Lawyers in Hell (34 page)

“Follow the stream?” Wendell waved in the direction of the stream’s flow.

Simpson nodded.  “Follow the stream.”

After several minutes of walking along the stream, Simpson said, “I suppose there’s the quick way out of here.”

Wendell stopped.  “Quick way?”

Simpson turned to face him.  “The Undertaker.”

“Have you actually
been
to the Undertaker?”

“Well, no, but….”

Wendell shook his head.  “I have.  Several times.  It’s not pleasant.”

“Worse than this?”  Simpson’s gesture took in their surroundings, the snakes, and the probably poisonous stream.

Wendell nodded.  “Worse than this.  Besides….”  He stopped.

“Besides?”

“Every time I’m restored, I end up waist deep in that same damn lake of boiling blood.  Every time.”

“Good Lord!”

“I guess it’s some kind of personal punishment,” Wendell said.  “I have no idea what I did to deserve it, though.”

“What do you do when you end up there?”

Wendell sighed and shook his head.  “Mostly I scream a lot.  Eventually, I’m able to drag myself out and make my way back to New Hell.  Last time, though, well, looks like I was taken in by the wrong crowd.”  And the plot he had been pulled into had put him here, where one incautious step could send him right back to the Undertaker and the lake of boiling blood.  Yet. again.

The dim, unchanging light made time hard to judge, but Wendell guessed another hour had passed before Simpson hauled up short.  “What’s our supply of rocks like?”

“My pockets are full,” Wendell said.  “Why?”

“I think I see some color over there.”  Simpson pointed in the direction of a looming shadow in the distance, a shadow that seemed to go up forever.

Wendell squinted but all he could see was gray, darker where the shadow was, and lighter elsewhere.  “Your eyes must be better than mine.”

Some time later, Wendell carefully stepped over yet another snake.  “Are the snakes getting thicker here?”

Simpson didn’t answer.

“Colonel?”  Wendell looked up and froze.

While Wendell had been watching the ground for the increasingly numerous snakes, the shadow ahead of them had resolved into the largest tree Wendell had ever seen, its trunk so wide that its expanse was lost in the fog.  Its height?  Well, there was no imagining where the tree’s canopy might end, somewhere above them.

It was not, however, only the tree that drew Wendell’s attention.  There was a snake gnawing on the tree’s root.  And what a snake.  The head alone was the size of a two-story house.  The body?  The body of the snake was lost in the distance.  How far it extended Wendell did not know.  The snake was the source of the color that Simpson had said he saw.  Its head was black with a bright yellow band around the neck.  The body alternated in bands of black, then yellow, then red with irregular black spots, then yellow, then black once more.

Simpson stood frozen, staring at the snake.  “Red touches black, he’s a friend of Jack.”  Simpson whispered, “Red touches yellow, he’s a deadly fellow.”

“Colonel?”  Wendell said again, touching Simpson’s arm.

“We need to go back to the stream now,” Simpson said, “very, very slowly.”

That would do you no good, Midgarders
, the voice sounded in Wendell’s head.  “Midgarder,” Wendell vaguely remembered the term “Midgarder” from Norse myth.  He did not know much about Norse myth having studied Classical in college.  The snake released its hold on the tree’s root and turned toward them. 
I could snatch you before you could take a single step.

“He’s talking in my head!” Simpson said.

Yes, Midgarder,
the snake said. 
I am talking in your head.  And you are talking with your mouth, a rather crude and noisy way of talking but all you Midgarders are capable of.
 The snake reared up until its head was almost lost to sight in the fog then lunged toward them, stopping with its mouth a few feet above their heads.  Its fangs, though small for the size of that head, were nevertheless longer than one of Wendell’s arms.  At least these fangs did not drip venom.

And now, Midgarder, is there any telling you can tell for why I should not swallow you, small though you are?

“Who are you?” Wendell said.

I?  I amNidhogg, the
World Serpent
.  Nidhogg withdrew slightly. 
I am the one who crawls at the base of the World Ash Yggdrassil and gnaws of its root, filling it with venom that will sicken the tree and bring about Fimbulwinter in the End Times.  I am the death of the nine worlds.  Although Surtr, the fire giant, is fated to bring about the final burning, he could not, save for my work here.
  The snake pulled back still farther. 
So it is to be the game of questions?  Very well.  If I win, I shall devour you.  If you win, what shall be my forfeit?

Simpson broke in, “We just want to get out of here.”

Then so be it,
Nidhogg said. 
If you win the game of questions, I shall provide you with a guide who will show you the paths out of Niffelheim and to the worlds above.

Since you have asked first, I shall ask now.  Who are you?

Wendell looked at Simpson, who shrugged and motioned to Wendell to answer.  Wendell thought for a moment.  Nidhogg’s answer had had a poetic tone to it.  Very well, poetry and allegory it would be.  He would do his father proud.  “Wendell is my name.  I am the reader of law and the lawgiver.  I came from the preserver of life and became a giver of death.  I spoke with few and spoke for many.  I fought to preserve the law and fought to change the law.  I slew men with balls and three times the ball passed through me.  I went into death and came out alive.”

Well answered Midgarder,
Nidhogg said. 
And now, your question.

Wendell rubbed at his mustache as he thought.

Come, come, Midgarder.  Your question, please.

“Very well, serpent,” Wendell said.  “Long ago a sailor sailed to the west, seeking the East but found instead a new West.  Name him.”

Ah, you think to trick me, Midgarder.
 Nidhogg swayed above them. 
You are not the first New Dead to come before me and, like Wotan gained wisdom from Mirmir’s Well, so too do I gain the wisdom of those I devour.  His name was Bearer of the Slain God.  And Dove was his name.

Wendell had to think about the answer for a bit.  The Slain God would be Christ.  Bearer of Christ.  And Dove, in Latin, was
Colombanus.
  Nidhogg had simply translated the name.  “That is correct, Serpent.  Your turn.”

Very well, answer me well, if your wisdom avails, who is it that rules over the nine worlds, from his throne on high?

Simpson spoke before Wendell could form his reply, “The Almighty God.”

Such a simple answer?

“The Almighty God,” Wendell said.  “The father of men.  The bearer of burdens.  The most wise.  The Lord of all the Earth.  The Lord, protector of the faithful.  The Most High.  The One and the Three.  The answerer of prayers.  The mover of the stars.  The ruler of heaven.  The Slain God.”

Oh, Wonderful, Midgarder!
 Nidhogg pulled back farther and laid his head down on the ground next to them.  This did not reassure Wendell, as it merely emphasized how truly enormous Nidhogg was. 
All kennings of Wotan and yet also names for the God of so many of the New Dead.  Very clever.

Wendell caught his breath.  That had not been his intention.  He did not know what “kennings” were, let alone how they might apply to Wotan.  He had simply been using terms for God in ways that seemed to fit what he was coming to understand were the rules of this contest.  He supposed most beliefs of a supreme deity would be described in similar terms but he had been lucky.  He must be more careful in the future.  Luck was something on which he could not rely, not here, not in hell.

“Tell me, Serpent, if you know the answer, who brings despair to the damned in hell.”

A tricky question,
Nidhogg said. 
Some believe this and some believe that.  But all their beliefs fall short of the truth.  One of plagues shall come down.  Seven weapons shall he wield.  Lightning death will he deal and bright blue will his lightning burn.

Wendell hesitated.  That did not sound good at all.  He had heard of nothing like that, yet he suspected that to question it and yet have it prove true would be to lose the contest.  “Very well, snake.  Your question.”

Wendell lost track of how long the contest continued.  With each question Nidhogg asked, Wendell found it more difficult to form a meaningful answer.  From the expression on Simpson’s face he could see that Wendell was beginning to panic.

Well, enough, Midgarder,
Nidhogg said at last. 
Although I fear our contest shall soon draw to a close.  Ask your next question.

Simpson spoke up, “What have I got in my pockets?”

Nidhogg reared up. 
What question is this?

Simpson placed his hands on his hips and looked up at Nidhogg.  “You heard me.  What have I got in my pockets?”

Three guesses,
Nidhogg said. 
You must permit three guesses.

“So you accept the question,” Simpson said.  “So be it.  Three guesses it is.”

“What are you doing?” Wendell whispered in an aside.

“I met a writer shortly after I got here,” Simpson whispered back.  “He had a similar game in one of his books.  I remembered how it was won.”

“But….”

“We were losing, Holmes,” Simpson said.  “Don’t deny it.  I figured it was worth a shot.”

What do you have in your pockets?
 Nidhogg said. 
Hands.

“Nope,” Simpson said holding his hands out to the side.

I know the track you have been laying so I will say ‘rocks.’

“Wrong again.  I used the last of those back that way.”

Perhaps you thought to be tricky,
Nidhogg stretched forward, his tongue flicking out and the barest tip touching Simpson on the head. 
Very well, I say you have nothing in your pockets.

“And, wrong, a third time,” Simpson said.  Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single Diablo coin.  “I believe that means we win.”

Nidhogg pulled back yet more and settled his head to the ground once more. 
So it does, Midgarder.  So it does.  Very well, you shall have your guide, a guide to show you the ways out of Niffelhel and further out of Niffelheim.  Remain here.
  Nidhogg turned and disappeared into the mist.

“Should we leave now, before he gets back?” Simpson said.

“I don’t think so,” Wendell said.  “If he wanted to kill us, he could have done so easily enough.  A lot of these old religions hold things like this contest as sacred.  He may try to twist the meaning, hold to the letter while twisting the spirit, but I don’t think he’ll out-and-out cheat.”

*

Their guide was almost as disturbing as Nidhogg himself.  Of roughly human appearance the guide stood twelve feet high at the shoulder.  The shoulder was the highest point on him because his neck had been severed, and the giant carried his head in his arms.

This is Vafthruthnir,
Nidhogg said. 
He will show you the path out of Niffelhel and further to the bridge across the Gjöll, the river which borders Niffelheim, beyond which are the caverns that lead to the upper world.

“These are Midgarders,” said the head in the giant’s arms.  “I am to help such as these?”

You are to show them the paths,
Nidhogg said. 
See that they reach the bridge safely.  Your duty ends there.

“But….”

Challenge me not on this,
Nidhogg said. 
There are far worse fates one can face than having to carry one’s head until the coming of Ragnarok.

Vafthruthnir
seemed to sag.  “As you wish, Noble Serpent, the Death of the World.  As you wish.”

“What did he say?” Simpson asked Wendell.  “You understand them, right?”

Wendell nodded.  “The giant – his name’s Vafth– vafthtroo–”

Vafthruthnir,
Nidhogg said.

Wendell looked up at the snake then back to Simpson.  “The giant doesn’t want to help us.  The snake insisted.”

“A concise enough summary,” Vafthruthnir said.  He turned to face Wendell and Simpson.  “Come, Midgarders.  We have far to go.”

Wendell started to nod then stopped.  The giant wavered in front of him.  A moment later, he found himself sitting on the ground, his arm and ribs throbbing in time with his pulse.

“Holmes?”  Simpson’s voice seemed to come from far away.  “Holmes?  Oliver!  Look at me!”

Wendell looked up.  There were two of Simpson.  He giggled.  Simpson was beside himself.  One Simpson.  And another Simpson next to it.  Beside himself.  Wendell giggled again.

“Snake!” Simpson shouted.  “Is there anything…?”

This is your problem, Midgarder,
Nidhogg said. 
I have my own task to attend to.

“Useless serpent,” Simpson said.  “How about you, giant?  Can you help my companion…?”

Vafthruthnir did not respond.

“Of course.  He doesn’t speak English.”  Simpson turned back to Wendell.  “Focus, Oliver.  Stay with me.”

“Wendell,” he said.

“What?”

“I go by Wendell.  Oliver’s my father.”

“Okay,
Wendell
,” Simpson said with a slight smile.  “Stay with me.  Focus.”

Wendell nodded.  The two Simpsons slowly merged into one.

“I should have expected this,” Simpson said.  “A forced march on top of your injuries.  You must be one tough bastard to have lasted this long.”  He slid around until he was on Wendell’s uninjured side.  “If I help you, do you think you can stand up?”

“I’ll try.”

Simpson nodded and pulled Wendell’s arm across his shoulder, holding it at the wrist with one hand while reaching across Wendell’s back with the other to grasp his belt.  Wendell grunted as the movement jostled his broken arm.