“You must let go,” he says.
“But if I do, I will fall.”
“Then I will catch you.” He is still looking intently at me, anticipating my next move.
I begin to relax, letting go of my restraint, and I am filled with warmth and light and even love. His love. But then the memory of my mother comes in like a taint, poisoning the waters that could bring me relief. Despite all my want, I cannot give up my anger and am soon consumed again by it. I fall through the darkness. Above me he stands, watching my descent. The look of concern returns to his face, which angers me more. “Why don’t you do something?” I cry out. But my voice does not carry.
His light dims to a faint blur as I fall farther and farther. And for the first time, I taste true hopelessness. It is cold and unforgiving. Full of despair. The shadows reach their hands out to accept me in. A voice calls from the shadows that embrace me. “Soon there will be nothing to fear,” it hisses. “Soon there will be nothing at all.”
His words bring a panic. And I struggle, but against what. There is nothing. It is empty. I am empty. And I realize it is a lie, but not a complete lie. There is nothing to fear. There never was. The fear was in me. All my anger was for nothing. But it is too late. I am in the abyss. There is nothing here. Here my heart does not beat. It sits cold and dead. I try to draw in breath, but there is nothing to breath. There is simply nothing. It is as empty as I am.
The fear rushes in like a wave, jolting me like a lightning bolt to awareness. I breathe in hard as I jerk forward in my bed, scattering the envelope and locket lying next to me, and jostling the nightstand. I am breathing heavily, lapping in as much air as I can fill my lungs with, like a man at the edge of an oasis after crossing a seemingly never ending dessert. I place my hand over my heart. It is beating and I realize it was only a dream and it is now morning.
Settling my breathing, I swing my legs to the edge of the bed and hold my head in my hands. I can still feel my heart throbbing in my temples. Justine pushes the door open with a knock, as if the knock will excuse her intrusion on my privacy. My head is hurting too much to care, though.
“Is everything alright,” she says still unsure whether to fully enter into the room.
“It’s nothing,” I say, pressing my hand to my forehead. “My head just hurts.”
Apparently, this is all the invitation she needs. She immediately rushes into my room and sits herself down next to me on the bed. She begins going through the motions of a self-proclaimed medic. “You do seem pale,” she says. “Maybe I should call the doctor.”
“No,” I exclaim. “It’s just a headache. I had a bad dream.”
“A bad dream?”
“Yah, just dark shadows… an abyss…”
“Shadows,” Justine squeals. She looks horrified. “Were they attacking you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, uncertain. “Maybe.” I soon realize that telling my entire dream may not be the best idea. “Can I get an aspirin or something?”
“Of course, darling,” Justine says, jumping to her feet. She rushes out the door.
I make a mental note to talk to her about the whole ‘darling’ thing, but not now. Instead, I collapse back onto my pillow. Bad idea, as this only makes my head throb more. Rising back up, I see the curtain moving by my window. The pain from my headache is forgotten. My attention is absorbed by the curtain. I walk over to the window slowly. I am a few feet away before realizing the movement is coming from a breeze settling through the open window. But I thought my window was closed when I went to bed. A chill runs through me as I push the curtains aside. I quickly shut the window as Justine walks in.
“You should really keep your window closed at night,” she says. She is carrying a glass of orange juice in one hand and two white pills in the other. “Here, take these.” She hands me the pills. I put them in my mouth and she hands me the orange juice, which I swig down with the pills.
“That orange juice will do you some good,” she says. She scrunches her brow in concern. “Maybe we should cancel our day out.”
“No,” I object. “I’ll be fine. I just have to get my bearings.”
Justine smiles at this news. “Well then, I will start breakfast. I’ll make something special for you.” She has probably been anticipating this day ever since she knew I was coming. I don’t have the heart to disappoint her. As I step into the bathroom, I take one last glance at the window. It was just a dream. Right?
Chapter 5
After breakfast, I accompany Justine on her errands. She points out several people’s houses whose names I will never remember. For the most part, there is nothing unique about the town. The people seem ordinary enough with the exception of their tendency to stare, but I guess that comes with small towns where there is little to do but gawk.
The center street is the most interesting part of the town, mainly because of the church, which seems far older than everything else, as if the rest of the town were built around it. Standing at the base, the main spire reaches endlessly into the sky as I strain against the sun to see it. Along the sides of the church are carvings and moldings fashioned in horrific depictions of people screaming out in agony while flames consume them. Devils hover over them pushing them back. And one figure stands out among the rest. He is winged like an angel, but his face is hideous.
“Cheery place,” I say.
“Don’t let the outside turn you off,” a voice says. I turn to see a man wearing what looks like priest clothing, though I don’t know which denomination he is from. He smiles as he walks over to me and looks up at the engraving. “It’s just that Old English architecture,” he continues. “He’s supposed to represent the avenging angel of God, bringing the last judgment.”
“Looks more like a demon, than an angel,” I say.
“God’s judgment can often strike fear into the impenitent,” he says. “But for those who have been wronged it is pure justice.”
“Well, it just looks creepy to me.”
The pastor chuckles. “Alas, it is just one man’s depiction. Trust me, it’s really beautiful inside. You’ll see.”
“Inside?” I hadn’t been inside a church since my mother took me when I was young. Memories I care not to relive. Honestly, like I already said, I don’t know that I even believe in God and hellfire. For some reason the two seemed synonymous to me. How can I believe in a God that just left me and so many like me to live such miserable existences? No. I do not see a God in this world and do not expect to see one in the next. “I don’t’ belong to your church,” I say.
By this time Justine has joined us. “Pastor Clemont,” she exclaims.
“Hello, Justine,” he replies. “I was just admiring the architecture with…I don’t think I caught your name.”
“This is the foster girl,” Justine interjects. “The one living with us.”
“Ah yes,” the pastor says as if recognizing me. “Kyra is it.” He extends his arm in greeting.
“Yes,” I say as I shake his hand.
“Hammond told me all about you,” the pastor says. “I’m glad to see you are taking an interest in our town. We are honored to have you with us.”
“Well, I hope I don’t disappoint,” I say. I understand the whole hometown hospitality, but it seems everyone around here goes a little overboard.
“I hope to see you on Sunday at our service,” he says. “I promise to leave out the hellfire and damnation.”
“Pastor,” Justine interrupts, “may I have a word with you?” She turns to me. “Do you mind giving the Pastor and me a moment alone?”
“Of course,” I say. “Actually, Ethan told me about a shop in town where he works. I thought I might drop in and say ‘Hi’. Maybe thank him for coming over last night.”
“How about this,” Justine says. “I’ll do some of my other errands and we’ll meet up at the bookstore after you go to your shop. Kay.”
“That would be great,” I say.
Justine waves good-bye in that way wh
ere you only wiggle the fingers and is completely unnecessary because she is only standing two feet away. She turns to the pastor and together they walk to the steps of the church. I walk the other way. I can only hear their whispers, but from what I can hear, it seems that Justine is hysterical. I look back as I continue to walk. She holds a tissue to her mouth as the pastor consoles her. He seems concerned as well. They glance over to me in the middle of the conversation. I have the distinct feeling that they are talking about me. But I quickly deny this as just paranoia. Still, I can’t imagine what could have got Justine so hysterical. Seeing that I am looking at them, they decide to continue their discussion inside the church.
At the curiosity shop, large sign sits outside, declaring its name, “The Dawn Star”. Next to the name is a large star formed with a circle and five curved lines emanating from it. The sign is hard to miss; still I had to ask several townspeople before I found a single person who remembered seeing the shop. Most had never heard of it and did not remember there even being a store there.
As I enter, a bell rings, marking my entrance, but it seems to have no affect on the old man at the register. His attention seems to be absorbed in something else, an object sitting on the counter. There are several shelves along the wall housing jars, boxes, and other assorted objects. The smell of incense and burning candle wax greet the nostrils. It’s dark, with the window covered by billboards and advertisements. The only sources of light are two lamps, one hanging over head from the rafters, the other one, a small desk lamp sitting on the counter next to the old man, still eyeing the object. He has made no effort to recognize my presence.
I look over the objects scattered on tables and small shelves in the space between me and the glass counter. There are candles both black and white and every shade in between with some red scattered here and there. Bowls with strange symbols sit unused and covered with dust and cobwebs. Bottles stand among the mess with labels of various liquids and oils I have never heard of.
I have seen similar stuff at a friend’s house. Her mother was into occult things, witchcraft or voodoo or something. She had all kinds of crystals and incense, although I don’t think all the smoke was from the incense. I remember her uttering all kinds of incantations. Most were harmless, like the ones she would chant every time she bought a lottery ticket. It was supposed to call wealth and riches to her, but as of yet, I have not heard of her ever winning any lottery. But I’m sure she is still buying those tickets religiously. Some of the people in my old town said she was Satanists, which was an outright lie. The way I see it, there wasn’t much difference between her little chants and my old foster mother who would go to church every Sunday, praying that she would win the lottery. People will do anything to get a little edge in life.
As I walk closer to the counter, I see ornamented knives in the display case. On top of the counter is a large cloth with embroidered stars and moons and other unfamiliar symbols. Resting on the cloth is a sword with two snakes entwined at its hilt, wrapping their way up to the guard. The guard itself breaks open into what looks like wings. Upon the blade is engraved writing, but it uses letters that I can’t make out.
The clerk is hunched over the sword, studying it and still seems not to notice me until he speaks. “I’ve been expecting you,” he says in a soft antiquated voice. He raises his eyes and grins widely, making the sharp gruff around his chin stand on end. “Ethan told me you might be coming.”
“Oh, of course,” I say, somewhat unsettled by his first remark.
Straightening up, he places his thumbs along the underside of his suspenders, following their path up to his shoulder and then releases them with a small snap that scatters dust from his back. The scent of clay and dirt is overpowering. “Ethan happens to be making some deliveries for me at the moment, but I’ll tell him you stopped by.” He walks over to the shelves behind him and stoops down in the act of searching for something.
“That is, unless there is something else you want to talk to me about,” he says with a strained grunt as he heaves a large book out from the bottom shelf. Turning he places it solidly on the counter next to the sword, again arousing the surrounding dust.
“Ethan mentioned you deal with unique objects,” I say.
“That I do,” he says. “It’s one of many of my specialties.”
“I have this locket,” I say, tugging the chain at my neck, releasing the clasp. I set the locket on the counter, turning it slightly so the engraving faces the clerk. “I was wondering if you could tell me about this symbol.”
The clerk scrunches his nose, raising his specks slightly up the bridge towards his eyes. “Yes, I can tell you what that is.” Clasping the corner of the book, he heaves the cover over in an arcing motion. The pages follow with a wispy intelligence that seems to be guided by some unseen force. They flutter like the wings of birds until finally the clerk places his finger on a page and they all fall silent, settling into place like the cue from a maestro.
“I believe this is the symbol,” he says, as he rotates the book for me to see. His finger taps a large image of the symbol scrolled out in dazzling colors across the ancient pages. The inscription to the photograph reads: Etz Chaim.
“Etz Chaim,” I read out loud. “What does that mean?”
“The tree of life,” he replies. “Of course, the tree of life is represented in many ways in many cultures, but that particular representation most closely resembles that used in Kabbalah.”
“Kabbalah?”
“It’s a school of thought, which deals with the more, what would you call it, mystical parts of Judaism. Needless to say, it has a lot of misunderstandings like all groups who delve into such forbidden mysteries.”
“Why are they forbidden?” I ask.
“Because someone deems it so,” he answers. “But who is to say what is forbidden to us.” He peers over his spectacles at me.
“I saw a similar symbol on a painting. Someone called it the mystic…something…tet…”
“Tetrad,” he injects. “The mystic tetrad and this symbol are variations of each other. One was worshipped by the Pythagoreans as perfection of the outward Cosmos. The other as perfection of the inward Cosmos, our path to God through his ten emanations called the Sephiroth.”
I have no idea what he means, but I get the basic gist of what he is saying. This is a sacred symbol. The question still remains, why did my mother give it to me? The shop keeper picks up the locket and examines it closer. Running his fingers over it, he opens it, dropping its contents onto the counter. Moving the locket to the side, he looks at what has fallen out. “Interesting.”
His reaction is about the same as mine was when I first saw the hair. A mix of bafflement and disgust. “Do you know why someone would put hair in a locket?” I ask.
He looks at me curiously. “You mean you don’t know why the hair is there.” Furrowing his brow, he repeats, “Interesting.” He stops to think a moment. “There are many reasons to put hair in a locket, some less mystical than others. Who did you say gave you this locket?”
“My mother,” I answer. “She gave it to me recently, as an inheritance I suppose.”
“Hmm. Why don’t you just ask her then,” he says distractedly as he pieces through the hair on the counter.
“I can’t. I don’t know where she is.”
“I see,” he says, looking up from the locket. “Well, there is the idea that power resides in the hair. The story of Samson and Delilah is the strongest example I can think of. But there are many more stories that follow the same vein.”
I vaguely remember the story of Samson from a child. “He’s the guy who was really strong until his girlfriend cut his hair.”
“Yes. Such betrayal love is. But you are much too young to know the betrayal of the heart.”
“Believe me,” I say, “I know betrayal.” A bitterness enjoins my voice. He does not press me on the issue. Instead he returns his attention to the locket.
“Could the hair have something to
do with the symbol on the front?” I ask.
“I doubt it,” he replies. “The locket was probably just something to hold the hair in.” The old man turns the locket over in his hand and then begins to rub the inside of the casing. “That’s strange,” he says. “There is something else here.” Taking a magnifying glass, he looks closer. “See these,” he continues, offering me the magnify glass.
I look through and see three unfamiliar letters arranged in a triangular shape like the engraving on the front, only they are enclosed in a circle. They are crudely engraved into the locket as if they don’t belong there. In some ways they resemble the ones on the sword as if they could be from the same language. “They’re like the writing on the sword you were looking at when I walked in.”
Angel Realms 01 The Dawn of Angels Page 5
