THE BARRED WAY
There was once a great caravan traveling from the eastern shoreline of the Lake of Rhunn, only one of many that journeyed south past the rocky Ashlands. By which, a certain man had fallen behind as the main portion of the people parted without him, for he had wandered off and become lost among the jagged labyrinth of hills near their encampment. After three days what little food and drink he had had been depleted and upon another four days retracing his steps was it then he realized the caravan was indeed gone.
He collapsed from utter exhaustion with all his strength spent even as dusk had turned to a cold, starless night. It was then two unknown companions wrestled him to his feet and without a spoken word they drug the man toward the mountains once more. He thanked the two silent shadows for their help. Having entered the mouth of a nearby cave the darkness was unlike anything he knew before. After entering the pitch of night, he his eyes had become accustomed to the palest of light weaker than a candle’s flicker, reflecting from the cavern’s dank walls, and that he was left completely naked. The two figures were no longer beside him as his numb feet followed a staircase, descending ever downward into the dim tunnel before him. Pitch beyond seeing was the way behind him. On and on the lone traveler went seeking for the source of the light which never became brighter.
Almost above a whisper, if not just a wandering thought of his own, came to his thoughts of a far-off voice that sounded like an old grandmother, soft and gravelly, “Welcome. Welcome to the dark lands, oh man with no name.”
“Who goes there,” questioned the stranger? “I have a name,” he shouted to the dark, then whispered as low as the ancient woman, “I just do not recall it now.”
Suddenly rounding out of the narrow hallway’s opening he happened upon a vast cavern and stood mere feet away from a young maiden of stunning beauty. Their eyes locked on the other’s gaze, “Welcome,” she said again in the voice of the old woman, then added, “I see that Gar-ru and Ka-latur have once again fulfilled their purpose, faithful gallas they. Welcome to the endless mountain realm of Kur, the Nether world of the unliving. You were lost in the desert, east of the Black Ashland’s waste, wholly apart from your fellows where you were found utterly alone.”
The naked man stammered, “Am I – dead, is that what you are telling me, Lady?”
“I am the Goddess of your kind, colder than winter’s night, dank and solum is this – state you find yourself in.”
“Nimurta! Goddess of the South winds.” Turning quickly about, he faced a pitch wall and upon reaching out the naked man saw his hand disappear as smoke. The tunneled stairwell was no more, and he knew his eternal fate was sealed. Turning back around the man saw a seated figure, with crossed legs he had not seen before.
The Goddess Nimurta spoke to the scribe, a little girl who had been drenched in blood, “There is no name for this traveler for me to give you to record, Ganzir.”
The child looked up at the man, her eyes were solid black. Ganzir began shaking her head while setting aside her quill and book without word.
“I am the consort of Sumugan, and he is the King of these Nether lands when I return to the green and living above. But you, that is not your fate oh son of Man.”
“But I was a good man! I – I,” his memory failed him even as his pale eyes searched the black pools of the scribe. The Goddess of the dead looked back with no expression, but silently she pointed down a path, a wide lane toward a dark corner.
“A man with no name who dies alone remains unremembered, for with no family to quench his thirst with libations of remembrance is he then forgotten. For the path of non-existence shall see you fade even from this realm.”
“A hard judgement is this my Lady.”
“Know this -- that for the dead there is no judgement to reward, nor punishment to expedite. They have nothing left to do, but what others shall recall of them.”
“My Lady, what of those who become Shades or moaning Ghosts shall I not at least be recalled as one of them who bring sickness or ill feelings to be endured in times of fear or sorrow; Oh, somber Lady tell me something fair and not bleak.”
“The Forgotten are fittingly so named,” she said, only pointing off to the dark.
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(c) 2024 The Eclectic SNOWber Productions
All rights reserved, the logo, scarfed, pipe-smoking polar bear, maps,
and images are all the works of the author.
No "AI" was used in the story conception!
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