Devil's Lair

by David Wisehart

  “Let’s keep moving,” Marco said.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Giovanni saw four lights in a distant tower. Farther on, another tower lit up with answering lights. “They know we’re here.”

  “Who does?” Nadja asked.

  “The watchers in the tower. They’ve sent for the boatman.”

  “Good,” said Marco. “I’m in no mood to swim.”

  As they walked along the water’s edge to the tower, they saw shades fighting in the slime, punching and kicking and biting. Close to the tower they saw other souls submerged completely in the mire, sparging the river with bubbles of voiced air that burst onto the surface in plosive syllables. At first Giovanni could make nothing of the noise, but with time a pattern emerged and he heard in those bubbles a liquid lament:

  We were sullen in the sun,

  In a dull incarnal slog.

  We beget what we’ve begun:

  Now we’re sullen in the bog.

  When they reached the base of the first tower, William bent at the riverbank and scooped the Stygian water into his cupped hands. He tasted it, then spit it out.

  Marco said, “If you’re thirsty, Father, you’re welcome to my wine.”

  William shook his head. “We must boil the river.”

  “What for?”

  “Thunder and lightning.”

  Giovanni saw a small boat cross the river, coming for them at incredible speed. “Here comes Phlegyas.”

  Before reaching the shore the boatman cried out, “Now I have you, you denizens of Hell!”

  William returned: “We are visitors. We have an appointment with your lord and master.”

  Phlegyas eased his boat to the bank. He stared at the knight. “Marco da Roma, what gift do you bring us?”

  “The gift of pain.”

  “Pain we have in abundance. What of that weapon in your hand?”

  “It is the Holy Lance.”

  Phlegyas smiled and bowed. “Then my master will see you, surely.” He motioned for the pilgrims to board the boat. “I will ferry you to the other side.”

  Not far from the River Styx, William saw a moat of flowing lava. It encompassed a rock wall that blocked the passage down. A narrow bridge spanned the moat and led to an iron gate.

  “Locked to prevent escape from below,” Giovanni said.

  “How did Dante get in?” William asked.

  “An angel from Heaven threw open the doors.”

  “Perhaps we should knock.”

  They crossed the bridge and William knocked on the gate. Three furies appeared on a turret above them. They looked like demonic sisters. Horned serpents grew from their heads like hair. Green hydras writhed about their limbs and waist.

  “Look!” said one of the furies. “We have a live one.”

  “Not for long,” said another.

  William thundered, “Open the gate!”

  “Who are you?” the third fury asked.

  “I am William of Ockham, a sworn brother of the Friars Minor, ordained in Christ.”

  “You must be lost.”

  William bristled. “We have an appointment with Lucifer.”

  “I’m sure you do—”

  “—but you do not choose the time—”

  “—nor the place.”

  “Open the gate!” William commanded.

  “What’s the password?”

  He answered, “Go to Hell.”

  “Close—”

  “—but not close enough.”

  William pointed to the weapon in Marco’s hand. “Do you know the power of this Lance?” he asked.

  “No—”

  “Nope—”

  “Can’t say that we do.”

  “Behold! This is the Bleeding Lance, the Holy Lance, anointed by the Blood of Christ. This is the spear that harrowed Him who harrowed Hell.”

  “What’s your point?” asked the first one.

  The others giggled.

  William declared, “In the name of God the Father, in the name of God the Son, in the name of the Holy Spirit, I command you to open the gate!”

  “Impressive—”

  “Yes—”

  “Very—”

  “But not good enough—”

  “Perhaps a deal?” chimed one.

  “Bit of a wager?” echoed another.

  William grimaced. “Name your terms.”

  “A contest—”

  “A battle between champions—”

  “A battle to the death!”

  “But we’re the only ones alive,” William observed.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “If we win,” he said, “you must open the gate.”

  The three furies replied in unison: “Agreed.”

  “Agreed,” said William.

  “Name your champion—”

  “Your martyr—”

  “Your sacrifice.”

  William pointed to the knight. “Marco da Roma.”

  The furies craned their necks. “He’s a pretty one—”

  “Pretty sorry—”

  “Pretty dead.”

  William said, “Name your champion.”

  Together the furies wailed, “Medusa!”

  The massive gate creaked open. William stepped back and warned the others: “Avert your eyes!”

  Marco turned his back to the gate. Giovanni and Nadja fled across the bridge. William froze where he stood, his arm shielding his eyes, his gaze downcast, and saw the shadow of a gorgon in the gateway. It looked like a walking nest of vipers. The shadow touched him and his heart went cold.

  He turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 26

  As Medusa stepped through the gateway, Marco waited across the bridge, his back to her, watching her reflection on his shield. He might have laughed at her distorted image but under the circumstances he could summon no amusement. The snakes of Medusa’s hair reared and snapped. Serpents twined around her arms and legs, hissing as she crossed the narrow span. The gate of Dis slammed shut behind her. The hissing grew louder as she approached. Marco held the Lance at his side, the mortal end pointed back, and jabbed in her direction.

  I can’t fight like this.

  “Look at me,” Medusa said, sweet as a temptress. “I am beautiful.”

  She held out her arms to him. A snake slithered from her shoulder to her wrist, then reared it’s head and struck. Marco evaded it. The snake snapped over his right shoulder as the knight stepped away.

  “All men desire me,” Medusa whispered. “But I desire you. Look at me. Tell me I am beautiful.”

  “You are the Devil’s harlot.”

  Another jab.

  The Lance found flesh.

  Medusa screamed. Marco saw, in the reflection, a black viper issue from her mouth. It dropped to the ground. Marco leapt to one side, to no avail. Long fangs sank into his calf. He sliced the snake in two. The severed tail writhed at Marco’s feet. The snake head clung to his leg. As he reached down to dislodge it, his shield was yanked back, nearly ripping his arm from his shoulder, and Marco’s body spun to face Medusa.

  He shut his eyes. A snake bit Marco’s right hand. His fingers spasmed and he dropped the Lance. The shield was wrenched from his arm. He heard the metal discus land with a clang on the stone bridge.

  Without his shield he was blind. Without the Lance he was dead. He stepped back. Medusa grabbed him, drew him to her, and hugged him with arms like icy tongs. Marco struggled in her embrace. He felt her breath on his cheek. And then her lips: cold, soft, wet.

  She whispered, “Look at me, lover. Look into my eyes.”

  Her icy tongue flicked his earlobe. Marco flinched from her affection. He lifted his feet to lend her his weight, but she held him easily in the air. Marco felt the urge to look at her. He resisted the temptation.

  Through his closed eyelids he saw brightness below. The Lance. It lay on the ground. He gripped the shaft between his boots and swung it around to strike Medusa’s leg. She screamed and relea
sed him.

  Marco fell, grabbed the Lance, and rolled away. Opening his eyes, he saw Nadja crouching behind a rock in the distance, her eyes averted. Limping, he joined his friends behind the make-shift shelter. Nadja dislodged the snake from his leg.

  Medusa heckled him. “Come back, sweet prince!”

  “Blindfold me,” said Marco.

  Nadja tore a strip of cloth from her kirtle and tied it around his head.

  Blinded, Marco returned to fight Medusa. He listened to the music of her serpents, how they darted and danced. He created in his mind an aural landscape, and saw Medusa in the darkness as in a dream. He kept a supple, two-handed grip, letting the Holy Lance move his hands, his arms, like a tavern girl who took the lead. He did not resist. He heard vipers strike and snap. He ducked and parried, wielding the Lance with rapid precision. Slice, slice, slice. He felt the blade make contact, heard snake heads drop like hailstones.

  Still they came. Marco gave ground, regressing to the moat of lava. Heat buffeted his back. With his foot he felt where ground fell away. He was now standing at the edge of the moat. There was no going back. He stepped to his left. Medusa cut him off. He moved to the right and she was there. He stood and fought her, but there were too many snakes. They found his flesh as Medusa closed the gap between them, coming at Marco for a final embrace.

  He planted the butt of the Lance into the ground, grabbed Medusa’s serpentine hair, and pulled her onto the Lance. It pierced her heart. He pushed up, lifting the gorgon off her feet, flipping her over his head and into the boiling moat. He heard snakes curl and crisp as Medusa burned to the bottom.

  When he opened his eyes she was gone.

  Poisoned and exhausted, Marco dropped to his knees, and then into shadow.

  He walked in darkness. A cold mist enveloped him. Through the mist he saw a pair of shimmering eyes, chatoyant as the eyes of a cat. They looked down at him from an immense height. The flames of those eyes gave no warmth.

  Marco da Roma, a deep voice rumbled, do you want to die?

  “I want to live.”

  Then open your eyes.

  William checked the knight’s extremities, which were covered with snakebites. If the bites were poisoned, Marco was a dead man. William could not hope to extract all the venom in time. All he could do was pray.

  “Deus obsecro sana eum.”

  Marco’s breathing improved. He opened his eyes, sputtered a cough, and tried to sit. Nadja helped him.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  She kissed his neck and began to weep.

  William crossed the narrow stone bridge to face the furies. “Open the gate.”

  “No—”

  “Sorry—”

  “We’d rather not.”

  “You promised,” he said.

  “And you believed us?” said one.

  “Where do you think you are?” asked another.

  “‘Abandon all hope!’” said the third.

  The furies laughed and retreated into the turret.

  William returned and told his friends what had happened.

  Giovanni looked crestfallen. “What do we do now?”

  The friar touched the pouch at his belt, feeling the crystals inside. “Surprise them.”

  “With what?”

  “Thunder and lightning.”

  Giovanni watched as William knelt at the bank of the bog, adding pinches of littoral salts to a pile on a tabular rock.

  “Have you ever seen a cannon?” William asked.

  “A few times. I was a boy when they were first brought to Florence. I heard test fire from my father’s house. A sound like booming thunder. I saw other cannons in Naples.”

  “You understand how they work?”

  “A black powder. A fire drug.”

  “The Devil’s distillate,” said William.

  “Very dangerous, they say.”

  “What else do they say?”

  “You place this drug in a metal tube, which is open at one end and closed at the other, like a pot or vase. That’s called the cannon. Then you insert a metal ball or a spherical stone. When you add fire to the drug, a burst of flame throws the missile. If you’re lucky, it breaks a fortification or knocks down a castle wall or maybe takes off a man’s head.”

  “Yes, precisely.”

  “But most of the time it just digs a new hole in the dirt.”

  William agreed. “Not a practical weapon.”

  Giovanni thought he understood where this was leading. “But you’re going to make one.”

  “A petard.”

  “You have the fire drug?”

  “Not yet,” William said. “You need four ingredients to make the black powder. Charcoal.” He opened his bag and set Nadja’s drawing sticks on the tabular rock. “Brimstone.” He fetched the yellow crystals and lay them next to the charcoal. “And niter.” He took a pinch of the white salt and sprinkled it over the charcoal and brimstone.

  “What’s the fourth ingredient?”

  William grinned. “A man who knows the formula.”

  Giovanni followed the Styx until he found the women he was looking for: forty-nine maidens carrying water from the river. They each filled a metal ewer, but as they walked back to the nearby cistern, water drained from their leaky vessels.

  “Are you the Daughters of Danaus?” he asked.

  One of the sisters nodded. “We carry water to wash away our sins.”

  Which can never be washed away. Giovanni knew their story. Danaus, king of Argos, had ordered his fifty daughters to kill their husbands on their wedding night. Only one refused. The others, honoring their father, were eternally damned.

  Giovanni walked with them. His feet were splashed by the constant spillage. When the woman he spoke with reached the cistern, only one drop of water remained in her ewer. She let it fall, paused for a sigh, and started back to the river.

  “May I see that?” Giovanni asked. She handed him the ewer. He inspected it. With a little heat the iron could be reshaped and the holes repaired. “May I keep it?”

  “What for?”

  “To open that gate.” He pointed behind him.

  “The gate of pain,” she said. “Pain is all that lies within.”

  “Help me, please.”

  “Will it ease your suffering?”

  “The suffering of millions.”

  “Then I give it to you freely.”

  Giovanni saw that she now held another ewer which she did not have before, as if she had plucked a replacement from the dank air. It seemed that no act of kindness would undo her curse. Giovanni watched her walk away. There was something sad and beautiful in the way she moved, in her languid steps and the sweep of her dress over the path it knew too well.

  With Marco’s shield, William scooped up the Stygian water and carried it to the lava moat. Gripping the edge of the discus through the insulation of his sleeve, he held it over the heat like a pot over a campfire.

  “What are you doing?” Giovanni asked when he returned with the ewer.

  “Boiling the river,” he said. “When the water evaporates, the salts remain.”

  As William transmuted water to salt, Marco and Giovanni reshaped the ewer to the friar’s specifications. The knight used the Lance to hold the vessel over the heat until the iron softened, then Giovanni pounded the iron into a spherical shape with a pair of stones, leaving an opening at the top for the black powder.

  When William had collected sufficient niter and crushed the brimstone and charcoal into powders, he laid his ingredients on the tabular rock and in the bowl of the shield he mixed brimstone, charcoal, and niter.

  “A little something I learned at Oxford,” he said. “The secret recipe of Doctor Mirabilis.”

  The friar asked for a drib of water. Giovanni carried some in his cupped hands, and poured it into Williams hands.

  “Stand back,” the old man said. “This part is dangerous.”

  He added a few drops to the black powder and worked it with his han
ds until the granulation satisfied him. He added the fire drug to the ewer until it was full, and created a wick from the tattered selvage of his robe.

  The pilgrims took cover behind a heap of rubble. From this revetment they could see the wall of Dis.

  William pointed. “The weak point is there. See where the old stones meet the new?”

  “The color changes,” Nadja observed.

  Giovanni said, “The wall was broken and repaired.”

  William nodded. “When Christ threw open the gates to harrow Hell, the old structure gave way. It will give again.”

  The poet carried the petard across the bridge and found the section of the wall that William had indicated. Together he and Marco dug a hole at the base and buried the petard, leaving only the wick exposed. Giovanni lit one end of a stick in the fiery moat and waited for Marco to return to the revetment before lighting the wick. He ran to the bridge. He was almost across when the wall burst in a roar of fire. A hot wind threw him to the ground. He rolled away, then covered his head with his arms as shards of stone fell around him. When he looked up he saw a breach big enough to drive an elephant through.

  Thunder and lightning. Giovanni shook his head, amazed by the power the old wizard had unleashed. I should have gone to Oxford.

  CHAPTER 27

  From the revetment William saw hundreds of damned souls flee the city through the breach, pursued by a horde of demons with tridents and nets. Most of the sinners were stabbed and snared, but others made it to the river and beyond. William knew they would all be rounded up and returned soon enough, but he had brought them a taste of hope. More importantly, the demons were distracted.

  “Now,” he said.

  The pilgrims ran for the breach. After slipping inside the wall, they searched for cover and found a vast cemetery. Thousands of open tombs burned in the dark. Many were vacated but a few souls moaned in their sepulchers. A path veered to the left, threading between the tombs.

  “Where are we?” William asked.

  Giovanni said, “The realm of the heretics.”

  I should pay my respects. William scrambled from one open tomb to the next, glancing down at tormented shades, reading names on the lids and tombstones. “John! Pope John! John the Twenty-Second! Where are you? Devil damn you, John! Show yourself! Raise your demon-haunted hide! I know you’re here!”