Chapter 13: The Gates to the Otherworld
The path to the cave was rapidly turning into a brutal battle against the elements. The fine drizzle with which our visitors had begun their "ritualistic" march towards the cavern was growing heavier, intensifying with every single step, as though the sky itself had decided to wash away all the sins of the fading winter all at once. The wind howled through sheets of ice-cold water, filling the air as if billowing the sails of a ship lost at sea on the most ill-fated of days.
Holding tightly to each other’s hands, Anemo and Remi pressed forward almost blindly, braving the fury of the storm with every ounce of strength they could muster.
Beneath their feet, the earth was quite simply dissolving. The dark, fertile soil of Cruachan, trodden by hundreds of bare feet during the festival, had become a treacherous mire that threatened to swallow them whole, humans and animals alike.
Remi had locked her fingers firmly into the woollen sleeve of Anemo’s tunic, using him as an anchor against the freezing gusts. She kept tripping over her long, heavy clothes, which grew weightier with every passing step. At one point, she stumbled over an obstacle—a living creature...
“Mistral! Forgive me!”
For a while, the black cat had tried to maintain his majestic, regal stride, but after the first fifty yards, the water began to form deep puddles that reached right up to his neck. It had become utterly pointless to shake the cold, sticky mud off one paw at a time, only to submerge it again a second later.
"Ultimately, a live chat noir is far better than a proud but drowned one!" he thought to himself. The moment he collided with Remi’s shoe, he shrieked:
“I am drowning, Anemo! Have mercy!”
Without waiting for a single protest, Anemo scooped the black cat up by the scruff of his neck. Adjusting his position mid-stride, he tucked him safely under his cloak, right to the right of the sling carrier where Sirocco seemed to be waking up, and pressed him to his chest like a child.
“Merci, my friend, you are our hero!” Mistral added, burying his snout against the writer's warm neck.
Aeolus, who had been positioned strategically on Remi’s shoulder, had transformed into a living brooch, pinned firmly into the coarse woollen fabric of her cloak. He used the writer’s long hair as a shield against the raging storm, finding it far warmer than the cloak she had received from Eithne.
“We are almost there, Anemo! You must hold on, you are our fortress!” Remi shouted over the wind.
In truth, Anemo had become a veritable fortress of flesh and fur. He carried Sirocco—who had just woken up whimpering—inside the green carrier pouch, held the damp, heavy Mistral close to his chest, and still managed to act as a human shield for Remi. He paid no mind to the deep ache echoing through his entire body, nor to his eyes, which burned from the rain sweeping sideways across his face. In his mind, projected onto his retina, he had locked onto a single image: the entrance to the cave.
Except that when they finally arrived, the mouth of the cave looked absolutely nothing like the place they remembered.
The furious elements of nature had twisted it into a desolate, post-apocalyptic sight—a true gate to hell.
The offerings left by the Celts at the mouth of the sacred cave for Alban Eilir were now completely inundated. Wild duck eggs, crudely dyed yellow, floated aimlessly in swirling brown eddies or dashed themselves against the rocks. Grains thrown in the hope of a bountiful harvest and braided wreaths of willow twigs were tossed together in a chaotic mess of mud and frothing water.
Anemo stopped dead right in front of the threshold. He raised his eyes to the heavens, then peered into the cavern, from whose depths another roaring fury seemed to echo. Out of nowhere, the voice of his father, Professor Simoon, seemed to ring in his ears:
“Careful, children! The Cave of the Cats is turning into a death trap! Do not enter under any circumstances, it is already flooded!”
“No, this isn't right! I’m sorry Remi, sorry fur-balls, but we are turning back to the fort.”
Mistral, more dead than alive, peeled his furry face away from Anemo’s neck and cast a glance over his shoulder toward the cavern.
“Mon Dieu! I think it is far wiser to vote as the petit youngster wishes for now... how fortunate that no Celtic eye has stayed behind to watch what sort of rituals and prayers we are performing in the cave.”
Remi threw her arms around Anemo, catching both him and the fur-balls in a brief, tight embrace. She drew a sharp breath, completely ignoring the streams of water that had turned into torrents running down their faces, and said:
“Come on, let’s be brave, we have one more round left... a much shorter one. How lucky for us that our flesc is only a stone’s throw away!”
“Yes, and lucky for us, a dinner awaits us!” Anemo added, and the bizarre fortress set itself in motion once more.
***
The journey back to the round guest house was just as arduous, only now they were no longer fighting with grim determination to get there. If they had walked with the wind mostly in their faces on the way to the mouth of the cave, now it felt as though the wind was pushing them towards shelter. It was as if the elements themselves wanted them far away from the cavern.
Dusk was falling, and sporadic bog pine torches, soaked in resin, began to appear near the houses.
Their reddish flames, animated against the walls of the ringfort by the buffeting wind, created a theatrical play of light and shadow, staged as if uniquely for them.
“Our little home!” Anemo cried out with the last of his strength when they were just three steps away from the flesc where they were being hosted.
By the massive door, Eithne was waiting for them, a torch in her hand.
“Did you come all this way just for the dinner invitation?” Remi asked, as she struggled to regain her balance and her dignity as a Morrigan.
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