Circle V:
The Angry and the Sullen
Her forehead hit the refrigerator, and she felt her eyes
crossing. She collapsed onto the tile, clutching the wound. There was blood.
"Damn it, Bobby," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper,
"Just stop it. Please."
She turned and sat with her back against the refriger-ator
door. The man towered over her, his cheeks flushed with rage. His hands
worked furiously at the air before him, opening and closing spasmodically.
He seemed to be clutching at invisible objects, breaking them, reaching
for more.
"Damn me?" he shouted, stepping close. "Damn you, girl!"
His foot shot out, catching her in the jaw. She reeled,
thrown again to the floor. Her chin cracked hard against the tile and her
mouth filled with blood.
"Please...," she managed, "I didn't do anything... It
was an accident..."
She clenched her teeth against a rising nausea and pulled
herself across the floor. A wooden kitchen chair stood away from the table
and she put it between them, crouching behind it, leaning heavily.
The man crossed to her; he was smiling now. He sat down,
straddling the chair, his arms folded across its back.
"What's that you said, Baby?" He reached out to stroke
her blood-matted hair. "You say you gonna get a job? Pay for it all yourself?"
"Sure, Bobby, whatever you say... I'll get a job and..."
The hand in her hair closed into a fist. He pulled her
face close to his, his free hand snaking to her throat.
"Do you have any idea what it's gonna cost to fix that
car? Do you?"
She tried to shake her head No, but when she moved, his
grip on her throat tightened. Her eyes began to bulge, pushed forward by
the trapped blood.
"And don't flash those sweet puppy dogs at me, Baby,"
he crooned, "'cause they won't help you. I'm gonna be working eighty hours
a week to pay for what you done, so don't think you're not gonna pay..."
He released her hair and raised his fist to strike. The
blow threw her free of his choke-hold and sent her sprawling across the
floor, gulping for air.
"That's you first installment," he said, suddenly standing
beside her. "And here comes the interest."
His booted foot shot out again, this time catching her
in the ribs. She flew back. A sharp crack sounded as her head connected
with the edge of the sink. She crumbled to the floor, her body numb.
"What'sa matter, Baby? Don't like your new job?"
She heard his words, but it no longer mattered. A black
pit lay open before her and she was already falling into it. It was already
over.
* * *
"We've finished the scan of this sector, Sir. She's gone."
Virgil returned the tiny radio to its clip on his belt. He waited in silence
for the Archon to react to the news.
The angel before him was tall and narrow. His softly
glowing robes clung tightly to his thin frame, giving him the appearance
of a stick of light, a self-contained beam projected into the unfriendly
environment of the Fifth Circle. His golden hair hung loose past his shoulders,
unaffected by the chill wind that bent the waist-high grass around him,
that whipped the foul waters of the marsh into foam. His bird-like features
were pinched with concentration as he weighed Virgil's report against the
twisted, lifeless body at his feet.
"She's escaped, then. Start a scan of Level Four. She'll
appear there soon."
"At once, Archon."
Virgil again raised the transceiver to give the order.
He clipped the radio to his belt, then turned to follow the angel up the
narrow path that led away from the Pool.
"What you're saying isn't possible," he said, his cheeks
puffing as he hurried to close the space between them. "Escape, I mean.
No one has escaped from Hell since you sealed the Gate against The Invader,
since he kidnapped Rebecca and stole your Jews from Limbo."
The tangled underbrush whipped painfully against Virgil's
legs as he tore through it, fighting to match the Archon's steady pace.
The cold wind sang mournfully in his ears, drowning out the cries of the
Damned who called him to return, to show mercy.
"To escape from one's Circle is not to escape from Hell,"
the angel answered. He stopped to fix Virgil with a dark, penetrating gaze.
The Archon's eyes were tiny points of shadow set deep
into his luminous face. The intensity of their focus rooted Virgil to the
path. He lowered his head apologetically.
"The Law of Retribution is a masterpiece, a work of art,"
the angel said. "It has cradled you mortals since the dawn of Creation,
protected you from your weakness, guaranteed your place in the Divine Plan.
But art demands symmetry, Virgil. In order to function, the Law must be
internally balanced. It must provide at least a minor clause of Compensation.
He raised a thin, glowing arm toward the marsh behind
them, toward the battered form washed up on its shore.
"To have found the loophole the Law provides proves she's
clever," he continued. "To make use of it, though, she'll have to prove
much more than cleverness. The Law provides for the possibility of escape,
yes, but Grace through Retribution is no easy road. The clause requires
her to back out, level by level, to suffer the fruits of each Circle in
turn before passing on to the next. But she'll never survive. The Law provides
for that as well."
The angel turned and started again up the path. Virgil
followed in silence, the hostile wind cutting painfully through his tunic.
"Yes, a rare few have tried to experience their way out
before," the Archon added as they hurried away. "But none have reached
the Vestibule. With each level, the gravity of sin lessens, and it becomes
harder and harder to die. It becomes increasingly difficult to remain
innocent, a faultless victim of the crimes which define the Circle. She'll
make a mistake, Virgil, and then we'll have her."
They followed the path as it angled right and began a
steep incline. The Thrashing Pool disappeared behind them. The wailing
wind stopped short as if suddenly sealed off behind an invisible barrier.
They had entered the Fourth Circle.
Circle IV:
The Avaricious and the Prodigal
The wooden doorframe splintered as the door pushed free
of its moorings. The heavy door flew inward, crashing to a stop against
the desk. A sheaf of papers exploded into the air as a startled cat dove
away from the desk, hit the ground, and disappeared into the hallway, rushing
between the legs of the dark figure that hovered there.
The shadow entered the room slowly, taking gradual shape
under the soft moonlight that streamed through the open bedroom window.
"I didn't wake you up, did I?"
The man stood at the foot of the bed, surveying the frightened
couple who lay before him. The girl was naked, her pale limbs wrapped tight
around the darker, Puerto Rican boy. The boy was sitting up now, scrambling
to pull covers over their bodies, to protect his woman from the cold gaze
of the intruder.
"What you want?" the boy said, his voice burning with
hatred. "Where you get off busting into my house, tearing things up..."
"I came for the money, Tony." A semi-automatic pistol
glinted in the moonlight as the intruder raised it level with the boy's
chest. "You promised it by Tuesday, Tony. Where you been?"
I've been on the streets, Mr. Vitali," Tony answered,
the angry bravado now gone from his voice, "Using your money to make a
deal. There's a big payoff coming. I just need a few more days..."
"You're stupid, Tony," the man interrupted. He shook
his head in mock-disbelief. "You lied to me when you borrowed the money,
and you're lying to me now. I checked your deal, Tony. It don't exist.
All you done with my money was buy two tickets to Brazil."
The man leaned forward and put a hand on the sheet, feeling
for the girl's soft leg. She tried to jerk away, but her foot was caught,
twisted in the material. He gripped her shin and forced the leg still.
He pressed the nose of the gun against the bridge of her foot, then looked
back to the boy.
"Two tickets, Tony?" He nodded toward the frightened
girl and smiled. "Your own life ain't worth shit, and I know you know it.
But maybe she matters to you, eh? Where's my money?"
"Don't do it, Man. Don't hurt her. She's got nothin'
to do with this. Give me a couple of days..."
The foot exploded as bullets poured into it, tearing
through the mattress, piercing the floor. The girl screamed and flung herself
on the intruder, her sharp nails digging deep into his neck. He threw her
back onto the bed where she curled up, a broken doll, clutching Tony's
bare chest, screaming.
"Shit!" Tony shouted. He threw himself over the girl
and twisted the sheet frantically around the stump. The girl bit his side,
then went limp, lost in shock.
"You're next, Tony," the man said. His voice was shaking
now, but his hand remained steady as he raised the gun. "The money?"
"All right!" Tony pushed the unconscious girl aside and
scrambled over to a chest of drawers against the far wall. He reached out
to open the top drawer.
"Wait," the man said. "Get back on the bed."
Tony froze, the drawer in his hands. He stepped slowly
away, following the direction of the gesturing pistol. He sat on the edge
of the bed, his face in his hands. He began to cry.
The man circled around the weeping boy without lowering
the gun. He opened the drawer to find a briefcase and a thirty-eight caliber
revolver.
"You are so stupid, Tony," he said, his voice again steady.
"Did you really think I wouldn't watch you? That you wouldn't get caught?"
He raked the bureau clean with an angry thrust, sending
a shower of loose change and trinkets clattering to the floor. He pulled
out the briefcase and set it into the cleared space. He popped the locks.
"Take the money and get out," Tony said. He turned away,
focusing on the girl. The makeshift tourniquet had slipped. Blood was again
flowing from the wound, pooling on the mattress.
"Where's the rest of it, Tony?" the man said. He looked
from the briefcase to the boy and back again.
"What rest of it?" Tony asked without turning, his voice
incredulous. "It's all there."
"I mean the interest. You knew the terms when you borrowed
it."
Tony spun towards the man. He stood and slowly advance
until the gun lay pressed against his forehead. Sweat rolled across the
barrel, dripping down to touch the man's fingers.
"Fuck you," Tony rasped. "You've got all you're ever
gonna get from me."
His eyes met the man's pitiless gaze. He held, counting
the seconds: one... two... three...
His nerve failed. He turned and walked back to the bed,
defeated. He curled up beside the injured girl, his back to the man.
"Just get out of here," he said. "Please. Just leave
us alone."
"You got it, Shitball." The man snapped the briefcase
closed and carried it to the doorway. He paused, turned back. "Hey, Tony?"
"What." The boy was crying again.
"Catch."
A rain of bullets traced a slow arc across the room,
cutting a line through the bed. The young bodies thrashed against the mattress,
then blended, a single, fleshy lump. The bed collapsed, its supports halved
by the concen-trated fire.
The gun's barrel was a glowing point in the darkness,
marking the man's trail as he retreated through the shadowy hallway.
* * *
"There," the angel said, pointing.
They were standing on the edge of the Great Quarry. A
desert of granite stretched out before them, its angry reds and browns
glowing under a pitiless, stationary sun.
The trail had bottomed out on the lip of an immense cavity
that seemed scooped whole from the desert's burning floor. Below, Virgil
could make out two lines of boulders moving slowly together, meeting at
the center of the circular pit. When the rocks clashed, there was an angry
shout, a harsh cry of indignation, insults and threats. The shouting continued
as the boulders began to move, inexorably, apart.
"No, Virgil, there. To the side."
Virgil followed the angel's pointing finger with his
eyes, squinting hard against the glare that rose off the scorched rock
floor. He could make out nothing smaller than the slowly separating boulders.
"Come on," the angel said. He disappeared over the lip.
Virgil crept forward and peered, cautiously, over the
edge. An impossibly steep stairway was cut into the stone wall, dropping
away to meet the hard floor of the Quarry at an almost perfect right angle.
The Archon was already far below, moving quickly along the treacherous
path.
Virgil took a deep breath and followed. He scooted over
the edge, found the first precarious step with his toes. He had to face
the stone wall, gripping the steps above him for purchase, descending the
narrow stair like a ladder.
"This way," the angel said as Virgil, his legs shaking,
stumbled over the last steps to land in a heap on the hard ground. "Behind
those rocks."
The path ahead was obscured by a huge, conical spire
of red granite. It towered overhead, its wide base gradually refining to
a tiny spearpoint in the sky. A gigantic rounded boulder hung balanced
on the spire's narrow tip. It rocked gently in the occasional scorching
breeze, threatening at any moment to forget its station and join its smaller
companions in the arena.
Virgil followed the angel into the seductively shaded
area at the spire's base. He made his way slowly, carefully navigating
the jagged outcroppings that marked the end of the path. When he reached
the far side, he found the Archon waiting.
"She made it out," the angel said. "Look."
A large amorphous object, the remains of a shattered
bed, lay nestled among the rocks to the right of where the path started
again. A thin trail of blood traced a snaking line from the bed to the
lower, even ground of the path. A thick puddle was already collecting at
the glowing angel's feet.
Virgil turned from the sight, taking a few abortive steps
ahead along the path. He stopped, breathing heav-ily. The hot, dry air
filled his lungs, pushed back the nausea that threatened to drag him to
the ground.
With his back to the angel, his voice tinned with controlled
effort, he said, "Shall I start the scan of Level Three?"
"At once," the angel answered. He was already moving
swiftly past the shaking man, hurrying up the trail that led around and
out of the quarry. "And we'll have to increase our pace if we expect to
catch her there as she enters. She's not stopping to rest, so neither can
we."
Circle III:
The Gluttons
Luthor trapped the steering wheel in the folds of his
wide belly. He raised the beer can, letting his head fall back until he
was looking at the dirty fabric of the car's ceiling. The can emptied and
he rocked his head forward, a great swallow forcing the beer down. He let
out a long, satisfied belch as he crushed the can and tossed it behind
him. It clattered against the window, then settled into the mound of empty
cans and fast food wrappers that already overflowed the back seat.
"I need music," he said, his speech slurring. "And another
beer."
He flicked on the radio and twisted the tuning dial until
the car was filled with the soulful twang of steel guitar. He leaned back,
letting the sounds wash over him. He smoothed his thinning, sweat-soaked
hair with one large hand.
"Yep," he said through a deep, drunken sigh. "That's
what I needed, all right."
He turned to the passenger seat for another beer. The
steering wheel was pressed tightly into his round stomach and, as he moved,
the wheel moved with him. The car swerved onto the shoulder of the dark
highway.
"Well, shit."
He took the wheel in both hands and jerked the car back
into the empty lane. He wrapped one thick arm securely through the wheel,
then groped again for the six pack. He twisted a can free of the plastic
ring, popped it open, and took a long swig.
His attention was suddenly snared by a dark swirl of
motion ahead.
"What'sat?" he mumbled.
He angled toward it. The beam of his headlights revealed
a brown sedan on the highway's edge. A woman stood beside the car, waving
frantically.
"Must'a blown a tire..."
He dropped his beer into a holder in the door and tried
to focus on the waving form. It seemed to bounce in and out of his vision,
doubling and receding, blurring when he looked to the parked car, the car
blurring when he focused on the woman.
"Guess I better stop..."
As he neared the stranded woman, he jerked the wheel
to the right, aiming for the space behind the sedan. The car heaved, tires
screeching, the sharp motion slamming his body against the door. His foot
missed the brake and landed instead on the accelerator.
Time slowed. In the bright circle thrown by his headlights,
Luthor watched his bumper bite deeply into the sedan's side. The woman's
legs came off, instantly crushed out of sight. Her severed torso hit his
windshield and their eyes met, briefly exchanging wide stares of horror
and surprise before she continued on, bouncing onto and over the top of
his car to land with a dull clap on the pavement behind.
* * *
Virgil raised his hood and cinched the cord tightly under
his chin, leaving only his round face exposed to the cold, unceasing rain.
The driving hailstones that beat against his back and head seemed to be
avoiding the spot where the angel stood, so Virgil moved away from the
metal origami of the interwoven cars and crossed to stand beside him. He
kept his eyes focused on the gray distance, allowing the steady barking
that echoed through the valley and the sour stench rising from the soft
ground to overwhelm his senses, to pull them, mercifully, away from the
broken form at his feet.
"She's good," the angel said. "She has a rare determin-ation,
this one. I admire her stamina."
He knelt beside the partial body and prodded it gently
with his fingertips. He raised the dampened fingers to his nose, sniffing
the blood; it was fresh.
"But she can't be that good," he continued, his voice
sharp. "There are limits to how much Punishment a mortal soul can endure.
The Law is specifically designed to defeat those limits. The progress she's
made is simply not possible, unless..."
He reached to a patch of snow on the stinking ground
and worked the dark slush slowly between his hands, washing away the still-warm
blood. His eyes followed the rhythmic motion with enormous concentration,
as though expecting his long fingers to pry some secret from the murky
crystals.
"Of course, Virgil," he said finally, allowing his thoughts
to take shape in the bitter air, adding them to the slow weave of his hands.
"She's being helped. It's the only way."
He dropped the reddened snow and stood, eyes raised to
the gray expanse of the sky.
"Let's go, Virgil. The Invader's back, I'm sure of it.
I can sense his hand behind all of this. He's trying to beat us with our
own Law, strengthening her, advising her, calling her to Him with his lies
and false promises. If she makes it to the Gate, we're doomed."
"But the Gate is sealed..." Virgil stopped short as the
angel turned and fixed him in a burning gaze.
"It won't be if she reaches it, you fool! If she reaches
the Vestibule, if she fulfills that accursed clause, the Gate will open
for her. It has to by Law."
The Archon spun away and started up the path.
Virgil remained motionless, watching as the angel moved
swiftly away. The narrow form grew smaller, finally blurring as it advanced
into the sheeting rain.
He looked away, focusing first on the twisted wreckage
to his left, and then, for the first time, on the mangled body at his feet.
It trembled pitifully in the thick mud, pelted into motion by the dense
hail that had again begun to fall.
He folded his hands into a protective visor and looked
up, slowly scanning the bleak sky. Dark clouds boiled on the horizon, sweeping
rapidly forward as they dispensed their payload of Divine Wrath on the
Damned of the Third Circle.
"Is it better where you are, Rebecca?" he said to the
sky. "Are you happy there?"
The sky answered with a peal of thunder that shook the
ground beneath him. The rain, impossibly, poured down with even greater
fury. It forced his head down, forced his eyes back to the woman's broken
body.
"Why?" he demanded of the now spiritless corpse. "I have
to understand! Why are you doing this? Can a thief be such a good master?
Can you admire such treachery?"
He was answered again by thunder that crashed and echoed
into the distance. He turned away.
"Rebecca..."
He dropped his hands into the single wide pocket of his
tunic and crossed over to the path. He began to walk, head bowed, toward
the distant entrance to Level Two.
Circle II:
The Lustful
The sound of creaking hinges.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
She paused in her work, allowing the heavy brush to rest
against the horse's gleaming side. The horse shifted uneasily as she turned
to face the stable door.
"Who is it? Who's there?"
"It's me. Jake."
The voice was disembodied in the darkness. A hulking
silhouette gradually appeared, becoming a man as it stepped into the small
circle of the oil lamp's shifting glow.
The girl turned back to the horse. She renewed her long
brushstrokes, smoothing the soft ebony hide, calming the horse with a gentle
scratch behind the ears.
"What you want, Jake," she said. Her back stiffened.
"You got work for me in the house?"
"No," he said quietly. "I came to watch you work. Here."
He moved through the circle of light thrown by the lamp
and took a seat on a bale of straw at the circle's periphery. He leaned
forward, his forearms braced on his thighs, his big hands folded before
him. When he spoke again his voice was low, almost a whisper.
"I been watching you for a long time. I been watching
you every day."
The brush slowed against the horse's side, then exploded
in a brisk staccato. The animal pulled away, frightened by the unfamiliar
touch.
"I seen you watching me, Jake," she said coldly. "I felt
your eyes on me."
The crackle of footsteps on straw.
"Then you been watching me, too?"
"No..."
The brush stopped as a meaty hand gripped her wrist.
Another wrapped tightly around her hip.
"I knew it," he said, burning her cheek with his whiskeyed
breath. "I knew you loved me, too. I seen you looking back, wanting me..."
His body pressed against her as the hand moved up, roughly
cupping her right breast. She felt his lips caress her neck. Bourbon and
horse sweat mixed in her nostrils, choking her. She twisted, frantically,
free.
"Don't you ever touch me like that again, she said, her
voice an angry hiss. "I ain't no woman to you, Jake Ramsey. I your daddy's
property just like that old horse there. You wanna bed down with somebody
tonight, you go bed down with her."
The stable suddenly shifted and she was staring into
the high rafters, her back against the hard floor. The man was kneeling
beside her, wiping blood from her mouth with a grimy handkerchief.
"And don't you ever talk to me like that again," he was
saying from somewhere amidst the spinning wood beams. "A man offers you
his love, you show him respect."
She rolled away and sat up, facing the man. Her hand
moved to her tender lip, then to her hair. She pulled at the tangled straw
and looked away in silence, staring into the lamp's tiny flame.
"I'm sorry I had to hit you," he said, his words now
soft, wooing. "And I know you're sorry, too, for what you said. Ain't no
way for new lovers to behave, no way at all."
She looked now into his wet, red eyes, his smiling face
glowing yellow in the flickering light.
"This ain't love," she said flatly. "Love takes two."
He stood and circled behind her. He kneeled close, gripping
her shoulders.
"That's right," he said. "Two. You and me makes two."
He pushed her slowly forward, his weight crushing her
chest and stomach to the floor.
"No, Jake... Don't... Please..."
"Hush now," he said.
She fought for breath as he raised himself up, his forearm
braced against her shoulder blades. The soft clink of a loosening belt.
The momentary cold of her thin dress being raised. The sickening heat of
flesh against flesh as he took her from behind.
He finished and rolled away, spent. Her breath returned
and she began to cry, curling her knees painfully to her chest, pushing
blindly at the tattered fabric of her dress, covering herself, covering
the blood stained straw beneath her.
He stood, quickly fastened his clothing, then sat again
beside her. He stared off into the darkness outside the lamp's domain,
his eyes filled with confusion, then rage, then, finally, resolve. The
wooing kindness vanished from his voice.
"You're right," he said. "You don't love me."
He rocked gently back and forth, his arms wrapped around
his shins, his head resting on his knees.
"No," he continued, still reasoning more with the darkness
than with the girl shivering beside him, "Just listen to you blubber. You
don't love me at all. Now I got myself a problem."
He stood and disappeared from the circle of light. When
he returned, he carried a thick board, the bolt from the stable door.
"Stand up," he said.
The girl remained on the floor, weeping.
"Stand up!"
She pulled herself weakly up, balanced for a moment on
hands and knees, then slowly stood. She faced him, her puffy eyes not seeing.
"Turn around," he said. "Face the horse."
She continued to face him, but allowed herself to be
turned as he took her arm and moved her toward the open stall.
"I could'a changed your life," he said, his voice low
and cold. "You could'a been my woman. You could'a got special treatment.
Now you're just a problem."
She watched over her shoulder as he raised the board.
"Face the horse!"
She jerked her head away, her eyes tightly pinched against
fresh tears.
"No," he continued. "You're not special. I can see that
now. You're just another ungrateful..."
The sharp splinter of bone as her skull exploded. The
horse reared in its stall, hooves flailing angrily toward the man.
"That's right," the man said. "You'll get the blame,
all right. You sure will."
He crossed the circle of light to the stable door, carrying
with him the blood spattered plank.
"Damned horse always was a kicker."
* * *
Virgil steadied himself against the trunk of a bent tree,
his neck craned toward the sky, his eyes focused on the edge of the Whirlwind
of Desire.
"Archon!"
The angel moved to his side. The roaring wind subsided
in the space around them and Virgil stepped away from the tree, his arm
stretched out to indicate a rapidly darkening spot on the storm's fringe.
"That's her," he said. "We're too late."
A wraith was solidifying within the Whirlwind. It darkened
as its density increased, its weight dragging it down and away from the
storm's raging heart. It circled slowly past them in its widening orbit,
then dropped at their feet as it attained full corporeality.
"No!" the Archon shouted.
He lashed out, rolling the headless body with a brutal
kick. It settled on its back. The wind pulled gently at its tattered dress,
lifting the fabric to expose the thin legs, the flat stomach. The angel
spun away, seething, his glowing hands clenched into tight fists at his
sides.
Virgil raised his eyes from the exposed flesh, but remained
beside the body. He stared again into the Whirlwind, waiting for the angel's
immediate rage to pass. Finally, he turned.
"Archon," he said, his tone controlled, even. "Sir, I've
been thinking, reasoning out this situation. I believe we should let her
go. We should stop our pursuit."
The angel's hands opened. He turned slowly, his golden
glow deepening to a rich amber. He trapped Virgil in his dark gaze, pulling
the man rigid. He held him for a long and penetrating moment.
The angry glow softened as the angel's expression sank
from rage to sorrow. He released his companion.
"You, too, Virgil?"
He looked away into the maelstrom and took a step toward
Virgil, bringing their bodies close. He spoke into Virgil's ear, his gentle
tone made loud by proximity.
"Don't be so quick to judge your self-deception reasonable,
old friend," the angel said. "You're thinking, no doubt, that should the
Gate open, should the Invader take you away, you may at last be reunited
with your beloved Jewess?"
Virgil stiffened, but forced his expression to remain
impassive. His breath became shallow as the muscles of his chest pulled
tight across his ribs.
"But you must face the truth!" the angel continued, his
voice now even softer, consoling. "You have served me these many centuries,
accepted my enemy as your own, because He has wronged you, stolen from
you that which you most cherish. He has taken away your beloved, your only
hope of happiness."
The angel reached up and cupped Virgil's face in his
hands. He turned his companion's eyes to face him, to witness the crystalline
tears forming on his own shadowy lids. He became emphatic:
"But that is a lie, Virgil! We both know it!"
His voice again softened.
"We were both there, Virgil. We saw it happen. The Invader
did not steal your Jewess. She went with Him. Willingly. Given one ounce
of choice, she abandoned you, Virgil. She chose His love over yours. She
walked out as they all eventually do..."
He spun away, turned his back to Virgil's stricken face.
He seemed to shrink into himself, curling forward into the embrace of his
own tightly wrapped arms. His narrow spine pushed a bright, twisting crease
into the back of his robe.
"... As they all most certainly will," he finished, his
voice barely audible, "the moment the Gate opens. He will not have to steal
what I love, Virgil. They will choose him. They will leave. I sympathize
with your pain."
The wind began to rage around and between them. The angel
drew a long breath, straightening himself until he stood again, tall and
composed. His arms dropped to his sides. The wind subsided.
"You mortals have never understood my love," he said.
"You have no appreciation, no loyalty. I am sometimes sorry I ever created
you."
Circle I:
Virtuous Pagans and Unbaptized Infants
The boy sat on the wide wooden step playing a nervous
mumblety-peg. He pried the penknife loose and plunged it again into the
scarred wood between his shoes. He looked to his father, leaving the knife
to wobble forlornly in the soft moonlight.
"How much longer?" he asked.
"Soon," his father replied. "These things take time,
but soon, I'd imagine."
He freed his son's penknife from the step and began to
pack the bowl of his pipe with the handle. They sat together quietly, watching
the silver moon rise over dusty fields. They listened intently to the soft
whir of crickets as they waited anxiously for the inevitable sound that
would end their exile from the house, the infantile cry that would inform
them that everything was over and all right within.
"AAAiiiYEEE!!!"
"Quiet!" The angel knelt and leaned over the dark edge
of the Abyss. He cupped a glowing hand to his ear. "Did you hear that,
Virgil?"
Virgil stopped. He listened to the mournful cries rising
from the limitless pit and frowned.
"I hear Limbo," he said. "That's all."
The angel stood.
"No, Virgil. I heard a scream. I heard pain."
He scampered lithely over the edge, stopping to see that
Virgil followed.
"Come on, Virgil. There's a ladder here. I'll light the
way."
Virgil held his ground, staring hopelessly into the Abyss
before him. His face grew dark. A faint mist rose into his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Virgil," the angel said. "I know how you
feel about Limbo. I promise you won't be stuck here again. If we stop her
now, I'll lead you back. If she succeeds, you'll be free to leave with
the rest of them. Please, Virgil. It's happening now. We've got to move
now."
A painful lump worked its slow way down and past Virgil's
esophagus. He raised a sleeve to his eyes and wiped away the mist.
"Of course, Archon," he said. "Of course you're right."
He moved to the ladder.
"AAAiiiYEEE!!!"
With the second scream Zeke was through the front door.
He charged through the dim living room, sending furniture flying in his
path, stopping only when he reached the sealed bedroom. He pounded his
fist on the doorframe.
"What's happening! What's wrong!"
"AAAiiiYEEE!!!"
The lock turned and the door drew slightly inward. A
small, sweat covered face appeared in the opening.
"Elizabeth? What is it?"
"Fetch the doctor, Zeke. It's breached. It ain't comin'
out."
"But..."
"Get the doctor! Go!"
The man ran, clattering, back through the disheveled
room and onto the porch. He passed his son without stopping, leaped the
wooden steps and continued on to the barn.
The boy stood and entered the house. He stuck his head
through the open bedroom door, listening.
"Mama?"
"Tom, get out!"
He jumped back to the porch and pulled the front door
gently closed. He heard the frantic patter of his father's horse already
fading into the distance.
"She's here somewhere," the angel said. "We'll follow
the sound."
They paused, waiting silently.
In the stygian void of the Abyss, the angel's glow seemed
impossibly amplified, creating a wide, phosphor-escent globe around them.
A procession of souls moved through the illuminated sphere, weeping, sighing,
crying out their hopeless appeals to be forgiven their naturally fallen
state.
"AAAiiiYEEE!!"
The Damned scattered over the smooth rocks in a noisy
wave, obscuring the cry as it echoed through the vast chamber.
"Quiet!" the angel shouted.
The wave fell silent, but his shout joined the cry of
pain, bounced with it from the distant, invisible walls, followed it ahead
into the murky darkness.
"Yes," the angel said. "This way. We'll head for
the Gate. That's where He'll be calling her."
Elizabeth dipped a towel in cool water and wrung it damp.
She wiped perspiration from the woman's fevered face, then moved on to
her burning neck, arms and bulging stomach. She returned the towel to the
water and started again.
"Don't you worry now," she said soothingly. "Zeke's gone
for the doctor. Should be back any minute. Just hold on, now. Everything'll
be fine."
"Nothing's fine!" The woman grabbed Elizabeth's arm,
stopping the towel's gentle motion. "Don't lie to me!"
She lifted her head to meet the midwife's eyes.
"Promise me," she continued. "Promise me you'll save
this child before you so much as think about me..."
Fiery pain shot from her midsection into her groin and
chest. She doubled forward, gripping her knees, fighting back the
scream. She lifted her head.
"Promise me!"
Elizabeth pulled the woman close, rocked her gently.
"I promise," she whispered. She kissed the woman's hair,
smoothed it with a gentle hand. "I promise."
"AAAiiiYEEE!"
"There!" the angel shouted. "I was right! She's just
ahead!"
Virgil had to run to keep up with the barreling angel.
He slipped on the wet rocks and tumbled to the path, his leg caught between
the stones. He could feel the Damned moving restlessly around him, approaching
him.
"Wait!"
The brilliant globe was already far ahead along the path.
He watched it hesitate, moving first toward him, then away, toward and
away. Finally it began to move swiftly in his direction until the angel
appeared at his side. Virgil reached for the outstretched, glowing hand.
"I can see her, Virgil. She's almost to the Gate."
The angel pulled him free and they renewed their rapid
pace. Virgil hung close to the Archon's luminous body, trusting him to
lead. He dropped his eyes to the path and concentrated on navigating the
slippery rocks.
"There!" the angel cried. "She's coming through!"
Virgil looked up.
The door burst and Zeke stumbled into the bedroom.
The doctor followed, clutching his bag.
"Elizabeth," Zeke said. "Why didn't you open the door?
What's happened?" He moved to his wife's side. "Honey?"
He smelled the stale blood.
Elizabeth lay huddled against the far wall, her limbs
curled tightly around her. She held the damp towel to her face and forced
her words out between deep, shuddering tears.
"It's too late. She's gone."
"No..."
Zeke stared down into his wife's vacant eyes. He fell
on her, weeping.
"The baby..." Elizabeth said. "Save the baby...
I promised..."
The doctor felt the woman's cold forehead. He pushed
Zeke gently aside and raised the stained sheet. He frowned, dropped the
sheet, stepped away from the bed.
"I'm sorry," he said. He placed a consoling hand on Zeke's
shoulder. "It's too late. I'm sorry."
"It's your fault!" Elizabeth shouted. "You took too long
getting here! I promised! You... You..."
She dissolved again into tears.
The Vestibule
"She's materializing now!" the angel shouted. "Quick!
Into the Vestibule! We can destroy her there!"
They rushed past the slowly forming body and leaped
through the thin veil.
The tiny Vestibule was empty, save for the palpable odor
of death. Its thick darkness seemed to press against them, confining the
angel's glow to the narrow surface of his robes. The musty smells of decayed
wrappings and funeral spices choked them, forcing them, gasping, to their
knees.
Virgil felt the angel's hand on his shoulder.
"The Gate, Virgil."
Virgil looked around him in the darkness. His eyes slowly
adjusted and he made out the scene:
They were in a tomb. The thick walls curved into a cave-like
dome above them. A large, rounded stone sealed the entrance from the surface,
from the world of the living.
"I moved that stone myself," the angel said. He laughed,
choking. "But it remains to be seen if I can keep it there, if I can defeat
my own Law."
A shimmering wraith passed through the veil behind them.
It smoothly skirted the kneeling forms, moving without hesitation toward
the Gate.
"Stop her! Don't let her touch the stone!"
The angel leaped on the wraith. It pulled him along the
hard floor as it stumbled and fell, its arm stretched out desperately before
it.
Its finger, gently, grazed the stone.
The sound of thunder. The distant rumble of approach-ing
armies that crescendo into earthquakes that break in great tsunamis on
the shores of Apocalypse...
The stone rolled away. A raging brilliance stormed and
surged beyond the opening. It poured into the tomb and singed the gray
stones white.
The wraith slipped quietly through the Gate. The angel's
glowing hands grasped wildly at the empty air, then moved to his eyes.
A moment of silence and the rumble began again, this
time from behind.
The angel stood and silently faced the veil. He held
himself tall, his trembling jaw set against the approaching tide.
"Stop!" he shouted as the procession of souls broke through.
"Hear me out!"
The line moved swiftly around him, parting slightly before
the angel's rigid body, regrouping behind as they passed.
"The Invader lies to you! Nothing awaits you with Him
but servitude!"
The exodus continued. Wave after wave of Damned rushed
past to disappear into the blinding light beyond the Gate.
"You are mine!" the angel screamed. "I created you! I
forbid you to leave me!"
He raised his thin arms and began to run through the
room, knocking wraiths to the floor, pushing them together until they blocked
the opening. The room was soon packed tight as more and more Damned forced
their way through the shattered veil.
"You can't leave! Can't you see? I love you! You're all
I have!"
The angel lowered his arms. His head dropped and his
voice became soft.
"Please don't leave me. I did the best I could. Please
stay with me."
A wraith squirmed free of the pile and vanished into
the light. The procession started again with full force. The bowels of
Hell emptied swiftly past the softly weeping angel.
Virgil's Reason
"Archon?"
The procession was over. Hell was empty.
"Archon? Sir?"
The angel was seated on the tomb's stone couch, his head
sagging into his hands. Virgil turned from the bright doorway and crossed
to him.
"Sir?"
The angel raised his head.
"Virgil," he said. "What are you still doing here? Go
and join the others. Go find your Jewess."
Virgil walked slowly back to the Gate. He stared out
at the light beyond, but did not cross. He spoke without turning, his back
to his friend.
"Sir, I've been thinking," he said. "About the woman
I loved. About everything..."
"Don't say it, Virgil. The angel stood and moved to his
side. "Just go. Forget what you know and join her. There's nothing left
for you here. The old god dies and the new god makes the rules. You adjust."
Virgil turned slowly to face the Archon, his body between
the angel and the outer brilliance. The light burned against the sharp
outline of his body, creating a sparkling, corona-like glow.
"I don't like His rules, Sir," he said softly. "Look
what that woman went through to escape you, in His name. He claims to offer
freedom, but His liberation breeds only betrayal. You were right about
my Jewess. She abandoned me, destroyed me, made me incapable of happiness.
Now they have done the same to you."
He placed a glowing hand on the angel's shoulder. He
smiled.
"I sympathize with your pain. If there is nothing left
for me here, there's nothing left for me anywhere."
The angel walked slowly away, shaking his head. He paused
as he reached the shattered veil, turned back. For a long, silent moment,
he measured Virgil's shadowy gaze with his own.
"So much for your famous reason," he said. He chuckled
softly. "You're a fool, Virgil. A Damned fool at that. Thank you."
He crossed into Limbo. After only a slight hesitation,
Virgil followed.