The First Awakening
As Ms Rice drifted out of her fog of death to deaths reality, actuality: she noticed armed sentinels at frequent intervals along a muddy and shadowy dimly lit swamp-like area, with many incoming passage ways. It looked like an atrocious, wicked and primeval land; mammoth looking. The incoming boats from all sections seemed quite vigilant, everyone staring at the gates in the far distance, that is, everyone except the rowers in the boat, the demonic formed creaturesthe inhuman dreadful looking primitive Neanderthalsfiguratively speaking, but more truth then fiction to this. If one looked directly at this creature that gave his name as Botis the Great, his red lower jaw inside his jaw, one could see the roots of his teeth, small nasal openings, huge eye sockets, a slope to his nasal bone. His body was built like an ox; he had large brow rides over his eyes, built around his eye sockets, thus, pronouncing his facial profiled He had bony lumps i n side his lower jaw, you could see them as he opened his mouth to push in whatever kind of oxygen was in the air, in the back of his mouth was huge molars, making his jaw a bit misplaced, and front mouth a little lopsided. His skull had a slope to its back, as if it had a big brain, yet it seemed to the contrary.
Ms Rice was anxious to get to shore, to get to the gates, walk through them, to meet her father, all in the twinkling of an eye she wanted it to happen. But as she deliberated in the twenty-foot boot: a small craft propelled by a huge paddle, or oar by the Botis, with a sail in its center, used for windy days, the working vessel tugged along the forty mile river. An ancient boat it was by modern terms. The heavy log looking craft was going so slow thought Ms Rice; it would take a life time to get to shore, not thinking or imagining what really was ahead. Hides of small animals seem to cover portions of the vessel, either for design or water proofing, or so mething. No one asked why, it just was. It may be assumed it developed over time to amuse hein this caseBotis, or in other cases the captains of the boats; should they have such a title, thought, Ms Rices was thinking as she looked to and fro.
The timbers seemed pegged together, making it heavy and awkward to propel, and for the sake of the boat, Ms Rice, and the two women behind her were simply light cargo. It was little more than a huge dugout one might compare it to. The mast was tall and the bow wide, the stern was closed in, more so than the bow that is, for some reason, and the step was deep, secured under the floor of the boat. The boom was held steady and in place, but should it be released, surely a few heads would go flying into the mucky waters of this atrocious river of hell. The sail was tided down around the mast. You could hear the rudder and the false keep hit the sides of the boat, they were both loose. Ms Rice noticed a few of these demonic Nea nderthals suffocating themselves underneath their boats by the rudder area trying to fix just that, as she seen others going in circles for not fixing theirs. There were hundreds of boats coming in and some circling around her boat: aimlessly. Some slowly, others a bit faster; a complicated formula at best thought Ms Rice (at this part of the story, I must give you my thoughts as Ms Rices, as it appeared in my dream to be).
She knew she had only been dead less than an hour, maybe, possibly less then thirty-minutes. She was simply whizzed away, and found herself in this rat-trap of a boattarnished black wood, scooted with layers of black grime, as if it was once burnt like a tree stub: the wood was thick like Noahs Ark, and, with its dark thick wood, it carried within its blemishes a long and arduous dark history of providing passage.
She continued looking, observing, cultivating with her eyes, her senses steadily ahead, heading towards the waters edge acr oss the somewhat looking river-swampits long belly swamp type roots catching the boat like a spider web to a fly. Her little hands hanging, gripping the thick wood to her right, as if she might fall into this muck. Her body was still in some kind of extreme shock, transitional stage, yet it was not ill like before, it was not constant pain either, nor was it in need of rest. The form of her body was akin to roots of deep paleness, as if her veins were full of nothing warm, just cold icy water, decay, a waxy-decay upon her skin; her eyes, irispink, pink and yellowed with heavy eye lids. As she looked over the edge of the boat, it was all mucky and slush: muck, manure and more sewage. Her lips showed no smile, but then, they never did much anyhow, except when her father was around, but she didnt take note of that, but Botis did, as he turned around to spy on all three, she, Ms Rice was the only one unafraid, at least the only one to show no fear, as if she was prepared for hell; as if she was in defiance of Satan and God themselves, and if she could defy God, why not Satan, and why not Botis; a great pride and selfishness curved with her and was there within her now, her now dehydrated, wrinkled face: light that once was inside her eyes were put out like a candle, where there was really not much light before, there was no light now. Her destination was nearing, nearing, closing in on her; soon, very soon she would find herself in the lost rainbows of eternity: nothing colorful would exist again, not as it had anyway. If a dream or nightmare could be melted and put into a film, this would not be possibly for what she was going to witness.
Gate #642, straight ahead, said Botis with a sneer, as if it meant anything to anyone other than him. Thought Ms Rice, even down here they have the number system. It was written in some coded form, a secret language. When she looked in back of her, she noticed now there was no passage-way out, or at least not in sight; everything was turning into fog, it was all fog, and dispelling mist, a soot kind of mist; it seemed as when the boats appeared down the tributaries, they disappeared when you looked back; thus, there was no looking back that made sense, why look back, this was it, whatever lied ahead.
The vessel continued on its way forward with Ms Rice gazing horizontally, noticing the boats in front of her, and along side of her, here and here and everywhere, somewhat disarming her as surely it was meant to do. The sky had turned to an ash color now. As the boat got closer to the dock area, Botis started stomping on the floor of the boat, as if he was preparing himself or a high, in the vein of a drunk, sex addict, or gambler who just won a pot of gold. It might be said, he knew she, Ms Rice, was being tossed into a world without etiquette, hope, and no savior, he was waiting for her facial expressions, yet she gave none, a poker player she was he thought, but she had not yet tasted its push, its fire.
Stunned were the other two women, but it didnt seem so for Ms Rice, and that was Botis main desire at this particular juncture, yet she was still concentrated on one fact, and one fact aloneone reality only, no other: her father, then maybe shed be stunned, but for the moment she wasnt
it may be said, or guessed upon, or even told to youbut do not believe themthat the hordesthe heap of hell, delight in talk, especially to each and everyone a stranger [passenger that is as they enter the dungeons of this forbidden river, this god-forsaken land, but if soif you do believe and if what I say is a lie, it wasnt the way Ms Rice would have told you, for no one spoke a word to her, or the other passengers, not one word, except for Botis indicating what pier they were docking at.
As Ms Rice looked about the boats peered into the seamless river: where it seemed to have no beginning, but a dreadful end to it, all were stri cken with tragic frightfright that froze you to where you sat: wanting to run but couldnt, yet Ms Rice wanted to continue even if she was given an exit pass she would not had taken it, for it was not fright that stopped her from talking or mentally thinking about whats ahead, it was anxiousness, wanting to see her father. Even the smells that came from the other side of some mountains, mountains she could not see, but she could smell the burning from them, the smells of burning flesh, strong smells of tissue, didnt deter her willpower to go seek her father in hells hottest waters, chambers or bedswhatever. Aimlessly the others looked into the eyes, tried to anyways, to look into them eyes of the few that passed by, getting mostly their profile views in other boats; glances across the from boat to boat in the dreary river. They were like fossils of stone carved into granite for ever and ever, their faces. No beauty just faces upon faces, one might say: killer faces, crimi nal faces, faces that reminded you of this and that, faces in the newspapers, famous faces, faces that thought they had it made, all naked faces, hopeless and helpless feeble faces.
Even Christian faces yelled to the dark heavens, the ash sky, with hand and fist saying:
I was a Christian, why am I here?
Almost demanding a retrial; and there were the Muslims saying, screaming: for Allah I did this and that, I killed in your name [as if God needed an assistant to do his dirty work, and where is my reward, this cave of antiquity, this river of filth, where are my beautiful women. For the Jew, they also cried and wept, saying [while hiding their faces in their hands: we are the chosen ones, the people of God, the gifted and the ones who walked with Moses, and Abram, and look, look at this, this is not the Promised Land, this is what I get. Oh yes, this day the bells of hell were ringing. Scholars and soldiers, and priests, kings, Hollywood Stars, the boats were full of a good sample of the whole human race, and Ms Rice.
By and large, the looks on and of most faces, had utterly died an undignified death, it might be saidfor Ms Rice, she was thinking it, most of the folks in the boats did not die of old age [or a degenerative illness related to old age, rather an assortment of degenerative illness and accidents and suicides, such as cardiovascular diseasethat might have been but were not linked to old age, older than seventy that is: cancer, strokes, diabetes, heart attacks, war, drugs, complications and other disorders; many were problematic cases that received very little medial care, and in some cases those who received too much. In many cases it was within the power of society to keep them alive, yet human life was devalued, and so came about an early death, in many cases: let us not over look suicide, in the name of god, hangings, executions, and so forth, on and so all in the name of society.
They were all in the boats, many protesting; the henchmen laughing, laughing themselves silly, hysterically amused: some even holding their stomachs as to get more air as they ecstatically laughed, some pounding their fists on the boats ledges, unable to control themselves, but not saying anything, not any distinguishable syllables, or words that were understandable. They had learned not to argue, lest they lose their amusement.
Soon she told herself, shed be at the Gates of Hell, convinced shed see her father waiting there, or if not, shed surprise him by finding him shortly thereafter. The reuniting would be a celebration, yes, yes indeed, a reunion in hell, on earth or in heaven, it would be a celebration to the utmost.
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter Story
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