The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

by John Connolly

  From deep in the forest came another voice, sinister and male.

  “What right have you to claim him?” it said.

  The branches of the trees parted like courtiers before a king, and Samuel was confronted by an enormous gnarled oak with a complex root system that reminded him uncomfortably of serpents writhing. This was the tree that had spoken. It had two holes in its trunk for eyes, and a twisted gash for a mouth, from which a reeking gas emerged as it talked. It stank of rotting vegetation, and worse: the slow decay of the nonvegetative.

  “What right have you?” said the ram in reply. “He’s just a boy.”

  “He could help us. He could free us.”

  “And how could he do that? You are afflicted things. He cannot help you.”

  “Give him an ax, and let him cut us down. Let him reduce us to splinters and sawdust.”

  “And then? Do you still believe that mortal rules apply to you? The Great Malevolence would simply start again, reconstituting you into even more grotesque forms for his amusement. That will not bring your pain to an end. It will merely increase it.”

  “Then give us the boy, that he might keep us company. We can gaze upon his beauty, and remember what we once were.”

  The ram laughed, a low, bleating sound. “Give him to you so that he can rot slowly in your insides, more like, allowing you to visit some of your anger on him. He is lost, but not forsaken. He does not belong here, and he does not belong to you.”

  The great oak seemed to snarl, and Samuel saw deep into the racked, tortured soul of it.

  “We will not forget this, Old Ram,” it said. “Our roots grow longer, our branches sharper. We draw ever nearer to you, and soon you will wake in your hovel to find yourself surrounded by us, and our arms will draw you to us, and we will explore your body with our roots for our amusement.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said the ram dismissively. “Old Ram has heard it all before. You’re trees, in case you hadn’t noticed. You grow so slowly that even the Great Malevolence himself has ceased to find your misery amusing. Keep staring into your pools of stagnant water, and recalling what you once were. The child has no more business with you.”

  He nudged Samuel with his stick.

  “Come, my boy,” he said. “Leave them to their mutterings.”

  Samuel did as he was told, but as he went he could not resist looking back at the great oak; for a moment he could have sworn that he saw some of its roots emerge from the ground. But then the forest closed around it, and he could see the ancient tree no longer.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Merryweather’s elves, or dwarfs, or however they currently chose to describe themselves, had encountered a serious problem.

  Somebody had stolen their van.

  “And you’re sure this is where you left it?” said Angry. “You know, a lot of these dunes look alike.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me,” said Jolly. “We left it here. All of us. Not just me. And of course this is where we left it: you can see the tire marks.”

  “Were the keys still in the ignition? Very unwise to walk away and leave the keys in the ignition. Invitation to thieves, that is.”

  If a volcano could have assumed the form of a small human being, and had then been photographed on the verge of eruption, it would have looked not unlike Jolly at that moment. When he spoke, though, he was remarkably calm. Dangerously so, one might have thought.

  “Yes,” he said. “I left the keys in it.”

  “So that was a bit careless, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, it might have been-IF SOMEONE HAD DRIVEN IT AWAY!”

  The dwarfs looked at the space that had, until recently, been occupied by a bright yellow van decorated with a painting of a happy little person who bore no resemblance at all to themselves, even at the best of times, of which this was definitely not one. There were four marks in the dust where the van’s tires had stood, but there were no tracks indicating the direction in which it might have gone. Simultaneously all four dwarfs raised their heads, shaded their eyes with their hands, and examined the brooding skies above in the hope of catching a glimpse of their vehicle.

  “I can’t believe someone’s nicked the van,” said Dozy. “I mean, it’s not like we left it on a council estate with the doors open. It’s a desert. What kind of lowlifes do they have around here, anyway?”

  “It’s Hell,” Angry pointed out glumly. “It’s probably full of the kind of people who’d nick your feet if your legs weren’t attached to them.”

  “Suppose so,” said Dozy. “Still, that’s how a place gets a reputation for being unwelcoming to visitors.”

  “Leaseraneem,” said Mumbles.

  “You’re right,” said Jolly. “There never is a copper around when you need one.”

  Which was slightly ironic, given that (a) Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs were not the sort to court the attention of the police at any time; and (b) generally it was not Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs who needed the help of the police, but other people who needed it to protect them from Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs.

  At this point, as if on cue, a police patrol car appeared on top of a nearby dune, its blue lights flashing.

  “Blimey,” said Jolly. “They’re efficient around here, I’ll give them that.”

  Angry squinted at the car as it made its way carefully down the side of the dune.

  “You know, I could be wrong, but those coppers don’t half look familiar.”

  The car drew to a halt. Its doors opened. From one side stepped Sergeant Rowan, and from the other Constable Peel. Both of them scowled at the dwarfs, and on their faces was etched the memory of incidents of assault; drunkenness; unauthorized taking of vehicles, including an ambulance and a bus; arson; breaking and entering, specifically into Biddlecombe’s Little World of Animal Wonders, and the removal of a penguin and two ferrets from same; using a penguin and two ferrets as dangerous weapons; and last, but by no means least, stealing a policeman’s helmet, namely Constable Peel’s, and allowing a penguin and two ferrets to use it as a public convenience. What these incidents had in common was that they had all involved, to some degree or another, one or more of, yes, that’s right, Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs.

  “Oh no,” said Jolly as his brain registered the two policemen, and all of the unfortunate memories associated with them. “It’s true: this must be Hell.”

  XIV

  In Which the Forces of Law and Order Assert Themselves

  SERGEANT ROWAN AND CONSTABLE Peel were deeply, deeply unhappy. To begin with, they had been hauled through an interdimensional portal, which had hurt a lot. Then they had recovered consciousness just in time to see a pink-skinned demon with three heads, too many eyes, and a mouth in its stomach steal the loudspeaker from their roof before running away while wearing it as a hat on its middle head. Then a smaller demon carrying a bucket of white sand had passed them, waved, and disappeared over the top of a dune. He had been followed by another, and another, and another, all of them identical and all of them carrying buckets of white sand. Attempts to engage them in conversation, including such beloved opening gambits as “Who are you?,” “Where is this?,” and “What are you doing with that bucket?” had met with no reply.

  “You know what, Constable?” said Sergeant Rowan as the never-ending procession of demons passed, each one greeting them with a cheery wave.

  “I don’t want to know what, Sarge.”

  “What?”

  “I mean that I don’t want to hear what you’re about to say, because I know what you’re about to say, and I know it’s not something I want to hear. So, if it’s all the same to you, I think I might just put my fingers in my ears and hum a happy tune.”

  And he did just that, until Sergeant Rowan made him stop.

  “Now, lad, don’t let’s be overdramatic,” said Sergeant Rowan. “We have to face up to the truth here.”

  “I don’t want to face up to the truth. The truth’s nasty. The truth’s walking up that dune holding a bucket. The truth h
as three heads and stole our loudspeaker.”

  “Which means?”

  Constable Peel looked as if he was about to cry.

  “You’re going to tell me that the portal’s opened again, and all kinds of horrible creatures are pouring out.”

  Sergeant Rowan smiled at him. “I wasn’t going to tell you that at all, lad.”

  “Really?”

  “No, that’s not what’s happening here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Virtually certain.”

  “Oh!” said Constable Peel. He smiled with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Phew, don’t I feel foolish?”

  “I’ll bet you do, lad.”

  “There was I, worrying that the portal had opened, and monsters were going to pop out of it and try to eat us, and the dead were going to come alive again, and, you know, all that kind of thing. Silly old Peel, eh?”

  “Silly old you,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Monsters aren’t going to come pouring through the portal.”

  “That’s a load off my mind,” said Constable Peel, then thought about what he had just heard. “But what about the one that stole our loudspeaker, and the little red blokes with the buckets?”

  “They didn’t come through the portal. None of them did.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re already here. It’s we who have come through the portal, Constable, not them. We’re in Hell.”

  All things considered, thought Sergeant Rowan, Constable Peel had taken the news remarkably well, once he’d stopped raving and calmed down. They had taken the decision to get away from the steady train of bucket-toting, polite, but relatively uncommunicative demons and find someone who might be able to answer a straight question, which is how they had come across four dwarfs standing on a flat patch between dunes, scratching their heads and staring at the sky. Both policemen had recognized them instantly, and their moods had immediately brightened. They might have been in Hell, but they weren’t alone, and if there were four individuals that Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel would like to have seen consigned to Hell more than Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs, then they hadn’t met those people yet, and probably never would.

  “Hello, hello, hello,” said Sergeant Rowan, watching with pleasure as the four dwarfs looked in vain for a means of escape. “What have we here, then?”

  “Why, I believe it’s the fabled Mr. Merryweather’s Dwarfs, Sarge,” said Constable Peel.

  “Is it really? My, my. Correct me if I’m wrong, Constable, but would they be the same dwarfs who stole your helmet and allowed two ferrets to do their business in it?”

  “Two ferrets and a penguin, Sarge,” Constable Peel corrected.

  “Oh yes, the penguin. I’d almost forgotten about that penguin. Phil, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right, Sarge. Phil the Penguin. Filled my helmet and all.” He smiled at his own little joke. The thought of getting some revenge on Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs was cheering him up no end.

  Sergeant Rowan looked around. “So we have the dwarfs, but where is Mr. Merryweather?” He turned his attention back to the dwarfs, and pointed at Jolly. “You, Mr. Jolly Smallpants, you’re the leader of this motley crew, but where’s the ringmaster?”

  “He abandoned us,” said Jolly.

  “Hardly blame him,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “He doesn’t love us anymore,” said Dozy.

  “Wonder that he ever did,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “Prifowig,” said Mumbles.

  “Whatever,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “We’re only little people,” said Angry. He put on his best sad face, made his eyes large, and tried unsuccessfully to force a tear from them. “We’re very small, and we’re all alone in the world.”

  His fellow dwarfs bowed their heads, peered up from beneath their brows, and introduced some trembling to their lips.

  “No, you’re not alone in the world,” said Sergeant Rowan, his words heavy with consolation. He put his hand on Angry’s shoulder. “You’ve got us now. And you’re under arrest.”

  XV

  In Which Something of the Nature of this World Is Revealed Through Old Ram

  OLD RAM LED SAMUEL and Boswell through weeds and briars, hacking a path with his staff when the way was blocked. What trees there were appeared smaller here at the edge of the forest. Old Ram had described them as “new arrivals.” While they still had faces on their trunks, they were confused rather than angry and hateful, and their branches were too small and weak to present a threat.

  “Ugly things grow quickly here,” explained Old Ram. “Each time Old Ram walks, Old Ram has to cut his way through afresh. The forest sets itself against him, but Old Ram will not let it win.”

  A stone hovel shaped like a beehive came into view. It had slit windows, and a narrow entrance that was blocked by a door woven from twigs and branches. A thin finger of smoke wound its way upward from a hole in the roof. Above them, the dark clouds collided and dispersed, sending flashes of white and red and orange across the sky. As in the forest, Samuel believed that he could discern faces in the clouds, their cheeks billowing, their mouths screaming thunder, forming, swirling, and re-forming in a great tumult of noise and light.

  Old Ram followed the boy’s gaze.

  “They were people once, just as the trees were,” he said. “The skies are filled with the souls of the angry, turned to storm clouds by the Great Malevolence, so that they can fight and rage for eternity.”

  “And the trees?”

  “The trees are the souls of the vain. Everything here is given a purpose, a role to play. The Great Malevolence offers each soul a choice: to join his ranks, and become a demon, or to become part of the essence of this world. Most choose to join him, but those in the skies and those in the forest were too wrathful or too self-absorbed to serve even him, and so he found a suitable punishment for them.”

  “Those poor people,” said Samuel, and Boswell whined in agreement.

  Old Ram shook his head. “You have to understand that only the very worst end up here: the ones whose anger made them kill, and who felt no sorrow or guilt after the act; those so obsessed with themselves that they turned their backs on the sufferings of others, and left them in pain; those whose greed meant that others starved and died. Such souls belong here, because they would find no peace elsewhere. In this place, they are understood. In this place, their faults have meaning. In this place, they belong.”

  Old Ram opened the door, and indicated that Samuel should enter. Samuel paused on the threshold. He was old enough to know that he shouldn’t trust strangers, and Old Ram was a very strange stranger indeed. On the other hand, Old Ram had saved both Samuel and Boswell from the trees, and they needed help from someone if they were to avoid Mrs. Abernathy and find a way home.

  Samuel entered the dwelling. It had no furniture, no pictures, no signs of habitation at all except for the lingering odor of Old Ram himself, and the fire that burned in a hollow in the dirt floor. Black wood was piled beside it, ready to be added to the blaze.

  “It’s… very nice,” said Samuel.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Old Ram, “but it’s polite of you to say so. You may find this odd from one trapped in this kingdom of fire, but Old Ram feels the cold. Old Ram is never hungry, never thirsty, never tired, but Old Ram is always, always cold, so Old Ram keeps the fire burning. Old Ram feeds it with branches from the forest. When there are no fallen branches to be found, Old Ram breaks them from young trees. Old Ram needs his warmth.”

  “Is that why the trees hate you so much?” asked Samuel. “Because you cut their branches?”

  “They hate everything,” said Old Ram, “but most of all they hate themselves. Still, Old Ram has given them much reason to resent him, that’s true. If nothing else, tormenting them offers Old Ram something to break the monotony.”

  He sat down by the fire, crossing his hind legs beneath him and stretching his forelegs before him to warm his hooves. Samuel and Boswell sat opposite,
and watched Old Ram through the flames.

  “What did you do to end up here, if it’s not rude to ask?” said Samuel.

  Old Ram looked away. “Old Ram was a bad shepherd,” he said. “Old Ram betrayed his flock.”

  And he would say no more. 25

  Samuel was tired and hungry. He searched in his pockets, where he found a bar of chocolate and a small apple. It wasn’t much. Despite what Old Ram had said about lacking an appetite, Samuel offered him a bite of each, but Old Ram ignored the chocolate entirely, instead sniffing at the apple.

  “Old Ram remembers apples,” he said, and there was sadness in his voice, and in his pale eyes. “Old Ram remembers pears, and plums, and pomegranates. Old Ram remembers… everything.”

  “You can have a little, if you like,” said Samuel.

  Old Ram seemed tempted, but then drew back, as though suspecting Samuel of some plot to poison him.

  “No, Old Ram doesn’t want any. Old Ram isn’t hungry. Eat, you and your little dog. Eat.”

  Old Ram folded his arms and stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts. Samuel gave some of the chocolate to Boswell, then ate the apple himself, Boswell not being much of a fan of fruit.

  “How can we get back to our own world?” asked Samuel, when he had finished the apple and grown tired of the silence. Boswell, he noticed, had fallen asleep with his head in his lap. He stroked the dog, who opened his eyes, wagged his tail once, then went back to sleep.

  “You can’t,” said Old Ram. “Nothing ever leaves here. Not even the Great Malevolence himself can leave, and he’s tried.”

  “But they managed to break into my world. If it was done once, it can be done again.”