Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  “Just remember to call him Pitspawn.”

  “Pitspawn?”

  “Yeah.”

  Clovenhoof handed the taxi driver the piece of paper.

  “I want to go there.”

  The taxi driver stared at the paper.

  “This isn’t an address. It’s a phone number.”

  “A phone is a communication machine, I know that,” Clovenhoof said, thinking of the films he’d watched, “so I need to go where the phone is.”

  “So, you need to call them up, and find out where that is. Then I can take you.”

  “Surely that’s your job,” Clovenhoof said, puzzled. “I mean it’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do right now, is it? Obviously you wish it could be Christmas every day,” he said, indicating the radio which was playing the song that he was already bored of, “but it’s not. Is it?”

  “You haven’t got a phone?”

  “No.”

  The taxi driver sighed and phoned the number, shaking his head. He managed to elicit an address and drove Clovenhoof into a suburb called Erdington and pulled up outside a semi-detached house with a large holly wreath on the front door. Clovenhoof frowned, there were no pentagrams or candles visible, but the taxi driver was adamant that this was the right address.

  Clovenhoof knocked at the door. A woman with a gentle face and a grey bun answered.

  “Are you Pitspawn?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “You want Darren,” said the lady.

  “No. Pitspawn.”

  “Come in.”

  Clovenhoof found himself steered into a room of lace doilies and side tables. He sat on an uncomfortable settee while the lady called up the stairs.

  “Darren! Someone’s here to see you.”

  She came back and sat opposite Clovenhoof with a smile. She picked up some knitting, and started to work on it. Clovenhoof stared at the design. It looked as though it was the front of a jumper, or maybe even one of those stylish tank top garments. It was mostly black, but had red and white pentagrams up the sides.

  He looked up as someone entered the room. It was a man in his mid-forties, with an enormous paunch and a receding hairline. He wore a tank top that was the twin of the one that was under construction.

  “Hail, stranger,” he said and gave a sharp wave of a heavily be-ringed hand in greeting.

  “Hail... Pitspawn?” said Clovenhoof uncertainly.

  “You’re Ben’s mate, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  The lady with the bun set down her knitting and stood up.

  “Darren, show your friend upstairs and I’ll get you some squash.”

  “Mom, I’ve told you, it’s not Darren, it’s Pitspawn! Can I have a straw, seeing as we’ve got a guest?”

  She nodded and went to the kitchen. Pitspawn mumbled something that sounded like “silly bitch” and gave Clovenhoof a look that suggested that Clovenhoof surely understood how annoying the little woman must be.

  “Ben rang and said that you might be in touch.”

  “Yes,” said Clovenhoof. “I need a Satanist.”

  Pitspawn nodded obligingly.

  “I am a humble servant of the Great Adversary. Do you want to come up to my room and see some of the cool stuff I’ve got?”

  “Sure.”

  They climbed the stairs and entered a large back room in which someone had done their best to obliterate the blue floral wallpaper with posters, banners and flags. Skulls, goats’ heads, demonic faces and occult symbols figured largely. Statuettes and candles dotted the shelves and surfaces.

  Clovenhoof picked up a demonic candlestick holder.

  “That’s Shalbriri, demon of blindness. One of my favourites.” Pitspawn said. “Look at the detail, it’s genuine cast resin.”

  “You do know that Shalbriri’s female?” Clovenhoof asked, turning the ugly, masculine demon in his hands.

  “I think there might be some debate on that matter, actually,” said Pitspawn with a flick of his comb-over, “the man in the shop was pretty certain that Shalbriri’s male.”

  “Take it from me,” said Clovenhoof with a wink, “she’s all woman.”

  Pitspawn indicated that Clovenhoof should take a seat. There were two chairs that looked like a pair of ebony thrones. Clovenhoof discovered that they were actually typists chairs fitted with a kind of elaborate gothic chair-cosy. He wondered if these were also the handiwork of Pitspawn’s mother.

  “So what do Satanists actually do?” Clovenhoof asked.

  “We revere Satan, the vital force in our lives. We reject the white-light hypocrites and practise the occult arts.”

  “It’s good that you’ve been practising,” agreed Clovenhoof, “because I need some of your occult arts.”

  “I am a competent sorcerer,” said Pitspawn, “but a lot of people misunderstand what it is we do. What do you require?”

  “Do you think that you could send someone to hell?”

  Pitspawn stroked his chin and pondered for a moment.

  “Send someone to hell? Physically, like?”

  “Yes. Me, in fact.”

  Pitspawn picked a book off his shelf and pored over it. Clovenhoof tried to see what it was called, but it had a thickly embroidered cover, featuring the pentagram motif once more. He wheeled his Satanic throne a little closer and read the page header.

  “Occult Rituals for Dummies?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Yeah, yeah, I think I could do that,” Pitspawn muttered, ignoring him. “I can do summonings. Maybe even resurrections. Sending someone to Hell is just the reverse, isn’t it? Why do you want to go there, exactly?”

  “It’s a personal errand.”

  “You know you can be an effective Satanist on earth.”

  “Believe me when I say it’s where I belong. I need you to perform the ritual now, on me. Do you need anything special, like a goat to sacrifice?”

  “No, no. Mother would never – I mean it’s not really necessary for a modern Satanist to indulge in that kind of thing.”

  “Then what’s that?” said Clovenhoof, pointing to a short, stubby sword hanging point down on the wall above the single bed. “Not a sacrificial blade?”

  “That’s more for the look of things,” said Pitspawn.

  Clovenhoof peered at the brown flecks along the blade’s edge.

  “So that’s rust, not blood?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Absolutely. There are rules. Doing all that nasty stuff gets us a bad name. No, we mostly get our powers from words, symbols and crystals. We hone these rituals over a lifetime of careful study to ensure we’re in tune with the powers of Satan.”

  “Oh, okay. So I guess if Satan ever walked the earth, then you’d be one of the first to know?”

  Pitspawn laughed.

  “If that momentous day ever comes, there will be a vibration through my very being, so deep and so resonant that I will not be able to rest until I seek out and serve my master. It is the day that I am primed and ready for. I am but a foot-soldier, preparing the way for that glorious time, whether it’s in my lifetime or not.”

  Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows.

  “Right. Well it’s good to know that you are so highly attuned to your master. In the meantime, can we get on and do the ritual?”

  “Yes, OK. I will arrange the crystals. Move your chair to the middle of the rug.”

  Clovenhoof moved into position. There was a knock at the door.

  “Here’s your squash, Darren. And some crispy pancakes to share with your friend.”

  “It’s Pitspawn, mom!”

  “Darren, are those my crystal animals?”

  Clovenhoof looked down to see that each point of the pentagram sported a different creature. A frog, a deer, a cat, an elephant and a dolphin. The cat had a jaunty smile painted on its face.

  “Er, yes. I’ll put them back in a minute,” Pitspawn said.

  “Darren, you know they’re collectables.”

  “Yes mom. I’ll take good care of them. Now ple
ase leave! We’re in the middle of something important.”

  As his mother left, Pitspawn rolled his eyes and fell upon the plate of food.

  “Want some?” he spluttered around a mouthful. “Findus crispy pancakes.”

  Clovenhoof took one of the baked semi-circles from the plate and tried it. He sniffed its golden exterior and then bit into it, releasing the fragrant cheesy savoury insides.

  He moaned with pleasure and realised that this was the most perfect food that he’d yet encountered since arriving on Earth.

  “These are brilliant,” he said, making sure he grabbed another before Pitspawn finished the lot. “Is your mother the only person who can make them?”

  Pitspawn laughed, spitting crumbs.

  “You know, you’ve got the weirdest sense of humour. I like you!”

  “I like me too.”

  Pitspawn put the plate to one side and stood over Clovenhoof, swaying gently.

  He put the open book on the side, where he could see it, and picked up a smoking joss stick.

  “I anoint the crystals to please the worshipful deities,” he intoned, and bobbed the joss stick around the crystal animals. He stopped to blow ash off the dolphin, glancing nervously at the doorway.

  “A sacrifice of blood for His Satanic Majesty.”

  He dipped his finger into the blackcurrant squash and smeared it lightly across Clovenhoof’s forehead.

  Clovenhoof sighed as it ran down his face.

  “Why don’t we just say that His Satanic Majesty is very pleased with you, and move on?” he suggested.

  Pitspawn frowned but flipped the page.

  “By the power of the sea at fullest surge. By the power of the wind across the highest peaks of the world, by the power of chaos that topples the mighty and challenges everything, I humbly summon the form of Belial, to guide this servant to the splendour of your palatial quarters, that he might seek a place at your feet.”

  Pitspawn continued to baste the crystal animals with smoky touches, and capered as nimbly as a twenty stone man can caper around the seated Clovenhoof. His eyes were half-closed and he made a low, tuneless humming sound.

  Clovenhoof waited for the buzz of hellish intervention. He braced himself for the whoosh of sudden displacement. The only sound he heard was a light tap on the door.

  “Darren,” said his mother, with her head round the door, “I don’t want to interrupt, but I think we might need to get some thicker underlay for your carpet.”

  “Mom, I’m busy!”

  “All I can hear downstairs is you stamping around. I think it might be bringing on a migraine, so please stop it, will you love?”

  Pitspawn kicked the door shut as his mother left and grunted with frustration.

  “So, did it feel as though anything was happening?”

  “Not a thing,” said Clovenhoof.

  Pitspawn sighed heavily.

  “Maybe I’m not the right person for this. Most of these rituals are supposed to summon things from hell, not send them there. You sort of want someone who works things from the other end.”

  “Eh?”

  “What you want is an exorcism.”

  “You mean like a priest?”

  Pitspawn shrugged.

  Clovenhoof took a quick swig of squash, and pulled a face at Pitspawn.

  “You know, you should really ask your mom to get you some Lambrini. This stuff’s terrible.”

  He found an Anglican church.

  Of course, it was called St Michaels. He’d passed it before, but never got this close.

  He walked up to the door and banged loudly. There was a stone carving above the door of Michael standing triumphantly on top of the Great Dragon. At least he supposed it was meant to be the Great Dragon.

  “What, you hired a blind sculptor? You made me look like a cat. And as cats go, I’ve seen scarier ones peeking out of flowerpots!”

  A blonde-framed face appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Clovenhoof noted the dog collar.

  “You’d be Father...?”

  “Reverend. Steed. Evelyn. I’m the rector. Are you all right?”

  “I need an exorcism.”

  Her eyes opened wide in a deliberate expression of scepticism.

  “I get people wanting to come in for a quick pray, mistakenly ask for confession, perhaps begging for a place to kip but... exorcism?”

  “Do you do them?”

  “That would be a matter for the diocesan Deliverance Ministry. Look, come in.”

  Clovenhoof extended a tentative hoof across the threshold of the church, wondering if he would burst into flames. Nothing. He trotted onto holy ground, slightly disappointed that it wasn’t so different to the ground outside.

  He followed her into the body of the empty church. At the back of the church hung a large modern tapestry, again depicting the Archangel Michael’s victory over the Great Dragon, Satan. At least they hadn’t hired a blind weaver.

  “Are you going to come sit with me?” said the Reverend Evelyn Steed.

  Clovenhoof joined her on a pew.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Jeremy.”

  “Well, Jeremy, a lot of people experience ‘disturbances’ in their lives but we don’t get much call for exorcisms in the modern church. People don’t fear evil spirits or demons so much these days. In fact there’s debate about whether or not demons really exist.”

  “You are kidding me?”

  “No. We live in a rational and a sceptical age.”

  “Well, if the church doesn’t believe in demons, what about Satan?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “Satan represents the idea of rejecting God. That’s very real.”

  “But Satan’s not just an idea!”

  “No?”

  “He’s got horns,” he pointed at the top of his head, “and hooves,” he waggled a hoof at her.

  “Well that image has certainly got a strong hold in the popular imagination,” she said and then gave him a shrewd look. “You weren’t watching The Devil Rides Out last night, were you?”

  “Might have been.”

  “This horned devil image has parallels in lots of ancient cultures, and for hundreds of years, there’s been reinforcement of those scary images. But think about this. Satan, Lucifer, was a former angel. If he looked like anything, he’d look like that.”

  She indicated the tapestry behind them. Clovenhoof scowled at the image.

  “We can’t even imagine what Heaven is like,” said Evelyn. “It’s not all clouds and harps and halos.”

  “No,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s all computerised. Even St Peter has a tablet computer.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  Clovenhoof gave a small snort as he remembered Peter and his high-tech gadget.

  Walking back along the dwindling line of people heading for Hell, Satan spotted St Peter up ahead. He was easily recognised. Sure, there were the keys at his belt, the symbols of his office, but, more than that, there was swagger of a man who was the most powerful mortal in the afterlife and who knew it. Peter – ‘The Rock’ - was turning his well-practised smile on the new arrivals, and either waving them to the right, or giving them a dismissive flick to the left. To the right, a row of rainbow-spangled angels placed garlands of flowers on those bound for Heaven and gently guided them towards a brightly lit portal of sparkling lights. Those that headed left were met by Hell’s demons, guided down the road to damnation and jabbed with pitchforks to both hurry them along and give them a flavour of what was yet to come.

  St Peter had a helper by his side. This short, jowly man carried a large ledger, while Peter worked from a state-of-the-art tablet computer.

  “You’ve not been here long,” said Satan to the jowly man as he approached. “You’ve still got some colour in your cheeks.”

  The man made a disdainful moue with his rather feminine lips and turned to Peter.

  “Is this who I think i
t is, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes Herbert.” Peter said. “Don’t worry, I shall deal with our guest. Would you hold this for a moment and keep things flowing?”

  “Oh yes, of course!” Herbert scurried off with the tablet.

  “Prick,” Satan sniggered.

  Peter bristled.

  “You’re a long way from home, Lucifer. What brings you out here?”

  “I came to see why you’re sending me so many people. Can’t you see they’re backing up?”

  Peter gave him a superior don’t-you-know-I’m-the-rock-on-which-God’s-church-is-built? look.

  “They’re backing up because you’re not processing them fast enough.”

  Satan paused, wanting to punch Peter for being smug and superior but holding back because it occurred to him that he might be able to learn something.

  “There are problems,” he admitted. “It’s not easy to get them all across the Styx and even the gate’s jammed.”

  “You need to expand, modernise,” Peter said.

  “We have the ferries across the Styx. They run all day every day and still it’s not enough.”

  “I heard you were digging a tunnel, whatever happened to that?”

  Satan sighed. “That didn’t go too well. It flooded and we had to fill it in with the bodies of executive engineers from Union Carbide. We started a bridge, but it’s never easy getting that lot to work on a project. They’re all too busy trying to stab each other in the back. Literally.”

  “It sounds to me as though you need some modern management techniques.”

  “New pitchforks?” Satan asked.

  “No, a framework to ensure everyone is working to their best ability. You need to delegate some responsibility.”

  “You do this stuff in Heaven?”

  “Oh yes,” Peter said, “we’ve been doing it for some time, and you can see that things are working pretty smoothly.” He indicated with a sweep of his arm that the Heavenly process was working as smoothly as ever.

  Satan looked at him shrewdly, waiting for the catch.

  “But why would Heaven want to help Hell? We’re not exactly on the same side.”

  “We,” said Peter and by ‘we’ he meant ‘God and all the angels and me, that most beloved of all mortals.’ “We have responsibility for all of the afterlife. We want to see it running as efficiently as possible, and we’re getting a lot of negative feedback at the moment.”