Episode One: Farewell Grace

GRACE OPENED HER EYES AND SHIVERED. Her dark, supple skin was now tight and cold. She wiped a strand of her straight black tresses away from the right side of her face and blinked. Her eyelashes were lightly caked with frost as was her hair.
She was in a fetal position. The ground was icy, yet soft enough to contour around her slim five-foot five frame. In front of her, a grainy white squall filled her panorama.
It was freezing.
She was naked in the middle of a snowstorm.
Snow particles driven by thrashing wind stung her body like a barrage of needles.
It wasn’t a dream. Icy wind robbed her tongue of moisture. Her eyes were parched and burning.
What was happening?
She hugged herself. Muscles in her back and shoulders tensed up in an effort to keep warm. She panicked. She felt her heart rate shoot up and drew in quick, bird-like breaths. Where was she? How did she get here?
What the hell was happening? A creeping numbness began in her fingers and toes and quickly shot through her arms and legs. If she didn’t find shelter soon, she’d go into shock and freeze to death.
She shielded her eyes with her palm and tried to peer through the storm. At first, she could see nothing but lashing snow. Then her peripheral vision picked up a dark shadow. It appeared quickly and moved like lightning through the murk. Taking a defensive posture, Grace peeled her way out of the snowy depression and stood up. She faced the shadow’s direction but the apparition had vanished. "Who’s there?"
From her far left, something else caught her attention—another apparition. Only this one burst out of the murk and grabbed onto her, trying to keep from falling to the ground. It was a man; his face contorted in absolute panic and terror.
He was elderly, perhaps sixty or seventy years old, and just as naked as Grace. She screamed in fright and grabbed his arms but the man struggled to hold on. He pleaded to her. "Help me… help me… please…they’re coming! "
He vanished from sight with a scream, yanked backward by the feet into the storm. She heard his scream decay into a painful cry: rasping and full of shock. It was replaced a moment later with an inhuman hiss followed by an odd, throaty clicking sound which echoed all around her.
Grace was petrified. She had no recollection of how she came to be here, where she was or what on earth was going on. She quickly turned about in jerking, panicked motions to see entirely around her. The impulse to run was overwhelming and she began to hurry forward despite punishing snow blindness.
The noise of the wind dyed down but the snow had intensified. What was a grainy white squall now became a blinding blur.
Squinting and stumbling forward, she discerned a dark mass just ahead and ran straight for it. It was a small crowd of people elbowing and pushing each other in alarm. All of them were naked and screaming. Grace was jostled. One by one, the people were being pulled or sucked back into the storm by some powerful force. Just as before, she clearly heard another sinuous hiss cleaving the wind like a razor followed by peculiar clicking.
Grace was horrified. "What’s happening? Somebody help me! "
One by one people were sucked back into the folds of the storm until finally the last person vanished in the blizzard. It happened so quickly. Grace was alone again.
Someone shouted in the distance, faint, almost inaudible above the wind. The voice was begging for someone to help them.
Another twisting shadow circled. Grace saw it and cried desperately, "Help me! Somebody! "
Numbness took over the rest of her body. She sensed she was going into shock. Crouching down into a ball, she hugged her knees and began to cry. "Oh God! Please help me! "
From directly behind her: a hiss. Then clicking.
Grace caught her breath, air suspended tightly in her throat. Her heart pounded at her ribcage and she began to shake uncontrollably.
She sensed a nascent hopelessness embrace her as solidly as the penetrating cold. She scanned the environment one more time. Nothing but blowing snow and an underlying gray backdrop closing in like a curtain of despair. Fear became a thick serpent wrapping itself around her torso for the final death crush.
She saw something in the distance. A flickering orange light. It moved toward her and she noticed it was perched on top of a long stick held by a large and foreboding figure.
Struggling to get closer, the figure wobbled and teetered in the forceful wind and deep snow. This one didn’t seem as panicked as the others. Grace didn’t care if this was good or bad she was glad to see anyone. "Hey!" she yelled, waving her arm. "Hey! Over here!"
As the figure approached, its large, wide-shouldered posture suggested a man. He was dressed in bleached animal skins much like an Inuit and carried a rolled up bag of some sort. A furry hood covered his face. He approached, and then stopped, towering over her like a dark monolith. Grace suddenly remembered she was naked and quickly covered her breasts and crotch. The man dropped the bag and unfolded it.
Even though she had beckoned him to approach, Grace screamed. Her arms thrashed wildly as she tried to fight him off.
"Relax. I won’t hurt you," the man said. "C’mon, we’ve got to get you out of here."
Her limbs went limp as her strength drained away. In the bag was a pile of animal skins just like the ones he wore. He took out a large tarpaulin and covered her. "Wrap yourself. We’ve got to get you into some shelter quickly."
Grace looked at his face but couldn’t make it out under the shadow of his hood. "Who are you? What’s happening?"
"My name’s Sam Tanner but you can call me Deacon." He turned and looked at her directly. "I’ll answer your questions later. Please come with me. We’ve got to get you off the ice cap. Quickly. We’ve got to move."
Together they began to lurch across the tundra with his flaming torch leading the way. Behind her, Grace heard another scream. It was a woman. She sounded like she was in pain. She didn’t look back to wait for the hiss.

Grace focused on the fire.
A large, crackling flame blazed from a sprawling pile of cinder and dried animal pelts. The smell wasn’t pleasant, but it was warm and that was all that mattered.
A few moments earlier, Deacon had guided her to the edge of a massive precipice of ice and asked her to hold his arm tightly. He helped her down over the edge onto a rocky shelf just below their line of sight. The shelf was narrow and they had to advance slowly and carefully. The ice wall crumbled next to them and her fingers struggled to maintain purchase. Directly below, a sheer drop waited for any slip or misstep. Eyes wide, adrenaline pumping like a locomotive through her body, her fear became paralyzing. Deacon reassured her. Enough to motivate her to put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, carefully. But moving nonetheless.
"Step where I step," he had shouted to her. She did so diligently and eventually came to rest just under the snowcap.
There was a natural hollow in the rock, the size of a small house. Inside, Grace saw the campfire and several makeshift tents constructed from layered animal hides. A manmade rack built from eight-foot tall wooden logs dominated the far side of the cave. It held various animal skins; some were mottled and fleshy, others thick and hairy. Around the perimeter of the cave, small sconces of flame burned, illuminating the interior with a warm ginger light. The cave was humid. Moisture dripped from the rocky walls, making the environment appear as though it had just experienced a recent downpour.
Grace was absolutely freezing. She let go of Deacon’s arm to wrap her animal pelt more tightly.
"C’mon," Deacon said, guiding her toward the fire. "Let’s get you warmed up. What’s your name?"
She managed to stutter, "Grace. My name’s Grace."
As they passed the nearest tent, a man exited and blocked their way. He was dressed in the same pelts as Deacon. Grace backed off instantly. His eyes were ice blue. He had long, straggly black hair and a rough, stubbly beard. Beneath a layer of grime, he had an alabaster-smooth complexion. He was probably in his mid-thirties, the same as Grace, and muscular. He gazed at her with a keen interest.
"What the hell is this, Deacon?" the man said.
"Grace," Deacon said, removing his hood. "Meet Maru Bovair."
Grace glanced at Deacon, who had the same Caucasian skin tone as Maru. But Deacon was much older. Grace guessed he was in his mid-sixties.
She managed four questions in the span of a few seconds between shivers, "Where are my clothes? Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you?"
Deacon turned to Maru. "Her name’s Grace," he said. "She was alone in the southwest quadrant."
Maru clutched Deacon’s arm like a vice and his teeth clenched. He was not concerned if Grace overheard. "I told you, no more. No more. I take no one else in."
Surprised, Deacon defended, "She was about to get taken. Like the rest."
"I don’t care! No one else comes in. Eight disciples. No more. Get her the hell away from here. Throw her back on the ice cap. Now."
"She’s just arrived. She was frightened. Just like you were. Like we all were. She’s not going back. She’s staying."
"This is not a charity, old man. You’re weak. You’ve made it your mission to pick up every pathetic soul and bring them back here. Well, this is my reign. My shelter. We’ve enough people. We don’t need any more."
Maru released Deacon’s arm, turned to Grace and studied her face. In the span of a few moments, he noticed her strong bone structure and her large, inquisitive eyes framed by delicately sweeping eyebrows. There was an odd marking on her right cheek just in front of her ear—a small cluster of blemishes. A birthmark, he thought. It wasn’t enough to take away from her beauty. His mind likened her to a gazelle. This black woman was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He was attracted immediately, but chose to quell the inconvenience before it developed. Maru had other concerns. Anger flushed through his body and his face tensed. "You’re not wanted here," he said to her. "So you’ll do exactly as I say when I say it. Understand?"
She looked at him fearful he was going to hit her.
He repeated, "Understand? "
She nodded quickly, "Yes."
"If you choose to stay you will limit your movement." Maru scanned the cave and pointed to a dank, remote corner. "You will stay there. I encourage you, however, to leave on your own accord. I’ll even give you firewood and a flint rock. But if you choose to stay you’ll be obedient." His eyes burned into hers. She felt contempt and rage radiate from his face. "Think you’re scared now," Maru said. "You’d better not cross my path. If I even see you when I don’t wish it, I’ll string you up along with Deacon on the plateau and let the Baku strip the flesh from your bodies."
Grace was horrified. She remained silent, subdued.
His speech was filled with venom: he meant every word. Maru cast one last glaring look at Deacon then moved to the cave entrance. Deacon took her forearm gently and led her back into the cave. "Give him a few minutes," he said. "He doesn’t mean what he said. In the meantime, let’s get some clothes on you."
Grace resisted. "What the hell is going on here? Please. Is this a kidnapping? What do you people want? Are you going to kill me?"
Deacon inadvertently chuckled. "That would be a good trick. No we’re not gonna kill you. You’re safe, for now. Don’t worry, I know this is all very strange but it will make sense once you get dressed properly. I know we’ve just met and you’ve no reason to trust me but please. Believe me when I say you need to get dressed."
Grace knew Deacon was right. She had a million questions and was well aware that if any one of them wanted her dead, raped or tortured, it would’ve no doubt started by now. Despite Maru’s clear threat, she chose to follow this man Deacon with extreme caution. She hoped his promise of clothing was real. At least then she could defend herself with minimal injury. Naked, she was vulnerable as glass.
"What’s a Baku?" Grace asked.
Deacon smiled and continued leading her. "A Baku is a type of bear that lives here. They’re very dangerous. But their hide is the warmest among all the animals here."
"In fact," he continued, "we’ll try the Baku skins. They should fit. C’mon. This way."
Grace followed him over to the large collection of hanging pelts. "Where am I? What place is this?"
"You’re in a very remote outpost."
"Outpost? How did I get here? I don’t remember anything."
"Get yourself warm and dry first, then we’ll worry about answers to your questions. All right?"
She observed him in the firelight and concluded politeness should most definitely be observed. She couldn’t afford a provocation. "Okay. You said your name’s Tanner?"
"Yep. Sam Tanner but please, call me Deacon. I prefer Deacon."
"Okay, Deacon. Can you tell me where my clothes are please? My real clothes?"
He nodded. "I know this all must seem like the strangest thing you’ve ever experienced, not to mention suspicious. Nothing happened to you, believe me. Naked is how you arrived. It’s how we all arrive."
"Excuse me?"
His voice was calm, relaxed. "Do you remember anything at all?"
"What?"
Deacon took his attention off the skins and looked at her. "What do you remember? The last thing."
"The last thing?" she thought for a moment. "I’m not sure… it’s a blank."
"It’ll come back to you. Maru’ll answer most of your questions when he calms down. After you’re dressed we’ll go over and see him okay?"
"No, I don’t think so."
"Don’t worry. He’s all fire and brimstone."
"He’s your leader though."
"Yes. In a manner of speaking."
"Well, he seemed pretty pissed at me."
"You’re new. He’ll get used to you. He’ll answer your questions. Once he talks to you, he’ll warm up. Believe me."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
He faced her, his eyes narrowed. "Because this is the loneliest place you could ever imagine. And everyone could be a little stronger if they only had someone who believed in them. I firmly believe that."
Grace regarded him and inhaled. She was caught between trusting him and bolting. But this was an unfamiliar place, not to mention hostile and she was currently warm and with a friend—at least someone who claimed to be a friend. She bit her lip and took a leap of faith knowing her alternative was icy death. She burned for answers but realized she didn’t know half of the questions. She also couldn’t defend herself naked and vulnerable. She nodded and smiled. She was quite relieved when he smiled back.
He studied the array briefly then pulled a thick white and gray hide from its rung.
"Baku skin," he said, unfolding the piece. It fell open heavily and revealed the crudely sewn shape of a jacket. He smiled. "The wind can’t penetrate Baku. It’s very warm." He glanced back at the rack and pulled down two other pelts, these in the form of pants. "If the waist doesn’t fit, tie it with sinew. It helps if you also wrap the sinew around your legs too. Several sizes of boots you’ll find over there." Grace looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a curtain of the same skins covering a corner of the cave. "That’s the change room," he said, noticing her expression of deep concern. "The inside of the skin has been beaten. It’s quite soft. You’ll find sinew in there as well. I’ll meet you out here in a few minutes, okay?"
Grace stared at him, her eyes wide.
"Don’t worry," Deacon assured with gentle hand movements, clearly to encourage trust. "It’s all right. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to harm you here. We’re all in this together. We’re all the same."
She said nothing. Just stared at him.
Deacon smiled broadly. "Go on. Go. Get dressed."
She cautiously walked over and went inside. A few minutes later when she came out, she had formed the skins to her body quite nicely, tying up extra slack with sinew. Her boots, made from pressed layers of hide also fit well. When Deacon saw her he couldn’t help but grin. "Not bad. Are you comfortable?"
Grace caught herself smiling. The first time since she woke up in the storm. "It’s comfortable… it should keep the Arctic wind out."
Deacon chuckled. "We’re not in the Arctic."
"Listen, I appreciate your kindness. But please. Is this some kind of kidnapping? Was I drugged? You seem very nice, but I’d really like to find out where I am now please."
He laughed. "All right. C’mon. Take a look. See for yourself where you are."
Deacon motioned her to follow him to the mouth of the cave, where Maru was standing. She approached cautiously, remaining very close to Deacon.
As they came to stop beside Maru, Deacon said, "We’re watching the direction of the storm front. It’s very important we try to predict its movement."
"Why?" she asked.
"The storm above us doesn’t dissipate. Ever. The ice field below is constantly beaten up by a blizzard. Sometimes the winds shift, and the storm curls over the ice cap. It can devastate our camp, so we need to watch carefully. We can prepare, if we have a notion that we’re about to get pummeled."
"Then why did you camp here if it’s so dangerous?"
"Caves like this are a rarity," Deacon said. "We were lucky to find this one."
She followed Deacon’s gaze out into the thinning storm. The landscape was now visible through the blustering snow. The sky was vast. A deep hue of cerulean mixed with the steel gray and black of the turbulent storm front that stretched as far as the eye could see. Craggy snow-peaked mountain ranges as immense and endless as the Andes surrounded the great ice canyon before them.
Directly below the entrance to their tiny cave, a great plateau of blizzard-beaten permafrost lead outward to the edge of a great canyon beyond and dropped off into infinity. Gusts of icy wind buffeted her face and tossed her hair. The immeasurable expanse was as familiar as if they were explorers who had stumbled upon a new arctic continent yet, at the same time, held an eerie, unearthly quality suggesting something wasn’t quite right. The way the mountains twisted, the way the clouds formed: nature here was different. Darker. Threatening. Malevolent.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"Welcome to the other side," Maru said.
"Excuse me?"
Maru looked down at her from his six-foot vantage point and laughed. "This is where you go when you die."
"What? "
"Welcome to the afterlife, Grace," Deacon affirmed. "You’re dead."

::

The unexpected passing of Grace Tiffin was a shock to the family. So when Grace’s aunt, Abigail Moon, insisted on a séance even before the funeral proceedings, most declined. But a few family members agreed.
Grace’s cousin Emily, a willowy hypochondriac with long legs and big brown eyes, was one of five participants.
It was a Tuesday night and the weather was as morose as the occasion.
Vanity mirrors were placed around the large Victorian Rococo table and faced each of the guests. Seated at the head of the table, Abigail said the mirrors were to facilitate the visitation.
Her statement caused the five of them to become a little more unnerved than they already were. It was three minutes after three in the morning: the witching hour. The séance had lasted just over an hour already with nothing to show for it but several pairs of sweaty palms and an uneasy chill in the mid-August air.
They were cocooned like pupae inside the grand Greek revival architecture of Abigail’s library in the heart of her sprawling plantation home in Lafourche, Parish, deep in southern Louisiana’s Bayou Country. The smell of undusted wood filled the air. The high fifteen-foot ceiling offset the smallness of the rectangular room and added a sense of nascent foreboding to the proceeding. Also noticeable was a strangling claustrophobia. The closeness was magnified by row upon row of books on rich mahogany shelves lining the walls.
At four minutes after three, a distant snarl of thunder rolled across the marshes around the house and added to everyone’s apprehension.
By this time, Emily’s eyes had adjusted to the subdued light and she could see everyone with moderate clarity. But the room was black as a tomb. Slivers of light came from the single small candle in the center of the table. They sat around it, waiting.
The window that graced the north wall of the library was cracked open. A warm late summer breeze shifted the cumbersome red curtains, causing the candle flame to flicker.
Abigail, perched like a monarch overseeing a coronation, lowered her head.
"Very well," she said and opened her eyes. Despite being confined to a wheelchair for the majority of her eighty-two years, Abigail commanded a room just by entering. Her face was round and well fed, with small black freckles sprinkled on her cheeks and nose. She never wore makeup and kept her long white hair tightly braided and pulled back so sternly that people always thought she was in a constant state of pain. True to her heritage, she was a proud Creole.
The five vanity mirrors, all different shapes and sizes taken from all over the house, appeared as black slate in the darkened room.
Emily sat to Abigail’s right. Her bald, stout-faced husband, Bill, a recovering alcoholic, sat next to her. Bernard, the family’s only Ivy-League Graduate, sat to Abigail’s left. In his mid-thirties and ruggedly handsome, he was intelligent, with a dry wit and a roster of women his girlfriend didn’t know about. Old Uncle Desmond, in his mid-seventies with the energy of a man half his age, rounded out the group and sat opposite Abigail. Of the whole family, Desmond possessed the lightest skin of them all, a creamy Mocha brown with an enviously smooth complexion. The only discernable distraction was a rough scar on his left cheek that stretched from the left corner of his mouth up to his left cheekbone, the result of an unfortunate knife incident when he was a youth.
Rain droplets began to rap upon the windowsill and despite the breeze; the air was laborious to breath. Abigail swept her cadaverous eyes across the table almost as if she could see each person.
"Do you trust me?" she asked. "From this moment forward, will you do what I tell you to do?"
Each guest glanced at one another, as though looking for some kind of subconscious permission to answer.
"My dearest family," Abigail said. "You have shown great courage in allowing me to contact our Grace in this way in this most difficult of times. I believe when God Himself denied me the gift of vision, He bestowed upon me something much more powerful: a way to see through the underlying layers of existence. This includes the other side. At this moment, your voices show me much more than any superior vision could. I am aware these proceedings go against everything Christian we hold dear. But please, I would ask you all not to be afraid."

Emily looked around the table and noticed that everyone else was doing the same.
Desmond took in a deep breath and said, "Go ahead, Abigail. We’re ready."
Abigail gazed directly at Desmond. "Do not break the circle. And from this moment on, do not look into the mirrors." Then she closed her eyes.
Emily sat motionless, clutching her husband’s hand. Without meaning to, she glanced down at the dark mirror in front of her, then lifted her eyes quickly away.
"I said, do not look into the mirrors." Abigail’s eyes were still closed.
"I’m sorry," Emily stammered.
"Some say mirrors are the windows to the soul," Abigail began. "Others say they are the devil’s doorway. There are those who believe they are thin veils of ether separating the dead from the living. Tonight, we will strip away the layers of glass and reveal what lies in the void beyond."
Bernard coughed. "What lies in the void?"
"Once you can see past the reflection, it is your soul that stares back at you. The soul that reveals your true form. The form you will live in forever once you cross over."
"What about Grace?" Emily asked. "How do the mirrors help us see Grace?"
"The energy we generate to see past the glass will enable Grace to show herself. To communicate. To speak to her clearly, we only have a short window of time to find her before she passes too deep into the afterlife. So please do exactly as I say. The time is now. Do not let go of each other’s hands."
As Abigail spoke, the gilded chandelier above the table began to sway. Emily wasn’t the first to notice and she was sure they all attributed it to the breeze but it didn’t stop the back of her neck from prickling.
Abigail, eyes closed, began to whisper strange utterances. It was no language they recognized.
The candle suddenly flickered in an icy draft that didn’t come from the window.
"Abigail?" Emily said.
Then Desmond spoke. "Something’s happening."
All of them concentrated. There was no sound but the soft utterances of Abigail’s voice. The wind grew stronger and almost extinguished the candle. Emily’s hand trembled.
"Don’t let go," Bill said.
Desmond’s eyes were closed. "Do you feel it?"
"Feel what?" Bernard replied. He studied the walls of books, hoping to see or sense something move.
Emily was shaking the table and Bernard’s gaze shifted toward her. She had her eyes closed. Bill also had his eyes closed.
"Emily," Bernard whispered. "What’s wrong?"
Her lip was trembling. Emily was seeing dark shapes in her minds eye sweep past her mental field of vision. Vague impressions of horrible, distorted human faces. Her expression became tense, rigid.
"Emily?" Bernard repeated.
"There’s a hand," Emily said. "On my shoulder."
Bernard looked and saw nothing. "There’s nothing there, Emily."
She opened her eyes and she blinked quickly to wash away the tears. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she couldn’t move. She continued to feel the pressure of five fingers and a palm on her shoulder. And the pressure was increasing, pushing her to the seat. "I can’t move."
A moment later, a sound rose from the mirror in front of her.
Soft at first, then louder, closer. A sickening gurgle, as if someone were being strangled.
Sweat flushed quickly over Emily’s back and soaked her blouse. Her eyes were slowly and painfully pulled toward the mirror. Something was compelling her to look down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her reflection. But another image was forming in the glass. As the image in the glass took shape, a crushing pain in her hand distracted her. Something was wrong with Bill. His fingers tightened around hers and she looked at him just as he looked at her; his face was deformed and misshapen as if something had crushed all the bone underneath. He was suffering. His lips moved, trying to speak, but his ruined jaw couldn’t form the words. Emily screamed.
A powerful current of wind curled around the table almost knocking the guests out of their seats. The wind carried with it the tainted stench of rotted earth.
Desmond’s mirror shot across the table and smashed against the far wall, spearing book spines with shards of glass. Bernard soaked in sweat and shaking, looked at Desmond. The older man’s head was craned back, and he mumbled something illegible. Bernard glanced at Emily and Bill. They were also in their seats with their heads arched back, mumbling into thin air.
Gripping tightly to the hands of Desmond and Abigail on either side of him, Bernard sensed an overpowering compulsion to look down into his mirror. So he did.
Abigail suddenly opened her corpselike eyes and stared directly at Bernard. "You are not Grace! " she yelled. "Who are you? Who are you? "
Bernard pulled his hands away and covered his face. The heavy table began to rise up and then crash down, banging the floor with all of its weight. Some of the mirrors fell and broke. Bernard’s mirror stood its ground, never straying from his sight.
"Who are you? " Abigail screamed.
Bernard lowered his hands from his face and stared directly into his mirror. His reflection was distorted and locked into a silent scream. But there was something else. There were faces behind him. Staring at him through the darkness. Tortured faces of people he didn’t recognize. They were in agony and very close, just over his shoulder. Bernard turned but found nothing there.
"Stop! " Abigail shrieked and slammed her hands on the table. "Stop your advance! "
The table ceased its writhing. The wind disappeared and the room fell silent quickly. Everything was still. Even the mid-summer breeze was gone. The family members stared at Abigail in astonishment and fear. All of them wondering what had just happened.
"Grace is not here," Abigail said calmly. "The wrong door was opened. I’m sorry. The window has closed. Grace is gone."

::
"I don’t believe you," Grace said. "Who are you people?"
She sat next to the fire and stared at the flame along with Deacon, Maru, two other males and a female all ranging in age from twenty to fifty. All of them sat warming their hands.
"We’re like you," Deacon replied. "We all have one thing in common: we’ve died and ended up here. Up there on the ice field."
Grace frowned. "Are you kidding me? Why are you doing this?"
Deacon stared at the fire. "I know it sounds crazy and you don’t have to believe us. God knows I didn’t when Maru first told me."
She exhaled in frustration, lowered her head into her hands and then looked up. "My God," she said. "Okay, if this is the afterlife, where’s my father?"
"If you don’t see him," Maru said with a smirk, "he ‘aint here."
Grace’s expression hardened. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"He means," Deacon said softly, "literally, if you don’t see him, he isn’t here. This may be the afterlife but there’s something else."
"What?"
"People are disappearing after they cross over," Deacon said, gathering his thoughts. "Gone. We don’t know where."
Grace didn’t respond. Their story was getting more outrageous by the minute. Her mouth hung open slightly.
"There’s something up there," Deacon said. "It’s taking people."
Grace decided to calmly humor the conversation. "Taking them where?"
Maru spoke up. "Nobody knows. No doubt you heard them. Hissing noises and that damn clicking."
"I did hear that. And I did see others."
Deacon nodded. "They’re also like us. Recently deceased. Materializing every hour. Every minute; every second. Animals too. After they get here, they’re not supposed to vanish but they do. Something’s happening. Something unholy."
"It echoes through my head," Maru said. "That clicking. It’s pure evil."
"So it’s not enough that we’re dead," she said, maddened. "People are disappearing from here as well?"
"Don’t fret about it too much, sweetheart," Maru said, smirking. "God will keep us from damnation. As long as you believe in where you are and why you’re here."
"What do you remember?" Deacon asked her.
"Why do you keep asking me that?"
"Just think," Deacon said. "It’s important you remember."
She exhaled. "I remember driving. It was hot. Summertime. I remember the tire blowing out… there was a loud noise, like a crash. Then wind. A lot of wind. Like I was flying. Feeling warm, then cold. Then I woke up in a snowstorm. Naked." She shook her head. "That’s all I remember. That’s it."
"That’s all anyone remembers," Maru said. "When you’re ready to go, there’s no tunnel, there’s no light. If it’s your time, the whole thing is nothing but confusion."
Grace said, "So according to you; this is Heaven?"
Maru’s face was expressionless. "This isn’t Heaven. But it’s not Hell either. It’s something in between. God’s cruel joke."
"Purgatory? You think this is purgatory?"
"It’s not purgatory," Maru said. "Everybody comes here. This is it. There is nothing else."
"Okay. This doesn’t make any sense. Please. What’s really going on? You can tell me. I’m not going to sue anybody or tell anyone. If it’s money you want, I can see what I can do. I have investments. We can forget this whole thing. Just tell me how to get back home. Please."
"We’re not criminals," Maru chortled. "And you’re not going home."
"Why?"
Deacon leaned close to Grace and said softly, "For all of us there’s one death, therefore one afterlife. It’s hard to accept I know. It’s so new to you. But you’ll come to understand just as we did. You don’t have to believe right now but you will. It sounds like you died in a car crash."
She shook her head. "This is just words. I don’t believe you. If this is the afterlife, then where’s God?"
"Is there a God?" Maru asked. "Do you believe, Grace?"
"Of course I do."
Maru nodded. "Of course you do. Can billions of people be wrong? Deacon here, he thinks he’s a believer but he really isn’t. There’s no proof God exists, even here in the afterlife, so he doesn’t believe."
Grace looked at Deacon, waiting for his response.
Deacon’s eyes never left Maru’s. "Don’t pay any attention to him, Grace," Deacon said coolly. "He’s just upset because he doesn’t like sharing the room with a pragmatist. Maru believes in total capitulation when it comes to faith. But considering where we all are, I take a more realistic approach."
"Do you believe in God?" Grace asked Deacon.
"Yes I do. Very much so. I just believe we should step carefully—considering He hasn’t made His presence known as readily as some would have liked."
"You know, Grace," Maru said, "if you travel backward in time far enough, everything that has occurred in the universe can be attributed to a root cause: the formation of planets, the earth, the moon, the water, and the spark of life. All caused by, or evolved from, something before it. The only cause that can't be explained is the beginning of it all. Who lit the cosmic match where nothing existed before?"
Deacon suspected Grace knew Maru’s musings had a purpose. If nothing else, Maru was a calculating individual. Cunning and righteous: a volatile combination when faced with opposition. And in fact, since her arrival, Grace had accumulated many questions. But when she considered that she lacked a great deal of information on what was happening, it would be better if she carefully targeted her questions. Try and learn more about her new friends first then worry about how to get home.
She shifted her weight from one side to the other and moved slightly closer to the fire. "Tell me, Maru. How long have you been here? How did you die?"

"Time has no meaning here," he said. "But based on the cycle of night and day, I would guess this is my fifth year. As for how I got here? I was shot. I was in a bank when a robbery went down."
"But you appeared in the storm?"
"Yes."
"What happened next?"
"I managed to find my way here. I rescued people just like Deacon did with you."
"Has anyone ever explored this place?" she asked. "Or have you always been settled here in this cave?"
Maru’s voice became stilted, hard. "No. No exploration. It’s not necessary. This is the afterlife. You will learn to accept it and abide by the rules."
His statement caught her by surprise. "The rules? What rules?"
"The rules of God," Maru said blankly.
Grace could tell Maru’s mood was changing. For Maru, this was less about learning about Grace than it was exacting control over her. Men had been trying to do that to her for as long as she could remember. So that wasn’t what was bothering her. More pressing was the notion that this actually was the afterlife. She didn’t want to believe it. She trusted God in all of His Wisdom but His presence was nowhere to be found or even felt. This might not be Hell, but it felt like a waking nightmare. The only thread of sanity she could hang onto was an underlying sense that something wasn’t right. Call it women’s intuition. Maru wasn’t telling the truth—or at least, not the whole truth.
"The rules of God? Listen, I appreciate your help and everything. And thank you for the clothing. I think…I want to explore a little first. Just look around. See for myself, you know? If this is the afterlife, maybe I can find my father. And others who have crossed over."
Maru raised himself and stood. He brushed at his pelts with his hands, "If this is the afterlife? My word isn’t good enough? All right. I may be immortal but my patience isn’t. We’ve got a God Walk to start in a few hours. No one will be left behind." He raised his hand and signaled to someone behind him. "Show her so we can stop this bickering."
"Maru," Deacon protested.
Maru insisted. "Show her."
The others began to stand. Everyone except Deacon and Grace.
Deacon raised his eyebrows. "Don’t do anything irrational."
"Look, she doesn’t accept what is. She needs to be shown. We have no time for this."
"What’s wrong with you?" Deacon said. "Time doesn’t mean anything anymore. Eternity is all we have."
"Maybe you have all eternity, Deacon. But God won’t wait. And I don’t plan to keep Him waiting."
"How many times have I told you?" Deacon said. "God waits for all of us. We’ve waited all our lives on earth. A little longer isn’t going make a difference. We should stay here where it’s safe. We need a new plan."
Maru stepped around the fire clenching his teeth. He reached down, pulled Deacon up by the collar and stared at him face to face. "I’ve waited my entire life for God to show Himself but He never did. That’s because He was waiting for me to cross over. And now that I’m here, I hear Him calling me. And I’m going to Him."
Deacon held his ground. "Even if it means vanishing like the others? And what if He isn’t, Maru? What if God isn’t out there? What are you gonna do then? By that time we’ll be out there and it’ll be too late. No one’s gonna rescue us."
"Don’t say that. You believe just as I do. As we all do. We leave nobody behind. You brought her here so she’s coming. Now show her so she can believe! "
"What’s going on?" Grace said, backing away.
Maru let go of Deacon. He turned, grabbed Grace by the collar and yanked her up. "Stand up."
Grace grasped Maru’s arms and tried to wrestle with his grip but couldn’t resist Maru’s strength.
"Listen to me," Maru said. "We’re not going to hurt you, understand. We’re just going to show you something that will…end your disbelief. Somebody showed me in exactly the same way. Believe me, you’ll be better off."
Grace’s blood began to chill in her veins. Something wasn’t right. "What are you going to do?"
Grace felt someone grab her from behind. Her arms were locked in a devious arm hold. Two of the others had circled behind her. Deacon moved toward Grace but two others restrained him. "Maru!"
"Shut up, Deacon," Maru scolded. "Nobody’s gonna get hurt. Grace here just has to learn the hard way. That’s all." Maru swung around and was handed a long slender object. He turned to Grace, moving closer. She stared at the object in his hand. It was a crudely whittled blade.
"We use weapons like this to skin the animals we wear," Maru said calmly. "There’s no steel or metal here. At least, none we’ve found. But there is hard wood."
A soft chuckle came from Maru’s people. Deacon remained stone-faced. "Don’t do it, Maru. Please. Just give her time. That’s all she needs."
Maru glanced at Deacon but ignored him. Grace struggled, but Maru’s restrainers held her firmly.
"Please. I believe you. This is the afterlife. I’m sorry. I’m just confused, that’s all. You don’t need to do anything."
"Don’t worry," he said calmly. "This will unconfuse you." Maru twirled the blade in his hand and gripped the tang firmly in a stabbing posture.
She turned to Deacon. "Deacon! Please! Do something!"
Still held fast, he was unable to help. He just shook his head rapidly and muttered, "Grace, close your eyes."
Grace looked into Maru’s face. His eyes were cold and determined. "Oh my God…"
Maru poised the blade above her chest.
"Please," she begged, "I’ll do anything you say…please…"
"God can’t wait," Maru whispered. "Now keep still. You’ll minimize the pain that way."
"Oh my God…" Grace closed her eyes. She began to tremble uncontrollably. She felt the hands on her arms constrict, steadying her.
"Welcome to the other side." With a loud guttural cry, he plunged the blade deep into Grace’s chest. Only his fist stopped the blade from exploding out of her back.
Grace’s scream stopped abruptly and her eyes froze wide open in surprise and amazement. She fell to her knees. Maru, still gripping the tang of the blade, dropped with her. He eased her to the ground and rested her limp body.
Maru turned to Deacon and grinned.
Then silence reigned.

Episode Two: The Godwalkers

THE SOUTH FLORIDA wind was sallow and gentle, as though it were treading respectfully across the manicured lawns of Grace’s service. The sun hung low in a crimson sky. The funeral was a diminutive one and was concluded with little flourish. The focus was Grace’s mother, Florence. After the service, family and friends, dressed in a sea of black and white, gathered around her to comfort and console as everyone headed for their cars. They were all to come together at the wake at the Tiffin homestead in north Naples just five miles up the road. Abigail, who had flown from Louisiana with her trusted aid and financial advisor, Gloria Devon, finished her condolences and headed back to the car in silence.
The wheels of her chair cracked and clicked on the gravel pathway leading down to the procession. "Gloria," Abigail said. "Are you all right?"
"I’m fine. I really liked Grace. She was so quiet. You’d never thought she was a lawyer."
"Grace is powerful," Abigail said. "She shares her mother’s gifts. I’m not worried about her."
"You’re speaking about her in the present tense."
"Dear child, when you’ve seen what I have seen you come to realize death is neither the end nor beginning. It’s simply a change of residence."
"I’m sorry," Gloria whispered. "Can we talk about something else?"
"How are your parents?" Abigail asked.
"Oh. Fine."
"They still bothering you about marrying Frank?"
Gloria laughed. "When I said talk about something else I didn’t mean that. Frank and I broke up."
"Oh I’m sorry. I liked him."
"Yeah well. He wasn’t ready to get married apparently."
"I told you."
"Try not to rub it in. I have enough grief knowing I’ll probably be lonely for the rest of my life."
Abigail smiled. "Don’t let it bother you, child. You’re an attractive young woman with lots to offer. It doesn’t go as unnoticed as you think it does. God works in mysterious ways. When it’s time for you to find a husband and bear children, you will."
"Well, He’d better hurry up. My thirty-fifth birthday is coming up next week."
"Which reminds me, child, what do you want for your birthday?"
"How about a date?"
Abigail looked up and said jokingly, "Are you asking me?"
Gloria laughed, "You’ve got some cheek."
Abigail nodded. "As I said, God works in puzzling ways."
"Don’t you mean mysterious ways?"
Abigail smiled. "I’m not one to follow well-traveled paths."
"Can’t you use your hocus pocus and have my future husband bump into me in the supermarket or something?"
"No, I’m afraid not."
"Doesn’t work that way, huh?"
"I don’t want to persuade the one who is destined for you. Besides, if you got married, who would keep me company? I need your full attention. A husband would just take away from that."
Gloria smirked. She knew how Abigail’s twisted sense of humor worked. "Oh. Thank you. Um, changing the subject: How are you feeling?"
Abigail turned her attention toward the procession. "I’m concerned about Florence. That poor woman has no one to turn to. First her husband, now her daughter. I should make the effort to visit more."
Gloria lowered her head. "Well, if you were, we would have to work that into the budget."
"You and your budgets. What happened to enjoying life?"
"The finances right now are not the most stable. If I don’t organize your books, Abby, who will?"
"Nobody will. That’s your job. And you’re good at it."
"On that note, I think you should reconsider selling."
Abigail’s demeanor shifted. "I’m not selling. That house has been in my family for seven generations. It’s history that I’m not going to abandon. Our history. I don’t care what the bank says. I’m not leaving. And neither are you."
"I understand. I’m just thinking of the future. Your future."
"Let’s see if we can get through this funeral before we start worrying about our future, shall we?"
Gloria wheeled Abigail down the path and a tall man approached from across the lawn, assiduously trying to reach them before they arrived at the car. He was one of only a few Caucasians in the crowd dressed in black; an Armani suit with a crisp white shirt and a white orchid perched on his lapel. He traveled with a similar man even taller and considerably more muscular.
"Ms. Moon?"
Gloria turned first, then Abigail. Gloria slowed the wheelchair as the two men approached.
"Yes," Abigail said.
"I’m so sorry to hear of your family’s loss," the man with the white orchid said. He spoke with a distinct British accent and came across as very aristocratic in temperament. Gloria studied his face. Hard, rectangular spectacles framed penetrating, bright green eyes. His face was gaunt and pallid, with high cheekbones, and his skin was strangely artificial in texture. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn this man was wearing a subtle kind of makeup. With black, slicked-back hair receding in a widow’s peak he was very odd looking. Gloria guessed he must’ve been in his forties. Clearly, the muscular man behind him was some kind of associate or bodyguard.
Abigail’s response was gracious. "Thank you. Are you a friend?"
"My name is Jonathan Sand. I’m a librarian." He indicated the larger man behind him. "This is Robert Wall, my personal assistant."
Wall said nothing. He didn’t even nod. From Gloria’s perspective, both men emanated an underlying menace despite their politeness and respectful distance. But Abigail sensed much more. These men were strangers in the utmost definition of the word. They didn’t belong here: the duplicitous tone and strained inflections of Sand’s voice, the heaviness of their presence and burning silence of Wall suggested complex and shrewd thought processes. This was not the reverential condolence of a gracious friend or associate: this was a purposeful, calculating assault.
"How can I help you?" Abigail said, her tone becoming brisk and business-like.
"I think it’s more accurate to say, how I can help you."
Abigail stared directly at Sand with her piercing, unseeing eyes. She was relaxed even as Gloria tensed.
"Really? What is the nature of this help?" asked Abigail.
Sand lowered his head to her. "Would you mind if we walked? What I have to say won’t take long. And I have pressing engagements that must be attended to by the end of the day."
"Not at all," Abigail said. Gloria started pushing the wheelchair and the four of them headed down the pathway toward the cars.
"Thank you," Sand said. "I’m in the business of collecting. Books specifically: very old and rare books. My resources allow me to scour the globe to satisfy my passion and recently I have come across the location, or possible location, of my life’s aspiration."
Abigail was interested. "Oh? Your life’s aspiration?"
"Yes. The Alyntraphia. It’s a very old text that details the nature of the afterlife."
"A work of fiction?" Abigail asked.
Sand chuckled. "No. Quite real. We all go somewhere when we die, do we not? Just as scientific journals depict life here on earth, isn’t it logical to assume a text exists that details life after death?"
"Not really," Abigail said matter-of-factly. "Such a book would have to be written by someone who has died and stayed dead long enough to report more than just a big bright tunnel full of joy."
"Indeed," Sand said. "But what if the same apostles who had educated humankind about the acts of God in the Bible, continued their work and authored a text on the afterlife based on what they themselves were told by God?"
Abigail chortled. "I would say you need to re-read the New Testament my friend."
"I have dedicated over thirty years and almost an entire family fortune to the search for this book. I have detailed research and evidence, collected from the far corners of the globe, which indicates that not only does the Alyntraphia exist, but it was once owned by one Tauten Moon."
Abigail looked up and raised her hand to Gloria, indicating for her to stop.
Sand smiled. "Yes, that’s right. Your great grandmother. Tell me, your plantation, it boasts an extensive library does it not?"
"It does," Abigail said.
"Are you familiar with all the books your family collected?"
Abigail didn’t answer immediately. Her mind raced across the hundreds of shelves of books she remembered her mother reading to her as a child.
"It would be worth it for you to check your library, Ms. Moon," Sand said, reaching into his jacket pocket to withdraw a small paper and pen. He began scratching something on it. "As you have no immediate knowledge of the book, it clearly is of no importance to you. It does, however, have tremendous importance to me, which I am prepared to pay for." Sand offered Gloria the small paper. She glanced at it and gasped.
"My number is also on the paper. Please check your library as soon as you can. Call me if you have the book. If you do have it and it’s verifiable, the money is yours if you’re willing to let it go. Cash, bearer bonds, certified check, whatever you prefer. Thank you for your time." Sand nodded. He and Wall proceeded down the path to a waiting Rolls Royce limousine. Gloria was still staring at the small note.
"How much?" Abigail asked.
"You’re not gonna believe this. Five… five million dollars."
Abigail observed Sand and Wall entering their black limousine as if she could see them as plain as day. "Five million? It must very important to him."
"Please tell me you have the book?"
"Take me home, Gloria."

::

Abigail found the flight home to Louisiana a peaceful one. As always, Abigail made the trip in almost total silence. Gloria was used to such idiosyncrasies and sat contently, lost in an airport novel until they reached the plantation by taxi. Once the taxi driver dropped them both off, Gloria saw to Abigail’s immediate needs and left for the night. Abigail didn’t like anyone staying with her overnight, despite the plantation’s seventeen rooms. Since her husband’s death, Abigail preferred the peaceful nature of seclusion. Her mind was too active to tolerate idle chatter from anyone sharing the room for any longer than a spot of tea.
Within the confines of Abigail’s mind, worlds were created and destroyed, works of art visualized and appreciated, and psychic turbulence sensed from the many rooms in the house. Hers was now a solitary existence and that’s how she liked it.
She wheeled herself along the length of the longest bookshelf in the library, stopping occasionally to run her bony finger along the aged book spines. It was nightfall and a soft rain fell in rhythmic throbs on the eaves. As she had no use for lights at night she kept them off. But her senses were well honed. She easily perceived the pale, sinuous skeins of moonlight enlivening the room through cracks in the curtains. The moonlight felt as warm as the blazing sun on an August afternoon. Her thoughts drifted and she tried to remember the books she had been read as a child. Charles Dickens, H.G. Wells, Edgar Allan Poe, all of them were here. She continued along the shelf, the long nail of her index finger clicking against the hard leather and cloth bindings. She suddenly pulled her hand back when it struck something cold and sharp. Abigail turned her fingers and rubbed them together. A warm liquid slicked her fingertips. Blood. She had cut herself. She slowly reached out to the protrusion. It was cold, like glass.
The mirror.
Abigail remembered how Desmond’s mirror had shot across the table to crash against the far wall. This is where some of those splinters had embedded themselves—in the spine of a book. She wasn’t sure how she missed this particular sliver when she cleaned up a few nights ago. Regardless, she carefully pulled out the jagged shard and placed it on a small outcropping under her wheelchair for later disposal. Running her finger over the hole, she tugged the book out from its slot and cradled it in her hands. Its texture was rough. It smelled bad, like wet soil. She placed her palm flat on the cover and moved her hand across the surface slowly.
Then something happened.
The book began to get warm. At first, Abigail thought it was the heat from her own hands warming the leather. But when she lifted her hand, the cover stuck to her fingertips and stretched slightly, as though for a short moment the material became something else. She lowered her hand again and swept her fingers across its surface. The material tugged at the pads of her fingers. It was now clammy. She knew this texture but couldn’t place it.
Warm, pleasantly soft.
Abigail became aware of a deathly breeze entering the library from the pitch black hallway beyond. It was icy cold. She sensed a bristling otherness as if the house itself was breathing and Abigail was caught in the gullet. She’d never felt anything like it before. Her psychic senses were suddenly deadened and it unnerved her. Something was approaching from down the hallway. Like the coils of an immense reptile, the walls seemed as if they were strangling the air from the house with methodical precision.
"Hello?" Abigail called into the darkness.
No answer.
The room immediately felt wrong. Like it wasn’t supposed to exist.
She pressed down on the book cover and the material slid over a secondary surface underneath just like…
Just like human flesh does when you press upon the muscle…
Repulsed, Abigail threw the book across the room. It crashed against a far wall and fell to the ground with a thud. Her breathing quickened. She focused her mental energies on her heartbeat, and quieted its racing momentum. She was disciplined enough to control her metabolism with the power of her mind.
The rain beat against the windowsill and a soft rumble of thunder moved across the bayou. She took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The next sound she heard did not come from the growing storm outside. It was from inside the library—a soft scraping sound. It came from the far wall.
Abigail was alone. No rats or vermin were, or had ever been, present in the house. She was very meticulous about that.
The scraping continued, growing closer with every second. She tried to control her fear, but it was difficult. Twisting, contorting forms slipped in and out of her conscious mind. Something remarkable was happening. She felt a foreboding presence.
"Who’s there?"
No answer, except for the incessant scraping. Finally, Abigail recognized the sound. Leather, scraping against the hard wood of the library floor.
She reached down and felt around. Her probing fingers made contact with something lying on the floor by her left footrest. She wrapped her fingers around the object and picked it up. It was the book she had thrown across the room a few moments earlier. She picked it up and cradled it once again in her hands.
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me…"
She then opened the book on her lap and ran her fingers over the papyrus.
A sound rose from the walls surrounding Abigail.
Dim at first but enough to make her eyes wide as saucers.
Then more clearly. Whispering, but at the same time, weeping. Many voices. Slowly rising in crescendo. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. Had she not known better, she might have thought they were rising from the hundreds of books gracing the walls.
Abigail closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of the paper, the texture of its grain.
"Oh, you’re very powerful, indeed," she uttered. "Your darkness is all too apparent. I can sense you pushing me away. You don’t want me to see, do you? You don’t want my mind probing your secrets." She opened her eyes and the voices stopped. Abigail smiled, shook her head and tapped the armrest of her wheelchair softly with her index finger and looked up toward the ceiling. "This wasn’t written by the Apostles. Mother, where did you find this? Why didn’t you tell me?"
Abigail looked down at the open text. "What do you want with this, Mr. Sand?"

::
Maru sat against a far wall opposite Grace, Deacon was by her side. The crackling fire not far away.
"Welcome back," Maru said, smiling.
Grace felt groggy, her eyes heavy. "What happened?" she asked. Unconsciously, she brought her hand up and felt a hard protrusion jutting out of the middle of her chest. The blade Maru had thrust into her remained. She screamed and rocked back in shock.
Deacon steadied her. "Hold it. Breathe. It’s okay. You’re fine."
"We had to wait until you woke up," Maru said. "It’s much more meaningful if you remove it yourself."
She tried to grip the tang again.
"No, no, no," Deacon said pushing her hand down gently. "First things first. How do you feel?"
It took her a moment to answer. She was as confused as ever. "Tired."
"Any pain?" Maru asked.
Her answer surprised her. "No."
"Of course not," Maru said, indicating the blade in her chest. "The best way is to grab with both hands and pull slowly outward in a straight line. Be careful not to wiggle the blade."
Smiling, Maru reached toward his jacket seam. He ripped open the pelt exposing his bare chest—and a nasty scar right between his pectoral muscles. The straight line of lumpy flesh aligned with his sternum. "It takes a while to heal because our bodies aren’t like they were when we were alive. But it does heal." He nodded toward the weapon. "Go ahead. You can’t stay like that forever."
Maru was right. She felt no pain, just an odd discomfort, like mild heartburn or indigestion. She looked at the handle of the blade sticking out of her chest. So odd. The grogginess was lifting. If not for the blade, she might’ve gone on about her business as if nothing was wrong. She took in a deep breath. The handle rose and lowered with her chest. She gripped it with both hands.
Deacon gestured for her to go slow. "Now, take it easy. Nice and even."
As she pulled, a sickening wet sound came from the wound, but there was no blood. None at all.
Grace held the weapon in her hands and examined it. No blood streaked its surface. She looked at the wound, a slender, bloodless hole in her flesh. The injury looked otherworldly. She shuddered and began to waver.
"Whoa, you’re okay," Deacon said, holding her up. "It’ll close. Just keep it covered."
She handed him the blade. "But there’s no blood. It was in my chest. Not even on the knife, look."
Deacon regarded the blade. "Yes," he said, and then tossed it to Maru who caught it. "It’s complicated."
"I’m listening," Grace said.
Deacon looked away as he speculated. "I believe these bodies are representations of our former selves. Vessels to carry our spirits in the afterlife. We’re not energy beings like so many believe. We’re flesh… but no blood. No blood or internal mechanisms are needed anymore. We’re the same spiritual beings… just locked inside a different kind of matter container."
Grace scowled. "I… I don’t understand: a different kind of container?"
"Theoretically it is possible," he said, "if we’re dealing with antimatter. The opposite of regular matter."
Grace just shook her head. "English, please?"
"An antimatter body powered by the electrical energy of our soul instead of organs."
Grace frowned. "What’s antimatter?"
Deacon leaned toward her. "Basically, the building blocks of our universe are made up of electrons, protons and neutrons. Now, when nature creates these, it’s thought to create opposites as well: positrons, antiprotons and antineutrons. They’re antimatter. These opposite particles aren’t present in our universe in any great abundance. Some believe they’re somewhere else. Possibly making up some kind of antiuniverse. And ultimately, an antiworld. Far away from earth."
"You mean this don’t you? Where we are."
"I think so."
"Like… another planet?" Grace asked bluntly.
"No," Deacon replied.
"How do you know?"
"Because I don’t think bodies like these are possible in our universe. Anywhere in our universe. And besides, there are things here that don’t make any sense. Chemical reactions that don’t apply to the universe, as we know it. Take the fire for instance."
"The fire?" Grace asked.
Deacon got up and approached the burning fire. "Here, now watch carefully." He first waved his hand through the flame, then left it there. The flames licked his hand as Grace gasped.
"You see?" Deacon said. "How can a fire be warm but not burn?" He removed his hand and examined it. "Nothing. No blistering, no pain. Just warmth."
Grace applied some logic. "Well, don’t you think that if our bodies are different… the fire is probably different too? But then, your animal skins seem to burn."
"Exactly. Those skins and our new flesh are very close in texture and density. Why would a flame burn one but not the other?"
"Maybe our skin has some kind of natural flame retardant?" she concluded.
Maru looked over at a teenage man with red hair and a crooked nose, sitting to his left and smiled. "Show her, Billy."
Maru tossed his blade. Billy caught the weapon and grinned at Grace. He said, "Okay ma’am. Ready?"
Billy rested his right hand on a nearby rock and splayed his fingers. Positioning the tip of the blade near his extended pinky. Leaning his weight on the handle, it was clear what he was about to do. Grace looked away.
"Watch!" Maru said. "Don’t worry. He’s done this before."
Grace kept her head down and eyes shut. She heard an abrupt crunch a moment later.
Billy didn’t even flinch. He tossed Maru the severed finger. "Don’t feel sad for Billy," Maru said, studying the digit. "It’ll grow back. They always do, right Billy?"
Billy sat grinning proudly.
Maru pushed himself up, walked over to the fire and threw the digit into the flame. Instantly it lit up and started burning.
Deacon made eye contact with Grace. "You see, when we’re whole, we’re invincible. When we’re not… " He nodded toward the blackening finger.
Grace turned to Billy and softened her expression in sympathy. "You didn’t have to mutilate yourself to prove a point."
Billy raised his fingerless hand. "No, it’s okay, it doesn’t hurt that much. I barely feel it. And look! I got four more. We’re good!"
"You see," Maru said, "We can’t die. We don’t need to eat. We can’t bleed. But we can still feel pain. We can still suffer. That’s why the only thing we have of any value is shelter. It protects us from the elements. From the cruelty that is this place. It’s the only thing that matters anymore. Shelter. I found this cave after years of suffering out there on the ice. I nurtured it. Collected the people you see about you. My disciples. This place is worth more than any one life. It is everything. We lose this shelter… and all is lost."
"It’s best you learn what we are, Grace," Deacon said. "What you are. Everything suggests nature here is different."
"Okay," Grace said. "What do we do now?"
"We talk to God," Maru said, getting up.
She glanced at him. "We pray?"
"No." He moved toward his tent and went inside. "We go across the ice. To the mountains. With the others. We hide the cave entrance and mark our trail so we can make it back."
"Why? What’s in the mountains?"
"Grace," Deacon said, tilting his head at her. "God is here."
She faltered. "He is?"
"In corporeal form. In the flesh. Like us."
"What do you mean?"
"Listen to me," he whispered. "Have you ever wanted to know the true identity of God?"
"Of course."
"Come with us. You can ask Him yourself."

Episode Three: Temple of Souls

TINSELED 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

THE UNBREAKABLE rain continued to pour about the rambling estate of Jonathan Sand. Inside, Sand and Abigail stood watching Frobart collect the lifeless body of Gloria Devon. Abigail, in tears, said, "You will burn in hell for this. Both of you."
  Frobart glanced at her but not long enough to absorb any of her fury. Sand said, "There is no hell, Abigail. But there’s no heaven either. One death for all of us. One afterlife."
   "And what makes you think I will help you?"
Sand laughed. "Oh come on. You don’t think I anticipated your unshakable defiance?"
   "As I said, what makes you think I will help you?"
  Sand approached her, leaned close to her face and rested his arm on the armrest of her wheelchair. She felt his warm breath on her cheek. "Tell me," he said. "Can you read my mind?"
  She leaned away from him.
  He whispered, "What emotions am I feeling right now?"
  She was reviled. "Satisfaction."
  He nodded.
   "Penny," Abigail said. "Penny."
   "You see?" he said gleefully. "You’re much more gifted than you give yourself credit for."
   "If you touch her I will kill you," she said quickly.
   "Really…"
   "No," she said with robotic precision. "If you touch her I will extract the life from your body like a straw would extract liquid from a glass. I have the power. I will use it to protect her."
   "I know you will," he said. "But it’s not me you have to worry about. It’s my friend, John. You sense him?"
  Abigail closed her eyes. Jerked her head from side to side trying to resist the mental images flooding her mind’s eye.
   "A good friend," Sand said. "One whom I am paying handsomely for a very small task. Right now he’s outside of Gloria’s sister’s house. Watching from a safe distance. He will extract Penny from their possession and murder her if I do not regularly call him at certain intervals with various code phrases. We will do this until you and I return from Syria."
  Abigail just stared at Sand, drained.
   "Abigail," he said. "It’s so logical. You have no immediate family. And what family you do have thinks you’re on a wonderful vacation for two weeks. But you don’t really care about them. And they most certainly don’t care about you. Your own life? You’re too disciplined to care about that. But Penny. Penny. Just five years old. Like the daughter you never had. Next to Gloria of course."
   "From this moment on," Abigail said, "you are in more danger than Penny will ever be."
   "I know, Abby. I know. Now let’s go. We have a plane to catch."

::

  The plane wreckage had opened up a huge hole in the roof of the tunnel. The wreckage had been sitting on the ice cap above. Biting particles of snow now swooped through the fissure carried on a gale-force wind.
   "What the hell is this?" Deacon said, squinting through the encroaching blizzard. He approached the wreck with caution.
  Grace snapped her head back at him and glowered. "What do you mean what the hell is this? Don’t you know?"
   "Grace I have no idea what this is."
   "It’s an airplane. Deacon. An airplane. You understand that?"
   "Yes, that’s not what I meant. I understand it’s an airplane. "
   "What is going on? You lied to me! Where am I? What is this place?"
  He remained calm yet fixated on the plane. "I didn’t lie to you. This is the afterlife."
   "Deacon!"
   "Grace, I understand you’re confused. So am I. I’m not sure how this is possible."
  Grace walked up to him and snatched the satchel out of his hands. "I’ll tell you how it’s possible. This is the damn Arctic or some other god-forsaken place! You kidnapped me, you bastards! How do I get back? What do you want from me?"
   "Grace… It’s not earth. Think about it. You’re not human anymore."
  She stood her ground and clenched her fists around the bag. "Tell me what is going on? Did you drug me? Did drugs make me think I got stabbed in the chest and lived? What do you want?"
   "Grace, listen to me. We’re in the same boat, here… "
  She dropped the bag, rushed up to him and pounded on his chest with her fists. "You take me back! Take me back! Now!"
  He grasped her hands and tried to steady her. "Grace, listen to me. I’m not your enemy. I’m not! Grace! Stop!"
  She paused and looked up at him, tears streaming down her face.
   "Listen," he said. "I know you’re scared. But you’ve got to believe me. I mean no harm to you and this is not a kidnapping."
  She stepped back, teeth grinding. She regarded him for a moment, thinking quickly of her next move.
  Off to the right of the pair, something large dropped from above and thudded to the ground.
  It was another satchel.
   "Hello!" came a voice from above.
  Grace could make out several silhouetted figures standing around the perimeter of the gaping hole in the roof where the plane dropped through. Their flaming torches cleaving the snowy murk.
  The voice boomed again. "Hello!" This time Grace recognized it.   It was Maru.
  Deacon glared up at him and the followers who surrounded him. "Maru? Is that you?"
   "Yes it is. And I must say you’re looking a little worse for wear."
  Deacon walked closer to the opening above. "Maru! Look at this! It’s an airplane! Do you have any idea what this means?"
   "It doesn’t matter, Deacon. If it’s God’s doing, He has a reason."
   "This could change everything! This may not be the afterlife! This is a connection to earth!"
   "Don’t be an idiot, Deacon," Maru said. "You know it’s the afterlife as much as I. That’s why we’re here. We want to give you one last chance to join us to find God."
  Deacon said, "How did you find us? An earthquake opened up this hole. There’s no way you would’ve known