“How did you know that?”
“Because I’ve helped him too. I’ve seen his vehicle. It broke down, and I helped him and his servant, Wormwood, to repair it. Then they insisted upon disguising the car, so I aided them with that as well. Mind you, they seemed intent upon disguising it as a rock, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, but he’s a strange one, that Nurd. I rather liked him.”
“He’s my friend,” said Samuel. “If he knew I was here, he’d help me.”
“Oh, he knows you’re here,” said the Blacksmith.
“How?”
“He can feel you.” The Blacksmith patted his chest, just where his heart once beat when he lived and perhaps still did, in some strange way. “Can’t you feel him too?”
Samuel closed his eyes, and thought hard. He pictured Nurd in his head, and remembered what they had spoken of in Samuel’s bedroom when Nurd had first appeared to him. He recalled Nurd’s joy at the taste of a jelly bean, and his own surprise that Nurd had never before had anyone whom he could call a friend. He opened his heart to Nurd, and suddenly he had an image of him, an odd, ferretlike creature beside him that could only have been Wormwood, Nurd’s hands gripping the wheel of the Aston Martin that had, until recently, been the proudest possession of Samuel’s dad.
Then the image changed, and he saw Nurd and Wormwood standing beside—
Hang on, was that an ice-cream van?
Samuel called out to Nurd. He called out with his voice, and his heart. He called out with all the hope that he had left, and all his faith in the automobile-loving demon who was his friend.
He called out, and Nurd answered.
In Which Nurd Considers Changing His Name to “Nurd, Unlucky in Numerous Dimensions”
NURD, THE FORMER SCOURGE of Five Deities, now reformed, wondered how much bad luck a demon could have. First of all, he’d been banished to the Wasteland with Wormwood, where they had spent a very, very long time getting to know each other and wishing that they hadn’t. It had been aeons of utter monotony, broken only by the capacity of Wormwood’s body to produce the most extraordinary odors, and Nurd amusing himself by hitting Wormwood hard on the head with a scepter in return. Then, in the manner of a great many buses arriving together after you’ve been standing in the rain for hours waiting for just one, Nurd had found himself sent back and forth through a hole in space and time on no fewer than four occasions, causing his body to be stretched and then compressed in a most uncomfortable manner, as well as being crushed by a vacuum cleaner, hit by a truck, dropped down a sewer, and then forced to face the wrath of the armies of Hell by undoing the Great Malevolence’s plan to invade Earth. What was more, he had managed to annoy two policemen, the very same policemen who were now staring at him balefully while surrounded by four hostile-looking dwarfs and a shortsighted ice-cream salesman.
It’s just not fair, thought Nurd. All I wanted was a quiet life, and maybe some candy and an ice cream.
Constable Peel removed his notebook in an officious manner, licked the tip of his pencil, and prepared to write.
“Ready, Sarge,” he said.
“List of charges,” began Sergeant Rowan. “Evading arrest. Leaving the scene of a crime, namely an attack on a house of worship by assorted dead people. Soiling a police vehicle.”
“I never did,” said Nurd.
“You made it smell,” said Sergeant Rowan.
“I fell down a sewer.”
“Nevertheless, our car has never smelled right since. Causes Constable Peel here to feel nauseous on a regular basis.”
“And it makes my uniform pong,” said Constable Peel. “It undermines my authority, having a smelly uniform.”
Nurd was tempted to suggest that the main factor undermining Constable Peel’s authority was Constable Peel himself, but decided against it. He was in enough trouble already.
“What else do we have, Constable?” asked Sergeant Rowan.
“Immigration offenses?” suggested Constable Peel.
“Right you are. Improper entry. Entering Britain without a proper visa. Entering Britain without a passport. Illegal alien, you are.”
“I’m not an alien,” Nurd corrected. “I’m a demon.”
“Don’t nitpick. You were an illegal immigrant.”
“I didn’t immigrate,” said Nurd. “I was sent against my will.”
“You can explain it to the judge,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now we get on to the really interesting stuff. Damage to private property. Theft of a privately owned vehicle. Driving without a proper license. Driving without insurance. Speeding. Theft of a police vehicle. They’re going to throw away the key for you, Sonny Jim. They’ll put you away for so long that by the time you get out we’ll all be living on other planets.”
Nurd folded his arms. He whistled, scratched his pointy chin, then tapped his fingers against it, all of which served to communicate the following message: Hmm, I’m thinking here, and I seem to have spotted a fatal flaw in all that you’ve just told me.
“Forgive me for pointing this out, officers, but I wasn’t aware that you had jurisdiction in Hell. Biddlecombe: yes. Hell: I think not.”
“Got you there, Sergeant,” said Jolly, sticking his oar in and splashing it about merrily. “Old Moonface is a bit of a jailhouse lawyer.”
“You keep quiet,” said Constable Peel. “You lot are in enough trouble of your own.”
“Oooh,” said Dozy. “Make sure you add ‘stealing ice cream’ to our list of charges. We’ll get life for that.”
“Listen, you,” said Sergeant Rowan, wagging his finger at Nurd and doing his best to ignore the Greek chorus31 of dwarfs, “you have a lot to answer for. You need to come down to the station and explain yourself.”
“You know, I’d actually be happy to do that,” said Nurd. “Unfortunately, I, like you, am stuck here in Hell, and there are more pressing problems to consider.”
“Such as?”
“You’re not the only humans in Hell.”
“What do you mean? Who else is here?”
“Samuel Johnson and his dog.”
Sergeant Rowan frowned. Nurd could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. Sergeant Rowan had been one of the first on the scene after the portal closed, but he’d never managed to find out the full story. He only knew that Samuel had effectively saved the Earth, aided by an unknown person in a stolen Aston Martin who—
Who had bravely driven it into the portal, causing it to collapse.
Sergeant Rowan took a few steps forward and examined the moving rock. More particularly, he examined the wheels of the rock, and then peered into the interior of the disguised car.
“Constable Peel, do you still have your notebook open?” he said.
“Yes, Sarge.”
“You know that page you’ve just filled with all of the charges against Mr. Nurd here?”
“Yes, Sarge. I’ve written them all down very neatly, in case the judge wants to read them for himself.”
“Tear it out and throw it away, there’s a good lad.”
“But—”
“No buts. Just do as I say.”
With considerable reluctance, Constable Peel did as he was told. He tore the page into little pieces and dropped them on the ground.
“Littering,” said a small, cheery voice from somewhere around his belly button. “That’s a fifty-quid fine.”
“Shut up,” said Constable Peel.
“It seems I may owe you an apology, sir,” said Sergeant Rowan.
“No, not really,” said Nurd. “I did all of the things that you said, or most of them anyway.”
“Well, I think you may have made up for them. Now, what’s this about Samuel Johnson?”
And Nurd did his best to explain how he had felt Samuel’s presence, and how he believed that it was Mrs. Abernathy who had been responsible for dragging Samuel and by extension the policemen, the dwarfs, and Dan, Dan the Ice-Cream Man to Hell.
“And what do you suggest we do about that?
” asked Sergeant Rowan.
“We find Samuel, and then we try to discover the location of the gateway so we can get you all home,” said Nurd.
“You seem very sure that there is a gateway.”
“There has to be. Even here, certain laws apply. Wherever it is, it has to be close to Mrs. Abernathy. I do have one question for you, though.”
“And what’s that?” said Sergeant Rowan.
“What is that terrible music?”
“It’s ‘(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window?’” said Constable Peel glumly.
“Woof-woof,” said Angry, mainly out of force of habit. (He was Pavlov’s Dwarf.32)
“I told you,” said Dan. “I can’t turn it off if the engine is on, and I’m a bit worried about turning the engine off and leaving us stuck here.”
As he spoke Wormwood opened the door of the van, peered beneath the dashboard, and fiddled about a bit. Instantly, the music stopped.
“Thank you,” said Constable Peel. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you didn’t look like a rodent, smell funny, and have what I suspect may be a number of easily communicable diseases, I might even hug you.”
“Nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Wormwood replied. He sniffled, and wiped away a little tear.
“That is a relief,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now, where’s Samuel?”
Nurd pointed to his left. “I think he’s over there somewhere.”
“Then over there somewhere is where we’re going. Lead on, sir.”
Nurd and Wormwood returned to their car while the policemen and the dwarfs climbed back into the ice-cream van with Dan.
“Hey, what was that song again?” said Dozy, followed quickly by the words “Ow!” and “Never mind” as Constable Peel made his disapproval of such questions felt.
Nurd started the ignition on the Aston Martin and pulled ahead of the van, which was soon rumbling along behind them.
Wormwood tapped Nurd on the arm.
“Look what I found in the van,” he said.
In his hand he held a bag of jelly beans.
“If you ever tell anyone I said this, I shall deny it,” said Nurd, “but, Wormwood, you’re a marvel…”
XXII
In Which We Learn That There Is Always Hope, as Long as One Chooses Not to Abandon It
SAMUEL’S FACE WORE A smile for the first time since he had arrived in that desolate place. He turned to the Blacksmith and said: “You were right! Nurd heard me. I know he heard me!”
But instead of congratulating him, the Blacksmith grabbed Samuel and Boswell and threw them behind a Russian T–34 tank that was lying on its side nearby, its tracks shredded and its innards exposed by a hole that had been ripped in its armor. For a moment Samuel thought that he had misjudged the Blacksmith and, like Old Ram, he was about to betray them, until the Blacksmith whispered to him to be quiet and stay still. Samuel saw shapes moving across the sky, their tattered wings beating, their keen eyes scouring the land below. Then the ground began to tremble, and Samuel heard the beating of hooves, and a voice said, “Greetings, Blacksmith.”
Samuel peered around the side of the tank, his hand around Boswell’s muzzle to prevent him from barking. Above the Blacksmith loomed a black horse, five times taller than the Blacksmith himself, with the wings of a bat and yellow eyes that glowed like molten gold set into its skull. Black blood dripped from its mouth where it was biting on its bridle, and its hooves struck sparks upon the stony ground. In its saddle sat a demon with two pale horns protruding from his skull, the horns, like those of some great bull, so long and heavy it seemed almost impossible that he should be able to hold his head upright upon his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, his skin very pale, and his eyes bright with a wit and intelligence that made the cruelty writ upon his features seem somehow more terrible. He wore armor of red and gold, and a red cloak that was clasped at his neck with a tusk of bone. The cloak billowed behind him even though there was no wind to carry it, so that it seemed to have a life of its own, to be a weapon in its own right, a shroud that could suffocate and consume. The rider’s saddle was heavy with weapons: a saber, a spiked mace, and an array of knives with ornate, twisted blades.
“My Lord Abigor,” said the Blacksmith. “I was not expecting such illustrious company.”
Abigor pulled back on the horse’s reins, causing it to rear up before the Blacksmith, its monstrous front hooves barely inches from his head, but the man did not flinch. Abigor, seeing that his effort to frighten the Blacksmith had proved fruitless, turned the horse and let its hooves once again touch the ground.
“If I did not know better, I might have said that I detected a tone of mockery in your voice,” said Abigor.
“I would not dare, my lord.”
“Oh, but you would, Blacksmith. Your skill in forging my weapons only buys you a little tolerance. Be careful how you spend it.”
The Blacksmith hung his head in shame. “You made me forge them, on pain of greater torment. I would not have done so otherwise.”
“I do recall your misguided attempt at defiance. If I remember correctly, it died when I threatened to sever your toes.”
The Blacksmith’s jaw tightened, and Samuel felt his anger. Despite Abigor’s fearsome aspect, the Blacksmith was barely restraining himself from an attack. Abigor released his hold on the reins and spread his arms wide, as though daring an assault, but the Blacksmith did not take the bait, and Abigor once again resumed his hold upon the horse.
“I find that pain focuses the mind wonderfully,” continued Abigor. “Do you need help in that department again, Blacksmith? I would be happy to oblige if I decide that you are withholding information from me.”
The Blacksmith raised his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lord.”
“I seek a boy. He is a trespasser. He can’t be allowed to wander freely, and I have reason to believe that he is in this area.”
“I have seen no boy. I have had no visitors since last your lordship came to me.”
“I detect no sense of sorrow that so long has passed without contact between us.”
“I will not lie to you, my lord. You come to me only when you need weapons, and it pains me to forge such implements. It is why I ended up here, and I wish now that I had not been so eager to please men of power in my past life.”
“Regrets, Blacksmith, make poor currency. You can’t buy back with them what you most desire.”
“Which would be, my lord?” asked the Blacksmith, sensing that Abigor was waiting for the question to be asked.
“The past,” said Abigor. “You are being punished for what you have done. Were it so easy to make up for one’s failings, then Hell would be empty.”
“And would that be such a bad thing, my lord?”
“Only for its demons, Blacksmith. Without beings like you to humiliate, our existences would be significantly duller.”
Abigor stared at the weapons and devices scattered across the sands. “And yet what invention you creatures display,” he said, “what skill, all put to one end: the destruction of those most like yourselves. Sometimes, I wonder if the real demons already rule the Earth.”
“We put our skills to other uses too,” said the Blacksmith. “We cure. We help. We protect.”
“Do you, now? But which skill does your kind value more: the willingness to help another, or the ability to wipe him out of existence?”
The Blacksmith looked down, unable to meet Abigor’s eyes. As he did so he saw the tracks left by Boswell and Samuel in the sand. He shifted position slightly so that his body hid them, then slowly he began to move away from Abigor, erasing the marks with his feet as he did so.
“You back away, Blacksmith,” said Abigor. “Do you fear me so much?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Abigor tapped a clawed finger upon the horn of his saddle.
“You know, I am tempted to doubt your word. You hate me, almost as much as you hate yourself, but I don’t think that
you truly fear me, and I know that you do not respect me. You are a peculiar man, Blacksmith, but perhaps such strangeness comes with your gifts. And you have seen no sign of a boy, you say?”
“No, I have not,” said the Blacksmith. The traces of paws and footprints were now entirely gone from Abigor’s sight. Samuel noticed that the Blacksmith’s voice had changed, and he no longer referred to the demon Abigor as “my lord.”
“But would you tell me if you had, Blacksmith? I have always suspected your loyalties. Sometimes I wonder how you ended up here. I fear there may be a spark of goodness in you, a flicker of conscience, that has not yet been extinguished. One might even call it hope.”
“I have no hope. I left it in my past life.”
Abigor leaned forward. He drew back his lips, exposing perfect white fangs.
“But not your talent for weaponry. There is a war coming, Blacksmith. You may have thought yourself forgotten by others, but the promise of conflict will recall you to them once again. My rivals will seek you out for your skills. What will you do then, Blacksmith?”
“I will turn them down.”
“Will you, now? I think not. Their capacity for inflicting hurt is almost as great as mine. Almost, but not quite. Even if you were loyal to me, which you are not, your loyalty would not be great enough to stand against such pain. So I have decided to demonstrate both my wisdom and my mercy by relieving you of the burden of being forced to betray me in order to end your suffering.”
Abigor drew his saber, and with a single slashing motion he cut off the Blacksmith’s head. The sword rose and fell, rose and fell, over and over until the Blacksmith lay in pieces upon the ground. The Blacksmith’s eyes still blinked, and his hands still moved, the fingers clawing at the dirt like the legs of insects. No blood flowed from his wounds, but his face was contorted with agony. From the sky, an imp descended. It picked up the Blacksmith’s hands and flew away with them while Abigor stared down at the work of his sword.
“Even were someone to reconstitute you, you could do nothing without your hands. Good-bye, Blacksmith. We will not meet again.”