I

Under the Mountain of God

Matthew stared at the title page for almost an hour. He knew the words were right, but the letters just seemed wrong somehow. Maybe it was because his brain had been assailed by the same five words over and over again, like a verse that is said so often it becomes almost a foreign tongue. He almost changed the word ’Under’ to ’Below’, but his Catholic anxiety forced his hand to commit to the former. The word ’Below’ seemed to have theological implications, conjuring images of Hell and damnation into his mind. He wanted to avoid anything too directly Dante-ish. At least for now.

There would always be time for Hell, he smiled, thinking about the fiery images of torture and just how horrifically he could describe them.

He deleted the phrase obsessively, just once more, so that he had performed the manoeuvre an odd amount of times, cancelling out the equal repetitions. A last nervous tic that would have otherwise made him feel enraged. He hated himself for doing so but was at the very least now accepting pf the title. It was a start. A small beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. This book had to be perfect. He knew that. He knew that if it was not his Magnum Opus, Matthew had reached the point in his life when he would go down to the garage, flick the metal hinges around his father’s reconstructed WWII footlocker and take out the long-barrelled Barretta. He had pictured the motions several times over the last few months. He would connect his Android to the Bluetooth speaker, on which he would play Wagner’s ’Entry of the gods into Valhalla’. As the operatic music reached its climax, at around five and a half minutes, Matthew would cock the shotgun, place the twin-barrels between his upper and lower jaw, then, breathing in and out deeply, he would squeeze the ebony trigger and let the weapon spray his hopes and dreams across the tarpaulin.
It needs to be perfect, he thought. His fingers drummed repetitively on the edge of the keyboard. One-two-three, one-two-three, in a compulsive, agitative attack. He had taken two showers today. In his state, this had been a feat of accomplishment in its own right. He just had not felt clean enough. Charlotte had touched a nerve somewhere with her aggressive remark over breakfast. Triggered a subconscious threat. His fight-or-flight had been haywire. Must get clean. Must get cleaner. Then, he had changed the soap dispenser without gloves on. Rookie mistake. It needed to be rectified with a deep scrub.
A clicking lock downstairs brought him once more back into reality. Charlotte must have nipped outside. She loved this time of year. Mid-March. Spring. She hated winter and long nights. Matthew, on the other hand, was a snow-lover, not a sun-worshipper. Spring was his favourite time of the year, only for the Easter celebrations, rather than the meandering insects that often made their home in their thatched roof of the old cottage.

Anything that buzzed, he thought, was just put on this earth just to cause me anxiety.
He stared at the bright laptop screen again. He had underlined the title, and upon pressing the ’enter’ key, now watched the familiar flickering line below. That one little black bar that reminds you how much there is left to write and how little you have accomplished with the day. Matthew glanced down at the lower right corner of the laptop. ’14:12’. Too late for lunch. Too early for tea.
He almost scolded himself. Charlotte would have corrected him against the proper use of lunch and tea. In her mind, and agreeably, most people in the area, it was lunch and dinner. A remindful pang of resentment filled his heart.
Charlotte. Not his wife. Not yet. Not in the foreseeable future. The accident had changed that. The accident had changed everything. Altering the state of life from one of care-free abandon to a regimented structure of hospitals, daily care and prescription medicine.

The Police Report had stated a high level of alcohol in the driver’s bloodstream. This anonymous assailant hand blown a 0.12. There were no children in the backseat, but there had been a child’s-seat which was occupied until the moment of impact. Prison sentence - minimal. The judge had offered a kindly leniency due to issues surrounding the defendant’s home life. Failed marriage. Fear of child support losses, and the rest. Matthew had not pushed too hard on the justice system as he had failed to report a quite vital piece of evidence during the hearing; in the split seconds it had taken for Chloe McCleod to swerve over the jagged lines of the A166, Matthew might have easily peered up from his phone and seen the awkward angle at which the Mercedes had been heading. Nobody knew, not even Charlotte. Nobody would ever know but himself, and God.

He heard the front door click and slide over the carpet again.
‘Matt,’ Charlotte called up, muffled by the thick walls.
‘Matt,’ she repeated, ‘Luke’s here.’
Thank God, Matthew thought, thankful for the reprieve from his own mind for at least the next hour.
He minimized the document on his laptop and was greeted by a desktop picture of him and Charlotte. Taken over three years ago on the Greek island of Crete, they looked a normal couple. Happy even. Matthew had shorter hair then and a clean-shaven face. After the accident, he had wound up in a severe depression and had taken to bathing once a week, shaving once a month and had not visited the barber’s since before it happened, so now his brown hair had become a mop that clung below his ears.
Charlotte looked exactly the same as she had in Crete. Perfect figure. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth, eyes, nose, chin, cheeks. He resented her for it. Though, more than anyone, he often felt he resented God for it all.
Hard, wooden footsteps approached the study. Luke always knocked, even when he had clearly been invited in; like some post-modern vampire whose societal conventions outweighed his thirst for blood. He had always been kind, but since the accident, his kindness had bordered on über-empathy. Almost as if Matthew had become a three-legged dog, needing double the affection due to his unfortunate affliction.
‘Come in, dude,’ Matthew said, pushing the laptop a little out of arms reach. He grasped the cool, steel grips of the wheelchair and span himself to face the door. The wheels tracked grooves into the old shag carpet. Calligraphy of God’s loving design.
‘Hey, man. How are we diddlin’ today?’ Luke entered the room as if he owned it. He entered every room with a subtle commandeering effect. For the past seven years, he had made a living working for Her Majesty’s Prison Service, and it showed. Whether he ever meant to or not, Luke radiated a feeling of control over everything within arm’s length. It was a trait that Matthew both admired and envied.
‘Not bad, I guess,’ Matthew lied, ‘just trying to get this book started. I’m telling you, this one will be the death of me.’
Luke sniggered. ‘Let’s just hope you get the recognition for this one. Tellin’ you man, I loved that zombie story you had. The Unhallowing? Gripping stuff. Little historical for me, but I enjoyed the flesh-eating as much as the next weirdo.’

Luke had always been supportive of Matthew’s work, even when others had not been as appreciative. In fact, the reviews had ranged from ’poor’ to ’barely readable’. Or had it been ’barely followable’? Whatever the wording, the reviews had sent Matthew’s depression into a state of constant fluctuation between suicidal and psychotic, to be topped off with a sense of null-worth, and a side of existential dread. Add a little sprig of crying-alone-in-the-dark as a garnish. After each dreaded review, Luke knew just how to cheer him up. He would research quotes and anecdotes about how famous authors had received much more scathing reviews and managed to bounce back - why couldn’t he?

The pair of them had been inseparable friends since university, where they had both studied Theology under the reign of Father Fitzgerald; a witty Irish priest with a penchant for discipline and an eager thirst for the ‘Devil’s Creature’. Father Fitz had named them ’The Poor Man’s Apostles’, as they were missing Mark and John. The name stuck so much that it became their group name for the monthly pub quiz. It seemed almost a lifetime ago since those theology lectures, but still, the two of them adored getting plastered at the local and discussing the relationship of Nietzsche or Hegel to the modern geopolitical agenda.
Matthew had actually wanted to follow in his theological background and one day become a priest, maybe even make bishop. It would have certainly made his staunch Irish Republican grandmother beam with delight. Not anymore though. It was not that he lacked faith. He attended church every Sunday without fail. Come rain or shine. It was because God’s own hand had prevented him from pursuing such notions. Not out of divine vengeance, but it was simply no longer God’s plan for him. Who wanted to deal with a crippled priest?
Yeah, just hang on there, Jesus, I’ll be up at the altar in fifteen months, once the diocese installs a chairlift or a ramp.

Matthew opened the laptop and maximised the document on the lower bar. The bright white page filled the screen, covering ’Crete ’16’, and leaving the words ’Under the Mountain of God’ leering back at him.
‘Nice title. But don’t you think the word Under –’ Luke began
‘Just don’t even start.’ Matthew cut him off. ‘I’m trying to reboot Dante and perhaps copy a few ideas, I don’t want to be known for ripping off a 15th-century poet in his entirety.’
‘14th-century, I think. Father Fitz would have scolded you for that one,’ Luke replied, ‘but fair enough. I just thought it clicked more. After all, they say people do judge a book by its cover.’ Then he quickly added, ‘not that your covers aren’t good. Not what I meant at all. I loved the one with the naked girl covered in blood. Very classy stuff I gotta say.’
Luke took a seat in the spare desk-chair that Charlotte used to use when they worked on projects together. A long time ago.
‘So is this the great work of poetry you’ve been stifling over for the past year? Haven’t even gotten past the title page. You aren’t having any of those dark thoughts anymore, are you, man?’ Luke was fumbling with the hem of his shirt, trying to tuck it into a buckled waistline.

‘Dark thoughts?’ asked Matthew, trying to feign memory loss of the last time they had spoken this way.

‘Come on, man. You aren’t gunna try anything stupid again?’

Matthew just sighed, turning his face back to the laptop.

‘I don’t want to see you hit that self-destruct button. You’re Lacy’s godfather. Hell, if I go, you’re gunna have to step up.’

‘I pushed that self-destruct button a long time ago, it’s just delayed. Probably on a timer.’ Matthew gave the usual half-hearted laugh most people have in response to Matthews’s dark humour that hit a little too close to the truth.

He hadn’t mastered the art of persuasion yet. Doctors and therapists he could just about deceive. His best friend, unlikely.

‘You spoken to your sister lately?’ Luke had completed his tucking and had moved on to fiddling with various photographs littered around the office space. He tended to fidget in awkward silences. Never could handle the atmosphere of a deep conversation for too long unless pints were involved.

Matthew shook his head, ‘last time we spoke she’d run off with that American guy. Said something about what an awful childhood she had but never went into any detail. Think she’s just ghosting everyone till they give up. Easier that way, I suppose. Tell yourself a bunch of lies to hide the truth you don’t want to hear. Shame, she was a nice person for a while there.’

‘Yeah. That sucks, man. Still, you got me and Charlotte. We aren’t going anywhere.’

Matthew pushed a smile out, before sensing his hand move towards the desk and his index finger rattle an odd number of times in quick succession against the underside.

Luke’s response to his obsessive compulsions? ‘We all got issues, man. We’re all fucked up.’

Matthew turned away and stared back at the unnatural light of the laptop screen. The title stared back.

Under the Mountain of God.

Just the title. Below, that same flickering line that showed how empty the page was.
Matthew tilted back in his wheelchair slightly and curled one finger beneath his upper teeth.

‘Yeah. It’s all up here, I’m just... I’m afraid.’
‘You’re afraid to start typing?’ Luke asked, not with any jest, but as sincere as anyone could ever ask such a question.
Matthew nodded, staring eagerly at the white screen and its constant flickering cursor.
‘I’m afraid that if this doesn’t go right, I’ll have finally failed at almost everything in my life. That’s going to sting, you know? Bad. You wouldn’t understand, man, you’re a success at everything.’

There was an awkward moment of silence when even Luke could not think of the right words to comfort his friend or break the cold pause.
‘Well, why don’t you run through the first chapter with me, and we can see how it goes,’ Luke asked, genuinely. Sincerity radiated from him in waves.
‘Sure.’ Matthew sighed, and turned to face him. ‘So, basically, I just want to set the scene. I don’t want to jump into anything too philosophical yet. It’s all up here.’
Matthew tapped twice on his left temple. He wanted to tap again but managed to refrain from doing so in the present company. Obsessive Compulsions were all well and accepted in today’s society, but he just hated the looks he got.
‘I’ve got a crusader in mind. Henry.’
Luke scoffed, ‘Henry?’
‘What’s wrong with Henry?’
‘It’s just doesn’t grab the reader, does it?’ Luke asked. ‘Henry. I guess it’s historically accurate, the range of names back then was a decimal of a fraction of today, but still... Henry. Just sounds dull to me.’
Matthew had considered this before. He had wanted a name that stood out across the pages. Something from an epic, such as Gandalf or Vader, or...
‘Roland?’
‘Really?’ Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you won’t rip off Dante, but you’ll happily rip off Stephen King?’
Matthew’s mouth twitched. He was right. It was a good name, just a shame King had gotten there first.
‘Henry it is then.’
‘Sure. Nice. English. Simple.’ Luke smiled, giving in, ‘I guess it worked for Potter. So, what’s the first step on his journey? We talking pure fantasy, or, what? Because I can draw a good buxom, German Fräulein. Big breasts, and broadswords if you need some inspiration?’
His eyebrows began to twitch, encouragingly.
Matthew just shook his head, ‘you’re insatiable. Would you prefer if I took time out of my life to just write you a fantasy, a bedtime novel for your own pleasure?’
‘Hmmm, might be a little weird,’ He accepted. ‘Speaking of weird, how are things with you and Charlotte?’
Great, he had to bring it up, Matthew thought and raged a little inside.
‘Haven’t so much as kissed in three months.’
Another long silence. This time it was far more awkward as they could hear Charlotte laughing downstairs. Most likely phoning her sister or mother. Having a good long laugh at Matthew’s expense.

No. That was unfair, he should not think like that.
‘So,’ Luke drew the vowel out, ‘Henry. What’s he going to do first? Fight a dragon? Kill a demon? Kill a man? Maybe he’s a bad guy?’
‘Everyone’s a bad guy,’ Matthew snapped back, swiftly, ‘that’s the point.’
It was the point. What use was a knight in shining armour these days? The world had seen that Disney garbage, chewed it up and spit it out a thousand times. There were no knights in shining armour. He doubted there ever had been. He remembered a quote he had seen somewhere he forgot, by someone he had not cared to remember. Still, he knew the words; ’a knight in shining armour is a man who has never had his metal tested’.
For the most part, it was true. Or a man so privileged he never had to defecate into a bag strapped to his leg or roll around his house stinking of urine.

No. Henry was not a good man.
‘He’s going to face himself. Every step of the way. I’m going to pick apart his life and throw every sin he ever made back at him.’ Matthew sounded almost angry.
‘Wow. Sounds like you actually hate this guy you made up.’ Luke examined, furrowing his brow and watching his old friend stare at the screen, unblinking; a madman trapped inside his own hellscape.
‘Of course I hate him,’ Matthew admitted, gnawing on a hangnail, ‘he’s me.’

‘Dark.’ Luke puffed a mouth of air out, straightening himself before speaking again, this time with a terrible East-Coast American accent.

‘So, what do you think is the hardest part about writing a novel, Matthew. Erm, can I call you Matthew?’ Luke gurned, imitating some stereotypical talk show host with a long drawl.

Matthew snorted, blushing, ‘well... err... Tony. Can I call you Tony? I’d have to say the hardest part about writing a novel would be the beginning. Everyone thinks the ending is usually the hardest part, although most of the time I have thought of three different endings before having sat down to write the book itself.’

‘Uhuh, oh wow,’ Luke continued his overdramatic talk-show impersonation, ‘it’s so great having you on here and our fans are just so, err, pleased you could take time out of your busy schedule to do so. Tell me, Matthew, how does this new novel start? I believe it’s called, ‘Dante Rip-off’?’

‘Arsehole,’ Matthew shook his head, but still kept his childish grin. ‘Tony, we all know what happens to our characters as they progress through the usual heroic arc. But what have we never truly asked ourselves about these beings we create?’

‘Well, you got me stumped, buddy. Please, tell us.’ Luke held his hand out to mimic holding the handle of a microphone.

Matthew’s smile broadened, ‘what is the afterlife for Alice, or Frodo, or Harry? What becomes of these wholesome lives we have created when the story finally ends, long after the pages have been read? Who is in charge of the fate of fiction? What God judges the dead who were only ever a part of our collective consciousness? Simply - what happens when our characters die?’

‘So,’ Luke asked, his eyebrow raised, ‘where do we begin?’

Clicking with an almost synchronistic melody, the keys of the laptop began to indent, and through this technological wonder, the words started to appear, as if by magic:

In the cold of the dark, the lone Knight stood in awe, as the sounds of an alien forest rattled through the twilight…

Chapter 2

I, Henry

But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn

no traveler returns, puzzles the will.

 – Hamlet, Act 3 Scene 1, William Shakespeare

In the cold of the dark, the lone Knight stood in awe, as the sounds of an alien forest rattled through the twilight.

His feet, coated in small grains of sand, echoes of what came before, now sank inch by inch into the quagmire. All around, the braying of unseen hungers reverberated through the decaying and desiccated trees.

‘It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream,’ his praying became a mantra, as Henry Oldecroft slowly felt the mud flop over his tired riding boots, releasing belches of stagnant bog.

His lips twitched with the repetitive prayer, when a thunderous howl sent winged critters loose from their perches, high in the emaciated vegetation. Scattering like parchment on the wind, bat-like rodents whisked themselves from danger, lifting on unseen winds towards the night sky.