This is Not the End

by Jesse Jordan

  “The Creator watched as its two creations molded Taloon. They made mountains and forests and fields of flowers, and Morning Star made the Moon and Metatron made the Sea, and together they made the tower in which they dwelt.

  “As time went on, the two of them became more and more comfortable in their roles as builders of the mind, and they worked to shape Taloon into a place where they could live and be happy forever. Then the Creator began to make more beings to dwell in the realm. It made Leviathan37 and Bahamut next, and though they were both great and horrible, they could not shape Taloon the way that Metatron and Morning Star could, and—much more importantly—they did not know the Creator. Only Its first two creations were allowed to know It, to bask in Its warmth. The Creator next made those like me. It made more and more of us, until we fully populated the world It had made. But like Leviathan and Bahamut before us, we did not know the Creator, only what the two great ones told us. Once, Morning Star described the Creator to me by saying, ‘I don’t think of the Creator as a being or a thing; the Creator is an Is. You don’t have conversations with the Creator, nor do you give or take anything from the Creator. The Creator creates. It is all It does.’ That is, of course, why I shoo away the notion of ‘God.’ This is not a kindly old man with a white beard sitting in the clouds and watching over us. I think of the Creator more like an automaton with a single function. For all we know, some old race created It and set It loose upon . . . upon whatever plane this little narrative of ours is playing out.

  “Anyway,” Ezra continued, “we lived that way for a while. Taloon was taking shape, but it was still very much like a dream. Though the rest of us weren’t as powerful, en masse we could affect the world too, almost accidentally, through the things we experienced and came to believe. So the more that came to dwell there, the harder it became for the perceptions of Metatron and Morning Star to fashion it. And though the land remained unfinished, the Creator no longer attended to it. Metatron and Morning Star, too, began to neglect the molding of the world. They began to hold long discussions, away from all of us, and would tell us only that the Creator was away, presumably creating other worlds. We began, slowly, to become aware of your realm, to see its logical cosmos composing itself as we lay in the Great Field of Dreaming.”

  Ezra drank from an empty mug for a moment before realizing. He smiled without moving his mouth and set it down. “Morning Star finally came to us all and said that the Creator was gone. That was it. Poof, just gone. Morning Star said we must accept this and move on. We were crushed, but Morning Star tried to rally us, telling us that this was a good thing, that we should embrace the independence of our destiny. Metatron was furious. Metatron said we couldn’t be sure that the Creator was gone, and even if It was, then it was our duty to discover what we’d done to anger the Creator, to bring It back. If we had to beg, then we would beg. If we had to wait, then wait we would. The fault lay with us.

  “The two of them began to fight. It was . . . awful. No, that doesn’t do it justice. They fought like wounded animals, like deranged lovers, and as their anger and irrationality took hold, the world around us responded likewise. They were its masters, and it bent before their fury. Taloon became a nightmarescape. It was not uncommon at that time for day to turn to night, for the Sea to turn black or the Moon to blink out. You would wake to find that you were somewhere else or that all of a sudden you were standing in the sky with your head pointing toward the ground. And when we would hear them . . . noises of hatred between two who’d so loved each other, who’d watched over us . . . oh, how we trembled.”

  Ezra closed his eyes for a moment, and James saw an entire storm cross his face. “I really don’t know how long this period lasted,” Ezra said. “Time was just another piece of our realm that their anger and fear warped. It was like water. Now flowing, now stopped, now dripping, now half plugged and spraying wildly in several directions at once. I do know that Metatron came and spoke with us often, as did Morning Star. Metatron would say that Morning Star had forsaken the Creator, as had so many of us, and that we must reform our ways if we wished for the Creator’s return. Morning Star was heartbroken and said often that we must release the Creator in our hearts and move on. Morning Star said there were much worse truths to accept than this one. And, as should be expected in any situation like this, minds were split and factions formed. I saw more sense in what Morning Star said and so aligned myself likewise. There were less of us, though. Many less. Most believed Metatron and clung to that hope.

  “Then, after an especially horrific fight between the two, when the sky cracked open and the air filled with insects—”

  “Coffee?” It was a different girl, squat and friendly-faced. James pushed his cup toward her without a thought.

  “No, I—oh, what the hell,” Ezra said. “Sure.”

  She filled both cups before quickly retreating. James saw her shrug as she reached the kitchen, where their previous waitress crouched, waiting for a report.

  “So as I was saying . . . after the, uh, after the fight, Morning Star sent word that everyone should gather at the tower, that there was something to tell all of us. What Morning Star was going to say, though, we never learned. As soon as Morning Star’s invitation went out, Metatron, along with some of his followers, bound and took Morning Star. They set out from there, a war party. We were . . . so unprepared for any of it. We were taken unawares. Only a very few of us were able to elude capture.

  “Metatron made a prison in the Sea, which I believe you’ve seen. Morning Star and the others were taken there and held. Morning Star was bound in a . . . a prison within the prison, a cell that fit only one . . . held firm by seven seals. Now, these are exactly what they sound like, nothing more. They are seven unbreakable seals, which can be opened only by the utterance of Morning Star’s true name. That was how Metatron was able to do the binding.”

  James felt the muscles in his arms twitch and tense, felt short hairs at the top of his spine prickle. “What do you mean, true name?”

  “The Creator gave Metatron and Morning Star true names. Names that only they knew. Names which they called each other by. None of us knew this, you understand. No one knew until after it was done. Metatron told us of the secret names and how the only ones who knew Morning Star’s true name were the Creator and himself. And, to ensure that he could never be bound in the same way, Metatron gave up his public name, taking the true name that the Creator had given him: Mikhael.

  “From that day forward, he was Mikhael. He returned to his tower, and those who dwelt at the base of the tower said that Mikhael could be heard praying and begging at all hours of each day. Mikhael’s tears turned to ice and his wails to fire, and he beat his fists, and deep fissures showed in the walls and windows of the tower. Mikhael exhorted the Creator to return, pleading the case that he’d been faithful, that he had bound Morning Star; but there was no response. Or, at least, for a very long time there was no response. After a very, very long time, the tower grew quiet. There were those who wondered if Mikhael had died, but the flame continued to burn in his tower, and the deep, wet sighs of his breath could be heard by any who came near to his sanctuary. Some of Mikhael’s followers were brave enough to approach the tower and call out, begging for Mikhael to come down, but he did nothing. He was silence.

  “Then, after a long, long time, Mikhael emerged from the tower. He was not the same Mikhael who went in. His eyes focused far off, like he couldn’t even see any of us. And he didn’t seem tortured by the rift with Morning Star or the Creator’s absence or anything. He was . . . serene.

  “Mikhael called to everyone to come and listen at the edge of the Sea, so that everyone—including those in the Pit—could truly listen. Then he told us what had happened.

  “He told us that the Creator had returned to him after his long wait in the tower. The Creator returned and said that Taloon had become wicked and weak and that It had created Its new world—your world, James—so that we may prove ourselves. That’s the only
reason your world even exists. The Creator designed this world solely as a test, and when we were truly ready, one would be born to this other world, and that one will come to Taloon and release Morning Star. The door between our two worlds will swing open, and the battle will be fought on Earth. If Mikhael and all of his followers defeat us, defeat the wicked masses, then the Creator will return.”

  “And if we defeat them?”

  Ezra smiled and sipped his coffee. “Then we’ll be free.”

  “So all this time, you’ve all just been waiting for . . .”

  “The One. Yes.”

  “And that’s me?”

  A nod.

  “And I’m supposed to go to Taloon and release Morning Star, and then . . .”

  “And then there will be war.”

  “What’ll happen to all of us?”

  “Us? Who’s us? You and me? Morning Star and Dink and the rest? The people of Earth?”

  “What’ll happen to Earth?”

  “I don’t know.”

  James was about to protest, but Ezra pushed through.

  “Truly, I don’t. The battle will happen here, and it will be massive. There will be . . . devastation, but beyond that . . . who knows? The humans will choose sides. I know that. But what part they’ll play—you’ll play—in the War, I can’t say. Maybe when it’s over, our worlds will merge. Maybe we’ll all come to dwell here and Taloon will just blow away. Maybe Taloon will become the paradise it was always meant to be.

  “All I really know is that you are the difference. You’re what we have that they don’t. You can release Morning Star. You can rally humans like no one else who’s ever lived. You can shape this world. What else you can do, there’s just no telling.”

  “But you know it’ll be terrible, right? I mean, it’s a war, so tons of people will die. That’s what you want me to do. You want me to start a war.”

  “No, James, that’s what’s going to happen. It’s not that I want you to do anything. This War is coming. Both of our worlds are begging for it. And, yes, people will die. But is that all that matters? Is that the only factor?” Ezra pushed his cup aside and leaned close to James. “Have you learned about World War II in school?”

  James nodded.

  “Then you know that war was an undeniably terrible thing, and you also know the world is undeniably a better place for it.” And then Ezra’s smile was serene, as though he were discussing nothing more taxing than a Sunday stroll. “This War must happen, James. The most that we can hope to do is shape it.”

  For an instant, James felt a mindless calm settle over him. He was nowhere and no one. His mind was empty, and he felt his purpose like an arrow that’d been shot by another and was in flight. It was a pure and serene feeling, though as soon as it came, it was gone.

  James went to the bathroom and peed, and when he came back, Ezra had paid the bill and was in the act of dropping a few dollars on the table.

  “How are you feeling?”

  James’s lips parted for a moment before meeting once again. How do you feel? How do you feel? “Tired.”

  Ezra smiled and placed a long, bony hand on James’s shoulder. “You’re quite amazing. I wonder how I would have responded to all of this if I were in your shoes. Not nearly so well, I think.”

  James took a sucker from the jar by the register and pushed his way through the glass double doors, with Ezra following.

  “Where are you off to?” Ezra asked.

  James responded immediately. “I gotta go to school.”

  Ezra plucked his antique bicycle from the wall and clucked his tongue. “This is something you really must learn, James. You don’t have to do anything. You are free. Think about that. Roll it around in your head. You. Are. Free. Today, instead of going to school, you could steal a car and drive to California. If you don’t do that, it’s because you’ve chosen not to. This is something people never seem to understand. And you need to understand it more than anyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re powerful, James. Being the Antichrist doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Ah, sorry. Just a shorthand. All I mean is that you don’t have to do things out of some sense of fear or duty. You have to grab hold of your life. You’re a god amongst men. Do you understand?”

  James pulled his own bike from the rack, thinking how far off Ezra was. If you could do anything, if you really were a god among men, you wouldn’t run off. You’d change the world around you, the people and places you already know, the ones you have to adjust to. Let them adjust to me. Try that for a while. “Okay, but I got a lot to think about, so I might as well just go. I mean, if you need a place to be left alone with your thoughts, where better than school?”

  The day continued on, though James barely noticed. He was in geometry, then history, the first-floor bathroom,38 the hallway, English. An uneasiness had him, but it was too large—full of too many disparate moving parts—for him to name. He had no previous sensation which quite compared. It was as if fear, excitement, anger, and sadness were being blended within him, screaming by, each in turn, overwhelming the weak and untested emotional defense of the teenage mind.

  Why me?

  He wondered at the new way people were looking at him, the ways he was becoming able to change that—and he replayed the story Ezra had told at breakfast, and he didn’t want to do what Ezra asked—or demanded—and yet he did—oh, god, how much he did! To be that man, to be great. Great!

  James was in class39 and that indefinable feeling40 was back and41 growing42. It was a sort of jittery-jacked-icky-all-over weight. Gross energy flowed from his heart like psychostatic electricity, and his mouth created extra saliva. He felt the urge to run, to burn off this excess.

  The bell to end the day was an alarm clock pulling James from a night of sleep. He gathered his stuff and walked out the back doors in the midst of a sea of kids. His feet carried him along at a pace to match everyone else’s. You are the One. You’re going to free Morning Star (how?) and gather people together (how?) and lead them (again, how?) and, and, and you’re going to fight to, to . . . It sounded ridiculous, even when he was saying it only in his head.

  The girl directly in front of James stopped hard, and before he knew what was happening, he walked up her heel and into her back.

  “Ow! What the hellllluh?” The girl whirled around like a fighting ballerina: one leg up, both hands out and ready, her face a mask of disgust and affront and thousands of years of Germanic and British genetics. James recognized her immediately: Gail Asbury.43 She recognized him, too, and it did not soften her reaction.

  And there was Nick. James had heard something about Nick and Jess breaking up and how Nick and Gail were hooking up now, but it’d been white noise and hadn’t actually sunk in until this very moment. Colin and LaMarcus stood off to one side, lazy smiles drawn on their faces. Their eyes said it all: Oh, good. Entertainment.

  “What’s your problem?” James had wondered recently if he could change the way Nick saw him as well. He’d kept meaning to try, but each time the opportunity arose, he chickened out. Now, with Nick pressing in on him, he knew it was too late. All he felt was fear. He saw Nick’s top lip pull back just slightly, like he was disgusted, like he’d just smelled something turning to pure rot, and he thought, No, that’s not right. It’s not just fear.

  Nick grabbed James’s shirt in two fistfuls, and James felt the crowd around them growing. “I said, what the fuck is your problem, retard?”

  “Get off me!” It happened before James had time to examine the action or its repercussions. Both hands came up and shot straight out. He felt his palms dig into Nick’s chest and drive him back, saw Nick’s arms reaching for purchase, saw how he would have fallen had Colin and LaMarcus not been there. For a second Nick’s eyes were wide and uncomprehending, and then they were animated by the wild fury of embarrassment. He took a step toward James but was corralled by LaMarcus.
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br />   “Fight in the courts!” Colin bellowed, steering Nick away.

  The crowd continued to swell, and a furious energy of shouts and jeers closed around James, propelling him. He walked to the courts in the wake of Nick and Gail and Colin, catching glimpses of Jess and Ileana and even Ken Lakatos. Nick looked back to make sure James was following, and what was actually happening finally hit him: he was going to fight Nick. Oh no, no, no! No, this was a mistake. Didn’t mean to push him, he—maybe I could just run. Seriously, right now. Just run. People will think you’re a—who gives a shit what people will think? They all hate you anyway. Not anymore. He’s gonna kick every scrap of your ass. Not anymore. You know he’s gonna kick your ass. Remember last summer, when he pinned your arms down with his knees and slapped you until your cheeks looked like strawberries? Yes. The Camel Clutch? Yes. Remember when he gave you that wedgie on the Fullers’ front lawn and he pulled it until you started crying? Yes. Remember hiding the underwear in the garbage and how it hurt to wipe for like a week?

  Yes.

  James didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew he wasn’t going to run. The crowd grew as word of the fight spread. The mass of students crossed the blacktop until they reached the tennis courts, where all after-school fights took place. Two courts, side by side, both missing their nets, and all of it surrounded by twelve-foot-high chain-link fence.

  Fights at the courts had a natural time limit. As soon as any concerned adult noticed the unnatural mob of adolescents, the police would not be far behind.44 Fights were fast and sloppy and usually ended without any real damage done to either party, outside of embarrassment if one failed to acquit oneself honorably. Then, whenever the cops or the teachers did arrive, the mob disbanded instantaneously. The courts had four exits and sat at the intersection of two streets (not to mention the blacktop back toward the school) and the tracks nearby. If you got caught, then it was really more because of poor cardio or a lack of will.