Keefe opened his eyes and smiled a tired but triumphant smile. “Perhaps it’s your acolyte,” he said. “Perhaps she knows this is one army she cannot fight.”
He looked at me, his gaze stinging my heart like a scorpion. I didn't know if the pain was my guilt over the growing doubt in my heart, or if my soul saw some dark truth in those eyes that it hadn't known before.
“I think it's safe for us to leave tonight,” Father Callahan said, rising to his feet. “We will come again next week. Contact us if you need us sooner than that.”
I also rose, said my goodbyes to Mr Keefe, and exited the room after Father Callahan.
When we emerged onto the street, the charcoal-gray clouds above pelted us with needles of rain. I drew my coat tighter around my neck.
“Poor man,” Father Callahan said. “I don’t know how he can take all the misery that has come along in his lifetime.”
“What do you mean?”
Father Callahan gestured towards the elegant house with a sad expression. “He may live in opulence, but he has lost much. His wife died in childbirth. He had to raise their child by himself. It’s a miracle that he managed to make such a name for himself, with all the difficulties he went through. And then, when she disappeared...”
“Who?”
“His daughter. I don’t know how a man could have survived such a loss, and remained sane. People said unspeakable things, insinuated the most awful...” His voice trailed off in pained compassion. “I know the memories torment him, but when he’s in his darkest hour, and the forces of evil ravage him, it’s his love for Virginia that sustains him.”
“Virginia?”
Virginia. Ginger.
“His daughter. Gone without a trace. It’s a tragedy.” Father Callahan paused, and opened his umbrella, sheltering us from the wrath of the rain. “So, tell me, Marion, was this what you expected?”
Revelation flushed over me. Though what came out of my mouth was partially a lie, it was also the deepest truth.
“No, Father, it was not what I expected.”
“Will you return with me to see Mr Keefe again, and continue to fight this evil?”
Thoughts whirling in my head, I managed to nod. “Yes, I will continue to fight.”
And I would.
Only I did not know any longer what was evil, and what was not.
Illustration by Pierre Smit
“Six Feet Above”
GOD OF LIGHT
by Domyelle Rhyse
Ilkyia watched the starship arc upward, a brilliant star in the pre-dawn sky. She was fascinated by the ships of the dead, despite being only six years old. Three-year-old Reyna tugged at her hand, curious about everything but the ship above them. Their parents huddled protectively around them, keeping them close. Even though sparks of brilliant fire lit the entire city, Ilkyia imagined she knew exactly which one held her older sister.
"Daddy! There goes Misa!"
"Yes." His rough, quiet voice carried over the thunder of the launch.
He and Mother stared at the ground, grief deepening the crevices of their work-worn faces. Ilkyia didn't understand why they weren't happy that Misa had been chosen to be a Guide. She would take the dead under her care to the God of Light, Earth, and Death; she would open His gates for them and lead them into His realm. Misa would help the dead find peace.
"I want to be a Guide when I grow up!"
A low, choking sound of pain escaped her mother, and Ilkyia’s father pulled her into his leg, his hand trembling against her. "Don't say such things."
Rough-hewn and strong, her father was a tall man despite the years of factory work that curved his shoulders. She had never seen him cry before.
"Daddy?"
He knelt and caressed her chestnut curls. "Yes, Ilkyia?"
She pressed her tiny palms against his damp cheeks and kissed him. "Don't be sad."
He wrapped his arms around her. "Don't ever want to be a Guide, Ilkyia. We love you too much."
The priests said the Guides had to remain with the God of Light in payment for taking their dead into His realm. If they did not stay, the God would reject the dead and leave them to wander in the chaos between the physical world and the Realm of the Dead for eternity. She missed Misa - her quiet voice explaining how to care for the baby, her gentle hands showing how to roll dough for their evening meal. Ilkyia used to wake at night and listen for Misa's soft laughter as she spoke to her soon-to-be husband. She always found it hard to get back to sleep when she didn't hear it. For a long time, she’d had to remind herself that Misa had been given a special place of honor and would greet them when they too were taken skyward. It had all made sense to her as a child.
It did not make sense to her now.
Ilkyia blinked the memories away with her tears as another ship disappeared above her. Since Misa's death, she had learned what it really meant to be a Guide. She had met the friends her parents never knew Misa had - the few who had survived the last ten years. They had shown her the truth and how the Guides were a waste of lives.
The door behind her opened, its soft sigh sending a chill down her back. She turned away from the window to the bone-thin figure in a floor-length, pale silver-gray robe.
"It is time to purify." The voice sounded male, but Ilkyia couldn't tell with the cowl drawn up, hiding the figure's face. It...he held out a bleached white garment.
"What if I don't?" She crossed her arms and tried to still the tremble of her fear. She reminded herself that she would be out of here soon and with Dariel again. Others had escaped before her; they would help her escape now.
"Then Reyna shall go in your place." Neither threat nor anger tarnished the voice; it just stated the same fact that had brought Ilkyia here in the first place.
She took the garment.
"Follow me, please."
As she followed him down the slick, silver-walled hallway, Ilkyia wondered why he would say please. The night before her sister had left to become a Guide, Ilkyia had been awakened by Misa's voice, sharp with anger. She had huddled in the shadows and listened as Misa told their parents that she would be a Guide to save her sisters from the same fate. And now Ilkyia shadowed her sister's footsteps to save Reyna. A breath of air against her neck made her shiver, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders even though the corridor didn't feel cold.
They entered a small chamber of redwood paneling with a bath full of steaming water at its center.
"You will bathe and place your clothes here." He pointed to a receptacle built into an indented section of the smooth walls. "You will dress in the white robe, then press this to inform us that you are ready." He indicated a smooth, black button near the door. "Do you understand?"
"Yes."
He left. She stripped, scattering her clothes, filthy from days of hiding before she was caught, on the beige carpet, and slipped into the hot water. For a brief moment, she imagined the heat came from the pale gold tiles etched with suns that rimmed the tub. Drawing in a breath, she shook the thought away and sank into the steam.
As she relaxed in the water, she caught a sweet scent—a faint perfume or incense. She started to take a deeper breath to try to identify it, but stopped herself.
"You will want to breathe in the perfume rising from the water," Dariel had warned, the ex-priest behind him nodding, "but don't. It will muddle your thinking."
Leaning out of the tub, she found the small bit of soap she had hidden in her shirt. She used it to wash in a nervous rush, eyes locked on the door. The priests didn't search their "chosen", but no one knew if they watched as the Guides bathed. When no one came to take the flake of clean soap from her, she took a tiny bit of theirs, tainted with the sweet smell of the drug they used, and rinsed it down the drain before drying off.
The white gown draped to the floor, puddling at her feet. The sleeves were too long, falling almost four inches below her fingertips. "Figures these idiots would decide one size fits all."
She smashed the butto
n and waited, pacing until the door opened. She couldn't tell if the cowled figure who entered was the same one who had served as her first escort or not.
"This way, please." The voice was softer, possibly even feminine. Ilkyia decided this one had to be a woman.
She followed the woman through more sleek hallways so uniform in size and color that she was lost within a few turns. Not that it mattered. There was no escape from the sanctuary itself. Only the halls leading from the ship bay could return her to Dariel's arms. Until then, she was alone. Even if she could escape earlier, Reyna would only be safe if the priests believed Ilkyia was on the ship when it burned in the sun.
A sharp pang of fear stabbed through her and tangled her feet. She let the long skirt slip from her fingers and gathered it again slowly, as if she were in the grip of the drugged fragrance instead of stumbling on her own frightened thoughts. The priestess waited, quiet and unmoving, until Ilkyia nodded, before continuing down the hallway. Ilkyia drew in a shuddering breath. She had to succeed.
The priestess led her into the Holy of Holies, the High Sanctuary where only the priests and the Guides ever stepped. Ilkyia stopped and stared, her fear overwhelmed by awe.
The Sanctuary was the biggest and tallest building in the city, with a spike that rose over a hundred stories into the heavens. Never had Ilkyia imagined that the spike was the Sanctuary or that the Holy of Holies would have a ceiling equal to the height of the spike. The room was a large circle, big enough to fit her entire house, maybe even her neighbor's house too. Golden carpet covered the floor, and windows at least three men tall sparkled with the early morning sunlight. Priests in robes of saffron, silver, and gold knelt with their foreheads touching the floor. A soft, wordless chant echoed around the room, as if dozens of spirits attempted to reach the living with their whispered voices.
Against the back wall, a platform of redwood rose from the carpet. She swallowed hard. Half a dozen young people in white gowns swayed in front of the platform, heads bowed before the Son of the God of Light. He stood over them, his ceremonial robes of gold and cream and saffron caressing the floor as he intoned soft prayers of blessing. A table rested behind him, draped in a golden yellow cloth with cream fringe that touched the floor. In the center was a golden cup with golden candlesticks on either side, each bearing three lit, cream-colored candles.
"The cup is the danger."
Had she really heard Dariel's voice? She couldn't have. He was far from here, waiting for her. The mix of incense and scented candles pressed against her, spinning her fear in her head and making her dizzy.
Her escort paused and turned towards her.
"Sorry." Her fear swirled down into her stomach as she finally stepped into the room.
"A common reaction. Please join the others at the altar."
Ilkyia hoped her escort would go and join the priests kneeling in their faith, but the woman waited, head tilted toward her. Sighing, Ilkyia walked towards the platform, pausing slightly between each step to slow her approach. As large as the room was, however, she stood in front of the high priest far too soon.
"Kneel, chosen children of the God." The Son's voice was young and deep despite the lines of time carved into his face and the silver in his long hair.
Ilkyia knelt and glanced sidewise at her companions, her gaze drawn to their eyes. Hollow and black with only a narrow ring of color, they were empty of life, of fear. None of them were familiar to her. Perhaps the priests didn't choose only dissidents to be their Guides. Pulling in a breath, she lowered her head and watched the others from the corner of her eye. She needed to do as they did, to be as they were without becoming one of them.
The ceremony dragged, with very little required of the Guides. Ilkyia kept her eyes half closed, hiding the truth of them under shadowed lids, and tuned out the high priest's voice. Acolytes helped the Guides through what he did ask of them. She touched her forehead to the floor when commanded, raised her head to receive the oil of consecration on her brow, whispered a broken "Praise to the God of Light" when it was needed. When the acolytes came forward and twined chains of yellow crystal suns into her hair, she swayed with every tug and pull of her head.
Near the end, one of the Guides looked around in a daze, as if he wasn't sure how he got here. Another started crying, but Ilkyia couldn't tell if it was from religious fervor or fear.
The Son stepped up to the boy on the end furthest from Ilkyia and held out the goblet from the altar. "Take a sip, my child, and feel the God's blessing."
The boy's hands trembled as he took the cup. He drank and soon his face became slack once more. Each in turn was bidden to drink and each quieted. No more looking around, no more tears. She wrapped both hands around the smooth, chilled bowl, spinning it a little to avoid where others had brought it to their lips, and tilted the cup as if to take a drink, but she didn't let a drop of the clear liquid touch her. The same faint fragrance from her bath rose like an elusive perfume. As she lowered the cup, she let the weight of it drag her hands down and loosened her grip. Only the quick hands of an acolyte prevented the cup from falling to the floor.
The Son intoned one more blessing, exhorting the God to accept these Guides as his most favored companions and to listen to their pleas when they led the dead to His gates.
"Come forward, Guardians. Your Guides await the peace of their last night among us."
A light touch gently helped Ilkyia to her feet and turned her towards the door she had entered through. She stumbled on the hem of the robe and her escort took a small bit of the fabric and placed it in her hand, lifting the hem just enough to keep her from tripping over it as she shuffled along.
Her Guardian left her in a room with a single window that faced the sunset instead of the sunrise. A small, hard cot under the window took up all but a narrow strip of the silver carpeted floor. An open doorway revealed the entirety of an equally tiny bathroom.
Ilkyia slouched on the bed, unmoving, feigning a drug-induced stupor and trying to ignore her queasy stomach until the sunset started to fade. Stumbling into the bathroom, she splashed herself with cold water and sipped from the faucet. After squeezing past the sink to relieve herself, she sat back down, not sure how she should behave. She wondered if the others knew what was happening to them, if the fear had made their stomachs as unsettled as her own. She tried to remember Dariel's face, but her mind remained dark. Even the memory of his caress eluded her. The edge of the cot bit into her hands, and she shivered with the fear she dared not show in any other way.
Soft lights illuminated the room as the last of the sunlight slipped away. The door opened and a robed figure carrying a tray of food entered and set it down on the end of the bed.
"Eat."
Ilkyia picked up the chunk of bread, and took a bite. The coarse, sour lump curled her tongue, but she managed to hold it in her mouth. As soon as she heard the door close, she spat it out on her hand.
"Don't eat whatever they bring you."
Grateful she remembered something of Dariel, even if only his voice, she picked up the tray and dumped small portions of the meal down the toilet. The former priest with her friends had warned that no one ever finished the whole meal. She took the tray back to the bed and played with the remaining food, wiping her mouth with the napkins to make everything look used. Finally, she picked up a piece of the bread and slumped back against the wall.
She didn't know how long she lay there before someone came in and took the bread from her. Gentle hands laid her back on her bed, straightened her gown and smoothed her hair. From beneath the lashes of her eyes, she watched the priest take the tray from the room. She took deep, gulping breaths, trying to still the panic in her heart, the shiver in her bones.
"You must be still, as if asleep. We'll save you. Promise."
Dariel's voice soothed her fears and released her memories from their prison. Ilkyia imagined his arms around her again, imagined his strength flowing through her. The beat of her heart slowed, her body relaxed.
Sighing softly, she curled herself into the memory of him. She wouldn't betray herself.
The door opened again. Stronger hands lifted her from the cot and placed her on a soft surface. A faint sweet scent, too familiar to be pleasant, reached her nose and she tried not to breathe too deeply. Her arms and legs were straightened out, her gown drawn down to cover her feet and hands. The pallet rose, and the priests carried her through long corridors that she glimpsed from under her lashes.
The soft music of the Hymn of the Dead, the words sung by hundreds of voices, echoed from ahead of them, and Ilkyia resisted the urge to grip the sides of the bier. Her parents and Reyna would be singing through their tears, as they had done for Misa. To have a child chosen to be a Guide was supposed to be a great honor, but rarely was a family ever deprived of two children. She wanted to tell them everything would be okay, that she would not be like Misa. She would be free.
The bier lowered and the same strong hands placed her in the indented space that was saved for the Guide on the star-shaped ships. The familiar sweet smell wafted up from the cushion, reminding her to keep her breathing shallow. The Guides would remain asleep while the ships flew into the sun. Everything was completely automated: the temperature, the drug pumped through the air, even the flight itself. Though the Guides died, there was no guilt since they felt no pain and never knew their lives were ending.
Something soft brushed her face; the attendants were sprinkling her body with the flower petals the priests claimed gave the Guides peace on their journey, petals heavily laced with the same sweet, nauseating scent. She held her breath, taking small sips of air only when she needed it.
The door closed over her, exhaling as it locked into place. She swallowed and reminded herself to wait. There was an escape, but she mustn’t be seen. She had to wait until the bay was clear.
Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One Page 34