Jeffrey Thomas, Voices from Hades

by Thomas, Jeffrey

  The Celestials she was accustomed to never spoke a word, but she knew them to be just as harsh as the Demons whose function it was to preside over and torment the Damned. So despite the Seraph’s softly modulated voice, like the voice of a feminine man or a masculine woman, she always feared saying something that might be deemed impertinent, and incurring the thing’s righteous wrath.

  "When I look at this," Zaraiah said, "and watch you at your craft, I see the hand of the Creator inside you…and I cannot help but wonder how a soul given such a gift could have allowed herself to become Damned."

  First of all, Wanda did not like the image of the Creator’s hand inside her, rammed up her ass as if she were His puppet. Second of all, she did not think she had allowed herself to become Damned. The game was unfair; she had not known the rules. Or had she, and just never taken them seriously? She had the letter B branded onto her forehead (the one wounding that never regenerated) to indicate her sin, her great crime: that of being a Blasphemer. She probably would have been condemned to Hades anyway, simply for not having embraced the Father in life, but she knew it was one particular act that had cinched it for her. For an art show meant to protest animal abuse, she had contributed a painting of a lab monkey crucified to a cross, the top of its head opened up and electrodes drilled into its skull like a crown of thorns, a huge syringe hanging out of its side like a spear. That was all it took. Monkey as the Son of the Father? One would have thought she was Darwin, for all the punishment she had been meted out ever since her premature death.

  "Well," Wanda replied, "at least I’m doing something constructive with my gift now, right? Making pretty pictures for Angels?"

  She had tried to make her sarcasm sound like sincerity, but the Seraph immediately turned its head to stare at her with bland, robot-like disapproval, leaving those blue trails in the air.

  "Yes. Now you are doing good. Now that it is too late to save you."

  ««—»»

  "Here, dear, wait," Suzanne had said, scurrying to catch up with Wanda as Zaraiah and his team of silent guards, armed with sheathed swords and cradled submachine guns, escorted the slaves toward the edge of her property. She huffed as she pressed a package into Wanda’s arms. "Some fruit, from the garden," she whispered conspiratorially. "Delicious. Share it with your friends if you want; there’s more where that came from. It grows overnight after you pick it."

  "Thanks," Wanda said uncertainly. She glanced nervously toward Zaraiah. Sure enough, the Seraph had noticed, but what could it say? It mustn’t insult one of the Angels by making her withdraw her gift, right? From here, Wanda couldn’t read the being’s expression. Then again, even up close she found that difficult. Ectoplasmic androids, she thought.

  The workers climbed into the back of a large carriage of white lacquered wood with gold trim, drawn by a team of white horses. In Hades, on their way back to their barracks for their rest period, they would ride in a black metal carriage pulled by a team of naked Damned wearing yokes fastened to their shoulders with bolts through their flesh.

  The two rows of laborers rode in silence as the carriage conveyed them to the portal. When they arrived, the Celestial guards who had accompanied them watched them disembark. Zaraiah was still with them. Wanda felt the Celestial officer’s eyes still following her, but she pretended she didn’t notice. They began to file toward the portal, housed inside a small white structure like a pillbox. Two more Celestials guarded it, and at the approach of the Damned one of the guards turned the wheel of a metal hatch like something from the inside of a submarine. Steam hissed free as the hatch was swung open. Wanda could just make out the white-tiled walls of its interior through the bright white light that filled the little structure.

  Right up until it was her turn to approach the threshold of the portal, Wanda expected Zaraiah to step forward and demand that she hand over the package of fruit. But the Seraph did not, though she still felt the weight of its cold blue eyes on her back before the white light burned her soul to ashes that would be reconstituted in Hades, which was her home.

  ««—»»

  "Did the mistress tell you what colors she wanted these figures to be wearing?" Zaraiah asked, watching Wanda as she swabbed in the green lawn of the background in rough up-and-down strokes. She would work on the fine details of grass blades later in the process.

  "No; she’s left all that to me. She said she wants it to have a feel like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, by Georges Seurat. Idyllic like that. But in a romantic style, not pointillism. If any of that makes sense to you."

  "I’m afraid my knowledge of earthly art is limited." After a few moments, the Seraph went on, "So do you have all the colors worked out in your head, then?"

  "Some of it. I’ll make choices as I go along, to keep things balanced."

  Zaraiah paced behind her, as if the Celestial might leave the hallway to monitor the progress of other workers in the building, but came pacing back the other way again. "You follow your instincts."

  "Yes. I improvise. And I take advantage of happy accidents. I surprise myself when I push the brush a certain way and it looks just the way a wave of hair should look, or how light should fall on a fold of cloth. The trick is to not overwork it—to know when to leave it, and move on."

  Wanda surprised herself that she had become so talkative with the creature, but then its inquisitiveness had prompted her, and she was less in awe of it with it behind her back where she couldn’t see it.

  "It’s all very interesting," Zaraiah said.

  Something had been on Wanda’s mind for a while, and now with the Celestial engaging her in pleasant conversation she decided to seize the moment. She turned to face it, steeling herself for those beautiful and ghastly blue eyes that never seemed to blink. "In the city of Carceri I had some artist friends who contributed to the gallery I founded. They do beautiful seascapes and landscapes, sculptures and so on. I think the mistress and other Angels would love having their work in their homes. Do you think we could bring some of them into this project, too?"

  "That is not for either you or I to decide."

  "But could you suggest it to someone? Their talents could be put to good use…for the benefit of the Angels."

  "For their benefit? Or for the benefit of your friends? So that they too might walk in Heaven a while? Enjoy the fruits of the blessed?"

  The pleasantness was slipping away, though the entity’s expression and tone hadn’t changed that much. Still, Wanda pressed on. "To be honest, it isn’t so much that. It’s that they have skills that are going to waste. Ability that could be appreciated by others."

  "As I told you, it is not for me to decide or you to suggest. These matters are determined by others. They have their reasons for who they select."

  "Then I guess I’m one of the lucky ones," Wanda said, with barely contained bitterness.

  "You are fortunate, yes. To step within the glory of Heaven, even as a slave. And to give pleasure to the Angels is the greatest honor of your eternal existence."

  "Will it buy me salvation?"

  "You squandered your salvation. It will buy you respite. That will have to be enough."

  Suzanne entered the hallway then, and clasped her hands together in front of her with delight. "Oh…oh…it’s more beautiful by the hour, honey." She addressed Zaraiah, beaming. "Isn’t she wonderful?"

  The Seraph seemed to falter before getting out, "Her gift from the Creator is to be admired."

  "Oh, I’m so jealous of her. Can you imagine being able to do this? And to have a face like this, on top of it all." Suzanne stepped closer and cupped Wanda’s cheek, turning to Zaraiah like a proud parent. "Isn’t she lovely? Some people are just so lucky. I think she’s a dead ringer for the actress Scarlett Johansson."

  At least Wanda had died recently enough to share the woman’s frame of reference, so she smiled and said, "Thanks. Me and the Overseer here were just talking about luck."

  "I have this habit of trying to compare everyb
ody to a celebrity," Suzanne went on obliviously. "I think I look like Jane Fonda. Not Barbarella Jane Fonda, but maybe younger than she is now. Or am I being too kind to myself?"

  "No, no, I can see it," Wanda lied.

  "And what do you think about our Zaraiah here? I can almost think of someone but I’m not sure."

  Wanda looked at the Seraph. A celebrity to match it? Male or female? Without thinking, she said, "I don’t know…they all pretty much look the same to me."

  Zaraiah met her eyes a little too quickly. The creature looked like it might become blatantly angry for the first time. In a tighter than usual voice, it said, "If you’ll excuse me, I will go look in on the other workers now."

  Watching the faintly glowing figure leave the hallway like a ghost headed to haunt other regions of its castle, Wanda wondered if she hadn’t so much insulted the Seraph as hurt its feelings.

  ««—»»

  Suzanne had handed her a package of pastries, with a wink. Again, Wanda waited for the Seraph to confiscate it from her. Again, it did not.

  But when she stepped through the portal on the other side, things were different. The metal carriage awaited, and the yoked Damned, and several of the towering and ancient gray Demons. The sky of molten lava churned and glowed behind the monsters, silhouetting their great horned heads. The apparent oldest of these Demonic officers had cracks in his pumice-like skin that showed the yellow glow of magma within.

  Immediately, this very Demon strode toward Wanda, trailing smoke from his empty eye sockets. Could he smell the pastries where the last time he hadn’t detected the fruit, or had she been betrayed by another Damned seeking the Demon’s favor? Whatever the case, he snatched the package out of her hand, tore it to fragments without even glancing at the scattered contents, and then seized Wanda by the hair at the back of her head. He lifted her off her feet until they were face-to-face. She felt the heat that blazed out of his eye holes in rippling waves.

  The Demon thundered, "Enjoying our vacation in Paradise, are we? Maybe you forget the true state of affairs. Maybe you need a little perspective restored…pretty little worm."

  Wanda’s sob was cut off by the Demon as he clamped his mouth over her own. And even the gurgle that tried to replace the sob was shoved back down her throat, into her chest, as the Demon regurgitated magma into her mouth. He dropped her to writhe, to smoke, before the horrified eyes of the other slaves. In a matter of what might be called hours she would look like the actress Scarlett Johansson again, but for now Wanda’s lower face had burned away and a hole melted open in her chest, like a painted canvas set on fire.

  ««—»»

  Wanda was fashioning long folds in the robe of one of the mural’s figures, having decided to give this one rose pink attire. She had resisted the impulse to make the robe blood red. Somewhere during this process a happy accident, as she called these things, occurred. Two of the folds, forming crescent loops, looked to her like a pair of skull’s eyes.

  She glanced over her shoulder. She heard the pounding of carpentry elsewhere in the house. She thought she heard a harpsichord playing; it couldn’t be Suzanne, who professed to be devoid of any talent, so maybe a Celestial played for her, or else it was a recording. And Zaraiah—the Seraph was not to be seen.

  Wanda turned back to this wall of the hallway’s double mural and worked another crescent fold, smaller and lower, between the other two. Finally she added a longer drooping crescent, highlighted on its upper edge and deeply shadowed within, below the other three. A ghostly face, as if it pressed against the fabric from the other side. A dark spirit trying to tear through into the realm of Heaven.

  "Do you think you could make one of the figures look like me, hon?" Suzanne asked, suddenly there behind her.

  Wanda whirled, suppressing a gasp. She smiled tremulously. "Hi. Um, yeah, sure, we could do that." She looked over both walls of the mural nervously, darting her gaze from one potential figure to another.

  "Would you want me to pose for that?"

  "It would look more like you if you did, instead of me doing it from memory."

  "Well if you don’t mind doing that, then you tell me when you’re ready, okay?"

  "Sure. I will."

  "Are you hungry now? I can bring you a sandwich. And I have some more of that fruit to send home with you tonight."

  Wanda’s smile turned apologetic. "I’m sorry, but they don’t want me to bring home any more gifts. Against the rules, I guess."

  "Oh, really? What a shame! I’m sorry to hear that."

  "But thanks anyway."

  "Well, you can still eat while you’re here in my home—I insist. Let me go round up something for you."

  "And the others? I’d feel guilty if…"

  "Oh sure, sure dear, I’ll see the others get some lunch, too. But you’re my favorite, you know." Suzanne wiggled her fingers, and floated off into her house in the direction of the kitchen, more likely to oversee the making of lunch by her staff of Celestial servants than actually prepare it herself.

  Wanda returned her attention to the morose, skull-like face she had half-concealed within the figure’s robe. Subliminal advertising, she thought. She was familiar with that insidious practice and often spotted it at work in magazines. FUCK or SEX spelled out in the reflections of an ice cube in a whiskey ad. Skulls in ice cubes and cigarette smoke. Such grim images might seem opposed to the selling of a product but they still captured the subconscious eye—as did applying these techniques to ads featuring children, for instance, where a little girl might be blowing at a phallic toy saxophone while a little boy aimed the neck of a toy guitar at her from the level of his groin, wrinkles digitally airbrushed into his shorts to make it look like he had an erection in there. Yes, insidious, but it seized people’s attention without their knowing why their eyes had been hooked and reeled in. The technique hijacked the mind, stole inside it, and sold products.

  What did Wanda have to sell?

  She tried not to hate Suzanne for her grating sweet voice, her beaming eyes like those of a drugged or insane person, her neatly cut club sandwiches and her tinkling harpsichord music. It wasn’t her fault, all this, was it? Wanda felt she shouldn’t begrudge Suzanne’s good fortune. Instead of being petty and envious, she should be happy that this human being, at least, didn’t have to suffer, too. Suzanne was kind. Human. Not one of those Angels who traveled to Hades on tours to rape women and children and hunt the Damned with bows or high-powered rifles. But for Suzanne to say she envied Wanda. To say Wanda was lucky. Oh, she just didn’t know how it was on the other side of the portals. She just didn’t have a clue. If she and others like her really cared, really empathized, wouldn’t they be trying to do more than just hand out the occasional box of cream-filled pastries, like scraps of meat to a dog whose beatings they turned a blind eye to?

  Wanda switched brushes. She focused her attention on the background, which she had thought was finished on this wall. She squeezed several shades of green and pink onto her smeary palette, eyeing a large rose bush that she had placed in one corner.

  Camouflaged within the leaves, the flowers, she began to work the visage of the Demon who had lifted her so close to his face moments before his kiss and the molten lava he vomited down her throat. She rendered his face like that of a pagan "green man" design made of foliage, leaves for flesh, his eyes and jagged piranha mouth formed of dark shadows. No nose, as was the case, and a suggestion of his curling ram horns trailing off into the roses’ twisted vines.

  As she painted in deft quick strokes, not quick because she was being furtive but quick because she felt true inspiration, Wanda thought of two things. One was a line from Frida Kahlo, one of her very favorite artists: "I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality."

  This is my reality, Suzanne.

  The other thought, as she glanced up at the hallway’s arched ceiling, which she hadn’t got to yet, was how easy it would be to hide things within the billowing white substance of clouds.

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