Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin'

by Heide Goody

  “Dante’s on the design team,” said Stephen

  Manfred made a dissatisfied noise and shook his head.

  “You don’t approve of Hell’s aesthetic?” said Stephen.

  “I don’t approve of Hell full stop,” said Manfred.

  “Didn’t you ever believe in Hell?”

  “As a state of mind, sure. As an absence of God, absolutely. As a place?” He made clicks and squeaks with his lips as he thought. “I mean, Hell is forever, isn’t it? What’s the point of punishment if you don’t get a chance to show you have changed?”

  “But,” said Bastian, “don’t some people do things that are so bad, so terrible, that they can never, ever, ever be forgiven?”

  Manfred looked at his friend.

  “No, Bastian. I don’t think I believe that at all. Forgiveness is love. And love is God’s business. He’s got a controlling share in all the love there is.”

  “And we’re here because I love Rutspud,” said Stephen, and then cleared his throat. “I mean, I don’t love him. I mean I love him but not like that. That would be wrong on a number of levels. Um, obviously I’m a monk and we don’t do … that. And there’s probably some inter-species thing. Monk on demon action would be quite inappropriate.”

  Manfred stopped his ramblings with a touch of his hand.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “‘Greater love has no man than he who would lay his life down for his friends.’”

  “‘All you need is love,’” added Bastian helpfully.

  “That’s the Beatles,” said Manfred. “Not the Bible.”

  “‘I’ll get by with a little help from my friends’?”

  “Still the Beatles.”

  Bastian clicked his fingers.

  “‘All I do each night is pray, hoping that I’ll be a part of you again someday. All I do is think of –’”

  “That’s Take That, Bastian. I’m starting to worry about your knowledge of scripture.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a great song and you should never – Oh, God! What the Hell is that?”

  From behind a high spur of rock a … thing rolled in front of them. To Stephen’s eyes it looked like a haggis, a haggis the size of a warehouse, which had more than a dozen squid-like tentacles.

  “Fhtagn dho-na ryuleh cthooloo!” it warbled as it flailed about.

  “It doesn’t look very happy,” whispered Manfred.

  “That makes two of us,” trembled Bastian.

  “I think that’s something-something, the elder demon of the impenetrable depths,” said Stephen. “Rutspud mentioned it.”

  “Then it should get back to the impenetrable depths and leave us alone.”

  “He’s not going to hurt us.” Manfred approached it slowly, half-crouched, hands held out in a gesture of friendship.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Stephen. “You are not the demon-whisperer.”

  “I’m just going to say hi.”

  It was clear to everyone but Manfred that the great water demon did not appreciate the advances of a grey-haired German monk and reared in alarm and anger. Manfred didn’t stop, but decided to respond by making soft shushing sounds and smiling broadly at it.

  The demon gave a roar like a bubbling deep sea volcano and then swatted at Manfred with one of its vast tentacles. Despite its size, it moved with astonishing speed, and Stephen didn’t even have time to blink or turn his head. If he had, he wouldn’t have seen the demon vanish in a little shower of light and an audible inrush of air.

  “Wow,” said Bastian, amazed.

  “What happened?” said Manfred, equally surprised.

  “You destroyed it,” said Stephen. “One touch and … foom!”

  “I didn’t mean to,” said the prior apologetically.

  “Did you sort of … I dunno, cast it out Jesus-style?”

  “Were you thinking particularly holy thoughts at the time?” suggested Bastian.

  “Don’t think so,” said Manfred. “And cast it out to where? We’re already in Hell. This is where it’s meant to be so …”

  “Blown him up,” said a squat figure, wobbling towards them. “What you’ve got there is yer basic material disincorporation brought on by an encounter with the holy.”

  The demon was mostly man-shaped, apart from the sprouting ears that poked out from underneath his yellow hard hat. The hard hart was probably of little use given that a large hole had been explosively ripped through the top and much of the remainder had melted to the side of the demon’s face.

  “Are you all right?” said Stephen automatically.

  “No,” said the demon. “The explosion didn’t destroy me, although I’ve gone deaf in five ears and I doubt I’ll play the piano again. Not sure how many gallons of water I’ve swallowed, but I think there were a number of critters wiv pincers in it. All in all, it’s been a rum bugger of a day.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” said Manfred.

  “We’re helping demons now?” said Bastian. “Not objecting, just checking.”

  “Well, technically, it is one of God’s creatures.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel more miserable?” said the demon. “There is one thing you can do for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take my hand.”

  Manfred was halfway to reaching out to the demon before he realised what he was doing. He snatched his hand back.

  “What?”

  “I won’t lie to you, mate. I’m in a fair state of screaming bloody agony. Utter destruction is exackerly what the doctor ordered.”

  Stephen noticed that, from across the gloomy fiery plains, a number of other demons, large and small, were shambling, galumphing, and lolloping towards them.

  “I’m not going to do that,” said Manfred. “I want to help you, but not kill you.”

  The demon shrugged.

  “Can’t kill what ain’t alive. Can’t murder what ain’t got a soul.”

  “Look, we’d love to help you,” said Stephen, “but we need to get to the Fortress of Nameless Dread. Lord Peter has taken Rutspud prisoner.”

  “Nah, he’s in the Emergency Bunker of Accelerated Damnation. You need to head about three leagues in that direction and take a left at the Pit of Gossip Columnists.”

  “Thank you,” said Manfred.

  “No problem. And if you see that arse of a fallen saint, Peter, tell him Hodshift said he’s a right c –”

  Hodshift’s last words were lost as, while Manfred’s guard was down, the demon lunged for his hand and vanished with a self-satisfied foom! of complete annihilation.

  A collective gasp arose from the demons about them, at least those demons with the necessary mouths, breathing apparatus, and gross physical anatomy necessary for gasping.

  “Me next!” yelled one.

  “No, me!” replied another.

  “I saw him first,” added a third.

  “I’m suffering way more than you.”

  “How can you say that? My leg’s come off!”

  “I’m psychologically scarred. S’all internal.”

  “Shurrup and get in line, you!”

  “If you weren’t arguing, he’d’ve been able to discombobulate a dozen of us by now!”

  “Look,” said Manfred in his sternest voice, which wasn’t particularly stern at all, “I’m not discombobulating anyone.”

  “Me neither,” said Bastian, whipping his hand away from the reach of an opportunist creature that looked like a cross between a monkey and a placenta.

  “Move. Aside,” boomed a scrowfrog, pushing through the crowds.

  “Nothing. To. See. Here,” bellowed its partner.

  “Scrowfrogs. Just what we need,” tutted Stephen and then he thought. “Actually, they are just what we need. Hey, you!”

  “Stay. There,” commanded the scrowfrog.

  “You’ve got us. It’s a fair cop,” said Stephen. “Take us to your leader.”

  “You. Must. Come. With. Us.”

&
nbsp; “I know. That’s what I said.”

  “Don’t. Attempt. To. Flee.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Stephen.

  Treyvaw’s evidence to the court was detailed, precise, and delivered with a level of wilful malice that few demons could sustain for long.

  “Over the past year, Rutspud has been consorting with a human on Earth. Not just a human, but a Christian monk. By his own admission, Rutspud and the monk have become close.”

  “Now, listen here,” said Rutspud. “Me and Stephen, it’s purely platonic.”

  Treyvaw punched him in the side of the head to shut him up.

  “Indeed, it is worse. The two of them are friends.” Several demons in the chamber spat or vomited at the word. “This supposed demon of Hell, this torturer of the damned, has used his time and energies to help the fortunes of the monastery, provide food and energy to the monks at a time of crisis, and has even used the monastery as a getaway party retreat for a party of damned souls. They’ve been popping in and out of Hell with offensive regularity.”

  “Appalling,” agreed Lord Peter.

  “I knew it,” hissed Scabass from his chair in the corner.

  “My lord, whereas these other miserable demons fled their posts and took up residence in the mortal world, stealing fleshy bodies for themselves, Rutspud has used his powers and his status in Hell to deliberately counteract the work that Hell exists to fulfil. He should be fed to the despairatron without delay.”

  Lord Peter mulled this over thoughtfully, and Rutspud felt he could even see the words condemning him begin to rise from the man’s throat. Rutspud’s eyes flicked to the despairatron, that simple silver box. So innocuous, so terrible …

  The doors to the court room slammed open and two scrowfrogs thundered in, driving three figures before them.

  “It’s Brother Manfred!” exclaimed Gufftit.

  “With Bastian and Stephen!” added Crotchwatch.

  Toeflange waved at the three monks.

  “Guys! It’s me! Brother Huey!”

  The monks could spare the demons little more than a cursory glance. A gloomy chamber crammed with hostile demons and the master of all Hell had seized upon their attention somewhat.

  Lord Peter was on his feet.

  “What is the meaning of this interruption?”

  “Brought. Prisoners,” said one of the scrowfrogs.

  “Who are these damned?” asked Nero.

  “We’re not damned,” said Stephen. “We’re alive. We’re from Earth. We’re monks.”

  There were screams of terror, of outrage, and of fury from the demons in the gallery. Only the dark, cloaked figure remained still. Brother Stephen gripped at his fellow monks for support and the three of them stood firm.

  “We’ve come to free my friend, Rutspud. Who’s in charge here?”

  “That would be me,” said Lord Peter. “I am Peter, overlord and managing director of Hell, and you have no authority here.”

  “Where’s Satan?” said Bastian.

  “Got ousted in a management reshuffle, I think,” said Stephen.

  “Peter?” said Manfred. “As in St Peter? As in Jesus’s disciple?”

  “I am the rock on which His church is built,” said Lord Peter grandly.

  “Wow,” said Manfred. “Can I just say I’m a big fan. Big fan. Loved your work. First bishop of Rome and all that.”

  Lord Peter smiled thinly.

  “Thank you.” He looked to the scrowfrogs. “Throw them in a pit. A deep one.”

  As the scrowfrogs attempted to round them up, Stephen protested.

  “We demand to be heard.”

  “Demand?” said Lord Peter. “Make it a bottomless pit. Away with them.”

  The scrowfrogs were struggling. The monks weren’t budging and the scrowfrogs were showing uncharacteristic intelligence by keeping their claws off the monks. They sidled around the three men like mimes pretending to battle an unseen force, waving their limbs and achieving nothing.

  “Damn it!” shouted Lord Peter. “Grab them and drag them out.”

  “But. Lord.”

  “They’re only human.”

  “If. We. Touch –”

  “Now!”

  There was a foom! and one of the scrowfrogs was gone. Manfred shook his head sadly.

  “Apparently,” said Stephen, “we are untouchable. We are – what’s the word? – puissant.”

  There was some serious consternation among the demons around the room. Some cowered. Some froze. Some even made remarkable in-roads into pretending that they weren’t there and never had been and that no one could prove otherwise.

  Lord Peter raised an eyebrow.

  “You intend to bully us, then,” he said. “You would defy the authorities set in place by the Almighty Himself?”

  Stephen shook his head.

  “We only want to plead our case. We want to show you that what you are doing is wrong.”

  “Oh?” said Lord Peter. “Is that so? I was unaware that I had to justify myself to hoi polloi.”

  Manfred stepped forward.

  “From what Stephen tells me, Rutspud has been of immeasurable help. When we were shivering and without power, Rutspud brought coal and other supplies to us.”

  “Yeah,” said Rutspud out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think that’s actually going to help my case.”

  “And when the birdwatchers came,” said Bastian. “His antics with a bird-puppet-thing helped distract and entertain them.”

  “Oh, he was entertaining visitors, was he?” said Lord Peter.

  “And again,” said Rutspud, “that doesn’t really count in my favour.”

  “If Rutspud broke your rules,” said Stephen, “it wasn’t his fault. It was mine.”

  “Ye—ees?” said Lord Peter.

  “He did those things for me.”

  “For you?”

  Rutspud hoped against hope that Stephen was about to pull a blinding and brilliant argument along the lines of ‘I summoned Rutspud with a magic ritual and commanded him to do those things against his will’.

  Unfortunately, Stephen said, “He did them because he is my friend.”

  The gallery howled. If only Stephen had stopped there …

  “He did it out of love,” he said.

  The howls deepened. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. The demon lord Berith attempted to eat his own head in disgust. Apart from the four accused, the only demons who didn’t seem to be writhing in some state of anguish was the torturer Flayshard, who was busy taking notes on this new torture, and the cloaked figure in the gallery, who had remained immobile and unnoticed throughout.

  “Enough!” shouted Lord Peter. “Condemned from the mouths of his friends who must themselves be Hellbound for consorting with demons. Bring him forth!”

  Treyvaw unchained Rutspud and the remaining scrowfrog guard led him forward. Rutspud looked at the despairatron.

  “Okay, joke’s over,” he said, pulling against the much stronger demon.

  “You can’t do this!” shouted Stephen and darted forward.

  Foom!

  The scrowfrog was gone. The gallery went wild with fear and fury.

  With an athleticism Rutspud had never seen before, Peter’s damned secretary, Nero, vaulted to the floor of the court and grabbed Rutspud. Stephen attempted to pull him away but Nero was neither a demon nor a small man. He shoved Stephen roughly to the ground and dragged Rutspud to the despairatron.

  “What is that thing anyway?” asked Bastian.

  “The despairatron,” said Stephen. “All the pain and suffering experienced in Hell in one tiny box.”

  “Finger!” commanded Nero and now Treyvaw was there once more, squeezing Rutspud’s hand until his joints popped and his fingers were splayed out in front of him. His fingertips were a hand’s width from the despairatron, a hand’s width from infinite suffering.

  “STOP!”

  In the gallery, a cloak was thrown back, a white light that was
offensively bright by Hell’s standards shone around and, suddenly, there were four familiar figures among the demonic throng.

  “We have heard enough!” said the Archangel Gabriel with a voice that brooked no argument.

  Demon lords and dukes backed away hurriedly from the archangel and the three saints who accompanied him: the dour-faced St Paul, the obese St Thomas Aquinas and the armour-clad teenager Joan of Arc.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Lord Peter.

  “A question we could ask you,” said Gabriel.

  “This court is presiding over a disciplinary matter relating to Hell’s internal organisation and policies. You have no authority here.”

  The Archangel Gabriel spread his white wings and he seemed to bloom in stature. His halo blazed.

  “There is no place where we do not have ultimate authority, Peter.” He pointed at the three human monks. “And this goes far beyond Hell’s internal affairs.”

  Behind him, Rutspud could hear two of the monks talking to each other in hushed voices.

  “What do you call that thing in films where God pops up at the end and puts everything right?” whispered Bastian. “You know, the one I can’t pronounce.”

  “Deus ex machina,” whispered Manfred.

  “Is that what’s happening here?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Without so much as a waft of his wings, the archangel descended from the gallery to the floor of the chamber. One glare sent Nero scuttling away to the shadows.

  “What we have here,” he said, “is a debacle of appalling proportions. Demons taking on human form. Damned souls wandering the earth. Mortal men in Hell.”

  “I agree,” said Lord Peter. “Which is why this demon is being punished.”

  “Is it his fault alone?” said the Archangel Gabriel. “Should he be the only one standing here?”

  He swept his arm. There was a flash of lightning that left afterimages in Rutspud’s eyes for several seconds and, at once, the chamber was much fuller. The damned he had left on the stairs, Lewis, Nightingale, Wilde and the rest of his gang, were now beside him. A clutch of demons, stunned and frightened, had also appeared behind them. Rutspud recognised Spoongut, Pencrust, and a number of others who seemed vaguely familiar but who he knew he had not seen in ages. So, these were the monks of St Cadfan’s …