Nechronicles: Exodus

Eliza sank. Darkness smothered her. A bitter cold touched her core. Air tightened. The sensation was so strong that it crushed her with every slight movement. Eliza sank in the thickest, blackest waters that coursed through her soul but she was not uncomfortable. For Eliza, this was the most natural experience of her life. Then came the questions.

Two voices spoke to Eliza in an unknown ancient language. Still, she answered. There was some talk about the good deeds she had accomplished in her life so far. There was more talk about the bad. Eliza was uncertain of what she said but knew that she gave honest answers. Her interrogators spoke with encouragement. They were polite, although the words were direct and sometimes harsh. The questions stopped and the world grew light. A heat touched Eliza. It reached into her. Eliza Purefoy soon warmed up.

A pair of boots landed onto a lane. Fine red sand billowed up and dirtied the already tatty leather. Dust marked the black trousers of the man who wore them. Edwin Tinker had no time to dwell on this as he ran along the shaded passage. A banter of tiny gulaic demons followed him, but it was not from these he ran. Edwin glanced around. There had to be a way he could get off the road.

He knew that Dimonis would be on the same lane soon. Edwin also knew that he did not want to be around when that happened. Shadows played with the morning light. River mist hazed the path. Edwin noticed a tall shape reach up to the sky an indistinguishable distance away. As he ran closer he saw that the shape was a ladder propped up against a building. It led the way to an open loft. He headed towards this sudden sanctuary. A roar echoed behind him. The sound carried the lick of a whip. Edwin sprinted.

Edwin Tinker came to the ladder and scrambled up it desperate to reach the relative safety of the loft. Screeches from demons followed Edwin up the rungs as he fled. Innocent as they were, Edwin cursed the goat-legged, pig-faced creatures. Their screams and jitters at the foot of the ladder would attract anyone’s attention. Sure enough, Dimonis, Chief of the Minotillary in the City of Necropolis, noticed.

The minotaur ran down the lane. When he reached the ladder, the banter of demons ran into shadows. With a grunt and a huff the chief began his own ascent. Edwin felt the extra weight as the chase took a vertical turn. The top was in sight. Edwin could win this race.

Sand blew into Edwin’s face when he peered over the edge. His over-worked fingernails gripped into the floorboards and he crawled towards freedom. The loft was littered with unwanted, probably forgotten, objects. Sheets covered larger pieces of furniture in a halfhearted attempt to protect their contents from the unforgiving elements of Hades. Others were exposed. Large urns, portraits, step-ladders and cages were smattered with grime and red granules. Wind had taken fumes and dirt from the city and smeared them across the unfinished room. Glass droplets from a chandelier jingled in the breeze. Edwin smoothed his long black hair away from his face. When he freed his eyes, he noticed cream coloured candles that could not have been lit more than twice. Edwin tripped over his feet as he ran to the abandoned chandelier.

“Shame,” he muttered to himself before he snatched a waxy stick. He knew that he would not be able to carry the glass fixture and evade the minotaur.

Edwin pocketed as many candles as he could and thought nothing more of it. From inside his jacket he produced a slim piece of black silk. Edwin stepped back to the unfinished wall where he had made his entry and tied his unkempt hair into place. A loose strand billowed in the wind when he poked his head out of the open space. Edwin looked down.

Dimonis had climbed half way up the ladder. The bull-headed man’s face was determined and angry, made all the more grotesque by the black patch that covered his left eye. Edwin was impressed that a flimsy ladder could hold the weight so well. Dimonis snarled at Edwin. The gesture was enough for Edwin to push the ladder away.

Dimonis fell to the ground, unable to stop the pull of gravity. The ladder snapped as he crashed. Splinters flew in all directions. Cries of defeated panic echoed along the lane. Dimonis landed in a dusty heap far below where his officers helped him back up to his feet. Edwin looked down at the mess. Three bovine faces searched the higher reaches of the house for the renegade.

“Edwin Tinker,” Dimonis shouted, “I order you to come down here immediately!”

His officers helped to clear the dust from their chief. Dimonis pushed them away.

“How?” Edwin responded, “There is no ladder.”

Dimonis hesitated. “Are there no stairs?” he asked.

Edwin looked back into the loft. He chose to ignore the hole in the floor. “No,” Edwin said, “None that I can see. I do, however, spy a second ladder.”

“Well use it you foolish human,” shouted Dimonis.

“No,” Edwin said, “You could break this one too.” He sized up near rooftops through the absent wall behind him while he spoke, “And then I most definitely would be stuck.”

The minotilliants muttered to each other. Dimonis stamped his foot on the ground.

“Is there anything else you could use as a means to come down?” Dimonis cried. He tried to calm. Inside, his blood boiled. “A length of rope or materials to tie together,” he offered through gritted teeth, “or something.”

“Rope,” Edwin cried. He disappeared for a moment but soon returned to the space with a frayed piece of brown cord. “A length of rope?” he called down.

“Excellent,” Dimonis said, “Send it down. We will steady it for you.”

“Thank you,” Edwin called from inside the loft, “I think I should fasten this sheet to it, it may not be long enough.”

“Hurry up if you please, Mister Tinker,” the minotaur sneered.

Hatred exuded from his calm exterior. Memories of this man filled Dimonis’ mind. Memories of a time when this human had attacked him. Memories of a time when this human had been protected by an older minotaur. But Sedudis was not the chief anymore. Sedudis was dead. Now everything could change. Dimonis knew Edwin’s secret, he knew how to win. Dimonis would be praised by the lords and worshipped by the rest. All he needed was this vagrant, this Edwin Tinker. A piece of rope soon interrupted Dimonis’ thought.

“Could you pull it please?” Edwin called, “It must be secure.”

Dimonis seized the rope and pulled it hard. Something loud crashed above. All three minotilliants looked up. A shower of heavy objects fell towards them. One of the officers fell under the weight of a large cooking pot while Dimonis and the third minotaur dived for cover. In the confusion Edwin edged his way out of the loft and climbed onto the roof. He leapt across the gap and into safety. He landed on a nearby turret and slid down onto black roof tiles. Edwin Tinker was a free man, and he knew exactly where he needed to go. He followed the Necropolitan rooftops to the second safest place in the city.

Eliza Purefoy ran towards a city nestled in a steep valley. Her surroundings were unlike anywhere she had been before. Violent pieces of red rock jagged out of the ground and stretched into a plum coloured sky. They formed a corridor that led to the city of turrets and spires. There was not much else to speak of in those dusty plains. If Eliza could stop for a moment and look between the rocks, she would see vast mountain ranges some way behind her and a body of liquid glisten to one side. There was a wind but Eliza could not feel it, and the heat would have been unbearable. Eliza’s senses however, had not yet caught up.

Still, on she ran through the mounds and stalagmites of the Hades wilderness towards that place of towers and castles. A world of architecture. Shadows surrounded Eliza. There were more shadows than she could begin to count and each one headed in the same direction. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Some ran, others appeared to float. Whichever way they travelled, they did not want to stay in this exposed land for long. Eliza felt the same. She was drawn by an unusual yet somehow familiar force. She wanted to be there within those city walls. She wanted to see the ferryman. She wanted to go home.

The passage grew narrower as the city got closer. Between two rocks, a hand written sign poked out at an angle; “Welcome to Necropolis!” The once vibrant red words had since dulled, but the enthusiasm of the hand that wrote them was still clear. The battered wooden sign seemed an ironic gesture. This surreal world of harsh rocks and red sand that Eliza trod seemed far from welcoming. It did not matter though. She did not take much notice of where she was; all Eliza wanted was to be by the river.

At some speed she came to the top of a massive slope. A cobbled pathway led the way down and added a certain charm to the place. Gaps in the path appeared where a few stones were lost. The road towards the city was well trodden to the point of worn. All the footprints and marks pointed to the distinct city below. This must be a popular destination. There was no evidence of anyone leaving.

Every step Eliza took on the ancient street made her feel more alive. Her run slowed as she felt less vulnerable. While she walked Eliza started to remember things. She started to notice her existence. Senses returned. Long curls of hair hugged her face, defeated by the warm wind. With a single movement Eliza whipped her dark locks over the top of her head and opened her eyes.

Light stung. Streams of brilliant brightness splashed around her eyes until the glare settled into greys, oranges and shades of brown. It felt like this was the first time her eyes had ever been used. Even her breath felt new. As she walked Eliza took deeper breaths. Air tickled as it flowed through her nostrils, up her throat and out of her mouth after its adventure around her body.

With eager steps Eliza’s walk turned into a run. Excited legs took her down the stepped pathway that led to the heart of the city. As the path wound around and down Eliza felt smothered. The immense freedom she experienced for that brief moment had left her. The addition of buildings made her feel repressed. Sudden dense air added to her suffocation. Her black jeans and baggy jumper clung to her body almost as though they were afraid that she would lose them. Still, she ran down the hill as did every shadow she travelled with.

“Thank you,” the woman said. There was a softness in her voice as she counted out eight large coins from her white pouch. She stood opposite her home. Percy Burnham stood with a protective helmet under his arm.

“No problem love,” he grinned.

Although monstrous to some, Percy Burnham had always thought that the women of the silver villages carried a certain beauty. Tall and very much of an era long forgotten when he was alive, there was a charm to this race. White togas draped around milky white skin, held in place by opulent jewellery. Long dark hair was decorated with glittery strands and expensive clips. But it was the eyes that got to Percy Burnham. The deepest, darkest black that shimmered with life, like a creature that swam under a midnight sea. Life for the silver people was a celebration. A gift that only a few in the u nderworld possessed.

“All in a day’s work,” he said with a cheerful wink of his eye. A sack squirmed by his feet.

“I had not realised that there were so many of them,” the woman said.

Coins were handed down to the exterminator who was not that much shorter than the woman, not by comparison to other silver women. Most women he encountered in the silver villages towered over him.

“Yeah, they do that.” Percy Burnham had a pouch of his own, it was bigger and much grubbier than his client’s. The oboiloi clanked as he slid them into his money bag. “You think there’s only a couple. You can live with a couple, but then they breed. See, the thing with superbia is they’ll make you feel a bit less, you know, confident. They look at you with their proud little eyes and you start to hate yourself. And when there’s a few of them --”

A loud bang cut the small talk short. The mortal woman and Burnham turned to see the cause of the noise. The round form of Derek Cooke stomped out of a smoking doorway. In each hand he carried a demon by its furry goat-like legs. He walked to his partner and dropped the small unconscious bodies to the ground. Dust clouded the bodies as they landed. Usually his brass helmet gleamed. Now it was tarnished with soot, its circular screen misted. With some effort Derek Cooke removed the headgear and took deep breaths under his bushy moustache. Thick grey smoke snaked out between blue roof tiles behind him.

“I think we found mum and dad,” he announced on a heavy exhale. He looked at the woman under a raised eyebrow. “You might want to leave the windows and doors open for a bit,” he said, “you know, to get the Phlegethon vapours out.”

She looked at her house. At the smoke. Derek dragged the squirming sack to the wagon, exhausted.

“It is not,” she choked on panic, “on fire, is it?”

“Oh no,” Burnham reassured her. He retrieved the pig-faced demons from the red ground, “It’s just the gas we use. Fresh from the fiery River Phlegethon. Works every time. It’s why we’re this city’s greatest exterminators.” Crooked teeth flashed from his youthful face. “Give it a while, it’ll go back to normal.”

“How long is a while?” the woman asked.

Percy Burnham joined his partner at the hold of their wagon. Cooke opened a fresh sack. Burnham threw the parent creatures into it. Derek Cooke tied and tossed the sack into the hold of their vehicle. The sack landed against the wooden back of the cabin with a thud.

“You’ll know when it’s cleared.” Burnham called out while he unzipped his all-in-one, fireproof, ice-resistant, two-of-a-kind suit. One of his bony, freckled hands reached into his brown corduroy trousers and produced a small piece of paper.

“If you ever need us again,” he said as handed the business note to the tall woman, “we’re generally here.”

Large, graceful hands accepted the note. Eternal black eyes read it. “Bulbenik’s Brew House, Lampadies Square. Near the river,” the woman read out with uncertainty.

Percy Burnham smiled again, “That’s the place.”

“Don’t forget to tell your friends about us,” Cooke reminded the woman as he walked towards the pedal cabin. He patted the canvas of the wagon as he walked past. It read ‘Burnham & Cooke: Pest Control.’ “Cheerio!”

Burnham thanked the mortal again and joined Derek at the pedals. As one they pressed on the foot bars which turned chains and cogs and carried the wagon into the silver village. The mortal woman was left with a smoking home, the address of a tavern in the pseuche quarters and a vague feeling of satisfaction that Burnham and Cooke did an excellent job.

The village was typical of any other where the silver people lived. Always built on the higher ridges of Necropolis, the silver villages had not changed much since the mortals had arrived. Since they had been banished to the underworld. The houses were large cubic structures, decorated in ornate detail. Fantastic blue tiles would comprised the slight incline of the roof and a subtle chimney. However, no house could compare to the proud and prominent temples that stood in the centre of each settlement. Pillars and statues held the structure together. Lanterns, chimes and pungent incense made its presence known throughout the village. The roads, like most of the roadways in Necropolis had not been created with vehicles in mind. They were pot holed and bumpy. But, being in a settlement populated by beings that could be classed as giants, the roads were wide enough for the wagon to pass through with ease. While they peddled over the uneven roads of the village Percy Burnham felt Derek Cooke’s eyes burn into him.

“What?” Burnham asked.

Derek Cooke grinned. “You had a thing for her,” he said.

“Eh?” Burnham responded louder than he intended.

“I can’t see it myself,” Cooke continued, “I mean, those eyes are a bit much. Maybe I just miss Mrs Cooke too much. Still, each to his own, eh?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on Perce, don’t play dumb.” Cooke chanced a quick glance at his young partner. Even though he had arrived in Necropolis decades later, Derek had always felt a sense of paternal affection towards Percy Burnham.

“Give over,” Percy muttered although he was unable to suppress a grin.

The two peddled on in silence for a moment.

“Here, did you hear what her neighbour was saying?” Derek said. Excitement ran through his words, “About her daughter going missing?”

“No. What happened?” Bunrham asked with distant interest.

“Well she was saying that her daughter got Judged. Got a moth and everything. What do you make of that?”

Burnham scoffed. “Her daughter got Judged? A mortal? That my friend is a lie. And pull your weight with the peddling will you Del.”

“Yeah, yeah. But no, she was certain.” Burnham’s last comment fell on deaf ears. “Naturally upset she was. Only nine years old or something.” Derek saw Percy’s uninterested face. “I’m telling you, it happened. I heard it’s been happening a lot in the silver villages these days. Their kids getting Judged.”

“Impossible,” Percy responded, “Those mortal folk, they just die, you know? No Judgement required,” Burnham explained to his friend.

Although he was eighteen years old when he died, ninety four years in the underworld had taught Percy Burnham everything he needed to know about survival. As the wagon wound its way through the village and back into the hub of their city it passed the main building of the village. The place for council, prayer and village law. Three men stood on the steps that led to an impressive chamber. In the middle stood the eldest of the men. He stood tall and strong, despite his age. His face was beardless and angry, crowned with long silver hair. He wore traditional white clothing which was fastened with elaborate jewellery.

“Blimey,” Derek said as they passed the men, “look at the face on that!”

Percy looked at the old man and laughed. The stern ancient face grew colder and he muttered something to the younger men around him. Oblivious, Burnham and Cooke rode over the steep dirt track which rolled down to the heart of Necropolis.

“We still meeting Auntie later?” Derek asked once the worst of the descent was over and he felt able to dedicate some of his concentration to conversation again.

“Yeah,” Burnham confirmed, “After coredown. Then we’re meeting some minotaurs, remember?”

Derek nodded, “I still don’t get that.” Bushy eyebrows melted into rolls on his forehead, “Do they still just want superbia?”

“Yeah,” Burnham said, “Alive and all.” He paused for a moment while he thought on it. “Still,” Percy went on, “As long as we get paid, eh?”