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We left our intrepid adventurers sitting in The Cross inn, almost at their initial destination - the home of
the Temple Priestess in the Seventh Level of Hell - having escaped from a storm-blockaded Cake Stop
with the aid of the ascended master that is Aeroflash. They have threaded their way through A-Time
with the aid of Thought and Memory, the two ravens, managing not to lose anyone this time, and as we
rejoin our heroes we find them getting ready for the off once more.
Having quenched their thirsts at the tavern, the Cake Stop troop spend a few minutes catching hold of
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with the help of some prawn cocktail flavoured crisps, and then they
assemble on their various steeds, who, up until that point, had been causing a blockade in the village
one-way system as the pub had no parking facilities for bicycles.
They turn left and lever themselves up the steep hill past the school on legs that have cooled down just
enough to become stiff. There is mumbled cursing dotted across the group as various denizens become
aware of the pain in their legs and wonder if stopping for a pint was such a good idea after all.
Estie, Chuffy, Biff and Kitzy are all quite keen to see the Seventh Level, having taken a test that said
that the Seventh Level was the place for them should they ever take up a timeshare option in Hell
(although the salesman who stopped by was rather dubious about Kitzy's suitability). Others, like
FatBloke, are wondering whether they can take a detour to Level Six. There are a few whose
compatibility only stretches as far as Level One or Two, but those will be far too far out of their way to
go visiting.
They hit the ridge and glide along in the company of the rooks and crows, watched solemnly by cows
grazing in the fields. Out in the arse end of beyond there is no traffic noise; no engines or throbbing
exhausts to mask the quiet swish of rubber on tarmac and the occasional geiger-counter percussion of
freewheels.
Finally they come to a bend in the road and a slight dip. There on the right hand side is an enormous
tree; an ash tree. Its branches reach so far up into the sky that the crown is lost in the clouds. There are
four stags nibbling upon its leaves and an eagle sitting in the branches who has a hawk in his eyes. A
squirrel runs up and down the trunk chattering noisily. Right at the top there is a small flash of gold that
moves jerkily.
"Wotcher Ratatosk," says Thought. "How's it hanging?"
The squirrel pauses in its apparently amphetamine-fuelled rush down the trunk."Oh, you know. The
usual. Just going down to see Nidhogg to collect another insult for Vedrfolnir, assuming the elongated
cunt has got through enough of that last mouthful of dripping, gory flesh to enunciate for a change. It's
a dog's life for a squirrel round here, I tell you. Going anywhere nice?"
"Seventh Level of Hell. Ravenbait's house," Memory responds, poking some feathers back into place.
"Oh, that'll be nice, right enough," the squirrel nods, tail twitching as if it has a life of its own.
"How are Dain, Dvalin, Duneyr and Durathrar?" Thought asks, referring to the stags.
"Hungry, as always. It's a wonder this tree doesn't blow down in a gale, the amount it has to put up
with. Still, Urd, Verdandi and Skuld seem to know what they're doing — you'd think so, they've been at
it long enough — so I'm not too worried for the moment."
There is a strangled roar from deep beneath the feet and wheels of the Cake Stop massive, a sound like
thick paint being forced through plastic pipes underwater. Ratatosk jumps, legs stiffening in fright.
"Gotta rush. Nice seeing you. Take care. Watch out for Garm. And there are roadworks on the Bifrost
bridge...." His voice tails into nothing as he vanishes into the ground somewhere behind a hawthorn
bush. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern struggle free and go looking, but come back none the wiser.
Chuffy and Flying Monkey are examining a signpost set just outside an old, riveted wooden door in the
trunk of the tree. The pointers are in the shape of hands with index fingers indicating directions. Moss
and lichen are growing on it. There are signs for Nidavellir, Jotunheim, and Svartalfheim, and another
one saying "Muspellheim and the South". Underneath the pointers, facing the door so that it is the first
thing seen upon exiting, there is a sign reading: "Welcome to Midgarð. Twinned with Discworld.
Midgarð welcomes careful drivers."
"Come on then, you lot," Thought says.
"There's a lift for the bikes," Memory adds.
The ravens move forwards and rap on the wooden door with their beaks. A rune suddenly glows on the
door, looking like nothing else but a CND logo or a Y where the upright carries on right to the top, and
then the door swings open. Unexpectedly, it does not creak, but glides silently on its hinges.
Inside there is a sign pointing downards saying: "You are now leaving Midgarð. This way for Hel and
Niflheim." There is another door saying: "Private. Authorised personnel only," and another sign
pointing vaguely upwards saying: "This way for Vanaheim, Aflheim, Asgard and the Gods."
Memory raps on the door marked private and a small, swarthy figure opens it.
"Oh, it's you," he grunts. He surveys the massed and waiting expectant cyclists and then looks behind him. "We should fit you
all in, but the tandem will have to go on the hook in the corner and we might need to come back for the
recumbents."
Similarly to the TARDIS, the lift at the end of the passage that lies on the other side of that very
utilitarian door is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside, and with much jostling and a
little argumentation, eventually all the steeds are inside and the lift is jammed with bikes and cyclists
like veal in a crate.
"Which floor please?" asks the dwarf.
"Level Seven," says Chuffy in response to Thought's expectant look.
"Level Seven," the dwarf replies. "Right you are then, guv. Going down."
The lift drones downwards for a seeming eternity, the hum of the mechanism almost silent; felt rather
than heard. There is no perceptible movement. It becomes uncomfortably warm and the compartment is
filled with random sucking and slurping as thirsty cyclists make use of their hydration systems. It is
quite dark in the lift, the only illumination afforded by an orange and red glow that comes from
beneath, as if there is a searing pit of flame far below.
There is a solitary ping, as if from a lonely and rusted bicycle bell, and the faint background vibration
ceases. The dwarf hops up onto a stool and pulls a lever by grabbing hold of the end and dangling from
it.
The doors open. Thought and Memory croak something to the dwarf and half-hop, half-flap out
through the opening. After the briefest of pauses the Cake Stop party pile out.
According to Dante, the Seventh Level of Hell is guarded by the Minotaur, who snarls in fury, and it is
also encircled within the river Phlegethon, which is filled with boiling blood. He tells us that the
violent, the assasins, the tyrants, and the war-mongers lament their pitiless mischiefs in the river, while
centaurs armed with bows and arrows shoot those who try to escape their punishment. The stench here
is apparently overpowering, although Dante had not had the misfortune of meeting AndyGates after a
baked beans and tuna baked potato session. This level is also home to the wood of the suicides, which
is described as having stunted and gnarled trees with twisting branches and poisoned fruit. At the time
of final judgement, their bodies will hang from their branches. In those branches the Harpies make their
nests. Beyond the wood is scorching sand where those who committed violence against God and nature
are showered with flakes of fire that rain down against their naked bodies. Blasphemers and sodomites
writhe in pain, their tongues more loosed to lamentation, and out of their eyes gushes forth their woe.
Usurers, who followed neither nature nor art, also share company in the Seventh Level.
It isn't quite the tragic horror painted by Dante. When the Cake Stop massive arrive, it is somewhat
chaotic. A fight had broken out between suicides from The Smiths' Fan Club and some of the more
dismal members of the self-indulgent Goth faction. Some of the name-calling has by this time become
quite spiteful. A gang of would-be vampires has got together with some overdose victims and they are
trying to bring an end to their respective afterlives by either overdosing on contaminated blood or
having blood drained: being dead, this isn't really working out for them. All of this is taking place in
surroundings that are achingly beautiful, and yet not one of the Goths, suicides, gay homophobic
fundamentalists or lawyers is aware of this. Just to one side of the entrance, in a tavern that looks like it
was kidnapped from the Austrian Tyrrol, Attila the Hun and Taras Bulba are sharing drinkies with
several other tyrants and warlords while playing Canasta. A large Viking is swirling a martini with an olive on
a stick in it.
"Always come here when I fancy a change," he bellows, Brian Blessed-like, in response to FatBloke's
quizzical glance. "Can only get mead in Valhalla!"
"They seem to be having a good time," Chuffy says. "And it's so gorgeous here. Why are all those
others so miserable?"
"This is Hell, you know," Thought tells him. "What did you expect? What did you think Hell was?"
"It's forgetting what's right in front of your nose," Memory adds with a wink.
"The Seventh Level of Hell is where people come when they forget that they have the right to have fun
and enjoy being alive," Thought tells Chuffy. "Apart from that lot in the Despots Inn. They have a riot.
Hell isn't always hellish."
The ravens take to the air, leading the way down a road that has perfect surface, perfect camber and
perfect scenery to either side. Mountains jostle with alpine lakes and streams. In the near distance there
is white surf, rocks and beaches. Woods cast shadows of green-smelling resin and earthy musk. Carried
on the gentle, cooling, aromatic breeze is the song of a baying hound, and it is getting closer.
Garm is a ferocious beast, the offspring of the trickster Loki and the giantess Angrboda. He guards the
gates to Hell and normally picks people up when they enter this realm, but he has had a bit of a sniffle
lately and has been off his food. He is therefore not galloping with his usual fervour towards the
intruders who escaped his attention by using the staff lift, but they can see him in the distance; the size
of a small horse with a close grey pelt, flaming eyes and teeth the size of icicles.
"I don't suppose anybody brought a gun, or grenades or something," Cuddy Duck comments
mournfully.
"No, don't do that, you'll only annoy him," Thought says, swooping low over their heads. There is a
collective swallow and the bunch speed increases by a few miles an hour. The hound follows, but does
not seem to be gaining any ground.
A chain gang forms at the head of the pack to keep the pace up, staying away from the great hound
they can hear chasing them. There is only the sounds of transmissions, tyres and breathing as they
speed through the undulating topography.
* * *
Finally arriving at the little cottage on the hill where Ravenbait resides, Kathy, Chuffy, FatBloke and Nutty leave their steeds in the care of their chums and cautiously enter the
house. Each of them is aware that the great hound has their scent and it will not be long before he
catches up with them.
They seem to have entered through the back door. There is a small utility room with a washing
machine, a sink, two sacks of dry dog food and sack of cat food, a set of hooks loaded with coats and
some muddy wellies on the floor. There is also what is probably a chest freezer and another small door
into a lavatory.
The main door out leads into the kitchen. There is a large table on which are laid out several pots of tea,
mugs, cakes scones and jam. A warm glow radiates from the Rayburn. A black and white cat is
sleeping on the metal covers shielding the hot plate. As they enter, a swarm of silver sparkles scatters
with myriad, high-pitched giggles, like a dust cloud in sunlight suddenly come to mischievous life.
"Wow," says FatBloke. "She's obviously expecting someone."
One of the ravens hops up onto the table, sighs theatrically and helps itself to a scone. The other is
waiting by the door opposite the one by which they entered. Kathy opens it and she and Chuffy follow
the raven along the bare floorboards of the corridor and up the creaking wooden stairs, leaving
FatBloke and Nutty to sort out tea and cake for everyone. The bird does not wait for them but pushes
open one of the doors with its huge, black beak and struts inside.
"Hello?" says Kathy, following.
Ravenbait is sitting in bed, another cat at her feet. It scrambles off the duvet and vanishes in a panic.
"Stupid bloody cat," Ravenbait grumbles snottily. "Hi guys. Tea's up downstairs. Sorry I didn't get up.
I'm all grotty."
"You shouldn't have bothered," Chuffy says somewhat reprovingly.
"I didn't," she replies, waving a nasty-looking tissue airily. "I have minions for that sort of thing."
"How are you?" Kathy asks.
"Utterly bloody miserable," the priestess replies moodily. "That bastard demon. I'm going to rip his
arsehole out through his tonsils when I catch the little gobshite." Her normally alabaster skin is red,
blotchy and flaking; the ebony eyes puffy and teary. She blows her nose noisily.
"Aeroflash told us what had happened," Chuffy explains. "We came to help."
At that moment there is nervous halloo from the stairs.
"Come on up," calls Ravenbait. It's Giant Man, looking worried.
"Garm is almost here," he says. "Gunner is organising everyone into a defensive position and says you
should stay in here where it's safe."
"Bugger," says Ravenbait. She climbs rather unsteadily out of bed and blearily peers out of the
window. "Hurm," she says, and takes a gnarled wooden staff from its place in the corner.
"You see," she says, slowly wobbling out of the room, leaning on the staff, the others following and
exchanging confused looks. "Garm has a cold, and, ferocious as he is, he wouldn't come all the way out
here because he frankly can't be arsed at the best of times. It's a helluva job — pardon the pun — getting
him out here when there's someone who needs getting rid of. Excuse the final preposition." She's
inching her way downstairs now, her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas humorously incongruous.
"I did have an enchanted bicycle downstairs," she continues. "After that lupus demon managed to pull
one over on me it vanished. There was a piglet in the yard for a couple of days but then it vanished as
well. Not like I wasn't feeding it." Grumpily she shoves her feet into a pair of walking boots, not
bothering with the laces, and shrugs into a waxed cotton jacket. "I'm sure I remember being told
something about piglets and that bicycle when the chap dropped it off." She opens the front door,
clomps outside, the Rudy Project Freons finding their natural place on her face. The ravens take up
their positions, one on each shoulder.
"Chap?" Chuffy repeats, not really understanding what she's talking about.
"The Morningstar," Ravenbait elaborates, sniffing and wiping her nose on a tissue. "Has a bit of a thing
for titanium and this was 751. Handlined lugs, mind." She shades her eyes from the sun and gazes out
past the restless, shifting square of cyclists, pressed together in tight ranks, the outer lines holding
bicycles pointing outwards; it looks like a many-armed vehicular starfish.
"It was Garm you said was chasing you, wasn't it?"
Galloping towards them, foam flying and slavering tongue lolling pinkly from gaping maw, eyes
burning with the flames of the deepest pits of hell, the huge dog is now only a few hundred yards away
and closing fast. Its paws kick up clods of dirt, its back arching concave and convex, ears flapping.
Quarry sighted, it is now running silent, but even at this distance they can hear its breath choughing as
it runs.
Ravenbait ambles round the side of the ranks of cyclists, clomping her way in front of them with
apparent unconcern.
"I think the fever has gone to her brain," says Cuddy Duck. "Shouldn't we get her back where its safe?"
"Do you want to tell her?" Steelman asks him.
The hound is so close now they can smell it, and hear its claws on the grass.
"Madam, please remove yourself to a place of safety while we quell the beast," Gunner's manly voice
rings out, so stern and commanding that Kathy, like most right-minded women, goes quite weak at the
knees.
Ravenbait seems to ignore him and merely stands leaning on her staff in her PJs and wax jacket, as if
she were a contestant on 'One Man and His Dog' who had only just got out of bed in time to make it to
the contest.
When the hound is so close it seems they can feel its spittle on their faces, Ravenbait gives a piercing
whistle.
"Aardvark! Down!" She commands. The instruction carries such force that several Cake Stop folk find
themselves on the ground without realising what they were doing.
Th dog drops to the ground as if it has been shot, then catches itself with a shake of its massive jowls,
starts to get up again. Ravenbait lifts her shades onto her head and stares the dog in the eyes, in the
manner of Paddington Bear. It whuffs, whines, and then puts its head on its paws, tail thumping
hopefully.
"Come here," she says, more gently. The dog trots over. It is the size of a shetland pony and dust flies
when she gives it a good clap on the shoulder. "This isn't Garm," she explains.
"No?" Chuffy says, still hovering warily behind the defensive formation. "He's bloody enormous."
"Garm's bigger," Ravenbait tells him. "This is Aardvark. He's a hellhound, piglet or enchanted bicycle.
Currently a hellhound. Looking and sounding rather like Garm, I'll grant you, because that damn lupus
demon's been playing his tricks."
"Not Garm?" Flying Monkey is dubious and uncertain still.
"Not Garm," Ravenbait affirms. "Although the mistake is perfectly understandable."
She thus makes an admirable excuse for the humble author inadvertently leading the noble, and by now
no doubt somewhat affronted reader astray.
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