by Mark Cain
Bik’s tiny face contorted into a look of disbelief, as if he couldn’t fathom why I was so stupid. “Why, The Spark of course.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Orson said. “All fire can’t be the result of this mumbo jumbo ‘Spark’ thingie.”
“What do you know about fire?” Bik said with irritation, his head igniting. “I’m made of fire, so I probably know a little bit more about it than you do, don’t you think?”
Orson made a placating gesture. “Don’t get offended. I just can’t imagine anything magical about a campfire back on Earth.”
Bik extinguished his flame. “Now I understand the confusion. You’re right, at least in part. The Spark is still involved, because it is the unifying force of both the physical and metaphysical realms, but on Midgard, a fire isn’t a direct expression of The Spark the way it is down here. At least, that’s what Grandpa says.”
I rubbed my chin in thought and felt the rough stubble of my beard. We had a really long day going, with no end in sight. “So you think the failure of Miss Nightingale’s lamp could be related to the problem your grandfather is having down on Nine?”
“Well, naturally. The Spark is an energy field created by all things. It … ”
“ … surrounds us and penetrates us,” I said, completing his sentence for him. “It binds all things together. Blah, blah. Yeah, I know. I saw the movie.”
Bik kicked at my desktop. “You’re being snarky again.”
“Sorry,” I said absently, no longer paying attention to him. I was thinking about Flo’s lamp. It was definitely worth checking out.
“Orson, I need to investigate this myself. Especially so after your recent, ah, disagreement with Beezy. You could get the replacement lamp from Dora, I suppose, but I would still have to take it to Flo, light it for her, and get her signature.”
Orson nodded, bowing to the logic of his damnation. “I’m just your assistant again. I can’t resolve anything on my own.”
“’fraid not, but you can come with me. Perhaps Flo will feel more comfortable if I don’t show up alone.”
“Can I come too?”
“What? Bik, you’re mumbling again.”
“Sorry. Can I come?” Bik repeated, raising his voice.
“I guess so,” I said, holding open my pocket protector. Bik lit up for a second, just long enough to get airborne, then flamed off as he did a perfect jackknife into my pocket.
The air outside our trailer was smelly and damp, like a bandaid you’d forgotten to remove from a badly ingrown toenail before soaking in a bath. A cold bath. The air was noticeably cooler; I could feel it through my coveralls.
We swung by the Parts Department and got a replacement lamp and some fuel from Dora then headed to the hospital. It wasn’t far; after we’d walked a couple of blocks, I could see it peeking out from behind the abandoned steel mill. As usual, the hospital’s looming all-metal structure made me squirm, but today my reaction was worse than usual.
As we stepped onto the sidewalk leading to the hospital entrance, a sudden attack of the heebie jeebies overwhelmed me. Like most people, I hated hospitals, but my sudden attack of nerves had more to do with my impending meeting with Flo than anything else. I wanted to see her of course. I loved her, and no matter how chilly or even non-existent our relationship was at present, I was sure she loved me too. Yet, after catching me with Lilith plastered to my face and sitting on my lap, Flo probably wasn't real keen on seeing me right now.
“Steve, you okay?”
We were standing just before the entrance to the Toaster. I couldn’t move. My feet seemed mortared to the sidewalk. “Just, just a case of nerves, I guess.”
Orson put his hand on my shoulder in sympathy. “I could take the lamp in for you.”
My smile probably looked pretty lumpy. Certainly the tears in my eyes couldn’t be hidden. This whole situation with Flo was turning me into a weepy, pathetic mess. “You know you can’t. Beezy wouldn’t let you. Probably drop a building on you or something.”
My assistant frowned. “I guess you’re probably right, but I’d be willing to try for you.”
“Careful, Orson,” I said, feeling my smile smooth out a bit. “You’re getting dangerously close to lemon cream pie territory.”
“You’re right there,” he said, looking cautiously upward. “Come on. We’ll go in together. There’s safety in numbers, right?”
“Right.” We locked arms, and stepped into the Toaster.
Inside the steel building, the temperature was even cooler than outside. In the enormous reception area, amidst the hundreds of patients waiting interminably for admittance, several demons in jackets wandered through the crowds. One in particular I hoped to avoid.
“Ah, Steve Minion, Hell’s Super himself,” said a nasty-sounding little voice behind me.
I groaned. “Hello, Uphir.”
Hell’s demon physician, top dog in the hospital as far as I could tell, wore a thick terrycloth robe over his scrubs. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you afraid Flo might see you?”
Here it goes, I thought with a sigh. “I’m responding to a work request she made.”
“Don’t you have something more important to do? It’s fucking freezing in here!”
Damn it. Uphir was probably right. The failure of the lamp and the HVAC system were probably unrelated, no matter what my instincts - or Bik - told me. If so, I was wasting time on an insignificant job. “I … I … ”
The demon snorted. “What are you, a sailor? Then shove off, matey, and get to work on something really important!”
I’d never liked Uphir. Well, I didn’t really like any demon, except maybe Lilith now, but Uphir I particularly despised. Aside from being a snotty-nosed jerk, he was always finding ways to make Flo’s existence miserable. I gave Uphir my most formidable frown, which was only slightly more intimidating than one from Mr. Rogers. “As soon as I take care of this work order. You always know where she is, so you can speed things up by telling me now. And then I can get back to fixing your heater.”
Uphir looked up at a water stain on the ceiling. He stroked his chin while putting his other hand in the pocket of his robe. He looked like a particularly ugly David Niven in a smoking jacket. Then he brightened. “Fifth floor. She's just passed the Nurses’ station, Proctology Unit. Looks like she's headed to the Immobility Ward.”
“The Immobility Ward,” Orson mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Great.”
“Thanks,” I said, without an ounce of sincerity, and turned to go.
“And tell her that, since she isn’t interested in you anymore, if she wants to practice her Floratio techniques, I’m available.” Uphir popped open his robe and displayed his equipment for me.
“Fuck off, Uphir!” Orson snapped, beating me to it. My assistant was being particularly protective of me. He must have known how nervous I was about our meeting with Flo.
It’s nice to know someone has your back. Even in Hell.
“Yeah,” I added, trying to think of some suitable insult. I wrinkled my nose, as if I’d just detected something beyond malodorous. “How long has it been since you bathed that thing?”
“What’s a bath?”
“Whatever.” We turned to go.
“Wait!” Uphir called.
I wanted to keep walking, but it never paid to ignore a demon. Reluctantly, I turned back to him. “What is it now, Uphir?
The demon physician looked at the ceiling, then back at me, as if something had just occurred to him. “Nothing much. Just say hello to your lady love for me, Steve-o.”
“What did you call her?”
“Your lady love. She is, you know. I was kidding earlier. Why,” and at this point, Uphir cleared his throat and grinned evilly at me, “all Hell will freeze over before she stops loving you.”
“You son of a bitch!” I screamed and punched him in the face.
Bad move. Demons, even twerpy little ones like Uphir, are amazingly strong. And fast. Before I blinked, I was flat
on my back, with Hell’s demon physician standing on my chest. “Don’t ever do that again,” he hissed.
“Okay … okay,” I said, slightly dazed. “But why did you say that?”
“Just giving you a little added incentive to get your main job done.” Uphir hopped off my chest and, with more dignity than I thought he was capable, left the waiting area.
Orson and I headed for the elevators.
Great. Just great.
“Steve, do you think Uphir just upped the ante?”
I shivered, and not from the cold. The situation was getting worse and worse. “Yeah, I do. It’s already a cold day in Hell, and if we don’t figure out what’s wrong with the HVAC, there’s a real risk all Hell could freeze over … And I will lose Flo forever.”
And maybe all the souls in Hell would be destroyed, including my own. I knew I was being selfish, but somehow, losing Flo seemed the worst of it.
We walked by Billing, where there was a glass window, open halfway, behind which sat a demon wearing a green plastic visor, vest and shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The line before the department snaked back and forth upon itself. Every damned soul had at least a ream's worth of paperwork on them. Just coming around the corner was an old lady driving a forklift on which was a pallet's worth of documentation. The guy at the window arguing with the demon had a five-foot stack on a dolly. By the way he kept shifting his weight from one foot to another, I judged he'd just had podiatric surgery. He was wincing in pain with each movement. In his hand was the first page of his bill, a multipart form that was attached, accordion-fashion, to the remaining sheets on his dolly. “But … but, ten thousand dollars for one aspirin?”
“Ooh, you're right. Mistake that. Should have been twenty. Here, let me print you out a revised bill. Shouldn't take a minute.” With that, the demon disappeared to some place far in the back, where the printer must have been located.
I shook my head.
The elevators were broken, so the two of us trudged up the stairs. Orson and I were pretty winded when we reached the fifth floor, and we spent a minute leaning against the wall, wheezing and catching our breath, while we watched the goings-on in the Immobility Ward.
This was one of the larger units in the hospital. Most of the patients housed, or should I say, incarcerated here, were in life control freaks, claustrophobics or both. They, of course, were completely mobile, or would have been if allowed. In Hell’s Hospital, they were strapped to beds or wheelchairs or gurneys. Anything that could move on a person’s body was bound down in some fashion or other. Their mouths were taped shut and their eyelids sewn open. I noticed idly that instead of medical supplies, their bindings were barbed wire, fishing line and duct tape.
In the center of the Ward was a large open space, currently occupied by half a dozen demons pushing gurneys. On each one was an immobilized patient, eyes wide with fear. The demons were playing bumper cars and having a whale of a time slamming into each other’s charges. They had just pulled away from each other, though, and formed a wide circle with the gurneys. The patients’ heads were pointed toward the center of the ring, and the demonic orderlies were poised for a grand slam finish.
“One, two…” counted one of the demons.
“Hold!” came a stern voice from down the hall.
A vision of feminine perfection stepped in the middle of the circle, and my heart stopped.
Florence Nightingale was in high dander. She said not a word, but stared each demon down with an expression that could have frozen water. Hell, Flo, in her immaculate, white nurse’s uniform and frosty demeanor could have frozen a geyser. None of them could withstand her fury. Grumbling, they one by one wheeled their charges away.
My love took a deep breath before turning away from the ward. That’s when she saw me. The frown that had just disappeared from her face returned. “Steve! What are you doing here?”
A cold day in Hell indeed.
“I’ve asked you not to come to the hospital,” she said, dropping the thermometer to zero, Kelvin, “so why would you pick today of all days to show?”
Damn. I cleared my throat. “Your work order,” I said by way of explanation.
She nodded but looked to my assistant. “I thought that, knowing my feelings, he’d send you, Orson.”
My friend put his arm around Flo, kissing her cheek. I guess he was trying to show my affection by proxy, but it didn’t make things any better. Vague feelings of jealousy rumbled through me. “He would have if he could have, Flo, but Beezy doesn’t allow me to do any work orders on my own.” He shrugged. “I can only assist.”
“Yes, of course,” she said in a small voice. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“Tell me, tell us,” I amended, “what happened to your lamp.”
There was a faraway look in Flo's eyes, but my voice brought her back from wherever she was wandering in her imagination. I hoped I was wandering there with her.
“I … I don’t know.” Flo opened her purse and pulled out the lamp. The thing was iconic, having shown up in several works of art depicting the first lady of the nursing profession: The Lady of the Lamp. “It just abruptly wicked out a little while ago, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t relight it.”
“Does it have oil in it?” Orson asked, trying to be helpful.
She smiled ruefully at him. “I’ve been using it for two hundred years. Do you think I would make a mistake like that?”
“Suppose not.”
“Well, don’t worry,” I said brightly, or as brightly as a lovesick handyman could sound. “I’ve brought you a replacement.”
Flo sat down in a plastic chair in the hallway. “I hate to give up my old lamp,” she said, staring down with affection at the scratched and dented thing. It had seen better days. “I’ve had it for a long time.”
Her predicament reminded me of Sisyphus and his boulder, so I tried to put a positive spin on the situation. “You can still keep it. You’ll have two!”
Flo sighed. “I suppose.”
“Here, let me set up this new lamp for you.” Quickly, I took the lamp out of its box, filled it with lamp oil, and stuck the wick in the spout. As an afterthought, I pulled out the wick, soaked it completely with oil and reinserted it. I wanted to make sure we got an impressive flame out of the replacement lamp, if only to cheer up Flo.
I rummaged around in my pocket, gouging myself on my keys, and grabbed a box of matches. It took me two or three strikes to get a match lit, but it finally did ignite, and I placed the flame beneath the oil-saturated wick. An impressive amount of smoke rose, but I couldn’t light it.
“Ow! Damn!” I said, dropping the match when it scorched my index finger. I sucked on the burn for a sec then struck another match. If anything, it was harder to light than the first one, but light it did, and I went after the wick once more. Still no luck, and I was getting frustrated.
“Bik!” I yelled.
All the while, Bik had been standing quietly in my pocket protector, taking in the scene. He was so tiny that Florence hadn’t even noticed him, but her mouth opened in surprise when the tiny fire giant flew from my pocket and hovered before my face. “What’s up, Steve? Do you want me to light the wick for you?”
“Would you? I’d sure appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Bik turned to the wick and shot a blast of fire at it. About a quarter inch was incinerated, but the lamp did not light.
“Odin’s Beard!” he said in dismay. “That’s never happened before.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Orson, “a little finesse.”
Bik scratched his chin, nodding. “Right.”
“Who is this?” Flo asked.
“A new friend of mine. He’s helping me on the HVAC project. Flo, this is Bik. Bik, Flo.”
Florence smiled at the tiny creature. “Hello.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Bik said, as polite as I’d ever heard him. “Let me try again.” Bik flew up to the wick, placed both hands on it, and began stroking it
gently. The wick began to smoke, and slowly, after considerable coaxing, the lamp lit up. But only for a few seconds. Then it winked out.
“Arrrgh!” Bik screamed and shot up through the ceiling. He was back by the count of five, having apparently burned off some of his frustration. “THAT,” he said in his loudest voice, “has never happened before.”
Orson, scratching his beard, was deep in thought. “Something odd is going on here. Hey, Flo, let’s see if Bik can light your old lamp.”
Florence handed the lamp to Orson, who turned to Bik. “Why don’t you try again?”
“Okay.” Bik repeated his gentle coaxing of the wick on Flo’s original lamp. Again, after some effort, he was able to get the thing to light, but it only burned a few seconds before going out.
Bik dropped to the floor, extinguishing his flame, and sat down with his back to the wall. “I must be losing my touch.”
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “Something else is going on here.”
I looked at Orson, who nodded. He probably had the same thought I did. I had been right. This was related to the problem with the HVAC system.
“Keep the new lamp, Steve. If neither one will light, I’d just as soon hold onto my old one.” Flo frowned, and her beautiful face assumed a tragic demeanor that made my heart ache. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without it. My lamp has been a symbol of hope to others for a long time.”
Unable to restrain myself, I knelt down and took her hand. Flo looked surprised, but she didn’t pull away.
“No, dear. You, Florence Nightingale, you have been the symbol of hope. You are the flame that has inspired us.”
Yeah, I know. Way over the top, but it’s the way I felt at the moment.
Bik looked up and grinned. “She’s like The Spark!”
An icy claw clutched at my lungs, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Looking closely at Florence, I noticed that she was pale, as if the blood, or what passed for blood in the afterlife, had been drained out of her. Perhaps she was just a little chilled, but maybe Bik was right. Flo was like The Spark, and her fire seemed to be burning pretty low right now. I gave her hand a gentle squeeze - it was ominously cold to the touch - and stood. “Hold onto your lamp. I hope we’ll be able to get it working for you soon. I … I have to go now. There’s something important I need to do.”