Jerry whispered to Lamont, under cover of the French footwear dirge, “I think we may just have found the River of Lamentation . . . ”
But it must just have been a tributary of that rushing river. After that, the ground became rapidly steeper and more uneven and the lamentations grew in volume. And they weren’t all coming from their French “guide.”
Soon they stood beside the rushing torrent of weeping and wailing water and the gnashing of rocky teeth. “Where now?” yelled Cruz, above the anguished waters, struggling with the ram he was leading.
“Downstream,” replied Jerry. “We’re looking for where it meets the River of Flaming Fire.”
Liz had apparently discovered a common thread between herself, Jerry, and Lamont—Monty Python. She nearly killed the other two with her next comment. She pointed to the river. “I think it’s pining for the fjords.”
25
We’ve all got to make sacrifices.
The place was one of smokes and steams. The weeping waters of the River of Lamentation rushed and fumed into a thundering waterfall, backlit by the River of Flaming Fire. The two rivers mixed in a tumult of green flames, shrieking and steaming around a dark monolith before cascading into the dark Acheron.
“Phew,” complained Lamont. “This place stinks!”
Liz nodded. “Sulphur. The area is plainly volcanic. And those green ‘flames’ are luminiferous bacteria in a turbulent warm river. Steaming where it meets an ice-cold one. Nothing that can’t be explained scientifically if you look carefully at it. I’ll bet there is a reason for the ‘lamentation’ too.”
Jerry raised his eyebrows. “And I suppose that the smoking grotto isn’t the entry to Hades’ Kingdom of Decay either?”
Liz shrugged. “Around here? Who knows? Anything is possible, I suppose. All I do know is I don’t much fancy this sacrifice business.”
Cruz grunted. “Mac and I have had to carry these goddamned sheep Circe gave us for the last couple of hundred yards. I don’t care if they’re barbequed or ‘sacrificed.’ I’m not carrying them back.”
Medea smiled pityingly. “I will do the sacrifice. I was the priestess of Hecate, she who is mistress of fertility and of the dead among my people. Come. Dig the trench. A cubit by a cubit.”
“Carry the sheep. Dig the trench. Anything else?” muttered McKenna, swinging down a bleating, struggling sheep from his shoulder.
Medea smiled at him. “Yes. You can flay them and burn them when I have cut their throats.”
“Gee thanks!” said Mac. “Here, Frenchy. Hold this goddamn sheep.”
The plump Frenchman swallowed. “I am not entirely familiar with animal husbandry. Not in the least.”
“Just hold it,” said McKenna impatiently. Lamont had already taken a firm grip on the black ram Cruz had been carrying.
Lenoir took a tentative hold on the sheep, which bleated indignantly at him.
* * *
Watching, Jerry immediately learned Lesson One in the proper procedure of sacrificing sheep. Do not take a tentative hold. Hold tightly.
“Hell’s teeth, Mac!” shouted Cruz. He left off digging the trench and grabbed the ram from Lamont. “Get after it, you guys. We’ll never find another one. We need that sheep! Catch it!”
The rest of them set off in the chase. Even Henri took part, if in a somewhat involuntary fashion. As a result of a slight mishap the barrel-bellied Frenchman actually beat them to the sheep. He lost his footing and rolled down the steep slope, and then landed on the unfortunate animal.
In desperation he grabbed the stunned and winded creature. The others arrived, panting, to find him rolling about embracing a fallen sheep. The creature was bleating plaintively and struggling desperately to regain its freedom.
“Merde! She is kicking me in the private parts!” squalled Henri.
Liz took one look and started laughing. “This puts a whole new complexion on my understanding of ‘Animal Husbandry’!”
* * *
Medea, the priestess of Hecate, had offered the libations of honeyed milk, sweet wine, and water. The white barley had been sprinkled. The black ram was ready, held by Cruz and Lamont.
Liz whispered to Jerry. “The ghosts drink the blood? Oh, sick!”
His reply was drowned in a chorus of quavering voices . . . “We seek a better sacrifice, mortals. We want the blood of a man. A black man.”
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