I look at her, and I'm glad she's here with us. I feel safe and protected by her. As if evil can't conquer us when she's in our corner.
And she says, without turning away from the window, “ . . . dere is evil out dere, much stronger dan me, child . . . ”
But her words are lost on me as I fade. My eyes close and the picture I see is of a face. Kristen's face. I miss her so bad it hurts. This is the part of love that they don't advertise. The pain of separation. I feel kind of like what I imagine a drug junkie must experience when he can't get his fix. I can still feel her lips on mine as I fade off into the darkness.
And we're flying.
Thursday morning, 1:06 am . . .
I'm startled awake by the announcement that we're landing in Atlanta in the next few minutes. Strangely, I don't feel cold. Usually, after a trip across to the Deadside, I shiver for hours on end. But oddly, I feel quite warm. Hot, even.
Ricky is on a computer, on the Internet, looking-up maps of Damascus, Syria. He looks over at me as I shuffle and yawn. “Might as well go back to sleep, St. Jack. We're going to refuel, get your papers, and haul ass to Madrid.” And then he turns back to his keyboard.
I glance over at Ms. Josephine, who seems to be staring at me through her half-open eyes. I wave to her, but she doesn't respond.
“She's asleep,” Ricky says, without looking back. I'm so predictable that he knows I'm waving at her without actually seeing me do it.
That's kind of spooky, I tell him. Sleeping with your eyes open. How is that even possible?
He shrugs. I shrug. He types. I close my eyes, again.
I'm really tired. This destiny stuff will wear a guy out.
Thursday mid-morning, 10:46 am . . .
“Hola! We're in Spain!” Ricky celebrates as he shakes me awake. He hands me a large envelope with tons of papers in it. I look at it, confused.
“Customs,” he tells me, “ . . . they'll usually do an inspection, ask you some questions and stuff. Just be polite and don't mention anything about opening a doorway to Heaven, or saving the world. That might significantly delay our take-off.”
Ms. Josephine, she's the real kind of awake now, shuffling through her large purse of curiosities. I cross my fingers that she didn't bring anything creepy, and literally that second she smiles to herself, looks up at me, and then back into her bottomless purse.
Thursday afternoon, 2:39 pm . . .
Since we left Madrid, the three of us have been discussing the location of this hidden doorway in Damascus. We'll be landing in the next few minutes and there's a nervous energy swelling between us.
Ricky's got several pages of maps printed out, thumbing through them as he talks. “The part of the city that we're going to is very old. From what you've said, we're going to be on the northern wall of the Muslim quarter.”
“What,” I asked as I chewed a bite of chicken breast, “does that mean?”
“Da old city,” Ms. Josephine said as she pointed to a printed page, “ . . . it's broken into four sections. Quarters. Christian and Muslim quarters are on top, and da Armenian and Jewish quarters are below. Where you describe the door, it's between the north-eastern edge of da Christian quarter and da northern edge of da Muslim quarter.”
I've read about the Muslims and the Christians. I wondered, don't they hate each other to death? Seems like a religious powder-keg. Looking at the map, I'm curious how these rival religious groups have somehow managed to exist in such close proximity, since the beginning of recorded history, when the rest of the world is blowing itself up?
What do these Syrians know that everybody else doesn't?
“Tolerance,” Ricky said with a sigh. “They understand the need for religious and spiritual tolerance.” That Ricky, every now and then, he'll surprise you.
“Along da northern wall,” Ms. Josephine said almost reverently, “ . . . da doorway to da other side must reside. Somewhere between Herod's Gate and the Damascus Gate. But I don't know 'ow close we can get.”
We both turned to Ricky. He scratched his head, looking at maps of Damascus from every direction. “I pulled it up on Google Maps, but you only get an overhead, so it doesn't help us, really. There's a road that runs parallel. Sultan Suleiman. It's not too far from our hotel.”
He did some figuring, a lot of squinting, some teeth grinding, and said, “We might be able to get close enough, in a private vehicle, to see it with binoculars. But remember . . . this is still a dangerous place.”
“Especially for Americans,” Ms. Josephine warned.
I'm not just an American, I told them. I'm a reincarnated saint. I'm going to save all of our waiting souls.
And both Ricky and Ms. Josephine look at me, about the same way a maniac holding a machine gun to my head would if I tried to explain that.
“Yeah,” Ricky mused, “ . . . you tell al Qaeda that, see what kind of response you get. They'll have your ass on Al Jazeera, denouncing democracy while some guys in masks salivate behind you.”
Ms. Josephine mentioned something about some bodyguards. Ricky nodded, “Yeah, I've got two Syrian military dudes that are going to be our private chauffeurs for the next couple of days.”
Then he turns to me, “How long is this saving the world thing going to take?”
I glance at the book, itself an individual on our team. I look over the pages of maps, at Ms. Josephine, and back to Ricky. Whether or not I should be, I'm confident.
I tell them, “All I have to do is open an invisible door, or whatever . . . not too difficult. The book is the key. I use the key and that's that.” I shrugged. “Easy day.”
“Tings ain't never as simple as dey seem,” Ms. Josephine said eerily. She could read a recipe for pecan pie and make it sound spooky.
Maybe, I propose to them, we've already done all of the heavy lifting. We found the book. We translated it. I met the spooks. I met the ghost. I crossed over to the Land of Sorrows—several times, in fact. We chatted with the Deadsiders. They told us what has to happen. Now we just open the door.
That didn't seem to ease their tension.
Ricky glanced at his watch, “We'll be on the ground soon. Let's gather up all of our stuff and get ready to save the world.” And he says it like we're just stopping off at a friend's house to help him clean out a garage.
As we were getting our things together, finishing off a glass of Dr. Pepper, he nudges me, “Hey, you know the difference between a friend and a real friend?”
No, I shrug.
Friends help you move.
Real friends help you move dead bodies.
I don't know, but I'm fairly certain that Ricky and Ms. Josephine are real friends.
Chapter 63
Damascus International Airport, Syria.
Thursday afternoon, 4:12 pm . . .
When we made our final approach to Damascus International Airport, I was just overwhelmed by it all. Buildings as far as the eye can see. It's like this oasis in the middle of the desert. It looks surreal when compared to the pictures we had printed off of the Internet. We're about 20 miles east of the city.
The Old City, where we're going, is a rough oblong shape spanning 1,640 yards long, and 1,100 yards wide. It is defined by its historic walls—the northeastern section of which the doorway is silently residing.
I wonder if the people who live there have any idea what is right under their noses?
The long axis of this Old City runs east and west. Ricky told me that the city was designed in the early Hellenistic times and that the Roman builders deserve most of the credit. All roads, as they say, lead to Rome.
Most of the city's original streets are buried 15 feet below the present street level, due to the fact that Damascus was captured by Muslim armies and most of the original remains were obscured or destroyed.
In our bullet proof Land Rovers, driven by two Syrian military officers—mercenaries—we found ourselves cruising down wide boulevards where all sorts of new development seems to have taken place. In th
eir broken English, our minders explain to us that the French came in during the 1960s and devised several plans to modernize the city. The houses are mostly concrete blocks of flats. But it's much more modern that I had expected.
Most of the wealthy families moved to the area northwest of the Old City in the 1930's. As the city grew, more and more of the gardens and farming areas were converted to residential living districts. This place was an oasis in early times.
In his thick accent, one of our minders—Nasser—explains, “The local government has tried to keep areas of green, and areas of factories, zoned. We try to, ah, preserve the old beauty, you know.”
Ms. Josephine, Ricky, and me, we aren't saying much. Nasser and Hassim gave us press badges that have our names and the logo for CNN on them. If we get into any trouble, we are to lower our heads and say, “We are with the European Press corp. We want protection given by the Geneva Convention.”
But when they were telling us that, Ricky nudged me and said, “ . . . that Geneva Convention shit's going to get us shot.” Thing is though, we don't really have any better excuse to be bumbling around their historical sites. So, CNN it is.
We head to the hotel, which is just on the western end of the Christian Quarter, near the Notre-Dame-De-France Hostel. We pulled around the back of the hotel, and several men met us, to get us inside and settled. I guess Ricky's money does buy us a few luxuries more than your average tourist.
We took back stairways to our rooms, and were quickly ushered back out after leaving our bags. The book, of course, was still physically touching me. When I asked why we were leaving the hotel so quickly, they said that if we wanted to take our pictures of the Old City Wall, that now would be the best time of day.
“The sun,” Nasser said, “ . . . it throw the gold of Allah across the wonder of man.” And if he hadn't been packing a pistol big enough to bring down an airplane, I might have found his words rather enchanting.
So out we go, bumping around through the streets in our bullet-proof trucks. Ricky, he's all business now, making sure there is a full 'jump bag' with all of the necessary medical equipment. “We're good, Jack,” he said, nodding to Ms. Josephine and I.
Nasser and Hassim, they know this city quite well because they pretty much go wherever they please and nobody stops them. Police and military vehicles just wave at them. Who knows, maybe Ricky's paying them off, too?
As they drive they're pointing things out to us, giving it a shot in English, and then reverting to Arabic to share their own conversation. They both have on dark, black-tinted glasses and khaki pants. Pistols, boots, vests. And teeth yellowed from years of tea and cigarettes. These guys will shoot you with no questions asked. That makes me feel safe, but not completely comfortable. Like having pet tigers.
We near a traffic jam and Nasser turns his head, “Have you heard of Saul of Tarsus?”
We all shrug like dumb Americans typically do. Not that we haven't heard the story, but that it's best to just sit back and listen to the locals.
He grinned, “You probably know of him by name, Apostle St. Paul. The Hanani Chapel,” he said pointing across the street, “is meant to commemorate the conversion, in Damascus, of Saul. New testament of your Christian bible speak very much of Paul. He was bitter enemy of Christianity in first century. And bad man, very bad. He hurt many people.”
“He was Jew,” Hassim added, just to make sure we knew.
“Yes,” Nasser agreed. “Jew. But after death of the prophet, Jesus, he become missionary. His writings, they are earliest Christian writings. This is wonderful story, no?”
I found it hauntingly interesting. “Mr. Nasser,” I said carefully, “ . . . what do you get from that story? I mean, what is the moral of the conversion from Saul, to Paul?” I had read a bit about this on the Internet, and I was curious what real Muslims thought of it.
“This moral,” Nasser said as we began to creep forward towards the traffic light, “it say that a man can be monster, and then change his way . . . if he truly have desire to be good.”
“He can change for bad, too,” Hassim interjected. “Is not only good conversion. But one can become evil, too.”
I sat back. The buildings and structures slowly floated by us, as if we weren't moving and everything else in the world was. I noticed the tall, aged wall on our right.
“This is Old City Wall,” Nasser pointed as we sped through the light.
Ricky leans forward, “Gentlemen, can we find a place and park?” He glances at his watch, and then back at the sun on the horizon.
Then he looks at me with curious eyes. “You ready for this?”
“Now? As in, this second? Are we really doing this right now?” My heart is starting to race.
“Well, we'll go and take a look—” Ricky started to say.
“No, no,” Hassim warned. “We stay in car for now. Once we find location you need, we will all go together and you take your pictures.
“My friend,” Ricky explained to them. “He is sick, sometimes. So if I see him in pain, I will give him special medical assistance.” Ricky was giving them some reason for me needing to get plugged into the IV and carp out for a couple of hours.
I'm not sure, but I think they all believe that I am the rich guy, here.
They spoke to each other in rapid-fire Arabic and then nodded. “Yes, this is good. Very safe.” Nasser then squinted toward the wall, “We will start at Damascus Gate and drive slowly. If you see spot, we will stop. But, you know, this is still city. Anything can happen.”
I hope this doesn't all go tits-up. Ms. Josephine, she's been quiet the entire time, just staring out the window, just like she had been on the plane. I think travel is very difficult for her.
Nasser slowed us down to about 25 miles-an-hour as we crept northeast. Ricky was looking through binoculars, and I was just scanning the wall for something that looked grand.
We traveled all the way past Herod's Gate, on to Yeriho road, and then turned around. We did this little trip down Sultan Suleiman Road at least four times. But nothing looked right.
I told Ricky that I didn't think we were going to find the door on this side, otherwise somebody would have made some mention of it in the last thousand years or so.
Ms. Josephine agreed, “Dis door is on da other side.” She looked at me, glancing back at the position of the sun. “You need to cross over, child. Soon. Da shadows, dey's getting' long and curious.”
Ricky nodded, “Time to act sick, Jack.”
“Oh, boy,” I said nervously. I've never crossed with strangers around. I feel a bit vulnerable. Like a stripper, kind of. But then, I've never been out of the country, or talked to the dead, or seen shadows chop people to bits, either. So, what the hell.
I started to breathe deeply and slowly, putting my hand on my head. “I'm not feeling so good.”
Nasser looked back, trying to figure out what was going on. “This is what you mean for sick?”
Ricky started pulling out the normal saline, “Oh, he's just having a dizzy spell. He should be fine. Maybe he's just a little dehydrated.”
In goes the pencil-sized needle in my left wrist. I feel my right forearm being massaged. Time to die. Ms. Josephine is whispering in my ear. I'm feeling drowsy. Everything is starting to get dark.
Like drowning.
Again
Chapter 64
Old City, Damascus,
Deadside . . .
Swimming through the dark abyss of my drowning nightmare only to end up in the back seat of a large truck was a disconcerting experience. I fell to the floor noticing the sun's green beams of light crossing the car at abstract angles. The vehicle was empty accept for Ms. Josephine's blind eyes, my dormant body, and the Book of Sighs.
No doors.
No windows.
Lifeless.
“Can you 'ear me, Ms. Josephine?” I asked as I leaned over my soulless shell of a human form.
“ . . . yes, child . . .” she whispered lightly. She probab
ly didn't want to spook our bodyguards. “ . . . take da book and go find da gate . . . before da dark sets in . . . somethin' bad is commin' . . . ”
She is always so comforting. Her words were kind of uneven, spaced strangely, with sporadic pronunciation. I think she was communicating to me straight from her mind. Her thoughts were words to me. I wondered if it went both ways, this inter-dimensional line between us?
I reached for the Book of Sighs, hoping that it would let me move it. I don't know why I hadn't experimented with this before now. Maybe a trial run should have been in order. Although, given the fact that there don't seem to be doors or windows in this Land of Sorrows, I'm rather glad I didn't attempt crossing over while inside the plane.
G-5 or not, my Deadside ass would have most likely plummeted several tens of thousands of feet, and no amount of necklace swallowing would have saved me from becoming a cold splat on the desert floor.
My fingers round the edges of the Book of Sighs and the moment that I touch it, it starts to vibrate and blur like the wings of a hummingbird. Just like all my furniture did that first time in my apartment.
I start to pull it upwards, but it's holding on. It's trying to resist. This book, I don't think it wants to crossover with me. Maybe it has to go through its own version of drowning. Live out its worst mortal fear in order to walk among the dead. I don't know what the equivalent would be for an old religious book, but it must be horrible.
I consider that, perhaps it isn't that the book doesn't want to cross over, but that it doesn't want to cross back? This book, it may have come from the Deadside in the first place. It may be covered with the skin of a Deadsider, or something even more unnerving. So, maybe it just doesn't like the idea of returning.
I'm going to have to put my back into this. I pull even harder, struggling with every one of my new muscles. The new and improved me, it's straining like never before.
See Jack Die (Part 1 in the Paranormal Series) (See Jack Die Series) Page 30