Through the Windshield Glass

by Kristen Day

  "Au contraire, you know so little about this place. You can, in fact, die again. I would do nothing to hurt you, but there is no telling what they might do behind my back."

  I felt like slapping Michael across the face. He had lured me here, convinced me I'd be safe, then told me if I wasn't careful he'd look the other way while his people tore me apart.

  "Your little ideas had better be very convincing," I hissed at Michael.

  "I am sure they will be if you allow yourself to listen, but first, my people have some questions for you."

  "I didn't promise to answer any questions, I have too many of my own that need answering."

  "The only way they will answer yours is if you answer theirs, please, do it for Leigh?" Michael added the last bit in quiet plea to me. I pursed my lips as I realized the authority he was pretending to exercise over me was all a ruse to get the group to look to him as a leader. He was no better than Kinga.

  It was low to use Leigh as leverage against me, but I couldn't say no, especially knowing how much that little girl craved the information that was shared in these grown-up meetings.

  I nodded my consent and turned to the waiting crowd with open arms, "Ask me anything."

  "How did you die?" Max asked. Her words were a challenge; I felt she was daring me to have a more exciting death than she.

  "I was killed in a car crash," I replied. I hoped that would be enough to satiate the question but it was obvious from the quiet response I got to my answer that I would have to divulge much more than what had sufficed for Daman.

  I launched into the whole torturous tale. When Leigh had left I'd taken Maria's hand; when I got to the part about her suicide, even though I omitted her name, I felt her twitch. It made me wonder for the first time whether or not she was actually beginning to understand words instead of just over exaggerated actions.

  "And then I ended up in my hallway, and eventually made it here," I finished.

  Maxine nodded; obviously she was still deciding whether or not my death was as grand as hers.

  "You have to tell us about your experience in the hall sweetheart, all of us divulged, now it's your turn," it was Avery speaking this time.

  I glanced at Michael who shrugged apologetically for Avery's harshness.

  I rolled my eyes, shook my head and looked back over the small congregation. After a heavy sigh　I told my story, not excluding any names this time. The shock in the room was palpable as the connection between Daman and Alecsander was made. When I had finished the room was completely silent, then one brave soul asked a question that stopped my breathing. The man who asked was taller than Michael by a at least three inches, but half as wide, skinnier than I had thought was possible for a man to be.

  "You say you were in love with Daman, the same man who calls himself Alecsander now, how do we know you aren't some spy for him?"

  "Luther, how could you even ask that? Daman nearly took her with him, the very fact that she is here and didn't choose to go with him is a testament of her loyalty to us!" Michael shouted.

  "It's a valid point!" Max returned. She was standing now, I had not noticed until then how tall she really was, but she towered over Michael and her glare alone was enough to make me want to flinch away into a dark corner.

  "Valid as it might be," Michael said assertively, "It is irrelevant."

  A new voice joined the argument. The voice quavered and dripped like glue, as if the speaker was tasting every word before spitting it out, and rather savoring the venom and betrayal in them, "How do we know you are not just protecting your brother's spy?"

  A collective gasp filled the silence following the accusation. Michael looked taken aback and gaped aimlessly for a minute before he was able to recover and speak again.

  "My brother?" Michael finally asked.

  The owner of the voice stood, it was an elderly man. Rail thin, and extremely tall. If he hadn't already been dead I wouldn't have expected him to last much longer.

  "Do not pretend ignorance," the man spoke slowly and deliberately. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared coolly in our direction, "anyone who has seen the two of you next to each other cannot argue against the obvious similarities."

  "I'm sorry," Michael said, "I don't believe we've met."

  "You may call me Gregor, how do you do?"

  Michael was able to hide his extreme confusion well, "Fine, thank you. Do you mind explaining what you mean?"

  Gregor rolled his eyes, "You know exactly what I am implying; however, for the benefit of the oblivious, I will explain myself."

  The oblivious looked half angry and half confused at Gregor's words. He seemed to relish the torn interests and took his time gathering his thoughts before he spoke again. He made me think of the stooped old man Gaston paid to take Belle’s father away in Beauty and the Beast.

  "Perhaps it would be easier if I started at the beginning."

  "That's usually a very good place to start," Michael said without humor.

  "No, my boy. The very beginning of everything, the beginning of this place, at least as far as we know. Does that agree with you?" Gregor's tone was condescending, and although Michael was much younger, it was obvious he wasn't used to being talked down to.

  "Be my guest," Michael said with a wave of his hand. He was doing a wonderful job of keeping his composure, "I'm sure we would have gotten around to telling the story sooner or later today. Might as well come from someone so well acquainted with the history."

  Gregor ignored Michael's slight at his age. He sidled his way out of the chair he had been sitting in and asked permission to stand before the gathered people.

  Michael gestured for him to do as he pleased then helped Maria and me find a chair.

  Gregor looked down his nose at all of us, his hands still clasped in front of him. His eyes were gray and large, reminding me of an owl. A particularly hungry owl searching for its next meal and we were all his unsuspecting prey.

  "As most of you know," Gregor began, "we aren't completely sure of when this place began. But as far as we have gathered, it has been around since the first death, and will continue until the last person gets tired of living."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  History only tells of one king of Beyond. He has gone by many names; however, none have really been personal. Those closest to him called him father or brother, while most of his subjects just called him King, reverently though, always reverently, and always lovingly.

  No one ever questioned why he ruled; there was no reason to. He was fairer than any man on earth, he knew each of his subjects personally, and when he took his frequent walks around the kingdom, his wife on his right, he would greet each face with a name. He laughed more joyfully than what seemed possible, there was no way to describe his looks. His face constantly changed; always handsome, always merry, but always different.

  The only thing imperfect about the perfect King was his lack of an heir. Even the dullest inhabitant of Beyond knew that a king should have an heir, immortal or not, so they gently pressed their beloved ruler to find his successor should the unthinkable happen.

  Of course, it was impossible for the kingdom to have an heir by birthright, so the search began, and the search ended. There was no one fit for the position, it seemed and the notion of an heir was to be forgotten. The people rationalized it was probably for the best, the earth stories of monarchy were riddled with stories of sons murdering fathers and brothers for the throne and the temptation of the greatest kingdom ever established along with immortality would be too great for someone less than extraordinary.

  Years passed, the kingdom grew, but never to capacity. More and more people were beginning to wonder what lay beyond Beyond. So, rather than allow his people to find their own ways out, the King had a door put in place, all one had to do was walk through and leave. For days the queue stretched more than a mile as curious folks who had been here too long began to say their goodbyes and leave.

  Although the kingdom had begun t
o shrink, the King was not worried for he knew more would always be coming. Besides he knew the door was better than the alternative way out. He didn't want anymore of his people to go through what others before them had. You see, to leave before the door was constructed was nearly impossible. One could not simply kill his or herself to be excused from this life, they either had to be forcibly removed, or simply give up entirely.

  This was a horrific process, completely solitary. Only the most desperate attempted this method. It entailed not eating, barely breathing, and in essence losing his or herself within their mind. The person would be driven near insanity before they would simply wither and be blown away with the next breeze.

  It is widely seen as a stroke of pure genius on the King’s part for having the door built. No one knows for sure how it was done, but it’s timing was perfect. The mass exodus of some of the people made room for the biggest rise in population Beyond had yet to see. On earth, it was called the Civil War.

  Thousands upon thousands of men arrived every day, some women and children, mostly slaves, began arriving as well. They all told stories of their attempts to escape the southern war through the underground railroad before they were either shot or died of starvation and cold. When they were asked who had led them on their way, a name was whispered with such reverence as to make the King himself want to bow his head. Jenny Sumner.

  Each slave and even some of the soldiers were pressed for information on who this Jenny was, but no one seemed to know anything beyond the fact that she was tall, hard, and the bravest woman any of them had ever beheld.

  There was one interesting bit of information gleaned from a tiny girl who had quietly talked to a kind handsome soldier; Jenny Sumner had a price on her head.

  The people knew it would only be a matter of time before she arrived. She would not survive long with a reward like that encouraging her murder. The people were right of course, within a few months, Jenny Sumner was among our number.

  She would not speak to anyone, save for the people she had known previously. She would give away no details of her life or how it had come to an end, nor would she answer to Jenny. The same little girl informed the kingdom about the price on her head revealed that Jenny was only Jenny when her master called her. Since she hadn’t had a master for a very long time, it was unlikely that his given name for her would suffice as a proper address.

  However, Miss Sumner was also unwilling to give any other name by which she might be called.

  Eventually, the Civil War became old news; people came and went, some bringing news of new advancements in the war and finally its end. On that day, it was impossible to stop the celebrations that erupted among the fallen soldiers.

  Even enemies joined in the festivities and enjoyed the company of people they had once been trying to kill. The raucous event even drew out the King who could never pass up a good party, especially one as boisterous and happy as this.

  He brought the queen with him, showing her beauty off to each soldier and asking him if they’d had a special girl at home. Some blushed and answered quietly, while others puffed out their chests and proudly answered in the affirmative, some even searched their coats for old photographs.

  The King was more than happy to pass his time talking with anyone who came to him. Though he had never met any of the newcomers personally, he knew each of their names and made a show of impressing the partygoers.

  “I know all of your names,” the King announced, “save for one. I believe she was called Jenny Sumner, but does not wish to answer to that any longer. Miss Sumner, if you are here would you kindly step forward and inform this lovely crowd of your name?”

  A few moments of silence met the King’s words before a tall, graceful, beautiful woman stepped forward from the crowd. The little girl who had first given the woman a name was clinging to her hand.

  “My mother called me Jamila,” the woman said.

  The gathered people gasped. At once her words were respectful to the King, while at the same time　haughty with indignation at being called forward and made to follow another man’s orders.

  “Jamila,” the King said thoughtfully. He gracefully ignored the glimmer of hate that flashed in Jamila’s eyes when he did not apologize for his actions, “it means beautiful, does it not?”

  In the words of those present, Jamila’s set jaw parted and slackened like an avalanche of snow falling from a mountain.

  “It-- it does,” Jamila said, “how could you possibly know that?”

  The King stepped toward her and rested a hand on her shoulder; he looked down into her face, right down into her eyes. No one could contradict the King when he did that, his eyes walked right into a person’s soul, sat down, and made themselves at home; no conscience could withstand the King's stare. Just by looking at a person he could know everything about them, but he preferred to ask and be told.

  “One does not become king of a place like this without knowing these things. It would be shameful if I did not know what your name meant.”

  If possible, Jamila’s jaw dropped open even farther. She gaped, looking for words, but her haughtiness and quick tongue had been silenced by respect and gentle speech, something she had never known from a man like the King.

  The King smiled and lifted his head to look at the crowd of people waiting for something to happen, “I believe I have found my heir!” The King announced.

  A roar of approval rose from the people. To the people Jamila had tried to save, she was already royalty. The widely known title would be the only difference to them.

  Of course, there were people who were angered by the announcement. The King had taken no time deciding, he had chosen someone who had very nearly challenged his authority, and she was a woman. None of the most adamant supporters of finding the King an heir had been women, nor had they suspected he would choose one as his successor. Some of them had even fantasized about being chosen themselves when the King tired of living.

  One in particular was quite certain he would be chosen as the next ruler of Beyond. He had many supporters vying for him, nearly a third of the population, but the King saw something in that man that frightened him. He looked the other direction and chose someone he knew he could trust with the wellbeing of his kingdom should something horrific happen to him or his beloved wife.

  The man was called Leif, and as soon as Jamila was made heir, he vanished.

  King, queen, and princess ruled Beyond better than ever before. Jamila’s ideas and abrasiveness were a valuable asset, no one could argue with her for long without realizing how wrong they were, nor could anyone dispute that she was fair in all her dealings. She called the King father, and the queen mother, or even Alice.

  Years passed pleasantly. Then the signs of another great war began to manifest themselves. People of all nationalities flooded Beyond. There was none of the friendliness the Civil War soldiers had shown to each other. These men were cold, if you weren't with them, you were the enemy and should be dealt with accordingly. There were dirty slang terms for each of the enemy armies and it seemed like there would be no end to the rivalries, bitterness, and vulgarities.

  Jamila went to the King and proposed he make an announcement to the newcomers. Either treat each other with respect and quietly hate each other, or leave. For the first time, the King reprimanded her and would not execute her ideas. He told her he could not force people to get along, nor could he threaten them with unhappiness if they failed to comply. No one knew what lay behind the door, it was a risk just to step through it and he would not force someone to make a decision that could lead to something worse than a few arguments.

  For days Jamila sat　by the door located in the palace courtyard, watching the line of people advance through it. Some were crying and saying tearful goodbyes, while others　stood stoically and alone. Not one of the new soldiers went through; instead, a few watched and jeered at those attempting to leave. They yelled names at the people who would not look their way and laughed at the cri
ers. Jamila could almost accept that, until she saw the little girl who had held her hand when the King had asked for her name.

  She had chosen to age slightly with the passing of years and now stood nearly as tall as Jamila, but not quite as beautiful. She held the hand of a man, one of the soldiers who had arrived around the same time. Jamila knew of the romance between the two, it was a tale unrivaled by any made up story that would not have been possible if they hadn't both been killed. Jamila also knew the two had recently decided to leave Beyond together in the hope that there would be something more for them behind the door.

  The soldiers watching the door jeered louder than ever before, some wolf-whistled while others mocked, in various languages.

  "I guess not much has changed since the Civil War boys," a loud brutish officer yelled to his fellows, "The good lookin' white men is still havin' their way with them negroes."

  The words made Jamila sick to her stomach and more angry than she had ever been in her life. If those soldiers only knew a white man had had his way with that girl.

  "Have you any idea what that woman went through to get here?" Jamila questioned the men. She was taller than most of them, but her angry eyes made up for any height she lacked with the rest, "She did not die fighting someone else's war, she did not choose to leave home and join up with some army for the glory and the promise of admirers when she returned home. She was taken from her mother, held in slavery from the time she was weaned, and died with me when our escape was thwarted. One of your men did have his way with her, she would have survived had he not been so entitled to what he thought was his property. However, unlike you, she has not held a grudge against an entire race and has found love where the only thing you have found is your foot in your mouth!"

  The men had quite forgotten that their princess was within earshot of their snickering and mutterings. Each looked ashamed in his own way, not one could meet Jamila's eyes any longer.