Spirit Wars (6 page)

“You shall tutor me on your ways and accompany me to your world.
Or you can go back to the Seventh Circle and be skinned and gutted by the Harpies
every minute of every day! Till all the light of the universes shrivels up and
sighs!”

With the sound of what should be a bloodcurdling scream but
drowned out by Death's heartless laughter, a whole new ear – still horribly
alien – emerges from my bruised and ragged flesh. Like some mutant newborn,
this quivering fan of spines and skin is matted with mercurial blood. At last I
slip into blessed nothingness.  

God, why is this happening to me? I rack my brain for answers. I
know now that there’s life after death and I’m in hell for being sinful and
taking my own life. But of all seven billion people in the world, or the
hundreds of billion people who have died from the beginning of time till now,
why did Death choose me to be his plaything?

It feels utterly empty pondering the weight of these statistics.
It’s like I’m flickering between two planes. The first a vast wasteland, the
post-apocalyptic world in my vision where I’m the only human not allowed to die,
and the second, the familiar world indeed populated by billions of people but
not a single one able to hear my voice or feel my touch.

I have slept fitfully, tormented by vivid, psychotic nightmares
that I know are poor imitations of the real horrors that await me when I
succumb to consciousness.  I’m still in shock from everything; all the
irreparable psychological damage. There’s also this creeping feeling of having
made a mistake and now paying for it far beyond human capacity.

Of course I’ve done many other stupid things in life, bringing
harm to myself and sometimes to others, but everything just pales in comparison
to this. It’s like what the Angel of Death himself said, all a human can do is
face the consequences of his own actions. Still I can’t help wondering how
different things might've been had I not died when I did. Being always alone,
depressed and scared I could’ve probably borne or spent my whole life trying
to, but eternity’s a phenomenon whose scope and limits I can never dream to
grasp, let alone survive.

Having lived in a predominantly Catholic country, I’ve been
preached
at, laden with guilt and warned of a realm that arranges the eternal punishment
of the wicked. Who could've thought such a place had any basis in fact? My
flesh crawls and my insides chill every time I think of what other revelations
lie in store on this topsy-turvy zoo tour, where all the showcased animals were
once human, only they can't remember anymore how it was being anything but
beasts.

I could pass out again just thinking of my own sentence: to be
thrown at the mercy of potbellied, winged viragos, the infamous Harpies, every
waking moment of insomniac death. Like I thought at the way station, there’s a
thin line between real men and sissies in the face of hellfire.

And my body! It takes a great deal of positivity to hold back
despair at the sight and feel of my wet and slimy flesh, as though all the time
I was emerging from a moss-covered lake.
Sephtimus
has begun calling me by a foreign name, too, which at first sounded Egyptian to
me but which my psychic connection explains is actually Welsh. It’s spelled
Cyhyraeth and is pronounced
Tuh-huhreth
, meaning “specter” or
“death-portent.”

I also learn that a fershee, like its female counterpart the
banshee, is a type of wailing spirit.

S
uicide’s not an option simply because you can’t kill
someone who’s already dead. I’ve basically landed myself in the ultimate
prison, a place akin to a mental institute where all the doors have no knobs to
turn. Or there are simply no doors.

The only thing that holds me together in this accursed place,
where God Himself turns a blind eye, the only thing that keeps me
from
unraveling
is the fact that at least one person in
the world of the living knows about me and remembers. Sam. My undying light in
the pitch-black depths where I descend. Memories of her readily bring tears to
my eyes.

I turn my thoughts back to Sephtimus Rex. The Chief Soul Deporter
knows about my past; my being an orphan, a non-person, for most of my
childhood. This could hold the key to the mystery of why I was chosen out of
countless others. Unfortunately, when it comes to my past, I have walls put up
for good reason. I simply don’t venture that deep inside.

I consider what the reaper has offered me, the possibility of
seeing Sam again. Though I don't want to pin my last hope on the words of a
demon, at the same time there’s nothing else for me to hold on to except the
wish, no matter how improbable, that I could visit Sam one last time. I suppose
looking forward to even the briefest meeting with her in my present state is
better than facing eternity without a glimmer of hope. Just a few minutes in my
appointed prison yard and I’ll surely cease to understand how I existed,
whether I walked or crept.

But how could I volunteer to be used by the evil incarnate in his
sinister plot? Isn't it more decent to suffer for my mistakes than drag down
another person, the woman in the coffee shop, with the doomed plan of slipping
back to the surface world? Maybe I should cling on to the last ounce of human
goodness in me even if it means never again experiencing a smile or seeing
Sam's. Just do my time and pray for the strength to last till the expiration of
the universe.

And then t
here’s the other part of me that
says I should live as everyone else lives in this place. Survival of the
fittest, the meek are meat for the strong. The small voice in my head talking
about morality is my last, obsolete connection to being human and I should just
take advantage of this special treatment being granted me, use mounds of other
people as footholds if I have to. Then again the moment I turn into that person
is the time I truly deserve to be in hell. No, I have to keep believing the
only reason I’m here is because I’m a suicide.

I’m
on the
horns of this dilemma when Death yanks away the illusion of choice. He whispers
a threat in my fin-ear: “Since you don’t seem to be very pressed for time you
should chew on this.  Emasculated though I may be and prohibited from ever
doing anything worthwhile, from laying a finger on a mortal outside their
contract, you better believe it when I tell you, there are other ways to make
the life of your precious Samantha a living hell.”

That
and a mischievous wink. That’s enough to drive me to my knees like a sad,
vacant-eyed genie summoned to do the bidding of his dark master.

****

It’s
hard to believe but the only thing the Death Angel needs to masquerade as a
human is the capacity for speech; the rest is child's play. For the father of
wolves to fit in sheep's clothing it’s easy to mimic everything – the face of
Brad Pitt, the body of Vin Diesel, the dough of Bill Gates –everything except
the very words that’ll come out of his mouth. If forced, he’d appear like a
character in those dubbed Mexican soaps who looks heavenly but is either a
ventriloquist or possesses a hen's hyperactive butthole for lips. I believe
it’s because the only real privilege that separates humans from creatures of the
nether-realm, like in the Jewish legend about the golem, is man’s ability to
articulate his thoughts.

Also,
there’s a certain warped logic when a grim reaper that’s bored out of his mind
attempts to cultivate himself. It’s only Sephtimus’ low opinion and abhorrence
of everything human that has left him unlearned all this time.

As to the question of what human language to learn, although it’s
said that French is the most romantic, English is still the most
practical.
First, should Sephtimus strike out and taste bitter
rejection for the first time in his eternal existence, he’ll have a vast
international sea of other fish to cure his wounded pride.

Second, Ms. Beatrice (I never did catch the name of the woman on
the monitors) happens to be partial to English though she was born to both
Italian parents, first-generation immigrants who had settled in an old Italian
neighborhood in New York. Ms. Beatrice’s current location though is my home
country, the sunshiny islands of the Philippines, where she’s been selected to
endorse a clothing company’s Fashion Week collection. This confirms my earlier
guess about her occupation and gives another plausible reason for my being
selected as Death’s tutor. 

I condition myself mentally. At first I worry I’ll be hopelessly
conflicted, but I’m surprised, even feel guilty at my enthusiasm. I suppose I
still have more guts left in me than I imagine in these strange, troubled
times. It’s like I’m being possessed by a completely different persona, one
that’s been hidden deep in the recesses but has now taken over, a character
that’s a hundred times a go-getter and a survivor.

This bare stratum of identity is the only bastion Death can't
break down so I’m going to bet everything on it. This undertaking will be my
lifeline to the human world and my diving helmet in this psychologically and
spiritually toxic world. It doesn't matter who the student is, if it means
passing on the last traces of my humanity to him, I’ll do it and do it well. I
fancy myself as an underground figure like a surgeon paid to fix up the blasted
bodies of gangsters.

Our
predetermined deadline is October 30
^th
, seven days from now based on
Beatrice’s human clock. Sephtimus figures that if the Christian God managed to
create an entire universe on such a tight deadline, surely he can learn a
foreign language in the same amount of time, plus the extra day when God
rested.

I
suppose it
is
within the realm of possibility since in this world there
appear to be no switching of night and day and no sign of anyone ever needing
rest. The clock’s stuck at forever midwinter midnight so we’d have an infinite
wealth of time if we only shut out all thoughts of the living. What awaits me,
however, if I fail to meet Sephtimus' deadline is a fate too terrible to
contemplate.

Lastly,
it’s not immediately apparent but a hive of monitors that show each and every
inch of the human world will be an invaluable teaching aid. With them, I shall
become a sleeper trainer not unlike what the Soviets had, enlightening an extra-dimensional
spy on even the most basic things so he can pass himself off as human.

Under
all these conditions,
I resolve to perfect my Sistine
Chapel, however blasphemous it is.

These
magic-mirror screens have a mind of their own. If I’m not careful, they’ll
steal and turn my memories against me. As Sephtimus demonstrated, the monitors
zoom in on any person anywhere in the world, all from ground level and at real
time; but they can also show video feeds from both the past and the future,
proving beyond a doubt that the lives we’ve been living are all predestined.

Or
could it be my own making? When the monitors bring me back to memories where I
least want to go, is it because what someone longs for is very seldom what’s
good for him?

I
remember one other moment when the din of the Lachesis supercomputers dropped
low enough for me to hear myself think. As though the chime of a giant clock
signaled the change inside me, there was a distinct half of my life when I
believed human existence meant something.

100
billion galaxies in the universe. 100 billion star systems. About 10 trillion
planets in our galaxy alone and 7 billion people on Earth. I am unique, I am
not insignificant. Inside my mother’s body, hundreds of millions of gamete
competed towards the womb yet only the smallest fraction would finish the
journey.

There’s
a genetic symphony inside me, a clockwork that sets off its designs at such
precise timing. I am a book capable of writing its own stories.

I
have the capacity to love and I, too, shall be loved. There is a corner in this
universe where I am wanted, where I am needed, where I belong, and where I’m
meant to be. It’s right next to the woman whose own genetic symphony has led
her into my arms.

We
are all of us, body and breath, made up of stardust... 

Time
was, I believed in the purposeful order of things, that there was a reason for
everything. All I had to do to be certain was watch the miraculous ballet of
constellations across the night sky while making wishes about the future with
the one I loved.

I
would point out to her the patterns above but not completely, just guiding her
along to let her discover the shapes by herself. She would connect the dots in
the darkness while I listened to the excitement building in her voice, and I
would reward her every guess with a kiss while remaining vague about how that
was a good thing for her. The chances were as many as the shooting stars
towards daybreak. Or in the Geminids meteor shower in December. A whole rain of
kisses.

King
Cepheus, Cygnus the Swan, mighty Hercules, Boötes the Hunter, the Great Bear
and the little one, Draco the Dragon…

Sam
broke the kiss. “Tell me that story again.”

“What
story? I don’t know any.” I nibbled on her ear, applying light kisses across
her shoulder to push her and myself farther over the edge. But she wasn’t one
to lose her cool.

“How
our bodies are made up of stardust.” She shifted from under me.

I
rolled onto my back on the cool grass, miffed. We were on the gentle slopes of
People’s Park, our favorite trysting green whose gates we climbed at night and
risked both neck and university name on.

The
lagoon in the middle of the park slept as still as ink, and the scoop was that
15 billion years ago in the primeval Big Bang, the first simple chemical
elements gave way to galaxies, planets, and stars and eventually people –
through eons and eons of evolution, plus a fair share of telling and retelling
to Sam.

“It’s
all just esoteric mathematics,” I told her, purposely to make her feel bad.
“It’s not even scientific.”

“Tell
me about Orpheus’ harp.”

“There’s
no harp. The things you see up there are what countless humans before you have
projected of themselves into the sky. They’re not real. They’re simply a way
for farmers and astronomers to remember which star is which – nothing more. You
know mnemonics, right? Memory aids?”

She
did, but something about the quiet that followed told me I had gone too far.
Although she was two years younger and majoring in Art History, she had proven
many times over that she knew a lot more than how to understand and present
art: her sculpted figure, graceful walk and picture-perfect face, which in my
mind would never be subject to the ravages of old age or decay.

“I’m
not as stupid as you think I am, Nate.”

“I
never think that.”

“You
do. And the saddest part is, you don’t even know you’re doing it,” she went on
in that tone she reserved only for our “heart-to-heart sessions.” I didn’t like
the sound of it at all.

“What’s
that supposed to mean?” I asked, a slight edge creeping to my voice, sensing
what was coming as fast and strong as a whirlpool but being powerless to stop
it.

“It’s
just you. Just the way you are. How you don’t listen, never have the patience
or say sorry. Basically how you’re not opening up to me. All these rules you
make up on what makes real men…”

“If
I’m impatient that’s because you’re always testing my patience.”

“…
indeed maybe a real man isn’t what you’d call a gentleman.”

“What’s
this? Is this another of our heart-to-heart talks? Because they all boil down
to one thing, you know, to me not introducing you to my parents. Is that what
this is about?”

“There’s
nothing wrong with wanting to meet your parents. It follows, if we’re seriously
committed to this relationship.”

“What’s
wrong is you’re always asking about my personal life. You know why you keep
getting disappointed? It’s because of me. I keep pretending I’m who you want me
to be. So why don’t you do both of us a favor and just leave me the hell
alone?”

There,
it was done. She was always the one to start a fight and only I had the guts to
finally finish it. We were now lying stiff on our backs and not looking at each
other, looking at what used to be our stars in the sky but only seeing a shape
that looked so ugly and indifferent.

I
didn’t want to admit it but for a second I felt freaked-out inside because it
was like I had lost both Sam and myself at once. The short gap between us on
the park grass stretched like the distance between the two poles of the world.
I couldn’t trace the point where everything had started to go wrong. One moment
we were happy and everything was perfect; the next, it was all garbled,
counterfeit destiny. We were like two survivors off a shipwreck, two specks on
the tides of time and chance and I could tell I was about to be washed away
from her and we’d lose each other forever.  This was because, unlike most
normal people, I wasn’t properly anchored to existence.

“All
right,” she said after a long silence. “Actually, I’ve been thinking myself.
That maybe… maybe it’s not meant to be. It’s not written in the Big Book after
all, like what you used to say.”

She
sat up and turned her back to me.

“Stop
crying,” I told her. “You know I hate it every time you cry.”

“I’m
not crying for myself, Nate. I’m crying for you.” Then she stood up and broke
into a feminine run.

I
wasn’t going after her. Who did she think she was? A hundred retorts and last
words were running through my head. Hateful words like “
I don’t need your
tears
” or “
You’re always frigid anyway
.” I hated her for ruining the
mood.

I
didn’t
know how long I just lay there on the grass smoldering and cursing the sky, but
after a while I got up thinking I needed a stiff drink. I barely noticed the
constant roar in my ears was unusually quiet.

Oh what is there to tell, Sam? How can you ever understand? That
there’s no point to anything. All deaths are senseless because all life is
pointless in the first place. 

****

I
could
always tell when something else was in the room with me. Because the sound of
its breathing was much too heavy for a boy my age and much too rumbly to be
coming out of a human mouth. Eerie, alien lights would chase one another up a
wall and across the ceiling as car headlights swept by on the street below, and
the shadow of the mango tree touching my window would appear more elongated and
grotesque inside my room. Soon the whole place would look as foreign as
moonscape.

The
monster was cunning. Ever so elusive and always one thought ahead, it would
slip back under the cover of my own receding drowsiness, my half-wakefulness,
blending in and disguising itself as my own nose, my own lips, and the night
sounds that I myself made. There would be no evidence left that I could check
against what was logical and firmly based on reality. But I knew better.

Of
course this was not to say that monsters cared about preserving my sanity. In
fact, just the opposite. They were discreet so they could come back to haunt me
many times over. How evil is that? And every once in a while, they weren’t shy
to use the full spectrum of the horror they could induce in me. Like that one
incident with the visitor in the orphanage, my false-alarm father.