Penemue's Inferno

by Ramy Vance

  The father nods and asks his boy to lie down on the hard stone. The boy does so.

  Then the father pulls out a hunting knife and—

  “Oh my,” Penemue says, flying out of his stoop in Heaven and down to Earth.

  ↔

  The boy from the river is dead, sacrificed to gods who are indifferent to his death. Sacrificed because his father has seen him with an angel and assumed the gods wanted this.

  Because he believed his son was marked.

  Picking up the boy’s body, Penemue washes him, preparing him for burial. Tears of light stream down the angel’s cheeks as he carefully prepares the grave, and slowly, with the tenderness of one who truly loved the boy, lowers him in.

  Standing over his friend’s empty shell of a body, Penemue covers him with sand and rocks. Then, using a bit of magic, he removes his tattoo from his own neck and marks the boy with his name.

  “Your name in writing,” Penemue says to the departed boy. “To carry with you in the next world. I am only sorry that I did not give this to you sooner.”

  ↔

  Penemue wonders how it is that the boy’s own father could do such a thing. He reads from the Book of Souls, determined to find a reason.

  There is no reason.

  No logic.

  No sense to the deed.

  But from his research, Penemue has gleamed a theory born from thousands of souls, millions of pages of research.

  Humans are afraid.

  Afraid of the seasons—and how the spring and summer months may not provide another harvest for them to survive another winter.

  Afraid of the thunder and lightning—believing them to be the tantrums of angry gods, and wary of the burden they must bear if such a tantrum were directed at them.

  Afraid of what they have no control over—famine, drought and disease, certain that such burdens are divine punishment for some misdeed or insult.

  Why would they think otherwise? They are ignorant to the natural order of the world.

  Of course they are afraid.

  And what do humans do when afraid?

  Lash out in violence against anything and everything they believe may have caused that fear.

  And so Penemue travels to the four corners of the Earth, where he selects a handful of disciples in each location and begins the arduous task of teaching simple creatures the power of language and its written form.

  He teaches them so that they will trade superstition for science, destructive emotions for logic—fear for knowledge.

  ↔

  “Enough,” the archangel Michael booms. “His sin has been displayed for all to see. His intent is clear. It is now up to the council to determine his fate. Raguel—judgement.”

  The archangel of justice nods solemnly. “Guilty. He had full knowledge of his crime and still committed it willingly.” Raguel sets a handful of feathers on the scale, tipping it toward Penemue’s oblivion. Should the scale tip fully to the left, Penemue will be destroyed. To the right, and he will be absolved and forgiven.

  “Gabriel,” Michael summons. “Are his past deeds enough to offset his crime?”

  Gabriel shakes her head. “Only his connection to the Book of Souls speaks in his favor. But that is worth just a monogram of weight to offset his sin.” Then Gabriel places several feathers against Penemue, plucking only a single feather from the pile and placing it on the right side of the scale.

  “Agreed,” Haniel says. “He knew what he was doing, and did so for sentimental reasons. Sentiment does little to counterweigh Divine Justice.” She, too, places her mound against Penemue, again only taking a single feather to place in his favor.

  “Very well, then,” Michael says. “Oblivion shall be—”

  “Hold,” Miral says. “Mercy has yet to speak.”

  Michael growls at Miral’s intervention. “Very well, then. Miral, Angel of Mercy, how plead you?”

  “The angel Penemue defied the gods—there is no doubt of that. But he did so for the only reason that supersedes Divine Justice.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  “Love, Archangel Michael. Love.” And with that word, Miral places a single feather in his favor, and the scale balances. Such is the power of mercy.

  The Scale of Justice. To the left, death. To the right, salvation.

  But balanced … that is another matter altogether.

  “Very well, then,” Michael bellows. “He lives. But he is not innocent, and thus condemned to the only place suitable for marred angels.” And before Penemue can say a word, Michael floats down until he is level with the rebel angel and kicks him.

  Out of Heaven.

  And into Hell.

  ↔↔↔

  But that was eons ago. Now the gods are gone.

  And with their departure, Penemue has fallen—again. And again.

  His first fall was to Hell.

  His second was to Earth, the day the gods departed.

  ↔

  Just before his third fall, Penemue lost his dear friend, another child by the name of Sinbad.

  Sinbad was more than his friend—she was his second chance. A second chance to help a being in need, undo some of the wrong he’d done, finally do something right … if only for one person.

  When she dies, something within the angel breaks. And because, as the fates have it, he stands next to a Creation Crystal, he creates his own hell, his own inferno, so that its flames might punish him from now until forever.

  Walking through the portal, Penemue falls once again. And as he does, he wonders if there’s a limit to how many times one can fall without breaking.

  As the fiery ground of the hell of his creation rises up to meet him, he thinks he knows the answer, for Penemue believes with every ounce of his being that this time—this fall—will be his last.

  Portals to Hell and Dead Wives

  “There is this girl whom I love very much.” That was what I said to Bella the day I got down on one knee and, handing her a twist tie—the only ring I could afford at the time—proposed.

  “There is this girl whom I love very much.”

  Awkward, I know. But the truth was, I was lucky I could say anything. Even on one knee, my leg like a kickstand propping me up, I trembled. So much so, I thought I would fall over and finish my marriage proposal flat on my back.

  She looked down at me and said, “Awkward.”

  Was that her answer? “Awkward?” Had I blown it because I couldn’t keep my shit together long enough to hand her a damn ring?

  But before despair could seep in, she jumped up and down, screaming and stomping her feet and crying out, “Good thing I’m into awkward,” before falling on me and taking me into her with everything she was.

  That night I ceased to be who I was … For I was no longer the weird, scrawny seventeen-year-old with an unhealthy obsession with 1980s toys.

  I became someone else.

  Someone better.

  Someone complete.

  That night, I became Bella’s—my whole heart and soul.

  That night I vowed that I would, in this life and the next, love her forever.

  ↔

  That night was almost fifteen years ago, and time had done absolutely nothing to dampen those feelings or to dull the yearning ache for her that burned within me.

  I’d loved her from the day I met her, and I’d loved her just as much every day following—even after she died.

  Especially after she died.

  So seeing her standing before me, a vision of life and health … I found myself utterly and completely wrecked, overwhelmed with joy that she was there.

  And terrified that this was an illusion. “I believe our love can make anything happen,” she had said to me that one, brief time I’d seen her in Heaven. But when she’d said anything, I couldn’t have imagined she meant … this.

  Bella stood in a portal that divided two worlds, Earth and Hell.

  “Bella, is that you?” I took a step toward the magical rift be
tween our worlds. As I drew nearer to her, I found my steps quickening. Fuck it—if this was an illusion, then I would let it wash over me and hope I died before I saw through the façade.

  A few more steps and I’d be by her side.

  Bella did not extend her arms toward me. She just stood at the divide like she was standing on the other side of a window pane. Not that I cared; if some kind of glass or shield or whatever separated us, I’d smash through it.

  I would smash through anything and everything if it meant feeling her embrace one more time.

  A strong hand stopped me as a voice shattered, “No, Jean!” I was thrown back with such force that my body tumbled several feet away from the shimmering portal.

  Getting to my feet, I saw that General Shouf had stopped me. Where the hell did she come from? I thought.

  But I knew enough about my old commander to realize that nothing the general did was coincidental. Her echolocation abilities alone must have told her about this rift the moment it happened. And being a good soldier, she hadn’t immediately engaged. Instead, she’d done what our training demanded: secure the perimeter, control the controllables, then deal with the fucked-up rift in reality.

  What she didn’t plan for was my uncontrollable desire to run into that very same fucked-up rift in reality. My unpredictable nature forced another part of our training to kick in … SSBS: Stop Stupid from Being Stupid.

  “What are you doing?” I screamed, scrambling to my feet, determined to get past the aigamuchab and to my wife.

  “She’s right,” Bella said. “You can’t join me on this side. Not without first knowing what’s at stake.”

  “Bella,” I said, “is that you? Really you?” My voice was desperate and as destroyed as I was, Shouf’s actions jarred me enough for some of my training to kick in.

  And my training was all about magic and illusions, and how they could be used to devastating effect.

  That person might not be Bella. Hell, for all I knew, that was some nine-armed, praying-mantis-like demon who would literally bite my head off mid-hug.

  But that was Bella. Bella!

  Training be damned, I thought as I tried to push past General Shouf. I’d rather die to the illusion of her than live another fifty years in this reality.

  Bella raised a hand. “Promise me that you won’t come charging through.”

  “Bella, I—”

  “Promise me.” Her voice was firm, resolute—the tone she used to end any one of our thousand arguments back when she was alive. That voice could command a glacier to swim against the currents, and it stopped me in my tracks.

  “I promise.” I no longer struggled against General Shouf.

  When Bella was sure that I wouldn’t move again, she rubbed her hands against her thighs like she was trying to flatten the creases in her dress. That was something Bella always did when she was about to say something difficult to hear.

  “Yes, it’s me, Jean. It really is.” A tear caught in her eye, reflecting the lights on the prison island.

  She sounded like her, she looked like her … All the nervous gestures and tics that make a person who they are.

  “Prove it, Specter,” General Shouf said, her voice shattering me back to reality.

  “Shouf—” I started, but the aigamuchab lifted a silencing hand.

  “This specter could be an illusion feeding off your memories of her. A trap designed to lure you inside.”

  “But …” I stopped. The general was right—this could be any number of things, all of them bad.

  Only one option good, I thought, looking at Bella.

  But whereas I was trained (and that training was kicking in), Judith was not. “It is her,” she said, and the normally stern, hard ghost of my mother-in-law floated uneasily. “That’s my daughter.”

  “I have travelled everywhere, and never have I seen such a rift between worlds. Nor have I witnessed the return of one long dead. That is not your daughter, but a construct, an illusion,” General Shouf shattered at Judith.

  Judith looked away, unable to bring herself to look at either General Shouf or Bella. She appeared overwhelmed and retreated into herself, silently floating toward and away from the portal, as if caught in the gentle ebb and flow of a current.

  Judith didn’t know what to think, and she was waiting for evidence of what I knew she was praying for … That this was, indeed, her daughter Bella.

  Bella took General Shouf’s accusations in stride; the only indication that they’d had any effect on her was the continuous rubbing of her hands against her dress. “How?” Bella asked.

  “How what?” General Shouf said.

  “How can I prove to you that I am who I claim to be, when you will just say I’m feeding off his memories—or all of your memories, for that manner? Anything I say or do will be attributed to that. The only thing I can do is point to the logic of what’s happening here.”

  General Shouf, confident I wasn’t going to try anything stupid like jumping through a portal into—quite literally—Hell, turned to face Bella. She folded her arms in the way a teacher does when preparing to hear some bullshit excuse from a student. “Go ahead. What is happening here?”

  “The angel Penemue’s grief has created this place”—she gestured around her—“which shouldn’t be possible. I can only assume a Creation Crystal is somewhere nearby.”

  Now it was Bella’s turn to fold her arms, mocking the general’s bravado.

  I started to speak, but General Shouf lifted another silencing hand. I took it without protest because, manners aside, the aigamuchab was far better equipped to sniff out a trap than I.

  “Perhaps, but Creation Crystals are not something about which mortals are aware. Jean is.” She pointed at me. “But his knowledge of such magic only came to him after you died. Which is proof you are feeding off his memories.”

  That thought hit me like a ton of bricks. General Shouf was right: I had only recently learned about Creation Crystals when I stopped the apocalyptic monster Tiamat from destroying Paradise Lot.

  It was during that encounter I’d learned how the crystals were used by the gods as—for lack of a better word—batteries to power the creation stuff, like heavens and hells and life. You know, the gods’ equivalent of tinkering.

  “So, if this is you,” the general continued, “then step through the portal. Reunite with your human mate and live.”

  I pointed at Shouf. “I like her argument.” Oh, how I wished my wife would take just a few steps forward. Into our world. Into my arms.

  Bella shook her head, staring down at her feet the way she always did when she really wanted something, but knew she couldn’t have it. “I fear that if I step through, I won’t be able to get back inside. This portal may be a one-way valve in … but not out.” She looked at her mom, a tear finally escaping her eyes. “I want nothing more than to step out and give you the biggest, baddest hug ever. But I can’t—not with so much at stake.”

  “Oh, honey—” Judith said.

  “At stake?” General Shouf shattered, her voice cutting through any hope of a sweet moment happening here. “What is at stake?”

  Bella turned to General Shouf, pursing her lips. I knew that look. She had a secret to tell and wasn’t about to spill it … not to the aigamuchab, at least.

  General Shouf must have sensed that this would be a dead end, because the Other waved a hand. “More trickery. You claim to be a spirit of this man’s long-departed wife. But spirits are the intact essence of the dead. That can no longer be, for when the gods left, death became final. There are no spirits, no beings to occupy any of the heavens and hells. There’s nothing.”

  “True.” She gave the general a wry smile. “But there can be exceptions. Paths in and out that can be accessed with knowledge and …”—she turned to me and gave me the familiar I have a surprise for you look—“I’m going to blow your mind with what I’ve learned up there.”

  She pointed to the heavens above.

  “Up where?�
�� General Shouf turned to me, her muscles tense as she tried to make peace with what she was seeing and what she knew. “I need information, soldier.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Bullet points, then.”

  “Six years ago, with the help of several powerful Others, Bella was trying to locate Heaven—as in, capital-H Heaven. They found where that plane of existence hid, and a particularly powerful Other sent Bella’s soul there.”

  My heart literally sank as I said those last words. It was more like they butchered Bella, killing her with all the ceremony of an Aztec human sacrifice. And I had been powerless to stop them. At the time I had thought she was dead, until that same Other who had sacrificed her came back and, through more insanity, temporarily opened up Heaven with Bella in it.

  “Heaven?” General Shouf shattered. If she found that little tidbit of information disturbing, she made no show of it, simply asking the one question I’d been asking myself since seeing Bella. “If you are trapped in Heaven, then why are you here?”

  Bella shook her head. “I don’t know. All I can say is that I felt a great sorrow rise up before I was drawn here, to this place. I saw the rift, heard Jean’s voice … and well, you know the rest.”

  “But you knew that it was the angel Penemue’s construction. How?”

  She nodded. “Heaven and Hell have certain rules, and one is that entry can only be granted by a gatekeeper. I think he summoned me here to play that role.”

  “Why you?” I asked.

  “Heaven and Hell require a human gatekeeper—the capital-H versions, at least. And since I am literally the only human soul left in either domain … voila.” She gave a curtsey before rubbing her hands against her dress in that impatient way.

  I gave her a look that said, What’s that about? It was the same look I’d given her a thousand times when searching for an answer to a question neither of us wanted to ask out loud.