"I don't think I'm invulnerable, but I don't underestimate myself, either. This is my trial. I don't have to go. I could hang back, and then I'd be just another human in Husaquahr, apprenticed to somebody for a regular job, pushing a pencil or a plow, living and dying a nobody just like most folks. One thing Ruddygore taught me that was important was that some folks—not all, but maybe most—come to some point in their lives, some time and place where they have to decide. They either take a risk, maybe even a superrisk, or they don't. If they don't, they're meaningless to destiny. Most folks don't. They either don't have the guts, or they talk themselves out of it or whatever and spend the rest of their lives tellin' everybody else and themselves what they coulda been. Or they take the risk. A fair number of the ones that do take that risk lose, that's true, but at least they took the risk. They went for it. And a fair number don't lose. A fair number win, too. They're the ones that change history, run things, influence the world, make a difference. That time's come a little earlier here than it does for most folks, or maybe not. Maybe if I'd stayed back in Philly, I'd be on the streets now, either dodging gangs or in one, dealin' dope or bein' shot by tops or rival gangs or who knows? It wasn't a good place where I was. I remember that."
"Do you miss Earth, though?'
He nodded. "Sometimes. Maybe a lot. I also miss my mom. She wasn't all that much, but she was my mother. But that was a bad neighborhood. I wasn't even ten, and I'd lost two friends in shootings. One was coming home from school and just got in the wrong place. The other was sittin' on the front steps one hot night gettin' some air, and a bullet just came and blew him away. You saw the cokeheads and winos and all sorts, and you saw the gangs with their big man leader of the month—usually dead after that. I couldn't even blame 'em. They didn't see any future; they just grabbed whatever present they could. So maybe I'd already be dead or in jail or something. Well, okay. I'm sixteen, and I've had a lot of education here and a lot of training. I'm not the greatest swordsman or archer or knife fighter in the world, but I'm fair at 'em. I'm definitely not a world-class sorcerer, but I know more than most folks. I'm a big guy now, and I'm in pretty decent shape. Now's my time. Now I have to decide to go or stay."
"Well, you are going after your father, such as he or she now is," Marge noted.
"That's not it. Kinda hard to get choked up about somebody you barely knew and don't really remember and who hid from you all this time. The only thing I can say is that he made his own decision at a key time and changed history. He saved the world, and it cost him. But he couldn't follow through. He couldn't save himself, too. I don't know if I'd be any better, but I kind of hope I would. It isn't a question of living up to my dad. It's a question of proving to myself and the world that I'm better than him."
"Do you really hate him that much?"
He shook his head sadly. "No, no. I don't hate him. It's impossible to hate a stranger, the same as it's impossible to love one. To me this Joe is just another common wood nymph."
This was the area where she and Irving had always hit a wall, going round and round, and it was where she was determined to somehow break through. They would need total trust and confidence in the days and weeks ahead, and whatever barriers could be dissolved ahead of time, she knew, should be gotten rid of.
"Deep down inside that form is the same person who loved you, talked about nobody but you, and came for you when he could," she pointed out.
"Yeah? Are you really the same person you were back in the real world, or are you just kidding yourself? Would anybody really recognize the old you inside? Do you ever feel the same, act the same? Do you even really remember what it was like to be human?"
"Listen, kid," she responded, more than a little angry at his tone. "No, I'm not the same person, and neither will you be in another five or ten years if you live that long. But I remember who I was and where I came from, don't kid yourself. And your old man—well, he's a damn fool for what he did this last time, I admit that, but I can understand it, too. When you go from a cross between Geronimo and Conan the Barbarian to a tree nymph, you lose all sense of yourself. No matter what they say, guys like that don't have a sense of women as equals, and they see themselves as some kind of macho studs. It's pride, it's honor, it's everything. It's wrong, but it's their culture and they didn't ask to be born into it. You want to know what his problem is? He's ashamed to be seen. He'd rather be dead, but he can't die, not even like I can die. He considers himself the same as dead, though, and that's why he's hiding out from everybody he knows and loves. It doesn't matter what we think; he can't really see that part, can't accept it. It's the craziest kind of male logic, which I should pass on to you, but he ran away because he loves you so much, he didn't want you to see him this way. Get it?"
"Maybe. Maybe if I had known him better before, I could understand it better," Irving responded seriously. "Sure, I can figure out the line of thought, but it doesn't help me at all, and it can't be taken back. He can't even turn around and give me a father, not now. There's just no bond there on my part, anyway, even if he somehow got changed back and came up looking every bit the macho man on a white horse. The crazy thing is, he did everything right here for so long, then he lost it at the end. I'm not gonna let that happen to me. I'll die first."
"Huh? What in hell are you talking about?"
"See, I was going real good into this magic and sorcery business until a year or so ago. That's when I stopped reading all that crap they've piled on and paid attention not to the Rules so much as to the Laws."
"The what? They're mostly the basics of gravity, ballistics, the bare-bones sciences, aren't they?"
"Most are. But there's one tiny section, and one only, that makes the rest of little or no importance. That's why I stopped much work on it and just started preparing as best I could for the first test."
"What do you mean, Irving? There's something in the Laws about people?"
He smiled and nodded. "It's the system. Like I told you—everybody gets choices, and they either take a chance or forget it. On Earth that's maybe a small number of people to begin with. Here it's everybody. Every human, every mortal, that is. That includes you, too, even if you're a changeling and all faerie now. Same with Joe. It doesn't stop if going past mortal is part of the thing. See, everybody keeps being handed those risk and reward steps. Sometimes it's early, sometimes late, but everybody gets a crack. If you pass on the first one, you may get another, but probably not. You stop being important. You become a slave to the Rules and live out your life, and that's that. If you take it, you might win or lose. If you lose and live, you'll get another crack sometime. If you die, well, that's the breaks. But if you win, you know what happens? You get another monkey wrench thrown into your existence. And another. Finally, if you beat them all, you win the prize. Only if you give up do you lose for good unless you get killed."
"Yes? And what's the prize?"
"Power. Power is everything here. Power is everything on Earth, too, but it's more spread around and not as clear-cut. Every time you get crapped on and fight your way out here, more knowledge and power come to you. Finally there's top status. Ruddygore. Demigod of the Kauris. You name it. Whatever you want that's at the top, you can have. But only if you keep fighting, keep battling back. If you give up, then you're a goner. Look at Dad. High school dropout, failed marriage, failed father, but once he got here, he kept at it and became a hero, a barbarian warrior, a king, and a confident and experienced power to be feared and respected. When he stood there with that lava, he knew what would happen, but he took the risk. He got a body he hated but also kept his mind and gained nearly absolute immortality. He came that close to godhood of a sort, and what did he do? Gave up and ran. That's not going to happen to me. I'm either gonna have Ruddygore's job or I'm gonna be killed getting there. I've spent the last year, year and a half testing myself. Facing demons, challenging myself, getting prepared. Now, here we go. Poquah is my wisdom; you are my experience. And you might well not be done, either
. Macore's finished, that's for sure, but you came. There's some kind of thread. Something that binds you, and Poquah, and maybe my father, and even Macore if he'd decided to go one last time, and it leads out there. It leads somewhere. You can't see it, or Poquah, either, because nobody can see their own destiny, but I can, because even though mine is undoubtedly tangled up in yours at the moment, it's not the same."
"You can actually see this thread?"
"In you and Poquah, yes, and it's the same, so I know I'm right. It went from Macore as well, but it will break free of him when we leave without him. Most faerie don't have a thread of destiny; all is sameness. You reach the end of that thread, and who knows what's there waiting?"
"Hold it!" she said, considering the implications. "If you're right, and this thing exists, and that's the system, then what's out there, where this thread leads, is something bigger and nastier and more complex and threatening than any of the massive number of horrors and ancient enemies I've already faced. And Joe—he's had more than me by far."
Irving nodded. "I think so. I'm not sure about dear old Dad; I don't think he's got it in him anymore. But maybe I'm wrong. You got to figure, though, that if what you say is true, then this is the big one. You win, it's over, and you get the prize. Maybe not me, but you. Marge, you're either gonna win this one, or ..."
"Or Poquah, your dad, and I are going to cease to exist," she finished, swallowing hard.
"Hovecraft Eibon now ready for boarding at passenger convenience. Passengers only should board, please. Please ensure that you have your boarding pass before coming up the gangplank!"
Poquah was coming back toward them, a fistful of papers in one hand, and Marge had a sudden urge to flee, to launch herself into the night sky and get away from all this.
At the same time, she knew she wouldn't do it. Damn his hide! Ruddygore left few options when he had a job to do, and she'd never be able to live contentedly if she watched Poquah and Irving sail away without her.
She sighed. "Once more into the breach, dear friends," she said softly to herself.
Irving got up and walked toward Poquah. "Here we go," he said simply.
Marge wished she were as ignorant of what this world could deliver as he was, to be able to almost look forward to this trip.
Chapter 7
A Massage From Garfia
First, do no good
—The Hypecritic Oath
For such a doomed ship it was in many ways a magnificent vessel.
The whole thing was gleaming polished wood and brass; the lamps were bright and solid, burning only the most fragrant oils and putting out a light that almost seemed electric; and the windows and glass doorways had seemingly abstract patterns of stained glass that were impressive works of art in and of themselves. This was no cattle boat or common freighter; this was as high as luxury went in Husaquahrian ships.
Marge stared at the whole thing with a sense of nervous awe, both appreciating the quality and at the same time remembering that this was no ordinary ship and that it trafficked in no ordinary souls going to no ordinary place. This was a Hell ship, run for the convenience of the Prince of Darkness and his minions, and it was very clear that creature comforts were high on the demonic priority lists. There was, Marge thought, too much Judeo-Christian background in her; she was still surprised to see this soft of thing even though it was creature comforts and luxuries in the here and now that Hell always promised, wasn't it?
"What's that sign at the bottom of the gangplank?" Irving asked them. "It looks like Earth writing, but I can't read it."
"It's Latin!" Marge exclaimed. "A quote from Dante, I think. The fancy big letters say 'Abandon Hope All Who Enter Here.' The standard for Hell."
"Yeah'? Then what's that phrase in small letters below?"
"It says to have a nice day," Poquah told him.
They walked up the gangplank and onto the ship. Oddly, there was more of a sense of embarking on an adventure than of putting their fate in the hands of their worst enemies.
"Take a good, close look at some of those stained-glass windows," Irving bent down and whispered to her. "My old granny woulda freaked. Yours, too, I bet."
Marge took another, closer look at them and suddenly saw what he meant. Far from being totally abstract, they showed a number of stylized scenes, not at all the sort you'd see in your local church but in some ways parodies of them, with demonic figures shown as all-knowing and all-encompassing angelic-type figures, and below them all sorts of wonderful excesses were depicted in rather graphic detail. Marge hoped that Irving was really as worldly a sixteen-year-old as he seemed, or else this was going to be one heck of an education. Although some of the less interesting sins were depicted, such as greed and gluttony and sloth and the like, it was certainly the sexual ones that paid the most attention to detail and commanded the most attention of voyeurs.
Marge stared at one and wondered if what was depicted with such obvious relish was really possible. It was a Succubus depicted as doing it in the glass pattern, of course, but except for being on different sides, they were sort of in the same business.
"Could you really do that?' Irving asked, somewhat appalled but still fascinated. The effect the scenes would have on him if his spell of celibacy was removed was something Marge was glad she didn't have to deal with right now. Hell, they were turning her on, and she was way past sixteen.
"Anything they can do, Kauri can do better, kid," she responded with a confidence she didn't really feel. Holy smokes! If this sort of stuff was on the passenger-deck windows, what in the world could be decorating the bar?
Somehow, this was one heck of a fancier ship than Charon was usually depicted as having.
A tall, gaunt figure stood at the main doorway inside. It was dressed in a black robe and cowl but clearly was no demon by its shape and movement. A skeletal handliterally—emerged from each sleeve, and they all got the very distinct impression that the rest of the figure was equally bony.
"Tickets, please," the thing said in a hollow voice that was all business rather than conveying any sort of threat.
Poquah handed the thing their documents, which suddenly erupted in a puff of smoke and flame and were gone.
"All in order. See the purser inside for a cabin assignment and meal information."
Irving shifted his pack, the only luggage they carried other than a small garment bag Poquah used, and muttered, "I wonder what they eat in their dining rooms."
"I believe 'don't ask, don't tell' would be most prudent as a policy there," Poquah responded, and they entered the main ship.
Again, in spite of the decor, the cleanliness and overall gleaming opulence of the craft almost overwhelmed them. Even Irving, who had little sense of social graces, felt decidedly underdressed.
The purser proved to be a more conventional sort of demon but of about average height and with an above-average girth, wearing an official-looking gold-braided dark uniform similar to that found on fancy ships everywhere. Marge thought he looked like Uncle Fester, if he enlisted in the navy.
"Hmmm ... I think they made a mistake on you," the demon muttered, checking a clipboard and sounding jolly enough. "They only booked one cabin, number fourteen, for all three of you, but there are only two beds in there and not much room for more, I'm afraid."
"That is quite all right," Poquah told him. "I am more of the day, and the lady is of the night, while the boy can be either way. It seemed silly to book a second cabin when only two of us at best would be using it."
"Ah, yes! Very good, sir. A penny saved is a penny more we can take you for in the casino. Rather boring aboard in the daytime, though, sir, if I might say so. Not much of our clientele likes the sunlight, you know, and we get real hovecraft speed and comfort only at night—daytime is the more mundane and much slower kraken pull. Of course, there are always a few people about. You will dine in the forward restaurant, boat deck. It's the Purgatorio. Open all the time, anything you wish, any cuisine, any race. You will find th
e cuisine here the finest in the world." He turned and reached over to a huge wooden pegboard, took down a large key on a big polished wood key chain, and handed it to Poquah. "You may keep this inside or turn it in if all are outside the room," the purser added, pointing down a well-lit passageway. "Down amidships, then up the forward stairs to the top. It is quite a nice room."
The Imir bowed, and they turned and walked down the corridor. Irving took the key and looked at it. Even the key was a work of art, not just a key but a sculpture of a familiar form.
"Skeleton key," he noted.
Marge chucked. "Wonder if it'll open any door."
"I don't think we want to check that out," Poquah responded. "There are a number of guests who travel this route I should not like to disturb. Those throngs of the damned outside aren't here; they're crammed below in the holds. Besides, as with virtually any hotel or inn—and this is basically a floating version of a hotel—the key is primarily a formality. They could get in and out with passkeys any time. Elsewise, how could the rooms be cleaned?"
"You're really reassuring," Marge told him sourly.
He shrugged. "Remember, the one thing Hell depends upon is that it is as good as its word and always honors its guarantees. If it did not, nobody would ever try and beat their system. We are warranted safe on this boat. Period. It is a condition of passage. There are no guarantees if we violate the basic rules of passage, which are in every case pretty much what one would expect from anyone—no vandalism, observing the privacy of others, that sort of thing—but there is also no fine print. You see, they count on this ship to bring their own people to Yuggoth and from there to the gates of Hell itself and to send their own agents back into Husaquahr. They control passage in both directions. Why should they risk anything on the boat? It is simply not in their best interest."
Horrors of the Dancing Gods Page 14
