A Private Hell

- a story by Darcy Moore

Mirror. The word reverberated into blackness, and the word was true. An image with substance and gesture hovered beyond the edge of Its perception, and waited there, both tempting and repelling. But It was nothing, It was indistinguishable from the blank bath It wallowed in. Yet, tenuously, It had sentience.
        Then It felt the rushing air, curling around It, through It, stirring eddies in Its ether. It felt a vague regret for being again, then fear. This fear lived off the air, the emptiness. The fear that would never end until ..
        Below was night, night on the mountains. Mound pressed on ebony mound in a conflict of stone, masculine and grim. They spoke sharply, daggerwise, to the sky of little horrors and little deaths in their myriad crevices and exposed pores, and their infinite intestines of worm and root, waxing and waning chemical threads.
        It shuddered and fell, sliding down the mountains' dark breasts. And rose, slinking above the darker forests in the siege of rock and soil. A brush of wings sent it spiralling up in dread. It heard the squeal of a furred creature, flinched with the knowledge of talons in flesh, and gasped in death throe. But it did not die. It saw the owl rise swiftly out the trees thrumming violently away from the hot breath of the glint-eyed predator, of the cold coveting fury. On arrowed path, through its narrow tunnel of air it came to rest to its young, spared again the climbing snake and the feral cat.
And It was the owl, and Its brief moment of respite in its hole in the dead tree. Bodies and warmth. It lulled in the comforting smell and touch of its own spore, of Its chicks, in the sit of feather and down and regurgitated bones. A strange odour from the forest floor, a scratching sound and its blood surged again to respond.
        So It left the night bird to its own puzzle of flesh under feather, and ventured again lower in the forest. Even as it did it knew - false protection. Yet it felt less exposed, and the trunks were soldiers, protective and inviolate in their mystery of root and sap and thier nodding, awesome knowledge. But it endured. Perhaps it was the mind, the one true collective God that powered the Earth. And when would such questions be resolved, if not now?
        It paused, palpitating at a sound as of grinding, and wrapped itself sex-wise about a tree seeking comfort from the deep temporal hardness, forcing itself to fuse with the sap and quench its emptiness. The solidity, the wetness flowed through it - but the feeling withdrew leaving it emptier, more alone with only a coldness, and an alien imprint. And the grinding deepened, and magnified. It was the grinding of heavy wheels in legions, of wooden caterpaults and medieval war machines, of pulleys, of appocalyptic armies on the march. The trees began to undulate, to sing to the martial rhythm with leaf and limb, and murmuring trunks; the ground surged up and down to the frequency. "This is madness. I know there's nothing but the trees, the mountains and the sky." But the madness remained, and became more unruly. The air shimmered -a transparent fabric - and began to buckle betrayed by the filmy pleats.
It became desperate, for a counter to this lunacy. For Its lunacy? "There must be a source. Where is it, where is it?"
Senses - it had none at all, or it had all senses. It strained to see, but the forest disappeared. Listen! Listen! For what, for now there was a vacuum. And the trees returned massive and oppressive. Feel! Feel! For tremor, for pulse. But the earth was calmed, the air a nothing, the trees rooted in stability, equanimity. But the sound ground out everthing.
There was no source, no transmitter or speaker, no channel for the noise. It was of the air, but not in the air. And of the soil. And of the trees. Then the shock of understanding sent It snapping feebly to the earth. Trees - the source, the receiver. The growing of the trees, the running of the sap, pushing of leaf, ripping and gouging groping of root, forcing of trunk. All pushing blindly into danger, into unknown. What terror, what immortal terror!
It rose in panic, feebly, enmeshed in a cocoon of horror, then fell again to ground exhausted. Lying there naked, exposing itself to the rape of knife, the gun, fang, claw, tooth, branch, stone. Wanting to die. But it was beyond death, beyond the persecuted's only salve.
And so it rose finally, beyond modesty, beyond shame. Fear too was dulled, the terror of the trees was no more than a whisper. And with the fear went the surety. "What if I was mistaken? What if the noise was excitement, profounder and richer than crossing of genes, the merging of matter into the highways of stars, the frequencies of Gods, talking." It dismissed the thought which made a mockery of intelligence, of the existence it had endured, and worshipped. It would render presumptious, and ridiculous the matter it had been, and remembered fondly. "Am I living a Christian dream? I've got myself, my individuality, my memory of past, of flesh?" But the thought was not reassuring. "Is this all I am now? Is this all I'll ever be?" Then the deadly catholic seed sprouted and grew, and bore bitter fruit. "Oh shit, I'm in purgatory. Why didn't anyone tell me it would be like this? I can take the pain. Christ I've got the pain anyway. I'm stuck with it. But I'm alone. Where are all the others? God, I'm not the only sinner. It isn't fair. I want to burn, I want to see the others burn. I want to hear them scream. God I want to scream." But no sound came, just a dull dripping of thoughts, a tiring profanity of theology.
A shriek of violated living flesh, terrible with shock and surrender, carved though Its ether shattering it into wisps that crawled and tore at the air and ground in a supreme effort to be whole, to be a complete nothingness again.
It was interspersed with fur, and blood. In a spasm of revulsion its nothingness withdrew. The possum, a brushtail, lay open on its back upon the leaves. A huge feral cat ripped and pawed and muzzled into its innards spraying bits of blood, skin, organ in its frenzy. The possum's tail lay supremely untouched and unmoved, like an ornament on a tablecloth. Paws, gently and touchingly padded, hung chaste against the cracking ribs and plundered pelvis. Most chilling of all were the eyes. Round, beautiful, terrified. They told a tale of life It knew too well. They were life, frozen, a masterly statue fasioned for It. For the education, or punishment of Its soul.
And so it knew now it had an inexhaustable capacity for fear, for pain. It would be bedevilled by life. It drew itself above the scene, shaking for the now and the now that would always be. Perhaps.
Like light it quit the forest, rushing to a lake that banished the trees to one shore. It settled like a quilt on the cool surface, expecting and receiving no love but prostrating itself in hopeful absolution by something. "Something must be responsible for this," it dared, choosing to no longer believe in a Christian god. "I've got nothing to lose."
The surface rippled, and an ancient vision soaked into it.

"You're a bastard Warren. You took the company to the cleaners. I don't give a fuck about the board of directors, they got what they deserved, fat old men sitting on their fannies for years. But all the little investors, people who've been working for Michael T. Murphy for generations. It's their lives, and they've got shit now."
        " It's an anachronism, from last century. You can't live in a rut like that anymore."
        "It's alright for you Warren, with your money and connections you can play at chaos. But for the rest of us it's murder."
        "Not that again Ben. Earn your bloody retainer, or you'll find out what your holy poor is all about. You're beginning to bore me with your flattery."
        He moved away and pushed a path through people. "Rent a crowd, you're the best money can buy", he said to a stunning woman and her tuxedoed beau. They laughed at his wit. Had he fucked her? She seemed vaguely familiar. But then they all were.
        He scanned the room - the masters on the walls, the obscene ceiling fresco, the ancient statuery, the waiters, the food, the bottles that never ran dry. These were the flowers, the pollen to attract the bees. And Warren Caswell loved the bees, their sound and smell, just their presence. And look at the bees! You could screw their wives, insult them, ruin them and yet they couldn't keep away from his bright, scented fields.
        His eyes were drawn to a corner where he saw a new face, with snow white hair, long sideburns and heavy jowls. Yet it was not altogether new. A squat man in a blue serge suit, and a ridiculous pink tie watched him. Grinning. How crass! He couldn't believe such a jerk could be invited to one of his parties. Relishing a short confrontation strode towards the interloper.
        "Who the hell are you?" He spoke with the steely venom he reserved for recalcitrant board members.
        "Michael T. Murphy, and I'm not about asking who might you be. Mr Caswell." It was the broadest, coarsest Irish accent he had ever heard - no hint of twentieth century refinement. He staggered, whitening. The trademark, the company crest.
        "And I was called a proper bastard in my time, and much I did to earn it. Just one thing kept me from damnation. The fear of hell. But I take my hat off to you Mr Caswell, you'd laugh in the face of the devil himself."
        A loud gasp rose from those nearby.
        "I don't know what you're playing at, but you're out of here."
        The man ignored his comment, and no one moved to help. The man turned and walked calmly up the staircase of the old
mansion, with the sureness of possession, of foundation stones. The crowd watched until he turned into an upper room, then erupted. The doors groaned under the press of jewels, gowns and suits.
        In five minutes the room and the drive were empty. "So Ben, just you and I. What a lot of women, and so easily conned."
        "You know all about that Warren."
        The tone of Ben's voice alarmed him. He looked, Ben had his back to him.
        "What is it Ben?"
        Ben swung around, holding a gun. "I'd wish I'd had the courage to stick a knife in you, and watch your face."
        Could you actually see a bullet coming? In the last moment of his life Caswell watched the piece of metal moving gracefully through the air tracing a flawless line to the centre of his forehead. He had the time to raise his hand and swat it away, but his hand refused to help him.

It was staring at the water, as lonely as an empty room.

But still It couldn't laugh at it's own levity. There was no moon yet, and the stars had lost none of their majesty. The constellations were unfamiliar. "But I was a hemispherical homebody anyway." This time it did laugh, or at least it was aware of a tingle unrelated to pain or fear. It sank into a timeless wonder, for the passing of eons or moments no longer meant anything outside the curious flesh. Or did it? Would a million years nake much difference to the sky? It would, surely it would. But the stars, the being of stars, they would endure though all else failed. They were the immaculate queen, the unsullied virgin of ten thousand radiances, the true holy grail of the flesh. Surely even the dumb sheep quartered in half night lifted up its head in awe. "Do sheep after all have some communion we are denied? Is the howling dingo singing its own salvation?"
        As It watched and drifted in and out of we and I, and as night plodded her dutiful round a shadow crossed the mountain tops and began to eat into the sky. Galaxies sank into its maw, constellations were sundered, and stars left reeling and isolated.
        When It stirred, letting the sky soak into its perception, the sky was half destroyed and the mountians too were being swallowed.
"The forest, the forest, the guards, the guards, the noise of the trees, the talking to God, the feral cat, the statue of the possum. That's where I'll be safe."
But the surface tension held It back. It hesitated in disbelief, at evidence of another sensation, and as soon as It did It came away in an uncontrolled upward wash that spun it dizzyingly towards the final death. It grasped, but there was nothing to cling to. It thought itself elsewhere, but it was not a dream. It prayed but no god chose to respond. It hurtled ever faster into the sky the blackness now inevitable. So it surrendered, female-like again, and looked toward oblivion as the huge silhouette crouched and rolled its massive frame forward. Silence and stillness. Eternal blackness an arms-length away, then it began to fall to its chosen refuge, the forest. Thrawted in the act of final submission It was resentful at first, and it fell faster, outside the laws of gravity. But when it thought survival was, once again, an option it stopped. The sky was no longer visible, nor the forest. There was stone, earth.

Note: My apologies for the following paragraph. I've no idea how it got so scrambled. I'll try to find the original and fix it or, failing that, rewrite it if I can get back into the (twilight!) zone. Maybe there's gremlins elsewhere too in this story, or It has a life of Its own.

 Then a sensation of had accepted its fate
jest. tissue philosophy in And it laughed at that thought, , of the presumptious matter it
Deeper shadow looming, easing through the branches, running silently along limb " It thinks I don't see it. It thinks it will take me by stealth, devour me in a sudden rush. and owl And its young its on lint of It traced its On its arrow path

High above the racing clouds swept the ebony land to the winds call, coursing down every slope and up every incline oblivious to their nature or their effect. Tyrannical and insensitive they poured onto the waters of the lake muting the path of the gliding swans, and the setting the fish, their dull watery brains, to tremble. But as the moon crested the mountains they yielded to a greater power and fled into the tilled fields that lead towards the lands secured by men, by buildings and structures that mocked the bustling spirits of the night and the composers and conductors of the great cycles. The night wind rippled the waters of the lake and tickled the reflection of the moon.