 Visit www.wraithsandworlds.com © 2007/2008 Darrin Wilson. All Rights Reserved. Episode Three: Temple of SoulsTINSELED SUTURES of hard rain fell at Heathrow airport making the tarmac glisten like a sheet of glass. Steel gray storm clouds hid the midday sun and darkened the landscape. A cold wind thrust the rain across the runways and buffeted windsocks all over the airport. The Gulfstream G150 descended gracefully nevertheless and quickly touched down on the tarmac with a wet squeal. Inside, Abigail Moon and Gloria Devon sat contented within the folds of butter soft lambs leather in a cabin that offered the comforting luxury of quaint wet bars and entertainment systems. Quietly sipping their champagne, the two of them waited patiently as the plane taxied to a stop. A limousine waited. A black Mercedes Benz outfitted with a special lift to accommodate wheelchairs. Abigail and Gloria were quickly and effortlessly shuttled into the car with the prissy speed of employees’ conscious of their boss’ impatience. The drive to Canterbury was a quiet one. Gloria had never been to England before and marveled at the quaint English cottages dotting the rolling countryside. Abigail was, as always, silent and introspective. "Abigail," Gloria said quietly. "I wish you could see this." Abigail turned toward the window and reached out with her mind’s eye. "I think we’re here," Gloria said. Abigail leaned forward as if she saw with twenty-twenty vision. "Yes we are." The limousine turned off of the main road and began a long drive up a private road that acted as the driveway to Mercian’s Gate: the palatial estate of Jonathan Sand. Gloria’s eyes became wider the farther up the driveway they ascended. The English Stone Manor on the outskirts of Canterbury boasted four floors and a sprawling layout accommodating one hundred and seventy-eight rooms including the servant’s quarters. Most of the rooms on the first floor flaunted airy nineteen-foot ceilings suggested by the large bay windows. The rooms situated above the main floor were just as spacious. The lot featured two tennis courts and a golf course. All this apparent from merely driving up to the front door. The limousine rounded the fountain at the center courtyard’s circular promenade and stopped in front of the main doors. Gloria’s attention was glued to the pair of stone statues flanking the steps up to the huge front doors. Large, dragon-like sculptures depicting brutal effigies straight out of Dante’s Inferno greeted all visitors. "How rich is this guy?" Gloria said with a clear tremor in her voice. Abigail nodded knowingly but her thoughts remained her own. The limousine halted and an elderly uniformed gentleman opened the door and activated the wheelchair lift. Gloria stepped out to assist. Both she and Abigail were dressed smartly. This was a very special occasion. After they both exited the car, the uniformed man introduced himself. "My name’s Frobart," he said. "Welcome to Mercian’s Gate. I’ll have your luggage taken care of." "Thank you," Abigail said. "Is Mr. Sand here?" "Yes. Please, this way. He’s waiting for you." The three of them entered the Manor house and vanished behind huge oak doors. Just as Gloria suspected, the interior of the manor was as magnificent as the exterior. She wheeled Abigail behind Frobart in silent awe occasionally tucking a strand of thick black hair behind her ear. Her chunky heeled shoes clacked loudly on the marbled floor, "Do you think my shoes are too loud?" "Stop fussing," Abigail said. They were led into a massive open foyer. Enormous, antique portraits of people in Victorian dress adorned the walls. Immeasurable Scottish tapestries stretched across vast expanses about them. Marble sculptures populated the floor. An ornately carved, multi-tiered ceiling oversaw all. The subtle scent of lavender flowers and musty stone wafted through the hall. It was quite pleasant albeit too museum-like for Gloria’s taste. They were led down a great gallery: a hall constructed from white marble, flanked with life-sized carvings of men and women from numerous European ages in varying poses of battle. The visual impact of the hall was staggering. "You may wait for your host in the Library," Frobart said and indicated a room off to the left. Gloria cautiously wheeled Abigail through the arched portal and into another marbled vestibule. Frobart remained in the hall and said politely, "Through the far doors please." Gloria looked at the closed wooden doors at the end of the vestibule then glanced back at him. "Through those doors?" "Yes. Please. Just open them and go inside. Your host will be with you shortly." "Okay." She stepped around Abigail and approached the lavishly carved door. She turned the brass doorknob with the caution of a cat. Both doors swung open and lights immediately came on inside. Abigail took a deep breath and tried to relax. It’s true; Abigail sensed an underlying menace when Sand and his associate approached them at the funeral. But she realized afterwards that perhaps it was just her natural paranoia screaming in her ear. It had been that way ever since her husband died. As of late, her trepidation had become a hindrance and had prevented her from enjoying a great many things. She realized she hadn’t, in fact, moved on even though it had been eight years since her husband’s passing. Perhaps it was time to open up a little bit. That’s what she thought. Sand was odd and even a little scheming but when he extended the invitation to visit him in England she made the decision to let go. Despite the many inner voices screaming to not trust him. "Let’s go," Abigail said. Behind them, the doors closed by themselves and latched shut. The Library resided at the end of a narrow wallpapered hallway. When Gloria wheeled Abigail to the end of the passage, a giant circular room blossomed before them. Needles of rain impacted upon the glassed dome that acted as the ceiling thirty feet above. The mighty grandeur of the Library was not lost on Gloria. She slowly wheeled Abigail around the perimeter of the room in silent wonder. Abigail sensed the open space and craned her neck upward. "What do you see, Gloria? What’s it like?" Gloria’s voice was hushed as if she was afraid her dialogue might disturb the majestic sculptures around her. "Well," she began, "we’re in a round room… maybe as big as your sitting room at home. But the ceiling goes up… must be thirty feet." "Yes," Abigail said. "I can hear the rain. It must be glass." "Yes it is. All glass. The whole ceiling. And… spaced out against the wall are five stone sculptures. Like guardian angels with huge wings stretching up toward the roof like they are holding it up. Must’ve cost a fortune. The walls in between are covered in reddish wallpaper that looks like it illustrates some kind of story that goes all the way around the room. There are characters and animals all acting out all kinds of scenes. I don’t know what they mean." "What about these statues and tables all around us?" Abigail asked. "You can sense that?" "I can sense a great many things. Our host Mr. Sand is an avid collector. Most of the items in this room are giving off a great deal of psychic turbulence. I’m finding it very hard to focus. I do not want to be in this room for any longer than I have to." "Really," Gloria said concerned. "What do you see?" "Well," Gloria swallowed hard. "There are about eight or nine separate tables. All of them have… statues on them." "What kind of statues?" "Demons of course," Sand said. He had entered the room from a door on the opposite side. His demeanor was pleasant and jovial. "Demons from all over the world." "Mr. Sand," Abigail said. "You call this room the Library yet there are no books are there?" "Impressive," he said approaching. "I trust Gloria said nothing." "She didn’t have to," Abigail said. "Your collection is… it stands out." Sand gestured to the tables. "No doubt you are wondering about this room and its contents." "I don’t think I want to know," Gloria said flatly. "Ahh, but I think you do," Sand said. "There are no books because this is a Library of perceptions." "Perceptions of what?" Abigail inquired. His voice leveled out and became sedated. "Of evil, of course." "These statues," Gloria commented, "are grotesque. Obscene." Sand raised his manicured eyebrows at her. "Oh? Your personal perception of evil perhaps?" "What’s your perception, exactly?" "It’s shaped by thousands of years of history. In this room are the representations of man’s darkest hours. Where he peels back the layers of his humanity… to reveal the black heart I believe is present in all of us. Whether we choose to explore it… or bury it." "That’s very distrustful of the human condition," Abigail said. "Not really," he replied. He moved his hands up and down like a pair of scales. "One can’t exist without the other: good and evil. They balance us. Define us. You know, it’s no coincidence the universe is made up of pairs. Day and night, man and woman, life and death. Heaven and Hell. Complete opposites making up the fabric of our existence. Working together to maintain total equilibrium. But what of the darker half? How does it work? How does it affect us? Where did it come from? These are questions I have worked a lifetime to answer." "And how’s it going?" Abigail asked whimsically. Sand grinned. "I’ve discovered much. If you’ll indulge me for a moment; allow me to introduce to you some of my more powerful discoveries." Sand walked over to a carved depiction of a three-foot tall stone figurine. It was hunched over and resembled a somewhat deformed and malevolent version of the mythical Chimera. "This is Pejoranox," he said. "A splinter of Judeo-Christian mysticism. A demon with origins dating back to biblical times. This one was discovered underneath a rare circular cemetery in Camber’s Mill in nineteen thirty-three… in Northern England. For years, the estate built on the perimeter of the cemetery was plagued with poltergeist activity no one could explain. The owner of the estate finally went mad and dug up the graves. He removed the bodies and cemented them in the walls of his mansion believing the house itself called him to do so. Of course the desecration revealed something buried under the graveyard. Right in the center of the circle." Sand smiled and patted his statue. "Four human skeletons were discovered embracing Pejoranox. No coffins. Just the bodies, buried alive. The archeologists believed the bodies and the sculpture had been buried there for over nine hundred years, long before the graveyard or the mansion was erected. The only mention of this demon is in the book of Emochon. Which leads me to my next prized possession." Sand ambled over to another table: one hosting a slightly smaller sculpture. One of black stone. A bipedal creature with two great spires jutting from its shoulders with a corpse-like face and insects swarming its body. "This," Sand said, placing his hand softly on the creature’s arm. "This is Moniades. Long thought to be Darkness itself. Ironically this demon began life as a human being. A man named Akshelar Saturaal. He lived at the dawn of the Iron Age in what we now know as coastal Lebanon in the ancient Kingdom of Phoenicia. The brutal murder of his wife by marauders caused him to be so overcome by fury and bloodlust, he attracted the attention of a demon called Pellemn. They mated and joined, and together they became Moniades The Destroyer. The Byzantine Christians were the first to recognize him. Fantastic." Sand crossed between two tables to pause at a third. A statue of a cloaked man with great horns stood in a contorted position as if shielding himself from the sun. "This is a species of Djinn, an Islamic demon that some believe are genies. An enemy of Allah and Muhammad and follower of Iblis." "What is that one?" Gloria said pointing to a hideous apparition resting on a far table. Sand walked over and stood beside it. He frowned and regarded the large, five-foot tall statue with clear unease. It was shapeless. Resembling a mound of scaled flesh with curved mandibles extending outward like feelers. Under the knoll of flesh that appeared to be the body, hid numerous tentacles that propped it up on its pedestal. "This, my friends, has to be the one I most want to unlock the secrets to," Sand said. "Above all others, it’s my favorite." "That’s your favorite?" Gloria reviled. "Oh yes, ladies. This one I am compelled to learn more about. I acquired it quite by accident. It was concealed under the wooden foundation of a ruined tenth century church in Romania. The white stone is an unlikely mix of real animal bone and granite. As if it’s not a statue at all… but a fossil. Had the authorities gotten their hands on it, it would surely be in the basement of the Smithsonian by now. Trouble is no one knew where it came from, or to what demonic family it belonged. I was fascinated of course and I bought it for the equivalent of ten thousand pounds. A surprising bargain. It was only after I traveled to Syria on one of my expeditions that I came across a monk who knew what it was. After some… persuading, he informed me that this represents a creature of the afterlife. Literally a group of psychic beings that aren’t part of religious theology, as we know it. It is apparently a belief in some circles that these beings became hidden by God." "Hidden by God?" Gloria was enraptured and fascinated. "What does that mean?" "As if God Himself didn’t want His children to know of the existence of these creatures. Some believe we are all meant to end up in the belly of one of these after we die. It’s called a Veonissic. And its sculptor remains as mysterious as the piece itself. It’s priceless." "Your knowledge of demonic entities is very impressive," Abigail said. "My book will be part of your collection?" Sand grinned from ear to ear. "Oh yes. Definitely. In fact," he said patting the statue, "the Veonissic is one of the reasons I have been searching for the Alyntraphia for these many years. The book reveals everything about them." "Then it’s true," Gloria confirmed. "Our book is real?" He approached Gloria from around the table. "Oh yes, I’ve had it verified. The true text. It’s already revealed things about the Veonissics that have haunted me for years. Tell me, did you have any problems informing your loved ones of your impromptu vacation?" "No," Abigail said. "They quite understood." Sand smiled. "And they agreed you are not to be disturbed by phones, emails or anything that reminds you of the real world?" Gloria laughed. "They agreed. It’s about time. I haven’t had a real vacation in years." Sand smiled. "Good! I’m so glad you accepted my invitation. We must celebrate. To my new acquisition and your new status as millionaires. I am eternally grateful to you. You have successfully ended my lifelong quest and I owe you a debt of gratitude. You will stay here for two weeks of relaxation, feasting and doing whatever you like. With no interruptions. I want you to escape the stresses and pressures of your everyday lives and celebrate with me. Even if it’s just watching TV! I have a home theater you wouldn’t believe and any movie you can imagine. My home is yours!" Gloria laughed. Abigail smiled and merely nodded. Sand turned to one of the tables behind him. "What are you going to do with the money?" Gloria smiled. "We don’t know yet. But thank you. Thank you so much. This is going to a fun two weeks." Sand casually unfolded an object on the table behind him from its silk swath. "Oh yes it is, Gloria. Two weeks should be just enough time." Abigail sensed something unusual in Sand’s voice. A nuance Gloria didn’t pick up. "Gloria." Abigail said. "Where are you, honey?" "And I must say, ladies," Sand continued, "It is a great pleasure to have finally met both of you." Sand picked up the shiny black object. It was a vintage Smith and Wesson six-shooter. He pointed it at Gloria and shot her in the forehead at point blank range. The crack was loud and echoed through the Library. Gloria immediately collapsed and a strong odor of spent gunpowder wafted through the room. Sand bolted toward Abigail and knelt down in front of her to stop her screaming. He pressed the hot nozzle of the gun to Abigail’s cheek and she yelped. He immediately pulled the gun away and held it steadfast over her face. "Abigail. Abigail! Stop screaming. Stop. Stop." Sand covered her mouth forcefully. "Now listen to me very carefully. Gloria’s dead. Accept it." Abigail, in tears, just shook her head and grasped at his arms. Sand pushed down her hands easily and held them to her lap. Sand gritted his teeth. "Abigail! Listen. You can scream all you want. These walls are sound proof and besides, no one in this house has anything to say about the events that transpire here. Do you understand? I rule." Abigail nodded stiffly. "I have no reservations about shooting you right now. But that’s up to you. It’s very important you listen to what I have to say. If you cooperate, I will let you go. I’m going to take my hand away. Then I will explain to you what I want. As I said it won’t help you to scream. Just listen. All right?" Restrained and in shock, she nodded again. "Okay," Sand cautiously removed his hand from her mouth and lowered the gun. Abigail remained silent, albeit petrified. Sand was calm and collected and even cracked a smile as he closely studied Abigail’s distraught face. "That’s better. Now. Let’s talk about what I want." As Maru’s people hurriedly tightened their pelts and packed up satchels of extra skins, Grace sat tending to her impossible wound in a far corner of the cave. She vigilantly covered the gash with her pelt, careful not to press on it. Although it didn’t pose an immediate threat, it was still tender to the touch. Deacon sat close by watching the cave’s activity unfold. "You know, Grace, you’re like a breath of fresh air." She looked up at him sitting just out of arm’s reach. "What do you mean?" He didn’t bother to look at her. His focus was on the high bustle in the cave. "Most of these people didn’t even challenge Maru. Just blindly accepted his word as gospel." "And what about you?" He smiled, looked at the ground and returned the question knowing full well what the answer was. "What about me?" "You’re not like the others," she said. "You seem to have a brain." He laughed. "Don’t be too hard on them. They’ve gone through Hell. And now they’re going through another kind of Hell." "Deacon, what makes Maru think God is in the mountains?" He hesitated; looked at the ground. "About a year ago, we all encountered another group of people. We brought them in. They had come across the ice cap from farther out. They told stories of a great kingdom on the dark side of the mountains. They told of others making the pilgrimage across the ice to visit it. They said a great man resided there. They had seen Him. Spoke to Him. A bearded man. A man with infinite knowledge. They called him Jehovah." "And that’s what convinced you? A story?" "They had with them something they were trying to trade for skins." "What?" "Myrrh." Grace sat forward. "Myrrh?" "The resin of a tree native to Somalia and Ethiopia. A kind of tree that couldn’t possibly survive here, let alone produce myrrh." "Wasn’t myrrh—" "Yes. One of the gifts of the Magi to the baby Jesus." "And that did it for you?" "Well, that and the fact they had somehow become human." "What do you mean?" "They bled. They showed us. They were all able to generate body heat just by pumping blood like we all used to do when we were alive. Better than these bloodless shells we inhabit now. They had asked God to keep them warm and it became so." Grace absorbed his answer for a moment realizing the importance. Then, "Where are these people now?" Deacon shook his head. "We don’t know. They spent one night… then they were gone. Left while we slept. We never saw them again but ever since we’ve been here, we’ve seen groups of people out on the ice below us. Traveling single file toward the mountain ranges. We call them Godwalkers. It was enough to convince Maru… convince us… something was on the other side of those mountains. If you can make it without being taken." "Do you think He’s there? God?" He inhaled deeply and exhaled. "I hope so. We need some kind of hope." Grace marveled at the notion of meeting God face to face but something held her back from conveying it to him. "I don’t think I’m ready to meet God," she said. "Not yet." He smiled. "That’s okay. When you’re ready, you’ll know." Grace scanned the cave. She saw two dogs, Golden Retrievers, chase and play with each other as men and women walked past and around them to get to various parts of the cave. Some knelt at the front entrance of tents untying sinews. Others packed up scraps of wood and logs scattered all over the ground. Occasional orders were barked and people took attendance. It was if everyone were preparing for battle. Grace shivered. "I haven’t seen any food. Or water." "Are you hungry? Or thirsty?" Grace thought for a moment. "Not really." "There’s no food because we don’t need to eat. Don’t ask me how I don’t know. I can only guess it has something to do with our new makeup." "Seeing all this…" she said, "it’s unbelievable. This is truly like some kind of nightmare. It’s so cold here." "Why do you think you get cold spots in old houses where ghosts supposedly roam? If you’re lucky enough to get to the other side and live as a ghost, a little bit of this place slips through as well." "How do you get to the other side?" "You mean how do you become a ghost." "I guess so. Yes." "All I know is… the materialization itself: the process to get here is flawed. Has been since… forever." "Really?" "Yes. The way I see it, the energy released into the air when we die attracts or creates a chaotic, high-velocity vortex of some kind. Just like a vacuum cleaner it sucks up this unique energy that we give off, and funnels it into a wormhole. All this is invisible, of course, to the living. It happens just below the vision threshold. Just like UV light." "How do you know?" Deacon lifted himself and tucked his feet beneath him. "Because when the storm above eases up you can see through it. You can see the lightshow just before something arrives. It’s shaped like a vortex: a wormhole. We can see it because it’s happening in this antimatter world." "You sound like a Star Trek episode. What’s a wormhole?" "An aspect of quantum field theory and general relativity. You want the easy explanation? Basically it’s a shortcut through space and time. It’s believed wormholes might be formed in regions of intense gravitational fields—which I believe could have something to do with changing our regular matter into antimatter. Because energy’s not created nor destroyed, it can just be changed. Changed by intense gravity. That’s the force I believe is responsible for our shift in composition. I think somewhere beyond the sky we see is a black hole. I don’t know for sure but I think that’s the case." "Were you a scientist?" "Particle physics. I was a teacher." Grace shook her head and laughed. "Well, I have no clue what you just said. I just want to know how you can become a ghost." "Yes. Now the wormhole has snags. When you die and start traveling through, sometimes the energy gets caught in backcurrents and rifts and gets spat back out as dark matter on earth—like a car backfiring." "What happens then?" "Ghosts happen. It’s the luck of the draw. That’s why not everybody crosses over. Some are left behind. Only they don’t know it. They just swirl around as proton molecules looking for someone or something to tether onto." "Like houses… or people." "Yes. Poltergeist. Hauntings. All just backfired energy. I’d love to prove it all but this is a one-way ticket. There’s no going back and there are no computers here." "Is there any room for God in your theory?" Deacon laughed. "I guess somebody must be controlling the wormhole. Why not God?" Grace was taken by his inquisitiveness. She smiled at him and she found her eyes lingering on his for a scant moment. "Why not?" Maru exited his tent and shouted, "Let’s go people! We leave in three hours—or at least my estimation of three hours. God forgot to let us bring over wristwatches." A nervous, groaning laughter from several individuals. Grace and Deacon watched Maru as he approached. "And what about you?" Maru asked Grace. "Do you want an audience with God?" She looked at Deacon and he, in turn, returned the glance blankly. "Um, I don’t think I’m ready," she said quietly. "I believe you, Maru, I do. But I think I need to prepare myself first. I need a little more time." Maru’s voice was rigid, strained. "Fine. Do what you want." Maru reached down and grabbed a loose pelt satchel lying nearby. He then threw it at Grace’s feet. "Take this. And you better pack some wood before it’s all gone. You’ll need fire. And don’t try to catch up with us." Grace moved the satchel to her side. "Thank you. Thank you for understanding." Maru looked at Deacon. "You going with her?" Deacon stole a look at her. "Yes. I think I am." Grace smiled back at him. "There’ll be no one to rescue you. You’re on your own." Maru spun around and walked away. "Maru!" Deacon shouted. Maru halted. He turned and looked back. Deacon’s expression softened, "If God is there… will you tell Him about us?" Maru said nothing. He stared at Deacon for a second longer, then disappeared into the crowd. "What are we gonna do now?" Grace lamented. "C’mon. We’re gonna find your father." In the tides of the storm, the incessant rain hammered the glass roof of the Library as if it were trying to gain entry. Dozens of feet below, between heavy oak tables nestled among scores of demonic countenances, Jonathan Sand knelt in front of Abigail’s wheelchair intimately. "Don’t move," he said. "I’ll be right back." As Sand raised himself and walked over to the other side of the room, Abigail bolted toward the doors. Sand dashed over and held her wheelchair steadfast. "Ah, where do you think you’re going?" Abigail pitched in her chair, "Let me go! Let me go!" Sand dropped a box of Kleenex on her lap. "Abigail," he said. "The doors are locked. You can’t get out. Just wait a moment, please. And blow your nose." Sand’s voice was so calm… so cold. Abigail concluded he was simply mad. She knew it would be wise to bide her time if she was to live. Perhaps make him think he was in absolute control. That would defend against his clear psychosis. At least temporarily. Enough for her to figure out how to call for help. Across the room, Sand was on the phone. Slamming the receiver down, he once again approached. "Frobart will come and collect the body and take care of the unfortunate clean up." He stepped close, and Abigail lost control briefly. She spat at his face. She regretted it the moment spittle left her mouth. He was a psychopath. His behavior couldn’t be predicted. Her saliva landed on his cheek and he calmly wiped it away. "Well. What do you know about that? Despite your condition your aim is remarkable." "Why did you kill her?" she asked firmly. "What do you want?" "I want two weeks." Her nose crinkled in confusion, "Two weeks?" "Yes. Two weeks of your time. You and I. We’re going to Syria together. Call it a vacation." Sand picked up a notepad from a nearby table and placed it in her hands. "Here," he said. "I want you to read this. It’s Braille. I already know you can read Braille." Passing the pads of her long fingers over the parchment, she winced. "This is not true," she said, still reading. "Believe it, Abigail." She winced again. "A stable portal to the other side cannot be created. It’s not physically possible. It’s science fiction." Sand strode across the room in thought. He bellowed, "Two psychics. Joining forces in the presence of a priest reciting incantations from the Alyntraphia. Ripping a hole in the fabric of space and time to peer into the afterlife: the next dimension. A life achievement for you; a Nobel Prize for me." "You’re not a priest." "Ah, but I am. Schooled in the dark arts many years ago. Can’t you sense my knowledge, Abigail? Hmmm?" "I sense your psychosis. And I sense you’ll be arrested for the cold-blooded murder of Gloria Devon." Sand huffed. "Not yet my dear girl. Besides, money does strange things to people: to organizations. People can protect me. It’s done all the time. Long enough for me to prove the afterlife exists." "And after you prove it? What then?" "I disappear. Satisfied in the knowledge of my discovery. I will be recorded as a visionary. A historian." "You’re a murderer. Plain and simple. You’re scum." Sand just smiled. "I’ll be worshipped by those who will follow my footsteps. You’ll see. I will open the door… the next generation will continue my work." Clearly Abigail wasn’t getting through to him. Better, she thought, to figure out how to escape. Emotions tugged at her consciousness, wanting to break through, but she held on. Her immense spiritual core helped: acted as a barrier, a curtain of strength that cradled her soul in its arms. She couldn’t fall apart yet. It was too late for Gloria. And her life was still in danger. She masked her grief with resoluteness. "Two psychics," she confirmed. "Yes," he said, smiling. "I’ve traveled the world to find your match, Abigail, and it wasn’t easy. Your partner in this exercise resides in Syria. His name is Duon Rodriguez. Banished from his village for practicing witchcraft. He lives in the mountains and we’re going to find him. Actually, you’re going to guide me to him. All of us will return here and we will open up a portal in front of six cameras in my main arcade. All documented for history." "I believe you’ve gone mad, Mr. Sand." "We’ll find out soon enough." Grace’s wound had stopped aching and she had just about forgotten it was there. Carrying a small satchel, she traversed her way around bustling people in the crackling firelight. She picked up scraps of wood left behind as Deacon did the same somewhere on the other side of the grotto. She spotted a perfect branch lying in front of her and reached for it. Her grasp was cut short as a booted foot was placed on the wood preventing her from picking it up. It was another woman: older than Grace with a faded beauty concealed behind lines and wrinkles. "Still don’t believe?" the woman said with a bitter acidity. Grace looked up and made eye contact but said nothing. The woman said, "I don’t think you have the faith it takes to endure a God Walk." Grace sensed this woman was poking for a confrontation. Smiling, Grace said simply, "If one feels they must go on a walk to find God, He was never really in your heart to begin with." The woman scowled, regarded Grace for an instant and moved on. Grace remained there for a moment longer and exhaled in relief. Never had she guessed such petty animosity would’ve been present in the afterlife. And as the hours wore on, she was coming to realize how much the afterlife was like the life she had left behind. She wondered about her family. Her mother. She felt a wave of sorrow wash over her and mentally questioned the validity of everything: birth, life, and death. She wondered about all the bad people who had gone before her: Genghis Khan, Hitler. She wondered about serial killers, murderers, then Mother Teresa. She had an odd thought of Elvis. Where was he? Barry White? Thinking of those music icons made her feel something wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. Briefly, Grace thought if God were here, He would have some explaining to do. "You okay?" It was Deacon. He had approached her and squatted down to her eye level. "Yeah, I’m okay. Just trying to make sense of all this." "Don’t worry. Once we’re on our way, you’ll feel clearer headed. This cave tends to suck the life out of you… no pun intended." "How do we start? I mean, where do we go?" "The mouth of the cave is a steep drop, we can’t go that way." He pointed over his shoulder. "The back of the cave. There are tunnels under the ice cap. Most of them have exit holes and breather tubes to the surface. If we can get off the ice cap quick enough, we can start searching for others. They’re around, we just have to find them." "These creatures up there… won’t they get us?" "Not if we move. We know they’re there, so we can anticipate. It’ll be a challenge but I believe we can do it. They circle first; wait for their prey to stop moving. If you keep moving you can confuse them." "I want to find my father. I don’t care how long it takes. If this is the afterlife, he’s here. Maybe on the ice cap." "Too dangerous to stay on the ice cap for too long. Let alone running around for clues. Think about it: people and animals die every day; every hour; every minute. They’re all materializing right above us in a blinding snowstorm. People up there are easy prey for whatever is taking them." Grace seized his arm tight. "My father was up there. I’m not going to just let him go. You say we’ve got eternity? Then I should be able to spend it how I like. And I’m not going to give up until I find him. You can either help me or you can go with your friends. Either way I’m going back up there." Deacon hesitated. "I admire your spirit. Your father would be proud. I’ll help you. We’ll go up there. Maybe it’ll give us purpose. Give me purpose. I’ve been lacking one for a long time." "Good." Grace started to pack again, forcing wood and skins down into the satchel. "Oh, and Just in case you’re wondering," he added. "You’re immortal now. You can’t die here. But you can still feel pain. That includes the sensation of freezing to death. So make sure you pack extra skins just like I have." She didn’t bother to look up. "Will do." Soon the pair were on their way. Alone and watchful. The glow of the flamed torches Deacon and Grace held bounced off the walls of the tunnel. Icy rock formations lapped up the warm light like a thirsty canine sloshing a bowl of water. Strong black shadows danced and slithered across every stony outcropping and fissure. The ground was uneven and snowy but passable. Soon after starting their journey, they noticed the passageway was constricting slightly, changing its shape from round to oblong. It appeared they were walking down the snow-spattered throat of some monstrous whale toward a pool of acid at the base of a distant stomach. At one instant, Grace slipped and extended her right hand outward to steady herself. The rock was cold and wet with a noticeable slimy film that slicked her palm. She wiped the coating onto her layered pelts and looked at Deacon ahead of her. "Ughh," she grieved. "I never realized how claustrophobic I was until right now." "It’s a little tight in here, I agree." "Are you sure you know where you’re going?" she asked. "The others went in the other direction." "It’s important we don’t follow them. Believe me. We’re now officially on Maru’s black list. And that means you can’t trust him. We’re better off on our own. Making our own way. Just down here there should be a secondary lava tube which should lead us to the ice cap right above us." "I can hear the wind." "Yeah. Don’t worry," he said. "I’ve been down here before." "Will the others have similar luck?" "Depends if Maru chooses an explored tunnel like this or an unknown one." "Will we meet up with him you think?" "Hard to say. But I don’t think so." "You mind if I ask you something?" she queried. "Go ahead." "What is it between you and Maru? Why are you two so… confrontational?" Deacon cocked his head but didn’t make eye contact. "Believe it or not, he used to be a nice guy. But when those nomads showed up with the possibility that God was in the mountains, he changed." "How so?" "He became obsessed. Irrational. He let the belief in salvation overwhelm his judgment. And I wouldn’t completely bend to his will like the others." "Salvation?" Deacon finally paused and looked at her coldly. "The salvation from this hell we call the afterlife. Now come on. Just a little further." They had traveled less than twenty yards onward when Grace felt a strange sensation below her feet. Thanks to a few years of living in southern California, she recognized it instantly. "An earthquake," she yelped. "Hold on to something…" Deacon bellowed as the rumbling gained a thundering resonance. "Hold on to what?" "Anything!" Slivers of ice fell to the ground along with chunks of snow. "C’mere!" Deacon yelled. He wrapped an arm around her and both huddled close to the ground. "Keep your head down!" he said. A loud crack echoed through the tunnel and the roof ahead caved in. A blinding fountain of falling ice washed out the path ahead. Grace and Deacon clenched their eyes shut and hoped the floor wouldn’t give way. Deacon had managed to brace himself against the rock wall which held them taught. The rumbling softened then faded. Remnants of ice particles continued to shower about them in waves but the quake was over. Grace trembled, raised her head and scanned the cave. "Is it over?" "For now," Deacon said. "Are you all right?" "I think so. Are you?" "Yes. I believe so." "The torches are out," Grace said. "But there’s light." "It’s from above. From the ice cap." Both of them stood up and brushed off the snow. "That was a big one," she said. "They’ll be aftershocks." "Probably," he said. "I’ll check the satchels. They have to be under one of these snow banks." After digging for a few moments, Deacon exclaimed he’d found them. He turned and found Grace mesmerized at the cave ahead. He watched her walk toward a strange metal fin jutting out from the newly created snow wall. Deacon was equally mesmerized, "What the hell?" he said softly. Grace approached the fin and ran her hand along its smooth surface. She was silent and in awe. Raising her arm, she touched the snow on the wall and a slab of fresh snow fell away revealing: Numbers. Printed on metal. Instantly, more of the snow fell away and revealed the broken tail of something unbelievable. "My God," Grace said. "It’s an airplane." EPISODE FOUR: A PLACE TO FEAR |