Katabasis — Chapter no 2

Chapter Two

Hell stretched. Alice and Peter walked side by side over sand so silky-fine their footprints left hardly any marks. Indeed, the sand seemed to actively erase them as they walked on. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her footprints left first indiscernible outlines, then, three steps on and another glance back, nothing at all. It appeared that Hell’s landscape resisted alteration. No matter where Alice looked, she could detect no landmarks— no hills, no shores, no foreboding clouds. She tried not to let this bother her.

Hell, she had read, was an inconstant and shifting plane. Its landmarks were conceptual, not fixed. She did not know quite what this meant, but following scholarly convention she interpreted this as, Hell reveals itself to

you in whatever order it so chooses.

Hell, for now, chose rolling dunes.

Alice longed for sunlight. Her eyes had adjusted now to the dim, though they ached from squinting. She rubbed her temples and hoped she’d grow used to this eternal dusk.

Around twenty minutes later, they crossed under a bridge. At first they heard it rather than saw it: chatter overhead, voices Alice almost recognized. She looked up and saw in the sky a mirror image of Cambridge, the campus turned upside-down and shudderingly translucent, as if projected across a staticky cable connection. She saw Jesus Green, Sidney Street, and the little winding alleys between St. John’s and Trinity. She saw postgrads on their bicycles, weaving around cars. She saw little black masses moving quickly in clusters from one building to the next.

Undergraduates, precious things, new and still-creased black robes flapping around their heels.

So this was the Viewing Pavilion. Alice had read about this: first in Penhaligon’s Primer on the Unitarian Hell, and then corroborated by most ancient Chinese sources. Here was the bridge that all souls crossed before they passed into the Underworld for good; the liminal point between the worlds of the living and dead where each side could just barely glimpse the other.

A thought crossed Alice’s mind. She squinted. Yes—if she cast her thoughts outward, she could zoom in to that mirror Cambridge and tunnel into the Graduate Lab Seven, where her and Peter’s pentagram remained, their writing smudged and in parts eviscerated by winds blown from the boundaries between worlds. She saw two of her colleagues—Belinda and Michele—standing reverently at the door, peering around, slowly piecing together what had just happened.

She hadn’t erased her tracks. No, rather the contrary: she’d left a note in her office announcing that she was off to retrieve Professor Grimes’s soul from Hell, that no one should dare follow for the danger was so great, and that if she hadn’t returned in fourteen days then they could go ahead and reassign her corner office to one of the first-years. She’d left the lab door unlocked. She wanted everyone to know where she had gone, if only so that when she returned in triumph, Professor Grimes in hand, there would be no doubts about her success.

Belinda and Michele were now kneeling by the outside of the pentagram, stooping low to read the inscriptions. Alice wished she could hear what they were saying. Belinda kept pressing her hand against her mouth. Michele responded with some gestures that were either very agitated or simply very Italian; with Michele, Alice had never been able to tell which. Suddenly Belinda paused—she stood right over the inscription that designated their destination as Hell—and craned her neck to read.

Alice reached up as far as she could with one hand. The bridge was very close—a low ceiling she could just touch, if she strained her arm and teetered on her tiptoes. Could she cross it? She wanted to try.

“Boo.”

Belinda shuddered; her hand flew to her neck. Alice was delighted. She wondered at the limits of ghostly mischief—whether, if she wanted to, she might simply haunt the halls of Cambridge forever.

Scholars concurred that most hauntings on record were facilitated through the Viewing Pavilion. It was the only place from which the dead could make their voices heard, from which they might exert some pressure on the living. But it was a dual kind of haunting. Ghosts lingered around the Viewing Pavilion because they were too enraptured with scenes from their lifetime; because they, in turn, were entranced and obsessed with the rituals of the living. They wanted to know what everyone was up to. They wanted

to see whether they’d been remembered. All the ghost stories were wrong; hauntings were so rarely malicious. The dead only wanted to feel included.

Belinda stumbled into Michele’s arms. Alice snorted. What an English rose Belinda was—everything was always too much for her. Michele wrapped his arms around Belinda, speaking into her ear. Alice guessed at his words—It’s all right, they haven’t died—they’re not going to die.

Belinda kept shaking her head. No, she seemed to say. No, they’re dead, they’re gone.

“Having regrets?” Peter stood beside her, neck craned up. Though his eyes were not on Belinda and Michele, but the flocks of undergraduates bustling happily down the alley. Oblivious, excited for the start of term—or was their first day of classes over, were they now filtering into the college

bar for a pint? “Want to head back?”

“Don’t joke, Murdoch.”

There was no simple path out of Hell. They both knew this coming in.

Entering Hell was easy; leaving was hard. If only they could just jump up into their pentagram, say their spells in reverse, and plop right back where they had begun. But if that were possible, the living could visit their dead all the time. No; to ascend from Hell required the permission of Lord Yama —that was, Thanatos, Anubis, Hades, the Darkness of Many Names, Ruler of the Underworld.

Often he granted it. Lord Yama did not like to suffer the living in his realm; they disturbed the dead, they upset the balance. He was more than happy to shoo them back off to whence they’d come. At least, all the stories promised so. Orpheus had made his way back, for better or worse. Dante ascended with no trouble at all. In all the stories, sojourners in Hell rarely perished there. It was in the world of the living where they met their tragic ends.

In any case, they could sort out the problem of living when they crossed that bridge. For now, the trouble was determining how much deeper in to go.

AN HOUR LATER THE GROUND BEGAN sloping upward. They were climbing something, though it wasn’t immediately clear what. Alice’s lungs grew tight, though she tried not to pant. Peter loped on beside her, completely unfazed, and she was too embarrassed to admit she was tired.

Then it was all revealed beneath them: a flat valley filled with Shades upon Shades, some grouped in clusters, some wandering the fields alone.

Those were dead souls—translucent gray things, mere echoes of living bodies. Some went round and round in circles; some paced along the same tight trip. Some meandered, drifting more than walking. From high above it was like watching a colony of sluggish, dazed ants, moving with no purpose. Only an endless milling. Limbo, by one name. By another, the Fields of Asphodel.

The fields were not a court of Hell, only a holding area. Here lingered the shocked, disoriented souls of the recently deceased. Here they had infinite space and time to find their bearings before they decided to move on. Talamo’s monograph described the Fields of Asphodel as a waiting zone. Not so different from the lobby at Cambridge South, only there was no coffee kiosk, and everyone was still deciding whether they wanted to get on the train.

Alice had good reason to think Professor Grimes might still be here. On the whole, the dead were not typically eager to move on. They needed time to process their memories, their regrets, their wishes. Some stayed in hopes of reuniting with loved ones before they sought reincarnation together.

Some didn’t believe in reincarnation at all. Some waited in the fields forever out of conviction that the great resurrection was coming, and that they need only sink into a stupor and wait for the end times. Others remained out of sheer terror of what the rest of Hell might hold, for an eternity of boredom was better than the punishments they deserved.

Professor Grimes, in Alice’s view, had quite a lot to atone for. If she were him, she would stay put.

But how would they ever find him in such a crowd? The fields stretched on as far as the eye could see, and not a single one of these souls was recognizable to Alice’s eyes. Even after they descended down into the valley, into the crowds, the Shades appeared as vague and indistinct as they had looked from a distance. Alice scrutinized every soul she passed but saw only blurry silhouettes, most of them faceless, expressions uniformly dour if not. She could never get close enough to get a better look. The dead flitted away every time they came close, like gnats swarming off from waving hands.

“Remind me what you used for an anchor?” Peter asked after a while.

One of the more vexing problems with a sojourn to Hell was figuring out where to go and where to find the soul you hoped to rescue. Many souls had died since the dawn of time, and Hell was unfortunately a very large place. The solution was a Dowsing Anchor: a clause in the pentagram that used a physical token or object to root one spatiotemporally in the underworld. But Alice’s anchor, it seemed, had led them only into indistinct space.

“I used a token from his desk.” Alice glanced around helplessly. “The plaque they gave him in Paris last year. He tosses most of his awards but he kept that one face out, so I thought it meant something to him.”

“I know that plaque. It’s just made of wood, right? No gold lettering?”

“Yes, only a carving.”

Peter nodded, pondered a moment, and then asked, “Could I make a

suggestion?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Only I don’t mean to be overcritical.” He said this so courteously that Alice wanted to smack him.

He never used to mince words with her. He used to shout, You daft cow, Alice, you’ve missed a line, you’ve fucked it all up. And she would give as good as she got, and point out it was his line he’d skipped, and they would argue furiously, and laugh, and sort out the problem. It used to be they could quarrel, and that quarrelling was fun. It used to be they could speak frankly with each other. But that was a very long time ago.

“We’re lost in Hell,” she said. “Suggest anything you want.”

“So Macedonio’s Apocrypha states that most objects from the world of the living lose their directional force in Hell,” said Peter. “Sorry—I took it out before you had a chance, you couldn’t have known. But the idea is that the emotional attachments we invest in objects that have been around for a very long time are indeed quite shallow compared to their histories.

Particularly something like a plaque, which is just wood whittled down. It’s changed by its polishing, sure, but it still inherently just is that wood. Our particular encounters with that wood are fleeting in the long span of its existence.”

It all seemed very obvious to Alice when Peter explained it. “I should have thought of that.”

“So your plaque might have put us in the proximity of every carpenter who’s ever lived.”

“I see.”

“Or hiking enthusiast.”

“Fair enough.”

“Or even tree enthusiast.”

“What’s your point, Murdoch?”

“Actually, it’s a very interesting dilemma,” said Peter. “The way Hell is oriented spatially. Suppose Macedonio is right, and that the landscape of Hell reframes itself to form a mirror against the living world. What happens when those worlds overlap? When souls from different times and spaces interact? What Hell do they experience? I wonder—”

Alice cut him off. This was classic Murdoch; if you let him go on he rambled until he forgot what had gotten him started. Peter was always more interested in the problem than the answer. It made him a great scholar but so exhausting to work with. “Does Macedonio offer a solution?”

“Hm? Oh, yes! He says we should make the dead come to us.” Peter slung off his rucksack and knelt to the ground. “He suggests a sacrifice.”

He took out three objects from his rucksack: a packet of cigarettes, a slice of Lembas Bread, and a tiny sample bottle of tawny port. “A meal,” he explained. “Something very temporally rooted. You have to get the precise decade right, you see. Objects have long histories, but foods—the particular ingredients that go into them in those exact ratios, and the routes they have to pass to get there—those are extremely temporally specific.”

He assembled the cigarettes in a little pile, crumbled the Lembas Bread above them, and splashed the port on top. Then he struck a match and lit the whole thing on fire.

It all smelled disturbingly good to Alice, tobacco and all. It made her think of the department lounge—of Lembas Bread wrappers, of used mugs, of port-stained couches, of damp coffee filters sitting atop the rubbish bin. It smelled like home.

Thick black tendrils unfurled above the pile and dissipated into the grey.

The fields blurred, then began thinning out around them. Whole clusters of Shades disappeared, one by one, until they stood alone against the fields.

A single blur appeared over the horizon, growing larger and larger as it

approached.

Peter said, “That can’t be right.”

It was not Professor Grimes. It was the department cat.

Most departments at Cambridge owned a cat, which was to say, the cats owned them. For the cats wore no collars, nor did they sleep in any professors’ homes, nor did they seem loyal to or even particularly friendly with any student or faculty member. All anyone knew was that one day a cat would show up mewling with hunger, and since no one could resist setting out food and water, the cat would stick around, growing increasingly pampered until eventually history was rewritten, and the cat had in fact always been a part of the institution.

Analytic Magick’s department cat was a sleek, green-eyed, dark-gray thing with a magnificent feather-duster tail named Archimedes, and to the best of Alice’s knowledge he was unquestionably alive. She had seen him just that morning, batting idiotically at butterflies in the front garden.

She knelt down. Archimedes did not like much to be pet, but he did prefer you make eye contact when speaking to him. Something to do with respect. “What are you doing here?”

Archimedes blinked, his tail swishing back and forth around his legs.

He circled round the fire and gave it a sniff. If he was bothered to be in Hell, he did not show it.

“Cats can cross boundaries,” Alice said in a hushed tone. “I read about this! They know the courts, they can see the dead.”

“Can you help us, then?” Peter approached the cat. “Can you bring us to Grimes?”

For a moment Archimedes seemed to consider this. His eyes lingered on the fire for a long time, such a long time that Alice felt a swell of hope—he did look so wise, his gaze so significant. I have crossed oceans of time, said those eyes. I have seen the hidden world. Then he mewed in a very scornful

way and streaked back over the dunes.

Alice stood up. “Useless.”

“Look,” said Peter.

Where Archimedes had disappeared, four figures now appeared on the horizon. Slight, tentative shapes. None with the tall, imposing grace of Professor Grimes. They drew closer, and the soft light of their faces became clear under the low, burning sun. Innocent things. Children still. Mottled patches of black spread across their skin like ink stains.

“Peter.” Alice had a sinking feeling. “That isn’t . . .”

“Oh, dear,” said Peter. “I thought they’d have passed on by now.”

“Apparently not,” said Alice, and braced herself to meet Professor Grimes’s first victims.

THIRTY YEARS AGO AT CAMBRIDGE, A spell went awry and four undergraduates died. The postdoc on duty was stripped of his degrees and banished back home to Bristol in disgrace. All involved parties were students of the then- young Professor Jacob Grimes.

Officially, the university blamed the deaths on a building fire—which was not technically false, because the resulting explosion had burned down the entire left wing—and sent the students’ ashes home to their parents, along with a letter assuring them that Cambridge was not in any way responsible, and that litigation would be a very bad idea. Conveniently an investigation revealed some faulty construction in the gas pipes, which allowed the university to place the blame on building codes and contractor malfeasance, not on what types of magical experiments could burn down half a building in the first place. All this meant the department was never blamed for what happened. It was a freak accident, nothing more.

But no one ever asked why Professor Grimes let a fire rip through the lab to begin with. No one ever considered that, as a supervisor responsible for both the intellectual development and the safety of his students, Professor Grimes should have been paying attention to the progress of the experiment instead of being burrowed away in his third-floor office, a formidable “DO NOT ENTER” sign hung over his door. (He was so proud of that sign; a graduating cohort had presented it to him as a joke, and he had accepted it without irony.) No one ever suggested that perhaps, in addition to doing his research, Professor Grimes should have been fulfilling his duties as a teacher. He wasn’t the only neglectful professor, after all—all the faculty in the department cut corners when it came to teaching duties.

Why waste time babysitting undergraduates when one could work on literally anything else?

So none of this had any effect on Professor Grimes’s career. No one could prove it was his fault. You couldn’t draw a line between his actions and the fire. He hadn’t even been present. And anyhow, accidents were very common in magick. Just two weeks later an enchanted harp recovered from Assyria put half of Harvard’s department into a paralyzed slumber, and this greatly overshadowed the Cambridge fire on the conference gossip circuit.

(No counter-spells were effective; the cure at last involved enormous amounts of amphetamine, which a surprising number of grad students had in ready supply.) It was generally agreed that magick required taking risks —especially the visionary, field-defining magick for which Professor Grimes was known. In any case, it was the undergraduates’ own fault, and they were dead already. That was punishment enough.

AS THE SHADES APPROACHED, ALICE OBSERVED with horror that their appearances seemed locked onto their bodies in the moment of death. One of them seemed mostly intact—she had just a few scratches on her face and arms. One student died of smoke inhalation, said the report. The flames never touched her. She’d crawled into a corner and hidden under a fireproof tarp, and according to the firefighters this was why no one had found her until nearly an hour after the fire was put out. She might have been alive a long time—no one knew for sure, and no one pressed the issue. Her parents held an open-casket funeral in Ely and invited the entire department. This was before Alice’s time, but she was fairly sure Professor Grimes wouldn’t have gone.

The others were burned beyond recognition. It turned Alice’s stomach to look at them. It was one thing to read theories of the dead; witnessing them was quite another. Charred limbs, petrified faces; jawbones stripped clean of flesh, teeth stretched, rictus-like, in unwilling smiles. Only the eyes were uniformly unscarred; staring, pleading, plaintive, curious eyes. Did they spend all eternity like that? Or had they only chosen to present themselves as such for now? The literature on Shades and corporeality was scant and undecided. Some scholars thought Shades were preserved unwillingly as they were in the moment of their death. Others argued Shades had the agency to manifest however they liked. Either way Alice felt it rude to ask.

“Hello,” she said cautiously. “We’re from Cambridge.”

The Shades shuffled closer. They seemed quite excited. Alice could not read the faces of the burnt three—they could never stop smiling—but the more intact girl’s expression was open, delighted.

“We’re looking for a soul who’s only recently passed over,” said Peter.

“Professor Jacob Grimes.”

The more intact girl gasped, and the sound spread across the Shades like wind across rocks.

“Professor Grimes?”

“Professor Grimes is here?”

“Grimes!”

So they could speak. Their voices were each an echo of the others’; one statement repeated four times in slightly different registers. Alice could not tell if Shades could speak no other way, or if, after decades clustered together and facing down infinity, their personalities had blended and congealed so that they no longer knew themselves as distinct from the others. They descended into excited chatter, communing among themselves in unintelligible clacks and whistles. All Alice could make out was, “Grimes,” “No way,” and “Mother of God!”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?” Peter cut in.

“Should still be a Shade,” said a girl with braids.

“Yes, a Shade, unless—”

“Unless!”

“But we wouldn’t know.”

“Doesn’t talk to us.”

“Too important,” huffed a boy with glasses. “Would have just sailed

by.”

“Sailed.”

“Without speaking.”

“He did come by,” said the more intact girl. “So quickly I thought it was a dream. But now you say it—I did see. I saw. I waved. He said hello.”

The other three floated up and down in agitation.

“You saw him?”

“He said hello?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Oh, my God!” The more intact Shade flared for a moment; ever so briefly, her form took a more solid, distinct shape, and Alice glimpsed a flash of red in her hair. “Do you know how annoying it is to spend eternity with you lot? It was a memory all my own, something that happened, and I didn’t want to share.”

The other Shades looked miffed. Alice could actually see the shape of their irritation, spiky wisps of gray miasma drifting about their shoulders.

“Could have told us.”

“Could have.”

“No point keeping secrets.”

“There’s an eternity for secrets.”

“Hold on,” Alice said desperately, before she lost them to their chatter.

“When did this happen?”

“Don’t know,” said the boy with glasses. “There is no time here.”

This was demonstrably metaphysically false, but Alice chose to ignore this. “What did he say to you?”

“Wanted directions,” sniffed the more intact girl. “Couldn’t stand the fields. Couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

“And where would we go?” asked Peter. “If we also wanted to get out of here?”

The undergraduates pointed. Alice and Peter turned, and there it was, a line of white in the distance—a wall or building, she could not tell for sure, but it was at least some structure that promised an end to the silt monotony.

Alice did not think it had been there before. She squinted, and saw what from this distance reminded her of teeming ants around their anthill.

Shades, thousands of them, lining up for whatever release lay behind the white.

The undergraduates sighed, deflating, all at once.

“The lines—”

“So long!”

“Never make it to the end—”

“Worse than concert tickets—”

“I only ever got to see one,” declared the boy with glasses. “I got to see the Chordettes. I stood in line for four hours to see the Chordettes.”

This set off another excited shuffle. “You saw the Chordettes?”

“Focus,” said Peter. “Please. Is that the only way into the next court?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Everyone has to stand in line.”

“Even Professor Grimes.”

“Wait their turn.”

“No exceptions.”

The more intact girl cocked her head. “Will you save him?”

At this question, all the undergraduates surged forth and flocked eagerly

around Alice and Peter.

“Will you scoop him out of here?”

“Is this for your research?”

“Is it for a paper?”

Alice felt a pang of sympathy. She’d always been fond of undergraduates, no matter how much she enjoyed complaining about them.

In truth, Cambridge students were a pleasure to teach. Naïve, eager things.

With few exceptions they were never lazy, never insolent. Quite the opposite. They were generally cheerful, unformed minds who still asked for permission to use the restroom during section, who regularly forgot the order of operations when switching from maths to logic, who stuttered from nerves during office hours and opened their papers with inane declarations like “THE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY DEFINES VALIDITY AS . . .” and “SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME, MANKIND HAS BEEN TROUBLED BY THE PROBLEM OF RATIONALITY.” She used to see them bundling into the Pick together after lecture, pink cheeked from the cold, chattering happily over cheap beer and soggy chips. She liked to watch them chatting animatedly about their classes, hands waving about in the air, their vowels just a bit forced, their jargon heavy-handed. They made her wonder, envious, if ignorance was truly the secret to bliss.

“Shall we go in together, then?” Peter asked gently. “Isn’t it about time you lot moved on, anyways?”

This was apparently the wrong question to ask. The undergraduates shrank back into a tight, glutinous mass of psychic distress. The air suddenly sharpened with cold. Alice’s arms prickled. She made a mental note of this. Shades can affect atmosphere, if upset.

“Scared,” said the more intact girl at last.

The others nodded.

“Of what, though?” Peter asked. “You’re all such—I mean, I’m sure you have nothing much to atone for.”

Violently they shook their heads. “That’s not it.”

“No, no . . .”

“We are scared to pass.”

“Scared to not be—”

“Scared of the Lethe—”

“Scared to forget—”

“To become—”

“Scared to be other.”

“It’s only reincarnation,” Peter said. “You won’t remember a thing.”

“Precisely. We were magicians,” said the boy with glasses. “If we go . . .”

“We won’t be magicians.”

“You’re joking,” said Peter, with his classic lack of tact.

Alice thought he was being a bit daft. Of course these Shades were scared. Souls often lingered in Asphodel for years—decades—before trying for reincarnation. Loss of identity was a terrifying prospect. Who were you without your memories, your background, your relationships, your station?

What if your lot in the next life was far worse than the life you’d just lived?

It didn’t matter that in theory souls enjoyed infinite lives, and infinite chances to experience things good and bad. From the subjective perspective of the soul, reincarnation was no different from death.

What’s more, reincarnation was always a lottery. Alice could understand not wanting to try their chances.

“You’ve barely lived,” said Peter. “There’s so much more to life—

wouldn’t you like to try again?”

The undergraduates quivered.

“But magick—”

“But Cambridge—”

“The throne of the intellectual world,” said the more intact girl.

“Privileged beyond belief.”

“It is the only rational choice,” declared the boy with glasses. He spoke with such authority, the other undergraduates seemed momentarily to shrink behind him, as if giving him permission to speak for the group. His voice deepened. He gestured as he spoke, in imitation of a professor. “You see, given the population on Earth it is overwhelmingly likely we will be reincarnated into lives under the poverty level. Most of the world population never go to school, let alone come to Cambridge. An unexamined life is not worth living, as Socrates tells us. Therefore to seek reincarnation is to gamble with overwhelmingly bad odds on a life not worth living. For instance, once reincarnated, we could end up doing something like—I don’t know, working rice paddies in China.”

“Milking cows in Arkansas,” agreed the more intact girl.

“Mining diamonds in Africa.”

“Now, look here,” said Alice. “That’s rather prejudiced—”

“Being an idiot.”

“Being an idiot!” All four Shades shuddered; a quivering mass of jelly.

“Oh, the horror! Oh, to not be clever!” And one of them wailed, “What if you never learn to read!”

“But you’re dead.” This had gone too far; Alice had to intervene.

Undergraduates did this often—they worked each other up over the wrong ideas, compared problem sets and confused themselves so much that untangling their thoughts took twice the work. Undergraduates were five blind men and an elephant; were three blind mice leading one another in a circle. “You’re in Hell. That seems the worst state to be in.”

“We’re dead magicians,” said the boy with glasses. “That’s different.”

“It’s not different at all,” said Peter. “You’re still stuck here.”

“But why are you here?” asked the more intact girl. “Why’d you come?”

They seized on this line of interrogation with glee.

“Why?”

“Why indeed?”

“Half a lifetime—”

“The price—”

“The price!”

“That’s different,” said Alice. “We could still be magicians. That’s worth it.”

“Oh,” said the more intact girl. And then she employed that most annoying of argumentative tactics, which was to agree, while making it clear they thought her reasoning was stupid. “All right then.”

The other undergraduates said nothing. What rejoinder need they make?

They only watched her, bearing identical expressions of silent reproach; until their forms began to fade, until their burns became glimmers, until they disappeared into still air.

“Wow,” said Peter. “I think we’ve been told to fuck off.”

“Oh, leave them to it,” Alice muttered. She felt a spasm of irritation, a lurking unease, and she did not want to think about these undergraduates anymore. Hell was full of minor tragedies. There was no point fretting over this one. “They have eternity to figure it out.”

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