could tell it belonged to a woman because the room had those feminine touchs that grace the presence of women. There were pictures on a bureau but as I examined them I was disturbed to see all the faces had been scratched out. Perhaps this room belonged to the ghost ? The pictures seemed to indicate that there was something it was trying to remove from the world. I left and shut the closet door behind me. What a wild imagination I possess. I'm sure this room must belong to my upstairs neighbor. I realized it had been weeks since I had seen her and I became concerned for her health. Death held no terror for me but the thought of someone decaying alone made me shudder. I meant to call the landlord but promptly forgot all about it. I decided to leave my apartment and walk to the pub down the street.

I find crowds of people both comforting and unsettling. After you've lived a certain number of years you begin to place people into broad categories based on their appearance. You do it almost unconsciously. It is human nature to generalize. An unfortunate consequence of this is the tendency of strangers to seem oddly familiar which is comforting. But it also reminds one of how alone you are. They remind you of your friends but they never greet you or clasp your hand in friendship or regale you with stories that bore you. And this is unsettling.

A funny and intelligent woman talked to me this night at the bar while I drank and wrote. She seemed familiar. One part an ex-wife and three parts the mother of a good friend seasoned liberally with an aunt and a cousin from my fathers side. I was about to say something interesting but she was already beginning her next statement. Half way through speaking she became bored and began talking to her companion. The words died on my lips. I've often wondered if I inhabit a separate world than my fellow humans. We speak the same language and have many experiences in common. But my world moves at a treacle pace and if a butterfly gets too close the best one can hope for is pretty amber thousands of years from now. The music in the bar has just stopped and my words are moving slower than usual. I've been careless and need to lubricate them with more alcohol. To the apartment I go. I'll type what I've just written. Passing the words through a machine makes them intelligible to others.

The Lust of the Sea King

There's a special time of the moon when the crabs and the mantis make their love. High above William a slim crescent hung in the sky. His small rowboat plied the ocean waters. The sound of the oars and the low lapping of the ocean against his boat were the only things to hear. Coral reefs lay just a foot under the bottom of his boat. Short rocky juttes poked their heads above the water close on either side. The night was cold and he wore a thick woolen coat with a hood that hung just above his eyes. The man sighed. Here was the place. This was her home. Getting her attention wouldn't be difficult. He stared at the sea. Far from the surface he could see ghostly lights that moved slowly. The deep ships of the Mer haunted this place.

From his coat pocket he pulled a heavy gleaming white object. Like all her kind she was a thing of greed and avarice. What she coveted most were the possessions of her sisters. The man held a perfectly round pearl in his hand. He had won it at great price and for her. This was a dark business he was about. From his belt he took a long silver knife and slashed his arm. He held the cut over the boats edge and let his blood drip into the ocean. With his other arm he grabbed a short cane and began pounding the bottom of his boat with the eight part rhythm of the sea ancients. The king of the sea had a lusty nature and his not-so-tender-caresses had graced all manner of sea denizens. The daughters they had borne him were a most unnatural lot. From a distance they could be mistaken for the most beautiful of women. But they were all horrors.

The first sign of her coming was a soft sound at the edge of hearing. Like a ship's keel beginning to crack, the slow sound of tormented wood filled his ears. Then the level of the ocean dropped precipitously. Rocks that had been just under the surface now stood a foot tall. Her hair appeared first. A wild mass of red strands that spread out in all directions like sea kelp. Finally a giant pale hand, rose above the sea. It was neither a man nor a woman's hand and the moon made it seem to glow. He placed the pearl in the cup of her palm and the hand withdrew. She raised her entire body above the surface of the water. He beheld her and shuddered. Her skin was as pale as a shell of abalone. Her body had the most perfect heavenly curves, as long, graceful and subtle as the orbit of the planets. Her breasts were heavy and hung low on her chest. After he had looked to his heart's content, she raised her voice. If only crabs or starfish could speak ... "Name your price".

William Henry Blue tried to speak and failed. He made another attempt. "The sea king's price is mine. I take you as my wife for two years and you shall bear me a daughter." She looked perplexed. Her face was wrapped in a puzzle. If her eyes had been capable of blinking they would have. With one hand he held out a small posey of violets tied with a pink ribbon. With the other hand William patted the empty space on the seat next to him.

The Court of King Neptune

There is no flatter land than the calm sea. Air without obstruction moving solely at its own whim. Nothing's more fickle. As a sailor I've had time to contemplate all the wonders of nature, and I can tell you that the sky is like the heart of a man placed in a great emptiness. There are doldrums and their opposite. There's lightning and thunder and storms of every conceivable hue. But the wrath of the sky pales before that of the sea. Every sailor knows that the worst weather in the world lies deep at the bottom of the ocean - far from the eyes of any man. When the water turns dark as wine and small bubbles begin to rise all around a ship, sailors take heed. In the sky, lightning travels in a straight line but under the ocean light explodes in every direction as the surface flickers in wan shades of blue-green. And ships just sink without sound or warning, sudden guests in the court of King Neptune.

The Violets of William Henry Blue

There was a man in England known to his mother as William Henry Blue who was quite notorious for his unhealthy appetites and his tendency to marry repeatedly. Sinister reputations aside his skill as a gardener was less well known. But long after his hasty untidy death, people came from as far away as Wales and Scotland to walk through the hedge enclosed gardens behind the house that had been his. Orchids are beautiful flowers but they are best grown in hot houses. The wild orchid is a solitary beast shunned by a man such as William who was ever tending to his wives.

Roses are also a beautiful flower but when left to their own devices they grow in a manner most frenzied. Such a wild lack of control poorly suited William. His unique passion were violets. Pale and oh-so-unassuming violets naturally congregate in a flock for only the most humble of flowers can so enjoy the company of their own kind. They have no thorns and require little in the way of care. In fact when the direct light of day falls on a single violet it wilts and seems to contract into the soil of its birth. This is widely known. William's genius however was his realization that the sad quiet violet thrives on a moist soil rich in iron and other minerals. But unlike the gardenia, which often thrives in a graveyard and smells strongest when the flower is half-rotten, a violet is assiduously, meticulously scrupulous in what it will or will not consume.

Thanks to a co-worker

Thanks so much for the uplifting talk yesterday. It meant a lot to me. When I got home my wife was in an extremely good mood. Basking in her happiness was like sitting in the sun. But it was bittersweet. I knew her spirits were so high because she's actually leaving today. I couldn't sleep and I wrote a long note trying to find some way to tell her how much I love her and what being a father means to me. It was full of overblown hyperbole and ridiculously complex arguments. To make the regression to junior high complete, I hid the note in her change purse where she won't find it until she's at least an hour into her drive.

I'm not sure if I ever mentioned this but my father was a complete fool in every possible way. We were separated a year after I was born. I always looked forward to his visits -- but in a mean hearted way because I knew he felt obligated to spend as much cash as he could on me. Every now and then he would have a complete emotional break down and he'd sobbingly tell me how much he loved me. I found it embarrassing. I did care for him and I tried to be kind. But I didn't understand and I really didn't try. I was just a little too cynical and smart for a kid. In the back of my head I felt that if my father was really being honest, he'd do one simple thing -- be there. And he just wasn't. He died suddenly when I was fourteen. I hadn't seen him in a year and when my mother told me I remember being shocked, just shocked that I was crying.

I know I won't screw things up the way my father did but the whole situation is scary nonetheless. Thanks for trying to make it less so.