As I slowly tiptoed across the newly opened space, I passed another fresh stump. A heavy, worn, woodsman’s axe had been driven into it, apparently by a hand of great strength, as the axe-head was buried halfway into the green stump. Its iron was aged, turned a dull gray with tiny flecks of rust in shallow pits, and the handle was worn and polished as smooth and white as ivory, except for the last hand or so of the haft, which had been dipped in black tar and rolled in ash. I presumed that was to keep the axe from sliding completely free of the cutter’s grip during what must be mighty swings indeed. A closer look at this stump showed only three or four distinct cuts in a tree as thick as my own torso. I was in awe of the axe wielder, although I had not seen a single axe blow in person. Though the axe did not appear wicked or evil in any way, I shuddered, as if from the cold of a sudden gust of wind. I looked about, feeling momentarily exposed on the newly cut expanse.

From somewhere nearby came to me a loud, sharp crack! and then a hiss of burning greenwood, and the pitchy, dark smoke of a green-wood fire rushed skyward, carrying fat embers. Surprised by suddenly noticing this, I was drawn to the sounds and smells. Turning towards the edge of the forest, I approached the unpleasant fire, only to find an equally miserable-looking tender. A wretched old hag was slowly stirring an immense blackened cauldron atop the smoldering fire. The outside of the gigantic old pot was rough and covered with thick layers of soot, as though years of burnt greenwood had laid their pitch upon it.  The top edge was the same hue of ancient iron as the old axe head, and had been polished smooth around the inside edge by the passage of many a stroke of the spoon.

The wretch herself was at one time a towering hulk, now crumpled over herself, until her humped and twisted back rose barely above my own head. Thick, gnarled hands that looked more like bark than skin jutted out at odd angles from the rags and tatters of clothing she seemed to have draped across her form haphazardly. In one thick-veined, clawed hand, she slowly rowed a thick, straight handle through the roiling, steaming surface of the cauldron’s contents. Had she been standing upright, she might have been twice my height, but as things were, I found I could look her directly in the eyes, though that turned out to be a disturbing event all to its own.

I have no recollection of how long I stood there, but I had a feeling as if an immense passage of time had occurred, and that I had to move, or somehow would remain there for a great time longer. Tearing myself from her gaze, I dared to look about her face for more clues to her role. One of her eyes was clouded over, as though from a cataract. Her face was a road map of hardship, with deep cracks and lines resembling the bark of the nearby trees more than any flesh of my own. Great greenish-white tufts of hair blew away from the fire, jutting from her tight scalp in odd directions. Thick, rambling eyebrows created a hedgerow that kept the oily sweat which dripped from her brow away from her drooping eyelids. A thin, hard line of a mouth dashed across the otherwise vertical strata of her face, and as I stared, transfixed in her gaze, she began to sing. It was a low, crooning voice, and I could not understand the words, but I found myself drawn to her further, as though I were being invited to take a closer look at the spectacle that was she. The sound mixed with the pops and gasps of steaming tree sap escaping from the fresh green wood of her cook fire, creating an eerie syncopation, that couldn’t possibly have been consciously created by the hag, and yet there it was, filling my ears with thoughts of newness and change.

“Little ones, so proud and tall,
never ready for the day you fall.”

She spoke to me as if I were dreaming. I could understand the meaning of her words, although I could not understand the words themselves. It was as if there were a tiny interpreter working fast in my ear, but when I turned to look, there were only the trees. Turning back, I felt a strange compulsion to peer into the vast cauldron, to see what the wizened old giantess was brewing.

Gazing into the pot stirred me deeply. The thick rolling bubble of the contents burped out a dizzying array of smells, and those smells invoked feelings I had only half-remembered, or perhaps had only heard about. I am not sure which. I stood, hypnotized, not realizing how close I had come to the fire. Although the heat of it began to press itself into me, I found I could not tear myself from the pot’s odd contents. I felt a strange sense of mission, and of belonging, and of unfinished work, as though I had tarried for a great length of time in a place, and now needed to find my way back to those tasks, to those…responsibilities.

As I stared into the depths of the pot, a thick red ember was ejected from the fire, as another pop of boiled sap exploded in a freshly hewn timber. It landed squarely on the old crone’s foot, and she stopped her song, but she did not even flinch. The rich scent of the fire, and the odd familiarity of the pot’s scents were momentarily interrupted by the stink of burning flesh and cooling charcoal as it gently sank into the witch’s foot. Observing this, I was taken aback, and I could see that her feet were absolutely covered with many more of these embers, now cooled, but leaving her with the appearance of wearing old, worn shoes, despite the fact that she was bare of foot. I looked from her foot, to her good eye, and she regarded me as though having done so many times before, and shrugged ever so lightly before returning to her mixing and her gentle but insistent song.

As she stirred and sang, she bent and threw another of the fresh cut logs onto her fire, and it gave a long, low groan as it began to boil away its steam in the intense heat. For a time, I looked upon the pot, when I suddenly became aware that the smoke of the fire was being drawn not skyward, but into the pot! This might explain my earlier lack of notice, as the sky grew clear rather quickly without the continuous feeding of the thick smoke. As this happened, I saw a stranger sight than any other I could imagine. I saw what I thought to be people, in the smoke, and these people had upon their faces a beatific look of peace, and understanding, and they seemed to dive into the pot headlong. They had a familiarity to me that I could not explain, although I had never seen their faces before. I rushed to stop them.

“No, don’t go!” I pleaded, but they simply smiled sad, knowing smiles, and dove into the pot away from me, before I could reach them.

“Suffer not fools, and spare not the rod.”

This time the old crone’s words struck clearly in my ears, like the blow of an axe. Just as suddenly as she had spoken them, she turned and stalked away, seeming to have a limp in one leg. Again, I stood, mesmerized, while she walked to the axe…her axe, I now realized, as she easily freed it from the tree. I could not have pulled it free had I wanted to. Spinning on her heels, she came back to me, almost menacingly, she stalked up to me, and for a moment, she straightened herself, just enough to tower over me in a frightening way.

I felt as though we had done this before, if only for a fleeting moment, but the sensation passed. She came back down from her imposing heights, and looked me again in the eye. She reared the axe, as if to cut me down. Instead of cowering before this horrible sight, I found my legs had the strength to stand firm. I discovered that I did not fear this creature, though she was a frightening thing, in all honesty. Seeing this, she checked her swing, instead, driving the great old axe into a log by the fire. She moved back to her pot, and began to stir again.

She resumed her song after a deep breath, and again I was drawn to the pot. In it, I was amazed to see now that there was no longer a thick broil of liquid in the pot. Now, there was only steam, and through the steam, I was again stunned to see that there were people! I felt a deep longing in my soul, and an uncanny attraction to these people, though I knew them not, and their clothing and mannerisms seemed unfamiliar, and everything seemed to move so fast. It was all bewildering, and yet oddly compelling. Looking around one last time, I saw the faces of others around the pot, and felt a loving warmth wash over me. I saw in their shining eyes that I was smiling back at them now.

At last, the overwhelming desire to join them all crept through my legs, and into the pot I leapt. In spite of the steam, and the fire, and the smoke, I felt only a comforting warming, and as I entered, my legs and arms were drawn to me, and I curled up and fell softly asleep. As I drifted off to sleep, the crone’s song once again came to me clearly, though again I did not understand the words themselves…

“With this axe have I hewn trees
for ten thousand years, or more.
I have done this clearing from yon mountain
down to the farthest shore.

I do this not to feed my bones,
though they grow weak and crumble.
I do this now to free your soul,
and set you to a task less humble.”

I’d been aboard the International Space Research Station for about three months of a two-year tour of duty when it happened. The station’s official Virgin Galactic title was Sustarre Station, but some of the Americans didn’t like the cheeky—albeit obscure—reference to 20^th century role-playing games. Bloody Nora! Most people didn’t even know what that referred to then, much less now. Ridiculous. I say look it up for yourself, later, but be prepared to be underwhelmed. The job was good, however, and living in space was ace! The station was powered by a micro-singularity; it provided about one quarter gravity to some parts of the central station structure, in addition to being a nearly limitless source of power. Elsewhere on the station, things had a tendency to float for a while before eventually drifting towards the center of the station. This meant “down” was generally used to describe the center of the station, and “up” meant any of the outer limbs of the station. My job was to maintain all of the peripheral systems aboard: plumbing, non-navigational electronics, life services, and so on.

It was my first space tour, and so far, I was really enjoying it. The Commanding Officer, Captain Audrey Jackson, was a tough American commander, but she really took a liking to me when I interviewed. I can sometimes tell right away how a person is going to react to me. She immediately began talking to me as though I were a protégé or some kind of adopted son. She’s actually only about five or ten years my senior though. Still, it was nice to know that she would be looking out for me (even while she looked over my shoulder…nobody trusts a space rookie completely, even one with my grades and qualifications). I’ve never kidded myself about being any kind of bloody genius, though. I worked damned hard to get this assignment, and I planned to reap the rewards of it. Perhaps a nice administrative job back home on Earth once this was done, or if I really enjoyed this, perhaps a career as a spacer, like my counterpart engineer, Pavel Kosov. I’d been all over the world, traveling every summer in between college semesters for nearly ten years. “Settling down” in space for a while just seemed like a natural extension of that journey.

Pavel was an old-timer, a spacer since the first of the Virgin Galactic flights. He’d been in and out of space for about 25 years of his life, and though he was only about 55, his bones were so deteriorated from extensive space travel that he wouldn’t survive more than a few months of normal gravity. Most of his loss happened before the gene re-sequencing was developed which hardened and fortified spacers’ bones before traveling in space. Unfortunately for him, those treatments were only good as prophylactic treatment. Nothing would put the structure back into his bones…he was pretty well fucked. His health issues didn’t stop him from making the most vile space vodka ever brewed though, or from rambling on endlessly about bikini-clad women, or about lounging on beaches that he might never see again. Like myself, Pavel was a civilian engineer, though he was definitely senior to me.

It was easier, I thought, to be here as a civilian, than to be one of the scientists assigned to the station. They got a swift kick in the stones about two times a week by the Captain her own self, if they fell behind in their projects, or if they just failed to update her adequately. The scientists were all military doctors of one stripe or another, and all fell under her command, like or no

As I floated nearly weightless through the station, making my morning rounds and checking them off my extensively populated clipboard, I slowed as I went into the Biosciences lab to steal an eyeful of my new fling. Juliette—or as the captain affectionately calls her, “Dr. Bonhomme”—was furiously scribbling on a tablet PC in front of some kind of machinery; it was a centrifuge if I recall correctly. Her short, boyish haircut stood oddly vertical in the zero gee environment, the puffed crown of hair recalling to mind some images of 1980’s era musicians…”Flock of something.” Ah well. Her shapely figure was buried under the swaths of a white lab coat. No big deal I thought. I’ll just waft in on the microgravity and give her a little start. An impish grin crept across my face as the space between us diminished. My stealthy approach was nearly sabotaged by my own barely-suppressed snicker.

“Boo.” I said softly into her ear just as I was about to drift into her back. She had been completely absorbed with whatever she was writing. When she started, her pen leaped from her hand as though animated of its own accord. It struck the top of the cabin with a dull thunk, and began to ricochet around the tiny lab space, providing entertainment for the myriad tiny cages containing a plethora of small critters. Many of them reached for the pen, but they, like me, were relatively new to the nearly absent gravity—many of them arrived with me—most failed to even reach the fronts of their cages in time to do any more than salute the pen with their tiny wavering paws as it floated by them, oblivious.

Meanwhile, Juliette turned to identify her assailant. Realizing it was me (apparently Pavel has done this to the entire crew at a more or less relentless pace. I am just getting into the swing of things here…) she launched into me with a barrage of comically flailing fists. Since I was just freefalling, though, the first strike pushed me back out of range of the rest of her onslaught. Her Velcro shoes kept her feet firmly planted, but the attack thrust her backward until she looked like a movie hero dodging bullets.

Chuckling, I said, “You sure are jumpy this morning.” My smile began to melt as I realized she was still not smiling herself. Even Pavel wouldn’t normally have been received so poorly.

“Have you heard about the meeting that Jackson called?” she asked, still maintaining that look of concern.

“Yep. Didn’t think much of it,” I replied honestly. I had drifted into a wall, and the Velcro patches on my uniform had lodged me there rather firmly. I had the faintest sensation of hanging like a family portrait. I was still getting used to this place.

“She doesn’t call all hands meetings, David.” Juliette replied. She absently pushed her glasses back up to her face and glared at me through them, as if they would focus her thoughts and burn them through my thick skull. Even in space, glasses never stayed where they were put. How peculiar, I thought. Barely enough gravity to pull things to the floor, but her glasses dropped again like they were poured from pure lead.

“Well, I’m headed that way, finishing my rounds,” I said. “You want to join me, my little boffin?” I slyly winked. We’ve been sneaking off for about two weeks now. It’s a new tryst, and both of us are like 30 going on 16. Hormones out of control. I’m surprised her Biosciences background hasn’t encouraged a more formal study of our nocturnal experimentation…then again, who’s to say it hadn’t, and I had just been too horny to notice?

“No,” she said flatly. Well, she was worried then. “I want to finish this experiment before I head up. You know how I am. It’ll take me two hours to figure out where I left off.” Aye. She was funny that way. Brilliant, but a little ditzy; a perfect boffin—the wacky professor. I’m sure everyone made the typical references to absentminded professors (behind her back, out of self-defense against her quick swing, I’m guessing). The cliché has merit though. Most truly brilliant people are just a little bit out of touch with the rest of the world.

“Okay,” I pushed off the wall that I had come to rest on, my cornflower blue jumpsuit making a quiet tearing sound as the Velcro patches on my arse and shoulders released from the scratchy pads on the wall. I floated directly towards her, spinning slowly, like an old mercury capsule. I gripped her shoulder gently as I reached her to slow my progress. I completed the “docking maneuver” with my face, pressing my lips to hers. This greeting/farewell was much better received. She changed her mind quickly, as a rule. This was to be no exception. Juliette reached for the lab lights just as we drifted gently towards one of the walls.

“Mmmm!” she murmured into the dark cavity of the capsule. I was pressed flat against a wall, clinging to it as though trapped by an enormous space-dwelling spider. As I’ve said, my jumpsuit was covered front and back with patches of Velcro. The mated sides covered the walls of the space station like a fuzzy carpet, catching all manner of things, like tools, books, and even people who had the patches on them. It was a handy way to keep things in one place, and it made itself useful for other, less well-documented activities. Juliette was on her knees, her lab coat open in the front, and her suit pulled open clear to her waist. I suppose if you were to enter the room, it would appear that we were using one of the walls as a floor, because she was straddling my prone body in a most fortuitous manner. There was only one real problem, and that was that we weren’t going to get much farther in our current position, with the suits in the way, and taking them off meant turning ourselves into an orgiastic pinball in a Brighton Beach boardwalk game, as we screwed our way around the room in zero gee. We had done so before, but not on short timetables, and with some rather curious bruises to explain to our peers afterwards. In the dim light we could both see the clock. It was ten minutes of two, and we were due in the main conference room in twenty-five minutes. It would be enough. It would have to be, at least for now.

“Not a problem, yet, my dear Jules,” I said to her gallantly as I pushed us both away from the wall. The gentle grip of the Velcro gave way under my strength easily; it was designed to hold things still, not to resist effort. As we drifted across the darkened laboratory, a chorus of animal sounds rained around us, adding a sense of urgency and voyeurism to the experience.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed as we drifted lazily across the compartment. I hurriedly helped her free of her outer garment, and partially escaped from my own. As we reached the other side, I had undressed just enough of myself from the suit to…ahem, allow for certain…well…you know…liberties. Back on earth I had never considered myself to be shy, or private. I was an open book. Perhaps even a touch exhibitionistic. But living in such close quarters had taught me to respect the limited privacy afforded, and had made me much more modest than I usually was.

..They say that a gentleman never kisses and tells. Being a modern man myself, I feel that this is a bit of an antiquated sentiment, but for the moment, I will suffice it to say that we had a wonderful time, the animals got an incredible show—if I do say so myself—and we made it to the all-hands meeting (the official one, mate) on time…but only barely.

The Nombril stood silently at the edge of the chasm, seeming to stare mindlessly into the dark oblivion below. Just below it, a great crisscrossing of bridges and tunnels splayed a spider-web of paths and walkways across the yawning depths of the chasm. Grand Crossing was noted for the number of subterranean races that used its maze of walkways and bridges to move from one area of The Deep to another. Sometimes, traders stopped for a while to vend to those that passed by. Sometimes they were assaulted by the not-so­friendly races that used the pass, other times they plied their trade unmolested. Races of all type used the Grand Crossing during their travels in The Deep, as they had done so for hundreds of years. No one had ever solved the mystery of who had built Grand Crossing. Although many races claimed it was their work, most claims had holes large enough to march an army through. No one in all that time had ever seen the Nombril as it stood there hidden in its heights. Its silent vigil went unnoticed for over three hundred years, and the denizens of the deep had no idea how lucky they had been until the moment the Nombril went into motion. It had not created this place, but its purpose was served by observing this place, so that is what it did.

The Nombril at rest was a seven foot high statue of a humanoid. It had a non-descript appearance that was only offset by the fact that it was carved entirely from a single piece of obsidian. Its rough-hewn features could have been those of any number of humanoid races. Mostly it looked human, except for the slightly abnormal length of its arms. Its massively carved arms reached nearly to its knees, despite its usually rigid upright posture. The representation was almost devoid of garment, save the modest loincloth covering its groin. The Nombril most closely resembled humans, but it was not a human creation. It was much more than just a statue carved from obsidian, as well. It was “The Nombril,” the Vessel of Souls. Theologians and historians nicknamed it “The Eater of Souls” due to its alleged behavior. The combination of the souls which it consumed made it much more than the sum of its parts. It was a creature of unspeakable power, hidden in the relatively innocuous guise of a statue. It was a creature of inscrutable goals, an enigma to all those who observed its actions. The Nombril was seemingly impervious to outside persuasion. It leaped into action without pretense and, seemingly, without explanation. In legend, it had slain both good and evil indiscriminately, and it had been named a horror in the legends of places all over-and beneath-the world.

In its current location, it had come to rest in an odd position, bent deeply onto one knee with both hands splayed out to its sides, looking down into the chasm, as if silently observing the traffic below. Its position seemed tense, strained, as though it was about to spring into action at any moment, and yet it had been in exactly that spot, in exactly that position, for 298 years without moving…

A pair of Tolakian traders came by one of the Grand Crossing’s lower entrances. They were not heavily laden, but their cargo was quite precious. They were carrying an ancient jewel encrusted greataxe and a pair of equally over­decorated gauntlets in small packs, affixed to their belts. The axe and gauntlets were to be a gift-bribe to a neighboring
Dwarven kingdom, in exchange for being overlooked, and for having their caves unmolested, at least by Dwarves. The Tolakians were generally a peaceful race. Their motley and brilliantly colored scale hides gave away their reptilian ancestry; they resembled nothing so much as a pair of large bipedal Tokay Geckos. They were wrapped with long belts that circled their lithe bodies several times, but wore no other adornment. Dwelling as deep beneath the surface as they did, they seldom found the need for clothing, and disdained it unless painfully cold. The belts were dotted with pouches and small charms of all types and sizes, and their bodies were heavily bedecked with rings and necklaces of arcane power, the ‘tell’ to their sorcerous natures. Most wanderers of The Deep would and did avoid this pair of travelers, for as benevolent as they were, they were not to be trifled with. Many other races had lost entire platoons of warriors to a single angry Tolakian Sorcerer.

Although it was not apparent to most travelers, one of the Tolakians was female. Her name was Negaerion. She was traveling with Belectholdil, a younger male and a student of hers. Their journey was expected to be brief, but it would be cut much shorter than either of them suspected. Negaerion announced to Belectholdil that they were going to take a quick short-cut that another traveler had suggested they might be able to take advantage of. It was a path that most people of The Deep could not take without climbing equipment, but Negaerion knew that it would be easy for them, and would also cut a full day off of their journey. They dropped to all fours in unison and began to climb the treacherous walls of Grand Crossing. Their movement along the walls of the great chasm was more fluid and surer than when they walked upright as other races. Their heritage was clear as they passed by several crossing bridges and walkways, to the startled surprise of many other passersby. Light jingling from the pair of small packs on their backs could be heard over the din of small rocks and pebbles that were kicked loose by the Tolakians as they rose up through the chasm, completely unaware of the danger they were rapidly approaching.

The Nombril sensed the imminent approach of the two Tolakians. Both were exceedingly young from its point of view, but he sensed immense power coming from the leader of the pair. Her aura was easily visible to him, and it was rich with intelligence and command over arcane powers that he had not seen here in the crossing for many decades. It rose soundlessly to its feet and took a single step back, satisfied for the moment with the knowledge that this time at least, its prey would be coming straight to it.

Negaerion and Belectholdil continued climbing, barely even winded, until they were well beyond the highest of the heavily traveled bridgeworks of Grand Crossing. They kept their large golden eyes firmly locked on their goal. They were well acquainted with the heights in which they were working, as most Tolakian dwellings were made in vertical, rather than horizontal, caves in The Deep, so neither was much concerned with falling. Their goal, a narrow ledge, loomed larger in their field of view. Pale shadows were thrown by the dim lights of travelers below into garishly exaggerated pinwheels of shadow above the pair, but their large eyes were piercing the veil of darkness, and they could see the ledge clearly. Belectholdil reached it a split second before Negaerion did, and he halted, upright on his hind legs, while Negaerion finished the climb.

In the Tolakian tongue, he softly began to chide his teacher for her slow climb, but his admonishments were cut short by a black form that rushed between them, even before either of the speedy reptilians could reply. Belectholdil was snatched up by the neck by The Nombril, as Negaerion watched on in horror, unable to act. With seeming disdain, The Nombril backhandedly flung the young Tolakian out into the open space of the chasm, where there was nothing to grab and slow his fall. To the honor of his family, Belectholdil fell soundlessly to his death, facing it boldly rather than crying out in fear. He took the magnificent axe with him to the bottom, the only weapon that either of them carried on their journey.