The Dark River

He got up quickly and looked around him for any sign of danger. He was standing on a muddy slope littered with wrecked automobiles and rusty pieces of machinery. The blackened ruins of several buildings were twenty feet above him, up on the edge of the riverbank. Gabriel wasn’t sure if it was day or night, because the sky was covered with a layer of yellowish-gray clouds that occasionally broke apart to show a lighter shade of ash gray. He had seen clouds like this a few times in Los Angeles when the smoke from a hillside brushfire had combined with air pollution to blot out the sun.

A collapsed bridge was a half mile upriver. It looked as if the structure had been blown up with explosives or bombed from the sky. Brick pilings and two graceful arches remained in the water. They held up twisted girders and the fragment of a road.

Gabriel took a few cautious steps toward the river and tried to remember what Hollis had said back in New York when he was talking to Naz, their guide through the subway tunnels. Hollis and Vicki were always quoting from the letters of Isaac Jones, and Gabriel hadn’t been paying much attention. It was something about the wrong path leading you to a dark river.

Well, Isaac Jones was right about this place, he thought. This particular river was as black as oil except for little bits of dirty white foam floating on the surface. It had a sharp, acidic odor, as if it had been tainted with chemicals. Gabriel knelt and scooped up some of the water in his palm, then flicked it away when his skin began to burn.

Gabriel stood up again and looked around to make sure he was safe. For a moment, he wished he had brought along the talisman sword his father had given him, but Maya had kept it with her. You don’t need a weapon, he told himself. You’re not here to kill someone. He would move carefully and try to stay out of sight. Perhaps he would find his father while searching for the passageway back to his own world.

He was fairly sure he had reached the First Realm. In other cultures it was known as the Underworld, Hades, Sheol-hell. The story of Orpheus and Eurydice was a Greek myth taught to schoolchildren, but also showed the experiences of an unnamed Traveler who had once visited this place. It was important not to eat any of the food-even if offered by a powerful leader. And when you finally reached the passageway, you should never look back.

In the confession of Saint Columba translated by Gabriel’s father, the Irish saint described hell as a city with human inhabitants. The citizens of hell told Columba about other cities, known by rumor or seen in the distance. Gabriel knew that he could be killed or imprisoned in this place. He decided to stay near the river and walk away from the wrecked bridge. If he reached a barrier or saw something that looked dangerous, he would turn around and follow the river back to this starting place.

The slope was steep and slippery; it took him several minutes to reach the brick shell of a destroyed building. A flickering light came from inside the structure, and he wondered if it was still burning. Cautiously, he peered through the window frame. Instead of a fire, he saw a dark orange flame spurting from what looked like a broken gas pipe. This room had once been a kitchen, but the stove and sink were now covered with soot, and the only furniture was a wooden table propped up with a single leg. Shoes made a scuffling sound. Before he could react, an arm grabbed him from behind while a hand put a blade against his throat.

“Give me your food,” a man whispered. The voice had a breathless, hesitant tone, as if the speaker couldn’t believe his own words. “Give me all your food and you won’t die.”

“All right,” Gabriel said, starting to turn.

“Don’t move! Don’t look at me!”

“I’m not trying to look at you,” Gabriel said. “My food is down by the bridge. It’s hidden in a secret place.”

“No one has secrets from me,” the voice said with a little more confidence. “Take me to the food. Hurry up now.”

With the knife still pressed against his neck, Gabriel moved slowly away from the building. When he reached the top of the riverbank, he took a few steps down the slope so that he was slightly lower than his assailant.

Gabriel grabbed the man’s wrist, pushing it downward and twisting it to the right. The man shrieked with pain, let go of the knife, and fell forward onto the slope. Gabriel picked up the blade. It was an improvised weapon that looked like a steel bracket that had been sharpened on a stone.

Gabriel stood over an impossibly thin man cowering on the ground. The man had greasy hair and a scraggly black beard. He wore torn pants-rags, almost-and a frayed tweed jacket. The bony fingers of his left hand kept stroking his soiled green necktie, as if this improbable piece of clothing could somehow save his life.