Holding my breath, I brace my body against the inside of the door and pull the slider toward me. At first, it doesn’t budge, and I fear it’s rusted shut. How long have I been down here? Is it over? Has the world been destroyed and condemned to eternal darkness? I channel my panic into the lock, pulling as hard as I can.
Just as my darkest thoughts start vying to take over my mind, I feel the slider budge. A little. Then a little more. Until it too screams in protest as it slides free of its hold.
The door isn’t rusted like the locks were, and it comes open more easily than I would have expected. Before I know it, I find myself in a heap on the floor. Outside the room. My hands go to the sides of the doorframe, and I pull myself up on shaky legs.
The glee I felt after escaping the hand restraints was nothing compared with this feeling.
But the darkness—so absolute it makes me feel blind—is eerie.
Pausing to assess my situation, I use my other senses. The wall beyond the door is cement cinder blocks, just like the walls in my cell. I trace the grooves between the blocks in a straight line ahead of me as I shuffle forward. The air out here isn’t much different than it was inside my room—another indication that I haven’t escaped much of anything quite yet.
Each small step I take forward brings me closer to the certainty that Nathair will find me. That Mara will appear out of nowhere. That I will be trapped once more. But I’m not caught yet, and that thought is enough to keep me moving.
My foot abruptly connects with something, and I stumble forward before landing hard on a staircase. It feels bare beneath my hands, the wood splintered in places. Lucky for me, it leads upward, not deeper into the darkness. On hands and knees, I climb slowly, making a tremendous amount of noise. Each step creaks under my weight, and I get tangled in my dress more than once. It’s harder than you might think to crawl up the stairs in a long dress in total darkness. Dignity and grace are definitely not my companions, but at least I’m moving forward. Toward what, I don’t know, but it has to be better than going back into that dark prison, right?
Thankfully, the staircase is closed in on both sides by cinderblock walls, so it’s not possible to topple off the edge. Using my hands to guide me, I make my way up the stairs until I can go no further. Another door.
I slowly pull myself up and brush off my no doubt filthy dress. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for what’s to come. I’ve tried not to think of it, but there’s a very real possibility that this door may be locked.
My hand hits the door hard, making a thump as I reach out for a doorknob. I’ve never felt such a compulsion to swear. But swearing is for humans and Fates who’ve spent too much time on Earth. I smile, thinking of my dear friend, Penn, take a deep breath, and slowly feel for the doorknob. My fingers crawl across the surface until I find a lever—long, slender, and cold. Wrapping my hand tightly around it, I hold on for dear life.
I bring my other hand up to the doorframe and brace myself as I push the lever down slowly, waiting to feel resistance that never comes. This door must be newer than the one downstairs; it doesn’t make a sound as I push it all the way down. All that’s left to do is push it open and seize my freedom. Or so I hope.
With agonizing care, I push the door open, and the light that streams through the tiniest little slit I’ve made in the doorway blinds me.
Five
Penn
There’s movement. It takes a Herculean effort, but I raise my head in an attempt to process what’s happening around me. The Reapers are dispersing. Horatia and Galenia are pulling at me, forcing me into movement. I let them, and we slip out the door before a wave of Reapers descends on us.
We walk back toward Michaela’s quarters in silence. It follows us inside, hanging heavy in the air, making our movements slow and my thoughts slower.
I’m afraid to break the silence. She’s gone. If I say it out loud, it’s like I accept it. And I don’t.
I’m not sure why, but my panic is more absolute now than when I lost Kismet. Part of it is that Michaela is a heavenly being, so she should be immortal, infallible. Death is an integral part of human life, but not of ours. I shouldn’t have to worry about losing her; she’s an absolute. And yet, she’s gone.
At the same time, I know there’s more to it. Michaela has grown more important to me than I realized.
Horatia is our go-getter. Surely, she will have a plan. But she’s disturbingly quiet. It’s Galenia who finally breaks the silence.
“What can we do?” The despair in her voice makes something inside of me snap.
“We know who’s responsible for this…for everything that’s gone wrong lately. I say we find her and put an end to her interference. Now.”
They aren’t following me. “Who?” they ask in unison, bewildered expressions on their faces.
“Mara,” I shout, giving voice to the unspoken fear we’re all harboring. Someone may overhear me, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’m done hiding. “The human.”
Galenia lets out a gasp. “How can you be sure?” she asks.
“Come on, Galenia. She’s the one who captured the surprises in the prison of lost souls. Andrew identified her by name. Michaela goes to collect the latest surprise and disappears herself? It’s not that much of a leap to conclude that Mara has her.”
“No.” It’s barely a whisper, but there’s a look of pure terror on Horatia’s face.
I’m not sorry for speaking uncomfortable truths, but I am sorry for scaring her.
Clasping Horatia’s hands in mine, I say, “This is not the time to despair. We need to take action.” Her expression doesn’t change, and I fear I’ve lost her, if only for this moment.
“All we’ve done is take action, Penn, and look where it’s gotten us.”
Galenia is at my side in an instant, and she adds her hands to mine. “Penn is right, Ratia.” She reaches up and gently wipes her sister’s tears away with her thumbs. “There is no place for despair here. Only devotion.”
Horatia takes a deep breath, and my relief is immense as I watch her despair harden into resolve. In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen her crack like that before.
“So, what do we do?”
“I need to get into the weaving room,” I say.
The two Archangels who stand in front of the weaving room door look intimidating, but we have no choice except to face them. When the damage to the tapestry was discovered, Archangels were stationed outside at all times. Although it hasn’t stopped the threads from being cut, it has strengthened the resolve of the guards. Getting past them won’t be easy. But, the night is waning, and Michaela might not have much time left.
We have no plan for dealing with the guards. We just boldly march up to them. I’m at a loss for what to say, but Galenia comes to the rescue.
“This Keeper has come to see the tapestry for his records. He needs to chronicle the damage.”
“Why didn’t he come during the day?” one of the Archangels asks. Ever the stereotypical angel, he’s huge and blond. He and his equally enormous partner are standing wingtip to wingtip, blocking the whole door.
“The Keepers asked me to come now so I won’t be underfoot while the Weaver works.”
The angels look skeptical, so I press my case. “They suggested I bring the two senior Fates to supervise.”
The angel on the right eyes me carefully. “You seem very familiar, Keeper. Have we met before?”
I shift my weight, resisting the urge to face him head on. If he keeps looking at me, there’s a good chance he’ll identify me. Given my status, it would be his right to eliminate me on the spot.
I start wishing we’d thought this through a little more.
“Please,” Horatia says, “we’re very behind, and we’d like to get started a little early this morning if possible. The quicker this Keeper gets in and out, the better off we’ll all be.”
To my relief, the angel shifts his attention to her.
Both
of the guards sigh. “Fine,” the suspicious one says, “but if another thread is cut while you’re in there, we’ll know who to blame.”
The threat gives me goose bumps.
“Believe me. If we see him cutting threads, we’ll let you take care of him,” Horatia says, clapping a hand on the angel’s shoulder as we walk by.
I stifle a snort at the gesture and clear my throat, hiding my face behind the hood of my Keeper’s uniform.
Galenia shuts the door behind us, and I hope it will offer enough privacy. But she still speaks in a whisper as we cross the room together and come to a stop in front of the tapestry of life.
“What now?”
Rather than answer her, I head straight to the tapestry, edging so close my nose almost touches it. I remember spinning Mara’s thread not so long ago. The order for her was simple: Highly intelligent but morally wayward. I’ll never forget that. How do you spin such a soul? But I did my best, and, inevitably, her thread turned out grey.
I start at the edge of the tapestry and work my way back toward Kismet’s sparkling pink thread. It would’ve been before Kismet, but not too much before her. Eventually, I find Nysa’s frayed thread, and there’s my clue—Mara’s intersects with it not long before the cut.
“There you are, you little devil.” The sight of the thread fills me with a sense of dread. I wove it gray. I know that like I know my own name, but it has turned as black as the night. I trace it up the tapestry until it fades to the gray I created. In all my years as a Spinner, I’ve never seen anything like it.
“What happened to her?” Galenia asks.
“I don’t know. And I don’t need to know. We just need to find her.”
I start at the end.
Six
Michaela
Blinking in the light, I look around, waiting impatiently for my eyes to adjust, relying on my other senses to inform me of danger. But it’s strangely silent.
The door opened to a hallway painted yellow. It’s so warm and welcoming it’s hard to believe it’s connected to my prison. I choose to go left, toward what I can only assume is the back of the building.
Pictures line the walls of the hallway. Mara is in some of them, but a small boy is in all of them. He is young, only about six years old in the most recent picture, but based on how Mara looks in the photos, they’re all at least two years old. The human had lines around her eyes when I saw her at the gates of heaven, but in these photos, she does not. Both mother and son look happy, and Mara is even smiling in one or two of them. But she’s also watching the boy like a hawk, as if she’s waiting for something to doom him, as if she’s ready to stop it. The confidence behind her fierce gaze is puzzling. Most humans know they can’t hold back their future, whatever it may hold. But if I’ve learned one thing about our adversary, it’s that she can’t be described by the word normal.
Like the memories I share with the souls I lead through the mists to the heavens, these images are telling me a story. Of days at the beach, the park, Christmases, birthdays, Halloweens, time with friends, time alone, and everything in between. Despite the circumstances, they make me smile. At one time, this was a happy family, however small it was. As I think about the hateful woman who stood before me at the gates of heaven, I can’t help but wonder what happened to Mara.
A beeping sound interrupts my train of thought and stops me in my tracks. It’s both steady and unobtrusive. But the way it drones on reminds me of a hospital.
I follow the sound to a door in the hallway. It’s nothing special. Probably a bedroom or something on the other side.
My hand hovers over the doorknob as I look left and right down the hallway. I’m still alone. But am I inviting discovery by going inside? Shouldn’t I focus on leaving? But whether it’s a mistake or not, something about the beeping draws me to the room. I lower my hand onto the handle, gently push it down, and go inside.
A little boy lies on a bed along the far wall. He’s unmistakably an older version of the child in those photographs. His eyes are closed and a heart monitor beeps steadily at his side. The room clearly belongs to him. It’s painted blue with the Millennium Falcon emblazoned on the far wall. The dresser in the corner is topped with a television and the latest gaming console. But it’s dusty, as if it hasn’t been touched in a while. A window lets dappled sunlight in next to a large bookshelf, overflowing with books on every subject. He has The Boxcar Children, Origami Yoda, Percy Jackson, and Harry Potter. I smile at his collection as I walk around the room.
Finally, I turn to face the bed. I jump, startled, bringing my hand to my chest. There’s a plush armchair in the far corner of the room, directly next to the bed. And the boy is sitting in it, or at least a reflection of him. He isn’t a ghost. He’s not silvery enough for that. He’s like an opaque copy of himself. Realization hits me like a freight train. It’s his soul—not quite a ghost, but not at home either.
I’ve never seen a soul trapped this way. Either they’re ghosts on Earth or they’re in transit to their final homes. But this…it makes my breath catch in my throat. It’s wrong on so many levels. How long has he been like this? And how much longer can he last this way? Indefinitely? Hours? I can’t decide for sure which option is worse.
The boy in the chair gives me a sad smile from under brown hair that’s gotten long enough to cover his eyes. He tosses it back with a shake of his head and waves at me. But when he brings his hand up, I notice something thin attached to it. Following it with my eyes, I trace it all the way back to his body. I walk around the bed, my eyes glued to the shimmering thread, and the closer I get, the clearer it becomes.
Kneeling down in front of the boy, I study the surprises’ threads. They’re the ones Mara stole from the tapestry. Spotting Kismet’s sparkler isn’t hard. It’s right there, braided in with the rest. The rope—if you can call it that—is crude and frayed, but it’s doing its job. It’s keeping him here.
“I’m Shiloh,” the boy’s soul says to me. It startles me out of my trance, and I look up at him.
“Hi, Shiloh. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Michaela.”
Mara’s cryptic words echo in my mind. Everything will be okay, for my son Shiloh. You’re going to help me save him.
The pieces fall into place as I put it all together. Mara is stealing threads to save her son. He was probably meant to die a while ago, judging by the look of his soul.
The weight of it pushes me down onto the bed, and I sit facing this little boy’s soul.
“I’m surprised to see you here. Reapers don’t come here, except Nathair of course, but he didn’t come to take me home.”
His frankness startles me almost as much as the fact that he knows what I am. “Home? Isn’t this your home?” I ask, trying to avoid the elephant in the room.
“Well, no. Mom is keeping me here. I got sick a couple of years ago, but she figured out how to keep me here.” He shrugs quickly, and the second-nature gesture reminds me of his youth and innocence. “I don’t blame her. We had so much fun before I got sick. When Dad died, I think it was kinda hard on my mom. I was little, so I don’t really remember it. But she worked hard to make sure I had a happy life. And I did. We went everywhere together.” He smiles as he looks at a picture of the two of them on the nightstand. She has her arms around him, and they are both smiling. The wind is blowing her hair off to the side, and it’s rather remarkable to see their happiness captured so perfectly.
“I don’t understand why so many bad things have happened to her. Why is she being left behind?”
He looks up at me with huge blue eyes that demand answers, but I have nothing. So I tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”
He sighs heavily. “I didn’t think you would.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, and I ponder what to do. I can’t take him with me. He’s tied to his body, and besides, the mists refused to come to me in this place. But I can hardly leave him here. He doesn’t belong. He was supposed to die long ago, and he knows it. He’s ou
t of place. In limbo. How could a mother do this to her own child? She obviously knows about our world, the mechanics of it at least. She must know he’s meant to go home. It is not a gift to keep him here this way.
After a time, he interrupts my thoughts. “She’s not all bad. You know that, right?” There’s a pleading note in his voice, as if I might have some role in deciding her fate. He seems to have a greater understanding of the ramifications of his mother’s actions than she does.
I don’t answer. I used to think I knew. What she did to Lily, to all those other souls, is unforgivable. But maybe he’s right; maybe her love for him means she’s not all bad. She doesn’t seem like that happy, loving mother in the hallway pictures anymore, but is that person still in there somewhere? Buried deep inside?
“She’s not strong enough to deal with another loss. With me going home.” His voice catches, and I reach out for his hand on impulse before pulling it back. I can’t take him anywhere, and I’m afraid if I make contact, I’ll doom him to being a ghost. But this little boy knows he’s stronger than his own mother, that she needs him more than he needs her, and the weight of that is breaking my heart. All I can do is sit back and listen to him.
“I wish she would let me go,” he whispers. “Is that horrible of me? Wanting to leave my own mother behind?”
If possible, the tiny pieces of my broken heart break even more for him. I kneel down on the floor in front of him, barely resisting the urge to put my hands on his knees. Looking up at him, I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes. This poor boy. He started it all, without even knowing it.
“No, my sweet boy. That doesn’t make you horrible. It makes you…well, human. You don’t belong here. You know it. I know it. It’s just taking your mom a little longer to figure that out.”
“She’s lost so much already.” He says it so quietly that I almost don’t hear him.
“Yes, she has,” I say, thinking of her very soul and the things she’s sacrificed for her chosen path. She’s lost more than he knows.
The Children of Wisdom Trilogy Page 34