by S. B. Niccum
I float up to her and hover right in front of her nearly decapitated, huge face. A lazy ribbon of white fog crosses right in between us. There’s something unnatural to this fog, at least unnatural to Earth. I’ve seen it before too. It’s Cherub fog, or whatever they make that hides Heavenly things from mortal eyes.
“Turn yourself in,” I tell Agatha, ignoring the circling fog. “Release the rest of the spirits who have given their wills to you, and tell them to go back to Prison. Then you go back yourself. Lead them there. Be their example.”
She shakes her head. “But—but they’ll see me as weak. I’ll be done for. I’ll be tortured for this for the rest of eternity,” she pleads.
“You chose this.”
“It’s not fair. It’s my nature, I couldn’t change my nature.”
“That was the whole point of life, to change our fallen natures. Lots of people have done it. Eugenia has done it, Henry, Alex, me…”
“Ha!” she sneers. “What has ever been fallen about you? When has it been hard for you to do the right thing?” she says with spite and jealousy.
“We’ve had the same life circumstances, we were both raised by the same foster parents, we’ve had the same weird gifts and abilities of communicating with the dead. The main difference between us has been in our attitudes and how we chose to use those gifts.”
“I’m naturally morose,” She states, in defense of her actions.
“I’ve never been particularly cheery,” I counter, and Agatha looks away, angrily. However, I start to notice that she’s deflating—quite literally. From her middle, spirits start to melt away, and those who were binding her, promptly catch the dark spirits.
As her now detached head shrinks, the dense fog increases, and it blurs her face temporarily from view. Alex, and all those who were trying to bring her down by force are now floating next to me, looking around, wondering what to do, until they see all the spirits oozing out of her like pus. For a split second, Alex and I lock eyes. He smiles brightly at me, and my heart leaps. We have a lot to discuss, but not now. I wonder when? There’s so much going on right now, I don’t know when it will ever be a good time to talk.
The impenetrable fog is making its way down toward the surface, and I can see that it is smothering several fires, but the whole surface of the planet seems to be ablaze and it will no doubt take some time for the mist to squelch all of it. I turn my head again towards Agatha, and she’s normal size again. She looks as hideous as she did when I first found her in Spirit Prison, only worse, if that’s possible. She not only still bears the scars, but she also looks haggard and used-up.
“What now?” She asks me, sounding mild and scared.
“You turn yourself in.”
“What will happen to me?”
“I don’t know.” And I didn’t. She destroyed the Earth. With the help of the Second One, she started wars and incited people to do horrible things. She’s responsible now, not for just her own misdeeds, but for that of others as well.
“Will you take me back?” she asks, meekly. I agree, and we bring up the rear of the long procession of spirits who are being funneled into Prison. “I—I—I don’t want to stay there for ever,” she says with somber emotion.
“I’m sure that you’ll be dealt with sooner, rather than later,” I respond, seeing that the fog is blanketing the whole crust of the earth like a downy quilt, and an eerie hush has fallen over the surface.
The gates of Spirit Prison look very different from the Pearly Gates of Paradise. They are thick, gray, vault-like doors, which open from the center. It’s made out of what looks to be a dark metal, with a simple pattern on them of a chain that wraps around the perimeter of each door panel. The handles are two large vault knobs, which have thorn-like spikes sticking out of the center.
Two angels are standing guard on both sides of the Prison doors, solemn and serious. They’re Sentinels, no doubt, and they look like they were warriors in life, the kind that fought with handmade weapons, not guns. One of them looks Native American, the other Polynesian. Both are massive—football player sized.
At the vault doors, Agatha stops and looks at me. “What next?” She looks pleadingly, as if I could do anything for her now.
I shrug and shake my head. “You go wait for your judgment, I suppose.”
“Would you…? Would you speak in my behalf?”
I choke on her words. “I have no idea what I would say that could possibly help you, Agatha.”
“What happened to being different sides of the same coin? What happened to you understanding me and my motives?” She gets agitated and starts looking around, in a panic.
“I have nothing to do with what you’ve chosen to do with those similarities! I’m not responsible for your choices. You’ve made those all on your own!” I say, exasperated as well.
Quick as lightning, and filled with fury, Agatha rips a flaming sword from one of the Sentinels, and wields it dexterously in my direction. Caught off guard, the Sentinel tries to get it back from her, but she slices his outstretched hand clean through.
The other Sentinel is already holding out his sword in front of him, and out of nowhere several other points appear, effectively surrounding her by sharp flaming tips. I turn around, and see my entire family, plus Eugenia and Henry, each holding a sword, each looking like they mean business.
Agatha drops her sword and raises her hands. “Fine! Do it! I dare you all to erase me from existence! Do it! DO IT!” she yells with an eerie, arrogant, and taunting smile on her sinew and bone mouth. “I will not move until you spear me through!”
“You wish!” Eugenia says offhandedly, moving her sword down, and giving Agatha a vigorous shove into the darkness. The vault doors promptly shut behind her, and the Sentinels turn the thorny knobs into the locked position. The injured Sentinel performs this task one handedly, and once the Prison door is safely locked, he looks at what’s left of his arm, then closing his eyes and pursing his lips with concentration, he grows a new limb as if he were blowing up a balloon.
“Believe it or not I’ve done this before, during training,” he grins, and shrugs.
“I thought that once those things touched you, you were supposed to be a goner,” Henry says, with marked disappointment in his voice.
“Nothing disappears for ever. But Flaming Swords have the unique ability to bind spiritual matter for a long time—unless you’re in the know—and I only know because a Cherub had to teach me how to grow my toes back…and some fingers, and an ear, and a kneecap,” he admits sheepishly.
“Ma`kaela here has terrible luck,” the Sentinel with long, slick, black hair who looks like a Native American, says with a laugh. “If there’s any way possible that a spirit might get hurt, he’s sure to find it.” The two Sentinels laugh jovially, and Russell joins in, patting Ma`kaela on the back with relief. Both Henry and Russell surround the two Sentinels and start bombarding them with questions, one about training as Sentinels, the other about the mechanics of the swords.
Suddenly more twirling rivulets of white fog start whirling all around us, making it harder and harder to see. Henry and Russell get totally obscured from view in a matter of seconds, and when I turn to look at the rest of my family, to thank them, they too disappear in the thick haze.
“Alex!” I cry with alarm. I still haven’t talked with him. Things are not settled and I need to know where we stand. I think we’re good, but…it’s been so long, and there’s been so much going on.
“Right here,” his voice sounds like he’s right behind me, and I turn to see his figure slowly emerge from the fog. “I’m right here,” he soothes, stretching out a hand and gently stroking my hair. The relief that I feel at this simple gesture sweeps over me like a soft spring breeze. I look at him with trepidation, hoping to read his thoughts, but I’m too nervous to focus on them.
“I’m sorry,” we both say in unison, then we both smile. He caresses my hair all the way down my back, and with his other hand, pulls me close t
o him. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I, however…” he sighs. “Could you ever forgive me, for the way I acted?”
He’s back! Thank Heaven! Literally. The Alex I know and love is back from whatever inner darkness in which he was trapped. “I was never mad.” I quickly admit. “And even if I was, I would forgive you every time.” My response seems to sadden him.
“Yes, you would.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes, pushing away the guilty memories of how harsh he had been. To veer him off those dangerous thoughts, I cup his face with my hands, and leaning in, I kiss him, linking with him, and only him, in the process.
It’s like a dream, a very real dream, where we actually feel—physically feel—just as if we were living it in the flesh. But we’re not. What we’re experiencing are the memories of what it was like when we kissed. Our eyes open and we realize this, and we both feel a bit crestfallen. He didn’t really feel my hands tangled in his hair, and I didn’t actually feel his hands sliding up my back as he gently pressed his body closer to mine, nor did I feel his fingertips tracing my lips. Yet the memory is vivid enough to revive all those pent-up feelings. We are linked, and that means that we now know how the other felt when we experienced those feelings in mortality. It’s both exhilarating and vexing as memories of intimate times we’ve spent together resurface. It’s maddening! These recollections are so intense and so real, that I’m glad for the privacy that the fog has offered us.
Memories of my heart beating wildly against my chest by the mere sight of him reemerge, leaving me breathless. I’m ecstatic. All I can think of now is that Alex is back. The one who in life found me lost in the rain, the one who whisked me off to the lake on graduation day, the one who shared dreams with me, and read to me while sailing half way around the world, that Alex is back. I can hear his thoughts again! I can reach him again! We are one again!
Only the sound of a clarion cuts our blissful remembrances short. As we look away from each other’s eyes, the fog parts, and we see an angel standing some distance away holding a sizeable key in his hand. The rest of our family is still surrounding us; they’re all at arm’s length actually, and have been all along. Good thing they can’t read minds! They too are looking at the angel now, just like we are.
Behind the angel comes Legion, completely bound by a thick black chain, and at its chest there’s a huge lock. The large key that the angel is holding seems to be the key that fits that lock. Legion’s seething, but it seems that there’s nothing that it can do about this as it thrashes about like a rabid dog. It looks perfectly bound, and completely unable to loosen the chains that imprison it. Just in case, though, it’s also being escorted by several burly Sentinels, who look armed and ready.
“Where are they taking it?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Alex replies, and we watch as Legion, the dragon, disappears from view, along with its security detail.
“Well, the Millennium will start now, won’t it?” my father says casually, as he and my mother glide to our side. He looks carefree and has a mischievous sort of grin on his face, which seems vaguely familiar to me.
“You look good, Leo.” Alex says frankly.
“So do you…for a dead guy.”
“What have you guys been doing?” Alex asks with a smirk.
“The High Council offered us a chance to do what we wanted to do all along, which was to help undo some of the damage that I created by crossing over into the mortal realm the first time, and brought you along.” He points to Alex. “Everything that happened since your death, Alex, has been my fault.” He shakes his head vigorously as if trying to shake a bad memory loose. “Then you come in and…you did what you did to save me!”
“What do you mean?” Alex asks, not following Leo’s words.
“Didn’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Tess opened the rift for Agatha, so I wouldn’t have to. She took the fall for me, so that I wouldn’t have more crimes against me. A foolish thing to do, of course, but I appreciate the gesture—daughter.” He smiles and places the palm of his hand on my cheek.
It’s odd to hear someone call me daughter. I like it. “You suffered enough for me, Dad.” I try the word “Dad” and it sounds different on my lips. I don’t think I’d ever really said it before. Not like this anyway, not filled with love.
“I—I didn’t know that,” Alex says, baffled. “I knew that you…” he sighs. “I’ve been such a jerk!”
“Yes, you have,” both my parents say in unison. “And for that I—” My father purses his lips at us in mock anger as he tries to come up with some appropriate punishment. “You’ll have to bring her home by ten o’ clock every night from now on,” he finally says, settling on that punishment as appropriate.
“When’s ten, when is it night?” Alex asks, looking around the vastness of earth’s skies for a clue.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to figure that out on your own.” Leo says, with mock contempt.
We all burst out laughing. Once the laughter subsides, the issue of time actually starts to intrigue us. By now all of my family and Alex’s family are gathered in one big clump. Celeste rushes to my side and pries me away from Alex to give me a full, hearty embrace. “We have so much to catch up on!” she says exuberantly.
“We do,” I agree, and the moment we’re back together like this, I realize how much I’ve missed her.
Time. We exist outside of time now. How long has this fog been coating the earth? Minutes, hours, days…years? How are the mortals below faring? As if on cue from my thoughts, all of us look down below. Only thick cottony white clouds can be seen.
“Should we go down below?” Leo suggests, obviously responding to my thoughts. I forgot that my parents could read my thoughts.
“Dang!” I say, embarrassed. Had they been listening to Alex and me earlier? A sudden, teenage-like fear of what my parents might think comes over me. I try to rationalize this by listing the facts: We’re all grown-ups now, and in fact, we’re dead—and I am married, after all. Yet that inexplicable, youthful, bashfulness still persists.
“What are you stressing about?” my father suddenly asks, bewildered and suspicious.
“Nothing, not a thing,” I say. “Yes, we should go down,” I quickly agree, lest they should probe my mind further.
What were puffy white clouds from above look like dark, ominous mists from the surface of the earth. This murky haze has extinguished all the fires, and there’s absolutely no light at all. People are moaning and lamenting as they huddle together in the rubble, and in crevices. Some others rock back and forth, crouched in a fetal position, completely silent, too afraid, too stunned, or just too tired to weep. There are dead bodies that could not be buried, because there’s no light at all. Mortal eyes could not see through the impenetrable darkness that the vapors caused. I worry for Samantha and wonder where she is, or if she’s even still alive. Part of me wishes that she’d be dead, and spared from this particular Chapter in Earth’s history. But another part of me wants her to still be alive, and unharmed, as well. I’ve always wanted a long life for her; I wanted her to experience more in her body before it was snatched from her. Yet she might have…. For all I know she could have lived a long time, and years could have elapsed while we fought Agatha and the dragon.
“Look!” Alex tugs at my arm and points toward the sky, from where we just came. A tiny dot, like a speck, of light, or a distant star appears in the darkness.
We all look up and watch fixedly as the tiny light grows in size. As it grows, we notice that some mortals around us see it as well. Some start pointing to it and gazing at it, in mystified muteness. Others look at it and soon lose interest in it, giving themselves back to their grief and their moans.
Soon though, the glow grows and grows, and turns into brilliant rays. They pierce the fog, and develop into sharp slanted beams. No mortal can now ignore these rays of light that are coming from this single source. All the mortals turn almost at once, and sta
re at the spot. They’re barely breathing—waiting, as it were, for the other shoe to drop. Some feel agitated and fear for their safety; others seem to be mollified and soothed by the light. The beams of light cut through the fog like knives, and the whole world seems to be collectively holding its breath right now, waiting to see what will happen next.
The light slashes a tunnel through the fog, and we can now see something, or someone, right in the middle of that blinding light. It looks as if an avenue has been carved out, just for whatever it is that is heading straight down to Earth. I can hear several people murmuring, saying that a meteor is falling down on them. This rumor causes several to run about in confusion, trying to seek shelter, but most of the mortals are simply rooted to their spot. They shield their eyes and look up, both curious and petrified with fear.
As this object moves closer, the single dot turns into two, then three—the third being larger in size. After a moment I realize what that the two smaller dots are Seraphs, pulling a Roman chariot. Inside the chariot, He stands—the First One—majestic and glorious. Flying next to Him, several Cherubs are blowing their trumpets, and following the Cherubs trail the High Councilors, not in spirit form anymore, but resurrected and in the flesh!
From the surface of the earth, a few people get caught up, and ascend up to the chariot. “Is that…?” Leo says, squinting.
“John,” I say. “And Mathoniaha and the rest of the Aeonians.”
Once the light that surrounds them dissipates somewhat, they join the ranks with the rest of the High Council.
Awestruck, we all stare in silence. One thought seems to be prevalent among all of us present, living and dead. “Wow!”
Right when we think this is it, and nothing more amazing than this could happen, the clouds part and a thick column of light appears, like a tunnel made out of light. It streaks down, right in front of the chariot, and just like an elevator, it stops right on that spot, then shoots back up to where it came from, leaving behind, a beautiful sound and several small, golden forms.
