The Gargoyle

The snake continued joyfully leering at me even as it began to tremble and new ribs burst forth from its sides like fingers breaking through tightly stretched plastic. Next, arm and leg bones emerged. The ashes of the incinerated sinner began to reconstruct into human tissue, first sifting into intestines, and then weaving into a new circulatory system. Red liquid flowed up out of the ground to enter the new vessels. Muscles twisted around the bones like ivy growing over a fence, and skin pulled up out of the soil like a blanket which tensed itself over the sinewy form. Hair sprouted and new eyeballs gelled in the sockets. The seductress was rebuilt, not into the beaten form I’d first seen, but as she must have looked upon the Earth. She was as physically beautiful as any woman I had ever seen.

She rose from the ground and took a step towards me, her arms held out for an embrace. How alluring she was, with her soft skin and pleasing hips. The demons, who had been tending the other seducers and only now noticed that her rebirth was complete, set upon her again with their whips before she could reach me. She was shepherded back into the procession of sinners and the cycle was made clear to me: she would once again be beaten into pulp, she would once again be bound by the snakes, and she would once again be disintegrated by the fire. It would be repeated over and over, for eternity, just as it would for all the others in this pageant of seducers.

I understood now why Francesco had warned me against this Circle, because it was during the rebirth of the seductress that the healing of my body finalized. The lava flow that was my skin had fully receded and there was no longer any indication that I’d ever been burned. My body was as perfect as it had been on my best day before the accident; the only mark that remained was the scar that I had been born with on my chest. I, like the seductress, had been restored as fully, beautifully human.

Though I didn’t want to, I fell to my knees and started to cry. Once I started I could not stop.

To this day, I remain unsure of the true nature of my tears. Did I cry because the fate of the seductress so closely mirrored my own? Was it the cumulative effect of the horrors in the three Hells that I had experienced? Was it because I’d regained a human form that I had never dreamed would be mine again? Or was it because back in the real world, my body was deep within morphine withdrawal?

I don’t know the answer. But eventually I continued to cry simply from joy that my tear ducts worked again.

· · ·

Francesco clasped a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Styx lies ahead.”

As disoriented as I was, I knew that something was amiss. After all, I’d heard the story of Inferno in two different lifetimes; I knew we were supposed to have encountered Styx earlier than this. Wiping dry my eyes, I told Francesco as much.

“But this is your journey,” Francesco said, “not Dante’s.”

We moved towards the river’s edge, where a boat was rapidly approaching, as if it knew we were coming. “The boatman is Phlegyas, son of Ares. When his daughter Coronis was raped by Apollo, Phlegyas set fire to the temple of the god. Apollo killed him with arrows and condemned him to this punishment.”

The most striking thing about Phlegyas was the large, angular stone that floated above his fragile skull, looking as if it might drop at any moment. As a result, he constantly lifted his tormented eyes to appraise the situation. With every push of the pole in the water, the ship carried the boatman closer to us and the stone followed, never leaving its tenuous position. Phlegyas had become sallow from so long without sun; the veins of his face stood out like purple spiderwebs and his hair was falling out in stringy bunches. Spindly arms stuck out of his robes, which had long since been stained the color of sweat.

“Who is this, that dares bring an arrow to my shore?” Phlegyas’ attempts to menace were nullified by his preoccupation with the stone above his head. Even as he attempted to glower, his eyes twitched upward with the rock’s every little movement.

“You will have to forgive our foolish friend,” Francesco said, “for he is young and still alive.”

“That does explain much.” Phlegyas nervously bobbed his head to the left, before allowing it to settle back to the center of his shoulders.

“Will you carry us across the water, so that he may finish his journey?”

“Why would I do that? This one is not dead.”

Francesco began to speak. “He is a friend of-”

“Marianne Engel,” Phlegyas cut him off. “This matters not to me.”

The boatman pushed upon his pole to turn the boat around, but Francesco called out, “Much depends on your help, Phlegyas.”

Intrigued, perhaps, Phlegyas turned his face back to us. “And why is that?”

“If you know Marianna, then you know this is a journey of love.”

“What care I for love?”

“Was it not love for your daughter that brought you here? Would you doom another to likewise be trapped forever in Hell, where he does not belong?”

For the first time, Phlegyas seemed to pay more attention to me than to the rock. “Tell me about your love for this woman.”

I answered as sincerely as I could. “I cannot.”

Phlegyas furrowed his brow. “Then why should I honor your request?”

“Any man who believes he can describe love,” I answered, “understands nothing about it.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Phlegyas and he waved us aboard with no need of fare. As we crossed Styx, my eyes were fixed upon the three flaming red towers in the distance.

“Dis,” Francesco said. “The capital of Hell.”

We were let off at a set of enormous iron gates. These were guarded by the Rebellious Angels, whose dark and unsympathetic eyes looked as though they were judging everything. They were naked and sexless, and had glowing white skin beset by large boils; from their backs spanned molting wings and, instead of halos, they had flaming hair.

The leader of the Rebellious Angels stepped forward. “YOU CANNOT PASS. THIS ONE IS NOT DEAD.”

“I get that a lot,” I said.

Francesco shot me a dirty look before turning his attention back to the leader. “That he is living is not your concern. Those rules do not apply at this gate, because it is his fate to enter this door.”

“AND WHO IS HE?”

“The one,” Francesco answered, “who enters the Kingdom of Death in his life.”

It did not matter, however, what he claimed as my identity. With great howling and activity, the Angels refused all that Francesco requested. It was clear that my guide had finally met a barrier through which he could not sweet-talk us.

We stepped away from the Angels to consult with each other. I asked what we could do now, and Francesco looked at me as though my question were exceedingly foolish.

“We will pray,” he said.

When I answered that I did not pray, he sternly rebuked me. “You’re in Hell. You’d better start.”

Francesco took the burning arrow from my hand and plugged its tip into the ground, then laid out the Viking pelts for us to kneel on. Next, he took Sei’s robe from around my waist and promptly began to rip it apart. He wrapped a long, thin strand of fabric around my head until my vision was completely obscured. When I heard the sounds of more wrapping, I assumed that he was covering his own face.

“There will soon be things at which we cannot look,” he said. “Even under the mask, keep your eyes shut tightly.”

It was the first time in my life that I had ever prayed and it felt unnatural, but after all that Francesco had done for me, the least I could do was honor his request. I could hear Francesco’s words, whispered in Italian, as he praised God and asked for guidance. For my part, I prayed for my withdrawal to end. And for the safety of Marianne Engel, wherever she was.

I heard the approach of footsteps and a flickering of something in the air. It came closer, closer…

“Do not look,” Francesco commanded. “They have called upon Medusa.”