whole geography of Hell,
including demons wandering hither and yon to gobble hapless victims. At the
highest point of my ascent, a canyon of wet teeth await. A wind of rank, wet
breath buffets me with a stink worse than the communal toilets at Ecology
Clamp. There heaves a monstrous tongue carpeted with taste buds the size of red
mushrooms. All of this ringed by lips as fat as greased tractor tires.
The hand brings me to the mouth, where my arms stretch to brace against
the upper lip. My feet push against the lower lip, and like a fishbone I hold
myself too wide and rigid to be swallowed. Under my hands, the lips feel
surprisingly plush, leathery like a banquette in a good restaurant, but very
warm. Like touching the upholstery of a Jaguar someone's just driven from Paris
to Rennes.
So vast is the demon's face that all I can see is the mouth. In my
peripheral vision, I'm vaguely aware of eyes above me, broad and glassy as
department store windows, except curved outward, bulging. Those eyes, fenced by
the black pickets of huge eyelashes. I'm conscious of a nose the size of a mud
hut with two open doorways, each door hung with a curtain of fine nostril hairs.
The hand pushes me against the teeth. The tongue thrusts to make wet
contact with the buttoned front of my cardigan sweater.
In the moment I am resigned to my immediate fate, to be masticated and
swallowed, my bones cast aside like the skeleton of every Cornish game hen I've
ever eaten, at that instant the mouth screams. What occurs seems less like a
scream than an air-raid siren blasting point-blank into my face. My hair, my
cheeks and clothing, these are all blown and rippling, snapping like a flag in a
hurricane.
One of my Bass Weejuns slips from my foot, falling, tumbling, dropping
to land on the ground beside a tiny figure sporting a bold blue Mohawk. Even at
this distance, I can see it's Archer standing beside the giant's sizable bare
foot. Having removed the oversize safety pin from his cheek, Archer is plunging
the point, repeatedly removing it and plunging it, again and again, into the
arch of the demon's foot.
In the melee which ensues, I feel myself half dropped, half heaved, half
lowered until I land in the soft, scratchy fingernails. The same moment as my
impact, hands grasp me, human hands, Leonard's hands, and pull me to shelter
beneath the slurry of nail parings... but not before I see the same parachute
hand which caught me now catch Archer and lift him—cursing, kicking his boots,
slashing with his pin—to where the teeth snap shut, and in a single bite
guillotine off his vivid blue head.
IX.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. Before I tell you the following
you must promise, cross your heart and hope to die, that you won't EVER share
this secret with another person. I mean it. You see, I'm well aware that you're
the Prince of Lies, hut I need you to swear. You'll have to guarantee your
confidentiality if we're to have a relationship of any significant depth and
honesty.
Last winter, if you must know, I found myself alone at boarding school
during the holiday break. It goes without saying that I'm recounting an event
from my past life. Christmas occurred to my parents as just another ordinary
day, and the rest of my classmates were leaving for ski vacations or Greek
islands, so, for my part, there was nothing to do except put on a game face and
assure them, girl by girl, that my own family would be along at any moment to
collect me. That final day of autumn term, the residence hall emptied out. The
dining hall shut down. As did the lecture halls. Even the faculty departed the
campus with their packed bags, leaving me in almost complete solitude.
I say "almost" because a night watchman, possibly a team of
them, continued to prowl the school grounds, checking locked doors and turning
down thermostats, their flashlight beams occasionally sweeping the landscape at
night like searchlights in an old prison movie.
A month previous, my
including demons wandering hither and yon to gobble hapless victims. At the
highest point of my ascent, a canyon of wet teeth await. A wind of rank, wet
breath buffets me with a stink worse than the communal toilets at Ecology
Clamp. There heaves a monstrous tongue carpeted with taste buds the size of red
mushrooms. All of this ringed by lips as fat as greased tractor tires.
The hand brings me to the mouth, where my arms stretch to brace against
the upper lip. My feet push against the lower lip, and like a fishbone I hold
myself too wide and rigid to be swallowed. Under my hands, the lips feel
surprisingly plush, leathery like a banquette in a good restaurant, but very
warm. Like touching the upholstery of a Jaguar someone's just driven from Paris
to Rennes.
So vast is the demon's face that all I can see is the mouth. In my
peripheral vision, I'm vaguely aware of eyes above me, broad and glassy as
department store windows, except curved outward, bulging. Those eyes, fenced by
the black pickets of huge eyelashes. I'm conscious of a nose the size of a mud
hut with two open doorways, each door hung with a curtain of fine nostril hairs.
The hand pushes me against the teeth. The tongue thrusts to make wet
contact with the buttoned front of my cardigan sweater.
In the moment I am resigned to my immediate fate, to be masticated and
swallowed, my bones cast aside like the skeleton of every Cornish game hen I've
ever eaten, at that instant the mouth screams. What occurs seems less like a
scream than an air-raid siren blasting point-blank into my face. My hair, my
cheeks and clothing, these are all blown and rippling, snapping like a flag in a
hurricane.
One of my Bass Weejuns slips from my foot, falling, tumbling, dropping
to land on the ground beside a tiny figure sporting a bold blue Mohawk. Even at
this distance, I can see it's Archer standing beside the giant's sizable bare
foot. Having removed the oversize safety pin from his cheek, Archer is plunging
the point, repeatedly removing it and plunging it, again and again, into the
arch of the demon's foot.
In the melee which ensues, I feel myself half dropped, half heaved, half
lowered until I land in the soft, scratchy fingernails. The same moment as my
impact, hands grasp me, human hands, Leonard's hands, and pull me to shelter
beneath the slurry of nail parings... but not before I see the same parachute
hand which caught me now catch Archer and lift him—cursing, kicking his boots,
slashing with his pin—to where the teeth snap shut, and in a single bite
guillotine off his vivid blue head.
IX.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. Before I tell you the following
you must promise, cross your heart and hope to die, that you won't EVER share
this secret with another person. I mean it. You see, I'm well aware that you're
the Prince of Lies, hut I need you to swear. You'll have to guarantee your
confidentiality if we're to have a relationship of any significant depth and
honesty.
Last winter, if you must know, I found myself alone at boarding school
during the holiday break. It goes without saying that I'm recounting an event
from my past life. Christmas occurred to my parents as just another ordinary
day, and the rest of my classmates were leaving for ski vacations or Greek
islands, so, for my part, there was nothing to do except put on a game face and
assure them, girl by girl, that my own family would be along at any moment to
collect me. That final day of autumn term, the residence hall emptied out. The
dining hall shut down. As did the lecture halls. Even the faculty departed the
campus with their packed bags, leaving me in almost complete solitude.
I say "almost" because a night watchman, possibly a team of
them, continued to prowl the school grounds, checking locked doors and turning
down thermostats, their flashlight beams occasionally sweeping the landscape at
night like searchlights in an old prison movie.
A month previous, my
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