“If you had done any classical studying in your dream state, you will know who the Unnamed One is. Behold!”
They had entered a blackened cave. The walls were glowing numbingly red. The thick glaze that covered them like crimson glue shimmered in the internal haze of heat. The son ran a hand over one and knew it to be many hardened layers of blood, black, flecked in places, like scabs. That would also explain the smell of a slaughterhouse. All of them, he thought to himself with satisfaction, were wounds with black caps. He never thought to do this before, but he pushed a finger into the wall, and was immediately rewarded with a thick black ooze running down where the hole was.
A white light sprang up at his touch and showed more detail throughout the room. A shiver ran through the nerve of the wall and every surface cracked open. The growing light showed that embedded everywhere, gazing fixedly at the floor, were eyes, myriads of them.
The son gasped and backed up to bump into the father as he saw a quivering mass in the middle of the floor. Grub worms and maggots seeped under and over a rolling, churning mass. One moment you could see blood-clotted chains; then another you could see black-taloned fists; then a huge hairy foot, trying to break free of the worm bed, but to no purpose. The chain and the worm bound it fast.
“My son, the eyes have only one purpose — to forever witness the sores and smoke that forever roiled in thick clouds from the creature that boiled upon the floor.” The father did not laugh in this room. “It must be so for all eternity.
“The Unnamed One never gets to see beyond the worm; his eyes never see. Worms cover him and he lies on a bed of maggots. He can never feel less than the numb pain and floor that boils his blood. He can never stop smoking in his flesh. The smoke can never stop ascending up to the surfaces. He can never be named. The eyes can never stop beholding him. If you knew the history of the Unnamed One, and what he was, or thought he was, you would know why this torture was the most hideous one of all.”
They passed on from there, the son confused. He was indeed aware of his long gray wings now, the father thought. He was able to flash them and wrap them about his body at will. They hung down to his muscular buttocks, and they were willful. He might be unaware that they were already a weapon, able to snatch life from a mortal in a single slash. He could sunder mere inches of flesh with the razor edge of the wing or slam through solid wall with the support of the steel-like bone that lay beneath.
“The unnamed one has had a few sons. This creature, beautiful as he was, was one of them. See if you can guess who this great lover of the Magick Arts was.”
The cave they entered was ablaze with the red/green light that two identical symbols on the wall gave off — long lightning bolts. Below the signs was a piteous sight.
“Oh, Father, was this my lord?”
“Since he is one of the few sons of the Unnamed One, I cannot say, for he must likewise remain Unnamed. Clever, manipulative, little boy!”
The hideous creature was lying on his back, gagging mightily. An olive tree was growing out of his throat. Its roots were spreading like oaken cords throughout his body, growing and protruding from every unsealed place, even as they watched. Cracking and snapping from the growing branches that continued to sprout through him. He could not even cry out, although groaning sounds came from him, or somewhere near him.
“This humorous tableau, you have noticed, my son, is likewise in a religious part of my domain. This creature thought he was a hammer of deity. He exterminated many millions of peoples in his dreams, and now they are his spine. He lies so very still because every nerve of his tormented body is on fire from the growth of the olive tree. Even the olive oil, this is the sap of his blood now, burns through his veins. Each growth causes pain of unknowable depths as it shatters his spine and splits his bones.”
They both laughed until bile flowed freely.
“You must tell us the identity of at least one of those creatures,” said student Gardner. “Yes, we know you are including political characters and rulers in there.”
“Alright, I will tell you who one of them is. Choose.”
“The one with the two lightning bolts above the tableau and the olive tree that became his skeleton.”
“Very well. Adolph Hitler. The two lightning bolts are the runic signs that were worn on the sleeves of the S.S. The olive tree is a religious symbol for Israel. His eternal punishment is that, the growing unvanquished Jewish nation is now his spine, and as it ever grows, it torments him with unspeakable pain.”
“What a bent mind,” said a student.
“Thank you,” was the old man’s reply.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“THE CORE”
“There is something you might want to see in this diverse vein in Infernus, my son. Come, veer off here, into this modest little cave occupied by one of the most powerful beings in all of Infernus. This monster cannot affect the park’s ruler, but no one else can resist.”
“Is it because you are the despot here and none can touch you?”
“No, putty-brain, it is because I am completely evil, and have no feelings for it or you or anyone else. It warrants no emotional response from me. I simply do not care. You, on the other hand, will want to become a slave to it instantly.”
“I can be a slave to it?”
“You
They entered the single room. It was filled with heavy smoke, incense that did not gag them. The son drew the aroma strongly into his lungs. He felt its cooling effect and power pierce his emotions.
“Your first mistake,” the father said, looking askance at him. “This, my son, is what is known as The Core of All of Infernus.”
“Is this possible?”
“It is. This will be very difficult (for the puddle that was once your brain to conceive), my son, but the lengthy definition of Infernus, its very nature, is explained here.”
Red led them to one wall where a cracked, bronze plaque was hanging from bleeding nails. Thin black lines running to the floor could be seen in the red glow that seemed to burn from deep within the leprous walls.
“I knew this was here, and that it is significant, which is why we have come here in the thick fog of pheromones right off. Read it aloud.”
“It says, ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made.’ Father, is this an unspeakable hideous thing that ye have done to me?”
“Even I, even I, if I had any feelings for you, would gladly spare you this learning experience. But, in order to be fit for what I am training you to become, you must experience everything.
“The dark form that we can just see now floating through the fog seeks you. It has no conscience. What it is will be determined by your thoughts. Whatever you consider to be most precious, the most fragile thing in existence, is what it will be.”
The large mass minimized and assumed a feminine shape as it emerged from the perfume-soaked fog. It was wearing only a towel around its (her) waist. An aurora borealis seemed to shimmer dimly around its entire figure.
“Oh, how shocking of you,” the father began, “a woman, how original.”
Every feature of this slight figure was flawlessly defined, like an alabaster sculpture. From the brilliant blue crystal-ice eyes, the thin nose, the full red lips just parting invitingly, the flowing crimson tresses that he longed to run his hands through (his former self’s hands, that is), and the exposed breasts that invited him. That longed for him.
