Tartarus Beckons by Edmund Batara (reading an ebook .TXT) 📕

respects and earnest groveling again, but you broke my eardrums! Did you really have to do that? Respectfully.”

A strange hush descended upon the gathered crowd as its members looked on Salemon with astonishment and incredulity. A few had amused expressions on their faces.

“Mortal, do you know who stands before you?” said the speaker, in a tone akin to what one adopts when talking to a child or a particularly intelligence-challenged fellow. Or a recalcitrant tomato-throwing vandal.

“Probably deities, your Godliness,” replied Salemon, trying to present what he prayed to be the proper amount of humility. “But of what place, I don’t know. Their faces don’t appear in any of the temple idols I have visited in my youth.” He pointed to the crowd and just as suddenly withdrew the offending digit when he realized what he just did.

“I humbly apologize for my finger, your godly Honors,” apologized Salemon meekly, the bravery which had filled him now quickly deflated, and a sinking feeling rapidly engulfed his new-found confidence.

Another hubbub arose at Salemon’s statement. A commotion abruptly silenced when the being in front raised his hand.

“We are deities, woodcutter. Be respectful and watch your tongue. And your finger,” came the stern admonishment.

“Then why are you here, your benevolent Holiness? And why am I here? Should godly people be out doing, I don’t know – godly things?”

“A moment. Stay where you are,” said the being as he briefly wove intricate patterns on the air. A flash blazed in his eyes, and Salemon abruptly found himself back in a section of the King’s Highway, though sprawled on the ground.

The woodcutter picked himself up, spitting dirt and gravel from his mouth.

Must be the shock from breaking the glass, he concluded. Nightmares in the daytime. What a terrible nuisance!

Salemon picked up the glass shards as best as he could and gathered the pieces into a small towel which served as his handkerchief. Tying down the bundle on top of the pile of wood again, he lifted the whole thing on his back and started walking.

I must have tripped, he decided and then lamented miserably. What misfortune! Now, I have to return the gold and face whatever punishment awaits me. Chances are, it’s the headsman’s ax. Oh, my gods! What damned luck! From a penniless woodcutter to a penniless and headless one! All in a few minutes.

The mind of the panicky and extremely depressed Salemon was focused on a recurring image of a sharp and glinting executioner’s tool dancing its merry, though horrible, way through the air. Try as he might, the woodcutter couldn’t get rid of the animated imagery and the shaking of his legs.

I could flee! The lovely thought crossed his brain, momentarily raising his hopes of avoiding a grisly appointment with the man in a hood and armed with an ax. Then Salemon realized he had never been to other places. The only familiar areas for him were the town and the forest where he found his livelihood. His new-found optimism came crashing down in flames.

He turned aside and sat under cover of a large tree, taking deep breaths which turned into quick and shallow ones when the gravity of his situation again dawned on him. Worried hyperventilation broke his tear ducts. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and started crying, punching the ground in frustration in accompaniment to his unmanly bawling.

“What are you doing?” A surprised voice asked.

Salemon quickly looked around, a bit ashamed that someone had seen him. Crying was fine, everybody did it at some point, but bawling like a stuck pig wasn’t really acceptable behavior, even for peasants, unless they’re actually on their way to their execution.

Nobody was in sight, and the forest was quiet. Quickly standing up, Salemon promptly combed the nearby bushes.

“What a dumb cluck,” said another voice scornfully. An occurrence which resulted in a more frantic search by the woodcutter. Asking why he was crying was a lot different from insulting him.

“I guess you’re right, Lord Magarn. He is stupid,” added yet another, this time a feminine one.

“Hey, stop with the insults! And stop hiding, you cowards!” shouted Salemon. The woodcutter’s patience had suddenly reached its limit upon hearing a woman joining the unseen audience of commentators. The situation was threatening to become a chorus of insults.

“Great Amilthus, you better call him back. Otherwise, we’ll end up with a mad vessel. It won’t do us any good if he becomes crazier than a rabid rabbit,” advised the voice of an elderly woman.

Mad vessel? thought the woodcutter. Rabbit? Not a bear? Or even a wolf? A badger even?

Salemon suddenly blacked out, right after the odd suggestion and the errant and slightly annoyed question in his mind. When he opened his eyes, the woodcutter found himself back in the middle of the circle of deities. The lighting had not improved.

I am going mad, thought Salemon and after a quick reflection, smiled. That means if this gets worse, I won’t be in my right mind when the headsman cuts off my head.

“You are not going mad,” the now familiar gravelly voice intoned.

Not mad? Shit.

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