Containment: The Death of Earth

by Charlee Jacob

  Her voice startled Adam away from the scene. “Will you please walk me home?” she requested, her head bowed. Clearly the grave diggers had upset her. “I do not mean to presume, sir, but…”

  “Certainly,” Adam replied as he gently took her arm. “It would be my pleasure. My name is Adam, by the way.”

  “I am called Laura,” she said. She hugged his hand and he felt what, embarrassingly, felt to be the curve of her breast. But the swelling was in her armpit. Startled, he looked into her face. But, no, this wasn’t his Laura. This girl was blonde, tresses lank and unwashed. She appeared to be not much older than fourteen years. Her pale blue eyes were wide, disconcertingly luminous.

  In an edgy eidolon such as this, Adam wouldn’t have been surprised had she turned out to be his Laura, waiting for him in Atlanta. Especially after the sexual caveat from the strange man with the gloves.

  They walked through a market place, dirty baskets filled with mushrooms, the only produce for sale. People who bore the black rash and the shine of fever did a curious yet eerily beautiful ballet. Slow, adorned with filmy shrouds that displayed darkness itself, yet could glitter, they were graceful as sylphs.

  Danse macabre.

  He glimpsed a large bell on the ground, in their center.

  Adam pointed to it. “Where did that come from?”

  “It is from the church. See?” She gestured to the Gothic cathedral’s tower.

  The wings of all the ornamental, sentinel gargoyles had been smashed. The faces had been disfigured until they resembled the extreme nodular deformities of the leper and the unsettling choir of, what had Mateo called them? Watcher Angels.

  Had Mateo managed—beyond his considerable disability—to climb out to the statues and make them in his own image? A real ‘hunchback of Notre Dame’, this leper of the Twin Roses.

  “The bell used to be up there,” the girl continued. “It tolled whenever someone died. Then, when too many died, the town fathers would not let it ring for the horror it struck upon us all, and the way it never stopped ringing—by itself—when the ground swallowed us whole. The priest was too afraid to come out and give comfort and absolution. So they hanged him in place of the bell.”

  So that’s what Adam had seen in the tower, swaying. Not the bell. He bent toward it, reading an inscription deeply engraved into the metal.

  Fugo cito, vade longe, rede tarde.

  (Flee quickly, go far, return slowly.)

  How could you flee a place that was underground?

  This spell, a double entendre. An interlude and the diabolical.

  He turned away from the bell. The girl had left.

  At both ends of the narrow street where alchemy brought a faint and sickly light, there stood crowds of people. Suddenly they ran towards him.

  Adam froze, they were fast, too fast for him to flee. He feared a beating from them, at most to be killed for some infraction of which he was ignorant.

  He gasped, unable to stand, unable to fall, as one by one each passed right through him.

  ««—»»

  Adam woke up.

  This time on a helicopter to Paris, where a plane would take him to the States.

  “What happened?” he asked, groggy.

  “We don’t know,” Paul replied. “Somehow you burned your hand.”

  Adam stared his right palm which was a single large red bubble. He poked it. “What are those things moving under it?”

  “Don’t know that yet either. We can’t seem to penetrate the blister.”

  Dr. Anson reached for his bag to retrieve a hypo filled with something to calm his friend down. Dr. Grigori had begun genuflecting, screaming out names:

  “Mount Polino, Mount Cervati, Mount Stella, Mount Matesse…”

  “Relax, Adam.” Paul tried to grab the other doctor’s flailing arm to safely put the needle in.

  “Don’t you see? It isn’t coincidence but synchronicity,” Adam babbled. “Mount Viso, Mount Sila, Mount Cervialto, Gran Sasso…”

  Paul finally stuck the needle in Adam’s neck. Dr. Grigori’s eyes fluttered…a billion faces…black water...the nanosecond sore. Adam jerked.

  “You are the only one who has made a successful entrance and exit—coming out uninjured, except for your hand. What did you see in there? Tell us, man!”

  Adam’s eyes overflowed with tears. Paul stared at the droplets, seeing something horrible reflected in them. He backed off, not caring if Adam replied now.

  But Adam did reply.

  “The world is a giant holy book. It is a book of laws and a book of lies, of charms and crimes, of altruistic dreams and of every nightmare we secretly crave to come true. The world is a book written for those who do not understand, and who cannot even read, and who are, in fact, blind. It is a book of the damned. The last pages are being written even as I speak.”

  He fell quiet, the drone of the helicopter’s blades the only sound.

  Part Five

  The Myth of World Annihilation

  (Time Is Quantitative, Not Infinite)

  ————

  “In the event that I am reincarnated,

  I would like to return as a deadly virus,

  In order to contribute something

  to solve overpopulation.”

  – Prince Philip, husband of Queen Elizabeth, 1988,

  as reported by Deutsche Presse-Agentur

  ————

  “We humans invent reality as much as we discover it.”

  – Lawrence LeShan

  ————

  “The classification of the constituents of a chaos, nothing less here is essayed.”

  – Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  ————

  Narrator

  First, understand there are many types of celestial servants to the Creator. The Watcher Angels are consigned to the lowest rung on hierarchy’s ladder:

  1) Seraphim

  2) Cherubim

  3) Thrones

  4) Dominations

  5) Virtues

  6) Powers

  7) Principalities

  8) Archangels

  9) Angels

  Second, celestials possess neither wings nor haloes. The idea came about in the 4th century A.D., the result of artistic ideals and a blossoming Christian desire to know angels immediately by their physical attributes. (Why? Perhaps fear of insulting any with a lewd proposition; wouldn’t want a replay of Sodom and Gomorrah!)

  Third, Hell is not a location where rebellious angels fall after being tossed from Heaven. Hell is in Heaven. The fall is hypothetical, theological. Falling represents a state of mind so bleak that it affects the state of being, the spirit dispirited and the soul cast down from itself.

  Shamayim: the lowest heaven, bordering earth in every dimension, and bordering all worlds with beings evolved to sentience.

  Raquia: where rebel angels await judgment, kept in darkness.

  Shehaquin: the location for Hell in the northern boundaries where the damned are punished. The south is Paradise for the righteous.

  Machanon: Enoch said that Eden is here but he was wrong. It is the gardens of Heaven and of beauty mortal beings—no matter how intuitive—would be repulsed by as alien.

  Ma’on: home to the Creator. The northern boundaries imprison the Watchers; the southern region is for ministering angels who endlessly sing God’s praises.

  Makhon: home to seven of the Cherubim, it is stormy and snowbound.

  Araboth: Home to God when He sits upon His Divine Throne. It is also the dwelling place of Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones.

  I am not from the Angels. Only these could alter their appearance to keep from frightening simple-minded humans. Only their faces were not stone, being because they who saw themselves as protectors to the clay people did not constantly—stoically—chant to the Creator. I am a Cherub and servant to an autonomous God…which makes of me an automaton.

  Holy! Holy! Holy!

  EL—IAWAH—ADONAI!

  Ma
crosopus!

  (God as He Is in Himself)

  Holy!

  Chapter 10

  ————

  “The day did not know that the night had fallen.”

  – African Proverb

  ————

  Louise saw the eyes watching from their windows as she came home from the hospital; the same eyes of her neighbors who didn’t help as she was dragged away.

  The front door of her house opened. Her husband stood in the doorway. What was Sam doing home this time of day? He had clearly been waiting for her. Indeed, someone from the hospital had called to warn him of her arrival. He must have arrived only a few moments ago, still in his office suit and tie. Had he come to welcome her?

  By his words, obviously not.

  “Simana! Stop, you slut! Haven’t you shamed me enough?” he shouted so all could hear his indignity.

  “I want to collect my things,” she said, trying not to create a scene.

  “I gave them to my girlfriend,” Sam told her. “She will be my wife when God finally sees fit to strike you dead.”

  Over his shoulder, Louise saw the younger woman inside the house, haughty in Louise’s clothes and jewelry.

  “I was attacked,” she replied. She knew that many fathers, brothers, husbands would often turn away female relatives after they were assaulted. She wouldn’t permit him to treat her this way. “And what about you, Sam? Trying to have me murdered. It must have cost you a pretty penny to bribe your way out of that. It wasn’t my fault, and I won’t let you behave as if I were a mkoo.”

  “You are a mkoo! Mwanamke nzembe! Pjufu! Tempter wa kike! Mbwa jike! Go away! Never come back here or I will kill you and your bastard myself, and put you where they won’t ever find the mess!” Sam threatened. He reached out and thumped her swollen belly. There was a snap of static and Sam howled in pain. But the surprise didn’t slow down what he’d rehearsed. Yet behind him, Louise saw the shock on the girlfriend’s face as she withdrew.

  Sam, still shaking burned fingers, cried out, “Fanya kuwa chafu! Rahisi sana! Your own mother—hasiri, chuki! You should have killed yourself for the disgrace you have brought to my name!”

  At the slander of sainted Shimani, her dear long-dead mother from the past, Louise stepped toward him. “How dare you speak so of the grandmother and mother of your dead son. Yes, Uwezo died to save me. Do not insult my mother for then you insult him.”

  Sam’s eyes widened.

  “Uwezo is…dead? Because of you? My only son!”

  He slapped her so hard across the face that Louise staggered and fell. He leaned down and grabbed her by the throat. Then he heard a click, a gun having its safety removed. The barrel pointed at the side of his head.

  Aziza had always carried weapons.

  “Nguruwe. Pig. That’s all your name means.”

  Sam let go of his wife but still barred the entrance.

  “Let’s go, daughter,” Aziza told her. “I see you wear the clothes I left for you.”

  Louise noted, “They smell of rose water.”

  They saw Sam’s girlfriend flee the house and run down the alley, Louise’s jewelry rattling. She glanced at the two women, fearful they would jeer about her flight to Sam and he would chase her. But they made no comment about her.

  Instead Aziza turned towards the eyes, pressed against neighboring windows. She could make out their faces.

  Sam turned on Aziza now. “You got your own husband killed,” he retorted. “And all those at that party while you hid in the trunk of a car. Mtu assiye na habari za kweli za Munga! Kwa Kawaida ni mtu asiye na dini ya kikristo, ila afuataye dini ya mapokeo ya wazee wake ya kutambikia mizimu…!”

  Aziza turned back and fired once, the bullet removing the lobe of Sam’s right ear. He shrieked, slamming the door shut until the wood split.

  They could hear him inside, screaming for his girlfriend.

  “Ubani, call the police! That crazy heathen bitch just tried to blow my head off! Ubani! Ubani? Where are you? Oh, damn it!”

  The women knew where she was, laughing at Sam. Aziza jeered, “If I wanted to blow your head off, I would have!”

  People still peeped from their windows. Aziza now turned her attention to them.

  “Pasipo haya. Shameless. Woga…hatia ya kuua. Cowardly. Blood-guilt. She couldn’t defend herself and none of you cared. If I lie, come out and face me!”

  Aziza awaited a response. When none came she walked off with Louise. At the corner the new girlfriend, shivering with fear of Sam Joto, slipped from the bushes—and approached the women.

  Stark naked, she set the clothes and jewelry at Louise’s feet. On her knees, she kissed the toes of Louise Joto’s shoes.

  “Forgive me,” pleaded the young woman. “I never knew he tried to have you killed. And when I saw him strike at the child inside you…”

  “How could you be with a man who had his wife’s life support turned off, and then ordered the hospital to remove her feeding tube so a helpless woman would starve to death?” Aziza demanded, not certain of her innocence.

  “I swear I didn’t know those things!” The young woman broke down and wept. “I work in Sam’s office. He said you had been unfaithful. He offered me such pretty things, nothing I could ever get on my own.”

  “How old are you, Ubani, is it?” Louise asked, remembering the name she’d heard Sam use. It was Swahili for ‘frankincense’.

  “Sixteen,” Ubani replied.

  The identical age Louise had been when she married the same villain, mistaking his cruel swagger for simba. But it didn’t take long for her to learn he was no hero. He was fifty now, too old for this child. He’d been thirty-four when he wed Louise. Aziza had never liked him but was unable to talk Louise out of giving up her youth to this cradle-vampire.

  Louise tried to bend, but she winced in pain. She said instead, “Put the things back on. I can’t fit into them anyway.” She looked around, hoping no men, especially rebels, had seen her. “Dress. Quickly.”

  Ubani did. She gasped, seeing Sam coming down the street. He still clasped what remained of his bleeding ear. He shouted at Ubani, “Give me back those items, mkoo! They are no longer yours.”

  “Actually, they are mine,” Louise retorted. “Ubani may keep them for having had to put up with you.”

  Sam snapped at Ubani, ignoring Louise as if she wasn’t even there. “And where will you go? Back to the refugee camp where I found you? I’ll give you a ride back. I have to hire a new girl to take your place in the office.”

  Louise put her arm around Ubani’s shoulders. “She’ll come with us. No more refugee camps for Ubani. And no more dirty old men like you. Only way you can get a girl is with presents.”

  The three walked to Aziza’s car, the same one her sweet husband Majid had locked her in the trunk of. Aziza’s mother-in-law, the ninety-year-old matriarch of the Bargash family who had lost three of her four sons that fateful afternoon, had once asked Aziza why she didn’t get rid of the car.

  “Doesn’t it remind you of his death?”

  Aziza had taken her hand and kissed it, replying, “No, it reminds me of his life. Majid was the best man I have ever known.”

  Now Louise saw her sweet mama struggling to get behind the wheel.

  “Mambo wa kambo, I do believe you’ve gotten fat. Are you in good health?”

  “I am in my late sixties, well past my bleeding time. But I am pregnant. Majid would call it a miracle. It must be.”

  ««—»»

  They had driven most of that night and almost half the next day. Aziza spoke to Louise, “We should almost be to the convent school. Asali’s classes might be breaking for lunch this time of day.”

  “Yes,” Louise replied. “And she must wonder why I haven’t written in so long. I doubt Sam told her anything of what happened to me.”

  Ubani gasped from the back seat as the car jumped along the terrible roads. She was dozing, awake now and hearing their talk about the daughter.

 
; Aziza shook her head. “That I don’t know, but Sam wrote to her last week and ordered Asali to come home.”

  Louise’s brow furrowed. “Why would he do that? He never even liked our daughter. He hated her very round head.”

  Aziza chuckled, “Cheap bastard probably didn’t want to pay the tuition anymore.”

  “I hope she isn’t on her way home now!” Louise cried in dismay.

  “I have a round head, too,” Ubani commented to herself. “So why did he pick me?”

  “I’m sure she is at school,” Aziza told Louise. “Anyway, we’re almost there now, aren’t we?”

  Ubani leaned forward and gently touched Louise’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Joto. I didn’t mean to upset you. Sam said she’d have to finish the year first. That the damned nuns—oh! he said it that way; I mean the nuns—they wouldn’t refund any part of the money. And he told me that year had three more months.”

  Louise glanced at her, giving her a grateful smile of relief.

  “By the way, please don’t call me Mrs. Joto again. I am Louise Ndege. My mother was Shimani Ndege. Call me ‘Louise’.”

  “You will be able to get a good job there at the school, Ubani,” Aziza chirped. “You could be a cook or maybe work in the garden…or be a teacher’s helper. Wait, you worked in Sam’s office, so you have office skills, right?”