by Tom Holt
‘Well . . .’
‘Or how a whoopee-cushion managed to find its way onto the Throne of Prophesy.’
‘I thought maybe . . .’
‘Or,’ said the Pythoness, ‘why the three heads of the Eikon Triceraunion are all suddenly wearing brightly-coloured paper hats. I mean,’ she said, ‘any fool can answer that, no point in bothering the god, is there?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary, humbly. ‘I was only trying to help.’
The Pythoness clicked her tongue in a not altogether unfriendly manner. ‘I know, dear,’ she said, ‘and it shows initiative and all the rest of it. But it’s not our place to go guessing at things; and besides, he’ll have to know sooner or later. It might be important.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Mary said. ‘But the message . . .’
‘That,’ said the Pythoness, ‘proves my point, surely. I mean, it could be highly significant, or it could just be kids climbing in through the ventilation shaft again. Really, we have to leave that sort of thing to the Chief. Now, give me a hand washing up these last few bits and pieces, and then I think we’ve earned ourselves a drink, don’t you?’
Mary nodded and Ms. Fisichelli tried to dismiss the whole business from her mind, but as she dried the patera and put it back in the Holy Chest she couldn’t help thinking that somewhere there was a simple explanation for it all, particularly when you considered the message which had appeared, cut into the rock of the lintel of the Treasury of the Athenians, that same morning. After all, it spoke for itself:‘WISEACRES OF THE WORLD UNITE,’ it said. ‘YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS.’
About thirty thousand years ago, when telepathy was the only readily accessible form of mass entertainment, there was a popular game-show on the main brainwave channel called Read My Mind. A panel of guest celebrities had to guess what each of the contestants did for a living, and if they failed they were torn apart by wild dogs. It was good middlebrow family entertainment.
On the show in question, a panel consisting of two river-gods, a wood-nymph and the Queen of the Night were asked to guess the identity of a more than usually enigmatic character, who turned up wearing a loud check suit and a red nose, and answered all their questions by bursting into fits of laughter. The panel had got as far as the fact that the mystery guest was something to do with entertainment, but there they stuck. Time was running out. The mind-camera was playing lovingly on the slavering jaws of the dogs.
‘He’s a tax inspector,’ guessed one of the river-gods wildly. The compere grinned, shook his head and made woof-woof noises. The Queen of the Night started to have hysterics.
‘He’s . . .’ said the wood-nymph desperately. ‘Oh God, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Whatsisname. Whatchamacallit . . . Um, you know, er, thing . . .’
The mystery guest looked up sharply and scowled.
‘Someone told you,’ he said.
Then time ran out and there was an advertisement for soap powder, and so the telepaths at home never discovered the whole truth; namely that the mystery guest (whose name was Gelos) was in fact the personification of Laughter, the sworn enemy of the race of gods; in his previous incarnation one of the original Three. Another point which didn’t get out was the fact that Gelos is the only force in the cosmos who stands between the gods and total universal domination, because only laughter and a sense of the absurd makes it possible for human beings to dismiss the gods as a figment of the imagination; whereas if Gelos ever finds a hero brave and strong enough to protect him from the gods, he will be able to rule the whole of creation.
Pluto stopped, took a plastic bag from his pocket and opened it, revealing a sock.
‘Here, boy,’ he said nervously. ‘Find!’ He placed the sock in front of each of the dog’s three noses in turn. The dog growled ominously, and two of its heads started snuffling at the ground. The third ate the sock and, shortly afterwards, was sick.
‘C’mon, good dog,’ Pluto muttered, and the ex-Hellhound suddenly lurched forward, heads down, and dragged his master into the corridors that led to the Piccadilly Line platforms.
It is often held that two heads are better than one, and so Cerberus should have represented the optimum in scent-following efficiency. However, after five minutes of enthusiastic baying, tracking, tail-wagging and snapping at the ankles of women with small children, he stopped opposite a fire-bucket, pointed like a gun-dog and sat resolutely down. Having emptied the bucket and found no trace of the missing Hero, Pluto began to lose patience.
‘Look, you bloody animal,’ he said, ‘far be it from me to get heavy with a dumb beast, but unless you pack in the clever stuff and get back to work, you’ll be up the vet’s so fast your paws won’t touch. Got it?’
That, Pluto later admitted, had been a mistake. Cerberus gave him a foul look in triplicate, snarled very convincingly, and bit through the lead. Pluto toyed briefly with the idea of blowing gently up the dog’s nostrils, as recommended by the lady at the obedience classes, thought better of it, and ran for his everlasting life.
Cerberus, however, didn’t follow. Having satisfied itself that its master was out of sight, it grinned widely and trotted off down the corridor in the opposite direction. A wall against which it paused briefly to cock its leg collapsed shortly afterwards into a pile of fizzing lime.
Cautiously, Jason Derry lifted his left foot, moved it approximately a metre forwards, and tried to put it down.
He immediately regretted it. There was nothing there; his foot simply continued moving, finding nothing on which to rest. The thoroughly disconcerting thing was that his balance was not upset, and as soon as he stopped applying pressure with his leg muscles, his foot stopped. He wasn’t standing on anything, he discovered; he was just standing. Floating. Whatever.
The important thing at times like these, he told himself, is to stay calm. This environment may be decidedly hooky, but as yet it has exhibited no overtly hostile symptoms. You could probably get to like it in time. Let’s be terribly laid-back and cool about this, and just take it as it comes. Who needs gravity, anyway?
‘Help!’ Jason said.
He listened as the word he had just spoken flopped aimlessly about in the darkness, slowly growing fainter and fainter and finally dissolving into a clatter of disjointed consonants. He breathed in deeply (there was no air, but fortunately he didn’t know that) and tried moving his right leg.
‘Woof,’ said a voice behind him.
He froze, and after a few moments his heart began to beat again. He turned his head and stared; but there was no light.
‘Woof.’
‘Woof.’
Three different voices. Either I’m going potty or there are dogs down here. Given the choice, I’m going potty.
‘Hello?’ he ventured. ‘Anybody there?’
‘Woof.’
‘Woof.’
‘Woof.’
Three dogs. Jason muttered something under his breath and speculated about whether the person responsible for all this had got his priorities right, exactly. Dogs are all very fine and splendid in their way - absolutely nothing against dogs, either as pets or as part of an integrated sheep control system - but what we really need most of all right now is a floor.
‘Here, boy,’ he ventured. ‘Who’s a good boy, then?’ he added.
‘Woof,’ said three voices, and there was just a hint of ennui in them; as if they knew from experience that when somebody addressed them as Good Boy, it would soon be time to start retrieving sticks from freezing cold ponds. Jason plucked up his courage and extended a hand into the darkness behind him. ‘Heel,’ he murmured.
Almost at once, he was aware of something large and hairy brushing up against his leg and a violent rasping sensation on the back of his hand, consistent with it being licked by three very sharp tongues at the same time. It wasn’t pleasant; but compared to a number of alternatives that suggested themselves to Jason at that moment, it did very nicely, thank you very much.
‘Now then, doggie
s,’ Jason quavered, ‘you and I are going to be friends, aren’t we?’
Three voices said Woof in such a way as to suggest that a temporary alliance might well prove expedient at the present moment, but any more of this mushy anthropomorphic crap and the deal was off.
‘OK,’ Jason replied, ‘suits me. Have you got the faintest idea where in hell we are?’
A trio of voices said Woof in such a way as to indicate that if Jason knew, he wouldn’t like it terribly much, but if he insisted on a clue there was a pretty nifty one in his own last remark. Jason grinned nervously.
‘I don’t suppose you know how to get the hell . . . to get out of here, do you?’
‘Woof.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Woof.’
‘Sorry.’
Jason wiped his hand carefully on his trousers; then, for the first time in his life, he listened hard in the back of his head for the sound of three dots. Nothing. Marvellous.
‘.’ said a canine voice beside him.
‘.’ said another.
‘.’ remarked a third.
‘Oh come on,’ said Jason despairingly. ‘Let’s all stop pissing about here, or I’m going to give the whole thing up on the grounds of complete incomprehensibility.’
There was a long silence. Then the dog spoke; all three voices, but speaking as one.
‘We,’ it (or they) said, ‘are the dog.’
‘Well yes,’ Jason replied cautiously. ‘I had gathered.’
‘We,’ the voice(s) went on, ‘would like you to consider what you get if you spell our name backwards.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, now.’
‘All right,’ said Jason, after a short pause, ‘you get god. So bloody what? If you spell moon backwards you get noom, but right now I’m more interested in getting back to Piccadilly Circus, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Think,’ said the dog.
‘Oh no,’ Jason replied. ‘I tried that, and look where it got me. Look, thanks ever so much for dropping by, but perhaps we’d all get on much better if we went our separate . . .’
‘We,’ said the dog, ‘are merely Speakers.’
‘Barkers.’
‘Speakers,’ said the dog coldly, ‘for the Thought in your head. You called for us. We are here.’
Jason opened his mouth and then closed it again, waiting for some words to drip through from the filterpaper of his brain. Some time later he said, ‘You’re what?’
‘We are saying out loud what the Thought in your head would be saying if it could speak out loud,’ said the dog.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean to say,’ Jason said, ‘that I’m actually thinking all this garbage?’
‘No,’ said the dog.
Jason whimpered ever so slightly. ‘Oh be fair, please,’ he said. ‘I can cope with gibberish just as long as it’s consistent. I thought you just told me . . .’
‘The Thought is not you,’ said the dog. ‘The Thought is the god-turned-backwards. Previously I have spoken to you in the quiet of your mind. Here I am speaking to you through the dog.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
There was another very long silence.
‘Had you going there for a minute, didn’t we?’ said the dog.
Stuff it, Jason said to himself, enough is enough. He made a careful estimate of the position of the dog’s rear end and kicked hard. There was a triune yelp and a sharp stabbing pain in the back of his head, but he really didn’t mind about that. He felt better now.
‘Oueh,’ said the dog.
‘Serves you right,’ Jason replied. ‘You had it coming.’
‘Can’t you take a joke or something?’ growled the dog.
‘No.’
The dog growled ominously; and was that a very faint breath of moving air Jason could feel on his cheek? ‘Would you care to rephrase that?’ ventured one of the dog’s heads.
‘Why should I?’
‘Because,’ said a different head, ‘in the circumstances that wasn’t the cleverest thing you’ve ever said, that’s all.’
‘So what?’ Jason snarled. ‘You can have too much of being clever if you ask me. Right now I fancy being mindlessly violent.’
‘Keep your voice down, for dog’s sake,’ whispered all three voices (but not simultaneously). ‘This is not the right time for aggressive posturing.’
Jason shook his head. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough and I want to go home. Failing that, I want an explanation. My final, fall-back option is a heavily-mangled dog, but perhaps we can sort something out if we work at it.’
‘You want an explanation?’ said the dog.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you shall have it.’
Jason suddenly became extremely still, as if someone had just unplugged him. ‘Did you say something?’ he asked.
‘No,’ whispered three very nervous dog-heads.
‘Somebody said something.’
‘We know.’
‘Who?’
‘Woof.’
‘Woof?’
Then Jason felt something in the back of his head; not felt as in an emotional response; more like felt as in there being a large, heavy weight behind his ears which was swinging in a semicircle, taking the head with it.
‘Come here,’ commanded the darkness. But a tiny spark of courage flashed across the contacts of what remained of Jason’s personality, and he stayed where he was. Fear of death, the unknown, darkness and the Devil were one thing, he decided; bad manners were something else.
‘Only if you put the lights on,’ he replied.
The darkness laughed. ‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
And there was light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On his way back up Virgil was stopped by a hairy old man with long fingernails whom he recognised at once. He shuddered and tried very hard to look like somebody else.
‘Excuse me,’ said Pluto, ‘but have you seen a dog?’
‘Frequently,’ Virgil replied. ‘So thank you all the same, but . . .’
‘No,’ Pluto said, ‘what I mean is, have you seen a dog recently?’
Virgil considered for a moment. ‘Can’t say I have,’ he said. ‘Not for ages. But I’m trying to give them up, actually, so it’s no skin off my nose. Good Lord, is that the . . .’
Pluto looked at him carefully. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Me?’ Virgil shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s highly unlikely, isn’t it?’
Pluto frowned. ‘I do know you,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Well yes,’ Virgil said, ‘If you want to be biologically exact I suppose I am, but I try not to dwell on it too much. Clearly where you come from, tact is held in roughly the same esteem as personal appearance. And now I must be . . .’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘Where?’
‘Here,’ Pluto said, ‘in the land of the living. You should be in . . .’
‘And the same to you too,’ Virgil said quickly. ‘Must rush. Bye.’
It was fortunate for the poet that Pluto had other things on his mind, for the ex-God of the Dead has never, despite his best efforts, completely retired, and he has extremely strong views on dead people who wander about topside, fiddling about with the Great Chain of Being and startling old ladies. Instead of taking the matter further, however, Pluto simply shrugged and carried on following the dog.
It wasn’t difficult, actually; in many places, the tiles on the walls of the corridors were already starting to bubble, and the smell was unmistakable. He might be three-headed, immortal and capable of human speech, but Cerberus was very much a dog.
Down past the normal, everyday levels now, and Pluto began to feel that familiar feeling of uneasiness, together with a certain very faint nostalgia. It had been years since he last visited Hell (or, as he had always tried to think
of it, the Autumn Leaves Rest Home); and - well, you can never completely let go, can you?
My God, Pluto said to himself as he wandered through the endless passageways, what have they done to the old place? All right, it had never exactly been what you’d call cosy - too many souls-in-torment for that - but at least he’d tried his best. You can do a lot with the odd pot plant here and framed print there, the occasional lick of paint and roll of woodchip when the budget could run to it; even just little things, like a table, a couple of chairs and a few old colour supplements, made a great deal of difference to the guests (Pluto always thought of them as guests). After all, a lot of people have to spend a lot of time here, and the least you can do is try to encourage them to think of it as their home . . . He shook his head sadly and tried to remember where the laundry cupboard used to be.
He arrived on the platform just as the train was pulling in and jumped nimbly through the doors, stepping over the crushed bodies with the ease of long practice. The train was always pretty full at this time of day, he remembered, but he found one of those corner seats which have a little blue notice above it saying Please give up this seat if an irrevocably damned person needs it, put a damned expression on his face, and sat down. He was just starting to wonder where the dog could have got to when he became aware of someone standing over him.
‘I said, Tickets please.’
Pluto looked up into what he took at first to be a pair of blue industrial lasers, and nearly jumped out of his skin.
‘Look,’ said the spectre, ‘have you got a ticket or not?’ Pluto twitched slightly and the spectre glowered at him, if yellow-fanged, goat-headed monsters can glower; the point has never been properly researched, understandably.
Pluto pulled himself together. ‘Well, no,’ he admitted. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
‘If you haven’t got a ticket,’ said the spectre - how, Pluto asked himself, does he manage to avoid skewering his own upper lip every time he speaks? - ‘you’ll have to buy one now. That or I put you off at the next stop.’
Pluto, who knew what the next stop was, rummaged vigorously in his pocket for change. Being a god is all very well, but one doesn’t like to push one’s luck. Mercifully, he found some money.