Hold the Light

by Ryan Sherwood

  The final fluttering of the man's soul beat within his ears and Mural was forced to leave, not under his own power.

  "I am the keeper again!" Mural exclaimed. "Wiping away the unholy...but this time I work with the direct purpose of Death itself."

  He returned to his house and was revitalized. Time had passed as normal; it seemed that only a few seconds had elapsed. His smile grew larger and he, as if the last two months didn't occur, grew back into his old self. Murdering returned as his way of life and the means to keep things in place, only this time, it was not out of spite for his wife, but in her favor. His old role had suited him for years, but this was grandiose. Never once did he contest or complain, rather he became significantly caught up in his tasks, never thinking he would be bound for this.

  The gift snapped him back into full alertness.

  "This is amazing, how could someone like me be given this honor? Everyone that is and ever will be is now under my decision as to when they expire. I will retire all that I am commanded to and with each breath I take, I will come closer to Veronica."

  Decades passed, but Mural did not age. His neighbors grew suspicious since he rarely left the house. Mural never visited the printing press that was passed to him when he was twenty, and his employees grew just as suspicious. So he sold the business at high profits and developed the habit of moving around the city whenever people's misgivings arose. The thought of leaving Boston never entered his head.

  As more decades tore away, he was left the same, in feeling and appearance, as he was the night he lost Veronica. Mural's hair never ripened into gray or white and not a wrinkle dared to cross his skin, but beneath his face was cold solitude that only age can bring. Time elapsed, but the gift made the cycles smaller and tolerable even as his past friends and neighbors grew old and died, while he stay suspended in time, taking them to their demise. Everything around had an end except for him.

  Everything would wilt, but he was outside the rotation of life and didn't have to pay its highest price.

  But as people do, he began to question.

  "I can't bear the notion of Veronica suffering as I lose myself in these excursions. Maybe I should refocus my ..."

  Before his tongue could carry any more words, the gift stirred inside him. Confused and curious Mural egged the light within him on with questions, but it was never to speak to him. And he felt insulted.

  "I've been played a fool, a patsy in some arcane game. I will not sit idly by and have no knowledge or control over Veronica's fate."

  But he had no choice. He would experience only what his convulsions would allow, leaving his own self a shell yet again.

  Mural watched the coming of the twentieth century. He had spent well over a hundred years obediently working for his unseen demon, all the while hoping for answers. Any vestige of his previous life was so old and desiccated that it was out of memory. Seasons and lifetimes blew past him as if they were the wind. He watched the winter of everyone's life pass and carried them from this life and knew that his own humanity had wilted and withered.

  There was only one thing left to do when hope abandoned...he took up an old practice and prayed. He begged for an absolution to the only power left more powerful than his own and still received nothing. God had abandoned him so long ago he had forgotten the warmth of faith and knew only the frigidity of death. For a soul, if he could be that, with as few options as he had left, Mural stumbled across the only answer left to him.

  "To Hell with Veronica, she was probably already there with the damned demon! Well over a hundred years had passed! What a fool I have been. She has to be long dead. So what is the point? I did this for her...and without her...what is the point?"

  Unsure if he feared for his immortal shattered soul or if he just had to prepare so expertly, Mural took another thirty years, in which he felt every second, to concoct his ending. Time had very much been on his side, and as good allies always do, time and Mural worked together to compose a flawless conclusion.

  Chapter 12

  As the sun blushed and sank on a dusty evening during the worst economical crisis his country had seen, and one hundred and fifty years since he found the sword in the charred remains of his childhood home, Mural wandered out past Boston's city limits with a loaf of bread in his hand and a carnal need for closure. Just as the loaf did in front of him, the city from behind slowly disappeared from sight. The horizon held a mantle of winking stars and an invigorating new moon that sped his pace. Mural almost forgot what stars looked like; he hadn't seen their twinkle in years. The bright glow that emitted from both the city and the stars was enough to distract him from the light within. His neck remained craned skyward, remembering the city from over a hundred years ago, as he approached another town. Trees replaced the buildings and dirt roads overpowered the stone and cement in this new town he approached.

  Life felt different to Mural this rural town, more alive, though ravaged by poverty and littered with pathetic beggars in food lines.

  "They're all snakes, slithering into breadlines, waiting on their bellies, flickering their tongues out to feel for meals."

  Little makeshift huts were crowded together in the outskirts as Mural passed through, maliciously chomping his bread in front of the starved. Just like the pathetic people back home, they all huddled together for heat. He scoffed at them as the last piece of bread slid down his throat, falling past the clenching gift.

  Darkness loitered heavily as midnight drew near and he came upon what appeared to be the town's center. The scattered electric lights flickered as thunder heralded an abrupt storm, spurting down sharp rain and jagged lightning nearby. The unexpected storm caught many off guard and people scurried for shelter. Mural continued to stroll down the wide street that led to a circle of buildings. Before him a cobblestone road encircled a gazebo that gently rested in the middle of a patch of green grass, slick and matted from the rain. Men and women huddled under the gazebo's roof, sheltering their expensive clothes from the rain as the more ragged individuals made for the alleys. The well-to-do people underneath the gazebo laughed and joked with each other, blissfully touching and kissing, waving

  hellos at companions hiding under an awning in front of a nearby theatre.

  Mural relentlessly sloshed through the increasing rain that had already gathered into puddles along the cobblestone road. Trudging onto the wet grass, water logging his pants below his knees, he grew angry watching the laughing people ahead. The harder the rain fell, the more enraged Mural became and he began to pick up his pace. Surrounded by wet darkness

  Mural focused in on the brightest light he could see, which was the glow from the theater, but he had to cut through the gazebo to get there. It was no matter though, the brightness drew him in; it fed his fervor and the malicious desires that bubbled up within him. He had found his spot.

  One sybarite caught the blur of Mural speeding at them, and all the onlooker could do was utter a futile and mumbled plea as the massive body barreled towards him. The others didn't see Mural coming until he was right in the middle of the huddled mass under the gazebo. He shoved through them, ramming heads into the wooden supports with a callous push. One woman's head collided with the wooden support so hard that splinters burst all about, flashing Mural's memory back to Benjamin's missed blast on the porch so long ago. A lifetime ago. His anger built into an eternal rage that served him far past death.

  The lady's head split open and she slid down leaving a red streak on the white post. Her eyes rolled up into her skull. Mural barely felt the convulsion that sent him to retrieve her soul and it was over within moments and his wrath was unbroken.

  Once past the gazebo he broke into a sprint for the group huddled under the canopy in front of the theater. Running through the silver streaks of rain, his heart panted with the desires of thirst again. His butcher knife once again sang to him and gleamed. Several couples backed out from the canopy into the rain and ran from his assault, but five people stood still, dumbfounded un
der the awning, gazing at impending doom.

  "And you'll do," he uttered in thirsty anticipation.

  It took only moments to reacquaint himself with murdering with his own two hands again. Mural had put his knife aside for too long, but it sang with its old voice, beating in unison with his accelerated pulse. He hacked at the young adults, cutting into their dresses and suits. Their screams echoed about the town square and added to the harmony he heard. His wrist bent and swiveled nimbly. As the necks of the bystanders split open, the blue light inside him chimed in with sounds beautiful to his ears. Blood leapt freely into the open air and it was thick and blue to his eyes. In the blurred and methodical fury, Mural sliced their bodies apart. The knife conducted a murderous orchestra that filled his ears with joyous melodies. The blade sung along, pushing their talents, demanding perfection, until all but one of the bodies lay flat on the concrete. He left a young woman barely alive and kneeling before him. His shoulders settled and the frenzy was over - oh how time flies when you're having fun. Time and his glee settled though, as he peered into the girls eyes. They half pleaded and half accepted; she knew her death was upon her. Mural nodded to her and took one last spin, the black cloth of his coat flowing as his blade performed an encore, with one last ostentatious jab.

  This was truly the finale to his symphony. His blade ripped into the girl's jugular and sprayed blood across his face and over the pristine white siding of the theatre walls. Mural smiled at his marking, thinking it to be his signature, before he was completely lost in his fantasy. Lost in the gift. Standing before a full ensemble of imaginary violins and horns, he lowered his bloody baton, maroon flesh slipping down the knife's edge, and bowed before the crowd. He felt spotlights of heat the back of his neck burning from dozens of eyes. All stood around him with mouths agape, some silent, some screaming.

  "They're stunned! This must be how Beethoven felt!"

  Mural's music played on in his mind as he relived the symphony through the gift, taking their souls and releasing them into the darkness.

  "So nice I did it twice," he chuckled.

  The police found Mural with his last victim's bloody head in his lap, her long blonde hair draped in matted clumps across his legs. Timidly, the authorities approached Mural as he ate from a discarded yet perfectly good bag of popcorn. His fingers were stained red and the popcorn between his fingers was pink. Covering the lapels and seeping in through a tear in the shoulder of his long black coat, blood stained draped him as much as the applause he heard in his head.

  Wavering guns were drawn in shaky hands. Even light had to muster courage to come near Mural as he sat in shadows at the theater's entrance, lost in his creation, barely noticing the police close in.

  "I can swallow better already," he exclaimed, munching on popcorn with a puerile glee to an officer ready to pistol whip him, "I will reunite with her in Hell!"

  The surrounding mob of officers and civilians disarmed Mural and beat him into the blackness he yearned for.

  PART TWO

  Randy

  Chapter 13

  Sharp sunlight pounded down on Randy's window and seeped between his eyelids. He partially awoke, but fell back down to his pillow, feeling the remnants of his illness that left him unsure of where he was. The room, or wherever he was, spun, even with his eyes closed. Randy moaned and forced his eyes open, half fearing he was dead. He felt terrible enough to be.

  His head pounded and the wan light was as bright as the sun to him. The light, seemingly noticing his condition, attempted another approach and moved through Randy's small room and onto his brothers' beds, illuminating only empty mattresses. They had to be out back, picking up the slack Randy left by getting ill. Yes, that was what happened. His bearings came back to him with a twang of guilt for not helping with the farm work. He had to help. Randy braced his weight on his teenaged knees and slowly climbed from bed and began to exit his room. With his head spinning and stomach churning, each step he forced forward became immeasurably harder to keep planted. The disorientation proved to be too much for his buckling knees and forced him to rest at the doorway between his room and the small living room. Randy waited for the pounding in his skull to subside, bracing under the whirlwind of nausea - and it felt just like a wind, like a gale, and it burrowed deep into him as a terrible omen.

  He peaked through the back window to see if there was any activity. The walls seemed to close in around him and the entire wooden shack his family called home, creaked and moaned.

  A broadcast crackled from a distant speaker. All Randy heard was "I am the lantern and you are the light." Confused even further, he took one step to investigate and stopped, deterred by his illness and the garbled halt of the broadcast. The whole family used to gather around that radio for an hour every night before mother had to get a job. Ever since then it had been silent. Something wasn't right.

  Wind rattled against the windows and Randy realized that it wasn't morning. The rays of sun were not the blinding bit of dawn, but the remnants of the day dying, which meant that his family let him miss the entire day of work. Leaves shook free and branches flapped against the windowpane at increasing speeds, and beyond, a wall of black clouds frowned down.

  Hobbling as fast as the nausea would let him, Randy passed by the dinner table to the backdoor, where he could look over the whole farm. Peaking through the plaid curtains that used to be the old tablecloth, he watched the small hills of grass bend horizontally under the wind. The vast land appeared twice as large and twice as green against the dark sky. Not a single sign of life though. Randy couldn't remember a time when this backyard didn't have some life in it - a random horse or cow, mallards creating some fuss on the pond, some stupid squirrel trying to muscle his way into the bird feeder. The only motion was created by the foreboding storm, continuing its haunting of the property.

  He hobbled onto the porch, the harsh wood on his soles and creaking under his weight, and stumbled down the stairs to the lawn. The grass was soft and kind on his bare feet and the breeze, though stiff, was a cool relief on his heated forehead.

  All the flat land was empty. Even the neighbor's lot a half-mile away was still. Randy spun around and looked at his house, lumped like driftwood in the middle of a waving green sea. This small sliver hadn't even the capacity to house his family, the little dump, but it's all about location with real estate. It, and his family, was set in the middle of the best soil in the area. The Earth was a wonderful constant, but Randy couldn't live the life of a farmer for much longer; he had to leave soon. He knew he would leave soon. He wondered how they would all manage to put a meal big enough for every child on the rickety dinner table every night with him gone. And that thought alone kept him home until he was forced out of there was no home to come to.

  Turning his gaze over the backyard, he watched the crops swaying behind the barn, the refreshing smooth and cool breeze made him smile; the calm before the storm always soothed.

  "The animals must be in the barn," Randy guessed aloud.

  Bruno suddenly bolted from behind the splintered barn, barking and racing across the yard towards the pond. He was a stupid dog, but all the kids loved his playfulness. Bruno finished his streak with clumsy plunge into the water. His idiotic head floated above the water and he slowly paddling after a small patch of ducks floating in the middle of the pond. Of course, the thunderous clap of the dog's landing scared every duck off on the pond, but that never occurred to Bruno.

  Another thunderous clap belted out from overhead and shook the windows behind him. Randy's baby sister Betsy yelped from inside. Her cry surprised him. He looked up at the black sky as a vein of lightning cursed through the brooding clouds. One more cry came from her room for 'Mommy!' He turned to go comfort her.

  "Get in here Bruno, you dumb dog," Randy yelled, entering the house.

  Bruno ignored him and continued to flop around in the water.

  Betsy was sitting bolt upright in her bed, frightened but not crying. She never cried much. Safel
y smothered in her sheets, Randy watched her shake beneath the blanket, as he leaned lightly against the doorway like a phantom. The house was dark and what little light remained was in Betsy's eyes.

  "I'm scared, Randy," Betsy said, her sweet blonde hair matted down all over her face. She untangled herself from the covers and ran to his side.

  "It's all right sweetie," Randy said, petting her head. "It'll be a great storm to watch."

  Together they walked hand in hand to the front of the dark house. The storm seemed to have stolen the sun. The rooms were splashed with intermittent darkness; the only lighting came from unpredictable lightning. Betsy squeezed Randy's hand with every flash as she half expected to see monsters in the crannies. They got to the front door and Randy struggled to open it. Together they both meekly poked out into the front lawn and their entire town was dark as sin. Thunder and lightning worked in unison. Lightning lit the horizon into a beautiful array of chaos and color, and the thunder clapped fear into their hearts.

  With one sinister flash of light, clarification came and showed them the broken trees that lined the dirt road. Their neighbors scurried off down the path with their animals. Seconds later they were dark silhouettes with howling winds in their faces. Everything was out of place. Worry hardened and settled in both Betsy's and Randy's guts. It never left them.