This is a bit of a departure from my last few stories, most notably because it isn't written specifically as a comedy. It's based on an idea I got from an article I read. I won't say too much more about that right now, because I'm hoping you'll have some fun figuring out what is going on. I'll try not to make it too obscure. Some of the experiences of the characters will at least be real.
I would also note that I wrote this chapter about a week ago, and have done some slight editing since then, but have had no time to write the second chapter, so I'm not sure when I can promise the next section. I have, more or less, worked out how things work, so there should be more chapters soon. I apologize in advance for delays.
I also need to beg Wragg's indulgence. I sort of indicated to him that I would be writing an entirely different story. I will get to that one too, and I am sort of writing it, but the first chapter went funny, and I have to work things out, so for the moment, we have this story instead.
Chapter 1: More than Real
Sweat burned in her eyes as she struggled up the path, the hot late morning sun beating down on her, heat radiating back up from the dry ground. Her bare feet, already sore were now bleeding from the sharp pebbles that lined the pathway, and the thorny brambles that grew everywhere.
She was so tired, and her back hurt, bleeding from multiple wounds.
Another drop of sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to wipe the sweat away, but of course, she couldn’t. Her arms had to steady her burden, not that she had much choice, she thought grimly. They were bound to it with rough cord that bit into her forearms.
Why didn’t she just stop carrying it, she thought, as she slowed briefly to struggle around a bend in the path. The path went up at a steady grade. Always up through the dust and thorns and stones.
“Move, you bitch!” growled a voice. There was a push on her back from a spear butt, not hard enough to make her fall. The man knew his business. But it was enough to make her stumble forward again, her eyes glazing over with the strain.
What if I just faint here, she thought. But she didn’t, she took a gasping breath of dusty air, and pushed on. She knew that if she stopped or fell they’d just bring out the whips until either she got moving again or died. They didn’t care. She wasn’t anything to them.
It’ll be over soon, she tried to tell herself.
That wasn’t true either was it. It was going to be over, certainly, but not that soon. Something would happen soon, but she wasn’t sure that her current fatigue and pain wasn’t better.
She could recover from this, she thought. If they just untie me, remove this weight, and let me lie down, I’ll be better in a couple of days. It was surreal and terrifying to think about her reality. In a few minutes I’ll be dying. The thought sent a shiver through her.
There was a flip of the whip on her back. She yelped and tried to move faster.
“Almost there now, sweetie,” said a taunting voice. The soldier again. “Then you can have a nice lie down for a minute.” He jingled a bag in front of her face, then he swished his red cloak over his shoulder and strolled on jauntily.
She knew what that meant. He wants me in terror, she thought. Well, it’s working. A stream of urine came from under the rag they had tied on her as a makeshift skirt, and ran down her leg. She wanted to sob in her anguish, but she was so tired and her throat was so dry. She couldn’t even cry.
The crest of the small hill came into view, swimming in her eyes through the sweat and blood running down her face.
“Don’t stop now,” said the soldier, adjusting his blue cloak.
Blue, she thought as she struggled on. Wasn’t it red? She was seeing things. She was delirious, that must be it. Maybe that was better.
“Witch!” hissed a voice.
She turned her head to her left to see who had said that. She was a recaptured slave, not a witch. She was a slave, wasn't she? Funny that she couldn't remember doing slave work, or her master, or anything about that. She was sure that she wasn't a witch.
“Burn in hell, you witch!” hissed the man in the long black jacket and black square hat. There was a silver buckle on the hatband. She didn’t know what he meant. Burn? She wasn’t going to be burned. And what sort of clothes were those? Hell? Part of her mind said that Romans didn't believe in Hell. Where did that thought come from?
She looked again, interested, even through the pain and fatigue. A typical Roman slave woman was there, sneering at her. “Vicious whore!” said the woman. “Now you’ll learn your place.”
She shivered. Where was the man? Delirious – she was delirious, that must be it.. She hoped she would forget who she was soon and just fade away. That would be best.
“Move it, cunt!” said the soldier. His cloak was red. She didn’t care anymore.
Stumble forward up the path. Now up to the crest, the path ending at the top, a flat plateau. There were two crosses up already, a man on the left – that would be Marcus – and a middle-aged woman on the right – that was Tuva. Tuva looked like she was already dead. She was a bit heavyset, with poor muscle tone, her breasts sagging on her chest. She just hung there motionless. Marcus had been fit. He would last a long time. She heard him groan as he pushed up to relieve the pain from his nailed wrists.
There was a long gray pole on the ground. She knew that was where she was going. Why fight it? They’ll only whip me and it will end the same. She shuffled forward the last few meters.
Hands came out and grasped the ends of the wooden beam she was carrying. They weren’t rough, but they were firm and businesslike. They turned her around, and then they were guiding the beam down to the long pole, laying her back onto the pole with it. The world tilted and reeled past her eyes as she was tipped over backwards, still bound to the crossbeam, finally leaving her panting for breath and dizzy, looking up at a clear blue sky. Other hands grasped her ankles and pulled them to rest on the pole.
The beam was fitted to the pole under her and lashed to it with more rope. She lay there, her arms stretched out on the beam, looking up at the deceptively calm blue sky.
There was an odd thunder sound that she couldn’t place, quiet and steady, as she watched a white streak through the puffy clouds, wondering what could make such a streak. The back of her mind said she had seen something like this before. It started on one side of the cloud, and was like a line drawn straight across the sky. She blinked.
Couldn’t they wipe this sweat out of her eyes at least. It was the least they could do, considering all the things they were going to do to her.
She looked up again. The white line was gone, and so was the thunder noise.
The soldier appeared again, he grinned at her and jingled the bag he held, and then he tossed it to one of the other men. “Get her up,” he said.
There was a flickering of the light, and she thought for a second that she could see right through the soldier, and look at the crowd behind him - a woman in a black dress, a young man staring at her almost naked body, soldiers, other people. Her vision snapped back into focus. The soldier was still there, solid as ever.
“Get her up,” said the soldier, turning to talk to someone else. He was suddenly back in front of her cross.
“Get her up,” he said, and finally left.
One of the men looked down at her. “Waste of your life, slave,” he said. He leaned down and pulled at her skirt. It tore at her hip and he pulled it off her. She was completely naked now.
“Please,” she croaked. “Just let me go.”
“Go where?” he asked, and grabbed hold of her ankles again. “Go ahead,” he said to another man.
There was a prick of sharp pressure at her left wrist, she turned her head to look as a hammer smashed down on a long spike, driving it through her wrist into the beam. The pain hit her a second later, radiating up her arm.
She tried to howl, but her voice didn’t come. She was choking on dust, her mouth open in a silent scream, as she tried to thrash free. The man holding her ankles held on tightly. There was another assault with a spike on her right wrist. She gasped in a choking breath and screamed, the sound of an animal, a howl of pain, defeat and despair.
The man holding her ankles pulled her down the pole, stretching her arms to a shallow V shape. He forced her to bend her legs slightly, and marked a spot on the pole with his knee. The man with the tools hammered a small block onto the pole above his colleague’s knee.
She felt her feet through the red haze of pain being placed on the small block, one on top of the other. Two men held her ankles in place while the one with the hammer drove a long spike down through both feet into the block. Then they stood up, looking down at her.
“Worthless bitch,” said one, and spat at her, the spittle landing on her breast.
“Even more worthless now,” said the one with the hammer. “Can’t even use her for fun anymore.” He rubbed the sole of his sandal over the bush of dark hair between her slightly bent legs.
She started to cry in her humiliation. “Stop,” she sobbed. “Please stop. Just kill me.”
“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said the third.
“The one with the hammer rubbed the sole of his sandal over her dark-haired mound.
She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry, begging them to stop and just kill her.
“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said one of the men.
She stared through her tears, wondering why they were repeating things, but they just moved behind her head to grasp the end of the cross and lift it. A couple of other men came over to help and the cross rose ponderously.
She felt herself rising and finally her small weight slid down the rough pole and she had to bear it on the three nails. The small foot rest gave her some traction, but she knew it would only prolong her life. What a precious thing was life. She would live longer, because of their “mercy”. The pain was unbearable and unceasing. She was gasping for breath, having to push up with her bent knees, never able to straighten them, never able to escape the inflamed nerves in her feet, ruptured by the spike.
She looked down as the bottom of the cross slipped into a hole and dropped about half a meter. It shuddered to a stop, jolting her. Lances of fresh agony washed through her and she howled again, but didn’t lose consciousness. That would have been a blessing. Even a few seconds of oblivion would have been welcome. Now she knew how people could long for death.
She ran out of breath and hung panting, naked and exposed, as the soldier strode over to her cross.
“So, she’s up. Good. That’s our work here done for the day…”
And suddenly he wasn’t there. He was just gone. No, there he was in the crowd again, giving orders to some other soldiers. He glanced up to see her hanging, and turned to stride over to the cross.
As he did so, the hilltop flickered, blue, green, red, and then seemed to break up into small square particles, breaking into a kaleidoscope, before coalescing back together.
The soldier strode toward her cross, and his cloak changed from red, to blue. Robed figures appeared, as the interior of a stone building with a gold cross at one end flipped into existence around her cross. The robed men stared at her in shock, while the Roman soldier looked around in surprise.
Then the Roman started to flicker in and out of existence, as the cathedral broke into squares and dissipated into nothing, leaving them back on the Roman hilltop.
The hilltop itself started to break up, which was when she heard the voice from heaven saying, “It’s going wrong. Some sort of overload. The system is failing all along this sequence. Pull her out! Now!”
Then there was darkness. At least the pain was gone.
She thought she was awake. She tried to get up. She couldn’t move. There was no pain, but she couldn’t move. She was somehow floating in a lying down position, but she couldn’t really tell what state she was in. All she knew was it was completely dark, and warm. She couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t tell whether she was wearing anything. She felt that she was not on the cross anymore, but how can one be sure, she thought, if you can’t feel anything?
“I think you’re awake,” said a gentle male voice. “Try to relax. You won’t be used to the light so you might want to close your eyes. It won’t be very bright, but it might still hurt at first.”
Not used to the light? She had just been in blazing sunlight with sweat and blood and dust in her eyes. How could she not be used to light?
“Whcxhch,” she said, the only sound her dry mouth would make.
“Don’t talk,” said the voice, now near her left side. “You’re a bit dehydrated, I expect. Pullouts always are. We’ll sort that out in a minute. Ah, here’s the dimmer.”
A dim light faded into being around her. The pain in her eyes was intense. She gasped (so she was breathing, she thought) and shut her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said the male voice. “This is all a bit of a shock to you, I’m sure. We don’t like pulling people out, but there’s been a server glitch and your box went down. Hasn’t happened in over a century. We’ll send you back as soon as we can.”
She didn’t understand any of that. Where was she. Who was this that was casually telling her about a box. What box? What she did understand was that he was going to send her back. Back to her crucifixion. Panic washed through her.
“No,” she croaked, in a whisper.
To be continued…
I would also note that I wrote this chapter about a week ago, and have done some slight editing since then, but have had no time to write the second chapter, so I'm not sure when I can promise the next section. I have, more or less, worked out how things work, so there should be more chapters soon. I apologize in advance for delays.
I also need to beg Wragg's indulgence. I sort of indicated to him that I would be writing an entirely different story. I will get to that one too, and I am sort of writing it, but the first chapter went funny, and I have to work things out, so for the moment, we have this story instead.
Chapter 1: More than Real
Sweat burned in her eyes as she struggled up the path, the hot late morning sun beating down on her, heat radiating back up from the dry ground. Her bare feet, already sore were now bleeding from the sharp pebbles that lined the pathway, and the thorny brambles that grew everywhere.
She was so tired, and her back hurt, bleeding from multiple wounds.
Another drop of sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to wipe the sweat away, but of course, she couldn’t. Her arms had to steady her burden, not that she had much choice, she thought grimly. They were bound to it with rough cord that bit into her forearms.
Why didn’t she just stop carrying it, she thought, as she slowed briefly to struggle around a bend in the path. The path went up at a steady grade. Always up through the dust and thorns and stones.
“Move, you bitch!” growled a voice. There was a push on her back from a spear butt, not hard enough to make her fall. The man knew his business. But it was enough to make her stumble forward again, her eyes glazing over with the strain.
What if I just faint here, she thought. But she didn’t, she took a gasping breath of dusty air, and pushed on. She knew that if she stopped or fell they’d just bring out the whips until either she got moving again or died. They didn’t care. She wasn’t anything to them.
It’ll be over soon, she tried to tell herself.
That wasn’t true either was it. It was going to be over, certainly, but not that soon. Something would happen soon, but she wasn’t sure that her current fatigue and pain wasn’t better.
She could recover from this, she thought. If they just untie me, remove this weight, and let me lie down, I’ll be better in a couple of days. It was surreal and terrifying to think about her reality. In a few minutes I’ll be dying. The thought sent a shiver through her.
There was a flip of the whip on her back. She yelped and tried to move faster.
“Almost there now, sweetie,” said a taunting voice. The soldier again. “Then you can have a nice lie down for a minute.” He jingled a bag in front of her face, then he swished his red cloak over his shoulder and strolled on jauntily.
She knew what that meant. He wants me in terror, she thought. Well, it’s working. A stream of urine came from under the rag they had tied on her as a makeshift skirt, and ran down her leg. She wanted to sob in her anguish, but she was so tired and her throat was so dry. She couldn’t even cry.
The crest of the small hill came into view, swimming in her eyes through the sweat and blood running down her face.
“Don’t stop now,” said the soldier, adjusting his blue cloak.
Blue, she thought as she struggled on. Wasn’t it red? She was seeing things. She was delirious, that must be it. Maybe that was better.
“Witch!” hissed a voice.
She turned her head to her left to see who had said that. She was a recaptured slave, not a witch. She was a slave, wasn't she? Funny that she couldn't remember doing slave work, or her master, or anything about that. She was sure that she wasn't a witch.
“Burn in hell, you witch!” hissed the man in the long black jacket and black square hat. There was a silver buckle on the hatband. She didn’t know what he meant. Burn? She wasn’t going to be burned. And what sort of clothes were those? Hell? Part of her mind said that Romans didn't believe in Hell. Where did that thought come from?
She looked again, interested, even through the pain and fatigue. A typical Roman slave woman was there, sneering at her. “Vicious whore!” said the woman. “Now you’ll learn your place.”
She shivered. Where was the man? Delirious – she was delirious, that must be it.. She hoped she would forget who she was soon and just fade away. That would be best.
“Move it, cunt!” said the soldier. His cloak was red. She didn’t care anymore.
Stumble forward up the path. Now up to the crest, the path ending at the top, a flat plateau. There were two crosses up already, a man on the left – that would be Marcus – and a middle-aged woman on the right – that was Tuva. Tuva looked like she was already dead. She was a bit heavyset, with poor muscle tone, her breasts sagging on her chest. She just hung there motionless. Marcus had been fit. He would last a long time. She heard him groan as he pushed up to relieve the pain from his nailed wrists.
There was a long gray pole on the ground. She knew that was where she was going. Why fight it? They’ll only whip me and it will end the same. She shuffled forward the last few meters.
Hands came out and grasped the ends of the wooden beam she was carrying. They weren’t rough, but they were firm and businesslike. They turned her around, and then they were guiding the beam down to the long pole, laying her back onto the pole with it. The world tilted and reeled past her eyes as she was tipped over backwards, still bound to the crossbeam, finally leaving her panting for breath and dizzy, looking up at a clear blue sky. Other hands grasped her ankles and pulled them to rest on the pole.
The beam was fitted to the pole under her and lashed to it with more rope. She lay there, her arms stretched out on the beam, looking up at the deceptively calm blue sky.
There was an odd thunder sound that she couldn’t place, quiet and steady, as she watched a white streak through the puffy clouds, wondering what could make such a streak. The back of her mind said she had seen something like this before. It started on one side of the cloud, and was like a line drawn straight across the sky. She blinked.
Couldn’t they wipe this sweat out of her eyes at least. It was the least they could do, considering all the things they were going to do to her.
She looked up again. The white line was gone, and so was the thunder noise.
The soldier appeared again, he grinned at her and jingled the bag he held, and then he tossed it to one of the other men. “Get her up,” he said.
There was a flickering of the light, and she thought for a second that she could see right through the soldier, and look at the crowd behind him - a woman in a black dress, a young man staring at her almost naked body, soldiers, other people. Her vision snapped back into focus. The soldier was still there, solid as ever.
“Get her up,” said the soldier, turning to talk to someone else. He was suddenly back in front of her cross.
“Get her up,” he said, and finally left.
One of the men looked down at her. “Waste of your life, slave,” he said. He leaned down and pulled at her skirt. It tore at her hip and he pulled it off her. She was completely naked now.
“Please,” she croaked. “Just let me go.”
“Go where?” he asked, and grabbed hold of her ankles again. “Go ahead,” he said to another man.
There was a prick of sharp pressure at her left wrist, she turned her head to look as a hammer smashed down on a long spike, driving it through her wrist into the beam. The pain hit her a second later, radiating up her arm.
She tried to howl, but her voice didn’t come. She was choking on dust, her mouth open in a silent scream, as she tried to thrash free. The man holding her ankles held on tightly. There was another assault with a spike on her right wrist. She gasped in a choking breath and screamed, the sound of an animal, a howl of pain, defeat and despair.
The man holding her ankles pulled her down the pole, stretching her arms to a shallow V shape. He forced her to bend her legs slightly, and marked a spot on the pole with his knee. The man with the tools hammered a small block onto the pole above his colleague’s knee.
She felt her feet through the red haze of pain being placed on the small block, one on top of the other. Two men held her ankles in place while the one with the hammer drove a long spike down through both feet into the block. Then they stood up, looking down at her.
“Worthless bitch,” said one, and spat at her, the spittle landing on her breast.
“Even more worthless now,” said the one with the hammer. “Can’t even use her for fun anymore.” He rubbed the sole of his sandal over the bush of dark hair between her slightly bent legs.
She started to cry in her humiliation. “Stop,” she sobbed. “Please stop. Just kill me.”
“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said the third.
“The one with the hammer rubbed the sole of his sandal over her dark-haired mound.
She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry, begging them to stop and just kill her.
“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said one of the men.
She stared through her tears, wondering why they were repeating things, but they just moved behind her head to grasp the end of the cross and lift it. A couple of other men came over to help and the cross rose ponderously.
She felt herself rising and finally her small weight slid down the rough pole and she had to bear it on the three nails. The small foot rest gave her some traction, but she knew it would only prolong her life. What a precious thing was life. She would live longer, because of their “mercy”. The pain was unbearable and unceasing. She was gasping for breath, having to push up with her bent knees, never able to straighten them, never able to escape the inflamed nerves in her feet, ruptured by the spike.
She looked down as the bottom of the cross slipped into a hole and dropped about half a meter. It shuddered to a stop, jolting her. Lances of fresh agony washed through her and she howled again, but didn’t lose consciousness. That would have been a blessing. Even a few seconds of oblivion would have been welcome. Now she knew how people could long for death.
She ran out of breath and hung panting, naked and exposed, as the soldier strode over to her cross.
“So, she’s up. Good. That’s our work here done for the day…”
And suddenly he wasn’t there. He was just gone. No, there he was in the crowd again, giving orders to some other soldiers. He glanced up to see her hanging, and turned to stride over to the cross.
As he did so, the hilltop flickered, blue, green, red, and then seemed to break up into small square particles, breaking into a kaleidoscope, before coalescing back together.
The soldier strode toward her cross, and his cloak changed from red, to blue. Robed figures appeared, as the interior of a stone building with a gold cross at one end flipped into existence around her cross. The robed men stared at her in shock, while the Roman soldier looked around in surprise.
Then the Roman started to flicker in and out of existence, as the cathedral broke into squares and dissipated into nothing, leaving them back on the Roman hilltop.
The hilltop itself started to break up, which was when she heard the voice from heaven saying, “It’s going wrong. Some sort of overload. The system is failing all along this sequence. Pull her out! Now!”
Then there was darkness. At least the pain was gone.
She thought she was awake. She tried to get up. She couldn’t move. There was no pain, but she couldn’t move. She was somehow floating in a lying down position, but she couldn’t really tell what state she was in. All she knew was it was completely dark, and warm. She couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t tell whether she was wearing anything. She felt that she was not on the cross anymore, but how can one be sure, she thought, if you can’t feel anything?
“I think you’re awake,” said a gentle male voice. “Try to relax. You won’t be used to the light so you might want to close your eyes. It won’t be very bright, but it might still hurt at first.”
Not used to the light? She had just been in blazing sunlight with sweat and blood and dust in her eyes. How could she not be used to light?
“Whcxhch,” she said, the only sound her dry mouth would make.
“Don’t talk,” said the voice, now near her left side. “You’re a bit dehydrated, I expect. Pullouts always are. We’ll sort that out in a minute. Ah, here’s the dimmer.”
A dim light faded into being around her. The pain in her eyes was intense. She gasped (so she was breathing, she thought) and shut her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said the male voice. “This is all a bit of a shock to you, I’m sure. We don’t like pulling people out, but there’s been a server glitch and your box went down. Hasn’t happened in over a century. We’ll send you back as soon as we can.”
She didn’t understand any of that. Where was she. Who was this that was casually telling her about a box. What box? What she did understand was that he was going to send her back. Back to her crucifixion. Panic washed through her.
“No,” she croaked, in a whisper.
To be continued…
