Psychopomp of the Abyss

I open my eyes.

I look up at the expanse of darkness above me.

I feel like I haven’t been awake in eons. It takes a while for my senses to return to me. It takes a while for my legs to remember to move.

I’m floating. The press of my mask against my face reminds me that I am awake. I lift a hand, slowly, to touch it. The water resists my movement, but I’m almost used to its pressure by now.

I’ve slept long enough in it, after all.

There is a moment where the fabric over my fingers tell me that the press of the mask is solid, smooth, with the groves of the mouth piece and the unresisting headpiece all I can feel.

I am in one piece.

I am still needed then.

I let my hand drift away and turn my body. It’s a struggle to move for a second. I have to remember how. The water is familiar, but it’s been a while since I had to move through it.

I look below me.

There are stars.

I drift toward them, my legs kicking out behind me, and propelling me toward them. I move more freely in the water the longer I swim upwards. Finally the stars are close enough to touch and a stretch my hand downward.

They shy away from my touch, closing, and then peaking open again. Shy, perhaps. Or maybe a little afraid. I can’t tell them that it is okay. The mask prevents me from opening my mouth and, even if I could, they are only flowers.

I try and rest my hand next to them. Perhaps that is a reassurance. That in this place between the sky and darkness, they have a fellow being.

But maybe flowers don’t know that. What purpose would my personification of them do?

I drift upwards, my gaze following the line of the flowers. I kick out, a flurry of little bubbles dispersing and disappearing as my legs propel me through the darkness. I follow the little path of flowers and they close at my passing.

Perhaps they are afraid of me too. After all, I came for them once too, before they made their home here. I am a bit impressed they grow so well along my usual path. I wish I could tell them that I am glad to see them every time I open my eyes.

It’s good. Knowing that I can still see. Still observe. Understand. I’m always afraid that my more-than-sleep will never be interrupted again. Then who would be there to see them anymore?

I muse about that as I swim away from them, into a less than abyssal darkness. I know that statement is just personifying them more. It isn’t for their benefit that I yearn to wake up. Not existing is my fear, not theirs.

Or maybe its their fear too. Maybe that’s why they cling to the edge of everything so fearlessly.

They know they have nothing to lose. They are already dead.

I continue through the proper darkness. Would it surprise any of my charges to know I fear the dark? At least near the flowers, I can see the abyss lighten. I can see the bubbles of its dark waters.

Here its better though. It’s dark, but not the waters of nothing. It’s the waters of something before I get to the limbo I know a bit better.

Abyss stars. Pity nothing else exists there. Other than me. Maybe other things too, but I’ve never met them. I’ve taken things in there, of course. I don’t know what happens to them if they leave my hand though. They seem to do what they want. Sometimes they come back to limbo. I’ve seen that. Sometimes they go to a brighter area. But I don’t always know what happens with the abyss. I just know if I get too far from it, I’ll be drawn back.

Best to enjoy the job while I’m away from it then.

The water gets brighter. Dark greys now, not complete blacks. Then I’m out of the tunnel I was following.

The mask starts to glow. It’s only about now that it seems to realize its in proper darkness rather than abyss. The water around me begins to get warmer as well.

Limbo is easier.

I’m not even sure I can call it that. Frankly, I’d love to live their myself. It’s bright colors start almost as soon as I’m out of the grey-lit tunnel. The sand a warm yellow, soon dotted by many colored rocks, soon added to by green plants. The plants have no rhyme or reason. Sea, earth, lake, cave … whatever they are supposed to grow in, they grow here just the same. Next to each other.

The water around them acts like a small breeze through the leaves or frond as I pass. I can’t help nudging a foot against them as I go. It’s such a different sensation, even though not a bit of my bare flesh can touch them.

I don’t know what that would feel like. I know I’m under there, under all the cloth and hard metal, but I can only feel that.

Everything seems very similar to what I remember from last time. There are just as many creatures here, in this first room, as their should be. I can’t see any clogged entrances just yet. Fish dart around me. A bit friendlier than the abyss flowers. They nudge at my mask, as if curious about it.

I blink at them. It’s the only sign I can give them that I see them.

I love this part. Knowing I’m seen. Proving I exist. It lets me linger here. I have to look for blockages to the entrances anyway. A bird passes, flapping around me without much care. I reach my hand out, but it doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to fly past.

I swim down to the floor. I wonder what it would be like to fly through this area. But it seems I have one design and this is it. Much like the fish from before, I perceive and interact with limbo the same way I would a sea.

Maybe it’s how necessary whatever is to humanoids.

Though why I wouldn’t breath this like air, I don’t know.

I don’t breath though. I can’t remember what it feels like.

I bob a bit near the floor, looking around. All the portals are at floor level, usually, unless I’m remembering wrong. I blink again and push off from the floor. Then I continue onward with a sense that I’m stretching my boundaries. A light clicking starts up from the interior of the mask, near my ears. I’ve strain too far from the abyss and my job.

I turn in the water, swimming back to the fishes.

I’m let further out than this, usually. There are many, many more rooms in limbo. And often after a “sleep” there are often quite a lot of blockages.

But at least I’m allowed here. I do not need nor want to be pulled back to the abyss by force. Not after this short of a time.

I swim with the fishes for a while. It usually doesn’t matter how long I remain away, so long as I stay where I’m needed. Sooner or later, I will do my purpose.

To personify the abyss as well, maybe it knows that. Maybe it lets me have this peace.

Maybe it thinks its sleeps are a form of peace too.

As long as I’m allowed back to awareness at some point - any point - I’ll trust it to know what it’s doing.

The fish play around the curved “handles” of my mask. I wish I could smile at them. The ridges that would make up horns if they’d ever finished the job make for decent obstacles to swim through.

I turn myself over to look upward.

It’s bright. Sunny. I can swim up forever and I’ll never find a surface.

Or at least I assume ‘forever.’ Eventually I get pulled back to the abyss.

I let my hand run along the curve of a fish. Pity I can’t take you with me, I muse. To hold during a “sleep.” Not that I’d know I was. Or even know if I have a body when that happens.

But I’ve tried and they usually just ended up back in limbo.

I recognize everything in here eventually. Not all the time, but it gets familiar.

Will it be more fish today? That are stuck beyond a portal. Little fishy souls, trying to get to a sunny habitat.

I should do something about that.

It never looks pleasant, beyond the portal.

I wish I could talk to them.

They certainly try to talk to me sometimes. Everything does. Humans. They look the most like me. So I assume I am one. Or was one.

But they might as well sing like birds for all I know what they’re saying. They can communicate some more specific things than the birds at least.

Pity I can’t see them today.

They don’t stay here that often though. And they aren’t in this room.

I should find out what’s stuck, I think. But I don’t move. I let myself drift against a tree, like loose detritus and rest. Not my eyes. But just … lie still.

Eventually I pull away. Then start to search the sandy floor again. This time I look a bit better. I find what I’m missing in a bed of kelp, hiding among the strands. I float down to it and get close, pressing myself to the pale flatness of it.

It’s like dead light is shining though it. It looks too small for even the fish to pass through it, but I’ve seen all manners and size of things come through.

I press my hand against the surface. Hard. The pale light cracks … and then bursts. For a moment, all I see is the opposite of the abyss. And if anything, it looks worse.

Stale.

It looks stale.

A different sort of trap.

Or maybe I just like the abyss better because it’s the devil I know.

This looks dead though. Proper death. Grey death.

From the crack, now open, slim ferns sprout. I watch them, amazed at the new sight at the center of the kelp. It’s like watching growth speed up, until I’m no longer seeing the pale staleness and it’s just the green.

The ticking is growing in my ear, but I know this time it isn’t because I’ve strayed from my path. There’s nowhere else for me to go.

So I stay where I am, looking at the little fronds. Practically curled around them as they grow.

They brush against my nose - where the mask not in the way, that was. The ticking is consistent now. I slow blink at the fern and then close my eyes. Wait.

There a tug at me, so instant that it’s like falling backwards and then …

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