Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

I fell through the bottom of the ocean.

I dropped only a few feet before I hit the ground. When I looked up, the floor of the ocean-the water that should have been a ceiling above me-was gone. My feet were on solid matter and the light had changed from the ocean’s crystal blue to a dead gray.

I was now in a dark wood of twisted trees.

I heard the scurrying patter of feet across the forest floor, coming from at least three sides. Twigs snapping, brush rustling. I held up the arrow to use as a torch. The flash of a four-footed animal sliding among the tree trunks, then a glimpse of another creature. How many were there? Two-no, there went another! Three, at least! What were they? My mind ran wild with bestial imaginings: a lion, a leopard, perhaps a wolf. If they came for me, how could I protect myself? I had the Viking’s scabbard, but not the sword; I had the Buddhist’s robe, but not the faith.

Directly ahead was a path that led through the forest, over a small hill, and I could hear the approach of another, bolder animal. There, a hint of it through the trees. It appeared bipedal, so perhaps some sort of fabulous forest ape? Apparently not. When it came around the corner, I could see that it was a man, dressed in simple clothing, with a large stomach and stubble on his cheeks. When he saw me, a broad smile spread across his face and he lifted his arms out as if preparing to embrace an old friend after years apart. “Ciao!”

“Tu devi essere Francesco.” You must be Francesco. With Sigurðr, I had known Icelandic; with this one, I understood Italian.

“Sм,” he confirmed, taking my hand. “Il piacere è mio.”

“No, the pleasure is mine. A mutual friend has shown me some of your work. It’s good.”

“Ah, Marianna!” Francesco beamed. “But I’m just a simple craftsman. I see you’ve brought the arrow. Good. You might need that.”

“What do we do now? Please don’t say that you don’t know.”

Francesco laughed until his bear’s belly shook. “Sigurðr’s always been a little confused, but I know exactly where we’re going.” He paused for effect. “Straight into Hell.”

You have to appreciate a man who can say such a thing with a straight face, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I think I’m getting used to that, anyways.”

“This Hell will be more complex, so you’d be wise not to laugh too hard.” But, to reassure me after his warning, he added, “I’ve been sent to lead you, at Marianna’s request. She came with prayers for you.”

“I guess that’s a start.” And so we set off on our infernal quest. I was armed with a flaming arrow, a Buddhist robe tied around my waist, a Viking snowsuit, and an empty scabbard, and I had a fourteenth-century metalworker as my guide. I couldn’t have been more prepared.

We passed through a set of gates, and soon we were standing in front of a river that I recognized from Marianne Engel’s bedside readings. “Acheron.”

The river was a terrible thing, with ice bobbing amid garbage and misshapen beasts. There were rotting chunks of flesh, as if a thousand years of coffins had been emptied into congealing blood. The fetid perfume of decay permeated everything. There were almost-men, only somewhat human in shape, floundering in the horrible liquid. Shouts for mercy were thrown out of pleading mouths; I knew that these creatures would continue drowning, unaided, forever.

A mist rose from the river. Through it floated, so calmly as if to seem above the currents, a boat carrying the ferryman Charon. It/he was a dark man-creature, at least eight feet tall, in a ripped, molding robe. His beard was like knotted seaweed and his nose was only half there, with bite marks where the rest must have been ripped off in a battle. From his shriveled mouth jutted rotten teeth, jagged and broken. His skin was gray, wet, and leathery, like that of a diseased sea turtle, and his hands were arthritic claws that held a gnarled wooden pole. His eye sockets were empty but for the blaze within: each eye was a wheel of fire. As he steered towards the shore, he blasted out words more like thunder than speech. “THIS ONE IS NOT DEAD.”

While no small man, Francesco looked feeble compared to Charon. Nonetheless, he refused to be bowed and drew up to his full height to reply, “This is a most special case.”

Charon, now landed at the bank, swept his talons in a dismissive motion. “THIS ONE CANNOT CROSS.”

“He has come far already, so please hear us. Allow us this courtesy, we who are so much less than you. How long has it been since you were visited by one of the living?”

“LABOR NOT TO TRICK ME. HE IS NOT TO CROSS HERE. ANOTHER CRAFT THAN MINE MUST GIVE PASSAGE.”

“Charon, be not so quick with your dismissal,” my guide said. “Forces greater than we have set this voyage into motion.”

Charon’s eyes upon me felt like a condemnation, as if he were looking into the most ignoble corners of my soul. I held the flaming arrow so close to my body that I feared my clothes might go up in flames, but I needed the warmth against his stare.

Charon turned his attention back to Francesco. “YOU MAY SPEAK MORE.”

“We request that you allow us to cross. We’ve brought payment.” Francesco bowed slightly and held out a gold coin.

“THIS IS PAYMENT FOR ONE.”

“Of course, you are correct.” When Francesco beckoned to me to step forward, I shook my head. Who brings money to a hallucination? And then Francesco tapped his chest, to remind me of what was hanging on mine.

I removed the angel coin from my necklace and passed it over into Charon’s claw. He paid particular attention to the side that depicted the Archangel Michael killing the dragon. A strange expression crossed the boatman’s face; I got the feeling it was as close to a smile as his ugly mouth could manage. He stepped to one side and swept an arm to indicate that we were invited to board. Francesco nodded. “We deeply appreciate your generosity.”

The ferryman dipped his pole into the foul water and sent us into the middle of Acheron. The boat, adorned with skulls and ropes of human hair, was constructed of rotten wood, and yet no water entered the gaping breaches in the bow. Small whirlpools folded in upon themselves everywhere, dragging down the perpetually drowning bodies. Occasionally, Charon would use his oar to flail at one of the sinners.

Two figures in the distance, clawing their way ever closer to the ferry, looked strangely familiar. A man and a woman. But my attention was diverted by a screaming man, only feet from the boat. He gulped in a mouthful of the rancid river as others sinners pulled him under. He grabbed at anything in his reach and took a severed leg down with him.

Seeing the look of revulsion on my face, Francesco said, “None are here by accident. Hell is a choice because salvation is available to anyone who seeks it. The damned choose their fates, by deliberately hardening their hearts.”

I couldn’t agree. “No one would choose to be damned.”

Francesco shook his head. “But it is so easy not to be.”

The couple was now close enough that I was certain (as I could be, that is, given their bodies’ decay) that they were Debi and Dwayne Michael Grace. They were pleading for my help, reaching their hands-full of broken fingers-towards me. But the horde of sinners grabbed relentlessly at them. Debi might have been able to reach the ferry, if Dwayne had not clutched at her frantically in an effort not to be yanked under. She responded in kind; each tried to use the other for leverage to push up and away from the multitude. Their battling against each other only ensured they went down together.