criss-cross applesauce—and
breathed deep, attempting to quell my shaking hands.
An hour later, I’d
shifted position a few dozen times—criss-cross applesauce is
fine for kids but gets uncomfortable quickly when you’re in
your fourth decade. A warm wind rose from the direction of our goal,
which was no closer; waves lapped the side of the raft. I peered
into the water and saw the school of giant goldfish swimming
alongside, their tails working but getting them no further ahead
than us. Piper sat at the front like a monk deep in meditation. I
stared a few seconds at her dark hair hanging to the middle of her
back, at the smooth whiteness of the flesh of her arms, then finally
at the distant city, still as far away as when we began the trip
across the river Styx.
“ Enough,”
I said.
I climbed to my
feet, knees aching, and approached the ferryman. He remained fixed
on our destination, so I stepped into his line of sight but stayed
far enough away he couldn’t reach me.
“ What’s
going on here? You got the payment you wanted, when will we get to
the other side?”
I’m not sure
what the payment had been—probably didn’t want to
know—but felt he’d taken something from me. Behind him,
the far bank had disappeared, leaving a stretch of churning water
between us and our point of departure. How-the-hell a stream could
grow into a small sea was beyond me, then I realized the answer to
my query.
Hell.
The ferryman’s
eye shifted and he stared at me for a full minute before returning
to his survey of the far shore. As much as I didn’t want to
deal with this man—this thing—it was time for answers.
“ Look
at me.” I moved again to block his view. “When will
we--”
The raft struck
something solid spilling me onto my tail bone for a second time.
Perhaps we’d hit one of the enormous koi. I righted myself and
saw the ferryman pointing past me, gnarled finger extended toward
the shore. Piper came to my side.
“ We’re
here,” she sing-songed.
The edge of the
raft made contact with the rocky shore. A few hundred yards away,
the city overtook the landscape, its buildings rising taller than
I’d thought, many reaching hundreds of stories toward the
ashen sky. Monolithic, ultra-modern slabs stood shoulder to shoulder
with cathedrals which looked like they were erected a thousand years
ago. The skyscrapers stretched the length of the shore as far as I
could see.
I opened my mouth
to ask ‘what-the-hell’ again but closed it without
posing the question. This was Hell, after all: apparently I’d
have to get used to a little strangeness.
Bruce
Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost
Chapter
Seven
We trudged along
the boulevard leaving footprints in the half-inch layer of ash
covering its surface.
“ Now
what?” I looked away from the pale gray buildings to Piper;
she didn’t look at me.
“ You
keep asking me that. Aren’t you the one who wanted to come to
Hell?”
Our words bounced
from skyscraper to citadel, cathedral spire to tower, but we heard
no other sounds, saw no other prints in the dust. It seemed we had
the entire city to ourselves. I breathed deep, collecting my
thoughts, and gagged at the taste of the ash on my tongue—God
only knew what had been burned to produce it; the answer might be
beyond even His knowledge.
“ We’ve
got some souls to find.”
“ Okay.
Any ideas how to do that, Sherlock?”
I stopped and
surveyed our surroundings. Buildings rising on all sides were
surprisingly tidy and in good repair; the road stretching on
seemingly without end did so free of garbage or debris. Each side
street we came to looked exactly the same. With no real plan, I
strode to the doors of the closest hi-rise and found a glassed-in
case set on the wall to the left. The glass protected a black board
and white plastic letters.
“ Hey.
Come look at this.”
The little white
letters were arranged to form names, each one set beside a number
which presumably corresponded to an apartment
breathed deep, attempting to quell my shaking hands.
An hour later, I’d
shifted position a few dozen times—criss-cross applesauce is
fine for kids but gets uncomfortable quickly when you’re in
your fourth decade. A warm wind rose from the direction of our goal,
which was no closer; waves lapped the side of the raft. I peered
into the water and saw the school of giant goldfish swimming
alongside, their tails working but getting them no further ahead
than us. Piper sat at the front like a monk deep in meditation. I
stared a few seconds at her dark hair hanging to the middle of her
back, at the smooth whiteness of the flesh of her arms, then finally
at the distant city, still as far away as when we began the trip
across the river Styx.
“ Enough,”
I said.
I climbed to my
feet, knees aching, and approached the ferryman. He remained fixed
on our destination, so I stepped into his line of sight but stayed
far enough away he couldn’t reach me.
“ What’s
going on here? You got the payment you wanted, when will we get to
the other side?”
I’m not sure
what the payment had been—probably didn’t want to
know—but felt he’d taken something from me. Behind him,
the far bank had disappeared, leaving a stretch of churning water
between us and our point of departure. How-the-hell a stream could
grow into a small sea was beyond me, then I realized the answer to
my query.
Hell.
The ferryman’s
eye shifted and he stared at me for a full minute before returning
to his survey of the far shore. As much as I didn’t want to
deal with this man—this thing—it was time for answers.
“ Look
at me.” I moved again to block his view. “When will
we--”
The raft struck
something solid spilling me onto my tail bone for a second time.
Perhaps we’d hit one of the enormous koi. I righted myself and
saw the ferryman pointing past me, gnarled finger extended toward
the shore. Piper came to my side.
“ We’re
here,” she sing-songed.
The edge of the
raft made contact with the rocky shore. A few hundred yards away,
the city overtook the landscape, its buildings rising taller than
I’d thought, many reaching hundreds of stories toward the
ashen sky. Monolithic, ultra-modern slabs stood shoulder to shoulder
with cathedrals which looked like they were erected a thousand years
ago. The skyscrapers stretched the length of the shore as far as I
could see.
I opened my mouth
to ask ‘what-the-hell’ again but closed it without
posing the question. This was Hell, after all: apparently I’d
have to get used to a little strangeness.
Bruce
Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost
Chapter
Seven
We trudged along
the boulevard leaving footprints in the half-inch layer of ash
covering its surface.
“ Now
what?” I looked away from the pale gray buildings to Piper;
she didn’t look at me.
“ You
keep asking me that. Aren’t you the one who wanted to come to
Hell?”
Our words bounced
from skyscraper to citadel, cathedral spire to tower, but we heard
no other sounds, saw no other prints in the dust. It seemed we had
the entire city to ourselves. I breathed deep, collecting my
thoughts, and gagged at the taste of the ash on my tongue—God
only knew what had been burned to produce it; the answer might be
beyond even His knowledge.
“ We’ve
got some souls to find.”
“ Okay.
Any ideas how to do that, Sherlock?”
I stopped and
surveyed our surroundings. Buildings rising on all sides were
surprisingly tidy and in good repair; the road stretching on
seemingly without end did so free of garbage or debris. Each side
street we came to looked exactly the same. With no real plan, I
strode to the doors of the closest hi-rise and found a glassed-in
case set on the wall to the left. The glass protected a black board
and white plastic letters.
“ Hey.
Come look at this.”
The little white
letters were arranged to form names, each one set beside a number
which presumably corresponded to an apartment
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