No Answers

A Short Story by Ben Weemes

CHAPTER A: Not Ready For What I See

The cool sea breeze kisses my face, tossing my brown hair across my sun-soaked forehead. I raise my blue eyes to the welcome rays of light after the long period of stormridden days and cramped cabin life. To stretch my achy muscles and feel the lethargy leave my mind is akin to birth. A short glance around me paints a picture of serenity. It is still the early morning and besides the few deckhands required to man this vessel, I am alone. I have come from a place which I long to forget; my heart breaks to remember that life, that me. Home is far from my feet and far from my mind for the present brings the adventure that I once wished to have. I lean against the damp wood railing and feel the stress of sea life flow off me like a waterfall. The slow oscillation of the ship calms my heart and brings a peace to my restless mind. A yell from the stern jars me from my meditation of the waves and my thoughts travel to the coming days. A new morning has begun and with this rising of the sun comes the beginning of a journey. Excitement as well as apprehension grips me. I do not know what lies in my path, but I will happily accept any sort of adventure to relieve my mind of its past experiences. The captain of our vessel, the HMS Challenger, is Commodore George Nares. It is under his direction that we have arrived at our destination safe and sound (if only a tiny bit sea-sick). I was not given a specific location, in which we would finally make port, but I inquired of the men as to where we were currently anchored, and I was informed that we are at Ile Royale. The largest of three islands, and part of the Iles du Salut archipelago, Ile Royale lies five miles off the coast of French Guiana in the Atlantic Ocean. I have heard tell of these islands, stories transformed into legends. Every word describing these islands drips with hate and fear. Although no one can separate truth from fiction because there have never been any escapees; at least not any live ones. I step from my temporary home for the previous four weeks and lay my shoes on solid yet mysterious ground. I shift my gaze from the rocky shore littered with driftwood and shells to the massive cliff that hangs over our ship like a fortress. The men that met us at the dock begin to walk towards the sheer wall of rock as if they would pass right through it, and from my point of view it looks as if they do, for they disappear from sight. There is

in fact a crack in the cliffs face and upon entering there we find a crude, stone staircase, which spirals up into the darkness. Light from the occasional oil lantern bounces off the bleak walls and ceiling to give the illusion of movement all around us, this only adds to a growing sense of something, something I could not place my finger on. An eerie feeling that begins to take over my mind, like millions of souls are screaming at me but I cannot hear them; and odder yet, I dont care. I am caught in my thoughts when the light begins to filter down our desolate staircase of self-reflection. I have to cover my eyes upon reentrance to a sun-filled day. My eyes must readjust to the light so I can take in the enormous structure that stands before me. I begin to walk forward without even realizing my own actions, the very same feeling that had filled my heart in the staircase was luring me; I was being pulled by curiosity of the unknown. A black gate, covered in vines and undergrowth, rose up to meet our band of travelers and my heart skipped a few beats as I read the fire-red lettering across the top of the entrance. ABANDON ALL HOPE YOU WHO ENTER HERE. THIS IS THE END OF YOUR ADVENTURE. THE CONCLUSION TO YOUR JOURNEY OF LIFE. THIS IS HELL. I turned to inquire when the ship would be ready to sail again, so we could leave this God-forsaken island, but the sight of a newcomer distracted me. This man did not look like us, for one he was French distinguishable by his high-water stripped pants and ridiculous beret, and secondly he seemed strangely comfortable as if this was his home. He approached me and stretched out a long, boney hand, I tentatively shook it. There was an awkward silence and I feel as if he was waiting for me to initiate conversation, but I do not know what to say. I decide to begin with, Hello sir, my name is Ben Weemes, I come from England and I I know who you are. He interjects. What you have run from, and what you are here to do, follow me. I stand, wondering what that meant and who this man is, until a firm please follow me snaps me back to reality and I begin to follow this stranger. We pass under the huge black gate and come to a moat with a drawbridge on the opposite side, here we stop.

I take this opportunity to ask, Excuse me sir, what is your name and what is this place? My name is Charles Darnay, I will be your guide for the remainder of this tour. I assume you read the inscription above the black gate? Yes. Then you already know where we are, do you not? Well I suppose, but this is not really Hell is it? This is Hell and all who pass through that gate are dead, including myself. Charles says with the slightest tinge of sadness in his voice. I had not even realized that the crew and the other men with us had not passed through the gate, they were living and therefore could not, but why could I? Why me? Why can I enter Hell as a living person and not anyone else? You have been chosen to witness Hell and tell all of what you see. Charles states plainly You will go onto see Purgatory and Heaven but for now the Underworld is your home. CHAPTER B: Not What I Expected to Find

A long, low horn sounds from somewhere deep inside this fortress, and the world around me begins to change before my eyes. The moat begins to rise; the water level approaches the bank that we stand upon. I begin to shuffle backwards for I know it will overflow, but it does not. The water rises to Charless feet and stops abruptly. He then proceeds to step onto the water and much to my amazement he does not fall through. The water seems as if it were a hard butter substance for he sinks a bit but never breaks through. Come Ben. Hell does not ask that you have any faith, this is as real as any road. So I cautiously walk up to the water-looking substance, close my eyes, and set one foot on it. I sink in over my shoe, but as I lay all my weight on that foot I know that it will hold me, so I continue. Once at the far end of the bridge I notice that the drawbridge, which I had assumed would lower down and allow us to cross it, had in fact fallen inward and was now creating a bridge over the inner moat for us to cross. This was a bizarre castle indeed. The bridge melded into a brown, dirt road that wound out of my vision, but as I raise my head to follow it I experience my first taste of Hell. The sight that meets my eyes is one that I will never forget. The Vestibule. Charles explains as he raises his arms to indicate the surrounding land.

This is not an Arena of Hell because these souls never chose good nor evil, the Lord nor the Devil. They will forever be punished for their indecision. I look and see this punishment that Charles speaks of. An endless amount of wooden fans occupy both sides of my vision facing towards each other against opposing walls. On the left the fans blow snow and ice towards the middle and on the right the fans blow fire. In the middle, all those being punished, are being tossed by the howling winds and blown from fire to ice and back again for eternity. Charred and then frozen, but never completely either way, always blown from one to the other. The ceiling is arched with many windows to allow light in, but the walls are dark and ominous nonetheless. For their refusal to chose hot (God) or cold (Satan) they are subject to the constant torture of fire and ice. I tried to formulate my thoughts into a sentence. Never settling on one, and never being rid of either? Exactly. Would you like to converse with a few of them? Am I allowed to do that as a living person? I am your guide, I give you permission to do as you wish. So I begin to scan the throng of flying persons in search of a familiar face. I glimpse a woman that I remember knowing as a young boy, so I call to her. Mrs. Mann! Over here. Oh. I remember you At which point she is blown behind a group of people trying to hold onto one another and failing miserably. She struggles back to me and continues. You were Stevens child were you not? She is able to ask before again she is violently taken away. Yes, I was and am Stevens son. Mrs. Mann is able to grab onto a larger man for stability and ask. Wait, you are not dead? Then how is it that you are here? I am being guided through Hell by Charles Darnay At that moment a boy that I had known in grade school grabs onto Mrs. Mann, it is Oliver Twist. Hello Oliver! How have you been, well, I mean obviously not splendid, but besides being confined to Hell? I inquire. Cant complain. Oliver states quite matter-of-factly. Its not really all that horrible, I guess. It just makes me think that Thirty seconds of struggling against to wind to get back to me. Think that I should have done what was right, left Fagin and lived for good. This statement leaves me pondering my own life as I say goodbye to the two of them

and follow Charles, underneath all the flying peoples, to our new destination. Did I live according to good? Was I a righteous person or did I but sit the fence as many people call it? You might want to pay attention. Charles almost yells, for I am fifteen feet off the road, in a grove of trees that do not look too pleasant. Sorry. I get lost in my thoughts on occasion. The castle is huge, but this road seems never-ending. I wonder how all this space fit inside one fortress. Then I remember suddenly that this is Hell, and it does not have to follow the boundaries and limitations of Earth. I feel small and ignorant and hope Charles does not know what I am thinking. I have not thought about the idea of dead people reading minds, but it is a good question to ask later. CHAPTER C: Not Like the Rest

Now we begin our journey of the Arenas. This is Arena One. Here reside the virtuous pagans. Rolling hills and streams crossing a green landscape of lush trees is not what I expected to witness in Hell, especially after that first experience. A gray building stands out against the grassy background, a tall and slender tower. What is their torment? For I can see masses of people but they seem to just walk around, talk to each other, and live normal lives. They lived on Earth without revelation of God, but still lived just and virtuous lives so their only punishment is to live apart from the love of God. That tower is their home for all eternity. Another thing you might have noticed is that there is no joy in Hell, even if they are not punished, they are sullen and somber forever. Once I listen closely I realize that Charles is correct, I hear no laughter, no excited talking, no playing, just monotonous talking and walking. Pulled from my thoughts once again we begin to walk into the valley of the Arena. I pass famous men and women, poets of old and philosophers of great wisdom, and I eventually spy a woman whom I had grown close to in friendship before she had passed away. Millers! Do you remember my face? I ask, half expecting her to say no. Yes, I do. Millers states flatly. I was your maid as a child and we became friends later in life. If only I had known the Lord, did you speak to me of God? I dont suppose I ever did Millers. I am dearly sorry about that. This is my guide and recent friend Charles Darn

And so you should be. Came the response of a womans voice from behind me. I turn, rather surprised, and find Mrs. Larkins, the first woman I ever courted, during my stay in Vienna, Austria. I beg your pardon. You left Millers here without God and myself, a poor, lonely woman, without Salvation. Mrs. Larkins remarks without even a hint of emotion. I am sorry. I do not see anything that I can do for you two now though. It is not the fault of my hand, nor is it the fault of anyone but you. I explain with indignation and resolve. God was all around you both, the decision to live just lives but never accept the Lord was yours and yours alone. With that we leave. The road winds past the gray tower and I feel sadness wash over me for those souls, eternally longing to be in the presence of God but never attaining that goal. I also long to be free of the guilt Mrs. Larkins placed in my heart. I have never led a soul to Christ. I have, like so many others, led a good life, but that would accomplish nothing if Heaven were my goal. My mind races to conclusions obscured and unwelcome, the results of my living. We are here. Charles declared. Again, I had wandered from the reality of Hell and the screams of the tortured bring me back. This Arena differs greatly from the last for the noise is deafening and the movement is quick and endless as the last had been quiet and slow. This is Arena Two. The lustful and passionate are damned to live here. They are those who let lust control their actions so now they are puppets, controlled by demons flying above them. I raise my eyes to see a sky-full of tiny black demons holding chains that are connected to all the souls helplessly flailing around near the ground. The demons smash the people together, lift them up and drop them, choke them with their own chains, or do anything that sparks their fancy. Just as the lustful and carnal had done whatever sparked their fancy on Earth with no regard to the lives and wishes of others. But we must visit the Groundskeeper before we explore this Arena. Charles says. So we follow the path to the left where a large house lays nestled into the side of a near-by cliff. The building is old with visible cracks all over, painted a chipped black, and in place of a door stands a tunnel. We ascend the front steps and when we come to the tunnel, Charles stops and yells. Allow he who is not yet dead and the faithful guide to enter. When he finished a side door opened from the inside as if by magic and we step through

it. From inside we can see the tunnel, as it runs through the house, as if it were made of a clear substance. We watch as a man enters the tunnel, a damned soul. What is this place? I ask. This is the Sorting House. The place where every soul that was not allowed to reside in the Vestibule or Arena I must pass through. Minosia is the judge and jury, they pass before him and the verdict is spoken, they must spend eternity in whichever Arena of Hell he sends them to. Charles explains. I watch as this man, in the tunnel, comes before Minosias throne and stands silently with his head downcast. Minosia studies the man for a short time, closes his eyes and with an evil cry, exclaims. ArenaSeven! The guard who has been leading the man walks to a fireplace behind him where eight poles lay in the flames. He glances at them and selects one close to the right end. He pulls it out of the fire and brings it over to where the man stands, waiting. With one swift movement he thrusts the red-hot pole onto the mans chest. The man lets out a wail, more from despair it seems then from pure agony. When it is all over, and the guard has returned the poker to its place, I can see a brand beginning to form on the mans chest. The number seven is burned into his flesh. Forever he is to be branded with his sin, marked by his iniquities. Soon we leave that house and return to the central part of Arena Three. Here is where I encounter Edith Granger and Agnes Flemming, a couple from my hometown of Glastonbury, England. What sin did you two commit so as to be placed in this eternal punishment? I inquired of the couple. Edith was married in London before we were together. Agnes is able to shout over the screams of the others. We had an affair for ten years until he found out, then we moved to Glastonbury and started a new life together. My former husband, Tacy Tupman, is here as well. Edith says looking around wildly. He was actually having an affair as well, with his secretary. The couple is promptly smashed together, by their respective demons, causing their heads to hit violently and blood to splatter on my cheek. They scream in pain, reeling from the shock, as ruby-red blood streams down their faces. As I wipe the blood from my cheek and hold my stomach, which feels quite sick, I see their skin begin to heal. The blood runs off them like water and disappeared, and being fully healed, they look as they had before. This was an endless cycle of helplessness, pain, and hate. Charles and I head off down the dirt road to our next objective.

CHAPTER D: Not a Pretty Sight For My Eyes

What is that horrendous smell? I exclaim as I hastened to clamp my hands over my nose in an attempt to cutoff the flow of putrid air. We are now entering Arena Three. The land of gluttons. Charles comments. Allow me to guess. These are the souls who did nothing with their lives but eat and drink, wasting away their existence on food and wine? I say, slightly proud of myself. Exactly, and their punishment is to eat the muck and foul matter they walk in until they physically explode. Charles clarifies. This process is also eternal as is every punishment in Hell. God gave us the chance to suffer for a finite period of time on earth so that we could live in glory and happiness for the rest of eternity. They grow back together and they begin to eat themselves to death all over again. We enter the Arena and I witness what Charles had described, a huge, circular pit of, grime and excrement with high walls all around, filled with eating, sloshing, and gruesomely fat people. It looks like a mud-wrestling tournament except with all enormous people and not mud but all kinds of rank and polluted material. I do happen to see Sydney Carton, one of my old drinking buddies, who used to make me laugh so uproariously. It saddens me to see him here, but it is true that he had done nothing but drink and eat while he lived. Joe the Fat Boy was also here, if any of those souls are happy, it is he. He had loved to eat on Earth and in Hell he enjoys it as much as he can, until the inevitable explosion. A man close to my vantage point on the edge of the pit seems to be close to explosion. His appendages are unusable and his face is hidden behind rolls of fat. He screams as he feels his skin ripping and his bones being pulled apart. Slowly, painfully, he begins to separate, his skin oozing blood and putrid substance until I cannot see his body for the mass of disgusting matter covering him. Then with one last cry and one swift explosion he is gone, the parts of his body are flung to every corner of the pit. The interminable process of regeneration will now begin. We leave that foul smelling Arena in our wake and move on. The air and land continue to grow damper and darker. Less light comes into the castle because there are fewer windows the farther back we venture. Vegetation becomes scarce because the weather grows frostier and chilly winds pick up. I begin to hear screams, but not all of them are screams of pain, some sound like battle cries. The path leads us around a small hill and there before me is a sight that could baffle any man.

This is Arena Four, my personal favorite. Charles smirks as he says this, which makes me also crack a smile. When I relax my face in that manner, I realize that I havent smiled since I have arrived in Hell, probably for good reason, but it still feels refreshing. Charles continues. Here we have the Hoarders and Wasters. They had much and kept it to themselves or threw it to the wind. Now any worldly objects they attempted to gain or hold onto torture them. I turn my gaze back to the field in front of me. Two armies, the Hoarders and the Wasters, face off against each other, and as I watch they charge. Cannons sound, trumpets shriek, and battle cries roar. Some men have muskets or pistols but no bullets are used, they must load their guns with an item, something they have hoarded or wasted on earth and can use to destroy their enemies. Some carry vases or pots, others have antique furniture, some load guns with coin money or precious metals, and still others use gadgets and technologies to bash in the heads of their enemies. This is a unique war on any level, chairs and couches hurling through the air decapitating men, while others are bleeding on the ground with gold and silver shot into them. I walk closer to the battleground and glimpse an acquaintance of mine from visits to Essex, Hamilton Veneering. He sees me and comes over to converse, on the way he loads his pistol and discharges a diamond into a running Hoarders face; the man falls to the ground screaming. Hello old friend. Hamilton exclaims quite sarcastically. It has indeed been too long since our last visit. What brings you to the land of the damned? This is my guide, Charles Darnay, and I am here to view Hell and then tell the rest of the world what I have seen. Hamilton looks at me quizzically and then snorts. Sounds like fun. Just then a scrawny old man with a rifle shoots Hamilton in the shoulder. I recognize the man as Jacob Marley, one of the men I had gone to Law School with so many years ago. I can see the blood from the wound in Hamiltons shoulder and hear the curses from his mouth, but I no longer feel the twinge of pain and sorrow for his soul, for any of their souls. I have grown numb to this incessant pain and anguish. Jacob approaches me and we exchange hellos. Well Jacob I see that you still harbor a strong dislike for Hamilton as you did so long ago. I say with a slight smile beginning to break at the corner of my mouth. I loath all the Wasters, but the thing I hate even more is I am flung backwards by a grand piano crashing right on the spot where Jacob had stood. Splinters of wood fly all

around me and many men in the area are downed and bleeding, Jacob is no more. I suppose he hates grand pianos most of all. Charles quipped. Yes, I expect you may be right. Now fully smiling I turn and walk back to the dirt road and on to our next adventure. CHAPTER E: Not the Life I Would Like to Live

Charles and I pass by what seems like the last of the trees, a dark and musty forest where no animals are heard and no movement is seen. The landscape from Arena Four on seems desolate and even scorched. The walls of the fortress grow darker and more rugged, even cracked as if a great earthquake had wreaked havoc on the Underworld long ago. The slope of the land is gradually slanting downward and I begin to hear the sound of running water. The road rises to the crest of a small hill and an ocean of violence is revealed. The reverberation of the water becomes the obvious crash of waves bouncing off the stonewalls. Before me stands an ocean, but in the shape of a lake, where some external force is causing massive waves and turbulence. As you know, this is Arena Five, the torture-place of the Wrathful. I can see that, but I beseech you to tell me what is actually happening here? I ask. Why do none of them scream in agony? The Wrathful were those that lived on an uncertain emotional plane, they were calm one moment and absurdly angry the next. They also caused the lives of those around them to be equally turbulent so they are subject to the continual will of crashing waves. This would seem to be an easy punishment until you consider that they are forever head down in the water, drowning. They yelled at others during their lives and their wishes were granted by shouted commands, now they will bellow for eternity and no one will hear them. As I examine the situation I see only legs protruding from the watery grave known as The Voiceless Ocean. Our path takes us right by the bank of the ocean and I catch sight of Martha Varden and Madame Defarge, two women from my mothers knitting club back in Glastonbury. I am only able to recognize them because of their knitted slippers in disgustingly bright colors. Only my mothers knitting club would be could dead (no pun intended) wearing those slippers. They are obviously not able to talk with me, not that I would enjoy what they had to say, as it would probably consist of curses, commands, and overall wrathful things. I move on, taking with me one of Madame Defarges knitted

socks, which I was able to snatch while she was close to our bank, as a souvenir. Charles smiles at me as we walk away from the ocean. You have hardened your heart to sin, Ben. That is excellent. You must feel no sorrow for those in Hell and you must berate them for their wrongdoings. My view has been altered, even since I stepped through the black gate. I see things differently now, I long to live a better life and I hate all that is sinister and immoral. I came here as an escape from my life in England. I ran from commitment, accomplishment, the church, my family, in essence everything I saw as overbearing and controlling. Now I see all of that in a new light. Good. Charles turns his focus to the road and we walk on in silence, until a turn in the road produces a huge city wall and another ominous black gate. This gate repeats the inscription of the first entranceway, but it is so damaged that only a few words can actually be made out, and yet it still seems to make sense. ABANDON HOPE HERE END OF JOURNEY CONCLUSION OF LIFE HELL How odd, I think, that those words would be the legible ones. Right then Charles looks over at me and cracks a knowing smile, and I blush. So dead men can read minds, he knows another dumb question has gone through my head about the earthly bounds of Hell. I turn my focus back to gate and wall so as to distract myself from my ignorance. Again we wait, as we had at the first wall, and after sometime a long, low horn sounds once more announcing the opening of the gate. The two huge black, iron gates crack open and begin to widen. I cannot make out any people inside the gates, but through the ever-widening crack I can see movement, an abundance of it. We are now entering Arena Six, the domain of the fallen angels of God and the land of the Heretics. They denied Gods existence and are therefore denied pure existence themselves, and they did not believe in the afterlife so they will be eternally searching for answers high and low, and never finding them. I walk between the black gates and Charless cryptic words come to reality. I see a figurative sea of disembodied heads moving, forever rolling around the land searching and never finding. They continually bleed from their severed necks and attempt to

scream from their mouths, they are only able to usher a squeaking sound. They are given no words to dissuade others from righteousness. I suggest. And are continually bleeding as reparation for Jesus blood on the cross that they did not accept. You are definitely understanding. Charles sounds excited for once since I had met him, I chuckle. I am jarred when Mr. Merdle and Seth Pecksniff both rolled up to my feet. The three of us had been on a cricket team together in grade school, but Merdle had stolen from me and Seth was a chronic liar, so we hadnt stayed close. The sight of two heads sitting at my feet sent cold shivers down my spine, but I spoke to them nonetheless. Hello sirs, can you hear me? Two heads did their best to nod and squeak a response. I never really did enjoy either of your companies, you do know that dont you? The same response, but with less enthusiasm. I raised my voice. Merdle you still owe me a hand-carved chest from my father and some jackets, and Seth you are by far the greatest hypocrite and liar I have ever met. At this, they slowly roll away, but I feel no pity, no regret for what I had just said. They earned this; they have not lived according to Gods laws and will therefore be punished for eternity in this manner. Good riddance. I feel a small weight lift from my chest. Good riddance. CHAPTER F: Not Even the Worst That I Have Seen

Our path guides us out of the inner walls and into a long corridor or tunnel. The arched pathway aims upward at a fairly steep angle and some of the climb is hard. I had not realized how far down we had descended until I am forced to climb back out of it. After some time we spot light at the top of the tunnel and I quicken my pace. Charles and I emerge into light, but it is not the blinding light of noon, it is the calm, colorful light of a sunset. We have traveled for hours underground and our journey is not yet over. Charles explains. Now we venture to another section of Hell, another island, Ile Saint-Joseph. Let us board our ship. I will not tell you of my boat ride for it was uneventful, but as soon as we set foot on this next island I feel a change. Literally, the ground is burning and the air is freezing, it does not affect the living as much, but I can tell Charles is walking faster and more light-

footed. He hurriedly ushers me down the dirt path until we reach our destination. Before me stands three giant tiers or steps, and upon each is a different mass of people being tortured in an appropriate manner. This is the Arena Seven and it holds those that were Violent. Charles begins his explanation with a slight nod towards the lowest level. Tier One is those who were violent towards others, they murdered and so tore apart families in their killing and war so they will be torn apart limb by limb and drown in their own blood. Tier Two is those who were violent towards themselves, they schemed to rip apart what God had made and so for eternity they will be squashed together by huge moving ramparts. Finally, Tier Three is those who were violent towards God, their creator, and now God will crucify them, upside-down, on crosses that reach almost up to Heaven. The Seventh Arena is fascinating to me. As we travel through the first tier we can see the souls attached by all limbs to chains and those to turn-styles that will tighten ever so slowly. I find one man that I had known in a life before this one, Sir Mulberry Hawk. He had been one of my favorite teachers at Law School until he had pistol-dueled with another professor and been convicted of murder. I am about to speak with him when his arms are torn from their sockets and he falls into the marsh of blood and body parts beneath. His scream intermingles with the tortured cries of many, but again, no feeling of sorrow, not even a hint. We continue to climb the rise up to the next Tier and I begin to feel what seems like rain on my shoulders and head. I raise my face to the sky to embrace the droplets but quickly lower it because a new scene has caught my eye. On Tier Two the Suicides are being squashed, and upon having all the juices squeezed out of them the walls retract and they are left to gather themselves back together for another round. Here I meet a good number of friends from England, Bradly Headstone, Nancy, and Nemo. They had all been close to me at some point in time and some life choice had separated us. Bradly attempted murder and later drowned himself with another man, Nancy prostituted her body, which is akin to suicide, and Nemo overdosed on illegal drugs. I could not get close enough to talk to them, not that I actually contained a desire to hear what they had to say. At the start of my journey I had longed to hear the perspective of those that had died, even just to see their faces, but now, I long to be rid of this place. I loathe Hell and I have yet to even reach the lowest Arena. I will not converse with any more dead men or women besides Charles; they are not worth my time or effort. As we reach the Third Tier I realize what the rain substance that I had felt earlier was,

blood. As those tortured here are being crucified hundreds of feet in the air, their blood falls down like rain on the heads of all those in Arena Seven. At the foot of every cross are nameplates to show who is hung there. I find one of my fathers old secretaries, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who had beaten her husband and sister incessantly and was finally killed by a traveling salesman. God gave us family; it is one of his most precious gifts. Marriage and conception are holy events in a womans life and to tread on the lives of those closest to you is a sin against God. She will forever hang, upside-down for her violence. We must continue on. Charles says as he begins to walk through the maze of wooden poles back to the path and off this peculiar little island. CHAPTER G: Not the End, Not For Me

Instead of taking me to another ferry vessel, Charles takes me to a bridge, a crossing from one island to the next. This bridge is enormous; I am amazed I hadnt seen it previously until Charles gives me a slight sideways glance that reminds me about the rules of the Earth and this being Hell. As the bridge arcs from Ile Saint-Joseph to the next mysterious island, ten massive jail cells, five on each side, intersect it. Numerous lanterns light the cells and walkways as the sun has now fallen and darkness has been laid over the islands like a shroud. Each jail cell is locked, but as Charles and I watch all the tortured ceased moving, the cells are unlocked and the doors are flung open. Every man runs to find another cell, but the groups must stay together so chaos ensues, as men got trampled, disoriented, and generally lost. Once they all find a cell that works for the entire group, which takes a while to be sure, the doors shut and the torture is reinstated as normal. We walk along the gigantic wooden bridge and come to our first iron cell. These are the Seducers. Charles seems almost annoyed with this journey. They drove others to sin in immoral ways, so there punishment is a representation of that. They are given hot brands and force each other around the cell leaving their marks on whomever they touch, as in real life where their actions had consequences and people were branded by their actions. They are scarred and disfigured because of the repeated burns for they used their good looks to charm and seduce others and now that is taken from them. I walk up to the cell and I happen to see James Harthouse inside. I do not speak with

him as I said I would not, but just to see him and remember how he tried to seduce my sister stabs my heart. The rage that boils up inside my veins seems as though it is ready to burst out and strangle James itself, I have not been this angry in a long time. He is receiving what he deserves, there is nothing left for me to do, he is in Hell. Next we come to the Flatterers. I spy Mrs. Heep among the condemned, oh the incessant Mrs. Heep. No woman speaks of her son more highly or just talks more in general. Her son assumed that he was the greatest in every facet of life because his mother would not stop telling him so. She flattered him with lies to please his soul, not knowing that she was damning herself for eternity and setting him up for ultimate failure. Carrying rocks on their backs is the punishment of the Flatterers. Charles states. They add more rocks to other peoples backpacks until their backs break and vice versa, so the process will repeat itself. The rocks, like words, are extra baggage; flatterers use words to falsely build people up, which is actually weighing them down. These words finally break them when they are proven wrong, just as finally the rocks break the back of the carrier and they must start again from scratch. After the Flatterers comes the Unholy Clergy, these men sold offices, favors, or forgiveness of sins. Charles explains to me with less enthusiasm than ever. The church is the body of Christ, and because the clergy sold what was dear to the Lord, the clergy must sell what is precious to them. They wander their cage selling their body parts or trading them for other body parts. They reattach these parts to create repulsive men with a head from this man, an arm from over here, a torso from this guy, and no right leg. They distorted Christs church with bribes and favors, now they must be distorted for all eternity. They are continually trying to attain their original bodies but will forever be unable to. I do happen to see an old friend, at least the head of him, Reverend Stiggins, a man from whom I had sought much advice when I was young. He had been expelled from the church for his dealings with thieves and involvement in an illegal drug-dealing ring. The Fortune-tellers come next in line. Charles speaks to me, but his mind has drifted far from this land and he is just saying the words, there is no feeling in them. These souls have attempted to see the future and so in this prison their eyeballs are placed not on their heads but on the bottom of their feet. They continually try to observe where they are walking but can see only darkness half the time and a rearview the other half. They are also in pain from stepping on their eyeballs as they have made people suffer with false fortune-telling.

I see Pancks the gypsy here with the Fortune-tellers and of course I am not surprised. He looks fine except for the yelps of pain with every step and the relentless cursing for a way to see forward. Next is the Covetous and Greedy. Here is where I find Silas Wegg, a no-good scumbag who tried to steal my fathers small fortune. We discovered his plan before completion and were able to have him incarcerated for his sins. This cell is filled with those that sought after what was not theirs, because of this they are doomed to search for a needle in a haystack. The entire cell is pilled high with hay and they will continually search for this elusive needle until Judgment Day comes. Just as they hurt those who get close to them, so in the cell whenever one man touches another they are thrown against opposite walls as if repulsed by two strong magnets. This shows how there can never be love with the covetous; they will never allow another human to enter their trust. CHAPTER H: Not How the Book Explained It To Me

Charles perks up slightly when we reach the next cell; he stands before it and declares. These are the Hypocrites. They were liars and deceivers on Earth, they claimed to be or do one thing and in reality they did the complete opposite. The punishment here is that they will transform into whatever or whomever another man tells them to, but this transformation is painful and slow. As we stand there one man is asked to change into a cow, so he starts by pealing off his skin and waiting for hooves to appear, then he begins to grow fatter and his head becomes larger. After much screaming and shrieking he has successfully transformed into a cow, but as soon as he has finished he is commanded to change into a wooden desk, and the process begins again. These men changed their lives and faces to fit who they were supposed to be, and now they will forever be someone they are not. Charles concluded. I did see Reverend Chadband, for an instance, until he is forced to change into a pocket watch. The Reverend had been my pastor for many years; the reasons for his leaving had been kept secret, but now I am able to formulate an accurate guess. We walk on, and come to the sixth of ten cages, the Thieves. Charles has walked off to gaze at the dark night and left me to ponder this cell alone. I have a feeling the rest of my journey might be void of explanation and description from Charles. There is

something bothering him, but he does not know what, and I do not know where to even start if I was going to help. I seem to be watching a line of men and at the front a demon with an axe calls the next man forward. This man places his genitals on a wooden block and waits for the ever dreaded thud of the axe. He howls in anguish, slowly picks up his genitals and limps to the back of the line. Where he is robbed of his genitals and another mans is placed in his hands, only to have those grow back to his body. Thieves steal what is precious to people, sometimes what is most precious. I said more to myself than to Charles, for he was still yards off staring at the sky and whispering something. For them to now lose the thing that is most precious to them, a fitting punishment indeed. I notice Bill Sikes in the line of dreary and downcast men. He had begun to build a promising life on Earth, until the outbreak of the Scarlet Fever in 1834, which claimed his two sons and wife. After that blow he had turned to thievery to solve all his woes. It did not; all it achieved was to land him here, in the Seventh Arena of Hell. Following the Thieves is the Mis-users, those who abused the gifts that were given to them by God. They are all confused. Their cell is filled with fog, and pits of darkness so that they fall into the pits often. They used their skills and talents to lead others astray or to gain personal fortune, either way they will forever wander and die trying. A boy that I used to look after on occasion appears out of the fog, Jack Dawkins, but everyone had always called him the Artful Dodger. He had been talented at two things, pick pocketing and teaching others to pick pocket. He is forever damned with this fate of blind wandering and sudden falls into black depths. After the Mis-users come the Sowers of Discord. Their punishment appears to be an endless attempt to destroy a stone building in the center of the cell with just their fists and bodies. They throw their bloodied corpses and smash their fists into this wall in a valiant, yet idiotic effort to destroy it. Simon Tapertit happens to be in this cage and I do see him for a while. I watch Simon as he jogs to the edge of the cell, then with a push off he sprints towards the stone edifice. He dives into the wall and crumples to the ground screaming while his head oozes blood. In life, the Sowers of Discord created riot or conflict, they destroyed Gods creation and so now they will attempt to destroy this building for all time. And fail miserably. The last cage of ten is the Falsifiers. Men who made counterfeit objects, money, or used artificial people and words. They are people who employed trickery and deceitfulness to turn a profit. Dodson and Fogg were two lawyers who had the reputation for duping the

common man out of his money. I find them at the very back of the cell at the end of a long, crooked line. The line has the impression of a maze and as the Falsifiers travel through their human maze they are stabbed. In life they lied, cheated, and deceived, and for every time they indulged in those acts they are stabbed during their walk through the maze. Blood flows down their bodies, from their chests, sides, and stomachs. The blood covers the ground and makes quick movement impossible; in life they were sly and fast now they must be deliberate and slow. With this last cell we reach the end of the enormous wooden bridge and Charles rejoins me from his stargazing period. We step onto the third and final island called Ile du Diable (The Devils Island), which is the center of Hell. This is the lowest of all the islands, it barely rises above the water level and it is completely flat. CHAPTER I: Not the Center of the World, Not Yet

This new land peaks my curiosity again. I had lost interest during the bridge phase because of the monotonous nature of it, and I hope for something fresh. Charles speaks for the first time since the Hypocrites. Ben we are now entering the last stage of Hell, this is Arena Nine. We follow the road past a signpost that points toward a column of smoke and says what I was just told Arena Nine. I notice the smoke and wonder what could be burning in such a cold and desolate land. I push that thought out of my mind and focus on the sight before me. We approach a canyon, but what lay before me can only be described as an inverse-tornado shaped hole. Concentric circles spiral downward into an abyss of blackness and billowing smoke. The path that we had followed during this entire journey has disappeared and in its place is a well bucket of sorts. We climb into this large halfbarrel and it takes us to the center of the hole, suspended, where it begins to lower us down into nothingness. Treachery is devoid of love and according those who act treacherously are farthest from Gods love. Charles explains to me. Those who were Treacherous Against their Kin make up the first level. Their punishment is simple; they are eternally buried in burning, frozen blood up to the waste. The blood is everywhere, and everything is burning, but at the same time their world is also forever frozen. This does not make any sense just as treachery makes no sense to the untwisted mind. I saw Jonas Chuzzlewit buried in the odd burning, freezing blood. He had killed his

father, or so he thought, driven his wife insane, and eventually poisoned himself. Jonas you are a sinner, I wanted to shout, you are a disgrace to humanity, as we know it. The next level of this abyss is those who were Treacherous Against Their Country. Charles enlightens me. These souls chose payment or lands over the devotion to their country and family. I venture a guess. They are buried in the same frozen fire blood up to their necks? Close enough. They are actually buried up to their chins so they have no movement of their head whatsoever. Charles corrects. I glimpse Lord Montague and the Marquis of Exeter who had been both convicted and beheaded for their treason against the King of England. Only theirs eyes can move freely, darting everywhere, with a slight sound being emitted from the mouth. Our barrel bucket continues to lower us past level two into the growing shadows at the center of Hell. This next level is reserved for those who were Treacherous Against Their Guests. Those men that kindly took others into their care and then either murdered them or took advantage of their position. They are punished in like manner as the rest in this Arena, buried in the fire and frozen blood, but they are in up to their eyes. They can see but cannot utter a sound or do anything of consequence except blink their almost frozen eyelids. Half way through this level I think I recognize the face of Fagin, the man Oliver Twist had mentioned earlier in Hell, he deserves to reside here. He is a monster, he took orphan boys under his wing of protection, but then forced them to steal and fight for him solely to increase his wealth. If my eyes had served me right of who that was, I am actually excited to see that man suffer for what he has done. Those orphan boys had nobody to turn to, his lies brought them in, only to crush their hearts in the end with his cold fist. CHAPTER J: Not The Answers I Wanted To Find

The final and ultimate level of Hell is filled with those who were Treacherous Against Their Masters. Charles finished, placed his elbows on the rim of the bucket and laid his head in his scrawny hands to observe the silent agony of torture. Uriah Heep was the first man I see. He is completely incased in frozen blood, but the entire landscape is still afire. His eyes seem to scream at me, beg for help and salvation from his current misery.

Why would I help you Uriah? You have brought this on yourself. Do you feel shame now for what you have done? Not that it matters now. I promised that I would not speak to another dead soul, but I am not technically speaking to Uriah since he cannot hear me nor can he respond. I am a different person. Now speaking neither to Uriah nor Charles, just to the smoke and air. I have come through brimstone and fire to the other side. I have emerged a stronger man with a stalwart heart. Our bucket passes through the smoke and ash to a clearing below. I peer over the edge to glimpse Satan, stuck in the ice as Dante had written about, flapping his winds interminably and forever becoming more stuck in his ice prison. But no such sight meets my eyes. There is no Satan, only an eerie inscription burned into the ice below that reads: I WAS ONCE ENCASED HERE IN ICE ONE DAY A REVELATION CAME TO ME NOW I ROAM THE EARTH AS A MAN WAITING FOR MY TIME TO RULE WOULD YOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS BURN MY SKIN OR WOULD YOUR COMPLACENCY SPUR ME ON YOURS TRULY, LUCIFER The lift lands on the ice below and I slowly gather my composure to step onto that cursed ice. Charles and I make our way slowly to the legendary backdoor out of Hell, probably the same one that a human Satan would have used to exit. I try to keep Lucifers words out of my mind, but it is a losing battle. Those words are burned into my heart as they had been burned into the ice; there was no escaping their reality. We exit Hell and I barely even notice. We approach the rocky shore where the boat waits to return me home, and still I cannot focus on anything outside of those sentences. I am to be plagued by those words for the rest of my life. Would your righteousness burn my skin? Nothing else seems to matter. Or would your complacency spur me on? No answers. Yours Truly,

Ben Weemes