Chapter 5: Punishment for failure

Screwtape's inner office was larger than the room Slugthorn had just crossed. Here, the decor was still similar to the other rooms in its grandiose, epic overstatement. A large Renaissance painting from one of the Dutch masters dominated the right hand wall. It was a feast scene, with hogs roasting slowly over open pits, pot-bellied men swilling ale and trenchers of food being carried to a hungry horde gathered around a long table. On the opposite wall was a large stone fireplace with massive iron dogs and a broad flagstone mantle. It looked like it came from a medieval castle. At the far end, a tall row of plate glass windows looked out onto the ocean. They were the first windows Slugthorn had seen since entering Screwtape's realm.

Just in front of the windows, a huge wooden desk ran almost the entire length of the wall. Behind the heavy desk, that from Slugthorn's perspective looked like a wooden aircraft carrier, in a large, brown leather, padded swivel chair, sat Screwtape.

Screwtape was in the form of middle-aged, respectable-looking gentleman who looked like he might be a banker. He had a high forehead, kindly, intelligent gray eyes full of fatherly authority, a short, straight nose and broad mouth. It was a broad, open, honest face; one that inspired trust and respect. The brown hair was tinged with an honest, un-dyed touch of gray. His medium build, hidden by the flagship of a desk, had just a hint of a bulge around the middle.

Slugthorn let the door close behind him. One of his feet slid forward. Then the other. Unstoppable. Awful. One foot followed another as he was drawn straight for Screwtape's desk. It was as if tongs of iron were pulling him, not permitting him to waver so much as an inch to the left or right. Screwtape's face loomed larger.

When half the distance had been covered, Screwtape lifted his head from his work. His gray eyes turned coal black and bored in on the hapless Slugthorn. Screwtape's broad mouth, so accustomed to breaking into an easy, lofty smile, now wrenched itself open and bellowed, “SLUGthorn!”

“Yes, master.” Slugthorn's feet kept moving. It was awful.

“You are LATE!”

“Yes, master.” The desk was drawing near.

“How foolish of you to try to avoid the inEVITable!”

“But, master...”

“Of course, I could have sent the Furies after you.”

“Yes, master.”

“But I knew you would come. I knew you were just trying to delay. Tch tch.” Screwtape made a repulsive sucking noise with his lip against his teeth. “They always try to delay, even when it's hopeless.”

“But, master...” Slugthorn was trying hard to remember something. He had had a plan. He had learned something. What was it? It was gone in a fog. His brain numb. Think, Slugthorn!

Suddenly, terribly, Screwtape broke into a loud, piercing, raucous, triumphant laugh that ended in a shout.

“But, master.... the ... the... the children.” Something peered through the fog in Slugthorn's brain. “The children, master. There's something going on with the children.”

Slugthorn's answer was a blood-chilling banshee shriek. In a twinkling, Screwtape was suddenly transformed into his ravenous true shape -- all scaly, fiery fury. All glistening, long, sharp white teeth. He soared swiftly, flew straight for Slugthorn.

Slugthorn's screams of horror and agony were absorbed by the thick walls of Screwtape's comfortable office.