Attic Clowns: Volume Four (2 page)

I excuse myself from the office and pass through the Everydoor to my workspace. To my dismay, I discover that my desk is in greater disarray than I recollected it to be. I am in dire need of sleep, but the fire of my consciousness will not and cannot be doused until I put my desk to rights. Therefore, I file away the stray papers. I refill my inkwell. I attempt to reposition the objects on my desk in a manner that is both ergonomic and aesthetically pleasing, but I cannot seem to accomplish what is ordinarily a fairy simple feat. In time, I discover that the fault lies in the shape of the desk and the spatial dimensions of my office. My endeavor to draw out a new and improved blueprint for my surrounding reality proves unsuccessful, as my mind continues to wander away from the task at hand to the prospect of my new mission.

To say the least, I am dispirited at the thought of misemploying my time by babysitting a mere underling. If my superiors had commanded me to collaborate with an Overdemon, the notion would have elicited similar moral outrage. However, at least an Overdemon would be my intellectual equal. At least with a hellion of exceptional cunning, there would be a sliver of hope that my efforts to reform him for the better could perhaps prove successful. But for me to prevail upon an underling to rebuild his character would be like attempting to coax a caterpillar into metamorphosing into a galaxy.

Of all the vulgar creatures in the Universe, the demonic underling is certainly the most obtuse. These beings, if they can be designated as such, care nothing and know nothing of the particulars in regard to the battle between good and evil. The will of the underling is dominated by nothing save the basest of desires. The thought of even existing in the same celestial realm as such a beast brings my heart to my throat. Why would my superiors order me to intertwine my fate with such impious filth? Are my superiors sadists or are they merely daft?

I take a long deep breath. I prize myself on being, on the whole, an even-tempered being. But perhaps in this particular instance, I have allowed my emotions to misjudge the intentions my superiors. When I turn my thoughts to the past, there is little doubt in my mind that the Archangels regard me as a being of exceptional judgment and proficiency. For example, consider the gala of four thousand and six years ago. Archangel Coronorth grasped my hand with his and said, “Zabareth, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day you were promoted to Seraph.” Obviously, there is no such animal as occupational advancement in the Attics. However, Coronoth’s sentiment is pure. I am certainly no Sisyphus in the eyes of my superiors, and they would never condemn me to an impossible task. Instead, the Archangels have blessed me with this mission because they wholeheartedly believe that I can surmount the insurmountable. Therefore, I have no other choice than to prove them right.

You might consider a mission concerning the fate of an underling to be below my dignity. However, you must consider the bigger picture. The hellish imp in question, though low in status and stature, could potentially bring discord to the Attics, if not handled correctly. As any celestial being is aware, even one small seed of disharmony can grow into a giant oak of war and pestilence. If this imp were to wreak any variety of havoc on the Attics, then the world and the Universe itself would be left vulnerable to the underworld’s barbarities. In this mission, I must act with the utmost of care and determination at all times. Who knows what atrocities will befall us all if I do not?

In order to refresh my mind and body, I allow myself to sleep for two and a half hours. While I rest, I find myself once again sitting before the desk in Geltharidge’s office. The scent of sulfur molests my nostrils. I glance around in search of Geltharidge or any of my colleagues, but there is not a being, Archangel or otherwise, to be found. Standing, I am struck by the feeling that Geltharidge is located beyond these walls in the Maker’s Womb, swimming with the spirits. The thought brings a smile to my face.

I attempt to gaze outside. However, the window has been replaced by a gilded mirror with an elaborate carving of a female bust, cherubs, and flowering vines. In the mirror, I exist only in shades of gray, the same as the office surrounding me. Despite the drab coloring, my pulchritudinous form brings to mind the One who designed me. At the thought of my Maker, I smile, but the reflection in the mirror refuses to grin with me. I lift my right arm. My reflection does not. He merely stares at me with callous eyes and small, tight lips.

In the mirror, I glimpse of a blur of movement behind me. However, when I turn around I discover no one, and I feel an even greater desire to speak with one of my colleagues than I did only moments ago. As soon as I decide to leave this place, the walls of the office travel away from me. A wave of exhaustion sweeps over me. With each leaden step toward the door, the wall before me retreats at least ten paces.

After only a few moments of this, I give up the chase and sit at the desk in Geltharidge’s chair. I decide that if I must stay here, I might as well help the Archangel with her paperwork. On the desk in front of me, I spot a glass of amber liquid bursting with ecstatic green sparks. Attached to the side of the glass is a crimson bow, and dangling below the bow is a piece of paper. Handwritten on the paper are the words “For You.” For some inexplicable reason, I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that the “You” in the note is referring to me. I am not much of a drinker. However, this gift from Geltharidge strikes me as powerfully thoughtful and generous. A warm tingling spreads throughout my chest, as if I have already taken a drink, though I have not.

As soon as my two and a half hour rest is over, I crawl out of my cot and return to my desk. For a moment, I attempt to recall where I left my thank you cards so that I might express my gratitude to Geltharidge for the considerate gift she bestowed upon me last night. Once I realize that I am confusing a dream with reality, I laugh at myself, although, to be truthful, I am slightly disconcerted by the whole situation.

The tower of forms on my desk is more than a little daunting. Despite this, I manage to complete all my paperwork, finish the blueprint for my new Attic, and manifest every detail of my new reality before the demon is set to arrive.

At the appointed hour, Geltharidge passes through the Everydoor carrying a small burlap sack. She glances around. “I like the new wallpaper. Very…flowery.”

“Thank you, Madam,” I say. “Can I offer you a cup of tea? Coffee?”

“No, I gotta get going in a minute.”

At any moment, I expect the underling to slither through the Everydoor, but no one comes. “Is our impious friend running late? Or has his natural inclination for self-indulgence overpowered his thirst for salvation? I feared that this might happen.”

“Oh no, he’s right here.” Geltharidge raises the burlap sack. “Globcow said his Overdemon liked to carry him around in this bag, and he begged me to do the same. I suppose it’s a comfort to him, like a security blanket.”

“I see.”

“I wish I had some sage advice for you, Zab, but nothing like this has ever happened before. Just go easy on the little guy, at least for a while. Seems he’s really shaken up after his ascension from the Basements. He’s not used to interdimensional travel.”

“I will act with the utmost equanimity.”

“Good. Well, best of luck, Zab. Not that you ever need it.”

“You’re too kind, Madam.”

Geltharidge sets the burlap sack on the floral vine rug on my floor. “Till next time, Zab.”

“You’re leaving already, Madam?”

“Like I said, I gotta go. Cases to crack. See you.”

With that, Geltharidge takes her leave and the Everydoor closes behind her.

After sitting at my desk, I turn around to face the burlap sack. “I must insist that you come out from there at once. We have precious little time to waste on such frivolities.”

One positive aspect of having charge over an underling as opposed to an Overdemon is that the underling is more than a little accustomed to following orders. The hellion obeys me immediately, crawling out of the sack on all fours, like a beast.

Obviously, this infinitesimal imp poses absolutely no threat to the safety of my person and my property. However, it has been quite some time since I have shared the company of a demon.  Therefore, my heart rate escalates, and my body reacts to this state of irrational fear by growing to twice its regular size.

The underling looks up at me, squinting a pair of salmon-pink eyes. His waifish form is predominantly humanoid. However, some of his features are serpentine in nature, such as the forked tongue and the chalky scales covering what I assume to be skin. This soulless abomination is a perfect example of why creatures should not create life without adhering to the sacred designs of the Maker.

This being said, the imp’s appearance is not quite as offensive to the eye as I envisaged. His physique is, at the very least, symmetrical. In addition, his large eyes and wide smile give him a frolicsome countenance. If you were unaware of his background, it would be easy to imagine an air of innocence about him, the same way you might perceive a kind of purity in a pet.

“Welcome,” I say. “I am Zabareth of the House of Lorthala. Do you have name?”

“Globcow Foot Eater.”

“Charming.”

It is at this time that I notice the tears streaming down the demon’s hollow cheeks. Were I to suddenly find myself in the presence of such an imposing being as myself, I am positive I would react in a similar fashion.

I shrink myself down to my standard size. “Do you feel more at ease now, little one?”

“No, no!” the demon says. “Light here hurt Globcow’s eyes very much. Put light away please.”

After I dim the lights, the demon’s eyes cease from watering.

“Please sit down,” I say, motioning to the tiny chair in front of me, which I designed and manifested earlier this morning. As I have already mentioned, I overestimated the size of the devilkin. Therefore, I will the small chair to shrink to about three-fourths its original size.

The demon hobbles closer to me on those grotesquely emaciated legs of his, and sits. As expected, his posture is horrendous. For now, I suppress my desire to attempt improving upon his manners. It is more than likely that I will have much fatter fish to fry.

“Before we begin, might I offer you a refreshment?”

The hellion scratches his head. “Refreshment?”

“Something to eat or drink?”

The demon hops out of his chair. “Yes, yes! Globcow hungry very much. Give Globcow feet please.”

“I assume you are referring to a severed human foot?”

“Yes, yes! Globcow like feet very much. Give Globcow feet please.”

“Surly you must realize that dining on human flesh is a sin, and a nigh unforgivable one at that.”

“Globcow not know what sin, what not sin.”

“Ah. Then I will have to compile a list for you. But that will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, we have more preliminary matters to attend to. Other than human flesh, is there anything can get for you?”

“Globcow like toenails very much, but Globcow not know if toenails flesh or not flesh.”

I sigh. “In terms of meat, the best I can do is to offer you a cut of raw steak.”

“Globcow like steak very much, but Globcow not want to sin. You say it sin to eat human steak.”

I sigh again. “You cannot be so daft as to presume I was offering you human flesh. What I was proposing was to give you a slice of meat carved from a cow.”

“No, no! Globcow never eat cow.”

“Ah, but you will never know whether or not you enjoy the taste until you try it.”

“No, no! Globcow sleep in barn next to cow every night. Globcow tell cow every secret wish. Cow lick Globcow’s face and tickle nose.”

“I see. Would you be opposed to eating pork?”

“Piggy always mean to Globcow. Globcow like to eat piggy very much please.”

After I manifest a serving of roast pork and potatoes, the disgusting creature unhinges his jaw like some kind of serpent and swallows the meal, plate and all.

“Thank you very much,” the devilkin says.

Much could be said about this unpolished underbeast, but at least he takes the time to say please and thank you. But even more refreshing than these civilities, is the high level of earnestness and candor in which he speaks. There are more than a few of my colleagues, angel and Archangel alike, who could learn a thing or two from this little fiend. Living in close quarters with this demon will test my patience, certainly, but perhaps the experience will not be quite as dreadful as I assumed.

I take a sip of my tea. “Now that we are comfortable, we can move on to the business at hand. As I am sure Geltharidge already informed you, I am to be your master from now on. However, you are not my slave, and I am not an Overdemon. Think of me the way you would your father.”       

The imp trembles. “Globcow only see father one time. Globcow’s father try to skin Globcow alive with rusty knife.”

“Ah. Then simply keep in mind that my purpose, as your master, is to serve you, to teach you, to protect you. My greatest desire, as prescribed by the Maker’s will, is to see you succeed in your quest for redemption.”

For the first time, the devilkin looks into my eyes, but only for a moment. “Thank you, master.”

“I appreciate the verbal genuflection, but let us dispense with such formalities, shall we? You can call me Zabareth.” I finish the rest of my tea. “Now, before we start your lessons, I believe it would be prudent for me to survey the battlefield where our war will be fought. Obviously, I am referring to your mind. Would you have any objection to my plunging into your inner self?”

“No, no. Globcow not care. Globcow like brain tickles.”

“Very good. I will return within a few minutes. In the meantime, it would be a great help to me if you simply sat there and thought about what you ordinarily think about. Can you do this for me?”

“Globcow sit and think.”

“Thank you.”

Presently, I shrink down to the imperceptible size necessary to perform a proper probing. Upon inserting myself into the imp’s ear hole, I find myself once again sitting at my desk in my Attic. The scent of manure and rotting meat invades my nostrils. I glance around in search of clues which might lead me to a better understanding of my peculiar little neophyte. However, there is nothing out the ordinary to be found. That is, until the floor opens up and I descend into darkness. As I fall, I flap my arms like a bird, but of course this absurd emotional reaction is of no use whatsoever. In the darkness, I glimpse shrieking human faces, raw and swollen with decay. As my descent continues, rotted hands reach out to me, and my heart aches with the desire to reach out and grasp these pour souls. But I remind myself that these specters are merely hollow manifestations spawned from the psyche of an imp.