Epitimia. Part II. The Cave of the Philosopher
Theological/psychological short horror story with transgressive and historical elements. Part 2/5
When I used to read tales about Greek gods and heroes as a kid, I imagined myself embedded in their dealings, meeting Hephaestus and Zeus and maybe even helping out Sisyphus with his rock. Whatever good that would do. I dreamed of a cave hidden among the flat mountains of the infertile southern Balkans, a cave that I could follow Hades and Persephone to and see for myself the great rivers of the Underworlds.
Now I am in a cave. And this is real life - not a motif on a white-ground lekythos.
Polly has been quiet for a while now. Even demons don’t have unlimited persistence. What they do have, however, is unlimited presence. No longer afforded the privacy of reasoning, I toss him a remark or two as I browse through the internet, trying to find anything relevant to what is happening to me. The more I look, the more I dip into the black abyss of despair. In the damp darkness of the cave, I lay on top of my bedroll resting my head on the backpack.
“You are delaying the inevitable,” said Polly.
I want to call someone, a very special someone, but…
“Who are you going to call?”
‘I am not telling you.’
I set the phone down, and my eyes, used to the lucent screen, drown in the field of black as the purple rectangle remains stuck in the center of my vision, ‘How long have you been under that tree?’
“A while.”
‘Any good stories you can tell?’
“There was one about the Emperor Baldwin the First. A young knight, scorning all women other than his wife Marie…”
I lift myself on my elbows, pointing my index finger into the vanishing purple, ‘Wait a minute - Baldwin?’
“Yes, and he was…”
‘Baldwin? The Latin Emperor Baldwin?’
“The very same.”
‘You saw them?’
“Something like that.”
I rub my eyes in wide rapid motions. Latin Empire?
“Yes, Latin Empire,” says Polly.
‘Have you been under the tree since then?’
“I like the area. I’ve been to Chios, Smyrna too.”
‘Smyrna - you mean Izmir?’
“Yes. Izmir.”
Face up on my bedroll, I gather my thoughts. What used to be a temple became a market square. Can’t even plot against him.
“No you can’t.”
What do I know so far about him? For starters, he infests my mind and wishes to continue elsewhere. He is incapable of hurting me physically - aside from the initial contact, otherwise he’d torture me to do as he asks. Reads my mind. Except - he never calls me by my name.
Silence.
I wonder why is that.
He doesn’t have access to my memory. And I must keep it that way.
‘Hey Polly?’
“I admire your resilience. Making fun of what scares you is a valid method to maintain the illusions of power and control. You call me names, you cope with sarcasm, but let me assure you - I shall wear you down. And we shall go into the world.”
‘Here is where you’re wrong. I don’t need to. And I am not telling you why. Believe me when I say, we’ll be here awhile.’
I struggle to fall asleep. Being shocked by the immediacy of my disease, I can’t believe what is happening to me. I am able to keep the gravity of my situation at bay all day, but now it envelops me in quiet despair. I roll on my stomach, pressing my head against the ripstop fabric of my jacket.
As I begin to drift off, a stomach-churning wail pierces my ears and I shiver with my whole body.
“How long can you go without sleep?”
I flip on my back again and rub my temples, ‘What do you want me to do?’
“Submit yourself. And then we shall go out.”
‘I am not doing that.’
“Then you shall suffer.”
Another wail, so loud that my inner ear started vibrating. I have to answer.
‘First, let me introduce myself. My name is Peter Metaxas, and I am actually…’
“You are not Greek, Peter. We communicate in a different language. You are not Greek.”
‘What I wanted to say was, I am actually not a very religious person. But I reckon, if demons exist - so does God. And…’
“I have seen the believers, you know. Some thought my voice was the voice of an angel or whatever saint they were worshipping that day, and some thought I was the devil. You went straight to logic, Peter. Don’t drape yourself into the cross-embossed fabric now.”
‘I’ll drape myself in whatever pleases me, Polly. My point is - until I understand the nature of you, I am not going anywhere. And I sure as fuck won’t submit to you.’
“You make it harder than it needs to be.”
‘Fuck you.’
The ringing in the ears is the answer that I get, and with no lungs and no air needed for screams, Polly goes on for a minute.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Was it five minutes?
I flip on my bedroll and hit the back of my hand against the rock on the ground. As the pain flashes across my hand, crawling up the arm, the voice in my head stutters.
Eureka.
I ram my fist against the floor, this time on purpose, and the hissing echoes in response. I hit it again and again and again, adding layers of excruciating pain.
My fingers twitch, the buzzing of disturbed veins and capillaries intensifies. Each hit tops off the vessel of perception and my fist becomes my body, my entire body, my existence is occupied with this spreading wildfire of agony, and I slam the rock so hard it takes off and disappears in the eye-piercing empty well with high-pitched clinks, so I mash the granite floor underneath, making it wet with my lymph seeping from my knuckles.
Containing the springing spikes of pain protruding from the escalating background of ache, I bite my cheek and I feel the metallic brine and a fleshy chunk, twisting in my mouth on a single strand of skin and rustling around as my tongue dances up and down and left and right in a feverish spasm.
“Enough,” said Polly, his voice strained.
Panting, I bring my tormented left hand up. I reach for a flashlight, and turn it on. The knuckles with the patches of missing skin layers tremble in chaotic cramps, covered in blood. Bright red is gushing down in between fingers, covering my entire arm with small streaks and droplets. Countless imprints cover the ground which I have pounded a second ago, each one coming from my injuries.
‘I will not submit,’ I say through my teeth, and a splash of my saliva, mixed with blood, drips out of my mouth on my shirt, ‘Now I sleep. Or attempt to, anyway.’