by Remy Wilkins
Smugbog watched with a snarl to his face, masking his fright.
When he had finished prying the demon open, now empty of innards and ichor, it ceased resisting and merely twitched in Spit-thicket’s hands. He shook the dead demon and asked, “What do you see of earth here?”
“Nothing,” Smugbog answered. He longed to dig another hole, far away from here, crawl inside, and never return to this slimy pit.
“That’s right.” He shook the carcass for emphasis. “There is nothing of earth here. The diaboloi are not of dust. But Heaven is full of its filth.” He tossed the body of the demon aside. “Another may eat him. Spit-thicket was sick of his frailness, a waste of ichor.”
He turned to look at Smugbog again. “Now do you see why the army will never be enough until all of Hell is here?”
“But the Old Master . . . ”
Spit-thicket snapped, “The Old Master is weak. He has not moved for two thousand years.” He ducked into a tunnel and continued on.
Smugbog stepped over the remains of the once cruentated demon, whose spirit was winging back to the suffering river, bereft of his material body. He wondered how long it would take him to return to the army. He shivered and followed after his cruel commander.
Following the ripples of Spit-thicket’s voice, Smugbog entered a low roofed room around which eleven other demons sat. This would be the team of avengers. Spit-thicket was briefing them on their target.
“He is a saint. Many of you have encountered him before. Spit-thicket was among the first to try him as a young tempter. Many flocked here to seek his downfall. Hell has tormented his family and neighbors with much success until he offered the diaboloi a deal: a doorway to this world if we tempted only him and withdrew from the city.”
There was an outburst of scoffing and disdain from the other demons. Smugbog drew closer to the circle.
“Bribing Hell with safety did not content it.” Spit-thicket coughed. He continued, “It took Hell years to reverse engineer the Alvarium Maleficorum, but now Hell has five Alvaria working at full capacity. For this, the envy belongs to Rotsnogger.” He indicated a demon next to him. There were snorts and snarls in response to this. Rotsnogger could not contain his grinning malice, baring his bloodstained teeth. He did not anchor himself with dirt. Most demons were too fearful of drawing Heaven’s eye over the life of a sparrow, but Rotsnogger refused to fasten himself to matter by anything dead. He argued that the life of all flesh was in the blood, so he hunted small creatures and gleefully killed them to keep himself corporeal.
“But,” said Spit-thicket raising his voice above the rabble, “the adam has discovered the extra Alvaria. He has raised his hand against Hell, and Heaven does not challenge.”
“Is his life to be sifted?” said Cankersoot, his long fingers flexing and his thin tongue darting.
“No,” answered Spit-thicket. A brood of hisses and loud clicking of forked tongues arose.
“It is hard to take a life that does not give itself to the outer darkness,” explained Rotsnogger. “The adam will be held until the outbreak. After that, his life is nothing. The ire of Heaven will come whether his breath is shed or not.”
Spit-thicket stood. “Ray has brought fire to the Alvarium designated Spite. He proceeds to Alvarium Avarice. Hell strikes him there.”
There was an outburst of “Vengeance is mine!” They raised their fists, flapped their wings, and gnashed their teeth. Smugbog shrunk from their rage. The demons filed out and flew up a steep tunnel heading for the surface, and he followed them.
Ahead he could see a pinprick of light between the dangling legs of the host. The sun already stung his eyes. Soon his eyes would feel the burn, and his flesh would scald. This was Smugbog’s first time to exit the deep pit. Activity above ground had been scaled back recently. None but the highest ranking could leave the pit during the day. Smugbog felt envy smolder inside him.
They burst out of the hole under the canopy of the forest. They settled on the earth and let their bodies adjust to the singe and scorch. Smoke rose from their bodies until the cinder died. Smugbog tried not to writhe and whimper in his suffering. He followed the others in standing still and breathing in the cool acid of the air.
He found that the pain was less when he shut his eyes, even though the brightness of the world shone through his eyelids. He could still make out the trees with their wavering leaves. The cursed air coursed through the underbrush, causing a skittering, and Smugbog was able to see it all through closed eyes.
The clenched breathing of the demons around him slowed, and they broke the circle, Cankersoot leading the way with his delicate tongue. Smugbog watched Rotsnogger seize a sparrow from the air and stuff it fully into his mouth. He chewed, holding the dead bird on his tongue to stain his teeth, then swallowed. Smugbog shivered.
“The diaboloi will show themselves,” Rotsnogger said, and the forms of the demons became slightly darker to Smugbog’s veiled eyes. He made himself visible to the world around them as well and followed the group to their prey.
* * *
Rodney threw the last book on the ground and fell back in his chair. It wasn’t a thorough search, but he had skimmed any section that dealt with angels and demons and found nothing about calling angels or destroying demons short of already knowing an angel and having a flaming sword. Ray said there was an abundance to learn from stories, but he was unable to learn anything to help his situation.
The rabbits sat around Pinwheel and his plate of veggies. Pinwheel was exploring the taste of celery and tomatoes and carrots. Rodney snagged a carrot nub and hid his eyes from the red glare of the low sun.
The books were all action‐adventure sci-fi novels with the exception of The Jawbone of Heaven. Rodney spent most of his time perusing its pages. It was a scholarly book on a creature called a Basilisk, the king of snakes, which appeared in the myths and legends from one side of the earth to the other.
Rodney recognized the Thunder Snake story before turning the page and having it laid out before him just as Ray had explained. Rodney eagerly read about the method of killing a Thunder Snake, but since it involved a stone being thrown from heaven (the so-named Jawbone of Heaven), there wasn’t much point in getting excited. Still no information about contacting Heaven in the event of a demonic takeover, so they were back at square one.
Pinwheel looked up from the rabbits. “Learn anything?”
“Sure did,” Rodney responded in fake cheer. “Did you know that angels are actually living, breathing stones?”
Pinwheel shook his head.
“That’s right. Spiritual stones, according to Filippo Campanella.”
“How does that help us?”
Rodney dropped the enthusiasm. “It doesn’t. Waste of time,” he said, indicating the scattered books around them.
Pinwheel’s shoulders slumped and the rabbits nuzzled him, which provoked a small grin.
“What time is it? Where’s Ray?” asked Rodney aloud. He walked into the stair room to check the clock. The phone burst into clangs, causing Rodney to jump back. He put his hand to his heart and laughed nervously to Pinwheel. He lifted the receiver from the cradle and said, “Hello?”
“Rodney, hey sweetie. I’ve missed you.”
“Mom!” He was surprised by his eagerness and relief at hearing the voice of his mother, but then the feeling of abandonment returned.
“What’s been going on?”
“Nothing.” Rodney folded his voice into as tiny a thing as he could manage. He put in the bare minimum volume in his responses to her. He realized how far away she was, how impossible to help him. While telling him about their new house, she asked several times if he was still there. Each time he responded with a low huff.
His mother realized this and switched stories midway. “Oh, hey, guess what almost happened to me?”
Rodney, ever the sucker for a story, fell
into her exuberance and asked, “What?”
“A grasshopper attacked me and I almost hit a truck.”
“You almost had a wreck?”
“No, I did have a wreck, but I almost hit a truck.”
“What happened?” His mother was every bit the storyteller that Ray was.
“Well I was just driving down the road when my leg started to itch, like something was crawling up it. Brrr.” He could sense the shivers of his mother. “I look down and there is this huge, huge black grasshopper. I screamed, of course.”
“Of course,” he repeated.
“And he just starts leaping like crazy. He’s hitting the door and making little thump noises and I’m kicking and screaming and I didn’t notice but I was drifting into the next lane. Thankfully the truck honked and I was able to swerve in time to get out of the way. Went into the ditch on the other side.”
“Wow. Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine and the car’s fine too.”
“What’d ya do with the grasshopper?”
“Nothing. Darn thing just disappeared. I couldn’t find it. Maybe I squished it to pieces.”
Rodney laughed, “It’s just a bunch a dirt on the car floor.”
“Oh yuck.”
Rodney laughed. Quick guffaws that required deep breaths afterwards to recover. He hadn’t laughed like that since he’d arrived at the Honeycomb House. All his laughter was nervous or polite or shallow, but he felt a yearning reach through the phone lines and connect himself and his mother together.
They recovered from their mirth slowly and let the phone lines crackle with their huffings.
His mother finally said, “Guess my guardian angel was looking out for me.”
Like a hook anchored into the back of his shirt, her comment hauled him back into his situation. Guardian angel, the idea shook him.
“So you think I have a guardian angel?” His tone changed and his mother heard it or felt it.
“What do you mean, Rodney? Of course you have a guardian angel.” He could hear her concern, her motherly worry. She continued, “Are you okay? Where’s Uncle Ray?”
Rodney felt the rabbits at his ankle and—in Thundertrump’s case—his shins. “Uh, he’s out. On a walk.”
“A walk? What time is it?”
Rodney looked at the clock in front of him. He ignored the weird symbols and focused on the position of the arms. “Eight thirty.”
“Oh, okay. Well, is everything else alright?”
This was Rodney’s chance. He could start to unfold the mystery from the very beginning. Otis and apparitions, suspicions, rabbits, and Ray’s weirdness, Pinwheel, possessed dogs, and the demonic plot against the world, but he could feel how unbelievable it would be to his mother’s ears. He hardly believed it himself. He let his shoulders fall and said, “I’m fine.” From there the conversation collapsed into their quiet goodbyes ,and Rodney felt that he’d never see her again. He felt afraid and held back tears as he hung up.
Immediately the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Ray there?”
“No, he’s—”
“Tell him I’ll be there with Al in the morning. I’ve had it with him.”
“Okay.”
“It’s Otis.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.”
Rodney held onto the receiver, listening to its drone. Pinwheel entered; the rabbits patrolled the room.
“What’s happening?” Pinwheel asked.
Rodney heard a rumbling and the thunderous sounds of a cannon. He dropped the receiver and ran to the front door. The sound grew louder. When he opened the door its pitch was raised to a high roar.
Outside Rodney saw Ray’s car speeding down the gravel driveway, thin flags of fire waving from its roof as it swerved and skewed wildly. The rabbits leaped in front of him, their hackles up and hissing. Rodney saw why when out of the forest in pursuit of Ray was a horde of demons sprinting and flying after the burning car.
Rodney watched speechless as the car slid, turned sideways and spun, the clatter of fire, metal, and tires screamed over the groaning of gravel. The car slammed into the workshop and the door was kicked open.
A figure in a rainbow-colored bee suit climbed out to confront the charging demons. His left arm was also on fire, and he swung wildly as the crowd swallowed him up.
Rodney stumbled out onto the porch. “RAY!”
The fight did not last long, and the rainbow-clad figure was knocked down and beaten. Soon he was spread out on the ground as the demons finished. The hood was removed and Rodney saw Ray’s wild beard. His head lolled back, unconscious, as they dragged him into the woods.
Rodney yelled, and the demons catcalled and taunted him in response. He was frozen to the spot. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” was all he could think to say.
Pinwheel shrunk back inside the house. “Heaven has turned her back on us.”
The fire on the car slowly died, and the howls and cackles from the demons faded. The rabbits nuzzled Rodney and herded him inside the house. The house was dark and unsafe. Rodney sank into a ball. Where was his guardian angel in all of this?
Chapter Twelve
RAGE
Murkpockets read the returning raiders’ triumphant cries skittering in the black, and he vindictively punted his way through the crowded tunnels to meet them. He licked his teeth at the cries of his underlings and made his way to the upper channel connecting the deep entry shafts to the central dome.
The howls of envy crowded the air as he arrived at the landing, the raiding party fortifying their spidery bonds on their captured prey by vomiting sticky cords on his arms and legs. Black flecks spattered against the walls in his struggling.
Murkpockets leaned forward as if to spit. “How tastes the bile of Hell, Raymond Lauter?”
The blindfolded figure stiffened. “Murkpockets? Is that your stench?” The words of the saint were harder to read in the darkness, tempered with a greater fire and cooled in greater water than the demon’s.
“The envy is mine,” Murkpockets gloated.
“You rapscallions really stepped in it this time.”
“The ‘rapscallions,’” Murkpockets intoned, “are full of arrogance and do not fear the hand of Heaven in this.” The demons surrounding them chortled venomously and sneered. Murkpockets raised a leathery wing to silence them. “Take the fool up to the Alvarium so that he may hear the army of Hell grow.”
They began dragging Ray up the tunnel.
A chorus of taunts sprang up. “Drag him slowly!” said one. “Let the mud of the pit be ground in his bones!” said another. “Take him up the ramp so that the new may spit on him!”
Murkpockets called after them, “A traitor of Heaven is worse than a servant of Hell!” and they answered him with a wave of cackles and howls.
Murkpockets made his way to the dankest pit, where the Old Master lay prone and unspeaking. With the arrival of Itchpot, a larger and therefore higher-ranking demon, Murkpockets didn’t have the access he had once had to the father of Hell. His rise in the ranks of the demons had sputtered as his work was being seized.
Murkpockets replayed his wounds, his arrival in Twin Rivers, the striking of the deal with Ray: to enter the world, to leave behind the threat of the angels forever, to grow powerful in matter, all for withdrawing from the town. He exchanged the petty successes of tempting the simpletons of Twin Rivers for a stepping-stone to the ruin of the world.
His act sent shock waves throughout the spiritual world. Demons flocked to Twin Rivers, angels drew back, and soon even the Old Master had lumbered into town from his pit in Mount Vesuvius. The trail of demons required to carry the ancient demon sent him into fits of envy. Cruentation had to stop while a place for the limp Prince of Darkness was dug. Murkpockets rehearsed his wounds to keep his anger stoked; h
is bid for power was stunted when the failed rebel of Heaven demanded his hovel. His hot tears made ditches in the grime of his cheeks.
Murkpockets crossed the dome wherein the demons had their newborn ichor sucked out of them so that more could come. He ducked into the tunnel that led to the rooms where the inner circle of demons bickered about plans and diversions for the bustling, rebellious horde of Hell. He passed by two guards stationed outside of the room which led to the Old Master’s pit. Only Itchpot, like some obese cork, blocked his way.
“You are done speaking to the Old Master, Murkpockets. He does not say things twice. Hurkle!” He heaved at his burping; the stench in the room increased.
“He does not say things at all, Itchpot.” Rumors in the lower ranks insisted that his tongue had been ripped out long ago, but Murkpockets knew better. He’d had the Old Master’s tongue lacerate his face numerous times since he’d arrived in Twin Rivers.
Itchpot chortled. “Yes, and he quits his gospelling, too.” He made a writing motion with his hand. “His psalms—breep!—have dried up. Itchpot has ceased the paper production.”
Murkpockets shivered. “Foul mocker.”
Itchpot burped and smiled, nodding at the honorific. “Hell will bind his forty pages and force the tempters to—hurkle—study it like the children of men.”
Murkpockets rubbed his hands together. “Or Murkpockets can bonfire it to Heaven to let the Name puzzle over its wickedness. Now move aside so that Murkpockets can deliver the message.”
“There can be nothing the Old—urgah—Master must hear. So leave him to his mute festering.”
“Ray has been taken.”
Itchpot rose from his seated position. His muscles strained under the weight and his belly swung sideways like a tired bell. “The Old Master does not need to be informed of success—breep—and informing him of failures garners no mercy. If Hell stretches out its hand, then Heaven has ratified it, no need to—higauff, higauff—preen in her allowance.”
