The Devil's Banshee
Page 13
“Why would The Devil’s Banshee come to such an accursed place as this?” I ask Mitchell. “I am truly struggling to understand this.”
“The girls said she wanted to find herself,” replies my friend, making quote signs in the air with his long fingers.
“What does that even mean?”
“You’re asking me?” asks Mitchell. “Dude, I would sooner give advice to The Devil about matching fabric colors than try to understand the mind of his wife. I’ll say one thing, though. If his wife was crazy before, what do you think she’s going to be like after thousands of years in this place? A few hours here and my brain’s already shot to pieces.”
My friend has made an excellent observation. He certainly has Virgil’s attention. The guide is listening to our conversation keenly, although he has nothing to offer in the way of enlightenment.
“The Banshee is likely to be deranged,” I reply. “Savage.”
“Exactly. I know we’ve done some pretty dangerous shit before, Alfarin,” says Mitchell, lowering his voice. “But this is way beyond any amount of crazy I’ve witnessed in the past four years.”
“I thought you handled the Geryon very stoically, my friend.”
“That’s because I didn’t believe it was real,” replies Mitchell. “I wasn’t joking when I said I thought I was in a nightmare. I can hear stuff—voices in my head. I see shadows and flashing lights in my peripheral vision. This place is way beyond what we can actually see and smell and hear. That’s just surface evil. There’s something else here, something invisible that I feel like . . . I dunno . . . it sounds stupid.”
“Nothing you say is stupid to me.” I pat him on the back to show camaraderie. Mitchell is propelled forward into a jutting piece of black rock.
“Alfarin, I’m not built like you!” snaps Mitchell. “When are you going to remember that?”
“I am sorry, my friend,” I reply, brushing fragments of stone from his shoulders. “When we return to our Hell, you should visit that place called the gymnasium. The stench of feet will not be as bad as this place.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Mitchell through gritted teeth. “Anyway, as I was saying, that invisible thing I feel, it’s like, when I was in the heart of those two circles, I felt like I was absorbing something bad, something evil. I knew the voices were a bad influence, but I was starting to lose my conscience. Arguing with Medusa on the stone bridges seemed like fun. I actually wanted to do it. It was horrible and fun at the same time.”
“I have felt the same,” I reply. “Voices whisper to me, too. My doubts and fears are being used to taunt me.”
“I think that’s why Elinor freaked out at you back there,” says Mitchell, lowering his voice even further. “Because she would never do that normally. And I’m starting to get scared for Medusa when we get to the circle where her stepfather is.”
“Yet it seems to dissipate when we are in the connecting tunnels between circles . . . ,” I muse.
“Meaning we have got to get through these circles even quicker,” replies Mitchell. “Because the longer we’re here, the worse it’s going to get.”
“Then you must watch for me now, Mitchell,” I reply. “For I am about to enter the circle that The Devil taunted me about. It is the final dwelling of the violent. I am a Viking. I was born in blood and I died in blood.”
“You didn’t actually listen to that maniac, did you?” says Mitchell. “Of course The Devil was going to taunt you. He wants you to fail! You have to fight it, Alfarin. We all do.”
“Can I interrupt this tête-à-tête, or are you two having a bonding moment?” asks Medusa, shuffling her little body between the two of us. I am immediately assaulted by a mass of curls that invades my nose and mouth.
“Do we have a choice?” replies Mitchell, swiping away hair.
“No,” says Medusa. “I was just going to bring something to the discussion—about Beatrice Morrigan.”
I glance back toward Elinor and Virgil. They are walking side by side, but Elinor seems oblivious to everything around her. She is looking without seeing. Virgil, on the other hand, is blind but keenly conscious of everything, from the rock wall beneath his fingertips, to the conversation ahead of him, to the goddess floating at his side. His entire body is twitching with alertness.
“What did you wish to say, Medusa?” I ask, hefting my axe onto my shoulder. I allow the edge to drag against my shirt, threatening to cut my skin. I deserve the discomfiture. It will remind me of what I am.
“You read Dante’s book in the library, Alfarin,” says Medusa. “I’ve been trying to work out why The Devil’s Banshee would come here to the Nine Circles to find herself. I know she’s probably crazy, but this place is filled with so much evil, I can’t understand her motive at all.”
“You and us,” replies Mitchell.
“I know,” says Medusa. “That’s why I thought we should discuss it now, because I heard you mention finding herself. It’s just I had a thought, so I’ve been going over the book in my head. More specifically, the end of the book.”
The ending. Of course. Wise Medusa would not have preoccupied herself with just the circles of torment for the cursed. She would have wanted to see the hope at the end.
“There were more than just the Nine Circles in Dante’s tome,” I say slowly.
“There are more than Nine Circles?” exclaims Mitchell. “Are you kidding me?”
“There are no more circles,” I say. “But beyond the nine are Purgatory and then Paradise.”
“Purgatory is a state of purification to get you ready for Paradise,” says Medusa. “I would be able to explain more of it if I had the book, but I lost it back in the Eighth Circle when I dropped my backpack.”
Suddenly a roar, as loud as a pride of lions, sweeps through the ever-narrowing tunnel and stops Medusa from saying whatever it is that’s occurred to her. We are getting closer to that which I am not sure I am able to face. I am clenching my back teeth and the pain is already juddering down my jaw.
“What was that?” shrieks Medusa.
“The Minotaur,” replies Elinor, finally breaking her silence. “I told ye.”
Mitchell, Medusa and I swap anxious looks, but not because of a Minotaur. I am not imagining the distance that is expanding between us three and Elinor. Her voice is flat. There is no musicality at all. She is no longer angry, but she seems to be nothing at all. In the previous two circles, the aura of hate and despair left us once we were making the journey to the next ring, but if Mitchell is correct, and I believe he is, about us absorbing evil when we are in there, why is Elinor not reverting to her normal, warm, loving self between circles?
“She’s been through one Hell of an ordeal,” whispers Medusa. “We need to remember that.”
“I did think she recovered way too quickly in Septimus’s office,” adds Mitchell, again in hushed tones. “Is there any more of that rope left?”
“No, why?” asks Medusa.
“Because you and I are still connected, but Alfarin and Elinor aren’t. I think it would be a good idea to tie Elinor to someone.”
“She will not leave us,” I say.
“These circles affect you, Alfarin, just as much as the rest of us,” says Mitchell. “You’ve already said once that you should do this by yourself. What if Elinor stops arguing and does decide to go back? With the three of us here, who’s going to stop her giving herself back to The Devil? She’s not thinking straight.”
The corridor shakes as another roar, even louder and longer than before, rocks the tunnel, which has been twisting and turning with no obvious exit. We slow our ascent. I know of the myth. The Minotaur guarded the labyrinth. What if the monster is not in the open like the other creatures we have come across thus far? We could turn a corner and come face to face with it.
I ready my axe to meet any foe head-on—even one as large as a Minotaur.
“A rundown on the Seventh Circle would be real good right about now,” says Mitchell. The tun
nel is becoming narrower with every step. Mitchell has already fallen behind me with Medusa. Virgil is behind Elinor; his cloudy white eyes are blinking rapidly.
“The Seventh Circle has three rings,” calls Virgil. “Here you will find flaming sand and burning flakes that fall from the darkness.”
“There is also a river of boiling blood and fire, and harpies,” I add. “Is that the rundown you require, my friend?”
A steady stream of curses flows from Mitchell’s mouth. He is becoming ever more inventive with the uses of reproductive organs.
“The head of a bull on the body of a man . . . ,” says Medusa. “You can take that on, Alfarin, if you have to, right? We believe in you.”
The handle of my axe is slipping through my fingers. I am so incapacitated by weariness, I can hardly keep my grip. I glance behind to find that we are now in single file. The tunnel is closing in around us. It is lit by flaming torches, but they only fire up when we are within two strides of the sconce.
I can hear heavy snorting. My senses are stretching with fear, but I need to embrace that emotion. It will keep me alert.
Then I turn another corner and a looming black figure charges at us. The metallic smell of fresh blood washes over me as I am knocked to the ground. Callused hands clasp either side of my face, scratching, tearing. Medusa is screaming. I feel a thump as brave Mitchell collides with the beast that is now pressing down on me with its yellow teeth bared. Mitchell is trying to push the Minotaur away from my body. Medusa jumps onto the naked back of the beast, but he flings her off with a muscular shake.
Then I hear sobbing and wailing. It is my princess. I cannot see Elinor, but the sound of her panic is enough. It transports me through time. I am no longer on the ground with a beast at my throat. I am in a burning building and an angel in white is on the floor, trapped by fallen beams that cannot be moved.
Anger overwhelms me. Why me? Why was it decided that I should die in order for fate to deal me this hand? If I had not died, then I would not have the guilt of Elinor’s passing on my conscience. I would not have to feel my soul breaking apart now as she pulls away from us.
But now I am lying in the snow. It runs red with a river of blood. Canine jaws are straining for my throat. I hear the bloodlust of the growling hound at my neck.
The Minotaur bares his teeth, and bites down.
Fjórtán
Alfarin and Elinor
In the land of the living, my home was a village on the edge of the Scandinavian coastline. Our settlement was more civilized than most, and my father, King Hlif, son of Dobin, maintained order with authority and the threat of decapitation. History has remembered Vikings for marauding and pillaging, but we were great tradesmen and explorers, too. Many a settlement in the modern world owes its birth and dignified ancestry to the Vikings, as well as exceptional seafaring skills and great hair.
Yet for all the goodness that we brought to the land of the living, all Vikings spent a great deal of time thinking of the Afterlife and longing for one of its two great destinations: Fólkvangr—a meadow of great beauty; or Valhalla—a majestic hall ruled over by Odin, the Allfather.
For me, there was no contest. I needed to be in Valhalla. I wished to spend the Afterlife gazing at the golden shields that thatched the Hall’s roof, in the company of the Valkyries, the bravest and most beautiful of Viking maidens, who died in combat. They would feed me grapes and rub ointment into my aching muscles.
I was also allergic to grass pollen, and the very thought of spending my existence in a meadow, however glorious to behold, brought me out in hives.
When I arrived at the HalfWay House on 9 Harpa 970, I knew I did not need to be processed by witless Grim Reapers. I merely required directions to Valhalla. This was my birthright, my destiny. I got one Grim Reaper around the throat and demanded to know the route. He pointed to an expanse of darkness yonder. I was not afraid, and once I had been healed and my shredded throat and split skull restored, I ran into the darkness without looking back.
Valhalla in Hell became my second home. It was more crowded than I thought it would be. Fólkvangr was rumored to be Up There, with its expanse of light and green space, and as the centuries passed, it came to be thought of as a cursed place. The greatest warriors all came to Valhalla, and the most despicable examples of Viking did not. Fólkvangr must have claimed the heinous ones who, in their excessive warring and desire for bloodshed, had brought dishonor to the name of Viking, we thought. Paintings were commissioned for Valhalla, depicting these shameful Fólkvangr Vikings with wings and harps. These Vikings, who would never know the glory of Valhalla, were mocked. And yet there were those in Valhalla who were still too scared to say the names of the Fólkvangr Vikings aloud, as if their evil deeds in life would curse the decent in death. Eventually the paintings were destroyed and the dishonorable Vikings who claimed glory in their unnecessary bloodlust were never spoken of again.
Elinor found our Valhalla comforting, although she once wondered where Odin was.
“We are waiting for his great return,” I replied. “One day, Odin will lead us into the battle to end all battles, and it will be called Ragnarök. Only then will the worlds arise renewed.”
“So ye Vikings believe there is a battle still to come?” asked Elinor. “Even though ye are dead?”
“There will always be war, Elinor,” I replied solemnly. “If I have learned one thing here in Hell, it is that man’s capacity for conflict does not end with death.”
“Aren’t ye scared of being called upon?” she asked.
“Scared? No. Vikings are frightened of nothing. I will take my place at my father’s side as he stands next to Odin and the mighty Thor, and Ragnarök will be our final destiny. Until then, Valhalla is the place where we plan for that glorious moment.”
“Then I will join ye,” said Elinor. “Ye will need someone to watch over ye, and make sure ye eat yer greens.”
Valhalla and Elinor Powell. Could a devil want anything more?
14. Valhalla
A golden light is trying to infiltrate my closed eyelids. The destructive agony of the Minotaur’s clamped jaws around my throat has gone. At first I feel nothing; I sense nothing. I am floating with no sense of self.
“Where am I?” I ask. I do not know to whom I refer the question, but I am aware that I will get an answer. I feel the presence of another. I smell something in the air. Someone. The scent is perfumed, with a hint of earth and blood.
A Valkyrie.
I open my eyes. My friends are gone—as is the beast with the body of a man and the head of a bull. I am lying on the stone floor of a magnificent building. It is golden in color, but not so dazzling that my eyes hurt. Instead, the color projects warmth, wealth and privilege. Enormous, dark wolf pelts drape the walls, and above every open window, a live eagle stands atop a golden perch, surveying the hall majestically with haughty black eyes. Through the open windows I see green fields and wispy white clouds. Vines trailing purple flowers cling to the stonework surrounding the windows, and the only sound I hear is the whistle of a willow warbler. So much peace in one place. I could lie down and sleep for a century in such a setting. The truly blessed must reside here.
It is when I take in the magnificent roof that I know where I am. Golden shields thatch the vaulted cavity, which is held up by arches made of spears.
This hall is fifty times larger than the Valhalla I know and love in Hell, yet I know that this is the true embodiment of all we Vikings have been taught to revere and covet.
“Do you still need me to answer your question, Prince Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin?” It is a woman’s voice, resonating with gentleness and strength.
“This is the real and true Valhalla.”
“Indeed.”
“Where are my friends?”
“They are here. Where else would they be?” asks the voice.
But I cannot see them. I look around for Elinor, Mitchell and Medusa, but there is only me in the cavernous hall.
I try to imagine the sporting game of baseball. It is what my friend, Mitchell, does when he is trying to regain control of his hormones and bodily parts. It is a dull sport and will take the sensuality out of any situation.
The Valkyrie glides toward me; her glorious body moves gracefully, like slow water through a curving riverbed. Patricia Lloyd could learn the ways of walking from this woman.
It is no good, thinking of baseball is not going to work. I may need to gouge my eyes out with my blade before I start salivating on the floor.
“Do you know why you are here?” she asks, and immediately her cloth changes. Gone is the pale-blue gown, thankfully replaced by a maroon leather cuirass and skirt. The cloak of feathers remains.
My desire for her is not sated; it has only increased.
Only then, with the maiden in front of me dressed for battle, do I realize my axe is not here. I am alone and unarmed, and I have never felt more naked and exposed.
“I am here because you have chosen me for battle,” I reply. “As is the way of the Valkyries. Half of the dead go to Valhalla, the others go to Fólkvangr.”