This is Not the End

by Jesse Jordan

  James looked back over his shoulder. All of them glanced from James to the sarcophagus and back again. All except Dink. His eyes never left James’s, and in them James saw imploring. What does he want me to do?

  He wants you to open it! He wants freedom! He wants the War! He said so!

  That’s not what that look feels like.

  James returned his gaze to the sarcophagus. It was massive, maybe a foot or two taller than Mikhael, and covered in what looked to James like a stone version of alligator or snake skin. There was a lock set dead center on what would be the head: a rectangular plate with a tiny, perfect black circle in the middle. There was another lock at what would be the ankles and, between the two, five others evenly spaced up the center of the sarcophagus.

  James took a final step, standing so close to the monstrous prison that he could feel the life within, the same way you can feel a person through their clothes. Its breath was in the air; its pulse sounded against his skin.

  Say the name. It’s your destiny. It’s who you are.

  Wait, wait. What was that look from Dink? What does he want you to do?

  No, right now you need to say the na—

  No! Wait! What was it Dink wanted you to do? Remember.

  I don’t remember.

  Remember.

  I don’t remember!

  Remember!

  Stop!

  I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t . . .

  Just say the name.

  I want—

  Say the name—

  I want . . .

  And then the chamber was alive with sound. It was a moment before James recognized it: “Habanera.” From Carmen. Her voice.

  Mikhael and Ezra spun on their heels, looking up and around.

  “What is . . . ?”

  “Why is there this . . . ?”

  Munk and Nack, ever amenable, shrugged, clasped hands, and began to dance. Dink, James saw with only a moment’s glance, wore the beginnings of a smile.

  And in that instant the thought which James had long been trying to access was revealed—all at once, in its entirety, like a magician tearing aside the curtain—and James felt a momentary rush of foolishness for not seeing it sooner. But that emotion was gone almost as soon as it came, overtaken by the weight of what it meant. His knees went loose, and a cold rock filled up his belly.

  I missed it. That was it, and I missed it. With Dorian and Mom and Dad.

  The last time already happened.

  Unbidden and unstoppable, tears rushed from him. He did not cry out or sob, but the tears did run down his cheeks in healthy rivers.

  Munk and Nack stopped dancing.

  “James?” Munk said.

  “Are you alright?” Nack said.

  James cleared his throat and drew a shirtsleeve across his face, smearing his tears over to his ear and neck.

  “I don’t like it down here,” James said.

  Mikhael and Ezra both opened their mouths to protest.

  James said, “Let’s go.”

  And so they were gone.

  Or rather, they were somewhere else. For a moment, they were sure they were back on Earth—but only for a moment. There was no mistaking the Great Field, magnificent as it was in tall, green grass and bursts of primary-color flowers.

  James stood, as he had in the chamber, only a foot or so from the sarcophagus, and all around him stood the armies of Metatron and Morning Star. The freed army of Morning Star stood behind the sarcophagus, hundreds of thousands—maybe millions deep. James turned and saw Mikhael’s army, even more massive and numbered, disappearing over the hills in the distance. The armies buzzed; questions, directionless movements, confusion built into the burbling whoosh of a river. What happened? and Where are we? Why are we here? morphed as the word spread back: The War Bringer, Morning Star—here, now.

  James saw Astoreth and tiny, tiny Molok at the head of one army, looking at first confused, both at their new location and at the return of their comrades. But that was gone almost as soon as it was born. Each had caught sight of the sarcophagus; each had eyes only for it.

  On the other side of James was his little troupe of explorers from the Pit and, behind them, Gabrael and Uri and Raffi and a mass of creatures too wild and disparate to comprehend. James found himself especially drawn to one who looked to him sort of like a blue elephant walking upright—This is it. This is life now.

  James turned toward Selliphais, and as he did the tower appeared in the distance, rising and rising, until it filled a corner of the sky. Then the sky itself near the tower began to change. A star of impossible brilliance blinked into existence, and its yellow light melted into the rest of the sky, and blues and yellows swirled and swirled, and James smiled, in spite of the pain. He was fully there and nowhere else, and in that instant he was at peace, or at least resigned.

  And then they were all back, alive in his mind: Dorian and Mom and Dad and even Ken Lakatos and Jess and Nick and the smell of the ChocoMalt factory and swimming in Haley Pond, the mud between his toes, and James closed his eyes and touched two fingers to his lips, feeling the kiss again, ripping open because he would never feel it again. Dying inside as all the residents of Taloon looked on. They watched as the young man with his eyes closed was borne upwards, the very ground on which he stood swelling up, carrying him as a gentle wave would, until he was above them all.

  Then James opened his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice came from the sky above and the ground below; it was carried by the grass and the stones and the wind.

  “The connection between this world and mine . . . is closed.”

  And as it was said, so it was. The denizens of Taloon could feel the truth of the words as soon as they were spoken. The sky grew denser, the air filled with a buffet of new smells, and even the ground became more corporeal. In the distance, at the Great Field of Dreaming, the heads of dreamers began to pop up here and there, their faces awash in the sour looks of those rudely awakened from a rich nap.

  “They will have no more to do with you, and you will have no more to do with them.”

  “The War must happen in your world!” Mikhael called up to James. “The Creato—”

  But when James looked down to him, Mikhael found that he could speak no more. His hands went to his mouth, then his throat, scrambling and massaging, but they could squeeze out no sound.

  “We’ll do all that later.” James looked out to the gathering once more. “Believe me, you’re all gonna wanna talk to Mikhael later.”

  James let the ground descend slowly, until he was once more standing before the sarcophagus. He remembered the terror he’d felt so recently, standing here—even just dreaming of standing here—and he felt that it was a different person altogether. Then James leaned close, so that his lips were almost brushing the lock set into the belly, and whispered the name.

  “Jennifer.”

  The seven locks released with a sound like soda cans opening. They fell away as James stepped back, and then the sarcophagus split straight down the middle, and from the millennia-old prison stepped Morning Star, Jennifer.

  She was beautiful and terrifying at once. The force of grace and violence emanating from her so overwhelmed James that it was a moment before he recognized her face—Eliza.

  He wanted to say something to her, to explain. It was obvious that she was bewildered, having had thousands of years to prepare for battle and only a few moments to prepare herself for whatever this was. She was still assessing; that much was obvious. The pent-up rage seeped out, and now she seemed mostly confused. Her mouth twisted at the corner, as if to say, This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.

  “Stop it!” Ezra stomped toward him. “Stop it! Stop it! Stopit!” Then Ezra was at him. “Undo all of this right now!” he shouted, all of his composure having abandoned him.

  James’s mind reached out, rearranging Ezra as he railed, so that the librarian of George Washington High School grew into an obese cocker spaniel—“Open the conne
ction between the worlds, James!”—before morphing into a screaming carrot—“I’m warning you!”—and then a small, rabbit-eared, 1980s, black-and-white television set, the image of his howling visage crackling—“You cannot do this, boy!”—and then an inflated, purple, Violet Beauregarde version of himself—“I swear it. Look at me. If you do this, I will make you suffer. I will find a way, James. You know me. I will find a way there, and I will get them. I will get them all!”—and then it wasn’t funny anymore, and he was just Ezra again. “That little girl. Your mother and your father, James. I will get to all of them. I will create new tortures—things never dreamed of. I will. Look at me. Believe me. This doesn’t have to happen like this. You can still have it all, James.” The composure was back. The old eyes, doing their best to shed the hard-cold of a moment before; back to warmth, back to reassuring. Back to a friend. “Please, James. You can have everything.”

  James watched those eyes change, watched them work their subtle magic, and then he stepped into the space between himself and Ezra.

  “Nobody gets everything.” And with that, James let his gaze fall on the sarcophagus.

  Ezra began to shout, “N—”

  But he was already gone. The sarcophagus was shut tight once more. James went to it and leaned in close. He whispered a word into the locks, which sealed themselves with seven small pops. Whatever word it was that James said, no one would ever know. James himself would never say.

  And in the next moment, Ezra was gone. As was the sarcophagus, vanished back to its icy rest under the sea.

  James turned and walked away from all of them, to a clearing between the two armies, twenty feet or so from where Jennifer now stood, regal and beautiful and confused. James stared at her, and for a moment he reprimanded himself for how poorly he’d drawn her; but that didn’t matter. He was beyond that now. The limitations of his hands, of his words, the boxes and restrictions and books: all gone. James smiled at her. He nodded, and she returned the gesture as a stiff imitation.

  He wondered if this severing of their worlds was permanent. Would it die with him? Would he die? Would he age here? Would there be another War Bringer?

  The thought brought with it a wind of freedom. I am nothing.

  Let there be another War Bringer. Let them do whatever they want. I’ll hold it closed for as long as I can.

  For an instant James saw all of them, back there, living, and he smiled, thinking that Ezra was right. He did feel like a god.

  Time to pray.

  James sat down, landing gently in the throne which had not been there the instant before. He peered out at the gathered masses, standing around like actors who’ve forgotten their lines.

  “Okay,” James said, and as he did the very ground behind him rose, weaving itself into the walls of his castle. “Whatta you wanna do now?”

  Acknowledgments

  This novel has been a long undertaking, and along the way I’ve received invaluable support and help from so many people, a great number who aren’t even aware of the aid they gave. There are too many of you to name and so many of the moments were gone before they could be catalogued, but those moments of inspiration were lent, and for what it’s worth, I’m thankful.

  A huge thank-you, of course, to my agent, Alex Slater. I feel insanely lucky to have found someone who’s so passionate about the work, and I’m looking forward to the long, messy road ahead.

  To Emily Steele: editing is always a little scary, but working with you has been both instructive and gentle, and this book is a finer machine because of your hand in it.

  Thank you to those of you who read the book during its earlier stages—your advice and questions and ideas were monumental—especially Geoff Hyatt, Jeanne Jordan, Richelle Jordan, Adam Motin, and Rob Duffer.

  Thank you to Gina Frangello and Joe Meno, who’ve been friends and mentors time and again, and to Mark Davidov, who told me the old story of Mr. Chicken and Mr. Rooster years ago, while sharing a drink in George’s Cocktail Lounge. I miss those evenings.

  For the support and encouragement, Mom, Dad, Graham, and Lela: you’re always there; don’t ever think it’s not appreciated.

  And finally, thank you, Ricki, for the million invisible things, and Ben and Charlie, for being you.

  Bio

  Jesse Jordan received his MFA at Columbia College. This Is Not the End is his second novel. His first, Gospel Hollow, was released in 2012. He lives in Chicago.