by 19
–I did. I broke them, and I owed him at least that much.
–When are we going to march into Calvary?
That one horrified him so much that for a minute or two he couldn't even answer. He noticed Zillah, near the front, smoking and staring at him with something sly and sad in his exotic eyes.
–We're NOT. Have you all missed the point of this? Still?
None of them had an answer. Some of them looked away from him, in guilt or shame or fear.
–We're not marching into Calvary or anywhere. We're not having a civil war. We're not having a revolution. I'm not running for fucking mayor.
He grabbed a blonde boy from just in front of the platform, pulled him onstage and spun him around to face the congregation.
–This is the point. Right here, he said, smacking the poor kid on top of his head to emphasize every word. –This is where the revolution MUST happen. That is the ONLY thing that will change the world.
He pushed his hostage away.
–You don't need me. You don't need an army. You were born with every single fucking thing you need to change this world–five senses and the capacity to reason. You don't want other people controlling your life? Don't let them. You don't want to live in a theocracy? Then don't. It's as simple as that. Leave. Destroying cities and having a war, whatever this bullshit is you seem to think we're here for...none of that is going to make this world any better.
None of them answered.
–Stop dressing like me, stop worshiping me, stop praying to me. Be your own gods. Go home and tell other people this: the secret of God is that he's in the fucking mirror.
Murmurs. Nobody moved.
–Go. I'm not going to preach here anymore. I refuse to be your excuse for not believing in yourself.
–Don't you love us?
He had no idea who'd said it.
–Yes, he said, crying now, tears of exhaustion and loneliness and everything inside him that was heavy and gray. –More than you could ever possibly comprehend. That's why I won't let you do this to yourselves. I came here to help you save yourselves, not to be the next religion.
He stepped down.
His head hurt. His heart hurt.
In the tent behind the stage he found Mary seething with rage, in the center of an empty space where his followers would normally have been three deep.
–Have you lost your mind?
–Mary. Keep your voice down. Everyone can hear you.
–Good! God forbid I should make a fool of you in front of your groupies! she hissed at him. –Do you have any idea what could happen to you for something like this?
Something angry and proud activated itself in his brain, and he snapped, –There are at least three times as many of us as there are of them. Everybody from every township for six hundred miles either owes me something, or loves someone who does. Not much is going to happen to me against my will, ever again.
–Is that what you think? You think Elijah is going to play by the rules?
–If he doesn't –
–He'll come after you and then he'll come after me!
She was almost screaming now.
–You haven’t heard what they say about you!
–I know they've started calling me Reverend, he said.
He let her go. Turned his back to her, pressed hard against his temples. –I don’t encourage it. I hate it.
–That’s not all they’re calling you. She looked up, blinking hard, fighting back tears. –Some of them think you're...Jesus, or, something...
–And you think they're wrong.
He was so tired that even his mouth felt heavy.
–Elijah is furious.
–FUCK ELIJAH!
He turned on her, suddenly, making a violent, angry gesture in the air that scared her into silence.
–Fuck Calvary. Fuck everybody’s opinion. I’m doing what I have to, and what pisses me off is that you know that, and you’re putting me through this when I need you to support me the most! Do you think that’s easy for me?
He waved behind him in the direction of the congregation outside. –Do you think it’s easy for me to stand up in front of hundreds of people that scare me half to death and try to explain things I don’t understand how I know...
His voice gave out on him. He made a fuck this slash with one hand, turned his back on her and left the tent.
Paul was outside, with his arm around Jordan’s shoulders. Probably Jordan had heard the shouting. –Reverend –
–Don’t call me that, he ordered. He pushed aside Paul’s hand. –Get out of my way.
He walked out of the camp, almost running. The sky was clotted with clouds, and the wind was kicking the sand into dust devils. He could hear Mary calling to him, behind him. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t slow down.
She ran until she caught up with him, and clutched at his arm. –Wait-
He turned too fast, turned too angry, and shoved her away from him, hard, so hard she almost fell. –Mar, don’t.
She cringed away from him, her eyes stricken. –Is it true?
–Mar –
–Is it true what they call you, is it TRUE?
Then, there was only the two of them staring at each other, almost enemies, and the wind, and the heavy graygreen of the night sky.
He drew in a deep breath, his eyes stinging, his throat aching. He looked up, and that same perverse, cruel thing twisted in his stomach.
He raised his hands, his palms turned up like some kind of hieroglyph.
He reached up and out, and said, –Now.
The rain dropped on them in a single furious sheet, so quickly and so hard that Mary screamed, threw her arms over her head, and ducked. She ended up crouching on the ground, her face hidden, shaking, instantly soaked to the skin.
–What, Mary? What do they call me? he yelled at her, over the din of the rain. –Are they saying I'm Christ? Or a witch? Maybe this week I'm the Devil himself. Is that what they call me? Is it?
He was sorry the second he’d finished saying it. –Mary?
She only stayed that way, crying.
He pulled off his trenchcoat. It was soaked too. His logic wasn’t currently at its best.
–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.
He moved to cover her with his coat. She made a horrified noise, and flinched away from him, her hands flailing at the air to drive him away. She stumbled up to her feet, yelled something at him with her face covered again, and he couldn’t hear it. He was pretty sure the word witch was part of it.
–You don’t really think that, do you? He tried to touch her again.
Her face twisted in something like fury. She turned and ran away from him.
He was so dumbfounded by that, he only stood there, holding out his jacket like an idiot, and staring after her. After a moment, he realized she had no intention of stopping.
He shouted after her, –Damn it, Mary! and the wind snatched his voice away. He ran after her, shoving his arms back in the sleeves of his coat. He slipped, slid along on one knee in the wet sand. I’ll kill her. I’ll carry her home over my fucking shoulder.
The rain was so heavy he couldn’t really see more than thirty feet in front of him. It was getting darker, fast.
He kept calling to her, alternating between pleading and apologies, and threats and furies, until he finally had to stop for breath. He yelled her name one more time. Nothing.
–Damn it, he said to himself, and reached up and shoved his dripping hair out of his face, wiped at the water pouring into his eyes. It was the baby. Hormones.
In the middle of a goddamned storm.
She was probably already nice and dry and safe at the house. He had every intention of going there and doing something truly uncomfortable to her, as soon as he figured out where he was.
Now, there was a nasty thought.
Don’t panic. It’s pouring, so it’s not like you have to worry about dehydration or a heat stroke. Not that you have to worry ab
out either of those anyway.
Not yet, anyway. He knew that his strange body could endure a lot, but he knew that even he had limits. He could wander for weeks, if he couldn’t get his bearings.
–Fuck, he said to nobody, dismally. He spun in a slow circle. Rain. Shadow. Sand. Little currents of water carving tiny riverbeds in the sand.
He didn't dare stop the rain. There was a certain consequence to a large effect like that. To make a sudden change so soon could be disastrous.
He started off in the direction most of the water seemed to be heading.
(30)
He walked for a lot longer than he’d expected to. Nothing looked familiar, and nothing looked different. What if he was going in the completely wrong direction? Should he stop? Wait? Turn around?
Zillah. He could hear me. I know he could. I don’t know how. I just know he could.
He shook himself out of it. Weakness. Fuck that, he thought, disgusted with himself. He wasn’t going to ask that bastard for anything. He couldn’t afford to owe Zillah a favor. And Jordan would have freaked. He could get himself out of this. He had gotten himself into it, hadn’t he?
There was something ahead of him. He couldn’t tell what. The rain had gotten worse, slicing down in stinging cold slivers. All he could make out were tall, dark shapes, like dead trees. He squinted, trying to shield his burning eyes, walking faster, stumbling a little.
The toe of his boot stubbed into something jutting up out of the sand. A stick, or a tree root, probably, unearthed by the rain. Half-annoyed, he bent down—God only knew why—and picked it up. It was too heavy, and he had to yank at it, pulling with his entire back, to pull it up out of the ground.
It was a bone.
He stared at it, his eyes startled wide open, and then he made an awful noise and dropped it, convulsively, stepping back, quickly. He was shuddering, scrubbing his hands on the wet cloth of his coat.
Stop it. It just startled you. It’s just a bone. It can’t hurt you.
He waited a minute or two, breathing hard, and finally bent down again, still revolted, and picked it up gingerly with only his fingertips. It was the radius, the thick bone in the forearm, and the end of it, the part that should have connected with the elbow, was broken off, jagged.
He stood up again, still holding it. His face was very still. He walked forward again, slowly.
They weren’t trees.
They were crosses.
He looked down at the bone in his hand again. Not a crucifixion. The crosses were only about ten feet tall, some a little bigger, none of them really big enough to be…functional. Wood was too hard to come by, here, for that.
It wasn’t a graveyard, either.
He took the bone in both hands, gripped it as hard as he could, closed his eyes and
(pulled looked asked went)
and a nightmare unfolded around him.
The world fell sideways, and took him with it. He was about to scream, trying to brace himself. There was nothing to hold on to. Before he could draw another breath, he was standing in the same place, in a different place.
The rain had stopped.
The sky was a muddy graybrown, and it was the wrong shape, more like a cylinder than Earth’s smooth round dome. The sun was a dark red ball, five times bigger than it was supposed to be, sitting heavy and wounded on the horizon, so dim he could look straight at it. The air was dense, almost too thick to breathe, radiating the way heat sometimes did off the sand, except that there was no heat. There was no wind. Everything was still.
There were figures moving, farther down the hill, where the crosses were scattered like broken teeth.
He tried to call out. There was no sound. And he ran towards them, shouting, and he could hear nothing, nothing at all. The silence was total.
You shouldn’t be here.
It wasn’t a voice. It was like remembering a voice he had never heard. It seemed to come from behind him, and he turned, already backing away from whoever—or whatever—it was.
There were two of them. The one who was looking at him was wearing a plain black shirt, black pants, and a long leather coat. He had shoulder-length black hair, and his face was painted with a black smile. His eyes were luminous, and gentle.
The other one was looking out towards the sun. His hair was black, too, long, woven through with silver thread. His face was painted with blue glyphs, and he wore a vivid blue that seemed to be half-feathers and half-bandages. He spoke without looking, in that same voiceless way. It’s too late, Luke. He’s already here.
Luke smiled at him, ignoring his companion. You know the dead are off limits. If we leave you here you might never find your way back.
He shook his head, not understanding. Who are you?
We’re angels who got kicked off the head of the pin for our language. And so are you, the blue one said, dripping mockery.
Don’t, Luke warned. The blue one shrugged.
You don’t like me, do you? he thought at Luke’s companion.
Eyes that same blinding sapphire moved in his direction, almost in surprise. I never said that. You and I have never gotten along. Call it sibling rivalry.
I don’t understand.
I don’t care if you don’t understand, the blue one told him. You couldn’t understand it even if I did explain it to you. You don’t have room in that human brain you’re wearing.
Your voices are exactly the same, he thought at the blue one. Why? What are you?
Binary stars.
Friends, said Luke. Guides. You can’t stay here.
He looked back at the crosses. There were figures there, wandering in aimless patterns. Who are they?
They’re dead souls, Luke answered.
The blue one laughed. They’re not all dead. They're all trapped. Like you.
He’d heard enough. He turned and started down the hill, towards the crosses.
Wait! Don’t go down there!
Listen! They’re not sane anymore! They’re not human anymore!
He didn’t bother to turn around. I want to know what this place is, and I’m tired of riddles. And I can find my own way out.
He made it to the edge of the little forest of crosses. The ground was cracked and rocky here, splattered with brown straggly grass. He looked back. Luke was looking down at him with his hands in his pockets. His companion was still staring into the dying sun.
Hello? Can you hear me? he thought at the souls.
They all looked up at him in unison. They were strange, faded people, all of them old. He walked into the middle of them, moving slowly, keeping his hands slightly raised, palms up. Do you need—
Someone touched his shoulder. He turned, irritated, expecting Luke.
He didn’t know how to think a scream.
Two eyes, one hazel, one white.
Then, he saw that it wasn’t himself. This man was ancient, beyond ancient
The man raised one trembling arm, covered with the ruin of his tattoos, and spoke the only sound he had heard in this place. –LIVING.
And then they were on him, and then they were in him.
Flash:
he was seventeen and his name was Stefan and his hair in his eyes was blond blond and they were holding him down and his wrist nose knee were broken and something struck him in the side with unbelievable force and blood splattered onto his face warm and his ribs splintered away from his spine sending shards of bone into his lungs liver spleen
and he screamed through liquid and fell onto his back, convulsing, and he looked up and all he saw was an iron mallet painted red before it struck him in the stomach and something thick and soft and hot and heavy exploded up into his throat and everything in him burst open leaking
(–stop it–)
and he was thirty-two and his name her name was Anna, she had two children and they thought her youngest boy was not her husband’s and they were right and her fingers were already broken when they set her on fire
(–STOP I CAN’T–)
(don’t)
and he was sixty, mercifully shot in the back of the head for heresy because he had said that he didn’t think God hated anyone, and he felt so cold his feet kept kicking he didn’t know why and his back hurt from lying on the hard ground and they were walking away and cranial fluid was soaking the collar of his shirt and he was trying to sit up before everything went green
(STOP IT STOP STOP I CAN’T I–)
(get out)
i can’t get out
and something, someone shoved him
–Get out, he rasped.
He was lying on his face on the ground with his knees folded under him. His mouth was full of sand. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were streaming something thicker than tears. Mary was shaking him, trying to drag him to his feet, sobbing. –Spectre! Jordan! Over here, he’s over here…oh my God…
–Out. Of here. Get me out of here, he choked out to her, groping at her, trying to push himself up on his hands and knees. She took his hand, and she was dabbing at the blood on his face. The rain dripping off his chin was dyed pink. –Mary, get me—
Flash:
He was the executioner this time, a woman with terrified eyes standing on a wooden platform beside him. Someone handed him a thing like a pillowcase made of rough cloth, and he took it and put it over her head. Her hair was the color of honey, damp with sweat, soft as spiderweb on his fingers, and his fingers were heavy with rings, the wrong rings, gold rings
and the lever was easy, so easy to pull
and her dress billowed out when she fell, and the snap was a snap crunch gorgeous, all through him like a dark new flavor of orgasm
