by Bill Myers
The cool air hit his waist, then his legs as he continued to emerge. Finally he opened his eyes, looking down just in time to see his feet exiting the mouth. And still the pulling continued. He tilted back his head to look at the cross. It was several feet closer to the front wall than he remembered. But that wasn’t the only surprise. Because now it was empty. There was no hand. There was only the cross.
Then the pulling stopped. Brandon lay on the carpet, gasping for breath. The screams and the howling wind behind him slowly subsided. He twisted around to see. The horned beast had closed its mouth and had pulled away several yards.
Brandon looked back at the cross. There was only the wood and his own hand reaching out. And yet, even though he didn’t see it and didn’t feel it, he knew that it was still there. He knew that the hand was still there, and he knew that it would not let him go. It would never let him go.
Maybe this sense of knowing was faith, maybe it was something else. He wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that the knowing didn’t come from him. It wasn’t something he’d imagined or worked up.
“He is the author of faith,” Gerty had told him. “Not you. You need only surrender.”
Is that what he’d done? Simply given in, simply stopped trying and given up? Could it really be that easy?
There was no time for reflection. Another sound had replaced the wind. It had started off softly enough, then quickly grew in intensity. Brandon turned, looking back around the church, but he saw nothing except the beast’s head — and his mother. She still stood to the left, but there was no longer any sign of her daughter or the wolf or the flames. The illusion had abruptly disappeared, leaving her confused and disoriented. But only for a moment. Suddenly her attention was drawn up toward the ceiling.
On the other side of the church, Brandon saw the reverend slowly rising to his feet. He was also looking up, staring toward the roof.
Brandon followed their gaze. There, at the apex of the ceiling, a brilliant light was emerging through the rafters. It didn’t damage the structure; it simply passed through it. And as it approached, the roar grew louder. But instead of wind, it sounded like water. Like a giant waterfall, pounding, thundering, filling the entire church with its presence.
The beast’s head quickly turned inside itself, inverting, until it faced the opposite direction — away from Brandon and toward the blinding brightness. But the brightness really wasn’t a light. It was something more. A quality. A purity. A purity so intense that it generated the brightness.
Brandon had seen this same purity before. Back in the lab, during the experiment. This is what had saved him, what had guided him back through the floor of the lab and into his body. He shaded his eyes and squinted into the brilliance. Yes, there were the four spinning wheels he had seen earlier, and the thousands of all-searching, all-knowing eyes. But he saw something else this time. Amidst the brightness he caught glimpses of what looked like faces. Four of them — some human, some animal. Between the four spinning wheels were blinding flashes, a lightning that arced back and forth between the wheels and between the faces. And, at the very center, between these wheels, was a form so excruciatingly bright that it was absolutely impossible to look at.
A voice sounded. It didn’t speak; rather, it resonated through every object in the room, as if the molecules themselves vibrated with its power.
“DEPART.”
It took several seconds for the sound to fade. When it had, the beast raised its head and spoke to the light — though its mouth never moved. “HE IS MINE.”
The room responded:
“DEPART. HIS TIME HAS NOT YET COME.”
The head did not answer. It could not. The command had been given, and it had no choice but to obey. Slowly, purposefully, the brilliant purity rose back through the roof. It took several seconds for it to disappear, and even after it was gone its presence seemed to linger. The roar took even longer to recede as everyone, including the beast, looked up in awe.
Finally, the head moved. Brandon tensed as he watched it turn and invert upon itself to once again face him.
“OUR BUSINESS IS NOT YET FINISHED.”
Brandon swallowed. He was too frightened to speak, and wasn’t sure what he’d say if he could. He looked at Momma, then at the reverend. They had both started toward him. Apparently neither could see the creature, though it was directly in front of them. He began to call out, to warn them, but stopped. Something was happening to the head. It had started to dissipate. The mouth, the horns, everything was growing less distinct. Details faded, dissolved, until the entire creature had become a nebulous cloud.
“Brandon,” Momma called. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
The closer the two approached, the less defined the cloud became until it was nothing but a mist that wisped and swirled, then disappeared altogether as Momma and the reverend passed through it in their rush to him.
Something wasn’t right. Dr. Hibdon had ordered that they increase the wattage from 200 to 370. But the patient’s body had convulsed exactly as it had the first time. There was no difference. A less experienced surgeon might not have noticed, but Hibdon did.
“You gave her 370?” he called over the sound of the alarm.
The male nurse checked the cart. “Yes, sir.”
A small trickle of sweat started down the doctor’s temple. Over the years he’d seen dozens, perhaps hundreds of hearts resuscitated. The reaction of the body varied slightly, but never like this. This was not how a body responded to 370 watt-seconds of electricity surging through it.
“You’re sure it’s set at 370?” he repeated.
Without looking at him, the nurse shifted slightly. “Yes, sir, 370.”
Hibdon frowned and glanced at the intern holding the paddles. He gave him a motion to check. The intern nodded and leaned past the nurse to see for himself. He did not answer immediately.
“Doctor?” Hibdon asked irritably.
“It’s set at 150,” the intern answered.
Hibdon scowled and the male nurse with the steel prosthesis immediately protested. “That’s impossible. I —”
“See for yourself,” the intern pointed.
“Set it to 370!” Hibdon barked. “We have a woman in asystole here!”
“It is set at 370,” the nurse protested. “The calibrations on this machine are wrong. I’ve made the correct compensation —”
“Nurse! Set it at —”
“But —”
“Set it at 370 and leave the room.”
The team froze.
The alarm continued and the nurse blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” the doctor ordered. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re pulling, but you’re out of here.”
The nurse held his gaze a fraction too long. There was no missing his animosity. Hibdon looked at the intern. “Set it at 370 and call security.”
There was a shuffle of feet, a commotion as the nurse turned and stormed out of the room. Hibdon wasn’t sure what had happened, and he had no time to think about it. Later, he’d find out where the nurse came from and how such incompetence wound up on staff, but not now. He glanced down at his patient.
“370?” the intern called to verify.
“Does everybody have a hearing problem?” Hibdon demanded.
“No, sir—370 joules.”
Hibdon watched as the paddles were again placed on the woman’s chest.
“Clear.”
There was a quiet thud and the body convulsed — this time far more violently, as every muscle contracted, arching the body grotesquely while the electricity surged through it.
The alarm stopped.
“She’s back,” the intern called. “We’ve got a rhythm.”
Hibdon nodded, then refocused his attention on the brightly lit skull.
CHAPTER 18
THE MUSIC HAD SWELLED, completely enveloping Dr. Reichner. It had lifted him and filled him with indescribable peace. He was floating, now, in a de
ep, beautiful crimson. For how long, he didn’t know. But with each passing moment, he became more of the music, more of the crimson, more of the peace. They had truly become one. Inseparable. Everything had become him and he had become everything.
Finally, from within the center of the music, from within the center of himself, he heard the voice:
Good evening, Dr. Reichner.
He recognized it instantly — the juvenile timbre, the attempt at speaking with a maturity beyond its years.
Slowly, Reichner opened his eyes. To his surprise, he was not in his living room. Nor was he in Nepal. Instead, he was perched on the tallest structure of Bethel Lake, the water tower in the park. He looked around. He was still sitting cross-legged, but at the very top of the tower. Leaning one way or the other would send him toppling down the side of the steel and aluminum sphere. But he felt no anxiety. Peace still permeated him, filling everything — the trees, the distant buildings, the moon, the passing clouds. They were all one, created from the same atoms, the same stardust. He was them and they were him. Everything was one … including the python curled up at his feet.
You have failed us.
Immediately Reichner’s peace began to drain. The boy guru sounded cold, angry.
You have all failed us.
Reichner watched as the python raised its head, beginning to weave and bob. It flicked its tongue in and out, again and again. He thought of ending the encounter, of forcing himself to wake. But there had been so much peace. And he wasn’t about to be intimidated, not by some kid — and not when it came to the financial support of his beloved Institute.
It is not over yet, Reichner answered, doing his best to sound in control.
You are wrong.
There was a finality about the statement, a detachment that made Reichner even more uneasy. Maybe he should end it — but on his terms, when it was clear he was in charge.
The python drew closer. The boy guru’s voice became more agitated. He has entered his season.
The python touched Reichner’s left stocking-covered foot. Instinctively, the man pulled it back. But not too far — after all, he was balanced high on the pinnacle of the water tower. He felt his heart starting to pound. He resented the rising fear. After all, he could play anybody, especially a child. He swallowed, trying to sound calm and poised. Then we will try another approach.
The python’s tongue darted in and out even more quickly. It stretched its head out farther until it actually rested on Reichner’s foot. It took all of Reichner’s willpower to hold back a shudder. But he would not back down; he would not show his fear.
As if reading his resolution, the snake’s head moved across his ankle. It drew up the rest of its body as it slithered across his leg and up toward his lap.
His body rigid with fear, Reichner could only watch, swallowing back his revulsion. It was time to end the encounter.
The head arrived in Reichner’s lap and began coiling in the rest of its body to join it. Child or no child, money or no money, it was definitely time to end this encounter. Reichner clenched his eyes shut and then, with a jolt, forced them to open.
But he was still on the water tower. And the python was still drawing its body onto his lap. Its tongue darted and flickered even more quickly. Reichner was breathing harder now. His heart pounded faster.
You have failed us, the boy guru repeated. You have all failed us, and now we must start again.
Reichner tried to swallow, but his mouth was desert-dry as the python finished pulling its fifteen-foot body onto his lap. The weight was enormous, far more than he had imagined.
Once again he tried to end the vision. Once again he clenched his eyes, tightened his entire body, and forced himself to jerk awake.
Once again he failed.
We have lost him and you will pay.
There it was — the phrase from his dream, from his e-mail. His heart raced. He wondered whether the creature could feel the pulse throbbing through the arteries in his lap. Perhaps its acute hearing could detect the pounding in Reichner’s own ears — a pounding that had grown so rapid that it was nearly impossible to distinguish the individual beats.
Again he tried to take the offense. I’m afraid you are jumping to conclusions. But his voice was thin, no longer able to mask his fear. His heart pounded so hard and fast that it was growing difficult to breath. He reached his hands to the roof behind him and tried to scoot out from under the creature.
But the snake was far too heavy. He was pinned, unable to move, which only increased his panic.
We have lost him and you will pay.
The thing slowly raised its body. Reichner watched in fear as it rose until its head was level to his chest. It came no farther, staring at the center of his chest as if concentrating. All the time its tongue flicked faster and faster, almost in rhythm to his — wait a minute. Was it possible? Those flickings, those rapid dartings of the tongue, in and out — they were in perfect synchronization to his heart. Of course, they were still one. He was the moon, the trees, the boy, the python, and they were him. And yet … no. The thing wasn’t matching his heart rate. That wasn’t it at all. It was controlling his heart rate. The faster the tongue flicked, the faster his heart pounded.
Reichner broke into a sweat. He realized the boy would know about his heart condition. There were records, his hospitalization, the weakened muscle. And if he knew all that, and if he could control his pulse — Reichner was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. He was beginning to pant, fighting for air.
At last the creature quit staring at his chest. Now it rose up, passing his throat, his chin, its tongue flicking faster and faster. In a moment they were eye to eye. Face-to-face. Just inches apart. Reichner’s panic turned to terror. His chest began to cramp. The pain spread into his shoulder.
But the yellow, black-slit eyes would not move. They remained staring coldly into his own. The tongue, a blur of movement, faster and faster and faster. We have lost him, and you will pay.
Reichner’s pantings became short, ragged gasps. The pain spread, searing into his neck, cramping his left arm. He was sweating profusely. Gasping and aching and sweating.
Again he tried to force himself awake. Again he failed.
He leaned away, as far back as possible.
The python drew closer until, unbelievably, its whirring tongue began to lightly brush Reichner’s lips.
The man stared, wide-eyed, his chest exploding in pain. If he could just get away, pull back. If he could just —
The python lunged. But not toward Reichner. Rather, it lunged away from him, off him, purposefully removing its weight from his lap. The movement startled Reichner, making him pull harder.
And that was his mistake.
With the weight gone, Reichner was off balance. Before he could catch himself, he tumbled backwards onto the steep decline. He tried to turn, to stop himself, but only succeeded in twisting sideways as he began to roll.
His heart thundered in his ears as he rolled three, four, five times before running out of roof.
And then he fell.
If he managed to scream, he didn’t hear it. Not over the roar of his heart. And the pain, the unrelenting, excruciating, exploding pain. Now there was only the pain and the roaring and the eternal falling. The falling…falling…falling …
Momma threw her arms around Brandon and began to weep. Even though he was exhausted he held her, feeling her body shudder as she clung to him. He caught sight of the reverend. The man was kneeling beside his father, who lay on the ground where he’d been tossed. Gently, Brandon freed himself from Momma, took her hand, and crossed with her to join him.
“Poppa?” Brandon called softly as he knelt. “Poppa.” He reached out and picked up the man’s hand. He pressed it to his face. “Oh, Poppa …”
Then, to Brandon’s amazement, he felt movement — the hand was beginning to tremble, struggling to move. He looked down into his father’s face. The old man’s eyes had opened. Now they w
ere staring at his hand, using every ounce of willpower to move it.
“Poppa?”
Brandon loosened his grip and watched as the hand slowly opened. He glanced at his mother, who knelt on the other side. She was looking on with equal astonishment.
The hand opened now, stretching its fingers. To him. Much like the hand on the cross. Brandon pressed it to his lips and kissed it. He closed his eyes against the tears spilling onto his face. When he reopened them, he saw moisture in his father’s own eyes. And the lips — his father’s lips were starting to quiver.
At first Brandon didn’t understand. Then he realized his father was trying to speak. He leaned over and listened. There was nothing but a faint wheezing crackle. Then he heard it. It was dry and raspy, not even a whisper, but it was a word.
“Son.”
The tears came faster. It was true, then. He was his father’s son. Even when he had failed. Even in the disappointment. He was still his son.
Brandon wiped his face as he sat back up and looked lovingly down at his father, at the faint smile on the man’s lips. But there was no longer an expression in his father’s eyes. Now they stared off and away. Frozen, vacant.
“Robert!” Momma cried. “Robert, don’t go!” She leaned forward, shaking his shoulders. “Robert! Robert, come back!” She began to sob. Brandon looked on sadly as she threw herself onto his chest, crying. He’d had no idea how fiercely she still loved him.
They stayed that way, for how long Brandon didn’t know. But when he finally looked up, he saw people — firemen, paramedics, members of the congregation — cautiously entering the building. Another moment passed before he slowly rose to his feet. He looked down one last time at his father, at the faint smile on his lips. Then at his mother, still crying. He exchanged looks with the reverend, who nodded and gently took Momma’s shoulders, helping her to her feet. A moment later she was in his arms, sobbing.
