This is the continued story of Simon’s Journal.
I would highly recommend you read the first volume of this story,

Simon’s Journal Thirteen Days – The First Crusade
before you begin this novel.

 

The following narrative is nearly a complete work of fiction.
Any similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely unintentional.
If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers and exploring
their awakening sexuality is offensive or illegal in your area, then might I suggest
 that you go read War and Peace or something equally stimulating.

 

 

Simon's Journal

Volume II

 

 

Thirteen Nights – After the Crusade

 

 

Written by

Danny
Author of Thirteen Days

 

 

A note from the Author:

 

Before the cock crows with the eleventh sun,

What was sundered and undone,

Shall be whole, the two made one,

By author’s hand this has been done.

 

The following installment was originally published on my own website in two parts, however, by strange and mysterious

magic that I do not pretend to comprehend, it is once again whole, the two made one. And so without further delay, I give

you the final installment of Simon’s Journal, Thirteen Nights – After the Crusade in its entirety, as it was meant to be . . .

 

Chapter - 13

Part 5 – Friday, March 12, 2004 – Who Cares

 

Fumbling in the dark we managed to find the lantern and get it working again. I was never so glad to see light as I was at that moment.

 

I pulled the front of my shirt up and whipped the sweat from my face and eyes; as I pulled it back own over my stomach my eyes again landed on the enormous creature that lay in the sarcophagus before us and a shiver trickled down my spine.

 

A second later there was another rumble but this one did not come from deep within the tomb. It came from me again. Uncle Max was shining the lantern on me and looking both frightened and agree. I covered my stomach with my hands and made a grimace.

 

The odder of sulfur grew so strong that it overpowered the scents of cinnamon, myrrh and spikenard

 

When Uncle Max moved the glow from the lantern away from me it reflected against a picture on another wall and for only a moment, I saw it clearly.

 

I saw the most magnificent painting of a blue and gold dragon, the kind from children’s storybooks and Eastern Legions.

 

“Here take this!” Uncle Max said handing me a torch he had removed from a wall and lit using the lantern. “And stay close!” he ordered but I did not obey. I had to get a closer look at that dragon.

 

Several things puzzled me. The head of the dragon appeared to be that of a hawk with a mane like a lion, and it appeared to be wearing clothing. A blue robe or cloak that covered a great deal of its body and most incredible of all, it appeared to have been painted in with tears falling from it’s eyes.

 

I stepped closer and noticed that the tears were actually blue sapphires that had been set into the wall and at closer inspection the dragon was not a painting but a sort of statue that had been only partially carved from the stone wall.

 

And at that moment I saw another picture, one I had seen before. It was obviously done by the same hand that had created the image on the side of the Cliffside graveyard as well as the portrait back by the tomb entrance.

.

“Y-e-s...” I whispered to myself.

 

Yes, of course I could recognize her face; I had seen her before, back at the hotel and again at the airport.

 

I glanced over to see Uncle Max moving closer to the sound emanating from somewhere deeper. Assured that he had not left me, I returned my attention to read the inscriptions cared below her portrait.

 

“Yes,” I whispered in a sort of fear gripping trance, “of course I can read the ancient language and yes,” I wiped a large drop of sweat from the tip of my nose with the back of my hand, “I recognize the face.” Besides seeing it painted on two other walls, I had also seen it a top the body of the young girl back at the hotel.

There was another groan from deep within the darkness but I barely registered it. I was now so focused on the wall and the inscriptions, which were terrifying. There were secrets there that men would give their lives to posses and probably have throughout history. There were secrets etched into the stone that man has not yet begun to imagine.

 

And as though someone had questioned me, I spoke aloud, “Because I’m the son of a great archeologist! I just know!” and as soon as I spoke the words I began to question myself, “Or do I?”

 

“Jason!” Uncle Max called my name three times before I finally heard him and snapped out of my trance.

 

I looked over my right shoulder to where he was shining his light on his own face so that I could see he had his finger over his lips.

 

I placed my free hand over my mouth and whispered, “Oh, yeah . . . Uh, right!” and took half a step away from the painting before stopping myself when once again my gaze fell on the young girls painted eyes.

 

I suppose we had forgotten about the thing in the sarcophagus and the lavish treasures that surrounded us in every direction and though I did not notice it at first, it had begun to grow darker around us. It was not because our lanterns were going out because they were not; they were still shining just as bright as ever. It seemed like this tomb or temple or whatever this place is or used to be, was devouring the light.

 

Despite the diminishing light, I read on and on. I stood before the painting of the young girl, long black hair, red lips that smiled at me and my heart stopped at the inscription under the portrait.

 

With lips trembling, knees knocking and my throat drier then the sands of the Sahara I read it over repeatedly . . .

 

B E   N O T   A F R A I D
J A S O N   B R O W N I N G

 

It had been carved into the this wall of rock countless centuries before, however what I found so disturbing was my name was carved beneath it; wrote in my own native tongue no less.

 

 

 

 

It was clear that these words had not been carved by the same artistic hand that had carved the rest of the writings; I knew who had carved my name there.

 

“Be Not Afraid Jason Browning,” I repeated aloud.

 

Despite the instructions... I was afraid, very afraid; so much so that when I was finally able to rip my attention from the wall to look to where Uncle Max was standing stone still almost completely engulfed within an enormous shadow, I suddenly because aware of a heaviness in the back of my pants. I took a single step and realized in that instant that my fear was so great that I had soiled myself without even knowing that I had done so.

 

As realization that I had just crapped, my pants my fear morphed into humiliation and tears welled up in my eyes as I watched Uncle Max with admiration. He always gave me the impression that he was a very brave man and as the shadow seemed to swallow him, he did not scream or cry out in the torrential darkness; somehow he managed to talk to me quietly, calmly, “It will be alright Jason.”

 

Staring at the massive blackness before us, I tried to answered back, “I hope so . . .” but the words were lost as I felt my bladder release and a warmth consume the front of my pants.

 

Without looking toward me he spoke again, though this time barely loud enough for me to hear him, “Yeah, going to be alright.” And I think he was saying it to reassure himself more then for my benefit.

 

As if I had just blinked, suddenly there was no light at all. I held my lantern in front of my face, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from the flame and yet, not even a glimmer from the flame could pierce this darkness.

 

“Where are you?” Uncle Max asked. He words came as though he had just finished running a marathon.

 

“Right here!” I answered, swallowed the enormous lump that was sticking in my throat and then added, “Lantern’s not working!”

 

“Well stand still!” He ordered.

 

More then slightly confused by this command I said, “I am standing still!”

 

Without delay and for the first time allowing me to hear the fear he too was feeling, he said, “I-I thought I heard you move?”

 

“No!” I said hardly loud enough for him to hear me.

 

He huffed out a small laugh and asked, “You afraid Jason?”

 

The odor from the mess I had unloaded into my pants finally reached my nostrils and mixed with the aroma of cinnamon, myrrh, spikenard and sulfur. My stomach churned and I waited for what seemed like a full minute before answering with my own question, “Are you?”

 

“Of the dark?” he laughed cynically, “Not particularly!”

 

Moreover, by the sound of Uncle Max’s voice and the way he seemed to be mocking the darkness with his laughter, I believed him. Maybe if he had not spoke another word I might have been able to regain some control over my emotions but he didn’t stop there, he continued, “but I . . . the thing in the . . .” and any bravery, any strength I had left in me was devoured just as the light had been moments before.

 

Abruptly his voice changed to anger, “Where are you going?”

 

It was impossible for me to hide my fear now, “Uncle Max, I have not moved!” I said with tears flowing down my face and my heart was beating against the inside of my ribcage as though it were trying to burst through.

 

Distress growing a fair amount in his voice Uncle Max said, or maybe he was asking, “I-I thought I felt your hand on my arm?”

 

“No!” I whispered as thought I thought someone else might be listening in on our conversation.

 

“Well . . . uh, sit still. Don’t use up the air.” He ordered, which I thought was a stupid thing to say given the size of the tomb and the fact that there was a faint sulfur laced breeze coming from directly in front of us.

 

I heard him taking several steps to the right, “Huh? Well you sit still too then!” I said back.

 

Sounding perplexed and a bit affronted, he shot back with a slightly higher tone of voice then normal, “What? I tell you I didn’t move!”

 

We both listened for several seconds, “Don’t move!” he said softly, “Just listen!”

 

Something was still moving and suddenly the words etched on the cover stone came back to me, “Seven orbs and seven nights." Seraph defends the entombment bleak. Contravene their seven clasps and issue forth mankind’s end.”

 

“Couldn’t be!” I grunted.

 

“Uncle Max I think I . . .” I never got to finish.

 

There had been a funny sort of sound; the only thing I can compare that sound to would be the way a bird sounds when its head is twisted off. It was quickly followed by two hollow thumps, the first was hard and loud, the second softer and then there was nothing.

 

I stood frozen in place, “Uncle Max?” I whispered through clinched teeth.

 

When he did not reply I raised my voice, “Uncle Max?”

 

I waited and listened for any sound at all. At first, there was only the sound of my own breathing and the thunderous beating of my heart but then . . . I took a breath and held it.

 

Placed my hands over my heart to try in an effort to try to muffle it I listened . . . I could defiantly hear someone moving, moving slowly, and moving quietly.

 

I let go my breath and took another in; once again filling my nostrils with the stench of sulfur mixed with the mess in my pants and I screamed, “UNCLE MAX!”

 

I had screamed so loud that my words seemed to echo for an eternity.

 

“UNCLE MAX, ANSWER ME!” I screamed again, “UNCLE MAX PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!”

 

I waited, allowing my words to die away and when the last echo was heard, there was nothing but silence. The movement had stopped. I think my heart stopped to, or at the very least I could not hear it anymore and just as I thought maybe, just maybe my screams had scared away whatever or whoever it was that had been moving, I heard another footstep; it was close, very close.

 

I swallowed and whispered hopefully, “Uncle Max?”

 

I felt a hand on my arm and I screamed with terror. I am sure had I not already soiled and wet myself just minutes ago, I would have surely done so right then.

 

 

 

The touch, the hand was not firm or forceful but instead was a gentle, warm touch and though I could not see whom it was somehow I no longer felt like I was in any danger. In fact, I suddenly felt stupid for having been scared at all.

 

With just as much gentleness the owner of the hang that held my arm began to lead me away from the spot I had stood frozen to for the last few minutes.

 

We walked for fifty or sixty paces, I am honestly not curtain but it was quite a distance. It was not until I bumped my left shoulder against something solid but not as solid as stone, wood maybe, that it occurred to me that the sounds of my shoes against the jewel-encrusted floor had changed. They were muffled now, and I thought that maybe we were now walking on dirt floor. I drug my feet against the ground and confirmed that we were no longer inside the treasure rich tomb.

 

Despite a small, yet nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that something very bad was nearby, I allowed my escort to lead me blindly on and through what my mind determined was a narrow door that I somehow know could not be there.

 

A melodious voice breathed into my right ear, “Be not afraid!” and I powerful sent of cinnamon, myrrh, spikenard seemed to have an almost hypnotic effect on me. That feeling I’d had left me, replaced with a renewed peace birthed by those three words; I followed obediently on.

 

When I felt as though we had walked for about ten minutes, I thought I could see the faintest glimmering of orange light directly ahead of me. Suddenly the hand that had never let go its gentle grip, release my arm and instead took my hand. I looked in the direction of my hand and though I could not see it, I did see the faintest shimmer as something extremely cold was placed in my hand.

 

The voice again breathed into my right ear the words, “Be not afraid!” and once again, the words from the cover stone filled every part of my brain, “Seven orbs and seven nights. Seraph defends the entombment bleak. Contravene their seven clasps and issue forth mankind’s end.”

 

Maybe it was curiosity, or perhaps some sort of trance that made me continue on alone, moving steadily toward the light that was no longer just orange but more like a tribal dance of reds and yellows. For every step I took, it seemed that the light drew twice as close.

 

My mind was racing; something about that engraving on the cover stone was nagging at me as though something inside of me was trying to tell me that I was missing something.

 

Seven orbs?” I repeated aloud.

 

“Seven moons?” I asked myself and as soon as I said it, I knew I was wrong, “Not seven moons, seven months!”

 

Not taking my eyes off the light, I continued thinking and walking onward.

 

“And seven nights?” I again spoke aloud, “that must mean one week. Seven months and one week! Ok Jason, what else?”

 

Even before I said, “Seraph defends the entombment bleak.” I knew what had been back in the tomb with me. Well not exactly what it was, “A Seraph is an angel, why would an Angel kill Miss Lillian Hass . . .” The image of her body or what was left of her body lying on the jeweled floor was enough to cause me to hesitate in my thoughts, but only for a millisecond.

 

“But why would an angel of Jehovah be guarding this tomb?” I asked myself.

 

I had already crossed nearly half the distance to the light and though the darkness was still all around me I kept my eyes locked on the light.

“Not why . . . who?” I said and in a mental flash it was as though someone had begun playing one of those moving picture shows except this one was of that first night, that night Miss Lillian Hassely had walked into our apartment and set into motion a change of events that would eventually lead to me shooting and killing my own father.

 

 

“We found it.” She said.

 

“You found what?” my father asked.

 

Sounding a bit maddened she repeated herself pausing between each word, “Julius – we – found – IT!” with a robust prominence to the word, ‘IT’.

 

“What are you saying?” my fathers voice was queer but sounded very urgent.

 

“You… you’ve got to be joking with me!” Father sounded quite disturbed now.

 

“This is no joke Julius,” Lillian reassured.

 

“Where?” There was distress in my fathers voice now, “Dam-it woman! Where is it?”

 

Lillian answered in a prideful tone that sounded as if she were in ecstasy, “It is right where you said it was all along, my old friend.”

 

“My Jehovah!” father exclaimed nearly shouting, “I… I can’t believe it!”

 

 

I shook my head trying to rid myself of the images of myself, hiding behind the door listening in on their conversation. It was odd and disturbing; I could see myself, as though I were looking at another boy. I was standing behind the door, arms raised to my chest, fists clenched tightly in excited bliss.

 

Yet had this been the entire image it would not have been the least bit disturbing. I threw caution to the wind and allowed the full image to form. As it came into full clarity, the boy that was me, stood behind the door with the front of his pants completely soaked. Urine spilled out of one pants leg, pored over his shoe and was forming a sizeable puddle beneath him. After he noticed and looked appropriately disgusted with himself, his attention quickly returned to the conversation in the other room.

 

 

“Well you can believe it!” Lillian persisted, “We’ve actually found your lost City!”

 

All other emotions now fled from my fathers voice leaving only an almost childlike giddiness, something I had never heard come out of him before, “And is it, I mean is HE there?”

 

 

“That’s it!” I said aloud, “That was an angel back there, Jehovah’s angel, assigned to guard the tomb.

 

“Whom was the angel supposed to be guarding?” I asked myself.

 

However, my thoughts all flittered away like smoke from a fire - I had reached the origins of the light. It was a cavern, the likes of which, I have never seen, read nor heard of in my life. To say it was enormous would not be doing it justice.

 

The ceiling of the cavern, if you could call it a ceiling, seemed to be iridescent and the source of the lights that had pulled me here.

 

“Pulled me here?” I thought to myself, “Yes there was something pulling . . . no, there is something pulling me!”

 

I continued into the cavern, never once thinking to look back to maybe see who it was that had lead me though the darkness and eventually to the light. Three steps forward and I found myself standing at the top of a stone staircase that did not twist or turn but descended down, farther then my eyes could see.

 

And something caught my eye; it was in my hand. I raised it up to see a flaming object that defies description except that it was emitting blue flames that wound around my hand and licked my arm.

 

The flames were blue and were not burning me, nonetheless I distinctly remember hearing the command from my brain to my hand to drop the object. However, when I tried, the blue flames appeared to become as ice, locking it within my grip. As soon as I surrendered to the fact that I could not let it go, the ice once again became flames.

 

While I stood examining the object, trying to wrap my young mind around it, to understand it, I remembered to things my mother had once read to me from a very old scroll. Later, after her death, I came across them again, completely by accident when helping my father with his research. They both come from the Holy Scriptures.

 

I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.”

 

And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.”

 

Unsure why these passages came back to me now I couldn’t help but wonder if they had something to do with this blue flaming object that I held in my right hand.

 

Lowering my flame-engulfed hand to my side, I once again allowed my eyes to drift down the seemingly endless stairs. The pull was unmistakable; with a single step down, I started my decent.

 

 

In the middle of Lowell reciting his final chapter and despite my efforts to the contrary I succumbed to sleep but not deeply; it was as if my conscious and subconscious minds were doing a sort of aggressively violent ballet. It was more then a little odd, because I could both hear Lowell telling his story and it also seemed that I had begun dreaming, but without images. I could hear a sort of confused muttered tune that could just barely be called singing and at the same time, it sounded like it might be in a different language though I thought I could make out a word here and there.

 

Still trying to listen to every word Lowell shared, I also tried to allow myself to lean in closer to the tune within my dream. I’m not sure if I actually spoke the words aloud or just thought them, but as far as my brain was concerned, it had registered the words, “Lowell, can you hear that?”

 

However Lowell did not stop, which could have meant he had not heard me or I had not actually spoken them aloud.

 

I shook my head violently from side-to-side in an effort to knock my unconscious mind off balance long enough to allow my conscious mind to one again seize control. I could still hear the butchered tune though it sounded distant and echoed.

 

Again I shook my head, harder this time to be sure I wasn’t sleeping and called up earnestly, “L-Lowell, shush, l-listen!” This time I was positive the words had made their way out of my mouth.

 

Lowell fell quiet and I was not sure if he had heard me and was actually listening or had paused only to take a breath before continuing with his story.

 

“Sounds like someone’s singing!” he said still using his normal voice, “And badly too!” he almost sounded fearless for the moment.

 

We both were quiet as we listened, “. . . an’ I wan’go t’bed. I ‘ad a li’l . . . I ‘ad a li’l . . . Uh,” there was a peculiar sounding croak, followed by a wet sounding belch that might have been someone puking. Seconds later the song was continued, “I ‘ad me more‘n a li’l drin’ ‘bout a’our ‘go an’ . . .”

 

“Sounds like, whoever it is, is getting closer!” Lowell whispered down to me.

 

As panic began to overtake me at the thought of someone finding Lowell out of bed, I whispered up again with all the urgency I could put into a whisper, “Q-Q-Quick, Hide!”

 

There was a moments pause where I thought maybe he had heeded my advise but then, “Now where am I supposed to hide?” and the extremely derogatory sound of Lowell’s voice gave me the impression that he was both scared and exasperated.

 

“ . . . ‘go ‘n it wen’ ‘ight to ma ‘ead.”

 

The echo’s and the high volume of whoever was singing made it impossible to identify who was coming aside from the fact that it sounded low enough that it was probably a man, but that did not much matter. There were only four men that I had seen since arriving here at the Bancheli Orphanage for Boys, and none of them seemed the type to look lightly on Lowell’s presence in this vile place.

 

“Wheeeeeere e’er I may . . . AAAHHH ‘ister ‘ary!” The ill tune was suddenly interrupted by an alarming cry from the one singing.

 

For several panic filled seconds I listened before I felt enough courage to ask, “L-Lowell? Y-you st-still th-there?” and the words seemed to trickle out of my mouth like water from a leaking faucet. A single second seemed to hang before me as if were a shimmering veil, distorting and hiding what was beyond.

 

I felt several dropped of water dance the top of my head that I dismissed from my thoughts as though brushing a hair from my eyes; and finally it was only by his faint whimpers that I guessed the answer to my question.

 

Though nearly frozen, and unable to feel my legs, I managed to somehow raise myself up, but that was as far as I could get. My legs just would not bend enough to allow me to climb the ladder, not that I would have been able to do anything if I had been able to clime to the top.

 

This time I could not dismiss it as easily when three more drops hit the top of my head, harder this time; and though it was probably my imagination, I thought I could hear the micro-splashes as they crashed against my greasy, filthy and matted hair.

 

I managed to look up into the void of darkness above me just in time to have another drop hit me directly in the right eye. It stung; no that’s not right, it burned, like acid and hand I not been so scared for Lowell I probably would have figured out sooner what it was that was dripping on me now. As it was, it would be several hours from now before I would finally work it out that the drops had come from Lowell’s overly drenched cloth diaper.

 

As I rubbed at my eye with the back of my grimy hand, a connection was finally made within my brain. At that instant, I think my heart stopped beating when the thought, which started as just a faint purple vapor, began to grow and take form. I give my eye one last rub, blinked and finally figured out that the one who’d been singing was none other then the giant trapped within the body of a midget. And though the normal accent of Fyer the cook, whatever origins it might have developed from, was so bad that hardly anyone could understand him, it was obvious now that he more then a little drunk.

 

“’od’am mang’d beas'!” came Fyer’s echoed shouts, followed a low mean sound that seemed to never end and the image of Fyer that had been foremost in my mind was suddenly replaced by a brutal lion.

 

Several broken curse words found their way to my ears followed by a crash that sounded like glass breaking against something metallic. Before those echoes had subside, there was a brutal thud so loud that I could feel its repercussions though the ladder that my hands were nearly frozen to now.

 

Just as I started to think that Fyer had gone, or maybe had passed out, the agonized and torturous groans of someone in pain could be heard mixed with more broken cursing, only louder, angrier and coming closer.

 

Fear filled my voice as I strained to whisper, “L-Lowell?” before Fyer’s moans seemed to be coming from right above me.

 

“’od ‘elp ut ‘n ‘it m’ ‘od’am ‘an’s on’t!” Fyer mumbled angrily above.

 

There was a momentary pause and then a sort of high pitched gurgling sound followed by a startled, “Oy!” from Fyer and then nothing.

 

By ‘nothing’ I mean, I could not hear Fyer so much as breathing, nor could I make out Lowell’s whimpered cries of fright or any other signs of what was playing out above me. It was as if someone had just sat on the TV remote and inadvertently paused the movie of my life; or maybe some greater being was deriving some sort of sick and twisted pleasure by toying with time so that they could watch me suffer for just a bit longer.

 

I actually remember feeling grateful when I heard, “Wot ‘ere ya?” Fyer asked; at least I think it was a question. At any rate, by the sound of him, something up there had him rattled but from my darkened vantage point all I could see was black on black with varying shades of black.

 

Without warning, an explosion of pain erupted within me, causing my legs to buckle and my knees hit the cold hard floor with a bony crunch. It was as if my eyes had suddenly burst into flaming balls of fire. Fyer had turned on the bulb that hung directly over my pit. With both of my eyes still burning, I squinted and tried to peek through my fingers.

 

Though it took several seconds for my eyes to begin working again, eventually I could see that Lowell was no longer lying over the grate. I could only hope he had found some place to hide after all and I had to fight to keep the worst thoughts from forming in my head.

 

Fyer asked his question again, “Wot ‘ere ya?” and this time his voice cracked like a pubescent choirboys.

 

Still trying to peek though my fingers I first heard what sounded like two shoe dragging steps and then saw from a cockroaches vantage point as Fyer moved so that he was now standing on the grate directly over me. Regardless of being a midget, his ample girth provided enough of an eclipse to allow my eyes to adjust from the total blackness that now seemed to cower and hug the pipes on the far side of my human filth pit.

 

Clueless as to what Fyer was seeing or talking to, and concerned that at any second he would spot Lowell and attack him, I opened my mouth to scream up at him and get his attention. However, just as my lips parted there was another voice, a horse, dry, tired, almost inhuman sounding man’s voice but it had not originated from above me; it came from within the pit that I was imprisoned in.

 

“Seeing things again are you Special Agent Fyer?” the voice had said.

 

Though my legs were so cold I could not feel them, they still managed to respond to my brains commands and spun me around so that my plastic encased back was now firmly against the ladder.

 

With the light spilling down past Fyer, I quickly scanned the chamber. I still could not see the far wall where earlier I had found the leaking pipe and drank my fill of water. To my left was the wall and ledge I had moved alone to get to the pipes and with a snap of my neck I looked to the wall on my right. It appeared to be identical except for the narrow ledge, however I did spot something. Nearly centered between the ceiling and the surface of the stagnant, mostly liquid waste and between the still darkened wall of pipes and myself was a rectangular grid like pattern of holes in the wall. The holes did not appear to be much larger then a finger and they were about an inch, or more, apart. I could only guess that it was some kind of ventilation or maybe it was a runoff incase the pit were to be flooded. I looked back to the left hand wall and though it was mostly lost in the shadows where the light from above could not reach, I could just make out the lower corner of the same rectangular shaped grid of holes.

 

While trying to figure out where the voice had come from, Fyer spoke again, “’om?”

 

“What did he say?” I said only loud enough for me to hear myself.

 

As I took a breath after I had whispered to myself, I instantly realized that I had forgot to keep breathing through my nose for several fear filled breaths. Once again I was reminded just how horrible my prison cell reeked. I gagged, choked and nearly vomited.

 

“Oy! Shodup dun d’re!” Fyer shouted; his fear shortly dismissed.

 

For added measure, he stomped on the grate above me showering me with years of accumulated dried human waste. I had not thought fast enough and as a result, I had sucked in a lung full of the dust.

 

I coughed, gagged and could feel an asthma attack coming on fast.

 

“You all right Simon?” the eerie voice asked with just a taste of human emotion.

 

I was unable to answer, not just because of the asthma attack that was nearly to full force but also because the voice had known my name, my real name. My air passage had slammed shut after my second gulp of the dust but I was still aware enough to recognize that the voice had come from the left hand wall.

 

With a third gasp that brought no air into my lungs; I crumpled to my hands and knees. Above me, Fyer fumed, regurgitating drunken profanities as though he were spewing flaming bile down upon me.

 

“Simon!” a high-pitched voice screeched very much like an attacking eagle.

 

Doing my own impersonation of a bird, I twisted my head on my shoulders as if I was an owl and suddenly time began to move in slow jerky burst. I saw Fyer moving away as the small form of Lowell took his place but he was only visible for a fraction of a second. I must have somehow stopped time while he was in mid stride, leaping over the grate apparently to attach Fyer because it seemed to last longer then a fractured second. I saw Lowell hanging in midair, one leg out in front of him the other trailing behind and between them hung a soaked cloth diaper with droplets of gleaming gold flying away from it in every direction.

 

Seconds before I blacked out I heard a blood curdling scream that somehow I knew came from Fyer and was accompanied by the piercing squalls of some kind of inhuman creature, mad for flesh. The last I can vaguely recall was Fyer howling about daemons as he ran screaming back down the corridor apparently pursued by the unholy beast and Lowell too.

 

 

When I came too again, I opened my eyes and was so relieved to find that the light had been left on when Fyer had fled. I was laying on my back with my left arm trapped beneath me while my left leg from my knee down was bobbing in the pool of human filth. It was in that instant that everything came back like a torrent of memories. I was not sure how long I had been out but the first thought I had was of Lowell. I opened my mouth to call out to him but the pain in my chest and throat prevented me from saying anything at all.

 

I took a breath and though the stench was offensive beyond words, the fact that air did enter my lung, albeit slow and painfully, I could breath. I took another breath and tried to speak again but scarcely was able to eek out more then what a mouse with laryngitis might.

 

After several minutes, I was able to get myself to a sitting position with my plastic amour covered back once again to the ladder. Desperate to find out of Lowell was still above me, I took several breaths in through my nose and tried to speak again, “L-Lowell?” It came out strangled and weak, but it was strong enough that had Lowell still been up there he would have heard me even if he had been sleeping.

 

My mind quickly returned to the mysterious and haunting voice, I had heard call my name just before I had that mental power outage.

 

“H-Hello?” I asked as strong and I could muster; there was no reply at all.

 

I tried several more times, each time my voice got stronger and louder but after several attemps, I began to wonder if I had dreamt the whole ordeal.

 

 

With no way to tell how long I had been unconscious or sleeping, I did not know if I could expect someone to come release me soon or if I would have anymore visitors.

 

I was sitting listening to the sound of the water pipe on the far side of the pit dripping when I realized I needed to pee. I don’t know why but it struck me as funny and I began to giggle, which quickly turned into a painful, bought of laughter that inevitably became a frenzy of coughing.

 

The last cough was the hardest and most painful and it ushered forth the contents of my bladder with the force of a water cannon. The stream shot out in a high ark that glistened in the light from above me and dropped into the pond of chunky liquid green and brown waste with a steady rhythm. I watched the stream beginning to loose its altitude as the last my pee escaping from my body and I let rip a loud fart that sounded like someone had fired off several ultra fast gunshots.

 

Down in such a horridly disgusting place you wouldn’t think that it possible to feel good about anything but the feeling of my bladder emptying and adding my own fragrances to the stench that hung in the air all around me, sure did feel good.

 

I was basking in that pleasant feeling when I felt something fall into my hair. I was reaching up to brush whatever it was out and could hear the sound of a cat purring pleasantly from above. I looked up and saw something laying on the grate eclipsing part of the light from that one bulb.

 

Sure enough it was a cat, and from the way the light seemed to cause the edges of its fur to glow, I could see that it appeared as though it had not been properly cared for and probably, like me, could use a bath.

 

The cat, sensing that I was looking its way slowly, as if not trusting me, turned its face down toward me. The light from the bulb above us both was reflecting off the surface of the wastewater and was then captured within the glowing brown eyes of the cat.

 

The two of us sat motionless, staring almost disbelievingly at one another. The cat is not fat, but she’s big and apparently fearless. I suspect that even a pit bull, gone bad and in a murdering mood, would have turned, and gone in search of easier prey; like maybe crocodiles

 

Though dirty and fur mangled she appeared to be the color of an unripe pumpkin, with black markings. Judging by the black-and-cream patterns on her face, you might think she was the devilish familiar of that old rock group, Kiss and probably was just as old too.

 

Perched on the grate above me, gazing toward the passageway, she pretended for a full minute to be unaware of my presence beneath her.

 

Being ignored was fine with me because I had already remembered that I’d seen this very same cat not to long ago on the street, attacking some bum or drunk. How she had ended up here and why she had decided to camp out above me was more then I cared to think about just then.

 

Finally turning her head, she regarded me appraisingly, with contempt so thick that I expected to be her dinner before too long. Then she shifted her attention once more to the corridor.

 

The long empty chamber that stretched between my cesspool and the stairs seemed to fascinate her and to put her in a somber, contemplative mood. Perhaps she had used up eight of her lives and felt a chill of mortality hanging in the putrefied air, or maybe it was just the methane gas given off by the human waste, that was mellowing us both out.

 

Within half a minute, she had put me on edge again with her threatening, angry hiss. All cats have this talent, of course, but this cat seems to rival both rattlesnakes and cobras for the intensity and the menace of her hiss.

 

Something in the corridor had so disturbed her that she rose to her feet on the grate and a small metal medallion that hung around her neck clinked as it brushed the grate. Seeming to double and triple in size, she arched her back, and bristled her hackles.

 

Although clearly I was not the cause of her agitation, I slid to the edge of my small precipice, poised to slide around the small ledge to the back of my pit.

 

She hissed again, and then clawed the metal grate. The skreeeeek of her nails on the metal made the fluid quiver in the hollows of my veins.

 

Suddenly I wondered if Fyer had returned, perhaps armed and prepared for a battle this time.

 

When the cat raked the metal again, I got to my feet. I eased toward the base of the ladder with caution, not because I feared that a bullet might find the center of my forehead but because I didn’t want the vexated cat to misunderstand my motives.

 

Frozen, somehow my legs managed to raise my feet up the rungs and my arms managed to pull me up the ladder until I was only inches away from the now growling cat.

 

Due to extreme fatigue and my poor vantage point I could only just make out the silhouette of a large individual, obviously not Fyer, standing stone still and shining a light down on the cat and I. The light was much brighter then the light given off by the single bulb and I had to look away but strangely enough, I took comfort in knowing that the beast still stood guard over me.

 

My first instinct was to quickly move back down the ladder but instead I looked back up and the light from this stranger glimmered off the silver medallion that hung from what at one time must have been a fancy and expensive collar. I only had a moment to read what was engraved into the metal; I saw just a single word—Vera.

 

 

Next Installment:

Thirteen Nights - Epilog

 

 

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