Son of the Morning (36 page)

‘You as well? You’re all as mad as bats.’

‘I should hurry,’ said Dow.

How to use the key? What to do? He tried commanding the gate in his own name.

‘Open in the name of Dowzabel, I who commanded you to close.’

Nothing.

He tried the angels, the demons and mixing the names of the demons and angels. Nothing.

He burned some incense and expressed his friendship for Lucifer while walking around his circle anti-clockwise. Nothing.

‘Have you any idea how tedious this gets?’ said Osbert.

‘How can it open? The key was made by Îthekter, or by Satan. What do they require to open the gate?’

He thought of the priests, he thought of the image of Christ on the cross, of all those martyrs Edwin spoke of in an effort to convert him – as if he too had suffered being broken on the wheel, pierced with arrows or fed to wild beasts. What did the key want? He thought of himself in the circle in Southampton. The priest had wanted to kill him. Perhaps that’s what God wanted – blood.

Dow took out the devil’s knife with its fine bone handle. Lightly he drew it across his little finger. Then he squeezed down on the key.

‘Open,’ he said, ‘in the name of Dowzabel.’

Little lights began to play at the edge of his vision, as if he had stood up too quickly.

‘Open. In the name of Lucifer. Of the two hundred fallen angels who watch for his return.’

The lights grew more intense.

‘Go to the circle. Go to the circle,’ said Dow.

The lights began to swim and dance.

‘To the circle, in the name of the expelled Grigori who so loved humanity.’

He could see the lights move now, little pools with the texture of mother of pearl flowing towards Osbert’s circle.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ Osbert shouted. Clearly he too could see the lights as they began to swirl around the circle.

The gate had opened differently last time. Then, in pain and fear, Dow had hardly been able to take in what was happening. Now he saw it all. The lights ran all around the edge of Osbert’s circle.

‘Are you letting me out, or what?’ said Osbert.

The lights went on moving, there was a feeling of pressure in the air. But something was missing, something did not work. He couldn’t understand why the gate would not open. And then he remembered – the priest had commanded, not in the name of a demon but of an angel. Dow hated to do that. But a name came into his mind.

‘Open in the name of Sariel, lady of the moon and of the light of God. She who is called Suriel, Suriyel, Sahariel, Juriel, Seriel, Sauriel, Esdreel, Surya Saraqael, Sarakiel, Jariel, Suruel, Surufel and Sourial. She who has fallen.’

‘What, what? What’s happening to my ears? I can’t hear anything. No, I can hear something! What’s that’s noise. What’s that scraping?’ Osbert sounded near hysterical.

The lights fused together, began to warp and mould the air, a jelly of light hovering there, a glutinous curtain shivering at the limit of the circle.

‘Open. Open.’

‘What are you doing? What are you doing?’

‘Get me an answer. Tell me how to find what Free Hell wants.’

‘I’m a pardoner! A pardoner! And I tell you what, mate, I don’t pardon you! You should rot in Hell for what you’ve done to me! Rot! Ro … what’s that?’

The candle smoke took shape inside the pardoner’s circle. It was a wolf’s head, then a pig’s, then a man’s – with great horns.

‘Get away from me! Get away!’ the pardoner screamed.

At the top of the stairs, the door rattled. ‘What’s going on? What’s going on?’ It was the priest’s voice.

‘Get off me, get off me!’

‘Can you speak, spirit?’

There was no reply from the floating head.

‘I command you, in the name of bright Lucifer, the morning star, to take this man to your realms, let him question your wisest leaders, bring him before them and answer his questions.’

Osbert leapt up. ‘A way out! A way out!’ he shouted. Then he ran forward, the veil of light collapsed like an icefall and the pardoner and the spirit were gone.

8

‘What is this place?’

The pardoner had stepped out into a cellar but one unlike that in which he’d been trapped for a year. This, he thought, was a quality cellar. It was dry and well made with a solid stone floor and good arched stone ceiling. It was also full of wine – some in bottles. He went to one and popped out its cork. My God, that smelled nice. He swigged several mouthfuls down. It felt so good after so long. Priority one taken care of – a drink. A shag and shit were still on his ‘urgent’ list. He strode forward, stretching out his legs. The smoke demon he’d seen was nowhere.

‘I’m free, I’m free!’ he exulted. The relief was overwhelming and he sank to his knees, weeping.

‘Thank you, God, for getting me out of there. Thank you, Lord, thank you!’

A thought came into his head, unbidden.
If God got me out of there, might it not be reasonable to ask if He put me in there? And why He didn’t bother getting me out earlier?

Still, these were theological questions. The fact was: he was out. Ish. A set of stone steps led from the cellar. He went up them to a door. Thank God it wasn’t locked. He opened it. He was in a broad, timber floor-boarded room with a fine carpet on the floor. A handsome chest stood at one end, a tapestry showing a hunting scene hung on the wall. It was clearly the main room of an affluent merchant’s house. There was even a table with some silver goblets on it. Osbert considered stealing them but wanted to make sure of an exit first.

There was no fire, nor any conspicuous chimney vent or louvre. Mind you, it didn’t need one. It was hot. Very hot. The cellar he’d been trapped in had been stuffy, but this was something else entirely. Sweat was pouring off him. And the light was uneven, flickering. Was there a fire? He could smell a fire.

He went to a window. It was very dirty, covered in a sort of soot. However, he found he could open it. Immediately a blast of heat hit him, as from the mouth of an oven. The air was smoky too and stung his eyes. He closed the window quickly and took a swig on the wine to clear his throat. My God, that was good after so long, although he almost immediately felt lightheaded – but that could have been the smoke. Osbert wanted to get out of this place. He headed across the room to another door, emerging into a short corridor which appeared to lead to an external door. Good. The pardoner nipped back and stuffed two goblets into his coat. He wanted to take more but he was limited to what he could easily conceal.

He went out into the corridor, opened the door and stepped into the street. Finding no street there, he stepped back in, smartish, tumbling on his backside, scarcely able to believe what he had seen. He had been high up – very high up, higher even than when he’d hidden from a disgruntled customer up the spire of St Paul’s. Outside the door had been a vast burning plain. A lake, so bright its image was still imprinted on his eyes, was away in the distance, looking for all the world like the metal that is poured into a smith’s mould. But vast, stretching out for miles. A range of mountains was in the distance, steaming under a brass sun. He crossed himself and dropped the goblets. They clattered against the wooden floor. There was a sound of scratching inside the house. A rat? A big one if it was.

‘Who’s here?’ The voice was not human – more like the buzzing of a great fly. Osbert suddenly felt very scared. Where was he? Well, that didn’t need a whole stack of learning to work out, did it? Lake of fire present, soot and ash present, all it required was a … oh dear.

The second door in the vestibule opened and a figure stepped in to the corridor. It was like a man but a head taller – and what a head – that of an enormous wasp. It was dressed in a tunic of fine blue velvet and wore matching pantaloons. Its feet, though easily as big as a man’s – were those of an insect. Osbert, who had not pissed in over a year, felt the distinct urge to do so now.

‘Ah …’ said Osbert, glancing down at the cups, ‘this is not what it seems.’

‘Where’s my whip?’ shouted the wasp man. It turned back inside the house but Osbert was now through the door. He was on an open staircase clinging to the outside of an enormously tall building. Or rather, a conglomeration of buildings. It was as if all the higgledy-piggledy houses of London Bridge had been turned on their side to construct a sort of a hive of wattle and daub houses, all stuck on top of each other. The lake of fire blew a wind of sparks towards the building and a black smoke drifted up from below. Osbert couldn’t see how a building made of ordinary housing materials wouldn’t just burst into flames, given its proximity to such heat.

Other people were on the staircase – or rather other things. A young monk raced screaming down the stairs, nearly shoving him off. He was pursued by a something that seemed half a man, half a shrub – its legs human but the top of its body a large and thorny bush – its face just visible within.

Osbert rushed up the staircase, past doors and alleys, windows and roads. Every time he thought to duck off the stair something stopped him. On one occasion it was a rattling cart dragging people in cages, pulled by teams of emaciated children. A great fat devil drove the cart, his head that of an enormous ox.

‘Thou shalt honour thy father and thy mother. Now pay the price of your cheek and disobedience!’ he shouted.

Osbert pressed on. Other people came past him from below, screaming and wailing, cannoning into others running from above him. He was buffeted and jostled as he climbed. A knight in full mail came bundling down the stairs, nearly knocking him off. The man waved his arms and cried out ‘Help me! Help me!’ Behind him lolloped a devil from a fireside tale – head of a goat, legs of a goat, body of a man. ‘Here’s one who cast lustful eyes on his friend’s wife! Here’s one who sinned in thought and imagination!’

At points the stairs were crumbling and Osbert had to leap to go on. He heard the crack of a whip.

‘A live man in Hell! A live man in Hell!’ The wasp was behind him.

Up, up, up on the treacherous stairs, ever steeper, ever narrower. Then the wattle and daub of the walls gave way to stone. He was at the foot of an enormous castle, it appeared. The climb and the heat were taking their toll now, the panic too. He was finding it difficult to breathe and he could hear the crack of the wasp’s whip behind him.

‘Live or dead, you’ll pay for your sins! Have you cozened and lied? You look like a cozener!’

Osbert’s legs were giving way. He crawled on up the stairs. Sweat and tears streamed down his face; he could taste sulphur and soot.

A hand seized his coat and pulled him from the staircase and into an alleyway.

‘No!’ He tried to struggle. A man – something like a man – dressed richly like a merchant, had hold of him. His skin was ghastly pale and at the centre of his chest was an enormous hole. ‘Let me go!’

‘If you don’t want to spend your days swimming in the lake of fire, come with me. Come on, that devil will find you soon!’

Osbert was pulled down the alley as far as a little door. The devil – was it a devil? – shoved him through it and closed and bolted it behind him.

The pardoner lay panting against the door. It felt wonderfully cool. The man – the walking corpse – that had rescued him put his finger to his lips. Outside he could hear the buzzing, humming voice of the wasp devil.

‘What sins are yours? Have you taken the Lord’s name in vain. Did you cry out “by God’s holy bollocks!” or some such profanity? Is that why you are here? Where are you? I can sniff you but I can’t see you,’ said the wasp.

There was a scratching at the door. Osbert tried to stop himself from sobbing. It had all been too much for him – so long confined.
What could be worse?
he’d asked himself. Hell could be worse and before he’d even died too.

The handle turned on the door but the man who had rescued him had bolted it.

‘Don’t worry – it can’t get in. It’s a lesser devil and they’re none too bright. Obsessed with minor rules, no flexibility. I mean, I know they’re enforcing the word of God but they haven’t factored in that God is a lunatic. The higher fiends are much more amenable to reason.’

‘It can’t get in?’

‘No.’

Osbert stood away from the door, made brave by safety.

‘You’ve got some wine?’ said the man.

‘Yes. Didn’t want to let that go.’ Osbert swigged the last of it before the man asked for any.

‘My name is William De La Pole,’ said the man. ‘You are …?’

‘Osbert – a pardoner.’

‘You talk like a more educated man.’

‘I am of a good family. Life treated me harshly.’ Osbert looked around at the room. It was just a stone entrance hall – tall and arched with steps running down into darkness.

Pole snorted. ‘Can’t blame others. A man’s destiny is in his own hands. Take me. I’ve been condemned to Hell but I don’t bleat about it, crying out for another man’s charity to spare me. No, I got out here and I looked for work, made a little money, invested in a little business. The industrious man can make his way in Hell, yes, very nicely thank you.’

‘So this is Hell?’

‘Well, if it’s Heaven then God’s a cozener, all his priests and the Bible too. Follow me.’ Pole went down the stone stairs of the castle. ‘As a man of rank and proven worth I’m allowed in here and trusted with certain keys.’

‘Hell is organised according to rank?’

‘Of course. You don’t think God would make men of worth suffer the same fate as commoners, do you? He sets men in their places on earth and so does he in Hell.’

‘That’s horrible.’

‘I believe that’s the general idea. But only up to a point. It’s logical. Those who have suffered more in life need to suffer more in death to make a difference. Otherwise the suffering doesn’t increase at all through being dead. I believe I suffer as much from the lack of spiced fruit as a beggar would being thrown into a fiery lake. Now follow me. We’re going back down to my house. It’s among the lower sort, but it’s big enough and away from the outside so not forever burning.’

‘Burning?’

‘On the lower levels the wind off the lake of fire blows sparks up against the walls and ignites them. We organise parties of the lower sort of tormented soul to put them out – we draw water up from a central well. I tell you, fire fighting and rebuilding are never ending tasks here.’