Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  The light ahead dimmed and then brightened back to its original luminescence. After a few moments of steady brilliance, the light dimmed again and then flickered with an irregular pulsing pattern. As Peter drew closer, the light’s perturbation grew more frenetic with fewer long-duration interruptions. Strange shapes and shadows moved across the light causing the variation in brightness. He saw the shadows approach the source of the illumination and then fade away to nothing. It was disturbing to witness and he could not be sure, but it looked as if the light was consuming the mysterious figures.

  Peter’s momentum slowed and he found himself no longer flying forward. The unseen force deposited him, standing upright, on the rough-hewn rock of the tunnel floor. Still lacking sensation in his extremities, Peter forced his mind to reconnect to his limbs. At first, his arms and legs were nonresponsive, but after several attempts, he managed to regain some control.

  Peter’s first task was to release his hold on the book. He struggled to move his hands, but found it nearly impossible. He could feel the book touching his fingers, but could do nothing about it. It was as if the same unseen force that had influenced his journey through the tunnel was swaying his will. With effort, he moved his legs and tried to back away from the light, but again, his body failed him. Peter found he could walk forward under his own power, but any step backward was met by an unyielding resistance. Frightened by the obstinate force, he stopped moving entirely. It was decidedly more agreeable to simply stand firm and watch the bizarre forms move into and out of the brilliance ahead than to actually partake in their strange behavior.

  Peter’s noncompliance was short-lived as he found himself buffeted and jostled from side to side. Startled, he turned his head to discover an old man smiling back at him. Peter panicked and tried to back away but bumped up against another individual behind him. He turned full-circle looking for an escape route, but every possible avenue was blocked by hundreds of individuals moving forward through the tunnel and toward the cold light.

  A hand touched Peter’s arm. He jumped and tried to spin away, but could not. The wrinkled and weathered hand belonged to the old man walking beside him. “Nothing to fear, young man,” the old man said in a weak and scratchy voice. “This isn’t the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Death,” the old man answered, reassuring Peter with a gentle pat on his arm. “It’s a new beginning for all of us.”

  “No, no, no,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “I’m not dead—I’m in a coma.” He gestured to the old man. “You,” he started and then pointed to the entire crowd. “They’re simply manifestations of my injured mind—nothing more.”

  The old man laughed. “I had a heart attack and passed right there on my front porch. I knew it was my time to go, that’s why I was sittin’ there.”

  An old woman walking behind them chimed in, “I had pancreatic cancer—at least I said goodbye to my family before I went.”

  Many nearby lauded the woman’s mention of that fact.

  “No,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe—”

  “See there,” the old man said, gesturing to the only other young person in the crush: a gruff young man about twenty-five years old, covered in tattoos and minding his own business while trying to make his way forward through the crowd. “Young man, what’s your name?”

  “Butch,” the twenty-something answered hoarsely.

  “Do you believe you’re dead?”

  Clearly annoyed, Butch did not answer.

  “Might I ask how?” the old man pressed.

  “Liquor store robbery—owner had a gun,” Butch snorted.

  “Don’t worry,” the old man replied. “Redemption lies ahead—it’s not too late.”

  Butch shook off the inspirational talk. “Too late for me, old man.”

  The old man laughed lightly at the reply and turned back to Peter. “He’ll be okay. Forgiveness is at hand for all of us.”

  Peter could not respond—he did not know how to respond. He was sure this entire scenario was part of some dream—some nightmare caused by his injuries back in the forest. Peter looked down at the manuscript. If he were dead, why would he be carrying the old book? The answer quickly came to him: it was an illusion. There could not be an afterlife, and even if there was, he would not be able to take something from the physical world into the spiritual realm. It was not possible. This was a simple hallucination that he was undergoing while incapacitated. Peter had been thinking about Nicholas’s book when he was injured and his mind extended his reality and created a new one. Soon, either he would die or he would find himself waking up. It was a simple solution, but he needed to be cautious and keep his wits about him so as to not become part of a self-induced, reinforcing fantasy.

  The crush of the crowd forced Peter closer to the source of the illumination. He could clearly see the cause of the distortions. Throngs of individuals moved into the brilliance and temporarily blocked the light as they passed through it, which caused the variations in output. It was a doorway of some kind and Peter thought it might subconsciously signal an end to his life. He did not want anything to do with it. He tried to back away, but the push from the others was too great. The light was cold and uninviting. It brought a sense of foreboding to Peter. He felt naked and alone, as if his troubles were about to be exposed for all to see. One by one, the individuals around him disappeared into the radiance. As Peter drew nearer, he clutched at the book and held it in front of him to stop his advance, but the mass of people drove him forward and over the threshold.

  The tunnel opened onto a large square in the middle of a huge city. Tall buildings constructed from rough stone blocks rose higher than anything Peter had ever seen before. The buildings went on, street by street, in every direction for miles. The sky above the mass of congested cityscape glowed in a twilight hue that was not quite day and not exactly night.

  Peter lowered the burden of the manuscript to a more comfortable position near his waist and took in the awe-inspiring sight in front of him. The first thing that stood out was the color variations. He noted that not everything was as dull and gray as the mass of people that streamed from the tunnel exit. Splashes of intensely colored fabric highlighted the otherwise lifeless rock façades of the town’s buildings. Drab individuals who milled about the town’s square also bore vibrant multihued swatches. All around him, Peter’s eyes met with a chance encounter of vibrant color. A banner draped over a wall, a deep brown cloak, leather boots, even bright jewelry. It was difficult to process, similar to an incomplete colorization of a famed black and white movie. Yet, the entire setting made sense to him in a strange, convoluted way. In an effort to normalize itself, Peter’s brain conjured a complete medieval town along with citizens to fill it. He was in San Cielo recently so the surroundings were familiar to him. The lapses in color were simply incomplete or jumbled information associated with his traumatic event.

  Peter shrugged off the discrepancies of his delusions and investigated the source of the brilliance. To his disbelief, two glowing angels stood several yards away. Their robes and skin were awash in the same joyless light that bathed the tunnel exit. At nearly ten-feet tall, the angels towered significantly over their human counterparts. Their wings were partially visible over their heads and tucked in neatly behind them. The angels had nondescript facial features and appeared neither male nor female. Their stoic demeanor made it hard for Peter to discern any underlying emotion; however, their eyes told a different story. The angelic beings threw piercing gazes at each new arrival passing into the town square as if weighing the worth of each newcomer based upon their appearance.

  Peter slowed his pace and watched the interactions of the crowd. Some were in awe of the two angels and paid homage to them, shouting and rejoicing as they entered the town square. Others, frightened by the sight, withdrew from the main flow of arrivals. Two men, both wearing purple tunics over underlying medieval garb, stepped in and guided the wayward individuals back into line
before resuming their positions marshaling the crowd off to the left of the overseeing angels. A woman standing to the side of the two men grabbed Butch out of the crowd and spoke to him. Peter tried to eavesdrop but could not make out the woman’s words. Whatever was said, Butch seemed pleased and was taken in a different direction than the rest of the new arrivals.

  Peter’s misgivings about the whole situation swelled at the odd behavior and he stopped moving forward. The crowd buffeted him, but he stood his ground and angled his way to the fringes of the main flow to let the faster individuals by. In that position, Peter had an unobstructed view of the two angels with which to study them. They showed little concern that Butch had been removed from the throng or that several newcomers were being denied responses to their seemingly innocuous questions. The angels’ single interest seemed to be with the ongoing crush of people exiting the tunnel.

  Standing to one side and very near the two angels was a middle-aged man wearing a brown robe. Peter studied the man’s features. He was no more than fifty years old, but the man’s broken posture and profoundly furrowed face belied his short lifespan. He had a full head of gray hair that curled at its unkempt ends. His brown eyes were contentious and angry.

  Peter recognized the man as the monk Nicholas. It was not an exact match since the man standing before him was much older and more haggard than the image detailed within the illuminated text in Kea’s bookstore. Still, the man was indeed the suicidal monk. Peter rubbed his eyes with one hand and shook his head. He had a difficult time believing his illusions could have penetrated so completely into his comatose state. The accident in the woods must have done more damage than he had previously thought.

  Peter did not know how to proceed. The old manuscript he clutched was the monk’s property. His instincts screamed to keep walking and ignore Nicholas, but Peter’s unquenched curiosity won out and he held the old tome up for all to see. He tried to rationalize his actions, thinking that if he could not force himself out of his coma, perhaps he could end it by giving the book back to its rightful owner. By willingly removing the reason for his illusion, Peter might close the loop and allow himself to wake from his nightmare. Holding the book aloft, he stepped from the periphery of the moving mass of individuals and toward the angels.

  The mood changed dramatically and a sense of despair and suffering descended over the square. The angels and the monk noticeably stiffened at the sudden emergence of Peter from the crowd.

  Witnessing the newcomer step out of line, one of the men in medieval garb tried to intervene, but Peter persevered. He held the manuscript high and called out to the monk, “I have your book.”

  Nicholas eyed Peter and nodded affirmatively to both of the angels.

  Not wanting to insult his delusionary characters, Peter gestured with the old manuscript and said, “You can have it, so I can end this.” He adjusted his glasses and took a step forward. “I want to go home, and I think this is the best way to proceed.”

  Nicholas opened his palms and beckoned Peter closer.

  Peter held the book out and stepped forward to close the distance to the old monk, but before he could reach Nicholas, a crystalline spire erupted from the square’s cobblestone surface. The translucent structure twisted and contorted its way to loom over the angels and the individuals around them. Once the apparition reached its full height, it grew tendrils that snaked in all directions away from the main trunk. Together, the main trunk and tendrils spawned delicate branches of transparent crystal that sprouted fractal formations resembling leaves. As the metamorphosis slowed, the trunk and branches changed, becoming deeply grooved. The transformation only took a few moments, but there, standing directly in Peter’s path, was a life-sized tree made out of crystal.

  Peter gawked at the wondrous formation. He thought back to his mishap in the woods, trying to reconcile the apparition with his injury-induced condition. He shook his head and attempted to bypass the blockage, but the tree shuddered and vibrated as he drew near. A high-pitched noise rang out from every branch and leaf. It grew in intensity and forced all those within earshot to retreat.

  Peter felt lightheaded and queasy. His vision grew blurry and his knees started to buckle. He fell against the tree, his face pressing into the crystalline grooves of the bark. Panting, he pushed away from the solid mass and peered through the translucent surface to view Nicholas on the opposite side. A distorted and deformed reflection of the monk showed through the uneven structure of the tree’s rough outer covering.

  Nicholas glared back and frustration coalesced on the middle-aged monk’s face. He sheepishly glanced at the angels, as if asking for an explanation, but the angels ignored him and maintained their gaze on Peter. Nicholas lowered his arms and shackles slid into view from beneath his robes. Chains, affixed to the monk’s wrist cuffs, trailed behind him and out of sight. Nicholas was not a protected confidant of Peter’s imaginary angels but their prisoner.

  A strong, meaty hand pulled Peter away from the tree and a deep voice commanded, “Run!”

  Disoriented, Peter staggered backward and turned to see who was accosting him.

  A large man wearing a dark cloak forced himself between Peter and the tree. The man drew a sword from under his cloak and held it in front of him. He extended his free arm and pushed Peter toward a side alley at one end of the town square. “Run, you fool!”

  Unable to support himself, Peter stumbled to the ground. “Who—”

  The cold light filling the square ceased. The angels’ white exteriors darkened and their features contorted and grew grotesque as they turned into demons. The fine robes that adorned their stately and picturesque physiques gave way to dark leather coverings that hung loosely over their vile and twisted bodies. Their once white and gossamer wings became black and fleshy, stained with age and worn ragged at the edges.

  The demons thrust forward to apprehend Peter, but the crystalline tree’s considerable girth stymied their progress.

  Peter pointed an incredulous finger at the transformations. “What the hell’s going on?”

  The larger of the two demons raised a gnarled finger at Peter and barked out in a venomous voice, “That one carries the book—do not let him escape!”

  The new arrivals screamed at the sight of the infernal creatures and broke ranks, running in every direction. The clashing of metal reverberated between the buildings. Heated voices shouted orders over the cacophony. Men and women aligned with the demons rushed in, trying to contain the newcomers as well as counter the intruders. Complete chaos enveloped the area around the tunnel exit.

  Before Peter could get to his feet, two more cloaked men hoisted him up and ushered him through the pandemonium of the crowd. As they approached the edge of the square, he resisted forcefully and brought the escape attempt to a stop. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Danger lurks here,” one of the men answered and produced a cloak similar to his own. “Clothe yourself.”

  “If I refuse?”

  The man gestured back to the demons. “They will be your bane.”

  The burly man who had originally intervened was lashing out with his sword in every direction. He fought the demons head on, trying to keep them occupied while simultaneously dealing heavy blows to humans unfortunate enough to stray within range of his blade. More cloaked men appeared from side streets and alleys. They helped keep the leathery beasts occupied while also slicing down any guards who got in the way. In retaliation, the demons conjured red and green energy and hurled it at the cloaked figures. The intruders took cover wherever they were able and pressed on valiantly, ignoring all dangers.

  Peter found the scene unfathomable. History was filled with bits and pieces of the exhibition now on display before him, but he had never personally experienced anything like it. He had no idea whether the conflict was real or imagined, but Peter’s sense of fear ratcheted up significantly and he decided to choose the lesser of the two immediate evils. “Fine, I’ll play along for now,” he responded and d
onned the cloak over his clothes.

  “Now with haste,” the cloaked man said and guided Peter at a run into a nearby alley.

  The two men took up positions in front of and behind Peter as they made their way through the narrow space between the buildings. This section of the city was dense with tall structures, and only a thin strip of twilight sky peeked out above them. Most of the doors and windows of the stone edifices were shuttered. As they darted past a small intersection, Peter caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a rather strange statue or carving on one corner of a building.

  Human heads jutted from the wall, with several sets of arms and legs fused to the rock surface below them. Their posture and positioning suggested that a group of individuals had been melded into the stone of the structure as a decoration.

  Peter slowed his pace in an attempt to study the monstrous effigy. As the trio got closer, the sculpture’s appendages moved and the hollow and haunting eyes locked with his. As they passed, Peter heard a chorus of weak voices plead, “Save us.” His breath left him and his heart raced at the sound. He could not rationalize the grotesque and deformed statuary. Nowhere from his memory could he have conjured the sick and twisted scene. Terrified, he quickened his pace, forcing the two men to run faster.

  From behind the three runners came a terrible, high-pitched screeching that echoed through the narrow alleyway.

  The lead man hissed, “Sitri!”