Feeling cleansed of both physical and emotional "stuff" from Dame Washalot's Bath House, she followed the walking tour map to the Catacombs. Most of her knowledge about catacombs was derived from movies of the 1950's like The Robe, Quo Vadis, and Ben Hur which all portrayed early Christians hiding out and having services there. Later, she was surprised to learn catacombs were actually pre-Christian and even pre-Roman, and were used for burials and as hiding places from persecution. The Sumerians, Egyptians and Greeks all utilized catacombs.

More recently she read Internet articles about supposed inner-Earth races living underground in catacombs, caverns and tunnels. And a Hope Indian legend speaks of a very ancient complex beneath the surface occupied by a lizard-race 5000 years ago.

It didn't help her to recall these interesting but potentially frightening ideas as she moved further into the catacombs. Even holding the torch she had been given at the entrance near the statue of Jesus at Gethsemane didn't help-it just cast odd shadows. At first the walls were smooth so it wasn't bad, but now there were cubby-holes and recesses with statues or sculptures within, to which the flickering light added a macabre element. As she approached each item, she thought they were moving. As she peered closer, she could then discern they were just statues of angels and people.

I guess there are people buried here or maybe just their ashes are buried here. Reminds me of that Reader's Digest article speaking of how the carbon can be extracted from the cremated remains of a loved one, and with heat and pressure, can be made into a real diamond. What an odd line from the CEO of that company: 'It isn't in memory of a loved one, it is the loved one.'

Oh, what's that? Looks like it's moving. She crept closer. It's a gargoyle, and here's another. Why would they be in here? Maybe to protect the remains, as they usually are supposed to be ugly to scare anyone unwanted away.

Something flew at her out of the dark; she ducked as another something flew past. Bats! Ugh! They must be roosting further within since I haven't seen any guano so far.

Now it was totally dark, except for the sputtering torch. She approached a marble bench in front of a sarcophagus within a recessed part of the wall. Tired, she placed the torch into a holder and sat down. I can't walk all day the way I used to. Probably not too many years before my ashes will be placed somewhere. Would like for them to be scattered in various places but what if they were in a place like this? Maybe I'm passing or looking at my own burial from another time-the circle of time.
She felt very much at peace here, surrounded by the remains of many people, deep within the earth-no noises of cars, power tools, construction, cell phones going off annoyingly or people having to talk all the time. Silence-stillness%u2026 She closed her eyes and meditated, sinking further into her center. First the pinprick of light in the darkness, then the starburst. She drifted out of her body, moved through the packed earth, into the air, above the city. She could see-sense for miles.

peaceful%u2026 but not the time to continue%u2026time to return

With that thought she moved back into her body, but aware her physical body was now surrounded by other bodies. Keeping her eyes closed, she reached out her awareness to assess who was there. Feels fine. Good energy.

She opened her eyes. A child was standing in front of her, looking at her. A woman on one side, an elderly man on the other. She nodded in respect to each translucent person-each smiled in return. She knew words were unnecessary.

Hello. Who are you? How can I help?

The woman's thoughts were clear: Please, help us. We stay here now, close to what had been our bodies. But we need to have our stories told.

The elderly man nodded as the little girl stroked her hand. He then thought: There are others, too, needing to find the meaning in the lives they lived. By telling their stories you will discover the underlying pattern and meaning, and reveal it to each of us. We can sense you've done it for others, could you do it for us?

I would be honored to tell your stories. I'm sure each one would be as interesting and meaningful as each person is unique, no matter how boring they think their life is. I'm Thalia. Glad to meet you%u2026

Grandmother, where is your beauty
That was spoken of once
In hushed tones? How your passage
Along the street would cause men to stare
As if a light
Had shone in their eyes?

They still speak of it, though none now live
Who saw you pass by. They say you
Loved to dress in a style
Not befitting a poor woman.

They say, too, you refused a Lord,
Who offered you gold and silks
To be his concubine. You were too proud,
They said, to use your beauty for mortal gain.
Instead, you scrubbed floors for a scholar,
Who taught you to read, which you passed on
To your children. You laundered men's clothes
To pay for books.

Your children buried you in your bright red shawl, to remind them
How brightly blazed your beauty, and how much more brightly
Blazed your heart.

It was cold and dark in the catacombs, quiet except for my own footsteps and the skittering of small creatures across the rough stone below. The walls were slightly damp, the smell of must strong. As I walked further into the shadows, cobwebs snagged at my face and I pulled them off. I looked down and saw the remains of what might have been an ancient mosaic floor. Black, red, and white tiles made up a design, but it was hard to tell what the picture might have been.

I did not like it here and wondered what Enchanteur expected me to find. What is this place? I whispered.

"It is the Slush Pile, where rejected stories go to die," said a small voice.

"Who - who are you?"

"I am a were-pen. See the shining point of light on that wall? That's me."

"You can speak?"

"I am a voice in your head, but you are not mad. It's a Lemurian magic. Call it your inner voice, the writer within, seeking expression."

"I knew writers were crazy; this confirms it," I admitted. "But we're mostly harmless. So if I have a talking were-pen as my guide, I guess that's OK."

The were pen bobbed in agreement. "It is a deep, dark magic, like bibbety-bobbity-boo. Toss some basil in the air, and presto-chango, we can advance the plot!"

It made a funny, clicky noise. I didn't know were-pens could snicker. "You're kind of sarcastic, aren't you?"

"I am *your* inner voice, afterall." The pen top clicked mischievously and I swear the were-pen was winking at me. "Call me 86."

"Let's recap, 86. I am talking to a were-pen in the dead stories file. So the contents of these catacombs are what, unpublished stories?"

"Not even that. They are half-finished stories. Plots that twisted and turned up their toes too early. Characters only half fleshed out. Mummified mixed metaphors. Paragraphs piled up like bodies for the charnel house. Adjectives tossed overboard. Ransacked rhymes. Transitions that never made it from one paragraph to the next. Half-done hooks. Wasted words. These are the stories of the damned, that have no voices, until a writer tells them."

"I thought this was a ladies' literary walking tour. Where's Enchanteur? What does this creepy place have to do with me?

The were pen swung above my head like an inky sword of Damocles. "Once upon a time%u2026"

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Catacombs of the mind we wander
We ponder and move on
But the chill has set in
And bones feel that chill
Seep in

Catacombs of the soul we dance
Losing our way in the tunnels
We can't ask for a cheat note from
A web site here to guide us out

Catacombs of the body
All fall away into dust
And line the undergrounds
Of Paris

"Knock knock"says the body to the mind
And the mind replies "let me out!
Let me out of the catacomb"

The soul watches out with
A wry grin
And bones feel the chill seep in.

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