Page 8 of The Trickster's Heart

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The cavern was utterly black, except for a small pinprick of light that beckoned him forward. It was a long way off. He took a few tentative steps forward. He stepped carefully, holding his hand out along the rock wall for guidance. Unlike most temples, which were designed for heavy crowds and a never-ending parade of tribute, this one was designed to turn people away. Worshippers who couldn’t access it would never be able to survive gaining access to the secrets of the Underworld; the temple’s location alone served as the first test.

The air grew cold and stale, causing Hercules to shiver. His anxiety returned, this time taking up residence in his stomach, churning and threatening to halt his movements. Hercules forced himself to stop and take a deep breath before he continued. The walls of the cavern were closing in around him, sloping together and causing him to duck his head the further he walked. Hercules knew his anxiousness was a warning sign, an instinct that had been honed from years of slaying monsters and fighting other men’s battles. He often didn’t ignore it and would work with it, if possible. In the hidden realms of Eumolpos, however, it was a different matter entirely.

It’s not real. Hercules reminded himself and pushed forward. Everything from here on out is a test.

The cavern continued to close around Hercules until he thought he would get stuck, the torch light just out of reach. He dropped to his knees and crawled through the cold sand, scraping his knees and elbows along the rocky walls. Everything got smaller and smaller until Hercules was lying flat on the ground, shimmying forward in short increments. Finally, he reached the end of the tunnel, barely able to pull himself through the small hole on the farthest wall from the entrance.

Hercules gasped for air as he burst forward into a massive cave, adjusting to the light. He jumped to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, instinct preparing him for a fight. The main atrium of the cave was bathed in firelight from heavy metal basins. They were carved in symbols of the dead and were full of smoking incense, their copper sides glowing in the light.

A sacrificial altar was in the very center of the room, streaked with dried blood. The air was thick with the scent of sacrifice and burnt offerings, mixing together in a heavy cloud of fragrance and death. Hercules spotted several more doorways leading to additional rooms. It made him uneasy; everything in this holy space was designed for those about to willingly die.

“Hercules.” A calm, ancient voice cut through the silence. It startled Hercules, and he whipped around, unsheathing his sword and pointing it at the sound.

Eumolpos was behind him, standing in front of a heavy table, painted with blues and reds and intricately carved, overflowing with food and items for its preparation. The priest was covered in a thin black chiton and was free from any adornment. He was, without a doubt, the oldest man that Hercules had ever seen.

“You know me,” Hercules said in acknowledgement, sheathing his sword. He hoped that Eumolpos couldn’t see his blush in the dark; he was embarrassed at his overreaction, but the entire temple put him on edge.

“I do. I know all of the names of those who wish to die.” Eumolpos didn’t make eye contact with Hercules as he prepared a plate.

“I don’t wish to die.” Hercules argued.

“Do you wish to know the secrets of the Underworld?”

“Yes.”

Eumolpos shrugged. “Then you wish to die. There is no other way to go about it.” Eumolpos’s voice wavered, and he looked at Hercules. “I do not want to help you. You mean to rob the dead. Why should I tell you its secrets?”

“You don’t know what I intend to do.” Hercules’s voice dropped, and he stepped forward, his brow furrowed. Eumolpos raised a hand as if to silence Hercules.

“It matters not. I’ve been instructed by the gods to help you, so I will. That was the first and last visit I plan on getting from Zeus.”

Hercules straightened up at the mention of his patron. He had no love lost for the so-called king of the gods, but he knew not to refuse help when it was given to him—he was pretending to be Zeus’s bastard, after all.

“I see,” Hercules crossed his arms across his chest. “What will you have me do?”

Eumolpos sighed. “Getting the secrets of the dead is no small feat. You’ll feel like you’re dying before the end because you will be. I need to make that perfectly clear before we begin.”

“Now?” A cold chill went down Hercules’s spine.

“Do you want to come back when you’re ready?” Eumolpos’s voice was bitter, and Hercules knew then it was better not to press his luck.

“No, no.” Hercules shook his head, holding out his arms in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “Tell me what to do.”

“Remove your robes,” Eumolpos instructed. He picked up a clay pitcher, painted with inscriptions that Hercules didn’t want translated, and carried the plate of food in his opposite hand. Hercules obeyed, tossing the garments to the side.

“And your sandals.” Eumolpos walked towards the altar and stood behind it, placing the offerings on the stone surface. Hercules did as he was told until he stood stark naked in front of the priest.

“Kneel,” Eumolpos commanded.

Hercules sank to his knees effortlessly, looking up at the priest and awaiting instruction. Eumolpos grabbed a handful of something that Hercules couldn’t identify and tossed it into the fire burning in the altar’s basin. The smoke turned black, and Hercules was hit with a heavy, rich smell that overwhelmed his senses.

It choked him, flooding his nose with the scent of myrrh and made his eyes water, obscuring his vision. Hercules sputtered, taken aback. His body tensed as his senses were dulled by the incense, but after a few seconds, his head began to feel heavy, and he wavered. The smoke was now making him lightheaded, and Hercules struggled to keep his eyes on Eumolpos.

Eumolpos began speaking in a low voice that echoed throughout the massive cavern. Hercules couldn’t understand what Eumolpos was saying but watched as the priest walked towards him, carrying the pitcher. He stopped in front of Hercules, his pedantic chanting growing louder and louder. Eumolpos began pouring the contents of the pitcher over Hercules.

Hercules gasped sharply as viscous liquid began to soak his hair and trickle over his skin until his hair was drenched with it. He sputtered and spit as it dripped onto his face, only then realizing it was honey. It poured down his chest, matting his chest hair and following the grooves of his muscles. Eumolpos’s voice increased in volume, and he didn’t stop until the entire pitcher was empty.

The smoke had gotten so thick that Hercules could barely see the light of the altar in front of him, and his head swam. He heard Eumolpos’s steps as he disappeared into the fog back towards the altar, reemerging a few seconds later.

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