The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

XXIV

IF THERE IS ANYTHING worse than evil, it is nothingness. At least evil has a form, and a voice, and a purpose, however depraved. Perhaps some good can even come out of evil: a terrible deed of violence against someone weaker may lead others to act in order to ensure that such a deed is not perpetrated again, whereas before they might have been unaware of the reasons why an individual might behave in such a way, or they might simply have chosen to ignore them. And evil, as we saw with the Blacksmith, always contains within itself the possibility of its own redemption. It is not evil that is the enemy of hope: it is nothingness.

As Nurd felt Samuel’s life force ebb away, so too did he come to realize just where the boy was. Even in the grim, blasted regions of Hell, there was only one place that could cause such a loss of self, eating away at all the substance of an individual, all that he loved and hated, all that he was and ever would be. It was the Void, the Emptiness, the Eternal Absence that even the Great Malevolence himself feared. So Nurd kept his foot pressed hard upon the accelerator and found himself pulling away from the ice-cream van, loaded down as it was with dwarfs, policemen, and rapidly dwindling supplies of ice cream. But as he drew closer to Samuel, the light in Samuel’s soul was fading. Nurd felt as though he were trying to reach a candle flame before it flickered for the last time, that he might wrap his hands around it and feed it the oxygen it needed to survive. Nurd knew that if Samuel continued to stare into the Void he would eventually be lost entirely, and nobody would ever be able to bring him back. Samuel and Boswell would become like statues of flesh and bone, with an empty place where their spirits once were (for animals have spirits too, and let no one tell you otherwise). Having endured so much, and having been separated by space and time only to be offered the chance of a reunion at last by Mrs. Abernathy’s vengeance, Nurd did not wish to see his friend’s essence sacrificed to the emptiness that underlay the chaos of Hell.

Faster and faster he drove, until Wormwood put a hand on his arm in warning, for now there were sharp and treacherous stones beneath their wheels. Were they to suffer a puncture or, worse, rupture the engine or break an axle, then Samuel and Boswell would not be saved. Reluctantly Nurd slowed down while high above their heads unseen eyes watched their progress, and reported it to others.

• • •

Samuel was almost entirely still. His eyes did not blink, his lips did not open, and he barely seemed to be breathing. Yet had anyone been watching him, they would have seen one small sign of movement. For even as all that had made him what he was-every memory, every thought, every spark of brightness and eccentricity-was being subsumed, his right hand continued to stroke Boswell’s fur, and, in response, his dog’s tail contributed the barest thump on the ground, but a thump nonetheless. Had Boswell not been present, Samuel would already have ceased to exist, leaving nothing more than the shell of a boy seated on the edge of a dark sea; and if Samuel had not been present, Boswell would have been little more than a stuffed animal withering away. But if a child loves an animal, and is loved in turn, there will always be a connection between them: they are spirits intertwined. And if the Void had feelings, which it clearly did not, it might well have experienced a sense of frustration at its inability to break down the defenses of the boy and the dog. Deep inside each of them was a wall protecting the best of themselves, but it was crumbling at last, like a dam finally giving way to the flood, and soon they would be drowned. The movements of Samuel’s hand began to slow, and the thumps of Boswell’s tail became less frequent, and their eyes grew dark as never-ending night fell upon their hearts.

A hand touched Samuel’s shoulder, and gently turned him from the void. And Boswell was carefully gathered up, and words of comfort were whispered into his ear.

“Good dog. Loyal dog. Brave Boswell.”

Samuel heard a name being called, over and over, and he understood that it was his own.

He looked up and saw four dwarfs, two policemen, and a man dressed in white offering him an ice cream. He saw Boswell being held by what looked like a bald rodent in overalls, and the little dog was licking the rodent’s face.

And he saw Nurd. Samuel buried his head against his friend’s chest, and for the first time since his arrival in that terrible place, he allowed himself to cry.

Old Ram left the forest behind, sulking and muttering his discontent all the way, his gaze focused inward, fixed upon his own sufferings. Sometimes a good turn is the worst that you can do for a certain type of individual, because he will hate you for putting him in your debt. Mrs. Abernathy had spared Old Ram any further misery, and had permitted him to leave the place of his banishment, but Old Ram had wanted more: he had wanted influence, and recognition. He had wanted power. Instead he had been left to wander in the wilderness. He began to think that he was now worse off than he had been before. After all, he used to have a roof over his head, and fuel for his fire, but what did he have now? No roof, no fuel, and the cold was seeping into his bones. For this, he blamed Mrs. Abernathy.

“She hates Old Ram,” he whispered to himself. “She thinks Old Ram is worthless, but Old Ram is not. Old Ram was great once, and Old Ram could be great again, but none will give Old Ram the chance that Old Ram deserves. Poor Old Ram! Poor forsaken Old Ram!”

So caught up was he in bitterness that he failed to notice the winged horse alight before him, and the flight of demons that quietly descended behind him. It was only when the horse blew a bad-tempered blast of air through its nostrils in warning that Old Ram looked up to find Duke Abigor staring down at him.

“You are far from home, Old Ram,” said Abigor. “Were you not banished, and forbidden to leave the precincts of the forest?”

“I was, my lord, but Mrs. Abernathy freed me.”

“Did she, now? And why would she do that?”

Old Ram, mindful of Mrs. Abernathy’s injunction to remain silent about the circumstances of his freedom, said nothing, but Duke Abigor was as clever as he was ruthless. He knew much about Old Ram, and was aware that, like so many who had found themselves damned to the Infernal Regions, his vanity was his weakness. Were Abigor to threaten him, or torture him, Old Ram might simply endure his sufferings with clenched teeth, if only to prove to Abigor that, humbled though he might be, Old Ram had his pride. No, there were easier ways to deal with Old Ram.

“Well, no matter,” said Abigor airily. “It strikes me only that you don’t sound very pleased, even though your long period of exile has come to an end. Surely such generosity of spirit, such magnanimity, on the part of Mrs. Abernathy merits a greater show of gratitude?”

He watched Old Ram twist and writhe, a pantomime of hurt, and envy, and loathing.

“Gratitude.” Old Ram spat the word. “For what? It cost her nothing, and left Old Ram with nothing. Old Ram tried to help her. It’s not Old Ram’s fault that-”

Old Ram stopped talking. Mrs. Abernathy had warned him not to speak of the boy, but she wasn’t here. Duke Abigor was here, though, and Old Ram wondered why that might be. Abigor’s presence, thought Old Ram, might be used to some advantage.

“Go on,” said Abigor. “I’m listening.”

“Old Ram has been alone for a long time, my lord,” said Old Ram carefully. “Old Ram seeks a master. Old Ram would be a good servant.”

“I already have more servants than I need. You would have to offer me something that no one else can.”

Old Ram’s yellow eyes narrowed with cunning.

“Mrs. Abernathy made Old Ram promise not to tell, but it may be that Old Ram was wrong to make that promise.”

“Promises are made to be broken,” said Abigor. “Particularly promises made in the face of a threat.”

“Old Ram has no duty of loyalty to Mrs. Abernathy.”

“No, he does not. After all, what fealty do you owe to the one who banished you? The greater fault is hers, not yours. So, what can you offer to prove your loyalty to me?”

“I can offer you news,” said Old Ram, “news of a human child.”

Mrs. Abernathy’s basilisk reached the edge of the Void just behind the Watcher, and she quickly turned her mount’s head away from the emptiness so that neither of them looked upon it for too long. Even the Watcher kept its head down as it examined the tracks upon the ground. Its words echoed in her head, for she could hear its thoughts.

It is the boy and his dog. They were here. Others came and took them away.

“Others?” demanded Mrs. Abernathy. “What others?”

The Watcher sniffed the ground.

Nurd. And humans. Seven humans.

“Can you track them?”

The Watcher stared out over the stony ground, finding the places in which the stones had been disturbed, distinguishing the marks of wheeled vehicles.

Yes, but they travel fast.

“Then we will travel faster.”

She moved on, not even checking to make sure that the Watcher was following, and so she did not see it pause, its red brow furrowing. All of this was wrong, thought the Watcher. It has all spiraled out of control. My master is mad, and my mistress may be madder still. Something must be done. The bells have been silent for too long. Perhaps the time is coming when they must peal again…

Old Ram’s tongue, once loosened, unburdened itself of all its secrets. He told Duke Abigor of the boy, and the attack by the Great Oak, and Mrs. Abernathy’s appearance in the forest. He told Abigor of how he had seen the boy hide, and the direction in which he must have walked. As he spoke, he saw Abigor’s face darken in anger.

“The Blacksmith lied,” said Abigor. “He must have seen the boy, but he would not speak of it.”

He turned to one of his demons, who had only just alighted, and ordered it to retrieve the remaining pieces of the Blacksmith, that he might punish him further. He asked first for the Blacksmith’s severed hands, that he might crush them so the Blacksmith could never use them again, but the sack containing the Blacksmith’s hands was empty. A second demon, who had recently been patrolling the skies for signs of the boy, approached warily and told Abigor that the Blacksmith had disappeared, for it had passed over the crater of weapons and detected no sign of him. Furthermore, it said that there had been a peculiar smell in the air: the smell of virtue, of decency, of humanity. The Blacksmith, in the demon’s opinion, was gone forever. His soul was no longer in Hell.

Abigor stifled his rage. He had always sensed a fault in the Blacksmith, some residue of hope and decency that should have been snuffed out long before, but he could never have imagined that it would be enough to redeem him. The Blacksmith had not merely been a soul filled with regret, he was a soul who had genuinely repented, even with no prospect that it might end his sufferings, for he must surely have believed that he was damned to Hell for eternity. But repentance would not have been enough: a sacrifice would have been required. The boy, Samuel Johnson, had saved the Blacksmith by allowing the maker of weapons to offer himself up on behalf of another, one worthy of the gesture. Samuel Johnson was a Good Soul, for only such a soul could survive in this place; survive, and provide sustenance to the soul of another. The boy was dangerous, more so than even Mrs. Abernathy realized. His presence in Hell was a pollutant. He had to be locked away, hidden from sight. He could not be killed: a mortal could not die in Hell. Nothing could. It was a place of endless torment, and endless torment required the absence of death.

A shadow passed over him, and another of his demons alighted by his side. It announced that it had followed two moving carts as they had passed into the stony place that led to the Void, and there it had watched as the boy and his pet were gathered into safety. It had stayed with them until it was sure of the direction that they were taking, before returning to inform its master.

“Quickly!” cried Abigor. “Rise up, rise up! Apprehend the boy and bring him to me.”

The demons took flight like crows from the noise of a gun. Duke Abigor was about to follow them into the sky when Old Ram tugged at his horse’s reins.

“What about Old Ram?” he said. “Old Ram told you all. What about Old Ram’s reward?”

Duke Abigor’s horse reared up, and one of its hooves struck Old Ram a blow to the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“How can I trust a pitiful creature who would break a promise, and betray one master for another?” said Duke Abigor. “There is only one reward for a traitor.”

He raised a clawed finger, and Old Ram’s world went black for a time. When he awoke he was trapped in ice, with only his horned head above the surface of the great frozen Lake of Cocytus that extended as far as the eye could see, the icy whiteness of it broken only by others like himself: traitors all, betrayers of family and friends, of lords and masters.

Old Ram’s teeth began to chatter, for Old Ram hated the cold.