The Tumulus. The vast subterranean realm that became my residence. The majority of it remains alien to me, shrouded in its own natural blackness. What abysmal depth it reaches I never learned, but we were forsaken by any chariot of the Sun and the great color wheel it uses to paint its blazing strokes. The homogenous smoky haze of Rembrandt or the tenebrism of Caravaggio when the Forge bleeds its incandescence or lamps light the streets with their occasional limelight and foxfire—the greens and reds converging to muddled russet brown—this is visibility at its best, and oftentimes the lack of perceivable depth gives me the impression I am caught inside the limiting framework of a painting. And yet, the characters I was soon to interact with, a comic strip.

Colors were often deceptive to my untrained eyes in this scant lighting until I learned to filter them properly. Red bricked is the city when the Forge is at its greatest fury, then embering, becomes dusted with the soot of a multi-shaded charcoal cityscape—buildings looming like ugly thunderheads deep as pitch or spotlighted to reveal gaunt wraiths of washed out decaying grays. This waxing and waning of the Forge became the city’s rhythm, our circadian cycle, our daylight. At its brightest it appears no stronger than the struggle of dawn. Natural in aspect enough, but with its nightly recession the ghostly light of foxfire emerges in shadows, emanating from certain species of fungi cultivated and harvested for our lamps or abounding in their natural saxicoline state. These thrive and house themselves upon the substrate of decaying buildings, deposit themselves in the gutters paralleling roadways, or are mounted on poles for streetlamps and interior fixtures. The largest and strongest of these life forms provide exceptional lighting, but were at first disconcerting to my eyes, bleaching all colors to an unhealthy white, lacking the incandescent shine of earth’s yellow Sun. But they are the exception. The vast populace is numbered by their smaller cousins. Alien in coloring, their luciferin enzymes burning with a dark emerald fire in the ancient strains, pouring forth a lighter chartreuse or peridot in the more recent expensive cultivars soaking the atmosphere with the more natural yellows of sunlight. Quite enchanting and nostalgic when strolling beneath them, as though I walk once again in a cool forest canopied with leaves like shards of stained glass. An experience long lost to me.

Nostalgia—one of the few untouchable riches no man or fiend may seize from us. Memory’s aging liquor. The bottle when drunk acting as a buoying lifesaver to embrace and save one from time’s undertow. Memories. My treasures. It is the seemingly hollow, silly ones that have often proven themselves to be the most powerful, accompanying me to battle everyday.

The great portion of the inhabited areas of the Tumulus could be best described as a city. Its name, Shinayim. A city of ash and cinders, as though some great idea had burnt itself out and died. But one, during the few hours of quietude when the fires burn low and high winds might let the ashes float down from the sky like a light and gossamer snowfall, possesses the charm of a Dickensian London. At times appearing as vast as any earthly city when gazing at the heart of it from the elevated view point of our bridge site; and that is when the dark charcoal grays of these toothed towers seem most pronounced, throwing off the white ashen limelight and foxfire and reflecting the red light of the Forge like the embers of wood. A great forest smoldering. But one of petrified wood for no trees reside in this stygian mansion. It is then, shrunken by perspective, when Shinayim acquires its quainter quality and seems not so vast, not so dominating. This impression of quaintness was ever on the rise once I became familiar with this city’s nonsensical winding streets; and this growing familiarity have I ever been thankful for because it has kept me from losing myself in unwelcoming neighborhoods. From the look of it and feel of the tread of it by my often confused and anxious feet, I would almost be tempted to say that the vastly liberal organization of its streets must have been designed by the same engineers, or their near kin, who designed the labyrinthine streets of Rome. I am loathed to speak any ill or make any comparison of the Eternal City to Shinayim, but if ever I had to draw a map of Rome or this place, to give someone a general idea of what either looks like, I would proceed by grabbing a pencil with my toes and scribbling it on a piece of paper. Then I would continue on to the next street.

The city itself is overly large for its population—almost half emptied, a ghost town. Very agreeable to my comfort, like a pub still early in the night before the great rush of people have entered and started breathing my oxygen. There is room to sit and walk unhindered, converse without having to strain one’s voice or ear, and be promptly served before the other sots get their fill of swill before me. As I later learned, a great swallowing, as it was known, had taken away a portion of its dwellers many years prior; a sinkhole devouring half the old Ironworks upriver and the outlying suburbs. The economy took a dive, fear ate at the populace, crime rose, and many made their exodus into the outlying desert. I joined those who remained.

As I imagined at the time of my orientation a great portion of the population of this hollow city was involved either directly or indirectly with the engineering, extraction of raw material, smelting, casting, equipment and tool production, and manufacturing of parts to assist in the construction of our beloved bridge. No different in warfare, where exist many hidden faces behind the lines to support soldiers in their bloody efforts. Behind these were artisans, craftsman, laborers, and functionaries like any city requires to design, build, produce food, repair, and sanitize (if it could be called that here); and merchants, tradesman, and mongers of all sorts scuttling about or remaining stationed in their hovels to supply the needs of the populace. But often I have walked through life and afterlife ignorant of many events and undercurrents. Many had their own agendas that had nothing to do with any form of physical ascension from this realm. It is in looking back I now notice what a subtle power struggle must have been churning at the city’s core. Slowly, under the watchful and influencing eyes and hands of my employer, the populace was being made to live in the pockets of a company town; its officials masked ciphers progressively losing political sway to the shifting alliances of the growing corporatocracy. And not a few citizens were displeased with Dark Lantern’s insistent good will and patronizing influence. But I, like many, knew we were sadly forced to be ever on our own, and welcomed any welcoming hand proffered us—one that could stoke this city back to passionate life.

And that it did, whatever else it may have done. From the water mills, wind mills, and steel mills with their rising smokestacks, the economic advantages and job opportunities promoting an upsurge in fungal farming, livestock husbandry, fishing weir construction in the rivers and lake, and the mines that ran their labyrinthine courses to unknown abysmal depths, the city and its outlying suburbs and rural towns day by day began demonstrating their growing ability to harness the elements and life itself. Technology rose, quickly pushed by the Bridge’s great thirst for it. As a result, living became easier for most, though life itself remained still the same stubborn creature no panacea of technology could metamorph.

Regrettably, like any city, there was ever a small portion of unsavory individuals who find work to be a most disagreeable undertaking, either because they feel they are too dainty, believe work in all its forms is an affront to their high and noble breeding, or are not fond of lifting anything heavier than twelve ounces. These are the parasites who hide in the cities dark gut—the swindlers, the thieves, the gangbangers, the slowcoaches, ne’er-do-wells, vagabonds, shiftless lay-abouts, and the schemers. A certain pride took shape under the employment of my company such that our philosophies on life were unconsciously guided by its own. Therefore, we of the humble workforce had great right to feel indignation towards these sultans of sloth and rajahs of rest undermining the foundations we wished to lay. This Bridge would be accessible to all once it was done and they would benefit from the fruit of our labor equally as we—much like my oldest brother who never ate breakfast, but would, after I had to spend weeks laboring through bowl upon bowl of dry corn flakes or soggy Cream of What?, swoop in for a delectable banquet of second and third helpings once our mother finally bought that rare box of Count Chocula. To not take part in a project is anyone’s right, but to reap its benefits afterward is not right. Law never was a stranger here, nor was there lack of order or propriety; therefore, laziness was persecuted when the offending parties or persons could be rounded up once production began, and I slowly accustomed myself to being the company’s instrument of molten metal motivation. But an undercurrent of the previous overall lackadaisical mentality of the place still prevailed somewhat, and that nothing would cure. So it was both a source of comfort not to be driven quiet like mules and a frustration to see so many slackers being held unaccountable. That was the compromise we were forced to accept. No system is perfect.

Whether it was influenced by the propaganda of my company or was a concept my mind would never even have questioned, I held the sincerest belief that all souls wished passionately to depart this entombing under realm. I looked forward to the completion of the Bridge, naively expecting these Van Winkles to in some way lend us their aid. But some find life, no matter its form or locale, to be an odious and nihilistic enterprise. Maybe, without knowing it, what they thirst for is to not free themselves from a pit, but once and for all from the samsara circling after and universal attempt to bite their own tales. It is possible that their souls crave that comforting cure all, oblivion, but being the immortal creatures I found them out to be, are denied it, and so compromise themselves by walking with their eyes half shut in the curtains of our penumbral world.