Escape From Hell

by Larry Niven

  The air was clear. There weren’t any fireflakes, and the place smelled of chocolate and vanilla. An ice–cream stand. In the middle of the desert.

  “Welcome, strangers. God in Heaven, it’s you!”

  I looked up, puzzled.

  The proprietor was dressed in full Church regalia. Black robes, scarlet sash, a large golden pectoral cross. There was a thin line of red lace at the ends of the sleeves of his robe, and he wore a black hat with some red ornamentation on it. He was clean shaven, and the face seemed vaguely familiar.

  I asked, “Do I know you?”

  “We have met. I was attired somewhat differently last time. My robes were gold.”

  Recognition came with a shock. “You’re the priest from the Sixth Bolgia!”

  “Correct. I am the Reverend Canon Don Camillus. How are you?”

  “I’m in Hell,” I snapped.

  He frowned.

  I looked around. I was here, in the desert of fire, in a place with a roof. It was cool. Sylvia had helped herself to a napkin and glass of water and was busily washing her face with every sign of contentment. Outside the fire was falling and people were screaming, but it was calm here. “I’m sorry, Father. That was ungrateful. I’m fine. I’m very well, and very glad to see you. See you here. And thank you for helping me rescue Benito.”

  “You are welcome. I do not need to ask if you were successful.”

  “You know?”

  “All Hell knows that Benito escaped. All who should know, anyway.” He chuckled. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

  “Father, this is Sylvia Plath. Sylvia, Father Camillus. He helped me rescue Benito after I, I made a mistake.” I stopped myself. “Not mistake. After I did something terrible. I pushed my friend into the pit of the Evil Counselors. Father Camillus helped me get him out. I could not have rescued Benito without his help.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” Sylvia said. She looked around expressively. “Usually that’s a polite expression, but it’s very sincere this time.”

  He chuckled again. His smile was warm and friendly. “Indeed, I recall almost no one who is not pleased to meet me,” he said. “But I am forgetting my manners. Would you care for some refreshments? I have five flavors of, of sugary icy stuff.”

  Sylvia giggled. “Father, I would kill for a vanilla ice cream.”

  He smiled thinly. “You did not mean that, but there are many out on the sands for whom that is no more than literal truth,” he said. He selected a cone and turned to the bank of ice–cream dispensers. It all looked familiar, like a Dairy Queen on Earth. He pulled a lever and the cone filled with ice cream. He handed the cone to Sylvia.

  “Thank you.” She tasted it. “Um! Delicious. Thanks. But Father — what are you doing here? Do you say masses? Have you a congregation?”

  “I serve,” he said. “My congregation is transient. A few who come through this desert and move on. I am glad to be able to give directions and some small comfort.” He handed me a chocolate ice–cream cone.

  I took it. “Thank you — Directions?”

  “Not everyone knows the way out of Hell. They may know to go down, but it is not always easy to find the way down. The desert is wide and hard to cross.”

  “It sure was,” I said. “We got a car, from a place — well, it’s not a place Dante described.”

  “The Valley of Desolation,” Father Camillus said. “It runs from Phlegethon deep into the desert of fire, paralleling the stream that flows from Phlegethon to the cliffs that separate this circle from the Eighth. Through most of human history it was easy to separate the violent wasters from those who are violent against nature, but apparently no more.”

  I thought about that. “So that’s why I never saw the Wood of the Suicides when I came through the first time. We went all the way through that Valley of Desolation until we could capture a car.”

  “I have never seen a car. I am told it is a like a carriage that runs without horses,” Father Camillus said. “I do know the valley is long, but not broad.”

  “So how do we get out of here?”

  “The valley is to your left as you go out my door. Go left, go straight across the desert. Eventually you will come to a hill. The fire is thick at the base. You must climb that hill. It will be difficult, but not impossible. When you get to the top of the ridge the fireflakes will cease, but there will be other horrors. Go straight across that valley to the other side. Climb past that ridge and into the desert and fire again. The stream lies an hour’s run through the desert. Turn left and follow it to the cliffs.”

  “How will we know we found it?” Sylvia asked.

  “Cliff or stream? It hardly matters. You will know.”

  “That’s the route Dante took,” I said. “At least the part about the river. He never saw any Valley of Desolation. What keeps the desert runners from getting to the river where it’s cool?”

  “Dante describes a dike,” Sylvia said. “Maybe it’s too high to climb from the desert.”

  “Perhaps,” Father Camillus said. “Really, I do not know, except that you can reach the river by crossing the Valley of Desolation. As to the others, perhaps they cannot find the valley or the river. Just as many never find this place.”

  “Something’s bothering me,” I said. “Why can’t we just run back to the wood, and run along that to the valley?”

  “You can try. I have never seen anyone able to go any great distance uphill through the desert of fire.” He shrugged. “Of course most of those I see here were sentenced to be here.”

  “Oh.” I remembered trying to get uphill to the wall in the Vestibule. I could see it, but Benito and I had walked for hours and we never got much closer.

  “And after we find the cliffs?” Sylvia prompted.

  “From there your way is ever downward, and it will never be easy.” He shrugged. “I could give you more details, but Allen already knows the way,” he said.

  “How many have you sent along the way?” I asked.

  “A few hundred.”

  “Have any made it out of Hell?”

  He grinned broadly. “Several.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Listen.”

  When we were all quiet I could hear music. Golden oldies? Classics? It was too faint to make out just what.

  “Sometimes it is louder. I have heard angels rejoicing,” Camillus said.

  “How often?”

  “Perhaps … ten?”

  “Does everyone who gets in here listen to you?” Sylvia asked.

  He smiled broadly. “It is my privilege to serve only those who will listen,” he said. “Most of those out there can see this place, but they cannot come in. They do not find the door, or they cannot open it if they do.”

  “That’s awful,” Sylvia said.

  “Many are awful people.”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “You read Dante,” Sylvia said. “Sodomites.”

  “Not merely sodomites,” Father Camillus said. “These were violent.” He shuddered. “One who came in here was a priest. He had sodomized his altar boys.”

  Sylvia was horrified. “Father! No!”

  “Alas, yes. He blurted that out when he saw my robes. Then he ran back into the desert.” Father Camillus shook his head. “I was told of such things in life, but I never knew any of them to be true. My sins of the flesh were — but that is not your concern.” He gestured. “There may be mere sodomites out there but I have seen none. What I have seen are those who are violent in their offenses.”

  “And violent against nature,” I said. “I saw plenty of those in the Valley of Desolation when I went through with Benito.”

  “So who do you let come in here?” Sylvia asked.

  “And who do you keep out?” I demanded.

  “That is not my choice. I try to minister to all who come through my door. A few find their way in here from the desert, and only a tiny number of those do not find this place comforting. Perhaps like that
one they are frightened of my vestments. Perhaps — Allen Carpenter, I do not know why they find no comfort with me. But they do not stay. But most who find me are willing to listen.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “That was simple. You freed me of my golden vestments in the Sixth Bolgia. I wandered freely through Hell. I saw people who belonged in Hell. As I had. But as I did not belong here forever, neither did they, and I was concerned. Eventually I went back to the Sixth Bolgia and found a companion I have known for two hundred years. He told me of this work by an Italian named Dante, a poem that described this place and told of the way out. He had known the author, and could quote large sections of the poem.”

  “I helped him climb up the side of the Bolgia, then cast himself down. As you did for me, I pulled his shattered carcass from the golden vestments before they could burn him to char. When he was healed we discussed what to do. Eventually we turned to God. We prayed for a new vocation, another chance to do the work we had once been privileged to do and had scorned for wealth and comfortable surroundings. And I found myself here.”

  “It doesn’t look much like a church,” Sylva said. She licked her ice–cream cone. “What if churches offered ice cream?”

  “I do not think I yet deserve a church.” He chuckled. “Even though I seem to be dressed as a canon. I think to remind me of my former venality. As a boy I had not thought to be a priest. It was my family’s decision. I took the vows, and for a time I took my vocation seriously, but my family was wealthy and they had plans. I was part of their plans. We became rich, and I enjoyed it all. I died when the plague came. Minos had no difficulty finding a place for me.”

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “Doubtless he has been placed where he may both serve and atone. His Earthly story was similar to mine.”

  Sylvia finished her ice–cream cone. “You’re still a priest?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Can you forgive sins? Grant absolution?”

  He frowned. “I believe so. It was said at my ordination that I was a priest forever. No church official has placed me under any restriction. Do you seek absolution?”

  “For suicide. Yes.”

  “Suicide. You ask me to forgive suicide?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not believe any priest has ever faced the question of absolution for a successful suicide,” he said. “Are you repentant?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Do you intend to do it again?”

  She giggled. “How? But no, Father, I would not kill myself again even if I could.”

  “Under the circumstances, I suppose I could grant absolution. Are you Catholic?”

  “Not really. I was brought up Unitarian, but I hated God for letting my father die. I got over that. Ted and I were nominally Anglicans,” Sylvia said. “Does that matter?”

  “Matter here? Again I do not know, but I don’t see how.”

  “Father, I am afraid,” Sylvia said. “Your friend told you of Dante. Dante wrote about the suicides.”

  Like the rest, we shall go for our husks on Judgment Day,

  But not that we may wear them, for it is not just

  That a man be given what he throws away.

  Here shall we drag them and in this mournful glade

  Our bodies will dangle to the end of time,

  Each on the thorns of its tormented shade.

  “Father, I’m scared.”

  “And you seek absolution,” Father Camillus said. “But you seem to have escaped already. How did you do that?”

  “Allen burned me. He came to the desert, collected fire, and brought it back to burn my tree to ashes.”

  “That could not have been easy.”

  “Father, it must have been terrible. He was burned horribly. Allen, thank you. You were a hero.” She gasped. “Allen! You had to go uphill from the desert to bring fire to burn me! Maybe — could it be that you were meant to do that? Oh, you are my Sign, you are!”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  Sylvia visibly calmed herself. “So, yes, I’ve escaped. But I don’t know if I’ve been forgiven.”

  “And I do not know if I can give you forgiveness. But perhaps — Allen, how far into the desert were you before you turned back?”

  “I could see this place. As a mirage, but I could see it.”

  “That means little. People see my refuge from vast distances. But you were able to go from the desert into the wood. On a merciful errand.”

  “If you call burning her a merciful errand.”

  “Allen, I do,” Sylvia said.

  “It seems plain enough,” Father Camillus mused. He turned to me. “Allen, confession is private.”

  “Sure, I’ll go outside.”

  “Just outside the door will do. I will be as brief as permitted.”

  “Sure. Can I take an ice cream with me?”

  “I would think so, but it may not last long out there.”

  “I may be back in faster than you think,” I said. “There are nasty people out there.”

  “I know.”

  “Allen — thank you,” Sylvia said.

  “Chocolate, please,” I said. I took the cone and stood outside the door.

  With frozen chocolate in my mouth and fire in my hair and my toes, it seemed very clear that I should stay with Father Camillus for the rest of eternity. I knew perfectly well that I couldn’t do that. The place would have been jammed with damned souls all fighting for the last cubic inch. Hellish.

  Oh, well.

  Chapter 18

  Seventh Circle, Third Round

  The Violent Against God, Nature, And Art

  Part Two

  The Valley Of Desolation

  * * *

  There is a mountain there, that once was glad

  With waters and with leaves, which was called Ida;

  Now ‘tis deserted, as a thing worn out.

  We were ready. We thanked Father Camillus and said our goodbyes, then hesitated at the door.

  “Turn left or run uphill?” I asked Sylvia.

  “Uphill,” she said firmly.

  “What if it doesn’t work? We’ll be in the fire until we give up and go left. Maybe it would be better just to turn left and run.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sylvia said. “Neither one of us was sentenced to this desert. There won’t be a way to make us stay here. Isn’t that right, Father?”

  “Truly I do not know. I confess curiosity, but not so much as to advise you either way.”

  “Straight uphill,” Sylvia said. “Come on, Allen!” She opened the door and was gone.

  I had to run after her. She scampered across the desert, ponytail flying, still joyful to have a body. As we ran the woods seemed steadily to get closer, and after a minute I gave up worrying about it. We ran hard, avoiding others. As we got closer to the woods there was no one around us. The woods were as desolate as ever, but that didn’t bother Sylvia.

  “See! We’re here!” she said. “Now we keep moving, before I root again.”

  “Do you think you might?”

  “No, silly. I think I’m forgiven. Allen, you should have confessed.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not sure what I ought to confess,” I told her. “Sure, I did a lot of bad things. I know I did, and I’m sorry about them. I was sorry about them before I died. I was sorry about the damn–fool stunt that killed me even when I was falling down the side of that building.” I took a deep breath. “And my worst sin was after I came here. I judged Benito and threw him in that pit.”

  “You’ve already confessed that. And you rescued him. Don’t forget that.”

  We turned left and moved along the edge of the woods, just above where fire fell but before the trees started. There was a little strip of grass here. It wasn’t peaceful. Fire flickered over shadows in the desert to our left. We could hear crashes and groans and screams to our right, and more screams of pain to our left. It stank, too
, of burning flesh and moldering leaves.

  “But Sylvia, I wasn’t sent to Hell for anything I did in life. I was in the Vestibule. Lukewarm. Not even enough conviction to be a heretic! So what do I confess, that I didn’t believe in God and I didn’t believe in atheism, either? What kind of sin is that?”

  “Were there atheists among the Virtuous Pagans?”

  “As far as I know, Lester was,” I told her.

  We kept walking briskly along the perimeter. Sylvia was quiet for a long time. “But you don’t really know he was an atheist, do you?”

  “Only what he said.”

  “What a writer said. Poets don’t always mean what they say,” Sylvia said. “Oh, sure, when we’re saying it, but we don’t always think things through. I sure didn’t. Don’t. Not like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “You’re a thoroughgoing rationalist. You have to make sense of everything even when it’s obvious to everyone else that it’s not going to make sense.”

  “I suppose —”

  “Allen, don’t worry about it. When you know what to confess, there’ll be someone to confess it to.”

  “And how do you know this, Ms. Great Theologian?”

  “Because it’s good poetry.”

  “And God is a poet?”

  “Of course He is, Allen!”

  There was a hill ahead of us. A long ridge that stretched out of sight both to left and right, running down into the fiery desert and uphill into the wood.

  “Your valley must be just ahead,” Sylvia said.

  The trail led up the ridge, trees on one side, fireflakes on the other. It was steep. We didn’t need to breathe, but the memory of having to must have kept us from talking. We reached the top.

  The scene below was a nightmare. Bulldozers, oil sludge pools, a river of brown sludge with purple streaks paralleled by a freeway and crossed by a gleaming suspension bridge that was sheer stark beauty. The noise was incessant.

  “God, that’s awful,” Sylvia said, and coughed.

  “Arrogance of power,” I said. I caught a whiff of what was on the wind, like a bomb gone off in a Cal Tech chemistry lab. I stopped breathing again.

  “What? But power doesn’t have to be ugly! Power lets you do wonderful things. Open new canals. Change climate for the better. Make a beach. We were going to the moon! Allen, did we get there?”