Penemue's Inferno

by Ramy Vance

  He was like Beauty and the Beast’s Belle, except less law-abiding and more inebriated.

  I often caught him nesting on top of the library, surrounded by borrowed books that he consumed (in his own words) “like the Israelites drank water whenever they stumbled upon an oasis during their forty-year ramble.”

  But the Paradise Lot Public Library wasn’t very well stocked. At first. Then the library began getting regular donations. Buckets of books were left at its doorsteps, while anonymous donations were sent to the library. I could never prove it, but I was sure they were Penemue’s doings.

  Not that the rebel angel ever admitted to it. Every time I’d ask, he would say the same thing: “Perhaps, finally, the world is waking up to the importance of libraries.”

  Perhaps.

  Then again, walking around this layer of Hell, I gained an appreciation for Penemue’s love of libraries. Because as much as we expected fire and brimstone, what we weren’t expecting was a palace of books.

  Through the crawlspace, the halls we entered were filled with shelves after shelves of books. Thousands. Millions, even.

  This place must have contained every book ever written. Then I remembered Penemue’s thing: he had the ability to read everything ever written. And apparently—don’t ask me how this works—the deeds humans do are written on our souls.

  Since Penemue had access to all that, he knew everything we had ever done. And everything our parents did, and our grandparents and our great-great-great-grandparents, all the way back to the first humans with the first souls. (And before you ask—no, not Adam and Eve. Apparently our evolution was more complex that two wayward humans in a garden. But that’s another story altogether.)

  “Wow,” Bella said.

  “Wow indeed,” Judith agreed.

  Hell, even Marty hissed in awe. This place was beyond magnificent. Because beyond the sheer volume of books, it was built with meticulous care, every groove, every carving, every laid slab of marble filled with knowledge.

  I walked over to the mahogany shelves and touched the carving outlining the shelves and casing. Images of creatures of all kinds covered its surface. The floor was a mural of stars and planets—but not our galaxy. That was but a fleck somewhere in the mess of heavenly bodies. This was a celestial map of the Universe. As in capital-U, all-of-creation Universe.

  And right above it hung a sphere. As far as I could tell, it was the only light source in the whole damn place and even though it emanated brightly, it couldn’t have been larger than a marble … and one of those small cat’s eye ones, too.

  What’s more, I could look directly at it. Normally when you look at a lightbulb or the sun or even the moon for long enough it becomes uncomfortable, if not downright painful. And when you look away, you take a silhouette of light with you. But this light source was different … it didn’t hurt to stare directly at it, and when you looked away, you didn’t take anything with you.

  And there was one more strange thing about that marble (marvel?) of light: several wisps of light seemed to flow into it, not away. Like it was a magnet for other lights, or a gravitational pull that only drew in light. And even though it illuminated this place, it did so only as an afterthought. Its purpose was to draw in light, not give it off. A black hole of lightbulbs, if you will.

  All this was just in the main hall, and from where we stood, I could see numerous extensions branching off in multiple directions—wings upon wings filled with more books, more knowledge.

  “This place goes on forever,” I said. “I mean, if this place was on Earth, it would be the size of Manhattan.”

  Bella nodded. “Space really isn’t an issue in Heaven and Hell. Look …” She pointed to several of the hallways jutting off the main room. They appeared to go on forever.

  We walked along the edge for a while, looking down each pathway; they all seemed like endless roads, books lining both sides. At the threshold of each pathway was a symbol that meant nothing to me. They weren’t angelic script or Sanskrit or any other kind of ‘skrit,’ script or language I knew.

  “Do these symbols mean anything to you?” I asked.

  Bella shook her head.

  “Humph, I see.” Something else caught my eye. “Apparently not, but look over here.” I took Bella’s hand and guided her back into the main room and between a row of shelves.

  As soon as we were out of Judith’s spotlight, I pulled her in close and kissed her. It was something long overdue and Bella, surprised, leaned into the kiss, cupping the back of my head lest I try to pull away.

  I wasn’t going to pull away.

  Not ever.

  As our lips touched, a flood of emotions almost buckled my knees. The years we’d spent apart. The years of fighting and dying, of loneliness and doubt. It wasn’t just the familiarity of her taste, or that it had been an eternity since we’d last kissed.

  It was that, just like the very first time and each time after, kissing her made everything feel possible and right.

  “Stop,” Bella said as my hands started to take on a life of their own.

  “Stop what?” I said.

  Bella giggled. “You know what,” she said between heavy breaths. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?” Whatever her reasons, they would have to be damn good. As in, chastity-belt-made-from-adamantium good.

  “Because … because we’re in a hurry and—”

  As if to help make her case, we heard an “Ahem” from behind us.

  I didn’t move; I knew whose chastising voice was about to echo through the halls. It occurred to me my mother-in-law would be perfectly employed as Hell’s librarian.

  “If you are done acting like teenagers,” Judith said, “there is something over here that you really should see.”

  So much for making out in the library.

  ↔

  Bella and I reluctantly separated and made our way over to Judith. Once we were close enough, Judith grabbed Bella’s hands and guided her to an enclave on the other side of the library. I dutifully—bitterly—followed them to a large wooden structure. It looked like one of the architectural models of a … of a … “What is that?”

  “I think,” Judith said, “this is map of Hell. Look here.” She pointed at the base of the model, where a tiny archway stood. On one side of the archway was a massive cave, and on the other, a forest with a tiny river.

  “Where we entered,” I said.

  Judith nodded. “And look here—we must be in this chamber. On the other side are these tracks.”

  “A 3D model of Hell,” I mused.

  “Except I don’t think it’s complete. Look—there are only four layers. I thought Dante’s Inferno had nine circles.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head as I stared at the model, “I don’t think there are nine circles in Hell. At least, not in this one.”

  “And you know this because …” Judith’s last word came out more like a challenge than a question.

  “Because Penemue once told me that Dante was, well … wrong,” I said. “And that the nine circles of Hell not only didn’t reflect the real Hell, which was more of an endless, flat plane of fire and pain—”

  “Like Nebraska,” Bella said with a chuckle.

  Hearing her laugh after a somewhat inappropriate joke was like a slap to the face. Her wit was always quick and a little naughty … and never anything I’d think of. Nebraska. I barely remembered it was a state, let alone would have used it as the butt of a joke. It had to be her.

  The real her.

  I resisted the desire to reach over and give her an endless embrace to make up for all our lost time. And from the way Judith stared at her daughter, I knew she had done the same.

  “Yeah,” I said, running my hands through my hair, “like Nebraska. Anyhoo, he said that if he were to create an inferno of his own, there would be four circles.” I snapped my fingers as a memory eked its way back into my mind. “And look—these aren’t circles. They’re too wide. They’re more like ovals.�
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  “Ovals?” Bella stared at the model.

  “And what do these ovals consist of?” Judith asked.

  I shrugged. I couldn’t remember anything else of use.

  “Oh good,” Judith groaned. “Proving your worth yet again, I see.” And before I could think of a retort to her obviously sarcastic comment, she looked around and said, “As pleasant as this place is, I don’t think this is where he is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because all the books are empty.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What, you haven’t picked one up yet? Not that I’m surprise. You were never one to feed the mind.”

  “Judith, I—”

  Bella put a calming hand on my shoulder and gave her mother a look that could stop bullets with shame.

  Judith pursed her lips before nodding. “Fine, I’m sorry. But my point remains: the books are empty. Here, look.” She walked over to the nearest shelf and pulled out the first book she found. She opened it, revealing empty pages.

  She repeated this with a half-dozen more books that she randomly pulled off the shelves. “See … all empty.”

  I nodded in appreciation of Penemue’s twisted psyche. Of course all the books would be blank in his Hell. He loved reading. He loved books. The only thing worse than empty pages was—

  Before I could finish the thought, the ground rumbled, the marble beneath our feet turning up.

  Something was barreling its way underground … and toward us.

  Apparently the Worms in Tremors Were After the Books

  “Book worms,” I yelled over the rumbling noise.

  “Book what?” Bella cried out.

  “Worms. WORMS! This is Penemue’s Hell … What’s the worst thing that could happen to a library? Even one with books filled with blank pages?”

  “They get eaten,” Bella said as we ran away from the tunneling monster and toward what I hoped was the exit. “Of course.”

  Marty hissed as he wrapped tightly around my arm.

  “Must be long-lost cousins of yours,” I said to him.

  The viper had just given me an indignant look that said he’d never be related to a dirt-eating, book-consuming worm when the ground beneath us opened up and a giant, teeth-filled mouth came up beneath us.

  The force of the blow threw me straight up, and as gravity did its inevitable thing (apparently it worked just the same in Hell as on Earth), I saw both Judith and Bella tumbling down the other side of the mound the giant worm had made.

  I pulled out General Shouf’s pistol and pulled the trigger three times, conserving bullets be damned. Each shot bounced off the worm’s exoskeleton … not that I cared. Bella was on the other side of this little impromptu hill, and the last thing I was going to let happen was that worm chasing after her.

  I would be the target, and those bullets did exactly what I wanted them to do.

  The worm turned toward me and charged.

  Running back, I holstered my gun and jumped on some shelves, climbing up the beautifully carved casing like a ladder. On top, I pulled out my sword and had just enough time to leap in the air before the worm came crashing down on the shelves on which I’d stood.

  Stupid worm, I thought as I tumbled onto its back. Using my hunting sword, I stabbed deep and hard into its body’s shell. Bullets might have no effect on this thing, but my sword would. It was a memento I’d taken off the dead body of the Erlking, a monstrous creature who lived for the hunt. His sword was his prized weapon, and it had properties to it that no mortal hand could have created. It was perfectly balanced for one thing, and it was sharper that any surgeon’s scalpel. It could scrape the O out of H2O.

  My sword tore through several rungs of … what the hell was this stuff? Demon-book-worm guts? It was more like the green goo Slimer hit you with in Ghostbusters.

  The worm went down with an anticlimactic thud. As I stood over its dead carcass in full superhero pose, I saw Bella look over at me in wonder and Judith in confused disgust.

  “That was … impressive,” Bella said.

  “Yes,” Judith agreed, her eyes betraying a touch of fear of little old me. If I’d known seeing something like this would have elicited such a reaction, I would have taken my judgmental mother-in-law with me on all my missions.

  “I see why you were so effective at your job,” Bella said, dismantling all the alpha-male bravado my book worm victory had imbued me with.

  For years, I served in a special division of the military whose mandate was to hunt Others. The way I saw it, I was helping the world maintain peace by taking down the particularly nasty Others.

  Bella hated that about me, believing that peace could never be achieved with a gun. At the time, I’d thought she was naïve. But after she died and I spent a few years wandering the GoneGod World without her, I learned that she was right.

  She was always right. And I was ashamed of that part of my life.

  But both bravado and shame were short-lived. The earth started to rumble again; I looked toward the library’s entrance and saw three more mouths coming our way. And if there were three, there were more. A lot more.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I yelled.

  “This way,” Judith said. “The model showed an exit over here.”

  We followed Judith down the center of the library as the worms steadily gained on us. Marty, who’d heroically clung to my arm during my fight with the worm, looked behind us and hissed. Either he was speaking snake and telling me to hurry, or he was mocking the worms, daring them to attack. Either way, the viper wasn’t helping. And I doubted his fangs could pierce those worms’ thick hides.

  After a few hundred yards, we made it to a giant door that looked very, very locked.

  So, wanting to regain some of my male gusto, I sped up, determined to ram into the door and force it open.

  Knowing Penemue, I should have known what would happen next.

  As I leapt in the air, shoulder at the ready, the damn door opened on its own. I went flying out of the library and into … whatever this place was.

  A Brief Interlude

  Penemue—

  Some forces are beyond even an angel’s control. Things occur that nothing—no force, no magic, no technology—can stop. Or even interfere with.

  Attempting to do so would be as futile as trying to stop the tides or prevent the sun from rising.

  Certainly, these events are so magnificent, so grand, that they occur in the background of our lives—happenings that mere mortals are unaware of.

  One such occurrence happened when Penemue built his own inferno. He built his own private Hell, determined to punish himself for all his failings.

  He did so selfishly, allowing his guilt to consume him without a second thought as to how he would affect those around him. Those who loved him. Stepping into his own Hell, Penemue was determined to disappear forever.

  But when he feels Jean’s presence on the other side of Hell’s gate, something stirs deep within. He understands that his friend—his brother—will come after him, try to rescue him.

  And although the last thing Penemue wants is to be rescued, perhaps he can use his new home and the powers it imbues him with to help his friend.

  “Perhaps,” he mutters to himself, “I can undo some of the wrong that was done.”

  Perhaps he can bring back those he loved and lost. For here in Hell, the twice-fallen angel has such power.

  The power to bring back the dead.

  End of Brief Interlude

  Out of the Library and Into the … School?

  Penemue’s sin was to teach humankind to read and write.

  The reason? Because (and I quote) “men were not born for this. Thus with pen and with ink to confirm their faith. Since they were not created, except that, like the angels, they might remain righteous and pure. Nor would death, which destroys everything, have affected them; but by this their knowledge they perish, and by this also its power consumes them.”

&nbs
p; A lot of words to describe a simple concept.

  Penemue was a less famous Prometheus. He taught us not to make fire, but to make the written word—something of immense power. And because we’re stupid, talking monkeys (the pejoratives demons use when referring to humans), such knowledge corrupted our souls.

  But that’s the legend. I’d sometimes asked Penemue about it, and his response was crystal clear: “Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, and I gave humanity fruit from the Tree of Life.”

  I, of course, would give him a blank look when he said that to me, at which point he’d roll his eyes and clarify in that way that rubbing mud on your windshield helps you see the road. “The Tree of Life grants immortality to those who eat from it.”

  “And?” I said. More and more, our conversations were like teasing dental floss out of a dog’s butt.

  Penemue signed as if I was challenging his infinite patience. I suspect I was. After all, I was his best friend and the one person he spoke to the most. It must have been frustrating not being able to simply make a point, but constantly having to explain, give context and “dumb it down” for me. Then again, he was a drunk asshole, so I figured fate put us together to balance some of the karmic baggage we’d both accumulated over our lifetimes.

  With a groan, the twice-fallen explained what he meant. Well, he tried to, at least. “Now that you guys can read and write, your thoughts can live on forever. In other words, your ideas are immortal. Hence the Tree of Life. Get it?”

  I nodded. “That was a sin?”

  “Oh yes, my dear human Jean. It was one of the biggest no-nos the gods had. Humans were never meant to be immortal. You weren’t designed to be so. What I did was against your very making. And for that sin, I should have been undone, utterly obliterated. By the grace of one angel, I was, instead, condemned to Hell.”

  He never did tell me which angel saved him. But from what I knew about angels, that creature must have gone against his or her very nature to let that particular act of rebellion slide.