Valley of the Dead (16 page)

She leaned more of her weight on Dante. He thought the story had taken much of her strength. “I waited in the barn till the next day, when our neighbor’s wife came in and tried to eat me. That’s when I broke out of the barn. I saw the whole town was being destroyed. I thought I wouldn’t be able to keep my promise to my husband, and I’ve never felt such guilt, such despair. After he had kept every promise to me, and saved me from so much, I thought I had failed him utterly. But I kept fighting, and killed my neighbor, after I had seen you. You got me out of there. And then I met you two, and you helped as well. You are all very brave. If I hadn’t known my husband, I’d say you were the bravest men I’ve ever known. I can never thank you enough.”

“No need, my daughter,” Adam said. “We can take turns sleeping now. You three may go first. You look very tired.”

An icy wind began to blow, swirling the ash around them like a dirty, grey blizzard, except the sickening snow stung like a maelstrom of ground glass. Dante drew his knees up and pulled a blanket over his head, crossing his arms in front of himself to pull the fabric tight across his cheeks, leaving just a gap for his eyes. He watched the others do the same, their motions slow and stiff, the way ghosts or people in dreams move. They could’ve been four survivors on the Anatolian plains, with the ashes of fallen Troy raining down on them as they bided their time waiting for the inevitable, fated rebirth of their people. Or they could’ve been four of the damned on the outskirts of Gomorrah, the salty, toxic exhalation of an unknown, jealous God wearing away every trace of them, as they waited for a sunrise their burning, tear-filled eyes would never see. The feeling of Bogdana’s body pressing against him could not tell Dante which of these two worlds they now inhabited. It only told him that he could endure either.

Chapter
27

Of naked souls beheld I many herds,

Who all were weeping very miserably,

And over them seemed set a law diverse.

Dante,
Inferno
, 14.19-21

Dawn came, though one could not say for certain that the sun rose. Instead, daybreak was just the time when the grey all around them brightened to the point where Dante could see indistinct shapes again. All he could see of his companions were three irregular mounds of ash, like stunted pillars of salt that had dared to look back on a better, happier world. Their world was cursed, and Dante knew it was their duty to gaze upon it, or else suffer worse for their doubt and disobedience.

Bogdana was the first to rise, the mortal crust cracking and falling from her like a chrysalis. The condition of the horses was much less terrifying than that of their riders, since they had been tethered under some of the nearby trees, partly shielded from the ashen snow. After a quick drink of water and some more of their provisions, they mounted their horses. With blankets wrapped around their heads as cowls, they looked like Arabs set to cross the desert, on their way to trade for European or Chinese treasures, or to slay the infidel Christians. A light, sultry wind was blowing steadily from the north, so the dust kicked up by their horses billowed off to the left, leaving their view ahead clear enough for them to navigate. Even though this helped them, Dante could not think of the wind as anything but unnatural and, in some strange way, vindictive. It seemed like a begrudging aid to them, breathed out from something that both envied and punished their ignorance and weakness.

They trudged on for what seemed like the entire morning, but looking back at the lighter spot in the clouds where the sun ought to be, Dante could see it had not been long at all. Then Dante saw, off to their right, another cloud of dust approaching. It seemed to be angling toward them, heading south or slightly southeast, as they made their way westward. Given how visible both their dust clouds were, it made no sense to try to flee from this new group, whoever they were, so the four continued on their way, watching as the others drew closer.

Eventually, Dante could discern a cart pulled by two mules. The cart stopped near them, and both groups waited for the dust to clear enough for them to see each other and speak. As Dante pulled back his cowl, he saw a man and woman at the front of the cart doing the same. Although the pair had been mostly upwind of the dust billowing out in front of their vehicle, they were still thoroughly encrusted, as if they suffered from leprosy. When they had brushed themselves off, Dante could see the two people were middle aged, with the dark hair and ruddy complexion of everyone in the valley. Both looked beaten and worn, though the woman might have been pretty once, with the flashing eyes and long brown hair of many of the women Dante had seen here. The couple’s haggard appearance looked as though it predated the outbreak of the living dead, something more simmering and deep-seated, like a plague of its own. Surveying the cart, it looked to Dante like the contents of a home: some furniture, boxes, bundles, and a small cage that contained clucking chickens. Three small heads popped out then disappeared among this pile of household goods. Though Dante couldn’t help but feel a little encouraged at the first sight of living children in days, he also felt depressed that they too were lost in this deadly wasteland, perhaps with even less chance of escape than he.

“Hello,” the man in the cart said. “What news? Where are you headed?”

“We’re trying to make it west, across the scar,” Adam replied. “Then further up into the mountains. We hope to escape the dead and the army that way.”

The man shook his head. “I didn’t think we’d ever make it, especially with my wife and the children. The ascent is difficult. Have you seen it? Do you know what kind of men are up there, sir? Bandits and murderers are the nicest of the lot. The ones they send out as a welcoming committee when you first arrive! Then if you survive those, you get to meet the really nasty ones. The ones who like hurting you not just to take your things, but just for the sake of hurting you. No, thank you! We’re trying to get to the south side of the valley, across the scar. The woods are supposed to be thicker there, and I think we can hide. It’s worth a try.”

“Maybe,” Adam said. “We’ve seen fewer dead this far up the valley, so perhaps if the army relents or doesn’t come this far, then you’ll survive.”

“I hope so, sir. Please pray for us, and we’ll do the same for you.”

“Of course we will,” Adam said.

Hearing one of the people in the valley mention prayer and hope shocked Dante much more than many of the horrors he’d seen in the last couple days. There again was that terrible quality of familiarity. In just two days he’d grown so used to brutality and blasphemy of every kind that the invocation of God or faith or goodness sounded to his poisoned ears like something grating, harsh, inappropriate, and embarrassing. He had expected the man to curse them or make threats, and this gentler, more civilized exchange did not comfort or encourage Dante, but only confused and disoriented him, almost as if the man had begun speaking in a language unknown to him – or worse, forgotten by him.

Having heard an unexpected expression of piety, Dante then noticed a wooden icon among the items in the cart. It was a painting, mostly in brown and gold, of an elderly, bearded man, holding up his right hand, his thumb bending his ring finger down, with the other three fingers extended. The painting was situated in an odd way, right at the front of the cargo, facing forward, so that it almost appeared like a third passenger on the driver’s bench between the man and his wife. Its placement and seeming ostentation only perplexed Dante more, though at least it helped make some sense of the man’s earlier expression of religious sentiment.

As Dante contemplated the icon and the odd exchange, the man’s wife shot out her left arm to give her husband a solid blow on the side of his head. From the way he didn’t flinch or move, it seemed it was as uninteresting and ordinary to him as it was to Dante. Things had returned to normal in this environment, which was further confirmed when the woman swung her right hand around to slap her husband in the face.

“Why do you talk so?” she growled after the attack. “Why do you continue to utter such useless horseshit?” As if on cue, one of the mules picked that exact moment to drop three round balls of dung into the dust in front of them. The woman laughed, though it wasn’t a happy or healthy sound, but seemed even more forced and out of place than her husband’s religiosity. “See, even a dumb brute knows what you’re saying is shit! What makes you think I’ll pray for these people? And don’t say that you and the children will pray for them: I couldn’t care less what you do, and I’ll be damned if I let my children waste their time on your foolishness! What makes you think these people would even care? We haven’t seen anyone as senseless as you in days, and perhaps these ones aren’t as foolish as you, either!” She leaned forward so she could look at Dante and the others. “Are you as crazed and foolish as this wreck of a man? Then tell you what. He’ll pray for you, but I don’t want something as useless as that.” She leaned back and swatted her husband once more; the blow was backhanded and casual this time. “Ask for something useful next time, why don’t you?”

“What do you want?” Radovan asked. Dante thought the younger man looked a little more shocked at the woman’s words and actions than Dante felt, and he took some comfort in this. “We have a bit of food and water and can share those.”

She waved them off. “Why prolong the agony? Unless you have a way out of this mess, I don’t really want anything of yours.”

“Please, dear,” the man said. “I meant no harm. I thought perhaps these people still had hope, and I wanted to share it with them. Let them know there were still others who cared and prayed for them.”

“Oh, I know you care,” the woman said. “And I couldn’t care less if you do. It’s just how that really bothers me. But really, why argue with these people? I got myself into this. I had to marry this dolt and get myself dragged to this wretched valley. But you were too much of a coward to go further up the valley, where the real riches were. So you stayed here and chopped down tiny, twisted trees, like the stunted gnome of a man you are. You dragged them into town and sold them. Probably for less than they were worth, I’ll wager. And now you want to hide in the trees while we all wait around to die. Lovely.”

“Please, dear.” Dante heard the man’s voice quiver. “Don’t talk like that. Saint Andrew helped you find me. You said so yourself, once.” He gestured to the icon between them. “And he blessed our union. We have three children. Many other people can’t have them, or their children die, and they’re very sad. I know things are hard, but don’t talk like that.”

“Oh, don’t even remind me of this silly icon!” She spat on the painted wood before smacking her husband. “My family had money, you fool. Not a lot, but some. Otherwise you wouldn’t even have this decoration to heap all your silly hopes on – a stupid, little idol, as dumb and useless as you are.” Two more blows fell on her husband, one from each of her hands. “And as dead as we’re all going to be soon.” Another blow, this one a closed-fist punch that turned his head around and sent blood flying out the side of his mouth. “And what did you have? Hopes. Big dreams. Love. And worst of all,
piety
.” Dante shivered at how she said the word. It sounded like it caused her real, physical pain to make the sound.

Apparently the woman had gotten herself quite worked up, for she leaped down to the ground and kicked at the dust, sending a cloud billowing up around her till Dante could barely see her. He could only make out an occasional foot or hand, flailing out of the swirling storm of hate and rage. “All that belief and love for the Lord of all! The mighty King of creation! King of this… this…
shit
is more like it!” She must have snatched up the animal dung in her frenzy, for a crumbly, moist glob hit her husband in the face. “I believe in one shit, the shit almighty, maker of shit and more shit!” Saint Andrew’s serene, unchanging visage was the next to be defiled with a projectile. “I believe in the shit, the only begotten shit of the shit, true shit from true shit!” She’d started to cackle at her blasphemy at this point, when the third handful hit Dante, though he’d raised his arm in time to be spared the full, facial assault of the woman’s fury. “And I believe in the shit, the giver of shit, who proceeds from the other shit!”

The attack and the cursing stopped. Dante brushed himself off, and looked over to see the woman’s husband wiping his own face. The man cleaned up Saint Andrew, though the only way he had to do so was with his sleeve and some spit. Dante thought the man was muttering the whole time he cleaned the icon. Probably praying for forgiveness, because even his cleansing was dirty and profane, Dante thought.

The figure of the woman slowly emerged as more of the dust drifted off. She stood there, staring at all of them, fists clenched at her sides, panting. Her husband hung his head, seemingly waiting for her, though he said nothing. She raised her fists, very slowly and deliberately and with a terrible, lonely kind of grace. For a moment, the area around her seemed to brighten, almost imperceptibly, and Dante decided the woman had most definitely been very pretty at one time, perhaps not so long ago. She tilted her head and Dante thought she looked above her husband, past him, past Dante, past all of them, and into the silent, unmoved clouds above them. From where she faced, Dante supposed she might be looking at that brighter patch of cloud hiding the sun.

“I would do anything to shut you up!” she howled. “But you won’t! I’d kill you, but I can’t! You never leave me alone! You never shut up! But you’ll never change me.
Never
! I’ll always be what I am, and I’ll always hate you, deny you, curse you, spit on you! I’ll never come crawling, begging and cringing like a beaten dog! I’ll hit you and hurt you every chance I get! I’ll die, but everyone dies! It proves nothing! And that will be my revenge. That will be my triumph. To hurt and hate and ignore you and all your
shit
!
Forever
!”

Her pitch rose on the last two words, and she elongated the final syllable, making it into a shriek of rage and agony that tore through the valley with all the hideous strength of a doomed, proud race. Dante wondered if Joshua’s trumpet had sounded any different to the people huddled in Jericho as they prayed to their little, stone idols. He wondered if the screams of those crushed under the Tower of Babel had any less outrage and anguish in them. And with an empty feeling in his chest, Dante wondered why such a cry did not bring the mountains’ stones crashing down on them, if such pillars were held up only by love and justice, and not by the kind of brute, soulless force that could noiselessly withstand the assault of so much power, passion, and pain.

All six of them stayed there, motionless, for some time. And the children, Dante presumed, were huddled somewhere in the cart, perhaps used to scenes like this, or perhaps learning a new and awful lesson about how the human heart worked. Then the woman slowly lowered her head and fists, and climbed up on to the cart next to her husband. The reins slapped the mules’ backs once, and the cart creaked into motion, sliding off to the south with its cargo of human misery. Dante watched them for a moment longer, until the dust engulfed them forever.