And then I realized the source of the flickering sounds: they were made by the tongues of the snakes of her hair. They were thrusting out to smell me, the first living meat to visit Hell in ages, and then a serpent’s tongue tentatively licked my cheek. Then another, and another, and another. My skin, now healed, was fully capable of experiencing sensations again, and what a cruel joke that among them were the kisses of a hundred snakes. They tried to push their triangle heads underneath my blindfold, to lift it up, to make me look at the gorgon, but I held it in place.
Medusa, her face but a few inches in front of mine, began to hiss. Her rancid breath was upon me and I could imagine her own serpentine tongue.
I knew better. If ever I were to become a statue, it would be by the hand of Marianne Engel rather than the stare of the gorgon.
A quiver began underneath my feet, like a fledgling earthquake. I could feel the snakes of Medusa’s hair pull away from my face. The shuddering of the earth continued to grow and soon the very air was trembling, as if splitting open to admit something new. The iron gates around Dis clattered as if a wild beast were rattling to get out, and the Rebellious Angels yelped a series of excited bleats. I felt Medusa pull away, and heard her footsteps in a hasty retreat. I thought it might be a trick and asked Francesco if she was really gone.
“I think so, but remain vigilant. It’s best to keep your blindfold on.”
I could hear the branches breaking from the dead trees, and the dust being stirred up from the ground caused me to cough. “What’s happening?”
“I prayed that a Divine Messenger come,” Francesco answered, “but I hesitate to believe that the appeals of one as unworthy as I would be answered.”
Though Medusa might still be lurking, I could not help but remove my blindfold. After all, how often is one given the chance to see a Divine Messenger? The sky, which had been uniformly dark since our entry, now looked as though God had accidentally knocked over the palette of Heaven and every wondrous blush of Existence was plunging from above. On the forward cusp of the colors, with golden streaks trailing behind him, was the most beautiful Being that I’ve ever seen.
Apparently, and despite his own advice, neither could Francesco allow the opportunity to pass untaken. He had removed his mask and was trying not to look directly at the Messenger, as if he wanted to show respect, but found himself unable to not stare. In a voice filled with awe, he said, “Clearly you are blessed.”
I was too bedazzled to do anything more than repeat the word. “Blessed.”
“Michael,” Francesco whispered. “The Archangel.”
Michael was perhaps seven feet tall and his hair flowed behind him like a wild blond river. From his back reached two immaculate wings with a span of at least fifteen feet, and he glided as though the wind existed only to carry his perfect body. His skin was as radiant as the brightest sunlight and his eyes were huge, flaming orbs. Although he shared this trait with Charon, the effect was exactly the opposite: while the boatman’s eyes gave him a sinister look, Michael’s eyes made his face too brilliant to gaze upon directly.
The Archangel landed softly in front of the gates of Dis. The Rebellious Angels, knowing better than to stand in the way, split to either side. The air danced in splendor everywhere around Michael, shimmering as if even it were too awed to touch him. I would describe the colors but there are no names for them; they do not exist within the spectrum of human vision. For the first time I understood how the world must look to the colorblind, because those colors made me feel as if I always had seen, until that moment, with but the tiniest fraction of my potential.
The ground upon which Michael stood was no longer the ashen muck of Hell, but more green than green. The charred trees that had loomed over us with barren limbs now bloomed with fresh leaves. Michael lifted his arm with impossible grace and the gate’s sickly rust was thrown off instantly. When his finger simply grazed the gate, it flew open.
The Archangel turned towards us. Francesco lowered his head and made the sign of the cross. I kept my head up, my eyes focused. Unlike Francesco, because I had never longed to see the divine, I was not burdened with the fear of what might happen if I did.
Michael smiled.
I realized then, for the first time, that I was not hallucinating. I was indeed in Hell, and I was indeed in the presence of the Divine. It was beyond all doubt: I am far too human to imagine anything like that smile. It was like a kiss upon all my worst secrets, absolving them straight away.
With a single sweep of his wings, Michael took flight again, twisting like an immediate tornado that sprang up from the ground. Behind him trailed the colors that he had brought, sucking upwards to disappear in his wake. The too-green of the grass was replaced once again with the dull gray of mud. The health of the trees was leached out. The gates rusted over instantly, but were left open. The colors disappeared like bathwater running to the drain, except that the drain was in the sky. Where Michael disappeared, the last of the colors followed him through a tiny hole in Hell’s awning.
When Francesco finally found his voice, after several stunned minutes, he said, “You must walk through the gates alone.”
I shook Francesco’s hand. It felt such an insufficient gesture, and I told him that I didn’t know how to thank him.
“It is I,” Francesco answered, “who must thank you. It was not only for Marianna that I took this task; it was also repayment.”
“For what?”
“My father was an archer named Niccolo, who was killed while serving in a German condotta. But his friend Benedetto escaped with the help of two German archers, and he brought my father’s crossbow to Firenze.” Francesco, at this point, clasped my hands in his. “That bow was all I ever knew of my father.”
“My copy of
“Yes. He would want you to have it.” Francesco bowed deeply.
The Rebellious Angels dared not stop me as I walked through the gates. I knew what I was supposed to find next: the Sixth Circle, the home of the Heretics, littered with graves and tombs ringed with fire. But the moment I walked through the gates, I found myself no longer in Francesco’s Inferno. Instead, I emerged on a cliff overlooking an ocean. When I spun around to look behind me, the gates of Dis had disappeared.
Gulls cut over the water with happy squawks. The grass was tinged with cool dew and I could feel every blade tickle the skin of my feet. I was now entirely naked, my skin fully healed; the clothing that I had been wearing was gone, and I no longer had my coin necklace. It was dawn, the breeze cooled me, and I felt wonderfully alive.
Perhaps two hundred feet away on the cliff, a solitary figure stood motionless, looking out over the ocean. Of course I knew who it was. As I drew closer, I saw that she appeared to be in her mid-forties but that there was something infinitely older in her expression, as she squinted over the miles of water. Her hair was pinned to the back of her head, and her shawl was draped over her shoulders, held tightly closed at her bosom. Her dress was worn at the hem and there was dirt on her boots. I spoke her name. “Vicky.”
“Yes.” Her eyes never wavered from their nautical discipline.
“Do you see him?”
“I see him everywhere.”
I looked out towards the horizon. There were no boats on the ocean. There was only the long, lonely expanse of water.
I asked, gently, “Do you think Tom is coming back?”
“Do you think that’s why I stand here?”
“I don’t know.”
A strand of hair unwound from the pin at the back of Vicky’s head. She tucked it back into place. “Of course it is.”
The breeze rustled her dress against her legs. Waves crashed over the rocks below us. For a long time, we
