A Natural History of Hell: Stories (26 page)

There was an instant of forgetting and then Gretel and Emmett were standing beside Jimmy Tooth at the edge of the field of fire. The skeleton was sweeping his arm out to indicate his infernal crop. “I got a thousand acres of torment here,” he said, speaking in the voice of the Jimmy Emmett remembered from life. Words came forth from the empty skull in a weak echo. “For every acre’s worth I bring to Satan, he reduces my own anguish a half a dust mote’s worth.”

The boy had the sense that they’d been on a tour of the farm for a while before he’d come to. “Are we dead?” he asked.

“You ain’t dead,” said Jimmy.

“What about me?” asked Gretel.

“You’re neither dead nor alive. We’ve gotta see.”

She asked, “What do you mean?” but the skeleton turned away and walked back toward the red barn. On the way they passed a massive creature with six legs and the scaly head of a dragon, chewing flame like hay out of a bale that wriggled with bright intensity.

“My trusty plough horse, Sacload,” said Jimmy. “You could pet him if you like.” Emmett and Gretel declined. They moved on a few more yards across the adamantine surface before the skeleton announced, “And lookee here. I got a well.” A stone well like the one at the Addisons’ appeared before them where there’d been none a second before. “Maybe someday I’ll find myself at the bottom of it,” he said. His jaw opened wide and laughter, like a trumpet, issued forth.

“Why are we here?” asked Emmett.

“You kids make yourselves at home for a spell. I’ve got some pressing business up in the house.”

“Wait,” said Gretel, more than a hint of desperation in her voice, but before the word fully sounded, Jimmy had vanished. She began crying, and the only thing preventing Emmett from doing the same was his fear. He drew close to her and said, “Come on. I’m going to tell him to take us back home.” He put his arm around her and moved her slowly toward the house. He looked up at their destination—a gray, three-story structure, listing forward, with broken windows and a round cupola on either side of the patchy roof. Green mist curled from the chimney and reminded Emmett of thyme smoke.

On their way to the house, they passed the sagging old barn, and just as they drew even with the entrance, a man walked out of it. He was middle-aged, bald on top but with a full red beard reaching to the center of his chest. He was dressed in a work shirt and jeans and pair of farm boots. Emmett thought he recognized him from town. “Hey, mister,” he said. “How do we get back to Threadwell?” The figure paid no attention to him and kept heading for the house. “Scuze me, sir,” said Gretel. She shrugged off Emmett’s arm and ran to catch up with the adult. “Can you help us?” she yelled to him.

The fellow just kept moving forward, not even turning his head to acknowledge their presence. “He doesn’t see you,” said Emmett. Gretel stopped following and watched as the man climbed the back steps to the house, opened the door, and went inside. When that door latched shut again, there came a low roar from out across the fields. Both she and Emmett turned around to see what was happening. At first it was unclear if anything in the strange setting was different, save for the fact that the wind had picked up considerably.

In an instant, it grew stronger yet, and there was a howling that echoed throughout the enormous cavern in which the farmland lay. It was Gretel who noticed it first. She pointed to the boundary of the field and shouted over the noise, “It’s moving toward us.” Emmett focused and realized that the crop of flames had grown higher, become more violent in its crackling and waving, and was rolling toward them now like an ocean wave. Gretel moved first, running back to grab Emmett’s hand and pull him in the direction of the house. Her touch woke him from his stupor, and they ran.

By the time they made it to the steps, the back of the barn was on fire. They got through the door and slammed it behind them. For all the din of the blaze outside, it was silent in the kitchen, the only sound the slow ticking of a clock on the wall with chains and pinecone weights. Each second sounded like a drip of water. The room was lit by the light of the fire outside slipping in through two windows. The dance of the flames as they consumed the barn cast wild shadows on the walls.

“Jimmy Tooth!” Emmett yelled. He and Gretel left the kitchen, ran down a dark hallway, and stepped into a parlor. “We want to go home,” he was about to call out, but the phrase never made it past his lips. The man they’d seen exit the barn was on his knees, his fingers on Jimmy Tooth’s wrists, trying to pry the grip from around his neck. His face was blue, his eyes popping, and foam and drool dripped from his lips. Jimmy’s eyes widened, and the empty mouth was a grimace of exertion.

The gurgling noise coming up out of the victim filled the room, and his body jerked and writhed with its last pulses of life. When the figure eventually went limp, Jimmy released his grip and the corpse fell to the floor with a thud. Emmett just then realized that the house was on fire around them, flames coming up through the floorboards, piercing the lathing of the walls. Jimmy turned toward the children, arms outstretched. The skull snarled viciously. He lunged for them.

Emmett felt a hand grasp his ankle and he came to, cocooned in heat and thick smoke. He felt himself being dragged, and a moment later a pair of hands under his arms lifted him up. “I’ve got him,” yelled a voice. Emmett’s eyes opened, the lids fluttered, and he caught a glimpse of Officer Johnson before dropping into darkness again. The next thing, sunlight. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a cot in the police station.

Benton made him drink a cup of black coffee. Emmett sat, wrapped in a blanket, across the desk from the chief, who smoked a roll-up.

“Your folks’ll be here soon to get you. I told them to let you stay here for the night. Doc Summerhill looked you over and gave you the okay.”

Emmett nodded.

The lawman took a last toke on his butt and then stubbed it out. He sat back in his chair and said, “Your dad showed up here last evening and said you hadn’t come home. He had the wagon and was looking for you. Me and Officer Johnson weren’t doing anything so we took the Model T out and helped search. We just happened to be passing the carpentry shop and saw the flames out back. We carried water from the creek, maybe two dozen times. And I’m too old to be hauling water. You’re a lucky cuss. Johnson heard you screaming in there or we’d have let it just turn to cinders, which in the long run it mostly did anyway. Now, suppose you tell me why we had to pull you free of that burning icehouse last night.”

“Gretel,” said Emmett. “Is she okay?”

“Gretel who?” asked Benton.

“Lawler.”

“When we put the fire out, all we found was you.”

“She was with me.”

“Maybe she slipped out. The back wall had collapsed by the time we got there. You’re lucky you’re not barbecue, son. Where’s this girl live?”

“Gretel Lawler. She lives out on the Chowdry Road.”

The chief leaned forward, lifted a pencil from the desk, and made a note. “Okay, now, what were you up to?”

Emmett sat for quite a while, willing to talk but not knowing where to begin. There was almost too much to tell. Every time he picked a launching point, he thought of some other thread that needed tending if he was to get it all right. His mind was still bleary from the smoke, but while he sat and thought, he drank the coffee and that cleared things a bit with every sip. Benton rocked slightly in his chair, the spring beneath him quietly squealing, and seemed to study something on the ceiling.

Finally, Emmett said, “It started back when I found Jimmy Tooth in the bottom of the Addisons’ old well.”

“Good lord,” said the chief.

It was late morning by the time the boy stopped talking.

Benton shook his head, and said, “That’s one hell of a tale, Mr. Wallace. Jimmy Tooth come back from the dead to get justice? Ha. I like it, but it’s lunatic. You’re saying that Mrs. Williams killed Jimmy Tooth and because she knew you knew something, she trapped you in the icehouse and tried to cook you? And that’s not even the most absurd part.”

“Jimmy wanted justice,” said Emmett, “but I think to also confess. It never struck me to wonder why Jimmy Tooth had a farm in hell. He wanted me to know that he choked a man to death.”

“Oh, right,” said Benton. “Who?”

“I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him. A man with a red beard down to here.” He moved the side of his hand across his chest. “Bald head.”

Benton squinted and leaned on the desk. He smiled with only the left side of his mouth. “You know who you’re describing?” he asked.

Emmett shook his head.

“Mr. Williams.”

“Oh, that’s right. I barely remember him.”

“That’s interesting,” said the chief. “You know, when he died, I don’t remember being called to the carpentry shop. I can’t remember if the doctor took a look at him. I just heard he had a heart attack and then there was a wake. Mrs. Williams made his coffin and chose a closed lid. We knew her so well, and she was in such grief no one asked any questions.”

“I think she got Jimmy to kill her husband, and then she killed Jimmy. Oh, and I almost forgot, the pastor was part of it. He was outside the icehouse and helped her make the fire.”

“The pastor too?” said Benton.

“He did something to the brakes on his wife’s car. He’s gonna kill her. Jimmy put the spider kiss on her.”

“All right, calm down now. This is getting crazier by the second.”

“I can prove it,” said Emmett. “Or at least part of it.” He stood up and reached into the pocket of his jeans. His hand came out in a fist. Leaning over the desk, he opened his fingers, and three little nuggets dropped onto Benton’s calendar. “I found those on the floor of the icehouse. Jimmy Tooth’s teeth. I bet they’d match up to where they were busted out of his jaw.”

“She killed him in the icehouse?” asked Benton.

“With a hammer, I think.”

“I’ll need these for evidence.”

“Okay.”

“All very interesting,” said the chief. “Now, Mrs. Williams could have pressed charges. She claims you burned down her icehouse. Mr. Dibble did find a charred box of wooden matches among the debris. Anyway, this woman you are claiming beat a man to death with a hammer is willing to forgive your trespass and mischief and let you go scot-free. She says she understands your insane condition.”

“She’s in romance with the pastor, and he’s guilty so he wears the hat,” Emmett blurted out.

“In romance?” Benton laughed. “That’s a neat little theory, but it’s time for you to stop thinking, son. I want you to go home with your parents and stay there. I want you not to go near the carpentry shop or Mrs. Williams anymore. In fact, you can stay out of school till after Christmas too. I’ll tell Miss Maufin I told you to. You need some rest, my friend. Peace and quiet and try to think of something other than walking skeletons and farms in hell.”

Two days later, the news spread through Threadwell that Mrs. Holst, the pastor’s wife, was killed in a tragic car accident on the way back from Mount Victory. She came around the curve by the Vesper Woods, lost control, and smashed into an ancient horse chestnut tree. She was flung through the windshield, and the broken glass ripped her face off. The pastor was distraught, but still he presided over her wake.

The town gathered at the church to pay their last respects to the poor woman. She had been a great favorite of nearly everyone in the community. Even Emmett attended with his parents. Neighbors, having heard of the icehouse incident, gave him a wide berth and dirty looks. Even his parents kept a few feet between themselves and him. Before leaving for the wake his father had wanted him to smoke a thyme roll-up, but he refused, saying he didn’t need it anymore. The church was packed, and he sat in a separate pew, his parents in the next one over. He paid no attention to the words that rhythmically puffed out the handkerchief of the pastor, but scanned the crowd. Sitting in the back row of pews he spied Gretel Lawler, dressed in white and carrying a hymnal. When no one but Emmett was looking she winked at him, and he smiled, relieved to know she had somehow escaped the icehouse and run for it. He was amazed by her. The only other person to look Emmett’s way was Chief Benton, and he stared at the boy all through the pastor’s eulogy.

Emmett went through his days in Threadwell an outcast, shunned by everyone, ignored by his parents. He felt like a ghost in his own home. They gave him his dinner separately and rarely asked him to do a chore. His mother still did his wash and swept out his room now and then, but conversations were never more than a sentence. He stopped going to school and instead roamed the countryside on his bike, which still stood next to the bench by the creek when he went to recover it weeks after the icehouse night. Mr. Peasi still let him borrow books from the barbershop, and so he read when he wasn’t out exploring. His only real joy was the nights he snuck out and met Gretel Lawler at the top of Chowdry Road. From there, they rode their bicycles everywhere while Threadwell slept.

On the night of the day in early July when Chief Benton ordered the exhumation of Jimmy Tooth’s body and matched the three teeth to their homes on the jaw, Emmett sat with Gretel in the moonlight on the bank of Wildcat Creek where it wound through the cemetery beyond the church. It was after midnight, and a beautiful breeze blew across the fields. They leaned together and she kissed him. His hand, resting on the ground, gripped the grass, and when they pulled apart, he’d squeezed his fist so hard he pulled a clump of it up. “Do you love me?” she asked. He smelled the aroma of wild thyme and realized that’s what he clutched in his fingers. The sound of water passing over stones, the light on Gretel’s face, the scent of the herb, dark green and peppery, intoxicated him. “Yes,” he said, and then ripped a swatch of thyme off the clump and put it to his mouth. She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t,” she said. He never did again, and from then on, she was always with him.

The Prelate
’
s Commission

The new fresco that graced the inner dome of the Cathedral of St. Elovisus was a masterpiece of perspective and illusion—the fall of the rebel angels into hell. They hurtled downward through an aquamarine sky swirled with pale pink clouds, their feathers disintegrating in the descent, their features growing ever more monstrous. Some, just ejected from paradise, appeared small and vastly distant, while the progressively larger ones took on weight and velocity. The largest seemed just above the viewer, desperately clawing the sky, eyes wide with the discovery of gravity, about to slam into the marble floor, which was inlaid with a deep and spiraling scene of Hell. At the center of the inner dome above was an illuminated circle where one could glimpse, as if from the bottom of a well, the enormous, angry face of God.

The Prelate who oversaw the project for the church had watched closely the processes of the master, Codilan—the mixing of the plaster and lime, the cyphering of how much could be painted in a day, and the rendering of the marvelous figures. The look in the eyes of any who beheld it revealed its genius. Codilan had also designed the dome itself, an engineering feat of equal astonishment, but it wasn
’
t the great artist that the Prelate gave most of his attention to. There was an assistant to the master, a very young man named Talejui, who hailed from the northern forest of the realm. The master had turned over to him the responsibility for the rendering of the figures. After the first day of painting, it was clear the young man was a prodigy. The expressions and postures of the falling angels were mesmerizing. Even the mere rendering of the hands, fingers clutching at nothing, made the Prelate sense them clutching his soul.

Word of the great work spread quickly, and in the months following its completion, throngs came to the cathedral from all corners of the realm to gaze first upward and then down into the illusion of the abyss. Sinners were brought to their knees, and quite a few converted on the spot. The Prelate, of course, took much of the credit for the fresco, but there was still a surplus to go around and the master and even Talejui were given appropriate shares. In having witnessed the creation of a masterpiece, the Prelate, over the five years it took them to paint the inner dome, slowly conceived of his own magnificent project, one no less intricate than the dome, nor less angry than God.

Codilan had already begun planning for his next work, a marble sculpture of the Holy Ghost. “The ineffable made manifest in stone” was how he put it to his patron at the house of Walsneer. He and Talejui spent days conspiring just how to render a spirit in marble. Work went along well for two weeks, and then the young man was summoned to a meeting one rainy afternoon at the Prelate
’
s chambers. He feared he had been called in due to his recent nightly conduct of drinking and fighting. He
’
d felt the need for a certain wildness, a release from the concentration on the fresco. When he reached the cathedral, he stood beneath his handiwork and marveled, his neck craning back till it ached. Suddenly he felt a hand upon his shoulder and the words, spoken softly, “Don
’
t forget what
’
s beneath your feet.”

Talejui looked down into Hell before turning to see who
’
d touched him. It was the Prelate.

“I have a mission for you,” said his holiness.

The young man
’
s heart sank as he knew that whatever was asked of him, he could not refuse.

“A mission from God. Follow me to my chambers and I
’ll explain.
”

The office of the Prelate was carpeted and hung in red velvet. They sat in hand-carved wooden thrones, the older man and younger on either side of an ornate desk. Each had a goblet of honeyed wine and each a lit roll of tobacco from the distant Islands of Night.

“I was much impressed by your work on the inner dome,” said the Prelate.

“Thank you, your holiness, but I owe my inspiration to the master, Codilan.”

“This is where you
’
re wrong, my son. You owe it to God. Your gift is from heaven, and now you
’
re called upon by the church to serve the almighty.”

“Yes, your holiness.”

“You will go on a journey.”

Talejui took the tobacco from his lips and said, “
But we’
ve just begun a new commission for the Walsneers
’ . . .”

The old man leaned forward across his desk and fixed the artist with a withering stare. His pointy fingernail twice tapped hard wood. “The House of Walsneer is a dung pile, its members feast on shit, do you understand?”

“Yes, your holiness.”

“Now I have something that will test your talents to the limit. As an artist and a man of the church, you can
’
t refuse.”

Talejui nodded.

“I want you to go forth into the world, find the devil, and paint his portrait.”

The young man could not suppress a laugh.

“Your arrogance will be your undoing,” said the Prelate.

“No, your holiness, I laugh with joy that you might think me capable of such a feat. How exactly am I to locate the devil?”

“Men such as you find the devil every day. He
’
s always gracious about stopping to tempt a sinner.”

“And if I do find him, how will I convince him to sit for me?”

“The church asks not for your questions but for your action. That
’
s all.”

“Why, though?”

“He is a great trickster with infinite guises. Men and women are defenseless against him. They need to be able to identify the demon, so that they know when he comes for them. I want his true portrait executed with all the art God gave you.”

“Yes, your holiness. And when am I to begin my journey?”

“Immediately. We will bequeath you a donkey to carry your supplies and a bag of gold for expenses. When you complete the portrait, you will be paid handsomely for it.”

Talejui never actually agreed, but he need say nothing. To refuse the Prelate would find him cooking atop a stack of logs and kindling in the town square, his flesh disintegrating into smoke like the feathers of the falling angels. He finished his tobacco while the old man offered a suggestion.

“There
’
s a legend that he keeps house in an abandoned summer palace on an island in a lake somewhere amid the Carapace Mountains.”

The artist nodded humbly, but behind his eyes he made his plan. He
’
d travel on the church
’
s money for a year, and then when the mystery of the open road lost its charm, he
’
d simply paint a portrait of the devil from his imagination and make up a story as to how he got the demon to sit for him. The Prelate would buy it without a doubt. And still, he would be able to return to work on the master
’
s Holy Ghost.

“The devil is sly, so stay awake.”

“Yes, your holiness,” he said. “I leave tonight. Please have someone from the stable bring the donkey around to my place and I will load the beast with my easel and paints.”

The Prelate tossed a pouch of coins onto the desk. “Twelve pieces of gold,” he said. “It should take you far.”

“And what if I find the devil in the arms of a woman?”

“It
’
s not her arms I
’
d worry about,” said the Prelate.

“And what if I need break the law to find the devil?”

“More questions? I told you, action. You know what needs to be done. Do it. Let your faith guide you.”

By the time Talejui left the cathedral, the rain had stopped and he walked through the village of thatched, stone homes, over and down the green hills on a dirt path that was said to have been trod by Adam and Eve as they fled paradise. Out at the edge of things, he came to the master
’
s workshop. The helpers were off to the south, purchasing a block of marble for the coming sculpture. Talejui found Codalin sitting at his drafting table, his head propped by one fist under his chin, snoring. The window looking out into the meadow was flung open, and a warm breeze carried the buzz of insects, the grief of mourning doves. All was hushed in the huge workshop, motes of marble dust floating in the sunlight.

“Master,” whispered Talejui. The old man stirred and slowly came back from sleep.

“Yes,” said Codalin, yawning. “I wanted to tell you what I realized about the sculpture. It will all depend on light. Only through light can stone become weightless.”

“I
’
ve come to tell you I must leave town.”

“What
’
s this? I
’
m not paying you enough?” Codalin sat straight, fully awake.

“The Prelate has given me a secret mission for the church.”

“The Prelate? An imbecile.”

“Yes, but burning at the stake is an inconvenience.”

The master reflected and then nodded. “A worthy argument,” he said.

“I intend to pretend for a year
’
s time and then end the comedy through my art. Can you delay the Walsneer commission until then?”

“Only if you promise to finish it should I grow too old. Now what
’
s this secret mission?”

“Forgive me, but I
’
m sworn to secrecy. I leave tonight.”

Talejui, good to his word, set out at the propitious hour of midnight, beneath a silver moon. He wore his cape and wide-brimmed hat. The donkey, Hermes, a slow and cantankerous beast, was piled high with supplies. The journey was not a race, though, and the young man was content to follow the animal
’
s lead. They took the path away from the village into the greater realm. Talejui whistled the simple psalm of St. Ifritia, and every hundred steps or so, Hermes made a sound like a sinner
’
s last breath.

A beautiful day broke around the travelers, warm sun and cool breeze, and Talejui decided to sleep. He bedded down in a stand of cedar trees at the top of a tall hill. Wild flowers of white and yellow dotted the needle-strewn floor, and the sunlight through the branches fell soft upon his face. The morning swirled around him and he dreamed about the Holy Ghost in marble, like a bedsheet on a line rippling in the wind yet made of stone. It spoke to him in a hollow, holy voice that echoed in the caverns of itself. “Your mission is no less important than the work of the bees,” it said.

Talejui awoke in the late afternoon to the donkey
’
s loud braying. Only when he got to his feet did he realize there was a man standing behind him. It was the hunter Pervan. He had feathers twisted into his nest of hair and a string of rabbits over his shoulder, a pheasant tucked into his belt.

“What are you doing out here, Talejui?” he asked.

“I
’
m on a mission for the church, sent by the Prelate.”

“You have my pity,” he said.

The artist smiled. “Do you know of an island in the mountains where the devil lives?”

Pervan laughed for a long time and then dried his eyes. “The Prelate is a flagon of lunacy. To the west from here. Straight over these hills. Find a path that
’
s marked every few leagues by a stone with a cross carved into it. These stones go back to the earliest folk. That pass winds through the mountains. Take it till you come to a barren area next to a lake. You
’
ll see the island and the roof of the palace from the shore. Wait for the tide to go out and you can walk through shallow water to it.”

“How do you know this?”

“I kill for a living. I
’
ve been there.”

“How far must I go?”

“If you start now, you can make it before the weather gets cold.” The hunter turned and walked away through the trees.

“Can you tell me anything about the devil?” called Talejui.

“Nothing you don
’
t already know.”

The artist and the donkey walked through the mornings of the coming days, and in late afternoon, after a bite to eat, Talejui painted small landscapes to keep his brush adept. At night, he smoked nettlemare in his long pipe and, in the fog that followed, carried on a one-way conversation with Hermes about his dreams of the Holy Ghost. The donkey stared at him with knowing eyes and expressions, gasping last breaths at the perfect moments.

There were times during the journey when Talejui would completely forget where he was going and be taken up by the beauty of the landscape and the sounds of birds that filled the forest to either side of the path. And then there were other instances when he felt a prisoner to the Prelate
’
s demand and sorely regretted his time for creation being scattered like dust. On these bad days, he was unsure if he could last a year and began contemplating how the devil should appear in his painting. The images that came to him were fleeting and soon forgotten, as if a spell had been cast to weaken his imagination.

It had already grown cold by the time they stood on the edge of a lake the very color of the sky in the fresco at St. Elovisus. A brisk wind blew ashore from the direction of the island a half mile out. From where he stood, Talejui could see the slanted roofs of the devil
’
s palace above the barren trunks of oak. The tide was high, so the travelers took shelter beneath a ledge of an enormous boulder sitting in the sand like an egg in a nest. The artist made a fire, ate a fish he
’
d caught the day before, and lit his pipe. Hermes stood close to the flames and every now and then turned to warm a different part of his body.

Strange sounds came out of the dark, growling, weeping, and a prolonged laughter that always petered into anguish. Talejui pulled his cape tighter around himself. For a solid hour, he was transfixed by what appeared to be someone walking out on the lake. Eventually it became clear that it was merely an illusion of the starlight, the water, and the wind. Hermes was agitated, braying often, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and the artist, himself, shivered at more than the cold. Sleep was fitful, illuminated not by the presence of the Holy Ghost but by quick glimpses, shards, of a grisly murder. Three times he woke up spitting, and twice he roused enough to hear a distinct whispering, someone out in the dark, feverishly praying. He fled back into sleep as if it were an iron cocoon that would protect him.

The morning was overcast, and ever since waking he couldn’t get the taste of ashes off his tongue. After eating a strip of dried venison, and drinking the last of his wine, he walked, accompanied by Hermes, to the shore. The tide had definitely gone out, but the wind was cold and the knee-high water frigid. He pulled on the donkey’s rope to bring him along, but the beast would have none of it. Cursing Hermes, he dropped the rope, and inched forward into the lake. The icy water was startling, and he momentarily lost his breath. It was at this very point that the mystery of the open road lost its charm. He slogged forward, into the wind, his cape quickly soaked by the wavelets breaking against his knees. Halfway through the crossing, a powerful gust lifted the hat from his head and carried it up toward the clouds.

It took over an hour for him to reach the shore of the island, which at times seemed to retreat as he grew nearer. He was shivering and blue as he scurried up the beach into the forest. Immediately, he set to gathering kindling and fallen branches for a fire, his desperation guiding him. By the time he took the flint from his pocket, his hands were so numb he could hardly hold it, but eventually a fire sprang to life and he felt relief from the cold. He rested for a time, letting the heat of the flames dry his clothes. In late afternoon, when the sun had partially broken through, he headed in the direction of the abandoned palace.