“It contains some hidden clues, you think?”
“I don’t know about clues, but that headmaster was certainly right about the symbolism. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, Ibelieve I know exactly what he’s talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a moment to listen carefully,” Bridget said. “‘For oft, when on my couch I lie, in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude; and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.’” Bridget recited the final stanza of the poem. “He’s talking about recalling the daffodils he saw and how the memory fills him with joy.”
“Yes,” Nate said. “That’s simple enough.”
“Now, focus on those last two lines. ‘And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.’ It’s as though the killer is sending a sinister message by perverting the delight that Wordsworth experiences when he recalls the daffodils. Remembering the daffodils, Wordsworth feels connected to nature, and his heart overflows with joy.”
“Unlike Otis,” Nate said, “who lies among the daffodils, lifeless and with no heart. The very core of his being was ripped from his body. Not to mention that daffodils are spring flowers. They symbolize renewal and hope. And of course, there is no hope left for Otis. Such an ugly death suggests just the opposite.”
“His murder was likely a punishment,” Bridget said. “Perhaps he stole someone’s heart and broke it, and so the killer condemned him to spend eternity without hope or heart,” Bridget said.
“Contrapasso,” Nate nodded in understanding. “That’s exactly it.”
Bridget frowned. “Now you’ve lost me. What’s contrapasso?”
“It’s from Dante’sInferno. In Dante’s version of Hell, the sinners’ punishments echo their crimes. In other words, they are punished in a way that befits their crimes—it’s called thelaw of contrapasso,” Nate explained. “For example, those guilty of gluttony are condemned to wallow in filth like pigs and being bitten by the three-headed dog, Cerberus.”
“How awful,” Bridget said.
“Yes, but the point is that the punishment fits the crime.”
“I tremble to think what happens to murderers.”
“Murderers are condemned to wallow in a river of boiling blood. Their punishment resembles their crimes on Earth. They have blood on their hands, and so they are mired in blood for eternity. The punishment fits the crime.”
“That makes sense.” Bridget shuddered.
“It might sound awful,” Nate said. “But Dante wanted to illustrate that the Lord is just. Sinners receive a punishment that befits their sins—nothing more and nothing less.”
Bridget went silent for a moment. Then she asked, her voice trembling slightly, “And what of those who self-murder?”
Nate’s heart broke for her. She so wanted to believe her papa was at peace. “It’s only a story, Bridget. All of it conjured up in Dante’s mind. He’d been expelled from Florence, and he was furious. Do you know, he put all his enemies in the lowest levels—”
“I know it’s not real,” Bridget said. “But I want to know, nonetheless.”
“Those who self-murder lose the right to their earthly bodies for eternity, and their souls are instead trapped inside trees…” He stopped, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Bridget.
“Is that all?”
“All that I can remember,” he lied.
“There are nine circles of Hell in Dante’sInferno, are there not?”
Nate nodded.
“And the self-murderers are in what circle?”
Nate exhaled. “The seventh.”
“And they don’t suffer any torture?”
“The trees”—Nate hesitated—“are attacked by harpies. They pull at the leaves and claw at the branches. The souls cry out but are unable to speak of their suffering until Dante breaks a branch from one of the trees and makes it bleed.”
“I understand. The souls are tormented and in constant pain. They cannot freely express their anguish, and they will never know peace or their human form again.”
