The Gates Of Hell
After answering my co-worker's questions about Ben, I made my way to my boss's office. He was pleased to see me, and after some small talk, he began asking about an exhibit for the upcoming fall semester that had sort of fallen through the cracks since Ben's accident. “So, any thoughts for the display case in the Student Union building?”
“Well, no, not yet,” I had to admit. “I've been a little distracted, and had to move to...”
“No problem,” he assured me. “I shouldn't have even asked, but I'm thinking that it might be a good opportunity for a student to try their hand at putting something together. Do you have any suggestions for who might be capable?”
We spent a few minutes considering various grad students, when Heather knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an invitation. “Sorry to barge in like this, but I heard that Joey was here, and I need to show him something I found.”
My boss smiled and said, “Sounds urgent. I'll take care of this. You keep your focus where it needs to be, and let me know when you're ready to come back.”
Her office was messier than usual, with books and articles covering her research table, and the contents of the mystery box covering her desk. “I've heard back from my friends at Veteran Affairs, and have tracked down Francis Bouchard!”
“Wonderful!”
“Nothing particularly outstanding, and like with the house, there is very little documentation around him. I was, however, able to discover that he was in the navy, and served in the south Pacific. I can place him on various ships during his tour of duty, and have a list of the different ports of call where the ships stopped.”
“Anything interesting or unusual?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “Very unusual. The military is very meticulous about keeping records and log books, but if these logs are to be believed, he almost never left his ship.”
“Never?” I was incredulous.
“Almost never” She shook her head. “According to the logs I've been looking at, most of the men would take shore leave as often as possible, but Mr. Bouchard seems to have only left the ship twice. Once at the beginning of his tour, and once at the end.”
“That's odd.” I wondered if these records were as thorough as she claimed. “How often did most men take leave, I wonder.”
“I was wondering the same thing, so I followed a few of his ship mates through these logs and found that they would disembark at least a few times a year, if only for a few hours.” She paused before handing me copies of two different log pages. “But this is the real kicker. Do you see it?”
I looked the pages over and found Mr. Bouchard's name on each, but saw nothing else outstanding. “What am I supposed to see?” I asked, puzzled.
“The location,” she replied triumphantly. “At the top of the page. They are both the same little island in the middle of nowhere.”
“Moku Milu?”
“I've never heard of it and had to look it up.” She pulled out another printout and handed it to me. “The literal translation is the island of the god of the underworld. I suppose we might refer to it as the doorway to Hell.”
I looked at the map she had handed me. “I think..” I began, reaching for my bag. I pulled out the manuscript that I had been struggling with, and flipped through the pages until I found what I was looking for. “Here! I thought that looked familiar.” I laid it out on her desk so she could see.
“What am I looking at?” she asked, bewildered at first.
“It's just a traditional Tiki figure,” I admitted, “But look closer.”
She studied it for a moment, then I saw recognition dawn on her face. “The mouth?”
“It's the same shape as the island.” I pointed out. “And notice the asymmetrical placement of the teeth. Exactly where the three inlets are. The tongue also matches the volcano's summit.”
“Clever,” she whispered. “I never would have noticed if you hadn't...So who is the Tiki?”
“It's a representation of Aitu, a Polynesian demon. But get this.” I flipped back a couple of pages to a kind of genealogy of Polynesian deities. “He's the main servant of Milu, roughly equivalent to Pluto, the god of the dead.”
“So would that make Aitu roughly equivalent to Charon, the ferryman who carries souls to the underworld?” she postulated.
“Exactly!” I thought for a moment before adding, “Even though he had not finished his writing, it is clear that, at least as far as mythology goes, Aitu is his focus.”
“And the only place Mr. Bouchard visited while in the south Pacific was the very island that is associated with this focus of his studies.” She smiled. “I wonder if something happened there to spark this interest, or if he already knew of the island, and wanted to visit it to satisfy his curiosity.”
“I imagine something happened, and all his subsequent research was an attempt to understand it. After all, he was very young at the time, and doesn't seem to come from a particularly scholarly background. Plus, this is well before the internet, and researching an obscure deity on the other side of the planet would have been a pretty hefty undertaking for a teenager, unless he had a compelling connection to Polynesian religion.”
“True,” she mused. “Of course, you can always ask him the next time you visit him.”
I looked at my watch. “Shit!” I had lost track of time. “Ben's therapy starts early today. I'd better...”
“Give him a hug for me,” she teased. “Just not an x-rated one.”
“You know us too well,” I laughed, packing up the manuscript and giving her a peck on the cheek. “And let me know if you find anything else. This has been most informative.”
By the time I arrived at his room, Ben was already upright, seated in a chair by the window, knitting. I offered him Heather's G-rated hug, as requested, but before I could explain, he said, “Fuck that!” pulling me down to his level and sticking his tongue down my throat, while simultaneously trying to undo my belt.
Caught off guard, I practically fell on top of him, causing him to dissolve into laughter. “How many extra hands did you grow last night?” I asked.
“No new hands,” he smirked, “But I did manage to grow this.” He guided my hand to his crotch, and even through his pants I could feel the heat of his raging boner. “And it hasn't gone down all morning.”
As exciting as this new development was, I was immediately concerned. “Isn't it a problem if it lasts too long? Should we...”
“I've already talked to the doctor about it, and he doesn't seemed concerned, He said that after such a prolonged period of inactivity, sometimes the body overcompensates.” He picked up the red ribbon he had made a few days ago, and handed it to me with a wicked grin.
“Now?” I asked in disbelief.
“The doctor told me to enjoy it while it lasts, so...” He raised his eyebrows, and motioned his head toward the door.
“But that arrangement is with the night nurse, and you have therapy,” I protested.
“They moved my therapy to this afternoon, because of this new...uhh...development, and I chatted with the morning nurse. She will respect the ribbon unless there is an emergency. Now put that on the door, and get your ass over here.”
I had to admit, the feel of his throbbing cock in my hand did more to revive me than anything else could have, so I did as I was told. When I stuck my head out the door to position the ribbon, I made eye contact with his nurse. She offered me a knowing smile, and a brief nod of acknowledgment, before turning to one of her coworkers to say something that made them both laugh. We might have privacy, but what we were about to get up to was certainly no secret.
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