by R. E. Vance
I nodded. Despite Penemue’s protests, we spent the rest of the ride telling Conner everything. We hold him about Sinbad being created, why we thought the children were being kidnapped and how this defied all kinds of divine laws. There was no point in hiding anything. We were headed for war and Conner needed to take a side. He couldn’t do that unless he knew everything. And that’s exactly what I told him. Everything. Everything I knew, and I everything I didn’t know and still needed to find out.
“Someone is messing with Creation …” Conner mulled over this revelation as he drove. “What does this have to do with Miral?”
Penemue shrugged. “She would be—pardon the expression—hell-bent on destroying anything or anyone who played with such concepts. Any angel would.”
Conner looked at him in the rear-view mirror. “Except you.”
“Indeed. Let me clarify. Any non-fallen angel would. Us Fallen have immunized ourselves from certain hang-ups that our former employment once-upon-a-time demanded of us. Whatever Miral is doing, it has nothing to do with this Creation problem.”
“But it’s got to be connected?”
“Possibly,” I said. “Remember back at the Tree? Michael was paralyzed in the same stance that Miral was in, on a single bended knee.”
“But Michael believed he was talking to God,” Penemue said. “No one else could get him to fall to one knee. Miral knew full well who she was speaking to. She even said her name out loud.”
“So?” I asked.
“Let me explain it to you this way: angels do not bow to anyone but God.”
“Does that go for both Fallen and unFallen?” Conner asked.
Penemue narrowed his eyes. “For someone who works in Paradise Lot, you must brush up on your history. The angels fell twice … and both times had everything to do with bowing.”
“Pride,” Conner said.
“That’s the second, more famous Fall: pride when Satan refused to bow to man,” I said, familiar with the story. There had been many a drunken night when Penemue told me the story. “The first Fall was because some angels—Penemue amongst them—decided to take it upon themselves to train the humans, giving them secret knowledge.”
Penemue nodded. “In other words, the first Fall was because some of us bowed too deeply to humans—metaphorically speaking, of course. The second Fall was because many angels refused to bow to humans at all. Two Falls, both because of our confused bowing etiquette.”
Conner ran his hand through his perfectly sculpted hair and groaned. “OK, fine … two Falls, bowing … but you just admitted that angels have bowed to humans before.”
“Humm … yes, but that was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, as they say. And given all the confusion of who we could bow to and why and when … well, let’s just say that after the Great War between Heaven and Hell, both God and the Devil agreed that angels were to never bow again, except—in the case of the non-fallen—to the big-guy-in-the-sky.” Penemue pointed up, before placing his hands together much in the same fashion basketball stars do when making a particularly difficult shot.
“So Miral wouldn’t bow.”
“I don’t think you are fully grasping this,” Penemue said. “Miral cannot bow … emphasis on the not. It is more likely that you will sprout wings and fly than for Miral to be able to get on bended knee before anyone who is not—” Penemue whistled and pointed up again.
“I don’t understand.”
“Physically she has the ability to bow,” I said. “But there is a part of her that won’t let herself bow to others. Which means that either something else is compelling her to bow, or the part of her that won’t let her bow to anyone is being suppressed or removed.”
“Forgive me for being dense, but I want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly. You’re saying that angels can’t bow to anyone but the Big Guy who was once in the sky? That just doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” Sinbad said. In all our discussion, the little pirate warrior had been listening so quietly that we all but forgot she was there. “It’s like this … I could never do anything to hurt Sarah. I would rather die before I did so. And I know there are things that you would never do, even though you could. Like turn your backs on your friends.” She pointed at Conner, then at Penemue. “Or forgive yourself for EightBall’s parents, even though it’s not your fault. Or you, Mr. Jean—you’d never leave Paradise Lot, no matter how badly being there hurts you. We all have things we cannot do, even if every part of our being wants to. And if we are forced to do it … then we cease being who we are.”
And that was it. The simplistic way Sinbad put it summed up exactly what was happening—not just with Miral, but with all of us.
None of us said anything for a long minute before Conner eventually groaned, “OK, I think I get it. So what do we do about it?”
And there in lay the crux. What do we do about it?
I knew now that there was nothing we could do to stop what was coming. Even if the world were to wake up to the news that all these crimes were committed by humans dressed as Others, that irrefutable evidence proved no Other was involved in a single disappearance and that it was just a big hoax—war was coming.
There were too many images of angry, fearsome Others and crying mothers to reverse that.
Fine … let war come, I thought.
And Sinbad was right. As much as I’d like to leave, doing so—especially now—would be to lose who I was. Who I am. I made a promise to Bella that I would help Others. I also told Medusa that I would always try to be a source of comfort for the world. Yeah, I could physically leave, go up North and wait until humans and Others tired of war and the world resettled into an uneasy peace, but that wasn’t who I was.
So then it was time to place myself were I could do the most good. I looked at my options. I could join Michael and help keep Paradise Lot under control, or I could take Mr. Cain’s offer and be in a position to help ease human fears. I could rejoin General Shouf—after all, there would be many Others who weren’t going to accept the human’s persecution lying down. Fanatics would be on the rise. As many of them as I could keep out of the news, the better.
Three choices … three different lives. None of them were good choices, but in the end, I’d have to settle on one of them. In the end. But all I wanted was peace. And if that peace was not possible for the world, then what was so wrong if I could just have a little piece of it for myself?
Peace—I mulled the word over and over in my head. If I were to have peace, then there was only one way for me to get it. As much as those three choices each had their good and friggin’ terrible points, there was one factor that made my decision for me: I needed to find those kids and get them home. Therefore, any choice I made needed to give me the freedom to keep searching for them.
I made my choice with a grunt just as Conner pulled the van to a stop. I slid the door open. “We’ve got to get home,” I said. “But first, I have a phone call I need to make.”
“What are you doing?” Conner asked.
“Taking up an offer I should have never refused.”
Once I was out of ear-shot of the van, I took out my old mobile phone and dialed the only number I knew would help me find what I was looking for. It rang once, then twice, but before it could ring a third time the phone clicked and I knew my call had been answered.
Before the person at the other end could say anything, I spoke: “Yes,” I said, my voice straining under the weight of what that word implied. “My answer is yes. I will work for you.”
End of Part 3
Epilogue to Part Three
Jean thinks TinkerBelle left to be with her new guardian CaCa. In this, he is only half right.
The half in which he is wrong is in thinking she left because when Jean could no longer see Bella in his dreams, a great sadness overcame him. But it is deeper than that. He no longer dreams, but rather sleeps the sleep only the dead are capable of … it is a sleep of eternal darkness, and to Tin
kerBelle, Jean’s slumber is death. Every night, when he closes his eyes, he dies. And it is only by some miracle that he wakes in the morning.
TinkerBelle loves her guardian in the way only dreamers can love. To experience his death, night after night, is torture. That is the other half of why she left.
Then, one night, she feels it. She senses him again. Far away in the Millennium Hotel, her guardian slumbers … and he dreams. It is dark and far away, barely a whisper in the vast universe of night, but it is unmistakable.
He dreams.
But his dreams are not the pleasant meanderings he once experienced nightly with his Bella. These are tortured nightmares. His slumber is not pleasant, and that is why TinkerBelle returns.
Maybe, just maybe, she can help him.
Part XII
Prologue to Part Four
Juliet Matthias is big and round and uncomfortable and happy.
She waddles into the room where her father bites down on toast like he is ripping into the flesh of some freshly killed prey. In a way, he is—albeit his prey is from the local bakery, and the flesh is more flour and yeast and melted butter, not sinew and blood.
She giggles as she joins him at the kitchen table. “I’m pretty sure it’s dead, Dad. You don’t need to worry about the toast getting away.”
“You laugh too much, young lady,” he says, pointing his toast at her accusatorially. Andrew Matthias is a hard man. Always has been, always will be. His lips curl down into a scornful grimace, but after a few moments they turn up into a big, bright smile. “Damn it! I thought I could hold it that time.”
“You’re not a very good scowler,” Juliet says. “Try as you might, there will always be a very happy man in there.” She stands, grabbing her belly for balance, and kisses him on the forehead.
“Maybe,” he says. “But this happy man is going to church, and he is very unhappy you won’t join him.”
“Come on, Dad,” Juliet says. “You know how I feel about organized religion.”
“Ever been to a sermon led by Pastor Gerry? I’d say it’s poorly-organized religion, at best.
“Oh, ha-ha, Dad.”
“OK, OK … but why not come so I can keep an eye on you?” Andrew points at her belly. “Both of you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re two weeks late. It could come any minute.”
“He,” she corrects. “The baby is a he. And if he does decide to come out today, I’ll be ready.”
He growls—his way of saying that he doubts her optimism.
She rolls her eyes and shrugs in the way she’s done since she was very little. “The bag is in the car, your work number is by the phone. I’ll take it easy. If … if anything happens, I’ll call you immediately.”
The aged father eyes his daughter for a long, hard moment before nodding. “OK.”
Juliet leans against the cupboard to take a respite from the weight of the he. Rubbing her belly, she softly sings, “Hi Jean, come out and play with me …”
Her father looks at her as he pours coffee into a thermos. “That song again?”
Juliet ignores him. “Under the apple tree.”
He puts on his boots and laces them up. “You’re sure it’s a boy, huh?”
Juliet nods as she sings, “Bring your dollies three.”
“OK,” Andrew says, chuckling. “But that song ain’t gonna get you to the Grammys.”
Juliet smiles. “Under the rainbow and through the cellar door. We’ll be fri-i-ends, forever more.”
Andrew applauds and Juliet bows as far as her massive belly lets her. He blows her a kiss before leaving for church. Andrew does not know that this will be the last time he will see his daughter healthy and standing. If he did, he might have given her a hug with that kiss and then held her for a long, long time.
↔
Andrew Matthias wishes his daughter would contact the child-to-be’s father. After all, it is only right that the boy—if it is a boy—has a father; it is only right that his daughter has help raising the child. But Juliet Matthias is as stubborn as a mule and as strong as the Queen of Sheba herself. She will not budge. During their last fight, she’d pointed to her belly and proclaimed that, “His father is no one of consequence and Jean-Luc is better off without him.”
“So,” Andrew had said, raising his hands in the air in surrender. Something he did whenever he knew he was in a fight he could not win. “You’ve given him a name?”
Juliet’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “I have. Jean-Luc Matthias. Has a nice ring to it. Of course, Mark, Matthew, Luke and John were taken, so I thought I’d reorder it a bit. Oh, and drop the Mark,” she giggles.
He thinks about that all the way home from church, during which Pastor Gerry droned on and on about how one with a grain of faith could move a mountain. Andrew is also considering what to do for the rest of his day off. Maybe some gardening, perhaps take Juliet out to Hot Mama’s Cookies for a—
His thoughts are cut off by the ambulance in his driveway.
↔
“The baby is fine, but there were … complications,” the doctor tells Andrew, “with your daughter.”
“Will Juliet be all right?” Andrew asks.
The doctor, a serious woman with a thin nose and rimless glasses, does not shake her head or nod. She just looks at him with a neutral expression and says, “She’s lost a lot of blood. We’ve set up a transfusion, but you have to understand that even with the transfusion and round-the-clock care, we cannot guarantee recovery.”
It is shock that prevents Andrew from breaking down here and now.
“We will, of course, do our very best for your daughter,” the doctor says.
Andrew takes in several deep breaths to keep his composure. “Can I see her?”
↔
A nurse takes him to the post-natal ward to see his daughter. He stops at the door when he spots her: Juliet has several tubes coming out of her. One is filling her with blood, another with oxygen and yet a third with saline solution. There are other tubes, but Andrew is unable to guess what they are for. Juliet is pale; she looks weak, but despite it all, she is smiling. That’s his Juliet—the world could be ending and she would still wear that smile of hers.
She holds a little baby in her arms … a bald, pink thing with closed eyes and a nose so small Andrew doubts it can draw in enough oxygen through such tiny passageways.
“Look, Dad,” she says. “A boy … just like I told you he would be.”
“Yes, you did,” Andrew says, coming into the room and kissing her on the forehead for the second time today.
↔
The doctors try to take little Jean-Luc away, put him with the other babies whose mothers are too sick to care for them, but Juliet will not allow this. Stubborn as a mule, strong as the Queen of Sheba. “You need to focus on healing,” her doctor says.
But Juliet shakes her head. She will hold on to her son for as long as possible.
“I’ll be here,” Andrew says to the doctor. “Right here in this chair, helping out.”
The doctor purses her lips.
“Please,” Andrew says. “Please.”
The doctor doesn’t like it, but eventually she gives in. Similar to Andrew, she is smart enough to know when she’s in a losing battle.
↔
It is the middle of the night and Andrew is asleep in a cramped hospital chair. He wakes to his daughter singing. “Hi Jean, come out and play with me …”
She is pale as a ghost. Her lips quiver as she sings. And still, she smiles.
“Are you OK?” Andrew asks.
“My life for his. Fair deal. More than fair,” she says, and then, gently kissing his head, she continues singing. “Under the apple tree, bring your dollies three. Under the—”
Her voice stops abruptly, and in its place the equipment she is attached to begins an incessant beeping. Nurses quickly followed by doctors rush inside and rip Jean-Luc from her arms. They hand the sleeping baby to Andrew and
tell him to leave the room.
He looks back at what will be the last time he will see his daughter alive.
Alone and stricken with grief that can only be spawned from losing a child, Andrew paces the hallway with little Jean-Luc in his arms. “Please, God,” he repeats over and over again, bargaining, praying, pleading and threatening the God he was told that, if he faithfully worshipped, would hear him.
When the doctor comes out of the room, removing her mask and revealing passionless, emotionless lips, Andrew knows that his God did not hear him.
Not at all.
↔
“And the boy’s father?” the nurse asks.
Andrew Matthias, father of Juliet Matthias, grandfather of Jean-Luc Matthias, shakes his head and wipes away several large tears that no amount of willpower could hold within. “She never told me who the father was. After a thousand fights, I stopped asking.”
The nurse nods. “So, then, you’re the guardian.”
“Yes … I guess I am.”
The nurse jots down a few notes before leaving the room. “If you need anything,” she says at the door, “just buzz.”
Andrew nods. As the nurse leaves, she hears the mourning grandfather sing:
“Hi Jean, come out and play with me,
Under the apple tree …”
Preparations, Help and Hope … Nah! Just Kidding!
Mr. Cain’s office wasn’t what you’d expect to find in a maximum security prison. Once-upon-a-time, the Hawar Island was a giant lighthouse that acted as a beacon for sailors to make their way up and down the Eastern coast. It was the largest lighthouse ever built, its lamp casting a light that could be seen all along the eastern shoreline. And until sonar and radar made it obsolete, its lights helped thousands of ships navigate the waters that divided Paradise Lot from the mainland, saving them from crashing into the rock bed and coral mountains that sprung from the depths.