Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

“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.”

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. “Look. Look at me. You know that you want to. Thiss iss but a fantassy. Will you leave without taking all your dream hass to offer? I will only ssssatisfy your curiosssity…”

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.