Above the desert floor that once held circuit grids like human veins, snakes of blue gauze swam through soft congregations of copper, gold and red vapors. Black mountains popped in the distance like paper cutouts hung in the sky. Sitting cross-legged on coarse and cracked earth, Babalon painted, her garrote-dipped fingers tracing the new lines of Abel’s mask: great fangs to replace the black streak she had dispassionately made his mouth.
“There,” she said. “You look almost as tough as you ought to be.”
She touched a black-stained finger to her lips.
“You know, the taste is growing on me.”
You could have all you want, said Abel. This is an empty land. It is yours to use. Perhaps you will build a farm for garrote.
“I don’t think so,” said Babalon. “I don’t care for it. I just don’t find it quite as repulsive anymore.”
Yes. It is spirit food. You are not a spirit.
With a discerning eye, she grabbed Abel by the head and tilted his face from side to side.
“Tell me Abel, are these farms the reason for human beings? Do people exist because spirits need food?”
If humans did not exist, bees would still make honey. If spirits did not exist, humans would still seep garrote. But perhaps it would go unappreciated.
She knitted her brow while continuing to fuss over his mask.
“You know, I think you’d look better with horns.”
We shall have to find some.
Babalon rose to her feet, brushing dust off her dress.
“There should be plenty in hell. I’d have to assume that’s where Gregor is. One hell or another.”
Mm, assume, said Abel sadly, wishing he could.
“Come,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it, and they began to walk towards the black mountain peaks. With no muscles to tire, time again meant nothing. Her footsteps kept to the rhythm of the blue smoke that undulated between clouds like a metronome, and in doing so allowed slow, shuffling Abel to keep pace with her.
As they approached the mountains, rusted red firmament peeled away like curtains to reveal an abyss of deepest black. The mountains were not mountains at all, but the threshold to another horizon, peaks cut out where one sky ended and the other began. Ahead of them a sky of moonless night. It was not unfamiliar, oozing an atmosphere of infinite possibilities, and as consequence, utter hopelessness. Babalon turned to Abel.
“Is this…?”
It is not Mother, he said. There is a dweller who sits at its center, but it is not her. Do not worry. He is afraid of you.
Fully cloaked under black canopy, the desert floor became dusted with small white rocks that bled into a trail of firm, chalky earth. A sloped path led Babalon and Abel down to an amethyst stained sea, where the current blinked bright light as though fallen stars had found a home in its depths. On the shore, purple waves lapped gently against pillars of limestone. A rowboat was tied to the dock at the end of the path, its oak-spun bow spearheaded with a meticulously crafted woman, bound and blindfolded, a snake erupting from her open mouth. A small hut lay next to the dock.
At the first sound of footsteps the door of the hut swung open, where out hobbled a grim, old man. Despite his crown of baldness, his white locks fell past his chest, mingling like rat tails with a wild beard that touched the tip of his loincloth. His eyes were clouded, pocked with disks like silver dimes.
“One at a time,” he said, extending his palm. Taken aback at the sight of Abel, he returned both hands to his pole.
“Do I know you?”
Oh yes.
“Hm,” he said. “That would not be unusual. I know a lot of people. Don’t think it makes you special. The price is still the price. Where are you going?”
Babalon turned to Abel, nodding towards the boatman and encouraging him with her eyes to speak. He ignored her, bouncing gently from one leg to the other.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m looking for a person, not a place.”
The old man shook his head.
“Then I cannot help you. I only know places, not people. I can’t take you everywhere.”
Babalon angrily shook Abel by one shoulder.
“Say something,” she hissed. “Where are we going?”
We are going to where, he said, scratching his head with a long black finger, is…next?
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Babalon’s dead eyes flashed bright violet. She turned to the boatman.
“Lend us your boat, then. And we’ll go look ourselves. Name your price.”
The boatman paused, leaning on his pole.
“No,” he finally said, his voice quite certain.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I meant,” the boatman paused. “no.”
“Tell me old man,” she began tracing the lines of her neck. “How long have you been alone on these docks?”
The boatman pursed his cracked lips, then signaled with his hand for her to stop.
“I have no place in my heart for whores,” he said. “I will not lend you my boat. It is all I have now.”
Babalon glared.
“What do you mean, now?”
The old man’s face flushed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said ‘now’. This is all I have now. So what is it you had? Is there somewhere else you need to be?”
His son
The boatman stared at Abel.
“What did you say?”
Abel said nothing, but stared out into the sea.
“So you know. Yes, I admit it. I left my boat once before. I left it, traveled to the surface and fell in love with the moon. She bore me a son.”
“The moon?” Babalon’s eyes brightened further.
“It was the most horrible mistake I’ve ever made. When I returned, it was no longer enough to be a boatkeeper. It was my duty. It was who I am. It meant everything to me, and now it means nothing. I live in the shadow of another man’s life. And that is why I should never have left. I can only imagine what new punishments lie in wait if I do it again. Because if given the chance, I will. I am sure of it.”
Will you regret the opportunity? said Abel. You have tasted fruit. Will you be able to wash out the taste with dirt? I wonder.
He made a strange, clicking noise. Laughter rang out in Babalon’s head.
“My decision has been made. I have had nothing but time to make it.”
“The moon,” Babalon repeated. “How interesting. I’ve never heard of anyone being born to the moon before. Tell me about your son.”
The man’s grip on the pole tightened. Hunchbacked Abel turned gently towards Babalon.
He’s a nice boy.
“How would you know!” bellowed the boatman. His eyes nearly wrestled themselves from their sockets.
We have met many times.
The old man shut his eyes, then let out a deep breath.
“A stranger knows my son more than I,” he mumbled.
“This is your duty,” said Babalon. “ This boat? Really, this piece of shit? You can’t believe that. I know you don’t. You have another duty now. Or do you really believe you have no duty to your family? To your son? You wouldn’t go and see him? Or his mother?”
“I would. But I cannot.”
“Of course you can. Lend me your boat. Go see your son.”
“You don’t understand. I cannot make this choice.”
Babalon laughed cruelly. Abel resumed his strange clicking noise.
“It’s not a choice,” she said. The sweetness fell from her voice. “If I cannot use your boat, I’m stranded here. I have nowhere to go. The first thing I will do is leave you cold and castrated on your dock. If boatkeeping is your only duty, then revenge will be my only pleasure. So stop fucking around already. The decision was made the moment you started your sob story.”
Tears trickled down the graven face of the boatkeeper. His eyes clenched shut.
“Thank you.”
“Save your words,” said Babalon. “ Just give me the boat.”
“Still,” he said, creaking open an eye. “I cannot lend it to you without payment. The price is the price.”
“Very well,” Babalon sneered. She reached into her jacket pocket and tossed Abel’s gold coin at the man’s head. It bounced off his temple and landed in his palm.
“And you, stranger,” he said, pointing at Abel. “No exceptions.”
Under your tongue.
Looking like he had swallowed a stone, the boatman reached into his mouth. To his surprise, he plucked out a spotless gold coin. A harsh smile fell across his graven face.
“I should have known.”
He smiled and handed his pole to Babalon, then continued walking towards the limestone pillars, his hobble left behind on the docks. She watched him as he clumsily fell into the sea. Abel looked absent-mindedly at his hooves and bobbed his head.
“He didn’t have to thank me,” Babalon said. “He could have left anytime he wanted. I had nothing to do with it.”
Perhaps one day he might even believe so. That would not make it true.
“He only needed an excuse.”
Excuses are necessary. I think you make a very good excuse. For many things.
“Like what?”
As though a switch flicked, Abel once more became very interested in his hooves. She should feel angry. But there was still something calming about his presence. She had not felt the worm run ravage on her inside since she had found him in the neon city.
She held the boatman’s pole high, then brought it down swiftly onto the cleat, where it tumbled into the water with a clang. She grasped at the rope, pulling the boat in closer.
“After you,” she said. Abel paused, knitting his bat-like fingers together, then hopped into the boat. She climbed in after him. Standing at the bow, she dipped the pole into the sea, pulling it back with powerful strokes as she fought against the current that struggled to send them back ashore. Abel lay flat at the stern. His long fingers lay across his chest as he stared entranced at the void above them.
“Which direction should I go?” asked Babalon.
It does not matter, said Abel. All that matters is your smell.
“Forget it.”