Episode 9 - A Dark, Deep Place. And the Hollow Beyond.

  Chapter 92 - Deep in the Dark

  Pooka’s dark nose lowers to the surface of the platform as he sniffs deeply, drawing the rich metallic scent into his nose. I can smell it through him, just as surely as if the odor were drawn into my own nose. It is heavy, cloyingly thick, and tastes of blood in my mouth as if I have cut my gums. I run my tongue over my teeth just to be sure I am still me.

  I keep my distance from the black platform, sitting on a rock to watch as Pooka circles, snuffling at the edges. It’s the largest platform I’ve ever seen, not that i have seen many, easily wider than one hundred paces, large enough for a train carriage even. Across a third of the surface, dust and debris have covered the cold iron, the tree arching over to hang its falling fronds on one side.

  If I were feeling less anxious, I might be by the tree, studying it like Rhett is or lounging in its shadow like Pooka was when we finally caught up to him. The tree upsets me just as much as I find it beautiful. As I rub my scarred hand under my glove, I wonder what price survival will extract from me. When I am as beaten and bruised, will I be able to remain as beautiful as that tree?

  So instead, I let the cold iron be the only thing that occupies my vision. In the corners of my mind, ghosts are wandering. I can feel them deep below.

  The bloody red runes are not as bright as I remember them from Murasaki; the light is barely visible in the bright sun of the day. Their shapes are not letters; at least not any I recognize, and if there was a pattern, it is not discernible to me as I study it. My throat is dry, my stomach empty. How much blood will it want from me?

  It feels almost anticlimactic. This strange metal object, half-buried in the wilds and forgotten and surely of no significance. And yet, its tarnished surface carries an unspoken weight, a certainty to its presence. Unlike the platforms in the cities, teeming with wires and sensors and scaffolds of floodlights built over them, this one stands alone. In its singularity, it is more oppressive than even the tallest ?concrete walls. As if I could put my hand to it and somehow it would consume me if I did so.

  While I collect myself, Rhett has climbed up the rubble to the base of the tree and is collecting leaves. First, he bends and gathers a couple of dried, dead leaves from the base. Then he spends a minute studying the bark and selects a peeling ribbon of grey flesh to cut free with his folding pocket knife. Finally, he runs his hands down the fronds as he looks through the branches. One seems to catch his attention: a small, newly green sprig that he cuts at the base of its length where the wood thickens to old growth. With his collection secured, he confidently navigates down the rocks and approaches me.

  “What is it?” I ask as he comes within speaking distance.

  Rhett lowers his duffel bag, Pell hanging to the sides below the straps.

  “Hmm. Salix species, I think. A willow. They have incredibly tough root systems. It probably has stolons throughout the rubble so it can regrow no matter what happens,” replies Rhett, digging through the bag for our water supply. He flicks the seal for the mouthpiece that plugs into our respirators for drinking and dabs some water onto a scrap of cloth, then binds the moist square to the cut base of the branch he collected.

  “What are you doing that for?” I ask.

  “Hmm? Trying to keep it alive. Might be able to propagate it. Could be a long shot, though.” He begins to pick any leaves off his sample, handing them to me to study.

  I take one as he offers it, turning the long thin leaf in my hands. It's shaped a little like spiked fronds from some of his palms, but is more delicate, almost fabric-like in its soft green texture. The color has a gorgeous silvering, like tarnished metal.

  Rhett stands from his duffel bag, planting his hands on his lower back and stretching his back. “It’s probably the first tree I’ve seen out here this trip. Sad how rare they have become. What now?” he asks, watching me one-eyed.

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  “I bleed until I can hear it no more,” I say apprehensively, massaging my hand in my glove.

  “You can hear it? The manifestation platform?” he asks.

  The current buckles below, gathering around the platform, as if its flow is choked. I can feel the weight of the platform, shaped like a great stake that pierces through the crust of the earth. “You can’t?” I whisper.

  He watches me; I cannot see his jaw hidden behind his respirator to know what he is thinking. I don’t know if I spoke loud enough for him to hear my reply.

  Pooka lifts his head, heavy muzzle turning my way and whiskers twitching. He places one paw up and onto the platform, as if to test it for himself. My mind does not splinter, but I feel like I stand on the edge of the cliff again, ready to fall once more into the current below. I watch Pooka take one step, then another, till he has all four feet on it and stands waiting for me to come to him. It is time. Let the precious blood flow. Call back to the hollow today, and let it be known you will no longer listen.

  Rhett unzips the front of his environmental suit; across his chest, a harness and combat knife sheathed diagonally. He pulls the knife free and bends into his duffle bag, pulling our first aid kit from within. With methodical care, he sorts through the supplies, retrieving antiseptic wipes that he cleans his blade with.

  “How much blood?” he asks, looking at his hands and not me. His voice is husky and heavy while he works.

  I cannot prevent how my voice shakes when I reply. “I don’t know. In our memories, it was a lot.”

  “Our?”

  He approaches, holding the blade of his knife with the white antiseptic wipe and offers me the handle. I blink as I stare at it in his hands. I’ve never seen his combat knife up close. The blade is almost black and asymmetric with serrated teeth on one side near the hilt. If he is nervous, his steady hands do not shake.

  I unclip the buckle around the wrist of my scarred left hand, peeling the glove off and slowly placing it at my side.

  “Unzip your suit,” says Rhett. I start and look at him. He mimes rolling his suit down one shoulder. “Don’t cut your hand, you’ll slice a tendon. Forearm might be a better idea.”

  The wave of fear that crashes over me at his short, practical words rattles my breath in my throat. I blink, feeling wet tears come to the corners of my eyes. I swallow and glance again at the handle of the blade he is still offering me.

  “It has to touch the metal,” I reply. My voice sounds distant, like the words don’t come from my mouth.

  “You can kneel, I guess. Don’t cut too deep…”

  I look past him again, where Pooka waits with his eyes burning like red fire. He is hyaenid no more. Instead, he stands tall and proud, black mane falling down his long equine face. Hair covers his fetlocks, hanging over his hooves and blending with the dark surface of the metal. They could almost be made of the same things if I squinted. Black and red. Fog and water. Deep and wild things that are the opposite of humankind, remembering leaves that no longer fall.

  I will not let you drown, my love. Trust me.

  So I take the blade from Rhett’s hands. I watch him scrunch the antiseptic wipe in his fist as he steps back, and I climb to my feet to approach the platform. As he suggested, I unzip my suit to my waist, pulling one shoulder down and tying the sleeve around my belt as I walk.

  I touch Pooka’s face as I approach, patting his soft velvet body with my bare hand and feeling his constant chill sink into the tips of my fingers. I feel the current below me, gathering around the metal and stretching onwards and away. Pooka lowers his head to the metal, lipping at the surface as he waits for me. This feels nothing like the clinical process when I manifested. There a surgical lancet extracted a single drop of blood - enough to touch the hollow, enough to pull Pooka up. But never enough to really let it in.

  Memories that are not mine race through my mind, whispering their haunting promises, but I don't need them to know what must be done. I must pass through the hollow, I must cycle with it and understand it. I must hear the voices of ghosts to know the hollow, as it must hear my voice to know me. As I take from it, it will take from me, until we each share the price paid.

  I kneel. I press the smooth edge of the blade to my forearm, just below my elbow, and surgically slice my skin. The blade is so sharp I barely feel the pain at first, flesh parting for it like water. Then it blossoms on an afterthought as my blood wells brilliant red. I drop the knife, pressing my thumb into the wound to push the blood from my flesh.

  The first droplet splashes against tarnished iron.

  And a vast black eternity comes for me.