“Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here,”
reads the inscription above the doors to Enloe High School’s West Building. But that is not where our journey begins. Confused, lost, and surrounded by the musty odor of decaying leaves, I emerge in the dark wood known as the East Building. Here, the power is out – it has been out, perhaps, since the dawn of time. Though my fear is renewed, I begin to find my way forward, guided by the poet Virjonah.
Like the dawn of dawns, the Lord’s holy light is all that points us towards the horizon. Shining in the distance, a brilliant yellow glow. It is the vest of Charon. Our boatman and our shepherd, our security guard, he ferries lost souls such as I across the great river of the Breezeway. But here, he denies me passage.
“Charon, do not torment yourself. Allow Dantelina passage, for it is so willed,” says Virjonah, hand outstretched. He presents to Charon a green slip of paper- a Press Pass, bearing the signature of She whose will and power are one.
And so we pass across the Breezeway. I pause briefly at the doors to the West Building to reread that inscription, knowing what awaits me. There is no turning back.
The band hallway is lined with practice rooms. Though they are locked, escaping from beneath each door is a strange gust of wind, carrying upon it hellish music. When, briefly, it lulls, it threatens to drag both the poet and me inside.
“Here,” says Virjonah, “is the great cacophony of noise set into being by those who cannot keep their desires silent. Though they leave their cars behind when the holy bells ring at 7:25, their godless feelings remain. So condemned are the lustful.”
As if in a dream, I begin to hear voices within the practice rooms. They call upon my origins as a choral student, and I can feel myself begin to be tempted. Those who are punished here are my friends, and I am torn between coming to their aid and furthering my quest. Virjonah grabs my arm, and thus we are transported onward and outward, to the cold winter air of the Courtyard.
Though I have heard tell of the glorious garden of Eden, this one bears no resemblance. Gone are lush green trees and ripe red fruit, and gone too is temptation. A storm rages above, lurching with my stomach as I behold the ground beneath the poet and me. The rain and wind have churned what was once dirt into a cesspool of mud. Tossed about by the storm are pieces of plastic trash, left behind by those who now inhabit this place, drowning in the dirt.
From the air above, an announcement rings out: “The Courtyard is closed today.”
“Punished here are the gluttonous,” cries Virjonah, “for they consumed with neither aim nor limit and laid waste to this land in their wake. Come now, we shall leave them here, lest we join them forever.”
We travel now to that place of greed, where the prodigal and avaricious are punished together. The West Gym Lobby is divided into two factions, one on either side. To my left are the prodigal, who squander their wealth and give false promises.
“Buy Charity Ball tickets today!” They scream, voices hawkish and strained.
To my right, those who hoard their wealth and take that which is not rightfully theirs.
“Pay your senior fees! Buy your cap and gown!”
The poet Virjonah delicately takes my hand in his and guides me away from the fifth circle of this most miserable underworld. When we reach what I once knew as the atrium, my jaw drops to the ever-so-sticky tiled floor. In front of me, a sea of wailing high schoolers, jostling and climbing over each other in an attempt to climb the staircase to the upper floor. In the brief moments before these poor damned souls would succeed, they were grabbed by their backpacks and pulled into the writhing ocean below.
“Those who do not fight for their place among the crowd must drown in a sea of people,” bellowed Virjonah. “Dantelina, I hope you know how to swim.” Although I had spent my entire youth just mere footsteps away from Falls Lake, I had never acquired the skill of floating.
Upon seeing my apprehension, my beloved poet lifts me with his muscular arms and swiftly pulls me into the fiery river Phlegethon- the bathroom. Three forms of violence reign here: that which is against the self, against others, and against God. Written on the walls are such unholy statements that even the great poet shudders and turns away. Behind us, two Enloe Eagles tussle and writhe, tearing at skin. Hair and clothes are ripped, in a fight so strangely erotic that I cannot look away. But in the midst of it all, staring into a mirror as if perceiving themselves for the first time, is one lonely student. They are rocking back and forth on the cold tile floor. I give their shoulder the gentlest touch, but they do not notice.
“History of the Americas…” they mutter. “IA… my IA… it’s due tonight. Theory of Knowledge… seminar…”
“Ah, yes,” Virjonah says, his deep voice rumbling with true sadness. “Perhaps the most violent towards themselves. The IB student. Dearest Dantelina, you can do no more for them. We must take our leave, but be warned! This final circle of the Enfernoe is the wickedest of all!”
We descend into the deep, dank abyss of our beloved institution–the 600s hallway. “Dantelina, what do you know of the ten Malebolge?” inquires Virjonah.
“Male… what?” I say, exasperation clear in my voice.
“The ten Malebolge house the most sinful Eagles known to man. Satan keeps these offenders close. First, I direct you to the panderers and seducers. Their steroid-driven lust places them here, for though their grades did not touch, their bodies could not be parted.”
I turn away in a mixture of shame, disgust, and horror. Though I want nothing more than to leave this place, I know our journey is not yet over. From the end of the hallway a dull banging rings, and I turn to the outside doors. The crowd here is thick with underclassmen, all clamoring for release.
“The liars! The counterfeiters! Look closely, Dantelina, at the orange slips in their hands. Though they are freshmen and they are sophomores, they think that they are worthy to go off campus. They forge their passes and beg to leave. But they are here for an eternity.”
Before I can voice my dismay, Virjonah pulls me close, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Now we must descend to the lowest circle of all. The most sinful of Eagles reside here- the traitors and the diviners, who presume to know the future. Hold your breath, for there is a stench most putrid and foul in this final room.”
With one hand grasping mine and the other placed delicately over my eyes, Virjonah leads me down the 1000s hallway. We enter a studio, screens of glorious green stark against the dark walls. The smell that he warned me about penetrates my nostrils, an odor so strong that I flinch backward in disgust.
Like prey animals emerging from the underbrush, the Loe Down staff begin to appear in the room. They seem timid, but thanks to my poet, I know their true nature. Claiming to “predict the weather” is nothing but a despicable farce. They betray us, day by day, by pretending to know our futures.
From the depths of the cave of the Loe Down studio, the lowest floor of the Enfernoe, I begin to hear a terrible cry.
“Foul sinners, REPENT! There will be no rest!” The great beast of Hell, Satan herself, crawls forth. Her hair is red as the flame. Her name is Ms. Price-O’Neil. As I watch her, she screams again. “RID THIS PLACE OF YOUR PRESENCE, POET AND AUTHOR. YOUR SOULS ARE NOT YET MINE.”
As her voice tears through the air, Virjonah turns my face towards the roof of this dark cave. Through the opening gap, light spills and wind rushes.
“Dantelina, this is the end of our journey. This wind will carry you up as you ascend beyond this place, but I cannot follow you. Rise, Dantelina. Rise!”
Lifted by his voice, I face the light again, closing my eyes against it. It floods the room, brighter than the dawn and harsher than the sword. The light grows ever brighter. I rise ever higher.
Greeted by the endless darkness behind my eyes, I know I have returned home.
