Secrets
(Les Chroniques infernales)
(Les Chroniques infernales)
Esther Rochon
(Excerpt: p. 5-9)
First day, the hall
Months had passed since the discovery of the portal under Arxann that provided a link with the world where the most beautiful memories of Rel's youth had taken place, as well as Fax's entire previous life, the life when he was called Taïm Sutherland.
Slowly, methodically, the information on the current reality of that world was becoming accessible. That place would have to be entered with extreme caution. To once again contemplate the places where he had once lived, Rel was willing to risk his own life and that of his companions. Therefore, before embarking on the adventure, he had, by popular request, agreed to speak publicly about what he had always avoided mentioning: his childhood and his youth. That way, if he were to perish, his legacy would be his most secret memories.
The new hot hells had been used for a long time as a gathering place. A large part of the territory contained various facilities for the rehabilitation of the damned; in this region, warmer than the others, there were a few administrative buildings. In the biggest one, the ceremonial hall was where Rel would speak. That is how he had wanted it. Everyone was very curious about what he was going to say. Rel was well loved; on the other hand, his life was full of shadowy zones of which he had never spoken, even to those closest to him.
Each of the eight hells sent a delegation. The territory where Rel lived, which was no longer a hell, did likewise. The limbos on the other side of the Sea, where Rel had recently been treated, sent an observer.
The hall was decorated with the coats of arms of the nine formerly or recently infernal regions. Seats, cameras and the sound system were prepared. Lodging was organized for the week that the event would last. The delegations of natives, tormentors and light damned arrived two days ahead to put the final touches on the preparations.
Rel arrived early the first morning, with the three persons that would accompany him on his journey. Lame, his wife, was a former damned. Fax, his advisor, had been called Taïm Sutherland in his previous life. Taxiel, his right-hand man, had been the chief enforcer in the cold hells.
They stepped across the threshold of the hall, which was built of black stone. It was packed with a still and colourful crowd. Rel took his seat. On his right, Lame, then the sorrowful delegations of the former damned, and the damned who were autonomous enough to be present, some stiff in their wheelchairs, others wearing automatic torture devises, all with horror deep in their eyes. Most could not remain still and quiet for a long time in the hall and were trying to make as little noise as possible when they went outside to suffer.
Before Rel stood old Taxiel, a giant with yellow moustache and brick red frock coat, surrounded with a bellicose and terrifying assembly of tormentors, enforcers and former enforcers, fierce natives from the former hells and robots, all formidable, some stricken with remorse, other indifferent, others still displaying the haughtiness of murderers and butchers.
Certain categories of tormentors were not represented. The insects from the poisoned hells and the ants from the soft hells had been excused: this meeting was foreign to their way of thinking. However, at the back of the hall sat a delegation of tormentor birds from the cutting hells, among which was Tryil, a distinguished telepath. Nib, the king of birds, whom Lame had known close up, had preferred to stay at work and ensure that the torments remained constant; he had delegated Tryil, who had a reputation for being a particularly able communicator.
To the left of Rel, Fax-Sutherland soberly dressed in dark blue, with dark red hair and looking cultivated, accompanied by the observer from the limbos and the serene, sympathetic and perfumed delegations of natives devoted to the well-being of the damned, among whom were elegant Sargades from the cold hells with their clutches of tamed damned.
At Rel's feet, his daughter Aube, representative of the judges of destiny from the cold hells, with part of his clutch of rubbery-looking silent damned, suffering little, sprawling on the white wool carpet and playing idly with sets of blocks.
On the wall behind Rel, a black silk tapestry with golden swords evoked the presence of the judges of destiny, of whom Rel, the tormentors and the natives remained the underlings. This tapestry was not just a decorative element. The judges are mysterious creatures. Their consciousness is perhaps not linked to a fixed corporeal form. The tapestry was in a way offered to them so that they could reside in it if they wished, and listen to the story. They could manifest their presence through quiverings in the material.
The mike was pinned to Rel's tunic.
He watched Lame for a long time, slender and straight, in her red dress, her long black hair tumbling down to her waist. She returned his gaze. Thin in his black, silver-trimmed clothes, ageless, shining black hair and eyes, he seemed to be moved. She loved him like the first day they met.
Then he looked at the damned, the tormentors, then the natives, and finally his daughter with her black lips and green dress, who looked like him and smiled at him.
Everyone greeted each other.
He began his story:
"One of my oldest memories goes back to the life that preceded this one. I bore the name Rel then too - it is not rare to carry the same name from one life to the next. I was also a prince there: prince of transmuters on a very outside world, under the sky. There many people had parapsychological talents: telepaths, intuitives, transmuters... For me, it was a kind of paradise. I don't miss that world, I don't seek to return to it. I never had a feeling of having abandoned a part of my heart there, as is the case for the world on the other side of the Arxann's portal, where I will go soon. In this sort of paradise, on the contrary, I was only in transit, to learn how to come here without losing my goodness. For you too, it could be a staging site one day, who knows?© 1998 Éditions Alire & Esther Rochon
To find out what happens next...
