“That hell-fire idea is only figurative. Why threaten the spirit with physical duress? You have an expression on Earth, ‘so near and yet so far,’ that has taught me the refinement of torture. I want to show you close-ups of some specials of my invention.”
Skimming low, he pointed her attention ahead to the Cage of In-Law Relatives, “absolutely the most vicious spirits ever caught in the toils of durance vile,” as he described them, “and the only extant bipeds never tamed.”
What had looked a low mountain proved to be a dome-shaped enclosure of such size that the curve on its either side sloped gradually into the perspective. Through the interstices of its barbed wall thousands upon thousands of manes, more female than male, could be seen moving within. From it blew a wind so malignant that Dolores’ eyes smarted and her ears roared—a wind of whispers from countless tongues all breathing forth hate at once. Not one of the “in-laws” spoke out. All whispered.
“Blood egotists!” Satan chuckled. “As all the world is more or less eligible for the Cage, I have space only for a few of the most horrible examples. Seems an awful fate to inflict them upon each other, but I discovered early that they are a race unto themselves. There is nothing to equal their viciousness, not even professional jealousy. After all, it is the mean little emotions that people Hell.”
The lettered designation of a barrack-like structure Satan read:
BASTARD BABY WARD
“There lie the infant-shades along endless aisles. Their cribs are lined with electro-cacti-spines. Their coverlets are of satiny bisnaga petals sewed together with their own needles.” His Highness fixed a side glance on the mother-soul’s face as he enthused: “Although a virtuous bachelor, I know that their whimpers mean they want milk. So I feed that ‘so near and yet so far’ rule unto ‘even the least of these.’ I have their nursing bottles filled with scalding, opaque air.”
“But how can a baby deserve an evil fate?” Dolores demanded. “I was not taught the Scriptures, but does the Great-I-Am, as you call Him, countenance such a law?”
“My favorite author, Deuteronomy, answers that. ‘A bastard shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord. Even to his tenth generation shall he not enter in.’ The sins of fathers being visited upon their children is an unjust law that particularly appeals to me.”
At her sob he offered pseudo-consolation. “Be of good cheer. Your bastard is not consigned to the Ward—that is to say, not yet.”