The Watermen, third chunk
Ever hear of Agartha?
Whoah. The third chunk of this story gets weird. Kuf here. It’s not like I’m judging, but Happy starts to reveal his true colors. This scene shows Happy’s intense interest in subterranean whoo-whoo. If you can’t find anything to believe on the surface, dig.
If this is your first chunk of reading, and you are interested enough to read the previous two installments, you can find the first chunk here and the second chunk here. Sorry, I drank too much and posted part II on a different platform.
Anyway, here’s the third chunk of The Watermen.
-Kuf
Now, the story…
The Watermen, third chunk: Ever hear of Agartha?
I’m on the porch waiting for Jenkins. The other watermen don’t realize that the rope, once connecting Jenkins to the surface, is loose. He must have detached himself to explore deeper inside the Earth.
I pass the time by explicating life’s poetic interruptions. Just today, a treacherous pile of earth has replaced my once green grass. A man has taken a heroic plunge underground. My children run wild in the house. My wife faces the wall to breathe. I can’t put a bow on any of it.
Still, the rain has a pleasant rhythm, and the water that imperils my house is soothing and melodic. I nod off and come back, going in and out to the comforts of sound. Although no part of me wants to join Jenkins in the hole, I keep thinking about what’s down there. I can almost see it, smooth tunnels that glow in bioluminescence. Paths converge, fork, and descend, forming an interconnected hodgepodge of wonder. I’m walking inside the network, frightened and fascinated. I can feel the weight of my feet and cool air at my sides. I call Jenkins, but my voice disappears into the depths of the tunnels.
Brushing against the walls, I keep walking, marveling at wild illumination. I’m not imagining anymore. I’m below my house. How deep below I cannot guess. I want to explore further, but a statue cuts me off. It’s not a statue, but an animated stone guy that resembles a 1920s gangster. It’s two feet tall, eyes glowing, and a mouth moving up and down like a nutcracker. “This ain’t no juice joint,” it says. I tighten my jaw, but can’t think of anything to say. What can one say to a golem? After a long pause, and an eye flicker that mirrors a blink, the tiny gangster asks me, “Can I interest you in Jesus Christ?”
I’m back on my porch, face to face with a wet, bulbous solicitor. Despite being half awake, I can tell this man is not affiliated with the water company. The solicitor is indeed a human being familiar with surface-level conversation. Judging by his robe and disinterred demeanor, I would say he belongs to a holy order. Maybe Catholic? “Can I interest you in Jesus Christ?” He asks me.
We don’t have many solicitors in this part of Suburban America. However, they must be out in droves with all the rain and flooding today.
“Thank you, your honor, but not now,” I say. I explain to the solicitor that the Catholics gave me all my sacraments. “I basically have a black belt in Jesus,” I say. I omit the part about not believing it. I like Jesus, but the god-fearing flock that sells his likeness for the low-low cost of 50 bucks a month scares the shit out of me.
The stranger narrows his eyes with calm judgment. He’s looking through me. “I bless you in the name of Jesus Christ, our savior.” He turns and stares at the monstrosity that was once my front yard. “That’s a big hole. What’s down there?”
“Could be a leak? The watermen’s leader jumped in over an hour ago.”
“Is that right?’ He reaches into the pockets of his robe and fumbles around for something. “I know I have a card here somewhere. A little wet, but- You are always welcome in the House of - found it.” He hands me his card. On the front, it says “Jesus Saves”. On the back, “your eternal soul”. There’s a phone number underneath. He blesses me, but as he walks away, he turns and speaks in a more natural voice. “Ever hear of Agartha?”
I did, but I hadn’t thought about it until now. Agartha is one of those myths that warms me up like smooth whiskey. It’s an underworld story, something about ancient humans (possibly gods) who built an elaborate underground civilization with housing, transportation networks, fresh water, and gardens. The Garden of Eden might have been underground. Agartaha is the kind of story that makes me wonder what happens when we dig deeper, a layer at a time, revealing a level of reality - and a world - that makes sense.
I’ve seen YouTube videos suggesting that there might still be entrances to Agartha in the remote corners of Antarctica, Nepal, and perhaps Cleveland.
“Is Jesus from there?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s a story I loved as a kid,” he says. He looks over his shoulder like he’s afraid somebody could be watching him. “Beware Satan and his lies.”
He stands up and smooths out his rain-soaked frock. Before he leaves, he asks for his Jesus card back. He pulls a pen from his sleeve and writes a web address underneath the front of the card where it says “Jesus Saves”. Water gets on the ink, causing it to bleed. “Here’s a new link to a good video about Agartha. You should check it out.” He blesses me again. “Go with God,” he says.
What if the waterman discovered an underground civilization in my Suburban America? What if a thriving metropolis exists a few feet below my front yard? So many what-ifs. I look up to ask the holy man another question, but he has disappeared into the rain.
R2 rams into the window. “Jesus H Christ,” I yell. I move out of sight before Renetta catches me loafing. I crouch below the enormous pile of earth and let rain wash over my face.
There are broken discs with geometrical patterns at the base of the mound. They are probably rocks, but they look too smooth for rocks. On occasion, I ask the neighborhood listserv for recommendations. Here is my post, which by listserv standards, is not that weird:
ISO a reasonably priced geologist to evaluate the strange rocks the water company dug up in my front yard, possibly from a lost civilization. Thanks, HJP
A few minutes later, Jenkins emerges from the hole.
The fiery confidence is gone from his eyes. He looks fifty years older than when he jumped in. The slick canyoneering attire hangs like rags on a decrepit body. His hair is long and braided, and I wonder if this is the same man from an hour ago.
“Is that you?” I ask the man vaguely resembling Jenkins.
“So much more,” he says. He is blind now. A faded gray replaced the intensity of the color that made him slick and cool. He feels his way around the bottom of the mound and touches my feet with his hands. It’s like he lost an epic battle that will have dire consequences for the fate of humanity.
“Call 911,” I say, hoping this will revive him.
“You gotta phone?” He asks.
“I won’t leave you,” I say. Dry patches of clay melt off his face into the heap of debris at the bottom of the mound.
“No,” he says, rising to his feet. He takes his badge from his back pocket and hands it to me. “Golem. Tiny mafia,” he says. “Scary motherfucker.”
I brave my way to the top of the mound and stare into the blackness. Nothing. I drop a stone and listen for a plunk. Nothing. Of all the places I might find a diminutive mafia golem, a hole under my yard is not one. “God?” I ask. My voice falls into the depths of the hole. Nothing.
I turn to Jenkins. “You find Agartha?”
His voice stops. He starts convulsing like he has been struck by lightning.
“Almost,” he says with a smile. Jenkins has come to terms with the world. He passes out on the sliver of mud that remains of my front lawn.
In just ten minutes, so many vehicles are in front of my house that nobody notices the ambulance. I hear the driver fighting his way through the crowd.
“Step aside. This is an emergency.” The other watermen are leaning against the digging machine, sharing a thermos. I ask them if they know what caused the leak.
“Could be anything,” they say.
I ask them what they think got Jenkins.
“Not sure,” they say.
I ask them how often their coworkers emerge from a hole with life-threatening wounds.
“You’d be surprised,” they say.
The paramedics place Jenkins on a stretcher. They ask me if I want to ride with him to the hospital.
“I’m the customer,” I say. I look at Jenkins one last time. Then it hits me that I know him. I have seen him before, but I’m unsure where. I stop the short-tempered paramedic from sliding him into the vehicle.
“Uh, emergency?” he says.
I ignore him.
“Jenkins, were you in an earlier story of mine?” It’s funny. I can’t remember, but I know that I know him. We met before. Our stories intersect, even though I can’t remember where.
A mask covers his nose and mouth. He inhales whatever they give him. One of the paramedics pushes me aside and closes the door, but I can still see Jenkins. He has a smile on his face. It’s a look of acceptance and understanding, something I rarely see in Suburban America. He points at me long enough for it to mean something, maybe a clue from another story, or a scene from another time and place; Jenkins is trying to jog my memory, but my memory stuck where it is, and with all the shit that’s happening, I just can’t remember1.
Found it. Jenkins comes from a story about a deliveryman who got lost in Happy’s apartment in 2011. I dug up a scene. Why would Happy recycle such a character? I don’t know. It probably has something to do with a shortfall of creativity. I look to publish this one soon. -Kuf