“Therefore I am forced to seek a third path, one which has never been traveled before. Many of you are not going to like it, but these are desperate times.”
“What?” an angel asked. “What is it?”
She took a step toward the sleeping human girls, gesturing toward them. “We put ourselves in their hands.”
Part 2
Cibola
After flying for some time, Gramm felt a familiar tug deep within his chest. His internal guidance was kicking in. I am the Navigator. “We near the city,” he said.
They flew low and fast over the mighty prairie. They saw no signs of any other demons. The air was warmer closer to the city, but it was darker too, and the air was ripe with the distant smell of fire. It was nothing like he remembered. His chest was sore from being clutched so tightly by the angel, and his back ached as well. He tried to arch it and was given a curt warning from the angel holding him.
An incredible anger toward the angels still smoldered within. It was a feeling he was not used to, and he found himself in the odd position of not knowing how to act. Indigo was right, after all. Compared to the demons, the angels were far more agreeable. But they were still bitter, angry creatures. The sting of being punched in the nose no longer hurt physically, but the humiliation was still strong.
He continued to fiddle with the periscepter. Dave, flying only a few feet to his left, had managed to light his up twice. The first time he had been so surprised, he dropped the long light, inciting a string of curses from all three angels. They had to stop and search for about a half hour until Yehppael finally found it buried in the thick grass.
Gramm was still unable to get so much as a blink out of his.
“Yes,” Yehppael said. “We near the city.”
“And you're just going to just drop us off?”
“Yes.”
“How are we going to conceal ourselves? We'll be captured.” The thought of falling into the hands of the fearsome monsters terrified him beyond words.
“That is not our concern. You were the ones to choose this destination.”
Gramm didn't have an answer for that.
His voice softened slightly. “Humans are commonplace within the city. They are slaves, now. But if you walk as if you have a purpose, you'll likely not be molested.”
“Likely?” Dave squeaked.
* * * *
“Slap her,” Moloch said. His drink sloshed out of his goblet. It was his sixth cup. Rico had taken just one sip of the blackberry-flavored drink, and his head swam. Moloch had reappeared from the other chamber wearing a white, silken robe, opened to reveal his hairy body. His penis was gigantic, like a black American porn star, and it hung down between his legs like a spent fire hose.
Rico looked upon the white-haired girl below him. She stared blankly up at his eyes, but never really looking directly into him. He was still on top of her, still inside her. They were on the floor, and she was half-buried in a red shag carpet woven in the pattern of a lion balancing on its forward legs. The rug was smooth on his knees.
He was a man now.
The sound of tears wafted from the other room. Moloch lifted his hand, and one of the other girls gently closed the door.
“Why?” Rico asked.
“If she feels she pleased you properly this time, she won't try harder the next.”
Rico rolled off. She remained in position, legs spread open. Other than on her head, there wasn't a strand of hair on her. “But she did please me.”
“That is irrelevant.” Moloch moved forward and sat above them on the couch. He had covered his skin in some sort of white powder. It smelled bitter, like hot mustard. The white flecks filled even his beard, and when he moved his arm, a powdery streak spread across the cushion.
Rico grabbed for his suit and found it replaced with a robe and sandals. “I ain't gonna hit her.”
Moloch's foot flashed, kicking her hard in the head. She cried out, bright red blood spattering, then quickly getting lost in the red carpet.
“Jesus Christ!” Rico yelled. “What the fuck?” He bent down and wiped the blood from her lip. It was unnaturally warm, almost burning. Her expression changed just for a moment. She's looking at me now. “I thought you were trying to save these people.”
Moloch shrugged. “Soon you'll learn the difference between those we can only liberate and those we can truly save.”
He shook his head. “I don't understand.”
Moloch took a long draw from his goblet. Rivulets of the dark drink filled his beard. “You will.”
* * * *
Indigo dreamt of a time long, long ago. The vision was ancient, steeped in a dark haze. But somehow she knew it was real. She could taste the memory, savor it. She flew high over the city, circling on the delicate currents.
Cibola.
Her body was shaped differently. She couldn't quite picture herself, but she felt the difference in her arms and legs, in the shape of her head. Her gossamer wings spread forever in each direction. The sensations coming from the tips of her wings—feeling, taste, and something else—were overpowering for a moment, sending static jolts through her. Just a moment though, until she became used to her true form.
Below, the dream city bristled. Buildings were being erected on flat squares of land. An enormous wall was coated with a black tar. Groups of angels flew by, and each of them acknowledged her. None of them, not even the elderly Hashmallim pairs—which flew hand in hand, wore armor or weapons. There was no need for them here.
Then why the wall? she wondered. But then, she remembered. They were told it was a monument. They've never seen a wall before and had no reason to think otherwise.
But still, it was just a precaution. A simple precaution.
In the distance, a great zoo was being erected on a floating platform. Wonderful creatures were going to be brought there. And below, a pool of real, genuine water, the lifeblood of the Tree of Eternity, was being filled. It sparkled.
When it was done, the city would be beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking.
* * * *
Something deep within the city burned. An obelisk of smoke rose in the distant sky, joining a sea of vapors. Soon, Gramm knew, the spectacular wall that surrounded the city would appear.
Several minutes before, Yehppael had disappeared without a word, spiraling down toward the grass. They had been discussing the occupation of the city by the army of the demons.
“Who are these monsters?” Gramm had asked as they flew over a field of demon bone. They rose out of the grass like skeletal dolphins floating on their flippers. “Why did they attack?”
“Does it matter why?” Yehppael replied. “I haven't thought much of it.”
“Of course it matters! How can you fight them if you don't understand why you hate each other?”
“I see no reason to understand their hate. It is not relevant.”
“You don't know that,” Gramm said. “Maybe you could talk it out. Maybe you were doing something to anger or hurt them.”
“There is no talking with them. They attack us on sight.”
It was a circular argument. Yehppael was only interested in speaking about Earth. So Gramm told him some more about the places of the world. The Siberian forests. The plains of Africa. The glaciers floating in the oceans within the arctic circle. Places he himself had never visited, except in the pages of his beloved library books. Yehppael kept rapt attention, often asking questions.
Yehppael was particularly interested in tales about polytheistic religions, faiths with more than one deity. Like Hinduism and the Roman gods.
“So different,” Yehppael said, his voice filled with the wonder of a child. “Every one of your worlds are different, yet they are all the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most have religions that worship the natural world, and the stars and planets around them. It's a natural part of your evolution. But take the deity you described from Hinduism, Shiva. The destroyer. It's an angel
word. A common angel name. Many of the human faiths are filled with deities with angel names.”
“So what are you saying? These gods are real?”
Anger flashed across the bottom half of his face. “There is only one true god.” With that, he flew out of speaking range.
Gramm tried to start the demon conversation up again later with the angel clutching him, but he might as well have been talking to a rock.
Out of the mist, like Death himself, Yehppael returned clutching a pair of human corpses in one hand. They were both males, and they hadn't been dead long. One had a slash across the cheek, and it teemed with wriggling white worms. Even in heaven, Gramm thought solemnly, the bugs must eat. Yehppael shook them like he was mixing a drink. The bodies slipped away while their dark cloaks remained firmly in his hand.
“Your garments,” he said. “The ground is littered with humans who have died in their attempt to flee.”
“I am not putting that on,” Dave said. He looked like he was going to throw up.
“If you don't wear it voluntarily, they will force you to wear it for the rest of your existence.”
Gramm sighed. If it would protect them, what choice did they have? He reached for the suit. The fabric was light, like silk. It smelled of dirt and sweat. A crest was sewn into the chest. It was of a curved blade and three slashes that stood vertically like tiny number ones. Dave reluctantly took his.
He looked up, catching his breath. The wall was suddenly on them, like a wave out of a storm. It was huge, imposing. Like the world stopped right there.
They turned slightly, now advancing at an angle. They flew lower, and the angel holding him noticeably tensed the closer they came.
“This is not the main entrance, but a small, abandoned side portal,” Yehppael said. “Some called this particular gateway, ‘Eye of the Needle.’ I suggest you make haste and stick to the shadows. If the Spire still stands, you'll find it isn't too far, even by foot.”
“Where are you going to be?” Dave asked.
“We'll be nearby, keeping vigil of your progress.”
The angel above Gramm humphed with surprise.
Yehppael ignored him. He pulled a small object out of his pack that looked like a stapler. He pressed forward on the collar of Dave's tunic, then reached over and did the same to Gramm. Yehppael took the stapler device and spoke his name into it, then latched it onto his belt.
Gramm reached up, but there wasn't anything there.
Yehppael said, “This is a communications device. It has a short range due to its size, but you can utilize it by speaking my name twice.” Then he added, “I don't think they can track it. The technology hasn't been used in a millennium, so they probably won't even search that band anymore. I got it off an engineer who was keeping it as an antiquity.”
“Splendid,” Dave said.
They lowered to the ground. Gramm was let go a little too soon, and he hit the dirt hard. The periscepter in his hand went rolling. He ran to retrieve it, tripping again over a bone. When he turned back, the angels were gone. Against the wall, the grass tapered off, leaving just dirt. Dave was lying face-first in the ground. He slowly rolled over groaning.
“We are so screwed,” he said.
Gramm nodded. He pulled the cloak on, fastening it tightly around his neck, unsuccessfully trying to ignore the death of the previous owner. He pulled Dave to his feet, who also put on his. The crest upon the chest of his was different. It was a picture of a four-horned animal skull with an off-center, upside-down crimson triangle.
“Let's go.”
They traveled tight against the wall for fifteen minutes. Every sound, no matter how slight, caused them to jump, and the smoke and mist obscured their vision above, making it seem they were in a tent. The Eye of the Needle soon came into view, and the arch was more vast than he had predicted, stories high. A gate of some sort hung there, but it sat at an angle, like it was about to fall down. As they came closer, the wall changed. Angry metal spikes dotted the cement blocks here, and they became denser the closer they got.
“It almost makes me feel unwelcome,” Dave said dryly.
The gate was indeed broken off its enormous hinge. It hung precariously. At one time a great statue stood before the gate, but it was smashed and gone, only the sandaled feet remained, a monument to its destruction.
“I wonder who this was,” Gramm murmured.
Between the askew gate and arch, there was just enough space for both of them to squeeze through. They pushed themselves in, leaving the massive field of death behind.
* * * *
Hitomi wasn't sure how she was going to kill herself. She wanted it to be quick and as painless as possible. But the nagging question of an afterlife still troubled her. Her parents professed they were Shinto and Buddhist, but they did nothing to show it. She had not passed through the Tori of a shrine since she was seven.
Mari, who was a Christian, was the only one of her friends who would speak openly about death: You kill yourself, you go to hell. She was adamant about it. And hell was not a place you wanted to be. Demons with dicks the size of elephant trunks raped you every night and forced you to bear and suckle their spawn who had teeth like razors.
However, there was a trick out of going to hell, Mari whispered to her one day. Even if you do kill yourself. You could ask for forgiveness if you have time before you die, and you could still get to heaven. If you truly were sorry, and you said a prayer telling baby Jesus you believed in him, you couldn't be turned away.
She wasn't sure she believed in any of that stuff—in fact she hoped it wasn't true—but Mari's words about forgiveness soothed her.
One afternoon, a week after the horrible late-night call to London, Hitomi and Mari walked through a grassy field to go see a movie. It was a beautiful day.
“If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?” Hitomi asked, trying to sound innocent. She had not told Mari about the call.
Mari thought for a moment. “I would use poison,” she said finally. “One that wasn't painful, but there was no antidote for. You take it, beg Jesus for forgiveness, go to sleep, and wake up in heaven, cradled in the arms of a beautiful angel.” She nodded thoughtfully. “How would you do it?”
“If that's the only way, then I would do the same thing.” Butterflies danced around and inside of her. Poison.
It was a beautiful day.
* * * *
Hitomi's eyes snapped open. Damn you, Mari, she thought. A male angel was standing above her, kicking at her. He was tall and barrel-chested. Angry and muscular with black hair that hung to his shoulders in dirty black clumps. Several angels milled about, talking quietly. Some hovered several feet into the air, their enormous wings spread out like kite tails. They seemed more at ease off the ground. Some gave her furtive glances, as if they were discussing her.
Instinctively she reached for her periscepter. It was still there. Next to her, leaning up against a tree, was Indigo. She snored despite being prodded by the angel.
“Get up,” the angel said, poking her again.
Indigo opened one eye. “What?” she asked, irritated.
“Get up,” he repeated.
“Why?”
The angel spoke through gritted teeth. “Because Colonel Tamael demands words with you.”
Indigo yawned and stretched, making a big show of it. Hitomi envied her confidence.
“You may take me there now,” Indigo said, lifting her wrist with all the grace of royalty. Hitomi stifled a giggle.
They held a staring match that ended only when Indigo said, “Better not keep the Colonel waiting.”
“Come on then,” the angel muttered, turning and marching around the side of the tree. They walked through a gauntlet of stares and whispers. The angels were in bad shape. Makeshift bandages and crutches fashioned from tree limbs held them together. Amidst the great trees, and beaten so badly, they didn't look so mighty.
“I'm worried about Dave and Gramm,” Hitomi said.
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Indigo flinched. Her façade crumbled. Her face sagged, and her eyes moistened. “I am too.”
“Do you think they're okay?”
She managed a grin. “They're probably better off than we are right now.”
Hitomi doubted it. She felt so close to the two boys, and now that they were gone she felt like a physical part of her was gone, too. She ached for them.
They came to a hollowed-out section of the tree. It was a dark arch about the height of an angel. It led into the depths of the tree and curved away into darkness. The angel entered without hesitation, and they had no choice but to follow.
For creatures that could fly, these angels sure seemed to like their caves.
Inside, they quickly came to a small room. It was lit with yellow light. The rounded walls danced with curved patterns, not only showing the tree to be millions of years old, but suggesting seasons existed here as well. Tamael and two other angels were bent over a table carved from the floor. They pored over a yellowed map.
She looked up. “We're in need of your assistance.”
“We're not fighting your war for you,” Indigo said. “We want our weapons replaced, and we want to be brought to our friends.”
The angel to Tamael's left huffed angrily. She unstrapped her weapon and turned it on. It hummed like the bugs outside, only louder.
“You ungrateful little fools. I could have you killed in a matter of moments. It would be of no consequence,” Tamael said. “You do not make demands of us.”
“If you didn't need our help,” Indigo said, “we'd be dead already.”
Tamael smiled. “All the more reason to do as I say, traitor.”
“We'll escape. Or refuse to do what you've asked at a crucial moment.”
“Let me kill them now,” the female angel begged.
“You will not escape,” Tamael said. “If you attempt to flee our custody, we'll shackle you upon capture. Or sever your foot.”
“At least get rid of the cicatrix bearer,” the other angel continued. “They say she can't use the periscepter very well anyway.”
The Shivered Sky Page 17
