Who had bravely driven it into the portal, causing it to collapse.
Sergeant Rowan took a few steps forward and examined the moving rock. More particularly, he examined the wheels of the rock, and then peered into the interior of the disguised car.
“Constable Peel, do you still have your notebook open?” he said.
“Yes, Sarge.”
“You know that page you’ve just filled with all of the charges against Mr. Nurd here?”
“Yes, Sarge. I’ve written them all down very neatly, in case the judge wants to read them for himself.”
“Tear it out and throw it away, there’s a good lad.”
“But-”
“No buts. Just do as I say.”
With considerable reluctance, Constable Peel did as he was told. He tore the page into little pieces and dropped them on the ground.
“Littering,” said a small, cheery voice from somewhere around his belly button. “That’s a fifty-quid fine.”
“Shut up,” said Constable Peel.
“It seems I may owe you an apology, sir,” said Sergeant Rowan.
“No, not really,” said Nurd. “I did all of the things that you said, or most of them anyway.”
“Well, I think you may have made up for them. Now, what’s this about Samuel Johnson?”
And Nurd did his best to explain how he had felt Samuel’s presence, and how he believed that it was Mrs. Abernathy who had been responsible for dragging Samuel and by extension the policemen, the dwarfs, and Dan, Dan the Ice-Cream Man to Hell.
“And what do you suggest we do about that?” asked Sergeant Rowan.
“We find Samuel, and then we try to discover the location of the gateway so we can get you all home,” said Nurd.
“You seem very sure that there is a gateway.”
“There has to be. Even here, certain laws apply. Wherever it is, it has to be close to Mrs. Abernathy. I do have one question for you, though.”
“And what’s that?” said Sergeant Rowan.
“What is that terrible music?”
“It’s ‘(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window?’” said Constable Peel glumly.
“Woof-woof,” said Angry, mainly out of force of habit. (He was Pavlov’s Dwarf. 32)
“I told you,” said Dan. “I can’t turn it off if the engine is on, and I’m a bit worried about turning the engine off and leaving us stuck here.”
As he spoke Wormwood opened the door of the van, peered beneath the dashboard, and fiddled about a bit. Instantly, the music stopped.
“Thank you,” said Constable Peel. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you didn’t look like a rodent, smell funny, and have what I suspect may be a number of easily communicable diseases, I might even hug you.”
“Nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Wormwood replied. He sniffled, and wiped away a little tear.
“That is a relief,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now, where’s Samuel?”
Nurd pointed to his left. “I think he’s over there somewhere.”
“Then over there somewhere is where we’re going. Lead on, sir.”
Nurd and Wormwood returned to their car while the policemen and the dwarfs climbed back into the ice-cream van with Dan.
“Hey, what was that song again?” said Dozy, followed quickly by the words “Ow!” and “Never mind” as Constable Peel made his disapproval of such questions felt.
Nurd started the ignition on the Aston Martin and pulled ahead of the van, which was soon rumbling along behind them.
Wormwood tapped Nurd on the arm.
“Look what I found in the van,” he said.
In his hand he held a bag of jelly beans.
“If you ever tell anyone I said this, I shall deny it,” said Nurd, “but, Wormwood, you’re a marvel…”
XXII
In Which We Learn That There Is Always Hope, as Long as One Chooses Not to Abandon It
SAMUEL’S FACE WORE A smile for the first time since he had arrived in that desolate place. He turned to the Blacksmith and said: “You were right! Nurd heard me. I know he heard me!”
But instead of congratulating him, the Blacksmith grabbed Samuel and Boswell and threw them behind a Russian T-34 tank that was lying on its side nearby, its tracks shredded and its innards exposed by a hole that had been ripped in its armor. For a moment Samuel thought that he had misjudged the Blacksmith and, like Old Ram, he was about to betray them, until the Blacksmith whispered to him to be quiet and stay still. Samuel saw shapes moving across the sky, their tattered wings beating, their keen eyes scouring the land below. Then the ground began to tremble, and Samuel heard the beating of hooves, and a voice said, “Greetings, Blacksmith.”
Samuel peered around the side of the tank, his hand around Boswell’s muzzle to prevent him from barking. Above the Blacksmith loomed a black horse, five times taller than the Blacksmith himself, with the wings of a bat and yellow eyes that glowed like molten gold set into its skull. Black blood dripped from its mouth where it was biting on its bridle, and its hooves struck sparks upon the stony ground. In its saddle sat a demon with two pale horns protruding from his skull, the horns, like those of some great bull, so long and heavy it seemed almost impossible that he should be able to hold his head upright upon his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, his skin very pale, and his eyes bright with a wit and intelligence that made the cruelty writ upon his features seem somehow more terrible. He wore armor of red and gold, and a red cloak that was clasped at his neck with a tusk of bone. The cloak billowed behind him even though there was no wind to carry it, so that it seemed to have a life of its own, to be a weapon in its own right, a shroud that could suffocate and consume. The rider’s saddle was heavy with weapons: a saber, a spiked mace, and an array of knives with ornate, twisted blades.
“My Lord Abigor,” said the Blacksmith. “I was not expecting such illustrious company.”
Abigor pulled back on the horse’s reins, causing it to rear up before the Blacksmith, its monstrous front hooves barely inches from his head, but the man did not flinch. Abigor, seeing that his effort to frighten the Blacksmith had proved fruitless, turned the horse and let its hooves once again touch the ground.
“If I did not know better, I might have said that I detected a tone of mockery in your voice,” said Abigor.
“I would not dare, my lord.”
“Oh, but you would, Blacksmith. Your skill in forging my weapons only buys you a little tolerance. Be careful how you spend it.”
The Blacksmith hung his head in shame. “You made me forge them, on pain of greater torment. I would not have done so otherwise.”
“I do recall your misguided attempt at defiance. If I remember correctly, it died when I threatened to sever your toes.”
The Blacksmith’s jaw tightened, and Samuel felt his anger. Despite Abigor’s fearsome aspect, the Blacksmith was barely restraining himself from an attack. Abigor released his hold on the reins and spread his arms wide, as though daring an assault, but the Blacksmith did not take the bait, and Abigor once again resumed his hold upon the horse.
“I find that pain focuses the mind wonderfully,” continued Abigor. “Do you need help in that department again, Blacksmith? I would be happy to oblige if I decide that you are withholding information from me.”
The Blacksmith raised his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lord.”
“I seek a boy. He is a trespasser. He can’t be allowed to wander freely, and I have reason to believe that he is in this area.”
“I have seen no boy. I have had no visitors since last your lordship came to me.”
“I detect no sense of sorrow that so long has passed without contact between us.”
“I will not lie to you, my lord. You come to me only when you need weapons, and it pains me to forge such implements. It is why I ended up here, and I wish now that I had not been so eager to please men of power in my past life.”
“Regrets, Blacksmith, make poor currency. Y
ou can’t buy back with them what you most desire.”
“Which would be, my lord?” asked the Blacksmith, sensing that Abigor was waiting for the question to be asked.
“The past,” said Abigor. “You are being punished for what you have done. Were it so easy to make up for one’s failings, then Hell would be empty.”
“And would that be such a bad thing, my lord?”
“Only for its demons, Blacksmith. Without beings like you to humiliate, our existences would be significantly duller.”
Abigor stared at the weapons and devices scattered across the sands. “And yet what invention you creatures display,” he said, “what skill, all put to one end: the destruction of those most like yourselves. Sometimes, I wonder if the real demons already rule the Earth.”
“We put our skills to other uses too,” said the Blacksmith. “We cure. We help. We protect.”
“Do you, now? But which skill does your kind value more: the willingness to help another, or the ability to wipe him out of existence?”
The Blacksmith looked down, unable to meet Abigor’s eyes. As he did so he saw the tracks left by Boswell and Samuel in the sand. He shifted position slightly so that his body hid them, then slowly he began to move away from Abigor, erasing the marks with his feet as he did so.
“You back away, Blacksmith,” said Abigor. “Do you fear me so much?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Abigor tapped a clawed finger upon the horn of his saddle.
“You know, I am tempted to doubt your word. You hate me, almost as much as you hate yourself, but I don’t think that you truly fear me, and I know that you do not respect me. You are a peculiar man, Blacksmith, but perhaps such strangeness comes with your gifts. And you have seen no sign of a boy, you say?”
“No, I have not,” said the Blacksmith. The traces of paws and footprints were now entirely gone from Abigor’s sight. Samuel noticed that the Blacksmith’s voice had changed, and he no longer referred to the demon Abigor as “my lord.”
“But would you tell me if you had, Blacksmith? I have always suspected your loyalties. Sometimes I wonder how you ended up here. I fear there may be a spark of goodness in you, a flicker of conscience, that has not yet been extinguished. One might even call it hope.”
“I have no hope. I left it in my past life.”
Abigor leaned forward. He drew back his lips, exposing perfect white fangs.
“But not your talent for weaponry. There is a war coming, Blacksmith. You may have thought yourself forgotten by others, but the promise of conflict will recall you to them once again. My rivals will seek you out for your skills. What will you do then, Blacksmith?”
“I will turn them down.”
“Will you, now? I think not. Their capacity for inflicting hurt is almost as great as mine. Almost, but not quite. Even if you were loyal to me, which you are not, your loyalty would not be great enough to stand against such pain. So I have decided to demonstrate both my wisdom and my mercy by relieving you of the burden of being forced to betray me in order to end your suffering.”
Abigor drew his saber, and with a single slashing motion he cut off the Blacksmith’s head. The sword rose and fell, rose and fell, over and over until the Blacksmith lay in pieces upon the ground. The Blacksmith’s eyes still blinked, and his hands still moved, the fingers clawing at the dirt like the legs of insects. No blood flowed from his wounds, but his face was contorted with agony. From the sky, an imp descended. It picked up the Blacksmith’s hands and flew away with them while Abigor stared down at the work of his sword.
“Even were someone to reconstitute you, you could do nothing without your hands. Good-bye, Blacksmith. We will not meet again.”
With that, Abigor spurred his steed. It galloped away, and then its wings began to beat and it rose up into the sky and vanished into the clouds.
Samuel emerged from his hiding place, and ran to where the Blacksmith’s remains lay.
“You could have told him where I was,” said Samuel as he stroked the hair of the Blacksmith’s severed head. “You could have told him, and he might have spared you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said the Blacksmith, “for I am not.”
And as he spoke, his expression changed. He looked puzzled, and his face became filled with a soft glow tinged faintly with amber, like the reflected light of a slowly setting sun.
“There is no pain,” he said. “It is gone.” He smiled at Samuel. “I did not betray you. I have redeemed myself. Now there is peace.”
Slowly, the pieces of his poor, butchered body faded away, and Samuel and Boswell were alone once more.
The Aston Martin and the ice-cream van were hidden beneath the heads of giant green toadstools that had sprouted from an area of damp, noisome earth, a forest of them that extended for miles. Nurd and Wormwood, along with the policemen and the dwarfs, watched as flights of demons passed overhead, some circling and descending, then ascending again once they had examined more closely whatever had attracted their attention on the ground. Then a great black steed broke through the clouds above and passed among their ranks, their rider urging the demons to ever-greater effort. His voice even carried to the odd little group watching him from below.
“Find the boy!” he cried. “Bring him to me!”
“I don’t like the look of him,” said Jolly.
“I don’t like the look of any of them,” said Dozy.
“Who’s the big lad on the horse, then?” Angry asked Nurd.
“Duke Abigor,” said Nurd. He sounded distracted. This wasn’t right. He had to assume that Abigor and his minions were looking for Samuel, but Samuel could only have been brought here by Mrs. Abernathy, and Duke Abigor and Mrs. Abernathy hated each other. Duke Abigor would do nothing to aid Mrs. Abernathy, yet now here he was, using his minions to search for the human Mrs. Abernathy loathed above all others. It could only mean that Abigor wanted Samuel for his own purposes.
“Whose side is he on?” asked Sergeant Rowan.
“His own,” said Nurd. “He’s looking for Samuel.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps because if he has Samuel, then Mrs. Abernathy doesn’t. Samuel is her way back to power, and Duke Abigor doesn’t want that. Duke Abigor wants to rule. I think that if he could find a way to get rid of the Great Malevolence himself then he’d do it, but he can’t, so he’ll have to settle for being second-in-command. To succeed, he has to ensure that Mrs. Abernathy is out of the picture. That means taking away any hope she has of regaining the Great Malevolence’s trust, and her only hope of that is to present him with Samuel.”
Sergeant Rowan looked at Nurd with a new respect.
“When did you get so clever?”
“When I realized that I wasn’t as clever as I thought,” Nurd replied. “We have to move. Samuel is nearby. I’m certain of it.”
But even as he spoke his sense of Samuel’s presence began to diminish, and he felt the boy’s spirit start to weaken. Something was very wrong, and Nurd willed Samuel to keep going and not to give up.
Hold on, Samuel, he thought. Hold on for just a little while longer…
Samuel and Boswell had left behind the crater of weapons, and the memory of the Blacksmith’s bravery. In the distance Samuel could see hills. He decided to head in that direction. He and Boswell might be able to find a place to hide there, for they were too vulnerable out here upon the open plain. But he was so tired. He could barely drag one foot along after the other, and he was also carrying Boswell, who was exhausted and had begun limping. Samuel’s nostrils burned and his lungs hurt from breathing the noxious air, tinged as it was with the stink of sulfur. His head grew lower with his spirits, for it seemed that his only hope of returning to his own world lay with the very woman he most wished to avoid. He understood the Blacksmith’s logic, but he did not want to face Mrs. Abernathy again. None of this was fair. He wished that he’d never seen the stupid portal, never tried to save the Earth, never met Nurd.
He stopped walking. Ahead of him was a vast expanse of pure nothingness, a void that appeared to open blackly before him but was not really black at all, because at least “black” was something. 33 The hole in time and space into which he and Boswell now stared was a relic of nonexistence, the last trace of all that had not been before the Multiverse was created. Looking into it made Samuel’s head hurt, because it had no length, or width, or depth. It had no gravity, nor could energy be transmitted through it. What Samuel and Boswell were seeing was not just the end of this dimension, and this universe, but the beginning and end of all universes, and as they gazed upon it they felt a great sense of loss overcome them, their spirits fell, and their will to continue was finally sapped, for clever young boys and smart, loyal dogs were never meant to face the bleakness of absolute nothingness. Slowly Samuel sank down, Boswell beside him, and together they looked into the Void, and the Void began to enter them.
XXIII
In Which Mrs. Abernathy Loses Her Temper, and We Meet Up Again with an Unpleasant Personage from Earlier in Our Tale
MRS. ABERNATHY’S VOICE ROSE to a shriek. Even the Watcher was taken aback at its volume and intensity.
“Nurd?” screamed Mrs. Abernathy. “Nurd? You’re telling me that that imbecile, that miserable excuse for a demon, is responsible for all this? But I banished him. I sent him to the Wasteland with his idiot servant, where he couldn’t be a nuisance anymore. How could-? How did-? I mean-”
Probably for the first time ever, words failed Mrs. Abernathy. Nurd? But he was so inconsequential, so inept, or so it had seemed. How could she have misjudged him so badly? She began to feel what might almost have been admiration for him, even if it was the kind that came before you began inflicting serious pain on the object of said admiration. The scale of what he had achieved, the great enterprise that he had managed to undo, was almost inconceivable. For a moment the revelation of Nurd’s involvement drove the Watcher’s second piece of news-the message from Old Ram that he had Samuel Johnson nearby-from her mind, but it quickly returned.
The Infernals aka Hell's Bells Page 14