Catching Hell Part One: Journey Read online

  He placed it on the ground behind him, sure to reveal it to his friend when he wanted to and not before. He saw a tuft of black hair and a tall backpack before he saw the face of his best friend climbing higher to where he sat and waited.

  “There you are,” his friend said, gaining good footing and walking toward him. “Just couldn't wait, could you. And what’s with that shit-eating grin?” He was always full of such colorful expressions, which he'd inherited from the grandfather who had raised him. “Don't get me wrong,” he puffed, “I appreciate the fact that you keep both feet on the ground for the sake of your poor, non-gifted friend, but please remember that it's because of your damn gift I have to carry this stupid pack just to make you look normal.”

  The sitting man smiled half-heartedly. “I never told you to fill it, did I?”

  “Yeah, well you never told me not to either.”

  At the time, knowing they had a year of hard footwork ahead of them, it seemed a great idea to take everything they could ever need, and although time had made them stronger and more immune to the weight of the packs, they were no less a burden on a steep climb up a rocky mountain face.

  Their packs were now actually quite empty save for a few basic, well-used supplies and some remembrances of the past year. These men were not far from their home, a village to the south of where they were now. They had set out exactly one year ago on their traditional pilgrimage to the depths of these mountains.

  They had traveled north from their home, full of ideas and that indubitable youthful sense of adventure only found in a person at a certain age. The age occurred when the desire to see what’s beyond their doorstep outweighed the need to remain inside.

  They trekked deep into the mountains, found their manhood in some individual way, and traveled south again. They emerged from the mountains three days prior. Then, as horribly stereotypical as it is (and as awful as it is to say, most stereotypes are little more than glamorized versions of the truth, twisted by those with reasons to create negativity), they found the closest town, dropped their gear at an inn, and went straight to the bar. The same bar that was currently being filled with an informative story between a really big guy and a very old man.

  With their fill of drink and success, they received their directions to their home and went on their way.

  They traveled to the mountain for one last night of rest and story before they were to head back. A pretty young girl in town had directed them to a good mountain meadow she claimed to know that would provide the perfect, picturesque spot before the nasty slog to their hometown. Men of their kinds types were quite prone to flights of melodrama and were easily swayed by a pretty face.

  “We've been going straight up for hours, and I don't think I've even seen a sprout or scrub!”

  “Well, how were we supposed to know that there wasn't a good place to eat up here? I thought it was fairly basic logic: mountains equal meadows, right?”

  The sitting boy smiled. It made sense to him. “Well, this is as flat a spot as any, so let’s not waste time going any higher.”

  His friend sighed in agreement. “Man, isn’t that the way. I hate it when a pretty face lies.” Although clearly dejected, he took a look around. The mountains here came to an abrupt end and became flat land all the way to the sea in the south. Their current location was like standing on a podium addressing the world.

  He dropped his pack with an audible grunt and it kicked up the loose dust that surrounded them. They were both young, freshly-minted men, with shades of youth still in their faces. As time had passed and the world had changed, age was only used by strange people in strange lands with the means to measure such things. These two were simple people, and it wasn't age that mattered but how they looked and felt. When the boys of this land had the maturity and wisdom enough to survive on their own, they were given the option of staying at home in their village, living well but likely living to serve, or going out into the north, finding their own path and returning after a year with stories and sights. The women, although given the option of leaving, mostly chose to stay, knowing that they were bound for something grander than a life of service. The women bear the children, run the village, and govern the land. As such, they had the right to do whatever they wished.

  After unpacking their small meals, the men sat together on a rock looking out at the view of the brief expanse of foothills beyond, and past them, the flat nothing of a world they had not seen in a year.

  They ate mostly in silence, only making short remarks about nothing really worth talking about. Only their familiar refrain of “For Tan Torna Qu-ay!” when they raised their drinks to each other seemed to break the silence noticeably. Though their love for their home was sometimes in question, it was still their home. They’d started many adventures and meals with those same words.

  The return to Tan Torna Qu-ay was only a few days away and they each had a million thoughts to organize before they returned. The secret find remained hidden.

  “Any bets on who else left on their quest while we were gone?”

  “I’ll bet Esgona and his little tag-along did. He was so upset that we left first,” the secretive man replied.

  A nod in agreement. Esgona and his best friend-nay-bootlick Hogope were almost certain to be away. Esgona was the son of the First Lady of the Council. A fact he was keen on repeating to all who would listen. Nimble and strong, his ego was almost as big as his worldview was small. These two in particular had suffered his wrath since infancy, and the fact that his mother was so powerful in their world created a firestorm of pomp and bravado.

  And as every leader needs a lackey, Hogope was as dutiful a friend as he was a blindly loyal manservant. He was quick to align with someone whose aspirations of power were more in line with his own: fast, unyielding, and plenty of it. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize what his real role was in the relationship: sidekick.

  Soon their ridicule would be unwarranted as they returned home. Johan Otan'co was a man of both wit and misfortune. He was an outsider from the day he was born and treated as an inferior form of life. He developed a keen mind to accompany his life-hardened physical prowess. His father, in his early years, had left for his journey into manhood only to return after two seasons. His arm was broken badly and eventually needed to be amputated, and he was severely dehydrated. He begged to be readmitted to the village, knowing that doing so would mark him for life as a frail and embarrassing quitter. His shame would be passed down to each of his progeny until one had completed the quest. Johan was adamant about making it a very short list of successors to attempt it. Soon both his and his father’s names would be cleared, although his father had died ten years prior to his leaving, as did his mother a short time later. His maternal grandparents had raised him from then on, shamed by their burden of a disgraced and dishonored grandchild.

  How sweet it would be. So many seasons of ridicule and shame were about to end. He was bigger, stronger, and far tougher of mind and body than the lanky, wavy-haired, dark-skinned child that had left Tan Torna Qu-ay a year ago. He had seen life, death, and all points between in that time. Now he looked forward to smashing the cold truth of his triumph straight into the faces of all those who had spurned him. Esgona and Hogope were high on that list to be sure.

  His secretive companion, Aryu O'Lung'Singh, was by far the worse off. Even without his curse, he would have been an outsider. His family came to Tan Torna Qu-ay when he was a baby, seeking to escape his assured death at the hands of others.

  He looked different, with pale skin and light brown hair, eyes as green as grass, and a face and body far too thin and gaunt to be a local. Long arms and a hard, wiry frame made him stand a full head above anyone else in the village, and he was thin enough to look malnourished despite how much he ate. As shameful as it is to say, children (and sadly, parents as well) were always quick to pounce on one so unlike themselves. His parents knew this place and its customs. No matter how different one was from another, every child had a chanc
e to prove their worth, either as a servant or successor to the quest. It was long ago discovered here that on paper appearance does not denote heart, since heart is a rare commodity in this barren world.

  Children can be so cruel. Over the past year, in many discussions on the topic, it was agreed that even returning successfully would likely do little to change everyone’s minds about Aryu. They would be much quieter and more polite about it, but someone so different would need more to appease the masses. Tradition is grand, but rarely does it change minds overnight. Indeed, tradition is generally what put their minds in that state in the first place. Tradition and stereotypes go hand-in-hand.

  Setting aside the obvious differences, the one that was the most glaring was the one he kept hidden. The curse in the backpack is one no man could overcome. Indeed, his parents had told him that in the east where they came from, over the ocean in a world far enough away to be practically alien, Aryu was certain to be killed for his deformity.

  Aryu was smart, charming, friendly, helpful, brave, and loyal. Even boyishly handsome despite being so different from the locals. Still, it was not enough.

  Aryu had wings.

  Large ones by this time, too. Large and strong, yet extremely flexible and pliable. This was how they fit so neatly into his large pack. It was custom made by his mother, with the back cut out to fit these jokes from an inhuman God (though it must be pointed out that despite feelings otherwise, God was once very much human, and as such, would know enough not to play such a terrible joke on someone). Mutations of this kind were quite common all around the world, but rare and scary were ones so perfect and purposeful. Green skin, third eyes, scales, extra legs, horns, faces with no mouths, mouths with no faces. All were well-documented, and all were quite useless. Wings are concise of purpose, and useful to the umpteenth level. Wings allow you to fly not by machine or by the power of the mind. They were something far more than patches of dense hair or an extra limp, boneless finger.

  Wings were not an accident of mutated evolution. Wings have a purpose and Aryu mastered that purpose the second he realized he could. His back where they connected just between his shoulder blades was unlike any other human’s. It was thick with muscle and bone structure only he possessed, and his chest was larger around to accommodate a heart that was large enough to pump blood through them and the rest of his body. They were no accident. They were a part of him. Almost overnight the rumors of the demon-boy of Tan Torna Qu-ay were born.

  But now they would be the stories of the demon-MAN. After all, the last year was not experienced for nothing.

  -----------------------

  Aryu and Johan rested. Farther up the slope was a small trickle of fresh water, and this clearing they had found was large enough to fit both of them plus their gear. Aryu took his treasure and had it hidden before prying eyes could glimpse it. It was still not time.

  Sadly, there was no meadow on this mountain or any near it, which would have been perfectly obvious to anyone not blinded by melodramatic tendencies. These mountains were nearly barren from top to bottom on all of these southern-facing slopes. Feeling cheated, but much too tired to care, they made their camp as the sun went down. For the youth who set forth on this quest from Tan Torna Qu-ay and the other villages of the land, it was an unofficial tradition on the last night out before the true stretch for home, they would sit around a fire and lay out the spoils of the adventure. No meadow meant that there was nothing to burn, so there would be no fire.

  Aryu had very little, his pack being mostly full of wings this whole time. His wings were now free from their woven prison and were stretched out behind him, draping away from his shoulders like a deep greenish-brown cloak. These were not feathered and beautiful like glistening gossamer. They were thin and tough, like a lizard or bat. Veined and sinuous, with a full expanse that was twice as wide as Aryu was tall.

  Johan had his items out. He was particularly fond of a long, ornate dagger he'd acquired during a stay they'd had in a mountain village far north. The people of this northern village were living in a constant threat of attack by a very aggressive Hooded Stalker: a reptilian beast with a long tail and frilled head and neck. Hooded Stalkers, like most of the Stalker family, were particularly nasty because of their tenaciousness. Their hides were scaled and nothing but the finest blades was able to penetrate them. Unfortunately, just getting close was a challenge unto itself. Stalkers were white-hot to the touch, their blood a blend of chemicals that could be mixed at its will to searing levels. If you didn't catch one off-guard, you didn't catch one at all.

  In the case of this village, they were ill-prepared for the creature, not having encountered one that far south in recorded history.

  Stalkers are amazingly intelligent. It's not uncommon in lands far enough away from this one to encounter Stalkers the size of elephants with the ability to talk.

  The two brave travelers came to them. After helping build rock and mortar walls around the mountain village, they realized the futility of their efforts one night as the Stalker smashed a section of wall, destroyed several lodges, and devoured half a herd of alpine goats.

  Needing another plan, it was Johan who suggested the classic enemy-repelling solution of the moat. Being a history buff, mostly in the areas of weapons, armies, attack, and defense, etc., he was well-versed in classic moat techniques. Using the existing irrigation system, the villagers redirected an irrigation canal around the most exposed sides of town. Stalkers, although strong and very fast, do not jump well, and any cold water was a very strong deterrent to something that could be so incendiary. The moat took days to build, but Johan was pleased with the results.

  The Stalker returned, surveyed its new dilemma, howled in rage, and carried off back into the high country. No sign came thereafter, and once the villagers were satisfied, Johan was heralded as a hero.

  The village got together and offered the dagger to him as a token of appreciation. It was a gift from a popular hermit that lived nearby and wandered into town on occasion to trade, drink and talk to anyone and everyone. Johan accepted gladly, seeing full-well the quality and craftsmanship. Had there been a fire on the mountain that night, its deep onyx blade would have gleamed with pearl rainbows in the light.

  Aryu had little to show, in part because he couldn't fit much more into his already full pack, and also because he simply had never been a man who dwelled on the past. Before him were trinkets and knick-knacks, but the truth was, these few items were here out of luck and whim. If you were a man with the ability to fly (or glide, as was more the case), what use was imagination? If not for his parents, he'd have taken to wing the moment he could. He didn't have any foolish thoughts about sticking around Tan Torna Qu-ay any longer than necessary. His quest near-complete, all that was left was to go before the Council, regale them with harrowing tales of adventures deep in the high mountains, and accept their blessings on becoming a man. Then, off he'd go to see the world.

  He had told his parents his plan, and although they were saddened to hear it, they would respect his choice. “Just promise not to go back to our old lands, Aryu,” his mother had said. “Flying can’t save you there.” He never argued. He loved his parents and respected what they did for him and the risks they had taken.

  His past was generally agreed to be heartbreakingly poor, so he focused on the future and little else. All he had was these useless trinkets, his unmentioned find, and a piece of paper with a simple note:

  “More poetry by moonlight, perhaps?” was what it said.

  It was elegantly written and still smelled faintly of mountain wildflowers, though that may have been his imagination.

  She was a young server at a roadside town in the Komoky Valley, a vast and sprawling plain that ran between the Great Range to the south and the higher Hymleah Crest, which was the start of the huge and impassable mountains to the north. So towering they were said to scrape the stars themselves, so massive they had put the spin of the planet on a slight tilt and so dangerous that
even the great Ruskan Stalkers were no match for their peril. None of those statements were true, but myth becomes fact in only a few generations. Lack of information quickly breeds mythology.

  She and Aryu joined in deep conversation for the better part of a day, with him retelling the quest to that point (his pack seated FIRMLY on his back) as well as reciting some poetic bits he’d heard and taken a liking to while away, and she listened with genuine interest and amazement. Few on their quest ever came so far into these peaks, and that fact gave way to her belief that other from there shared his strange appearance. As was said, in the right light he was rather boyishly handsome. She was smitten after his first ten words.

  Aryu was as oblivious as any man would be in that situation, regardless of age. That was unfortunately something that had not been bred out of them by this stage in the evolution of the species. The natural charisma he had developed to compensate for his oddity had unknowingly turned him into an elegant and almost poetic speaker. His detailed descriptions of peoples and places had taken her to far off vistas and introduced her to amazing characters, none of which was she ever likely to see.

  He did find her attractive, with her soft skin, deep brown eyes, and dark hair in ringlets that surrounded the smooth curves of her face. During his formative years, any girl he'd desired knew of his deformity. As such, he had never developed the trust needed to pursue this passing affection.

  “Perhaps one day I'll leave this place and journey out to see your home,” she had said, being sure to be both sincere and flirtatious in her delivery. Truth be told, she was very happy with her life and home, but she didn't hate the idea of such a venture taken with the exotic stranger.

  “I’m afraid that, even if you should, I wouldn’t be there to greet you,” Aryu replied, obliviously melting her with every word. “I've seen enough to know I want to see more, and I don't plan to remain home much longer than I have to. I've come too far to stop now. But still, I hope this won't be our last meeting.” A truer word was never spoken. Aryu clicked into her advances. He liked her and she him until, he believed, the pack would come off. Until that time, he was quite content to live this fantasy for a few hours longer.