Angelology(94)

and spruce and towering cypress. Their pleasant humor was a relief, lifting the clouds of

doubt from our mission. The melancholy of the previous days had weighed upon us all. We

began the morning with renewed spirits. My own anxieties were considerable, although I kept

them hidden. The brothers’ boisterous laughter inspired my own merriment, and soon we were

joyous and light of heart. We could not foresee that this would be the last time any of us would

hear the sound of laughter again.

Our shepherd walked for half an hour farther up the mountain before cutting into a copse of

birch trees. Through the foliage, I saw the mouth of a cave, a deep cut into a wall of solid

granite. Inside the cave, the air was cool and moist. Tracks of colorful fungus grew over the

walls. Brother Francis pointed to a series of painted amphorae lined against the far wall of

the cave, thin-necked jars with bulbous bodies perched elegantly as swans on the dirt floor.

The larger jars contained water, the smaller oil, which led me to believe that this cavern was

used as a rough and makeshift shelter. The shepherd confirmed my speculation, although he

could not say who would endeavor to rest so far above civilization and what necessity would

drive one to do so.

Without hesitating further, the shepherd unloaded his sack. He placed two thick iron spikes,

a mallet, and a rope ladder upon the cave’s floor. The ladder was impressive and caused the

younger brothers to gather around to examine it. Two long strips of woven hemp formed the

vertical axis of the ladder, while metal rods, fastened with bolts into the hemp, formed the

horizontal crossbars. The artistry of the ladder was unmistakable. It was both strong and

easily portable. My admiration of our guide’s industry grew at the sight of it.

The shepherd used the mallet to pound the iron spikes into the rock. He then fastened the

rope ladder to the iron spikes with metal clasps. These small devices, no bigger than coins,

ensured the ladder’s stability. When the shepherd had finished, he flung the ladder over the

edge and stepped away, as if to marvel at the distance it fell. Beyond, the roar of water

crashed upon the rocks.

Our guide explained that the river flowed under the surface of the mountain, its course

cutting through rock, feeding upon reservoirs and streams before bursting in a rush of pressure

into the gorge. From the waterfall, the river twisted through the gorge, descending once again

into a maze of underground caverns before emerging upon the surface of the earth. The

villagers, our guide informed us, called it the river Styx and believed that the bodies of the

dead littered the stone floor of the gorge. They believed the cave shaft to be the entrance to

hell and had named it the Infidels’ Prison. As he spoke, his face filled with apprehension, the

first sign that he might be afraid to continue. In haste, I declared it time to descend into the

pit.12

IX

One can hardly imagine our delight upon gaining passage into the abyss. Only Jacob in his

vision of the mighty procession of Holy Messengers might have beheld a ladder more

welcome and majestic. To our divine purpose, we proceeded into the terrible blackness of the

forsaken pit, filled with expectation of His protection and Grace.

As I lowered myself down the frigid rungs of the ladder, the roar of water rang in my ears. I

moved quickly, surrendering myself to the forceful pull of the deep, hands slipping on the

moist, cold metal, knees slamming against the sheer surface of the rock. Fear filled my heart. I

whispered a prayer, asking for protection and strength and guidance against the unknown. My

voice disappeared in the whirling, deafening noise of the waterfall.

The shepherd was the last to descend, arriving some minutes after. Opening his sack, he

removed a cache of beeswax candles and a flint and tinder with which to light them. In a

matter of minutes, a glowing circle encompassed us. Despite the chill in the air, sweat fell

into my eyes. We joined hands and prayed, believing that even in that deepest, darkest crevice

of hell our voices would be heard.

Gathering my robes, I set off toward the edge of the river. The others followed, leaving our

guide at the ladder. The waterfall fell in the distance, sheets of torrid, endless water. The

river itself flowed in a thick artery through the center of the cavern as if Styx, Phlegethon,

Acheron, and Cocytus—the forking rivers of hell—had converged into one. Brother Francis

was the first to discern the boat, a small wooden craft tied to the river’s edge, floating in a

swirling haze of fog. We soon stood around the prow, contemplating our course. Behind, a

stretch of flat stone separated us from the ladder. Ahead, across the river, a honeycomb of

caves awaited our inspection. The choice was clear: We set out to discover what lay beyond