Rudolph! (10 page)

She smiled and ran a finger along the edge of one of his ears. "That's okay, sugar. You really didn't think I was a school girl either, did you?"

Cupid took the lipstick in his mouth. "Well, since we're clear on all that," he said around the obstruction, "I think I'll sign ‘em both."

"Hang on," I said, tugging Cupid's tail in an effort to get his attention. He dropped the lipstick, and it fell into the car. He leaned forward, fully intending to go after it. "We're not interested," I said, yanking harder.

The schoolgirl was sitting on her knees on the car seat, and she wrapped her hands around Cupid's head as he nosed around her lap. He said something, but his words were muffled.

"We've got other plans," Rudolph said, and his voice was flat and hard enough that it killed the mood. Cupid wasn't so lost in his quest for the missing lipstick that he didn't hear Rudolph's tone, and he backed away from the car so quickly that he nearly trampled me. "All that we really require is some directions."

The driver had heard Rudolph's tone too, and his right hand had dropped off the steering wheel, drifting toward the loose fold of his coat. But his hand stopped when he saw the look on Rudolph's face.

"Look," I said, shoving my way past Cupid. I raised the heavy book and showed the frontispiece to the four in the car. "‘Abandon hope,'" I read to them, "‘all ye who enter here.' That ring a bell for anyone?"

The woman sitting behind the driver leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. "Didn't we just see that movie?" she asked him.

A thin smile touched the driver's face. "Yeah," he said, his right hand returning to the steering wheel. "At the Bellagio. A couple of nights ago."

Rudolph clicked his tongue noisily. "We were thinking something a little different. Maybe written on a sign or something."

The other woman in the back curled a ringlet of her hair in a finger and started twisting it in a mesmerizing motion. "How about Treasure Island?" she suggested, languorously pointing across the street. "On the bridge. There's a board there. Maybe it says what you're looking for."

"It's from Dante." We all stared at the schoolgirl in the front seat. The driver even lowered his glasses. She shrugged under our scrutiny. "St. Mary's Finishing School for Girls. You think uniforms like this are easy to come by?" She waved a scarlet fingernail at the book. "
Inferno,
right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yes, it is."

"The sign isn't important." She smiled at me as if we shared some secret. "You might want to try the Mirage."

The driver nodded, seconding that suggestion, and he revved the engine as he dropped his hand to the gear stick. The schoolgirl produced a business card and offered it to Cupid. "Call us," she said.

He took it carefully between his teeth, and as the car started to roll forward, she let a long finger trail along his jaw. The two women in the back blew kisses to Rudolph.

I took the card from Cupid's loose jaw as the convertible drove away. It was slightly damp, and I wiped it off on the thermal suit before dropping it into the book. If we managed to get Christmas back this year, I'd see about getting them on the List. A special holiday Dispensation.

Cupid didn't notice the missing card. "I think I like schoolgirls who can quote Dante," he said.

Rudolph glared at Cupid. "We're not on holiday," he said. "Focus."

"What?" asked Cupid. "I was helping. I just thought it would be easier to get into hell if a couple more Commandments were busted along the way."

"You're thinking of adultery," I pointed out. "Fornicating, though
evil
, isn't necessarily Commandment-quality."

"Maybe she was married," Cupid tried.

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe the guy driving was her husband."

A look of confusion crossed Cupid's face as Rudolph whistled for the rest of the team.

"There was a guy in the car?" Cupid said.

The volcano exploded. The Mirage—not to be outdone by the combative sideshow going on next door at Treasure Island—featured an erupting volcano outside the casino. Every fifteen minutes, the mountain spewed ash and fire, and the flaming detritus from the explosion fell into the lake surrounding the mountain, bubbling and steaming like a witches' cauldron.

We stood on the boardwalk beside the lake, and the reindeer's glasses were filled with reflections of flickering fire. Nearby, a trio of very drunk tourists were arguing about who was going to pose first with Cupid, and none of them were having much luck figuring out how to work the cameras on their smart phones. Cupid was playing up the Elvis impersonator angle to such an extreme that I thought he looked more like Mr. Ed than the King of Rock and Roll.

Not that any of the drunk trio were old enough to remember Mr. Ed. Nor Elvis, for that matter.

"Anyone have any idea how to open a gate?" I asked. I glanced at the others. "I don't suppose you brought along a Time Clock Wave Generator, or something?"

Donner shook his head. "R&D hasn't figured out how to make a portable one yet."

"So, what then?" I asked. "Wishful thinking?"

"This was your idea," Donner reminded me.

The faux lava flow lessened, and as the steaming water subsided, Blitzen spoke: "‘What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, and plunge us in the flames.'"

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

"That wasn't Dante," Prancer finally said.

Blitzen shook his head. "Some other poem about sinners and sin."

We stood around some more, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Blitzen was probably reciting more poetry to himself; Donner stared at the water like he was waiting for a fish to jump out or something; Prancer started to whistle a Christmas carol, but broke off when no one else seemed inclined to join him; and Rudolph—well, Rudolph had only one thing on his mind.

Someone screamed off to our left, and at first I thought one of the inebriated photographers had suddenly realized Cupid was actually a reindeer and not an Elvis Presley impersonator. But, when I glanced over, the trio were all looking at something below the mountain.

Maybe there was something to what Blitzen had quoted after all . . . 

Floating on the center of the lake was an ancient barge, a bent shell of a boat whose timbers appeared half-rotten. A tiny railing—no more than a few inches high—ran edge of the deck like a line of fractured teeth. The lakewater boiled, and I could swear there were flames underneath the barge. Swirling smoke obscured the back of the vessel, but through plumes, I spotted a figure hunched over the rudder, a black rag bent like an old twig. As if it knew we were all looking at it, the figure raised an arm and beckoned.

The three drunks bolted.

The flames beneath the boat brightened, sending sweaty fog across the boardwalk.

"I guess this is our ride," I said.

No one moved.

I nudged Blitzen. "You first."

"Me?" Blitzen snorted.

"You're the one who called this cab," I said.

He did a little dance on the boardwalk and then leaped over the railing, landing easily on the deck. The rest of the team followed, and when we were all on the barge, I slid off Rudolph's back, somewhat unsure of what I was going to be standing on.

Wood. Warped and old wood, but wood nonetheless.

There was a thrum of water beneath the wooden belly of the barge. The steam thickened, rising around us, and Vegas started to vanish. The boatman leaned over his rudder, sweeping it to the right, and the boat began to move on an unseen current. The fog enveloped us completely.

From the bow, one of the reindeer shouted a warning, and a small shape catapulted out of the fog, skipping across the deck. It was a reindeer—a small one—and his fur was matted with sweat. A few of strips of tinsel were still stuck to the back of his head. He spotted me and bounded over. Before I could stop him, he started licking my face like I was a rapidly melting ice cream cone.

"Just . . . stop," I sputtered, trying to get away from the tongue bath.

"I found you," Ring chortled. "I made it."

VI

W
e argued about Ring, which was ultimately unnecessary because
there was nothing we could do about his presence now. We were moving steadily, caught in the course of an other-worldly current, and anyway, we couldn't see anything beyond the barge. When we had crossed over to purgatory last year from the South Pole, the journey had been nearly instantaneous, but the passage to hell took longer apparently. It was almost as if we were under the aegis of the Time Clock, but not quite. We argued about Ring because that was easier than reflecting on where we were going.

Ring stood in the stern, staring into the thick fog. He was pretending not to hear us talking about him, but I could tell by his twitching ears that he was listening to every word.

"I'm not baby-sitting him," Donner argued. "This is no place for a kid."

"Young goats are ‘kids,'" Blitzen pointed out. "He's not a goat."

"What?" Cupid said defensively, even though no one was looking at him specifically. "I was just kidding earlier."

Rudolph cut to the chase: "We have two choices: take him with us, or kill him and dump his body in the river."

Blitzen blinked heavily. "Did I miss a memo? What happens if Klutzo here"—he nodded at Prancer—"puts his foot in a gopher hole and tears a ligament? You going to put a bullet in his head and leave him too?"

Prancer snorted. "Not before I dust your ass first, bookworm." One of his laser rangefinders clicked on and danced a red dot across Blitzen's forehead.

Blitzen tweaked his head to the side, and nearly caught Vixen in the face with his antlers.

"Hey!" Vixen squawked, raising a hoof to clout Blitzen.

"Wait a sec—" I started.

"Enough, Rudolph," Cupid interrupted. "We've had enough of your attitude. Just because you've been on-team a generation longer doesn't mean you get to decide who lives and dies. What do you think this is? Some sort of post-apocalyptic YA coming of age novel?"

Rudolph bristled. "You think I like being the one who survived? That I outlived the entire team?"

"Outlived?" Cupid said. "They're still around, Rudolph, because you can't let them go."

"You weren't there, pal. You have no idea what it is like to see your friends get fried."

"You're wrong, Rudolph," Blitzen interjected. "We're their namesakes. We know damn well how they died."

"And we're not in a rush to join them," Vixen snapped at Rudolph.

I tried to get their attention again and was nearly trampled for my effort when Rudolph stamped across the circle of reindeer to bump his chest against Vixen. "We're all going to join them," he snarled. "As long as you stay soft on the hard choices. We're going to join them real quick."

I backed away. There was very little I could do—kilo for kilo—if things got physical. I bumped into Ring and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He was shivering. "I shouldn't have come," he whispered.

I shrugged. "Nothing we can do about that now."

He smiled shyly, ducking his head. "I dunked him," he said with a touch of pride. "I led him out to where the ice was thin, and cluster-bombed him into the ocean. I dunked an angel."

"You did good, kid," I said, in a species-neutral sort of way. I rubbed the side of his head with my knuckles. "How'd you find us?"

He wriggled his nose. "Smelled you."

"Me?"

"Sunscreen." He licked my cheek. "It's very buttery."

"How far is it to . . . wherever we're going. Limbo?" I asked tiredly. I considered resting a foot on the decrepit railing, but I feared it would break under my weight and I'd tumble off the barge, so I crouched on my heels instead. The boatman didn't answer. His cloak was even more worn than I had first thought—it was patched and spattered with mud and . . . something darker, more vile. His hood was a narrow peak between his shoulders, and its crest drooped to obscure the front of his head. Like a floppy magician's hat past its prime. His skeletal hand was steady on the long, primitive rudder, though it was hard to tell if he was doing much to keep us oriented—if he even needed to.

There came a splash off the bow–the sound of some large, graceless creature, something unaccustomed to the cold touch of the air, yet curious to see what rode on the ferryman's barge. What water I could see through infrequent gaps in the persistent fog was as black and viscous as India ink, and we glided across it with nary a ripple.

The reindeer argument hadn't come to blows, though a lot of heated words had been exchanged before it had worn itself out. Ring had been forgotten early on, and after everything had been said, the reindeer each tried to put as much distance between themselves as they could. Ring sat on the deck near me, his chin resting on the railing. He stared at the curling mist, dejected and forlorn. Rudolph stood in the bow, staring ahead, and I could tell he was still agitated by the way his tail flicked back and forth. The rest of them were exhausted, and several were lying on the uneven deck, fatigued by the weight of their tactical gear.

We were all strung out. I hadn't gotten any sleep in nearly twenty-four hours, and I didn't know much the others had been getting, but I was willing to bet it wasn't very much. Our nerves were frayed, and many of the reindeer were like powder kegs with single-second fuses. I was having trouble concentrating. The more I tried to focus, the more my thoughts flitted off to visions of feather beds and sugarplums.

"It's the river," the boatman said without preamble. His voice was softer than I would have expected. He let go of the tiller with his right hand and wiggled his fingers, producing something that, at first, I thought was an extra finger bone. But when he raised it to the dark opening in his hood, I realized it was a cigarette. A thin flame sprang from the tip of his index finger, and I tried to get a glimpse of what lay under the hood as he lit the cigarette. He shook his hand, extinguishing the flame, before I could get a good look, and then he exhaled a plume of white smoke that curled around his head like a reluctant fog.

"A lot of lost lovers sip from these waters," he said. "It brings them peace, but only for a few days. And then the pain returns. Stronger because it has been remembered. The experience always grows stronger when dipped in memory."

He held out his hand, revealing a wrist broken and scarred, and nestled in the palm of his hand was a faded and crumbled pack of cigarettes. The brand name was
Old Bones
, and I reconsidered the idea that what he was smoking was an actual cigarette.

"I don't smoke," I said, as politely as I could. The logo on the pack really did look like a pair of finger bones.

His fingers curled around the pack, and both disappeared into his long sleeve. "Most don't," he said. "And those that do always tell me they are trying to quit."

"A last ditch effort at salvation?" I tried.

"To the last." He blew a large smoke ring that slowly floated over his head, reminding me of a halo before it dissipated like the last light at nightfall. "Don't get called by many," he noted. "Most are surprised to see me. And none ever pack baggage."

"It's just a day trip for us," I said.

He laughed—a wet sound like pigeon wings snapping. "The last who said that was a young man with light bleeding from his wrists and ankles." He spat over the rail. "Some called him the Harrower."

"The Harrower," I breathed. There is an episode of Biblical apocrypha that describes Jesus's descent into hell following his crucifixion and burial. It is documented in the gospel of Nicodemus—one of the lost books of the Bible. An ambitious student in Wales had hypertexted most of the oeuvre of some crazy English occultist, and while I had been researching my attack strategy against purgatory, I had stumbled across the story of the Harrowing of Hell while on some hyperlink rabbit holing.

Jesus goes down into hell to retrieve the lost souls—the abandoned prophets of the Old Testament who have been left by the side of the road as mortal man thunders towards Apocalypse and Judgment Day. Jesus did this great trick, or so the story goes, where he slipped down through a secret tunnel into the dark places under the earth. He just popped on through the gates of hell like they weren't there, and had a bit of a wrestling match with Satan before liberating Adam and Noah and Moses and all the others who deserved seats in heaven.

"And did he?" I asked. "Did Jesus only come down for an afternoon?"

The boatman blew a pair of smoke rings that morphed into skulls and crossbones.

"Don't believe everything you hear," he said. "Some stories are meant to give you hope, but there is no hope here. Not on this river."

"Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

He nodded gently. "Ah, that was what the Italian poet kept saying." The boatman said something that sounded Italian, but it was from a time and place I didn't know. "You don't know the original, do you? You've got a translation, but that's not the one I remember." He was quiet for a moment. "Ah, yes. The one done by the writer. Sayer.
Lay down all hope.
That was how she said it.
Lay down all hope, you that go by in me.
Every generation phrases it different—sometimes it needs to be in order for it to be understood." He shrugged and took another drag. "Abandon. Lay down.
Relinque
."

"Heard ‘em all." I said, offering a tentative smile. "But I don't believe everything I hear."

He laughed again. "That's twice now, Dreamer. Twice you have made me laugh." He spit over the railing.

"Is there a prize for the third time?"

"There are no prizes on this river."

There was some catch in his throat that tripped up his words. Even more curious, I took a step closer. He did not move as I approached, and when I reached up and grabbed the back of his hood, he made no effort to stop me.

I revealed the white bones of a skull, jaw locked in a rictus, eye sockets filled with gray ash. His half-smoked cigarette was clenched between frozen teeth. But there was something lopsided about his face, something about his eyes that was out of place. There were tracks down his bony cheeks; tracks inscribed by a flow that had gone on for centuries. Tear tracks. "My God," I realized. "You're just as much a prisoner as everyone else."

He reached up with his broken wrist, and pulled the cigarette free. He flipped it at me, and I took a step back to avoid it. He raised his hood, hiding his tear-streaked face, and when he spoke, his voice was now muffled by the hood. "Your stop is next, Dreamer."

Before I could say anything, Dasher shouted from the front of the barge: "Land ho!" The rest of the team clattered over to see.

I felt the barge tip as they all bunched along the port side, and for a second I thought the barge might tip over. The ferryman pulled on the tiller, and the back of the barge swung outward, angling the barge toward the bank.

The mist had taken on a yellow cast, like something from an Eliot poem, and it carried a scent of melted polyester and charred cardboard. It was as if the smell was masking something else, a top note that hid the stench of rotting flowers or the breath of dead babies.

A rocky shoreline gnawed at the bottom of the barge, and we got hung up for a second, slowly spinning around an obstruction in the water. Then, with a grinding noise, the barge surged across the rocks beneath us, and we were free.

Something bobbed in our wake—something dislodged from the murky riverbed. It rolled over slowly, and I caught the rounded curve of some great creature's ribcage. Bubbles broke around the swell of the thick bones, and the carcass disappeared beneath the disturbed surface.

A gangly pier appeared in the yellow mist, a ragged spit of wood jutting from the broken line of rock that made up the shore. The boatman leaned hard in the other direction, and I felt a reverberating scrape as the rudder slowed our movement in the shallow river. The barge bumped against the pier.

Donner leaped over the leaning railing and clattered across the rickety pier. The rest of the reindeer followed like a series of nocturnally imagined sheep springing across an equally imaginary turnstile. Ring hung back, approaching the front of the boat with some reluctance. He stopped at the railing and glanced back at the ferryman and me.

I coughed, and then extended my hand to the ferryman. "Thanks for the ride," I said.

He was busy lighting another cigarette, and he ignored my hand. "You shouldn't trust that map of yours too much. Dante was prone to metaphor and hyperbole."

"Is that freely offered advice?" I asked. "Am I supposed to believe you?"

He spat into the river again. "Belief is what you make of it."

"But didn't you tell me not believe everything I hear?"

"You have to believe in something," he clarified. He nodded at me and then toward the reindeer. "Your heart. Them."

He started to push the tiller in the other direction, slowly shoving the barge away from the dock, and I took the hint. Ring waited for me, and after I jumped on his back, he leapt over the railing onto the ramshackle pier.

Behind us, the barge slipped away, vanishing into the thickening fog. The ferryman's cigarette glowed, a light that pierced the gloom. "I took him back," the ferryman called. "The one who bled light. I took him and his baggage back to the other side."