IN THE SERVITUDE OF FREEDOM

BY THE RIGHT OF AN EARLIER CREATION

Mortie scratched the side of his head and groaned, trying to remember what happened, but more than that, where he was. He felt strangely nauseous. His tongue was rough, tasted thick and fuzzy; the last thing he remembered was the drink she’d brought him. That had to have been when they were in the restaurant. But where was he now? He thought he could sense the steady rocking motion of a train, hear the piercing whine of the steel wheels on the tracks—he could even feel the cracks where one length of track met the other—Click-clack, Click-clack—like the stuttering limp of some Ancient Mariner.

He sat up, slowly, rubbing his hands over his face. He could feel whiskers, and stopped rubbing. He’d shaved before going out for dinner; he always shaved before he went out on a date.

“Well, Toto,” he said, grateful to hear the sound of his own voice, “this certainly doesn’t look like Kansas anymore.”

He sat up straight, trying to collect his thoughts as he slowly took in his surroundings. He seemed to be in some sort of a storage car, but he sensed there was more to it that that. He could smell fresh hay, and manure, which made him think that maybe it was an old livestock car—but how he got there he didn’t have a clue.

He doubted if she’d carried him. She was too small for that, and while he wasn’t a large man himself, he was tall—much taller than he remembered her being—and she wouldn’t have been able to lift him high enough without his feet dragging on the ground.

He heard a snort, and the stomping of hooves, and he scurried back until he felt a wall behind him. It reminded him that he still didn’t know where he was. There had to be a way out; if he got into the car, there had to be a door somewhere. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before he stood up to do a physical search of the car. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.

It only took a moment for him to realize that the whole car was actually an enclosure for a horse. He figured that out by actually brushing up against the horse. The animal snorted, stomping its hooves again and for a brief instant he thought it was going to rise up and stomp him. He realized that wasn’t possible because the animal was tethered to a length of rope which was attached to the bridle it wore. He ran his hand along the horse’s side, and was surprised to find it was saddled.

“That can’t be right,” he said softly.

He lurched to the right at a sudden turn, and the horse side-stepped; he thought perhaps the beast meant to get in his way. It almost seemed as if it might lose its balance, but somehow, it righted itself. He stepped around the animal, running his hand along its flanks, feeling the thinness of its leathery hide, wondering if it was a horse, or a beast he knew nothing about.

“What’s the matter, don’t they feed you enough?” he asked, reaching out blindly for the farther wall. There was a loading ramp built into the wall of the car. He followed its width with his hands. He came across what he thought was the mechanism that opened the door, and made a note of it, then moved steadily to his left, finally finding the doorway.

He pushed it open. There was a cold rush of air and utter darkness. He looked up but there were no stars in sight. Great, he thought, not able to see where the horizon lay. He looked down at the tracks slipping by underneath him, amazed at the speed they seemed to be moving at, and decided his only choice was to keep moving. He let the door close behind him and stepped onto the platform of the next car ahead of him.

He opened the door and found himself in a luxurious car full of fine furnishings, plush carpets and silk wallpaper that seemed to shimmer in the light of a dozen lanterns. There were three men seated around a small table, playing cards and drinking wine.

“Ah, Mortie, you made it,” the man facing him said.

“Made it? Made it where? And who are you?”

“Tickets please,” the man sitting on the left side of the table laughed.

“He doesn’t have a ticket, do you Mortie?” the man facing him smiled.

“How do you know my name?”

“He’s still a little confused. Give a moment to figure it out,” the man on the right side said, laying his cards down on the table. “Gin.”

“Figure what out?" Mortie asked. "Where am I? Or maybe I should be asking, where am I going?”

“Well, it’s kinda hard to explain,” the man on the right said while the other two looked at his cards.

“You met Belial, I take it?” the man facing him asked.

“Belial?”

“The horse?” the man on the right smiled.

“He didn’t introduce himself,” Mortie said.

“At least he didn’t stomp you to death—not that that could happen,” the man on the left said with a grin. His face was thin, and gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken; they almost looked black under the light of the lanterns. His hair was long and thin, hanging on his shoulder and falling in his face whenever he moved. He was constantly pushing it out of the way.

“Do I know you? I don’t remember ever having met you before,” Mortie said softly.

“Have we met?” the man facing him smiled. “Mortie, we’ve known each other for an eternity,” he smiled again, and the other two laughed.

“Good one, that,” the man on the right grinned, nodding.

Mortie looked at them and tried to think of where they may have met before. Surely he would’ve remembered a man with hair as vividly red as the man facing him, he asked himself. It was slicked back and the colour of wine, or cherries, depending on how he shifted under the light of the lanterns. His eyebrows were perfect, and his cheeks flushed. His lips were thick, and there was a cleft in his chin. Everything about the man was unusual, but it all seemed to fit together.

“Somehow, I feel like I should know you, but I can’t place it,” Mortie said at last, letting himself fall into an empty seat. “You don’t mind if I sit, do you?”

“Not at all,” the man facing him smiled.

Mortie looked out of the etched glass windows at the landscape slipping by. It wasn’t what he’d call landscape, he thought, leaning forward and cupping his hand against the glass to hold back the glare of the lanterns. It was the darkest dark he’d ever seen. There were fires in the distance; traceries of what he thought were streams of light—but bright orange and gold. It almost looked like lava lakes in the distance.

“You never told me where we were,” Mortie said absently.

“Hungry?” the man on the left asked.

“I’m sorry? What?”

“I asked if you were hungry. Me? I’m famished,” the man said with a grin, and the other two men smiled. “Ravenous.”

“Maybe you should take a walk?” the man on the right asked. He was dealing cards and the man across from him was picking them up as quickly as they were dealt, rearranging them and fanning them out in his hand.

“That’s a good idea,” the man across from his said. “Maybe something’ll click, and you’ll remember what you’re supposed to do?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“We can’t tell you. That’s the whole point. You gotta remember on your own.”

“How many cars are there?”

“The cars, my friend, well, they go on forever. I’ve yet to see the end,” the man facing him said, picking up his cards and rearranging them in his hand.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s hard to explain. You just have to see it for yourself,” the man on the right said.

Mortie stood up and looked at the door.

“Not that one,” the man on the left said. “That leads to the stables.”

“You mean there’s more than one of them? How many?”

“Well, that’d be one for each of us, now then, wouldn’t it? We can’t let you go riding out there by yourself, can we?”

“Riding? Why the hell would I want to go riding out there?” Mortie said, looking out the window once again. It was still pitch black outside, but he thought he saw a lighter tint of indigo up near what he supposed was the sky

“Not there. We’ll be hitting the surface soon enough, and when we do, you’re gonna have to be ready. That’s why I asked if you were hungry. Always best to go out riding on a full stomach.”

“Ready for what? Where are we riding to?”

“We’ll know when we get there, I guess,” the man on the right said.

“And what did you mean when you said we’ll be hitting the surface?”

“Just like I said. We won’t be here forever. It’s been long enough already.”

“How long has it been?”
 “Eons,” the man facing him smiled.

“Okay, I’m going for a walk, then,” Mortie said.

Mortie stood on the platform and felt the wind blowing through his hair—it felt like it was blowing right through him—but he absentmindedly swept it back, and then stopped. He turned to look at his reflection in the glass panels of the door in front of him, wondering when his hair had grown so long. His beard had grown to a noticeable length as well, and looking at it, he could see it was streaked with white. His hair also had a long streak of white. His hair had always been jet black. In fact, he’d prided himself on the fact there were no greys hidden within—not even in the roots—but now…he could see a large white stripe that he didn’t remember being there yesterday. He leaned in closer to the glass panel to look at his beard. It appeared to be an inch long.

He reached out for the door and stopped. The coat he’d been wearing looked to be replaced by a long, tattered robe. The voluminous sleeve slid back when he reached for the railcar’s door, and what he could see of his arm looked thin, and pale. The tattoos he’d had for twenty-five years seemed to have faded away.

“What is going on here?” he asked himself.

He stood on the platform looking at his reflection. His face was gaunt, the cheekbones more than just prominent now, and his hair was more white than it had been a moment ago. His eyes looked sunken and red-rimmed. He held up his hand, convinced he could see the bones through his skin. He thought about going back into the other railcar and ask them what was going on, but stopped himself short. The answer wasn’t behind him, they’d told him. He had to keep moving.

He took a deep breath and looked at the landscape around him. He could still see the tiny traceries of liquid light in the distance and simply shook his head. Suddenly, it felt as if the train was picking up speed. He leaned over the railing, looking at the length of the railcars ahead of him, and saw how they swept ahead of him, almost disappearing from view. The train didn’t seem to be slowing down any, and he looked at the ground ripping apart below him. He looked behind. There were no lights coming out of the windows, and yet, he distinctly remembered the lanterns in the car he’d just left.

Pushing the door open he was met with a railcar packed full of nightmare images that seemed to be both familiar, and inviting. He almost tripped over the four Roman Centurions throwing dice against the door. In the middle of the floor was an old tattered robe, stained with blood.

“Hey, Mortie! Watch where you’re going there!” one of the Romans called out. He had half a skull for a face, and his bones stuck out at odd angles as he reached for the dice and rolled again. He looked up over his shoulder, and Mortie wondered if the man was waiting for an apology.

A chorus of cheers echoed down the railcar.

“Marcus Sergius, of course,” he replied without even thinking. “Have you seen her today?”

“She came through some time ago,” the Centurion answered. “I don’t know when. It’s hard to figure out time when you’ve got all the time in the world.”

“But she’s here?”


“Of course she’s here! Where else would she be?”

“Well, she was having dinner with me earlier.”

“Best you send word then, isn’t it?”

“I’ll walk,” he said, stepping around the other Centurions.

“Who gets to keep it this time?” he asked, stepping over the tattered robe.

“I do! It’s mine!” Sergius laughed. “I earned it!”

“I’m sure you did,” Mortie said over his shoulder.

A French soldier approached. Once an officer, he was missing his left arm. There were still what looked to be powder burns where the arm had been, and Mortie realized that was impossible. The uniform was scorched because the cannonball that’d hit him was still hot.

“Oh, there you are, Monsieur,” the Frenchman said as he approached.

“Marshall,” Mortie said with a curt nod as he continued walking.

“I’m afraid I do not understand what is happening here,” the man said, making an effort to keep up

“I know. Neither do I. If you’d be kind enough to wait, though?”

“Wait? You always say that to me. How long do I have to wait?”

“Just until I get an answer.”

The man stopped. “You always say that, but you never come back to tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m a busy man, Field Marshall,” Mortie said, pausing long enough to state what he thought was only obvious.

“No doubt you are, Monsieur. I do not doubt you at your word…”

“But?”

“But? But it still remains the same, does it not? You leave me here and never come back with an explanation.”

“That’s because I can never find you when I come back,” Mortie replied, and turning, continued walking.

“Ignore him,” a tall German soldier said. “You can’t trust officers— especially a Frenchman.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that before,” Mortie smiled, remembering; he was remembering a lot of things it seemed, like, where Mary would be for one. “Let me get things sorted out, and I’ll come back to see you.”

He found her where he always found her, in amongst the orphans and widows. She was wearing a long white robe, carrying a water skin and holding a small tin cup she was filling and handing out to outstretched hands. There was a shawl covering her head, but he knew it was her just in the way she moved. There was a slight limp, and he remembered how when she’d been martyred they’d stoned her, and one singularly large brute had cast a stone as large as a melon, shattering her hip.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she said with a sing-song voice as he came up behind her.

“You could’ve just asked me to come along?” Mortie asked.

“And where would be the fun in that?” she laughed.

“I didn’t know you coming to get me was considered to be fun,” Mortie said, not able to hold back a smile; she seemed to have that effect on him.

She was still beautiful, and he was grateful for that. People were seldom beautiful once they died. For the most part, people died ugly—something he couldn’t deny even if he’d wanted to. Their flesh usually rotted and fell away; or else they smelled putrid, but then, decaying flesh had a tendency to do that, didn’t it? But Mary had been spared all that. He supposed it had something to do with when she was alive. Whore; prostitute; slut—devoted Apostle—she’d been called all those names, and wore them with pride, too. Just like her martyrdom; she wore that with pride as well, even if Pride was a sin.

“Is He in?”

“What do you mean, 'is He in'? Where do you think He’d be? He can’t just get up and leave anytime He wants, can He? Not like you do, anyway. Of course He’s in, and He’s waiting for you, too. Do I have to say He’s pissed?”

“What else is new?”

“I mean it, He’s pissed at you.”

“For what? For wanting to go out to dinner with a beautiful woman?”

“For leaving like you did,” she said, standing up tall and turning to look at him. She smiled at him and he could feel his heart melting as he followed her through the crowd.

“I can’t sit around waiting all day like He does. Can you see me playing cards with the others?”

“Perhaps you don’t fully understand the concept of twenty-four hour call?” she said, looking back over her shoulder at him, laughing.

“Well, I’m here, now. So could you just tell Him I’m here?”

“Why are you so upset with the whole thing?”

“Because I always have to go out by myself. There’s four of us, remember, and they just sit around playing cards all the live-long day, while I have to do all the work. It’s not fair.”

“Nobody said it was going to be fair. You knew that going in.”

“No, I didn’t. Go ahead, ask Adam. He’ll tell you. People were supposed to live forever, back then, well, as close to forever as you can imagine. And what’s He do? Adds that little addendum about the Tree of Knowledge. What did He think was going to happen?”

The closer they got to the front of the train, the more Mortie found himself remembering things, and the closer they got to the front of the train, the more he noticed the crowded railcars giving way to a more favourable clientele—the richly forlorn, as he liked to refer to them. That was because they didn’t bother him with questions of why, or how, or any of the other ten thousand questions everyone else asked him. They only had one question for him—and it wasn’t why, it was why now?

They always struck him as if they were about to ask for more time, but didn’t seem to realize they had nothing to barter with; everyone was the same here. You didn’t get to the front of the train because you had material wealth, or good fortune, you got to the front of the train because you had showed that your were willing to die for others. You got to the front of the train through self-sacrifice. It was a far cry from the saints and martyrs who crowded the first railcars; those souls seemed to think they were better simply because they’d been blessed with a glorious death—they liked to think they were entitled.

As far as Mortie was concerned, dead was dead. It didn’t matter how you died, or why. He’d picked up just as many souls who’d died on the cross, as he did those who died on battlefields, or those who were locked up in prisons, or starved as children. Dead was dead. He treated them all the same, and they appreciated it because they finally understood what it meant to be dead.

She opened the door of last railcar and stepped aside.

“He’s here,” she said, and silence fell like a stone.

“Mortie! Why are you always running off when I need you the most?” the Man at the end of the room said. He was dressed in a white suite, wearing a Panama hat and holding an ebony walking stick. He pointed to a chair.

“I wish I had the answers, but I don’t,” Mortie said, sitting down.

The railcar was plush by any standards. He liked how it changed to suit the needs, or expectations, of the souls being brought in for questioning—not that he was being brought in for questioning. For himself, the railcar was plain. The decor was simple—Spartan was the word that came to mind—and it reminded him of a time long ago when there was little to be found in the world as far as creature comforts were concerned. The others in the railcar were respectfully silent; he liked that about it, too.

“I’m sure Mary doesn’t mind going out there and bringing you back,” He said with a pensive smile, “but this is getting out of hand.”

“How can you even think to say that? You haven’t left this train since it left the station. That was eons ago. That’s how long it’s been; did you know that? Eons. And I’m out there everyday, doing your dirty work, while the train keeps getting longer and longer, never slowing down—never stopping—and I’m still going out there everyday, adding to it. When’s it going to stop? There’s four of us, remember? And yet, we never go out together—not the way John said we’re supposed to, anyway. But everyday, you can count on me being out there.”

“And that’s the part I like about it—the fact that I can still count on you, no matter what,” He said with a smile, looking at the others who nodded in agreement.

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be the one you can count on anymore?”

“What do you mean by that?” He asked, sitting forward, shushing the others who suddenly called out.

“I was thinking maybe I could have some time off, or something?”

“Time off? What the fuck, Mortie! You can’t have any time off. There’s no taking time off with something like this. What, do you think this is one of those movies, you seem so fond of? Death doesn’t get to take a holiday! Now get back there, get on that skinny fuckin’ horse of yours, and do your job!”

Mortie looked at Mary who gave him a slight shrug, and a see-what-I-mean look that made him realize he was never going to win this argument.

“So that’s it, then?”

“What do you mean, ‘so that’s it’? What did you think was going to happen, Mortie? People die everyday. Every day. It’s up to you to collect their souls and bring them here. It’s the deal you made. Remember? You volunteered for the job.”

“And when I raised my hand up, you said there wouldn’t be much for me to do.”

“To start with, I said. There won’t be much for you to do, to start with. You have infinite power when you’re out there, Mortie. Infinite. You killed the old gods. That’s more than anyone here has done. You have the power of Life and Death, Mortie. People like you; they look up to you—”

“They’re afraid of me. They’re not exactly happy to see me when I show up.”

“Nonsense, of course they are!” He said, leaning back in His chair and twirling His walking stick like a cheerleader with a baton.

“What? Do you think they’re happy to see me because I’m going to bring them here? To see you? They don’t even believe in you anymore. You keep saying: The End of the World is Near, but they’re not buying it anymore. Nobody believes in you anymore.”

“Of course they believe in Me.”

“Do you really believe that? Maybe you should step outside and take a look at what’s become of your precious Creation?”

“Why do you have to be like that?” He asked.

“Like what?” Mortie asked. “Dismissive?”

“Is that what you call it?”

“What would you call it? No one wants to see me when I show up. They’re always trying to cut a deal. If they were wanting to come here like you say they are, why are they always trying to get out of it?”

“Why are you giving them a choice?”

“I’m not giving them a choice. You did that when You cast them out of the Garden all those years ago. You let them taste the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, and look what it’s done. They invented Science. They’ve almost beat me with those medicines they’ve come up with. I go to their bedsides, and they say, No, I’m not ready, yet. And then they pop a pill, and chase me away. Chase me away! How’s that even possible?”

“That’s not possible!” He said, jumping to his feet.

“But only, it is. It’s because they don’t believe in you anymore. What ever happened to the Age of Miracles? You gave them Science to help explain things to themselves. They have the power to leave the World you Created for them. Was that part of the plan?”

“There was never a plan,” He said softly.

“What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me that they’re free to come and go whenever, and wherever, they want?”

“No, they’re not free. They might be able to run and hide for a while, but they can’t live forever. And if they live longer, what’s it to you? If you don’t pick them up tonight, you’ll get them tomorrow night, or the night after that.”

Mortie was silent for a moment, watching his mirrored reflection in the window. He looked like a normal human again; he was wearing the same suit he had on earlier.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll go out and collect the used souls tonight, but how about we make a deal?”

“What kind of a deal?”


“That war they’re fighting right now? It should escalate.”

“Escalate? How?”

“It should become a global conflict. I know they’ve had them twice before, but those weren’t really global, were they? This will be the first time everyone will be a victim. Then maybe the four of us can ride out together, the way we’re supposed to do?”

“You mean Armageddon?” He asked.

“The End of the World is Near,” Mortie laughed.