Title: The Devil’s Halo
Author: Rhys Hughes
Publisher: Elsewhen Press, 2024
The Devil said, “Look here, old chap, we are still going through your paperwork and it’s more complicated than you suppose. There are very few clear cut cases when it comes to judging a person’s life. You assume there is only one question to be asked. Was he good or bad?”
“Isn’t that what it boils down to?” I asked.
The Devil winced. “I wouldn’t make any references to boiling yet. And no, it can’t be reduced to such a simple question. Just using ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as the only two variables in the equation isn’t a workable approach. No, it’s not. There isn’t even an equation, not really.”
“I am astonished to learn this,” I answered.
“People who come here often are. And it’s the same in the other place. Lots of deliberation is necessary. Listen, I enjoy mathematics but this is morality, not calculus. The issues at stake are intricate. There are many philosophical aspects in any consideration of how an individual is morally rated. Investigations must be thorough and you appear to be a fellow of ambiguous character. For every act of grace, you have a malign one.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” I cried.
“Wait,” came the crisp reply, “in the Waiting Room that has been prepared for cases such as yours.” Then the Devil’s voice became less formal again. With a nudge of his elbow in my ribs, he added, “The Waiting Room isn’t so awful. It is certainly better than Hell itself.”
“How long do you think my case will take?”
He shrugged. “Twenty-four.”
“Hours?” I was alarmed that a whole day would pass in whatever limbo lay in wait for me behind those doors. He shook his horned head and I gasped, “Days?” but he kept shaking and a horrible prospect opened up before me. “Weeks? Months? Years?” I felt hot and cold at the same time. “Centuries?”
“Aeons,” he said. And then he yawned. I blinked. His forked beard was so oily it gleamed in the dim light of the cavern. He took me by the arm, and while his tail lashed from side to side, he guided me to the double doors that appeared to be made from pocked granite.
“Just through here,” he said, as he propelled me with a little push. I lost my balance and tumbled into the igneous doors. They swung open to admit me and I rolled on the floor. Before they shut again, I heard him add, “Plenty of waiting chaps inside you can make friends with. The millennia will seem to fly by, trust me. No restrictions on amusements.”
I wasn’t reassured by his words, which were abruptly cut off by the closing of the granite portals. I knew they wouldn’t open from this side. I was bruised a little on my elbows and knees. But I stood and regarded my surroundings. I was in a chamber so vast there was no visible end to it. There were chairs, sofas and divans of all kinds arranged haphazardly. Some of them were occupied. I licked my lips and took a few paces forward.
“Newcomer, huh?” said a man on a rocking chair.
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“What else could you be? Pointless question. But I asked it anyway. That’s how I pass the time. Infinity,” he added after a pause, “is the heaviest weight on the shoulders of a dead soul.”
“You have been here for a long time?”
“Not really. One hundred years, a century. A grain of sand on the shifting dunes of Forever. But I am getting used to it. Tedium can be stimulating if you don’t take it too seriously and–”
“There are better amusements here,” said another voice, more strident, low in register, and I turned to see a fellow frowning at me from a very comfortable armchair. He was dressed smartly and my intuition told me that he was one of those minor sinners, an embezzler or fraudster, someone who would probably be consigned to a less painful Circle of Hell. Once his paperwork was done, that is. His frown continued. I asked: “Such as?” and I realised my voice was a croak.
“Telling stories,” he said.
He leaned forward, although in the luxurious depths of his particular chair he looked just as stuck as when he was sprawled almost horizontal. “Let me say that I prefer short tales, the briefer the better. Thrills without frills. Long stories annoy me. I seem to lack patience.”
“A major disadvantage in a place like this,” commented the first man, then he chuckled and the shaking of his body made his rocking chair oscillate. With a sigh, the second man continued: “I have only been here for a few months. I am still in full possession of my senses. The decay of my mind hasn’t begun. I will tell you a story and I suggest you tellme one in return.”
At a loss for words, I simply stood there, and my failure to respond quickly enough seemed to irritate him.
“It doesn’t have to be a major epic,” he snapped.
“But my mind is blank.”
He threw up his hands, exasperated. “Then you ought to clear off. It’s far better to be where you belong.”
“Wherever that might be,” said the first man.
“Not near here, I hope,” snarled the man in the armchair, and he scratched his head with unwarranted ferocity. “Well, I don’t care if I don’t get any story in exchange. I intend to tell mine.”
I found this rather mystifying and was about to say so, but he was clearing his throat and preparing to speak. The first man was still chuckling and rocking, but more quietly and less vigorously, and soon he settled back into quietude. At the same moment, the smartly dressed fellow fixed me with his piercing eyes, a gaze too intense for such a casual moment, and then a stream of words came out of his mouth. I was vaguely alarmed.
About the Book: In death, as in life, paperwork is hell. The paperwork for the recently deceased Monty Zubris needs to be examined and deliberated upon. So, meanwhile, the Devil has consigned him to the Waiting Room of the Afterlife. It is ordered alphabetically, so he is compelled to make his way to his designated zone, which is, of course, near the very end of the chamber. On this voyage of enormous length, he meets various dead individuals, many of whom wish to tell him their remarkable stories.
A light comedy, a picaresque journey – like a warped subterranean Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Only Rhys Hughes could have written The Devil’s Halo!”
– IAN WATSON, European SF Society Grand Master 2024.
About the Author: Rhys Hughes began writing from an early age. His first book, Worming the Harpy, was published in 1995 by Tartarus Press, and since then he has published more than fifty other books, and his fiction has been translated into twelve languages. His work encompasses genres as diverse as fantasy, gothic, experimental, science fiction, magic realism, comedy, absurdism, thrillers and westerns, and he is known for his invention, imagination and wordplay. He recently completed an ambitious project that involved writing exactly one thousand linked short stories. He also writes plays, poems and articles.
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