Soft as a thistledown, a dark wing brushed my face. There was no scratch or peck, just a cool flick of silky feathers.
Immediately, my forehead and cheeks went numb.
The rest of Mephisto’s words failed to reach my ears. Other sounds fled as well: the low rumble, the rustle of Gregor’s robes, the squelch of my footstep. Last to flee was the sound of my own breath, which faded so completely that I feared breath itself had failed.
The thought that Titus’s staff stopped demons as well as sound comforted me—until I remembered the Staff of Silence acted instantly—which meant this silence was not of my brother’s doing.
Unnerved, I tried to call out to my brothers, but it was too late. My mouth and jaw were numb, and would not obey me. Worse, darkness was encroaching from the corner of my vision. It spread until all sight had fled. Then, my thoughts began to seep away as well.
Why was I standing here in the darkness?
What had I been meaning to do?
Barely clinging to consciousness, I prayed to my Lady, but that sorrow only drew the darkness more quickly.
Then, even that sorrow was gone.
What balm, oblivion—greater than any Gilead had to offer. No sorrow. No regrets for Ladies lost or elves betrayed. What a gracious gift this demon had given me, when he stole away all sense, suffering, and sadness.
No!
This peace was false. Even in the midst of oblivion, I, who had felt my Lady’s breath and spoken face-to-face with angels, could not be fooled by counterfeits. This dullness, this abandonment of care, was not a gift.
It was Hell itself.
Damnation: that from which there was no escape. That knowledge had been pounded from the pulpits ever since my return to Milan, over five hundred years ago. I had not heeded it, thinking—in my arrogance—that my Lady would protect me. Now, it was too late. I had strayed from the straight and narrow. I had wandered too far down the primrose path and passed the point of no return.
I had abandoned hope. Or rather, Hope had abandoned me.
There was nothing left but vast eternal emptiness. I might now declare, with Milton’s Lucifer: Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.
As my thoughts tumbled, slowly growing dim, I remembered kneeling on the hard stone of the chapel at the Castello Sforzesco as Father Ignatius lectured me about sin. The chapel was always cold, a chilly draft blew against the back of my neck, but if I squirmed or asked for a shawl, my penance would be increased—penance assigned to me for being beautiful and uncivilized, for surely those things were sins. It was never for actions I had performed, because in the six years that he was my personal father confessor, I had never spoken a word to the man. I had not recognized his authority over my soul.
This had been in the days after Ferdinand’s disappearance. My stepmother, who had brought Father Ignatius with her when she came to the castello, had insisted I attend the chapel and perform his penances. In my sorrow, it had not occurred to me to object.
So I would kneel in silence, my neck frozen and my knees aching, as Father Ignatius paced back and forth, describing in painstaking detail vivid scenes of Hell and damnation, of torment and suffering: how women who had abortions had their breasts devoured by the offspring they had scorned, or how those who played the harlot would hang for eternity by their hair above boiling mire.
“For eternity,” he would lean forward and breathe on me with his stinking breath. “With no hope of redemption. That is the fate that awaits you, Heathen Girl.”
How sad that time had proven that wretched man right.
I recalled that I did speak up once. For six years, I heard to him preach damnation, but I never really listened. Then, one day, the error of his words penetrated my thoughts. Rising, I rebuked him. “Your theology must be faulty, Father; damnation cannot be eternal. My Lady has vowed not to rest until every soul has been redeemed, and surely Love Herself cannot fail.”
What the priest thought of my rebellion, I never learned, I walked out. The next time my stepmother complained that I had not visited him recently. I went to my father, who excused me from further private instruction.
Back in oblivion, I recalled words from the Book of the Sibyl: “She will not pause while even one of these remains in darkness.”
Did that include me? Would She save even one whom She had abandoned? Perhaps I should not yield so meekly to oblivion.
Deep in the dark of nothingness, I cast about for some hope, some weapon against the false balm of unconsciousness, and brought to mind an image of a single sprout amidst a field of snow. I recalled Gregor’s words in my room: You think your present sorrow is solid, like a sphere of diamond encasing your soul. But, the nature of sorrow is closer to that of ice. Ice melts when warmth is applied.
If this were true, then all sorrow was a sham, even the sorrow caused by blindness, deafness, and stupidity.
For the time it takes one spark to live, burn, and extinguish in the dark, I understood the truth of this.
Like a soap bubble popping, the emptiness was gone. I awoke to find myself standing amidst swirls of waist-high fog. Around me, dark doves still swooped at my brothers and sister, who stood like dreary statues. Even Caliban and Mab stood motionless, and Ulysses, who had apparently returned to see if the coast was clear. Amidst those I could see clearly and those who were merely silhouettes, I counted only ten, including myself. One of us was missing.
“Woke up, did you, sleepyhead?” came the voice of my brother Mephisto. “Lion, protect my sister!”
Mephisto swooped out of the sky on the back of a winged lion, a life-size version of the figurine that served as the top piece of his staff. It was a magnificent creature with a creamy mane and tail puff glowing with an aura of golden light that made the infernal swamp look tawdry and false. Its eyes glittered like newly beaten gold. Downy wings sprouted from its shoulders. When it beat them, doves were thrown about like oak leaves in winter’s storm.
“Come on, you dopes!” my brother shouted, as the winged lion flew over the swamp. “Back to the Island of Misfit Imps!”
I could not tell if he was talking to us or to the doves.
Gregor stirred and slapped a dove with Solomon’s Ring. It withered into dust. He reached over and pressed the ring against Titus’s cheek. My great bear of a brother stirred and tapped his staff.
The world became silent again, only this time sight and thought remained. The doves caught within his effect exploded like sable milkweed pods. The smell of brimstone, accompanying each dying bird, assailed my nostrils.
Then, Titus released his effect and sound rushed in.
“That was . . . disturbing,” Erasmus sat in the swamp, surrounded by looping roots with only his head showing above the low clinging mist.
“You are disturbing!” Logistilla snapped back. “Stand up. Your floating head is giving me the willies!”
“Certainly, O Sister, I live to serv . . .” With a soft plop, Erasmus’s head disappeared beneath the foamy surface.
“Brother?” Cornelius stretched out a hand tentatively. “Are you . . . Something has grabbed my leg!”
“Let’s hope it’s Mr. Erasmus,” Mab muttered.
Cornelius shouted and sank out of sight, his arms flailing.
“Oh no,” Mab muttered. “This can’t be good.”
We nervously glanced around, unable to see anything below the frothy surface. Caliban poked among the dark, crooked roots with his club. Uncurling like the fingers of a mummified giant, the roots seized his weapon and began dragging him forward. Another root snaked around his neck, pulling him under.
Something hard that had been poking into my ankle gave way. As I glanced down, a dark root encircled my legs. I had time only to grab my fan before it dragged my feet out from under me. My arms flailing, I managed to slice the root constricting me cleanly in half without cutting my leg. That root recoiled, quivering, but another began slithering up my calf.
Lunging, I grabbed onto the lion, who still hovered beside
me, protecting me as Mephisto had instructed. Hanging from the creature’s neck, my nose stuck in its perfumed mane, I cried, “Mephisto! Get us off the ground!”
The lion rose up, so I was now dangling some ten feet above the groping feelers of the mangrove roots, several of which were reaching high out of the water in their search for me. Mephisto held up his staff and tapped the bottom against his boot.
“Staff of Summoning to the rescue!” he shouted. “Everyone reach up!”
I began to imagine a flurry of great flying beasts. Then, the air above the mangroves was filled with wing beats as a gryphon, a harpy, and the magnificent roc appeared beside the winged lion. The gryphon dove down and grabbed a screaming Logistilla in its front claws. The roc hooked a talon through the collars of Titus, Caliban, and Theo, so that all three men dangled from its right foot. Leaping across the writhing roots, Mab made a running jump onto the roc’s other foot, wrapping his arms tightly about its scaly leg as the great bird rose higher.
Screeching with delight, the harpy swooped down and grabbed the waist of the one remaining person standing among the mangroves, my brother Gregor. As she raised him skyward, she pressed her pendulous breasts against his red-robed back and cooed lovingly in his ear. Grimacing in disgust, my priestly brother raised his staff to swat at her. Glancing down—and, presumably, seeing the long drop to the swamp—he thought better of it. He remained stony-faced, stoically enduring her caresses as she rubbed her ugly cheek against his silky, shoulder-length hair.
The misty surface beneath us trembled and coughed up Cornelius, who sputtered and flailed, swinging his staff wildly, as if to hold off approaching assailants. The magnificent roc dropped like a stone, caught him up by his collar, and lifted him away from the murk. Mab, who stood atop the talon that now held Cornelius, knelt down to shout words of comfort to my disoriented blind brother.
“Okay, Erasmus!” Mephisto called down, leaning over the winged lion at a precarious angle. “All’s clear. Do your stuff!”
There was no response from below, except that a few more roots swayed seeking their prey. Then, they settled down, again becoming crooked, bark-covered fingers, and the water was once more placid and calm. We all gazed down, craning our necks in our attempts to catch some sign of Erasmus beneath the froth-covered water.
“Erasmus!” Titus bellowed, the power of his voice causing the dead branches to shiver. “All clear!”
The mangrove trees withered. The dark branches stiffened and curled and turned to dust, which floated down to settle upon the ubiquitous foam. Erasmus’s head popped up through the newly fallen lay of dust, followed by his foam-covered body.
“That was truly vile.” He looked to the left and right. “Where is everyone?”
Dangling above him, with my arms wrapped about the lion’s neck, I felt an odd sense of déjà vu. Had it been only a week ago that I had clung similarly to the neck of Pegasus for dear life?
The lion was harder to keep hold of than the flying horse. It had no middle ridge along the top to grab, and its mane was closer to its head. Nor did it seem happy when I stuck my fingers into the thick hair with its heavenly fragrance and held on. I tried to keep my arms wrapped about its neck, but my sweaty palms kept slipping on the slick fur.
Hoping for a firmer purchase, I took the risk of momentarily loosening my grip. My gamble failed. The slick feline pelt slid through my fingers. I plummeted the ten feet to splash down beside Erasmus, spraying him in murk and froth.
“Oh, very good, Miranda,” Erasmus intoned. “Leap out of the sky and break my neck. Pity you missed, eh?”
Slightly stunned, I found myself up to my chest in muck and foam. “For Heaven’s sake, Erasmus!” I replied bitterly. “We are in Hell, surrounded by deadly enemies, and all you can do is think of ways to annoy me? I’m glad I didn’t land on you and break your neck, because we need every one of us. But it is a pity I couldn’t have caused you to bite your tongue!”
“Now, now, Children, let’s not fight among ourselves!” Mephisto leaned down from the winged lion at a precarious angle. “Baddies coming! Luckily, the evil twisty things are gone—all withered, thanks to Erasmus, here—so you don’t need to be grabbed from above.”
I began to imagine a glorious white stallion, with feathered wings uplifted, rearing in the swamp beside me. Then, Pegasus stood in the murk, snorting at the foam into which his hind legs disappeared. When he brought his forelegs down, Erasmus and I clamored onto his back. Then we were airborne.
Erasmus pushed in front, where he could hold the horse’s neck. When I reached around to grab him or the horse’s mane, he pushed my arm away. Left with nothing to hold on to, I clasped the steed’s sides tightly with my legs.
It was one of the few times in my life I wished I were Logistilla. Her bareback riding skills were far superior to mine.
We soared through the air. Below, a wide misty area was followed by more mangroves and then a tract of firmer earth that rose to meet the stone bridge. The bridge spanned an expanse of black water some four hundred yards wide. Beyond lay a boggy bank, a dismal plain, and the Wall of Flame.
“Can we move on?” Gregor called dourly from where he hung. The ecstatic harpy was rubbing her feathered belly against his back and trying to embrace him with her wings, causing the two of them to plummet erratically. He endured her attentions grimly.
“Can we fly to the Wall of Fire?” called Erasmus.
“Whatever we are going to do, do it quickly,” shrieked Logistilla. “This beast is going to drop me any moment now.”
“What baddies?” asked Titus, who still dangled awkwardly from the tip of the roc’s talon. “Where?”
“There!” cried Mephisto. “Twelve o’clock. Straight ahead. Right between us and the bridge.”
At first, it looked like a flock of red birds flew toward us. As they drew closer, I could make out a swarm of red, horned imps, each carrying a long pitchfork.
“Oh, look. Traditional denizens of Hell,” mused Erasmus. “How cozy.”
A swirl of light below heralded the return of Ulysses, who glanced about frantically, searching for us.
“Roc, swoop down and get my other brother, will you?” called Mephisto. The great bird quickly obeyed. Jarred by the rapid descent, Theo, who had been reaching over his shoulder to unlimber his staff, which he carried on his back separated into two parts, nearly dropped the lower portion. He shouted as it fell through his fingers but managed to grab it before it entirely escaped him. Startled, Ulysses glanced up. He began to raise his staff but stopped to chuckle at the bemused expressions of his brothers as they hung helplessly from the roc’s claws. His grin continued, even after the roc soared upward with him hanging beside Cornelius.
“You!” Logistilla screeched, as the gigantic roc passed the gryphon. She swung her staff wildly, as if wishing to bonk him on the head. “How dare you leave us like that!”
“Sorry, old chaps. Didn’t want the bugger to catch me. Is he gone?”
The air shook as if the universe itself were grinding each atom against the next. “On the contrary, Ulysses Reginald Prospero. I still abide. Focalor, attend!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Bridge over the River Styx
Ulysses screamed and raised his staff. Before he could vanish again, however, Mab leaned over from the top of the talon and snatched the Staff of Transportation from his hands. Blind with panic, Ulysses twisted about and clung to the claw above him, clutching it for dear life, as if he could hide beneath it and escape notice.
“Focalor? I know that name,” murmured Erasmus.
I replied, “He has power over wind and water.”
“The demon who sank the Titanic?”
“Exactly,” I said. “I’ve fought him twice, at sea, where his storm imps dance and stir up cyclones.”
Both times I had been the victor, but only after a drawn-out battle that had left me exhausted. I grasped my flute nervously. What would come if I played my flute? Not Mab’s kind, that w
as for certain. The Aerie Ores did not venture down here. It would do no good for me to play, if my songs summoned the likes of Focalor! Was that all the flute could summon down here? Or could I call up something more wholesome?
From my left came the familiar whirr of the Staff of Devastation powering up. As soon as the noise became a steady hum, Theo raised the silver-white length and pointed it at the approaching flock of imps. A beam of pure white fire came from the staff and sizzled across the sky, causing the very air it passed through to burst into flame, until a corona of red-orange flame surrounded the white-hot beam.
It struck the flock. Imps exploded into tiny white stars. They scattered, causing much of the force of Theo’s beam to be wasted, dissipated upon the air or lost as it continued unimpeded over the horizon. About a third of those approaching evaporated or dropped from the sky, burnt.
The rest regrouped.
The force of the beam threw Theo backward, pulling the roc with him. The great bird tumbled beak over talons, sending my brothers flying. Luckily, Theo had the presence of mind to stop firing as soon as he started to spin; otherwise the magnificent roc, and possibly some of my brothers, would have met a white-hot death. The roc righted itself and stooped after those whom it had dropped, catching everyone except for Theo himself, who smashed to the ground below. Diving, the roc snatched Theo up in its huge curved beak. It was impossible to make out whether Theo was injured.
Then the surviving imps were among us, stabbing our flying beasts with their long, pointy pitchforks.
“Fly for the far side!” cried Ulysses.
“No! We mustn’t risk the chance that one of us might be dropped into the Styx,” cried Gregor. “Make for the solid land this side of the bridge.”
The roc reached solid land without dropping anyone except for Caliban, who rolled and came quickly to his feet, club ready. Gregor raised his staff. He and the harpy disappeared inside a ball of darkness. No imps approached his hovering ball of Hellshadow as it floated down to the ground beside the roc. The winged lion landed as well. It had a glow of holiness about it that kept the imps from coming too close, and when they tried to stab it with their tridents, Mephisto parried with the Staff of Summoning, wielding the length of carved wood as if it were a sword.
Prospero in Hell Page 39