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LOST IN AN EMPTY SKULL The mysterious disappearance of Ambrose Bierce

A short story by Gary P. Ferguson

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Lost in an Empty Skull Copyright 2015 by Gary Ferguson All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Plymouth Media LLC 287 Ann Drive, Plymouth WI 53073 website http://www.plymouth-media.com

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FORWARD

It is my pleasure, and privilege to introduce you to a founding member of the universe of the Darkly Mattered, a certain Ambrose Bierce, who was a writer of some renown in the 1800’s and later became known as the first American science – fiction writer. He wrote of strange disappearances, and stranger tales. His best known works were “The Difficulty of Crossing an Empty Field” and “An Occurrence at the Owl Creek Bridge” The first being the strange disappearance of a man who went out into his field, and the latter, a head-turning tale of the execution of a prisoner during the Civil War. The history books show he was born in 1842, but they do not list the date he died, and only assume it was 1913. His body was never found, and for years people reported seeing him in the deserts of Mexico. So this tale then, is my tribute to this great man, who rumor has it still walks the dark spaces in the Universe of the Darkly Mattered, because of the day he learned first-hand that his own truth would be far stranger than any fiction he wrote. And so it is my humble honor to present to you, the reader, the real story of the disappearance of Ambrose Bierce, and how he came to walk these halls we call the Darkly Mattered.

And so I present, for your consideration: LOST IN AN EMPTY SKULL

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December 30, 1913 Ojinaga, Mexico “He says we are all going to die” said Juan Ortiz Rodriguez, Sergeant of the Division del Norte, acting as interpreter for the American journalist Ambrose Bierce.

Bierce lifted his tall, lean frame up and stroked his white, full mustache.

“And why is that?” Ambrose asked the interpreter.

“He says we are outnumbered three to one and the Federales are grouping for the attack” “Is that all?” said Ambrose Bierce dryly. “Hell, I was out-numbered five to one at Mercenary Ridge and still survived!”

Emilio, the Indian who traveled with them and the only one who spoke English, came up to Ambrose and touched him on the shoulder, smiling.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” Ambrose asked his new friend.

Emilio shook his head ‘no’ and laughed. “I am a warrior…” he said.

Their conversation was interrupted by the barking of orders of their Commander, Jose Doroteo Arango Arambula, who strode through the camp carrying two rifles, one in each hand, and two ammunition belts crossed around his chest.

Looking at the tall American, he said something in Spanish and Ambrose looked to his interpreter for help.

“He says, you say you were soldier once- now you are soldier again!” the Sergeant replied.

Nodding his head in understanding to the Commander, the Commander threw one of his rifles at the tall, white-haired, whitemustached man, who caught it smartly in flight and immediately had it at the ready in his hand.

The Commander smiled, pleased at how the American handled his weapon, and walked away continuing his endless bark of orders to the other men.

The Division del Norte, or “Army of the North” were locked in a fierce battle for control of Mexico. The current President, Victoriano Huerta, was despised by the men of this commander, who felt he had stolen the Presidency. Although the Division del Norte was said to number in the thousands, this group was a small contingent, perhaps sixty men.

Although he had a rifle, Ambrose Bierce realized he had no ammunition, so he went to the supply tent and filled his pockets with brass cartridges.

Now prepared, Ambrose decided to move back into the trees, after all, he was here to report on the war, not to fight it. But he was thankful for the rifle, if he needed it, he knew how to use it.

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As he stood hidden in the trees, he stood tall in his long, brown woolen overcoat. It was surprisingly chilly, with a light fog and mist hovering like a blanket, making his lifelong asthma worse.

He watched as the Commander gathered three men and began speaking to them, wagging his finger. Ambrose could not understand what he was saying, but it was clear he was not happy about something. A movement to his right caught Ambrose's eye. He spied the dark blue of a Federale uniform. He saw it was a soldier, and he held a revolver. There was no doubt he was drawing a bead on the Commander. Ambrose un-slung his rifle, aimed and fired. The retort of the rifle sent the Commander and the men he was talking to into a panic. The Commander looked right at Ambrose, whose broad smile set on his tan face surrounded in white hair must have been enough to stop the Commander from drawing and firing on him. Nodding his head, Ambrose motioned to the dead Federale soldier on the ground.

The three men who were with the Commander jumped Ambrose and threw him to the ground. Soon the Commander barked orders and they stood him up and let go of him.

The Commander approached Ambrose with a big smile and held his arms out wide. Embracing Ambrose, he shook him like a bear shaking his dinner. Finally, he stopped and said in a loud voice “Muchas Gracias …Senor Gringo!”

And with that, all the men knew Ambrose Bierce had saved the life of Jose Doroteo Arango Arambula, otherwise known as “PanchoVilla...”

After a few minutes, the Commander barked out an order to all the men “Vamanos Villistas!” he said. Ambrose needed no interpreter for this one, it was time to go.

Mounting his horse, he fell in line behind the group who had taken off at a fast pace. Ambrose was a very good rider, no stranger to a horse, but he was worried. There was no moon, it was getting dark, and he did not know the terrain. Even an expert rider could break a neck under these circumstances .But his horse, who was one of theirs, apparently knew his way. Or at least Ambrose felt comfortable that he did. But, just to be safe, he slowed down to take up the rear, just fast enough to keep up. After they had rode a few minutes, Emilio, the Indian, the only Indian who took notice of the tall American, floated back on his mount to be within earshot…“Do not fall behind Gringo” he said “Men are coming…”

“No wonder we’re riding blind like this” Ambrose said as he kicked his mount slightly to speed up. Emilio smiled, and said “It is the way of the Ghost!” Ambrose gave Emilio a curious look over that remark, but said nothing.

All of a sudden, without warning, the men stopped and the Commander split them into two groups.

One group was ordered to stay with him, the other group was sent out on a mission. Ambrose was told to stay with the group with the Commander.

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Emilio rode up to Ambrose and Ambrose asked him “What's going on?”

“It is the 'Ghost's way” he said, “That is what we call the Commander…”

Ambrose nodded his head saying “Now I get it…”

“Whenever the Federales get close, he attacks where they do not expect, it drives them crazy” Emilio explained. “They are going back to Ojinga to attack them where they live”. Emilio said with his eyes wide with admiration.

Ambrose, too, was impressed with this Commander – smiling, he said, “No wonder he has such devoted followers- I’d follow him to hell too, I think!”

“Stay close” Emilio said, as they rode into the darkness.

They rode through the night and by next morning, had reached a ravine, where a small creek flowed.

They broke ranks and immediately began their routine. Sentries were posted, and a smokeless fire was built. The art of building a smokeless fire was essential to all soldiers. Ambrose was not good at it, so he left the task to others. It required careful selection of the wood, the right structure in the pit, and skill lighting it. But those who were good at it could build a raging fire that gave off no smoke to be seen. Ambrose knew right away something had changed between the men and him. They all had a look in their eyes he knew from the battlefield, it was the look of respect.

He knew that now, no matter what happened, they would guard his back, the way he had guarded theirs. As a journalist, Ambrose knew that had he not stopped the Federale soldier, the revolution would have ended there and then. He doubted any other commander could equal this one, in his charisma, his ability to unite, and his skill in battle. And from the look in the eyes around him he saw they knew it too.

He had saved the revolution, and if need be, they would save him.

The sound of gunfire in the distance drew Ambrose’s attention. He saw the Commander huddle with his top officers.

Soon there were shouts. Ambrose knew with no translation, the sentries had been overrun, he had seen it before.

Suddenly the Commander mounted his horse and gathered a small group of men, as if preparing to move out. Ambrose mounted his horse to go along when Emilio rode up.

“The ghost goes to join his army” Emilio said, but he said no more as a crack of gunfire brought a mouthful of blood to his face.

Ambrose reached for him but Emilio said “No!” the blood gurgling out of his mouth Then Emilio raised his hand and pointed to a place downstream “Follow the path” he said, choking on his own blood.

“Follow the path to the cave of the skull…”

Ambrose tried to help him but his friend would not allow it.

“This is not your fight, Gringo” he said.

“Go and write about us, tell everyone we died for our freedom. ”I will” Ambrose said “I promise” 8 Of 17

“Go to the skull cave and seek out the Shaman in the cave” he said coughing in his own blood...

“He is a powerful Shaman, and he will protect you” In his last breath, he said “Tell him Three Claws sent you, do not be afraid, he will be your friend, and no one will hurt you there, and now GO!” Ambrose saw his friend collapse and knew, like so many others he had known, that he was dead.

Hearing the soldiers coming. Ambrose dismounted and ran through the stream until he found the path. His heart beat like he thought his chest would explode. But he ran. And ran.

The path wound through rocks and rubble, following the side of the stream. After a distance it split off, towards a looming wall of rock.

Racing as fast he could, Ambrose looked constantly for a sign of any cave, but did not see any. Several times he stopped to listen for anyone following him, but he guessed the soldiers would have followed the horse tracks and wouldn't be looking for a single man on foot. Or at least, that's what he hoped. Ambrose didn't believe in Shamans, in fact he pretty much didn’t believe in God either, but a cave was a good place to be right now. At least he could defend it.

Soon the path started going up towards the wall of rock, it went around to the left and then to the right, but there, higher up, was an opening, perhaps ten feet wide.

“That has to be it”, Ambrose muttered out loud. Driving himself harder. “Funny, it doesn't look like a skull” he said out loud again “Wonder why he called it that?”

He struggled to stay on the path, now that it was heading on a steep incline, Ambrose said out loud with each panting breath ”Three claws – Tell him Three Claws sent you…”

“So that was your real name Emilio?” Ambrose asked to no one.

He repeated Three Claw’s words out loud “Do not be afraid...Do not be afraid” “Why would I be?” Ambrose asked out loud to the steep path ahead of him. . With each tortured step he continued his conversation with the path ahead of him. ” Because of the height?” “Hell-Chattanooga was far worse...Lookout Mountain was much higher than this”. But as Ambrose approached the entrance to the cave, he learned the answers to both his questions.

In front of the cave entrance stood a thin post, and on the top of it was a human skull, covered with what looked like black hair.

But as he got closer he understood, the hair was dried, crusted blood.

“Now I know why…” Ambrose said to the skull.

So that’s why he called it 'Skull Cave'” Ambrose continued. But the skull did not answer.

Entering the cave slowly and cautiously he noticed it was like any other cave he had been, dark and foreboding. Except, there was a 9 Of 17

light. In the distance, a glow was coming from the side as if from a passage at right angles to the entrance. “Hello!” Ambrose shouted.

“Hello....Three Claws sent me!”

He doubted the Shaman would understand him, but he did not want to surprise him in here.

His eyes caught a movement in the light in the distance and he saw a figure approaching. As he got closer Ambrose realized it was a man, in native dress, with a dark loincloth, no shirt, with beads or something around his neck, and his face covered in designs of red paint.

“Hello” the figure said.

“You speak English?” asked Ambrose.

“Of course, I speak many tongues” replied the Shaman.

“I am Ambrose Bierce, Sir, a writer from San Francisco here to write a story on the war” There was no reaction from the Shaman.

“Where is Three Claws?” he asked.

“I am sorry, Sir Shaman but Three Claws is dead... he was killed by soldiers down at the small creek” Ambrose said somberly.

“That is terrible news” said the Shaman.

“Yes, he was my friend...he died saving my life and sent me here” said Ambrose.

“Well, Ambrose Bierce, friend of Three Claws, you are welcome here” said the Shaman.

Ambrose relaxed on hearing that.

“Who are you and what is this place?”

“I have many names” the Shaman answered, “But here I am known as the Shaman of the Cave” “As to this place” he said “This is my home...or the entrance to it anyways....”

“But” said Ambrose turning his head to the entrance.

“Oh the display in front?” “Yes it is quite disturbing, it was not my idea, and no, I had nothing to do with the skull, it was brought to me by others, a warning to keep the curious away...”

“You are safe here, Ambrose Bierce” the Shaman said. “No power on Earth can harm you here...”

As they turned into the light, Ambrose saw there was no fire here, as he had suspected, but a long corridor carved out of some kind of polished white stone, which shone with its' own internal white light.

Ambrose stood and steadied himself, taking deep breaths.

“It is common for some to get disoriented as they enter my house, do not worry, it will pass” said the Shaman.

“It is beautiful” said Ambrose.

“Why thank you, Ambrose I rather like it.”

Following the Shaman further in the corridor they passed a wide door on the right where Ambrose saw a large golden sphere half a man's height in diameter suspended in the air. “Great Sherman's Beard!” he said as he gazed into the hallway. “Is that gold?” he asked 10 Of 17

the Shaman. “Why yes, it is” he answered, “It is my.... firewood” he said as if searching for the word.

“Firewood?” gasped Ambrose in disbelief. “You mean you burn gold in your campfires?”

“In a manner of speaking...” replied the Shaman.

“My friend was right” said Ambrose “You are a powerful Shaman… and a very rich one” “So what do you do, precisely, may I ask?” Ambrose asked respectfully.

“Well, precisely, Ambrose Bierce, I do what you do” said the Shaman.

“You said you were a writer, yes?”

“Yes, I am” “And a writer takes notes, and keeps journals, right?”

“Yes, of course, it's what we do” answered Ambrose.

“And that is what I do” said the Shaman.

“Would you like to see my journals?” asked the Shaman.

Ambrose coughed and took a breath, “Oh yes, I would be delighted”, he said finally.

“That breathing problem you have Ambrose, I can fix that” said the Shaman “Oh this, no I'm afraid I've had this all my life...”

“No matter” dismissed the Shaman “I am quite skilled in these things...”

Ambrose hesitated and the Shaman said “I'm sorry, where are my manners?”

“I get visitors only rarely and I am afraid I am out of practice, may I offer you something to eat?”

Ambrose was hungry but said nothing.

“I see you must be hungry, follow me please” The Shaman led Ambrose to a smaller room where a magnificent table was set, with a white cloth and white china and crystal goblets.

All manner of roasted vegetables were arranged for the taking.

“I'm sorry there is no meat” said the Shaman, but I forbid eating meat in my house” “It smells delicious” said Ambrose.

“Please eat” said the Shaman.

Ambrose sat down and had his fill of roasted potatoes, squash, corn and beans.

“I am certain this is the best meal I have ever had” he said to his host.

The Shaman smiled and said he was happy to hear this.

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course” replied the Shaman.

“May I call you something else besides the Shaman?”

“Not that it's a bad name, but I feel ridiculous” “Of course, I said I was known by many names, my real name is Oberon” “Oberon” Ambrose repeated. “A strange name” he said.

“An old name I'm afraid, but mine” “Thank you for your hospitality Oberon” Ambrose said with as small 11 Of 17

a bow as he could manage while seated.

“You are most welcome, Ambrose Bierce” “But aren't you going to eat, Oberon?” asked Ambrose.

“No thank you, I've already eaten....”

Ambrose nodded his head and did not press his host.

“You said you get visitors?” Ambrose asked.

“Some, not many, I think you are number 15 or 16, I'd have to go back and check...”

“Your house is hard to find” Ambrose said.

“Not really”, replied Oberon “I have many entrances like you found, mostly in caves, but some not...”

“I see” Ambrose said, even though he didn't.

“So what do you write about, Ambrose Bierce?”

“Oh, all kinds of things” he answered.

“I've written about current events, personalities, and even short stories, my specialty is strange disappearances...”

“How interesting...” said Oberon.

“What do you write about?” asked Ambrose.

“History” replied Oberon. “Nothing but history, I'm afraid.

“So you are a historian?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking...” said Oberon.

“Forgive me Oberon, but I keep getting the suspicion you either are not or cannot be completely honest with me...”

“I am sorry” Oberon said” But that is not the case at all” “It's this language thing... Oh I can speak your words, but when It comes to expressing more complicated matters, I am afraid I do not know your language well enough to be sure I am correctly describing things...”

That explains it” said “I'm sorry...” Ambrose said. “I didn't mean to offend you” “Oh no, don't be sorry” Oberon said,” but please tell me you would like to see my journals, I worked so hard on them” “It would be my honor” Ambrose replied.

“Good” said Oberon. “Follow me then, please, Mr. Bierce” Oberon led Ambrose to a set of golden doors. Waving his hand they opened. “This is my....library” he said.

Ambrose looked and it was another long corridor stretching as far as his eye could see.

“As you will see” said Oberon. “Along this chamber on each side are rooms, each room contains a different... journal” Ambrose was stunned. ”How many rooms are there?” he asked.

“Hundreds, maybe thousands, I've never counted...” answered Oberon.

“How long have you been writing?” asked Ambrose.

“Oh that is a hard one to answer you, my friend, not that I am avoiding your question, but time for me is different than time for you, but to answer you, I have been writing since the beginning” “The beginning of what?' asked Ambrose.

“Why, the beginning of everything...” Oberon answered.

“Come, you will see” said Oberon as he led Ambrose down the 12 Of 17

corridor.

Coming to the first room, the door opened as they approached and he led Ambrose inside.

The room itself was nothing but bare white stone walls, with the only thing different a small green light to mark the location of the door they had just passed through.

“All of the rooms are like this” said Oberon.

“But where is your journal?” asked Ambrose.

“The entire room is the journal” said Oberon. “You see, Ambrose, where you write with words on paper, I write with images... as you will see...”

Ambrose shook his head. “Images?” he thought.

“After I leave, the room will go dark and you will watch my journal when it is finished, or you want to leave, head for the green light on the wall and you will be back in the corridor. If, at any time you need help, call my name and I will come” Ambrose nodded and Oberon left leaving him alone.

After a few moments, the room went dark and a small, glowing light appeared in the center of the room. As Ambrose watched, the light grew to form a glowing sphere of some kind of warm, golden, illuminated gas, as it grew larger, a cloud of darker gas started revolving around it. Ambrose stood mesmerized by the sight. Soon, the disc of gas around the revolving sphere began to spin faster and faster until finally, bits of the cloud broke off, forming small balls of gas separate from the bright sphere in the center.

Soon the balls were spinning around the brighter sphere in the middle, until all of a sudden, the sphere in the middle started growing rapidly in size. Bigger and bigger it grew until without warning, it started changing color, What had started as a warm golden glow in the center of the spinning disc was now turning brighter and whiter, until all of a sudden, there was a blinding flash of light and the sphere at the center of the disc erupted into a light so bright he could not look at it.

Breathless, Ambrose turned and approached the small green light on the wall, a door opened, and he was back in the corridor. Moving down the corridor, he found the next room. As he approached the door it opened into another completely white room like the first.

A few moments after he entered, the room went dark and Ambrose saw another yellow sphere floating in the dark. The sphere was radiating a warm, yellow light, and spinning around it was another smaller sphere. This sphere was red and looked like something from the fires of hell. Then, over his shoulder, Ambrose saw another sphere approaching from his right. It was all white and looked to be made of snow. As it moved across the room, it was apparent it was going to hit the red sphere. As it approached the red sphere, it slowly grazed it throwing off huge chunks of the red sphere as well as huge chunks of the snow. After a few moments, Ambrose noticed a small center of the snow sphere remained, but it was now black with no 13 Of 17

snow, and it move closer to the yellow sphere, until it too, began to spin around it.

Watching the red sphere, Ambrose saw all the chunks from the collision were now spinning round it. Then something remarkable happened. The snow chunks fell back onto what was left of the red sphere, and melted, to create huge bodies of water. And its' color changed from red to a green blue. The red chunks, which were still swirling, collected to form a smaller sphere, which now spun around the green blue water sphere.

Ambrose had no idea what he was watching, but whatever it was, it was a beautiful sight.

He wanted to see more, but Ambrose decided he needed to find out more from Oberon first. Heading down the corridor, he approached the golden doors which opened for him. Oberon was on the other side waiting for him.

“I am speechless” said Ambrose.

“Did you enjoy my journals?” asked Oberon.

“Magnificent” said Ambrose.

“I am so glad you liked them” said Oberon.

“But...” started Ambrose.

“I think I should go now” he said reluctantly.

“Now?” said Oberon. ”But you just got here- I have many more journals for you to see” Oberon added.

“I know” said Ambrose “I've only seen two, I'm sure I could spend a lifetime looking at your journals...”

“Easily...” replied Oberon.

“But I could come back” said Ambrose.

“No I'm afraid my friend, you cannot” said Oberon.

Alarmed Ambrose said “But I have to go back to my friends” “Of course, if you truly want to go I shall not keep you but....”

“But what?” Ambrose said quickly.

“But you must know a few things first” said Oberon.

“What things?” Ambrose asked.

“First, if you leave, you cannot return, that is the rule and I cannot change it.

“And?” said Ambrose.

“And if you leave, you will not like what you find” “What do you mean?”

“Well, remember I said time was different for me?”

“Yes, I remember….” Ambrose said.

“Well, even though to you, we have only been here a few hours.....in your time, where you left, over fifty of your years has passed!”

“Impossible!” said Ambrose.

“I assure you it is not” said Oberon.

“If you leave now, you will find everyone you ever knew in your life is either already dead, or soon will be....”

“And everyone who knew you, has assumed you have been dead for many years...”

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“Where am I, exactly?” asked Ambrose Bierce.

“You are in my house” Oberon replied.

“But remember I said no power on Earth could harm you here?” he added.

“Yes, I remember” Ambrose conceded.

“That is because you are no longer on Earth....you want to know exactly where you are?”

Ambrose nodded.

“You are in my house, located inside a rock, which is orbiting between the planets Mars and Jupiter-that is exactly where you are...”

“I don't believe it” said Ambrose.

“That dizziness you felt when you entered my house, some feel it, some don't, that was when you leaped across time and space to this location...”

“And who are you, exactly?”

“I am Oberon” he replied.

Ambrose Bierce shook his head and looked directly at his host and asked “Are you God?” Oberon looked back at Ambrose Bierce, smiled, but said nothing.... ***

Thank you for reading, please scroll down to rate this story. If you would like to have your own copy of this story to keep, it is available as an ebook at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/525563

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Other Books by Gary P. Ferguson Non-fiction My Journey to a Stronger Faith A layman takes a journey into his faith to find a stronger interpretation, one that could help end the violence today in the Middle East. http://www.amazon.com/dp/ B00TZ6NKV6

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/522766 Fiction The Secret of Annun-Khett A construction team uncovers a 2,000 year old obelisk in Egypt.

The monument commemorates a group of firefighters who died to save the Royal Library. When the tomb is examined, a group of interns finds out all the Heroes were murdered. But who would dare kill the Heroes of the Queen of Egypt, and why? The answer leads the interns on a wild hunt for the greatest treasure in the history of archaeology. Due for release as a serial novel by summer 2015 The Lost Testament An ancient text is found claiming to be the last will and testament of Abraham, the Jew. Its contents threaten to tear the fabric of the Middle East apart. To make matters worse, two holy men, one Jewish and one Islamic, are going from town to town, performing miracles and attracting followers. Is the world on the brink of Armageddon? One man, a military intelligence officer, has to navigate the minefields and advise the President of the US what to do before the whole world goes up in flames.

Due for release fall 2015

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Contacting the author Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/gpfauthor Publisher website http://www.plymouth-media.com Blog http://www.plymouth-media.com/blog/

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