A Tryst of Fate: Chapter Thirteen... "The Boat Ride To Hell"

Liza led me from Twain's Inn, through the fog of Purgatory, to just outside Hell's Gate.   "Well, this is as far as I go.   Enjoy your trip to Hell.   I'm sure it will be great fun for you."  There was a twinkle in her eye and a gentle smirk on her lips as she walked back into the fog.

          I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach.   It's the same feeling you get after an enema...  a little knotted, a little gassy, and the most uncomfortable sensation that you just might leak unspeakable things at an inopportune moment.   The hazy purple sky held no clouds, but flocks of bats wheeled and dove, skimming the river's surface.   Although I couldn't actually see them, I was sure that insects were quite abundant – and probably regenerating just after digestion.   After all, if I were on the creative team, that's how I would have designed it.   

          As the Gate opened, there was no ominous horror movie creek, as I had expected.   Instead, it sounded more like Sasquatch’s stomach growling...  a low, gravelly rumble.   I turned to say goodbye to Liza, but as usual, she had vanished too quickly.   That woman has SEAL stealth.

          Jared Hoyle met me just inside the gate. A slender fellow, he couldn't have been more than seventeen years old, dressed in shabby, torn jeans, sneakers, and an oversized black hoodie with a blood-red pentagram on the chest.   His look was completed with multiple face piercings, shoulder-length brown hair, a short-cropped goatee, and jet-black eyes. In addition, he had two horizontal scars, one on each wrist that gave the impression of a difficult adolescence.   Imagine a stereotypical 21^st Century video gaming teenager, and that would be Jared.   

          "I'm Jared. Welcome to the Department of Homeland Security."  He said it with an air of authority that didn't meet his stature – he was trying too hard. 

          "You've got to be kidding!"  The idea that Homeland Security was a department created by the underworld struck me as somehow politically, poetically, perfect.   

          "Nope, Homeland Security, that's us."  Now relaxed, Jared sounded like the teenager he appeared to be – his true age was well camouflaged by his overly pimpled face.   

          "Okay, I'll bite. Why Homeland Security?"  I vaulted the question with a sneer and a wink that I wouldn't have tempted on an ordinary teenager.   But then, this Soul and this moment were far from ordinary.

          "Well, because it's our job to make sure that the riff-raff stay out."  This backward explanation caught me by surprise; although it shouldn't have, nothing turns out to be as you had expected once you're dead.   

          "Don't you mean stays in?"  I ventured.

          "Nope, everyone who's here is supposed to be here. They want to be here. We have no problem filling space.   It's the others that we have to watch out for, you know, the Lookie Loos who chose poorly; they're all so curious to see if they know anyone who has come down here since they first toured the place.   Sometimes the rubber-necking can get downright distracting.   The Gate gets clogged, and we have to call out the Basilisk just to keep operations moving.   We've got things to do down here, you know; we're busy, we don't have time for all this paparazzi stuff.   It's not like people get a second chance to decide; we've got rules, you know – it's all in the orientation – but some people just don't pay attention."  Jared wagged his head in solemn frustration.   I could tell that this problem of Gate crashing was a real annoyance for him.  But it made absolutely no sense to me… people trying to get into Hell once they've chosen Heaven?  It was just weird.

          I drew the zipper on my windbreaker.   "Strange, it’s a little chilly.  I wasn't expecting that..." But, of course, there's always about a ten-degree temperature variant between being on the water and land. I knew that from my sailing days back home.   I just wasn't expecting to notice it in Hell.  Instead, I thought it would be an opposite variant.   "...You know, what with the whole, 'hotter than Hell' thing..." 

          Jared's face contorted into a frustrated scowl accentuated by the amber reflection of the Harvest Moon off the rippling water.   It looked like his skin was actually crawling.   I get now where that phrase came from.   It was rather creepy.   "It's amazing how a little bit of fear and several centuries of well-placed marketing dogma can really ruin a place, you know?"  Jared had a fondness for Hell that was unmistakable.   Cue the 'Twilight Zone' music.   I tried hard to remember that 'normal' is a misnomer after you die.

          We walked down the dock together, and as we approached, I began to make out the outline of a carriage lantern, tethered to a pylon, swaying in the almost imperceptible breeze.   I saw the hands before I saw the boat.   Maybe it was just paranormal light dancing off the water, but the movement under the boat looked almost like a pair of giant's hands, lifting the boat up and out of the water with each wave, closer and closer toward the dock.   It was a scene reminiscent of my little brother, playing with his toy boats in the creek.   After making this connection, the barge to Hell wasn't nearly as frightening as the elders of my childhood made it out to be.   I mumbled, "Is it possible that everything about death is misconstrued and misrepresented...  just people making stuff up?"

          "What's that?" asked Jared.

          "Oh, nothing." I feigned.

          At last, when the barge edged up to the dock, close enough for us to board, the hands seemed to disappear, and the barge laid gently upon the barely undulating tide.   I thought of mentioning this to Jared, but I thought better of it after another minute or two.   It's probably not a good idea to point out the obvious so soon after getting to Hell.  Offending the natives might not help my cause.   The boat was a simple ferry, a semi-flat-bottomed vessel with no seats.   Evidently, the discomfort of standing while on your journey into Hell is part of the package.

          "How many to board?"  The Ferry Captain had a typical sea-dog appearance about him.  He wore a navy blue pea coat buttoned up to his neck, gray hair peeking out from under his wool cap, and a salt and pepper beard with a pipe protruding from his lips.   He could have been somebody's grandfather – and probably was – there was nothing pirate about this guy, just a soft and gentle sailor.

          "There will just be the two of us today, Eril; Thanks," said Jared, nonchalantly.

          "Do you have your fare?" asked Eril.

          Tentatively, I pulled out the two bronze coins that Liza had given me.   "Will these be enough?" I asked timidly.

          "Surely, they'll do.   Climb aboard."  Eril offered his hand as I moved from the dock.

          Jared and I stepped on board the barge and braced for the shove-off.   Another set of hands, or perhaps the same ones, lifted us off the beach and gently shoved off into the blank nowhere ahead.   As the ferry glided across the water's surface, Captain Eril began his welcome speech.

          "So, welcome to Hell.   This is the ferry ride you've heard so much about in myth, legend, and song.   I know it may not be as glamorous as all those stories made it out to be, but there's no accounting for accuracy in legends, you know.   One person starts to talk about a thing, and another adds their two cents in, and before you know it, you've got a full-blown fantasy on your hands.   It's ridiculous."

          Jared, who undoubtedly had heard this tirade thousands of times, rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted sigh.   "No need to go on about it, Eril. She's got her Guidebook."  Jared produced a copy of Fodor's Hell and thrust it into my hands.   It was a welcome but perplexing surprise.   "Understand, this isn't because we're nice," whispered Jared, "We’re simply lazy.   Want to know something?  Look it up."

          The land around me was a dichotomy of vision.   Needleless pine trees lined the bank to the right, appearing like stalactites in an open-air cave.   They resembled old men, sentries, guarding the banks and keeping a watchful eye on anyone who would pass by. With prickly branches at the ready to scoop up anyone who might try to escape – or if Jared was to be believed – infiltrate the Gate.   The opposite bank looked like a jungle, with large, lush trees and moss flowing like waterfalls from their branches.   It was strange to see what appeared to be two separate ecosystems sharing the same space – but this was Hell, and at this point, anything was possible.

          "Oh, right.   Sorry."  As Eril started to give his tour, I flipped through the Guidebook, following along.   "Anyway, to your left, you'll find Blackadder Knoll.   It's a cozy little place.   They breed the snakes and lizards there.   And on your right, you'll see Eccup Scree.   It's a kitschy little tourist trap, but you might have fun there.   Lots of medieval torture devices and guillotine try-outs."  He paused for a moment, giving me time to turn the pages and catch up.   "As you look to the sky, you might notice a few stars.   This is an illusion.   In actuality, those dim lights you see above you are the streetlamps from Heaven shining their impudent air of superiority down on us.   It's really quite annoying.   Before the streetlamps, the pitch dark sky was perfect in its simplicity.   And then they went and did that, spoiling it for everyone.   Heaven's night lights – really bothersome.   They're afraid of everything up there – most especially the darkness.   It's absurd."

          Another set of hands, several of them in fact, began to pass us from fingers to palm as we moved along the water.   They seemed relatively peaceful.   I couldn't tell if any arms or bodies were attached to those hands, and they looked gentle and caring.   Yet as nice as they seemed, I wasn't sure stepping out of the boat would be such a good idea.   I'll need to look that one up later.   I was sure it was an entertaining story.

          "Okay, we get it, Eril – can we just get on with it, please?" I wanted to hear the stories, but Jared had little patience.

          "Right.   Anyway, if you look to the left now, you'll see Mt.  Vesuvius.   And before you ask, yes, this is the actual, functioning volcano you've heard so much about.   There are regular eruptions, and your Guidebook has a schedule if you're interested.   Just beyond the mountain is where you'll find Dinosaur Cove.   Watch where you step. They have massive droppings!"  Eril chuckled as if he'd never told that particular joke before.   "If you're the adventurous type, you can rent a board and surf the lava flows. I've heard it's quite fun."  I looked to Jared for confirmation.   He waggled his hand in that 'not so much' way that told me that a lava surf might not be so important this trip.   

          "On the right," continued Eril, "you'll notice the arctic tundra.   I'm sure you've heard the phrase, 'when Hell freezes over'?  Well, it actually did once – and just because people kept asking it to, it's continued to stay that way.   I've heard rumors of a band of Yeti living there, but I don't like the cold much, so I wouldn't know first-hand.   You can rent a parka at the Welcome Center if you're interested in checking it out for yourself.  I'm sure there are a couple of pages in the Guidebook, too, that go into more detail." 

          "You mean stuff just happens down here whenever people say it will, like pay-per-view?"  I was astonished.

          "Yeah, we run a lot on popular demand around here," said Jared.  "But not like in Heaven where everything a dead person wants is pretty much given to you, but more like Humanity's majority rule.   If enough living people ask for it or curse it – you can pretty much bet it'll happen down here eventually.   This arctic place is still here because so many mortals keep asking for it.   Wait until you see the flying pigs and pink elephants; they're a gas!"  Jared giggled like he was seven at the image his mind had concocted of these bizarre animals.   After quickly flipping to that page in the Guidebook, I giggled too.

          "If you'd like more information about the sightseeing stops of Hell," continued Eril, slightly miffed at being interrupted, "look it up in your Guidebook, or go to the Welcome Center, and they'll be able to give you directions.   There really is quite a bit to see and do down here.   I know you're only here for a short time, but try to take it all in. You won't be disappointed.   Well, here we are."

          "Oh good, we're home." Jared was relieved to have finally arrived.   He leaned in close to me, nearly whispering so Captain Eril couldn't hear.   "Just between you and me, I hate making that trip.   I've never been a big fan of water travel, and Eril just isn't as much fun as he used to be." 

          "I heard that, you impudent sod!"  hollered Eril.

          "Just kidding, Eril.   You know how much I love you."  But I could tell Jared didn't really love Eril or the water.   He was just avoiding the argument that would certainly detain him from reaching solid ground.

          As the ferry came within about twenty-five feet of the bank on the far side of the lagoon, Jared took a B-1 vitamin bottle from his pocket, popped one in his mouth, and then offered one to me.   "Here, take one.   It's not that we're interested in your health so much," commented Jared; "The truth is, we're about misery here, not torture." 

          I wasn't quite sure what he meant but swallowed the little white pill anyway.  Down the rabbit hole, Alice.

          "B-1 is great for mosquitoes," Jared muttered as he re-pocketed the tiny bottle and got ready to disembark.

          As Eril threw the line to the dock hand, I wasn't surprised to find that Hell was not at all what I had expected.   The dark skies and ominous harvest moon gave way to a lush olive green and brown shoreline, teaming with reptilian wildlife.   Murders of crows, flocks of albatross, and other haranguing birds filled the skies.   The scene was more tropical rain forest than a burnt-out slum, with a little bit of Alfred Hitchcock thrown in for good measure.   

          The boat was gently landed on shore, and we were greeted by a steel drum band, a small choir of reggae rockers singing – I couldn't tell what song – and hula dancers.   It was an interesting, eclectic welcoming committee.   It was kind of a cross between an international entertainment delegation and an acid trip gone wrong.   At first, it felt as though I wasn't in Hell at all, but rather on the set of a poorly conceived film.   But once they placed the lei of poison ivy around my neck, I knew I was in Hell.   The vitamin B-1 tablet Jared had given me didn't work on this weed, and the itching was instant and intense.   I immediately threw it to the ground, stomping on it angrily.   Jared laughed at me, my arms flailing as I tried desperately to scratch the area on the back of my neck that I couldn't quite reach, cursing and screaming for Calamine lotion.

          "I thought you weren't about torture down here, Jared!"  I accused.

          "We're not," he chortled, "but you can't begrudge us a little fun, now can you?"

          "Not funny!" I screamed.

          "Actually," called Eril from the boat, "It kind of is."  The hands lifted the snickering sea captain and his boat off into the blackness of the water's anonymity.

          The itching was beginning to subside a little, but it was still bothersome.   As we walked up the embankment, I noticed three outhouses with a little wooden sign near each one that read 'Farting Encouraged.   Heckling Discouraged.'  "Well, that's nice," I said to Jared as we passed by; "After years of being chastised by my little brother, friends, and cousins – finally – I have permission to fart.   There's a small bit of comfort in that." 

          Jared smiled that wry teenage grin that suited him.   "So glad we could help.   Come on, it's this way."