Prospero in Hell (54 page)

At last, my foot struck solid ground!

Soon, the muck was waist-high, then calf-high. Finally, a thin strip of solid earth emerged covered with a dull brownish bracken, and I was free of the sludge. The heavy fetid stink of the swamp still clogged my nostrils, but it was not clear whether it came from the environment or from my slime-covered body. As I stood there, dripping, feeling this horrible glop slide down my face and skin, I was at last able to look around.

The orgies and violent grotesqueries had fallen behind now; only a few lone couples—or were they rapists and victims?—remained. I shivered and looked away.

In the distance, a great arched bridge spanned a wide river of black rushing water. Beyond the far side, in the distance, I could see an enormous wall of fire.

“The Bridge over the River Styx,” Mephisto cried happily. Apparently, nothing daunted him. Or maybe he was still seeing beautiful gardens, though from the expressions on my other brethren’s faces and the way Logistilla was holding her nose, I gathered their illusion was wearing thin. “Didn’t they make a movie about that, starring Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“Who?” asked Gregor.

“No one, Brother Dear. Mephisto is babbling,” Logistilla patted Gregor’s arm. “Is this really the Styx? I thought it separated the living from the dead.”

“It does,” replied Mephisto, “but it also winds through Hell itself separating some of the Circles from each other. There’s even an Ocean Styx, if you follow it in the other direction.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” She pointed ahead, beyond the bridge. “Is this the way we are to go? How do we get around that wall of fire? It seems to stretch on infinitely.”

“The Wall of Flame? We don’t. Go around, that is,” Mephisto chirped back. “We go through.”

“Just walk through the towering Wall of Flame?” asked Ulysses. When Mephisto nodded, he muttered, “Ducky!”

“What is this wall?” asked Cornelius, reaching a hand out, as if he could somehow feel the flames from here.

Mephisto said, “A towering inferno of burning passions. That’s what all the fire is down here, you know. Passions. Even that lurid stuff that floats in the sky. And that gunk Miranda is dripping with? That’s made from all the wanton desires of people on Earth, the really dirty thoughts. They condense and drip down here, forming this place, the Swamp of Uncleanness.”

That was what had been in my mouth? I bent and vomited again.

“And how do we go through this great wall of burning lusts? Or is it anger? By being stoical?” asked Erasmus.

Mephisto shrugged. “You just have to will it not to bother you.” He snickered. “The dweebs on the other side maintain the wall to keep the good spirits out… as if any good spirit would be bothered by their silly wall. They’re such dopes.” He turned to us in all seriousness. “Nobody in Hell is very bright. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be down here, would they?” He looked up at the steely gray lights floating above us like luminescent clouds amidst the inky-black smoke that otherwise obscured the heavens, perhaps literally. “Oh, except for the guys who are really bright, but evil. I forgot about them. All that gray light in the sky? It comes from them. It’s the light of misguided reason.” He tapped both his temples to indicate mental prowess. “But they’re dopey, too, in their own way.”

“That was clear as mud,” murmured Erasmus. “How do you know all this, anyway?” When Mephisto did not answer, he continued, “So, what do we do? What if not all of us can make it through?”

“We grit our teeth and try really hard,” offered Mephisto.

“We use my staff,” Titus stated evenly.

“Ah, yes! That will do it,” smiled Erasmus.

To reach the bridge, we had to pass through a mangrove swamp. We entered warily, unnerved by the eerie vegetation. Mangrove roots looped above the swamp, upon which floated a thick, dingy foam, such as gathers along the banks of polluted rivers. The roots stuck out above the surface like petrified skeletal elbows, knobby and angular. Fat bulging lizards blinked at us from the fingerlike roots, and reptilian bats, like dinosaur birds but with
the faces of men, swooped and screamed overhead, terrifying Logistilla. Above us, dead branches dripped with dull gray Spanish moss, so that the trees stood like shrouded wraiths.

The illusion of the lovely garden had faded, and my siblings now saw what I saw. They gave me wide berth, for they could smell the stinking residue that stuck to my skin and hair. The enchantments woven into my tea dress proved equal to even this terrible environment. Its shimmering emerald cloth soon repelled the slime and filth, and my garments were fresh and clean again. I felt so grateful I even brought myself to thank Logistilla. She merely pinched her nose fastidiously and moved away from me, pausing only to inform me that my hair still smelled atrocious.

Wisps of mist began rising from the swamp. Long pale tendrils of fog wove between us, rapidly growing thicker. Soon, we could no longer see one another. I reached out for Mab and Theo, who had been walking nearby, but my hands encountered only clamminess and a slimy tree trunk.

To have my family so close and yet not be able to find them was unnerving. Nor was I the only one who was disturbed. Around me, I could hear the others calling.

“Titus?”

“Logistilla!”

“Miss Miranda? Are you there?”

“Brothers? Brothers? Don’t leave me!” The last from Cornelius.

“I’m here, Cornelius!” Theo responded. “Keep speaking and I’ll find… Ahh!”

Theo’s cry was accompanied by a splash. I rushed in his direction, but something snaked about my foot. Stumbling, I fell across a twist of roots and plunged face down into the foul-smelling froth. Its awful spongy consistency, like shaving cream blended with medical wastes, brought on yet another wave of revulsion. Flailing about, I managed to grab an arching mangrove root and pull myself from the mire. The slippery foam clung to my face and hands. As I flung it away from me, I heard Cornelius’s voice rise plaintively.

“Brother? Are you well?”

“I’m all right,” Theo barked hoarsely, “just a bit damp.”

“Now, we all know how Miranda feels,” Caliban offered cheerfully amidst splashing.

An unnatural, grating sound reminiscent of laughter, as if an avalanche were mocking us, disturbed the landscape, sending ripples through the swampy waters. Logistilla screamed, and the familiar white flare of the
Staff
of Transportation
illuminated the mist to my right. No doubt, Ulysses was fleeing at the first sign of danger, leaving the rest of us stranded.

“What’s wrong?” Erasmus’s voice called. “I see nothing.”

“Abaddon!” cried Logistilla. “He’s here! He’s found us!”

“I don’t see…” Titus began.

A noise like a thousand wings beating in unison agitated the air. The mist blew away, revealing the mouth of a dark tunnel, like a horizontal tornado, that spun through the air as it approached us. I thought of raising my flute to disband it, but it seemed to be made of a solid, physical substance rather than wind. The breeze coming from it thinned the fog, and we caught glimpses of each other, dark shapes, like trees, walking amidst swirls of gray.

“What’s this?” Gregor leaned on his staff, his robes billowing about him. “Is this the Hellwind?”

“No. They’re black and thick, like the stuff that comes from your staff.” Mephisto’s voice floated to us through the fog. “As to what this is”—one of the tree-like shapes spread his arms and shrugged—“I don’t know!”

“Looks like the tunnel from Bosch’s
Ascent of the Blessed,
” murmured Caliban, who was revealed squatting atop a tangle of gnarled roots.

“Maybe it’s a way out?” Erasmus took a cautious step forward and peered into the funnel of darkness.

“Fools! Abaddon is near! We are doomed!” Logistilla cried. “Whatever this is, it will be the death of us!”

Abruptly, the tunnel unraveled. Like an Escher drawing come to life, the front edge flew toward us, resolving into black doves. As if in a dream, we watched the dark flock spread outward, flying through the mangroves on wings as black as pitch. So strange and contrary to normal expectation was the thought of danger from such a gentle bird that only Mephisto raised his arm to ward them off.

“Watch out!” he called. “These are Lord Shax’s minions. He’s one of Abbadon’s cohorts, a Marquis of the Third…”

Soft as a thistledown, a dark wing brushed my face. There was no scratch or peck, just a cool flick of silky feathers.

Immediately, my forehead and cheeks went numb.

The rest of Mephisto’s words failed to reach my ears. Other sounds fled as well: the low rumble, the rustle of Gregor’s robes, the squelch of my footstep. Last to flee was the sound of my own breath, which faded so completely that I feared breath itself had failed.

The thought that Titus’s staff stopped demons as well as sound comforted
me—until I remembered the
Staff of Silence
acted instantly—which meant this silence was not of my brother’s doing.

Unnerved, I tried to call out to my brothers, but it was too late. My mouth and jaw were numb, and would not obey me. Worse, darkness was encroaching from the corner of my vision. It spread until all sight had fled. Then, my thoughts began to seep away as well.

Why was I standing here in the darkness?

What had I been meaning to do?

Barely clinging to consciousness, I prayed to my Lady, but that sorrow only drew the darkness more quickly.

Then, even that sorrow was gone.

What balm, oblivion—greater than any Gilead had to offer. No sorrow. No regrets for Ladies lost or elves betrayed. What a gracious gift this demon had given me, when he stole away all sense, suffering, and sadness.

No!

This peace was false. Even in the midst of oblivion, I, who had felt my Lady’s breath and spoken face-to-face with angels, could not be fooled by counterfeits. This dullness, this abandonment of care, was not a gift.

It was Hell itself.

Damnation: that from which there was no escape. That knowledge had been pounded from the pulpits ever since my return to Milan, over five hundred years ago. I had not heeded it, thinking—in my arrogance—that my Lady would protect me. Now, it was too late. I had strayed from the straight and narrow. I had wandered too far down the primrose path and passed the point of no return.

I had abandoned hope. Or rather, Hope had abandoned me.

There was nothing left but vast eternal emptiness. I might now declare, with Milton’s Lucifer:
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.

As my thoughts tumbled, slowly growing dim, I remembered kneeling on the hard stone of the chapel at the
Castello Sforzesco
as Father Ignatius lectured me about sin. The chapel was always cold, a chilly draft blew against the back of my neck, but if I squirmed or asked for a shawl, my penance would be increased—penance assigned to me for being beautiful and uncivilized, for surely those things were sins. It was never for actions I had performed, because in the six years that he was my personal father confessor, I had never spoken a word to the man. I had not recognized his authority over my soul.

This had been in the days after Ferdinand’s disappearance. My stepmother, who had brought Father Ignatius with her when she came to the
castello
, had insisted I attend the chapel and perform his penances. In my sorrow, it had not occurred to me to object.

So I would kneel in silence, my neck frozen and my knees aching, as Father Ignatius paced back and forth, describing in painstaking detail vivid scenes of Hell and damnation, of torment and suffering: how women who had abortions had their breasts devoured by the offspring they had scorned, or how those who played the harlot would hang for eternity by their hair above boiling mire.

“For eternity,” he would lean forward and breathe on me with his stinking breath. “With no hope of redemption. That is the fate that awaits you, Heathen Girl.”

How sad that time had proven that wretched man right.

I recalled that I did speak up once. For six years, I heard to him preach damnation, but I never really listened. Then, one day, the error of his words penetrated my thoughts. Rising, I rebuked him. “Your theology must be faulty, Father; damnation cannot be eternal. My Lady has vowed not to rest until every soul has been redeemed, and surely Love Herself cannot fail.”