Hell
is a real place. Anyone who has broken a commandment winds up there.
That's pretty much everybody.
Satan is the boss. You're
okay until you're not. But never fear, all your friends are here. As
well as everyone you've ever heard of.
For what they have
been up to lately, be sure to check in. Thrill to new stories by
Hell's damnedest: Janet Morris, Andrew P Weston, Michael H. Hanson,
S. E. Lindberg, Joe Bonadonna, Chris Morris, and Richard Groller.
The
Seven Degrees of Lying
Janet
Morris & Chris
Morris
The
Liar, the Witch, and the Ward Robes
Andrew
P. Weston
Bait
and Switch
S.E.
Lindberg
Fibbers
in Hell
Michael
H. Hanson
The
Münchhausen Trilemma
Richard
Groller
Hell’s
Bells
Joe
Bonadonna
School
of Night
Janet
Morris & Chris
Morris
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School of NightJanet Morris and Chris Morris
“Black is the badge of hell/ The hue of dungeons and the school of night.”
– William Shakespeare, Love’s Labours Lost
“Who knows you’re here?”
“No one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Give ear, then. And tell no one.”
“Business as usual. Say on.”
“Something you have done has attracted attention from Above, and I want you to tell me what that is.”
Christopher Marlowe took a deep breath and stared through the gloom at Francis Walsingham. “Above? Something I did?” Kit knew better than to doubt Queen Elizabeth’s principal secretary, the connective tissue of all hell’s intriguers, so harken he must . . .
“You are known to have been a party to it. Because of it, some call you ‘darling of the Muses.’ Speak the truth of your escapade with Lord Byron and his cabal.” Impatience colored Walsingham’s words, as did this rendezvous the spymaster had chosen, a chamber in the Tower from which a soul could confess his lies or concoct his sins or spend infernity in a stone cell with only bats and rats for company.
“‘Cabal?’ Hardly that. More like coterie. Lord Byron and the Bard and I saved Percy Bysshe Shelley from drowning yet again. Shelley now resides under Byron’s protection, and his wife Mary visits him at Byron’s Burgage Manor.” Kit rubbed folded arms as he listened to his words bounce around the cell and out its single arrow loop.
“And?” said Francis Walsingham.
“And what?”
“And what part in this circus did J the Merciful play?” Walsingham rose and paced the cell as if its shadows were trained to his service.
“Play?” Kit would shield J from any difficulty he could. “She helped us save Shelley. It was during the kickoff of the Liars War, really. Many died. Will and I entertained the troops. So what?”
“So, at whose bidding did you and the bible writer interfere with the devil’s plans for Shelley? What contact did you personally have with Diabolos? Erra and I are concerned that whatever has occurred be not at cross-purposes with other goings-on.”
Only a player and playwright of Kit Marlowe’s caliber could sift purpose from purport in Walsingham’s queries. In so doing, he must also manage to interrogate his inquisitor. Kit’s mind raced, sorting lies yet unspoken and options yet unchosen:
“As to who bade me, ’twas myself, in your service, as you well know. And with some success, you’ll agree. I’m back in Will’s confidence and have his ear—hence, the Destroyer’s ear. As to the contact that I’ve personally had with Abaddon, we shared a few delicate moments behind the bleachers. In his guise as a woman, he found me suddenly appealing. And when Byron rode up on that steed, His Infernal Majesty flew into an obscene reverie and asked if the horse was ‘intact’. Perforce, I think our devil wants to have the beast, but the horse is real and therefore falls into the domain of ‘special dispensations from Above,’ wouldn’t you say? As to what motivates J, I have no idea, except to say that she passed her hands over Shelley, administering some sort of benediction to him as he lay recovering from his latest encounter with the deeps. Finally, as to ‘goings-on’, it’s you must tell me or decide for yourself what to make of all.”
“Sometimes I think you my best pupil, Kit. I can tell you only this: Shelley need no longer worry about midnight sailing, due to your rescue efforts. And those efforts have repercussed below and Above. In toto, boundaries have been challenged, and neither realm is comfy with that. I need to know things from J, yet when I approach her, she politely eludes me, saying something about a colored sack of words I may have misplaced. So, you shall go to her in my stead, and divine with whom she corresponds and by what means.”
Kit’s brows knit. “If ever she gave a sack unto your care, it contains words for you alone. If lost, find it, and be increased; or say you love truth not a whit. It is of great moment, but only to the one for whom it is meant.”
*
Not for the first time, John Milton huffed and puffed up the stairs to Tearsday evening’s Inklings meeting in the sitting room of Noxford’s Bird and Baby public house. He resented the academic pall of the place, environs of those who in life had presumed to censor his polemics and burn his poetry. Unceremoniously the Cantabrigian pushed open the door of the conclave to be met by in-taken breaths and rushes of papers hastily sheaved and tucked into portfolios.
“Grand poet of the sublime, John Milton, you honor us with your presence,” announced C.S. Lewis. “Do please sit. And where is your newest amanuensis, the 6th Lord Byron?”
Chairs scraped as a score of academics craned their necks.
“Satan has restored my sight, Master Lewis, so I need no scribe. As for Byron, His Lordship plows far different fields these days.”
“How might we please you this evening?” asked J. R. R. Tolkien. “Shall I read you my most recent revisions of The Lord of the Rings?”
“Or I, from The Chronicles of Narnia? suggested Lewis. “Let’s close the doors and—”
“Or I from criticism overdue for both?” suggested Charles Williams.
The oak door shut of its own accord with mysterious finality.
John Milton squinted around and spoke quietly: “As your special guest, I took the liberty of inviting my patron, who is familiar with all your works and, of course, still serves today as the archetype for Satan in Paradise Lost, widely known as my masterpiece and one of the greatest works in all of literature.”
Hearing this, all the Inklings stood and clapped loud as the greatest fallen angel stepped into the light.
Thereupon the ovation ceased. The audience sat. Satan looked slowly over the crowd: “You are gathered to learn how my magnum opus led to your presence here, and how you may yet serve the causes of free speech and freedom of the press with your writings.”
Again, came applause for lies well told.
Satan beamed over his audience of writers and raised his arms to them. His stature grew. Wings sprouted from his back. “Freedom is but a moment away! Seize that moment while ye may!” The devil giggled at his own rhyme. His voice grew loud, then louder still. “Life and death are yours for the taking!”
The wings of the Father of Lies now bated before the assemblage. Milton bade the Inklings rise anew in response. To a soul they did so, raising arms and chanting, “Freedom! Freedom!”
“If the cost is yet more death to your ideals, then happy will you die.” Satan’s eyes and mouth seemed to grow larger than the room could hold. “We are now engaged in the Liars War, one of the greatest struggles of our times; a struggle against those Above who care nothing for the damned. We must free both thought and action, set new goals and share them, and make an end to those who revere nothing but themselves. We must fight for the great productions of the human mind. In this Liars War, you may be rewarded for your adherence to our cause and words that advance it.” As he spoke, Satan’s presence grew vivid, livid and immense, filling the room.
What utter tripe! Milton edged away to the far end of the table in hopes no one would note his mounting disdain for these proceedings. How could this archfiend ever have enjoyed a place on high, let alone deserved the fruits of Milton’s labors? Moments such as these (and there had been many) were tortures of regrets, since Satan habitually refused to follow the scripts Milton painstakingly prepared for the Abomination to deliver. Truly the Beast had no conception of rhetoric. And flaunted his ignorance before this audience of literati, no less.
He must curtail his own humiliation, this absurdity, this infernal farce.
Without delay, Milton pulled a package of pamphlets from his jacket to distribute to the scribblers on his right and left. Eagerly, they shared them about the table like a delicacy.
Waiting no longer, Milton delivered his closing statement: “Our Lord Satan can give you all you were denied in life: you will have riches and power and glory in His name! His Infernal Majesty will set you free! Now to your quills!”
Milton brandished the copies he yet held and, as he waved them about, he and Satan disappeared from view
Best
selling author Janet
Morris
began writing in 1976 and has since published more than 30 novels,
many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. Most of her
fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres,
although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has
written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of
non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons,
developmental military technology and other defense and national
security topics.
Christopher
Crosby Morris (born 1946) is an American author of fiction and
non-fiction, as well as a lyricist, musical composer, and
singer-songwriter. He is married to author Janet Morris. He is a
defense policy and strategy analyst and a principal in M2
Technologies, Inc. He writes primarily as Chris Morris, but
occasionally uses pseudonyms.
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