And I was sinking.
The small hillock upon which I stood sank into the vile swamp. Already, I could feel the fatty slime slithering against the skin of my legs and then my stomach. I flailed about until my feet found purchase, only to discover I was perched upon the corpse of a half-dead whale. Beneath the waters, within its disemboweled belly, an orgy took place. The rotting mangled corpses uttered inarticulate exclamations that might have been pleasure or pain. As I drew back in dismay, I lost my footing and fell into the stinking muck.
Emerging again, I gagged and spat, but the slime was everywhere. A smell like rotting corpses and feces stewed in rancid lard filled my nostrils and mouth. Horrified, I vomited. My vomit hung before me, sinking slowly through the gook and adding to the stink.
It was too much. I screamed, thrashing about until I managed to throw myself through the gate back to Limbo.
“Miranda! What’s wrong?”
Theo came crashing through the gate and ran to where I knelt among the swirling mists, retching out my innards. The others followed him, and soon the whole family was gathered about me. I felt unsteady and weak, ashamed to lift my head or look at them.
“It’s horrible!” I cried, when I was able to speak. Tears ran down my cheeks. “What was that . . . stuff we were swimming in? How could you call that place beautiful or mistake it for a garden?”
“Slowly now, Sister.” Erasmus squatted down beside me. “Tell us what you saw.”
I described the bare bones of it, skimming over the obscenities. My brethren listened silently. Ulysses’s face gained a pale green tinge, and Mephisto gagged.
“But it was so beautiful,” cried Logistilla. “Why should we believe that she is seeing the truth?”
“Don’t be such a dope, Logistilla,” Mephisto replied weakly, waving a hand. “When you’re in Hell, and someone tells you the pretty stuff is a deception, believe them!”
“I shoulda known something was wrong when I couldn’t smell the stink of corruption,” Mab said.
“It makes perfect sense,” Erasmus said. “Of course, Hell could not be a pleasure garden. But why is Big Sister Miranda the only one not taken in?”
“Maybe all her years as Eurynome’s handmaiden are protecting her,” said Cornelius. When he spoke Eurynome’s name, there was a distant crash of thunder. A blue-white light flickered through the swirling mists. For just an instant, in the far distance, I thought I could make out a black armored figure seated on the left-hand throne.
“Maybe it’s because her mother was a witch,” sneered Erasmus.
Caliban shook his head. “If that were the case, I would see it, too, seeing as we share a mother. Perhaps the angel whom she spoke with gave her a blessing.”
“Could be Ophion,” said Mab. “Miranda’s staff carries my—well, you’d call him an ancestor—the Serpent of the Wind. Maybe, he’s protecting her . . . or maybe the rest of you have been seeped in demon magic from your own staffs for so long that Hell has some kind of power over you.”
“Maybe a million things,” snapped Logistilla. “I fail to see how this speculation gets us any closer to Father!”
Mab turned to Mephisto who was peering into the crystal ball. “So, how ya coming with the oversized paperweight? Can you instruct it to lead us by the safest path? I hear that thing’s near omniscient.”
“You mean like sneak through the crevices instead of marching up to the front gates of Dis, like that dopey Ferdinand?” asked Mephisto.
“Mephisto, there is no Ferdinand,” I said impatiently. “Seir made that story up.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He shrugged. “Sure, I’ll do it. Ball, show us the best path from the Gate of False Dreams to Father . . . Eeeeewwwww!” Mephisto nearly threw the ball away from himself. “It’s disgusting!”
The others peered into the crystal ball. It showed my version of the far side of the gate. Mab and Theo turned away disgusted, but Mephisto, Ulysses, Logistilla, Erasmus, and Caliban all stared in horrified fascination. Gregor, though disgusted, also kept his eyes fixed on the ball, as if determined to view the truth, however unpleasant. Titus kept watch, peering suspiciously into the swirling mists.
Merely seeing it again made me queasy. The memory of that horrible taste filled my mouth. I spat, hoping to rid myself of it, and was sick again, though there was little left to bring up. Theo patted my back supportively.
I could not go back there, not even if I wished to. I could not force my limbs to move toward the gate, knowing what was on the other side. I was too sick and too terrified of returning to the Tower of Pain. The family would have to rescue Father without me.
“Look, a path. If we go this way, we can get through the Swamps of Lust to the Bridge across the River Styx.” Mephisto was showing the others something in the ball. “Beyond that is the Wall of Flame, the Burning Plain, the Mountains of Misery, some glaciers, and then the Tower of Pain. All we have to do is follow this path, blast any demons that get in our way, and avoid the Hellwinds.”
“What are Hellwinds?” asked Cornelius.
“Black winds that howl,” explained Mephisto. “They blow stray souls back to their proper place of punishment.”
“What happens if we get caught in them?” asked Erasmus. “Do we get sent back beyond the Gate of False Dreams to the land of the living?”
“No such luck,” Mephisto shook his head sagely. “It’s straight to punishment. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Whatever part of your soul is heaviest, that’s where you’ll be dropped.”
“Remind me to avoid the Hellwinds,” Erasmus shuddered. Then, he frowned down at the crystal ball again. “How are we going to follow this path when the landscape looks completely different from what we saw?”
“Miranda, you’re going to have to lead us,” said Gregor. “The rest of us cannot see the truth.”
I cried, “I-I can’t!”
“Would you prefer that Father die?” Theo growled sternly.
As I knelt there, a pathetic wreck, Theo’s words touched something deep within me. What was the point of bearing the Pride of Angels, if it did not sustain one when pride was called for? Staggering to my feet, I silently swore that nothing would deter me. I would do what it took to save Father—even if it meant my last breath would be of putrid undead gook.
“Very well. Follow me.”
It was worse, even, than I had anticipated. The others walked easily over the swamp, as if they trod on a petal-strewn footpath, but I, who could see the truth, had to frog paddle through the gelatinous slime. Mournful cries and moans of anguished ecstasy came from all sides. By looking only directly before me, I could avoid most of the lurid sights, but the putrid stenches were impossible to ignore. More than once, I stopped to retch out my empty innards. Yet, somehow, I went forward.
“You look really weird, Miranda,” Mephisto chimed happily as he strolled alongside me. “Like you’re lying on your stomach on the path pretending to be a fish, only you’re actually moving forward. And there are all these flower petals all over you. There’s one on your nose,” He pointed to where a bit of slime clung to my face. “I think you look cute that way.”
“I think she looks ridiculous,” murmured Erasmus.
“It’s hardly sporting to mock her if there’s nothing she can do about it, especially as she’s the one having a hard time,” Ulysses joined in. “We’re taking a stroll in a park where girls in bikinis are sunbathing.” His eyes tracked a particularly hideous spider-creature admiringly. “While she’s swimming through sewage. Hardly fair, really.”
Mephisto’s orb directed us as to where to go. I tried to avoid the worst of the corpses and rotting fleshy parts, but even this was difficult. Once, I turned quickly to avoid a black-winged demon and found I had swum into an eddy filled with meaty bits and bodily fluids. The stink of rotten flesh and the taste of bile and mucus assaulted upon my senses. I flailed, trying to push the contaminants away from me. My brothers came to my rescue, dragging me backward, but Logistilla
and Mephisto, who were watching my progress through the crystal ball, both became ill. The odor of their vomit contributed to the general vileness.
Worst of all was that, in the midst of this horror, I kept, out of habit, turning to my Lady for guidance, only to find an empty area that seemed to ache and throb, like a recently pulled tooth. Eager for distraction, my mind wandered back to my last conversation with Astreus, replaying it at least a hundred times, recalling how we quarreled and how he was now lost to me. I regretted his loss, regretted bringing up the subject of Aerie Ones but, most of all, I regretted—to my shame—that he had passed into darkness without ever having truly kissed me.
The bowels of Hell, amidst victims of the sins of lust, was hardly the most appropriate place to come face-to-face with the realization that I had become seriously enamored of an elf.
A great, bloated monster—half-demon and half-spider—provided a momentary distraction. It shot black webs at us, hoping to ensnare us and pull us into its pulsing womb, where other victims moaned and writhed. I shouted and pointed, and all my brothers leapt forward to parry the webs, waving their staffs blindly. The spider’s webs stuck to Mephisto’s sword, and one nearly robbed him of it. They parted instantly, however, when even in the vicinity of the Staff of Decay.
After that, Erasmus took the lead. Smiling grimly, he walked beside me as I swam.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Doves of Oblivion
At last, my foot struck solid ground!
Soon, the muck was waist-high, then calf-high. Finally, a thin strip of solid earth emerged covered with a dull brownish bracken, and I was free of the sludge. The heavy fetid stink of the swamp still clogged my nostrils, but it was not clear whether it came from the environment or from my slime-covered body. As I stood there, dripping, feeling this horrible glop slide down my face and skin, I was at last able to look around.
The orgies and violent grotesqueries had fallen behind now; only a few lone couples—or were they rapists and victims?—remained. I shivered and looked away.
In the distance, a great arched bridge spanned a wide river of black rushing water. Beyond the far side, in the distance, I could see an enormous wall of fire.
“The Bridge over the River Styx,” Mephisto cried happily. Apparently, nothing daunted him. Or maybe he was still seeing beautiful gardens, though from the expressions on my other brethren’s faces and the way Logistilla was holding her nose, I gathered their illusion was wearing thin. “Didn’t they make a movie about that, starring Obi-Wan Kenobi?”
“Who?” asked Gregor.
“No one, Brother Dear. Mephisto is babbling,” Logistilla patted Gregor’s arm. “Is this really the Styx? I thought it separated the living from the dead.”
“It does,” replied Mephisto, “but it also winds through Hell itself separating some of the Circles from each other. There’s even an Ocean Styx, if you follow it in the other direction.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” She pointed ahead, beyond the bridge. “Is this the way we are to go? How do we get around that wall of fire? It seems to stretch on infinitely.”
“The Wall of Flame? We don’t. Go around, that is,” Mephisto chirped back. “We go through.”
“Just walk through the towering Wall of Flame?” asked Ulysses. When Mephisto nodded, he muttered, “Ducky!”
“What is this wall?” asked Cornelius, reaching a hand out, as if he could somehow feel the flames from here.
Mephisto said, “A towering inferno of burning passions. That’s what all the fire is down here, you know. Passions. Even that lurid stuff that floats in the sky. And that gunk Miranda is dripping with? That’s made from all the wanton desires of people on Earth, the really dirty thoughts. They condense and drip down here, forming this place, the Swamp of Uncleanness.”
That was what had been in my mouth? I bent and vomited again.
“And how do we go through this great wall of burning lusts? Or is it anger? By being stoical?” asked Erasmus.
Mephisto shrugged. “You just have to will it not to bother you.” He snickered. “The dweebs on the other side maintain the wall to keep the good spirits out . . . as if any good spirit would be bothered by their silly wall. They’re such dopes.” He turned to us in all seriousness. “Nobody in Hell is very bright. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be down here, would they?” He looked up at the steely gray lights floating above us like luminescent clouds amidst the inky-black smoke that otherwise obscured the heavens, perhaps literally. “Oh, except for the guys who are really bright, but evil. I forgot about them. All that gray light in the sky? It comes from them. It’s the light of misguided reason.” He tapped both his temples to indicate mental prowess. “But they’re dopey, too, in their own way.”
“That was clear as mud,” murmured Erasmus. “How do you know all this, anyway?” When Mephisto did not answer, he continued, “So, what do we do? What if not all of us can make it through?”
“We grit our teeth and try really hard,” offered Mephisto.
“We use my staff,” Titus stated evenly.
“Ah, yes! That will do it,” smiled Erasmus.
To reach the bridge, we had to pass through a mangrove swamp. We entered warily, unnerved by the eerie vegetation. Mangrove roots looped above the swamp, upon which floated a thick, dingy foam, such as gathers along the banks of polluted rivers. The roots stuck out above the surface like petrified skeletal elbows, knobby and angular. Fat bulging lizards blinked at us from the fingerlike roots, and reptilian bats, like dinosaur birds but with the faces of men, swooped and screamed overhead, terrifying Logistilla. Above us, dead branches dripped with dull gray Spanish moss, so that the trees stood like shrouded wraiths.
The illusion of the lovely garden had faded, and my siblings now saw what I saw. They gave me wide berth, for they could smell the stinking residue that stuck to my skin and hair. The enchantments woven into my tea dress proved equal to even this terrible environment. Its shimmering emerald cloth soon repelled the slime and filth, and my garments were fresh and clean again. I felt so grateful I even brought myself to thank Logistilla. She merely pinched her nose fastidiously and moved away from me, pausing only to inform me that my hair still smelled atrocious.
Wisps of mist began rising from the swamp. Long pale tendrils of fog wove between us, rapidly growing thicker. Soon, we could no longer see one another. I reached out for Mab and Theo, who had been walking nearby, but my hands encountered only clamminess and a slimy tree trunk.
To have my family so close and yet not be able to find them was unnerving. Nor was I the only one who was disturbed. Around me, I could hear the others calling.
“Titus?”
“Logistilla!”
“Miss Miranda? Are you there?”
“Brothers? Brothers? Don’t leave me!” The last from Cornelius.
“I’m here, Cornelius!” Theo responded. “Keep speaking and I’ll find . . . Ahh!”
Theo’s cry was accompanied by a splash. I rushed in his direction, but something snaked about my foot. Stumbling, I fell across a twist of roots and plunged face down into the foul-smelling froth. Its awful spongy consistency, like shaving cream blended with medical wastes, brought on yet another wave of revulsion. Flailing about, I managed to grab an arching mangrove root and pull myself from the mire. The slippery foam clung to my face and hands. As I flung it away from me, I heard Cornelius’s voice rise plaintively.
“Brother? Are you well?”
“I’m all right,” Theo barked hoarsely, “just a bit damp.”
“Now, we all know how Miranda feels,” Caliban offered cheerfully amidst splashing.
An unnatural, grating sound reminiscent of laughter, as if an avalanche were mocking us, disturbed the landscape, sending ripples through the swampy waters. Logistilla screamed, and the familiar white flare of the Staff of Transportation illuminated the mist to my right. No doubt, Ulysses was fleeing at the first sign of danger, leaving the rest of us stranded.
“What
’s wrong?” Erasmus’s voice called. “I see nothing.”
“Abaddon!” cried Logistilla. “He’s here! He’s found us!”
“I don’t see . . .” Titus began.
A noise like a thousand wings beating in unison agitated the air. The mist blew away, revealing the mouth of a dark tunnel, like a horizontal tornado, that spun through the air as it approached us. I thought of raising my flute to disband it, but it seemed to be made of a solid, physical substance rather than wind. The breeze coming from it thinned the fog, and we caught glimpses of each other, dark shapes, like trees, walking amidst swirls of gray.
“What’s this?” Gregor leaned on his staff, his robes billowing about him. “Is this the Hellwind?”
“No. They’re black and thick, like the stuff that comes from your staff.” Mephisto’s voice floated to us through the fog. “As to what this is”—one of the tree-like shapes spread his arms and shrugged—“I don’t know!”
“Looks like the tunnel from Bosch’s Ascent of the Blessed,” murmured Caliban, who was revealed squatting atop a tangle of gnarled roots.
“Maybe it’s a way out?” Erasmus took a cautious step forward and peered into the funnel of darkness.
“Fools! Abaddon is near! We are doomed!” Logistilla cried. “Whatever this is, it will be the death of us!”
Abruptly, the tunnel unraveled. Like an Escher drawing come to life, the front edge flew toward us, resolving into black doves. As if in a dream, we watched the dark flock spread outward, flying through the mangroves on wings as black as pitch. So strange and contrary to normal expectation was the thought of danger from such a gentle bird that only Mephisto raised his arm to ward them off.
“Watch out!” he called. “These are Lord Shax’s minions. He’s one of Abbadon’s cohorts, a Marquis of the Third . . .”
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