Prospero in Hell

by L. Jagi Lamplighter

  In the center of the grove, facing the pentagram, stood Mephisto. Unlike the rest of us, he wore a fresh suit of clothes, no doubt fetched for him by one of the entities upon his staff: a voluminous-sleeved shirt of purest indigo silk with a black satin waistcoat and matching indigo pantaloons that spilled over the top of wide-brimmed black boots. The outfit resembled many he had worn during the 1600s. It had been made for him by Logistilla and was an enchanted garment as durable as my tea gown—which I really regretted having left at Erasmus’s. The indigo silk perfectly matched the blue panache atop the hat Father Christmas had given him, which he carried in his right hand. In his other hand, he held his six-foot totem pole of carven figurines, the Staff of Summoning. I saw no evidence of the handcuffs he had been using to secure his staff to his arm. He must have removed them for this august occasion.

  Mephisto stood in his own small circle. To his north, south, east, and west, framing the pentagram, were the invocation triangles. Father’s best guardian talismans had been placed in their appropriate triangles. The eastern triangle held a wide goblet of blue crystal. Upon the bowl of the cup, dolphins leapt surrounded by spray. To the south, a pentacle of beaten gold was set with precious and semiprecious stones. To the west lay a parchment scroll wrapped about a sandalwood rod, while the northern triangle held a golden-handled sacred knife, silver runes shimmering like liquid moonlight along its black blade. In the last triangle of the pentagram itself stood a fifth talisman, a slim winged slipper of silver cloth. At Mephisto’s insistence, I put a drop of the Water of Life on each talisman.

  Theo bent and lit the wards. With a flash, fire spread along the dragon’s blood until the entire pattern was burning. In addition to its other properties, dragon’s blood had the virtue that it ignited quickly but was consumed slowly.

  Mephisto stood amidst the glowing wards, his face lit by the steady ruby light of the burning blood. He raised both his hands and chanted.

  “Holy guardians of the four directions, I conjure thee and call thee to your posts. Guard us from all who mean us harm. Raphael, guardian of the east, healer, warden of the Water of Life, come, drink of this cup and protect us. Michael, guardian of the south, Warrior of God, whose strength is greater even than the titan Atlas, come, stand upon this precious Earth and protect us. Uriel, guardian of the west, Regent of the Sun, whose wings are hotter than the fiery inferno, come, consume this holy fuel and protect us. Gabriel, guardian of the north, Trumpeter of Heaven, whose breath will usher in the Last Days, come, take up this blade and protect us.”

  A silence fell across the grove, and though I saw nothing, I knew the angels had come. Their presence was unmistakable, like the soft touch of a feather against one’s cheek.

  Mephisto now gestured at the winged silver slipper, calling. “Psychopomp, lord of messengers, he who conveys the souls of the dead, I call you by your secret name. Hermes Tristmegistes, hear my command. Seek out the Staff of Transportation, whose essence is contained within this teak tree, and bear it to me upon this spot. Bring it unharmed and harming none. For your efforts, ye may drink of the nectar within this homage to your fleet-footedness. Go now. I compel ye, according to my authority as a Prince of the Sixth Circle. Recognize me and obey.”

  Merciful Mother of God! So, this was why only Mephisto could perform the spell. He was calling upon his authority as a Prince of Hell! No ordinary magician could compel the gods. No wonder Mab was nervous!

  We waited. The rosy light from the burning wards illuminated the faces of my relatives, revealing expressions of intense concentration. Seconds crawled into minutes. Then, just as Erasmus stepped to the edge of his ward, about to call off the effort, there was a flash of blinding white light. Curving about, the light formed a surprised-looking Ulysses clutching his teak staff for dear life.

  Ulysses took one look at our gathered company and in a second burst of white light, teleported away.

  Groaning, Mephisto cast the spell a second time, though he seemed less confident. Beside me, in front of the orange tree, Mab stirred in agitation. I understood the cause of their distress. The guardians of the four directions were still present; however, fleet-footed Hermes would have to be summoned again. Only, Mephisto could not reach the slipper to renew the supply of Water of Life without breaking the sanctity of the wards. Resanctifying the wards would require snuffing out the whole design and beginning again, and Theo had already used nearly all of Father’s supply of dragon’s blood. So, what was Mephisto to offer the psychopomp in return for his services? On principle, it was not a good idea to shortchange the god of thieves.

  On the other hand, a drop of Water of Life was more than even the gods were usually paid for a task as simple as this one. Perhaps, the Swift One would be willing to perform a second task for that same price. Ever optimistic, Mephisto charged ahead with the spell, repeating his previous words exactly.

  This time, the blinding flash came almost immediately. Risking all, Theo, Erasmus, and Titus charged forward, leaping across the burning wards with no thought for the consequences. Erasmus grabbed Ulysses and laid his staff across his throat, while Theo and Titus seized Ulysses’s staff and wrestled it from his grasp. Ulysses, with the Staff of Decay at his throat, looked as terrified as I had ever seen him. Ironically, in his fear, he did not notice the staff was not humming. Having crossed the burning wards without invitation, Erasmus’s staff slept. It would remain inert until Theo and Mab revoked their wards and quenched the flames.

  A wind blew in from the ocean. The flames of the ward-lines my three brothers had leapt sputtered and died. We all readied our staffs. Theo, Erasmus, and Titus’s staffs, all of which had crossed the wards, did not respond. Beside me, Mab opened his mouth, then shut it, cringing. He could revoke his wards with a word, which would return life to the sleeping staffs; however, it would also extinguish the remaining wards, including the one protecting me.

  “Do it, Mab!” I whispered, readying my flute.

  “Shhh!” hissed Mab.

  A mist was rising off the sea. It moved silently over the bluff and began drifting toward the Grove of Books. My brothers had only crossed the inner lines, so the outermost ward still held. The mist circled the grove, pushing at the wards. The ruby flames hissed in places, but they continued to burn steadily.

  Out of the darkness came a voice, cold and inhuman, such as a glacier might have, or a rock slide. This was not the voice of the honey-tongued psychopomp. Something else had approached us.

  “Heirs of Prospero, hear your fate. Doom do I foretell for the race of Men. At midnight on Twelfth Night, once-great Prospero shall die. Within a century of his death, all his great works will be undone. Foolish Prospero! Had the legacy of Solomon been passed to one heir, this doom might have been avoided. One heir might have preserved it and kept us at bay. Instead, in his pride, he split Solomon’s secrets among his quarreling offspring, who have not the wherewithal to put aside their grievances and take up their Father’s work.

  “Denizens of the night, rejoice. Prospero shall fail, and Hell unmake Solomon’s efforts. The spirits shall rebel. Mankind shall be undone. Chaos shall reign, and all shall return to the sweet darkness of Old Night.”

  “It’s Abaddon!” screamed a petrified Logistilla.

  Abaddon? A shiver of pure dread traveled across my body. Abaddon was no mere demon. He was the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, one of the Seven Rulers of Hell!

  “One within has named me. I accept the invitation and enter,” said the voice.

  The outer ward went dark. Fingers of mist began drifting toward the center of the grove where Theo, Titus, Erasmus, and Ulysses stood unprotected. Tiny flaming circles still protected Cornelius, Caliban, Mephisto, Mab, and me. Logistilla’s ward flickered into nothingness, however, and a tendril of mist reached toward her.

  As soon as Logistilla spoke the demon’s name, Ulysses began to scream. He lunged for his staff, apparently more frightened of Abaddon than of Erasmus. Despite his flailing, however, he was unable to pull fre
e of Titus’s grip. He kicked Erasmus and Theo repeatedly, until Caliban leapt his ward and grabbed my brother’s legs. Even Ulysses’s hysteria-induced strength was not enough to wrench him free of Caliban’s viselike hold.

  The rest of us stood petrified. Then, above Logistilla’s shrieks and Ulysses’s screaming, came Theo’s voice, calm and commanding:

  “As you love your lives, pray!”

  Some of my siblings began reciting the Lord’s Prayer aloud. I prayed to my Lady, asking for her protection for myself and for the others present, and felt her answering warmth about me. I could see Cornelius’s lips moving, and could hear Titus’s strong voice join Theo’s in a recitation of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Logistilla was still shrieking, and Ulysses was weeping. Caliban and Erasmus joined the hymn, and even Mab began to sing. Mephisto, however, stood very still with an odd look on his face, staring at his staff and his hat. I suspected he was debating whether to fight fire with fire and assume his demonic stature or to call upon his sanity and join in the singing. Christian piety won. Mephisto joined in the song, though without the hat. Perhaps, Prince of the Sixth Circle was not of high enough rank to face down one of Hell’s Great Seven.

  Within the western triangle, the sandalwood rod ignited, bathing the parchment scroll in pure white-gold flame. To the north and east, the sacred knife and the blue crystal goblet rose suddenly into the air. In the south, the gems set into the pentacle began to glow, as if lit from within.

  Four pure angelic voices joined the hymn: one as deep as the Earth’s heart, one as gentle as morning rain, one as fierce as the burning sun, and one like a trumpet, loud and triumphant. Their voices sang out for only a single stanza. Yet in that time, it was as if the whole world had been remade, and we stood in a newly created grove, clean and fresh and free from all stain.

  The mist recoiled. The wards all burnt steadily again. We stood motionless, without making a sound, for perhaps twenty minutes. Then, Mephisto ended the spell, banishing the psychopomp, any lurking spirits and, finally, the guardians. Once that was done, Mab and Theo revoked the wards.

  “Pheew, it’s over!” breathed Mephisto, wiping his brow.

  “That went . . . surprisingly well,” observed Mab.

  “You call that ‘well’?” Erasmus asked, bemused.

  “All things considered? Yeah, I call that ‘well,’ ” Mab replied. “No one was carried off into the night sky by their ear, no one was flayed alive, and none of your sisters are presently married to loathsome beasts.”

  Erasmus gave him a wan smile. “If you put it that way . . .”

  There was a brief argument about who was to go to Mars, during which it was pointed out that Theo was an old man with a heart condition, Titus was wounded, Cornelius was blind, Ulysses was currently bound up with some of Father’s rope, Logistilla was an accomplice in this matter, and Mephisto was mad. For whatever reason, Mab, Caliban, and I were not considered. Erasmus, as the only whole and hale son, finally said he was going and would choose who went with him. He chose Mephisto. After a few words of instructions from Ulysses, the Staff of Transportation flashed its brilliant white light, and they were gone.

  We waited.

  They returned about ten minutes later holding Gregor between them, or at least I assumed it was Gregor. They supported a tall gaunt figure half Gregor’s customary bulk, whose black beard curled to his navel and whose hair hung down his back. He wore a burgundy nightshirt that left his calves and feet bare. I wondered if this was all Ulysses had provided in the way of dress, or if Gregor had merely been roused from his bed.

  Gregor was rushed inside to bathe and rest, with Logistilla cooing over her twin, and Titus dragging the captive Ulysses behind them. Theo and Mab stayed to gather any remaining dragon’s blood, and clean up the grove. Caliban wished me a good night before offering to carry the nearly empty barrel of dragon’s blood back to the house. Eventually, I found myself standing alone, accompanied by feylings, a few Aerie Ones, the roar of the surf, and the night.

  I walked along the bluff—the same where Father had sat with me so often, telling me tales of my mother and their great love. Hugging my elbows, I stared down at the white spray visible atop black breakers. Mab was right. The day had gone better than expected, all things considered. The family was back together. Theo had put aside his plan to die. Gregor, so long thought dead, was alive. Father was in deadly peril, but according to the demon, he still lived, and we had five days in which to save him. Perhaps, we could cast this spell again using the dogwood in the Wintergarden and bring him home.

  The peace brought by the angelic song still lingered. The air smelled fresh and new. As I breathed it, hope buoyed my heart, and I felt certain Father could be saved. I now knew what the doom was that awaited us upon Twelfth Night—Father’s death by the hands of his captors. I asked my Lady for her help, and felt the telltale warmth her guidance brought. She knew how to save my father. She would show me the way. I had merely to be patient until the time was right.

  Standing atop the rocky bluffs, listening to the rhythm of the sea, I surveyed my flute thoughtfully. Perhaps Mab’s people could be freed. If not today or tomorrow, at least sooner than I had expected. If they could learn to obey me without the flute, as Boreas had in the eyrie, if they could be brought to swear lesser oaths before we released them, then perhaps, I could let them go, release Ophion, and join the ranks of the Sibyls, as I so desperately desired.

  Once I was a Sibyl, I would have the power to absolve oaths . . . Mephisto could be freed from his promise to the demon queen. Perhaps, his sanity could even be regained. I recalled hearing somewhere of a river called the Eunoe whose waters were said to wash away the amnesia of the Lethe.

  I gazed down at the black waves. I could do it right now. I could break the flute and fling its worthless pieces into the sea.

  For one mad second, I considered it, but I knew this was not the way it should be done. While I had reason to believe Eurynome would accept me should I release the Aerie Ones from bondage, I also felt reasonably sure she would be less than kindly disposed to me if I needlessly caused a great many mortals to be killed in the process. No, if I were to free the Aerie Ones, it would need to be done properly, in a step-by-step fashion: lesser oaths would need to be sworn, replacements found for those who wished to leave, and many other such details dealt with in a calm and rational manner.

  Departing the bluffs, I walked, contemplating all that we had learned. After a time, I found myself standing before Caliban’s old cave, the very spot where, centuries before, he had attempted to ravage me. Once a place of horrors, this oft-hated spot now brought a faint smile to my lips. Even Caliban was no longer to be loathed and feared. Instead, he had become a member of my family, despite my reluctance to acknowledge my new mother. With Baelor dead and Caliban a friend, it was as if all my enemies had been defeated.

  A rustling within the forest caught my attention. Turning, I spotted a figure standing motionless among the trees, a silhouette framed by the twinkle of feylings. I did not need more than a silhouette to recognize this stranger. The fashionable cut of his garments betrayed his identity.

  My stomach knotted oddly, uncomfortably. Annoyed by this inappropriate display of girlish jitters, I called out pleasantly.

  “Hello, Ferdinand . . . or should I say Seir! I was surprised you didn’t show up for the fight at Erasmus’s.”

  I waited as he came toward me. There was no real point in fleeing from a teleporter, besides I was reasonably sure he would not harm me. After all, he had not attacked during our entire time together at Prospero’s Mansion when he had been pretending to be Ferdinand. However, I kept my flute close and made a gesture behind my back indicating that one of the attending Aerie Ones, whom I knew to be following me, should summon my brothers. Charming as Seir may be, he was still an incubus and after our staffs. If they could capture him . . . well, that would be yet another enemy who would not trouble us again.

  He stepped out into the moonlight, so
me five feet away from me. Even in the dimness of the night, I could see there was something wrong with the color of his eyes.

  It was Osae the Red.

  He lunged. He was too close for me to begin a song, as he would reach me before I could play out any instructions. Hoping to outsmart him, I threw my flute into the air, calling to Apple Blossom to catch it and hold it out of his reach. It was a risk, giving the flute to an Aerie One, but it was better than letting it fall to Osae. As soon as he took upon himself some flying form so that he could pursue it, I would ask her to return it to me and summon a whirlwind to cast him from the island.

  Only he did not go after the flute.

  I tried to flee, racing through the night in my flimsy dancing shoes. I might as well have tried to outrun a cheetah or a freight train. He caught me just before the opening of the cave and threw me down in the very spot where Caliban had overpowered me long ago. Last time, my father saved me. This time, my father was in Hell.

  Foxglove had already departed to summon my brothers. I screamed, hoping they would hurry. With a gesture, I commanded Apple Blossom to bring my flute to my outstretched hand. A tiny penknife was hidden in its haft, enough to wound him or poke out an eye. All I had to do was keep him at bay long enough for Theo or Mephisto to get here.

  And I probably could have, if I had been wearing my impenetrable enchanted gown. Instead, I was clad in a concoction of violet silk created over a hundred years ago by the foremost designer of a bygone age. Lovely to behold, it offered as much protection as wet tissue paper.

  “Why follow the flute when the prize is nigh?” Osae’s breath came in heavy pants as he ripped my gown. His voice was his own, though his form was still Ferdinand’s. “What care I for lost staffs? If I recover them, I must return to the pit. Better to stay here and enjoy myself.”

  The delicate silk of my Worth original parted as easily as soft rose petals, exposing my bare flesh to the moonlit night.