Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  “Touch not the water,” Vafthruthnir said. “You will not die, but the agonies will make you long for the mercy of death. We continue this way.” He pointed downstream once more.

  “Is it just me or is it getting colder?” Wendell asked.

  “Not so many snakes anymore,” Simpson said.

  “Aye, it is becoming colder,” Vafthruthnir said, “and much colder yet will it be, before we are through. The ice fields lie ahead, and beyond them what remains of Ginungagap, the yawning void from before the world was. Only there can we find our way free of Niffelhel.”

  Soon they encountered the first frost in hollows along the riverbank. When asked, Vafthruthnir admitted that the frost was free of venom and safe to swallow. Wendell and Simpson scraped loose handfuls to suck on. The frost relieved the thirst that had been building in the sight of so much water that they dared not drink.

  As they continued, the edges of the river became rimmed in ice. The ice extended up the banks and before long they were walking on a sheet of ice broken only by the dark trace of the river, curls of mist rising from its surface.

  When Simpson called another halt, the river had finally frozen completely. The river ice had a yellow-green cast, in contrast to the blue-white of the ice elsewhere. Although the sky remained a murky gray, the mists had cleared in the cold.

  Frost rimed the furs around their heads and the cold burned in their noses as they breathed. Vafthruthnir, despite his light clothing, did not seem to experience any discomfort from the cold.

  “Does it get much colder than this?” Simpson asked.

  Wendell repeated the question for Vafthruthnir who answered, “Not much colder, Midgarder. We have only a few more leagues for this leg of our journey, and then you shall see a wonder such as few Midgarder eyes have witnessed.”

  “Press on, then,” Simpson said when Wendell translated.

  True to the giant’s word, as they crested a small rise, the ice dropped away before them in a jagged cliff. Here the river broke free of the ice and fell for miles before disappearing in the depths below.

  To his right more than a dozen miles away, Wendell saw an irregular wall of gray-brown. The wall extended both down into the gap and up into the sky above them for as far as the eye could see. Ahead, more than twice as far loomed a second wall of dark red. Wendell could not see where bottom of the … canyon seemed such an inadequate word … might be in the miles below them.

  “Ginungagap,” Vafthruthnir shouted over the roar of the waterfall, “or what remains of it since the creation of the World Ash.” Vafthruthnir pointed at the gray-brown wall in the distance to their right. Wendell sucked frigid air over his teeth as he realized that Vafthruthnir meant that wall, extending beyond sight in all directions, was the World Ash, or part of it, and that would make it the same tree on which Nidhogg had been gnawing.

  The river that the three had been following was not the only cascade breaking from the near wall. To their right, stretching out into the distance were four others; to their left, six more. Vafthruthnir pointed to the farthest one on the left. “There. That is where we must go, the Gjöll, the river resounding.”

  *

  The crossing to the Gjöll was harrowing, across the treacherous ice, close enough to see the precipice, but no closer. The Gjöll, when they reached it, was not completely frozen over like the other rivers, but filled with ice floes that howled as they ground against each other before tumbling over the falls and into the depths. The noise of the ice, and the river running beneath it beat at their ears. They turned to follow the Gjöll upstream.

  The unchanging light provided no clue to how long they marched. Wendell thought it was days. The pain in his arm and in his side had receded to a dull ache by the time the ice had finally receded and they gained the rocky shore of the river. On this side of the ice there were no snakes. Instead, small stands of scrub provided wood for fire to warm them and cook the snake meat that Simpson insisted Wendell eat.

  The Gjöll broke over rapids frequently. The roar of one set of rapids did not completely fade behind them before the roar of the next began. They walked in the constant bellow of water crashing over rocks.

  When they left the riverside, they left the ice behind, so the thirst they’d avoided while crossing the ice returned to dog them.

  “Isn’t this water safe?” Simpson asked at one of their rest stops. “Look at all those fish in it.” He waved toward the slender silver shapes that flitted through the water.

  “Those are not fish, Midgarder,” Vafthruthnir said when Wendell had repeated the question.

  Wendell looked at the slender, silver forms running down the river. “Not fish? Then what are they?”

  “They are knives, Midgarder. The Gjöll is the river that flows with knives. The water here is poisonous. You cannot drink this water, nor can you swim in it, nor wade. The only place to cross is at the bridge, the Gjällerbru.”

  On their march, they came upon a black wall of dressed stone to their left. It ran until it vanished into the distance. Ahead, it curved and followed roughly parallel to the river. The wall was unbroken by window or door and Wendell guessed the height to be about fifty feet.

  “That wall marks the border of Helheim, the abode of Hel and the dead who did not die in combat,” Vafthruthnir said. “There the dead await the coming of Ragnarok. We shall soon be at the Gjällerbru, where I shall be quit of you.”

  They had made four rest stops and were close to making a fifth when they rounded a bend in the river and a bridge came into view. At this point the river was, Wendell judged, a little over a quarter mile across. A covered bridge of post and beam construction spanned its width. The sides of the bridge were covered in wood planks and the roof was a thatch of glittering yellow that caused Wendell to catch his breath.

  “Yes, Midgarder,” Vafthruthnir said on noticing Wendell’s stare. “The Gjällerbru is thatched with gold.” The giant sighed. “Once Helheim was a place of rest and contemplation for those who did not die in combat. It was a place of beauty. Then, some say, your Christian beliefs started infecting the Norsemen. Over time, Helheim became a place of darkness and of cold. Then the souls stopped coming.”

  Vafthruthnir stopped. “There is your way out, if you can manage it. Cross the bridge and there is a cave angled upward which leads to the upper realms.” He smiled, a grim smile, made all the more ghastly being on a severed head. “The giant Modgud guards the bridge, and will allow none to leave. And should you somehow pass her, Garmr waits at the top of the cave and will allow none dead to pass out and none living to pass within.”

  “Wait a minute!” Simpson said when Wendell had repeated Vafthruthnir’s words. “The snake said to show us the way out.”

  “And to see you safely to the exit,” Vafthruthnir said. “I have done so. He said nothing of seeing that you pass through that exit. That is your affair and none of mine.”

  Simpson drew Wendell’s revolver and pointed it at the giant. “How about we make a new deal right here.”

  “Put that away,” Wendell said. “He’s walking around with his head in his arms. Do you think a forty-five Long Colt is going to bother him much?”

  “No more will it discommode Modgud.” Vafthruthnir said with a shrug.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Wendell said. “Giant, you say that no souls have come here?”

  “Not for many years.”

  “Then I have a proposition. It is likely that no souls have come because no one venerates the old gods any more. If you will help us to get past the bridge, then I will swear by whatever oaths you agree are binding to tell others of these old gods, to tell them that Helheim has been a place of rest among the hells rather than torment and that they can share it if they but believe. When they are killed in hell, as many are, it may be that they come here. And your ranks will swell, bringing closer the day of Ragnarok and the final death of Odin, the one who took your head.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Simpson said. “You can’t….�
��

  “It’s the only way,” Wendell said. “We’ll never get out of here without help and if this is the price of help, what else can we do?”

  “Very well, Midgarder,” Vafthruthnir said. “Swear your oath and place your hand in the Gjöll. If you speak true, it will not harm you.”

  Wendell swore and, holding his breath placed his left hand in the river. True to the giant’s word, the venom in the water did not burn him.

  “As you say, one named Wendell. I will draw Modgud to me. With no fresh dead brought to us, her vigil is a lonely one and to speak to one of her own kind will be a relief. When she comes to me, cross the bridge swiftly. Be warned: the floor of the bridge is made of knives, edge up. If you cross with boldness, then you will take no hurt, but if you hesitate they will cut deep, leaving wounds that do not heal.”

  “Boldness,” Wendell said. “Can’t be any worse than the battle of Ball’s Bluff,” (where he had been hit by three musket balls, one passing completely through his chest). “And Garmr?”

  “That I cannot help you with,” Vafthruthnir said. “I am bound to this place and may not cross the bridge.”

  “Garmr is a giant dog, is it not?” Simpson said when Wendell had relayed Vafthruthnir’s words.

  “A very great dog indeed,” Vafthruthnir said, “and the most terrible of all the beasts in the nine worlds.”

  “I think I know how we can deal with him then,” Simpson said.

  “Then wait here,” Vafthruthnir said, “and do not be seen.”

  *

  Wendell crouched just behind the summit of a small rise. Simpson crouched next to him. Below, Vafthruthnir approached the bridge. They heard the giant shout but could not make out his words. A few minutes later another giant arrived, this one even larger than Vafthruthnir. Vafthruthnir’s shoulder came only to her mid-chest. This must be Modgud, Wendell thought.

  Vafthruthnir gestured as he and Modgud walked slowly upstream, apparently absorbed in conversation.

  “Now!” Wendell said and, steeling himself for the pain from his broken bones, began to run for the bridge, Simpson sprinting at his side.

  Simpson was slightly in the lead when they reached the bridge. As Simpson’s foot touched it, the bridge began to shout: “Help! Intruders!”

  “Trickery!” Wendell heard the voice boom behind them followed by the resounding thud of running footsteps.

  “Run!” he shouted and set action to his words, drawing upon what reserves of strength they had left.

  They were halfway across the bridge when the sound of the footsteps behind them changed, from the dull thud of feet on rocky ground to the sharper sound of boots on the deck of the bridge. Almost blind with pain, Wendell continued to run, expecting a giant hand to close on him at any moment.

  But the hand never came. He reached the rocky shore at the other end of the bridge and dashed another hundred yards before slipping and falling, barely managing to twist to his left to land on his good side. Wendell nearly passed out from the pain.

  When Wendell sat up he saw the giant Modgud, who had halted at the near end of the bridge. “You may have escaped me, Midgarders, but Garmr will not be so easily bested.”

  “Holmes?” Simpson said. “We’d better get moving before she comes after us.”

  “I don’t think she will,” Wendell said. “My guess is that bridge is as far as she goes.”

  Simpson nodded. “Still, I think we should get moving. There’s that dog to pass yet.”

  “You said you had an idea?”

  Simpson nodded again.

  “All right, let’s go.” Wincing at the renewed pain, Wendell slowly forced himself to his feet.

  A few hundred yards from the riverbank, the shore rose in a sheer cliff to invisible heights above them. As Vafthruthnir had promised, a cave pierced the cliff, angling upward. Stalactites and stalagmites rimmed its mouth like giant teeth.

  Inside the cave, the dim light of Helheim soon faded, replaced by even dimmer light from luminous fungi. Even when their eyes adjusted to the murk, they could barely make out their path.

  Eventually they could see a ruddy light ahead, growing brighter and forming a lopsided oval as they approached the upper end of the cave.

  “Come ahead, Midgarders,” a voice said from ahead of them.

  Wendell froze and glanced sideways at Simpson. A shadow detached itself from the wall at the exit and stood silhouetted, nearly filling the oval before them.

  “Come ahead. I am hungry.”

  “Now’s the time for that idea of yours,” Wendell whispered.

  “What idea would that be, Midgarder?” the voice said, and then chuckled. “Did you think to keep secrets from me? Only Gold Teeth has ears better than mine.”

  “I understood that!” Simpson said quietly.

  “Of course you can understand me, Midgarder,” the voice said. “Men and women of all tongues have passed my way since the dawn of time. I am Garmr, the Hel Hound. It is my duty, given by the Norns, who create the destinies of men and gods, to challenge all who seek to pass into and out of Hel, to see if their business is meet. And it is my duty to devour those whose business is not. So come forward. If your business is acceptable you have nothing to fear. If it is not, you may then choose between me and the Jötun below. There is nowhere else to go.”

  Wendell looked again at Simpson, who nodded. Together they walked slowly forward. As they neared the exit of the cave they could see that the shadow was the shaggy head of a great dog. The dog’s muzzle glistened with gore. When it stood at their approach, this dog was twenty feet tall at the shoulder. Its chest and forequarters were agleam with blood.

  Simpson cast a quick glance behind them, into the cave, then looked back up at Garmr. “The most terrible of all beasts?”

  “Ah,” Garmr said, “you think that because Nidhogg is larger, that Fenris the wolf and Jörmungand the world serpent are vaster than I … that they are more terrible? Know this, Midgarder: they may be greater in size than I am, but all men and all Gods face me in the end. Fenris and Jörmungand are fated to die in Ragnarok, but I shall abide. My first howl shall herald the coming of Fimbulwinter, the three year freeze that shall destroy the world of men, my second, the assault on Asgard, and my third, the renewal of the world. I am the ending of all things and their rebirth.”

  “Very great and terrible indeed,” Simpson said, “and yet you hunger.”

  Garmr lowered his massive head. “I hunger. Few have come this way in an age. And those few I try to devour vanish from my very jaws.”

  “How fortunate for you, then,” Simpson said, “that I have meat that will not vanish away when you eat it. We have come to give it to you. Is that not a meet business for us?”

  Garmr laughed softly, his doggy breath stirring around them like a foul wind. “Oh a meet business indeed. And when I have devoured this meat, I shall then devour you – and see if you will vanish from my jaws as well.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, great one,” Simpson said. “Our task is to give this meat only to one who swears to allow us to pass. If you will not swear, then we cannot give you this meat.”

  “What need have I of oaths?” Garmr said. “I can simply slay you and have the meat you carry whether you will give it or no.”

  Seeing Simpson at a loss, Wendell spoke up. “That is terribly unfortunate. We stand here within a cave, which your majestic size will not allow you to enter. You may keep us here if you choose … but that will not win you the meat.”

  Garmr stood looking at them for several seconds. “Very well. I swear by Yggdrassil, the World Ash, to allow you to pass this once, if you give me meat that does not vanish from my jaws.”

  “Both of us,” Wendell said.

  “Both of you,” Garmr agreed.

  Wendell looked at Simpson, who nodded.

  “Very well.” Simpson removed his makeshift pack, opened it, and removed one of the pieces of snake. He tossed it to Garmr who caught it in the air and swallowed.

  “Mo
re!”

  Piece by piece, Simpson threw the snake pieces to Garmr. Eventually, all the snake meat was gone.

  “Ah, it has been so long since I have had meat in my belly. While it has not the taste of hero or thief, it is better than the nothing I have had for so long. Very well, you may pass.” Garmr stepped back and to the side, clearing the way out of the cave.

  “At the end, so easy,” Wendell mused as they left the cave. “What do you plan to…?” Pain exploded against the back of his head and Wendell was falling. He hit the ground and rolled onto his back. Simpson stood above him, holding Wendell’s revolver. Smoke curled from the muzzle and cylinder as Simpson took aim again.

  “You’ve sworn to convince people to believe in the Norse Gods so they’ll go down there when they die. I can’t let you do that,” Simpson said. “I just can’t.”

  The revolver thundered once more.

  *

  Wendell woke on a stone slab that felt all too familiar. He had been on such a slab several times before, in such a place … in this place. He knew where he was, beyond a shadow of a doubt: the Undertaker’s table. As before, he couldn’t see, move, or feel, but he could hear raspy breathing … and he could smell. The fetid breath of the Undertaker burned in his nostrils.

  “What have you done to yourself this time? The wound in back’s not bad – just a scrape really – but this one? I’ll be forever putting these little pieces of bone back together. Do you know how hard it is to reconnect all the neurons in a brain? I always seem to lose something. Should I leave you the piece of lead as a souvenir when they reassign you? Shall I? Or perhaps not.”

  The Undertaker did something. The sound and smell of the raspy breath started to fade. “Now this won’t hurt a bit.”

  Always does, Wendell thought, just before losing consciousness again.

  He woke once more on chilly ground. Without thinking, he reached up and probed at his head with both hands. No sign of bullet holes. His broken arm worked perfectly. His ribs no longer grated against one another.

  He looked around. Instead of a lake of boiling blood, he was surrounded by cold and mist – a definite improvement. That Norse hell, he was back in that Norse hell.