Angel Fall

by Coleman Luck

  Silence.

  Every sound passed away.

  Now there was nothing but light…and the rasp of his own breathing. He cracked open his eyes.

  Pain—a splitting, throbbing headache. He was almost blind. He had been in the darkness too long. The brilliance was excruciating. He covered his eyes, but the light seeped between his fingers and through his lids. No way to stop it. Where was he? Where was this awful, blinding place with sounds that tore you apart?

  He heard footsteps. Groaning, Alex struggled to his hands and knees. The movement made his head pound.

  “Who’s there? Is someone there?”

  “I am.” The voice creaked with age. It was a man’s voice.

  “I can’t see. The light hurts.”

  Instantly it grew dim. Alex tried to open his eyes, but even the dimness was too bright. He squinted upward through narrow cracks between his fingers. Towering above him was the vague outline of a man in a long robe.

  “Please…I need help.”

  “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “I’m sick and hurt.” He held up his arm.

  “The injury will not kill you.”

  “How do you know that? Are you a doctor?”

  “I know all about dying.” The words were so strange that Alex tried to look up at him again. But now the figure was bending down, holding something. “Are you thirsty?”

  “Yes.” His tongue felt like scorched sand.

  A cup, the man was holding a cup. With trembling fingers, Alex took it and put it to his lips. Water. Sweet. Delicious. He drank and drank. It ran down his face and onto his filthy shirt. And the cup didn’t empty until his thirst was quenched. Finally he handed it back and whispered, “Thank you. I haven’t had a drink in a long time.”

  The man rose. Alex squinted at him again. A little clearer now. He was old, with a white beard. But his face—he still couldn’t see it.

  “Can you stand up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m awfully dizzy.” But the drink had made him feel better. His head wasn’t aching anymore.

  “I’ll help you.” Reaching down, he took Alex’s hand and helped him to his feet. “Hold onto my arm.” For a moment they stood without moving.

  “Where am I?”

  “In the Chamber of the Witnesses.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Look around.”

  Alex forced his eyes to open, but it was still difficult to see. It appeared that he was at one end of a gigantic room, a kind of stadium carved out of solid rock. On every side rose tier upon tier of wide stone shelves, and on them in long, straight rows lay boxes that looked like coffins. Thousands of them stretched upward into the dimness. The ones nearby were covered with ornate carvings.

  “What are all those boxes?”

  “This is the burial place of the kings.”

  “A cemetery?”

  “A place of waiting. Let’s try to walk.”

  With great care the old man led him toward the center of the chamber. Alex squinted. Something was up ahead. It looked like a single coffin surrounded with seven pillars that rippled with fire. As they drew closer, he saw that the pillars were made of tiny glowing insects. Thick masses of them slowly swarmed in perfect circles. And it was a coffin. The lid was open. When they reached it, he stared. It was the one that had been in the boat. And inside lay the ancient body. “So it wasn’t a dream,” he whispered. Then he turned to the old man and for the first time saw his face. It was the same face that was lying dead in front of him. He pulled away. “That’s…you.”

  “Yes, that is my body.”

  “How can you be dead and standing next to me? This is another dream.”

  “It isn’t a dream. And death isn’t what you think.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The one who will guide you through the test.”

  Alex felt a thrill of fear. “What kind of a test?”

  “Tell me, how did you escape from the dungeon?”

  “There was a door. I opened it.”

  “The end, the end, when he comes all things will end. The Lord of Death has told him, no prison bars will hold him. The darkness will enfold him, Son from a distant world. They are the words of an ancient prophet. There was no door in the dungeon.”

  Alex stared at him. “Of course there was a door. You think I’m lying?”

  “No, you are speaking the truth. But there was no door.”

  “So how did I get out?”

  “By the will of the One Who Lives in the Mists. And by His will your test shall begin.”

  Suddenly the chamber was filled with blazing light. But this time Alex wasn’t blinded. He looked up and what he saw staggered him. In the air, a hundred feet above, stretching across the entire ceiling was a shining horror with wings of flame. Fire roared from its eyes. And Alex remembered those eyes. It was the demon that had stung him and awakened the Thing in his belly. But now it was gigantic. He stood transfixed, waiting for it to descend and engulf him. But it didn’t move. It just hung there. And as he continued staring, it transformed. The fire deepened and parted. Within it he saw a creature of searing radiance.

  The old man cried out, “You stand beneath the Worwil of the Throne. Prepare your heart to worship!” Then he fell on his face with his arms outstretched.

  Alex didn’t move. He couldn’t. For a moment more the winged being hung in silence. Then it opened its mouth, and from out of it came a piercing call. Like the sound of a trumpet it filled the air, growing louder until the chamber trembled and shook. And then the call became a Song. From the Worwil’s lips poured a thousand voices sweeping downward.

  Rushing…

  Crashing…

  Rising…

  Falling…

  Crescendos of overwhelming loveliness in a language that Alex could not understand. But just hearing it brought unbearable ecstasy. Tears streamed from his eyes. Splendor broke his heart. Without knowing a single word, he knew that this was the Song Above All Others, the Poetry of Fire sung when stars were born, rhyming light from the darkness, form from the chaos, the poem that had hovered over the endless deep. It was the Song of atoms and galaxies, of oceans and teardrops, of eternity echoing in the cry of a bird. It was the Song that had called them, the Song that had formed them. In it was all of Life that would ever be. And as Alex listened, in the glory he saw a glimmer, a single cell of starlight within a mother’s womb. So tiny in the vastness, yet within it was the Rhyme of Heaven, weaving flesh as it had woven light on a billion worlds. Cell upon cell, whispering softness, lullaby in a woman’s body, knitting a child with a poem of love. Bone and flesh, soul and spirit, weaving and breathing from the Song of Songs. Never had he understood before. Never had he imagined the grandeur, the hope, the promise, of a single child awakening in the morning of a womb.

  And he was that child.

  From the heart of singing his heart had come. And his life was meant to rise and join the greatness. Bone and flesh, soul and spirit, all of him was meant to be a song. As Alex sobbed, unable to bear the beauty, suddenly the vision faded into darkness…and he saw the place where the Song was born.

  Gigantic in the starlight!

  A vision of Eternal Majesty!

  Vast!

  Endless!

  Crowned with crimson.

  Crying out with wildness and joy!

  The Great Mountain bathed in blood-mist, rising above the Heavens.

  “Worship! Worship!” The voice of the Worwil called, “Fall down and worship, for this is the Throne of the Endless One.”

  Desperate to worship. Thirsting for it. And Alex knew what worship was now, knew how to do it, knew how to grovel in the presence of Crushing Power. But he couldn’t. His knees wouldn’t bend. It was as though rods of steel had been shot through him. His spine was rigid and his head cocked back. He tried to force himself to kneel, to fall on his face, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t kneel. Couldn’t worship. Because something inside wouldn’t let him. All
he could do was shriek in an anguish of desire. And then the vision disappeared.

  Gone.

  Silence.

  Once more, above him hung the creature with the mighty wings. But the singing had ended and the fire had dimmed. Alex gasped, shaking, gulping. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Quietly the old man spoke, “You have come to the place of judgment, the hall of the Living Song.” Then he turned and looked outward. “Brothers, awake!” Instantly above every coffin appeared the form of a king. Some were wearing regal robes, others were clothed in armor as though they had just come from battle. Thousands and thousands of them stood stretching upward into the light.

  With great sadness the old man looked at Alex. “You saw the moment when you were formed within your mother. You heard the Song that gave you breath and wove your soul. You witnessed the glory that your life was meant to be. Because you came from singing, your life has formed a song. With every thought and choice and deed you have written the words and music. And you must sing it for us now. It is the test that comes when life is over.”

  “What? What do you mean, when life is over? Am I dying?”

  “The life that you have known has ended. Beyond this room is a place of glory. Not a single note of evil can enter there. So every life is measured by the Music of the Law.”

  “What kind of music is that?”

  “It is the singing of the Endless One, the music in His heart. In Him, there is no evil. To be in His Presence is ecstasy forever. But to enter His Glory, your life must be without a flaw. No discord can mar the splendor. If you have lived one false note the test will show it.”

  Alex stared at him in horror. “But that’s impossible. Nobody could be that perfect.”

  “Nevertheless, it is the trial of every living soul.”

  “So what happens when I don’t make it? What happens then?”

  “You will go to the place that you have chosen.”

  Alex’s terror deepened. “But that isn’t fair. I didn’t know. Nobody ever told me.”

  “From the moment you were born, the Singing of the Mountain has echoed within you. It was always there. To listen or not was the choice of every day and every hour. And from all your choices will come the music of who you are.”

  Suddenly Alex felt a dreadful writhing in his belly and a soft voice whispered, “Ah, now you understand the little game of Heaven. What does fairness matter when a soul is about to die?” Then it began a mocking rhyme.

  At the end of life, all songs are measured

  By the Music of the Law.

  And if you hope to live forever,

  You must sing without a flaw.

  But think hard before you do it,

  Know what perfection really means.

  Not a clanking creak of vileness,

  No raging, ugly scenes.

  Don’t let a note fall flat,

  Nor a word go out of rhyme,

  For a flicker of lust and madness,

  Is considered an eternal crime.

  One mistake however minor,

  And the light you will never see,

  A glitch in the joy and gladness

  And your soul belongs to me.

  So sing with perfect freedom,

  Sing of all that you have known,

  And when your singing’s finished

  Then I will sing you home.

  Alex screamed, “Shut up, shut up!” But the voice in his head droned on.

  Since I helped you write the music, let me suggest some subtle themes.

  Sing of the kindness you showed your sisters,

  Sing of the love that warmed your mother’s heart.

  Sing of your father and forgiveness.

  Now that’s a place to start.

  Sing the little secrets,

  The slime within your soul.

  Sing of the supple phantoms,

  When pleasure was your goal.

  Sing of guilt and grief and murder,

  Sing the truth of who you are,

  Sing of rage and hate and sorrow,

  Heaven isn’t far.

  Sing with pride and lust and passion,

  Sing it all without regret,

  Sing it the way you wrote it,

  And prepare to pay the debt.

  So sing with perfect freedom,

  Sing of all that you have known,

  And when your singing’s finished,

  Then I will sing you home.

  Alex held his ears and shrieked, “Stop it! Leave me alone! I’m not gonna do it!”

  “My son, you must.” The old man had tears in his eyes.

  “I won’t! I can’t! Please, don’t make me!” But then, from the stone beneath his feet, he felt a soft vibration. Slowly it rose in waves of ever-increasing power. Shaking, rumbling, like the tones of a mighty organ.

  Louder!

  Into his body!

  Into his chest!

  Crashing into his skull!

  He felt himself splitting, separating, dividing—bone and flesh, soul and spirit.

  And in every part of him there was a song.

  Alex fought desperately, trying to keep silent. He gritted his teeth. He bit his tongue until it ran with blood. But the deepness of the organ was calling and he couldn’t stop it. His lungs filled with air, his mouth opened, and out of him came…

  Horror!

  Voices upon voices!

  Rising—

  Screaming—

  Shrieking memories out of every crevice and corner of his soul. Vomiting curses and secrets. Revealing every lie, every thought, every deed of vileness. No rhyme. No music. Just jabber-screeching. Spewing out rage and lust and hate. Filling the chamber. On and on, squeezing, draining, sucking, bleeding, until his heart was empty and he was naked for all the universe to see.

  And then—

  It was over.

  His mouth snapped shut and he dropped to the floor as though dead. In the chamber there was silence. Finally the old man spoke. “Rise, my son.”

  Weak and dizzy, Alex struggled to his feet. Turning toward the vast crowd, the ancient voice trembled with emotion. “Brothers, tell me what you heard.”

  And all the kings whispered, “The song of Lammortan.”

  With great sorrow the old man looked at Alex. “The prophets wrote of one who would come from another world. They said his soul would be filled with evil and the end of all life would be in his hand. They told us that we would know him by his song. You are that one.”

  Alex stared in horror. But before he could say a word, he felt an awful surge within his belly, a crawling rush writhing upward into his chest and throat. He knew what it was and now there was nothing to stop it. He screamed as it wrapped around his soul.

  Lost!

  Lost forever!

  They were the last words that were his own. His mind was alive, but no longer could he control it. From his mouth came a guttural laugh. And out of him roared the voice of his god. “Blood for blood! The creature that does evil belongs to me. The Judgment has been rendered. Your work is finished. Slaves of the Mountain, go back to your tombs.”

  Instantly all the kings who had stood on the coffins disappeared and the old man with them. The Thing that was now Alex turned toward the great angel in the air. But the ceiling was empty. The Worwil was gone. Out of Alex’s throat came another laugh. “So you run, my brother? Where is the courage of Heaven? Don’t you know that I will find you wherever you are?” Then he cried out, “Come!”

  The call was answered with thunder, ten thousand iron hooves crashing over stone. In a swirl of black mist the phantoms entered the chamber, horses and riders streaking through the air. And leading them was a giant stallion with no one on it. It stopped in front of Alex. Smoke swirled from its body, enveloping him in a shroud.

  Leaping onto the creature’s back, Alex lifted his fist and cried out, “Die until death is all that remains!” There was a great cheer.

  Then, with Alex in the lead, the horses and riders streamed into
the air. With a pounding roar, they surged forward. And when they reached the wall of the chamber…they disappeared.

  33

  WELL OF THE LOST ONES

  Tori! Tori of Lancaster, wake up! Open your eyes! Tori, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  Tori’s eyes popped open. Mirick was fluttering two inches from her face, and the air sang with whining screeches like a million chainsaws slashing through a steel forest.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  “War! That’s what’s happening. We are at war. The island is under attack! You must do exactly what I say.”

  She sat up. There was a deep rumble and the door burst open. Into the room flew four insects the size of German shepherds. Their bulbous eyes stared at her, and from their heads hung jaws with jagged teeth that looked like ripsaw blades. As they hovered at the end of the bed, the wind from their wings almost blew her covers off. Tori was terrified.

  “Lie on your stomach and stick out your arms and legs!”

  “What?”

  “Do it! They have to carry you, and there’s no time for squeamishness. These are the greatest warriors of the Larggen, and they’re here to save your life. Lie down and turn over!”

  Shivering with fear, Tori obeyed. Instantly wind plastered her clothes as powerful talons slipped around her arms and legs. Then she rose into the air.

  “Ooo, I don’t like this.”

  As they hovered toward the open door, Mirick fluttered into her hair. “Terrible things are happening outside. Close your eyes.” Then he yelled, “Go!”

  The Larggen took off. Out of the room they flew and beyond the pier. Then came a blistering right turn, and they streaked down the canal a foot above the water. Suddenly a huge mass of Larggen swooped around them like an escort of fighter jets. Though the wind blasted her face, Tori didn’t close her eyes. She had to see what was happening, what was causing the terrible, buzzing screeches. She looked up.

  The air above Mirick’s island roared with green fire. In mighty waves it surged through the canyons between the giant pipes. And from the fire came the awful sounds. All the trillions of insects that had covered the island were swarming, raging, attacking something that she couldn’t see. Then for a moment the waves parted and she did see.