The road that has no end.

The road that has no end.

Written in a fit of madness by: Ricky J Joyce

Part One.

Most people did not believe that the Gods existed, they had too many other things to worry about to really bother with Gods and Goddesses, which worked out fine for the deities in question, as they preferred to walk unnoticed and play their games that they have played for eons and will continue to play for eons more. One of these Goddesses however did not walk the mortal plane unless she really, really had too.

           Fortunately for him, Mnemosyne, although annoyed, had not deemed it worthy enough for her to leave the pool she so lovingly attended in Hades. Its waters fed from the river Lesmosyne, one of five rivers in the Underword that souls returning to the mortal coils of the Material Realm would drink from to forget. Once all their memories removed, they were reincarnated, all hoping for something better, more powerful, joyful, and worthy. Not all hopes were met.

           Except for his, well, kind of.

Maybe Fortuna was on his side, or Tysche, her sister, had been playing her games of chance with him. It did not matter, the cultists tied up in their own self-importance and over-blown egos had caused the distraction necessary for their own to escape and having felt that his time had come far too soon, he had taken the opportunity to cross with them.

           Somehow, he had crossed with the goblet he should have drunk from, it had barely touched his lips – just enough to feel the cold crystal-clear water, just enough to allow him to forget he was holding it. And when he was gasping for breath on the other side, he thought about taking another sip. The upside to drinking beforehand allowed the mind and body to go through the ritual that brought them back to the land of the living. He, however, had not drank enough, so it had felt as a Gods hand had plucking him out of the darkness, unceremoniously shoved through a meat-grinder and then stitched back together with a staplegun. No wonder newborns cried when they arrived.

It took a minute for him to catch his breath, then a few more to figure out where he was, and remember who he was and why he needed to return. As he sat there, his back aching in a mixture of the pain from the coming back, and the cold of the alley wall he was leaning against, he remembered it all – and hated himself for it.

Part Two.

The Isle of Guernsey, off the coast of France, was not French soil. The Charter of 1548 had declared the Isle independent, and after the Inter-Realm War started the United Nations took it as their central base. Over years they built an enormous underground compound. The city itself spread out over the Isle, and now the name of the Isle is an afterthought to the vast cityscape that is Rookhaven City.

     The Isles location in the English Channel, near the Western coast of Normandy, France was convenient for trade, and close links to the England for those that braved the seas on the armoured diesel and steam battleships, against the ocean and the creatures that now roam the depths thanks to the war. Trade routes cross the lands like veins provided the military and civilians alike access to the rest of the country and world. Zeppelin’s ruled the sky trade, with short range rota-engineered planes aiding with protection and support. These mammoth floating vessels mix the diesel technology with licensed magical devices to remain airborne.

The UN eventually moved to London, New York, and other various influential cities. The underground complex was converted to house prisoners of war, the Vixheim, and eventually your normal everyday bad guy. The deepest level is designated for the highest level of security. The rehabilitation system was that a prisoner could redeem themselves, work their way back to the surface and gain their freedom. The entry points to the Prison were The Hall of Justice and within the Stirling Estate, as the latter was the Inquisition stronghold, and the black cloaked attire the primary cause for the nickname ‘The Underdark City’ it stuck.

There were two citizen classes in Rookhaven: Licensed and the not. The Licensed have more rights and freedoms than those without the correct paperwork. Mainly voting, access to health care, government support and the like. Immigrants, ex-convict, and the Vix did not have said paperwork, in extenuating circumstances a person born outside the city could gain these rights, convicts and the Ex-Vix will more than likely be declined – they did not advertise this or deter the lining of the coffers with charges and fees from those wishing to pursue what is essentially a pointless venture.

           Being from the far Realm of Vixheim was a burden he had struggled with. Like it had been his choice who his parents had been, where he had been conceived, born, and subsequently traded once he had been of age. It had been a simple choice of fight for them or be eaten by them. Some, once proven, were chosen to be bitten and introduced to the clan – if they survived the lycanthropy change. No, he had not had many choices that he could remember freely taking.

Except the one where he had snuck onto the air-pod contraption before the clan had realised what was going on, and launched himself through the void, through the g-forces that had felt like an elephant had sat on his chest, only to crash land on the coast of the city isle.

He remembered the sunlight when the door had been prised open, the fresh salty air rush in and with it the airs and graces of hope. Before, like the waves crashing up against the hull on the scorched metal bucket, the black gloved hand of the Inquisition dragged him and the others out and into the Underdark to be held and questioned.

For seven long years.

Eventually he had been released, having made them realise that he was no threat, did not know any magicks or more importantly for his own survival, did not have any powers. He had somewhere lost most of his forties, his bones ached when the weather changed, something he really noticed on the surface. His back was weak, having lifted something wrong in the warehouse he had been stationed in his time waiting for his release. That had been one of the reasons why he then was able to walk in the sun – if on the rare occasion it was seen or felt, as the factories pumping out smoke from the huge engines and apparatuses that powered the city and helped in the war effort ran continuously. He was on permanent parole in a zone that worked these stupendous mechanisms and given a menial job that allowed him to pay an extortion rent and eat.

Having traded the goblet for a hipflask, jacket, and cash, he walked through those same streets and remembered occasionally not eating. Days had been hard, but been made a little easier, as the poor seemed to look after the poor. While he scrimped and secretly saved, others took pity on him, shared a crust, the last sip of what was supposed to be coffee.

Until he had saved and bought a bus ticket to the Harbour. He needed to see the marina. To hear the calls from the gulls and fishermen alike. To feel the soft spray of salty air on his skin, to taste the cold soft ice-cream that he had pined over from the crumpled postcard he had found discarded years ago. While he remembered the hope that had driven him to just get that one day there, before he could happily return to the grindstone, he could not remember what stop she had gotten on at.

So, he started at the start, and handed over enough cash for a one-way ticket to the port, just as he did that first time.

Part Three.

The bus was a bus. Old, massive, and cumbersome. The driver pulled the doors open with a creak and groan that had him wondering if it was the machine or the driver that had made the noise. The old man had a scraggy white grey slightly matted beard that hid most of his wrinkled and weathered face. Copper rimmed thickset glasses made his eyes over large and seemingly out of portion to the rest of his overweight figure. The driver grunted something in the way of recognition and accepted the ticket. He barely had time to move before the doors swung shut and the diesel engine chugging loudly fired into life, lurching the vehicle forward.

           Bouncing off a pole, he used it to swing into a seat. There were plenty to choose from, as only two others were taken, and they were at the back where the cool kids sat. Feigning looking about, watching the buildings pass by, he glanced over. Both men were heavy set, had grease marks on their faces, neck and hands from what he could see. Wearing jeans and t-shirts, either they were black or were black now because of the work they did, he caught himself being hypocritical, making judgments on others, like everyone did to him, so, he shuffled in his seat and concentrated on looking out the front.

Then he remembered why he believed in the Gods in the first place.

He thought about the way the interior lights made everyone else look ill, but how they caused her long auburn hair to shimmer like it was fire itself, tamed and tied into a ponytail. Her emerald eyes, priceless as they were gems belonging to a queen’s necklace, and that smirk in the corner of her rosy-red lips that betrayed her when she caught him staring.

She had tied her hair back behind her head with a small bow made from a blue ribbon she had picked up from craft shop earlier that week, it was quickly becoming her favourite thing to do he had found out later. A fitted tweed bodice, with two vertical lines of buttons, tailored to combine an almost skirt-like frill, gave her a regimental yet feminine silhouette. Designed to flatter her shape, she nailed the pin-up girl look, and she knew it too. The bust was advantaged by a doublet-style structure and pure white blouse underneath. Her hips softened and with the waist gently pinched and emphasised, as she got up the steps, considering she was barely five-foot-five to him she stood like a giant. Her outfit was completed with a simple short black pencil skirt and black leggings and black stilettos that certainly did nothing to take away her supple almost feline form, and like any cat, there was an air of mystery about her that had him fully engrossed.

The bus journey had been torturous, the driver seemed to enjoy aiming at potholes and ignoring the need to slow down on speed bumps. It did not do him any good, the diesel fumes from the engine and factories that they had passed hung in the air and burnt his nostrils. Finally, he noticed that the route took him into what must be the lower part of the city, the exhausts from the factories had all but gone and traffic had changed from trucks, vans and busses to cars and the occasional motorbike that zoomed past with a roar of freedom that still escaped him.

           “I’ve always wanted one of them.” Her voice cut through the noise of the city, and although she was softly spoken, it drowned everything else out. There was a hint of an ascent he could not place, and in his mind, his imagination sort out various scenarios on how he would find out.

           “Me too. But I could never afford one.” He found himself muttering before he could engage his brain to work. Great, he had thought, more three-in-the-morning ammo for the mind to over-think about. Why don’t you just blurt out that you’re a poor factory worker too. He remembered being incredibly self-conscious and hid the frayed cuffs of the plain linen jacket he had borrowed from a friend.

But it had worked, or she had taken pity on him, either way, it did not matter. The rest of the journey was a blur. She had moved to sit in front of him, resting her back against the window side of the bus so she could face him, and still see what was happening outside. Something that the conversation initially revolved around, as they slowly verbally tango’ d with little titbits of personal information. Each slightly hesitate at first, fearing judgement, but before long she knew he was a poor factory worker that had scrimped and saved to have one day on the coast – and she had admired him for it. It had shown resolve and determination she had said, something that was missing from most people's personal repertoire.

           She was from a working-class family, lucky enough to have teacher for a mother – she was told by her mother, to get a head start on her education, which got her into university. Which apparently just gave her crippling debts and churned her out back into the work force to be a secretary for some man that had been fortunate enough to have been born in the family that owned the business.

He had thought after they had finally stopped that she would disappear into the crowds heading towards the seaside arcades – but she had waited for him.

           “Come on, I’ll show you my favourite spots.”

Part Four.

She had not gotten on the bus, even after exploring the spots she had favoured and experienced the coolness of the shadows from under the pier where she had first grabbed his hand to led him through the beams, he had not seen her. Resigning to the truth that she was not there walking the noisy arcades, or the quiet side streets where the best local café’s hid, he started the trudge back.

           He tried in vain to ignore the rock of doubt that resided in his stomach. He had this over whelming sense of dread. It clawed itself into his chest, like a gremlin in the bone cage that was his ribs. It stole the wind from his lungs and infected his heart with black gooey tar that made it struggle to beat. His mind torn, as a part of him recognised that there were reasons why he could think negative and tried to negotiate with that part that was delving deep, like a deep-sea drilling rig searching for oil, except it was not oil it found, but all the missed chances, the things he should have done – could have done, would have done if he could take back time. But he had had no power over time, and the more he dredged up, the more it filled the waters. The sea itself was troubled and dark. The deeper he went, the more doubt he found. 

The negotiation with this ominous gremlin of ill feeling, doubt and dark thoughts was like a man trying to reason with the storm that was coming in off the ocean, bringing with it waves to batter the boats against rocks, and winds to take the roofs off buildings. And yet, he thought, smile. Keep up the appearance that one can reason with the wind. While inside, he battened down the hatches, because you can never know how long the storm will take to pass. Songs helped, listening to them let him know that others are in or have survived their storm.

He imagined the man putting on his yellow raincoat and waiting. Tightening his belt against the wind and holding onto a cool rail, the raindrops become needles against his unprotected skin. He knows it will pass. And that glimmer is what allows him to get up in the morning. If that old man could face the storm, maybe he could. There was a small chance that she would get on that bus again, he remembered her saying it was one of her favourite things to do, escape the family, job and all the pressures that came with it, to enjoy the seaside for the day. If there was a chance to find his firecracker in this dark city, he would take it.

He waited for the station to open, having slept in a construction of cardboard boxes and an old sleeping bag he had found there waiting for him; he would buy another ticket and use the bathroom to freshen up. Then when she got on the bus, and she would remember him.

           She would remember how he waved goodbye to her that day, having only bought a one-way ticket he had declined her offer to buy him one to get him back home. They had promised to meet here again in a months’ time, giving him plenty of time to save. He had not mentioned that it had taken him nearly six for this ticket – but he would figure something out.

Those ever-resilient thoughts and memories started coming back. He remembered the shadows of the city growing larger as the streetlights thinned out the further, he got from the city centre, he remembered the stench of stale beer and bourbon on the man’s breath. The snub nose revolver pointing at him, then the argument as he did not believe that he was broke. He pulled the slightly tarnished hipflask from his jacket and unscrewed the lid.

As he remembered the muzzle flash, he took a sip. Just enough to taste the not so sweet water, not enough to take everything away – just enough for him to have hope.   

Handing over enough cash for a one-way ticket, he boarded the bus to the port, just as he did that one time.

Part Three.

The End.