Of Little Faith

By Thomas J. Eggert

What would you do if everything you held precious in life was violently ripped from you in a single evening? Your family, your happiness, destroyed in hours by the sadistic acts of a madman. What if you were forced to witness the savage events and made to feel responsible for the horror? Would you lose all hope, all faith? Would you want revenge? If offered the chance and the resources, would you track down the man who destroyed your life? Would you kill him? Would you be willing to chase this madman straight to hell to finish the job? And, once there, what if you had a single opportunity to abandon your vengeful quest and exit hell? Would you escape to save your soul, or would you stay to exact your revenge. . . ?

And so it was, Vincent Goss, wounded and bound, witnessed his wife's brutal rape and his only child's torture and murder at the hands of a notorious serial killer. Vincent, a simple farmer and devoted husband, is forced to commit his loving wife to a sanatorium after the savage events. His life shattered, consumed by rage, Vincent seeks his revenge--both on earth and after his death in hell.

Join Vincent Goss on this metaphysical thrill ride. Immerse yourself in his perpetual struggle with love, loss, revenge and absolution. Open your mind, experience an altered reality and a unique vision of hell. Prepare for a truly original and visionary novel that you'll never forget!

.................................

Some excerpts from a few of the Amazon, iBooks, and Goodreads reviews:

"AMAZING! LOVED IT . . . This book is written so well that the books I have read after seem mediocre. . . . Goes down as my favorite book ever. A must read!!!"

"....When I began to read it, I thought why did I buy this book. But, I kept reading. I am so glad I did."

"Still in disbelief how good this novel is . . . Unbelievable climax. . . . And the ending. Just beautiful."

"I could not put this book down! Keep hoping for another book by Thomas Eggert because this book was so intense that when it ended all I wanted was more! A must read."

"Amazing story . . . I was captivated by this book. Remarkable creativity by the author. The reader is taken to new heights . . . Highly recommended."

"Eyes glued to every page. I read the book in two days."

"This book shocked me in how profoundly it affected me. When I began to read it, I thought why did I buy this book. But, I kept reading. I am so glad I did. This book has a message that everyone needs to hear and heed. The story is violent and gory at times. It is also very dark. But, coming out of the dark is the best ever. I would recommend this book for mature readers. It is well worth your time. . . . Keep reading."

"Emotionally gripping on every level . . . The levels of depth the author portrayed and the emotions that were struck rattles ones soul. . . . I opened this book and did not close it until I was done."

"Gripping . . . The characters are bold and intriguing. The villain the perfect level of diabolical. There are enough twists and turns along the way to really keep you guessing. A great read, highly entertaining and thought provoking."

"Wow! What did I just read? . . . A different type of book with a beautiful message! I would certainly recommend it to anyone. When you get to the end and understand the message the book conveys, you realize importance of each event and character in Vincent's journey."

"Unique and Incomparable . . . I LOVE the characters . . . These characters now live in my heart."

"Amazing Experience . . . This is probably the weirdest book I have ever read, but in a good way!"

"Wow! . . . What an amazing and beautiful story this was. I read it in three days, I could not put it down. . . . I am a better person for having read it."

"A book like no other . . . It is more of an experience than a story."

"High Caliber Novel . . . Full of jaw-dropping detail. . . . Th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas J. Eggert
• Release date: Sep 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310831867

Thomas J. Eggert

Thomas J. Eggert lives in southern Ohio. His free time is spent writing, exploring the world with his beautiful wife, and enjoying nature. The novel Of Little Faith is the one writing project he is most proud of and he hopes you enjoy reading it.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it,

unless it has been all suffering and nothing but suffering."

—Jane Austen

Persuasion

Oblivion ... The transference

If hell could express itself upon a soul's arrival, it would be known that the tortured hatred experienced within the earthbound realm, the very hatred that carries a soul to this cruel existence, was but a meager taste of the torture yet to come. But hell offered no foresight of the lamentation ahead. And so it was ... naked, confused, alone, Vincent Goss arrived—a captive soul of an inhumane world on the fringe of Creation.

Vincent rolled on his side, scraping the graveled ground, and propped himself up. He focused his hell-forged eyes for the first time and surveyed his body, his pale, flawless skin. He saw his legs trembling and reached to steady his thigh. He glanced at his arm, then slowly raised his hand and clenched a steel fist. The muscles rippled in his forearm as he wondered upon what anvil such strength was hammered.

A warm, caustic wind began to gust, carrying with it the stench of foul vinegar. Vincent held still and clamped shut his eyes. His hair whipped madly against his temples as he tried jogging his memory. He searched for his name, a home, family or friend—anything to illuminate his past. Nothing emerged beyond short circuit flashes of another time, a different world.

The wind and dust settled and Vincent opened his eyes to his new home. On the ground lay flint: chunks of flint, faded brown flint, shiny black flint, steel gray flint, flint bits, flint splinters and flint dust. He slowly turned his head searching for change.... Nothing. Oblivion washed away to a faceless horizon, fading in all directions as a sublimely featureless creature.

Vincent jerked his head and looked up. A wicked sky, painted with violet wisps, revealed itself. Twisting and writhing, the purple clouds churned across the atmosphere as if stroked by the invisible brush of a madman. Beyond the clouds hung a canopy of crimson, bright and pulsing, forever changing, one second brilliant, the next fading. No sun danced in the heavens, no moon cast its glow upon the desert, no stars offered dreams of another world.

Vincent sighed and slowly shook his head. In a dry even voice, he whispered, What the hell is this place? He tried to stand up. His legs trembled, still weak from the transfer. He clutched his shaking knees and began walking, trudging forward, sweeping up chunks of flint with each sliding step.

Flesh peeled from Vincent's feet as the seeming hours passed. He crunched his face with every footfall upon the desert floor, the guttural sound of an injured beast rumbling in his chest. The unbearable pain forced him to his hands and knees. He huffed the putrid air, parting dust on the dry ground. Where am I? Vincent knotted his stomach, curled his toes, and flexed muscles, trying to force memories back to his brain. Nothing came. No name. No home. No blissful yesterdays to offer him solace.

A single tear formed somewhere in a dark corner of his subconscious and tried to push free. The tear didn't flow. Oblivion wouldn't offer that release, not now, not ever. Its jealous hold on Vincent's soul was sadistic by nature, relentless, eternal.

Vincent relaxed for a moment, wiping his dry eyes, gathering his wits. He squinted at a lump on the bleak horizon, sighed a quick breath of rancid air, and began crawling.

Vincent scraped across the ripping surface for over a quarter mile, teeth clenched, growling. He reached up to shade his eyes, to take the glare off the horizon, and his supporting hand kicked out on loose rubble. His face slammed hard on serrated flint. A three inch vertical gash parted his left cheek. He thrust up his hand to arrest the bleeding, but nothing flowed. He waited a moment, removed pressure from the wound, and spread open the cut. Nothing. Vincent stuck a finger inside the gash. It was dry. He creased his brow and inspected the wounds on his hands. There should have been many, he felt the flesh tear while crawling, yet only a few lacerations remained, a trio of odd rips on the heels of both hands—cuts with no blood.

Terror ripped at Vincent's psyche. It slithered through his brain like an electric eel and clamped down upon his cerebellum with furious intent. What the hell's goin' on?

Tightly grasping his wrist, he tried coaxing blood through his veins to the open wound. Nothing flowed. In fact, the wound had narrowed. He shook his head. No, this isn't happenin'. It was happening. The wounds closed, quickly healing in front of his own wide eyes. Th-this can't be. He reached for his face. His sliced cheek had healed. This isn't real. What is this place?

Vincent's words evaporated in the desert silence without reply.

His unsteady knees found stability in panic and he jumped up and ran. He raced toward the lump on the horizon, running full force, the caustic air ravaging his lungs. Slowing to rest, he noticed no sweat dripped from his brow or glistened on his naked body. Realizing rest offered no relief, he picked up the pace and jogged toward the lump, watching it become distinguishable. Thank God, Vincent thought, somebody else!

Alone in the desert was a young man. He was on his knees, his hands at his sides, his mouth hanging open. His skinny, naked frame was covered by flawless, white skin. His head was vacant of hair, his eyes were vacant of life.

Hey! Vincent yelled, dropping to his knees in front of the youth.

The young man didn't respond. His lifeless, blue eyes stared through Vincent toward the edge of oblivion.

Hey! Vincent grabbed the youth's shoulder and shook. What's wrong with you?

The young man didn't move.

Vincent stared deeply into those youthful eyes and saw his own thirty-two-year-old reflection. He ran his fingers across his own scalp, wondering who butchered his short, brown hair. Vincent looked closer and saw his own handsome, well-etched face. He saw his own eyes, hazel mixed with blue. He backed away and stared at the young man. Hey. Vincent grabbed both shoulders and shook. Hey! Wake up!

The youth sprang to life in a panic and scrambled backward. "Gibt es einen ausweg?"

What? Vincent crawled after him. What's your name?

"Gibt es einen ausweg?"

What? What does that—

The youth stood up, panic flashing through his eyes. "Es wird nie enden!" He turned and ran.

Wait! Vincent yelled. He stood up and ran after the young man. Wait! What is this place? The youth kept running, chasing the horizon, leaving Vincent far behind. Wait! Vincent screamed, hoping an echoing word might reach the stranger. Where are we?

The pursuit continued for what seemed endless hours, the sharp flint carving flesh from Vincent's feet. Mile upon mile of senseless solitude faded behind him as unquenchable thirst yanked his gut, dust clogged his nose, and his lungs turned to mush. He began stumbling across the desert as the soles of his feet became bare bone. Helpless against the onslaught, coughing up bits of lung, Vincent collapsed to the desert floor, then rolled on his back in agony.

Writhing, vaporous clouds, the color of rotting lilacs, assembled in the sky to Vincent's right. He stared at the pulsating crimson canopy beyond the clouds, then scanned the horizon for signs of change. Three miles away, a single shadowed line split the desert monotony and nothing more.

Pain pierced Vincent's feet as bone returned and flesh regenerated. He noticed a toe missing and watched a fresh one sprout from his foot like a lonely man's erection. He pondered for a moment, faintly recalling carnal pleasure in another world. Vincent reached for his manhood and lightly stroked it, curious to see if it still functioned. Nothing happened. No erection, no pleasure. What was I thinkin'? He glared at the pulsing sky. "That would be askin' for too much, wouldn't it?"

With resurrected feet, Vincent stood up and ran toward the hazy line upon the desert floor. It was a rift of some kind, a slice through the heart of oblivion. He ran to the brink of the rift and peered over its edge. The cliff face was black and smooth, nearly shining, no way to climb down. He turned to his left and his right. The ravine faded to both horizons. Vincent stared across, gauging the distance at three hundred feet. He scanned the ravine floor and saw only boulders—no river, no animals, no people, no life of any kind, just a jagged slash across a dried up tomb of desolation, offering neither promise nor explanation, bestowing only that which had been granted so benevolently since his arrival—mind-numbing hopelessness. He waved his hand to the sky in salute, and said, Thanks for nothin'.

Vincent walked, for what felt like, two days along the ravine. Seeing no apparent end, he backtracked twice that time and beyond. The sky never darkened and night never fell. The ravine became neither narrow nor shallow, and no wall allowed a place to climb down. And down is where he wanted to be. It didn't matter that the ravine was of little difference from the desert, it was somewhere else.

Vincent paced at the cliff's edge, feeling his internal fortitude collapse as violet clouds collected overhead once more. A warm breeze swirled down from the sky. An abrasive dust mingled with the caustic wind, chewed its way to his lungs, and stirred like a miniature tornado within his chest. He reared back his head to expel the fury but it would not come. Quick, short, torturous breath leapt from his throat like a locomotive churning out a broken pace. Still he couldn't sneeze. Demons twisted in his nose, laughing, mocking. The cycle would not complete.

The unending brink of a sneeze, uniquely intolerable and sadistically maddening, left Vincent with only one viable option ... an option suppressed since his arrival.

He stood at the edge of the cliff, toes dangling, eyes closed. With the sneeze still taunting him, along with countless other tortures, Vincent Goss prepared for death. He stepped back twenty paces, opened wide his eyes, unleashed a barbaric yell, and ran full force toward his demise.

He skidded short of the cliff's edge by mere inches, sliding, kicking rubble to the ravine floor. I can't do this, Vincent forced out between shortened sneeze breath. I can't. There's gotta be an answer somewhere. He sat down at the cliff face, legs bent over the edge, and suffered. There's gotta be more to this place than this.

The violet clouds condensed overhead into a dark, seething mass. An eerie-blue iridescence mingled within the clouds and cast a neon glow upon the desert. The ravine blackened as the caustic wind blew with renewed conviction.

A drop of glowing liquid leapt from the clouds and stung Vincent's ear. He jerked up his hand as if to smack a wasp. What the hell? He looked skyward. More blue drops fell in quick succession. He jumped to his feet, swatting frantically, as if in the midst of swarming bees.

The clouds unloaded a wild torrent of misery, each glowing drop gnawing flesh. Vincent ran, trying to escape the rain, but the storm touched all horizons. The sheets of flesh-eating acid hammered his nerves, while his skin—eaten away by the caustic liquid—regenerated to suffer the same torment again and again. The rain melted his eyelids and ate at his eyes. His genitals boiled with pain as testicles bulged through enlarging holes in his scrotum. He tried shielding his face and manhood as he ran, but the acid found ways to attack the body parts he considered most precious.

Vincent finally gave up. With nowhere to escape, no memories worth cherishing, no life worth living, he turned toward the cliff. Without hesitation, he leapt over the edge and watched fate rush to greet him.

He dropped evenly with the rain, witnessing the iridescent drops splattering on the ravine floor, knowing, for a splintered second, that would soon be him. Vincent felt a sense of deja vu and forced a laugh and a smile. Neither offered release from a relentless grip of pain. At ninety-miles-an-hour, he smashed the side of a flint boulder, then landed as a broken lump of humanity upon the ravine floor.

What life Vincent had did not end.

Contorted in wicked ways, he tried to scream. With his neck broken, he could only move his lips. His spinal cord soon regenerated, carrying with it an extensive network of agony. He tried screaming again. No air passed through his crumpled throat, no sound broke the still air. Vincent could only lay there, helpless, silently suffering as the raining acid gnawed open wounds.

A caustic, glowing pool formed on the ground where a rip in Vincent's thigh waited like a hungry sponge. Flesh melted and bone vaporized, only to regenerate once more. A gash in his chest let acid gather and digest internal organs. Holes opened in his intestines, allowing a burning rush of misery race to find an exit. He cringed with each caustic drop, wincing as exposed nerves regrouped to be eaten once again.

A dreadful amount of time passed while he endured oblivion's torment. With no end to the torture in sight, with all-consuming pain a constant, Vincent surrendered to his fate. If this is my eternity, he thought, then I can't fight it. I can't die, and I sure as hell can't live. I can only suffer. He ground his teeth. So, have your way with me. I don't care anymore. Do you hear me? I don't care!

As if appeased by surrender, the clouds of oblivion faded, the rain stopped, and the crimson sky brightened an otherwise dismal existence. The acid—pooled in various cavities, cracks and recesses—boiled and vaporized. A caustic, glowing fog gently rose, clouding the ravine in an eerie-blue haze.

The fog, although irritating, didn't hinder the growth of skin and bone. Vincent began to regenerate. His femur mended. New ribs grew, caging fresh lungs that no longer needed to sneeze. His skull, jaw and cheekbones healed. His twisted neck straightened as vertebrae snapped back in position. Diligent of duty and focused of purpose, his broken body mended.

Vincent's resurrected flesh and bones ruthlessly caged him once more. He didn't care. Rain or no rain, broken body or whole, his will to struggle in a merciless land had perished. So he just lay there in the acid fog, neither feeling sorry for himself nor caring to live or die, and surrendered to his dismal existence.

The past that now resided in Vincent's memory consisted wholly of oblivion's torment. Having no pleasurable thoughts to dwell upon saved him the injustice of lamenting a better life. Oblivion offered him that by default. If it could, it would have paraded Vincent's most glorious moments before him as a mocking tribute, a testimony to all that was lost, a life he could never regain.

Just as he turned off all attachment to reality, a voice gently echoed across the ravine, gliding through the dense fog on gossamer wings.

Vincent retched up an uneasy laugh as the voice, that of a young boy in peril, ricocheted through his head. He couldn't tell if the sounds were real or just another twisted attempt by oblivion to inflict agony. For if it was somebody else, someone who spoke English, there was hope, but if the voice proved empty of body, only deeper madness awaited, an insanity Vincent dared not imagine. He laughed again to push the voice away.

Help me, please! the child's voice pleaded. I need help!

Vincent clamped shut his ears and rolled to his side.

Please, the acid, it hurts! Help me!

Vincent shook his head, knowing it to be a sick joke.

Please help me! the child begged.

No. This isn't real. You're not real! Vincent stood up and acknowledged the voice. "Just shut up! You're not real! None of this is real!"

Mister, please, I am trapped! I need your help!

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. It's not real. It's not real. Not real! Not real! Not real!

"Please, mister I—

"Damn it! Fine! Fine! You wanna play with me some more? Huh? You think you can cause me any more damage than you already have? Then bring it on! Vincent raised his hands, clenched his iron fists, and screamed through the fog, Just bring it the fuck on! He turned, then turned again. Where the hell are you?"

I am over here, mister! came a faint yell. Please hurry!

Vincent strained his eyes and ears. I can't hurry if I don't know where you're at, kid! Keep talkin'!

The acid hurts! Please help me!

Damn it, kid, I'm tryin'!

Please, mister, I need your help!

Vincent gauged the voice a hundred yards away. He stumbled through the glowing fog, stubbing his feet against rocks, bouncing off flint boulders. Keep talkin', kid!

I am here, mister! I am down in a hole!

Vincent searched for an opening in the heavy fog. C'mon, kid! Keep talkin'!

Please hurry! It is so cold down here!

Vincent hit the ravine wall and felt his way along its smooth surface. His hand traced the outline of a chasm. He peered into its glowing entry. Are you down there?

Yes, please hurry.

How far down are you?

I do not know.

Vincent stuck his head in the chasm opening and surveyed a small sloping cave. Twenty feet away, at the back wall, the gradual slant of the entrance gave way to a vertical drop, a pit of unknown depth. An iridescence rose from the bowels of the chasm, casting a familiar eerie-blue haze upon the jagged walls.

How the hell'd you get down there, kid? Vincent asked.

They chased me— The rain, it hurts. Please, mister, it is so cold.

Did you climb down? Fall?

I did not have a choice.

Vincent climbed inside the blue chamber. Talk to me, kid, tell me how I'm gonna get you outa here. He edged forward, nearing the pit.

Please, mister, the acid hurts.

Vincent squinted his eyes, staring at the glowing hole. Where'd all this acid come from? What is this place? His words evaporated without reply. Kid? You still there?

Yes.

Vincent dropped to his hands and knees and peered over the edge of the pit. Forty feet below, a bundled shadow floated behind a curtain of blue fog. Is that you?

Yes, the child said. Please hurry.

Vincent studied the pit. Jagged, vertical and circular, it offered no easy passage to the gloom below. Kid, there's no way I can climb—

Please, I want to be out of here.

So do I, kid. Vincent found a secure hold on the pit's rim. "Where is here anyway? Where are we?"

Please, the child begged. I am scared. Please, mister, please help me.

Vincent sighed. All right, just hang on. He turned around and lowered his left leg over the edge. Finding a foothold, he lowered his right leg and grasped the pit rim with both hands. Inch by inch, like a spider on wet porcelain, he descended. How far down are— Vincent lost his grip and dropped fast. He landed flatly on the smooth flint floor, fracturing seven ribs, scattering teeth like rolling dice, breaking the bridge of his slender nose, twisting and snapping both knees.

Are you hurt, mister?

Vincent turned his head toward the voice. With one good lung, he answered, I've had worse. Vincent lay on a hardened flint rim of an acid pool, a mere body length from the caustic ooze. The acid lapped three feet below the rim's edge, churning loudly, daring him to roll in. As his body regenerated, he studied the child huddled in the blue haze against the pit wall. C'mere, kid, let me get a look at you.

I cannot, the child replied.

Why not?

It is too dangerous.

What? Vincent's ribs snapped back.

I might fall in.

You won't fall in, kid. Let me see you.

Please, mister, can you get us out of here?

Vincent's left knee mended. He propped himself up. I don't know.

Please, mister—

"Damn it, kid, quit callin' me mister. I gotta name. Vincent thought for a moment, then mumbled, I think I got one."

I feel so cold, the child said.

It's not that cold down here. Vincent stood up, grasping his new left knee. Why the hell do you keep sayin' it's so— His right knee, not fully reconstructed, buckled as he stepped forward. Vincent stumbled and collapsed. Without thinking, he rolled to stop the agony. Clutching his knee at his chest, he toppled into the acid pool. Help me, kid! Vincent splashed wildly, struggling in the bottomless acid.

The boy's shadow began to shift.

Flesh melted and returned as Vincent lunged for an edge he couldn't reach. Hurry up, kid, help me! I'm dyin' in this shit!

The misty shadow clarified as the boy walked to the edge of the acid pool.

You cannot die in the acid, mister, it only offers pain.

Vincent looked up and saw a young boy. The child hovered above like a naked angel, his soft brown hair tucked short behind white cherub ears.

Get me outa this shit! Vincent yelled.

The boy knelt down. With eyes of silver starshine that captured Vincent's still heart, he said, You can only suffer here.

Vincent stopped struggling. The pain subsided as the child's glittering eyes offered a brief phantasm of hope. The pain abruptly returned and he thrust up his right hand. The child pulled Vincent up to the rim and helped him climb out.

Thanks, kid. Vincent collapsed on the ground, flesh growing.

Can you get us out of here, mister?

Vincent paused and sighed, Yeah, just give me a minute, okay?

The flesh returned and Vincent inventoried his body. He examined his feet and legs, his stomach and chest, his arms and hands. He noticed his right hand was painted with blood. He twisted it back and forth.

I'm bleedin', Vincent said, incredulous, happy. I'm bleedin'. I can bleed! He leapt to his feet holding his right wrist. I'm bleedin'!

It is not your blood, the child said.

What do you mean, it's not mine? Look at it! Vincent thrust out his hand.

The boy held out his own two hands. Vincent raised his brow. Shredded skin hung from the child's fingertips, exposed bone breached the tips of three digits, flesh was carved away from the palms in jagged chunks. And all the while, blood sweet blood, seeping and oozing, flowing and dripping. Oh, the sweet blood of life, how Vincent envied the child.

How is it you can bleed?

The boy deeply gazed into Vincent's eyes. Without a whisper of response, Vincent found solace in the child's sparkling eyes, like starshine, glittering silver ablaze with knowledge and understanding. In those eyes dwelled strength and serenity. They were eyes of truth.

Vincent turned away from the transfixing gaze. He grabbed the boy's wrists and knelt down. Kid, we need to stop this bleedin' somehow.

It will not stop, the child said.

Well then, you're gonna run outa blood. You'll just dry up and die.

These wounds will not kill me.

Vincent paused for a moment, then asked, "What'd you mean by 'I can only suffer here.' He stared up through the blue haze. Seems to me the only way that could happen would be if I'm already dead."

The child fell silent and bowed his head.

Are we dead, kid? Vincent bobbed his head down to meet the boy's eyes. Is that it? We're dead?

Please, mister, it is so cold down here.

We're dead, aren't we? Is this hell? Are we in hell, kid?

The child didn't reply.

"You're not gonna tell me, are you? You know what this place is and you're not gonna tell me ... are you?"

Please, mister. I am so cold.

Vincent clenched his teeth, then said with obvious sarcasm, "Well, I guess we need to get you outa here, huh? Wouldn't want you to freeze to death, now would we?"

Yes. Please, mister.

"Mister, mister, mister. Vincent released the child's arms. Once I remember my name, I never wanna hear you call me mister again. Got that?"

Yes, mister.

Vincent smiled and shook his head. What's your name?

Thaddeus Konises.

"Thaddeus? A distorted memory flashed through Vincent's head. He closed his eyes, trying to clarify the fractured pictures. The memory quickly faded. Vincent opened his eyes, and asked the child, Have we met before?"

The boy remained silent.

Vincent laughed a bit, slightly shaking his head. Yeah, well anyway, that name isn't gonna work for me, kid. Vincent stood up and examined the pit wall for footholds. Too damn formal. He checked for a toehold. How about Thad, or maybe Tad, somethin' like that. You got any nicknames?

My father called me Thaddy.

Thaddy? Vincent nodded his approval. That works. He walked toward the child. Thaddy, I want you to reach around my neck and jump on my back. I'm gonna try and get us outa this hellhole. He knelt down and Thaddy wrapped his icy arms around his neck. Vincent shuddered as the cold hands grasped his chest. "Damn, kid, you are cold. He found his first foothold. Hold on tight." Vincent inched his way up the pit wall using handholds barely big enough for a thumbnail. Nine feet above, he examined a tunnel punched in the pit wall. It was big enough for Thaddy, but not himself. Vincent sighed, then climbed once more. With seventy-three pounds of hope clinging to his back, he slowly labored to the top of the pit.

Vincent grasped the pit rim and pulled. His torso collapsed on the ground above and Thaddy climbed off. Vincent swung up his legs and sat on the ground facing the child.

Through the chasm entrance, Vincent noticed the fog in the ravine had evaporated. A crimson glow from the pulsing sky backlit Thaddy with a fiery aura. Vincent studied the boy as the child sat perfectly still, his arms wrapped around his knees. Thaddy's smooth chest didn't rise with a single breath; his glittery eyes didn't blink away the misery as they gazed beyond the chasm opening. The boy's lean body held aloft an angel's face with thin lips, robust cheeks, high forehead with a lock of soft brown hair cascading in a wave over his brow. And, although his injuries invoked certain pain, the child never complained. He wore his wounds like an old pair of comfortable shoes.

Thanks, mister, Thaddy said, breaking the silence.

Yeah sure, kid. Don't mention it. Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. Now I think it's time you answered some questions.

Not now, we are not safe here. We must move on.

Not a chance. Vincent grabbed the boy's right arm. You're gonna tell my why you're bleedin' and I'm not.

Mister, please, I cannot. Not yet. It is not safe here. We must go.

No way. Vincent raised Thaddy to his feet and grabbed both arms. Why isn't it safe here? You said someone chased you into that pit. Who, Thaddy? Who was it?

Mister, please, you are hurting me.

"Damn it, if you don't start givin' me some answers, I'm really gonna put the spank on your ass!" Vincent paused, pondering the source of his own words.

Please, mister—

Vincent yanked Thaddy off his feet and shoved him against the chasm wall I'm not fuckin' around! Why is it I can't bleed? What is this place?

Please, mister, you are scaring—

Goddamn it, you piece of shit! Vincent slammed the child against the wall. "You have the answers! I know it! I see it in your goddamn eyes! Tell me! Tell me what this place is! Where are we?"

A shimmering tear tumbled down Thaddy's cheek. A singular tear holding the pain a boy his age should never know. In it, Vincent saw grief, a harrowing nightmare of sorrow and remorse. He dropped the boy to the ground.

I'm sorry, kid. I didn't mean to hurt you.

I know, mister.

It's this damn place. It's eatin' me alive. Vincent collapsed and covered his face with his hands. I'm sorry.

It is all right, Vincent, the child said. This place eats at us all.

It just seemed that you knew where we were, that— Vincent paused. What'd you just say?

Thaddy remained silent.

What'd you call me?

Vincent, Thaddy said.

Is that my name? Vincent jumped to his feet. Is that my name? Is it? Is that really my name?

Yes.

Vincent dropped to his knees, grasped both of Thaddy's arms, and searched the child's eyes. How do you know? How do you know my name? Vincent paused, staring deeply into those glittering eyes. "That is my name. How'd you know that? How? You've got to tell me more."

It is up to you now, mister, Thaddy said. You must start to remember for yourself.

Vincent released his grip. Damn it, kid, I've spent days tryin' to remember. He clenched his scalp with both hands. I can't find it. Nothin'. It's not up there.

It is, mister, it is all there. You just have to release it.

And just how the hell do I do that?

Your memories were short-circuited when you arrived here, Thaddy explained, but not wiped out. Listen to yourself. You speak English, you use your God's name in vain, you know that you should bleed. None of that was learned in this world. If you want a chance to leave this place, you must remember your past, and you must do it quickly.

Vincent backed up against the chasm wall and sat down as Thaddy's words took hold. Just tell me, kid. Just tell me who I am.

I cannot. Thaddy walked out through the chasm entrance, disappeared beyond some scattered boulders, and then quickly returned. I cannot tell you who you are, but this will speed the process of regaining your memory. In his bloody right hand he held a small mahogany box. He presented it to Vincent.

What the hell's this? Vincent reached for the box.

Open it.

Vincent reluctantly inspected the three inch cube. The heavily varnished wood held the scratches of many rough years. Its simplicity was sublimely beautiful, an inornate wooden skin enshrouding a box of dreams. Vincent grasped the top and opened the lid. Crushed red velvet dressed the inside in a solid crimson blanket. Only a small slot through the center of the base interrupted an otherwise perfect interior.

The crank is snapped under the lid, Thaddy said. Stick it in the slot and turn it.

What is this thing? Vincent asked.

It is my music box.

And I'm supposed to do exactly what with it?

Please, mister, turn the crank. It will help you remember.

Vincent slowly shook his head. This is what it all comes down to? He slumped back against the wall. My fate hinges on some kid's toy? He turned to Thaddy. "What if I don't wanna remember? Yeah, what if this is hell? Then I must've done somethin' pretty bad to be sent here, right? So what good will it do me to remember?"

Thaddy's eyebrows raised. Is it doing you any good not remembering, mister?

Vincent curled a faint smile upon his lips. Fuck you, kid. You crank it. He tossed the music box on the ground.

Thaddy picked up the box, gazed into Vincent's eyes, and softly said, "Mister, you can die here. You will die if you do not remember your past. There is not much time. The boy offered the music box once more. Please."

Dying might be the best thing in the world for me right now. Vincent looked around. As long as it gets me out of this place.

Thaddy inhaled and sighed a rare breath. You should not be here, mister. This place was not meant for you. He placed the music box back in Vincent's hand. "There is still a chance for you to leave. You must have faith in me. Listen to the music. Please."

Vincent took the box, inserted the crank, stared at Thaddy, and asked, Why're you here, kid? What'd you do so wrong that sent you to hell?

I am here by choice, the child said.

Nobody chooses hell, kid. Vincent narrowed his eyes. What are you about nine years old? Ten maybe? How do you know so much? Who are you really?

Please, mister, just—

Crank the handle. Vincent sighed, weary of the boy's persistence. Okay, kid, if this is what it comes down to, I'll do it. I'll play your little music box. He studied the box, then turned the crank. Various springs and gears jumped into their assigned positions. The crank turned stiff with a strong spring tension. Vincent winked at the boy and released the crank.

The lullaby, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, flowed from the music box. The mechanical chimes of the sweet melody echoed throughout the chasm, blanketing Vincent in a soothing reprieve.

Thaddy faded from view.

Vincent's insides twittered.

The cavern turned black....

Chapter 2

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying."

—Robert Herrick

To the Virgins, to make much of Time

Bon Olivi, IL ... Spring

I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts, Reverend Stalwart read. "He who overcomes shall inherit all things, and I will be his God and he shall be My son. But the cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." Reverend Stalwart paused for effect, gazing with an inward smile upon his quiet congregation. The forty sheep rigidly sat upon maple pews, heads bowed, as their shepherd bludgeoned them with Revelation.

It