by Bryan Davis
His voice faltering, Joran churned his legs. If only he could get to Zohar before the barrier snapped, they could shrivel the troops or at least disarm them.
All across the mass of soldiers, sparks began to fly from the metal in their clothing. Many writhed in pain. Yet, their cries carried no sound. Fire arced everywhere, dissipating the green mist. Soldiers began falling in silence, their clothes aflame.
When he reached Zohar at the corner, Joran locked arms with him again. Selah, now on her knees, sang on, her body wobbling. She couldn’t hold out much longer.
With holes still widening, the wall of sound closed in on the soldiers, pushing Tamiel and Arramos in. Tamiel’s silencing mist had dispersed, and murmurs began to break through.
Wherever the sound barrier touched a war machine, its metal skin fizzled and dissolved into gray gas, leaving nothing behind. The soldiers nearest the wall dwindled into scrawny, withered effigies. Their flesh sizzling and popping, the wall absorbed them, and the new energy ran in both directions, sealing holes along the way. Soon, the entire wall had healed.
Arramos beat his wings and flew up in a tight spiral. Then, with fire shooting from his nostrils, he dove toward Joran and Zohar.
“Raise the barrier!” Joran shouted.
He and Zohar lifted their rods high, touching them together to complete their shield. The flames splashed against it and arced over the top, but a few tongues snaked through and struck the singers. One plunged into Joran’s tunic and set it on fire. Another knifed through the lyre’s strings and jabbed Zohar, instantly covering him in a mantle of undulating flames, but he didn’t cry out. He just held the lyre away from his body as tiny firelets danced across the strings. Selah collapsed, and the A string reabsorbed her image.
Joran batted flames from his tunic, sucked in another breath, and called out, “I’m reeling it in while it lasts!” He twirled his rod, making the sound wrap around it. As the wall tightened, more soldiers vanished. Plumes of gray gas flew upward, veiling the shrinking mob.
Arramos rose back into the air and zoomed toward the ovulum’s breach, calling back, “Tamiel! Let these perish! We will conquer Second Eden with what we have!” Then, instead of flying out, he just disappeared.
Tamiel lifted off the ground and flew toward Joran, pointing a finger. “The mists that transport the ovulum refugees have been spent, so you will stay here forever!” He flew out of the ovulum, but, unlike Arramos, he didn’t vanish. When he reached the outside, he called, “Semiramis! It is finished! Seal the ovulum!”
Like teeth closing around its prey, the upper and lower edges of the breach drew together until they clamped shut with a loud click. Green light spread across the area, darkening the field. The sound barrier reeled into the rods and flowed into the lyre, still gripped tightly within Zohar’s fiery hands.
As the vapor dissipated, grass came into view, now littered with shards of wood stripped from the soldiers’ weapons.
Joran gasped for breath. His head and lungs ached. Blackness pulsed in his vision, painting dark shadows spreading out from the center. Only the flames coating Zohar and the glowing lyre stayed visible. With his blue eyes sparkling, Zohar smiled. “We did it.”
“Yes.” Joran coughed through heavy spasms, bracing his hands on his knees. Finally, he caught his breath again and looked at Zohar. “Yes, we did.”
“I see Mendallah. She is alive. Her progress is slow, but she is coming this way.”
Joran coughed once more. “I need to see if Selah’s all right.”
Zohar raised the lyre. Every string glowed so brightly, it seemed to be alight with the fire streaming from his fingers. Multi-colored radiance rippled back and forth across the strings and played each note in rapid succession. The sounds emanated without pattern or rhythm, just runs of notes from low to high and back to low again, each one pouring out its spectral color, all seven, from red to violet, now in place.
“Pure energy.” Joran set his hand close to the strings. They radiated warmth, tingling with greater intensity as his fingertips drew nearer. Unlike captured demons, the soldiers died before being absorbed. He probably didn’t have to worry about dozens of prisoners in the lyre.
He touched the A string, now as green as the surrounding grass, and plucked it. “Selah? Are you in there?”
As if drawn by the vibration, light flowed from Zohar’s hands and covered the string. The usual white aura formed around it, and it expanded and drifted to the front of the lyre. This time, the colors from all the strings blended with the white and painted Selah in rich color. She lay curled, as if asleep or unconscious. The exhausting singing battle likely knocked her out.
“Selah?” Joran called. “Are you all right?”
Her hand twitched, and her brow knitted, but the rest of her body lay slack.
“She is a daughter of music,” Zohar said. “Perhaps you can awaken her with a song.”
“There is a song …” Tears filling his eyes, Joran swallowed. “There is a song my older sister used to sing to me that was designed to bind our hearts as one, but I can’t sing it again. It’s just too painful.”
Zohar tilted his head. “Painful? From what I have seen, you fear nothing.”
“Fear nothing,” Joran said, laughing under his breath. “If only you knew what I have done. I fear ghosts that haunt my dreams.”
Zohar bent his brow. “If you are referring to the time you betrayed your older sister, I saw it with my own eyes.”
Mendallah arrived, holding her broken forearm in front. “We both saw. Timothy’s wall tells no lies. We have learned a great deal listening to the teachers there.”
“And you still followed me?” Joran asked. “You risked your lives to help me?”
“Of course.” Zohar extinguished his flames. “Who am I to take account of your past deeds when you have obviously forsaken them? To hold sins against a repentant soul is to block the river of mercy, the stream of life that flows to us when it is freely bestowed from us. When we pour out mercy to others, we refresh our own reservoir.”
Mendallah knelt and looked Joran in the eye. “Your past is but a memory. Those who love you have erased its blotches. We see what is true now—light and love—not the darkness of days gone by.”
Joran absorbed the giant’s soft-spoken words, so rich, so filled with grace. She had indeed learned much from Timothy’s wall. Was this the same message the teacher uttered to Naamah when he said, “Neither do I condemn you?”
Relighting a single finger with a pulsing glow, Zohar pointed at Joran. “If you have received mercy, can you not find it within yourself to extend mercy to others, including yourself? Or will you continue to inflict stripes on your back and the backs of others?”
Joran laid a hand over his chest. The words pierced his heart, as if lancing a festering abscess. Drowning in his own guilt, he had tearfully begged for mercy’s flow and found only a begrudging trickle from those he had so sorely wounded. Later, his mercy toward Zohar and the other plants had flowed at the same pitiful rate. And even now, his mercy toward Naamah was nonexistent, a dry riverbed, parched and thirsty.
Wrapping his fingers around his throat, he tried to swallow. The river’s blockade was all too real, a stranglehold from his own hand.
He gazed at Selah. Her peaceful security seemed so beautiful, so perfect. Without memories of heinous sins, she slept undisturbed by nightmares conjured by a wicked past. She didn’t feel what he felt. Even trapped within that lyre string, she was freer than he was.
Closing his eyes to hold back the tears, he whispered with a trembling voice, “Selah, it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t done what I did to Seraphina, none of this would have happened. How can I forgive myself when I don’t know that she’s forgiven me? How can I forgive Naamah when she has deceived with her words so many times before? How can I trust in the sincerity of a woman who has scorned trust all her life?”
A warm hand touched his cheek, bringing flickering light a
cross his closed eyelids. “I know the answer, Joran.”
He sucked in a breath. That voice! His legs wobbling, he straightened and turned around. Naamah stood before him, her face and white dress radiating light that bounced off the green walls, brightening the ovulum’s interior. She looked up at him, tears sparkling in her eyes.
Joran heaved shallow breaths. “I thought it might be …”
“Seraphina. I know.” Her lips quivering, Naamah kept her gaze fixed on him. “Her voice was restored to her in Heaven, so she was able to carry out this task, but since I also have her voice, God decided it would be better for me to deliver a message from both of us.”
“A message?” Joran’s mouth dried out. “What message?”
Naamah reached deep into her throat and withdrew a tiny sphere of light, so brilliant, its radiance outshone Zohar’s flames. Her own radiance dimmed, and as she held the sphere in her palm, a voice emanated, making it spark with each word.
“Joran, this is Seraphina. I am speaking to you from Heaven. It has been many years since we hunted demons together, and now Naamah and I will help you slay the demon you have allowed to bind your heart.”
He set a hand around his throat again. The stranglehold tightened, choking off his air supply.
The sparks continued. “Ever since she arrived in Heaven, Naamah has used my voice to sing glorious praises to God, and she cherishes every second as she tries to give thanks for all the mercy she has received, but now she sees that her stolen gift stands between you and your freedom, so she is willing to become mute for all eternity.”
“You mean …” Joran swallowed. He couldn’t manage another word.
“Yes, Naamah is giving my voice back to you. If you ingest it, you will be able to sing Selah out of the lyre. Naamah asks for nothing in return, praying that you will find peace when at least one sister is able to sing at your side. That peace will be her solace as she kneels in front of Jesus in silent adoration. To her, your mercy, your forgiveness, is more precious than her song.”
His hand shaking, Joran pinched the sphere and stared at it. What a priceless treasure! Sacrifice, love, a plea for peace and reconciliation! Naamah offered this gem, this incomparable gift, to a blind, ignorant boy who couldn’t see past his own guilt to believe in the repentance of another. There was no greater treasure than this, not the gift itself, but rather the giving … and the forgiving.
Who was he to deny her sincerity? Who was he to say that a murderess cannot beg for blood to be washed from her hands, that a harlot cannot rend her filthy garments and receive a gown of white? How could he withhold from her the gift that he had received but did not deserve?
Joran let the tears flow. This former harlot, this diminutive warrior for peace, had vanquished his wrath.
“Naamah,” he said softly. “Are you saying that this is mine to do with whatever I wish?”
Wiping tears with her knuckles, she nodded.
“And you will gladly agree to do what I ask?”
Again she nodded.
“Then open your mouth.”
Her brow shot upward, and her lips formed, “What?” though no sound came out.
Joran touched her chin. “Please, just do as I ask.”
Her entire body shaking, Naamah opened her mouth. Joran placed the sphere on her tongue and, pressing a finger under her chin, pushed her mouth closed again. A new glow radiated from her face.
Placing his hands on her cheeks, he kissed her forehead. “I forgive you, Naamah, and I hope you will forgive me for withholding mercy from you. I should have believed you, even after all your lies.”
She threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. “I forgive you! Oh, dear Joran, I forgive you with all my heart.”
Joran ran a hand across her shiny dark hair. “Who forgives me? Naamah or Seraphina?”
“Both of us!” It seemed that two voices spoke together. “We both forgive you.”
Like a river breaking through a crumbling dam, cooling relief flooded his body, washing away anger. The scalding heat of self-hatred sizzled and evaporated. He kissed the top of Naamah’s head, the same head he had hoped to crush not long ago. This harlot had become a heavenly angel, an object of scorn transformed into a vessel of mercy. As he held her, it truly felt as if he embraced an angel—tingling, airy, brimming with warmth and delight.
Naamah’s heart thumped in a methodic cadence, more consistent than any heart he had ever heard, as if she had taken Selah’s role of setting the rhythm for a song. As with her voices, it seemed that two hearts beat as one. She whispered, her blended voices musical and breathy. “Your trials are not over, Joran. Much time has already passed since the armies left this place, and your tormentor carries this ovulum. Tamiel hopes to use you for his devilish purposes, so you are still quite valuable to him.”
“I understand,” he whispered in return. “What should I do now? Tamiel said the mists are spent.”
“He spoke the truth. If you try to leave too early, you will perish. So you must wait for the mists to replenish. From now on, the time here will match the time outside, though you will not age or have need of physical sustenance. Use your captivity wisely. Prepare. Allow Zohar and Mendallah to teach you the history of the world as well as the modern languages. When the right time comes, you will be strong enough to break open the ovulum yourself. Listen for the call of desperation, the cry of one in a prison of her own. When you feel her danger, it will ignite the passion you need to play the key you have collected on the lyre.”
Joran looked at the lyre in Zohar’s grip. The seven colors shimmered, bright and vibrant. “What song do I play?”
“One that you will compose while you wait. Trust me. It will come to you.”
“What about Selah? How do I get her out of the lyre?”
Naamah pulled back and, grasping his shoulders, looked into his eyes. “The flow of mercy has released you. Now release your spirit from the cage you have constructed. Let your real voice out. Allow it to fly as freely as a liberated songbird, and like a songbird, it will spread the joy of deliverance to everyone who hears. Your song can now loosen every bond, unlock every prison, set free any captive. Now you are not merely a Listener; you are a Liberator.”
Stepping back, Naamah called out, “Sing now, Joran! Sing with all the passion in your heart!”
The scene in the misty woods roared back into Joran’s mind. Those were the same words Seraphina uttered so long ago, the command he ignored, leading to her murder. The nightmare that haunted him for so long was finally coming to an end. This time, he would answer the call.
He looked at the lyre, still glowing in Zohar’s hands. Selah slept on, her face pale in the midst of the spectral brilliance. The strings cast colorful stripes across her body as if fashioning a cage of hues ranging from crimson to purple. Reaching out, Joran passed his fingers through her image. He touched the A string and sang out its note. The string vibrated, returning the sound into the air and through his body.
Selah pushed against her invisible floor and rose to her feet. “Joran! You’re alive!”
“True, dear sister,” he said, tears again brimming. “You have no idea how true it is.”
She looked up. “I see we’re still in the green ovulum.”
“For a while, maybe a long while. We have to stay and learn the modern languages from Zohar and Mendallah.” Joran turned to introduce Selah to the resurrected Naamah, but she was gone.
“Selah,” he said, turning back to her.
She looked directly at him. A fraction of her usual size and now flush with color, she appeared to be a doll come to life. “Yes, Joran?”
“I want to sing a song for you.”
She gave him a tired, weak smile. “Shall I set the beat once I hear the beginning?”
He shook his head. “I know the beat. It matches the rhythm of my sisters’ hearts, all three of them.”
“Three?”
“
You, Seraphina, and Naamah.”
She cocked her head. “Naamah?”
“Yes. I’ll explain later.” While Zohar held the lyre, Joran began humming the tune. With each note, the corresponding lyre string played. Then, as he gazed at Selah, the words came to mind, sung in Seraphina’s lilting voice. Of course he would have to alter them for singing to a sister rather than a brother, as well as for the differing circumstances, but that would be easy enough.
After taking a deep breath, he sang.
When Mother cried with labor’s pangs,
Her torture pierced my lonely heart;
Would she survive to meet the dawn,
Or bid farewell, her soul depart?
O why do blessings come with pain;
The shadows cast with every light?
I prayed for comfort, not a trial,
And not another lonely night.
My heart needs a friend.
Is it you? Is it you?
A friend who will stay
To the darkest of ends.
Is it you? Is it you?
I prayed for you then; I pray for you now.
O come to my arms, and with you I vow
To sing out with love, to sing out with cheer,
To sing for an end to hatred and fear.
Then with the morning’s healing rays,
My father sat upon my bed
And laid a bundle in my arms.
“Your sister needs a name,” he said.
“A name?” I asked in disbelief.
“Has mother flown through death’s dark door?”
“She has flown,” he whispered soft.
“She wants her with you evermore.”
The lyre pulsed with color, and Selah drifted farther from the strings. Smiling through her flowing tears, she locked gazes with Joran, and with every word he sang, she stretched and grew.
I saw your eyes so dark and wide,
And then I knew what God had done.
He brought the friend for whom I’d prayed.
