Thanks. I used the Grim Reaper because he is actually the servant of the goddess Hel in Norse Mythology. Part of the reason that I like writing and reading about mythology so much is that there is so much to learn about the origins of many aspects of popular culture when reading about ancient myth and religion. Sorry it seems a little overused- perhaps I need to work on making the character of the Grim Reaper stand out more from other depictions of the character. However, I need to know- do you think that it was just your initial reaction to the name Grim Reaper that deterred you, or was my Grim Reaper really nothing special? Because he is staying in the story, and if I need to add more to him to make him new(while still holding true to the meaning of ancient myth), then I will.
Sci Fi & Fantasy / A Journey Through Helheim (Analysis)
A Journey Through Helheim
I.
The day is ending; a gold line of sunlight drenching the horizon of black hills in the distance. The clouds overhead are as a thousand mammoth ghosts, flying in the high winds above me. They seem to gather around in preparation.
I sigh, feeling the chill of the autumn night. I stand alone on the huge limestone crag that juts over the wide river. I watch as the water, which is a blue-green and murky color, deepens with the coming night to become a shade of blood wine when the last light of the sun at last bids farewell to the world. To my left are the fields of grain; of wheat and corn. The reapers have shorn the hair of the earth- the harvest goods lie in piles and blocks, ready to be stored away for the bitter winter.
If I squint, I can see plates of bread, cheese, and wine, laid out by the door of every house for the souls who will pass through the farmlands this night. There is a window open in every house, to allow for the passage of bereaved loved ones. I can see lit pumpkins on every porch, their toothy, greedy grins and grimaces warding off the unwanted souls- the poltergeists, the demons, and the dark fairy folk.
It is my first time living on this hallowed night as a woman. I no longer join the young children, who dress up in scary disguises to scare away the unwanted and the evil. I wear special clothing, but it is not a costume. My robe is stained red as wine, like the dark blood that has just begun to leak from me this past year. If I were a boy, it would be white, to mark the spermarche.
Tonight, I am initiated into my people, just as my ancestors before me. After this night, every year afterward I will join the men and women in the sacred rituals- the bonfire dances, the slaughter of the livestock for food, the blessing of the harvest. Every year, on the holy days, from this day forth, I will join in the drinking of the fermented juices, and the eating of pungent herbs which my people have long used to commune with nature.
It is almost time. Soon the current of the river will be streaked with the light of the full moon. I steady myself on the firm rock, my bare feet tingling. I am ready.
And then I hear them. All of the grown people of my family, who have each been in the same position as I am now, are coming up the path, chanting the old chants, and each bearing a single candle. The tip of the harvest moon, like a copper coin, spills a hazy silver light over the river and everything in sight. I hear the chanters chanting closer now, and the light from their candles lends a glow behind my eyes.
Soon they are all around me, chanting, caressing me. Several of them hold bushels of aromatic herbs, which they wave over and around me, filling my nostrils and my skin with the purifying smoke. Gradually the chanters move away from me, and their chant turns. It becomes slower, more guttural. The chanters stand in a circle behind me.
A voice, the oldest and frailest of voices, separates from the others. The voice chants higher and more fluctuating than the others, and I can hear it physically remove from the group, coming closer, until I see the body that it belongs to, the great grandfather, the oldest and wisest of my family group. When he is fully in front of me, the others stop chanting, leaving the night air quiet and still beside my great grandfather’s high, rich, clear voice.
He does not carry a candle, nor does he carry a bundle of smoking leaves. Instead, in his wrinkled old hands, he cradles an ancient thing. It is the helkappe, the sacred mask of our people- that will protect me in the spirit world, the land of the dead.
The old man chants on, running his bony fingers over the skin of the mask. It is a full face mask, and is divided into four parts by color. The upper right and lower left are light, made from birch wood, goose feathers, and the white fur of a deer’s belly. The upper left and lower right are dark, made from cherry wood, the feathers of a young raven, and the fur of a black wolf. The mask is adorned with shiny black, red, and white stones- hematite, carnelian, and quartz.
Having never seen the helkappe, I am drawn in by its stark gorgeousness as it glitters, shimmers and shines with all of its textures in the moonlight and the glow of a dozen candles. In all my life I have never seen anything like it. I have known the simple beauty of golden fields, of pumpkins lying pregnant on the vine, of the steady, wild dance of the river, and of all the colors in the sky. But the helkappe is different. It is pure glamour- pure, lustful, ecstatic beauty.
As I observe the sacred mask, I listen to my great grandfather chant. I know very little of the old language that he sings in, but I can decipher a little of the words, and the story. The story is very strange- it is about a fool and the lover of the fool, it is about triumph over tyrants and the evils of man. It is about beauty and it is about death. The story tells of hunger, of hunting, of harvesting. Lastly, the story tells that to the soil all of us must return, to be harvested by the earth. When that last part, the part about the reaper, the harvester of souls, is sung, my grandfather’s chant is over. He hands the helkappe over to me, bowing his aged head.
As the old man returns to the group, beckoning me to follow, a new chant is begun by the entire chorus of chanters. The chant very slowly builds as the group leads me across a shallow part of the river. The water stings the lower part of my legs with its frigid flow, and darkens the lower part of my robes. The group leads me to the other side of the river and to an antiquated path that leads into the woods.
Two other family groups join with us just outside of the woods, where they all come to a stop. The two other young people who are the center of the ceremony, a boy in white robes, and a girl in red, stand beside me, with their own helkappes. The families, the clans, circle around us, their chanting becoming louder.
Quite suddenly, when the chanting reaches its hottest, highest, and most intense point, it stops. The chanters blow out their candles, leave their herb bundles behind, and run away, back over the river. They run in the moonlight, which is now clear and white as crystal, to an immense stack of wood that has been prepared for a festival. The three of us watch as the bonfire is lit and the ancient and frenzied harvest dancing begins. There is a long night of feasting, singing, and more dancing ahead. But not for me, or the two who stand beside me.
We turn silently to each other. I know both of them, and their families. Cautiously, we look at each others’ helkappes. They are each beautiful, and each have the same harlequin design, but they are made from different materials. The girl’s is made mostly of clay, painted black and white, and has more intricate detail in it than the others. It is adorned with onyx, mother of pearl, and beads of coral. The boy’s mask is made of polished bone and shimmery blue-black stained glass. Bright red fox fur lines the edges and interior of it. Somehow, each helkappe, in its own way, tells the story of our individual families.
Though we have not been told what to do, we are drawn into the darkness of the forest, and we begin walking down the path, without speaking a word. Silently, the black shadow shapes of the trees envelop us as we continue down the path, the canopy above blocking out the strong light of the moon. Strangely, the path seems almost to glow of it’s own accord, as white as a million trillion bones spread out in the night, and we do not have trouble finding our way.
II.
We wander, having no sense of time, until it seems we have walked on this eerie pathway for our entire lives. Finally, there is a crossroads, a fork in the road. We can see it well before we reach it, and as we draw nearer, we more clearly begin to see the figure that stands before it.
The figure, standing on the path just before it splits into three, is an old woman. Her flesh is wrinkled with immense time; she is so old, so frail, so wrinkled, and so horrific, it seems that she has lived forever. But underneath her hood, in the mass of wrinkled hide that is her face, her eyes shine bright and clear as all the youth that ever was. Her wide black pupils are encased with glowing yellow irises and bright, unblemished whites. When we reach her, we become aware that perched in the trees and the ground around her are hundreds of carrion birds- crows, buzzards, ravens, and even owls.
We stop in front of her, and there is a pause in which I look down to see that the soil where she stands is writhing with worms and snakes. As she beckons us closer, I tremble even as I obey her command. The great old woman tilts her head to the moon, and raises her timeless arms. Her toothless mouth opens, releasing a clear, hideous, and mournful thunder, that forms the words: “I am Hecate.”
I recognize the name at once. Hecate is the goddess of old age, of decay, and of witches. I shudder, knowing that where there is Hecate, nearby is always death. All three of us shudder with the same realization. Hecate looks at us, acknowledging what her name means to us. She points to the helkappes. We know what she means. We must put them on now, so that we become invisible and death cannot see us.
We take one last look at each other, fearful and yet eager, and we put on our enchanted masks. At once, we can see nothing of each other or ourselves, and only the night and the dark goddess can we see before us. Hecate nods, then places her bone of a hand on an unseen shoulder next to me- it is the shoulder of the boy. She looks at his invisible face, into his invisible eyes, and points to one of the paths that the main path splits off into, the middle path. Her eyes follow his invisible body as he walks down the new path, the path he must walk alone.
Hecate turns her head back to we two who remain in front of her. Her eyes pass me as she turns them to the girl beside me, again placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. She points to the left path, and watches as the girl that I cannot see begins her own solitary journey.
Finally, it is my turn. Hecate looks deep into me with those glowing, clear eyes. I see her arm move upward and feel her hand come to a rest on my shoulder. Surprisingly, the touch of the ugly, foul old woman is very soothing. Her touch is like the rest after a long, hard day of tedious work. I suppose that is what it feels like to be at the end of one’s days, and to come to terms with it. But I do not really know what that feels like yet.
After what feels like so very long, the hag goddess points to the road on the right. I turn away from her and begin my own journey- alone, and unseen.
III.
I travel down the path, and the forest changes with each step. A different light lights the road, becoming more and more like the light of a funeral pyre- orange, red, and green, flickering wickedly in the darkness. I finally reach the end of the path, and the source of the strange light. The road ends at the gaping mouth of a cave, glowing with the disconcerting color of fire from the inside. Guarding the cave mouth are a hundred savage dogs- their hair bristling, their muzzles foaming in the shape and sound of growls. One of them howls, its cry piercing through the night like a poisoned arrow.
Responding to the cry, a fearsome duo emerges from the pit of the cave- the king of the guardian dogs, the three headed Cerberus himself, and his master, the Grim Reaper.
The king and his master linger at the entrance, communicating in strange, unspoken ways that I cannot follow. Cerberus, his long, black, tattered fur as coarse as frozen pine needles, stands erect at Grim’s side like a rabid wolf ready to kill. Slime oozes from all three of his faces- from his six red eyes, his rust colored noses, and his three bloody muzzles. And the Reaper himself- black hooded and keenly sharp, brings the chill of every winter in his wake.
I fret in fear, even under the protection of the helkappe. Somehow, do they sense me? The living are not allowed to enter here, and if I am discovered, I will be driven away, never to join with my people in the sacred rites and holidays, forever an outcast, an incomplete. But most of all, I fear the tool that the Reaper carries- the scythe of death, curved and sharp- the end of all things.
But, to my relief, it appears that the Reaper has simply come out to collect the souls that have died this night, and to keep a watchful eye on the souls who are visiting the loved ones that they left behind, ensuring that they return safely to the land of the dead by the time the morning comes. This night, All Hallows Eve, must be his busiest night. And Cerberus, the diseased dog, must have come out to fortify the entrance in the company of his subjects.
The Reaper looks around the entrance at Cerberus and the formidable guards laid out between this world and that, making sure all is in order, and leaves. His specter of a form, somehow as solid as lead, glides dangerously close to me as he makes his way into the world of the living.
As soon as he is gone, I set my mind to the task that lies before me- getting past the horde of dogs and into the land of the dead. It is going to be difficult; the dogs stand like statues in a thick line that bars the entrance. But I know, somehow, that they will move, there will be an opening for a few moments- and so I wait.
At last, a dog begins sniffing something in the air. He hesitates, but finally decides to investigate. Before another dog can fill the gap, I have slipped through and am safe.
I hear the foggy breath of the hounds grow quieter as I shuffle down into the cave. The slope is so steep that I have to struggle to control my speed and stay upright. Finally, the first steep tunnel ends and I am standing in a room that leads to many new and narrow tunnels. The heavy light of fire comes from each of them- there seems to be thousands of them. I have no idea where to go from here.
Warding off the ensuing panic in my mind, I touch the spot on my shoulder where the cold hand of Hecate rested at the crossroads. I take a deep breath, and look around myself once more. The tunnels are all different; it seems impossible which one is right- and then, I see. There is a fine, fine mist, like the hair of the moon, on the ground all around me. And it is flowing, as a silver river, to one tunnel, and one alone. I follow it.
The tunnel is long and twisted. I walk through it for a very long time- so long that I have to stop and collect myself. It is very late in the night, I have exerted myself much this evening, and the mist at my feet feels like a heavy velvet blanket. I am trying hard to stay awake. The mist seems to pull at me, tempting me to lay in it. Its heaviness is very seducing. I nearly let myself give in- almost bending my knees to sit down. But I then hear voices behind me. They frighten me into wakefulness and I continue on.
I finally reach a new cave room. I cannot see into the center of it, because of the large fire that forms a circle six feet from the cave walls all around. The six feet between the fire and the walls forms a sort of pathway, and the mist travels along it. I walk to the right and follow the mist. For some reason, I am compelled to look upward, where I notice that there is no ceiling to this cave room. The walls just go upward, for miles, until they reach the sky. Judging from the light of the sky, it is about an hour before daybreak. I am surprised. I know that I have been traveling on this journey for a long time, but my sense of time has been so distorted that I forgot that there was any end to this night at all.
I walk along the edge of the fire. My pace slows; I feel that there is no need to hurry- I even feel that I am actually waiting for something. Anyway, the cave room is so huge that I feel I will never cross even a section of the circumference of it. After I have waited, walking slowly, for so long that I fear the dawn will come and that I have missed whatever I was waiting for, the voices that I heard in the tunnel appear again.
The voices sound so low, so quiet, and yet so enormous- like a uncountable number of whispers. I walk back to the entrance to the cave room, because that is where the voices are coming from. Fearing that I will lose them, I begin to run. At last, out of breath, I reach them.
They are ghosts. Thousands and thousands and millions of them. They are walking in a funeral-slow line, right through the fire and into the center of the cave room. Tentatively, I put my hand into the fire. It does not burn. And so, taking a deep breath, I follow the example of the ghosts and walk through.
All of the things I have witnessed this night do not compare to what I see now.
In the center of the cave, thousands of feet away, is a giant woman. I almost take off my helkappe to examine the similarities between it and her. Her body is covered in a checkered design- black and white. It is not painted on- but rather, it is the condition of her skin that differentiates light from dark. The half of her that is dark(blue black, like the stained glass of the boy’s mask), appears to be mummified flesh, like the flesh of a body that has spent centuries preserved in the putrid smelling waters of a bog. The dark half is not necessarily cruel, but it is hard, unyielding, and sickly. The half of her that is bright is so beautiful that I feel tears pouring down my cheeks. Her light half is angelic and motherly, filled with compassion and charity. Looking at her, I understand that while we all must die, our bodies doomed to rot, there is a reason for life, and love, and hope.
She has one bright and one black hand, and with each she touches every single ghost. She touches them with the touch of a stern and loving mother, because she is their mother. And the land of the dead, Helheim, is her womb. As she touches them, I can see that their spirits start to lose shape. They sigh after she touches them, and they rise higher and higher in the tower that leads to the sky, until they reach the world outside, where they vanish.
I am confused. Have they not just returned from the visit to the living world? Why are they returning now, when the cloth between their world and mine is becoming more solid by the second, soon to be completely sealed by the light of the sun?
Then I realize the truth that I have been sent here to discover. They are returning to the physical world, but the fabric of the world is too thick, and the part of them that is spirit dissolves. When they emerge from the womb of the goddess Hel, mother death, they are born again, and are no longer what they were before.
I am crying freely now. I see a child of my village that died this year. Like me, she has waited the entire year, until this night, when the world was thin, so that she could visit her family. And now, tonight is over, the promise of one last time to say goodbye has been fulfilled, and now her soul must go back to the earth. Her soul and the souls of all those who have died, will become part of everything. This is what will happen when my mother, my sisters, brothers, and father die. This is what will happen when I die. We go back to what we came from. The soil, sky, water, trees, crops, and everything else in the world, is all made up of what used to be something else. And one day, all of those things will change, and become something different. That is the way of the world. It moves. It does not stay the same. And now, I see, the same is true with our souls.
But somehow, this truth is not discouraging- it is not harsh or horrifying. I realize that true death would be to stop moving, to never change. The way things are, with everything always changing, I see that nothing really ever dies. I smile through my tears, a warmth like the light side of Hel covering my heart.
IV.
When the dawn breaks, all of the souls have gone. Hel sits on her mountain of a throne, majestic and restful. She closes her great, joyfully sad eyes, and rests her graceful, huge hands in her lap.
Someday I will see her again, but now I know that it is time to leave. I walk back through the fire, wondering what to do next. The mist on the ground is no longer there, and I am sorry for that, because it had been my guide.
But miraculously, I find that there is sunlight streaming through a small tunnel at the back of the cave room, the opposite side from where I came in. I laboriously walk along the cave wall for hours until I reach the tunnel. The tunnel, like the tunnel at the very entrance of the cave, steeply rises upward into the outside world. I have to climb on my hands and knees to go upward.
When I finally reach the surface, the sun is high in the west side of the sky- mid afternoon. I claw my way out and onto the good, solid ground of a high hill. The tunnel closes, the ground around it enclosing the opening as silently as ripple in the water. I look around me. I can see my village far below in the valley. It will take hours to walk back. But for now, I can move no more. I take off my helkappe, ready for the comfort of seeing my own body.
It is a cold, windy day, and it looks like rain, so I head for the shelter of a nearby old tree. I find that the other boy and girl who separately made the same journey as I made last night are laying under the tree, huddled together for warmth and comfort.
It appears that they, too, have just arrived, because they are not yet asleep and invite me to join them and add to the warmth as soon as they see me. We look at each other, smiling and silent, each knowing the truth, and each thankful for each other in this tired time. I join them in their huddle, and we fall fast asleep. We rest, a deep and fulfilling rest, before we at last begin the journey back home.
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An interesting piece with some compelling imagery and a solid, if familiar, take on death.
Though this is obviously a rite of passage and it’s instantly recognizable and familiar, I would have been more drawn into the story if I knew what the point of the quest was earlier and what the risk of failure meant earlier. It’s traditional--the narrator seeks knowledge and if he fails he’s an outcast--but I think this could be played with some more. Make the stakes more unique to this character and make his risk of failure stronger. The most tense moment was the entrance to the caves of the underworld, but other than that, I never felt like the narrator was in any danger, even though he told me he was.
The story moves linearly, which is fine, but the pacing is slow because the narrator records almost everything he sees. He also records everything through his consciousness (I saw this… I felt that…) A lot of times that “I” can get in the way. You don’t need to describe everything he sees as him first seeing it. Just describe it. And also watch how much you need to describe and to what detail. There’s a balance between giving us enough detail of what’s happening and slowing down the story too much because everything has two or three adjectives attached to it.
Personally, I enjoy seeing mythologies mixed, such as the Grim Reaper being the owner of Cerberus, but keep in mind that some people might get confused by the relationships. For example, I was unclear about the relationship between the Grim Reaper, Hel, and Hecate, and their symbolism in the story was less effective because I didn’t know how they each fit into the narrator’s cosmology. You might want to consider limiting the number of symbolic mythological figures who appear or give very brief explanations, like you do with Hecate, as to the role they play and why it’s significant we see them. I felt like they were vying for the same spot as symbols of death/afterlife in the story. How are they different?
Good work. Best of luck with this.
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Truly wonderful. Everything was pieced together so nicely and I just loved it. The descriptions were great and everything flowed well. Great job!
It’s good. It’s really good. I like it a lot. It’s a little long for me to give you a nice long critique.
I can say that the writing seems rather professional and I am pleased wiht the overall product. You’ve done a nice job keeping a good consistent mood throughout the whole piece. The mytholical touch is nice, however I’ll be honest that I went “blegh” the moment you used the grim reaper. “Blegh.” There, I said it again. “Blegh.” Again!
I like the present tense—very rarely does that work out well. Good job.
You do an excellent job with your imagery, and I found the story very engaging and well-written. So as not to waste your credits, I’ll simply stop there and point out some things that stood out for me.
“stark gorgeousness” This seemed a bit clumsy in the flow that had been established, and almost seems like a contradiction, as stark is usually interpreted as bare, while gorgeous would seem to imply something ornate or intricately done. I would suggest perhaps “stark beauty,” or maybe “ornate beauty.” But, that may be personal taste.
I would rethink some of the numbers used. The walls going up “for miles.” I’m not sure how much of the sky would be visible past walls that high, even in as large a room as you have described.
“Thousands and thousands and millions” of ghosts. Assuming this event happens once a year, then you’re saying that this many people passed away within the past year (since they apparently are dispersed after this night’s event). Is the world you’ve created that populous, considering its inhabitants appear to live in villages?
”...the voices that I heard in the tunnel appear again.” Voices would not appear, as they have no physical appearance. I would change “appear again” to “returned.”
One final thing, on page 11 (where it says “I even feel that I am actually waiting…”), you use “I feel” three times in two sentences. I would find a way to vary that a bit.
All that aside, I found this a thoroughly enjoyable read. Very nicely done.
THis was good, the description was exceptional. For example, The day is ending; a gold line of sunlight drenching the horizon of black hills in the distance. The clouds overhead are as a thousand mammoth ghosts, flying in the high winds above me. They seem to gather around in preparation.
This was an extrodinary piece of fiction. I think you have a great future in writing ahead of you.
Ominous opening, good imagery
After beginning your details are good but there is little explaination to the reader what is going on besides the ritual or why
There is also alot of exposition, very little to no actual “dialogue” where there could be. Voices talking usually captivate the reader’s mind more than descriptions do.
One of the main benifits of first person is to really explore the character through dialogue that flows alot easier in the 1st Person POV.
So im heading torwards the end of the story and i still have yet to really hear this character’s voice. You obviously have a very vivid plot of whats going on but without proper character development it reads dry and unexciting no matter what happens in the story.
maybe as the character is exploring your labrynth have some flash backs to their mortal life that explains who they are or what exactly happen
- I suggest reading David Gemmell books, he has a real knack for unconventional fantasy, especially fantasy written in the first person.
overall writing wise, you did a good job. the story over all is simple and clarity is excellent. at parts your use of imagery is great…such as, “The voices sound so low, so quiet, and yet so enormous- like a uncountable number of whispers.” be careful though sometime you tend to describe things little to much…
“Quite suddenly, when the chanting reaches its hottest, highest, and most intense point, it stops.” overall, i enjoyed reading it, hope to read more of it…
Very good imagery. The colors and sights are visible in my minds eye.
I really thought the three were going to die when the girl first mentioned the masks and said the story told of death.
The voices sound so low, so quiet, and yet so enormous- like a (mistake here, should be an not a) uncountable number of whispers.
I really liked this story. The beginning and end tied in well with each other and the body of the story was well written and engaging. I hope to read more of your work soon.
Amazing story. I do not follow this genre, but I would make an exception for a book by this writer. The only reason I shy away from giving a ten is because, to me, a ten would be a piece that the writer could immediately send it to the publisher and get into the book stores as is.
I’ve been studying Dante’s “Inferno,” and was impressed by the way this story follows a similar arch, through the land of death and back out. The sense of death as an experience, one that follows certain observances, rites, and ceremonies in which nature and the elements contend, and where the traveler meets the mythic entities of death, is a universal idea that most cultures (in their wiser infancy) have depicted.
I wish that I could find some way of critiquing this work, not for the fun of being critical but so that I could offer some kind of advice. The fact is, this writer knows what he or she is doing. All I can say is keep up the good work. Follow your instincts, and be as tough on yourself as a tough editor at a big publishing house can be.
You can do this. You’re almost there.
Great opening sentence/paragraph. The black hills/gold reference complement each other!
I’d watch the repletion of the word “chant” as it’s used quite often. If there’s an adequate synonym for this, I’d suggest throwing it in there.
Gorgeousness—Okay, besides “beautiful” is there a better word for this? This word to me just has a tinny kind of ring. It distracts from the tone of the piece.
The “The story tells of hunger…” paragraph is excellent as it shows the cycle of nature.
each others’ / other’s
it’s own accord / its
“…crossroads, a fork in the road…” I think “crossroads” is different than a “fork”. I’d cut the latter.
there is Hecate, nearby is always death. / Hecate, death is always nearby
to we two who remain / to we who
different light lights / light illuminates
They are ghosts. / souls
“…blue black, like…” I’d suggest cutting out this parenthetical statement. To me, it breaks the flow of the story.
All those are of course just suggestions so feel free to use or cast them aside as you see fit. Overall, I thought this was an amazing story. It had a real spooky, yet deeply poetic tone to it. The roots in myth are obvious. I liked the symbolism of the mask—losing one’s identity. Though the words are different, this seems very similar to the kinds of stories people told thousands of years ago. Pretty cool. The narration did this piece justice by keeping things simple and explaining (but not too much) the items and concepts that would have been lost on the general reader. This is a very good piece and you should be very proud of it! Great work. Thanks for sharing.
-Curt
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