the devil's table

The Devil’s Table

by

Francis Booth

© 2011 by Francis Booth

The Narrator

Politely invited, you sit down to dine at the devils table. A

princely and most elegant host. Smaller than he looks on

TV but immaculate in white tie and tails, with his own tail,

twin forked, trailing. And the cloven hooves are, rather

shockingly, bare of shoes. The two horns lend an air of

devilish charm, and do not mar the fine and handsome,

though rather worn features of his friendly face. A gentle

man, kind and solicitous. A scholar, a man of profound

learning and understanding. A man of discreet wealth

and perfect taste. A man of sorrows and, obviously, well

acquainted with grief. He immediately makes you feel at

home and at ease and, like all perfect hosts, makes you

feel the most important person in the room.

The Dead

staring down through the mephitic miasma

into the vertiginous vortex below

into the tombs

into the catacombs

you see the endless ranks

of the grey-suited dead

carcasses of cadaverous corpses

looking up

through translucent veined eyelids

nodding gently

in recognition and welcome

they acknowledge you as one of their own

a long lost comrade

at long last re-united

a lonely wanderer

returning alone and empty handed

dejected

despairing

dispirited

from the diversion

the digression

of existence on earth

they wait patiently

silently

rejoicing

as you rightfully

rejoin their ranks

The Angels

above

hover the storied ranks

of recording angels

fluttering on white wings

flickering like candle flames

in the breathless

impenetrable dark

with seraphic smiles and beneficent eyes

benevolent sighs and beatific cries

beautiful and bountiful

whispering in semi-silent susurration

a vestigial vespers of veneration

a requiem of rest and respect

of release and repose

tenebrae responsories

evensong exequies

ossuary obsequies

the beating of angel wings

carries their chorus

on a breeze of blessings

a breath of hope

a caress of caring and kindness

an embrace of ecstasy

enduring and endearing

The Narrator

The devil looks at you with his enigmatic eyes and his

empathetic smile and says:

The Devil

now comes man

blind

like a refugee

an evil thief

peccant

craving pardon

remorseful but not repentant

regretful but not resolved

so passes human life

vanquished

cloaked in grief

sad faces, dead eyes


a small island of bones

shattered into dust


a valley drowned in tears

bathed in blood and bitter regret

a sorrowful city

full of pestilence and plague

fire and flood

ruled by snakes and cockroaches

the streets filthy with effluent

roads that return on themselves

and lead nowhere

buildings abandoned

houses deserted

hemmed in by hidden danger

new risks at every turn

sitting with folded arms

staring at the ground

a sword hanging over every head

bowed in submission

conquered

subdued

surrendered

light without life

a world without meaning

The Narrator

The fine but faded white linen on the devil’s table is crisp

and starched in an old fashioned manner. The cracked

crystal cups are a reminder of a gentler and more

delicate age but you can not help wondering if the bone

china is made from actual bones and if the red stains on

the table cloth are the reminders of a fine red wine or

spots of long dried blood. Hell’s kitchen, as it turns out,

serves the finest food. Everything is freshly made from

local organic produce, perfectly prepared and

presented. The aromas of exotic spices float in from the

kitchen.

The Dead

the dead do not weep

the dead do not bleed

the dead have no memories

no fears and no regrets

the dead have no past

no future

only a pain-free present

released and redeemed

from the essential excrescences of existence

from having to bear the unbearable burden

the miseries and mysteries of life

the dead do not dream

are not discontented nor disheartened

have no desires or disappointments

are never humbled or humiliated

rejected or rebuffed

they remember nothing and forget nothing

the tortures and torments of life left behind

the chaos and complexity conquered

order and simplicity attained

peace and rest regained

The Angels

the angels swoop

softly

singing aloft

gracious and graceful

alighting lightly on the altar piece

the mausoleum monument

set in the sepulchre

the reredos rearing up

rising to the sky

in a timeless tableau of terror

white angel wings

set against an infinite pool

of deepest obsidian

blood-flecked

with fire-flashed flaming rubies

a soaring shining shrine

a silent cenotaph

wreathed with writhing serpents

carved by tearful saints and fearful sinners

fanned by angel feathers

blessed by angel breath

washed clean by angel tears

The Devil

so is human life on earth

the plaything of perhaps

locked in a chamber of chance

a prisoner of fortune and fate

restlessly

ceaselessly

tossed by evil and misfortune

washed up on the shore of misery

tormented by hunger

suffering agonies of thirst

drowned in a flood of disappointment

swimming against a river swollen by rain

numb with cold

but dried up

in the scorching

parching heat of the sun

devoured by flames

fanned by the wind

burned to ashes

cinder white

consumed by the fire of ambition

abandoned to apathy

poisoned by passion

paralysed by pain

prostrated

by grief and fear

laid on a bed of sickness

wavering

between hope and despair

The Narrator

The devil is an engaging companion. He sometimes

touches your arm affectionately as he talks. Although the

conversation is rather, in fact completely, one sided, and

rather negative in tone, you find it, strangely, uplifting

rather than depressing. You come to accept, willingly,

and with no little sense of relief, the devil’s polite but

gently insistent invitation. He accompanies you to the

edge of the abyss, and shows you the scene below. He

makes it clear that the decision is yours and yours alone.

Though obviously the decision is final, you have no trouble

in making it.

The Dead

from the abyss below

the dead raise their arms in salute

readied to steady your fall

your downward descent

into the deep

into the dark

womb-like tomb

a soft landing in a safe haven

helping hands hold you

in a lover’s embrace

Penelope welcoming Ulysses

from strange times

in far and fabled lands

returned at last

the hero

with homeward heart

with terrible tales to tell

of sad sights seen

and desperate deeds done

now the aimless wandering ends

in eternal redemption

in eternal release

in eternal rest

The Angels

the angel choir

chants a cantata of calm

the angel orchestra

plays a symphony of solace

celebrations of invocation

evocations of benediction

indications of benefaction

the angel dancers

flying apsaras

floating freely

dancing daintily

delicately

to the quiet thrum of distant drums

to the drones of dulcet dulcimers

shawms and sackbuts

sound through the silence

cymbals and ting-sha

citterns and theorbos

lutes and lyres

playing litanies for the lost

harps plucked

plangently in pianissimo

the seraphic sentinels

forming filigree figures

traces trailing in the empty air

as they willingly grant your wish

and gladly wish you gentle

goodbye

The Devil

how sweet

weary of travelling

to use one's last ounce of strength

to throw oneself

from the ramparts

of the city of sorrow and sin

and sink into the soft earth beneath

in the last day

the last few hours

to drown the cup of poison

and end the pain

end the punishment

end the torture and torment

to forget regret

to fall gently into the abyss

and sever the mind from the senses

no more the need to run

from the wrath and rage

of a vengeful and vindictive

but vacant and void god

a god that has no dominion over the dead

and can only torture the living

how tempting is the tomb

the return to the womb

how welcoming is the soft

warm earth of the grave

how sweet is the sepulchre

the silence of the cenotaph

how sweet is the dark

gentle

eternal

night