The Bells of Hell, not to be confused with the Belles of
Hell, who can be visited alternate Thursdays between 2 and 4 A.M., nor with the Halls of Baal, where I worked for a few
summers, doing re-enactments of The Death of Tiamat for the tourists.
(“Thunderer, thou hast slain me! No more shall the parch-ed Earth cry for the
bless-ed Waters of Heaven and be denied, and Thy puissant name shall be for a
blessing! Yet forget not Mot ...”) used to be proper great things, made of
primal gold and tainted brass, booming and clamoring until you could scarce
hear yourself think. Which, given my thoughts in those days, was probably just
as well. It didn’t usually matter what time it was in Hell, but when it did, we
all knew.
Then, around the turn of the last century, the noise of the
things began to seem somehow quaint, and their names (Nebless Clem, Jenny
Brazen, Ill-trusted Fido and the rest) an embarassment. All too medieval, too
obvious without the spice of irony which was then popular in Hell. The bells
were dismounted from their towers and left in a store room; the demons who
pulled the thick ropes were found new jobs, or were killed, or refashioned. An
array of incongrous instruments were hung in the campaniles -- dinner bells,
bicycle bells, butter knives hanging from strings. By the time of the Great
War, it began being bruited about that the Bells of Hell went
ting-a-ling-a-ling. A certain cheap effect was gained, granted, like that of
hearing a great hulking bruiser speaking in a piping falsetto as he goes about
his business of breaking other folks’ bones. Still, I’ve always regretted the
change; the Bells of Hell should shake souls with fear and wonder, not make
them instinctively grope for change with which to buy ice cream.
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