by Dave Freer
"Excellent, Mrs. Jackson. I'll have someone there at two o'clock." A few more seconds of the voice. "Oh, you won't be able to miss them, ma'am. Look for some paratroopers in a Humvee."
A few more seconds. Very pungent, those.
Tremelo's smile grew positively arctic. "By all means. Be my guest."
He placed the telephone back on the receiver and walked back to his office. At the door, he paused and turned back upon the troll.
"I do suggest you not place any obstacles in the way of Mrs. Jackson, when she shows up here later today. Really I do."
He managed to keep a straight face. Even a solemn one. "Mrs. Jackson was quite precise. In a colorful sort of way. She says she'll either get the red carpet treatment when she arrives, or she'll make herself one. Ah, the source of the pigment will apparently involve, to use her expression, someone's new asshole."
He turned away. "Not mine."
PART V
To the hell dogs that couch beneath his throne,
cast that fair prey.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley,
"The Daemon of the World"
24
A grave undertaking.
They sailed due south for Hades with a crew full of lamentations and hangovers, and a pair of sacrificial sheep. With a fair wind to carry them, they crossed the river of ocean and came at last to a bleak coastline shrouded in a swirling mist.
McKenna peered into the world of gray. "Jeez, I wish this stuff would blow away."
"It never does," said Jerry. "This is the frontier of the world. It's supposed to be beyond where the sun shines."
"So this is where the monkey puts his nuts!" said Liz. "They said it was a place where the sun don't shine." She was exceptionally moody today. One minute up, and the next snapping your head off. Jerry wished he could be sure why. But then he'd always found women to be slightly more confusing than calculus.
* * *
They sailed into a river mouth. On the low banks, groves of tall black poplars loomed out of the mist. It was a bleak place, enough to sink anyone's spirits. The talk dried up. The water was still and oily, covered in a network of floating willow-catkins. Unnaturally long and dark catkins. "The Acheron," said Odysseus. "I go no further." There was a level of implacable grimness in that statement, which let them all know that they'd reached the edge of how far they could push him.
Medea took a deep breath. "Very well. Set us ashore. And then wait beside your black ship. I place this geas on you. Surely none of you will ever return to the lands where the sun shines, if you abandon us." She began chanting sonorously, flicking droplets of red wine from her fingers.
A low moan went up from the sailors.
"I think they might just be here when we get back," said Cruz.
"They have a reputation for being recidivists of the worst order," said Jerry, darkly.
Medea scowled. "Indeed. That's Hellenes for you."
The hull of the black ship grated on the coarse sand. Jerry and his companions helped to haul the ship up. Then they set out through the gloom between the black poplars towards the place where the River of Lamentation joined the River of Flaming Fire.
Henri was not terribly keen. He offered to remain at the ship as he particularly wanted to examine the black foliage of the plants. As a botanist . . .
"Typical frog-eater," said McKenna, dismissively. "Got no guts."
The cold mist was lightened by the apoplectic Henri's flaming red face. "How dare you, you insolent puppy? How dare you?" He stood on tiptoe to bristle his eyebrows at McKenna's chin. And then, pulling in his ample supply of guts, he turned. "I will lead. I will be your guide. For the honor of la belle France!"
Unfortunately, the drama of the occasion was immediately ruined. Charging ahead, Henri stepped unwarily into a muddy stream.
"Oh! Merde! My shoes! This place it is terrible! Oh my shoes, my shoes. The leather will be completely ruined! Oh, this is terrible. Even my socks they are muddy."
Jerry whispered to Lamont, under cover of the French footwear dirge, "I think we may just have found the River of Lamentation . . . "
But it must just have been a tributary of that rushing river. After that, the ground became rapidly steeper and more uneven and the lamentations grew in volume. And they weren't all coming from their French "guide."
Soon they stood beside the rushing torrent of weeping and wailing water and the gnashing of rocky teeth. "Where now?" yelled Cruz, above the anguished waters, struggling with the ram he was leading.
"Downstream," replied Jerry. "We're looking for where it meets the River of Flaming Fire."
Liz had apparently discovered a common thread between herself, Jerry, and Lamont—Monty Python. She nearly killed the other two with her next comment. She pointed to the river. "I think it's pining for the fjords."
25
We've all got to make sacrifices.
The place was one of smokes and steams. The weeping waters of the River of Lamentation rushed and fumed into a thundering waterfall, backlit by the River of Flaming Fire. The two rivers mixed in a tumult of green flames, shrieking and steaming around a dark monolith before cascading into the dark Acheron.
"Phew," complained Lamont. "This place stinks!"
Liz nodded. "Sulphur. The area is plainly volcanic. And those green 'flames' are luminiferous bacteria in a turbulent warm river. Steaming where it meets an ice-cold one. Nothing that can't be explained scientifically if you look carefully at it. I'll bet there is a reason for the 'lamentation' too."
Jerry raised his eyebrows. "And I suppose that the smoking grotto isn't the entry to Hades' Kingdom of Decay either?"
Liz shrugged. "Around here? Who knows? Anything is possible, I suppose. All I do know is I don't much fancy this sacrifice business."
Cruz grunted. "Mac and I have had to carry these goddamned sheep Circe gave us for the last couple of hundred yards. I don't care if they're barbequed or 'sacrificed.' I'm not carrying them back."
Medea smiled pityingly. "I will do the sacrifice. I was the priestess of Hecate, she who is mistress of fertility and of the dead among my people. Come. Dig the trench. A cubit by a cubit."
"Carry the sheep. Dig the trench. Anything else?" muttered McKenna, swinging down a bleating, struggling sheep from his shoulder.
Medea smiled at him. "Yes. You can flay them and burn them when I have cut their throats."
"Gee thanks!" said Mac. "Here, Frenchy. Hold this goddamn sheep."
The plump Frenchman swallowed. "I am not entirely familiar with animal husbandry. Not in the least."
"Just hold it," said McKenna impatiently. Lamont had already taken a firm grip on the black ram Cruz had been carrying.
Lenoir took a tentative hold on the sheep, which bleated indignantly at him.
* * *
Watching, Jerry immediately learned Lesson One in the proper procedure of sacrificing sheep. Do not take a tentative hold. Hold tightly.
"Hell's teeth, Mac!" shouted Cruz. He left off digging the trench and grabbed the ram from Lamont. "Get after it, you guys. We'll never find another one. We need that sheep! Catch it!"
The rest of them set off in the chase. Even Henri took part, if in a somewhat involuntary fashion. As a result of a slight mishap the barrel-bellied Frenchman actually beat them to the sheep. He lost his footing and rolled down the steep slope, and then landed on the unfortunate animal.
In desperation he grabbed the stunned and winded creature. The others arrived, panting, to find him rolling about embracing a fallen sheep. The creature was bleating plaintively and struggling desperately to regain its freedom.
"Merde! She is kicking me in the private parts!" squalled Henri.
Liz took one look and started laughing. "This puts a whole new complexion on my understanding of 'Animal Husbandry'!"
* * *
Medea, the priestess of Hecate, had offered the libations of honeyed milk, sweet wine, and water. The white barley had been sprinkled. The black ram was ready, held by Cruz and
Lamont.
Liz whispered to Jerry. "The ghosts drink the blood? Oh, sick!"
His reply was drowned in a chorus of quavering voices . . . "We seek a better sacrifice, mortals. We want the blood of a man. A black man."
"Well, you can forget it!" snapped Jerry. "Come on guys—let's go."
"Yeah. This crap makes me sick anyway," said McKenna, straightening up. "I don't mind killing something for my dinner, but this!" He let go of the ram and gave it a swat. "Get lost, Rambo. It's your lucky day."
With a bleat the ram took off into the mist.
"Wait. Wait!" quavered the voices of the dead. "Give us our blood . . . "
"You might as well let that sheep go," said Cruz. "Come on. That was a path that our Frenchy 'discovered.' Let's go back that way."
With Jim McKenna leading the way, they all began leaving. Behind them, the voices of the dead began wailing. "Wait . . . we must have a blood sacrifice. You'll never get back without us."
A little further on, Cruz came to a sudden halt. Jerry heard a pitiful bleat, and peered around the sergeant's shoulder.
There, lying in the path, was the ram. It should have been a lot more careful about where it ran in the mist.
"Oh jeeze," muttered McKenna. "We'll have to kill it. We can't leave it to suffer."
Medea handed him a small clay flask. "Here. Give the creature this. Force its mouth open and pour it down."
Liz stepped into the breach. "I'll pour, Mac. You hold the mouth open."
The animal stilled. Medea smiled. "Now. I think I have the answer to your problem. This animal is too injured to recover. The poison you have just administered causes sleep, ending in death."
"That's a mercy . . . "
"I am not finished. I am a mistress of illusions. And I have been known to deceive people about victims before. After all, I convinced the people of Corinth that a dead pig in a pretty robe was Glauce. Shall we try to deceive the spirits of the dead? Given a piece of the Ethiope's clothing I could indeed make that ram look like him. Thus we may get what you need. But in exchange you must promise to take me to this 'America' place."
Jerry took a deep breath. "We can't promise what we can't guarantee delivery of."
"Yeah. Getting into the States is difficult enough even without being here. Can't make that promise, Medea," said Cruz.
Liz covered her eyes. "I can imagine filling in that work-permit application could be interesting." She obviously spoke from frustrating experience.
"And without it," muttered Jerry, "she'll be an illegal alien." He shrugged ruefully. "Can you imagine putting down sorceress as your occupation?"
Cruz frowned. "What about refugee status? Of course, unless we can pass her off as a Cuban, the Immigration and Naturalization Service probably won't accept it." For a moment, his swarthy face was creased by a scowl. "You can always count on la migra to be assholes."
He turned back to Medea. "We'll try. But we can't make any guarantees."
Medea smiled at him. "I like your honesty, more than I like glib easily broken promises like Jason's. Swear that you will try your best to take my children and me to this place, and I will help you to the best of my skill and powers."
Cruz nodded. "Sounds fair, hey guys?"
Lenoir sniffed. "Mademoiselle can always come to France. It is a far better place than America. And you will not have to claim that Satan is Fidel Castro in disguise to get asylum."
* * *
"Enter then the halls of the dead, the realm of dread Hades and august Persephone," quavered the voice. Plainly, Medea's deception had worked.
"This is wrong," protested Jerry. "This isn't what happened. That was in later legends."
Lamont shrugged. "Well, maybe it's our break out of here. Come on. We can't just back off . . . "
So down they went. "At least there was none of that blood-drinking stuff," whispered Liz. "But I thought we were underground . . . "
It was a gloomy enough scene . . . but those were trees . . .
"We are. This is the vestibule of Persephone, with the black poplars and sterile willows again. The Gate and Cerberus should be next."
The three-headed guard dog of Hades was monstrous. On the elephant side of Great Dane. Black venom drooled from each slobbery mouth. It grinned at them, revealing huge yellowed teeth. Thumped its tail. Then it cried "Welcome!" with a voice of brass. Then it stopped paying them any attention at all, in order to scratch.
"So why do I feel that this is one of those dogs that will let you in but not out?" muttered McKenna.
"That's its reputation," said Jerry glumly.
The gates swung silently open. The land beyond was barren and flecked with small white flowers. "Asphodels. Complete in every detail except it's the wrong myth," said Jerry dryly. "Amazing."
"Hic." The tall, slender, dark-haired woman in the gateway swayed slightly. "Are you coming in, or are you going to stand out there all day?"
"Um. We weren't too sure about the dog," said Jerry.
She reached out a long, white, elegant hand to scratch Cerberus. She nearly fell over. "Come on in, do. He's a soppy old thing really, and I do feel like some company. Liven this place up a bit."
Bemused, they went in. The goddess looked them over, with a faintly silly smile on her face. Her eyes fixed on Lamont. "Ooh! Hello, handsome. I do so like Ethiopes."
She gave a little ladylike burp. "Hermes came with a message that the Ethiopian had to be sacrificed. It seemed such a pity. I'm so glad you've got another." She turned to Medea and whispered hoarsely. "They're so sexy, don't you think, priestess? I like dark colors. It's what I found so attractive about Hades. But Hades is so staid."
Lamont looked as if he hoped the earth would open up and swallow him . . . and take him to Hades, if he wasn't there already.
She swayed closer. Ran her fingers up Lamont's arm. "I'm Persephone. But you can call me Kore."
Cruz sidled up to Medea. Sotto voce he asked: "Which 'sweet wine' did you use for those libations to this Persephone?"
"The amphora with the white flowers, and the hunting scene," answered Medea, puzzled.
"Oh lord! That wasn't wine. That was Mac's 'brandy.' That stuff that he distilled. It's a helluva lot stronger than wine."
"I've still got quite a lot left."
Persephone beamed at them. "So why are you all standing around like statues? Let's have some music. Dancing . . . wine, laughter. This place is so dead. Hic. I'm so sick of being gloomy and reshpectable. Feel like kicking over the trashes for a bit. 'S been a long time s . . . shince I had a party, and Zeus shays we're all gonna be powerful again. Let's shelebrate!"
* * *
Jerry got a sudden look of rapt concentration—what Liz had come to think of as his "terrier-scents-a-rat" look.
"Would you like another drink, Persephone?" he asked.
"Thas goddess Persephone to you, dear, but I'd love another drink. Let's all have a drink . . . wooee, that last libation really went to my head. Great times are coming again!"
Jerry handed her the amphora with Mac's attempt at "brandy" in it. "Tell us all about it."
Persephone chugged straight from the amphora, spilling the liquor down her chin. "Not supposed to tell any mortals," she said, doing her best to look goddesslike.
She vaguely handed the amphora away and staggered towards Lamont. "I'm always doing doom and gloom and misery. That's Persephone: 'sposed to be 'xempt from the passions that make all the other gods mess 'round. I've got feelingsh too." She threw her arms around Lamont and kissed him with noisy enthusiasm. "I've got to keep you prisoner. Going to enjoy tha'!" And then she slithered down to flop onto the ground. "Damn 'gypitians. Don' like pyramids. S'Greek temples not good enough for them?" She began to cry gently.
"Egyptians?"
"Prisoners?"
"Er. I think it is visitors that we have." Henri gestured nervously at the gray host.
The dead clustered round in a great throng. Gray forms of warriors with gaping wounds, young men,
women—but all in the garb of classical Greece. Except for the one who pushed his way forward—he looked as if he were a policeman from the early twenty-first century.
"Stavros is the name. Can you tell me what the hell I'm doing here?" asked the shade.
"We were kind of hoping you could tell us," said Jerry.
Stavros told his tale . . . and then faded back.
More and more came. The modern visitors got no wiser.
"Let's get the hell out of here," said McKenna. "Before she sobers up."
"The idea is one of remarkable sense," agreed Henri. "This place, how do you say, 'gives me the willy.' "
"Willies," corrected Jerry.
"Ah? You have it too?"
* * *
"HRRRRRR." The rumbling that came from Cerberus' throats made mere basso profundo seem like treble. "And where do you lot think you're going?" asked the middle head.
"We thought we would go and take a little of the night air," said Henri. "It is very close in here."
"And very close is where you stay," said the left head.
"And do try that little spear, dark one. Do," pleaded the right.
"We haven't had new souls for a long, long time," snarled the center head.
"Not for ages. Did you know that we are immortal?" said left head. "You can't kill us."
The right head missed his chance to speak because he was nibbling at fleas, the huge fangs champing at coarse fur.
"Lord Hades will return from Olympus soon. He sits in council with his brothers," said the center head.
"Great things are afoot." The left head eyed them hungrily. "Hades will be receiving many new souls."
"These gods-bedamned fleas are driving me demented," said the right hand head, obviously ordering a scratch of the ear.
"So how do we get out of here, Doc?" asked Cruz in an undervoice.
Jerry looked worried. "Honey cakes can distract him."
"Damn. I knew I'd forgotten something. What about half a transformed Hershey bar?" volunteered Liz, digging in her bag.
They broke the sticky honey-scented papyrus-wrapped thing in three.