Mors Obliviscens (eBook)

CHAPTER ONE

Gray water laps over the smooth pebbles at my feet. I stand alone on the rust-colored bank of a lake, a thin yellow nightgown clinging to my skin as a frigid wind mercilessly whips through the fabric. The horizon steadily grows closer, as if I’m walking toward it. I am walking toward it, but my feet drag through the sand and pebbles, hauling some invisible weight along my path. Pine trees, thick and green and dark, pass by on either side. Water rises higher, up to my hips, my throat, filling my ears. Clouds part to reveal a violet sunset, or is it sunrise? I can’t tell, not with those cruel, red eyes leering at me through the rays of light. Why will they not help me? Who does that hideous stare belong to? Gradually the gaze of my final witness consumes all the scenery around us until my vision goes black entirely. I compress down until I fold in on myself and disappear into the darkness.

The sudden blankness surrounding me is sharp and blinding, but it eventually dims, and I feel nothing. No pain or sorrow, but as if everything between my bones were hollowed out, as if I were floating even though my feet rest on presumably solid ground. I can’t really see what I’m standing on or tell if I’m even right side up. Everything is the same shade of white except for my gold-brown skin and whatever keeps darting in and out of my peripheral vision. Spinning to chase the mysterious visitor gets dizzying after a while; there’s nothing to hold on to so I can steady myself or orient my sight.

Gradually that changes as the emptiness fills with doors scattered on either side. No one comes in or out of them, and it may be the disorientation throwing my senses off, but no sound slips through the cracks between them and their frames either. None of the holes are big enough to peek through to test this theory. Maybe opening one will clear things up. The first one to my left could easily be mistaken for a palace entry; it’s one of the more ornate, gilded and inlaid with blue tiles the size of my thumbnail. Its patterns are soothing to trace, even with a trembling hand. A spiral handle fits perfectly against my palm but will not turn no matter how hard it’s bent.

My shy “companion” finally stops hiding after I trip myself circling around and searching through the barred doors for an exit. Floating alongside me are two tiny black orbs. They follow my every move, dancing ink fireflies in the white void. There are always two of them, right beside each other, always the same distance apart, constant as the silence. Hiding and attempting to outrun them proves pointless. They aren’t attacking or chasing me, but they aren’t terribly helpful without hands or a mouth either.

My own voice is gone, replaced by a deep burning that chokes any sound I attempt, so I can’t ask the spots anything. I don’t know that they would know anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

Another doorway appears beside the first, equally beautiful but more rustic than artistic. Carvings of animals and strange symbols climb the frame, perhaps telling a story my mind can’t decipher. The dark wood is warm to the touch, and the black metal handle looks worn from much use, but it refuses to open just like its neighbor. I turn to the thing trailing me, hoping for a sign to keep going or help, anything other than this maddening quiet.

Two black rings appear around the dots, the innermost perfect circles, the outer ones more oval-like. The outer layers are thick and much darker than the others. A silver band rests between the rings, and it is then I realize that the orbs are in fact a pair of disembodied eyes. They seem curious, if the raise of the accompanying eyebrows is any indicator. Do they recognize me? Should I not be here? Again, with hope slowly replacing some of the confusion that’s settled in, I try to ask these eyes what they see but only manage a pained sputter. Though their expression grows concerned, they can’t offer any help.

In a sense, I let the eyes pick the next door. The next one I try rests behind them, and they hover behind me while I investigate. This door isn’t quite a door at all, actually, at least not one made from wooden boards or a sheet of metal. It’s soft and taut, like a sheet pulled tight over a mattress, but it’s not cloth either. Leather maybe? More symbols are painted across its surface, though the hunting scene depicted is easier to read than the one before. Tethers of the same material are looped together along one side, but no amount of tugging will undo their knots. Talking may be out of the realm of possibility, but grumbling and muttering aren’t. What good is a door that won’t open? And a hall full of them with no signs saying which goes where or how to gain entrance?

Time here is immeasurable, with no day or night to go by; I don’t know how many moments pass until the rest of the body forms. Each time I turn to look, another piece has fallen into place. A long, narrow nose soon appears, the skin on it so pale it almost blends in with the white around us, but it’s just dark enough to be noticeable. As quiet as it is, its breathing should be audible, but I never hear a single sigh, even when it’s two feet away. Sometimes the floating features venture close enough for me to touch, but if I reach out they back away.

Despite my mounting frustration with the uncooperative surroundings, my hands continue their odyssey to each closed escape route. These doors may not even lead anywhere, or may lead somewhere worse than this, but any change would be welcome at this point. This is the kind of place that could drive anyone up the currently nonexistent wall. I keep waiting for a mouth to materialize so maybe my “shadow” will finally speak and offer some guidance, but instead a hood envelops the shape of a head, casting shadows to form the other features. Black hair trickles out from within, long and thin like campfire smoke. The hood is black too, but it’s easy to distinguish the hair from its dense, coarse material. Even easier to separate from the body are the massive raven wings that rest against its shoulders.

The sight of those stops me in my tracks; what in the world is this thing? It looks almost like a person, but no person I’ve ever met had extra limbs like that . . . did they? Try as I might, no such memory surfaces. Not of bird-people, not even of regular people. What do the people I know look like? What do I look like? Aside from my dark hair dangling down my back and the skin visible below me, I have no idea how to describe myself. Young or old? I feel small, but that could just be this space. The word señorita pops through my head, followed by “missy” and “her,” so I draw the conclusion that I’m a girl, whatever that may mean. Not much at the moment. I need to get somewhere where things like that matter so maybe the rest of what’s going on will start to make sense. Ignorance is not, in fact, anything like bliss.

A bright red door bearing twin dragons fails to yield to my shaking. Its comrade to the right, marked by intricate knots along its edges and a tree in its center, does the same. So do the two covered in stars. Now the figure has formed a stick-thin torso, a floor-length robe with trumpet sleeves, and spindly white hands, but still no mouth. It is a man, judging by the way he carries himself, the set of his steely eyes, and his towering height. Now that the rest of his body has materialized, he looms over me, at least six and a half, if not seven, feet tall. Should that frighten me? Probably. But if he means me harm, he’s had plenty of time to cause it and hasn’t yet. He could be biding his time, waiting until I give up on the doors altogether and wander away before dragging me farther into the abyss. He could be what’s keeping them all shut tight, or what’s keeping anyone inside from coming out again. Until he says otherwise, I’ll never know his role here.

No rustling of his cloak nor shuffling of his feet disturbs the silence, and he still doesn’t speak while we wander around the emptiness together. This grates on my nerves endlessly, until it occurs to me that maybe he can’t speak unless spoken to. My throat hurt too much the first few times I tried to talk to even consider a lengthy conversation, but it doesn’t burn so badly this time. A choppy “hello” croaks out before it starts to ache again.

He gives no vocal response and only turns to stare at me expectantly.

After catching my breath, I try again, this time asking a question. “Wh-ere are . . . we?”

Nothing.

“Who are y-you?”

As if they’d been there the entire time, his gray lips open in reply. A voice comes out that’s smooth as velvet and rough as sandpaper all at once. “I am Death. I have come to escort you onward.”

“Oh.”

The world falls from underneath me, or at least my legs do. The floor isn’t cold like a grave should be, or maybe it is and I can’t feel it. What do dead people feel? Anything? It suddenly feels like all the weight I’ve ever carried in my life has suddenly slammed down on me at once, but I don’t even recognize any of it. How do I know it’s my weight to bear? What do I mourn first?

“As for your other question, we stand in Purgatory. This is not a place; it is between places.” Death stares down at me without menace, draws out his scythe, and for a moment I think he’s going to cut me down like stalks of grain in a field. Running comes to mind, until I remember how...