Angel Realms 01 The Dawn of Angels

by Vivienne Malynn; Sean Kade

  “I can’t.”

  I have had enough at this point and decide to go to the clerk and demand he call the police. However, just as I reach for the railing to the staircase he says something that stops me cold.

  “It’s about your death.”

  My death? Standing there, not knowing what to think or say, a feeling comes over me that he is not lying. Without looking at him, I ask, “What do you mean, ‘my death’?”

  “You are going to die tonight.”

  My mind swarms with possibilities as it tries to make sense of the statement. I am going to die tonight. Why would anyone want to kill me? And how would he know? Either this is his idea of a death threat or this guy knows something that I don’t. In any case, I don’t want to wait around to find out. The staircase rattles, shaking me from thoughts of what he could possibly mean. Justine emerges before me, nervously looking behind. “This really isn’t safe,” she mutters. Looking up, she smiles. “Who were you talking to?”

  “I was talking to…” I say as I glance back and see there is no one there. He did it to me again. This is getting really annoying. Now I know I am going crazy. I try to think of something so as not to let the secret out just yet that I am slowly losing my mind. “I was just –reading.”

  Justine looks at me with a confused expression. “Where is the book?”

  “Book?”

  “You don’t have a book in your hands,” she says. “What were you reading?”

  Of course, I have no books anywhere near me. How could I be reading? And who reads out loud in a bookstore anyway. Now I genuinely look crazy. “Umm. I was…more like…reciting,” I stammer.

  “Reciting?”

  “Poetry. I was reciting poetry.” This doesn’t seem to be convincing her. “You know…” Then I realize I don’t know any poetry. “Roses are red…a kiss is not a…” I’ve got nothing. But this doesn’t seem to matter.

  “I didn’t know you liked poetry,” Justine squeals with excitement.

  “I do now,” I say, mustering all the fake enthusiasm I can.

  “Well, they have a great poetry section downstairs,” she says.

  “No,” I exclaim. “I’m kind of tired. I think I would just like to leave now.”

  She looks me over. “You do look pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I laugh nervously. “Ah ha. Ghost. That’s completely not possible. Right?”

  Justine thinks to herself, and then says decisively, “You know what we need.” The only thing that comes to my mind is a psychiatrist, but I am sure this is not what she means. “We need a drink…”

  Amen to that, I think.

  “They have the best lemonade at the deli down the way,” she said. “That will bring your blood sugar right up. And while we’re at it, we can get a marmite sandwich.”

  I am not sure I want a marmite sandwich, but at this point I will agree to anything that will get me out of this bookstore. As we descend the staircase, I look back at the empty space where the stranger was. Was he a ghost? Or something else? And why am I going to die tonight? For the first time, I wish I was crazy and that he was just a figment of my overactive imagination. Crazy is better than dead.

  I am unsettled in my stomach by the possibility of dying, making any sandwich repulsive. But the marmite sandwich only magnifies that revulsion. Justine and I sit at a small table outside the local deli, with our sandwiches and a tall glass of lemonade in front of us. A large over hang shades us from the afternoon sun. A cool breeze settles on us with the fresh smell of flowers from the overhangs above us. Justine does not hesitate in the least to tear into her sandwich. After several ferocious bites that end with an impassioned groan of pleasure, she relaxes back and begins to admire her latest book purchases. She sprawls them across the table with the exception of one she keeps tucked away in the bag. Picking each book up individually, she examines the cover, turning it over between bites of her sandwich.

  “I do love reading,” she says. “Are you sure you didn’t want to get anything?”

  After my run in with the stranger, I had no desire to stay any longer in the bookstore. My stomach ached and wrenched with the pains of worry. I look at the sandwich in front of me with disgust, having no appetite. I push it away before answering Justine. “I couldn’t find anything of interest.”

  “You’re welcome to read one of my books,” she says. “This looks like a good one.” She passes me the book in her hand. From the cover, I can tell it is one of those modern new wave Christian books.

  “Maybe later,” I say.

  “We have plenty at home too.” She puts the book aside and takes another. “Jeff has a whole collection of books on science and mathematics if you’re interested in that.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. Science and math has never been my thing. I quite enjoy the advancements in technology that have come from them, but I am quite fine with just benefitting from them and not understanding them. I figure it’s like the supermarket. I love to get a Twinkie every now and again, but I don’t want to know where they come from or how they are made. My ignorance and sanity go hand in hand.

  “That’s right,” she says. “You like poetry.” She furrows her brow as if she is thinking hard about something. “I think we may have some Emily Dickenson. I’ll have to check.” She goes to take another bite of sandwich before realizing she’s eaten all of it. Disappointed, she eyes mine. Without a word, she goes back to her books, but is soon interrupted by the voice of a passerby.

  “Ms. Gregor,” the voice calls out. It is from a young girl about my age, yet smaller, about a foot shorter than I am, and extremely petite in her frame as if she could be blown away by a substantial enough wind. She tucks a bundle of flowers under her arm and waves to Justine and runs up to her side with eagerness. However, that eagerness is quickly deflated when she see me. She retreats into a shy expression.

  “Who’s this,” she says weakly as she self-consciously brushes her yellow hair out of her eyes. Immediately she reminds me of a foster sister that I once had. She too was often self-conscious. The love that I once had for that foster sister brings aching affection when I see the mannerisms of this girl, and with it a brush of sadness.

  “Hello Liv,” Justine exclaims. “This is our new foster girl, Kyra.” I offer my hand to the girl to show her she need not be afraid. She shakes it reassuringly. “Liv here is our next door neighbor. She lives with her father,” Justine continues, a slight parsing of her lips as she mentions the father. “Why don’t you have a seat and join us.” She pulls a chair out, offering it to her.

  “I can’t today,” she says, showing us the flowers. Daffodils, probably plucked from her own yard. “I have to visit my mom.”

  “You’re always so thoughtful,” Justine says, patting her on the arm. Liv does not seem to know how to take the complement and instead blushes, looking down so that her hay colored hair sweeps across her face like a curtain covering her embarrassment. I can’t help but like her frailty, but at the same time I worry for her like I did for my foster sister.

  “We really need to have you over to visit with Kyra. She needs a friend.”

  Thank you, Justine for making me look like a desperate vagrant who needs nothing more than to be accepted in the world. Trying to repair what little dignity I have left, I say, “I’m sure she has better things to do, then…”

  “Oh no,” Liv interrupts. “I would love to visit. In fact, you could come with me now and we could get to know each other better that way.”

  “You’re visiting your mother. I couldn’t.”

  “Nonsense,” Justine says, butting in. “I think it would be lovely. Liv could use the company.” Justine turns to her as if to demand a reaction. Liv nods her head, trying to match the enthusiasm of Justine. “Besides, you would be bored hanging around me all day. It’s good to get out and meet people.”

  Seeing I have no choice in the matter, I concede to go with Liv. “I would love to,” I say.

  “Wonderful,” Ju
stine says. “Just remember Liv, you must be home before dark. In fact, why don’t you come over for dinner when you get back?”

  “That would be nice,” Liv says. “My Dad will probably be out late tonight anyway.”

  Justine eyes my sandwich again. “Are you going to eat that?”

  I look down at the uneaten sandwich, but my stomach still feels unable to receive it. I push it over to her. “You can have it.”

  Before I am able to utter the last word, Justine snatches one of the halves from the plate and takes a bite. Her eyes roll back into her head as if she is in the throes of ecstasy. “I love these sandwiches. I’d come here every day if I could.”

  Liv smirks at me and I return the expression.

  Chapter 7

  As we walk down the road, the houses become more rundown and sparse, opening into wooded areas. Our walking is slow as Liv has spent much of the time talking. She tells me about the town and the local activities, school and anything else she can think of. It’s clear she is nervous and is trying to make me like her by bombarding me with niceness. I find it endearing and somewhat refreshing. Most of the people I have hung out with in the past, treated everyone with a certain disrespect and almost hatred, even friends. Being nice was seen as weakness. Seeing Liv and how kind she is to me, I can’t imagine any weakness in such a thing.

  We walk to what looks like the end of the main road and turn onto a small side road that heads upward into the forest. There are two workmen, digging a hole for what looks like a large post. They stare at us as we pass. Liv doesn’t seem to pay any attention to them, but goes on talking. As I look past them into the distance, I see other workmen putting up large poles along the outskirts of the town. I am curious as to why they would need poles around the town.

  As she’s talking, my attention drifts to the trees that surround the road, which is no longer paved, but is simply loose gravel. It crunches beneath our steps. I have never seen so many trees in one place in my life. Having grown up in suburbs and cities, the sight of a forest is a wonder in itself. Looking into the woods on either side, the trees grow with ever greater density, until nothing but trees can be seen in the distance. A soft wind blows through the bows of the pine woods, prickling their needles as they sway. The movement is almost hypnotic, bringing with it a sense of peace I have never felt before. Even my stomach has settled and the thought of the stranger and the news of my death seems only a distant memory as if it should be forgotten altogether.

  The image of the stranger comes to mind, his eyes mainly. When he looks at me, it’s as if I am suspended in them. Usually, I can tell when a person isn’t being straight with me. But with him, his eyes tell me that he is telling the truth, that he cares about what happens to me. My heart sinks, aching, like the sensation that comes when falling. Was he even real, or did I imagine him? No one else ever seems to see him. Leave it to me, to get hung up on a guy that probably doesn’t even exist. No. There’s no such thing as ghosts. He’s probably just some lunatic who has been stalking me around town. Why should I believe him? It’s absurd that someone I don’t even know should predict my death.

  Still, that doesn’t completely rule out the fact that I am losing my mind. Trying to push the thought away, I try to engage more in the conversation with Liv. “So how far is it to your mother’s house?”

  “What?”

  “Your mother,” I repeat, “we’re going to see your mother, right.”

  Liv stops at the side of the road, her head hanging low and eyes to the ground, not saying anything. She seems disturbed by something I said, but I don’t understand why. Then I see what she is standing in front of. It’s the entrance to a cemetery. A sickening feeling comes over me.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know. I just thought…” What can I say to this?

  She looks up with a gentle smile, clearly masking painful memories. Her eyes glisten with the swelling of tears. “No, I’m sorry,” she says. Her chin quivers as she looks back down at the flowers. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I thought I could keep it together after all these years, but I…” Her voice breaks as a tear streams down her face.

  Tears start in my own eyes at the sight. I step toward her hesitating slightly with a half-step, but then, swallowing my reluctance, I plunge my arms around her. “It’s okay. I understand. I don’t have my mother around either.”

  She pulls back a bit and says, “You probably think I’m really screwed up or something.”

  I laugh a bit, then reply, “You’re going to find out sooner or later. I’m screwed up too.”

  She smiles, and in that moment I realize that I have never allowed anyone to touch my heart in that way, since…since my little foster sister. After losing her, I never wanted to love again. The anger that usually follows her memory doesn’t seem to be there anymore, only peace. As if with this person I have just met, I have another chance to regain what was lost in me.

  “My mother died when I was twelve,” Liv says as we walk past lines of moss covered graves forgotten with time. Tree roots jet out over the path, making it disjointed and uneven. A slight mist comes over the hills as if poured out by the falling sun, leaving a grey light over the field of dead.

  “My mother left when I was eight.”

  “Left you?”

  “In foster care. She had some mental problems. I guess she thought it was the safest place for me.”

  “That still doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Liv says with an expression of grief in her face. “When my mother first died, I thought she had left me on purpose. That she didn’t love me and that’s why she didn’t stay with us. It’s stupid I know, but I was so young and I didn’t know what to think. Then I was mad with God for taking her.”

  “I am still mad with God.”

  Liv slows to a stop and puts her hand on my arm. “You mustn’t be mad with Him,” she says. “You mustn’t be angry with anyone. My mother once told me before she died, that anger in the heart leaves no room for love. What is life without love?”

  “That’s a sweet sentiment,” I say. “But I have too many things to be angry with.”

  “We all do,” she says. “It’s still our choice though.” She kneels next to a grave. The headstone is small and more cheaply made then those around it. The others that surround it are larger and have elaborate etchings and moldings. Some of the graves are even marked with magnificent sculptures of angels. But all are marred with time and decay. Moss has overrun them all and they sit uncared for with the exception of this one. Liv gently brushes the pine needles that have gathered on the face of the simple marker since the last time she visited it.

  “Her name was Maryanne.” She studies the marker, making sure that it is properly maintained. She takes the old wilted flowers off and replaces them with the yellow daffodils she brought with her. “It’s not much,” she says looking back at me. “But I do what I can to keep it up.”

  I hunch down next to her and rest my hand on her shoulder, cold and bare where her sweater has dropped down. Leaning in, I straighten the flowers slightly, then sit back and admire it with her. “It’s perfect.”

  “I know,” she says softly. “It’s exactly how my mother would have wanted it.”

  We sit there in silence, as if time were suspended, until the sun begins to hang low in the sky. Normally, I would think it strange to sit over the grave of someone I never knew, but here in this place at this moment, I feel my own mother near me like I did as a child. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be comforted by my mother. My heart feels quiet, the anger is gone for now, and closing my eyes, I recall that once lost love felt in the arms of my mother. I don’t want it to end, but something in me tells me that it won’t last long.

  Liv is the first to break the tranquility. “Do you mind if I have a few moments alone,” she says. She looks at me and then back to the grave. “I want time to talk to her.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I say. “I’ll just be wandering around when you’re
done.” I stand and brush the earth and pine needles from my knees. The smell of dirt is strong here, almost clay like. In the distance, the sun is leaving us quickly and with the thickness of the trees surrounding us, the depth of the darkness is only more. Liv continues to kneel at the grave, whispering softly.

  I stroll through the gravestones, each with its distinct engraving. Some date back as far as the early 1900’s, but most are more recent. This small graveyard must be used by the entire town, but it’s strange that such a small cemetery could service so many. There must only be maybe fifty graves total. That can’t be enough for a town this old. There has to be another cemetery somewhere else.

  I walk down a path out of sight of Liv. There is a large mausoleum there, with two stone angels, blindfolded and standing at the entrance. The angels look like small children, with petite features. They are looking upward into the sky in the action of prayer. They guard the tomb of Barnaby, the town founder. Something is etched over the entrance of the tomb, a quote. As I read it to myself, I hear a male voice read it aloud. “In this theater of man's life, it is reserved only for God and angels to be lookers-on.”