Until the End

by Rick Wood

  She edged in, not averting her eyes from it for a second. Henry hovered in the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” Thea asked.

  “What can I do?”

  “You don’t fool me.”

  “Fool you?”

  “I know you’re stronger than this.”

  “My dear, when I am strong enough to free myself from this bed, I assure you, I will. And it will not be long.”

  Was it a lie? Was what she felt wrong? Had it not grown in power?

  “You’re going to lose,” Thea said defiantly. “You disgusting little–”

  A jolt of her body followed a quick slice of pain across her chest, and she fell to her knees, coughing.

  She pushed herself up. Ran out of the room. Slammed the door behind her, pounded down the stairs, fell to her knees.

  She panted. She still felt it. It was a searing, awful pain.

  She lifted her top.

  From above her left breast to her right hip was a slit. An open wound, blood trickling out. Like a claw had dug into the surface of her skin and dragged itself downwards.

  She covered her chest up again, ignoring the patch of blood appearing through her top.

  “What is it?” Henry asked.

  Should she let him see it? Would it not scare him more?

  It could not do that yesterday. Or even an hour ago.

  Henry looked expectantly at her, and she had nothing to say.

  She was in charge. She had to lead him. She had to make the decisions. But all she could think about was how much she dreaded what was to come, and begged for Oscar to hurry.

  17

  “Let me ask you a question for a change,” Om said, walking studiously around the outskirts of the temple with his hands behind his back.

  Oscar followed, hands in his pockets. They were walking casually, yet they were striding. He couldn’t decide whether to relax and saunter, or hurry to keep up.

  “Is evil an intrinsic characteristic or an external force?” Om asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As in, is evil something within all of us, or is it something that comes from outside and attacks us?”

  “It’s something from outside. All humanity can do evil, but grand acts of evil require an intervention with divine evil. It is something that attacks us.”

  “Is it?”

  “Why, what do you think it is?”

  Om stopped. Stood upon a large stone overlooking the forest. Oscar stopped too, looking over the beautiful view. He wondered how difficult it was for Om, never being able to leave this temple, but seeing what beauty there was beyond it.

  Then again, the guy didn’t seem discontented. He didn’t appear to want to leave. He had no use for the world beyond his home. Om had already been keen to emphasise that he owned nothing.

  “Prince Siddhartha was once approached by Mara.”

  “Prince Siddhartha?”

  “Buddha.”

  “Ah.”

  “Mara approached with the appearance of having the prince’s interests. His aim was to give him what he was tempted by, what he felt he needed, to weaken his resolve. Do you know what the prince said?”

  “What?”

  “He recognised who Mara was. He said he saw Mara’s troops around him and that, even if the rest of the world could not defeat Mara’s army, he would defeat it with wisdom.”

  “That’s all great, but wisdom doesn’t really defeat the mass of demons possessing all these victims.”

  “You think Buddha was referring to Mara’s demons when he referred to his troops?”

  “You think he wasn’t?”

  Om took one of his many pauses where he would take a breath, look around, and appear to contemplate his next words.

  “Condemning someone or something as evil is counterproductive. It implies it is okay to do them harm.”

  “If I perform an exorcism, I will do it to cause that demon harm. How else will I do it?”

  “That is your problem. Do not aim to fight the demon; instead, aim to free the victim.”

  “But I don’t under–”

  “Watch this.”

  Om pointed to the leaf on a nearby tree. Attached to it was a spider’s web, with a large spider that made Oscar shudder. Oscar did not like spiders, and he went to turn away.

  “Watch,” Om said, and Oscar unwillingly turned his head back.

  A fly of some kind had been trapped in the web. The spider crawled across its web, reaching the fly, and spread its mouth over the fly’s head. Within minutes, the fly was eaten.

  Oscar grimaced.

  “Why did that spider eat the fly?” Om asked.

  “I don’t know.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Oscar shrugged. “Because it is in its nature, maybe? To survive. Or instinct.”

  “So you do not consider the spider evil?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Because it is in its nature?”

  “Yes.”

  Om smiled.

  “What?” Oscar said.

  “Do you really not see the point I am making?”

  “All I see is a spider eating a fly.”

  “Which is in its nature. Yet, what if Mara ate the fly? Is that because it is in Mara’s nature, or because Mara is evil?”

  “I–”

  Oscar went to respond, but realised he had no response.

  Om turned once again, continued walking, and Oscar followed. Om allowed the silence to linger, giving a chance for the lesson to become clear — but Oscar was struggling to comprehend exactly what Om was saying.

  Oscar sighed. The more he thought about the answers, the more he hated the questions.

  “To answer my earlier question,” he said, “as to whether evil is an intrinsic characteristic or an external force — why can it not be both? You fight that demon with aggression, and that cannot work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Evil can only weaken a lesser evil. But Mara is the strongest evil there is — there is no evil greater. And aggression can only come from evil. So how do you expect to defeat Mara with it?”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Defeat evil with good — something you have never done before. You must let go of what you perceive to be evil and relieve yourself of the burden of belief.”

  “What belief?”

  “The belief that Mara is something to be angry with.”

  Oscar stopped walking. He huffed, hands on his hips, and looked over the view, frustrated and annoyed. He knew there was a lesson in there, but it all just sounded like words, and he had a continuous headache that was only getting bigger.

  Om kept walking a few paces then, when he realised Oscar was not with him, he stopped.

  “I can’t look at something evil without knowing how evil it is,” Oscar said.

  “You are attached to your perceptions, as much as you are attached to your anger toward your friends. This is Mara’s work. You must let go of it if you are to stand a chance.”

  “But The Devil is evil. How am I supposed to just pretend he’s not?”

  “Because it is not up to you to make such a judgement.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  Om said nothing. He watched Oscar, not perturbed or annoyed, just curious — then walked on.

  Oscar hurried to catch up.

  “So I should let go of everything that makes me human?” he asked, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice.

  “No, you should let go of everything that has Mara’s influence. Whether it be memories, beliefs, experiences or people that force you to hold on to your anger; you have to let them go. It takes someone who is truly divine to defeat Mara.”

  “I’m not holding onto anger.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No! I am not! I mean, I wish things could be different, but I’m not angry.”

  “Then tell me of a person, past or present, who you consider yourself to not be angry with?”

&n
bsp; Oscar went to speak, but found he could not answer.

  He was mad at Julian for being so condescending. For hating him for loving April, for always having to ruin happy moments with truth.

  He was mad at his parents for being mad at him. He hated them for never believing that he was being bullied as a child. He hated them for their disappointment in his lack of ambition as a teenager, and their unwillingness to accept his chosen career.

  He was mad at April for going into Hell to rescue him. He was mad at Lacy for letting her. He was mad at Henry for not going home like the rest of the recruits. And he was mad at Thea, but to be honest, he wasn’t even sure why.

  “Have you just thought about all the people you are mad at?”

  Oscar rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I have.”

  “And I bet not one of them was Mara. Your devil.”

  Oscar went to object, but thought — Om was right. He hadn’t.

  “He is the one who’s caused all this torment, and yet you direct your anger at your friends.”

  “But I–”

  “That anger you have against Mara rules all of your emotions. That is why you can’t let go of the perception. Yet, if you keep it up, you may find yourself hating your way to losing everything.”

  They walked onwards but did not speak.

  They didn’t need to. Oscar already had so much to reflect on.

  18

  Oscar needed a break away from Om to think, so he took a walk outside the temple, through the forest. All around him trees hugged each other, animals sang their mating calls, and life flourished in its absence of humankind.

  It wasn’t easy, being forced to question himself. He didn’t believe that he always made the right decision, of course he didn’t — but he believed he tried.

  But to say that he was fuelling the Mara within, that he was feeding the evil inside, that he was battling The Devil with The Devil’s own creations…

  Maybe it just showed how clever his opponent was. He wasn’t just a master of evil, but a master of manipulation, bringing out the characteristics in Oscar that The Devil knew would mean he had no chance.

  But how was Oscar supposed to change? What, was he supposed to just let go of a lifetime of resentment? To suddenly not care about the torment he faced in childhood, the battles he’d engaged with, the demons that had tormented him. Bertrand, Hayley, Father O’Neil — was he meant to be stop being angry at them?

  Honestly, he did not know if he could. He’d spent such a long time harnessing this anger, and using it to fuel his victories, that he did not know how he was supposed to stop it from affecting him.

  Was he really that angry?

  He decided, right there and then, that he would not be angry, or jealous, or envious, or resentful, or ungrateful. He closed his eyes and told himself the world was good, that The Devil did not deserve his judgement, that…

  He failed.

  He looked to his feet, shaking his head. The tension in his body grew. His biceps tightened, his breathing quickened, his legs shook.

  April had given birth to a child that had systematically destroyed their lives. Hayley, or Lamia as she was truly called, had controlled him, influenced him, and made him almost kill April. Was he supposed to forgive that demon for almost destroying the life they had built?

  Father O’Neil had appeared as a mentor, disguising the demon that had amalgamated years before they met. He manipulated Julian, April and Oscar into a temporary absence from this world, and brought on its end in doing so. Was he supposed to pretend that this mess would not have been created had O’Neil not been successful? That his bringing forth the demons of Hell had not prompted thousands of deaths?

  What of the demon that forced Julian to slice his own throat? Was he supposed to pretend that had never happened?

  And now, at that very moment, The Devil was destroying April. April was probably in agonising torture, simply because she tried to rescue Oscar.

  Oscar’s anger fuelled him. It gave him strength. It powered him. It drove him forward in this battle — it was his motivation. It was the reason he was here; the reason he was listening Om’s lessons. And now he was not only being told to let it go, but to avoid acknowledging that The Devil was evil?

  His body tensed, the anger grew, and he swung his fist at a nearby tree.

  Stupid move. Now his fist hurt, and his skin was cracked.

  Another silly wound created by a silly action.

  He paused by a tree stump. Sat on it. Looked up at the branches blocking out the blue sky.

  He was so very far away from home. It was so peaceful. Animals lived their lives untouched by the destruction of mankind. Oscar wondered what this forest would look like after The Devil had set it alight. The fire would spread quickly through the trees, destroying the untouched beauty with little care for the life it harnessed.

  Oscar lost track of time, sitting there, thinking about the world he had come to hate, amongst part of the world he could grow to love. He knew he should return, that time was limited, and Om probably had many more complicated philosophies to share.

  He just didn’t want to return.

  He wanted to stay here.

  If April was beside him, he would. They would wait until dark, hand in hand, saying nothing.

  Words could never say what silence could.

  It reminded him what he was fighting for. If he could save the world, then great — but it was April he needed. It always was.

  But it was his attachment to April that made him hate The Devil.

  He huffed.

  Why did this all have to fall on him?

  A decade ago, he’d be finishing his shift behind the supermarket checkouts, returning home, and shutting away the world. He would close his curtains, put on his Xbox, and refuse to acknowledge that anyone else existed.

  He’d wished for something greater, now he wished for something simpler.

  A year later, he and April were in their own home, and she was pregnant.

  He froze that memory, not allowing his thoughts to continue any further through time, like his mind had taken a picture and he was watching it develop.

  If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend that nothing else had ever happened, and that there was nothing for him to be angry about.

  But denial was of no use to his situation. He had to return to the temple where Om would be waiting for him, ready to tell him he was wrong for holding on so tightly to thoughts that did nothing but torture him.

  19

  Oscar lay in bed — or, at least, something resembling a bed. His clothes were piled upon the stone, and he was trying to ignore the bumps in his back.

  All the day’s conversations were just starting to settle in on him, and he was attempting to make some clarity out of it. He had spent the day getting less frustrated as things began to make sense, then more frustrated when they no longer did; like he was on a constant pendulum that slowed down then sped up whenever it felt like it.

  He had spent the rest of that day learning about Buddha’s Four Noble Truths.

  Om had told him that there was the truth of suffering, the truth of the cause of suffering, truth of the end of suffering, and truth of the path that led to the end of suffering.

  “Suffering exists,” Om had told him. “It has a cause, but it also has an end, but it has a cause to bring about its end.”

  Oscar had made Om pause so he could repeat those words to himself.

  “That’s a bit miserable, isn’t it?” he’d objected.

  “I can understand why you may see it that way, but it is not intended to create a negative worldview. Instead, it is an acceptance of the world as it is, and that acceptance allows us to rectify it. It is a contingency plan to deal with the suffering humanity faces.”

  “And what is that plan?”

  “Karma.”

  “Karma? Isn’t that the idea that bad things happen to someone who’s bad? I thought you said bad didn’t exist?”

  “Finally, you
are asking the right questions. That is not the real concept of Karma, it is how you in the west have interpreted it.”

  “So what is Karma then?”

  “It is cause and effect. The idea that things are because things have been. But if this is true, it also means that things are because things will be. And those causes you still have control over.”

  Even now, as he rested, going over those words again and again, Oscar was still struggling to understand.

  There was no evil, yet he’d been fighting evil his entire life.

  There was suffering because it has been caused, and it will end.

  Things are because of cause and therefore cause can…

  He ran his hands over his head. He’d lost himself again.

  He tried to quiet his mind. Leave the thoughts until tomorrow. They could wait for him to rest. He was so tired.

  He went inside his bag and pulled out the one thing he could not do without.

  A picture. Sunny day. He was in it, but he was not the focus.

  The focus was on the beautiful, vibrant being next to him. The woman that he has done everything for. The woman for which he fought. She looked so different to how he’d left her. So healthy. So alive.

  Nothing destroying her from the inside.

  He wondered how much she was suffering. How much it hurt. How much she could endure before she begged for mercy.

  Those thoughts weren’t helpful. He willed them away, and just focussed on the picture. On the April he knew.

  He closed his eyes, held onto that thought, and kept it with him until he fell asleep.

  20

  Henry slept in a sleeping bag, on an airbed, on the floor of Thea’s room. The spare room was ready for him, with fresh sheets and plenty of space, but he did not wish to use it. He could not bear to be on his own and, even though Thea hadn’t said it, he had a feeling Thea couldn’t either.

  In a strange, unexpected way, they missed the noises. Those clatters and bangs and rumbles of the ceiling that terrified them had stopped and, in the silence, they found a far more unsettling kind of terror. An eerie sense that something was wrong, but they did not know what.