start a new—
No.
Enough.
The truth:
I
believed
the stairs
led down into
hell and hell was
where I wanted to go.
The
steps
at first
were of old
white stone, but
as I continued along
they grew sooty and dark.
Other staircases merged with
them here and there, descending
from other points on the mountain.
I couldn’t see how that was possible.
I thought I had walked all the flights of
stairs in the hills, except for the steps I
was on and I couldn’t think for the life of me
where those other staircases might be coming from.
The
forest
around me
had been purged
by fire at some time
in the not so far-off past,
and I made my descent through
stands of scorched, shattered pines,
the hillside all blackened and charred.
Only there had been no fire on that part of
the hill, not for as long as I could remember.
The breeze carried on it an unmistakable warmth.
I began to feel unpleasantly overheated in my clothes.
I
followed
the staircase
round a switchback
and saw below me a boy
sitting on a stone landing.
He
had a
collection
of curious wares
spread on a blanket.
There was a wind-up tin
bird in a cage, a basket of
white apples, a dented gold lighter.
There was a jar and in the jar was light.
This light would increase in brightness until
the landing was lit as if by the rising sun, and
then it would collapse into darkness, shrinking to a
single point like some impossibly brilliant lightning bug.
He
smiled
to see me.
He had golden
hair and the most
beautiful smile I have
ever seen on a child’s face
and I was afraid of him—even
before he called out to me by name.
I pretended I didn’t hear him, pretended
he wasn’t there, that I didn’t see him, walked
right past him. He laughed to see me hurrying by.
The
farther
I went the
steeper it got.
There seemed to be
a light below, as if
somewhere beyond a ledge,
through the trees, there was
a great city, on the scale of Roma,
a bowl of lights like a bed of embers.
I could smell food cooking on the breeze.
if
it was
food—that
hungry-making
perfume of meat
charring over flame.
Voices
ahead of me:
a man speaking
wearily, perhaps
to himself, a long
and joyless discourse;
someone else laughing, bad
laughter, unhinged and angry.
A third man was asking questions.
“Is
a plum
sweeter after
it has been pushed
in the mouth of a virgin
to silence her as she is taken?
And who will claim the baby child
sleeping in the cradle made from the
rotten carcass of the lamb that laid with
the lion only to be eviscerated?” And so on.
At
the
next
turn in
the steps
they finally
came into sight.
They lined the stairs:
half a dozen men nailed on
to crosses of blackened pine.
I couldn’t go on and for a time
I couldn’t go back; it was the cats.
One of the men had a wound in his side,
a red seeping wound that made a puddle on
the stairs, and kittens lapped at it as if it
were cream and he was talking to them in his tired
voice, telling all the good kitties to drink their fill.
I
did
not go
close enough
to see his face.
At
last
I returned
the way I had
come on shaky legs.
The boy awaited me with
his collection of oddities.
“Why
not sit
and rest your
sore feet, Quirinus
Calvino?” he asked me.
And I sat down across from
him, not because I wanted to but
because that was where my legs gave out.
Neither of us spoke at first. He smiled across the blanket spread with his goods, and I pretended an interest in the stone wall that overhung the landing there. That light in the jar built and built until our shadows lunged against the rock like deformed giants, before the brightness winked out and plunged us back into our shared darkness. He offered me a skin of water but I knew better than to take anything from that child. Or thought I knew better. The light in the jar began to grow again, a single floating point of perfect whiteness, swelling like a balloon. I tried to look at it, but felt a pinch of pain in the back of my eyeballs and glanced away.
“What is that? It burns my eyes,” I asked.
“A little spark stolen from the sun. You can do all sorts of wonderful things with it. You could make a furnace with it, a giant furnace, powerful enough to warm a whole city, and light a thousand Edison lights. Look how bright it gets. You have to be careful though. If you were to smash this jar and let the spark escape, that same city would disappear in a clap of brightness. You can have it if you want.”
“No, I don’t want it,” I said.
“No. Of course not. That isn’t your sort of thing. No matter. Someone will be along later for this. But take something. Anything you want,” he said.
“Are you Lucifer?” I asked in a rough voice.
“Lucifer is an awful old goat who has a pitchfork and hooves