Challenging Destiny #25

by Crystalline Sphere Authors

  "T. E. Shaw,” says Geek, and they shake on it. At least that name doesn't ring anything for me. Maybe this guy's normal—in a super ultra-British way. Anyway, then Geek, um, T. E.—and I shake, like it's a garden party or something.

  "Who's the monk?” I ask.

  "I'd not got round to asking,” says Tea and starts talking Latin again. Monk says some stuff, and Tea gets that white-sheet look again. And now D. has it too. They're all talking back and forth. From his face, Monk's as confused as I am, except at least he knows what the heck they're saying.

  "Um, a little English over here?"

  Tea turns back to me. “Uh, this gentleman—he says he's Peter Abelard."

  I'd heard that name. But it's not like I think about medieval monks every day, so it takes me a sec to put it together. It was in History—Famous Women in History unit: Abelard was the guy who'd been the tutor of that really bright chick, Heloïse, and then they'd started having sex, and then her uncle had gotten all pissed about it—

  "You mean the eunuch?” I ask.

  Tea takes a step in and says quietly, “Perhaps not the best way to refer to him."

  Good point.

  And I can be tactful when I have to be. So I just say, “Christ, what is it with all these historical figures? Tea—uh, Mr. Shaw—you're not a historical figure, are you?"

  He just gives me this confused look.

  "Guess not. S'okay, me either. So, um, when are you from anyway?"

  He grins. “Last I checked, 1935 ... And you?"

  "Welcome to the twenty-first century."

  He nods at me—like, at this point, what were we going to say?

  Charlie and Pete Abelard have stopped chatting in Latin, and Charlie's picking up leaves and bark, whipping them around in his hands like a squirrel. And the way he's bending down and springing up—he's nimble for a guy of ninety!

  For the first time, I really look at the forest. And Toto, I don't think we're in California anymore—because these are not oak trees or redwoods or ... They're just weird: gnarled, like instead of having a trunk and branches, the branches have grown together to make a twisty trunk. But there are spreading branches up higher, and they're twisty too. And the leaves are way up there, sparse and crunchy-looking, all out of reach. Charlie's picking his leaves up off the ground, which is dead flat dirt. Above, the sky is cloudy gray, but the air's room-temp. And the trees are all about twelve feet apart, like they were planted.

  That's comforting: we're in a tree farm. So there must be normal people around somewhere. I'm past even trying to figure out the guys I'm here with. Hoax masters. Yeah, except they must be geniuses at it, ‘cause they don't give off that vibe. And I know I should be massively freaked; I mean, I may be here with three deranged psycho killers who think they're people from the past. But I'm not scared, not of them—just worried about how I'm gonna get home. I was supposed to meet my sister in Larkspur for lunch. Now, Mom and Dad and Ahn will be phoning hospitals—

  Come on, Karen, one thing at a time.

  The trees stretch as far as I can see. It's quiet. No wind. No birds.

  Pete's on his knees with his hands pressed together, saying, “Pot-air no-stair...” that's all I can catch.

  "So what's the verdict, Char—, um, Mr. Darwin?” I ask. “What kind of trees?” Might tell us where we are.

  He shakes his head. “I've no idea, Miss Nooyn.” (Mangled that one.) “The veins suggest ceanothus; the lobes and bark are reminiscent of the oak, but the form of the trunk and branches is unlike anything I've encountered. A new species to me. Perhaps a new genus.” The old dude laughs. “Why, I feel I'm back in the Galapagos again after so many years. Decades."

  "Centuries.” I couldn't help saying it, but when he looks at me, I wish I was better at shutting up. Darn those big, frightened, Elijah Wood eyes.

  "We're in Hell.” That's Tea, all quiet and composed.

  Charlie and I stare at him. Pete just keeps praying, like he'd already figured that one out. Or like he doesn't understand English.

  Tea points at a tree. “See the people in them? Legs, arms ... face."

  I hate to say it, but he was right. Ents, I think. Just think of them as nice friendly ents. But the way they're all distorted, those aren't ents. Weird-ass genetic mod.

  Tea kind-of-but-not-really laughs. “It's Dante. Now, which Circle..."

  "Forest of the suicides?” says Charlie.

  "Yes, I believe so.” Tea glances at Charlie. “Well, something's gone amiss, Mr. Darwin, because I'm quite certain you were never a suicide."

  "Oh, like you were?” Another thing I wish I hadn't said.

  Tea goes blank for sec. “Not to my knowledge,” he says with this weird little smile.

  Still on his knees, Pete's looking at us now. I feel for him, ‘cause I know what it's like to be out of the language loop.

  "Shouldn't someone be translating for Pete?"

  Tea gets down next to him. “Es Neh Infernus, Magister?” (I know “magister” from Dragonslayer. It means “master.")

  And Pete says a bunch of stuff in Latin.

  "Now then,” Charlie says to me. “Don't distress yourself, Miss Nooyn."

  "Call me ‘Karen.'” Man, couldn't Dad have kept his adoptive last name, all nice and English?

  "Miss Karen.” He actually bows; it's odd. “It would be inadvisable in this admittedly peculiar hour to allow ourselves to be ensnared by superstition. It's quite natural that, to you, our situation may suggest some sort of ‘hell’ or demonic influence—” (Yeah, ‘cause I'm an Oriental Savage; I get it.) “—but if we keep our heads, I'm confident we'll find a perfectly reasonable explanation."

  I nod. “Genetic mod."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Some billionaire hired some genetic engineers to splice the DNA of a bunch of trees so he could have his Dante-esque fantasy thing. Doesn't explain you guys, though. Hey, could you be clones?” Stupid idea. “No, you're too old. We've only had cloning a few years. Plus, not enough time to give you all that Victorian education and Latin and crap."

  Charlie's giving me this frowny look. “You truly believe yourself to be from the twenty-first century?"

  "Uh, more than ‘believe.’”

  Charlie looks at Tea. Tea shrugs. “Well, she talks as if she's from the future."

  Charlie gives this borderline hysterical laugh. “It's a dream."

  "What's Pete say?” I ask Tea.

  "Pete—Master Abelard was initially of the opinion we're in Purgatory. But when I told him that this place resembled one of Dante's Circles of Hell, he agreed that it might, for all he knew, be Hell."

  "Good going. Accelerates from Purgatory to Hell in less than thirty seconds."

  Tea grins again, like the whole thing's a kick.

  "Well,” says Charlie, “that is, of course, the opinion one would expect of a Catholic cleric. But, intending no disrespect either to him or to the Almighty, might I suggest that for all my personal faults—and I own they are many—I do not, in good conscience, consider myself to be deserving of eternal damnation. Nor, from what I have read of Abelard, would I consider him to be. In fact, nobody in my present company impresses me as particularly meriting Satan's yoke."

  Is it just me, or did he look at me kind of hard before he came up with that “nobody"?

  Tea translates to Pete, and then Pete says something long. Man, the poor guy's got almost no teeth left.

  Charlie looks huffy and says to Pete, “Nolo Dee-chair-ay—"

  "Um,” I butt in. “Translation, please?"

  Teas says, “He said that Mr. Darwin's inclination toward mercy speaks well of him, yet Mr. Darwin must recall that Christ's admonition to ‘judge not that we be not judged’ includes not only refusing condemnation but acknowledging that we cannot grant absolution. To judge oneself or another unsuitable for Hell is to usurp God's prerogative and show oneself guilty of the cardinal sin of Pride."

  "Okay,” I say, “does anybody here besides Pete believe that crap
?"

  They all look at me like I just spat on the Holy Host.

  "My dear young lady,” Charlie says, “pray let us maintain a semblance of civility.” Then he says some Latin.

  Tea translates for me: “He says it's not his intention to usurp God's place. It's merely a common-sense conclusion that a God who is all-good will not condemn to eternal punishment his children who are clearly not all bad ... And, uh—” Now he's translating Pete “—Master Abelard feels such conjecture does, indeed, usurp God since it steps outside the bounds of the Holy Writ God has set down for our edification."

  "I'm with Charlie."

  Tea smiles again. “Do you know, I think I may be partly with Pete."

  That's not what I expected.

  But, oh my God, Karen, Bible study later. Time to get these guys with the program.

  "Dudes,” I say, “are we just going stand around or are we gonna get out of here?"

  "Well-spoken, Miss Karen,” says Charlie. “Let us take practical action to remedy our situation."

  "I'll climb a tree,” says Tea. “See what I can see.” He grabs on to a trunk then looks back at us. “And, uh, do my best not to dwell on the idea that I'm climbing a suicide.” He's up and down in five minutes, saying, “The trees thin that way.” He nods to my right.

  "'Kay, let's go.” I start off, while Tea talks to Pete.

  Charlie catches up to me. “Dear Miss Karen, do let one of us go first. There's no telling what we may find ahead, and we would be remiss to leave you unprotected."

  "No offense, Charlie, but I took 5 credits of self-defense for P.E. I don't need the manly men to protect me. So we can dispense the gallantry, ‘kay?"

  Charlie gapes at me. “I say, in all my life, that's the first time I've heard a fellow criticized for being gallant."

  Tea and Pete have caught up with us. Tea's chuckling.

  I nod at Pete. “So the friar's decided to join in with the jail break from Hell?"

  "He says he's curious to see it—Hell.” Tea smiles at Pete and talks Latin. Pete breaks into a grin and laughs. He says something back and I catch the word, “purgatory."

  "What's up?” I ask Tea.

  "I asked him whether, if he can still enjoy his powers of curiosity, it's possible for him to be in a Hell of absolute torment. He said, perhaps it's Purgatory after all."

  * * * *

  The edge of the forest is not an improvement. The trees trickle out onto this rocky plateau that ends after a few yards in a cliff. Below, there's more rocky nothing and off at the horizon, more hills. By our feet, there's a steep trail cut out of the cliff. We could get down—but do we want to?

  "Infernus,” mutters Pete.

  Yuh-huh. “Okay,” I say, “I'm thinking life's not so bad in that forest."

  "Look there,” says Tea, “in that cleft between those far peaks, there's a light."

  I see a pale glow where he's pointing. “Hellfire?"

  "Nonsense,” says Charlie, not getting that I'm joking. (I hope I'm joking.) “I say we make for it.” Plucky old geezer.

  "Make for the hellfire. Good plan."

  "My dear Miss Karen, that light is the most singular phenomenon within our field of vision. Whatever we find when we reach it will surely guide our next decision."

  "Yeah. Especially if our next decision is ‘run for your lives!’”

  Charlie opens his mouth, and I can tell he's got this urge to lecture. So I just pat him on the shoulder and say, “It's okay, Charlie. Just ribbin’ ya. Actually, I agree.” ‘Cause there wasn't anywhere else for us to go, except back into Suicide Tree Farm.

  So we start down the trail. Way unfun. Dry and dusty, and pebbles like marbles under my sneakers. (I am utterly grateful I didn't wear my Tevas).

  We've gone down about five yards when—this being Hell and all—things go from bad to worse. This shadow swoops over us, like a hawk but way bigger. There's a thundery flapping, and the wind's blowing dust in my eyes, and I'm skidding. Then this thing banks right in front of us, and it's a ... dragon ... sort of. It's got four legs and bat wings, but a human guy's head.

  And I'm thinking, “Charlie has got to be right: it's a dream.” I even pinch myself. Doesn't help. Okay, VR. Some sort of VR candid cam—Who am I kidding?

  The dragon zooms past, closer this time. Thing smells like rotting seaweed.

  "Down!” shouts Tea. “Down the next couple of yards, there's more rock jutting out. We can hide."

  No argument here. So we skid and slide, and this thing whizzes by so close I can picture me being skewered on a talon.

  "Cave.” Tea points. It's this little, black entrance in the rock, and he's shoving us in. True, diving into a cave in Hell is maybe not the smartest plan. I'm remembering Bilbo and those goblins. But any port in a storm, you know?

  The cave is dark and cramped, and sharp rocks are sticking into my butt. But at least the dragon can't fit in. It lands on the slope. For a sec, it blocks out the clouds and breaths on us with this asthmatic-bear noise. Gross and nasty. Its claws scratch on the rocks. After a couple of minutes, it backs off. But we still hear it crunching around out there.

  "I'm getting a feeling this really is Hell.” I'm hoping someone will contradict me.

  "If this is Hell,” says Charlie, “the universe is far crueler than I ever imagined.” He pauses, looking all thoughtful. “And people say the survival of the fittest is cruel."

  "If this is Hell,” says Tea, “that means we're dead.” He repeats that in Latin. “Does any of us remember dying?"

  I sure as hell don't. I was on the bus...

  Charlie says, “I do remember feeling a bit knocked up."

  "Sorry, what?” I say. Bad, bad image.

  "Ill."

  "Oh, ill. Got it."

  "What year?” asks Tea.

  "1882."

  "Mr. Darwin, I do believe that was the year you died.” Charlie looks all pasty. And Tea talks with Pete and tells me, “He remembers being ill too."

  "As I recall,” says Charlie, “Abelard died about aged sixty. This chap looks rather older ... but medieval times...” Then Charlie kind of laughs. “I must say that to the extent I ever imagined an afterlife, I assumed I'd be young again."

  Tea chuckles too. “Well, you are in Hell."

  "Come on, Charlie,” I say, “You're majorly spry for a guy of ninety."

  "Miss Karen, I am seventy-three."

  "Yikes. Sorry. Victorian times.” Moving right along: “What's the last thing you remember, Tea?"

  He shrugs. “Going to shopping on my motorbike.” He looks at Charlie. “A motorbike is, well, a bicycle with a ... motor."

  Before Charlie can say, “Thanks, I'd worked that one out,” there's a scraping, like chalkboard-fingers. Dragon's back, sniffing. We all sit still, playing dead. Heh—appropriate. After a lot of stumping around, the dragon wanders off again.

  "Geryon,” says Tea.

  "Dante's image of deceit?” says Charlie. “With wings? Now, admittedly, it's been some time since I took a run at the Inferno, but wasn't he more a giant man-serpent?"

  "Yes, that's just the thing. This is Dante's Geryon, but it's Doré's interpretation."

  "Doré?” I ask.

  "Gustav Doré, the artist,” says Tea. “I remember his drawings from my childhood."

  Charlie is having a word with Pete.

  Pete looks thoughtful and sad. Finally he says some stuff, which Tea translates bit-by-bit: “If that creature is the patron of deceit ... it's fitting he sought me out ... for I have deceived many men ... nor can I say I have always repented it ... If this being has come for me ... I should go to him ... Perhaps, then, he will leave you in peace."

  "No way,” I say, “we all stick together."

  "Yes, we should,” says Tea.

  "Quite so,” says Charlie.

  That makes me feel a little better. But the dots are still not connecting. “Okay. Questions. No particular order. Why are we in Hell?—'cause, sorry Pete, I'm not buying the trust-G
od-that-you-deserve-it line. And why are we the only people here?—'cause I'm sure as hell not believing that we four are, like, the worst people ever. And why us together? Why do we all come from different times? And how come I'm the only woman and the only minority? They better rescan the personal data forms, ‘cause I don't belong in DWEM hell."

  "DWEM?” asks Tea.

  "Dead White European Males. And what's with all you famous dudes? Luck of the draw? I mean, I'm not famous. Tea's not famous.” Wait a sec, why is he giving me that guilty look? “Unless I'm missing something.” T. E. Shaw. T. E.—

  And it clicks in. “Oh my God. You're T. E. Lawrence, like, of Arabia.” I remember now; I read this article that said he changed his name to Shaw to avoid publicity.

  He's looking kind of sick, like publicity just caught up with him.

  "Damn,” I say, “I didn't recognize you without the white sheets and the being Peter O'Toole."

  "Peter O'Toole?"

  "He played you in the movie."

  He's looking past me like he's not all there. “I'd heard they were thinking of Leslie Howard."

  I go all giggly. Can I cast or can't I?

  Charlie's been translating to Pete. Now he switches to English: “Pardon my asking, but how exactly are you ‘of Arabia'?"

  "I served there in the Great War,” says Tea, like can-we-stop-talking-about-it?

  "'The Great War.’ I don't much fancy the sound of that."

  "No, nor did we,” says Tea with this little smile.

  "We studied World War I in history—” I start to say. I'm planning to talk about how the tactics were crap. Then I see Tea and Charlie giving me this stare, and I wish I could take my shoe out of my mouth. “Um, yeah, there was a World War II too ... But, hey, the Allies won—which was cool, ‘cause the Nazis were into some seriously nasty stuff with the concentration camps and—” Jesus, Karen, shut up already!

  Charlie's translating to Pete.

  And Pete looks at me and says one word: “Hair-magedon."

  I don't need a translation for Armageddon.

  'Cause here we are in a cave with this dragon watching us, and maybe we'll be here forever. It's Hell. I'm dead. I can remember now, the bus, the honking, the brakes slamming on. Ahn's going to blame herself because I was on my way to have lunch with her. Totally stupid and irrational, but guilt is like that. Ahn's like that; she takes everything so hard. Mom and Ahn are gonna be sitting in the kitchen sobbing. And Dad ... Dad's been through enough.