Psychopomp
VII

Never Give Up. The picture caught the moment just when the saturating magenta lights declared the words bright. Placed above Norma’s bed, with an exquisitely carved plaque of the Ichorian Iris in her tight, flowing robes above it, a reverence clearly clung to it. Pictures of attractive patrician women, most whom Ewain recognizes, Philia May, the rising actress, Davi Taea, the model singer, and many others adorn the walls in amateur collages. Notebooks scatter across her dresser, her desk, and bed, and in her closet hang many dresses, flowing and classy, bold and revealing.

Stuffed animals, a doe-eyed, floppy-eared puppy and fat white whale, lie in the bed upside down, clumped together at its center. Age runs deep upon them in their faded colors and surrendering seams.

Pharma bottles thrust the remainder of their contents upon the floor near the bed. Trovnia. Lideline. Numerta.

Interspersed throughout the entire apartment, in frames painted and decorated with the style of a young child and albums three, four, five in number, are pictures of Norma with who must be her mother. From her as a baby clutched lovingly by a beaming mother and father, to her as a young child dressed in silly glam and shameless expressions, to her as a burgeoning teenager enamored with fine style and chic appearance, the etched moments of time are everywhere.

As Ewain patiently examines every photograph of Norma’s room, the smiling hopeful face of the girl grown up persists in his mind. She had dreams, fantasies about how wonderful life could be. His eyes brighten with every passing second, and already he knows what they may see. How often did she peruse those pictures, write the routine to her success in those notebooks, stare at the sign that told her to Never Give Up, gaze into its glow in the middle of the night…?

“This,” the Consul interrupts, walking toward an object at the edge of this circular, red-lit room. The photographs hang from metal wires and chemical treatment sits as placid, glowing glass in radiant blue tubs. “I found this tucked away underneath her bed.”

Forcing himself to turn from the pictures, Ewain comes alongside the Consul to behold a wooden box just smaller than a cradle, pearlescent in its every grain and charging aquamarine currents surge throughout. Bronze buckles shine along its many sides. “An Ashwood Funerary Box.” The tip of his left index brushes across the surface. Cold and inert. Gliding his finger along, still nothing conducts through its tip, and staring at the nautical currents, he sees a flat shallowness in their aura. “An imitation of one.”

“A skilled one, unfortunately. Easy for a Psychopomp to distinguish, but no doubt difficult for a layman. There are only two reasons for someone to possess one before death, immediate Deliverance upon death or sell it for a substantial sum. Convincing as this one might be, it would have been invaluable.”

Ewain ponders, eyes following the faux aura around the box, “Not in this condition.” Scratches and cracks run across sections of the box’s surface, with impact cracks along its top surface.

“It may still have value in different ways. Go ahead,” the Consul nods for his young counterpart to proceed.

His left thumb rubs along the tips of the gloved ring and middle fingers as he ponders. With a deep breath and initial reverent slowness, Ewain removes the glove then ever-so-slightly sweeps the pad of his ring finger along the cracks. “Fury,” he utters just above a whisper, “Smelting hot, oscillating.” Further and further he traces along, “Frustration.” And when he reaches the faint impact craters, he lingers. Fury and frustration whirl in a maelstrom like hot and cold fronts that conceive storms, yet something lies interred beneath, at its core. It slashes like a razor and the gashes it leaves seethe and froth with burning tears. “Sorrow.”

“You detected sorrow?” the Consul asks, surprised. “I found rage and frustration, but hints of another energy trace…” he shakes his head.

Pulling his finger away, Ewain stares at the box, “It is there. Subtle, overshadowed, but there. How long do Dormants wait for Deliverance in the Outer Wards?” He asks of the peaceful dead, those deceased by natural means whose souls await their bodies on the other side of the Eye before they can continue Beyond.

“Five or six years after death, maybe more. Little extra drachmae to the boatmen,” the Consul says, using the common title by which people know Stygian insurance dealers, “can push one’s name higher on the list but Ashwoods are scarce. Most people out here are paying for the transport service, making sure someone takes them to the Stygian years after they die.”

“She was too young to be concerned with that, at least for herself.” Ewain says confidently as he puts the glove back on his hand, “And I replace it difficult to believe she would have procured the box in this shape. Even children know a Funerary Box is sacred, never to be defiled in the slightest manner.”

“Currency could have been the initial motive. For someone like her, with the aspirations she had, a counterfeit like this would be life changing. It’s something people would kill for.”

“Yet it was left at the site,” skepticism veils the Psychopomp’s reply. It does not fit.

“Cracked, beaten, and worthless, as an imitation ultimately is.”

“We cannot discount any possibility,” Art urges, “we do not know enough about her yet to reasonably do so.”

“You found no journals of any sort? No letters or private effects?”

“Nothing there, surprisingly. All the papers and notebooks she has are full of schedules, routines, ideas.” The Consul leads them to another table in the room and pulls out worn papers covered in elegant writing, “Two or three times a week every week within the last month, she scheduled three-hour blocks after her refinery shift.”

Ewain reads the print.

1800 – 2100

Black lace robes, pantyhose, black lace heels, gold hoop earrings. Nyphone of the fall.

“Each entry is the same. An attire and-,”

“A story of one of the Goddesses,” Ewain finishes, going through the rest of Norma’s blocked entries. Harp of Ophelia. Lace of Iris. Pasiphae, Minotaur Queen. Nyphone. “They are all stories of sullying. How many POIs do we have?”

“Four of substance,” answers the Consul solemnly.

“And the VPT, the Warden’s office must keep records of them all,” asserts the Psychopomp confidently, “I wish to see Norma’s last before her murder. We have access to it?”

“The Warden’s Office granted us access to her most recent one only, and that required insistence to acquire. They will not provide to us the data glass, however. If we wish to view it, we must go to the Records Edifice. Perhaps better that way.”

In silence they both go through the Mission’s halls toward a grove at its center.

“What you see here, you must not speak of, Psychopompos,” the Consul stops them just before the doors to the grove. “A pledge all at this Mission are bound by.”

Ewain abides this pledge.

Cool air welcomes them, and wondrous ivory white trees populate the expansive space, their barren branches aglow with the lavender light of the many fireflies which flutter about. Beneath their feet the soft, luscious grass muffles their steps. Priests in their heavy-sewn white mantles weave about in total silence, focused solely upon the care of the trees and sustenance of the emerald flames dancing in bronze braziers.

“How?” Ewain looks at the trees in amazement, “How does this Mission’s Grove have so many Ashwoods?”

“With this Ward’s unique…conditions, we have had no need to cut any down for use,” the Consul explains as they walk further in, “Both the Ecclesiarch and Grandmaster agreed twenty-five years ago that this Grove should seize the opportunity to nurture however more it could, while it could. What you see now is the culmination, a Grove with only those at Apeiron and Akron as peer.”

“And all the seeds the trees produce? Are they kept here?” Ewain asks.

“Some are sent to groves with urgent need, but, as you know, Ashwoods produce few seeds and require patience to flourish. We keep what we can to continue growing more.” The Consul replaces himself marveling at the trees around, “You think this close to the First Grove? What the Morrian daughters envisioned when they sewed Ashwoods?”

Ewain shares in the fascination. Not often did he walk through Ashwoods and replace himself unable to see beyond their dominion. “Perhaps. If only there were more.”

Ahead the tall stump of a tree cut down nearly a decade ago shines, its white bark glistening like sweet, honeyed moonlight.

The Consul slows them to a halt just outside a ring of marbled obsidian stones that surrounds the stump, each carved with golden runes in the primordial, angular style of the Ichorians. From the shadows nearby a priest with wispy, white hair approaches. His hands clasp together while feet glide over the grass, making nary a sound. Dozens of delicately carved slots twinkle amongst the severed tree’s faultless crown. Only one sits occupied, the Ashwood chip inside pulsating with vascular, soft blue light.

“The Psychopompos is here for the Echo, Pater,” the Consul addresses with a courteous bow, prompting the priest to enter the ring without a word. “Almost five days,” he mutters with grimness to his counterpart, “Probably in early maturity, as you’ve no doubt surmised. The threshold just beyond what a Journeyman is advised to take.”

Extreme delicacy and caution emanate with every movement of the Priest, as if even the slightest misstep, the gentlest ignorance would defile the tree and its contents. He speaks under his breath words to the cell still in the tree. Soon. Soon. Blessing upon your unfortunate soul, Khymyno. Lost one.

“I realize as Consul I have little validity to ask, but as one who was Psychopompos before I must be sure, are you fit for this case?” His nova-bright eyes look Ewain over. Through the many, many scars and messy beard a youth still shimmers through, especially from those eyes.

I am. The only answer he can honorably give after coming this far, questioning the Consul as he has. The old man knew this, Ewain knew this, and if he by some trickster’s veil did not, his unrelenting nag of a partner certainly would make sure of it. There is no room amongst the emaciated Order ranks for the craven or foolhardy. Every decision must be conscientious. Self-control is paramount. Most of the Psychopomps that die are the young ones, desperate to match the grand standards set by their progenitors, whose tales are relentlessly imprinted in their minds from Initiation onward. Their deeds made them Worthy, granted favor by the Ichorians.

And there is Norma, who has suffered and suffers now.

Do you ignore their screams?

“It will be done,” is all Ewain needs to say.

With the reverent fingers of both hands, the priest extends the Ashwood chip, the Echo, toward Ewain. “To Morr.”

And in the same respectful manner, he receives it, “To Morr,” and inserts it into his right cranial implant.

Senses wobble like an imbalanced top. Sight blurs, hearing muffles, touch buzzes, smell congests. Then like waves discharged from the nearby trees, new sensations lap in. Reaching then receding. Smell of moist, warm alcohol and sweat. Sound of disheveled breathing and primal grunts. Feel of agonizing slices shriek through his chest.

Rapid, screaming beats spike through his skull, trying so hard, so desperately to get Ewain’s heart to reciprocate. And it listens.

“Psychopompos, should I zero this?” Art asks, a hint of concern in his stony voice.

“No.” Let it build a moment longer, let me manage this myself. His heart aches, and bit by bit grows heavier, but he bears it.