Chapter 3
The People We Might Meet In Hell
Preoccupied with his defense, John almost ran directly into William Marteen, who was standing in the middle of the trail. John stumbled back and looked at William. He was dressed as a pirate, and holding a sword, a disapproving frown on his face. His long, dark boots were folded over at the top. A gold earring dangled from one ear. His dark grey vest hung open in the middle, cuffs trimmed in gold, with a plain sash. His hat indicated he was an officer, not a common seaman with a bandana wrapped around his head.
"Oy! Where dost thou think ye be going, ye scurvy rat?" he said with an English West Country brogue.
William Marteen
"I’m a politician, sir. I’m leaving this God forsaken place."
William stood his ground and sized John up for a moment. "Despite your contemptible trade, I could be persuaded to let a condemned mate work on me ship, if ye promise to obey all orders and not stir up the rabble."
"I assure you, there’s no way in hell I’m going with you."
William glanced at his sword, and John began to sweat. Suddenly William folded. "I know thou art a pirate. I canst tell by thy disguise. Thou art ugly as a barnacle." William burst into loud belly laughter.
John winced at the humor and tried to walk around him, but William moved in front of him. John simply angled off and kept going.
"Ne’er can pin down state whores without a chest o’ gold."
As they walked, John studied William. This character could be trouble. What if this pirate did attack him. What if this was a dream and he died in it – he might die in real life. Better not to antagonize him – maybe just drop him off somewhere else. John smiled. "I suppose you can walk with me since we’re birds of a feather."
"Nay, man, thou be a contemptible rat. I’m just a murdering thief."
As they walked on, William jockeyed for position, trying to keep John on his right. John had no part of it. William would be his right arm man. Round and round they went in a merry-go-round procession down the path.
"Dost thou know why the pirate crossed the road? William asked. John ignored him. "E’ was lost."
John groaned. "Supposing this place is real, is this the part of Hell devoted to lost renaissance faire comedians?"
William ignored him, but of course continued. "Speaking of lost, hast thou found a way out?"
John replied with resignation, "Sign pointed this way."
William guffawed and slapped him across the belly with his sword. "I knew thou wert a liar or a cod's-head. I’ve seen the whole of this desolate land me self."
"Then why are you walking with me?!" John shouted at him.
William winced. "Heed, man! Alas, I’m a thieving, murdering pirate. What else have I to do?"
"So?" Mary popped up from the ashes, holding a black cat. John jumped at the sight. "He’s almost as bad as thou, politician." She wore a long green peasant dress, with a low neckline, and sleeves that went to mid-forearm. Her features were pleasant, but dirty with ash.
John muttered, "I’ve come to British Hell, American Colonial period."
Mary
William cautiously moved forward and let the cat smell his hand, and then when the cat didn’t pull away, he petted it. "She means, all pirates hasten to Hell, but all politicians beat them here."
"Would you please quit talking in Olde English? You can’t start a funny joke with ‘Dost thou know why?’" John derided them.
Mary threw the cat in his face, and the claws tore his face open. Scorned, she replied, "Blimey, are ye the Inspector of the Inquisition or the Word Sheriff? Gallows humor keeps us going, gent."
John realized language was a touchy subject. "Sorry. How long have you two been here?"
William put the tip of his sword into the ground and leaned on it, as if about to tell a great seafaring story. "If you must know, I escaped from a cruel ship master. A beast, ‘e was, and a roguishly mean one. Me and the others found a shipwreck, patched it so we could get home, and then lad, we lost our way."
"No maps?" John asked. "Washed overboard?"
William frowned, but humored him. "There be no maps for the soul, man. There was a warrant for us – that means hangin' – so we set our own course. Then pirates set upon us – and we gained the victory, mind thee! But we became pirates – driven to our fate by mean men and the flag, I tell you."
Mary harrumphed and said accusingly, "So, William, it was not thy fault for treachery and being a pirate?"
William hung his head. "Thou knowest it was. By all that’s Hades, no one can judge a man more harshly than hisself."
John looked at Mary and asked, "Are you his wife?"
Mary spat back, "Bite your slandering tongue. I was tortured, tried, and hanged for being a witch, in Salem."
"Were you a real witch?" John gushed, like a school child.
"Only to my husband of twenty years. He accused me to get rid of me. Treachery!" The ashes next to Mary stirred. "There he lies, rotting liar, his soul no more than mere ashes now for his evil memory. And me stuck here with him while he rots away. Was I so bad a wife that a man would see me hanged for it?!"
Again the ashes stirred, but didn’t take shape, yet a voice emerged from the ashes. "An evil mistress the lady wast! A grievous pain in mine soul, tortured day and night by an angry, complaining, and malicious mistress, stubborn and argumentative to the depths of that lady's soul. T'was not right what I didst, but any sane sir would has't been driven to t."
"I’ve changed! I swear I have!" Mary hung her head in shame and repentance.
"Believe that at thy own risk," the ashes spoke again. "Only moments ago the lady wast complaining about comfort, as if 't I hadst anything to doeth than that. I am what I am. The sooner I’m gone, the better."
"Have you tried to leave?" John asked her.
"What, and miss his misery? I’ve seen him through Hell, and I’ve pleasured mightily in it."
"Oh, for the love of mercy! Go, woman, and leaveth me to rot without thy constant haranguing!"
John stared at Mary for a moment in disbelief. Then he turned and continued on the trail, shaking his head. William and Mary followed a few feet behind, whispering to each other. John glanced at them warily, turning his head every few seconds, but not quite able to hear. He almost stumbled over another person, Cat.
Cat
John jumped back, on realizing that Cat, standing partly in the trail, was holding a knife with blood running from it. With her long dress, low in the front, held up by straps, and three quarter length sleeves, she looked like she belonged in an old English tavern.
"Oh, boy! Days and days without seeing anyone, and now I’m in the middle of civilization."
Cat lunged at John with her knife, stopping just short of his throat.
"Run, run, and don’t look back!
If you hit me, I will cut you back!"
She snarled at John. William smiled to himself.
"Wouldn’t think of it," John stammered. "Y… You can put the knife away now – I’m not a violent man."
"N’man will ever touch me, nor a slimy priest!"
I would cook your heart and make it your feast!"
You canna’ own me, nor make me strip.
I will 'na serve table, beast, nor ship."
Weakly John tried to make conversation, hoping to deflect any ill intentions she might have. She was not only dangerous, she had it in for men. "You served tables - were a tavern maid?"
She jutted her chin out defiantly. "Aye, but no more a servin’ wench." She shoved the knife dangerously close to him. He tried not to react, not even to blink. Maybe he was an idiot, but who knew how to handle this woman?
"Once I served tables,
and on my back I served the fleet.
Now I see those tortured souls,
and laugh at their burnin’ meat."
"D - do you always speak in rhymes?" John asked.
Cat pushed the knife to
John’s throat again, touching it. "What’s it to ye if I amuse meself puttin’ me pain into rhymes. I’ve nothin’ else to do."
"No problem, just asking. Where does this path end?" he asked, trying to deflect the conversation into safer territory.
"Never. Nothin’ here ever ends. We are all Wanderers lookin’ for a way back to good graces, but findin’ none."
"Well, you do all seem guilty as hell," John joked. Cat raised her knife threateningly, and John immediately regretted saying that.
Cat gave him a skeptical look. "We know we’re guilty. Do you?"
John paused a moment, solemnly reflecting. No one stirred. There was nothing to be impatient about here. If something took a year, so what? So what were his crimes? Would a court of law convict him of anything? Sure he passed money under the table. One of those grey areas that got things done. Officially the law was against that, but did grey areas count? He supposed he could have been convicted. But did the Almighty care? There were kings who had done far worse than he ever thought about. Laws just kind of kept order in civil society – you kind of had to bend the rules to get things done.
Mary shouted gleefully, "Oh, look, there’s Ol' King 'enry de Eighth again wi’ his wives’ heads."
Whoa. People here could get excited about something? What could it be, worse suffering than they had? A spectacle? What could possibly suffice for entertainment?
King Henry VIII walked down the path with a yoke across his shoulders. Suspended from the yoke on silver trays were the heads of Anne Bolin and Catherine Howard. His other four wives walked beside and ahead of him.
"Tell him again, Dear Anne, decree for all to hear his shame," Catherine recited, as much for King Henry as for all others to hear.
Anne delivered, "It’s your sperm that determines male or female. You are to blame for your lack of male heirs. You and only you. Your turn Catherine."
"You tell him, Catherine!" Cat called out, bearing a smile from ear to ear. The other four wives each gave him a whack with their sticks. The King winced.
Grey area. The King could not possibly have known in that day that the male sperm determined the sex of the child, and the king had to have heirs. But he had his wives beheaded for not producing male heirs. A bit radical! Was he any better than Mary’s husband, decaying into ash? Would the king eventually decay into ash after he had been publicly shamed and tortured enough? Hell was truly a miserable place.
Catherine took up the litany again. "Your one dead male heir, Edward, was the end to your line of jackals from Hell, you sick, miserable, mad dog." Again the four wives gave him a whack with a stick.
"Find us an apple pie. And I want it now," Anne whined.
"No, I want a figgy pudding. Right now," Catherine whined.
They walked on, whacks with sticks occurring regularly. "Apple pie, now!"
"Figgy pudding, now!"
The four wives picked up the litany, demanding, "Apple Pie - Figgy Pudding."
John shook his head and began to walk, with Cat now following. "Don’t follow me!" He yelled back at them. He was beginning to amass the same following as Henry – he would not put up with it. "Following me is torturing me!"
William just smiled. "But thou art the only sliver of hope we have." John took a step backward and they followed.
"At least you’re entertainin,'" Cat said merrily.
John glanced back at Cat. She was stopped in her tracks, a look of fear on her face. He looked to his left. A group of motorcycle riders came at them, bouncing out of nowhere, jumping piles of ash, and barreling through lava pits, splashing lava everywhere. They were beating each other with chains, shooting and punching each other.
The riders changed their path and moved quickly toward them, swinging their chains like lassoing wild horses. Mary, William and Cat went in different directions, leaving John, who went straight to the ground. In moments, the cyclists were among them, swinging their chains and chasing them. One chain nicked John on the arm. It stung like hell.
Cat swung her knife at them and they laughed at her. One cyclist swung his chain and wrapped it around Cat’s knife arm. She dug in her heels and jerked, and he came off his bike, landing them both in a tumble. With her knife, she split him from around the back side to front, then from belly to chin. The rider yelled in pain and collapsed. The other riders laughed at him.
Mary hid behind William. The cyclists avoided his extended sword, staying just out of reach. Foiled, they targeted John again. John began to scamper on all fours toward a small hill.
From behind the small hill, stones began to pelt the motorcyclists’ heads, knocking them off their cycles. The cyclists, holding their arms above their heads for protection, took off. John was unscathed. He looked at where the stones came from and saw nothing, so he went around the small hill to explore.
There, a sight to behold, cowered a 12 foot tall giant, nude, no hair, and limbs that were disproportionate to his body. His knees were on the ground, and his arms and hands were raised to protect his head. "Don’t hit me! Please, don’t hit me!" he pleaded.
Victor Gigantis
Shocked at the aberration, John sat down a safe distance from him. "Hit you? I came to thank you! You saved us."
The giant peeked out from under his cowardly pose. In a nervous, tentative voice he said, "Thank me?"
"Yes. What’s your name?" John asked gently.
"Victor Gigantis," he replied in a small voice.
To John, that was more of a description than a name. "What’s your story, Victor? Did you slaughter a lot of people?" The others in the group slowly but warily crept near to watch and listen. Quietly they settled on the side of the hill. Victor couldn’t help but notice, and cowered even more.
"No! I never slaughtered people. I never meant to hurt anyone!"
John suppressed a smile. Didn’t "mean" to hurt anyone? The truth was there somewhere. "Go on," John nudged, the attorney in him taking over. Here was a tale worth hearing.
"The villagers shunned me, so I lived in a cave. They were terrified of me."
John nodded. "I can understand that."
"They threw stones at me, and I hid, and sometimes I threw stones at them. But one day they came waving a white flag, and I thought it was a trick and I was very afraid because there were so many, so I threw a stone and hit one, and then he hit me, so I shoved him over a cliff. And then the mob came after me and shoved me over the cliff, and I died. I never wanted it to happen. I just wanted them to like me."
John sighed. Is that all that it really took to go to this place? Just fear and defending yourself? John felt sorry for the gentle giant. "Victor, we won’t hurt you."
Victor rose and cast a shadow on the hillside, with his long penis prominent in the shadow. The group gasped and cringed. Victor reacted in fear, and trembled. "I won’t hurt you! I won’t hurt you!" He started to run away, in a short, loping gate.
"It’s OK, Victor Gigantis. If I can find a way out of here, I’ll help you," John yelled after him. Victor stopped a short distance away then turned toward John.
William regarded John from a new perspective, and put out his hand for a handshake. "Thou art an honorable man. No one hast ever said that before."
John shook his hand. "You’re a poor judge of character, William. You actually expect a politician to keep promises?"
Mary sidled up to him with a pleading look. "Wilt thou help us all?"
John regarded her for a moment as if inspecting a condemned person, then his heart melted. What was happening to him? How could he promise these people anything? Why would he promise these people anything? There was no election to win here. Nothing to gain. They were all so hopeless. They had done bad things. But then there was Victor Gigantis, the gentle giant who had made a mistake. Maybe not even a mistake. Out of fear, he had defended himself. Yet here he was.
There was once a day when John defended people in court. A day when he felt good about the idea of helping people in political
office. There was a day when he governed people, and even had the power to execute convicted murderers, or grant exoneration to criminals. This place, with its people disintegrating into ashes was beyond belief, beyond justice. Surely it was just a stupid nightmare and he would wake up. But for the moment, he had Mary standing before him asking for mercy. Asking for his help.
Something stirred within him; something long forgotten. Here were people suffering and in need of help, and maybe, just maybe, he could actually help them, not just promise help. And he wanted to.
How could he refuse? John nodded assent, and turned back to the trail, an ever growing group in tow. He knew he was being set up for disappointment, and that meant disappointing all of them. This was not right. Not right for them. Not right for him. In his heart he knew if he failed, he would suffer for this. Political rough exterior or not, this would hurt.
Liars Truth Page 3
