Inferno Moderno, Canto XIII

(Ugh. Theatre. It's tragic.

Well, whining aside, life's been busy. Managing my future education, the regional speech competition coming up, and a performance of TS Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral this weekend has soaked up my time, but I just wanted to add this bit to wrap up the story I began as my English assignment.

I came to love my characters and the world I created, and was able to put in a good friend of mine who was subject to the sin described for this circle of Hell.

Enjoy and criticize.
-Geist)

The smell of blood only began to fade from my nostrils when the boat created a new acrid fragrance by screeching against the sulfur-laden rocks of the far shore. The three virtuous sinners leaped off, guns at the ready, looking behind on the path we had traveled, before dragging the boat to safety, coming to rest under the palm trees that were not far from the sanguinary surf. Beyond them was a minuscule hill, and further a jungle, black as a wraith’s heart.

Hemingway dismounted quickly, swinging himself from the head of the vessel, motioning for me to do the same. He then pointed at the journey that lay ahead.

“Look,” he shouted over the wash. The black clouds above us had broken, sending a filtered ray of sunlight onto some far-off location. My guide unbuttoned one of the pockets of his khakis, his hand delving in as if the pouch was many times its actual size. He glanced at me with a smile and chuckled as he drew out two machetes, each about half the length of my arm.

I questioned him with my eyes, and he answered only with, “Hell is accommodating to those who serve it.” He then tossed one of the massive blades into my hands, shouting a thanks towards the already retreating soldiers, and began to hack into the dark jungle.

Canto XIII
The pair of explorers, after being transported across the lake, begin their trek into the WOOD OF SUICIDES, a dense and dark jungle surrounding the INSTITUTE FOR THE HARPIC STUDY OF SUICIDES, a huge, harpy-owned building complex which houses the sinners, who are bound eternally to sit, naked, in a desk, writing out words describing the divine truth they falsely believed in life, but now is a truth. As they write, the sentences etch themselves into thier skin; as they express themselves in death, they injure themselves, which was the only way they could express themselves in life. Our traveler, when traversing the halls, is stopped by an old man he once kn ew, DANIEL. The two converse, with our traveler dispensing information and the sinner telling him a prophecy. Guide and pupil then leave the building, only to find themselves in the middle of a hunt of THE SINNERS AGAINST THEIR POSSESSIONS, who are hunted down in the surrounding jungle by great wolves, who dog their victims as their conscience did in life.. The two then proceed to the great desert that lies ahead.

_____

It was a different jungle, a disturbing jungle; I could hear the screams and howls of people and beasts deeper into the blackness, could smell rotting flesh as if it grew in the soil, could see out of the corner of my eye something always shifting in the bushes, like my guide and I were being tracked. Like animals in the jungle.

“Keep hacking,” Hemingway barked. He swung at a sapling, shoving it to the ground as he trod slowly forward through the muck and roots.

I kept up, trying to slash as frequently as he as if to lighten my guilt for not working hard enough. “Where are we again?” I asked between sweeps, then chopping a hanging vine, its leaves cutting into my flesh as it dropped in two.

“This, my pupil.” Hemingway kicked down the stump of a rotten tree, hundreds of squirming maggots struggling to escape their broken fortress as it smashed in the jungle floor. “This was my first sight of Hell.” He stopped for a moment, leaning against one of the massive trees that clogged our path. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, not even bothering to make eye contact before speaking. “You know how I died, eh?”

I caught up and nodded, surprised at his succinctness. “You, uh.” I pretended to roll my neck. “Yeah, you, well.” This was awkward.

“You mean to say I blew my brains out.” He spat on the white larvae in the mud.

We stood there for a moment, leaning against our respective trees, letting the sounds of tortured souls fill the void of our conversation.

The master then decided to teach the student.

“You see, pupil.” He straightened against the trunk and finally met my stare. “This circle is privately owned.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Paid for in souls, I presume?”

“Indeed. A very long time ago.” He turned his gaze to the shaft of light that had grown larger as we trudged toward it. “From what I’ve heard from the older residents of this place, the jungle itself was once the punishment for suicide. The people became rooted here, and harpies kept them in line.” He coughed, scratching his snow-white beard and pointing off to the sunbeam. “Eventually, the harpies of this land and Earth itself petitioned to take the circle as their own, offering their souls as payment to Lucifer. But that wasn’t enough.” Hemingway sighed. “The devil took their wings as well.” He was quiet for an instant, then referred again to the bright light. “That’s the property they asked for.”

I grunted, pulled towards the enigma of this unseen place of torture. “Is it still the circle for sinners of suicide?”

“Of course. It’s just that the harpies run it now. Much more modern, more efficient, more- well, you need to see it for yourself.”

He rushed forward, slicing another tree in half before breaking into a run ahead of me.

I let out another groan, cursing my guide’s lack of pain and seemingly infinite stamina, and
dashed forward to match his pace.

Another thought crossed my mind as I ran through the shadows of the forest towards the sun. “Hemingway!”

He kept running, even moving faster. It seemed like he wasn’t in the mood. Curiosity urged me on, however.

“Master! Guide!” I shouted louder, but he still ran quicker than before. He stopped chopping, bashing straight through the underbrush. His flailing arms were cut all over, but didn’t bleed in the least. Mine did.

“Christ,” I cursed under my breath. I ran harder.

Hemingway went to the ground and slid, disappearing under a drape of green and brown. I dove relentlessly after him. For an instant, everything was green, angry, cutting, slicing, hateful of my presence. The leaves scraped at my skin, the branches digging in my flesh. Then, I lay, sprawled in the mud, in front of a foreboding apartment complex, its floors seemingly infinite, the paint black, the windows darkened

In the front of this all, standing in the inconspicuous, gray doorway, Hemingway, speaking with a woman in a business suit and black heels, her brown hair in a bun and two odd lumps where her shoulders would be.

“-for you to be here again, Ernest.” She took his hand and shook it, tenderly. He smiled at her, motioning to me as I emerged from the bush.

“This is my follower,” he said, staring me down until I bowed. Satisfied, he continued. “He comes to observe the punishments, if your coalition would so allow it.” He put a gloss over the last bit of his explanation, adding a kiss on the woman’s hand to secure the deal. She blushed, turned to me, and undid the lock on the door, the two immortals staring and smiling as I drew closer to the opening entrance.

The dim fluorescence of industry-standard lighting conflicted with the pure sunlight outside, stinging my eyes as they attempted to readjust. I rubbed them, opened them, and attempted to believe them.

Rows upon rows of desks, surrounded by paste-white walls. Not as many sinners as in the lake, but still millions, each writing with pen on a piece of paper, tiny red lines criss-crossing over the entirety of their bodies. More women, almost identical to the one Hemingway wooed at the front, patrolled the lanes upon lanes of desks filled with naked, pitiful, suicidal men and women, their gloved hands grasping tired, ancient whips, browning from overuse.

The first woman stepped in front of the two of us, holding her hand to the floors and floors of desks. “This is the Institution of Harpic Suicidal Studies,” she declared proudly, her eyes dashing between the nearest sinners. She began walking backwards, ushering us to follow. Hemingway fixed his gaze on his boots, hands behind his back; I took in as much as I could. “Founded in 1668 AD, human time, I believe.”

I began to check each of the people we walked by. They all were writing, one sentence at a time. They seemed to cringe when they finished.

“All of this, the building and the jungle, was consolidated by the
Harpies and their subsidiaries for the ultimate benefit, we believe, of the Seventh Circle’s total efficiency,” the woman continued. “Those who died of suicide are sent here and, in punishment for their sin, are forced to become the system they so fervently despised; effectively, they are integrated into an establishment through their own pain, even though, in life, their pain was used to escape it.”

I nodded, pretending to pay attention to her, actually squinting to read what every sinner was writing. If only she would stop. I tapped Hemingway, and leaned my head to the side filled with the suicidal. He got the idea.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, Ernest?”

“I was wondering, perhaps, do you intend to take over other sections of the Seventh Circle?”

I smiled. Even in death, businessmen could be stopped with questions of the future.

Our tour guide seemed flustered, her voice becoming higher. “Well, you see, old friend, since the last time you were excused from here, the situation has not changed-”

It was time. I bent over a desk as a wildly haired man, his body covered in red lashes and cuts, was mid-sentence. The pen scribbled quickly, one line after another, stopping for minutes at a time at each period.

“I am nothing in the eyes of God.

I am nothing in the eyes of God.

I am nothing in the ey”

The man peered up at me, his blank eyes meeting mine, his mouth opening in soundless agony as the words he had just written etched themselves into his flesh. They joined thousands of other sentences all over his bare, pale body.

“Heh...heh... help me.” His hand let go of the writing utensil, letting it fall to the pristine white floor.

The sound of the pen hitting the ground seemed louder than a mirror shattering in the building. In an instant, three of the harpies had descended on him, whips flaying, the man’s shouts of pain overwhelming the sound of scribbling pens and burning skin tissue.

Our tour guide pulled me away from the scene, her hand on my shoulder. “Forgive us. most dictators, and especially Hitler here, are-” She paused to find the right words, waving her hand in a circle through the air. “Problematic.” She continued walking. Hemingway tugged at my shirt for me to follow. Inquisitive, I tugged back.

“She said something about you being excused from this circle.”

“That’s the benefit of writing a good book,” he whispered.

I looked at him, puzzled, but kept walking.

Our harpic guide began to point out even more of the sinners in her lair. “Here we have Sylvia Plathe, over there is our religious figures ward, ah, here is our old friend Brutus, and there is Lucan, and beyond him
is Terry Long...”

It hadn’t been more than ten minutes when one sinner rushed out of his chair, wrapped his arms around my leg, and began to weep. He said my name, over, over, over again. I stared into the empty wells of his eyes and recognized him almost immediately.

“Daniel?”

He nodded, his face and side burns barely intact after nine years in the prison. He still looked like he was in his sixties, still retained his body before death.

The harpies had begun to close on the two of us, but Hemingway quickly rounded on them, brandishing his machete. He twirled it menacingly, and nodded for me to proceed. “This is a dialogue that must not be wasted.”

I could barely speak, my throat had become so tight, could barely see my eyes had become so teary. For a time the two of us simply embraced and cried together, and then Daniel began to speak.

“My wife. Wife.” His voice sounded as if it hadn’t been used in years.

“She’s fine, Daniel. She’s alright, she’s alive, she’s well.”

He smiled, but another question. “Garage. Garage.”

I chuckled a bit. He wanted to know whether his old town garage was still in service. I told him that it was, and his face lit up with joy. He tried to laugh, but could only cough.

I helped him to his feet, beginning to bring him back to his chair. He looked at me, scanning my body thoroughly, and spoke again.

“You will find what you wish to,” he choked out.

I turned to him. “What?”

He swallowed down something in his throat to speak again. “You will find, what, you wish to.”

The harpies had seized Daniel from me, shoving him into his desk, closing his hand around the pen. “Write, you fiend,” one hissed.

He spat in her face. “Bitch,” he muttered.

The whips fell fast and hard upon his head and back, more and more harpies circling, joining in, mocking, cheering the others on. My guide
grabbed my limp arm, and led me back to the light as we emerged from the institute of suicides.

The light was bright, but the huge palm leaves shaded us from the sun. However, they also allowed us to see five men running, buck naked, through the brush, tripping and toppling over each other in hysteria.

Hemingway shook his head and sighed. “Enron CEO’s.”

One of the men lay trampled on the ground while the other four delved deeper into the jungle. He lay quiet for an instant, then turned to face a being unseen and began to beg, tears dripping down his face. There was a growl.

The man’s eyes widened, a scream emitted from his mouth, and a pack of wolves, carefully concealed in the underbrush, set upon him. They tore him limb from limb, dragging parts away and gnawing on the soulless flesh. One of the beasts turned to us.

Hemingway again stepped in front of me, his arms outstretched to form a great barrier of divine protection against any threat. “This one is mine, Isengrin.”

The beast sneezed, looking up at my guide sternly. To my surprise, he opened his mouth and began to speak.

“The desert, if you wish to reach it, is but a few padfalls from this place.” He tipped his head toward more light not far from us. “You can leave this circle there, Illuminator.”

The wolf then turned and howled, to be answered by thousands more howls, and jumped into the jungle for the hunt once more.

My guide grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me in the direction indicated by the hunter.

“Those men were the sinners against their possession, pupil,” Hemingway whispered to me. He sighed again. “I pity their very existence.”

I nodded, pushing away a branch from my face. “I can see why.”

Then we crossed the threshold to the next ring of the seventh circle of Hell.