Fiction: The Circle Of Babble

By James Hanna

 

In the summer of 2028, Phineas Ford built a psychic recorder, a device he claimed could locate voices of the dead and departed. “Charlatan!” critics cried, disregarding the many remarkable breakthroughs that Phineas had already achieved. It was Phineas who had invented a telescope of such incredible power that he discovered galaxies previously unknown to man. It was Phineas who invented a time machine with which he explored the future and chronicled the progress of the human comedy. And it was Phineas who developed a machine that temporarily stopped his heart, enabling him to visit the afterlife and see what heaven was about. Unfortunately, his trip to “heaven” afforded him only projection—a delusion that heaven resembled his favorite book, Anna Karenina. So, to correct this misconception, Phineas invented his psychic recorder. If he could capture some actual voices from the Great Beyond, he could try to offer the public the truth about the world to come.

The psychic recorder consisted of a speaker attached to a scramble of wires. By turning up the volume and hitting a switch to mute the static, Phineas was able to listen to a handful of departed voices. However, the voices were shaky and muffled to such an extent that Phineas could not even tell what language they were speaking. But one day, Phineas hit on a voice that came in loud and clear. It was the voice of a spirited Cockney woman blaring like a foghorn, and despite its colloquial timbre, Phineas could understand every word. He dubbed the woman Molly, and he announced to a skeptical press that Molly’s discourses might provide a true glimpse of the afterworld.  

To introduce “Molly” to the world, Phineas arranged for a televised conference. The conference was held in a CNN studio, and three notable guests were invited. The guests included a psychic, a priest, and a scholar of Dante Alighieri, all of whom had sterling reputations in their field. After introductions, Phineas adjusted the receptor to bring in Molly’s voice. The voice had the thrust of a blowhard yammering in a saloon—a self-absorption that held anyone hostage who might remain in the room.   

“Cheek!” the voice thundered. “Bloomin’ cheek! Now I told Miss High-and-Mighty if she wanted her windows washed she was gonna haveta fork over another bob or two. And do ya know what Miss Fancy-Pants said to me without even blinkin’ an eye? She said, if I wanted more money, I hadda lose my attitude and do a better job scrubbing toilets and not come to work smellin’ of grog. Well, I sez to her, I sez, ‘Are you begrudging me a pint?’ And she sez, ‘I’m suggesting you do your drinkin’ after work.’ How’s that for bloomin’ cheek? I say. Treatin’ me like I was a souse. I shoulda smacked her across the face. See if I don’t do it next time.”  

Phineas muted the volume and drew a labored breath. “Phew,” he said. “That fishwife gets mouthier every day. Ya know, if she had a physical presence, I’d smack her one myself.”

The psychic, Anna, a rail-thin woman with intelligent, luminous eyes, said, “Oh dear. Her rambling is so typical of an earth-bound soul. The poor creature must have some mission to finish before she lets go of this world.”

“Pshaw,” said Phineas. “What business could possibly be keeping her here? Getting tipsy in bars? Scrubbing out toilets? Humping the garbage man? This ‘poor creature’ has no calling at all, as far as I can tell. Sadly, that may also define the afterlife as well.” 

“Dear me,” Anna chirped. “So why did you invite us to listen to her?”

“She’s the only clear voice I could locate,” snapped Phineas. “So, I guess we’re stuck with her. But let me say this—I’d send her packing if I could find a voice clearer than hers.”

“The poor, poor creature,” Anna repeated. “I pray you are wrong about her. Could you readjust the volume, dear man, and let us hear a bit more?”

Phineas raised the volume and winced as Molly’s voice returned. Her nonstop chatter offered little hope that she had anything revealing to say.

“Willie, Willie, Willie!” barked Molly. “Yer such a stubby twit. When a lady spreads her legs for a gent she wants more to come of it. Why am I wasting my time on you?—yer useless as tits on a boar hog. Blimey, yer only saving grace is that wart you got on yer nob.”

The priest, a sallow-faced octogenarian named Father Ferguson, said, “See here, Mister Ford, I believe your recorder is tuned in to a soul trapped in hell.”

“I don’t hear any fires crackling,” said Phineas as he turned the volume back down. “I don’t hear the snarl of the River Styx or the wail of abandoned souls. I’m not saying the woman doesn’t belong there, so maybe she just lucked out.”

Father Ferguson drew a long breath, which suggested his patience was waning. “Mister Ford,” he said. “Hell’s not fire and brimstone—it’s simply the absence of God. As I listen to that ignorant voice, I think it’s abundantly clear that, wherever this woman is situated, God is nowhere near.”

Phineas sighed. “I hope you’re right because hell is where she belongs. Shall we listen to more? I still can’t believe how vacuous she is.”

Phineas again raised the volume, and Molly’s voice returned.

“Listen up, Mabel,” she said. “I must give you this bitta news. When I ran into Hattie yesterday, she was toting this great big umbrella. She gave me a big cheesy smile, she did, but I was onto her. It wasn’t raining a drop, so she musta been off to meet a lover and planned to hide her face with the umbrella when she ran off with him...What’s that you said, Mabel? Are you sayin’ we oughta feel sorry for her? Well, her husband will flog her proper, he will, when he finds out what she’s been up to, so don’t repeat what I said to a soul cuz I don’t wanna get her in trouble.” 

Phineas muted the recorder as Father Ferguson cleared his throat. “Gossip,” he said, “is the lowest form of conversation there is. It can only thrive in the absence of God, so I think I have made my point.”

Neville, the Dante scholar, said, “Please, may I interject? Did you know that when Dante defined The Inferno, he uncovered ten circles of hell? In his final draft, he described only nine, omitting the Circle of Babble. That’s the place where politicians and phony evangelists go. An abyss where crooks with the gift of gab sit for eternity and listen to a hollow voice that replicates their own.”

“Just what are you saying?” snapped Phineas.

“Molly’s not suffering in hell, old sport. She’s helping to run the place. She’s presiding over the Circle of Babble, which is why her voice is so loud and clear.”

“Gadsooks,” said Phineas. “That makes perfect sense. I’ve underestimated her. So, why did Dante leave her out when he published The Inferno?”

The scholar sighed. “There are limits to what even doomsayers can endure. Truth be told, I think that Dante had had enough of her.”

 

 

 

 

 

James Hanna is a retired probation officer and a former fiction editor. His work has appeared in multiple journals, including Sixfold, Crack the Spine, and The Satirist. He is also a frequent contributor to A Thin Slice of Anxiety. James is the author of seven books, all of which have won awards. Global Book Awards recently gave him a gold medal for contemporary fiction.