King of Shards
Page 40
She leaned forward, kissed a single blade of grass, and whispered, “Grow, grow, grow . . .”
——
One moment, Rana was there bent over, and the next she was gone. Daniel watched her vanish like smoke in the wind. This spot, here on the Great Lawn of Central Park, before the Delacorte Theater and Belvedere Castle, would be trampled on by thousands of people. They would run across this spot to catch a ball or fly their kite, or they would sprawl upon it while picnicking in the grass.
And not a single one, he thought, will know that this is the spot where the Gu Rana Lila saved the world.
Sirens wailed. Screams echoed down Manhattan’s avenues. But the sky was blue again. The wind had calmed, and the ground had become still. Fires still burned. People were hurt and suffering and needed help. But these were human, not cosmic problems.
Rana had, like a sponge, collected enormous amounts of energy as it fell on Gehinnom. And she had given all of it back. But that wasn’t quite enough. Too much had already been lost. To save the Earth and the Cosmos, she had to give all of herself too.
A blade of grass grew where Rana had been, three times as tall as the others. All that remained to mark her passing from this world.
A cardinal chirped hesitantly, as if testing the air. Two long whoops, then five short chips. Others joined in. From the trees came a chorus of birdsong, of rejoicing.
“Remember,” he said to the birds and the plants and the sky. “Remember what Rana Lila did here today.” The air answered him with a humid breeze that turned over the leaves and made the trees bow.
His leg was healed. Not even a scar. His broken arm too. Her song had sealed his cracks as well.
I’m home, he thought. I’m finally home. But the sun was burning his skin, as it had in the desert. He could not linger here. But he knew where he needed to go.
He headed out of the park and walked down Central Park West, keeping to the shadow of buildings. The traffic lights blinked red. Many weren’t working at all. Cars had crashed, and police and ambulances raced down the avenues. People were frightened, rushing home. They glanced at Daniel in his bloody robe, the hood over his face, but had more personal concerns.
An earthquake? A nuclear blast? A meteor strike? They all wondered.
Theories were shouted into cell phones or blasted from street vendor radios, as people huddled around to listen. He kept walking. He turned east on 59th Street and hurried over the Queensboro Bridge. The sun turned overhead he walked the shoulder of the Long Island Expressway while cars honked and drivers cursed the heavy traffic. The sun had begun to go down when a man in a pickup, stopped in the traffic, rolled down his window and said, “Hey, buddy, you need help?”
“I don’t suppose you’re headed to Babylon?” Daniel said.
“Lindenhurst, actually, but I could take you there. You hurt?”
“I’m all right,” Daniel said, getting in the cab. “Thanks.”
“Crazy fucking day, huh?” the man said. He was in his late fifties, of African and Hispanic genes. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his beard was as white as the headlights of oncoming traffic. His ashtray was overflowing with cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Only if you don’t give me one.”
The man laughed. So they smoked and drove east, while the man on the radio went on about the “Event.” The driver said to Daniel, “They first said it was a terrorist attack, and now they’re saying this Event happened all over the world. They’re saying it’s a solar flare or a nearby supernova, something astronomical. The sky changed color. Did you see that shit?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
“You a priest or something?”
“No.”
“What’s with the robe?”
“This is borrowed.”
The man looked Daniel up and down. “You sure you ain’t hurt? Where’d all that blood come from? I could take you to the hospital.”
“I’m just fine, thanks. I really just want to check on my grandmother in Babylon.”
The man nodded, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “I’m going to check on my daughter too. Her phone isn’t working.”
The highways were crowded with cars and emergency vehicles. The traffic was slow and exhausting, but they made it to Suffolk County in less than three hours. Daniel directed the man through Babylon’s suburban neighborhoods. Gram’s house, the house he had grown up in, stood as it always had. But it seemed a lot older, a lot more tired, even though the bushes and lawn were still neatly trimmed, a point of pride for Gram. He felt like crying at the sight of it.
The man put the car in park
“I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “I’ve lost my wallet. I’ve nothing to give you. Can I give you my phone number, so I can send you some money?”
“Not necessary. You just make sure your family’s okay. I don’t want your money.”
“All right, thank you,” Daniel said. “Hey, I never got your name?”
The man lit up a cigarette and smiled. “I’m Raphael.” Then he yanked the door closed and drove off.
Daniel stood out front, afraid to go in, and worked up his courage. The door was open, and it creaked as he stepped inside. He moved slowly, afraid to disturb the dust of old memories.
He crossed the foyer and heard a buzzing sound. It resolved into the voices of TV newscasters going on about the Event.
“A massive dip in solar output, coupled with a curious drop in global air pressure . . .” He entered the living room. Gram sat in her favorite chair, remote in hand.
“You know the rules, Danny,” she said. “Take off your shoes before coming into the house.” She turned to face him, and her blue eyes shone.
“Gram,” he said, his voice cracking. “Oh, Gram . . .” He ran to her, and suddenly he was the ten-year-old boy who’d scraped his knee or fallen off his bike or lost his parents in a fire. He squeezed her tight. “Is this real? Am I really home?”
“Home?” she said. They released, and she looked him up and down. “Where the hell’ve you been, Danny? I’ve been worried sick.”
His eyes watered. He tried to speak, but no words seemed right.
She looked askew at him. “Your friend Christopher has been calling me every day since you left, to check up on me, see if I need anything or if I’ve heard from you. He doesn’t seem to remember the dog leaping onto the bimah and turning into that white-haired man. No one does. No one, except me.”
He shivered. “Gram . . .”
The newscasters rattled on annoyingly, and she muted the TV. “Where did you go, Danny? Are you hurt?” She looked tenderly at him. “You look like hell. What are you wearing? Tell me, Danny. Where have you been?”
He looked at the TV. Scenes of the Event flashed from all over the world, fires burning, crashed cars, scenes of destruction, interspersed with endless talking heads.
“A lot of deaths,” Gram said. “It’s awful. A third of Suffolk lost power. It went off here for a few minutes, but we seem to be doing okay now.”
She was trembling, and he took her hand. “It’s over now, Gram.”
“Is it?” She stared at him.
The truth was, he wasn’t sure. Four Lamed Vav were now in Sheol. And Mashit and Caleb were still alive, thrashing below him in the Shards. He knew they would not give up their plans, ever. Demons were the most single-minded of creatures.
On the wall, above the unused piano was an illustration of the Tree of Life. Beside it was a picture of him, nine years old, and his parents.
“Gram?”
“Yes?”
“When you were in the hospital . . .”
She looked warily at him. “Yes?”
“You told me that one shabbes eve, as the sun was going down, my crib—”
“Your crib’s shadow made a menorah on the wall, with seven little flames.”
“And you thought this was a sign that I was a—”
“Danny! Genug.” Enough.
“You knew what I
was, Gram. You’ve always known.”
She frowned and looked at the TV. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I thought so.”
She took her glasses off and placed her frames on the table beside her chair, rubbed her eyes, then sighed deeply. “I kept your room just as you’ve left it. Why don’t you have a shower, change into some fresh clothes, and then you can tell me all about where you’ve been.”
He was hungry, so damned hungry. The sun still burned his skin. His hands were thin, the sinews tight as guitar strings. His grasp of languages was still as acute as it had been on Gehinnom. That damned curse still boiled in his veins. And he wasn’t a Lamed Vavnik anymore.
“Gram,” he said, “do you have any brisket?”
“Brisket? You’re eating meat again?” She shook her head. “What’s happened to you?”
“I woke up.”
She nodded, as if all was understood. “Just so you know, Danny, you can stay here as long as you like. As long as you need to get yourself better.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But only just for a little while, Gram. Only for one night, maybe two. The world is still broken. People still suffer. There’s still so much work I have to do.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If it takes a village to raise a child, it took a universe to produce this book. King of Shards wouldn't exist without the help and support of countless people.
To Stephen and Judith, my parents, for giving me this blessed life with so many opportunities to thrive. To Sondra and Liz, my sisters, to Gary, my cousin, and to Adam and James, my brothers-in-law, for their constant encouragement. To my in-laws, Stephen and Anne, Didi Semko, Julie and Joe, Steven and Betina, for warmly welcoming me into their family, and for their support.
To Ellen Datlow, my partner in crime, for her friendship and unending support. To Richard Bowes, for his kindness, wisdom, and friendship.
To the folks of Altered Fluid. To Mercurio David Rivera for his humor, friendship, and good-natured evilness. To Devin Poore and Rajan Khanna for the beer, always for the beer. To Paul M. Berger for his private tours of the Museum of Natural History. To all the past and present members of Altered Fluid, the best damned writing group in the world, including Kristine Dikeman, E.C. Myers, Lilah Wild, Richard Bowes, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Sam J. Miller, N.K. Jemisin, Greer Woodward, Tom Crosshill, K. Tempest Bradford, Danielle Friedman, James Trimarco, James Thomas, Alyssa Wong, Lee Thomas, and Lauren McLaughlin. Thank you for reading early drafts of this novel and for your always-brilliant critiques of my fiction. You have all helped me grow tremendously as a writer.
To Alice K. Turner, may her memory be a blessing, for intro- ducing me to the writing world through her class at the New School. To Joe Salvatore for showing me grammar is not only fun, but sexy.
To Ellen Datlow, John Joseph Adams, Neil Clarke, Scott H. Andrews, Jody Lynn Nye, Michael Brotherton, JoSelle Vanderhooft, Darin Bradley, Sean Wallace, Rachel Swirsky, John Klima and all the editors who have published my fiction.
To Kate Baker, Stefan Rudnicki, and Scott H. Andrews for their spectacular podcast narrations of my fiction.
To Ekaterina Sedia for the experience of publishing Paper Cities, which won the World Fantasy Award. To Gavin Grant and Kelly Link, for innumerable things, but especially for their support of Sybil's Garage and my earlier endeavors into the world of publishing.
To Jonathan Kravetz and Jonathan Armstrong, my lunch buddies, for their friendship and conversation.
To Michael Harriot, my agent, for his patience and dedication.
To Darin Bradley, my editor, for his sharp eyes, keen insight, and all his hard work making sure King of Shards is the best novel it possibly could be.
And greatest of all thanks to my one and only, my wife, Christine. You are my rock and the love of my life. A joy shared with you is infinitely more joyous. If every man is a universe, then you are the Pillar of mine.
You are all a part of this book, and I am forever grateful.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matthew Kressel is a multiple Nebula Award-nominated writer and World Fantasy Award-nominated editor. He's published dozens of short stories in venues such as Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, io9.com and elsewhere. He co-hosts the Fantastic Fiction at KGB reading series in Manhattan alongside veteran editor Ellen Datlow. He is a long-time member of the Manhattan-based Altered Fluid writing group, is an amateur Yiddishist, and knows more than one should ever need to know about the film Blade Runner. When he’s not writing, he builds websites and writes software for businesses small and large. He lives in New York City with his wife.
Praise for King of Shards
“A surreal and exotic adventure in a unique mythological setting. Scary, exhilarating fun!”
—N.K. Jemisin, award-winning author of The Inheritance Trilogy, the Dreamblood series, and The Fifth Season
“A gripping trek across a unique desert world rich with Kabbalah-inspired magic and vivid demons builds to a whirlwind climax.”
—Scott H. Andrews, World Fantasy Award-nominated editor of Beneath Ceaseless Skies Magazine
“Matthew Kressel’s King of Shards is an imaginative, intelligent, and soaring debut that mixes Jewish folklore/mysticism and modern-day social politics. The result is a unique spin on epic fantasy that is both timeless and timely, and a hell of lot of fun.”
—Paul Tremblay, author of A Head Full of Ghosts and The Little Sleep
“With King of Shards, Kressel threads portal adventure through ancient mythos. His demons and demi-gods and his very human (or mostly human) characters have to work their way through the terrifying, violent, and often beautiful alternate planes he’s built using his incredible imagination and traditional and Apocryphal knowledge as a tableau. You will emerge transformed.”
—Fran Wilde, author of Updraft
“Kressel’s rich landscapes sing with ancient resonance by the light of modern flair. He weaves compelling tradition with innovative high Fantasy; culture and creativity become foundations for new myths featuring heroes built to shine.”
—Leanna Renee Hieber, award-winning author of the Strangely Beautiful saga
“This is a world where the mysticism of The Kabbalah and Torah begin to seem like everyday commentary, where ordinary people attempt to live their lives despite the extraordinary turmoil of unending conspiracy, secret saints, scheming demons, and shattered universes. This novel shakes the foundations of everyday reality, and the ensuing chaos is pure pleasure.”
—Christopher Barzak, author of One for Sorrow and Wonders of the Invisible World
King of Shards is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in an absolutely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Kressel
All rights reserved, which means that no portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is Arche Press A004, and it has an ebook ISBN of 978-1-63023-038-4.
Arche Press is an imprint of Resurrection House (Puyallup, WA).
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Edited by Darin Bradley
Cover Design by Darin Bradley
Cover Art by Leon Tukker
Book Design by Aaron Leis
Copy Edit by Shannon Page
First Arche Press edition: October 2015
www.resurrectionhouse.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Quote
Epigram
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Praise
Copyright