Escape From Hell (19 page)

“Landmark,” she countered, and ran toward it. Over her shoulder, “Be bad if we got turned around.”

It was still hazy as we got closer. Then two men ran toward it. Toward it, to it, and right through the walls. They came out the other side, not slowed a bit.

A mirage. A filthy joke. “We’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism,” I said.

Sylvia wasn’t listening. She was from New England, she’d never been out West … but any poet would know what a mirage is.

She was running away from me. I had a horrible picture of two men using Sylvia as an umbrella to shield them from the fire. I ran after her, but she was faster than I was.

We were running through a blizzard of fireflakes. The sand below was covered with fire as well. Sylvia’s hair held half a dozen fireflakes, and so did mine. But the mirage had stopped retreating.

There was an outside service counter, but the window was closed. Next to that was a door. Sylvia pulled it open. “Come on, Allen!” She went inside.

I looked at the door. Real? Once you accept miracles, anything becomes possible. Where would this lead? Other worlds? The Vatican? But my touch found the handle solid, and I followed her in.

The air was clear. There weren’t any fireflakes, and the place smelled of chocolate and vanilla. An ice–cream stand. In the middle of the desert.

“Welcome, strangers. God in Heaven, it’s you!”

I looked up, puzzled.

The proprietor was dressed in full Church regalia. Black robes, scarlet sash, a large golden pectoral cross. There was a thin line of red lace at the ends of the sleeves of his robe, and he wore a black hat with some red ornamentation on it. He was clean shaven, and the face seemed vaguely familiar.

I asked, “Do I know you?”

“We have met. I was attired somewhat differently last time. My robes were gold.”

Recognition came with a shock. “You’re the priest from the Sixth Bolgia!”

“Correct. I am the Reverend Canon Don Camillus. How are you?”

“I’m in Hell,” I snapped.

He frowned.

I looked around. I was here, in the desert of fire, in a place with a roof. It was cool. Sylvia had helped herself to a napkin and glass of water and was busily washing her face with every sign of contentment. Outside the fire was falling and people were screaming, but it was calm here. “I’m sorry, Father. That was ungrateful. I’m fine. I’m very well, and very glad to see you. See you here. And thank you for helping me rescue Benito.”

“You are welcome. I do not need to ask if you were successful.”

“You know?”

“All Hell knows that Benito escaped. All who should know, anyway.” He chuckled. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

“Father, this is Sylvia Plath. Sylvia, Father Camillus. He helped me rescue Benito after I, I made a mistake.” I stopped myself. “Not mistake. After I did something terrible. I pushed my friend into the pit of the Evil Counselors. Father Camillus helped me get him out. I could not have rescued Benito without his help.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Sylvia said. She looked around expressively. “Usually that’s a polite expression, but it’s very sincere this time.”

He chuckled again. His smile was warm and friendly. “Indeed, I recall almost no one who is not pleased to meet me,” he said. “But I am forgetting my manners. Would you care for some refreshments? I have five flavors of, of sugary icy stuff.”

Sylvia giggled. “Father, I would kill for a vanilla ice cream.”

He smiled thinly. “You did not mean that, but there are many out on the sands for whom that is no more than literal truth,” he said. He selected a cone and turned to the bank of ice–cream dispensers. It all looked familiar, like a Dairy Queen on Earth. He pulled a lever and the cone filled with ice cream. He handed the cone to Sylvia.

“Thank you.” She tasted it. “Um! Delicious. Thanks. But Father — what are you doing here? Do you say masses? Have you a congregation?”

“I serve,” he said. “My congregation is transient. A few who come through this desert and move on. I am glad to be able to give directions and some small comfort.” He handed me a chocolate ice–cream cone.

I took it. “Thank you — Directions?”

“Not everyone knows the way out of Hell. They may know to go down, but it is not always easy to find the way down. The desert is wide and hard to cross.”

“It sure was,” I said. “We got a car, from a place — well, it’s not a place Dante described.”

“The Valley of Desolation,” Father Camillus said. “It runs from Phlegethon deep into the desert of fire, paralleling the stream that flows from Phlegethon to the cliffs that separate this circle from the Eighth. Through most of human history it was easy to separate the violent wasters from those who are violent against nature, but apparently no more.”

I thought about that. “So that’s why I never saw the Wood of the Suicides when I came through the first time. We went all the way through that Valley of Desolation until we could capture a car.”

“I have never seen a car. I am told it is a like a carriage that runs without horses,” Father Camillus said. “I do know the valley is long, but not broad.”

“So how do we get out of here?”

“The valley is to your left as you go out my door. Go left, go straight across the desert. Eventually you will come to a hill. The fire is thick at the base. You must climb that hill. It will be difficult, but not impossible. When you get to the top of the ridge the fireflakes will cease, but there will be other horrors. Go straight across that valley to the other side. Climb past that ridge and into the desert and fire again. The stream lies an hour’s run through the desert. Turn left and follow it to the cliffs.”

“How will we know we found it?” Sylvia asked.

“Cliff or stream? It hardly matters. You will know.”

“That’s the route Dante took,” I said. “At least the part about the river. He never saw any Valley of Desolation. What keeps the desert runners from getting to the river where it’s cool?”

“Dante describes a dike,” Sylvia said. “Maybe it’s too high to climb from the desert.”

“Perhaps,” Father Camillus said. “Really, I do not know, except that you can reach the river by crossing the Valley of Desolation. As to the others, perhaps they cannot find the valley or the river. Just as many never find this place.”

“Something’s bothering me,” I said. “Why can’t we just run back to the wood, and run along that to the valley?”

“You can try. I have never seen anyone able to go any great distance uphill through the desert of fire.” He shrugged. “Of course most of those I see here were sentenced to be here.”

“Oh.” I remembered trying to get uphill to the wall in the Vestibule. I could see it, but Benito and I had walked for hours and we never got much closer.

“And after we find the cliffs?” Sylvia prompted.

“From there your way is ever downward, and it will never be easy.” He shrugged. “I could give you more details, but Allen already knows the way,” he said.

“How many have you sent along the way?” I asked.

“A few hundred.”

“Have any made it out of Hell?”

He grinned broadly. “Several.”

“How do you know?”

“Listen.”

When we were all quiet I could hear music. Golden oldies? Classics? It was too faint to make out just what.

“Sometimes it is louder. I have heard angels rejoicing,” Camillus said.

“How often?”

“Perhaps … ten?”

“Does everyone who gets in here listen to you?” Sylvia asked.

He smiled broadly. “It is my privilege to serve only those who will listen,” he said. “Most of those out there can see this place, but they cannot come in. They do not find the door, or they cannot open it if they do.”

“That’s awful,” Sylvia said.

“Many are awful people.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“You read Dante,” Sylvia said. “Sodomites.”

“Not merely sodomites,” Father Camillus said. “These were violent.” He shuddered. “One who came in here was a priest. He had sodomized his altar boys.”

Sylvia was horrified. “Father! No!”

“Alas, yes. He blurted that out when he saw my robes. Then he ran back into the desert.” Father Camillus shook his head. “I was told of such things in life, but I never knew any of them to be true. My sins of the flesh were — but that is not your concern.” He gestured. “There may be mere sodomites out there but I have seen none. What I have seen are those who are violent in their offenses.”

“And violent against nature,” I said. “I saw plenty of those in the Valley of Desolation when I went through with Benito.”

“So who do you let come in here?” Sylvia asked.

“And who do you keep out?” I demanded.

“That is not my choice. I try to minister to all who come through my door. A few find their way in here from the desert, and only a tiny number of those do not find this place comforting. Perhaps like that one they are frightened of my vestments. Perhaps — Allen Carpenter, I do not know why they find no comfort with me. But they do not stay. But most who find me are willing to listen.”

“How did you get here?”

“That was simple. You freed me of my golden vestments in the Sixth Bolgia. I wandered freely through Hell. I saw people who belonged in Hell. As I had. But as I did not belong here forever, neither did they, and I was concerned. Eventually I went back to the Sixth Bolgia and found a companion I have known for two hundred years. He told me of this work by an Italian named Dante, a poem that described this place and told of the way out. He had known the author, and could quote large sections of the poem.”

“I helped him climb up the side of the Bolgia, then cast himself down. As you did for me, I pulled his shattered carcass from the golden vestments before they could burn him to char. When he was healed we discussed what to do. Eventually we turned to God. We prayed for a new vocation, another chance to do the work we had once been privileged to do and had scorned for wealth and comfortable surroundings. And I found myself here.”

“It doesn’t look much like a church,” Sylva said. She licked her ice–cream cone. “What if churches offered ice cream?”

“I do not think I yet deserve a church.” He chuckled. “Even though I seem to be dressed as a canon. I think to remind me of my former venality. As a boy I had not thought to be a priest. It was my family’s decision. I took the vows, and for a time I took my vocation seriously, but my family was wealthy and they had plans. I was part of their plans. We became rich, and I enjoyed it all. I died when the plague came. Minos had no difficulty finding a place for me.”

“What happened to your friend?”

“Doubtless he has been placed where he may both serve and atone. His Earthly story was similar to mine.”

Sylvia finished her ice–cream cone. “You’re still a priest?”

“I believe so.”

“Can you forgive sins? Grant absolution?”

He frowned. “I believe so. It was said at my ordination that I was a priest forever. No church official has placed me under any restriction. Do you seek absolution?”

“For suicide. Yes.”

“Suicide. You ask me to forgive suicide?”

“Yes.”

“I do not believe any priest has ever faced the question of absolution for a successful suicide,” he said. “Are you repentant?”

“Very much so.”

“Do you intend to do it again?”

She giggled. “How? But no, Father, I would not kill myself again even if I could.”

“Under the circumstances, I suppose I could grant absolution. Are you Catholic?”

“Not really. I was brought up Unitarian, but I hated God for letting my father die. I got over that. Ted and I were nominally Anglicans,” Sylvia said. “Does that matter?”

“Matter here? Again I do not know, but I don’t see how.”

“Father, I am afraid,” Sylvia said. “Your friend told you of Dante. Dante wrote about the suicides.”

Like the rest, we shall go for our husks on Judgment Day,
But not that we may wear them, for it is not just
That a man be given what he throws away.
Here shall we drag them and in this mournful glade
Our bodies will dangle to the end of time,
Each on the thorns of its tormented shade.

“Father, I’m scared.”

“And you seek absolution,” Father Camillus said. “But you seem to have escaped already. How did you do that?”

“Allen burned me. He came to the desert, collected fire, and brought it back to burn my tree to ashes.”

“That could not have been easy.”

“Father, it must have been terrible. He was burned horribly. Allen, thank you. You were a hero.” She gasped. “Allen! You had to go uphill from the desert to bring fire to burn me! Maybe — could it be that you were meant to do that? Oh, you are my Sign, you are!”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

Sylvia visibly calmed herself. “So, yes, I’ve escaped. But I don’t know if I’ve been forgiven.”

“And I do not know if I can give you forgiveness. But perhaps — Allen, how far into the desert were you before you turned back?”

“I could see this place. As a mirage, but I could see it.”

“That means little. People see my refuge from vast distances. But you were able to go from the desert into the wood. On a merciful errand.”

“If you call burning her a merciful errand.”

“Allen, I do,” Sylvia said.

“It seems plain enough,” Father Camillus mused. He turned to me. “Allen, confession is private.”

“Sure, I’ll go outside.”

“Just outside the door will do. I will be as brief as permitted.”

“Sure. Can I take an ice cream with me?”

“I would think so, but it may not last long out there.”

“I may be back in faster than you think,” I said. “There are nasty people out there.”

“I know.”

“Allen — thank you,” Sylvia said.

“Chocolate, please,” I said. I took the cone and stood outside the door.

With frozen chocolate in my mouth and fire in my hair and my toes, it seemed very clear that I should stay with Father Camillus for the rest of eternity. I knew perfectly well that I couldn’t do that. The place would have been jammed with damned souls all fighting for the last cubic inch. Hellish.

Oh, well.

Chapter 18