The Underside

The boat creaked and rocked to the side, as if it impacted a coral reef, of memories perhaps. Miller, tossed to the side, almost got flung out of the modest boat but caught himself on the edge of it just in time. Though that hardly helped him. He was now standing on a shaky rope bridge overhanging a raging volcano.

Bubbling magma at the bottom of the hellish pit seemingly groaned at Miller, beckoning for him, desiring to consume him. The bridge rocked. A faint trace of mist coming off of the ropes as they dried above the hellish pit.

“Oh no, not again. Not this again.” Miller closed his eyes, clenching onto the ropes of the unstable bridge. “Hah… so that’s how salmon feels when it’s being hot-smoked?”

On the other side, a figure stood, draped in shadows of mystery and fear.

“I’ve been through this b-” Miller paused his thoughts, opening his eyes to glance at the figure, “right… the test of courage.”

He took a steady step forth. “I am a chef of gods, one chosen by Canta.”

He took another step. From the depths of his mind he heard a voice echo, a faint voice, like a distant memory, “Wake up,” it called out to him.

The rope stiffened under his grasp, turning grainy and wood-like. He was back on the boat amidst the river filled not with raging currents, but raging souls of the damned, the screams of agony, and energy so dense it splashed against his face whenever it collided with the boat.

“Canta!?” he called out to his goddess, his sponsor, his beloved, but his plea fell on deaf ears.

A faint, barely audible through the endless screams bark distracted him before he was consumed by another rush of memories. A small black dog sitting in front of him barked at him a few times. Every subsequent time he felt his focus drift and memories came flooding, the bark roared through his mind like rolling thunder. Albeit muffled, the bark was sharp and persistent.

Miller clenched to the sides of the boat as the currents of the river of the dead tossed him violently as if he and the boat were a piece of debris the river had to remove. It thrashed like a monster that got mounted by a pesky hunter. Miller felt weightlessness as the boat got tossed into the air several meters. The cracked hull would give in on the next impact.

“CANTA!!!” he called out of despair, but once more his plea remained unanswered. Though something else responded. Ancient symbols – hieroglyphs, appeared around the cracks in the hull, bonding the weakened lumber together, reinforcing it to withstand the wrath of the Nile of the dead.

The black dog was now standing rather than sitting, its claws dug into ancient wood, it’s posture that of a dog on guard, ready to lash out and strike. A low growl escaping its throat as it bared its fangs. Miller clung onto the bench he sat upon as the boat landed back in the river. A loud creak greeted him back, but the boat remained intact.

“Thank the gods…” he gasped, glancing over the side at the river. Its murky texture could hardly be perceived by a human. It was a mixture of energy of abyss, darkness that could stare back if you stared at it too long, mixed with the souls of humans and creatures, each screaming in agony and clawing at the hull of the boat, desperate to escape this endless stream that relentlessly tested the souls.

“Duat is no joke…” Miller groaned.

At last the boat crashed into the bank of the river on the other side. The dog leapt up, grasping Miller by the collar of his jacket and pulling him along out of the boat just as a violent wave crashed against it, shattering it into splinters and tossing it out of the river.

Miller reached for his waterskin to catch his breath and rest a little, when a thought echoed in his mind, from the deepest corners of his subconsciousness he heard a call, a beckoning, ‘River, water.’ He felt an urge to collect it, but his consciousness resisted.

M.F.: yes, ofc

M.F.: hell noooo its full souls who knows what they do in there

K.W.: Sounds like a good spice. Collect!

M.F.: you dont drink from the public pool either

A.H.: Collect some. It’ll make his next soup spicier.

V.M.: You don’t?

O.F.: So or so, could come in handy Mist ForestSagittarius: get souls, find a demon sell then souls. provblome sloved

L.G.: take the water, maybe there’s a soul in it that could still prove useful

Miller drank a few sips of the water from his waterskin, then poured the rest out. A neat little puddle formed from which the black puppy drank. While it was distracted, Miller crawled toward the edge of the riverbank and holding his waterskin out, he lowered it hesitantly into the ‘river’. His hand trembled.

At first, it felt like lowering his hand into an ice-covered lake. The ‘water’ bit at his skin like a thousand scorpions stinging him simultaneously. His body protested, pleading to stop and pull away. But with each passing second, he felt the grasp of death itself caressing his hand. The cold morbid sensation of the death’s touch left a mark upon his skin. The pain faded, leaving behind only the feeling of cold death.

When the waterskin was filled, he pulled his hand out, afraid to see what has happened to him. Upon his forearm was a stain, like a splatter of ink, a mark left by the underworld in which he found himself. Though it looked terrifying, he felt no different, nor did he feel intimidated by it. It felt, right. It felt appropriate. It felt necessary. He rubbed it with the thumb of his other hand, the stain persisted.

“I hope I’m not cursed or something, Canta would be really pissed if I got cursed yet again,” he sighed, shuddering at the memories of the last curse he had to deal with and how Canta sent him through a literal hell to get cured because she ‘couldn’t be bothered dealing with something so silly.’ Glancing over his side, he saw the black pup glaring up at him. When their gazes met, the pup’s golden, glistening eyes darted off to the side, toward a tomb of sorts.

Decorated by glowing hieroglyphs and an ominous aura seeping from the ill-sealed gaps in the tomb’s entrance. Miller swallowed audibly, glaring at the door.

“Uhh n-no. Not happening. If I had ever seen a ‘entering this will curse you for life’ it’s this. I’m not enduring an ancient Egyptian pharaoh’s curse or something.”

He glanced at the pup, shaking his head. The dog seemingly furrowed its eyebrows at him and took a few steady steps toward the tomb.

“No,” Miller protested.

The dog turned, throwing a stern gaze at Miller. He sighed, “Fine fine. Canta said something about following my guide, and you’re the only thing around here that hasn’t yet tried to kill me.”

He followed the dog closely behind, thinking back to how he met it after Canta sent him to this underworld without explaining anything, just a simple ‘do this for me. I crave a delicious ending.’.

He pondered over her words, approaching the tomb. As he placed his hand against the massive stone door, a radiant flash blinded him momentarily. He was on a battlefield, on his knees, holding in his arms a body of a wounded woman whose breath grew ever fainter.

“No, no please don’t abandon me! Hang on! Stay with me, I’ll think of something. I won’t let you! Not like this.”

Warmth rolled down his cheeks, dripping off them like sporadic rain.

A sharp bark pulled his drifting mind back. He snapped out of the vision as if he was a fish that suddenly yanked out of the water. A sharp gasp echoed through the otherwise eerie silence.

“T-thanks,” He swallowed audibly.

“I guess that’s what it feels like to be on the other side of the fishing line huh?” he glanced at the dog and smirked. “Ugh, gods and their cryptic messages eh?”

The symbols carved into the door began to glow.

A few cracks propagated throughout the massive slab of stone. Moments later it crumbled to dust. And as soon as it crumbled, the ominous aura that was sealed behind it, slammed against Miller like a tsunami, filling every fiber in his body with fear and anxiety. His knees shook, but did not buckle. He had spent enough time around gods of various ranks and powers to grow used to ominous auras that would otherwise make a mortal faint.

He took a deep breath, peering into the darkness before him.

“Come in,” a voice called out to him.

“Who’s there?” Miller inquired.

“I said COME IN!” The voice – no longer inviting, rather it was now commanding and demanding.

Miller’s body moved on its own, following the order it received. As he stepped into the veil of darkness, the room became clear to him. Before him stood a mummy, with a cat sitting on its left shoulder, and another laying in its arms, enjoying slow strokes it was receiving.

Miller popped an eyebrow, staring with confusion at the figure before him, “And you are?”

The mummy paused, looked down at the cat, then back at Miller.

“I am Nekot’hamon. Once a pharaoh. Cursed by my people. Sealed in this tomb. And now – set free, by your grace.”

The mummy grinned a toothless grin, holding a cat out.

“My precious kitties have been starved, say – have you any snacks for them?”

Miller tapped his pockets in desperate search of something.

“Uhm,” he glanced at the floor in hopes of his guide puppy being there, but the black dog was nowhere to be seen.

“N…no!? But I’m sure we can find something for your kitties in the nearest forest or erhm, is there a forest in the underworld?”

The mummy thought for a moment, “I’m sure there is. Feed my darlings, and I’ll have one accompany you on your journey. I promise, their companionship will be worth your trouble.”

Miller did not need to think long about it – an ancient mummy’s summoned cats just sounded like something he desired to have. He roamed the vastness of the forest in search of ingredients for the cats. A few herbs, surprisingly something he was familiar with – a valerian root that he gathered, and honeysuckle that some cats enjoyed.

He found a few smooth stones to use as mortar and pestle, and to his surprise, upon his return, he found one of them had a critter of sorts for him to make a meal out of. The cooking was under way. He made quick work of the critter and made a stew with the addition of the spices and herbs he uncovered in the forest.

The cats were left satisfied, and fond of their new friend. One particular cat, a gray, furless sphynx seemed particularly fond of him. It rubbed its head against his leg.

“Guess that one is yours,” the mummy spoke softly, satisfied with the chef’s performance. As Miller ran his fingers down the cat’s back, it disappeared before his eyes.

A black ink-like stain appeared at his fingertips, then slithered up his left arm, turning into a cat hieroglyph on his left forearm. A symbol of his newly acquired companion, and approval of the Nekot’hamon.

“What do you think?” A tall figure with a growling voice asked, watching Miller walking off into a labyrinth.

“He’s kind,” the mummy replied to the figure. “Shouldn’t you be guiding him through the labyrinth, o great one?”

The tall figure shot a golden gaze at the mummy, “Not this time. He has to prove his perseverance if he is to please Osiris.”

The mummy nodded, slowly stroking a cat. “He will, but why?”

Miller’s vision faded to black. Exhaustion took its toll on his body at last. Existing in a different realm came at a cost, especially without divine protection. Miller’s gaze darted around the chaos of the battlefield. Fire roared through the skies tearing it apart, lightning struck down at the ground in relentless assault. The screams of defeat and roars of victories were muffled by the clash of iron and roar of magic.

A window of sorts popped up in front of his vision.

“You are being judged.”

It read. Another one popped up, “The sponsors frown at the lack of entertainment.”

His hands were covered in blood, bearing the weight of the body that grew ever colder.

“Not like this. Disgusting,” a familiar voice rang in Millers mind. “Bring her back, I desire a tasteful tale.”

Miller jolted awake in a room unknown to him. A quick scan revealed it to be a chamber of sorts, with two figures glaring down at him from their pedestals.

“Mortal in the underworld?” spoke one of them.

“On a journey of Duat?” spoke the other one.

“What shall we do? He is not a spirit to be judged.”

The other figure glanced over his shoulder at the female figure. Miller’s vision came into focus.

One of the figures was masculine, with the head of an ibis, a bird with a long thin beak. The other was a feminine figure with bird-like wings for arms. She tilted her head to the side, admiring the mortal before her. Miller gasped, “oh my god.”

The bird-headed figure turned to look at him sharply.

“Gods,” corrected the bird-headed figure, “both of us are. I, god of wisdom, will judge the worth of your heart and resolve.”

The female grinned, “And I, goddess of truth and justice will judge your intentions and past.”

Miller, taken aback by the unexpected appearance of gods, took a deep shaky breath and then bowed his head.

“I am at your, judgment. Like a freshly caught salmon being inspected by the fisherman, or a hunk of meat being analyzed by the chef. Turn me, twist me, just don’t cook me.”

The gods exchanged confused glances.

The ibis-headed god placed his hand upon Millers chest. The chef felt a surge of energy through his body as his memories were pulled out of his body, an uncontrollable avalanche of his memories overwhelmed him in an instant.

He was face to face against a shark, the captain of the pirates, he was cooking for his goddess, and then on a picnic with her. He stood amidst the darkness before the other gods, and walked through the endless torment of a hellish landscape. He was played with, a toy for the entertainment of the gods, and still, he persevered and did all for his beloved goddess Canta.

At last, the torrent of memories stopped and Miller fell to the ground, gasping for air, having relived his best and worst adventures all at once, simultaneously. He glared up at the ibis-headed god, gritting his teeth.

“For her, I am,” he drew a shaky breath. “I am here for her, and I won’t fail.”

The god stepped aside, “I can see that.”

The winged woman was now upon him. Her feathers brushed against his hand, rolling his sleeves up to reveal the mark of death he received from the Nile of souls, the river of the dead.

“Courageous and brave,” she spoke softly. Her gentle feathers tickled the skin of his left arm as she brushed them against it. Goosebumps formed on his hand. “Compassionate and kind. The mark of a cat and the mark of the death.”

She glanced at the bird-headed god. “He might not be a soul, but he passes.”

The ibis-headed god nodded. “I bestow upon this mortal the mark of Thoth. You pass Duat. We grace you with the mark of life and rebirth.”

He pressed his index finger against Miller’s temple, where another mark took shape. It was the mark of Ankh – a cross like hieroglyph with an open oval at the top. Miller slowly rose to his feet with the assistance of the gods.

“I thank you.”

From the shadow of the room, a tall figure with a jackal head emerged, its golden eyes shone brightly.

“And now you are to meet the god of this realm. Have you discovered your purpose yet?”

Miller swallowed audibly, “I saw it. Canta desires a tasteful end of a story that isn’t mine.”

Anubis sneered excitedly, “This way to the throne room.”

A shadowy portal appeared on the wall next to him.

As Miller emerged on the other side, in the shadow-filled room, at the center stood a throne, and upon it sat a figure, sleepily leaning on one hand, while playfully twisting a scepter in the other. It noticed the appearance of its loyal servant – Anubis, and the mortal, the intruder of his realm. “Oh?”

Miller had encountered plenty of gods, but few stand in the ranks that Osiris stands. The elder gods were different. Their gaze alone could make a mortal disappear forever. Miller instantly fell to one knee.

“Lord Osiris, god of afterlife and resurrection. On behalf of my goddess Canta, I apologize for the intrusion.”

Osiris’s lip curled up on one side as he lazily leaned back in his throne, “And?”

Miller swallowed hard, “I desire to offer an exchange. I am Miller, a renowned chef of gods, and I offer you a meal unlike any you have ever savored before.”

Osiris sat up in his throne, leaning in with a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes, “And what seek you and your goddess from me that you intrude my realm?”

Miller dared not raise his gaze from the floor, “I desire to return a single soul of a dying warrior. The story of her and her loved one is to be savored by many gods and bear great perspective for a truly delightful end. Return her soul if the meal is to your liking.”

Osiris leaned even closer, “And if it isn’t, you shall remain here until you satisfy my hunger and produce a meal worthy of a supreme deity.”

Anubis sneered slyly. “I shall guide the chef to acquire any ingredients to his liking.”

Osiris nodded, “Bring me a meal before the dawn of tomorrow. Until then – roam freely as you will.”

And so Miller set out on his adventure to acquire the ingredients scattered throughout the underworld. A pharaoh’s cursed pepper to add a truly infernal spice to the meal for the great god. A tear of the sphinx to serve as salt that his cat companion acquired for him with ease. The ‘water’ from the Nile of souls to serve as the basis for the soup. A griffin’s powdered claw to add a mythical aftertaste, and the final ingredient to be yet determined.

As Miller stood in the kitchen prepared by Osiris, and under his watchful eye, he stirred the soup, carefully adding the gathered ingredients in carefully measured doses – in other words, his gut feeling. Because as it turns out, cooking with underworld ingredients for a god of afterlife is not something that exists in cookbooks.

The soup gave a tangling sensation to Miller as he sampled it. There was a faint trace of a curse that lingered on his tongue as he swallowed, with a burning fiery sensation left behind by the screams of agony as the soup made its way down his throat. He coughed violently, his entire body shuddered. The time was almost up, but the soup was missing something still, something a god of resurrection would enjoy most.

“God Thoth, hear my plea,” Miller uttered.

A moment later there was a knock on the door to the throne room.

“Enter,” Osiris ordered. Through the door the ibis-headed god entered humbly and bowed.

“I have been summoned,” he bowed to Osiris.

“You may answer the summon,” Osiris leaned back, curiously watching Thoth approaching the mortal, and their exchange.

Miller’s secret ingredient was the memories of his most extravagant adventure, the time when he served to entertain the gods during his participation in the Divine Meal competition. His adventures to create meals with the utmost incredible effects for the gods to savor. The mushrooms allowed the gods to talk to light, amongst other effects. But also the challenges he had to overcome to acquire the necessary ingredients.

Thoth complied with his request, adding memories of these adventures to the soup. Miller presented the seemingly ordinary stew, made of the most unordinary ingredients, in a swirling maelstrom of chaos in the bowl. Osiris slowly brought up the spoon to his lips, a playful smirk danced upon his lips as excitement for the meal tugged at his mind. As he savored it, his eyes shot open. Miller’s memories danced on his tongue, the curse accompanying the memories added an extra spice to them.

A slurp followed a clank, over and over, as the god of the afterlife enjoyed every drop of the deliciousness prepared to him by the mortal. At last he finished the last spoonful and leaned back in his throne with a satisfied grin on his face.

“Delicious, truly, utmost delicious. Mortals who know that we gods enjoy stories, are playing unfairly. Very well. You win.”

Miller watched as Osiris with an intricate gesture of his finger, drew a soul of the recently deceased from the nothingness, and held the glowing orb out on his palm.

“She is yours. Do visit us again, I crave more of your cooking.”

Miller wasted no time, knowing full well that every second counted. He grasped the glowing orb, “I shall.”

In that instant, Anubis snapped his finger, and the mortal was gone from the underworld.

Miller stood in the vast darkness, watching through a rift of sorts, as the dying woman, in the arms of her beloved, gasped once more. Color returned to her cheeks, and the chaos of the battlefield fell silent as she cupped her lover’s cheek with her hand.

“Well done, Miller, my dear, ”Canta’s gentle voice came from behind Miller. He felt her warm and gentle hands wrap around his waist as she hugged him from behind. “My cute little chef. How was the underworld?”

Miller leaned back against her, savoring her warmth, melting like butter on a pan from her gentle voice. “I hate you…” he whispered.

“No you don’t,” she replied slyly, hugging him tightly.

“Watch,” she whispered. Miller watched the woman who was dying rise up to her feet. In the palm of her hand, an orb of light formed.

“She is the savior of their world. I couldn’t let it end. I hate BITTERNESS and you know that.”

“I know,” Miller replied with a gentle bob of his head, watching the story before him unfold. But that is a story for another time.