Sephirot, p.1
Sephirot, page 1
Sephirot
Gordon Bonnet
Little Bustard Books
Copyright © 2016 by Gordon Bonnet
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
1. Malkuth
2. Yesod
3. Hod
4. Netzach
5. Tiferet
6. Gevurah
7. Chesed
8. Da'at
9. Binah
10. Chokhmah
11. Keter
About Gordon Bonnet
Also By Gordon Bonnet
To my amazing wife, Carol Bloomgarden, who refused to let my voice be silenced.
Chapter 1
Malkuth
It had been a completely ordinary day for Duncan Kyle until the moment he fell through the floor of his living room at a little before two in the morning.
A slow day at Carthen, Douglas, and Prescott Financial Consultants. Dinner with his girlfriend, Libby, followed by drinks at his apartment and the happy but never certain outcome that she intended to spend the night with him. They had not fallen into a contented doze until nearly midnight, and Duncan fully expected to sleep until his alarm went off at seven o’clock. So it was something of a surprise when he opened his eyes in the pitch darkness, and turned his head toward his clock to see that it was only 1:54.
His mouth was sandpaper-dry. He swallowed, throat muscles contracting on nothing, and reached toward his nightstand for the bottle of water he kept there. His wrist contacted the bottle before his searching fingers did, sending it tumbling to the floor. It gave a light clatter as it landed on the hardwood.
Empty.
He swore under his breath, and swung his legs out of bed. Libby made a small, childlike noise in her sleep, mumbled something incomprehensible, and then was quiet. He stood, and walked out of his bedroom, naked, not even bothering to take his robe from its hook on the back of the door. He padded down the hall toward the kitchen. Moonlight shone through the living room window, turning the furniture and carpets a silvery gray. The window was open, and the curtains fluttered in the humid July breeze, looking organic, like some kind of sea creature swaying in the current. He went along his sofa, brushing his fingertips along its rough cloth surface, and passed in front of the television.
Then the floor caved in.
There was a grinding, rending crash, and the smooth surface tilted beneath his bare feet. He reached out for something to grab, and caught a projecting strip of the subfloor, but it snapped off in his hand. With a cry, he fell into darkness, with pieces of hardwood flooring, insulation, and dust raining down around him.
He landed on his side, a rough edge of the tumbled mass of debris tearing a long scratch across the skin of his back and left shoulder as he came slithering to rest. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and for a time he lay, gasping and coughing while the dust drifted down, his thoughts as shattered as the world around him.
It was only two minutes afterwards, but it felt like a great deal longer, that he braced himself on his elbows and sat up. Grit and wood slivers dug into his arms, legs, and butt as he forced himself upright.
“Earthquake...?” he croaked, and coughed again. “Libby?”
He had never been in an earthquake, and he had a vague memory from one of his high school science classes that upstate New York wasn’t on a fault zone, but he couldn’t think of any other ready explanation. He looked upwards, and struggled to his feet. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling, perhaps fifteen feet overhead, and he could see a bit of his living room through it. A corner of the sofa and one end of the coffee table tipped perilously near the edge, along with trailing wisps of fiberglass and loops of electrical wire.
Better move out of range. It’d suck to take a coffee table to the head if there was an aftershock.
He moved to the side, out of the likely landing area should the coffee table fall, and called again, louder, “Libby?”
There was no sound from his apartment. In fact, there was no sound at all. He looked around, and that was when he realized the oddest thing yet, something that had been knocked clean out of his mind by the shock of what had happened.
If the floor of his apartment caved in, he should have fallen into the apartment below his. If things were normal, he would have landed in the living room of Mrs. Elena Gonzales, a sixty-something widow who was a mother hen type to the entire apartment building, constantly inquiring about the tenants’ health, eating habits, and love lives. And although going through the ceiling stark naked into Mrs. Gonzales’s living room would have occasioned an apology, he had no doubt that she would have been more concerned with whether or not he needed to go to the emergency room than the fact that he happened not to be wearing any clothes.
But wherever he was, it was clearly not anyone’s living room. The light was dim, coming through a row of slot-like windows high up in the wall. What he could see amongst the shadows was a dingy gray brown. The air was cool, and smelled of age and mildew. Near him, and covered with broken pieces of two-by-four and particleboard, was a jumble of wooden boxes. In one corner was a worn marble statue of an angel, angled toward a wall made of rough stone, its hands covering its face as if it were weeping. The end of one wing was missing, and piles of broken ceramic jars partially covered its feet. The wall behind the statue had a shelf cut into it, and it held untidy stacks of leather-bound books. Tumbled blocks of fallen masonry lay strewn on the stone floor where in places the facing had peeled away, leaving bare rock and earth showing underneath. Farther away, almost invisible in the darkness, was an arched doorway through which he could see nothing but blackness.
Had he fallen through Mrs. Gonzales’s apartment, too? Maybe he was in the basement of the building. Was there a basement? But immediately, he doubted this guess. This didn’t look like any basement he’d ever seen. It looked more like his imagined idea of catacombs, or a dungeon beneath a medieval castle.
He rubbed his face, and then dragged his fingers backwards through his hair. “Fuck,” he said, his voice creaking in his dry throat. “What do I do? Sit around and wait to be rescued? Or try to get out on my own?”
There was clearly no way to reach the hole in the ceiling and climb through back into his apartment. There was nothing big enough or sturdy enough to use as a makeshift ladder. If help didn’t come from overhead, there was no escape in that direction.
He shouted again, up toward the hole, “Libby! Help me!”
Silence.
He waited, watching, for some minutes. If there’d been an earthquake, or at least a cave-in, shouldn’t the noise have alerted someone? Shouldn’t there be voices, sirens, noises of rescue equipment being moved? Libby wasn’t a heavy sleeper. No way could she have slept through all this.
He called out again, “Libby!” and was again met with complete silence.
Then, with a sudden gush of relief, he realized what the answer must be; he was dreaming. He’d wake up soon, and Libby would be right there next to him, and he’d tell her all about it, and they’d have a good laugh. But why was he dreaming this weird scenario? He reached up and touched his shoulder, wincing as his fingers brushed the oozing and aching scrape.
Then he had a second realization; he must be having a lucid dream. He’d never had a lucid dream before. May as well enjoy it, and explore a little. He walked around the room, avoiding the worst of the fallen debris, but still yelped once as his bare foot contacted something sharp and painful. Hobbling, he went up to the bookshelf, and looked at the battered and dust-covered spines, barely readable in the gloom. The books were bound in dark leather, and were ancient, to judge by the faded writing.
Liber Ivonis. Cultes des Goules. De Vermis Mysteriis. Unaussprechlichen Kulten. Necronomicon.
All were in languages he didn’t speak, to judge by the titles, so he moved on.
He made a complete circuit of the room, and ended up standing before the doorway underneath the arch. A set of three stone steps led up to it, but beyond it was completely lightless. A cool breeze flowed from the door, carrying with it a faint aromatic scent, and he shivered.
If it was a lucid dream, maybe he could control it. He said out loud, “I want my robe!” feeling vaguely foolish as he did so.
Nothing happened.
“How ’bout a flashlight?”
Still nothing.
“Shit. I thought lucid dreams would be more fun than this. That I’d be able to fly and teleport and do magic. And that there’d be lots of scantily-clad women. What do I get? Rocks and broken crap and dust.”
He took two steps up, peering into the darkness.
Walking stark naked into a dark hallway in a strange place seemed unwise, so he stood there, uncertain. Another shudder rippled over his bare skin, and he retreated into the room, and found a wooden box to sit down on.
It being a lucid dream didn’t mean that there might not be a monster hiding in the dark. At least it seemed safe in here. Also, if this wasn’t a dream, and there really had been an earthquake or something, it’d be better to stay put.
It was several hours later, Duncan couldn’t be certain exactly how long, that he finally gave up on that idea. He had slept uneasily for a time, his head in his hands, but thirst kept waking him up. Why couldn’t this have happened after he got his drink of water? He got up once to pee in the corner of the room, returning to his seat on the box after peering cautiou sly up through the hole in the ceiling. The coffee table and the sofa remained visible through the gap, but the light hadn’t changed. It was still dark, with only the faint, shimmery quality of the moonlight on edges and corners.
Shouldn’t it be morning by now? Or at least near dawn? It still looked like the middle of the night. And why hadn’t Libby noticed anything? Heard the noise, or at least noticed that he was gone?
He shouted, “Libby!” up toward the hole, again, to no effect. Then he returned once more to the box.
He had been told before that he lacked imagination, that he was solid, reliable, and stable, but not creative. Honestly, it was true enough. Accountancy and financial consulting had been a good choice of a career. He was a steady employee, could be self-motivated when he needed to, but his best qualification was that he took direction well. He was good with details, sharp about numbers, fast, and efficient. But other than that, he was mostly interested in what he called “guy stuff” —sports, news, friends, food, beer, and sex. So he had filled his life with those things, and considered himself lucky if he had a baseball game to watch, a full fridge, and a steady girlfriend. He wasn’t good at thinking outside the box, largely because he’d never had to.
Now, he was out of the box, and he didn’t like it.
He stood up, stretched, yawned. “Well, if this is a lucid dream, it sucks.”
He walked back to the archway, which appeared to be the only exit from the place, and again took two tentative steps up. There was once more that brush of cool air against his bare skin, carrying with it a trace of some unidentifiable spicy odor. He reached out his left hand, and his fingers touched the rough stone of the wall. Extending his right hand out and upward, to avoid if possible cracking his head on any low obstacles, he plunged forward into absolute darkness.
The passageway was smooth and unobstructed. There was familiar coolness of hard-packed dry earth beneath his feet. His left hand contacted nothing but rock as the tunnel slanted gradually upwards, and his right hand touched nothing at all. The air became progressively cooler, and goose bumps stood out on his arms and chest. Finally there was an angle to the right, and the incline increased, but he became aware of a change as well in the light. There was a faint grayness, not enough to make out any objects, a shift subtle enough that at first he thought was a trick of the eye. He realized, though, that he could see his hand in front of him, vague, but visible when he moved it. The light continued to increase, until he could see the contours of the stones that made up the wall, the smooth surface of the floor.
All at once, the tunnel opened out into a wide room. The light was still dim, and he couldn’t see the other side of it from where he stood, but it was at least better lit than where he had come from. There was a window cut into the stone wall near where he stood, but too high to peer out of, and through this a chilly breeze flowed. He shivered, once again wishing for and not getting his robe, which probably still hung from a hook on his bedroom door.
He went up to the window. All he could see out of it was a rectangle of gray, featureless sky. He hooked his fingers over the edge of the sill and tried to find toeholds so he could lift himself up and find out more about where he was. He succeeded, after one failed attempt that left him with a scraped knee, but finally ended up with his elbows propped on a broad, flat sill almost three feet deep, the lower part of his body dangling, pressed uncomfortably against the cold stones.
He was looking out over a landscape he’d never seen before.
A skittering sense of panic rushed through him, like a rock skipping on the surface of a lake, leaving little shuddery ripples behind.
Where the fuck was he? His heart pounded in his chest, sweat standing out on his skin despite the chill. This couldn’t be a dream. It was too real. But it couldn’t be real. It was too dreamlike…
He looked out through the window, the breath whining in his throat, elbows aching from supporting his weight on the rough-hewn rock. There were undulating hills dotted with brown, scrubby plants and rust-colored stones. The aromatic smell was stronger. It was a dry, desiccated odor, and he was reminded of a passage in one of his college history texts that described the spices the Egyptians used when they embalmed dead bodies.
It wasn’t a comforting thought.
He hung there, feet dangling, for some minutes. Nothing moved. There was not a sound, no bird song, no rustle of little animals in the leaves. It looked like an artist’s depiction of a dying world, a world where everything wise enough and mobile enough had long ago departed. There was a tired, ruddy light coming from somewhere behind him and whatever strange building he was in.
He briefly considered climbing through the window, but it wasn’t possible from his vantage point to tell how high up the window was in the wall, or if there might be a sheer drop on the other side. In any case, the vista in front of him looked singularly uninviting. Finally, he pushed himself out and away, and landed with a soft thump on the floor inside.
His thirst was becoming unbearable, and for the first time, the thought crossed his mind that he might be trapped. He still wasn’t certain if this was a dream, but in the end, it didn’t matter much. While he was there, what he felt was the reality. If in a dream, he spent days without water and finally perished of thirst, would that mean the agony, the terror, the despair would be any less?
He padded across the earthen floor, moving away from the window. Whatever this room was, it was considerably larger than the one he’d fallen into. The far edges were obscured in shadow.
He stopped, suddenly, and shouted, “Is there anyone here?” Even his voice sounded thin, sapped of all of its blood and vitality. He stood still, listening, not expecting any response, and getting none. A faint noise, whether caused by his call, or not related to him at all, came from the darkness. It was a dusty, dry creak, like stone on stone, quiet enough that when it ceased he half convinced himself that it had been his imagination. No human voice, nor even the rustling and squeaking of mice or other small, subterranean animals, followed.
A shudder rippled through his frame, and his eyes blurred for a moment with hot tears. His chest heaved, but he fought the sensation back, and started walking again, toward the dark side of the room.
There was more fallen masonry in the middle of the room, and he added a bruised shin to his other injuries before he cleared the rubble. He slowed as the light from the window diminished, but kept walking even after he had descended once more into total darkness.
Despairing thoughts echoed in his mind, loud in the oppressive silence. Buried alive in the crypt. Left here, alone and naked, to die slowly. How long will I keep walking before I give up? Or will I finally drop from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst? My body will lie here and slowly mummify, and no one will ever find my bones.
The room, whatever its function to those who had constructed it, was immense. Long after the light was gone, he kept walking, and other than small pieces of fallen stone, his tentative feet and outstretched arms encountered nothing. He walked more confidently after a time, still moving forward, although with no clear idea of why.
When he finally struck the opposite wall, it was with a glancing scrape to his left shoulder. He stopped, and swore loudly, massaging it, fighting down a combination of rage and frustration that came welling up from his belly.
And then, he heard the same sound he had heard before—a grating noise, like the grinding of a stone millwheel, this time from nearer at hand.
He turned his head in the dark toward the sound, and shouted, “Hello?”
The faintest of creaks answered him.
He put out his left hand, and walked along the wall toward the sound, fingertips lightly brushing the stone. He had only gone about twenty feet or so when the wall took a sharp turn to the left, and the floor sloped downhill. Straight ahead, but still too distant to illuminate anything, he saw something that set his heart pounding against his ribcage.
Firelight.
Fire meant inhabitants. And even hostile inhabitants were better than a solitary death in an abandoned catacomb. He had been in this place for how long? Perhaps ten hours? And already, he was ready to risk anything in order simply not to be alone in the dark. The light flickered and wavered, its quality somehow more alive than the dreary ruddiness of the sky outside the window.
