Angel Fall

by Coleman Luck

  “What do I have to do?”

  “It’s very easy. You won’t even have to leave this room. Just look at the picture. Go ahead and look, Sweetheart.”

  Tori turned toward the frame. Suddenly, looking through it was like being in two places at once—in her bedroom, yet standing in the cathedral with Aloi in her arms. She could feel him nestled against her. Through the frame, she saw the canvas flowing with mist and rainbows. And beneath it…the crystal hand.

  “Now, think of yourself walking toward the stairs.”

  It was so odd. Standing and not moving, yet at the same time walking and feeling the moss beneath her feet. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she stopped.

  “All right, now go up the stairs and lay him in the beautiful hand. You’ve brought him home, Tori. He’ll be happy here forever.”

  With tears brimming she looked up at her father. “So many times I dreamed this dream—that you would come home and be with us. And every time when I woke up I cried.”

  “And now your dream has come true.”

  “No, it hasn’t. Because to get it I have to kill the baby.”

  “No, no, no, Sweetheart. What are you talking about? It isn’t killing him. It’s doing what’s best for him. It’s placing him in the Hand of God.”

  Suddenly Tori’s eyes didn’t look like the eyes of a child anymore. In them was a great sadness. Quietly she said, “I know something now that I didn’t know before. Do you want to know what it is?”

  “What is it?”

  “You can’t make a dream come true by hurting someone else. That’s what you tried to do, Daddy. That’s why you went away. You hurt us to get what you wanted. And you’re not coming home. Not really. Not ever.” As she said the words, she felt her heart breaking and the beautiful dream begin to die.

  Her father rose and towered over her. “Don’t you want me to stay, Tori? Don’t you want our family to be together?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then you’ve got to prove it. You’ve got to show me that you really love me—that you love all of us—by doing this one small thing.”

  Into the room walked her mother and Amanda and Alex. Her mother was distraught. All the sorrow was returning. “Sweetheart, why won’t you do it? We need for you to do it.”

  Desperately Amanda grabbed her hands. “Please do it, Tori. Do it so we can be together. If you don’t, it’ll be like it was before, and I can’t stand that. I’ll kill myself.”

  “Save your breath. She doesn’t care about us. She’s just a spoiled little brat.” The rage and bitterness were back in Alex.

  Her father bent down and stared deeply at her. “If you don’t do it, Tori, I’ll have to leave. And this time I’ll be gone forever.”

  Tori looked at each of them. Then through her tears she said, “When I dreamed this dream, all it ever did was hurt me. And I don’t want it to hurt anymore. The dream isn’t real. But the baby is real. And I’ll never do anything to hurt him…even if I have to die.”

  With a grinding crash, instantly she was back in her body. She felt Mirick nestled in her hair. “Well done!” he whispered. “Now, prepare for his rage.”

  37

  THE SINGER

  Shrieking wind roared around Tori. It was all she could do to keep from falling down. Gone was the loveliness of the cathedral, gone was the Heart of Heaven. The soft singing turned into a wrenching wail and the perfume into stench. Before her lay a chamber so vast and high its ceiling was lost in gloom. Veils of steaming mist and churning mold swirled between gigantic pillars. And in the billowing veils swarmed shadows and shapes—a sea of dead faces, rising and falling in the glistening dark.

  The phantoms.

  The Lost Ones.

  The cathedral was infested with their terror. Stumbling backward, Tori bumped into something and almost fell. Looking down, she started to cry. On the floor beside her lay the little white tree with the face of Amanda. But before the tears could come she heard a whisper:

  “Turn and see!”

  She turned. In front of her were the golden stairs, and soaring above them was the canvas. No longer did it dance with rainbows. Down it poured waves of thick green oil that oozed onto the staircase and then simmered into the steam that filled the room. The delicate crystal hand had vanished. In its place, reaching through the waves, was the golden hand of a giant with gnarled fingers the size of tree trunks.

  Suddenly at the top of the stairs appeared a silhouette shrouded in wreaths of smoke. Slowly the smoke parted. Standing above her was Alex. She was about to call his name when his mouth opened and from out of it came a roar.

  “Praise to that which is fallen! Praise to the Lord of the Night!”

  And all the shadows answered, “Sing the Song of the Lost Ones. Glory to the God who Burns Away Light!”

  Then silence.

  The chanting stopped and the wind died, and in the silence there was soft surging. Something was slithering in the oil on the canvas. A shape was beginning to form. Stroke by stroke, line by line, there appeared a face of such majesty and splendor that every creature in the cathedral froze in breathless awe. Eyes of shimmering starlight, soft skin painted in a thousand hues, male-female-angel-god. Towering in the mist, as though descending out of heaven was a Face of Glory.

  Worship!

  Worship!

  The creatures in the cathedral fell prostrate in worship—all except for Tori and the little boy she held. Upon her came a crushing weight—she gasped, struggling to breathe. From out of the lips on the canvas came a sighing whisper, “Life…I would have given it. All of your hopes and dreams fulfilled. But you turned away. Now death is all that remains.”

  Threads of smoke. From the giant hand appeared wisps that formed into ghostly fingers. Drifting…rising…reaching toward her. The moment had come, she knew it. Hugging the little boy, Tori closed her eyes and prayed. All she wanted was to be as strong as Amanda, as strong as her sister until death came.

  Waiting, waiting to die.

  But then…a shriek!

  What was happening? Confused, Tori opened her eyes.

  “Alex!”

  The fingers were wrapped around her brother, and he was writhing. Screaming, he crashed down the stairs and fell at her feet, jerking and spasming.

  “Stop it! Stop doing that to him!”

  But it didn’t stop. It grew worse.

  “Leave him alone! Get away from him!” Sobbing, Tori knelt and touched his hair. His face was drenched with sweat, his teeth were clenched, and his eyes rolled back.

  “Will he live or will he die?” the Voice cried out.

  “I hate you!” Tori screamed.

  “But do you love your brother?”

  “Yes, I love him!”

  “Then look into his soul.”

  As she stared, Alex’s skin became like smoke. Suddenly she could see inside his body, down, down, through flesh and bone, into the depths of who he was, into a terrible pit of darkness.

  And something was living there.

  Cowering and moaning was a tiny luminous shadow with her brother’s eyes. And wrapped around it hung a glowing serpent that was eating his life, sucking it away. Tori screamed and the vision disappeared. Over and over she sobbed, “Alex, I love you, I love you.”

  “But do you love him enough to save him? Give me the child and I will set him free.”

  Staring up at the face, Tori screamed, “No!”

  “Then you do not love him.”

  “I do love him!”

  Waves of hate and rage, she could see them flowing from the fingers like black tendrils, strangling her brother’s life.

  “Give…me…the child.”

  Dying, Alex was dying. His life was slipping away. She couldn’t stand it. Suddenly her heart was drowning in darkness. She was killing her brother. Shaking, sobbing, she cried out, “Oh God, help me.” Then she looked into the baby’s eyes.

  Such love!

  He was crying too, as thou
gh he could feel her anguish. And in that moment the darkness broke, and her soul was flooded with light. Her sobbing stopped. Rising to her feet, she cried out, “I won’t do it. I won’t kill this baby…not even to save someone I love.” As she hugged the little boy, her face was shining. “If you want him, you’ve got to kill me first. So come and do it! You’ve murdered all the other children, kill me too!”

  Instantly the monstrous face roared and the cathedral shook. The fingers left Alex and wrapped around Tori.

  Agony!

  She felt her life being crushed away.

  But what she didn’t feel was a tiny movement in her hair.

  A rush—a shriek of wind—and then, raging fire!

  Suddenly she was surrounded by a wall of emerald flame. The fingers vanished and she could breathe again. Tori looked up. Soaring above her was a Creature of dazzling Brightness. The phantoms were rushing away, as from the Creature came a voice like singing thunder. “Enough! The test is over and you have failed.”

  The eyes in the oil were staring and out of them flowed hate. “So, my brother, you have come.”

  “How blind you are, Lammortan. I have been here all along, hidden in the hair of a child.”

  Mirick, what’s happening? Tori cried out in her mind.

  From above, strange flaming eyes looked down at her. “Little Queen of the Children, the time for hiding has passed.”

  She felt her hair. The moth was gone. “Mirick…?”

  “Yes, Mighty Mirick,” mocked the Voice from the oil. “Mirick, Singer of Curses…Mirick, Worwil of the Throne.”

  Tori stared up. It was Mirick. But he was huge, and his wings glistened with green and yellow fire. Around him burned a shimmering halo, and his eyes were flaming multifaceted globes. He was so different, so strange and frightening, and yet the same. As he looked down at her, she could feel his love.

  Then he turned toward the face in the canvas. Once more the singing thunder echoed in the room, “I will not let you destroy the last innocent child on Boreth. You know the Law. The Choice of the Carrier has been made, and it cannot be changed.”

  “Yes, her choice is made,” the Face hissed, “but do not think that I am defeated. There is one last child from another world…and he will obey.”

  Mirick looked down. Alex lay unconscious on the floor. “The Law, Painter, the Law. To perform the test you must release him. His choice must be free.”

  “Do not speak to me of law, my brother. Speak only of blood. For this is the night of all nights…when the last of the Worwil die.” The golden hand began to glow. Slowly the huge fingers reached upward.

  Mirick looked down at Tori. His eyes were soft, as one last time she heard his voice in her mind. Daughter of Earth, I love you. Be faithful, and we will stand together before the Crimson Throne.

  Before an eye could blink, the Creature that was Mirick became a living flame. As the giant hand streaked toward him, Mirick’s wings engulfed it and thunder shook the chamber.

  Shrieking! The Face on the canvas was shrieking, and the cathedral was filled with the stench of searing death. Though Mirick was in agony, from him came singing in a language that Tori had never heard. And then, above, she saw a vision. The ceiling of the cathedral disappeared, and down in an avalanche of splendor rushed millions of tiny flaming stars. As they encircled Mirick, she saw what they were.

  Fireflies!

  The fireflies of Heaven had come to escort him home.

  The monstrous hand and the body of the Angel burned together, as the Face in the canvas shrieked. Then Tori heard something so wonderful that she never forgot it for the rest of her life; words weaving sorrow, full of anguish and love, higher and higher they flew. It was Mirick’s Death Song. As the fireflies swirled around him, his flame grew bright and he began to change. He was singing his soul out of his body—shedding his dying form like a burning chrysalis. Then his spirit broke free, and the most beautiful creature that Tori had ever seen hung in the air. His wings were living flames in a thousand colors, and his eyes were filled with the Fire of Heaven. Lifting his head, he cried out with joy, “Larggen of the Throne…lead me home!”

  Blazing light and singing, such brilliance that Tori couldn’t stand it! She closed her eyes. Then silence and dark.

  When she opened them again, all that was left of the gigantic hand was a blackened stump sticking out of the wall. And Mirick, the Singer, the tiny moth and Mighty Angel…was gone.

  “Mirick, Mirick…,” she sobbed. But there was no answer.

  The Voice, full of agony, screamed, “Take her!”

  Instantly she was surrounded with glassy beings. Leaded fingers gripped her body and she was lifted into the air.

  Then the voice cried out, “Awaken!”

  38

  THE MASK

  The Voice…

  The Terrible Voice…

  Within the soul pit Alex’s consciousness groaned. Writhing, he tried to burrow deeper into the darkness where the last shred of who he was had crawled to escape the sucking horror.

  “Awaken!”

  The Voice…

  The Terrible Voice…

  No escape! The Voice was dragging him out, forcing him to fuse with the prison of blood and bone. Slowly he began to feel the heaviness of the flesh, to hear the beating of a heart, and he hated it; he wanted to be dead. Then splinters of remembering, splinters of the last things. The old man and the singing monster. The shrieking. The surging up from his belly.

  “Awaken!”

  The Voice…

  The Terrible Voice…

  But what was this?

  It was coming from outside…through the ear holes. Alex began to realize that he was alone—alone inside himself. The crawling nightmare was gone. But it brought no relief, no joy, because what he wanted most of all was to be dead, dead and gone forever. His soul had been sucked down to nothing, the consciousness that had called itself “Alex,” the thing that had lived in his body from the moment he was born, that had strutted and lusted and raged and hated, what was it now? A speck without a name, a pinprick quivering in the darkness where the horror had squatted and sucked until there was nothing left but the invisible “skin” of “self” that had contained the knowledge of who he was.

  “Awaken!”

  Gasping…wheezing…grunting…Alex opened his eyes. He was lying on his back and above him drifted a blurry vastness.

  “Stand up!”

  Flopping over onto his belly, he struggled to push himself to his hands and knees.

  “Stand up!”

  Finally on his feet, teetering back and forth like a bag of blood propped on a two-legged stool. As he rubbed his eyes, vague images appeared; in front of him were stained-glass demons and they were holding something, no, someone. A girl. And the girl was holding a baby. Who was the girl? Somebody…somebody…trying to remember. And then she screamed, “Alex!”

  His name.

  Yes, that was his name.

  And hers…it was…Tori.

  Why did he know that? Now she was crying, calling out his name over and over. He whispered hers. She saw him do it and it made her cry even more.

  “Turn around!”

  The Voice…

  Turning, he saw the Nightmare above him.

  Run…

  Hide…

  Crawl back into the pit.

  But he couldn’t move. All he could do was stare and twitch and tremble.

  “Take the child! Take him from her!”

  What was he supposed to do? The girl named Tori was screaming at him, “Don’t…Alex! Don’t! Please, don’t kill the baby!”

  “Take the child! Take him from her!”

  Stumbling forward, he tried to obey. But the Tori-girl fought and kicked. Finally the glass monsters forced her to let go, and the baby fell into his hands. He stared into its eyes.

  He knew who he was.

  He was Alex Lancaster. And the girl named Tori was his little sister. As he stared into the eyes of the child,
all of it came flooding back. He was someone! He was a person and he was alive!

  “Look at me!”

  Alex looked up…and his heart shriveled. Above him was another set of eyes, and from them flowed waves of loathing that obliterated all but the vilest memories. Staring up into the Darkness of those eyes he knew who he really was and who he would be forever. No one! A vile, empty, worthless slave! The eyes told him all of that, and in the depths of his being, he knew it was true. Suddenly he was burning with thirst, but not for water, a thirst for dying, a thirst to drown the filth of his nothingness in an ocean of eternal sleep.

  “Walk up the stairs. Walk!”

  He stumbled to obey. Such excruciating pain! The flesh was so heavy. Like an old man, one step at a time, Alex lurched and staggered up into the steaming mist. Roar-singing voices drowned out his sister’s screams. He heard scraping, the grinding rumble of stone on stone. When he reached the top, the floor was broken in front of him. The oil was oozing into a chasm of velvet darkness. As he stared into the hole, a voice whispered, “Think only of yourself. Think only of sleep without dreams, without guilt, without sorrow. All you have to do is hold the child, close your eyes, and fall. Death will bring eternal sleep.”

  So tired.

  So desperate for sleep.

  And the darkness looked so soft and inviting. He leaned forward.

  Almost ready to do it. Almost…

  But something held him back. He felt a strange warmth in his arms. Looking down, he caught his breath. The baby…the warmth was coming from Him and His eyes were so beautiful. As he stared into them, he heard a soft voice whisper in his heart.

  “Alex, I love you.”

  A new voice. Not the voice of a child. A voice that was gentle and strong. In the voice and in the eyes there was such sorrow. Sorrow and love…for him.

  “Alex…I love you.”

  A sliver of light.

  “ALEX, I LOVE YOU…”

  Juddering shock.

  “ALEX, I LOVE YOU!”

  The soft voice was drowned out by a mocking, rasping taunt: ALEX, I LOVE YOU! That voice! He knew that voice! It was the voice he hated. It was the voice of his father.