Lebeau led the way down one more flight. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs.
Chapter 12
Sixth Circle
The Heretics
* * *
The sepulchers make all the place uneven;
So likewise did they there on every side,
Saving that there the manner was more bitter;
For flames between the sepulchers were scattered,
By which they so intently heated were,
That iron more so asks not any art.
All of their coverings uplifted were,
And from them issued forth such dire laments
Sooth seemed they of the wretched and tormented.
The air was thick with smoke. It stank of burned vegetation with a whiff of burned meat. Despite the smoke I could see great distances. The area in front of us was filled with tombs, mostly marble.
The nearest tomb was about twenty yards from the door where we stood. Beyond it was a field of closed tombs and open–topped sepulchers, and between those were bright fires. There were far more sepulchers than tombs, and beside each open sepulcher was a heavy stone lid. The tombs were already sealed. Here and there were statues. One showed a warrior king, and a shield with Crusader cross. The statue’s face was concealed in an iron helmet with silver crown, and he held a large hand–and–a–half sword. The statue stood above a sealed tomb.
“I will leave you here,” Lebeau said. “Unless I can help you with anything else?”
“There’s so much I need to know!”
“And so little that I do know,” Lebeau said. “May I say I admire your determination?”
“Thank you, but I’d rather have answers.” I pointed at the sealed tomb of the warrior king. “Him. He’s sealed in there. As a heretic. Does he deserve to be in there forever? Does anyone deserve that? Awake, aware, tormented, forever?”
Lebeau shrugged. “I would think not, but it is not for me to say.”
“So how do I get him out? Him or anyone?”
“Perhaps that one can help you.” Lebeau pointed to one of the big open–topped sepulchers. A man dressed in black robes with a black sash stood watching us. There was a large fire next to his sepulcher. Flames licked around him, but he didn’t seem particularly affected by them. He began shouting through the flames.
“Heretics! I was condemned as a heretic, and you are the heretics! You, Lebeau!”
“Who is that?”
“Monsignor Bruno did not accept the Vatican Two decrees,” Lebeau said. “I did accept them. I knew Monsignor Bruno well, and we argued the merits of the decrees. Because he would not accept the Vatican Two decisions, a papal order deprived him of office and authority. He would not accept that, or any of the other decrees. That indeed made him a heretic. He accepts that, but does not repent.”
“You’ve talked to him since he came here?”
“A few times. He is very bitter.”
“Do you blame him?”
Lebeau looked pained. “I try not to think of such things. I am not a judge. I do not sit in judgment. I do hope to continue in the work of creation.”
“Creation? Here?”
“Why not? John Paul the Second issued an encyclical. A papal bull called Laborem Exercens, On Human Work. God expected humans to assist in continued creation on Earth. If mankind is expected to aid in the creation of the universe, why not here?”
“Popes are important here. But Dante put some of them in the Inferno.”
Lebeau grinned. “He did indeed. But they are also the keepers of the keys. What they say is important even if they are not all good men.” He seemed very earnest. “And now I must leave you. Unlike my superiors, I do wish you good luck and success, Carpenter. I would follow you if I did not think myself bound by my promises of service to Girard.”
I said, “Girard seduced Rosemary into staying. I sure don’t owe him anything.”
He smiled. “No.”
We shook hands. “I wish you well at your trial,” I told him.
“Thank you.” He went back inside the wall and closed the door.
“Run away, Lebeau! Coward! You will not stay to dispute with me!”
I made my way over to the shouting man. His sepulcher was adorned with a carved coat of arms. The fire was close to the sepulcher, and the stone sides radiated an uncomfortable heat. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable. I could see over the edge, to where scores of prone human shapes formed a slumberous carpet; but when I got that close, heat flared and drove me back.
He regarded me coldly. “How do you wander freely in Hell? Have you joined the demons, like Lebeau?”
“No,” I told him. “You could come with me. What keeps you in there? It can’t be much fun. Jump out. I’ll help you.”
I think he considered it for a moment, but his answer was prompt enough. “I was placed here as a heretic. It is a monumental act of injustice.”
“So come out. Follow me! If it’s unjust for you to be there, there’s sure no crime in escaping.”
“It is unjust that I be here at all!”
“In what way?”
“I have —” He frowned at me with suspicion. “Just who art thou?” he said. Those weren’t his exact words, but it’s what I heard.
“I be Allen Carpenter.”
“Hast thou gone by other names?” Again that wasn’t what he said, but it’s what I understood. I realized he had changed languages with each question.
“I called myself Carpentier when I was an author,” I said. “But Carpentier wasn’t a very nice man. He’s gone.”
“And are you an educated man?”
“No. I understand you because I have the gift of tongues,” I said.
“You are a saint in Hell?”
“I think the gift of tongues is distributed a lot more widely than we all thought.”
“Apparently.”
“So come with me,” I said. “It can’t be comfortable in there.”
He scowled at me. He reached for the rim of his prison, and the metal flared orange–white. We both fell back from the heat. His palms smoked.
Frustrated anger leaped in me. Girard had seduced Rosemary back into Hell, and what had I done to stop him? This man was trapped because he held a different opinion from the Catholic Church on matters I didn’t even understand. How could this be justice?
I looked at the stone lid propped against Bruno’s sepulcher. Slide that into place as a bridge … but it must weigh as much as a small car. I’d need an army. There was an army in the sepulcher …
“Leap out,” I said. “Vault over the edge. It will hurt, God knows it will hurt, but you’ll be able to bear it and you’ll heal.”
“I am afraid.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I won’t lie to you, getting out of there may not even be the hardest part of getting out of Hell. But you can do it!”
Bruno said, “Why must I endure a terrible ordeal to escape this sepulcher? I was unfairly put in this place. I have remained true to the Church. I do not belong in Hell. Or if I do, it should be for deeds, for lapses in chastity, but never for heresy!”
“Monsignor, it’s unfair for anyone to be in Hell for heresy!”
“As I have told him often enough.” A tall and distinguished man walked around the far corner of the sepulcher. He bowed his head slightly. “Charles Francis Adams, at your service.”
“Son of John Quincy Adams?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of me?”
“Sir, there was a time when every American schoolkid had heard of you,” I said. “But what in Hell — excuse me. What in the world are you doing in Hell?”
“Heresy,” Adams said. “But in fairness, I had to insist.”
“Insist? Now I really am confused,” I told him.
“I was originally placed with the Virtuous Pagans,” Adams said. “I insisted that I was no pagan. I was of that branch of the Unitarian Church that held Christ in special esteem —”
“But not as Son of
God!” Monsignor Bruno insisted.
“Perhaps as Son of God. Not as God Himself. I take monotheism seriously.”
“Arianism!” Bruno shouted. “The Arian heresy almost destroyed the Church!”
Adams shrugged. “What I do not take seriously is narrow religious rules,” Adams said. “Surely it is enough that one lives a good life? Follow the Golden Rule. Surely that is more important than believing some point of doctrine? Even one as important as the nature of Jesus Christ.”
“You won’t get me to argue with that,” I said.
“I could find no one to argue against that. Eventually I left the Virtuous Pagans and insisted that Minos judge me,” Adams said. “I even questioned his authority to do that, but he was convincing: he had the power, and he had it from God. So I submitted.”
“And he sent you here?”
“Rather reluctantly,” Adams said. “He actually suggested that I go back among the pagans, but I refused to do that.”
“So where is your tomb?”
“I have none. When I arrived it was clear there was no impediment to my traveling on. I am not confined.”
“Do you have the gift of tongues?”
Adams looked puzzled. “I never thought about it.”
“Ha! Dost thou comprehend this speech?” Monsignor Bruno demanded.
“Why, yes —”
“And this palaver, as well?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would say you have the gift,” Monsignor Bruno said. “Latin I know that you learned in school —”
“I did. Latin and Greek.”
“But I never thought to see if you understood Farsi or Aramaic,” Bruno said. “Both of which you now comprehend. It is apparent that you have the gift of tongues.”
Adams frowned. “But that was a mark of the Apostles!”
“And of saints,” Bruno said.
“I never believed in saints,” Adams said. “People aren’t perfect and never can be! Surely I have not become a saint? Tell me, Monsignor Bruno, are there languages you do not comprehend?”
“I have no gift of tongues,” Bruno said. “I understand only the nine languages I knew before I departed Earth.”
“We’re saints and you’re not?” I said. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well.” Adams looked inquiringly at me. “Sir, you have the advantage. I am Charles Francis Adams —”
“Allen Carpenter. Author. I died in 1975.”
“Almost a hundred years after me. Much has happened in those hundred years. Mr. Carpenter, could it not be that it makes perfect sense? Let me explain. Do we not all agree that this world is governed by reason?”
“I’d like to believe that,” I said. “But I’m not sure the evidence is in favor of it.”
“God’s will does not conflict with right reason,” Bruno said. “It cannot. But we do not always understand what is God’s true intent.”
“I will take that as agreement,” Adams said. He turned to Bruno. “You assert that the Roman Church is infallible, but when it decided against your views, you did not accept that. Certainly that makes you a heretic, and you have your place here, by your own choice.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I choose to be here. I do not believe I am a heretic. I believe that reason governs, reason reigns supreme. It is not reasonable to confine men and women to eternal torment! Therefore there is a way to leave this place, a way for all. If there is not, I deserve confinement as a heretic!”
“But you aren’t confined,” I said.
“I see that you understand me. Nor is Monsignor Bruno confined, any more than was his predecessor in that sepulcher.”
“There was a predecessor there?” I demanded.
“Yes. Another monsignor, who dissented from the Vatican Council of 1870. He would not accept that the Pope is infallible. The monsignor arrived not long after I insisted that Minos judge me. I persuaded him to leave.”
“How did he get out?”
“He jumped. It was terrible. He was burned everywhere, and I had to pull him from the flames. But he healed. He healed rapidly, so rapidly that had I not already been convinced of where I was, I certainly believed after that.”
“Did he escape?” I asked.
Adams shrugged. “He healed. Like me he had read Dante, and understood the direction he had to go. He left chanting a Gloria in Latin, and I never saw him again.” He gestured widely. We could see an enormous field of tombs, with the Great Mausoleum in the distance. Above us were the walls of Dis, and far downward the air was too filthy to see through. “Of course I might not see him again in any case.”
“He left his place,” Bruno shouted. “He has found a worse place of punishment. He endured this —” Bruno moved to the edge of the sepulcher. Flames leaped and snarled. For a moment I thought he would come through them, but he fell back. “He endured all that for nothing. He disobeyed, and he will find a worse place of punishment.”
“What could be worse than to be sealed in that sepulcher forever?” Adams demanded. “Forever! It makes no more sense than slavery did. God cannot demand that! It cannot be reason!”
“You are fools,” Bruno said. “It must be reason, for God has decreed it. And look.” He pointed to the Crusader king’s tomb. “That one is already sealed in place. How would you set him free to wander through Hell? You can’t! He is there because God has willed that he be there.”
Adams turned to me. His tone was sad. “He has said this before. And I confess I have no answer.”
“And that’s what keeps you here? That this king can’t escape?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Certainly one reason.”
I looked about me angrily. “Give me something to write with. Chalk, charcoal —” I looked to the fire. It looked like a bonfire of sticks, but except for the flames it didn’t change. I went over to haul a stick out, but I couldn’t budge it. That stick was in there good.
The Crusader king’s sword was real. Somehow I knew it would be sharp, and it was. I gritted my teeth and cut my finger to get blood flowing. It hurt as bad as I thought it would. Then I wrote hastily, in English and Arabic, on the tomb.
“What have you done?” Monsignor Bruno demanded.
“You’ll see.” I wrote on all four sides and the lid, insults against five religions and five political domains. “Mr. Adams, when one of the wandering fanatics comes through, I strongly suggest you don’t stand near that tomb.”
“I fail to understand.”
“You will. Have faith.” I looked to each of them. “And when the king is set free, you can lead him and Monsignor Bruno out of here. Show them the way. You’ve earned it.”
• • •
“Brilliant,” Sylvia said. “How did you think of it?”
“I didn’t. I just knew,” I said. “Well, I did have it wrong to begin with. I was going to write something nasty about Allah, but I thought better of it. I thought prophets were another matter. Some of them had character flaws, and sometimes they’re recorded. Saying so isn’t blasphemy. Sooner or later an exploder is going to run across a slander against his favorite cause, and he’ll blow that statue to smithereens. I found insults for Irish terrorists, Basque and communist and — But suppose Allah and Jehovah are just different names for God? I’ve seen what happens to blasphemers here.”
“And you were afraid.”
“Careful.”
“Wise of you,” Sylvia said. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.”
“That’s bogeyman talk.”
“Is it? I wish I’d been more afraid,” Sylvia said. “I wouldn’t be here now. And you wouldn’t, either, I bet. Think about it. The whole proverb is ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the holy is understanding.’ Does that make more sense?”
“Maybe.”
“There was another proverb. ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction.’ Allen, some people have to be sca
red before they’ll learn.”
• • •
Monsignor Bruno wasn’t happy with me at all. “You tell Adams he has earned the right to leave Hell. To go to Heaven. Earned it. He has earned that and I have not?”
“I misspoke. We’ve all earned the right to try,” I said. “Nothing stops any of us from going. Why don’t you come with me?”
“You mock justice, then,” Bruno said.
“How’s that?”
“Look at me. All my life I followed the faith. I took my vows. I observed saint’s days. I held my hands just so when saying the mass. Thumb joined to forefinger. Bowing. Rituals. The Acceptance at the Elevation. I observed them all, all my life. If any of the three of us has earned a place in Heaven it is I.”
“Seems to me you threw that out when you defied the Church,” Adams said.
“But if I had not! Yes, yes, I was guilty of heresy at the last. But you have been heretics all your lives! If I must be punished for heresy, you must be doubly so! Yet you are not confined and I am! It is unjust!”
I could see this wasn’t getting anywhere. They were still arguing.
Bruno shouted, “What so many popes condemned as Anathema, the Vatican Two popes embraced! They are the apostates that the holy saints warned against! The Church is no longer One, Holy, Apostolic! How can I accept this?”
Adams was gently answering when I left them.
Chapter 13
Sixth Circle
More Heretics
* * *
Their cemetery have upon this side
With Epicurus all his followers
Who with the body mortal make the soul.
“I wasn’t sure I should leave, but there didn’t seem any point in staying. Adams was as determined to get Monsignor Bruno out as I was. I wasn’t sure where to go, either. I could see the Great Mausoleum off in the distance, but that sure didn’t attract me. I’d been there before, with Corbett and Benito, and it was depressing.”
“Who’s in the mausoleum, Allen?” Sylvia asked. “I don’t remember any such place in Dante.”