Purgatorio


March 6

Dear Diary,

We ascended the staircase toward the first landing for two entire days, and what an unusual kingdom we have finally entered!

Farther down that incredibly wide, misty hallway I’m sure there are other roads leading to…rooms? Did we enter only the first of many, many continent-sized rooms? We shall discover the answer to that eventually in the eternity allotted us. Ahead of us on the landing we noticed a path leading off to the left, and far beyond that, another going right. We’ll visit them all, perhaps.

Teresa held my arm tightly as we cleared the vaporous entrance this morning, and both of us stopped dead in our tracks, not anxious to proceed once the panorama made itself visible a few hundred yards in. To either side of us there were at first low cliffs of rocks and boulders, with no vegetation of any sort growing around them. Well, that is not surprising. What flora could possibly survive the gnashing of those rocks? You see, the boulders moved constantly; back and forth against one another as though they were either surprised by the sudden appearance of two travelers, or trying to work themselves free of the soil that bound them. Not in Hell—certainly never on Earth—has the mineral landscape seemed to possess life. But then this is neither Earth nor Hell. My guess is, since the staircase begins at the edge of that doomed kingdom and extends infinitely upward—toward Heaven???—these landings and rooms must be…well, Purgatory. That’s what I’ll call them anyway.

We hurried out of the mist through the narrow passage, not anxious to find out whether the boulders were alive or dead; desiring to greet us, or tumble themselves down on top of us. When at last the cliffs had shrunk to the point where we could see over and beyond them to the east and west, a clear line to the vast horizon unfolded. Teresa brought her hands to her mouth, whereas my own mouth simply fell agape to my waist. Not in photos or paintings or the most imaginatively produced movies had I ever seen a sight so rich, strange, and wondrous.

The sky itself was deep azure, punctuated with thousands of islands of light magenta and brilliant viridian, these bordered in soft, melting ivory. The azure swept along the horizon in the shape of a scythe or half-moon. Closer toward us and reaching far above our heads, back in the direction we’d come from, the blue waved into a palette of colors that would have made Kandinsky drool. In the azure I could see sparkling pinpoints. Stars. It hit me that perhaps the room we had entered had catapulted us in some unknowing way into another dimension or universe.

Below us, though, a vista equally remarkable spread out. After several moments I let my eyes fall to the earth…or the, the…What does one call the earth here? The Purgatory? Death is so strange.

Just a moment.

Teresa says the ground is still the earth, and so it will be.

The earth seemed to reflect the light of a sun; a sun that wasn’t evident anywhere above. A canopy more lush and thick than the disappearing rain forests of old Brazil rolled like waves on a solid green sea. To our left, many miles in the distance, a clearing had been carved in the midst of it. Inside the perimeter, low buildings or houses grew in height as my eyes followed them inward toward the center. A metropolis, stretching…heavenward. I thought immediately of the City of the Enlightened back in Hell. But, no. There was no moat encircling it, no drawbridge, and certainly inside its boundaries there would be no Lucifer.
Or could it be possible he is allowed to wander through this kingdom as well? Perhaps even rule it?

I sensed no fear hanging over the city, though, and so we decided to approach it; to see whether we might find our place in it for a millennium or two.

We traveled down the road, entering into the immense forest in great excitement, walking for many hours, or years, or…Time. It means nothing, now. We walked until we tired. And so, drawn closely together—there is no physical need for this; we are comfortable and warm in this land—we have decided to rest. To sleep together. Tomorrow we will search the trees and marvelous shrubs for fruits and berries and nuts, if they grow here, and then we will resume our journey on full stomachs.

Goodnight, faithful friend.


Stardate 6578.3

Well, it could be, Diary!

I love this kingdom already. It calms me. Suits me. It might well be home for us.

And so we rested together last night, nestled between a pair of tree roots on a mattress—I must laugh at that. I remember when—yes, on a mattress of soft, thick, amber-colored grass.

Lying there with our backs against the upswelling of the tree trunk, exhaustion finally set in. We fell asleep.

We awakened this morning, refreshed, to a chorus of enchanting music played by the morning breeze on the thick tangle of branches and leaves of these massive trees. It descended, and every note seemed almost visible. Bows across strings. Woodwinds and tympani. An orchestra with musicians all playing something different, yet in perfect harmony and cadence. We had not gone far into the peaceful forest in our journey yesterday, and it seemed this morning that we stood just outside the concert hall, hearing the notes and chords pushed by a breeze downward into our path. Teresa remarked that this is the first sign there is no strife, brutality, or anxiety here, and that only good awaits us.

We ate the fruits…we hope they are fruits, not some poisonous berries…and fist-sized nuts that grow in profusion on the smaller trees and bushes covering the floor only a few yards off the path we are on, and then drank from a stream that meandered through the area. Afterward, we rejoined the path and began our journey toward the city again.

The air was delightfully warm. We decided to shed our garments and sling them over our backs, and so we did. The sensation of wind on my bare skin was not at all unlike what I remembered it being when I was alive. A sudden urge to find a lake and dive in leapt into my mind, but I didn’t vocalize it. I’ve no doubt we’ll find one in our travels.

Teresa’s wounds and lash-marks have all but healed completely, I noticed, and her skin tone has deepened to a healthy, even, tannish hue. Perhaps due to the water here, or the fruits and berries. I don’t know.

Somewhat farther down the road:

“Terence?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the story of Purgatory?”

“Yes. I should think everyone does.”

“You’re so naive. Why would you assume that?”

“Because I know the story.”

“Hmm…This place is nothing at all like the one Dante described.”

“So far. But then, neither was Hell.”

“What do you mean ‘so far’?”

“We saw a city, but we didn’t see inside it. Who knows what goes on there?”

Teresa stopped after I’d said that. She glanced back the way we’d come, and then over to me.

“What do you think goes on in there?”

“I don’t know. I guess that’s why were going…to find out.”

“I don’t know if I want to go.”

I remember looking at her for a long, long moment; studying her face, trying to discover a hint of surrender. Oh, all right—how silly of me. Let’s go.

But no.

But I am not her husband or her keeper…

“Fine, then. Stay here. You’re free to do whatever you like.”

I knew she'd follow. I turned and continued on alone. I walked without looking back for…an hour? Two? Down a gently sloping hill; two turns, up another hill, confident she was moping ten or twenty paces behind me.

She was not.

I turned, and when I realized she was not with me, I sighed in exasperation. I retraced my steps on the path, calling her name more often the farther back I went.

That was two nights ago.


March 10

Dear Diary,

I’ll kill her.

No I won’t. I’ll just throttle her.

No I won’t.

I’m frightened. Teresa has disappeared, and though I believe this Purgatory holds no dangers…no real

dangers…I am sick with worry. I am not her father, her keeper, but maybe I am her husband. Whatever, whichever, I know that I love her. She is so pig-headed.

I’ll murder her…once I know she’s safe. Safe from what in this beautiful place?

What frightened her? We’d survived Hell and Lucifer. What could possibly be here? Why did she run?

I lie in the darkness writing inside you, wondering if the words run together on the page I can barely see. Do you possess any power, Diary? Someone must help me find her. Dear God…no.

I am so empty again without her. I will not murder her; no, I will hold her in my arms until…until…

If this land frightens her so much, we’ll leave it and go to another. I don’t care which one. First, I must find Teresa.

I miss her.


March 13

Teresa would not speak to me. Oh yes, I found her. She was sitting in the crotch of a tree near the edge of the forest near the spot we entered, her gown back in place; her knees tucked to her chest.

“Why didn’t you come with me?”

Silence.

“Please come down.”

Silence.

I walked forward, stood on my tiptoes, and touched her foot. She moved it away.

“Forgive me, Teresa. Come down, please. You must be hungry. We’ll eat, and then if you want to leave this land, we will. I promise.”

She turned her head and looked down at me; the supplicant, the sinner. I smiled.

“Something here frightens me. I don’t know what or who it is, but something terrifying hangs in the air. I feel it.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m hungry.” She swung her legs out and jumped to the ground beside me, dodging the question. “Let’s gather up berries. I found a large lake a mile or two in that direction,” she said pointing behind us toward the city. “We can go there and bathe ourselves.

“Oh, Terence, maybe we should just stay here. Go no farther down the road…stay away from the city. We can build a little cottage with a door and lots of windows. A fireplace…and plant a garden outside. I was thinking of that while you were away.”

“Then we will. But after we eat and bathe ourselves in your lake.”

We ate and spoke about small things. Her dreams of a cottage with a garden outside, mostly. I laughed as she drew pictures of it in the sand beside the lake. I have no tools; no affinity for building, even if I did have tools. There is no HGTV here to help me out.

The lake.

Will anyone other than myself read these words, Diary? In a way, I hope not. After all, that is the whole idea behind you. A place of written refuge.

We made love on the sand…the sand that is reddish in color, flowing down to a body of remarkably crystal clear water. As physics demands, the water reflects the color of the sky; a deep blue. It is a smallish lake (as I remember them), sitting like a tiny sapphire in its vast green setting, and it moves according to the desires of the rising and falling breezes.

Afterward we lay and talked more, Teresa’s head resting on my chest. She found it odd that other than the soft lapping of the waves onto the shore, this place is deathly quiet. Or serenely quiet. That silence she spoke of did not register at first, but she is right. We’ve heard no birds chirping; no far away hoots or calls of other creatures roaming deep in the forest. Purgatory is inhabited, though. Someone built the city. Yet, maybe whoever built it suffered some calamity, and all that is left of them is the stone they stacked, and dust in the streets. Or maybe they are there, spirits like we are, but dogs and cats and birds and fish and bears possess no soul, and therefore do not continue on after their deaths.

What calamity might they have suffered, if indeed that is the case? What mass disaster can befall the dead? Perhaps they are there, and they are alive, and we are simply ghosts, invisible to their mortal or immortal eyes.

In time these questions will be answered, even if we stay where we are and I build that cottage for my wife. Should that transpire, I will eventually go to the city alone and find out.

Goodnight, friend. Eyes that see my thoughts.


March 16, Eternity

Dear Diary,

Teresa admitted to me that her anxiety concerning the “It” or “Thing” hanging in the air was most likely just an ungrounded fear. A carryover from her old life coupled with her unfortunate (or fortunate, I corrected her; we met there) stay in Hell. She is a woman, after all, given as they are to often-irrational fears. She saw my superior reasoning dispel any notion of some thing being able to harm us.

“If we don’t like the city and what it harbors, then we’ll say ‘adios’ and leave,” I told her. “There’s no drawbridge; likely no demons. What the hell, let’s go see it.”

And so we set off again.

Two days we traveled, one of them spent sitting beneath a car-sized leaf during a downpour. We arrived last evening at the top of a rise overlooking the city, and have decided to wait until “sunrise” before entering.

The buildings were ablaze with lights in the darkness, and despite the fact we saw no vehicles of any sort, we did see movement along the main thoroughfare. Creatures of varying stature and physical make-up ambled in and out of the buildings visible from our vantage point a quarter mile away. They rather reminded me of some of those seen in Star Wars—not many of them like the inhabitants of New York or Los Angeles. Oh wait. I do recall seeing many of their kind in Los Angeles where I lived. When I lived.

I have gathered what dry sticks I could find and built a small fire. Not for warmth, but as a comfort. I did it the old fashioned way; by spinning a pointed stick on top of another. Once I was an Eagle Scout, Diary.

Teresa is snuggled in my arms, close to my fire. I know she is apprehensive still, but I have assured her time and again that nothing in that city has the power to harm her. Of that I am positive.

We’ll enter at first light.

Good night.


March 17


Oh man, I hope they don’t have festivals here, Diary.

Well. To our day.

Not many citizens of this incredible city were up and about when we entered beneath the several story-high stone arch. An engineering marvel, that arch, seeing as how it rested not on the ground, but several inches above it in midair! And confounding to both of us, something swatted Teresa on the behind just as we cleared it. She shrieked and turned quickly, catching sight of what can only be described as a granite hand attached to a granite arm, receding back into the left arch leg. Both of us heard a low, rumbling chuckle. She made a move to return and slap the arch-thing-creature, but I pulled her away. God knows if she’d made it angry…well. Anyway, she probably would only have managed to bruise her hand, or worse, given it the idea to grab hold of her. What would a sixty-foot living stone structure do with a woman, I wondered? A moot question, and I passed it off. We were free of it. I did wonder, though, about the rest of the architecture here. The hotel we would likely enter to inquire about a room during our stay…however long that might turn out to be. Would we be entering into the belly of a perverted beast?

We happened upon a group of men after we’d walked a few blocks down the thoroughfare. I say men, but I must qualify that. They were dressed in shirts and slacks, had two legs and arms each, but their faces! Their mouths were situated roughly on their foreheads, above two bulging eyes that gawked at us as we walked by. They were salivating, or so it appeared to me, diary. I immediately decided that we would be better off not asking them any questions, or even greeting them. Who knows, maybe they were out searching for breakfast. Us.

We rushed off, Teresa shooting a glance back at them over her shoulder every other step. In time we came upon an elderly looking couple. A real him and a real her with mouths situated where they should be. I decided to talk to them—see if they knew of a place where we might get a room.

“Good morning,” I said with a smile.

“Good morning.” Him.

“Good morning.” Her.

I cut to the chase.

“Where are we?”

Him. “Beg your pardon?”

“The name of this city. We’re travelling. We’ve recently come from Hell.”

Both of them looked at us as though we were crazy, and they hurried off muttering to one another, shaking their heads. Perhaps I should have lied and said we were from Mars.

“Maybe they’re from Heaven,” I said to Teresa. “They looked shocked. I wonder why?”

“I told you. You’re naïve,” she replied. “The next time we meet someone, don’t tell them anything.”

We walked a few blocks farther into the city, and sure enough found a hotel. A nice-enough looking building set back off the street—the foundation looked as if it was anchored to the earth very firmly, anyway. We entered and walked to the desk. A short, balding man with reading glasses glanced up from the papers he held when he heard us enter.

“Good morning. We’d first like to know what the name of this place is, and then ask about a room for the night,” I said.

He removed his glasses and looked us over. “Like the sign outside says, this is the Zdiglvrneeg-pos Arms.” He hesitated.

“Oh,” Teresa said nicely. “We thought that was graffiti someone had…”

“We have a few rooms available. You want a view or just someplace to sleep?”

“One with the finest view,” Teresa said to him cheerfully.

“Very good. That would be suite 2651, the Penthouse. Just sign in and I’ll get the key.” He pushed the guestbook forward, handed me a pen, and then turned to retrieve the key from its hook on the wall behind him. I signed us in as Mr. and Mrs. Terence McGillicutty—a bogus last name—and he returned. He glanced down at the names in the book.

“Very good, Mr. and Mrs. McGillicutty. That will be two million Secflavids. Cash or credit card. We accept either.”

Dilemma.

“Umm…we don’t have any cash or credit cards. I mean, we left all that back on Earth,” I explained.

My answer seemed to confuse him. “Earth?”

“Okay, Hell,” I said.

The man threw both of us a sour look as he picked up an instrument that vaguely resembled a cell phone. He waved a hand over it. It lit up, and then a voice came from somewhere inside it. “Central Station…”

We backed out and took off down the broad avenue, wondering when we’d hear the first wail of a siren or a phalanx of spirits come swooping down on us.

For the next few hours Teresa and I wandered up and down the streets, passively greeting those creatures we encountered with simple, inconspicuous nods of our heads, discussing our narrow options given the fact that food and housing (and probably everything else) would require money.

“Let’s just leave,” she implored me.

“Not yet, dearest. We’ve only just arrived. Surely there’s…”

“Don’t

call me dearest. You promised if we didn’t like it here we could leave,” she snapped.

Diary, we’ve had our first argument, and we haven’t even enjoyed a honeymoon yet. We went on, though, circling the area we had walked through, Teresa nudging me at every corner to turn in the direction of the “brazen” gate. At length we came upon a dilapidated-looking building sitting far back off the street between its wealthier neighbors. I stopped, curious to see how or why such a place could exist in this sparkling metropolis. There was a sign chiseled in the stone lintel of the doorway that caught my eye, written with symbols I’d never seen before, and a man in a hooded brown wrap standing just outside its closed doors. I left Teresa on the street and approached him.

The man raised his head as I approached, Diary, and at first sight of his eyes I faltered and considered returning to Teresa’s side immediately. They glowed red in an expressionless face, half-covered as it was by his cowl. He said nothing, rather extended an arm, pointing toward the doors. I glanced at it, following his direction, and then my eyes moved upward again to the strange inscription. I pointed at it, bringing my eyes back to him as I did. He smiled…not a normal, friendly smile, rather one of sympathy bordering on maliciousness. Then he directed my gaze to the sign again. It read in English, tufts of gray smoke rising from the lettering.

Purge thyself of all thy sins. Enter.

It hit me immediately. We were indeed in Purgatory, although we were really not. Not yet fully. Whatever else this city is; whatever the citizens’ reasons for being here, the city is merely the gateway to that place spoken of in Dante’s writing, I think. I have no sins. I don’t believe in them. Therefore I will not go back and accept his offer to enter the doors. One session of Hell was quite enough for myself and my love.

We will leave this city tomorrow, this realm, and go back to the lakeshore or the landing. The universe is a big place.

Tonight we are camped on the outskirts, just beyond the first row of neat, low houses. I have built another fire, and Teresa sits beside me, exhausted, but relieved.

Goodnight, friend.


March 18

Dear Diary,

A wonderful day!

Teresa and I saw children playing in the woods nearby this morning. We’d slept late, and the sounds of their laughter awakened us. Two of them stood behind a large tree twenty feet away, spying on us and giggling, while the others cavorted and did what young children everywhere do in their carefree games. Did back on Earth, anyway.

At length, after we had risen to our feet, Teresa approached the two at the tree cautiously so as not to frighten them away, and asked them in a gentle voice who they were, how old they were, where they lived. Things of that nature. They were dressed in colorful blouses and lacy, white pinafores, with striped hose and black shoes—what I might expect a five or six year-old anywhere to wear.

As with the human-looking adults back in the city proper, they seemed to understand Teresa’s questions well enough, and responded cheerfully. The remaining children abandoned their game of tag and rushed to her side, curious to meet this woman who beamed like the brightest star.

“We live there,” one of the ones who had stood spying on us a moment earlier said, pointing back at the city.

“Yes, but where?” Teresa followed. This question seemed to delight the little girl, whose hair was the same color and texture as Teresa’s, although it was done up in tight ringlets and curls. I do believe this feature drew Teresa’s interest most, as though they shared something special.

The girl pointed again in the direction of the city. “In a house! It is a big

house, and we have each of us a bedroom and as many toys as we could ever want. I have a dog named George, too. He isn’t here. Do you have a dog?”

It was Teresa’s turn to be delighted. She sat down on the amber grass and talked with them for quite some time, laughing joyfully at their innocent responses to her questions, while I considered re-entering the city to search out wherever they might live—an orphanage of some sort I imagined. We had seen no children yesterday on the streets, but obviously there are some, or many, who reside in Purgatory. I can’t imagine why. I thought again of the man outside the dreadful looking doorway. This is indeed a very odd place.

Teresa learned this: They do live in a communal home farther into the city. There are many such places, evidently. To a child they are happy, they said. When asked about school, Teresa drew blank looks. Parents? Further blank stares. Guardians?

“What are those?” one of them asked.

“But who cares for you? How do you eat? You must have someone in your home who looks after you—teaches you, loves you,” Teresa asked them.

At this they all laughed. The little girl with the dark hair answered first, laughing.

“We all love each other! All the big people love us, too.”

“Yes, but who takes care of you?”

There answer, almost in unison.

“We do!”

And on and on, this peculiar tale of the relationship between the guardian-less children and the adults back in the city. I determined to return and find out more about this society.

At length the children tired of question and answer and ran off again to their games. I found it touching, Diary, that when they did, the little girl who seemed most drawn to Teresa, returned after several steps and threw her arms around her. The child kissed her, and then ran off to join the others.

Teresa called out, “What is your name, little girl?”

She stopped and turned. After a second or two she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

“I don’t have one of those.”

And then she was off again.

I don’t quite know what to make of that as I sit here beside our fire tonight. Teresa has been strangely quiet. I’m sure she doesn’t know either. I can see in her face, though, an unspoken longing to meet the children again, and in particular the one who has no name. Perhaps we will before we leave this place.

Goodnight


March 19

Dear Diary,

I confronted Teresa this morning in the kindest way I knew how after having walked beside her in the thick woods for several hours. She moved slowly all that time, inspecting every berry, nut, and root as though she were selecting them for the Harry and David enterprise back on earth. But it was not her five-minute stop at each piece that struck me—women are like that when they shop—it was the almost-visible disinterest

in them. I mean, she felt them with her fingertips, smelled them, turned them over several times, but the routine might be compared to a person on a crowded bus who pretends to be reading, yet never turns the pages. Her thoughts were far, far away. Had I not plucked a few nuts and berries myself, no doubt we’d have had no breakfast.

“What is it?” I finally blurted after she’d stood mesmerized for an eternity in front of one of the skyscraper trees standing well into the forest. It took me two or three more tries with the question to bring her out of her lethargy.

“I think I must go back into the city—today,” she said running her fingers over the rough bark. “There is something I must do there. You can’t follow, though.”

Of course I asked her to explain, but her answers to my questions were nothing if not vague. Sidesteps, really. But in the end I agreed, promising her I wouldn’t follow. I broke that promise, naturally.

We ate—I ate, I should say. Teresa kissed me in a most unusual way afterward, and then left. I sat cross-legged on the grass with my arms locked around my knees as she made her way down the incline in the direction of the gate closest to our camp. She looked back over her shoulder a few times until she was seemingly satisfied that I was going to keep my word. Once she arrived at the gate and disappeared through it I bolted to my feet and ran down the hill after her. Her first stop was a small alcove between two buildings several blocks in. I could see very well that there was someone else there, and that someone was the little girl whom she had taken such an interest in over the past few days. They spoke for some time, Teresa bending over often to hug her and kiss her head and tiny face. How odd, I thought, that they showed such affection for one another, and how odd as well that they felt the need to do this in secret. But as I said, the truth of it had hit me. There existed some special relationship between them prior to Teresa’s death. The question was: was the little girl a sibling whose death Teresa either inadvertently or overtly caused? Or was she perhaps the daughter of a close friend? God forbid that my Teresa might have gone insane while alive and killed her own flesh and blood I thought. But she never mentioned a daughter in our many discussions, nor has she ever exhibited any acts I would consider insane, so I ruled that out.

After some time had passed they left the alcove and walked hand in hand farther into the city until they came to that horrid entryway Teresa and I had seen a few days ago. The keeper stood outside and raised his cowled head when they approached. As far as I could tell he said nothing, though. His thin mouth remained static, but his eyes glowed more red with each second that passed. I wondered why they had stopped at the entrance? My question was answered after Teresa bent down and said something else to the girl with no name, who broke down in tears even as Teresa spoke.

Looking up then, Teresa nodded her head to the man, at which he approached the door and unlatched it. She bent again and kissed the weeping girl and then moved to enter. Diary, I screamed! She stopped briefly and looked back at me with the saddest look on her face and a single tear that glistened on her cheek. She turned again and walked through the darkened entry into…what lay ahead of her I wondered in a panic? Why was she entering this anteroom of Hell?

I ran across the roadway and reached the doorway, but I was too late. The keeper had pulled it shut after her entrance and stood glowering at me, the staff he carried cocked sideways, barring my entrance. On seeing me, the girl ran like the wind to the north. I would have followed—of a certainty she knew why Teresa had gone into whatever lay behind that door—but my only concern at that moment was to somehow get past the terrible guard and pursue her. Teresa and I had survived Hell. Whatever had actually motivated her to enter that lower chamber of Purgatory I wasn’t positively certain of, but I knew together we could defeat this new kingdom of souls and their tormenters.


March 20

Tried several times to get past the gatekeeper today.

No luck. He didn’t strike me, but when I grabbed his staff to pull it out of my way twice, it was like trying to move a fully-grown tree. I finally despaired and left.


March 21

Dear Diary,

I spent much of the day searching for a way to get past the gatekeeper. A hidden door or a boarded-over window; a coal chute, a chink in the masonry someplace, but I found no other entrance. Why would I not be allowed to enter the doorway at the front of the building? Why did that creature block some and not others? Well, me at least?

I put the problem of entrance aside after several hours of searching in vain and made my way past the bookstore, down along the avenue in search of the street called Limbo. Mile after mile I walked, hoping to stumble upon it or at the very least see children. Again my efforts proved fruitless. It is as though everything important to me has vanished—the little girl more so because I am certain she must know what Teresa did in another lifetime that made her walk through that cursed opening.

Thus, I made my way back toward my starting point in great despair and confusion. I passed the bookstore, and after a short distance retraced my steps and entered for some reason. A dog on its way home will stop and retrace its steps often enough for no apparent reason other than something catching its eye or nose. And so I confess, Diary, at that moment I felt little better than a common cur.

Inside a dozen or more lovers of the written word milled about browsing the titles in the racks, chatting as though there was no sanctity in a house of books. I approached the proprietor and asked him if the woman garbed in the robes of a nun had been in today. He replied that there were no nuns in Purgatory. Only priests—and many of them.

“The popes get to congregate in Hell.”

“Thank you,” I replied, “I know that firsthand. And Bishops. But didn’t you see her a day or two ago sitting over there reading a book the size of the Pentagon?”

“The what?”

“Never mind,” I said. “A very large book is all.”

“I saw no nuns…nor priests for that matter, lately. But if you’re referring to a big book, perhaps it’s The Very Best Recipes For War From Alexander the Great to George W. Bush

. Lots of fabulous stuff in that one.”

“No, I don’t think that would have been it. She mentioned the title, but I’ve forgotten it,” I think is what I replied, Diary.

“There was no nun. Hasn’t been one…”

“Yes, yes, I know. Well, thank you anyway.” I turned to leave, having no desire to read the account of the rape of the Sabine Women or any other “recipe”.

“Wait!” His voice halted all the chatter momentarily. “There is another, although it hasn’t left the shelf in ages. Written by some unknown author from nowhere around these parts. Good, or Glob…something like that. You’re welcome to take a gander. If you like it I’ll let it go for half…no, three-quarters of the cover price.”

I told him he was too kind in offering me such a steal, but that I’d like to see it first. I think I know why he was sent here. He was probably a thief. Definitely not corporate…they’re all in Hell. He removed himself from behind the counter and rushed to the rear of the store, returning in a moment with the book. Yes, its cover looked the same. Maybe inside it lay the clue concerning the children and the way into Teresa’s chamber of horrors. The non-existent nun seemed to have indicated as much when we spoke.

“Sorry. Written by some guy named God,” he said with an out-of-breath huff.

“You’re serious,” I had to respond.

“Yes. Right here,” he said plopping it onto the corner of an un-occupied table and then pointing at the byline. “G-O-D.”

“You don’t know who God is?”

“Just some long-winded writer I guess, judging from the length of this thing.”

Hell is an insane asylum, but Purgatory isn’t far behind, Diary. I asked him how much he wanted for the book that I’d need a truck to lug back to the camp outside the city with. He eyed me, and seeing as I was naked, he frowned.

“Thirty pieces of silver. Not a coin less.”

Curious price.

I don’t know why I wound up here in Purgatory…well, yes I do. That was my choice. I think. Our choice. At any rate, at least I’d heard

of God. Is this place and the people inhabiting it located in another part of the universe? Another universe altogether? Somewhere that God hasn’t visited and screwed up yet? The shop owner knew of popes, but where did they come from in his un-God world?

Who cares? I dickered with him and got the price reduced to fifteen silver pieces.

“Fair enough. Now, put the money on the table and then you can drag this thing out of here and read it until Hell freezes over.”

“I doubt that will happen anytime soon, but as you can see I’ve obviously forgotten my wallet.” I patted my butt cheek and smiled.

“Then you can forget the book and get your naked ass out of my store…whoever you are.”

As I had no Teresa, no little girl, no nun, and no clothes, I decided on another tactic to get my hands on the book.

I left.

I hung around a few doors down the street, noting for the first time that I was the only soul without clothes on. It’s no wonder the people here cast sidelong glances at me whenever they pass by.

I returned to the bookstore some length of time later and glanced in the front window. More customers had gathered. I could hear their chattering even through the glass. Fortune smiled at me. The book lay resting exactly where the owner had placed it hours ago. I opened the door, stuck my head in, and screamed “FIRE!”

Odd though they might be, the citizens here are no different than they were back on planet Earth. Hysteria erupted in the face of one highly-charged word. There was an instant of shock followed by a mass stampede…the owner leading the way. I stepped in, and when the bulk of bodies had passed by, leapt onto the book and followed them out. I gallivanted down the street, surprised that God’s book seemed so light in my hands.

When I’d gotten safely away—now a thief myself who might qualify for entry into the darkened door behind which my Teresa lay—I scanned the title. “The Secret”. At first I turned up my nose. I’d read a book by that title when I was alive and had ten times thirty pieces of silver in my wallet, inside my trouser pocket, stitched onto the pants I always wore in public. That book didn’t impress me, although it was written by an entirely different author.

I went home, sat down after starting a fire, and began to read.

Now, only past the acknowledgments, table of contents, copyright page, and introduction, I weary. It might be that I’m beginning a James Michener version of the Book of Numbers. I don’t know, Diary. I’ll dig in again tomorrow to see.

Goodnight my friend

Ps. Will any who might happen upon you in the future see my words as…wearisome? I hope not.


March 22, The year of Our Lord…who knows?

Dear Diary,

It must be near midnight. I haven’t left our camp, nor have I stood, save to gather more kindling for the fire I really have no need for in Teresa’s absence.

I spent a great deal of time in the Table of Contents, which covers 352 pages.

God certainly is verbose.

The date of publication was strange. It said “Event-post 2”. Not only is God very talkative on paper, he is very, very old if I am to believe what is written. But I mention that only as a curiosity, Diary.

My head is spinning! It would appear this book transcribes the creations and aftermaths of beings in our very own Milky Way Galaxy. God calls it Quadrant 6682...wait a minute, I need to check.

Yes, Quandrant 66,824,546,987,245. By any stretch of the imagination, that’s a very large number of quadrants to keep an eye on. Earth is mentioned. We are, or were when Teresa and I were there, sub-group P in the second to the last 4. I think. Near the middle (and I was lucky to have found the chapter!).

I thumbed through P quickly, trying to find some mention of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, and happened upon a chapter that I found very disconcerting. Basically a recounting of the biblical version of the ten commandments being etched by the fiery finger of God in stone—granite in this volume’s rendition, chiseled by Moses (okay), with sweat pouring from his brow. Rather shocking, this part:

1) I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not have false gods before me.
2) Remember that I am Woman, and thou shalt…

I stopped right there. Holy smoke, Diary, if that book is the real McCoy, it’s no wonder Hell is so overwhelmed with men. It would seem, too, that when we were alive we had it all wrong. And Lucifer…what are we to make of him and the City of the Enlightened now? Lots of questions in view of this strange new twist to the Deity-in-charge revelation.

Well, I didn’t put much credence in the Holy Book when I was back on earth, and I won’t put too much credence in this new version either. I am dead, yet alive. That’s all that matters, really. Now if only I can find Teresa again. No clues in this book so far.

I’ve had to stop reading momentarily just when it was getting interesting. It’s near dawn…the little girl is walking up the hill.

That’s all for now, friend.
T


March 23

Good God. I was right…almost.

Her name is Ann and she is six years old by Earth’s old standards of time. She is Ann because Teresa named her that before she disappeared into the horrible building. Teresa gave her that

name because Ann is Teresa’s middle name.

Ann is her daughter.

She is six because six years ago Teresa made the decision to abort her I am now certain. That is how long little Ann has been here in this land, waiting for her mother to appear and take her back. Take her away. Stay here with her. Simply be with her forever.

Ann wept the entire time she spoke in her tiny sobbing voice, the way only children are capable of weeping. She knew nothing of the first abandonment, only of the woman dressed in the attire of a nun being present from her very first memory only a few years ago. Ann grew

here, and it seems only natural that she will continue to grow until such time that she reaches maturity, or leaves, or…?

None of this she elucidated clearly, only asking me to explain, over and over, what “I would have been…I am your mother,” meant. Those words told me everything, finally. But how do I try to explain the statement by Teresa? Little Ann can never be the same, now. It is up to me, if no one else, to try to lead her forward, and I will do that by finding Teresa and bringing her back out, even if I must call on God him…whoever…to help me.

She is innocent, as all six year-olds are in whatever time or space or dimension they inhabit.


Ann is sleeping soundly beside me. God bless the children.

I’ve banked the fire.

Goodnight, Diary


March 24

Dear Diary,

Ann and I walked among the flowers and trees most of the day. She has, I’ve discovered, a ravenous appetite. When she finally asked me who I was, I stumbled momentarily and choked on the handful of berries I’d just begun chewing.

Who am I?

I told her I was her father. And so I shall be. The dilemma surfaces, though, Diary: What do I do with Ann when I enter the door? Do I simply leave her? I suppose she will be safe among her piers, in the care of the Guardians. She has been up until now, anyway.

The way into the building…from page 653,081 of the book: Repent of your sins and prepare thyself to enter into the cleansing fire.

What madman would wish this torture on his...her...children? If ‘repenting of my sins’ is what is required, though, so be it. I will kneel before that terrible guard and confess offenses I haven’t committed; do anything necessary to gain admittance.


Tomorrow I go back to the entrance to the lower world.

Goodnight


March 25

Dear Diary,

Ann cried once again when I left her, but I swore I’d return with her mother; that she was not to lose hope.

“Go to your home, your friends, and the Guardian,” I said as I kissed her forehead. “They will take care of you until we return. It won’t be long.” I left her there and entered, alone…I thought.


So now what am I to do? Ann is here beside me. After I’d discovered her tailing me I ushered her back toward the door and began pounding on it, screaming for the Gatekeeper to open it.

“Won’t work,” she told me. “He won’t open the door to knocks from in here. We tried it.”

Ann told me how simple it had been to slip past the Gatekeeper; that she’d done it once in the past with her friends. Like most everyone else, is he blind to their presence? This cauldron of suffering frightened them, she said, and so they retreated and snuck back out the door when it opened to admit another penitent.

We sit at this late hour on an outcropping of rock that overlooks a valley of steam and moaning as I write in your pages. Though I can see the flames rising and falling beneath the layer of steam, the cavern is dark and ominous, but not silent. Ann. I can see her eyes scanning left, right, left again, down into the pit. With each momentary wisp of a clearing in the swirl of steam and smoke she leans forward, looking. Always looking.

She holds fast to my arm with her hands. We will rest a bit, now. Tomorrow we will go forward and down to find Teresa and then bring her out.


March 26

Dear Diary,

We trudged along the valley rim on a narrow path gouged out of the side of the black mountain for hours. Or what seemed like hours; it might have been only moments. We stopped, moved again, stopped, at Ann’s whim. She’s a strange little girl. This moment frightened, the next ebullient and inquisitive concerning the harsh landscape.

“Where do you think she is?” Ann asked as we rounded a turn in the pathway.

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but we’ll find her, I promise you.”

Much later, in the distance ahead of us I could hear water. Not a gurgling stream, but more like rushing rapids. It grew louder as we continued onward, and when we turned once again, following the contour of the mountain, we saw it. A gigantic waterfall that began high above us and roared downward into a massive lake. The path ended at the falls and several souls stood at the its edge in the roadway, stepping into the spray momentarily, and then back out, wringing their fingers through their hair as though they were taking a shower. We had no choice but to approach them; four men and four women. Ann lingered behind, clutching the sides of my waist with her tiny fingers.

“Greetings,” I recall having said to them lamely. Each of them looked at me warily. None smiled. None returned my salutation at first, either. At last a man about my age stepped forward from among them, and after glancing at Ann, spoke.

“A child? What could possibly have been her sin?”

I told him there had been none; that we were simply there looking for a woman named Teresa.

“There must be at least a million here by that name…well, I should think. But how does a child enter? I don’t get it.”

Ann seemed to lose her momentary bout of fear and replied, “I snucked in.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You must get out before…” He halted, looked behind him at the rush of water, down to the churning lake, and then back at Ann. “You see that water? You’ll fall in, and then where will you be? Drowned like a rat in a sewer, that’s where.”

“You didn’t fall,” she said. I chuckled inwardly. She was right.

“Hah! Not yet, but no doubt I will.”

“Why don’t you just step back so that you don’t?”

From the mouths of babes…

“TO WHERE? Look down there. That’s where we’re all headed! To drown over and over in the lake of grace until we can fill our lungs no longer and are moved…I guess into the cataracts of the river far away, there to wind up God knows where.”

I glanced over the edge into the lake. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the arms and heads of miserable-looking people bobbed up amidst the splashing of the water, and then disappeared quickly, like tiny sticks caught in a horrible vortex. Two of the four among us—a man and a woman—moaned loudly, and then leapt off the cliff. It seemed to take them an eternity to hit the surface of the lake water. They disappeared in the undertow. The man beside us then brushed the soaked hair from off his face and turned to the woman standing shivering a few feet away from him. He left us and went to her. He said something in a low voice to her, at which she bit her lip and shook her head ‘yes’. They stepped to the ragged edge, hesitated, and then jumped. The woman’s screams could be heard until they died in the roar of the water.

“Do you think Mother…”

I told her no, that there must be another way out of that place we’d found ourselves in. I walked to the sheet of water that undulated in and out, in and out at its whim, a pulsating spray exploding onto the path and myself like a million infinitely small fingers. I noticed as I stared—Ann clutching my inward arm—that the road we stood on continued…perilously, yes…behind the Niagra-like fall of water.

“She went this way,” I yelled over the noise. “Take hold of my hand. Don’t be frightened.”

I was.

But then neither of us was capable of dying again, only drowning a hundred or a thousand times, separated and alone most likely after we landed. And so we edged along the slippery shelf, facing outward, our backs to the rock, our fingers clutching the depressions of the wall. Not long afterward we found a corner of sorts that opened into an even darker space, a cavern. Wet, but roomy enough so that I, at least, took a deep breath and uttered a thank you…to no one in particular. The interior was very dim, but in the distance a tiny glimmer of light was visible high up near the stalactite-covered ceiling.

I had no idea, Diary, whether Teresa might have gone the way we chose. Reason told me she would simply have jumped from the ledge in her depressed state like all the rest. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the decision we made was guided by something higher…and I ascribe that to a kindly nod by some power that hears the laments of innocent children. Someone or some thing

that is at his or her heart good, and not the author of this place. Teresa came this way, I was certain of it.

We walked for hours (days, months?) through the room. The heat rose and the dampness faded the closer we came to the light. Twilight. Dismal. We eventually approached a deep, fifty-meter diameter hole in the floor. Beside it at the head of a precipitous-looking rock stairway stood another figure that reminded me of the cowled creature guarding the entrance so far back. I took hold of Ann’s hand and walked up to him, intent on asking him if he’d seen a woman fitting Teresa’s description. But, how was I to describe her? Such and such a height, dark hair, naked? A moot musing. He nodded as if he’d read my mind, and then pointed toward the other side of the pit, saying but one word. “There.”

There. So, as I suspected, she had not jumped into the lake, nor had she yet begun the descent into who-knows-what?

Ann left my side at a dead run, yelling at the top of her voice, “Mother! Mother! Mother!” Over and over. A great wailing arose from the catacombs in the distance from many women cowering inside them. I left the creature and ran after Ann. She reached one of the openings and dashed inside. I heard a mixed burst of joyous laughter and crying. “Go away, please…I can’t…what I did…” And so on.

Again I hesitated, Diary. Should I interrupt? Throw myself at Teresa’s knees and thank the stars I…we…found her? I understood her feelings of guilt, truly, and yet the object of her despair was not me. And honestly, what could I have said to her? “Come, come, now. Everything is fine again?”

Everything was not fine. Still, life number one back on Earth in our physical-ness is history and completely finished, yet only the first of many chapters of the books we are, the vast majority of pages yet to be written. I knew that Teresa had only led Ann out of the initial chapter unknowingly, and perhaps saving her a long life of pain in some way neither Teresa nor I could understand. Even here in eternity we are unable to “see” the purpose of our existences I think. Now at last they were re-united, and that was most likely fated from the very beginning.

I let them be, anxious to enter the cave, yet knowing it was not yet time. If Teresa was to re-emerge, her Ann would be the person to accomplish the rescue this time.

I await them, very tired, signing off for now.

Goodnight.


March 27

Dear Diary,

It was hot today, those hours we spent outside the pit of quasi-despair anyway; that place consigned to the remission of “temporal guilt”. Consigned by whom, I wonder? Where is God—the him or her or it—in this vicious universe? I can understand Hell where we are drawn according to our deepest desires and depravities; because of what we really are. Where we are free to leave if we so desire, although the vast majority of us do not.

We all move on, whether by promptings from God or Lucifer or ourselves. We move if where we are becomes unbearable.

Who created Hell? Lucifer? I think so. And yet it is only another country, inhabited and given its perverse vitality by the creatures who make up its citizenry. But who created that place worse than Hell; that Purgatorio where we are led to believe that our failings are something we need to make painful and long, long amends for? I have sinned, and so I must drown or burn a thousand, a million times in order that I might…

what? Become presentable to a wicked and petty God who demands something impossible of us?

I think God and Lucifer are one and the same, and he is not omnipotent. And yet we found little Ann in Purgatory. How did she arrive there? I think back to the nun… ‘As for why they wait here, it is because He has said this is where they should be.’ Babes—children, in fact—do not choose where to live. Someone leads them, places them, abandons them.

Too, Teresa and I chose this room on the first landing. Why? Are our choices capricious, or are they pre-ordained? And if they are pre-ordained, who made them so? I was sent

to Hell, though I had no idea why until the end. Perhaps it was my choice. Afterward I led Teresa into the kingdom of Purgatory against her will to a great extent. The reason was to help her find the missing part of her existence, though neither of us could have conceived this at the time. Someone did

conceive it, though.

She understands finally that paying a cleansing fee for “sins” is the work of maniacs and tyrants, although her intent, she confided to me a short while ago as we sat by the fire, was not to atone, but to punish herself. Why must we do this to ourselves?

Ann waited for six years for her mother to reappear, and when Teresa came, that should have been the end of it, or the beginning as it were. That moment of recognition. There should have been a feast, Diary, like the one given upon the return of the prodigal son.

There I go. Remembering unconsciously. Digressing into euphemisms spawned by my upbringing. I suppose we really are what we eat. Thank God (I must laugh at my choice of words) our Ann had no such daily meals. She is pure. Teresa is whole, despite all that she ate while she was alive. Me? I have no idea; only that my heart, such as it is, yearns in every moment to be with both of them. I will fight God to achieve and keep that end if need be.


We are seated near the roadway, resting, waiting until the light comes again before we walk up the hill and through the nervous, anxious boulders that guard the entrance to this land. There are many other rooms, many other kingdoms, many, many universes waiting for us out there.

Us.

Impressum

Texte: (c) Patrick Sean Lee, 2012
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.01.2012

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Widmung:
This book is the second in my trilogy, Dear Diary. I dedicate it to all my wonderful, inspirational friends here at Bookrix.