The Dirty Streets of Heaven bd-1

by Tad Williams

  “No,” he said. “Be brave, Edward. And see!”

  I felt his hand on my shoulder. The light he had held was suddenly gone, but another, lesser light hung in the air before us like a loop of blazing wire. He led me through it-I confess I cried out a little, thinking I would be burned-but there was no heat, and when we stepped through to the other side nothing had changed except perhaps a slight alteration in the quality of the light and an unusual echo to the sounds we made.

  Habari asked me not to speak, to save my questions, then he led me down the corridor into a part of the hospital where we began to see other people again-nurses, patients, family members waiting-but every single one of them was completely motionless, as if they had been sealed in amber like prehistoric insects. I could not touch them directly-something like magnetic resistance kept me away-but I could get close enough to see that they were not imprisoned by anything, but rather that time had simply stopped. For them, all of them, but not for us. I was very frightened.

  “Oh my God,” I said to Habari. “What are you?”

  He smiled. “Your friend, Edward. I promise you that.”

  He led me past the motionless staff members and toward the wards. There too, everything had stopped as if a switch had been thrown, the patients and visitors alike all still as statues. As we walked among them I could hardly breathe. Just outside one of the rooms a little Hispanic boy had been running up the corridor, but now hovered in mid air with only the tip of one foot touching the ground.

  Then we stepped through into that room, and I was suddenly even more frightened, because people were moving there. Not everyone-a nurse and several family members stood beside the patient’s bed, and they were just as motionless as anyone in the corridors outside, but others nearby were moving and talking among themselves. Even more disturbing was that the person on the bed, a man not much older than myself, although very thin and with many dark, ugly bruises on his skin, also stood beside the bed-looking down on his own body with a look of obvious astonishment!

  I let out a gasp of despair and confusion. I was quite overwhelmed.

  Then one of the moving figures turned and looked toward us. Not directly, as though we were as plain to see as everyone else, but as if he had heard something, or perhaps seen movement in the corner of his eye. But that eye and its twin were hideous, faceted like those of an insect, and the monster’s face though more or less human was covered in scales like a lizard’s, bright, coppery red and brown scales.

  I confess I tried to run. Habari gripped my arm and would not let me go. “Do not fear,” he said. “He can’t see you, and if you stay quiet he’ll go back to what he was doing.”

  I didn’t want to stay quiet. I wanted to get out of that building, out of that nightmare, away from everything that I was seeing, but Habari’s hold on me was astonishingly firm.

  “You are looking at a prosecutor of souls,” my guide told me. “Many would call him a demon. The woman at the end of the bed is what would be called an angel. She is there to defend the man who has just died. That’s him, looking down at the body he has left behind. The dead man’s name is Morton Kim, and he is a good man, a kind man. I think his afterlife will be a happy one.”

  The thing with the bug eyes was not looking at us any more, not even as Habari spoke in an ordinary, conversational tone. “Why don’t they hear you?” I asked. “Who are you?”

  Habari only shook his head. His right hand, the one that had blazed like the sun just a few moments ago, looked almost ordinary as he held it up now, although it still seemed to glow slightly. “They don’t hear me because at the moment I am a servant of someone more powerful than either of them.”

  “You mean, like God?”

  He smiled. “We’re all servants of the Highest-even Fishspine there, Hell’s prosecutor. But my sponsor is at least more powerful than either this angel or this demon. Now let’s leave them to their business.”

  He led me out of the room and down the corridors again until we found the glowing hole through which we had entered. When we stepped through it, all was as it had been. A few seconds later an orderly rounded the corner, moving like every human I had ever seen before this hour. He glanced at us briefly and without interest, then continued on his way.

  Habari didn’t explain anything about what had happened as he drove me back. He didn’t lecture or solicit or proselytize. He didn’t need to. What I had seen was so far beyond anything I’d ever experienced that I was shaking like a man with a fever. He took me home, poured me a glass of wine, then made himself a cup of tea and sat with me until I was feeling a little less overcome. He left me with promises to return the next day and discuss our “adventure” as he called it.

  Whoever you are, reading this, you probably already have several ideas to explain what happened to me-hypnosis, drugs, perhaps just ordinary mental illness. I had all these thoughts myself, so after a nearly sleepless night, I was quite angry by the time Habari returned. He seemed to have expected this reaction and took me on another journey, this time to an apartment building in the Ravenswood district.

  “It’s sad-there’s been an electrocution,” he said. “Faulty hair dryer.”

  The scene was much the same but without the doctors and nurses. The paramedics were strapping the body of a middle-aged woman to a gurney, but when we went through the shining opening her soul was out of the body, watching the ambulance workers and the heartbroken grandchild who had found her, weeping as if her heart was broken. Within moments an advocate angel and a demon prosecutor both appeared, the former a young man with luminous features, the latter another young man without a head, but with a face in the middle of his naked torso. The deceased woman looked at him with fear, but the handsome young man stepped up and spoke to her, calming her.

  “Smearhawk,” said Habari, nodding at the headless demon. “As a prosecutor he’s a tough opponent, but I think he’ll be unlucky here.”

  And then the judge appeared.

  We once bought a toy for one of the children’s birthdays, a device that attached to the hose like a sprinkler and sent showers of water up and down and around as it spun like a merry-go-round. The kids loved it and played with it that whole summer. At just the right angle the sun’s rays would make a wonderful shining rainbow that hung where the water sprayed, staying in one place even though the water itself was rising and falling and spurting out in all directions as the sprinkler device revolved.

  The heavenly judge was like one of those, a frozen shower of light, but awesome and frightening, too.

  “We should go,” Habari whispered to me. “The Powers aren’t like the lower angels. He might detect us if we remain too long.”

  Over the next several days Dr. Habari took me on several more of these astounding journeys outside of the life we know, until even I had to admit that if I was being tricked I could not imagine how he was doing it. Once I conceded this he told me that perhaps now I was ready to hear the truth-the real truth. But he wanted more from me than simply to recruit another believer.

  “What is the point, Edward,” he asked me on the day he finally explained it all, “of surrendering yourself to the very same arbitrary rules and bullying use of power you fought against on Earth? You stood up for what you believed even when it was difficult-what your mind and heart told you must be true.”

  “But it wasn’t true,” I said. “That’s just the point. I was wrong.”

  “Ah, but only as to the nature of the battlefield. The conflict is just as fierce as you perceived.”

  I was confused and told him so. What conflict did he mean?

  What he meant, he explained to me over the course of a long afternoon and evening, was that there were dissident elements in Heaven itself-it still seems so strange to say that, so old-fashioned! — that felt the fate of man was too arbitrary, that sentences which could never be appealed made no sense for eternal entities like souls, that Heaven itself had become hidebound and dictatorial. Instead of a timeless home for weary souls it
had become a place where rules strangled freedom and dogma had overcome the birthright of all humans, which was the right to question, a gift that their Creator had blessed them with. The elements of which Habari spoke, felt that it was time for a change. They were the ones behind Habari’s Magian Society-a very different kind of charity organization than I had suspected!

  As he detailed his complaints with the ordering of Heaven I began to look at him with more than a little fear.

  “Oh, my lord!” I said. “Are you…a servant of the Devil?” Now that I believed in Heaven I had to believe in Hell, too. Had the leer of the great Enemy of Mankind been hidden behind Habari’s kindly, philosophical mask this whole time?

  He laughed. He laughed very hard. “No, no, no!” he finally managed to say. “Not me. The plight of the citizens of Hell is far worse than anything we face in Heaven. No, although there are doubtless more than a few souls trapped there who deserve better, there are far more who have done things so terrible that any ordinary Creator would have destroyed them instantly. God’s mercy, and His plans, are still a mystery beyond any of our complete understanding.” He shook his head. “No, my master and my colleagues and I represent something different. Do you remember some of the articles I sent you? About political philosophy?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “About the, what was it called? The Third Way?” But then, as the old expression goes, the penny finally dropped. “Is that what you represent? Some breakaway sect?”

  “We do not wish to break away from Heaven so much as we hope to coexist,” he told me. “That is where one of our names comes from-the Magians. The Wise Men brought three gifts, you see, representing three different ways. Because that is what we wish to become, Edward. A middle path. A third way.”

  He went on to tell me that he and his colleagues had found (or created-it was not clear) a place beyond the mortal Earth for the souls of the dead, a place that did not belong to either Heaven or Hell, and that they were founding a sort of free state for those who had done good things in life but would not be happy delivered into a rigid, rule-bound afterlife where happiness was imposed. Habari’s rebels wanted free-thinkers, people who would benefit from this alternative third way.

  “People like you, Edward,” he told me, patting my hand. “You are a perfect candidate. You will be the first, but you will not be the only one-not for long.”

  I asked him if he wasn’t frightened about what God would think of them-of us. For the first time in my life I had to seriously consider the jealous God of the Old Testament, and it terrified me.

  “I’ve never seen the Highest,” he said. “And there are others far, far higher in Heaven’s hiearchy than me who say they’ve never seen the Highest either, or received any indication that He, in fact, is ruling Heaven. We’re not resisting God, Edward-we’re resisting heavenly inertia.”

  “But what if those are the same thing? Aren’t you afraid?”

  “I’ve prayed on this,” Habari told me. “We all have. And one answer keeps coming, although I suspect it is only the answer of my own logic. We’ve made our intentions plain enough, at least to the Highest we all worship in our secret hearts. He has done nothing to stop us. Does that not suggest that He might not care-or might even approve of what we do?

  I sat for a moment staring at Walker’s typewritten letter. I felt, as Edward Lynes Walker himself must have felt-like a man who had been swimming near the shore and suddenly realized the current was pulling him far, far out to sea. Could this be real? Did Habari truly represent some dissident faction of Heaven or was he an agent of Eligor’s? Or could he even be Eligor himself? Clearly, whatever he was, the being who called himself Moses Habari had abilities I didn’t quite understand. If he had taken Walker, a living man, through a Zipper to Outside and then showed him a soul about to be judged, without either the prosecutor or the advocate knowing he was there, he was doing something so far beyond the rules I knew that it might as well have been magic. The higher angels and, presumably, the higher demons can do things we rank-and-file can’t, but they are also very powerfully limited by the Conventions when they manifest on Earth, even Outside. I could believe that Habari and his lot (if he wasn’t some kind of lone wolf) might be willing to break the Conventions, but how could they get away with it? The whole system was set up to make sure a Principality or a Hell-Duke couldn’t just go strolling around Mortalville breaking the rules. I couldn’t even imagine how anyone could get around it and still do what Habari had done.

  I didn’t have any answers. I felt like Woodward and Bernstein talking to Deep Throat in a Washington garage, learning that their story reached all the way to the White House. But I doubted that either of those two reporters worried that their discoveries might threaten not only their immortal souls but also the very foundations of the universe.

  I really, really wanted a drink. Instead, I went back to reading the extraordinary document that had been hidden in the atheist’s bible.

  But even as I began, in the days and weeks ahead, to believe more and more in what Habari and his colleagues were trying to do, there was a sticking point: to be certain the experiment would work (and it was going to be an experiment, an unprecedented one, since Habari said no soul had ever before been stolen out from under the noses of Heaven and Hell) this first “extraction,” as he put it, would have to be performed like a military operation, with care, precision, and perfect timing. That would not permit waiting for the first volunteer to die a natural death. Needless to say, I was not pleased to learn this.

  “You are our ideal candidate, Edward,” he flattered me, “but in the time we might wait for nature to take its course with you we will lose hundreds, perhaps thousands of other suitable souls to our twin rivals.” Naturally I asked him if they couldn’t find someone else like-minded who was already close to death, but he said no. Perhaps it could be done when they were certain it worked, he explained, but to begin with they wanted someone strong in mind and body at the end, someone prepared and fully understanding what was to happen.

  “But what about my wife?” I asked. “I’ll lose the chance to be reunited with her after death!” Now that I believed in life after death, I wanted nothing more than to see Molly again.

  Habari looked sad. “Even if you saw her, Edward, you wouldn’t know her,” he said. “And she would certainly not know you. The souls of the departed do not keep their memories, or at least, that is what we understand. Those who speak for the Highest are close-mouthed about it, but we do know that the departed do not simply go on as the people that they were, at least not in Heaven. Sadly, the same is not true in Hell. This is one reason a third way was needed. But we have a greater goal, and although I can’t tell you what it is, I can at least say that if we are successful in all we plan, it is possible that one day you and your Molly will be truly reunited, this time for eternity.”

  I mourned a long time over this, but at last, after much soul-searching (a phrase that means quite different things to me now, than it did only a short time earlier) I agreed to be the Magians’ guinea pig. Habari and I began planning my death….

  I skimmed through the next two pages, which was about how Walker put his affairs in order but without making it obvious what he planned. I’m sure he was not the first prospective suicide to have done such a thing, but he was certainly the first to do it while planning to scam both Heaven and Hell. My admiration for Walker grew as I thought about it. What he had done took guts, real guts. Like one of the early astronauts he had been given a lonely role to play, but without the potential for glory if he succeeded. He even referred to himself as an “after-naut,” a joking term he had picked up from Habari.

  Disappointingly but unsurprisingly, Walker had very little to say about what was supposed happen to him after he connected the hose to the exhaust pipe of his 7 Series BMW, except that he had been assured he need do nothing, and that Habari and his “people” (a pretty dubious term, I think you’d agree) would handle all the details. I couldn’t help wondering w
hether they had succeeded. Certainly Walker’s soul had gone somewhere. I had been an eyewitness to that.

  He closed with part of a poem by a writer whose name I didn’t recognize, R. W. Raymond.

  Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

  He signed the last page,

  Yours in hope,

  Edward Lynes Walker

  twenty-eight

  going to mecca

  I feel weird admitting it, but the first person I thought of calling when I finished reading Walker’s astonishing letter was not Sam, or Monica, or even my bosses upstairs (although I’d have to, of course) but Caz. Since we’d parted, I’d been carrying around the memory of what we’d done together-how we’d been together-and I still couldn’t find a proper place for it in either my heart or my head. Thoughts of her kept drifting through my head like sun showers, and like sun showers I couldn’t tell whether they were a relief to my feverish mind or precursors of bigger, darker storms to come. What the hell, literally, had I been thinking? What was I doing? How could I hope to keep something like this hidden from Heaven?

  But, oh, dear God, how I missed her. It hadn’t been just lust, or even simply love-as if that could ever be simple. We had felt right together. We were twin souls separated by a million years’ history of war and hatred and treachery. If the whole thing hadn’t been so painful, it might have been funny. I mean, was there ever a more doomed relationship?

  I sure can pick ’em.

  But now it was time for your friend Bobby Dollar to force himself back to the issue that was literally at hand, the pages of Edward Walker’s confession-slash-suicide-note piled in my lap. Everything Habari had told Walker might be true, of course-clearly, he was no ordinary reverend doctor. But Walker still might have been duped, especially if Habari was working for someone like Eligor-which, after hearing about the powers Habari had exhibited, seemed increasingly likely. I had already established a tenant/landlord connection between the Magians and the grand duke; not exactly a smoking gun, but in this game, I find coincidences generally pretty suspicious. Heaven moves in mysterious ways and so does Hell, but they have their fingers everywhere and seldom by accident.