You know what's funny? I wasn't sure.
To put things in perspective, let's say that I've had a lot of customers. I can claim seniority over Australia, the Earth, and even certain parts of the Universe. I am, quite literally, as old as dirt.
Four million years ago, a tribe of humans regarded me as a friend, calling me H'amantha, King of passing and Heavenly Splendor. A trillion miles away, I am feared and worshiped as Kalahira, God of Oceans and Afterlife. Needless to say, I have a substantial audience of patrons. They only pay once, but trust me when I say that my product is unlike anything else out there.
And it is rare that I am not sure. Usually I have a way of reading people, of foretelling their choices and paths before they themselves ever decide upon them. It's not a superpower or anything stupid like that; I'm just really good at reading people. They're like open books with big, bold letters just waiting to be read and (more often than not) laughed at.
But this boy, this Caleb, threw me for a loop. I could guess, like I always do, but I was not completely and utterly sure. I liked it. Ask anyone who's lived for a few trillion years and they'll tell you that there's nothing more pleasantly comforting than a surprise. Or, at the very least, watching other people be surprised. Like the surprise on the boy's face when I zapped him into the middle of a desert.
His eyes were still bloodshot, and his face was sallow, even for a ghost; hell, especially for a ghost.
“What now?” said the boy. I could sense the resignation in his voice.
“Somewhere new. Well, new to you,” I motioned forward. “Go ahead.”
“But -”
“But nothing. Just walk.”
“Walk where?”
“North, south, east, west. Doesn't matter. Go far enough, and you always end up back where you started.”
The boy sighed.
“There's no arguing with you, is there?”
I shrugged.
“If you want, we could just bunker down for a millennium or two. I've got time. This looks like a nice place to open a seafood restaurant. Death's Crab Shack. Nice ring to it. You can work the register, of course.”
“Let's go,” he said, and we were off.
This desert is an old place, one that is not on any map or chronicled in any geography book. Long ago, men, women, children, and even a few gods wandered this desert in search of truth; few of them found it, and the ones who did would often spend the rest of their lives wishing they had opted for a nice nap instead. But that was long ago, and the wasteland has passed from the memory and sight of mortals. The desert keeps its secrets, for better and for worse.
Stars sparkled overhead. It was four o'clock in the morning, five hours since Caleb Chesterton breathed his last. The boy wandered blindly through the endless desert, never once changing directions. I never gave advice, an he never asked for it. So we simply wandered, like two chickens with their heads cut off.
“Death?” said the boy after about a half hour of walking.
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“You know what.”
“The cashier thing? 'Cause I'm having second thoughts about that.”
“No. I mean, what you said earlier. After my dad...” His voice derailed for a moment. “After...yeah, after the memory thing, when we were passing through to, um, here, you said that you forgive me.”
“That I did.”
“Thanks. For saying that, I mean. I really meant a lot.”
“They're just words,” I said. “No thanks needed. We're here, by the way.”
I stretched my arm in front of the boy to prevent him from falling into the lake.
“Whoa!” said the boy, noticing the water in front of him. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“That's a very deep, metaphysical question,” I said. “Where does anything come from?”
“No, I'm serious. That lake wasn't there five seconds ago.”
“It wasn't there four seconds ago, either. In fact, I'm not sure that it'll still be here four seconds from now. You never know. These things tend to fade in and out.”
“You love riddles, don't you?”
“I'm riddlesque,” I said, not quite sure where or not riddlesque was a word or not. “And besides, what's the fun in life if people just give you the answers?”
“It'd be simpler,” said the boy, still distracted by the sudden appearance of the lake.
“But not as fun,” I said.
“But not as fun,” he agreed. “So give me a hint or something.”
“This,” I said, pausing as I motioned towards the lake. “This is where secrets are kept. It is where the forgotten is remembered, the lost is found, and the locked-away things of this world are unsealed. Neat, huh? We should put that in the brochure. ”
“So it's like a lake of secrets? Wait, why can't we see our reflections? Or the reflections of the stars?”
“You're a ghost, I'm a metaphysical personification with a penchant for sarcasm, and the lake is about as real as an half-baked idea.”
“If its not real, then how am I seeing it?”
“You've been dead for about six hours now. Changes a person's perspective, don't ya think?”
“So this lake,” he said. “This thing, it's kind of like a, I dunno, a lake of secrets?”
“Not the best name ever, but sure, the lake of secrets.
“So why bring me here?”
“Because you've lost some things,” I said. “And I want to help you find them. Let me ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“You've been dead for a few hours now. Ask yourself: what have you learned?”
The boy said nothing for a while, staring out into the blank abyss of the lake. The waters were still and silent.
“I need to stop running away,” he said, slowly.
“And no matter how dead you are...”
“Life is always gonna catch up with you,” said the boy, nodding his head. He looked at me, understanding etched across his face.
“Bingo,” I said.
“And I know why you brought me here,” he said. “I took some things. And now it's time to give them back.”
“But?”
“I have to find them first. The memories I took from my mom and Lila...they're somewhere in that lake.”
“Their memories are secrets now,” I said. “And if your father dies, then nothing will be left of you in the mortal realm. It's like I said before, if you knock down the right pillars...”
“The whole thing collapses.”
I nodded.
“You know what you have to do,” I said.
“I have to jump in, don't I?”
“Yes.”
“And get the memories...”
“Yes."
“So I can put them back.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, that doesn't sound so hard,” he said, shrugging halfheartedly.
“Have you ever swam in a metaphysically incomprehensible lake characterized by enigmatic unknowable knowledge and ideas?”
“No.”
“Then how the hell do you know it's going to be easy?”
“I guess I don't,” he said. “Thanks. You're a real inspiration, ya know that?”
“Glad I could help,” I said, flourishing towards the lake. “Well, after you.”
“You're coming, too?
“No. I just like saying that.”
The boy shook his head dismissively, and backed up a few paces. He focused on the body of water before him.
“If I don't make it out,” he said. “I just want you to know...you're a good friend.”
“Don't worry,” I said. “You'll make it out. But thanks. Nice to have a friend.”
The boy heaved in a heavy sigh, and, after a quick start, jogged a few paces, and dived headfirst into the lake.
I stood at the edge of the water, watching as the boy disappeared into the liquid abyss. As soon as the water settled, silence once again settled the night. For the first time since this long night had begun, I felt alone. Totally and completely alone.
Within the water, the boy was surrounded by crushing, unknowable darkness. For a few moments he held his breath, still clinging to the functions of the living; but then it hit him, like cold water, that he was dead, and that breath was no longer his to draw.
He swam down. Further and further down into the unknown reaches of the lake. He was alone here. He had imagined something different, some magical underworld of magic and mystery. But no, it was simply a lake, and the lake kept its secrets. So he descended down further and further, as if demanding the water to relinquish its prisoners.
After what felt like somewhere between a moment and an eternity, he saw a figure drifting beneath him. He swam down towards it, fear discarded and forgotten.
The closer he got, the more discernible the figure became, and it was soon clear that the being was not a mermaid or some mystical thing, but rather a vision of the boy himself. The boy glided down towards his mirror image, settling down before it.
The image cocked its head at the boy, smiling wryly.
“I know you,” said the Lake. “You are Caleb Chesterton, son of Margaret and brother of Lila. You gave me their memories, just hours ago.”
“I want them back,” said the boy, surprised that he could talk, almost even more surprised that he didn't question it.
“They don't belong to you,” said the Lake, the eyes of its image warping to a bloody red. “You are a thief, and thieves cannot have good things. I should keep you here, never let you leave. You will soon be forgotten, and forgotten things belong to me.”
“Please,” said the boy. “What I did was wrong. Let me fix my mistakes. Let me do the right thing.”
“Perhaps,” said the Lake. “Perhaps I can make an exception. You came with Death, did you not?”
“He brought me here, yes...”
“I own many things from all mortals, but I possess almost nothing of Death,” said the Lake. “Only a name, and even now I dare not speak it. You must be different. Death rarely takes kindly to mortals.”
“He wants to help me fix things,” said the boy. “Please, just let me-”
“So young,” said the Lake, craning its head as if to examine its customer. “So cruel of him to take you now. But then again, he didn't really take you. You gave yourself away, like a whore to the lowest bidder. You practically turned that gun on yourself.”
“I've made mistakes,” said the boy. “I've spent all night trying to undo them. But you can't undo your mistakes, you can't rewrite the past. The more you try to fix things, the worse they become. I know that now.”
“What are you doing here, if not to rewrite the past?”
“I don't want to rewrite the past,” said the boy. “I want to give it back.”
The crimson eyes of the image closed, the smile beneath them bordering between madness and sarcasm. It laughed at him, as if mocking his cause.
“No,” said the Lake. “I think I shall have you.”
Suddenly, the figure lunged forward and grabbed the boy's neck, tightening its grip before he could even react. The ghost felt pain, worse than anything he felt in all his death.
“You want memories?” asked the Lake tauntingly. “Then you shall have them. Memories in abundance!”
With a sudden jerk, the boy was dragged downward, deeper and deeper into the lake. The glistening expanse of the water's surface slowly disappeared, until there was nothing but darkness. Words and thoughts and dreams whirled around him, some laughing, some screaming. Every forgotten oath, every secret untold, every lost memory stormed around him, a hurricane of regret.
And, just as suddenly as he had been taken, the boy was released. The image of himself was gone, lost in the chaos of their descent. Whispers moaned and rasped all around him. His head began to pound, a migraine suddenly taking hold of his senses.
“Caleb,” said a voice.
The boy looked up, and saw the visage of his mother gliding towards him in the murk.
“You hurt me,” she said. “You ignored me, took me for granted, left me all alone to chase your worries and suspicions. You left all of us, and you tore our family apart. You destroyed us.”
“You destroyed us,” echoed another voice, this one of Lila. She was floating towards him from behind. “You perverted my dreams, turned my happiness into nightmares. I looked up to you. I loved you. And you tore it all away. I hate you. I wish you had never been born.”
“I wish you had never been born,” echoed the voice of Jack. His image gravitated towards the boy, and the three encircled him. “I wanted a son, not a project. You were always a disappointment. And so damn curious. You asked questions that shouldn't have been asked, you screwed everything up. You made the hard things harder, and you murdered me. I'm dying all alone in my hospital bed, and there's no way to repay our debts, not after what you did. All my hard work, all my sweat and blood and toil, all gone because you had to go and make me a martyr.”
The family circled him, voices chanting in unison.
“You're nothing, Caleb,” said the Lake. “You're a murderer and a thief. You shouldn't exist. By dawn, you won't exist. Everything will be as it should be. You'll get your wish. You will be gone from the world, just like you wanted. You belong to Death now...”
The family began to laugh, their cackles accompanied by the crackling of thunder and the screams of lost memories. The boy pulled at his hair, closed his eyes, desperately tried to remember better places and better days. The water exploded with sounds and sights of blights past: the the swish of a liquor bottle, the burning ashes of a dream, the explosion of a gunshot as it released its judgment.
“I'm sorry!” said the boy, the howling of the images drowning out his words. “I'M SORRY!”
Without warning, what seemed like the whole of the world froze. The chaos silenced, the images' laughter abated, and cold silence filled the water.
“Sorry for what?” said the voice of the Lake.
“I was selfish,” said the boy, his voice barely above a whisper, the only sound in the oblivion. “I shouldn't have left. I let them kill me on purpose, and that was wrong. I should have stayed. I should have faced up to what I did. I've kept trying to fix it, to make things right. I took things away, and now it's time to give something back.”
Everything stood suspended, a hush fallen over the Lake.
Suddenly, the images dispersed, their forms scattered like ashes. For a few moments, silence engulfed the boy. Then, as quickly as he had descended, the boy was wrenched upwards towards the surface, rocketing out of the darkness and towards the shimmering surface. He felt like an airplane crashing down towards the earth. The whispers and faces of times past swirled around him once again, but he barely took notice. He had failed. The Lake had failed him, and he had failed his family.
He broke the skin of the water like a prisoner spat out of Hell, and tumbled onto land. He lay still on the embankment of the Lake, dry as a bone.
“How'd it go?” I asked casually, standing over him.
“Not good,” mumbled the boy, lying on the ground. His eyes were closed, and I could sense the defeat in his voice. “I failed. I couldn't get them back. I just, I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't good enough.”
“You failed?”
“Yeah,” said the boy.
“So you don't have the memories?”
“No.”
“Then what's that in your right hand?”
The boy opened his eyes.
In his hand were two small items of great worth, their contents twinkling brightly in the darkness.
“The memories!” he exclaimed.
The look on his face was that of unbreakable joy.
"I did it!" he said, looking to me. "We did it, I mean." He laughed. "Oh, God. Please tell me it's over."
“It's over, child, and trust me when I say that the best is yet to come.” I reached down to help him to his feet. “C'mon, Caleb Chesterton. We have one last errand to run.”
I should be posting the final chapter sometime this week, though that largely depends on schoolwork
