by Jesse Jordan
“Yes, that’s it.”
James nodded toward Selliphais. “So all we have to do is decide to be there and we’ll be there?”
“Mm-hm,” his fellow travelers said in unison.
“Okay.” James closed his eyes. He was pretty sure it wasn’t necessary, but he felt better doing so. “C’mon.” He pictured the short little building they called a tower, the pointy dark cave-looking thingy with the fire in its mouth, and he felt something not wholly unlike the sensation he’d experienced when he passed from his world to this one. It was less so, but it was definitely a sensation of atmosphere change, of transformation. Then James opened his eyes, and what he saw sucked the air from his lungs.
He stood at the edge of a suicide cliff, with Munk and Nack close behind. He’d visited the Grand Canyon once, when he was seven, and in his memory it was a transformative sight of endless depth. How could any thing be so much? He remembered looking down into the Canyon, feeling enormity that existed outside of himself. Now the feeling returned and was jacked up by the perversity of what lay before him. It couldn’t be called a gorge, because there was no other side. The cliff dropped off, maybe as deep as the Canyon, maybe deeper. Vertigo swam up inside James, and he took a step back from the edge; but his eyes never left the tower. It was . . . impossible. What James had taken for some squat building or cave was actually the top. The tower itself began thousands and thousands of feet down. It was, simply put, the tallest structure he’d ever seen, in life or dreams. It was obscene and powerful—terrifying in its immensity. It rose, blacker than any structure he’d ever seen, up and up and up, to two cruel pinnacles, like an iron crown, and between them burned the dim, red flame James had seen from the road.
James felt power; he felt he was in the presence of the impossible, of the magical and magnificent, and his silence in the face of that seemed, at that moment, like an affront, like space that demanded to be filled.
“Holy crap.”
Then he heard someone clear their throat.
James turned to see a small group forming. All around, as far as a couple hundred yards back from the cliff’s edge, the ground swelled into little points. It looked to James as if the land had been somehow formed into tents. From these, manlike beings were emerging. They walked toward James and his companions, slowly, unsure but gaining confidence as their numbers swelled.
They were so different from each other. That was what really struck James. Humans, for the most part, have such slight differences. Their colors basically range across beiges and browns, including only hints of other hues, while their heights and weights stick to a basic scale. The thinnest and fattest people on Earth did not have half the differences of some of the beings walking toward them now. There were men who were eight or nine feet tall, with skin that appeared scaled or armored. There were short things, round as balls, who moved without any legs that James could make out. A few could have easily passed for regular humans, while others appeared to be only distant cousins of humans, the way that apes are. Some were definitely male, a few female, others impossible to distinguish.
A tall, powerful-looking man stepped from the crowd. His dark brown eyes opened wide as his black hair blew over his shoulders. “Are you he?”
“He is,” Munk and Nack called back at once.
The man stepped closer, looking at James the way James had looked at Starry Night. James felt the tingling blush of being examined. He tried to meet the man’s eyes, but doing so only intensified the blush.
When the man had crept up to less than a foot from the three of them, still gazing into James’s face like a long-lost love, he whispered, “Are you really he? The War Bringer?”
“Yes,” James said. He could feel every set of eyes gazing at him, every ear straining to hear his words. If comic books had taught him anything, it was the importance of moments like this. “Yes,” he said, louder now. “I am James, the War Bringer. I came here because I am looking for Ezra, who you call Asmodis.”
But they were barely listening to that last bit. They were visibly giddy, bouncing from foot to foot like people waiting in line for a bathroom. Smiles turned faces and spread with whispers, and heads ducked back into domiciles, presumably to share the info with others hidden within.
The tall man seemed to swell before James. He held his hands out, as if to present an invisible gift, and said, “I am Gabrael. I am honored that you have appeared to us here first.”
“Well, actually,” Nack began.
Gabrael’s hand slashed the air and James’s companion was silent. “I’m sorry,” Gabrael said, addressing James. “One moment please.” He turned sharply, facing Munk and Nack. “Munk, it has been a long time. Many of us thought you long-since lost. It is a good omen that you have returned to us along with the War Bringer.”
“Really?” Munk said.
“Hm,” Nack added, before turning to Munk. “I always sort of assumed . . .”
“Yes, me too. But it does seem familiar . . .”
“Uri!” Gabrael shouted. “Remi!”
Two masses detached from the crowd and made their way over. Uri was a squat being whose arms hung so far forward that it seemed as if he might be more comfortable on all fours, and his face had the pinched triangular shape of a jackal’s, while Remi looked like George Mikan. “Take hold of the enemy spy, if you will.”
Almost as soon as the words were out, they were upon Nack. They grasped an arm and a leg apiece and held him, dangling only a few inches above the ground. Then they began to walk backward slowly, like movers negotiating a thin hallway.
“Now,” Gabrael said, turning back to James, “we will feast and rejoice, and then you may watch us drill. If I may say so myself, we are very, very good at drilling. We have been at it for a very long time. And tomorrow you shall descend to the tower so that you may—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on,” James said. “Stop.”
But Uri and Remi continued to creep away, with Nack in tow.
“You two, there—stop!”
Uri and Remi froze, along with Munk and Gabrael and the entirety of the crowd and the mountains in the distance.
James let out a deep breath, and the mountains began once more to roll and the crowd resumed buzzing, though the tone had shifted. A note of fear rang in the new chord.
“Let him go.”
Uri and Remi looked from their prisoner to James and then to Gabrael.
Gabrael cleared his throat and tried to force a smile, an unquestioned leader unused to politics. “Uh, I’m sorry; this, uh . . . You must understand, he is an enemy of all. He is a spy for the adversary.”
“I don’t care. He’s my friend.”
“If you would only—”
“Let. Him. Go.”
This time the two holding Nack released him without checking with Gabrael, whose eyes flashed with indignant rage before he was able to film them over. He motioned away with his head and Uri and Remi appeared only too happy to retreat into the crowd. Nack, on the other hand, was enjoying his moment all alone. A big, chocolate-cake smile spread over his face as he puffed out his chest and looked over the crowd. It was impossible to miss the pride pouring out of him.
Gabrael looked down, each hand working the other as if in a fight. “War Bringer, if you would—”
“My name is James, and I’m not interested in feasts or dancing or anything else. I need to find Ezra, and I’m thinking I’m gonna need to talk to Mikhael to do that. I’m also thinking that Mikhael is in that big ugly tower right there, so if it’s all the same to you, me and my friends are gonna get going. Okay?”
James realized Gabrael’s joy at meeting him had lasted all of one minute. The eyes that looked at him now were full of outrage and disappointment and reproach. James wondered if this was what it was like when people met their idols and found out they were assholes.
“Very well,” Gabrael said, without separating his jaws.
“Now, is there anything you need me to do? Or do you, like, need
to tell anyone that I’m coming?”
Gabrael extended his arm like a host directing a party to their table. His gaze was angry and petty, and James could tell someone was going to pay for the way this had gone. He had a feeling it would be Uri and Remi. James looked back to where Gabrael was directing him, down, down, down to the bottom of the tower, where, he assumed, he’d find the front door.
“No need,” Gabrael said. “He’s expecting you.”
James, Munk, and Nack stood at the base of the tower. They craned their necks to look up, but it was so tall even that wouldn’t do, so they wrenched their spines backward as well, looking uuuuuuuup to the top, where the edifice seemed to disappear into the sky. The only evidence that it really ended was the dull red glow. And there, before them, a small door stood open, displaying only darkness.
James turned to his companions. “I guess—”
“Yes,” Nack said, “we should probably wait here.”
“Yes,” Munk said, “definitely.”
“Metatron does not see ones such as us.”
“Uh-uh.”
James wanted to hug them. He felt he should thank them and say good-bye, but the idea of another good-bye created a deep sucking space in his chest, and instead he said, “Don’t leave, okay?” There was a jab of shame, the realization of what a child he sounded like just then, but he didn’t care. “Wait for me.”
“Of course,” Munk said, and his smile added that it had been unnecessary to ask.
“Of course we’ll be here.”
“Right here.”
“Okay,” James said. “I’ll be back.”
James crossed to the tower quickly, afraid that if he slowed or gave it any thought he would stop, rush back to Munk and Nack and try to find some alternative to what he knew he had to do. And then he was there, at the door, breath like a paddleball off his shallow lungs, and still he could see nothing of the darkness within. It wasn’t even that dark; it was more like standing amidst fog at night, the small traces of light diffused by the air itself. James looked back, and when they saw him, Munk and Nack smiled and waved. James turned to the door and stepped through.
The atmosphere was different inside. It looked and acted like fog but felt as dry as old sand. James swiped his hand through the air, but there was no reaction. Nothing was altered; the only movement was his.
And then he was falling. Or at least it felt like he was falling: the sensation of dropping, his guts bumping against the ceiling, and that ticklish tingle under the balls—but by the time he girded himself, it was over. Again he was still. But now light lay over everything, and he could see he was in a small and bare circular room. James saw an open window off to his right and stumbled to it, his mind momentarily offline as his senses held caucus behind the scenes. His popped ears, his groin, the calculations of his brain all reported the same thing: he dropped. Why then did his eyes claim that out the window he could see the gigantic, whole-sky Moon, the rolling hills in the distance, and the camp of Gabrael and his followers? Some still stood about, and he noticed a few hands raised, fingers pointing up at him as he gazed out the window. He backed away, into the center of the room, and the ache in his belly screeched. The Pull, the Pull, back to the Pit, it was there all the time, reminding, cajoling. There were things to do here. He could feel that, could feel Taloon wrapping itself around him like a blanket. And when he tried to push back, Taloon seemed to drop away for an instant and his old life filled his mind. The smell of Dorian, the pen in his hand, diving into the pond at night, Dorian’s room, Dorian gone . . . Ezra.
James saw a hallway to his left. He eased over to it, wary of the window as if there were snipers outside. Then he was into the hallway, and the light from outside melted behind him. The hallway was dim but not dark. It looked, in fact, to be illuminated by hanging torches, like a castle, but all James could see was the flickering warm light itself; no source.
He thought at first that there was another doorway at the end of the hall, but as he approached, he saw that it wasn’t a doorway at all. It appeared to James like a blank, black screen. It was a perfect circle and only a bit smaller than James. It looked like a mirror someone had painted black. Except—no—there was no black like that. It was blacker than anything he’d ever seen. It was an absence of light so powerful that it implied depth, as if you could fall into it.
Then a voice came from the circle. It was high-pitched and nasally but soft and full of sly humor. James felt his insides swirl and lock; had he lived a thousand years in the belly of a sarlacc, he would never mistake it for a moment: Mom.
“We are Bahamut.”
The perversion of her voice—that voice which had cooed over sick-bed honey tea and called him down to dinner—in this thing, it created a physiological rebellion. He thought for a moment that he would retch, but all that came up was anger. “Don’t.”
“We thought it would be pleasant to hear a voice from your world.”
“Then pick another.”
“Very well. Is this preferable?” Bahamut said, and it was a moment before James was able to place the voice: Barack Obama.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I’m here to see Mikhael.”
“Who are you?’
“I’m . . . James.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“Who are you?”
“I told you; I’m James. James Salley. I’m the War Bringer.”
“You are James Lovie Salley in another world. We know this. Here you are called the War Bringer, though you have not yet brought War. These are just words. In another world, you would be called something else. That is not the answer. Who are you?”
“I’m the One.”
“Do you wish to hear Barack Obama laugh?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Who are you?”
For a moment James considered asking it to switch back to his mother’s voice. He wanted to tell her what was happening. Maybe she’d know what to tell this thing. But that would just be a lie, too, he thought, feeling his exhaustion ride this frustration back in. His eyes went hot and full.
“I don’t know.”
“Come closer,” the thing called Bahamut said. “Let us see.”
The thought occurred to James that he could turn and run, down the hallway and back down the tower—somehow—and then out to Munk and Nack. But the very act of thinking it illustrated the impossibility. The way was burned. The only exit was through. For the first time he felt the freedom only the truly desperate ever know, and he took two steps toward Bahamut, toward that darkness, pure and deep.
“Who am I?”
“Place your hands on us,” it said, “and we shall find out together.”
James stepped forward and felt a rush of terror—What if I’m rotten? What if I’m the Nothing?—but then his hands touched the mirror and he felt his feet pulled from the ground. It was as if the surface of the mirror became a liquid, a whirlpool pulling him in and down, until he could feel that he was gone, wholly within the thing called Bahamut, floating in nothing.
I’m falling, again. And then I . . . I slip out of myself. I picture edamame slipping out of its shell, and I laugh, because this can’t be possible: I’m so free. Nothing holds me—but when I look down I see myself . . . falling—I see myself walking through my life, hiding from Nick, running away. I see my drawings and the shameful ones I tear up into tiny pieces and throw out in multiple trash cans so they can’t be pieced together. I see me running away and hiding. This isn’t me. It is, but it isn’t. I’m outside of myself, seeing myself as a separate thing, a being, a human child who creates his own world in ways that make sense only to him. I watch as I kiss Dorian, but I don’t feel the slightest rise in my cheeks. That’s something someone else would feel. I’m just thought now—and the fear is gone! I’m free . . . no, not free.
There’s the Pull, s
tronger than anything, and I’m moving away, leaving myself just as I discover Dorian gone, watching myself racing away on my bike, and then that me is gone, and I’m flying—but not—no, not flying, just being. I am mobile thought, hovering over Taloon, above the tower where I fell into Bahamut. Then I’m moving again, a cosmic rocket across the sky, and there’s the sea—the Pit!—and I’m gone, up and circling the Moon, but there’s nothing else, no space, nothing, like the unfinished edge of a painting. A tug in my belly—but you don’t have a belly anymore. I laugh, descending at Mach 3, down, down to where I first appeared in this world—but instead of hitting the ground there’s the sensation of passing through the surface of water and I’m still going, but now it’s up and up from the roof of the ChocoMalt factory, and I look back to see Stone Grove turn into Illinois and landscapes become lines and shapes. I scream. I have no mouth, no lungs, but I scream—my very I screams, “What’s happening?”
Bahamut’s voice, the soothing layering of multiple Barack Obamas, replies, “We are riding the rail which cannot be seen.”
Up! I reach the edge of space. Blue and black melt together—and then I’m speeding down once more, aflame like a craft on reentry, and just as impact should evaporate or wake me, I am elsewhere. Where? I can’t say. Another realm?
“Another plane,” Bahamut whispers.
The ground is flat and lined, colors hopping—and I realize it’s a chessboard, but then I’ve zipped into a tree and I come out in a quiet clearing in the woods, and all around are small pools. They’re larger than puddles but smaller than ponds, and one screams to me and I dive into it, and then I feel as if I’m hanging from the ceiling, alive somehow in an upside-down world, and there before me are women. Beautiful women made of light, gowns like milk and smoke procreated, dancing, swaying, on what I’m pretty sure are clouds—but I’ve let go, dropped straight through the clouds and come out once again in the void, floating in the nothing.
All around me then, a dazzling carnival light explosion, and different planes begin to cycle by, each different. I see one world made wholly of fire, but then a section of flame turns to me, and I realize it can see me and all the fire is not the fire I know at all.