by R. E. Vance
No light went in. Don’t get me wrong—the light went in, we just couldn’t see anything beyond the hole itself.
“Holy—” I started.
“Language,” Judith snapped.
“What? I was going to say ‘Holy physics-defying Hell, Batman.’ I mean, what did you think I was going to say? Holy shit? Holy fuck, maybe? I’d never say such vile words.”
“Jean,” Judith growled in that warning tone a tiger gives you just before mauling your eyes out.
“I’m just saying. It was you who assumed I was about to swear.” I lifted my hands in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger way, knowing full well that my mother-in-law had no problem shooting the messenger when said messenger was me.
But instead of another snide remark, Judith—ever the mature one—sighed before pinching the bridge of her nose in exaggerated exasperation (or maybe it was on-point exasperation … I can be pretty annoying) and said, “So light can get inside, but we can’t see it. Which means that we have no idea what’s inside. It could be anything.”
“It could,” Bella agreed. “But what we do know is that’s the entrance, and if we’re going to get Penemue before …”—she paused—“before he is consumed by this place, then we’d better get to it.”
“Yeah.” I narrowed my eyes as I examined my wife; Bella was holding back again. Whatever it was, it was obviously important, but also something she deemed not for us to know. Not yet. Which meant it was either some great danger or distraction, which in turn meant … “Holy shit,” I said, lifting a hand in Judith’s direction to stop her from being the language police. “You’re in danger here, aren’t you?”
↔
Judith eyed me before looking up at her daughter. “What is he talking about, honey?”
“I’m not in danger, Mom.” She gave me that look that said, Shut up.
I ignored it. “Bullshit,” I said. “You’re hiding something … something about this place, and you won’t tell us. That means you’re in danger.”
Bella folded her arms—her opening stance in every fight we’ve ever had. “How do you figure that, genius?”
“Because you’re hiding something—and don’t tell me you’re not. I know you far too well for that waste of time. And the only reason you hide anything is because you think it would be a distraction. But this is what I do …” I said, gesturing to our surroundings. “I’ve been in places like this before. So have you. Well, not like this, but you know, up there.” I pointed to the sky. “Which means that the only reason you won’t tell me everything you know is because you’re worried it’ll distract me. And the only thing that would distract me is something that’s affecting you and not the rest of us.”
Now it was my turn to fold my arms and wait for an answer.
This could go two ways: either she’d keep her arms folded and we’d get into it, or she’d uncross her arms and tell me what was up.
Bella did neither. Instead, she ran her hands through her hair before nervously flattening the sides of her dress. Shit—in Bella’s world that was a DEFCON 1 gesture. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s um … this. If we can’t get Penemue out of here—and soon—I’ll be stuck here, too.”
“What?” Judith and I said together.
I resisted the urge to call “jinx” and silence her for the rest of the trip. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not supposed to be here—I’m supposed to be in Heaven. But I was literally ripped away from my home up there and brought here against my will. As I came here, I knew what had happened, but not because I heard a voice or saw a vision. For lack of a better word, I remembered being here. Like I’d always been here and never up there.
“Every minute I spend here, I forget a bit of Heaven. I don’t know much, but in my time up there, I’ve learned a few things—lots of things—about how Heaven and Hell work. Hell is now. And if I forget what came before—if I can no longer dream of tomorrow—I’ll be stuck here forever.”
Bella stopped rubbing her hands against her dress and looked up at me. “But I knew that telling you as much would make you run through Hell.” She chuckled at the expression. Good ol’ Bella, always up for a smile or laugh no matter how bad things got. “And that’s how you make mistakes. That’s how you get hurt. So …” She let the last word hang.
“So, you didn’t tell me,” I said, nodding in understanding.
“Oh honey.” Judith pursed her lips. “Why were you brought here in the first place?”
Bella shook her head. “I’m not sure, but what I said earlier is my best theory. I am the only viable soul available. Literally. I am the only human soul to occupy any domain anywhere.”
“But you said that you were brought here as our guide.”
Bella nodded, gesturing around us. “I think so. This is, after all, Penemue’s construct. He was obsessed with Dante’s Inferno, Paradise Lost, Spencer’s Faerie Queene, Beowulf … all the epic poems. And they all had narrators and guides, characters whose sole purpose was to explain this place. It’s the only reason I can think of why he’d summon me here.”
“Well, let’s stop dilly-dallying and ask him.” I fell to my knees and crawled through before my rational mind could reason with me.
I’m not sure what I expected on the other side of the hole. I’m guessing fire and brimstone, or tortured beings having their skin slowly peeled back. Demons made of molten lava.
The last thing I expected was this.
Part XV
Hell
Prologue to Part 2—
When the gods left, Penemue was sitting in the Complete Archive—a library containing every tome, every book, every grimoire, every trashy romance novel … hell, even every pamphlet ever written.
The words collected in the Complete Archive represented, perhaps, Penemue’s greatest achievement, second only to the fact that he’d taught humankind how to read and write.
He heard the message the same as everyone else. “Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.”
At first, Penemue was confused, believing this message to be a mistake—or, worse, an expression of his insanity.
Then Hell started to rumble as lava seeped up from the ground.
The world around him was, quite literally, falling apart.
In the distance, Penemue could see a pinprick of light and, whether it was part of the message or simple instinct, he knew that the light offered his only chance of escape.
Penemue had a choice: fly toward the light, or be consumed by the fire.
Not much of a choice at all, really.
But his books—millions of pages, hundreds of millions of words—would all be lost if he didn’t do something.
Drawing from the well of magic within, he began encasing them in shells impervious to flame. But as he encased the books, he felt something he had never felt before.
His life was draining out of him.
He was getting older.
He was dying.
Penemue did not need to be told what was happening. The gods were gone, and with them went their magic. To use his powers now meant to use his life force. And with every book he protected he lost—what? A second? Five seconds of life? He wasn’t sure.
And with millions upon millions of books to encase, protecting his life’s work could very well kill him.
Still, he had to do something.
Burning decades of time, Penemue drew out all the words ever written and turned them into a single Word that he whispered into the halls of his crumbling library.
He knew he could not take the Word with him, but at least the fire would not consume it, either. He would find his way back here. He would summon the Word again and he would restore his library.
But that would have to come later. Now, he needed to escape.
Flying toward the light, he flung himself out of the only escape the gods gave him and down to Earth.
All Public Libraries Should Look Like This
O
ver the years, Penemue got into a lot of trouble. I’m talking constant run-ins with the law, public intoxication—with all the fun, fun, fun that brought with it—and the occasional fight (usually brought on by the bravado of drink). There was hardly a week where I wasn’t pulling him out of the drunk tank or paying for some public vandalism. But even though he had a bed with his name on it at the Paradise Lot Police Station, his revelries were harmless.
Most of them, at least.
Perhaps the most common crime Penemue committed—one carried out nearly daily and for which he was never caught—was breaking into the Paradise Lot Public Library. He’d crawl through an attic window and walk through the halls late at night, reading every book that tickled his fancy.
He was like Beauty and the Beast’s Belle, except less law-abiding and more inebriated.
I often caught him nesting on top of the library, surrounded by borrowed books that he consumed (in his own words) “like the Israelites drank water whenever they stumbled upon an oasis during their forty-year ramble.”
But the Paradise Lot Public Library wasn’t very well stocked. At first. Then the library began getting regular donations. Buckets of books were left at its doorsteps, while anonymous donations were sent to the library. I could never prove it, but I was sure they were Penemue’s doings.
Not that the rebel angel ever admitted to it. Every time I’d ask, he would say the same thing: “Perhaps, finally, the world is waking up to the importance of libraries.”
Perhaps.
Then again, walking around this layer of Hell, I gained an appreciation for Penemue’s love of libraries. Because as much as we expected fire and brimstone, what we weren’t expecting was a palace of books.
Through the crawlspace, the halls we entered were filled with shelves after shelves of books. Thousands. Millions, even.
This place must have contained every book ever written. Then I remembered Penemue’s thing: he had the ability to read everything ever written. And apparently—don’t ask me how this works—the deeds humans do are written on our souls.
Since Penemue had access to all that, he knew everything we had ever done. And everything our parents did, and our grandparents and our great-great-great-grandparents, all the way back to the first humans with the first souls. (And before you ask—no, not Adam and Eve. Apparently our evolution was more complex that two wayward humans in a garden. But that’s another story altogether.)
“Wow,” Bella said.
“Wow indeed,” Judith agreed.
Hell, even Marty hissed in awe. This place was beyond magnificent. Because beyond the sheer volume of books, it was built with meticulous care, every groove, every carving, every laid slab of marble filled with knowledge.
I walked over to the mahogany shelves and touched the carving outlining the shelves and casing. Images of creatures of all kinds covered its surface. The floor was a mural of stars and planets—but not our galaxy. That was but a fleck somewhere in the mess of heavenly bodies. This was a celestial map of the Universe. As in capital-U, all-of-creation Universe.
And right above it hung a sphere. As far as I could tell, it was the only light source in the whole damn place and even though it emanated brightly, it couldn’t have been larger than a marble … and one of those small cat’s eye ones, too.
What’s more, I could look directly at it. Normally when you look at a lightbulb or the sun or even the moon for long enough it becomes uncomfortable, if not downright painful. And when you look away, you take a silhouette of light with you. But this light source was different … it didn’t hurt to stare directly at it, and when you looked away, you didn’t take anything with you.
And there was one more strange thing about that marble (marvel?) of light: several wisps of light seemed to flow into it, not away. Like it was a magnet for other lights, or a gravitational pull that only drew in light. And even though it illuminated this place, it did so only as an afterthought. Its purpose was to draw in light, not give it off. A black hole of lightbulbs, if you will.
All this was just in the main hall, and from where we stood, I could see numerous extensions branching off in multiple directions—wings upon wings filled with more books, more knowledge.
“This place goes on forever,” I said. “I mean, if this place was on Earth, it would be the size of Manhattan.”
Bella nodded. “Space really isn’t an issue in Heaven and Hell. Look …” She pointed to several of the hallways jutting off the main room. They appeared to go on forever.
We walked along the edge for a while, looking down each pathway; they all seemed like endless roads, books lining both sides. At the threshold of each pathway was a symbol that meant nothing to me. They weren’t angelic script or Sanskrit or any other kind of ‘skrit,’ script or language I knew.
“Do these symbols mean anything to you?” I asked.
Bella shook her head.
“Humph, I see.” Something else caught my eye. “Apparently not, but look over here.” I took Bella’s hand and guided her back into the main room and between a row of shelves.
As soon as we were out of Judith’s spotlight, I pulled her in close and kissed her. It was something long overdue and Bella, surprised, leaned into the kiss, cupping the back of my head lest I try to pull away.
I wasn’t going to pull away.
Not ever.
As our lips touched, a flood of emotions almost buckled my knees. The years we’d spent apart. The years of fighting and dying, of loneliness and doubt. It wasn’t just the familiarity of her taste, or that it had been an eternity since we’d last kissed.
It was that, just like the very first time and each time after, kissing her made everything feel possible and right.
“Stop,” Bella said as my hands started to take on a life of their own.
“Stop what?” I said.
Bella giggled. “You know what,” she said between heavy breaths. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” Whatever her reasons, they would have to be damn good. As in, chastity-belt-made-from-adamantium good.
“Because … because we’re in a hurry and—”
As if to help make her case, we heard an “Ahem” from behind us.
I didn’t move; I knew whose chastising voice was about to echo through the halls. It occurred to me my mother-in-law would be perfectly employed as Hell’s librarian.
“If you are done acting like teenagers,” Judith said, “there is something over here that you really should see.”
So much for making out in the library.
↔
Bella and I reluctantly separated and made our way over to Judith. Once we were close enough, Judith grabbed Bella’s hands and guided her to an enclave on the other side of the library. I dutifully—bitterly—followed them to a large wooden structure. It looked like one of the architectural models of a … of a … “What is that?”
“I think,” Judith said, “this is map of Hell. Look here.” She pointed at the base of the model, where a tiny archway stood. On one side of the archway was a massive cave, and on the other, a forest with a tiny river.
“Where we entered,” I said.
Judith nodded. “And look here—we must be in this chamber. On the other side are these tracks.”
“A 3D model of Hell,” I mused.
“Except I don’t think it’s complete. Look—there are only four layers. I thought Dante’s Inferno had nine circles.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as I stared at the model, “I don’t think there are nine circles in Hell. At least, not in this one.”
“And you know this because …” Judith’s last word came out more like a challenge than a question.
“Because Penemue once told me that Dante was, well … wrong,” I said. “And that the nine circles of Hell not only didn’t reflect the real Hell, which was more of an endless, flat plane of fire and pain—”
“Like Nebraska,” Bella said with a chuckle.
Hearing her laugh after a somewhat inappr
opriate joke was like a slap to the face. Her wit was always quick and a little naughty … and never anything I’d think of. Nebraska. I barely remembered it was a state, let alone would have used it as the butt of a joke. It had to be her.
The real her.
I resisted the desire to reach over and give her an endless embrace to make up for all our lost time. And from the way Judith stared at her daughter, I knew she had done the same.
“Yeah,” I said, running my hands through my hair, “like Nebraska. Anyhoo, he said that if he were to create an inferno of his own, there would be four circles.” I snapped my fingers as a memory eked its way back into my mind. “And look—these aren’t circles. They’re too wide. They’re more like ovals.”
“Ovals?” Bella stared at the model.
“And what do these ovals consist of?” Judith asked.
I shrugged. I couldn’t remember anything else of use.
“Oh good,” Judith groaned. “Proving your worth yet again, I see.” And before I could think of a retort to her obviously sarcastic comment, she looked around and said, “As pleasant as this place is, I don’t think this is where he is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because all the books are empty.”
“Excuse me?”
“What, you haven’t picked one up yet? Not that I’m surprise. You were never one to feed the mind.”
“Judith, I—”
Bella put a calming hand on my shoulder and gave her mother a look that could stop bullets with shame.
Judith pursed her lips before nodding. “Fine, I’m sorry. But my point remains: the books are empty. Here, look.” She walked over to the nearest shelf and pulled out the first book she found. She opened it, revealing empty pages.
She repeated this with a half-dozen more books that she randomly pulled off the shelves. “See … all empty.”
