The Infernals

  “Hardly blame him,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “He doesn’t love us anymore,” said Dozy.

  “Wonder that he ever did,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “Prifowig,” said Mumbles.

  “Whatever,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “We’re only little people,” said Angry. He put on his best sad face, made his eyes large, and tried unsuccessfully to force a tear from them. “We’re very small, and we’re all alone in the world.”

  His fellow dwarfs bowed their heads, peered up from beneath their brows, and introduced some trembling to their lips.

  “No, you’re not alone in the world,” said Sergeant Rowan, his words heavy with consolation. He put his hand on Angry’s shoulder. “You’ve got us now. And you’re under arrest.”

  In Which Something of the Nature of this World Is Revealed Through Old Ram

  OLD RAM LED SAMUEL and Boswell through weeds and briars, hacking a path with his staff when the way was blocked. What trees there were appeared smaller here at the edge of the forest. Old Ram had described them as “new arrivals.” While they still had faces on their trunks, they were confused rather than angry and hateful, and their branches were too small and weak to present a threat.

  “Ugly things grow quickly here,” explained Old Ram. “Each time Old Ram walks, Old Ram has to cut his way through afresh. The forest sets itself against him, but Old Ram will not let it win.”

  A stone hovel shaped like a beehive came into view. It had slit windows, and a narrow entrance that was blocked by a door woven from twigs and branches. A thin finger of smoke wound its way upward from a hole in the roof. Above them, the dark clouds collided and dispersed, sending flashes of white and red and orange across the sky. As in the forest, Samuel believed that he could discern faces in the clouds, their cheeks billowing, their mouths screaming thunder, forming, swirling, and re-forming in a great tumult of noise and light.

  Old Ram followed the boy’s gaze.

  “They were people once, just as the trees were,” he said. “The skies are filled with the souls of the angry, turned to storm clouds by the Great Malevolence, so that they can fight and rage for eternity.”

  “And the trees?”

  “The trees are the souls of the vain. Everything here is given a purpose, a role to play. The Great Malevolence offers each soul a choice: to join his ranks, and become a demon, or to become part of the essence of this world. Most choose to join him, but those in the skies and those in the forest were too wrathful or too self-absorbed to serve even him, and so he found a suitable punishment for them.”

  “Those poor people,” said Samuel, and Boswell whined in agreement.

  Old Ram shook his head. “You have to understand that only the very worst end up here: the ones whose anger made them kill, and who felt no sorrow or guilt after the act; those so obsessed with themselves that they turned their backs on the sufferings of others, and left them in pain; those whose greed meant that others starved and died. Such souls belong here, because they would find no peace elsewhere. In this place, they are understood. In this place, their faults have meaning. In this place, they belong.”

  Old Ram opened the door, and indicated that Samuel should enter. Samuel paused on the threshold. He was old enough to know that he shouldn’t trust strangers, and Old Ram was a very strange stranger indeed. On the other hand, Old Ram had saved both Samuel and Boswell from the trees, and they needed help from someone if they were to avoid Mrs. Abernathy and find a way home.

  Samuel entered the dwelling. It had no furniture, no pictures, no signs of habitation at all except for the lingering odor of Old Ram himself, and the fire that burned in a hollow in the dirt floor. Black wood was piled beside it, ready to be added to the blaze.

  “It’s … very nice,” said Samuel.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Old Ram, “but it’s polite of you to say so. You may find this odd from one trapped in this kingdom of fire, but Old Ram feels the cold. Old Ram is never hungry, never thirsty, never tired, but Old Ram is always, always cold, so Old Ram keeps the fire burning. Old Ram feeds it with branches from the forest. When there are no fallen branches to be found, Old Ram breaks them from young trees. Old Ram needs his warmth.”

  “Is that why the trees hate you so much?” asked Samuel. “Because you cut their branches?”

  “They hate everything,” said Old Ram, “but most of all they hate themselves. Still, Old Ram has given them much reason to resent him, that’s true. If nothing else, tormenting them offers Old Ram something to break the monotony.”

  He sat down by the fire, crossing his hind legs beneath him and stretching his forelegs before him to warm his hooves. Samuel and Boswell sat opposite, and watched Old Ram through the flames.

  “What did you do to end up here, if it’s not rude to ask?” said Samuel.

  Old Ram looked away. “Old Ram was a bad shepherd,” he said. “Old Ram betrayed his flock.”

  And he would say no more.25

  Samuel was tired and hungry. He searched in his pockets, where he found a bar of chocolate and a small apple. It wasn’t much. Despite what Old Ram had said about lacking an appetite, Samuel offered him a bite of each, but Old Ram ignored the chocolate entirely, instead sniffing at the apple.

  “Old Ram remembers apples,” he said, and there was sadness in his voice, and in his pale eyes. “Old Ram remembers pears, and plums, and pomegranates. Old Ram remembers … everything.”

  “You can have a little, if you like,” said Samuel.

  Old Ram seemed tempted, but then drew back, as though suspecting Samuel of some plot to poison him.

  “No, Old Ram doesn’t want any. Old Ram isn’t hungry. Eat, you and your little dog. Eat.”

  Old Ram folded his arms and stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts. Samuel gave some of the chocolate to Boswell, then ate the apple himself, Boswell not being much of a fan of fruit.

  “How can we get back to our own world?” asked Samuel, when he had finished the apple and grown tired of the silence. Boswell, he noticed, had fallen asleep with his head in his lap. He stroked the dog, who opened his eyes, wagged his tail once, then went back to sleep.

  “You can’t,” said Old Ram. “Nothing ever leaves here. Not even the Great Malevolence himself can leave, and he’s tried.”

  “But they managed to break into my world. If it was done once, it can be done again.”

  Old Ram’s mouth curled into what might have been a smile.

  “Mrs. Abernathy,” he said. He bleated his laughter. “A demon obsessed with being human is a demon no longer. She has fallen from power. Another will take her place, unless she can find a way to make up for her failure.” He glanced slyly at Samuel. “How did you come here, boy?”

  Samuel began to tell him everything, then stopped. “There was light, a blue light. It flashed as I was walking home with Boswell, and I woke up here.”

  “And you saw nothing more, only a light?”

  “That’s all,” Samuel lied. He chose not to mention his knowledge of Mrs. Abernathy to Old Ram. He could not have said why, but he was sure that it would not be a good idea.

  Old Ram nodded his head and was silent again. The stone hive was uncomfortably warm, and the smoke was making Samuel drowsy. His eyelids grew heavy. He saw Old Ram watching him, and felt the intensity of the creature’s regard, but he was so tired. He lay down and closed his eyes, and was soon fast asleep.

  Samuel dreamed. He dreamed that Old Ram was standing over him, and scattering dust upon the flames. There was a sour, acrid smell, and then a face appeared in the fire, black-eyed and insect-jawed. In the dream, Old Ram said: “Where is your mistress?” and the creature in the fire responded with a series of clicks and hisses that Old Ram seemed to understand.

  “When she returns, tell her that Old Ram has a prize for her. Old Ram is tired of this exile. Old Ram wants a place of honor at her table. As she rises again, so shall Old Ram. Tell her this.”

  The face in the flames dis
appeared, and Old Ram sat down again. That was Samuel’s dream. But when he opened his eyes, the sour smell was still in his nostrils, and Old Ram was not sitting in quite the same place that he had occupied before Samuel fell asleep.

  “Rest more,” said Old Ram. “You’ll need your energy. Old Ram will take you to someone who may be able to help you, but first we must wait.”

  “Why must we wait?”

  “It’s too dangerous to travel now. Later, it will be safer.”

  Samuel stood, and Boswell stood too.

  “I think Boswell and I should leave,” he said. “We’ve stayed here long enough.”

  “No, no,” said Old Ram. “Please, sit. Old Ram has things to tell you, important things. You must listen.”

  But Samuel was already leading Boswell to the door, although he did not turn his back on Old Ram. Old Ram scrambled upright, and in the light of the fire his eyes took on a red glow.

  “You must stay!” he said. “Old Ram must rise again!”

  Thunder roared in the skies above, and lightning flashed, as though the fighting souls had heard Old Ram’s cry, but Samuel thought that he discerned another sound hidden beneath the great tumult: a grinding, moaning noise like a mighty engine in motion.

  Suddenly, Old Ram moved. He grabbed his staff and swung it at Samuel, barely missing the boy’s head.

  “Nobody leaves!” shouted Old Ram. “Nobody leaves until the Dark Lady arrives!”

  He made as if to swing the staff again, but instead spun it in his hooves and used it to trip Samuel, who fell heavily to the floor. Boswell snapped and barked, but now Old Ram was standing above them, the staff held high, ready to bring it down on Samuel’s skull.

  And then the staff was snatched from Old Ram’s hooves and disappeared through the hole in the roof, drawn upward by a snakelike length of wood. The hut began to collapse: stones tumbled down from the ceiling, and fissures appeared in the walls. Black roots and branches thrust their way through, winding themselves around Old Ram’s body and neck and legs. The door exploded inward, and Samuel saw the face of the Great Oak grinning and leering in the gap.

  “Old Ram,” said the tree, “I warned you. We were tormented enough without you adding to our misery. Now we will add to yours instead.”

  Old Ram struggled in its grasp, but the ancient tree was too strong for him. More stones dislodged themselves, and an opening appeared close to where Samuel lay. As quickly as he could, he held Boswell under his left arm and pushed himself through the hole. Outside, he got to his feet and ran until he came to a boulder which was big enough for him to hide behind. Only then did he risk a look back at the house.

  The Great Oak towered above the scattered stones of Old Ram’s dwelling, its branches swinging wildly, its roots twisting and curling. Old Ram was held high above the ground, his frightened face close to the Great Oak’s features. The Great Oak was laughing at him, and taunting him. Behind it, the contorted trees swayed and cried as the Great Oak took its prize and returned to the forest, and the fire in the ruins turned to ash and went out for the last time.

  In Which Hell Gets Stranger, and the Scientists Grow More Curious

  NOT FOR THE FIRST time, Mr. Merryweather’s Dwarfs and the forces of law and order were having a disagreement.

  “You can’t arrest us,” said Jolly.

  “I beg to differ,” said Sergeant Rowan. “I can, and I have.”

  “But someone’s nicked our van. It hardly seems fair to arrest us when somewhere out there is a criminal driving a stolen van.”

  “But there are four criminals right here,” said Sergeant Rowan. “A dwarf in the hand is worth two in a van, or words to that effect.”

  “Er, Sarge,” said Constable Peel.

  “Not now, Constable. I’m enjoying my moment of triumph.”

  “It’s important, Sarge.”

  “So is this.”

  “No, really important.”

  Sergeant Rowan, still keeping a firm grip on Jolly’s collar, turned to Constable Peel and said, “All right, then, what is—”

  He stopped talking. He looked around.

  “Constable, where’s our car?” he said.

  “That’s just it, Sarge. It’s gone. Someone’s nicked it.”

  Sergeant Rowan returned his attention to the dwarfs, who all held up their hands in gestures of innocence that, for the first time ever, they actually meant.

  “Wasn’t us,” said Angry.

  “Serves you right,” said Jolly. “I told you there was a thief about.”

  “Nobody saw anything?” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “We was too busy being arrested, Sarge,” said Dozy. “Our rights was being infringed.”

  “Nojidell,” said Mumbles.

  “Absolutely,” said Angry. “You have no jurisdiction in Hell. The minute you felt our collars, it was assault. We’re going to sue.”

  Sergeant Rowan raised a fist in a manner suggesting that, if he was going to be sued for something, he planned to make the most of it and add charges of inflicting serious bodily harm to a dwarf to his list of offenses.

  “Calm down, calm down,” said Jolly. “This isn’t helping anyone. Look, we all want the same thing here, right? We want to find our vehicles, and get home.”

  Dozy’s face suddenly assumed an expression of grave loss. “The booze!” he said.

  “What?” said Constable Peel.

  “The last of the Spiggit’s: it was in the van. It’s gone. Oh, the humanity!”

  Dozy fell to his knees and started to sob, moving Constable Peel sufficiently to pat him on the back and offer him a paper tissue.

  “There, there,” he said. “It was probably for the best. Makes you mad, that stuff. And blind.”

  Dozy began to pull himself together. Constable Peel helped him to his feet. Together, they listened to “(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window?” being played badly on what sounded like bicycle bells.

  “I think all of that beer is making me hear things too, Constable,” said Dozy.

  “No, I can hear it as well, and I’ve never touched a drop of Spiggit’s,” said Constable Peel.

  “We can all hear it,” said Sergeant Rowan, as an ice-cream van appeared from around the back of a nearby dune and pulled up alongside them. Seated on its roof was a plastic mannequin wearing a peaked cap and holding a plastic ice-cream cone while grinning manically. Red writing on his cap announced him as “Mr. Happy Whip.”

  The driver of the van rolled down his window. He wore very thick glasses, which made him look like an owl in a white coat.

  “Hello!” he said. “Which way is the sea?”

  “What?” said Angry.

  “The sea: where is it?” The driver squinted at Angry. “Hey, son, fancy an ice cream? Just a pound. Two pounds with sprinkles.”

  Angry, who was about to thump the driver for mistaking him for a child, found a more immediate outlet for his rage.

  “Two pounds with sprinkles? You’re having a laugh. What are you sprinkling them with, gold dust?”

  “Top-quality chocolate, son. Only the best.”

  “Listen, I expect to bathe in chocolate if I’m paying an extra pound for it. And stop calling me ‘son.’ I’m a dwarf.”

  “Right you are, son. Anyway, which way is the sea, there’s a good lad.”

  Angry looked back at his comrade. “I’ll ’ave him,” he said. “I mean it. He calls me ‘lad’ or ‘son’ again, and I’ll sprinkle him, I swear.”

  The remaining three dwarfs, and Constable Peel and Sergeant Rowan, gathered around the van.

  “I’ll have a choc ice, please,” said Constable Peel.

  “Now is not the time, Constable,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Sir, you would be—?”

  “I’m Dan,” said the driver. “Dan, Dan the Ice-Cream Man, actually. Changed my name legally when I bought the van. Thought it might be good publicity.”

  “Right, Mr. Dan. Do you have any idea where you are?”

  “On a beach.”

&
nbsp; “No, not quite. It’s not a beach.”

  “Oh, I thought the tide had gone out,” said Dan.

  “Where, on the Sahara?” said Jolly.

  “It did seem a bit big,” admitted Dan.

  “You’re in Hell,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “Nah,” said Dan. “I’m near Biddlecombe.”

  “Not anymore. Remember a blue flash? A feeling like every atom of your body was being torn apart?”

  “Sort of,” said Dan. “I thought I’d just taken a funny turn.”

  “You did take a funny turn: to Hell. Same thing happened to us.”

  Dan thought about this for a while. “Hell is hot, right?”

  “Warm, so rumor would have it,” said Dozy.

  “Good place to sell ice cream, then,” said Dan brightly.

  The dwarfs and the policemen stared at him. It was clear that Dan, Dan the Ice-Cream Man was an incurable optimist. If you told him that his shoes were on fire, he’d have toasted marshmallows on them.

  “What did you do before you sold ice cream?” asked Angry.

  “I was an undertaker,” said Dan.

  “Nice change of pace for you, then.”

  “Oh, it’s fantastic. I get out. I meet people. I suppose I met people when I was an undertaker as well, but the conversations were a bit one-sided.” He tootled his horn merrily. “If nobody wants any ice cream, I’ll be off, then.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” said Sergeant Rowan. “You don’t seem to have grasped the gravity of the situation. You’re in Hell. Constable Peel and I have some experience of these matters, and we can say, with a degree of authority, that your time as an ice-cream salesman is going to be very short here, and will probably end with something very large nibbling on you like an ice lolly.”

  “You won’t like it,” said Constable Peel solemnly. “It’ll hurt.”

  “In addition to this, you may have noticed that Constable Peel and I appear to be stranded, and we are therefore forced to commandeer your van in order to unstrand ourselves.”

  “Lovely,” said Dan. “I like a bit of company.”

  “What about us?” asked Jolly.