Pure Dead Trouble

by Debi Gliori

  For a start, Hell was far hotter. Down in the Hadean Pit burned an eternal furnace that spewed forth sulfurous fumes and gobbets of magma like a subterranean volcano. Sunk in darkness, Hell's passageways and corridors bore evidence of recent modernization in keeping with a brutalist school of architecture. Hell never slept, no dawn bathed it in the light of a new day, and no stars shone in its bloody skies. Resembling a nightmare version of a chemical refinery, Hell's machinery perpetually throbbed, clanked, and shrieked; foul miasmas and odors rolled down its metal walkways, and its residents automatically sprinkled their morning muesli with ground-up headache pills and stirred aspirin into their bedtime cocoa.

  One of these unfortunate creatures was slumped across his obsidian desk, hissing down a cell phone and having a Bad Hades Day.

  “How many times do I have to go through this?” he groaned, rolling his red eyes and pulling a hideous face before realizing, too late, that he was on videophone. “No, not you, darling. It was just a muscle spasm. Let me run it past you one more time. I. Have. To. Work. Late. At. The. Office. Capisce?” He paused, then closed his eyes in pain. “Whaddya mean, my supper's in the succubus? Who d'you think you're talking to? A minor demon?” Standing up, all the better to pace around his office, Isagoth, Defense Minister of Hades, snapped his fingers to summon a tiny creature poised by the door. Rushing forward, this creature revealed itself to be a salamander, its fiery body unscarred by its tendency to burst into flames on command.

  “Whaddya mean, what's a lighter doing in my office? Whaddya think it's doing?” Isagoth bent down to light a black cigar against the salamander's igneous scales. “Just don't,” he advised, exhaling a plume of filthy brown smoke. “Don't give me that I-thought-you'd-given-up stuff. If you had my worries, believe me, you'd smoke too. So cut me some slack, huh? Get off my case. All I'm asking is that you put a few beers in the fridge for when I get home…. Uh-huh. And, well, yeah, if you'd pick up my suits from the dry cleaner's, I'd sure 'preciate it…. Oops, gotta go. Missing your pointy little head already… Byeeee.” Isagoth hit the off switch, but not before catching a glimpse of his wife's face on the video screen, incandescent with rage and wearing too much eyeliner, as usual; in the background were the remains of his microwaved dinner dripping down the walls of the dining room.

  And now, as if his misery wasn't quite complete…He spun on one cloven hoof and punched a button next to a wallmounted screen, which promptly displayed an alarming image of a demon engaged in some grisly ritual.

  “Marssssturrrr.” The demon's voice hissed out of concealed speakers as it turned to face Isagoth, its features impassive, its hands covered in what could only be blood. “The sssubject has proved to be rather… ssstubborn in its rresssistance to quessstioning.” The demon shrugged and turned to one side to allow an uninterrupted vista of the chamber beyond.

  “Eeeeyewww. Puh lease. Spare me.” Isagoth gagged, his hastily gobbled lunch reappearing in his gullet in a voyage of rediscovery. “I don't need to see what you're doing, moron. The hands-on stuff is your job, remember? Me: Master. You: scum. Isn't that how it goes?”

  “Yerrsss, Marssssturrrr, but I think—”

  “Just do your job, minion. No one requires you to think. Mindless violence, that's your brief. And—”

  “Marrsssturr?”

  “Get a move on. Break all four of his legs if you have to.”

  “Done that, Marrsssturr. I'm just removing his appendix with a blunt—”

  Bringing his fist crashing down on the off switch, Isagoth closed his eyes and swayed on his cloven hooves. Eurrrgh. Gross. Disgusting. And even worse, he thought, his eyes snapping open and an agonized moan escaping his lips, his own fate would likely be similar if he failed in his mission to retrieve the Boss's bauble on time.

  Returning to his desk on legs that suddenly felt too flimsy to support his weight, Isagoth shuffled through his case notes until he found the relevant file. He hardly needed to look at it, since by now he could almost reel off its contents from memory. Doggedly, he forced himself to scan the pages, searching for clues he might have overlooked in the previous thousand re-readings.

  “The Missing Chronostone,” he read, his eyes watering in the smoke from his cigar.

  1. FINDING THE CHRONOSTONE

  (This is an almost impossible mission, or, to look on the bright side, it's almost as easy as emptying the Pacific Ocean armed with one rusty teaspoon.)

  2. LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS IN FINDING THE CHRONOSTONE

  (Zilch, but let's not be too negative, huh? Say 0.000001% chance of success.)

  3. PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS AT FINDING THE CHRONOSTONE UNSUCCESSFUL

  (No kidding—the last attempt ended up with my predecessor being reincarnated as an insect and coming to a sticky end thanks to a vengeful tarantula armed with nothing more than a lump of pine resin.)

  4. IMPORTANCE OF CHRONOSTONE

  (Whooh. Pretty important. Like, it's up there with the big ones. Ones like drawing breath, not being dead, etc.)

  5. WHAT EXACTLY IS THE CHRONOSTONE?

  (On this point, the Boss was distinctly unforthcoming. Quote: “It's a diamond, about the size of an egg, and it's mine, right?” Discussion over. I had a trawl through the Hadean Archives and came up with the following: “Chronostone—a.k.a. Pericola d'Illuminem, Precious, and Ignea Lucifer.” Magical? Yes, but not in itself. The Chronostone is an unlimited power source that renders its owner omnipotent. Normal rules don't apply. With the Chronostone on board, you could turn lead into gold, make Time run backward, undo Death's dominion, rip the wings off angels, and become an irresistible babe-magnet.)

  (Cancel that last bit. Too frivolous by far, but no wonder the Boss wants it back, eh?)

  6. CONSEQUENCE OF FAILING TO FIND THE CHRONOSTONE

  (Oh, puhleeaze. Let's not go there.)

  Coughing uncontrollably and wreathed in smoke, Isagoth replaced the case file in a drawer of his obsidian desk and slammed it shut. He wished he'd never heard of the Chronostone. He was way out of his depth.

  Part of Isagoth was still in denial, in fact. Every morning he'd wake up with a feeling of creeping dread, a sense that somewhere out there his future was rushing toward him on an unstoppable black tide, and there was nothing he could do to avoid it. This feeling was further compounded by the daily e-mails thudding into Isagoth's in-box from the Boss, e-mails which were becoming more impatient as the weeks rolled past.

  “Face it, Isagoth,” the demon muttered to himself as yet more messages pinged into his in-box, “if you can't find the Chronostone, you're toast. The Boss is not interested in excuses; he doesn't want to hear that two thousand years of combing the earth for an egg-sized diamond have produced nothing; he just wants his precious stone back, no matter what it takes to get it.” Inhaling deeply, he read the latest communication from Below.

  TO: isagoth

  FROM: the pit

  progress???

  that drumming sound you hear is not the sound of approaching thunder.

  nor is it the stonking bass riff from the alien brothers' recent hit single “get ur finger out.”

  no.

  it's the sound of my claws drumming on my desk, eagerly awaiting your daily update on developments.

  do tell. i'm all agog.

  Agog? wondered Isagoth. What sort of word was that? It didn't even come close to describing the kind of state he suspected the Boss would be in. Grinding his half-smoked cigar under one hoof, the demon began to type his reply, which, in common with every e-mail he'd sent, was composed of a groveling mixture of half-truths, overheard gossip, willful rumors, and utter fantasies: in short, lies, lies, and yet more lies.

  The Magic Word

  lutching Damp's hot little hand in her own, Mrs. McLachlan tiptoed along the hospital corridor, trailing the scent of lilies from the flowers she'd picked for Latch's bedside, her sensible shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. The nursing staff were closeted in the duty room writing reports, and Mrs. McLachlan and Damp sailed uncha
llenged into Ward Two. The majority of this ward's patients were clustered round a vast television, the main function of which appeared to be to induce sleep, for judging by the snores coming from its audience, all Latch's wardmates were out for the count.

  In the opposite corner of the ward, Latch lay propped up on pillows, staring at the wall across from his bed. His eyes flickered in Mrs. McLachlan's direction without giving any hint of recognition. She, in turn, gave no indication of her dismay at witnessing her colleague so hideously transformed. Latch looked as if he'd been marinated in turmeric: the skin of his face and hands was deep yellow in color, and Mrs. McLachlan caught a passing whiff of sulfur, undiminished by the strong smell of hospital disinfectant, exactly as the ward sister had reported.

  “Hello, dear,” the nanny said softly. “Och, it's such a relief to see you looking so…well. We've all been so worried about you, but it seems you're now on the road to recovery.”

  Latch frowned, his hands twisting the bedsheets, his feet stirring slightly under the covers. A look of faint alarm crossed his face as Mrs. McLachlan helped Damp out of her jacket, lifted her onto a nearby chair, and placed an overloaded shopping bag on his bed.

  “Now,” the nanny said firmly, “we've brought you some wee things to make you feel at home while you're getting better.” She reached into the shopping bag and handed Latch a magazine, smiling encouragingly as she did so. “Your Gentleman's Gentleman came this morning—it's a new postman on the StregaSchloss run, so naturally he had a hairy fit when Tock waddled out of the moat to say hello…. We had a bit of bother trying to persuade the poor man to climb down out of the wisteria and be introduced properly.”

  Latch stared blankly at the magazine in his hands. Its cover bore a photograph of a man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, extending a silver salver on which was a newspaper. “BUTLER OF THE YEAR” was emblazoned below the man's elbow, under which was printed several utterly meaningless phrases: “Hot Tips for Firing Footmen”; “Cellar Duties—A Wine Buff's Guide to Choosing the Perfect Vintage”; and, puzzlingly, “Which Way to Pass the Port? Etiquette for the E-Generation.” Now totally at sea, Latch looked up at the bearer of this strange magazine for some hint as to how he should respond. No clues were forthcoming as she hauled a heavy object out of her shopping bag and passed it over to him with an apologetic smile. “Now…I know this is silly of me, but I just thought you'd like to keep your hand in while you're here. It's your iron, dear—don't look at it like I've handed you an unexploded bomb…. ”

  She's a madwoman, Latch thought, trying to smile reassuringly lest he set her off into some unimaginable display of psychosis. He wondered whether, if he screamed for help, anyone would hear. She was standing up now, towering over him, fussing with a bunch of flowers she'd brought….

  “Och, I can't see a vase any where,” Mrs. McLachlan complained. “And these poor wee flowers are collapsing in the heat.” She patted Latch's hand and set off across the ward in search of something to put the lilies in, leaving Damp staring wide-eyed at Latch in his hospital gown.

  “Pretty,” the child decided, reaching out a small arm to stroke the material.

  Latch shrank away, wishing to put as much distance between himself and this unknown child as possible.

  “Ahhhh,” Damp breathed, her face crumpling with the rejection. “Lats doesn't like me anymore? Poor Lats. Poor Damp. Why you all yellow, Lats? Why you in bed, Lats? Want story?” And without waiting for a reply, Damp helped herself to Latch's magazine and, carefully holding it upside down, opened it and began to interpret the pictures inside. “Look, Lats,” Damp said. “Wunsa pona time, there was a beautiful… man in a big black car and he had a magic…plate with a paper on it and”—she turned the page with some difficulty, since the magazine was nearly as big as she was, and continued, a small frown appearing on her face as she struggled to understand the picture in front of her—“and there was a big… poo on a plate and it said, ‘Lats. I'm not supposed to be here on this nice plate…. ' ”

  Intrigued, despite himself, Latch reached out for the magazine. “Hang on a minute. Can I see that picture?”

  Damp looked up at him reprovingly. “But Lats, what's the magic word?”

  Crossing the ward carrying a vase brimming with lilies, Mrs. McLachlan stopped, held her breath, and prayed that Latch could remember what Damp meant. Just one word, one tiny word that would give her hope that his memory loss was not irrevocable. Damp flapped the magazine, open to display an ad for hideously expensive cigars, at Latch and repeated, “Lats, what's the magic word? Not seeing poo on plate until you ask proply—”

  “Please,” Latch gasped. “Please… please, please. That's the magic wor—wuh—wahhh.”

  Scrambling up onto his bed, Damp wrapped her arms round his neck and clung to him as he burst into tears of relief.

  In the dungeons below StregaSchloss, the beasts were taking their accustomed afternoon nap. Curled into a vast hairy ball, Knot slept soundly, a thin trail of drool pooling beneath his matted mouth. In an adjacent stone alcove, Sab was trying to concentrate on the crossword puzzle in the daily paper, despite interruptions from Ffup, who reclined on a pile of straw and was simultaneously feeding Nestor, repainting her talons with nail polish, and keeping up a running commentary on the current state of play with regard to her wedding preparations.

  “I mean, it's not as if I'm asking for the moon, is it? You only get married once, after all—NO! Nestor, don't touch; Mummy's talons aren't dry yet. See, I think I'm really being, like … quite reasonable about the whole wedding, but he says I'm an extravagant airhead—”

  “Lightweight commander; not sea or ground. Four down, seven letters…Oh heck, I hate these kind of clues.”

  “And d'you know he's even trying to wriggle out of buying me an engagement ring? Says he can't possibly afford even the smallest, squittiest diamond? I mean, like, how tight is that ?”

  “Did moan about tangled gem. Two across… hmmm. That's an anagram, isn't it?” Sab muttered to himself, scratching his head.

  “Are you listening to anything I've been saying?” Ffup demanded.

  “Urrrgh. Hush, woman. This is difficult. Dido man? Do dam in? Mad doin'? Maid nod… DIAMOND!”

  “Y-e-s,” Ffup said with exaggerated slowness. “Well done, Sab. What a conversationalist. What rapier-like wit, what a stunning contribution to the debate, what—”

  Interrupting Ffup's tide of sarcasm came a wavering voice, its whispery tones echoing down the steps that linked the dungeons with the wine cellar upstairs.

  “I've lost my mouse…,” it moaned pitifully. “I could have sworn I left it on top of the fish sticks. …” A trembling hand came into view, its fingers vibrating in sympathy with their owner's voice as it quavered, “Are you down there, Titus, dear? I'm afraid I've crashed the computer again.”

  “What are you doing out of your freezer?” Sab demanded, leaping up in time to catch the stooped and wrinkly figure of Strega-Nonna as she tottered and fell down the last few steps into the dungeon, her feet entangled in a long gray cord, at one end of which dangled the missing computer mouse. Undismayed by her own terrifying frailty, the ancient woman continued to bemoan her fate, her sticklike arms twitching as Sab tenderly carried her back upstairs.

  “I just cannot figure out what's the matter with the infernal thing,” she mumbled, waving a dismissive claw in the direction of a large freezer, beside which lay a state-of-the-art laptop surrounded by defrosting bags of assorted leftover soups.

  “I was surfing, you know,” she explained proudly, displaying her newfound grasp of technology, a skill completely lost on Sab, who, incorrectly assuming that the old lady was referring to some form of geriatric water sport, closed his eyes in horror at the sudden vision of Strega-Nonna, clad in a bikini, skimming the waves on Lochnagargoyle.

  “Tried to log on to blastfromthepast dot com,” she added, patting Sab's snout and gazing around with interest as the giant beast squeezed through the aisles of t
he wine cellar and into the kitchen, where he deposited Strega-Nonna on a rocking chair beside the range.

  “Very kind of you, dear,” she yawned, sinking into the warm cushions. “Wonder if you could fetch me my computer manuals and see if young Titus is about? Maybe his agile young brain can help his addled old great-great-great-greatgreat …” Her voice trailed off in midsentence as she fell fast asleep, drained by her tussle with a technology invented hundreds of years after she was born.

  Sab peered at Strega-Nonna, noticing how frequent cycles of freezing and defrosting were taking their toll on the old lady's skin: her cheeks had fallen inward, giant gray circles ringed her eyes, and her lips had disappeared completely as her mouth shrank into a tightly pleated dimple. It was such a pity, Sab thought, reaching out with a sheathed paw to stroke Strega-Nonna's halo of white hair; such a tragedy that this beloved ancestress couldn't let go of her absurd desire to find a cure for old age—a desire that, bizarrely, had kept her alive for centuries, suspended in ice until medical science addressed the problem of aging. In common with all griffins, Sab had loved and lost many human companions down through the years—some to the battles and wars that humankind appeared powerless to avoid, others to the plagues and famines that had swept across earth at various stages in its evolution. Any humans spared by such calamities lived out their allotted span and succumbed to the ravages of Time, which eventually claimed them all.

  In comparison to humans, griffins seemed almost immortal. Sab had long ago given up celebrating his birthday, since with hundreds of repetitions such a celebration not only lost meaning but also served as a reminder of all those human friends he'd never see again….

  “Hey. Why so glum, chum?” Ffup bounded into the kitchen, her flailing tail crashing against the china cupboard and rattling all the china decorating its shelves. A small moan came from a lidless willow-pattern teapot, long employed by the Strega-Borgias to store small, precious things like marbles and buttons, usually after they'd been rescued from the bowels of the washing machine or vacuum cleaner. The moan grew more pronounced, until finally Tarantella appeared over the rim of the teapot, a tiny pair of tweezers clasped in one hairy leg, her mouthparts gathered in an outraged pout.