In my experience there is no emotion so potentially damaging to the human condition as hope. Hope is, like faith, a denial of reality.
—Endymion
Faith defends all positions equally and none of them sufficiently.
—Cris
From Gehennic Law: The Miser
Each day the Miser would gather what wheat he could and cover it up in a stone hole. He did so for several years, for many men around him were starving, and he wished never to be in such company.
Then one day the Miser despaired, for when he went to add to his cache, he found that his devilwheat had been stolen. Overcome with woe, he bemoaned of his fate to his famished friend.
“What am I to do?” the Miser lamented. “How am I to go on, when so many years’ effort has been taken from me in but a single day?”
"Why cry?" his friend asked. “Place mere rocks in your cache, and pretend all is as it was. When tucked away, the wheat and the rock will feed you just the same.”
“Where are you taking me?” Carlisle asked.
“Where is not important,” answered the demon. “It is a whom to which I take you. It is a man who will complete your training. Who will teach you how to climb the ladder of a soul in order to make it back to Gehenna. Then you will find your angel’s get.”
Carlisle looked back. Behind him was an infinite trail of his own blood fed by the slow steady geyser in his side. The trail sat on top of the knee deep water, unable to mix with the substance.
“Why is it doing that?” Carlisle asked aloud.
The shadow that was the devil Mephistopheles turned around. Carlisle saw the reality of the scene melting away as it succumbed to the will of the thing beside him.
“You have two beliefs that affect your blood so.” In the beginning, the devil had only been able to speak in whispers within his own head, but as time wore on, Carlisle was getting better and better at hearing the devil’s voice. “One is that your blood is pure, like holy water, and for that reason cannot mix with the lake of Hell. The other is that your blood is polluted by your sins, like oil, and that the lake of Hell is somehow too pure for it.”
“Very well. I’m ready,” Carlisle said.
“Good, now imagine a hallway, as long as the distance from the Earth to the sun. At the end of that hallway is Jealousy. At its beginning is ourselves. The hallway is grey, made of old wallpaper like the one in your father’s house. At its top is blue trim, formed like vines, but with yellow flowers hanging down from them. Every ten feet, on both the right and the left, is a wash basin. Within those basins is all the piss made from all the blood that men ever drank or ate from living things.”
“Why? Why the basins?”
“The blood is the essence of life, it is for Elohim alone. After it filters through the body of man, polluted as men are, it becomes impure—rotten. It is for this reason that men were to pour out the blood of an animal before they ate it. Do you have the image in your mind?”
“I do.”
“Close your eyes.”
Carlisle did so. He felt the blood from his side coming down his body, streaming between his thigh and his groin before rushing along the back of his leg. The blood filled his boot.
“Walk with me,” said the devil.
Carlisle did so, his eyes still shut.
“I’m taking you into the tunnel, now.”
Carlisle nodded.
“Can you smell the urine?”
The rank odor of piss suddenly filled his nostrils.
“I can.”
“Then open your eyes.”
It was exactly as he imagined it. The wallpaper just as he had once seen in his father’s house. Blue painted vines were hanging as trim along the top of the hallway. Yellow flowers, sometimes painted and sometimes real, bloomed there.
“Good enough,” the devil said. “Now walk with me.”
Of course it was just as he imagined. It was Mephistopheles who had taught him how to control his thoughts, and by doing so, control the nature of the Hell around him. Carlisle wondered idly if this skill would have helped at all on the previous level of Hell . . . or if perhaps it would even work in the old world.
“Now the piss will change just ahead,” Mephistopheles coached him. “The piss men make of the blood of animals ends here. Beyond it is the piss men make of their own blood.”
The smell was even worse. The bowls were full, some of them overflowing with orange urine.
“Good,” Mephistopheles said. “Very close. Very close indeed. You need imagine no more. The place you are heading toward is far too real for your mind to alter it. Just continue walking.”
It looked as if there was a door at the end of the tunnel, but that made no sense. He had imagined this passage to be as long as the distance from the Earth to the sun. He looked to Mephistopheles to see what he would do about the mistake, but the devil didn’t seem to care.
The door, I’m meant to see it.
It was a golden door, almost like one of the old Infidel Friend passages—but not quite. Whereas the Infidel’s golden doors would have been adorned with the iconography of pagan gods, the relief on this door was of a much holier sort. A pair of fig trees stood, one on each door, and at their feet were nets which were full of fish. The trees were obviously crosses, and the leaves and branches added to them did little to hide their true nature.
Carlisle ran his fingers over the gold relief. He could feel the individual strands of the net which held the fish. As for the fish themselves, he swore he could feel their scales. The nets were so full they were almost bursting.
“So many fish!” he cried.
“One hundred and fifty three,” Mephistopheles said.
The devil often made odd observances, but Carlisle had learned to ignore them.
“Open the door,” Mephistopheles ordered.
Carlisle placed his hand on the door and struggled to open it. He could not, either because it was locked, or because the door was too heavy.
“Not that way,” the devil told him. “Look at the right cross, below that branch of the fig tree, to the distant hill.”
Carlisle did so, and was amazed to see such astonishing detail. The metal worker must have spent some great length of time with a very fine tool. He could see a few hills there, and nestled between them a lake. In that lake was a small wooden boat. In the boat was a fisherwoman, and she was looking towards the shore. He tried to follow her gaze, and moved up right next to the door—close enough that his nose touched it—so that the door was all he could see. She was looking at something. Somehow, the artist had managed to get a village there. The fisherwoman was looking at the village. There were two men by the front gate, each standing, almost like guards. They had no weapons but had ploughshares instead. Past them was the main road that led into the city. He could just see, just barely, behind those two men, that there were a couple of shops on the street. To the right was a person selling bread. To the left was someone selling fruit. There was a child at the fruit stand, trying to buy some of the fruit, but the pouch at her belt was empty. There was a rip at the bottom of the pouch, and a single coin lay at her feet. Beyond that, and farther down the street, was another coin, and another, and another, until the trail stopped at the last house at the end of the road. Its windows were not the kind that Carlisle was used to seeing, and they had no glass. Rather, the shutters which might seal those windows were wide open. He tried to see through the windows, but he could not. Between the windows, was a door, however, and through the door he saw a woman, perhaps sick, laying on a pallet. Beyond that, was another Golden Door. It seemed to be the same as the one he was looking at now. A perfect replica, with the two fig trees and the nets full of fishes. Seventy-five on the left side. Seventy eight on the right. And in the upper right hand corner there were two hills—and between the hills a lake with a fisherwoman who was looking past the shore to the village where two men stood with ploughshares before the two shops with the little girl who had the ripped purse at
the end of the trail of coins which led to the house with the windows and the open door with the sick woman on the mat by another golden door . . . a replica of this one. It seemed almost exactly the same. He tried to remember the original two doors, but it was hard because they were so far back from where he was now. There were seventy-five on the right side, and seventy-eight on the left. Was that different? How many had there been on each side before? He felt a cool, black tide welling up within him, quenching the fires which he had not even known were torturing his soul—setting his mad mind at ease with its smooth bubbling waters. He was borne forward, up into the corner door, over to the hills. The tide poured down into the water, mixing with the lake in a way that his blood had not been able to do, foaming and frothing until it engulfed the little fishing boat with the woman. It dragged him forward to the village, and past the men, and down the trail of coins and through the doorway. It stopped by the sick woman. Carlisle stepped over her, leaving a trail of his polluted blood across her body. She was sick, he could tell. Her forehead was moist and her cheeks were red with fever. She was shivering too, beneath a coat that was being used as a blanket. The dirt floor crunched beneath his boots. The blood poured out from over the lip of his right boot with each step, mixing there with earth, foaming when it touched the ground into a red froth in just the same way that the black tide had mixed with the lake. He reached forward and touched the golden door. He felt its energy traveling through him.
“This door,” Mephistopheles’ voice came flowing up from within him. “This is the door I want you to open. The key is on the table to the right.”
Carlisle looked behind him. The black tide had receded. He could see the long trail of his blood which led back through the village. The little girl was running back, collecting her coins. She was wiping the blood off of one. A little boy had stolen a coin that she hadn’t been able to retrieve fast enough. He bit it to see if it was gold. Of course it was gold. Everything here was gold. Even the streets.
Carlisle moved over to the table and picked up the long golden key which sat there and then walked over to the door. The key fit, and the door unlocked. He heard the song of angels blaring in his ears, except it was not beautiful or joyous, but sad, melancholy and bitter. Deep where the angelsong was high, slow where the angels were staccato, death where the angels were life. He opened the door. Behind him he heard the girl shouting, demanding that the boy give her the coin back.
“I have to buy the fruit!” she said.
The boy taunted her with words Carlisle couldn’t understand.
“Go on,” Mephistopheles bade him.
He stepped into the midnight black room. Light came in from over his shoulder, so he shut the door behind him. Its hinges squealed out a high pitched whine, like a woman’s issuance after being beaten by someone she loved. It closed with a sudden thud.
Like a coffin.
The room was midnight black and lit with red. He could not see the walls, but he could guess where they were. Hooded monks, carved out of obsidian, stood to either side of him. In their raised hands were bowls of blood. The blood of men who had been cannibalized, and whose killers had died while that blood was still in their bellies. The red light was coming from that blood. He saw an ear floating in one of those bowls, but the rest were empty. As the ear moved about in the blood, its shadow moved across the ceiling. In the center of the room was a carpet made of red human hair. It was soft as he stepped upon it.
I’m not bleeding any longer.
The carpet led him away from the red light. There, in the darkness, a man sat.
Slowly, he stood.
He was tall, and broad of shoulder. His beard was all black, and trimmed short. His robes, like those of the obsidian monks, flowed down about him, rippling like water as he moved. His expression was calm, almost emotionless, but slightly combative in a way that made Carlisle think that he must be ready to do great violence. A silver chain hung around his neck, and resting on his rippling robes. At the chain’s end was a silver cross, except it was upside down.
The man was real. Too real. More real than anyone Carlisle had met since after his first death. Usually Carlisle could feel his mind working on the other souls of this damnation, feel his subconscious expectations compromising the reality of the soul before him. Not so with this one. This man was immune to his subconscious conjectures.
Carlisle felt a shadowy presence to his right, and turned to see Mephistopheles. Carlisle’s blood ran cold. The devil was kneeling.
He swallowed and knelt himself.
Mephistopheles spoke, “I have brought him, milord.”
The man nodded and stepped forward.
“I’m sorry,” Carlisle said. “I can’t. I can’t learn from you. You’re not a man of God.”
The man crouched down beside him, his robes whisking around him with the sound of rustling paper—or skin. “You—who walk with a demon—choose an odd time to wax moral, but you are mistaken. I am more a man of God than any in Hell. Know that this is no boast, but a curse in this foul place. I say it humbly.”
Carlisle shook his head. He was so scared he felt his heart beating in his chest—as if he really had a heart. He felt the testicles Maab had once taken from him receding into his body. “Your cross is upside down.”
The man’s cruel lips formed the semblance of a mirthful smile. “You mistake that for a mark of Satan. What you fail to consider is that not all saints were crucified right side up.”
Carlisle nodded. The hellsong was loud in his ears, drowning out even the beating of his own illusory heart. “I accept. I understand.”
“Good.”
“I’m Carlisle.”
“I don’t care.”
“Can I have your name?”
The dark eyes narrowed, and then opened again. “Yes, brother. You can call me Simeon. My understanding is that you seek the Boy of Heaven?”
“I do.”
“Good. Then let’s teach you how to climb souls. I take it you know a soul who straddles both these Hells?”
“Yes, Simeon. His name is Benson.”
Rick called it a gondola, but Ellen knew better. This was a canoe. Ellen had thought they wouldn’t be able to carry it without more help, but the thing was surprisingly light for its size, and they were able to move it. Rick’s back was to her, and he had the canoe resting on one of his shoulders. The weight didn’t seem to bother him at all, but Ellen felt herself tiring quickly. She’d tried carrying the thing on both shoulders, over her head, on her head, and to one side, but none of these positions were especially easy.
“Can we rest?” she asked.
She could only see the back of him as he shook his head no.
“I’m tired, Rick.”
“I know, Ellen, but Molly’s at the Kingsriver. We can’t leave her there long. What if a hunter stops by?”
I must keep going.
For some reason, the idea that Molly was out there, vulnerable, made the job easier. It wasn’t that she was any less tired, it was just that she understood why the task had to be done quickly.
Maybe that’s why Galen was so strong. He always knew why things had to be done.
They finally entered into the Kingsriver chamber where the Hungerleaf Grove was. A light mist hung over the trees, but it wasn’t thick enough to blot out the far walls. Alice and Massan stood together by the bank. Molly was crouching down, ready to hide, perhaps, in case the wrong person entered the chamber.
Ellen’s arms were on fire, but Rick obviously intended to put the canoe right next to the river. She held on for the last few moments. Rick set his end down, but hers slipped out of her hands a little too early, and the canoe hit the stone with a thud.
“Sorry,” she said, but Rick didn’t seem to care.
Molly stood. “Thank you, Rick. You’re a good man.”
Massan grasped his shoulder and Alice hugged him. Ellen felt an odd twinge of jealousy. It was as if, at that moment, Alice were hugging Arturus. She tried to stomp
out that emotion quickly.
If you are going to start being jealous of Rick, this is going to be a long trip.
Rick set his pack down in the canoe. “I’ve brought some tarps. Best to give me your supplies now. I don’t intend for us to capsize, but if we do, we need to have everything wrapped up.”
Massan’s unibrow became more pronounced as he went through his mountain climber style backpack. He loaded a few shells into his shotgun and then tied the pack’s flap shut.
Alice packed unusually light, perhaps because she was just that thrifty, or perhaps because she owned very little. Molly had absolutely nothing other than her shotgun.
“I’ll take the back of the canoe,” Rick said. “Massan, you take point.”
Massan raised his hand.
“What?” Rick asked.
“I thought this might be a good point in time to let you know that I can’t swim.”
Rick’s jaw slackened for a second. “Yeah, good thinking. Alice, you take point. Massan, you’re in the back with me.”
Alice shrugged. “I’m a better shot than he is anyway.”
“Truly?” Rick asked.
Molly smiled. “Fucking Annie Oakley, that one.”
Rick picked up one end of the canoe, and Ellen got the other. Together they lowered it into the water.
“Alright then,” Rick said. “Everybody in.”
The Kingsriver was wide, and its current was slow, pulling them gently along through tremendous chambers. Usually the ceilings were natural, but occasionally they were domed and made of millions of small red bricks. Islands emerged from the light mist, some natural, and others formed from raised stone blocks. On both kinds, trees grew from patches of earth. Some of the trees were hungerleaf, which she recognized from their grey, scaly bark. None of them had any leaves remaining. Others she didn’t recognize, which had black, single pointed leaves that hung from their branches in clumps of five. Their bark was more brown, though it was just as scaly.
The light in these chambers was usually a soft yellow, and it was often unevenly spread about the room so that, in certain corners, it was hard to see through the golden mists. It gave Ellen the impression that they were canoeing down a river at sunrise.
Knight of Gehenna (Hellsong Book 2) Page 13