Richard Kadrey - Aloha from Hell

The angel in my head has been chattering ever since we got here. He wants to get out of my skull and run around. This place is Disneyland to him. I’m about to slap a gag on him when he points out something that I hadn’t noticed. I scan the walls to make sure he’s right. He is. Among all the books and ancient gods there isn’t a single crucifix. Not even prayer beads. The father lapsed a long time ago or he really holds a grudge.

“Would you like some coffee or hot chocolate? I’m afraid that’s all I have. I don’t get many guests.”

“No thank you,” says Vidocq, still poking at Traven’s bookshelves.

“I’m fine, Father,” says Candy.

He didn’t mention scotch, but I get a faint whiff of it when he talks. Not enough for a normal person to notice. Guess we all need something to take the edge off when we’re booted from the only life we’ve ever known.

“I’m not a priest anymore, so there’s no need to call me ‘Father.’ Liam works just fine.”

“Thank you, Liam,” says Candy.

“I’ll stick with ‘Father,’” I say. “I heard every time you call an excommunicated priest ‘Father,’ an angel gets hemorrhoids.

“What is it you do exactly?” I ask.

He clasps his hands in thought.

“To put it simply, I translate old texts. Some known. Some unknown. Depending on who you ask, I’m a paleographer, a historical linguist, or paleolinguist. Not all of those are nice terms.”

“You read old books.”

“Not ordinary books. Some of these texts haven’t been read in more than a thousand years. They’re written in languages that no longer exist. Sometimes in languages that no one even recognizes. Those are my specialty.”

He looks at me happily. Is that the sin of pride showing?

“How the hell do you work on something like that?”

“I have a gift for languages.”

Traven catches me looking at the book on his desk, pretends to put a pen back into its holder, and closes the book, trying to make the move look casual. There’s a symbol carved into its front cover and rust-red stains like blood splattered across it. Traven takes another book and covers the splattered one.

I sit down in a straight-back wooden chair against the wall. It’s the most uncomfortable thing I ever sat in. Now I know what Jesus felt like. I’m suffering mortification of my ass right now. Traven sits in his desk chair and clasps his big hands together.

He tries not to stare as the three of us invade his inner sanctum. His heartbeat jumps. He’s wondering what he’s gotten himself into. But we’re here now and he doesn’t have the Church or anywhere else to run to anymore. He lets the feeling pass and his heart slows.

“Before, you said, ‘When I got back to this world.’ You really are him, then? The man who went to Hell and came back? The one who could have saved Satan’s life when he came here?”

“God paid your salary. Lucifer paid mine. Call it brand loyalty.”

“You’re a nephilim. I didn’t know there were any of you left.”

“That’s number one on God’s top-forty Abomination list. And as far as I know, I’m the only one there is.”

“That must be very lonely.”

“It’s not like it’s Roy Orbison lonely. More like people didn’t come to my birthday party and now I’m stuck with all this chips and dip.”

Traven looks at Vidocq.

“If he’s the nephilim, you must be the alchemist.”

“C’est moi.”

“Is it true you’re two hundred years old?”

“You make me sound so old. I’m only a bit over one hundred and fifty.”

“I don’t think I’d want to live that long.”

“That means you’re a sane man.”

Traven nods at Candy.

“I haven’t heard about you, young lady.”

She looks at him and smiles brightly.

“I’m a monster. But not as much as I used to be.”

“Ignore her,” I tell him. “She’s just showing off and hardly ever eats people anymore.”

Traven looks at me, not sure if I’m kidding.

“If you’re in the exorcism business, you must know a lot about demons.”

“Qliphoth,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s the proper word for what you call a demon. A demon is a bogeyman, an irrational entity representing fear in the collective unconscious. The Qliphoth are the castoffs of a greater entity. The old gods. They’re dumb and their lack of intelligence makes them pure evil.”

“Okay, Daniel Webster. What happened at the exorcism?”

Traven takes a breath and stares at his hands for a minute.

“You should know that I don’t follow the Church’s standard exorcism rites. For instance, I seldom speak Latin. If Qliphoth really are lost fragments of the Angra Om Ya, the older dark gods, they’re part of creatures millions of years old. Why would Latin have any effect on them?”

“How, then, do you perform your exorcisms?” asks Vidocq.

“My family line is very old. For generations we served communities the Church hadn’t reached or wouldn’t come to. I use what I learned from my father. Something much older than the Church and much more direct. Best of all, God doesn’t have to be involved. I’m a sin eater, from a long line of sin eaters.”

Candy comes over.

“I don’t know what that is, but can I be one, too?”

I give her a look.

“How does it work?”

“It’s a simple ritual. The body of the deceased is laid out naked on a table in the evening, usually around vespers. I place bread and salt on the deceased. I lay my hands on the body. The head. The hands. The feet. I recite the prayers my father taught me, eating the bread and salt.

“With each piece, I take in the body’s sins, cleansing the deceased until the soul is clean. When my father died, I ate his sins. When his father died, he ate his sins, and so on and so on, back centuries. I contain all of the accumulated sins of a hundred towns, hamlets, armies, governments, and churches. Who knows how many? Millions I’m sure.”

I take a pack of Maledictions from my pocket and offer one to Traven.

“Do you smoke, Father?”

“Yes. Another of my sins.”

“Light up and we’ll ride the coal cart together.”

I light two with Mason’s lighter and hand one to the father.

Traven takes a puff, coughs a little. Maledictions can be a little harsh if you’re not used to them. Really, they taste like an oil-well fire in a field of fresh fertilizer. Traven sees the pack in my hand and his eyes widen a fraction of an inch.

“Are those what I think they are?”

“The number one brand in Pandemonium.”

He holds the Malediction out and looks at it.

“It’s harsh, but not as awful as I thought it would be.”

“That’s Hell in a nutshell,” I say. “Tell me about Hunter.”

“It seemed to be going well. You see, a Qliphoth can only possess an imperfect and impure body, one that’s sinned. Of course, that describes all humans except maybe for the saints. When I eat a possessed person’s sins, their body returns to a pure and holy state. With nowhere left to hide, the Qliphoth is ejected like someone spitting out a watermelon seed.”

“Where did it go wrong?”

“I’d laid out the bread and salt and I was saying the prayers. Not in Latin, but in an older language supposedly spoken by the Qliphoth and possibly the Angra Om Ya.”

Traven opens his mouth and what comes out is all humming, gurgling, and spluttering, like he’s drowning and speaking Hellion at the same time.

“I felt the Qliphoth being drawn out as I swallowed Hunter’s sins. It knew what was happening and fought back hard. No doubt you’ve seen the wreckage. Toward the end of the ritual, the Qliphoth tried to drag the boy’s body into the air. I shoved bread and salt into Hunter’s mouth, hoping it would draw out the creature. I prayed and ate the bread. That should have worked. It’s always worked before, but something went wrong. Imagine that I was erecting a castle to push the Qliphoth out and keep it out. Something went wrong and it burst through the walls and back into Hunter’s body. That’s the last thing I remember before Julia helping me to my feet. By then, Hunter was gone out the window.”