Lawyers in Hell (36 page)

“Wait a minute!” Simpson said when Wendell had repeated Vafthruthnir’s words.  “The snake said to show us the way out.”

“And to see you safely to the exit,” Vafthruthnir said.  “I have done so.  He said nothing of seeing that you pass through that exit.  That is your affair and none of mine.”

Simpson drew Wendell’s revolver and pointed it at the giant.  “How about we make a new deal right here.”

“Put that away,” Wendell said.  “He’s walking around with his head in his arms.  Do you think a forty-five Long Colt is going to bother him much?”

“No more will it discommode Modgud.” Vafthruthnir said with a shrug.

“I’ve got an idea,” Wendell said.  “Giant, you say that no souls have come here?”

“Not for many years.”

“Then I have a proposition.  It is likely that no souls have come because no one venerates the old gods any more.  If you will help us to get past the bridge, then I will swear by whatever oaths you agree are binding to tell others of these old gods, to tell them that Helheim has been a place of rest among the hells rather than torment and that they can share it if they but believe.  When they are killed in hell, as many are, it may be that they come here.  And your ranks will swell, bringing closer the day of Ragnarok and the final death of Odin, the one who took your head.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Simpson said.  “You can’t….”

“It’s the only way,” Wendell said.  “We’ll never get out of here without help and if this is the price of help, what else can we do?”

“Very well, Midgarder,” Vafthruthnir said.  “Swear your oath and place your hand in the Gjöll.  If you speak true, it will not harm you.”

Wendell swore and, holding his breath placed his left hand in the river.  True to the giant’s word, the venom in the water did not burn him.

“As you say, one named Wendell.  I will draw Modgud to me.  With no fresh dead brought to us, her vigil is a lonely one and to speak to one of her own kind will be a relief.  When she comes to me, cross the bridge swiftly.  Be warned:  the floor of the bridge is made of knives, edge up.  If you cross with boldness, then you will take no hurt, but if you hesitate they will cut deep, leaving wounds that do not heal.”

“Boldness,” Wendell said.  “Can’t be any worse than the battle of Ball’s Bluff,” (where he had been hit by three musket balls, one passing completely through his chest).  “And Garmr?”

“That I cannot help you with,” Vafthruthnir said.  “I am bound to this place and may not cross the bridge.”

“Garmr is a giant dog, is it not?” Simpson said when Wendell had relayed Vafthruthnir’s words.

“A very great dog indeed,” Vafthruthnir said, “and the most terrible of all the beasts in the nine worlds.”

“I think I know how we can deal with him then,” Simpson said.

“Then wait here,” Vafthruthnir said, “and do not be seen.”

*

Wendell crouched just behind the summit of a small rise.  Simpson crouched next to him.  Below, Vafthruthnir approached the bridge.  They heard the giant shout but could not make out his words.  A few minutes later another giant arrived, this one even larger than Vafthruthnir.  Vafthruthnir’s shoulder came only to her mid-chest.  This must be Modgud, Wendell thought.

Vafthruthnir gestured as he and Modgud walked slowly upstream, apparently absorbed in conversation.

“Now!” Wendell said and, steeling himself for the pain from his broken bones, began to run for the bridge, Simpson sprinting at his side.

Simpson was slightly in the lead when they reached the bridge.  As Simpson’s foot touched it, the bridge began to shout:  “Help!  Intruders!”

“Trickery!”  Wendell heard the voice boom behind them followed by the resounding thud of running footsteps.

“Run!” he shouted and set action to his words, drawing upon what reserves of strength they had left.

They were halfway across the bridge when the sound of the footsteps behind them changed, from the dull thud of feet on rocky ground to the sharper sound of boots on the deck of the bridge.  Almost blind with pain, Wendell continued to run, expecting a giant hand to close on him at any moment.

But the hand never came.  He reached the rocky shore at the other end of the bridge and dashed another hundred yards before slipping and falling, barely managing to twist to his left to land on his good side.  Wendell nearly passed out from the pain.

When Wendell sat up he saw the giant Modgud, who had halted at the near end of the bridge.  “You may have escaped me, Midgarders, but Garmr will not be so easily bested.”

“Holmes?” Simpson said.  “We’d better get moving before she comes after us.”

“I don’t think she will,” Wendell said.  “My guess is that bridge is as far as she goes.”

Simpson nodded.  “Still, I think we should get moving.  There’s that dog to pass yet.”

“You said you had an idea?”

Simpson nodded again.

“All right, let’s go.”  Wincing at the renewed pain, Wendell slowly forced himself to his feet.

A few hundred yards from the riverbank, the shore rose in a sheer cliff to invisible heights above them.  As Vafthruthnir had promised, a cave pierced the cliff, angling upward.  Stalactites and stalagmites rimmed its mouth like giant teeth.

Inside the cave, the dim light of Helheim soon faded, replaced by even dimmer light from luminous fungi.  Even when their eyes adjusted to the murk, they could barely make out their path.

Eventually they could see a ruddy light ahead, growing brighter and forming a lopsided oval as they approached the upper end of the cave.

“Come ahead, Midgarders,” a voice said from ahead of them.

Wendell froze and glanced sideways at Simpson.  A shadow detached itself from the wall at the exit and stood silhouetted, nearly filling the oval before them.

“Come ahead.  I am hungry.”

“Now’s the time for that idea of yours,” Wendell whispered.

“What idea would that be, Midgarder?” the voice said, and then chuckled.  “Did you think to keep secrets from me?  Only Gold Teeth has ears better than mine.”

“I understood that!” Simpson said quietly.

“Of course you can understand me, Midgarder,” the voice said.  “Men and women of all tongues have passed my way since the dawn of time.  I am Garmr, the Hel Hound.  It is my duty, given by the Norns, who create the destinies of men and gods, to challenge all who seek to pass into and out of Hel, to see if their business is meet.  And it is my duty to devour those whose business is not.  So come forward.  If your business is acceptable you have nothing to fear.  If it is not, you may then choose between me and the Jötun below.  There is nowhere else to go.”

Wendell looked again at Simpson, who nodded.  Together they walked slowly forward.  As they neared the exit of the cave they could see that the shadow was the shaggy head of a great dog.  The dog’s muzzle glistened with gore.  When it stood at their approach, this dog was twenty feet tall at the shoulder.  Its chest and forequarters were agleam with blood.

Simpson cast a quick glance behind them, into the cave, then looked back up at Garmr.  “The most terrible of all beasts?”

“Ah,” Garmr said, “you think that because Nidhogg is larger, that Fenris the wolf and Jörmungand the world serpent are vaster than I … that they are more terrible?  Know this, Midgarder:  they may be greater in size than I am, but all men and all Gods face me in the end.  Fenris and Jörmungand are fated to die in Ragnarok, but I shall abide.  My first howl shall herald the coming of Fimbulwinter, the three year freeze that shall destroy the world of men, my second, the assault on Asgard, and my third, the renewal of the world.  I am the ending of all things and their rebirth.”

“Very great and terrible indeed,” Simpson said, “and yet you hunger.”

Garmr lowered his massive head.  “I hunger.  Few have come this way in an age.  And those few I try to devour vanish from my very jaws.”

“How fortunate for you, then,” Simpson said, “that I have meat that will not vanish away when you eat it.  We have come to give it to you.  Is that not a meet business for us?”

Garmr laughed softly, his doggy breath stirring around them like a foul wind.  “Oh a meet business indeed.  And when I have devoured this meat, I shall then devour you – and see if you will vanish from my jaws as well.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, great one,” Simpson said.  “Our task is to give this meat only to one who swears to allow us to pass.  If you will not swear, then we cannot give you this meat.”

“What need have I of oaths?” Garmr said.  “I can simply slay you and have the meat you carry whether you will give it or no.”

Seeing Simpson at a loss, Wendell spoke up.  “That is terribly unfortunate.  We stand here within a cave, which your majestic size will not allow you to enter.  You may keep us here if you choose … but that will not win you the meat.”

Garmr stood looking at them for several seconds.  “Very well.  I swear by Yggdrassil, the World Ash, to allow you to pass this once, if you give me meat that does not vanish from my jaws.”

“Both of us,” Wendell said.

“Both of you,” Garmr agreed.

Wendell looked at Simpson, who nodded.

“Very well.”  Simpson removed his makeshift pack, opened it, and removed one of the pieces of snake.  He tossed it to Garmr who caught it in the air and swallowed.

“More!”

Piece by piece, Simpson threw the snake pieces to Garmr.  Eventually, all the snake meat was gone.

“Ah, it has been so long since I have had meat in my belly.  While it has not the taste of hero or thief, it is better than the nothing I have had for so long.  Very well, you may pass.”  Garmr stepped back and to the side, clearing the way out of the cave.

“At the end, so easy,” Wendell mused as they left the cave.  “What do you plan to…?”  Pain exploded against the back of his head and Wendell was falling.  He hit the ground and rolled onto his back.  Simpson stood above him, holding Wendell’s revolver.  Smoke curled from the muzzle and cylinder as Simpson took aim again.

“You’ve sworn to convince people to believe in the Norse Gods so they’ll go down there when they die.  I can’t let you do that,” Simpson said.  “I just can’t.”

The revolver thundered once more.

*

Wendell woke on a stone slab that felt all too familiar.  He had been on such a slab several times before, in such a place … in this place.  He knew where he was, beyond a shadow of a doubt:  the Undertaker’s table.  As before, he couldn’t see, move, or feel, but he could hear raspy breathing … and he could smell.  The fetid breath of the Undertaker burned in his nostrils.

“What have you done to yourself this time?  The wound in back’s not bad – just a scrape really – but this one?  I’ll be forever putting these little pieces of bone back together.  Do you know how hard it is to reconnect all the neurons in a brain?  I always seem to lose something.  Should I leave you the piece of lead as a souvenir when they reassign you?  Shall I?  Or perhaps not.”

The Undertaker did something.  The sound and smell of the raspy breath started to fade.  “Now this won’t hurt a bit.”

Always does, Wendell thought, just before losing consciousness again.

He woke once more on chilly ground.  Without thinking, he reached up and probed at his head with both hands.  No sign of bullet holes.  His broken arm worked perfectly.  His ribs no longer grated against one another.

He looked around.  Instead of a lake of boiling blood, he was surrounded by cold and mist – a definite improvement.  That Norse hell, he was back in that Norse hell.

He tilted back his head and laughed.  Then a light caught his eye, and another:  light, like flashes of blue lightning far away in the sky.  A sense of foreboding clutched at his heart, seeing those blue lights against the dim, gray sky.  Nidhogg’s words came back to him:

One of plagues shall come down.  Seven weapons shall he wield.  Lightning death will he deal and bright blue will his lightning burn.

Wendell was certain something very bad was about to happen.

The Dark Arts

By

Kimberly Richardson

“Ah, my dear Clarence,” said a voice from behind him.  Clarence Darrow, fierce litigator and civil libertarian, turned to face his client, a fallen angel named Penemue.  The fallen angel was long-limbed and exquisite, lounging amid the luxurious library of his Lost Angeles mansion, into which Darrow had been spirited without warning.  “I called you here for a most serious matter.”  Penemue leaned back into his chair and closed his cats’ eyes.  “I need your professional services.  It would appear that I am being sued for plagiarism.”  The fallen angel opened his beautiful eyes and focused them on Darrow’s grizzled face.  “Another author charges that I have taken his work and claimed it for my own.”  He cracked his fingers then laid them in his lap.  “As you know, my own work is just that:  mine.  I have no reason to steal from another.”

“Who made such a claim?” asked Darrow, trying to get to the heart of the matter.

“Some lesser being of no particular repute, who claims that
I
stole from
him
.  Can you imagine that, Clarence?  The nerve!”  Penemue got up from his chair and paced through the room, which looked a bit unnerving due to his height and facial expression of beautiful disgust.

“So, how did you find out about this charge?” asked Darrow.  The fallen angel stopped pacing, and blinked his red eyes at his lawyer.

“That damned fiddler, Paganini, told me last night,” he hissed.  “I am the fallen angel who gave man the use of ink and paper.  It is absurd to think I would then steal the work of a mere human.  Will you aid me in this matter?  You have been quite a capable representative before and I see no reason to call upon anyone else for this.”

Darrow closed his eyes and ran a hand across his jaw, rubbing the stubble.  This might be the most interesting case he’d encountered since he defended the right to teach Darwin’s Theory of Evolution in public school in the famous
scopes
trial.  Someone dumb or crazy enough to accuse a fallen angel of plagiarism had to be taken seriously; the game was most assuredly afoot.  He opened his eyes, pushed his hair to the side of his face and said, “I’ll take the case.”

*

Penemue refused to have the case heard at the Hall of Injustice like a common criminal.  Changing Penemue’s mind was like asking a demon to smile, so Darrow met with the plaintiff’s attorney at Thanatos Library to agree on a venue to discuss the case.  When Darrow walked into the hallowed halls of the library, he was immediately greeted by opposing counsel, another damned soul, wearing a wrinkled suit with several grease spots.

The other lawyer saw Clarence and rushed up to him, grasping his hand with a vice-like grip.  “I’m Boulder!  This is a real honor, Counselor Darrow!” he gushed.

When Boulder released his grip, Darrow’s hand was covered in a thin and slimy goo.  Darrow peered into the shadowed face of the lawyer with his piercing eyes then said in a low voice, “Well, shall we get to it, then?”

Boulder led him amid rows and rows of books with various forms of flesh used for the covers.  Some books on library tables had faces eternally locked in torments their own minds had devised:  faces with sunglasses grafted upon them; faces slack-jawed from drink and vacant from drugs.  Punishment suited to crimes against literature.  Darrow shuddered.  The scourges of literati were not his problem.  At least, not today.  Today he had a plagiarism defense to prepare and a case to win.

He sat down across from the greasy opposing counsel and now noticed that the slime on Boulder came from boils and sores on his face and neck and possibly the rest of his body.  Darrow looked down at his own slimy hand, wiped it on the chair and said gruffly, “So.  What’s this about your client claiming my client committed plagiarism?”

Boulder reached into his battered briefcase and pulled out several yellowed documents.  He glanced at them for a moment, then handed them to Darrow without a word.  As Darrow collected the documents, he noticed an unpleasant odor emanating from them.  The first document was a hand-written statement from one Mr. John Ginger, a damned soul and struggling writer in Lost Angeles, who claimed he could not afford a computer and thus wrote all his manuscripts in his own blood with a quill pen.  He lived alone, had yet to secure a book deal, yet asserted he had written brilliant novels.  His testimony further claimed that Ginger’s works all suddenly disappeared, thanks to a certain fallen angel named Penemue who lived on Rue de la Mort in Lost Angeles.  Darrow glanced up.

The opposing counsel was staring right back at him:  at some time, for some crime, Boulder’s eyelids had been cut away.

Darrow glanced through the testament one more time, then handed it back to Boulder, who returned the document to his briefcase, which clicked closed.

“My client was told by Nicolo Paganini, the composer and violinist, of accusations that Penemue had stolen works from someone else.  Is your client the one spreading these rumors?” Darrow asked.

Boulder shrugged innocently.  “My client figured that, since Paganini and your client were enemies in the arts world, the mad violinist would prove to be quite an ally during this matter.”

“I see.”

The lawyer leaned forward in anticipation.  “Do you, Mister Darrow?”  Darrow peered into the lidless eyes of the lawyer.  Boulder, misreading Darrow’s silence for puzzlement, folded his arms on top of the table, leaned forward and said in a hushed tone, “We’re ready to settle for appropriate compensation.”

“Settle?  Are you mad?” exclaimed Darrow, and received several orders to
“Hush”
from the faces in the books strewn about.  He leaned closer to the greasy lawyer and said in a lowered voice, “Settle?  Your client
does
know who my client is, correct?”

“But of course, which is why my client expects a very large award.”

Darrow leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. 
He really thinks he has a chance
, Darrow thought to himself.  “Look, Mister –”

“Boulder,” said the attorney who reached out his greasy stained hand again for Darrow to shake.  Darrow refrained.  “Just call me Boulder, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, but you must know that your client does not have a chance in –”

“Ah, ah, ah,” interrupted Boulder, wagging his finger at Darrow.

“All right, fine, but still, your client’s accusations are preposterous.  My client would never steal work from anyone, let alone a being he deemed inconsequential.”  Darrow allowed himself a smug smile as he said that; sometimes, it felt good to have certain clients – the kind who possessed a goodly share of the powers of hell.

“What if I told you, Darrow, that my client not only knows your client stole from him but right under his nose?  Called my client a lowlife form of algae whose only purpose was to be stepped on and then later scraped off while walking at a jaunty pace.

“Mister Ginger also claims that he saw Penemue holding Ginger’s latest work and that, when he approached Penemue, the fallen angel only laughed in his face while cursing him out in some archaic language.”

Darrow’s smug smile faltered a bit; that
did
sound like something Penemue would say.  He rubbed his grizzled jaw again, trying to think of an appropriate response, then said, “My client would like the proceedings to take place at his home.  He refuses to have them heard at the Hall of Injustice.”  Boulder held up a hand and this time, it looked to be even dirtier than before.

“My client knew that a fallen angel would feel that way and refuses the location.  He wishes the hearing to be held at the Hall of Injustice, where his case can be heard in a public forum.”  Now the greasy lawyer looked every inch a hard-ass as his eyelid-less eyes focused on Darrow with an eerie sense of calm.  “We will not accept anything less than that.  Tell your client either he agrees to the conditions or he can admit his guilt and we can settle out of court.  Your client has made quite a nice living writing books and we want half of his wealth.  Nothing less than that.  Good day.”  Boulder picked up his beaten-up briefcase and walked out without a backward glance at the disconcerted Darrow.

Darrow cursed inwardly then grabbed his client’s business card out of his pocket.  One touch to the card sent Darrow immediately to his client’s home just as Penemue walked into his library with a grin on his face and blood splattered on his crisp white shirt.

“Ah, Clarence,” Penemue purred, “so amazing is the female body.  How supple under certain stress.”  He looked at his bloody hands, then carefully licked them clean.  “So, Clarence, how did the meeting go?”

“It did not go well at all!” he said in a disgusted voice, not caring if Penemue took offense.  Darrow walked over to the liquor counter, made a glass of what looked to be whiskey, and drank it all down in one gulp.

“That’s a special blend created by
you know who
,” Penemue said carefully just as Darrow realized his mistake and began to gag and cough.  He glanced at his glass and watched the remains of the liquid slide up and down the glass as if it were alive.  He lowered his head, trying desperately to breathe, but the liquid clogged his throat.  He coughed, holding his glass over his mouth, and spat out the angry liquid that now attacked the glass with great and rare abandon.  Darrow placed the glass on the table with shaky fingers and vowed never to do something so foolish again.  He smoothed his hair to the side and fixed his gaze on his client.

“Penemue, our terms on the matter were rejected,” said Darrow in a softer voice; his throat felt as though it were on fire.  He rubbed it tenderly then continued, “Mister John Ginger makes a claim that he saw you carrying pieces of one of his documents around and confronted you.  According to his attorney, a Mister Boulder, you ridiculed Ginger, then cursed at him in an unknown language.”  He found a chair and sat down, “And, he refuses to meet you here.  He wants to meet at the Hall of Injustice.”

“What?!” cried Penemue as he began to pace back and forth.  “This is ridiculous, Clarence.  What should I do?  I never made any such remarks to him or about him to others.  I’d never even heard of him ’til that damned fool Paganini told me of the matter.  I have no intention of lending his client credibility by having the case argued in public.”

“He said that he knew you would want to meet at your home rather than the Hall of Injustice, so if you refused his venue, you could admit your guilt and they would meet you here to settle.  He’s after half of your wealth.”  Penemue stopped pacing and his cat-like eyes bored into Darrow’s soul.  Darrow felt his mind wanting to snap into pieces as his bowels turned to jelly; mortals were never meant to bear up under a fallen angel’s full attention.  This day was no exception.

“So, what should we do?” asked Penemue in a soft but still deadly tone.

“You’ll have to meet him at the Hall of Injustice, unless you want to admit your guilt and have him meet you here.”  Penemue blinked a couple of times then his face erupted into a wide grin.  He clasped his hands with glee.

“Marvelous!  Tell him that is exactly what we’ll do!”  Now Darrow was stunned.

“What?  So you actually
did
commit plagiarism?”

“No, no, but I shall admit my ‘guilt’ and once he and his damned lawyer arrive here, I will show them just how wrong this claim is.”  Darrow looked at him questioningly then actually grinned when Penemue revealed why he was so confident.

*

Darrow contacted Boulder and informed him of Penemue’s decision.  He could actually hear those eyes rolling around in their sockets as Boulder expressed his gratitude for bringing swift justice to this devastating matter.  Mr. Ginger would be pleased as blood-punch when informed.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Darrow with a lazy tone to his voice, “my client wants to make his admission of guilt formally, but out of court.  He asks that you and your client arrive later today, if possible.”

“What of the funds?”

“We’ll handle that, don’t worry.”

Boulder paused for a moment.  “So, Darrow, your client actually admitted to it, huh?  How does it feel to represent a liar?”  Darrow was glad Boulder could not see his shit-eating grin.

*

Penemue had just finished “playing” with one of his slaves, a young woman with dark brown skin that rippled in a certain way when he toyed with her like a cat with a mouse.  Darrow could still hear her screams as Penemue closed the door to his bedroom and walked into the living room to join Darrow sitting nervously on the couch.

“My dear Clarence,” he said as he entered and made himself a glass of his ‘special blend,’ “do calm yourself.  I have shown you all you need to know about this trifling matter.”

“Yes, I know, but are you sure
he
doesn’t know?”

“If he did, this case would not be in existence now,” Penemue took a sip of his harsh liquid then sighed as he swallowed the liquid.  Darrow could actually see a small bulge sliding down the angel’s throat.  He looked away just as a servant arrived, accompanying two damned souls.

The servant bowed low and said in a muted tone, “Master, Mister Boulder and Mister Ginger to see you.”  Penemue waved his hand at the servant, who then disappeared in a flash with an anguished cry, leaving behind a puddle of reddish gore on the floor.  All eyes locked onto Penemue, who merely smiled and said, “What I do with my own servants is no business of yours.”

First Boulder, then his client, Mr. Ginger, stepped over the puddle and entered the room.  Darrow got a good look at the young man who had made the plagiarism claim.  Ginger was an emaciated soul with sunken cheeks and an odd clump of hair attached to his head, while his eyes appeared to roll loosely around in their sockets.

Boulder looked at his client.  Since Penemue had agreed to confess his guilt, Boulder still assumed he had a case … as long as he could keep his client under control.  Darrow blinked once then set his piercing gaze upon the man who dared to threaten a fallen angel.