The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

A book.

My memory of the thing returns. I took it from the Nephilim library in Asgard, when I returned to see Aimee, before heading for the gates of Tartarus. I pull the brown leather-bound book out of the pouch, and I look at the faded gold text on the spine. Despite the tortures of this place, I smile, and read the text on the front cover.



The Pilgrim’s Progrefs

John Bunyan



I note that the title is spelled with an ‘fs’ at the end, which was common in the sixteen hundreds. This is an old copy, I think, and I gently open the cover.





THE


Pilgrim’s Progrefs





FROM


THIS WORLD,





TO


That which is to come:

Delivered under the Similitude of a





DREAM


Wherein is Difcovered,

The manner of his letting out,

His Dangerous Journey; And fafe

Arrival at the Defired Countrey.

By John Bunyan

LONDON,

Printed for Nath. Ponder at the Peacock

in the Poultrey near Cornhil, 1678.



1678… 1678! This is a first edition, I think, growing excited. Before coming to Antarctica, reading books was a passion of mine. My parents had thousands. I read them all and then some. I consumed them. But not this one. I’ve never read this book. I turn the page and read.



The AUTHOR’S Apology For His BOOK

When at the first I took my Pen in hand,

Thus for to write; I did not understand

That I at all should make a little Book

In such a mode; Nay, I had undertook

To make another, which, when almost done,

Before I was aware, I this begun.



By the time I reach that seventh line, I’ve forgotten the tower. The cold. The pain. And my feeble condition. The horrible world I now live in slips away as these words, written more than three hundred years ago, reach out across time, and maybe space, and deliver a gift I thought impossible in this place.

Hope.





3



I read each word slowly and with deliberation, as though I’ve just learned the language. The old English text is rich in a way that modern books aren’t. I reread most sentences two or three times, just enjoying the cadence of the words. The plight of the main character, Christian, whose story is an allegory to the modern believer’s life, fascinates me as many elements reflect my own journey over the past years. He’s plagued by doubt, fear and the heavy burden that comes from the recognition of your own sins.

My sins weigh on me every day, impossible to forget thanks to my perfect memory.

I kidnapped Aimee and delivered her to the Nephilim, robbing Mira of a mother and Merrill of a wife.

I fled the Nephilim for what I thought was two years, but it turned out to be twenty. I hid in fear and turned my back on the world I was uniquely suited to defend.

Because of my weakness, Tobias, father of Emilie and Luca, was slain at the hands of Ninnis, while I watched, helpless.

And most recently, when I contained the body and spirit of Nephil, I fear he was able to affect the world somehow. Any devastation caused by my inability to fight his influence is mine to own.

My burden, like Christian’s, is often unbearable. Even more so, in this awful place. If not for this book, and the distraction provided by it, I might have already gone mad. I’ve read the book now, cover to cover, several times. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting in the gorge, slowly turning pages, absorbing the words, but if I can just stay here, reading this book, I might be able to bear this place.

“Sorry, Christian,” I say to myself, “but you’re going to have to share my burden, too.”

Then it happens. I reach the chapter that has tickled the back of my mind on every read.

The Slough of Despond.

Thus far, I’ve read through it quickly, ignoring the potent message and similarities to my current situation. But something clicks as I read through the text this time:



This miry slough is such a place as cannot be mended: it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond; for still, as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there arise in his soul many fears and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this place: and this is the reason of the badness of this ground.



“I’m in the slough,” I say. My voice sounds deeper then I recall, but I think it’s from thirst and the echo of my voice on the crevasse walls.