by C. S. Wilde
Flames as tall as skyscrapers burst from the gap as monstrous groans and horrid screams roar in the air. Billions of smudged, bloodied hands grip the edges of the hole: small, big, male, female. The titanic flames return to where they came, and all that remains are the cries for help and the horrid howls of pain and despair.
The wind starts blowing toward the gap, a gentle tug at first that quickly becomes a clutching hand. The hole is sucking in the wind, no, it’s sucking in everything. I try clawing at the ground, but sand dismantles around my fingers. My feet dance in the air as I’m pulled toward the throat. The closer I go, the hotter the air becomes, burning my windpipe.
I’m going to Hell. Just like Kasey told me to.
An arm wraps around my waist and I stop moving. John has me. He stabbed the ground with Spritebreaker so that Hell doesn’t drag us. But the pull doesn’t affect him as much as it does me, in fact, the only reason he’s got the sword on the ground is so that I don’t pull him along. Irving kneels a couple of feet behind us, but while only his black hair is drawn to the fiery cavity, I flutter in the air like a flag.
Jebediah claws his hands against the gray sand, but he can’t fight the force. He can’t run either. His hands carve thin fingerprint trails across the sand.
“No, this isn’t fair!” His monstrous reverse eyes glare at me. “You did this, you bi—” The gap swallows him whole in a pulse.
The ground refills itself over the hole, and everything snaps back to normal. The pond is as placid as it had been a few moments before.
Gasping, I try to suck in all the air I can. Breathing doesn’t hurt anymore, but the memory of burning flesh inside me is still vivid. “What the hell!”
“Precisely,” John says, as he stands up and pats his wet suit. “Now you’ve seen it. Heaven and Hell break through from time to time around here.”
John was right when he refused to speak about Hell. He couldn’t have described it to me; it’s worse than my worst nightmares. Worse than finding Mother in the bathtub, and worse than facing Jebediah. I try to swallow back the nervous cry that wants to come out. Freaking out won’t help me.
“H-how?” I mumble, hands shaking.
“Wormholes, much like the one that brought you here,” Irving says. “Except that these take us to our final destination.”
I try to stand up, and to my surprise, my legs sustain me. “Who opens them?”
Irving shrugs. “God? The devil? Gatekeepers? What does it matter? Point is, they open.”
Breathe Santana, breathe. “Why didn’t it pull you as hard as it pulled me?”
The boys look at each other before John grabs my shoulders. “Irving doesn’t believe he deserves to go to Hell and apparently someone out there agrees with him.” John sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world is back on his shoulders. “Regardless of what I think I deserve, this same someone seems to think I don’t deserve to go to Hell either. For now, at least.”
“Oh God.” The fiery throat that vomits flares flashes in my mind, hands without nails grasping the edges. “I’m going to Hell. I’m really going to Hell.” Thinking you’re going to Hell is unpleasant, but knowing it for a fact is fucking despairing. My breathing paces in the rhythm of a tap dance; I can’t think, can’t speak.
John shakes my shoulders so that I look up. He peers at me with his intense blue eyes. “You’re not going to Hell, not while I’m around. I promise.”
But I am going to Hell. I deserve it.
He cups my cheek in a loving way as he says, “Santy, I don’t understand how it works, but not everyone who thinks they deserve to go to Hell ends up there. That hole almost sucked me once, and you’ve seen how it barely affected me now. Things change. You change.”
Every courtroom has a judge, and this one showed me my sentence. It’s never going to change. I bet Jebediah didn’t think he deserved to go to Hell, and look what happened to him.
John pleads, “Don’t compare yourself with that man.”
I forget that he read my mind and focus on John. His dazzling stare assures, completes, and protects me. I’m back home in his eyes, because home is where this man is. I’m safe with him.
I’m still going to Hell, but first, I’m going back to my body.
“Okay.” Inhale. “Okay. I can do this.”
Irving lays a hand on my shoulder. “Lass, we need to move faster from now on.”
Exhale. “Why?”
Irving bites his lower lip, stares at the sand. He grabs my hand and shows it to me.
My skin has become pale blue.
19
“What’s wrong with me?” I tap my blue arm. It’s my skin, but doesn’t look like it.
“Don’t freak out,” John commands in a smooth tone, but it doesn’t calm me down.
My skin looks as if someone powdered it with blue flour. “Why am I blue? Does this mean I’m dying back on earth?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I’m becoming blue, John! Dead people are blue!”
John’s mouth flatlines. “You’re not dying back on earth.”
“Then what’s happening?” The answer dawns on me: I’m becoming a Shade. “No! Not possible! Not an option!”
Not one of those things!
John runs his hands through his hair, stopping at the back of his neck. He observes me in silence, brow frowned and lips tight.
I hide my face behind my hands, because I’m crumbling, and if John and Irving can’t see it, then at least I’ll have my pride. “Bad people become Shades,” I mumble.
John gently spreads my hands apart and lifts my chin. “Nonsense. Anyone can become a Shade if they’re angry or lost enough. Doesn’t mean you’re bad.”
“I was this close to being dragged to Hell!” I grab John by the collar. “I can’t become a monster, please, I can’t turn into,” my voice fails when I remember Bowman and Jebediah.
John holds me firmly. “You’re not a Shade, and you’ll never become one. Santana, look at me.” He shakes my shoulders. “You’re not a Shade and you’re not evil and you’re not going to Hell. You need to pull yourself together. Can you do that for me?”
His voice is a slap on my face. I close my eyes and inhale quickly three times. The fourth comes slower, and by the tenth, I’m no longer trembling.
“Okay.” Deep breath. “Okay.”
“Try to focus on good things, have good thoughts,” John says with a cute smile. “It helps.”
As I stare at John I wish, for a quick, insane moment, that I could stay in the Home, with him, forever. No twelve-hour workday, no evil spirits to fight, no Shade-skin, and no going to Hell. Just me, John, and our little piece of Heaven. It’s a pretty great thought to focus on, even though it will never happen.
***
We move faster than before, with fewer breaks. My blue skin has clearly changed our sense of urgency. I’m not as tired as before, and I think it has something to do with me being a ‘semi-Shade.’ Irving invented the term. He needs to name everything that’s unknown to him, and I kind of get that. I guess the things we can explain aren’t as scary as the things we can’t.
After two more days of walking, the desert has changed. Dry trees sprout from everywhere, dead vegetation fills the cracked ground like kudzu, and the sand shifts to a darker gray. The air feels heavier here, and maybe it’s all in my head, but this place is sucking all the energy I have left. I’m often thirsty, and food is becoming scarcer.
I gaze at my reflection in the water of a pond, hazel eyes against a baby-blue background. Thankfully Dad isn’t here to see me like this. If only I had told him I loved him…Wait, good thoughts, need to have good thoughts, otherwise I’ll become a part of the Wastelands. It’s hard finding any, though.
Wondering if I’ll ever see Dad again, I spot something shining from the corner of my eye. I raise my head and study a rock a few feet away. When faint sunrays sneak between the clouds, the base of the rock shines again.
I walk toward it and kneel.
There’s something half hidden under the sand, and wiping it reveals metal underneath.
A blade. “Is that a sword?”
It is. It’s a simple Japanese sword, much like Spritebreaker. Its blade is as thin as paper; the whole sword is ridiculously light. The handle is black, broken by a swath of red rhombuses, and attached at the end is the head of a fox, carved in red marble stone. The red scabbard lies a foot away from it, half covered under the sand.
“How cool is that?” Grabbing the sword, I slide it into the scabbard. “Can I keep it?”
“No,” John says in the same manner Dad did when I asked if we could keep that cute stray dog we found at Costco.
I try my best not to pout. “Why not? You and Irving have swords.”
“You’d kill yourself with it, for one. You just left your body—you wouldn’t understand.”
I use the sword as support to stand up, leaning on it. “Try me, Senator.”
John makes a face, a silent ‘watch it’ shooting from his eyes. “Swords are pieces of spirits. If the sword doesn’t find the new owner worthy, forget about using it.”
“You mean swords choose their owners, like puppies?”
“That’s the best way I can explain it.” He looks down at Spritebreaker with a half smile on his lips. “A sword may come from a bad soul, but it’s neither bad nor good. It’s energy, and it has its own will. It chooses its owner, not the other way around.”
I grip the sword. “Well, this one chose me.”
John shakes his head. “You chose it. You could get hurt if you try to use it.”
“I hate to disagree, mate, but I think Santana is right.” Irving points to me. “She imprinted on that sword. Look how she’s using it as a part of her body already.” Irving smiles. “You found yer metaphorical puppy, lass. Which means John needs to show ye how to handle one of these.” He taps his medieval sword, which hangs inside its leather sheath around his waist. But John shakes his head.
“I can’t fight her, Irv.”
Irving walks closer to John and puts his hand over his shoulder. “Mate, the good parts of the Wastelands are gone. She’d better be ready.”
My stomach drops. Those were the good parts? Seriously?
John stares at him as if he’s trying to find a reasonable comeback. With a sigh, he unsheathes Spritebreaker.
“First thing you need to learn is posture.” He gracefully taps my back with Spritebreaker. “Straight back.” He taps the back of my thighs. “Steady base. Remember to relax. In Death you don’t need to know much about swordplay apart from the fact that you and the sword are one.” He takes two steps backward, standing in front of me. “Attack.”
“What? I can’t attack you.”
“Why not?”
“Because…I can’t, all right?” I bite my lip hoping this will keep me from blushing.
“Oh, how cute,” John jeers. “Don’t worry, there’s no way in Death you can hurt me, sweetie pie.”
Bastard knows how I tick.
Two metal clashes later, my butt’s on the ground. John taps my legs with Spritebreaker, and if swords are indeed like puppies, than Spritebreaker must be a German shepherd, whereas mine is more of a friendly and cuddly Labrador.
Fantastic.
“Again,” he commands.
***
Our days consist of scavenging the scattered bushes and woods to find food, which for a desert means a few pieces of dried bark and some dark berries that taste like fart.
John and Irving don’t eat as much as I do, but they still need a meal a day. Once we force our meals down, we walk again, trekking under the cloudy skies.
When I’m not walking, I’m learning sword fighting. In the remaining—scarce—time, I’m either sleeping or trying to. In the beginning it was hard, but now that I’m dead tired—no pun intended—it comes easier.
“You’re thinking too much,” John says. “Feel it.”
I lift my head from the ground and spit out sand. “Excuse me, Senator, but I wasn’t made for this.”
“None of us were, sweetie pie, but we all have beasts inside us,” John says with a raised eyebrow and this is charming beyond words. He doesn’t understand how incredibly perfect he is, does he? He continues, “We need to control them to control the sword and ourselves.”
I don’t think we’re talking just about the sword anymore.
“What a convoluted comment, Mr. Braver.” I reach for Foxberry and use it to get up. I named my sword Foxberry because the red rhombuses remind me of strawberries.
“Convoluted? Such an eloquent word…”
“I’m a lawyer, babe, that’s how I roll.”
John grins sadly. “Babe, you have no idea of how convoluted I can be.” He plays with Spritebreaker, swinging it in circles. It’s threatening, but at the same time, so damn sexy. How am I supposed to concentrate? Fighting John is so hard, especially when he turns swiftly and gracefully, his gray suit fluttering on his back, his hair dancing around his face…it’s in those moments that I realize I’m screwed, because I’ve got it bad for a dead man.
I lurch forward and he ducks, swirling. Dodging from what’s coming seems wise, but before the chance comes up, he hits the back of the sword against my stomach and I’m on the ground for the fourth time, gasping and with both arms tightly wrapped around my belly.
“Well, we’re done for today,” he says.
While catching my breath, I run my fingers through my cracked lips. Barbie, Bowman, and Jebediah, they all had cracked lips.
At least I still have my hair.
John crouches before me. “You look beautiful, even as a Shade.”
I don’t think he linked with me this time. Maybe he’s learning to read me like Mr. Baker. “Oh John, don’t lie.”
I get up and slide Foxberry into its sheath, which hangs from a string belt John made for me.
“You’re the definition of beauty, Santana Jones.” He caresses my cheek. “At least to me.”
I smile at the ground like a fifth grader.
“Plus you look really badass with that sword, even though you gave it such a wimpy name.”
I let out a most unladylike laugh, but when our gazes meet, everything stops. I take in his scent of seawater and wish I could drown in it. I love these moments, these glances at the old John. I’m starting to like tough John too. The real John is a mix of both, and the real John is the guy I care about.
A throat clears. “This was all I found.” Irving has returned from the nearby woods, his hands filled with maggots, squirming beneath one another.
Ew, no way I’m eating that. “I thought you guys didn’t consume other beings.”
Irving shrugs. “We don’t, but these aren’t like the others. They’re more like the plants. They come from Death—they’re for Death.” He raises his hands, offering me the maggots.
This doesn’t make it easier. They’re still disgusting little things squirming in his hands, but I haven’t eaten for a day, so I grab a centipede and shove it in before I’m able to think twice. It tastes juicy and salty, some parts crispy. Its tiny legs run over my tongue before they crush in between my teeth. The next ones aren’t as bad, or maybe I got used to them.
We continue walking after our meal, but twilight comes fast. We reach some woods by the time the sky is purple blue.
These woods are different from the others in the desert. The trees are all blue willows, trunks bent over like old men, leaves falling gently from the trees’ crowns as if they’re weeping for eternity. It’s both sad and beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe.
We venture through the forest, dodging the blue manes and roots, until we reach a small lake surrounded by the willows. Their long branches dangle when caressed by soft wind, teasing rivulets in the water’s surface. It’s so peaceful, and the air here is not so heavy. It feels great, and trust me, no one is more surprised by that than I am. Finally, a decent place to rest without the negative influence of the Wastelands.
We camp
behind some rocks, hiding from curious eyes.
Her voice comes up right after we’ve eaten, “Santana, child?”
We look back, but the only thing behind us is the lake.
“Santana?” She speaks from the left, and when I turn there she is: Mamma Na Se, glowing bright pink.
“Mamma Na Se!” I hug her tight. She must be dreaming to be here. “How did you find me?”
“I’m a psychic, I have a few tricks up me sleeve, child.”
“I’m so glad! How is my body?”
“‘Tis fine, as healthy as the day you was taken. I’ve got an IV bag to keep you hydrated.”
“So my body is not withering?”
She shakes her head.
Oh Mamma Na Se, you crafty genius woman!
“Child, we no have much time. Weird blue men watch you. Scary demons they are. I lay you in your bed, and put a sheet over the mirror, but I don’t know what they can do.”
A cold blow stifles my enthusiasm. “I’m scared too, Mamma.”
“They do nothing without the medallion,” John steps in with his patois. “And the bad mon it belongs to.”
Mamma Na Se nods, but doesn’t seem reassured. She looks down at her own hands. “Child, what if the bad mon succeeds? What if you is not you when you wake up?”
I grab her shoulders. “You have to tie me in bed. That way I won’t harm you. And if I am him,” I gulp hard. “Kill me.”
“I cannot!”
“Mamma, this man was responsible for the Holocaust. Trust me, I don’t like this option either, but it’s the only one we have. We can’t let him come back.”
She nods nervously, eyes bulging. “The devil! I knew it.” She draws a cross over her chest. “But how will I know you is you?”
“Ask me a question only I know.”
John and Irving step away. They don’t have to, but I guess they want to respect my privacy. I lean close to her ear and whisper, “Ask me what my mother told me before I left for school on the day she died.”
Back then, I didn’t understand why Mother had told me what she did, but now I suspect she might’ve understood things I never could.
