Read Online The War Hound and the World's Pain by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Moorcock
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interesting in Hell.”
I found that I was amused. “Would that be an epigram to sum Hell up?” I asked.
“I doubt if such an epigram exists. Perhaps Luther would believe that it was. Do you wish to ask him?”
“He is here?”
“In this very city. It is called the City of Humbled Princes. It might have been built for him.”
I had no wish to encounter Martin Luther, either in Hell, in Heaven or on Earth. I must admit to a certain satisfaction at the knowledge that he had not gained his expected reward but doubtless shared territory in Hell with those churchmen he had most roundly condemned.
“I believe I understand what you mean,” I said.
“Oh, I think we both understand Pride, Captain von Bek,” said Lucifer almost cheerfully. “Shall I call Luther? He is very docile now.”
I shook my head.
Lucifer drew me on through the black streets. I looked at the faces of the citizens, and I knew that I would do almost anything to avoid becoming one of them. This damnation was surely a subtle one. It was their eyes which chiefly impressed me: hard and hopeless. Then it was their whispering voices: cold and without dignity. And then it was the city itself: without any saving humanity.
“This visit to Hell will be brief,” Lucifer reassured me. “But I believe it will convince you.”
We entered a huge, square building and passed into deeper blackness.
“Are there no flames here?” I asked Him. “No demons? No screaming sinners?”
“Few sinners receive that sort of satisfaction here,” said Lucifer.
We stood on the shores of a wide and shallow lake. The water was flat and livid. The light was grey and milky and there seemed no direct source for it. The sky was the same colour as the water.
Standing at intervals in the lake, for as far as I could see, naked men and women, waist-deep, were washing themselves.
The noise of the water was muffled and indistinct. The movements of the men and women were mechanical, as if they had been making the same gestures for eons. All were of similar height. All had the same dull flesh, the same lack of expression upon their faces. Their lips were silent. They gathered the water in their hands and poured it over their heads and bodies, moving like clockwork figures. But again it was their eyes which displayed their agony. They moved, it appeared to me, against their will, and yet could do nothing to stop themselves.
“Is this guilt?” I asked Lucifer. “Do they know themselves to be guilty of something?”
He smiled. He seemed particularly satisfied with this particular torment. “I think it is an imitation of guilt, captain. This is called the Lake of the False Penitents.”
“God is not tolerant,” I said. “Or so it would seem.”
“God is God,” said Lucifer. He shrugged. “It is for me to interpret His Will and to devise a variety of punishments for those who are refused Heaven.”
“So you continue to serve Him?”
“It could be.” Lucifer again seemed uncertain. “Yet of late I have begun to wonder if I have not misinterpreted Him. It is left to me, after all, to discover appropriate cruelties. But what if I am not supposed to punish them? What if I am supposed to show mercy?” I noted something very nearly pathetic in His voice.
“Are you given no instructions?” I asked somewhat weakly. “Tens of millions of souls might have suffered for nothing because of your failure!” I was incredulous.
“I am denied any communion with God, captain.” His tone sharpened. “Is that not obvious to you?”
“So you never know whether you please or displease Him? He sends you no sign?”
“For most of my time in Hell I never looked for one, captain. I am, as I have pointed out, forced to use human agents.”
“And you receive no word through such agents?”
“How can I trust them? I am excommunicate, Captain von Bek. The souls sent to me are at my mercy. I do with them as I wish, largely to relieve my own dreadful boredom.” He became
I found that I was amused. “Would that be an epigram to sum Hell up?” I asked.
“I doubt if such an epigram exists. Perhaps Luther would believe that it was. Do you wish to ask him?”
“He is here?”
“In this very city. It is called the City of Humbled Princes. It might have been built for him.”
I had no wish to encounter Martin Luther, either in Hell, in Heaven or on Earth. I must admit to a certain satisfaction at the knowledge that he had not gained his expected reward but doubtless shared territory in Hell with those churchmen he had most roundly condemned.
“I believe I understand what you mean,” I said.
“Oh, I think we both understand Pride, Captain von Bek,” said Lucifer almost cheerfully. “Shall I call Luther? He is very docile now.”
I shook my head.
Lucifer drew me on through the black streets. I looked at the faces of the citizens, and I knew that I would do almost anything to avoid becoming one of them. This damnation was surely a subtle one. It was their eyes which chiefly impressed me: hard and hopeless. Then it was their whispering voices: cold and without dignity. And then it was the city itself: without any saving humanity.
“This visit to Hell will be brief,” Lucifer reassured me. “But I believe it will convince you.”
We entered a huge, square building and passed into deeper blackness.
“Are there no flames here?” I asked Him. “No demons? No screaming sinners?”
“Few sinners receive that sort of satisfaction here,” said Lucifer.
We stood on the shores of a wide and shallow lake. The water was flat and livid. The light was grey and milky and there seemed no direct source for it. The sky was the same colour as the water.
Standing at intervals in the lake, for as far as I could see, naked men and women, waist-deep, were washing themselves.
The noise of the water was muffled and indistinct. The movements of the men and women were mechanical, as if they had been making the same gestures for eons. All were of similar height. All had the same dull flesh, the same lack of expression upon their faces. Their lips were silent. They gathered the water in their hands and poured it over their heads and bodies, moving like clockwork figures. But again it was their eyes which displayed their agony. They moved, it appeared to me, against their will, and yet could do nothing to stop themselves.
“Is this guilt?” I asked Lucifer. “Do they know themselves to be guilty of something?”
He smiled. He seemed particularly satisfied with this particular torment. “I think it is an imitation of guilt, captain. This is called the Lake of the False Penitents.”
“God is not tolerant,” I said. “Or so it would seem.”
“God is God,” said Lucifer. He shrugged. “It is for me to interpret His Will and to devise a variety of punishments for those who are refused Heaven.”
“So you continue to serve Him?”
“It could be.” Lucifer again seemed uncertain. “Yet of late I have begun to wonder if I have not misinterpreted Him. It is left to me, after all, to discover appropriate cruelties. But what if I am not supposed to punish them? What if I am supposed to show mercy?” I noted something very nearly pathetic in His voice.
“Are you given no instructions?” I asked somewhat weakly. “Tens of millions of souls might have suffered for nothing because of your failure!” I was incredulous.
“I am denied any communion with God, captain.” His tone sharpened. “Is that not obvious to you?”
“So you never know whether you please or displease Him? He sends you no sign?”
“For most of my time in Hell I never looked for one, captain. I am, as I have pointed out, forced to use human agents.”
“And you receive no word through such agents?”
“How can I trust them? I am excommunicate, Captain von Bek. The souls sent to me are at my mercy. I do with them as I wish, largely to relieve my own dreadful boredom.” He became
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