"It's beautiful," said Timothy with honest awe. "So spacious, so rich, so nobly proportioned."
"Of course. It has room for everybody . . . eventually. And now Satan is ready to see you. Come this way."
She led Timothy across the hall to a pair of sliding doors that parted hospitably for them. He found himself in a sort of study with an alcove opening at one side. At a desk against the opposite wall the Archfiend sat, leaning his familiar saturnine face reflectively on his hand; his person, buttoned into a frock coat, was groomed and glossy, his black hair grew in a widow's peak on his low forehead. On the whole, Timothy thought, astounded, he looked very much like a Charlestonian. He rose and civilly held out his hand as they approached.
"Good evening. Dr. Partridge; we are happy to have you with us, I'm sure."
Timothy said, "I am indeed happy to be here, sir," in a rather squeaky tenor.
"You couldn't have come under better auspices, I may say." Satan bowed courteously towards his companion.
Sinkinda, Timothy observed with surprise, lost her superb confidence on coming into the Presence. She smiled at Satan almost coyly, she assumed serpentine poses, she smoldered at him from her covert of hair. But the Master seemed unimpressed by her wiles. "Be seated, I beg of you." He resumed his place in his armchair. "I've heard of your interest in our philosophy and practices; I hope you will feel quite at home here. I am going to be rather busy, but some of my relations will show you about." Timothy murmured his thanks for this exceptional courtesy and Satan went on. "You must see the Library. Our collection is complete, I believe; we have first editions of all the works on magic by the practitioners of the art, including many saints and scientists. I keep the incunabula here." He waved a long rubbery hand sporting a handsome onyx ring toward the alcove lined with shelves of books.
"Timothy is more interested in potions," said Sinkinda. "He has quite a few customers now. I am hoping he will bring you converts, sir." She leaned on the desk and looked at Satan with something akin to doting in her self-possessed features. Timothy felt a pang . , . and yet it won't do, he thought, to be jealous of the Devil. . . .
"Ah?" said Satan. "Well, have a look about. Partridge, you'll find much to interest you. My line of poisons is unsurpassed. For instance, in the alcove here . . ."
Satan rose and went through the arch. After an inquiring glance at Sinkinda, Timothy followed. The alcove contained a terrestrial and a celestial globe and a crystal gazing ball; the book-filled shelves, he saw, were cleverly painted to simulate the grain of oak.
With boyish proprietorship Satan went about touching secret springs in the panels; the sections revolved and showed their reverse sides, which proved to be more shelves filled with jars, bottles, phials, and limbecks. Little pointed arches of dark wood framed the top row—in short, Timothy almost thought his beloved shop had been snatched from the burning and set up here. Satan touched the jars with graceful indifference: "Mandrake, hemlock, wolfsbane—a really pure alkaloid and therefore one of the finest poisons in nature." He moved along to the patent medicine section and, taking down a bottle, offered it to Timothy. "L'Elixir d'Amour—" He sent a sly glance toward Sinkinda. "I believe you sold an imitation in your pharmacy. Here our drugs are unadulterated. But I can show you an even better trick." He picked up a jar and a spatula and began skillfully to compound some unguent. In a few minutes his cuffs and the front of his coat were spattered and dusty.
In these surroundings Satan looked so natural a pharmacist that Timothy gave a startled glance at the man's feet and was relieved to see that while one foot was neatly encased in patent leather the other wore an iron shoe, obviously to correct a deformity.
Unluckily Satan appeared to tire of puddling ointments before he had revealed the exceptional formula. He brushed off his clothes and said, "Look here. Partridge, there are some questions I want to ask you."
They returned to the study and resumed their seats. The heavy desk stood between them like a judgment bar. Timothy began to ooze perspiration; the study, he noticed, was intolerably hot and stuffy. The heat seemed to be coming from an elaborately wrought grille which pierced one wall; through it he saw red flickerings and heard long-drawn dismal cries which his ear plugs only partially muffled. Goose bumps broke out on his arms and neck.
Satan observed his predicament and frowned slightly. He rose, went over to the grille and listened for a moment, then he shouted, "That will do for today-bank the fires!" Turning back, he remarked, "Our heating system is the most effective ever invented, and very cheap to operate," and he courteously placed an embroidered fire screen between Timothy and the grille.
Going behind the desk, he stood for a moment leaning lightly on his knuckles and fixed on Timothy a remarkably fine pair of black eyes. Then, in a voice charged with menace and summoning, he said, "Dr. Partridge, do you believe in God?"
Timothy sat paralyzed. He glanced in anguish at Sinkinda, but her smoky eyes were depthless. What'll I do? he said to himself, hearing a dry rattle as if his entrails had shriveled in the fires beneath and were knocking about inside his crawling skin. Yet a kind of mettle pulsed there under the fatty tissues of caution. Though Satan's imps tear him in pieces . . . He closed his eyes and said in a big voice, "Yes, sir."
"Capital!" cried Satan. "A well-spoken man, Sinkinda. He passes the first test with flying colors."
Timothy opened his eyes, but in his fright they wouldn't focus. Satan and Sinkinda whirled about him in confusion. Presently he found his tongue. "Oh . . . I thought ... I supposed . . ."
"No doubt you did. You've been brought up on heretical ideas by divines who wall stop at nothing to accomplish my disreputation. Those sermons of theirs? Winter's tales and old wives' fables! Why, I hate an atheist above everything. The stubborn, stiff-necked, gristly vermin—the world should be rid of them!"
His vehemence loosened two locks of hair, which stood up, charmingly pointed, from his forehead. He smoothed them down with both palms and went on. "Obviously I can exist only if the Adversary exists: what impudence to deny us! The unbeliever, my friend, sterilizes—denatures—life. Besides, as a practical matter"—he spread his hands and appealed to Timothy with manly reasonableness—"unless people believe in some Good they have no sense of guilt in doing wrong and therefore offer me no hold."
"Naturally ... of course not," said Timothy, mustering his wits as best he could. His intentions seemed to be acceptable, for Satan drew a box of Havanas from his desk and offered Timothy one. From another box he took a small twisted black cigar for Sinkinda: "A brand especially affected by Russian countesses," he said, smiling, and, cracking his knuckles, lighted it for her from a spark.
"Ah, Magister—" Sinkinda murmured, giving him a sultry look from under her great golden fluff.
In a moment they were all puffing away, and Timothy thought he had never been in more congenial surroundings than this handsome study with its rich dark draperies and polished wood, its brilliant and agreeable company. Presently Satan said, "Now perhaps there are some questions you would like to ask me."
As usual, Timothy's list of conversational topics treacherously eluded him. He pulled himself together, however, and made a stab at it. "Tell us a little more about Good and Evil, sir. If you would vouchsafe some enlightenment on that plaguing question—" He hesitated; what he really wanted to ask, namely, had man any hope of rooting out Evil, seemed less than tactful. He went on: "People's good qualities are so often bad; the well-meaning do as much mischief as the wicked— and yet you have to have the good will, the good intention—" He paused, treading water.
"But, my dear man, you exercise yourself quite unnecessarily about that sort of thing. Good and Evil are interactive—they depend on each other for existence. Which camp you prefer is largely a matter of taste."
"But that philosophy just won't do," said Timothy inflammably. "In the end you have to have a moral order, a reason for a course of action. Even you admit that to sin you have to have a code to sin against."
&n
bsp; "True enough," said Satan, "and if it's morals you're after, I've a great lumber room full of them, collected down the ages. You might look them over and see if any of them suits your fancy. Some are very quaint and curious."
"But what I want to know is, will any of them stick?" cried Timothy in anguish. "Are there any you can get your teeth into? Besides, there's another, a personal, question that hangs on this: Am I Saved or am I Damned? I can't even find that out!"
Satan smiled and blew three perfect rings before he answered. "You must ask my Opponent about that. He has a perfect mania for saving and damning. I should guess your prospects were poor. The Damned have a rough time of it, I fear." He glanced mockingly toward the grille. "I invite you to avoid all that unpleasantness by joining us voluntarily. We have our Immortals in Hell, too, you know; I could use you as an emissary to the world to bring in recruits—your knowledge of alchemy 'would come in quite handy. Indeed, I may as well confess to having put an inconspicuous mark on you back in the winter. There's a nice position open among the enchanters—a most amusing profession, I promise you! Think it over. But now my presence is demanded elsewhere; the important part of our little celebration is about to take place. Sinkinda, see to it that Dr. Partridge has a good seat and whatever comforts he may require. It is a great pleasure to have you here, sir, let me assure you." He bowed with old-world courtesy and came from behind the desk.
Before Timothy could take his outstretched hand Sinkinda seized it and devoutly kissed the great onyx ring. Satan smiled with paternal condescension and pinched her ear. Then he pushed a panel in the wall and disclosed a shining cage which he entered, turning about to face the door. The ropes inside slatted, the Archfiend began to descend in brass-framed majesty, the panel slowly closed upon his reverse assumption.
"Whew!" said Timothy, "What next, old girl? I declare, they do put on a show in this place!"
Sinkinda darted a surprised look at him, and indeed these familiarities astounded Timothy himself. But this visit to Hell was improving his sense of proportion in several ways.
"He has gone to dress for the Audience. We must hurry if you're going to get a good seat."
Timothy took a last look around to impress the room on his memory, intending to carry home a few ideas for his own house. Suddenly he exclaimed in dismay, "But the throne, Sinkinda! That cane-bottomed armchair can't be the throne of Satan!"
"In Satan's house are many mansions," said Sinkinda loftily. "Have patience, my duck, you're still a rank amateur."
The hall was full of bustle when they returned to it. The guests, sufficiently odd to start with, flopped in and out of weird costumes; it all looked rather like a backstage scene at a performance of high school theatricals. Some imps slid screaming down the banisters of the tall, perilous stairway and roused a juvenile envy in Timothy, but Sinkinda threaded her way steadfastly between them, towing him after her. They went through a low door and along a tunnel, at the end of which they climbed a circular stair and came out on a sort of musicians' gallery overlooking the audience chamber.
Timothy stopped short, his normal sense of scale knocked spinning. The huge room was half dark; the groined roof hung pale above them like thunderheads changed to stone. Occult symbols in brass studded the floor in gleaming asymmetrical scrolls as if an enormous snake had thrown its skin the length of the room to the wide gray curtain at its far bounds.
As he stood there in amaze, several people rushed past him for the front row. "Timothy!" cried Sinkinda sharply, and beckoned him to the railing. He stumbled down the steps and took the chair she was holding for him. "Don't be a ninny," she muttered, "and hang on to it with both hands; these people will stop at nothing to get a front seat. You have to look sharp and move fast," she said, "if you are going to survive around here. Now keep your eyes open, and if there's any flim-flam doing, you do it. I must go now—I'll meet you after the Audience."
The great chandeliers began to bud and slowly to bloom, drawing out with theatrical genius the moment of anticipation. People sifted in through the low-arched doors on either side the hall and soon filled it, but softly, dustily, as if robbed of substance by their awe. A thunderclap crashed on Timothy's ears; the lights blazed up. The curtain at the far end shivered through its velvet length and majestically drew apart in operatic loops. Between them he saw the canopied seat on the dais. Both throne and dais were of basalt, and on the seven steps on each side stood seven attendant demons dressed in red and silver. It was all just as he had imagined it and incredibly satisfying, except that the severely plain black stone gave off a grim sheen. The throne itself was still empty. It looked quite uncomfortable, he thought—no upholstery or anything. However, he didn't mean to be critical, so he hunsr over the balustrade and stared at the Ring of Trumpeters in heraldic dress that had formed before the dais. Settinor their long trumpets to their lips, they blew a cacophonous blast, and in a twinkling the Monarch himself stood in the ring in his robes of state. A long "Ah . . ." went up from the crowd; Satan turned a little from side to side, not recognizing his myrmidons but merely showing himself in his long jeweled mantle. The Ring of Trumpeters opened behind him and he turned and walked up to the throne.
The rout below was forming in a sort of unruly procession, each demon with his own kind. A wild, syncopated music began to throb, pumped into the hall from openings in the walls; and to these strains the first tribe moved up to the throne, singing and hailing Satan as Beelzebub, Prince of the East. The worshipers had the proper air of oriental splendor . . . the Magicians of Egypt in their black and silver capes, sinewy Nubians leading leopards on braided leashes, Philistines with sharp-pointed red beards. The brazen vessels they carried filled the air with sweet smoke from aromatic woods. Beelzebub's robes were magenta, Timothy saw, embroidered with pink and red—a somewhat garish selection for his Western tastes; the gold looked brassy, and everyone seemed overdressed. Still . . .
Other groups surged in behind. Sifting the crowd carefully, he spied Sinkinda wearing a long Babylonish dress in which she appeared taller, more imposing than in the dark green habit she wore for business. Her hair crimped into narrow little braids hung like gold fringe round her head. The sight of her walking haggard and seductive in the galaxy pinched his heart—what a lucky man I am, he thought, almost with tears.
Satan himself seemed to be changing his appearance in the manner of a dream. The jeweled mantle had disappeared, a black velvet suit of antique style set off the incredible grace of his limbs. His finely shaped calves shone in silk; Lucifer's emblem, the daystar, winked in his peaked cap; and he looked down with smiling condescension as the array of witches, wizards, werewolves, and alchemists accompanying Sinkinda prostrated themselves before him. Her party had brought its animals too, among which Timothy especially noticed a brindled cat, splendid in amber and black, and playing a fiddle.
As the rout pressed forward Timothy became confused; at one point he thought he identified his friends the Manichaeans by the elaborate fire effects they set off. The music pounded and throbbed, the worshipers jostled and fought for place. They made way, however, for a group of necromancers carrying skeletons and trailed by ghouls and ghosts that looked impleasantly dead—a malodorous crew, Timothy deduced, from the way the others sheered off from them.
The spectators in the gallery shrieked to their friends below; the din became frenzied—in spite of the cotton in his ears he began to feel beaten to pulp; so it was with relief that he saw what appeared to be the lowest order of spirits take their place before the throne . . . a rabble of fortunetellers, creatures on broomsticks, boo-hags, boo-daddies, and the commoner kinds of satyrs, accompanied by goats, black dogs, and bats. The Master had graciously altered his appearance to suit their rusticity; uninhibited, he waved a fine long tail; his cloven foot, unshod, pawed the dais slightly, his horns stuck jauntily through two holes in his hat; in short, it was Old Scratch himself. Suddenly Timothy wished for Maum Rachel. How she would have loved it all—the color, the theatrical effects, th
e parade of celebrities!
The unmistakable smell of flowers of brimstone accoinpanied this category of spirits; a fine yellow powder filled the air and made Timothy's throat burn. Coughing, he pushed back his chair, jostled his way out of the gallery, and went down the winding staircase. In the corridor below he became even more confused; dark tunnels he hadn't noticed before led away on either side. He ran into one blind alley after another. He thought he could hear the revelers trampling out of the great hall; Sinkinda's voice wove tantalizingly through the noise, and, calling her name in a despairing shout, he beat on the wall before him. It crumpled like cardboard, and he stumbled forward from his own momentum into a large sort of dressing room, or so he gathered, since it was full of diabolical ladies repairing their make-up before the mirrors. At his sudden appearance they all screamed with laughter.
"Oh, I beg your pardon ... I didn't dream . . . there must be some mistake ..." Paralyzed with embarrassment, he backed towards the rent he had made in the rose-garlanded wallpaper with which the room was hung.
But Sinkinda pushed through the group and took his arm. "Come in, Timothy, and join the ladies. No prudes here, my pet. I'd like to have you meet my friends." She presented Timothy to some of the best-known witches, Hecate and the Weird Sisters, the Witch of Scrapfaggot Green, and Sidonia the Sorceress—who once had done away with the entire ducal house of Hanover. Timotliy began to recover his aplomb; he made a leg and murmured civilly, "I've always wanted to meet you, ma'am . , . delighted, I'm sure ..." He was not even put off when a tall, astonishingly thin witch to whom he held out his hand drew herself up even taller, bent over into a hoop, and rolled across the room without speaking to him, for he recognized Sycorax, whose reputation for bad manners had been long exploited by playwrights.
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