About halfway over the bridge, when the moans of the damned souls in the boiling blood down below seemed sure to drown out their voices, Normal-Art said, “I don’t understand what that was all about.”
God-Art chuckled. “Seemed appropriate to use mischief to get past that brute. He guards the bridge-entrance to this Circle to ensure the damned don’t cross in either direction unless they’re using it to head to their proper punishments. I merely convinced him that we were coming from down below, trying to escape to a lighter sentence up above. He insisted that we not do that, and unknowingly told us to cross the bridge and go in the exact direction that we wanted to go. Not much to it, really.”
“That’s the first time I can recall where your mischief didn’t result in somebody getting hurt,” Normal-Art pointed out.
God-Art shrugged. “Didn’t see a reason to harm the beast. I recognized the pattern of his fur. I most definitely seduced a minotaur with that pattern last time I was down in this pit, but a few centuries ago. He could be part of a litter I fathered. It’s unlikely, but I thought it warranted clemency. Though now that I think on it, he seems a bit too stupid to be allowed to live. Maybe I ought to go back and put him out of his misery.”
The god turned on his heel and strode back toward the entrance to the bridge. Normal-Art sat down. “Why’d I have to go and ask questions? Questions never end well with that guy,” he muttered to himself. He looked up at the robot. “Drillbot, I hope you haven’t had to put up with him for long.”
“[whir] No, not – CLACK – not long.”
“That’s good,” said Normal-Art, not quite knowing what else to say. In the distance, the minotaur roared, and then it squealed. The god returned moments later, his robes spattered with blood. He held strips of meat in his hand. “Beef jerky?” he asked, holding a particularly gruesome piece out to Normal-Art.
Normal-Art gagged. The god laughed. He pulled Normal-Art to his feet and the trio continued their journey, reaching the end of the bridge and descending into the next of this Circle’s concentric rings.
Normal-Art found himself standing in the creepiest forest he had ever laid eyes upon. Trees grew in spaces exactly five feet apart, reminding Normal-Art of an almond tree farm he had seen as a boy on vacation to his grandparents’ house. Some trees were barren like it was Winter, others were full of foliage and sprouting blossoms like it was Spring. Large gray droppings covered every inch of ground at the base of each tree, and as the stench of the droppings reached Normal-Art’s nose, he realized that these droppings were the source of the stench he had smelled when peeking into the Seventh Circle from back on the staircase. He stifled another gag. High above, Normal-Art heard the chattering calls of thousands of birds. He shuddered, recognizing them as harpy calls and realizing what foul beasts were responsible for this Circle’s stench. Randolph, one of Normal-Art’s poker-playing pals, had been a harpy. Randolph had smelled awful—even underneath the water—and had manners that reminded him of Joe Pesci’s character from Goodfellas. If thousands more foul creatures like Randolph occupied this place, then this would be a place that Normal-Art and his companions would want to escape as quickly as possible.
The trio marched along the winding path that cut through the forest. After nearly an hour’s worth of trudging, Normal-Art’s stomach growled. “Hmmph. Guess now that I’m officially resurrected again, I need to eat.”
God-Art shrugged. “Guess so. Now grab one of those so we can be off.”
The god pointed just off the path to a grove of apple trees. Thick, golden fruits hung from the boughs of the trees, and Normal-Art licked his lips. Fruits and vegetables had always been the last thing he would choose to eat, but his stomach was thrashing so hard with hunger that he ran off the path and grabbed an apple, anyway. His hunger even overrode his disgust at this place’s odor and his desire to leave this place as quickly as possible to avoid harpies.
It was the most delicious apple he had ever tasted, sweet and earthy with just the tiniest, most subtle hint of musk. Golden juice covered the lower half of his face. It was not until he had eaten his way through three of the juicy fruits that he realized the tree screamed every time he yanked one of the apples from a branch. He studied the tree more closely and realized the tree was bleeding where he had removed the fruit.
Normal-Art turned to glance at God-Art, who was bent over in laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” demanded Normal-Art.
The tree screamed again. Normal-Art looked over at it and squinted. Now that he took the time to study it, the tree looked oddly humanoid, and some knots near the center of its trunk resembled a crying face similar to one he could have sworn he recognized from the television he had watched so rabidly before being whisked away on this doomed adventure twenty years ago.
“What did you have me do?” demanded Normal-Art.
Between guffaws, God-Art said, “These trees used to be people who committed suicide. Guess what part of them the fruits are?”
Normal-Art frowned and slammed the apple cores onto the ground. The tree squealed once more in pain and its limbs hung low. The tree began speaking, and Normal-Art leapt backward, startled. The tree said, “That really hurt, you know. And really wasn’t very friendly. Back in life, I used to tell people that they never had a friend like me. But depression sure is an all-encompassing bitch, ain’t it? Now get me outta here, will ya? I don’t deserve this.”
When the tree began speaking, harpies high in its limbs squawked in surprise, fluttered into the air, rained the ground with their foul waste, and landed back amongst the branches. As the harpy excrement fell upon Normal-Art, he growled in frustration and ran over to God-Art. He slapped the god across the side of the head, which only ended up burning his hand. The god laughed harder. So Normal-Art trudged down the path that cut through the forest, leaving his companions behind. Drillbot followed him until the length of his leash ran out, and then he pulled against it so hard that he dragged God-Art behind him. The god remained bent over in laughter for another few minutes. Eventually, he stood upright and scrambled to catch up with Normal-Art.
The path eventually led them to a clearing. Here, row upon row of empty spaces in the dirt were marked as spots to plant future suicide-trees. The path wound through this clearing and then up the rocky dike that marked the end of this concentric ring.
Halfway up the rocky dike, ferocious squawking erupted in the air behind the group. Normal-Art glanced over his shoulder to see a gaggle of harpies clutching a man. They carried him by his feet, and a noose dangled loose around his neck. He screamed and pleaded, but the harpies ignored him. They carried him to one of the small dirt patches that had been prepped for a tree.
Two of the gaggle broke off and dove to the ground. They scooped away dirt with the ends of their wings. When enough soil had been cleared away, the other harpies shoved the man feet-first into the hole. The harpies then all took a moment to fertilize the dirt, after which they fluttered off in different directions, only to return seconds later, each brandishing an overlarge watering can. The creatures reminded Normal-Art a little of his grandma, a woman who had a birdlike, disapproving face, and who constantly watered the plants in her garden with her watering can.
As soon as the harpies applied water to the soil, the man’s skin stiffened and he froze, turning a soft shade of brown. “It’s not polite to gawk!” called God-Art. He had already finished following the path to the top of the rocky dike and had pulled Drillbot along with him. “Come on! That man’s fate is none of your business.”
Normal-Art began jogging to catch up, but then thought better of it when he ran out of breath. He forgot he had been resurrected, and with resurrection came his natural lung capacity, which had always been much, much lower than the average person. He cursed and began a slow trudge to the top of the dike.
*
The trio hurried through the innermost ring of the Seventh Circle. God-Art pulled an umbrella from his leather pouch to block the fire that rained fro
m the ceiling in this ring. The fire thumped against the umbrella and crashed to the hot dirt with a hiss.
The trio ignored the crying sinners who were trying to get their attention to have a conversation. They darted as quickly as they could into the tunnel entrance that lay in the center of this ring and then marched down the winding staircase that marked the exit to this Circle of Hell.
When they reached the end of this staircase and entered the Eighth Circle, Normal-Art stared in shock. This Circle consisted of a cave larger than all the previous Circles combined. Normal-Art sighed. The sheer size of this Circle made the previous Circle look like a dollhouse in comparison to the Empire State Building. Normal-Art sighed again.
Another bridge marked the entrance to this Circle. But where the one at the beginning of the Seventh Circle was sturdy, this one was a rickety stone affair that led from the staircase’s exit down to an enormous flat-topped stalagmite that grew up from the ground, the center of which was hollow and stretched a good two miles in radius. Around and around the sides of the stalagmite wound a staircase, leading down thousands of feet to a valley frozen over with thick layers of ice.
The trio moved out onto the rickety bridge. Normal-Art looked over the edge of the bridge, down at the ice far below, and jerked his head back in fear. He frowned. God-Art walked up behind him and shoved him forward along the bridge. He squealed in surprise and terror.
“Move,” commanded the god.
When Normal-Art felt the god’s hand return to his back, ready to shove once more, he squealed again and then trudged forward toward the gigantic stalagmite. Cold wind whipped across Normal-Art’s face. His teeth chattered, and his knees knocked together, but he kept moving for fear that if he received another shove in his back, his knees would be too weak to stop him from tumbling over the edge of the bridge. And even though he would undoubtedly be resurrected by God-Art, such a fall would also undoubtedly hurt more than anything he cared to experience just now.
When the trio completed their crossing of the bridge, they reached a path that wound almost completely around the edge of the stalagmite’s top. Just before the path made a complete loop to reconnect with the spot where it began at the end of the bridge, the path jutted outward and then dipped down below the bridge, connecting with the stairs that led around the stalagmite to the ground far below. Normal-Art turned toward section of the path that jutted out, assuming the group would follow it down to the ground far below. God-Art reached out a hand and gripped Normal-Art’s shoulder.
“Can’t go that way,” said the god. “It’s all magicked up. We have to go the long way.”
Normal-Art sighed. “Of course we have to go the long way,” he replied. “Why would anything ever be easy?”
God-Art turned Normal-Art toward the path that led around the edge of the stalagmite. Normal-Art glanced over toward the hollowed-out center. He noticed that the hollow center of the rock had been divided into ten sections by stone walls. Within each section, a different sin was being punished.
“Welcome to the Eighth Circle of Hell, the Malebolge,” said God-Art. “The most unfair section in all of Hell. The people here would have been saints in my reality—at least, after I conquered my pantheon—but here, they are punished for fraud.”
The god pointed from pit to pit and described each as they walked along the path that lined the edge of the stalagmite, “Each section is called a Bolgia. In the first one, you’ve got the Pimps and Seducers, whipped for all eternity. Hi Dave!” called God-Art, waving to a particularly impish demon snapping a whip at frightened souls. The demon looked up, waved back cheerily, and promptly returned to work.
“And there you’ve got the Flatterers. Hold your nose when we pass that one. Those guys float and marinate for eternity in human shit,” said God-Art.
As they passed the second Bolgia, Normal-Art stared at sullen faces and limbs and clumps of rotten yellow corn poking at random intervals out of a bubbling brown pond. He remembered the rumors he had heard of this punishment, and the reality of it was worse than he had dreamt it could possibly be. He thanked his lucky stars again that he had been relegated to the Fifth Circle to be punished for sloth. Flatterers seemed to have gotten the worst punishment in all of Hell.
As the trio continued hiking, Normal-Art stared at his own feet rather than the tortured souls as God-Art described the scenery, “And there you’ve got Simony, where people’s feet are lit aflame and they’re shoved headfirst into the rock atop one another. Over there you’ve got the Diviners, whose heads are twisted backwards. The next you’ll notice is full of tar, as well as people who accepted bribes. There you’ll see the Hypocrites, forced to wander around carrying heavy weights. Up seventh are the Thieves, constantly attacked by serpents. After them comes the eighth Bolgia, where False Counselors reside in eternal balls of flame. If you look closely, you might see the one containing a guy named Odysseus. Heard he’s supposed to be the cleverest man to have ever lived on your reality. On mine, he was naught but a foolish infant who died from some disease that he could have prevented if only he would have thought to invent a vaccine.”
Normal-Art smirked and called out to a random ball of flame, deciding that because he could not tell the flames apart, anyway, Odysseus may as well reside in that one, “You thought your journey was bad? Try spending a few days in my shoes.”
God-Art grabbed Normal-Art by the crook of the arm and led him on. The god continued his description, “Our penultimate Bolgia belongs to the Sowers of Discord, who are hacked to bits for eternity by my old friend Punteeblico and his magical sword. Hi Punteeblico! Finally, we’ve got the tenth pit, reserved for the Falsifiers, who constantly bite each other and drink each other’s blood.”
The trio had made the circuit around the top of the stalagmite and had arrived at the section of the path that jutted outward. They followed it as it led under the rickety stone bridge to the top of the stairs that wound down around the exterior of the hollowed-out stalagmite. The trio followed the stairs round and round, each rotation taking them farther down the stalagmite and closer to the frozen valley surrounding its base. Each step grew colder, and Normal-Art found that he was shivering so hard at this point that he was scared to speak, afraid he might bite off his tongue. He held his hands up over Drillbot’s fiery leash, but he found that it gave off little warmth. He was half-tempted to leap onto the fire and burn himself up again, just to feel heat for a moment.
Finally, the three reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the frozen ground. Normal-Art immediately slipped and flopped onto his back. He cursed. God-Art lifted him up onto his feet. “Be careful, you fool,” chastised the god.
They followed the path as it led them across the rocky ice. Eventually, they rounded a bend and came to a sight that would have been the oddest thing Normal-Art had seen all day if he had not experienced everything else he had experienced today.
A gigantic well rose from the ground, inside which stood a ring of six frozen and shirtless blue giants, each with a bushy beard and shaggy chest hair. The giants were only visible from the waist up—because their legs were down in the well—but their torsos were at least sixty-feet tall each. They all faced outward, a ring of sentinels apparently guarding whatever lay within the well. Frigid fog also rose up from the well behind the giants, drifting into the air and then falling to the tundra floor, where it settled across the valley in new coats of ice.
“Nimrod! How you doin’?” called out God-Art.
The nearest of the giants bent down toward the trio. As the giant moved, thunderous cracks echoed across the cavern as the ice that crusted his skin broke off and fell into the well. He squinted at God-Art. He bellowed something that sounded like gibberish and shook his fists in the air.
“Knock off the act, Nimrod!” yelled God-Art. “It’s Artheoskater
gariabetrugereiinganno!”
The giant stopped screaming gibberish. He reached a hand into the well below him and retrieved a pair of half-moon spectacles,
which he placed on the bridge of his nose. With the eyeglasses on, recognition fluttered across the giant’s face. “Oh! Artheoskatergariabetrugereiinganno! Sorry for the schtick, I did not recognize you. Need these damned cheaters now to see anything up close. It has been ages. How are ya?”
The giant’s voice boomed, and its force knocked over Normal-Art. He slid across the ice and crashed to a stop against a rock.
“I’m fantastic. How’s your ma?” called God-Art.
The giant frowned. “Oh, you know her. Fragile as ever, but she’ll find a way to outlast us all. I love ‘er, but she’s always on about how I needa be wearin’ mittens down here in the cold. Worried I’m gonna catch a chill. I tells her it don’t bother me none, but she don’t listen.”
“Well, tell her I say hello. Hey, think you can help me and my companions? We’re looking to get down to the Ninth Circle.”
Nimrod smiled. “Sure. Happy to help. Just remember it the next time you’re hatching one of your schemes down here.”
The giant reached out a hand and set it on the ground, palm up. God-Art walked onto the palm. He pulled on Drillbot’s leash, leading Drillbot up onto the hand. Normal-Art scrambled onto his feet and followed. He noted with inane clarity that the giant’s wealth line stood out clearly on his palm. Normal-Art considered pointing this out to the giant, but then decided against it when he realized it might take a slight amount of effort.
The giant lifted his hand, and the sudden shift in height sent a wave of nausea racing through Normal-Art’s gut. The giant carried the trio into the well, and then bent down to shuttle them to the bottom far, far below. Gigantic blocks of gray stone formed the interior of the well. Where algae would have coated the inside walls of the well in a warmer climate, hoarfrost crusted the stone in a thick layer that twinkled in the dim light.
Soon, the giant’s hand hovered a few feet off the frozen water at the bottom of the well. God-Art jumped from the appendage and landed nimbly on the ice. Drillbot did the same. Normal-Art jumped and flopped once more as his feet slipped out from under him. He cursed. He hated ice.
The Endless War That Never Ends Page 33