Prospero Regained

by L. Jagi Lamplighter

  We took turns sleeping. For a time, the horrors of Hell were replaced by the terrors of nightmares. I awoke, sweating, to find reality worse than my dream, and sat, alone in the sweltering heat, in the squalor and stink of Hell.

  Mab sat up suddenly. “Look, Ma’am! Our holy star is back!”

  It was, and much closer now. Rousing the others, we had a brief discussion about what to do next. Erasmus and Mab were still wary of the star, and after my recent encounter, I was as well, but Gregor continued to insist that the light was holy. He started toward it, walking with long strides, and the rest of us were forced to abandon him or follow.

  Pushing onward, we soon came upon a wide flat area, rather like a beach. There, we saw a strange sight.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The Late Lord of Arden

  A robed figure stood upon the beach, his face hidden by a voluminous hood. Seated about him were two men and a woman, whose decrepit garments dripped with swamp scum, as if they had just come from the sludge. The woman wept joyfully; the men’s faces showed wonder, gratitude, and weary relief.

  The figure’s arm was outstretched. Upon his palm rested a point of pure silvery light, like a tiny star.

  We approached cautiously. It was pleasant to step onto that beach. The sand, though it sank slightly beneath our steps, was firm and solid compared to the spongy hummocks and squishy swamplands through which we had been trudging. The air was still hot enough to make sweat drip down the back of my neck, but the heat seemed less oppressive. The constant moaning of tortured souls sounded muted and far away. Nearby, frogs croaked in a stagnant pool.

  I had to give Gregor this much. The star certainly did not feel wicked.

  Coming closer, we could see more of the hooded figure. A golden belt encircled his waist, and emblazoned in matching gold on the left sleeve of his deep blue robe was an anchor, a star, and the words: HOPE IS ETERNAL.

  “That’s not something you see every day … in Hell,” murmured Erasmus.

  The robed figure reached up and pushed back his hood, revealing a young man with a dark curling forelock above slender Merovingian features. As the light of the silvery star fell upon his face, Erasmus shouted with joy. Letting go of Mab, he ran toward him.

  “Malagigi!”

  “Could it be?” I whispered, surprised.

  “Maugris!” Gregor growled in his low, gravelly voice. He leaned upon his staff, his brow narrowing with disapproval. Upon his face, his new serenity warred with his lifelong disapproval of practitioners of black magic.

  “Uh … Mala-who-ha?” Mab mopped his face with his handkerchief.

  “Maugris d’Aygremont, an unsavory sorcerer of the worst ilk,” Gregor replied. Tightening his grip on my hand, my brother stepped forward, so that he stood protectively between Malagigi and me. “It does not surprise me to meet his sort in Hell.”

  Mab released my other hand and trudged forward until he came up beside Erasmus. Pushing back the brim of his fedora, he peered carefully into the face of the man carrying the shining star. The Frenchman gave him a welcoming smile and a little shrug before turning his attention to Gregor.

  “Ah, oui, Brother-in-Law. Still angry about my not being good enough for your twin, hmm?” Malagigi said, for I saw now that it really was him—either that or a shade had assumed his semblance. He looked much as I recalled from the last time I had seen him, at the Eighteenth-Century Centennial Ball. The Centennial Ball was an event where all the Earth’s immortals gathered to dance and swap news. As the name implied, it was held once a century.

  Malagigi still had the slight mustache that emphasized the smiling lips that had once talked my sister Logistilla into marrying him. No wonder Gregor had not been happy to see him. Gregor had always been extremely protective of his twin sister. Apparently, that had not changed.

  “But I assure you, Père Gregor,” he continued, graciously acknowledging Gregor’s religious rank, “three years as a boar taught me a great deal. As for who I am”—he made Mab a flourishing bow—“I am Malagigi of the Brotherhood of Hope, formerly a Sorcerer of the land now called France where I once was the lord of a forest called Arden.”

  “Ah…” Mab looked through his notebook, carefully pulling apart the wet pages and peering at the blurred ink. He frowned at it in dismay. “Ah, right…” Finding what he wanted, he tapped his finger against the soggy paper. “You’re one of ‘Charlemagne’s Brood,’ the magicians who helped the French sack Milan in 1499, driving Prospero and his children—including Miranda and Erasmus here—out of their ancestral home.”

  “Vraiment. It is very true!” Malagigi’s mouth curled with amusement at the old nickname.

  “You had a brother named Eliaures, who specialized in making sticks turn into snakes,” Mab read from his notes, “and three sisters: Alcina, Falerina, and Melusine. The last one, Melusine, was your half sister, who sometime had a serpent’s tail instead of legs, if I recall.”

  “But, of course! That is quite accurate, though I’m not sure I would say Eliaures specialized in turning sticks into snakes,” Malagigi corrected. “Making men believe that sticks had turned into snakes—poisonous snakes. So that they died from their own fear. Now that was one of his tricks!”

  Gregor released my hand and clasped it again. He did this twice more before inclining his head toward me and whispering, “No pleasure garden. The silvery light must dispel the illusion. Did I not tell you it was holy?”

  “How did a holy thing come to be in this place?” I whispered back to him.

  Gregor shook his head. “That I cannot fathom. Perhaps Erasmus is right about it being a trick, like the light of an angler fish, held out to lure us in. Though, that Maugris can hold it is a promising sign—he cannot be all wicked and bear such as that. Still, I remain suspicious of his motives.”

  “Who are these people?” Erasmus regarded the three dripping souls of the dead who crouched upon the beach before us.

  “Erasmus! How amazing that it is really you!” The Frenchman threw out his arms. “I would not have thought lust to be your sin. Or are you here with us?”

  The two men tried to embrace, but Erasmus’s hands passed through the other man’s body. Malagigi, on the other hand, was able to touch Erasmus’s enchanted garments. Thus, they were able to give each other an awkward hug.

  “Sacrebleu!” Malagigi cried, repeatedly poking his finger through Erasmus’s face. My brother tried to fend off the immaterial hand and failed. Malagigi poked through both his hand and his swollen nose. “You are still alive! What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Erasmus replied. Next to the neatly groomed monk, my brother looked bedraggled, his dark hair, damp with sweat, lanker than usual as it fell across his eyes. His handsome jacket and waistcoat were so muddy that I could hardly make out that they had once been green. “I remember quite clearly that you cleaned up your act with women after your marriage to my sister resulted in you spending a year as a goat or a moose or something…”

  “Boar. Did I not mention having been turned into a boar, only moments ago? Really, Erasmus, you should be more attentive!”

  “Must be the shock of seeing you,” Erasmus replied blithely, his spirits clearly lifting. “I have a living body to worry about, after all.”

  “True. And your nose! It looks awful! No wonder you are distracted. With your nose puffed up like a baguette!”

  “My red badge of courage.” Erasmus tapped his nose and winced. He shot me a withering look. “As I was saying, by the time you lost your head to Madame la Guillotine, you were rather respectable in the passion department. Shouldn’t that have put you in another borough, so to speak?”

  Any remark Malagigi might have made was lost as Gregor strode up and fixed his penetrating gaze upon him. My brother the former pope made an imposing figure with his dark hair flowing upon the shoulders of his crimson robes and the Staff of Darkness in his hand.

  “You said ‘Are you here with us’?” Gregor aske
d hoarsely. “Who is ‘us’?”

  “The angels,” whispered the woman who sat upon the sand at Malagigi’s feet.

  “But no! The Brotherhood of Hope,” Malagigi corrected the woman quickly. He gave her a smile that was both charming and kind. “We are not angels—pas du tout! We are fellow travelers hoping to make our way to a better place. Angels are creatures of pure spirit, beings of light whose very presence heralds Heaven. Where they step, the world recalls God’s holiness and rejoices.

  “Even here, in the Uttermost Pit, the footsteps of angels bring blessings. It is said that the King of the Angels, our Lord, once harrowed Hell with the Angelic Host at his side, and that if you can find their footsteps and walk where these blessed ones walked, you can follow them out of Hell, and no demon can touch you while you tread therein. Of course, one must have love in one’s heart to see the footstep of an angel.

  “As for us,” Malagigi continued more humbly, “we of the Brotherhood of Hope are sinners like yourself, trying to earn our way up Mount Purgatory by doing good deeds. You may think of us as the angels’ lowly helpers, if you wish.” Turning to Gregor, Malagigi concluded, “Did I not say, when I introduced myself to this man in the hat, that I was with the Brotherhood of Hope. Really, you sons of Prospero do not listen. You should attend to your surroundings.”

  I came forward. “You’re helping the angels harrow Hell? Do they come regularly? Or was that just that once, two thousand years ago?”

  I recalled Ferdinand’s story of having been turned to stone before the City of Dis and later rescued by angels. Ferdinand had proved a fake but that did not mean that there were not elements of truth to the story the incubus Seir of the Shadows had told while he was impersonating my long dead love. As Mab had pointed out, demons often wove truth in among their lies to make them more believable.

  Malagigi turned to greet me and froze, his eyes widening slowly in amazed joy. Crying out, he threw himself down on the sand and hid his face, though the hand with the tiny star still held it steadily before of him. The three shades also scuttled backward, bowing until their faces were pressed against the beach.

  “An angel,” breathed Malagigi. “A real angel!”

  I spun around, but there was nothing behind me except gloom and marsh. The frogs croaked loudly.

  Turning back, I found Erasmus covering his face in mock shame. “Please get up. That is not an angel. It is just my sister. She has a … a magic dress.”

  Oh. I had forgotten about the wisps of emerald light coming from my shoulders. In the silvery light of the star, their glow was less prominent.

  Malagigi remained kneeling, but he tilted his head to allow himself to squint up at me, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Psst. Erasmus, this is not my beloved Shrew. Is she the Icicle or a new one?”

  Chuckling, I extended my hand to help him rise. “The Icicle. Nowadays, people just call me Miranda.”

  “‘O brave new world, that has such people in’t,’” Malagigi quoted, laughing. He reached up but his hand passed through mine. Smiling ruefully, he rose under his own power and bowed over my hand, his dancing eyes examining my face. “We’ve met before, only your hair was different … like ice.”

  Erasmus shaded his eyes and turned away, as if he was too embarrassed to glance in our direction. “How can you even look at a woman after seeing this place, much less kiss her hand? Aren’t you afraid of ending up here, Man?”

  “Damned for kissing a hand? Which—as you have witnessed—I did not do.” Malagigi raised a chiseled eyebrow. “Nonsense. Seen a bit too much of this place, have you, mon ami? Here, hold the star. You will feel better.” He moved quickly to Erasmus’s side and, holding his hand above Erasmus’s, slid the tiny silver light onto my brother’s palm.

  “I say,” breathed Erasmus, as he watched the tiny star of hope glitter on his outstretched hand. “That’s…”

  “Refreshing?” Malagigi suggested. “But, of course! What a tale you four must have to tell! But first, let me speak with my new friends and send them on their way.” He turned to the other three, who were still cowed on the ground, gazing at me in mingled awe and fear. Helping them up, he said, “You are free to go. If you wish to escape from this place, you can only do so by helping others. Anyone who can see you and who can see the truth of his or her own condition is a candidate for rescue. But do not waste your strength trying to help those who cannot see you or who do not ask for help. They are not ready yet and will only cause you grief.”

  “Is there nothing we can do to repay you, Gracious Monk?” asked one of the men as he rose.

  “Pray for me.” Malagigi lowered his head and pressed his hands together. “We all benefit from prayer.”

  Behind him, I could see Gregor’s shoulders relax. Apparently, Malagigi’s piousness assuaged my brother’s skepticism. He nodded his head in approval as he leaned upon his staff, at peace again.

  “We will pray!” one of the men promised.

  Malagigi helped the woman to her feet, and the three spirits of the dead departed together, each helping the other two along. Turning, Malagigi clasped Erasmus’s enchanted sleeve, laughing.

  “I hate to break up this nice reunion,” growled Mab, “but decent folk like Mr. Theophrastus may be burning as we speak.” Mab wiped his brow with his handkerchief then tipped his bedraggled hat toward Malagigi. “Begging your pardon, Harrower, but we’re looking for a guy who’s down here somewhere.” He gestured vaguely at the swamps and mires. “Any chance you could help us find him?”

  “Is he alive like you?” When Erasmus nodded, Malagigi chuckled. “That should be easy. Wait a moment, while I ask.”

  Malagigi bowed his head and knelt in prayer. A hush fell over the little beach. Gregor shifted his weight and prayed as well. Gregor praying was a common sight, but it was a bit odd to see the dashing French enchanter petitioning the Lord so humbly.

  Looking up presently, Malagigi said, “But of course! Your brother, Mephistopheles! The Greatest Swordsman in Christendom! He is this way. Follow me!”

  * * *

  MALAGIGI led us across the beach and onto a thin causeway that looped in and out of the many islands within the swamp. The sights and smells were as awful as before, but they seemed less onerous in the company of the Brotherhood of Hope. Malagigi insisted each of us should take a turn holding the star. So, after a time, Erasmus reluctantly slipped the silvery light to me. The shining silvery point began to sink through my hand, but I found that if I concentrated, I could keep it upon my palm. Despite its brightness, it felt cool and refreshing. A feeling of hope suffused my limbs and buoyed my spirits. For the first time since my Lady’s departure, I felt whole.

  * * *

  WE followed Malagigi and came to a gray, weathered dock that protruded over the swamp. A gondola was moored beside it, the rope creaking as the craft moved with the current. Its bottom was wider and flatter than the gondolas I remembered from Venice, but it had the same high, curled dolfin and risso rising up at the bow and stern respectively. Malagigi unhooked a long pole-oar that hung on one of the pylons and stepped onto the boat.

  “Are you sure this will hold us? We’re not dead, you know.” Erasmus prodded the gondola with his foot. It pushed out away from the dock and then drifted back. Erasmus put his hand on my arm and squinted, checking to see if the vessel changed its nature, if anything he was seeing were illusionary. Apparently, it stayed the same.

  “But of course, I know you are not dead! Unlike some people, I attend!” Malagigi jumped onto the gondola and gestured for us to follow. “This boat is made from wood that grows here. You can touch it for the same reason that you walk on this island or swim in the waters.”

  “That’s not very reassuring,” Mab grumped. He stared dubiously at the boat . “It’s not going to suddenly turn on us, like those mangrove trees, is it?”

  Malagigi chuckled. “Ran into those, did you? But surely you knew enough to remain calm, yes? Nothing in Hell can hurt you, so long as you remain calm. Trap
you, yes, but not harm you. If you give in to passion, though—anger, fear, lust—then you become vulnerable, and … well, Heaven help you!”

  “Is that why I can’t touch you, but the men in the swamp were able to grab my foot—because I was annoyed?” I waved my hand through Malagigi’s shoulder as I stepped lightly onto the gondola. It bobbed but held my weight.

  “Anger gives them power over you.” Malagigi supported my elbow as I boarded, resting his fingers on my satiny sleeve. “Also, apparently, they can touch your magic dress, yes?”

  “As you see.” I smiled and sat down on a low flat bench.

  “Fear makes us vulnerable, then?” Gregor asked.

  “Really, you do not attend! I already mentioned fear.” Malagigi tsked as he politely moved backward to allow Gregor to step aboard, his scarlet robes swirling about him. “Though a little healthy apprehension is allowable.”

  “Good safety tip,” murmured Erasmus. The boat moved unsteadily when he boarded. He sat down quickly. Mab followed him and sat beside me.

  “Let me see if I understand the system,” Mab said. “Anything we do that demonstrates that we believe the dangers going on around us are real—like feel afraid—sucks us in and makes us vulnerable?”

  “Exactly.” Malagigi twisted a finger through his forelock. “As long as we remain aloof, we are safe from the dead. Nothing here can harm us. But if we allow ourselves to be tempted or cowed, we are dragged down to their level and can fall under their power. This includes anger and fear, but also eating, drinking, or even accepting rest … of course, this applies to us Brotherhood brethren. I am not sure about you living folk. The shades of the dead will not be able to harm you if you are peaceful, but there may be other things here that are more dangerous to living flesh.”

  “You mean like giant spiders and demons with pitchforks?” I asked, thinking of some of the horrors we had encountered before we were scattered.