Authors: David Wisehart
“William’s right,” he said.
“Let’s go.”
The others followed Giovanni
around the pit. When the poet came to the crossing point he hesitated.
“I’ll go first,” Marco said.
The knight stepped across
the outermost track, a shallow groove in the rock. Giovanni and the others
followed at his heels. The stones in the first track were far away. There
seemed little danger of being crushed.
As Giovanni crossed the
concentric tracks, moving inward to the abyss, pausing each time to check for
oncoming boulders, he noticed that the grooves were becoming deeper and that
the rocks crashed more frequently, owing to the shortened paths. When he
reached a track as deep as his legs were long, he began to worry. They were
only halfway across this infernal plain.
William stretched an arm
across Marco’s breastplate. “Wait.”
The pilgrims stood on a
ridge looking down into the next fosse. Giovanni saw no stones approaching. He
was confident they could make it across with time to spare, but the friar’s
caution was probably wise.
William said, “After the
rocks collide, we go.”
Marco nodded.
Giovanni heard the rumble of
many stones and felt the ridge tremble, but saw no danger in the gloom.
Until he did.
Down the track they rolled,
fast as a falling star. Giovanni covered his ears. Two stones crashed before
him like the rocks that splintered the Argo, then they bounced back and the
opposing shades pushed the rocks the other away.
“Now,” said William.
The pilgrims jumped down and
climbed back up on the other side. Marco struggled in his heavy armor. He no
longer wore the helmet, which remained behind with Cerberus. Giovanni offered a
hand, but the knight waved it away.
“No problem,” Marco said.
The next ditch was a
problem, and the one after that. Giovanni could see that Marco was starting to
tire.
“Let me take your bag,” the
poet said at the next rise.
Marco nodded, panting.
The pilgrims were nearly
across the plain when Marco called for a rest and sat down.
“Leave the armor,” William
suggested.
Marco shook his head. “I’m
fine.”
In the next ditch, Marco
struggled to ascend the far bank. Giovanni tried to help but couldn’t reach the
knight’s hand.
“The Lance,” Giovanni said.
Marco raised the Lance.
Giovanni grabbed it and pulled the other man up.
There were only three more
ditches.
We’re going to make it,
Giovanni thought, but when they tried the same trick at the next ditch, Marco
slipped from the Lance and fell back. Giovanni, William, and Nadja tumbled
together into the next fosse. The poet jumped to his feet and saw the rocks
coming.
“Up,” he said.
He formed a cradle with his
hands for Nadja to step in, and boosted her up to the rise from which they had
fallen. Then he did the same for William. He was alone in the ditch now, and
saw the stones bearing down on him. William leaned down to help him. Giovanni
jumped for the friar’s outstretched hand, caught it, and scrambled up. The
rocks smashed behind him in a thunderous crack.
He saw Marco below in the
previous ditch. Two boulders were coming for the knight, closing fast.
Marco said, “Lower the
Lance.”
Giovanni looked for the
weapon. “Where is it?”
“There.” Nadja pointed
behind him.
He saw the Holy Lance laying
in the ditch where the three of them had fallen.
No time,
he thought.
Giovanni dropped to his
knees and reached down for Marco. The knight jumped for the poet’s hand, but
couldn’t make it. He was too far down and already exhausted.
“Go,” he said. “Go.”
He thinks he’s a dead
man.
Giovanni looked back
down at the Lance and noticed something he had missed before.
The shaft’s
not broken.
The rocks in
that ditch had crashed, but the Lance was a unharmed.
A miracle.
Or—
“Lie down!” he yelled.
“What?” The knight stood
still.
“On your back! On your
belly! Lie down! Now!”
“Yes,” said William. “Get
down.”
The rocks were nearly upon
him. Marco dropped where he stood. He was too tall to lie crosswise. He
crouched.
The rocks collided at the
height of a man’s chest. For a brief moment Giovanni could no longer see the
knight. When the boulders bounced back, he saw that Marco’s armor was deformed.
The back plate was crushed at the sides and bent up in the middle. It looked
like he had a hump.
“Marco?” Giovanni called.
The stones rolled away,
pushed by dancing shades. Marco wambled to his feet with one hand against the
wall to steady himself.
Giovanni jumped down to meet
him.
“Let me help you,” he said.
The knight nodded weakly.
Together they stripped off Marco’s armor. They left it there, all but the
shield, which Giovanni tossed up to Nadja. The poet made a step of his hands to
give Marco a lift, while the others pulled him to safety.
The pilgrims retrieved the
Lance and made it across the last three tracks without further incident. They
climbed down together, shaken and exhausted, to the fifth circle of Hell.
CHAPTER 25
On the steps Giovanni paused
and surveyed the gloom. Black water gushed from the cliff, bubbling over craggy
debris, to form a wide marsh where the damned were drowned. A flotsam of lost
souls shimmered on the dim tide. The air was pungent with mildew and rot.
“Welcome to the River Styx,”
he said.
Marco pointed to a pale,
flickering glow above the mere. “What’s that?”
“
Ignis fatuus,
” William answered.
“Foolish fire,” Giovanni
said. “Those who follow the lights are lured to their death.”
“We used to call it the
friar’s lantern,” Nadja remarked.
“That’s odd,” said William.
“We used to call it the witch’s candle.”
Nadja suggested they find a
place to rest or sleep.
Giovanni said, “Not a good
place to stop.”
“If we wait for a good
place,” said William, “we’ll find no rest in Hell.”
“Let’s keep moving,” Marco
said.
When they reached the bottom
of the stairs, Giovanni saw four lights in a distant tower. Farther on, another
tower lit up with answering lights. “They know we’re here.”
“Who does?” Nadja asked.
“The watchers in the tower.
They’ve sent for the boatman.”
“Good,” said Marco. “I’m in
no mood to swim.”
As they walked along the
water’s edge to the tower, they saw shades fighting in the slime, punching and
kicking and biting. Close to the tower they saw other souls submerged
completely in the mire, sparging the river with bubbles of voiced air that
burst onto the surface in plosive syllables. At first Giovanni could make
nothing of the noise, but with time a pattern emerged and he heard in those
bubbles a liquid lament:
We were
sullen in the sun,
In a dull
incarnal slog.
We beget
what we’ve begun:
Now we’re
sullen in the bog.
When they reached the base
of the first tower, William bent at the riverbank and scooped the Stygian water
into his cupped hands. He tasted it, then spit it out.
Marco said, “If you’re
thirsty, Father, you’re welcome to my wine.”
William shook his head. “We
must boil the river.”
“What for?”
“Thunder and lightning.”
Giovanni saw a small boat
cross the river, coming for them at incredible speed. “Here comes Phlegyas.”
Before reaching the shore
the boatman cried out, “Now I have you, you denizens of Hell!”
William returned: “We are
visitors. We have an appointment with your lord and master.”
Phlegyas eased his boat to
the bank. He stared at the knight. “Marco da Roma, what gift do you bring us?”
“The gift of pain.”
“Pain we have in abundance.
What of that weapon in your hand?”
“It is the Holy Lance.”
Phlegyas smiled and bowed.
“Then my master will see you, surely.” He motioned for the pilgrims to board
the boat. “I will ferry you to the other side.”
Not far from the River Styx,
William saw a moat of flowing lava. It encompassed a rock wall that blocked the
passage down. A narrow bridge spanned the moat and led to an iron gate.
“Locked to prevent escape
from below,” Giovanni said.
“How did Dante get in?”
William asked.
“An angel from Heaven threw
open the doors.”
“Perhaps we should knock.”
They crossed the bridge and
William knocked on the gate. Three furies appeared on a turret above them. They
looked like demonic sisters. Horned serpents grew from their heads like hair.
Green hydras writhed about their limbs and waist.
“Look!” said one of the
furies. “We have a live one.”
“Not for long,” said
another.
William thundered, “Open the
gate!”
“Who are you?” the third
fury asked.
“I am William of Ockham, a
sworn brother of the Friars Minor, ordained in Christ.”
“You must be lost.”
William bristled. “We have
an appointment with Lucifer.”
“I’m sure you do—”
“—but you do not
choose the time—”
“—nor the place.”
“Open the gate!” William
commanded.
“What’s the password?”
He answered, “Go to Hell.”
“Close—”
“—but not close
enough.”
William pointed to the
weapon in Marco’s hand. “Do you know the power of this Lance?” he asked.
“No—”
“Nope—”
“Can’t say that we do.”
“Behold! This is the
Bleeding Lance, the Holy Lance, anointed by the Blood of Christ. This is the
spear that harrowed Him who harrowed Hell.”
“What’s your point?” asked
the first one.
The others giggled.
William declared, “In the
name of God the Father, in the name of God the Son, in the name of the Holy
Spirit, I command you to open the gate!”
“Impressive—”
“Yes—”
“Very—”
“But not good enough—”
“Perhaps a deal?” chimed
one.
“Bit of a wager?” echoed
another.
William grimaced. “Name your
terms.”
“A contest—”
“A battle between
champions—”
“A battle to the death!”
“But we’re the only ones
alive,” William observed.
“Take it or leave it.”
“If we win,” he said, “you
must open the gate.”
The three furies replied in
unison: “Agreed.”
“Agreed,” said William.
“Name your champion—”
“Your martyr—”
“Your sacrifice.”
William pointed to the
knight. “Marco da Roma.”
The furies craned their
necks. “He’s a pretty one—”
“Pretty sorry—”
“Pretty dead.”
William said, “Name your
champion.”
Together the furies wailed,
“Medusa!”
The massive gate creaked
open. William stepped back and warned the others: “Avert your eyes!”
Marco turned his back to the
gate. Giovanni and Nadja fled across the bridge. William froze where he stood,
his arm shielding his eyes, his gaze downcast, and saw the shadow of a gorgon
in the gateway. It looked like a walking nest of vipers. The shadow touched him
and his heart went cold.
He turned and ran.
CHAPTER 26
As Medusa stepped through
the gateway, Marco waited across the bridge, his back to her, watching her
reflection on his shield. He might have laughed at her distorted image but
under the circumstances he could summon no amusement. The snakes of Medusa’s
hair reared and snapped. Serpents twined around her arms and legs, hissing as
she crossed the narrow span. The gate of Dis slammed shut behind her. The hissing
grew louder as she approached. Marco held the Lance at his side, the mortal end
pointed back, and jabbed in her direction.