Light from Distant Stars

by Shawn Smucker

  Praise for The Edge of Over There

  “The Edge of Over There is a mesmerizing, menacing fantasy. Shawn Smucker fuses New Orleans lore, Christian themes, and dystopian landscapes in a thorough exploration of love and its unintended results.”

  Foreword Reviews

  “Blending biblical elements and urban myths, Smucker creates an enthralling story of supernatural battles between the forces of good and evil.”

  Publishers Weekly

  Praise for The Day the Angels Fell

  “Neil Gaiman meets Madeleine L’Engle. I read it in two days!”

  Anne Bogel, Modern Mrs. Darcy

  “Shawn Smucker enchants with a deftly woven tale of mystery and magic that will leave you not only spellbound but wanting more.”

  Billy Coffey, author of There Will Be Stars

  “The otherworldly and the mundane collide in Shawn Smucker’s The Day the Angels Fell, a humanizing tale of cosmic proportions.”

  Foreword Reviews

  “Unique, supernatural, and a twist on a tale we have all heard!”

  WriteReadLife.com

  “The Day the Angels Fell has a nostalgic feel that reminded me of Ray Bradbury’s works.”

  Ashlee Cowles, author of Beneath Wandering Stars and Below Northern Lights

  “Visionary.”

  Family Fiction

  Other Books by Shawn Smucker

  The Day the Angels Fell

  The Edge of Over There

  Once We Were Strangers

  © 2019 by Shawn Smucker

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1773-5

  Most Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Some Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  For Linda

  (1968–2016)

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Half Title Page

  Other Books by Shawn Smucker

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: Monday, March 16, 2015

  1. The Body

  2. The Preacher

  3. The Sycamore

  4. The Teacher

  5. The Phone Call

  6. The Old House

  7. The Detective

  8. The Bloody Nose

  9. The Trocar

  10. The Sock

  11. The Question

  12. A Letter

  13. “Onward, Christian Soldiers”

  14. The Confession

  15. Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?

  16. The Final Inning

  17. A Letter

  18. And All My Other Sins

  Part Two: Tuesday, March 17, 2015

  19. The Beast

  20. The Boy

  21. The Current

  22. The Trailer

  23. The Accident

  24. The Gun

  25. The Missing Mother

  26. The Doorbell

  27. The Contractions

  28. A Choice

  29. Appeared and Disappeared

  30. A Letter

  31. The Beast Comes to Visit

  32. The Sleeping Father

  33. A Shadow You Can Hold

  34. The Last Thing to Go

  35. The Fall

  Part Three: Wednesday, March 18, 2015

  36. The Visitor

  37. The Ice in the Shadows

  38. The Kite

  39. Through the Veil

  40. The Flash of the Gun

  41. Missing

  42. The Cave

  43. The Nurse

  44. There Is Evil

  45. The Nightmare

  46. What We Deserve

  47. Back into the City

  48. There Is a Mender

  Part Four: Thursday, March 19, 2015

  49. Followed through the Dark

  50. You Don’t Know Us

  51. Waking Up

  52. Run

  53. Singing

  54. Back to Where It Started

  55. Who Will Make It through the Night?

  56. The Painting

  Part Five: Friday, March 20, 2015

  57. There’s a City of Light

  58. The End of Things

  59. Something New

  60. In the Beginning

  61. All the Hidden Things

  62. “Though Vile as He”

  63. An End

  Part Six: Saturday, March 21, 2015

  64. These Are the Same Hands

  65. A Beginning

  Excerpt from The Day the Angels Fell

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  What chance did we have?

  We are the children of our father.

  John Steinbeck

  I talk to God, but the sky is empty.

  Sylvia Plath

  Love is not consolation. It is light.

  Simone Weil

  one

  The Body

  Cohen Marah clears his throat quietly, more out of discomfort than the presence of any particular thing that needs clearing, and attempts to step over the body for a second time. His heel no more than lightens its weight on the earth before he puts his foot back down and sighs. He tilts his head and purses his lips, as if preparing to give a talk to an unruly child. He does not take his hands out of his pockets, worried that he will taint the scene, which in the next moment he realizes is ridiculous. This is where he works. This is where he works with his father, Calvin. His fingerprints are everywhere.

  He stares down at the body again, and sadness keeps him leaning to one side. It’s the physical weight of emotion, and that weight is not centered inside of him but skewed, imbalanced. It is not his father’s slightly opened eyes looking up at him from the floor that bring down the heaviness, and it is not his father’s cleanly shaven cheeks, haggard and old. It is not the way the tangled arms rest on his chest, or the way his one leg is still bent and propped up against the examination table.

  No, the thing that weighs Cohen down is the shiny baldness of his father’s head, the way the light reflects from it the same way it did when he was alive. The light should dim, he thinks. It should flatten out, and the glare should fade. There should be no light, not anymore.

  two

  The Preacher

  When Cohen was a small boy, lying on the floor under the church pews on a humid summer Sunday night, the bright ceiling lights shone. He listened to his father’s voice boom through the
quiet, the heavy pauses filled with scattershot responses. “Amen!” and “Preach!” and semi-whispered versions of “Hallelujah!” so hushed and sincere they sent goose bumps racing up his skinny arms.

  Under the pews, on the deep red carpet, drowning in the hot, stuffy air, young Cohen drifted in and out of sleep. It was as if he had descended beneath some holy canopy and settled into the plush red carpet surrounded by a rain forest full of trees, which were actually the legs of pews and the legs of people and women’s dresses draped all the way to the floor, rustling ever so slightly with the sermon. He could smell the hairspray and the cologne and the sweat mingling like incense, a pleasing offering to the Lord.

  Far above him, like branches moving under the weight of resettling birds, people waved paper fans created out of their Sunday evening bulletins, folded an inch this way, an inch that way, stirring the air. But to no avail. Sweat came out of their pores. Sweat welled up in droplets like water on a glass. Sweat trickled down, always down. And even there, from the floor, Cohen could imagine it: the sweat that darkened the underarms of Mr. Pugitt’s light blue collared shirt, the sweat Mrs. Fisher blotted from her powdery temples, the sweat that made his father’s bald head shine like a beacon, and the sweat that sweetened the nape of Miss Flynne’s slender neck.

  Ah, his Sunday school teacher, Miss Flynne! Cohen was only nine years old in 1984, but he could tell that something about Miss Flynne opened doors into rooms where he had never wandered. Why couldn’t he speak when she looked at him? Why did the lines of her body push his heart into his throat? She was all bright white smiles and straight posture and something lovely, budding.

  His mother was not all smiles, not in 1984 and never before that and never since. Sometimes, from his place of repose under the church bench, he could peek out and see his mother’s stern face, eyes never leaving his father. The intensity with which she followed his father’s sermon was the only thing that could distract her enough to allow him to slip down onto the floor. No one else seemed to notice her lips, but Cohen did, the way she mouthed every single word to every single one of his father’s sermons, as if she had written them herself. Which she had.

  Sometimes, when Cohen’s father said a word that didn’t synchronize with his mother’s mouth, she would pause, her eyes those of a scorned prophet, one not welcomed in her own town. Cohen could tell it took everything in her not to stand up and interrupt his father, correct him, set him back in the record’s groove. But she would shake her head as if clearing away a gnat and find the cadence again. Somehow their words rediscovered each other there in the holy air, hers silent and hidden, his shouted, and Cohen’s mind drifted away.

  If Cohen rolled over or made too much noise or in any way reminded his mother of his existence there beneath the canopy, she hauled him back up by his upper arm or his ear or his hair, whatever she could reach, hissing admonitions, hoisting him back to the pew. He felt the eyes of the hundreds of other people on the back of his own neck, sitting there like drops of sweat, their glances grazing off his ears, skimming the top of his head, weighing down his shoulders. There was a certain weight that came with being the only son of a popular country preacher. There were certain expectations.

  His sister Kaye was always there, waiting for him in the canopy, only four years older than him and sitting completely still. She had an unnatural ability to weather even the longest of sermons without so much as twitching, without moving a single muscle. Sometimes she didn’t even blink for long minutes at a time. He knew. He watched her, counting the seconds. When they got older, she told him her secret to this, the things she thought about to keep her in that central spot, the stories she made up. She told him about the things in the church she would count: the wooden slats on the ceiling, the imperfections in the wooden pew, the number of pores on the back of the person’s neck in front of her and how those tiny hairs became an endless forest through which she embarked on an adventure.

  When Cohen became bored contemplating his sister’s stillness, which took only moments, his gaze joined with those hundreds of other gazes, the way small streams drown into bigger ones, and he stared at his father on the stage. Cohen was transfixed by what he saw. His father reached up with his long, slender fingers and loosened his tie. He raised a pointed finger to the heavens and made a desperate plea, his voice a cadence, a rhythm, a kind of calling out, and the congregation heaved with emotion. People shouted. Women’s shoulders shook with poorly suppressed sobs. Men leaned forward, their faces in their hands, as if scorched by Isaiah’s coal.

  Cohen’s father pulled a pure white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his bald head dry, and the lights shone. An usher opened the windows that ran along the east side of the building, and a cool night breeze blew through, leaking in and spreading along the floor, gathering in pools that Cohen slipped into when his mother had been taken up again by the words of her own sermon.

  three

  The Sycamore

  Cohen steps over his father’s body, finally, reaching with his toe for the far side like a burglar in a black-and-white movie, movement exaggerated, each step a gigantic cursive letter. But even with that large first step, even after reaching as far into the future as his leg will allow, Cohen’s heel comes down and touches the edge of the pool of blood, the mercury-red puddle that leaks out from under his father’s neck and outlines his head like a saint’s halo in stained glass.

  Cohen hisses at himself for his clumsiness. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds on to the examination table with one hand for support, leaving a neat line of fingerprints all in a row. Each one is like the labyrinth behind Saint Thomas Church, the slowing curves circling back in on themselves, each with a middle that is never the end. He lifts his heel, contorts his body to try to examine the back of his foot, and there it is, a small dash of blackish red, like the sticky remains of a lollipop. He rubs his finger tightly along the heel of his shoe, transferring most of the blood from the back of his foot to his index finger. He stares at it, not knowing what to do next.

  It is the blood of his father, the life that has pumped through him all these years. The blood that turned his father’s face red when he shouted from the front of the church, the blood that fled and left his father’s face white when he realized he had been found out, when Cohen’s mother stormed out onto the baseball field, when he was told to leave the church. It is his father’s blood, the same blood that in many ways is all wrapped up inside of him, pumping through his own body, circling his own maze of veins and arteries and capillaries that his teachers said could reach to the moon and back.

  He sighs.

  He walks through the basement holding his bloodied finger out to the side, as if it is someone else’s hand entirely, as if he is looking for a trash can to put it in. His feet are still heavy as he walks a straight line past the bodies on the stainless-steel tables, past the various coffins, some open, some standing up and leaning against the wall, others closed. He feels a twinge of guilt that one of their employees will have to be the first to find his father, and for a moment that is nearly enough to send him off track. Poor Beth, if she comes back this afternoon, before anyone else. What will she do when she finds Cohen’s father on the floor? Call the police? The ambulance? Cohen? Marcus, on the other hand, might faint. It would be like him to do that, to see the blood or the partially opened eyes of his already dead employer and drop over. The fainting funeral worker.

  But Cohen does not want to be the one to find his father, not now. Did the neighbors hear the long and loud argument he had with his father last night? Did they see Cohen storm out, angry, muttering to himself? No, it would be simpler if he was not the one to find the body, if this accident was brought into the light by someone else.

  It was an accident, wasn’t it? He looks closer at his father, at the scene. His father wouldn’t have done this to himself.

  Would he?

  With a deep breath, Cohen walks up the basement steps and out of the funeral home. He touches no
thing on his way except the doorknob, and that he opens with his coat pulled down over his left hand.

  Emotion catches him again, and his eyes well. He will never see his father again, not his smile or the tired lines of his face or his strong hands flexing away some phantom pain. Cohen wipes his eyes and clears his throat.

  Outside, the city streets are quiet. It’s a small, vibrant city, drifting from north to south, down toward the river. It’s a quiet place in the middle of the afternoon before the children are released from school. It’s a green city, cement and macadam and asphalt sharing space with sycamores and oaks and maples.

  Cohen feels better. It’s easy to begin to pretend he has not yet seen the body of his father when he is standing under that sky stretched tight, a sheet once white but now washed into a shade of gray. The early spring day carries a bite of winter that awakens him to his life. The air smells one moment of warm, earthy spring and the next of low, frozen, gray clouds. The air sneaks in around the edges of his overcoat, soaking in through his thin, worn suit, and he wonders if he has time to run home and change before going to his nephew’s baseball game.

  He looks at his watch. He doesn’t have time. He remembers the blood on his index finger. He scans his suit, his coat, anywhere he might have accidentally rubbed his finger, anywhere he might have marked himself with his father’s blood, but he doesn’t see anything.

  He looks up and down the sidewalk before squatting like a catcher beside one of the city’s new trees growing in front of him. It is no more than three or four inches thick, a sapling. But he thinks it would be better to clean off his finger farther from the funeral home, so he stands and walks another block on Queen Street to a larger tree, a sycamore with its winter skin peeling into spring. He wipes his finger on a piece of rolled-back bark, and it is a relief, removing his father’s blood from his hands. He wonders why he didn’t simply wash his hands in the sink. Was he worried Beth would return? Or was he simply not thinking clearly? He feels muddled, confused, the shock of finding his father mingling with the approach of grief.

  It is a relief to him that spring is coming.