The Devil's Descent

Intro

I reason, earth is short,

And anguish absolute.

And many hurt;

But what of that?

I reason, we could die:

The best vitality

Cannot excel decay;

But what of that?

I reason that in heaven

Somehow, it will be even,

Some new equation given;

But what of that?

-Emily Dickinson

Prologue

"They say character is what you do when you think no one is watching."

You may have written this in a school essay or heard it somewhere. And maybe your teacher criticized, "They?" But she wasn't really asking. She just wanted you to write a report in proper, formal English. And you probably fixed it: "A common saying claims that character is what one does when he or she thinks no one is watching."

But they are real aren't they?

We know who they are. They are people-the kids you never talked to when they passed you in the halls; the neighbors who sometimes smiled and said, "Hello," as they walked down your street; the news anchors you could only stand to listen to for-well, an hour if they peaked your interest; and that one person-the total, utter stranger in the world-for whom you paused just one moment to think, "What are they thinking? How is life for them?" And so they exist, and we know they look at us sometimes, and we know we try to be just like them-what they want-while looking out for our best interests. And because we are all part of someone's "they," we are all just like them. But some of us may honestly believe that they are always watching; some of us must be too scared to step out of line and not save nine with a stitch in time.

Some of us must then have no character, you know?

I'd like to think I do. I'd like to think that, if I haven't seen it, I can at least picture it. Will you picture it with me? Or are you afraid you're being watched?

Chapter 1: Hole in the Wall

Once upon a time, as they say, in a far-away kingdom, there lived two courts-a court of Hell and a court of Heaven. They lived in a dreary, stone block of a castle in a bland clearing in an innocuous woods. The entrance consisted of heavy wooden doors slouching in their frames whose ironwork bore the semblance of a nastily scowling man to some and, to others, a miserable, tired old man. A team of no less than four able-bodied men could open these doors, but now I open them to you with only a word and our imaginations. Can you picture it now? Smell the stagnant air, tired of waiting-longing-for someone-for you and I-to think it through-think it alive?

Look there! To your right! It's an unremarkable hole in the wall. It's the stairway to Heaven. Er...I mean the stairway to the court of Heaven. The path is narrow and dark and dank and the kind of quiet that is actually quite loud. Turn back now if you feel eyes on your back, knowing that I will-that I have if you've skipped ahead-pressed on. The steps are terribly short in height and depth; it feels as if you're getting nowhere fast. Maybe you're taking them two at a time, and some of you are looking over your shoulders, but here it is. The fabled light shines at the end of the tunnel, but for now it's just a slight glimmer that not all of you are seeing, not all of you can describe. And the air is livening up for you in welcome. And the stairs are gaining depth and reach. And I am feeling like I am getting somewhere.

But then the path keeps widening. The steps keep growing. The air is so fresh, it speeds your heart like a brush with death. And the light is blinding. Can you see where you're going? Are we lost? I think I hear some of you stumbling back the wrong way-the way we came. It feels as though we're climbing now, and you've just slammed your hand down on another blinding, white-hot mountain of a step. Pull yourself up; I know it's hard. Your eyes peek over the edge of the step.

And it's over.

You've climbed the stairway to the court of Heaven. The blinding light has dissipated although the white stone room before you still shines brightly. The air smells pleasantly of something a little like spring, and it's flowing gently in through the wall to your right-so full of windows that it's more space than it is wall. And right before your eyes lies a grand, white stone throne. And you know without me telling you Who it's for. Some of you are enraptured, and I cannot pull you away. But I'm turning now-to the left and down an easier, more manageable stairway.

It's time to go to Hell.

The air's a little more stale down here but not from lack of exploration. The light's a little dimmer but not from lack of window-space. I'm telling you it's quite alright: the path is certainly well worn. And most of you are coming, curious to see the bottom of the stairs. Well here we are. There are many halls to stroll down but don't get lost in the maze. We want the main hall; we want the Devil's den. For me, there can be no turning back, but I can hear you over there turning back and squealing all the way to the front door. Don't worry: You can keep your dignity-it was never at stake. It's your character I'm testing, and I'm hoping you don't feel them watching because He's watching. There on the dark stone throne at the end of the corridor are a pair of blood-red eyes.

He's waiting.