The hill of the psychopomps

Slipping through cracks in the floor, the spirit landed and the brown dog drew him on.
Brown dog did not have reins, but he had teeth and a temper. He strove up the steps and through the cellar door. He drove out through the maddened crowd jeering at the doorstep (they didn’t see him go) and on by where the demons gather, on the hill ‘neath the churchyard.
Charging forth, the spirit leased the hound, snarling and chomping at the hellspawn, grovelling near graves, waiting for souls of their own to grapple with and descend.
The spirit nimbly skittled beyond the hanging tree and avoided the grasping fingers of the souls trapped therein. He sailed softly by and the hollow tree moaned so.
Brown dog was waiting at the edge of the copse. Hair ever-shocked by the presence of death, its eyes stalked with menace, yet the steed waited patiently for its spirit rider.
Blood red eyes watched for the hands of hell, as the hound bounded out across the threshold. And, as he passed with speed through ectoplasmic fogs and dense clouds, lifetimes wide, the spirit he carried caught wonderful glimpses of parents, friends, lovers and children. All time and every memory existed both at once and never more. If spirit could smile, he smiled then.
“Press on, press on, press on.” Thus spake the wind into the corners of brown dog’s mind. The whispers of the dark soul-gatherers grew more shallow as brown dog continued his ascent of the sacred hillside. His burden was heavy, and the hillside so steep, that his weary path would wind around the hill four times, before sight of the summit.
In the lower pastures were the horses, strong brave white steeds with golden manes and eyes of fire. The dog was weary and stopped by a fast-flowing stream to drink. His spirit dismounted and walked a way, amongst the wild horses that whinnied and pranced about him.
A bald man sat below a silver birch tree, at the edge of the harass of horses, drawing in the dirt with a stick. As the spirit approached, he dropped his tool and looked up, asking: “Yes?”
The spirit spoke: “Where is this?” And the shepherd replied: “Why, the hill of the psychopomps.”
“Here graze the carriers, the soul guides, the great mediators between the worlds of consciousness and the beyond.”
Spirit felt wonder and awe, but he stood impassively, and the last dregs of these feelings passed from him forever into the green ground of the hill.
“See, there flies the sparrow and, hark there cries the whippoorwill. Drive on, to the very crest of the hill, and you will spy all creatures who burden themselves with gifts to the netherworlds.”
Then brown dog was again at spirit’s side and spirit climbed upon his back so that the pair flew onward, parting the frolicking horsekind and sailing on, higher up the hill to where the harts played and rutted; where the ravens fought the owls for unfortunate bones.
On the third circuit of the magnificent mountain, spirit dared to look back; glanced at the world he was leaving far behind. While on the ground it looked monstrous, insurmountable; from here it looked pitiable, fragile even.
What couldn’t have been accomplished upon that flat ground? What couldn’t have been toppled or climbed? Spirit realised and tried to cry. The last of his feelings fluttered out from his flowing locks and were caught by dancing sparrows, who reeled and chirruped on the breeze.
And then, the last rise. The peak was gained and brown dog lay down panting. Spirit stood up and allowed himself a glimpse of all that surrounded the hill. Times past, present and yet to come mingled with time that had been lost. Each time was bathed in its own peculiar shade, but it was the brown of lost time, time that could never be regained, that held the attention of spirit.
He bent down to brown dog, gazed deeply into his eyes then stroked and held him until his hair no longer stood on end. Brown dog then yapped and ran around and around spirit for a minute or so before disappearing back down the hill.
Spirit watched him go before turning towards the hilltop. A pool or wellspring burst forth there and spirit walked slowly to it. He realised, for the first time, that he was truly naked now, and allowed his foot a dip into the pool. He imagined it felt so cold, but he felt nothing.
The water looked at once colourless and then every colour, as if a think curtain of oil graced its surface. Spirit took his own hand and led himself into the pool. As he stood there, he noticed the pool turn a muddy brown colour. All he could do was nod a nod of acceptance and acquiescence.
The brown water then began to reach up, to reach up and coat and cover his legs. As it did so, his form slowly dissolved, slowly became part of a brown wave. Soon that wave was a torrent, gushing up to take every remnant of a life both spent and wasted.
And, in the trees below, the whippoorwills called to tell the world of another soul softly passing.