VOICES

I’m hungry. Another voice? It didn’t matter. The mouth of the cave called louder—enticing me, willing me to enter. Perhaps I wanted to yield to its familiar pull. Perhaps I wanted to resist. It was too late. Darkness clasped my hand and drew me inside, away from the day, into bereft  places—into the first chamber. And how well I knew it! Here, the remaining light diffused into graphite, etching the cave’s disfigurements, like pockmarks on a tortured cheek. In sombreness, I caressed the blistering wounds. But no! As their ruptured edges pierced my heart, there was a gleam, as if cast by an eye.

I’m hungry. Ignoring Other Voice, I scoured the contours of the cave, yearning to be mistaken, fearful of what might skulk around in the crevasses. But no! It was there—low down, far right. A predator. Only a predator’s eyes could glint like that, could sharpen the soft shadows of the cave to razor blades.  

I’m hungry. A false voice, not to be listened to. Fear gnawing at my bones, I sought solace in the chamber’s voice. It spoke words of truth: Hope has flown and hopelessness remains. Here, you will find no further gains. Go further. Go deeper. Seek and behold the Reaper. Alas, the chamber’s voice was no longer pure. The predator tore at the edges of the words—chewed and watched, with blood shimmering in its irises. In dread, I crawled deeper into the cave’s scars. The light turned slate-grey. The second chamber lay ahead. There I would be safe. There I would be alone.

I’m hungry. Shh, Other Voice. There will be silence now. The predator must not hear me. With muffled steps, I dragged my feet along the musty floor—big steps could alert the beast. And big steps were dangerous, here, where the passage narrowed and twisted in upon itself, where the messages became hushed. Mere whispers, because they had done their work of enticing me onward, to go deeper inside the cave, into the next chamber. Soon, new voices would speak … unless I turned back. But too heavy was my heart. Too great the lure of darkness. Hence further, into this other place I knew so well—though only by touch. Where the roof was low and heavy, pressing down, pushing its grief into my flesh. Until my muscles were saturated and I could hardly move. Where the stony hall was damp, and its voice waterlogged, sucking my heart into the sediment with urgent messages: Behold the futility of life. Your life and life’s desire. Abandon hope and quell the fire. Go further. Go deeper. Seek and behold the Reaper.

I’m hungry. Desist, Other Voice. In my ears, the dripping of the chamber’s words rang, and in my chest lodged a great hunger to be alone. Aha, I would sink deeper, become invisible, go where no one could watch, hidden from the eyes of the predator. Through the chambers I would make passage, this one and the next, in the solemn weight of every moment. The consequence of each increasing, until I reached It. The fourth chamber. And last. The one I have been thinking about. For a very long time. Perhaps all my life. Thoughts but no attainment. Troubled by my failures, I felt along the rough face—resolute, pushing forward until the walls converged: Behold the futility of life. Thus sanctified, I pressed on towards the back of the chamber. A gentle curvature, then slanting suddenly, steeply. My head no longer fitted, and I slouched, walking with bended knees like an ape, shoulders scraping against the sides. 

I’m hungry. I have work. To lick at the pain of despair. A familiar spirit, it coaxed me deeper into the tunnel, into blackness unfurling like anthracite. If I kept up the work, there would be release. In the fourth chamber. At the end. But only right at the end. Beyond the reach of any predator—whether the vicious cat-like one, or the large one, ferocious with a sharp proboscis for sucking out flesh and entrails, to leave behind the husk. Leave it intact, so spectators wouldn’t realise they were looking at a cadaver—one dead, but seemingly alive. My skin felt clammy. There was much work.

I’m hungry. Okee-dokee. Just five minutes. There’s a delivery. I must quickly run out to collect it.

I’m hungry. I wasn’t. In my mouth the air tasted stale and I took deep gulps, its bitterness a sweet reminder. Abandon hope and quell the fire. Another breath. I choked. Movement! A stirring in the air behind. Something else was breathing too. I wrung my body sideways in the narrow trench, joints grinding under the pressure as I turned. To look back. To see. A glint. No. Two. Two bright circles tracking my movements. Two lasers locked on one target. Higher up this time. Was it the big one? ‘Go away!’ I tried to say, but bile erupted in my throat. Sobbing, I forced my broken limbs to twist the other way, face forwards again. Clawed along the sides with both hands—tearing flesh and ripping out my nails. Escape, escape, escape. Until I fell. Face down, into something soft.

I’m hungry. The third chamber! I’d fallen at its entrance. It had been a while since the last sojourn here. The layout was confusing. On hands and knees, I scrambled through the softness. Sludge, it turned out. Dank and rotten, it sucked around my thighs and slurped at my bleeding fingers. I dared not breathe. This poison into my lungs would be too much to endure. If only I could resolve the problem. Orientation. Wide as the river Styx, the chamber had no rocky ledge as guide, no top or bottom or sides. A stinking expanse, heaving up and down and all around. With a voice like gravel in a crusher. Harsh, coarse, unrelenting: Straight ahead. Go straight ahead. Have no dread. Soon you will sing with the Dead.

I’m hungry. See? Here’s the packet. Two more minutes.

I’m hungry. The cave’s voice had changed, and the dirge’s grave harmony washed over me in cleansing affirmation. Find release. Find forever, Peace. Straight ahead. Have no dread. Soon you will rejoice with the Dead. I waded forward. The slurry became thicker. It mattered not. The voice urged me on. It dug in spurs of long-forgotten pains. The sting of past sins. Why this? Why that? Why did you wreck everything? Ruin lives? Waste your own? Prodded, I made good progress, leaving trails of blood, wrestling through the blackness. My being ached to penetrate the wedge of the darkest dark, the bitumen. To hold still until it folded in all around. To find. Release.

I’m hungry. It came out of nowhere. Two eyes, glowing like coals. Straight ahead. The predator had sneaked past! It wanted to attack head-on. Too dangerous to turn my back on the fiend, I pumped my arms, elbows first, running backwards. The slurry parted, little by little. But no! The menace kept coming. Its putrid breath in my face, the low-set eyes coming closer, making gashes in my soul. Backwards. Through the third chamber—through the muck, fighting, a boxing duel in reverse. Backwards. Slipping. Bashing my head. Passing through the second chamber. Halfway, the jagged ceiling split open my skull. The pain, oh, the pain! It nearly ended me. Still, the eyes were fixed, just beyond my blurry line of vision, mocking my every twist and every turn.

I’m hungry. Back in the first chamber, I turned. And ran. Ran and ran, but no! The predator was catching up. At the mouth of the cave, it uttered the fiercest shriek. Sharp claws gripped me, gauging out the flesh on my forearms. Flailing and kicking didn’t help. The fiend held on, digging its nails in deeper. Through sinew and muscle, down to bone. It dragged me out of the cave, head-first, paralysed with fear, unable to call out.

‘I’m hungry. Daddy! Daddy!’ Julia’s eyes, exploded with pinpricks of light, inches from my face. ‘Why are you shaking, Daddy? And why won’t you talk to me?’ She yanked and tugged at my arm with both little hands. ‘What are you looking at?’ Her nails were sharp and strong for such a tiny girl.

I tried to smile, but my face was rigid as a piece of rock. ‘I’m looking at a cave.’

Giggling, she pushed her face closer. ‘That’s not a cave, silly.’ More giggles. ‘It’s the window! And I want a samwich! Mummy’s busy-busy.’

Shuffling. A stealthy movement, and a voice, like one I’ve heard before, called from inside, ‘I got your script.’

Script? I did not need a script!

‘Get up, Daddy! You must make me a samwich with cheese and tomato and ketchup and ham and …’

Footsteps. I looked up. Two capsules in one hand, glass of water in the other. An arm held out like a proboscis. I will not. I must say no.

Ruby-faced from the effort, Julia, tugged with all her might. ‘And more cheese, Daddy. Just like you make samwiches. Get up! I’m very, very, very hungry.’

My hand was limp and sweaty. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and took from the proboscis. And swallowed.